Page 1 of His Atonement
A Collection of Debts
Moscow, Russia. 1773.
Snow.
All I can see for miles is snow.
Before me, behind me, to my left and right is nothing but snow.
Hard, frozen ground covered in pure-white powder.
The dark sky is starless, yet it is not empty. No, not at all. It is filled with the same powdery substance as it falls in thick, gentle waves, the flakes big and cold against my skin.
I look to the sky and watch as the snow continues to fall, the visual much like what I saw when I first came into this world; the way everything moved so fast around me that I could hardly understand it.
Much like now.
I can barely make any sense of the world around me right now, can hardly understand my purpose or my actions anymore—the only things that have ever made sense over the last eight hundred and sixty-eight years.
Nothingmakes sense anymore.
Not the vast, barren land blanketed in snow.
Not the two sets of footprints that stretch on for miles before they disappear into the edge of the village.
Not the bodies laid out at my feet.
Not even the bright red blood that stains the pure-white ground, the steam still rising where warm meets cold.
Not the unfamiliar ache in my chest, or the nauseating guilt and crippling remorse, the sadness, and the grief that is just as foreign as the rest.
Nothing makes sense.
My eyes close briefly, shut tight in order to combat the unusual sting behind them, and try to bury the heartache I've only known twice before... but never this strong. As they open slowly, I see one snowflake that stands out amongst the rest; a jagged little thing, tiny and fragile compared to the much larger, heavier ones.
My eyes track the flake as it plummets toward the earth, while it sways gently through the air until it reaches its final resting place against the bright crimson blood by my bare feet.
Two bodies.
Two souls.
Neither of which I was supposed to take.
One I set free.
The other I took anyway.
I glance at him, his form motionless while the snow continues to cover him, sprawled on his back. His horrified expression turned skyward, the fear he felt in his final moments now permanent as his mouth gapes toward the black starless night, eyes wide and filmy.
A wooden crucifix is clutched in his hand, gripped tightly over his no-longer beating heart, his desperate pleas and prayers now silent.
His soul, though tinted black, was not mine to claim, not mine for the taking this night.
A man with ill intent that sat dormant; perverse thoughts he had yet to act on.
It was easy—so easy—to borrow him for my purpose, the promise of having what his dark heart desired in return for my intrusion.
He did not know that it would also be his downfall.
