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The faithful platoon of Il Capitano, the First of the Harbingers, has a special habit regarding their esteemed and venerated Lord.
Prudnikov sits down at the fire, as the company under Il Capitano's command does every night when they don't need to be on the move.
According to the cartographer's estimations, they are just south of Natlan's central valley, skirting along the edge of the mountains. Further southeast is the research center. In this area, those scouting tribespeople are always lurking about, slingshotting from tree to tree, but the platoon has been ordered to move closer to the Masters of the Night-wind territory on account of the Lord Harbinger's new 'friend'.
Speaking of that 'friend,' Prudnikov glances up at where Ororon's tent is pitched, but he doesn't spy movement beyond the tent's flaps, which have been roped close for the night.
A rustle, and Baranov settles at his side, placing his rifle close next to him and bearing Fire-Water. Prudnikov nods his thanks when the geochanter hands him his own cup.
"Do you think…" He starts, moistening his lips with drink and taking his time speaking. Amongst all of the fellows, he knows Baranov wouldn't have a problem with it. "The Lord Harbinger seems more at ease, recently?"
"What? The Captain?" his companion asks just to say it as he readies his own cup. Who else would they talk about more than their Lord Harbinger? "Seems so, that kid gave him some ideas worth thinking about. 'S long as there's progress, that means we have a happy Captain on our hands."
Prudnikov grunts. "He does like that kid, to have accepted him so quickly to our camp."
"Heard from Yanovsky and the rest that he had no choice, kid saved him and all that. It wouldn't be right to not protect him and use what he knows while he's got him." With deft hands, Baranov pulls out a cigarette, holding it close to light it and blowing out the first plume of smoke.
Now that his hands are steadier from the drink, Prudnikov pulls out the wood carving he's been working on and off between nights; it looks like it's becoming a bird of some sort.
"Kid's so quiet, could hardly tell he's there." He says, using his pocket knife to start chipping away at it, the shavings build between his boots.
Baranov scoffs, "That's what you think, Tarko's been antsy, can't blame him though." He leans forward, staring into the fire. "The Captain doesn't often let newcomers in so fast. We haven't added it to the notes yet."
"Well, where is he then?"
They turn about, looking for said man, and speak of the devil, Tarko's blond head pops up at the edge of the camp. At their waving, he quickly heads for them, straightening out his Fatui standard issue jacket.
The man's all business, even at these late hours, only rivaled by Vasily when he's deep in his research. But he relaxes somewhat at their request, pulling out his notebook from his breast pocket and they huddle over it.
"Sneaking…" Tarko hums. Finger and pen over his chin in thought. "I thought he would be extremely adverse to it, after all, his senses are sharp so none of us dares to spy on him, but he didn't mind that boy doing so." He lowers his hand to start writing under the section titled Dislikes. Adding an appellation with Ororon's name attached.
"So, an exception." Prudnikov says, watching as the words start spilling onto the page in Tarko's neat, looping handwriting. The slighter man has good penmanship, and discretion otherwise, he supposes that's why he's been their impromptu record-keeper on this campaign.
They go through all of it. The Captain doesn't like people following him closely either, but Ororon does it, sticking close behind him. He also generally doesn't take advice just from one person, but he does if it's Ororon.
As they go on, it's obvious the conclusion they all reach. They glance up at each other and around, it's as though a new world has opened up before their eyes: one where their Captain…can be in love?!
Baranov, of course, takes the first stab at assigning a test subject. "Tarko, you can ask him."
The notebook closes with a crisp snap and is quickly stowed away, the owner turning his nose up at Baranov like one of those fancy Fontainians dogs at subpar food.
"Baranov," he snips, "if you want to know so bad, ask him yourself. I worked hard to earn my place at the Captain's side." He reaches for the Fire-Water, taking a swig and sighing, finally joining them in sitting and unwinding. "I won't risk it."
Prudnikov understands, Tarko is a studious, discreet man, he understands the best time to inquire and when to stay his hand, if he refuses, there's no budging him. He doesn't take the Captain's trust in him lightly.
He himself was just about to volunteer when a voice pipes up behind him.
"Let me do it." It's Stadukhin, his great, hulking form putting Prudnikov to shame, but that's how all the Fatui troops that are trained to be boxers usually look. Hunks of muscle, all of them.
"I was just about to volunteer." Baranov says dryly. That makes Prudnikov chuckle. "Right, and I was going to too." He adds, shaking his head.
What he could see of the geochanter's eyes curve in a smile. "The difference between us is that one of us is telling the truth and the other lies."
He looks to Stadukhin, "But since you're here, I'll let you do the honors." Inclining his head, Baranov raises his cigarette, but noticing that during their spirited discussion of the Captain he's smoked down to the last bit, stamps it out and puts it away to dispose of. Stadukhin salutes even though all of them are around the same rank, but he's perpetually honest and helpful to a fault.
A flicker of movement from the largest tent in the camp grounds has them snapping to attention, if not in body then in their minds, as they smoothly move on other conversation. The days' sights and sounds, the troop's morale, tales of home.
The Captain joins them not long after, oblivious of their prior conversation, and they prefer to keep it that way.
Later on into the night, Prudnikov looks down at the carving in his hands, and to his surprise, finds that it has taken the form of one of those great, blue saurians, large ears, fluffy scruff and all.
"Would you look at that."
Keenly, he senses the Captain's attention on him; wherever the Lord Harbinger is, it seems that not much passes untouched by his scrutiny. He offers up the figurine.
"Here, for you, Captain." Prudnikov says, shortly. "I don't think I have given you one yet."
That sharp attention is drawn to the figure, Prudnikov senses a contemplative air from their Captain. He may not be as old as him, but he fancies that, being the father he is and getting on in years, he has earned the man's respect enough with his reliability.
And being an oldie, Prudnikov knows a man gets sentimental.
A clawed hand, glinting in the firelight, withdraws from a heavy cloak and with a delicacy defying the terrifying nature of those powerful, sharp gauntlets, Capitano plucks the figurine from his hand.
After looking at it this way and that, he stows it away similarly. "My thanks, Prudnikov."
He takes his rounds, lingering and listening, but none of them fail to notice that he enters Ororon's tent last at the end of the night.
They get used to him, this anomaly among them.
Perhaps it's because everything they know about the Captain came from what they've observed about him and passed on to their fellow comrades like generational wisdom. They remember the soldiers before them and what they've taught them. The notebook was evidence of that. Tarko's own version of a previous scribe's notebook, copied and added to in his own hand.
Everything about this scenario was new.
From time immemorial, they had lined up according to their rank before their Lord Harbinger for their daily briefing. Capitano alone stood before them to address them.
But now, there stands a dark form next to him, pale arms wiry from archery and farmwork, dark tattoos stark on his skin. Ororon gazes at them in a manner that's become familiar: a rather intense look, but Tarko is not sure if it's just how striking he looks, with his bristling brows and intense eyes, that makes it more unnerving. Standing next to the Captain, they make quite the pair.
The Leader and his Ever-Faithful Shadow. Comes unbidden to Tarkov's mind, and he makes a note to put it down to pen later. Cartographer Prudnikov may be, but Tarko and Vasily are always the ones reminding everyone to do their reports properly.
Though he felt nervous about Ororon following them at first, he's come to appreciate the boy's presence. He has a diligent, yet unpredictable quality to him. A page about him has made itself known within Tarko's notes.
So as he does, he observes.
One may at first think Ororon as meek, but he isn't.
Not even a day after he joins their company, he approaches Tarko regarding the company's diet, and within the hour he's returned from the wilds of Natlan, arms laden with native vegetables and fruits, and even a jar of sweet, shining honey.
That evening, the company enjoys mugfuls of tea sweetened with aphid honey. Though it is quickly chased with Fire-Water, as least this time the alcohol doesn't just serve to wash down the hard and tasteless rations they have been subsisting off of for months.
If Tarko sees the Captain adding more than just one spoonful of honey to his own cup, he pretends he saw nothing. The Captain's sweet tooth is no secret, but everything the Captain enjoys feels sacred when it happens.
After all, the moments when they catch him indulging himself are far and few between. Sometimes they even find themselves asking each other how long it's been since they've seen him doing such a thing.
Tarko, being a non-combatant generally, notices more the going-ons than the others. Around every corner might be another secret or intel that he can leverage, a foolhardy lesson he was taught before he came into the Captain's platoon. One that he hasn't had to exercise as much in recent times.
However, the small moments he wishes to capture still exist.
Right around this corner is one notable moment. He silently watches, standing tall and still too go unnoticed, because while he had just been making his way past a copse of shrubbery, he hears the low murmur of voices.
If he were asked why he stopped, he would be defensive. He is faithful. The others may make jokes about his combat prowess at his expense, but he can hold his own, all while keeping a low-profile. As it is, he isn't in the habit of hiding from their Captain, is all.
The sight through the foliage gives him a pause, he would come clean if asked about why he lingers on the periphery.
No one did, but just barely, because these two are sharp ones. There might be a chance they know he's there, but perhaps his identity proves they have nothing to fear from him.
He sees two heads bent together. Attentive, hushed, a secret even he, all-knowing eye that he fancies himself to be, is abashed to witness. So he urges himself out of shade and into the open. Nodding to them in passing, he beats a hasty retreat, but they linger for much longer after he's gone.
The Captain and Ororon. A pair. Accompanied by the false moon and sky overhead, they appeared to be two halves, the quiet attention, the curve of their bodies to each other that created an enclosed space so that neither beast nor human can interrupt their solitude of two.
Stadukhin was grateful that he was under the care of the Captain.
At home, his family thought him too dumb for anything but farmwork. While hard labor was nothing to sneeze at in Snezhnaya, lest your family falls prey to the cold winter and a sneeze becomes more than a passing trifle, Stadukhin thought he was capable of more than just hauling lumber to and fro from the forest. Chopping wood, transporting, working in the mines every other season when hands were needed.
So, he enlisted.
His brothers and sisters, cousins and second-cousins — they were a big family, blessed by the Tsaritsa's grace with a large house for gatherings — they clapped and danced for him and the others in the village who went away to join the army.
It was true, in the Fatui, you will find a second family. If you believed hard enough, it will come true.
The Captain made it true.
Stadukhin pays it back with stolid bluntness, that was his weapon of choice, and it hasn't lead him astray yet.
"Lord Harbinger." He says, it always feels good to address him as so, he is theirs and they are his.
For once without his follower — Stadukhin thinks he heard that the little bat has gone on a little mission of his own — now the Captain awaits his return, standing alone over a cliff. The anemoboxer thinks it a little dramatic, but his Captain looks imposing and cool standing like that as well, so he doesn't comment on it.
At his words, the Captain turns his head to regard him. "Yes, Stadukhin." He says, voice subdued.
"Are you and the little bat, Ororon," he falters, but soldiers on, "are you together?"
Stadukhin imagines the Captain blinking at him from the darkness of his mask. "We are not," he turns back to the ledge, "as you can see." Then why does he wait like this for him? Like a husband for his wife?
"I also do not know what capacity of together you mean." He continues.
"I just think that you two look —" Stadukhin blushes under his own helm. "The special treatment —"
"Enough, return to your post, Stadukhin. I will return shortly and I will pretend you did not speak word."
Short-tempered is not how they would describe their Captain, because he surely isn't, but to cut off the exchange so quickly—
"It's because he knows. And now he knows we know but we've never seen him like this before." Baranov is vibrating with excitement, he is never like this, usually simply showing wry amusement at their circumstances. "He just doesn't want to overreact."
"Is that what it is…" Prudnikov says slowly, swirling yet another cup of alcohol in his hand. He drinks just to have a cup of something in hand, nursing it until the very end.
"Yes!" Baranov replies, following his own words on not overreacting, as much as they all are elated, to various degrees. "now we just do what we can."
On the night that will never repeat, that will never be happen again, Sidorenko took up the front of the festivities. From the phlogiston facility the Polychrome Tri-Stars emerged and with them, Sidorenko's Fire-Water stash.
Vasily, usually so studious and no-nonsense, made a scene with him when the two of them arrived to camp, sharing stories about Sidorenko locking himself in one of the cages, forcing the emergency alarm to go off and resetting the whole system.
It is loud; the fire crackles, cheers and toasts are made in succession around as song and dance erupts all around. Ororon joins them, knees tucked up nearly to his chest and a cup promptly handed to him.
Stadukhin starts in on a story about his siblings, Baranov, city kid he is, egging him on about how backwater it is in jest, just for him to bristle and get defensive.
The cacophony, the cheer unique to knowing they are with brothers-in-arms, their weapons not faraway and their days numbered, made it all the sweeter. The burn more delicious with each sip of alcohol.
They all notice when the Captain joins them, but the noise is louder for it, the joy more palpable.
The roar of approval when Ororon downs his cup must reach Celestia. While no one felt invincible, because their Captain had always told them the risk in following him, that the Abyss was their enemy, but that knowledge made this moment sweeter all the same.
Sidorenko swaggers up to Ororon to refill his cup, relaxed and jovial, and he must be out-of-the-loop, because he sits too close, clasps a hand on Ororon's arm in a far too familiar way. A clawed hand gently plucks the cup from the boy's hand.
"No more." Capitano states firmly, sitting on Ororon's other side. They all are familiar enough to feel the cold chill in the air from their captain, and Sidorenko wisely ambles off even in his inebriated state.
Ororon stares up at the Captain next to him, his gaze unfocused, going from the pitch-black visage to the stars blanketing the sky beyond. Prudnikov thinks he could have leaned against the Captain and wishes for a universe where it did, because the rest of them would have cheered hard enough for ghosts to wake from their sleep. Even the fake stars, when they align, could a harbinger of good.
They all see it, in moments grabbed between running here and there, quelling the Abyss creatures and following orders. Ororon's hand, in their Captain's.
The world seemed to wait with bated breath for each of them in turn as the Fatuus bore witness. Ororon gazed upon their Captain with such a sweet gaze. Every flower blooming and blade of grass that swayed to their breath seemed to be for the purpose of these few seconds. Yet, they always departed before they could see more.
In the aftermath of the Abyss War…there isn't much Prudnikov can say.
He lost his voice, lost his Captain, and after everything, the end of it all, he gives the carving to Ororon. Found in the Captain's tent, with his books, his paper and correspondence, simply waiting, waiting for their owner to return and set pen to paper once more.
Oh, but what sentiment is this? Objects don't have feelings. The way Baranov saw it, hundreds of souls have finally been put to a deserving rest. Just like they did, just like the many who perished during the final Night Abyss War, they fought until the bitter end. The remaining will pay homage to them.
So the few men left, receiving orders to return to Snezhnaya, gave what they have of the Captain to Ororon.
Stepping forward, Tarko absently pages through his notebook, the one that his breast had warmed all these years. Eight years and no longer counting.
"You should have it, Ororon." He passes it over and watches it slip from his hand. "I have it all memorized already, and…given the uncertain circumstances we are in, I trust, in this land of memory and legend that he would be remembered well, by you, as we also will."
"Are you sure?" Ororon asks, his fingers tracing the lines of Tarko's handwriting.
"Your tribe, are you not the record keepers of this nation? For my request, please, ask them to weave the finest scroll for him. And," He takes a breath in, turning to gaze at the monument. "If there comes a day when I need my notebook back, well, I trust you have it safe." Saying so, his sorrowful face slips into its stone-like professionalism once more. He nods at Ororon, salutes one last time, then pivoting on the ball of his feet, Tarkov turns from him. Ororon watches his back as he walks away. It's possible it will be a long time until he next sees him.
The hot and dry winds that occasionally sweep over Natlan — hailing from the great canyons of Ochkanatlan, to Tlalocan, picking up heat from the phlogiston vents, then weaving their way into the smoke and incense in Mictlan to finally meet Ororon's skin and senses — passes over him now.
He shivers, turning to regard both the monument and the direction where his love rests. Closing his eyes, if he concentrates he thinks he could feel him in the Night Kingdom, in the wind, in this statue wrought from red stone.
Later on, in a land of summer where the past lurked not far below, Prudnikov wrote to Ororon, though they didn't get the chance to meet again.
Ororon would find it in his farm, alongside a little alpaca carving, alone, a small smile making its way onto his face.
He casts a gaze over his house, tracing the gashes etched into his walls, the pot whose lid was broken. It wasn't too long ago now from when he first joined them. The plan he and the Captain concocted to lure the Traveler into their midst. How he had coordinated with Kosterlitzky and the others to mess up his house and paint a convincing picture of his abduction.
Now, all they have are the memories.
Opening the letter, Ororon reads the words left for him.
Returning home…a peaceful life…gratefulness. The Captain's feelings…
He looks up from it, taking in the night, his farm, the stars twinkling. Squeezing his eyes shut, a tear makes its way down his face. He was alone, but sat upon the frontsteps of his home, his hands rub over the letter, the notebook, a piece of ever-glittering dark ice the Captain left with him, and knew that it wasn't the truth.
Getting up, Ororon goes to tend to his aphids. The mementos rest on his porch, each soon receiving their own place within his house.