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It is not like Artemiy Burakh to have an existential crisis. He is, and had always been, determined in his goals – hesitancy is left for those lesser than him. But his beloathed hometown had managed to rise a storm of emotion within him. Just as he had decided that returning to the town had been a mistake, a dead man had crawled out of his grave, and given him a newfound appreciation for the miracles the town has to offer. Daniil Dankovsky – his predecessor, his inspiration, his hero – a man who had revolutionized the field of thanatology and then disappeared. Who would have thought that he would be found in his hometown? The place he associates with nothing but pain?
But then again, perhaps it is appropriate – Dankovsky’s disappearance had, after all, left nothing but pain behind. And his reappearance amidst the plague? More pain. Perhaps men like Dankovsky and Burakh are not destined for a painless life, he thinks, and the scolds himself for the melodrama of referring to himself in third person.
He opens the door of the Stillwater, and notices that Eva is not home. He proceeds to climb the stairs to his room, and instantly notices that despite Eva’s absence he is not alone. Before his desk stands a familiar figure in a torn coat, with an air of mystery surrounding him.
“Daniil”, he says, a touch of relief in his voice.
The figure turns around, and his relief is gone. The man standing before him is Daniil, yet he clearly is not. He has Daniil’s face, down to the smallest detail, but not his eyes. There is no spark in there, no gentleness, no curiosity, nothing – there is only malice, hatred, and it is all directed at him. “Hello, esteemed Bachelor Burakh. Expecting my brother, I imagine?”
“I was not expecting anyone”, Artemiy answers, careful to not let his voice falter – he fails, of course, and the man before him takes notice.
Daniil’s brother tilts his head. “Is that so? Do you deny your…” His face turns sour, disgusted, “…relationship to him? Would you dare to try to do so? To me, of all people?”
“Would I dare? What right do you have to that information, Changeling? From what I’ve heard, you bring the plague with you wherever you go. Your brother, on the other hand, is a saint – I need not concern myself with your opinion when it comes to him.” His fear and anger curl around each other, and for a moment, Artemiy wonders if their eyes share the same, cold malice.
Daniil’s – no, his brothers - eyes turn even darker, if possible, and he hisses, like an angered snake. “You will, if you know what is good for you. My duty is to protect him. You claim to follow his footsteps, but you are a perversion of everything he believed in.”
“I-“ Artemiy tries to argue, but the man raises his hand, and his words are stuck in his throat.
“Every glance you lay at him is a transgression. And I will make you pay for them, every single one, in pain and in blood, in misery and in death. Now, Bachelor, surely it is not worth it?”
“I do not intend to harm your brother”, he manages to utter, the words feeling heavy in his mouth. They feel inadequate to deny the accusations, to describe his intentions – though admittedly, those intentions are still a mystery to him, too.
“Your intentions, no matter how noble, are utterly irrelevant. There is blood in your hands, can you not see it? You will inevitably do harm.”
“I do not believe in inevitability.” It is the first thing that comes to Artemiy’s mind, it is a pathetic excuse of an answer. But then again, would the man before him accept any answer
The man smiles – a joyless, cruel smile, and takes one step closer to Artemiy. He raises his hand to caress his cheek with his bony hand, with deceptive gentleness. “Oh, Bachelor Burakh. It will be my pleasure to teach you, then. There is much in this world that exists, whether you believe in it or not. And inevitability, let me assure you, is most certainly one of them. For I am your inevitability.”
His hand feels cold, too cold to be alive. The coldness seeps from his hands into Artemiy’s skin, his body, and suddenly, he feels weak and tired. Too weak to stand. Too weak to speak. Too weak to do anything. He stumbles back, and collapses on the floor, narrowly avoiding hitting his head against the wall.
Daniil’s brother – the Changeling, the Plague, his Death – kneels next to him. “Consider yourself warned, Burakh. Stay away from my brother. The next time, I will not be this gentle.” He lays his hand on Artemiy’s chest, and the touch makes his heart flutter – until he feels the tendrils of nothingness grow around his heart. This gentle? He must be joking. He is truly going to kill me, Artemiy thinks. At least death wears a familiar face.
And finally, darkness claims him.