Chapter Text
On the eighth day he ignores the feeling. The dissatisfied itch under his skin, the building warmth in his cheeks, the ache starting to build in his abdomen.
Of course he is dissatisfied. Eva is dead: his life’s work, destroyed: the termitary was decidedly not safe from the plague as promised, and his faith in humanity is imminently wearing thin. The fact that his mind and body have settled on simply dissatisfied is, if anything, proof of his dedication to logic and reason.
Why wouldn’t he be dissatisfied? What is there to be satisfied about?
The flush to his face is… concerning— but, it is no symptom of the Sand Pest. Perhaps he has been neglecting his health. To a consequential degree, even. Perhaps. Unfortunately, a minor fever is nothing he can afford to pay any mind.
He chews some coffee beans, sucks a lemon, pops an anti-inflammatory, and keeps on with his day.
The ache in his abdomen is easy enough to attribute to hunger. He hasn’t eaten a proper meal since he left the capital. The hunger pangs had become easy to ignore days ago, and perhaps he had ignored them too well.
He eats when he can.
In the end, it is nothing more than a few more considerations. A few new distractions. He manages what he must, ignores what he can, and continues on his way.
His attempt to inspect the abattoir goes… poorly.
The butchers come at him snarling with fists swinging.
He should fight back, or flee.
He would.
What happens instead is that his legs go limp. He drops to the ground in front of his attackers and bares his throat in submission and he doesn’t even know why. He’s on suppressants, has been for years. Such an untimely display of base instinct is beneath him.
The butchers stop attacking, but their interest is worse. One approaches. Daniil can’t bring himself to move—can’t bring himself to look; only feels stale breath against his cheek as his cravat is unpinned and pulled loose. Only feels bone deep terror and thick fingers against his throat.
Only feels relief, at the timely arrival of the military.
He awakes early the next morning in town hall, feverish and aching and bereft. He is informed that he is under the protection of Commander Block, and that a man of his condition should be more careful.
His cravat, sans pin, is resting on the bedside table, his scent spilling into open air. Not the bland half-scent of an unknown dynamic on suppressants; not that familiar scent he’s carried his entire adult life. Instead it’s something sweet and tangy, like honey-wine. It’s faint still, but building.
It feels impossible that he is the source of that, omega-scent— heat-scent. It feels out of character. Like someone else.
It feels doubly-impossible, because he has been on these suppressants for more than a decade at this point. They’ve never failed him before. It was supposed to be more than a month before his current dose runs out.
And what a time for it to fail! The plague is in full swing, he does not have days to waste waiting out an untimely heat. How many will fall ill while he is heat-addled and unable to fulfill his duty? How many more will perish if he succumbs to delirium?
He folds his shirt’s long sleeves close to his wrists, tucking the ends underneath his gloves. He winds his cravat around his throat, even without its pin, hoping it will stifle his scent, just a little longer. Hoping that his early heat-scent hasn’t permeated his clothes yet.
He bustles out of his private room, out into the town
There is no time.
He must find a solution, while he still can.
Those that he trusts enough to discuss his current circumstance are no help. Those that he does not trust, yet needs must, are only barely useful: directing him to Apity, assuring him of her wisdom, general niftiness, and that she most definitely can help.
If she will help is another matter entirely.
By the time he enters her little hospice his scent has thickened, and his face is burning despite the deep chill emanating from his core.
“They say that you can help,” he spits, halfway feral, “what do you want in return?”
“Help with what?” She spits back, “Surely you don’t believe I can single-handedly cure the disease!”
Like she can’t tell. Like he isn’t practically fumigating her tiny room.
“My suppressants aren’t working, and there’s no time!” He explains, aggravated, “Apparently such basic amenities are beyond this filthy backwater, but I have been assured that you hold the key to some stop-gap measure that no one else can provide!”
Irritation and bafflement war on Aspity’s face for a long moment, before melting into suspicion. She strides forward, reaching for his throat, and many people have mimed strangling Daniil, but few have actually attempted to follow through—
He dodges backwards, but she snags his cravat. Without its pin, it comes loose after cutting off his breath for only the briefest moment.
She pinches it between two fingers, and gives it a cautious sniff. Her face screws up in disgust.
Somewhat offensive, but he doesn’t know what he would have done if she had responded with interest like the butchers, so he’ll ignore it for now.
“Suppressants,” she quotes idly, expression shuttered blank, “You didn’t bring any with you?”
“No! Of course not!” Daniil rants, “Why would I have? It’s supposed to be a full month before my next dose, and I only intended to be in town for a few short days! How could I have anticipated them failing?”
She stares at him thoughtfully, “The twyre.” She concludes, “The bloom causes bodies to burn faster. More food, more sleep. Those on regular medication often find they need to adjust the dose in twyre season.”
“How was I supposed to know that?!”
She sniffs disdainfully, then seems to regret it as she catches another lungful of his scent, “It matters not, what’s done is done.” she casts his scarf back at him.
He winds it back in place.
“Stopping a heat is not so simple a task…” She muses, “Easier to prevent, but we are days late for that…”
He looks up, prepared to snap something scathing, but stops cold at her stare.
She is watching him consideringly, almost staring through him. She makes a slow lap around him, like estimating the breeding of a dog at a show.
Or, perhaps, the quality of a cow at slaughter.
He stands still, staring forward, not giving her the satisfaction of his discomfort.
She comes to a stop in front of him, pinching his chin to tilt his head to either side. He meets her hum with a snarl. Satisfaction sparks in her eyes.
“Will I help you?” she muses, pausing for much too long, “yes.” she decides.
The relief is crushing.
She tsks, and turns away, beckoning him to follow. Warily, he does.
“It is too late to prevent, and I do not have the materials to stop it outright,” she explains, leading him to something halfway between a kitchen and a laboratory. She pulls a few things from clay jars, and begins to crush them in a stone mortar, “there is a way to shorten a heat. To ensure it lasts only a few hours, instead of days.”
She completes her poultice, stirring it into a glass of what smells of twyrine. Very potent twyrine.
“There will be consequences,” she admits, leading him further into her hospice, “But will they be as drastic as allowing the sand pest to continue unmonitored? No. Not by half.”
She’s right. Nothing matters more than his duty as a doctor. Whatever the consequences are, they don’t matter. He doesn’t care, so he doesn’t ask.
She leads him into an unoccupied bedroom, and sets the twyrine concoction on top of a dresser before rooting about in its drawers. She pulls out a shirt and pants and pushes them upon him.
“Get changed, and give me your clothes. I will wash the stench from them while you are… indisposed.”
A peculiar kindness to offer, “That won’t be necessary.”
She rolls her eyes, “Do you intend to gallivant about town with that reek still about you? No. I will wash your clothes, and when your heat is done you will bathe, and what is over will be over.” she decrees.
He sighs and takes the clothes. It’s for the better, maybe. He just braces himself for when she makes herself insufferable over him ‘forcing her to do his laundry’ or some such foolishness.
He wishes she would give him a hint of privacy to change, though.
The clothes hang off his frame, clearly sewn for a man twice his size. The soft linen does nothing to insulate him from the autumn chill. Goosebumps break out, and he can’t stop himself from shivering. He is tempted to put his coat back on for some defense from the bone-deep chill, but now his too-sweet scent has filled the room, and no. Aspity is regrettably right; he does not want to smell like this any longer than necessary.
As if reading his mind, she snatches his pile of clothes away. “Good. Now drink that.” She indicates the glass on the dresser-top.
He has to hold the pants in place. Fortunately, the shirt is large enough to serve as a tunic. He is idly glad that the room has no mirror. He is surely quite the image of a pathetic little wretch, what with his continued shivering. “And that will shorten my heat?”
Aspity pauses, “No.” she admits, “I need to go gather… another ingredient for that. This will… help, in the meantime.”
“What’s it made of?”
“Mostly twyrine,” she says, “some herbs. It will help.”
“It will abate the symptoms?” He could do with something for the fever, and the ache building in his abdomen.
“It will help.” She bustles away with his pile of clothes, closing the door behind her.
A lock clicks.
He sighs.
Fair enough, that she doesn’t want him wandering and stinking up the whole building, but she could have just said.
It feels like with every passing moment the scent is getting thicker. Tacky sweetness sits in the top of his throat. The tang is getting potent. He feels… yes, a little drunk. Heady.
Very, very heady.
Another shiver racks through him, and he staggers to the bed, pulling loose a blanket to wrap around himself.
The drink. The drink is supposed to help. Not with the vague, floaty feeling; the twyrine will almost certainly make that worse, but the chills, the ache?
He actually wonders why she hadn’t just shoved a bottle of liquor at him. That’s probably all the glass is. Something potent enough to get him dizzy-drunk and not thinking about… physicality.
He plucks the glass from the dresser, and sits on the bed. Hopefully it will be strong enough to knock him out until Aspity can get back with her real cure.
Comedamus et bibamus, cras enim moriemur. He swirls the drink in place for a moment, before chugging it as quickly as possible.
The flavor is quite bad.
The alcohol is definitely distilled: it burns like liquor in his throat.
It burns in his chest. It burns in his stomach. It burns in his abdomen.
It burns.
He burns.
Artemy Burakh enters the abattoir, ready.
Foreman Oyun has promised him some kind of test, to prove to The Kin that he is ready to fulfill his birthright.
Sahba-ötün is there.
She allows for barely more than greetings to be exchanged before interrupting.
“I have heard of the tomfoolery the Foreman intends to put you through,” she scolds them both, “Don’t you know your place in The Khatanghe is your own? Who could take it from you? And how is he to give it to you?”
“That… may be, Sahba-ötün.” Oyun grinds out, “but he still has to earn The Kin’s faith.”
“Pah. Faith is a thing grown like a tree, not harvested like blood.” she rolls her eyes, “Do what you like. I know your task today. You are to drink a poison and hunt down the Bachelor before it kills you. Drink this instead.” she proffers a vial, “It will set your blood to fire, and give your nose the wisdom to find him. A tree starts as a seed. It is time to plant your seed, and prove your dedication to The Kin’s future.”
Artemy glances to Foreman Oyun, who looks pained.
“It will do.” Oyun sighs.
Artemy nods. He takes the vial and downs it without hesitation.
It burns going down, and sets his skin tingling and warm.
Too warm. He shrugs off his suffocating coat.
“Good.” Sahba-ötün nods. She pulls something from her bag and tosses it to him.
He catches it. It’s a slip of fine fabric—a scarf… No. He recognizes this. The Bachelor’s cravat. The smell is… familiar, but very much not. It burns in his lungs. It’s right in a way he can’t place.
The Bachelor.
Yes. He needs to find The Bachelor.
He finds the trail at the entrance of the abattoir. He just has to follow it.
To town hall.
Away from town hall.
Loops and loops around town.
Such a busybody. What was he doing, meandering so much in such a state?
In such a… what state?
In… in the state that Artemy needs to find him. Needs to. He burns with it.
He makes it to Sahba-ötün’s hospice.
She’s beaten him there.
She stops him at the door, peering into his eyes, pressing a freezing hand against his forehead.
“Good.” She says, simply, “this way.”
She leads him to a locked door.
He pushes through.
The scent is overpowering, delicious.
A keening from within. A lump on the bed, shivering, distraught.
He strides forward, paying no mind to the door clicking shut behind him.
“Baarhani,” poor thing, he soothes, approaching the sweet quivering creature.
It goes still.
“Baarhani, are you okay?” he rests a hand on the blanket, the one underneath leans into his touch, “are you well?”
He peels the blanket back.
Dark eyes set in a fine-boned, pale face.
Fists in his shirt, pulling him in, scrabbling at the fastenings on his clothes.
Soft lips, a hot mouth on his.
Honey and wine and salt and blood and fire.
Some time later, his mind clears enough to begin to comprehend.
The taste of blood and honey on his tongue. An ache on his shoulder. The powerful, cloying scent of heat-and-rut-and-sex. The lines— oh the lines—a new one tying him to—
A lithe figure underneath him, pale, with dark lashes and just the faintest hint of freckles. His face is smooth in slumber, looking years younger—or maybe, not looking years older, for once.
A bondmark in red staining his throat.
Artemy licks blood off his teeth, and brushes his fingers against the matching bite on his own shoulder…
Fuck.
He groans and buries his head—directly into the crook of the other man’s shoulder. His scent is no longer so sickly sweet, but he still smells of honey.
Artemy hadn’t even known he was an omega.
He stirs.
Artemy tries to pull away, detangle their legs, and realizes quite abruptly that he can’t.
Dankovsky makes a quiet noise of discomfort and stirs to full wakefulness.
“Wha—What are you doing?!”
“I don’t—” he racks his mind, trying to recall his morning… the abattoir… and then… “Sahba gave me… something. I don’t—”
“Get off!” the Bachelor shoves at him, trying to pull away. He won’t be able to. Artemy can see him realize it. “You’re—get off! Get off!”
“I can’t—”
The door opens, “Good. you’re done.” Sahba-ötün enters, and wrinkles her nose, “You are almost done.”
“Sahba, what did you do?”
“Relax, khybyyn, your task is complete. The Khatanghe will be pleased.”
“The what? No, how dare you? How dare both of you?! I didn’t agree to this!”
“Agree to it? Tenegh, you asked for this!” she cackles, “Begged for it, even. See? Your heat is over, and it is barely afternoon! Plenty of time to do your chores and walk about the town making a fool of yourself!”
Dankovsky bristles and starts to struggle again.
“Oynon, please.” Artemy groans into his shoulder. Not that he’s that experienced, but this is the worst knotting of his or anyone’s life.
“You of all people have no room to complain.” Dankovsky spits, jabbing his finger into Artemy’s… bare chest.
Now where did his clothes go? He’s reasonably certain he had been wearing at least a shirt and pants.
“You wanted a consequence much lighter than the sand pest, didn’t you? And now you have it, but you’re still so prickly.” She complains, “And after I went through all the trouble to launder your clothes and draw you a bath.”
“You—I didn’t ask for that! I didn’t ask for this! And that, that concoction— you said it would help!”
“It did.” she agrees, “It made everything go so smoothly.”
“A bath would be wise, Sahba-ötün.” Artemy interjects forcefully. This argument is not going to stop, and he is not enjoying being part and parcel to it.
“Yes, yes, it’s just down the hall. Your kheerkhen’s clothes are there.”
Down the hall. He ignores everything else she says. “And I don’t suppose you know where my clothes are?”
Sahba-ötün frowns and pokes at scrap of fabric on the floor, “were you mauled by a tiger?” she asks, “No matter. I will find what is salvageable, and replace what is not. Go to your bath.”
Not needing to be told twice, Artemy maneuvers carefully—
“What are you doi—”
Dankovsky cuts off with an awkward shriek as Artemy shifts to his feet, scooping the other man up, keeping their hips flush so as to not tug at the join. Dankovsky clings to him like one of those tree-living creatures he’s seen in picture books.
Artemy holds him in place with one arm. With the other, he pulls a sheet loose from the bed to wrap around them. Might as well preserve whatever amount of dignity he can for the short trek down the hall.
Thankfully, they do not encounter anyone.
The bathing room has a full tub, and a boiling kettle set into a small fireplace. It’s lavish, almost, and it does nothing to improve his sour mood.
He pours the kettle into the tub, and scoops out a new portion to set to boil. He finds a pile of washcloths in a cabinet, and pulls two. He settles on a stool next to the tub, dipping the cloths in. One he hands to Dankovsky, the other he buries his face in.
“I really am sorry for all this.”
Dankovsky takes a moment to find his words—a first, as far as Artemy is aware.
“You said… Earlier, you said she gave you something. Another concoction?”
“I didn’t know what it would do. At the time, it seemed like a better option than the poison.” He admits, wry, wiping the cloth down.
All the fight leaves the Bachelor at once, another first, “I… see. It seems that the two of us are yet again duo generis.” He drops his head onto Artemy’s shoulder. Directly on top of the fresh bite.
At Artemy’s hiss, he jolts upright, wide eyes noticing the mark for the first time.
“I didn’t—” he reaches up to gently prod the crook of his own neck, twitching at the pain, “We didn’t—”
Artemy carefully dabs at the wound on Dankovsky’s neck, “Evidence would indicate the contrary.”
“It—we were drugged, surely it can’t be binding.” almost thoughtlessly, Dankovsky starts dabbing at Artemy’s own shoulder.
The line between them begs to differ.
“Haruspex.” Dankovsky warns.
“Drugs that we, arguably, consumed willingly.” he says instead, “Sahba had ulterior motives. I’m… not optimistic that this will be put to rest so easily.”
The Bachelor does not like that.
Artemy, however, figures that his knot has softened enough. He deftly unseats the Bachelor, ignoring the reedy wheeze of his voice at the… dislodging, and places him on his feet.
That is, he attempts to place him on his feet. Dankovsky stumbles, legs not bearing his weight, and sags against Artemy.
“Shit— no, shh, shh, easy now.” he lifts Dankovsky back onto his lap, dutifully ignoring the seeping fluids.
Dankovsky tucks his head into Artemy’s shoulder, the other one this time, thankfully. Artemy sighs, resting his chin on Dankovsky’s shoulder.
Time passes.
Eventually, Dankovsky pulls away, his eyes red but dry.
Artemy shuffles them about, standing and placing Dankovsky on the stool. He tests the tub water. It’s on the cool side of warm. He fetches the kettle and pours in the boiling water. Better.
He turns to offer Dankovsky his hand, but finds him staring blankly at his own hands.
“Dankovsky.” he prompts.
Nothing.
“Bachelor?”
…
“Daniil?”
He finally looks up, eyes wide, “I can’t be pregnant.”
“A little early to worry too hard about that, Oynon.” He tries for humor. A little late to worry about that, he does not say.
“This town doesn’t keep suppressants. What kinds of contraceptives are available?” Dankovsky asks as though he already knows the answer.
He does. What they do have, it is already too late to use. Artemy lets his silence speak for itself.
“I thought as much.” His voice is thin, edging too close to hysterical.
“Immediate problems first, Oynon. We’ll figure out the Sand Pest, and afterwards you can go back to your capital for real medical care.” He hopes that the dig at his home’s shortfalls will lighten Dankovsky’s spirits.
It does the opposite.
“No, I can’t! It isn’t even an option!” Dankovsky counters, eyes wild, “I have about as much of a future as Aglaya Lilich does in the capital!”
He… what?
Artemy swallows thickly. He doesn’t have the first clue what Dankovsky is talking about, but—everyone is aware that the inquisitor has a very brief future ahead of her if The Powers The Be are displeased with her performance here. There hasn’t been even a whisper of a rumor that The Bachelor was in a similar situation.
He needs to know more, desperately and seethingly. He must know what danger would dare—
But the sight of distress in front of him wins out. Prying now will do more harm than good.
“Immediate problems first, Oynon.” Artemy shelves the rest, for now, “Get in the tub, and we’ll figure the rest out later. We—” He emphasizes, “—will figure the rest out later.”
Dankovsky nods, but doesn’t move.
Moving so, so slowly, Artemy guides him to his feet and into the tub, hovering at his elbow in case he slips, or just… drops, again.
Dankovsky doesn’t comment.
They finish bathing in silence, Artemy scrubbing himself clean with a basin and a washcloth. By the end of it, Dankovsky seems… stable enough. If not back to his old self, then at least capable of pretending to be. He dresses hurriedly, and scampers off without a word, his nose deep in a letter that was tucked into his pile of clothing.
Sahba-ötün enters with clothes for Artemy. And it’s just as well that he was not able to soak in the tub, because the clothes she brings still smell clearly of… well. Any adult and likely most teenagers will be easily able to tell how he spent his morning. The loose collar of the shirt will do very little to cover the bite mark on his shoulder.
He resolves to return to his hideout to bathe better and change.
“Back to the abattoir with you!” Sahba demands, instead, “You have much to discuss with The Khatanghe.”
Or not.
He sighs, “These games you play… Next time, you will leave me out of them.”