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Burakh, Just tell me one thing. Look me in the eye and say it. Could you have protected him? Could you have... saved him?
...Yes. I could have.
The last time he had been to the Broken Heart Andrey had been furious at him. Not only had he failed to save Andrey’s brother from the sand pest, but he had destroyed the polyhedron, the twins greatest achievement. Peter’s greatest achievement.
He wasn’t the only one. In the end all of the surviving utopians were angry with him, he had destroyed their tower of hope. Where Artemy saw a twisted arrow stabbing into earth’s heart, they saw the transcendence of man.
Needless to say Artemy avoided not only the Broken Heart but the Bridge Square if he could, and only traversed those spaces when his time was spent distributing the panacea. He was certain it was only for the health of the town that they allowed him, but there was no denying that Maria stared down at him from a window with open disdain any time he neared the now empty Crucible.
And even his avoidance of the Broken Heart proved unnecessary as Andrey disappeared in his grief.
Grief wasn’t a luxury Artemy could enjoy though. There was too much to do before winter reached the steppe, and Artemy’s feelings had to be compartmentalized and ignored.
Instead he made and distributed the panacea, and once he had finally done that he had to leave the clean up of his father's house to Rubin and the care of Sticky and Murky to Lara. He then spent the next month at Shekhen helping the Kin build the town back up, and providing all the spiritual guidance he could when he still knew so little.
Worked to the bone the only saving grace was that the Kin made sure he was well fed. A skeleton for a Menku was a bad omen after all, and every sacrifice was fresh meat for everyone. He ended up spending more time doing the work of a yargachin than anything else as the women and men worked to smoke and cure what he carved out of the bulls offered.
It was exhausting work that used all of his already overworked body, and every day away from his kids filled him with unease. In the end he never got enough sleep, and he was unable to eat as much as he should have.
With only the energy afforded to him from a medrel tincture powering him Artemy walked back to the town with a bag full of the highest quality meat that he helped preserve. The meat was his right no matter how much he preferred they kept it. He took too much from his people. Too many he couldn’t save with too few of them left, and the painful fear that they couldn’t truly be the Khatange with the Odongh and Herb Brides gone.
When he saw Aspity’s Hospice and it was more proof of what he had done. Sahba Usp'tae spent her last days in Shekhen, until one night she walked into the steppe and never came back. The only sign that she had been there was a trail of white whip.
Still the hospice ment he was almost home, and he could see both Murky and Sticky once again.
Someone was leaning against the hospice.
Artemy couldn’t help but assess the figure for danger. He had too many still healing wounds to take his safety for granted. His poise was confident, but not necessarily predatory as Artemy approached.
As he got closer though he recognized the white jacket and orange and white striped pants. It didn’t take long from that point to recognize Andrey which explained the confident way he loitered.
Then Andrey looked up and saw him. His cheeks sunk in as he took a deep drag of his cigarette, and he pushed off from the wall aggressively. He walked straight over to Artemy.
With a sigh Artemy stopped and set his pack on the ground. If Andrey wanted a confrontation Artemy would wait for him to come.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” Andrey growled and tossed his burning cigarette into the field of grass.
Artemy watched the arch it flew in, and waited a moment to see if it would catch. “Are you trying to start a wildfire?”
“Oh, I didn’t start anything. But I’m going to finish it.”
Andrey closed the distance and slipped on a knuckle duster onto his right hand. Their eyes met as Andrey pulled his fist back and punched Artemy in the face.
Artemy didn’t try to pull back or block it, he didn’t even flinch, but he rolled with the punch. He had gotten so used to being beaten on during the plague and so familiar with his own body that letting the force of the impact stumble him was easy. It meant when he spat out a glob of blood a tooth didn’t join it, and when he checked his jaw he knew it wasn‘t broken, yet.
“Do you feel better?”
Seething Andrey kicked Artemy in the bad knee. A seasoned fighter like Andrey knew how to spot a weakness and utilize it, and people who didn’t fight dirty ended up dead. All he got out of the dirty move was Artemy stumbling a bit, and Aremty stood up again to look down on Andrey stoically.
The fire in Andrey just burned brighter, and was rewarded when he punched Artemy in the ribs and felt the satisfaction of them cracking beneath his fist.
Artemy kept standing.
He held no fear or anger in his face. Not even pain crossed those features.
All he got was a look of pity.
A bitter laugh left Andrey’s lips. “If you have the audacity to look at me like that I must be pulling my punches.”
Deftly he adjusted his knuckle duster and ignored how his fingers trembled. “I should kill you just for that.”
Artemy didn't move away when the next punch cracked his ribs again, or when the next one hit him in the ear and made his head ring. But when the third one came he grabbed Andrey around the middle to immobilize his arms.
"This won't bring Peter back."
"No it won't, but when I bring your broken body to his grave he will finally rest."
To protect them both from harm Artemy didn't let go as Andrey struggled in his grip. Even as he kicked hard aiming at Artemy's bad leg repeatedly, an act that would have him struggling to walk the next day, he held tight. Even when Andrey took the cheap shot and kneed him in the groin Artemy didn’t let go and took Andrey to the ground with him.
Only then did his grip falter, and they struggled on the ground. A few more good punches, and Artemy found it impossible to keep his right eye open as the flesh around it swelled. He refused to punch Andrey or pull a knife. He rolled them in the tall grass through a patch of ashen swish that left a bitter sent in the air, but in the end Andrey was on top and beat into Artemy’s sides. The punches were weak but numerous, causing bruises that would make it painful for Artemy to breath for months.
Artemy looked up at Andrey with his still opened eye.
The heart underneath the town was dead, and so was the town's magic. But the lines were still as clear to him as they were when he finally understood udurgh. He could hear how the lines sung when plucked, and Taya still spoke with Mother Boddho. The old laws still existed with those who still believed in them.
Panting over the beaten man Andrey’s hair fell out of its coif and sweat dripped off his forehead onto the man beneath him. If anyone suggested there were tears as well he would gut them.
“Why won’t you fight me.”
Artemy lifted his arms and tried to smile. The expression wasn’t joyful but instead painted a picture of sorrow and guilt. He hugged Andrey to his chest, and answered. “You know by now we don’t take from one another in the town. We trade.”
“It doesn’t matter if I meant for it to happen or not, but I took your stability and joy. The least I can give you is my pain, and if you want you can have anything else from me, my warmth and care if you wish. I’m afraid I’m a bit short on joy at the moment.”
Shock froze Andrey for a moment as his head was pressed to Artemy's chest. He was being denied the pleasure of a fight. He needed his own pain as much as he needed Artemy's blood. He wanted to feel the dizzy ache of a blow to the head or the sharp stab of a knife.
Instead he got a warm embrace, and his face broke down into one of soul crushing grief.
Gently Artemy petted Andrey’s hair, and his anguished scream echoed through the steppe.