01 January 2022
It is like stepping into a dream – not just because of the flowers and how they swoop and arch and tumble up and over and down the walls or the music that filters through the entirety of the venue as if from nowhere, but the sudden upsweep of magical energies that settles an unfamiliar warmth, far different from his own, into his bones where it relaxes the tension in his arms, takes the weight off his shoulders and brushes aside any potential nervousness that might have come with his appearance. It isn’t something born of being – if there had been any problem with such an avian representation of the sun, surely the vampires would have said something of it – or something found in bare skin, intricately designed with lines of fire that stretch across his skin and roll over muscle, twisting and turning to create elaborate design.It’s because of him.
The domovoi have done a good job and throughout the night, curiosity gets the better of Ash as he stares, watching the loops of long stems weave through porous bone and open sockets with care, the work of hands much smaller than his fingertips that seem to bloom or recede with each passing emotion. When he is happy, he beams, he blooms, the flowers much brighter; when he isn’t, he wilts, blooms closing not unlike those hit by dusk; and it is with a strange, intrinsic care that Ash adjusts them in the quieter of moments – not that there seem to be many found in the sumptuous flow of hor d'oeuvres and liquor, small canapés that delight the senses in any and every which way punctuated with a sip of champagne.
The clock ticking down hardly seems a priority in the revelry, but it creeps, the minutes ticking by quickly and slow all at once until the edge of what is otherwise intoxicated vision spies the preparation in place – the glass towers, the pour of sweet champagne, the growing breath of the building that seems to inhale all at once with those last few minutes before announcing itself to the midnight hour with such otherworldly radiance.
He knows the feeling that settles as if carved into bone and molded into muscle by firm hands and for a moment, he allows it free passage through veins on fire, a wave of rippling energy he feels in leading fingertips pressed hard against gaunt cheeks and electricity to his lips. Such foolish bravery it could have been; such a mistake, a wrong action, something against such unfamiliar return to that which should have been home; and it becomes a test as much as it is New Year’s merriment – at least that is what he’ll eventually tell himself when the afterglow disperses – and the answer given is one that lingers in a parting chill and lingering sweet with macabre undertone.
And it isn’t repulsive and he doesn’t shy away – not even with the punctuating sound of a broken beak in the brawl to be as he has a chance, one of many to come, to see Koschei where he lives, not in gilded halls adorned with flowers, but on the field of battle with the spill of blood and splintering a bone, so opposite and yet…
05 January 2022
It might have been a stupid question to ask. It might have been stupid to be so persistent and demanding when the answer hadn’t been so readily given, but in a wash of flames that lick at the very skin of his face in ever dream, every nightmare, every memory, there is the same question: What happened to me?And he wants to know – needs to know with a present desperation that only seeks to fill in the missing frames, shuffling together memories like slides to put together the full picture, to string it together like acts of a play, one scene ebbing and flowing into another versus the staccato symphony that slowly filters into his head. It dulls his hearing, such infernal racket, and drains the color out of his face, scratching and tearing and cracking fine lines of illumination across his skin as his fingers – not as talons, but nails sharp enough – dig.
He continues to ask. He continues to press. He gets the truth and perhaps far more than Koschei intends when Ash’s dreams are his own and his memories are expansive, however hidden, and it has been so long. The details are splinters drawn out of a closed mind, burning up like small wicks of remembrance as he recalls a call not of his husband who he cherishes dear, not of the domovoi who had become his friends, not of those who had been found so beautiful in the best of ways for the firebird to relinquish feathers, but treachery itself.
So fooled are the princesses, the turn heels of golden hair and luxurious curls, provided all the fineries they could ever hope for only to run off with the promise of heroic narcissism; except nothing is entirely heroic and nothing is without treachery and even the best intended can act on conniving and chicanery to meet their ends; and even the worst can become heroes for their crimes.
It burns so readily in one spot and he knows what it is without a whisper of thought, of memory, of dreams. It splits - his skin - more so than the rest of the lines simmering in their slow travel over the expanse of his body. It starts at the back, a single puncture as if the slow press of a blade that slowly grows and grows and spreads, expanding until at full crest, it pushes through the front of his chest like an open, gaping wound.
Except he doesn’t bleed. He burns.
It could eat him up - the anger he feels - and it could eat up the apartment he lives in, it could eat up the other units, the lives inside, had it not been for him. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t sound the alarms; and he doesn’t even mind the blow that follows the appearance of Koschei in his home, just wakes up the next morning untroubled, if not appreciative, that he isn’t alone.
06 January 2022
He says he is sorry and Ash doesn’t know why – not really. Not personally. Not with a series of doors in his mind, but no key to unlock them to know what memories, thoughts, feelings lie behind them, and though Ash understands why and just where it might have changed things, it doesn’t stop the pit of sadness that starts to grow in his stomach, a hard rock that seems to sink deeper to pull his heartstrings in different directions.It becomes a puppeteer, long fingers spun around strands of sinew as Ash paces through the apartment to the kitchen, meticulously tugging and pulling limbs as he digs into the back of the fridge for a bottle of vodka, somehow unfinished, and circles back to the cabinets for tea. They twist his fingers as he fills the kettle and sets it on the stove, a cutting ‘snap’ of the dial bringing flame to life beneath, and further directs the careful slices of lemon with care not to take flesh with it; and for a moment, he is sure that if he stops, closes his eyes, he will continue to move.
For a moment, he considers testing that theory, eyelids heavy with the weight of sadness – not felt by him, but because of him; because he can feel it radiating off the man saturated in sadness of what had been loss and could imagine the toil of sifting through ashes caught on frigid breezes without the very thing that would give him life and, time being what it was, there was no getting it back. He feels it start to gnaw, such a baleful presence as the whisper of death and loss and mourning, and he finds it inherent to fix it – not that he is sure how.
All he can do it push it away – not so tangible or visible an action as it is a warmth pushed through the room as if from a stove in embers, a thick blanket of calming warmth meant to drape everything within in waves like a soothing song; and it seems to do the trick – to at least help – as he feels the space settle with a deep sigh before the silence, the tension within it, is punched through by the screeching of the kettle.
The arrangement of the tea kettle, the tea cups, the various odds and ends of lemon slices and sugar, and the bottle still crisp and cold is simple, set on the coffee table with care; and Ash stares. It isn’t the first time, it is sure not to be the last, but it is a moment of opportunity seized to really look at Koschei without distraction – be it the threatening presence of summoned creatures, a bloom of flowers woven into porous bone that seems to thrive when he does or the weighty feeling of injustice, of anger and rage, that stood to set buildings on fire. There is nothing terrifying now, not even with the deep hollows of bone mapped by sunken skin, but acknowledgement of a deep cold only death can bring.
His movement is deliberant, hesitating only in the approach before the tips of his fingers find the tips of his hair and that pull of such strings pushes them forward with a soft rake meant to be comforting, calming; and Ash wants to say he is sorry – that if there was a way he could have stopped what had happened, he would try – but he doesn’t know why, and instead clamps his lips tight to stop the swell of sadness in his chest before anything more than the glassiness of tearful eyes deceive him.
“Не пережива́й, всё бу́дет хорошо́.”
Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.