Chapter Text
It's a cold day in the Snezhnayan countryside, the harsh, bitter winds of the tundra blowing through the homes of those not fortunate enough to afford good ventilation.
By Snezhnayan standards, this is exceptionally fortunate weather.
This is a day where the upper class are able to rest by their cozy fireplaces and use their expensive heaters to keep warm while blowing cold, frigid wind out to those less privileged. Such is the natural order of things in this land: The elite, a small group of those with the utmost of fortune, profiting off of the backs of the commoners with little care for their plight.
It's absolutely abhorrent in every regard.
"Oh, Mister Alyosha," pleads Nadia, one of the children in his village, her gloved hands furiously rubbing together in an effort to keep herself warm. "Could you please deliver this to my Father? He's out working around where you're going for your next hunt. I could offer you some of my Kresnik Kristal in return!"
Nadia speaks with exceptional maturity, as is typical of the less fortunate children of this land, forced to grow up all too soon. She has had to learn that the care of others is conditional on whether or not she's made herself sufficiently useful.
Alyosha shakes his head. He will never call himself a particularly selfless individual, but that mindset is one he cannot stand by and enable in a child so young.
"It's no trouble for me," he says, offering a warm smile. "If you really want to pay me back, make a snowdog for Tugarin to play with, alright?"
That gets the sullen little girl to grin, legs kicking out with excitement.
"Thank you, thank you so much, Mister Alyosha!" She says. "I promise: I won't forget this!"
Alyosha laughs light-heartedly as the girl hands him the trinket she wants delivered: A little clay sculpture of her father. It's exceptionally well-made: Nadia has the makings of an artisan.
Or, rather, she would, were she able to afford to study and spend her time mastering the craft of pottery and sculpting without worrying about when her next meal will be, or, even more often, whether or not she'll freeze to death.
He thinks about how many children like her there must be: How many of the would-be geniuses and savants must spend their days desperately trying to find their next meal.
It never fails to make his blood boil just a little. But at the end of the day, what can Alyosha really do? He is a commoner by birth. He already does what little he can to make his life and the life of those around him more pleasant. He can't even fill his own stomach some days—how much power does he really have?
Some would call it an excuse for inaction. And Alyosha would understand that perspective, really, but he does do all he can. He's a member of the Rokot, diligently carrying out any work to try and better their country that he can. He's always on the lookout for corrupt officials to bring to justice—and he's caught a fair few.
But there is such a fundamental power imbalance between him and those above that... Really, the idea of even making a dent in the stronghold of the powers that be feels unfathomable sometimes.
Alyosha takes a deep breath and calms himself. Instead of getting lost in lamenting what he can't do, it's better to focus on what he can. Action is always a good way to snap himself out of spirals of despair, after all.
"I'll see you later today, Nadia," he says, waving at her as he walks off to his next stop. The little figurine glistens in the ever so slight sunlight that peaks through the hefty clouds.
"See you, Mister Alyosha!" Nadia says to him. She's a sweetheart, that kid. Most of the kids here are. Alyosha so often looks at them playing in old, tattered clothes and skin flush from the cold and finds himself desperately wishing he could show them all a better world.
But for now, he'll have to settle for doing them little favors like this.
Speaking of—
"Tugarin!" Alyosha calls, watching as his little husky bounds up to him. "Let's get moving."
The territory he's 'hunting' in is quite a distance from here—Dangerously close to the Armory Palace, too. Hopefully Major Valeriy or Mitya are there in the event he gets caught. Particularly Mitya. He's quite the amicable one.
Though, before worrying about that... Alyosha should probably concern himself with making sure he doesn't freeze during the walk.
It's quite a distance—And there's not much in the way of shelter or heat sources on the route, either. He'll need to have some Kresnik Kristall on hand for this.
Alyosha approaches a heating lamp shortly outside the town bounds. These things are good for more than just warmth—if, that is, you know how to use him.
Gently, he unscrews the bottom, using a little container to gather up a few drops of liquified Kristall. This stuff is potent; It should help him get by until he finds more heat sources.
Other than the constant pauses to try and find warmth, Alyosha generally finds that the long treks aren't too unpleasant. There's generally useful treasures to be found en route, and connections, as well.
Today is a particularly fortunate day. Tugarin's found him some meat and veggies from a deserted Treasure Hoarder camp.
There's a treasure chest nearby, as well. Alyosha reaps the rewards he's found with a cautious glee, careful to grab what he's found and leave before any unsavory figures find out about his spot of luck.
Unsurprisingly, of course, there's not much to be found in the way of company. Most people don't like to make a habit out of traversing the biting cold.
"Hi Alyosha!" As he's pondering this, the first human voice he's heard since leaving Stretomorozsk greets him. It's Vodyanitsa: The Primadonna of the theater where he works, a friend... And a fellow member of the Rokot. Alyosha can only guess which one of those has driven her to approach him today. "Nice seeing you here!"
"Oh, hey, Vodyanitsa," Alyosha says. "Funny seeing you out here. Don't you have a show coming up?"
"Odette's out here hunting for a Fatui mission!" Alyosha tries to hide his distaste at the mention of the Fatui. He likes Odette quite a bit, of course. But the military she works for... Not so much. "I thought I'd come and join her!"
"Oh?" Alyosha raises a brow, both disbelieving and amused. "I don't see her anywhere around."
Vodyanitsa, evidently sensing his emotions, huffs, crossing her arms in a show of ire.
"So she may or may not have ditched me... Because I may or may not have tried to drag her with me into the water," she says. Alyosha can't help his amused snort. "Hey, what's so funny?!"
"You tried to drag her into the water?" He questions. "She'd freeze to death in there!"
"Nuh uh!" Vodyanitsa says. "Odette has her Cor Ignis. It always keeps her warm!"
Right. Odette has her Cor Ignis. Vodyanitsa is a water fae—Fae are generally resistant to the cold.
Many of Alyosha's friends, as much as he cares for them and really does like them as people, just don't understand how it feels to have to worry every day about where to find their basic needs.
But Vodyanitsa and Odette, at least, are more cognizant than some people he knows.
Vodyanitsa freezes, face going carefully blank briefly, before perking up, flitting her hands together with great exuberance that catches Alyosha's eye.
"By the way," she says. "Could you... Meet me in private later at the theater? I could use some advice on my singing."
That's code for wanting to discuss something Rokot-related with him. Vodyanitsa would ask for feedback with her singing, perhaps, but never would she ask someone unqualified for advice.
Despite himself, Alyosha smiles ever so slightly.
"I'll be there," he says.
"Great!" Vodyanitsa chirps, clapping her hands together. "I'll be waiting with some sweets. See you!"
"I'll see you later, too," Alyosha says, before walking off to continue his hunt. The little conversation made for a nice break, but he needs to get a move-on.
Alyosha trudges through the tundra, until, finally, he reaches his destination: A little enclosure outside the Armory Palace, hidden from sight.
There's a camp of thugs smuggling Kresnik Kristall from here, selling it off for exorbitantly gouged prices. It's infuriating to think about: Not just the fact that these bad actors profit off the suffering of commoners, but also, the fact that so much Kristall is being shipped off for research that not a soul is even noticing such large amounts going missing.
But before he can set off for his 'hunt', the sound of footsteps halts Alyosha in his tracks.
Damnit. Talk about bad timing.
"Did you need something, Mister Ivanov?" Growls out the voice of none other than Major Valeriy. Alright. That's something of a relief. Major Valeriy is definitely one of the better people he could be confronted by here.
But he certainly doesn't seem to be in the best move...
"I'm sure our good gentleman just wanted to have a friendly chat!" And there's the second person. Mitya. That's a bigger relief: Mitya is extremely friendly, and on top of that, he couldn't care less about the rules. If he catches Alyosha hiding here, odds are, he'll just convince the major to send him off on his way.
"Of course, of course," and that must be the third person. Mister Ivanov. "I was just thinking... You have all too much Kristall to spare in that ostentatious facility of yours, don't you?"
Mitya laughs. Alyosha's temper flares, because it really isn't amusing in the slightest, only calming himself by recognizing the edge of nervousness in the man's voice. He may just be using laughter to cope.
"Is there?" Mitya questions. "If you're advocating for redistribution for the common folk, I must agree with you! But I'm afraid you'd be far off attending the next Veche than talking to me. I only have so much say in these things."
"Oh, I'm afraid that won't be necessary," says the man, Mister Ivanov. "I just think... You wouldn't mind 'donating' some to a fellow in need, would you?"
Alyosha startles. This must be one of the members of this whole 'operation'.
"Just what are you insinuating?" Questions the good Major Valeriy, stepping in front of his ward protectively. "There will be no such illicit conduct on my watch."
"I'm insinuating—" Says Mister Ivanov, as Alyosha steadies his aim. "That it would be quite a shame for rumors to spread about the esteemed lead researcher of Project Mistilteinn to be hoarding Krensik Kristall for himself."
"Esteemed?" Mitya jokes. "You flatter me there! The only thing I'm well-known for is my status as a regular at the Korolevskiy theater!"
That's partially true. Mitya is renowned for many things, but one of the most notable rumors about him regards his regular dalliances off work to watch performances.
It's a topic of amusement for some, but resentment for others. Alyosha remembers hearing the complaints about how such an important figure in the project keeping Snezhnayans deprived of warmth held so little regard for his work.
"He acts more like some spoiled noble than a researcher!" Radimir had said, adding, mockingly— "Let them eat cake, or something."
"Y'know, I think he is," Alina had grumbled in response. "I bet he's some nepo baby, that man. Would explain why they'd rather waste our resources dragging him back to work than just fire the damn guy for slacking off all the time."
Of course, Alina and Radimir's distaste had been short-lived—The moment they'd actually met Mitya, seen him flounder around jovially, offering them goods and incredibly useful trinkets, he'd cemented himself in their minds as a sweet thing with the spirit of a golden retriever imbued in his heart. Mitya makes himself quite hard to hate.
"Don't think I can't ruin you with one bad word, Mister Mitya," says Ivanov. "Both of you."
Rich folk in this country think they can do anything, don't they?
Alyosha fires. Ivanov falls to the ground with a gasp.
"Ah-!"
Major Valeriy stares at the man's now limp body laying on the floor, eyes ever so slightly widened.
"Who goes there?" No response. Alyosha may respect the Major, but revealing himself right now would be a stupid move.
"Mister Mitya," commands the Major, incensed by his silence. "It would appear as though we are in the presence of a hostile force. Stay behind me."
But Mitya doesn't oblige. His eyes scan around the area, briefly landing on Alyosha's hiding spot and flitting towards him before returning to Valeriy. He smiles, easygoing.
For a moment, Alyosha fears his cover is blown.
But Mitya doesn't seem to have noticed him.
"Oh, come on, Sarge!" He says. "Whoever they are... If that Mister Ivanov was their first priority, they must be a good fellow!"
Valeriy lets out a long-suffering sigh. Alyosha almost feels bad.
"Mister Mitya."
"Yes?"
"You just witnessed someone be shot down in front of you," Valeriy reiterates. "Do you honestly mean to tell me that you have no concern for your own life whatsoever?"
Mitya nods.
"Why would I be concerned for something that isn't under any form of imminent threat?" He questions, fiddling with the tied end of his scarf.
Shortly after makes the comment, he pauses, startled.
"But... Let's go sooner, rather than later," says Mitya. "I just had the most wonderful idea! Oh, Sarge, I told you a bit of fresh air really helps me make breakthroughs!"
Valeriy seems utterly unswayed by the jovial statement.
"And, if you are to be believed," he says. "This 'fresh air' requires regular outings to restaurants, visits to the theater, and random strolls off to who-knows-where without so much as a thought to inform your guards?"
"M-hm!" If Mitya notices the sarcasm, he doesn't care to address it.
But then, just as he's taking a step forth, Mitya freezes.
Alyosha immediately hones in on the action—What happened? Was he spotted? Did some other attacker appear on the scene?
Mitya's usually animated face goes scarily blank, lips parted as if desperately trying to speak. Nothing comes out.
There's no hint of chloroform or injury of any sort, making it all the stranger as he suddenly collapses onto the floor, completely and utterly unmoving.
"Mister Mitya!" Valeriy cries out, scanning the area for any possible perpetrator. But he, much like Alyosha, gleans absolutely nothing.
Alyosha somehow sees it coming. Valeriy, too, goes slack-jawed and limp, falling over as though under a spell.
Alyosha searches with all the might of his keenly honed intuition for the perpetrator. Nothing.
The next thing he knows, his own body has betrayed him, and his chest is tight. The familiar, faint sound of his pulse has completely stopped.
...Huh?
Alyosha can barely process what just happened before his world goes dark.
Some say the Grim Reaper is a cruel, remorseless killer. Others say that death is kind, a mercy to the old and frail and and end to the suffering of the stricken and unfortunate.
These are... flawed descriptions, as are most attempts to put a cube into a sphere-shaped box. A mortal mind cannot understand the inner workings of a god.
Some mortals take this as arrogance. But is stating the natural order of the world really so? Would it be arrogant for a lion to proclaim that it hunts its prey not out of any kindness nor cruelty, but simply because that is the order of things? Because that is how it must live?
This, too, is a flawed comparison, but it is, perhaps, the closest a mortal mind will come to understanding the modus operandi of death. Just as they have conceptualized four-dimensional beings and shapes by likening them to how three-dimensionality would appear from a two-dimensional point of view, mortals can only understand such a foreign concept as the mentality of death by watering it down to a simpler, more digestible form.
The Ruler of Death cares not for how she is perceived by the minds of scornful and ignorant humans.
She will carry out her duty for eternity, ferrying souls across the border between life and death. Eternity—this, too, is a concept the mortal mind cannot fully wrap its head around. Though many humans claim to scorn death, in truth, they need it and what its very existence entail for them, if only because an eternity without an end would be far more frightful.
Ronova does not hesitate to carry out her duties. She never will. She remains loyal to Celestia eternal.
She does, however, find herself growing increasingly restless. Not out of any particular fear or anxiety, as mortals would call it, but due to what is quite possibly one of the most mundane emotions: Boredom.
The nation of Snezhnaya has been crossing a threshold with their research and development. A point where their ideas threaten the Heavenly Principles enough to automatically trigger a temporary Curse of Death. Ronova cannot permanently kill these would-be rebels until it is their time, so she has found herself stuck repeating the same, monotonous cycle of killing and resurrecting the same, fallen souls over and over again.
Particularly, one, prodigal and prodigious soul: That Mitya. Ronova has killed him so many times now that she knows his name. In fact, she knows far more about him than she ever would have wanted to or found out of her own volition. She knows, roughly: the detailings of his schedule, the places where he goes out to eat, the activities he typically performs for leisure, and even, disgustingly, the fact that he takes a trip to the restroom at 6:30 AM every morning after a cup of coffee so loaded with sugar and cream that it is coffee only in name.
...Apparently, Mitya finds constipation ample source for inspiration.
This grows ever so tiring. The mortal digust with monotony—This is one thing that, Ronova, no matter how hard she tries, cannot remain disaffected by.
Entertainment. Intrigue. These are the cravings that strike her.
As Mitya triggers the curse of death yet again, her patience begins to snap.
Mitya dies. That guard-dog of his follows suit.
But then comes a bystander.
This one is different from other Snezhnayan mortals Ronova has had to deal with. He has no particular hatred for the gods, and his concern is much more aptly directed at the corrupt elite of Snezhnaya. He looks just as she would want to could she ever take a human vessel—The mortal even has a canine companion at his side.
The gears turn in Ronova's head. An idea, perhaps, on how to make the tedious task of routine killings just a bit more interesting. If this plays out right, that Mitya will be so distracted from his project that she'll never have to run this errand again.
In a rare moment of joy, the Ruler of Death smiles.
This may just be her most interesting trip yet.
Alyosha awakens in a strange place. The floor is carved stone like an olden temple, and everywhere he looks, black mist permeates the air. Despite the area appearing to be indoors, there seems to be a reddish, cloudy sky.
Before he can decide on a course of action, however, everything dissipates: The mist, the clouds, and even those strange red eyes that seem to have made themselves home in this place's decor.
And then, with his newfound clarity, Alyosha sees a notebook.
It looks like something a middle-schooler with second-year syndrome would carry around. A jet-black cover with only two words on the title page, scrawled in pure white.
Death Note.
By all means, Alyosha really should dismiss this. Whatever that thing is, it's not an actual 'Death Note'… Whatever that is.
Besides, Alyosha hasn't gotten this far in life by ignoring his sense of self-preservation. That book may just be dangerous. For all he knows, if it really is a 'Death Note', its namesake may be garnered from killing everyone who touches it. What would he do then? He hasn't even delivered Nadia's figurine to her father yet.
…!
The figurine. For a split second, Alyosha panics, before feeling the object in question in his pockets.
But… How could it have ended up there? When Alyosha was aiming at Ivanov, he placed the object on the floor.
Someone had to have moved it, then. But how could that happen? Alyosha is, for one, a light sleeper. Even movements near him are enough to startle him back into wakefulness. And on top of that, there isn't any other hint of someone touching him—No slight difference in scent, no other details out of place.
Just that figurine.
Alyosha takes a deep breath and steels his resolve. Whatever his situation is, and whoever his captor must be, he's already in dire straits. Taking the notebook may just be the smart option.
With steeled resolve, he steps towards the Notebook.
The 'Death Note'.
Alyosha picks up the object as if defusing a bomb. It feels rather silly—After all, if this thing is deadly to touch, his level of caution will hardly change anything.
He doesn't disintegrate upon contact, though. Neither does he feel like he's about to die. That is, at least, somewhat good news. He got to touch this thing without dying. Little victories and silver linings.
Alyosha opens the book from the middle, flipping through the page to see nothing but blanks all around.
That's strange. It definitely defeats the idea of this being the diary of some rambunctious child with an overactive imagination. No, if this thing is completely unused, then the most likely conclusion is...
Someone wanted Alyosha to find this.
With great hesitance, he flips to the first page, half expecting some message about how his death is imminent.
But that is not what he finds.
Death Note
How to use it:
- The person whose name is written in this note shall die.
- This note shall not take effect unless the writer has the person's face in mind when writing their name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be effected.
- If the cause of death is written within 40 seconds of writing the person's name, it will happen.
- The details of death must be written within 6 minutes and 40 seconds of writing the cause.
…Huh?
Alyosha eyes the written out 'rules' once again, half wondering if he's just seeing things.
The person whose name is written in the note will die.
Now isn't that something?
Before he can possibly conceive of any plan of action regarding this strange object, however, Alyosha stumbles over himself, dizziness crashing over him like a tidal wave.
The world goes black yet again—This time, though, shortly before losing conscience, he vaguely see a dark red eye peering at him from the distance.
When Alyosha wakes up, he's in a bed. His bed. Surrounded by his measly furnishings, and Tugarin resting in a corner without a care.
That could only mean…
Is he in his room? How did he end up in his room? What about his hunt? The figurine he told Nadia he'd deliver?
The figurine. Alyosha feels around his pockets, but it's nowhere to be seen.
How the— Where could it have gone?
"Do not worry, mortal," comes a cold voice, cutting through his growing tension. Alyosha startles, whipping his head around to the source of the voice.
It's a phantom? That's strange… Hopefully she doesn't want any payment like food or Kristall in exchange for his life.
Perhaps she has noticed his inner machinations, because the woman stills, brow furrowing and lips quirking into something half-offended and half-amused.
"I am not a phantom," she says. "And, to assuage your fears, I took care of all your… other tasks. But do not mistake my interference for altruism, mortal. I simply want to minimize the impact my little… errands have on the lives of the collateral damage."
The…. collateral damage?
Alyosha realizes exactly who he is speaking to right now.
"Grim Reaper," he murmurs. The Grim Reaper lets out a sharp exhale.
"I don't particularly like that tired cliche," she says. "If you must call me something, call me The Ruler of Death."
"I died."
"Temporarily," she says.
"If I may be so bold," Alyosha questions. "Why?"
She implicitly called him 'collateral'. What does that insinuate?
The Ruler of Death sighs.
"Do you remember where you were before dying?" Alyosha tries to recall the events that occurred before he woke up in his bed, but… nothing. He shakes his head. "I thought so. Perhaps this should jog your memory."
And from atop the table, she picks up a notebook—Jet black, nothing like any item Alyosha keeps in his house.
Death Note.
Alyosha gasps.
Memory returns. He was outside the Armory Palace, hiding from Mitya and the Major after dealing with Ivanov, when both of them went limp. With his new, added context, they must have died. Temporarily, just like Alyosha.
And then was that book. The Death Note.
"Is that how you kill people?" Alyosha questions, gesturing to the book. The Ruler of Death smiles thinly, as though amused by the inquiry.
"No," she says simply. "That is how you will kill people… If you so choose."
Alyosha startles.
"If I…?"
"You don't have to, of course," she says. "Should you wish to refuse, you may do so without consequence. But if you accept, you may use this however you please, without any imposition or restriction set beyond the outlined rules."
What? The Ruler of Death is…
Alyosha can't quite parse the information.
He's being given the power to kill anyone he so desires by none other than the Ruler of Death herself.
But why? Why him?
"If nothing else," she says, watching with amusement as he considers his options. "Be honored. It isn't often I give mortals power over my own domain."
Alyosha knows that murder is a moral wrong.
But… He's never been afraid of getting his hands dirty in the past, has he? And now, with this power in hand—
Just how many corrupt, morally bankrupt elites could he rid this world of? How many heinous felons and criminals that the government actively supports?
Alyosha had previously lamented being unable to do much about the powers that be due to the sheer power difference between him and them.
But this…
This equalizes things. A balancing power, handed straight from the Ruler of Death herself.
This could help so many.
If he's careful about it and doesn't let himself be carried away by delusions of grandeur, Alyosha could easily make major, positive changes to the status quo.
"It seems as though you've made up your mind," says the Ruler of Death, a small smile playing upon her lips.
Alyosha nods, taking the notebook from her hands with a grateful little smile.
"Thank you," he says. "I don't know why you're doing this, but… I won't let this go to waste."