Frost covered the ground, as dawn approached, sending Lady Night back to her exile. It was still too dark for the man to focus on anything but the ground as he navigated the primitive trail, but walking had become less of a chore. The rocks below him were uneven, infamous for causing even the most careful of feet to slip, but he had planned ahead. The fur-lined boots he wore gripped tight to the ground, allowing him to move in his normal swift manner, just as he liked it to be. He was confident, as were the bears living in the area, of his position in the world.
Any other man would have been filled with fear, but not this one. He knew the dark brush that lined the tips of his forest; knew it intimately. He had been raised around this area; albeit, not in this exact acre of forest, but that had hardly mattered to him. As a child, he had been strange, wanting nothing more than to become an explorer. He ventured to all of the lands around his family's estate, often leading to chastisement by his parents when he would return to the manor, covered in mud, grinning from ear-to-ear like a little devil. There was not much that stopped him back then.
Even though adolescence had long been stripped from his bones, he carried the memories of his past hikes like a school-child reciting paragraphs from one of the great almanacs back at the academy; both talents were completely useless, seldom for the moments that they were actually needed. Moments such as the one that gripped him now.
The man wore a coat with silver buttons that glinted in the moonlight. His raven-black hair was matted with sweat; his once-handsome face now withered from age and bad news. It had been a strange few hours for him, and he understood, with some melancholy, that he might never again march upon this land. The coat fit awkwardly, as if it had come from someone else's closet, picked at random for its immeasurable wealth. It hung on him, touching his skin, leaving the tingling sensation of being fabric that was too rich for his dirty, unkempt appearance. No, he had purchased it. He was no thief, but it seemed meaningless now, given the fact that he had to sell it at the next town he came across. For now though, he clung to the luxury, allowing it to warm his chilled bones.
While the man longed to lay down upon the rough surface of a boulder and sleep, he had to remind himself he couldn't; he was being hunted. The man had never been hunted before. He had always been the one on the trail of a wild animal. He was a seasoned catcher, mainly for his own entertainment, and it felt different to be the one in danger this time, only able to rely on the adrenaline punching through his veins, and his morbid thoughts for accompaniment. He did not hate the feeling, he merely embraced it as the rabbit fleeing from the wolf embraced their situation. It was one of the simplest of Nature's Laws: if he wished to survive, he would have to run from the arms of his pursuer.
The sounds of the nighttime creatures, slinking far below in their dens as predators roamed overhead, looking for prey, echoed in the distance. The cry of a wolf, the eerie hoot of an owl, and the footprints he was sure were pursuing him, broke the silence here and there. The man, still, refused to look behind. A life of writing, as he was used to, had taught him that the protagonist always won. He was the victim in this particular story, and at any moment, he would come up with something to stop his attacker.
He would live. This was the way that it had worked in all of his previous stories. Why would a real situation result in any other conclusion?
Of course, there was to be a conflict eventually, but the man would face it in the climax. This formula was the way that the publishers had once taught him to write, back in his university days: there was a beginning, an initial action, a rising action, a climax, and then an ending; it was dreadfully boring, but it was a recipe that had once led to food for his grumbling stomach. He had never complained about the way in which he wrote, not if it had meant that he could have survived another one of Moscow's foul winters.
Those were desperate days, clinging to cheap liquor, working to dull the fear of starvation, as he completed his education in Moscow. Miserably he collapsed into his bunk at nightfall each day, but hope continued to cling to him, as a man dying of thirst encounters the mirage of an oasis in the midst of a sea of sand. University promised him a future. His parents had left him a grant before their decline, so he would have enough to complete his education. The man had never really known them personally, it was more of a formality, a "going-through-the-motions." They were simply to feed him, clothe him, and see him honour the name that he had been born into. While they had been happy to see him pursue a safe passion, they were discouraged when he had disclosed of his plans to leave his homeplace, drawn to study at Moscow. He had resisted their pleas to stay and moved on without a look back, rather heartless.
Moscow, a grand city of derelict buildings and fabulous people with dark shadows around their characteristics, had been a place that had reflected his mood at the time. The towers and cathedrals had been a desolate home for him, following his parent's deaths. It was an illness, not unlike the Black Death that had hit Russia centuries before, that had lead to each of their downfalls, both died within a month. People had been falling ill for ages, already, so their deaths were nothing unusual. When his parents died, he was a sturdy young man of twenty with no one, finally turning once and for all, from the forests of Southern Russia, to throw all of his power into his studies in the Glorious Capital.
After he had finished his classes, he'd held a simple position in a publishing company. While it would have been foolish to throw away his father's estates, the man found it uninteresting. He kept up to date with his Father's previous line of nobility, as his father had owned several farms in his career. Regretfully, the son had been a spoiled lad, who had no knowledge of proper business mannerisms, or leadership qualities. The farms suffered losses upon losses, until the peasants under his control ran away lest they starve in the winter. He never held any grudge, for he knew that if he were in their "metaphorical shoes," would have done much of the same thing.
He had been foolish, he knew, for trying to keep up with two occupations at once. It was clear to him that his talents lied within the written world, a dazzling field that allowed him to share his bursting opinions. He could finally have his own voice, share his stories, and give breath to the characters that had grown in his mind from his earlier life. Writing, to him, was freedom; it was a gift that could not be contained.
His earlier books were unsuccessful, collecting dust on the bookshelves of Moscow's bookstores.
And alas, the books had never held any meaning in society until he had met her. They hadn't been bought until he held her soft hands and gazed into her eyes. They hadn't been adored until he slipped the small gold ring over her finger and told her that he wanted to be with her forever.
That was the first of many regrets, for he hadn't seen the thorns on his rose until they had pricked his finger. His Red Rose, the beautiful, rich Natasha Yenin, who had society wrapped up in her meaningless endeavors, led him, dazed, into her life, and he had been too reckless, too open. The prick had been enough to draw blood - blood that would cost him more than just a scandalous relationship.
Nikolay Denisov, the man thought in the darkness as he walked. You have been a foolish man.
