Peter, Eva, Notkin

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. 

  The conversation with Dankovsky only left him feeling more confused and disoriented. What in the world did he meant by… by any of it? The information he shared about the ‚previous day’ was concerning, if he was telling the truth that is. Yet he didn’t have a reason to lie, or at least Rubin hoped so. They were still colleagues, the man shouldn’t obscure anything of importance from him. However, why would anything he mentioned happen? What exactly did Artemy do? Did he really- How did Saburov fit into it all? He was clearly responsible to what could possibly happen to the artist, but was there more? What exactly took place? Why did he still feel as if he was missing some vital information, like his time was running out? That sense of foreboding, of slowly rising anxiety, still clung to him the same way this damned sickness did. It was everywhere, every single district was endangered. The air was dark with disease, the coughing, moans of pain, were all around. How did it get so bad? How did everything they tried fail? The quarantine was pointless, how was anyone meant to survive this? And it wasn’t even all of it. The Bachelor shouldn’t hide information from him, yet he did. He knew more than what he shared. What did Daniil know about him? What was he trying to point out? The more he dwelled on it the more frustrated he became. He didn’t want to make Dankovsky his enemy, they were fighting for the same cause. Daniil cared for Peter as well. They could deal with the Pest only if they worked together.

The lingering sickness was making it hard to breathe, and the mask made it even more so. Did it offer any protection whatsoever? It felt more theatrical than anything else. Together with the cloak, it made him feel… strange to say the least. Not quite like himself. The cemetery looked worse than ever before. The corpses stacked on top of each other, victims who couldn’t be saved now treated as nothing but rotting meat. The smell was making his head swirl. The sound of insects made his skin crawl. Who were these people? Did anybody care? No, to most, they were just numbers - almost ten thousand dead at this point. Nine thousand eight hundred. Maybe not all of them were there, but… Their whole being would be forgotten sooner rather than later. They were the Dead who couldn’t even be buried now. Who could be bothered to dig out the graves? Where would they even dig? There was so little space. If not for Grief, he’d be one of them too. One of those Dead, another corpse to take care of, another useless body to be burnt and forgotten. At first, Rubin tried to avoid looking at their faces as much as he could. The mask was at least a little helpful in this task. But he could still see, still notice the eyes that didn’t shine. The wetness long gone, replaced by that cold nothingness. The worst part was… He knew these people. He saw some of them on the streets, at Isidor’s house. He could remember some of the names. A patient that visited regularly, the lady from the grocers, a kid he often saw on his way to the clinic. And he didn’t help them. Didn’t save a single life. Didn’t know how, didn’t have enough time. Not only couldn’t he help them, but he was also responsible. All these deaths, all pointless, yet Isidor wanted them for some reason. Found some purpose in them. No matter for how long he’d be trying to repent for this, maybe his entire life, it still wouldn’t be enough. He felt sick, yet he pushed through the nauseating feeling. Through the sudden vertigo and heaviness in his lungs. He wanted to leave, turn back on his heel, and let some other person in a mask take care of this. Yet he was already there, he could see this task done. He wasn’t one to back down anyway, he took this upon himself, and he would see this through.

And so he got to work. He started arranging the bodies, he probably should have shown each of them more respect, but the constant feeling of urgency made him act faster rather than more carefully. The pain in his forearms and dirty air weren’t helpful either. It was a struggle with the injuries, but it had to be done. He repeated the phrase a few times over, seeing the faces he recognized. It had to be done. Someone has to do this. Better him than anyone else. It felt unreal. There were so many faces he remembered, each dead, some worse than the others.Some killed by the Sand pest, some by their own hand, some by another. Some already rotting. A few of them were easier to identify—a few he hadn’t expected to see among the pile. At first, he wasn’t sure whether it was the same woman. He didn’t know her well, more from occasional sightings than anything else, yet the hair, the clothing. It couldn’t be anyone else. Should he tell Lara? Should she know? He still remembered those few days prior to the disease, how glad she was to have found a compassionate soul, a friend, in Town… It didn’t even look like the Sand pest. Eva Yan did this to herself. And Rubin was so close to being the same. There were only more bodies, another and another, yet the one next to Eva’s caught his attention. For a second, he thought it was Peter. Cold, devoid of any emotion. Dead eyes staring back at him. It wouldn’t make sense. Peter was locked in his loft. The artist wouldn’t be able to reach the cemetery before him. The man was alive. Yet the sight still made him freeze. His breath caught in his throat. The sudden feeling of failure, of horror that he still fucked up, it happened again, that he was too late, that Peter was gone was almost overwhelming.

The logic followed only a second after. It wasn’t Peter. It couldn’t be. The hair length didn’t match. Neither did the facts. It wasn’t him. It was Andrey. He didn’t think he would see the familiar face here. The relief he felt was sickening, wrong, a man still died, and not just some man, but Andrey Stamatin. Of course he suspected this before. Once Grief mentioned Andrey was sick, he could already guess the man wasn’t all right, but he still hoped. For a friend’s sake. But seeing him here, h e r e… No, if the architect found out about this… He couldn’t. He mustn’t learn about this.

It wasn’t right, of course, hiding this from The artist wasn’t right. Yet he couldn’t lose Peter now. He already had a good number of wrongdoings on his conscience, one more wouldn’t change a thing. Stakh was doomed, but Peter shouldn’t be. He just- … Was this what happened? Did Peter see his brother’s corpse and- Saburov knew. That’s what happened, that was the plan. That’s why Dankovsky said- He didn’t want to lose it now, he had to focus. Saburov deserved to pay for this, but first of all he had to finish his work, make sure Peter wouldn’t see this, that he would survive this. He treated both Eva and Andrey with more respect than the rest. They were dead, the same as everyone else at the cemetery, yes, but somehow it felt more like he shouldn’t treat them as simply corpses. It took some time, but eventually he could finish it. Thankfully, starting a fire wasn’t a hard task.

Eight hours straight of no chores on a healthy diet of one solitary bottle of Twyrine later and Peter figured out it didn’t matter what his room looked like ─ he wasn’t going to get a chance to be bored or stimulated in it regardless. All that occupied his mind was simply his own anger and frustration. Disappointment and eventual acceptance. The knowledge that he had been forced to stay in this room, locked up inside his own apartment. All while he was supposed to be out there, partaking in whatever was going on today at the cemetery. He didn’t bother looking at the time at all. He figured he’d stopped checking around three─whatever. It truly didn’t matter at this point. Funny, how someone who was so used to sheer isolation was struggling to stay between his own four walls. Just a week ago Peter probably wouldn’t even have noticed if someone locked him inside his own house. It would’ve taken him at least a few days to notice. Probably when his Twyrine ran out or when Andrey would knock on his door. Then again, how likely was that going to happen any time soon? 

It bothered him how much he missed his own brother. He didn’t mind going on days without seeing him, after all, he wasn’t that dependent. Besides that, he was a man who saw worth in solitude. The best circumstances to engage with his own genius. But the way they separated last time still left a bitter taste in his mouth. One not even his beloved Twyrine could wash away. And to be fair, he was running out. Maybe that was for the better. Maybe then he would take upon the effort of breaking down that door. The same door he’d leaned his back against ever since Rubin and Daniil had left. What was the purpose behind caging him up like this anyway? He couldn’t recall mentioning his plans for the day to any of them. Maybe Dankovsky overheard something. He had a talk with Grace the same morning. One in which Grace asked him to stay at home.

Why was everyone so hell-bent on keeping him at home today? 

Peter squinted his eyes, letting his vision blur to nothing more than vague shapes and light. The pulsing of veins in his ears barely muffled the ticking of the huge Grandfather clock inside his room. Everything felt grey. From the lights shining through the window all the way to the cracks on the floor. The large blanket covering the mirror, barely hiding a face that wasn’t his. He was losing his mind in here. Isolated, within his own walls. Although the space surrounding him resembled his heart more than anything else. 

─ The one time he wanted to do good, he physically couldn’t. 

Peter knew he was forced to wait for someone to open that door. That his arms wouldn’t be able to break down that lock any time soon and that feeling alone made him miserable. Not only that, but also knowing he’d let Grace down. Despite the girl pleading for him to do the opposite, he still insisted on wanting to keep his end of the deal with Saburov. Wanted to size up the cemetery for more corpses to come, as if some unspoken forces told him he’d soon be one of them. No more piling, no more pits. No more tunnels, leading into the earth. They needed space.

It was is if he could hear her words still. Words from that one faithful night, where both Rubin and him had saved her from the Dead she was so willingly trying to protect. The same Dead who tore at the rim of her dress, wanting her to care for them forevermore. Peter wouldn’t allow for that to happen. Wouldn’t allow for Grace’s life to be cut short so soon. He needed to get out, speak to Saburov. Explain the situation and promise to work tomorrow. Maybe he could still uphold his deal. Or maybe not.

When Peter finally got up, it was already getting late. The once grey rays had turned itself into deep hues of gold, a sign that time was approaching dusk. He didn’t dare look at the mirror when he passed by, directly making his way to the window. Outside, not much had changed. The air was still infiltrated by the black dust, hovering everywhere. Except now, he could tell the level was much higher. With some particles even floating as high as the third floor of his house.  Peter sighed exasperated. How much longer would he have to wait until he could be of actual help? How much longer until he was allowed to go out and venture into the Theatre he had dreamed about.

He still remembered those events, although vividly. Like a lucid dream he explored once too deeply. It was a wild guess to assume Andrey would be there, but it was at least a start. Leaning his frail frame over the windowsill, he looked down, finally noticing a familiar shape around the crook of the road. A tall shape, there weren’t many people of that height in this town. 

A new fire ignited in him at the realization of who that was. Had he finally decided to come back? To let him out of here like some child you locked away from the kitchen? Rubin definitely owed him an explanation for all of this. Without further hesitation, he rushed away, almost stumbling on his way to the door where he pressed his ear firmly against the ramshackle wood. A loud click emitted through his halls, indicating the unlocking of a door, followed by heavy steps. 

  The walk back from the cemetery felt like a dream, or at least a huge part of it did. Rubin didn’t exactly remember leaving the place, leaving the burned corpses behind. Didn’t remember passing an entire district. Almost as if he was pulled by some invisible will, dragged around from one task to another. He hated it. It was like a dream that he forgot upon waking up. What managed to get him out of his thoughts was a messenger. The man was in a hurry, as soon as the letter was in Rubin’s hands, he ran, not a single word was exchanged. It wasn’t strange, the air was filled with infection, and the mold spread everywhere. Only then did he become intensely aware of how difficult it was to breathe. Brought back from that unconscious state, he put the letter into one of his pockets, before sprinting along the street. He’d read the message later; right now, he didn’t even know what time it was. The sky was growing darker, or at least he thought so. It was hard to tell from the outside. Rubin hoped the smell of smoke and ash didn’t cling to him. The smell of burnt flesh. He was thankful for having the keys in his possession now. There was no need to knock.

He leaned against the door as soon as it closed, effectively putting a barrier between himself and the infected air. He could breathe again, fill his lungs with cleaner air. He was grasping for it, desperately trying to get more oxygen than necessary, as if there wouldn’t be any more occasions to catch a break. To breathe. The hard wood against his back offered stability. He pushed himself away from it only when his breathing stabilized, once the beating of his heart slowed down. He didn’t want a repeat of what had happened this morning. For a second, he debated whether it would be better to leave again, let his emotions out on- On something. Use the broken hands for something before going up. Let the rot out, but he couldn’t leave Peter again. Couldn’t let the man wait another hour. How much time has passed by this point? He wasn’t sure, he simply knew he had wasted enough of it already.

Walking up the staircase felt more taxing than Rubin could ever assume. He has climbed up while completely exhausted, his body on the verge of giving up, and yet even then it was easier. His steps seemed extra heavy, every movement felt as if his limbs were on tightly pulled strings. There was a pit in his gut, something that kept growing the higher up the stairs he got. It was beyond uncomfortable. Something was making this harder for him, and he could blame only himself for it because that something was his own fear. That uncertainty, that guilt washing over him like waves, that anger spoiling his heart and spreading through his veins. He felt sick, but not with the disease waiting for another victim outside, no. No, he felt sick of himself. He couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even be truthful. His options were limited, his path seemed almost predestined. Stakh wanted to laugh at that. A desperate attempt at finding humor in their current situation, but the sound wouldn’t leave his throat.

Eventually, he reached the door upstairs. The pit in his stomach felt almost unbearable, the whirlpool of emotion felt like too much. Yet he pushed it all down while reaching for the keys, or he tried to keep it bottled up. Nobody needed a physician that easily overwhelmed, useless. He was already in a bad spot, few still trusted him, few would see him as competent.

The keys almost fell out of his clumsy hands. He was anything but competent. He did it all to himself. Why would he blame Isidor if he was just as responsible? If not for the Sand Pest then for what happened after the sickness spread. After? Maybe even before. His instincts always turned to hostility and anger. He put trust where he shouldn’t. He missed people he should not. He decided to steal Simon’s body, to cut it open, and use it for experimentation. He chose to break the taboo. He opted to drive himself to the edge and still get nothing done. His own hands would be fine if he didn’t try to-

He stopped. His hand was shaking, making him unable to push the key into the lock. He was pathetic. Truly pathetic. Gravel tried many times to get him to think differently. To stop him from being so harsh to both himself and everyone else. It never worked, not really. He always fell back into the same way of thinking. Oh, how much he loathed it.

Peter hadn’t felt anger like this in a long time. It blew up in him the second he heard that door unlock, watching the taller man walk in. Usually, this kind of anger was directed at himself. Emotions that would make him rip on his own hair, scratch his own arms until white lines covered his sickly pale skin. He hated the sound of that, hated the texture when he ran his fingers over those lines. They were never deep enough to leave marks. Just mere skin irritations caused by bad habits. Something this man was apparently made of.

“You locked me in.”

There was no need to talk around the subject of the matter. Even a child could tell he was angry at the man. Furious, even. Peter thanked the heavens that Grace was already asleep.

He straightened his back, waiting for Rubin to react to what he’d just said. Yet all he could see was a man who didn’t even seem to have the slightest idea about how to respond. Seeing him like this stirred up something low in him, something that jolted through his veins and made the hairs on his body prick up. There had to be a reason, he thought, and so he knew it was important to be as gentle as possible, to get him receptive and trusted and loose-lipped, or at least have his defiance lowered, as he had never been good at interrogation. That was Andrey’s job.

“You locked me in, left me here for eight hours waiting like a dog while I was supposed to help at the cemetery! And now you have the audacity to just walk back in and say nothing! Are you aware of what you’ve done?! I’m already on that Governor’s hitlist! You just gave him a reason to- ”

Peter pressed his lips together. There was a lot of frustration just waiting to spill out. He never quite felt such powerful and great emotions towards another human being. Well, no, that too was a lie. He did, a long, long time ago. And how did that end? Anger inspires, motivates, and creates dedication from such little things. Anger builds and gives purpose to those who have lost it. Yet in this instance, as Peter approached the other man, he felt nothing but hurt. Betrayed.

After all the things he did for him, how dare he break his trust like that? Lock him inside a room, knowing about his intentions, his plans, his deal for that day. How dare he rob him of his purpose when all he wanted to do was help?

Society defines the concept of anger as ‘an emotion characterised by antagonism towards someone or something you feel has deliberately done you wrong’. But how much of that really applied to this situation? How much of it was true and how much unspoken? So far, Rubin had done nothing to actively hurt him. He helped him when he needed it, saved Grace, took care of his injuries. Why was it that the further he approached, the more his anger vanished, instead being replaced by the mere feeling of hurt? Looking at him brought nothing but pain, a sting in his heart. Rubin was holding back. There was something he couldn’t or didn’t want to say. Something that mirrored his expression of pain. The way he avoided all gazes, unsure of what to say, reminded him of an abused child. It was in that moment when the artist realized that nothing he had done was done to spite or hurt him. Not actively. Peter took a deep breath before he reached out a hand, grabbing the other by the side of his head. A quick look of bewilderment was the only response he got, eyes widening at the surprising gesture, yet his hand remained firm, instead hovering over his cheek, feeling the sweat, ashes and dirt that were stuck to it. He smelled like it too. Like fire…

Peter’s anger was reasonable. The man was entitled to it. Rubin would be furious if their positions were reversed. If somebody locked him in his apartment for hours and came back with nothing to say, he would have already broken their jaw. In his haze, through the event at the cemetery and the mindless stumbling back to the right district, he didn’t even realize over eight hours had passed. He locked Peter in his own apartment for eight hours. The man should demand his keys back and kick Rubin out, back onto the streets of the plagued district. Any other person would rightfully have done so at this point. He was ready for it, awaiting the words, but strangely enough, they didn’t come. 

Stakh could only tense up at the touch, shooting the other a look of pure surprise because that was the last thing he expected from the man. He looked hurt. Not even angry, just… hurt.

It didn’t feel right.

Peter should be mad. By all means, he should be mad. This was wrong. This was worse than if he were cursing at him. Rubin didn’t deserve any kindness from this man. He shouldn’t have received any semblance of it from the very beginning. The artist should never have let him into his house; he should never have offered his company or shelter. Should never have trusted him. His hand grasped Peter’s wrist. That unreasonable and terrifying want to lean into the touch was at odds with what his mind tried to tell him. At odds with any clear, logical line of thinking. Rubin locked him in his own house. Treated him like some disobedient child. A danger to himself. Some irresponsible, irrational, and above all else, unstable person. A dog, as Peter put it. It felt as if he was stuck, like he couldn’t move, couldn’t decide whether to push the paint-stained hand away or keep it in place. Any other person, maybe with Gravel being the exception, would have told him to fuck off already. They barely knew each other, Peter had been nothing but kind, continued to be kind in spite of everything. He shouldn’t be, he absolutely shouldn’t be.

What’s more, Rubin was about to lie to him. Not only did he take away Peter’s liberty for the entire day, but now he was going to hide the fact that his brother was gone. Omit the truth out of fear of what Peter could do. Deceive him for the sake of what exactly? He couldn’t even say it was for altruistic reasons, because that wasn’t true. No, like always, he was being selfish. He wasn’t planning to lie for the sake of the burned body left at the Cemetery. He wasn’t planning to do it for this forsaken Town or the people. Certainly not for those who ridiculed the man. He wanted Peter to stay for… for what reason? For his own sanity? What other selfish justifications could he offer? Who did he still have? Lara, maybe Grief if he was alive and not lying in a ditch somewhere… at least he wasn’t on the pile. Artemy could go rot for all he cared. And then there was Peter… 

The fact that Dankovsky wanted Stamatin to stay too was the only excuse he could give himself. And even that was a weak sort of defense. 

„I went to the cemetery in your stead. Saburov can’t hold that against you. The work he assigned to you was done, and he can’t prove otherwise.“ He knew that wasn’t quite what the artist was asking. No, he already knew what Stakh did afterward. He could guess. His question was, why?

The artist remained in his position, keeping his palm on the same spot, merely shifting his head to look at Rubin’s mouth as he spoke. What Rubin had to say was… a lot. From what he caught someone was out to take his life. It wouldn’t have been the first time and it surely wasn’t the last. Though it made the artist wonder how an assassination was supposed to happen under the eyes of so many people. It wasn’t just him who got invited to help at the cemetery, right? And after all, he had a deal with the governor. Was a man in his position really capable of making a false deal for the sake of some long forgotten quarrel? So far, Peter wasn’t aware of the lengths this man would go to take the artist’s life. The only man besides Rubin and his brother who knew the truth behind Farkhad’s death. The artist closed his eyes to let his mind wander. There wasn’t much to be said after Rubin’s confession. Additionally, Peter wasn’t equipped well enough to provide a response anyway. He wasn’t the half who got blessed with the ability to use his words well enough in order to turn the tides and reach the heavens. Most of his thoughts were impossible to describe with his range of vocabulary. Which meant a lot considering how much of an educated man he was, a man from the Capital. A man born to make changes, provide the world with creations most were unable to imagine in their wildest dreams. Ironically enough, most of his emotions remained unsaid, his visions unseen and his ideas a mess. If it weren’t for his brother, he’d be unable to express himself inside this world. He was always split in half, loose around the seams. One twin in need of the other to function. If Andrey was the pillar, he was the foundation it was built on. Simple enough, yet incomprehensible. That’s how they’d always been, that’s how they’d always functioned.

Peter sighed.

His thumb never stopped drawing gentle circles on Rubin’s face, feeling the bruised surface of his cheekbones, leading down to where his face had sunken in. Was he eating enough? Drinking? The man felt like a shell of what he’d once been. Starved down to three quarters of his original weight. The artist opened his eyes to meet the other’s and for a brief moment, it lasted. Rubin looked tired, his exhaustion underlined by dark shadows exposing his lack of sleep. It really hurt to see him like this.

“You keep putting your life at stake for the sake of others. Over and over, you go where the air is thick, where others cannot breathe and yet… “ A moment flew into night-tide. Peter remained where he stood, resting his curious hands on the back of the taller man’s head. “And yet… “, he said, “you never receive anything back. You’ve made something strong with your hands that would’ve been useful if the entire town wasn’t overrun by the plague. You cut a body against the laws of tradition because you wanted to fight the disease killing the very men who are after your head. And yet… “ The artist came closer, their foreheads now resting against one-another. “Yet you lack. Those very hands freeze and shake in fear when you’re expected to put trust in anybody but yourself. Because that trust was broken over and over again. You feel the need to do everything yourself until it jars and collapses on you. Again and again and again.”

As judgemental as his words sounded, there was no wrath. no cruel mirth in his eyes. If anything, he wanted Rubin to learn from what he’d said. To trust the very man who had led him into his house, into his god-forsaken heart.

“Do not keep all that pain to yourself when there’s no shame in sharing it.” 

Daniil left the Cathedral in the morning, feeling that strange, gentle warmth leaving his bones as he was exposed to the cold air, exposed to what felt like the world itself, first his heart had been bared out, cut out and shown off as a silly trick, to show the cold Bachelor as vulnerable and weak, and now exposing his mind along with it. At least before he could lie, twist and curl his way out of any small space, like the snake he was, but now he was stuck, and the only way out was open and true and fucking stupid.

How was he going to look Peter in the eye? If Peter found out about Andrey, no, he couldn’t even consider the possibility, no, he would have to be honest, but that did not at all mean Peter had to find out, no, Danill would have to be quick, of course, hurry in, take his resources, and avoid as many questions as possible, but he would not have that luck. Daniil knew as he made his way across the town, he knew this was all doomed, knew he was set up to fail, and yet had allowed himself that small smidgen of hope, and yet, it would topple, that was clear. The inquisitor would find a reason to despise him, the ruling families would turn on him, and the other healers would stab him in the back. Hell, death itself would turn its wretched gaze upon the Bachelor once again, and he would not be as lucky as to escape with merely a weakened heart.

Of all people who could’ve visited him, Daniil seemed to be the oddest choice. He understood Rubin’s urge to justify his actions. Knew that now more than ever, Anna had to hide. But seeing Daniil in front of his door, a horrible mess, was a surprise. A man so cold he would’ve never even guessed knew how to apologize… and yet he was so dear to him. A face from the past. A small fragment of a time before all this. When his lips knew how to smile and his hands weren’t tainted with blood. Ah, how he missed those days back in the Capital. But he couldn’t leave this town, not while his creation was still here. Peter had a feeling she would soon call for help.

The artist stood, hands folded in front of him, eyes forward. The way he stared at the Bachelor made him feel more like a soldier rather than an architect. The two man looked at each other like warriors on a field. Yet rather than a gun, they held a split message between them. Questions unasked and unanswered… He would have to let the man in.  With a nod of his head he ordered Daniil to follow and shortly after, he did. Making their way up to the loft, Peter barely knew how to engage in conversation. His brain was running wild with every possible path he could take. So many questions popped right into his mind, yet he knew none of those were the right sociable interactions. That by asking straight-ahead, he might not get the answers he wanted. Daniil wasn’t opposed to lying or talking his way out of things and Peter - Peter found it hard to believe in people, often even losing interest into wording out his questions, knowing he wouldn’t get the answers he sought out for. What a frustrating charade. 

Daniil fidgeted with his hands as he waited for Peter’s judgement, he had every right to deny him entry. It would have been better, in some ways, even without the mocking of the theatre Daniil couldn’t bear lying to Peter, he would’ve broken under the pressure of that pointed gaze, but now he did not even have a chance to stand against it, it was practically impossible to do anything but follow Peter upstairs, and hope they would both survive the encounter.

Inside Daniil knew he had to get the resources he hid, but it felt like such a selfish, horrible movement to shuffle across to the cabinet, slipping his resources back into his bag as quickly and efficiently as he could. He knew that objectively, it was what he was supposed to do, he needed to save the currently infected, and he needed the shmowders to do so.That did nothing to abade the deep feeling of shame that held him there, of knowing he being stared at and seen and known and how his actions must have been seen, he felt a deep uneasiness, if only Peter hadn’t been there, if only he could slip in and out and leave, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t just because of Peter’s physical presence in the room, but because of that need, that incessant, gnawing need to explain himself, to do better, to not harm yet another person.

“I’m sorry.” Daniil forced past a locked jaw, past an incredibly tense body, he swallowed, trying to clear his throat, to let him speak, he knew he could not lie, could feel it with the way his mouth clamped shut with the idea, “I am not going to let you die Peter.” That was not good enough, that was far from any form of good, he needed to explain himself, needed to put it into ways that Peter would accept, he had to find the way through, it was something he’d gotten good at, twisting his words to suit the person, twist himself to suit the version of the truth he went with at a moment’s notice. He didn’t really consider it lying, not when it wasn’t hurting anyone, not when it was honest enough, to him simply slipping away from the truth, simply changing the context and the story to suit his narrative was nothing but a necessity, and now that ability had been taken away from him.

“I wish there was anything else we could do, but we didn’t have any time, and no matter how much I disagree with Rubin’s course of action, it was better than letting anything happen to you.” At least he could still stay vague, having to go into detail would be the thing to ruin him, probably, but for now he could hopefully still slip past, keep Peter alive until the end of this. 

“Two days ago, we found out something bad will happen to you.” Why was he saying this, this was dangerous, toeing an impossible line, why was he doing this? “And that would have disastrous results for the town.” Daniil knew that the version of himself from the first run of day nine was still there, somewhere, even with his new heart and honest tongue. How much of himself would they have to replace to make him clean? Didn’t matter, philosophy didn’t matter at that point, it was just about surviving, about curing this pest, about keeping as many people as possible alive.

“I wish we had time to explain, but we didn’t, and I’m afraid I wouldn’t have told you the truth yesterday.” This was Daniil’s friend, his closest friend, and yet he couldn’t even imagine telling Peter about the fate of his brother, nor about what Saburov had concocted, it was the wrong decision and he knew it. But he could not reveal it to Peter, he had to keep himself together, keep himself as composed as he could be with his bleeding heart and honest tongue.

Daniil carefully made his way towards where his equipment was hidden, after a moment of consideration he left a single shmowder box there, he couldn’t to lose Peter again, he didn’t care if he was seen anymore, he just needed to get things done.

Throughout the years of their friendship, they did have their ups and downs, but whatever this was, it left Peter shattered. Even after the conversation he had with Rubin the prior night, some things were still left unresolved. Things such as why he’s been locked in his own house in the first place. Rubin mentioned something about Saburov planning to kill him, but that seemed unsensible to him. There was no way he could be killed at such a public setting. Right now, he wondered why his own friend and a man he had entrusted with so much deemed him as too irresponsible to be let out and do his own job. Peter wouldn’t hurt himself over the public cremation of a few corpses. Even in his weak state of mind it would at least leave him disheveled, but nowhere near suicidal.

Daniil’s explanation clashed heavily with the one Rubin provided him just a couple hours ago. Once again, a sense of betrayal rose up in him. A feeling of repeatedly being lied to because people thought of him as mentally unstable. Unable to handle the hard truth.

The artists didn’t react to his words at first, face still, eyes avoidant of whoever was looking up at him, be it his friend or a stranger in his place. Everything about their friendship felt different than it was before and in a sense, he felt as if he’d lost Daniil’s trust. The stillness in the air was starting to turn painful and Peter’s thudding heart almost spurred him into action to say something awful, yet he managed to keep those nasty, ugly thoughts to himself. His face turned to look at Daniil’s shoulder as he managed to let his words sink in. He showed sympathy towards Rubin, he’d be able to forgive his friend as well. Yet the thought of the two hiding a secret for him made the artist feel mad with rage. Mad about being kept from something he should be part of. If it weren’t such a big deal, why were they so hellbent on keeping him out of it? Peter’s frozen body slowly came to realization of what was happening, what Daniil had said, his hunched body crumbling like a broken wing when he stumbled back to sit down on an old chair he used when painting. 

Once again he was met with the feeling of being unable to take care of himself. A feeling that’s been carrying itself on the crook of his back for his entire life. He was responsible enough to take care of a child, adult enough to share his house when it came to hide a lab, just helpful enough when it came to convincing the people around him not to kill themself when he himself wished to cease every day. Yet they couldn’t entrust him with a couple dead bodies when those were all he’d see on his daily walks for the past two weeks. Peter took a deep breath, his mouth opening but closing right away, tongue tied. Whatever he had to say felt like a child's defense. 

He didn’t need anybody to take care of him. Something his own brother must’ve come to realize considering how many days he’d left him alone until now. No matter how big the fight, Andrey never stayed away for more than a day. And Peter never refused to let him back into his life the second he knocked on his door, no matter the damage, no matter the amount of blood on his clothes and men behind his back. Once again, the thought of Andrey stirred up something bad inside his stomach, almost making him hunch forward to release all he’d drunk that night and whatever else was left in his body. For whatever reason, his mind started to make connections between the events of the theatre, the time he was left alone in his apartment and Rubin’s and Daniil’s apology. And it made him feel pathetic in his unknowing stance. 

Did something happen to his brother? It knocked the wind right out of his lungs, making him expel a harsh puff of air through his nose with the artist carding a hand roughly through his long, unkempt hair. His head started to throb and the longer he looked at the ground, the worse it got. The longer he kept himself from avoiding his anger, the more it built up. At this point, he was burning in rage, anxiety, and a couple other emotions he lacked the words to name. They were a concept, like many other things in his life, he could not put into words. But more than anything else, he felt pathetic.

The entire town was abuzz with the newest decree. The inquisitor had demanded that nobody move from their districts? Were they to just die in their homes then? No. That would not happen to Anna. And they would not barge in her home with their guns either!

She just knew that would happen. Misfortune always found a way to get to her, but she wouldn’t be caught just yet. Everyone in town knew where she lived, she was a sitting target if she was to stay there, but she didn’t have to. Without a second thought, Anna took a small kitchen knife with her and carefully ventured out, avoiding any noise that reached her ears as she made her way through the dying streets.

It would take two trips in her mind. One to make the deal and another to fully move in, but it had to be done. She couldn’t be found alone in the Willows anymore. It wasn’t safe. At least she still had one friend, right? And what were friends for after all, if not to help one another in times of dire need?

Her hurried footsteps finally came to a halt as she pressed her body close to the artist’s building’s door and knocked until she heard back from within.

A new painting was being made in the place of the old. He stood in front of his windows, now unboarded, watching the leaves fall quietly to the earth. Soft things, falling sweetly, and you would imagine that when they landed it would be as sweet. When they were trod on, ground into the earth with a satisfying crunch. The exact essence he wanted to catch. That brief moment going from being whole to torn. Before they fall apart, breaking into a million parts no one could ever reassemble.

A quiet smile was plastered to his lips as his voice hummed on, hoarsely. He tilted his head, his hair falling to the side as he tried to look at his work from another perspective. Red lines followed through the textures of the leaves. There was no motive for what he was putting on those canvas. No thought, just mere inspiration. The loss of man’s mind. Yet the sensation was beautiful. He found himself thinking about that dream in which he met that mysterious man from not too long ago. That unknown place. Andrey, and how he’d seemed to have left the world. His smile did not vanish.

There was still a spark in his eyes. With each stroke, the general tone of the painting got darker and darker until it was nothing more than an array of blue, brown and orange, almost as dark and depressing as the rest of his work. Still. As Peter looked at it, there was a faint glow to be witnessed. One, that a different person might have mistaken for a hint of a teardrop or at least a glimmer of madness, residing in a person as utterly broken as each and every one of his creations. Those weren’t the leaves he saw outside. The ground was no cobble, but earth. And the lighting would have never been as red and fiery if he’d actually copied the grey fog outside. This was a different setting, enclosed in some part of his brain he could not access. Memories of his own, that were kept away from him. Memories that could help him figure out where his brother was and how he could reach him.

The sudden knock drew him out of those thoughts and right back into reality. A guest at this hour? He could only assume who it was. After the day prior, he most likely expected it to be Dankovsky. If not him, then Rubin. However both of his guesses turned out to be wrong and upon opening the door, he wondered as he stared back into Anna’s just as confused eyes. Gesturing for the woman to come in, he closed the door behind her back, knowing she wouldn’t want to touch the knob herself.

“You? Here?”

He truly wondered. How come she’d leave her house in a situation like this? Watching her, he noticed the sharp knife inside her hands. How she held on to it so tightly, it turned her knuckles to white, making her already pale skin look like paper. He didn’t mean to stare. But one needed to start a study by making observations. And those observations should be unobscured. The same thing applied to art. Anna Angel in her current state did not seem sane to him - not that she did before - but there was a benefit in analyzing a subject of interest without said participant being aware of the actual question one had in mind. ‘Are you okay?’, would be the obvious thing to ask, yet Peter wasn’t that simple-minded. There was some part of him who hated the old saying that there are no stupid questions. Whoever goes by that logic is the definition of a fairytale-fool. Asking the right questions strengthens the possibility of avoiding the contemplation of social expectations. A simple practice as well as an old habit that Peter intended to stay true to. He wouldn’t dare to admit that there is a comfort in this caution too. Both of them were mad, crazed in the eyes of the town. And where’s the point of cutting oneself at the edges of the other’s soul?

“You haven’t heard, have you?”

He never did. It was part of a blessing and part foolishness in her eyes. Anna was always on high alert on what happened in the town and who might be on the lookout for her, but Peter was another thing altogether, he’d rather close his eyes and forget that the world even existed beyond his beloved polyhedron.

Almost as an instinct, Anna’s eyes darted around the room. Was he living with someone else already? She had to be sure. She had to know before she proposed anything at all, but by the looks of it, it seemed moderately safe.

“The Inquisitor ordered a lock-down, we aren’t to move around town anymore.”

Did he understand with just those words? Probably not. It was unlikely he even cared when she thought about it further, but the subject mattered to her nonetheless.

“There are no doctors in this district. Only murderers, thieves and madmen.”

She paused once again, this time looking into Peter’s verdant gaze as she tried to gauge whether or not her words had any meaning to him. Try as she might, to her at least, it seemed that there was something else bothering him still. Was it the twyrine again? Was that the reason his vision seemed distant?

Damned artist…

“She wants us all to die here! That’s why I’ve come. They’re probably going to try and raid my place just for the fun of it and who knows what else! We’ve been left here to die.”

At least have some pity, she quietly hoped as she tried her best to put her urgency and worries into words.

Peter thought about her words for a minute, then another. An awkward period of silence passed before he looked back into her eyes, features bearing stress as she awaited his answer. In all fairness, he really did not hear a word about a lockdown. He was locked inside his own house a day prior, was told by Dankovsky to avoid going out, but no one specifically forbid him to wander the streets. No messengers, no figure of authority. And hearing it from Anna Angel first hand was strange, to say the least. People in this town knew that with her it might always be a show. She might be lying to get what she wants, but what would she get out of isolating the artist in his loft alongside herself? Peter could only imagine she was in danger if that was the case. After all, her reputation was bound to turn after being pristine for so long. Every lie was to be uncovered in this place, at least sooner or later. But relationships built on lies were not uncommon here. Even if this so-called Inquisitor was a legit figure they should be concerned about, it could also be someone Anna made up to hide at his place from whoever was pursuing her. It was still strange. Peter would help her without the need of the lie. If she needed to hide, she could be her guest, he never paid great mind to her games. If there really was a new law, then he’d have to find out. However, it was quite strange how no one blessed him with this information given that he is not an unimportant character in this town. Or at least he shouldn’t be. He made most of the relevant structures, after all. 

“No one will raid this place. You are welcome to stay, Anna. However, gathering whatever you have might be a good idea. I’m running out and before you even consider, there is another mouth I need to feed. The little girl from the cemetery, she shares this space with me now. I’m taking care of her.”

Wonderful. She had a refuge that few would think of, the only downside was how dirty everything was and how there was a child involved now. Why and how did that even happen?

“You know I adore children! Especially a girl. We’ll get along wonderfully, I’ll even bring some of my old makeup.”

The smile Anna plastered on her face was as fake as the words she uttered, though she painted both with a practiced cheerfulness that could fool almost anyone.

“I’ll be sure to bring my things before noon then.”

Peter did not look particularly perturbed or surprised. There was an exhaustion in him that went beyond the deep shadows under his eyes. He knew that whatever Anna was muttering was simply just a show. That she didn’t actually care as much about Grace as she stated, or at least not with the right intentions. Although he knew she would be nice when the situation required her to. She had to, after all, she had no place to stay. 

“Take your time.”, Peter sighed, dragging his hand down his face. “It’s not dark outside yet, but you could still encounter someone. If you do, don’t hold back your voice. The Willows aren’t far from here… I’ll probably hear you. Until then, I’ll prepare a room.”

So it had been decided then. The Willows would be temporarily deserted for the time being. Anna will disappear and hopefully so will anyone’s thoughts about hunting the little she had. Her plan didn’t ease much of her worries, but she tried to keep them at bay while she ventured back to her home.

Her heart drummed inside her as she sneaked back inside. It dangerous now. It was supposedly her home, but they could have gotten there already. People would become more relentless now and she was sure of it. Food was scarce, guards were now supposed to keep people in place and that will surely only fuel more anger. Who knew if that bloody younger Burakh would return with his strange requests too.

Anna’s hands trembled slightly as she gathered the few resources she had left. At least if her plan were to fail, maybe she could make her way further away from this district from the artist’s loft too. It wouldn’t be far to get to Lara’s “shelter”, and from there, if needed, hopefully she could reach the crucible where all of the fancier folk lie. It did seem like this whole thing started right next to her home too, didn’t it? She could only hope it wouldn’t follow her too.

She desperately needed to get away… and fast.

There wasn’t much food to be brought back, but there was at least still plenty of medicine. Some blankets would help too, and water. Water… She didn’t have any left. Cursed place. How was she to keep herself clean if she didn’t have water now?

Anna sighed with a heavy heart and straightened her posture to a weak facade of confidence. She’d get through this. She would.

“I’m back.” She spoke up once she had found her way back to the artist’s loft.

There was no reply at first. It was a large building after all, but the emptiness in it still made the little confidence she had in her fade. Her eyes darted from place to place as she waited further, all the while only finding dust and smudges of different colors scattered about.

“I don’t suppose you have some disinfectant left around here somewhere… do you?”

Peter figured he’d barely moved from his spot as he watched Anna walk back to his loft, arms full of whatever she could gather from her house. It took the artist some time to recollect his thoughts, letting himself sink onto the rickety couch at the far end corner of his room. His apartment was, as always, a sparse mess. Yet somehow more and more people started to find comfort in it.  There was no real kitchen, no proper guest rooms, though he had a lot of space. A lot of space he was unable to fill. 

Peter let his eyes wander over the crumbling wallpaper, obscured by macabre paintings and half-finished blueprints, as he listened to Anna’s bare feet climbing the stairs. As hurried as she sounded back then, her steps were a lot more quiet now, careful even. 

When Anna opened the door, the artist was swaying in his chair, running cold palms over the fabric of his pants. His eyes turned to her, tired as they’ve always been, watching her for a moment before finding the strength to speak.  “Disinfectant… “, Peter muttered to himself to let the words sink in. He knew he didn’t possess such a thing, yet still, he made an effort to get up and search some of his drawers to at least make the impression that he owned something other than paint and Twyrine. After a few minutes’ time, he pushed the last drawer shut, swiftly turning on his heel to shake his head with a painted expression. The artist was bad at showing emotions, moreso acting like he was going through one or a whole catalogue of them. The mere concept made him uncomfortable. And watching his guest look at him in hidden disgust made things all the worse for him.

Peter had a faraway look in his eyes when he lowered his head to look at what Anna had brought. A slight hint of disappointment painted itself onto his features, followed by a makeshift smile. She had brought all she could, there was no one to blame. Still, they were running out of clean water. And knowing Anna, she’d rather waste it on her hands than actually drink it.

Pointing towards the empty room next to the staircase he could only hope she’d understand before taking a hold of her belongings to lift some of the weight off her hands. Perhaps he was getting invasive. Being cared for could be a burden in its own way. But Peter had to do it. Taking care of these people and being cared for was becoming the only thing that’d distract him from whatever was tugging at the back of his mind. Memories of the theatre, his brother, Grace…

The sound of glass tore him out of his thoughts, a tinted bottle slowly rolling over the brittle wood of the table he had placed Anna’s belongings on. A bottle of Twyrine he had finished days ago, one of his last. The artist didn’t move, barely recognizing the following sound as something he had long found comfort in. The shattering of broken glass was nothing he wasn’t used to and he’d usually let the shards lay right where they fell, if not for his temporary guests. He’d have to clean it up. But couldn’t that wait? He was running out again. Not only of water, but also Twyrine. 

“You can make yourself comfortable here. Anna… You’ll have a refuge as long as you don’t cause any trouble. I won’t tell on you. Though… I’ll be out to make errands soon. Not now, however… “ Peter slowly turned his head towards the stained windows. Black clouds hanging heavily in front of the yellowed glass warned him of the disease outside. The soot on Anna’s coat, the dust in her golden locks… The artist lifted a hand to wipe some of it off her forehead. Only a fool would step outside. And Anna might’ve brought it in. Reaching back, he handed her one of the last bottles of Twyrine he had. Knowing it was strong enough to at least push the chance of infection back a little further. Just a little more time could save a life. He would try to drag this out for as long as he could.

“Soon. Yeah… soon.”

Judging by his appearance, Anna could only fathom that someone else has been taking care of him. Andrey, maybe? Ugh, the thought of that…

She wasn’t sure whether to thank the artist or to squirm away as he reached for her and interrupted her train of thought.

Great.

He’s touching them. He’s touching my things. Why is he touching my things? Please don’t touch them…

Anna inhaled sharply to try and compose herself just enough to force a smile in return. He wasn’t after her. She could trust him. She had to. Maybe his way of surviving would even rub off on her.

And besides, she’d have to make due for as long as she could.

“I wouldn’t dream of causing any trouble! Thank you for all of your…” Her eyes darted across the room as she tried to gather the right words. Was that really a bathtub that she spotted in the middle of the room? “…Wonderful accommodations.”

They were a wonder alright. A wonder that someone managed to live in here, and a wonder if they manage to remain safe.

Anna flashed another smile at the artist. She supposed there weren’t many that could handle his peculiar nature or even want to talk to him. Other than his brother, that is, and more recently that damned butcher. Had their relationship grown since they had last spoke?

With her thoughts scrambling to find a reason as to how this all came to be, she couldn’t help but to lock her eyes back to the scraggly man.

“Say… Have you been keeping up with Burakh’s apprentice? The bald, big brute.” She spun around on her heels, following the artist’s lead towards what would be her room as she spoke. “He lives around here too, doesn’t he? Is it safe for him to be on his own during this horrible nightmare?”

She hoped she didn’t have to outright spell out a plea for the artist to invite the butcher into that building. If he was his newest protector, that’d be even better. He did save her before after all. He could keep them safe until this ends. Maybe there was some hope to be had, if only this Stamatin understands part of her intent.

“I’ve brought medicine, if any of you two need it. If he decides to change his location to a better, safer place.”

Anna was about to keep pressing the matter further until she noticed the artist’s unfocused gaze. Reluctantly, she followed what captured his attention and found the outside to be somehow worse than the place she was currently in. Night hadn’t yet descended upon them and already it was hard to see through the darkened clouds.

Peter wouldn’t pretend he caught all of that. As usual, his eyes were distant and his mind clogged up with whichever matters felt were more important right now. One being the condition of his dearest Grace. Another being how Rubin had already settled in to make the place downstairs his working space. There was no way he could convince the man to live with them, yet pursuing the work he was forbidden to follow felt like an appropriate excuse to have him around for most of the day for the sake of his own safety. Peter gazed at Anna’s figure sluggishly before opening his mouth. 

“No one will find you here.”

The artist figured her question, or rather, her hidden request, must have something to do with her fear of being pursued. There were bigger issues to be dealt with than a former circus thug. As bad as her crimes were, the Ace of Diamonds were no longer a presence. And unless a vengeful father was out for the wench who stole his child, she would be safe. 

“If they wanted you, they would’ve found you and made you bear the brunt of the punishment for what you have done. Anna, for heaven’s sake, there’s plague outside.“ Peter tilted his head to look at her, his face filled with nothing but concern.  “Or are you telling me you’ve made friends with Stakh?”

It felt unfair to interrogate her this way. After she had brought her belongings to share, tolerated his way of living. Though he knew he had to be careful with her.  She shared the same flame his brother possessed. Though hers felt darker despite her pale complexion, despite the heavenly ring of her name. 

She disliked admitting it, but Peter was right. If they really wanted to find her, they likely could. But she also couldn’t just sit idle and wait for her demise either.

Reluctantly, she thinned her lips at the artist’s accusations. She was innocent, and good. Mostly. He had no reason to have such qualms about her.

“We are friends! Of course! Yes. Absolutely.”

Anna shot a stunned gaze at Peter. Why wouldn’t they be friends? Surely him saving her life would make them that. Surely. She hoped, at least.

No. They’d be the best of friends! She’d make sure of that. And if he was to be in the same roof as her, they’d be inseparable!

“No one ever believes me… But I thought at least you would.”

As she spoke, she batted her eyelashes at the artist and pouted her lips. Not her best act, to be sure, but she was being honest enough this time. She did want to be friends with the man for now. He was useful. He knew how to cure the plague and that was more than enough for her for the time being.

“A lot has changed in this place. You ought to know. Weren’t you living here with someone else as well?”

What had he mentioned last time about that whole affair? It was about some kid, wasn’t it?

The thought made her skin itch. Dirty, devious little creatures!

“But yes, Peter. I am truly, truly, absolutely concerned about that man! Have you heard of him? He’s not infected… is he?”

Anna could barely contain the snort that passed through her lips. He couldn’t be. That man couldn’t become infected just as she needed him. The universe couldn’t be that cruel.

Peter’s jaw hung like a dead snake. Squinting his eyes, he looked past the woman, right next to her head at the sketches on his wall. It was his best attempt to make it look like he was looking at her. Whatever would come out of his mouth would have to sound serious, sincere. Anna’s act wasn’t enough to convince him of her innocence. Yet she seemed up to no bad, at least this time. This once, he believed he could fully trust her. She must’ve been scared to seek out his place. To move here temporarily. Anna Angel was a great actor, but nothing could beat her fear of filth and infection. 

The artist coughed and cleared his throat: “If it helps you feel safe, I will. Though I cannot promise he’ll agree.” ‘And if you’re such good friends, why won’t you ask him yourself?’, he almost spat out, though he kept the comment to himself. Peter had no need to ask the man to stay. He knew he would. If anything, he would ask him about his affairs with Anna. She wasn’t quite the person he expected him to trust. Seeing how much he cared about the likes of Lara, it felt like a lie. Though he also had a place in his heart for Grief. The artist couldn’t help but feel bitter about his choice of friends. Some of them really did seem like the kind to stab you in the back though… who was he to judge? He himself was friends with Anna. Anna, the liar, the minx, the deceiver. Anna the angel, Anna Angel. Too pure, too bright to hurt a soul. With such a wonderful voice. Oftentimes, it’s those who appear flawless on the outside who turn out to be the most rotten. Anna was no exception, yet he somehow felt some kind of appreciation for her. Neither of them were free of crime. And although he wasn’t fully aware of hers, he clearly belonged to the worst kind. Did Anna ever kill a man? 

Peter was about to let her go, though her next words struck him on the spot. He blinked a few times at the mention of yet another person. She was speaking about Grace. Yes, he remembered bringing her up. But what did she have to do with anything? Wasn’t this entire conversation about Rubin? 

It’s rare that Peter truly raises his head, rather than just tilting it up enough for his eyes to see past the veil of his hair. This time, he had no trouble looking Anna in the eye, though it didn’t last long when the woman decided to return his disturbed stare. Clearly, the thought of Grace was gnawing at her. Anna always preached her love for children, though considering her dark past, he wouldn’t feel safe leaving the little girl under her supervision.

Another day had begun, hadn’t it?

Grace couldn’t quite tell. Her head felt as if it would explode if she were to move, though it wasn’t just that. Where she was and when, also seemed to elude her.

The day before… What had happened then?

Aside from how her body burned from within and how her thoughts scrambled to try and find a coherent narrative, it felt as though time itself had slipped past her grasp.

It was hard to put into words and truthfully, it didn’t really make much sense. Days didn’t change much in that little town. She had her work and it was long overdue that she return to it.

Her work, she focused her entire strength on the concept of it. She was needed and she had to snap out of the haze she found herself in. She needed to get back to the cemetery again and that meant getting up.

Her tired gaze couldn’t grasp what she even slept on. Was she that exhausted? Was the day before that harsh? She needed strength to tend to the dead and yet it still didn’t come through for her. Maybe one more minute wouldn’t harm. Just a little longer and she’d then start her morning.

Grace’s head slumped down with a pained exhale. Her heavy lids closed slowly and opened back to continue on, to get through her body’s state and stand and yet as her pale lips began to focus on what lay beneath her, she finally realized what kept her in such agony.

“Oh…”

Breath escaped past her lips as she watched her skin crack before her eyes. Pale and red and dry and aching. It was both fascinating and frightening. She didn’t think she’d return to the cemetery as one of them just yet, and yet…

Yet it was long overdue.

It hurt. It hurt beyond words, but her lips hopelessly curled into an apprehensive smile as she stepped away from her sleeping spot. She had to get back to work, or rather, get back to the cemetery where she belonged.

She’d hear them again and she’d infect no other.

He would’ve slept tonight if not for the scorching anxiety in his heart. Peter couldn’t recall how many bottles he’d drank this night. Four, maybe five. You don’t anticipate the hunger for a stimulant drug so soon after your first hit until you’re truly dragged to the pits of your mind. He tried to retain himself from drinking too much especially now that Grace was around. Yet his brother was gone. Perhaps not in the literal sense of the word, but their bond was. He no longer felt connected to him.

Peter held the green bottle away from himself. Twirling and twisting it around where he held it by its neck until he felt his pulse again, hammering against the veins in his neck, and then he took another sip, making his heart pound with adrenaline that shouldn’t exist, that shouldn’t be fueling his body after so many hours of no sleep. Yet it was there and there was no stopping to the impeding destruction of his nerves that awaited. 

When he heard Grace’s steps he snapped out of it, hiding the bottle behind a vase on the shelf. The flower inside the dusty glass was long rotten, leaving the head of the funeral rose hanging with about three petals that were clinging for dear life. The thing must’ve been a decade old, brought as a memoir from Farkhad’s funeral. Peter feared it’d fall apart upon a single touch, yet he only feared that concept now. It surprised him for how long he’d ignored the flower’s presence. Was this part of a bad omen? How long had he been under the dead man’s gaze? He could be watching in this very second, pointing, laughing at the artist’s demise as Peter saw the girl he considered his daughter, the one he had promised a future, crumble under his care. 

Peter darted towards the girl, granting her support by holding her up by her shoulders. A part of him knew what had happened, another refused to believe it. It took him a brief second to even look her in the eyes to see the same despondent gaze he’d seen on so many others. Outside, on the side of the streets, cowering and barely clinging to life.  Peter knew he couldn’t talk, instead pulling the girl into his arms as if she were his own child.  He failed to protect her, failed to keep his word. But he could make it better, right? There was still a box of Shmowder sitting somewhere in his loft. Was it upstairs? Downstairs, where he’d quarantined himself from her? Not considering his lack of distance a problem even for a single minute, he gave her one final squeeze before letting go to scavenge through his chaos. It had to be somewhere, he was sure, somewhere, he recalled. He couldn’t have lost it, no one could’ve taken it.

How had she faltered? How had she even gotten so close to the artist? She couldn’t have done so willingly. She wouldn’t.

The world around her became a blur the more her head swayed with the movements, slowing only as her body leaned against the artist’s embrace. He was so warm, and as silly as it may be, it was the only place where she truly felt safe. If only he could hold her a bit tighter, maybe then she could pretend what awaited her wouldn’t come to pass…

Grace barely had the time to relish in the artist’s protection before he let her go. It was dizzying. But necessary, she supposed. She couldn’t be near him. She couldn’t be near anyone in that state, as painful as it was to think about.

Her chest ached with more than the plague’s hurt. The longer she saw the artist scramble about in his apartment, the more her breath faltered. Tears were beginning to rush to her eyes and she couldn’t allow herself to let it show.

The first words the man uttered were lost to her. He spoke too fast. Too hurried, too worried. The latter sentence she managed to catch however. With his desperation he could only mean a shmowder, but she hadn’t seen any in his house. She had scoured the entire town in search for one herself just a few days ago for the artist, the chances there was any in that place was… impossible. Still, Grace swallowed hard, fighting against the pain that the motion brought to her dry throat and lips.

“Upstairs…” She whispered meekly. “Upstairs.” Again, she repeated, with a louder and steadier voice.

There wasn’t going to be a box. She had resigned to her fate as soon as she realized what she had caught, but she couldn’t allow the artist to get it again. She had to protect him. He was her friend. If keeping him safe meant that her last words to him would be a lie, then so it would be.

“On… the room… the left one.” She continued, mustering her strength to have her voice heard. “In the… back. On the drawer… by the corner.”

Was there even a drawer there? Did it matter?

Grace could only hope her words would be enough to send him away. She could only hope that he’d head upstairs and give her enough time to leave that place.

Peter wasn’t going to question anything the girl had said. “Upstairs”, he repeated to himself, listing the details by counting the fingers on his hand. “left room, on the drawer, by the corner” ‘On’ the drawer? The artist had no time to bother with little details. Quickly, he left Grace to hurry upstairs and look for the wanted box. Yet no Shmowder could be found there. Even worse, he had not a single memory of where he’d put it.

A distant memory of the little boxes wallowed in his head and he knew, he must’ve had at least two of them. But wait - hadn’t Grace given him one while he was sick? If so, she must’ve known where they were. Or maybe the one she gave to him wasn’t his to begin with. But where did she acquire such a precious drug? All that thinking made him fall into a state of vertigo and for once, it wasn’t the alcohol that was at fault. His own thoughts were pulling at his threads, forcing him to remember several places of his house where he’d usually hide things away from whatever hands, real or not, might want to steal from him. Oftentimes he’d change the hiding spot of precious things he feared to lose. And even more often, they’d still end up somewhere he wouldn’t find them. An illogical place, as if the spirits long gone tried to play a prank on him. The artist had long accepted the fact that he was haunted. If not by some supernatural being, then by a force that made him act and forget. The second part might even be his own fault. Twyrine sure made you forget some things. Enough to make a man wonder the next time he woke up on the rug, the bathtub, or any corner of his house with a sharp, broken bottle in his hand. Taking a deep breath he started walking circles in that room, at least halfway expecting it to be somewhere around. 

Ten minutes went by, twenty. Twenty-five. And just as he was about to give up, he spotted the little box, on a shelf far from a child’s reach. The artist furrowed his brows, staring at his precious find as he stretched an arm out to reach for it. At first he flinched at the amount of dust that had collected itself on top of it, hastily redrawing his hand to look at the thick layer of dust on top of his fingers. Grey, filthy dust that couldn’t have collected itself on it in what, the span of three, four days maybe? How come he was so unsure about the number of days anyway? Three, it must’ve been three. But it felt like four. Peter shook his head at his own misconception, shoving the uneasiness away. If only he knew the real reason behind what’s been clinging on his back for several days now.

Reaching back up, he started moving the box towards the edge with the tip of his fingers. Eventually Peter had moved the box enough that he could grasp and take it down, a smile sprawling on his face triumphantly. Blowing the dust off the surface, his body eventually paused, as he heard the silent noise of a door downstairs. Had Grace decided to follow him into the loft? The artist shook his head, feeling bad for even assuming such a thing. She wouldn’t just leave the room if told not to. Grace was a good kid, unlike him and his brother back in the day. 

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. 

The entire town was abuzz with the newest decree. The inquisitor had demanded that nobody move from their districts? Were they to just die in their homes then? No. That would not happen to Anna. And they would not barge in her home with their guns either!

She just knew that would happen. Misfortune always found a way to get to her, but she wouldn’t be caught just yet. Everyone in town knew where she lived, she was a sitting target if she was to stay there, but she didn’t have to. Without a second thought, Anna took a small kitchen knife with her and carefully ventured out, avoiding any noise that reached her ears as she made her way through the dying streets.

It would take two trips in her mind. One to make the deal and another to fully move in, but it had to be done. She couldn’t be found alone in the Willows anymore. It wasn’t safe. At least she still had one friend, right? And what were friends for after all, if not to help one another in times of dire need?

Her hurried footsteps finally came to a halt as she pressed her body close to the artist’s building’s door and knocked until she heard back from within.

A new painting was being made in the place of the old. He stood in front of his windows, now unboarded, watching the leaves fall quietly to the earth. Soft things, falling sweetly, and you would imagine that when they landed it would be as sweet. When they were trod on, ground into the earth with a satisfying crunch. The exact essence he wanted to catch. That brief moment going from being whole to torn. Before they fall apart, breaking into a million parts no one could ever reassemble.

A quiet smile was plastered to his lips as his voice hummed on, hoarsely. He tilted his head, his hair falling to the side as he tried to look at his work from another perspective. Red lines followed through the textures of the leaves. There was no motive for what he was putting on those canvas. No thought, just mere inspiration. The loss of man’s mind. Yet the sensation was beautiful. He found himself thinking about that dream in which he met that mysterious man from not too long ago. That unknown place. Andrey, and how he’d seemed to have left the world. His smile did not vanish.

There was still a spark in his eyes. With each stroke, the general tone of the painting got darker and darker until it was nothing more than an array of blue, brown and orange, almost as dark and depressing as the rest of his work. Still. As Peter looked at it, there was a faint glow to be witnessed. One, that a different person might have mistaken for a hint of a teardrop or at least a glimmer of madness, residing in a person as utterly broken as each and every one of his creations. Those weren’t the leaves he saw outside. The ground was no cobble, but earth. And the lighting would have never been as red and fiery if he’d actually copied the grey fog outside. This was a different setting, enclosed in some part of his brain he could not access. Memories of his own, that were kept away from him. Memories that could help him figure out where his brother was and how he could reach him.

The sudden knock drew him out of those thoughts and right back into reality. A guest at this hour? He could only assume who it was. After the day prior, he most likely expected it to be Dankovsky. If not him, then Rubin. However both of his guesses turned out to be wrong and upon opening the door, he wondered as he stared back into Anna’s just as confused eyes. Gesturing for the woman to come in, he closed the door behind her back, knowing she wouldn’t want to touch the knob herself.

“You? Here?”

He truly wondered. How come she’d leave her house in a situation like this? Watching her, he noticed the sharp knife inside her hands. How she held on to it so tightly, it turned her knuckles to white, making her already pale skin look like paper. He didn’t mean to stare. But one needed to start a study by making observations. And those observations should be unobscured. The same thing applied to art. Anna Angel in her current state did not seem sane to him - not that she did before - but there was a benefit in analyzing a subject of interest without said participant being aware of the actual question one had in mind. ‘Are you okay?’, would be the obvious thing to ask, yet Peter wasn’t that simple-minded. There was some part of him who hated the old saying that there are no stupid questions. Whoever goes by that logic is the definition of a fairytale-fool. Asking the right questions strengthens the possibility of avoiding the contemplation of social expectations. A simple practice as well as an old habit that Peter intended to stay true to. He wouldn’t dare to admit that there is a comfort in this caution too. Both of them were mad, crazed in the eyes of the town. And where’s the point of cutting oneself at the edges of the other’s soul?

“You haven’t heard, have you?”

He never did. It was part of a blessing and part foolishness in her eyes. Anna was always on high alert on what happened in the town and who might be on the lookout for her, but Peter was another thing altogether, he’d rather close his eyes and forget that the world even existed beyond his beloved polyhedron.

Almost as an instinct, Anna’s eyes darted around the room. Was he living with someone else already? She had to be sure. She had to know before she proposed anything at all, but by the looks of it, it seemed moderately safe.

“The Inquisitor ordered a lock-down, we aren’t to move around town anymore.”

Did he understand with just those words? Probably not. It was unlikely he even cared when she thought about it further, but the subject mattered to her nonetheless.

“There are no doctors in this district. Only murderers, thieves and madmen.”

She paused once again, this time looking into Peter’s verdant gaze as she tried to gauge whether or not her words had any meaning to him. Try as she might, to her at least, it seemed that there was something else bothering him still. Was it the twyrine again? Was that the reason his vision seemed distant?

Damned artist…

“She wants us all to die here! That’s why I’ve come. They’re probably going to try and raid my place just for the fun of it and who knows what else! We’ve been left here to die.”

At least have some pity, she quietly hoped as she tried her best to put her urgency and worries into words.

Peter thought about her words for a minute, then another. An awkward period of silence passed before he looked back into her eyes, features bearing stress as she awaited his answer. In all fairness, he really did not hear a word about a lockdown. He was locked inside his own house a day prior, was told by Dankovsky to avoid going out, but no one specifically forbid him to wander the streets. No messengers, no figure of authority. And hearing it from Anna Angel first hand was strange, to say the least. People in this town knew that with her it might always be a show. She might be lying to get what she wants, but what would she get out of isolating the artist in his loft alongside herself? Peter could only imagine she was in danger if that was the case. After all, her reputation was bound to turn after being pristine for so long. Every lie was to be uncovered in this place, at least sooner or later. But relationships built on lies were not uncommon here. Even if this so-called Inquisitor was a legit figure they should be concerned about, it could also be someone Anna made up to hide at his place from whoever was pursuing her. It was still strange. Peter would help her without the need of the lie. If she needed to hide, she could be her guest, he never paid great mind to her games. If there really was a new law, then he’d have to find out. However, it was quite strange how no one blessed him with this information given that he is not an unimportant character in this town. Or at least he shouldn’t be. He made most of the relevant structures, after all. 

“No one will raid this place. You are welcome to stay, Anna. However, gathering whatever you have might be a good idea. I’m running out and before you even consider, there is another mouth I need to feed. The little girl from the cemetery, she shares this space with me now. I’m taking care of her.”

Wonderful. She had a refuge that few would think of, the only downside was how dirty everything was and how there was a child involved now. Why and how did that even happen?

“You know I adore children! Especially a girl. We’ll get along wonderfully, I’ll even bring some of my old makeup.”

The smile Anna plastered on her face was as fake as the words she uttered, though she painted both with a practiced cheerfulness that could fool almost anyone.

“I’ll be sure to bring my things before noon then.”

Peter did not look particularly perturbed or surprised. There was an exhaustion in him that went beyond the deep shadows under his eyes. He knew that whatever Anna was muttering was simply just a show. That she didn’t actually care as much about Grace as she stated, or at least not with the right intentions. Although he knew she would be nice when the situation required her to. She had to, after all, she had no place to stay. 

“Take your time.”, Peter sighed, dragging his hand down his face. “It’s not dark outside yet, but you could still encounter someone. If you do, don’t hold back your voice. The Willows aren’t far from here… I’ll probably hear you. Until then, I’ll prepare a room.”

So it had been decided then. The Willows would be temporarily deserted for the time being. Anna will disappear and hopefully so will anyone’s thoughts about hunting the little she had. Her plan didn’t ease much of her worries, but she tried to keep them at bay while she ventured back to her home.

Her heart drummed inside her as she sneaked back inside. It dangerous now. It was supposedly her home, but they could have gotten there already. People would become more relentless now and she was sure of it. Food was scarce, guards were now supposed to keep people in place and that will surely only fuel more anger. Who knew if that bloody younger Burakh would return with his strange requests too.

Anna’s hands trembled slightly as she gathered the few resources she had left. At least if her plan were to fail, maybe she could make her way further away from this district from the artist’s loft too. It wouldn’t be far to get to Lara’s “shelter”, and from there, if needed, hopefully she could reach the crucible where all of the fancier folk lie. It did seem like this whole thing started right next to her home too, didn’t it? She could only hope it wouldn’t follow her too.

She desperately needed to get away… and fast.

There wasn’t much food to be brought back, but there was at least still plenty of medicine. Some blankets would help too, and water. Water… She didn’t have any left. Cursed place. How was she to keep herself clean if she didn’t have water now?

Anna sighed with a heavy heart and straightened her posture to a weak facade of confidence. She’d get through this. She would.

“I’m back.” She spoke up once she had found her way back to the artist’s loft.

There was no reply at first. It was a large building after all, but the emptiness in it still made the little confidence she had in her fade. Her eyes darted from place to place as she waited further, all the while only finding dust and smudges of different colors scattered about.

“I don’t suppose you have some disinfectant left around here somewhere… do you?”

Peter figured he’d barely moved from his spot as he watched Anna walk back to his loft, arms full of whatever she could gather from her house. It took the artist some time to recollect his thoughts, letting himself sink onto the rickety couch at the far end corner of his room. His apartment was, as always, a sparse mess. Yet somehow more and more people started to find comfort in it.  There was no real kitchen, no proper guest rooms, though he had a lot of space. A lot of space he was unable to fill. 

Peter let his eyes wander over the crumbling wallpaper, obscured by macabre paintings and half-finished blueprints, as he listened to Anna’s bare feet climbing the stairs. As hurried as she sounded back then, her steps were a lot more quiet now, careful even. 

When Anna opened the door, the artist was swaying in his chair, running cold palms over the fabric of his pants. His eyes turned to her, tired as they’ve always been, watching her for a moment before finding the strength to speak.  “Disinfectant… “, Peter muttered to himself to let the words sink in. He knew he didn’t possess such a thing, yet still, he made an effort to get up and search some of his drawers to at least make the impression that he owned something other than paint and Twyrine. After a few minutes’ time, he pushed the last drawer shut, swiftly turning on his heel to shake his head with a painted expression. The artist was bad at showing emotions, moreso acting like he was going through one or a whole catalogue of them. The mere concept made him uncomfortable. And watching his guest look at him in hidden disgust made things all the worse for him.

Peter had a faraway look in his eyes when he lowered his head to look at what Anna had brought. A slight hint of disappointment painted itself onto his features, followed by a makeshift smile. She had brought all she could, there was no one to blame. Still, they were running out of clean water. And knowing Anna, she’d rather waste it on her hands than actually drink it.

Pointing towards the empty room next to the staircase he could only hope she’d understand before taking a hold of her belongings to lift some of the weight off her hands. Perhaps he was getting invasive. Being cared for could be a burden in its own way. But Peter had to do it. Taking care of these people and being cared for was becoming the only thing that’d distract him from whatever was tugging at the back of his mind. Memories of the theatre, his brother, Grace…

The sound of glass tore him out of his thoughts, a tinted bottle slowly rolling over the brittle wood of the table he had placed Anna’s belongings on. A bottle of Twyrine he had finished days ago, one of his last. The artist didn’t move, barely recognizing the following sound as something he had long found comfort in. The shattering of broken glass was nothing he wasn’t used to and he’d usually let the shards lay right where they fell, if not for his temporary guests. He’d have to clean it up. But couldn’t that wait? He was running out again. Not only of water, but also Twyrine. 

“You can make yourself comfortable here. Anna… You’ll have a refuge as long as you don’t cause any trouble. I won’t tell on you. Though… I’ll be out to make errands soon. Not now, however… “ Peter slowly turned his head towards the stained windows. Black clouds hanging heavily in front of the yellowed glass warned him of the disease outside. The soot on Anna’s coat, the dust in her golden locks… The artist lifted a hand to wipe some of it off her forehead. Only a fool would step outside. And Anna might’ve brought it in. Reaching back, he handed her one of the last bottles of Twyrine he had. Knowing it was strong enough to at least push the chance of infection back a little further. Just a little more time could save a life. He would try to drag this out for as long as he could.

“Soon. Yeah… soon.”

Judging by his appearance, Anna could only fathom that someone else has been taking care of him. Andrey, maybe? Ugh, the thought of that…

She wasn’t sure whether to thank the artist or to squirm away as he reached for her and interrupted her train of thought.

Great.

He’s touching them. He’s touching my things. Why is he touching my things? Please don’t touch them…

Anna inhaled sharply to try and compose herself just enough to force a smile in return. He wasn’t after her. She could trust him. She had to. Maybe his way of surviving would even rub off on her.

And besides, she’d have to make due for as long as she could.

“I wouldn’t dream of causing any trouble! Thank you for all of your…” Her eyes darted across the room as she tried to gather the right words. Was that really a bathtub that she spotted in the middle of the room? “…Wonderful accommodations.”

They were a wonder alright. A wonder that someone managed to live in here, and a wonder if they manage to remain safe.

Anna flashed another smile at the artist. She supposed there weren’t many that could handle his peculiar nature or even want to talk to him. Other than his brother, that is, and more recently that damned butcher. Had their relationship grown since they had last spoke?

With her thoughts scrambling to find a reason as to how this all came to be, she couldn’t help but to lock her eyes back to the scraggly man.

“Say… Have you been keeping up with Burakh’s apprentice? The bald, big brute.” She spun around on her heels, following the artist’s lead towards what would be her room as she spoke. “He lives around here too, doesn’t he? Is it safe for him to be on his own during this horrible nightmare?”

She hoped she didn’t have to outright spell out a plea for the artist to invite the butcher into that building. If he was his newest protector, that’d be even better. He did save her before after all. He could keep them safe until this ends. Maybe there was some hope to be had, if only this Stamatin understands part of her intent.

“I’ve brought medicine, if any of you two need it. If he decides to change his location to a better, safer place.”

Anna was about to keep pressing the matter further until she noticed the artist’s unfocused gaze. Reluctantly, she followed what captured his attention and found the outside to be somehow worse than the place she was currently in. Night hadn’t yet descended upon them and already it was hard to see through the darkened clouds.

Peter wouldn’t pretend he caught all of that. As usual, his eyes were distant and his mind clogged up with whichever matters felt were more important right now. One being the condition of his dearest Grace. Another being how Rubin had already settled in to make the place downstairs his working space. There was no way he could convince the man to live with them, yet pursuing the work he was forbidden to follow felt like an appropriate excuse to have him around for most of the day for the sake of his own safety. Peter gazed at Anna’s figure sluggishly before opening his mouth. 

“No one will find you here.”

The artist figured her question, or rather, her hidden request, must have something to do with her fear of being pursued. There were bigger issues to be dealt with than a former circus thug. As bad as her crimes were, the Ace of Diamonds were no longer a presence. And unless a vengeful father was out for the wench who stole his child, she would be safe. 

“If they wanted you, they would’ve found you and made you bear the brunt of the punishment for what you have done. Anna, for heaven’s sake, there’s plague outside." Peter tilted his head to look at her, his face filled with nothing but concern.  “Or are you telling me you’ve made friends with Stakh?”

It felt unfair to interrogate her this way. After she had brought her belongings to share, tolerated his way of living. Though he knew he had to be careful with her.  She shared the same flame his brother possessed. Though hers felt darker despite her pale complexion, despite the heavenly ring of her name. 

Another day had begun, hadn’t it?

Grace couldn’t quite tell. Her head felt as if it would explode if she were to move, though it wasn’t just that. Where she was and when, also seemed to elude her.

The day before… What had happened then?

Aside from how her body burned from within and how her thoughts scrambled to try and find a coherent narrative, it felt as though time itself had slipped past her grasp.

It was hard to put into words and truthfully, it didn’t really make much sense. Days didn’t change much in that little town. She had her work and it was long overdue that she return to it.

Her work, she focused her entire strength on the concept of it. She was needed and she had to snap out of the haze she found herself in. She needed to get back to the cemetery again and that meant getting up.

Her tired gaze couldn’t grasp what she even slept on. Was she that exhausted? Was the day before that harsh? She needed strength to tend to the dead and yet it still didn’t come through for her. Maybe one more minute wouldn’t harm. Just a little longer and she’d then start her morning.

Grace’s head slumped down with a pained exhale. Her heavy lids closed slowly and opened back to continue on, to get through her body’s state and stand and yet as her pale lips began to focus on what lay beneath her, she finally realized what kept her in such agony.

“Oh…”

Breath escaped past her lips as she watched her skin crack before her eyes. Pale and red and dry and aching. It was both fascinating and frightening. She didn’t think she’d return to the cemetery as one of them just yet, and yet…

Yet it was long overdue.

It hurt. It hurt beyond words, but her lips hopelessly curled into an apprehensive smile as she stepped away from her sleeping spot. She had to get back to work, or rather, get back to the cemetery where she belonged.

She’d hear them again and she’d infect no other.

He would’ve slept tonight if not for the scorching anxiety in his heart. Peter couldn’t recall how many bottles he’d drank this night. Four, maybe five. You don’t anticipate the hunger for a stimulant drug so soon after your first hit until you’re truly dragged to the pits of your mind. He tried to retain himself from drinking too much especially now that Grace was around. Yet his brother was gone. Perhaps not in the literal sense of the word, but their bond was. He no longer felt connected to him.

Peter held the green bottle away from himself. Twirling and twisting it around where he held it by its neck until he felt his pulse again, hammering against the veins in his neck, and then he took another sip, making his heart pound with adrenaline that shouldn’t exist, that shouldn’t be fueling his body after so many hours of no sleep. Yet it was there and there was no stopping to the impeding destruction of his nerves that awaited. 

When he heard Grace’s steps he snapped out of it, hiding the bottle behind a vase on the shelf. The flower inside the dusty glass was long rotten, leaving the head of the funeral rose hanging with about three petals that were clinging for dear life. The thing must’ve been a decade old, brought as a memoir from Farkhad’s funeral. Peter feared it’d fall apart upon a single touch, yet he only feared that concept now. It surprised him for how long he’d ignored the flower’s presence. Was this part of a bad omen? How long had he been under the dead man’s gaze? He could be watching in this very second, pointing, laughing at the artist’s demise as Peter saw the girl he considered his daughter, the one he had promised a future, crumble under his care. 

Peter darted towards the girl, granting her support by holding her up by her shoulders. A part of him knew what had happened, another refused to believe it. It took him a brief second to even look her in the eyes to see the same despondent gaze he’d seen on so many others. Outside, on the side of the streets, cowering and barely clinging to life.  Peter knew he couldn’t talk, instead pulling the girl into his arms as if she were his own child.  He failed to protect her, failed to keep his word. But he could make it better, right? There was still a box of Shmowder sitting somewhere in his loft. Was it upstairs? Downstairs, where he’d quarantined himself from her? Not considering his lack of distance a problem even for a single minute, he gave her one final squeeze before letting go to scavenge through his chaos. It had to be somewhere, he was sure, somewhere, he recalled. He couldn’t have lost it, no one could’ve taken it.

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.

The entire town was abuzz with the newest decree. The inquisitor had demanded that nobody move from their districts? Were they to just die in their homes then? No. That would not happen to Anna. And they would not barge in her home with their guns either!

She just knew that would happen. Misfortune always found a way to get to her, but she wouldn’t be caught just yet. Everyone in town knew where she lived, she was a sitting target if she was to stay there, but she didn’t have to. Without a second thought, Anna took a small kitchen knife with her and carefully ventured out, avoiding any noise that reached her ears as she made her way through the dying streets.

It would take two trips in her mind. One to make the deal and another to fully move in, but it had to be done. She couldn’t be found alone in the Willows anymore. It wasn’t safe. At least she still had one friend, right? And what were friends for after all, if not to help one another in times of dire need?

Her hurried footsteps finally came to a halt as she pressed her body close to the artist’s building’s door and knocked until she heard back from within.

A new painting was being made in the place of the old. He stood in front of his windows, now unboarded, watching the leaves fall quietly to the earth. Soft things, falling sweetly, and you would imagine that when they landed it would be as sweet. When they were trod on, ground into the earth with a satisfying crunch. The exact essence he wanted to catch. That brief moment going from being whole to torn. Before they fall apart, breaking into a million parts no one could ever reassemble.

A quiet smile was plastered to his lips as his voice hummed on, hoarsely. He tilted his head, his hair falling to the side as he tried to look at his work from another perspective. Red lines followed through the textures of the leaves. There was no motive for what he was putting on those canvas. No thought, just mere inspiration. The loss of man’s mind. Yet the sensation was beautiful. He found himself thinking about that dream in which he met that mysterious man from not too long ago. That unknown place. Andrey, and how he’d seemed to have left the world. His smile did not vanish.

There was still a spark in his eyes. With each stroke, the general tone of the painting got darker and darker until it was nothing more than an array of blue, brown and orange, almost as dark and depressing as the rest of his work. Still. As Peter looked at it, there was a faint glow to be witnessed. One, that a different person might have mistaken for a hint of a teardrop or at least a glimmer of madness, residing in a person as utterly broken as each and every one of his creations. Those weren’t the leaves he saw outside. The ground was no cobble, but earth. And the lighting would have never been as red and fiery if he’d actually copied the grey fog outside. This was a different setting, enclosed in some part of his brain he could not access. Memories of his own, that were kept away from him. Memories that could help him figure out where his brother was and how he could reach him.

The sudden knock drew him out of those thoughts and right back into reality. A guest at this hour? He could only assume who it was. After the day prior, he most likely expected it to be Dankovsky. If not him, then Rubin. However both of his guesses turned out to be wrong and upon opening the door, he wondered as he stared back into Anna’s just as confused eyes. Gesturing for the woman to come in, he closed the door behind her back, knowing she wouldn’t want to touch the knob herself.

“You? Here?”

He truly wondered. How come she’d leave her house in a situation like this? Watching her, he noticed the sharp knife inside her hands. How she held on to it so tightly, it turned her knuckles to white, making her already pale skin look like paper. He didn’t mean to stare. But one needed to start a study by making observations. And those observations should be unobscured. The same thing applied to art. Anna Angel in her current state did not seem sane to him - not that she did before - but there was a benefit in analyzing a subject of interest without said participant being aware of the actual question one had in mind. ‘Are you okay?’, would be the obvious thing to ask, yet Peter wasn’t that simple-minded. There was some part of him who hated the old saying that there are no stupid questions. Whoever goes by that logic is the definition of a fairytale-fool. Asking the right questions strengthens the possibility of avoiding the contemplation of social expectations. A simple practice as well as an old habit that Peter intended to stay true to. He wouldn’t dare to admit that there is a comfort in this caution too. Both of them were mad, crazed in the eyes of the town. And where’s the point of cutting oneself at the edges of the other’s soul?

“You haven’t heard, have you?”

He never did. It was part of a blessing and part foolishness in her eyes. Anna was always on high alert on what happened in the town and who might be on the lookout for her, but Peter was another thing altogether, he’d rather close his eyes and forget that the world even existed beyond his beloved polyhedron.

Almost as an instinct, Anna’s eyes darted around the room. Was he living with someone else already? She had to be sure. She had to know before she proposed anything at all, but by the looks of it, it seemed moderately safe.

“The Inquisitor ordered a lock-down, we aren’t to move around town anymore.”

Did he understand with just those words? Probably not. It was unlikely he even cared when she thought about it further, but the subject mattered to her nonetheless.

“There are no doctors in this district. Only murderers, thieves and madmen.”

She paused once again, this time looking into Peter’s verdant gaze as she tried to gauge whether or not her words had any meaning to him. Try as she might, to her at least, it seemed that there was something else bothering him still. Was it the twyrine again? Was that the reason his vision seemed distant?

Damned artist…

“She wants us all to die here! That’s why I’ve come. They’re probably going to try and raid my place just for the fun of it and who knows what else! We’ve been left here to die.”

At least have some pity, she quietly hoped as she tried her best to put her urgency and worries into words.

Peter thought about her words for a minute, then another. An awkward period of silence passed before he looked back into her eyes, features bearing stress as she awaited his answer. In all fairness, he really did not hear a word about a lockdown. He was locked inside his own house a day prior, was told by Dankovsky to avoid going out, but no one specifically forbid him to wander the streets. No messengers, no figure of authority. And hearing it from Anna Angel first hand was strange, to say the least. People in this town knew that with her it might always be a show. She might be lying to get what she wants, but what would she get out of isolating the artist in his loft alongside herself? Peter could only imagine she was in danger if that was the case. After all, her reputation was bound to turn after being pristine for so long. Every lie was to be uncovered in this place, at least sooner or later. But relationships built on lies were not uncommon here. Even if this so-called Inquisitor was a legit figure they should be concerned about, it could also be someone Anna made up to hide at his place from whoever was pursuing her. It was still strange. Peter would help her without the need of the lie. If she needed to hide, she could be her guest, he never paid great mind to her games. If there really was a new law, then he’d have to find out. However, it was quite strange how no one blessed him with this information given that he is not an unimportant character in this town. Or at least he shouldn’t be. He made most of the relevant structures, after all. 

“No one will raid this place. You are welcome to stay, Anna. However, gathering whatever you have might be a good idea. I’m running out and before you even consider, there is another mouth I need to feed. The little girl from the cemetery, she shares this space with me now. I’m taking care of her.”

Wonderful. She had a refuge that few would think of, the only downside was how dirty everything was and how there was a child involved now. Why and how did that even happen?

“You know I adore children! Especially a girl. We’ll get along wonderfully, I’ll even bring some of my old makeup.”

The smile Anna plastered on her face was as fake as the words she uttered, though she painted both with a practiced cheerfulness that could fool almost anyone.

“I’ll be sure to bring my things before noon then.”

Peter did not look particularly perturbed or surprised. There was an exhaustion in him that went beyond the deep shadows under his eyes. He knew that whatever Anna was muttering was simply just a show. That she didn’t actually care as much about Grace as she stated, or at least not with the right intentions. Although he knew she would be nice when the situation required her to. She had to, after all, she had no place to stay. 

“Take your time.”, Peter sighed, dragging his hand down his face. “It’s not dark outside yet, but you could still encounter someone. If you do, don’t hold back your voice. The Willows aren’t far from here… I’ll probably hear you. Until then, I’ll prepare a room.”

So it had been decided then. The Willows would be temporarily deserted for the time being. Anna will disappear and hopefully so will anyone’s thoughts about hunting the little she had. Her plan didn’t ease much of her worries, but she tried to keep them at bay while she ventured back to her home.

Her heart drummed inside her as she sneaked back inside. It dangerous now. It was supposedly her home, but they could have gotten there already. People would become more relentless now and she was sure of it. Food was scarce, guards were now supposed to keep people in place and that will surely only fuel more anger. Who knew if that bloody younger Burakh would return with his strange requests too.

Anna’s hands trembled slightly as she gathered the few resources she had left. At least if her plan were to fail, maybe she could make her way further away from this district from the artist’s loft too. It wouldn’t be far to get to Lara’s “shelter”, and from there, if needed, hopefully she could reach the crucible where all of the fancier folk lie. It did seem like this whole thing started right next to her home too, didn’t it? She could only hope it wouldn’t follow her too.

She desperately needed to get away… and fast.

There wasn’t much food to be brought back, but there was at least still plenty of medicine. Some blankets would help too, and water. Water… She didn’t have any left. Cursed place. How was she to keep herself clean if she didn’t have water now?

Anna sighed with a heavy heart and straightened her posture to a weak facade of confidence. She’d get through this. She would.

“I’m back.” She spoke up once she had found her way back to the artist’s loft.

There was no reply at first. It was a large building after all, but the emptiness in it still made the little confidence she had in her fade. Her eyes darted from place to place as she waited further, all the while only finding dust and smudges of different colors scattered about.

“I don’t suppose you have some disinfectant left around here somewhere… do you?”

Peter figured he’d barely moved from his spot as he watched Anna walk back to his loft, arms full of whatever she could gather from her house. It took the artist some time to recollect his thoughts, letting himself sink onto the rickety couch at the far end corner of his room. His apartment was, as always, a sparse mess. Yet somehow more and more people started to find comfort in it.  There was no real kitchen, no proper guest rooms, though he had a lot of space. A lot of space he was unable to fill. 

Peter let his eyes wander over the crumbling wallpaper, obscured by macabre paintings and half-finished blueprints, as he listened to Anna’s bare feet climbing the stairs. As hurried as she sounded back then, her steps were a lot more quiet now, careful even. 

When Anna opened the door, the artist was swaying in his chair, running cold palms over the fabric of his pants. His eyes turned to her, tired as they’ve always been, watching her for a moment before finding the strength to speak.  “Disinfectant… “, Peter muttered to himself to let the words sink in. He knew he didn’t possess such a thing, yet still, he made an effort to get up and search some of his drawers to at least make the impression that he owned something other than paint and Twyrine. After a few minutes’ time, he pushed the last drawer shut, swiftly turning on his heel to shake his head with a painted expression. The artist was bad at showing emotions, moreso acting like he was going through one or a whole catalogue of them. The mere concept made him uncomfortable. And watching his guest look at him in hidden disgust made things all the worse for him.

Peter had a faraway look in his eyes when he lowered his head to look at what Anna had brought. A slight hint of disappointment painted itself onto his features, followed by a makeshift smile. She had brought all she could, there was no one to blame. Still, they were running out of clean water. And knowing Anna, she’d rather waste it on her hands than actually drink it.

Pointing towards the empty room next to the staircase he could only hope she’d understand before taking a hold of her belongings to lift some of the weight off her hands. Perhaps he was getting invasive. Being cared for could be a burden in its own way. But Peter had to do it. Taking care of these people and being cared for was becoming the only thing that’d distract him from whatever was tugging at the back of his mind. Memories of the theatre, his brother, Grace…

The sound of glass tore him out of his thoughts, a tinted bottle slowly rolling over the brittle wood of the table he had placed Anna’s belongings on. A bottle of Twyrine he had finished days ago, one of his last. The artist didn’t move, barely recognizing the following sound as something he had long found comfort in. The shattering of broken glass was nothing he wasn’t used to and he’d usually let the shards lay right where they fell, if not for his temporary guests. He’d have to clean it up. But couldn’t that wait? He was running out again. Not only of water, but also Twyrine. 

“You can make yourself comfortable here. Anna… You’ll have a refuge as long as you don’t cause any trouble. I won’t tell on you. Though… I’ll be out to make errands soon. Not now, however… “ Peter slowly turned his head towards the stained windows. Black clouds hanging heavily in front of the yellowed glass warned him of the disease outside. The soot on Anna’s coat, the dust in her golden locks… The artist lifted a hand to wipe some of it off her forehead. Only a fool would step outside. And Anna might’ve brought it in. Reaching back, he handed her one of the last bottles of Twyrine he had. Knowing it was strong enough to at least push the chance of infection back a little further. Just a little more time could save a life. He would try to drag this out for as long as he could.

“Soon. Yeah… soon.”

The entire town was abuzz with the newest decree. The inquisitor had demanded that nobody move from their districts? Were they to just die in their homes then? No. That would not happen to Anna. And they would not barge in her home with their guns either!

She just knew that would happen. Misfortune always found a way to get to her, but she wouldn’t be caught just yet. Everyone in town knew where she lived, she was a sitting target if she was to stay there, but she didn’t have to. Without a second thought, Anna took a small kitchen knife with her and carefully ventured out, avoiding any noise that reached her ears as she made her way through the dying streets.

It would take two trips in her mind. One to make the deal and another to fully move in, but it had to be done. She couldn’t be found alone in the Willows anymore. It wasn’t safe. At least she still had one friend, right? And what were friends for after all, if not to help one another in times of dire need?

Her hurried footsteps finally came to a halt as she pressed her body close to the artist’s building’s door and knocked until she heard back from within.

A new painting was being made in the place of the old. He stood in front of his windows, now unboarded, watching the leaves fall quietly to the earth. Soft things, falling sweetly, and you would imagine that when they landed it would be as sweet. When they were trod on, ground into the earth with a satisfying crunch. The exact essence he wanted to catch. That brief moment going from being whole to torn. Before they fall apart, breaking into a million parts no one could ever reassemble.

A quiet smile was plastered to his lips as his voice hummed on, hoarsely. He tilted his head, his hair falling to the side as he tried to look at his work from another perspective. Red lines followed through the textures of the leaves. There was no motive for what he was putting on those canvas. No thought, just mere inspiration. The loss of man’s mind. Yet the sensation was beautiful. He found himself thinking about that dream in which he met that mysterious man from not too long ago. That unknown place. Andrey, and how he’d seemed to have left the world. His smile did not vanish.

There was still a spark in his eyes. With each stroke, the general tone of the painting got darker and darker until it was nothing more than an array of blue, brown and orange, almost as dark and depressing as the rest of his work. Still. As Peter looked at it, there was a faint glow to be witnessed. One, that a different person might have mistaken for a hint of a teardrop or at least a glimmer of madness, residing in a person as utterly broken as each and every one of his creations. Those weren’t the leaves he saw outside. The ground was no cobble, but earth. And the lighting would have never been as red and fiery if he’d actually copied the grey fog outside. This was a different setting, enclosed in some part of his brain he could not access. Memories of his own, that were kept away from him. Memories that could help him figure out where his brother was and how he could reach him.

The sudden knock drew him out of those thoughts and right back into reality. A guest at this hour? He could only assume who it was. After the day prior, he most likely expected it to be Dankovsky. If not him, then Rubin. However both of his guesses turned out to be wrong and upon opening the door, he wondered as he stared back into Anna’s just as confused eyes. Gesturing for the woman to come in, he closed the door behind her back, knowing she wouldn’t want to touch the knob herself.

“You? Here?”

He truly wondered. How come she’d leave her house in a situation like this? Watching her, he noticed the sharp knife inside her hands. How she held on to it so tightly, it turned her knuckles to white, making her already pale skin look like paper. He didn’t mean to stare. But one needed to start a study by making observations. And those observations should be unobscured. The same thing applied to art. Anna Angel in her current state did not seem sane to him - not that she did before - but there was a benefit in analyzing a subject of interest without said participant being aware of the actual question one had in mind. ‘Are you okay?’, would be the obvious thing to ask, yet Peter wasn’t that simple-minded. There was some part of him who hated the old saying that there are no stupid questions. Whoever goes by that logic is the definition of a fairytale-fool. Asking the right questions strengthens the possibility of avoiding the contemplation of social expectations. A simple practice as well as an old habit that Peter intended to stay true to. He wouldn’t dare to admit that there is a comfort in this caution too. Both of them were mad, crazed in the eyes of the town. And where’s the point of cutting oneself at the edges of the other’s soul?

“You haven’t heard, have you?”

He never did. It was part of a blessing and part foolishness in her eyes. Anna was always on high alert on what happened in the town and who might be on the lookout for her, but Peter was another thing altogether, he’d rather close his eyes and forget that the world even existed beyond his beloved polyhedron.

Almost as an instinct, Anna’s eyes darted around the room. Was he living with someone else already? She had to be sure. She had to know before she proposed anything at all, but by the looks of it, it seemed moderately safe.

“The Inquisitor ordered a lock-down, we aren’t to move around town anymore.”

Did he understand with just those words? Probably not. It was unlikely he even cared when she thought about it further, but the subject mattered to her nonetheless.

“There are no doctors in this district. Only murderers, thieves and madmen.”

She paused once again, this time looking into Peter’s verdant gaze as she tried to gauge whether or not her words had any meaning to him. Try as she might, to her at least, it seemed that there was something else bothering him still. Was it the twyrine again? Was that the reason his vision seemed distant?

Damned artist…

“She wants us all to die here! That’s why I’ve come. They’re probably going to try and raid my place just for the fun of it and who knows what else! We’ve been left here to die.”

At least have some pity, she quietly hoped as she tried her best to put her urgency and worries into words.

Peter thought about her words for a minute, then another. An awkward period of silence passed before he looked back into her eyes, features bearing stress as she awaited his answer. In all fairness, he really did not hear a word about a lockdown. He was locked inside his own house a day prior, was told by Dankovsky to avoid going out, but no one specifically forbid him to wander the streets. No messengers, no figure of authority. And hearing it from Anna Angel first hand was strange, to say the least. People in this town knew that with her it might always be a show. She might be lying to get what she wants, but what would she get out of isolating the artist in his loft alongside herself? Peter could only imagine she was in danger if that was the case. After all, her reputation was bound to turn after being pristine for so long. Every lie was to be uncovered in this place, at least sooner or later. But relationships built on lies were not uncommon here. Even if this so-called Inquisitor was a legit figure they should be concerned about, it could also be someone Anna made up to hide at his place from whoever was pursuing her. It was still strange. Peter would help her without the need of the lie. If she needed to hide, she could be her guest, he never paid great mind to her games. If there really was a new law, then he’d have to find out. However, it was quite strange how no one blessed him with this information given that he is not an unimportant character in this town. Or at least he shouldn’t be. He made most of the relevant structures, after all. 

“No one will raid this place. You are welcome to stay, Anna. However, gathering whatever you have might be a good idea. I’m running out and before you even consider, there is another mouth I need to feed. The little girl from the cemetery, she shares this space with me now. I’m taking care of her.”

Wonderful. She had a refuge that few would think of, the only downside was how dirty everything was and how there was a child involved now. Why and how did that even happen?

“You know I adore children! Especially a girl. We’ll get along wonderfully, I’ll even bring some of my old makeup.”

The smile Anna plastered on her face was as fake as the words she uttered, though she painted both with a practiced cheerfulness that could fool almost anyone.

“I’ll be sure to bring my things before noon then.”

Peter did not look particularly perturbed or surprised. There was an exhaustion in him that went beyond the deep shadows under his eyes. He knew that whatever Anna was muttering was simply just a show. That she didn’t actually care as much about Grace as she stated, or at least not with the right intentions. Although he knew she would be nice when the situation required her to. She had to, after all, she had no place to stay. 

“Take your time.”, Peter sighed, dragging his hand down his face. “It’s not dark outside yet, but you could still encounter someone. If you do, don’t hold back your voice. The Willows aren’t far from here... I’ll probably hear you. Until then, I’ll prepare a room.”

Daniil left the Cathedral in the morning, feeling that strange, gentle warmth leaving his bones as he was exposed to the cold air, exposed to what felt like the world itself, first his heart had been bared out, cut out and shown off as a silly trick, to show the cold Bachelor as vulnerable and weak, and now exposing his mind along with it. At least before he could lie, twist and curl his way out of any small space, like the snake he was, but now he was stuck, and the only way out was open and true and fucking stupid.

How was he going to look Peter in the eye? If Peter found out about Andrey, no, he couldn’t even consider the possibility, no, he would have to be honest, but that did not at all mean Peter had to find out, no, Danill would have to be quick, of course, hurry in, take his resources, and avoid as many questions as possible, but he would not have that luck. Daniil knew as he made his way across the town, he knew this was all doomed, knew he was set up to fail, and yet had allowed himself that small smidgen of hope, and yet, it would topple, that was clear. The inquisitor would find a reason to despise him, the ruling families would turn on him, and the other healers would stab him in the back. Hell, death itself would turn its wretched gaze upon the Bachelor once again, and he would not be as lucky as to escape with merely a weakened heart.

Of all people who could’ve visited him, Daniil seemed to be the oddest choice. He understood Rubin’s urge to justify his actions. Knew that now more than ever, Anna had to hide. But seeing Daniil in front of his door, a horrible mess, was a surprise. A man so cold he would’ve never even guessed knew how to apologize... and yet he was so dear to him. A face from the past. A small fragment of a time before all this. When his lips knew how to smile and his hands weren’t tainted with blood. Ah, how he missed those days back in the Capital. But he couldn’t leave this town, not while his creation was still here. Peter had a feeling she would soon call for help.

The artist stood, hands folded in front of him, eyes forward. The way he stared at the Bachelor made him feel more like a soldier rather than an architect. The two man looked at each other like warriors on a field. Yet rather than a gun, they held a split message between them. Questions unasked and unanswered... He would have to let the man in.  With a nod of his head he ordered Daniil to follow and shortly after, he did. Making their way up to the loft, Peter barely knew how to engage in conversation. His brain was running wild with every possible path he could take. So many questions popped right into his mind, yet he knew none of those were the right sociable interactions. That by asking straight-ahead, he might not get the answers he wanted. Daniil wasn’t opposed to lying or talking his way out of things and Peter - Peter found it hard to believe in people, often even losing interest into wording out his questions, knowing he wouldn’t get the answers he sought out for. What a frustrating charade. 

The entire town was abuzz with the newest decree. The inquisitor had demanded that nobody move from their districts? Were they to just die in their homes then? No. That would not happen to Anna. And they would not barge in her home with their guns either!

She just knew that would happen. Misfortune always found a way to get to her, but she wouldn’t be caught just yet. Everyone in town knew where she lived, she was a sitting target if she was to stay there, but she didn’t have to. Without a second thought, Anna took a small kitchen knife with her and carefully ventured out, avoiding any noise that reached her ears as she made her way through the dying streets.

It would take two trips in her mind. One to make the deal and another to fully move in, but it had to be done. She couldn’t be found alone in the Willows anymore. It wasn’t safe. At least she still had one friend, right? And what were friends for after all, if not to help one another in times of dire need?

Her hurried footsteps finally came to a halt as she pressed her body close to the artist’s building’s door and knocked until she heard back from within.

A new painting was being made in the place of the old. He stood in front of his windows, now unboarded, watching the leaves fall quietly to the earth. Soft things, falling sweetly, and you would imagine that when they landed it would be as sweet. When they were trod on, ground into the earth with a satisfying crunch. The exact essence he wanted to catch. That brief moment going from being whole to torn. Before they fall apart, breaking into a million parts no one could ever reassemble.

A quiet smile was plastered to his lips as his voice hummed on, hoarsely. He tilted his head, his hair falling to the side as he tried to look at his work from another perspective. Red lines followed through the textures of the leaves. There was no motive for what he was putting on those canvas. No thought, just mere inspiration. The loss of man’s mind. Yet the sensation was beautiful. He found himself thinking about that dream in which he met that mysterious man from not too long ago. That unknown place. Andrey, and how he’d seemed to have left the world. His smile did not vanish.

There was still a spark in his eyes. With each stroke, the general tone of the painting got darker and darker until it was nothing more than an array of blue, brown and orange, almost as dark and depressing as the rest of his work. Still. As Peter looked at it, there was a faint glow to be witnessed. One, that a different person might have mistaken for a hint of a teardrop or at least a glimmer of madness, residing in a person as utterly broken as each and every one of his creations. Those weren’t the leaves he saw outside. The ground was no cobble, but earth. And the lighting would have never been as red and fiery if he’d actually copied the grey fog outside. This was a different setting, enclosed in some part of his brain he could not access. Memories of his own, that were kept away from him. Memories that could help him figure out where his brother was and how he could reach him.

The sudden knock drew him out of those thoughts and right back into reality. A guest at this hour? He could only assume who it was. After the day prior, he most likely expected it to be Dankovsky. If not him, then Rubin. However both of his guesses turned out to be wrong and upon opening the door, he wondered as he stared back into Anna’s just as confused eyes. Gesturing for the woman to come in, he closed the door behind her back, knowing she wouldn’t want to touch the knob herself.

“You? Here?”

He truly wondered. How come she’d leave her house in a situation like this? Watching her, he noticed the sharp knife inside her hands. How she held on to it so tightly, it turned her knuckles to white, making her already pale skin look like paper. He didn’t mean to stare. But one needed to start a study by making observations. And those observations should be unobscured. The same thing applied to art. Anna Angel in her current state did not seem sane to him - not that she did before - but there was a benefit in analyzing a subject of interest without said participant being aware of the actual question one had in mind. ‘Are you okay?’, would be the obvious thing to ask, yet Peter wasn’t that simple-minded. There was some part of him who hated the old saying that there are no stupid questions. Whoever goes by that logic is the definition of a fairytale-fool. Asking the right questions strengthens the possibility of avoiding the contemplation of social expectations. A simple practice as well as an old habit that Peter intended to stay true to. He wouldn’t dare to admit that there is a comfort in this caution too. Both of them were mad, crazed in the eyes of the town. And where’s the point of cutting oneself at the edges of the other’s soul?

“You haven’t heard, have you?”

He never did. It was part of a blessing and part foolishness in her eyes. Anna was always on high alert on what happened in the town and who might be on the lookout for her, but Peter was another thing altogether, he’d rather close his eyes and forget that the world even existed beyond his beloved polyhedron.

Almost as an instinct, Anna’s eyes darted around the room. Was he living with someone else already? She had to be sure. She had to know before she proposed anything at all, but by the looks of it, it seemed moderately safe.

“The Inquisitor ordered a lock-down, we aren’t to move around town anymore.”

Did he understand with just those words? Probably not. It was unlikely he even cared when she thought about it further, but the subject mattered to her nonetheless.

“There are no doctors in this district. Only murderers, thieves and madmen.”

She paused once again, this time looking into Peter’s verdant gaze as she tried to gauge whether or not her words had any meaning to him. Try as she might, to her at least, it seemed that there was something else bothering him still. Was it the twyrine again? Was that the reason his vision seemed distant?

Damned artist…

“She wants us all to die here! That’s why I’ve come. They’re probably going to try and raid my place just for the fun of it and who knows what else! We’ve been left here to die.”

At least have some pity, she quietly hoped as she tried her best to put her urgency and worries into words.

Peter thought about her words for a minute, then another. An awkward period of silence passed before he looked back into her eyes, features bearing stress as she awaited his answer. In all fairness, he really did not hear a word about a lockdown. He was locked inside his own house a day prior, was told by Dankovsky to avoid going out, but no one specifically forbid him to wander the streets. No messengers, no figure of authority. And hearing it from Anna Angel first hand was strange, to say the least. People in this town knew that with her it might always be a show. She might be lying to get what she wants, but what would she get out of isolating the artist in his loft alongside herself? Peter could only imagine she was in danger if that was the case. After all, her reputation was bound to turn after being pristine for so long. Every lie was to be uncovered in this place, at least sooner or later. But relationships built on lies were not uncommon here. Even if this so-called Inquisitor was a legit figure they should be concerned about, it could also be someone Anna made up to hide at his place from whoever was pursuing her. It was still strange. Peter would help her without the need of the lie. If she needed to hide, she could be her guest, he never paid great mind to her games. If there really was a new law, then he’d have to find out. However, it was quite strange how no one blessed him with this information given that he is not an unimportant character in this town. Or at least he shouldn’t be. He made most of the relevant structures, after all. 

“No one will raid this place. You are welcome to stay, Anna. However, gathering whatever you have might be a good idea. I’m running out and before you even consider, there is another mouth I need to feed. The little girl from the cemetery, she shares this space with me now. I’m taking care of her.”

  The conversation with Dankovsky only left him feeling more confused and disoriented. What in the world did he meant by… by any of it? The information he shared about the ‚previous day’ was concerning, if he was telling the truth that is. Yet he didn’t have a reason to lie, or at least Rubin hoped so. They were still colleagues, the man shouldn’t obscure anything of importance from him. However, why would anything he mentioned happen? What exactly did Artemy do? Did he really- How did Saburov fit into it all? He was clearly responsible to what could possibly happen to the artist, but was there more? What exactly took place? Why did he still feel as if he was missing some vital information, like his time was running out? That sense of foreboding, of slowly rising anxiety, still clung to him the same way this damned sickness did. It was everywhere, every single district was endangered. The air was dark with disease, the coughing, moans of pain, were all around. How did it get so bad? How did everything they tried fail? The quarantine was pointless, how was anyone meant to survive this? And it wasn’t even all of it. The Bachelor shouldn’t hide information from him, yet he did. He knew more than what he shared. What did Daniil know about him? What was he trying to point out? The more he dwelled on it the more frustrated he became. He didn’t want to make Dankovsky his enemy, they were fighting for the same cause. Daniil cared for Peter as well. They could deal with the Pest only if they worked together.

The lingering sickness was making it hard to breathe, and the mask made it even more so. Did it offer any protection whatsoever? It felt more theatrical than anything else. Together with the cloak, it made him feel… strange to say the least. Not quite like himself. The cemetery looked worse than ever before. The corpses stacked on top of each other, victims who couldn’t be saved now treated as nothing but rotting meat. The smell was making his head swirl. The sound of insects made his skin crawl. Who were these people? Did anybody care? No, to most, they were just numbers - almost ten thousand dead at this point. Nine thousand eight hundred. Maybe not all of them were there, but… Their whole being would be forgotten sooner rather than later. They were the Dead who couldn’t even be buried now. Who could be bothered to dig out the graves? Where would they even dig? There was so little space. If not for Grief, he’d be one of them too. One of those Dead, another corpse to take care of, another useless body to be burnt and forgotten. At first, Rubin tried to avoid looking at their faces as much as he could. The mask was at least a little helpful in this task. But he could still see, still notice the eyes that didn’t shine. The wetness long gone, replaced by that cold nothingness. The worst part was… He knew these people. He saw some of them on the streets, at Isidor’s house. He could remember some of the names. A patient that visited regularly, the lady from the grocers, a kid he often saw on his way to the clinic. And he didn’t help them. Didn’t save a single life. Didn’t know how, didn’t have enough time. Not only couldn’t he help them, but he was also responsible. All these deaths, all pointless, yet Isidor wanted them for some reason. Found some purpose in them. No matter for how long he’d be trying to repent for this, maybe his entire life, it still wouldn’t be enough. He felt sick, yet he pushed through the nauseating feeling. Through the sudden vertigo and heaviness in his lungs. He wanted to leave, turn back on his heel, and let some other person in a mask take care of this. Yet he was already there, he could see this task done. He wasn’t one to back down anyway, he took this upon himself, and he would see this through.

And so he got to work. He started arranging the bodies, he probably should have shown each of them more respect, but the constant feeling of urgency made him act faster rather than more carefully. The pain in his forearms and dirty air weren’t helpful either. It was a struggle with the injuries, but it had to be done. He repeated the phrase a few times over, seeing the faces he recognized. It had to be done. Someone has to do this. Better him than anyone else. It felt unreal. There were so many faces he remembered, each dead, some worse than the others.Some killed by the Sand pest, some by their own hand, some by another. Some already rotting. A few of them were easier to identify—a few he hadn’t expected to see among the pile. At first, he wasn’t sure whether it was the same woman. He didn’t know her well, more from occasional sightings than anything else, yet the hair, the clothing. It couldn’t be anyone else. Should he tell Lara? Should she know? He still remembered those few days prior to the disease, how glad she was to have found a compassionate soul, a friend, in Town… It didn’t even look like the Sand pest. Eva Yan did this to herself. And Rubin was so close to being the same. There were only more bodies, another and another, yet the one next to Eva’s caught his attention. For a second, he thought it was Peter. Cold, devoid of any emotion. Dead eyes staring back at him. It wouldn’t make sense. Peter was locked in his loft. The artist wouldn’t be able to reach the cemetery before him. The man was alive. Yet the sight still made him freeze. His breath caught in his throat. The sudden feeling of failure, of horror that he still fucked up, it happened again, that he was too late, that Peter was gone was almost overwhelming.

The logic followed only a second after. It wasn’t Peter. It couldn’t be. The hair length didn’t match. Neither did the facts. It wasn’t him. It was Andrey. He didn’t think he would see the familiar face here. The relief he felt was sickening, wrong, a man still died, and not just some man, but Andrey Stamatin. Of course he suspected this before. Once Grief mentioned Andrey was sick, he could already guess the man wasn’t all right, but he still hoped. For a friend’s sake. But seeing him here, h e r e… No, if the architect found out about this… He couldn’t. He mustn’t learn about this.

It wasn’t right, of course, hiding this from The artist wasn’t right. Yet he couldn’t lose Peter now. He already had a good number of wrongdoings on his conscience, one more wouldn’t change a thing. Stakh was doomed, but Peter shouldn’t be. He just- … Was this what happened? Did Peter see his brother’s corpse and- Saburov knew. That’s what happened, that was the plan. That’s why Dankovsky said- He didn’t want to lose it now, he had to focus. Saburov deserved to pay for this, but first of all he had to finish his work, make sure Peter wouldn’t see this, that he would survive this. He treated both Eva and Andrey with more respect than the rest. They were dead, the same as everyone else at the cemetery, yes, but somehow it felt more like he shouldn’t treat them as simply corpses. It took some time, but eventually he could finish it. Thankfully, starting a fire wasn’t a hard task.

Eight hours straight of no chores on a healthy diet of one solitary bottle of Twyrine later and Peter figured out it didn’t matter what his room looked like ─ he wasn’t going to get a chance to be bored or stimulated in it regardless. All that occupied his mind was simply his own anger and frustration. Disappointment and eventual acceptance. The knowledge that he had been forced to stay in this room, locked up inside his own apartment. All while he was supposed to be out there, partaking in whatever was going on today at the cemetery. He didn’t bother looking at the time at all. He figured he’d stopped checking around three─whatever. It truly didn’t matter at this point. Funny, how someone who was so used to sheer isolation was struggling to stay between his own four walls. Just a week ago Peter probably wouldn’t even have noticed if someone locked him inside his own house. It would’ve taken him at least a few days to notice. Probably when his Twyrine ran out or when Andrey would knock on his door. Then again, how likely was that going to happen any time soon? 

It bothered him how much he missed his own brother. He didn’t mind going on days without seeing him, after all, he wasn’t that dependent. Besides that, he was a man who saw worth in solitude. The best circumstances to engage with his own genius. But the way they separated last time still left a bitter taste in his mouth. One not even his beloved Twyrine could wash away. And to be fair, he was running out. Maybe that was for the better. Maybe then he would take upon the effort of breaking down that door. The same door he’d leaned his back against ever since Rubin and Daniil had left. What was the purpose behind caging him up like this anyway? He couldn’t recall mentioning his plans for the day to any of them. Maybe Dankovsky overheard something. He had a talk with Grace the same morning. One in which Grace asked him to stay at home.

Why was everyone so hell-bent on keeping him at home today? 

Peter squinted his eyes, letting his vision blur to nothing more than vague shapes and light. The pulsing of veins in his ears barely muffled the ticking of the huge Grandfather clock inside his room. Everything felt grey. From the lights shining through the window all the way to the cracks on the floor. The large blanket covering the mirror, barely hiding a face that wasn’t his. He was losing his mind in here. Isolated, within his own walls. Although the space surrounding him resembled his heart more than anything else. 

─ The one time he wanted to do good, he physically couldn’t. 

Peter knew he was forced to wait for someone to open that door. That his arms wouldn’t be able to break down that lock any time soon and that feeling alone made him miserable. Not only that, but also knowing he’d let Grace down. Despite the girl pleading for him to do the opposite, he still insisted on wanting to keep his end of the deal with Saburov. Wanted to size up the cemetery for more corpses to come, as if some unspoken forces told him he’d soon be one of them. No more piling, no more pits. No more tunnels, leading into the earth. They needed space.

It was is if he could hear her words still. Words from that one faithful night, where both Rubin and him had saved her from the Dead she was so willingly trying to protect. The same Dead who tore at the rim of her dress, wanting her to care for them forevermore. Peter wouldn’t allow for that to happen. Wouldn’t allow for Grace’s life to be cut short so soon. He needed to get out, speak to Saburov. Explain the situation and promise to work tomorrow. Maybe he could still uphold his deal. Or maybe not.

When Peter finally got up, it was already getting late. The once grey rays had turned itself into deep hues of gold, a sign that time was approaching dusk. He didn’t dare look at the mirror when he passed by, directly making his way to the window. Outside, not much had changed. The air was still infiltrated by the black dust, hovering everywhere. Except now, he could tell the level was much higher. With some particles even floating as high as the third floor of his house.  Peter sighed exasperated. How much longer would he have to wait until he could be of actual help? How much longer until he was allowed to go out and venture into the Theatre he had dreamed about.

He still remembered those events, although vividly. Like a lucid dream he explored once too deeply. It was a wild guess to assume Andrey would be there, but it was at least a start. Leaning his frail frame over the windowsill, he looked down, finally noticing a familiar shape around the crook of the road. A tall shape, there weren’t many people of that height in this town. 

A new fire ignited in him at the realization of who that was. Had he finally decided to come back? To let him out of here like some child you locked away from the kitchen? Rubin definitely owed him an explanation for all of this. Without further hesitation, he rushed away, almost stumbling on his way to the door where he pressed his ear firmly against the ramshackle wood. A loud click emitted through his halls, indicating the unlocking of a door, followed by heavy steps. 

  The walk back from the cemetery felt like a dream, or at least a huge part of it did. Rubin didn’t exactly remember leaving the place, leaving the burned corpses behind. Didn’t remember passing an entire district. Almost as if he was pulled by some invisible will, dragged around from one task to another. He hated it. It was like a dream that he forgot upon waking up. What managed to get him out of his thoughts was a messenger. The man was in a hurry, as soon as the letter was in Rubin’s hands, he ran, not a single word was exchanged. It wasn’t strange, the air was filled with infection, and the mold spread everywhere. Only then did he become intensely aware of how difficult it was to breathe. Brought back from that unconscious state, he put the letter into one of his pockets, before sprinting along the street. He’d read the message later; right now, he didn’t even know what time it was. The sky was growing darker, or at least he thought so. It was hard to tell from the outside. Rubin hoped the smell of smoke and ash didn’t cling to him. The smell of burnt flesh. He was thankful for having the keys in his possession now. There was no need to knock.

He leaned against the door as soon as it closed, effectively putting a barrier between himself and the infected air. He could breathe again, fill his lungs with cleaner air. He was grasping for it, desperately trying to get more oxygen than necessary, as if there wouldn’t be any more occasions to catch a break. To breathe. The hard wood against his back offered stability. He pushed himself away from it only when his breathing stabilized, once the beating of his heart slowed down. He didn’t want a repeat of what had happened this morning. For a second, he debated whether it would be better to leave again, let his emotions out on- On something. Use the broken hands for something before going up. Let the rot out, but he couldn’t leave Peter again. Couldn’t let the man wait another hour. How much time has passed by this point? He wasn’t sure, he simply knew he had wasted enough of it already.

Walking up the staircase felt more taxing than Rubin could ever assume. He has climbed up while completely exhausted, his body on the verge of giving up, and yet even then it was easier. His steps seemed extra heavy, every movement felt as if his limbs were on tightly pulled strings. There was a pit in his gut, something that kept growing the higher up the stairs he got. It was beyond uncomfortable. Something was making this harder for him, and he could blame only himself for it because that something was his own fear. That uncertainty, that guilt washing over him like waves, that anger spoiling his heart and spreading through his veins. He felt sick, but not with the disease waiting for another victim outside, no. No, he felt sick of himself. He couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even be truthful. His options were limited, his path seemed almost predestined. Stakh wanted to laugh at that. A desperate attempt at finding humor in their current situation, but the sound wouldn’t leave his throat.

Eventually, he reached the door upstairs. The pit in his stomach felt almost unbearable, the whirlpool of emotion felt like too much. Yet he pushed it all down while reaching for the keys, or he tried to keep it bottled up. Nobody needed a physician that easily overwhelmed, useless. He was already in a bad spot, few still trusted him, few would see him as competent.

The keys almost fell out of his clumsy hands. He was anything but competent. He did it all to himself. Why would he blame Isidor if he was just as responsible? If not for the Sand Pest then for what happened after the sickness spread. After? Maybe even before. His instincts always turned to hostility and anger. He put trust where he shouldn’t. He missed people he should not. He decided to steal Simon’s body, to cut it open, and use it for experimentation. He chose to break the taboo. He opted to drive himself to the edge and still get nothing done. His own hands would be fine if he didn’t try to-

He stopped. His hand was shaking, making him unable to push the key into the lock. He was pathetic. Truly pathetic. Gravel tried many times to get him to think differently. To stop him from being so harsh to both himself and everyone else. It never worked, not really. He always fell back into the same way of thinking. Oh, how much he loathed it.

Peter hadn’t felt anger like this in a long time. It blew up in him the second he heard that door unlock, watching the taller man walk in. Usually, this kind of anger was directed at himself. Emotions that would make him rip on his own hair, scratch his own arms until white lines covered his sickly pale skin. He hated the sound of that, hated the texture when he ran his fingers over those lines. They were never deep enough to leave marks. Just mere skin irritations caused by bad habits. Something this man was apparently made of.

“You locked me in.”

There was no need to talk around the subject of the matter. Even a child could tell he was angry at the man. Furious, even. Peter thanked the heavens that Grace was already asleep.

He straightened his back, waiting for Rubin to react to what he’d just said. Yet all he could see was a man who didn’t even seem to have the slightest idea about how to respond. Seeing him like this stirred up something low in him, something that jolted through his veins and made the hairs on his body prick up. There had to be a reason, he thought, and so he knew it was important to be as gentle as possible, to get him receptive and trusted and loose-lipped, or at least have his defiance lowered, as he had never been good at interrogation. That was Andrey’s job.

“You locked me in, left me here for eight hours waiting like a dog while I was supposed to help at the cemetery! And now you have the audacity to just walk back in and say nothing! Are you aware of what you’ve done?! I’m already on that Governor’s hitlist! You just gave him a reason to- ”

Peter pressed his lips together. There was a lot of frustration just waiting to spill out. He never quite felt such powerful and great emotions towards another human being. Well, no, that too was a lie. He did, a long, long time ago. And how did that end? Anger inspires, motivates, and creates dedication from such little things. Anger builds and gives purpose to those who have lost it. Yet in this instance, as Peter approached the other man, he felt nothing but hurt. Betrayed.

After all the things he did for him, how dare he break his trust like that? Lock him inside a room, knowing about his intentions, his plans, his deal for that day. How dare he rob him of his purpose when all he wanted to do was help?

Society defines the concept of anger as ‘an emotion characterised by antagonism towards someone or something you feel has deliberately done you wrong’. But how much of that really applied to this situation? How much of it was true and how much unspoken? So far, Rubin had done nothing to actively hurt him. He helped him when he needed it, saved Grace, took care of his injuries. Why was it that the further he approached, the more his anger vanished, instead being replaced by the mere feeling of hurt? Looking at him brought nothing but pain, a sting in his heart. Rubin was holding back. There was something he couldn’t or didn’t want to say. Something that mirrored his expression of pain. The way he avoided all gazes, unsure of what to say, reminded him of an abused child. It was in that moment when the artist realized that nothing he had done was done to spite or hurt him. Not actively. Peter took a deep breath before he reached out a hand, grabbing the other by the side of his head. A quick look of bewilderment was the only response he got, eyes widening at the surprising gesture, yet his hand remained firm, instead hovering over his cheek, feeling the sweat, ashes and dirt that were stuck to it. He smelled like it too. Like fire…

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 9 Status: Open

Grace woke up under her warm blankets once again. So warm. So cozy. That place was truly heavenly, though today it scared her. She had already learned that there wasn’t too much noise in those apartments, but today there was a constant ringing, a constant background noise that kept repeating itself in her thoughts. The walls were thick and not many sounds slipped through, but she felt as though she was suffocating in a turmoil of screams.

She must have just had a nightmare, but normally those didn’t leave her as terrified as she was. Instincts urged her to find any comfort she could. Normally she didn’t have any but now she had the artist, though even he was sick just the day before. Maybe it would be alright, maybe just seeing him would ease her troubled state.

Once she got out of bed her eyes scoured to try and find just where the artist would be. There were so many rooms that seemed to be locked, and maybe he was in one of them, but she hadn’t the means to push through those. Eventually she reached the bottom floor and with it, the door leading to the exit. She could go outside. She could take in the air, as plagued as it could be, and maybe that’d ease her thoughts and yet the steps required to reach the door seemed unbearable.

Grace wasn’t sure why, she couldn’t put it into words, but that morning she couldn’t will herself to leave the artist’s loft. The thought of what could be outside scared her. It must still be the lingering feelings from her nightmare, and if that was the case that would be alright. She’d much rather stay inside the artist’s warm apartment after all. Maybe she could just wait in here a while until her uneasiness subsided.

Peter was still getting ready by the time Grace woke up. He had an hour and a half left before his shift at the cemetery, more than enough for him to ponder. However, he did not expect the girl to be up so early, moreover so upset about something. He couldn’t quite tell what it was yet, but something seemed off about her. There was a hint of unease on her soft features which made the artist worry. 

Quietly, he picked up a blanket, walking up to her to put it around her shoulders. At first, she seemed to be surprised about his presence, but her sudden forced smile let him know that he wasn’t unwelcome. Peter himself was a little off-tracks this morning. His mind still swaying back and forth between the events of the Theatre and the deal he made the night before. He knew half of it must’ve been a dream. One he shared with a man he’d never seen before. The artist still refused to believe it was actual death. He had a firm idea about the afterlife. About how spirits in this town rather chose to linger, making it possible for Grace to care for them, to comfort them in their eternal sleep. His soul couldn’t be an exception. And if it was, he must’ve been more of a sinner than he expected. 

It was unusual for Grace to feel such a heavy burden on her shoulders, at least so literally, but it wasn’t unwelcome. The blankets weren’t something she could see herself carrying for long like the artist often seemed to do, but in that moment they were comfortable.

The silence was just as comforting too. They didn’t need to say words like the other townsfolk often did. The artist seemed bothered by something that morning as well, maybe it was just the odd times they were living in. They understood one another and there was no judgement or words that needed to be aired between them. It was nice.

Upon hearing the artist’s words she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She hadn’t found the words for it yet herself, though even if she did it hardly seemed to matter now. Things were good now. They were safe if they both stayed together like that.

“No.” Grace responded with a small shake of her head. “No, nothing happened.” Nothing that she could be sure of. It must have been a nightmare, nothing else.

Still, her mind kept prodding at his words. He was gone apparently. Was that today or… What had even happened yesterday?

Grace’s lips thinned the more she tried to prod at the events of the day before. She remembered being in the artist’s loft and sharing some tea. He was sick at one point too and then there was the thought that kept her on edge. There was a smell she couldn’t describe and an unimaginable amount of suffering.

“Well… There was something.” She then murmured back after a pause. “It was like… like being in that painting next to the bathtub. The one with the faces.”

The painting she mentioned didn’t bother her at all compared to what she felt when she thought of what may have happened, or didn’t, or whatever she had dreamed about. It wasn’t like that in here, nor next to the painting itself, but outside it was just like that.

“It…”

She parted her lips to speak again but reason seemed to elude her. There was no tangible reason as to why she felt this way, how she didn’t want to leave the artist’s apartment and how she was terrified of what could be going on outside today, but she couldn’t deny it. Going outside would be going to that despair-filled void of screaming faces and cries for help.

“I don’t want to leave this place… We mustn’t… We can’t.”

Would he understand? Would he stay? She didn’t truly want to be alone in that loft either. She doubted she even could if he was to leave… If she was to stay, so should he. But would he?

“Please don’t go…”

Peter’s eyes narrowed at the soft-spoken words of his companion, or rather - her request. Deep inside he knew that wouldn’t be a possibility. How his duties would force him out of these halls eventually, yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. He had a task to follow up on, or rather, a deal he made in the middle of the night. One his mind was dead-set to fulfill. If not for him, then for the sake of his Grace. But why was it that today all of the sudden, the girl had decided to turn her back on her duties? When all this time she had been the one to be the most conscientious. The whole idea stirred up something bad in Peter, something he wasn’t quite able to put his finger on. He figured he could make her talk. But how much was that really worth in this situation? He wouldn’t be able to get out of his deal that easily, and besides that, he didn’t want to.

Peter had seen the situation at the cemetery. Observing the overflooding pits with his own eyes. At first, his idea of a tunnel seemed like the most reasonable solution for getting rid of all these corpses. However the man was willing to listen, now being more than aware that his original plans were no possibility. That those who depended on Grace needed more than just some space under the earth. They were human, after all. Or whatever it was that they pretended to be. 

The younger Stamatin squinted his eyes, causing all the memories of that place to flash before them. He was still unsure of what it all meant. And how his brother was present, however unapproachable at that event. It all felt like a dream and at this point, he doubted the authenticity of his own memories. Memories of a place he never even stepped into. How nice would it be if their lives actually meant something. He didn’t want to think of Grace as another puppet in a show. Although he wasn’t quite sure where he got the puppet symbolism from in the first place.  At this point his thoughts were just eating away at him, making him wish he had the time to illustrate all that was on his mind for his words were to sparse to describe his emotional turmoil.

Twirling unresting fingers around his hair, he pulled his focus back to Grace who was still standing idle, waiting for his response.

The artist observed her tense hands, fiddling with the fabric of the old blanket he had put around her shoulders. Peter felt prone to think that she appeared almost radiant, even though he knew those words didn’t really suit her. Her face was gentle, eyes cast to the side but with a small, faint frown nevertheless. Just like that, she looked like the paintings he would illustrate as a young man in the university. What simpler times he had, when his mind was merely focused on replicating whatever was more human. He resented those motives nowadays, mostly trying to capture thoughts rather than faces. 

“I’m sorry, Grace… But I made a deal with the Governor.”

His voice was gentle, barely even a whisper, matching the tone the young girl was sighing in. Both of them carried the same energy which made it easier for Peter to converse. He didn’t have to worry about the lithe girl raising her voice at him, ever. 

Why did it seem like he wouldn’t be back?

Grace tried to focus on the present rather than what her emotions tried to scream at her. Everything was fine. It was just a nightmare, it wasn’t real. She was safe in here, and maybe she could just listen to this man. She wasn’t a mistress, she didn’t predict the future, she must have been imagining things.

“What deal with the Governor?”

The pale girl lifted her gaze only to meet the artist’s verdant eyes for his answer. She could only hope he’d be truthful. He didn’t seem like a man that would lie to her, but there was still something she couldn’t quite grasp lingering between them.

“Can’t you go tomorrow?”

Couldn’t anyone else go? Didn’t the artist just draw? He was only meant to show his ideas, wasn’t he?

The thought of offering to go in his stead quickly formed in her thoughts, though that would require leaving the house, and leaving… It still felt wrong.

He found it hard to comprehend why Grace wanted him to stay so bad. Something about her expression screamed fear. But that fear seemed unreasonable. There was nothing to be afraid of about such a simple task. Had she knowns something he didn’t? Perhaps it were the muggers or the plague that made her worry.  But Peter’s always come out of these situations alive. Not unharmed, but alive.  So he couldn’t help but wonder. 

The more she spoke, the further his confusion rose up. 

“Why are you so insisting on tomorrow? What’s wrong with me going out today?  Grace, I can’t ignore Saburov’s order.”

The artist sighed, leaning his back against a nearby table. Both him and her didn’t seem like they knew what they wanted. Of course he’d rather stay at home while the plague was still ravaging outside. But the task at hand was so much more important. 

Spiraling back to her question he tried to calm down a little, running a tired hand through his hair. He hadn’t slept a minute that night, trying to piece loose puzzle pieces together. Thinking about nothing more than the dream he seemed to have shared with the Town’s Ripper. What a strange phenomenon. 

The dead were easier to speak to.

She wasn’t asking for the impossible. Just to wait for tomorrow rather than throw themselves into what felt like unspeakable horrors. Even the man’s words now seemed evasive. Why didn’t he just tell her what he even needed to do that was so important? The entirety of the town was dying and she was the dead’s caretaker. Surely her words should have a little more weight than what they seemed to have within those walls.

“I’m… I’m going too then!”

It couldn’t be helped, could it? If they both couldn’t stay inside, she doubted she could sit still the entire day in that apartment too. Hours passed slowly with nothing to do and curiosity would surely nag at her, if not her nightmares themselves.

The walls of the loft hummed all around them as the door creaked open. Peter had never heard the girl raise her voice like this before, so wild and uncertain, full of suspicion and unrest. Her whole demeanor seemed skittish, upset, even, and if nothing happened to calm it, this sudden tension could easily turn into a break of trust, something he worked so hard on achieving towards the girl. Gently, he placed an open palm onto her shoulder, as an attempt to calm her. And though he could see Grace carefully retreat, he could feel some of her fears dissipate under his hand. When he stepped back, there was still some abundance of unrest left, and he could tell that none of the suspicion had waned. This one time, he couldn’t talk his way out of this. 

“Nothing is going to happen to me.”, he calmly spoke, trying his best to not break eye contact. “I have been tasked with a simple job. I am not going to bring you with me, as I will be given just one mask. If you come with me, all will be for naught. Your body is still weak and you need rest. Infection is waiting just around the corner.”

Peter could sympathize with the girl’s troubles. He had always been a shut-in, especially since that one fateful night. And even before that, he had never been one to fully open himself up towards other people. But Grace, Grace was family. As weird as it was, the girl had become a daughter to him. Someone he was willing to protect under the cost of his own life. 

Before the girl could talk back, a sudden knock emitted from the door downstairs. Then another. Whoever was waiting, clearly had no patience. Giving her a warning look, he pushed his way past her frail body to see who it was. A messenger, of course, bringing him the uniform he was bound to wear on this day. And just as suspected, it was just one mask. One talon mask and a fitting cloak. Although it seemed too long, even for him. Peter was a man of regular height, around the same range as most men in town. Who the hell were these made for?