Chapter Text
They’d said goodbye at the station. It was perfunctory. Artemy wished, somewhere deep within him, in the place where he could hear the Town and be pulled along the Lines, for something he refused to name. He’d been too scared to say it in the Broken Heart, or any of the myriad opportunities he’d been given by fate. Not even as they laid on that small Stillwater bed, crushed together, with shining eyes. Don’t go. Please don’t go. We want you. We need you. Quieter still, was the refrain. I— That was as far as Artemy was willing to listen, too afraid of what his heart might reveal to him next. They shook hands. Artemy held on just a moment too long, and reveled in the Bachelor’s quizzical look. Asked him to get home safely. He’d received the letter three weeks later, postdated to four days after he’d left.
Burakh,
Reached the Capital. Am well.
Regards,
Dr. D.D.D.
Artemy choked back a laugh looking at it. It was as though Dankovsky had sent a telegram, yet there it was, in the hand —not his usual chicken scratch— he’d seen Dankovsky use whenever he wanted to impress. How odd. Surely they were past the point of putting up a front for each other. Artemy had seen this man covered in blood and knelt before him to beg his forgiveness for the solution ahead. How can you be anything but honest after something like that? Then again, maybe it was just Dankovsky’s nature. Perhaps he was the sort of man that never got close enough to shed his layers. Artemy felt a whisper from his heart, unbidden as always. Don’t you want to unwrap him?
Batchelor,
Enclosed are copys of my case notes during the Pest. I hope you won’t mind me taking your address from your correspondence letters to my father. If you no longer are there, may this letter have the good fortune to be forwarded. I hope you are well. Has your time since leaving the Town been pleasent? Come back. Stay here. Leave your old life behind, I beg of you. I hope we will be so lucky as to be graced with your presense in the future.
Take care,
Haruspex
The reply came a week or two later, and Artemy didn’t know what to think of it. The first had been so impersonal, so curt. True, it was Dankovsky’s way, and perhaps, no, certainly, he was busy, but it had the bitter taste of something reproducible. Was the post even safe anymore? Particularly for a man, who was, at the very least, rather controversial? Worse, was that all Dankovsky thought Artemy worthy of? Form letters?
Artemy got his letter back in its original envelope, but noted the battery of stamps. It had certainly been passed along the postal service, but still, maybe it had been returned all the same. Shudkher. Fucking shit. He turned it over and saw stamps haphazardly holding it together. Then it had been opened. Hopefully not by an acolyte of the Powers-That-Be. He grinned when he saw inkblots through the paper he’d composed so carefully. Another letter on the same refined paper as Daniil’s first missive was stuffed in next to it. He pulled out his own letter first, fearful of what the other inside might say.
Batchelor, Bachelor,
Enclosed are copys copies of my case notes during the Pest. I hope you won’t mind me taking your address from your correspondence letters to my father. If you no longer are there, may this letter have the good fortune to be forwarded. I hope you are well. Has your time since leaving the Town been pleasent? pleasant? Come back. Stay here. Leave your old life behind, I beg of you. I hope we will be so lucky as to be graced with your presense presence in the future.
Take care,
Haruspex
The Bachelor had taken the bait. Artemy laughed to himself, hoping the kids wouldn’t overhear. They’d been whispering about his odd moods lately, though they hadn’t yet pieced together their source. That, Artemy kept close to his heart. It was like he had said. When I look at you, I get the feeling that nature is playing jokes on us. It's as if both the left and the right hand have clutched the head to realize for the first time that they are two parts of a single whole. That, he was certain, was Dankovsky’s own heart speaking, rotten though it was said to be. Matching lines, with matching hearts too. That was what had begun it all. He’d tangled them up right then. It had only gotten worse, really. The letters asking to meet, the pleas for advice, the blood, the blood, and the blood, the breaking the idiot out of a jail guarded by children, the saving his life, the Stillwater, the saving his life, the Shelter, the Stillwater, the Shelter.
They had been on the path to being so intertwined as to never part, and then it had all gone wrong. The fights, the fucking fights. Scalpels, knives, guns, all was fair in neither love nor war. First the auroch, then the inquisitor, whom Artemy still couldn’t bear to think of. Her once imposing form, crumpled in the grass. Her heart a revolver; the woman made machine. That room, that confrontation with a Bachelor he didn’t recognize, covered in viscera and willing to die for his cause. Worst of all, the commander, the way he took to Dankovsky, respected him so much, rescued him from his every plight. It was strange, how much he felt toward the general. They’d hardly interacted. Perhaps it was Lara’s hatred, flowing through him too. Really, the worst part was the Polyhedron. They’d watched it fall together, them and the girl. Dankovsky began to cry, and didn’t stop, even as he helped bottle living blood, and as he helped prepare panacea. Maybe that had been the real worst thing. Disagreement was one thing, but causing the man to cry… that ached. He shook the thought off, allowed the prospect of Dankovsky’s letter to cheer him. Perhaps the wind would change. He smiled when he saw it was in Daniil’s real handwriting, the kind he’d sent notes in during the Pest
Burakh,
I do hope you won’t mind my edits to your letter. It’s unlike you, to have trouble with language. You play at not knowing “big words”, but you must know that I do count you among the most clever people I’ve had the good fortune, no, the will, as you would say, for it was right, to meet.
Please do not think I have lost my arrogance, however. I am still the man you know, perhaps a little softened by my time with you in your Town. I find myself missing it on occasion, although I have been busy here. My Thanatica is… I cannot possibly explain it now, although I shall certainly divulge the situation once I am able. Simply put, my colleagues are scattered, and I am tracking down my research. I should be grieving, yet I am not capable. The emotion does not swell, the tears do not brim, and I hold on to the naive hope that it will all pass me by.
I sense within your writing a fear of interference. Fear not, Burakh, I have taken certain precautions to ensure our communication will not be obstructed. I find myself missing your acid tongue and acerbic wit. Do not flatter yourself, however. I am still in good spirits. Please, let us be honest in our next communication. Your honesty is but one of many things I have come to admire in you.
As ever,
Daniil Dankovsky
The paper smelled of something more than the Capital. A cologne of some sort, perhaps. Artemy wondered if this was Dankovsky’s answer to the twyre he was sure permeated his own writing.
From there, they’d written to each other furiously. No minutia seemed too insignificant, Artemy felt, when faced with the possibility of sharing it with him. Having all the time in the world to get to know Dankovsky was a prospect Artemy relished, although he was unsure why. If only he could transform some of that energy into finding a nice girl. Aspity had been getting more and more insistent on that front.
Oynon,
Now I am certain it was you I reached. What other man would send my letter back with corrections? Yamar berkhe! No one with tact, no one with a soft heart. I don’t mean to make fun, not seriously, at least. I admire your steely resolve.
Let me say here what I wanted to in my first letter. I wrote to you in the vain hope that your return to the Capital was pleasant, that your lab was safe, that you are back there now, researching to your heart’s content. However, I sense now that this is not the case, and I am sincerely sorry for your loss. I know you have lost much in this last month, and I am sorry to hear that has continued. I hope you will forgive me my addition to that burden, that you will one day come to understand why I made the choice I did. I regret our fights. of every variety. I hope we can mend what went wrong between us at the end of things.
When I think of the last days of the plague, I regret so much. I am certain I made the best decision I was able, but the costs of even that weigh heavy on me still. Simply put, the Kin is unhappy with me, and I deserve it. I remain their menkhu, but I wouldn’t be shocked to be replaced. If only Ersher —a story for another day, ideally over some wine you bring, because you know as well as I do that the local stuff is terrible— were still here, to take this burden from me. I’m wrong to think that, it’s not his problem that I made the decision I did, but still I wish it. These things only pass by blood, you see, and I’m at a loss for what to do. My heart feels caught, and I have no clue where it’s caught. I wish I could pick my heir myself. That’d be so much easier than trying to find someone I love. Is that pathetic? That I’d rather defy the law of the Kin than get a wife? Don’t answer that, I know it is. Maybe it’s more pathetic that I’m more an outsider to the people I’m meant to lead than I am one of them. I know it sounds silly, but the real word is Khatanghe. I don’t expect you to remember that, I just wish I could.
Sahba, the one you know as Aspity, is after me to, well, it makes more sense in my tongue, but, marry a nice Khatangher girl and… well, it gets a little vulgar from there. I think she wanted to ensure that I could not possibly fuck it up, but there are things you hope never to hear from… well, have I explained her origins to you? I think you are too much a skeptic to believe me when I say this, but she is much like the odonghe. Shaped from earth, although she is of more recent manufacture than them. Sometime around the First Outbreak, I suspect. She wasn’t here when I left and she was when I came back. To me, she’s khetey - like an older sister.
I have to admit, I do wish she’d stop telling me just how lovely Urmaan or Bürged or whoever the fuck is. She’s even tried to pawn me off on poor Ayan. She can’t be more than twenty! This must sound very dry to you, but it’s a mark of desperation that she’s showing me brides. Herb brides, that is. They’re not quite meant to be with humans, but perhaps my journey under the earth (I’ll have to explain that one over wine too - please bring something drinkable if you return) has made me earthen too. That or they are no longer what they were. Either possibility is decidedly my fault.
There was a girl once. Well, a woman. Obviously. Nara. Narana. The name means nothing to you, I’m sure, but it was a fitting one. Sun. You might have seen her, dancing in the graveyard, or walking around the town. Always alone, but very friendly. Enormous nest of hair, and adorned with… well, I doubt you’d have caught the significance. Must have looked to you like some peculiar Gorkhonsk makeup. It’s ceremonial — mimics the Lines we cut into sacrifices. Some people say we used to sacrifice basaghad[1] (that technically means girl or daughter, but we usually reserve it for brides), and I used to not believe in that, but I’ve learned things I wish I hadn’t. Point being, the Lines on her body and face marked her a sacrifice. I’ve only seen it on bulls. And her, of course. I can’t really explain what happened. Not by writing about it. I’ve never been good with words. Still, the point is, if I was going to fall in love with a woman here, I think she would have been my chance, and, well. It’s true what they say about surgeons. We do have a word for them, technically. Mes zasalch. Really, though, you know what we’re called. Yargachid. Butchers. That’s actually the nice way to put it. Usually it’s more like bariach, which is something between a fraud and a sawbones.[2] You might have heard that one, actually. I did what I had to, and she told me to do it, said it was the only way. I begged her, but it was no use.
Between that and what happened with Aglaya — With the inquisitor, I guess. Somehow I doubt you two spoke so familiarly — Between her and Nara, I think I’ve gotten the message. No faster way to kill a woman than for me to love her. Best I leave them alone, Lara excepted, obviously. Rotten heart, I think. Maybe that’s why I can't give any of them a chance. I don’t know. It’s probably nothing so profound. I know that Artemy Burakh’s nonexistent love life is of absolutely no interest to anyone but Sahba, and I’m sorry to share all that. I’m sure it’s very boring for a man like you — I’ve never gotten the impression that these petty concerns are something you bother with.
I hope that my dull news doesn’t make you sad. I promise, I’m doing well! I have two children now. I know you know my son, Sticky, - he talks about you every day, usually at least twice, so please bring your old textbooks with you if you come back - but my daughter is more of the shy type. She actually reminds me of you sometimes. She is extraordinarily sensitive, I worry even too much so, but I’m often surprised by the way she can understand things that a grown man — say, a 26 year old who may or may not have finished medical school, and is getting a little bit fat now that the trains are coming again — can not. She understands Boddho in a way I don’t. I’m not sure if I used to, or if I was just never able. Lately, she’s been collecting bugs, but she hasn’t yet grasped the issue with taking bugs inside the fucking house. Ger. We’re in a ger[3] right now (I haven’t lived in one of these since I was a kid, in Shekhen) and it’s quite the adjustment, but of course Murky doesn’t mind. That kid can sleep on the ground. I wish she’d stop, but no luck so far. I’m hoping that once I get the house fixed up she’ll adjust to sleeping inside. Needless to say, I've been supplying her with old jars (my mother loved canning, I’m told) as little vivariums, and that’s kept her pretty well occupied.
I hope stories about my kids aren’t too boring. I’m told I already have a father’s sentimentality. If I'm half the father mine was, with the exception of the obvious thing (another thing best explained over wine), I think I can serve them pretty well. Better than being orphans, hopefully. Can you imagine? The shame if my shitty parenting was somehow worse than having none?
I don’t think I’ve earned the right to call you by your name yet, so this might all sound stilted. Allow me to lean on my language when I must. My requests for you, if you come back, I know they’re stupid and frivolous. I’m sure you’d rather stay the hell out of this little Town. Still, I miss you all the same. It’s like you said. We are two of a kind, and should not be in disagreement. Perhaps we will come to a comfortable understanding. If that is something you desire, that is. I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for now.
Bayartay, oynon,
Artemy Burakh
Daniil found himself pacing furiously, and he couldn’t piece out why. It wasn’t as if he generally had any idea what he was feeling. That seemed like the kind of thing people without anything better to think about knew. Why waste valuable working memory on self-awareness, he thought. It wasn’t that he couldn’t exactly, it was that he didn’t. Perhaps both, now that he was out of practice. Really, the issue was his own apathy. But it wasn’t apathy he was feeling right now. Triage revealed little. He had a tension headache, some mild nausea, he couldn’t seem to stop looking… upset? His face looked a bit red, maybe? Ordinarily he would have asked his housemate, but there was the slight issue of him having fled the country on suspicion of treason. Then again, there was also the moderate issue of being perhaps two months out from the same fate himself. Really, he had bigger things to worry about than whatever the hell this was.
He tried to focus. He might as well figure it out. It wasn’t as if he was going to rehabilitate his reputation with the Party by force of will. He’d been reading Burakh’s letter when it started. Was that it? Had there been some objectionable content? He reread it, flipping through the pages of thick Gorkhonsk paper, still smelling of twyre. He took some satisfaction at the length of the letter, even if Burakh’s handwriting was rather large. Made sense, all things considered. What they say about big hands. He wasn’t pleased to hear about Burakh’s turmoil, or at least, he was fairly sure he wasn’t, so he turned to the next page. Ah. There it was. Mystery solved. It wasn’t so bad. There was really no good reason for Daniil to be upset about whatever the old crone was doing. Artemy hardly seemed interested in her machinations — but that could easily change.
Unfortunately, Daniil was acquainted with the women in question; he’d helped one get away from some townsfolk during the shabnak hunt, and another had done some translation work for him. Ayan had even been quite a devoted aid in the time he spent in Gorkhon without Eva. Much as he ached to deny it, they were genuinely kind. Really, salt of the earth. Not that they’d go around salting the earth. Damned herb brides. Daniil wasn’t oblivious to the way some of the townsfolk looked at these women. It had surprised him too at first, but the novelty rapidly wore off. It had not worn off for Andrey Stamatin, however, and every meeting with Andrey included at least one offhand reference to something he had been doing, was actively doing, or was about to be doing with, around, or to one of the ladies in question. He was, in Artemy’s uncharacteristically delicate words, not exactly an authentic appreciator of his culture, but he was an ardent one. If there was one thing Andrey Stamatin could respect more than being roundly beaten at his own game, it was naked women. Or men. Or nearly naked ones. Or both. Or some combination therein. Andrey wasn’t picky.
Still, Burakh had been raised in this culture. It wasn’t as if he saw these young women in the same lecherous way Andrey did. Unless he did? He thought on the matter. He’d not seen Burakh take much time for something as simple as romance during the bulk of their acquaintance. At least, he hadn’t thought so. Maybe he was mistaken, he realized. Afterward, in the few weeks he’d spent in the town before he left, there had been some development on that front. It wasn’t that Artemy was a particularly rabid pursuer. In fact, he remembered Artemy approaching a woman only once, and Daniil wasn’t qualified to tell if the flower he handed her was a romantic or herbal overture. Her reaction left something to be desired in terms of clarification. She’d danced away, and Artemy only laughed when Daniil asked what all that was about.
That wasn’t to say he’d been a monk. He certainly had not. Anywhere they went, they discovered just how much their reputations had recovered. Something to do with ending an apocalyptic plague, he suspected. Daniil had his fair share of admirers approach him, but something about his obvious discomfort tended to shake off the worst of them. The women seemed to have agreed amongst themselves he was an unsuitable prospect rather quickly. That was a blessing. The thing was, he couldn’t, for some reason, go after a man properly in front of Burakh of all people. It wouldn’t be embarrassing exactly. This Town wasn’t like the Capital. It really wouldn’t be such a thing, particularly not to a kinsman. Artemy wasn’t going to judge him, but still, he felt compelled to exercise restraint. Every goddamn teenager fruitlessly telling Burakh he was handsome had infinitely more courage than Daniil. Watching the men made Daniil’s heart ache.
The young women of the town shared no such restraint in their pursuit of Artemy Burakh, however. More than once, a courier had handed him a note smelling of perfume and written in looping script. One particularly bold invitation was written so intricately Daniil had to dictate it, and it was not a pleasant process. The young woman was evidently quite liberated, and she was keen to share that fact, along with her admiration and appreciation of Artemy, to put it delicately. She had not put it delicately. By the second page, when it was starting to get especially filthy, he’d gone red and trailed off, and then he and Burakh had ordered drinks and not said anything to each other for a while.
A few ladies had even been so bold as to approach them. The most consideration they ever gave Daniil was a brief greeting before they got to what they were really interested in. Artemy was a good deal worse with picking up on advances than Daniil was. Entertainingly so. One young woman had just left to get her drink after a long, unceasing speech on Artemy’s heroic conduct and muscular build when Artemy turned to ask Daniil what the hell that was about. By the time he managed to stop laughing and told Burakh the obvious, Artemy blushed and couldn’t manage to keep up their conversation. She’d gotten the hint and left, but not before tucking a slip of paper into his pocket, lingering just a bit too long. Daniil realized he was glaring when she returned the favor, but neither of them cared enough to alert Burakh to the matter, and so it was swiftly resolved.
Artemy wasn’t impolite, certainly. He always entertained at least the first several minutes of conversation, and once Daniil nudged him, could usually manage to actually start responding like the kind of man who intended on warming his bed before he died. He wasn’t exactly a casanova. Honestly, that was the awful thing. Artemy had absolutely no guile. He was beyond awkward, but that didn’t make him any less successful. Women fell over themselves to tell him how handsome he was. Daniil had covered more than one scoff by clearing his throat when the latest girl told Burakh his hands were “so much bigger than mine” (what a trite ploy, Daniil thought) or that he was “so tall” (always adorned with a small hand held on the level of Artemy’s nose, just to prove the point) or that his hair “looked so good grown out” or that he had “such beautiful eyes” or “looked so strong” or “saved my life”. On and on and on and on, every hour another woman ready to tell Burakh just how dearly she appreciated his efforts.
Never mind that half of these girls had been among the mob after him, or that they still acted like he was always a minute away from snapping, or rather, Ripping. It was funny really, the way they chased after him, even while evidently so scared. The Kin girls weren’t so foolish; naturally, they were used to the rumor mill. Townswomen, though? Just smitten enough to ignore whatever tripe they’d believed about Artemy before his newfound popularity. How fickle. Daniil was more irritated than was strictly necessary, but why wouldn’t he be? Artemy deserved to be appreciated. Not that Daniil did so any more than a colleague ought to.
Daniil knew he was biased, but Artemy wasn’t particularly frightening to him. Maybe it was just how much restraint he exercised. At first, he’d thought Burakh’s appearance was deceptive, and that he wasn’t particularly strong after all. Then he’d seen Burakh take down three men on his way out of the Bridge Square unarmed. He hadn’t noticed Daniil incredulously staring out the window, and that was probably for the best. After that, he’d understood why people gave Artemy such a wide berth, but he still couldn’t find any reason to do so himself. Burakh always warned anyone before he even thought of hurting them. Perhaps somewhat forcefully, but warning nonetheless. Still, he supposed someone who didn’t know him particularly well couldn’t be blamed for some degree of apprehension. Daniil didn’t mind. There were only so many times he wanted his dinner interrupted by giggling groups of women — girls — far too young for Artemy, who only stared at Daniil and looked genuinely bewildered. Every time. Even the tenth time, he seemed as spooked as the first time. Then again, probably for the best that fifteen year olds had that effect on him. Said better things than whatever Andrey’s halfhearted, reluctant, eye-rolling refusal did, blaming Daniil for spoiling his fun all the while.
It wasn’t like Daniil was in love with the man, but he did quite like him. Respected him too. It was half the reason he’d left town, on the assumption that he’d embarrass himself if he stayed on any longer. Still, best to avoid rudeness, even at the risk of revealing himself. There was enough distance for there to be no real risk to it.
Dear Burakh,
Oh, Burakh, it’s just like you to trick me into revealing my hand. I would have enjoyed toying with you, just briefly. I am surprised you don’t feel ready to call me by name. You may call me whatever you please, but, if you are not prepared to, I encourage you to at least use my surname. Who needs titles? You know what I am, I need no shield before you. It would be useless to try and conceal it. I am at your service, and I am ever your friend, if you will allow me that. You are under no obligation to consider me in kind. You do strike me as the kind of man whose warmth attracts friendships. I am not the same. I have to my name, perhaps five other real friends, three of whom are gone, and two of whom are across the country.
Was “dear” too familiar? I do not wish to cause you discomfort. My aim is to demonstrate, in too small a part to reveal the whole, what I feel for you that height of regard I hold you in. Please do not think I am flattering you. I bare myself in the hope that you will not despise what you see. In the pursuit of that, I think you will take some small joy in my full name. I am Daniil Daniilovich Dankovsky. It’s as though the Fates wanted to play a joke with the very composition of my beginnings, is it not? Perhaps some of your Lines were at work. I would tell you more, but I am not accustomed to such disclosures. Perhaps with time.
It feels so strange to call you by the name I addressed your father with. It’s not that you haven’t earned the right, but that you are so much more dear to me so different from him, so openhearted, so willing to put the common good above your own desires. You are selfless, Haruspex (or should I call you Artemy? Please do not hate me when I tell you that is how I think of you. As Artemy, the tenderhearted father, yet also the vessel of lethal power. Your quick wit, the way you can keep up with me and outpace me too, and the way you surprise me, again and again, with your kindness!). Thinking of you, it is as though I am looking into a mirror, seeing a man painfully better than myself. A man worthy of determining the fate of his home.
I am so pleased to hear that you’ve acquired found helped adopted these children. Sticky (or does he ever use Spichka?) is probably the child I know best in the Town, and he has impressed me with his curiosity and intelligence. I foresee him becoming a remarkable doctor. I only hope he is as kind as his father. Perhaps he will be a menkhu too, though I confess I do not know the way of these things. As for little Mishka (may I call her that? I think her yet too small to have a lonely name, when I believe she will have a happy life with you as her father), we did not speak often. However, I understand your feeling of similarity between us. She reminds me of myself as a child, with the Steppe and her dolls rather than my books and experiments. Funnily enough, I actually collected beetles in my youth too. My father has my collection, but it wouldn’t be too much trouble to get it back. Maybe I can show her one day. I wonder if she would enjoy it. Her tendency to keep them alive reveals a gentler heart than mine. I speared them, dissected, inspected, and then disjected. It was the beginning of my quest against death, did you know? Their flutter between life and death compelled me. Although I was a hypocrite, being the God that doomed them, I wondered how I might save them, might allow them to live, yet study them as well. Perhaps that was an impossible contradiction then, but I have come to study death and I have reversed it, however small the scale. What cold comfort, now.
While we speak of such things, you must know that I am in firm disagreement with your conclusions. I think Artemy Burakh’s love is the opposite of damning. You’ve had bad luck. If I judged you for what you had to do during the plague, and you judged me, we’d never forgive each other. That’s why I’m resolved to forgive your every transgression, and hope that you manage to forgive my own for the sake of fairness. I beg that you respond in kind. Perhaps the losses are too fresh now, but you will heal, and you will open up again, I promise. You love like you can’t help it. I think that’s the case, considering how easily you adopted your two. A man with a rotten heart would not act the way you have, in even the most unconscious of ways. It’s just so clear to see. You must trust me in this. I am not a great success in these things, but in your case, even I can tell. Fear not, dear Artemy. You will heal, and you will love again. I promise it.
Sometimes I wish my heart was not so hard. I do not think I know how to feel tenderness, only to perform it. My college beaus, all but one, eventually realized I could not say what they would. They’d declare it, in poems, or song, or quotation, or, in one case, in a truly terrible letter (I’ll show you one day, over our wine; I was so repulsed by his sentence structure that I said he ought to take a seminar before his next confession. He did not take it well, but I was free of him in the end.) They’d bare their hearts to me, and I would simply stare, unblinking and horrified, then tell them some tripe, something I’m sure would be heartbreaking, were I a young man in love with the most irritating man in his organic chemistry class. It’d be such a poor response: Oh, how kind of you (spoken as I choked back acid), you shouldn’t have (I leaned on this truth often), yes, I do feel for you (in the event of our impending parting), and in one particularly cruel case, as I now understand it to be, I simply told him I no longer wished to see him, and then walked to my next lecture. Ah, youth.
Once, I did reveal myself. He was my first real boyfriend, he was daring and raging and grinning, when we weren’t fighting or fucking or crying. It was not a perfect relationship, although I confess my model for such things was flawed (Another thing to share over wine; perhaps we’ll have to make these confessional dinners a regular occurrence, You know, if I return, eh?). It was during a month we hadn't fought, just studied and drank that terrible university coffee. I’m sure you know the stuff. At one point I resorted to chifir just for a break. Foolish of me, to put it mildly. One winter day, as I woke up beside him, I could no longer ignore it. I kissed him, he held me close, and I admitted I loved him. He was not charmed. As he put it, “Danya, what do you know about love? When you feel it, truly feel it, you’ll know. You and I are not meant to last.” I remember it in such detail because I wrote it in my journal and sobbed over it for nearly a month. The funny thing was, we stayed friends. If I tell you that you know this man, I hope you will not judge me too harshly. I was young! I didn’t know what I wanted! Of course, now I’m not really young anymore, and I still don’t know. I can feel a desire forming, but only in the strangest terms. Someone brilliant, strong, principled, who could know when to encourage me and when to pull me back to earth. Maybe I’ll find him someday. Do you think so? Is that a question I can trouble you to answer? Do not, if you would rather not. Perhaps love is created, rather than appearing stochastically. Maybe my problem is that I am not willing to accept that I am not made for it. Is it necessary, at this point, to admit I am a romantic? Surely this much is pathetically obvious now. May fate allow me my tender hopes, let me stay in my daydreams, ignore my foolishness.
I have promised you news of my home, and I am afraid it is rather bleak. It is as she said. Thanatica is burned, my colleagues dead or doing a damn good job of acting it. I have recovered certain objects from the wreckage. Somehow, the rain did not wash away the stink of smoke and ash. The lucky thing, if there is such a thing as luck in a situation such as this, is that I kept copies of my notes, my research, in my apartment. Of course, my apartment is a mess, and it is agony to look for my life’s work, knowing that I may never be granted the chance to complete it. Do not think me self-pitying. My losses, I know, are not as great as those of the plague, and yet, I am weak. I do not have the strength you have, to continue despite all you have suffered, for those you love. Perhaps that is why I spend so much time in my cluttered apartment, curled under blankets, incapable of the simplest action. Is this my weakness? Am I pathetic to you? Do you think me less of a man? I ask you too much, I know. It is not something I do often. It’s just that I respect your opinion. Three of my friends have disappeared without notice, and Pyotr is in no shape to help in any way besides with drink. Andrey has never been the emotional sort. Obviously. He’d probably take me shooting to help, go out at night with me to dispense with those vile sorts that have made your town (I understand it was very peaceful before it all went to hell) so frightful. Alas, the three of you, so dear to me, are too far to drag me out of my apartment.
Enough of that now. I fear I experienced a wave of melancholy while writing last night, which coincidentally began once I had downed a bottle of wine. I’m sure there is no correlation. I am cheered by the news that Ms. Aspity is taking care of you, in whatever way she can. I know you are capable of managing yourself, but you deserve to be supported. I hope your herb brides are beautiful, your townswomen charming, and your outings pleasant. It would be such a curious thing to see you, accompanied by a wife. It would be… I’m not sure. I hardly know how to imagine such a thing, so accustomed am I to you as I have known you. I shall think on the matter. Whatever the case, so long as you are satisfied, I will support you, however distant you are.
Your friend (hopefully),
Daniil Dankovsky
As the letters went on, they grew more intimate. Artemy wasn’t sure if he’d ever revealed himself so wholly to someone before. It felt like a compulsion.
Dankovsky,
I’m not really the kind of person who can handle expressing affection too easily either. It’s not that I don’t feel it, but just that I can’t seem to share it. Even with my oldest friends, it’s hard to explain just how much they mean to me. I’ve always thought with my hands, followed my heart, and I doubt that’s going to work, if I’m meant to charm someone or other. Honestly, I’m not looking forward to any of it. I haven’t been on dates since I was in school, and those… well, they got somewhere, but that somewhere was not a relationship, if you catch my meaning. I don’t think I can just express myself by actions all my life, for obvious reasons, but I don’t know how to do anything else. All that said, these are really just excuses. I think I never learned to put myself out there, not really. And then there’s the matter of my last love. Simply put, disastrous and scarring, as you well know. May you never see someone you love killed as you watch. Maybe that’s too heavy a topic for a letter. Maybe over our wine, yes?
Of course you can call me Artemy. Come on, you’ve seen me gut a man, vomit, and then take his organs after. I saw you watching, by the way. Really charming stuff. I think you and I are past the point of shyness with each other. As for your name and addressing you, I’ll do my best to learn to see you as Daniil . It’s so strange to think of you as my friend after so long (well, really, not long at all) as colleagues, then enemies, then estranged. I’m shocked you want to be my friend. Pleased, don’t get me wrong, but shocked. I kind of thought you would hate me. Our confrontation in the Shelter made me fear that you and I would never be allies again, so I’m happy to find you willing to try. And surprised that you care about my opinion at all. You’re the genius scientist here, and I’m still not even sure if my time as a field medic counted as my residency. Does it still count if you’re dismissed for injury? That story is also incredibly embarrassing, but for another day.
Besides the kids, I haven’t been up to much. Getting Khan to talk to his family again did take about six weeks, and you would not believe the trouble it was to get Saburov to let Grace visit Pyotr. Then there’s my two, of course. Sticky told me to ask you when you’re “coming back”, and if you can bring some good guides on anatomy and physiology for him. Can I send you some money for that, if it’s not too much trouble? Murky was thrilled to hear about the beetles, so now you really do have to come back to us, Bachelor. Besides that, she’s gotten quite invested in scaling up her toy collection. On the one hand, this does let me wash that one doll she always carries around. That thing creeps me out for some reason, but she loves it, so it stays. On the other hand, have you ever tried woodcarving? I’m shit at it.
Cappella seems to be doing well, though I hope she won’t turn out like Kaina. Taya visits me every so often when my people come to trade with the town, or when I’m needed for a ceremony. I hope she isn’t the last leader of the kin. Oyun and I may be middling, but I think she’ll be a woman of the people. As for Notkin, I’m trying to convince his crowd to occasionally come for checkups, once we get this goddamn hospital open. That’s new. Think you’d like it. Maybe you’d complain a little less when you come back already. Not sure we’d recognize you if you weren’t complaining, though.
Stakh’s working day and night on the hospital. He’s decided to take on the risk himself and just hire me. Says that way if things go wrong, I won’t have trouble taking care of my kids for worrying about debt. It’s nice, having him around again. I still start whenever he calls me Cub, but I think I’ll adjust some day. Lara’s also questing to found a school and an orphanage. I think she’s eager to brighten up all that dead space in her house. Grief is even opening the old shop up again. The building is still being fixed up, but he’ll live there too. For now, I have a foulmouthed roommate, and the kids absolutely love him. It’ll be quite the experience to see him making a clock again instead of scrapping it for parts.
Maybe by the time you return we’ll finally have three more basic amenities, and a weird one besides. Now, don’t tell anyone I told you this, but there’s so few people left that the water pressure is actually half decent. I might be a terrible person for saying it, but I really do enjoy being able to take a bath in less than two hours. And, you know, get my laundry done in less than a full day. Maybe once you’re here you can con someone into opening a laundry service. I think you’d be just the man for the job.
As for your college beaus, I think they didn’t deserve you. I think, if you love someone, you have to be willing to say that, even when it won’t necessarily be reciprocated. A mismatch there, so long as affection remains, does not necessarily doom a relationship, as long as you both eventually agree. As for Andrey, and I have no doubt that it was Andrey, going by what I’ve heard him say to his conquests in the bar, perhaps he just wasn’t cut out for you. Besides, it’s hardly logical to conclude you don’t know how to love. You’ve done it before, and you’ll do it again. I hope you find a wonderful match. Maybe he’ll even be here in the Town. You know, it might be worth giving it a quick check. There’s only some two or three million in the Capital, and almost four thousand here. Are my reasons for you to return getting any more convincing? I miss you, friend.
Bayartay,
Your friend the menkhu
There was some comfort to be had in the fact that Daniil was just as open himself. It made Artemy wonder if this was a product of loneliness. If he really meant anything at all to Daniil. If it was all just a product of what they’d been through together.
Dearest Artemy,
It displeases me to think of you worrying over loving in some right way. Firstly, I don’t even know if there is a wrong way to love. I’ve already admitted I’m a contemptible romantic, and worse still a utopian; I embrace my damning optimism for a better world. Well, I’ll admit I’ve tempered it, but if anything, it’s even more damning now. What can I say, to be loved is to be changed, and while I can’t say I know if your your town holds any love for me, I am certain that I hold some for it. Not that I’ve got a chance in hell of changing it. Its idiosyncrasies are part of its charm. I am not ordinarily the kind of man that knows how to appreciate things. I’m certain you can imagine just how exacting I am in everything, doubly so when there’s not a plague on. No one can accuse me of having good taste in clothing, but I am nonetheless demanding of its creators. You should see the way I torment tailors in the service of getting things just right. Actually, you shouldn’t, you’ll lose all respect for me (was there ever any to begin with, I wonder). Point being, whether it’s wine or art or lovers, I know exactly what it is I want, and I rarely settle for less. That much is evident, I take it. All this to say, you are someone who has taught me to learn to appreciate things as they are. I’m an irrepressible critic, yet you quiet me as easily as breathing, and I can’t seem to resent you for it. Burakh, that was a nearly impossible task, and yet you managed it. It wasn’t by your words, no. As much as I love to hear you talk (what a voice you have), the thing that convinced me was the love evident in everything you did.
Every moment I saw you, you were in the service of protecting the town you love, or the children you love, or the friends you love. I know I wasn’t terribly understanding at the time, but in time, I worked out that anything I thought an aimless foray was just another labor of your love. It’s clear in everything you do. I mean that. Everything. Even the cuts you make in autopsy are so precise. It shows your training, yes, but also your devotion. You know as well as I do that it’s easier to get at organs if you make it a hack job, taking out all that goddamn connective tissue in the way, and yet you never did. You made the same cuts you would have in surgery. Maybe I’m a fool, and you’ll tell me that you can’t do it anyway else now, but you won’t convince me of it. You do not take the path of least resistance, and while it certainly makes you a stubborn ass, it also makes you formidable. No odds seem to convince you to stray from your course of action. From what I understand about the collection of your so-called “living blood” for your panacea (Was it truly a panacea, or was it specific to this disease? Do you have any samples left that I could analyze?), it was quite the endeavor, and tremendous trouble. I don’t think you were in your right mind when you told me about it, but I suppose anything that makes a man say he’s met the heart of the earth and look like he’s lost six fistfights (though I don’t suppose you ever lose, dear Artemy) must have been arduous. And yet, look at where we are! You did it, and you kept on doing it to the final hour. You saw us all through that damned epidemic, and you never wavered.
These aren’t things a person without love can do. I know you’ll say that it’s not a matter of having love but of expressing it, but that’s where I think you’re wrong again. The only reason I can tell you all this is because it was so obvious. I’m not a man who picks up on subtlety. Never have been, and yet, it was as clear as day to me. You are driven by tremendous love. It awes me, truly. Anyone, or rather, any woman, who can’t see that doesn’t deserve a moment of your time. I mean that quite sincerely. You are the farthest thing from difficult to love. I suppose that’s revealing my hand here, isn’t it? I have little to say on the matter of your last lover, if she is who I believe her to be. You know my feelings on the matter. Whatever I felt toward that woman, the only thing that really mattered, once we were past the phase of determining fates, was that she mattered to you. That you loved her and lost her. I am terribly sorry that it all happened the way it did. Really, I suppose if we lived in a happier world, I would have had the chance to come around on her through your love for her. Would that we lived kinder lives. As for your sun, I mourn her with you. I remember her dance each day. She was the best of them.
I know they say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but it’s not a terribly helpful sentiment.. Were I to live in total darkness, never seeing the dizzying array of colors granted us, I’d hardly know how marvelous they were, and I’d have nothing to miss. No amount of other people telling me how beautiful it all was would create in me an experience I could not conceive. Don’t get me wrong, the point of life very much is to love and be loved; it is the greatest thing any human being may aspire to, short of immortality, and you know my thoughts on that. It’s true that loving is worth its cost, yet that’s perhaps the hardest thing to remember when you suffer it. In any of my many grapplings with love, the phase in which I came to embrace learning from experience was quite far removed from that raw, screaming agony of separation. It is my hope that you will come to a point where your pain serves you rather than wounds you. I think you’ve been wounded enough for a lifetime, based on the amount of stitches I gave you alone. God willing, you’ll never bear it again, if I have to force His hand myself.
It brings me undue joy to hear that you tell your children about me, and even more joy that they care. Maybe Mishka’s easy to bribe with bugs (I certainly was), but Sticky? That kid is discerning. Almost unduly so for a boy so young. I’m pleased to hear that he misses someone like myself. I made few friends in your town, while you seem to make them wherever you go, our reputations be damned. To have impressed someone like your boy is a testament to my having done something right, God knows what.. Certainly, the love I feel toward you is not of the sort you’d be looking for in a wife, but it’s love all the same. I hold you in the highest regard. I know you’ll hate reading this, because you can’t seem to accept a single kind word, but I mean it. I do. Artemy, you are the greatest lover, or rather the person-who-loves I’ve ever met by far, and terribly easy to love too. Don’t let anyone, least of all yourself, tell you otherwise.
With total faith in your capacity for love,
Your Bachelor Dankovsky
Artemy wrote his reply quickly, before he could think better of it and stop himself. At the end, he wrote in the calligraphy he hadn’t used for years. It relieved some of the pressure on his heart, and there was no risk of Daniil understanding it.
Daniil,
You’re right about love, about the way it colors everything I do. It’s why I saved the town, it’s why I saved the kids, it’s why I saved Lara and Stakh and Grief and you too, damn it! You tell me that I’m your dearest. I don’t think that’s true. I’m sure there must be someone dear to you, someone you never mentioned to me, who is that to you. For God’s sake, maybe it’s Andrey, or, and I hope this isn’t it, one of your colleagues in hiding. By God, it shouldn’t be me. You hardly know me, and I’m not worthy of your adoration. Daniil, I’m telling you this because I care , however you want me to put it. You are too good, too intelligent, too fucking worthwhile to waste your life mourning this fucking plague.
Yours,
Artemy Burakh
Days after he’d mailed his reply, he noticed a much shorter letter, written in Dankovsky’s most exact handwriting. Artemy opened it carefully, laughing at how precisely it was written. Perhaps a straightedge had been involved.
Burakh,
I have the strangest sense that I’ve already written to you, but when I looked for the letter, I couldn’t find it. The thing is, the night I finished it, I know I was inebriated. Please don’t hold me to account for whatever I said — what was it, please tell me? — and whatever it meant, if indeed it meant anything to you and if there was indeed anything to mean. Please do me the favor of not judging me too harshly. I am certain I have revealed things I had hoped not to.
Regards,
Bachelor Dankovsky
Reading that answered several of Artemy’s questions of late. Dankovsky had been perhaps excessively open. Artemy had cherished the opportunity, but it wasn’t a surprise that the man would feel some embarrassment. Best to assuage his fears.
Daniil,
Think nothing of it. If you want, we can pretend none of our last exchange ever took place. You are too good a colleague to lose over some silly misunderstanding. I’ll send this now, quickly, and by the time you get this, you should already have my response to your first letter, the one you’re worried about, anyway. Fear not, oynon. It’d be awfully hypocritical of me to start judging you now.
Your friend,
Artemy Burakh
Daniil felt overwhelming embarrassment from the moment he wrote that stupid letter to when he got the reply. He cringed at his own vulnerability, but couldn’t bring himself to truly regret it. What was done was done. It was better to have his heart broken now, before he could become any more attached, he told himself. Over and over again, every day he awaited the reply. The notion of utter humiliation was spared him only barely by the prospect of the fourth letter’s excuses. When he got Artemy’s first reply, he felt a powerful sense of relief. That was what it took for him to finally give in.
Dear Artemy,
Alright. You’ve won. I’ll come back. I wish I could tell you that you’ve worn me down, that by some enormous feat you’ve broken my will, but I’ve wanted it too, as long as you. You must understand that. You feel it too, between us and that place. It’s your home, I know, but you’ve spent enough time outside of it to know just how odd it is. Tell me, Artemy, why does it have this hold over us? I’ll let you have your way. You want me to come back, take me, alright? Come and get me. Either you’re true to your word, or you don’t really want a disgrace . If it’s the latter, have the decency to pretend you’ve died to spare me the humiliation. I’ll start mourning now, just to be safe.
Will I see you soon, friend?
Your Bachelor Dankovsky
Daniil held Artemy’s latest letter in his hand, terrified of the response. Perhaps Artemy would mock him — what an idiot Daniil was to think he could truly be welcomed in the Town. Him, the heartless doctor who’d doomed thousands. It seemed an impossibility. Still, he held out some amount of hope. If there was anyone in the world who could possibly be able to forgive him, it would be Artemy.
Daniil,
I’d send you money for tickets, but I think you might want some help moving. Listen, I need you to get boxes. Fuckton of boxes. You have no idea how much stupid crap I’m going to have to buy while I’m there. Kids would never forgive me otherwise. Sticky’s still mad I’m not bringing him with. Couldn’t seem to convince him that your apartment fits two people poorly and three not at all. At least it’s not student housing, hey? Thank god Murky doesn’t seem to quite grasp how far or how big the Capital is. I should bring them some day, assuming I won’t hang the moment I step off the train. Listen, do you have the documents to travel without arousing suspicion? Get them in order. Get everything in order, find all that shit. Please tell me you have your membership. They barely took me when I enlisted, and I get the feeling they won’t let me keep it. I’ll try and get Andrey to fix something up for you, but he’s having a hard enough time figuring me out. Shocked he’s willing, but I told him it was for you, and he didn’t even ask questions. Strange guy. Told me I have to buy some kind of special paint brushes for his brother. Kavonsky[6] or something. Really hoping you know where to buy those. And what they are. Peter’s descriptions left something to be desired.
Awaiting documents,
Artemy Burakh
Hating himself, Daniil held the letter to his chest like a storybook maiden reassured of her lover’s constancy. He shoved it into a drawer and walked into the kitchen. Tea would clear his mind, he thought. Perhaps there was some Earl Grey left.