The Last Tsar: A Short Story of Power and Regret | Thursday Tales No. 6

  We are all good people. 

  And... we are evil people. 

 What we are, or what we become, is shaped by the coalescence of our many past and present decisions. 

  This piece is an experiment, an interpretation of the painting 'Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on 16 November 1581' by Ilya Repin. It is a departure from my usual style, yet a deeply personal glimpse into the shadows and sparks that flicker within the human psyche. 

  Behind every human — from those who have governed the highest and strongest thrones to those of us who hold onto the fourth seat of the morning train — there are stories: of love, rage, legacy, and regret;  of what we try to control, and what eventually controls us. 

  Here is one such story of a man, a tzar, a father, and everything he could not undo.

The Last Tsar

'Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on 16 November 1581', Ilya Repin, oil on canvas, 1885. Public domain image via Wikimedia Commons.

  “You are alright! You'll be alright!” his voice shivered as drops of boiling tears burned down his cheeks. 

  “Sluzhitel, call the physician. Hurry!”

  The eyes that looked back into his — the eyes in which he saw his reflection, the eyes in which he saw his future — dimmed as he helplessly watched every bit of its light slip out of the eyelids. 

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

  The physician hasn't arrived yet. 

  “Nana!” was the last word he whimpered. His cornea still glistened with the fading traces of shock tainted with sadness. 

  What must have raced between his heart and mind in those endmost moments? Would he have felt comforted in my arms, like I had felt when my mother wiped the tears off my cheek with the red seams of her gold-embroidered cloak? Just like him, I had lain in her arms with her left hand shielding my ears from the raucous thunder and her right arm over my hip, patting my back. But he was a grown man, the Tsarevich of Ivan – Ivan the Terrible, the Tsar of Russia.

  Would he have thought of me as an incapable father? But I did everything in my power to keep Him away, away from Anastasia and my dearest Ivan. All my life I had struggled to distance Him from the only few people that cared about me. I ignored his presence, his insistence, his manipulation, and paid heed to him only during the times when I had to treat the boyars and offenders. 

  He began visiting me, from what I remember around the age of seven. He has since been my companion — through hungry nights and through defenceless days, helplessly hearing my Yuri cry. 

  I first introduced Him to my court at thirteen. They became awed and terrified by our combined powers. I presented him often, but never in the presence of my blessed family. But today he had made an unprompted appearance, twice, and wretched an unfathomable chaos. 

  His exit left behind a mayhem. His tornado whirled away my breath, my life, my purpose, my legacy, my dearest son. 

  I can connect his arrival to my daughter-in-law’s uncouth behaviour this afternoon. It was also my son's uncontrolled temper, which began with him kicking down the clothing table and dishevelling my suite that drove Him to erupt. 

  Those are no fair explanations for what occurred thence. He held my hand, raised my staff, and struck my precious son's head. His scalp bled like the rock that gushed water at the second strike of Moses. And in no time my world had collapsed with him into a trench of senselessness. 

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

  The physician is here. He says what I already know. 

  They are carrying him away. 

  “Carry him with dignity! Hail! There goes the Tsar.” I ululate my final respect. 

  At least he is leaving me with an heir to the Rurik dynasty. 

  

  I just sent a messenger to inform his wife of our loss. 

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

  The messenger arrives. He carries a news. 

  “Tsarevna miscarried upon receiving the news,” he announces.

  What can kill a dead man?

- Mercy Rebonica