Chapter Text
No matter what Daniil Dankovsky says, Mark Karminsky always passes his judgment in the same way. He can save everyone, except for him. At the end of the day, there is always one body hanging from the noose at the Bridge Square.
The Ripper. The menkhu. Artemy Burakh.
Daniil has lost count of how many times he’s rewound the clock. How much amalgam has he bled on this day? How many mirrors met their end through the sheer power of his bruised and bloody knuckles?
Artemy Burakh doesn’t care, for he’s dead. The dead don’t care about earthly perils anymore.
“Why do this, Karminsky? I vouched for him! I did everything right!” Daniil yells at the inquisitor. The guards stationed at the door tighten their grips around their guns, but Karminsky stops them with a single hand gesture.
“You did. But he did not. Somebody has to pay a price.”
“What price?” Daniil snarls back. He’s tired, and when he goes outside, the limp body of his colleague will greet him with a dead, blank stare. A reminder of his failure.
“Artemy Burakh is the price of your heresy, Bachelor Dankovsky. It’s your impossible power that snaps his neck. Not my order, nor the executioner’s rope.”
It finally clicks. The knowing look in Mark Karminsky’s eyes that Daniil has been ignoring all this time. He cannot deny its presence any longer. “You know…”
All this time, nobody seemed to notice Daniil’s powers. He himself couldn’t comprehend them at first. It’s impossible to control time as if it were a manuscript, easily erased and rewritten at will. But the inquisitor is somehow able to look past the narrative and see the anchor that Daniil has unwillingly become.
“Indeed, but only on this day. Ask me yesterday, and I would have taken you for a madman. But today, you and I are aware. Savour these moments. Or don’t, and perform your impossibility to come back to this exact moment again.”
Oh, so Karminsky doesn’t yet know how Daniil rewinds time. Not that he understands the process himself, but the knowledge remains firmly within his grasp for now. It’s only a matter of time before Mark Karminsky figures it out, but right now, Daniil has an advantage. It’s always good to have an advantage over the inquisition.
“Then why do this? You are trying my patience, inquisitor. Do not forget that I am the one keeping you here in this loop.”
“You are misunderstanding your power, Bachelor. I am the one keeping you stuck. You won’t move forward without him by your side. As long as I give the order for his execution, you will come back. That thing is clear, don’t you think?”
He is right, and Daniil hates it. He knows he can’t proceed without Artemy. He can’t save this town without Artemy. Daniil tried to move on. He took a peek into the future. Without Artemy, the plague runs rampant. So many people die with only two healers at play.
“People will die. And for what? To punish me?” Daniil doubts Karminsky possesses enough humanity to hear his pleading.
“Do not see my actions as a personal attack. I am interested in your skill of time manipulation. Satisfy my curiosity, and I might heed your defence of Artemy Burakh.”
“A blackmail? I should have expected nothing less from the fearless inquisition,” Daniil scoffs. Even if he knew how his powers worked, he wouldn’t share them with a man like Mark Karminsky.
“I may be able to help you. While I do not consider myself an expert in the field of impossible objects, my expertise is vast.”
“That's how you see me? An Impossible object? Don’t think you can help me. It’s this town that needs our help with the plague-”
“I am not talking about this town, Bachelor. Have you already forgotten your work back in the Capital?” Karminsky hands Daniil an envelope. One that he knows too well by now. “I cannot reverse what has already been done. But I can protect you from consequences, once you return home.”
This is not the first time Karminsky has given him the letter, but the words hurt no less. The thought of what awaits him in the Capital upon his return hasn’t crossed Daniil’s mind. Will there be retaliation?
“And what is it you ask of me? Do you want to capture me and put me in a gilded cage? Or perhaps you’d prefer to cut me open and search for the miracle within my viscera?”
A maniacal chuckle escapes Daniil’s lips. With each repeated day, he feels his sanity slip more and more. To Karminsky, he must look like a madman.
“I collect impossible objects, not destroy them. To know I don’t mean you specifically any harm, next time, you can take down his body. I will give out the order. Just do it after dark. Your reputation doesn’t need a stain of a man who desecrates the dead.”
It’s too kind. Mark Karminsky wouldn’t do anything like that without the prospect of personal gain. He’s preparing a noose, waiting for Daniil to obediently stick his head inside before it tightens.
Daniil nods, but hell would sooner freeze over before he thanks the inquisitor. He is not stopped by the guards on his way out. Karminsky knows he’ll be back tomorrow. Or rather, today.
Artemy Burakh is hanged on the seventh day of the plague. His noose was the only one tied to the wooden gallows. His body is the only one swinging in the air. Daniil watches the whole process from the shadows, overwhelmed with guilt. He tries not to look Artemy in the eyes as they march him up the ladder. The fear of possible accusation hidden within the blue would be too much to bear.
Daniil waits for the crowd to disperse. Only the same faces remain. Herb brides, worms, Kin and some children. There are still people who openly mourn Artemy Burakh. But one of the faces is new.
“You shouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t want you to see him like that,” Daniil crouches to the girl’s eye level. His knees creak like old hinges. When has he gotten so old?
Murky doesn’t respond, her eyes still fixated on the hanging body above her head.
“I don't care," she says. Daniil hits a wall the size of an eight-year-old. It's a very stubborn wall, just like the bull of a man she considered her father.
"Fine. I guess I'll stay here with you then.” He would have wanted that. Somebody who would take care of his orphans.
“You will need these,” Murky says and uncurls her fingers, showing Daniil the contents of her hand. Just three walnut shells, both sides still firmly pressed together. One might mistake them for having nuts inside, but they are too light and fragile. Daniil still doesn’t understand the obsession with junk that the local children all seem to possess.
But when he reaches to grab the shells, Murky’s hand jerks away.
“No! You need to give me something for them. Everything has a price.” Based on her voice, Daniil doubts she wants something from him, but those are the rules. You don’t give anything without receiving something in return.
Daniil ponders whether he actually needs more trash piling up in his pockets… To hell with it.
“Let me see… I have a beetle and some marbles. Maybe I could spare a match or two…”
“I want another story. I want you to tell me about Doctor Vaniil.”
Vaniil, Vaniil… Oh, right, his alter ego from that one story he told Murky in exchange for information. It feels like ages ago, but to Murky, it was only yesterday. And yet she remembers and cherishes the pathetic attempt at a fairytale.
“Fine, I can do that. But not here.” Daniil can feel Artemy’s deathly glare. It beckons him to turn around and face him, but Daniil Dankovsky is a coward.
Murky isn’t scared of the body as Daniil is. She gives the corpse one more glance before bowing her head and obediently following Daniil.
Stillwater is close. And most importantly, it’s safe. As if the plague feared that cursed place as much as the residents of the town. Or perhaps it’s the presence of Eva Yan that blesses the soil and the house built upon it.
Murky walks by Daniil’s side. She has to lengthen her steps to catch up to him. When he slows down to her pace, she grabs his gloved hand. It’s so small against Daniil’s palm. The little reassuring presence makes him stop for a moment in disbelief. Murky cares not, and Daniil decides to follow her example.
Stillwater is quiet. It’s unusual for this time of the day, but perhaps the mistress of the house told her guests to let Daniil grieve in solitude.
As if by instinct, Murky immediately heads to the room that houses Baccio. The annoying bull is fond of lying in the small pond, judging anyone who dares to enter with his black, curious eyes.
He does not judge Murky. When Daniil walks in after her, he flicks his ear. He likes to imagine the bull does this to acknowledge his owner’s presence.
“I am sorry... about Burakh. I know you were close.” Daniil has never been good with children. His attempt at comforting a grieving girl who lost her father figure is weak. He wouldn't know what to tell an adult in the same situation, let alone a child.
“I’m sad that he’s gone. Sticky is angry. Angry that he left us.”
“I’m certain that he didn’t want to leave-”
Murky shakes her head, tears already welling up in her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She wraps her arms around Baccio’s neck and presses her face into the speckled fur. Unprompted, Daniil grabs her and swings her onto the bull’s back. She doesn’t protest and lies down on Baccio’s neck. Her eyes are grey, lighter than Artemy’s blue ones. Her stare is intense, but she never quite meets Daniil’s eyes.
“Tell me a story,” she says, softer this time. Almost pleading. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that the local children are just that - children left alone in the midst of a deadly epidemic.
“Right, let me think…” Daniil sits down with his back against Baccio’s side. The water wets his slacks, but he doesn't have to worry about them. They will be dry tomorrow when he wakes up today.
Daniil closes his eyes and lets the words flow. No overthinking. The story will emerge on its own eventually.
“This is a story about a doctor who fought death. Death is a formidable foe. It can look like a beautiful woman or an ordinary bird. Or maybe a small child. But our dashing hero can always see through its disguises.”
“How does he do that?”
“He studied death. There is nobody more familiar with it than him…”
A stray thought wanders into Daniil’s mind. Would she appreciate this? It might be too personal, or it might ease the little girl’s grief.
“You see, Vaniil has a friend… Tyoma. Tyoma is not as smart as Vaniil, but he is strong. And kind. And while Vaniil always knows what to say, Tyoma knows when to keep quiet. And he knows the hearts and souls of children.”
Murky hums in agreement. She likes this story.
“One day, all children in the town got sick…”
In the morning, Daniil asks Eva to make sure a table is prepared in his makeshift laboratory downstairs. She doesn't ask for a reason, and Daniil doesn't provide her one. No time to waste, there are guards who want to execute him.
He almost lets them. A bullet through the brain looks like a better option than facing Artemy Burakh once again. Doomed Artemy Burakh.
He approaches Artemy’s case last. The setting is always the same. Guards, the convict, and two inquisitors - one with an iron heart on his chest, and one with an iron heart in his chest.
“You know how this ends, inquisitor Dankovsky. Artemy Burakh is guilty,” Karminsky remarks. It almost sounds malicious.
"You know he isn't. I am the one to take the blame. You can't convict him. More people will die.”
"I agree with you. But Artemy Burakh is a necessary sacrifice-"
“A sacrifice to sate your own curiosity!"
Daniil's outburst receives no reaction from Karminsky. The man is as cold as ice. The iron heart glimmers on Daniil's red vest, but he is convinced one is also hiding in the inquisitor’s ribcage.
"I want to talk to him. Alone. Without any civilians present,” Daniil orders. The power makes him feel as if he broke out of Karminsky’s shackles. At least for now. He will remember this the next time he pins the iron heart onto Daniil's chest.
Karminsky doesn’t object and leaves. Probably to gloat at the sight of his gallows outside. The guards stay on their posts, just to remind the two men that escape will be punished.
“I’m sorry, Burakh. I tried. I can’t win over him-”
“I know, Oynon.”
The calmness surprises Daniil. The absurdity forces a laugh out of him. Artemy is going to die again, and he is so calm.
There is another thing that catches Daniil’s attention. A steppe word he hasn’t heard so far.
“That’s a new one.”
“It’s a term of respect. It means wise man.” Artemy smiles. It’s a rare sight on his face that sports a permanent frown. It suits him.
“If I were wise, I would be able to save you.”
“You can still save the town. The vaccine-”
“It won’t help. We are doomed without you. I can’t save them without you.” Daniil only now realises he’s been holding Artemy’s wrist. When did he reach out and grab him? Why hasn’t Artemy said something?
Daniil jerks away from the touch, but immediately feels a weight of Artemy’s large hand on his shoulder. It beckons him closer. Close enough for Artemy’s hand to move to Daniil’s nape. Gently, it guides the closer until their foreheads are touching.
“If anyone can beat the sand pest, it’s you, Oynon. I believe in you.”
Artemy’s stormy blue eyes stare directly into Daniil’s soul. But he can’t force himself to look away. They are so full of life right now. Daniil wants to savour their colour. Next time he’ll see them, they will be glossy and dead.
“You should go. There are people you need to save.”
“No, you don’t understand. The second I leave the cathedral, they will execute you.”
Artemy’s thumb gently strokes the back of Daniil’s neck. It sends shivers down Daniil’s spine.
“And every second you spend here with me, more people get infected and die.”
“It doesn’t matter…”
“Those are not the words of a man who seeks to cure death.”
Daniil doesn’t leave because of the potential for patients dying in the hospital. He knows there is nothing to be done. He leaves because he doesn’t want Artemy to see him cry. It’s pathetic to cry over a man he met a week ago, but Daniil spent so much time trying to save Artemy that the failure weighs on him heavily.
The ever-so kind and patient Artemy Burakh doesn’t deserve to die, hanged like a common criminal. Daniil knows this, yet he disappoints him every single time. At first, he always came to see Artemy’s execution. He stopped coming when it became too much.
He will come today. But for now, Daniil hides behind the cathedral, just to let his emotions flow.
He won’t make it. He won’t make it!
Daniil’s lungs burn. His legs hurt. The blisters on his feet began bleeding hours ago. He reaches Bridge Square when Artemy takes the first step onto the ladder. Daniil doesn’t call out to him, but Artemy knows he’s there. They lock eyes, Artemy’s step hinders.
Then, he smiles.
It’s quick, fleeting. Nobody notices, because that smile is meant for Daniil alone.
Death is instant. Karminsky made sure that Artemy Burakh didn't suffer. He wants Daniil to see this act of mercy. Without it, Daniil wouldn’t even entertain talking to him.
As soon as the deed is done, the crowd starts to disperse. The sick entertainment is over. The Ripper is dead. Daniil stays. He sits on the steps to the cathedral and waits.
Some people offer him condolences. They are mostly of the Kin. They have lost their menkhu, yet they don’t grieve as Daniil does.
Bachelor Dankovsky lost something more than a colleague. He just doesn’t yet know what to name this feeling. His heart feels stuck in time, just like the rest of him. It yearns for something Daniil has not experienced.
The sun sets, and Daniil gets to work. The executioner left the ladder outside, no doubt on Karminsky’s order. Daniil brought a knife for this occasion. Cutting Artemy off feels blasphemous, but the rope is tied too tightly to be undone. But suddenly, the rope is not too tight, and the body feels lighter.
“I got him. Keep cutting,” the man underneath huffs, and Daniil recognises the voice as Hypat. He has his arms wrapped around Artemy’s legs, lifting him up to make the rope more slack. When the body is free, he gently lowers it to the cold ground.
“Thank you, Hypat,” Daniil says, only to be met with a nod.
“I’ll bring the cart here. Do you want to take him to Stillwater?”
“You don’t have to do that-”
“Grab his arms, I’ll take the legs.” Hypat doesn’t take no for an answer.
Together, they drag Artemy’s body onto the carrier and head towards Stillwater. He helps Daniil with hauling the body inside. Once again, the house is empty. Prepared for a vigil. The table is set, ready to host the deceased.
“Thank you,” Daniil repeats once again.
“Artemy Burakh was a good man. He deserves to be laid to rest with dignity.”
That’s all that needs to be said. Hypat understands the human need to grieve. He has lost loved ones as well. He leaves because this is not his vigil. It’s Daniil’s lonely wake.
“I failed once again. Look at me, death has bested me, the famed thanatologist. Locked me in place and time.”
Daniil scoffs as he pulls a chair to sit next to Artemy’s body. Exhaustion is already palpable. He was running way too much today.
The body lies unmoving. It’s not embalmed, bears no signs of funeral rites. Daniil attended Isidor’s funeral. He even snuck into Shekhen to inspect the body, but his mind cannot conjure an image of any funerary rituals specific to the Kin. No special clothing, amulets, or symbols. He would love to give Artemy’s body the treatment of his people, but doesn’t know how.
“I’m certain you would prefer your people’s traditions over whatever I’m doing here. I’m afraid all I can do is light a candle in your name.”
He finds one - a crude and simple thing used for emergencies. It will return to the cupboard tomorrow, the wax unburned and solid as if it never met a flame.
“I know I should move on. Accept that some things cannot be changed. But how can I? I went into the future. You wouldn’t like it. Death is winning there. I need you to cure the sand pest. I need you…”
God, he sounds pathetic. Like one of Immortell’s actors.
The theatre director is the only person Daniil hasn’t begged for help from yet. He will, but he fears that Mark Immortell will provide it. It won’t be free, and the price is what terrifies Daniil. Deep down, he knows Artemy will be the one who pays it.
Artemy’s hand is cold as Daniil gently squeezes it. He even takes off the leather gloves, just to caress the cold skin. It was once brimming with heat. Whenever Artemy touched him, Daniil could feel the steppe warmth.
“You can rest now. I will see you another day.”
The time is right now. Daniil gets up. As usual, his legs are taking him to the clock as if in a trance. He places his hand on the glass and closes his eyes. It’s easier like this. He doesn’t like the vertigo the time travelling gives him if he has them open. The power acts on its own. Like it’s natural to rewind time to Daniil’s liking.
It feels like waking up. Daniil’s mind is always a bit hazy when he time-travels. It always takes him a few seconds to realise where and when he is. He’s thirsty. The travelling always makes his throat parched.
Artemy’s body is gone, as expected. He’s still alive after all, at least for a few hours. Stillwater is full of people, so it’s easy to avoid the main door for a while. Daniil plays with the idea of cooping himself inside for the rest of the day. He hasn’t tried this yet. Either the guards will storm this place, or the trial will go on without his input.
“Bachelor?” Somebody calls after him. The voice is so weak and faint that Daniil almost misses it in the persistent murmur of the Stillwater guests.
“I’m sorry, I must go,” he answers back to nobody in particular. There are always people in need of his attention.
The guards are rougher than usual. Perhaps it’s because Daniil is taking his time. Perhaps it’s Karminsky’s revenge for his rebellion last time.
The walk from Stillwater to the cathedral is a short one. There are never any witnesses along the way, which leaves Daniil wondering whether it's one of Karminsky's orders. Just in case Daniil misbehaves. The guards already shot him when he got too headstrong. And not on only one occasion.
But today is different. Daniil feels the gaze before he sees the newcomer. The resemblance is uncanny.
“Artemy?” It must be a trick of the light, but Artemy is right there. Standing beside a street lamp, his lips moving in silent words. Free and alive and reaching towards Daniil.
“Move, doctor.”
“No, you don’t understand-” He’s gone. A trick of the light indeed. An image conjured by a tired mind. Artemy Burakh cannot be here in Bridge Square. They must have already dragged him into the cathedral.
“Move! Better not keep the Inquisitor waiting.” And Daniil complies.
The ghost of Artemy Burakh seems to follow him into the cathedral. Daniil doesn’t notice him at first. The man is still alive, after all. He’s standing there, in front of him. So close and so warm. Bloodied and beaten this time. Artemy doesn’t usually put up a fight when they come for him.
But in the corner of his eye, Daniil can see Artemy’s mirror image leaning on the balustrades above the trial. The resemblance is undesputable. And yet when Daniil turns around and looks up, the phantom is gone. A weight of a guilty conscience? Why now? He has let Artemy down so many times before, and unfortunately, he’s going to do it again.
“They were necessary-”
Daniil interrupts Artemy. He has heard this so many times before. “I know. I asked you for the heart. I saw you protecting the children. I told you to go to the infected district. But it doesn’t matter what I say. The inquisitor has made up his mind, am I correct?”
Daniil doesn’t have to turn around to know Karminsky’s expression. He knows the mention of his name makes the corners of his mouth twitch. The gesture to fleeting it might not exist at all. A crack in the face of a marble statue is seen as an impurity, one that the Hanging Judge cannot allow.
Artemy stays quiet. His eyebrows knit together in that mysterious frown. Daniil never knows what’s going on in Artemy’s head when he looks like this. “So this is it. Fate has caught up with me.”
“I will find a way,” Daniil hears himself saying, but his voice sounds so distant. He always says this. Saying that is a reflex, but he’s losing faith in those words. This is no longer a trial, but a challenge of wits. And Daniil is so tired.
Once again, they come for Artemy, taking him away. The real Artemy. The mirage is still observing from the balcony above. Quiet, unmoving. It's judging Daniil. He knows it.
“Wait! I want to talk to him alone,” Daniil yelps, but Karminsky is faster. Quickly, gently, he unpins the iron heart and places it back above his own.
“No, you are not pulling this today, Dankovsky. But I applaud your previous attempt. You are still a man of surprises.”
Artemy shoots Daniil a confused look. He doesn’t try to speak up. His bloodied lips tremble, but still remain locked in a straight line. He’s had enough beating. The guards won’t hesitate to strike a prisoner on death row. Death will claim anyone, no matter the amount of blood on their face.
“I’m sorry, Artemy,” Daniil says before they take the prisoner away. He won’t forget the softness of the stormy eyes.
“There is no reason to prolong this. Join me, Bachelor. I want you to witness the execution by my side.”
“Trying to tighten your grip around me? Don’t bother. People already think I work for you.”
“I’m just making sure the message translates well into the days to come.”
Daniil groans. “I’m tired of this game, Karminsky… Let me save this town.”
“You are still able to produce a vaccine. Artemy Burakh and his steppe ways shouldn’t stand in the way of someone like you.”
He doesn’t stand in my way, Daniil wants to object. He’s a trusted companion in the plagued streets. He's his equal. Almost.
“You’ve never cared about any of this,” Daniil scoffs. What is even point of this banter? Why is he trying to upset Karminsky?
“But I do care. I care about doing my job.”
So do I, Daniil wants to scream. Sometimes, he feels like he cares too much. He couldn’t care less about this town when he first arrived. When did all of that change?
Over the years of research, Daniil has become desensitised to death. It’s hard to be disgusted by dead bodies when you dissect them on both a physical and theoretical level. The process of dying doesn’t force him to close his eyes. To Daniil, death is something that can be put underneath a microscope, with enough layers of glass to almost exist in a different universe. But seeing Artemy’s death is painful and real. The sound his spine snapping makes him sick.
The crowd starts to disperse, but Daniil cannot force his legs to move. As if they were rooted in the cobblestone stairs of the cathedral. The morbid image of the gallows painted just for him.
And Artemy.
Inexplicably, there are two Burakhs in Bridge Square. One, hanging off the rope with empty eyes, void of life, and the second one, standing by the corpse’s feet. It's the splitting image of Artemy Burakh, but alive and well, with those stormy blue eyes full of kindness and rage.
“Bachelor?"
No, it has to be a hallucination. A mirage created by an exhausted mind. When was the last time he drank water? Artemy told him before that he smells of dehydration.
The false Artemy reaches out to touch his own body, only to see his hand phase through the leg. It doesn't even swing underneath the weight of another being. As if nothing touched it at all. The body hangs there, taunting Daniil with his failure and false Artemy with his phantom touch.
The ghost growls and turns his attention back to Daniil. "I know you can see me, Dankovsky. Why can’t anybody see me? Why can’t I touch anything? Why did I see myself die? Answer me!”
No, this is but a trick of a feeble mind. Daniil shakes his head and takes a step back, only for his back to be met with a cold, stone column. Is he spiralling again? It doesn’t feel like it. The sounds are too clear, the light doesn’t hurt, his breathing is steady and his skin… He takes off a glove and touches his forehead. It's hot.
“I need a drink,” Daniil mutters. The glove sheathes his hand once again, and it feels right. As he darts back towards Stillwater, he tries to avoid meeting Artemy’s eyes. He doesn’t talk anymore, but simply hums like he always does.
Daniil knows he’s being followed. The footsteps have no weight, but he feels the piercing gaze of a man who should not be. The pub will be safe. Andrey is alive. Peter is alive, although broken by his beloved creation more than ever. Andrey might yell at Daniil. Accuse him of harming his brother. Or perhaps he will welcome him as his saviour.
“I'm grateful to you for saving my brother." The sincerity doesn’t suit Andrey’s normally mocking voice. But there is a venomous undertone, and the cause of it is Peter. Daniil doesn’t ask about the younger Stamatin. He knows the state the trial left him in.
“Then let your gratitude be known and pour me a drink."
Daniil shouldn’t be hailed as a hero. Not now. Not ever. He’s a coward. And a mad one at that.
“Bachelor? Can you hear me?” That voice vibrates through Daniil’s entire being. Like a tap on a glass. It sends a wave of emotions through his bones. Chilling like a morning frost. Yet his whole body is burning. Why is it so hot?
He takes off the snakeskin coat and hangs it over the chair. It leaves him too exposed. He rolls up the sleeves, but the skin still feels too hot. He’s always been pale, but this pallor is almost unhealthy. Perhaps he’s finally gotten sick. The sand pest finally wrapped its tendrils around him, and the hallucination is one of the symptoms. An image of comfort and familiarity to guide him through dying.
“I would rather not.” Daniil empties the glass and signals Andrey to pour him another one. Maybe if he gets drunk, the hallucination disappears.
“Stop ignoring me!”
The vision of Artemy grabs Daniil’s forearm. The grip is not tight, but the pain is unbearable. At first, it’s cold. So impossibly cold. Then the sensation turns hot, the skin underneath the ghastly hand reddens.
Daniil jerks away, falling off the barstool in the process. Artemy doesn’t fight him, equally horrified by his own touch.
“Are you okay, light weight?” Andrey smirks, but reaches down to help him up. Daniil doesn’t accept Andrey’s outstretched hand. Instead, he grabs the snakeskin coat of the ground and wraps it around the wound.
“I suppose I had too much to drink,” Daniil blurts out and gathers himself to leave. The hallucination follows.
“Dankovsky!” The voice follows him outside. He slams the door shut, only to be met with the vision of Artemy Burakh in the daylight. Tall and broad as he was in life.
“You are not here! I watched you die,” Daniil spats out and heads towards a barrel. The trash inside is ablaze, and the warmth beckons Daniil to come closer, warm up the icy wound on his arm.
“I did die.” Artemy’s eyes slide down towards the frostbite. It’s not life-threatening and will heal on its own, but it doesn’t change the fact that he hurt Daniil. If he held for longer, the flesh would be in a worse shape. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“I can’t do this,” Daniil mutters. The hallucination’s voice is too sincere. It sounds too much like Artemy Burakh. And the heat from the fire is making his hands tremble, and his head hurts. He needs to calm down. Slow down and make the world quiet.
Over the week, Daniil memorised the quiet, still corners of the town. One is not too far from Broken Heart. It’s a small playground, hidden from the busy main street with a brick wall. A small refuge of stillness. Immediately upon arrival, Daniil hits the spinning toy, spins the merry-go-round and finally sits on the swing.
“Are you done playing?” Artemy speaks up, his arms crossed on his chest. Is that amusement glimmering in his eyes? Embarrassment flushes Daniil’s face.
“Don’t look at me like that. I need this,” Daniil groans and hides his face in his hands. When he looks up, Artemy is still there. Staring, waiting.
“You are one persistent hallucination,” Daniil mutters. He shouldn’t talk to it. It just deepens his madness.
“Is the mark on your arms a figment of your imagination as well?” Artemy raises his voice and takes a step towards Daniil. He reaches out his hand to touch him, only for Daniil to jerk away.
“Just because you don’t exist doesn’t mean my mind is not playing painful tricks on me. The wound might be psychosomatic. I am in shock!”
Artemy lets out a frustrated growl and punches the spinning toy. At least he attempts to. His hand passes through the wood, as if it were made of air.
“What have you done, Dankovsky?” Artemy whispers. It’s loud enough for Daniil to hear. He immediately jumps up from the swing, anger clouding his vision.
“Now listen to me, you-”
The moment Daniil touches Artemy’s shoulder, an impossible coldness washes over him. Despite the thick butcher’s smock and leather gloves, the iciness pierces through and attacks his skin. He jolts away mostly out of shock rather than pain. The layers have been enough to prevent another frostbite.
“So… cold,” Daniil mutters, showing the hand underneath his coat. Instead of the body heat warming his hand, the iciness permeates his stomach, slowly creeping upwards.
“I saw a burning barrel on the way here. Can you make it there?” Artemy reaches out to grab Daniil’s hand, but immediately realises the potential mistake.
“Yes. You still haven’t made me into an invalid, Burakh,” Daniil grits through his chattering teeth and follows Artemy. The warmth from the fire is pleasant. It’s slowly melting the cold, and for a moment, Daniil almost lets his intrusive thoughts shove the freezing hand into the flame.
“Can you even feel it?” Daniil asks when he spots Artemy warming his own hands above the fire.
“No. It’s like they are numb. But I could feel you.”
“Don’t you dare to touch me again,” Daniil spats out with more venom than he’s anticipated. Based on Artemy’s smirk, he doesn’t take it personally.
“Why am I here, Oynon?” Yes, that’s the question. Daniil quickly replays yesterday’s events. There has to be something he’d done differently.
“How am I supposed to know that? This has never happened before-”
“Before?” Artemy raises an eyebrow. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that nobody knows Daniil travels through time. But only twelve days. Only here. Only now.
“Forget it. You’d think I’m mad.”
“Look at me, Dankovsky! I am dead. I remember the noose snapping my neck. I remember following you to the cathedral and watching my own trial. And now I can’t touch anything, and nobody except you can see me!”
Daniil doesn’t remember ever seeing Artemy this angry. Except there are tears in his eyes and he realises Artemy is not angry, but scared. Terrified. Daniil can’t even imagine what it must be like, invisible to the entire world that considers him dead.
Because he is dead. Early in his career as a thanatologist, Daniil considered the existence of ghosts. He discarded the theory for the lack of evidence. And now there might be one standing in front of him. Why now? Why here? Why him…
“What else can you remember?”
Artemy closes his eyes. “That’s it. You wanted to talk to me, but Karminsky wouldn’t let you. Then they executed me… I woke up in Stillwater. There was a body with a white cloth draped over it, and I knew it was mine,” Artemy shakes his head, chasing away the memory. “Then it was morning, and there were guards waiting for you. Do you know they planned to kill you?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Daniil smirks. It doesn’t calm Artemy down.
“You are hiding something from me, Dankovsky. Tell me-”
“I don’t have to tell you anything. You won’t remember any of this tomorrow-”
Except he will. The realisation hits Daniil like a cold shower. Artemy remembers his own body in Stillwater. That hasn’t happened today. And it won’t happen since Karminsky didn’t give the order. Whatever did this to Artemy must have happened yesterday. He travelled in time and remembers it.
“I took you with me,” Daniil realises. That causes even more confusion to surface on Artemy’s face. “I rewound time and somehow took you with me. You shouldn’t be able to remember those things. They haven’t happened today.”
“I- I am not sure I understand.” It’s almost cute when Artemy tilts his head in confusion.
“Come with me. We have to find a clock.”
It’s not like Artemy has other options. He’s always felt drawn to the arrogant doctor from the Capital, but now the attraction feels physical. Whenever Daniil goes, Artemy is compelled to follow. It’s like an invisible chain that pulls him wherever the big city doctor decides to.
They don’t have to traverse any infected district on the way to the theatre. And even if they did, Daniil has already memorised the quickest and safest routes. Artemy is so quiet the entire time. He doesn’t even have footsteps. Daniil has to turn around a few times to make sure he’s not alone.
“Can you tell me what we are doing at the hospital?”
“It’s not like you can get infected in your current state, Burakh.”
But Daniil still can. It’s a miracle he hasn’t succumbed to the sand pest yet. As if the plague itself feared the healers.
Seeing the desperation seep from every millimetre of the theatre never gets easier. The air is soaked with death and rot. The orderlies cannot bring out the dead fast enough, so there are always corpses layered around. The beds change their occupant too frequently.
Daniil marches through the corridor of sickness with the confidence of a man who knows the fate of the entire town lies on his shoulders. The burden is heavy, but it makes him stand tall and proud.
Some of the orderlies glance in his way, curtly nodding with their beaks. It's the most they can do to show respect.
Daniil nods back every time. He appreciates every single one of them. Without the volunteers, the town would have fallen much sooner.
But the man without whom this whole operation would have crumbled stands on the stage, his nose buried in a notebook. While Daniil is away, Yakov Little holds the rains steady.
“Doctor Dankovsky! Would you like to see the numbers?"
“Later, Little. Can you tell me the time?”
“Three o’clock, doctor.”
Daniil curtly thanks him and heads backstage. Their makeshift operation theatre is usually empty. People are dying before they can be prepared for surgery. The clock stands in the corner and reads exactly what Yakov told them. Three o’clock.
“Let’s go to four,” Daniil mutters and makes sure Artemy is watching as he places his hand on the clock’s face.
He doesn’t know how he does it. Placing his fingertips on the cold glass surface always seems to be enough. The clock hands underneath move by themselves, stopping at four o’clock sharp.
“How did you do that?” Artemy asks, his mind trying to comprehend the magic.
“Oh, that’s not even the best part!” Daniil cackles maniacally and darts back to the stage.
“Yakov, would you mind telling me the time?”
Yakov jumps at the sound of Daniil’s voice. He looks up from a sample and checks the pocket watch.
“Four o’clock. Where- How did you-”
Artemy asks himself the same question. It couldn't have been an hour. Two minutes at the most.
“Dankovsky, wait!" He reaches out, and Daniil quickly jumps away. A few of the patients, who are still sentient enough to care about their surroundings, shoot him confused looks. When their doctor goes mad, all is lost.
"Not here,” Daniil mutters, not even glancing in Artemy’s way. It’s understandable, and if Artemy wants the human connection that death has deprived him of, he will need to follow Bachelor’s rules.