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“Are you frightened, Bachelor?”
Daniil scoffs. That could only be one of those executors. “I have nothing to fear.”
Instead of walking the long way around, he opts for the shorter path through the herbs and rubble. His coat is oppressive in the beating rain, but he would be an idiot to disrobe it - a man is nothing if not easily recognisable. His fate would be decided at the cathedral, and it wouldn’t wait forever. Better to be known on sight.
The executor trails behind, a presence unwanted but not enough to warrant an outburst. “Confidence and naivety are often two hands belonging to the same.”
“I’m not sure I believe you. A wise man takes his chances-”
“And the fool does what?”
“I suppose,” Daniil says, “that the fool would hang back in the shadows. Rot , if he has to.” His voice shakes, hands balled into fists. The ground remains stable, ever-present, but he feels like he’s floating far from it.
Absently, he dreams. A song is being sung by one of the local children, providing a disturbing soundtrack to the drumming of his mind. He does not let it perturb him. People need dreams.
“And you will be in the open,” the executor says, “costume and all?”
Despite everything, Daniil smiles. It doesn't feel real. None of this does. “What other choice do I have?”
“A few, perhaps.” The executor doesn’t need to say anything else, but they do. “The sun will set regardless.”
“And fate is tied to me, I’m sure. Acta deos numquam mortalia fallunt, as the saying goes.”
“Still flaunting, bachelor? There’s no need to be dismissive. Your pride will be the death of you, as ironic as that may be.”
Daniil’s eyes are drawn to the top of the cathedral as he comes to a stop. He keeps them fixed on the mid-distance, almost hesitant. It is the first moment of respite he’s had in weeks. “How so?”
“What do you think they’re singing about?”
He frowns. “What?”
“The town. What are their cries? Do you feel them within you?”
“I’d imagine something to do with false hope. What-?” Daniil turns, but the executor is gone.
What does it matter what the town sings for? A cry for grief or false optimism? Doom will linger in the shadows, and the singing will stop. Nothing more is to be done but the cathedral’s call.
He reaches the steps. The singing stops.
