Exile

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

When the agents of the Third Section had come to arrest them that evening,
the sky above St. Petersburg had burned red.

Arkady Bessmertny could remember his friend Anatol Shevchenko, standing on the table of the drawing room, cheeks flushed by alcohol and euphoria, proudly reciting Lermontov's Death of the Poet that had earned its author exile.

"You stand before the throne, a horde of greedy misers,
Who freedom, genius, honor, seek to kill!
You hide behind your lawyers and advisors,
Before you truth and judgement - both keep still!", his voice had boomed, just as the doors had flung open and the officers had stormed in.
A few days later, the tsar had signed his death sentence.

He could remember dashing Prince Mikhail, smile frozen on his face as he saw doom enter, still trying to shield the forbidden books Shevchenko had harbored, but it had already been too late.
If the rumors where true, he had beend exiled to a lowly government post in Siberia, the only thing saving his head from a bullet being a kernel of Romanov blood flowing through his veins.

He could remember Hedwig sitting on the floor, surrounded by her silk skirts, her small hands writing one of her infamous articles -ironically, one demanding the freedom of speech. Her face had become pale at the sight of the men of the Third section.
Now, she had been shipped back home to Courland, hastily wedded to a fellow Baltic German noble. Apparantly an old widower, deaf on both ears and blind on one eye. Her weapons - ink and papper - had been locked away just like all of their liberal hopes.

And then there had been Arkady, sitting on the ottoman half cast in shadow and marvelling at his friends.
He barely dared to speak when they met, as if every word of his would only interrupt the genius of his comrades.
The young artillery officer had finally summoned enough courage to speak - How can we call ourselves an empire and claim glory in foreign lands, when most of our people are shackled in serfdom? We celebrate criminals and let the righteous rot- when the third section had arrived.

And now he stood here, in some government building in St.Petersburg, just one door away from his court martial.
His hands were trembling.

Nervously, Arkady toyed with a button of his uniform.
He had spent the last week locked in some tiny cell in the Peter and Paul fortress. No light. Barely food.
He had not expected - not dared to hope- that he would have to answer for his actions so soon instead of rotting away in this dark hole.
But standing here, dressed in this fresh uniform, he did not expect a trial anymore. He expected a degrading play.

A loud creaking roared in the hallway- and the imposing door opened right in front of him. Just like the maw of a monster.
He gulped, then entered with stiff shoulders.

All hope abandon ye who enter here, he thought grimly, as the light of the candelabras burned in his eyes and the door closed behind him.
He felt trapped.

"Arkady Felixovich Bessmertny, captain of the third artillery battalion. Is that correct?", a voice snarled. It was more cold than spiteful. Tainted with the sort of disdain only bureaucrats could perfect.

Arkady blinked.
The room was barren and bright. Apart from the stucko on the ceiling there was only one thing left in it:
A table.
Four men sat behind it and their gazes cut through Arkady's flesh.
In the dim light, their officer's uniforms glistened.

The one in the center had spoken. A polkovnik, he recognized with a glance at the lucious uniform. A colonel.

"Yes, polkovnik", he said quietly.

"You have been summoned here under vile accusations." The ice in the polkovnik's voice pierced him.
"Do you deny your presence in the house of the treacherous snake Shevchenko during the night of your arrest?"

"No, Sir." His voice was rasp.

"And do you admit that you knew of this treachery? The forbidden books? This... free thinking of his?"

Arkady blinked. And blinked again.
His palms were covered in sweat.
Helplessly he looked to the only man in the room he recognized.
One-eyed Major Sokolov, his commander. Arkady had served under him, he had been his aide-de-camp. He had brought him wine, had eaten with him every evening for half a year. He had followed his every order.
But Sokolov only averted his gaze in shame.
Next to him sat a young man. Maybe twenty, not older than young Bessmertny himself.
Had Sokolov already replaced him?

"Bessmertny, my question", the Polkovnik reminded him.

Arkady took a deep breath.
"It was not treachery. Shevchenko only acted in the best interest of our and his country. His goal is to improve, not harm and-"

"Silence!", the Polkovnik hissed. His voice cut through the air. Arkady twitched. "Yes or no, Bessmertny. Nothing more. I will not bear this impudence."

Arkady's heart thundered. He would not stab his friends in the back.
So he only whispered: "Yes."

Pleased, the polkovnik folded his hands on the table. He could not stop the smile unfolding on his face as he watched the miserable excuse of an officer in front of him.
Bessmertny was pale and slender, with short dark waves caressing his forehead. Less a man, more a pretty boy.
He was soft like so many of these helpless idealists, dreaming of freedom and a new age.
And like many before, he would break.

People like Bessmertny and his friends were harmless, the Polkovnik had seen too many of them. They talked and debated, but they never acted.
They were no decembrists, no Pugachov, but they still were decay- Moral decay. And decay hat to be stomped out.

Slowly- not to say gleefully - he continued:
"Banned books. Forbidden poems. Dreams of liberation of the serfs and end of censorship." The polkovnik shook his head. "You want the tsar to relinquish his power? Our monarch, chosen by god himself? Have you abandoned god, Bessmertny?"

"I- We- The tsar is a man. He should be the first servant of the state, not-"

The fist of another officer crashed on the table.
"The audacity! To say such things in our presence. To repeat the crime in front of us!"

The polkovnik simply grinned.
"Oh Bessmertny, so eager for punishment?", he purred.
"Have you already forgotten your friends and their fates?"

At once, Bessmertny's gaze- fixed on the ground just in front of his boots- shot upwards.
Before the Polkovnik could stop himself, he jerked back, his hands clawing his chair.

For the first time, he saw Bessmertny's eyes.
Oh, the eyes.
They were burning.
Blue and lavender. Like forget-me-nots. What a strange color.

"You dragged my friends in front of a court", Bessmertny finally said. "But apparantly, being put in a cell means that you are among the righteous in this state."
His voice was not meek, the Polkovnik finally realised. It was... quiet. Soft. But not meek.

I could kill him for that. I should kill him for that.
He could send Bessmertny in front of the firing squad. Hang him, even.
Not really of course, a mock execution often did the trick. Scare the boy into submission.
Just like they would do with this Shevchenko.

No, whispered a voice in his head as the Polkovnik stared into these strange eyes,
these inhuman eyes.
They would recognize the illusion.
For they knew death, true death, and they did not fear it.
Suddenly, the polkovnik wondered, how true Bessmertny's name was.
Bessmertny. The deathless.

He could not bear these eyes anymore.
At once, a strong desire erupted in the polkovnik.
Away.
Bessmertny had to be send away. Far away, so he never had to see him again. Never have to feel this inhuman glance rest on him. They could not be in the same city. Not even on the same continent.
Yes, he thought. Let another dispose of him. Let another dirty his hands with Bessmertny's death.

"Captain Bessmertny", the Polkovnik finally shattered the silence. "Your sentence has been decided. You say your act of rebellion was for the good of this country, yes? Well, then prove your love for it. Fight against the barbaric mountain tribes in Dagestan and their leader, Imam Shamil, in the name of your tsar. For you will be demoted to second lieutenant and exiled to the caucasus."

Bessmertny turned even paler.

"God be with you", the Polkovnik said at last.
Only then did he realize that Arkady Bessmertny did not have a shadow.

༺═──────────────═༻

It was both the worst and the best time to be on the road.

The threat of snow and winter hovered in the air, a dooming presence, a blizzard maybe weeks, probably only days away, but frost had made the ground solid.
Thus, the horses did not sink into the mud and did not break their bones as their hooves thumped on the ground.

Arkady sighed.
The clamor of the carriage thundered in his ears.
He had been travelling for two weeks already.
Fortress Lovushka, that was to be his destination.

He glanced out of his window.
It was as had he left civilization itself behind.
There were no cities, no convents, no churches. There was nothing.
Nothing but the raw beauty of the caucasus.
The sky was grey and endless, the air cold and sharp.
Mountains towered into the sky as far as the eye could see. They were crowned by clouds and their harsh stone was painted in gold by the sinking sun.
Everything seemed too big.
The entire world seemed too big here.
Even the blanket of pines covering the ground. A suffocating shroud only broken by their path.
These trees... These tall, dark trees, they did not feel like the ones at home.

Arkady swallowed.
He had never felt so lonely in his life - and he was no stranger to solitude.
His heart ached as he thought about the golden gleam of the kokoshniki in St. Petersburg, the sweet smell of the bakery on the Newski-Prospekt and the familiarity of Anatol's drawing room.

But then he remembered Count Bessmertny - The man he should have called father. In good times, Arkady had been allowed to call him uncle. In bad ones, he had to call him by his title. In worse ones, he had not been allowed to speak to him at all.
Arkady had considered himself too old for thrashing at this point - he was twenty after all. But that had not stopped the Count from smacking him in the face as he had heard of this punishment.
"Stupid boy! Your mother died because of you and now you throw your blood soaked life away for nothing? For liberal dreams?"
His disappointment was waiting for him in St. Petersburg.
And his friends? Anatol? Hedwig? Mikhail? They were gone now.
There was nothing to return to.
A Circassian bullet might as well end this misery.

Suddenly, a jolt shook the carriage.
It send the officer flying across the seats.
A neigh trembled in the air, and Arkady's face crashed the cushion that had been distant just a moment ago.
The carriage had stopped.

The lieutenant opened his mouth, wanted to shout for his coachman, when said servant screamed:
"Oh in the name of god! Oh in the name of god! Saints, protect me!"

Arkady did not wait.
He grabbed the pistol next to him - he had loaded it in anticipation of attacking Circassians or Maharuls, the people of these mountains- and jumped out of the carriage. He rushed to his coachman.

The man sat there frozen in shock.
His face was white as virgin snow.
Arkady soon realised why - for it were not the living that awaited them, but the dead.

The corpse had not even started to rot yet.
Its pale eyes pierced Arkady just as the nails had pierced its now frozen flesh.
It was like a strange form of crucification, Arkady thought, as he looked at the dead man nailed to the burnt wood of the tree.
His hands and forehead were covered in dried blood were the iron had been driven through the body.
Only his clothes were not soaked in it- or at least one could not see it, for he wore the dark cloth of a Russian uniform.

"He is one of us", Arkady said and vomited until there was nothing left of his lunch.
He sucked in a breath and wiped his mouth, bile poisoning his throat, when his coachman already started rambling:
"Circassians! Surely, this is the Circassian's work! Godless people! Bandits! Murderers!"

A cry sounded in the woods.
Both men froze.
Then again, from the left. From the forest.
"Maybe someone needs help?", Arkady muttered.

"Master, please- Don't-", the servant cried, but the trembling Arkady had already started to move.
He was soon swallowed by the thicket. Twigs crunched beneath his boots.

Another whimper shook the air.
There! Red fabric between the trees, in this sea of grey and green.
He stepped closer and finally made out the silhouette of a man, lying on the ground.
He was wearing a read chokha.
A Circassian.
His hands were pressed on his stomach.
Beneath his ruby stained fingers, the fabric was darker.
Blood.
Lots of it.

As another twig splintered under Arkady, the Circassian's feverish glance shot upwards.
In just a moment, his arm had pulled a gun, aimed at Arkady and fired.
A shot rang through the air - and wood splintered. The bullet had not even come close.

Arkady crossed the distance and crouched next to the man.
"Did you kill him? The Russian soldier?", he simply demanded to know.
He had not asked him in Russian.

The sweaty face of the Circassian became pale. The olive color had left his cheeks.
"You- You speak our language. Ho- How? Why?"

Arkady did not answer.
He had always been able to speak. He had spoken entire sentences before he could take his first step. When Bessmertny had graced his wife's bastard son with a french teacher, the boy had mastered the language before the teacher had even sat down, just as the Circassian words now left his tongue effortlessly.

"Did you kill him?", he simply repeated.

The man jerked as he looked into Arkady's eyes.
He felt like they melted his skin. They were clearer than the water rushig from the mountain peaks after snowmelt.
And behind those forget-me-not eyes slumbered somethimg just as terrible as nature's wrath.
At once, the Circassian knew that he could not lie trapped under this ruthless glance.

"No", he choked with a faint voice. "No. He was dead when I came. Still warm, but dead."
He let out a cry as another jolt of pain rushed through his wound and limbs.

Arkady gulped.
"Who did this to you? The same that murdered the other one?"

The Circassian clutched Arkady's hand.
The officer did not let go, despite his skin being cold as ice.
"There is darkness", the Circassian gasped. "There is darkness. It came with the Russian invaders. But it is even more terrible than them. At least your lot bleeds red too."
The man coughed up blood.
"Help me", he wheezed with tears in his eyes. "Help me."

"I will", Arkady promised out of his heart. "I can bring you to the fortress. They will have a doctor there and- and-"
Only that they would never make it in time.
Only that the doctor might even refuse to treat the enemy.

"Tell me your name", Arkady pleaded out of a sudden urge. "Tell me, please."

"I'm- My name is- Please, tell my mistress-" The man could not finish his croaked words.
The hand in Arkady's grew limb.
The Circassian was dead.

Arkady did not know much about the burial rites of this man's people.
So he only did what he could.
He grabbed a shovel from the carriage -purposed for digging it out of the mud- and dug a shallow grave.
As he shut the man's eyes, he laid his feet facing south, towards Mecca.

He sighed and lifted his face to the fading sun.
As he looked up, he finally saw it, fortress Lovushka, its facades sunken in the slope of a mountain, high above him.
Dusk had painted its walls red.
They gleamed like blood in the drowning sun.

________

(4017/2000)  words in
...and already a body count of 3 :'D What a way to go