Page 293 of Golden Eagle

Silence descended.

Other-Kolya got in some good feints with his knives, and Val overbalanced on his next step, nearly going down in a snowbank.

Nikita knew what he needed to say, though he felt terribly awkward about it. He was gathering breath when the Kolya beside him said, “So that’s my namesake, huh?”

Nikita blinked, surprised, and turned to him. It was one of things that hadn’t been discussed yet: Trina had explained about necromancy, which had left everyone but her grandmother – nodding sagely – more than a little goggle-eyed. But everyone had seemed to know not to approach Kolya. To give him space. He was staying in a spare bedroom at Trina’s parents’ house, sparring with anyone who was willing. Being his general quiet self. Hopefully regaining memories by the dozens…and not suffering too badly for it.

Nikita felt instantly guilty that he wasn’t making more of an effort to look after his old friend.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s him. I always knew she had a soft spot for him – when I found out what your name was, that confirmed it.”

“Hm. Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me?”

“That I’m named after him, and not you?” His face was lined and creased with age, but the sharp blue eyes missed nothing, Nik knew, looking into them. His eyes. Same as Steve and Trina. The color of winter, cold and inscrutable most of the time. Openly curious, now.

He shrugged. “No.” That was the truth. “There’s nothing special about my name. And after I…left. I didn’t deserve the honor.” He nodded down to the Kolya he’d grown up with. “He did, though.”

They watched the action a moment.

Val disarmed Kolya, who conceded the match with a quick duck of his head. Val bowed in return.

“I asked her once,” Kolya Baskin said. “Why him and not you to be named after.”

That surprised Nik. “Really?”

“She said, ‘You carry forward the names of the dead, so you don’t forget them. The living don’t need to be memorialized yet.’”

“Also, she probably hated me.”

“No, no,” Kolya said, without hesitation. When Nik glanced his way, he was smiling. “She knew. She never said it out bold as you please: itwasthe fifties, you know. But whenever I asked if she was worried about you, out there, somewhere, she always got this look, an inward smile, sort of, and she said you were okay, because you had Sasha. She said you two were ‘supposed to be together.’ She was glad, Nik.”

Nikita had a lump in his throat, suddenly. “It wasn’t fair, what I did to her.”

“Nothing that happened that winter was fair – not to anyone. She understood. She loved, and was loved. She was happy. She just wantedyouto be happy, too.”

Nikita’s cigarette had burned down to nothing, and was scorching his fingertips. He dropped it into the snow and knotted his fingers together, trying to swallow. “Thank you.” It was an effort to make eye contact, but he did it. He owed this man – this boy,hisboy – that much, at the very least. “For saying that. And for – and for being kind. To Sasha. He – he means a great deal to me.” If he said it any less formally, he’d break down. He knew it. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, and tried to take small breaths in through his nose. “I don’t know if – what I’d do if–”

“Nik.” Kolya smiled at him, a smile full of such understanding it was nearly Nik’s final undoing. All he said was, “Of course.” And that was more than enough.

~*~

Sasha dozed a little, but lingering in bed after sunrise alone was far less enjoyable than lingering in bed with one’s mate. He finally gritted his teeth, flung the blankets off, and all but ran to the tiny bathroom. The shower stall was barely big enough to turn around in, but the water was blessedly hot. When he was pink and prune-fingered, he dressed in warm things, combed his hair, and tied it back in a bun. He’d thought of cutting it recently, but Nik liked running his fingers through it – and the drag of blunt nails on his scalp was delicious, so he figured he’d let it grow and see how long it got before he couldn’t stand it anymore.

Nikita returned, bearing breakfast in a hamper: bacon and eggs and hot coffee in a thermos.

“I was going to walk down to the house,” Sasha protested, mouth already watering.

“Rachel fixed us a basket, though.”

They sat on the made-up bed, cross-legged, and ate while they watched the morning news. Boring local stories about tonight’s Halloween parade in town, and a special segment on trick-or-treating safety. In their first few days here, there had been stories about the fire in Queens, the one barely contained in time to save the neighboring buildings. Sasha had felt guilty for endangering innocent civilians – but seeing the Institute ablaze had been deeply satisfying.

Outside their windows, he could hear birds calling, and someone operating a chainsaw somewhere deep in the forest; the occasional thump of snow that had slid off a branch. No cars, no traffic, no horns nor sirens nor blasting radios.

It reminded him of home. The home he’d known, and left, so many decades ago.

“I like it here,” he said, licking bacon grease off his fingers.

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