In Dedication to

TreesandCheese, editor and the author of the prequel,

DragonFlame666 for being a good friend,

Artificial Starlight for motivating me to be an author,

My friend who is obsessed with RusCan (you know who you are).

Chapter Three:

"I believe in everything until it's disproved.

So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons.

It all exists, even if it's in your mind.

Who's to say that dreams and nightmares

aren't as real as the here and now?"

John Lennon

He walked through the corridors of the White House, as he did that fateful day, but Matthew wasn't there with him this time. The lights flickered angrily as he passed through the halls, through the Roosevelt room, disfigured by the most recent string of presidents, and finally, he stopped in front of the door to the Oval office. The lights flickered out. He opened the door, slowly, cautiously.

His eyes adjusted slowly to the bits of moonlight penetrating the curtains. He flipped on the lights, but they wouldn't work. He walked over to the curtains, his foot landing in something sticky. And wet.

The windows blew ajar, wind and starlight rushing into the dim room. Curtains fluttered around Ivan as his breath caught in his chest. Lightning flashed brightly across the stars. Orbs in the sky, so far away.

In the centre of the office, lay Anastasie.She was a mess of inky, black shadows. Stepping forward, he made out feathers coated in thick blood. Feathers? Wings? Her own...? Bent out at awkward angles were wings like a black bird's, prosperous in flight, but now nothing more than a heap. Hair matted in sticky waves, plastered to her unclothed body, blemished only by blood but no visible wounds.

He didn't need to see her like this, not the girl he had taken in, not his daughter. As though the god Ivan had yet to see the proven existence of had not had enough of a show, beside the beautiful raven was a stunning dove. His angel. If anything, he appeared worse because you could see everything in detail against the white of his wings and the honey of his hair.

"I-Ivan," the Canadian croaked, bringing Ivan away from his terrorized thoughts.

"Matvey!" He exclaimed, running to his side, sliding his fingers under his bare back, lifting him up.

"Ivan,"

"Yes, angel," Ivan said, directing his gaze away from Matthew's broken wings and to his face, dirty with abuse.

"Why didn't you save me?" The words stung him like a pile of bricks to the face, only worse. He vanished in a pile of grey ash, leaving Ivan on his own. Except for the slate eyes, piercing him

"Ana," Russia murmured. He knelt next to her, scared to touch her bare skin.

"You're crying, Ivan," she said evenly. Russia reached up to hesitantly touch the hot, salty tears streaming from his violet eyes. "You're crying for him," Ivan nodded.

"Does he deserve your tears?" Russia looked up at her, confused by her words. Of course he deserves my tears! He though to himself, wanting to scream at her. But he couldn't talk. "I wish you would cry for me."

"Ana?" It came out broken, as if he hadn't spoken in years.

"You chose him over me. I was alive, Ivan, when he was not. It has always been him." She said as if it were nothing.

A simple statement to her. She can't feel emotions.

Why was she crying, then?

"I loved you. I only wanted you to love me, too," she reached up to touch his cheek, her delicate fingers turning to black dust at the touch.

"Ana, I-" Ivan stopped, "Ana? Ana!"

Oh, Ivan, Ivan. Whatever will you do? Your bird has been grounded.

Ivan bolted upright in his bed and instinctively looked to his side, as if expecting Matthew to be there-or Ana. Ivan had had many dreams like that in the past, waking up to Matthew beside him. But Matthew was dead. Ana was not.

He threw the covers off of him, whipping the door open in a mad dash up the stairs and into Anastasie's room. The room was dark and the numbers on the clock flashed madly at 12:00. The power had gone out sometime in the night.

Ana was on the ground, tangled in blankets, "Ana!"

"I fell," she grumbled, "I just fell."

"Come, I'll help you up,"

She shook her head furiously, "leave me alone,"

"Ana," he tried in a persuasive tone as she began in a coughing fit. Ivan reached up to the lamp on the nightstand, turning it on. The light illuminated the scene. Anastasie was on the floor, coughing harshly into her hand, covers bunched around her waist, hair in a mess, a few buttons on her shirt undone, revealing the smooth contour of her collar bones-and bruises.

As she pulled her hand away, she gasped in horror. Red dabbed her palm, running over her fingers like silk. She looked up at Ivan, scared that he saw, scared of the anger written so plainly on his face. His hands worked quickly, pushing her against the side of the bed, unbuttoning the rest of her shirt, exposing her torso.

Yellows, blues, purples and blacks blemished the otherwise perfect skin. His eyes continued downwards, acknowledging her stomach held the same colouring. His fingers prodded the swollen skin under her bra line, earning whimpers of pain from the girl, "it's only cracked," he announced, astonished. Along with the bruising, blood tarnished her snow-white skin, and he could only imagine what the rest of her looked like. "Take off the rest of your clothes," he walked away and into the connecting bathroom. Anastasie could hear the running water.

I didn't make much noise when I fell. Why did he come up here? She thought to herself. She shrugged off her shirt and reached back to unclasp her bra. Carefully, she pulled down her leggings, grimacing when she pulled them over her ankle.

Ivan came back, wondering what was taking so long and saw her tall, lean body contorted in pain as she lifted her pants over her ankle. He picked up her foot and rubbed her swollen ankle, "You sprained it, Ana," that was why she wanted me to carry her, he realized. And here he had thought that she was to rely and trust him.

Picking her up again, he brought her to the bathtub, laying her in the lukewarm water. He grabbed a rag and began to gently wash off the blood from her battered body. "Ana, you're going to tell me what happened, da?"

"No,"

He looked back at her, disbelief marring his features, "Da, you are. You live in my house, you follow my rules," his voice softened a tone, "please, Ana, tell me what happened?" She shook her head, adamantly refusing his request, "YA volnovalas'" he said softly in Russian.

"I fell out of a tree,"

"нет, the truth,"

"I fell out of a tree," she repeated.

"Ana!"

"Tree." He rolled his mauve eyes, giving up and continuing to wash her, "Ivan,"

"Da?"

"Spasibo," He reached up to touch her cheek, pink from the steam rising from bathtub, his eyes conveying his earlier message. However, Anastasie just looked at him, as if unable to recognize the feelings. He lowered his hand and continued washing her, the water tinting red with blood.


Ivan whisked her under the covers after addressing the condition of her injuries, which weren't as bad as he originally had believed. He wanted to know the truth. But he knew that Anastasie wouldn't give it to him.

The floorboards creaked in protest as he walked down the stairs and into the dark abyss of his living room. He switched on his television and flipped through the channels. His screen was littered with soap operas and their compatriots, late night comedy sketches until, after a few minutes too long, the news finally came on.

Ivan leaned forward, sipping from his bottle and listening intently to the woman broadcaster. She sputtered the usual. The weather had gotten unexpectedly cold but that it should be definitely warming up by next Monday. Isn't that what they said yesterday? Ivan rolled his eyes. The woman was soon replaced by a man sitting behind a desk, his tailored suit creased to perfection, his face clean-shaven.

Japan was still trying to get the Koreas back into the Japanese empire and Israel and Palestine were at each other's necks once again. But what Ivan was looking for was American news. A few days ago there had been news on an armed uprising in the Northern Territories, which is where many of the Canadians had accumulated after the US invaded. In actuality, it was just a name given to it and it occupied the North-west territories, Yukon, Nunavut and the northern half of Quebec and Labrador. The Canadians hadn't caused trouble in the nearly one hundred years that Canada had been dissolved and the sudden news of it along with the reported executions of almost ten people was enough to make everyone in the world stop and listen. No one, not even Mexico or Cuba, had revolted in just about thirty years, leaving the United States Empire unchallenged.

Ivan wanted to know what was going on. He wanted to know what would happen to Matvey's people.

"In other news, the Northern Territories had seen an uprising in recent days. An official number of eight people were executed on charges of leading the revolt and an unofficial count of approximately twenty people had been shot down by the military in trying to calm the crowds,

"The northern half of what used to be Canada and is occupied by over eighty percent of Canadian descendants has never been home to an uprising of any sort and comes as a surprise to the United Empire as they haven't seen such a riot in over thirty years, when the last of the Cuban uprisings were shut down. No further information has come from the empire aside from a statement from the president saying that, quote, 'The measures taken were appropriate to the situation,'"

Bullshit, Ivan thought to himself, turning the T.V. off and leaning his head against the back of the couch, No government would kill over twenty people in one riot unless there had been multiple instances. He knew that every country would keep their eye on the States, especially those still in the UN; the Russian Federation, the United Kingdom and France would most certainly do so. China would as well, though they'd keep it hidden. Germany would, too.

Ivan set the empty bottle down on the coffee table, resting his feet beside it. Sweet silence, he thought to himself. If the T.V. wasn't on, his house was always this quiet. Ana didn't talk. Ivan could remember a time when his home was filled with the sweet laughter of Matthew and his sisters. Francis, Arthur and even Alfred had been there almost constantly with Matvey at some form of a holiday or another. Ivan could still smell the Canadian's presence, could see the little knickknacks here and there showing off his taste in decor.

Ivan wanted that warmth back in his life. He'd felt so alone for so long and surely Ana felt the same.


Arthur silently locked the door behind him in case Francis was over. He didn't need the Frenchman jumping all over him. He was tired and jet-lagged and utterly confused about what had happened. Earl Grey? How did she know that was my favourite..? Must have been a coincidence The man thought to himself, taking the scarf Francis had made him last year off and hanging it on the coat tree next to his coat-and Francis'.

Arthur sighed, removing his shoes and walking into the kitchen where he'd brew himself a nice cup of camomile. He glanced over to the dinning room table where he spotted the Frenchman leaning his head on his arms. He fell asleep waiting for me, he thought to himself, the cheeky frog. The candles were left unlit, the lighter sitting beside them. "Francis," he said, shaking him gently, "Francis,"

"Hmm?" He blinked, lifting his head up, blond locks falling over his face, "mon cher, you're back!" He whispered happily, reaching out to hug Arthur.

"I was only in Russia. I don't know why you're so clingy, you git," his voice softened when he saw the other man's frown, "Come on, let's get to bed. Let me just grab my tea..."

Arthur wondered back into the kitchen, pouring the steeping tea into a floral teacup and dissolving two teaspoons of sugar in. Him and his uninvited guest made their way upstairs. Francis was unusually tranquil and after changing, climbed under the covers and started dozing off. No suggestive one-liners or looks towards England as he unbuttoned his shirt.

On the dresser lay a photo album, one of their older ones from the 19th and 20th century. It was slightly out of place. Francis was looking at pictures of the four of us, Arthur realized, from when we were a family... He snuggled in beside Francis, wrapping his arms around the weeping man, "Why couldn't it stay the same?" He cried into Arthur's chest.

"I don't know, Hun," he whispered.

His tea was left to cool, alone and forgotten.


A/N: Third chapter! I'm so excited and I'm sorry for the unrealisticness/OOCness of Ivan's dream but it was, in fact, a dream. Once I was riding a robot around the superstore in a dream. They're not realistic. As a side note, I know Ana coughed up blood but that was more so to just keep everything going and less so because of anything else. I think. So, maybe she bit her cheek or tongue when she fell. Anyways! Thank you for the reviews and for reading my story! For anyone who hasn't yet, you really should read Becoming a Memory by TreesandCheese because it is the prequel to my story and as such you kind of should read it to get a grip on what kind of world we're in. Oh! Russia not supposed to be a pervert or anything, by the way. Just think of when you were little and your parents bathed you. You didn't think they were pedophiles, did you? Moving on... Love you all!

Translations:

Da (Russian): Yes

нет (Russian): No

YA volnovalas' (Russian): I was worried

Spasibo (Russian): Thank you

Mon Cher (French): My dear

Disclaimer! I do not own any copyrighted materials in this piece, only Anastasie. Chudos are legit, people.

Chapter Four Teaser: "I want to get something pink. Or blue." A colour other than her current pallet of greys and blacks? Ivan was all for it. He was happy that she was expressing interest in normal things. You know, other than the many shades of grey in the world and poems by Poe. Because that was normal.