Chapter Text
About nine o’clock on a late July morning, the train from Warsaw was approaching Petersburg at full speed. It was too hot already, even though there was still plenty of time until noon and despite how far north the train was. The bright rays of the sun, happy to greet the world again, shone through the windows of the train cabins, promising yet another sultry summer day. Among the passengers, there were many returning from abroad, just like the peculiar pair sitting across from each other in a small separate cabin.
The two men were staring out of the window, following the movements of the electric poles that were chasing one another and the blurred fields in the background. Both of the men were young, in their early twenties, yet looked exhausted beyond their age with heavy eyelids and dark shadows under their eyes, marring their otherwise beautiful features. There were only two pieces of luggage on the overhead racks and two coats casually thrown over the seatbacks. Every now and then one of the men would glance at the other as if considering starting a conversation but resolving against it at the last moment.
It was only when the train slowed down, low-rise buildings came into sight, and it was announced that they were approaching the first stop on the outskirts of Saint Petersburg, that the sickly pale man turned his violet eyes to his companion without looking away this time. The intensity of his gaze seemed to pierce the latter, as he quickly returned it.
“It’s hot.”
“Very.”
“Concerning… Should I be worried about you, Fedya?”
The man addressed just smiled and looked out the window again. “When you’re worried you take care of me?”
“Hm…”
“In that case – yes, you should be immensely concerned,” Fyodor met Nikolai’s eyes with a growing smile on his face.
“Kolya?” Nikolai’s low humming was interrupted by Fyodor’s voice. The latter was hunched over the desk, hastily scribbling something on a piece of parchment with his favourite quill, the sound of which was driving Nikolai crazy. He looked up from the cards in his hands, the idea of a new card trick instantly forgotten at the sound of his name coming from Fyodor’s lips.
“Could you…,” Fyodor gestured for Nikolai to hand him the books from the small table by the door. A pile of library books, about ten in number. They hadn’t been there in the morning before Nikolai left the apartment, so Fyodor must have gone to the library sometime earlier that day. For a moment Nikolai wondered how Fyodor had brought them home by himself and why he hadn’t asked for help. They would usually use The Overcoat for something like that…
He gathered the playing cards, arranged the deck in a neat pile, and set it aside before heading for the books. They were all fairly old with worn hardbacks and from what Nikolai managed to read of the title of the book on top of the pile, it was about vampires. Vampires? Since when exactly was Fyodor interested in mythological beings? Well, given his tendency for research, religion, and such fairy tales, it isn't that out of the ordinary.
Nikolai passed each of the books through The Overcoat until the last one, which he brought to the desk himself. There was no mistake – all of the books seemed to be on the same topic and this only piqued Nikolai’s curiosity.
He wandered around the desk, inspecting the chaos of things scattered on it; then his friend’s face, strained with concentration, and the few strands of hair falling in front of his eyes. Nikolai tucked them gently behind his ear and received only a soft inarticulate sound in response.
“What are you writing?”
“Just something,” Fyodor mumbled without looking up.
“Part of your evil taking-over-the-world plan, perhaps?” Nikolai gasped in surprise.
“Just research, nothing evil.”
Nikolai hummed and peered over Fyodor’s shoulder to look for the answer Fyodor so stubbornly refused to give him.
“What’s this? Japanese?” Fyodor had started learning the language only a few months earlier with great interest.
“This is Russian, Nikolai, can’t you see?”
“Doesn’t look like the Cyrillic at all, if you ask me!”
“Am I asking?”
“What!? I’m just worried! How are you even gonna decipher these… symbols?”
“That’s my problem, not yours.”
“Well, all right! Fine!” Nikolai spun around, suddenly appeared next to the sofa, and flung himself dramatically on it. “If you don’t want me to read it… is it something about me then? Like a secret diary or…”
“Are you asking me if I keep a diary about you!?”
“As if it’s a bad thing!? What if I keep a diary about you?”
“Do you?” Fyodor turned to Nikolai with an amused expression.
“I might… Oh my! How delightful! What delicate lovely hands my Fedya has! How I wish he-”
“Fine! If there are less than 26 volumes of the diary, it’s all right! Anything more than that - I don’t approve.”
Fyodor was already flipping through the pages of the books he had unpacked as soon as they had settled in the vacant carriage; a few selected records of vampire lore that he had taken as his guides. They included no romantic novels from England, no stories by renowned authors, and no fantasy or sparkles. Only those few accounts of Eastern European vampires, which Fyodor read with almost as much vigour as he read the Bible.
In those countries they indeed burned the remains of the vampires, their hearts were staked and the heads – severed. He would read the stories for hours, these ancient books, travellers’ tales, the accounts of priests and scholars. But there must have been more to it. There was always more, and Fyodor was determined to find out for himself, to see it with his own eyes.
He had planned the trip meticulously, but not just in ink and paper – the crucial parts existed only in his mind. The journey was going to take them through the capitals of Europe and towards the Black Sea, and they would get off the train shortly before reaching it and begin their search in the rural countryside of the lands north of the Danube.
As the train wound its way up and down the hills dotted with wildflowers; as it crept like a caterpillar through mountain tunnels only to crawl out into the bright daylight before long; or else the rails would twist and turn between the age-old trunks in pine forests bearing the scent of resin; as the terrain and the view changed and day gradually turned into night, the expression on Fyodor’s face remained the same – focused on the pages of the old books he had brought with him.
Although the train’s path was changing, the one Fyodor walked remained the same. With each city left behind, they were getting closer to their goal. Because Fyodor was not alone, not anymore; Nikolai was by his side. And their shared path was nothing like the one of the train – it was far from picturesque and peaceful, far from being painted in the rich oil colours the view outside was. There was only darkness and bloodstains on the canvas of Fyodor’s vision, but that too was only a matter of dedication and time. And Fyodor was willing to sacrifice all the time he had left, he had already resolved to achieve his vision, and he knew that once it came true, there would only be light, that the blood would be washed away from his hands as if it had never been there, and then he would finally be free to do what he so wanted to do… even if just once.
His mind was too occupied with what he intended to find out on this journey, but once Nikolai returned and quietly slid a cup of tea across the small table towards Fyodor, the latter finally closed the book and placed it on the empty seat on his side. A sense of guilt that he had unintentionally ignored Nikolai due to his focus on the typed letters throughout the entire day began to creep into his mind. Fyodor rubbed his strained eyes, and after taking a sip of his tea realized how hungry he actually was.
Fyodor himself had chosen to walk this path and had been lucky enough to have Nikolai join him, and no matter what came next, they would keep walking side by side; there was no other way, not after all they had been through together. There was so much out there that eluded his understanding, so much knowledge that wasn’t simply written down in books, and this was the first big step – the first one out of the big city, away from Saint Petersburg and everything Fyodor was familiar with. Nikolai had travelled before, he had spent a year roaming the vast world, unknown to the until-then closed between the covers of his books Fyodor. It was a completely new experience, but then again – everything, since he had met Nikolai, had been.
He was used to the dark and the cold, but a warm hand always reached out to pull him, to show him the world outside. It was a reminder of why he had started this journey; it wasn’t lonely, it was a pursuit of freedom, but also a duty. A promise of peace and liberation he had to fulfil, even if it caused him to bleed along the way. Blood was going to be spilled as a result of his touch, and he was going to make sure it wasn’t just others’…
A hand reached out in the darkness and wrapped the blanket tightly around Fyodor’s shivering body.
A loud rustling of fabrics, screeching of zippers, and a dull thud of something falling to the ground made Fyodor stir up and at last, open his eyes. He rubbed the sleep from them as the soreness in his neck made itself known and seemed to become even more pronounced.
In the seat across from him, Nikolai was so engrossed in rummaging through his luggage that he didn’t even notice anything else happening nearby. As Fyodor tried to shift and stretch to release his body from the tension, his foot accidentally kicked something to the ground and Nikolai looked up, startled by the metallic noise.
“Oh! Careful! The props!” His hand shot to the ground.
“Why did you leave it there… What’s going on?”
Fyodor looked around the small train cabin. Everything was turned upside down, all of Nikolai’s belongings were taken out of his suitcase, scattered all over the floor and the seats. But it was when Fyodor noticed the second empty suitcase and messy pile consisting of his own no longer neatly folded clothes, that Fyodor felt dizzy and wished this chaos was just another nightmare.
Nikolai was holding a metal stick close to his eyes, carefully examining it.
“Thank god!” he sighed. “That was close! I can’t appear on stage with a damaged prop, you know!?”
“It was already damaged when you brought it home.”
“Precisely why we need to be careful!”
“You should get a new one. This one’s not your style.”
“My style!” Nikolai exclaimed in shock and returned his attention to the mess he had made. “My style! The card is gone! Can’t find it!... I’ve got no style anymore and now I’m doomed t-”
“Here,” Fyodor was holding Nikolai’s card mask. “Sorry, I’ve lost my bookmark.”
“Oh… um… keep it for now-” he reached out with the cane and rested the end of it on Fyodor’s shoulder, “-for my hour is almost come, when I to sulph'rous and tormenting flames must render up myself… Pity me not, but knoweth - the only key to freedom is in thy possession now!” Nikolai moved the cane to Fyodor’s other shoulder as if performing a ceremony. “Now kneel to taketh the blessing of the late king of Denmark!”
“Does the late king of Denmark offer coffee too?”
“A spirit needs no cane, don’t you think?”
“It’s a symbol,” Nikolai took a sip of his coffee.
“Of what?”
“Ah! But my clever Fedya must figure it out on his own!... QUIZ TIME! Why would a ghost need a cane?”
“Hmm… because the actor thinks it’s fun?”
“Trick question!” Nikolai exclaimed with no delay as if he had been expecting exactly that answer. “But you win a point. There are two answers-” he held his fingers up in a V, “-and the second one is: freedom.”
Fyodor felt his heart do a backflip in his chest, and for a moment the world came to a halt as if in déjà vu. Of course, this was to be expected. The answer to everything was not 42, but the freedom to find meaning for oneself.
“It is a tragedy, indeed,” Nikolai leaned forwards, elbows on his knees. “The king is dead but not even death could truly set him free. He’s still bound to this world, he’s incorporeal but still walks the ground that betrayed him… The cane-” he spun it in the air and leaned back in his seat; “-is his chain – the symbol of his inability to fly unless vengeance is inflicted. He seeks the only one who could help him, the only one who could stand against the traitor… He’s on the stage but is merely a spectator – he sees the world and man, and the foolish actions that people take…” Nikolai pointed the cane at Fyodor; “their ridiculous beliefs and their inability to see beyond the bars, but he too is locked in there, unable to escape or open their eyes for the truth… Death has caught him, but he’s not dead yet… He’s left to wander the night, slowly losing his sanity and driving everyone around mad, dead, or afraid…” Nikolai’s voice had gradually dropped to a whisper. After a brief pause, it was Fyodor who spoke first.
“He was unable to confess to his sins before death. His soul was never given the chance to find salvation… How could he reach God and find peace while his soul was still defiled by his earthy transgressions?”
“So, if one doesn’t confess… even if the person wants to die, then they remain here, roaming the earth and seeking revenge?”
“No one really wants to die. Maybe they want their existence to cease… it’s not the same. But there’s always more to it.”
“Either way, they do have a choice and can act on it if they want.”
“And what if one changes one’s mind at the last minute?”
“…One will find a way back.”
“A magic trick?”
Nikolai laughed. The air in the cabin had grown too stuffy, still, and the fading giggles brought renewed cheerfulness.
“I’d call it:” Nikolai made an arc with his hands as if presenting a sign, “Revival-from-death miracle!”
As the bright moonlight illuminated the train cabin on the final hours of their journey, the two men sat quietly, their minds occupied with completely different matters. While Fyodor was curled up in his seat, rereading some of the marked passages from his books, Nikolai was practically lying down on the opposite seat. He also held a book in his hands – a hardcover encyclopaedia of all the bird species living on the European continent. An occasional gasp escaped his lips as his eyes widened at the beautiful illustrations depicting feathers in great detail.
Fyodor snapped out of his reading rapture, stopped chewing his thumb, and glanced at Nikolai. For the past four months since he had received the book, Nikolai had reread it so many times that he probably already knew it by heart. However, he always acted surprised and delighted by the vast amount of information and the colourful illustrations inside. Fyodor smiled to himself.
“You’ve travelled a lot,” he began. “Something must have reached you that’s not written here,” Fyodor tapped the cover of the book lying next to him. Nikolai’s gaze followed the movement. “Tell me, what do you know?”
“Hm…” Nikolai put his index finger on his chin as if in deep thought. It was about time Fyodor asked; Nikolai had been expecting it since the moment he had first glimpsed the vampire books in their apartment. He put the encyclopaedia aside.
“The superstitions originated generally in the East… and didn’t spread much until after the establishment of Christianity and the newly emerging power and influence of the church. There was a belief that a body couldn’t be corrupted if buried in a territory dedicated to God. Churchyard cemeteries, that is. But man’s imagination knows no bounds, and soon countless legends were conjured of the dead rising from their graves, and feeding on the blood of the young and beautiful.” Nikolai’s narration was accompanied by the usual dramatic pauses and intonations at the appropriate places, as well as exaggerated hand gestures and expressions.
"People believed that every night the creatures of the night would imbibe a certain portion of the blood of their victims, who would become emaciated, lose their strength, and quickly die of “consumption”. According to some, the body of the deceased remained fresh and looked as if the person had simply fallen asleep. People began to resort to the now well-known remedy – a stake driven entirely through the heart and body; cutting off his head; burning the body, and throwing the ashes into the deceased’s grave.” Nikolai was performing a detailed impression of a vampire dying for good.
“There are many superstitions I’ve come across while on the road, but here’s one: A cat must live in every house. It would usually sleep near the fireplace and its ability is the concentration of the negative energy that spreads in the home and its absorption, basically cleansing the house and those living there. But the catch is when it comes to someone’s death – at that moment there must be people around the dying one. Otherwise, if someone is left alone in their last moments, the cat might jump over them and thus the person will become undead.” Nikolai sipped his coffee and looked out of the window, gathering his thoughts.
“There are some slight variations throughout Europe, each region having its own local superstitions. And there are countless names: vampire, devil, ghoul, varkolak, upyr or plutenik… They’re all undead, their flesh cannot decay, and their souls are left to wander the world in misery… to spread their sorrow and bring desolation wherever they go.”
"In some Greek provinces, it is considered a sort of punishment after death, for some heinous crime committed whilst in existence. A punishment, worse than any of the nine circles of hell… And what’s more – according to some legends, a crime committed before death is not required. The “disease” could be caught by even the most virtuous… Not only are the deceased doomed to become undead, but they’re also compelled to limit their infernal visits solely to those they loved most while alive—those to whom the vampire was bound by ties of affection. The purity and innocence in life turn into eternal torment, into a spiral of sinfulness… In the end, it doesn’t really make a difference – if one has lived according to His word, does it? There, or here… man’s doomed to be stuck in hell either way,” a mournful smile curled the corners of Nikolai’s lips.