01-19-2014, 07:42 PM
As the days grew closer to Christmas, the church sanctified itself in preparation for recognizing the birth of Christ. When midnight came again and Dane's boredom settled like darkness around his mind, he toured the streets of Moscow from the warmth of a town car backseat. In the end, the colorful domes of the monastery became a beacon.
"Pull over,"
he told the driver and the car rolled to a gentle pause. Dane adjusted his cap, a warm oxford so it slanted across his forehead and stepped out.
"It's not safe at this time of night, sir." The driver warned, but Dane smirked bitter in his correction. "I'm not afraid."
He shivered against the sudden rush of cold, but once he knotted his scarf to his throat and tucked both hands in his pockets, he was comfortable enough. A bell gonged in the distance, and he twisted toward the sound's origin, but all he saw was the dim reflection of the car's hood back on the street.
He hummed to himself as he walked, little puffs of fog wafted from his lips every few moments. The tune was only a few of his favorite stanzas from one of Chopin's nocturnes, but the notes touched his mind as though the entire sonata performed for the first time at his behest.
The majority of the grounds were closed for the evening. It seemed he'd arrived too late for the end of midnight mass, but he strolled as spiritedly as if it were noon. In fact, in his mind, noon wasn't far off.
Whomever was buried in Moscow's best preserved monastery must have been important indeed. The tombs of Russian politicians, authors, musicians, playwrights and poets sprawled the necropolis. Rather than a field of headstones, as soon as he entered, he was engulfed in trees shrouded by night. The guardians of the dead, they would watch over the graves until the monuments finally crumbled to dust. He was surrounded by art, and in it, finally, Dane found a connection usually denied to him. Like the last drag for a man in withdrawal, it would suffice for now.
Then, as soon as he was content with the finding, he found he was not alone after all.
"Hello."
"Pull over,"
he told the driver and the car rolled to a gentle pause. Dane adjusted his cap, a warm oxford so it slanted across his forehead and stepped out.
"It's not safe at this time of night, sir." The driver warned, but Dane smirked bitter in his correction. "I'm not afraid."
He shivered against the sudden rush of cold, but once he knotted his scarf to his throat and tucked both hands in his pockets, he was comfortable enough. A bell gonged in the distance, and he twisted toward the sound's origin, but all he saw was the dim reflection of the car's hood back on the street.
He hummed to himself as he walked, little puffs of fog wafted from his lips every few moments. The tune was only a few of his favorite stanzas from one of Chopin's nocturnes, but the notes touched his mind as though the entire sonata performed for the first time at his behest.
The majority of the grounds were closed for the evening. It seemed he'd arrived too late for the end of midnight mass, but he strolled as spiritedly as if it were noon. In fact, in his mind, noon wasn't far off.
Whomever was buried in Moscow's best preserved monastery must have been important indeed. The tombs of Russian politicians, authors, musicians, playwrights and poets sprawled the necropolis. Rather than a field of headstones, as soon as he entered, he was engulfed in trees shrouded by night. The guardians of the dead, they would watch over the graves until the monuments finally crumbled to dust. He was surrounded by art, and in it, finally, Dane found a connection usually denied to him. Like the last drag for a man in withdrawal, it would suffice for now.
Then, as soon as he was content with the finding, he found he was not alone after all.
"Hello."