Chapter Text
Snow was falling. A gentle, quiet descent from gray skies down to dirt roads long since frozen over. Peaceful, as if the world was finally allowed to breathe easy again, calming itself after a winter storm. Raskolnikov shifted on his feet in uncertainty. He had been waiting outside the house for a good five minutes now, his hair damp from the constant snowfall, strands plastered on his face, white specks all over his coat. It really was quite pitiable; he had seen Sonya nearly every week for the past eight years, and now, only now, did the prospect of seeing her again feel so daunting.
He had never asked her why she had waited. Not once. Springs came and went, letters travelled thousands of miles from trembling hands to teary eyes, to his sister, to Razumikhin. And through all that anguish, what had he been but a silhouette inside prison gates, a burden on an innocent girl’s heart? Still she stayed with him, that he couldn’t understand.
Through the glass panes, Raskolnikov could make out a faint glow, which seemed to lure him in, distracting himself from these ruminations and registering the biting cold working its way through his insides. Scoffing, he knocked on the hard wood of the door, then took a step back, trying to ignore his heart pounding in his chest. A few moments, then the door opened, and Sonya was staring at him from her place in the entryway.
“Sonya, I—” Raskolnikov struggled to find the words. “Well, I’ve arrived, that’s all.”
She was silent, only gave a slight smile and took his hand, leading him inside the house. Warmth instantly flooded his body, from the fire burning in the corner, emitting a soft light and casting shadows on the walls; despite the room being fairly bare bones, it maintained a homey feel, in opposition to the darkness of the prison he was so used to.
“Here, take a seat,” she said, walking over to a pot boiling over the fire. “I thought you’d like something good to eat after everything, and I’ve got a little money now.”
Raskolnikov took off his coat, hanging it on a rack by the door, and went to sit down, instantly feeling all too exposed. It would be more comfortable, he thought, not to be seated here at all, but riding the train to return to Petersburg alone.
“Thank you.”
He felt the words were caught in his throat. Why couldn’t he speak to her? Sonya seemed bright, almost cheerful, but it was all a disguise; she was as grief-stricken as he was, that she was unable to conceal. Her house was, admittedly, better than that terrible apartment in the city, and she didn’t hate her work, from the way she described it… but it was clear she was desperate to leave.
“There isn’t much demand for these sorts of places, keeps the prices low, and few renters in any case,” she remarked, ladling out stew into two wooden bowls. Her hair was shorter than it had been, only just touching her shoulders, and as she held out her hands to set the bowls down, Raskolnikov couldn’t help but notice her thin, almost translucent arms. So much for having money, he thought, though what did I expect?
“You speak to me as though nothing has happened. The last time you saw me I merely another convict in that vile uniform and chains; it’s over, Sonya, what does the cost of your rent matter?
Her face grew solemn, and Raskolnikov turned his head away.
“I’m sorry, Rodion, I didn’t want to cause you distress,” Sonya ran a hand through her hair, in anxiety. “This being the first day after your release, I didn’t want to burden you.”
It still surprised Raskolnikov how much Sonya had changed since first meeting her. She was more articulate, more composed, though, of course, she was the same person in many other ways. She still wore the same sad, nearly desperate expression, as he finally lifted his eyes to her again; she still loved him, loved the world, even as she saw its people eaten from the inside. Like a martyr, he thought, as he had been.
“No, no… don’t apologize,” he muttered, examining the meal in front of him. A hearty stew: meat, potatoes, carrots… but he couldn’t seem work up an appetite.
She noticed him staring. “Eat, for god’s sake. I know what they serve in the camps, it’s revolting.”
“You’re all but starving yourself,” Raskolnikov said bitterly, though he started on the stew, for lack of conversation.
The room was lit entirely by the fire, save for a candle near the stairs. It crossed his mind that he knew next to nothing about Sonya’s life; he had never asked.
“We’ll be going home soon,” she said quietly, breaking the stiff silence between them.
Home, he thought, where was that? In Petersburg, with drunkards in the street, his old, dilapidated apartment, the graveyard where they buried his mother?
“I spent nearly half my money on train tickets. Dunya and Razumikhin can hopefully sustain us until we find work for ourselves.”
Sonya looked at him expectedly, and suddenly he was even more self-conscious of himself.
“Dunya and Razumikhin…” he repeated, “I don’t know if I can face them.” Raskolnikov gave her a sad smile, trying to make out her expression in the dim light.
“I suppose I don’t either,” she said, returning his look, though with a trace of sympathy, “It’s been so long, I can hardly remember their faces.”
During his time in Siberia, Sonya had been sending letters almost constantly, especially to Dunya. She would be brought up in conversation, mentioned in passing, it was the happiest he had ever seen her. Deep down, Raskolnikov knew she loved her, even though she would never admit it, and yet in each of the brief moments in each other’s presence, crushed by the weight of another day, she would still sit by his side and comfort him the best she could.
“There’s another bedroom upstairs,” Sonya remarked, when they had both finished the stew. “Because of the lack of tenants, I have the whole place to myself, so it went unused. Now I’ll finally have a use for it!”
Again she attempted a smile, and Raskolnikov nodded; the prospect of sleeping in a regular bed felt strange to him. He stood up, and she looked at him inquisitively. Over the years, the hard labor and ill conditions had brutalized him, changed him. His face had lost much of its youth and brightness; now his features were rougher, tense; scruff was growing on his chin, though his eyes still burned like fire. He was a man fighting to survive, at all costs, because he was forced to.
This Sonya began to realize. Raskolnikov had always seemed reserved, she thought, and more sensitive than he let on, but now he felt so at odds with her. He had seen more, been through more, that was it.
“How is it that I’m so frightened now, after everything?”
It was a rhetorical question, yet he still looked to her expectedly.
“I can’t sleep in this house, in your bed,” he continued, starting to walk the length of the room. “You were wrong, you know, about all this; I suffered, yes, and what good came out of it? I’ve changed, Sonya, and maybe not for the better.”
She didn’t respond to this; now he was proving her assessments.
“I lost my soul. It bled out of me long ago, then they beat me into pieces left to rot in the barracks.”
“Don’t start this—”
“Was my suffering beautiful, Sonya?”
He paused and looked strangely desperate, like a positive response would console rather than upset him.
“Oh, what does it matter! It’s over now! And still we hardly know each other and you’re just the same,” Sonya said sorely, yet found herself moving towards him.
Raskolnikov looked taken aback by her words, and the striking expression she gave him. Then he sighed and seemed exasperated with himself.
“You’re right about that, I suppose,” he let out. “It’s the fatigue, that must be it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”
He trailed off, embarrassed and distracted by the thin, filthy prison uniform he was still wearing. Noticing this, Sonya took his wrist and pensively caressed the fabric.
“It’s funny, what this does to you,” she said softly.
Raskolnikov raised his eyes.
“What, my garments, of all things? I still must think it shameful what they have reduced me to. Though, as you said, it’s all over now, we’re under no obligation to stay confined here. Well, and even I can’t deviate from man’s vanity,” he grinned, with the same harrowing expression that once had given Sonya fright, but now felt weirdly comforting.
“Pride can be liberating; one must not lose it, in the interest of self-preservation,” she said carefully. “Only in excess is it destructive.”
She felt him pull away gently.
“It’s exhausting, you know, to still have pride. Maybe even detrimental to me, and if I didn’t know you, I would have been certain of your leaving me long ago, because of it.”
There was a certain tenderness in his voice that Sonya was unfamiliar with. Was he attempting to make up for his callousness, or the years the two of them lost? They were alone, the last people on earth. It was difficult to think of anything as being more than a backdrop for this loneliness and struggle. How did other people exist?
She nodded, and answered:
“What choice is there? There would be nothing for me had I abandoned you, nothing for either of us. God has united us on this barren wasteland… if that’s anything to believe in.”
They spoke for another few minutes, still standing in the gloom. It was late into the night, and so, finished reuniting, Sonya guided Raskolnikov up the stairs which creaked under every step, down a short hallway with only two rooms on either side. Pushing open the door on the left, Sonya set down a single candle by the bedside as Raskolnikov crept in behind her. The room was better furnished than downstairs, perhaps the work of another tenant; there was a desk in the corner, a wardrobe, even a rug embellished with golden trim.
Raskolnikov took it all in in earnest.
“I didn’t do the decorating,” Sonya admitted, “and I can’t remember the last time I’ve stepped foot in here, but it’s nice, isn’t it?”
He neglected to respond, but as he caught her gaze, Raskolnikov saw a glint in her eye that overpowered his still feigned indifference. Stopping in his tracks, he quickly knelt on the carpet and kissed her hand, wanting to perform an act of devotion, and more than that, out of fervor and impulsivity; he loved her, had he ever even said that? Yet Sonya only gave him a pained looked and swiftly left the room, cautiously shutting the door behind her. Raskolnikov stood perplexed for a few seconds, staring at the blank walls. He was a coward, he thought, and terribly pitiful at that.
The bed was worn and covered with a ragged blanket. He didn’t dream anymore, or his subconscious had become so clouded that he simply did not remember them. Maybe his mind was acting merciful in that, no visions of blood and horror plagued his sleep. Not anymore.