Archive of Our Own

I am not a fool entire, no I know what's coming, You’ll bury me beneath the tree I climbed as a child.

Bitter Water- The Oh Hellos

The first time they meet it’s unintentional.

There is no burst of colour, no bright light or soft fantasy but a shift so small that it could be mistaken as the wind.

Some may have called it fate, but even at twelve, they were both far too cynical for that.

Nikolai was not where he was supposed to be.

Not that he ever truly was; the phrase ‘head in the clouds' was something he found was being said to him far too often, not to mention that it was utterly false. His head and shoulders were both firmly attached to the rest of his body, but he did find his eyes looking towards the horizon, looking for more than being cooped up like cattle in a small, small town, looking for more than this.

More than the same streets, lined with the same faces, telling the same god-damned stories. That was the very reason he had a plan. A plan to leave, to run, to flee.

So Nikolai stood, not where he was supposed to be, beneath a coppice of spruce and fir. The first ‘trees’ began as nothing more than stumps of bark but as he looked deeper they only became denser before fading into darkness. Not even the sun's opening rays could illuminate it, despite how they stretched across the open valley behind him, catching on locks of white-gold hair that were doing little to warm the back of his neck from the morning wind.

The vague scent of damp and moss that came with winter rain was heavy in the air. From between gnarled roots and protruding ferns sprouted ivy that climbed to his waist, not beaten by the frost, it still stood stubborn and vigilant guiding him back, away from whatever lay within.

Other children were warned by parents and siblings again and again to not venture past that barrier of foliage. Tales from neighbouring towns had been traded, tales of the dangers that resided beyond: a bear that had awakened early from its seasons of slumber, blackened claws that would rip out your heart to allow itself to gorge on still-warm entrails; poisonous fungi that would be lethal in even the smallest of doses, seeping through your pores to make your corpse a new home; or if you’re particularly unlucky you’d meet a demon, not in the form of leathered wings and protruding horns but a boy who has eyes much colder and older than he would let you believe.

As he recounted these second-hand stories he laughed to himself at their ridiculousness, each one only fuelling his venture into the unknown. Yet a voice deep in his mind warned him that all stories, even the most outlandish, are derived from truth.

Shaking the thoughts from his mind, Nikolai looked to the sky, which was still a deep blue in places. He had 45 minutes, 55 if he didn’t mind a few stray leaves in his hair, and a lecture at most. He’d learnt to politely hold his tongue, pretend that he was listening to a monologue that he would have heard all too recently, and smile placidly as he took his seat and let the hours tick by doing only the bare minimum. It was a small sacrifice to find a few new trees to climb and practice a few tricks with a pack of cards he had ‘stumbled’ across. It was worth it if he could disappear.

(even if it was only for a little while)

Once he was past the last remnants of axe-eaten trees he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. Pushing back thickets of brambles and thistles attempting to try and stop them from catching on the cotton of his trousers, his last good pair for the winter unless he wanted to be wearing shorts in the midst of February.

He was well immersed within the forest, far past the outskirts he usually kept to. The scent of damp had only grown and unlike before, many of the surrounding plants had retreated into the ground when faced with the cutthroat fight for resources, so with nothing to stop him, Nikolai continued.

The clear path did not last long, soon he was confronted by the base of a large fir tree, one that offered a view that must have stretched for miles beyond the borders of this village. Crows littered the branches overhead, their ebony eyes gleaming ink-like, daring him to join them.

The start of the climb was the hardest, the main factor being that there were no real branches to use as leverage, leaving Nikolai to resort to wedging his fingers into cracks and crevices, feeling blindly for odd bumps or notches in the bark to find his footing. Eventually reaching the first real branch that he could sit on, Nikolai looked to the sky. He'd already eaten into half his time getting this far if he wanted to make it to the top he’d have to triple his pace.

After some trial and error, he found a pattern, which branches could be stepped on, and which ones were there to deceive him so he would plummet to his doom. At the top, the branches dwindled to being dangerously spindle-like, but Nikolai still took his chance to sit precariously on top of them. Squatting atop the bark as clouds passed by, a crow hopped along on the branch above him and cawed occasionally as Nikolai monologued to no one in particular.

It was nice to just speak, and be listened to. It was the closest he’d come to being understood because birds didn’t need to understand. You don’t need knowledge when you have freedom.

(To have both were hypocritical).

Nikolai reached into his pockets -sown himself- searching within the depths for the familiarity of a small paper-bound book. It was plain, inconspicuous. He returned to his pockets a second time for a stick of graphite whittled to a point, another thing he was lucky enough to have ‘found’. Then he began to draw.

The sketch was nothing fancy, just enough to make out the basic shapes of the surrounding area. It would be useful in the future, a key part of his plan. He had about a quarter of the surrounding 2-3 miles logged, all pieced together from an amalgamation of previous locations: the twin village to the left of his own (only a few hours by cart at his estimate) or where the river meanders into the distance, becoming an oxbow lake, the furthest he’d been able to map until now. This was one of his best views by far, few others could compare to it.

Biting down on his lip, Nikolai observed the surrounding area that went rolling on for miles as he looked on, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it all. Then he began to draw it. He created rough outlines- all he needed was a general idea. 

Occasionally, he was pulled from the scenery and his attention shifted to the crow which was far too used to human company but made for the perfect subject. Although crudely drawn he thought the piece was very expressive, its head buried under its wings, eyes that shone with something that he couldn’t capture, like the charm of the one in front of him or what had him so enamoured with the creatures.

Nikolai stared into the sun, where he mused whether he should try to get closer to the bird and he came to the conclusion that he should. Thoughtlessly twirling the lead that lay between his fingers the slight weight familiar in his grip, he crawled away from the safety of the trunk. However this familiarity did not stop him from watching the lead drop to the floor in front of him, the sound muffled by leaves but not lessening the impact itself.

Perfect, that had been hard to find as well, he thought to himself grimacing, the crow, in its own expressive way seemed to frown sympathetically but having finished its preening it continued on its way, leaving nothing but 2 charcoal feathers in its wake.

“Was I boring you?” Nikolai sighed still advancing his way towards the end of the branch. 

“Surprisingly not,” a tired voice replied through the natural symphony of the woods, someone might have asked of its origin but before he could Nikolai soon found himself in a heady blur, gangly limbs clawing with desperation at scraps of bark, instincts working when his brain would not.

From this angle he could see the respondent to his rhetorical: a young boy deeply absorbed in the final pages of a book sitting in a small clearing, leaning against the base of the tree.

A young boy he hadn’t seen before.

The first rule of small towns was that everyone knows everyone and their mother. An aching in his palms egged him to reposition his grip on the branch as he somehow managed to lower himself to the next one with limited damage.

The stranger was unbothered, glancing up from his book, his face harbouring a look that toed the line between amused and exasperated. 

After recovering his footing and his breath Nikolai smirked. “Shall I continue, then?” Raising an eyebrow as the boy’s look failed to slip into something recognisable. The expression was further obscured as the boy responded, looking down at the pages once again.

“As much as I would like to,” which implied wasn’t much, “I have places to be and I assume you do too,” his voice left no clues either. Perfectly neutral, calculated. 

Nikolai’s attention was fully taken by the swift closing of a book, the snap reverberating through the forest. Continuing down the tree, he caught a better glimpse of the unfamiliar face although mostly distorted by leaves and dark strands of hair. The only distinguishable feature was two heavily lidded violet eyes that slowly blinked, almost as if they were looking through him. The moment lasted less than a second as the stranger had turned on his heel, returning to the shrubbery through the final leaves of the autumn's past. 

Nikolai gave up on being tentative in his descent and dropped to the ground with little thought for his safety, wincing against the impact on his ankles. Although, it meant he was quick enough to catch a final look of a caped figure traversing deeper into the woods than he thought was possible.

He was not going to let the most interesting thing to happen to this town get away, a possible mystery to pass the time before he made his escape; he didn’t even manage to catch a name.

“Until we meet again, dear stranger,” Nikolai called with a smile and maybe he saw the quickly disappearing body hesitate for a fraction of a second or maybe that was just a consequence of fanning his fast-dying embers of hope.

He debated following him, but as he felt the sun's warmth graze his face his blood ran cold.

Late. 

With a new sense of urgency, he turned his body the way he came, half running towards his path in the grass the new sprouts bent in parting from his entry, still easy to see, still slightly damp.  

Nikolai felt the cloth of his clothes snag on brambles. He cursed under his breath, though this was more out of habit than worry. He doubted his father would notice anyway.  Looking between the leaves overhead, the stark silhouette of the crow was no more than a mere memory on the horizon.  

The second time they meet, Nikolai seeks him out. 

It felt like he was knee-deep in honey, stuck. Left to continue to mull over the memories of that morning. A rose-tinged haze signalled that it was too late to be out, it stretched across the woodland that caused it to don an unusually inviting glow. 

Approaching the first of the trees Nikolai sat atop one of the stumps, contemplating going further. He looked beyond the rough bark trunks perhaps hoping to see something looking back through at him. He inched a little closer, where the grass was still damp from frost, not even the day's mild warmth made it through the canopy of the evergreens to melt it. With every step, he felt his trouser legs drag against the new grass blades and become heavy with water, enough to cause most to turn back. The evening chill was firmly implemented yet he continued against his better judgment.

The tree from that morning continued to stand tall, Nikolai scaled its branches once more although there was no trace of the stranger who had been there only hours before.  Something akin to hope was dampened like his feet and socks as he turned back with haste, walking until he could see the sky once more.

It was overcast, grey clouds filled the sky like smoke, there were no lights inside windows to guide his path as Nikolai strolled past the schoolhouse in no hurry to get home. The only building awake in this otherwise sleepy town was the tavern; orange light pooling from the windows, he slowed as he saw how the lights and shadows painted the streets. Despite it being only early evening, the people had slunk away to retreat within their houses, put their heads on feather pillows, and dream of things they’d never do (things they’d forget when they woke up).

An empty house was familiar to Nikolai; it was routine but that made it no less unsettling. 

The remains of coal glowed enough to illuminate the room, revealing the basic shapes of the little furniture that was there. He stood there, at the edge of the doorway, until the cold was too much to ignore. He fed the glowing embers until they roared in their enthusiastic greeting, allowing him to let the warmth seep through his clothing and into his skin. There was something so hypnotising about the flames, watching them bend and lick and twist in such a wicked dance before dying once again. Wasteful. 

Leftovers were heated on the ash-filled embers and Nikolai finished them lukewarm, not caring for the taste. He debated adding more wood to the fire but eventually decided against it. It was late anyway.

After trailing up the stairs, Nikolai’s limbs were heavy as he entered his room. Unsurprisingly, it was as he had left it: bare with the exception of a bed with a small trunk at the end of it. He dragged his fingers through the dust that had settled on top of the lid then sat down upon thin blankets. He pulled the journal from his pockets, thumbing through its pages, logging the day's progress and how many more it would take to complete it. But he found his mind drifted to the only mildly interesting thing in the town.

It was fruitless to stay awake any longer, so Nikolai found himself surrendering to sleep falling back into his bed. Left to stare at the wooden beams that stretched across the ceiling as he closed his eyes drifting in and out of consciousness.

Within the darkness, there was a vague registering of the sound of the door being closed with little regard for those that would have been thought asleep. Groans and muddled words floated up the stairs to pluck him from his dreams, if there were any at all within the vast plane of nothing which he inevitably fell back into. 

He awoke to a sour taste in his mouth and the cold biting at his skin, much like an unwelcome dog. So the usual. 

Hissing as his bare feet brushed against wooden planks, Nikolai got dressed and assessed the damage his previous expeditions had on his clothes. Comparing old scars to new wounds and acting in accordance to each one cutting loose thread before more holes could be made unable to properly sow until the evening.

Stretching as he stood up he pulled his hair from his face the ashy blond tufts just long enough to obscure his vision if he really cared, I probably should cut it soon, he thought, opting to tuck it behind his ears.

He descended the stairs with grace, and without sound, little had changed since the previous night but the fire had well and truly died. Smothered.

The smell of liquor hung heavy in the air and Nikolai walked a little faster.

It was a crisp morning, which Nikolai much preferred to the downpours of frozen rain that were common at the time. The wind made his teeth ache. He smiled against it in defiance, cheeks aching and most likely flushed red. 

With coat tails that billowed behind he trailed the road long before any wandering traveller or market stall owner, giving Nikolai the time to gaze upon the fields that not that long ago had been golden and even sooner before smoking stumps to signal the year's end. Shoots, new beginnings that broke through the earth soon to become just as tall but slightly less gilded than those in his memory.

He found himself once again cradled in the arms of a tree (‘for the view’ he said.) Yet he could not explain the inexplicable warmth in his chest when he saw the same cloaked figure in the same spot engrossed in the same book.

“Back again?” Nikolai grinned as he hopped down from his perch with nonchalance- as if he hadn’t checked for the other's presence the night before. Deep purple eyes narrowed as they flicked from left to right, left to right, then snapped up from the pages to meet his own. 

“It seems so,” the boy replied, chewing his words, voice just as tired as before.

“Don't sound so sad about it, if you must know I was quite looking forward to the prospect of meeting again. I did promise it after all!” Nikolai chided, soaking in every inch of the stranger. “Is that the same book as yesterday? You must be reading it backwards,” he observed, quirking an eyebrow which in return earned him a deadpan stare.

“I'm rereading it.”

“You’re already halfway! And so fast! Are you really sure that you’re reading it right?” Nikolai chuckled to himself, peering over the boy's shoulder, which other did little to obscure the view but the print was so small he couldn’t read it anyway.

“Yes, I’m very familiar with it,” the stranger replied without hesitation, eyes back on the page.

“Ooh let me put it to the test,” curiously, maybe foolishly Nikolai plucked the book from the boy's hands to little physical reaction, but an expression close to smug did spread across his face. 

Nikolai skimmed through the book, its pages well-kept but worn almost translucent, as he tried to come up with a question before his thoughts were cut short:

“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness,” the words hung in the air giving them a certain weight that other people's didn’t. “Would you like me to continue?” 

Drawing up to full height, the boy was just shorter than Nikolai. Taller than his previous stance suggested. All the while Nikolai watched trying to hide his growing smile.

“You are familiar then? It must be pretty good,” he began, jokingly, every person had heard those words every Sunday since they were born. Jogging to keep up, the boy began to walk away.

“I don’t have much to compare to it but I would think so,” he replied, not slowing his pace.

“Let’s make a deal,” both boys came to a halt and the stranger began to smirk.

“Now that depends, what is it?”

“Yes or no.”

“I’m intrigued,” he admitted with a slight nod of his head, “Now the question is will I regret that?” to which Nikolai all but grinned.

“Now what I propose is a competition of sorts, I find a book you enjoy more than the last.” 

“And what would I get?” 

“I good book I would hope, maybe even better company,” in response his violet eyes seemed to harden in consideration. 

“Doesn’t sound like a competition- more like an excuse-” he mused, almost about to walk away once more- 

Something rustled from beneath the fabric of his cloak, leaving them both still once again, what was hidden beneath its heavy folds was a tendril of darkness, a hole so deep it led to the pits of hell or maybe…just a small rat. Soft pink nose twitched as it crawled over the boys' feet as naturally as any mound of grass.

“Is he yours?” 

“Is nature truly anybody's?” the response given to Nikolai’s question was deliberately unhelpful.

“I meant do you feed him,” rolling his eyes in exasperation, “You two seem friendly enough.” Nikolai finished, bending down with an open palm that the creature sniffed tentatively before scuttling back to where the stranger had kneeled to cup it within his hands.

“I suppose so” he replied, stroking its fur. So far that being the most attention given to anything that wasn’t that book, “Rats are very intelligent, they can recognise faces.”

“Intelligent, you say? I could train them! Go across the country! Gogol and his band of rats- you could come too,” he added out of courtesy, “I mean you did discover the talent after all, imagine this: Gogol and-”

“Dostoyevsky,  Fyodor Dostoyevsky,” the response sounded restrained as if he was going to say something else. 

“Too long,” Nikolai sighed waving his hand dismissively, “’ll shorten it! Dos and Gogol's show-stopping spine-tingling spec- rat -ular!” He declared with a flourish.

“How does that sound?” to which ‘Dos’ had tucked the book beneath his arm and met his eyes properly. 

“Its lengthy, wordy, quite stupid actually but it sounds like…” and then, with some form of reluctance he finished,  “A starting point,” Looking amused as Nikolai met his gaze

“Then we can work on it when I give you that book,” he said with a wink.

The twelfth time they meet, Nikolai knew only marginally more than the first. 

Nikolai sat down on the damp grass to which Fyodor did less than flinch, already absorbed in his latest novel. When it came to books he was like some kind of ravenous creature, the pages were devoured in days, sometimes hours. It was fascinating to watch, to sit in a shared silence, to marvel at the speed each page was turned.

Cards would shuffle and flutter with a practised motion, their sound layered with the rustling pages. Occasionally Nikolai would talk aimlessly about a topic of his desire, offer a game of cards to which Fyodor would indulge and nearly always win. 

(The few losses were most likely out of pity, which Nikolai would whine about, only to hold the win over Fyodor's head as if he forgot it wasn’t a real achievement. All just to excite some form of emotion into this still stranger) 

Nikolai had stopped shuffling for long enough to hear that the pages were no longer turning. He looked towards Fyodor and was surprised to see him shaking his head, still examining the final page.

“Was it bad?” Nikolai questioned. 

“Incredible,” a voice devoid of emotion answered, Fyodor’s body still statuesque to an unnerving degree. 

Nikolai was intrigued. 

Never before had Fyodor had such a response to any one of the books he'd grabbed from the crevices of the school house, (he’d have to ‘borrow’ from the church more often) his expression was twisted into something even more unreadable than normal.

“Then why's your face so…” he trailed off, attempting to mimic it himself.

“Because it's over, '' Fyodor breathed, it was almost inaudible, said in a way one might after running very fast for a very long time. 

He continued to stare at the page for some time, then returned to the beginning for what must at least have been the 4th time by how he mouthed the words before he’d even read them. An achievement in itself the book being a reasonably large paperbound, old and handwritten, seemingly of Italian origin. It wouldn't have been missed rather difficult to make disappear- but nothing out of his skill set. 

Nikolai sighed, pulling his knees a little closer as the rat scuttled from between Fyodor's feet, wanting attention that Nikolai was more than happy to give when the other would not, taking a piece of stale bread from his pocket as well as some thread. 

The sun was high in the sky and Nikolai was out of bread. Maybe rats weren’t the future after all. Taking apart his makeshift tightrope he laid back on the grass in defeat, the rat in question crawling up onto his chest for a nap after the failed training session that was just a free meal.

“You really want to leave then?” Nikolai turned his head as Fyodor's voice floated through the air, careful not to disrupt the sleeping rodent. He was surprised to see the other watching him intently, the book left open in his lap. “Why is that?”

“It's simple, freedom.” 

Nikolai knew that. The desire to break free become one with the birds. It was something he could rely on, so why couldn't he sit still under Fyodor’s questioning gaze? The buzzing in his bones was channelled into shuffling cards and absent chatter with the meaning of white noise.

“You talk more after,” to which Nikolai sat up fully, now alert giving a questioning look of his own.

“You're quizzing me? Now that's just unfair, you didn't even announce it!” and as if that confirmed his suspicions, Fyodor’s gaze settled on his arm where underneath his shirt something purple-blue had begun to bloom. Cool fingertips ghosted over the cloth, never really making contact with the skin even as Nikolai stilled himself to bite his tongue rather than wince.

“Freedom is not the only thing you seek,” Fyodor began. “You seek salvation from a world that has wronged you,” he said the words so simply. Not at all like he was unravelling the core Nikolai built himself from and all with the same contorted expression as earlier. “This world is so filthy, someone has to cleanse it of such sin,” lofty words were so grounded, even though they were spoken by a boy not much younger than himself. 

In 12 days this boy knew him better than anyone in this town did in 12 years. 

It was a year before Nikolai eventually stopped keeping track of the days. It made more sense to count the ones when they didn't meet, which were few and far between. 

Days stretched into weeks, and their shared company became part of an uncanny routine of trading ‘borrowed’ books and trivial facts or when Nikolai had run out of them he’d add to his fruitless efforts to train Fievel the rat, who he’d named since he didn’t have one before. 

The hours had dwindled into little more than an orangey slither in the distance, it left Nikolai shrouded in darkness forcing him to close his journal with a snap, and the birds above them to scatter with the wind. He leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree, the roughness not bothering him he was not content, he couldn’t be not yet, but it was close.

Undisturbed within the night, he found himself thinking of nothing and everything pulled from these thoughts by something small and warm crawling into his trouser leg. After a few minutes of mild horror, Nikolai opened his eyes to the sight of Fievel curled up in slumber. After only a few short breaths he felt his own eyelids go heavy and did very little to resist the temptation of sleep.

“You’ll be ill if you fall asleep out here,” the two sharp digs in his side that had jolted him awake were caused by Fyodor, who stood over him, book still aloft even with the lack of light skin almost translucent as the moon waned behind clouds.

“I’ll wake him if I move,” Nikolai yawned to which Fyodor wrinkled the bridge of his nose closing the book, taking a seat beside him. 

“That one there is Columba,” Sat cross-legged Fyodor pointed vaguely to a spot in the sky to which Nikolai’s own eyes followed.

“What are you doing?” 

“Keeping you awake,” it might be to his own chagrin (it certainly sounded like it) but he did it anyway and that caused something that was usually so sure inside Nikolai to stutter.

“You can correct that to putting me to sleep,” he chided playfully with an exaggerated yawn but as he sat up straighter the bark against his back felt a little rougher than before. 

Despite its seemingly infinite state, it seemed ironic at how tightly woven the stars were. Each one an amalgamation building from the last story. Cassiopeia and her pride were the perfect bride for a victorious Perseus to rescue, unaware of the tragedy that would follow. Corvus the crow and the mistake made through no fault of his own, that earnt it blackened wings.

“Columba,” Fyodor gestured to the sky, returning to the one he had started with,  “A signal that the flood was receding. An olive branch within its beak and a new world free from the sin of man.”

It was a little clearer now, there were fewer clouds. He can make out the vague shape of a bird if he squints and Nikolai wondered which of the books this knowledge came from or if he knew it before, of how he can remember it if it did. He wonders how he could listen for hours and still be hanging on to every word.

He fell asleep out there anyway, waking up only when the cold was too much to bear. 

Its a long time after that when Nikolai does inevitably get sick.

The weather had a bad habit of slipping back into being sultry, as should have been expected of early spring, fools’ spring coined by some. 

The season only brought the mirage of hope when in reality it was just as wet and grey as the one before. 

A bed-bound Nikolai was left to listen to the rain as it drummed against the glass in heavy drops to drown out the humming in his head. Curtains were pulled to the side and with the window left ajar they were doing little to stop the thin stream of grey-tinged sunlight or the draft that streamed into his room and the cold seeped into his bones. He flicked through the same tricks but the cards felt heavier in his hands and each attempt to etch over pencil sketches left his brow laced with beads of sweat the pencil might as well as have been made of lead (even though it was). Which left nothing to do but remain and for once, he could do nothing but accept that.

He fell into fitful bursts of sleep waking to an empty room that only made him even colder. Shivering, he brought a thin blanket to his chin curling up beneath it, knees were drawn tight enclosing in on himself, wishing to be swallowed whole by his mattress. He needed food but had no appetite, nor the energy to make it. Leaving him sat in a barely lucid state, slipping and slipping and slipping.

Nikolai had never liked being ill nor the fear that came with it. It was not the prospect of death that always bothered him less than it should have but more being stuck without control of his body that had made the experience worse. 

He was lucky in some ways, he’d seen others die when weeks ago they'd been healthy he’d attended their funerals, maybe these thoughts of death were the roots of his delusion. A looming figure drenched in ink hovering beside him silent in the way it entered and left all in under a minute but in that minute he didn’t breathe. Only when the apparition disappeared did he feel the way his heart pounded underneath his flesh, the tension that leaked from his limp body just enough for him to fall asleep?

When he managed to get some sort of grip back on reality there was something cool on his head and the scent of warm bread that reminded him distinctly of summer. Outside his now closed windows was a crow, oil black shining in the downpour. 

Like a desert man in an oasis, Nikolai tentatively took the bread in his hands as if it would turn to stone beneath his teeth. He brought it to his lips and breathed a sigh of relief and joy when it almost melted on his tongue devouring the rest not long after. A wave of tiredness washed over him as he hazily whispered a thanks, to whatever deity he didn't care for had lent their hand before Nikolai slipped away once again.

When he awoke he was still ill but well-rested. The drumming on the glass no more than a tap, but a hole had burnt through his memories and he’d awoken to a village that had a quarter of the population it was used to.

It's even longer before Nikolai can coax Fyodor into town, though not without lack of trying.

The morning was still in its small hours meaning the cold still ran rampant and the sun was asleep signalling that they probably should be too. Instead, they traversed through deserted streets that once were filled with market stalls and foreign trinkets that would catch his eyes and get stuck to his perpetually sticky fingers. For once Nikolai was in control knowing every nook, cranny and cobble-paved path or even better; the roofs.

Nikolai shot a Cheshire grin to which Fyodor raised an eyebrow in suspicion clutching his arms close to his body bored as they stood in the wind. He took that as a challenge. 

He twirled his way through the village, first across the outskirts and lower sections, with thatched rooves that were always a risk but one worth taking. Built on top of each other they provided no obstacles so he moved further into town, dancing atop wooden beams, a whirlwind, a work of art and Fyodor followed behind in methodical steps and exasperation. 

“Who are you entertaining with this?” a voice clear and cold as the wind whistling in his ears cut through the buzzing in his head just enough for Nikolai to turn on his heel.

“Myself of course!” continuing to traverse backwards, “I used to do this a lot you know,” pirouetting between houses, the chasms as if they were no more than puddles.

“Used to,” Fyodor replied disapprovingly Nikolai could almost imagine the frown that would mark the other’s features.

“Well, I have less time to now,”

“And why might that be?” Fyodor appeared at his side with a smirk.

Nikolai rolled his eyes at the last remark but was unable to make a dig of his own. The silence of the night was cut by the sound of a tile that slipped and shattered falling and breaking into a million little pieces. His throat seemed to close in as he grabbed Fyodor by the wrist ducking behind a poorly stacked chimney, just in case it was enough to wake the inhabitants.

“How fragile.” The words were soft spoken slowly after what could have only been minutes of waiting but it still  felt like hours, “It could have been you .” 

Those words revealed something dangerous flashing in those violet eyes; a reminder,  or better a warning. Crouched shoulder to shoulder Nikolai let go of the cold thin wrist he was still holding like it was molten iron, and somewhat hoping that like it, it would have left a mark.

They were left to travel at an arm's length, Nikolai was forced to be careful but no less quick taking mildly safer routes than he did before, Fyodor following behind until they reached the heart of the village, the church. Towering above the rest it made for a particularly hard climb to get up there. As said before; a challenge.

Finally reaching the top of the steeple Nikolai smirked as he felt moss-covered tile beneath his palms. Yes his clothes were probably dirty, his arms would ache and eyes would droop the next day but on that roof as the sun rose he didn’t think he could care about anything else.

Their figures both shook slightly in the cold, stars were slowly burnt away by the heat of the sun much faster than he expected, too fast almost. The blue hue of night bled into warmer tones but Nikolai was focused on nothing but the boy beside him. He saw how his features shifted under the light soft then sharp closed eyes fluttering slightly. He knew Fyodor could feel the weight of his gaze but neither did anything to stop it. So it continued.

Finally he manage to tear his gaze to the distance, 

“Best view in the village,” he whispered. He’d forgotten it himself, transfixed at how the forest has shrunk beneath them no sign of the meetings beneath the leaves.

“How come you don’t use it then?” his companion questioned still staring into the horizon.

“Too obvious, it got me a reputation I didn’t care for. Although, it was nice to feed the birds,”

“And I supposed that reputation has left you now?” Fyodor smirked again, Nikolai would have thought he’d adjusted to being read so easily, he supposed it was one of those things he never would get used to.

“I doubt half of them know who I even am,” 

And Fyodor pressed no further, he never did. 

He didn’t need to.  

The sun was soon at eye level spilling onto the streets, a sign for them to leave. Jokingly, Nikolai offered a hand as he stood up, a hand which he was surprised to feel something cool settle in. Something genuine allows the corners of his lips to quirk upwards- and suddenly they both felt so much younger. 

Nikolai slowly twirled leading Fyodor across the church roof, the warm kiss of sunlight settled on both their cheeks, illuminating chipped teeth, moles, freckles, and unruly strands of hair all moving to an unknown melody lost in the silence. Neither of them knew how to dance, all flailing limbs not elegant or graceful in the slightest but it was beautiful all the same. 

Too early were they startled by voices from inside the stone, the beginnings of an early service as an organ breathed wheezily to life. Yet another sign that they did not belong there, that they should scuttle their way back down the rooves they climbed and slink back to the undergrowth. They decide to be beautiful for a little while longer.

He returned tired half delirious from the edge of the forest where he’d bid Fyodor farewell, the small hours had grown large far too quickly but as he walked back past the church, on the ground it seemed much more imposing than before. 

Nikolai snuck in late for the umpteenth time that month, only going when appearances needed to be made- if word ever made it back to his father, no that wouldn’t happen. That man had given up church himself opting to find comfort through other means, 

He caught the ends of a prayer slipping inside an empty pew, as he remembered a time when all would have been full, packed shoulder to shoulder. As the hymn's final chords died and the priest donned rich crimson gloves, the townspeople’s low hum of chatter warned of hard times- most crops hadn't grown and those that had were eaten by pests. Most blamed magic, others blamed god, few blamed themselves those that did saw it as punishment. Nikolai blamed them too, unduly ignorant to the blatant lies of where their tithes were going, silken gloves don’t fall from the sky.

His heart beat caged against his ribs, ricocheting and vibrating through his body and still ringing aloud in his ears.

The adrenaline never fades, even after the years he’d had to perfect the subtle art of making things disappear. (Nor has the habit of sugar-coating the truth, even to himself)

The small brick building was one of the few that got the upkeep it deserved mostly because the owner was so dedicated. He put off going in for too long. (He’s surprised he’d been able to for so long) The neatly lined rows, the steady flow of customers, and the eagle-eyed owner himself or when not him his wife who as meek as she appeared was raised farming cattle and seemed to have the stubbornness of them rub off on her. All of it added to the challenge, added to the thrill.

It all begins with the entry, arguably the most vital part of his act. one wrong move would ruin the rest. At 15 there's already a plethora of reasons for suspicion. He enters and a silver bell rings through the empty shop before the owner rushes to the front desk flushed pink and with everything slightly out of place. He nods and Nikolai does the same in reply, whether it was a greeting or swearing him to secrecy he didn't care he was preoccupied as he covered the tremors in his hand. 

Not until the bell rang again and the owner's wife entered a basket full of bread kissing her husband on both cheeks in greeting did both the tremors and guilt start to fade.  

He trailed the shelves running fingers along the spine's hardcover or paperback the tones of red and brown earthy and rich combined with the now long familiar scent of paper and ink.

His hands stop upon a thick book the inscription on the side in a language he does not speak. He took it from the shelf, heavy in his hands he felt the eyes burning into his skull as he placed it back where it belonged schooling his expression into something more neutral as it means the smaller blue book that fell into his pocket went unnoticed, Nikolai moved towards the front desk skimming pages of novellas that had just been printed keeping to his role of just any other customer.

The bell rang through the shop, this time someone who was in need of something particular, something that forced the owner to leave his post but not without a final glare in Nikolai's direction to which he took mock offense, leaving the store nose in the air to try and obscure his grin. But not before grabbing a journal and stuffing it deep into the lining of his coat pockets the last one had been used for kindling and the flames didn’t dance like they used to. 

Nikolai fell to the floor, cape billowing behind him as he emerged from the trees his feet landing on either side of Fyodor's to which he does less than spare a glance. Nikolai could say that this close it could look like he'd smiling as he reveals the latest book with a flourish red-cheeked and exhilarated. 

After all these years the adrenaline still hasn’t faded. 

It might as well have been July with such an intense change in weather was seen in the now budding bluebells that had sprung around their meeting place replacing crocus and snowdrops.

Nikolai stood trousers rolled up to his knees in water that was just deeper rendering the latter pointless. Crouched in the river just beyond the forest the spot was just as secluded, Minnows darted between his legs and he made habit of catching them between his palms, their bellies flashing silver in the sunlight. When one of them fell into his clutches, he would grasp his prize by the tail putting his achievement on full display to which Fyodor would tell him exactly that they were not in fact minnows but something else entirely that he would forget by the time they did this again. 

Water rippled reflecting the sunlight that was the reason his shoulders were starting the sting, another fish slipped through his fingers but not long after another was not so lucky. 

Looking to the bank where he’d last been seen Fyodor, he was still there, sat in the borders of shade and sunlight, lazily scanning the text in front of him; the same small leather-bound red one they he had read when they first met. Although it didn’t have his full attention, he could recite it from memory without a second thought, which meant when Nikolai came to a ledge with yet another fish it was no surprise his friend had fallen asleep a rare sight bathed in the dappled light that made it through the leaves 

“Dos,” he hollered from across the creek, with no response he repeated himself, “DOS!” drawing closer to the bank, wandering past rocks barefoot “Fedya,” he drawled the vowels of the less-than-liked nickname in a last-ditch attempt to peacefully wake him, and with the fish struggling in his grip it was just too tempting-

Fyodor was awake now. He had shot up gripping the fish that had awakened him in a fist almost as if he was to return it to the sea. Violet eyes wide and they were searching, boring deep into his soul as if to rip it out of him by sheer willpower.  

Nikolai knew there would be consequences but it was so so worth it. 

“Join me, my dear friend,” he said in between fits of laughter arms spread out wide in welcoming to the hunched ball of a human he was tempting. 

“And you think that was the way to get me to do so?” Fyodor responded gently throwing the fish back into the river with an expression of disdain to which Nikolai simply smiled. Maybe Fyodor's expression softened by a fraction but too soon again it had hardened, him opting to stay silent than refuse completely, leafing through the book back to the last page he had read.

 “I prefer watching you” he shrugged glancing up “It's much too cold anyway.” 

“Don’t be like that, how about a quiz? If you get it wrong you swim, otherwise I’ll let you continue being boring” hopping up onto the bank to sit with legs dangling in the water. Not waiting for a response he began speaking so quickly that he was almost tripping over the words 

“What is something cold and wet and probably mad at me,” Fyodor narrowed his eyes and shuffled back but not far enough as Nikolai jumped in dragging Fyodor by the cloak he refused to take off until they were both completely submerged.

“You.” Nikolai managed to wheeze looking at the person beside him who had none of the recognisable poise or dignity he'd come to see as familiar, sitting with dark hair plastered to pale skin as he stood looking at Nikolai in disbelief as Nikolai continued to laugh against the cold he only just began to notice being drenched himself. 

Fyodor soon climbed out Nikolai following ready to dry out in the mild warmth, raking his hands through his hair opting not to twist it into a minuscule braid but scrape it back into a half-hearted ponytail. After he placed his coat on a branch emptying his pockets of what had been unfortunate enough to swim with him (the journal had long been removed he couldn’t risk its destruction not when he was so close) 

Fyodor Sat turned away water running down his face in rivulets hunched under his cloak that was causing him to shiver rather than stop it 

“You going to be sour about it are you?” Nikolai called across it wasn’t in Fyodor's nature to be a bad sport in fact he barely ever gave a reaction to this sort of antics. He straightened his posture slightly eyes dark within the twilight as he gave Nikolai a look that he only ever had after winning cards, and those were still drying out. 

Nikolai had arrived to an empty grove, they had a system almost every other day in the summer at least with the exception of Sundays it was harder to slip away now. He was older, things were expected of him- not much- but still something. It didn’t happen often that a meeting was missed but he’d sit in the tree anyway, he scaled it with ease now. 

The sun almost seemed to sting his face in its strength no cloud in sight, leafing through his journal he squinted, unfolding the page to its full size and examining to the north, holding the map out to the side, rubbing out lines only to redraw them a fraction of an inch to the left.

This continued until he tired, it looked like there'd be no company after all. As he made his descent felt himself almost tread on something underfoot, on closer inspection a small bright white packet stuck out from the lower branches it was placed in, a pack of playing cards the last set had been dog-eared and waterlogged dissolving under a simple touch. These were branded performance-grade handcrafted with kings, queens, knaves, and of course the joker there was only one person these could have come from.

It was his birthday.

He'd never said, he supposed he never had to anyway with Fyodor. Besides Nikolai, himself (and everyone else it seemed) had forgotten it. 16 years. He left out a low whistle at the revelation

Coincidence with Fyodor was unlikely; it was probably repayment. From the books over the years not that there would have been any debt to repay. 

After all, It had all been of his own free will.

The solstice celebrations were the most alive the village had been in months and even that was half-hearted compared to just a few short years ago.

Nikolai managed to slip away from the bustling streets after a long day of meandering pulling cheap tricks for lost change and making use of his captivated audience's open wallets. the sun still sinking the day continued to stretch making the dirtied coins of copper and silver glow gold.

Although he thought it was hot before now couldn't bare the walk down to the creek -the little that still remained of it- left to sit in shade and move as little as possible. Fyodor was already burnt over his nose and cheeks Nikolai sporting freckles that scattered his face and peeling shoulders.

Before he slipped away he had downed a glass of something, something warm that had burned to swallow not the liquor he swore never to drink but similar all the same. It made everything look soft around the edges, fuzzy, and Fyodor seemed to shine softly along with the rest of the forest. Heavenly. 

Sat in hazy silence buzzing watching peppered moths emerge drawn towards the light that from behind trees used to seem so far away. Put his head to rest on Fyodor's shoulder and when the latter let him. He allowed himself to smile at the familiarity, it was the kind of thing they would have done when they were younger, the kind of thing they had stopped doing with age.

“You’re smiling,” Fyodor sighed. 

“So? Am I not allowed to enjoy the company of my dearest friend?” Fyodor almost seem to blink twice, Nikolai continued, “You're too bony to be a good pillow,” 

“Then it's a good thing that I'm not one,” shuffling from beneath him, to which Nikolai fell into his lap a perfect view of the bored expression lining Fyodor's face. “It's getting long,” he observed taking the end of his braid in curiosity the red that secured it bright against pale strands. 

“I might cut it soon.” He’d never trimmed it more than a few centimeters pulling at the loose curls that lay across his forehead, covering his eyes, curls that Fyodor swiped to the side clearing his vision, tucking them behind his ear.

And something stuttered once more.

And this time it hurt. 

“Card trick?” Nikolai asked as he spun his deck absentmindedly, then set them down the sun beating down but even it seemed lethargic in its attempts to shine through the cloud.

“Haven't you learned them all by now already?” Fyodor replied as a cool breeze ruffed both of their hair,

“Okay then, how about a game instead?” and Fyodor was already preparing to deal, shuffling the cards he’d set down not so long ago one falling as he did.

“Oi! These are not for you,” Nikolai swiped the card from under a familiar twitching nose that was nibbling the 7 of hearts “I swear you're not supposed to live this long” he muttered to himself Before being interrupted,               

“Seems like you're taking better care of these than the last pack,” 

Fyodor wasn't wrong. It was one of the few things he held onto, most of the others had been burnt. The heart-marked card in his palm fell heavy as he drank in the implications of these words. The true insinuations.

Of how could he leave? He had a tether a rope around his neck that had been tightening over the years and only now had he realised he couldn't breathe. When did this become so routine? So expected, predictable- to find comfort in what he sought to escape.

No, It was still nothing more than something to pass the time, he convinced himself, a weak excuse, a lie some might say.

The opposite of freedom was to be trapped and that's exactly how he felt under the scrutiny of Fyodor's gaze as his eyes flickered to the card in his hand and then back to his face.  

As Nikolai gave over the card his stomach rolled, but it almost felt like wings beating at its lining: a fledging about to take flight. 

 At 17 he was no less cynical as he was no less caged.

The time they both spent in close spent in proximity to each other was when everything seemed to move a little slower, a little simpler.

Laying in long grass below darkening leaves there was some sort of static in the air, both of them knew it, they knew they knew it too. Stars dotted the ebony satin of the sky and Fyodor spoke of the secrets that lie beneath its creases. Nikolai had asked him too.

(The silence was too comfortable) 

Fyodor had complied, he had started to speak of the sky and the stories that shaped them the myths and tragedies that sow it together. Some were familiar and Nikolai could finish them himself adding more twists and turns to perform them rather than simply saying them, although he wasn’t sure who it was to as it was the other who had told him the tale to begin with.

Fyodor listened nonetheless. 

It was a nice distraction from the hatred that had been searing his insides for the better part of 6 months, perhaps longer all brewing about to bubble up his throat and spill over coating his gums in venom. The distraction did not last long, he soon reached a point where silence fell over them both like a heavy blanket all too constricting. Nikolai had no stories left to tell, he was about to admit this when Fyodor spoke.

It was the beginning of a new old tale one he hadn’t been told before. 

“There was a time when mortals were nothing more than stumps of clay, with no autonomy of their own, constantly dying. One god decided to change this, to save them, make them capable of more than just surviving to allow them to live.” he swallowed “Prometheus, stole fire for them, at his own detriment at that, his punishment was to be chained to a cliff and every day have his liver eaten by a bird only for it to regrow and the process to repeat. Cruel is it not? To be punished for simply trying to bring salvation to a dying race."

“How cruel,” Nikolai repeated but he would be lying if he said he was paying full attention. The burning seemed to fade into a warmth when Fyodor's eyes hardened with determination as he spoke, dark hair spilled onto the grass as he turned from his back to his side so they were now face to face. Under the same moon hundreds had seen before; a thin crescent in the sky allowing for the stark highlights and shadows of their faces. 

“I could feel you staring you know” Fyodor whispers, then turning back to the sky to which Nikolai raised his eyebrows horrified at such an accusation,

“Me, how could you accuse me of such a thing!” he squawks in mock horror, therefore, admitting his guilt but looking away in slight embarrassment all the same. Then blinking slowly when a cool hand brushed his face and made his blood underneath run hot at the touch. 

Both of them were now facing each other again, noses brushing, eyelids heavy.

I hate you- 

And then Fyodor's hand swipes his fringe behind his ear because suddenly it's last summer; he can remember it all down to the last alcohol-hazed second and how this is not then.

Because Fyodor is ghostly pale in the moonlight and they are taller and they should be smarter but it seems like otherwise because as Fyodor's hand trailed past his face to the base of his neck getting tangled in loose fistfuls of platinum locks. They could feel each other's breath warm against the cool night air which has shifted oh so slightly, perhaps that was the reason that somehow the gap between them closed and Nikolai hated the way they had both melted into it.

When they broke apart Nikolai had small red half moons in the side of his arm formed by bitten nails he didn't want them to fade. Fyodor’s hand was still in his hair and his body lay utterly still, expression masked in darkness.

“What is this?” Nikolai could swear it had begun as a question, but in that moment it evolved into something that was almost a plea. 

Fyodor replied in a single word.

It was surprising, for someone whose words usually had so much weight that then of all times they would have fallen hollow.

It explained the bitter taste when they both leaned in again.

He awoke on damp grass with no more than a shadow and an unsealed envelope next to him Somewhere between the haze of his sleep-addled mind he smelt smoke and heard the shouts of a mob fuelled by nothing more than blind anger.

He took to his feet brushing himself down behind trees, journal and coins heavy in his pocket as he walked in the opposite direction to which he had come.

That night Nikolai didn’t look back, couldn’t look back. He had fallen too close to the same trap everyone else was caught in, but as he unfurled the paper that was still clamped tightly in his fist he saw the word circled on the page: letters. And within the envelope it was sealed in written neatly swirling cursive was what used to be his own address. 

So Fyodor knew. 

Of course he did. 

Time had passed. The moon waxed then waned and waxed again yet Nikolai was still not where he was supposed to be.

Stuck back in the town he had sworn off so long ago, stuck in a tavern that was little more of an empty room, making use of storage for long-fermented grapes.

Long wooden tables were sticky despite being mostly unused, the few that were had been occupied by half-asleep drunkards the rest were well on their way to becoming one of them. Not a single inhabitant seemed to be paying the smallest bit of attention to the entertainment taking place in the cleared space that was a sad excuse for a stage. Anyone who had a once of sympathy for the performer had left long ago on top of this Nikolai did not have the luxury to enjoy the show, no that would have been much too kind, instead he was the one stuck performing.

-Not stuck, he corrected internally- he was visiting, that's what he told himself (lied to himself). There was nothing for him here. His father was long since dead, passed of unknown circumstances (an event he had never truly registered until now) not that he would have mourned to begin with. The only thing that he held some sentiment towards, well he had vowed to never see that face again. 

In some ways the town, if it could even be called that, had changed: it was smaller, sadder, even more, broken down but similar in its suffocating familiarity. Wheat grew in the same plots, the same stories were passed from generation to generation and his audience still whispered of something that tormented them in sleep and in waking, the same thing that had supposedly caused the outbreaks of both plague and famine of his youth. 

Suddenly, Nikolai remembered the presence of his disinterested audience, the flamboyant shuffling of cards that was a second nature could only hold their attention for so long. He wasn’t a second too late in his return to reality; cards had almost spilled onto the floor but with a flourish, Nikolai revealed the chosen joker from underneath his hat to dry applause that was soon followed by momentary stupider when a dove few from his sleeve as he bowed. 

All courtesy of the beauty of misdirection. 

Soon after his final act the few people who had been there left, the candles were blown out and doors were locked leaving the owner to begrudgingly give Nikolai his pay which he counted in the darkness. Not wanting to return to the room he’d been lucky enough to haggle just yet slowly, Nikolai traversed the staircase of the inn above and as he did he caught a pair of violet eyes in the far corner of the room and lost them just as quickly.

He approached the top of the staircase, the creak beneath him still off-putting as he half ducked to enter through the door to the attic room where he now resided. The urge to break something grew stronger, an amalgamation of the short time in this town and the memories that had been long buried unearthed, not to mention those cold purple eyes. 

Looking towards the fire, the final ruminates of peace deep inside him died. It was stupid to think he could leave, even more so that it could be done so easily. The journal he’d poured over a child was useless, to think it was possible with something as simple as that? The thoughts of wasted hours flooded his brain as he traced the faded pencil lines with fondness before he tore out the pages with venom. All to feed the ever-hungry flames before him. The fire, cast shadows that bounced off the sloping ceiling that encroached on his head forcing him to slouch. He was running out of paper, only one page remained. A stubborn reminder of those years under canopies. (a reminder he should have rid of long ago) 

The flames lit the room but did not warm him, and neither did the thin sheets he had collapsed onto with no thought of food or changing from his garish performance attire that was already becoming faded and worn. The cold he felt went deeper than his skin. But he couldn’t care, not when shame boiled in his stomach a pain he let himself lay in knees brought up underneath his chin.  

To truly escape he’d need something much greater than just a plan.

The following night was a repeat of the last, down to the violet eyes staring into his soul and crawling unchanged onto sheets for a pitiful attempt at sleep. He only woke the next day when the restlessness was too much to bare, when the humming in his bones overwhelmed his clouded mind with the need to escape.

The third night was when there was a difference. 

As he took his bow after the same tired routine to the same scattered applause, slow deliberate claps echoed long after the former had stopped. The customers started to file out letting the icy night air in as they did so and Nikolai tried to retire to his room but as a cold hand wrapped around his wrist, he found how he hated how easy it was to stay.

He didn't have to turn to know who it was, even after all this time he just knew.

Fyodor was silent, giving Nikolai time to balance precariously at the edge of the chasm that had formed between them. Nothing to do but observe the fall below. Drinking in the differences only time could make. Nikolai knew he’d changed too not just older, sharper harder around the edges but still with loose threads.

And Fyodor knew just where to tug so he would unravel. 

The tension in the air could have cut glass but it would have been much preferred to the words that followed 

“You stopped writing.” It was nothing more than a simple declaration, stated as a fact. 

The sting was that it really was true. 

When he had left it was with hope. Within the night he began to head toward the road just south of that oxbow lake that was once the border of his entire world dependent on bartering a ride with a market seller. 

Miraculously it had worked out okay, he’d made it to the next village, one so much larger than his own, with his pocket only marginally lighter than before. He had enough for lodgings and meals from his days of performing cheap tricks for coins but now, well now, he was going to be free.

Trekking into the seedier parts of the town people pressed up against him on all sides but their warmth was absent in the stale air, market stalls offered ‘cure all's' from the side of the street he pushed on.

Nikolai soon found himself a room and despite his young face, it was for a reasonable price. What was even better was he'd struck a deal with the owner to perform in the bar below, a bar that was already piled high with clients, rowdy and impatient and waiting for him. So was the start of his career, his new life. 

He wrote occasionally. He knew he shouldn’t have. The distance may have subdued his feelings that he'd come to realise were not anger but something else entirely but that did not mean that they were in any way gone; each ink-blotched and crumpled piece of paper proved that. Within the art of the written word he spoke of the wonders; exaggerated the good and embellished the bad no matter what happened he would show no weakness no slightest indication that he wasn't still searching for something more before he posted them to his own house because this was his freedom.

Soon the new crowds were nothing but different faces with fatter wallets. Villages became towns and from inland to the coast he never stayed anywhere more than a week. Each new location paid better than the last until people recognised his name but that meant people recognised his face. And with every new town and every new face, none of It was what he had been looking for.

It was pointless in hindsight, what he did. He was performing somewhere too nice for the likes of someone like him. It was spelled out in the way the crystal chandeliers illuminated the room and spilt onto his hair, far too long to be considered respectable, hands danced over ivory piano keys rather than a string quartet even more annoyingly the crowed only politely clapped to an illusion which would have any other audience begging for more, but Nikolai had always enjoyed a challenge.

After his performance Nikolai had sat awkwardly at the bar unsure of what to do with himself perhaps that was why he did it. The young lady beside him had pearls draped on a pale neck clutching them in her hand as the man beside her told one story or another her attention only on him (as it was during his show). He had joined the conversation casually and it and the room with the woman's ruby hair pin, entirely too heavy, ( a challenge he heard somewhere in his mind and his lips tweaked upwards). He’d honestly done her a favour. Three streets away from the original scene of the crime Nikolai sceptically turned a corner in the senseless route through the city he’d been taking, soon feeling a hand on his shoulder that he had always had the sense to expect but never been foolish enough to experience until now.

Within the crowded hustle and bustle of the still young night no one looked twice in his direction, the weight of the pin comforting in his coat lining as he found himself shoved into an alley where the houses stacked on top of each other till you couldn’t see the sky. Regaining his footing Nikolai turned to the person who manhandled him here so unpleasantly. 

He found himself face to face with the same man from the bar not that much earlier. Maybe he had followed with the intention of doing something righteous - if there ever was such a thing. 

“I’ll give you a choice,” the voice was rough no traces of the charming gentleman of their prior meeting ‘I can take it or," with an intentionally threatening pause, "You, can pay the price,” maybe he’d been too kind in his judgment it seemed this man come with as good of intentions as Nikolai himself.

“A quiz? You're trying to steal my spotlight aren’t you?” Nikolai flashed a smile, displaying his teeth, performance persona not yet fully shaken. “You did a good job of stealing the attention of that pretty thing back there, all for your own selfish desires.“ he chastised. 

Then he lunged-

“May the better scoundrel win,” Nikolai chuckled quietly, using brute force to shove that ruby pin into the man's neck.

An unfortunately painful way to go- messy too.

As he wiped the pin on the inside of his coat he left the body still twitching on the floor. He wouldn’t risk dirtying his clothes even more than he had to and it was fine for the other to suffer a little they’d been no better than each other, at least on the surface. 

Upon returning to his room Nikolai looked to the mirror and despite the scene he had left his white cape was utterly untouched. Only small flecks of blood tainted the top of the white collar and he only knew because he had been looking for it.

Then it had hit.

They’d been no better than each other, how easily that could have been him, It was something so primitive, so instinctual to take another human's life, and the feeling that stirred within him crushing the ribs that caged his heart. It could have been guilt, but for Nikolai it was a little more like the freedom he sought. 

When the body was found rumours (truths) spread far too quickly throughout the city. No venue or at least any venue worth performing would take him in. It wasn’t good for business they said but that didn’t matter anymore, no how could it? Not when he’d had an epiphany.

Looking into that reflection the pounding of his heart and roar of blood in his ears that drowned out reality. The truth had washed over him in cool waves the realisation of the meaninglessness of human understanding and morals, how they were what chained him from his goal so where better to start by severing the only connection there ever truly was? 

But even with his ever-changing address’ Fyodor's letters kept coming creating a neat stack stored inside his pocket.

Money soon dried, even without food he couldn't keep lodgings even in the poorest of conditions for more than a week, he managed another two after that. Left destitute and starving Nikolai’s last copper coins were spent on the fare and that only got him halfway leaving him to trail halfway, tail between his legs down past the cobble streets with bleeding feet but something stronger in his bones to a place he would never return.

It felt as if every one was looking at him not because they knew him, as a performer but as that sad little boy who thought he was too good for this town.

How wrong they'd been. 

“Things got busy,” Nikolai answered biting down on his tongue so hard his mouth tasted like copper. 

“So would you like to fill in the blanks?” Seemingly oblivious, Fyodor pulled out a chair and gestured for Nikolai to take a seat.

“Of course,” he replied as he sat down.

They might as well start how they left: with lies.

Across from him, Fyodor laced his hands together in front of him paying no attention to the glaring bartender who was supposed to lock up 15 minutes ago and was only growing more agitated as he cleaned the tables behind them.

“Have you learnt anything new?” Fyodor questioned his gaze lingering on the cards settled in Nikolai’s palm left over from his act. 

They had been borrowed from the owner, the pack he’d been gifted so long ago still resided among his few belongings. He’d tried to sell them but the brand was one no one could recognise rendering them worthless. How he had thrown them to the ground in desperation anger betrayal watched them scatter and dirty then picked them up like they were alive cradling them in his hands shoving them deep in his coat’s pockets a coat, now too short in the sleeves. 

Nikolai shook his head in response, Fyodor hadn't been lying when he said he thought he'd learnt every one.

“Disappointing,” Fyodor muttered as he chewed at the skin around his thumbs, a habit that hadn’t changed “I was looking forward to seeing a new trick.” It sounded honest but in the time he was away he’d learnt that it was anything but. 

“Well I'm sorry to disappoint,” 

“Don’t be, what about your eye?” Subconsciously Nikolai brought his hand up to trace the scar its bumpy texture now just another part of his skin, “Now that seems interesting,”

Nikolai was not one to use his fists, he found words were far more powerful, but even he knew when someone was too far gone to reason with. 

“It was the begging of my career, I was somewhere seedy and cheap and there was a man in the audience who didn't know when to stop,” he paused, “He was so idiotic was almost envious, a bird that doesn’t know its caged? How blissful, but is it even really a bird or a sad imitation of one?” he proposed then shook his head “I’m getting ahead of myself, to put it simply my fist went to meet his left cheekbone and he dodged. In his triumph he failed to evade the foot that collided with his right ankle, he went down like a sack of bricks and took me and his glass with him.” hands moving animatedly as he did so.

‘Painful.” It seemed to be the only response the other could muster to which Nikolai shrugged. 

“Adds some personality don't you think?” Fyodor nodded in agreement but to Nikolai the scar was more than that, it was proof that he left once. (that he could do it again).

“It adds to the charm of the outfit,” Fyodor added smiling slightly, “Jester-like.” and Nikolai found himself smiling too. That was what he had pictured when he trailed through the nicer side of towns and cities unable to find something uniquely his until he spent a month's savings having it tailored especially. 

“It was worth every penny.”

Soon after they both slipped away onto the streets when the bartender's back was turned Fyodor placed a penny on the ledge before the door as they passed. It was a bitter night, blustery as the leaves rusted a sickly shade of green. They walked down the street in silence

They continued to drift like ghouls, each second Fyodor was by his side it felt like a betrayal to himself, each time he found his eyes lingering involuntarily memorising the way time had changed his companion's face under the light of the moon the once familiar curve of a jaw had sharpened although unlike himself Fyodor seemed to lack any discernible scars or cuts, instead the skin underneath his eyes so dark could have been bruised. 

They’d reached a standstill in front of the bookstore he used to frequent once so meticulously kept now fallen into the same dilapidated state of everything else. Fyodor stepped in the door unlocked despite the time for a reason Nikolai understood as soon as he entered, books spilled onto the floors some towered in unorganised stacks some still lined the shelves most were left open on the floor an ocean of printed ink. It was beautiful despite the chaos, late summer's flowers had bloomed inside the ivy laced the bricks. As Nikolai took in the sight Fyodor traversed the sea floor with the familiarity that only could have come from living there, the question wasn’t why, but how?

“What happened to the last owner?” Nikolai asked following behind. 

“He committed adultery, was caught in the act then found dead well,” sat cross-legged on top of what used to be the counter Fyodor watched from above with a certain elegance indifferent to the events that had occurred.

“What about-” 

“His wife?” Fyodor interrupted plucking the words from his mouth, “She's the one who killed him,” 

There was a pause after that seemed to stretch for much longer than it did 

When they spoke again it was different from when they were inside the inn, it was personal, comfortable even and all to easy to slip into, as was the overwhelming drowsiness that weighed down his limbs.

He awoke alone. Nikolai couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour the sky was still dark with night but  Fyodor was nowhere to be found, (he’d looked.) Returning to his room he walked beneath the stars upon mossy rooftops. He’d forgotten their brightness without artificial light. He found the spare key where he was told it would be, unlocking and relocking the door before taking the stairs to his room.

As he threw those letters into the grate with the thought of freedom his heart rose like the ashes they soon would be.

Fyodor was not there the following night, maybe that was for the best.

Grinning like a madman, Nikolai overflowed with energy, buzzing at the prospect of finally being able to make his years of yearning come to fruition.

It was the most full the room had been group upon group filled every corner, some not drinking, some were but no one was looking to his show. Instead they spoke in huddled whispers, planning from the way they pointed loosely at scraps of maps but before long it grew into a rowdy crowd, waiting for a hunt. 

He finished his show early disappearing into the audience fuelled by the greed of curiosity for what animal could require so many to catch? He asked this to the two men that seemed to be the leader of the cohort, brothers most likely judging by their uncanny resemblance, neither of them more than 3 years older than himself.

“-It’s Not an animal, it's not even human," How curious, he thought "What we’re after is a witch” the older of the two answered with hatred in the way he spat his words.

“Or a demon-” the younger interjected taking a messy sip to empty his glass   

The older man continued, “At the end of the day all we know is its the root of why this is such a shithole,” 

The other drunkenly  grabbed Nikolai by the arm so they were now face to face “Think about it; things only went downhill after all stories of a figure in the woods came from the village over now it was our turn for punishment, not to mention the missing books from the church- must be the work of the devil!”

Well, while he’d say he wasn't far from the devil, Fyodor on the other hand, it was something he deduced all too long ago.

“So have you done this before?”

“Yes,” the younger slurred “How many times is this now?” 

“7th year, it's become an almost biannual thing to finish each solstice.” 

“And I'm guessing it's gone well,” Nikolai prodded suppressing a smirk, then pressing his lips into a thin line the older begrudgingly responded,

“We wouldn't still be doing it if it had done,” standing so they were now both at eye level.

“I might be able to help with that,” they looked interested,  “I have something of a vendetta with that demon and to your advantage, some information.”

What was an excuse for a ruckus now could actually accomplish something. The freedom he had yearned for was visible, tangible. But not yet in reach. 

To wait 12 days.

It was all Nikolai had needed them to do and then 12 days from today would be the day after solstice- and it would be Fyodor Dostoyevsky's last

12 had trickled into 10.

It was seen in the way his legs shook against his will when he spoke, a tremor that he had to school before he spoke before it reached his words in the way everything was too bright almost falsified. 

He had to hide, people already thought he was strange no one ever entered or left he'd barely managed to slip through the cracks. suspicions arose from those who briefly remembered him as a child or judged him on his current looks alone. So he fell back into old habits.

The forest was now so much smaller, a tree that once appeared so daunting, so monumental in his life was so inconsequential. Just the tallest tree in a forest full of saplings that now had grown, yet Nikolai could still tell which one he had dedicated so many hours to sitting in.

So he did that, for one final time.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Nikolai opened his eyes to feel the sun on the back of his head and see Fyodor was sat on the floor beneath him, for how long? Who knows.

Nikolai forced a laugh, “Not much has changed then?”

“Not if you know where to look,” he counters still staring up at him and towards the sun Nikolai had no intentions to leave the tree and join him on the ground, he looked to the horizon instead.  

“It has been quieter without you that I will say, certainly less entertaining.” 

His gaze hardens as that same sincerity seems to drip off the words enough to collect it in buckets that if he could, Nikolai would get drunk off each night on the sound alone. 

Because it meant someone understood. Because it's more than just being understood. It's being dissected, pulled apart layer by layer. Skin and muscle and bone and blood until he does not know where he begins and someone else starts, someone so intrinsically linked it can not be escaped as even he does not truly understand himself like that. He learnt how much he hated that someone did.

And something like that, it cannot even begin to approach freedom.

He found himself inside the old bookstore once more (8 days, he thought just 8 more days).

He's found himself spending too much time there.

They play cards like when he was ignorant, with the same cards from when they were children. Unlike when they were children Nikolai loses after 3 wins in a row.

“You’ve gotten better at hiding your cheating” Fyodor observed reaching to shuffle the cards this time instead of Nikolai. 

“A last resort against such an opponent,” he replies honestly, watching him cut the cards,  

“And yet you still lost, I see you have learned a few more tricks then.” Fyodor's eyes were looking into his own searching for something and Nikolai realised this comment was not about cards

“I don't follow,” he lied out of curiosity, waiting for the response. Fyodor hesitated, then he dealt the final card as he explained, 

“For example, what to save your best hand for,” 

This certainly felt like much more than a game of cards.

The past six days felt like the most he had spoken to the people of the town. During the day he discreetly Scouted locations for possible ambushes or traps recruiting people with his charisma and charm so even the most sceptical were considerate of the cause. By the night he was with the enemy collecting information (finding a company where he did not have to pretend- although he still did it anyway) 

He had been so close to collapsing onto his bed, anything to provide a simple nights sleep, he and Fyodor spoke for longer than normal that night and it was going to have a cost tomorrow when he didn't want to wake up. As he laid down, the sound of rain thrummed comfortingly on the roof above and despite his bodies tiredness and aches his mind was nothing less than giddy. Staring at the ceiling, new beams of sunlight spilled onto his face far too soon. A crow cawed in place of the lark, it cut through the peace of dawn. Nikolai could imagine it taking flight so stark blue-black in the morning light.

Maybe, he wondered if he had that he would be content, 

Maybe he didn’t have to just wonder for that much longer. 

Yet another evening after another day of recruiting was spent with Fyodor's company.

The days seemed to stretch on each one longer than the last. Everything was in its final places and Nikolai had done everything in his power to make this plan a fool-proof one. Cards had been forgotten as they sat atop abandoned manuscripts. 

“I feel like I should have the right to question you, after your initial interrogations on the time I've been away,”

“I see no issue with that. I'm feeling generous, I’ll give you three.” Fyodor answered leafing through pages of something he probably read before.

"What have you been doing in the absence of my presence?" Nikolai questioned, 

"Strike one," Fyodor turned a page, "This and that." 

"Don’t I deserve something better than that?" Nikolai allowed himself to visibly deflate, prodding the other in the side out of very real annoyance.

"Strike two, I think you know the answer." This was infuriating, well at least he knows that wasn't an aspect of Fyodor that had changed.

"Don’t you worry In the name of entertainment I saved the best till last!" In honesty he only ever had the first question one, so instead he indulged in something more frivolous, something he might actually get an answer to instead. 

"Did Fievel ever follow in my footsteps, become a star? After all those afternoons some of my talent must have rubbed off on him." Fyodor looked up from the pages, taking longer to form his words than he did with the previous questions,

"Fievel is dead. Died quite some time ago now."

“I’m sorry," it slipped out on instinct as he remembered the subtle fondness which Fyodor would use to address the creature  "I- was it peaceful?”

“Strike three, I'm afraid.” He returned to his reading.

“You can’t make an exception?”

“That takes the fun out of it,” 

With just four days remaining Nikolai wanted things to end without debt and now was as good a time as any. Of course, there would be guilt, that's why it had to be him what might have begun as anger when he left had soon been separated into something else much more complex.

“I never got your birthday even all these years, let alone a present”

“The books were more than enough, I hold nothing against you for it.”

“As much as you may say that I just couldn’t help myself." Nikolai revealed a final book from the depths of his pockets. It was hardback original Italian script, he'd recognised it on the shelf he'd taken it from just as Fyodor recognised it in his hands.

It was without words with an expression as unreadable as it always was he traced the inscription written in Nikolai's own hand on the inside of the cover tenderly. Then he began to read; mouthing the words before he’d even gotten to them as Nikolai watched on in awe.

There was less than a full day. 

Solstice had caused for their to be too many people for Nikolai's liking so he'd snuck away from the crowd and found Fyodor standing at the edge of the town looking down towards the forest. There was unusual bluster so neither complained when they stood shoulder to shoulder in silence, the dusk's haze had cleared and a small troop of traipsed into of the forest, they could see the beginnings of the forest lit in a soft orange glow though it held no candle to that of the sun in a distance which upon spotting Fyodor allowed the silence to shatter.

“They aren’t going to find what they want,” he almost seemed to laugh as something dangerous was reflected in his eyes. 

It was their last true conversation, he might as well speak some truth. 

"It was never what wanted it to be, I realised that much sooner than I let myself believe," he let the wind carry his words away, "What I was looking for was never out there."

"I disagree, I believe what we desire is always out there, just not something that can be found humanity." 

The unspoken words were left in purgatory. 

Just not in us. 

He’d made it.

Nikolai knew the forest, though his memory was cloudy in places, the low mist that had settled unnaturally across the forest floor worked in their favour. 

A tree graveyard is how he’d come to think of it recently, their stumps whittled down to even less than he remembered before returning to the earth. From there he’d sent groups to each corner until it was just himself wandering deeper and deeper into darkness. Into the abyss.

“You can come out now.”

At first he whispered it, then he yelled and when no one came he smiled.

He could of haggled lodgings anywhere stayed and brooded over his captivity but violet eyes had haunted his dreams for long enough, He’d been trapped for long enough, it needed to stop, it was going to stop, the vines that kept him tethered now would be cut off from the roots.

He would set himself free.

The last minutes of waiting for the final confrontation and it all would be over.  Alas if only it could be that easy but of course freedom must come at a cost, and he was willing to pay any price.

(so much of himself he'd already lost).

He heard screams that were not his own and a murder of crows took from the branches above but he was determined to stay there, not when it was just a fingertip away. Within minutes the smell of smoke was now a taste after that came blistering heat. Surrounded flames he was cornered as the lunged at him, he stood in the centre no longer the smell of smoke but burning flesh as bodies moved past his own running at the sight of flames back to the town back where they came from where bent in parting still and you were able to see dew glinting in moonlight as the flames only drew nearer to his still form.  

It was taking every inch of power not to run like the rest he acting in opposition to himself, the human, no, animal desire to survive.

The flames fed on an endless meal of wood it just kept going and going and going and for the first time in a long time, he felt warmth.

Then it was cold once more, someone had grabbed his arm and was dragging him out of the smoke and flames and the freedom into the night once more. Roughly he was dropped to the floor it should have hurt but It was a blur of noise, images, and smells all of which he was now void to.

It was only when he looked to his aching hands did he realise that the fine hairs that covered them were singed and that the people surrounding him were few and far between. The rest were engulfed by the flames. 

In their haste to survive, torches had been dropped leading back to the village and now the fire truly was unstoppable.

And he still found himself drawn to it, he still ran towards it.

Thatched rooves went up in flames and Nikolai could only run so fast. It hurt to breathe his red skin already stinging. He went to the one place that would stand at the end of this. The church.

Still imposing frame of steeple protruded like a beacon as he scrambled to the top, muscles shaking, cape bedraggled hair loose of its red band free to settle on his shoulders and fall past his waist. When his hands felt cool stone it provided no relief or comfort but confirmed his worst fears.

“How fanciful,” Fyodor was crouched on the steeple before he jumped down to the roof, tiles slipping beneath him as he approached. “You thought you knew me, thought you could surround me, push me into an ambush.”

The struggle was over the current dragging him along the riptide pulling him down. It was impossible.  

Flames climbed the ivy that suffocated the structure. 

“And in some ways," he said looking down on his bedraggled form, "you did know me, you knew it was me, all this time.”

“I may be a fool," he spat, "but I'm not an idiot.” 

“So this really is your best hand, it's strange what desire can do to a person, I always thought if I was bested it would be at your hand, this place was always going to burn, so why are you still fighting against the hand of god?”

Fyodor seemed untouchable among flames amber and gold almost twisted into the wings he wished for himself. 

Maybe if he succumbed that would grant him the freedom he sought, but how could it? No deity could grant him his salvation after his atrocities.  

The sky was cloudy but he thought he saw the wings of Columba in the stars even with his vision blurred by the sweat that stung and mixed with silent tears that streaked against soot and sulfur suffocated him. As saltwater fell onto his tongue he smiled cheeks aching he choked out his final words,

“I was going to thank you, y’know, before I killed you without there would be a quiz-”  stuttering as his lungs continued to fill with smoke.

“I understand,” Fyodor gave a solemn nod, the flames grew. 

“They won’t forgive you,” and in hindsight so clear at what happened when they first spoke,  “I However, I just might.” 

It was a choice a promise all offered in a cold hand like a chain.

A hand that he took.