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Feofan stepped out onto the balcony, shrugging his cloak more firmly around his shoulders, and lit a cigarette. For once, the harsh and biting winds of Snezhnaya were calm. Not forgiving, never forgiving, but almost peaceful in an eerie sort of way. He took a deep pull, and ignored the burn, maybe relished in it, in a way.
It felt like being alive.
Because he was.
He let it out with a slow sigh, leaning down against the railing and crossing his arms. The sun was setting, bleary oranges, reds, and purples marring the otherwise calm sky like an everlasting bonfire.
“Do you ever wonder, Zandik?” Feofan said to the empty air.
Wonder? The Doctor might have said. He would say it slow, careful, maybe almost irreverent. There was no room for such a thing in that man’s life. Zandik did not Wonder. He Discovered. He asked, and answered. Took, and scraped, and stole. Never wondered.
He would say, Wonder what?
“Just… Wonder. At life. At the world.”
Feofan let out another sigh, uncrossing his arms to take another drag.
Probably not.
Wondering is for dreamers. Small-minded individuals. Those desperate for anything to latch on to when they know so little about the world.
“I do, sometimes,” Feofan said, “Why am I here in this world? Why do I keep on living?” He shook his head, “I’m not finished yet, ha… too greedy for that. So much to do, and never enough time. ‘Just a few more years,’ I said. ‘I only need a little more time.’ And you gave me that. You gave me a little more time. And then a little more, and a little more. Before I knew it, centuries had passed. Maybe that’s why. My why, at least.”
Your why? He’d ask. Always asking, always knowing. He’d say it with just a hint of disgust or disdain, voice pulled in that way that always sounded like he was speaking from the back of his throat. His teeth would be bared in a sneer, cheeks pulled up so high that his eyes would narrow and glint in the firelight.
“You,” Feofan said, before letting out a rattling cough.
Another drag.
Do not tell me that I am your reason to go on living.
Feofan laughed into the empty air, waving at smoke like it mattered, “No, no! Not that, not truly. But you still are the reason I was able to. And I’ve accomplished much with these borrowed years of mine. Much, but no, not enough. Never enough,” He paused from a moment, just soaking in the frigid air, and how even while wearing such a thick cloak he felt that deathly chill in his bones.
“You’d call it a defiance of Fate, I think. But Zandik, my oldest friend, I am not unbound from the Fate of this world. It really was just borrowed time. Stolen time, even, what you gave me.”
And Death is always around the corner to collect her dues.
Feofan thought of it like taxes, a little bit. He bribed the tax collector and in turn received a little bit more time. Money goes in, and time goes out.
The bribery was over now.
Feofan took another stuttering pull, interrupted by another cold cough.
He had a few good years left, though. And he was always good at using his resources.
“There’s no use in wondering about what could have been. What has passed has passed, and what is to come will come. It was a grand old time while it lasted, Zandik.”
Was it, Feofan?
Pantalone closed his eyes and lowered his head. He let out a long sigh, slow and controlled. He stood there like that for a long moment. The sky slowly darkened as the sun crawled beneath the horizon, leaving only a bleary blue-black as stars winked into existence overhead.
He smushed the burning end of his cigarette onto the balcony railing, twisting his wrist and pressing hard until the smouldering tip was not but a blackened, gnarled mess.
“It was. It really, really was.”