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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.”

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