The fresh, clear air of the Kerch countryside, devoid of the strong, acerbic tang of black coal smoke that hung heavily in the polluted, turbid atmosphere above Ketterdam at all times, did little to reduce the growing trepidation within Kaz, nor the feeling of sickness that had settled deep in his gut, coiled around it like a sharp string that grew tighter with every passing second, as they made their way along a narrow dirt path, surrounded by wide stretches of frozen-over, snow-covered fields and distant woodlands, where the dark tree crowns of evergreens loomed behind the pastures, situated between the bare brown twigs of the trees that had lost their leaves for the winter, coated with snow like the sugary covering of banketstaaf, the ground frozen and firm, each step on the uneven terrain tough on his bad leg, but he welcomed the pain that had settled deep in the strained limb, spread through permanently damaged bone and muscle tissue, focused on it to prevent his mind from straying to places he didn't want it straying to. The journey was a challenging one, the wintry cold far from kind on his already suffering leg as they walked through miles of roads and paths such as this one, strewn with hidden dips and dastard little rocks one could easily miss and trip over ( once, as a child, he'd stepped in one of those devious crannies hiding in the ground of a field and sprained his ankle, which his father had nursed back to health with many, many cold compresses — a memory long forgotten, now, once more, as present as ever ), but he couldn't have brought himself to come here in the warmer months, when the air smelled of sour apples, drying hay and the sweet nectar of flowers blooming in vibrant colours amidst the tall grass, when it smelled of his childhood, when everything would remind him of the last good spring and summer they all had together, before their father had unexpectedly lost his life to an ox-pulled plough near the beginning of that year's harvest season and the boys he'd left behind had set off on a hopeless journey neither of them would return from. Even now, he thought he could smell it, a distant, but familiar scent that floated through the freezing cold air that reminded him of those terribly cold winter days they'd spent in their kitchen, the fire burning away as snow fell outside, sticking to fogged-up windowpanes, drinking hot chocolate made from the freshest cow's milk ( her name had been Hilda and she'd been around for as long as Kaz could remember, born three months before he had, and brought up, up until then, when the complications of childbirth that had come with an already difficult pregnancy, had put an early end to her life, by his mother ) and playing card games with their father, who'd spent the majority of the afternoon chopping lumber, that transported him right home, and he had to inwardly shake himself to get rid of the images that threatened to form ahead of his eyes.
He didn't know why he'd bought back the farm, he really didn't, and he knew even less why he'd chosen to come back here, at last, after all this time. Spite, perhaps, to gain something he'd lost back, perhaps it had been another investment, or, perhaps, he hadn't been ready yet to let the family he'd come from go fully, to let every last pieces and reminders of them die the way they had. He didn't know, but, once he'd started making a name for himself in the Barrel and acquiring important connections, it had been easy to track down the new owners of the farm, of whom he had a distant memory of — a married couple well in their fifties, who ran a successful farm shop in the nearby town of Lij, talking to Jordie in the kitchen of their former home, signing and handing him the check, of which every last penny had ultimately wandered into Pekka Rollins' pockets.
They'd never intended to do much with the house, but had needed the wide stretch of farmland for their constantly growing livestock in the long summer months — they'd wanted to tear it down eventually, as they'd told him when he'd made them an offer they couldn't refuse, and negotiated out the rest, adamant on getting back the piece of land on the outskirts of Lij his father had worked so hard for, expand the barn, but had never gotten around to it in the short time they'd owned it. And he could see that much now, as him and Inej were coming up on the land that had once belonged to his family, now once more was in the Rietveld name, even if that particular Rietveld had never truly existed, merely been an identity Kaz had fabricated in his favour, when he could no longer avoid the familiarity of these surroundings he'd left behind so long ago and avoided ever since, he'd since last walked these roads, but in the opposite direction, away from everything he'd ever known — it stood just as him and his brother had left it, well over a decade ago, a small, but pretty, two-story farmhouse with a white, half-timbered exterior, a dark blue front door and window frames painted in the same shade, connected to a wooden barn structure. Neglect and the elements of nature had evidently taken their toll on the exterior of the buildings, the white of the walls tinged black and green with dirt and streaks of moss, the wood chipped, gone entirely in some spots, the once vibrant paint faded, unkempt shrubs growing all around it and blocking part of the entry. Still, it held a familiarity that felt like a violent smack to the face that knocked the air straight from his lungs — he could see them again, two boys, brothers, walking hand in hand out of that very door, walking away from the lives they'd once lived, equal parts scared and naively hopeful for the future expanding before them. Now one of them was dead, lost forever in the sea that had carried him away, and the other was but a ghost of his former self, standing in a bizarre limbo between worlds, looking up at the facade of what had once been his home.
I knew you would end up here again, little brother. I knew you would come home.
This isn't my home, Jordie.
Cold, dismal and cruel as it may be, Ketterdam had become his home — the city that had taken everything from him, his brother, his sanity, every shred of kindness and trace of goodness he might've ever possessed, the city he'd challenged and claimed everything back from, except for what couldn't possibly be salvaged, merely avenged. He wasn't a dumb, frightened little farm boy anymore, hoping for his brother's success as a merchant, he was one of the wealthiest men in the city, richer than the majority of the merchant council, a skilled conman, the thief who stripped these hapless businessmen his brother had wanted to be one of, off their money. THAT was his home, the empire he'd built for himself, the gang he'd raised from nothing, the city that might've haunted his dreams hadn't he become the monster they all feared.
And, even if the vastness of the True Sea separated them for most of the year, in way, the woman next to him had become something like a home to him as well. Although he wasn't looking in her direction, he felt her presence next to him, felt how close she was standing, and, in the barest movement, he allowed his shoulder to brush against hers.
Before Jordie's voice could gain in prominence as it always did until he couldn't take it anymore, her voice came through, one he clung to like an anchor would tether a ship to the shallow waters of the harbour, one that was capable of bringing him back from the darkness he had a tendency of falling into, and he held onto it for a moment, the grip of his chilled fingers stiff and firm on the crow's head top of his cane, another comfort found in familiarity that he used to at least try to ground himself as his thoughts raced and his heart rate picked up pace, pulse thumping rapidly in his ears, throat growing constricted as he turned her words over in his head. Of course she knew the job he'd explained to her had been a mere pretence, of course she did, she knew him well enough, maybe too well ( although he had begun to develop a certain appreciation for that fact ), but she didn't know everything. She knew nothing about what they were currently looking at, nor Kaz's connection to it, the reason behind the tattoo on his bicep he knew she was aware of, the person he once had been.
There were a million lies and half-truths he could formulate in response to Inej's query that wouldn't include giving away this particular piece of his history — that this wasn't their destination, only a farmhouse of many in this area and that they'd better hurry if they wanted to reach the nearby town before night fell, that he'd purchased land in the countryside for no reason other than to increase his money inflow, that he'd changed his mind on the supposed ‘ job ’ they'd come here for, and that it was time to head back.
But he'd brought her this far already, and for a reason, even if he wasn't quite sure what that was, he might as well come clean now. For a moment, Kaz didn't say anything at all, only looked at the slowly disintegrating, abandoned building before them in silence, and then, finally, after minutes that, to him, felt like hours, he swallowed, loosened a tightly locked jaw and spoke, the raspy tone of his voice coming out at a quiet volume, but sounding surprisingly steady, despite his inner turmoil, something practised, that the harshness of the Barrel and the refusal to put emotions on display had instilled in him, a peculiar ability to stay uncannily calm in most situations, but here, looking directly at his past, fighting in vain against an onslaught of memories that could no longer be fought, he wasn't sure how long he could keep that up, “ . . . This is where I grew up. ”
