The Last Romanov (Under Editing)

Dark Days

Anastasia woke up to somebody shaking her awake.

She groaned and rolled over onto her side. "What is it?"
Her sister, Olga, was sitting on the side of the bed. Good God, did she look exhausted: she looked ready to fall right over. She was dressed, with her coat pulled over her simple dress and her hair wrapped up in an apron. She had a serious look on her face, but... well, she always had a serious look on her face. The only person more severe than her was... nobody. The only thing that was odd was the way she pressed her hand up against her side, as if she'd gone and hurt herself.

Anastasia sat up, frowning. "What is it?"

"They want us to get dressed and get downstairs," Olga said. "For our own safety, whatever that means."

Anastasia rubbed her eyes. "What are you talking about? Didn't they tell you what was going on?"

"If they had, I would've said so," Olga said.

Anastasia looked around the room as her eyes adjusted to the low light.

She frowned.

She was in the train car, but... it didn't look like the train car. Everything was old and rotting, covered in cobwebs. It looked as if nobody had cared for the thing for fifty years.

This is a dream. The thought came to her the moment she realized that nothing looked quite right. When she realized what was wrong with Olga being there, and what was wrong with... everything. You're just dreaming about that night, again.

But... that wasn't it. When she dreamed of the night her family was killed and when everything changed forever, everything was just as it was in the Ipatiev House on the seventeenth of July in 1918. All of her sisters were usually in the room with them, her sisters around her and getting dressed. There was awful, hideous wallpaper, a small chandelier, a mirror on one wall, the windows dark; every detail was just as it had been. But, not that night. It was different, now, and she was afraid of what that would mean.

She sat up and looked around. Where were her other sisters? Why was it just Olga?

"Where's everybody else?" Anastasia asked.

"They're already down there," Olga said, that same annoyed tone in her voice as always. "They're already down there, and they're waiting for us. Now, do you want to hurry up, already?"

Anastasia stood up and shrugged her coat on.

"Let's go," Olga said, walking towards the door of the train.

Anastasia didn't follow: she stayed put.

Olga sighed, looking over her shoulder at her. "What is it, now?"

She didn't say anything.

Olga turned around and folded her arms over her chest. "Nastya, this isn't the time to have a fit. We're going down to the basement. The end. Now, will you come along, already?"

"No," Anastasia said quietly. Loud enough that she knew she was probably the only person who heard. "No: I'm not going with you."

Olga raised an eyebrow, but she didn't say anything.

"You're dead," Anastasia said. "You're dead, and so is the rest of the family. The Bolsheviks killed all of you. Four years ago."

Olga didn't say anything, at first: she just gave her a long, hard stare.