The evening drummed heavy drops on the roof, as if the sky had opened into dark clouds and was pouring out anger in torrents. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, muffled but insistent, like a huge beast roaming around the hut and sniffing the walls. The wood creaked in the wind, the black logs soaking wet, but inside, against all odds, there was a tiny island of peace.
The flames in the hearth were devouring the kindling, crackling with tongues, playing with reflections on the sooty logs. The fire was alive - changing, restless, but pliable to Sofya's hands. She tossed dry twigs, gently, almost lovingly, and the fire responded with a flaring warmth. The reflections danced on her face, making the shadows ripple on her cheekbones, in the corners of her eyes, where the traces of tears had not yet dried.
The rain pounded the window with wet fists, but the glass, cloudy and uneven, stoically held its defense. Behind it the world raged - cold, wet, uncomfortable. And here, in this cramped corner by the hearth, was its own special time. A time where the pain went away like frost melting on a hot stone.
Plissiades was sitting nearby, her figure seeming carved out of blue shadows. Only occasionally did the firelight reveal her profile, broken but perfect, as if carved from dark marble. The angel's wing, wrapped in thick bandages, lay motionless, only occasionally shuddering at the distant thunder. Her eyes, deep and clear as spring ice before melting, were fixed on the flame - but somewhere in their depths were thoughts far from this fire, this hut, this world.
Sofya sighed deeply and pressed her knees to her chest. Her body, which had recently been compressed into one tight knot of pain, was now gradually releasing. The heat from the fire enveloped her like a warm blanket, washing away the residue of fear that had been scraping beneath her skin. She closed her eyes, and through her eyelids she could feel not only the warmth but also the quiet presence of the man who sat beside her.
The sound of the rain outside the window became a muffled hum, as if nature itself was holding its breath in anticipation of something important. The flames in the hearth flickered, casting fanciful shadows on the log walls, when her voice, crystal-clear and fragile, like the first ice on an autumn river, cut through the dense silence.
"Sophia..."
The name sounded as if it had traveled long through the starry abysses, through centuries of silence, before it came off her lips.
The girl slowly raised her eyes from the fire, and her breath caught in her chest. In the semi-darkness of the hut Plissiades' eyes had glowed with a mysterious violet glow - deep as cosmic abysses, but now they read something new, something that Sophia had never seen in this heavenly creature before.
"I'm here," the girl whispered, and her voice was as warm as a wool blanket in the winter cold.
Plissiades took a small, almost imperceptible breath, the first sign of uncertainty in their entire acquaintance. Her fingers clutched the folds of her garment, white as the first snow, as she picked at her words, unaccustomedly earthy, unaccustomedly human.
"I... need your help. You..." - her voice trembled like the finest string, "Could you help me again?"
Sofya felt something turn inside her. For the first time ever, Plissiadis had uttered not an order, not a directive, but a request - a real, sincere request with that tremor in her voice that only those who, for the first time in years, dare to ask for something important have.
The fire in the hearth flared brighter, illuminating the girl's face, which was a mixture of amazement, tenderness, and some new responsibility not yet fully realized.
"I'll help," Sophia answered simply, but in those two words was all the hardness of the earth, all the loyalty of roots embedded deep in the native soil.
And then something amazing happened. The corners of Plissiadis's lips quivered, trying to form into something that could be a smile - a shy, uncertain smile, the first in many years. The mirrored depths of her eyes reflected the flames of the fire, Sophia's face, and something else - a distant memory or perhaps a glimmer of new hope.
But at that moment there was only a perfect moment of triumph for Plissiades. As the raindrops beat a mysterious rhythm on the window shutters, and the fire in the hearth drew trembling shadows on her face, she played her part with the mathematical precision of a virtuoso.
Sophia's every tear, her every breath, became notes in this carefully planned symphony of manipulation. Plissiades let her voice tremble slightly - just slightly, just enough to arouse the protective instinct in a person. Her eyes, normally as cold as glacial lakes, were deliberately filled with a warm light, a reflection of flame, but only to the uninitiated would it seem a light of trust.
"How easy," her mind raced as she feigned a touching uncertainty. Her fingers lightly tugged at the edge of the garment, a deliberately calculated gesture of weakness.
When Sophia said, "I'll help you," Plissiades felt the sweet chill of victory flowing through her veins. A spark of triumph flashed in the depths of her violet eyes, momentarily extinguished by a skillfully contrived gratitude.
The rain outside the window intensified, the wind howled through the cracks, but nothing could drown out the exultant voice in her mind: "Caught in the net, my little moth. Now all that remained was to gently tighten the invisible threads, turning sincere devotion into blind worship. The first step toward total submission had been taken.
The silence in the hut thickened, broken only by the crackling of wood in the hearth. Plissiades turned her head slowly toward the small window, where raindrops slid down the cloudy glass, distorting the world beyond.
"Sofya..." - her voice sounded like a whisper in the autumn wind, - "Yesterday... behind this glass I saw a scene that I can't stop thinking about. An old man who was thrown out into the street like an unwanted rag. Who is he?"
Sophia shuddered, her fingers involuntarily clutching the edge of her apron. Her eyes reluctantly followed Plissiades' gaze to the window pane, where the glass was covered with fanciful rain patterns.
"Trofim..." - she exhaled, and the name sounded like a sentence. - "Katya's husband who lives across the yard..."
The pause hung thick. The girl ran her palm over her face, as if erasing unpleasant memories.
"After me... after that meeting at the well... he started to get sick." Her voice trembled, growing thinner. "Just weakness at first. Then... a strange rash. As if the earth itself had rejected him..."
Plissiades tilted her head slightly, violet eyes narrowed with the curiosity of a scientist examining an interesting specimen. "And no one tried to help?" Her question sounded soft, but there was a sense of steel in it.
Sophia grinned bitterly: "There is no cure. And who would risk it? This disease... it's been following us like a shadow for years. Those who are touched by it - they'll die slowly. Katya said their hut is small, and the old man has become... uncomfortable."
The last word hung in the air, heavy and merciless. Outside the window, the wind suddenly hit the shutters, as if an invisible hand were trying to penetrate them. The flames in the hearth rose higher, illuminating Plissiades's face for a moment, a strange understanding in her eyes, mixed with something Sofya could not recognize.
"How... interesting..." - The celestial guest whispered, and her voice was like the rustling pages of an ancient book of wisdom. Her fingers clenched involuntarily, as if catching invisible threads of fate.
Sophia did not know that at that moment a new plan was already forming in her guest's mind. The old disease, hopelessness, fear... What wonderful leverage over this pitiful human nest... And what a fortunate coincidence that it was after her arrival that the disease manifested itself with renewed vigor.
But outwardly Plissiades only bowed her head in a semblance of sympathy: "How cruel this world is..." - she said, and somewhere in the depths of her bottomless eyes there was a spark of something far more terrible than mere cruelty.
Plissiades' voice rang out in the half-darkness of the hut like a silver bell trembling before breaking. "Sophia..." - she called, and the very sound of the name in her mouth seemed like an incantation. The girl stirred, tearing her gaze away from the pattern of flames in the hearth. The angel's violet eyes caught her gaze and would not let go, like a web of starlight. "Can you find him and bring him to me? But before you do..." The pause stretched so long that Sophia had time to feel a cold stream of foreboding run down her back. "Cover your eyes with the cloth."
The words hung in the air, dense and irrelevant, like a stone on the surface of a lake. Sophia felt her throat constrict and her fingers clawed involuntarily at the rough fabric of her apron. Her lips had already opened for a question, but Plissiades was quicker - the angel's slender hand rose in a warning gesture. "I'll cure him," she said, and in those words came the full force of heavenly conviction.
Sophia's heart made a strange movement-simultaneously contracting with fear and expanding with sudden hope. Could she have doubted it? This frail-looking woman spoke with the authority of ancient tablets, her promises smelled of the sacred incense of truth. Faith rushed to Sophia's temples in a hot wave, washing away caution. "I'll be there soon," she exhaled, already pulling on the worn hood that was supposed to protect her from the fury of the elements.
As Sofya opened the door, the storm roared into the hut, whips of water whipping across the floor and the wind tearing the hearth flames to shreds. A brief glance back-the last spark of sanity-and then she was stepping into the wet darkness, taking her blind trust with her and leaving behind her only the quiet slam of the slamming door.
A shadow of contentment slid across Plissiades' face as the hut fell silent again, broken only by the crackling of the fire that had been suppressed by the weather. Her fingers froze in a strange gesture, either a blessing or the beginning of an elaborate ritual. Outside the window, the storm howled a victory song, but the angel was no longer listening to it - her whole being was focused on the coming moment, when a new human grief would fall under her divine fingers to become another instrument of conquest. Raindrops pounded on the roof, a funeral march for someone's old life and a lullaby for someone's new faith.
The cold had entered the hut before them - an icy whirlwind tore the door from Sophia's weakened fingers, bringing with it the smell of wet earth and death sweat. In the doorway, clothed with rain streams, stood they: the girl, breathing intermittently from exertion, and her wretched burden, Trofim, whose body sagged on her shoulder like a sack of rotten apples. The bandage over his eyes had already absorbed the rain and the yellowish discharge - the oozing truth of the disease.
"My God, he's quite..." - Sophia began, but then the old man coughed spasmodically, and she gave in to this convulsive movement, releasing him from her embrace. Trofim collapsed to the floor with a soft slap of wet cloth, his bones clattering clearly against the rough boards. His body arched in an unnatural bow of death - pale, with gray patches under his skin, his belly drawn up to his spine, and his arms like fallen branches.
Plissiades did not move. She was half-lying in the corner where the shadows of the burning hearth wove patterns on the walls, her fingers stroking the broken feathers slowly, with an almost sensual pleasure. Her gaze slid over her guest, not with the compassion of a healer, but with the cold interest of a scientist examining a rare but much-seen specimen.
"Close the door," she said, and her voice sounded as steady as if roses were blooming in the hut instead of a dying man lying there. Sofya rushed to do it, her body moving automatically while her mind clung to the last crumbs of faith - if the angel had agreed to help, then everything was not in vain, right?
When the creak of the door cut them off from the raging night, Trofim groaned. It was a wet, muffling sound that made Sofya shudder. She saw a puddle spreading on the floor: at first just rainwater, but then... pinkish, with viscous threads. "He's... he's..." - Her tongue refused to finish the obvious.
Plissiades' voice cut through the heavy silence as she spoke her instructions. Sophia, with trembling hands, began to follow the orders as if mesmerized. Her fingers, rough from work, but gentle in their movements, slowly pulled Trofim's wet clothes off. Each piece of cloth came off with difficulty, as if the old man's body had already begun to merge with the rags that had once been his shirt.
When the last flap fell to the floor, Sophia barely restrained a cry of horror. Trofim's body was mangled, disfigured by the disease - black, putrid sores covered the skin like gaping mouths from which thin, writhing black worms protruded. They moved in time with the old man's rare breathing, as if they were feasting on a still living body. Sofya felt goosebumps running down her spine and nausea rising in her throat. But she clenched her teeth and, overcoming her disgust, turned the old man's frail body belly up, laying it on Plissiades' mangled legs.
Angel wince at the touch of dead-cold skin, but she pulled herself together. Her eyes, cold and calculating, slid to the shelf where the herbs lay.
"A stupa of water," she reminded, and Sophia, with a hasty nod, rushed to comply. The water in the wooden stupa was crystal clear, but it seemed that even it trembled at what was about to happen.
Plissiades gave Sophia a look - sharp as a blade - and added: "Turn away." Though her heart clenched with curiosity and fear, she obeyed, clamping her eyes tightly shut, as if afraid that even the slightest glance of furtiveness would turn into a curse.
There was a quiet sound behind her, sharp yet surprisingly melodic, as if the finest glass cracked beneath the stretched silk. It was Plissiades' teeth piercing through her own skin. A drop of blood-not red, but dazzling white, like the first snow glistening in the firelight-fell into the water. The water bubbled for a moment, but immediately calmed, and the blood dissolved without a trace.
Plissiades quickly added herbs - mint, thyme, some oak bark - anything that might mask the true nature of what had just mixed with the water. The scent of the herbs wafted through the hut, overpowering the odor of rotting flesh, but not completely.
"Now, give him this to drink," Plissiades said, holding out the mortar to Sophia.
The girl, still trembling, took the vessel and, overcoming the trembling in her hands, lifted Trofim's head. His lips were already blue and his skin was tinged with lead, but when the first drop of moisture touched his mouth, something in him twitched. He didn't wake, didn't moan-but it was as if the very darkness inside him shuddered.
Sofya slowly poured the rest down his throat, not daring to ask what exactly she had just given the dying old man. The herbal water was outwardly harmless, but a cold dread ran through her veins, as if she had just become a participant in something ancient, incomprehensible, and frighteningly powerful.
Angel watched, her eyes narrowed and her lips folded into a thin smile - unkind, but satisfied.
"Now wait," she whispered.
And Sofya waited. There was silence in the hut again, broken only by the crackling of wood and Trofim's rare, hoarse breathing.
The sound the worms made could not be called earthly, something between a child's cry and the scraping of metal against glass. They wriggled in agony, crawling out of Trofim's sores and falling to the floor, where they immediately began to smoke as if scorched by an invisible flame. The old man's body shuddered convulsively, his limbs convulsed, and his breathing turned into ragged, hoarse sighs, as if torn from the depths by an invisible force.
Sophia stood with her hands clutching at the edges of her clothes, her eyes wide with horror and a strange fascination with the nightmare. Her nostrils flared with the stench of rotting flesh and something else - acrid, sour, like burnt honey. She could see the old man's flesh moving beneath the skin, where the parasites still lingered, and it was mesmerizing in spite of its disgust.
But Plissiades watched with a very different expression. Her thin eyebrows moved slightly as she noticed that the process was not going as it should. Something was escaping her inner gaze, some important detail... And suddenly her eyes flashed with understanding. "I see, that's how it is," she murmured, her voice sounding something between annoyance and the satisfaction of a scientist who had uncovered a hoax.
Before Sofya could realize the angel's intentions, she raised her hand sharply and, making her palm as hard as a blade, thrust it straight into Trofim's trembling belly. There was a wet sound of tearing flesh, and Sophia cried out, instinctively taking a step forward, but Plissiades' icy gaze stopped her where she stood. It was a clear warning: "Do not interfere.
When Plissiades withdrew her hand, her fingers clutched a ball of worms, dozens of writhing bodies intertwined in a strange pattern. But at the center of this hideous ball was something else - a larger, throbbing creature with translucent skin through which thousands of tiny eggs shone through. "Pathetic queen," the angel said with contempt, clenching her fist. There was a sickening squelching sound as the creature burst, spewing a viscous liquid that Plissiades shook off to the floor in disgust.
"Water and any rag," she demanded, and Sofya, still trembling, handed her a bucket and a piece of clean cloth. While Plissiades methodically wiped the bloodshed from her hands, Sophia could not take her eyes off Trofim. His stomach was now gaping with a laceration, but even more strangely, blood was no longer oozing from it. The edges of the wound began to move, slowly pulling together, as if invisible threads were stitching the flesh together from the inside.
Meanwhile, the last of the worms had left the old man's body, and their dead bodies covered the floor around him, forming a black, smoking circle. The air was filled with the smell of burning flesh and something else-a sweet, almost pleasant aroma that contrasted strangely with the surrounding nightmare. Plissiades, having finished cleaning her hands, leaned back, her wings trembling slightly with exertion and her eyes filled with fatigue mixed with satisfaction.
"Is he... is he going to die?" - Sophia whispered, unable to restrain the question any longer. Her voice trembled like a reed in the wind.
Plissiades turned her head toward her, and there was a strange mixture of contempt and condescension in her gaze. "Death has already let him go," she replied, and there was a strange confidence in her voice. - But what it will take in return is the question."
At that moment Trofim suddenly sighed - deeply, fully, like a man awakening from a long sleep. His eyelids fluttered, and his fingers moved slightly. Even the color of his skin seemed to have changed, the gray hue giving way to a pale but healthier appearance. But the strangest thing was the expression on his face. Even without opening his eyes, he looked... calm. Almost peaceful, as if he'd gotten rid of the nightmare that had been tormenting him.
Sofya didn't know whether to be glad or afraid. What had just happened was beyond comprehension. Angel blood, parasitic worms, this... this "king" among them - all of it told her that the world was far more complicated than she could have imagined. And Plissiades... She glanced furtively at the angel and saw her watching Trofim with the same cold, analytical gaze with which a scientist watches a successful experiment.
When Trophim moved, his fingers immediately reached for the blindfold - trembling, weak, but relentless in their desire to break through to the light. His palm never touched the cloth. Plissiades intercepted the movement with one sharp gesture, her fingers closing around his wrist with cold, undeniable authority. The old man froze, realizing instinctively that resistance was futile.
- Am I in heaven? - His voice sounded hoarse, but more confident than before, as if his lungs were truly cleansed of the filth that had been eating them from the inside. - Why is Heaven so dark... And why do I breathe so easily?
Plissiades unclenched her fingers slowly, satisfied that he was submissive, but did not answer immediately. A shadow of irritation flashed in her eyes, cold and unfathomable - displeasure at his stupid questions, his naive belief in paradise. She could have told the truth. She could have whispered in his ear: "This isn't heaven. This is the real purgatory, and you've become a pawn in a game that outgrew you long ago." But instead, her lips twitched in the semblance of a smile-tiny, artificial, but convincing enough for the weak human heart.
- I healed you. - She said it quietly, almost in a whisper, but each word seemed carved in stone. - You will feel no more pain.
Her voice was soft as silk, but underneath it was steel. Trofim took a deep breath, his lips stretched into a blissful smile, as if he really believed he had touched grace.
- It's a miracle..." he murmured. - It's so good... It's so peaceful... I've never felt like this before..." He was silent, as if listening to his own body, to the lightness in his chest, to the absence of the usual oppression of illness. But then he spoke again, with a note of anxiety: "Why, then, may I ask, Your Holiness, are my eyes closed? Let me see the face of you, my savior.
Silence. Tight as a bowstring before a shot is fired.
Sophia, who had been standing in the shadows, froze-she could feel the air around Plissiades thickening, turning into an icy shroud. She saw the angel's fingers clench slightly-not into a fist, but a warning.
- No. The word dropped like a stone. - Or I'll kill you right here in my lap.
Trofim shuddered, not from fear, but rather from surprise, as if someone had suddenly poured ice-cold water down his neck. He did not yet realize how deep his "healing" had gone, but he instinctively felt threatened.
And that's when Sophia stepped forward.
- There's no need, Grandfather Trofim. - She spoke quickly, almost hurriedly, trying to smooth over Plissiades' harshness. - She's kind... Please do as she says.
Her voice trembled, but it had that warm, earthy sincerity that couldn't be faked.
Trofim fell silent, his face suddenly brightening.
- Sofka! - He shone, and a real joy suddenly broke through in his voice. - Granddaughter... How glad I am to hear your voice in this pitch darkness!
Sofya felt her heart clench painfully. He called her "granddaughter"-though she was not his own, but in this village everyone had long been family, though not by blood.
- All right, darling," Trofim sighed, but this time calmly, almost resignedly. - I've known you, a kind soul, since you were in diapers... I'll listen.
He was silent, as if dissolved into silence, and only his fingers tapped lightly on the floor, a light, meaningless rhythm, as if he still didn't believe he was alive.
Sophia looked at Plissiades.
Angel didn't look at her. He was staring off into the distance, as if he'd already seen the old man's future and didn't see anything good in it.
The air in the hut was suddenly still, as if life held its breath, waiting for an answer. Plissiades slowly straightened up, her figure, illuminated by the dying flames of the hearth, casting a huge wavering shadow on the wall. "But your salvation is not given for nothing, Grandfather Trophimus," came her cold declaration, and the words fell like icy shards crashing to the earthen floor.
The old man froze, his fingers unconsciously clutching the edge of the blanket, but his expression remained calm-it was the face of a man long past pain and fear. "Anything, anything I can, Your Holiness," he answered, and his voice, hoarse with illness, now sounded remarkably steady, as if his very breath had obeyed the angel's will.
Plissiades leaned toward him, her breath as cool as a light winter wind. "Then give me your future," she said, and there was no cruelty or pity in her voice-just a cold assertion of fact. Sophia, standing aside, involuntarily brought her palm to her lips, but dared not interfere. Her eyes reflected the understanding that this "payment" was neither money nor labor, but something much more important.
Trofim was silent for a long time. His hands, which lay over the blanket, trembled slightly, but when he finally answered, his voice was firm: "You take not only tomorrow. You take all the tomorrows that could have been." To which Plissiades only tilted her head slightly, "And what were you going to do with them but suffer?"