#khotkin

slow-danceable OST of my mind

Children would always find a way to witness the parts of the world adults claimed to be improper for their eyes. A son staying up too late and overhearing the business of his parents, slinking back down to his room and making it a gravesite for the memory. “It’s part of being a child. It’s part of staying a child.” For undisturbed memories which you could relive endlessly and violations of the taboos of the society of men did indeed come most frequently in youth. It was a reality most common for a boy to watch grownups warily through cracks on the roofing or slits on the windows, observing the chasms of impropriety hidden from impressionable eyes during most hours. “More than actually growing, it’s collecting secrets that’s the biggest part of becoming an adult.” A child perhaps is like a lockbox of adult secrets until they themselves became the adults whose secrets they bore. 

It was a matter of perspective if the hidden worlds of children and adults collided or were of mutual exclusivity, if one witnessing the other was a trait of self-determination or a sign of transition. Caspar Kain would say children are defined in opposition to adults, that to adhere to the rules of adults was to be integrated, perhaps even consumed, that it was exclusively a child’s place to witness the affairs of their elders in spite of custom. Notkin, on the other hand, always in opposition to Khan, intentionally or not, found intruding on the world of adults to be the sobering experience that matured a child into one, a slow corruption, though childhood wasn’t a virtue in itself. 

Khan perched on the steady arm of the statue adorning his family home’s courtyard, feeling the docile breeze of a low altitude, wistfully wishing for the bite of whistling winds, such as those that ran by the Polyhedron’s peak. Indifference touched the surface of his skin from within as he watched laborers toil in the construction of a stage, preparing for a spectacle with no encore, the closing of the curtains of a life. Thinking of it so poetically left Caspar cynical, wondering how one could sanitize an execution into an affair of entertainment. It was mere necessity that tied ropes around men’s necks, it was pragmatism that pulled the trigger. Any satisfaction gained from such business was entirely up to the mind of the beholder or executioner. 

The workers spared by the theater director worked much more efficiently and animatedly than the men of the watch, chatting amicably as they hammered nails onto what may as well be a coffin, following the familiar motions of stage maintenance and construction. The Inquisitor’s men simply supervised silently, looking like carrion birds in their expectant stillness. Caspar wondered if the Polyhedron was built in such mundane circumstances by such menial labor. 

The morning hours were soon to end, bringing the town closer to the moment of Artemy Burakh’s fated demise. The apathy with which people passed by the makeshift site spoke to the widespread sentiment about the man himself and life in general in recent times, although whichever conclusion he was pondering was cut short by uneven footsteps at his blind spot, strides languidly coming to a halt at the base of the statue. Caspar looked down to see Notkin crack his fingers before heaving himself up the pedestal, sitting with his bad leg dangling. Only when he settled comfortably did he look up at Khan, tired eyes still bearing some levity, though it was clearly insincere. “Mornin’.”

Caspar’s breathing stuttered a bit, caught between the casual greeting and the visible signs of injury on the other boy. “...Lovely day for an execution, don’t you think?” His tone of voice was flat, not dignifying the event with the weight one would expect. Notkin’s eyebrow twitched, but he was otherwise silent, seeming exhausted beyond what should be reasonable for someone not bedridden. “You look like you had a brush with death yourself.”

“Astute observation there, Khan.” The boy sighed, posture relaxing not in comfort but a resigned concession, like an animal going limp in the grip of a predator. “How about you don’t  comment on things you know nothing about?” With his eyes closed and fists unclenched, the lines of his body and face seemed soft, maybe even refined. Caspar wondered for a bit where the delicate grace came from before realization struck him with the memory of his reflection, a foggy mirror in the hallway of a home he only recently returned to. This was fragility, like hollow china, a person drained of what had once made them greater than whole. He knew those slightly curled fingers, shaking almost imperceptibly; he was familiar with slightly parted lips and lidded eyes; all signs of dulled senses and blunted intentions he saw in himself ever since losing his everything were present in this boy sitting just below him.

Khan flexed his fingers, knowing the circulation would never return to them the same way. “I know better than you think.” Notkin seemed to almost willfully ignore him, but the fugue of mourning was dispersed momentarily by a real flicker of emotion in his eyes, widened in reaction.

“The Dogheads…” Notkin spoke with not a drop of old grudges in his tone, pausing the syllables as if dragging them back, as if the effort would somehow stop them from leaving. They both knew better than to expect to keep anything they ever loved at this point.

Khan crossed his legs and leaned forward a bit to maintain eye contact, feeling somewhat relieved to have someone else’s problems to concern himself with. “Then the Souls didn’t fare any better, did they.” There was no point in phrasing it as a question. “My condolences, Notkin.” Caspar hoped the honesty shone through, though he felt shame for the real strain in his voice.

His rival’s expression pinched, a complicated cocktail of reactions fighting over predominance. “...I’m sorry about your Dogheads. I bet they put up a good fight.” Caspar considered almost hysterically how they seemed to be adding to each other’s grief but paradoxically comforting the other.

“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there.” ‘I was with you’ went unspoken, but it weighed like a mantle soaked in blood. 

Notkin’s eyebrows furrowed and he bit his lower lip, looking like a child that had yet to ever process a new emotion. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t regret it.” Caspar himself wasn’t sure if he meant that, but he would fight for it to be true. “I’m ashamed, perhaps even humiliated, but I don’t regret it.” He’d wondered what it said about him, late at night, lying on his soft bedding and imagining the best of his wards in rough cots, at worst on their deathbed. It was painful to come to terms with how readily he would say he’d let it happen again, not out of a sense of predetermination, but merely due to the logical conclusion that he would still choose to have consulted with Notkin while his domain was violently ravaged. He considered it may be cowardice to so easily accept powerlessness in this situation. 

The other boy let go of his lip, now red and torn at points, withdrawing a pathetic few raisins from his pocket and practically inhaling them. Notkin swallowed with his eyes tightly shut, and perhaps Khan was jumping to conclusions when he imagined that the boy’s throat must be ravaged, thirst and sickness worsening the condition of where he’d likely shouted until he could no longer summon his voice, one boy crying for dozens of his silenced friends. 

Caspar was broken out of his reverie by movement on the square before the Cathedral, a small crowd slowly expanding while officials of differing ranks and authorities bustled lifelessly, exchanging papers and curt orders. Aglaya Lilich stood on the improvised stage, murmuring lowly with Daniil Dankovsky, both of them pensive but focused. It was a matter of time before the event started, and his companion seemed to draw the same conclusion. Neither of the boys looked at each other as they spoke, too busy surveying the spectacle to come. “Out of all the things anyone with the Inquisitor’s power could be doing while we all die at the hands of this fucking plague, they’re wasting resources to kill a person instead.”

Khan wondered if Notkin was reaching an emotional breaking point or if this topic of discussion seemed to him like a worn debate, perhaps even a source of comfort. It said much about their situation that gossiping about an execution was a refreshing break from the circumstances of their lives. “It’s about morale. Besides, the man is partially responsible for the death toll, given his responsibility and how he butchered it.” 

Notkin looked at him over his shoulder, an askance expression that somehow didn’t convey the weight of a debate about a man’s life. “Killing him won’t solve anything.” The way he looked at Khan conveyed all the old arguments he’d ever given before, though now there was an edge of desperation, as if he wanted to revive his convictions for the sake of his sanity. “Burakh may be incompetent at the worst times, but his attitude and failures don’t mean he deserves death.”

“His few virtues don’t mean he deserves life either.” Caspar’s apathy was genuine, though a part of him did find Notkin to be within reason to protest. “The man was careless and volatile, his intervention did very little to assist those in need.”

His rival glared up at him, and the restlessness of his posture pointed to a coiled urge to move, maybe tug on Khan’s leg, if only to let out some of that bottled energy, childish though the gesture was. “He saved your life! You’d-” Notkin interrupted himself, clearing his throat with a grimace and pinched eyes. “You’d be dead twice over if it weren’t for him.”

The gentle breeze had stopped a while ago, leaving the district in a miasma, as if the world itself held bated breath. “He was only doing his due diligence.” The open air almost paradoxically muffled their conversation, the only real witness of it the sky and perhaps the statue upon which they perched. Two birds on a wire, two boys of very different feathers. “If anyone did more for me than they ought to, it was only you.” His eyes shifted away from Notkin, wandering the faceless crowd, up the buttresses of the Cathedral, catching on crows and doves roosting on the eaves. The sky was clear in the most unfortunate way, completely smeared with a homogenous steel gray.

Caspar could feel Notkin’s eyes still on him, perhaps even more intently than before. “...What does that even mean?”

“Whatever you make of it.” He shifted sideways, lying cradled by the statue’s arm, still following the horizon with his gaze. “Burakh’s death, deserved or not, will serve a purpose. Isn’t that more than can be said for his pathetic attempts in life?” 

The cruelty of the statement seemed to quell something stirring behind Notkin’s eyes. “Nobody gets to decide who lives and who dies, much less for their own purposes.” 

Khan shrugged, spotting a group of Saburov’s watchmen escorting the governor and a hunched figure he was all too familiar with. “It’s what happens. Those in power will manage it as they see fit, and the pawns fall accordingly. The Inquisitor, Saburov, Fat Vlad…” Caspar tilted his head slightly to indicate the oncoming procession.

“And you.” The boy’s response was flat as he stood up, biting back a groan, leaning on the body of the statue for leverage. Caspar didn’t think Notkin had any real affection for Artemy Burakh, but the way he pursed his lips revealed a vulnerable sympathy that some would call naive. He himself wasn’t sure if that was the case or not, despite disagreeing inherently. “You’re neither a judge nor an arbiter, life and death aren’t tools for you to wield so callously.”

“Neither are you, so you can’t decide what I can or cannot do.” He looked at Notkin’s clenched jaw out of the corner of his eye, seeing something similar to a powerless frustration one might feel upon seeing a bull be led to the slaughter, which seemed an apt metaphor. “I don’t know about the Inquisitor, but I don’t expect everyone to agree with my choices. In the end, I sleep better at night knowing my actions are lessening the violent and insidious disorder that runs amok.”

Notkin met his eyes evenly, crossing his arms. “I’m happy for you. At least you can sleep at all, knowing the consequences of your actions.” There wasn’t much to tell apart sincerity from irony, it was as if Notkin himself spoke without knowing how he felt.

As Burakh was led onto the stage, Aglaya and Saburov met eyes with a respectful nod, some satisfied solemnity straightening their postures before the governor raised a hand to dismiss his men and allow the Inquisitor’s peons to take their place. The gathering onlookers spoke in hushed whispers, roiling like the currents of the river in a steady rumble, and though nothing could be heard above the lilting comments, a charged exchange seemed to take place between Dankovsky and Burakh in the periphery of the Inquisitor and governor’s succinct conversation. Khan couldn’t help but shift to sit properly facing the event, sneaking a glance at Notkin. He couldn’t describe what exactly passed between their gazes as their eyes met, but it had a drop of kinship otherwise unknown previously.

“Think we’ll ever be in that position?” Khan couldn’t help but ask, looking intently at Dankovsky’s affronted expression, the tension in the man’s frame like a coiled serpent readying a strike. 

Notkin huffed, gesturing between the actors onstage. “Which one? I doubt either of us would be an Inquisitor. Seems I'm the likeliest candidate for cadaver. Thinking about executing me, are you?” Burakh looked solemn, nodding along and murmuring interspersed comments to Dankovsky, though his deadened eyes scanned the crowd, a man looking back at the people he swore to protect, now apathetically watching him be sentenced to capital punishment at the hands of the Capital dandy. The irony was scornfully delightful, though only a cold dread remained when Artemy’s eyes met Khan’s for a moment.

Caspar looked sideways at his rival, feeling a levity foreign to the ongoing context.”If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be here.” To think casual death threats during an execution would be the most relaxed he felt in such a long time. 

With a final nod, Saburov stood back with his hands behind his back, looking the picture of a dutiful governor, though the sallow skin and creased clothes told of what town he was governor of. The Inquisitor stood taller, chin raised and chest puffed, projecting her voice between the tall walls of the Cathedral and Crucible. “Artemy Burakh, by order of the Governor and with the acquiescence of the Inquisitor, you have been sentenced to death by execution. Your crimes of violence, malpractice and neglect speak for themselves. Have you anything to say for yourself, knowing it will not change your fate?”

Having little interest in the event itself, Caspar slid down from where he sat and leaned on the statue beside Notkin, scrutinizing his companion’s pensive expression. He mildly kept track of Burakh’s response, listening to the deep rumble of the man’s disused voice. “I didn’t commit those crimes, so I have no excuses to give for acts I don’t claim. As for my failings as a healer, I admit I did not accomplish the miraculous, but neither did any of my colleagues. My only hope is that this will change after I’m gone.” The man turned to Dankovsky, melancholic regret clashing with bitterness in his expression. The Bachelor was impassive but for a sharpness in his eyes, venomous and unforgiving. 

Notkin’s breathing quickened ever so slightly, chest rising and falling with a few stutters, minor grimaces passing over his visage in moments of pain. Caspar wondered what wounds would be painted on him underneath his shirt, how painful it must’ve been to walk to this place just to witness the tail end of a tragedy. Aglaya hummed shortly before cutting the silence. “I’m sure your colleagues appreciate the hope. One of them deigned to request a direct role in your death, however, so perhaps your conscience shouldn’t be so clear. Daniil Dankovsky, at your discretion.”

The Bachelor stepped forward, putting himself side by side with Burakh before quickly turning and pointing a revolver at his head point blank. His lips moved, though no words could be heard above the murmurs of the crowd. Burakh fell to his knees, facing Dankovsky with clear eyes and parted lips. The anticipation made it clear the executioner was seconds away from pulling the trigger, and Caspar felt Notkin’s fingers twitch next to his hand, touching him like static electricity. Khan felt the need to keep his eyes straight ahead, unblinking, observing the execution with full clarity, so he could very clearly distinguish the next words formed soundlessly by Dankovsky’s lips. “Vade in pace.”

The gunshot didn’t startle him as much as Notkin jerking his head aside in anticipation, and he was keenly aware of the head that fell onto his shoulder, the shaking of his rival’s lips with each unsteady intake of air, the fingers clenched in his from an overlooked movement. Silence finally settled upon the street once the body fell with a dull knock on the tainted stage. Caspar wondered why he felt as if the blood splashed on his face from this distance, an impossible sensation, though he reached with his free hand to wipe his cheek, looking down and seeing his fingers clean as they were before. If his body was clean, then that meant it was his soul that was tainted. He exhaled, feeling as though he’d let go of his last memory of Artemy Burakh, a man he had no lost love for. 

Caspar felt the time pass, in his mind and at his fingertips, holding his pocketwatch and feeling the ticks. In the courtyard of the Crucible he could allow himself to relax, letting the surroundings fade away and simply processing the events of the past while. They sat close together for long enough that the stage was almost completely disassembled by the time Notkin moved again, though it was only to unfold his bad leg from where it was bent in his crouch, letting it lie parallel to Caspar’s own outstretched leg. He was completely still as he paid attention to Notkin, picking at all the reasons he could imagine for the boy to shut down so easily, especially in his presence. Exhaustion, pain, shock, fear, anger, sadness. All the terrible feelings in the world didn’t explain why he’d allow himself the vulnerability to be in such a state with Khan, but he realized that pondering it any more would only serve to stick needles in his own heart as if the source of the bleeding wasn’t the whole.

“Khan… What’s real?” He felt Notkin lift his head, hooking his chin on Caspar’s shoulder to regard him tiredly. “What do we have left?”

Caspar gazed at him sideways, expecting brokenness and being met with resolve. This wasn’t a question coming from a place of despair, but a tangible gathering of thoughts. Khan had refused to consider his losses as irreversible, yet here was Notkin facing the abyss with wit and determination. “...You shouldn’t be asking me this. I was never taken with reality, was I.” Either he’d lost circulation in his fingers and was getting phantom sensations or Notkin tightened his hold, and it was impossible to tell which possibility was more real. “You tell me.”

His companion licked his lips, hooking the fingers of his free hand with his thumb and cracking the joints. “...Do you think you could get your Dogheads back?” Caspar felt his breath catch before he could consciously react, a sting behind his eyes giving little warning before he felt a warm tear intersect the phantom bloodstain on his cheek. Notkin reached out to wipe it away with gentleness Caspar hadn’t felt in a lifetime, and the action was entirely self-defeating, prompting him to weep more, feeling a bone-deep shame for how the touch finally seemed to remove the stain of death from his face. “Then we’re reduced to equals again. I have you, you have me, nobody has us. Not even Burakh is here anymore, nothing ties us together.”

“No longer bound, are we.” Caspar felt more unmoored by this than when he had willingly left his place in the Kain estate. No love was lost, but the finality of Artemy’s death brought into question every other loss sustained thus far, leaving little room for doubt as to the conclusion. There was nothing left of the futures they had built themselves. “What will you do now?”

His rival sighed, lifting their joined hands in accident, as if he’d forgotten they were held, and something in the gesture gave him pause. He brought Caspar’s hand to his chest, covering it with his own, looking down at them in thought. “Wait for it to stop, I suppose. Same as always.” The rhythm of his heart was faster than Khan’s, and to him it felt as if it were restrained by the ribcage, an irrational sort of thought, and Caspar wondered what it would feel like to hold that gentle but steadfast heart. It took him a moment to realize he already was, in a way.