And here's the last one! I must admit the ending wasn't that easy to write because I wasn't very excited about it, but I confess I love everything especially before the little dash-break between the two parts of the story. Kind of a long chapter, but it took a while to write and revise until I got it how I wanted it. Now, this installment may seem shallow in some areas, and there's a reason behind that. I don't think I'll be writing any more one-shots for Anastasia for a while anymore, and that reason is this: The companion story to "Red Blood, White Snow" is being painstakingly written (I say painstakingly because I kind of fail at writing super duper happy cute-cute things, and that's how the entire beginning is. Grah.) and once that and the Silent Hill 4 novelization are finished? This movie gets a nice novelization. I hate being so late with things because again it looks like I'm stealing from J. Fontaine, but it's true, I'd really like to take on a novelization for this. I think. Novelizations take time and thought. I would also think that it'd be shorter than SH4 would be.

Also, you'd want to check out my LiveJournal. The link is in my profile, the username is Brezifus if you'd just like to search. In short, I'll be posting lots of story fragments open for edit by anyone who'd like to chip in on my stories as they're being written. I highly recommend it-stories will come out better with opinions and such from you people.

Finally, if you reviewed and I haven't replied, I apologize. I'll get around to it someday! I swear! Maybe after midterms...Anyway, enjoy the last installment for this!

Small country roads were somewhat dangerous to travel on, mostly because of how unkempt they were and how far the nearest town was. Traveling on them via horse and carriage also wasn't the smoothest way to go, but a friendly merchant offered a free ride for them to a Czech village just on the border with Germany. For some time they exchanged small talk; the merchant, being of Czech descent, complaining bitterly of the forced union with Slovakia. They listened as sympathetically as they could before the sun set in front of them. The road widened, and the merchant announced that they were only perhaps two hours off from their destination. Settling down into the seats of the carriage, Vlad, Dmitri, and Anya dozed as the clouded sky dimmed.

There was no moon to be seen, allowing dark shadows to be cast everywhere. One could barely make out the other's outline in the darkness, only by the soft blue highlights that barely stood out in the approaching night.

The carriage was covered but old and ragged, open holes where window panes should've been and all of their luggage strapped precariously on top. Even so they had to raise their voices to converse with the driver, and due to the curtains that replaced glass they could not see very well even with the light of the lantern outside. If it wasn't for the lurch as the horse bucked and bolted, they would have assumed that the gunshot was a hunter and intended for someone else entirely—until the carriage soared over a very unexpected and one-sided lump in the road.

Dmitri, acting impulsively, opened the side door of the carriage and stuck his head out. Turning it from side to side, he squinted into the darkness that the frantic lantern only helped to sharpen.

"Be careful, lad!" Vlad warned as he struggled to keep his hat on as the carriage rocked back and forth. Dmitri barely heard him as he saw the dark shape on the road fading away from them, unmoving. The horse took a sharp curve, throwing him backward into the fairly small compartment. Anya's sharp shoes and Vlad's worn boots greeted his back as he toppled onto them, and he squirmed in a desperate act to find a comfortable spot. Grunting as the carriage rolled over the gravel road on barely four wheels, Dmitri gripped their legs to keep steady as the carriage crashed about, nearly tipping topsy turvy as the spooked horse continued to gallop fiercely. He opened his eyes once the carriage bounced down a straight streak of road, seeing Anya and Pooka gazing down at him, Vlad's face scrunched in concentration as he tried to keep his balance and his lunch.

"He's dead," Dmitri gasped.

"What?" Anya replied, petting Pooka's head nervously.

"Our driver. I'm guessing he was shot and then we ran him over,"

"That's...That's awful!" Anya yelled over the din of the road, "Why would someone do that?"

"Bandits," Vlad guessed as Dmitri struggled to sit back down next to him.

"Very stupid bandits," Dmitri furthered, "What kind of idiot fires a gun near a horse?"

"Perhaps it was a confused hunter?" Vlad suggested as he shifted deeper into his seat.

"Could be," Dmitri grasped the handle of the door to keep it from swinging open. The hinges were failing and the latches were weak, it didn't take much for them to flap like a flailing bird

"I'm certainly glad that you two have heartfelt feelings for his painful death," Anya folded her arms around Pooka sarcastically. She could see Dmitri grin falsely in the dim light.

"Why of course, Your Highness, we'll hold a church service and send flowers to his family later,"

"You're a holy terror, Dmitri, and—,"

Anya was cut short as the horse swung the carriage over rocky shoulders of the road, the wheels creaking and the luggage overhead scraping over the poorly tended roof, threatening to either break loose or collapse in on them at any moment.

"I've been thinking," Vlad mentioned over the constant grit of the wheels, slightly nauseated, "that maybe leaving the horse attached to the carriage is not such a good idea,"

There was half of a second where everyone was silent before Dmitri jumped up with a 'fine, fine', unlatching the door and pulling his body to the outside of the carriage, gripping the top rails that corralled their sliding suitcases. He could tell the corrals would not hold for long especially if he was holding onto them for dear life. Were they to have any more stress put up against them with the luggage it would be the twine fence snapping under the power of many angry bulls. Scraping his feet along the walls of the carriage, he held a breath and began to slide himself to the front seat

"Oh," Vlad said quietly, "I knew he was going to do that, but no amount of knowing is going to make me less scared for his outcome,"

Anya twisted her mouth half-skeptically before going back to attempting to calm Pooka.

Keeping his body close to the carriage, Dmitri carefully inched his way to the front. Raising his body upwards in a vain attempt to escape the furiously spinning wheels, he fought back the pain as his clacking teeth bit his lip and tongue from the roughness of the gravel road. His heart was pounding only slightly less than when they were on the train—for one the train had a possibility for a much more deadly end, and for two the horse would at least look after its own well-being, so there were little to no chances of it plummeting off a cliff. And there was no fire involved here—as long as the lamp that was dangling on the corner of the carriage remained intact. Dmitri sucked in a breath, counted to three, and, keeping a firm grip on the guard rail, swung his legs forward, letting go of the rail at the last second to twist his body to land on the front seat.

His foot missed, and he choked over a scream as he harshly slipped downwards.

By sheer fortune his hand clawed and caught on the edge of the seat and his foot was stopped abruptly by the pristine placement of the splinter bar.

Now his heart was pounding faster than the incident on the train.

"Dmitri!" Anya called out into the wind, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine!" He yelled back, seeing the gravelly road scroll underneath him without slowing down, "I just slipped!"

"I wouldn't call that fine!" She replied, her head and shoulders leaning out of the small window, simultaneously keeping the door closed.

"You wanna come give me a hand? You're welcome!" He snapped in response as he started to pull himself up.

"Do you really mean that?"

"No!"

"Okay, fine!" She dismissed with a wave as she retreated back into the carriage. Dmitri filled his cheeks with a breath, releasing it as he rolled his eyes. That girl. If she wasn't the key to his success he would throw her overboard.

Dragging himself up onto the seat, he plopped down and sighed heavily, feeling oxygen gratuitously course through his veins. He groped about in the wild light of the lantern, finding no evidence of the horse's reins. Sighing again, he pulled his jack knife out of his pocket and slowly, uneasily crawled down until his stomach was against the foot rest. Reaching out with the knife extended, he gripped the tethers that tied the horse to its burden and began to saw through.

His stomach bruised terribly as he laid there, the foot rest digging and cutting into his soft belly. Biting his lip in both concentration and to dull the pain, he prayed that this would go quick and painless.

The bond snapped underneath his hand, and though he wavered precariously for a moment he was able to slowly crawl backwards until he was seated somewhat safely at the front again, the lantern casting sharp highlights on the horse's muscles. He waited until the road smoothed out before he slunk down to sever the tether to the right of the horse. Gripping the knife and struggling to stabilize himself, he began to cut.

Unexpectedly the horse sharply turned to the right, and Dmitri had to scramble to avoid tumbling off, slicing his hand in the process. All in an instant the carriage swung over with the force of the turn, teetering on two wheels. Dmitri felt his legs swerve one way while his shoulders remained another, straining his spine until he heard it crack numerous times. Wrapping his arms and legs tightly around what little of the front seat he could, he gritted his teeth and hoped that he wouldn't soon be keelhauled against the gravel. He didn't have long to hope for such a thing, for as soon as the carriage turned perilously on the hairpin, a scream cut through the dark air, disappearing down the road as it was thrown from the car to somersault painfully on the ground before coming to an abrupt stop.

"Anya!" Dmitri cried, looking back as though he could see her in this light. The carriage smashed back down on its four wheels, and though Dmitri's jaw clacked so hard it went numb, he grasped the tether fiercely, cutting through it with the jack knife quickly despite the warm liquid causing his palm to go slick.

The tether held fast by mere threads before snapping, releasing everything from the spooked horse. The horse tore away, its heavy gallops echoing shortly in the night air. Unprepared and yet uncaring as the carriage rebounded, Dmitri found his knuckles crushed against the ground as the front prongs of the seat clipped his chin, drawing blood. His body reacted in pain, but his brain could not register anything but the previous scream followed by Anya tumbling away into the ditch.

Without waiting for an entire stop, Dmitri took off blindly running back down the road, barely hearing Vlad try to yell for him from the cabin.

"Anya! Anya!" He called, hoping that he would hear some response, any response from her. Running on raw guesses, he skidded to a stop, searching the side of the road tentatively. Kicking himself for not bringing the lantern with him, he fell onto his hands and knees and continued to crawl forward over the coarse grass and craggy rocks, blind and trembling.

"Anya!" he gasped, drawing himself up beside her. She was breathing lightly, but it was by no means comfortable. Whispering her name over and over again should she be struggling to wake, he brushed her stray hair away from her face. His eyes fought to see in such horrible light, gazing down her crumpled body. Her pathetic canvas dress was splotched with blood, softly glistening black in the dark.

She stirred quietly and Dmitri flicked his staring eyes up to her face.

"Are you okay?" He asked softly. Muttering incoherently as she struggled to grasp language again, she pushed as much power into her voice as she could.

"Hurts...," she mumbled shrilly. Slipping his arms underneath her despite the wretched way she twisted in response, he scooped her up close to his chest. She squeaked in pain and clawed weakly at his shirt.

"Try to sleep," Dmitri murmured as he stood up uneasily, attempting to walk as faultlessly as possible back to the carriage. Anya whimpered herself into slumber; no small feat for someone in such pain while being accidentally jostled with each meaningful step. She shut her eyes tight and fought her way to comfort, trying to divert her mind. It was a skill that she had acquired from the orphanage—focus your mind on something else, anything but whatever was troubling you physically at that moment until you could finally sleep. She focused her thoughts on Dmitri and what he was possibly thinking at that moment. He was the one thing she could pinpoint in the darkness that swirled in front of her eyes that wasn't just from the night sky, the pyramid in a dry, deserted landscape. That she could pay attention to easily. Why had he so eagerly raced back to her when he would normally push her away? What was he thinking, feeling, believing? She could not keep her eyes open.

All he could think about was how incredibly (and almost frightfully) light she was.

–

Vlad and Dmitri had started a fire in a forest clearing just far enough away from the road that if the culprit of the gunfire was a bandit, they would be hard to find in the dark. Working together, the two men had haphazardly dragged the carriage into the sparse pine woods after placing Anya inside. Pooka guarded her loyally; the little dog having avoided injury by jumping to keep in the carriage at the last moment before Anya was thrown. When at last their camp had been set, Dmitri pulled Anya from out of the carriage and laid her out on the ground next to the fire.

Dried blood spotted her torso, nothing excessive, but enough to be worried about. Dmitri glanced up at Vlad who was carefully removing their surviving luggage from the top of the carriage.

"We don't have any water, do we?"

"No," the big man replied as he stepped down with his suitcase, "But we have enough dried food to last us the night."

"Get out the vodka, then,"

"What for?" Vlad raised an eyebrow, "Are we to celebrate Anya falling out of the carriage?"

Dmitri glared at him.

"For cleaning her up. I'm not that much of a bastard, thanks."

Vlad examined Anya's blood stained frock, "That would be all of our vodka, then,"

Dmitri stood up and started rummaging through the bags, "Yeah. Where's the cooking pot?"

"All of our vodka," Vlad repeated, making his point clear. Dmitri paused and looked back at him.

"Come on. You practically fall asleep moments after it touches your lips. Besides, you snore louder when you've been drinking," he pointed out dryly.

"I snore louder? You can sleep through anything, lad, why does it matter to you?" Vlad asked as he pulled out a poor, folded bed mat.

"Because I can hear you in my dreams then. The cooking pot?" Dmitri asked again. Vlad sighed and gestured to his suitcase.

"They're both in there. Just remember that I paid money for that."

Pulling out both the cooking pot and the alcohol, he squinted at the label.

"This is the cheapest stuff out there. Quit complaining, you're starting to replace Anya,"

Vlad smiled as he unfolded the bed mat, "Lift the child up, let me put this under her."

"Vlad, I didn't know you cared," Dmitri said, sarcastically shocked.

"Hah, I didn't know you cared, you're the one who keeps complaining and fighting when it comes to her." Vlad smirked slyly. Dmitri gave him a fierce, unforgiving glare and pointed promptly to the carriage, ordering him to sleep there for the night. Vlad complied only after a short argument with his younger companion over whether or not Anya should take the carriage instead. Dmitri won by reasoning that it would be warmer nearer to the fire, and Vlad reluctantly complied, retiring to the cabin along with Pooka. His stomach was thoroughly nauseated from the adventure, and it wouldn't do him any good to stay up any later trying to deal with it.

Dmitri felt vaguely disgusted. For some reason he was seeing a second reason behind Vlad's abrupt leave, but he pushed that away for the matter at hand.

Pouring the vodka into the pot and nestling it between two logs on the side of the fire, he pulled out an old long-john shirt that had a hole in the armpit and shook the dust off. Then, tentatively, ever so tentatively, he undid Anya's belt and pushed her canvas dress up as far as he dared, stopping just before her breasts. He looked, and didn't know how to feel.

Her skin was scraped and cut in multiple places, circling the bruise that covered her left side. Most of it was still bleeding gently though some had already scabbed over much to his relief. Her stomach—if she even had a stomach somehow hidden and compact underneath her sharp ribs—slowly rose and fell with soft breaths. Dirt smudged into every scrawny crevice courtesy of infrequent baths, soiling the marble that was supposed to be her skin and damaging something that would otherwise be a smooth shade of peach. Most of all, worst of all, most agonizing of all, she was nothing but a skeleton underneath the deceiving frock.

That was all Dmitri could see. Blood, dirt, and bones. He couldn't describe her any other way; there was simply nothing there underneath her skin. Her ribs were sorely poking outwards, reaching out like broken piano keys to fill with air that sustained nothing. It was no wonder that she ate ravenously for her meals, and for sure they had fattened her up since her initial arrival, but nothing had prepared Dmitri for her awful appearance. So skeletal. So deathly. No one should be that thin. He had been there before, he had begged at the hand of starvation, he knew everything about how her body looked and felt. Nobody should ever have to suffer that, not even Anya.

Dmitri shivered as he inadvertently thought back to the winters where he had to make do with sparse food, trudging out into the harsh snows to find a loving place to stay. He remembered the accepted numbness so clearly that his stomach shrank in fear of the memory. The times where your belly deflated as it twisted over itself in pain and hunger and the horrible feeling of finally losing the sensation all together—the relief followed by the terror of never being able to feel such things again—the terror of feeling dead.

Shaking the feeling from his body, he reached back and slid the pot away from the fire before the vodka got too heated. Circling around Anya so his shadow did not hinder the light of the flames, he dipped the shirt into the hot alcohol and wrung the excess liquid out before pressing it against her wounded skin.

Fire beckoned Anya to scream, turning her sleep into a dream, her dream into a nightmare, her nightmare into the waking world. As she screamed the fire pressed further into her side, feeding it until she could only flail uselessly into the empty space. A hand slapped hers aside, and stubbornly kept the fire at her skin, not caring that it was burning her to her bones. She opened her eyes to find real fire to her left, and Dmitri hovering over her burning skin to her right. Crying in anger she swung out at him again.

"Stop it—," Dmitri slapped her hand away, "Stop it, Anya!"

"That hurts!" she hissed, attempting to claw at his face to no avail as he kept slapping her away.

"I know, damn it!" he yelled, putting pressure on her wound until she ceased her squirming. Once she calmed down (or rather, gave up fighting) he released the pressure and sighed, "I know."

She fell quiet as the pain ebbed away into numbness. After a long time of nothing but the fire crackling and popping she spoke again.

"What happened?"

"You were an idiot," Dmitri supplied, "You fell out of the carriage,"

"Sorry," Anya sneered, "I'm sorry for having the misfortune of being thrown like a ragdoll so carelessly away from my safety, I'm sorry I couldn't control the carriage and the horse along with it!"

"You should be," he muttered grimly, rubbing the vodka in. With the way she screamed and the extent of her fall, he could've dropped off the carriage right then and there due to a horrific heart attack. Anya hissed in pain and clenched at the ground.

"What did you say?" she seethed. Dmitri squeezed the soaked shirt and rubbed the loose alcohol deeper into the cuts.

"Nothing,"

"Sounded like a lot of nothing to me," She jerked away from him though he managed to keep the shirt glued to her skin.

"Aren't you done yet, can you stop setting my skin on fire now?" She continued to thrash against him though he continued to remain stubborn and unwavering. They spat unsympathetically at each other as they struggled, Anya even resorting to raking her nails against Dmitri's head. Never straying in his goal to keep the makeshift bandage on her wound partially to help her and partially to protect her from the ugly sight of the bruises and cuts, he used his wiry muscles to his advantage, not allowing Anya to push the soiled cloth away from her side. Then, out of nowhere, she stopped and stared down at her stomach. Dmitri panted in relief, unaware of the emotion in her eyes until the moment before she opened her mouth.

"You...," she whispered in shocked grief.

"Anya, it—," Dmitri managed to sputter before she spoke again, the sound of her voice commanding his silence—a command that he willfully obeyed.

"Take your hands off me," she pleaded softly, staring at her bare midriff exposed to the night air and Dmitri's eyes. Dmitri immediately did as he was told, to her mild surprise, exposing her wound.

Anya's breath caught in her throat and she shivered at the sight of the purple and black bruise bordered by so many bright red cuts. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Dmitri studied her expression in the light of the fire, ready for a storm should she bring one upon him. Taking in a shaky breath, she spoke in a shattered voice.

"Am I okay?"

Dmitri kneaded the filthy shirt in his hands, wrapping his knuckles anxiously in the fabric, "How does it hurt?"

"I don't know," she wailed softly, "How is it supposed to hurt? It...it feels like it's crushed,"

"Broken?" Dmitri asked, just able to keep the fear to the back of his throat. Reaching out a tentative hand, Anya's eyes followed his fingers as they inched closer, glistening with the remains of vodka.

"May I...?" he asked. Anya blinked at him, surprised at his courtesy and politeness. Dmitri took this as an affirmative, and gently pressed his fingers to her bruised skin to her watchful eye. She winced and clawed at the fallen pine needles beneath her palms, but the pain was bearable enough.

"I don't think it's broken," he suggested hopefully, "Otherwise you would've screamed." He drew his fingers away. Anya pulled her burlap dress down over her bare stomach the moment his hand left her. Gurgling lowly in pain, she shifted her body so she was facing the flame, her back to Dmitri. The lingering sensation of his touch sparked little bolts of lightning through her skin. At first she knew it was just the pain, but when it didn't go away she was forcing herself to still believe that it was from the bruise and only from the bruise. Besides, she, at that moment, felt horribly un-lady-like and somewhat violated. He had seen her midriff, he had touched the skin on her stomach. It was true that the bruise on her side was brutal and that the blood on her dress was quickly drying to a darker, blacker color in the firelight beside her, but she couldn't shake her mind from the fact that he had seen her body and seen through the lie that her dress had so graciously provided. She hated her skinny, pathetic little body and would do anything to be a plump size, but her manners had kept her away from eating all of their food. After all, they had a small budget to work with, and she really didn't want anyone to know how pathetic she looked underneath the burlap even though she hadn't felt this full in years. She tapped idly on the fallen pine needles and continued the conversation against her pleading judgment.

"I wouldn't know. Have you broken something before?" she spoke to the fire.

"My arm," Dmitri answered, wrapping the shirt in a tight ball, "I guess I was being too disrespectful, so he got me to stop."

Anya turned her face backwards to look at him, "Your father treated you that way?"

A lump formed in Dmitri's throat. He had never intended to imply that the man who broke his arm was his father. He had never, ever, intended to imply that he even had a father. He wasn't about to tell her that outright, and even moreso he wasn't going to say that it was the Head Cook of the royal family that was the one who broke his arm (he had been ridiculed into corners for saying such claims were true before.) The only thing he could do was play along and hope she didn't notice.

"Er...ah, yeah. Why?"

"I just thought that...that parents were good and loving." She turned back to the fire as Dmitri unraveled the drying shirt and folded it back into a ball again.

"You're one of those orphans, huh...," he muttered under his breath. He didn't intend her to hear, nor did he even want to say his thoughts out loud, but he did anyways by involuntary means. Jumping at the sound of her voice, his eyes widened at her response.

"So you were one of the ones that hated the idea of parents," She said to him—not accusatory, not spiteful, just a simple, truthful statement.

"I...how did you know?"

"You stuttered," she smiled at the fire, "You broke your character."

Her smile soon faded into a frown, and a hidden jealousy swirled in her tiny stomach. She closed her eyes so that she couldn't see anything, most of all Dmitri. He had always seemed like one that had the privilege of parents while growing up. True parents, too, parents that loved him. She speculated that Vlad had raised him for a decent part of his life, but the way the two acted around each other...There was only barely a father-son relationship between them. In fact, she could easily say that there was no father-son relationship and they were together firstly because of necessity and then later because they had been together so long that they couldn't imagine life apart. This didn't imply of course that they were sick of and disliked each other, no, far from it. But still, she was jealous that Dmitri at least had somebody to guide him.

Keeping quiet as he stood up, she listened to his footsteps as he circled her, dropping the dirty shirt carelessly onto his suitcase. Settling across the fire on the bare ground and using his arm as a pillow, he shut his eyes forcefully. Anya opened hers. Something had been bothering her ever since their driver had been shot and the horse had taken off. Something about the horse's sharp, opportune turns that tossed them back and forth, specifically the one that caught her off-guard and earned her the great bruise on her side.

"Dmitri?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you feel...strange when we were on the carriage...and, and on the train, too?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well...," Anya struggled to describe it, "Something...cold, like there was somebody else there that was making all these things happen—how the train suddenly had no driver, and the bridge, and the strange turns the horse took, and...well, everything. Did you feel strange?"

Dmitri thought about it for a minute, opening his eyes and gazing down at the new coals of the fire, "They were strange, yes. Not normal."

"Yes, but I mean—what about the color green?"

Dmitri's eyes flashed to hers across the fire, "What about it?"

"Well—,"

"If this is about me then you can forget it."

"No, it's just...I guess I just saw a lot of green during both the train and the carriage incidents. An unnatural green, like somebody lit a green fire or something."

"Odd," he agreed, "Maybe it's just how you reacted to those things,"

"Maybe...," She settled down onto the bed mat that she vaguely recognized as Vlad's and closed her eyes to sleep.

"Anya, about your bruise, and your dress, I—," Dmitri blurted suddenly, cut off by Anya's calm yet distantly annoyed voice.

"Forget it, Dmitri." The fire crackled between them, "I am."

Dmitri turned away from the fire and closed his eyes, falling asleep quickly. Anya followed soon after, little green imps rising in her nightmares to taunt her memory. It was not the first time she had seen those creatures in her mind's eye, and something told her that it would not be the last time either.

Two mornings later they stood in front of the boat that was going to take them to France, and Anya couldn't help but think she saw those green little gremlins scurrying about the ship alongside the rats, her thoughts as black and grim as the moonless night they spent on the border underneath the tall pine trees.