Rasputina and the Witch's Tsar

Chapter Two

Grigorievna. I was named after a saint, now isn't that funny?

Later, I became one. But that's much, much later.

Matryona Grigorievna Rasputina. People called me Maria, if you knew me well enough. I grew up a peasant. My home was a Siberian village. At a young age, I married. I had children. Some of my blood-kin survived, others did not.

I stole. I drank, swindled, cheated, and sometimes, I lied. I had a good youth, a fun one. It would all come back to bite me in the butt later, but that's the "other story". I met a good boy, settled down for a bit. His name was Paraskevas. He loved me, and death didn't part him from me. But life parted me from him.

I went to the Holy Land. Stepped on the white-sanded shores of Athens in Greece. Saw the world. Became a wanderer. Tried to become a nun, but that wasn't enough faith for me. Too strict, sucking all the life from one's very soul between cold, gray walls. I found magic instead, and I became damned good at it. I healed three times as fast as anyone else. If you cut me, I bled gold.

Do you think I'm lying?

Would you like to try to attack me, and see who bleeds first?

Some called me blasphemer, but if God gave me magic, then He sure as hell wouldn't want me to ignore it because of some stupid fear. Some called me a fanatic, claiming I lured men into my bed with promises they'd "achieve salvation" if they spent time with me. You don't need magic for that, let me tell you. But you don't care for my life before I became interesting. That's okay. Nobody cares for anyone before they've become interesting, or society deems them so.

I preached that you could get closer to heaven by sin.

People got angry with me because they knew, deep down, that this was true.

Rich folk have a funny way of it. They see a crowd gathered around a dirty little healer girl in the center of a town square, and they pull their carriage aside to watch. Before I knew it, my name, Rasputina. It was on the lips of monarchs from Montenegro. And from there, it reached the ears of the Russian monarchs.

The caretaker for the children, British-born Tsar Alexandr, had a very sick young boy. And Tsarina Nikola would not have her true, Russian heir wither before he was ripe on the vein. I was whisked to St. Petersburg, where the first day of the rest of my life occurred.

And so, I met Alexei.

The boy who both started, and ended, it all.