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Notkin was young when he fell in love. He was young and running into the steppe, meeting someone that loved him. He was young and had found his Half, his soul. He was young when he felt it die. The town was drowning in blood, and Notkin was drowning in grief.
Sometimes he thinks the Sand Pest broke him. He was the only survivor to have had it twice. On good days he stands with his friends. He helps keep the peace between his pack and Khan’s, and even musters the energy to smile at Kapella. On bad days, he doesn’t move. He can’t move. He drags his nails across the dry skin, trying desperately to quell an itch bubbling under the surface.
Days were hard, but nights were harder. In his dreams, Notkin burns. Someone throws a match at his feet, the steppe igniting like tinder, searing the flesh from his bones. In some dreams he tries to run. He follows flashes of grey further into the steppe, but the herbs he could never name cut jagged lines into his calves, grabbing at his ankles. Dragging him into the mud. He burns to death at the edge of the Gorkhon, a grey cat watching him from the other side of the river.
Notkin groaned and cracked open his eyes, squinting against the light flooding in from the open door of his warehouse. That meant it was at least noon, he noted with a frown. Within moments his eyes had adjusted to the light, and he frowned at the teen in the doorway.
“What?” He asked Sticky, who was softly closing the door behind him. The teen had grown taller since the outbreak, gangly limbs stretching him above Notkin by at least a head.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were sleeping.” Sticky maintained his distance as Notkin stood, grimacing.
“It wasn’t my intention,” Notkin frowned. He hated oversleeping. His pack and Khan’s, though less lethal than the year before, still got into fights when left unsupervised. His absence only guaranteed more messes to clean up later. “What time is it?”
“A little after 15:00.”
Notkin swore. It was time for business, he could berate himself later. “What do you need?”
“Burakh just wanted me to check in with everyone today. Do you have enough food?”
“Yes, yes,” he answered, shooing Sticky towards the door. “I’m fine, go check on one of the others.”
As he leaned to open the door, Notkin stumbled, falling into Sticky. The teen quickly grabbed him by the shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Notkin took a deep breath, noticing the spots in his vision.
“Notkin?” Sticky asked, waving his free hand in front of his face.
God, Notkin thought, he sounded more like Burakh every day. He shrugged off Sticky’s hold as soon as his vision cleared. “I’m fine,” he said, quickly, “go to the others.”
Sticky frowned, the spitting image of Burakh.
“Get out,” Notkin snapped, scratching at his elbow. It was burning.
Sticky raised his hands in a mock surrender, backing up through the threshold, “You know where to find us if you need anything.”
Notkin slammed the warehouse door shut, and the room was once again in a comfortable darkness. His arm burned. He sat against the wall, the metal cooling his blistering skin. Today was bad. He let his eyes drift shut, and pretended the sound of the breeze was accompanied by a brush of fur against his ankle.
There was a tug on his sleeve. He opened his eyes slowly. Ginger was an inch from his face, her large brown eyes unblinking. Notkin jumped, and hissed as his arm brushed against the wall and started itching again. Ginger squeaked and stood back, but not fast enough that Notkin didn’t see the bruise on her jaw.
Notkin shifted, sitting straighter, and reached out to look at her jaw. “Who did this?” He asked, quietly.
Ginger grinned. “It was one of the mutts. He made fun of my mouse so I kicked him in the stomach. I didn’t expect the punch, but I won!”
Notkin sighed, and added a visit from Khan on the list of things he could expect today. “You know we’re at peace with the Dogheads, Ginger. I’m not mad, but next time please come to me before kicking.”
She pouted. Notkin didn’t blame her. Her parents didn’t survive the Sand Pest, and Notkin was glad that her acting out wasn’t any worse. He could handle her ferocity. He wouldn’t know how to handle her tears.
“Promise to come to me first next time you want to fight?”
She nodded. “Then I can fight them?”
“Of course.” he said, holding back his chuckle.
Ginger grinned, and rushed forward to give him a hug. He gasped as her small arms left burning impressions in his side. She flinched and jumped back. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.
Notkin grimaced, shifting to quell the growing itch. “It’s nothing. I’m just not feeling well. Don’t worry.”
Ginger started sniffing.
Notkin’s eyes widened as he sent a silent prayer to anyone listening. Please--no tears.
Before he could say anything more, she turned and sprinted out the door. He swore and leaned forward to run after her, but fell back with a gasp. The room was spinning, and his stomach twisted painfully as he crashed into the ground, curling into himself. He took deep breaths through his clenched teeth, abating the waves of nausea. Raising his head to stand was out of the question, his only shred of comfort being pushing his burning forehead into the cold dirt.
He drifted for hours, or minutes. He couldn’t tell. As the feeling of nausea subsided he lifted his head, and crawled to lean against the wall. He must’ve caught something. He hadn’t felt this bad since--. Notkin drew a deep, shuddering breath and banished those thoughts.
COME HERE.
Notkin winced, and pressed a hand to his temple. Kapella didn’t have the practice to send anything more complicated than a summons, and even then it was graceless and brutal. More of a shout in his mind than a whisper. One day she would be fantastic, but it wasn’t today.
YOU ARE NEEDED.
He hissed a breath through his teeth. He wasn’t trekking across town to the crypts today, and thought of his refusal as loud as he could. Hopefully she would get the idea and stop screaming into his ear.
As Notkin pulled himself to his feet, moving into a more dignified sprawl, the door cracked open again. He squinted against the sun’s glare.
“Your lackeys grow concerned, Notkin.” Khan’s unimpressed droll echoed across the metal walls.
Notkin raised an eyebrow, and relaxed when the harsh light dimmed as the door closed.
“Kapella is busy comforting one of your distraught children. Ginger, I think? She came in wailing about how you had the sand plague again. I didn’t need that kind of headache in my life today.”
Notkin shrugged, “Sorry,” he rasped, “she’s just afraid. She’s the only one in her family left, you know how it is. I’m fine, she’s overreacting.”
Khan crossed his arms. “Fine. Stand up.”
“You can’t order me around, I’m not one of your—”
“You want to prove to me that you’re fine? I’ll leave and get out of your dirt-encrusted hair. Just stand up.”
Notkin took a deep breath, steeling himself. He could do this. He pulled himself up by the support beam, and leaned against it. He hoped it looked casual. “See? I’m fine.”
“Awfully pale for someone who’s fine.” Khan leaned into his space, and pressed a hand to his forehead. “You look like shit, and your skin is burning.”
Notkin scowled and swatted his hand out of his face. “I don’t need you here.”
“Oh?” Khan tilted his head, and pushed Notkin off of the pole he was leaning against. It didn’t take very much force. Without the support beam Notkin fell to the ground with a thud. He lay on the floor in a sprawled heap.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” Notkin groaned as he struggled to rise. His head fell to the floor as another wave of nausea and vertigo crashed over him.
Khan smiled, crouching down to place a hand to the back of Notkin’s neck. “I remember my mother doing this when I was ‘fine’ as a child. Does it help?”
His hand steadied the vertigo, and Notkin gave an affirmative sound. More of a groan than anything resembling functional speech.
“Oh and,” Khan paused, grinning, “Kapella went to get Burakh an hour ago. He should be here any minute now.”
Notkin sulked, scratching at his elbow. Khan was swatting his hand away as the door opened again, wide. Notkin hissed at the sunlight. He missed his Half. Heavy footsteps identified Burakh, Notkin didn’t need to open his eyes.
“Hello Burakh. Notkin’s caught something. He can’t stand.”
“Thank you Khan,” Burakh’s deep voice rumbled closer to Notkin than he expected, “you can go back to Kapella’s now. I can keep an eye on him.”
“No, I think I’ll stay. If I go back now Kapella will only make me go back to check on him. No reason to waste a trip.”
There was a sound of rustling cloth, and the clink of glass bottles. Burakh’s large hand pressed to the side of his face, terribly cold. “Notkin, do you think you can open your eyes?”
He shook his head. Everything was too bright.
“Alright, then open your mouth. The taste will be unpleasant.”
Notkin knew what he had to drink. He had more tinctures in a week than a man should have in his entire lifetime. In his nightmares, the bitter, decaying flavor stayed thick on his tongue. He suppressed a gag as Burakh poured a tincture down his throat, Medrel, by the taste of it. He steeled himself to the cramping the vile liquid caused in his stomach, but couldn’t stop a whimper from escaping his tightly closed lips.
“I know, I know,” Burakh whispered, running his hand through Notkin’s sweat-soaked hair, “we’re almost done. Only one more.”
Notkin shuddered, but felt another hand grab his own. Khan was quiet.
“Last one,” Burakh whispered as Notkin drank the next Yas tincture. He gasped and thrashed as the mixture settled like knives into his stomach. “You’ve done so well. Yamar berkhe khybyyn. Bayarlaa.”
Notkin sighed as Burakh administered morphine, his feather-light touch making the pinch of the needle almost painless. He pushed his hair away from his sweaty forehead.
“You have an infection. It is in the nerves. It is not deadly. You need to drink more water and try to eat. You would be safer in my house.”
Notkin opened his eyes when Burakh handed him an antibiotic. He took the pill and frowned, “I can’t just leave everyone here unsupervised, they’ll—”
“I can get Kapella to watch your pack for a few days,” Khan interrupted, “they’re less scared of her then me, at least.”
He hesitated. “Okay, but only a few days.”
“Great.” Burakh claps and hefts Notkin into his arms. He gives an undignified squak.
“I can walk.” Notkin fumes.
“No he can’t!” Khan calls out from behind Burakh, grinning.
“You shithead,” Notkin spits at Khan, thrashing, “I’m not five, Burakh. I don’t need to be carried!”
Burakh smiled, and readjusts his grip. “Don’t worry, when I have to carry Khan I’ll be sure to let you watch. Also, call me Artemy.”
“No.”
Burakh pouts, but his lips twitch in a smile as Notkin is carried out of the warehouse. Notkin felt his eyes begin to drift shut, a wave of exhaustion crashing over him. Burakh’s steady heartbeat was soothing as Notkin relaxed further into his grip.
“We’ll be home soon, get some rest.”
Notkin smiled and closed his eyes, the echoing sounds of the town lulling him to sleep.