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Daniil couldn’t say he had anticipated that he and Artemy would find so much in common; that their interests would align enough to foster not only a well-oiled working relationship, but a warm friendship as well—and yet, watching Artemy’s self-assured movements as he sliced his scalpel into a liver slick with blood, that was exactly where his last seven days in the town had led him.
After their mutual agreement, Daniil had taken up residence in Artemy’s lair. He had found it repugnant and unsanitary at first, but he had scrubbed every inch of it until it could be deemed appropriate to establish a desk at the corner of the room where he could do paperwork and a space to speak with patients. Daniil diagnosed and prescribed, while Artemy performed the grizzly work of surgery and used the leftovers to fashion new panaceas in the meantime—it was the perfect arrangement.
Of course, if Daniil found it appropriate on occasion to watch from his desk as Artemy used his sharp eyes and muscled arms to make quick work of his subjects (which was actually quite arousing, if one could get past the initial stage of disgust)—well, that was no one’s business but his.
Daniil had in fact been doing just that when Artemy, brows furrowed in deep concentration, muttered, “Kolkhoy, would you fetch me a fresh syringe?”
Feeling caught out, Daniil’s eyes jumped to Artemy’s face, but Artemy wasn’t glaring at him in accusation—in fact, he seemed to be avoiding Daniil’s eyes altogether, face growing red.
With effort, Daniil’s mind processed the unfamiliar word. “Kolkhoy?” he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.
A pause. “Ah, just another word for doctor.” Artemy dragged his thumb along the rim of a blood-dyed vial. “But I’m sure you’ve gotten used to oynon by now.”
There was a note of uneasiness in his voice, just enough to pique Daniil’s interest. “No,” he answered slowly, “that has a nice ring to it. Kowl-koy,” he pronounced, as poorly as he could manage. “Say it again, would you? I can’t get my tongue around it.”
There was another pause as Artemy turned away to fiddle with that processor machine of his, the one with a dark, gaping cavity that Daniil gave a two-foot berth at all times.
Artemy’s voice was rough when he responded. “No, that was right.” His shoulders had become very tense.
“I see,” Daniil said slowly, feeling lost; but eager not to let the matter drop, said, “Well then, perhaps you could address me by that name from now on—provided, of course, that it carries the air of respect that my station here demands. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Finally, Artemy turned around, fixing his gray eyes somewhere in the vicinity of Daniil’s left shoulder, lips pressed tightly together. “It is my father’s tongue, as familiar to me as the scent of smoke. Therefore, I am in no position to judge,” he conceded, and raised his eyebrows in a silent question.
Daniil smiled in response. “Then I suppose we’ve reached a verdict.”
Something in Artemy’s expression changed fractionally, and he took up a new syringe, returning to his work. “As you wish,” he muttered.
—
“Daniil?” Artemy called from their makeshift supply closet some days later, voice barely audible over the loud humming of machinery. “You have another patient.”
Daniil internally snickered at the note of irritation in Artemy’s voice—news had been spreading of the acclaimed doctor from the Capital, and more and more often, new patients would come knocking at all hours of the day. Most who were able to trudge the distance to Artemy’s factory hole didn’t have the Sand plague (a fact for which Daniil was equally disturbed and appreciative), and diagnosing them was a trivial matter. Tuberculosis, at worst, but more often than not the common cold or (more recently) malnutrition—for that, Daniil could do nothing. Food was hard to come by these days, even for wealthy doctors.
A scantily-clad woman stepped into the room, bearing the ruddy colors of the earth—a steppe woman, then, Daniil thought. She must have been in her mid-thirties, but there was an essence of good humor about her which made her seem younger. Quickly finishing off the sentence he had been writing, Daniil stood to address her. “Care to tell me your troubles?” he said.
But the woman just shook her head, pointing to her throat. “… hurts,” she managed, eyes narrowed in pain.
“Open wide,” he said, grabbing his flashlight. “Ahh… looks like streppe. I’ll do a test, but in the meantime, let me ask my colleague to fetch some antibiotic.”
He called Artemy’s name; after a second, the reply came. “Yes, kolkhoy? I’m in a bit of a bind here, if you don’t mind…”
Daniil turned back to the woman to give her a long-suffering look, but she was no longer paying attention to him: her eyes were opened wide in shock, and soon she began to laugh, seemingly against her will. “Ahh… you do me no favors, oynon…” she gasped, shoulders bobbing.
Secretly wondering if she had a screw or two loose, Daniil said, “Do you find something amusing?”
She made a beckoning motion with her hand. When Daniil moved towards her, she whispered in his ear, “That name… it means ‘dearest’ in our language. It is mostly heard between a mother and her children; but when it is said to another, it could only mean… forgive me!” she broke off into giggles again. “He must love you very much, to say such things in public.”
Artemy finally appeared in the doorway, looking disgruntled and out of breath. “I really can’t be in two places…”
He trailed off, eyes flickering between Daniil and the woman for a few seconds before landing on her attire. A look of realization crossed Artemy’s face, followed by horror.
Slowly, an awful idea entered Daniil’s mind, and he glared at him, his face burning with shame. “You were demeaning me? All this time?” he accused, pointing his finger right in Artemy’s face.
“Kol—oynon, I really didn’t… that is, I never meant to-”
“What, did you enjoy the idea of playing house with the idiot from the Capital who can’t even understand when he’s being ridiculed? Is that why you lied to me?” Daniil had started pacing, but he couldn’t help himself, mind leaping from one humiliating possibility to another. Had Artemy really been leading him on all this time, fooling him into thinking they were friends, that they would deal with this disaster together, only to secretly have been making a fool out of him all along? Would Artemy really be that cruel?
Daniil swallowed, eyes burning. “If you—if you’re simply trying to get me out of your hair, then I assure you that I-”
Artemy threw his hands out, trying to calm him. “No, of course not! Daniil, if you would just listen—”
Daniil opened his mouth to bite something back, but he was silenced when the steppe woman laid a hand on his shoulder. “Oynon, no; I did not laugh to mock you, nor is that what the word kolkhoy implies. It is merely a way to…” but she hesitated, glancing at Artemy as though she was about to divulge a secret he kept.
Artemy firmly shook his head. “I will say the words, adyg. Bless you.” He turned to Daniil with an expression of steel. “Daniil, I call you kolkhoy because you are dear to me; I felt compelled to lie in order to keep those feelings a secret. It is… not a word taken lightly among those of the steppe, nor something I could easily have explained away. Please trust that I never wished to demean you,” he pleaded, expression earnest.
Daniil couldn’t speak. He trusted Artemy utterly, but the idea of him mocking Daniil with false endearments was simply unbearable. “Are you being completely truthful?” he demanded, letting some of the desperation leak into his voice.
Something in Artemy’s brow eased, and he said quickly, “Yes, oynon. I will not use the word again if that is your desire.”
Flooded with relief, Daniil shook his head barely, registering only then that a third party was still in the room. She was staring politely at a spot in the corner, her long black hair nearly obscuring the smile on her face.
“We will discuss it later. But… Artemy…” Daniil hesitated for a moment before speaking the words: “Mihi quoque carus est.”
With that, Daniil went to search for his patient’s medicine himself, leaving a baffled Artemy standing in the middle of the room. He allowed himself to smile only after he had turned away, hoping that Artemy had paid enough attention to his Latin lessons in school to decode that particular sentence.
END