A Labor Unfinished

[redstripe]

The shattered glass hung in the air like a thousand tiny snowflakes. They fractured the moonlight into a myriad of tiny rainbows cast against the black of night. And then they fell, the shards of glass dancing in a silent spiral, gliding peacefully to earth like the first snowfall of winter. Beneath them lay an angel, her skin as pale as the driven snow and the glass showered over her still body, unable to wake her from her peaceful slumber.

Hovering far above her, looking out through the third story window, a gentleman studied the woman laid prostrate on the ground. He noted with grim satisfaction the way her body was twisted and bent, seemingly broken. That satisfaction dimmed, however, as he noted the gentle puff of breath that came from the woman’s nose made visible by the chill northern air. Curiosity changed to shock as the woman stirred. She stretched out her leg which was bent beneath her and crawled casually up to her feet. Taking a moment to dust the glass from her coat, she started off down the street.

“She lives, she lives! Rasputina, she lives!” The gentleman cried, turning back into the room on the third floor. There, gathered, were his fellow would-be murderers and one of them lifted his hand to make the sign of the cross. There was hesitation, the thought that their companion must be mad or trying to make a tasteless joke. Still they came to the window. At times the mind seems desperate for proof that its nightmares are real.

The four of them huddled together and looked down into the narrow street below. Buildings were crowded together around the cobbled street, towering high overhead and heavily adorned with their flying buttresses and gargoyles, creating a shadowed valley between.

The men watched as the woman disappeared into those shadows. Mouths agape they exchanged glances with each other before a sudden sense of urgency gripped them and they rushed down the stairs and out into the street. One of them, the leader, gestured down the alleyways and the men split up. There was a nervousness in them to search for a demon in the darkness but their job once begun must be finished.

The night was silent, peaceful, except for the sounds of hurried footfalls on the cobbled streets. The men searched franticly for their quarry. Though the woman had somehow survived arsenic and falling out a third story window, the men were more concerned that she might somehow reach the tsarina and report their treachery. What was meant to be their contribution to government reform had quickly become a matter of personal survival. The endurance of their prey had turned murder into a labor.

A shot rang out and a flutter of pigeons fluttered from the rooftops overhead. The men quickly convened at the source of the sound, finding their companion with a smoking gun leveled at Rasputina’s back. She stood there wavering for a moment, a crimson spot slowly dribbling blood at the base of her skull. She lifted her hand and touched the wound behind her head and looked at her fingers and the bloody stain they had picked up.

The men stood patiently, waiting for the woman to die. But still she was stubborn. Taking a moment to turn her head to the side and look over her shoulder at the gentlemen behind her, she started on her way, again. She only made a handful of steps before the men were on her, tackling her to the ground. Debris from the street was quickly pressed into service as cudgels and one of the men found a rug to roll her up into. They took out their frustration at the woman’s refusal to die with their clubs. Their breaths poured out of them like steam and their hearts beat fast with a surge of adrenaline. This is what murder was supposed to feel like, a cathartic, passionate release.

None of them could discern how long they indulged in that brutal beating but eventually the passion in them faded and they were satisfied. There was still work to be done this night and the group hefted up Rasputina’s body up onto their shoulders. A grim funeral procession they carried her through the streets of that tiny burg and out toward the river that ran though the industrial district.

No last rights were read. No-one spoke a few words on her behalf. No tears were shed. Their parcel was deposited without note, toppling over the end of the dock and crashing down through the ice and into the frigid water beneath.

The men, satisfied that their labor was complete, dusted off their hands and parted, each returning to their own homes and families. The matter the gentlemen didn’t understand, however, was that there is only one thing that can slay the winter and spring wasn’t for a couple of months still. Arsenic or firearms won’t serve a man against the winter’s chill. The only recourse is to wait out the season and hope for an early thaw. Rasputina’s season had not ended yet. Indeed, everyone was in for a long winter.

[Nathan Caroland]

That was a fun piece! Taking a stab at this one with the lore/story behind Rasputin. Great writing!

[DaN]

There lived a certain (wo-)man, in Russia long ago, he was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow.

Most people look at him, with terror and fear, but to Moscow chicks (s)he was such a lovely dear...

RA RA RASPUTINA!