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Against all odds, Alyosha survived.
Weakened and fatigued as he was, the light in his soul persisted, and time continued to trickle down around him like melted candle wax. He could do little to halt the gods’ will, and so he lay there, next to the bodies of men once burning with life, chest bare and expression grim.
Alyosha wouldn’t have made it – shouldn’t have. It simply wasn’t possible for a man of his stature. Heroic acts and victories against all odds are strictly reserved for folklore, heroes, or a striking combination of both. He was no character from folklore, no hero, and above all else, no one extraordinary to warrant such a miracle.
Yet, there he was. Alive.
Truthfully, Alyosha had died.
In the wake of the night, his soul slipped away from his earthly remains, soaring through the skies, carefree and content. He ruffled the tarp covering the bodies outside, laughed with the wind, and embraced the clouds sifting white powder onto the nation he held so dear. He let the Ley Lines pull him into a gentle embrace, letting the past and present merge into a single perfect assortment of everything he held oh so dear to his heart. And when Death came to guide him, he clung to her every word, for she was a shepherd and he was the sheep.
“It is not your time yet, young man”, she had said, and Alyosha relented. For Death is ever knowing and absolute; mere mortals such as himself had no right to ponder on whether her judgement was just.
“Go back and make yourself useful. Live and die how the Gods see fit.”
And so, Alyosha did just that.
His soul wandered back to his body, burrowing itself behind his ribcage. A soft light spread from the middle of his chest, illuminating the small cellar. It spread toward his arms, and the shadows it painted on the walls were long and harrowing. It spread down his legs like tree roots, branching out to anchor itself into the body once more. Then came the head, for while Death is cruel, Life is anything but. As life overtook his body, at long last, with vitality, came the unmistakable sensation of pain.
The first breath of a lung starved of oxygen is excruciating. Alyosha gasped, jerking his hands to his neck and leaving long trails of red with his fingernails, the grooves deeper and wider with every passing second. Behind the veil of tears, Tugarin’s worried face was unmistakable. Alyosha reached for him and yanked him close, close enough to bury his face in his neck, and let out a long wail.
He cried and cried, cried until his voice was hoarse and his tears soaked into Tugarin’s coat. Cried and wailed and cursed, then cried some more.
Archons above, he died.
He died, and Death did not claim him.
Died, and Life took him back without question.
He wasn’t sure whether to be offended or flattered.
With a watery chuckle, Alyosha pulled away from Tugarin, letting him guide his body back onto the ground with a soft thud. Under his hands, the earth was dry and cold, and Alyosha took a handful, just to feel the sand slip through his fingers. Tugarin, ever so diligent and starved for touch, curled up next to him, putting his head on his chest and looking into his eyes with the expression that screamed I know . And Alyosha, ever so trusting, knew what he meant.
The days following were brutal. Stuck underground, time crawled ahead at an agonizing pace.
On the second day, the bodies started to stink.
On the third day, the stench became unbearable.
Down there, the temperature was just above freezing. A lovely disposition for his aching body, but not quite ideal for the two fatuus stuck there with him. Alyosha glanced at them only once, while climbing the stairs and leaning on the railing to catch his breath. They were bloated and discolored. Far from a pretty sight.
Cautiously, he sent Tugarin back to fetch the Pyroslinger’s abandoned gun. Not Alyosha’s preferred model, but as his own was rather… limited in its ability to function, he made do.
Walking through the remains of the cabin’s door, Alyosha breathed in fresh air for the first time in three days, and nearly passed out from the air that assaulted his battered lungs. The blizzard outside had calmed to a gentle drizzle, fat snowflakes drifting through the air lazily. On cue, his stomach growled, a repulsive noise, really, but blinded by hunger, any attempts at a bashful expression came short. He locked eyes with Tugarin, swallowing once, and the pair cautiously approached the abandoned Fatui camp.
After rummaging through the bags and chests, not much was found. Just enough for the two of them. A can of Tushonka, a half-opened can of pickled seaweed, and some peas, though the labeling had long since worn off. But in Alyosha’s mind, it was a feast for a king. He divided the rations, giving more meat to Tugarin and less to himself, and with every bite he took, his strength, bit by bit, slowly replenished.
His heart was pulling him home. Though technically, Alatyr Village should have dampened some of his longing, Sretomorozsk had long since claimed its place. No need to get attached to a town long deserted, when the hustle and bustle of Sretomorozsk kept his soul fed and content.
But he can't leave yet.
Though the bandits were gone, there was one more thing he must do.
“Tugarin!” he called out, and the hound, licking its lips off what was once breakfast, looked up at him curiously. “How about a quick hunt?”
***
Alyosha, sent back by Death, had stumbled upon a horrifying thought. If his soul, which only left his body briefly, had been denied access to the existence beyond death, what was the fate of those lying under the tarp? Were they made to wander this endless tundra forever, or were they granted freedom after passing in a way so cruel?
Alyosha was rather old-fashioned. It all came down to his upbringing, really, for Alatyr was so isolated; not many cultures or habits reached its inhabitants outside its proximity. They lived and died as the first settlers did centuries ago, and for life itself was a process eerily similar to the flames of fire, it was only natural that those who were loved in life got to leave this realm cleansed of their filth.
Alyosha did not know those people, but his heart ached for them all the same. He did not know them in life or in death, but he would still provide for them, for that is what he is best at.
Deep in the forest north of Alatyr Village, they shot a deer. She was old and frail, and didn’t resist death as Alyosha cut her throat as his last act of gratitude. Hauling her on his back, she barely weighed anything. But her coat was a beautiful shade of brown and crème, and her antlers would surely make the prettiest jewelry.
The track back to the Village was long and agonizing. It seemed, even after three days of rest, his ribs were set on causing trouble. He had to stop and rest, time and time again, winded, until the black spots vanished from his vision, and he could continue his trek back to the mountains anew. His side prickled, but the cold had already numbed the area, frost-cold kisses against feverish skin.
Alatyr Village did not have a cemetery, but it had a cremation pyre left behind by the village elders, generations ago, once white stones darkened by ash and soot and memories long gone. On these lands, cushy burials with coffins, flowers, and intricate speeches were unheard of. The ground was frozen, flowers were scarce, and the people too frail to stand outside for too long. But fire, the ancient thing, would surely reclaim those the ground could never embrace.
Alyosha may never know the customs of a dead man, but his own rituals were surely just as sacred and profound, and he would show them the same respect he’d offer to an old friend.
A long, long time ago, an elder had pulled him away from the campfire, and scolded him terribly. Scolded him for being disrespectful and cheeky, and warned him that one day, when he was to pass on, the gods will not let him cross the bounds of their world, for bad kids don’t get the help of spirits on their journey. He didn’t understand then, being so young, and had run into his Mother’s arms afterwards, crying and profoundly confused. She had embraced him in a loose hug, and spoke these words;
“There is no such thing as a meaningless death, for everything that once lived had meaning and importance. The moose your father brought to us tonight was once a calf, and as it grew, its life blossomed. By its death, our village may flourish for another week, and we shall be eternally grateful for its sacrifice by paying our respects.”
“But I have done no such thing to anger it!” Alyosha replied.
“The soul resides in the bones, some say. If we scatter them around so carelessly, how could we expect it to return to the eternal cycle?” And Alyosha could only nod then.
“So, how can I make it up to it?”
“Pick up what you have dropped. I’ll show you”, and so she did.
Alyosha prepared the deer with the same tender care he had done before, oh so many times. He was a small boy then, barely five, and the act seemed so grueling then. He is a man now, and his knife glides under the skin with barely any resistance.
Separate the pelt, the fat, the meat, clean the bones, and thank it for its sacrifice. Wash the meat and dry it above the fire, for no death should be meaningless, and every part of the carcass shall be used to honor its sacrifice. Arrange the bones in an orderly way, place it with the bodies of those long gone, and ask it for a last, selfless act; to guide those we have lost, for we, humans, are helpless and naked, and we need nature to guide us, even in death.
Alyosha had painstakingly dragged out the two fatui rotting in his parents’ cellar, placing them close to the Skirmisher’s body. Despicable men such as them did not deserve a burial. But this land had enough vengeful spirits plaguing its expanse already.
With a straight face, using the Pyrogunner’s weapon, he shot round after round into the Vanguard’s hammer, until it cracked open in a high-pitched screech, electro sparks flying a thousand and one directions in one last vengeful act. Then, he did the same with the Pyroslinger’s gun, hitting it with a rock until the delicate mechanism could no longer take the assault, the metal warping and splitting under the force. As the Hydrogunner’s tank had already ruptured, he saw no reason in vandalizing it further.
With all potential threats accounted for, one by one, Alyosha pulled the victims’ bodies towards the crematory. Two women, one child, one infant. All purple, all naked. Lowering them on their backs into the fire, carefully arranging the deer bones around them, he breathed a prayer in a language he no longer spoke. Tugarin whined beside him, and Alyosha crouched down to be eye level, ruffling the fur on his head with an easy smile.
“Don’t worry, old friend. What nature gives, it also takes back.”
Standing back up, his arms shook at his sides.
As the bodies were sent on their last journey, Alyosha dragged the fatui away from the village. Down the slope of the mountain, into the part of the forest devoid of life. There he left them, face down, their weapons battered and unusable, for evil wearing the face of a human did not deserve flames or a proper burial, nor the cycle they ought to partake in. They were to remain where he left them, poisoning the land with their curses and grievances.
He slowly hiked back to the village, placing a flat hand on his wavering heart. It played a strange tune under his fingertips.
By sundown, most of what remained of the victims were no more than charred bones. Alyosha collected them, one by one, hiding them in the deer pelt, and taking them to the shrine behind the village. There, he hung them on a tree branch, and hoped that although he may not have been of service in life, his act of kindness made it easier for them to pass on peacefully, regardless.
“Look,” he breathed, pointing at the little pouch in his hand with a bit of dried meat in it. “We ought to be resourceful. It’s not much, but enough until we get back…” He trailed off, and Tugarin took a tentative step forward, his ears pinning back in sudden worry.
“Get back… where… I’ve already forgotten…” Alyosha stuttered, staggering forward a single pace. Tugarin nudged his fingers with his nose, and watched as the digits twitch and curl. “Huh? Sorry, buddy, I may need to… lay down for a bit…”
Tugarin yelped as Alyosha hit the snow with a heavy thud. Silence fell on them, terrible, deafening silence.
Confused, Tugarin lowered his snout, sniffing at his face, his neck, his hands, until his nose picked up on the sharp smell of rot and pus. On Alyosha’s side, hiding under his winter coat, sat a gnarly wound, clearly infected, its edges red and raw, scorched. It leaked a mixture of red and yellow, and smelled like death itself.
The injury had worsened as the day went on, no doubt about it, and the physical strain must have aggravated the tissue, but such revelations are worth weighing when times are nicer on the mind and body alike.
Tugarin knew what to do. It’s what he’s been wishing for ever since he set foot in this godforsaken village. They had to leave, and they had to leave now.
Armed with determination and, perhaps, the spirits of those set free, Tugarin clamped his jaw around the fabric of Alyosha’s hood and began pulling. Alyosha groaned, a faint, feverish sound, but did not stir awake. The hound wished he did.
Tugarin, heart set on the outlines of Sretomorozsk, started his journey through the tundra, his owner in tow. The snow parted ahead of him, guiding him home.
***
Those who witnessed the sight would later swear that such a thing only exists on the colorful pages of children’s books. But as things are – for reality is ever so shifty –, such a thing is possible to witness, for Tugarin lived through it, and miracles were possible, for Tugarin made sure of it.
In the early hours of the morning, the people of Sretomorozsk awoke to loud barking. As the first souls fluttered out of their cozy cabins, the morning calm was quickly overtaken by a frenzy of shouts and screams.
“By the Archons, it’s Alyosha!”
“The boy is back! Quick, help him!”
“Tugarin, let go! Let go I say!”
In the mess of madness, Tugarin sat and watched. They took Alyosha, and for now, he can do little more than let them do as such. His mouth was dry, caked with the shredded material of the man’s coat, and when a villager offered him some water and dried meat, his parched throat could only produce a hoarse whimper of gratitude.
They did not let him into the cabin. He was left pacing outside as more and more people gathered around the building, and as time went on, half the village was spilling out of the ajar door. Tugarin pressed into the crowd, pushing ahead until his head popped into the room.
People seemed… worried.
“He needs a doctor; we are not enough,” said an older woman with an apron that used to be white.
“A doctor from where, exactly? You know they took them all to tend the troops!” came the bitter reply.
“Take him to Snezhnograd for all I care!”
“That’s more than a day away by foot for me! We’d both die before reaching the city borders!”
The two stared at each other for a moment before the woman turned away, her eyes averted with shame.
“God, he’s burning up…” she said in a defeated voice, putting a damp cloth on his forehead.
As people fluttered out of the cabin, a man entered.
“I’ll take him!” said Pavel, and his voice was loud and confident. Life had been good to him; his chest was plump, his coat snug on his waist, and his cheeks flushed with a healthy shade of pink. “I have a sled! The weather is mild, we could reach Snezhnograd by nightfall!”
“But Pavlusha, the business…”
“As if I care! Get him ready, wrap him up! I’m getting the dogs.” And so, they did.
***
Korolevskiy Theater was bustling with energy that evening. Though the day’s final performance had already wrapped up, and most of the audience had long since fluttered out of the building, life backstage never slowed for more than a few minutes. At the corner of the room, fiddling with a row of tutus and intricate accessories, Kulish cursed under his breath.
“That damn brat, standing us up like this…” he growled, clipping an underskirt to a coat hanger with a bit too much force, perhaps. Behind him, a low ch was heard, followed by the distinct click of high heels.
“As I highly doubt those clothes did anything to anger you, I advise you to stop with this childish act. They are expensive, you know,” Odette came up behind him, taking the hanger out of his hand and straightening the fabric with a few gentle pats. “And who are you even talking about? What brat?”
With a sheepish smile, Kulish deflated.
“Ah, Miss Odette! Please rest assured, these clothes are handled with utter care! No wear or tear while I’m here!” He coughed into his fist awkwardly and continued. “As for brat, I’m talking about Alyosha, of course! He promised to cover for Balkonov today, and now Rampana also called in sick; we’ve been short-staffed all evening!”
“Alyosha? Are we talking about the same guy?”
“You know, short guy with the rifle and dog? Kind of smells like one too, if you ask me.”
“Wasn’t he short on money?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying too! I fought tooth and nail to get him this job since he seemed desperate! Then he totally abandoned us on the busiest night!”
Kulish grumbled again, taking the hanger back from Odette and putting it on the rack. He fiddled with the tags in his hand until he found the right one, quickly labeling the skirt for tomorrow’s show. “This is why the director only hires city folks! One bad snowstorm and suddenly half the staff is out!”
“With all due respect, Mr. Kulish, Alyosha never missed a day since his first day here!”
Vodyanitsa appeared behind Odette with furrowed brows, and Kulish pulled his head between his shoulders, completely outnumbered.
“I know! Archons know, I know!” he sighed dramatically. “It’s just, I’m really worried, okay? He is not one to no-show, and it’s been three days. I can’t even contact him, he lives so far away, and with that nasty snowstorm we had…”
Vodyanitsa took a tentative step forward, placing a hand on the man’s slumped shoulder.
“We know, we know. But bad-mouthing him will solve nothing. What if the director hears you? What if he gets fired? Think before you speak, for the love of everything dear!”
Kulish sighed.
“Yes… I guess you’re right…” he muttered. “So, you two haven’t heard anything either?” he asked, turning towards the two women.
“Not that I remember. But then again, we are not close,” Odette replied easily.
“Me neither. Not since the first night of the storm,” Vodyanitsa added. “He wouldn’t stay, so I walked him out with some food I got from a fan. Told him it’s compensation for having to work so late.”
“What if you poisoned him?”
“Odette! No! Don’t even say that!” Vodyanitsa raised her voice angrily. “Besides, my fans are all nice! They would never do such a thing!”
“I’m just saying that no one heard a peep from him since he took off with that present… It is a logical conclusion.”
“Odette!!”
“Okay, okay, I apologize. But my opinion on the matter is, it is no use wallowing over such a thing. We are not close, only colleagues. If he does show up, just chew him out,” she said, turning towards Kulish.
“As for you- “she said, turning to Vodyanitsa. “He is just a troupe worker. You shouldn’t get too close, Vodyanitsa. He isn’t even a permanent member; they come and go all the time. We have open positions for a reason. Do yourself a favor and forget about it.”
And Vodyanitsa could only nod, gripping the edge of her underskirt.
In the darkness of the night, just as the clock struck midnight, Vodyanitsa walked out of Korolevskiy Theater. With the taste of chocolate still on her tongue, she shivered as the wind burrowed itself under her scarf. Pulling her coat tighter around her torso, she watched the white mist from her breath disintegrate in the air. Tonight, too, will be a chilly evening.
Walking down the streets, Snezhnograd was still bustling with life. It is only natural, she supposed, being the capital, but even more captivating all the same. Vodyanitsa liked the hustle and bustle of the city – the street musicians, the restaurants, the kids running down the pavement, and of course, the lights; tiny bulbs of yellow and orange illuminating the cobblestone paths.
As she turned the corner, the familiar silhouette of The Petrova Family Clinic greeted her. Though Snezhnograd did not lack grandiose clinics and hospitals across its grand avenues, Vodyanitsa much preferred the privacy and attentive care the smaller clinics provided. Though it was midnight, several of the windows still illuminated the streets in streaks of gentle orange.
“What do you mean you won’t treat us tonight?”
A man’s booming voice bounced across the narrow street, and Vodyanitsa turned her gaze towards the gates of the clinic. Sure enough, there stood a man, and even from a distance, a soft dusting of snow and ice coated his blond hair.
“Is it about the money? I have enough! It’s the third hospital that has driven us away tonight, please, my friend needs help, needs it fast!” The man continued, taking a step towards the nurse standing in the doorway, who took a cautious step back.
“Sir, this is a private institution. You can’t just barge in and expect to be treated-“
What a nasty lie. Vodyanitsa knew as much, for she, too, frequently visited the clinic unannounced with the most trivial matters – a cut finger, a torn fin, sore throat or coughing.
“This is a hospital for Archons’ sake! Don’t you think treating patients comes above protocol?”
“No, sir, we have an image to uphold. If we treated everyone who came begging for help, he’d go out of business in a week,” the nurse replied.
“But I have money! I’m a merchant from Sretomorozsk! Please, you need to understand! If he doesn’t get help, he surely dies by next morning!” The man pleaded, pointing at a bundle atop his sled. Resting on top of the blankets, a familiar flurry of black and white fur lay curled up, unmoving.
Vodyanitsa brought her hands to her mouth in silent shock, murmuring a name she hadn’t spoken in days.
“Tugarin?”
The hound lifted his head, locking eyes with the woman, his tail giving a single, hopeful wag. Regardless, he remained in place.
“Look, sir, if you walk down this street and turn left, the public hospital is right there. If you’re lucky, you might still find open beds that aren’t occupied by drunkards and travelers. They will treat your… friend, whatever his issue might be, in the morning.”
“No, you don’t understand! We’ve just been there-”
“Oh, I do understand quite well. Traveling all the way from Stre- Sretomorozsk must have been exhausting. But you need to go through public channels like everyone else,” she said, reaching for the doorknob.
Vodyanitsa took a tentative step, then one more, and one more, until she stood in the veil of the shadows just shy of the sled. She hovered over the bundle, peeking into what lay beneath the layers of blankets, and came face to face with a man the Theatre assumed was either slacking or lying in a ditch, poisoned.
“Alyosha?” she breathed, and the man did not stir. He was grey, in a way, and Vodyanitsa prayed it was simply the illusion of the light - or the lack thereof.
Her question must have come out louder than intended, for both the nurse and the unknown man snapped their heads in her direction.
“Oh my, what an honor! If it isn’t Miss Vodyanitsa herself!” the nurse chirped, her harsh tone long gone. “How may I help you tonight? We still have some of that honey candy for your throat, if the dry air is bothering you again!”
“No, I…”
“Perhaps some herbal tea for your insomnia? Goodness me, the life of an artist sure is cruel.”
She ignored the nurse and turned to the man instead. Looking at him closer, his clothes were tattered, and he was missing his coat.
“He’s Alyosha, isn’t he? What happened to him? He’s been gone for three days!”
“We don’t know the details. I was away when it happened. All I know is, he went out to take care of some Fatui business and came back a mess!” the man cried, dragging his frost-kissed fingers through his hair and pulling at the roots. “But no one will treat us! We came all the way from Sretomorozsk, all in vain! The public hospitals are all full, and the private ones won't even look at us!”
Vodyanitsa turned back to the nurse, her brow furrowed in anger. “Is this true?”
“Well… if it is someone Miss Vodyanitsa holds dear, we might make an exception…” the nurse muttered, shifting uncomfortably under her glare.
“You best believe that is the only thing you ought to do!”
Death visited him on the fourth day he was away from home. She seeped in through the cracks of the building’s foundation, crawling across the stairwell and squeezing beneath the doorframe. They came face to face again, but unlike last time, her gentle demeanour was replaced by words colder than ice.
“Feeble human, what did I tell you? ‘Live and die by the Gods' will.’ Why do you go against them? Why do you go against me?” and Alyosha had no reply to give.
“I granted you life, and this is how you repay me? By spreading yourself thin for humans you yourself hadn’t even known? By running around cleansing a land no one calls home? Tell me, for what reason did you think Death spares you twice?”
Alyosha’s soul lay barren beneath the dim hospital lights. His body, cold and gray, lay on the narrow bed across the room. Down below, muted by the haze of the metaphysical plane, the muffled sounds of metal tools and frantic voices echoed as the doctors worked to scrape the infection from his flesh.
“…Did it help?” he breathed.
“Did what help?”
“The fire. The deer. My prayer.”
Death’s eyebrow hitched.
“Souls scramble, without rhyme or reason.” His head hung low in shame. “But I suppose they were much more cooperative. For that, I imagine, they were grateful.”
Alyosha’s shoulders slumped. A small, quiet sigh escaped his lips. “Then it was worth it. My life for their peace. Knowing they got to pass on makes me content. If my punishment for such a crime is death, I am glad I leave looking so peaceful.”
Death sighed.
“I have met men far and wide across Teyvat,” Death murmured, stepping closer until her shadow engulfed him entirely. “But you are, by far, one of the stupidest.”
Alyosha bowed his head.
“Very well. For I am in a good mood; I grant you life once more. But know, if I come for you, be it a day, a year, or centuries from now on, you are to obey my every command.”
And all Alyosha could do was oblige.
Waking up in an unfamiliar room is terrifying, but Alyosha wasn’t afraid.
It took a while for him to realise what he was looking at, actually, for the world around him was an ever-shifting mix of muted colors and objects with no outlines.
His mouth was dry, but as Fate is nothing but cruel, the empty glass cup and water jug were just out of reach. Resigned to his fate, Alyosha simply stared and listened.
From the corner of his eye, translucent curtains fluttered in the breeze. Though the windows were open, the air inside was pleasantly warm. He, too, feels pleasantly warm, the aches and chills of his body replaced by the familiar weight of Tugarin spread across his legs.
He tried to reach out for him, but all he managed was a meager flutter of fingertips against fur. But to Tugarin, such a thing was enough, and the hound yelped in delight before diving straight into his chest, licking and nipping at his face. Alyosha, too weak to fight him off, could only hide his face behind his forearms, grumbling and cursing to no one in particular.
The cursing, though delightful, aggravated his throat terribly.
The noise must have alerted the staff, for a nurse peeked into his room with an expression that could only be described as haunted.
“He is awake! The man in room 34 is awake!” she yelled, then disappeared down the hall.
Soon after, a middle-aged nurse walked in with a clipboard in her hand and a Hydro Vision strapped to the apron of her uniform – a healer, if he was to guess. Following her lead, the familiar silhouette of Pavel entered through the door.
He sat on the chair next to his bed as if it belonged to him, and looking at the belongings haphazardly thrown across the room, it might as well be his now.
“Let’s see… Alexei, correct?” the nurse asked, glancing down at her papers. Tugarin settled next to him, curling up on his legs and fixing the nurse with a curious gaze.
“Alyosha is fine. No one calls me Alexei.” Alyosha said, coughing into his palm.
“Oh my, how forgetful I’ve become! Archons, you must be parched!” the nurse said, reaching for a water pitcher and pouring some water into the glass before handing it to Alyosha, who took it gratefully.
“Very well, Alyosha,” she said, patiently waiting until he emptied the glass before pouring him a second serving. “Well, there is not much I can say that hasn’t already been said before. The fact that you are conscious and somewhat healthy is already a miracle by itself, Archons be praised,” she said, flipping through the pages of his file. “Do you know how many days it's been since you got here?”
Alyosha took a moment to absorb his surroundings. Sterile tile walls, polished hardwood, a small vase of flowers on the nightstand, and Pavel’s worn fur coat draped over the back of the chair. It seemed, even in its minuscule state, the garment did not belong.
“We are… not around Sretomorozsk, correct?”
“No, we’re in Snezhnograd. Right down the street from the Korolevskiy Theater, actually,” Pavel offered.
“Snezhnograd…? But I was in Alatyr Village…”
“Tugarin pulled you home, and I took you here soon after,” Pavel leaned forward, then continued in a tone much more somber. “Good thing I did. The doctors told me if we’d waited until morning, you wouldn’t have made it.”
“Oh… Well, I am grateful, eternally,” and his words were true.
“Please, none of that,” Pavel waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve done more for me and the village than I could ever repay.”
For that, Alyosha had no reply to give. Perhaps in a state more cohesive, he'd have denied such a thing. For he is Alyosha of Alatyr, and his duty lies in his people. But, once in a while. it felt so good to be acknowledged. To be praised. To be loved.
“I’d like to run a few tests, if that's okay,” said the nurse, her voice cutting through the heavy silence. “I didn’t like your results from yesterday, but we’ll take it one step at a time. May I?”
“Oh, of course, but…” Alyosha hesitated, suddenly anxious. “About the bill?”
The nurse smiled softly.
“Don’t worry about such trivial things. Miss Vodyanitsa already paid for it.”