The Last Tsar

The soft light of dawn filtered into Nicholas's study at Livadia Palace. The air was thick with tension as Nicholas reread the latest telegram from Sergei Witte in St. Petersburg. The bureaucrat's characteristic brevity betrayed the urgency of the moment:

"Support among literate class weak. Noble dissent growing. Public narrative vital. Recommend coordination with a certain writer called Trubetskoy."

Nicholas set the paper down, his jaw tightening. He knew Prince Sergei Nikolaevich Trubetskoy was part of the intellectual class and he could very well be used to alter the narrative. Yet the immediacy of Witte's message hinted at the stakes of failure. The narrative of the Okhrana's transformation could not simply be an afterthought. It had to be woven into the Empire's fabric now.

So he gave approval to the appointment of Witte's suggestion, Trubetskoy

However, he was acutely aware of the opposition this would spark among his father's most trusted advisors. Konstantin Pobedonostsev, the Procurator of the Holy Synod, would undoubtedly resist any attempt to co-opt the Church for propaganda purposes who would benefit Nicholas's reforms.

Nicholas paced the room, each step echoing his thoughts. He knew that Witte's pragmatism clashed directly with Pobedonostsev's unwavering conservatism. If he moved forward with the Synod's involvement, it would alienate one of the most influential figures in the Empire.

A telegram soon arrived from Trubetskoy:

"Message clear. Reform rooted in Orthodox values. Security is renewal. Key: Church sermons, literate press, academic speeches. Synod cooperation critical. Will draft outline for noble and public spheres."

Nicholas clenched his jaw. Pobedonostsev's resistance was predictable but frustrating. He penned another note, this time to Witte:

"You know Pobedonostsev. He will absolutely not work with us. Work around him. Use trusted bishops. Focus on press and academia."

...

All over the empire, Imperial Printing machines worked day and night to deliver the propaganda. Some bishops and priests independently preached in Nicholas's favor.

Unfortunately, Nicholas couldn't use the same strategy with the nobles yet, as he still wasn't Tsar. But he had made sure everyone in the Empire knew being loyal to him brought benefits. In the Okhrana, loyalists and uncorrupt officials got promoted. Neutral nobles got positions in the Okhrana and the bureaucracy, creating division and friction among the noble class.

All this happened meanwhile Nicholas tended to his father in Crimea. Witte, Fedorov and Trubetskoy were making sure everything went smoothly. After Nicholas left, Witte took over control of the "interim cabinet", following the directions Nicholas had left him.

He was happy and proud of himself, knowing his influence and rise to power would become unstoppable once Nicholas ascended to the throne.

Brusilov on the other side was frustrated. Things were going too smooth for him and the military and police had only made arrests without any real resistance.

'These damn cowardly nobles!' He thought. 'They act all high and mighty but when it's actually time to do something, they shit their pants!'

An ambition, a burning desire for power, had slowly stirred within Brusilov. At just 33 years old, he had control of all forces in St. Petersburg.

Being a smart man, he had been weary of being subdued by the high nobility his entire life.

To escape that fate, he had wagered everything on Nicholas to secure the power he so desperately craved, and he was determined not to become a puppet once more. Russia was at peace, yet this very tranquility left little room for him to rise. His moment to shine seemed distant, a fleeting opportunity in a time of stillness.

...

It was a bitter, unforgiving evening in early November, the chill of the Crimean winds creeping through the walls of Livadia Palace. Nicholas sat by the window in his chambers, his gaze fixed on the bleak horizon. He could feel the weight of the world pressing upon him—Russia's future, his father's illness, and the uncertain road ahead.

The past few days had been a blur of anxious waiting. His father, Tsar Alexander III, had been in a rapid decline. The once formidable man, who had ruled Russia with strength and a deep sense of duty, was now a shadow of his former self. Nicholas had watched his father's robust figure diminish, his once-commanding presence now a frail, shrunken form. He knew the moment of transition was near.

Tonight, Nicholas sat in his room, alone with his thoughts. He felt a strange mixture of grief and anticipation, for in his heart, he knew that the weight of the empire was soon to rest on his shoulders. The telegrams, the papers, the whispers of what would come next. They all loomed over him. But there was no fear. No hesitation. He had been prepared for this moment his entire life, even if the burden was heavy.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp knock at the door. Nicholas turned, his back straightening instinctively. It was a servant, standing in the doorway with a solemn expression.

"Your Imperial Highness," the servant said, bowing his head deeply, "The Tsar… is near passing. The doctors… they say it is time."

Nicholas stood immediately, his expression hardening as he straightened his uniform. His hand gripped the armrest of the chair for a brief moment, but there was no sense of weakness in his movements. The time had come. It was not only his father's death that loomed before him but the birth of his own reign.

"Thank you," Nicholas replied, his voice calm but firm. "I'll be there now."

As he walked down the corridor to his father's chambers, he passed several of the key figures of the court, each of them casting solemn looks in his direction. There was no need for words. They all knew what this night would bring. Their eyes were filled with a mixture of respect and curiosity, though none dared to speak of it.

When Nicholas entered the chamber, the atmosphere was heavy with silence. His mother, Maria Feodorovna, stood by the window, her hands clasped together. The doctors, huddled near the foot of the bed, exchanged glances but did not speak. The room was filled with the quiet sound of Alexander's labored breathing, each breath a stark reminder of the life slipping away.

Nicholas stepped forward, and his eyes fell upon his father's figure. The man who had towered over him for so long now appeared small and frail. His once powerful body, marked by years of battle and statecraft, had withered to a shell of its former self. Despite the sorrow that tugged at his heart, Nicholas felt an overwhelming sense of duty. He was ready.

The Tsar's eyes fluttered open as Nicholas approached, and their gazes locked. For a moment, neither spoke. There was no need for words. This was the final moment between father and son.

"Nicky…" Alexander's voice was weak, but it carried the unmistakable authority of a man who had once ruled with unyielding strength. "You've… grown strong."

Nicholas nodded, holding his father's hand gently in his own. "Yes, Father," he replied quietly. "And I will continue to do so."

There was a long silence between them, the weight of the moment hanging in the air like a thick fog. The room felt stifling, the air heavy with grief, but Nicholas remained resolute. He had prepared for this his entire life. The world might change, Russia might change, but his duty remained. His eyes never left his father's.

Alexander then called his brother Sergei, saying:

"Sergei. I... I trust the vision Nicholas has for Russia. So help him achieve the future he wants to achieve."

Grand Duke Sergei flinched, clearly frustrated about the request. His response was just a hesitant nod and a respectful bow, seemingly unconvinced.

Seeing his reaction, Alexander just sighed...

...

As the seconds stretched into minutes, the Tsar's breathing became slower, more shallow. Nicholas could feel it in his bones, the inevitability of this moment.

"I can feel the end approaching. Be calm... I am calm." Alexander muttered.

Then, Alexander's hand went limp in Nicholas's, and the last breath escaped his body with a soft sigh.

Just like that, Alexander III "The reactionary" or "The Russian Bear" died in his bed, sorrounded by family and officials...

The room seemed to freeze. Time itself seemed to halt as the light seemed to dim, and the silence in the chamber became all-consuming.

Nicholas did not flinch. He did not falter. His face, while filled with grief, was composed, his features hard as stone. He was the Tsar now. His father's passing had not broken him. Instead, it solidified his purpose.

The first to speak was the Grand Duke Vladimir. His voice, though steady, was filled with a deep sorrow. "Your Imperial Majesty," he said, bowing his head.

Nicholas did not respond immediately. His gaze was still fixed on his father's body, his mind racing with a mixture of emotions. Yet he knew what he had to do. The world would not wait for him to grieve. Russia would not wait.

The Grand Duke, noticing his silence, stepped closer. "By the grace of God, Nikolai Alexandrovich, you are now our emperor, Tsar of all Russia." He paused, and then continued:

"The empire… needs you now. The world needs you."

A moment passed before anyone moved. And then, one by one, starting from Grand Duke Vladimir and the Metropolitan of Moscow, Palladus, all the people and officials present in the room stepped forward and, without hesitation, knelt before Nicholas.

They kissed his hand, each gesture filled with loyalty and the weight of the moment.

In honor of his brother's last words, Grand Duke Sergei didn't hesitate either.

It was a simple act, but one that signified their recognition of him as their Tsar-no longer just a prince, but the ruler of the vast Russian Empire.

The room was quiet except for the occasional sound of muffled sobs. The moment was not only one of sorrow but also of transition. Nicholas was no longer just the Tsarevich.

He was now the autocrat of all Russia. The TSAR!

End of Volume 1 [Tsarevich]