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𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 , 𝐳𝐞𝐫𝐨
— THE SNOW NEVER RISES. Fresh footprints made from this morning have already disappeared as though he was never here. As if he never truly existed at all. To the average eye, Virginia, more specifically Mystic Falls, is a snowy wasteland.
There's no evidence of civilisation, that him and his family remain tucked away at the boarding house, just empty houses and roads littered with carriages and the occasional Oldsmobile to wealthy lords and ladies that don't exist in this world.
Mikhail found solace in that. Years have allowed him to come to terms with his reality. Time and his daily routines, of course.
Lillian Salvatore, a dedicated friend and surrogate mother, that had picked him out of the gutter and had offered him hope and salvation during his fragile and guilt ridden moments after his rampage through Europe, had created a steady set of rules and regulations for him to follow.
Now, he's back in the Falls, bag filled with herbs like lavender and rosemary for protection. Despite the land being desolate it puts him at ease. He usually treks to the coast, Georgia specifically to collect these items , and hikes back, which only takes a week what with his weakened state. The snow might cover Virginia, but Georgia is flooded with sun, sand and sweet peaches that are enough to to curb the cravings.
His next trip won't be for another month - back to the coast to check up on his crops and haul back with whatever Lillian desires. He's unsure if he can do it though.
Lately his mind has been plagued with thoughts of home. Thoughts of his home in the countryside, the little one acre estate that laid hidden in the woods by his village that he grew up in. He thinks about visiting his motherland, Russia, and actually making peace with his old life. He felt his palms sweat at the thought of going back to mourn his human life and where it all started.
But two hundred years is too long, and digging up the past for some peace of mind isn't worth stressing Lillian out. She needs him, mostly to keep her sane while the rest of their family desiccated in the basement, as he does her.
His thoughts of home are halted at the smell that wafts through the forest.
A scent he's all too familiar with and it's fresh. His gums itch and his throat burned, he tried to wet his lips that now feel impossible dry as he scanned the area. It's rich. Maddening. He dropped his bag to the ground without any care or notice as he sniffed the air.
He followed it like a moth to a flame and waded through snow, grateful he didn't leave his coat in Georgia and for his leather boots. His breath turned rapid in trying to keep himself under control as the veins began to form under his eyes. His movements were calculated and cautious. He couldn't risk getting caught in such an obvious trap without warning Lillian and the others. Perhaps the coven had decided enough was enough? That instead of this constant replay that it was time for justice to be dealt with a swift death.
