A stage, shrouded in darkness, the air heavy with dust and gloom. Old props and set dressing are piled in corners. There is no crowd of audience to watch as the stage lights come on.
The stage is set with a painted backdrop; a caricature of a small and strange town, all angles and edges. In front of the backdrop three healers stand huddled around a still body, muttering to themselves and one another.
Though there is no audience apparent, there is one observer, yet unknown to those on stage, lingering high on the catwalk above, and looking down.
Look closer.
The body the healers examine is a poppet of canvas and straw, isn't it?
The largest healer is a tall and broad man with a square face, and blond hair. He's clad in simple garments of thick wool and canvas, takes his gaze off the body for a moment, glancing about the theatre. The notes in the script call him 'Harusepx'. For a moment his eyes almost seem to rest on the observer, but his gaze is drawn away immediately when one of the others speaks.Perhaps he saw only a shadow.
The speaker who raises his voice first is a tall and serpentine man, clad in fashionable attire and a snakeskin coat. Narrowed, analytical eyes peer down the bridge of his nose at the poppet as he gestures towards his fellow healer. His title is 'Bachelor'.
"So, it's all about trickery to you, is it?" His voice is deep, sophisticated, condescending, "and where is it exactly that you've come from?"
"No, no..." A young girl's playful, mocking voice comes from the bundle of old clothes and tatters that moves her hands over the poppet's body. She's small, hardly coming midsection of the other two. Draped in an old and weathered coat and sweater, knit cap, and tattered skirt she stands a sharp contrast to the well dressed serpent beside her. She is called 'Changeling'.
"I detest trickery." Her eyes, uncanny and luminous in the dark theater, seem to pass over the observer before turning to the man beside her. "But if we, ourselves are to suffer deception, our hands are no longer tied."
The thought passes, and she asks, "But...where ARE we...?"
The Haruspex glances around the space again as it seems to shift, and then gestures broadly at the body they've all been examining. "There, a muscular contraction-- we're already inside of him. This must be one of the ventricles."
The young woman's attention abruptly returns to the poppet.
"What a silly place!" the changeling says with glee "Look, it's stuffed! So it's not yet real? Yes–don't think it's started yet."
The serpentine Bachelor sniffs disdainfully.
"It hardly matters what it's made of, it's clearly struggling. We must perform sectio transversalis...cut the wall...there's no other way out. What else is there we can even do?"
The Haruspex levels his gaze at the two of them as they bicker. For a moment it looks as though he will say something to intervene, but he remains silent and stern. His eyes, in fact, briefly return to the catwalk.
The observer smiles down at the cast, soft, long fingered hands brushing against the ledge of the catwalk. This figure proceeds slowly over the creaking wooden platform toward the other side of the stage, eyes never leaving the discussion happening below.
"What else can we even do?" The girl laughs again, high and tittering. "Those so lost in hard logic and direct action are destined to be misguided. I know what to do. I can do miracles, you know, and only a miracle can set us free without the need for destruction. Just let me, you'll see."
Another disdainful scoff from the man in the snakeskin coat. He dismisses her with a wave of his hand before spreading them out and towards the poppet
"The truth is my shepherd, and I will follow it to my answers. In truth, justice will be restored. " The Bachelor's tone is imperious, firm– the tone of a man who believes he has all the answers. "I shall perform the operation. Medicum morbo adhibere."
The Haruspex snorts-- it's almost, but not quite a chuckle. His sonorous voice has a determination, and a distinct weariness. "Bossy Mr. Clever clogs," he says, shaking his head. "Your justice will be the death of him. Step aside, and allow the gentle hand of a surgeon to do its work."
The Changeling leans in, the light seeming to fall upon the slash of her wide smile. "Your 'gentle hands' are more used to killing, rather than giving life. You'll just cause even more harm."
She gestures with her thumb towards the serpentine man with a snort "As for the brainiac over here...he doesn't care about casualties. Neither of you has the compassion needed for this."
"tch..." The serpent turns from her "I highly doubt we'll get along well. But there is only one truth"
The broad Haruspex shakes his head curtly once, short, wavy blond hair bouncing sharply. "The 'truth' is that any choice is the right one-- so long as we actually make it."
High above, the observer watches with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, lingering at the far end of the catwalk now, near the door.
"Only by following the heart can we find the right choice." The Changeling girl says passionately "You think only of yourselves? Think of the sick! The suffering! Look..he's in pain!"
She gestures down at the poppet with a frown "I can't see it yet, but I can feel it..."
She's all but ignored by the Bachelor, who frowns as he continues to murmur. "It's not even a trap...it's a grave. Sub ipsum fumus sumus. Can't say I hold a soft spot for it."
"I can see that," the Haruspex says darkly,his broad shoulders hunched. "You're full of hate. Look, stuffed or not the thing is breathing. I can heal it. It can be healed, rather than put down."
The Changingly wheels around to the Haruspex, cocking her head with an amused grin. "You mean you're not going to become a killer? But you will! Mark my words...that's exactly what will happen!"
She puts her hands upon her chest "But I...I can avoid it."
The Bachelor adjusts his coat as he sighs disdainfully, glaring at the other two in the room before he mutters.
"No, we won't ever get along. We really should get on our way. The sooner the better."
The girl giggles, doing a little turn on the stage before hopping off of it, creating a puff of dust where her tattered shoes land.
"Off we go then?"
The Haruspex nods. "Let's go. The clock is ticking."
The stage lights dim, and with a final smile toward the stage, the observer exits the door.
The train rattled underneath Artemy Burakh, rattling his teeth and his already frayed nerves as well.
He sat hunched uncomfortably in the corner of the car, admittedly grateful to be on the train at all, after having walked along the tracks for hours, but still tense and uncomfortable beyond words.
He held the crumpled letter tightly in his large, gloved hands, staring at it with intensity, as if willing the contents themselves to change.
The letter was deeply created and worn, despite being only a few days old; he had read and re-read it, folded and re-folded it so many times already.
The words remained the same as when he first read them.
His father was going to die, and he was needed back home.
Artemy folded the offending letter up again, and put it in the pocket of his woolen shirt.
His stern gaze followed the direction that the train was rattling toward.
Home.
The little town on the Gorkhon river, at the edge of the rolling steppe.
He had not been there in ten years. He had left when he was only a boy, and now he was a man. Changed. Worldly. He had spent his whole adult life away, and now he was returning to the place of his childhood.
He doubted that the town had changed.
He doubted that the kin had changed.
But he had changed.
And what about his father? Was he really dying? Artemy thought that it couldn't be true.
If it was true, it would change the course of his whole life. It would mean a return to his birthright.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Artemy had never expected to return to the town.Or his birthright.
The train rumbled to a stop amid the long pale grass of the steppe at the edge of the town, its brakes squealing, and its contents jolting.
It was the middle of the night. Artemy didn't know exactly what time.
Perhaps 2:00.
He was home.
It was dark, and gloomy. Already he missed the lights of towns around the capital city.
Artemy stood, hunch-shouldered and ducked low as he clambered out of the train to the firm soil of the steppe. Somehow he could feel the warmth of it, even through his ragged boots. A connection, long dormant, restored.
There was no time to ponder such a reconnection, what it meant, or how it made him feel.
His eyes had not yet adjusted to the gloom when he saw the flash of a wicked blade, and two leering faces springing toward him.
He reacted with instinct.
The fury of a bull. The precision of a surgeon.
If you asked Artemy afterward just what had happened, he wouldn't have been able to tell you.It was a flash and flurry of violence.Much of it against himself.
Blows land, pain comes.
So does an opportunity.
Grab an arm here, and use the weight of the attacker's motion against him.
The sickening crack of breaking bones, like tearing apart a chicken.
A scalpel crosses the line of the throat.
Blood spills.
Taboo.
The other turns to run but the bull is enraged, and the surgeon strikes again.
When Artemy awoke, he saw the pale fingers of dawn infusing the sky with their glow. His body felt heavy, and ached, There was something sticky on his chin, and his mouth tasted like copper. His ears rang, and his head throbbed.
He staggered to his feet, and tried to remember what had happened.
The train. He was coming home. He'd been attacked.
Home…. Father…
He took a step and his vision swam. He nearly tripped over something, and looked down to find a pair of bodies at his feet, already overgrown with the long steppe grasses that would reclaim them.
Out of his swimming thoughts came the idea to cut them apart and take their organs.
"You're dying, Burakh," a voice told him.
Artemy nearly fainted with the speed he looked up to find the speaker.
In front of him stood a figure with the long face of a bird– an elaborate mask– and a cloak that covered the figure's entire body.
It seemed to Artemy that he should know what the figure meant, but he couldn't summon the knowledge from his scattered thoughts.
"You haven't got long at all to live," the figure continued, "I am here to solemnly announce that."
"Ah,"Artemy clucked his tongue, and immediately regretted it, wincing at the lance of pain it sent through his skull. He grimaced, glancing at the body's on the ground. "So you're with that crowd, are you?"
The masked figure chuckled. "Oh no, no, they were simple townspeople. Factory workers. Kind sons. Good fathers.I am something much more dangerous– the mask of fate."
Artemy was beginning to suspect that he had a quite serious concussion.
"The mask of fate," he repeated. He felt his eyes crossing, not sure whether there was one of these masked strangers, or two. "So tell me, what does my fate look like, then?"
"With that head wound, Burakh?" the mask tutted, "and I don't think you've even noticed yet that you've been stabbed. You've lost quite a lot of blood you know. Those locals meant business. The only thing that could make your situation worse is a heart condition– got one of those?"
He snorted out a sharp, bitter laugh, and it made readily apparent the stab wound the mask was talking about. Artemy clutched his side. He was going to need to take care of it.
"Heart's a bit too soft, admittedly," he replied.That was what his dear father had told him, in any case.
"Hmn…" The mask seemed to stare at him, and Artemy suspected whoever was under it didn't care for the humor. "Well you're in a sorry state for sure. Haven't eaten, haven't slept. I don't know what will catch up with you first. What's your plan?"
"The way you talk, I suppose I am to die. So be it." Artemy shrugged. He definitely had a serious concussion. It could be little more obvious that he was talking to himself.
"Oh what a cute little fatalist you are!" the mask cocked its head, "make sure to grit your teeth like a hero when you say that. Your teeth are still in your head, aren't they? Come on, you've got more options than that, don't you?"
"Well then?" Artemy starred the mask down– the least his concussion could do for him would be provide at least some kind of useful thought.
"And here I thought you had medical training! Patch yourself up, man. Stitches, bandages. You could probably do with some painkillers. And get some food and water in your belly, for your own sake."
"And how shall I do all that?"
The masked figure bristled. "Mug someone! Trade with someone! Maybe a drunkard, they're as easy as they are plentiful around here. But you don't remember that, do you?"
"I like your advice better than your mockery," Artemy warned.
"Hmmm, then here's some advice, after you've patched yourself up you'd better figure out a way to stop being public enemy number one around here."
That was news to Artemy. It must have shown on his face because the figure continued.
"You don't have any idea why they attacked you, do you?" They sighed wearily. "You've been mistaken for someone else. There's been a terrible murder in town and they're out to find him. You'll have to find a way back into everyone's good graces. You're in luck though, the same easy gossip and malleable rumor that got you into this predicament should get you out of it with a few good deeds here and there."
"Wonderful. I'm in excellent shape to be running errands for everyone in town," he said wearily. His vision was clearing a little, at least, and the pain was becoming sharper. That might actually have been a good sign.
"Not everyone," the mask chastised. "Concentrate on those bound to you by fate."
Artemy Burakh had never been more exhausted in his whole life.
He had been in the town for all of a few hours, most of which he had spent unconscious, and already he was bound by fate.
It really was inescapable.
"And how will I recognize them?" he asked, leadenly.
"Oh, don't worry about it. They'll stand out. Why don't you start with Vlad Oglimsky? He might even take you in even with your sorry reputation."
"I see," Artemy starred. At least he remembered Vlad. A town fixture. Maybe Oglimsky would believe him. Maybe Artemy wouldn't collapse before he got to his doorstep. "Thank you for the advice."
"It's no trouble. But you'd better get busy living or get busy dying, hmm? I'll be here if you need me."
"Thanks," Artemy repeated.
He stared up at the looming lump of the town as it sulked before him on the steppe.
He staggered forward.
It was going to be a lot of trouble. He knew that much. Dying would be easier.
He wasn't in the mood for that now, though.