11-28-2025, 07:51 PM
He heard the footsteps, the creak of the collapsing chair, the voice raised too loud for the quiet bones of the building. And when the door slammed shut, he simply lifted one shoulder in a slow, disinterested shrug. Nazariy didn’t follow, but he did go to the window.
He stood there with his arms crossed loosely, watching the shadows warp around the broken entryway below, the same way others might have once stared into picture screens: curious, detached, faintly amused.
When Shayka appeared, he tilted his head slightly. He only murmured under his breath, as if to no one or perhaps one of the rocks still sitting obediently on the shelf beside him: "Too loud again.”
A minute passed. Then another. Nazariy turned away from the window, moved to the corner where a dented tin kettle sat atop a small stove built from scavenged parts. He lit a fire with a stub of candle and a twist of dry fabric. He set the kettle on.
The water eventually boiled. The kettle whistling.
He poured himself a chipped enamel mug of plain hot water, sat cross-legged on the rug stitched from strips of raincoats and worn curtain and drank slowly. One hand absently brushed the head of a rock painted like a fox.
When the door creaked open again, his eyes traveled slowly over Kaelan’s frame: sweat-glazed skin, shaking hands, the shredded remnants of the hazmat suit hanging from his limbs like molted skin.
Nazariy rose. No urgency. Each vertebra seemed to uncoil in stages. He crossed the room without speaking, and gently placed his mug down beside the couch.
Then, one by one, he reached for the dangling strips of Kaelan’s suit. Those that hung like wilting petals from his shoulders, thighs, arms. He peeled them away with soft gentility, not invasive, but personal. Like someone disassembling a scarecrow.
He balled the tattered suit in his hands and walked to the hearth, laying the bundle beside the stove with quiet finality.
“Good for kindling,” he said. Then he turned back to Kaelan. Poured another mug of water, and offered it. “You met Shayka,” he said, calm as rain on old tin. “The eater. And the spitter of the black you came to find.”
He crouched again, staring up at Kaelan, smile faint.
“It is Shayka’s eggs that you want.” Nazariy leaned back, seated again on the rug. “Tomorrow, when the sun is up, I will show you where to find them. For now, you sleep. I will watch over you.”
He stood there with his arms crossed loosely, watching the shadows warp around the broken entryway below, the same way others might have once stared into picture screens: curious, detached, faintly amused.
When Shayka appeared, he tilted his head slightly. He only murmured under his breath, as if to no one or perhaps one of the rocks still sitting obediently on the shelf beside him: "Too loud again.”
A minute passed. Then another. Nazariy turned away from the window, moved to the corner where a dented tin kettle sat atop a small stove built from scavenged parts. He lit a fire with a stub of candle and a twist of dry fabric. He set the kettle on.
The water eventually boiled. The kettle whistling.
He poured himself a chipped enamel mug of plain hot water, sat cross-legged on the rug stitched from strips of raincoats and worn curtain and drank slowly. One hand absently brushed the head of a rock painted like a fox.
When the door creaked open again, his eyes traveled slowly over Kaelan’s frame: sweat-glazed skin, shaking hands, the shredded remnants of the hazmat suit hanging from his limbs like molted skin.
Nazariy rose. No urgency. Each vertebra seemed to uncoil in stages. He crossed the room without speaking, and gently placed his mug down beside the couch.
Then, one by one, he reached for the dangling strips of Kaelan’s suit. Those that hung like wilting petals from his shoulders, thighs, arms. He peeled them away with soft gentility, not invasive, but personal. Like someone disassembling a scarecrow.
He balled the tattered suit in his hands and walked to the hearth, laying the bundle beside the stove with quiet finality.
“Good for kindling,” he said. Then he turned back to Kaelan. Poured another mug of water, and offered it. “You met Shayka,” he said, calm as rain on old tin. “The eater. And the spitter of the black you came to find.”
He crouched again, staring up at Kaelan, smile faint.
“It is Shayka’s eggs that you want.” Nazariy leaned back, seated again on the rug. “Tomorrow, when the sun is up, I will show you where to find them. For now, you sleep. I will watch over you.”