Prologue
"There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion."
- Edgar Allen Poe, "The Masque of the Red Death"
The man was about to return home, certain his companions had left him, when he heard a small cry.
He had, of course, already seen the men in masks with weapons, heard their hushed tones, and smelled the strong stench of human blood, so he had known already that something horrible was happening. But he had vowed never to get involved in situations that did not concern him, no matter how sticky they may be.
But ignoring what was happening was impossible after he looked to see where the cry came from; the girl who had made the sound looked too much like the woman that he loved himself. The same dark hair, pale skin, and small frame. All except for the eyes. The eyes of this girl were violet. Big violet eyes that looked up at him pleadingly.
He shivered as he walked closer to the girl-not sure if it was because he was horrified at what he saw, or if it was because it was cold in Russia even in July.
The first few times she tried to speak only blood came out of her mouth. After he got over some of his shock he tore off a piece of the sheet she was sprawled across and used it to wipe away the blood. Finally she was able to say something, "помочь." Help.
As he bent down closer to her, he thought regrettably of how he had not apprenticed to a physician as he had originally intended. If only my father was here to tell me 'I told you so.'