Lost Soul: A Black Widow Rewrite

Prologue

Snow poured down in blizzard like fashion, landing softly on the grounds of eastern Moscow. November 21st, in the year 1998, had seen one of Russia's coldest storms, with temperatures set in the negative forties Celsius. Within the halls of the Romanov Manor, located in a dense forest outside Moscow, A woman took residence within the mahogany wood structure, with her family and servants, from the monsoon of ice and snow outside. Looking out into the white landscape, Irene Seriosoa snaked a protective arm around her swollen womb; as if to protect her unborn baby from the blaring cold. She had lounged on an over-large chase, when her contractions began to rack her voluptuous body, towards the end of supper. Her dear Ivan turned white as a sheet, and nearly fainted when her water spilled out all over the grand staircase. When another contraction reared its ugly head, she held her breath, then released it, allowing it to roll off her pregnant form. These past few weeks, leading up to the birth of her angel, she remnicest the beginning of the past year.

Her first time in this foreign country. She had woken up in the forest, at the back of her husband's house, dazed and unsure how she got there, then spent hours wandering through the trees. Walking up to a frozen lake, she ducked into the bushes, motionless. Skating on the ice, was a man with long black hair, cascading down his back, in white leather skates. Propelling himself, in the air she caught a glimpse of his emerald set eyes, shining in the winter sunlight. Irene watched as the man, and his acquaintances, performed tricks on the ice. Quads, figure eights, and even races starting at one end of their makeshift ice rink, to the other. As the man in black took to the skies a second time, Irene could tell something was different. His form coming off of the ground was sloppier than the previous three times, and with an ear splitting crack, he fell through the ice.

The men who were accompanying him immediately fell into a frenzy. Yelling, tripping over one another, one man even going as far as to find something to fish his comrade out. Irene dashed out of her hiding spot behind the bushes, sprinting to the surface of the freezing water, ignoring the curious glance one of the men had thrown at her. Through the chaos she was able to pick up the name of the brilliant ice skater, who now had only moments before hypothermia would eventually eat him alive, Ivan. Without a second's moment to think about the proper way to address the situation, Irene dove in.

Hours seemed to pass as the four men stared at the same cavity in the lake, sending prayers to any god who would hear them, that their best friend, and the young brash redhead , would emerge from the frozen depts. As Irene emerged to the service, the effects of her thoughtless actions were catching up to her. A burning sensation wrapped around her body, and it felt as though thousands of needles were being jammed into every crevice of her frame. Hoisting the man, Ivan, she corrected herself, onto the ice next to her with one arm, as the other was taken by one of Ivan's friends, pulling her from the valley of death, she tried not to openly shiver in front of these strangers. As she collapsed from exhaustion, and began to slide into unconsciousness, emeralds landed on rubies. And that's how she met her husband.

"Айрин! С тобой все в порядке?"
(Irene! Are you alright?).

Irene had been pulled from her thoughts, as her husband came crashing through their sitting room door. Leaning on the door frame, Ivan desperately gasped for breath. Despite being utterly winded, probably from sprinting up the stairs, two steps at a time. Her darling still managed to let out a shirley shriek, disturbing her and the babe. Who was now kicking in the womb.

"Да, любовь моя. Что это такое? Что же у вас там?"
(Yes, my love. What is it? What do you have there?)