Archive of Our Own ^beta

     Shilov finds the stale bread in a satchel near the destroyed bridge alongside a single pear. It's not much, really. Almost like Brylov is not prepared at all to cross the bridge and travel a long way towards Mongolia as Shilov had thought.

But food is food and this should be enough for both himself and the rittmeister for at least a couple of days until they arrive at the village.

Shilov looks around again, in hope of finding some ammo or any other weapon since he had only three bullets left. He meets no luck.

When Shilov returns to the river bank, Lemke is still asleep, leaning on a boulder with the bag of gold still tied across his chest.

     "Come, your excellency. We need to move before it's getting too dark." Shilov nudges on Lemke's good leg and turns his back to Lemke's face.

The man grunts, but he complies. He throws his arms around Shilov's neck and holds tight as Shilov carefully raises to his feet.

The breeze is cold, combing through the leaves of tall firs. Low rumble of thunder could be heard over the taiga, and Shilov tries to think of building a makeshift shelter if rain does pour later.

And of course Lemke can't keep himself quiet despite the wounds and exhaustion. Throwing snide remarks everytime Shilov took a missteps and almost making them both fall.

    "Would you shut up or should I just gag your mouth again?" Shilov cuts the other man's mid-cursing.

    "Or maybe you should just leave me here? I'm practically a dead weight. Even though we manage to reach the village, I'll be shot shortly after. So why bother?" Shilov could feel the other man smirking against his shoulder.

Shilov didn't reply. Instead, he did a little jump to readjust the weight on his back, and Lemke let out a wounded yelp.

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    And of course Lemke is still as noisy and angry with all the strength he had left. He tells Shilov about his burnt estate, about his mother and all the delicious meals  she used to cook. And about his dead brother who ironically turned out to have fought alongside Shilov in Galicia.

Lemke chuckles when Shilov still didn't give him any sign of attention. And he's silent for a couple of seconds, as if thinking out another strategy. Then a smug smile appears on his face.

        "What made you abandon your horse, Shilov? Words around the bandits said that your name is not unheard of. That bastard Brylov told me there was also a Shilov in another gang, you know? A transbaikal cossack."

And still, Shilov ignores the man. He finds it interesting that whoever the mole in the cheka seems not to bother to inform the whole plan to their underlings, though.

What was Lemke's role aside from killing his comrades on that train then?

And Lemke continues,

      "You know you can't wash the blood on your hands in the river of blood, right, Shilov?"

Suddenly Shilov halts his stride, which is a mistake  considering the heavy weight on his back. His body tumbles forward as a result. But he manages to keep his balance before he slowly lowered himself to kneel on the forest floor.

     "What is it?" Lemke grins. Thinking he had hit a mark.

Shilov says nothing. He unties the sleeves of his jacket that had held Lemke in his place, and lets him fall on his back.

      "What the fuck." The man groans.

     "We shall rest here." Shilov is already pacing around, gathering the fallen tree branches.

The fire is flickering gold in the middle of the gloomy forest. Its flame licks up the cold air, radiating small warmth around the men.

Lemke sits still as Shilov inspect the wound on his shoulder. He replaces the blood stained leaves with clean ones and ties the cloth.

     "Now the leg."

     "Smells of gangrene. Gonna need to have it amputated, don't you think?" Lemke flinches when Shilov carefully removes the leaves.

     "No need to worry about that, your excellency."

     "What. Didn't they teach you medical lessons or something at the cossack scho—ah!"

Shilov wraps the cloth around the wound and ties it just a bit with force.

   "Whoops."

   "You bastard. You did that on purpose."

   "I did, didn't I?"

And Shilov turns around to take the satchel, taking out the stale bread and the pear.

    "Eat." He shoves the pear to Lemke's face.

      "No." Lemke turns away in almost a childish manner.

      "You'll suffer a fever soon. You'll be weak."

     "Like I give a damn." Lemke sighs and sprawls his jacket over the forest floor. He lies down on it and  covers his face with his cap.

Shilov holds the urge to roll his eyes. He brings the pear into his own mouth instead. Shilov finds the softening, crisp texture unpleasant to swallow, but Shilov manages to eat half of it in a couple of bites. After all, he hasn't eaten much during his time at  Brylov's camp.

This reminds him of his childhood days. It's neither a happy nor unhappy memory. The first time he bought fresh bread for his mother with his own money. A boy, not even thirteen!

His father was barely able to bring potatoes every week! And it comes as an answer, after his father is gone, little Yegor always knows that they are in fact always able to afford more food if only his father didn't waste the money on drinking.

And Fedya, and how he used to be so proud of Fedya. A brother who grows old too fast. A bright, talented, young cossack with a heart stronger than Yegor. How naturally the distance between the brothers grew further and further after their mother passed away. And how Yegor never actually have anyone close to him until fucking wars and revolution broke out.

How wars and revolution brought him to Andrey, Stepan, Nikolai, and Vasily. And how he would do everything to keep their brotherhood eternal—and how fragile it was! Brotherhood!

Shilov has always been aware of the blood on his hands, from his days as a cossack to his days as a chekist. He's not special in that, and he had made his peace with it.

We're not like them, Yegor. We don't execute people in vain. Nikolai had said that time he was asked to shoot a scrawny old man: A proud, old schooled tsarist, not even of noble blood.

He used to be a farmer. A stupid one. He ratted out his bolshevik neighbors to the whites and gained some shining coins for it while said neighbors and their families got massacred right in front of their home.

His last words were a curse to the reds. Very sure that the so-called godless new world of low born peasants and workers wouldn't last a century.

And so he pulled the trigger. For entirely different reasoning since he learned to shoot a gun for the first time. He keeps shooting those who deserve to be shot, according to the laws of the new world.

And even with the river of blood calming down, his new family still can't fully trust him.

How come? How couldn't they believe him?

     "What happened?" Lemke suddenly rises from where he lies. Alerted. There's a twig stuck on his messy hair.

Oh, now Shilov accidentally voiced his thoughts. He starts humming an old song, before answering.

     "I was not believed."

     "What." That's not a clear answer.

Shilov glances at the rittmeister.

Being accused as a traitor of the people is not as hurtful as being abandoned by one's own brother. Trust but verify couldn't have been much easier.

     "They didn't believe me." He repeats.

Lemke frowns, failing to understand what the other man was referring to. Maybe he thought Shilov had gone mad for sure.

    "Fucking Rothschild." Lemke snickers before he returns to his slumber.

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     And in the morning Shilov jolts awake hearing a loud, falling sound. He looks around, the flame is already long since extinguished. The gold is still next to him and his gun, too, still safely tucked inside the holster.

And then his heart leaps when he realizes Lemke is nowhere to be seen.

     "Lemke?!" He is immediately on his feet, collecting his things and sprints towards the direction of the sound he heard before.

    "Lemke!" His voice echoes through the dense trees. How could he be this careless?

      "Rittmeister!"

Shilov catches a glimpse of movement down the hill and almost slips on the dew-covered grass when he descends through the slope. 

Lemke is crawling away from Shilov. Still alive, not getting devoured by the wolves.

Shilov's heart calms down for a bit.

     "Why are you standing there? Leave! I want to die, you hear me?" The man's face is so pale, and he's drenched in sweat.

    "Let me die in peace. I ask you as one soldier to another."

Shilov almost lets out a snort.

He then kneels next to the man and places the back of his palm over Lemke's temple. The man is indeed burning .

    "I can't let you die. You must not die, your excellency. You must tell them the truth."

     "After that, will you let me die?"

Shilov didn't answer.

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    The path is getting more punishing. The dark clouds hanging over the horizon are definitely not helping. Shilov is already losing the track of time, but he knows that they're getting closer and closer to the main road.

The winds are heading towards them, and Shilov could smell the incoming rain.

Lemke is now quieter, unconscious most of the time. He's heavy and feverish on Shilov's back. And Shilov again, thinks of a makeshift shelter.

     "What is it?" Shilov turns his head to Lemke when he thinks he hears the man mutter something.

     "Cuckoo, cuckoo." The man whispers weakly. "How long have I got left to live?"

But of course there's no reply.

Shilov lets out a heavy sigh. It's just another day of carrying a wounded enemy, but the fact that his enemy is also human still makes his chest feel tight. He wonders how many times a chance for changing sides was offered to the man and what could be the reason that made him spit on all of it.

A single raindrop stings as it hits Shilov's face, as if mocking him for trying to sympathize with the enemy.

And soon comes another, and another.

Shilov scans his surroundings to find the line of short trees, and widens his strides towards it as the rain gets heavier.

He sets Lemke to lean against the tree bark, and sits next to him, throwing his leather jacket over their heads as a cover from the rain.

     "Cuckoo, cuckoo." Lemke mutters again. "How long have we got left to live?"

Shilov glances at Lemke. Sunken eyes, cracked lips. Deathly pale face adorned with speck of dirt and blood—he appears no different from those dying men in the rotten battlefields. If Shilov were to let him die here, nobody would be able to tell that the body once belonged to a noble. But that means Shilov too, would be a dead man himself.

Shilov chuckles. Oh how true equality existed in death.

The bandages around Lemke's shoulder and hip are now loose, and need to be readjusted. But Shilov takes his time to breathe first, and maybe he could take a short nap too. His entire body is sore.

The sound of a galloping horse breaks the monotonous rainfall.

In a second, Shilov rises from his seat.

     "Hey! Hey! This way!" He yells. His throat is burning.

The gallops stop.

     "This way! We're here!" He yells again.

     "Who goes there?" Comes the hesitant reply.

Shilov could feel himself smiling.

      "It's Shilov! Yegor Petrovich!"

      "Yegor Shilov, the chekist?"

      "Yes! Over here! Over here!"

Shilov stands still under the rain, waiting for the horseman to approach. Cold water is uncomfortably filling his boots, but he doesn't care.

And Shilov never feels happier upon seeing the silhouette of a man in budenovka slowly heading towards his direction.

     "Who are you? Are you with Zabelin's?" Shilov holds the horse as the man jumps off the saddle.

     "Yes, comrade. I'm separated from my unit while chasing after a group of bandits… I'm as lost as you are." The man seems to notice another presence behind Shilov. "Is that—"

     "A white army officer, yes. He's involved with the robbery. We're going to need him alive." And then, "Do you have something to eat or drink, comrade…?"

      "Grigoryev. Ivan Sergeyevich. I'm afraid I only have water and a half piece of bread."

     "That alright, too."

They sit under the tree that provides only enough protection against the heavy rain. Grigoryev offers his food and water to Shilov, which the latter gratefully accepts.

     "Your excellency. Eat." Shilov gently taps on Lemke's cheek.

      "Nuh." Lemke drawls. It amazes Shilov, really. How in such a condition, the man still manages to be as stubborn as a stone.

And Shilov, exhausted as hell, has had enough with it.

     "I'm going to shove this down your throat. It's not stale bread. It shouldn't make you choke too hard." He says.

Grigoryev stares with curiosity as Shilov forces the rittmeister to open his jaw and feeds him a small chunk of bread. 

 Lemke, of course, struggled hard to free himself from Shilov's iron grip to no avail.

     "There you go." Shilov nods in affirmation as Lemke finally swallows the food. "Drink, now. Then you can go back to sleep."

Lemke complies.

     "Huh. Is that how you force-feed prisoners in the cheka?" Grigoryev whistles in astonishment.

Shilov chooses not to reply, and somehow that makes Grigoryev shift awkwardly.

     "Anyway. Do you know how far we are from the main road, comrade? The border is in that direction, right? So the road is supposed to be.. around this way?" 

     "The border is that way." Shilov points to the exact opposite. "And the road should be this way."

     "Amazing." Grigoryev shakes his head. "And say, comrade. Do you happen to be armed? I heard the wolves howling last night."

     "Why, sure. Only three bullets left though. Do you have your gun? I don't see you carrying a rifle."

    "Ah yeah. A bandit from that same group took it from me. I only have my revolver now."

And a loud bang startles the horse. Disturbed birds who take refuge on the trees fly in a controlled chaos over the grey sky.

And Yegor Shilov is using his whole weight to keep the supposedly red army man pinned on the muddy ground. His left hand grip tight into Grigoryev's wrist, trying to to seize the gun from the man's hand. Shilov's other hand is on his throat, dangerously close into crushing it.

     "What do you think you're doing, Ivan Sergeyevich? Are you with the whites, too?" Shilov growls. More tired than furious.

The man's face is red from the lack of air. His feet kick in the air uselessly.

     "Or maybe you're one of Brylov's bandits who are parading around in a dead soldier's uniform? How cowardly of you…"

Shilov loosens his grip on the man's throat, granting him a chance to answer:

      "Go fuck yourself."

It takes seconds for Shilov to register that the man somehow manages to aim the gun towards Lemke's direction. The rittmeister is still leaning against the tree, unconscious with fever.

     "No!" 

Another bang.

The horse pulls free from its tie and wildly runs into the forest. No doubt that soon it would turn into a generous dinner for the wolves.

    "Fucking hell!" Grigoryev cries when he realizes the bullet had missed its target. He attempts to aim the gun again, but Shilov straddles him. The shot misses once more. 

Their bodies roll over the forest floor, slushing on the moss and dirty puddles. The man drops his gun in the process and tries to reach for his knife instead.

Shilov slaps the knife from the man's grasp, and kicks it away across the muddy floor.

    "Who sent you?!" 

The man freed himself by headbutting Shilov in the face. And as he crawls to reach the knife, Shilov pulls out his own gun and shoots on the man's leg.

Two bullets left.

The man lets out a terrible scream.

     "Who sent you?!" Shilov repeats.

The man lunges towards Shilov. Now absolutely desperate to take the gun from Shilov's hand. A reverse situation of the first attack.

And again, the man tries to make Shilov aim the gun towards Lemke's direction. Lemke still seems unbothered with the fight in front of him. And so Shilov starts shouting.

     "Lemke! Lemke! Wake up you—!" Grigoryev shoves a heap of mud into Shilov's open mouth.

      "Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up you son of a bitch."

Shilov fires the rest of the bullets into the air, to Grigoryev's surprise. Shilov swiftly uses the back of the gun to knock the man on the back of his head. Shilov swears he heard the skull crack.

And Shilov doesn't stop there.

As the man collapses, Shilov pulls himself free. He sits over the man's chest and starts landing blows to the face.

And Shilov thinks of Stepan, Grunko, Dmitryev, Lemekh, and Kayum… And Andrey, Vasily, and Nikolai.

And the way so many people died for something that was supposed to bring life .

Shilov coughs the dirt out of his mouth.

     "Shilov?"

And when will the rain stop? Shilov blinks as Lemke calls his name over and over.

      "Shilov! What is happening?!"

The thing that lies beneath him no longer has a face. It gurgles pathetically as it breathes water and blood instead of air. It stops moving seconds later.

Shilov searches the man's uniform for identity or anything but of course he can't find it. The thing also bears no name.

Shilov stares at his bloodied hands. Even the rain has a hard time washing it out.

     "Shilov!"

His legs tremble as Shilov tries to stand. His breath is ragged, his head's pounding, and his heart is beating fast. It's almost like he's getting drunk.

Lemke's expression is unreadable as he watches Yegor Shilov, covered in blood, slowly walking towards him.

     "What happened to you?" He asks again. Brows furrowing.

Shilov crouches in front of him. Reeking of earth and iron. Sickening smell that's not unfamiliar for both men.

And this , Shilov thinks. Hands reaching both sides of Lemke's face. He feels warmer now that Shilov is cold.

There's speck of dirt and blood adorning his cheek, and Shilov gently caresses it with a thumb—only to smear it with reds.

And this one he cannot kill. This one he hated most. This one is more valuable than five hundred thousand worth of gold.

Lemke's eyelids flutter shut as he leans into the bloodied touch.

This one could regain the trust of his brothers' back.

And the kiss is neither platonic or romantic.

The kiss is the way one kisses their treasured possession. There's no warmth or softness. Only violent desperation and selfishness.

Shilov can tell that Lemke is grinning against his lips and slowly, a hand trails its way to the back of his head. Shilov then finds himself getting pulled deeper into the kiss.

Lemke seems to have an entirely different interpretation of the kiss, and oh, how badly Shilov wants to destroy him.

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END