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Waking up has gotten harder.
It’s hard for Artemy not to be scared by the fact that he’s actually sleeping, not just drifting away for a few hours at a time. It’s harder to fall asleep too, taking more grappling and thinking and worrying, but at least he isn’t alone.
Artemy groans at a sudden movement, groggily holding tighter onto the body in his arms.
But he won’t stop struggling, cool hands trying to carefully pry Artemy away. It’s a shame then that Artemy really dislikes letting go. In fact the only reason he’s gotten this far is by being as obstinate and stubborn as possible, and still has managed to hold onto everything.
However, now he is awake, somewhat. So Artemy does have to acknowledge the fact that Daniil is clearly trying to get up. It doesn't make Artemy want to let him go.
“Come on, it’s early, you can sleep a little longer.” Artemy mutters, burying his face in Daniil’s shoulder, in the clean white shirt that’s replaced his torn one.
Daniil huffs, twisting his neck back a bit to look at Artemy, “I was trying to get up without waking you. I can’t fall back asleep after I wake up myself.” A sensible solution, but not one Artemy can tolerate.
So Artemy presses a kiss to Daniil’s neck, to skin he could not imagine nuzzling into before. “Then stay in bed. The world isn’t burning anymore, you can rest Daniil.” Artemy knows he wants to, he’s still so tired. Sleep hasn’t been fully able to shake that feeling off, though he knows that that’s just the Plague.
“I can’t.” Daniil says softly, and Artemy understands. If he was fully awake he couldn’t imagine staying in bed when there are still people infected, when there is panacea to be made and work to be done. But right now he’s just tired.
Still Artemy knows to let Daniil go, only fully opening his eyes to blearily watch the Changeling sit up, back to Artemy. The Bachelor follows that movement, but winces at the bout of vertigo from the movement. He knows it’ll be worse than he gets up.
“You can go back to sleep, if you want.” Daniil says, glancing down at Artemy as he gets up. The Bachelor can hear Daniil’s forced exhale, the way his Lines tighten, and kicks his feet over the edge of the bed, arms crossed over his bare chest.
But there are some things the Lines can’t quite tell. “How are your legs today?” Artemy asks, and it is so, so strange to see his own weakness in another. Daniil bears now the things that Artemy had once thought made him unlovable, and Artemy loves him all the more for them.
Daniil turns back to sit beside Artemy on the bed, sighing, “How do you handle it?”
Artemy doesn’t know how to answer that, the pain has just become an expected part of life. “Some days it hurts less, some days it hurts less. You get used to it—or as used to it as you can.” There’s no reason to hide the truth of it from the Changeling, not when he’ll find it all out himself. “Some days it hurts so much you can’t imagine even getting out of bed. I force myself through it, though I know that’s not how you’re meant to handle that kind of pain.”
Artemy can’t imagine letting Daniil do the same, he’s gone through too much, maybe he’s just a hypocrite. Daniil frowns, clearly thinking about something, “I’m sorry. I gave the Theatre crew the idea to make you run around on the fourth day.”
Artemy gasps in mock betrayal, covering his mouth, unable to hold back his laughter, “So it was you behind that? How dare you, I could never forgive you for making me walk a little bit more.”
Daniil buries his face in his hands, “Stop laughing at me.” He groans, “Katerina didn’t want them to turn the Theatre into a Hospital, and I needed access to the building.”
Now that’s something Artemy had not known. He should ask Daniil about it, learn everything he had to do, so they might be equal, since Daniil seems to know everything about his actions already. “And why is that?”
“The fucked up rat-man that was the true source of her false prophecies.” Daniil says, glaring at Artemy, “I have no explanation, this is everything I know about him.”
“We really have to talk about the shit you’ve gone through.” The Bachelor says, getting up, momentarily distracted by the burst of dizziness, before righting himself, and offering the Changeling a hand. “Right now though, we should get dressed and get a start on breakfast.”
Somehow that means Daniil sitting at the table and Artemy doing all the work himself. But that’s what it’s meant for the past week, after a disastrous first day where it was made abundantly clear that in the chaos of the morning, Daniil couldn’t contribute much in the kitchen, as Artemy put it.
Daniil knows how to cook, he has supported himself before. But it’s been five years, and he does like to have the kitchen to himself—which is impossible with three other people buzzing around.
But sitting there is fine too, trying to grapple with the newfound weakness of his body, with the reality that he will continue to diminish every day to the point where his life will depend on Artemy’s infection. The idea of that is terrifying, especially with the knowledge of how much Daniil will have to depend on the other. Placing that much trust in Artemy is something Daniil will probably never get quite used to, or at least, he won’t be able to let himself.
“Is it hard not to infect people?” Artemy asks, turning back to Daniil with two cups of coffee, handing him one, “I saw you once, I thought it was beautiful.” Then again, Artemy says such things without thought, loving Daniil for the parts of him he despises so deeply.
“It would have been, but now… Now it’s a choice, I can feel who’s infected, and my body is afraid of any of those people being cured, but ultimately, I’m in control.” It’s the sort of animal thing Daniil has always fought against, that same terror of being tamed, knowing that he depends on someone—that he, as he is, needs Artemy. But Daniil himself, not the animal that is his body, knows that there is nothing to fear. Artemy chose to take this on himself, and Daniil will live for as long as Artemy will have him, there’s no need to lash out at the Town.
Artemy smiles, “That’s good, I’m glad this isn’t harder for you than it has to be.” He stays there for a moment, drinking his own coffee. Daniil isn’t used to having a stomach, or any other working organs than a heart, so the process of learning to swallow again has been awkward. Daniil has gotten the hang of it by now. He’s learning how to be human again, and Artemy is right there by his side to show him.
Daniil drinks his own coffee, finding it sweet. “I just wish I could be of more help.”
“Having you handling the panacea would put you at risk.” Artemy counters without hesitation, “I can’t even help with the Living Blood, so you surely aren’t going close to it.” He says, before looking at Daniil again, face softening, “You’re already helping enough, it would be pretty much impossible to find every infected person without you.”
Daniil knows that, but he wants to make up for all the harm he’s caused. So many people dead, and they will never know it was him at fault. “That and not infecting anyone. Just tell me if you need my help with anything.”
Artemy considers it, “I might take you twyre picking, the season will end in a few weeks, and we have to make sure we have enough stock until next year.” It’s interesting for Daniil to see the parts of him that aren’t the Bachelor. He likes it, he likes getting to know Artemy.
Daniil also knows now that Artemy has learnt to hear the twyre again, and he has gone out with Murky to collect it a few days ago. “I would be honoured.”
Artemy smiles, putting his mug away as he turns back to the kitchen. Daniil relishes in the silence for a long moment. The two of them have always woken up first, whether by one of Artemy’s nightmares (he claimed he never dreamed when in the Capital, cursed the Town for fifteen minutes) or by Daniil’s stress. At first Clara woke up with them, but she’s been sleeping more.
Daniil glances up at the sound of small footsteps, Murky gets down the stairs on her toes, padding forward wordlessly before she stands next to Daniil, glaring at him. “Good morning, Mishka.” Daniil sighs, and she doesn’t reply. He doesn’t expect her to, only moving his chair back for her usual habit of crawling up into Daniil’s hands, head resting over his heart.
Daniil just sits there, he's managed to find an awkward way to still drink his coffee, and he supposes that if he can’t help cook he can at least take care of Murky, who has consistently checked for Daniil’s heartbeat every day since he moved in. Artemy glances back, looking at Murky curled against Daniil with the warmest eyes Daniil has ever seen, despite being freakishly a light grey-green at times.
After Murky comes Clara, fully dressed but still yawning, her hair messy, “Khayaala1, you didn’t wake me up again!” She announces, trudging up to Artemy, “I told you, wake me up when you do!” Clara huffs, before turning away from Artemy, “Good morning, Murky and Daniil.” She beams, before heading over to help her brother with breakfast.
“And I told you that’s not happening- careful. You’ll get yourself burnt.” Artemy chides, but they flow together despite their bickering, though the noise is always enough to wake up everyone else.
If Daniil is entirely honest with himself, Rubin has probably been awake for a lot longer, but he usually only leaves the small clinic-turned-room he’s taken for himself after Artemy and Clara are out already. He just seems incredibly uncomfortable whenever Daniil and Artemy are the only adults in the room, Daniil couldn’t imagine why.
Daniil takes it as a good indicator of how quickly human beings can adapt, that Artemy already has a coffee ready for Rubin, even more so that he managed to stop Clara from drinking it. “If you two keep making this sort of noise I’m moving out.” Rubin grumbles, still taking the cup, but not sitting down. “You’re unbearable, Cub.”
“Aww, you love it.” Artemy counters, and at least he goes easy on Daniil, he argues with his siblings a lot. Maybe that says more about how distant Daniil was from his own family, “Now just enjoy your coffee.”
Rubin rolls his eyes, “I’ll put panacea in your coffee.” He grumbles into his cup. Artemy’s smile drops as he glares at Rubin, a glare that fades the moment he notices Daniil trying to muffle a chuckle.
The last person to get up is Sticky, like Clara, he is growing, but unlike her, he wasn’t made to feel like he had responsibility over the entire town. So he gets to have an actually healthy sleep. He and Clara start talking about something they’ve had planned now that Capella’s lost power over the kids, and then he goes over to help Artemy, who is unused to being helped at all.
And Daniil gets to watch all of it.
He doesn’t feel left out for just sitting at the table, the whole place is warm, and Murky is right there. But more than that, it’s nice, to be able to be quiet, and have the world not be silent. Sometimes it gets too much, and Artemy makes sure Daniil has an easy way upstairs, where it is quiet. But Daniil wouldn’t trade this sort of feeling for the world.
After breakfast, Clara practically bolts out of the house. It’s the one meal they all consistently share together, so Clara doesn’t just grab some food and head out, despite wanting to. She tried once, and Artemy picked her up by the scruff.
But now she’s free, well, now she’s heading to Shekhen. She needs to talk to Taya and Aspity before heading into the Abattoir. Aspity hadn’t expected herself to survive, but she had, and so have the other miracles of the Steppe.
“Sayn baina2, Mother Superior, Sahba-ötün.” Clara waves them as she enters the camp, approaching the two at the campfire. Some people are still eating, while others are leaving to herd the bulls. Even with the Bull Project out of commission, there are still bulls to be taken care of.
“Sayn baina, Warden.” Aspity nods back, “Have you eaten already?”
Clara nods, settling in front of the other two, “I have, but thank you for asking.” Neither Taya nor Aspity are eating, it would have been rude of Clara to refuse their food otherwise.
“Clara!” Taya claps her hands together, excited, “It’ll be winter soon, and we will lead the bulls to sleep in Olonngo, will you come and help them?”
Clara nods, it is a part of her duty as the new Forman, there hasn’t been any production while the Khatanghe recovers. But when the factories do continue their work, they might expect Clara there. She’ll have to find a trustworthy butcher or worm to take the responsibility. Especially if she’ll leave in a few years. “It would be an honour, could my brothers come too? They are learning, they should learn.”
Taya taps a finger to her lips, she’s started wearing warmer leathers and furs, she’ll be entirely swallowed by them when winter comes. “Hmm, well, they are becoming Emshens… Tegdegh3, they will come and learn from you how to sing lullabies to the bulls.” Clara smiles at the half-formed memory of Artemy singing her to sleep, she hopes he remembers the song.
“Bayarlaa4.” Clara nods deeply, “I’m glad to see the Khatanghe faring so well.” All things considered, they’re still mourning, and will for a long time yet. But now they are out of the control of the Olgimskys, and have managed to live against the flood of the Plague.
Aspity nods, looking back from where she was looking at the horizon, “With the White Mistress dethroned, and a victim of the First Outbreak ascending, many of us have returned to the Town. None have returned to the Termitary.”
“I’m glad.” Clara admits, “I don’t want my heart to tear between the Town and my Kin.” She’ll still have to make the trek here, with her lungs burning from a lack of air, but the two parts won’t be wholly divided. “Will you continue to run your shelter, Sahba-ötün? I imagine there will be many looking for bed or food in the colder months.”
Taya turns to Aspity, then nods. Sahba-ötün sighs, “Indeed. Though I had not expected myself to live long enough to help, Emshen. I thought I would have been made to give my life to maintain the balance of Earth and people. But my brother had other plans.”
It’s been strange, to talk to those who still live when the cult of the Humbles promised them death. Well, all but Oyun and Yulia. They found Yulia painlessly dead only a few hours into the fourteenth day. Oyun was known to be dead since Clara had killed him. “But you’re here now, and you will help.” Taya declares, before turning to Clara again, “You must ask for treats on the next train. There was too much flour and sadness on the last one, not enough to make everyone happy.”
Clara grins, “I’ll make sure Artemy’s heard your demands Mother Superior.” She says, getting up, “I must now go though, I still have to collect Living Blood today.” Clara already eyes the group of butches who are teaching her the way down into the depth of Boddho without fear, to where they have left her two buckets already, the ones she returns to them every night.
Before she goes to them, Clara notices the same herb bride who had held her when she cried on the first day. The same herb bride who had told her that Isidor died, Clara turns to her first.
“Dyy5, Emshen, Warden.” The bride greets, a wide smile on her face, she’s sitting in the dirt, legs stained with it. Clara settles down beside her. “We’re all so proud of you.”
“I’m sorry for not finding you earlier.” Clara says quietly, it’s another small failure in a big pile of them, things she’s missed, opportunities she had let slip away. “I never even asked your name, abgai6.”
The bride’s smile does not falter, “It is Tuya.” Tuya turns her attention back to where she has been braiding long leaves of that dying grass. “You are a Menkhu, you know some things are not bound to happen. Basaghan7, we knew you would not dance for Boddho when your esegher had chosen you, but we are still proud. You will always be a sister to us.”
Clara nods, she hadn’t noticed where she herself has woven three blades of brown grass into a simple braid. “Thank you, abgai, I should have checked up on you more, seen that you were all healthy.” The Kin can be infected with the Disease, it had been proven.
Tuya shakes her head, “We knew to avoid it well enough, he sings Earth’s pain, we dance her joy. If you come to us, let it be for joy.”
Clara feels like the only thing she can do in this situation is nod, getting up again, “Thank you then, for listening to me.” Clara offers a hand to Tuya who takes it— her hand is warm, “There is so much I am meant to be, that I am not. But I will try, and I will come to you with good news, I promise.”
Tuya laughs at Clara’s determination, “Dyy, you’ve already fixed what was broken, and you’ve come back to us, what greater joy is there?”
Clara feels herself tear up, and Tuya pulls her in. The Haruspex supposes she can spend another minute here.
Despite how worried Artemy admittedly is about working near the cure, they have managed to work in a way that doesn’t pose any more risk than is necessary. Artemy works with the herbs, making the initial tinctures, while Stakh works with the blood, both for the vaccines and the panaceas. When Sticky is there he shadows both of them, usually being the one to brew and watch over the panaceas.
Now though, it’s just the two of them. Sticky left after setting a new batch of cures in the brewery, to look for Clara or anything else he might help with.
The silence is still awkward, but Artemy doesn’t feel like he’s doing some great evil by sitting there with Stakh. Even if they are working on different things, it still feels good to work alongside him, it feels good to work with twyre at all.
Artemy and Clara had disagreed on a lot in regards to that, from the correct handling of twyre to the way the tinctures should be made to the very bottles they should be in. But eventually Artemy had relented (even though they really had too many ceramic bottles just sitting unused,) and did what she had asked.
“If you were cured now, it wouldn’t kill him.” Stakh points out, “You don’t have a reason not to help with the panaceas. All you’ve got to do is mess around with twyre, anyone can do that.” It’s childish, it’s so incredibly childish of him.
Artemy rolls his eyes, “I can’t understand the Lines without being infected, Stakh.” Artemy really doesn’t want to be the bigger person, because the only person who was bigger than Stakh was Oyun. Who is dead. “We might both be Clara’s apprentices, but I have to be better than you.”
“You are the only person I could ever imagine would be okay with being infected with the fucking Sand Pest. What is wrong with you.” Stakh doesn’t ask, it isn’t a question.
“Nothing,” Artemy is about to state that he is simply better than most people, then decides against it, seeing as those people are dead, “Do you have a problem with love, Stakh?” Artemy asks, a loaded question admittedly.
Stakh coughs, looks away, “…No.” He says, clearly uncomfortable. It takes Artemy a moment, but he thinks he’s got the pieces together. Everyone in Artemy’s family is this way huh? Makes one wonder. “It’s you I have a problem with.”
Artemy laughs, the sound reverberating back in the small space, “Sure you do Stakh. That’s also why you chose to move in with me.”
“There is something wrong with you.” Stakh changes the topic, “Your eyes are insanely dilated these days, like your iris is almost gone a lot of the time.”
Artemy rolls his eyes again, “We’re in a dim room, of course they’re dilated.”
“Not just now, they’re always like that,” Stakh dismisses, “It might be a side effect of being infected with Simon’s blood. Which means you aren’t fully asymptomatic. Did Dankovsky already run the blood tests on you?”
Well, that’s just rude of him, “First of all I never claimed to be asymptomatic, I’m awfully exhausted all the time, and there are the Lines, again.” Artemy didn’t know he’d have to repeat that all the time, “Second of all, Simon is dead, I’m alive. Shouldn’t it be called ‘Artemy’s blood’ then?” Artemy will kill the next person who compares him to either Simon or Isidor, he swears, “And lastly, I can test my own blood just as well, thank you very much.”
Stakh shoots a glare at Artemy, getting up to check how much blood they have left. “If Simon is dead, what’s in the Polyhedron?”
That’s an obvious answer, “Children. They haven’t been kicked out so he can’t take their place, and when they do grow too old for the Tower, he’ll be long gone.” And good riddance.
Before Stakh responds, the door is awkwardly pushed open. Clara does it with only one hand free, and another holding onto a blood-filled bucket, using her body weight to shove it open. Behind her is Sticky with the other bucket.
“Oh great! Neither of you is dead!” The two of them get the blood down the stairs, despite how many times they’ve done it, it’s still a difficult thing to watch. Artemy wishes he could help.
Artemy laughs, “Yeah, it was very hard to stave off Stakh’s thirst for blood.” He gets a nasty look from his brother for that, as if to remind Artemy who between the two of them can actually drink the Living Blood. The Bachelor still sometimes has the same dream of the Abattoir.
“How many serums have you made?” Sticky asks, setting the bucket down before heading over to the brewery. Artemy denies every single one of his instincts to stick his hand in the Living Blood.
“Seventeen. Why?” Stakh answers, picking up both buckets with relative ease and moving them to his half of the room, far away from Artemy’s reach.
Clara sits on her spot on the dissection table, “Sticky and are planning to go cure the people in the Maw.” She pulls out the carefully annotated map Daniil gave her, there are fourteen dead in the Maw, if Artemy remembers correctly. Maybe more if they haven’t been careful.
“It’s really inconvenient that we don’t have any hospital here.” And dangerous and backwater and downright stupid. Though Artemy is unsure whether those thoughts are entirely his own, it’s hard to tell. “It’ll be easier if they just came to us, instead of putting everyone else in danger.”
“How about here?” Stakh offers, glancing up at the stairs, “The Works hasn’t been used as a factory in a long time, we’d only need to clear up the upper floors and get the right equipment in. It’s better than that Theatre idea you had, Cub.”
“Ow.” Artemy says, following Stakh’s gaze up the stairs, “This is a good idea though. Even if it’s not as close to the middle of the Town as the Theatre, it would be harder to get here on time,”
“You can get the ferrymen to get people here, right, Clara?” Sticky asks, bottling up the last finished panacea. It, along with every other one Stakh and him made over the day, goes into Clara’s pouch and a bag Sticky carries over a shoulder. Artemy misses his bag.
Clara nods, accepting the cures Sticky gives her, “Yeah I think I could talk to them about that.” She says, a bit absent-mindedly, fingers playing with the hooks still attached to her smock. “We should go though. It’s already noon, and these people have been infected since morning.” The Haruspex says, rushing up the stairs so painlessly. Artemy misses that too.
Clara waits for Sticky outside the layer, organising ten panaceas across her many pockets. She knows none of them are going to break, but she still makes sure to put as many as possible in her pouch.
Sticky steps out with nine panaceas in his bag, Clara has eight. It’s been eight days since the Sand Pest as they knew it had ended. No relentless conquest, no thousands dead by the day. The Plague had just let himself grow weaker and weaker, at least he won’t die.
Clara checks the map again, sees where exactly the houses are marked, what condition the infected should be in, and turns to Sticky. “Not too many today, and Daniil said that the rest should make it until tomorrow, especially if Stakh and Artemy get them tinctures.” She says, rolling back her shoulders to get rid of the weight of the buckets. She’d had time to wash the rest of the blood, so she isn’t frightening, but the Haruspex can still smell it, can still feel it under her nails. At least for the next few days, she’ll always be a little bloody.
“Can we go to the third house on the street first? I know a guy who traded me coffee there.” Sticky asks, pointing at a particular location, Clara makes a note of it.
“Sure, it’s not like it matters.” They’ll all be healed, no matter who is first and who is last, no one else is going to die of the Sand Pest.
They start walking, well, sprinting until Clara’s lungs remind her that every breath she breathes is stolen, and then they slow down for her to recover, and sprint again. It’ll take the Haruspex a while to get used to the fact that she should have died, and to the fact that it had affected her. Maybe if she hadn’t spoken at all before leaving she would’ve been the same before that fall. But she needed to know, and she needed to doom Yulia.
Sticky doesn’t judge her for it, he even insisted on bringing extra water bottles and food, in case Clara’s run out. It made her cry the first day they went out to help people, to know that she was thought of too.
It’s been good, too, not to worry about whatever Khan and Notkin and Capella were doing now. Whatever games they decided on, whatever alliances or wars, Clara had nothing to do with them. She did not want to either. She has her family, and her friends, and her Grace, who moved in with Dora for now. Clara doesn’t need anything else. She doesn’t need the love of those who will not care for her.
“It’s really getting colder, huh?” Clara asks Sticky as they stop on the train tracks, just before the entrance to Knots, leaning on the railing to undo the wrapping on some smoked fish, handing half of it to Sticky.
“Yeah.” Sticky takes it, chewing thoughtfully, “You think Artemy would give me money to get me and Murky warmer clothes?” It’s taken him a while, too, to accept care. Maybe that’s why it’s easier for the both of them, because they know that the other is so bad at being a kid too.
Clara laughs, “He’ll buy them himself, and mention something to Lara, who will knit you a whole wardrobe too.” Even if there’s almost no one in the streets, the people Clara have seen have been kind to her. Probably on the basis that she’s one of the people who saved them, but she hopes they’re just kinder overall. Clara finishes her own half of the fish and downs a bottle of water.
Sticky scowls to himself, “Yeah, but I don’t want a sweater. I want a coat.” Like Artemy’s probably, even though Sticky won’t admit that to Clara. It’s cute.
The two of them start walking again, and Clara spots the building Sticky wanted to go to first. “Sweaters are the best, I’ve got no idea what you mean.” She grins, sprinting over to a trash bin vaguely on the way. It will take her a while to get over that.
“Well, it’s better than being cold.” Sticky agrees, waiting for her by the door. Clara approaches, tucking a precious thimble into a side pocket, and opens the door.
Murky is waiting for Artemy when he comes back home in the room that was a decade ago his own, but now clearly is not.
She asked him to help carry over everything from her train car over, so now the place is covered in drawings and a small lamp probably taken from the Polyhedron. But beyond it there are blankets she asked for, and used to make the room more like a little nest— her own lair, even. Her doll rests in a corner, and though Artemy still tries to avoid its ugly gaze, he’s starting to despise it a little less. But only a little.
Murky herself has changed too, washed and wearing new clothes, just like Daniil and Sticky. It is a bit strange how similar she looks to the Changeling. Even with the dirt scrubbed off them both. But there she sits, in warm boots and a coat that’s almost bigger than she is, and Artemy still needs to find her something warmer for the snow.
“You asked for me, Mishka?” Artemy knocks on the inside of the door, and the small bear cub looks at him from where she’s been drawing again, she has a real talent for it.
Murky nods, and sits up a little. She’s been eating, Artemy makes sure of that, but she’s still so incredibly small. She nods sullenly, staring down at her boots, “You’re sick.” She says, with all the weight that comes with that knowledge. “You’re sick and you’re not going to get better.”
Artemy knows he has to be careful here, he isn’t going to lie, but he doesn't want her to think he’s dying soon. “I am.” Murky looks away even more intently, and Artemy steps into the room, careful not to step on any blankets as he sits next to her. “But I’ll be okay, Murky.”
Murky pushes her sketchbook and pencil off of the bed, kicking her feet up to the chest, “But you’re sick.” She insists, and Artemy’s heart breaks for her.
Artemy puts a hand on her back, stroking gently, “Less sick than I was the first time we met.” He says, “And even though I’m not going to get any better, I won’t get any worse either, Daniil made sure of that.” And if anyone Murky trusts, it’s him.
“…But dad is getting worse.” It’s strange to hear her call Daniil dad, she hasn’t done it to his face, and Artemy hasn’t told him, but he knows Daniil would be overjoyed. “Don’t say he isn’t.”
“You’re right.” Artemy admits, and feels Murky bunch up into herself more, still not pushing him away, “But, because I’m sick, he’s not going to die again, not for a very long time.” And if Artemy and him find out what exactly makes Artemy’s blood different, he will hopefully never die at all. “I promise, he wouldn’t want to leave you again.” Artemy had felt that even in the memory he was allowed to glimpse.
Murky wipes her eyes, and looks at Artemy, her eyes wide and wet and so big in her small face. “If you promise… I guess that’s okay.” She says, and opens up to bury her face in Artemy’s side, he doesn’t dare to breathe. “…I guess you can be my aba.”
Artemy won’t ask her where she heard the word, instead he just nods, “Thank you, sunshine, I know how much that means.” Artemy smiles, leaning forward to kiss her head. The Bachelor doesn’t understand how he let himself forget how love felt in the Capital, how happy such small things could make him. Now Artemy cannot forget it.
They stay like that for another eternity, in which Murky mutters something that sounds so close to an ‘I love you’, and in which Artemy returns it. They stay there until the sun sets and Murky is almost asleep, and Artemy puts her to bed. Artemy stays there until he knows she is asleep.
Daniil hears the soft closing of a door down the hall, and then the sound of Artemy approaching their room, the room they’ve been sharing for a week now. Artemy wouldn’t even enter it at the start, Daniil just threw out everything that was Isidor’s, and found where he had hidden his notes before his death. It was easier for Artemy then.
Now though, he has no problem with the room at all, or at least, none Daniil can see. There is no hesitation when he knocks once, opening the door before Daniil could ever respond. After all, Artemy already knows the answer.
Artemy enters, and watches Daniil for a moment, a small frown on his face. Daniil doesn’t know why he’s being looked at with such concern, and blinks away a tear. Oh, that’s probably it, he’s been crying.
He’s been crying a lot lately.
Daniil’s been justifying it with the fact that his body is simply doing what it couldn’t before, that this is just the culmination of all the tears he would have shed were he alive those five years. But the Changeling knows that that isn’t true.
Artemy sits beside him, wordlessly tugging Daniil to cry against his chest, against the warm wool of the sweater. Daniil allows himself that, allows himself to go limp and stringless in that embrace. "Do you ever feel guilty, for everything that happened?” Daniil asks.
“No.” Artemy answers, so simply, so easily. “I will never regret the choice that I made, I will never regret saving you.”
Daniil won’t tell Artemy that he’s wrong, he’ll just wait until Artemy realises it too. “I gave myself a choice, on the sixth day, I gave myself an out.” Daniil doesn’t know why he’s telling Artemy this, why is he trying to ruin everything? “I would find a way to end the Plague, if my Heart was able to find one person innocent.” And Artemy knows that that didn’t happen.
But when Daniil pulls back to look at him, to see his anger, there is none of it. “And? If you counted every person you’ve killed directly, with your hands, that number will be lesser than mine.” It makes Daniil laugh in disbelief, is he being serious right now? “Anyone who died of the Sand Pest wasn’t your fault. I could have killed you a day later, I could have killed you any day and I didn’t. I wanted you to live, I still do.”
“That’s really not the same,” Daniil glances away, at his notes on the desk, “You don’t understand, even that part of me you thought to be good wasn’t. It was just a hollow structure hiding a rotten heart, nothing more.”
Artemy takes Daniil’s hands and squeezes them, relentlessly loving, “A river of good can wash away a drop of evil.” He quotes something Daniil has no way of knowing, “Whether your heart was red or black, it was you, Daniil. It doesn’t matter what you think yourself to inherently be, you still saved people, you still did your best and found a way out. You are good. You have always been good.”
There’s the tears again, and Daniil reaches out to gain that embrace once more, to swallow himself in the heat of the earth. “ 8אני אוהב אותך I love you, I wish I was better at showing it.” Daniil admits.
Artemy pulls the Changeling close, one hand on his back and another on his cheek, holding Daniil like he’s something precious. “I know, and I love you too.”
Daniil kisses him, the initiation of touch something that is becoming more familiar, more normal by the day. He never thought love would be like this, Daniil thought it had to hurt.
Then Artemy pulls away, and wipes the last of Daniil’s tears, “How has your day been?”
Daniil sighs, rolling back his shoulders to get rid of their ache, this is easier, this is good. “Since I don’t have much to do outside of the house, I’ve started looking into your blood and the samples you’ve given me—yes I know it can be used as a cure, but it is not a cure yet. Otherwise you’d be healthy, I’m just trying to find out what makes your blood different, what my abilities can do.” Daniil knows he still has that power, he is still a Miracle, he just does not know to what extent. Which means he will have to test it out, he has tested it out, on himself, but Artemy doesn’t need to know that, since he’s healed now.
The Bachelor laughs, “You know, that’s the reason I gave the Powers That Be for coming here, that’s the reason the Kains thought I came.” But Daniil knows that Artemy only came here for his own wretched heart.
“Right? So, I need to find out exactly what it does and where the capabilities of it end. There’s a lot more I’d like to check, like why the three of us alone cannot infect anyone, or why you seem to have something different about you…” Daniil glances up from his talking to watch Artemy behold him with bright, dilated eyes, the same look that isn’t only Artemy. Or maybe by now there isn’t a difference, “I know I’m rambling, but there’s so much that doesn’t make sense, and so much to find out.”
Artemy laughs, nuzzling against Daniil’s shoulder, “Don’t apologise, I love hearing your voice.” He says, and then his voices goes a bit quieter, a bit softer, “Have you realised yet that our hearts beat as one?”
“Noster nostri?” It’s a curious concept, and Daniil supposes that there is the connection born from the fact that Artemy is infected-
“No, I meant literally.” Artemy says, taking Daniil’s hand and pressing it to his chest.
Daniil lets out a soft “Oh,” at the realisation.
“You also pace exactly in time as my heartbeat, I’ve noticed it a few times, and suspect one more…” Daniil has no idea what Artemy is talking about, “Still, your heart is mine, Daniil, just as mine is yours, it has been that way since the start.”
Maybe it’s something in their filling, woven into every thread that makes them and carefully constructed with every stitch, but for the first time, Daniil believes him.
“Will you stay?” Artemy asks, even though by now he shouldn’t have to, he’s asked that every night, and every night Daniil has had the same answer.
“I will.”