The flood of emotion that poured from Pavel was like a lightning strike: bright, loud, violent, but short. His tears fell in large droplets, pattering upon the wooden planks of the floor before ceasing abruptly like an emptied pitcher. The sobs that wracked his body along with his tears ended with them, and Pavel found himself huddled in his own arms, still, and quiet.

It was not that sorrow or fear had left him. No, these emotions yet pulled at the strands of his mind. Practicality and necessity arrested his descent into mournful oblivion and self-pity. The cries of Adishi’s living could yet be heard upon the Midwinter breeze, and it was for those that remained that he willed himself to rise. Not unlike his work, which was not flowery or aesthetically masterful, Pavel felt the call of purpose. Grief, for now, would have to wait its due.

Standing fully, Pavel set his face into a neutral gaze, and set about the grim task of seeing to his father. Working quickly, he retrieved a length of sackcloth from below his bed, and set it next to the still body. With the air of a man focused to a hopeful end, Pavel unfurled the cloth, and began wrapping the body of his father. He worked efficiently, but with a gentle touch, manipulating the fabric and the body as a mother might swaddle a sleeping babe.

Pavel forced himself to not focus upon the visage of his father for any length of time, fearing that more intense scrutiny would breach the dam of his shock and determination, and allow another torrent of confused emotion to flow forth. Managing to maintain his composure, Pavel had the slight form of his father wrapped in the rough-spun cloth in short order. He stood, cradling the warm body to his chest, taking care to keep the head from flopping over his arm.

It was at that moment, with the deceased body of his father pressed to his chest, that Pavel almost lost himself once more. With gritted teeth, and his eyes tightly shut, Pavel growled the threat of tears and weakness away. There was no telling if—or when—the black wave would return, and Pavel vowed he would not be caught so violently off-guard as he had been before. Judging from the sounds that carried throughout the village, there was death aplenty, and the future was as uncertain as ever. The time for a stout heart was now.

Fighting against the cold and the wind, Pavel traced his steps from the cottage and down to the smithy. Once inside, Pavel moved to the stack of wood held in its stonework container near the forge, and carefully rested his father’s body atop of it. Though perhaps it was a strange place to lay a body to rest, it was the first spot that had come to Pavel’s mind. At this moment, it was as good a place as any until a proper one could be provided.

With only a quick glance back to the almost doll-like silhouette of his father, and a solemn promise that he would return to do justice to the man’s memory, Pavel retrieved his heavy outerwear from a peg inside the smithy, and ventured out into the night.

Pulling the thick, fur-lined deerskin coat about him, and covering his head with a rabbit pelt ushanka hat, Pavel squinted into the semi-dark of the forest that bordered his property. The glow of the heart of Adishi beckoned to him, but with his senses piqued, Pavel thought he could hear voices amidst the night, and they were not far off.

His mind made up, Pavel quickly grabbed a torch from within his smithy, and set out towards the voices. The area around his home was heavily wooded, leading upwards from Adishi towards the mountain. Though he was no hunter, it was an area he knew well, and he made good time through the trees and snow towards where he thought the voices emanated.

Pavel had not traveled far when he heard a distinctive cry floating atop the chilled mountain air. It was a voice he recognized, and he could swear that he had heard his name.

“Oksana?” He called out, raising his torch above his head.

Squinting, and shifting his vision amidst the flurries, Pavel could just make out a figure clutched to the trunk of a tree a short distance away. As his eyes found Oksana, Pavel did his best to run in the gathering snow.

With his knees lifting in steps above his waist, Pavel’s pace was not overly rapid, but he was covering the ground to the injured woman as best he could.

“I’m coming,” Pavel yelled. “Hang on.” Out of the corner of his field of vision, Pavel caught movement, and his head snapped to his left. He made out the figures of two men silhouetted against the backdrop of the village. Though he was not certain, Pavel thought he knew at least one of the men to be the young hunter, Petya Vukašin. Drawing his lips and tongue up tightly, Pavel let out a loud whistle to get the men’s attention, before waving the torch above his head.

Confident the men would see him, and understand his intent, Pavel returned his attention to where Oksana huddled. He was at her side shortly after his whistle to Petya, and he fell to his knees beside her. With the light of the torch, Pavel could make out the innumerable cuts that covered the young woman’s body. Her clothing was shredded and torn, almost to the point of rags, and Pavel’s eyes widened in surprise.

Ramming the butt of the torch into the snow, Pavel swung his heavy coat from his back, and draped it over Oksana.

“By the witch’s eyes…” Pavel whispered, his voice etched with concern. “We’ve got to get you inside and cleaned up. Can you stand?”

Torches held aloft, the small company of hunters made their way through the wounded Adishi. None spoke. There were no words of which to speak, none of light-hearted raillery, none of inquires into life, none of comfort. They marched in silence, a solemn march of mourning. Petya looked amongst the faces of those he had grown to know, there were gaps in their formation; lost eyes and ears – the old man would not be the only causality amongst their ranks this evening.

There had been very little time to mourn to old man's passing, the village – for what was left of it, as it rested in silent slumber of what previously been a merry eve of festivities – was their concern. If they had ignored the old man's last instructions and attempted to bury him or give him form of final honours, the old man may of sprang from where he lay, handing out a stern lecture on disobeying the orders of an elder. “Children,” the old man chided whenever his words had not been heeded. Memory flooded Petya's mind; blinded by his arrogant adolescence around his sixteenth name day, along with Dmitri, they had extended their reach beyond the boundaries which the old man had set and came across a grazing herd of roe deer, only in youthful exuberance could Petya had truly believe he would bring home the entire herd. He had spooked the herd and sent it fleeing into the forests, in turn, spooking the rest of the animals. “Children,” the old man stressed, passing his pipe from one end of his mouth to the other, he had been particularly hard on Dmitri, being the elder of the two. He had never been the old man's anger that Petya feared, but his disappointment. “Children.” His voice hoarse and dry, the voice of the forest, “Can you hear that, child?” Old Pavel asked Petya. The boy shook his head. “Listen, the groan of the mighty pine, the chuckle of the branches in the wind. The trees are whispering, I can hear them.”

“What do they speak of?” Petya asked in return, once his courage to speak to the old man had returned and he felt he was of suitable position to do so. “They say; 'Maybe this boy should listen to the wisdom of his elders if he wishes to eat well this winter.'”

A strict teacher, but a beloved one. Petya smiled, briefly forgetting the events that had surrounded him. Then, a sadness filled him, he thought of his mother and his father, he had very little memories of such calibre of his parents.

“Halt!” Dmitri threw a hand up, they all came to a stop. Leadership had fallen upon Dmitri, Petya did not know if the others had simply decided to let Dmitri call the shots or if he had simply taken charge of the situation. Dmitri and his parents were the closest living relatives to old Pavel, at least, supposedly they were, “He's my great-grandfather or great-uncle, or something great.” Dmitri told Petya once when asked. Dmitri was a decent hunter, one of the best in fact; however, he had always been lectured over his lack of maturity and lack of motivation, preferring to drink and gamble with dice. Yet, Dmitri displayed shadows of old Pavel as he led them through the wounded village.

“A voice.” Petya stepped forward. A woman's voice carried on the wind towards them, Petya cast his gaze out towards the mountains and the hills where a figure shifted under the blanket of night. “The creatures?” Dmitri asked, “I don't think so.” They all had were ready to loose arrows if needed, Petya felt much more the soldier than he did the hunter.

“Is that Leonidovich?” A whistle went out that stole their attention, another figure with a flickering light above them signalled to their attentions and headed off towards the figure. “Oksana?” Petya would had laughed, had the occasion been different. 'Oksana the Hunter,' they called her, it was a mocking title that Dmitri had dubbed her with behind her back after he and Juho stumbled across Oksana in the duration of her own private hunt, a half-ruined rabbit that she had attempted to skin at her feet. It had not been her last attempt at proving herself a hunter; time after time she would sneak out on her own or follow their expeditions out, and time after time, the old man would reject her. After a while, Petya began to feel some pity for her.

“Stupid girl,” Dmitri spat, “I bet she followed us.”

“I'll go fetch her and bring her back to the tavern.” Petya volunteered with no resistance from the others. "Dmitri, make sure my brother and niece are amongst the living."

The storm that followed the hunting party back home had came to a halt, with it leaving a waist high level of thick snow that even Petya struggled with. “Pavel, Oskana.” Petya lowered himself beside Oskana, he traced the numerous cuts across her body, losing himself in thought as it was a miracle she had survived both the storm and the darkness. “The old man told us to gather the survivors and head for the tavern,” that word again, survivors, it still felt unreal to say it aloud. “We must not idle here, the darkness may yet return.” Petya slung his bow over his shoulder, offering an outstretched arm to Oskana for support, “I can carry you if need be.”

Vasily could feel a numbness creeping over him that had not a thing to do with the frigid cold of the night. It was a numbness that wanted to leave him stunned, paralyzed, impotent to do anything but stare speechless and helpless before every new horror the trio passed. But the warm, weeping, softly sniffling bundle in his arms was his touchstone, his whole reason to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

He whispered gently into Antonina's ear, to keep her eyes closed tightly. Vasily could feel her tears freezing against the bare skin of his neck, seeping beneath the fur collar of his coat. The silken feel of her golden curls tickled his bare cheek as she nodded that she would, that she was a good girl and would do as her Papa said. Nadejda walked beside him, a hastily thrown thick-woolen cloak over her shoulders, much of her face shadowed beneath the fur-trimmed hood she had pulled upward.

Some small, selfish part of Vasily was almost glad he could not see the sadly haunted eyes of his mother-in-law. He was not proud of that thought, not in the least. And yet the combined grief of all Adishi, flooding from the windows and doors in a tide of stricken cries and wails, pain-wracked sobs and helpless groans, was a cacophany of mourning that had already begun to gouge into at his nerve, with all the subtlety of a scratch awl before the coming of the blade.

And Vasily knew very well, that the night's work had only just begun.

Petya had already left, Vasily could only assume, to find the members of his hunting band - and for once, he did not fault his little brother for the choice. If any kind of fortune still favored Adishi, these strong young men might have escaped the worst of the black tide's predations, and would return to help...

Vasily sighed, and hugged Antonina just a little tighter, kissing the top of her hooded head once more. They would return to help the survivors. Inwardly he cringed at the thought, but his steps did not slow as Nadejda trod beside him, moving toward the tavern. For whatever reason, this seemed the place many of the still-living migrated toward, the center of a grievously wounded village - though if Vasily was any judge, it was unlikely even this makeshift sanctuary remained without its own casualties.

He watched men and women dash past its once-barricaded doors, his bearded face grim. "Nadejda, take 'Nina," he said finally, reluctantly prying the little girl's arms from about his neck, whispering soothing, soft words to his daughter. Vasily met Nadejda's forest-hued gaze, the very same color she had given her long-lost daughter. And just as with his sweet Anna, there was no need for words to pass between them. He suspected that whatever might have happened in the tavern was far worse than the quiet darkness of the midwinter night without, and their beloved 'Nina had seen far too much already. Nadejda took her granddaughter into her arms with a nod, cradling her as her father had and keeping her small, stricken face hidden in the warm safety of her own neck and shoulder. They would wait in this patch of golden light on the snow before the tavern, for his return.

Vasily turned to clear the stairs, entering the tavern just as young Tjasa dashed past, so intent on whatever errand she had in mind that she noticed him not in the least. He let her pass, and then walked into the abattoir that been made of the Adishi tavern.

The coppery scent of blood assaulted him the moment he entered, turning his stomach though he kept on, grim blue eyes darting about the tavern's confines and the carnage within. He frowned with sympathy as... Bogdan, yes it was Bogdan clutched the limp, bloodied body of his once beautiful dog as he wept. But Vasily's practical mind would not let him dwell on the passing of an animal when there were so many more human friends injured, dead or dying in the black tide's wake.

Chiudka's familiar, slender form leaned over one of the too-still bodies. Swiftly he took a knee beside her, hoping to catch her doe-eyed gaze as he ignored the puddle of cooling blood that was soaking into his pant leg. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked as he lay his hand on her shoulder, peering toward her stricken face. This gentle woman might very well be the closest thing to a healer Adishi had, beyond the witch on the mountain. But that woman - or women, by some accounts - was too far afield to be of much good to the village she was supposed to watch over and had, by all accounts, failed spectacularly this midwinter night anyway.

"I can move our people for you if need be, help to lift - "

That fresh, agonized scream sent Vasily's skin to crawling, blue eyes wide and his heart in his throat. He glanced to Chiudka, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze that was more an unspoken promise, that he would return. Swiftly he leapt to his feet, turning to sprint the length of the tavern to the stairwell just beyond the common room door.

"Oskar!" Vasily cursed under his breath, falling to his knees once more and pulling the young man close when he realized it was Stansislav lying there, barely recognizable beneath his hideous wounds and all that blood. "Damn it all," he hissed furiously. No, he not angry in the least with the grief-stricken young man, but at all the pointless suffering this night, a relentless tide of pain that already seemed damn near endless. Slowly, Vasily rose, and then bent to take Oskar's wrists in both hands, to gently pull the young man to his feet.

"Oskar," he began again, his voice gentled now, soothing and calm as he'd learned to speak with his Antonina. "Come away Oskar... We will take care of him... "

Chiudka tightened the cloth around her head and tucked in the trailing wisps of hair with shaking fingers. She leaned over an injured youth -- Faina, who always loved her stories -- and stroked the child's pale face while she murmured prayers to the ancestors. But even as she pleaded with the spirits for help, an anger was beginning to knot in her stomach. How was this allowed to happen? Weren't they protected?

A hand rested on her shoulder, and it took Chiudka a moment to realize that Vasily was kneeling beside her. She stared at him, wide-eyed, unsure whether he was a spirit, for she'd assumed in her stricken state that everyone else had perished. As he offered to help she let out a slow breath and nodded, gathering strength from his steady voice, from the fact that he trusted her with this, as no one had truly trusted her before. She thought of Antonina, and she dreaded to ask where the child was -- but then there was a shout outside the door, and he was gone. Soon he might return with more injured. She struggled to move young Faina closer to the fire in the back of the tavern.

At that moment Tjasa burst through the newly unblocked door and Chiudka rose to receive her. "Thank you," she said breathlessly, taking the bag and giving her niece a reassuring kiss on the forehead. The moment the bag's weight fell onto her arm, Chiudka's fear and sorrow were locked tight into the back of her mind. Only the anger and the sense of duty remained, fueled by Vasily's confidence. Her eyes were firm when she looked into Tjasa's face. "Please stoke the fire and boil some water. A little so we'll have it quickly, but we'll need more as the night goes on. Adrian --" She looked up, but Adrian had gone without so much as a glance at the injured around him. The anger boiled into her stomach -- but the final snap was the blubber of sobs from the corner. Over a dog.

"Bogdan." Chiudka reeled on him, standing taller than she had ever seemed before, and her eyes flashed. "Help me move the injured closer to the fire -- take the dead to the side. Move the tables." She didn't care anymore that it wasn't her place to order a man around. It was going to be her way or no way from now on. "I need blankets," she told Bogdan and Tjasa together, even as she leaned over Faina and splashed vodka in her wounds, followed by a thick salve. She opened a bag of herbs from her father's satchel and shoved them into the girl's mouth. "Now chew. It'll help with the pain." Tea would be better, but they needed hot water. She moved to the next, touched him, and discovered that it was only a corpse. She kissed the dead face, murmured a heartfelt prayer and motioned to Bogdan that this one should be moved out of the way. Immediately she was stooped next to another injured one, and pressed her hand into the squelching blood of a deep wound. There was no way she could cure this -- but her eyes were calm as she looked into the dying man's face.

They needed her. They needed her to be calm. Everything was falling apart -- she would be a stone, steadfast and trustworthy for the first time in her life, for them.

And still, the anger boiled.

Calling for help had been one of the hardest things Oksana had ever done. She’d done it without letting herself think about the consequences, simply calling to the others she’d seen moving. It had been animal instinct, calling out for help when needed. Now faced with the concerned eyes of Pavel and the impatient, worried eyes of Petya she was face to face with the consequences. Shame filled her. Shame that she wasn’t stronger, shame that she had needed help in the first place. She tried not to picture how much better it would have been if she’d stumbled into the tavern, bloodied, battered but walking on her own. Brave Oksana with a tale to tell. Brave Oksana, won’t you tell us the time you fought off the dark? But no, she couldn’t stand, she was certain of it. She hurt too much, the burning over every inch of her skin was intense as if the cuts had been rubbed with salt and spice. She felt afire.

In her pain and fear she’d imagined that what had happened to her had been a fluke. She convinced herself that she’d simply passed some barrier of protection at some point and had the misfortune of being caught in something that had slipped by the witch. But Petya’s words told her otherwise. There were other’s hurt and she was taking time away from them.

That sense of urgency and a healthy dose of empathy made her muster up the strength to stand. Pride may have been involved in her decision to stand, stubbornness as well. She nodded to Pavel and using the tree upon which she leaned to lever herself up. She closed her eyes to hide the way the moisture pricked at her lashes as a soft noise of pain slipped from her lips. She would not let herself cry out and the effort of standing was obvious as was the pain she was in.

Still her eyes flew open, blazing when Petya made his offer. She looked to him, her lips twitching as her jaw clenched. Petya hadn’t been one of the ones to openly mock her, but he hunted with them, Dimitri being the worst of the lot. He certainly had never stuck up for her either. Guilt by association. Carry her? Oh that would be rich, she could just hear the laughter as she was carried in like a helpless girl. Well she wasn’t helpless. Hurt or not she was going to walk in on her own two feet, or drag her bleeding body over the threshold of the tavern if that was what it took.

The angry light in her eyes and the blaze of color across her scratched cheeks spoke of her melodramatic, prideful thoughts even if she did not give voice to them. Oksana would never be described as subtle, her actions and thoughts were often clearly writ on her face. Honesty was less a habit for her than an inescapable disability.

“Thank you, no.” she said to Petya with an honest attempt at graciousness that was as natural on the girl as skirts on a cow.

“I will walk. I should not have called you from helping others.”

To prove that she could walk she took a step, or rather attempted to but her knees gave out and she let out a whimper of pain before she caught herself on the tree and by some miracle, remained upright.

“Dammit!” she snarled and let out a few words that she’d clearly overheard in the tavern and words that her father would beat her for knowing.

“Maybe a little help.” She conceded as her head hung in defeat.



Someone tugged at his hands, pulling them away from his ears and it was in this moment that he heard the scream that was ripping from his throat. A long, animal scream that was all but unrecognizable to him. He could feel warm rivulets of blood begin their journey from where his nails had pierced the thin skin on his temple, from where he’d been clawing at his flesh as what his father’s last words had meant hammered home.

His mother.

His mother, the one he’d never known, the one his father had perversely refused to name.

His mother, he’d betrayed her. He’d betrayed them all.

He felt another scream bubbling up his throat and to keep it in he clapped his hands over his mouth. Still it pushed against its bindings, wanting to be out, to shred the night like the other scream had. He wouldn’t let it.

It was his mother whom he’d led the priests to. His mother whom he’d betrayed and in doing so, had betrayed the whole village. His mother who would not see him when he’d gone to her. She must have known and not wanted to see her shameful boy. His mother whom he’d then watched as she bathed, stirred with dark, heady thoughts. His mother whom he’d spent nights restlessly dreaming about. His mother whom the Crows had surrounded and attacked while he had fled.

“Vasily.” He said, reaching out and clutching at the man’s coat. “The witch, something’s happened to the witch.”

He felt terror fill him. They would condemn him if they knew. They would stone him, burn him, turn him out if they knew. He would deserve it. He was an unnatural thing, born of a witch whom he’d betrayed and lusted after. The priests were right, he was a creature of sin. But his mother, perhaps it wasn’t too late to save her and maybe to redeem himself in the process. But that wouldn’t happen if anyone knew what he’d done.

“My father.” This was true, it was not further sin to be added to his burden. “My father said we should find her. Please!”

The last was said as a sob, his voice breaking as he collapsed forward, weakling that he was, to bury his face in Vasily’s chest and weep.

Adrian turned suddenly from his mourning at the side of his fallen friend and caught the attention of Anton and Viktor, both blessedly unharmed. Adrian roused himself into some semblance of action, knowing in his heart that sitting around wasn’t going to help anyone, nor answer any of his burning questions. He took a slow breath.

The tavern had grown more populous while he had been indisposed, he spotted Vasily and Tjasa with a cursory glance, though there were obviously more in the crowds, and some were even shaking themselves from their grief like Adrian and turning to help. Though fear for his mother and father still shook him, the young man forced himself to his feet and walked over to Anton, about to query as to Grigory’s health. The farm-hand was bleeding profusely from his wounded leg, slumped as white as virgin snow on one of the few standing chairs.

Anton looked at him blankly, as if shock had finally seized him, and Viktor seemed to be obeying the commands of Chiudka and carefully moving those he could closer to the fire, while clearing space by forcing any offending tables to one side. The tavern was starting to look like a warzone.

“Chiudka.” Adrian said simply to get her attention from an obviously dying man. “Grigory is hurt, he’ll bleed to death.” He relayed the information clinically, as he knew his father would, he drew strength from it.

Vasily was trying to coax Oskar into some semblance of sanity in the corner of the room, and more people were flooding the tavern. There was only so much that could be done, and with a painful shudder Adrian had to sit himself down on the floor, his back to an upturned table. He reached back and brushed a hand across his shoulder, turning away from the sudden pain with shock. He sat there with his hand in front of his face, watching the blood drip from his fingers.

Vasily's eyes widened for just a moment, a quick, surprised intake of breath as the younger man wrapped his arms about him tightly, weeping disconsolately against his chest. His arms hovered in the air, outstretched for a heartbeat or two. He gaped, impossibly confused, nothing in his experience preparing him for the impossibility of Oskar's words.

The witch? Something had happened to the witch? Never in all Vasily's life, had he imagined anything at all could happen to the witch - well, certainly nothing bad. She - or rather, they - were eternal, immoveable, as permanent a fixture in the lives of everyone in Adishi as the mountain where their village rested. But to his knowledge, after all the tales of the storytellers and the history keepers among the venerable elders, there was nothing ever spoken of, no dire warning for Adishi, that even remotely resembled the supernatural carnage that had just torn their town apart.

Had something happened to the witch? Before this moment, Vasily might have laughed, considering such a question as idiotic as whether something had happened to the sun or the moon - but he was certainly not laughing now.

Vasily's sighed, yet another worry added to the long list of worry that already lay on his soul. He could bear it. He always had. For so long as Antonina walked this world, Vasily knew he always would.

He let his arms fall to wrap about Oskar, pulling the young man to him as tightly as he had his little brother only minutes ago. "We will Oskar, we will," Vasily said softly into the young man's dark hair, his voice low and as reassuring as he could possibly manage. "We will find her." Slowly he stood to his feet, easily lifting Oskar to his own with him in his arms. Vasily had not the least idea where the witch might be, or even whether she was truly gone as Oskar maintained - though the young man's despair was as genuine as he had ever seen, and Oskar had never been known as a liar.

"But what has happened to the witch? Why is she gone? Why did she leave us to... To this?" he asked, shaking his head slowly as if to clear his thoughts, overwhelmed by the enormity of all that Adishi had lost this night.

Vasily pulled away, but only far enough to wrap his arm about the young man's shoulder as he turned them both about, to return to the main room of the tavern. There was nothing left to be done for Stanislav, but Chiudka had her hands full in the great hall for those they might yet save, and he did not doubt for a moment she could use at least another dozen or so hands as well.

"We will care for the fallen first Oskar, for those we can - and then we will see to the witch, wherever she's gone to... " His azure eyes fell over the growing crowd, resting on the injured, the bleeding and the fallen - and then realized who, of all these citizens of Adishi, should be here now and yet, was not.

"Oskar," Vasily asked, his head turning swiftly to the young man at his side, "Where is Oksana?"

As Bogdan clenched the weakening body of Svarli, his mind desperately raced against the inevitable. Every twitch, every last movements of the dog was a ladder from the abyss. But the truth was inconvenient, Svarli's body, no, a bloody corpse, ceased moving within minutes. It was indeed a cruel destiny, and in Bogdan's mind, he knew it the moment Svarli's crumbling shape filled his eyes. Perhaps it was why he did nothing to save the dog's life.

Out of the corners of his eyes, Bogdan caught a familiar figure descending the stairs. Within the the short seconds before the person vanished from his sights, memories of Bogdan's younger days returned. The shape was a familiar one, an old companion of his youth. Bogdan heard a scream not far from the stairs, it was indeed the familiar voice, his “cousin” Oskar.

The sight of Oskar briefly took Bogdan back to the reality, his cousin was leaving for something, something he probably needed to know about. Taking a deep breath, Bogdan set Svarli's body down, mourning would come later. “Oskar!” He tried to call out, however, weeping left his throat weak and his words were unheard by the people. Bogdan cleared his throat and supported himself up with his still shaking legs. He tried to follow Oskar but quickly lost sight, instead, he found himself in the area where Oskar was seconds ago.

It was Stanislav's body on the ground, Bogdan's “uncle” and trade mentor. By some horrid spirits, his loss just increased twofold in this night. It started with his companion and now his mentor. Bogdan leaned down to Stanislav body, where blood pool and deep lacerations were surefire indicators of a painful death, a death undeserved by a humble man such as Stanislav. Bogdan's hands went down to pickup the body, but his shaking and Stanislav's large size made his efforts futile. He was overwhelmed once again, and as he stumbled back out, Bogdan found himself beside Svarli's cold corpse.

“Bogdan,” Chiudka's approach was not unnoticed, despite the woman's smaller height, she seemed larger than herself at that moment. “Help me move the injured closer to the fire -- take the dead to the side. Move the tables."

Who was she to order him around? They were by no means strangers, as nearly everyone in the village knew each other by name. In the past, he even traded goods for her. But this, this disrespect of his mourning, was unacceptable. Chiudka wouldn't know what he lost, and the mere tone of her voice made Bogdan's blood boil. His face sneered, his right hand balled into a fist and vulgar words came close to his lips...

“Chiudka,” Adrian was now pleading for help, moving frantically for attention. It wasn't clear whether Adrian was injured or not, however; Anton and Viktor stood with relative ease. “Grigory is hurt, he'll bleed to death.”

Grigory was definitely injured, and if his tattered clothing didn't betray any signs, his blood trail did. Chiudka was right about one thing, and that was helping the wounded. He would confront her in the future, if she dares to disrespect him further. For now, Grigory's fate depended on him.

“Grigory, look at me” Bogdan rushed to the man's side. He quickly examined Grigory's body, it was a painful sight of cuts and scrapes. Some of them even penetrated his flesh, quite possibly eating into his bones. From these pores, blood still let out in a quickened pace. “Look at me, my friend.” Bogdan assured. “I will try stop the bleeding; stay with me.”

On a table not far from Bogdan sat several table cloths, most were dirtied. Bogdan rummaged through the pile, and luckily, found a large piece of fresh table linen. Without hesitation, he tore it into smaller squares, enough to cover most of Grigory's major wounds. It was not a perfect solution, but in the immediate circumstance, it will have to do.

“Adrian!” Bogdan shouted as he bandaged Grigory. “I think I've stopped most of Grigory's bleeding.” As he stood and came beside Adrian, he noticed Adrian's wounds as well. “Listen, I need you to care for Grigory for a few moments. I will get help, someone's got to be out there, old Pavel, Petya, Vasily, maybe they could help us.”

He knew immediately he had made a mistake in his offer. With what little light they had, Petya did not fail to catch the gaze from Oksana as a pair of daggers flashed in the dark up at him, he did not attempt to match her gaze with his own.

Oksana had always been different. She lacked the femininity of most women her age in the village and was fierce, independent, steadfast and stubborn, had she been born a man, had they had found a boy out in the woods following them all of those times, they would of laughed and put a bow in his hand, however, she was Oksana, and she had been laughed at and told to head home. Had she been born a man, her qualities in a small village such as Adishi would have been lauded, but such qualities in a woman caused you to stand out, and not for the right reasons.

Petya watched her as she turned down his offer, and with defiance, attempt to steady herself. Petya felt a pang of pity as he watched her, pity and guilt, he had never laughed at her or mocked her, but nor did seek to defend her either. Petya did not really pay her any heed, he simply didn't care of what she had wanted or what the others would say of her. It felt selfish, especially at this moment, as their homes and their neighbours lay in ruin, wasted by spectres and a wave of darkness that he still struggled to comprehend, it felt selfish that Petya had never sought to care.

Oksana's defiance had carried her so far, a solitary reach forward in fact, before she had to find support at the base of the tree. She breathed heavily, panted and cursed in such colourful fashion that would had even caused Petya to blush had the time and place been any different.

“Maybe a little help.”

Petya approached Oskana with some hesitance, a wolf may lay dying but it's bite still remains the same, he felt Oskana was no different. He hooked her arm over his head and with a huff, lifted her up in both arms. “I'm sorry.” Petya said from under his breath, he did not know why he felt compelled to apologise, yet, he did. Being in such close proximity of her, it appeared to Petya as the most comfortable thing for him to say.

“Old Pavel instructed us to all group at the tavern,” Petya said, turning to the younger, much alive, Pavel. The outline of the tavern's lights cut it's figure out in the distance, it appeared unharmed in the ensuing darkness that came, and it seemed the wisest decision, the tavern was large enough to house the majority of the village, and it was stocked with fresh bread, meat, fish and ale to survive long enough in the night until the sun's dawn. Petya had little to say as he followed his original path through the snow back to the village, Oskana still in his arms and Pavel following, he didn't know what to say; beyond questions of who was alive, who was death and if anyone was injured, there was very little to say. “What were you doing so far out?” A question coming to the forefront of his mind as they reached the outlying houses of Adishi.

“I won't tell anyone if you followed us on the hunt.” Petya bit the bottom of his lip, something in his head told him he had said the wrong thing, feeling incredibly patronising, like a child in study with the other children, one of which had just committed themselves to something naughty without being discovered by the adults and the other's then trying to find out, promising they won't let the secret slip.

Out of the snow, his pace began to quicken as his boots marched up the similar dirt roads he had ran upon as a child, at the peak of the road came the tavern, the reward of those for their hard-work as the sun set, a number of figures gathered.

As Petya aided Oksana, Pavel retrieved his torch from the snow, and fell into step beside the two. His eyes scanned through the forest as he walked, back and forth from one shoulder to the next, looking for any faceless threat lurking amongst the trees. It was a fruitless, and somewhat absurd endeavor; if the black wave, or something equally sinister and ethereal returned, there was little he could do about it. Still, as the silence of the wood and the empty dirt roads enveloped the little party, there was little else for Pavel to occupy himself with anyway.

Pavel shivered against the cold. His coat was still draped across Oksana’s shoulders, and his woolen jerkin provided little resistance to the mountain wind. Pulling his hat down farther atop his head, Pavel set his jaw, and willed the cold to trouble him no more. There was much more to press upon his mind than the cold, and at any rate, the tavern was just up ahead.

The trio closed the distance up the hill to Adishi's main square quickly enough, even with Petya supporting the injured Oksana. As they came near the large timber building, Pavel recognized Vasily Vukašin’s daughter and mother-in-law standing in the lamplight just outside. His throat immediately tightened, his eyes narrowed, and he glanced about the square for a sign of Vasily. By now it was an automatic response that Pavel could only really control if he thought hard upon the act. He felt a twinge of shame as he wiped the look off of his face. Now was not the time to scratch at the memory of past wounds—though such was easier said than done, as two direct reminders were standing in the snow before him.

As Petya and Oksana reached the tavern, Pavel quickly moved forward and swung open the door for them. The sounds of chaos escaped immediately out into the night air, and Pavel cringed.

The horror of this night is just beginning, he thought as Oksana and Petya moved past him to venture inside.

Shutting the tavern door, Pavel turned back to where Nadejda and Antonina stood amidst the cold and snow. Even in the dim light of the lamp hanging from the tavern eaves, Pavel marveled at how much both the elder and the child looked like Anna. From their eyes, to the golden ringlets of hair, the angelic features, and the near flawlessness of alabaster skin, the two of them together held all the beautiful ingredients Anna had exemplified.

As he looked to the woman and child, Pavel felt a familiar pit grow in the bottom of his stomach. The memories, and the all the possibilities that blossomed from them, tried to gnaw forth into the forefront of his mind. But, once again, Pavel forced those feelings away.

Now is not the time for such things, Pavel! He chastised. Let it go!

Stepping forward, Pavel bent down to offer a concerned smile to little Antonina.

“Hello, Nina,” he said, lightly touching the girls chin with his mittened fingers. “Are you unhurt? Can I get you anything?”

Pavel looked up to Nadejda as he finished the last question, being that it was directed mostly to her. As his cherry eyes looked up at the elder woman, Pavel’s mouth strained into a thin line. He hesitated before continuing, torn upon the decision to ask the question that lingered upon the tip of his tongue.

“And Vasily?” Pavel said at last. “Is he all right?”

She didn’t cry out when he lifted her. The probably would have pleased him she thought uncharitably as she bit her lip and muffled her reaction to a small grunt. No, she chided herself, Petya wasn’t one of the ones who mocked her or threw offal at her when they caught sight of her skulking around their kills. He was no friend of hers though. Oksana had no friends and that was just fine with her. She liked it better that way. She felt her cheeks heat at the indignity of being carried, like a girl. She held her tongue but inwardly cursed herself, this night, those things and each and every person who may or may not have had anything to do with this moment, including Pavel the Younger who trailed along behind them. He was cursed inwardly because he witnessed it and may derive some pleasure from it. Though she knew that was unfair. The young jack-of-all-trades was to quiet, to lost in his work to bother mocking her.

She risked a look at him over Petya’s shoulders and saw that he was hardly even watching where he was going. Pavel’s broad blacksmith’s shoulders were getting quite the collection of snow on them as he walked, coatless behind them. She looked away, wrinkling her nose at the further indignity of needing someone’s coat. Doubt and worry that she was as weak as they all suspected filled her.

Petya spoke then and all doubt was pushed aside when he offered not to tell on her following them.

“Oh, how kind of you.” She said with acid as her chin rose imperiously in her telltale gesture of outrage. Oksana was not subtle in anything. Her words flowed out without thought or concern that he might drop her on her arse in the snow. She didn’t care.

“Tell them, I don’t care. I was out hunting,” she said casually, which was true enough. “I was tracking a deer but some large group of oafs scared him off.”

That part was a lie and she had to drop her eyes to keep the lie from being painfully obvious. Not that it helped much. Her lie was as apparent as her need for help. But that didn’t mean she was going to admit to needing it. Her pride, wounded, battered and beset from all sides would never let her back down or give up. Her scowl intensified as they walked but she held her tongue, maybe just a little ashamed of her vinegar and even more ashamed of her need. She managed something like a gracious nod to Pavel-the-younger when he opened the door to the Tavern for them.

She struggled in Petya’s arms. She’d rather fall on her face trip and crack her head open than be carried into the full tavern for all to laugh at. Oh look, weak Oksana being rescued by one of the mighty hunters she’d always tagging after. Silly girl, when will she learn? She could just hear it and she would not tolerate it.

“That’s far enough.” She said, “Let me down.” She shifted and struggled despite the pain it caused her. “Please.”

Whether he let her go or her fish act worked, she found herself on her feet just outside the tavern, voices and soft weeping coming from the interior. She held onto the door-frame and took one step in, then another, moving through the antechamber built to cut off wind and cut down on mud, into the main room. She paused as if by choice to look around and take stock, when in reality it was only the sturdily built doorway holding her up.

“Oskar!” she called happy to see her brother among the living. She would have denied the worry that was leaving her at the sight of him upright and well had she even been aware of it. Her anger, like in so many things, edged out her other emotions. She faltered when she saw who he was with, Vasily. That was a complex knot of emotions there. To see her brother in the arms of the young, loving father made her stomach sour even more than it already was.

Acknowledging Vasily’s parenting status made her aware of something that troubled her. Nearly every single time she walked into this building, into her home, one sound always greeted her. That thing’s absence made the skin prickle along the nape of her neck. Her Father wasn’t yelling at her. He’d never laid a hand on her, almost as if he were afraid too but he had never spared her the sharp side of her tongue. There were a great many in the village who were of the opinion that if Oksana had felt the back of his hand more often then she’d have been a proper woman, not this half feral wild child. Unfortunately for him, his yelling, though it hurt her deeply, causing wounds and aches in places people wouldn’t see, had long since ceased to stop her from doing whatever the hell she wanted to. That she was a disappointment to her one living parent hurt. For all that he yelled and she defied him, she loved him in her heart. He and Oskar were all she had. But since she couldn’t seem to do anything but disappoint him, she’d stopped trying to do anything else. Besides, if he were yelling at her and nagging her, he left Oskar alone.

“Oskar? Where’s Papa?” the worry in her voice was evident, as was the effort it was taking to keep her standing.



He let himself lean into the older man, his face a crumpled wreck as all the things wrong battered at him. Guilt that he’d started this all kept choking him and each and every cry and moan in the tavern was a reminder that this was all his fault. It wasn’t enough that the young father held him and then reassured him, not knowing that it was all Oskar’s fault, no the young man gently steering him through the tavern had to be a better man than Oskar in all ways. He had to think beyond himself and wonder about the well-being of others.

“Where’s Oksana?” The question was one more blow to the slender, guilt-wracked man and he looked up at Vasily, his dark eyes filled with guilt and spilling over with tears.

“I don’t know…” he said, his voice cracking as he shook under Vasily’s arm. She was out, she was always out and he was terrified to know she had been out in the snow and dark when the things had struck. His knees started to give way, the grip of the young father the only thing keeping him upright. But then a cold wind blew into the tavern and a rough familiar voice called to him.

“Oksana!” he said in relief and flew across the tavern to her, pulling her against him. He ignored her struggles and her curses to hold her, looking over her shoulder at Petya.

“Thank you, thank you for rescuing her.”

Pain, intense pain made him crumple to the floor with a high-pitched sound that didn’t seem all that human. He curled into a ball, as nauseating pain radiated out from his groin.

“No one rescued me! No one!” she shouted as she stood over him, bleeding and swaying, her own knees just about to give out.

No matter that Dyadya Petya had not stopped to see her before he entered the Inn; he had his arms full of the pretty, wild lady Oksana who was hurting and trying to pretend she was not. No, Antonina was not upset with her uncle at all, because even a three-nearly-four-year old little girl could see her dyadya looked so sad, and so tired. Everyone who passed into or out of the inn seemed scared and sad and tired. She was too, but Nana needed her close, to keep from being too sad for Poppop. No, Nana did not tell her so. She did not need to. Antonina just knew things, and always had, and so she lovingly wrapped her arms a little tighter around her grandmother's neck.

It was nice though, when the man with the pretty red eyes stopped to talk to her and Nana, the tip of his mitten tickling her chin. "'Ello, Pabel," she murmured sleepily, a tiny, sweet smile just for him as she peered up from her Nana's shoulder.

Antonina had always seen a strange sadness in Pavel when he looked at her, and tonight there was fresh hurt there too, just like in her Nana's eyes. This made his smile for her all the nicer, even if he had to make his lips turn upward. Antonina fervently believed Pavel was a man made for smiles, no matter how rare they might be. That only made them more special.

"Vasily is inside the inn, Pavel," Nadejda replied gently, knowing very well the effort that single question cost him - and loving this good, decent young man all the more for it. For all that her daughter's life was cut far too short, she knew well those days had been all the sweeter for the love of two such fine men. Nadejda sighed wistfully. Anna's choice was not one she had ever envied her daughter.

"He worried for what small eyes ought not see within," she added meaningfully, with a curt, almost imperceptible nod toward to the golden-haired head still resting on her shoulder.

"And 'Nina and I are fine, just fine. Sergei... " Nadejda's voice caught at the name, her words lashed to painful hooks that wanted to tear at her throat. The elder woman looked away from Pavel for a moment, to the well-trampled snow at their feet, blinking the stinging tears away quickly. She could not upset little 'Nina, not now, not when the little girl's body had finally stopped shaking with every sob-choked breath. Nadejda took a breath of her own - a cold, bracing breath that shored her sore, aching heart - and then took hold of herself as she slowly let that breath go.

"Sergei took care of us, protected us." She finished that sentence, the grim lines etched deep about her mouth saying all she simply could not at the moment.

"Thank you, thank you Pavel for your kindness. We will simply wait for Vasily a while longer before we go inside - but my goodness, you must head inside yourself! Where in the world is your coat? You'll catch your death of a cold!" And even as those words passed her lips in a cloud of frozen breath, an uncertain, unnamed dread overcame her, darkening her forest-hued gaze with a foreboding premonition.

"Pavel, where is your father?" she asked, needing only the space of a heartbeat to see her fears confirmed in the honest face of the dear young man she'd known all his life, who she had cradled in her arms when he was only a wee babe. Her heart ached for Pavel all over again, seeing this new fresh hurt there now, overlaying all the old.

There was a time, so many years past, when her Sergei and Pavel's father Mikhail had been the closest of friends, inseparable as brothers; and oh how she had adored his wife Alla, her dearest friend from the time they were two giggly school girls! Their families may not have been close kith and kin, but the love amongst them was no less true.

And yet...

And yet that love was not enough. No love - not even Pavel's - had been enough after Alla and her babe died. Mikhail had fallen so low, into a pit of black despair no one and nothing but the oblivion of drink could fill... No.

No, "fallen" was not the right word for what their old family friend had done to himself when Alla died. "Fallen" implied an accidental slip, a misstep, a wrong turn even. But in truth, Mikhail had been killing himself by slow, deliberate and agonizing degrees, drowning in drink, heedless of the day-to-day cruelty witnessing this living death inflicted on his only son.

But no, no that could not have lessened Pavel's grief when the true end finally came.

"Oh, sweet boy," Nadejda whispered, shifting Antonina just so as her mitten-clad hand lifted to lovingly cradle Pavel's cheek. "I am so sorry."

**********

Vasily said nothing at all when Oskar sprinted to his sister, though there was no small lightening of all the worries that weighted his chest at the sight of the eternally, delightfully defiant Oksana. Oh, he could see well that she was injured, hurting and swaying on her feet unsteady as a newborn fawn, but he was suddenly torn between the urge to chuckle warmly at her charmingly obstinate denials; and simply rolling his eyes, tossing up his hands, as helpless as anyone in this world had ever been, to move the willful young woman.

All Vasily could really do was send a sympathetic glance to Petya who, thankfully, was far closer than he to the woman whose legs were about to fail her completely -

- Although Oskar might be the far better choice to make this next catch of his wayward sister. A dark storm cloud of emotion came over Vasily's face as he watched brother and sister, knowing all too well the heartrending news Oksana had yet to receive.

Adrian dragged himself from his contemplation of the blood on his hands, staring into Bogdan’s eyes with something a little like understanding. He nodded slightly. Grigory needed his help, and shamefully it wasn’t he who had been able to give it. He pulled himself to his feet, slumping a little as the table fell askew and almost toppled onto him as he used it to stabilise himself. Though it was difficult to concentrate on anything right then, and his simple peasant tunic was stained with blood, he struggled to understand what conversation he had picked up around him. People were obviously trying to make sense of what had happened with what information they had, and he considered this as he rested by Grigory, laying a hand in some comforting way on the major wound he had suffered upon his leg. The man himself was sound unconscious, which made it easier for the fairly inexperienced Adrian to apply pressure assuming he was doing the right thing.

The witch, that was what he had heard. It wasn’t enough to make any conclusions, but as he sat there growing light headed from alcohol and blood loss his inhibitions were low and his anger was rising. The red in his cheeks slowly overcame the whiteness and for a short while the usually awkward and passive farmhand drew himself into something of a quiet fury.

“If anyone…” He began quietly, coughed painfully and then continued, his heart wrenching. “If anyone knows why this has happened to us they had better speak now, or I swear to God I’ll kill them myself.” He spat angrily, and then slumped as if drained. It could be considered naïve or stupid to immediately blame one of the assembled villagers, but then again human nature dictates a scapegoat is usually required to help deal with terrible situations, and with the talk he had managed to hear, Adrian was willing to start throwing out accusations, damned be the consequences.

Something had turned off in Chiudka's mind. She stopped recognizing faces. She stopped looking for souls in dead eyes. She stopped remembering. She saw wounds that needed wrapping, pain that needed drugging, fears that needed reassuring. These were no longer her friends, her family, her loved ones: they were her patients. There would be time to mourn later.

Vasily was still in the hall with Oskar, whose screaming earlier had been enough to wake the dead. Stanislav. She hoped it was Stanislav (which was a horrible thing to think) and not Oksana. Worry tickled the back of her mind. Chiudka dipped a cloth into hot water and wrung it out, at the same time stifling her heart. There would be time to mourn later.

Thanks to Viktor's efforts, some semblance of order was beginning to rise out of the chaos. She didn't thank him. He wasn't doing this for her.

The wild fury on Bogdan's face was a refreshing change from the stricken grief around them -- a reflection of the raging denial in her own stomach. She caught a glimpse of his angry eyes, and would have encouraged him with a few more sharp words if he hadn't rushed to Grigory's aid. She watched him while her hands mechanically dressed a wound; Bogdan fumbled with his valiant attempt to save a life, until finally declaring the bleeding had stopped. Chiudka had the violent urge to push him aside and correct his work, but there was no time to argue with him -- and she knew he would argue. Grigory would be all right until his slapdash bandage would need to be changed.

She moved on to the next patient. Her father's tea was ready, and she instructed Tjasa to hand it out liberally to help with pain. The aroma of the strong brew competed with the coppery stench of blood; everyone who was able to sit up was soon holding a steaming cup.

Oskar! Oksana's voice was a balm to the twinge of worry that clattered in the back of Chiudka's mind. She looked up, and the wind and snow brought in the injured Oksana, Petya and Pavel. Oskar sprinted across to her, followed by Vasily, and for a moment Chiudka even smiled, though it was a small sort of relief, a twitch of her mouth at Oskar's newest injury. She tucked her heart away again and finished tying a bandage.

"Tjasa," she called in a kinder, more weary voice than she had used before -- she stood to exchange a bucket of bloody water for fresh water bubbling over the fire -- "could you find clean sheets, clothes, anything you can tear into bandages. Viktor, could you draw more water and set it to boil?"

With the bucket in one hand, a mug of tea in the other and the satchel slung over her shoulder, she made her way to the newest arrivals -- and she gave Pavel, Petya and Vasily each a glance that was both relieved for their preserved lives and hopeful for all the help their strong hands could provide. "Oksana, you'll have to sit down if I'm to sop up your bleeding." She tossed her head toward a nearby bench, then suggested to the gathered men that a table could be put on its side to provide for Oksana's privacy -- at the same time indicating that they should turn their backs if they knew what was good for them. She knelt by Oksana with the steaming cup of tea in her hands. "Show me, we'll get you cleaned up." Once Oksana was ready for it, she would have the tea for herself while Chiudka proceeded to clean and dress the worst of her numerous wounds, with the girl's consent of course.

Adrian's slurred voice was angry over the coughs and murmurs, so unlike himself -- but Chiudka didn't look up from her work, though a roar in the back of her head agreed with his sentiment. Why was the fuel of the fire in her gut.

"Hang on, Adrian," she called back steadily, to diffuse any more hostility that could agitate his wound. "You and Grigory are next. You're both going to be all right." No, they wouldn't. None of them would be all right. This had happened for a reason. She thought as she tightened bandages. "What were they?" she asked in a quieter voice, directed mostly at Adrian. "They came down from the mountain." From the witch's home. But that was not something she would dare to point out.

Oskar lay on the ground, the burning agony of his groin slow to fade while Oksana leaned against the wall over him. He should have expected the blow, Oksana hadn’t ever been sparing in such attentions having never been given better, more honorable tools to use. That didn’t mean he appreciated the skill she’d acquired in such matters. Nausea flowed through him, momentarily blotting out the massive guilt he felt for his part in all that had happened. As the pain receded, but did not leave him, the guild swelled up to fill its place. He heard Adrian’s words and let out a groan that was only partly the pain.

He curled tighter and wanted to scream again. There was no way he could tell anyone what happened. They would string him up, rightly so. He wasn’t certain what he wanted but to die at the hands of his friends and neighbors was not one of them. Did he deserve it? Undoubtedly, he was a freak who had foolishly betrayed everyone he knew, by accident. But the dead and dying and the grieved wouldn’t be comforted by that little detail. He wondered what it would be like to fly? He knew a spot on the mountain, high up, about two-thirds of the way to the Witch, his mother’s house. He used to go there and watch the hawks playing and soaring on the warmer currents of air. How would it be to join them? If only for a moment?
He sobbed and began to straighten himself out. He was a coward and a fool and while he thought that he would give flying a try because of this, he wasn’t such a coward that he wasn’t going to try to right what he could before he leapt.

Oksana was reluctantly led off by the sharp-tongued healer for whom she had a strange respect and no small fear. When Chiudka was about Oksana always looked like someone was coming at her with a comb and suggesting she use it, which was to say recalcitrant and terrified. Oskar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, realizing he hadn’t yet told his sister of their Father’s state. He did not think he could tell her what his father had said about the witch, though he couldn’t think how he could avoid it either.

He turned towards Adrian, not quite looking at him, he couldn’t but with the dimness in the room he thought it might be hard for the wounded man to say for certain.

“My father…” he began, his voice high and rasping with pain. “He said something had happened with the witch. We should go see what she can say of this.”

If she were still alive. He shuddered to think of the fear in her voice when she’d called out for him to run. What had happened? What had the priests done? Where were they?

“Oksana.” He said to her, looking away from the angry young man to the angry sister his voice catching as he called her name. He had to tell her this at least. Her hot, angry eyes flicked up to him. Pain making her snap even more than usual. Poor thing, he thought to himself. She was as lost as he.

“Father…” how could he say? What words would ease the sharing of the horrible truth. “Father’s dead. They… those things got him.”



Oksana eyed Chiudka suspiciously, certain the woman was going to give her something terrible to drink and send her clever tongue waggling at Oksana with some truth, some tale that would sting as much as the medicines her father typically applied. Speaking of Father’s, what was the woman doing? Did she even know what she was about? As Oksana knew, it took more than a desire to know something to have the skill.

“No,” Oksana said stubbornly, foolishly. Her skills with lying clearly below those of the would-be healer. “I am fine. I just need a drink.”

She was done being weak in front of these people. There were people hurt and dying and she just had a few cuts is all. Nothing worse than what she typically did to herself when trying to skin something.

“See to the hurt ones if that’s what you are about.”

She didn’t move though, she stayed where she’d been led to the spot behind the table. She sat but did not remove a stitch of clothing or admit any weakness. She understood it was obviously a lie and that everyone could see through her ruse, but she couldn’t be any way other than what she was. She could not bend. She would admit it was easier to play at being fine when one was not on one’s feet and one was hiding behind a wooden barrier.

She heard her Brother addressing Adrian who’d looked nearly as angry as she felt. She felt a little bad about hurting him, she’d just been so angry, so done with everything she’d reacted without thinking. Poor Oskar, he would love her no matter what and so in many ways he suffered. She was a terrible sister, she knew this.

She pushed away the tea that Chiduka tried to foist on her just as her brother addressed her, his words not at all cushioned. Perhaps it was his way of paying her back? She wondered about Oskar sometimes. So quiet, so clever, but the wonder was fleeting in the rush of emotion following his un-cushioned truth.

It was one thing to always be a disappointment. It was another to understand you would never be anything but. Her Papa was dead. Gone, killed by whatever the things were and she couldn’t ever, ever make him proud. That she wasn’t like to have done so ever, didn’t matter in the face of never being able to. The death of possibility felt more real to her than the death of her Papa, it was easier to face somehow.

She didn’t scream, not like Oskar had. It was a day of impossible things in Adishi. The Witch who was ever present, powerful and unchanging was gone and Oksana, stubborn, angry Oksana slumped on the stool and began to weep. Broken and defeated in a way she never would have expected.

Pavel nodded slowly, his lips forming a thin, serious, line. “I am glad to hear it, that Vasily is unharmed as well as you and Antonina.”

He was just about to ask after Sergei, his father’s long time—albeit long ago—best friend. But Nadejda answered before the words left his lips, and Pavel’s shoulders drooped visibly. Sergei had been almost like a second father to him, back before the rift that formed between Vasily and himself forced such association away. Pavel had spent many a day as a boy trying to keep up with, and learn from the two elders. He, Vasily, and Anna had often found themselves playing with the men’s woodworking tools, or marveling at the swiftness at which they bundled wheat and barley, or any other of the innumerable tasks that the two old friends could accomplish with speed and precision. It was an association that had brought the three children all the closer to one another, and it pained Pavel to know that a man he had held in such high esteem was gone from the world.

Pavel shook his head in grim disbelief. “What could we have done to earn such attentions as these?” He whispered as much to himself as to Nadejda.

When Nadejda came to her own conclusion about his father, Pavel looked into the woman’s eyes. His jaw set, and his fists curled and uncurled with an emotion that wasn’t anger, though not altogether dissimilar. After a short time, with Nadejda’s covered hand upon his cheek, Pavel nodded slightly.

“Thank you for your kindness, Mamochka,” Pavel said quietly, addressing Nadejda with the most tender word for ‘mother.’ “We have all lost today, and my loss is certainly no greater than any other.”

Finding more words failed Pavel as he lapsed into a distracted silence. Shifting with the cold, Pavel offered both Nadejda and Antonina another wilted smile before bowing his head in farewell.

“I shall see if I can lend assistance to anyone else inside the tavern. Goodnight, and thank you. Thank you both.”

With that, Pavel turned his cherry eyes towards the tavern, and moved to make his way inside. Pulling open the heavy door, and closing it behind him, Pavel was greeted with all the chaos he had predicted to exist from the terrible sounds that he had heard while outside. He let out a low whistle, perceptible only to his own ears, as he took in the sight of Adishi’s lifeblood reeling to deal with the tragedy that had befallen it.

Such was the scene inside the tavern, that Pavel found himself almost unable to focus upon any one person. For several moments his vision swam with a blurred collage of human tragedy and emotion, until at last his mind alit upon the sight of Chiudka lending aid to an injured Oskar, with the shredded Oksana fuming upon weak knees close by. There were others nearby as well, though at first Pavel’s attention failed to truly grasp who they were.

Without further thought, Pavel crossed over to where Chiudka was clucking over the injured twins. Bending over her shoulder, he spoke softly. “How can I help? I am no healer, but give me a task and I shall see it through.”

In truth, Pavel did not add, the distraction of a job would be as much of a gift to his own mind as it would be to anyone he ended up assisting.

Adrian's eyes looked tired from his injuries, but that was not all Bogdan saw in those orbs. It was a sense of guilt, perhaps from his inability to help his friends. From the past, Adrian always proved himself a faithful friend to those around him, and that included Bogdan too. As Adrian nodded to him, Bogdan nodded back. He extended his hands to comfort Adrian, but pulled back midway through, fearful for touching an unseen wound.

Hesitantly, Bogdan tore away from Adrian and Grigory, who were now taken care of by Chiudka. To be honest, Bogdan knew Chiudka would be a very valuable person in this situation. As his anger from Chiudka's previous provocation died down, having settled to the back of his mind but not completely fading, he realized it would be better for the woman to dress Grigory's wound. A hindsight, but somewhat of a foolish mistake. He rarely let his emotions dictated his trade endeavors, and he would place a more cautious eye on his emotions in daily life.

Bogdan then took off to the tavern entrance, where a sizable group of people now gathered. He could recognize many familiar faces amongst them, Vasily, Pavel the Younger, Petya and his “cousins”, Oskar and Oksana. He watched as a wounded Oksana, who barely stood on her feet, engaging in a conversation with her brother that ended with her boots in Oskar's vulnerable area. Bogdan couldn't help but muster a small smile, Oksana was always self-determined, and Oskar always seemed to forget.

After the initial exchange between the siblings, rest of the party made dialogues between themselves. For most of the parts, Bogdan remained silent, taking in every detail of the words. He watched Vasily and Antonia, father and daughter together in an unfortunate tragedy. It would be unfair for anyone to be caught in this situation, but for a young child such as Antonia, it would be a horrifying experience for many years to come. He also saw young Pavel, a blacksmith and somewhat of a polymath. Bogdan was suppose to ask Pavel about his trade requests, as they have done for the last two years. But now, he doubt this particular subject would be anywhere close to Pavel's thoughts.

Finally, there was Petya, the hunter who also remained silent during the conversation. Petya's father was an old friend of Bogdan's father, along with old Pavel and a few others, they were the finest archers and trackers of Adishi. Speaking of hunting, Bogdan remembered Petya's hunting group from earlier today. They were still out and about when he returned, it could be mean they were caught by the black spirits.

“Petya,” as the group started to diverge, Bogdan called. He had questions, perhaps now would not be the perfect time for curiosity; Bogdan simply needed to know. “What happened out there? Old Pavel, he supposed to be with you. I don't see him here, is he...” Bogdan caught himself mid-sentence, he took a glance behind Petya and his suspicions were confirmed.

“I'm sorry,” Bogdan wasn't sure what to say. Old Pavel was not too much of a familiar figure to him, but nevertheless, a loss was never fortunate. “Come in here, Chiudka will treat any wounds you have, after she cared for Adrian and Grigory.” Grabbing a cup of Chiudka's tea, Bogdan handed the cup over to Petya and pointed to two chairs in the corner.

“They are saying things about the witch, and rumors about it, her. Tomorrow, after we treated the wounded and buried the dead, we need to find out what happened with her.” Bogdan said to Petya. He fished out the last piece of tablecloth, a smaller piece unused for Grigory, and gave to Petya for cleaning his cuts. “Many good souls died tonight, they deserve answers, we deserve answers.”

He looked dumbly at Chiudka, just barely understanding what she was trying to tell him, but finding himself unable to find anything more valuable to say to her. It was Oskar that provided the first few words that gave any assembled a tangible target for their distraught anger, though once again it took Adrian a moment to understand what he was saying. The blood running down his back from the claw wound on his right shoulder was starting to seem more and more dangerous.

Father… Witch… Adrian clung to the words, the first clue in unravelling the terrible event which had befallen the town. He shook his head, trying to clear the darkness that was settling in the corner of his vision.

“Viktor… you have to go and find out… that you.” He couldn’t quite form a coherent sentence, but worry drove him to finish what he had to say as Viktor shuffled over to him near Grigory. “Viktor go check on Mother and Father… they were all alone.” He gasped, leaning against the chair but still mindful of the farmhands wound, waving Viktor worriedly away. The eldest didn’t question the orders delivered by a younger brother, his own sudden realisation driving away any sense of pride he may have felt usually as he dashed out the door, torch in hand.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Anton stared worriedly at his brother and friend, Adrian wasn’t looking good what-so-ever, David was dead, it was almost too much to bear. He had also forgot about their parents, but Viktor’s glance told him to stay with the wounded so he did what he could until Chiudka could see them dealt with properly. Until then there wasn’t anything much they could do, and neither of them were likely to be leaving the tavern until morning at the earliest, Grigory would probably be incapacitated for a week. “Viktor!” Anton shouted, catching his elder brother just before he left the tavern. “Bring back some blankets or something eh?” He said, surprised when his brother nodded in acceptance, it was an unfamiliar feeling.

Anton brushed one hand through course black hair, his young features sudden illuminated in the flickering fire, he sighed as he looked over at Adrian, watching his eyes droop.

“Weren’t you supposed to be good at handling your liquor, being a brewer and all?” He jested half-heartedly, pushing Adrian who snapped to attention like one caught napping in class. A smile flickered on his lips for a moment, before being snapped away by the reality of the situation he was so cruelly dragged back to.

“S’not the alcohol, I’d out drink you any time brother.” He slurred, and Anton suddenly noticed the red stain running down his brothers back. He jumped to his feet and look closer, his eyes widening.

“Lord above Adrian, why didn’t you say anything?” Anton looked at the wicked tears in the back of his brother’s shirt with something close to dismay, it was like he’d been mauled by a bear.

Petya felt the burden of the day upon him as he entered the tavern, all of which washed away the conversations as he sought a single moment of respite, as he let Oskana free from his hold. Petya wanted to sink down and rest, he was weary from a days hunting and his mind was fatigued from what had transpired during the night. He had paid little heed to the movements around him as he took a brace against the frame of a closed window, the night still dark with flickering torches out in the village still burning. He wondered how many had died alongside old Pavel this night.

Petya breathed heavily, shut his eyes and felt their weight, and for what felt like a lifetime was drawn into state of slumber, that the noises and movements around him were nothing but the product of a fervour dream, before drawing himself back and discovering it all to be very real. Maybe this was still part of the dream, that he had yet to full wake, that maybe when the sun would rise he'd discover it was in fact a dream, and the day was simply another. But Petya knew better than to believe in such hopes, they had been the same hopes he had when his father died, when his mother died. That it had all been a dream.

A cry filled the room, an angry, bitter, and defeated cry. Turning, he did not expect to Oskana to be the one weeping. Proud Oskana the Hunter, it felt unsettling to watch as she finally succumbed to her emotions.

I won't tell anyone, Petya repeated the stupid words in his head, turning away. “Petya.” Though Bogdan's father and his and Vasily's own had once been friends, Petya could not claim to share the same relationship with the son. (He could not speak for Vasily, though, Petya often felt his brother was friends with everyone).

“Thank you, and I'm fine.” Waving away the cloth, Petya was thus far unscathed and the old man; he had even yet to even mourn the passing of the old man.

Bogdan handed Petya a beverage that the hunter wasn't particularly interested in, but drank anyway out of formality. “If we even survive the night.” A bout of pessimism leaking with Petya's voice, “We don't even know if what happened will happen again.”

People were angry, people were scared, people wanted answers and they all wanted results now but nobody gave a second thought to the if, to the if this may happen again. It was difficult to have rational thought in a time of crisis, especially if one had lost so much. But this talk of the witch, what would the village do? March en masse to where she made her home, torches in hand, blood lust in their eyes and scream for retribution. It seemed too simple, Petya thought.

Vasily knew the very moment Oskar told Oksana of their father, and his jaw clenched painfully as the most willful, wild woman in all of Adishi broke and crumpled to a seat. He actually took a step toward her, and then stopped himself, his head hung low as his expression turned stony. No, she did not need him to turn her mourning to embarrassment by calling all the more attention to her with his likely unwanted presence. Oksana had her pride after all, as it seemed Oskar had discovered - much to his unending regret, Vasily did not doubt for a moment.

But it was more than simply her possibly wounded pride. So many men were all about Oksana at the moment, Petya, her brother and others... No, she did not need him, but there were others who -

Pavel.

Vasily did not have words to describe the unspeakably snarled tangle of emotions that roiled in his gut at the sight of the man who should have been his oldest friend. Petya could not have known how very wrong he was, that Vasily was friend to every last person in Adishi, and the guilt, the longing, the sadness and grief and hope and conflict that flooded the young man's heart stood testament to that.

But the greatest of all those emotions, was a genuine, undiluted relief.

Her heard Pavel's question, and the smallest of smiles began to creep across his face as he caught the man's gaze, waving him over to his side. He could not know what was going through Pavel's head at the moment, but Vasily lay his hand on the man's shoulder with a nod that said so much more than his words could in this instant.

"I could use your help, Pavel," he said firmly, taking a deep breath as he forced aside a sea of unspoken sentiment for the immediacy of the moment. "Chiudka has her hands full - as competent and quick as she is, even she can't attend to every last person who's been hurt today."

And as if in testament to the truth of Vasily's words, Anton's worried cry reached his ears. He looked grimly to Pavel, a quick jerk of his head toward Adrian before he moved swiftly to the young man's side. "All right, let's have a look there... "

**********

Antonina's wide, blue-eyed gaze followed after Pavel as he walked inside the tavern, and then turned to her Nana. "I want my Papa," she said with all the surety of a very small child, and Nadejda let the little girl down as she began to squirm her way from her arms. Surely enough time had passed...

Not, of course, that determined little Antonina was waiting to be sure as she crawled up the steps on her hands and feet, stomping her small, fur-lined boots out of habit before walking into the great room of the tavern. There were too many people, crying and moaning, too many grown-ups about and she could not see her Papa anywhere though she even tried to stand to her tiptoes. But as she looked about quickly, she did see one familiar face, leaning against one of the window casings, talking to Bogdan though he looked really, really sleepy too.

"'Ello Dyadya Petya," Antonina said wrapping her arms about one of his legs, looking up to his face with a sweet smile that seemed so impossible in this place of pain. "Where's Papa - "

It was the weeping, a strange, strangled sobbing that sounded so odd, and pulled Antonina's attentions from the search for her father. To the little girl's ears, it seemed the person who wept simply did not know how to cry, didn't have any practice at it. The little girl let go of her Uncle's leg, walking the short distance to where pretty wild Oksana sat. She was the one crying, and Antonina's face fell as she looked, because it seemed like the crying actually caused Oksana pain.

Her head tilted just so as she peered up into Oksana's face, small fingers gently prying the older woman's fingers from her face. "'Ello Ok-sah-nah," the little girl said so softly, pronouncing every syllable of the young woman's name quite carefully. Antonina did not know why Oksana was sad, not really, not in this great room full to the rafters with such horrible sadness.

Then again, she did not really need to know. Antonina did not wait to ask Oksana's permission before she began to crawl into her lap. The little girl was careful to keep her knees and elbows to herself, because sometimes Nana winced too when she tried to climb into her lap and forgot.

She knelt for a moment in Oksana's lap, and then lifted herself just enough to wrap her small, soft arms about Oksana's neck and hug her just as tightly as she could, laying her soft cheek against the pretty lady's, not minding her wet tears at all. "Love you, Ok-sah-nah," she whispered gently in her ear.

Nadejda watched her granddaughter for a moment longer, her face thoughtful, a small sad smile on her lips for a moment. She dashed away a tear from her cheek with the heel of her palm, taking a deep, steadying breath before turning toward Chiudka. She lay her hand on the younger woman's shoulder gently, quietly asking for her attention. "What can I get you, Chiudka? Water? Linens? Alcohol even, for the wounds?"