Daniil Dankovsky is running out of luck - and out of time. When a letter from Isidor Burakh arrives informing him of an immortal man living out on the steppe, Daniil cannot get on the train fast enough.
And so, Daniil arrives in the town one day early.
i’ve been working on this fic since may of 2025. i am so, so happy that it’s finished, and will be posting the whole thing over the course of the day.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
initially i was going to write a thing about all three healers singing, but this notes app drabble is over two years old so i doubt that's happening. here's what i started:
The first time Artemy sings is to Noukher. It's been - ten? seven? time is unyielding - years since he really sang. He never had much to sing about, away from home. On the steppe with his friends when time seemed endless, they would sing to the grass, to the moon and the rocks, to birds flying by, and always to each other. But what was there to sing about in an unknown city, away from all he loved? He couldn't even manage it to cheer himself up, notes dying in the back of his throat.
He doesn't sing well. Noukher blinks one big, brown eye at him, unmoved by his song.
"I know, I know. I don't have the voice for it. Grief was always better than me. Only one of the gang who could corral Stakh and Lara into singing along. We must've sounded like wolves." His hand falls down the side of the bull, patting his flank. "But one day, I'll have this whole town sing. Fill it with life once again, when all this is over."
Noukher dips his head to the grass, and Artemy lets his hand drop to his thigh. He can reminisce later; he has work to get done.
prompt: post game the bura family visits shekhen, maybe murky and taya are playing together?
i know this ask is uhmmmmm three years old at this point. and i've not totally followed the prmopt to the t, but all the same; here is where my brain took this prompt. with artemy trying to find peace with himself :)
ily bro<3 anyway!
----------
Shekhen starts to rebuild itself almost immediately. Taya’s influence, Artemy is sure. He sympathizes; after being stuck in place for so long, any kid would grow impatient. There’s not a lot in the way of toys out here, but there’s more space to run around, more people to play with - the Kin who had integrated into the town have started to navigate back. More kids Taya’s age. More talk, more food, more song.
Sticky is beyond curious, beyond excited to learn. All the walk over he has been bombarding Artemy with questions about the language and the culture he has only learned through rumor. Artemy does his best to answer, ashamed at how much he has forgotten in his time away. If Sticky notices the prolonged pauses, he doesn’t comment.
Murky hasn’t spoken in the time that they’ve been walking. Artemy has tried to check on her, concerned the new shoes don’t fit just right or that she’s shed them entirely to traverse the frozen ground barefoot. There’s nothing for him to worry over - the shoes remain, her expression unchanged. New environments are difficult for her.
"Would you like me to carry you the rest of the way?" Artemy offers. Her face scrunches up in distaste, shaking her head. Learning her boundaries has been difficult, and this venture out to Shekhen has Artemy worried about her. Sticky, he knows, will be fine. His curiosity outweighs his nerves, and Artemy doesn't doubt he'll make friends easily. Murky, though, has stayed closer than usual, reaching out as if to grab Artemy's smock and ask to slow down. She's been picking herbs as she walks, but her usual commentary is missing.
“Do you think they’ll like it?” is all she says to him, her expression severe. She’s collected about a dozen plants by now, her fingers shaky as she holds them up for Artemy to inspect. Artemy pauses, tongue wrapping around an admonishment (should have let us put gloves on you) before he swallows it down.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell her they have their own gardens at Shekhen. “It’s beautiful, Murky,” Artemy says. He smiles at her, but she isn’t looking. Her attention is drawn away by her desire to be done with the walking, little legs taking her farther and faster than they have over the past several minutes.
Now it’s Artemy who lingers behind.
When he told Stakh and Dankovsky he’d be away at Shekhen today, their responses had been… mixed. It was clear they were both attempting to be supportive by holding back on their true thoughts, and the result wasn’t nearly as encouraging as they must have thought it would be. Artemy couldn’t pretend to sympathize with their points of view. Understand them, certainly; they both acted as they thought they should, but that meant breaking the Law, and Artemy was tired of being pulled in different directions.
Maybe one day, they’ll understand. Maybe one day, Artemy can bring them out here and show them his community, his family, all he has left of his -
Artemy stops himself. Eyes closed, fingers curled tight into fists. He concentrates on breathing. Listens to the Earth.
He takes a step forward. And another. And another.
The scent of smoke and life greet him at the threshold of Shekhen. He only opens his eyes when the wave hits him, eyes darting around, trying to find something to focus on. It’s grown livelier over the past couple of months. Artemy can even hear laughter amid the buzz of herbs and lowing of bulls.
For a moment, Artemy is too tense to move. His arms shake from the weight of his nerves, eyes searching for his children. He spots Sticky’s mess of hair, untrimmed and ruffled by the wind, chatting with a teen a couple years his senior. He finds Murky, hand gripped tight by Taya’s confident fingers, weaving through the camp. They could get lost in here, melt into the collage and never resurface.
And that, Artemy remembers, is the point. This is community. This is family.
In his mind he hears his father’s voice, telling him, “Welcome home.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
soft prompt: Murky can't get to sleep so Artemy tries humming to her. bonus points if Daniil is also there and starts singing a nursery rhyme he knows from the capital
I’m so sorry this sat in my notes for the longest time! I hope you’re still out there, anon, and that you enjoy!
--------
The writing is on the wall before the sun even sets. Murky has been restless all day, tip-toeing around the house, looking for something to do to keep herself occupied. This happens sometimes, when the weather is unreasonable: the rain comes when it shouldn't, cool drafts or warm winds. Artemy has grown accustomed to nights like this, but he had been hoping things would sort themselves out before the night fell.
Anxiety twists in his stomach the closer midnight approaches. He's barely paying attention to Daniil's story - smiling, nodding, but not really absorbing any of it. It's not often his colleague comes to visit, he really should be putting forth more effort, and yet...
Leather slides gently across his bare forearm, and he notices that Daniil has stopped talking. He has no idea how long the silence has stretched between them, but his conversational partner doesn't appear annoyed. When he manages to catch Artemy's attention, he merely tilts his head to the side. "Something seems off," he comments softly. "Normally you'd have rolled your eyes by now. Told some awful joke."
Artemy tries to smile, but he's afraid it comes across more as a sneer. He knows the moment is coming. He can hear bare feet on the wood floor, just outside the room.
"Aba." Her voice, as always, is quiet. Mumbled. He wonders if she feels self-conscious with the Bachelor here - she turns away from Daniil when he looks over at her, eyebrows raised. "The ghosts are back."
To his credit, Daniil does not laugh. For a moment, Artemy actually thinks he sees Daniil freeze. But it’s not like him to express hesitation over something supernatural; from Artemy’s recollection, he did believe in something beyond the physical, but dealt in abstract concepts like fate and destiny. He didn’t have time for steppe myths (though his tune had certainly changed of late) or ghost stories, scoffing at the tall tales their patients would weave about mysterious injuries.
What a pity that he’ll have to ask why he froze some other time.
“I’ll be right there, Mishka,” Artemy promises. He redirects his gaze at Daniil, lips prepared to offer him an apology, but Daniil isn’t looking at him. Daniil is still looking at Murky.
“Would you like a lullaby, pumpkin?”
The question takes Murky by surprise as much as it does Artemy. The gentility surprises him. In the time Artemy has known him, Daniil has always been soft-spoken, but his words were often terse and anxious. He was snarky with the teenagers who hung around him, and though never exactly cold, Artemy could not have predicted he’d offer an action so generous.
Murky’s fingers twist in her nightgown, uncertain. “Aba usually hums for me.” She drops the hem of her dress, looking at Daniil’s knees as she speaks. “He’s not very good at singing.”
Daniil laughs quietly. “I know a song from the Capital. Something my mother used to sing to soothe my troubled mind and ward off evil spirits haunting my dreams.”
“They’re not evil,” Murky says after some consideration. Daniil nods for her to continue, though she’s still not quite looking at him. “They don’t scare me. Nuh-uh. But they won’t let me sleep.”
“I see.”
Artemy wishes he could get a glimpse of Daniil’s expression. He’d been worried that the man would have no patience for the children, easing him slowly into their dynamic by inviting him over when the kids were otherwise occupied. Now, he can’t help but imagine what Daniil was like as a child. Was he always so serious, so reserved? Did he cry for his mother to chase away the spirits, or was it the preemptive actions of an overprotective parent?
Daniil takes his movements slowly, brushing off his lap and preparing himself to stand when he could just as easily have snapped to attention. “Could you show me where the ghosts are, Murky?”
Murky looks up at him - though Artemy doubts that her gaze goes past his navel.
She doesn’t answer with words, turning on the balls of her feet and leading him into the hallway. Artemy gives them a few second’s head start, curious to see what they will do but not wanting to crowd.
Sneaking is difficult with the age of the house, the creaking floorboards, but if the two notice him following behind they do not care. When Artemy approaches, Daniil is standing in front of her closet with his hands on his hips, listening to her talk. And Artemy knows this concern well, as she has explained it many times - that there are things inside her wardrobe, ghosts that haunt her clothes, that wake her up with songs. Daniil responds, too softly for Artemy to make out what he is saying, but he watches Murky nervously twist her fingers around before she shrugs.
He prepares to be called to. Murky tends toward discomfort with those she does not know well, and though Daniil has spent more time in their home as of late, his interactions with the kids have been scattered. Artemy is then surprised to watch her crawl back into bed as Daniil returns to her side, crouching to reach her as he starts to sing.
Hush now, ghosts
who live here with us
give us our sleep
we’ll give you no fuss.
When dawn breaks
and our problems are few
you may come back
and we’ll start anew.
His voice is...not bad. It might even be pretty, if louder, and certainly steadier than Artemy’s warble.
Artemy retreats, hoping not to disturb them, and waits near the entrance to what passes for a sitting room. Daniil moves much quieter than he does, on his toes now just as Murky had been. He looks up at Artemy, eyes distant a second before they return, lips pulling into the slightest of smiles.
“Her wardrobe is haunted, you know,” he whispers, “though I believe most closets are.”
“Is that a Capital superstition?”
Daniil shakes his head. “Professional opinion.” Artemy doesn’t understand. The far-away tint to Daniil’s eyes is gone, but he has the feeling that there’s a story waiting to unravel somewhere in the future. He won’t press just yet. There’s more that waits to be uncovered, stories he knows he will hear when the time is right.
