YAGA | ✓

NINE

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THE PAINTINGS GLARED DOWN AT THEM through humourless dark eyes that resembled nothing short of the cosmos, endless voids. Dimitri couldn't help but feel as if the one behind him, the haughty oil of his grandfather, was watching him. It was like a child's game, waiting to turn around at an unsuspecting time and catch him.

The men were drinking rakia, beer too light for their tastes and vodka shipments too expensive. They must've torn up their cellars, for the winter chill had forbidden them from farming. A full glass sat demurely on the table in front of him, waiting to be drunk. It was not.

He wondered how many other people were feeling the same - feeling the grief that trembled into his core, that rattled his bones and froze his heart.

Sixteen of the forty days of mourning had passed, and he felt as numb inside as he had on the first day. Yelena had retreated into her room, the only sound escaping from that pit the breaking of glasses. What would she even be drinking?

It couldn't be wine, and water meant that they would be paying handsomely. Sitting back in his seat, Dimitri sighed, realising that he didn't know how to pay the bills. His father had been the breadwinner.

Swallowing, he refocused his attention to the conversation. Radko was sitting the closest to the door, his tanned skin glowing orange in the firelight. Instantly, regrettably, Dimitri found himself thinking of Yaga. Every moment, it felt as if she would just turn around and be there, whether it was a glimpse of amber hair or porcelain skin.

Next to Radko, Sergei was hastily gulping down rakia, rubbing his tired dark eyes. Hastily conversing about what should be done about the witch hunt, the two young men were indignant even in their moderately intoxicated state.

"Find her and burn her!" they roared, evidently having prepared their simultaneous war cries. The older men peered at them out of the sides of their eyes, ashamed of their fellow villagers. Out of everyone, Amrei was the quietest, running his fingers over and over his furs anxiously.

He'd always been somewhat of an outsider, being from the capital, especially his mother, a proper city woman in her finery. Apart from their accents, it was their lack of strong religious pull that made the villagers uneasy -- in a town so dominated by the gods, it was difficult to find someone who didn't share that zealousness.

Amrei never spoke about his beliefs, but since Dimitri had never seen him in the tsarkva, it wasn't too much of a gander to think that he worshipped a foreign god, or perhaps none at all. Now, he returned Dimitri's gaze, dark eyes spilling like ink into even darker lashes.

Dimitri sighed, standing up. Once, twice, he banged his fist on the table, calling the men to order. In the doorway, Lilyana watched, Nadia paling next to her. Their arms were linked, a grey shawl mingled with hazelnut-brown fur. He noticed that they were Izev tailor-made.

"Noblemen," he addressed those seated. Behind him, Nadia cleared her throat. "And women," he added dejectedly. The ghost of a smile spread across her apple-round cheeks.

Continuing on, "Sixteen days ago, Yaga Izeva was discovered practising witchcraft. Village laws, as decided by the chief priest, dictate that those caught doing so should be burnt at the stake. However, her—," he paused, choking out the word, "power - enabled her to escape. Trees fell down in patterns not dictated by nature. This was no accident."

For a moment, Amrei looked as if he wanted to say something, but whatever it was, he swallowed it, jaw clenched.

"In the midst of the chaos, five were killed. Their names were..." he gazed down at the paper beneath his fingertips, ink smeared with tears, fat droplets leaving dark patches on the yellowed note. Dimitri heaved a breath. "Ivan Sorenov. Mikhail Dosyachev. Nina Lineska. Vasily Lineski. Anatole Frenakov."

At the mention of Anatole's name, Amrei stiffened. His pupils were dilated, in mixture of terror and rage. Apparently he hadn't been notified of his brother's body being found. It had been a gruesome discovery, too, rotting away in the undergrowth. Dimitri shivered at the thought.

Instinctively, he reached out. Trained fingers ran along matted fur, and Amrei's eyes locked on his. They both exhaled, Dimitri patting his shoulder in a weak attempt to console him. The table slowly became silent.

"Tomorrow, we rise. Gather your weapons, gentlemen, anything you need for a long time in the forest. This could take mere hours, or months."

With the unwillingness on the men's faces, Dimitri had to think. Fast. So he drew his calling card - their disdain for the emperor. A smirk tugged at his lips as he announced, "Witchhunters from the capital are going to catch wind of this if we don't act. Is that what you want? To kneel before the Emperor that has abandoned us?"

Murmurs arose from the din, and Radko stood up, shaking his fist. His voice was loud, words slurred, a glass of rakia clutched in his hand. Nevertheless, he was the best form of support Dimitri had, so he smiled as Radko shouted about revenge. When he'd finished, Constantin, a farmer who'd been living on the outskirts of town for as long as anyone could remember, stood.

Almost at once, the older men's faces were wiped of their sour expressions, already looking far less condescending than before. Constantin rested his palms on the tabletop, his broad shoulders even more huge and hulking with furs heaped over them.

"What Dimitri says is true. Sorenov, may we adjourn the meeting? We do need to prepare, after all."

Nadia piped up, "I'll tell the priests to do the witch hunting ritual."

"Very well, Nadia. Go ahead." Constantin rubbed his forehead with his palm. "Saints help us."

•••

ONCE THE MEN HAD ALL LEFT, only Dimitri and Constantin were left in the room. For what seemed like forever, they sat, silent in their lost thoughts. Every moment felt as if they were drifting further away from reality, like a carriage ride to nowhere.

Dimitri stared up at the portraits lining the walls. Some were old, illustrating his great-grandfather in his former glory - gently rippling chestnut hair framing his sharp jaw, all slanted cheekbones and almond eyes. His eyes were bottomless pits, black water deep enough to disappear in.

The most haunting was that of himself. His mother had forced him to sit for hours upon hours, all while a mousy man scratched away at his canvas. He remembered how his back and neck had ached after sitting down for so long.

The artist had painted him in a startling outlook, grittier and sharper than what Dimitri saw in the mirror. He was sitting in a chair, elbows on his knees and finger intertwined. A vision of ragged youth, young and free. But he wasn't, was he?

He'd drank poison and felt its effects.

He'd fallen so deep that there was no clawing his way out.

Disregarding the rules of mourning, he took a long gulp of rakia. It left a burning trail down his throat, hard to swallow. From across the table, Constantin regarded him frostily. The older man was a fervent man, zealous in his beliefs. Somehow, he still managed to be a heretic in the most unconventional ways.

To put it simply, Constantin was like a venom that you only realised when it was moments away from killing you. A wolf in farmer's overalls and muddy boots.

His look was of pure flame.

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