Chapter Text
“…My dear son, Artemy, I write to you after so many years apart in the hopes that you may find a way to return to us. Something worries me. I fear a difficult trial approaches. I hope that your studies have proven fruitful, and that you have achieved great skill as a surgeon. Such skill might be of use here. I remain the only physician in this town. But you know that I am growing old. I need an assistant…”
When Artemy Burakh got a letter from his father he experienced a whole whirlwind of emotions that varied from denial and anger to relief and… shame?
He paced around his small dorm that he shared with three more people, considering his options. What was waiting for him in the capitol, when he was proven to be just another cannon fodder? What future did he have here anyway?
Coming back home seemed like a huge step back as well. He was sent away for a chance of a better life, to become someone, something. And he never succeeded in that. Didn’t even finish studies. He didn’t want to come back, unless he had anything to be proud of. Now, he had nothing.
But it was his father who sent him away all these years ago. To study, to escape the town, to learn to be on his own. These were very lonely years, full of struggle and failure. All he ever knew, friends, family, the kin, left behind by the order of his old men. Then, occasional, dry letters that came less and less often.
And now he has to drop everything again and just come back? Like a dog that he can just summon whenever he pleases? He thought and immediately felt ashamed.
He needs you. They need you, said little voice in the back of his head. Duty calls.
Artemy wasn’t proud of it, nor did he feel good about this. Yet, he packed what little he had to his name, closed any unfinished business he had and headed straight to the train station.
Fortunately he had enough money for the one way ticket on the cargo train. Nothing else was heading to the middle of nowhere. And it was full of… coffins? What did they need so many coffins for?
He shrugged, not giving it much thought, assuming they were loading it with other supplies as well. He curled up in the corner of the wagon and let the rhythmic motion of the train lull him to slumber.
The dreams came quickly, as expected, and were as vague as usual. He often dreamt of the steppe and its myths. It held his mind in its claws for all these years. But as he was getting closer home, images were becoming more vivid, more real.
Worms, blind, but somehow looking through him with their large, deformed eyes. Herb brides dancing barefoot on the ground, ethereal and graceful. Holy soil of the Steppe.
The song of his people was becoming louder and louder, pulling him in like a moth to a flame.
Your heart is rotten, the dream figures said. You are not Khatanghe. Not one of the people.
I never was, he wanted to say. I wasn’t raised on the steppe.
But that wasn’t entirely true. His father was of the Kin, his mother, who he never had a chance to meet, was from the Town. He was raised to be the menhku, a surgeon, and a healer. The only one in the Town allowed to cut bodies open without angering the Earth. But was he still the same as the young man who left so many years ago? He never got a chance to learn the Lines properly before he left.
His hometown was built deep in the guts of this wretched country, in the middle of the Steppe by the river of Gorkhon. The trip lasted for several hours that he spent either sleeping or pacing around. No book to entertain himself, only a piece of paper with his father’s handwriting on it. At the end of the trip he was as stiff as a scarecrow and hungry like a wolf.
It was the smell that told him first they were getting close. The air was heavy with the scent of twyre and blooming herbs, and he could name every one of them. There was also a whiff of blood, always present, as if the town was the living, bleeding creature. Burakhs always had a superior sense of smell, to the degree that they could diagnose diseases based on the odor of a patient. A gift and a curse, one would say.
It was still dark outside once he got off the train. He barely managed to stretch his bones, when he heard a whistle. On this signal three people creeped out from behind the wagons, each holding a knife in their hands. What a lovely greeting, he thought.
“Listen, I don’t have anything of value on me” he raised his hands, holding a worn-out bag in one. “No point wasting your time”.
They certainly didn’t want to waste their breath, as not one of them listened. Bandits attacked him swiftly and all at once, but Artemy wasn’t an easy target they assumed he was. Even though he was outnumbered, young Burakh was as tall as a tree and as strong as a boar. He wouldn’t sell his skin dearly.
It was over in a matter of minutes. There were screams, rattle and then silence, but nobody came to check what was going on. He stood over three bodies, knife in his hand and blood on his clothes, breathing heavily. He started to walk away, but after a few steps he passed out and landed beside them with a loud thump.
When he regained consciousness, the sun started to rise slowly, diffusing darkness into thick grey. Artemy cursed, stood up and quickly left the scene, hoping that he was seen by nobody. As the adrenaline slowly left his bloodstream, he felt sharp pain tugging in his chest and arms, as well as pulsating pain in his head.
He needed to get to his father’s house. The old man will patch him up and they will figure out what to do next.
But as he approached he felt that something was wrong. In front of his home there was a crowd gathered, whispering, unnerved, ready to turmoil. He felt it wasn't the right decision, but couldn’t hold back.
“What is going on?” He said out loud, not addressing anyone particularly.
“Doctors dead.” Said man, voice heavy with sadness.
“Murdered in the middle of the night.”
“This is the thanks he got for tending to the Town for all these years.”
Voices of the villagers became white noise in his ears, as he slowly approached the doorstep of his house. They often rested there with his father. Isidor talked, explaining the magic of the Steppe, the Lines and rituals. Young Artemy listened, while sorting the herbs they picked up earlier. Later they would prepare tinctures from them.
Now they will never sit together again. He felt something cold and heavy in his stomach, and a hot lump in his throat.
“You cannot enter! Blood has been spilled there!” Someone shouted, somebody else tried to grab his arms and pull him aside, but he was as still as a stone statue.
“This is my home,” he replied calmly.
“It’s his son, Artemy! Don’t you recognize?” He heard a soft, familiar voice, which made him snap out of it. It was Lara, his childhood friend. “Shame on all of you.”
She put her hand on his shoulder and gently guided him away from the crowd. He lets her, because what else could he do now?
They walked to her house in silence. Words weren’t necessary. He spoke only once they sat down.
“Thank you, Gravel” Artemy used her old nickname.
“When did you arrive?” She brushed off his gratitude.
“Tonight, in the cargo train.”
“Such a shame. You were only hours too late.” She let out a quiet sigh. “He missed you terribly.”
“He sent me away,” Artemy said, like it meant anything.
“So he wasn’t allowed to long for his son?” She was as melancholic as always. He didn’t answer, so Lara stood up and started to bustle around. “You can stay here for as long as you need to. I will give you some of my father’s clothes. And you should go and see a doctor for that”. She pointed to his bloody clothes.
“The only doctor in town is dead. Unless you mean Rubin?” He was also a part of their childhood gang. Artemy heard that he was old Burakhs apprentice when his son was away.
“No. I wouldn’t visit Rubin if I were you”. Lara shook her head. “I mean the other doctor. The one from the capitol. He came here a few days ago and resides in Stillwater”.
“No need, I can take care of myself,” Artemy replied.
“We already need to bury one Burkah. Please don’t make me mourn another”. Her voice didn’t tolerate any opposition. She took his silence for compliance. “Simon Kain is dead too.” She added, like an insult to the injury.
“What a wretched night” he said. Like everyone in Town, he was convinced Simon is immortal.
“People think he was killed by the same person who murdered these people at the train station”. She was answered with silence again. “Was it you Artemy?”
“Yes. I was attacked” he said. “But I didn’t kill Simon, nor my father.”
“I never said you did. But people might talk.”
She didn’t speak for a while.
“You changed, Artemy,” she said softly. “Capitol changed you. War changed you. You were separated from your roots for too long.”
He didn’t have anything to answer again. Talking was never his strongest suit. Lara knew that, so she embraced the silence and gave him space. He slowly changed his clothes and dressed the wounds superficially. They really did look as bad as they felt. Then he sat on the bed prepared for him and once more took out the letter from his father. Caressed the traces of the pen. Touched it to his forehead.
Artemy Burakh was back home.
And he was more alone than ever.
I do not fear death. And neither should you. Death, to a doctor, is but a partner in conversation. The constant witness of our work—even when we succeed. It is not old age, or what comes after it, that worries me. I am instead beset by the thought that I might fail to pass on my role.
Make haste, son. I truly need you. Your loving father, Isidor Burakh