Dmitry Matteovich Adoratsky spent the two days between the dinner with Leonid and receiving the invitation running about the city in hopes of subduing the masses who were desperate to see his “God”. People crowded at the gates to Leonid’s manor, even at the door to the house of their false prophet (much to the dismay of Dmitry’s housekeeper, who frequently begged him to banish the trespassers). The city had overdosed on their hope for salvation—- people quit their jobs to have time to search for Kuznetsov; they sold their possessions for food to eat as they had no income. Many survived just in the hopes of seeing their savior, as if by only touching his pant leg, they would be saved. Many of these believers were poor or deathly ill, but a good portion of them were perfectly healthy on their own, with no need for a fantastical savior. Dmitry’s attempts to soothe the people only seemed to strengthen their determination. Moreover, he found himself staring up at his ceiling in bed with a furrowed brow, his thoughts revolving around the silent Leonid Romanovich. For the first time in a very long time, perhaps for the first time ever, Dmitry Matteovich was worried about someone other than himself. Had Leonid given up their friendship? Was he gravely injured after the incident in town? Dmitry did not know, and it haunted him. By the stroke of midnight, Adoratsky resigned himself to the knowledge that he would not sleep. Intending to get up and make himself useful by sending out a few important letters— again with the goal of quieting the fanaticism of the public—he straightened into a seated position. He expected only to see his opposite wall as he did so, a dull gray color in the darkness of the room, but instead his eyes fell upon a new apparition. The shape of this deity was all he could make out, for his pupils had constricted dramatically to combat the sudden brightness that filled his room. The walls, constructed of solid red brick and covered by hand-drawn charts and diagrams of various organisms Leonid had given to him on earlier meetings, were bathed at once in brilliant white-gold light. Dmitry could hardly make out the silhouette, but by a great deal of painful squinting, he determined this figure had broad shoulders, a tall stature, and was built lithely. “Be not afraid,” the figure spoke, though its voice was distorted and strange to the ears of the serpent, who was not in the slightest afraid to begin with. “Who are you?” Matteovich demanded of the deity. Though he cowered and squinted his eyes in the brilliance of the intruder, he spoke with the self-assuredness and arrogance of a human man. “I have no name,” said the deity, “but you may call me Messenger, for it is my purpose to be the tongue of God.” “Speak, then, or leave me to rest.” “You horrible creature! All your life you have crawled on your belly and ate the dust of the streets, you scoundrel, cursed are you above all others in Russia. Yet still you manage to infect the mind of the young mister Kuznetsov, who himself is a righteous man. You have cast a spell of your own upon him, and thus, I must reveal to you the plans of God that have been shrouded in shadows. “The man, Leonid Romanovich Kuznetsov, who has been so devoted to you in recent days, was once married to a young lady of similar status by the name of Asiya Mikhailovna Kuznetzov. God saw, however, that it was her time to join with Him in Heaven, and so He plagued her with an illness incurable to any mortal doctor— incurable, even, to the prince Leonid himself, his atypical ability notwithstanding. Leonid saw the death of his wife as a cruel murder, and it drove him away from God and into the shadow of ambition and desperation where he would, in some short time, make your unfortunate acquaintance. “Every moment he could muster the strength, he devoted himself to the study of biology, in some delusional attempt at resurrecting Asiya. He keeps her body now in his laboratory, where he attempts every night to lift the veil of death from her face, though I doubt he has trusted even you with such an intimate secret.
“I come to you now and speak these words to you, not because I believe you to be a benevolent man— in fact, I am certain the heart within you is that of a demon, should you have a heart at all— but rather because you are the only one who Kuznetsov would open the door to now, in these final moments of his.” “Final moments?” Dmitry questioned, beginning to grow worried. “The prince has convinced himself now that in the sacrifice of his life, he might bring back his lost lover,” the deity explained, with a continued monotony, as if it resided singularly above emotion. Dmitry Matteovich pursed his lips with unease. “Go yourself to him and tell him he is a fool. What does this have to do with me?” Adoratsky averted his eyes from the shining figure to relieve himself of the strain, instead watching the beams of light dance on the parchment paper adhered to his walls. “You care deeply for the young man yourself.” “I am no angel.” “If God worked only with angels, humanity would be lost.” Dmitry considered this. He did not want to submit to the will of this figure— in fact, he had decided from the moment it entered that he despised it with all his heart, and whoever it was working for by proxy. Why was he fated to be a terrible monster while Leonid was the pride of God? Did he not always do what he had to to survive, just as every other man did? Though this spite lingered within him, he did not doubt for a moment that he would go at once to Leonid and ensure his safety. “What shall I do, then, to protect him from his own blessed hands?” Adoratsky asked guardedly. The deity quickly detailed its instructions for Dmitry, who listened with a solemn expression. “You will go to him tonight— make haste! Do not stop to knock on his door, for he will have left it unlocked with the hope of your arrival. Kuznetsov is aloof, but he is sentimental. Go straight down the hallway, descend the staircase into the laboratory, where I presume you will meet him and his deceased darling. Do not tell him it was I who sent you, tell him you have prophesied of your own accord the fate that will befall him should he so foolishly take his own life in the pursuit of some macabre dream. You must tell him, also, that you care deeply for him— that in itself will be enough to cause a crack in his certainty to his fate.” And so was the prophecy that was given, somewhat forcibly, to Dmitry Matteovich Adoratsky, who was plunged again into darkness when the deity vanished from sight. As he was instructed, he hastened to put on his shoes— not pausing for so much as a jacket— and was soon running down the shadowed street in the direction of the prince’s distant manor. ---- > Chapter 5/8 > Next: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1258330310 > Notes - its getting real guys!! this one is very heavily religious so sorry about that
