Chapter Text
The creaking of the main doors opening catches Fyodor's attention. He watches a small bit of light pour into the entryway through the door from where he sits at the top of the main staircase, peering through the wooden banister. A man walks in, an old, ratty suitcase in hand. A second behind the man, a boy steps inside and then the door closes, the light gone. Now dark, only illuminated by the kerosene lamps and candles, Fyodor has a hard time making out the man or the boy's finer features. He does note, however, that the boy looks fragile and frail. The boy won't last very long.
"Thank you for responding as quickly as you did, sir. You are, as always, a Godsend." The man removes his hat, holding it to his chest. He looks to be on the older side, hair starting to bald in the back with a retreating hairline. His mustache is perfectly combed and his suit is sharp and clean, a light brown color.
"Oh, don't thank me too much. Thank God for you finding this poor soul when you did. We'll take good care of him, get him back into good spirits," Father Baranov speaks softly, his voice feather light and gentle. His back is to Fyodor, but he knows there's a manufactured sweet smile on his face. There always is when he speaks.
The man turns towards the boy behind him and leans down. Fyodor narrows his eyes as he tries to get a better look at the scene. The man's lips move, but it's in a whisper, Fyodor can't hear what he's saying. The boy nods and the man straightens, turning back to Father Baranov.
"I'll be off then. Thank you again, Father. Write to me if you need anything." The man places the hat back atop his head and sets the suitcase down.
Without a word the man walks past the boy and leaves, the door echoing behind him. The room feels colder and the air feels thin. A small tug pulls down Fyodor’s lips as he stares down at the boy and Father Baranov.
Fyodor looks down at his hands, the skin paler than usual and a tingling sensation spreading from his fingertips to his palms. He stands, slightly lightheaded, and leaves the steps without a sound.
The halls are empty as he walks to his room. If someone were to walk these halls they would think that this house was abandoned and only ghosts lived here. Who would know there's twenty or so boys somewhere inside?
A shaky hand opens the door to his room and he slips inside, closing it behind him. The room itself is small, enough space for a twin bed, a dresser, and a writing desk. It's enough for a boy with nothing. Yet every surface has books stacked on it other than the desk that holds a chess board. The pieces are chipped, scuffed, and cracked, but they still serve their purpose. Fyodor had no complaints.
With a deep breath, he grabs the scratchy blanket off his bed, wraps it around himself and sits near the window, looking out at the lake as rain begins to fall. The chill he has won’t leave so easily. It’s a curse from this place that he’s grown used to.
•• 𓅩 𓅩 ~ ♱ ~ 𓅩 𓅩 •• 𓅩 𓅩 ~ ♱ ~ 𓅩 𓅩 ••
The boarding house was warm and smelled of wood and lamp oil. That is one of the first things that Nikolai notices. The second is how quiet it is. It was eerie.
Nikolai’s eyes scan the stairs where he could’ve sworn he saw someone. He had blinked and the person simply vanished. With how old and weathered the boarding house looked, he’s surprised there wasn’t a creak when the person had left. Maybe the tales were true and it was an apparition. Surely ghosts exist. Nikolai moves his gaze quickly to the man in front of him. This must be the Father that Mr. Aistov kept talking about during the short car ride here.
“You must be awfully tired, let's get you washed up and a change of clothes.” The Father smiled kindly, so Nikolai returned the gesture.
The Father held out a hand for Nikolai to take and he did, thrilled to have a bath. It has been quite a long time since he last washed himself. The Father grabbed his suitcase that Mr. Aistov thrifted for him and led Nikolai up the stairs where the apparition had previously been sitting.
The floor on the second story was old wood, stained and chipped. If one were to run barefoot they would most likely get splinters if not a gash. The wallpaper was probably just as old as the home itself, most of it peeling off the walls, in some places there seemed to be water damage. Still, Nikolai couldn’t complain, for the last four days he hasn’t been able to even step foot indoors. Being able to stay here was a blessing, God had finally heard his prayers.
Nikolai glanced into open doors as they walked down the left hall. They all seemed to be the same set up - twin bed, dresser, desk - but there was a twist to each one. Some held sticks and rubber balls, some held canvases and paints, and one had a caged bird. Nikolai was excited to meet the other boys who these items belonged to, he hasn’t had a chance to talk to someone his age in a while. Before he could speak up or see any more rooms they came to a halt in front of a closed door.
The Father produced a ring of keys from his belt, picking out an old brass one and unlocking the door. There wasn’t a creak or anything as the door swung open. The room wasn’t particularly big, but there was a wash tub underneath a small window against the far wall, a ceramic sink and toilet with rust stains, and a metal stool next to the tub.
The Father said nothing as he stepped inside, setting down the suitcase by the door. With curious eyes, Nikolai just watched as the Father rolled a sleeve and put the stopper in the tub, then turned it on. He let the water pour over his hand for a second before standing back up straight. Steam started rising out of the tub, making the air thick.
The Father left and came back a couple seconds later with a lit oil lamp, setting it next to the tub. The soft glow of the flame engulfed Nikolai in orange and he just stared at it flickering behind the glass.
"Come now, let's get you out of those clothes." The Father moved easily around Nikolai, removing his jacket, overshirt, button up, undershirt…. It took him no time at all to get Nikolai down to his underwear that clearly hadn't been washed for God knows how long.
The air, warm from the tub, covered Nikolai like a soothing blanket. He didn't even shiver from the lack of clothes. He did, however, eye the open door.
"Should I close the door?" Nikolai asked, his throat seemed to feel better than it had the past few days, maybe finally he was getting over his cold.
"None of the other boys will see you. Don't worry." The Father removed Nikolai's underwear, adding them to the pile of clothes. With strong arms, the Father lifted Nikolai into the tub. The water was hot. Too hot. A sharp intake of air filled Nikolai's lungs as he tried lifting himself up. "No, no, no. It's okay. We need the water to be hot to erase your germs."
It burned. It was too hot. It felt like laying out in the sun on a hot day. He could feel his skin boiling. Tears started falling from his eyes as he kept fighting against the hands holding him down.
"Too… too…" the words weren't coming out, "hurts!" Nikolai cried.
"I know, I know," the Father shushed him. He traced his hands over Nikolai's shoulders, trying to calm him. "You need to keep quiet or you'll disturb the other children."
Nikolai didn't care. He didn't care who he disturbed when his skin was burning and his blood was bubbling. He couldn't feel his feet anymore. Who cares about the other boys when Nikolai was in so much pain.
"Your sins are what makes this hurt so much. They make you filthy. But we will rid you of them. Pray with me." The Father kept running his hands over Nikolai, starting to pray.
Nikolai couldn't pray.
He couldn't speak.
He couldn't think.
He couldn't breathe.
A sob left him as he slapped at the Father's hands, water spilling out of the tub. He wanted to get out. He needed to get out. He thrashed under the hands.
An echoing slap silenced the room. His head whipped to the side with the impact, his eyes blown wide. A red splotch slowly started spreading on Nikolai’s dirty pale face. He didn’t dare move.
"God, forgive this boy for his sins." The Father's fingers stroked his cheek, bringing his face back to his own, his hand gentle and soft like his voice. This touch isn’t the same one that slapped him, that was a different hand altogether.
Nikolai didn't speak, didn't move. The pain was so unbearable that he couldn't even feel it anymore. He couldn't feel the tears still falling down his face.
"I want you to say your prayers and wash yourself. I'll be back in ten minutes." The Father took Nikolai's hair in his fingers, a smile on his face. Without another word, he leaned down and placed a kiss on his forehead before standing up and leaving, the door remaining open.
Nikolai didn't move to wash himself, he just sat there in the burning water. He tried to remember a prayer, but he couldn't think of any.
God had abandoned him to burn.
•• 𓅩 𓅩 ~ ♱ ~ 𓅩 𓅩 •• 𓅩 𓅩 ~ ♱ ~ 𓅩 𓅩 ••
The screaming is what caught Fyodor’s attention. He didn’t stand, but he turned his attention away from the window. If he wasn’t already cold then he’s sure a chill would’ve run down his spine.
“Hurts!”
Always the curious boy, he stands up, hugging his blanket tighter around him. With silent footsteps, he walks to his door, slowly twisting the knob and pushing it open a hair. He squints into the hallway, desolate and barren.
He continues listening, hearing a shushed voice from the washroom. He doesn’t know how long he stands there before he sees Father Baranov walk out of the room. There’s a wet stain down the front of his robe. In the dim lighting Fyodor can’t make out the expression on his face.
Father Baranov walks down the hall, turning and disappearing from sight. Fyodor doesn’t move. He knows he shouldn’t bother. If he knows anything it’s to mind his own business and keep to himself. He knows, yet he’s curious.
Silently he pushes open his door, stepping out into the hall and to the open door. The air is thick from the steam and the smell of soap travels to his nose.
Don’t bother, leave it alone.
He presses his hands to the wall and leans his head around the doorframe, looking into the washroom. Steam rises out of the tub and he can feel it on the back of his neck, his hair sticking to skin. It makes his skin crawl.
In the tub sits the boy he saw earlier. Now, with the dull light of the rainy day coming in through the window and the kerosene lamp that rests near the tub, Fyodor can make out the boy’s features better. He looks no older than ten, his face round and his body small. His skin, which looks to be naturally pale, has several purplish scars in various places. His white hair is knotted and messy, longer than his own black hair, reaching somewhere past his chest - the side of the tub hiding where it ends. His eyes seem to be a light color, grey or maybe blue. He looked almost angelic if you could look past the puffiness of his eyes and the wet stains streaking down his cheeks. A redness gave his face some color.
The boy seemed to just be staring at the water, not moving. Does he know how to bathe? Fyodor thinks to himself as he looks on. They must both look like they were frozen in time, neither moving an inch nor a muscle.
“Fyodor, what are you doing?” His eyes shoot up as he steps back. Father Baranov stands tall before him, dark eyes fixated on him.
“Nothing, Father,” he says, hands still at his sides.
“Run along then, leave this boy alone.” Father Baranov doesn’t need to say anything else, Fyodor takes his cue to leave and retreats back to his room. His hand falls on the door knob when Father Baranov speaks again, "remember to say your prayers for God wouldn't want your mind to be plagued with indecent thoughts."
Fyodor didn't give any indication that he heard Father Baranov, he simply slid back into his room, closing the door behind him.
That boy…
Fyodor walked over to his chess board, climbing into the chair, tucking one leg underneath himself, the other up to his chest. He picks up the white queen and inspects her. There's a chip carved into the top of the piece and a scuff mark across the bottom. He sets her down on the black side, next to the king, and leans his cheek on his knee.
Fyodor always liked playing chess.