"забыть" - Russian for "forget", "leave behind", or "lose". An alternate title for this was "тону́ть" which means "to sink" or "drown".

This is a simple one-shot that came to me while considering my favorite character from Anastasia. There isn't much known about Bartok, save for his headstrong personality, loquacious demeanor, and unusual background of being a stage performer. What's probably most confusing is how he ended up with Rasputin in the first place... considering how he's generally a kind and caring fellow, albeit one who gets a little carried away with his words sometimes. My best guess is that his previous dealings with show business and a love for money through trickery might have something to do with it, as Rasputin (in the film, anyway) was regarded as a sorcerer, but this still doesn't account for why Bartok would continue to hang out with him knowing what Rasputin did to the royal family... unless he, himself, was tricked into believing that what his master was doing was for the good of others...

In any case, this is my interpretation of how he ended up in such a mess, relayed through a third-person perspective of his journey and thoughts. Time frame is near the beginning of the film Anastasia, from the point where Rasputin "crashes the party"... to where Rasputin supposedly drowns.

The general history is based on actual events. It's interesting to note that, despite Grigori Rasputin being portrayed in media as untrustworthy (sometimes), in reality he was a great friend to the Romanov children... all of whom were very much saddened by his murder. He was falsely accused of perversion on a number of occasions and seemed to be an unfortunate victim of indictment from both the right and the left in Russia at that time. He was certainly not without his faults, but he wasn't an evil sorcerer either. I feel rather bad for abiding by the Don Bluth script in this short written piece, but it is, after all, how the movie plays out, and so I must abide by the rules. And, besides, this one shot is about Bartok, not Rasputin.

Catherine Palace. Russia. 1916. The year, along with its sister, 1917, was not to be forgotten, as anyone can tell you, but the last thing anyone remembered about the ball itself... was the cold...

Had it not been for the revolution, perhaps things would have been different. Then again, if it had not been for the preceding interruption of the ball in question... there may not have been a revolution. Some say that the coup of '05 was the igniting spark to the fire. Others blamed a lack of foresight in that a more suitable czar should have been chosen. Most notable of all the disagreements revolved around a more likely candidate: that the war itself was the beginning of the end. And though all of these factors played a significant role in the downfall of the Romanov line, it is generally agreed upon that the worst of it all did not transpire until March of 1916. An alarmingly sudden spike from mild unrest to a mutinous engagement did not, after all, occur until after the soiree, and so the soiree itself became a heated topic of discussion... and was thought by some to confine the primary source of the problem.

It was a pity that a moment of such joyous occasion fell into the hands of ruin and destruction for, despite the harrowing events of that night, only good things could be said about the ball. Were any now alive to describe it in lavish detail, it probably would have gone something like this:

"I remember. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was beautiful. And it was very cold, too. I'd brought my thickest muff, but it made no difference. The snow was more persistent. Oh, but the chill didn't matter because it was the ball and it was... splendid. Just splendid. The floors were so waxed you could see your reflection in them perfectly. Everyone was decked out in their best plum, scarlet, and champagne, and there was a glow about the faces of all in the room. Little Anna... She lit up the palace like a firecracker... with that mischievous smile of hers. And Nicolas... Well, Nicolas was just as handsome as the papers made him out to be..."

To say that it was a spectacle would be an understatement, and to say that the aftermath contradicted the prelude would be restraining oneself. For as the cloaked figure entered the room... as the chandelier plummeted to the floor... and as the people ran and screamed for their lives... no one in that moment could remember that there had ever been a party at all. But someone did.

Bartok clung weakly to the rafters as he surveyed the scene below. He'd flinched a little when the chandelier crashed, his profile scrunched up in concern and disgust as the crowd below flew to the corners of the room... like a frightened flock of ornate birds. It reminded him of a previous encounter with a dragon. That had been ages ago, or so it felt. He had been a hero then. Prince Ivan, in particular, had been most pleased. So had Zozi and Baba Yaga. Vaguely, Bartok wondered what had happened to them... Zozi, he knew, had traveled in haste to Hungary during the cusp of the Balkan War out of concern for family... and he hadn't returned since. Bartok suspected his friend had perished. He, himself, had been left wandering for a time until he had, quite literally, bumped into Rasputin by the Yar. They'd remained friends ever since, with Grigori slowly degrading over time and Bartok wondering more and more why he stuck around. At heart, he knew attachment to a once genuine friend, especially after having lost one, was a great part of it. But he had to admit that life's pressures had done something of a 180 to his master, and he didn't particularly care for such a change, especially now that it involved intimidation and destruction; this one teetered on the edge of a near massacre. Although he wasn't much invested in the affairs of others when it didn't directly concern him, he could still be a sensitive fellow at times. Perhaps it had taken a little persuasion to assist in the reclamation of Prince Ivan some years prior, but this was different. For once, he genuinely wanted to put his life at risk to help these people. Well... almost. Fear kept him glued to this particular spot. Fear and practicality. There wasn't much he could do regardless, and if his master was willing to put the lives of innocent people in jeopardy then he would certainly not turn a hair at harming him also if it came to it. So he stayed put. Besides, he had a job to do.

Anastasia was conveniently one of the easiest to spot in the crowd. With her strawberry-blond hair and skipping run, it didn't take much for Bartok to locate and pinpoint her steps to the back bedroom. By the time she'd slammed shut the door behind her, he was already outside and half-way around the castle, fighting against the bitter Russian winter to reach the nursery window.

As the young duchess pushed through the nursery entrance, cheeks flushed and locks askew, he had to admit that the moment was a surreal one. Rasputin had talked fondly of this girl - wouldn't shut up about her, in fact. She was a pretty little thing, dressed like a marigold in May, eyes a delicate ocean blue and a mischievous nick in her composure. She seemed altogether vulnerable and capable of holding her own, and despite the fear lingering about her atmosphere she had a determined look. Bartok's first thought was that she would probably have made a great friend if not for the present circumstances. Far from wanting to do each other harm, Grigori and Anastasia, from what Bartok had gathered over the years, were particularly good friends. He couldn't understand why he was now in vicious pursuit of the girl. Had the Romanov family committed something unspeakable? They must have... for things to have changed so. Why else would this night have happened...?

And so, dividedly hesitant and panicked, he called out in dismay as the kitchen boy led Anastasia in secret through an opening in a wall...

"Master! She's getting away!"

Bartok hid half his face beside the window as the boy was subsequently struck down by the butt of a Revolutionary's rifle, staying only long enough to swallow a knot in his throat before flying off.

A deep frown creased his brow as he flew, half guilt-ridden, half unfocused. It was unbearably cold and he couldn't spot his master anywhere. The castle, at this point, was alight with flames, its gardens peppered with guests fleeing in despair. It seemed impossible that just minutes ago the flames had been dancing feet... and the gardens ivory instead of crimson...

He finally alighted upon the parapet of a nearby bridge, shivering on the spot and wishing that he was anywhere but here. His thoughts wandered towards the grand duchess. Had she escaped...? Was anyone in the family still alive at this point? Perhaps, if he'd been a bit smarter, he could have avoided being involved in all of this mess. Recollections brought him back to a few months prior. Rasputin had been showing alarming warning signs even before then, culminating in the collection of the reliquary. Bartok still didn't know where in the bloody empire he'd gotten that thing. All it did was escalate Grigori's issue. Not that he hadn't had them before, but at least, prior to obtaining the reliquary, his master hadn't struck him... or choked him... or completely ignored him every time he succumbed to a bout of anger. And yet, Bartok stayed. Why?

He was harshly grappled out of his sinking thoughts by an equally harsh scream in the distance... What was it? Peering off in the direction of the gardens, he noticed two figures running haphazardly towards him. Only when they'd near approached the bridge did Bartok realize it was the Dowager Empress with her granddaughter, Anastasia, in tow. They disappeared under the bridge and soon materialized out from under it in a flourish, cloaks flying in a panic. It was then that Bartok realized he wasn't alone on this bridge. Almost as if he'd magically appeared out of thin air, there was Grigori right beside him. Without the slightest hint of hesitation, Rasputin leaped off the bridge, landing squarely on top of the young duchess and grabbing her by the ankles. Her kicks and screams seemed to do nothing. The Empress, enraged, held fast to her granddaughter, trying in vain to pull her back. But Rasputin's leash was tight... and Anastasia was slipping from her grandmother's grasp. And then...

Crack.

The ice beneath Anastasia's pursuer split in two, leaving a gaping hole of water that pierced him like knives. In a state of panic, he released her... and called for the only living creature who might possibly answer his call.

"Bartok!"

"Master!" the albino bat replied, in spite of himself. There was still a piece of him that didn't want to leave the only friend he'd known for the past three years, but there was another piece fighting more persistently for his attention. As he flew down to his master, who desperately called out for help, another thought came to Bartok's mind. "Why?"

And as he landed on the biting ice, listening to the begging pleas of Grigori for Bartok's assistance, and knowing full well that there was little he could do regardless as his master slowly sank into the mouth of the gaping hole in the river, he realized, with a stinging pang of guilt despite it all, that he didn't really want to...