Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Daniil collected art. “Art” was coins caked with verdigris, shards of broken glass, and exoskeletons of insects. Beetles were his favorite. It disturbed Mother, the glass jars he’d fill. It dissatisfied Father, who’d rather him play rugby instead of scavenging in alleyways.

“The boy needs to learn how to fight,” Father would say.

“He needs a friend,” Mother would reply. “At least one friend.”

There was an eternal quality of art that Daniil liked. Art lodged in the viewer’s mind and remained there, a complexity of afterthought, forever. Art might be misremembered or forgotten, but never completely undone.

Contrast that with science. All scientists expected what they achieved to be obsolete in ten, twenty, or fifty years. The very meaning of research was continual progress. Every discovery cried out to be surpassed, and every scientist hoped others would come along to prove them wrong. But to defeat Death would be lasting. To last was the mission of his research laboratory, Thanatica.

This mission had failed. The Inquisitor told him Thanatica had burned. The Powers That Be deemed him worthless. Thousands upon thousands of his patients were dead.

So why did Daniil feel at peace?

He dreamt about butterflies pinned to a corkboard. The butterflies were fluttering and lovely, despite the pins. Daniil identified several species: the spicebush swallowtail, the monarch, and the mourning cloak.

Before he could count them all, the dream began to dissolve. Reality first took form in sensations: warmth, comfort, and nearness. Someone else’s arms embraced him like a silkworm’s cocoon. In this embrace, which smelled of sweat and petrichor, he was safe.

The presence moved away. Sudden coldness made him shiver. Eyes still closed, Daniil twisted around, searching for that cocoon, whatever or whoever it was.

"Please, come back," he tried to say, but no words came out.

The bed shifted. A hand caressed his hair.

The gesture shocked Daniil awake. Not even his favorite lovers back in the capital touched him with such gentleness. It couldn’t have been intended for him. There was some kind of mistake. When he opened his eyes, sunshine briefly blinded him. Then terror struck.

Artemy Burakh, haloed, shirtless, and radiant despite the early hour, was leaning over Daniil and stroking his hair. His hands, so bloodied that they called him the Ripper, seemed incapable of killing.

“Good morning,” Artemy whispered. His voice was different: less strained, more mature. “Do you want breakfast?”

Daniil realized his error. This man wasn’t Artemy. He was almost an exact replica of the Haruspex, but shorter hair, darker stubble, and more pronounced wrinkles outed him as a fraud. Who… Had Daniil been kidnapped? Maybe not. He wasn’t restrained, save for blankets and underwear, and the vaulted ceiling above belonged to Stillwater. Moreover, the man’s neck was covered in hickeys. Lots of them. Jesus Christ. Was this a hookup like that of a horny undergraduate instead of a nationally renowned researcher? Did he get blackout drunk at the Broken Heart, find an Artemy lookalike, and take him back to Stillwater? If that was the case, why wasn’t he hungover?

“Never let them see your fear,” Father told Daniil at thirteen years old after a bully had thrown a well-aimed brick. Father swiped his son’s bleeding forehead with a towel wetted by alcohol. It burned. Daniil still wore his hair long to cover the scar.

Daniil steeled his nerves. By force, his expression became flaccid.

“Yes, thank you.”

With superficial calm, Daniil stood up and crossed the floor to the bathroom. He slammed the door shut, turned the lock, and put his back against it. Breathing hard, he listened to the stranger shuffle around for several minutes.

At last, he heard retreating footsteps and sank to the floor. He covered his face. All of this was wrong: his lack of hunger or pain, the affection that Artemy had offered—was it Artemy? The eyes were Artemy’s—and the fact that he was alive at all.

Daniil’s most recent memory was of a gunshot. On Day Twelve, while the Changeling and the Haruspex were deciding the town’s fate in the Cathedral, he sat on his bed in Stillwater. His hostess, Eva Yan, had thrown herself from the Cathedral’s balustrades days ago. Daniil preferred a private ending. He took off his snakeskin coat. He buried the revolver in his mouth. His shaking finger pulled the trigger.

He was supposed to be dead.

Was he dead? Did his final seven minutes of brain activity create a domestic fantasy with the Ripper? Of course, Daniil had thought of it before. He had thought of Artemy many times, so many, too many…

Artemy was particular among men. Not only because he was more intelligent and resolute than most, but also because he was particular to Daniil. Yet this particularity defied concrete definition. To what could he compare him? Artemy was the Gorkhon, a vast river—no, he was more. He was an ocean teeming with life, a thousand oceans. Daniil was an abyss, at times screaming, at times silent, made to be filled. Water flooding darkness: that was how he saw their togetherness. The prospect was terrifying, yet he wanted nothing less.

So you’re a fucking poet now, Dankovsky? Get up.

Daniil surged to his feet. He saw himself in the mirror. His hair was glossy from recent conditioning. Vitality illuminated his face, which lacked any symptoms of the Sand Pest. His collarbone, usually jagged, was smoothed over by fat. Two creases ran from the sides of the nose to the corners of the mouth.

His body wasn’t his.

His vision blurred. He remembered a lecture from medical school: the symptoms of psychosis were as follows: hallucinations, delusions, and disturbed thoughts. The patient may believe an organization or another individual intends to harm them. The patient may believe they possess authority that is unsubstantiated, such as prophetic powers. The patient may be aware of their mind’s absurdity, resulting in terror or distress.

Daniil bit his hand to keep from screaming.

Either he was in Purgatory, awaiting dies irae, dies illa, or having a psychotic breakdown. Both cases were adverse. A third possibility was the Kin’s steppe magic. Daniil had seen such strange things—blood sacrifices and floating buildings—that multiverse theory and time travel didn’t seem impossible anymore. But if that really was most appealing, his sanity must be gone.

Whatever curse he was under, Daniil couldn’t confide in Artemy—not until he was certain of his trustworthiness. The townspeople’s cruelty had hurt him enough times to instill caution. Daniil considered Artemy an ally, but what Artemy thought was unknowable. In this universe, would the Haruspex be helpful and sympathetic to someone who was wearing the skin of his husband?—lover? Colleague that performed sexual favors?—like a low-budget costume? Or would he perform a premature autopsy on him?

Just when Daniil was beginning to understand the Town-on-Gorkhon, he found himself in another land of confusion. But based on the most recent evidence, the Haruspex appeared to be tender. Loving, even. Helpfully, his brain brought forth the memory of the hickeys on Artemy’s neck.

Daniil’s cheeks warmed. He shook his head to clear it.

For now, it would be best to keep his identity a secret and pretend to belong. Once he gathered enough information, he’d be able to plan his escape. Data collection was the crux of his career. If stubborn questions remained after a project, he revisited each step and completed them one by one. He had done it before. He could do it again.

The first step was finding his revolver. It was the one thing he brought to the Town-on-Gorkhon twelve days ago. And it was the one thing he needed now.

Daniil re-entered the bedroom. Artemy wasn’t there. Good. He returned to the bedside table. On its surface was a photograph of himself and Artemy. At their sides were two shifty-eyed orphans, Murky and Sticky.

He picked up the photograph and examined it. It must’ve been taken a year or so after the Plague. The four of them stood on the shore of a forested lake, holding each other and smiling. Daniil looked at the camera, and Artemy looked at Daniil. They were more like champions than survivors.

He put the photograph back and opened the first drawer. He shuffled through papers, including additional photographs and handwritten letters. He didn’t examine the mementos of a life he hadn’t lived.

No revolver.

The next drawer had various cravats, all neatly folded, and a container of brooches. Tucked in between these was a pear-shaped bottle of cologne. Daniil recognized the expensive brand from the Capital. Years ago, after Andrey Stamatin introduced him to it, it became his favorite. The Daniil of this universe must’ve kept this opinion and had the cologne shipped to Gorkhon at no cheap cost. He smelled the familiar scent—cedarwood, bourbon, and patchouli—and sprayed some on and felt a little more confident. Good cologne can do that.

No revolver.

The final drawer had jars of charcoal and sketch pads. No revolver, but Daniil lingered anyway. As a teenager, he was fond of cutting out figures from anatomical textbooks and pencilling over them. The mustaches and jester hats he created eventually transformed into leprosy on the skin, parasites in the brain, and water overflowing the lungs. Flecks of black, worms of white, and pools of gray represented Hansen’s disease, neurocysticercosis, and pulmonary edema.

It was impossible to pinpoint the exact start of Daniil’s obsession with Death, but he might’ve been fifteen—fifteen when the headmaster caught him in the confessional with another boy. The other boy had lied: “Dankovsky is a depraved freak. He forced me to.” The headmaster had Daniil whipped. He survived, but something soft and shimmering inside of him didn’t. Ever since, Daniil had learned to keep his romances secret.

Fuck the revolver. Get dressed.

He went to the closet. Inside, unfamiliar clothes were clean and abundant, but Daniil hardly noticed them. He focused on finding his snakeskin coat. He didn’t swear by divine symbols like his contemporaries who boasted cross necklaces, but he had survived eleven apocalyptic days wearing that snakeskin coat. And on the one day he took it off, he died.

Daniil felt safer once he put it on.

Next, Daniil tied a red cravat around his neck and laced up his heeled boots. Finally, he put on a pair of gloves, feeling too exposed without them. A Plague-ridden town on Gorkhon had germs on every water fountain and door handle, after all. That was another question to investigate: did the Plague still rage on? Doubtless, the Haruspex would be quick to indicate if that was true.

Not the Haruspex, Daniil corrected himself. They were either fucking married or just fucking. He should call him Artemy.

When Daniil returned to the bathroom, he exhaled in relief. His reflection almost looked like himself again.

He went downstairs. He inhaled the air that was rich with microscopic pollen and the sweetness of wildflowers. It was unlike the Capital’s air, which was contaminated with factory pollution. This air smelled like breakfast.

The lower floor of Stillwater wasn’t what Daniil remembered. For one, a functional kitchen and dining table with chairs had been installed. Eva never cared much for furniture, save for expansive bookshelves. The kitchen included an island, cabinets, and a sink. Above this sink, garlic cloves, rosemary, and shriveled peppers hung from the ceiling. The potted plants Eva used to nurse on the windowsill were gone. Jars of tea leaves and coffee grounds stood in their place.

Taped on the window, Daniil saw sketches of the flora and fauna of the steppe. Three of these depicted a white aspen bundled by a ribbon, a praying mantis tilting her head, and a bull with sunset-streaked horns, respectively. Even without the faint cursive, reading D. Dankovsky, which marked the edge of each, Daniil knew the style, with its intricacies and meticulousness, was his. Of course, he didn’t recall drawing any of them.

In front of these works, Artemy stood. His broad shoulders swelled underneath a cotton shirt, the collar of which gratefully concealed his bruised neck. He wore tawny trousers with many pockets like a soldier returned home from overseas.

“Too late to help, but just in time to eat,” Artemy chided.

So banter was still their routine. That would suit Daniil well enough.

“Why would I cook when I have you?”

“Helping can entail moral support, oynon.”

The term of respect was pleasant. Artemy walked over to him. Daniil wanted to back away, to flee, to shout, but he stood still. If this was normal, he couldn’t treat it otherwise.

Artemy hugged him.

Neither of them had ever been physically affectionate. Even handshakes were few and far between. Daniil couldn’t even remember the last time he had been hugged. It was… nice. He tried to reciprocate. His hands rose and made awkward, boyscout knots in Artemy’s shirt.

Artemy hummed and brought him impossibly closer; their shoulders, chests, and hips aligned. A sense of completeness overtook Daniil. The intensity of the feeling and the speed at which it arrived were terrifying. He pulled away. Artemy frowned, eyes narrowing. Daniil kept his voice neutral.

“Moral support?”

“Call it the pleasure of company.”

“All right.”

Artemy returned to the kitchen counter. He retrieved two plates topped with eggs and bacon and brought them to the dining table, which was set with napkins and silverware. Daniil followed him, took his seat, and folded a napkin in his lap. Artemy picked up his fork and knife. Before Daniil could speak, Artemy did.

“What are you planning on doing today?”

Daniil hadn’t prepared an answer. Whenever his mind wandered during a lesson and the teacher called on him, he answered with a false confidence and vowed to never be caught unawares again. This was like that.

“What is expected,” Daniil chose to say. Underneath the table, he clenched his hands to stop their trembling. “You?”

“Oh, you know.”

No, I don’t, Daniil thought; that’s why I’m asking.

Artemy was a man of few words, but Daniil didn’t easily give up. Resting his chin in his palm, he leaned forward and plastered on his most charming smile.

“Yes, I do, sweetheart, but I would love to hear you say it.”

He hoped he sounded interested and not desperate.

Artemy blushed.

“I, uh….”

Before he could go on, the front door burst open. Daniil yelped. What kind of couple were they that didn’t lock doors? A teenage girl, with black, tangled hair in two braids, marched inside. Sprinkles of dust dotted her nose and shoulders, almost intentionally, as if she deigned to clean herself off. Her eyes glowed a furious green at Daniil.

“You’re wearing that again,” she said.

Her monotone made Daniil recognize her: this was an older Murky. Daniil fidgeted with the collar of his snakeskin coat and tried to think of a response. Perhaps he could say, “I’m just reminiscing about the old days, dearest—when I was in Hell.”

He settled on, “Please knock next time.”

Artemy snorted.

“She learned that from you.”

Daniil glared at him. Artemy lurched forward and grabbed his thigh. Daniil swallowed a gasp. Artemy smirked as if he had heard it anyway.

“Don’t worry,” Artemy whispered. “I know you can’t help it.”

Murky gagged.

“Stop that right now and come with me.”

She was gone as quickly as she had appeared.

“I’ll be back,” Artemy said.

He let go, got up, and followed her.

When the door closed, Daniil released the breath he was holding. Alone at last—as it should’ve been from the beginning. Where Artemy had gone or how long he’d be out was uncertain, so Daniil needed to make the most of his time.

After finishing his breakfast, Daniil returned upstairs to investigate the first drawer, the one he had neglected.

By afternoon, Daniil had read the entirety of its contents. Now, he understood the situation: five years had passed since the outbreak of the Sand Pest. To destroy it, the Changeling had sacrificed seven people. Her actions spared both the Town and the Polyhedron. In creating a permanent vaccine, the Bachelor had failed. Overcome by his failure, he returned to the Capital. He lived with his lab attendant, Serafima, for a year or so, getting drunk and wasting money. Letters exchanged with Artemy brought him back to the Town-on-Gorkhon. At first, they were simply colleagues again. Then, by the traditions of the Kin, they were married.

Daniil picked up a piece of parchment. On it, four stick figures, hastily scribbled with charcoal, held hands. One dad was frowning. The other was smiling. In blocky handwriting, the signature read: Murky.

His throat tightened.

“Don’t you dare cry,” said a voice within that sounded like Father.

He hoped that Daniil of the future knew how lucky he was, wherever the bastard was now. Maybe they had traded places. Was he waking up in a Plague-infested Stillwater? Or was he, head with a bullet hole, in a sack on its way to the Theater? Had anyone given the Bachelor a burial—even an improper one? Was Daniil somehow too insignificant to be cared about but too important to be dead?

Perhaps it was worth seeking out Aspity or some other riddle-speaking golem to get a lesson on time-travel fuckery. The prospect agonized him, but Daniil knew he couldn’t wait around in this building any longer. He placed the manuscripts back in their drawer and left Stillwater.

The layout of the Town-on-Gorkhon was still Yulia Lyuricheva’s impractical labyrinth. Perhaps no universe existed in which it wasn’t. Buildings loomed and were wedged between vacant lawns, which were infested with Peter Stamatin’s anti-gravity staircases leading to nowhere. As Daniil walked, stacked crates and stone walls appeared where he had been certain there were streets.

By some miracle, after an hour of sweating in the humidity, he had found his way to the Polyhedron. The magnificent sight of it—the sheer mass, perfect geometry, and faded blueprints—didn’t have the revitalizing effect Daniil sought.

This nothingness was familiar. Depression was a tyrant over emotions, such that Daniil almost always felt muted. Whenever he was moved to something beyond numbness, it was a phenomenon. In fact, despite the consistent and abundant horrors, his first strong reaction to the Plague happened on Day Three.

 

On Day Three, upstairs in Stillwater, Daniil examined samples of infected lung tissue through his microscope at three a.m. With the limited equipment available to him, with the counsel he was forced to seek from the Kains, Olgimskys, and Saburovs, who were keen on playing him and each other rather than finding solutions, his methodological choices happened in theoretical contexts that stemmed from theoretical choices. They wanted lives saved; they didn’t have a hospital. They wanted a vaccine; they didn’t have a proper laboratory.

The wicked little cells swam across his vision. They mocked his ignorance. The moon lulled its wise face to look at Daniil’s idiot face.

Three a.m. was the worst hour. At two a.m., he could still fool himself, thinking, “I will sleep soon.” By four, five, or six a.m., there was hope for dawn, for tomorrow. There was no hope at three a.m. The night quieted. The blood slowed. He was the nearest to dead he’d ever be except for dying.

He envied Eva. She was tethered neither by labor nor relations, but only whims. She existed outside of time. She slept whenever she pleased, for however long she pleased. She dreamed peacefully; she aged slowly. Eva was different from him.

Daniil was a clock. He was all cogs, needles, and Roman numerals. He could not silence the ticking he himself produced. He ensured that what broke down, rotted, and wasted away did so. He was sleepless. He was staring. Sometimes, it felt as if he could grasp and alter the seconds, minutes, and even years—if only he had the faith to reach out.

He didn’t have faith. It was three a.m. This was his hopeless solitude and his alone. Wait… no. That was a lie.

Eva was awake. One floor below, she screamed.

Daniil ignored her. Perhaps her fright was because of a spider or mouse. Eva had a tendency to be overdramatic. With her, nothing was in halves: Eva either hated fully or loved fully; she either believed fully or wanted to believe fully but just couldn’t. Blonde and bright-eyed, she was the starring role in a play with a bad director, who demanded, “Scream louder! Cry harder!” at every close of the curtain. At times, Daniil admired her commitment. Now was not one of those.

His bedroom door slammed open. Eva stumbled in.

“Daniil, come downstairs!”

“Allow me to remind you that I am to be undisturbed.”

“Please,” she begged, clasping her hands together, “someone’s dying!”

He rubbed his twitching eyes.

“Everyone’s dying.”

“It’s Artemy.”

Daniil shoved past her. He took the steps three at a time. Two figures hovered in Stillwater’s doorway, forming one imposing shadow. Lara supported Artemy, who leaned heavily on her. His leg was blackened with blood.

“Bring him upstairs,” Daniil instructed.

The three of them half-supported and half-dragged Artemy to Daniil’s bed, step by agonizing step, and laid him on his back. He let out a groan and closed his eyes. He was losing consciousness and blood: lots of blood. Daniil retrieved surgical scissors from Artemy’s pocket. He had watched him work enough times to have his organization memorized. He cut the blood-soaked cloth.

“What happened?”

“He’s been shot,” Lara said.

“How long ago?”

Lara went quiet. Eva stood behind her, quivering.

“Answer me,” Daniil demanded. He ripped the pant leg and revealed the wound. It stretched across Artemy’s thigh, gurgling with pus. Blood lapped like a tongue in a hateful mouth.

“I don’t know. Hours,” Lara admitted. “He usually recovers on his own.”

“Your negligence,” Daniil snarled, “risked the only surgeon in this hellscape.”

Lara set her jaw.

“You think I don’t know that?” she whispered. “To me, he’s more than a surgeon.”

Eva stepped forward.

“Pointing blame won’t help Artemy.”

“Exactly,” Daniil hissed. “Both of you are useless. Leave. Now.”

“What? No!” Lara shouted.

“Do you have a medical degree I am unaware of, Miss Ravel?”

“You self-important bastard!” she screamed. “How can I be sure he isn’t just another file in your folder?”

“Because I need him!”

The words echoed. Lara’s mouth fell open. Eva’s brow tightened, then loosened, as if in a sudden understanding.

“Daniil,” Eva whispered. She pitied him; he hated her.

“I don’t have time for this,” he muttered. “Stay, if you must.”

Daniil began the surgery.

Hours later, the women were asleep on the couch across the room. Eva’s head rested on Lara’s shoulder. Her blonde hair dripped down Lara’s blue, sweat-soaked cardigan. Sitting in a chair pressed against the bedpost, Daniil watched Artemy sleep. Artemy’s chest rose and fell with shallow yet determined breaths.

Daniil had picked out thirteen pieces of shrapnel from the wound. It was now sewn shut and wrapped with bandages. Daniil reached forward to adjust them. They didn’t need to be, but he had to do it. It was just another nervous tic in Daniil’s ever-growing list.

Artemy snatched his wrist. He opened one eye.

“Careful,” he whispered, “I’ve been shot.”

Daniil huffed.

“Anything else to report?”

“There’s a song stuck in my head,” Artemy murmured. To music only he could hear, Artemy tapped his index finger on Daniil’s hand. Daniil didn’t know what to do, so he intertwined their fingers. Both of their hands were bloody. The buckles on Artemy’s wrist shone like chains.

“Not many have survived arguing with Lara,” Artemy whispered.

Daniil’s cheeks reddened. He dropped Artemy’s hand.

“You heard that.”

“I’d have to be dead not to.”

Artemy began to sit up.

“What are you doing?” Daniil leapt to his feet and pushed on Artemy’s chest. “Stay down.”

“I have to fetch the Bachelor’s samples.” His clenched jaw muffled his grunts of pain. “He’s a cruel master. I’ll be whipped.”

“Very funny,” Daniil deadpanned.

Artemy lurched forward. He tossed his legs over the side of the bed. He breathed for a moment. His eyes unfocused and then refocused.

“Thank you,” he murmured, “for saving me, Daniil.”

It was the first time Artemy had called him Daniil—not Bachelor Dankovsky, oynon, or erdem. The name in his mouth sounded too precious. Daniil realized his hands were still on Artemy’s chest. He removed them.

“I’m bringing you more morphine.”

Daniil had none in storage, but one of the local children was bound to have some. He grabbed marbles off of his desk to trade with and rushed downstairs and outside. He fled from Artemy but couldn’t flee from his own pounding heart.

Half an hour later, Daniil returned to Stillwater with the morphine. When he entered the bedroom, Artemy was gone. Lara was, too. Eva, alone, slept on the couch.

Daniil stared at the bloodstained bed.

Artemy’s leaving was perfectly logical. Daniil provided a service; the service was over. Every moment of further rest was a moment of waste, especially for the much relied-upon Haruspex. Lara was with him because she had selflessly and devoutly brought him here. Artemy was her best friend from childhood, and Lara was his favorite: his strength and prize. Their actions were sound; their affections were sensible.

Then why did he feel terrible? It shot through him like a bullet that he hated Lara. At that moment, he hated her horribly—more horribly than anyone he had ever known. It was an awful realization, yet it could not be undone.

Daniil assessed his symptoms: feverishness in the head, tightness in the chest, and pain in the stomach. There was only one possible diagnosis. But even before Daniil’s heart confessed it, his mind was denying it. Sentiment, dearest sentiment, was an affliction to which he had hitherto been immune. So soon, so pure an affection toward a backwoodsman he just met was not precedented, mutual, or possible; that is, if Daniil subscribed to reason over the Kin’s superstition of the Lines. He couldn’t accept it. He couldn’t possibly—

“You love him.”

Daniil jumped. He had forgotten Eva was there.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Daniil said. He moved to the bed and began to strip it of its duvet too roughly. “The sight of blood shocks people, and they misremember.”

Eva walked over to him.

“That’s untrue of women. Your reaction just now only confirms my suspicions,” she said. Then, quietly, she added, “I wish you would’ve told me sooner.”

Daniil scoffed.

“Told you what exactly?” he hissed. “No. Don’t answer that. I don’t care.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“I never called you stupid.”

“You said I was useless.”

“I spoke without thinking!” he shouted. “Is that what you want to hear? I spoke without thinking because I am a weak-willed coward!”

“You’re not,” she insisted. “You were afraid for Artemy’s life because you love him.”

“Stop it.”

“I am not saying in what way exactly, but there is love. I am sure Artemy feels it, too. Did you know that already? Or have I, for once, outwitted you, Bachelor of Medicine?”

“Speak another word about this,” Daniil snarled, “and I’ll stuff you in an Executor costume and light it on fire.”

Eva gasped and clutched her beaded necklace.

“That is beyond cruel. Those outfits are hideous.”

Daniil rolled his eyes. He tossed the duvet onto the floor. He’d have to scrub it clean, but Eva was still staring at him.

“Go back to sleep,” he said.

“What about you?”

“There’s always more work to do.”

A moment passed.

Eva said, “Loving someone is not a shameful thing.”

Depends on who you love, he thought.

Eva turned away. Before she was out of reach, Daniil took her hand. He had to ask one question. He forced it out through gritted teeth.

“Did Artemy say something to you about me?”

Eva shook her head.

“He did not have to. Artemy is the only man in the world who cannot pretend to have less love than he feels… besides maybe you.”

Eva’s face was a mirror. Impossible, for people hardly ever reflected another’s light. More often, people were baskets placed over candles, content to hide their own warmth and disinterested in sharing or experiencing that of others. How exceedingly rare was full attention? How little did other people carry your expression or know your own innermost feelings? How, amongst so many inanimate people, was Eva alive?

“You are smart, Eva,” Daniil confessed. “If you ever find yourself in the Capital one day, Thanatica would be proud to have you.”

Eva smiled.

Chapter Text

Daniil came back to the present. His lack of direction had taken him to where it took everyone with a lack of direction: the bar. But the Broken Heart wasn’t the worst place to be, so he went inside.

He descended the staircase and approached the barstools. The oaken flooring and cheap wallpaper were the same as he remembered, which was a comfort. Music played from somewhere beyond the smoky haze. A spotlighted Herb Bride danced idly on the stage. A few patrons came and went, but the Broken Heart was mostly absent… that is, if one discounted Andrey Stamatin.

The presence of Andrey was equal to that of a dozen men. If not by way of his orange-and-white striped pants, studded jacket, and exposed chest, then he created this effect via potent cologne and lordly posture. Both of his palms were flat on the countertop, making his arms into a sharp V; his eyebrows and nose had similar sharpness. His roped necklace was like the noose of a convict, who, before he hangs, confesses, “It was all too much fun. I got carried away.”

When Andrey looked up at Daniil, his eyes widened in a quick succession of emotions: surprise, excitement, then suspicion.

“Daniil, old boy,” Andrey greeted. “What do you need?”

Daniil raised an eyebrow.

“Can I not simply visit you?”

“Actually, yes. You hardly ever come around. Let me ask again: what do you need?”

“A drink, please.”

“Because you asked so nicely, it can be on the house.”

Daniil didn’t warrant that with a response. He sat down on a barstool. Andrey turned around, took vodka from the top shelf, and popped off the cork.

Suddenly, the strangeness of the living arrangements dawned on Daniil. Eva had been Andrey’s lover, though in an open relationship, long before Daniil rented out the upper floor of Stillwater. Why had Daniil of the future inherited it and not Andrey?

Daniil asked, “Why do you stay in this bar instead of Stillwater?”

The answer came quicker than anticipated.

“For the same reason your Haruspex doesn’t live in his father’s house.”

Daniil was tempted to push the subject of Artemy, but he feared what Andrey might say. Their marriage was still so unreal; learning how it happened might legitimize it, and then who would Daniil be? Answer: a fool hoping that this reality was repeatable. Few things were more dangerous than dreams. Firepower, maybe. Famine and pestilence. But even these had their limits. Imagination had none.

“Is that why you’ve come?” Andrey asked. “To sell the place?”

There was a distinct note of resentment in his voice.

“No, though I am sick of housework. My apartment in the Capital was far easier to clean. Plus, I had my laundry and dishes done by a maid.”

“Is Burakh not your maid?”

“Not in name.”

Andrey laughed. He passed him his drink, put his elbows on the bartop, and leaned forward.

“What you really are is sick of domestic life, with its ease, simplicity, and indulgence. Create a few challenges for yourself and be content with staying, won’t you?”

Daniil scoffed.

“I am not as fortunate as you think I am.”

“Enlighten me, then. What has made you otherwise?”

Answering that question honestly was too great a risk. A different approach to the conversation was suitable. At university, Andrey, his brother Peter, and Daniil had conversations based on hypothetical scenarios, such as ruling the perfect republic or finding a ring of invisibility. As such, Daniil figured it wouldn’t be too suspicious to answer Andrey’s question with another.

“What would you do if you awoke in a different timeline?”

Andrey smirked.

“Ah, the midlife crisis rears its ugly head. We can hope but never expect someone like you to live beyond seventy.”

"You are running out of time, Dankovsky,” they all said. “Go faster. Do more. Take pride in being overworked, burnt out, and suicidal.”

“Sic vita est,” Daniil muttered.

He knocked back his drink and finished it. Andrey’s intense, mint-colored eyes moved up and down and over Daniil, searching for something. Upon finding whatever he was looking for, Andrey smiled, widely and sincerely, retrieved the bottle again, and refilled Daniil’s glass.

Daniil kept drinking. Distantly, he understood that he was getting tipsy far more quickly than normal, but it didn’t matter. The burning of alcohol in his throat felt better—more grounding—than staring up at the Polyhedron. That impossible, beautiful thing…

“Give me the exact date,” Andrey said.

Daniil went still.

“What?”

Andrey’s smile turned cruel.

“I intend to make a profit. Peter and I placed bets on when our slutty, little Danya would regret marriage.”

Daniil scowled.

“You—that’s not—Artemy and I are good for each other.”

“That’s why you regret it, then. You love living in sin.”

The barstool scraped against the floor.

“I was kidding,” Andrey called after Daniil, who was walking away. “Don’t be an infant, Dankovsky!”

Daniil turned around. He snatched the bottle of vodka out of Andrey’s hand, before leaving the Broken Heart without another word.

Outside, the clouds swarmed overhead. Air buzzed with electricity. Distant thunder could not overcome the ringing of that word in his ears: sin.

“Poor Daniil,” they all said. “He has to take care of his sin. He’s so good to sin.”

Waking up next to sin, cuddling with sin, holding sin’s hand, making it breakfast, and taking sin to the park, to the laboratory, and then back to bed to make wretched, selfish love... only to start all over again. He tried and tried, and still no one called him innocent. Sin lurked. Sin lived. Sin adored him.

Daniil drank from the bottle he had stolen. He walked the streets, watching the weeds flicker in the wind and the rats scurry along. He hated those rats. Rats shared ninety percent of their DNA with humans. They were the cornerstones of medical breakthroughs, infantry in the war against ignorance. If he were to continue working in laboratories, rats would stay with him. They’d stay and stay just as he had stayed in the Town-on-Gorkhon.

Daniil arrived at a dead end. He hissed in frustration and rerouted. He hated this road system. He cursed Simon Kain’s letters. He rued the day he had arrived.

He drank more.

What had made Daniil of the future stay here? Could it really be that sleeping in, sketching nature, and eating breakfast was the final summation of his existence? At nineteen, he was the youngest graduate ever. Everything the Capital could offer was his: wealth, fame, and prestige. He could finally fuck anyone he wanted. Now, he was old and getting older. Time was leading the submissive fool to that fine mistress: Death.

Rain, slow and hesitant at first, pitter-pattered. Patches of dark gray dotted the light gray cobblestone. His hair and clothes began to damp. Daniil found he didn’t care.

He drank more.

His contemporaries assumed Daniil became a thanatologist because he feared death. This was a falsehood. To fear death was illogical. After all, nobody knows if Death is kakos or agathos: the greatest evil or greatest good. Without defensible evidence, repeatable by way of the scientific method, one cannot ascribe attributes to a thing.

Daniil became a thanatologist not out of fear of the unknown, but out of a love for understanding.

Before the steam engine, the jumping lid when a person boiled water was a nuisance. Before the rifle, gunpowder was but a foul-tasting grime. In the same way, Death had to be a power yet harnessed.

Daniil thought by shooting himself he could understand that power. At last, he could meet the woman with whom he had danced his whole life. He supposed God saved His cruelest ironies for those who appreciated them most, even if—especially if—those people didn’t believe in Him.

Thunder sounded and lightning crackled in the distance, flashing purple on blackening clouds. The rain started to pour now. It was thick, hot, and heavy. The world became invisible with water. Daniil tossed the bottle into a gutter. He lifted his face to the sky, tasted the rain on his lips, and remembered…

 

On Day Six, Governor Saburov requested Bachelor Dankovsky’s immediate presence in the Town Hall.

“To berate me, most likely,” Daniil answered when Artemy asked why.

They were alone in Stillwater: Artemy in the doorway of Daniil’s quarters, and Daniil in front of him, about to leave. This, or vice versa, was how it always went. After Artemy offered the first samples, Daniil offered his bed to him on the unspoken condition that they’d never share the room for more than a few moments. Now that Daniil knew how he himself felt, extended time alone with Artemy was both unbearable agony and ecstasy. It was too quiet and too private and remaining here might lead to complications. Besides, there were governors to persuade.

“At least he doesn’t want you dead,” Artemy huffed.

“Happy days,” Daniil said to end the conversation. He stepped forward, but Artemy didn't move, except to squint at Daniil’s face.

“Excuse me,” Daniil said forcefully.

“Wait.”

Artemy leaned forward. His hand rose. Daniil flinched away, and Artemy stopped.

“You have ink on your cheek,” he explained quietly. “Didn’t want you to be embarrassed.”

Ears pinking, Daniil muttered, “Noted.” He scrubbed his face with the back of his glove. “Did I get it?”

“Allow me.”

What happened next was like frost, slowly forming. Artemy’s hand rose again. He licked his thumb, saliva glistening like silver, and brought it forward to curve over Daniil’s cheekbone. His hand lingered too long. Then it moved down, cupped Daniil’s jaw, and thumbed his bottom lip. There was no expression on Artemy’s face, at least none that Daniil could—or wanted to—understand.

They were silent. And in that silence, Daniil sensed, again, what was between them all along—from the moment they met, possibly even before time itself. What had been asleep because of the darkness of the hour, unable to fully awake in peril yet also strengthened by it, rose up now. Danger, danger, danger, Artemy’s eyes shone. Danger, danger, danger, his hands warned, blood underneath the fingernails. Whose blood?

“What are you doing?”

The question came not from Daniil, but from some stranger within him. Those words, which spared a most necessary, professional relationship, came because Daniil wasn’t as afraid as he should’ve been, and that was horrifying enough. He pushed Artemy’s hand away.

Artemy’s voice was small.

“Have I offended you?”

Daniil didn’t trust himself to answer. He shoved past him and down the stairs and out of Stillwater and across the street. At last, he turned around to see if Artemy was following, but he wasn’t.

 

Daniil came out of the memory, seeing dim candlelight ahead. He swayed toward it, hugging himself. After all, he was hungry. Maybe whoever had the candles had food, too. He arrived on the doorstep. His numb fingers fumbled for the handle, and, finding it, he pushed through. Inside, Stillwater was dry. Daniil hoped Eva would forgive him for soaking her floors. Then he remembered she couldn’t.

“Where have you been?”

That was Artemy.

“I’m fine,” Daniil said because it was the first thing he thought of. He tried to appear sober. Unconvinced, Artemy rushed over, reaching out. Daniil dodged.

“That’s not what I asked,” Artemy said, “but your answer is concerning.”

“Uh huh,” Daniil replied, which, given the circumstances, was fairly clever. The room was dizzying. His limbs were tingling.

Daniil tripped. Artemy caught him.

“You’re freezing,” he hissed, clutching Daniil’s arms. His nose scrunched in distaste. “And drunk.”

“Let go of me.”

Daniil pushed on his chest, but Artemy didn’t budge.

“If I do that, you will fall.”

Artemy bent down. The Earth lurched. Danill found himself pressed between Artemy’s chest and arms. Artemy carried him as if Daniil were a princess in Mother’s fairy tales. If she could see her son now, she would hide her face.

“I’m the famed thanatologist of the Capital,” Daniil protested, twisting to break free. “I forbid you to carry me like this.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” Artemy promised, but from worlds away. With apparent ease, he walked over to and up the staircase. The impressive, though nonchalant, show of strength caused Daniil to dismay, and he gave up the struggle. The jostling was making him drowsy, anyway.

When they arrived in the bedroom, Artemy placed him on the bed. Daniil sat up straight. The headmaster taught him that boys who slouched were boys who failed.

“Lift up your arms,” Artemy instructed.

The pestering would continue if he disobeyed, so Daniil did what he was told. For some reason, that made Artemy smile. After undoing the clasps, he pulled the snakeskin coat up and off and tossed it to the floor.

“No,” Daniil groaned. “That was custom-made.”

“I’m not the one who got stuck out in the rain.”

Artemy removed Daniil’s gloves and brooch and placed them on the bedside table. Then he untied his cravat. Every movement of his fingers was hesitant and careful. Strange. It was as if this was the first time Artemy had undressed him.

“I’ll get my revenge,” Daniil vowed. The slurring of his words weakened the threat. “I’ll throw all of your clothes on the floor.”

Artemy paused his unbuttoning of Daniil’s vest. Their eyes met. Then Daniil realized what he had said and averted his gaze.

He murmured, “Then I will clean and mend them as your fine husband for your fine house.”

“Yes, you are,” Artemy conceded. Was his tone one of condescension or admiration? Was he indulgent or believing? Daniil couldn’t tell.

With Artemy, complete transparency was rare. Identifying moments such as these, amongst so much drought, was a game of sorts—one that required vigilance and patience. Sometimes, bodily harm broke Artemy’s facade, such as starvation or infection. More often, it was safety that allowed him to be himself. Whenever Daniil chanced to see Artemy as he truly was, it felt like winning.

But winning never made anyone happy. People are happy because of one thing and one thing only: biochemistry. Daniil wasn’t reacting to Artemy’s gasps of pain, screams of outrage, or even scarce smiles. Daniil was responding to the various hormones coursing through his own bloodstream and the electrical signals flashing within the lobes of his brain when these events co-occurred.

In the domain of feeling, what is real cannot ever be distinct from what is imaginary. To want anything, to want someone, even to love is to imagine. When Daniil loved, he imagined he loved in order to love a little less. Daniil loved Artemy, but only because random fucking neurons fired. It was biochemistry.

What was happening again? Ah… yes, Artemy had discarded Daniil’s snakeskin coat on the floor: Artemy, who was watching him curiously, attentively.

Daniil pouted. It worked.

“Fine,” Artemy said.

He scooped the jacket off the ground and hung it up in the closet. Daniil’s eyelids sank lower. Everything was so exhausting all the time, but all the time he could never rest. Artemy placed his hands on Daniil’s shoulders.

“Lie down; I’m going to bring you water.”

Water: an element ages older than the solar system. If magic did exist, it was hidden there, guarded by that universal Leviathan. Yes, water would be good. Daniil was thirsty, hungry, and maybe a bit drunk. He couldn’t remember anymore. His thoughts were slipping away again. He tried to grab them, shove them back, and line them up inside. Focus, Daniil. Focus on Artemy’s hands: powerful, precise, and violent, and yet so…

“Gentle,” Daniil muttered, leaning forward into his touch. “Your hands are gentle.”

“I’m a surgeon.”

Artemy moved away. His hands retreated. Daniil lunged forward. He made tiny, useless fists in Artemy’s shirt. Clothes were the barrier between their bodies becoming one flesh.

“Don’t go,” Daniil whispered.

Artemy reached up to hold Daniil’s wrists.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised.

Abandonment was terrible. The stone of Artemy’s face was beautiful. Tears began to form in Daniil’s eyes, but he couldn’t let that statue see him cry, so he took his only chance.

Daniil kissed him.

Artemy froze.

Then a shiver rippled through them both. Artemy’s mouth fell open. Daniil tasted honey and lemon. Artemy’s fingers wove through Daniil’s hair—all doubt and reverence. Their kiss ripened and swelled. Heat blazed within and spread without—out to the tips of Daniil’s being. He clung to Artemy’s neck like a castaway keeping afloat. He fell back onto the bed, taking Artemy with him. His waist was clasped by Artemy’s thighs.

A strand of saliva connected their lips. It snapped when Artemy broke the kiss. He was breathing hard and fast. His pupils were blown, midnight-black. There you are, Artemy.

“We can’t do this,” Artemy whispered.

Daniil blinked.

“But we’re married.”

He reached up, but Artemy snatched his wrist. It almost hurt.

“I want this as much as you do,” he said, “but when you’re sober.”

Artemy got up and off of him. The cooler air was a shock. Without one glance backward, he walked out of the bedroom.

To the emptiness, Daniil muttered, “Why do you even care?”

He closed his eyes and faded into velvety nothingness. He began to dream again. In his dream, the princesses from those fairy tales returned. Lithe bodies, which were hoisting clay jars, drowned Daniil in water. He swerved and complained, trying to evade the flood, but it was of no use.

“Khөөrkhen, you are going to drink this,” a voice insisted.

Khөөrkhen. Khөөr-khen. What did that steppe word mean? It sounded lovely, so lovely. Daniil gave up the fight and obeyed the one who called him khөөrkhen. Delicate, bodiless hands took off the rest of Daniil’s clothes. He was cold and getting colder.

Finally, from the vaults of heaven, the most beautiful of the princesses said, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

What an unoriginal poem, Daniil thought. She lay down and wrapped her arms around him. He was warm again.

Chapter Text

When he was six, Artemy lost his brother. He had, in truth, been losing him for a while. The disease that killed Ersher was a persistent thief that, though frightened off one day, would come back the next to steal more of the light within, so that his eyes grew a little less bright with each passing week, and the skin underneath them a little more dark.

As Ersher’s life slipped away, piece by piece, so too did Artemy’s patience. To witness his brother, who was three years older and in many ways wiser and stronger, succumb was an unreal agony. Months dragged on and on. Ersher continued to wheeze and cough and Artemy wanted it all to stop.

When it finally did stop, Artemy didn’t run so fast anymore, afraid of tripping. He didn’t eat and barely drank. His own spit became poison in his mouth. Every half hour, he checked his tongue for the sores, his limbs for the rashes, and his bones for the aches that he was certain would appear. Every night, he stared at his naked body, waiting for it to die, too.

One morning, Artemy sat at the dining table. His father pushed a plate toward him.

“Eat.”

Artemy shrugged. His father placed his hands on Artemy’s.

“Your hands are cold.”

Artemy ripped them away.

“I want my mother,” he said as if to justify himself.

Then louder: “I want our mother.”

“She died in childbirth,” his father said as if she was any other patient.

Artemy wanted “She’s not with us anymore” or even “Your birth killed my wife.” He wanted someone else’s sorrow, someone else’s vengeance. He shoved the plate.

“Did you even love her?”

His father slapped him.

“She was all the purity of my heart,” his father said. “Pray you never know the pain of losing a wife and child.”

“I don’t need prayer,” Artemy snarled. “I will never own anything that can hurt me.”

His father sat beside him.

“Will you collect dust, then? No. You will be tortured and gutted and bled. You more than any of us because you love better than any of us. While your great, stubborn love endures, your mother and brother are not wholly dead. The day you stop loving is the day they are truly gone.”

His father stood again. His knuckles rapped on the table.

“So eat.”

Artemy obeyed.

That evening, a knock sounded on the Burakhs’ door. Isidor opened it to two people: a father and his daughter. She did not stand behind him like most daughters did. She wore a proud scowl and the maroon cap of her father’s military uniform with black strands of hair poking out underneath. She carried a package in her hands.

“My daughter has a gift for Artemy,” Captain Ravel explained.

Isidor called for Artemy, who came to the door. The daughter stuck out her hands. Artemy received the package, untying its ribbon. The wrapping floated to the floor. The blue sweater emerged. Artemy held it up to his chest.

“I made it myself,” Lara said. Her father had been her reference for the size.

“You did it badly,” Artemy said. “It’s too big.”

Lara scoffed.

“That is on purpose. It’s for when you grow up.”

She did not say Ersher’s name, but they both understood well enough. This was her assurance that Artemy would live into adulthood. Twenty years later, when the Plague came to town, he was still wearing that blue sweater.

 

When he awoke, Artemy wasn’t in pain. Ever since the Plague began, he forgot that sensation: what it was to have a full stomach and unbroken bones. Twelve days of fighting—for the lives of others and his own—doomed Artemy to never feel safe again, yet, somehow, he did.

His body was curled around a fire that didn’t burn: a fire he could touch. Eyes still closed, Artemy nuzzled deeper into the fire’s neck. Hair soft as rose-petals tickled his nose, and he breathed in deep. So used to the stench of the steppe’s cattle or the smoke of burned districts, Artemy was surprised to smell something good: hints of cedarwood, bourbon, and patchouli. This rich cologne was familiar, but, half-asleep, he couldn’t quite place it. Artemy was a surgeon and curious by way of vocation, so he pulled the being closer. He traced its subtle muscles and ribs. Underneath his hands, the fire breathed.

Another man would’ve stayed there for a millennia, wondering at this scientific marvel, but Artemy needed to get up. In a few hours, the Polyhedron would be destroyed. Blood would flow from where it once pierced the ground. With that blood, either the Haruspex would rescue the Town… or fail. He didn't want to fail.

So Artemy sat up. The bed creaked beneath him. Blinking against the morning light, he glanced around. Time stopped.

There was Daniil Dankovsky. The Bachelor of Medicine, the bastard from the Capital, was asleep in Artemy’s bed. Wait, no—the wooden flooring, concrete walls, and cluttered bookshelves—Artemy was in Daniil’s bed. This was Stillwater, and Daniil was asleep, and Artemy had been clinging to him as if to driftwood after a shipwreck. And sniffing his damn, bourgeoisie cologne.

His mind struggled to rationalize this fact. The last thing Artemy remembered was arguing with the Changeling about the fate of the Town. The Commander had been there, too, in the Cathedral, looking grave. The Changeling was saying, “In my hands I hold—” then the memory just… ended.

Did Daniil somehow sedate and carry him back to Stillwater? Even neglecting the impossibility—considering Artemy’s formidable constitution, larger size, and Daniil’s physical weakness—why would the Bachelor do that? Surely, Daniil, as beautiful as he was, with his black eyes and pale skin, wasn’t that desperate for a bedmate. He’d sooner shoot Artemy through the skull.

Was this an illusion, then? Maybe a trick of the Stamatin twins’ twyrine or a tradition of the Kin—some test of his willpower as a menkhu? If that was so, why wasn’t Artemy warned about this? He needed guidance, advice, or, hell, even just a comforting word.

For the hundredth time, he wished that his father was still alive. And, for the hundredth time, Artemy had to create his own answers. He reached for his scalpel… but his thigh was bare. Except for underwear, he was naked. Looking over at Daniil again, Artemy saw that he was naked, too.

Then he realized his mistake. This wasn’t Daniil.

At first glance, the two men were the same, both with raven-feather hair, those thin, downturned lips, and a throat meant to be kissed—focus, Artemy, he chided himself—but this stranger wasn’t gaunt or worn out like the Bachelor was. His cheeks were flushed and rounded with health. His shoulders and chest were lean with muscle. Most strikingly, faint but visible smile lines creased his face. Artemy’s Daniil never smiled enough to make those. Sure, he’d smirk plenty when he was close to winning an argument or reciting a Latin phrase—a smug, cat-like smirk that invited a punch—but he hardly smiled.

It was as if the Bachelor had taken a train back to the Capital, become prince of it, and, after a decade of feasts and parties, against all logic, returned to Stillwater. This Daniil was older, fuller, and more peaceful than Artemy had ever seen.

Careful not to wake him, Artemy reached out to trace his Lines. Touching his bicep and trailing down to his elbow, Artemy felt that distinct, web-like pattern. The Bachelor’s Lines, more tangled and chaotic than anyone else’s, vibrated like the plucked strings of a harp underneath Artemy’s fingers. It was the kind of music that couldn’t be replicated.

Artemy looked down at his own thigh. There, he received a bullet wound days ago but, now, it was only a faded scar.

Dazed, Artemy moved out from under the blankets. He stumbled into the bathroom, grabbed the countertop, and stared at the mirror.

Another stranger stared back.

His hair was trimmed neat and short. Extra sunspots littered his nose. His crow’s feet were deeper, trench-like. But his eyes were the same: clear-sky blue. The pulse in his neck throbbed, animating the bite marks there. Artemy reached up to touch them. Did Daniil do that? Had Artemy let him? Heat flooded his face. He couldn’t keep looking at himself—was it himself?—so he staggered back into the bedroom.

Daniil stirred.

Adrenaline shot through Artemy. Think, goddammit. Unless this was an unbelievably believable illusion, Artemy was in the future and married to the Bachelor. At least, Artemy hoped that they were married. If this was simply a one-night stand and Artemy was in his thirties, it would be pitiful.

As for his future self marrying the Bachelor, that Artemy understood. They were a unit—like the color green. The Bachelor was blue; the Haruspex was yellow. Green is made of blue and yellow, yet the eyes only see green. Somehow this fact had to do with the Polyhedron and the Town. Somehow it said something about everything. But too many things would’ve gone wrong if Artemy ever tried to explain this to his Daniil. He would’ve denied it, argued with Artemy, or, worst of all, said nothing.

They needed each other. They both knew it. There was never anything more to talk about except the Plague.

Or was there still a Plague? In this reality, did a vaccine or panacea rescue the Town-on-Gorkhon? Daniil of the future would know, but Artemy couldn’t ask those questions. He would have to lie and pretend he belonged until he found a way back home. Because if twenty-eight-year-old Daniil was ruthless, waving his revolver as he pleased, who knew how bloodthirsty he was at thirty-something? And if the Bachelor found out Artemy wasn’t his Artemy, past or otherwise, he’d sigh and say, “Oh, well, I was due a cadaver anyway” before slitting his throat.

Daniil made a little, mewing noise.

Artemy forced himself to walk over. He returned to the mattress, sat down, and ran his hand through Daniil’s hair. Daniil blinked, once, twice, and stared at Artemy. His lips parted; his tongue was dark and inviting. The urge to kiss him hit Artemy like a shot from Commander Block’s cannon. Swallowing hard, Artemy shelved it.

“Good morning.” His voice was groggy from sleep and coarser with age. “Do you want breakfast?”

The question was a gamble. There was no guarantee breakfast was their routine. But if Daniil obliged him, it would buy Artemy time. Now, fully conscious, Daniil’s once-vulnerable expression turned guarded. His mouth closed and tightened into a line.

“Yes, thank you,” he muttered.

In one quick motion, Daniil turned away from Artemy’s touch and crossed to the bathroom. Before Artemy could say something or count the beauty marks on Daniil’s back, the door slammed shut.

Disappointment came and apathy hurt, even though it exemplified a version of the Bachelor he was more accustomed to. If Future-Daniil treated Future-Artemy like this every morning, with careless brevity and professional exchange—if, after all these years, Daniil still didn’t trust him, always searching for the ulterior motive in Artemy’s words, the betrayal he was so certain of—their relationship was broken.

No. Daniil’s not a morning person, that’s all, Artemy thought.

He went to the closet. Beneath the hangers of pressed vests and coats, almost exclusively in black—Daniil’s, he guessed—Artemy found folded clothes that suited him: sweaters, tank tops, and trousers. He pulled on a sleeveless, cotton shirt with a high collar to cover his neck and simple, functional trousers with pockets. Consider it superstition or a Pavlovian response to the Plague, but Artemy always felt a little better if he had plenty of pockets.

He went downstairs.

Stillwater had changed. Instead of an open, useless space, there was practicality: a full kitchen and dining table. Both were clean and welcoming. Fresh vegetables and spices hung from the ceiling above the sink. Jars of herbal remedies and coffee grounds rested on the windowsill.

Artemy walked over. Taped to the window were sketches of plants and animals. The detail of the charcoal pencil was incredible on the leaves, antenna, and eyes. He leaned in to admire. On each, in faint cursive, was a signature: D. Dankovsky. He had no idea that Daniil was an artist. Evidently, Daniil approached art as he did everything else: with a proud determination and careful precision. This intimate discovery put Artemy a little more at ease in this universe.

In the icebox, he found frozen meat, bread, and vegetables. That halfway solved the problem of breakfast. He set out eggs and slices of bacon. He lit the burner and placed the cast iron on it. In the cabinets, he found wooden bowls, forks, and knives. Everything was placed exactly how he preferred it. Perhaps Artemy of the future hadn't lost all his sense.

As he brought out two plates, he wondered why, during her life, Eva kept Stillwater so empty. The townspeople claimed she alone could spend an extended amount of time there. The popular explanation was a spiritual one, though Artemy thought it was more attributable to lack of furniture and willing residents. Now, Stillwater felt emptier than ever. It was uncanny.

At first, Artemy had disliked his father’s laboratory being overrun with children. It was his refuge, not theirs. However, after some time, he wanted Sticky to ask him questions, even ones he had already answered, and to listen to Murky grumble about Grace’s method of communicating with the dead. He wanted Sticky to say, “That was amazing. Can you teach me how?” and for Murky’s little fist to raise up a beetle. The children should be here with him. They should, more so than Daniil, but also because of Daniil. If given more time, given more peace, the four of them could’ve been a family.

Artemy remembered the first time he had the thought.

 

On Day Five, the Bachelor needed a specimen who was alive and infected. The cells on dead tissue were insufficient for his vaccine, he told Artemy during a brief conversation at the Theater. He would search Town that evening—might Artemy come with?

Artemy answered with silence, not because the task was too challenging, but because it was all too possible. In fact, he knew exactly who Daniil needed.

Artemy didn’t come; he hurried to his hideout. By the time he arrived, he was limping. The wound Daniil stitched up days ago might’ve reopened. Right now, Artemy couldn’t care. He stumbled downstairs. From his spot on the ground, Sticky jumped up.

“You’re back!” Sticky cheered. “I collected lots of herbs for you—even some berries for dinner.”

He lifted them up. Black juice stained his palm and plaid sleeves. Artemy frowned.

“That’s nightshade. They’re poisonous.”

Sticky chucked the berries across the room. They rolled over the operation floor like marbles coated in paint.

“Don’t—” Artemy began, but it was too late. “Forget it. Where’s Murky?”

“She’s ‘round the back, I think. Why? She’s not better at finding than I am.”

Artemy went around the back. Murky crouched in the dirt. Her hands pulled apart the layers in strokes.

“Come inside,” he told her.

“I’m not finished.”

“Murky.”

She saw the look on his face and went over to grab his hand. Artemy led her inside and downstairs.

“What’s going on?” Sticky demanded.

“I’m not letting them take Murky.”

“Who?”

Artemy was unsure of exactly how to explain, but it began like this: Murky was infected. Living in the station by herself, with limited access to clean food or water, ensured that. Nonetheless, she was asymptomatic. The melted skin, the savage thirst, and the death that soon followed may have taken others, but not Murky. Artemy crouched down.

“Murky, you’re special,” he whispered. “Other people want to take advantage of that.”

“I know,” she muttered. She wasn’t looking at him.

“You…”

Upstairs, the door opened. There was only one person who entered buildings without knocking as if he owned everything. Still, he had never dared to enter Artemy’s hideout before. Artemy lifted Murky by her arms and deposited her behind the boiler.

“Hide,” he hissed.

The Bachelor’s heeled boots made their distinct pounding. How he deemed a few more inches of height worth the loss of stealth was beyond Artemy, but, right now, he appreciated his pompous ass for the warning.

Artemy came up the staircase. In the entryway, Daniil loomed with his carpetbag in hand. As he took another step forward, Artemy caught his shoulder.

“You can’t just barge in.”

Daniil’s eyes narrowed.

“I had no choice. You’ve been avoiding me.”

Artemy blinked.

“We just talked.”
“No, I talked; you listened.”

Daniil sidestepped. Artemy twisted and slammed him against the wall. His carpetbag thumped on the floor. His lips went ajar. Artemy felt Daniil’s pulse throbbing faster and faster underneath his palm and forearm. Daniil swallowed, trying in vain to conceal it.

Artemy said, “I’ve been avoiding you because I was ashamed.”

Daniil squinted.

“Go on.”

“It was my fault I got shot. You, Eva, and Lara shouldn’t’ve been forced to help me.”

“No.”

“No?”

“That’s not it. You’re hiding something.”

Daniil shoved him, hard. It only worked because Artemy wasn’t expecting it. He stumbled back and his bullet wound clenched. Vision went dark. Daniil rushed to the bottom floor. Artemy gritted his teeth, counted to three, and then followed.

“Who is this?” Daniil demanded.

Across the floor, Sticky leaned against the countertop with his arms crossed.

“Eat shit.”

“This is Sticky,” Artemy offered with a sigh. “He was my father’s assistant. He works for me now.”

Daniil placed his hands on his hips. His critical gaze swept over the laboratory.

“This place is not up to code.”

His gloved hand touched the operation table. He lifted and rubbed his fingers together. He opened the wardrobe. Its hinges squeaked. He picked up a tincture, swished it once, then put it back. It clinked against its peers. This whole inspection was slow and rhythmic, almost as if it was a performance on a stage. Artemy wished it was.

Daniil approached the boiler. Artemy wasn’t breathing. Sticky straightened up.

“Don’t touch that!”

“It’s fine,” Artemy hissed.

“When I tried to fix it, you almost beat my ass,” Sticky protested, “but you’re letting the city-slick snake-fucker do it?”

“Is that what you call me?” Daniil wondered aloud. “Quite a mouthful.”

“And there’s more!” Sticky yelled.

“I assure you, Mr. Sticky, your position as Artemy’s assistant is not threatened by me, though I do have one enviable quality.”

“What’s that?”

“I can see over the countertops.”

“You’re no tower yourself,” Sticky retorted.

Artemy laughed and covered it up as a cough. Daniil glared.

“My resources and influence exceed yours, Haruspex. It would be better for you to work for me—openly and honestly—instead of further insulting my time and intelligence.”

Artemy said, “Tell me one fact about myself.”

“What?”

“Go on; show off your intelligence.”

Daniil’s mouth twitched. Artemy plowed on.

“Where did I go to school? Which battalion did I serve in? Why did I come back home? Surely you remember one thing I told you.”

“This isn’t a viable test.”

“I’ll go easy on you, then: what’s my surname?”

“Burakh.”

His pronunciation was accurate enough. Artemy nodded in approval. Daniil scowled, cheeks reddening.

“You’re a competent surgeon. That’s all I need to know.”

“And you’re a narcissist. Why would I want to work for you?”

“The Plague is killing thousands, and you expect someone to have memorized your résumé?”

“You’re a thanatologist from the Capital. You founded Thanatica to defeat Death. You graduated top of your class because you were, quote, ‘blessed with a naturally high intelligence.’ Your father was a war hero—”

“You’ve made your point,” Daniil spat.

“You said it yourself: you talk; I listen. Forgive me for wanting some quiet.”

There was a brief stalemate of opposing wills. A sharp inhale sounded from behind the boiler as if someone had been holding her breath for too long. Daniil’s eyes lit up. Artemy’s veins froze.

“Don’t—”

Daniil lurched toward the boiler. Murky scrambled out and between his legs. The train of his snakeskin coat flapped. She threw herself at Artemy. He swung her up into his arms, holding tightly. She pressed her face into the buckles on his hood.

Daniil stared. His face became rock.

“Is that Lara’s?”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

“It’s fucked up if it’s not your daughter.”

“She’s an orphan. I took her in.”

Daniil met Artemy’s eyes, then Murky’s, who dared to peek out, and then Sticky’s, who glowered hatefully.

At last, Daniil muttered, “Apologies for the intrusion, Burakh. I’ll leave you to your family.”

He turned to leave. Artemy spoke before he knew what he was going to say.

“Stay with us.”

Daniil stopped.

“What?”

“Stay with us,” Artemy repeated. There was no backing down now. “Get some rest. You obviously need it. Besides, Sticky is cooking dinner.”

“What? No! Don’t drag me into this!” Sticky protested.

Ignoring him, Artemy insisted, “It is the least I can do to repay you for saving my life.”

Daniil flinched.

“If you are offering repayment, I only accept coin or organs.”

Just like that, he was gone.

 

The memory felt centuries old. Where were Murky and Sticky now? Abandoned? Dead? There were so many uncertainties. But if Artemy allowed himself to panic, to stop moving for even a second, merciless Time would plow on and he wouldn’t be of any help to anyone.

So, Artemy did what he could: he cooked eggs and bacon.

He liked cooking because of its predictability. If you calculated the proportions of the ingredients, set the correct temperature, and waited for the specific duration, almost every time you got the same result: a meal and self-satisfaction. His father taught him that cooking was a language with infinite possibilities yet thousands upon thousands of years of tradition, culture, and knowledge. Cooking was even more forgiving than baking and allowed for mistakes, so long as the chef could intuit and correct them as soon as possible. Artemy prided himself on that kind of intuition.

He loaded two plates: one for himself and one for Daniil, just as the floorboards creaked behind him.

At the end of the staircase, Daniil stood like a polished obelisk. His drowsiness was entirely wrung out, replaced by a wary alertness. He looked pristine, wearing a red cravat, heeled boots, and his iconic snakeskin coat. This last was as awful as Artemy remembered, as clunky as it was gaudy, but he smiled nonetheless. It was good to know that some things never change. Daniil even wore his leather gloves, which struck Artemy as peculiar. Was it modesty or protection against the Plague?

“Too late to help, but just in time to eat,” Artemy said not unkindly. He had always shown affection by teasing. Even years later, Artemy doubted he would’ve grown out of the habit. For that, he blamed Gravel and Bad Grief.

Daniil scoffed.

“Why would I cook when I have you?”

“Helping can entail moral support, oynon.”

Daniil’s wrinkled nose was cute.

Artemy’s body crossed over to him out of habit—a habit molded over seasons he hadn’t lived. Before Artemy knew it, he was hugging the Bachelor.

Daniil caught his breath. Slowly, his fingers bundled in Artemy’s shirt. It was chaste and commonplace yet Artemy was terrified. He needed to calm down. Husbands do not panic about embraces. He feigned confidence and pulled him closer, but Daniil jerked away. For a horrible moment, Artemy feared he had done something wrong, but Daniil only cocked an eyebrow.

“Moral support?”

“Call it the pleasure of company,” Artemy said, barely audible to himself over his own heartbeat.

“All right.”

Artemy brought the plates to the dining table. Daniil followed. He sat across from Artemy and folded his napkin in his lap. Daniil’s countenance revealed no suspicion, but no trustfulness either, looking at Artemy as if he were an unbalanced chemical equation. Anxiety pierced Artemy’s chest. Had he already given himself away?

He took his silverware to his food.

“What were you planning on doing today?”

An innocuous and open-ended question: this would get him somewhere.

“What is expected,” Daniil said. “You?”

The fuck. “Oh, you know,” Artemy was forced to reply.

Daniil leaned forward, rested his chin in his palm, and smirked.

“Yes, I do, sweetheart,” he said in a voice that was somehow both aggressive and doting, “but I would love to hear you say it.”

There it was. The Bachelor was as sarcastic, condescending, and painfully attractive as always. Goddamn him.

“I…” Artemy began. He was blushing. Had Daniil noticed? Definitely. His smirk was widening. Shit.

He prayed to Boddho for rescue, yet it wasn’t she who entered Stillwater but Murky. She tossed open the door and stomped inside. Dust caked the soles of her feet. Her unruly mop of hair had been yanked into two braids, which swung below her waist. Now a teenager, Murky stretched to thinness like a reed on the riverbank. Her olive-green eyes flickered between the Bachelor and the Haruspex before settling on Daniil.

“You’re wearing that again,” she said, staring at the snakeskin coat.

Daniil pinched his lapel, almost nervously.

“Please knock next time.”

Artemy snorted.

“She learned that from you.”

Daniil glared. On instinct, Artemy reached over and grabbed his thigh. Daniil bit his lip hard, Adam’s apple catching. Pride welled within Artemy. Had he known he could shut Daniil up like this, he might’ve done it sooner.

“Don’t worry. I know you can’t help it.”

Murky gagged.

“Stop that right now and come with me.”

Without waiting for a reply, she marched out of the doorway.

“I’ll be back.”

Artemy scrambled after her.

Chapter Text

Outside, the breeze of childhood, thick with the smell of twyre pollen and cow manure, engulfed him. Artemy inhaled deeply. The familiarity settled his nerves.

Murky and Artemy jogged, one after the other, feet pelting the cobblestone streets. Townspeople, out with their children, dogs, or wagons, recognized their menkhu and waved or voiced their greetings. Clearly, there wasn’t a quarantine. Did that mean the Plague was gone?

The words “Where are we headed, Murky?” died on his tongue as the shadow of a massive object covered him. It glowed faintly in the foggy morning. Its black needle shone ominously. Artemy stopped to stare at the Polyhedron. Its existence meant Artemy had failed. If that was true, then who had defeated the Plague? The Changeling? The Commander?

Murky, paces away, paused to glance back at him. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. The mystery of the Polyhedron would have to wait. Artemy took up the jog again.

They crossed over the Town’s border and entered the steppe. It pushed miles and miles. The horizon became a faraway, irrelevant concept. Clouds, looming and gray, promised a heavy rain. They moved over grasses, chunky with herbs. They didn’t speak, but Artemy didn’t mind. They understood one another with an understanding that prevailed against silence.

None of his childhood friends, not his dead brother or father, not even his own hands were more intimate to Artemy than Murky; yet however close she neared, however intricately tied in his heartstrings, however buried in his soul, a foreigner in Town, whom Artemy had never met, was still less of a stranger. He felt he would never know Murky fully. Now, this feeling was the greatest.

Did bugs still fascinate her, making her eyes pop and shine? Did she support his arrangement with the Bachelor? Did she consider him her father, even after he couldn’t save everyone? He had so much to ask, so much to confess—about the Plague, the Kin, and his unending love for her—but he couldn’t find the right words. Maybe there were none.

Murky arrived at a boulder two times taller than Artemy. It might’ve been there for a millennium. She rounded the side, crouched down, and plucked lavender from a pocket of space underneath it. Tight-fisted, she held out the soiled, grassy handful to him.

Taking the lavender from her, “A rarity. Thank you, Murky,” Artemy murmured. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Lara is home.”

Murky crossed her arms, as if that settled the matter.

“…Right.”

With reluctance, Artemy followed Murky away from the steppe and to Lara’s house. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Lara—in fact, he needed all the friends he could get right now—but there would be no hiding from her critical gaze. If anyone, besides Dankovsky, could clock him as an imposter, it was her. What was worse, he suspected that she liked Daniil better than him. As such, she could very well expose Artemy to Daniil of the future, and then Daniil would dissect him.

Lara opened the door upon the first knock. She took the lavender from his hand and gestured for them to— “Come in, both of you.”

Lara looked the same, except for two streaks of gray sprouting from her hairline. Despite the summertime heat, a cardigan, undoubtedly one she knitted herself, wrapped her shoulders. Though Artemy was hardly one to judge style of dress, Lara’s commitment to cardigans was impractical—her singular impracticality. Everything else about Lara was effective and efficient.

Most people had thoughts and feelings; Lara had a matrix of values and experiences in rows and columns. If ever you offended her, she could instantly summon and perfectly recount a memory of when you were wicked, stupid, or very stupid. Artemy had experienced this firsthand. Being friends since childhood, she had no shortage of records. Lara didn’t hold grudges; she kept archives.

Lara entered her great room. After setting the lavender down on the central table, she crossed the floor to open her cabinet.

“Right before the party,” she said. “Honestly, I was beginning to doubt your success.”

The party?

Murky frowned. Lara noticed.

“Artemy’s success,” she clarified. “Not yours, pumpkin.”

From within her cabinet, Lara retrieved a wooden box and brought it to the table. Inside was a set of jars, each the size of a thumb and topped by a cork. They were filled with watercolors made of flower petals. Every color of the rainbow was accounted for, except for purple. Lara returned to the cabinet to grab a mortar and a pestle and set these, too, on the table. She placed the lavender in the mortar.

Lara looked at Artemy.

“Well, don’t just stand there.”

Artemy came over, sat on the couch, took the pestle, and began to grind the flowers into a pulp. Lara sat by his side, looking on. Murky migrated to the corner of the room to lean against the wall. She chewed on her fingernail.

“Remind me,” Artemy said, “what should I wear to this party?”

“You’re married to him, not me.”

That could only refer to Danksovsky. Artemy was right about the marriage then. Time to push his advantage.

“But if you were married to him—”

“I don’t like this hypothetical,” she interrupted, “and I don’t like seeing you nervous. What’s wrong?”

His cheeks flushed. He put down the pestle.

“I’m nervous?”

Lara raised an eyebrow, incredulous and a bit offended.

“Yes, I can tell. You’re the same friend you were years ago, Cub.”

You have no idea, Artemy thought.

Her eyes widened.

“You cheated on Daniil.”

“What? No! Why would you think that?”

“Once a cheater, always a cheater. You told Rubin and Grief about my hiding place between the trash cans, though I begged you not to.” Lara was now standing and almost shouting. “I couldn’t win another game for weeks.”

“We were nine,” Artemy protested, “and that’s not cheating. That’s just betrayal.”

Lara began to pace.

“He cheated on you, didn’t he? I knew this would happen. He is far better-looking than you—”

“Your first response to my husband’s infidelity is calling me ugly?”

“No,” she snarled. “My first response is remembering where I put my pistol.”

“Daniil didn’t cheat on me.”

Lara stopped pacing.

“Then what’s wrong?”

A beat.

“Celebrations like this party make me think about the past,” Artemy said with a shrug. That wasn’t exactly a lie. “How he and I after the Sand Pest…”

Artemy trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. Lara sat down again.

“That’s over now,” she murmured. “Daniil is going to love his gift, I promise.”

The sketches on the cabinets. The gathering of lavender. Yes, of course, the paints were a gift for Daniil.

“Gravel, I…” Artemy began. The nickname tasted bittersweet. He hugged her.

“Artemy?”

Artemy couldn’t speak. He couldn’t cry—not anymore. Long ago he slaughtered the sniffling, wet-eyed child within him. Artemy killed that child who couldn’t believe his father wasn’t coming home, and he kept killing: all those men, women, and children. They were but aurochs on the Plague’s altar. Holding livers, kidneys, and hearts became natural. The stench of death became a comfort. There was something inside of him that couldn’t rest until everything was blood.

Each life he took was unique. No surgery was the same. “Don’t let your arrogance blind you to the differences,” his professors had said. That goddamn university shoved clean, industrious things down his throat: textbooks, exams, and laboratories. They rebuilt students into automatons. But, when Artemy returned to Gorkhon, he undid their work. He ripped out every foreign, dirty piece of himself that wasn’t Kin. Because a menkhu needs only the Lines.

Murky hugged him from behind. She buried her face between his shoulder blades. Artemy rotated, Lara leaned in, and the three of them made a little cave: a brief sanctuary from the outside world.

Lara was the first to pull away.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

Lara wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t push. Remembering and waiting: that was more like Lara. They put the last of Daniil’s paints in the last jar and into the box. They tied wrapping paper and a ribbon around it. Lara promised to continue storing the gift so as to not ruin the surprise. Artemy agreed.

They remained at Lara’s until sundown. Murky said she was sleeping here tonight. Sometimes she stayed with Lara, at the Station, or Artemy and Daniil. She did what she pleased when she pleased, just as she had when she was alone. Artemy respected that.

By way of ongoing conversation, Artemy learned that Daniil’s thirty-third birthday was tomorrow. A surprise celebration would be held at Isidor’s house. Bad Grief, Rubin, and Lara were arriving early to help set up. Sticky had some plan to distract Daniil during the day, but Artemy could clarify his role in that tomorrow.

Most importantly, Artemy confirmed the Plague was over. The cure involved the Changeling and her Bound and a miracle. The whole thing was complicated, and, honestly, Artemy didn’t care how it was done. Clara was the miracle worker, healer, and savior, whilst Artemy was simply the Ripper. Now, he understood.

In the evening, he returned to Stillwater. He went upstairs to look for Daniil, but he wasn’t there. Artemy bit the inside of his cheek. He hardly knew what to do with a free evening.

Eventually, he settled on making himself a cup of honey and lemon tea. After retrieving one of Dankovsky’s books, which was stamped with his initials on the first page, he sat at the dining table and forced himself to read. The book was about ecology or something. Really, he processed none of the text. His mind was elsewhere.

 

Day Eight of the Plague marked Artemy’s third time waking up in Stillwater. He was alone. Artemy and Daniil slept in shifts and were hardly ever in a room together for long. Daniil ensured that, and Artemy obliged him. Despite what rumors that spread about romance and fuckbuddies, his relationship with the Bachelor was strictly transactional. Artemy did the cutting; Daniil did the thinking. It had not even the likeness of affection.

Yesterday, the Inquisitor arrived. When Artemy met her, his hope in defeating the Plague renewed. She seemed experienced, reasonable, and determined. More than that, she, Aglaya Lilich, sister of the esteemed matriarch Nina Kaina, had left the Town-on-Gorkhon to pursue a higher calling: the Inquisition. She and Artemy were of whom people expected great things, on whom people depended. They were the same.

That afternoon, the Inquisitor and the Haruspex stood next to each other in the Cathedral. The Inquisitor’s dress—simple, black, and devoid of any wrinkle—was but a frame, such that one only saw her serious, white face. Even her movements were subtle. She seemed not to walk but instead to hover from place to place. She made the whole world chaotic by contrast.

“You surprised me, Artemy Burakh,” Aglaya confessed. Her voice, though low and whispering, commanded attention. It echoed to the high ceiling.

Artemy snorted. “You might be the first.”

“I mean, I underestimated you.”

“You’ll have to be clearer.”

“To manipulate another person by way of sexual intimacy takes resolve, yet you have and, in doing so, made your unstable, insecure counterpart almost tolerable.”

Artemy laughed. What else was there to do? He expected this of Rubin, but not Aglaya. Her belief that Artemy prostituted himself to gain influence over Daniil was absurd. So absurd that he didn’t bother correcting her. Later, Artemy suspected that she only pretended to believe as to see his reaction.

“I’m guessing the Bachelor stopped by?”

“This time he actually refrained from insulting me,” Aglaya said. She tapped her chin in faux thoughtfulness. “His obsession with the Polyhedron would be laughable if it weren’t so irritating.”

“It’s cute,” Artemy offered.

Her hand was on his chest. Artemy hadn’t seen it move.

“Don’t fall for him, Artemy. In all possibilities I foresee, he rips your heart out.”

“My heart is guarded.”

“For your sake,” she murmured, “I hope that is true.”

In the evening, Artemy returned to Stillwater to sleep. His muscles strained from overuse. When he entered the bedroom, Daniil was working at his desk. Artemy didn’t greet him. They had memorized each other’s gaits by now. Fully clothed, he flopped on the bed and closed his eyes, confident that Daniil would leave.

He didn’t.

“Aglaya doesn’t love you.”

A moment passed.

“Did you say something?”

Not turning around, Daniil continued writing.

“The Powers That Be are the Inquisitor’s only care. When she gets what she wants, you’ll be nothing to her.”

Artemy sat up and watched the candlelight flicker and glow on Daniil’s neck. Two beauty marks dotted the exposed skin. Never before had Daniil expressed even an artificial interest in Artemy’s friends.

“Everyone from the Capital must be the same, then.”

Daniil dropped his pen, stood, and faced Artemy. His gaze was cold.

“So it seems.”

Artemy lunged forward. His hands slammed the desk on either side of Daniil. Maybe it was that Artemy was done listening to other people’s opinions. Maybe it was that Daniil was so obviously jealous. Whatever compelled Artemy to do it, it was worth the shock on Daniil’s face.

“Bohir moga.”

“What are you—”

“It’s good to see you so passionate,” Artemy hissed, leaning in close, “even if it is about my private life.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Haruspex,” Daniil snarled. “You have a more than willing replacement.”

That meant Rubin, and it pissed Artemy off. He grabbed Daniil’s wrists and pinned them to the desk. The jar of ink spilled. A black lake grew. Daniil’s back arched ever so slightly, ever so angelically. This wasn’t the first time Artemy had noticed Daniil’s arousal—evident in his elevated heartbeat, amongst other things—but it was the first time he acknowledged it.

“You forget that I know the Lines, erdem. This,” Artemy said, driving his thumbs into Daniil’s throbbing wrists, “even you cannot deny.”

Daniil looked away.

“Once Aglaya betrays you, you’ll wish you had trusted me.”

That made Artemy pause.

“I do trust you,” he said, “when you’re honest about what you want.”

Artemy let go. Daniil slid off the desk, panting hard. Artemy walked to the door. There would be no cataclysm tonight. He would just have to stay at Lara’s instead.

Right before he crossed the threshold, Daniil shouted, “I just want to be your friend!”

Artemy stopped.

“We will never be friends. Fate has predetermined that. As for what we will become, the choice is yours.”

 

A clap of thunder shook Artemy out of the memory. A storm had swept itself into a fury outside. It was past midnight. Artemy worried about Daniil but wasn’t sure if his absence warranted searching, and, if it did, he wouldn’t know where to begin. Artemy should’ve talked to him for longer this morning instead of fleeing—and every other morning, afternoon, and evening.

The front door opened. There stood a silhouette. Artemy stood.

“Where have you been?”

“I’m fine,” Daniil grunted.

His balance faltered. Artemy’s first thought was: injured. Daniil had sewn up Artemy’s wounds twice before; maybe now it was Artemy’s turn to do the same for him. He ran over, but Daniil moved out of his reach.

“That’s not what I asked,” Artemy said through gritted teeth, “but your answer is concerning.”

Daniil muttered something and tripped. Artemy caught him. His wet hair was black lightning on his forehead. Rainwater pooled in the creases of his snakeskin coat. His skin was cold and as white as an unwritten letter.

“You’re freezing,” Artemy hissed. The alcohol on Daniil’s breath was potent. Artemy could be angry at Andrey Stamatin, the bar owner, who was undoubtedly Daniil’s accomplice, at a later date. For now, he was relieved. Drunkenness was easier to medicate than bleeding.

Artemy tilted his nose away.

“And drunk.”

“Let go of me,” Daniil whined.

He shoved Artemy’s chest but too weakly.

“If I do that, you will fall.”

Artemy stooped down and lifted Daniil into a bridal carry. He weighed less than expected, even with his drenched clothes. Worry about his husband’s diet wormed its way inside of him.

“I’m the famed thanatologist of the Capital,” Daniil slurred. Being so intoxicated, his efforts to twist out of Artemy’s grasp were hopeless. “I forbid you to carry me like this.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” Artemy assured him.

Seemingly satisfied with the appeal to his pride, Daniil went limp. Artemy carried him up the stairs. After entering the bedroom, he deposited him in a sitting position on the bed. Daniil slumped over.

The first step in preventing hypothermia was to remove wet clothing.

“Lift your arms,” Artemy instructed, and, despite expectations, Daniil obeyed.

Artemy’s heart glowed a little at that. There was no secret agenda, no passive-aggression, just Daniil doing what he was told because Artemy asked him to. After struggling with the clasps—hell, Daniil’s clothes were worse than his own smock—Artemy pulled the snakeskin coat off and let it fall to the floor.

“No,” Daniil groaned. “That was custom-made.”

“I’m not the one who got stuck in the rain.”

He peeled off Daniil’s gloves, struggled with the brooch, and, after placing both of them aside, he began to untie the cravat. All at once, Artemy was struck by the intimacy of undressing in their shared bedroom, Daniil’s features, open and vulnerable in the candlelight, and his own heart—that traitor—picking up speed. Bit by maroon bit, the marble column of his throat emerged.

Daniil was made to be worshiped.

Artemy dismissed the thought. He began to unbutton Daniil’s vest. He needed to make Daniil lie down, drink warm water, and bundle up. The second step in preventing hypothermia was to cover the person in warm blankets.

Daniil had been talking, but Artemy only started listening when he said, “...all of your clothes on the floor.”

Artemy stopped. A shudder went down his spine. Daniil stared at Artemy, completely sincere. Artemy’s cheeks warmed. Daniil had the decency to duck his head.

“Then I will clean and mend them as your fine husband for your fine house.”

The promise was strangely appealing. Artemy envisioned the Bachelor ripping out everything from Artemy’s closet and drawers and kneeling in a pile of his clothes. Daniil would hold the sewing needle like it was a lethal injection.

“Yes, you are.”

Daniil still wasn’t looking at him. Briefly, Artemy wondered if he had fallen asleep, but then Daniil raised his chin, stared at Artemy, and pouted. The expression was so out-of-character that Artemy almost laughed. Instead, Artemy obliged him.

“Fine.”

He retrieved the snakeskin coat and hung it up in the closet. When he turned back around, Daniil nodded off again. Artemy decided to remove his shirt and pants later. The third step in preventing hypothermia required the patient to be awake: Daniil had to drink something warm. He grabbed his shoulders.

“Lie down; I am going to bring you water.”

“Gentle.” Daniil leaned in closer and closer and… “Your hands are gentle.”

Artemy’s throat tightened.

“I’m a surgeon.”

That was the mantra that kept him sane. Why did he tear the Earth apart to make a panacea? Because he was a surgeon. Why did he kill his attackers and harvest their organs? Because he was a surgeon. Why couldn’t he just die? Because he was a surgeon.

He stepped back. Daniil lurched forward, grabbing his shirt.

“Don’t go.”

Artemy grabbed Daniil’s wrists. They were ice-cold.

“I’ll be right back.”

Daniil’s eyes glistened with tears. Dismay welled within Artemy. What was making him cry? More precisely, who did Artemy need to hurt? Before he could ask those questions, Daniil crashed their lips together.

Artemy froze. Nothing could’ve prepared him for that. Both of them shivered as a singular organism. Their one heart was in Artemy’s mouth, and Daniil pushed forward to eat it. His tongue swiped in between Artemy’s teeth. Pleasure swirled in Artemy’s stomach. He touched Daniil’s hair. Daniil wrapped his arms around Artemy’s neck and pressed the bruises there. Artemy choked back a moan.

Their Lines jumped, buzzed, and overlapped.

Daniil pulled them onto the bed. Artemy stumbled. His knees dove into the mattress on either side of Daniil’s waist. Artemy pulled away to look at Daniil, a creature of vice and virtue, of black and white and knife-gray. Daniil smirked his coy, proud smirk.

“We can’t do this,” someone said.

After a moment, Artemy realized it was him who had spoken. Daniil blinked.

“But we’re married.”

He reached up to touch Artemy, but Artemy snatched his wrist. If Daniil touched him again, he might be unable to refuse. That couldn’t happen because, first, Artemy was lying about who he truly was. Second, Daniil was not thinking clearly. Last, if they had sex, Artemy wouldn’t be able to pretend it never happened. Even if he went home, all possible discipline of the mind wouldn’t be enough to forget it, and neither would it be enough to have simply a memory of feeling Daniil from the inside.

But he couldn’t say that, so instead he said, “I want this as much as you do, but when you’re sober.”

With that, Artemy got up and walked to the door.

Daniil mumbled, “Why do you even care?”

Downstairs in the kitchen, Artemy heated a kettle of water as Daniil’s question frustrated him. Why would he ask such a thing? Did he believe himself so unworthy of respect? Or did he think Artemy was incapable of offering it? The worst part was Artemy didn’t know why, either. He cared about Daniil because he had to.

Artemy tried to define it before, and his own love defied him. Love raged against reason, method, and examination. Love laughed at the wheel, which spins over and over in its rut. Love was a mystery, a phenomenon, and an adventure—and probably what made Artemy a time traveler. He should’ve thought of that first.

Artemy returned to the bedroom. He forced Daniil to drink several cups of water. His patient was unwilling and mostly asleep, but, slowly, progress was made. Artemy noted each hue of color as it returned to Daniil’s cheeks.

“Khөөrkhen, you are going to drink this.”

The word “khөөrkhen” just slipped out. Though doubtless Artemy of the future used it frequently to refer to his husband, Artemy had never said it before to anyone. He was grateful that Daniil hadn’t heard it because he hated to say it under a guise. He hated to remind himself that all of this domestic bliss was a lie—one Artemy couldn’t live anymore. He needed to go back to his timeline and correct his failures before his self-control wavered again, only…

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

But he knew what Artemy of the future would do. So, Artemy took his place at Daniil’s side, pulled him close, and slept.

Chapter Text

When morning came, Daniil was at a loss. Not only because of a pounding headache, but also because of the empty space next to him. One morning and night of sleeping in the same bed with Artemy—just sleeping, mind you—and Daniil needed him to stay even longer. Perhaps it was attributable to his future self’s myelinated axons.

Daniil lay there for a few minutes longer, staring at the ceiling. One by one, the once-incoherent memories of his mortifying behavior last night materialized. He considered faking Plague and hiding under the covers, but that would be unbecoming of a nationally renowned researcher… former nationally renowned researcher.

So, Daniil got up. He drank the water and popped the painkillers that Artemy had set out, figuring, “What the hell, fuck it,” if they were poisoned. Last night might’ve already confirmed to Artemy of the future that Daniil was a parasite that required extermination. Sometimes, Daniil agreed.

His reflection in the bathroom mirror—the healthier, older version of himself—shocked him still, but less so than yesterday. This body was more and more his own because, of course, humans can adapt to anything. As a child, Daniil imagined the Devil and the demons brainstorming with chalkboards and notepads. Even the Nine Circles of Hell required constant updates to make torture successful. Even the Sand Pest had to mutate every day to outcompete Daniil’s vaccines.

Evil required constant effort.

After searching through the closet, Daniil put on an elegant button-down, a crimson vest, and, again, his snakeskin coat. Thank God his future self wasn’t keen on a diverse color palette. Daniil would’ve come clean to Artemy of the future, saying, “I’m an imposter and taking the first train back to the Capital,” if all of his available clothes turned out to be feces-brown or puke green, although Artemy always pulled those colors off. Another thing to envy.

As Daniil descended the stairs, he prepared a speech for Artemy.

“I apologize for my behavior last night. I didn’t want to…” He corrected himself. “No. I did want to kiss you. I think I’ve wanted to kiss you forever.”

That fact was irrelevant to the apology. He restarted.

“I apologize for my behavior last night.” Good beginning. Straight to the point. Now, for the shameless accusations. “Really, it was Andrey’s fault that I was drunk, so blame him. While you’re at it, blame yourself for me kissing you. It’s hardly my fault that you’re so goddamn attentive—”

From inside the dining room, a voice he didn’t recognize said, “Origin, insertion, and action.”

“Correct,” Artemy answered. “Origin refers to the attachment point of the muscle. It is less mobile than insertion.”

There was a shuffling of papers.

“Now, in this example, what would the origin be?”

“The, uh, humerus.”

It was a boy’s voice.

Curious, Daniil stepped off the staircase and into the great room. An anatomy textbook was open on the dining table, surrounded by various notes and drawings. Some of these were sloppy and crude; others intricate and well-done: Artemy’s and his own, respectively, Daniil guessed.

Artemy sat at the table. His muscles were smoothed over by a navy, long-sleeve shirt. By his side was a boy with scruffy, blond hair. Upon hearing Daniil’s footsteps, the boy stood up. A smattering of freckles painted his cheeks above a semi-permanent scowl. Daniil recognized that glimmer of cunning in his hazel eyes; he saw the same one every day in the mirror. This was Sticky.

With rigid formality, “Happy birthday, Father,” Sticky said.

The word “father” made Daniil flinch. He hoped it wasn’t apparent. A father is the dog you sleep beside during a storm but privately wish didn’t have teeth. At least now Daniil knew today was his birthday; that clarified the timeline a little.

“Thank you,” he replied. “May I have a word with Artemy alone?”

He made it clear that it wasn’t a suggestion.

Like a dutiful soldier given unpleasant orders, Sticky answered, “Yes, sir.”

He grabbed his notepad and a pencil and left Stillwater by way of the front door. It closed behind him with a click. Artemy stood.

“You can’t fool me.”

Terror coursed through Daniil.

He squeaked, “What?”

“I know you and Sticky are loving to each other when I’m not around.”

Artemy rounded the table and approached him. Up close, Daniil could see the hickeys that he had put on Artemy’s neck—no, Daniil of the future had put—peeking over his collar. The marks were spotty, reddish, and already fading, and that was too bad. Daniil liked people knowing Artemy was his. He just now realized that.

Artemy was still talking.

“In fact, I’m worried he likes you better.”

Daniil huffed.

“Don’t be.”

“Happy birthday, Daniil.”

Daniil wished they would stop saying that. Artemy extended a hand. Daniil stumbled back. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Artemy frowned.

“Did I—”

“My behavior last night was abhorrent.”

Artemy blinked.

“It’s fine.”

“Don’t pretend. If I had to deal with myself, I’d’ve left him to die.”

Artemy’s frown deepened, but Daniil simply shrugged.

“Maybe I’d cuss him out first.”

Artemy considered this. Then he moved toward him again. This time, Daniil didn’t back away. With both hands, Artemy took hold of Daniil’s lapel, pulled off his snakeskin coat, and put it on himself. Mesmerized, Daniil allowed him to. The snakeskin coat barely fit around his broad shoulders. Artemy licked his hand and patted down his hair. It stuck to his forehead.

“You look ridiculous,” Daniil said.

“I am you,” Artemy said, then put up a hand. “Wait.”

He knelt.

“There.”

He beamed up at Daniil. He looked so proud, adoring, and submissive that, for a second, Daniil blacked out. He might’ve said Artemy’s name. It blew through him like summer wind. Daniil turned the sound into a scoff.

“I am not that short.”

“So you admit that you’re short.” Artemy gestured for him to continue. “On with the cussing. I’m ready.”

Daniil sighed.

“Artemy—”

“Is it not believable enough? Must I recite Latin?”

Daniil rolled his eyes.

“Dankovsky, you’re a danger to yourself. You need to drink in moderation. You need to be nicer to Sticky. You need to stop acting like you don’t respect Artemy because you do.”

Artemy smiled.

“Better?”

“Surprisingly, yes.”

Daniil stepped forward. He pushed a gloved hand through Artemy’s hair. He drew vines on his scalp. Artemy dropped his forehead against Daniil’s thigh. The snakeskin coat slumped around him.

“How might I make it up to you?” Daniil whispered.

“I have something in mind.”

“Yes?”

Daniil pulled Artemy back by his hair. He looked into his eyes and saw only trust. Artemy’s throat was on full display. It swallowed thickly. Daniil revelled in the sight. Too wary of a knife, his Artemy would’ve never allowed this. His Artemy would’ve—

Artemy stood up, seized Daniil’s collar, and pulled him close. Their lips almost touched.

“Finish Sticky’s anatomy lesson for me.”

Daniil deflated. Artemy grinned like the bastard he was.

“I’m serious, by the way. I have an errand to run.”

“An errand?”

“Yes. What’s that saying of yours? Que noun…”

“Qui non proficit, deficit.”

“That’s the one.”

Artemy removed the snakeskin coat and set it on Daniil’s shoulders. He paused to admire the look of it or pretended to, before he kissed Daniil’s forehead. The gesture was so innocent that Daniil barely processed it.

“See you this evening,” Artemy said.

Artemy stepped away and crossed to the front door. When he opened it, Sticky tumbled inside. As Sticky righted himself, he flushed a bright red. Both of his parents chose to forgive the eavesdropping. Sticky tiptoed to the Bachelor.

“You’re giving my lesson, right?” he asked, and, without waiting for a confirmation, went on, “What first? Muscles? Bones? What about—”

“Coffee.”

Daniil went into the kitchen. There, Artemy had left a still-steaming pot on the stovetop. Daniil poured himself a cup. He searched for sugar in the cabinets. Upon finding some, he added two cubes to his coffee.

Facing away from him, Sticky sat at the table in silence. He scribbled notes in his notebook.

Daniil approached from behind. He peeked over Sticky’s shoulder. The notes were not notes at all. They were doodles—mostly of people. One was of a salesperson standing next to his bull with exaggerated eyes and horns. One was Lara, evident by her cardigan and sorrowful eyes. One was of Murky. Her eyebrows were thick and lowered.

“Those are—”

Sticky jumped. The cup was knocked out of Daniil’s hand. It flew, released all of its contents, and shattered on the ground.

“The fuck!” Daniil shrieked. He flicked his wrists, sending spray.

Sticky stumbled back.

“Don’t hit me!”

Daniil was horrified.

“Have I hit you before?”

Sticky shook his head. They stared at each other.

“Bring me a towel to clean this up,” Daniil murmured.

Sticky ran off. Daniil removed his snakeskin coat and deposited it on the kitchen countertop. He grabbed as many papers as he could and shook off the coffee onto the floor. Sticky returned with the towel. Daniil took it and patted down the table and textbooks. He made a stack of what was mostly dry and planned to air out the exceptions, prioritizing Sticky’s notebook. He waved it around, but not too forcefully as to spread the ink. Meanwhile, Sticky crouched down and picked up the broken shards of Daniil’s cup. He sniffled, once, twice, and then coughed as if to cover up a sob.

“Stupid mistakes aren’t worth crying over,” Daniil muttered. “They just happen.”

Father used to say that.

Sticky answered, eyes averted, “You wouldn’t have done it.”

“Probably not.”

A moment passed. He thought about what he might’ve wanted to hear Father say if he was a boy again.

“But on my first day of medical school, I got dismissed from the classroom.”

Sticky looked up.

“You did?”

“I was preoccupied the night before,” Daniil explained, “and didn’t do the assigned reading.”

The whole truth was he had met Andrey Stamatin at orientation. The “night before” was their first time hooking up in Andrey’s dorm room—the first time for Daniil ever. Neither of them was prepared for it. Andrey claimed to have memory loss and the worst hangover of his life; Daniil had left his textbooks in his own dormitory across campus.

“That became evident when I couldn’t answer a question right,” Daniil went on. “The professor suggested I spend more time on my studies and less time on my hair. Everyone laughed.”

“Did you ever get their respect?”

“Considering I graduated top of my class and, even before its blueprints, Thanatica was fully funded, I’d say so, yes. If not respect, then envy.”

“What about your friends?”

“I spent my second year shaking off the friends I made in my first. When you pursue higher education, it’ll be the same.”

Sticky stood up, carrying the ceramic. Daniil realized he was still holding Sticky’s notebook. Sticky did, too.

“Do you like my drawings?”

“I do.”

The rest of the day passed swiftly and proved Artemy’s assessment true. Without his presence—or maybe because of Daniil’s confession—Sticky dropped the formalities. Throughout the lesson, Sticky talked openly about his week, involving an anticlimactic novel that he had read and some girl he liked, even letting a few curse words slip. Drops of coffee that were missed, when discovered, were dabbed with a napkin. Despite these asides, Sticky paid attention well. He knew the answers to questions so soon and thoroughly that Daniil figured this was mostly review from his time as Isidor Burakh’s assistant. Although it would do Sticky well to practice his Latin.

In Sticky, Daniil recognized himself. They shared a yearning, a near desperation, to learn. It went beyond the human mind’s innate, passive curiosity; it was a ravenous hunger of the soul. Seeing this condition reflected in another person was off-putting at first, but somewhat endearing if he allowed it to be.

By the late afternoon, Daniil found he was enjoying himself. The Plague made him into a fraud despite his medical degree and years of research. These lessons were a comforting reminder of his hard-won knowledge, even if they entailed mainly vocabulary.

Sticky stood up.

“I’ve been tasked with taking you to Isidor’s house.”

Daniil wondered why Sticky referred to the house as Isidor’s if the man had long since been dead. Perhaps it was a testament to the magnitude of the patriarch’s influence. At that, a dewdrop of grief formed in Daniil. After all, Isidor’s death preceded every other horror. But Isidor was even more to Daniil than a patriarch, confidant, and the first in a series of catastrophes. He was his father-in-law.

“By whom?” Daniil asked. “Now?”

“Yes.”

Sticky refused to answer further questions. Daniil, used to being puppeted around by these tight-lipped steppe people, especially the children, resigned himself to ignorance and followed Sticky across the Town-on-Gorkhon.

Last night’s rain had washed away dirt into the gutters and pounded the dust into mud. Streets and buildings were cleaner. Rats had returned to their hiding holes. It was quiet.

Like a bear in hibernation, Isidor’s house curled upon itself. Upon seeing this place, standing in its yard, and approaching its doorway, Daniil felt a stab of fear. The first time he had arrived here, a monster awoke. The bouquets of flowers, which were braided together and pinned to the entryway, did little to ease his anxiety. The windows showed only shadows.

At his side, “You go first,” Sticky insisted.

“All right.”

He turned the handle and stepped inside.

Pop!

Daniil startled and reached for his revolver, but it wasn’t there. Confetti showered Bad Grief, who held a cannon made of tissue paper and cardboard. Lara glared; Bad Grief grinned. The lights came on.

“Happy birthday!” the throngs screamed. Faces, some he recognized, others he didn’t, cracked with laughter and smiles. They packed together and surged forward like legions of demons. Daniil stumbled backward.

Someone caught his fall.

“I’ve got you.”

It was Artemy.

Daniil began, “What is…” but stopped.

The question was unnecessary. This was obviously a surprise birthday party.

The last birthday he had celebrated was his eighteenth. Mother had served fruit parfait. Father had given him a book of handwritten poems and a prophecy: “The things you do when you are brave will come back to you one by one.” By noon, each of them retreated to their separate rooms.

Daniil didn’t know where that poetry book was anymore. It was about wartime and soldiers and Father leading them. They say there are three types of men in the military: men who join because their father joined, men who want to serve their country, and men who want a legal way to kill people. As he turned the pages of the poetry book, he tried to understand which Father was. Now, he couldn't care. Father evoked a strict, practiced apathy and apathy only.

Artemy pulled him close.

“I knew you wanted something small,” he whispered in Daniil’s ear, “but none of them helped me.” He jerked his thumb at his friends, Lara, Bad Grief, and Rubin, who stood foremost of the crowd.

“Happy birthday, Daniil!” Lara cheered. Even years older, her voice retained all of its youthfulness.

“Thank you,” Daniil managed to say, distracted by Artemy’s nearness.

Bad Grief pushed Lara aside. He was recognizable by the spikes of his auburn hair. His eyes were the gray of both flint and steel. Thick fur formed the collar of his pompous jacket.

“Open my gift first,” Bad Grief insisted. “It’s something that will blow. You. Away.”

Daniil didn’t like the way Grief was wiggling his eyebrows.

Rubin took Bad Grief’s arm, pulled him out of the way, and took his place. Bald, hazel-eyed, and towering, Rubin loomed like a willow, tested by storms and proven resilient. Stubble dotted his jaw.

“And I got you something that you will actually use,” Rubin promised.

Bad Grief put up his hands.

“Can a man not have hobbies?”

Lara blinked.

“I thought you were kidding about the dynamite.”

The four friends—Lara, Bad Grief, Rubin, and Artemy—decorated Isidor’s house earlier that day. Streamers hung from wall to wall. Bright, multi-colored candles flickered on their glass stands. The air was fragrant with laurel and lemon. Someone had even attempted to create a hand-painted sign, which hung over the doorway to the back patio, but gave up after a squiggly D, A, and N.

In addition to this, the floors were swept clean—or, at least, to Rubin’s fury, the dirt had been shoved under the rugs by Bad Grief, as they were rearranging furniture to accommodate the guests; Lara had prepared the food, including hearty soups, herbal teas, and baked desserts; and Artemy helped with both the rearranging and cooking.

The hosts invited the Kaines, the Soul-and-a-Halves, and the Dog Heads. However, the Town-on-Gorkhon respected privacy little. Word got out about the celebration for the famed doctor and the free food, and soon, the arrivals quadrupled the anticipated numbers. Plus, if any oblivious onlooker came sufficiently close or looked sufficiently hungry, a hand was offered to them, and they were invited inside to join. It was a party of hundreds.

A gaggle of musicians had gathered in a corner to play their songs on flutes, tambourines, and lyres. These were volunteers, not professionals, some more evidently than others. Children scampered about, playing their games. Adults discussed politics and gossiped.

Daniil entered the fray. He accepted his birthday wishes and congratulations, forgetting every conversation as soon as it happened. The music thumped on. The alcohol continued to flow. Like the tentacles of a massive squid, people moved around him. Within such a large crowd, Daniil could be a fish—or, less than a fish, a displacement of water briefly existing.

Gratefully, Artemy did not leave him. His hands guided Daniil through the chaos on his shoulders, arms, or waist. He was so close, so surrounding, that Daniil didn’t feel the pressure of other bodies, only Artemy’s chest on his back. Daniil pulled on his sleeve. Artemy leaned down to listen.

“This is absolute insanity,” Daniil murmured when it couldn’t go without saying, “You should’ve been under better control.”

“Your control?”

“I meant self-control,” Daniil corrected. “Though I might want to, I cannot possibly instruct you in everything, especially in preparing my own surprise birthday party.”

“But you do,” Artemy insisted, “whether you speak or not.”

Daniil raised an eyebrow.

“Really? What do I tell you?”

“Mostly that I should wash my hands more. Get angry less. Have more patience with the children,” Artemy whispered. “You’re always with me.”

Before Daniil could answer, someone grabbed his wrist. He turned to face Yulia. Her hair was chopped to the skull and her eyebrows so furrowed it was as if they were sewn in that position. Her eyes, those undefinable half-blue, half-hazel things, saw something no one else could see. Something hovering right above his shoulder or resting between his boots. She smelled of tobacco, but the scent was faint and scrubbed-away. She smoked mornings and evenings yet washed just as often as to not draw unwanted attention to herself.

“Apologies to both of you,” she said, “but may I speak with Daniil?”

“Give us a moment, Artemy.”

Artemy nodded. Yulia shoved through the crowd, pulling Daniil. Daniil followed her up the stairs and the ladder to the attic. They shut the trapdoor behind them. It was dark and musty, but much more quiet. Yulia scratched her neck.

“It’s chaos out there.”

“I agree; thank you for the rescue,” Daniil said. “Is something the matter?”

She shook her head.

“I just wanted to give you this and be on my way.”

Yulia handed him a small package. He unfolded the turquoise wrapping paper. Inside was a stopwatch of silver. The face was quartz; the needles gold. On its back was the engraving of a serpent eating its own tail. It must’ve been very expensive and from a jewelry store in the capital—either that or a family heirloom. Daniil stared in awe.

“Goddammit,” Yulia muttered. She moved to take it back. “I knew it was too much. I’m so sorry.”

Daniil pulled it out of reach.

“Well, you can’t have it back.”

She offered a hesitant smile.

“Did you choose the design yourself?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Does the serpent represent my tendency to self-sabotage?”

Yulia laughed.

“No, no, nothing like that. My insults would be much more direct. The Ouroboros symbolizes the continuous loop of creation and destruction, life and death,” she explained. “Besides, I thought it was beautiful.”

“It is beautiful.”

He pocketed the timepiece. Yulia bit her lip.

“I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. It’s just…”

She averted her eyes. Her voice broke.

“I have so much null and aimless love for her. It keeps slipping out.”

“I miss Eva, too.”

Yulia surged forward. He clutched her shoulders. They remained that way, faces in the crook of each other’s necks, for a while.

The trapdoor opened. Yulia and Daniil jumped apart. Maria Kaina peered up into the attic.

“You best come quickly, Daniil,” she said. Her scarlet dress and smokey eyeshadow shone dully. Her lips pouted as if to convey, ‘Poor ignorant you.’ “Your husband is so susceptible to peer pressure.”

Daniil panicked.

“He what?”

“Good luck,” Yulia said.

Daniil turned back to Yulia.

“Do you—?”

“No,” she said, without knowing what question he intended to ask. “Carry on without me, Dankovsky.”

Chapter Text

Daniil came down the ladder. Maria guided him to the living room, while smiling coolly. Against the walls, a circle of people had formed. Artemy stood in the center of this circle, as if placed there by a stagehand, and looked nervous. Covering her mouth, Lara whispered something in his ear. On Artemy’s other side, Bad Grief started a chant.

“Speech! Speech!”

He pumped his arms up and down until the audience obliged him. The yelling was carried out mostly by the children. Then Bad Grief tossed out his hands: silence. The silence broken only by a few giggles. Maria shook Daniil’s arm in excitement. Rubin came to stand on Daniil’s other side.

“Here we go,” he grunted, knocking back his drink.

“People, uh,” Artemy began, gesturing meaninglessly with the glass in his hand, “get married.”

Bad Grief snorted. Lara elbowed him.

Artemy went on: “They get married on a particular day. Yet marriage continues in the rhythm of months, of years, and of decades. They face seasons of sorrow and terror. Joy flees and hides and mocks them with absence.”

Finally, his eyes met Daniil’s with a unique intensity. It was as if everyone else in the world yet no one else in the world was looking at him.

“If they ever capture the joy that I have captured,” he whispered, “they are ready to bleed for it. And they do. Because marriage is no marriage without blood—for blood is the bond between us.”

Artemy lifted his glass.

“To another year with you, Daniil.”

Artemy drank. Bad Grief whooped. Applause resounded.

Townspeople swarmed their chosen menkhu, drawn to him by an invincible force. His smile was one of infinite compassion. It began with one person, and then everyone was singing in a manner of reciprocal love. The lyrics were in the steppe language, and Daniil didn’t know the song. Arms tossed over shoulders. Artemy pulled Lara and Bad Grief close.

What withdrew, what became scarce, seemed worthy of cherishing. This was the true reason Isidor sent away Artemy to study surgery, Daniil realized. What Artemy saw as an apathetic hand pointing out to foreign land and an elderly mind thinking, “You’re not good enough,” was actually Isidor’s priming of a perfect evolution of his son: from boy to demigod.

There was a power in absence. In the years that Artemy was away, the townspeople forgot about his snotty, barefoot childhood. Artemy grew physically, intellectually, and spiritually—in reality and in their imaginations. The legend of the Haruspex fermented so that upon his return he was of a different make than mere mortals. He was the Ripper: a shadow that couldn’t be swayed; a king set to destroy their enemies; a celestial to memorialize among constellations. The Sand Pest returned exactly when Artemy did and the Sand Pest ended when exactly Artemy allowed it.

These people celebrated Daniil’s birthday, brought him gifts, wished their well-wishes, but only to appease Artemy. Secretly, they must hate him—fucking loathe—because he was their warning. Daniil was a manifestation of the unspoken threat that told them Artemy could leave as quietly and as suddenly as he had before. In a single afternoon, Artemy could ride to the Capital with his lover and never look back. The Town-on-Gorkhon was Artemy’s, but he wasn’t theirs. His speech was a reminder of that.

Daniil pried himself from Maria’s grasp. He pushed through the crowd and out the back door.

Outside, the night air hit him hard. His breath turned into mist, which was illuminated by moonlight. He rounded the side of the house so quickly and carelessly that he slammed into another person.

To keep him from falling, Andrey caught Daniil’s arm.

“Leaving without a goodbye?”

Daniil blinked.

Andrey pulled his hand.

“I know a spot.”

“Andrey, I really—”

“I have cigarettes.”

For the next half hour, they walked the streets in silence. Finally, they arrived at Andrey’s “spot,” which was an abandoned alleyway. Andrey searched his pockets. A cockroach scurried by Daniil’s foot.

For cockroaches, a lethal dose of radiation was ten times the amount for people. The nations could bomb each other to smithereens, and the filthy, ruddy things would still be twitching. This was how his Artemy viewed him: a pest one couldn’t rid their home of. Whatever praises Artemy of the future bestowed were irrelevant.

“Here,” Andrey said.

He lit his own cigarette and offered another to Daniil, who took it. They separated and leaned against the same wall like inverse reflections. Grayness billowed up to the evening sky. As the tobacco did its work, Daniil’s nerves eased. They stayed there, quietly smoking, for a long while.

Then Andrey spoke: “Remember when that engineer thought you were a prostitute?”

“That’s not what happened,” Daniil protested.

“He paid you generously.”

“He was a biologist, not an engineer.”

“At least you know your worth. I don’t know what I’d charge. Could I get away with a few marbles, you think? A bottle of milk?”

Daniil laughed. Andrey smiled sadly.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve made you laugh.”

“Don’t blame yourself. I haven’t been letting you.”

It was almost an apology.

“I stood outside of your party for an hour because I was afraid to come in,” Andrey whispered. Daniil didn’t have a response, so he went on, “I still heard the speech, though. Your husband is meeker than a lamb. ‘Marriage is no marriage without blood.’ That’s not intense whatsoever.”

“Fuck off.”

“The role of an architect is the same as a spouse: to conceal the fact that every structure is a cage.”

“By your philosophy, I’m a foolish prisoner of matrimony.”

Andrey gave Daniil a tense look as if he was the last dice spinning on a pivotal turn.

“Not foolish, just compliant,” he murmured.

When Andrey spoke again, it was so quiet that Daniil almost did not hear.

“You don’t have to stay with him.”

“What, should we run off together?”

Andrey slammed his mouth against Daniil’s. Daniil froze. Then recoiled. His skull hit the brick wall. Andrey pushed deeper, but Daniil ducked his head. The kiss broke. Andrey stared at Daniil's disgust. They were both Tragedians: open-mouthed and white-faced.

“You’re an asshole,” Andrey muttered.

He walked away. Daniil didn’t watch him go. When he was alone, he realized he had been in this alleyway before.

 

On the Day Seven, Daniil kept thinking he needed to discuss something with Eva, but he couldn’t remember what it was, except that it was important and only she would understand. It didn’t matter anymore. Eva had worn a white dress and thrown herself from the balustrades of the Cathedral. He tried to pretend that wasn’t true, that she was at Yulia’s or nearby, in another of Stillwater’s rooms, just beyond vision, and, somehow, maybe due to her quietness and calmness in life, it was easy to pretend. So he went into town to deliver vaccines, just as he had every day previous. Time was short. By tomorrow, the Plague would mutate and he would have to retrace his steps.

He passed by an alleyway, then stopped. He returned. An Herb Bride lay there, staring up at the sky. The whiteness of the Sand Pest covered her body. She smelled of rotten flesh, yet, beneath her shredded dress, she breathed.

Daniil came close, set down his carpet bag, and knelt by her side. He brushed strands of mangled hair out of her face so that she could see the stars. They were bright tonight. A faraway smile creased her lips. She might’ve thanked him, if she could. Instead, she reached up. Her fingers wrapped around Daniil’s neck. Her eyes were so sorrowful and infinite. Her eyes were Eva’s.

She was Death.

A force collided with Daniil. They rolled. Someone landed on top and pinned Daniil to the ground: hands on shoulders, knees on chest. Daniil shut his eyes and waited for the knife. What an anticlimactic ending, he thought. The Tragedians would be disappointed.

But when nothing happened, Daniil noticed that the hands and knees were placed so that they would not hurt. He opened his eyes.

“What were you thinking?” Artemy spat in Daniil’s face. The grime on his cheek was streaked by sweat. Fresh blood stained his smock. A shotgun was strapped to his back. Yet Daniil wasn’t afraid.

“I was thinking like a doctor.”

“Liar. You know she’s too far gone.”

“Hope lives.”

Daniil didn't believe that anymore, but he had taken the Hippocratic oath. Into whatsoever houses I enter, I will enter to help the sick, and I will abstain from all intentional wrong-doing and harm. But this was about more than ancient words. It was about who he was. If Daniil lost his identity as a doctor, he would have nothing left.

“She needs my help,” Daniil whispered.

Artemy’s jaw tightened. He got off of him. Daniil crawled over to the Herb Bride. He unclipped his carpet bag and dug around for his vaccine. He prayed, for the millionth time, for a miracle.

Her forehead exploded. Blood wetted Daniil’s face in three stripes. Her eyes dulled then darkened. In numb horror, Daniil turned and looked up at the Haruspex. In his hands was a smoking shotgun.

Artemy returned the weapon to his back.

“Will you defeat death tonight, oynon?”

Daniil got his answer to the question he had never been able to ask. Artemy could kill, would kill, and had killed. His vocation was a result of his ability, not the cause. It was a result of Nature, the primal state that we’d all rather forget about.

 

Now, Daniil was in the same alleyway again—in a different body and different universe. He stared at the stars, those careless sentinels, and felt small.

Someone approached from behind. He turned, ready to tell Andrey off, but it wasn’t Andrey.

It was her. The Changeling hadn’t aged, though she was a smidge taller and no longer wearing her signature beanie. Her hair was buzzed, shiny with moonlight. A smoothed, olive-green tunic flowed about her legs, which were covered in gray stockings. Her eyes were the same: clear and otherworldly, as if she had spawned on Venus before a gust of wind sent her floating down to Earth.

Clara, the alien, tilted her head.

“I wondered when you would arrive.”

Daniil huffed. Another one of her amusements, he supposed.

“I’ve been here for a while.”

“Not you, Daniil,” she corrected, “but, you, the Bachelor of Medicine.” Her smile was mysterious. Her dirty fingers fiddled with her salmon-colored scarf. “I am sure a learned man such as yourself knows what I mean.”

Daniil dropped his cigarette and crunched the ember underneath his heel.

“I don’t care for tricks, Clara.”

“Neither do I,” she insisted, folding her hands over her chest. “I am not your enemy, Bachelor.” He was unsure if he detected sarcasm in her tone.

She approached him and leaned forward.

“I worried that the gunshot couldn’t be reversed.”

Daniil seized her arm.

“What did you do to me?”

“Nothing. I only see what I see and what I see is more than you.”

His blood boiled. Her eyes glittered.

“What do your Scriptures say? ‘That he was buried, and that he rose again on the third day.’”

“Speak clearly, insolent brat.”

“Everything is in your hands—even time. All of this is a suicide: something you did to yourself.”

“You are insane.”

He sounded pathetic even to himself.

“It must be a very insane experience. That’s probably why Eva screamed on her way down.”

Daniil could’ve shot her.

“Say her name again, and I’ll kill you.”

“I have been honest. I have told you everything I know.” Almost as an afterthought, Clara whispered, “Even I have limitations.”

All at once, Daniil envisioned the faces of her Bound—those who sacrificed themselves to save the Town and the Polyhedron. Her friends, mentors, and family: dead. Suddenly, Daniil felt like an old man, whose wisdom should've prevented the bad things, and he saw her as a young child.

He dropped her arm.

“I’m sorry.”

If the Changeling heard him, she made no indication.

“Enjoy your party, Bachelor,” she said and then walked into the night.

Daniil didn’t. He walked back to Stillwater.

He lay on his bed, fully-clothed. He counted the grooves of the wood on the ceiling. He wondered if Eva had ever done that—in this room, on this bed. Maybe he could ask her. After all, if the Changeling was correct about “rising again” on the third day, reality as he knew it would end tomorrow.

He retrieved Yulia’s timepiece from his pocket. He watched the needles twitch forward. Time was what we invented, he thought. By trapping it in devices we made ourselves the prisoners. What would it be to release Time? To break all timepieces and have the concept float up and hide behind the clouds? Would the next world be like that, somewhere with broken clocks and white clouds? Or is there only a loss of consciousness and then blackness?

 

At nine-years-old, Daniil skipped school because of pneumonia. Up until the Plague, this was the worst sickness he ever experienced. Fever and chills fought for dominance in his body. To breathe was to lift a brick house. His thoughts became pigeons; any movement made them frightened and flying away.

At lunchtime, Mother brought him tomato soup, sat by him on the bed, and stroked his hair. The circling of her painted fingernails soothed but did not quell his anxiety.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

Mother cocked her head.

“Why?”

“If I die tonight and go to heaven, I won’t have my books or pets anymore. I’ll sit around in a toga and be bored.”

Mother laughed.

“Heaven won’t be boring, my little scientist,” she promised, putting an arm around his shoulders. “God said to work is to worship. In Heaven, we will move forward in one, endless year of progress.”

 

Years later, a few months before Daniil graduated from medical school, Mother overdosed on pills. The coroners couldn’t determine if it was accidental or intentional. Her funeral was well-attended; she was well-loved by everyone who didn’t matter. After the crowd disappeared, Daniil stood alone at her grave with Father. He stared at the mound of dirt. Father lit a cigarette.

“I am glad she died before me,” Father said softly. “Us men can remarry, have new families. What use is a widow?”

“Do you have a suitor in mind?”

“Too soon to say.”

Father blew smoke. Daniil wanted to talk about something else.

“The service was nice. The priest spoke well.”

“Don’t bother. I know you don’t believe in God anymore.”

“I appreciate the concern for my salvation.”

“No, no; I’m not concerned. You’re as unhappy as your mother was. Those who smile like scythes, who shout their laughter, are the wickedest of people. Righteousness is a sad, constant effort. You choose to do right, then you choose again, and you hope that you’ve chosen enough, but the choosing keeps coming. There’s always more to sacrifice, more people in need.”

Thorns grew in Daniil.

“Righteousness didn’t make Mother unhappy. You did.”

Father’s eyebrows raised.

“Do you realize that was the first time you’ve spoken against me?”

Daniil started to speak. Father put up a hand.

“It’s my fault. I should’ve beat you as a child. Because of the kindness of your mother and the leniency of myself, you’re not ready for everyone else. Maybe there is still time; you’re hardly a man.”

“You’re a nameless alcoholic. Keep reliving your victories because everyone else forgot your heroism. Already there’s another war, another army. Now that the Powers That Be have approved Thanatica, I will be more than you ever were.”

Daniil was crying. Father was smiling.

“The Powers That Be are deceivers. Surrender yourself to us for fame and fortune, they say, while knowing that true wealth is privacy and autonomy. They will rip both from your hands—just as they did mine.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

Father’s gaze darkened. He stepped forward.

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“I’ve wanted to kill you for ten years. Come any closer, and I might just do it.”

Father opened his mouth, then closed it again. He might’ve said, “If you had courage like that years ago, none of this would’ve happened. Your mother might still be alive. Let’s grab a drink and toast her,” but he didn’t and Daniil didn’t apologize.

Instead, Father asked: “So when do you move out?”

“Already done. I am not coming home anymore.”

“Your beetle collection is still there.”

Father didn’t appeal to anything practical—furniture, clothes, or textbooks—but that childhood, attic-dwelling thing. Father was frowning, now, and his wrinkles were like wilted flowers. It occurred to Daniil that the man he wanted to hurt wasn’t there anymore, but buried underneath decades. They both were older and tired.

“Keep it,” Daniil said.

“I will. Thank you.”

Daniil wondered if he meant it, then decided it wasn't worth wondering about. He turned to leave.

“What you said was wrong, son,” Father murmured. “I never once had a victory in my career. That's because there are no victories. The battlefield reveals only man's stupidity and misery.”

 

Now, it was as if he could hear Mother’s voice again. She was singing, somewhere beyond the steppe—she or her ghost. Can ghosts remember songs? What a stupid premise. Daniil didn’t believe in the supernatural. Living in the Town-on-Gorkhon amongst the Kin made magic undeniable, but Daniil kept denying it. Whatever passing “mystical inclination,” whatever it was that he felt for Artemy, was a pretense. There are no soulmates because there are no souls.

 

He must’ve fallen asleep because he awoke to the bedroom door opening. Artemy carried a candle with one hand and pulled off his shirt with the other. Now, he was only in underwear. His thighs shone like snow. When he saw Daniil, he froze.

“You’re here.”

“Genius observation. Perhaps they did teach you something in school.”

Artemy set the candle down on the desk. It made a little halo against the wall. He wasn’t moving anymore. Daniil placed Yulia’s timepiece and his gloves on the bedside table. He approached Artemy from behind. Up close, he heard Artemy’s shaky breaths.

Bare skin met bare skin. Daniil traced along his naked spine. Artemy shivered and turned. He leaned in. This kiss was patient. Neither did not even open their mouths, as if Time was a distant, powerless idea.

If this is all that will come of my time traveling, Daniil thought, I’ll be satisfied. I will be good for the rest of my life. I will open doors for strangers, give all I earn to the poor, and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr. I will walk the Town-on-Gorkon, every gnarled, crooked pathway, and the entire steppe and back again to arrive here. But when their hips collided, he knew he would crawl.

Artemy pushed him off and crossed to the center of the room. He wiped his mouth clean.

“You don’t get to do that.”

“You started it.”

“Convenient for you to blame me.”

“Calm down.”

Artemy almost screamed, “I don’t have the luxury of deciding when and where I care about someone.”

The veins on Artemy’s neck popped. He ran a shaking hand through his hair. His eyes were hollow, betrayed. Then Daniil understood.

“You saw me and Andrey.”

Artemy nodded.

“Then you know that he kissed me.”

“Would you have told me?”

“I just did.”

Then quieter, he said: “Don’t kill him.”

“How blessed is he to exploit everyone and they nonetheless defend him.”

“Your jealousy deceives you.”

“Anger, not jealousy. Even for all his intelligence and luck, I’d rather be myself, except in one respect: that he was your first.”

Daniil went still.

“Deny it,” Artemy whispered. “Please—I need…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, or ask anything more.

“Andrey and I met at university. He was a genius and celebrity, but, mostly, he was a tiny piece of a man pretending to be whole. We were over in a month and we’re not back together now. One kiss doesn’t matter.”

Daniil didn’t say, Not like you matter.

Artemy sounded sad.

“Does anything matter to you?”

“Do you really think I am a machine? A collection of cogs and wires? That I am cold and obsolete? Because you’re wrong; I have as much talent, strength, and heart as you. I recognize you because I am you—the one who could save anyone! They brought me men with soot for lungs, women with hearts like butterflies, and children burned so badly they couldn’t move. I cried for them; I saved them. In return, they loved me.”

“This isn’t the Capital, Daniil. Not every relationship is a transaction. Not everyone is out for themselves.”

“What would you do if it was?”

“What I already did: get on a train and come home.”

Daniil was laughing and crying.

“I’ll confess, I was mistaken. I have more strength than you because even when I was alone, I combed my hair, put on my boots, and made the best of the bad.”

“Do you want to go back there?”

“I don’t know,” Daniil said and he didn’t. “Just sometimes you look at me and see another orphan on your list. I think you wish I was broken because that would mean you could operate on me.”

Artemy walked out.

Daniil stared at where he once was. Everything was quiet, empty and quiet. Was this terror or grief? How indistinguishable were the two? To imagine one had experienced the fullest capacity of them both only to find the depths deeper still. He staggered, then caught his balance. Even in a place without color, without shape, he wouldn’t fall.

Daniil heard ascending footsteps. Artemy was back—and with a box in hand. He presented it without looking at Daniil’s face.

“I should’ve given this to you sooner.”

Daniil took it. He untied the ribbon and removed the wrapping paper, allowing it to drift to the floor. Inside, there were ten glass jars of colors. On top, was a handmade, wooden paintbrush.

“I made them,” Artemy whispered. “They’re watercolors.”

“I know.”

Daniil lifted the paintbrush. He twirled it and its bristles shone in the candlelight. He looked at each scar on Artemy’s body: the long, spidery one crossing his ribs; the thick, meaty one on his stomach; the little nicks on his collarbone. He thought about the colors to paint him: pearlescent white, tawny gold, and… he met Artemy’s eyes: blue. The purest blue.

Artemy said, “I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.”

Daniil placed the paintbrush and package on the desk. It was late. They both needed to sleep.

“It is not that easy,” Artemy muttered.

“Try.”

Artemy touched Daniil’s hair. Daniil dropped his head on his chest. That familiar, earthy scent made him less doomed. He pressed his ear to listen to his heartbeat, the steady confidence. The rhythm of months, years, and decades…

Artemy was right. Rhythm is universal. Embryos are predisposed to rhythm, after nine months of listening to the pounding, four-four beat of the maternal heart. Dolphins have signature whistles, varied in pitch or repetition, to distinguish themselves in their underwater populations. When threatened, caterpillars shake in their cocoons: a frantic, full-bodied pulsating. When the butterfly flies away, some of the caterpillar is left behind as thick, gooey sludge. Daniil wished metamorphosis didn’t hurt, but everything has a cycle. And every cycle ends. Yulia’s Ouroboros symbolized that.

If Daniil had one day left, he would make it count.