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"You have no sense of measure," the younger Burakh says. "And don’t know how to finish on a clean note."
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"You have no sense of measure," Burakh says. "And don’t know how to finish on a clean note."
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"You have no sense of measure," Artemy says. "And don’t know how to finish on a clean note."
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It isn't clear to Daniil why he keeps coming back to this moment. The riverbank, Artemy sitting hunched over a rock the day of his father's funeral, clearly not wanting to be bothered. There are countless other things Daniil could be redoing, twelve days in the Town to explore and edit, yet every time he ends up anywhere close to his second day in the Town, he finds himself here.
An all-too-familiar gust of wind rises the hair on the back of his neck. Some steppe bird will hoot soon, its call echoing in the night.
"Thank you, emshen. My head is buzzing so much I didn’t want to listen to you. But you brought me solid facts instead of empty chatter," Artemy is saying. Daniil's figured out the conversation this far, the exact right things to say to get Artemy here, the set of his shoulders loosened, the frown on his face less severe. "I’ll pave a road with those facts, a road that will lead me to the answer. And if that answer concerns you, too – I’ll come find you myself. But now, please, leave. I need to face the steppe alone."
Daniil stands there quietly for a beat. This, this is the part he messes up, where he proposes a theory and Artemy curls back in on himself, face darkening, scowl twisting his mouth. Daniil can't stop his brain from working, going through the facts – he's tried different variables, different tones of voice, different ways of wording his issue. He's certain he just needs to find the right combination of words, certain that once he does, Artemy will –
Artemy will –
What, smile? Embrace him and rejoice in the genius of his words?
The futility of the exercise dawns on Daniil. He might have saved Artemy from the Inquisition with words, but Artemy himself – he's a man of action, not endless debate. He feels dirty, suddenly – getting a thank you from Artemy feels hollow. Every one of his goes since the first time he got this far has been a game of memorisation, not a genuine interaction at all.
"I have a lot of hypotheses, but..." Daniil starts, feeling defeated. "He was your father. You’ll figure it out without me."
Artemy tilts his head and hums in thought. This is new.
"You know, I hadn’t seen him in years," Artemy says. "I inwardly dreaded our reunion, dreaded disappointing him, so I kept putting off my return. And then I returned home – to a corpse. You can’t ask a corpse for forgiveness. That’s where the buzzing in my head comes from – from the words I never said to him." Daniil can relate, his head a cacophony of possible arrangements of words – that's not fair, he realises. He has the chance to go back and try them out in endless configurations. Artemy's stuck here. This is precisely why he hates death. Because after, nothing can be fixed.
"Thank you for not adding the buzz of your guesses to it," Artemy sighs. "I’ll sort it out. I have to. Unless my head splits like an overripe fruit."
The sentence about death hangs on the tip of Daniil's tongue. He could say it and make things about himself again. He swallows.
"It won’t. If mine is somehow still intact, your hardy self will be just fine."
Daniil leaves Artemy on the riverbank for the last time.
The bird calls.