Summary:
A young Russian girl led a rather typical Russian life in the early 1900's. She and her family lived happily together just outside of the centre of Moscow for several years, untouched by the change that was brewing in the hearts of the Russian people. Even after the Revolutions started, the family remained untouched until the Revolutions came bursting through their front door. In a rush, the young girl lost her family to a group of executioners. By some miracle, she managed to escape the slaughter, only to run into the hands of Yevgeniy, a mysterious man that took her under his arm moments after she fled. The girl quickly came to realize that she had run from danger, only to wind up in danger yet again. Would she ever be able to escape the abduction? And even if she did, how would she alone be able to overcome so many high obstacles to extract vengeance for her family? Would she ever be able to trust a soul after so many betrayals? At first, it seemed impossible and hopeless. And then, the young girl noticed a change about herself and realized that she now held advantages against the cold, unmerciful nights of Russia.
A/N: ..Reuploaded Chapter One, completely forgot the authour's note! Okay, so, yes, this is a rewrite of an old story I used to have that I abandoned for about two or three years. Considering I lengthened the first chapter by about four pages in Word and I cut down on the one-liner paragraphs that I despise, I think I am doing a bit better of a job writing these days ;) ...Not that it's quantity over quality or anything; I just reread the sentences and winced at the short, choppy little things. That's not to say suddenly I have no grammar mistakes, I'm...pretty sure I do. Mmf. So, feel free to review and comment on those; all constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. :D
So read. And enjoy. And if this chapter doesn't catch you, try the next one. This is more of a flashback-ish sort of deal, to set the scene with some background information (gasp). Please Read and Review. They make me happy. :P
A light flurry of snow cascaded out of the grey skies above Moscow that evening. It was early March, 1917, and the February Revolution had already begun. Workers in Moscow and Petrograd were striking, and riots over food shortages and anti-government sentiments broke out all over the cities. The military had orders to stop the riots, but many soldiers refused to shoot the citizens. In fact, they joined them in the strikes and riots, and the military lost all control of the situation.
A young woman and her younger brother were playing outside their home in Moscow, laughing and throwing small snowballs at each other. Their father watched them from the back door with a fond smile quirking the corners of his lips. The newly fallen snow providing padding for the little boy, as he launched himself at his sister, but fell short. The girl grinned and bounded several feet away, quickly bending down to cup snow between her glove-covered hands, forming a snowball. The moment her brother rose from his bed of snow, she threw the little white ball and watched it splatter in victory upon his coat. The boy shivered as snow found its way down the back of his coat and onto the skin of his neck, yet it quickly melted due to his warmth and the discomfort was forgotten. Vengeance on his mind, he quickly turned towards his sister and bolted, this time launching his small body towards her a fraction of a second later, and that was the only adjustment that he needed. The girl let out a yelp as the smaller body collided with her own, causing both to fall back into the bedding of snow. Now the siblings wrestled, the boy having a slight advantage of having already been on top.
After a few more moments of watching the little skirmish, the father opened the backdoor and raised his voice to his playing children. "Come, children! It's time for dinner!" The girl looked up at the voice and waved to her father, and then stood up and brushed the snow off of her outer jacket. Glancing to her brother, she smirked and reached to lace fingers with his hand, helping him to stand before walking together towards the open door. "Hi Papa!" The girl greeted her father eagerly when she had finally made it through the door and into the warmth of the house.
"Hey there. Looks like you won the little fight outside." The father's smile grew into a grin as blue eyes caught sight of their red noses and cheeks, as well as their eyelashes sprinkled with snowflakes slowly melting.
"Nah, he did. You only saw half the fight, anyway." The girl corrected him with a similar grin upon her thin lips. Now came the ritual where she just about lost her bodyweight in the form of layers: she took off her two hats, two scarves, two pairs of gloves, and several coats that were now unnecessary in the warm room. She rubbed her warm hands against her rosy cheeks, and then helped her brother as he tried to pull off a scarf that had become entangled with his second scarf. Little did the unsuspecting children know of the danger and misery that the revolution would bring to their family.
Both children picked up their layers and carried them towards the corner, to place them out of the way where servants would sort through and organize them later. The girl ran her slender fingers over the sky blue dress, straightening out a few wrinkles. From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement, and her head immediately shot up, eyes focused on the spot as she raised a finger, pointing. "Papa, look!"
The father followed her eyes and her finger towards an empty corner, brow furrowing a bit in confusion. "…what am I looking at?" He asked slowly, eyes moving from the corner towards his daughter now.
The young woman giggled. "It is the domovoi. You know; the house spirit! He said he's feeling mischievous and wants to know if he can cause just a little bit of trouble." For a moment, she seemed to follow something with her eyes, the grin from earlier having returned to her face. Then she glanced to her father, head tilting as she waited for an answer.
Frowning, her father reached and grabbed a sleeve of the dress gently, pulling her aside so that her brother was out of earshot. "You are not to see spirits." His voice was low, in a husky, hurried whisper. "Ignore them if they bother you. Especially around guests!"
The girl's grin faded into a small look of disappointment, and she glanced over her father's shoulder and shook her head. "He says no, domovoi." Only a few moments passed before one of the windows close by opened for a moment, and then slammed shut, followed by the telltale click of the lock. The daughter smiled and waved towards the window, and then dropped her hand and glanced to her father for his reaction.
His head had snapped towards the opening window and cool breeze that followed, eyes transfixed on it as it slammed shut, and then locked. "…I'll pretend that didn't happen and that your hallucinations are wearing off on me." He muttered after a moment, shaking his head slowly. Holding the girl's hand, he moved towards his son and ruffled his hair, before taking his hand as well. "A nice, warm dinner is surely ready for us by now. Your mother is waiting and everyone is here now; we were just waiting for you two to finish up outside." Together, the trio walked towards the faint sound of laughter and the smell of freshly cooked meat and baked bread. The girl's brow furrowed and she moved closer to her father, little hands clinging to his shirt. Something was terribly wrong.
The laughter and clinking of silverware stopped in an instant. There was a brief moment of silence and the trio stopped in the hallway, not three feet from the door to the dining room. Now they all knew something was wrong. Suddenly, as if to confirm their suspicious, screams and breaking glass flooded the air, almost deafening compared to the silence only moments before. All three stood frozen in their spots, unable to react. Finally, the father tore away from his children and burst through the doors to the dining room, intending to stop whatever was causing the panic. The scene before him caused him to stop immediately. Blue eyes could barely drink in the carnage that was unfolding before him: women screaming, wine spilling, and glasses breaking. Men tried to fend off the attackers, but they all fell to the barrage of bullets or the punctures of knives. Remembering his children so close to this chaos, the father turned over his shoulder to yell to the two young ones, still frozen to their spots in sheer terror. "Run, children! Save yourselves!"
Still in shock, the children stared at their father, barely comprehending his words. After a moment's hesitation, the father ran from the dining room and stopped before them, long arms reaching out and shoving them backwards, gently, but with emphasis. Blue eyes wide, the children turned and ran down the hallway, the boy looking over his shoulder towards his father as he ran back into the dining room. The sudden transition of his shoes from a rug to the hardwood floor without watching caused the boy to slip and fall, but he caught himself with his hands. Whimpering quietly, he reached for his sister and called out to her.
The young woman stopped and ran back to him immediately, taking his hand and hefting his smaller body up, quieting the boy. "Shh, dear. Do not call me by that name anymore, hmm? Call me Anya from now on. What is your new name?" She asked, trying to pull his mind away from the panic while she smiled down at him, walking briskly down the hallway.
The little boy looked contemplative, before his face lit up. "Adrian!" He responded, and reached up to tug gently at his sister's curly, crimson hair. The young woman smiled down at him and set him down on his feet, taking his hand and starting to run to the front door that stood only a few feet from them now. It seemed as though just as she reached her hand for the knob, everything went black. The two children never made it outside together again.
---------------
The woman now called Anya slowly came around. Blinking blue eyes open, her brow furrowed as she felt the throbbing pain at the back of her head and no memory of why she would be in this state. As she slowly grasped consciousness, she tried to sit up, but familiar hands pressed her down. "…Papa?"
"Yes, dear. I am right here. So are your mother, and your sisters, and your brother. We are all okay. How are you feeling? No, no… do not move. You may have hurt something. Do you have a headache? Are you dizzy? Tired?" His worried face appeared above hers, allowing her eyes to focus on him. A bruise on his cheek, accompanied by a cut near his temple brought back the memories of last night. The snowball fight, the domovoi… and then the panic. So it wasn't just a bad dream.
"I am fine, I think." Anya slowly moved all of her limbs, one by one, and nodded. Yes, I'm fine. Except for a very large headache…what happened?" She asked, looking up at her father and hoping that he could fill in some of the blanks in her memory. She did not remember the time between running down the hallway and winding up on the cold floor she was laying upon now.
"I…well." Her father sat back on his heels and shook his head. "You were hit over the head with a vase…or so we judged by the pieces that we took out of your hair. Your brother was too scared to run or protest or leave you… so he was not harmed. My daughter…" He paused and seemed to fight for words, teeth biting on his lower lip a moment. Sighing softly, his eyes met hers. "We've been captured. I don't know where we are since we were blind folded. They may have driven in circles around our home for an hour for all I know…or we could be in Petrograd. I lost track of time, though it was a rather lengthy bit of it that we were in the back of that vehicle. It appears as though we are in some cellar, or basement." He sat down cross-legged and sighed again. "I'm sorry…" His voice choked ever-so-slightly at the end as he closed his eyes, disappointed in himself.
Anya took everything in and stayed quiet for a moment as more memories slowly made their way back into her mind. The snowball fight with her brother. Her father taking them down the hallway and towards the laughter and food... Then the silence… followed by the breaking of glass and the screams of women and children with the shouts of men. She was running with her brother, but then he fell. She picked him up and ran again, and just before they reached the door something caused her to stop, to hesitate, and never make it outside. Something caused her to turn around and look back, eyes wide and horrified. …Gunshots.
"Anya!" Her new name caused her to snap out of her reverie and she blinked, glancing over to her brother, the origin of the sound. "I am sorry I did not save you." Tears were streaming down his face and his bloodshot eyes told her that he had been crying for a while.
With a furrowed brow, she reached out and took the boy into her arms, allowing him to sprawl out on top of her and bawl into her shoulder. Anya tried to soothe him, rubbing his back and kissing his temple while he tried to choke back the sobs. "Adrian, it's okay…"
"But… you would have been able to save me!" He argued through tears, dampened face lifting to look up at hers, nose sniffling several times.
"Obviously not, dear brother. I didn't quite make it." She pointed out with a rueful smile. After a few more quiet moments, she felt as though she could handle the throbbing in the back of her head. Anya sat up slowly, still holding her brother to her chest as she shifted so that he wound up seated in her lap, arms wrapped around her in an embrace. Their father moved closer to them and joined in the hug, his chocolate-coloured mustache and small beard tickling Anya's cheek.
In the relative calmness, Anya looked around the small, cold room and noticed only one door. If they had been captured, there would surely be a guard or two on the other side of it. A few moments later, the sound of malevolent laughter confirmed her suspicions. Glancing behind them, her eyes spotted a portion of the old wall that seemed off. It was slightly darker than the rest of the wall around it, as if the paint did not quite match the original colour, or it had been recently done. Unwilling to part with her brother and father, she tucked the oddity into the back of her mind for later consideration.
Now her blue eyes wandered around the rest of the bleak room. It was completely bare, no windows, and just the one door that led to the malevolent laughter. Her family sat near to them, close to the wall farthest from the door. Her mother had even sat down, leaning against the wall while Anya's other three sisters clung to her. Her mother looked tired and her sisters let out small sobs occasionally, but sniffling was frequent. It was terribly quiet otherwise-- uncomfortably quiet.
When her father had let go some time ago, Anya slowly moved over to the wall near her sisters and leaned against it. Adrian followed after her, climbing back into her lap and she reflexively wrapped her arms around him tightly, setting her chin upon his head. Their father moved to sit beside them and pulled on Anya's arm gently so that she was leaning against his shoulder. He moved his arm around behind her, wrapping it around her waist and pulling his youngest children against him for comfort.
Slowly the family began to fall asleep in the eerie silence of the cellar. Anya, however, was far too worked up and paranoid to even close her eyes for longer than a blink. She didn't know how they could sleep given the situation, but she wasn't going to wake them up to ask. She supposed they must have been up for a while, whereas she had been knocked out for some time. Anya kissed her father's cheek lightly and then Adrian's jet black hair while her hands massaged Adrian's back in an attempt to keep him calm and asleep. Out of all of the siblings, Anya and Adrian shared the closest bond, likely due to being the youngest of the five.
When the family was sleeping and Adrian had slipped to his side on the floor beside her, Anya's curiosity rose and she crawled over to the dark portion of the wall. Slowly she reached out a hand and ran fingertips over the surface. It wasn't wet paint, but it was definitely a recent change to the surface. She curled her hand into a fist and knocked on the wall. Her brow furrowed as a curious noise was made, or rather, a distinct lack of sound. Reaching over a bit, she knocked on that portion of the wall and heard the echo that she originally expected. The odd portion of the wall barely made a sound and felt rather weak in construction. Her curiosity had not been satisfied; in fact, it was piqued.
Anya crawled back over to her father to ask about the wall and show him, but the moment her hand reached out to touch his shoulder, the solitary door in the room was suddenly kicked open. Several men rushed through the door, armed with rifles. They lined up against the opposite wall and the final man to answer barked orders. "Stand up!" He stood in the middle of the small group of men and Anya assumed he was their leader. She wasn't far from the truth. The men themselves weren't quite distinguishable; they all wore the same clothing and their faces were covered. The family awoke with a start when the door had been kicked open, but no one moved right away, instead trying to figure out what was happening. "I said up, dammit!"
The family knew that it would not be wise to disobey a group of armed men. Adrian whined quietly when Anya stood up with him in her arms. She rubbed his back and kissed his forehead before whispering into his ear. "Everything will be alright…" Adrian was probably too old to be held, but Anya didn't mind; she was his older sister, and it was her duty to protect him.
"Line up against the wall." The man commanded. Immediately, the family shifted around and lined up as they were ordered, the children sticking close to their parents. When all was quiet, the lead man pulled a sheet of folded paper from his pocket, handing his gun to the man at his right. The crinkle of the crisp paper was the only sound that filled the room. After a short pause and a glance to the family, the man looked down and read from the paper. It started out rather dull, and so Anya zoned out for the vast majority of the little speech, except for the last words. "…Due to arising circumstances, we are ordered to execute you earlier than planned."
Anya's eyes widened and she nearly choked; had she heard him correctly? Cerulean eyes searched the man's face as if seeking the answer. The stoic features, broken by a cruel smirk as he noticed her gaze, did nothing but confirm her uncertainties. Again, the only sound in the room was the crinkle of paper, but the fear from her family emanated around them as though it were a thick cloud. The man shoved the paper back into his pocket and held up his hand. With the raising of his hand, the family straightened up and muscles tensed. Everyone knew what was going to happen as soon as that hand dropped. Anya's grip on Adrian tightened for a moment as defiant eyes stared down the barrels of the gun into the men's eyes. She had to do something.
As thoughts raced through her mind, plans developing, a quiet whisper came across her ears. "Anya. Run. Get out of here. Find a way."
She quickly glanced to her father, drawing her mind back to the present. "But what about…?"
Out of the corner of her eye, Anya saw the hand drop.
"Live!" Anya's father shouted, diving in front of his children as the deafening sound of the rifles firing filled the air. Reflexively, Anya hit the ground quickly and placed Adrian at her side, closest to the wall, farthest from the assailants.
"This way, Adrian." Anya crawled quickly towards the darker section of the wall that she had investigated earlier, Adrian at her side. It was now, or never. Lucky for them, the small room didn't take too long to fill with smoke from the shots.
As they crawled, only one thing could be heard above the noise of the shots: the screams of their family. A dull thud beside her, followed by something light, yet warm falling across her back caused Anya to stop. She glanced to her side, in horror. Staring back up at her were the vacant eyes of her mother, open in death. Anya's throat clenched shut and tears sprang to her eyes. She was frozen in horror.
A sharp ping to her side, followed by a stinging pain in her shoulder blade brought her back to the present situation. The yelp of pain couldn't make it past the knot in her throat, but the sudden shock caused her to move forward quickly, catching up with Adrian. Bullets seemed to rain around her, most of them missing, though one found its way into her left arm. Biting her lip to conceal the injury from Adrian, she pressed forward until that wall was in front of her eyes. Stopping, she reached and grabbed Adrian to signal him to stop as well. Risking a quick glance to his face and a survey of his body, she saw only tears and scrapes; no bullet wounds.
Anya pulled him closer to her side, and his small arms wrapped around her waist. Without hesitation, Anya started pounding her fists on the wall quickly, in desperation. It was their last hope. Somewhat to her surprise, the feeble material started to break and crumple beneath her fists. Behind it, she found a hole of sorts. Slender hands grabbed at the edges of the hole and pulled away larger chunks of the plaster. Adrian saw what she was doing and followed suit. Together they created a hole large enough for the both of them to see through. Anya peered in, coughing from the smoke in the room that also blurred what lay behind the mysterious, thin wall. Waving her hand in front of her, the smoke dissipated from the area long enough for Anya to catch sight of horizontal wooden planks. Eyes widening, hands gripped at the edges of the hole with a renewed fervor, tearing apart the plaster. Adrian backed up a couple of inches, watching curiously.
"Come, Adrian. Quickly now." Anya grabbed his arm and pulled him through the hole she had made, thin fingers prying at the side of the planks. Hinges creaked, and a door opened. "Run! Come on, we can make it. Father would want us to live…" Her voice cracked as she said 'father'. She knew he was dead. He and her mother would have been the primary targets of the sights of the rifles. The first bullets would have embedded themselves in their skin. But why were they killing the children? What had the children ever done wrong? Before an execution, there was supposed to be a trial. Before a trial, there was supposed to be a crime. What crime could the innocent children have possibly committed?
Screams resounded near the youngest siblings. One in particular caused Anya to pause and glance over her shoulder, yet nothing but dismay resulted from the action. Her oldest sister sat in the corner only few feet away. Tears were streaming down the soft, once flawless face, yet they mingled with blood from a wound across her cheek. The new white dress she had worn for her boyfriend that fateful day now hung in ruins on her body; torn, dirtied and blood-stained.
Anya called her name and motioned for her sister to follow her. Only, her older sister never heard nor saw her. Her sister's eyes just went wide and she screamed, frail arms rising to try to shield herself from something that Anya could not see at first. Then the silhouette of a tall, broad man blocked Anya's sight of her sister. The smoke obscured her vision and she started to move towards that corner to help her sister.
The man moved away. Before Anya's vision now lay a sight that paralleled the image of her dead mother's eyes. Her oldest sister lay on her side, pressed up against the wall. Blood covered the white dress on her body, and small hands tried in vain to cover the wounds and stop the bleeding. It was too late. Anya was forced to watch as her sister's breathing grew rapid and her eyelids fluttered. One last sigh, one last blink. Crimson soaked the white dress and slowly pooled around the delicate body. If only that was not Anya's last image of her beloved sister.
Anya sat on her knees at the entrance of the passageway. It was one thing to know your family was being slaughtered and yet another to see the actual murder. Another bullet slid into her left arm and brought her consciousness back to reality yet again. Quickly, she moved through the door and crawled through a dirt passage until she was able to stand, finally running to catch up to Adrian. Another door at the end of the passageway. Anya ripped it open and hissed as her breath was stolen by the crisp, cold air of outside. Eyes quickly glanced around, and then to the snow near her feet. There were no footprints in the snow, and Adrian was no where to be found.
"Adrian!" She yelled, turning around and sprinting back through the passageway until she had to crawl again. Elbows and forearms gathered scrapes, but she hardly felt the dirt digging deeper into the small wounds. The smoke drying out her eyes told her she was close to the scene. She reached the door that separated her from the murder. Without hesitation, her hands gripped at the wood and pulled with all of her strength. The door would not budge. "Adrian! Please!" Tears spilled down her face. She dug her nails into the wood and pulled, but the effort was not enough. A couple of nails broke and she fell backwards, strength slowly starting to leave her. She hoped this was all a terrible nightmare and it would all be over soon. Her mother would come to wake her up from her thrashing and embrace her in a warm hug. Breakfast would be served soon, her whole family gathered around the table and laughing…
"Go, Anya!" A voice from the other side of the door. Anya blinked several times, unsure of what she had heard, or if she was hallucinating. It sounded… almost like Adrian. "Anya! Go!" The voice held more urgency and almost felt as though it forced her to turn around and start crawling away. She wanted to save her youngest and only brother, but it would be in vain and she knew it. They would both die. The entire family would be dead if she tried to save him. Anya knew that her family would want her to live, if not for herself, then for them.
Anya closed her eyes and crawled down the passageway, away from the smoke, shots, and screams. Then she stood and ran through the open door into the gray Russian night. White snow crumpled underneath her feet, leaving a trail of her footprints. Drops of crimson stained the snow and tears hardly had a chance to leave cerulean eyes before freezing to the pale face. Stumbling steps had no precise course, except to take her away from the cold-blooded mass murder.