Years of Night

Love makes heroes and villains alike,

Lasts through storms,

and

Years of Night

R. Campbell

Prologue

The torrents of wind and snow whipped a mane of dark hair in powerful currents around the face of a man in the height of his youth. Any other would have shied from the rage of the skies but this particular man, with eyes as deep, gray, and swirling as the storm, embraced the flurry. He stood staring out into the shadowy grey sheets of falling ice, gloved hands folded together behind his back as he parted his lips and breathed in the piercing cold, filling his lungs to brim with what we would have called liquid life. He had been born in the cold; it was the only climate he was familiar with and it made him feel whole and alive.

He looked out as far as the snow allowed him and surveyed the landscape that had greeted him almost every day of his life. A bolt of lightning lit up the eastern horizon and revealed the outline of a jutting mountain range, each crag and crevice on the rocks’ many faces illuminated for a fraction of a second before the darkness and the storm tucked it away from his view. Somewhere to the west, concealed behind the veil of billowing ice, the only city within traveling distance lay sleeping, blissfully unaware of his existence.

“You’re much too old to be playing in the snow.”

His grey eyes swirled into something more, suddenly blooming in the faintest of blues. Hers was a voice he was so accustomed to that he could hear it even as the wind threatened to steal it away. She came up to his side, taking one of his covered hands in her own naked one. He frowned while the angry gusts continued to batter his features. Another bolt of lightning and a deep roll of thunder was the perfect accent for his expression.

“You shouldn’t be out here, it’s too cold,” he answered sternly, working his gloves off his hands and onto hers as he did. His formerly toasty fingers instantly felt the bite of the storm and he lost the feeling shortly after gaining it.

“Come on, then, before this blizzard gets the best of both of us.” He slung his right arm over her and did his best to shield her petite form from the force of the gusts. As they entered shelter, he felt the ice turn to water and the blizzard to rainfall. They shut the door tight behind them.

Minutes later, once they had removed and changed their soaked-through articles of clothing, they sat huddled together, watching the never-ending mixture of snow and rain slowly paint the land a grey-white.

He stroked her golden tresses absentmindedly as the heat of indoors kindly returned his lost sense of touch. She, in turn, rested her head against his chest and relaxed, more at ease than her life normally permitted her to be. He realized the significance of the rare instance of peace and wanted to savor it as much as possible. In fact, he wanted more than that. He wanted her always at his side, to bury his fingers in her soft hair when he pleased, to hear his name slip from her pale lips like honey from the comb, to know every moment of everyday that she was safe, warm, his. Then he would have peace.

But he was never really at peace. Even when nothing physically demanded his attention his mind was still working, steaming full speed ahead into his land of worries and burdens. In his head there were too many voices, all screaming for what they could never have. There were too many desires that could never be attended to but that refused to silence themselves. In his mind there were too many shadows from the past, the present, and the looming future and they haunted him. He was a man with too many cares and they weighed him down, aging him before it was his time. All ready there was darkness to his gaze that came with years that he’d yet to experience.

But the woman beneath his arm was not a burden. In fact, she was his one and only true blessing. There were so few nights when they could be together. It was the usual for him to be gone, working in the distant western city, or for her to be busy with her own burdens, which were no easier to carry than his own.

She was tracing circles on his forearm, smiling softly to herself when his hair stood up on end and he didn’t try to suppress a slight shudder.

“I wish you wouldn’t stand in the rain like that,” she finally spoke. He cocked his head very slightly to the right as though the sound of a human voice of after so many long minutes of nothing but the patter of the elements against the window had caught him off guard. “God forbid you catch a cold one day. Sickness makes you grumpy.”

He laughed a sound emanating from so deep within his chest that she could feel the vibrations before she heard the sound. He possessed a smooth baritone when he spoke and it did volumes to sooth her in their darkest hours together—and there were plenty of those.

“The cold helps me think,” he tried to justify himself but one stubborn look from her light brown eyes settled the matter. No more standing in storms, at least, not while she was aware.

But he had stood in storms his entire life. Even when he was perfectly dry and the weather as gentle as a babe, he was continually pelted with mental winds much sharper than wind of a physical sort. In response he’d done the only thing he could: he embraced and relished the majesty of the elements, begging them to lend him their strength.

“Let me help you think instead,” she offered and a very small grin tugged at the corner of his lips. It did not reach his eyes, which remained faithfully glued to the window. If only it were that simple.

“You do help me think,” he replied. He leaned his head forward enough so he could place a kiss on the top of her damp head. She smelled like the rain-soaked earth. He loved it. “But when you’re around, you’re the only thing I can think on.”

He knew her eyes were sparkling without looking and he knew that her alabaster cheeks were burning red. A single genuine complement was like gold to her; she received so few of those.

“I wish I could control them,” he mumbled tonelessly, closing his eyes and still seeing the white landscape that was burned into his retina.

“The storms?”

“Yes.”

“So that you can destroy this place?”

“No,” he answered quietly. “Just to know what it feels like to be in control.”

He opened his eyes and took in her appearance from the deep worry-lines that marked her forehead to the state of her dress: layers of rags and spare cloth. She deserved more. He longed to give her more. And if he could control the storm, he would summon winds to take her away to a better place, somewhere she could be free and wear the most beautiful dresses sewn by only the most skilled seamstresses.

The minutes went by and soon they’d been sitting contently together for an hour. Her breathing had evened out and he knew she’d fallen asleep. Good. She needed rest. The winds finally blew themselves out and the snow trickled gently down from the sky. Come morning he would be responsible for a clearing a path for the vans. The notion put a bad taste in his mouth that he longed to spit out. Another day of unsavory labor awaited him.

He hated to wake her, especially when she looked so at peace. The worry-lines faded when she was asleep and she took on a childlike, almost angelic appearance. The woman looked carefree and innocent, something neither of them had been for a very, very long time.

“Elise…” he called her tenderly and planted another kiss on her head. She groaned, stretched like a cat, and buried herself deeper within the folds of his shirt. That got him to smile. “The night is done.”

“I don’t want to leave…want to be with you,” she mumbled into the fabric so that he had to strain to

understand her. She was his and he was hers. Did they not have every right to be together? Wasn’t it their place to be at one another’s side? He scooped her into his arms and stood up all in one fluid motion. She was light as the snowfall and so mal-nourished that he could feel her rib cage as it pressed against his torso. She deserved more. But that was nothing new. She shifted in his hold and he took it as a signal to let her walk.

“Go and get ready. We’ll be together again soon, I promise,” he swore. They allowed themselves only a swift kiss for fear of not being able to part should they linger connected long than that. A fleeting glance back and she was gone. She would work the entire day cleaning floors, making meals, following any and every set of orders she was given. And at night…it was best not to think on it. The night was a time to be feared.  He truly he feared for her.

He descended to the underground level where he stayed and changed into another set of clothes proper for the snow. A new man, his friend and brother-in-heart, came down to give him his assignment.

“Good morning, Aaron,” he greeted the new man sarcastically: there was never a truly good morning.

“If only,” the new man replied and they embraced quickly and grasped forearms. Here was a man Kazimir trusted with his life and even to care for the woman he loved when he was away.

Aaron handed him an envelope grimly once they’d parted. Kazimir took it, opened it, and shifted through its contents with curiosity. He pulled out a little black book with gold engraving on its cover and opened to its first page. Kazimir Alvang. His name and his picture on a plain white background: a passport. He looked to Aaron, inquiry written all over his face. This did not bode well. He would be absent longer than a few hours. He shuddered to think of the task…

“He wants more by next week,” Aaron responded to the silent questions, his voice strained from suppressed anger.

“He can get more outside Perm. There’s no need for this!” Kazimir hissed from behind his clenched jaw. His

went to grab something, squeeze anything, but there was nothing in the room that was little more than a cell, so his calloused palms took the brunt of his ire, his fingernails digging dangerously deep into his own flesh.

“He says his clients want tougher stalk he can only get abroad,” Aaron said, sympathy now swirling with anger. “I’m sorry, brother. You’re to come above as soon as possible. The van leaves in forty minutes.”

His eyes went from blue to gray again. Within him another storm was brewing, one more powerful than the blizzard. And to his greatest pain and dismay, there was no controlling the blizzard or the torrential winds that tore him inside.

“Elise…” he sighed, hoping that by some miracle she could hear him and feel his love and regret.

“Where to?” his voice had gone suddenly hoarse with the realization that his promise to his woman would be broken. He wished that he had held her longer, kissed her harder, professed his devotion like a confession.

“America.”