01-20-2010, 12:15 AM
814. For Sonja and Rurik.
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It was early, and they had been traveling almost incessantly for—how long had it been? So many days, so many weeks! It had been months; yes, months. It had taken months to go across the Atlantic Ocean on the vessel they had boarded from France, and it had perhaps taken a month or two to get there from Italy in the first place. And then they had been traveling for several weeks, northward from where they had landed in North America. They were much more at leisure now, as Raskolnikov no longer rushed. He did not feel as endangered as he had in Europe, even though it was highly possible that no one had been pursuing him at all. They might have given up in all those months, for it must have been longer than half a year since he had done it. Half a year, and it truly seemed as if only a day ago.
Only a few days ago that he had walked around the settlement of Arkhangel’sk to the neighboring families, the neighboring towns. He had been little more than a traveling stranger, but he had observed them all. He had noticed the hardworking family, the parents and the children, and the old woman who drained their money away like a parasite. She had spent it on liquors and jewelry that she did not need, trying to bring back the old life that she had lost when her mate had died. Rodion Raskolnikov took pity on them and decided to help—in the way that they would not be able to.
Now the sun was beginning to rise higher, allowing more of its diluted beams to trickle through the forest cover of the area. He did not know what this place was called, and he did not know who inhabited. They had already passed what seemed to have been a pack—he had decided not to risk it and steered them onwards, onwards. Now the woods were growing thicker, the trees crowding as if trying to find solace in the company. Still, winter had stripped them from the bulk of their greenery, so it was like walking through the arms of skeletons. A shiver passed down Raskolnikov’s spine, though he did not show how he felt. He often had these premonitions, these vague cobwebs of memory that clung to him. He tried to shake them away, but he had trouble. It was not something one could simply cast away so easily.
The issue of how to commit the crime had presented the greatest challenge to him—oh, how the question of how and how to cover up had tormented him! He could have been more base and savage about it, tearing her throat out with his teeth or claws, but the blood would be too difficult to wash away—and he was so much more civilized than that. No, in the end he had happened upon an ax left alone in a yard near where the woman had lived, and the family just so happened to be out. Raskolnikov came and killed as the object of what he thought would be a robbery, though he could not bear to take anything. He had left her dead in the house, cleaning his hands and the ax before leaving it in the same place he had found it. He went back to his home with his family as if nothing had happened.
But something had. Rumors began circulating and he began to grow antsy—an unspeakable fear grew within him, and a totally irrational one at that. There was no way they could have caught him, and yet he did the stupidest things. Becoming flustered when hearing of it, saying strange things at inopportune times. Hell, he had even went to look at the house where he had murdered only days after!
Eventually he had fled, but he did not feel things were any different. In fact, they were probably better. Despite his suffering he had found Sonja in Italy, and that had made a world of difference. He relished in her acceptance; it made him feel as though there was no wrong that had been done. And now they had all of these North American lands, and plenty of time.
He paused, waiting for her to come back to his side. “Sonja,” he said softly, the barest breeze of a smile brushing against his usually-dark features. He had to pause, fitting together the Italian. He knew that she felt most at ease speaking it. Raskolnikov was fluent in Russian and French, though his English and Italian were a little more broken. “Sono spiacente per il mio silenzio. Come lei fa?” While he was perhaps not the most gentle and chivalrous of them all, he was at least partially considerate. And he did love her—in some strange way of his own.
It was early, and they had been traveling almost incessantly for—how long had it been? So many days, so many weeks! It had been months; yes, months. It had taken months to go across the Atlantic Ocean on the vessel they had boarded from France, and it had perhaps taken a month or two to get there from Italy in the first place. And then they had been traveling for several weeks, northward from where they had landed in North America. They were much more at leisure now, as Raskolnikov no longer rushed. He did not feel as endangered as he had in Europe, even though it was highly possible that no one had been pursuing him at all. They might have given up in all those months, for it must have been longer than half a year since he had done it. Half a year, and it truly seemed as if only a day ago.
Only a few days ago that he had walked around the settlement of Arkhangel’sk to the neighboring families, the neighboring towns. He had been little more than a traveling stranger, but he had observed them all. He had noticed the hardworking family, the parents and the children, and the old woman who drained their money away like a parasite. She had spent it on liquors and jewelry that she did not need, trying to bring back the old life that she had lost when her mate had died. Rodion Raskolnikov took pity on them and decided to help—in the way that they would not be able to.
Now the sun was beginning to rise higher, allowing more of its diluted beams to trickle through the forest cover of the area. He did not know what this place was called, and he did not know who inhabited. They had already passed what seemed to have been a pack—he had decided not to risk it and steered them onwards, onwards. Now the woods were growing thicker, the trees crowding as if trying to find solace in the company. Still, winter had stripped them from the bulk of their greenery, so it was like walking through the arms of skeletons. A shiver passed down Raskolnikov’s spine, though he did not show how he felt. He often had these premonitions, these vague cobwebs of memory that clung to him. He tried to shake them away, but he had trouble. It was not something one could simply cast away so easily.
The issue of how to commit the crime had presented the greatest challenge to him—oh, how the question of how and how to cover up had tormented him! He could have been more base and savage about it, tearing her throat out with his teeth or claws, but the blood would be too difficult to wash away—and he was so much more civilized than that. No, in the end he had happened upon an ax left alone in a yard near where the woman had lived, and the family just so happened to be out. Raskolnikov came and killed as the object of what he thought would be a robbery, though he could not bear to take anything. He had left her dead in the house, cleaning his hands and the ax before leaving it in the same place he had found it. He went back to his home with his family as if nothing had happened.
But something had. Rumors began circulating and he began to grow antsy—an unspeakable fear grew within him, and a totally irrational one at that. There was no way they could have caught him, and yet he did the stupidest things. Becoming flustered when hearing of it, saying strange things at inopportune times. Hell, he had even went to look at the house where he had murdered only days after!
Eventually he had fled, but he did not feel things were any different. In fact, they were probably better. Despite his suffering he had found Sonja in Italy, and that had made a world of difference. He relished in her acceptance; it made him feel as though there was no wrong that had been done. And now they had all of these North American lands, and plenty of time.
He paused, waiting for her to come back to his side. “Sonja,” he said softly, the barest breeze of a smile brushing against his usually-dark features. He had to pause, fitting together the Italian. He knew that she felt most at ease speaking it. Raskolnikov was fluent in Russian and French, though his English and Italian were a little more broken. “Sono spiacente per il mio silenzio. Come lei fa?” While he was perhaps not the most gentle and chivalrous of them all, he was at least partially considerate. And he did love her—in some strange way of his own.