Two

Alfred couldn't see anything, and no sound was heard throughout the room. He could feel he was on a set of wooden stairs, and he saw a glimmer of light from the edge of the stairwell. He stayed completely and utterly still, hearing Anya right outside the door.

Anya was looking around, blinking innocently. Alfred couldn't have gotten far. She looked at the door to the basement, staring emptily at it. Alfred gulped, a bead of sweat trickling down his face. She continued to stare at the door, lost in thought.

It's forbidden. Locked, forever.

She grabbed the doorknob, but found the door to be locked; as it should be. She sighed, knowing he couldn't have been in there. Anya turned on her heel, dragging her shovel against the marble floor.

Alfred heard her go, the sound of her shovel growing fainter and fainter. He sighed shakily in relief, slumping down onto the wooden steps. The dim light at the bottom of the steps flickered, and little Anya was there, back turned to Alfred. He blinked, slowly getting up and cautiously making his way down the steps toward her. He tried to keep quiet, as not to startle her, but his hopes plummeted as one of the stairs creaked loudly. Little Anya jerked her head around, her eyes wild with panic, before disappearing into nothingness.

He groaned in bitter disappointment, rubbing his temples. His head hurt. What the hell was going on? Was little Anya really there or just a figment of his imagination? As soon as he stepped off the steps and onto the cold stone floor, the small dash of light from the light bulb had gone dead. The room was cold and had an eerie presence about it. Alfred gulped, on edge, scarcely able to see. Even with the one window in the room with moonlight filtering through, the room was a bare strain of outlines, shrouded in darkness. He began feeling around blindly for a light switch, surprised he wasn't tripping over anything. The walls felt cool and rustic under his hand, peeling slightly. Some patches of wall were rougher than others, but he couldn't find a switch.

A tap came from the window, making Alfred jump. He turned, looking out the small window, but saw nothing. Suddenly, a breath appeared on the glass, like one would see in winter, when breathing hot air onto a window or glass door. He stared, writing beginning to appear. He squinted, trying to make out the writing as the breath began to fade.

Don't turn on the light.

Alfred's expression became panicked, and he backed up against the opposite wall, eyes transfixed on the window as more writing began to appear.

Don't let her catch you.

He was trembling slightly. What was happening to him? He couldn't be losing his mind. He wouldn't let Russia win. He wouldn't let her inside his head. He refused. Where was that light switch? He began feeling around a bit more frantically, finally feeling a switch. He flipped it, illuminating the room. He gasped, eyes widening in horror.

The rustic feeling wasn't just rust; it was blood splatters. The blood stains were set in the walls, as if they'd been there for many, many years. There were a couple chairs on the opposite end of the room, both of them knocked over and covered in dust. The room seemed to drop a couple degrees in temperature, and Alfred whipped his head around at the scratching noise behind him. Words were being carved into one of the larger blood splotches on the wall. The sound resembled a piece of sharp metal on concrete, and it was sickening. He watched the words as they slowly stood out and formed a complete sentence.

I thought I warned you not to turn on the light.

Alfred resisted the powerful urge to shout, his insides running ice cold. He was shaking violently, frightened beyond his wits. He turned towards the stairs, but stopped, seeing little Anya. She was glaring at him, her eyes empty of emotion and her expression blank. The frightened look on her face was nowhere in sight, not by a long shot. Alfred turned back to attempt breaking the window, but knew it was too small a fit. He was stuck, confined even further than he'd been before hiding out here. Little Anya slowly moved toward him, grabbing his hand.

As soon as they made contact, the walls were cleaned. They even looked brand new, as if they hadn't been touched. The chairs were set up straight, side by side. Alfred was confused as could be. He knew he was losing his mind now, but still refused to admit it. Little Anya was watching the scene contently, a sadness in her empty violet eyes. She still held Alfred's hand in hers, and he thought it best to follow her lead… and watch.

The door to the basement opened, and he resisted the urge to see if it was Anya. He saw a family come around, the mother and father sitting in the chairs. They had four daughters, it seemed, and one son, who sat on the father's lap. Who were these people? He looked down at little Anya, but something in his mind was nagging at him to watch the rest of the scene unfurl. The four girls were talking quietly amongst themselves, one of them seemingly very familiar, as if Alfred had seen her somewhere before.

And then Anya walked in.

She looked a little younger than Anya did now, and a bit older than little Anya. Alfred tensed, but she looked right past him, as if he weren't there. That's when he began to figure it out. This was nothing but a flashback. A time slip. He was still unsure as to what was going on, but the familiar-looking girl ran up to Anya and hugged her around the waist, speaking in Russian. She seemed happy, but Anya's response was melancholy, a light coat of anguish covering her tone. The girl blinked, her smile vanishing. She rejoined her sisters, looking at the ground. Anya's back was to the family now, and the room was awkwardly silent. Alfred gulped, the silence making him nervous. Then Anya muttered two words that he recognized.

"Da svedanya."

The last thing Alfred heard were gunshots and screams, and the last thing he saw were the bodies of the family falling to the ground, every last one. The chairs fell over; landing in the exact same position they'd been in when he'd first seen them in the room currently. The scenery changed, gunshots still blaring and screams still ringing in his ears. He was outside the Tsar's palace, he realized, a crowd of people scattering madly and erratically about through the snow. Some of them fell to the ground, and he heard little Anya whisper in a tiny, childlike voice a simple pair of words.

"Bloody Sunday~"

Alfred looked down at her, his eyes pleading. But little Anya continued to stare, unmoving, standing as if she were a stone statue. The environment changed again, showing flashes of what Alfred knew as the Great Purge. The events were out of order, changing sporadically, but the effect was still the same. Finally, the scenery changed to a more recent event. Alfred could tell, because it was only a couple decades ago that this took place.

He would know. He had caused it.

Anya was looking on at her fellow countries of the formerly known Soviet Union. All of them-every last one-was leaving her. He never knew she'd watched them all go singularly. She stood on her home territory, alone in the snow, watching as every last one of them left, making their way back home. Alfred could only stare at her as she sat down in the snow, eyes on the ground. The expression in her face was painful to look at it; the loneliness sticking out like a sore thumb. He didn't know it had hurt her that bad. And even though what was done was done and Alfred would never take it back, he felt a bit… ashamed.

Little Anya finally let go of Alfred's hand and the room returned to normal. His eyes slowly adjusted to the usual light, and the usual scenery. The words on the wall were gone, as well as the words on the window and little Anya herself. Alfred took a couple deep breaths, trying to calm himself and keep steady, the pain in his torso and jaw making him feel numb. He looked toward the staircase, making his way towards it quickly. He turned out the light, heading up the stairs.

He was sure Anya was tired of looking for him by now.