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Frozen winds always swept upon the frosted grounds of the wild lands. A poor center of land where those longing for life struggle to keep it. The cost of living rises every sunrise, and that can lead to desperate moments. Mora is Mora, dirty or not. To live is to live and to die is to not. The cold frozen dust that falls from the snowy clouds has long since taught me red looks best next to white. And to be the one who splashes the red onto the snow is better than the alternative outcome. To be the red on the snow.
It's cold, it always is. But I long for the warmth still, to not suffer from the turmoil of frozen fingers and unsteady hands. I've held a gun for years, and the red it spills has long since become one with the life I live. Mora is Mora, a motto for life. I can't find myself caring if those I've killed cared or not. If I can sleep and eat for another night, I'll do it, even if it comes to the death of those I've been hired by. Fae or human, bunny or fox. Death will one day fall upon them and cast their judgement. Why can’t I simply speed up the process by cutting out pointless parts of their lifetime? A heartless claim, one born to make one feel less guilty, but I hold no guilt for what I have done. They have died. And I was the one who pulled the trigger. Simple as that.
The day I met Tugarin was the day life held hope. The hope of life, the hope red won't always stain my path. It didn't last long, and I soon pulled the trigger once again. Tugarin is a good dog, a dog I would die for. But the concept of death still left a poor feeling within. One I could not grasp, as though it was just out of reach. Something I was not built to feel but have still found myself feeling regardless.
Perhaps due to the always-watching trees that stare into me, or the cool sunset that leaves that land fallen is shades of orange. I still find myself longing to see the stain of red upon the pristine white of snow. The most painful warmth was the sun and the kindest warmth was the cold. A sad reality that would never leave. I would be forced to stare at the sky. See the frostbitten plants wither under the cold gray. Stars are a rare sight. I once loved to stay up late to see if I could see one. But all I see when I look up is the endless piles of leaves from the trees that continue to stare at me. I swear they were red once, only once. A trick of the light? Or possibly the truest sign that I too shall be taken away from that of which I long to be from.
Death is the only thing that stayed with me. Whether it was me taking a life or someone else. It followed my footsteps and stained them red. It always pointed to red. No matter the weather, no matter the job. Red could never truly be scrubbed off my hands. And some days I never want it to leave. It's a constant in a life of no repeats. Even the sun isnt guaranteed to rise, sometimes the land is only grey. Snow that piles in frozen gates of pain. Death comes for all. I am no exception. However perhaps one will find the red under my gloves and view them with love. Wishful thinking.
The flames of burnt logs burn. Another hunt, another day. The red still lingered on my face. Dried and chalky. The trees feel heavy, as though they are judging me. It's cold, it always is. Tugarin stayed home today. I was alone. Yet I felt the gaze of many fallen upon me. The trees always seem to stare back when I look at them. The leaves are dead. The plants hidden by snow. It's amazing how cruel the ice can be. I stomp out the flame. Best not linger too long. The eyes follow. They never leave.
A red stained path has followed me for years. And now red echoes in front of me too. It can't be escaped. Death comes for all. I am no exception. When I fall to death, will it hurt as much as living day by day? Or will I finally find peace in my existence?
It was beautiful, Death. She was beautiful. Her eyes linger in mine when I stare at my reflection too long. I can't find it in myself to hate it. To see something I was never meant to see is both a blessing and a curse. She is all I see now. Even the eyes of the trees now look like hers, as though she's the one who stares at my sins. The red that bleeds from what is dead.
The sky is blank of all things. The trees climbing up mutate into endless beasts covering the land in shadows. I smell the stench of blood fading into mud. The wild grounds of life freeze all who live in its lie. Death is a domain I have no right to hold, yet a hunter’s principle is death. The outcome of the hunt is for the death of the prey. An overstep? By her words, yes. She’d find distaste in a mortal taking what is hers to end. How tragically beautiful. I'm lost in the continuous cycle of death. Yet, I long for her to forgive those sins. To take what is not mine to take.
It's still cold. Snezhnaya will never truly hold warmth. Perhaps my longing comes from my life. To be held by what has hurt me, and to be comforted by what I have forced upon others. Death. It's cruel. Anyone who can't see that is ignorant. And I long to be ignorant. It is cruel, I'll never not know that. It has taken from me almost as much as I've caused it for others. And it's fallen on me as well. The freezing air seems to come to a standstill. Uncomfort echoes in the air. The trees close in. This isn't right. The red is splattered on the ground, feathers accompanying it. They too were red. Crimson. Eyes. Death. I continue forward, the red scattered and covering the ground in demise.
She's here. Death. Her wings were splattered as fallen feathers. Her form hunched, unbecoming of a god. She turned to me, eyes brimming with red. Even Death itself can bleed.
Housing Death has been taken into a new context. A wingless ruler sat upon my bed. I wrapped bandages around her bloodied form. It hurt. Seeing her in pain. Her eyes held nothing but clouds. She showed no true weakness but it was written everywhere that she was deeply hurt, physically and emotionally. No words were exchanged, we both knew it would only hurt more. Tugarin lingered near the door. Death's presence was far too much for him. As the windy night continued, Death started to relax, her form less rigid. The night was cold, she was colder. She sat upon the bed, her heeled feet laying upon the floor unsteadily. She most likely won't be able to walk for the rest of the night. I sat behind her braiding her hair. Any form of peace is peace, and she voiced no complaints. Her hair was smooth, silky and pleasantly soft. Her hair reminded me of moon light on a snowy night.
Eventually natural tiredness overcame the cabin. Tugarin slept by the door while Death laid on the bed. She wasn't asleep but she was in a sleep-like state. She's beautiful. I was too tired to ponder her form, and the cold grasp of sleep consumed me.
Having Death in my life was normal, red leftovers stained everything I owned. From my hands to my legs. Snow still laid upon the wild terrain, trees stretched up until they could no longer be seen. However, Death in physical form has never followed my steps before. She walked silently behind me, she never spoke. Nor did I. Our existence needs no words. The silence was enough to fill in the words. The frozen winds kept the space from being truly quiet.
To have Death in its truest form watch and follow you was no different from the usual. The gaze of someone following your movements. Sounds didn't come from her, almost as though her form wasn't fully there. I set up a rest spot, and Death simply formed the fire for warmth. She must be cold. Can Death feel the cold? Her eyes stared at it, blank of all things. Yet, also deep in thought. Her eyes are still as painful to look at as before. They held deep rooted words that she could not speak.
Night by night, life slowly changed. Death's presence brought about a new form of familiarity. She looked at me more. We both slept in the bed, at her request. Therein were the first words she spoke to me. They were gentle yet rough. An obvious sign that she hadn't spoken much. It led to my first words to her. A simple exchange, yet ground breaking in full. To talk to Death, and for her to be the one who initiated the conversation.
Beautiful.
She was beautiful. I told her that one night, and she looked at me, her eyes hard to read. It was the first time her hand felt warm. She was the most beautiful individual I've ever laid eyes upon. And I know very many beautiful people. She responded simply, a name. Ronova. She had given it to me. To have a god's name, and it be granted to you by them. The conversation ended. Conversations never linger too long. Sleep came easy that night, her hand wrapped around mine.
She's perfect.
Frozen Night became a comfort. Ronova was always there. An eternal presence that gave hope to my undercooked life. Time floated by, giving small promises. Ronova was cold, colder than the frozen nights I would spend outside in the darkening tides of snow. The sky held more color now, and the warmth of the cabin leaked outside. I sat, simply staring at the sky. Stars were visible tonight. The moon hung high. Ronova's silent heels approached. She had an air of indifference to her as she sat next to me. Her hand wrapped against mine. She was warm. A rare occurrence. Under the moon her hair glowed. She leaned closer, shoulder embraced. A peaceful perfection. Death was such a beautiful thing both so painful yet so peaceful. Together under the moon. Hand in hand. The emptiness spoke all. We both leaned in. My first kiss was with the Ruler of Death.
A thing of fairytales.