Chapter Text
Two men were walking slowly keeping a distance from each other. The streets were practically empty. A strong wind mixed with snow blew on their frail bodies, ruffling the flaps of their thin coats. The weather, typical of Siberia, was hard on even aristocrats whose houses were equipped with the highest quality heating systems. These conditions were dangerous for any being outdoors. However, nothing stopped both friends. Their thoughts wandered not on the streets of Siberia, but somewhere completely elsewhere. Raskolnikov carefully observed the sky that was in shades of dark gray with small glimpses of green aurora.
Suddenly he saw a falling comet. He followed its trail with his eyes until it disappeared behind the trees of a distant forest.
He sensed Razumihin's presence behind him, so he slowed his pace to catch up with Mitya.
When they close, they glanced at each other. They stopped in their tracks. Despite the low temperatures, Dmitry's eyes carried an internal, warming fire. Their warmth was emphasized by the harsh climate of Siberia. The wind blew his hair, making a huge mess on the top of his head, but in its own way it made the man even more handsome. They came closer to each other. Rodya could already see the tiny icicles surrounding Razumihin's eyes. He saw tiny freckles on his nose that he had never noticed before. Raskolnikov was pale as a ghost. His hooked nose, so characteristic of the Russian people, was pink from the cold, in color reminiscent of a rose emerging from winter frosts. The darkness of the eyes attracted Razumihin's gaze, as he stared at his friend with a strange astonishment. Brown eyes slowly moved down his face, as if trying to enjoy every little detail of Rodion's face, until they reached his thin but full lips. Razumikhin, as if in a fever, stretched out his hand, pulling the stunned Rodya towards him. The second one, as if afraid of damaging Mitya's fragile neck, he placed a palm gently on the back of his neck.
Lightly, like a snowflake, he placed his lips on Rodya's, causing him to hiccup in surprise. Raskolnikov's lips were cold, but at the same time strangely soft, soothing the burning heat that flowed from Razumihin. Rodion lazily closed his eyes, leaning into the kiss. It didn't take long before the kiss deepened.
They felt as if they were spinning around the world, caressing the other's frozen body. A dozen years passed before their eyes, millions of unspoken words, unexpressed words... Years of longing, frustration, anger and shame seemed worth this moment. This feeling, finally expressed, seemed new - or maybe it had always been there? Somewhere in the dark chains of their hearts? Even they didn't know that - so I won't tell you about it, Dear Reader, no matter how much we both need to know the truth.
Sometimes the truth shouldn't be revealed…right?
Soon they broke apart to catch their breath. Razumihin panted quietly. After a moment of intense shock, he suddenly felt a flush of heat and a warm liquid slowly flowing onto his lower abdomen. He looked below him. His stomach lurched into his throat.
There was a knife stuck in his body, with a white hand on it.
Blood poured out of him. He felt dizzy. He looked up at Rodya with confusion. Raskolnikov stared at him with an expressionless face. He was so pale that he seemed almost transparent. Razumihin could see every muscle twitch, every blood vessel pulsation on Rodya's face. The eyes, unlike the rest of the body, remained lifeless. They were an impassable abyss. They looked like a bottomless pit, but filled not with water, but with crimson, violently obtained blood.
They were the eyes of the predator. The eyes of a legitimate, depraved inhabitant of Siberia.
Razumihin coughed blood, which stained the white snow. However, he felt no pain. He placed his hand over Rodia's clenched fist around the hilt. The look of great despair crossed Raskopnikov's face. Mitya smiled weakly.
"What a beautiful image in the face of death..." he whispered for the last time, looking into Rodya's eyes whose faint flames turned into stars, illuminating his entire world. These eyes became the whole world. Or maybe they always were…
Dmitry slowly sank into the snow. Raskolnikov felt his grip on the hilt weaken. He slowly let go of the knife, letting it fall to the ground. After a while, Rodia's shoes were wet from a warm liquid all around them. Blood spilled on the ground, soaking into it - as if it was returning to its mother - Mother Nature. And She seemed to cry over the fate of Razumihin, at the same time feeling ashamed that She had given birth to a fallen man for whom there was no longer salvation.
The Night was coming.
Raskolnikov looked at his hands, covered with crimson blood. With disgust and overwhelming panic, he wiped them on the fabric of his coat. But no matter how long he rubbed, wiped, scrubbed, the blood remained on his fingers. The redness of it sparkled as if saying, "Mere human, you may pass away, but the traces of your crime remain forever." With frustration and wild hatred, he removed the gloves from the dead body and put them on his hands in order not to see any trace of his actions. It was w r o n g anyway. Raskolnikov feared of love. The feeling is a downfall of every overman. To love is to admit your weakness. He won't... he's not an ordinary person.. he couldn't let his feelings control his mind. He...
He startled himself at the sight of the corpse, as if he had just woken from a dream. He knelt down next to Razumikhin in horror. He raised a hand hesitantly, brushing away a curl of Mitya's hair. The man's motionless face looked like the mask of an artist in the theater, that he takes off after a successful performance to throw into the corner. A single tear rolled down Raskolnikov's cheek and fell onto Razumikhin's lips.
He gently brushed his fingertips across Mitya's lips to wipe it off. Almost blinded by a sudden fog clouding his mind, that could be attributed to tears and stress. He stood up. He slowly walked forward. The storm has calmed down. The streets remained silent. And yet there was a buzzing in Raskolnikov's ears. The blood was pulsing in his head. He fell to the ground as if under the weight of his own conscience. Rodya moved on pathetically. A tiny snowflake fell on his lips. Frost began to sting his cheeks. Raskolnikov walked like a zombie through the empty streets of Chita. His lifeless eyes pierced the icy ground.
He was heading to the forest.
His heart tightened. Rodya grabbed the coattails violently. His hand felt faint beats in his chest.
“Soon,” he thought
He stepped onto the forest floor covered with a thick layer of snow. The crunch and clang of leaves and twigs breaking under his feet did not manage to drown out the echo of panic in his ears.
"You really don't understand what it means to love someone, do you?"
Raskolnikov raised his head in horror. He recognized that voice. A voice he knows better than his own. Rodion looked around…
The forest remained silent.
Raskolnikov shivered - not from the cold, however. He fell for a second time. Blood began to ooze from his legs. The crimson-covered hands left long streaks, as if memories on the path of memory. Memories whose innocence was tainted in a great crime...
With a silent sob, he dragged his fingers across his face, trying to get up. He felt that his path was coming to an end. Rodya fell for the third time. He lacked in strength. Miserably, like a helpless animal, he nestled into a nearby snowdrift for the winter.
He layed there knowing that this place had become his grave.
Ice, like that creeping parasite, had crept into his body. The cold, like a poison, spread throughout the body, freezing the tissues, tired muscles, organs, and blood. Frost covered the man's eyelashes, just like Razumikhin's eyes before their kiss. Raskolnikov closed his eyes to the world that gave birth to him. He wanted the little icicles surrounding his eyes to fall on his cheeks, slide down his skin and to pierce his throat to end his agony. Oh how different he was from Dmitry… but how he loved him…
If someone were to pass near his resting body now, they would not notice Rodia. He melted like an ice cube in a glass of juice exposed to the sun - with no chance of survival. He became one with nature. He always was. Such a dead, cruel heart could only be born from Her...
Finally his heart, surrounded by ice, finally froze over.
Contrary to our own beliefs, human death does not change the course of the world. Likewise, the death of Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov left no traces in the cursed land of Siberia. The man left behind only a scratch in the memory of his beloved sister - Avdotya Romanovna. She's the only one who'd missed him. Sometimes, late in the evening, with a burnt tallow candle, she will remember her brother and husband who left this world in a tragedy of human morality. She will look around Razumikhin's hat with blank eyes, never knowing why he didn't come back.
The woman, shrouded in despair, lost the remnants of herself over the years, unlike the Siberian landscape, which remained unchanged and unhinged.
Rodia's body, wrapped in ice, was forgotten.
Every now and then a bush moved timidly somewhere, shaken by passing arctic foxes, whose tails left a long trail, immediately covered by new volleys of snow and frost. These were emaciated animals that had been starving for two springs and no longer had to feed on peat.
They spotted a new perspective of food.
They crept carefully to the lying body, reminiscing of giant vultures. They looked at the blonde with their golden eyes for a moment, and then they attacked him with fangs. They tore the meat and slurped the blood until their bellies were full.
Nature took care of itself.
Eli, eli lama sabachthani?