Kain Siblings

He probably should’ve stayed there tonight. Back at the Warehouses with Grief and the mysterious girl, but he couldn’t force himself to. Couldn’t stay under these circumstances, unknowing whether he had survived the slaughter or not.  Arriving back at the Warehouses was a horrible feeling to say nonetheless. The stench of death and decay without any sight of the actual corpses.  Notkin knew where they were, where they had piled them in masses. Yet their smell remained dense in the air. Some of them were burned. Some of them locked in those metal chambers. Some mangled, some… he wrinkled his nose against it. Thick and sweet and foul. The closer he got to his own ‘home’, the stronger the scent of blood. It made him sick, the view of dozens upon dozens of Ashen Swish herbs, blooming in their full glory. The sky reflecting that horrible shade of red for him to see. If he had it in him, he would’ve torn their still-beating hearts from their chests just to revel in the look of surprise on their faces when they finally realized what had happened. Just a few seconds and then they’d die ━ simply perish from the face of this earth. But he was a child and a coward on top of that. Nonetheless, he had finally killed a man today, drenched in his own blood, sweat and vomit. If you could address the water coming out of his lungs as that. When they tried to drown him, tried to rob him of every remaining inch of pride he had left in his meager body. 

A gentle but firm nudge against his bad leg and he stilled. He’d been pawing those piles for a while now. Having made his way into Barley’s now-abandoned Warehouse, he simply couldn’t hold back on dragging every suspicious looking body out of their piles. Be it burned or bloody, anyone that resembled him in the slightest had to be inspected. Had to be looked at until he was a hundred percent sure it wasn’t him they had taken. Some of them were almost impossible to identify. But he knew the moles on his neck, knew the shape of his features. The way his knuckles were bruised at this time of the year or how his hair was shaped even at its most disheveled state. None of these corpses resembled him in the slightest, even if the height was accurate. Or the clothes. Or that stupid pale complexion he was always so concerned about until he finally understood that the porcelain skin was a common trait in his family. 

Notkin snorted, lowering himself until he sat cross-legged on the filthy ground. How ironic it was. How none of his Souls managed to make it out alive and yet he was here, not looking for a survivor among his friends, but…

“He’s not here.”, the boy whispered, resting his hand atop of Jester’s head who had followed him all the way here, petting the feline idly. The wind shifted, and in his somber mind he needed a minute until the realization kicked in. The subtle change of weather bringing him the scent of decay once again, which woke him out of his state against his will. He wished to relish in this newfound knowledge. That somewhere out there, Khan must still be alive. That he made it back home, save, on the Polyhedron. Protected by hundreds of his own army, probably doing way better than he was. Always doing way better than he was. 

The breeze stung, making his eyes water, but he held back. Had he not been so proud. Had he not been so stupid to deny his invitation back into the tower all those years ago. If not for him, they would still be alive. Living their lives inside timeless dreams, but for how long could that make a person happy? If this was the reality he sought out for all those years ago, he felt nothing but regret. He wanted to scream, curse, yet he couldn’t raise his voice. Just the chance of getting heard was reason enough to stay silent. 

All he wanted was to survive. Against all odds, at least until he saw him again. Though he was weak, barely held alive by a miracle. His wounds were closed, yet the loss of blood was still there. He felt lightheaded, his scars remained, both in his mind and on his body. And he was starving. Dehydrated to the point of lightheadedness.  He knew he should go back. Probably ask the older Thief for some bread and water, but how much did Grief really have to share? No, that didn’t seem like the correct answer. But he knew what did. Remembered what Filin told him not too long ago. Just a few days ago when he tried to rob the same man who had now saved his life. 

━ ‘If you ever encounter the chance of starvation, seek out a woman called Ms. Lara Ravel.’

Notkin wondered if the two were friends. He wondered all those days ago, and he was still questioning it right now. How a woman known to be as kind as her had anything to do with Bad Grief. The boy shook his head. Who was he to judge their friendship?  Gasping desperately, Notkin sat up, feeling the cold night air filling up his burning lungs. It was a hard task to regain his composure. At first, he couldn’t do anything else than breathe, just as if he’d been holding his breath for far too long. After some time he finally managed to even his breathing. His throat, however, was still burning with the freezing air and in the hope to warm that air somewhat, Notkin tugged his hand over his mouth. That was when he realized it wasn’t exactly the cold air hurting his throat. But rather the acidic taste of his own stomach, burning, as a warning to him that he was starving.  With shaking legs he finally stood up, uncaring about the uneven, metal surface of the ground. By now he had gotten used to the stench of his rotting friends. To the traces of blood caused by their bodies being dragged inside. He simply traced them to find his way out of the Warehouse, back to the streets.

From then on his legs were more or less dragging him along the rest of the way. It was as if his body shut off his mind. He didn’t bother when the sick grabbed at his clothes as a call for help, didn’t care when some loose bandits tried to plunder him of any possible belongings. Notkin knew they were desperate now. Knew they had lost both Grief and Barley, which was the sole reason as to why they were now running wild. Harassing a single child on the side of the street. They could check his pockets for all they wanted, he had nothing left. And after some mild attempts, they simply tossed him to the side, the only injury caused being a bruise over his left eye that stung, but wasn’t the end of the world. By the time he made it to the Shelter it was far over midnight.  Notkin knew he looked like death, but if that woman was anything as nice as Grief had described her to be, she would help. If she truly knew the man, all he’d have to do was mention his name. He would share whatever she would have to give. Of course he would, he owed it to the man.  He just needed to survive. Both of them needed to survive… for entirely different reasons.  Grief because Notkin felt responsible for him now. As for himself ━

The clock was ticking mercilessly, having both hands pointed in the same direction of twelve. Lara barely managed to leave the study to grab herself a glass, no, a quarter of a glass of water. She still kept testing every new barrel on herself before she gave it to anyone else. She still did not completely collect herself after her the incident experienced a few days prior. She was in a way glad about how invested she was in helping this community even at the cost of her exhaustion. While she was not as drastically tired, she had too many thoughts like these. She took her thick coat, and put it on, feeling its pleasant weight and warmth. She had to lock the back gate for the night anyway. She tried to open an entrance with first a sigh, and then confusion. Did… someone barricade her for any reason?

She tried a stronger push and managed, with a sense of relief, to unlock the doors. When she crossed the threshold, a pair of bloodshot eyes stared at her from below, full of unimaginable pain. Lara jumped a bit at first and gasped once she realized that the creature sitting by her door is not any animal but a boy, a teen, with his face colored by bluish, reddish, yellowish tones. Bruises, not paints, not crayons. A massacred kid. She did not recognize him at all.

“Oh, Mistresses.” - she opened up her door widely, held them like that by placing her feet on the threshold, and reached down to help this child stand up. Once he was leaning on her arm, they entered the Shelter. The boy tried to speak even, but his words just turned into blabber, nonsensical, paused with a sudden gasp for air. “Quiet, quiet, I bet it all hurts. I will take care of it. You do not have to pay me anyhow for this. Quiet. Save the strength.”

Lara guided the redhead gently to her couch. Even bloodied or dirty, seemingly this piece of furniture was still a necessity in her home, which throughout the last, few days, changed into a side-helping hospital unit. This case was an extreme one.

Lara rushed upstairs and stepped gently into the room she placed Caspar in yesterday, for the boy to get some rest. Now his help was needed drastically and he was one of her only actually aware and thinking clearly guests. She did not know whether the boys actually had any contact with each other. The last time she followed the multitude of kids’ social connections was when she was a child herself. This was irrelevant right now. The ginger was dying in her arms as thoughts ran through her brain. She gently shook the youngest of Kains, who was buried in a dream, mumbling something under his nose. Ravel was sure that getting him out of this trance will take a longer moment, yet Caspar woke up immediately, pretty much like he would be used to sleeping only lightly, constantly looking out for danger otherwise.

“Caspar, I need your help immediately. I took in a kid that was laying outside, leaning on Shelter’s door, bruised, hurt, bleeding, and hard to tell what else. I am not a doctor, but he looks to me like he is up for serious patching. Be a dear, take this,” - woman pulled a white, dusty square of fabric into Khan’s hands. “cut it into a few thick bandages, knife is on the desk, then, top left cupboard, I have my last bottle of rubbing alcohol. Fetch me this too. As quickly as you can. I will be downstairs. Go.”

Lara ran back to her surprise guest as fast as she could, already having a damp cloth in her hands, to be able to even assess the wounds. She lit a lamp and placed it on a small table, next to the half-conscious boy’s head. His hair was glued with blood, dried, awfully big amount of blood. She sighed. Dealing with teenage boys always was…something. She hoped that this one will be way too tired to mess with her. His…brown? No, the bluish pullover was soaked with blood. She was scared to even check what was underneath.

“You have to take off your shirt, kid. I promise I will help you, but I am afraid your wounds may be severe. Please, do not put up a fight with this.“

Ginger mumbled something along the lines of “No…the miracle-cle girl, she did a miracle! And I w…my wounds they are closed and healed an..d.”

So… he was delirious. He, and it hit Lara for real this time, strongly, was delirious. But maybe there still was something she could do about it. After her voice sharpening with concern, she finally convinced this kid to unstick a sweaty, purple at this point, sweater from his body. Bruises, so many bruises. Who did this? Who the fuck, did this? Skin broken, torn from the force of the hits. No wonder he saw an angel in his dreams, a miraculous creature. She wanted to take it as a sign of him going to Heaven, just in case. For surviving this bestiality, he deserved to skip any form of purgatory possible.

Lara took, quite hopelessly, the damp cloth and washed off layers, yes, layers of dirt. If not bleeding out, this lad will get gangrene surely. She wiped off as much as she could, expecting the action to reveal a seeping, awful wound, who knows how old. Assessing the amount of blood on the pullover, terribly open. She subconsciously held her breath.

Yet the wound was…sealed. There was a scar, and the edges of a previous cut were visible, however, the cut was sealed. Lara blinked faster.

Then Caspar came, hands occupied by medicaments and improvised bandaids. Boy did a great job, carrying her a forgotten bottle of Grief’s twyrine she once received as a gift. She thanked herself in mind for disliking any alcohol other than mulled wine. This bottle was a life-changer potentially. There was less rubbing alcohol than she anticipated. “Finally. You took some time.” The brunette stared, like he saw a ghost, at a boy who lay there, barely, if at all, conscious of what was happening around him. Ginger was exhausted and currently, she assumed he was peacefully sleeping. She did not want this random kid to die. Not now. Not after surviving this much. “What are you gawking at?! Alcohol, now, one piece of fabric and bring me a cup of water, it is in a barrel I keep in this room most similar to the kitchen.” Kain stood there petrified for a little longer, before heading off along her orders. What was the matter?

Dirt came off much easier with alcohol. She finally managed to clean his face, which revealed bruised eye and another sealed, but visibly fresh, assessing at the blood marks around the edges, and cut on a cheek. Only now Lara could see the boy’s face better. Freckled skin. Emaciated face. This red hair, this determined despite everything expression, even when the boy was there half asleep. If Caspar reminded her of Stakh, then this kid was certainly Grisha she remembered. She was right about her previous feeling: she experienced a deja vu, as she met Filin exactly the same way. A malnourished, homeless, desperate, and heavily wounded kid, knocked hopelessly on Captain Ravel’s door and she insisted that her father will take care of him, insisted enough that her dad went for Isidor, while she was keeping company and tried to patch up her future former friend. This felt the same. This ginger looked like Grisha’s reincarnation. Was her brain playing tricks on her?

Yet everything was real. The pungent smell of boy’s clothes, skin drenched in sweat, misery, blood. She did not have almost any water. After her meticulous check-up, it appeared somehow all the wounds were sealed. It was not anything possible with human hands. If it would be, Stakh would dump a book about it this revolutionary way of healing. But it was not. So…how.?

Using the fact that the ginger was still buried in this weirdly comatose state, she soaked the prepared fabric with twyrine. She hoped the herbal smell will kill this stench, which reminded her of corpses piled up on the streets. She cautiously observed as the muck dissolved, revealing a pale, sickly-looking complexion. Ginger’s eyes were cloudy and he barely reacted to anything other than her guided, softly-spoken ordeals, like “turn slightly left.” She managed to clean up most of the layered schmutz off his scrawny torso and when Caspar came back with a glass of water, she already was taking care of the boy’s lumped locks. She was glad she had Grief’s twyrine. It had almost no sugar added anyhow, high alcohol percentage, and the boy did not smell like a rotting body anymore. Luckily it seemed like the miracle was in fact real. There was no possible medical explanation for this amount of wounds healed, to this amount of internal bleeding endured. Ginger kept breathing steadily, although shallowly, quickly. He still seemed to have no clue about his surroundings.

Yet the Doghead’s leader stared at him, stared at the pile of brown, red, and grey cloths, used to wipe as much misery as possible out of this kid. He looked at him while helping Lara with anything she ordered, while she was tucking him in the blanket, all of this while presenting atypical for his porcelain visage deep concern. Ravel now was sure they knew each other and after the instant, drastic fear for the ginger’s life faded out, she felt slightly bad for treating Caspar this harshly with her ordeals.

While her visitor recharged, she asked her “assistant” to guard him for a while, when she went to pick for him one of her father’s old sweaters. Light green. Perfect. She forgot it was there. Perhaps it was waiting for this boy. Color of luck. Color of hope. She found some old trousers she sew as a teenager for Stakh, which turned out too short for her friend. Somehow she collected an entire, complete outfit that could gift this boy any source of freshness after what happened to him.

When she came back with clothes all folded, Caspar remained in an unchanged position, with a subtle frown directed at this rag-doll urchin. Lara joined him, and they both were staring worryingly at the redhead’s face now, sometimes unintentionally exchanging looks, awaiting any more significant reaction. Eventually, Lara tapped her newest visitor’s cheek gently.

“Hey, you… Hey you, do you understand what am I saying? You are safe, you will live, but you have to drink this water-”

Caspar dreamt of tragedies in times of peace and of comfort in times of havoc. It’d been this way all his life, as if his restless mind sought to invent threats where there were none, whilst presenting him with pleasant reveries to facilitate his willpower when distraught. Sweet dreams rarely lasted after wakefulness embittered their taste, so when he awoke in the borrowed room in the Shelter to a harried hostess, he could only mildly feel his comfort sour as the last dregs of warmth escaped the grasp of his mind. Bandages replaced the feeling of worn cotton and leather on his fingertips, and as he searched for the requested alcohol, its sharp and pungently sterile smell chased away the lingering scent of grass and smoke. Maybe it was for the best. It took too long for Caspar to accomplish his given task, the thought of who he’d be helping to tend to fraying the more he pulled at it, unraveling into a childishly foolish hope that he’d walk downstairs to stand before one specific person once again. A harsher thought dampened his optimism, refusing to entertain the notion that Notkin would ever be reduced to merely “a kid” laying half-dead at the doorstep of Lara Ravel.

No amount of time spent wearing down his conflicting thoughts could’ve truly prepared him for the sight awaiting him when Caspar sought to deliver the requested items to the lady of the house. Khan would take it to his grave, but he could recognize Notkin with nary a glance, despite the mud and blood obfuscating his skin, hiding scars he could map out like constellations seen from the top of the Polyhedron. It wasn’t a rational or explainable thing, he could just tell with the ease one would have for differentiating their own hands even if they were mirrored, the one instinct he trusted more than rationale. Caspar was a bit glad to be ordered around, else he imagined he’d be liable to simply stare and let the turmoil within him fester until Notkin inevitably awoke and set fire to his insides just to see him burn. The boy listed words in his own head as he fetched the requested glass of water, if only to avoid putting names to corpses, to put off the need to sort his emotions. Incendiary, smoke, fire, smother, snuffed, death. His hand tightened on the glass. Warm, bright, wild, free, alive.

His forgotten dream clashed with wicked reality when the scent of smoke and alcohol greeted him in what was now essentially a makeshift hospice. Bruised and unconscious, his old rival’s unmoving form was nearly devoid of grime, and the view stabbed into Caspar’s heart with how wrong it felt to see him still, vulnerable, defeated. There were infinite ways to describe the discomfort prompted by the sight of Notkin, and when Lara Ravel left the room, he was left to wonder if any words could convey anything about the situation without seeming reductive by nature. Khan held his ground and simply watched the other boy’s breathing, wondering what he would do if it stopped for good right in front of his eyes, pondering if it would be better or worse for his sanity to be present in that moment, to bear witness to the end of Notkin’s life. Caspar thought if such a thing came to pass, his own would end as well, for better or for worse. It simply didn’t register as possible for his existence to somehow supersede Notkin’s. His hand itched to reach out and feel the livelihood of his companion, a baffling and mortifying desire to alleviate the burdened expression on his face somehow, perhaps thread his fingers on Notkin’s hair under the guise of making sure their hostess had truly removed all the dirt from it.

Caspar was glad for the paralysis when Lara Ravel came back to find him unmoved, and he was endlessly grateful to not be prompted on how much this was affecting him. He was very aware of how suspicious his reaction to this event seemed, but there was no recovery for his composure. When the woman gently brought Notkin into consciousness, seconds after he gathered his bearings, their eyes met, and Caspar felt vindicated to see the other boy react visibly, like striking a match near spilled oil. He was not at all proud of the words that spilled out of his mouth next. “You look like shit.” He wasn’t surprised to be hit lightly with the change of clothes Lara had fetched, and the gesture seemed entirely familiar to her, almost subconscious or habitual. Caspar was instead startled by the grounded maternity of the action, entirely foreign to him in the subdued bearing of his own family. Beyond that, he felt appropriately chastised to be addressed by his name, which only served to baffle him more.

In an attempt to salvage his own pride in front of the adult whose home he was seeking shelter in, Caspar ignored Notkin momentarily to direct his next words to Lara. “Miss Ravel, I’m sure this situation was quite distressing to you and you’ve certainly had a long day…” A long lifetime, more like; caring for people so diligently. “Feel free to go rest, I can watch him for now. If you’d like me to, I’ll call you should any issues arise, seeing as we’re both imposing on your hospitality.” Caspar wasn’t surprised at the slight skepticism on her face, but he was disturbed to see that her expression softened as she looked between him and Notkin. He felt his face redden and his mouth open to raise a protest, but he found there was nothing to reasonably counter in the gesture. “…It’s not like he’s in a position to steal anything in his state, and I’d hardly be fool enough to rob the person who so graciously opened the door to her home to me.”

The cold was more bearable here. Though it made him wonder how long he’d been freezing exactly. If anything, this must’ve been the most comfort he had for a long time. Maybe even his entire life. 

With his throbbing eye grating on the cotton surface of the pillow, Notkin winced and blinked his vision into enough focus to recognize the boy in front of him, a surprisingly pleasant view after all he’d seen for the past day. For a moment all he could fathom was to stare at the boy, eyes plastered on the pale surface of his skin, flawless, devoid of any scars or impurities like his own. He couldn’t help himself when he gazed further up to meet his eyes, which for once didn’t greet him with their usual blank expression. He hadn’t seen this much emotion in them for years. Whatever came next hit him like a wave. He felt like a child again. Not a teen but much younger. When times were simpler and it didn’t hurt to share the presence of someone who used to be so dear to him. When there was no shame in admitting they cared for each other. When reaching out to grab his hand wouldn’t cause doubt in their entire rivalry. 

For a moment he thought he’d choke on it all. He would’ve pulled him for a hug if things weren’t so difficult. If he knew his dependance wasn’t one-sided. And he’d ask him why he was here, so far from the better side of town. So far from where human lives actually mattered. Yet before he could express a single word, the light above shifted, making him reconsider his choices. Those eyes weren’t his anymore. They were, in a sense, but they’d seen so much, enough to change them forever. Neither of them should have been entrusted with so much responsibility. And the more that happened, the more it made him realise. 

They were just kids.

Had Khan been through something similar that day? Had he lost something akin to what the Souls were to him? Notkin could feel his throat tighten before he swallowed.

Only then did his mind allow him to form coherent thoughts. He must’ve slept, and dreamed. He remembered muttering a few words he could no longer remember. Kind hands combing through his matted hair the way his mother did in his dreams, taking care of his many leftover bruises. Was this the friend Filin spoke about? Were they close? Notkin wondered about their shared past, about the reason a thug like Bad Grief would be friends with such a kind woman. He vaguely remembered her name as memories started flooding back to him. Slowly lifting one of his hands he traced the now clean surface of his face. Blood no longer trickled down his upper lip, nor was there an uncomfortable trail of dried flakes in its place. How long was he gone for? Judging from the view outside, not too long. It was still night, the same awful atmosphere still clung on the air and whatever weight was pulling on his stomach would not reside. The ginger took a deep breath as he lost his train of thoughts again, noticing his disability to focus. His entire body felt weak as he attempted to move. Notkin realised he was starving. 

When Khan raised his voice he couldn’t help but smirk, feeling the same awkward affection that’d usually make him challenge the boy to a fight. The ginger didn’t hesitate when he clenched his hand into a fist, giving the other boy a soft punch against his arm.   “You care an awful lot about a mere ‘fool’ then.” Sinking back into his pillow he rested for a brief moment before continuing his words. “Besides… I didn’t choose to fight. Not this time. Don’t mistake me for a fool, I know when it’s best to run.”  The more he spoke, the more his voice fell into a triste tone. Images of the night prior flooded his head when all he wanted was to forget. Khan had no business in this, there was no use burdening him with any of it. He didn’t have to know, he didn’t-

A low grumble tore him out of his thoughts, startling him in the process. With his eyes wide he looked up at the boy, cheeks flushing to a deep red.

Right… right. 

“I need to stock up on food.” Not just food, resources. Wasn’t this the entire reason behind the visit? Filin was probably starving back at the warehouses. Rations had been sparse over there the entire week, up to a point where he even expected Bad Grief’s resources to run out. Not only that, one of his few remaining friends laid there, wounded. Clara was bleeding out while Notkin got his bruises and scratches patched up. The cruelty of it all was too much for the boy.

Frailty had always been something Caspar struggled with, so it hurt his heart more than his arm to feel how weak Notkin’s punch was, despite knowing it wasn’t a serious strike anyway. It felt exhausted, eroded by the climate of the town in all these endless days, resigned to weakness, yet still determined enough to try. A fool. Khan mumbled in response, not trying to be heard, just muttering to himself as he was wont to do. “Yes, I care an awful lot… More than anything, probably.” At Notkin’s following words, he felt a bit insulted at the thought. “Lived to fight another day. I do trust you to know your limits, don’t make it seem as though I don’t. I’d never underestimate you, it’d be my downfall.” Not that he hadn’t already fallen anyway. He smiled bitterly, staring at the distance between his hand and Notkin’s, wondering if he’d ever choose to close the gap. Notkin certainly wouldn’t even if he did correspond whichever superfluous feelings rooted themselves in Khan’s chest. 

There was no way to know precisely when Notkin had become the most important person in his life, someone with a radically different past, whose ideals clashed with his at times, what kind of turn of fate brought him to need someone who infuriated him so. Then again, every time he posed himself the question, endless memories of admirable qualities and actions that left him in awe would follow, and Caspar would lose his train of thought to daydreams. These days he hoped that if he died, it’d be in his sleep, so that he could at least be certain Notkin would be there. He always dreamed of dying before Notkin, and his nightmares always depicted the opposite. 

He was snapped out of his thoughts by something mundane, as it always came to be. This time, it was Notkin’s stomach growling, and Caspar was almost ready to make a snide comment before he took note of the flush on the boy’s face, the embarrassment of having your body betray your thoughts. It would be endearing if Notkin didn’t immediately sit up and start tearing at his bandages like an unruly stray. Khan clicked his tongue and took Notkin’s wrists in his hands, leaning down to look sternly at his rival’s anxious eyes, unfocused as he probably thought of the million other things he’d rather be doing instead of resting. Instead of sharing breath in the same room as Khan. “Don’t be stupid, I know you’re smarter than this, I’ve seen it firsthand.” He looked down at Lara’s ruined work, the bandages frayed from pulling, unravelled and already stained from wounds treated too roughly. Someone so kind being so uncaring of themselves felt wrong, unjust. Whichever righteousness he’d usually feel seemed wasted on this occasion.

Caspar sighed, feeling deeply saddened by the whole affair. “You don’t have to stay here any longer than tonight, but you do need time to rest and recover.” He looked back up into Notkin’s eyes, though it was hard to keep focus when his thoughts were so melancholy. “If I’m the problem, I’ll leave. I can fetch Miss Ravel for you, though I’d rather let her rest. I’ll bring you as much food as you want, you can even keep it and tell her I stole it. I don’t care, just stop hurting yourself. I know you don’t care about yourself, but I do…” He trailed off before being brought back to focus by the shaking of Notkin’s hands. “For now be quiet. Please. Let me fix these bandages, get you food and water, then I’ll stop imposing.” 

He nearly snapped when Khan mentioned being unwanted. How dare he imply such a thing. Notkin’s face carried something akin to betrayal. They’ve always been equals despite their differences. Never had Khan made him feel like less, even when he turned his back on him. Even when his army was ten, no, twenty times larger than what Notkin used to call his scouts. There was a pause in his words before he reached for his wrists, making Notkin’s hands tremble in place. Notkin did nothing but stare down on them, realising the state of his mess. Visible shame plastered itself on his face when Khan reached out to renew his bandages, wasting even more of the valuable resources on his body. None of his little injuries could be compared to what Clara carried on her body. Why didn’t she use those powers on herself? Why did Filin suddenly care enough to help him? And why did Notkin do something as foolish as to rip those expensive bandages from his body. He should’ve known bettert. Though he never thought these things through once he was agitated. And right now, he was needed elsewhere. As much as he wanted to stay, talk and reassure Khan of how wrong he was in his conceptions, he couldn’t. When the boy leaned back the same trembling hands tried to reach out to him, only to be dropped on the blanket when he heard his next words. 

Notkin was still trying to process the apologies when his words came out on their own. “You’re not imposing.”, was all he managed to say. Notkin felt like an abandoned mutt left at a stranger’s doorstep. Forcing the poor tenants to take care of him while they could spend their food and bandages on people who actually mattered. Not a nameless orphan like him. A healer like Clara, a thug… no, a merchant like Filin. His eyes darted through the room as he tried to banish those thoughts. Khan never liked it when he spoke of himself that way. He always knew his death would leave no impact. He always knew he’d die as a child. Which is why he wanted to be free. Live a short, but fulfilling life, without abiding by anyone’s rules. And it worked, his goddamn plan worked for a while. Until it didn’t. He wasn’t cut out to be a leader and he most certainly shouldn’t have left. If not for him, those kids would be still alive. He would be on that stupid tower. Following the commands of the same toddler who banished him two years ago. The memory of it still being a bitter one.

He was the only one to blame for this.

“I can’t stay here.” The ginger gritted his teeth to sound as stern as possible. He looked up at his rival, eyes filled with determination. And the more he looked, the more he realised how much it hurt. Something had changed, he couldn’t recall the last time Khan reflected the pain on his face, the fire in his eyes. He felt certain the boy wouldn’t let him go and in a way, it made him feel cared for. Notkin wished to drown in that feeling, to surround himself with it forever. Though he knew it wouldn’t last. Not for him, at least. None of that care would ever belong to him. Only today did he learn he had long accepted the future written out for the two of them. Maybe it was part of growing up.

“My friends are dying, one from fatigue, heavily wounded. The other needs food. I can’t stay here with you. As much as I want to, I can’t- “

There was a crack in his voice that made him straighten his posture. Once again he was in the process of pushing himself up on the side of the bed, meeting Khan face-to-face. 

“I’ll come back here, if you want me to. I’ll be back, but I have to help them.” His words were starting to sound like pleas. He couldn’t abandon the girl who had saved his life, the man who had fought for him. Yet on the other hand, he didn’t want Khan to think he didn’t care. Notkin realised the childishness of his inner conflict. To yearn for the appreciation of someone he should detest while asking the very same person to allow him to leave. There was no way Khan was holding him back physically. Everything was starting to feel like a bad dream. 

Derision was a funny thing to see on Notkin’s face, especially when he was righteously angered by something as simple as someone else being insecure. Perhaps that was the trait Caspar resented most in him; his propensity for hypocrisy in this one regard always caused the boy to blindly forfeit his own value in favor of another’s worth. Even then, such trivial things could be ignored in favor of focusing on the crisis at hand, if only Notkin wouldn’t use this skewed thought process to justify a suicide mission for the sake of others. And it hurt Khan. It hurt, damn it. 

What was the point of implied affection, even in such a veiled and antagonistic way, if in the end everyone who seemed to love him would always favor their other affairs? He was never anyone’s first choice. Nina Kaina was not a mother, she was a force of nature, her love was like standing in a storm trying to catch the raindrops in cupped hands. Victor Kain spent too many years of Caspar’s childhood drowning in either complete infatuation with his mother or grief at her loss. Maria admired their mother so much, she was already an ice statue before Caspar knew how to speak. He had always been an imposition at home, so he left. “Of course you can’t stay.” Neither could Khan, at the time, chasing dreams. In the end, he was doomed to follow his father’s steps, enamored with someone too wild to be kept and too ephemeral to stay by his side.

He knew he was about to let a dream slip away as he watched the softness of his rival’s expression slowly be replaced with anguish, resignation echoed by his words. “And you? No fatigue? Flawless skin, unmarred? So the bandages were wasted, then?” He knew the words would strike wrong, the meaning twisted in the short distance between them, but an immature impulse he’d buried with the ignored child he once was reared its head. “I hallucinated your hunger as well, then? You’re a made-up dream of mine. A bad dream, one where I can’t even pretend to have you. Safe. Have you safe.” He stuttered and blinked away the heat behind his eyes, knowing how much of a demanding brat he seemed. Lost all his toy soldiers and ran away from home in a tantrum, grasping at a comfort blanket that snagged in the thistles, torn beyond repair. His expression would bring shame to the ineffable Kain name, but he’d wanted to renounce it ever since learning what it meant. “Liar. You won’t come back. You can’t possibly promise me that. You’re running out to save people in just as much trouble as you are, in the middle of the night. You, a child, malnourished, grievously wounded. Have you decades of experience like Grief? Do you work miracles like Clara?” Irrational anger, one that locked his jaw and curled his fingers on the damn rumpled blanket, blinking as he looked at Notkin, trying desperately not to completely snap. He simply stared, registering all the turmoil he caused with each word, each shade of pain and sadness in Notkin’s eyes dousing whatever wicked flame had fueled Khan.

In the end, the same person who could stir his temper so easily was the one he couldn’t stand to be mad at directly. Khan felt his shoulders drop, like the elastic in his body snapped, a ball-jointed doll like his sister’s, the ones he used to steal to play with until she slapped him for it. He only stole them because he’d been too afraid of his stern parents to ask for his own. The porcelain had broken and she’d let him keep the pieces, her little lady fingers clenched on their mother’s skirt, glaring at him from the folds of cloth as the matron looked down disappointedly in him while he cut his fingers on the sharp shards. He knew exactly how to string a doll internally ever since that day.

“If I don’t hate you after all this time, how could I ever?” Caspar closed his eyes and just let his head drop onto Notkin’s shoulder, resisting the urge to let go of his tears and allow them to mingle with the blood on the bandages, not wanting to make Notkin’s wounds sting any more. “No, I won’t hate you. I’ll hate myself if I don’t go with you. That’s it. I can’t ask you to stay, I never could. I’ll run after you, I’ll do it my whole life, I’ll chase you to an early grave. That’s it.” It sounded so simple to him. So perfectly destructive. Blissful. “That’s all.” Repetition was always one of his vices. A broken record, an artifact of having a weak voice once upon a time, a remnant of going unheard.

If one were to ask him how he felt after those words, Notkin would probably break into tears. That would’ve been the case a day ago, perhaps two. Yet all he could muster was a sullen sniff, his own head leaning against Khan’s as he put his chin on his shoulder. The boy listened, listened as if it was all he could ever do. His tears were spent, the two once anxious hands laid still on his lap until he brought one up, shakily hovering over Khan’s head before the other pulled away to sit up straight. Notkin bit back on his words, ‘you’d do just fine without me’, instead nodding at his request. He never wanted Khan to chase after him, never wanted to share a grave with him. He held no doubt in that future if Khan insisted on staying by his side. Yet at the same time, he refused to let go. If only he wasn’t forced to choose. 

A flood of déjà-vu smacked him upside the head like his father’s fireplace poker. He heard those words, once upon a time, so many years ago. And yet, nothing had changed. Neither of them stepped down from their passion towards each other. Agitation amplified by the fact that it’d bring him nothing but strife if he argued back, he focused on Khan’s eyes more desperately. There was a layer of tears covering his icy blues and Notkin decided to remain still. He could never bring Khan shame after such a confession. 

So he nodded, taking in whatever affection the other boy had left for him, doubling it down with his own. Appreciation turned into a question of how much of it was truly deserved. However many times he had let the other down, he still seemed to care for him. Wasn’t he tired? Disappointed? Hurt? Maybe all those things. Maybe more. Notkin remembered an oath he had made all those years ago. Back when he had no issue wearing that mask and calling himself a Doghead. Back when he considered himself Khan’s favorite little soldier. When his place on that tower was secure, the last time he felt like he had a home. Back then he had no reason to leave his side or even question his command. It all began when the two of them grew older, ideologies crashing, companions losing their lives. Notkin could still remember the first time Khan acted against his morals. During the prior outbreak, when the leader of the Dogheads decided to punish one of his hounds by taking their life. He could never forget. How the child had screamed when they were pushed off the tower. How they tore off their mask and gave it to another. They betrayed him, as everyone claimed. Though no one seemed to know what exactly had happened. It’s all they cared about, betrayal. Loyalty. Eventually, rumors started spreading and they came up with the most ridiculous stories. What used to be a life turned into an urban legend, a source of gossip among the children. Some whispered they stole from him, others claimed they killed another child. One of the rumors that stuck to him the most was how he failed to share Khan’s dreams. The worlds he created within his ivory tower and it terrified him. As Notkin aged, he failed to see more and more of the wonders inside the Polyhedron. He would lie about the skies Khan presented to him as they were mere paper walls in his vision. Notkin remembered counting stars with him and pretending to lose count, or acting like he fell asleep. Despite being the same age, Notkin was maturing more rapidly, no longer finding himself to be able to share that kind of escapism. An adult was not welcome in that tower and when he finally turned 13, there was nothing the Polyhedron had left to show him. 

Notkin remembered his despair, how he begged the tower to accept him just a little longer, maybe enough to share one more dream, one more adventure. But life was cruel and he eventually came to realize how nothing would ever be the same no matter if he stayed or not. Khan would grow up to be cold like his mother, and in that case, more and more Dogheads were doomed to die. Having the Mother Superior banish him felt like an act of mercy. Whatever came next turned into a cruel joke. Notkin found himself ignoring the pleas of the very person he cared so much about, instead making his own little gang of outlaws who would eventually turn into little thieves and outcasts. Rivalry was the next step of coping with his own course of actions as it was much easier to hold a grudge against him. Khan was an easy target to hate. He was cold, he kept telling himself, heartless, he lied, he never even cared. If he told him about the tower, or how he hated his methods of leading, he would’ve easily gotten rid of him as well. 

Notkin knew it was all a bunch of crap, but it kept him sane. Helped him raise his numbers and lead the bunch of children who had escaped the grasp of the Kain’s kid, instead following a boy with a lot of confidence, but no plan. Always working on impulse. 

With both the Souls and the Dogheads gone, there was no one left to judge them if they joined forces again. He still wanted that last adventure with Khan, a very last dream. Biting down on his lip, Notkin tried to shoot down any thoughts including his oncoming demise. He was given the luck to stay around just a little longer, so he’d have to make the best out of it. He didn’t even know why he considered it. It just made sense to run out of luck eventually after surviving so many disasters. He saw his turn coming, so why not make the best of it? 

“If you’re willing to stay with me, I’ll never let you down.”

Words said so long ago, he felt pathetic repeating them once again. Notkin could feel the tremble in his voice and it took a good minute to swallow whatever was dwelling up inside of him. Was it remorse? Or all the pent up pain of the past two years? He couldn’t tell. He felt sorry. And at last, he felt at home. 

Familiar words in alienating circumstances always had a way of making Khan smile, and this time it was no different, though it was a melancholy grin, embittered with sweet memories that left a forlorn aftertaste, like biting into a stale sugar cube. After what felt like such an endless delve into his own turmoil, it was grounding to watch Notkin’s face, his usually ragged appearance softened by how clean he was, a beautiful thing hidden under all that blood and dirt for protection. Pretty things hidden in plain sight. “I don’t think it’d change anything even if you did somehow find a way to let me down. I’m still here even after you left, for better or worse.” He shrugged, not wanting to continue the conversation, and it seemed as though they both silently agreed, as Notkin’s next words were entirely more mundane and yet held underlying meanings only they could ever hope to unravel. ‘I won’t make it on my own’ was a bold admission to make after all these years.

“Sit still, let the blood clot before you saturate the bandages too much. I’ll get everything.” Caspar stood up, not bothering to resist the urge to run his fingers through Notkin’s clean hair just once, surprisingly soft despite how long it had been matted and sullied. An eye-catching red that fluffed up a bit. ‘Cute.’ The weight of endearment felt razor sharp, knowing it was unlikely they’d both be alive until the end of the week, and it was a destructive sort of satisfaction he got at the look on Notkin’s face. It was easier to ignore the repercussions of his actions when he wouldn’t be here long enough to deal with consequences, so he supposed he would get his wish one way or the other. Caspar Kain wouldn’t have to grow up after all. 

“It’s a pity, Miss Ravel is a pleasant hostess.” He murmured, wandering behind the study’s hardwood desk and plying open the drawers, feeling the borrowed warmth leave his fingers at the chill of the handles. Leatherbound books and loose documents lingered inside, neatly piled up. The second drawer had a quill, an inkwell, stamps, a signet, and as he observed the volume of the inside of it in comparison to the outside, Khan got it in his head to knock on the underside, seeing the objects rattle more than one would expect, telling of a loose surface. “Would you look at that…” A false bottom. Fitting for someone as well-prepared as the daughter of an army captain. Raising the wood panel, Caspar almost felt unrestrained glee at the sight of a revolver, a few bullets lined up in a small box beside it. Needless to say, he thought they’d need it more than the lady of the house. He ignored how Notkin’s eyes narrowed at his pleased expression out of the corner of his line of sight, loading the chambers of the gun as he paced out of the room in the direction of the food storage.

The weapon felt cold when he tucked it into his pocket despite his clothes separating it from his skin. It didn’t warm up as he rifled through the cabinets, scrutinizing every piece of food before placing them in a pilfered knapsack. Bottles of water and some milk at the bottom of the bag, the remaining bandages between them to prevent clinking, a few scraps of dried meat, half a loaf of bread, some brittle pieces of toast. Khan stared at a few pitiful nuts, wondering what child had parted with them for the sake of Lara Ravel’s comfy little shelter. At this point in time, he was quite sure the young ones had somehow laid claim to every little treat within the confines of the town, if only to distract from the cough. Caspar took them.

A timely cough startled him into turning towards the doorway, the sound theatrical and devoid of the harsh timbre of disease. Notkin seemed agitated, fidgeting despite trying to show a minimal patient smile, brittle as dried grass, easily flammable. “How could I forget, you could never stay still for long.” Khan griped, gesturing for them to walk towards the entrance, not quite absorbing the concept that they’d be setting off on a dangerous trip. He was elbowed on the side as the cold night air bit at his nose. “You know me so well.” Notkin’s congenial tone did nothing to mask the tension he was carrying, despite it being Caspar who held all the stolen supplies. Closing the door behind them struck him as a finality, and he wondered if he would never get rest again.

The night reminded him of the time he was quite small, the moments he’d ask his parents if he could walk around in the dark because the sky was pretty and the quiet was comforting. His mother would let him, though when his father learned of it, the boy was forbidden from going on strolls in the dark again. Caspar didn’t think his parents ever discussed that event, as if Nina Kaina didn’t care one way or the other. At least now he knew what the shadows might hide that would make Victor wary of his child perambulating around, even in the Stone Yard. It was that wariness instilled in him that brought Khan to be as silent as Notkin, and he contemplated how different their reasons for cautionary quiet were, despite the end result being the same. Passing by the Town Hall and its statuesque soldiers, catching glimpses of the Commander pacing inside, Khan was left feeling completely empty, the memory of his own soldiers stolen from him fresh but colorless. He truly meant it when he said he’d lost or given up everything he’d ever had. Not even the memories felt his, and he didn’t think he’d have the willpower to keep going if he weren’t walking alongside the one person he refused to forfeit. Watching Notkin out of the corner of his eye, Caspar wondered what he was thinking, though he wasn’t foolish enough to ask.

It was somewhere between Town Hall and the Lump that the quiet transitioned from somewhat promising to deeply unsettling, no longer muffled but silenced, like someone had their grip on the throat of every little creature that could give away lingering dangers. The first sign something was wrong was Notkin stopping dead, tensing up like a cornered animal and shifting his weight evenly on his feet despite his bad leg, masking the disadvantage. A tactical part of Khan’s head supplied to him that it was a decent spot for an ambush, a chokehold between buildings with no gaps to slip through, submerged in the twilight between street lamps. It was a wonder that he probably wouldn’t change any of the strategic decisions employed by the bandits, he thought, noticing how his companion looked back on the path they came from and grimaced at the two men flanking them, though his eyes showed immense despair, the thought of being caught like a fish and gutted before even getting to help those he promised assistance flashing transparently. One in front, two at the back, a pincer maneuver, relying on common people’s initial instinct to run back, picking them off with numbers. If there was one thing to rely on, it was that being surrounded meant the ones at their back were unlikely to see a reason to approach. 

Seeing Notkin slip a hand into his pocket, Khan took his wrist and shook his head, looking down at his own meaningfully. “Tell me it’ll be a warning shot.” Caspar scoffed. “We both know that won’t work. I’ll do you one better.” It was clear his rival did not like the idea, though it felt even worse when the boy looked both ways at the violent strangers slowly closing in and seemed resigned to the thought. The man blocking their way forward approached as Caspar took a step to stand in front of Notkin. “What do you want?”

“The fuck do you think, kid? Everything! Hand over that bag and you might even live until morning.” The bandit wasn’t that much taller, his head wouldn’t be a bad target. Didn’t mean it’d be simple, he thought, slowly removing the knapsack from his back and lifting it up clearly between them with one hand, slipping his other hand in his pocket nonchalantly, trying so hard to portray the foolish aristocrat, as if this meant nothing, as if he didn’t know the danger and saw fit to be a pain in the ass for his own ego. He shook the bag hard enough for the glass inside to clink loudly despite whichever measures he took to prevent it, pulling the hammer of the revolver in his hidden grip and praying this ruse would work, that his scheme would go unheard. “You mean this? Why should I give it to you? I stole this stuff myself.” The most stressful part was seeing Notkin out of the corner of his eye, the boy watching the other two men warily in between charged glances at Khan. Perhaps riling dangerous criminals up wasn’t the smartest idea, though it was better to have them irrationally angry than calm and calculating, otherwise the entire improvised plan would fall apart.

Clearly he was running out of time to calculate, and there was nothing left to plan either. This was where Khan would fail and Notkin thrived: execution. It was also why they had worked well together in the past, and consequently the reason Caspar spent years stumbling in hesitation when he'd lost the one he trusted to put his plans into action. The difference now was that he’d learned to keep pace, and that too was because of the other boy. He never would’ve had the willpower to toss the bag carelessly at his target if not for their years of violent games, where his losses came down to dithering, and Notkin’s to a lack of planning. The impulse to catch the goods outweighed the bandit’s steadfast composure, ensuring an opening for Khan to draw the stolen revolver and pray to the stars above that Lara Ravel had been cleaning and maintaining the old gun for the years it was kept in her pristine desk drawer. If the weapon worked, he wouldn’t miss.

The silence after a gunshot would forever be the deepest, drowning even the quiet of bated breaths and awaiting predators.

Notkin was the first to move after the shot, an adrenaline junkie who’d experienced enough violence to know there was no time to balk as Khan clenched his tingling hand on the gun, ears ringing. While his companion took back their supplies from the cooling corpse, his disturbed expression only lasting as long as a breath, the moment was enough to jolt Khan out of his stupor. It was only when the two other bandits shouted in clear aggression that Caspar saw fit to move, though he leaned down to rifle through his mark’s pockets, a stupid decision but if he was going to end a life he damn well better get something out of it. He only had time to tear a messenger bag from the corpse before Notkin pulled his arm, forcing him to run, clearly holding back some choice words and clenching a shaking hand on Khan’s wrist when he moved to brandish the revolver again at the sound of pursuing steps. Khan barely had the chance to look back before he felt a searing pain at the side of his hip, shallow but radiating, emphasized by the sound of the knife that had been thrown at him falling to the stone street.

He probably should’ve stayed there tonight. Back at the Warehouses with Grief and the mysterious girl, but he couldn’t force himself to. Couldn’t stay under these circumstances, unknowing whether he had survived the slaughter or not.  Arriving back at the Warehouses was a horrible feeling to say nonetheless. The stench of death and decay without any sight of the actual corpses.  Notkin knew where they were, where they had piled them in masses. Yet their smell remained dense in the air. Some of them were burned. Some of them locked in those metal chambers. Some mangled, some… he wrinkled his nose against it. Thick and sweet and foul. The closer he got to his own ‘home’, the stronger the scent of blood. It made him sick, the view of dozens upon dozens of Ashen Swish herbs, blooming in their full glory. The sky reflecting that horrible shade of red for him to see. If he had it in him, he would’ve torn their still-beating hearts from their chests just to revel in the look of surprise on their faces when they finally realized what had happened. Just a few seconds and then they’d die ━ simply perish from the face of this earth. But he was a child and a coward on top of that. Nonetheless, he had finally killed a man today, drenched in his own blood, sweat and vomit. If you could address the water coming out of his lungs as that. When they tried to drown him, tried to rob him of every remaining inch of pride he had left in his meager body. 

A gentle but firm nudge against his bad leg and he stilled. He’d been pawing those piles for a while now. Having made his way into Barley’s now-abandoned Warehouse, he simply couldn’t hold back on dragging every suspicious looking body out of their piles. Be it burned or bloody, anyone that resembled him in the slightest had to be inspected. Had to be looked at until he was a hundred percent sure it wasn’t him they had taken. Some of them were almost impossible to identify. But he knew the moles on his neck, knew the shape of his features. The way his knuckles were bruised at this time of the year or how his hair was shaped even at its most disheveled state. None of these corpses resembled him in the slightest, even if the height was accurate. Or the clothes. Or that stupid pale complexion he was always so concerned about until he finally understood that the porcelain skin was a common trait in his family. 

Notkin snorted, lowering himself until he sat cross-legged on the filthy ground. How ironic it was. How none of his Souls managed to make it out alive and yet he was here, not looking for a survivor among his friends, but…

“He’s not here.”, the boy whispered, resting his hand atop of Jester’s head who had followed him all the way here, petting the feline idly. The wind shifted, and in his somber mind he needed a minute until the realization kicked in. The subtle change of weather bringing him the scent of decay once again, which woke him out of his state against his will. He wished to relish in this newfound knowledge. That somewhere out there, Khan must still be alive. That he made it back home, save, on the Polyhedron. Protected by hundreds of his own army, probably doing way better than he was. Always doing way better than he was. 

The breeze stung, making his eyes water, but he held back. Had he not been so proud. Had he not been so stupid to deny his invitation back into the tower all those years ago. If not for him, they would still be alive. Living their lives inside timeless dreams, but for how long could that make a person happy? If this was the reality he sought out for all those years ago, he felt nothing but regret. He wanted to scream, curse, yet he couldn’t raise his voice. Just the chance of getting heard was reason enough to stay silent. 

All he wanted was to survive. Against all odds, at least until he saw him again. Though he was weak, barely held alive by a miracle. His wounds were closed, yet the loss of blood was still there. He felt lightheaded, his scars remained, both in his mind and on his body. And he was starving. Dehydrated to the point of lightheadedness.  He knew he should go back. Probably ask the older Thief for some bread and water, but how much did Grief really have to share? No, that didn’t seem like the correct answer. But he knew what did. Remembered what Filin told him not too long ago. Just a few days ago when he tried to rob the same man who had now saved his life. 

━ ‘If you ever encounter the chance of starvation, seek out a woman called Ms. Lara Ravel.’

Notkin wondered if the two were friends. He wondered all those days ago, and he was still questioning it right now. How a woman known to be as kind as her had anything to do with Bad Grief. The boy shook his head. Who was he to judge their friendship?  Gasping desperately, Notkin sat up, feeling the cold night air filling up his burning lungs. It was a hard task to regain his composure. At first, he couldn’t do anything else than breathe, just as if he’d been holding his breath for far too long. After some time he finally managed to even his breathing. His throat, however, was still burning with the freezing air and in the hope to warm that air somewhat, Notkin tugged his hand over his mouth. That was when he realized it wasn’t exactly the cold air hurting his throat. But rather the acidic taste of his own stomach, burning, as a warning to him that he was starving.  With shaking legs he finally stood up, uncaring about the uneven, metal surface of the ground. By now he had gotten used to the stench of his rotting friends. To the traces of blood caused by their bodies being dragged inside. He simply traced them to find his way out of the Warehouse, back to the streets.

From then on his legs were more or less dragging him along the rest of the way. It was as if his body shut off his mind. He didn’t bother when the sick grabbed at his clothes as a call for help, didn’t care when some loose bandits tried to plunder him of any possible belongings. Notkin knew they were desperate now. Knew they had lost both Grief and Barley, which was the sole reason as to why they were now running wild. Harassing a single child on the side of the street. They could check his pockets for all they wanted, he had nothing left. And after some mild attempts, they simply tossed him to the side, the only injury caused being a bruise over his left eye that stung, but wasn’t the end of the world. By the time he made it to the Shelter it was far over midnight.  Notkin knew he looked like death, but if that woman was anything as nice as Grief had described her to be, she would help. If she truly knew the man, all he’d have to do was mention his name. He would share whatever she would have to give. Of course he would, he owed it to the man.  He just needed to survive. Both of them needed to survive… for entirely different reasons.  Grief because Notkin felt responsible for him now. As for himself ━

The clock was ticking mercilessly, having both hands pointed in the same direction of twelve. Lara barely managed to leave the study to grab herself a glass, no, a quarter of a glass of water. She still kept testing every new barrel on herself before she gave it to anyone else. She still did not completely collect herself after her the incident experienced a few days prior. She was in a way glad about how invested she was in helping this community even at the cost of her exhaustion. While she was not as drastically tired, she had too many thoughts like these. She took her thick coat, and put it on, feeling its pleasant weight and warmth. She had to lock the back gate for the night anyway. She tried to open an entrance with first a sigh, and then confusion. Did… someone barricade her for any reason?

She tried a stronger push and managed, with a sense of relief, to unlock the doors. When she crossed the threshold, a pair of bloodshot eyes stared at her from below, full of unimaginable pain. Lara jumped a bit at first and gasped once she realized that the creature sitting by her door is not any animal but a boy, a teen, with his face colored by bluish, reddish, yellowish tones. Bruises, not paints, not crayons. A massacred kid. She did not recognize him at all.

“Oh, Mistresses.” - she opened up her door widely, held them like that by placing her feet on the threshold, and reached down to help this child stand up. Once he was leaning on her arm, they entered the Shelter. The boy tried to speak even, but his words just turned into blabber, nonsensical, paused with a sudden gasp for air. “Quiet, quiet, I bet it all hurts. I will take care of it. You do not have to pay me anyhow for this. Quiet. Save the strength.”

Lara guided the redhead gently to her couch. Even bloodied or dirty, seemingly this piece of furniture was still a necessity in her home, which throughout the last, few days, changed into a side-helping hospital unit. This case was an extreme one.

Lara rushed upstairs and stepped gently into the room she placed Caspar in yesterday, for the boy to get some rest. Now his help was needed drastically and he was one of her only actually aware and thinking clearly guests. She did not know whether the boys actually had any contact with each other. The last time she followed the multitude of kids’ social connections was when she was a child herself. This was irrelevant right now. The ginger was dying in her arms as thoughts ran through her brain. She gently shook the youngest of Kains, who was buried in a dream, mumbling something under his nose. Ravel was sure that getting him out of this trance will take a longer moment, yet Caspar woke up immediately, pretty much like he would be used to sleeping only lightly, constantly looking out for danger otherwise.

“Caspar, I need your help immediately. I took in a kid that was laying outside, leaning on Shelter’s door, bruised, hurt, bleeding, and hard to tell what else. I am not a doctor, but he looks to me like he is up for serious patching. Be a dear, take this,” - woman pulled a white, dusty square of fabric into Khan’s hands. “cut it into a few thick bandages, knife is on the desk, then, top left cupboard, I have my last bottle of rubbing alcohol. Fetch me this too. As quickly as you can. I will be downstairs. Go.”

Lara ran back to her surprise guest as fast as she could, already having a damp cloth in her hands, to be able to even assess the wounds. She lit a lamp and placed it on a small table, next to the half-conscious boy’s head. His hair was glued with blood, dried, awfully big amount of blood. She sighed. Dealing with teenage boys always was…something. She hoped that this one will be way too tired to mess with her. His…brown? No, the bluish pullover was soaked with blood. She was scared to even check what was underneath.

“You have to take off your shirt, kid. I promise I will help you, but I am afraid your wounds may be severe. Please, do not put up a fight with this.“

Ginger mumbled something along the lines of “No…the miracle-cle girl, she did a miracle! And I w…my wounds they are closed and healed an..d.”

So… he was delirious. He, and it hit Lara for real this time, strongly, was delirious. But maybe there still was something she could do about it. After her voice sharpening with concern, she finally convinced this kid to unstick a sweaty, purple at this point, sweater from his body. Bruises, so many bruises. Who did this? Who the fuck, did this? Skin broken, torn from the force of the hits. No wonder he saw an angel in his dreams, a miraculous creature. She wanted to take it as a sign of him going to Heaven, just in case. For surviving this bestiality, he deserved to skip any form of purgatory possible.

Lara took, quite hopelessly, the damp cloth and washed off layers, yes, layers of dirt. If not bleeding out, this lad will get gangrene surely. She wiped off as much as she could, expecting the action to reveal a seeping, awful wound, who knows how old. Assessing the amount of blood on the pullover, terribly open. She subconsciously held her breath.

Yet the wound was…sealed. There was a scar, and the edges of a previous cut were visible, however, the cut was sealed. Lara blinked faster.

Then Caspar came, hands occupied by medicaments and improvised bandaids. Boy did a great job, carrying her a forgotten bottle of Grief’s twyrine she once received as a gift. She thanked herself in mind for disliking any alcohol other than mulled wine. This bottle was a life-changer potentially. There was less rubbing alcohol than she anticipated. “Finally. You took some time.” The brunette stared, like he saw a ghost, at a boy who lay there, barely, if at all, conscious of what was happening around him. Ginger was exhausted and currently, she assumed he was peacefully sleeping. She did not want this random kid to die. Not now. Not after surviving this much. “What are you gawking at?! Alcohol, now, one piece of fabric and bring me a cup of water, it is in a barrel I keep in this room most similar to the kitchen.” Kain stood there petrified for a little longer, before heading off along her orders. What was the matter?

Dirt came off much easier with alcohol. She finally managed to clean his face, which revealed bruised eye and another sealed, but visibly fresh, assessing at the blood marks around the edges, and cut on a cheek. Only now Lara could see the boy’s face better. Freckled skin. Emaciated face. This red hair, this determined despite everything expression, even when the boy was there half asleep. If Caspar reminded her of Stakh, then this kid was certainly Grisha she remembered. She was right about her previous feeling: she experienced a deja vu, as she met Filin exactly the same way. A malnourished, homeless, desperate, and heavily wounded kid, knocked hopelessly on Captain Ravel’s door and she insisted that her father will take care of him, insisted enough that her dad went for Isidor, while she was keeping company and tried to patch up her future former friend. This felt the same. This ginger looked like Grisha’s reincarnation. Was her brain playing tricks on her?

Yet everything was real. The pungent smell of boy’s clothes, skin drenched in sweat, misery, blood. She did not have almost any water. After her meticulous check-up, it appeared somehow all the wounds were sealed. It was not anything possible with human hands. If it would be, Stakh would dump a book about it this revolutionary way of healing. But it was not. So…how.?

Using the fact that the ginger was still buried in this weirdly comatose state, she soaked the prepared fabric with twyrine. She hoped the herbal smell will kill this stench, which reminded her of corpses piled up on the streets. She cautiously observed as the muck dissolved, revealing a pale, sickly-looking complexion. Ginger’s eyes were cloudy and he barely reacted to anything other than her guided, softly-spoken ordeals, like “turn slightly left.” She managed to clean up most of the layered schmutz off his scrawny torso and when Caspar came back with a glass of water, she already was taking care of the boy’s lumped locks. She was glad she had Grief’s twyrine. It had almost no sugar added anyhow, high alcohol percentage, and the boy did not smell like a rotting body anymore. Luckily it seemed like the miracle was in fact real. There was no possible medical explanation for this amount of wounds healed, to this amount of internal bleeding endured. Ginger kept breathing steadily, although shallowly, quickly. He still seemed to have no clue about his surroundings.

Yet the Doghead’s leader stared at him, stared at the pile of brown, red, and grey cloths, used to wipe as much misery as possible out of this kid. He looked at him while helping Lara with anything she ordered, while she was tucking him in the blanket, all of this while presenting atypical for his porcelain visage deep concern. Ravel now was sure they knew each other and after the instant, drastic fear for the ginger’s life faded out, she felt slightly bad for treating Caspar this harshly with her ordeals.

While her visitor recharged, she asked her “assistant” to guard him for a while, when she went to pick for him one of her father’s old sweaters. Light green. Perfect. She forgot it was there. Perhaps it was waiting for this boy. Color of luck. Color of hope. She found some old trousers she sew as a teenager for Stakh, which turned out too short for her friend. Somehow she collected an entire, complete outfit that could gift this boy any source of freshness after what happened to him.

When she came back with clothes all folded, Caspar remained in an unchanged position, with a subtle frown directed at this rag-doll urchin. Lara joined him, and they both were staring worryingly at the redhead’s face now, sometimes unintentionally exchanging looks, awaiting any more significant reaction. Eventually, Lara tapped her newest visitor’s cheek gently.

“Hey, you… Hey you, do you understand what am I saying? You are safe, you will live, but you have to drink this water-”

Caspar dreamt of tragedies in times of peace and of comfort in times of havoc. It’d been this way all his life, as if his restless mind sought to invent threats where there were none, whilst presenting him with pleasant reveries to facilitate his willpower when distraught. Sweet dreams rarely lasted after wakefulness embittered their taste, so when he awoke in the borrowed room in the Shelter to a harried hostess, he could only mildly feel his comfort sour as the last dregs of warmth escaped the grasp of his mind. Bandages replaced the feeling of worn cotton and leather on his fingertips, and as he searched for the requested alcohol, its sharp and pungently sterile smell chased away the lingering scent of grass and smoke. Maybe it was for the best. It took too long for Caspar to accomplish his given task, the thought of who he’d be helping to tend to fraying the more he pulled at it, unraveling into a childishly foolish hope that he’d walk downstairs to stand before one specific person once again. A harsher thought dampened his optimism, refusing to entertain the notion that Notkin would ever be reduced to merely “a kid” laying half-dead at the doorstep of Lara Ravel.

No amount of time spent wearing down his conflicting thoughts could’ve truly prepared him for the sight awaiting him when Caspar sought to deliver the requested items to the lady of the house. Khan would take it to his grave, but he could recognize Notkin with nary a glance, despite the mud and blood obfuscating his skin, hiding scars he could map out like constellations seen from the top of the Polyhedron. It wasn’t a rational or explainable thing, he could just tell with the ease one would have for differentiating their own hands even if they were mirrored, the one instinct he trusted more than rationale. Caspar was a bit glad to be ordered around, else he imagined he’d be liable to simply stare and let the turmoil within him fester until Notkin inevitably awoke and set fire to his insides just to see him burn. The boy listed words in his own head as he fetched the requested glass of water, if only to avoid putting names to corpses, to put off the need to sort his emotions. Incendiary, smoke, fire, smother, snuffed, death. His hand tightened on the glass. Warm, bright, wild, free, alive.

His forgotten dream clashed with wicked reality when the scent of smoke and alcohol greeted him in what was now essentially a makeshift hospice. Bruised and unconscious, his old rival’s unmoving form was nearly devoid of grime, and the view stabbed into Caspar’s heart with how wrong it felt to see him still, vulnerable, defeated. There were infinite ways to describe the discomfort prompted by the sight of Notkin, and when Lara Ravel left the room, he was left to wonder if any words could convey anything about the situation without seeming reductive by nature. Khan held his ground and simply watched the other boy’s breathing, wondering what he would do if it stopped for good right in front of his eyes, pondering if it would be better or worse for his sanity to be present in that moment, to bear witness to the end of Notkin’s life. Caspar thought if such a thing came to pass, his own would end as well, for better or for worse. It simply didn’t register as possible for his existence to somehow supersede Notkin’s. His hand itched to reach out and feel the livelihood of his companion, a baffling and mortifying desire to alleviate the burdened expression on his face somehow, perhaps thread his fingers on Notkin’s hair under the guise of making sure their hostess had truly removed all the dirt from it.

Caspar was glad for the paralysis when Lara Ravel came back to find him unmoved, and he was endlessly grateful to not be prompted on how much this was affecting him. He was very aware of how suspicious his reaction to this event seemed, but there was no recovery for his composure. When the woman gently brought Notkin into consciousness, seconds after he gathered his bearings, their eyes met, and Caspar felt vindicated to see the other boy react visibly, like striking a match near spilled oil. He was not at all proud of the words that spilled out of his mouth next. “You look like shit.” He wasn’t surprised to be hit lightly with the change of clothes Lara had fetched, and the gesture seemed entirely familiar to her, almost subconscious or habitual. Caspar was instead startled by the grounded maternity of the action, entirely foreign to him in the subdued bearing of his own family. Beyond that, he felt appropriately chastised to be addressed by his name, which only served to baffle him more.

In an attempt to salvage his own pride in front of the adult whose home he was seeking shelter in, Caspar ignored Notkin momentarily to direct his next words to Lara. “Miss Ravel, I’m sure this situation was quite distressing to you and you’ve certainly had a long day…” A long lifetime, more like; caring for people so diligently. “Feel free to go rest, I can watch him for now. If you’d like me to, I’ll call you should any issues arise, seeing as we’re both imposing on your hospitality.” Caspar wasn’t surprised at the slight skepticism on her face, but he was disturbed to see that her expression softened as she looked between him and Notkin. He felt his face redden and his mouth open to raise a protest, but he found there was nothing to reasonably counter in the gesture. “…It’s not like he’s in a position to steal anything in his state, and I’d hardly be fool enough to rob the person who so graciously opened the door to her home to me.”

The cold was more bearable here. Though it made him wonder how long he’d been freezing exactly. If anything, this must’ve been the most comfort he had for a long time. Maybe even his entire life. 

With his throbbing eye grating on the cotton surface of the pillow, Notkin winced and blinked his vision into enough focus to recognize the boy in front of him, a surprisingly pleasant view after all he’d seen for the past day. For a moment all he could fathom was to stare at the boy, eyes plastered on the pale surface of his skin, flawless, devoid of any scars or impurities like his own. He couldn’t help himself when he gazed further up to meet his eyes, which for once didn’t greet him with their usual blank expression. He hadn’t seen this much emotion in them for years. Whatever came next hit him like a wave. He felt like a child again. Not a teen but much younger. When times were simpler and it didn’t hurt to share the presence of someone who used to be so dear to him. When there was no shame in admitting they cared for each other. When reaching out to grab his hand wouldn’t cause doubt in their entire rivalry. 

For a moment he thought he’d choke on it all. He would’ve pulled him for a hug if things weren’t so difficult. If he knew his dependance wasn’t one-sided. And he’d ask him why he was here, so far from the better side of town. So far from where human lives actually mattered. Yet before he could express a single word, the light above shifted, making him reconsider his choices. Those eyes weren’t his anymore. They were, in a sense, but they’d seen so much, enough to change them forever. Neither of them should have been entrusted with so much responsibility. And the more that happened, the more it made him realise. 

They were just kids.

Had Khan been through something similar that day? Had he lost something akin to what the Souls were to him? Notkin could feel his throat tighten before he swallowed.

Only then did his mind allow him to form coherent thoughts. He must’ve slept, and dreamed. He remembered muttering a few words he could no longer remember. Kind hands combing through his matted hair the way his mother did in his dreams, taking care of his many leftover bruises. Was this the friend Filin spoke about? Were they close? Notkin wondered about their shared past, about the reason a thug like Bad Grief would be friends with such a kind woman. He vaguely remembered her name as memories started flooding back to him. Slowly lifting one of his hands he traced the now clean surface of his face. Blood no longer trickled down his upper lip, nor was there an uncomfortable trail of dried flakes in its place. How long was he gone for? Judging from the view outside, not too long. It was still night, the same awful atmosphere still clung on the air and whatever weight was pulling on his stomach would not reside. The ginger took a deep breath as he lost his train of thoughts again, noticing his disability to focus. His entire body felt weak as he attempted to move. Notkin realised he was starving. 

When Khan raised his voice he couldn’t help but smirk, feeling the same awkward affection that’d usually make him challenge the boy to a fight. The ginger didn’t hesitate when he clenched his hand into a fist, giving the other boy a soft punch against his arm.   “You care an awful lot about a mere ‘fool’ then.” Sinking back into his pillow he rested for a brief moment before continuing his words. “Besides… I didn’t choose to fight. Not this time. Don’t mistake me for a fool, I know when it’s best to run.”  The more he spoke, the more his voice fell into a triste tone. Images of the night prior flooded his head when all he wanted was to forget. Khan had no business in this, there was no use burdening him with any of it. He didn’t have to know, he didn’t-

A low grumble tore him out of his thoughts, startling him in the process. With his eyes wide he looked up at the boy, cheeks flushing to a deep red.

Right… right. 

“I need to stock up on food.” Not just food, resources. Wasn’t this the entire reason behind the visit? Filin was probably starving back at the warehouses. Rations had been sparse over there the entire week, up to a point where he even expected Bad Grief’s resources to run out. Not only that, one of his few remaining friends laid there, wounded. Clara was bleeding out while Notkin got his bruises and scratches patched up. The cruelty of it all was too much for the boy.

Frailty had always been something Caspar struggled with, so it hurt his heart more than his arm to feel how weak Notkin’s punch was, despite knowing it wasn’t a serious strike anyway. It felt exhausted, eroded by the climate of the town in all these endless days, resigned to weakness, yet still determined enough to try. A fool. Khan mumbled in response, not trying to be heard, just muttering to himself as he was wont to do. “Yes, I care an awful lot… More than anything, probably.” At Notkin’s following words, he felt a bit insulted at the thought. “Lived to fight another day. I do trust you to know your limits, don’t make it seem as though I don’t. I’d never underestimate you, it’d be my downfall.” Not that he hadn’t already fallen anyway. He smiled bitterly, staring at the distance between his hand and Notkin’s, wondering if he’d ever choose to close the gap. Notkin certainly wouldn’t even if he did correspond whichever superfluous feelings rooted themselves in Khan’s chest. 

There was no way to know precisely when Notkin had become the most important person in his life, someone with a radically different past, whose ideals clashed with his at times, what kind of turn of fate brought him to need someone who infuriated him so. Then again, every time he posed himself the question, endless memories of admirable qualities and actions that left him in awe would follow, and Caspar would lose his train of thought to daydreams. These days he hoped that if he died, it’d be in his sleep, so that he could at least be certain Notkin would be there. He always dreamed of dying before Notkin, and his nightmares always depicted the opposite. 

He was snapped out of his thoughts by something mundane, as it always came to be. This time, it was Notkin’s stomach growling, and Caspar was almost ready to make a snide comment before he took note of the flush on the boy’s face, the embarrassment of having your body betray your thoughts. It would be endearing if Notkin didn’t immediately sit up and start tearing at his bandages like an unruly stray. Khan clicked his tongue and took Notkin’s wrists in his hands, leaning down to look sternly at his rival’s anxious eyes, unfocused as he probably thought of the million other things he’d rather be doing instead of resting. Instead of sharing breath in the same room as Khan. “Don’t be stupid, I know you’re smarter than this, I’ve seen it firsthand.” He looked down at Lara’s ruined work, the bandages frayed from pulling, unravelled and already stained from wounds treated too roughly. Someone so kind being so uncaring of themselves felt wrong, unjust. Whichever righteousness he’d usually feel seemed wasted on this occasion.

Caspar sighed, feeling deeply saddened by the whole affair. “You don’t have to stay here any longer than tonight, but you do need time to rest and recover.” He looked back up into Notkin’s eyes, though it was hard to keep focus when his thoughts were so melancholy. “If I’m the problem, I’ll leave. I can fetch Miss Ravel for you, though I’d rather let her rest. I’ll bring you as much food as you want, you can even keep it and tell her I stole it. I don’t care, just stop hurting yourself. I know you don’t care about yourself, but I do…” He trailed off before being brought back to focus by the shaking of Notkin’s hands. “For now be quiet. Please. Let me fix these bandages, get you food and water, then I’ll stop imposing.” 

He nearly snapped when Khan mentioned being unwanted. How dare he imply such a thing. Notkin’s face carried something akin to betrayal. They’ve always been equals despite their differences. Never had Khan made him feel like less, even when he turned his back on him. Even when his army was ten, no, twenty times larger than what Notkin used to call his scouts. There was a pause in his words before he reached for his wrists, making Notkin’s hands tremble in place. Notkin did nothing but stare down on them, realising the state of his mess. Visible shame plastered itself on his face when Khan reached out to renew his bandages, wasting even more of the valuable resources on his body. None of his little injuries could be compared to what Clara carried on her body. Why didn’t she use those powers on herself? Why did Filin suddenly care enough to help him? And why did Notkin do something as foolish as to rip those expensive bandages from his body. He should’ve known bettert. Though he never thought these things through once he was agitated. And right now, he was needed elsewhere. As much as he wanted to stay, talk and reassure Khan of how wrong he was in his conceptions, he couldn’t. When the boy leaned back the same trembling hands tried to reach out to him, only to be dropped on the blanket when he heard his next words. 

Notkin was still trying to process the apologies when his words came out on their own. “You’re not imposing.”, was all he managed to say. Notkin felt like an abandoned mutt left at a stranger’s doorstep. Forcing the poor tenants to take care of him while they could spend their food and bandages on people who actually mattered. Not a nameless orphan like him. A healer like Clara, a thug… no, a merchant like Filin. His eyes darted through the room as he tried to banish those thoughts. Khan never liked it when he spoke of himself that way. He always knew his death would leave no impact. He always knew he’d die as a child. Which is why he wanted to be free. Live a short, but fulfilling life, without abiding by anyone’s rules. And it worked, his goddamn plan worked for a while. Until it didn’t. He wasn’t cut out to be a leader and he most certainly shouldn’t have left. If not for him, those kids would be still alive. He would be on that stupid tower. Following the commands of the same toddler who banished him two years ago. The memory of it still being a bitter one.

He was the only one to blame for this.

“I can’t stay here.” The ginger gritted his teeth to sound as stern as possible. He looked up at his rival, eyes filled with determination. And the more he looked, the more he realised how much it hurt. Something had changed, he couldn’t recall the last time Khan reflected the pain on his face, the fire in his eyes. He felt certain the boy wouldn’t let him go and in a way, it made him feel cared for. Notkin wished to drown in that feeling, to surround himself with it forever. Though he knew it wouldn’t last. Not for him, at least. None of that care would ever belong to him. Only today did he learn he had long accepted the future written out for the two of them. Maybe it was part of growing up.

“My friends are dying, one from fatigue, heavily wounded. The other needs food. I can’t stay here with you. As much as I want to, I can’t- “

There was a crack in his voice that made him straighten his posture. Once again he was in the process of pushing himself up on the side of the bed, meeting Khan face-to-face. 

“I’ll come back here, if you want me to. I’ll be back, but I have to help them.” His words were starting to sound like pleas. He couldn’t abandon the girl who had saved his life, the man who had fought for him. Yet on the other hand, he didn’t want Khan to think he didn’t care. Notkin realised the childishness of his inner conflict. To yearn for the appreciation of someone he should detest while asking the very same person to allow him to leave. There was no way Khan was holding him back physically. Everything was starting to feel like a bad dream. 

Derision was a funny thing to see on Notkin’s face, especially when he was righteously angered by something as simple as someone else being insecure. Perhaps that was the trait Caspar resented most in him; his propensity for hypocrisy in this one regard always caused the boy to blindly forfeit his own value in favor of another’s worth. Even then, such trivial things could be ignored in favor of focusing on the crisis at hand, if only Notkin wouldn’t use this skewed thought process to justify a suicide mission for the sake of others. And it hurt Khan. It hurt, damn it. 

What was the point of implied affection, even in such a veiled and antagonistic way, if in the end everyone who seemed to love him would always favor their other affairs? He was never anyone’s first choice. Nina Kaina was not a mother, she was a force of nature, her love was like standing in a storm trying to catch the raindrops in cupped hands. Victor Kain spent too many years of Caspar’s childhood drowning in either complete infatuation with his mother or grief at her loss. Maria admired their mother so much, she was already an ice statue before Caspar knew how to speak. He had always been an imposition at home, so he left. “Of course you can’t stay.” Neither could Khan, at the time, chasing dreams. In the end, he was doomed to follow his father’s steps, enamored with someone too wild to be kept and too ephemeral to stay by his side.

He knew he was about to let a dream slip away as he watched the softness of his rival’s expression slowly be replaced with anguish, resignation echoed by his words. “And you? No fatigue? Flawless skin, unmarred? So the bandages were wasted, then?” He knew the words would strike wrong, the meaning twisted in the short distance between them, but an immature impulse he’d buried with the ignored child he once was reared its head. “I hallucinated your hunger as well, then? You’re a made-up dream of mine. A bad dream, one where I can’t even pretend to have you. Safe. Have you safe.” He stuttered and blinked away the heat behind his eyes, knowing how much of a demanding brat he seemed. Lost all his toy soldiers and ran away from home in a tantrum, grasping at a comfort blanket that snagged in the thistles, torn beyond repair. His expression would bring shame to the ineffable Kain name, but he’d wanted to renounce it ever since learning what it meant. “Liar. You won’t come back. You can’t possibly promise me that. You’re running out to save people in just as much trouble as you are, in the middle of the night. You, a child, malnourished, grievously wounded. Have you decades of experience like Grief? Do you work miracles like Clara?” Irrational anger, one that locked his jaw and curled his fingers on the damn rumpled blanket, blinking as he looked at Notkin, trying desperately not to completely snap. He simply stared, registering all the turmoil he caused with each word, each shade of pain and sadness in Notkin’s eyes dousing whatever wicked flame had fueled Khan.

In the end, the same person who could stir his temper so easily was the one he couldn’t stand to be mad at directly. Khan felt his shoulders drop, like the elastic in his body snapped, a ball-jointed doll like his sister’s, the ones he used to steal to play with until she slapped him for it. He only stole them because he’d been too afraid of his stern parents to ask for his own. The porcelain had broken and she’d let him keep the pieces, her little lady fingers clenched on their mother’s skirt, glaring at him from the folds of cloth as the matron looked down disappointedly in him while he cut his fingers on the sharp shards. He knew exactly how to string a doll internally ever since that day.

“If I don’t hate you after all this time, how could I ever?” Caspar closed his eyes and just let his head drop onto Notkin’s shoulder, resisting the urge to let go of his tears and allow them to mingle with the blood on the bandages, not wanting to make Notkin's wounds sting any more. “No, I won’t hate you. I’ll hate myself if I don’t go with you. That’s it. I can’t ask you to stay, I never could. I’ll run after you, I’ll do it my whole life, I’ll chase you to an early grave. That’s it.” It sounded so simple to him. So perfectly destructive. Blissful. “That’s all.” Repetition was always one of his vices. A broken record, an artifact of having a weak voice once upon a time, a remnant of going unheard.

He probably should’ve stayed there tonight. Back at the Warehouses with Grief and the mysterious girl, but he couldn’t force himself to. Couldn’t stay under these circumstances, unknowing whether he had survived the slaughter or not.  Arriving back at the Warehouses was a horrible feeling to say nonetheless. The stench of death and decay without any sight of the actual corpses.  Notkin knew where they were, where they had piled them in masses. Yet their smell remained dense in the air. Some of them were burned. Some of them locked in those metal chambers. Some mangled, some… he wrinkled his nose against it. Thick and sweet and foul. The closer he got to his own ‘home’, the stronger the scent of blood. It made him sick, the view of dozens upon dozens of Ashen Swish herbs, blooming in their full glory. The sky reflecting that horrible shade of red for him to see. If he had it in him, he would’ve torn their still-beating hearts from their chests just to revel in the look of surprise on their faces when they finally realized what had happened. Just a few seconds and then they’d die ━ simply perish from the face of this earth. But he was a child and a coward on top of that. Nonetheless, he had finally killed a man today, drenched in his own blood, sweat and vomit. If you could address the water coming out of his lungs as that. When they tried to drown him, tried to rob him of every remaining inch of pride he had left in his meager body. 

A gentle but firm nudge against his bad leg and he stilled. He’d been pawing those piles for a while now. Having made his way into Barley’s now-abandoned Warehouse, he simply couldn’t hold back on dragging every suspicious looking body out of their piles. Be it burned or bloody, anyone that resembled him in the slightest had to be inspected. Had to be looked at until he was a hundred percent sure it wasn’t him they had taken. Some of them were almost impossible to identify. But he knew the moles on his neck, knew the shape of his features. The way his knuckles were bruised at this time of the year or how his hair was shaped even at its most disheveled state. None of these corpses resembled him in the slightest, even if the height was accurate. Or the clothes. Or that stupid pale complexion he was always so concerned about until he finally understood that the porcelain skin was a common trait in his family. 

Notkin snorted, lowering himself until he sat cross-legged on the filthy ground. How ironic it was. How none of his Souls managed to make it out alive and yet he was here, not looking for a survivor among his friends, but…

“He’s not here.”, the boy whispered, resting his hand atop of Jester’s head who had followed him all the way here, petting the feline idly. The wind shifted, and in his somber mind he needed a minute until the realization kicked in. The subtle change of weather bringing him the scent of decay once again, which woke him out of his state against his will. He wished to relish in this newfound knowledge. That somewhere out there, Khan must still be alive. That he made it back home, save, on the Polyhedron. Protected by hundreds of his own army, probably doing way better than he was. Always doing way better than he was. 

The breeze stung, making his eyes water, but he held back. Had he not been so proud. Had he not been so stupid to deny his invitation back into the tower all those years ago. If not for him, they would still be alive. Living their lives inside timeless dreams, but for how long could that make a person happy? If this was the reality he sought out for all those years ago, he felt nothing but regret. He wanted to scream, curse, yet he couldn’t raise his voice. Just the chance of getting heard was reason enough to stay silent. 

All he wanted was to survive. Against all odds, at least until he saw him again. Though he was weak, barely held alive by a miracle. His wounds were closed, yet the loss of blood was still there. He felt lightheaded, his scars remained, both in his mind and on his body. And he was starving. Dehydrated to the point of lightheadedness.  He knew he should go back. Probably ask the older Thief for some bread and water, but how much did Grief really have to share? No, that didn’t seem like the correct answer. But he knew what did. Remembered what Filin told him not too long ago. Just a few days ago when he tried to rob the same man who had now saved his life. 

━ ‘If you ever encounter the chance of starvation, seek out a woman called Ms. Lara Ravel.’

Notkin wondered if the two were friends. He wondered all those days ago, and he was still questioning it right now. How a woman known to be as kind as her had anything to do with Bad Grief. The boy shook his head. Who was he to judge their friendship?  Gasping desperately, Notkin sat up, feeling the cold night air filling up his burning lungs. It was a hard task to regain his composure. At first, he couldn’t do anything else than breathe, just as if he’d been holding his breath for far too long. After some time he finally managed to even his breathing. His throat, however, was still burning with the freezing air and in the hope to warm that air somewhat, Notkin tugged his hand over his mouth. That was when he realized it wasn’t exactly the cold air hurting his throat. But rather the acidic taste of his own stomach, burning, as a warning to him that he was starving.  With shaking legs he finally stood up, uncaring about the uneven, metal surface of the ground. By now he had gotten used to the stench of his rotting friends. To the traces of blood caused by their bodies being dragged inside. He simply traced them to find his way out of the Warehouse, back to the streets.

From then on his legs were more or less dragging him along the rest of the way. It was as if his body shut off his mind. He didn’t bother when the sick grabbed at his clothes as a call for help, didn’t care when some loose bandits tried to plunder him of any possible belongings. Notkin knew they were desperate now. Knew they had lost both Grief and Barley, which was the sole reason as to why they were now running wild. Harassing a single child on the side of the street. They could check his pockets for all they wanted, he had nothing left. And after some mild attempts, they simply tossed him to the side, the only injury caused being a bruise over his left eye that stung, but wasn’t the end of the world. By the time he made it to the Shelter it was far over midnight.  Notkin knew he looked like death, but if that woman was anything as nice as Grief had described her to be, she would help. If she truly knew the man, all he’d have to do was mention his name. He would share whatever she would have to give. Of course he would, he owed it to the man.  He just needed to survive. Both of them needed to survive… for entirely different reasons.  Grief because Notkin felt responsible for him now. As for himself ━

The clock was ticking mercilessly, having both hands pointed in the same direction of twelve. Lara barely managed to leave the study to grab herself a glass, no, a quarter of a glass of water. She still kept testing every new barrel on herself before she gave it to anyone else. She still did not completely collect herself after her the incident experienced a few days prior. She was in a way glad about how invested she was in helping this community even at the cost of her exhaustion. While she was not as drastically tired, she had too many thoughts like these. She took her thick coat, and put it on, feeling its pleasant weight and warmth. She had to lock the back gate for the night anyway. She tried to open an entrance with first a sigh, and then confusion. Did… someone barricade her for any reason?

She tried a stronger push and managed, with a sense of relief, to unlock the doors. When she crossed the threshold, a pair of bloodshot eyes stared at her from below, full of unimaginable pain. Lara jumped a bit at first and gasped once she realized that the creature sitting by her door is not any animal but a boy, a teen, with his face colored by bluish, reddish, yellowish tones. Bruises, not paints, not crayons. A massacred kid. She did not recognize him at all.

“Oh, Mistresses.” - she opened up her door widely, held them like that by placing her feet on the threshold, and reached down to help this child stand up. Once he was leaning on her arm, they entered the Shelter. The boy tried to speak even, but his words just turned into blabber, nonsensical, paused with a sudden gasp for air. “Quiet, quiet, I bet it all hurts. I will take care of it. You do not have to pay me anyhow for this. Quiet. Save the strength.”

Lara guided the redhead gently to her couch. Even bloodied or dirty, seemingly this piece of furniture was still a necessity in her home, which throughout the last, few days, changed into a side-helping hospital unit. This case was an extreme one.

Lara rushed upstairs and stepped gently into the room she placed Caspar in yesterday, for the boy to get some rest. Now his help was needed drastically and he was one of her only actually aware and thinking clearly guests. She did not know whether the boys actually had any contact with each other. The last time she followed the multitude of kids’ social connections was when she was a child herself. This was irrelevant right now. The ginger was dying in her arms as thoughts ran through her brain. She gently shook the youngest of Kains, who was buried in a dream, mumbling something under his nose. Ravel was sure that getting him out of this trance will take a longer moment, yet Caspar woke up immediately, pretty much like he would be used to sleeping only lightly, constantly looking out for danger otherwise.

“Caspar, I need your help immediately. I took in a kid that was laying outside, leaning on Shelter’s door, bruised, hurt, bleeding, and hard to tell what else. I am not a doctor, but he looks to me like he is up for serious patching. Be a dear, take this,” - woman pulled a white, dusty square of fabric into Khan’s hands. “cut it into a few thick bandages, knife is on the desk, then, top left cupboard, I have my last bottle of rubbing alcohol. Fetch me this too. As quickly as you can. I will be downstairs. Go.”

Lara ran back to her surprise guest as fast as she could, already having a damp cloth in her hands, to be able to even assess the wounds. She lit a lamp and placed it on a small table, next to the half-conscious boy’s head. His hair was glued with blood, dried, awfully big amount of blood. She sighed. Dealing with teenage boys always was…something. She hoped that this one will be way too tired to mess with her. His…brown? No, the bluish pullover was soaked with blood. She was scared to even check what was underneath.

“You have to take off your shirt, kid. I promise I will help you, but I am afraid your wounds may be severe. Please, do not put up a fight with this.“

Ginger mumbled something along the lines of “No…the miracle-cle girl, she did a miracle! And I w…my wounds they are closed and healed an..d.”

So… he was delirious. He, and it hit Lara for real this time, strongly, was delirious. But maybe there still was something she could do about it. After her voice sharpening with concern, she finally convinced this kid to unstick a sweaty, purple at this point, sweater from his body. Bruises, so many bruises. Who did this? Who the fuck, did this? Skin broken, torn from the force of the hits. No wonder he saw an angel in his dreams, a miraculous creature. She wanted to take it as a sign of him going to Heaven, just in case. For surviving this bestiality, he deserved to skip any form of purgatory possible.

Lara took, quite hopelessly, the damp cloth and washed off layers, yes, layers of dirt. If not bleeding out, this lad will get gangrene surely. She wiped off as much as she could, expecting the action to reveal a seeping, awful wound, who knows how old. Assessing the amount of blood on the pullover, terribly open. She subconsciously held her breath.

Yet the wound was…sealed. There was a scar, and the edges of a previous cut were visible, however, the cut was sealed. Lara blinked faster.

Then Caspar came, hands occupied by medicaments and improvised bandaids. Boy did a great job, carrying her a forgotten bottle of Grief’s twyrine she once received as a gift. She thanked herself in mind for disliking any alcohol other than mulled wine. This bottle was a life-changer potentially. There was less rubbing alcohol than she anticipated. “Finally. You took some time.” The brunette stared, like he saw a ghost, at a boy who lay there, barely, if at all, conscious of what was happening around him. Ginger was exhausted and currently, she assumed he was peacefully sleeping. She did not want this random kid to die. Not now. Not after surviving this much. “What are you gawking at?! Alcohol, now, one piece of fabric and bring me a cup of water, it is in a barrel I keep in this room most similar to the kitchen.” Kain stood there petrified for a little longer, before heading off along her orders. What was the matter?

Dirt came off much easier with alcohol. She finally managed to clean his face, which revealed bruised eye and another sealed, but visibly fresh, assessing at the blood marks around the edges, and cut on a cheek. Only now Lara could see the boy’s face better. Freckled skin. Emaciated face. This red hair, this determined despite everything expression, even when the boy was there half asleep. If Caspar reminded her of Stakh, then this kid was certainly Grisha she remembered. She was right about her previous feeling: she experienced a deja vu, as she met Filin exactly the same way. A malnourished, homeless, desperate, and heavily wounded kid, knocked hopelessly on Captain Ravel’s door and she insisted that her father will take care of him, insisted enough that her dad went for Isidor, while she was keeping company and tried to patch up her future former friend. This felt the same. This ginger looked like Grisha’s reincarnation. Was her brain playing tricks on her?

Yet everything was real. The pungent smell of boy’s clothes, skin drenched in sweat, misery, blood. She did not have almost any water. After her meticulous check-up, it appeared somehow all the wounds were sealed. It was not anything possible with human hands. If it would be, Stakh would dump a book about it this revolutionary way of healing. But it was not. So…how.?

Using the fact that the ginger was still buried in this weirdly comatose state, she soaked the prepared fabric with twyrine. She hoped the herbal smell will kill this stench, which reminded her of corpses piled up on the streets. She cautiously observed as the muck dissolved, revealing a pale, sickly-looking complexion. Ginger’s eyes were cloudy and he barely reacted to anything other than her guided, softly-spoken ordeals, like “turn slightly left.” She managed to clean up most of the layered schmutz off his scrawny torso and when Caspar came back with a glass of water, she already was taking care of the boy’s lumped locks. She was glad she had Grief’s twyrine. It had almost no sugar added anyhow, high alcohol percentage, and the boy did not smell like a rotting body anymore. Luckily it seemed like the miracle was in fact real. There was no possible medical explanation for this amount of wounds healed, to this amount of internal bleeding endured. Ginger kept breathing steadily, although shallowly, quickly. He still seemed to have no clue about his surroundings.

Yet the Doghead’s leader stared at him, stared at the pile of brown, red, and grey cloths, used to wipe as much misery as possible out of this kid. He looked at him while helping Lara with anything she ordered, while she was tucking him in the blanket, all of this while presenting atypical for his porcelain visage deep concern. Ravel now was sure they knew each other and after the instant, drastic fear for the ginger’s life faded out, she felt slightly bad for treating Caspar this harshly with her ordeals.

While her visitor recharged, she asked her “assistant” to guard him for a while, when she went to pick for him one of her father’s old sweaters. Light green. Perfect. She forgot it was there. Perhaps it was waiting for this boy. Color of luck. Color of hope. She found some old trousers she sew as a teenager for Stakh, which turned out too short for her friend. Somehow she collected an entire, complete outfit that could gift this boy any source of freshness after what happened to him.

When she came back with clothes all folded, Caspar remained in an unchanged position, with a subtle frown directed at this rag-doll urchin. Lara joined him, and they both were staring worryingly at the redhead’s face now, sometimes unintentionally exchanging looks, awaiting any more significant reaction. Eventually, Lara tapped her newest visitor’s cheek gently.

“Hey, you… Hey you, do you understand what am I saying? You are safe, you will live, but you have to drink this water-”

Caspar dreamt of tragedies in times of peace and of comfort in times of havoc. It’d been this way all his life, as if his restless mind sought to invent threats where there were none, whilst presenting him with pleasant reveries to facilitate his willpower when distraught. Sweet dreams rarely lasted after wakefulness embittered their taste, so when he awoke in the borrowed room in the Shelter to a harried hostess, he could only mildly feel his comfort sour as the last dregs of warmth escaped the grasp of his mind. Bandages replaced the feeling of worn cotton and leather on his fingertips, and as he searched for the requested alcohol, its sharp and pungently sterile smell chased away the lingering scent of grass and smoke. Maybe it was for the best. It took too long for Caspar to accomplish his given task, the thought of who he’d be helping to tend to fraying the more he pulled at it, unraveling into a childishly foolish hope that he’d walk downstairs to stand before one specific person once again. A harsher thought dampened his optimism, refusing to entertain the notion that Notkin would ever be reduced to merely “a kid” laying half-dead at the doorstep of Lara Ravel.

No amount of time spent wearing down his conflicting thoughts could’ve truly prepared him for the sight awaiting him when Caspar sought to deliver the requested items to the lady of the house. Khan would take it to his grave, but he could recognize Notkin with nary a glance, despite the mud and blood obfuscating his skin, hiding scars he could map out like constellations seen from the top of the Polyhedron. It wasn’t a rational or explainable thing, he could just tell with the ease one would have for differentiating their own hands even if they were mirrored, the one instinct he trusted more than rationale. Caspar was a bit glad to be ordered around, else he imagined he’d be liable to simply stare and let the turmoil within him fester until Notkin inevitably awoke and set fire to his insides just to see him burn. The boy listed words in his own head as he fetched the requested glass of water, if only to avoid putting names to corpses, to put off the need to sort his emotions. Incendiary, smoke, fire, smother, snuffed, death. His hand tightened on the glass. Warm, bright, wild, free, alive.

His forgotten dream clashed with wicked reality when the scent of smoke and alcohol greeted him in what was now essentially a makeshift hospice. Bruised and unconscious, his old rival’s unmoving form was nearly devoid of grime, and the view stabbed into Caspar’s heart with how wrong it felt to see him still, vulnerable, defeated. There were infinite ways to describe the discomfort prompted by the sight of Notkin, and when Lara Ravel left the room, he was left to wonder if any words could convey anything about the situation without seeming reductive by nature. Khan held his ground and simply watched the other boy’s breathing, wondering what he would do if it stopped for good right in front of his eyes, pondering if it would be better or worse for his sanity to be present in that moment, to bear witness to the end of Notkin’s life. Caspar thought if such a thing came to pass, his own would end as well, for better or for worse. It simply didn’t register as possible for his existence to somehow supersede Notkin’s. His hand itched to reach out and feel the livelihood of his companion, a baffling and mortifying desire to alleviate the burdened expression on his face somehow, perhaps thread his fingers on Notkin’s hair under the guise of making sure their hostess had truly removed all the dirt from it.

Caspar was glad for the paralysis when Lara Ravel came back to find him unmoved, and he was endlessly grateful to not be prompted on how much this was affecting him. He was very aware of how suspicious his reaction to this event seemed, but there was no recovery for his composure. When the woman gently brought Notkin into consciousness, seconds after he gathered his bearings, their eyes met, and Caspar felt vindicated to see the other boy react visibly, like striking a match near spilled oil. He was not at all proud of the words that spilled out of his mouth next. “You look like shit.” He wasn’t surprised to be hit lightly with the change of clothes Lara had fetched, and the gesture seemed entirely familiar to her, almost subconscious or habitual. Caspar was instead startled by the grounded maternity of the action, entirely foreign to him in the subdued bearing of his own family. Beyond that, he felt appropriately chastised to be addressed by his name, which only served to baffle him more.

In an attempt to salvage his own pride in front of the adult whose home he was seeking shelter in, Caspar ignored Notkin momentarily to direct his next words to Lara. “Miss Ravel, I’m sure this situation was quite distressing to you and you’ve certainly had a long day…” A long lifetime, more like; caring for people so diligently. “Feel free to go rest, I can watch him for now. If you’d like me to, I’ll call you should any issues arise, seeing as we’re both imposing on your hospitality.” Caspar wasn’t surprised at the slight skepticism on her face, but he was disturbed to see that her expression softened as she looked between him and Notkin. He felt his face redden and his mouth open to raise a protest, but he found there was nothing to reasonably counter in the gesture. “…It’s not like he’s in a position to steal anything in his state, and I’d hardly be fool enough to rob the person who so graciously opened the door to her home to me.”

The cold was more bearable here. Though it made him wonder how long he’d been freezing exactly. If anything, this must’ve been the most comfort he had for a long time. Maybe even his entire life. 

With his throbbing eye grating on the cotton surface of the pillow, Notkin winced and blinked his vision into enough focus to recognize the boy in front of him, a surprisingly pleasant view after all he’d seen for the past day. For a moment all he could fathom was to stare at the boy, eyes plastered on the pale surface of his skin, flawless, devoid of any scars or impurities like his own. He couldn’t help himself when he gazed further up to meet his eyes, which for once didn’t greet him with their usual blank expression. He hadn’t seen this much emotion in them for years. Whatever came next hit him like a wave. He felt like a child again. Not a teen but much younger. When times were simpler and it didn’t hurt to share the presence of someone who used to be so dear to him. When there was no shame in admitting they cared for each other. When reaching out to grab his hand wouldn’t cause doubt in their entire rivalry. 

For a moment he thought he’d choke on it all. He would’ve pulled him for a hug if things weren’t so difficult. If he knew his dependance wasn’t one-sided. And he’d ask him why he was here, so far from the better side of town. So far from where human lives actually mattered. Yet before he could express a single word, the light above shifted, making him reconsider his choices. Those eyes weren’t his anymore. They were, in a sense, but they’d seen so much, enough to change them forever. Neither of them should have been entrusted with so much responsibility. And the more that happened, the more it made him realise. 

They were just kids.

Had Khan been through something similar that day? Had he lost something akin to what the Souls were to him? Notkin could feel his throat tighten before he swallowed.

Only then did his mind allow him to form coherent thoughts. He must’ve slept, and dreamed. He remembered muttering a few words he could no longer remember. Kind hands combing through his matted hair the way his mother did in his dreams, taking care of his many leftover bruises. Was this the friend Filin spoke about? Were they close? Notkin wondered about their shared past, about the reason a thug like Bad Grief would be friends with such a kind woman. He vaguely remembered her name as memories started flooding back to him. Slowly lifting one of his hands he traced the now clean surface of his face. Blood no longer trickled down his upper lip, nor was there an uncomfortable trail of dried flakes in its place. How long was he gone for? Judging from the view outside, not too long. It was still night, the same awful atmosphere still clung on the air and whatever weight was pulling on his stomach would not reside. The ginger took a deep breath as he lost his train of thoughts again, noticing his disability to focus. His entire body felt weak as he attempted to move. Notkin realised he was starving. 

When Khan raised his voice he couldn’t help but smirk, feeling the same awkward affection that’d usually make him challenge the boy to a fight. The ginger didn’t hesitate when he clenched his hand into a fist, giving the other boy a soft punch against his arm.   “You care an awful lot about a mere ‘fool’ then.” Sinking back into his pillow he rested for a brief moment before continuing his words. “Besides… I didn’t choose to fight. Not this time. Don’t mistake me for a fool, I know when it’s best to run.”  The more he spoke, the more his voice fell into a triste tone. Images of the night prior flooded his head when all he wanted was to forget. Khan had no business in this, there was no use burdening him with any of it. He didn’t have to know, he didn’t-

A low grumble tore him out of his thoughts, startling him in the process. With his eyes wide he looked up at the boy, cheeks flushing to a deep red.

Right… right. 

“I need to stock up on food.” Not just food, resources. Wasn’t this the entire reason behind the visit? Filin was probably starving back at the warehouses. Rations had been sparse over there the entire week, up to a point where he even expected Bad Grief’s resources to run out. Not only that, one of his few remaining friends laid there, wounded. Clara was bleeding out while Notkin got his bruises and scratches patched up. The cruelty of it all was too much for the boy.

Frailty had always been something Caspar struggled with, so it hurt his heart more than his arm to feel how weak Notkin’s punch was, despite knowing it wasn’t a serious strike anyway. It felt exhausted, eroded by the climate of the town in all these endless days, resigned to weakness, yet still determined enough to try. A fool. Khan mumbled in response, not trying to be heard, just muttering to himself as he was wont to do. “Yes, I care an awful lot... More than anything, probably.” At Notkin’s following words, he felt a bit insulted at the thought. “Lived to fight another day. I do trust you to know your limits, don’t make it seem as though I don’t. I’d never underestimate you, it’d be my downfall.” Not that he hadn’t already fallen anyway. He smiled bitterly, staring at the distance between his hand and Notkin’s, wondering if he’d ever choose to close the gap. Notkin certainly wouldn’t even if he did correspond whichever superfluous feelings rooted themselves in Khan’s chest. 

There was no way to know precisely when Notkin had become the most important person in his life, someone with a radically different past, whose ideals clashed with his at times, what kind of turn of fate brought him to need someone who infuriated him so. Then again, every time he posed himself the question, endless memories of admirable qualities and actions that left him in awe would follow, and Caspar would lose his train of thought to daydreams. These days he hoped that if he died, it’d be in his sleep, so that he could at least be certain Notkin would be there. He always dreamed of dying before Notkin, and his nightmares always depicted the opposite. 

He was snapped out of his thoughts by something mundane, as it always came to be. This time, it was Notkin’s stomach growling, and Caspar was almost ready to make a snide comment before he took note of the flush on the boy’s face, the embarrassment of having your body betray your thoughts. It would be endearing if Notkin didn’t immediately sit up and start tearing at his bandages like an unruly stray. Khan clicked his tongue and took Notkin’s wrists in his hands, leaning down to look sternly at his rival’s anxious eyes, unfocused as he probably thought of the million other things he’d rather be doing instead of resting. Instead of sharing breath in the same room as Khan. “Don’t be stupid, I know you’re smarter than this, I’ve seen it firsthand.” He looked down at Lara’s ruined work, the bandages frayed from pulling, unravelled and already stained from wounds treated too roughly. Someone so kind being so uncaring of themselves felt wrong, unjust. Whichever righteousness he’d usually feel seemed wasted on this occasion.

Caspar sighed, feeling deeply saddened by the whole affair. “You don’t have to stay here any longer than tonight, but you do need time to rest and recover.” He looked back up into Notkin’s eyes, though it was hard to keep focus when his thoughts were so melancholy. “If I’m the problem, I’ll leave. I can fetch Miss Ravel for you, though I’d rather let her rest. I’ll bring you as much food as you want, you can even keep it and tell her I stole it. I don’t care, just stop hurting yourself. I know you don’t care about yourself, but I do…” He trailed off before being brought back to focus by the shaking of Notkin’s hands. “For now be quiet. Please. Let me fix these bandages, get you food and water, then I’ll stop imposing.” 

Day: 9.2

Time: Afternoon

Status: @scattered-gravel

It took all his willpower not to shred Burakh’s nearly incomprehensible script on the General’s doorstep. Caspar should’ve expected that an army commander would not be one for bargaining in opportunities to create peace when he could accomplish his purpose of bulldozing any problems. Adults would rather destroy what is threatening than build something out of it, tear down stairways brick by brick in fear of falling, in blind disregard to how they were only dismantling that which sustains progress. Caspar gritted his teeth and glared at the sky, eyes watering with the glare of the light and a hint of frustration. There was nothing to be done except concede defeat for now and regroup.

The Crucible was daunting in the way it protected him, he hadn’t even heard the soldiers’ assault on the Polyhedron, blanketed by familiar comforts and deceptive calm. He couldn’t return to his family home. Thinking listlessly, Caspar almost considered the Stillwater, but he’d never felt comfortable in the building, a deep feeling of dread pervading his every step when he dared enter. An open house, a caring keeper… A Shelter. He turned on his heel, following old directions given to anyone in the town looking for a place to stay, heading north, secure in the knowledge that he was still close to where Commander Block remained, near enough to know if the army was moving out, to be aware of when he could consider his people truly doomed to the trenches.

Lara, to say the very least, had a lot on her plate. The town was buried in the strangest haze of events unnatural even to a place like their Gorkhon's riverside. She felt as if someone has torn her memories in many parts. Constantly getting an experience that she already witnessed the thing, that was happening now for the first time. Stakh told her about it, calling it with a fancy term they both probably pronounced wrongly: "déjà vu". If she did not have her thoughts scattered, she would let herself sit in her little office or stare at her Father's portrait, looking for the answers. Yet her time was spent caring for those in need with brief breaks for sleep.

How could you sleep peacefully anyway if the Voices of grateful Shelter's visitors kindly whispered gossip about potential Nina Kaina's resurrection? On the one hand, they were Kains. She was pretty sure any Kain is capable of anything. They funded many bright minds, including the twin creators of the Polyhedron.

Even those kids. Maria was around her age, yet she radiated this energy of almost godlike being while Lara was...just a girl, compared to the future Scarlet Mistress. And Khan with his little army - she liked seeing their faces. They were funny. As well as Souls'. It reminded her of when she also attempted at being an officer, after reading too many books she sneakily borrowed from her dad's office. Yet Khan had actual power. Maybe too much of it?

Her thoughts played along with her inspecting left food rations. Today was surprisingly merciful on her, a lot of usual residents left, giving her a spare second. It was interrupted only by an unsure knocking on the door. So not a regular visitor. Someone new. Regulars knew you do not need to knock. She sighed. Her friends and their friends were always welcome.

She could not hide her surprise when she saw the face behind a heavy wooden door.

Khan, a concept in her mind, for the first time, was perceived as an actual kid by her. The way he almost stuttered while introducing himself and by his actual name - Caspar made her frown, but with a clear apprehension in her eyes. Kids coming to the Shelter always reminded her of teen Stakh, before Isidor took him in. He always looked so humiliated to ask. She always tried to make him at home. And kids coming to a stranger rather than their own home always stirred her feelings.

"You are more than welcome, Caspar. You have come to the right place."

She observed the boy, as he slowly crossed the threshold. Luckily she could give him more of her time than usual. She settled the thing considering sick people coming there, she was more organized now after a few days of being an officer of this small institution. And boy clearly needed more than just a piece of bread.

She pointed at the chair with a gesture of her hand and said "Please, suit yourself." She did not intend to treat him like a Kain, but like the lost boy, he was. In the times of plague, material status did not matter eventually.

"I can only offer you some bread and milk, we are short on supplies, and trains are not arriving as they should..."

She looked at the pained feeling clearly speaking through the boy's expression although he seemed too proud to open up about whatever devoured his heart.

"Do you perhaps...want to talk with me? You luckily arrived at the moment when I have more time than usual."

The Shelter wasn’t as big as the Crucible. The thought didn’t strike him as something that ought to surprise him, but it did. His home’s wings had just as much room as Lara Ravel’s house, and yet the Kain estate felt paradoxically colossal, sterile and lonely; but infinitesimal, suffocating, and oh so cold. He stepped into the Shelter feeling like an intruder, as if wading into a pond, causing ripples in the still peace of it. This was a cohesive home, whereas his own stood permanently disjointed, untethered.

“Thank you. I’ll take the milk, you can keep your bread.” Caspar didn’t think he could stomach solid foods, he could barely contain the urge to heave at the feeling of his own tongue in his mouth. “Your other guests will need it more, I only need somewhere to sleep for the night. Maybe a space to work on something. Could you spare me your study, Ms Ravel?”

He looked around with his hands clasped behind his back, avoiding the intensely vulnerable care in his host’s expression. His cowardice was blatant disrespect, avoidance leading him to wander, feeling the warmth of the mistress of the house’s gaze on him. Khan found himself standing before a clock, ticking away, reminding him of his uncle’s workshop. This clock had likely never been tampered with, never opened, its inner workings untouched by a simple family of good means. “You’re one of the lucky few to have spare time. Don’t suppose you’d indulge my troubles, would you?”

Lara poured the boy one-third of a glass of milk. She was putting the vessel down on the table when she heard the youngest Kain requesting her study. The bottom of the glass clinked loudly in harmony with her surprised, a bit amused frown directed at the boy.

"Well. I guess I could lend you my study however there is no way that you will be let there alone, Caspar. This is essentially a place where I store my funds and you are too smart to deceive me you just want to work. I already got tricked like that once."

She loved sheltering kids, however, Ravel sometimes wondered why was she once so naive to believe that a homeless boy, who introduced himself as "Dandy" (what kind of name is this even?) needed access to her room.

Apparently to her necklaces too. There went her last bits of feeling like a rich lady. She just was glad none of the memoirs of her dad went missing. Yet she was not even very mad. He needed it more than her. She just wished he did not steal, but just ask. It was during the good days - she could even prepare him dinner if he asked.

Yet a lesson was learned and she was not falling for this trap again.

"...but if you really need access, I can share my bit of time with you. I wanted to do a bit of reading anyway. What exactly do you need? Tactical plans for your puppy army?" - she warmly chuckled. The seriousness of Caspar a bit reminded her of young herself. Grisha always laughed when she told him how she will be awarded a medal once she will become the most honored field orderly. Of course a field one! The interior was too boring for a young girlie. Her father always said how managing a hospital was as demanding as managing an army. She took a pride in that dream. Well, young Lara surely did not know how caring about people in interior surroundings can get as interesting and tactical, as well as bitterly tragic as working as an orderly mid-war. They were in fact amidst war. With the fatal illness. The worst one, you could not just kill it off in self-defense.

She glanced at the youngest Kain as he gently brushed his fingers against the intricate wooden ornaments. "I invest my time as I please, dear, do not you worry about it. Although I will not be insisting on you to speak..."

Caspar stared at the visage of Captain Ravel like he intended to win a 'not-blinking' contest with her father. Mainly his stern stare made him finally open his mouth and say something not posed, with a voice more broken than Kain's usual, sophisticated tone.

And then she suddenly got pale.

„Alexander Block is in our Town? Who allowed it..."

Ravel, in Grief's words, had a patience of a saint and the aim of the most horrendous shotgun. Suddenly last remnants of her inviolability drifted away. How is she only finding out about it now? From a lost boy?

She did her fair share of thorough research inspecting if her father was actually dead. Often there was a trick done where death was faked, to make an escape easier. Despite Rubin's concerns and asks, she remained determined to find her beloved dad's location. She believed that he was undestroyable. He could not just die. He healed from any hopeless, uncurable wound. Without gangrenes. He was in fact, a legend to her. She was not even experiencing any grief for the first month, she just wandered through piles of documents, letters, and diaries.

The number of correspondences she intercepted could put shame on the majority of federal agents. Never in her life, Lara has used this amount of sweet talking and make-up. And mainly through her surname, smiles, and flatteries she, at last, got the copy of the execution order in her hands.

Until she opened up this envelope, she held hope. Until she saw the order signed by nobody else but Alexander Block, her Father's greatest friend, whom he supported so much. She never met him personally, however she held Block in her highest respects. Captain Ravel never was wrong. Except for this one time.

Block for her was a murderer and the most disgusting kind. Worst of all, a coward. Always was a coward. He killed his best friend indirectly, was scared of the Powers That Be, and was terrified of loyalty. Nothing was as revolting to her. The fact that it was Block who now had so much responsibility for all of them... This was her Father's respect. This was her Father's merit. Yet it was this heinous beast who took the medals. Oh, how she hated it.

She spoke to her Father so much about it, kneeling on his cold, stone grave. Loving thy neighbor is a gift. Hatred is hard work. And she never in her life exerted herself this much to relish the repugnance. She tried to ruin his life before his back before, but somehow Block bribed every single of his little pathetic men to the point where even her murderous looks and conversations were not enough.

And now, this shell of a man wanted to use literal kids to fight for him. He took everything Caspar had because it was not hard to assume that his family was not the most prized group of people in his life. God's sake, he approached a stranger, not his father, not his mother, not his sister. That colored the last cells in her heart with nothing but sheer loathing.

"Oh, Caspar... I know the Commander quite well and it is very ungrateful to attempt agreements with him. In fact, he does not deserve negotiations. But that is not a thing any kid should have to worry about. I surely can take more drastic measures myself, as he was my Father's best friend, just... I am sorry for your people. I know how much you value them. I suppose so, I mean. Luckily I know just the right people to address Block more sternly."

Well, for the only time in her life she lacked Andrey's presence in her life. He could surely give her a few lessons on how to kill people in cold blood without hesitation. Since he was not there and she did not want to engage Grief anyhow in this mess that was her to take... Yes, she knew the right people.

Herself.

Seeing Lara Ravel frost over felt as damning as witnessing the leaves fall from trees in winter, a sort of empathetic chill coming over the room, as if all the heat in it directed itself to the woman’s words. Caspar felt like a child faced with the realization that adults weren’t merely figures of authority but people with pasts as intricate as their façade of control. Lara’s voice carried more bitter history than the words spoken, even as she presented him gentle sympathy over his losses, and it didn’t escape his notice the tension in her frame, like a spring coiled, prepared to snap into place violently at a moment’s notice. A cocked gun. 

“You may not take me seriously, given my age, and I won’t fault you for it.” Blindness came with age, didn’t it? No use blaming the vision impaired for what was beyond their control. “How do the mechanisms of adults allow punishment to those in power? General Ashes is heralded a hero, his superiors laud him for his accomplishments in their name. If you discourage me from negotiating, how does a woman like you intend to approach him?” The simplicity of her means could almost fool him for a gentle soul incapable of harming a single person, but there was a familiar fire in her eyes. Khan would be damned to underestimate someone of humble stature, he knew plenty of his peers were capable of the most surprising of feats. It was a hidden quality, tapped into by the merest curling of one’s fingers or narrowing of the eyes. He’d seen similar expressions on Sticky’s face, and it pointed to steadfast determination, burning resolve.

Backing down was foolish, but Caspar felt the need to confirm the level-headedness of the woman, if only not to lose a potential ally to the throes of vengeance. “Sternly, you say. I’m sure you’re aware of what you’re getting yourself into, daughter of the late Captain Ravel. I can’t say I myself would miss a warmonger’s presence in our home, and the army men didn’t seem keen on staying, but an attempt on the Commander’s life is no easy feat. It takes more than a rusted knife and a dark alley, you can’t easily overpower or otherwise surprise a man of his position as easily as one could dispose of a misguided street urchin.” He wondered if the implications of his words would reach his host’s ears or if she was too preoccupied with her own concerns. “I wish I could assist you beyond being the bearer of ill news and witness of your judgment, but I’ve been stripped of all I had. If it means anything to you, supposing you intend to be judge and executioner, I as jury would side with your verdict. Perhaps if it would come to pass that you’re persecuted by the higher authorities for your planned actions against Alexander Block, I may be capable of swaying my family’s favor to your plight, Miss Ravel.”

He probably should’ve stayed there tonight. Back at the Warehouses with Grief and the mysterious girl, but he couldn’t force himself to. Couldn’t stay under these circumstances, unknowing whether he had survived the slaughter or not.  Arriving back at the Warehouses was a horrible feeling to say nonetheless. The stench of death and decay without any sight of the actual corpses.  Notkin knew where they were, where they had piled them in masses. Yet their smell remained dense in the air. Some of them were burned. Some of them locked in those metal chambers. Some mangled, some… he wrinkled his nose against it. Thick and sweet and foul. The closer he got to his own ‘home’, the stronger the scent of blood. It made him sick, the view of dozens upon dozens of Ashen Swish herbs, blooming in their full glory. The sky reflecting that horrible shade of red for him to see. If he had it in him, he would’ve torn their still-beating hearts from their chests just to revel in the look of surprise on their faces when they finally realized what had happened. Just a few seconds and then they’d die ━ simply perish from the face of this earth. But he was a child and a coward on top of that. Nonetheless, he had finally killed a man today, drenched in his own blood, sweat and vomit. If you could address the water coming out of his lungs as that. When they tried to drown him, tried to rob him of every remaining inch of pride he had left in his meager body. 

A gentle but firm nudge against his bad leg and he stilled. He’d been pawing those piles for a while now. Having made his way into Barley’s now-abandoned Warehouse, he simply couldn’t hold back on dragging every suspicious looking body out of their piles. Be it burned or bloody, anyone that resembled him in the slightest had to be inspected. Had to be looked at until he was a hundred percent sure it wasn’t him they had taken. Some of them were almost impossible to identify. But he knew the moles on his neck, knew the shape of his features. The way his knuckles were bruised at this time of the year or how his hair was shaped even at its most disheveled state. None of these corpses resembled him in the slightest, even if the height was accurate. Or the clothes. Or that stupid pale complexion he was always so concerned about until he finally understood that the porcelain skin was a common trait in his family. 

Notkin snorted, lowering himself until he sat cross-legged on the filthy ground. How ironic it was. How none of his Souls managed to make it out alive and yet he was here, not looking for a survivor among his friends, but…

“He’s not here.”, the boy whispered, resting his hand atop of Jester’s head who had followed him all the way here, petting the feline idly. The wind shifted, and in his somber mind he needed a minute until the realization kicked in. The subtle change of weather bringing him the scent of decay once again, which woke him out of his state against his will. He wished to relish in this newfound knowledge. That somewhere out there, Khan must still be alive. That he made it back home, save, on the Polyhedron. Protected by hundreds of his own army, probably doing way better than he was. Always doing way better than he was. 

The breeze stung, making his eyes water, but he held back. Had he not been so proud. Had he not been so stupid to deny his invitation back into the tower all those years ago. If not for him, they would still be alive. Living their lives inside timeless dreams, but for how long could that make a person happy? If this was the reality he sought out for all those years ago, he felt nothing but regret. He wanted to scream, curse, yet he couldn’t raise his voice. Just the chance of getting heard was reason enough to stay silent. 

All he wanted was to survive. Against all odds, at least until he saw him again. Though he was weak, barely held alive by a miracle. His wounds were closed, yet the loss of blood was still there. He felt lightheaded, his scars remained, both in his mind and on his body. And he was starving. Dehydrated to the point of lightheadedness.  He knew he should go back. Probably ask the older Thief for some bread and water, but how much did Grief really have to share? No, that didn’t seem like the correct answer. But he knew what did. Remembered what Filin told him not too long ago. Just a few days ago when he tried to rob the same man who had now saved his life. 

━ ‘If you ever encounter the chance of starvation, seek out a woman called Ms. Lara Ravel.’

Notkin wondered if the two were friends. He wondered all those days ago, and he was still questioning it right now. How a woman known to be as kind as her had anything to do with Bad Grief. The boy shook his head. Who was he to judge their friendship?  Gasping desperately, Notkin sat up, feeling the cold night air filling up his burning lungs. It was a hard task to regain his composure. At first, he couldn’t do anything else than breathe, just as if he’d been holding his breath for far too long. After some time he finally managed to even his breathing. His throat, however, was still burning with the freezing air and in the hope to warm that air somewhat, Notkin tugged his hand over his mouth. That was when he realized it wasn’t exactly the cold air hurting his throat. But rather the acidic taste of his own stomach, burning, as a warning to him that he was starving.  With shaking legs he finally stood up, uncaring about the uneven, metal surface of the ground. By now he had gotten used to the stench of his rotting friends. To the traces of blood caused by their bodies being dragged inside. He simply traced them to find his way out of the Warehouse, back to the streets.

From then on his legs were more or less dragging him along the rest of the way. It was as if his body shut off his mind. He didn’t bother when the sick grabbed at his clothes as a call for help, didn’t care when some loose bandits tried to plunder him of any possible belongings. Notkin knew they were desperate now. Knew they had lost both Grief and Barley, which was the sole reason as to why they were now running wild. Harassing a single child on the side of the street. They could check his pockets for all they wanted, he had nothing left. And after some mild attempts, they simply tossed him to the side, the only injury caused being a bruise over his left eye that stung, but wasn’t the end of the world. By the time he made it to the Shelter it was far over midnight.  Notkin knew he looked like death, but if that woman was anything as nice as Grief had described her to be, she would help. If she truly knew the man, all he’d have to do was mention his name. He would share whatever she would have to give. Of course he would, he owed it to the man.  He just needed to survive. Both of them needed to survive… for entirely different reasons.  Grief because Notkin felt responsible for him now. As for himself ━

The clock was ticking mercilessly, having both hands pointed in the same direction of twelve. Lara barely managed to leave the study to grab herself a glass, no, a quarter of a glass of water. She still kept testing every new barrel on herself before she gave it to anyone else. She still did not completely collect herself after her the incident experienced a few days prior. She was in a way glad about how invested she was in helping this community even at the cost of her exhaustion. While she was not as drastically tired, she had too many thoughts like these. She took her thick coat, and put it on, feeling its pleasant weight and warmth. She had to lock the back gate for the night anyway. She tried to open an entrance with first a sigh, and then confusion. Did… someone barricade her for any reason?

She tried a stronger push and managed, with a sense of relief, to unlock the doors. When she crossed the threshold, a pair of bloodshot eyes stared at her from below, full of unimaginable pain. Lara jumped a bit at first and gasped once she realized that the creature sitting by her door is not any animal but a boy, a teen, with his face colored by bluish, reddish, yellowish tones. Bruises, not paints, not crayons. A massacred kid. She did not recognize him at all.

“Oh, Mistresses.” - she opened up her door widely, held them like that by placing her feet on the threshold, and reached down to help this child stand up. Once he was leaning on her arm, they entered the Shelter. The boy tried to speak even, but his words just turned into blabber, nonsensical, paused with a sudden gasp for air. “Quiet, quiet, I bet it all hurts. I will take care of it. You do not have to pay me anyhow for this. Quiet. Save the strength.”

Lara guided the redhead gently to her couch. Even bloodied or dirty, seemingly this piece of furniture was still a necessity in her home, which throughout the last, few days, changed into a side-helping hospital unit. This case was an extreme one.

Lara rushed upstairs and stepped gently into the room she placed Caspar in yesterday, for the boy to get some rest. Now his help was needed drastically and he was one of her only actually aware and thinking clearly guests. She did not know whether the boys actually had any contact with each other. The last time she followed the multitude of kids’ social connections was when she was a child herself. This was irrelevant right now. The ginger was dying in her arms as thoughts ran through her brain. She gently shook the youngest of Kains, who was buried in a dream, mumbling something under his nose. Ravel was sure that getting him out of this trance will take a longer moment, yet Caspar woke up immediately, pretty much like he would be used to sleeping only lightly, constantly looking out for danger otherwise.

“Caspar, I need your help immediately. I took in a kid that was laying outside, leaning on Shelter’s door, bruised, hurt, bleeding, and hard to tell what else. I am not a doctor, but he looks to me like he is up for serious patching. Be a dear, take this,” - woman pulled a white, dusty square of fabric into Khan’s hands. “cut it into a few thick bandages, knife is on the desk, then, top left cupboard, I have my last bottle of rubbing alcohol. Fetch me this too. As quickly as you can. I will be downstairs. Go.”

Lara ran back to her surprise guest as fast as she could, already having a damp cloth in her hands, to be able to even assess the wounds. She lit a lamp and placed it on a small table, next to the half-conscious boy’s head. His hair was glued with blood, dried, awfully big amount of blood. She sighed. Dealing with teenage boys always was…something. She hoped that this one will be way too tired to mess with her. His…brown? No, the bluish pullover was soaked with blood. She was scared to even check what was underneath.

“You have to take off your shirt, kid. I promise I will help you, but I am afraid your wounds may be severe. Please, do not put up a fight with this.“

Ginger mumbled something along the lines of “No…the miracle-cle girl, she did a miracle! And I w…my wounds they are closed and healed an..d.”

So… he was delirious. He, and it hit Lara for real this time, strongly, was delirious. But maybe there still was something she could do about it. After her voice sharpening with concern, she finally convinced this kid to unstick a sweaty, purple at this point, sweater from his body. Bruises, so many bruises. Who did this? Who the fuck, did this? Skin broken, torn from the force of the hits. No wonder he saw an angel in his dreams, a miraculous creature. She wanted to take it as a sign of him going to Heaven, just in case. For surviving this bestiality, he deserved to skip any form of purgatory possible.

Lara took, quite hopelessly, the damp cloth and washed off layers, yes, layers of dirt. If not bleeding out, this lad will get gangrene surely. She wiped off as much as she could, expecting the action to reveal a seeping, awful wound, who knows how old. Assessing the amount of blood on the pullover, terribly open. She subconsciously held her breath.

Yet the wound was…sealed. There was a scar, and the edges of a previous cut were visible, however, the cut was sealed. Lara blinked faster.

Then Caspar came, hands occupied by medicaments and improvised bandaids. Boy did a great job, carrying her a forgotten bottle of Grief’s twyrine she once received as a gift. She thanked herself in mind for disliking any alcohol other than mulled wine. This bottle was a life-changer potentially. There was less rubbing alcohol than she anticipated. “Finally. You took some time.” The brunette stared, like he saw a ghost, at a boy who lay there, barely, if at all, conscious of what was happening around him. Ginger was exhausted and currently, she assumed he was peacefully sleeping. She did not want this random kid to die. Not now. Not after surviving this much. “What are you gawking at?! Alcohol, now, one piece of fabric and bring me a cup of water, it is in a barrel I keep in this room most similar to the kitchen.” Kain stood there petrified for a little longer, before heading off along her orders. What was the matter?

Dirt came off much easier with alcohol. She finally managed to clean his face, which revealed bruised eye and another sealed, but visibly fresh, assessing at the blood marks around the edges, and cut on a cheek. Only now Lara could see the boy’s face better. Freckled skin. Emaciated face. This red hair, this determined despite everything expression, even when the boy was there half asleep. If Caspar reminded her of Stakh, then this kid was certainly Grisha she remembered. She was right about her previous feeling: she experienced a deja vu, as she met Filin exactly the same way. A malnourished, homeless, desperate, and heavily wounded kid, knocked hopelessly on Captain Ravel’s door and she insisted that her father will take care of him, insisted enough that her dad went for Isidor, while she was keeping company and tried to patch up her future former friend. This felt the same. This ginger looked like Grisha’s reincarnation. Was her brain playing tricks on her?

Yet everything was real. The pungent smell of boy’s clothes, skin drenched in sweat, misery, blood. She did not have almost any water. After her meticulous check-up, it appeared somehow all the wounds were sealed. It was not anything possible with human hands. If it would be, Stakh would dump a book about it this revolutionary way of healing. But it was not. So…how.?

Using the fact that the ginger was still buried in this weirdly comatose state, she soaked the prepared fabric with twyrine. She hoped the herbal smell will kill this stench, which reminded her of corpses piled up on the streets. She cautiously observed as the muck dissolved, revealing a pale, sickly-looking complexion. Ginger’s eyes were cloudy and he barely reacted to anything other than her guided, softly-spoken ordeals, like “turn slightly left.” She managed to clean up most of the layered schmutz off his scrawny torso and when Caspar came back with a glass of water, she already was taking care of the boy’s lumped locks. She was glad she had Grief’s twyrine. It had almost no sugar added anyhow, high alcohol percentage, and the boy did not smell like a rotting body anymore. Luckily it seemed like the miracle was in fact real. There was no possible medical explanation for this amount of wounds healed, to this amount of internal bleeding endured. Ginger kept breathing steadily, although shallowly, quickly. He still seemed to have no clue about his surroundings.

Yet the Doghead’s leader stared at him, stared at the pile of brown, red, and grey cloths, used to wipe as much misery as possible out of this kid. He looked at him while helping Lara with anything she ordered, while she was tucking him in the blanket, all of this while presenting atypical for his porcelain visage deep concern. Ravel now was sure they knew each other and after the instant, drastic fear for the ginger’s life faded out, she felt slightly bad for treating Caspar this harshly with her ordeals.

While her visitor recharged, she asked her “assistant” to guard him for a while, when she went to pick for him one of her father’s old sweaters. Light green. Perfect. She forgot it was there. Perhaps it was waiting for this boy. Color of luck. Color of hope. She found some old trousers she sew as a teenager for Stakh, which turned out too short for her friend. Somehow she collected an entire, complete outfit that could gift this boy any source of freshness after what happened to him.

When she came back with clothes all folded, Caspar remained in an unchanged position, with a subtle frown directed at this rag-doll urchin. Lara joined him, and they both were staring worryingly at the redhead’s face now, sometimes unintentionally exchanging looks, awaiting any more significant reaction. Eventually, Lara tapped her newest visitor’s cheek gently.

“Hey, you… Hey you, do you understand what am I saying? You are safe, you will live, but you have to drink this water-”

Caspar dreamt of tragedies in times of peace and of comfort in times of havoc. It’d been this way all his life, as if his restless mind sought to invent threats where there were none, whilst presenting him with pleasant reveries to facilitate his willpower when distraught. Sweet dreams rarely lasted after wakefulness embittered their taste, so when he awoke in the borrowed room in the Shelter to a harried hostess, he could only mildly feel his comfort sour as the last dregs of warmth escaped the grasp of his mind. Bandages replaced the feeling of worn cotton and leather on his fingertips, and as he searched for the requested alcohol, its sharp and pungently sterile smell chased away the lingering scent of grass and smoke. Maybe it was for the best. It took too long for Caspar to accomplish his given task, the thought of who he’d be helping to tend to fraying the more he pulled at it, unraveling into a childishly foolish hope that he’d walk downstairs to stand before one specific person once again. A harsher thought dampened his optimism, refusing to entertain the notion that Notkin would ever be reduced to merely “a kid” laying half-dead at the doorstep of Lara Ravel.

No amount of time spent wearing down his conflicting thoughts could’ve truly prepared him for the sight awaiting him when Caspar sought to deliver the requested items to the lady of the house. Khan would take it to his grave, but he could recognize Notkin with nary a glance, despite the mud and blood obfuscating his skin, hiding scars he could map out like constellations seen from the top of the Polyhedron. It wasn’t a rational or explainable thing, he could just tell with the ease one would have for differentiating their own hands even if they were mirrored, the one instinct he trusted more than rationale. Caspar was a bit glad to be ordered around, else he imagined he’d be liable to simply stare and let the turmoil within him fester until Notkin inevitably awoke and set fire to his insides just to see him burn. The boy listed words in his own head as he fetched the requested glass of water, if only to avoid putting names to corpses, to put off the need to sort his emotions. Incendiary, smoke, fire, smother, snuffed, death. His hand tightened on the glass. Warm, bright, wild, free, alive.

His forgotten dream clashed with wicked reality when the scent of smoke and alcohol greeted him in what was now essentially a makeshift hospice. Bruised and unconscious, his old rival’s unmoving form was nearly devoid of grime, and the view stabbed into Caspar’s heart with how wrong it felt to see him still, vulnerable, defeated. There were infinite ways to describe the discomfort prompted by the sight of Notkin, and when Lara Ravel left the room, he was left to wonder if any words could convey anything about the situation without seeming reductive by nature. Khan held his ground and simply watched the other boy’s breathing, wondering what he would do if it stopped for good right in front of his eyes, pondering if it would be better or worse for his sanity to be present in that moment, to bear witness to the end of Notkin’s life. Caspar thought if such a thing came to pass, his own would end as well, for better or for worse. It simply didn’t register as possible for his existence to somehow supersede Notkin’s. His hand itched to reach out and feel the livelihood of his companion, a baffling and mortifying desire to alleviate the burdened expression on his face somehow, perhaps thread his fingers on Notkin’s hair under the guise of making sure their hostess had truly removed all the dirt from it.

Caspar was glad for the paralysis when Lara Ravel came back to find him unmoved, and he was endlessly grateful to not be prompted on how much this was affecting him. He was very aware of how suspicious his reaction to this event seemed, but there was no recovery for his composure. When the woman gently brought Notkin into consciousness, seconds after he gathered his bearings, their eyes met, and Caspar felt vindicated to see the other boy react visibly, like striking a match near spilled oil. He was not at all proud of the words that spilled out of his mouth next. “You look like shit.” He wasn't surprised to be hit lightly with the change of clothes Lara had fetched, and the gesture seemed entirely familiar to her, almost subconscious or habitual. Caspar was instead startled by the grounded maternity of the action, entirely foreign to him in the subdued bearing of his own family. Beyond that, he felt appropriately chastised to be addressed by his name, which only served to baffle him more.

In an attempt to salvage his own pride in front of the adult whose home he was seeking shelter in, Caspar ignored Notkin momentarily to direct his next words to Lara. “Miss Ravel, I’m sure this situation was quite distressing to you and you’ve certainly had a long day…” A long lifetime, more like; caring for people so diligently. “Feel free to go rest, I can watch him for now. If you’d like me to, I’ll call you should any issues arise, seeing as we’re both imposing on your hospitality.” Caspar wasn’t surprised at the slight skepticism on her face, but he was disturbed to see that her expression softened as she looked between him and Notkin. He felt his face redden and his mouth open to raise a protest, but he found there was nothing to reasonably counter in the gesture. “...It’s not like he’s in a position to steal anything in his state, and I’d hardly be fool enough to rob the person who so graciously opened the door to her home to me.”

Day: 9.2

Time: Afternoon

Status: @scattered-gravel

It took all his willpower not to shred Burakh’s nearly incomprehensible script on the General’s doorstep. Caspar should’ve expected that an army commander would not be one for bargaining in opportunities to create peace when he could accomplish his purpose of bulldozing any problems. Adults would rather destroy what is threatening than build something out of it, tear down stairways brick by brick in fear of falling, in blind disregard to how they were only dismantling that which sustains progress. Caspar gritted his teeth and glared at the sky, eyes watering with the glare of the light and a hint of frustration. There was nothing to be done except concede defeat for now and regroup.

The Crucible was daunting in the way it protected him, he hadn’t even heard the soldiers’ assault on the Polyhedron, blanketed by familiar comforts and deceptive calm. He couldn’t return to his family home. Thinking listlessly, Caspar almost considered the Stillwater, but he’d never felt comfortable in the building, a deep feeling of dread pervading his every step when he dared enter. An open house, a caring keeper… A Shelter. He turned on his heel, following old directions given to anyone in the town looking for a place to stay, heading north, secure in the knowledge that he was still close to where Commander Block remained, near enough to know if the army was moving out, to be aware of when he could consider his people truly doomed to the trenches.

Lara, to say the very least, had a lot on her plate. The town was buried in the strangest haze of events unnatural even to a place like their Gorkhon's riverside. She felt as if someone has torn her memories in many parts. Constantly getting an experience that she already witnessed the thing, that was happening now for the first time. Stakh told her about it, calling it with a fancy term they both probably pronounced wrongly: "déjà vu". If she did not have her thoughts scattered, she would let herself sit in her little office or stare at her Father's portrait, looking for the answers. Yet her time was spent caring for those in need with brief breaks for sleep.

How could you sleep peacefully anyway if the Voices of grateful Shelter's visitors kindly whispered gossip about potential Nina Kaina's resurrection? On the one hand, they were Kains. She was pretty sure any Kain is capable of anything. They funded many bright minds, including the twin creators of the Polyhedron.

Even those kids. Maria was around her age, yet she radiated this energy of almost godlike being while Lara was...just a girl, compared to the future Scarlet Mistress. And Khan with his little army - she liked seeing their faces. They were funny. As well as Souls'. It reminded her of when she also attempted at being an officer, after reading too many books she sneakily borrowed from her dad's office. Yet Khan had actual power. Maybe too much of it?

Her thoughts played along with her inspecting left food rations. Today was surprisingly merciful on her, a lot of usual residents left, giving her a spare second. It was interrupted only by an unsure knocking on the door. So not a regular visitor. Someone new. Regulars knew you do not need to knock. She sighed. Her friends and their friends were always welcome.

She could not hide her surprise when she saw the face behind a heavy wooden door.

Khan, a concept in her mind, for the first time, was perceived as an actual kid by her. The way he almost stuttered while introducing himself and by his actual name - Caspar made her frown, but with a clear apprehension in her eyes. Kids coming to the Shelter always reminded her of teen Stakh, before Isidor took him in. He always looked so humiliated to ask. She always tried to make him at home. And kids coming to a stranger rather than their own home always stirred her feelings.

"You are more than welcome, Caspar. You have come to the right place."

She observed the boy, as he slowly crossed the threshold. Luckily she could give him more of her time than usual. She settled the thing considering sick people coming there, she was more organized now after a few days of being an officer of this small institution. And boy clearly needed more than just a piece of bread.

She pointed at the chair with a gesture of her hand and said "Please, suit yourself." She did not intend to treat him like a Kain, but like the lost boy, he was. In the times of plague, material status did not matter eventually.

"I can only offer you some bread and milk, we are short on supplies, and trains are not arriving as they should..."

She looked at the pained feeling clearly speaking through the boy's expression although he seemed too proud to open up about whatever devoured his heart.

"Do you perhaps...want to talk with me? You luckily arrived at the moment when I have more time than usual."

The Shelter wasn’t as big as the Crucible. The thought didn’t strike him as something that ought to surprise him, but it did. His home’s wings had just as much room as Lara Ravel’s house, and yet the Kain estate felt paradoxically colossal, sterile and lonely; but infinitesimal, suffocating, and oh so cold. He stepped into the Shelter feeling like an intruder, as if wading into a pond, causing ripples in the still peace of it. This was a cohesive home, whereas his own stood permanently disjointed, untethered.

“Thank you. I’ll take the milk, you can keep your bread.” Caspar didn’t think he could stomach solid foods, he could barely contain the urge to heave at the feeling of his own tongue in his mouth. “Your other guests will need it more, I only need somewhere to sleep for the night. Maybe a space to work on something. Could you spare me your study, Ms Ravel?”

He looked around with his hands clasped behind his back, avoiding the intensely vulnerable care in his host’s expression. His cowardice was blatant disrespect, avoidance leading him to wander, feeling the warmth of the mistress of the house’s gaze on him. Khan found himself standing before a clock, ticking away, reminding him of his uncle’s workshop. This clock had likely never been tampered with, never opened, its inner workings untouched by a simple family of good means. “You’re one of the lucky few to have spare time. Don’t suppose you’d indulge my troubles, would you?”