A/N: Wow. It's been awhile since I have been on this site. Life got in the way and other things took priority. But I've had the writing bug recently, and I wanted to get back on here. So here I am with a new story. This is based off the Anastasia Broadway musical. I have always loved the cartoon movie, ever since it was released, and I easily fell in love with the Broadway adaptation. I'm a history nerd, and the Romanovs captured my attention and imagination a long time ago. This story is an imagining of the in-between time from the show: the time between when the Romanovs were murdered and when Anya shows up in St. Petersburg (*ahem* I mean Leningrad) in 1928. We get a few glimpses and ideas about what this time is like in songs like "In My Dreams," but I wanted to try my hand at fully fleshing it out. Helping me explain how she got away is a half-OC: Gleb's father! Gleb mentions that his father is a part of the firing squad in the musical and that he "died of shame." So he plays a major role in the beginning of this story. I've given him a name and a story, but the fact that he exists goes fully to the creators of the Anastasia musical. I take no credit for that. I will be switching between his and Anya's POVs for the beginning of the story. There will be a few references to song lyrics and plotlines from the musical.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters, songs or plotlines from Anastasia the Musical. Any song lyrics, characters, or plotlines from that work belong to their respective owners. I am not writing this story for compensation, but simply for enjoyment and practice.

Anya

July 17, 1918, 3:27am

"Go! Run!"

My heart pounds in my ears. It hurts to breathe.

I stumble.

I put my hand out to catch myself, but that makes the pain worse.

I fall to my knees, my arm wrapped around my midsection, my chin tucked close to my chest.

My breath comes in short, shallow bursts.

My head is pounding. My lungs are on fire. Everything hurts.

I can barely see through the sticky red screen in front of my eyes as I push myself up again.

I slowly limp deeper into the trees. My clothes feel heavy and weigh me down. Each step is agony. I smell mud and smoke and something I can't name. I taste metal.

I hear a hoarse, faint voice yelling in the distance.

"All loaded! Keep the truck moving!"

I stumble again.

This time I don't get up. This time I succumb to the pain and the darkness.

XXXXXXXXXX

Comrade Viktor Vaganov

July 17, 1918, 1:37am

"Your friends have tried to save you. They have failed. We have resolved to shoot you."

My hands shake as I move to pull the trigger of the pistol. I aim at one of the young Grand Duchesses. My finger hovers above the trigger, but I cannot bring myself to shoot her. I hesitate for only a second, then shift my aim quickly to the tsar. Many of my comrades have the same idea. Several bullets ring out in the direction of the former emperor of Russia. Smoke and screams fill the small, concrete cellar. I hear one of the girls muttering a prayer.

More shots, more smoke. Someone to my right wretches and vomits onto the ground. The air is stifling, and we cannot see through the haze.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!" I hear the voice of our leader, Yakov Yurovsky, ring through the room. A few more shots ring out, then the guns fall silent. We let the dust settle. When it does, my eyes take in a gruesome sight.

Several bloodied bodies litter the ground. Some lay lifeless, while a few of the girls cower in one of the corners. Whimpers are heard from their direction, and Yurovsky orders a few of the men to shoot them again.

More screams. More cries.

When the dust settles again, the girls in the corner are still alive. A knot forms in my stomach. Please, oh please, do not make me shoot them.

A few of the more zealous men dive forward with their bayonets, stabbing violently at the crumpled forms in the corners. We hear whimpers and cries, but – miraculously! – they are not yet dead. A few of the men mutter. How can they still be alive? Perhaps this is a sign that they should be spared!

But, no, that was not to be. Yurovsky orders a few men to shoot one more time, and the room falls silent.

When I left home this evening, pistol in hand, my little boy asked me where I was going. I shook my head, told him not to ask. I could not bring myself to tell him his father was going to commit murder.

We begin the gruesome work of loading the bodies into the truck. My heart feels tight in my chest, and I keep my mouth pressed in a line to show no emotion, though inside I am writhing with guilt.

Russia needed to change. The tsar deserved his fate for leading our country to ruin – perhaps even his wife. But… his children? They are innocent. They had no say in their father's rule, not even the young tsarevich Alexei. They did not deserve this.

But I cannot give voice to my guilt and my opinions. To do so would be to die myself.

I follow my orders and begin loading the truck.

Comrade Viktor Vagonov

July 17, 1918, 3:19am

The truck bounces slowly along the rutted and muddy ground. The stench of blood, sweat, and vomit is nearly intolerable. I was given the unfortunate duty of overseeing the "cargo" as we drive to our final destination. I hold a handkerchief to my nose to try to stifle the scent, but it's of little help. Suddenly, the truck gives a great jump, and a few of the bodies bounce out the back into the mud. We're stuck in a deep groove in the forest floor. I hear swearing from the cab of the truck.

"Sokolov and Vasiliev, help dig out the wheel! Comrade Vaganov, reload the cargo!" Yurovsky barks from the front of the truck. He will not dirty his own hands, but has us do it for him.

I jump down from my perch in the back of the truck. The former tsarevich and one of his sisters lay heaped in the mud. I pick up the boy first, his lifeless body unnaturally light in my arms, and place him as carefully as I can back into the truck. As I bend down again for the Grand Duchess, I hear a soft whimpering.

No… Can she really still be alive?

I gently roll over the bruised and bloodied body. Sure enough, the face of royalty – terrified, dirtied, but very much alive – stares back at me. A range of emotions twists my stomach into knots – confusion, relief, guilt, fear. What do I do with this child? I cannot - I will not - shoot her. But if I don't, someone else will.

I can't let that happen. It is becoming clear to me that God means for this dethroned Grand Duchess to live. I can't tell which daughter it is – there is too much blood and grime – but one of them shall survive.

Swiftly and silently, I help the girl stand. A low moan of pain escapes her lips, thankfully masked by the humming of the truck and the shouting of my comrades digging out the wheel. I half-guide, half-push her towards the darkest part of the woods surrounding us. She stumbles, and I catch her. I give her another light push.

"Go! Run!" I hiss in her ear. She seems dazed, but eventually stumbles forward. I watch for a moment as she fades into the darkness.

Quickly, I glance around to see if any of the others saw my treasonous act. Sokolov and Vasiliev are still digging out the wheel. Yurovsky is yelling at them from the cab. I lean on the back of the truck and bounce it once, trying to simulate another body being loaded back in.

"All loaded! Keep the truck moving!" I shout, climbing back onto my perch.

The truck lurches forward, and we continue towards our destination.