Years into the future, when- well, if you've seen the movie or heard the tale of Anastasia, you'll probably catch on quite quickly (so I'm unoriginal. But... actually, I have no excuse).

-x-

Snow drifted casually down, in a dull and grey manner that said, "I do this every day and haven't been paid once, so don't expect me to try and make things convenient for you". To emphasise the point it carried a biting frost which no completely sane person would go out in without five layers of clothing and expect to maintain a safe body temperature.

It was cold in the summer at Balkov Abbey. It was colder in Autumn. With a surprising amount of logic compared to other things in the forces of nature, it was coldest in Winter. It was fairly easy to make a guess at the state of things on the third day of January.

None of this was going through a young girl's head as she stamped across the ground. Though most children would be entranced by the wonderland spread out in clouds of glistening whiteness, the grim look on her face suggested that if her sparkling footprints so much as tried to interest her she would personally get someone to shoot them. Her haughty air stopped the chilling winds in their tracks; her short but vividly scarlet hair could almost be enough to melt them again if it wasn't crammed under a fur hat. That in itself was an oddity. Despite its light cream colour, matching the silk of her dress (currently hidden under a heavy jacket that looked like it may have single-handedly wiped out half of the grey fox population), not to mention its owner being a small girl at the precise age when something only has to be near a person to become coated in a vast amount of dirt, it was perfectly clean.

A particularly vicious group of snowflakes whipped themselves into a frenzy around her, rebelling against the human apparently indifferent to their onslaught. They felt they were doing the job of ruining the day of anyone outside quite well, but in return received nothing. The girl frowned at a skeletal tree ahead of her and spat one word.

"Mother."

Though she spoke naturally in English, it was with a strong Russian accent that would probably have been all the more prominent if it wasn't also faintly tainted with French, German, and Italian. Even under all of that, the sheer irritation she felt shone venomously through.

"No, guess again."

Finally, the weather could almost be connected with the girl. She froze, pale skin gaining a delicate blush as she realised someone had been following her. Judging by the fury slowly skulking onto her face and settling into her features with no apparent intent to move, it wasn't out of embarrassment. Ruffled skirt tangling around her legs, she spun to find the voice's source.

Confronting her was a boy. Simple as that was, no one could deny that it pretty much encompassed all there was to say about him. His clothes were as grubby as his face, and his dark brown hair was trapped in the vague state between being neatly combed and resembling, not just a bird's nest, but the tree that the nest was in. Disdain rarely featured in the girl's personality, being something more characteristic of her loathed mother, but she almost felt it when she looked at him.

His smirk didn't help the situation, though it seemed to be trying. It just about reached his soft eyes, giving them a confident, or mischievous, glimmer. Possibly both.

"Little girls shouldn't be out here."

"I am not little. I am six years old."

"Well, I'm seven."

"I will be in eleven days."

They stared stubbornly at each other. The sight of two children silently trying to wear each other down by looking at each other was, in any terms, a curious sight in the middle of a snowy nowhere. Eventually it was the boy who surrendered, turning around. He was wearing a light blue coat, and the action revealed a navy logo printed on the back. It bore the letters 'BBA'.

"Go home, Baby."

The nickname had the same effect that repeatedly poking someone who has a very short temper will do. Sparks danced across the surface of the girl's eyes, which managed to fit oddly in with the glittering scenery due to their icy shade of blue. The result was a sharp, yet on the whole unthreatening, threatening glare.

"If you're here then you must be staying at my father's Abbey."

He appeared nothing more than infuriatingly curious at this development, as he returned to facing her.

"So you're Anastasia then."

"Who wants to know?" snapped Anastasia. She received a grin unhelpful enough to put anyone's teeth on edge for her troubles.

"I guessed your name. You guess mine."

"I don't want to."

"Then you'll never know."

Another stalemate was reached. Anastasia clearly had no inclination to play any games, and the boy was set in the decision to give nothing away.

Finally, Anastasia sat down on a desolate log. It could have been ripped from the earth during a storm, as spidery roots had matted together at one end. They provided a relatively adequate shelter from the elements, and, taking it as common sense, the boy joined her, huddled against the rough bark. She blinked at him, and put a hand to her neck.

"Would you tell me if I gave you something?"

He watched suspiciously as she pulled out a thin, silver chain from the folds of her jacket.

"Like what?"

When she opened her short fingers, stained slightly lilac with cold, a square pendant could be seen resting on her quivering palm. The shape on it was comprised of three further squares o a scarlet background - one on the top left was orange, and the other two were next to each other on the bottom right (on top was a royal purple one, the other yellow). There did not seem to be anything out of the ordinary about it, as it swung gently on the wind like a pendulum, but the boy took it. His hand was darker than Anastasia's, and she got the sudden yet distinct impression that he was Japanese. Though he was perfectly fluent in English, it slipped into place with his voice and the fact that she had been told (or, more precisely, had found out after pestering her father) the Abbey was expecting visitors from Japan to celebrate a belated new year. It wasn't a particularly useful clue to his name, however, and she was soon distracted as he sprung up still holding the necklace.

"Hey!"

"Nya nya, mine now."

If he hadn't already bounded into the cover of the snow, the boy would probably have been forced to hand back the necklace. As it was, Anastasia's otherwise surprisingly powerful punch met with the ground.

Rubbing life back into her arm, after landing on it with a thump and crunch as it dug into the thick snow, she pushed herself up and tore after the boy. Knowing the land with an instinct much like fish have when swimming in a school with absolute unison gave her an advantage; realising that the boy had gone did not.

She stopped after a minute or so. Had it been sunny, the path would have ended here, dissolving into forests and wide, plain expanses of nothing noteworthy. A oang knocked on the door of Anastasia's heart, then shoved itself firmly in without waiting for an invitation. The necklace was her only possession relating in any way to her parents. She may not have been very old, but she had alwats had an uncomfortable feeling that she wasn't wanted, in all essences of the word, by her family. As a gift from her mother, at some point Anastasia wasn't quite sure of, it was the only evidence that there was actually some love for her in those who had given her life.

She collapsed moodily to the floor, and instantly regretted it. Aside from the damp chill which instantly began sinking into her clothes, something sharp had nestled into her leg.

A rose. Shifting to one side, she could see that. Its petals had been crushed under her sudden weight, and a drop of blood now hung delicately from one of its thorns, but the beauty all roses have captured and woven into their existence was still there. Seeing it in the middle of a blizzard was reminiscent of finding a butterfly in an ant's nest. Anastasia didn't like butterflies, in much the same way that she didn't like ants, but she picked up the rose carefully anyway. Each silk petal was just beginning to spread open, and for some reason the way it was almost ready to attract a variety of insects made her think of a dreamcatcher she had fastened to the ceiling in her room. Something that wasn't originally meant to be special, but would gradually become so when she had her head turned. It occured to her as she trudged back in roughly the Abbey's direction that it was impossible to accidentally stumble across a flowering rose bush in the middle of Russia during a harsh January, but the thought was soon pushed out of her mind by something large, orange, and hot.

Voices swarmed into the swollen grey sky with the snow, a beehive of hums gradually blossoming into screams. Anastasia stumbled as she ran on. Her boots were kept tightly on her feet by scraps of leather ribbon which were quickly unfastening themselves, but the inconvenience merely slowed her down. People were streaming towards her now, shouting incoherently. Nothing could prevent her from barreling onwards, even the choking smoke she was soon having to wade through.

And then, there it was. Majestic pillars of flame, arching upwards in a glorious blaze as their tips greedily stroked the sky. Ashes flicked into Anastasia's eyes as she watched her home burning with a numb horror. The fire seemed to laugh at her joyously, swaying from side to side and engulfing more of the unrecognisable building.

Death was not a concept she had fully grasped yet, but it was still so thick in the air it could almost be touched. A blackness waiting to swallow, tendrils of oily slime that weren't really there. They wrapped around anything in their way, wisps of deceptively weak cobwebs brushing against flies, and took a vindictive pleasure in slowly strangling the life out of it. Tempting until the exact moment when it was too late to change your mind.

Time had ceased. The snow had stopped falling. People were gathering in a motionless, stony ring at a safe distance. The fire continued to eat away everything Anastasia knew with a mocking leer, but so steadily it could just be a photo. She watched, unable to break the spell.

Then hands grabbed her from behind, and she was being bundled away from the pain. Death let her slip through its greasy fingers. As she was thrown hastily into the backseat of a car, the fire coughed to remind everyone it was still there and started up again with twice as much energy.

Someone smiled.

-x-

Author's Note

(Don't you just hate these?)

Any criticism welcome, from minor typos (of which there are many) to telling me I should just give up now (which is a very good, sane suggestion, possibly why I hadn't thought of it).

And yes. Anastasia is a brat here. Let's push her into the fire!