Those were desperate days, the dull fear of starvation forcing him to cling to cheap liquor, 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. He had never really known them personally. They were simply in his life 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 passion, they were discouraged when he talked of his plans to leave his home to study. He resisted their pleas to stay, and moved on without looking back.
Moscow, a grand city of derelict buildings and fabulous people with dark shadows around their characters, 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 parents' deaths. It was an illness, not unlike the Black Death that had hit Russia centuries before, that had lead to their downfalls, both died within a month. Since the beginning of time people had died from ailments, so he always understood that their deaths were nothing unusual. When his parents died, he was a sturdy young man of twenty with no one. With nothing holding him back, he fled from the forests of Southern Russia, which held his parent's estate, to study in the Glorious Capital.
After he finished his classes, he'd held a simple position in a publishing company while keeping up to date with his Father's previous line of nobility. His father owned several farms which helped him collect revenue to man through his college days. Regretfully, he 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 to find more promising positions. He never held grudges, for if had been in a position such as theirs, he would have followed in their footsteps.
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.
The books never held any meaning to 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
