For the first time in lifetimes that he can remember, he feels it: the damp, the dark, the cold of such distance from the sun; but unlike the waxing and waning of the day that sends the sun disappearing over the horizon, allowing the moon to shine its light until such a time the sun rose again, he doesn’t know when he’ll see the sun again. Through no fault of its own, it simply cannot be reached and in the dark, there is only cold, humid stone to press his fingers against in vain hopes of finding something more than such imprisonment.

He claws his fingernails against it, following mortar along rough lines that bite and chew at what remains, ill-kept and soft from exposure to such a rough confinement. When they don’t bend, they tear and if they don’t tear, they break and aside from small splinters of deterioration that break off from loose pieces of stone, they do very little for liberty and get him nowhere closer to warmth that feels constantly sapped out of light bone and weak muscle by clothes - a uniform by all accounts - he can’t remember donning.

How long had it been since he had been here? How long had it been since he had seen the sun? Days could have been minutes and minutes, weeks, no measure of time found in anything more than subpar meals of bread, dry and stale, brought by uncompassionate hands and select visits in between from a face he knows not, but knows to fear.

And then he feels it again: the damp, the dark, the cold of heavy water that only grows bitter in the frigid air. It clings to his clothes, weighs him down as if crude irons didn’t already, and though it is in part welcomed by dry lips and a thirsty tongue, he can’t escape the sinking dread of what comes next; of what happened when he gets too cold, when he can’t heat up, when he feels so far from the sun all his body knows to do is react. All he can do is close his eyes and listen to the echo - the splash of water against the stone ground grazed by his bare feet, the line of questioning he knows no answer to no matter how many times they are asked, the sound of birds chirping outside and the clanking of pots and pans –

– he’s back in Buyan in nothing but a dressing robe, hair long, nails decorated and body warm against such open air of the towering halls; and though he isn’t alone, though the figure that was once lying next to him is nothing but a scratched out memory he finds himself staring - if only for a moment - intently at, he knows this is where he wants to be.

He knows this is freedom.

The bath is drawn warm enough, tepid to accommodate the heat radiating off his skin as an ever-present shield from the more chilling of elements, and laced with botanicals whose petals stick and peel from his skin in the slow sway of water; and there is no rush, no urgency, no danger. There is just the opportunity to rest, to recover from amorous company, and when his eyes close, there is only peace –

– until he wakes up again and for the first time in lifetimes that he can remember, he feels it: the damp, the dark, the cold of such distance from the sun and the hard press of stone and the open quicks of broken fingernails and the sudden splash of cold water; and not for the first time, not for the last, he listens to the splash of the water as it hits the ground and the questions he knows no answer to, the sound of chirping birds and the clanking of pots and pans until the rush of flames, desperate to warm a dying body, reach his ears.

How long had it been since he had been here? How long had it been since he had seen the sun? Days could have been minutes and minutes, weeks, no measure of time found in anything more than a meal of stale bread, presented without common courtesy, and the intrusive presence of –

“Asa! Asa!”

– a small shriek of a Domovoi, small feet standing firm on his pillow though his hands press firm against the front of his cheek, pushing and demanding he wake up. He turns at first, the Domovoi falling back into the pillow as Ash focuses on the darkened ceiling of his apartment, blackout curtains shutting out the light if only for the evening. He compels himself to move, but only enough to pull his legs from the cold sweat-drenched sheets, to set his feet on the ground, to sit, to breath.

”Asa! Are you well?” He feels the press of the Domovoi’s hands against his back as he tries to maneuver around the strewn bedding, climbing up on his thigh to address Ash more readily. His beard seems frazzled, still pridefully carrying dust from parts of the apartment unknown, as he looks up at Ash with concern.

“I’m okay.”

He isn’t sure the Domovoi believes it. In fact, he is sure the Domovoi doesn’t, but all the same, his small hands knit together as he continues to stare. The question he has is simple - perhaps nothing that will stop the repetitive replay experienced, but might be some calm to already settling tension in his muscles because they know.

They know where Koschei is.

”Would you like some tea?”