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He didn't remember when he had sat down—there were bodies—how many? Whose? They weren’t moving—no one else was around — whose hands are these? Whose blood was this? Whose hands are these? Whose blood was this?
He had to do it. He—he had to. They were going to—couldn’t they hear her? Couldn’t they hear her screaming? They—the letter, they didn’t—they didn’t want to hand it over, he asked them to hand it over—the letter, the hands, the fire—whose hands are these?
They were going to kill her. They were going to shoot her down, they were going to murder her, rip her apart, kill her, kill her, kill her. He had wanted to explain, to Burakh, but how could he possibly explain? That she was the most important thing that remained, that she was alive, more alive than anything had ever been before? That she was afraid to die?
He couldn't.
Useless prick.
When he had heard that the bombardment was happening—oh, how he had ran. He hadn't had a plan in mind. He just knew that he couldn't let her die, couldn't let her down, not like he had everyone else.
He hadn't had a plan. What had he been thinking? That his flimsy, all-too-human body would somehow be able to shield her from the shells? That he would hold her in the air by force of will alone?
He hadn't been thinking anything. He had simply known, like the blueness of the sky, like the redness of blood, that the tower could not fall. That there would never be anything like her again. That the world had room for miracles still, and that he would gladly throw himself off a cliff if it meant keeping one alive for just a little longer.
He hadn't been thinking. He had been hoping. All through the town, in his final, desperate dash, he had hoped, and he hoped as he turned the corner into the Stone Yard and he hoped as he heard the cannons raising and he hoped as he heard the bells—bells, funeral bells—ringing and he hoped as he hollowed himself out as he focused and focused and Focused and he hoped as he reached out—
A focus can be an object of any size.
A tower.
A cathedral.
A nut.
A body.
The first thing he notices is the cold.
It shouldn’t be cold , he thinks, but why exactly… he can’t seem to remember. Vague memories slip easily through his grasp, something about heat, burning, a fire, maybe? Like those burning throughout the town, marking the entrances to the infected districts?
No. Not that. Infected, however—that word strikes a chord in his mind. Of course, the Pest, the quarantine—he can’t waste time musing about distant recollections, there’s work to be done, he has to get up—
With this thought, he notices a second thing.
He can’t get up. He can’t move . He’s not even breathing—or, his body is breathing, but it’s doing so without any regard for his input. Someone else is beating his heart, expanding and contracting his lungs, pushing the blood through his body.
It’s late—very late at night. There’s soft grass underneath him. Is he out in the steppe? There’s a certain, unpleasant lightness to his body. As if something deep inside him is struggling to rise up, up, up into the air, straining against the thin layer of skin firmly anchoring it down.
Daniil’s lungs expand and contract. His body is sore, curled against the earth and the wreckage of the—
Oh.
She fell.
I fell.
And he caught her.
You caught me.
What a pair they make—broken, aching shell of a man next to the broken, aching shell of a tower. Mirror images of each other.
Except, no, that isn’t quite that anymore. The wreckage around him is empty. Soulless. The only thing left that matters is cradled within his chest, nestling against his ribs. Tucked safely away. It’s… over.
He smiles. They smile.
It’s over, Bachelor.
Can she… sit up? He wants to see the sky.
I can try.
The movement is slow and unsteady. Before, she only ever twisted and swayed in grand, imprecise movements. This… viscera is all new for her. Muscle and bone, organs and nerves. Flesh and blood, rather than paper and iron. It requires a degree of finesse that she’s never had to exercise—but she’ll learn.
She’ll learn—because she will live to learn.
Oh, god, she’s alive, isn’t she? Really, truly, violently alive.
Their chest hitches, a strangled sound escaping their lips. Halfway between a laugh and a sob.
We’re alive. Both of us.
Slowly, slowly, she cedes movement back to him. As much as she can, anyway. Together, as a plural being, they manage to pull themselves upward.
“Look up, here we are.”
As they gaze into the inky black void above them, they notice—
There are twice as many stars as usual.