Archive of Our Own

It was so cold.

For in all of his years in Snezhnaya, Mitya could not recall snow so harsh and cruel as now. Every drop, every flake a bitter touch against the skin, piercing through every layer of cloth he wore. The warmth of the Kresnik’s Torch had already left him, leaving only that perpetual cold in his heart to linger.

And yet he endured, his faithful scarf a stalwart shield, as the snow continued to fall. To stop now would be to surrender himself to a deathly embrace, and all Mitya knew was that he could not, would not falter.

There was nothing else that he could see here. He knew not why, nor how he came here. That knowledge was lost to him a very long time ago, no matter how hard he tried to recall it. All he knew now was that he needed to pierce the curtain of snow, no matter how long it might take.

He wasn’t alone, nor was he ever alone in the snow. Voices spoke to him, whispers from the tundra.

Let go. Let go. Let go.

He’d have sung a song to dispel it if he could.

Here was a hypothesis, then. An evil enchantress had cast this cold from her palace of ice. A storm to ward away any and all suitors – anyone – from ever reaching her.

No, no, what a farcical idea. That was simply a fairytale of old. But the mere thought of it was, perhaps, just as good a thought as any. Anything to keep his mind sharp and steady against the ruthless chill.

The warmth from the tiny smile he bore shone like a torch in the dark, so he held onto it as firmly as he could. He’d missed the sound of his own laughter, but a little thumbs-up from the scarf – or what passed for one, anyway – would suffice for now.

How could he ever let go? He couldn’t. He needed to continue. He needed to live.

But that wasn’t it, was it? This voice came from within. It told him otherwise.

He had come here to die.

So why hadn’t he, when he needed to?

‘No.’ He remembered. Flashes. Still images. Thoughts. Feelings.

He remembered them. People he’d worked with. People he served. The woman in ice. The man wearing the half-mask. Technicians. Soldiers. Janitors. Waiters.

Others still passed through, the ones whose names eluded him. Guests, visitors. A manager. Someone tall, whose gaze he evaded whenever he could. A blonde adventurer, spying at him. A dancing girl, captivating in her art. A quiet hunter, whose meal he’d paid for.

A table. A meeting. The beautiful singer sitting across from him, whose shows he’d attended faithfully, for her performance was unlike any that he had heard before, or since.

He couldn’t remember her songs. He wanted to tell her how he was sorry. How he wished that he could hear her sing again, so that he may never forget.

She was the one he’d come to see above all. He’d let her down before, his mind wandering back then, when now all he could think of was her.

It was many hours, or days, or years since he’d become hopelessly lost, that Mitya first heard the song.

This was no jest of his, for he’d never heard such a song before, nor could he even begin to dream of anything as beautiful. Mournful and piercing both, yet it captivated him all the same, his ears starved of anything that wasn’t the endless howl of the winter storm. Haunting, charming, divine. Above all, it brought a deep longing to his heart.

Mitya thought of home, of those sleepless nights spent in study, of the aurora that danced above as the year turned to the next.

He’d walked for so long that he could not recall it right then and there, but something reached him so deep that he finally paused in his stride, a memory buried deep in snow and ice, unearthed and thawed by the force of the dawn piercing through the clouds.

A song. A theatre. A woman.

A beautiful, tranquil eye, staring at him from beneath the waters of a frozen lake.

So he turned, following the melody dancing amidst the endless snowfall. Perhaps it was a trap to lead him astray, to draw him away from salvation, to end his purpose at last. But all Mitya could think of now, and forever, was how beautiful the song was.

‘If this is it,’ he thought, fleetingly. ‘Then let it be so.’

Except he’d never heard this song before. That alone he knew, the one truth he could hold onto.

‘So? I’ll ask her.’

He needed to find her. He couldn’t let her down. He had to know which song this was. He wanted to tell her everything that he’d ever wanted.

When he finally arrived at the theatre doors, imposing in all its oak and metal might, Mitya took a moment to catch his breath, holding his fist steady.

He knocked upon the door. And knocked, and knocked. And then it parted, and all the warmth came pouring out to welcome him at last.

Coughing, sputtering, yet smiling as wide as he could, Mitya puffed his chest and spoke aloud, before the disbelieving eyes of those he had left behind.

“Hey, everyone… I’m back.”

* * * * *

In the days that followed the lifting of the curse at the Korolevskiy Theatre, Mitya did not sleep very well.

The leave Director Pierro had granted him, though not unwelcome, was of little reprieve. How could it be, when his thoughts were a myriad of images that slipped away from his grasp, when he could not find enjoyment in all that he had worked his life towards? Project Mistilteinn, suspended indefinitely, by his own recommendation. By necessity.

How ironic and cruel of fate, right at the cusp of a finale.

Day, night, morning, evening, sunny, snowy. It passed all the same. And day by day his thoughts drifted back to the week that never was, with one unwelcome memory latching onto him like the coldest Snezhnayan blizzard – the red eye, the all-seeing, everpresent eye of Death, staring into him.

In the cold of the Korolevskiy Theatre he had stood defiant, fighting side by side with that daring traveler Lumine, a mad dash at the so-called Ruler of Death. His bravery came by quickly, and a glance to his side had only steeled his resolve.

Vodyanitsa, lifeless, looking so peaceful that one could mistake it for slumber. The accursed shade had taken her, and her presence was an insult to Vodyanitsa’s memory. Respect was what Mitya had demanded from the god. He never had any intention of returning the favour.

When all was said and done, the curse had taken root, and though he and Lumine had forced her back, there was nothing else he could do but wait, and wait, and wait…

He wanted to write and scream and pass the time by doing anything, anything that stimulated the endless stream of thoughts that bounced around in his head. Even his scarf had turned against him, quieting anything that remotely resembled any sort of innovation.

It maddened him that he could not do something as simple as improve the Kresnik’s Torch’s output by one lousy tweak, one turn of the dial that had been missed by the others, because it was a risk, a possibility.

He found that he could not blame the scarf, much, even if it annoyed him greatly. It had acted, and continued to act in his best interest. Who was to say a breakthrough couldn’t be achieved by something as simple as peering into the marvelous inner workings of a Kresnik’s Torch?

But even that concession couldn’t stave off the roteness that grew in his mind – and the Theatre, he regretted, was of no balm. Once a place where he could freely ponder Teyvat’s mysteries with the best that Snezhnaya’s musicians had to offer, a place he took great comfort in, now tainted by the image of the Eye, an everpresent, looming, hateful presence.

He missed it all. The bombastic, Solemn Overture with its cannons, the defiant Elegy of the Snow-Winged Goose, and above all the classic, phenomenal Mountain Sparrow that had enraptured and inspired him dearly, as the countless ramblings he’d jotted down in his notebook could attest to.

The only other person who understood was Lumine, and she had empathically stated she needed a break from theatres. Mitya had not seen her since – to his knowledge, she went right back to her work with the Adventurers’ Guild. The sight of her far away in the distance, gliding across the tundra for reasons he could not begin to guess, did bring a chuckle to him.

This left him to suffer alone. As fond as he’d become of the Troupe, they did not know him as well as he knew them, and that wouldn’t be fair. They were close-knit. He was a guest, much as he wished the gulf could be closed, much as he’d understood them well in the week that never was.

So he avoided the Theatre. A day, then another, then a third and fourth, and now a whole week of his break had come and gone into the fog. Not another day went by without him glancing at the Theatre, whether it be in dawn or twilight, longing for it regardless.

Longing, as it were, for the Prima Donna herself.

It was strange. Irrational. They’d had lunch before – and he’d let her down, after time and again declining her invitation. Close to a week he’d spent with her in the Theatre, but she wouldn’t have remembered that well, either. He wondered what remained. The truth, whatever it might hold for him, frightened him such that he felt a deep wound open in his stomach whenever he passed by the road to the Theatre, where he knew she awaited.

Awaited… How presumptuous of him. She was always a firebrand, feisty, sure of herself. A Water Imp had little reason to think twice of a person like him, those whose work in the shadows seemed so distant from the reality of the people in the light, simultaneously archaic and futurist. He was well aware of it, this peculiar contradiction of his science.

When one dabbled in defiance against the Heavenly Principles, one ought to know the scale of all that one faced, and all that was at stake. This was the weight he still carried. This was his weight alone to bear. He’d made that choice long ago, and he would see it through.

He had demanded the Reaper to feel but an inkling of what humans thought of each other, stressed that the dead deserved their dues. Vodyanitsa did not need to know about this, not when she had so joyously returned to her art.

Who was he, Mitya, to step between her and her whimsy?

But two weeks after he’d last seen the Korolevskiy Theatre, having excused himself from the obligatory dull shift at Glupov and the mountain of paperwork for the Royal Energy Commission that awaited him that day, Mitya took the first train out of Snezhnograd.

* * * * *

Rankova Zorya was no major town.

This was through no fault of its own. As far as Mitya could recall from his old geography lessons, the town hailed from a time when Snezhnaya had desired to conquer the tundra, a testament to human ingenuity and perseverance. But it was far from most things, too close to many and yet too distant from everything. It lay between the frigid port of Morepesok – whose greatest claim to fame was being the hometown of the Eleventh Harbinger – and the quaint town of Sretomorozsk, gateway to Snezhnaya. Even the abandoned village of Okurov, just northwest, tickled his interest more, whatever had come to pass there.

In short, Rankova Zorya simply had too little going for it.

So when Mitya stepped off the train, after a day’s worth of aimless traveling, he had to stop and catch his breath, and he even wondered if he had got off on the wrong stop. He had intended to spend an evening here in quiet reflection. As it were, there was anything but quiet here.

Festive bright lights hung at the train stop, a far cry from the dim torches that dominated the town in days gone by. There were more people than he was used to dealing with here, stopping by newly-established stalls, trading goods, or sharing a warm drink and meal. The Kresnik’s Torch’s warmth was felt more keenly than it had ever before.

Still, all the better. He caught sight of a train carriage, just to the side of the railway crossing. There was a counter, and newly installed exterior seating.

‘Ah, a restaurant,’ Mitya thought, letting a sigh escape. ‘Perfect, just perfect. There’s no way Valeriy will find me here.’

How would he, indeed, when Mitya had never heard of a ‘Restaurant Zorya’, going by the freshly painted sign hanging above the counter.

‘Huh. Where have I seen that before…’

Any ruminations would have to wait, for his stomach’s rumbling grew louder. Entering, he seated himself quickly, opening the handmade menu with care. Goodness, was he famished. It was by good fortune that, however rough this outlet seemed to be, it had all the good stuff he could dream of.

“Boss, I’ll take one zharkoye, a bowl of borscht, and a glass of…”

The thought of sbiten to go with his feast was dashed as the restaurant’s staff came into view – the last people he'd expected to meet here. There was Odette, her gaze curious, then Lumine, wide-eyed in surprise, and of course her travelling companion Paimon – much healthier now than she’d been when Project Mistilteinn was in full swing.

“Huh?” Mitya stammered out dumbly. “Wait… you guys? What’s…”

“For free?” Odette said simply, after a moment’s pause, throwing a glance at–

Mitya’s heart twisted in his chest. She came into his view so suddenly, he wondered if the cold and hunger was playing a sly, devious trick on him. But there was no mistaking that long, flowing blue-green hair, nor the crown of flowers it was always adorned by.

“Let me test him first,” Vodyanitsa declared, resolute. She turned to Mitya, her eyes fixed in a lovely, if fierce, glare. His heart thumped harder in his chest. “Welcome, Mister Mitya. Before your meal, could you please answer a question? What song did I sing during my performance yesterday?”

Mitya’s eyes widened. He cleared his throat, surely unconvincingly based on the look Odette threw at Vodyanitsa. She quietly took her leave, whereas Vodyanitsa remained, awaiting his answer. With nothing left to lose but his dignity, Mitya flashed the best smile he could muster.

“What a coincidence, Miss Vodyanitsa! I didn’t expect to run into you here.”

That much was true. But the look on the singer’s face told Mitya she was not to be deterred from her prey.

“Mister Mitya,” said Vodyanitsa. “What song did I perform yesterday?”

“You… you…” Mitya sputtered out in disbelief, tapping a finger on the table. He frowned, recalling the schedule he’d looked at for the week. “Hey! You’re joking right? There was no performance yesterday, hahaha…”

His nervous laughter faded into the wind, just as pathetically as he’d started it.

“… Hmph. Your food will be here shortly.”

The short relief that came to Mitya did not linger for long. Vodyanitsa remained where she stood, hand on hip, her pretty eyes still fixed in a fierce little glare that could have melted even the permafrost on the old Tsar’s palace.

He glanced at Lumine and Paimon, his last bet at squeezing his way out of this, desperate that his pleading would not go unanswered. But all hope left him the moment Lumine smirked and turned to join the others, Paimon tagging along.

Now he was truly alone with the siren that haunted his dreams.

“A-are you waiting for something?” he asked, weakly.

“Your food, duh!” said Vodyanitsa, rolling her eyes. “What kind of host would I be, if I didn’t make sure my guests had their meals first?”

“Oh that’s… uh, very kind of you, hah…” Mitya muttered. He wanted to snark that surely no restaurateur in Snezhnaya would bother. But his walls would come down, and his heart would pour out, because he found that as anxiety-inducing he found her presence, so too did it bring warmth in this winter evening.

“Well, uh… if anything, uh, I mean,” Mitya began, clearing his throat, his scarf rubbing the back of his head.

Vodyanitsa arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Why… why don’t you join me for dinner?”

* * * * *

For the first time in many years, Mitya wished Valeriy was there to intervene. The good Major would indeed have choice words to say to him, had he been there to give him a proper scolding.

At this point, Mitya was lamenting that he’d give anything for a reprimand, if it meant ending the agonising silence between him and his erstwhile dining partner. For a given value of ‘partner’, anyway.

Vodyanitsa had seated herself across from him, her arms crossed, eyes still fixed in that same icy glare. She did not waver, not when Alyosha arrived with the best bowl of zharkoye and borscht Mitya had ever smelled, nor when they were served two warm cups of sbiten.

The silence hung over the air, broken intermittently by Mitya’s most polite effort in sipping a broth under duress. Still Vodyanitsa persisted, unyielding, unrelenting, unmoving. She hadn’t even ordered food for herself.

That mad side of him wanted to distract her quickly. Perhaps a compliment to her looks today. But no, that was too obvious, too shallow. The scarf would give him a smack over the head for that.

He’d written off giving her the slip a long time ago. That wouldn’t have been kind. Nor did he truly want to leave. He would have to simply endure.

“Borscht,” Vodyanitsa said aloud, breaking the silence.

“… Borscht?”

Vodyanitsa pointed to her lip. “On your lip. There's… borscht on your lip.”

Mitya’s scarf gave his lip a quick wipe. He sat dumbfounded.

“Oh, t-thanks, heh, heh… Um.”

Vodyanitsa crossed her arms again.

“Hmph. Why’d you come here, anyway?”

“Uhm… for the borscht?”

“We didn't advertise it.”

“It's on the sign?”

“That’s zharkoye.”

“Oooh. Right.”

Mitya wished he could die. Or disappear. Or be disappeared. Perhaps the Major would agree to that, if only to finally end their game of cat-and-mouse.

Then Mitya’s eyes drifted to the counter. He froze.

Valeriy was there, sipping what appeared to be ice cream from his glass. He gave a stoic wave from beside a giggling Lumine and an equally stoic Odette, while Alyosha was busy petting Tugarin like nothing else interested him.

He was, for all the world to see, hung out to dry.

‘Oh, you bast–’

“Hm, do enlighten me, Mister Mitya,” Vodyanitsa cut in impatiently. “What brings you out and about today, really?”

“Uh, this? I mean… well. I suppose today I felt like coming out. That’s all, really.”

He cringed. She was unfazed.

“I see,” Vodyanitsa answered.

“Why, is… is something wrong with that?”

“Oh, nothing, really!” Vodyanitsa rebutted, with that same tone from over their lunch at Podvorye – was it really only over two weeks ago? It felt like an eternity. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that it’s not every day you lose a regular not from illness or an accident, or a distant trip. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I…” Mitya struggled to form words. He was spiralling fast. “No, it’s… I just, didn’t think anyone would– Well, miss me, or anything. It’s no big deal.”

His scarf gave him a pat on the head, and his resolve strengthened.

“Well, of course it’s a big deal,” Vodyanitsa said, harrumphing. “I missed you.”

“Oh, I mean… wow, that’s…”

“I just want to know what happened to one of our regulars, is that too much?” Vodyanitsa said, her voice rising and shaky. “I’ve seen you around in the city. If there’s anything we did wrong–!”

“No! No no, it’s not that, just, give me a moment,” Mitya said, hurriedly. “Miss Vodyanitsa, I’m sorry I’ve been missing your performances,” he said, wincing at the formality. But there was little use in playing coy, or beating around the bush. “It’s just…”

There was no turning back. He didn’t want her to leave. Not here, not ever. So he steeled himself, letting the memories flow back.

“I’ve been having dreams,” he admitted, quietly, at first. His scarf remained where it was, unmoving. “Dreams of the Theatre. It’s– they weren’t pretty dreams. A lot of the time it’s the same dreadful nightmare. Cold. Desolate.”

Vodyanitsa. Beautiful. Gentle. Vocal. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Mitya clenched his fist.

“I thought I might do myself some good by avoiding the Theatre,” he continued. The thought of it was too much to bear. The thought of everyone dying once more. All because he was inspired. He kept mum about it. “That… that I’d be fine, no one would miss me there, and all. I’m just a guest.”

He shook his head.

“But I was wrong. I can see that now, so, I just… I want to apologise, from the bottom of my heart. It was never my intent to hurt you. I never wanted to, ever. You, of all people. I loved our talk, every second of it, I really did. It was charming, quite stimulating, a-and I’m sorry, I just– it’s just that I don’t want to let you down, which I did and– and now I… I wanted to stop being dishonest with you.”

Vodyanitsa remained quiet for the longest time. It occurred to him that, in all the time he’d got to know her, whether it be from the audience, or face-to-face, he had never seen her so quiet as she was with him today.

Then she spoke.

“I accept your apology,” she said simply.

But something in her eyes seemed rather off. They were vacant– no, distant. Mitya felt a pang of guilt. He wanted to say something else, to stop her. There was want in her eyes, too, an unspoken thought that remained as such.

“Before anything else, I want to thank you for your time here, Mister Mitya. We at Restaurant Zorya would be delighted to see you around again when we hold our grand opening soon.”

“Ah… uh, likewise, Miss Vodyanitsa,” said Mitya, still a tad unsure. “I’ll say, all this looks great, you guys did a fine job with the place.”

Ever so slightly, Mitya saw Vodyanitsa’s ear-fins twitch.

“Thank you, couldn’t have it done without ‘em,” Vodyanitsa said, nodding. It didn't escape Mitya that now she did show a tiny smile. “I was at this party the other day, while we were waiting for the next vote on Project Stuzha. I said to the others, hey, how about we fix up the place, give it a little makeover? Figured the people here could use a hand.”

Mitya whistled. “Sure looks the part now…”

“Mhm! You got lucky, by the way. As we’ve got busy schedules, we rotate often. So this is a pretty rare occurrence, having everyone here at once. Odette helped this local dancer get a leg-up on her dancing and start her own practice– and that’s with a pretty big show coming in, what, two weeks? Anyway, Alyosha came by with guard dogs and got the Kresnik’s Torch up and running again. Hmm, Lumine, plus Paimon, they helped out here and there, with the odd errand or two. I don’t know where they got freshly smelted Kristall ore from, but they got the job done.”

She placed a hand on her chest.

“I, for one, took care of the fun stuff– don’t tell the others I said that, ahem– the restaurant, the snowmen you see around town, and this funny game called Finchball where you throw birds around– well, not actual birds. It’s really fun, you should give that a try sometime.”

“I look forward to it already,” Mitya said. “I did feel something different with the Kresnik’s Torch, in a good way. Didn’t know Alyosha’s so good with them…”

“Hehe. It helps, you know, when you spend your time out in the cold. You know what’s needed the most. The common folk need their warmth, their spirits lifted. Can’t do it by ourselves, that’s for sure.”

Mitya suddenly felt more than a little self-conscious again. Two weeks he’d been cooped up and full of lament, while out here in the tundra, in a forgotten little corner of Snezhnaya, people had come together. And, amidst shortages, their work still went on, undaunted, in high spirits.

“I should chip in a bit, actually. Here, let me just grab my–”

He reached down for his pockets, but Vodyanitsa’s grasp made him pause. Her hand was so soft. He looked up, and she was there, so close to him that their noses almost touched.

“M-miss?”

She let go of his hand. “As Miss Odette said, it’s free, for the first customer that I like.” Was that a blush? “You happen to be both.”

“Ah, I see,” Mitya said. He blinked. “Wait, what did you mean by–”

Vodyanitsa’s eyes widened. “Okay, actually, I have to go now, have a safe trip, Mister, bye!” she said abruptly, standing up to leave. But Mitya wasn’t about to let his opportunity slip away.

“Miss Vodyanitsa, wait, please, one moment.”

She paused, arching her eyebrow. Why did she have to be so… captivating? Shaking his head loose of any stray longing, Mitya cleared his throat.

“Listen, um, work is rather quiet tomorrow and, given the present circumstances, I suppose a fresh start could do, so, how about you and I–” he pointed at himself, his scarf pointed at her, “–have a nice lunch together at Podvorye, after your performance– which I’ll be watching, of course– and we can talk. As much as we’d like.”

“Hmmm… tempting proposition. I suppose this works for me too. On one condition.”

“Yes?”

“You’ll have to wait for a moment and take me home once we’re done cleaning up.”

“H-home? With you? Your home?”

“Wh– no! No, we have the same train ride home, get your head out of the gutter,” Vodyanitsa said, a furious blush upon her pale cheeks. “You’re lucky Mironova’s not here to hear that.”

“Who?”

“No one. How do I know you won’t forget this time?”

“After the last two weeks, how could I? Promise,” he said, crossing his fingers. His scarf followed suit. “Double, actually.”

“Hmph.”

She leaned forward and pecked his cheek.

“You better not, Mister. Lunch at Podvorye. After tomorrow’s rehearsal. Don’t be late.”

She did not linger, turning away and joining the rest of their friends at the counter, before Mitya could even say anything – hushed whispers and giggles weren’t exactly the most encouraging, but Mitya had nothing to say. He touched the burning spot where she’d kissed him, and leaned back on his seat.

“Oh.”

There wasn’t much else to say. Not when Vodyanitsa came over, accompanied by her friends – and Major Valeriy, too, who’d somehow passed the time by chatting about rifling with Alyosha – to beckon him on their walk together and say goodbye to them.

Nor during the train ride home, when Vodyanitsa fell asleep and leaned against him with nary a sound or protest. It was only when they came to his apartment entrance that he finally spoke, when Vodyanitsa turned to him and said, beaming:

“Thank you for showing up, by the way. My friends and I worked real hard on it. You should stop by again more often.”

“Yeah. Yeah I should,” Mitya said. “Will you be alright on your way home? Wouldn’t want any snooping eyes to follow you.”

“It’s okay, I’ll be fine,” said Vodyanitsa. She blew him a kiss. “See you tomorrow, Mister Mitya!”

“… See you tomorrow, Miss Vodyanitsa.”

His hand reached up to touch his cheek. He could still feel the kiss as he watched her disappear into the night, as he ascended the stairs into his apartment, as he cleaned after everything, and right before he drifted to sleep, with nothing but the thought of the song, the Theatre, lunch at Podvorye, and the lady called Vodyanitsa that awaited him.

He slept well.

* * * * *

The next day, Mitya did not skip work. Nor was there much risk of the Curse happening, not when the paperwork was dull and all he could think of was the meeting. He didn’t want to call it a date, much as Valeriy teased it was. It was merely a talk. Over lunch. About all the things he left unsaid.

Goodness, what had he gotten himself into?

So mired in his thoughts that he very nearly forgot to pay close attention to her rehearsal that day – a not-so-subtle glance thrown his way as she sang on stage was a helpful reminder. He couldn’t quite remember now what the opera was, but he was sure it was adapted from a Nod-Kraian children’s book writer, of Water Imps and their home beneath the waves, carrying a song that moved the hearts of those that walked the land above.

It would come to him, he told himself. He wouldn’t forget now. At the very least, he remembered what she had sung – ‘Song to the Moon’, the opening aria, its tune of desire and yearning carried masterfully by her, as always.

But in the hour that followed, when he came to Podvorye Restaurant, amidst the hustle and bustle of the lunchtime crowd, he saw no sign of her. Not a trace of her blue-green hair nor her tranquil eyes, as far as he could see. A minute passed, then another, as he awaited her entry, sitting at the empty table.

Before long, a full hour had passed at the restaurant, and still she was nowhere to be seen.

Just as he wavered, feeling his eyes grow heavy and wet and his stomach churn and freeze over despite the sad little meal he’d gotten to fill it, he saw her – not the lady of the hour, as he wished, but someone welcome all the same, approaching him.

“Miss Odette?”

Wordlessly, she pulled a folded piece of slightly worn, crumpled paper from beneath the table vase, and put it in his hand. “She left you this.”

Unfolding it, Mitya was met with a drawing. Or at least, that’s what he thought it was. He couldn’t tell if the penmanship was this bad on purpose or if it was done in a hurry.

“Uh. What exactly am I looking at…?”

“You’re holding it upside down.”

Bashful, he followed her lead. His eyes widened.

“… A map?” he finally said. “I– huh. Is this near Svetloledovka? Sorry, I couldn’t tell, but I’m fairly sure that’s the House of Hesperides. I’m sorry it’s just– oh, is this meant to be underground…?”

He looked up, his smile crooked. Odette’s face was inscrutable, as always. Then, she threw a glance outside.

“Alyosha’s taking you there. You should go.”

* * * * *

In the shadow of Fellfrost Peak, the domain of the Snegovik, Mitya walked by Death’s side.

He ached at the thought. It really was quite unfair for Alyosha, that the Grim Reaper had chosen him as her mask for her deception in that nightmarish week. A shiver ran down his spine the first time he caught Alyosha’s eyes – dull yellow, in a shade that hewed too closely to her own deathly colour, that unfeeling stare.

But then Alyosha spoke of his dog with fondness, and it relieved Mitya that he was no Reaper. He was simply Alyosha.

For all his reserved nature and succinct turn of phrase, he was good company in their trek. It was just as well that the skies were clear today, letting them share a few thoughts on the way without the endless, howling wind to interrupt.

“It’s an older model,” Alyosha said, as they approached the marked spot, by the shoreline. They’d gotten off the train at Svetloledovka and gone on foot, their way lit by the torch in Alyosha’s hand, Tugarin leading the way. “The folks at Rankova Zorya couldn’t exactly afford the Legasov model, not when prices have been rising.”

“Yeah, they phased that one out a couple years ago, pretty big design flaw with the cooling vent. Mind if I take a look at it? You did a pretty good job, just curious to see if there’s anything else I can do to help with it.”

“By all means,” Alyosha replied. “You don’t strike me as the mechanic type, Mister Mitya, but you surprise me.”

“It’s a curiosity,” Mitya said, shrugging. “I’ve been bothered by the one at my apartment building, which also has some cooling issues. Guess they’re just dragging their feet with fixing it.”

“You said it– hold on,” Alyosha said, holding his hand up. “We’re here.”

They were greeted with the sight of a gaping cave, etched in the foot of the mountain. It loomed high above their heads, its maw greeting them like the jaws of a slumbering dragon, jagged ice-spikes shooting up from the frozen earth.

There was no one else here. Only a snowman stood guard there, with a bowl in hand, and nothing else, save for an odd smear above its ‘lips’.

“Huh, that’s new,” Alyosha remarked, crouching down to inspect it, Tugarin sniffing it curiously. “That wasn’t there the last time I was here.”

“Odd,” Mitya affirmed. “Does anyone live here?”

“Just the occasional traveller passing through, a fisherman here, maybe a Volkodlak gang. But there’s no hidden village here, if you’re wondering. That one’s up north, not that the Jack Frosts even try to hide, anyway.”

He nodded towards the nearby tent. “That one she kept. She said people might need it. Not that anyone sticks around here for long.”

“And why is that?”

“There’s not much to see,” Alyosha answered. He moved to the edge of the cave’s mouth, peering down at the hole. “No one goes here on purpose, anyway.”

“No one but… us.”

“Among others. It’s a long way down. There’s a small staircase we made to the side, behind the ice. You can’t miss it – most people would, but I’m sure you can figure it out.”

He paused. “Lumine fell while climbing down. She thought it’d be a nice touch.”

“I… see.”

Of course she was in on this, Mitya thought. Who wasn’t? That traveller had her finger in all sorts of pie. This was little, comparatively, to what she must have done before her arrival in Snezhnaya, or their encounter at the Theatre.

Still, he had little to complain about. The staircase beyond the wall of ice was small, but of sturdy design. They must’ve had someone with Geo handle it.

“Hold on,” Mitya called out, once he was a third of the way down. “How am I supposed to get back? It’ll be dark out soon, won’t it?”

“She’ll know. Good luck!”

Tugarin barked in turn. The pair turned away from the entrance, and now Mitya was well and truly alone.

* * * * *

Down, down the staircase Mitya went, past lichen, flowers, and moss that had all found their place deep within the cave. It was a brisk walk, the ambience filled with the sound of running water, and soon Mitya found a small creek flowing. He followed it until he arrived at a cove.

It was as beautiful as it was vast, a sanctuary hidden away from prying eyes. Stalactites of ice hung down from the ceiling, looming over the shallow waters and patches of grass and moss, along with the lush shrubbery that flourished here. Seashells of many forms dotted the waters, humming with the faintest of sounds, reflecting the ambience. And at the centre of it all lay one enormous seashell, its luminescent cerulean shade standing out even in the warm, off-blue light of the cave.

Carefully, Mitya approached it, climbing up the steps. A gentle melody was ringing in his ear, bouncing around the cave, twisting around the pillars. And it all came from the water held in the seashell’s maw.

Then, he peered into it. And something stared back from the depths.

“Hi!”

“Whoa– oh! Oh, hello, Miss Vodyanitsa. Fancy meeting you here.”

Vodyanitsa let out a melodious laugh, a tickle to his ears. “That’s my line! Welcome, welcome, wayward traveller, it’s an honour to have guests like you around.”

“The honour’s all mine,” Mitya replied. He whistled. “It’s a fine place to meet someone.”

“Oh, Mister Mitya, how you flatter me~”

She playfully splashed around, swimming with glee. Whereupon she emerged from the waters in full, parting it with her form – and Mitya saw that she glistened, her lower-half a fish’s tail with crystalline scales, the same colour as her lovely hair. They were ethereal, shimmering in the water, and his gaze lingered on them, despite himself. He looked up, past her bare midriff and snug-fitting top, and met her gaze head-on.

Her smile could have melted glaciers, just as it enraptured him so.

“Ta-da!” she exclaimed, sitting on the shell’s edge. “What do you think?”

“I gotta say, uh,” Mitya said, struggling to word his thoughts in a way that did not seem perverse. Her tail really was beautiful, and still he couldn’t help but steal a gaze or two at it. “I… haven’t seen you like this before. It’s a perfect look. Suits you well. Really well.”

“Do you like it?”

Why, in the name of Anastasya Feodorovna Snezhnaya herself, did she have to be so forward? A tap from his scarf, though, and Mitya conceded. There was no way around this. And he was no coward.

“Yes, I do,” he said, and the smile that followed came naturally. “I like it.”

“You better,” Vodyanitsa retorted, but his smile was already answered with hers. “‘Cause you won’t be seeing it too often.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. I could get used to it.”

She splashed water on his face. “Oh stop it,” she said, in a way that very much bespoke the other way around. “Now you’re just laying it on thick, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious!” Mitya said. “It’s not– it’s not everyday you see a Water Imp in her full glory.”

Silence fell. Mitya bit down on his lip, hard.

“I’m… sorry, I didn’t mean to– no, what I meant is that… it’s nice to see you be yourself. Truly.”

“Oh no, no, I got what you said, actually,” Vodyanitsa said. “I appreciate that.”

“I’m glad,” Mitya replied. He retrieved the folded map from his pockets. “I… suppose I found my way here.”

“So you did,” Vodyanitsa gasped. “Oh, woe. Seems that you have discovered my shelter, my abode. Hmph. Maybe I should put better care in leaving my stuff around.”

“I didn’t realise you’d invited me to your home.”

“I wouldn’t say that. It’s my practice room. People can be so nosey in Snezhnograd… hmm.” She tapped her chin. “But I suppose you have a point, I did get some of my spare clothes and bedding here. That way, I’ll have longer sessions.” She shrugged. “While you’re here, I suppose there’s no harm in letting you stay,” she said. “I’ve some practice to take care of first, if you don’t mind, Mister Mitya?”

“I would be honoured, Miss Vodyanitsa,” Mitya said simply. “If you don’t mind me writing, or sketching…?”

Vodyanitsa let out a giggle. “Of course, Mister. Have at it.”

Nevermind that he wanted to speak to her first, about so many things, but that could wait, he surmised. As long as he could hear her sing, then that was good enough for him. So he sat himself down, laying against the seashell, careful not to fall into the water held within, and began to write.

Behind him, there flowed a haunting, gentle melody, like water down a quiet river. It stirred and plucked at him, a lullaby beckoning him to close his eyes and sleep. Yet he remained awake, just so he could feel the song through all of him, from how it tugged at his heart to how it wove itself with a jolt around his hands, letting it guide them through etches of atomic structures and energy theory, particles colliding and crashing against one another, and ruminations on efficiency and better distribution for all.

Theory turned into sketches. Thoughts intertwined. Water dripping all around the cave, like rain falling on puddles, ripples clashing. Electricity jumping from one point to another, lightning striking, frozen in time. Quiet snowfall, flakes fading into the stars that looked down upon them.

A single, beautiful eye, looking at him through the snow.

Before long, he’d joined the melody with a hum of his own.

He’d rarely sung before. But just as it captivated him the first time, so too did it touch him now, a spark, a light in the dark, shining through the unceasing blizzard of the world preserved and tied by fate. Longing, mourning, a gentle goodbye. A farewell. A promise for those that departed, of ideals that would endure, different yet inexorably tied to one another.

A just world.

An eternal struggle.

Love persevering.

But once he finished the song, letting it fade and join the ambience of the cavern air, there was nothing else to follow it but silence. And when he finally realised it, he looked up and was met with those same eyes that had dwelled in his dreams and thoughts for so very long.

Vodyanitsa, resting above-water upon the seashell’s edge, half-submerged before him, her gaze fixed on him with confusion and wonder.

“Miss Vodyanitsa?”

“That song that you were humming. In the language of my people, it means longing,” she whispered. “Where did you hear that?”

Mitya gripped his pen tighter. A drop of sweat slid down his face. Memories unsurfaced. The eye. Death unforgiving, uncaring, cruel beyond measure. Vodyanitsa, unmoving, peaceful, taken away, dead, dead, dead.

“I…” Mitya began slowly. He closed his book, putting it back inside his satchel. “It’s– it’s the Theatre and… I don’t know if you should–”

“Stop,” Vodyanitsa said, firmly, yet not unkindly. “Lumine told us, after you left for Glupov. The week that went by in the Theatre. She told us all of it.”

“Miss Vodyanitsa–”

She silenced him with a finger, pressed against his lips. “Don’t,” she said. “I know your pain. Don’t, just– please, let me speak first.”

“Okay… okay, sorry.”

Vodyanitsa took a deep breath. Gently, she hoisted herself above the water, taking care not to splash water. She seated herself beside him, and here Mitya saw how delicate a beauty her fins were, light-coloured and elegant. Idly, it struck him how she’d tower over him, if the two of them were underwater.

She let her breathing find its rhythm first before she spoke again. “It’s… You’re not the only one who's had nightmares about the Theatre,” Vodyanitsa began. “Funny that you picked the last couple of weeks to avoid the place. I don’t think I was up to my own standards the whole time, not when I keep thinking of the cold, that awful presence that followed us. A shaky note here, a missed one there… honestly, I don’t know how I managed through it.”

She touched her microphone. “It’s odd, I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. I don’t remember all of it, only some… things. It was cold, so very cold. I don’t remember who I sang it to. But I remember that I did it, because… there’s this want, that someone could hear it out there, that it could reach them and they’d come back. People kept leaving us. I just wanted someone to come back.”

“Then I woke up, and you weren’t there,” Vodyanitsa said. Mitya had never heard her so lost. “I looked around and they told me you were back at the Armory Palace. So, I thought, maybe next time we can talk about it. But then I didn’t see you the next day, and the day after, and… and you just never showed up again.”

Her laugh was mirthless. “Then I saw you at the restaurant and I was so mad, so angry, but something crossed your mind there and I saw the look in your eyes and I just… couldn’t.”

“Vodya–”

“I brought you here because I figured it’d be fine, right?” Vodyanitsa kept going, lips quivering, her voice shaky and wavering. “It’s just some good practice. Because maybe you left because something happened that night and maybe you never wanted to hear me again, and maybe if I got better with it then I wouldn’t be the worst singer you’ve ever heard and… and…”

When the tears spilled, they did not stop, and any words she might have said turned into tiny, strangled sobs. She curled up her tail against herself, burying her face, her weeping a piercing, harsh, crushing sound.

Very delicately, Mitya placed a hand on her. Amidst her sniffles, their gazes met again. Her eyes were wet and all Mitya could think of was how he never wanted to see her cry again, how he longed for that lovely smile.

“I’m sorry,” Mitya said slowly. He pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing away at her tear-stained cheeks. “I never wanted to hurt you. I was so afraid that… that the curse would happen again, and then you’d be there and–” He brushed a strand of her hair left astray. “Your songs. I don’t remember all of them, that… that I can admit. But I can always remember how they make me feel.” He held his pen up. “Each time I’m feeling low, whenever I’m stuck at some random formula or theory, I could just let go, let your voice guide me, like it did that night.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” Vodyanitsa said, huffing.

“Well, of course,” Mitya agreed. He reached up with his handkerchief one last time, wiping away the few tearstains left on her face. “But it wouldn’t change a single thing. You have the most beautiful voice I have ever heard.”

“… You really think so?”

“Let's just say I would still be dead if Valeriy tried to sing instead.”

Vodyanitsa laughed. It was a song unto itself, laughter so full of joy and release that it would have pushed him head over heels again. When it subsided, Vodyanitsa held her breath, her face full of awe.

“It had to be you, huh?”

Mitya smiled, in return. “Yeah. Thanks, by the way. I couldn’t have done it without you, Miss Vodyanitsa.”

A furious blush crept up Vodyanitsa’s face, her laughter awkward and off-balance. She pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Ever the gentleman now, aren’t you? So,” Vodyanitsa said. “Phew. Hm. I think I’ll see you around again, then, right?”

Mitya’s smile faltered, ever so slightly. That doubt crept in again, crushing and unforgiving. A quick glance at his palm, and Mitya found his courage.

“You will,” he said. “I’m just a little worried, still. What if… what if it happens again?”

“How would it?” said Vodyanitsa. “Just keep your eyes on me and you won’t have another thought about your lab projects.”

Mitya wanted to melt right then and there.

“You’re so sure of that.”

“Am I wrong?”

“… No,” Mitya admitted. “I have to wonder first, though, and… and this is merely a hypothetical.”

“Go on.”

“Right. Suppose, there’s this Prima Donna, who sings, and dances, and spends her time day and night refining her talents. She’s captivating, she’s gorgeous, she’s got everything…”

There was no turning back. His heart thumped, his hand trembled, but a brush of Vodyanitsa’s hand against his, and all doubts vanished into the ether.

“… So now I’m curious– how did she come to this, how did she know who to invite, how did she know to pick one of her many, many admirers?”

Vodyanitsa let out a giggle. “Oh, I don’t know,” she whispered. “Perhaps the lonely imp had a funny thought. Perhaps one day she saw this pretty man in the crowd and decided she’d like it if he would see her. And then he’d come time and time again, with his notebook and pen, and she found him precious enough that she’d like to keep him. For as long as she could. Things come and go for her, but there are some that… that she’d love to see stick around.”

She gasped. “Ooh. Then she saw something in the papers. A funny little essay.” She huffed, putting on the worst nasal voice Mitya had ever heard. “‘Energy crises are not to be taken lightly’, it wrote. ‘Those dwelling at the fringe are sure to face the harshest conditions. Proper precautions must be taken by the Veche to let their voices be known and heard.’”

“Okay okay, I get it, I get it,” Mitya let out a chuckle. “Really, now?”

“Yes, she can read, you silly goose,” admonished Vodyanitsa. She traced fingers up his arm, then his shoulders. “Perhaps it charmed her enough that she had another funny thought. That maybe this bookworm had enough in him to listen to her when he finally answered her call. That maybe he wanted change, like she did, and all he needed was a little nudge, even if his toy wouldn’t let him say, ahem, other things.”

His scarf deflated. Mitya gave it a quick pat.

“She’d be right on the money. And…” Mitya said gently. “What if I told you that… even when the dreams weren’t so nice, when the days were dull and this foolish bookworm looked away from what he had, he still thought of the song? More beautiful than any he’d ever heard, from the loveliest person he could think of?”

He brushed his fingers against her shoulders, the barest of pink on her cheeks. “Someone who, he’s surprised to discover, has rather bold, brash opinions, ones that he liked very much. Someone he’d love to know better.”

“Then I would say he has very fine tastes.”

“I’m sure he does.”

“You’re a very interesting person, Mister Mitya.”

“I could say the same to you, Miss Vodyanitsa.”

He held her hand. She reached up to cup his cheek, leaning against him, her sweet, gentle touch so radiant it could melt the coldest ice. She was so very close now.

She had such beautiful eyes. They peered into him from beneath her fringe, clever and mysterious, lovely and sweet and kind. He wanted to tell her how much he’s truly dreamt of her, of her voice and eyes and presence, of the frown and laughter and smile, all the words she had to say of the unjust world, and everything that was Vodyanitsa. Her lips quivered, a thousand unspoken words behind them. But none of that mattered now as she crossed the distance between them.

She was so warm.