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“We’re unsure what exactly happened to him.” One of the Executors had told Artemy as he bid to make his way upstairs, “The disease--it doesn’t usually---well, make thorns grow around people.” Gesticulating with his hands, the Executor kept on, “It’s terrible, he fell two days ago, and it was as if he himself caused this.” Artemy watched the incredibly tall masked man stone-faced, this wasn’t his time to speak, he had to listen to every bit of it.
“We tried to cut them away with the doctor’s scalpel, but the blade was too dull, or the thorns too thick, it wouldn’t get through. The boy, Matchy--”
“Sticky. His name is Sticky.”
“Sticky. Forgive me. Sticky tried to tear at them with his hands. Lot of good that did him, we had to bandage him up, we’re glad you’re here now.” The man shifted, he lacked the usual face covering worn below the skull mask, making Artemy able to see every bit of worry on his freckled face, “Sticky is still up there now. I wish you luck. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Artemy definitely did not know what he was doing. The stairs creaked terribly as he finally ascended them, almost mocking him for daring to come. I should not have spent so much time away, Artemy was sweating, but it was not from the September heat, I should not have left them alone. It didn’t feel like he’d been missing that long, yet still the town had fallen to pieces without him. The Bachelor and Changeling tried to fill his void, and he had no doubt Rubin tried as well. But now Clara was missing, Rubin was with the army, and Daniil…
Artemy stood before the door to the room holding his son and the man just days prior he’d promised to come home to. With the plague still ravaging The Bridge Square, he was thankful Murky was still in her traincar. He wouldn’t have wanted her to see this, knowing how fond she was of the Bachelor. Sighing, Artemy pressed onwards, pushing open the door that had ‘ALIVE INSIDE’ etched into the wood.
It was a poor sight. The thorns had wrapped themselves around half the room at this point, their origin being the small pale body sleeping on the bed. Sticky was hunched over at Daniil’s side, but when he heard Artemy enter, he threw himself from the chair into his father’s arms, weeping loudly. Immediately moving to comfort the boy, Artemy rubbed his back soothingly, murmuring to him.
“We waited for you,” Sticky hiccuped, “We thought you died. We did. Murky and I got into a fight because I wanted her to come with me. Is she dead too? Is--Is he going to--”
“She’s alright, kid, and no, he’s not going to die.” Artemy promised, though admittedly, he did not know how sure he was about that, “How’s your hands?”
“They hurt, but I want you to fix him first. I won’t let you help until he’s all better, I won’t.” Stubborn as a bull, Sticky was. Stubborn like me, Artemy thought, “Alright then, outside. I need some time alone here.”
Alone, Artemy could properly deflate as he stepped to Daniil’s side. Pale white, his lips red and cracked, eyes rimmed with purple and red, dried streaks of what looked like tears down his cheeks, Daniil was a disaster. And yet there was a beauty about him still, even now, at the end of the plague’s hold on him. The thorny vines blossomed from a hole over his heart and swirled around him protectively. Were they his defense against his illness, or the plague’s against the Haruspex? It mattered not, they would not keep Artemy from Daniil. Would not keep the right hand from the left when it was reaching for help.
He fiddled with the panacea in his pocket as he leaned down over Daniil proper. The Bachelor’s breaths came out in small huffs, panicked, as if he were having a nightmare. What causes you fear, Spyashaya krasavets? Artemy wondered to himself, What haunts you and keeps you under? Gently brushing the hair from Daniil’s face, he jerked back lightly when the thorns made to grasp at him.
“I’m trying to help you, Danya, don’t push me away now.” Artemy said, uncorking the bottle of panacea, “I’ll help you. Let me help you.” Pushing past the curls of thorns now encasing Daniil’s exhausted face, Artemy tilted his chin down to open his mouth. The panacea, thankfully, went down without a problem. And yet, Daniil did not rouse, the thorns did not retreat. Artemy’s heart froze, surely he wasn’t too late, surely he could not have failed to protect one of the things he cared most about.
Thumbing his cheeks as he leaned in further, Artemy ignored the thorns wrapping around him now. If they were a part of Daniil, he would not shy from them, they would not keep him away. He could feel Daniil’s breath on his lips, and he chuckled sorrowfully, “Am I your prince, my Danya? So dramatic, don’t you know what’s going on outside?”
Daniil’s lips weren’t soft as the stories he’d read of the sleeping princess as a younger man. Artemy’s kiss to his lips was not one of passion, but one of grief. His tears slipped onto the Bachelor’s cheeks, running down over his thumbs where he cupped Daniil so gently. The thorns tore at his butcher’s smock, at his skin, but still he stayed. In their kiss he felt only the pain that shot through his heart, the gut-wrenching feeling of loss. He did not notice the thorns slowly abating, did not feel Daniil’s hand move to grip his side.
When he pulled away, Artemy’s blue eyes met tired, but very much alive brown eyes. He choked. Daniil smiled, pained.
“I knew you’d come for me.”