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Artemy is tapping his left foot against the floor. No matter how fast the steppe blurs outside the train, it can’t be fast enough.
He has always, since he was a kid, had a strange feeling about his town. Its dual nature and his own had seemed strangely incompatible in a way that made him feel like a foreign body in its veins at times, and when he left it and found that feeling everywhere he went he came to see it as a sort of curse that’d be with him forever. He resents his hometown for it, and he has pushed his return back again and again, only too happy to never see it again.
If it weren’t for his father.
And now it seems awfully like he might be too late.
As the Abattoir hill finally appears in the distance, alongside some new spiky aberration, Artemy stands up, ready to take off the very moment the train stops and run home for the first time in a decade.
#
Daniil steps out of the train with the first crack of dawn. The town seems a small and wretched thing, misshapen and poorly made. There’s dust in the air and the whole thing stinks of iron and its accompanying rust. As he stares at the way some of the local townsfolk grapple with his luggage, he finds it hard to believe a place like this could contain a miracle such as what he has been promised.
But still, last hope is nonetheless hope. Like it or not, this backwater holds the fate of both his past and future work, and subsequently his life.
He sighs, and turns around, and discovers his greeting to this place in the shape of some brats digging through his most precious equipment.
#
Three days later, with his hopes for Thanatika all but shattered, Daniil stumbles through the burnt Skinners. The remnants of that dogged plague’s miasma cling to the edges of his coat, and his vision is still a little blurry from it. He’s never encountered a sickness like this, and if he weren’t so angry at it perhaps he’d be terrified.
So he understands, really, that the local folk are scared and acting out in ways in which they normally wouldn’t. He understands the fear and desperation and general madness that come along with a crisis like this.
Still, though, when he sees a glint out of the corner of his eye and ducks just in time to avoid a knife to his face, he doesn’t try to stamp down the surge of fury.
“Stop th—” he tries, but the imbecile is already running towards him.
Daniil is unarmed excepting his rusty and blunt scalpel, which he has been told he can’t use at all — even on corpses. Still, he wields it at the man as if he knew what he was doing, and this at least gives the mugger pause.
They glare at each other across the scant few meters that separate them.
The mugger smirks, and pulls his arm back to throw again.
Daniil bristles, not knowing what else to do. “I’m trying to save your lives, you worthless pile of shit!” He moves to shield himself with his carpet bag, but just as the man’s shoulder jerks, his face contorts in surprise and pain, and he falls first to his knees and then slowly face first on the floor.
Behind him is Artemy Burakh, holding a scalpel in remarkably better condition than Daniil’s own. The entire tool, down to Burakh’s fingers, is darkened by fresh blood.
Daniil looks down at the mugger. His back is marred by a deep cut from shoulder to hip, and it’s gushing enough blood for him to not even make an attempt to save the man.
“Burakh,” Daniil greets him. “Thank God at least someone here isn’t stupid.”
Burakh smirks. “Indeed.”
He wipes the blade on his smock and kneels beside the man, flipping him around. He’s on his last seconds of consciousness, by the looks of him, but before he can get any ideas, Burakh hikes up his shirt and plunges the scalpel back into his torso, expertly carving a strange — perhaps a sigil, into him.
“Forgive me,” Burakh says nonchalantly, “I have work to do.” Afterwards, he grabs hold of the man’s flesh and lifts it the same way he did his clothes. The man chokes on a silent horrified scream, but doesn’t otherwise move. Perhaps he can’t.
“No, please, don’t stop on my account,” Daniil says. “I’ve been interested in seeing this work of yours, anyway.”
Burakh reaches into him and pulls out a kidney, the liver, and the heart. He stores them in a small sack that looks — and smells — as if it’s been doing this job for a while already, and Burakh then shifts so his knees are resting on both sides of the now definitely dead man’s head. He turns it sideways and rests the heel of his palm against the temple.
“You might want to look away,” he says. And that’s all the warning Daniil gets before Burakh pushes down and with a sickening crack breaks the corpse’s skull. He then slices the forehead open and extracts a couple of pieces of bone, followed by an impressively big section of the brain.
“Remarkable technique,” Daniil comments. “And with such limited resources. You weren’t lying about being a good surgeon.” Daniil hasn’t seen Burakh since he came into the Stillwater two days ago to ask him for help in clearing up his name, since most of the town had thought at the time that he was a bloodthirsty psychopath. Daniil, of course, had helped him. Now, seeing this gristly display, Daniil still wouldn’t take that back.
Burakh gathers his bag and stands up, looking mildly puzzled.
“That’s not the reaction I would have expected from a fancy city doctor like yourself.” As if to drive the point home, he wipes the scalpel on his sleeve and puts it back in his pocket. His hands are entirely covered in burgundy, some parts already drying and others dripping still.
“Don’t patronize me, Burakh,” Daniil hisses. “I’m a thanatologist. That wasn’t even the most gruesome thing I’ve seen this month.”
Burakh hums in what seems like approval. “Squeamishness won’t get us anywhere. Someone has to do the dirty work.”
Daniil looks down at his boots, about a centimeter deep in blood now. He scowls in disgust. The ruined body has finally stopped gushing.
“And I suppose that’s us. The dirty work… it’s certainly not my first time.” He looks up at Burakh. “It’s good to know you can wield a scalpel. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Yes, do that,” Burakh frowns. “And I’ll remember your influence. I might have to reach for it again in the future.”
Daniil raises an eyebrow. “Are you planning on making more people angry?”
Burakh silently shrugs. Daniil can’t help a smirk.
“Alright, well,” he takes a step aside. “I have to leave now, I think I was in a rush, though frankly I can’t remember where to. Feel free to help yourself to his pockets; you’re the one that did him in after all.”
Burakh does.
#
Artemy presses himself against the wall as soon as the first shot rings out. Despite this, he knows his size, and the cramped factory basement doesn’t allow for many dead angles, so his heart doesn’t stop hammering until the last grunts are finally quieted and the gun stops.
None of the bullets even came close to the bars of his cell.
He hears the jangling of keys and steps coming his way. He peels himself off his poor hiding spot and approaches the bars.
On the other side of them is Dankovsky. He looks angry and tired but remarkably well put together for the shootout he just carried out. He hardly has a hair out of place.
“That was a lot of bullets,” Daniil grunts as he tries different keys against the lock. “You owe me.”
“I do,” Artemy doesn’t bother to argue. “How long have I been here?”
“Just under a day is what they told me. I came as soon as I found out.” The key finally slides in and in a single click Artemy is a free man again.
“A day… fucking bastards. It’s like they don’t even know I’m helping them.” Artemy seethes, walking past Dankovsky and rummaging though the dead guards’ pockets.
“God, yes, exactly.” Dankovsky says, watching from where he stands. “Are you searching for something? Don’t tell me—”
“They took my stuff. Everything.”
“God damn it.” Dankovsky huffs in anger. “This whole thing reeks of corruption. Why bring you here instead of the town hall?”
Artemy doesn’t find his pills or bullets, but it seems the guards were too stupid to see the value in all the twyre he had on him. His menkhu’s Finger also appears intact, miraculously. Damn idiots can’t even recognize when they’ve found something of real value, he thinks, pocketing it.
“It’s a lucky thing I didn’t get infected,” Artemy comments as he stands up. “I saw the mold on some of the walls. If you had arrived much later I might have been doomed already.”
“Saburov will pay for this, I swear.” Artemy is shocked to see Dankovsky almost shaking with rage. “The bastard tricked me into getting him emergency powers and then turns around and uses them to put the only other competent doctor in an illegal jail cell. I loathe liars and traitors above all else.”
“Saburov? It was Saburov who orchestrated this?” Artemy blinks, then shakes his head. “It shouldn’t shock me, really. His wife kept insisting I was a murderer, and he seemed very ready to believe her morphine-addled ramblings.”
Dankovsky is quiet for a few seconds. “How did they even get you?”
Artemy clenches his fists as he remembers. “Stanislav Rubin led me onto their awaiting ambush. That asshole… he even used my father as a pretext to meet up. God, what a—”
He cuts himself off. And to think Artemy had arrived in the town expecting to see a friend and a brother in him.
“…I heard it took three men to hold you down,” Dankovsky says, pulling him out of his reverie.
“It was four, actually,” Artemy smirks. “And none of them left unscathed, I can assure you of that. I’m pretty sure I even bit one of them.”
Dankovsky looks lost for words for a second, and then his face darkens in grim determination. “Good. Every person who participated in this should suffer some form of punishment, and I’m not inclined to believe that the town officials will dish it out in this case.”
Artemy is a little taken aback by Dankovsky’s passion on his behalf. He knows at least some of it is derived from his own experiences with the rulers, but he also can’t help but feel comforted that there’s someone who not only recognizes the injustices done to him as such, but also openly condemns them. He has precious few allies, and he thinks Daniil Dankovsky is a rather powerful one.
“Consider me a colleague from now on,” Artemy declares. “I’ll show you where you can find me if you ever need me. This disaster will end sooner if we help each other.”
Dankovsky blinks before nodding solemnly, offering his hand to a shake. “I’m glad to hear that, Burakh, believe me. I hope you also know where to find me.”
Artemy accepts his hand and gives it a firm shake. “None of that,” he says. “Call me Artemy.”
Daniil smirks again. “Alright.”
#
Three hollow knocks sound on the thick metal door. After a few seconds, it slides open from the inside.
“Come in,” Burakh says. Daniil strides in, almost too upset to notice how Artemy sticks his head out the door and looks carefully around before closing it again.
“Were you follo—”
“That damned inquisitor!” Daniil yells as soon as no one can hear them. “She took all my power, just like that! As if I’ve done nothing good with it!”
“What?” Artemy blinks.
“That damned bitch, Lilich! She had the nerve to call me useless!” Daniil clenches his teeth and his fists. He makes sure his voice drips sarcasm. “And she’s going to do so much good here, I’m sure. Because that’s exactly what this place needs: another self serving asshole in power with their own agenda.”
Daniil starts pacing back and forth the short vestibule of the basement. He needs to blow off some steam even if only like this; he had to contain himself not to punch her in the face back in the cathedral.
“I thought you didn’t want political power at all,” Artemy says.
Daniil freezes momentarily to glare at him, before resuming his pacing. “Of course I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean she can just dismiss me like I’m some ignorant child that just stumbled onto that position!”
Artemy says nothing for a few seconds. “You’re talking about Aglaya? She seemed reasonable when I met her.”
Daniil spins around faster than light to glare at Artemy.
“You’ve met her?!” He can’t help but ask, before narrowing his eyes in suspicion.“It must have gone well, since you’re calling her by her first name.”
Artemy shrugs. “Like I said, she seemed reasonable.”
“If she’s trying to get on your good side, that can only mean that she needs you for whatever she’s planned. Be careful, Artemy.”
Artemy’s face contorts momentarily. “You think that’s the only reason someone would be nice to me?”
Daniil blinks, and takes a second before responding.
“We’re talking about an inquisitor, Artemy. She won’t be nice to anyone unless it furthers her goals. You’re better off thinking of her as a mouthpiece for the government than a person in her own right.”
Artemy’s frown deepens, and he crosses his arms before speaking again. “That sounds like the drivel of someone butthurt they suddenly lost their position of high standing.”
Daniil freezes and turns toward him, mouth agape.
“What d—”
“I know you’re angry,” Artemy interrupts him, maddeningly calm, “but you need to think outside of your own circumstances too. She has power you don’t and couldn’t have here, and that’s that. Just this morning, she opened the Termitary and the Abattoir.”
“You know I tried to do that almost a week ago!” Daniil yells indignantly.
“And you couldn’t, that’s precisely my point.”
Daniil quiets down. It was true he’d been unable days ago of releasing the trapped workers, but he’d also probably have gone about it in a different way than just opening the doors and letting traffic flow freely in and out. Though at this point, he guesses, it’s not like anything coming out of there can really do much harm to the town.
As sure as he is, as much as he knows they can’t trust Lilich and feels compelled to try and convince Artemy of this, his curiosity wins out in the end and he decides to drop the issue for now.
“Well?” He crosses his arms. “And what happened? What came out of the Termitary?”
Artemy’s face darkens.
“Plague, mostly. It somehow got in before the doors were locked. Almost everyone that was in there is dead.”
Daniil doesn’t say anything. This is horrible news, but it’s just another piece of horrible news on top of all the rest. All he can do is feel angry once again at the people that did this over a week ago and then stopped him from helping.
“Hardly seems like a surprise now, of course,” Artemy continues. “Everything seems to be infected.”
“You seem awfully calm,” Daniil can’t help but comment.
“Do I? Do you want to know what I found out in the Abattoir?” Artemy’s voice is dripping with contempt. He clenches his fists. “Someone stole part of my inheritance. Those pieces of shit killed my father and then took his stuff.”
“Savages,” Daniil spits.
Artemy’s face darkens. “They really are.”
A second of silence passes between them.
“You know,” Artemy starts, talking as if at no one in particular. “They’re supposed to be my people, yet no one has made things harder for me since I arrived than them.”
“Reminds me of myself and my relationship with the Kains,” Daniil adds in disdain. “They keep using me as their errand boy…”
“The Kin threatened me for standing by you. After all they’ve done, and they want to tear us apart.”
“The Kains told me that you're a psychopath killer and to stay away from you. Even suggested their support depended on it.”
And yet the inquisitor doesn’t seem to trust either the Kin or the Kains. Whatever it is she’s playing at, she — along with seemingly everyone else — wants the two of them to stand apart.
“I won’t abandon you,” Daniil declares, as the utmost act of rebellion against this town and its regimes he can think of. “Whatever circumstances might come our way, you’re the only one who has been a reliable ally to me. I don’t need the Kains’ support or the inquisitor’s approval.”
Artemy nods solemnly. “I won’t abandon you, either. And I won’t trust anyone who badmouths you. The inquisitor might be of help yet, but whatever she says won’t matter more to me than what you do.”
They hold each other’s gaze across the meters that separate them for a few moments, and Daniil feels something slide into place somewhere in him.
#
Daniil storms through the ruined streets, barely bothering to avoid the infectious clouds in his fury. He makes a beeline to the Rod, and slams the front door open.
“You have some nerve calling on me right now,” Daniil spits as soon as he spots Saburov, “after —”
“Dankovsky,” Saburov interrupts, and Daniil notices he looks remarkably pale, “I know it’s a bad time and I apologize. I need your help strictly as a medical professional, n—”
"Oh, of course,” Daniil leers. “We’re long on those, anyway. So what is it you need? Just a routine check up? The flu shot? Or perhaps some morphi—”
“My wife,” Saburov gasps, “there’s something wrong with her. She’s in so much pain… I’ve never seen her like this. Please, I fear we have little time.”
“Absolutely not,” Daniil doesn’t hesitate to reply. “Do you think this is the first time I’ve seen an opioid addict suddenly be in very intense pain and absolutely require a sedative? Tell your wife to update her tricks and stop wasting my time.”
He’s already turning to leave when Saburov darts forward and grabs his shoulder.
“Dankovsky, please! She’s not pretending, I swear! The pain is highly concentrated, she keeps clutching the left part of her abdomen…”
Daniil jerks his shoulder out of the governor’s hand and turns back around to face him.
“That,” he pronounces meaningfully, “sounds like she needs surgery.”
“Please—”
“And, since I know you’ve been very busy sending mail and whatnot, I’ll just go ahead and remind you that I’m not a surgeon. And that the only competent one in this shithole has been rotting in prison for over twenty four hours now, during a massive medical emergency, on your, your orders!” His voice increases as he speaks, and the last two words come out as nothing short of a shout.
Saburov looks like he was prepared for that specific accusation, but still a bead of sweat rolls down his forehead.
“He was seen gutting a girl on the street! I had no choice!” He seems truly desperate.
“Well, now you really have no choice. Because I won’t so much as look in your wife’s direction until I don’t have Artemy Burakh here to perform the actual surgery, with his freedom guaranteed afterwards.”
Saburov gapes at him. “I— I can’t… Burakh hates me, he’ll kill her, I know he w—”
“And you think my own feelings for you are much nicer than his?” Daniil sneers. “You’ll just have to trust our integrity as medical professionals. Or his, rather. Since I’m not a surgeon.”
“Forget it,” Saburov’s voice is shaking. “I’ll just get Stanislav Rubin to do it. Even if h—”
“I’m afraid you’re not kept up to date,” Daniil takes great pleasure in informing him, “Rubin turned himself in to the Kains for the crime of stealing Simon’s body days ago. He’s still hanging in the middle of the bridge square as we speak.”
Saburov stammers. He pales even more. After a few moments, he visibly deflates.
“Alright, I’ll… I’ll let Burakh come. I’ll send for him immediately.”
“No need,” Daniil says pleasantly, “I’ll go get him myself.”
“You think I’d let you do that?” Saburov snarls. “I’m not stupid, Dankovsky. No, you’re staying here and my men will bring him back.”
“Do you really want to stay here arguing while your wife withers away in the next room?”
“You’re not getting out of my sight without at least two of my men going with you,” Saburov spits.
“That’s alright with me. All three of us can go get him, and you stay and watch over Katerina.”
Saburov calls two of his men over, quickly briefs them on the situation, and sends them off. He pulls Daniil aside as he’s stepping through the door.
“If you’re not back in half an hour…” His voice is shaking again.
Daniil struggles not to smirk. “Don’t bother finishing that threat, governor. It won’t be necessary.”
#
Artemy sits in his cell, again. At least this time it’s the one in the town hall.
He’s barely slept, has eaten even less, and the goddamn building isn’t even guarded, so he can’t scream for water and expect anyone to come.
He’s all alone. There was a man moaning in the cell next to him when he came in, but he quieted down at some point during the night. The soft smell permeating the room now tells Artemy what he can’t see.
He’s almost as angry that they caught him as he is at the fact that they were looking to catch him at all. Hasn’t he proven himself enough? Don’t they know what a menkhu’s work entails? Meat doesn’t just grow on trees.
And who would have missed them, anyway? They were sick already, doomed. If he can make some good out of their bodies the rest of the town should feel grateful, not treat him like a crazed criminal.
He’s pulled away from his thoughts when the entrance door slams open. Artemy can’t see who is coming in from where he is. He doesn’t have it in him to move either way.
Three pairs of shoes approach the room and soon come into view. Two ordinary looking patrolmen, followed by Daniil.
One of them pulls a keychain out of his pocket and unlocks his cell.
“Get up,” the man says, slamming the gate open. “You have work to do.”
Artemy slowly stands up, to the visible frustration of the patrolmen. When he exits the cell, he goes straight for Daniil, who wordlessly hands him a bottle of water. Artemy snatches it and starts drinking voraciously.
“Hey, you’re on a tight deadline here,” the man standing near the hall says. “There’ll be t—”
Quick as a flash, Daniil has taken his revolver in hand, and the same arc that starts with pulling it out of his pocket ends with a single shot being fired right through the babbling man’s throat.
In the second while he’s desperately mouthing like a fish out of water before collapsing to the ground, Daniil goes to fire another shot at the second man and the gun echoes the click, empty.
Daniil curses, the man recovers from his surprise and Artemy finishes his bottle all in the same second. The patrolman has barely taken a step towards them before Artemy slams the empty bottle on his head, shattering it and sending glass everywhere. The patrolman crumples to the floor, clutching the wound, and Artemy grabs the abandoned door of his cell and rams it against the man — who has unfortunately fallen in the middle of its trajectory — with enough force to cave his face inwards with an audible crack. He stops moving.
“I guess that works,” comments Daniil. “Sorry, I didn’t know I only had a bullet left. Sloppy on my end, for sure.”
“It’s okay,” Artemy grunts. “Do you have something to eat?”
“Yes, but let’s not stay here. I’ll give it to you on the way.”
They step over the bodies and leave the empty town hall, heading left at Daniil’s indication to avoid the Rod’s proximities.
“How’d you get me out?” Artemy asks in between bites of a loaf of bread.
“That stupid rat Saburov said his wife needed surgical intervention. I said I wouldn’t do it without an actual surgeon present, and he must have been desperate enough for it to work.”
“I am not helping those bastards,” Artemy growls, “if it were up to them I’d be dead right now.”
“I wasn’t counting on it, don’t worry. Those assholes don’t deserve your skill being lent to them. Let them rot from the inside out, why should you stain your hands with them?”
Artemy chews in silence as they walk through the deserted park on the Maw, finishing his bread.
“Thank you,” he says after he swallows his last bite. Daniil pulls that smirk of his again, which Artemy is starting to think is just the way he smiles.
“I said I’d stand by you. You don’t need to thank me.”
#
Artemy has been waiting in the Shelter’s foyer long enough for his knee to stop throbbing when the door finally opens again. The light sprinkling that had wet his hair and barely diluted the blood on his skin on the way here has now become a gray haze of pouring rain from which enters Daniil, movements stiff as a puppet’s. His coat is dripping steadily on the floor, and his hair is flat and stuck to his forehead. He’s gripping his revolver with enough absentminded strength to almost bend the barrel, and his frown looks closer to a scowl. Artemy’s brows dive in solidarity, although Daniil’s expression softens in surprise when he spots Artemy, and takes one good look at him.
“Are you hurt?” He asks. “What happened?”
“I’m alright. This blood is mostly not mine.” Daniil eyes him up and down, but says nothing.
Artemy explains as best he can. “The Khatanghe attacked me. They didn’t want me to reach the blood that is mine by right.” He remembers the odonghe running towards him with raised fists ready to strike, and everyone else turning and fleeing the moment they spotted him. “In the end I found my father’s killer hiding down there, in the Earth’s guts. I killed him like the dog that he was, but I couldn’t get to the blood.”
Daniil is looking at him with a mixture of horror and concern. Artemy swallows thickly.
“It’s all lost. Everyone here, every single miserable imbecile fought us and won. The town is unsalvageable.”
Daniil’s expression doesn’t change. Perhaps it hardens. Artemy tightens his fists.
“I’m sorry,” Daniil says, softer than Artemy has ever heard him, “I know you tried. They didn’t deserve it, but you did.”
Artemy’s pain eases a little, hearing that. He’d thought the same thing, but it felt better hearing it from someone else in a similar position.
“What about you?” He finally asks Daniil. “Are you okay? You looked as if someone had spat in your face when you came in.”
Daniil’s face contorts again as if all his woes were breathed back into him with that question alone.
“That damned bitch fooled me,” he seethes, not even bothering to answer properly. His nostrils flare with every breath. “I knew she couldn’t be trusted, I can’t believe I… She played me like a goddamned fiddle!” He yells, with a quick stomp of his boot on the ground. The gesture would have looked childish on anyone else, but with so much rage visibly cramped into Daniil’s figure, it reads as threatening even to Artemy.
“What do you mean?” He asks, slightly taken aback.
Daniil seethes. “She kept all the information I’ve spent days fetching for her and used it against me! She twisted the facts to support her narrative; made me look like a bloody fool in front of the Kains!” Daniil takes a second to compose himself. His fists are shaking. “They refuse to see me now, and they also somehow found a way to blame me for the mutinied soldiers shooting Stamatin. None of them want anything to do with me anymore.”
Daniil is glaring at the floor in disdain, as if imagining the faces of everyone he’s like to stamp over.
Artemy reaches over and holds Daniil’s jaw, sliding his thumb to rest on the other side of his mouth. He lifts Daniil’s head until he can look into his eyes. Then he says slowly:
“None of them are even worthy of licking your shoes.”
Daniil looks stunned, frozen. Completely pulled from whatever spiral his thoughts were diving in.
Artemy continues. “All this time, everything that’s happened has revolved around you somehow. It doesn’t shock me that no one else noticed, but it couldn’t have escaped me.”
Daniil tentatively reaches out as if to touch Artemy, then visibly hesitates when he remembers the blood, both in runes and in splatters, adorning his chest. Artemy grabs Daniil’s outstretched wrist with his other hand and firmly places it on his skin, blood and all.
“Funny,” Daniil murmurs, his thumb caressing the crimson marks, “I thought the same thing about you.”
He stares intently back into Artemy’s eyes, and his expression slowly morphs from awe to fiery determination.
“We should leave this place,” he says. “They will try to make us choose, and then they will blame us for all the inevitable bad that choice brings. Let’s get out of here before that happens.”
“They will never use me against you,” Artemy declares, moving to cup the other half of Daniil’s face.
“None of them matter,” Daniil brings his other hand to Artemy’s neck. “There’s no one in the world but us.”
He pulls down at the same time that Artemy pulls up, and their lips meet in the middle.
#
Night closed upon them a while ago, but Daniil has always had good night vision. They walked into the steppe hours ago, towards where Artemy had said the closest settlement was. They carry only what they had on them when they started, but neither of them holds any doubts that they’ll make it.
They both hear a loud boom and turn around.
And watch from afar, as the town goes up in uneven flames around the cannons shooting at it. Several more rounds pass before the Polyhedron, barely a white flicker from where they stand, collapses as well to the ground in a thousand pieces.
The distant fire now becomes the only, unwelcome, source of light. Daniil turns towards Artemy, who is already looking at him, and takes his outstretched hand.
They turn around, leaving the dying town behind, and keep walking.