Chapter Text
Bang
The wolf’s blood was still steaming as it trickled into the snow. Illya finally exhaled, fog erupting from his lungs and into the winter air as he lowered the rifle in his hands—another successful hunt. The beast itself wasn’t the largest, Illya noted as he approached, it was emaciated even, undoubtedly a lone wolf that was unsuccessful after it left its birth pack. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for the thing, but only a twinge. The beast started hunting the sheep and cattle that Morepesok’s residents reared, undoubtedly out of desperation, but the damage was still too much, and it had to be stopped. Illya didn’t say a word as he hunched over its still-warm corpse, its eyes wide open and glazed over, hollow.
(He could barely remember what happened that day. Dr. Kuzminsky said it was to be expected given the gash on his head, but that also, sometimes, those memories would return. They didn’t, except for one. The memory of those lifeless cerulean eyes that Illya saw before he was flung to the ground with that burst of pain and an awful crack. They were nothing like anything he’d ever seen before, and he couldn’t help but see them every time he pulled the trigger.)
Illya ran his tongue across the silver tooth nestled neatly in his gums.
Taking out his hunting knife, Illya got to work as he carefully cut through tissue and sinew, slicing through the beast’s belly, then its legs, before finally removing the wolf’s grey pelt in one swift motion, stopping just at the head, which was promptly sawed off. He never really liked hunting wolves, there was little use of the flesh, at least bears were sometimes palatable enough to be eaten. But it couldn’t be helped, this one had caused too much trouble, so Illya broke off a few dried branches and cleared away a bit of snow, erecting a funeral pyre for the newly naked carcass he hauled onto it. He struck a match, said a prayer (not to the Tsaritsa, but to He of the Woods and the Mistress of Thaw), and watched as the crackling, crimson flames licked at the carcass with a hiss.
“Thank you,” Illya whispered with reverence to the carcass, to the woods. “Thank you for the hunt.”
Osip Arkadyevich was still by the campfire by the time Illya got back, greeting him with a glance and a grunt.
(Seemed like none of the more supernatural residents of the woods came to join them this time. Shame, Illya had wanted to say ‘hi’ to the kids, he did promise to look out for them after all.)
“Another success,” Osip remarked. “He must be pleased.”
“I’d hope so, learnt from the best after all,” Illya chuckled, laying the wolf pelt onto the fleshing beam and grabbing his tools. The pelt itself was of decent quality despite the state of the wolf, undoubtedly it would sell well once he was done with it.
Osip only snorted at that. “So long as you don’t get too cocky like I did. The servants of Lady Zhiva aren’t to be trifled with after all, you and I know that better than anyone else in this village.”
Osip seemed unfazed when a much younger Illya had asked him about the scars that marred his face, just slightly exasperated if anything else. The elder’s apostasy was an open secret after all, and rumours surrounded those scars for decades
“I used to be a hunter,” he explained, “best shot in the entire region in fact. But that all got to my head and He of the Woods sent me a reminder, a big old bear that’s what.”
Osip turned to the boy, cocking a brow at the latter’s shock. “What? Wasn’t the worst that could’ve happened. I’d say He let me off quite easily for breaking a pact, He could’ve just killed me for violating His rules after all.”
“Rules are rules,” Illya replied as he started scraping off the fat that still clung onto the underside of the pelt. “I’ve got ‘em all memorised, it’ll be fine.”
(‘Don’t enter the forest before announcing your presence and asking for permission, don’t forget a gift for Him either, don’t talk too loudly, don't swear, don’t repeat or answer any calls you may hear and don’t even think about whistling like He does, don't cut down any tree before it’s time, don’t take too much from the forest, don’t invoke the Tsaritsa that claims sole rulership over Snezhnaya, and don’t speak ill of the sister she slew.’
Sure, it was a lot, some of it near-nonsensical if not outright heretical to an outsider, but Illya had to do a lot of convincing for the old man to even let him learn how to write up his own pact.)
“‘Course you do, you never were one to forget so easily,” Osip muttered before taking a long sip from the mug in his hands. “You’re a good kid, Illya. Why spend so much time with a grouchy old man like myself, eh? Find something better to use your time with. You’re still young, go get a wife, or anyone really, most boys your age have by now.”
Illya paused.
Marriage wasn’t an alien thought to him. He wasn’t like Kyrena who loathed the idea entirely and acted like anyone who tried matchmaking with her had personally spat in her face, but that wasn't to say he was desperate for any of that either. Admittedly, Illya didn't really see the point with the way things turned out for him regardless of what he wanted. It wasn't as if he ever understood the craze that seemed to fall onto most of his cohort when they became teenagers anyway, never understood that, sometimes, people were only being friendly with him because they wanted him for something other than friendship.
(In his defence, he used to be fairly popular amongst his peers. At least, that was until Ajax came back… )
“Eh, I think I’m good,” Illya shrugged. “Can’t say I’m particularly interested. ‘Sides, my face is too banged up for most people to consider handsome enough.”
Osip scoffed, “‘course you’re not… how could I forget you’re too busy trailing head over heels after that Sobolevsky boy.”
Illya choked on air at that. “W-well, we’ve been close since we were young. ‘Sides, Dima, he… he never left me, unlike the others...”
A glint of understanding shone in Osip’s remaining eye at that before he turned back to the campfire. “If you say so kid.”
Dmitry was behind the counter when Illya entered the butchery, looking up from the bench before smiling. “Oh, welcome back, medvezhonok, what did you bring with you this time? Or…” Dmitry chuckled, “did you want to just come see me again?”
“Uh, well actually-“ Illya coughed, clearing his throat. “Remember that wolf that kept attacking the Oliynyks’ herd? Figured Uncle Ivan would want the skull. It’s uh, it’s outside, in a box.”
Most people preferred their wolf pelts to be on the softer side after all, and it would be a great pity to just dispose the skull when there was little else he could’ve used the carcass for to begin with.
“Aww, how thoughtful of you~” Dmitry purred, “Papa will be so happy to add this to his collection, he’s had to go deliver some orders to the general store.”
“Oh, is…. Is that so…” Illya’s eyes darted away from Dmitry’s hazel gaze, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head.
“You should stay a little longer,” Dmitry hummed, “it won’t be too long ‘til Papa gets back. Besides, it’s so cold outside, isn’t it?”
“…sure.”
It wasn't as if he could ever say ‘no’ to Dmitry after all. They had known each other their whole lives, all twenty-something years of them. Their parents were friends, so it only made sense for their children to be familiar enough with one another. But with that being said, neither Dmitry nor his sister, Tatiana, shared such a close bond with any of Illya’s siblings. Every moment, every high and low, Dmitry was there. It felt… strange to Illya when he wasn’t around.
“Just ignore them,” Dmitry said, holding Illya’s hand as he guided the latter back to his first day of school after Ajax… well…
It was sudden, to go from being so well-liked to being a social pariah, as the people he once laughed with him, people he once considered friends, now instead avoided him wherever possible. The bandages on his face felt as suffocating as the murmurs and stares. His head was still swollen, it stung and ached, the pain washing over him in waves. Illya stumbled a little as he suddenly became light-headed, just briefly, taking a second to regain his footing. His tongue swiped over the fresh gap in his gums.
“Hey,” Dmitry squeezed Illya’s hand, “you alright?”
Illya couldn’t help but grimace, his feet frozen in place. “I… I don’t know.”
“Well, no matter what everyone else says, I still think nobody can even come close to you.” Dmitry grinned, “because you’re Illya Serhiyovych Neshchadymenko, the bravest and the most handsome guy in all of Morepesok. And nothing will ever change that for me.”
Warmth flooded Illya’s senses, his heart thrumming within the confines of his rib cage as Dmitry smiled and gently guided him into the schoolhouse.
Oh.
Oh…
So, this is what people chased after all along, huh?
“So, uh,” Illya swallowed, “how’s business been these days?”
“Oh, the same as yesterday mostly,” Dmitry chuckled, “but that being said, Ciotka Volha’s been buying extra just in case Lord Pulcinella and his retinue are hungry by the time they arrive.”
A feeling of dread prickled Illya’s gut at the reminder.
“Yeah…” Illya murmured, “that seems like Aunt Volha all right.”
Lord Pulcinella had sent word roughly a week ago, saying he would personally come to Morepesok to talk about Ajax’s current state and affairs, despite the latter’s consistent (yet sanitised) letters to Tonia.
Whatever it was, it must have been significant enough to warrant a visit in the first place with the Fifth Harbinger’s schedule.
The door suddenly rustled open as Dmitry’s father, Ivan, returned, brushing off the residual snow on his tulup with a huff.
“Bozhe, it’s really starting to pick up at this hour…” the older man grumbled to himself before looking up. “Oh, privyet Illya, how’ve you been?”
“Pretty good!” Illya grinned, shaking off any remnants of his previous thoughts, “I managed to get you a new skull too!”
Ivan immediately perked up at that. “A skull? What kind?”
“Wolf, I’ve left it at the entrance,” Illya said, pointing to the box below the window, “I didn’t have the time to flesh it so I made sure it was frozen enough to bring back to you.”
Indeed, Illya had to give that time to the pelt rather than cleaning up the skull, but Ivan had decades of experience in maceration anyway, it would have been better to leave that part in his hands regardless.
“My, perhaps, today was truly blessed after all…” Ivan whispered in utter awe at the skull that now lay within his grasp. “You’ve outdone yourself once again my boy, how should I compensate you? Mora? Some meat? A different skull from my collection?”
“Oh no no, it’s fine, Uncle, I insist,” Illya laughed, “it’s not even fully cleaned or anything, I just thought it’d be such a waste to dispose of it while working on the pelt.”
“And you’re damn right about that! Mitya!” Ivan called out, immediately slipping his coat back on with a pair of rubber gloves and rushing back out the door, “make sure you properly reward Illya for his hard work, I’ll be out back!”
Dmitry just smiled in amusement. “Got it, Papa. Ah… him and his bones…”
The elder Sobolevsky’s eccentricities were already pretty well known by the residents of Morepesok. From a young age, Ivan Zakharovich had been collecting bones, either off the butchery's floors or out in the woods, and that habit persisted decades later. But it also meant that he was more than capable when it came to inheriting the family trade and his collections were stored away in the privacy of his home, so people rarely batted an eye.
“Papa is right though, you do deserve a reward for your hard work,” Dmitry mused aloud. “But hm… what to do, what to do…”
“Oh it’s fine really!” Illya spluttered, his face heating up rapidly. “I’m just happy that it didn’t have to go to waste and uh…”
“Oh?” Dmitry tilted his head, “medvezhonok, would you mind coming a bit closer please?”
Illya didn’t say a word as he awkwardly shuffled closer to the counter, his heart running at a mile a minute, pounding blood in his ears. Dmitry just smiled before he brought a handkerchief to Illya’s face.
(It took an embarrassing amount of restraint for Illya to not lean into that touch, to indulge that craving that was suddenly reignited.)
“You had a little something there,” Dmitry explained, retracting the handkerchief as Illya allowed himself to finally relax. “Would you like to come over for dinner again someday perhaps? I’m sure Mama and Dziadulia would be happy to see you again.”
“Oh, uh, yes please,” Illya rasped, “I think it’s been a while since I last saw grandpa Kazimir…”
“Then it’s settled,” Dmitry concluded, neatly folding the handkerchief and tucking it into his apron. “If you want, you can come over tonight even.”
Illya's in a breath to respond, only for his ears to pick up the unmistakable sound of a troika and its horses approaching, as well as the sounds of people’s curiosity being piqued from outside.
“A… Fatui insignia?” Dmitry squinted, making his way to the window next to Illya. “That’s odd, didn’t Lord Pulcinella say he was arriving tomorrow?”
Illya simply watched as the occupants of the sleigh gradually descended, fur-lined mantles and all. In the front was undoubtedly the Lord Harbinger himself, flanked by two of his subordinates, imposing as they marched with each well-trained step.
“Seems like he’s early then,” Illya muttered, slipping his cap back onto his head as he made his way to the door. “Sorry Dima, looks like I’ll have to get back to you on dinner plans later.”
Dmitry just shook his head and sighed a little. “That’s no trouble at all. Take care now, alright?”
Illya simply smiled back. “Of course.”
“Lord Rooster! Welcome back!”
Pulcinella turned towards the source of the voice, Illya, waving as he approached the harbinger and his guards.
“At ease,” Pulcinella commanded the two Fatui that flanked him. “Illya, my boy, it’s good to see you again. I hope you and your family are able to pardon the premature arrival on my part.”
“Likewise, my lord. I’m sure everyone will be happy to hear about our brother earlier anyway, I’d be happy to walk you over too,” Illya grinned, silver briefly flashing in the sunlight. “I trust the journey was smooth?”
Lord Pulcinella had, for the most part at least, kept his word with Ajax and their father. The former did ultimately end up receiving his reprimand from the Lord Harbinger, and the Lord Harbinger himself had also made efforts to watch over their family whilst Ajax was away. Illya, frankly, still couldn’t bring himself to trust him, but at the very least, the Lord Rooster seemed to have no ill intent when it came to the village as a whole. The two guards at his side, however, were fresh faces to Illya underneath their ivory masks. While they may have been handpicked by Lord Pulcinella himself, they were still an unknown variable as far as Illya was concerned.
“That would be very kind of you, Illya, thank you.” Lord Pulcinella said before gesturing to the two Fatui. “Right, I’ve yet to introduce you all. Agrippina Kirillovna and Aleksandr Kirillovich, I owe these two my gratitude for the easy journey thus far.”
“Illya Serhiyovych,” Illya returned, extending a gloved hand. “Pleasure to meet you both.”
“Ah, no wonder then,” Aleksandr remarked as he took Illya’s hand, giving a firm but somewhat restrained shake. With his physique also in mind, Illya surmised, Aleksandr would most likely specialise with heavier weapons such as a claymore. “Pleasure meeting one of Lord Childe’s siblings, I can see the resemblance!”
“Heh, I get that a lot. We were born so close together we may as well have been twins!” Illya laughed, the subsequent bitterness in his mind staying in his head, thankfully.
(It was a comment he had heard a lot when they were younger. Illya’s hair was just a slightly deeper shade of red than Ajax’s, and his eyes a warmer cyan whilst Ajax inherited their father’s cerulean. Perhaps if one were to look closely they’d start noticing the other differences, like how Ajax had their mother’s smile or how Illya had their father’s nose instead, but to many a stranger, their freckled faces were apparently similar enough.
That was back then though, and many things changed. Like how Illya’s hair had to be shorn off to stitch his scalp back together, caked with freshly coagulated blood and archons knew what else. Illya didn’t bother trying to grow his hair again when it came back in patches thanks to the scars that were left behind.)
Illya shook his head a little before continuing. “Forgive me for being bold but, would you two happen to be siblings too?”
“Unfortunately,” Agrippina playfully sighed as she too shook hands with Illya. A stronger grip than her brother's, but seemingly with less strength in her arms. Someone who would excel with daggers and knives then. “We’re both Orlovs.”
Illya let out a low whistle. Of course they would hail from Snezhnaya’s nobility, especially a house with such a rich history tied to the Fatui. Seemed like Illya had to reconsider his original plans then. “Talk about friends in high places, huh? Ah, I’ve taken so much of your time! Here, Lord Pulcinella’s familiar enough with the village but I’ll help you all if you need a place to stay.”
“There’s no need, but we greatly appreciate it,” Aleksandr replied in turn, smiling as they walked. “It’s beautiful here, the woods also look promising.”
“Oh yes, they’re practically untouched,” Illya mused. “You an outdoorsman as well?”
“We’re both avid game hunters, the thrill of it is like nothing else,” Agrippina sighed. “Bears, wolves, boars, stags, we’ve tried them all! And we have such a fine pack of hounds back home too… perhaps we ought to bring them here some day to see what these woods have to offer.”
Illya felt his face strain, fighting the urge to curl his lips in disgust. “Is that so…”
He couldn’t afford to let the mask slip, he had to stay as Illya the host, no matter how much he loathed the thought of these two plundering and gutting Morepesok’s surroundings.
For a moment, he thought about his pact, how Osip had snapped at him when Illya dared to suggest making his own all those years ago.
“There’s only enough room for one heretic in this village,” Osip spat. “Don’t go breaking your mother’s heart, you hear?!”
Illya remained steadfast though. The Tsaritsa had always seemed so far away anyway, perched up high in grand old Zapolyarny Palace. What use would she have of a single peasant boy’s soul when the entire nation was already at her feet?
Then, when Krsnik Noc finally came once again, Illya disappeared into the woods along a small path Osip had shown him, away from the merrymaking and illuminated only by the moon and the distant bonfires. He presented his pact to the forest, along with a loaf of bread, some salt, and an icon of Her Majesty, Morana, all wrapped carefully with the rushnyky he snuck out of his mother’s old hope chest.
His terms were simple: a lifetime of security and abundance from the woods, enough to help feed and clothe his parents and siblings. In return, he’d forfeit his soul to the Unclean and the Mistress of Thaw and remain in their servitude until he drew his final breath. There would be no turning back from that point, not when he would willingly renounce the Tsaritsa, not when the ink on the pact had his own blood mixed in it.
But Illya didn’t care, not when he had the chance to finally change the way things were, not when he had the chance to make his home even a little safer.
He took his rifle and fired a single bullet straight through the icon. And with that, his fate was sealed.
“Well, let’s save that for another day,” Illya smiled, the tip of his tongue just briefly brushing against the back of his front teeth, metal meeting enamel and flesh. “You all must be freezing. Come, I’ll lead the way.”