Сло́во - се́ребро, молча́ние - зо́лото
The dacha - single-stored, one roomed, little more than a hut, really - is falling down. Windows broken, door sagging on its hinges, shingles broken and missing on the roof. They'd always taken care of it, she and Aunt Katya and Uncle Grisha, even carving decorations. No running water, no electricity, but it is (was) a plot of land to call their own. Six sotoks of it, in fact.
Fira slides her gloved hands into her coat pockets and walks down the worn-out path, boots crunching against the snow.
Her grandfather gets to his feet.
She stops.
Dedushka-?
Wrong word; “freezes” is closer to the truth. She’s frozen in shock, because he’s here and he’s never been here, and she can smell snow and trees, feel the heaviness of her coat and the fabric of her clothes and this is real and he’s dead. Dead, dead, dead, because last she read of her world, it was 2010 and-
He raises an eyebrow, the expression somehow managing to encompass both her and the abandoned dacha behind him.
Fira stares back, expression now slightly cool, slightly defiant.
Dedushka waits.
I am twenty-seven, I am a lieutenant in the Soviet Air Force, I am a cosmonaut and a woman grown, I- she stops her mental protests with a sigh and obediently walks over. There are tools spread out on a plastic sheet, together with nails and screws and planks of wood. A ladder leans a wall, and while she acknowledges that none of these things were here before, she also ignores it. Protests and arguments and logic have no bearing on Dedushka (unless they are his own) and if he has decided that she needs to repair things, she will.
They start with the roof.
New shingles, each nail and hammered into place, and as they age differently to the rest, the roof will have a dappled, mismatched character that Fira likes despite herself. By the time they’ve finished the roof, her cheeks are flushed and she’s had to remove her great coat (all that time going up and down the ladder, fetching the things he’s pointed to and restocking their supplies). But the day is still young, and they still have work to do.
The door is next. Still in good condition, just need to fix the hinge. The windows are more problematic, given they have no glass. He looks at her and she shrugs back with a rueful little smile; they knock out the rest of the glass and install shutters. Inside…well, they carry out the broken furniture (what there is of it), and she sweeps the floor. Another glance at him, and he shakes his head slightly, gestures to her, and then walks out.
The inside is her job, and hers alone.
She can live with that.
When she steps outside, it takes a moment to find him, a moment where she can’t breathe and she opens her mouth to call out, but that’s when she sees him. Just up ahead, by the fence (fence, what fence? ). The old, broken fence, she discovers once she jogs over, and she isn’t surprised to find new planks and more nails waiting. And a shovel, given they have to replace some of the posts.
(Another jacket is taken off, and her fur hat)
It’s messy, muddy work, but at least the ground has thawed out, and it’s…it’s good, being outside and working like this. Simple work; hard work, but simple work, and Pavel Alexandrovich and his granddaughter have always worked well together. But when they are finished with the gate, Fira turns cold.
They are on opposite sides.
She’s on the inside, back to the dacha, and he’s on the outside, back to the trees and distantly viewed Volga river.
And the gate is shut.
Fira opens her mouth and she’s a cool character, cool and controlled, but there are tears pricking her eyes and fear strangling both words and breath.
He takes her small hand, slides off her glove, and guides her fingers to the latch.
No lock. It’s shut, but not locked.
Frowning now, she looks up at him. Dedushka nods and she follows his eyes back towards the half-repaired dacha. A moment’s pause, then she glances back at him, seeking confirmation.
Another nod and a softening of his face, and that’s all she’s needs to understand. She can open the gate once she’s ready.
She’s not ready yet and normally, she’s fine with that. She’s fought and fought to stay alive, stay grounded and here and herself, but now…Now she’s not ready to leave with him and she has tears spilling down her cheeks.
The knowledge hurts, but when her grandfather pulls her into a hug, it’s a thousand times worse. She’s missed this, oh, she has, and she wants to just howl with I want to go home I want my family I want to go home.
But she doesn’t.
He kisses her forehead and pulls back, and Fira even manages a smile. It’s an apology and a promise and a black humoured well, look at this all in one, but they’ve never needed words to understand each other. He smiles back, the same wide, flickering smile as hers, and turns away to walk back to the steppes and his farm.
She watches. She can feel the bed, feel the sheets, feel herself half awake and fights it, because she has to watch and she wants to stay and
Fira slides her gloved hands into her coat pockets and walks down the worn-out path, boots crunching against the snow.
Her grandfather gets to his feet.
She stops.
Dedushka-?
Wrong word; “freezes” is closer to the truth. She’s frozen in shock, because he’s here and he’s never been here, and she can smell snow and trees, feel the heaviness of her coat and the fabric of her clothes and this is real and he’s dead. Dead, dead, dead, because last she read of her world, it was 2010 and-
He raises an eyebrow, the expression somehow managing to encompass both her and the abandoned dacha behind him.
Fira stares back, expression now slightly cool, slightly defiant.
Dedushka waits.
I am twenty-seven, I am a lieutenant in the Soviet Air Force, I am a cosmonaut and a woman grown, I- she stops her mental protests with a sigh and obediently walks over. There are tools spread out on a plastic sheet, together with nails and screws and planks of wood. A ladder leans a wall, and while she acknowledges that none of these things were here before, she also ignores it. Protests and arguments and logic have no bearing on Dedushka (unless they are his own) and if he has decided that she needs to repair things, she will.
They start with the roof.
New shingles, each nail and hammered into place, and as they age differently to the rest, the roof will have a dappled, mismatched character that Fira likes despite herself. By the time they’ve finished the roof, her cheeks are flushed and she’s had to remove her great coat (all that time going up and down the ladder, fetching the things he’s pointed to and restocking their supplies). But the day is still young, and they still have work to do.
The door is next. Still in good condition, just need to fix the hinge. The windows are more problematic, given they have no glass. He looks at her and she shrugs back with a rueful little smile; they knock out the rest of the glass and install shutters. Inside…well, they carry out the broken furniture (what there is of it), and she sweeps the floor. Another glance at him, and he shakes his head slightly, gestures to her, and then walks out.
The inside is her job, and hers alone.
She can live with that.
When she steps outside, it takes a moment to find him, a moment where she can’t breathe and she opens her mouth to call out, but that’s when she sees him. Just up ahead, by the fence (fence, what fence? ). The old, broken fence, she discovers once she jogs over, and she isn’t surprised to find new planks and more nails waiting. And a shovel, given they have to replace some of the posts.
(Another jacket is taken off, and her fur hat)
It’s messy, muddy work, but at least the ground has thawed out, and it’s…it’s good, being outside and working like this. Simple work; hard work, but simple work, and Pavel Alexandrovich and his granddaughter have always worked well together. But when they are finished with the gate, Fira turns cold.
They are on opposite sides.
She’s on the inside, back to the dacha, and he’s on the outside, back to the trees and distantly viewed Volga river.
And the gate is shut.
Fira opens her mouth and she’s a cool character, cool and controlled, but there are tears pricking her eyes and fear strangling both words and breath.
He takes her small hand, slides off her glove, and guides her fingers to the latch.
No lock. It’s shut, but not locked.
Frowning now, she looks up at him. Dedushka nods and she follows his eyes back towards the half-repaired dacha. A moment’s pause, then she glances back at him, seeking confirmation.
Another nod and a softening of his face, and that’s all she’s needs to understand. She can open the gate once she’s ready.
She’s not ready yet and normally, she’s fine with that. She’s fought and fought to stay alive, stay grounded and here and herself, but now…Now she’s not ready to leave with him and she has tears spilling down her cheeks.
The knowledge hurts, but when her grandfather pulls her into a hug, it’s a thousand times worse. She’s missed this, oh, she has, and she wants to just howl with I want to go home I want my family I want to go home.
But she doesn’t.
He kisses her forehead and pulls back, and Fira even manages a smile. It’s an apology and a promise and a black humoured well, look at this all in one, but they’ve never needed words to understand each other. He smiles back, the same wide, flickering smile as hers, and turns away to walk back to the steppes and his farm.
She watches. She can feel the bed, feel the sheets, feel herself half awake and fights it, because she has to watch and she wants to stay and