*** After so long, and unexpected a delay, the conclusion of Death and Rumors is finally being posted. I got wrapped up in a series of harrowing events that demanded my attention and got me two job offers in Moscow! How fitting that there is a very real possibility that more of Nemaea will be coming to you from a city in the very country that's responsible for Nemaea's ultimate genesis! As for the conclusion of "Death and Rumors" it's not the end of Ilya's, Aleo's, and Dorianna's saga, not by a long shot; there is a lot more to come. And the person who has ultimately inspired Ilya will--hopefully!--have a somewhat more active hand in the unfolding of Ilya's saga. And now, without further delay, here is the concluding section of "Death and Rumors." *** ___________________________________________________ *** It takes days, and still he does not lose it: this trembling. It is the monster that dwells in his blood, though he is more apt to imagine it as a clot of parasitic worms, a collective monstrosity. The image is enough to throw the rise of goose-bumps across his flesh. “You're always welcome here,” Arkady said, on that last day in the hacker's nest. He'd spoken softly, before departing hugs: first to Dorianna, then to Ilya himself, and at last, to Aleo. “You’re a good rider,” Mihial said, smiling in a shy, boyish manner. “I hope to drink with you one day.” Ivanna and Dorianna spoke quietly to one another, sharing women’s words, Ilya imagined, and--perhaps--working out some quiet understanding of one another. It was Arkady who presented them with a bottle of Nastoika, and the repeated offer to visit again under friendly circumstances. --But Ilya knows that he will never return, unless an assignment carries him—once more—into the heart of Black City. It is good, in another way, that he may never see Arkady again. Now, as Aleo takes time in the shower, Ilya stands in a slant of morning sunlight; the hardwood floor is warm underfoot. A mug of hif-infused tea steams in his two-handed clasp, and he steals what comfort he can from the tea-warmth, and the sun-warmth. In only a pair of loose pants, he stands before the panoramic view of Fyodorov, focused more on the pallor of his own flesh. Aleo always maintains that his pallor is a thing of beauty: like the color of some rare and fragile orchid, but now—staring down at the pallor of his naked feet, he thinks that in some strange way, both Black City and Hades have robbed him of what scant pigmentation his skin once held. His feet seem narrower; his toes, he thinks, are longer, their bones more prominent. He has left something of himself back in the sullen heart of Black City, and he knows that he'll never get it back. Ever. “Give yourself time,” Aleo has said. “And remember that you're not alone in this. I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you.” The door chime breaks his ruminations. He flinches at the sound, pads across hardwood flooring—and then an oblong patch of wine-colored carpet, surrounding the sunken conversation pit, and hardwood again, at the border of the sealed threshold. He touches the door release, and smiles—faintly--at Dorianna in the corridor. “I'm not disturbing you, am I?” Her voice is quiet, unusually timid. Ilya shakes his head and steps aside. “No,” he says. “Aleo is awake?” Ilya nods. “He's in the shower.” Dorianna crosses into the apartment. It's clear that she's been awake for a while. She hasn't been sleeping well. Ilya can read evidence of that in her eyes, in the faint slump etched into the set of her shoulders. She picks her way to the viewing wall and stands—as if called to the spot—where Ilya stood bare moments ago. “You've had breakfast?” he asks, nipping at the tea he's carried with him. “Yeah.” “Would you like tea?” Dorianna nods. “Yes...without hif.” Ilya nods and steps into the kitchen area-- --and steps out, moments later with a steaming mug in hand. He smiles faintly as he gives it to Dorianna. “How are you?” Dorianna asks. “It's only been a couple of days since I've seen you, but it feels like months.” “I'm fine,” he responds. His words are true, but they leave the taste of a lie at the root of his tongue. “And you...? You're doing well?” Dorianna grins. “I'm just peachy.” But there is something bitter and derisive buried in her tone. Silence. And then: “Ilya...be honest with me about something.” He flinches at the request. “I'll try,” he says. “What's wrong?” “Wrong?” “Since we've been back, you've been unusually quiet, even with Aleo. He hasn't said so, but I can tell that he's worried about you. That has me worried, and I think that I'm the cause of it.” Aleo has made efforts to visit with her, to speak with her, during lengthy walks through the Cloister-house gardens. His strengths have always been in his willingness to talk things out...to make himself available as a listener, and it's clear that he's sensed some need in Dorianna to speak...to get things out. “You're not,” he says quietly, gaze fallen to the spot of hardwood between his feet. And then, for a reason he cannot name, words come from some hidden niche far below the hollow space of his lungs. “But I'm afraid, Dashenka...things have happened that cannot be reversed.” Dorianna nods. “This is about Jonathan,” she says. Quietly. “It's about the conversation we had in the nest, when you asked me if I still have feelings for him.” Ilya feels a chill pluck down his spine. There are times (many) when Dorianna startles him with a sense of subjective telepathy. It is her training, he thinks, as an anthropologist; like a Cloistered-Brother, her livelihood depends on an ability to observe. It is an unsettling thing. “I got angry,” she continues. “I snapped at you, because you'd asked me the one question I wasn't prepared to answer.” She pauses, nips at her tea. “I suppose you already know the answer to the question you'd asked. But maybe I should say it aloud. Yes. A part of me will always love Jonathan. Despite what's happened, and despite the fact that any potential future with him lies wrecked on the floor of Hades.” And that, Ilya thinks, is the most shattering thing he will ever hear. Something breaks in side of him, and the trembles he's fought for three days longer than he wishes to remember, overtake him again. His heart skips a beat and catches the rebound, throwing a lump into the hollow of his throat. He closes his eyes, and memories of Jonathan surface (unbidden) from the muddled switchback convolutions of his thoughts. He hears Jonathan's final exchange with Dorianna: the incredible calm in Jonathan's voice, though there was an emotional undercurrent, barely submerged. There was hatred in that sound, a note of wounded betrayal. There was anger. And all too quickly, there was silence: punctuation to the muted, wet snap of his spine. Ilya flinches at the sudden presence of Dorianna's hand on his shoulder. He opens his eyes. He flinches. He stiffens. “It offends you when I touch you, doesn't it?” She withdraws her touch, balling her fist as if to further stifle the impulse to touch him again. “No,” Ilya says. “But I can't touch you back.” “I'm not expecting anything from you.” “It's not that.” “Then what is it?” “It's the conversation we had, when I made you angry. I knew at that moment that you had feelings for Jonathan. After learning that, I killed him with my bear hands. I can't touch you with these same hands, Dashenka. Please. Don't ever ask me to touch you...not after I broke the neck of a man you still loved.” He is unaware of the tears on his cheeks until Dorianna wipes them away. Afterward, she grabs his mug of tea and places it on the floor beside her own. “Come here,” she says, softly. He doesn't move. A mute sob flutters in his throat, like beating wings ripped from some defenseless bird. “Ilychka,” she says, firmly, but in gentle, almost cooing tones. “Come here.” --And she grabs his hands, gently, despite his motion to pull away. She steps closer, pulling him into an embrace, and in the beat of a moment, he feels her arms around him, cradling him. “I'm not going to pretend to understand what you feel. But I want you to know, here and now, that I never want to hear you apologize for saving my life.” She kisses his forehead. She holds him, tightly. There is a sound: quiet footsteps on hardwood. Ilya glances in the direction of the sound, catching Aleo in his tear-blurred gaze. Aleo smiles, wordlessly, closing distance with graceful, nearly soundless steps. In less than the beat of the heart, he takes both Ilya and Dorianna into his embrace, enfolding both of them in his arms, first, greeting Dorianna, and then, quietly and passionately, kissing Ilya. “This,” Aleo says, at last. “Should have happened days ago.” For a long, long time, they remain locked—almost desperately—in a complex, warm embrace. It will take time, Ilya realizes, for his trembling to stop. It may take years. But the process has begun, and with Dorianna’s arms, and Aleo’s arms around him, he feels the trembles diminish, just slightly… ...ever so slightly. *** **The third installment of Ilya's saga, "The Windbook Testaments" is coming soon.