The tea splashed on Chiudka's dress as it was shoved back at her -- so like Oksana to sabotage her own well-being rather than appear less than invincible -- but Chiudka only sat back on her heels and bowed her head in respect for the girl's loss.

But the healer's daughter didn't have time to comfort Oksana or to force her to take off her dress -- and there was no room in her closed-off heart to mourn with her. She took out a roll of makeshift bandages and a small jar of salve and placed them with the teacup on the bench beside Oksana. She left the bucket of water and another washcloth at the girl's feet. Oksana's wounds were many, but shallow -- if she wanted to be stubborn, she could stop the bleeding herself before she passed out and made more work for everyone else.

Silently, Chiudka stood, and she paused to lay a hand on Oskar's shoulder; maybe he could convince her to help herself -- or at the very least, he could watch over her while Chiudka helped those who wanted it. My, but her heart was cold.

Pavel's hand on her shoulder nearly made her jump out of her thoughts, but the look she gave him was grateful. If she were honest with herself, she might admit she was only playing it by ear: she didn't truly know what she was doing, by no means as well as her father had, but she was confident in how much of the basic principles had sunk in after watching her father all her life. Flesh wounds were not so hard as sickness: there was no guesswork when someone was dying from blood loss. The floor was slick with blood.

She touched Pavel's hand. "Thank you. Right now, Grigory..." She hadn't heard a peep from Grigory, had she?

Viktor dashed out, and the tone in Anton's voice shortly after didn't bode well. Adrian had fallen silent. Had Oksana's pride and Oskar's ill-timed words delayed her too long? The anger flared again in the back of Chiudka's mind -- but her terrible train of thought was stopped once again by Vasily, who offered not only to assist but to take at least some control -- to take a bit of weight from her shoulders. She offered Pavel and Vasily both another flash of an encouraging smile, then hurried off with the satchel over her shoulder to retrieve another bucket and water.

"Adrian, buck up, come on then." Chiudka knelt by Grigory with a new steaming cup of dense tea, and she set the bucket down. Even as she spoke, she was unraveling the work that Bogdan had done on Grigory's leg. It wasn't as terrible work as she'd thought. Grigory's old bandages slopped onto the floor, and she wringed out a cloth in the bucket to wash the wound, after handing a cloth to Vasily for Adrian. A splash of alcohol, and Pavel got the bottle afterward. Careful, now, she thought to herself. In her hurry she was bound to make mistakes, her hands would get sloppy. It was one thing to watch it being done and to understand it -- it was quite another to teach her hands to do what she needed them to. But she dressed the wound and bound it tightly, and left salve and bandages and a cup of tea for Adrian.

Nadejda's touch and voice were perhaps the most welcome of all. She had been so certain that the elders had all gone that she hadn't dared to hope. Chiudka touched her hand warmly. "All of it, dear Nadejda -- especially alcohol. We're in a tavern and we're still running out, thanks to Adrian." She shot the injured man a small grin that she wasn't sure he was in a state to see, but he would be all right. All that he'd drunk that night would only help him now.

She went on to those most injured, washing and dressing their wounds, fetching more water, tearing new bandages out of old cloth. When the worst of the bleeding had stopped, she returned to check on Adrian, Grigory, and then Oksana to see if the girl had decided to do something about her wounds -- but when she found Antonina curled up in Oksana's lap, Chiudka very nearly lost it.

She spent a moment steeling herself, her eyes squeezed shut. She had known by Vasily's expression that the girl had survived, but to see her here -- still so innocent and loving as ever, untouched by the darkness that had destroyed them all -- threatened to smash through the wall she had built around her heart.

Chiudka redirected Pavel’s offer for aid away in cursory fashion, opting for the more skilled hands of Nadejda to assist her. The elder woman, along with Antonina, must’ve been on his heels to arrive in the tavern so quickly, and Pavel took a fractional step back. For a bare moment he stood there, impotently frustrated at his lack of a pertinent means to help his brethren. He certainly did not blame Chiudka for her choice in assistants.

Perhaps you can go hammer out some new hinges for the tavern door, eh Pavel Leonidovich? Pavel thought wryly.

A strong hand upon his shoulder brought Pavel up from his own mind. Turning, his eyes widened at the sight of Vasily. The man with the handsome, bearded features, met Pavel’s own gaze with a swirling pool of emotion etched upon his face. It was the same roil that Pavel knew must be set upon his own features, and he stood fully to look upon his old friend.

The same pit that had gnawed at Pavel’s stomach upon seeing Antonina and Nadejda grew with exponential ferocity now. Somehow, the tragic circumstances of this night brought Anna’s memory to the fore of his thoughts, and Vasily’s presence only acted like a lens for those thoughts—a living focal point for all the hurt, blame, and regret. Pavel’s jaw clenched, and his lips set themselves into a serious line.

Behind his stern exterior, as Vasily asked for his help, Pavel scolded himself for seemingly the thousandth time that night. A man whom he had once counted as a brother was standing, alive and unharmed, before him. This man had lost loved ones, just as Pavel had, and in this time of need, once again Pavel was dwelling upon a past that could not be rewritten.

Anna would be disappointed in my selfishness. I’m disgracing her memory even now.

With that last thought echoing between his ears, Pavel forced the hardness from his face, and nodded.

“I am your man,” he said as Vasily turned to appraise Adrian.

Following closely behind, Pavel peered over Vasily’s shoulder, and down upon the injured brewer and farmhand. The stain of blood that was spreading across the man’s back shocked Pavel with its size, and the ferocity that had been required to make such an injury. Idly, Pavel found his hand reaching towards the goose-egg bump upon the back of his own head.

How did I come away so unscathed? he mused with grim astonishment.

Whispering a silent thanks to whatever spirit had kept him from such a terrible fate as so many of his friends, Pavel spun upon his heels. Moving through the tavern with the grace of purpose fueling his feet, Pavel set about finding anything that could staunch the flow of blood for Adrian’s wounds.

Behind the bar, folded neatly upon a low shelf, Pavel found a clean tablecloth, and a few threadbare rags. Snatching them up, he hustled through the press of bodies, both injured and caregiver alike, and stopped beside Vasily.

“Here, brother.” Pavel said, handing the rags to Vasily. That he had included the once commonplace moniker to his words did not even register with Pavel, such was his preoccupation.

“I’ll cut the tablecloth into strips. We can bandage him with that, yes?” Pavel added to all those gathered around Adrian. Not waiting for an answer, Pavel withdrew a small penknife from his pocket, and set to work.

That was it, he’d done it. He’d broken his sister. His one last living relative, presuming the witch lived, and he’d gone and broken her. He was useless. A coward to boot. For all that he’d broken her he was not stepping one foot closer to her, not with his groin still on fire from a simple slip of the tongue. She’d likely rip them off and feed them to him if he dared to come within reach.

Besides, there was the blond little girl of Vasily’s proving herself to be a braver soul than he. He watched as she climbed onto Oksana’s lap, his breath caught, ready to leap forward, no matter the danger to his manhood, if Oksana looked like she was going to do violence. She did not. He should have known better. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d caught her watching the Vukašin’s. Was it the elder brother? The younger? Or the girl that now perched so recklessly on her lap? He was never certain which of the three it was she was watching with that intent, bright stare that said she was lost to all else but what she saw. That was why he’d been able to catch her all those times. But after the first time he learned not to speak up and ask what it was she was about. After the bruise had faded from that he’d learned to simply back away, slowly.

After a stiff, awkward pause in which she howled and blubbered over the child Oksana seemed to collapse even further upon herself and her blood-smeared arms wrapped around the little girl and pulled her tight. It was very clear that Oksana was not well familiar with the art of hugging as she did so awkwardly. Oskar was not either if truth be told and he swallowed a lump in his throat. He wished more than anything that he knew how to give to his sister what the little girl was. He wished it was something Oksana would have accepted from him. But they were not that sort of family, were they? No, Papa had never been all that affectionate with them, touching them only when needed and as the years had passed and they’d grown more and more a disappointment to them he touched them even less. He bit his lip and wondered what magic the little girl had that she could hug Oksana and live. Or was it just that Oksana was as aching for touch as he and no one dared to approach? He supposed it didn’t matter, she wasn’t hurting the girl so he stood up and quietly slipped out of the tavern. He was useless in there and he couldn’t take another moment of the sounds of pain he’d wrought. Best he find a useful way to occupy his time.

There were dead, it was his fault. The ground was too hard for graves to be dug and there would be too few hands left to dig them come spring thaw. That left them only one reasonable choice. It was Midwinter after all. They were to keep the fires going all the night long to keep the moon company and to guide the sun. Never mind that the Moon could not be seen behind the clouds that had come with the storm. The snow was slowing and the clouds were thinning. It would only be a little while before the thick crescent of the moon was visible and he didn’t need the light of the moon to work. There were plenty of torches to see by, plenty of bonfires already lit.

Even more, there was plenty of firewood cut and stacked in anticipation of this night. With grim determination Oskar, accidental destroyer of Adishi, began to build its pyre.

The word may not have registered with Pavel, but Vasily missed nothing, even now. 'Brother... ' In an instant, that word brought back something of the warmth he hadn't known in years, memories of brighter moments long past and, he had convinced himself, long since buried.

You promised her. You promised to repair this, to at least try... Another memory came unbidden, the woman on their bed so unnaturally pale, the tender skin beneath her eyes dark, bruised-looking. Her golden hair was dulled, tangled by sweat, its lengths splayed across their bed sheets. But no matter the predations she endured, Anna remained so heart-achingly beautiful, a light of the soul as much as the features through which they shone. He had wrapped his arms about her frail body, helping her hold their precious little girl, just once. To the very end, Anna gave all she had in her, gathering what little strength she left to her failing body to say good-bye, and then to make him promise...

"Aye, good thinking. We may need them yet," Vasily answered with a faint, grim smile as he took the offered rags. He had made a promise, but he hadn't kept it or really even tried. An old, all-too-familiar doubt flashed hot and shaming through his thoughts, that Anna had chosen wrongly, that the better man stood beside him now, slicing a purloined table cloth into bandage ribbons.

Adrian's back was a raw, bleeding mess, and while Pavel searched for makeshift bandages, Vasily had carefully helped remove his shirt, exposing the extent of the lacerations. He averted his eyes quickly from Anton as he took the alcohol offered by Chiudka, glad the younger man could not see the grimace on his face.

"Brace yourself Adrian," was the only warning Vasily gave as he wrapped one strong, firm hand around the young man's shoulder, and poured the alcohol over the gashes.

**********

Antonina never really saw the blood on Oksana's arms or face. Not in the midst of all the woman's pains whirling about her like a dark wind, all those hurts, old and new. The little girl did not squirm or pull away, and did not mind at all that Oksana hugged her just a little too tightly. She let herself still in the pretty wild lady's arms, knowing without really understanding how that Oksana did not need much more right now than the warm, gentle and undemanding touch of someone who loved her. She could not wrap a bandage or sew a stitch, but Antonina could love. She wrapped her own small arms all the tighter around Oksana, the much-loved little girl showing the lady who needed so much more, just how hugs were supposed to work.

Well, at least until things became a little too tight some moments later. "Can't breaf Ok-sah-nah," she whispered with a giggle, wiggling just a little in the young woman's lap though her arms stayed right where they were.

Nadejda peered over her shoulder as she skillfully wrapped another makeshift bandage where she knelt, smiling faintly as she caught sight of her granddaughter clutched almost desperately by the sobbing, broken young woman. No, it never occurred to her, even once, to worry for Antonina in Oksana's arms. For all the younger people in this room might fear, respect, despise or sneer at the darkly beautiful young lady, all Nadejda ever saw when she looked to her was twin pairs of solemn brown eyes peering up from their swaddling blankets. Such beautiful babes, Oksana and Oskar. That they were Stanislav's children, she had not the least doubt, their father's strong, solid lines sculpted into their features for anyone with eyes to see. There may have been vast swaths of hurt and misunderstanding, defiance and swift, defensive rage in Oksana, but there was not an ounce of cruelty.

She turned toward the back of the room though, to look to where she'd last seen Vasily. Forest-hued eyes widened a little at a sight she was not sure she would live to see again. Yes, the two young men she loved as dearly as sons were side-by-side, and Nadejda gasped softly.

Mamochka...

Nadejda returned quickly to her work, the faintest ghost of a smile appearing beneath eyes that blinked quickly, to keep the tears at bay.

Adrian shifted in and out of consciousness as he rested there, struggling to see and understand all that was going on around him. A woman was talking to him, he should have known who she was but he could only just make out his name being spoken. It was all growing a worrying dark and red colour at the very edges of his consciousness, but he clung to wakefulness with a reckless abandon, somehow knowing that to sink into sleep might be the last thing he ever did. Dimly he then became aware of both Pavel and Vasily around him, and felt somehow comforted that so many actually cared about him, at least, he had a few moments of genuine pleasure before his name was mentioned once again, and then everything became white hot pain and his body shook, he almost fainted then.

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

Anton was infinitely grateful that Adrian had decided to drink so much that night, watching his barely conscious brother writhe in pain from the alcohol suggested what sort of suffering he would have to endure tomorrow when the numbing effects of liquor abandoned him. He set his jaw resolutely, glad that more competent men and women in this regard had taken over, and hovered cautiously over them all, nodding his thanks to Chiudka, Pavel and Vasily in quick succession.

“Thank you.” He said aloud, though worry was plain on his face and he kept looking back and forth in quick succession at the door, waiting expectantly for Viktor’s return. It was only a short while after Adrian was all bandaged up and nodding in and out of consciousness that he did so, and Anton was watching over his now considerably improved brother so he missed that first glance of whiteness and shock as he ran inside, almost knocking over a few of the others with his massive bundle of blankets. He came straight to their sides, laying a blanket over both Grigory and Adrian he tapped Anton on the shoulder and with a sinking heart the youngest brother noticed his near uncontrollable shaking.

“Mother, Father?” Anton asked in a suddenly quaking and small voice.

“They’re… missing.” Viktor said, his eyes darkening at the implications of his own words. Anton looked down at the floor in shock, before a small hope filled him.

“Not dead?” He asked suddenly, and Viktor looked at him strangely.

“No.” He said, and they both looked at each other in that way only brothers can when they are acting truly as family, something one rarely finds outside of crisis. They sat down and began to talk, hurriedly, nervously looking over at the activities in the tavern and aiding anyone who asked them for help. After a short while Viktor handed his blankets to Anton to hand out among those who couldn’t or wouldn’t return home for the night and then resolutely set to the task of carrying David’s body from the tavern, laying it close to the Pyre. It was going to be a long and dark night for what remained of their family.

As more hands worked to staunch the flow of blood -- Pavel, Vasily, Nadejda -- Chiudka found that her own hands had become too empty. Too pale. She needed to save them, she needed to ease their pain, as if a cup of tea to Adrian's lips would somehow dull the claws that scraped at the back of her own skull. She at once was grateful for the help, and she wanted them to turn their backs so she could do it all herself. She could busy her hands to the point of stiff exhaustion, and therefore she would have no time to acknowledge her fears.

Since first stepping into the tavern, she had not dared glance at the corner of the room, where her parents still huddled in a soak of blood.

Someone mentioned that a pyre was being built outside. But weren't their bodies still warm? The color had yet to leave their cheeks. For some, it was unclear whether they were dead or dying -- and Chiudka didn't possess the skill to declare one way or another with any shred of confidence.

But as long as she didn't go to her parents, one or both of them could still be alive. That hope was maintained as long as they were left undisturbed. The fear that someone would take them to the pyre without her ever touching them to be sure -- to know -- manifested with a tremble in her hands. She was weak, selfish, and a glaring hypocrite.

She put the water down, and she watched David, stiff and vacant, being carried outside. Chiudka swallowed. She stood, and she went to her parents.

"Okay," she whispered to them and to herself. She touched her mother's face, felt for breath and a heartbeat, but her neck had been torn wide open. "Okay, okay, it's okay." Her father, the healer, was slumped over her, his ribs cracked wide from behind and his spine destroyed. She touched his face, felt for a pulse, both hoped and dreaded that he was still breathing. "All right." Gone, both of them. Blissfully unable to feel the pain of these mangled bodies.

She wiped a cold sweat from her brow, and she carefully laid each of them down on the floor and closed their eyes and mouths. She kissed each of them, whispered her love and a prayer, assured them that their daughter and their niece were unharmed, thanked them for their selfless lives. She kissed them again, touched them, and stood, resolved that the fire would take them.

It was with calmer and warmer hands that she continued her father's work. Her ears no longer rang, claws no longer scraped at her thoughts, the anger had gone. She occasionally wiped tears from her cheeks, but her encouraging smile was genuine while she offered it with tea to those in pain.