Beginnings

The Cost of Freedom

Disclaimer: This is a fictional story about the events surrounding the death of Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin. Although an attempt has been made to include real events, the story also contains fictional elements and twists not necessarily true. Some events have been fully fictionalised for entertainment purposes. Please note that this story is to be considered fiction and not a factual account of historical events.

It was the eve of December 30, 1916, when Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin stepped outside in the cold winter air. He had had a productive day, addressing his followers and reassuring them that his plan to become a key figure in the Russian court would, in fact, allow him to take over the Russian orthodox church. He then preached to new followers about spirituality. Tried to open their minds to let the higher dimension's energy flow through them as it did him. But the human mind is a delicate piece of machinery; push too hard and the seed you planted would start to rot, push too little and the seed wouldn't take root. He needed to tend to the seed with care and patience. But that would take a long time, and time was a factor he could not yet manipulate.

He recalled an earlier meeting, when a young follower had asked him "Otets you preach to us about repentance, teaching us that greed, power and lust are sins. How do you deal with these powerful, sinful emotions? How do you shun them and maintain such an austere relationship with God?" At that moment, he had lied, telling the young student he no longer felt those sinful urges and that they had faded after being denied for so long. But they hadn't. They had only grown, like a receding tsunami gaining strength and intensity until one day, it would crash upon the shore, submerging and destroying everything indefinitely.

Admittedly he craved power, and influence over the queen wasn't enough; that was driven by his greed. He loved women and frequently indulged in many ways, succumbing to his lust. Was he truly the same as those he preached against? He couldn't accept that. He was destined to help them. Help them all he would.

Shoving those doubts into a deep, dark corner of his troubled mind, he adjusted his papakha and ran his hand through his long beard. Mechanically he made his way to Maria Ivanovna Golovina's house. Her friends called her Masha and she had strictly instructed him to do so as well. She would often invite him to parties where he could preach and deepen his hold on the monarchy.

He paused in an unlit alleyway and took out his flask from a pocket in his kaftan. He savoured the vodka slowly, enjoying the waning, burning sensation. He craved a whole bottle but for now, this would have to satiate him. He stepped back into the brightly lit streets. He weaved through the throngs of caged minds, trapped in the current events, unwilling to sit idly, fearing the quietude and introspection it might bring. The lingering question that had tormented him, however, was whether they were ready. How would he rescue them if they didn't think they were in dire need of salvation?

People littered the streets, shivering, wrapped in thin coats, begging for scraps of food. Couldn't the arrogant aristocrats see that he possessed the power and will to change this? He wished to liberate their minds from the cages they imprisoned themselves with. He could be their saviour, Russia's saviour! Yet all those privileged novelty saw was the potential loss of their hold over the citizens of Russia. He wanted to scream at them and tell them that such a desire for power was the yearning of a confined mind. He wanted to liberate their minds, just as he had done so with his own.

He picked up his pace as he neared Masha's house. He sensed an emotion he hadn't felt for a long time, it wormed its way in and took shelter deep within his soul. He looked around, this happened often. People would reject emotions, fearing to feel them, these discarded emotions could burrow themselves in a spiritually opened soul, but this was different. This felt like a warning, like the slight headache before a fever, only this was much worse. This was primal fear.