Chapter Text
Daniil awakens well before the others, lashes caked in grit and dried tears. His shoulders move, prepared to rub away the debris of sleep, when he notices Taya asleep next to him.
She looks smaller than she had when he first met her. She’s starving, he knows, but it’s more than that. It’s this room, and the fact that she’s contained in it, unable to grow past its limits.
Gently, Daniil looks her over. There’s no evidence of the Pest about her, not yet, but the mere possibility - he understands, and he accepts, the group’s demand that he stay put. He’s been lucky so far, but that luck can only hold out for so long. Daniil knows that if he leaves again, he will return contagious. He could be already. A silent carrier, asymptomatic.
He rises before he can second-guess himself. They have no other options left. It’s time to do or die, and if he can’t break the door down…
Well, it won’t matter. He made a promise when he established Thanatica, one he holds more dearly than his oath as a doctor. To ‘do no harm’ was easy, but that wasn’t enough for him. It never had been. He wanted to defeat death, permanently; to eliminate the fear, to allow humanity to flourish. What could humanity accomplish if they needn’t worry about their time being cut short? What could Taya accomplish?
He doesn’t turn his head before he exits, doesn’t look back. He knows he could be tempted to remain, safe but useless. But that isn’t who he wants to be, or how he wants to die. Such defeatism is not for him.
Bachelor Dankovsky exits the room for the last time, his goal the same as it had been when he arrived in the town: to defeat death, or die trying.
The front stairs are more familiar, but Daniil opts to take the side stairwell this time. If he recalls correctly, there’s a door down this way he’s yet to try. He knows it’s a long shot, but maybe he’ll get lucky. This set are safer anyway, with a wall for Daniil to lean against if his body decides to give out.
For the first time in what he estimates to be a week, Daniil does not rush. He stops often to lean against the wall. Three times, he sits, his feet dangling over the edge of a landing, and hears a callous voice whisper at him to throw himself off.
It takes him far longer than he’d like, but he makes it in the end.
Two doors await him: one set directly in front, and another to the right.
The first set he knows will not budge from the moment he lays a hand on it. It’s cool to the touch, more than the others. It must not lead outside, but further into the Termitary - perhaps a wing they’ve been unable to access?
Daniil presses his ear against it, listening for signs of life on the other side.
An eerie silence greets him. It sounds empty. His weight has not so much as rattled the doors. He doesn’t even realize he’s pushing against it until he looks down to the ground and finds his knees bent. Stranger still, the door doesn’t seem to resist.
Unnerved, Daniil backs away. Is it… even real? Is the door a hallucination? Have all exits ceased to work now as well?
He pivots, and moves as fast as he can toward the right-side door. Neither the stairwell nor his body permit him to run at the door, but he manages to muster up some energy to drop himself against it, shoulder slamming into the metal. He pushes as far as it’ll give, hearing the chain on the other side rattle.
Oh, that rattle. He never thought he’d be excited to hear the sound of his own imprisonment. It comes with a slight breeze, and Daniil presses his face as close to the gap as he can manage, swallowing lungfuls of fresh air.
No corpses. No fire.
The air burns a little, but Daniil cannot stop himself. He shoves his arm out, gloved hand clenching and unclenching at nothing.
Until someone grabs it.
Daniil grabs back, tight. Finally, finally, he’s found contact. Undeniable proof that someone out there is alive, that someone knows they are here.
“Please,” he begs, cramming his face into the gap. He catches a flash of greens and browns, the leather of a butcher’s outfit. The hand that clasps his is bare, and when it circles his wrist to remove his fading glove, Daniil feels callouses. One of the Kin, then? “Help. Please, please help us -”
The stranger pulls Daniil’s hand closer, resting it against the warmth of a cheek. He can feel the stubble under the heel of his palm, and finds himself craning closer. His head hits an odd angle, and he can finally see something more of his savior.
It’s him. The man from his hallucination, the one Taya spoke to.
Was this… was this delusion tactile now?
Daniil panics. His heart thumps painfully, worse than any previous mania. He feels all over the man’s face, his sideburns, his ears, his nose, all the while crying, “Please, please help us. Help us. Please -”
The other man presses his hand against Daniil’s, rubbing his thumb against Daniil’s fingers. “What is it you need, Noukherne?” His voice is deep, concerned, and tainted with pain. “Food? Water?”
“Out!” Daniil cries. “Please, let us out!”
“You don’t want out, khatanger,” he replies, head shaking. “There’s a sickness out here. people are dying.”
“It’s here!” Daniil chokes. “It’s here. She is here. The Plague. Please - please - we are dying! Please let us out!”
The man, the not-hallucination, draws closer. He squints into Daniil’s face, and his brows raise. He hisses out a word Daniil has come to know as a curse, and his hand on Daniil’s tightens.
“Oh, Boddho. You are Bachelor Dankovsky.” His somber expression flickers with rage. “They said you’d fled town.”
“H-here,” Daniil continues, his voice but a rasp. “Here. We’re in here. Please - please - help us. Please. Let us out. Please.” He tries to formulate other words. Something, anything that might explain more, but his vocabulary seems to have died on him. All he can do is beg.
The stranger squeezes Daniil’s hand once more, in comfort, in promise. He releases Daniil’s hand slowly, but does not pull away. He listens to glass clinking together, and is rewarded with several bottles of water, bread and smoked meats, a fish, a can of vegetables passes through.
“That’s all I could fit in my pockets. I’m so sorry - I need to go -”
“No!” His voice cracks, but he’s gone too dry to cry anymore. “Please -”
“I will return. I promise to you, Dankovsky, and to Mother Superior and the Kin. I need to see the Inquisitor. Only he can open the doors now.” The man pauses, face twisted in anguish. “Do you - Dankovsky, are you with me?”
Daniil gasps for breath. “Y-yes.”
“Do you have anything to identify you? Anything to prove you’re -”
Daniil’s hand rescinds with speed, fingers trembling at he digs for his cravat pin.
“Eva,” he says.
The stranger mouths her name, and curls his fingers over the pin. “Eva. Yeah, okay. Okay. I will be back. On my father’s honor, I will free you.”
And then he’s gone. Though his eyes waver the image, Daniil can hear his heavy footfalls in the grass as he takes off.
Daniil, too, starts to run. He turns to find a final set of doors, throwing himself through them with his bundle of food.
Those who remain are surprised to see him, alarm prominent on their faces, but Daniil does not dare to stop. He hands out what he has to those he sees, advising them to share, and is off again before they can ask where the sudden bounty came from. He climbs the stairs, legs burning with the effort, ascending to Taya’s room.
He knocks, rapid and impatient. He doesn’t wait for anyone to answer, calling out, “I’ve brought food. I know I can’t return. Do not worry, I haven’t touched it. I am leaving what I’ve found outside the door -” His eyes burn, too. He feels like a hot air balloon, heated but empty. “Please, take care.”
This is it. He turns, not paying much attention to the direction, and walks off. I’ve done what I needed.
[As exhaustion takes him, Daniil feels something. A floating sensation, moving without effort, pulled in by the tides of some force greater than himself.]
Artemy Burakh has been doing a lot of running since he arrived home a week ago. Normally, he’d make an exception for the infected districts, as he was liable to run into a cloud of muck, but he could care less about that at the moment. The only thing on his mind is the quickest way from the Termitary to the Cathedral, and how he’ll make his argument to the Inquisitor once he gets there.
The Town has been in a state of complete disarray from the moment he hopped off the train: father murdered alongside Simon Kain, an outbreak of some Plague the Town hadn’t seen in years, Rubin executed, half the Kains committing suicide. Last he saw of the ruling families, they were at each other’s throat. Khan and Capella have gone missing, and Maria aims for Vlad Jr.’s throat. Saburov hounds Böos Vlad for more power in the town while his wife disintegrates in bed. It’s little wonder the Inquisition has arrived.
Most of the town is infected, rebelling, or both. The dead pile up on street corners while the sick languish in the roads. Artemy has done - is doing - what he can to help, but all that remains is him and the strange girl with the magic hands, and even she seems to be crashing.
Finding the missing doctor was pure luck, though he can’t tell which of them is luckier for it. Artemy needs help, and Dankovsky needs care. He just hopes Dankovsky doesn’t die in the time it takes for him to return.
The guards at the Cathedral try to stop Artemy from entering, but he barrels straight through them and into the meeting between the Ruling families with Inquisitor Karminsky.
Karminsky isn’t the surprised in the slightest by Artemy’s interruption. “What are you doing here, Burakh? This is an interrogation, and one to which you were not invited.” He turns his sharp gaze on Artemy. “You’ll have your turn.”
If that was meant to intimidate, it failed.
The ruling families turn their gaze upon Artemy, stiff in posture but relieved in expression.
The relief doesn’t last. Artemy’s not interested in Karminsky at the moment. His ire, for now, is directed at the Olgimsky family.
“You knew,” Artemy snaps, strides getting wider. “Dankovsky is in the Termitary. I met him.” His eyes flicker to the other families, rubbing his tongue along his teeth before he continues. “Do you want to know what else is in there? The fucking Plague.”
He sets Dankovsky’s pin down on the center of the table with a little more force than necessary. Maria’s eyes find it, and her nostril’s flare. For a second, she truly embodies her mother.
“Here’s proof, by the way. Eva Yan can confirm it, if you need a second opinion.”
All is quiet for a second. It’s ended by Saburov’s fist hitting the table. “I knew it,” he growls. “Katerina knew it -”
“I wasn’t lying!” Clara declares. Her face pale, her lip trembling, she repeats herself. “See? I told you! I wasn’t lying!”
Lost in the commotion, Maria slithers to the Younger Vlad’s side, and breaks through the noise with a loud smack. The Younger Vlad startles, hand reaching up a moment too late to save himself from the wrath of her nails. “Father knew,” she hisses. “You accused us of hiding the plague in the Polyhedron. As if such a thing was possible! And now to find you have not only lied, but trapped our guest inside?”
Perhaps I should have fetched Eva first. This might have gone faster.
“I’d like to see that.” Artemy’s head whips toward the Inquisitor. Karminsky nods in the direction of the pin. Artemy picks it up, and walks it over to the Inquisitor. A single glance at the metal brooch, and Karminsky nods. He turns his attention to the guards, and motions to the Olgimsky family.
“Pl-please, Inquisitor! Surely you don’t think we intentionally - we intentionally locked up a - a guest,” the Vlad the Younger rambles. He swallows, guilt written into his motions. Artemy cracks his knuckles, fighting to hold himself in place. “A man from the Capital!” he continues. “What could we possibly hope to achieve by doing such a -”
But he’s too late to plead his case. Karminsky grasps the key around the Younger Vlad’s throat, and yanks it quick enough to snap the band that ties it. “Burakh,” Karminsky calls. “Where do you believe the Kin will go, once the doors are open?”
“To the old camp,” Artemy responds. “They won’t venture past the local Steppe.”
Karminsky hums. “To the Termitary, then.”
The Termitary is in far worse shape than anything Artemy could have imagined. I would rather have walked in on father’s murder, he thinks, waves of rot hitting his nose in a blast of hot air. I’d rather be at the Front.
His eyes slide to the Vlads, both of whom appear dismayed. It’s not nearly enough for Artemy. He’d like to see them on their knees, begging Boddho for forgiveness.
One of Karminsky’s men unseals a door, and swears loudly. A pile of corpses tumbles over.
Artemy changes his mind. He’d like to see Boddho stomping the Olgimsky men to a fine paste beneath her hooves.
“Burakh.” Karminsky waves him over. Breaking from his daydream, Artemy approaches. “Go and find Dankovsky. I’d like to verify his survival.”
The Inquisitor does not look at him. It’s an order, and as in all things, he expects to be obeyed. Artemy hates to be bossed about, but he has no intention of defying the Inquisitor here. He doesn’t fear the man, but he also has no desire to watch the sad unfolding of his dead and dying kin. He will know the numbers at the end of the day. It’s time to save who he can.
He ascends the first set of stairs, heading toward a Bride who sits with her back against the wall. “Sayn baina, basaghan. How fares your kine?”
She looks up at him. She seems exhausted, but otherwise unharmed.
“Poorly, yargachin. Can you not see around you?” She tilts her head, staring toward a now-unsealed door, where guards are pulling a body from the door to be counted. Or perhaps burned.
Grace…
Artemy shakes his head to rid himself of the misery, and sighs. “Fair enough. Have you seen a man around, one in fancy clothes? He’d have a leather jacket, a red vest -”
“Moga?” she asks. Artemy closes his mouth. The coat might have been snakeskin leather, but it was difficult to tell, filthy as it was. “He resides upstairs with the Mother.”
The dream. It was Dankovsky he spoke to, curled up on the floor in the corner.
“Bayarlaa. May Boddho caress your step.”
The Bride does not respond, her eyes locked on the Olgimsky men below.
Artemy makes his way up to the fourth floor, taking two steps at a time when his usual gait proves too slow. The Termitary is not a safe place to run, but he is walking as fast as he possibly can, rounding the corner.
The hallway doors before Taya’s room are slightly ajar, and he forgets all worries of safety. The only thing he needs to be is not too late.
He cracks the door open further and sees Dankovsky, laid out on the floor. A young Bride with ginger hair and a Kin woman around Artemy’s age sit on his right side, tending to him, attempting to wipe the soot away. On the other side, Taya stands with a butcher, watching over him.
“Is he still alive?”
“Of course!” Taya’s voice is clear and confident. Artemy envies her that. “He’s alive because I command it to be! And when he gets up, he is going to tell me a story!”
He isn’t sure what to say to that. He squats to be at Taya’s level, looking between her and Dankovsky. “We’re free to leave now, Mother. I will just need to see Dankovsky down to the Inquisitor -”
“No.” Artemy turns to watch a herdsman enter, wiping his hands off. “The emshen will go with us, and we will not leave until the master who caused this is brought to us.”
“Emshen?” Artemy shakes his head. “Nevermind - I need to check on him -”
“We will care for him,” the herdsman corrects. “You will bring us the one who locked us in here to die, and then we will leave.”
Shudkher. “Fine,” Artemy bites out between gritted teeth. “I’ll be back.”
Artemy assumed the Inquisitor would never agree with such a request, especially not from the Kin. He’d made his opinion of Artemy’s medical skills known in his tone of indifferent condescension. Instead, he surprises Artemy by nodding. Voice still flat, he tells Artemy that the decision lies with him. One Olgimsky will answer for the crimes of the family, and the other will be questioned.
Briefly, Artemy thinks of Capella. He’d yet to work out that mystery, only hoping that wherever she and Khan disappeared to, they were safe.
He intends to question both men about the events of that night a week ago, only to have the younger crack under the weight of the first question. He babbles, just as he had with Maria, with half-assed defenses and a curtain guilt that was far too little and far too late.
Vlad the Younger goes willingly to the Kin. Böos’ final words to his son explain it all: “You disappoint me.”
Everyone - the Kin, the guards, the Inquisitor, The Elder Vlad, and Artemy - watch as butchers and Odongh crowd the central pit. At the last moment, Artemy sees the Younger Vlad flinch, as though he might run; then his body goes rigid, and he permits himself to be tossed into a great pit.
“I’d like a report from Dankovsky.” Artemy looks at Karminsky. “Whenever he’s lucid. I’d like to know if he’d be capable of aiding the town. Stopping the spread of this disease should go faster with two pairs of hands.” He doesn’t offer Artemy an opportunity to reply, hauling the remaining Vlad off for further questioning.
On his trek back up the stairs, Artemy notices more and more Kin leaving their rooms. A few look at him curiously, but most gravitate toward the pit.
“You have him,” Artemy announces by way of greeting.
Taya looks back up at him. He thinks he sees worry shift out of her face. “Now, we can go.”
Artemy insists on being the one to carry Dankovsky out to Shekhen. He wants to get a better look at him, to make sure he hasn’t been infected. In his pocket lies a bottle of something, something which might be a cure, but he doesn’t want this to be how he finds out.
It shocks him, how little Dankovsky weighs. Like a worn pillow.
At Artemy’s request, Dankovsky is given his own tent. It’s a small thing, no different to the kind of situation found on a battlefield, but Artemy needs to be able to work in peace.
He removes Dankovsky’s layers carefully, trying not to jostle him too much. He worries what might happen if his stuffing all flies to his head at once, if the cloth of his neck might rip and tear. When he’s finally made it down to the skin, he opts to cut the shirt away. The thing is disgustingly damp, sticking to his skin in places. Peeling it off leaves behind a pattern from the fabric in a sheen of sweat. He’s malnourished and dehydrated. His hair is matted. He’s been deprived long enough that Artemy cannot tell whether he has always had breasts, or if his skin is simply sagging from a loss of weight. His lips are bitten raw. His feet…
Artemy feels a surge of nauseous empathy in his chest. He won’t be walking anytime soon, if ever again. His feet are blistered, likely infected. Even if they save his feet, the process will be stiff and painful.
There’s no way he could help. Mentally, perhaps, but physically - there’s no way he could get around town.
First, Artemy cleans Dankovsky’s skin off with a little water and a rag. He pats the man dry, and moves on to empty his pockets. One of his many failed attempts at a cure produced a salve that soothed the drying skin of plague victims. Pest or no, it was the best thing Artemy had to soothe the scaly skin and blisters left behind. The remaining water he sets aside for Dankovsky to drink when he wakes.
The herdsman from earlier enters with a bowl of porridge and a clean outfit. The contrast between the clothes is drastic: Dankovsky’s soiled and expensive finery, and the simple but clean cotton of the degel. The boots which must have, at some point, been quite fashionable, and the practical furred boots.
Artemy greets him at the entrance. “Bayarlaa, Khatanger. I never caught your name.”
“Shaazgai.” He looks at Artemy a moment, reading his features. “You are Burakh’s son.”
“Yeah.” Please, please move on. “I can take these for you.”
Shaazgai’s expression does not move much. “Mother Superior asks for him to be fed when he wakes, and given new clothes. His have been caressed by death.”
He certainly can’t argue with that. “I’m afraid to ask, but - how many survived?”
“The Small block of the Warrens was almost lost to us. A hundred fifty from there. Twenty-one hundred, perhaps, in all. Five of them elders.”
Shudkher. That’s so much worse than I thought. How many have died over the years in here? How many when the first Pest started?
He’d have to ask later.
“We need to ensure that he lives,” Shaazgai comments before he leaves. “For Mother Superior. And to thank him.”
Artemy turns to get back to work, and nearly drops all he carries when he realizes that Dankovsky is awake. The Bachelor is sitting up, but hunched over, clearly frightened. Artemy approaches him the way he might a stray dog: with slow movements, holding the bowl of food like a truce.
Dankovsky does not take it. He bolts - or at least, he tries to. He makes it as far as the tent’s flaps before he falls to his knees, landing, attempting to crawl his way toward the light. Artemy rushes toward him with the degel, covering as much of him as he can with the fabric.
“Easy there, Baarhani! Food and water, first.”
“Cows,” Dankovsky whispers. He tries to inch closer, to see the animals in their pens, bellowing. His palms land on wet soil, fingers weaving between blades of grass. This, he looks at too, as though he’s never felt the earth beneath him. “Grass.” Under his arms, Artemy feels him shake. “This isn’t - I’m not dreaming?”
“Not a dream, erdem. But can we get you fed first?”
A full minute passes as Dankovsky inhales the air in deep, slow breaths.
“Yes,” he finally says.
Artemy does not permit him to walk, carrying him back to his tent.
His attempts to eat fill Artemy with terror. He nearly swallows the bowl whole, only stopping when Artemy reminds him to take breaths and sips of water. Artemy assesses him properly after that, and assists him in donning his new clothes.
Once he’s settled and slightly comfortable, he speaks again:
“How many?” Artemy frowns at him. He was hoping to have this conversation later, after he’d had some time to rest. “I heard you speaking to Shaazgai. I have to know, how many are left?”
Artemy places a hand on his knee, gently. He’s shaking. “The block you were in fared far better than the short block next door.” He tries to offer Daniil a smile of thanks, but it doesn’t seem to work, falling flat. I should never have taken the Olgimskys at their word. “You should be proud, oynon.”
Dankovsky sniffs. He does not stop trembling. He does, however, glance up into Artemy’s face, mouth pulled tightly as he takes in Artemy’s features. “Are you Isidor’s son?” Artemy nods. Dankovsky smiles softly. “You have his serious brow.”
It dawns on Artemy then, that Dankovsky was one of the last people to see his father alive.
“What happened that night?” Artemy asks. He wants to kick himself for asking. It’s the wrong time, when they’ve got so many more flames to put out. But it’s been bothering him, how little anyone wants to tell him.
Dankovsky fiddles with his garments. “They dug a hole. Your father, and Simon. I gather they must have… caught the Pest out there, and passed it on to Tycheek.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t explain how you got there.”
“The Kin asked for me. They needed me to tend to Tycheek. By the time we realized what was happening…” His eyes close slowly, and he takes a deep breath. “The panic sent the guards to the Olgimskys, I guess. Someone ordered it closed.”
His eyes reopen suddenly, and Artemy watches him come to some conclusion. His eyes fix on his knees, where his hands have come to rest. They both squeeze, one against his degel, one against Artemy’s hand.
“Every day was some new horror. A new floor infected, mold growing on the walls, traveling through the vents, entire floors wiped out overnight. An elder died in the water. One night, all the lights went out.”
Dankovsky falls silent again. “That’s about what we’ve been dealing with out here. Me and St-” Artemy’s turn to look away, to swallow his guilt. “Me and Clara. We had a third healer, but he’s gone now.” He takes in a breath, and exhales quickly. “Three districts succumbed to the Pest almost instantly. Four more were infected by the next day. We haven’t been able to hold it back - in fact, we’d thought the Termitary was the only safety in - What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
All the progress the Bachelor had made in the hour he’d been awake retreated. Dankovsky was now curling in on himself, trembling fingers digging into his hair, tugging at the matting. “It’s her,” he says. “That’s what she said -”
“Who?”
“The Plague,” Dankovsky whispers. His attention shifts abruptly to Artemy, distraught. “I am not crazy, I swear to you. But the Plague - she appeared to me as a bird, and told me exactly what would happen. Just as you said: that the town would die, and we all would starve to death.”
Artemy blinks. His hand moves to Daniil’s shoulder, and squeezes. “I believe you, erdem. I’ve seen her too.”
Should it be so relieving, knowing they’ve each seen her? Stakh could not imagine such a thing. He told Artemy to sleep more, and fell to the noose the next night.
They sit in silence for a moment. Dankovsky’s eyes slide shut, and his body relaxes in small increments.
He looks so small, Artemy thinks. His behavior, too - skittish, maybe paranoid.
Not that Artemy could blame him. He felt it, too. And without Dankovsky’s help, he had no idea how long things would continue on this way. He just knew that he couldn’t ask, not yet. Whatever Karminsky wanted with him would have to wait as well. If he wanted to get to Dankovsky, he’d have to go through the Kin.
He’s been staring off into space for too long. Dankovsky is staring at him now, exhausted but determined.
“Will you be going back into town?” Dankovsky asks.
“Yes. I have a duty to it. I need to give your report to the Inquisitor as well.”
A few sparks light behind Dankovsky’s eyes. It’s the first time Artemy has seen that flicker described to him, what the Kains gave Artemy to recognize him by. “Will you do me a favor?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“If you see… That bird.” Daniil runs his tongue against his lips, and feels them wet for the first time in days. “I need you to tell her something.”
“By all means, oynon. Tell Muu Shubuun what?”
“Tell her I won.”