Daniil Dankovsky is running out of luck - and out of time. When a letter from Isidor Burakh arrives informing him of an immortal man living out on the steppe, Daniil cannot get on the train fast enough.
And so, Daniil arrives in the town one day early.
i’ve been working on this fic since may of 2025. i am so, so happy that it’s finished, and will be posting the whole thing over the course of the day.
when the bough breaks -> #ockiss25 prompt for "desperate"
frost @ me. kyrie @gemteeth.
cw for self harm.
Something snaps, and they fall. They see the floor coming towards them and they feel like an avalanche cascading down a hill. They aren't quick enough to break their fall, landing on the floor with their arms scraping and burning on the carpet. It hurts, but not enough to pull them out.
Their mind is still spinning when they stand. A tornado of conflicting needs and desires, all of them shouting at them over the sound of the television in the next room.
The recognize the jingle. It plays in their head whenever the room gets a little too quiet.
"Frost?" Their arms are marked with red. The fresh lines are nothing compared to the old scars. Those were made with cold precision, a mad doctor bloodletting to balance the humors. They lack the passion; but these scratches, blunt fingernails pulling apart dried skin until it flakes? These are noticeable. At least now, to Kyrie. "C'mon, Frost. Let's stand up."
His hands are warm wrapping around their fingers. They wait for him to complain of ice, but the comment dies somewhere in the air between them. Maybe it was never born. Kyrie frowns, flipping their arms over.
It's difficult to read him. Frost wants to believe it's sympathy and not pity they read behind the lenses, but keeping their eyes focused on his is similarly impossible. The whole room is dancing, spinning them around like some gross caricature of dizziness. Their chest heaves, suddenly remembering to breathe and desperate for the taste of something stronger than the wind.
"Frost, hey. Are you with me?"
With you? Where are you?
Sand rolls along their tongue, gritty. Or perhaps it's plaque - they fancy they feel a tooth moving out of place, wiggling like they're rotting from the inside out. Are they keeping their jaw clenched shut tight? Has it been padlocked that way? Is that why they can't seem to get the words out?
"I'm going to call the hospital," Kyrie says. His voice sounds several blocks away, like he's communicating through a tin can and string. "Frost -"
"Is the baby okay?"
They assume, from the look on Kyrie's face, that they've managed to push the words out of their mouth. They're not sure, though. They can't hear over the downpour in their brain. But - "Yeah, Frosty. Rome's okay." And between fragments of other colors and images they see, momentarily, anxiety. Or something worse, like a word Frost has forgotten how to say.
Kyrie sets his hands on their cheeks, tilts their face up. Whatever he's looking for or looking at doesn't make him feel any better, evident in the defeated little noise he tries to choke down.
"I'm sorry," Kyrie says, but he doesn't elaborate on why. He presses their foreheads together, rubs his thumbs beneath their eyes and kisses them like it might be the last time they ever see each other.
initially i was going to write a thing about all three healers singing, but this notes app drabble is over two years old so i doubt that's happening. here's what i started:
The first time Artemy sings is to Noukher. It's been - ten? seven? time is unyielding - years since he really sang. He never had much to sing about, away from home. On the steppe with his friends when time seemed endless, they would sing to the grass, to the moon and the rocks, to birds flying by, and always to each other. But what was there to sing about in an unknown city, away from all he loved? He couldn't even manage it to cheer himself up, notes dying in the back of his throat.
He doesn't sing well. Noukher blinks one big, brown eye at him, unmoved by his song.
"I know, I know. I don't have the voice for it. Grief was always better than me. Only one of the gang who could corral Stakh and Lara into singing along. We must've sounded like wolves." His hand falls down the side of the bull, patting his flank. "But one day, I'll have this whole town sing. Fill it with life once again, when all this is over."
Noukher dips his head to the grass, and Artemy lets his hand drop to his thigh. He can reminisce later; he has work to get done.
thank you so much!!! i really should write about my ocs more often... you get part of a patho fic i started writing back when they announced that bachelor route was going to be similar to life is strange!
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Daniil is aware of two things regarding his newfound ability. The first is that he cannot tell anyone about it, as they would surely lock him away, and he cannot afford that. The second is that he should use it sparingly, if for no other reason than because it hurt to do so.
There was also the fact of consequence he was not prepared to deal with. When the plague was first announced, he made the horrible mistake of saying to himself, I wish we could simply sleep til the end of this whole fiasco, and of course, he was dragged forward.
This time, it was not Telman who greeted him, but a furious - what was his name, Artemy? Very sullen, towering over him in the theatre. For a second, Daniil thought he’d planted himself into a fight, but the other man only stood with his hands at his sides.
“I never should have trusted you,” he said. The words themselves meant nothing to Daniil, but the emotion behind them, the heartbreak and grief, made him swallow uncomfortably. He looked around the theatre, surrounded by coughing and screams, and saw so many small bodies covered with sheets that the discomfort gave way to guilt.
Daniil does the cowardly thing, and reverses time again.
The blood across his forehead does not dry. It goes sticky and uncomfortable, mingling with the sweat from his hairline; it sinks down into his eyes in little pools, and smears when he tries to wipe it away. It’ll wash off the next time he steps into the Dream, but the feeling will linger.
Frost exhales, his body shuddering with the effort he’s put in to remain upright, remain calm. One of his moods is fast approaching, a lumbering and clumsy beast, not at all different from the things that strike at him in the dark. He inhales, holds it, forces himself to let the breath out slow. A phantom caresses his back, a memory flickering before his eyes. For a moment he is back in that town, nameless and free and wanted.
Breathe, love, breathe.
It isn’t working. Every organ in his body is protesting, threatening to give out on him. Collapse on the street, they whisper. We cannot take any more.
That cues the second phase: Frost feels ill. He pulls his axe closer to his chest, side-stepping fallen villagers. He’s polished his glasses with each trip back to the Dream. The cloth in his pocket is stained pink from the effort of keeping his vision unimpaired. Still it swims, pain starting in the wrinkles between his eyes when he squints and shooting up, splitting his skull in half.
prompt: post game the bura family visits shekhen, maybe murky and taya are playing together?
i know this ask is uhmmmmm three years old at this point. and i've not totally followed the prmopt to the t, but all the same; here is where my brain took this prompt. with artemy trying to find peace with himself :)
ily bro<3 anyway!
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Shekhen starts to rebuild itself almost immediately. Taya’s influence, Artemy is sure. He sympathizes; after being stuck in place for so long, any kid would grow impatient. There’s not a lot in the way of toys out here, but there’s more space to run around, more people to play with - the Kin who had integrated into the town have started to navigate back. More kids Taya’s age. More talk, more food, more song.
Sticky is beyond curious, beyond excited to learn. All the walk over he has been bombarding Artemy with questions about the language and the culture he has only learned through rumor. Artemy does his best to answer, ashamed at how much he has forgotten in his time away. If Sticky notices the prolonged pauses, he doesn’t comment.
Murky hasn’t spoken in the time that they’ve been walking. Artemy has tried to check on her, concerned the new shoes don’t fit just right or that she’s shed them entirely to traverse the frozen ground barefoot. There’s nothing for him to worry over - the shoes remain, her expression unchanged. New environments are difficult for her.
"Would you like me to carry you the rest of the way?" Artemy offers. Her face scrunches up in distaste, shaking her head. Learning her boundaries has been difficult, and this venture out to Shekhen has Artemy worried about her. Sticky, he knows, will be fine. His curiosity outweighs his nerves, and Artemy doesn't doubt he'll make friends easily. Murky, though, has stayed closer than usual, reaching out as if to grab Artemy's smock and ask to slow down. She's been picking herbs as she walks, but her usual commentary is missing.
“Do you think they’ll like it?” is all she says to him, her expression severe. She’s collected about a dozen plants by now, her fingers shaky as she holds them up for Artemy to inspect. Artemy pauses, tongue wrapping around an admonishment (should have let us put gloves on you) before he swallows it down.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell her they have their own gardens at Shekhen. “It’s beautiful, Murky,” Artemy says. He smiles at her, but she isn’t looking. Her attention is drawn away by her desire to be done with the walking, little legs taking her farther and faster than they have over the past several minutes.
Now it’s Artemy who lingers behind.
When he told Stakh and Dankovsky he’d be away at Shekhen today, their responses had been… mixed. It was clear they were both attempting to be supportive by holding back on their true thoughts, and the result wasn’t nearly as encouraging as they must have thought it would be. Artemy couldn’t pretend to sympathize with their points of view. Understand them, certainly; they both acted as they thought they should, but that meant breaking the Law, and Artemy was tired of being pulled in different directions.
Maybe one day, they’ll understand. Maybe one day, Artemy can bring them out here and show them his community, his family, all he has left of his -
Artemy stops himself. Eyes closed, fingers curled tight into fists. He concentrates on breathing. Listens to the Earth.
He takes a step forward. And another. And another.
The scent of smoke and life greet him at the threshold of Shekhen. He only opens his eyes when the wave hits him, eyes darting around, trying to find something to focus on. It’s grown livelier over the past couple of months. Artemy can even hear laughter amid the buzz of herbs and lowing of bulls.
For a moment, Artemy is too tense to move. His arms shake from the weight of his nerves, eyes searching for his children. He spots Sticky’s mess of hair, untrimmed and ruffled by the wind, chatting with a teen a couple years his senior. He finds Murky, hand gripped tight by Taya’s confident fingers, weaving through the camp. They could get lost in here, melt into the collage and never resurface.
And that, Artemy remembers, is the point. This is community. This is family.
In his mind he hears his father’s voice, telling him, “Welcome home.”
initially started writing something for patho fest. not sure if i'll do any of the other prompts but have something about a tragedian!
You cannot remember when you joined this troupe, but you think you may have been among the first. You have worked with other troupes before, though none with a director quite this fickle. The first time you came to audition, he only had one look at you before turning you away.
“You’re not ready for this,” he told you, and he looked terribly disappointed to be saying as much. You figured it was a small cast and he didn’t want to turn anyone away prematurely, but something about you betrayed your inexperience with this genre of theatre. You were, admittedly, a little incensed by his rebuff. You had just left your most recent troupe and desperately needed the work. Anything to keep you busy and to keep your income, however pitiful, steady.
You asked him to reconsider. You listed off the things you knew you could do. Stage combat, crying on command, singing in a chorus, even a few dances you’d picked up in your youth. The director didn’t look particularly impressed, so you had to resort to drastic measures. Stupidly, you told him that you’d be willing to do anything. Lose weight. Fatten up. Bulk up. Play a girl. Play a boy. Bark like a dog. Crawl on your belly. You were a person possessed, unable to stop yourself from throwing out every suggestion you thought might land you a part.
At the very least, it was getting you a consideration. The director asked if you were familiar with pantomime. You told him you’d studied it in college. He asked if you’d be willing to relocate. With a little too much force, you said yes.
The script is unlike anything you’ve worked with before. You’re told you’ll be working with amateurs, and you wonder if that includes the writer. The script is less like an exchange of dialogue in a play, and more like preparation for a debate. You’re not permitted to speak to the other actors outside of rehearsal – not that you see many of them – and find yourself in one-on-one sessions with the director. He doesn’t guide your performance so much observes it, asking you questions and humming disapprovingly when you answer.
You realize a week before the performance is to begin that you have no idea what this play is about. You have no pages besides your own, and your choreographed rehearsals tell you very little. The stars of the show have yet to show up.
When you bring up your concern to the director, he smiles at you.
The production is intended to last thirty-six grueling days. You’re not told how long the play itself runs. It isn’t until you’re thrust onto the set of the world beyond the theatre that you realize, with horror, that thirty-six days is not the number of performances, but the runtime.
You want to shout at the director. You feel misled. All this time rehearsing lines, and you weren’t told this would be a street show. You have standards! How can you perform under these conditions? You have half a mind to tell the director you refuse to play this part, but you know it’s too late to resign. You’ll never be able to find work this late. Besides, it wouldn’t look very good to future employers if you gave up now, would it?
The first twelve days are dedicated to a miserable hero. You don’t like him very much. He’s too arrogant, doesn’t seem to appreciate the role that you play in this story. You’re used to it, of course. He’s not the first diva you’ve worked with, but you never enjoy the experience. The second third of your performance is centered around a man who does not appear to realize the situation he’s in at all. Any attempts to get him to recognize he is an actor in a play go over his head. You’re not sure what to make of that, but he requires less guidance than the man before him.
The final set of performances, the star is… uncanny. The first took his role too seriously, the second not seriously enough. But this girl seems determined to change the very script with which the play is written, and it’s pissing the director off. Which is why you decide that you like her, though you’re forbidden from helping her out too much.
At the end of your performance, you’re called back for an encore. You’re admittedly surprised. You’ve received very little feedback.
