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It's the middle of the night. Silence and darkness swallowed the Town long ago but one man is still working in the yellow, oily, light of the lamp. Hunched over his table, Bachelor Dankovsky was writing. Writing and writing and writing, restless pen scribbling in tight cursive, lines, and lines of words covering paper from top to bottom and on both sides, like maggots and bugs covering a rotting corpse.
Did you eat, dear Bachelor? Eva would ask. You should sleep, dear Bachelor, you look tired, Eva would say. Eva… He was tired but there was no time for rest yet. Another minute, another hour, and then, for sure, maybe, he will take a break. Until it starts all over again. Each second is a lost soul. Each breath is someone’s last.
The front door closes a little too loudly for Daniil's liking and then there is shuffling towards the stairs and up. He doesn't need to look away from his work to see who it might be for he already knows. The scent of blood and twyre touches the air as Haruspex enters the room. Wordlessly, he makes his way to the bed, rather dragging himself than walking, takes off his tightly laced combat boots and the smock, and lies down. He sighs.
«Any progress?» His voice was soft, strained. He sounds like a rustle of grass in the Steppe.
«Not really. It's like I'm catching the glimpses of truth but never able to grasp it.» Daniil admits, rolling the pen between his fingers, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows where it found an almost permanent residence.
«Hm.» That's all Artemy says.
The room is silent again, the only sounds being steady breathing, scraping of pen on papers and a tap tap tap of rain against the glass window. It’s been raining a lot lately and Daniil wonders if the water washes away the suffering of people and into the river to carry it further away from here. He wonders. The Town has been affecting him in odd ways, breaking his logic, and filling his mind with metaphors.
Bachelor rubs his blood-shot exhausted eyes. This is it, he can't focus or process anymore, and his brain is giving up. To avoid working himself into an early grave, which isn't ideal when you are in the middle of saving other people, Daniil finally puts away his notes. He stands up, taking off his beloved coat and throwing it over the back of the chair. Next goes his cravat and vest, button after button until all is left is his shirt. He rolls up his sleeves and takes off his gloves. He doesn’t bother with putting on his sleepwear as he would wake up in about 4 hours.
Daniil stares at his bed where his guest rests. Should he take Eva’s bed? No, he’d rather not sleep in the dead woman’s place if he doesn’t want her spirit visiting his dreams. He has been suffering from nightmares since he got here. Daniil dreams of blood fountain from the earth, dreams of Herb Brides dancing around his lifeless body in an endless loop, dreams of a bull-headed man taking his heart from his chest. Awful, really.
Bed creeks under his weight pathetically, whining like a dog, mattress dipping. It’s a tight fit and Dankovsky feels Burakh’s body heat. It reminds him that he isn’t alone, it’s comforting and he accepts it even though he hates admitting he needs it. His eyes seem to close themselves as the warmth envelops him. Rain lulls him to sleep.
Dankovsky awakes with a shudder as something wraps around his neck. In front of him is Artemy, who exhales through his nose loudly, in relief, and takes away his hand. The place he touched burns as if he poked him with a lit matchstick.
“What were you doing?” Daniil questions immediately, wide-eyed and confused from sleep. Images from his dreams slip past his fingers like mist. He blinks.
“…Checking your pulse, erdem.” Artemy averts his gaze, sounding sheepish, like a naughty child who got caught.
“And may I ask what for?”
“To know that you are alive.”
They lay like this for some time, without saying anything. Daniil wonders if he really looks dead in his sleep. Is it the paleness of his skin that makes him similar to ghosts? Is it the dark circles nestled on his face, signs of pushing himself beyond limits and reason? Is it the softness of his breathing, so light you can barely hear it? Or is it the Death itself, looming over them, waiting patiently for a chance to lock them in a sweet embrace? Being the Founder of Thanatica, Dankovsky was more than familiar with it. He wonders. Aren’t all people holding its loving but cruel hand in the end?
Artemy snaps him out of it by tracing the calloused pads of his fingers over his naked forearm between them. He might be studying my Lines, Daniil thinks. Well then, he has plenty to work with as his wrist is covered in those, thin and wide, white and red, short and long, whispers of misery.
“Birch.” Burakh mumbles.
“What?” Daniil raises an eyebrow.
“Your arm looks like a birch tree. Porcelain and striped. Lonely in this Steppe.” He explains. “Birch is graceful and tender but also highly adaptive to harsh conditions.”
“Haven’t seen a single one here.” Bachelor stares at the hand that studies him. It stops in the middle of a long vertical cut, the shadow of desperation.
“Steppe is mostly grassland. Although, there are some aspens. You are no aspen as aspens grow alone here.”
“Didn’t you say the birch was alone?”
“Lonely and alone are different things.” Haruspex corrects him, his warm palm at his pulse again. Bachelor pretends his heart isn’t breaking at the seams, trembling just like aspen leaves in the wind, embarrassingly so betraying the poetic analogy just made. Betraying his stoic mask and him with it.
“And what are you then?” He swallows down his shame, almost choking.
“What do you think?”
“Oak tree, maybe?”
“Oak in the Steppe, nookherni?” The smallest smile appears on Artemy’s lips, the corners of his eyes softening along with that.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you just called me an idiot.” Daniil huffs. Then notices the rain stopped. What time is it? “I’m waiting for your suggestion, noo-her-nee.” God, he surely butchered that word.
“I’m not sure anymore. Perhaps, birch as well.” Their fingers intertwine tightly like roots, grounding them both in now. It feels like a promise and Daniil wonders…
In the field, a birch tree stood
In the field, a curly birch stood
Lyuli, lyuli, it stood
No one to break the birch tree
No one to break its curls
Lyuli, lyuli, to break
How I’ll go to the forest for a walk
And I’ll break that white birch
Lyuli, lyuli, I will break
I’ll cut three branches from the birch
I’ll make myself three flutes
Lyuli, lyuli, three flutes
The fourth one – balalaika
Then I’ll go to the new porch
Lyuli, lyuli, to the new porch
I’ll begin to play the balalaika
To awake my darling
Lyuli, lyuli, to awake
Get up, my dear, wake up
You, my soul, wake up
Lyuli, lyuli, wake up
Let’s go home to have some fun
Let’s go home to have some fun
Lyuli, lyuli, some fun