Chapter Text
"On that day the Lord with his hard and great and strong sword will punish Leviathan the fleeing serpent, Leviathan the twisting serpent, and he will slay the dragon that is in the sea." - Isaiah 27:1.
Something in that quote might have been able to shake Raskolnikov's whole body, if he had actually read it alone among other books, in the bookcases of an old library, or a church building; such magnificent places that were owned by humans. A group that Raskolnikov would never be able to reach, no matter how much he could touch the coastline that divided their two worlds. Which neither group could truly touch each other.
Conflict and Favorance within one's own race were not surprising; all sentient beings who had reason would encounter the same action - that you could feel isolated anywhere and at any time. In the Strait of St. Petersburg, this was where Raskolnikov carried away in his life. His family too. There was a lot of trash - human things scattered here, as well as the inconvenience of many other marine animals crossing by. Raskolnikov, as much as he hated all this, found and collected many damaged books; which has been destroyed and could no longer be read by anyone. They were very fragile, Raskolnikov always held them like a mother holding their newborn children.
Additionally, Raskolnikov discovered many other things - hidden behind glass shelves or hidden treasures; a necklace, a sword, a sign of a cross, which he could not interpret the real term of the object. He found a fork, and tried to feel it on his thin, pale skin. He found a dirty mirror, which when he carried it to the surface of the sea, the reflection of the sun hurt his dark eyes, reflecting his shocked expression; dusty pink lips gaped with his dark soaked hair as the waterdrops fell softly from the end of his strands.
He studied the metal objects on a huge rock as the sun beamed, with his striking ruby tail peeking out from behind. He felt the hot temperature of the texture, and wondered about the mechanism of it all. What is the purpose of humans having it? Oh, how curious he was.
On a random day, Raskolnikov spent time silently behind the rock, watching an old fisher who looked like a frail old woman. Sometimes the results were magnificent, with her attracting lots of fish in the nets she sent down. The old woman was at the end of her life - Raskolnikov was absolutely sure of that. And even though he didn't know the old woman’s name, he believed, in his perspective, her job was a common thing. The old woman never really entered to the middle of the Strait, Raskolnikov believed that he was the only one who knew where she was. He did not tell his mother and sister that he had gone beyond the Strait. However, this mistake was about to happen with Porfiry Petrovich, one of the mermen whom stand by to the borders of the straight in frequent occasions.
“You classify yourself as a special being?” He asked that time, when Porfiry Petrovich found him swimming from the border of the Strait. Raskolnikov was even more surprised because Porfiry didn’t say anything about it, acting as if he had known and kept him at a distance all along. Now Raskolnikov found himself blurting out everything that came to mind. A thought that haunted him throughout his life while wandering in the middle of the sea without a purpose.
“I heard what Alyona said - that's her name. She was with her relative, Lizaveta. The other said very strange sayings, like sacred and ancient quotes. I can interpret it myself - they call what they worship as a testament,” said Raskolnikov, his eyes wide with excitement. “I remember it very clearly. They might have suspect our existence, ‘Then God said, “Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals, and over all the creatures that move along the ground.' Their race was above us. I also heard, we are divided into two creatures in their eyes; a sea god and a leviathan.”
“How is this relevant to my first question?” asked Porfiry. His curiosity was also burning. “You're saying that one of us is divided into a special being because it can act as a god?”
"I argue that whatever group lives in this universe, they will always be able to act as gods. And whatever kind of god they are, when alive, a person will have blood that determines the consequences, that ignites their mind, but only if all living people have a matching mind. Those who can think cannot even objectively determine what they think is classified as what is accepted as 'common sense' or has real reason. And those who don't have that, like the fishes around us, are the ones who are free. They are far from the power of gods. They are the clean ones, more so than a god could be. But those who can act as gods, who are detached from everything and remain conscious, who can be said to still have literal reason, they are as free as the fish they eat.”
"Then what happens to us, that the god's power is only described as predatory?"
“You mean… like a leviathan?” Raskolnikov asked, a sad smile twitching. “' May those who curse days curse that day, those who are ready to rouse Leviathan', how ironically interesting! A god cursed and slashed a leviathan's head, it sounded like slashing a mirror, you hear? We can act as leviathans. Ugly, that's what the word they might use. Does that old woman have a mirror in her lap? I just found out about the thing myself. Porfiry, what would it be like if you were a leviathan with the power of a god in your grasp?”
“I'm afraid to answer, but I believe you have already figured out your position on the idea,” he answered.
“Perhaps,” said Raskolnikov. There was something offensive in his tone. “Why do you think they eat those fishes, Porfiry? Why is there pleasure in the absence of pity when it is tied to a biological aspect? Why is it that in other aspects, validation is reduced? Of course, leviathans do whatever it takes to live too, and live for their kind. This attachment to the illusion of normality is synchronized with the presence of divine power within them. They are the gods of the land, that's what they conclude, of course.”
“And you conclude us to be the only advanced sea gods? Or are you representing yourself? Do you believe what they preach from that testament – it’s a book, isn’t it? Is that the conclusion of our existence?”
“I represent what is true and believable about humanity,” Raskolnikov bluntly replied. His breathing was turning a bit heavy, gaze darkened for a moment. “Alyona is not much different, you hear? I want to know that book. I wonder how humans could devote to such words.”
“That's the reason!” Porfiry cried. “That's why you always stalk them. Is there a hunger in you to touch their world, whatever they worship? My dear boy, you belong here. Have you seen your family?”
“Someone needed to keep an eye on them, Porfiry. The sea god watches. A leviathan watches. We were never formed to be Ordinary,” whispered Raskolnikov, more to himself. "No. I rarely see my family. They hide in the corals far away and often never come out. They had expressed that they missed me yesterday.”
“I know this Strait like the veins running behind my scales! Come along, you should see them, it will do good for you.”
Raskolnikov only now realized that it felt like he has been misunderstood and manipulated - He wasn't careful. But he was half willing to be caught, knowing that his hunch was right; Porfiry knew deep down how great his sin was; the desire to become a 'sea god'… and become human.
With a real pair of legs.
* * *
One of the premonitions that Raskolnikov had that was also proven correct was the inevitability of this event.
Approaching dusk that stretched to the edge of the horizon, with the morningstar hiding behind the clouds and creating a beautiful atmosphere, the sight of the setting sun could be seen from the rusty sword held by Raskolnikov. His phoenix-like tail slowly went up and down like a tiger observing its prey from afar, hiding under the steady waves.
This time Alyona appeared alone. The old woman was facing west while holding a fishing rod, with her net at her side - already clean and prepared. Raskolnikov approached the boat. A siren-like, elegant voice that typically belonged to his people emerged. “Good afternoon. I believe we don't have a proper real acquaintance yet. You mentioned our existence, you know?”
Alyona was shocked and almost dropped her fishing rod. She widened her eyes and twisted her fragile body to face him. “What - what are you? What am I staring at now?”
“I am one of the creatures in this Strait. I've been watching you for a long time, of course you're aware that our world was split in two since ancient times.”
The woman immediately understood, her gaze widened even more. “Oh, I know your kind, yes! You're very talked about on land. How strange your form is. Can I see your tail? Oh, how stunning. I've never seen anything so different before!”
Raskolnikov hated how those pair of blurry gazes softened when they saw his tail. He set his entire body below the surface of the water except for his head. “Tell me, what happens if you don't take your earnings back to the mainland? What would change in you and other humans?"
“Oh, I don't know. This is not all we eat. My work is not the only one done by humans. And I'm not the only one doing it; especially in straits. I've been doing this for a long time, but I never seem to see you. Oh, are you really as pale as a pearl? Why are you looking at me like that…?”
“I am like this,” said Raskolnikov suddenly. His palm that held the sword began to feel sweaty, not even from the water. “I happened to bring one for you.” He took courage and raised his hand, showing a genuine pearl that was hard to find under the seabed.
“That's exquisite! But your hands are shaking. Does the cold wind make you shiver?” she asked sincerely, Raskolnikov's throat felt blocked for a moment.
“No, no… take the pearl. This is an introductory gift…” The grip on the sword shrank, as if it was about to rush away with the wave that was carrying it. No, why was his strength weakening? He forced a grip.
“Oh, your kind heart… thank you… I don't know what else to say.” Alyona touched his hand and just then, Raskolnikov didn't waste any more time. He pulled Alyona out of her thin and dirty clothes until she fell. Before there was a scream that was blocked by the pool of water; Raskolnikov swung the sword until it was stabbed in the neck. Blood spattered his face, and the blinding excitement that had been buzzing within him immediately dissipated. He panicked and let go of Alyona, letting her fall under the ocean while he dived away further and rinsed away all the blood on his face.
A loud scream came out, startling Raskolnikov until he peeked above the water again. Lizaveta, with her own boat while covering her mouth, appeared to be in a state of shock. Their eyes met, and Raskolnikov's whole body shivered. How melancholy and broken the gaze was fixed on him! Before Raskolnikov could say a word, the sister impulsively dived under the sea.
Raskolnikov dived in and watched as she clutched Alyona's body, with her neck tilted and her skin half exposed, leaving behind clots of blood that stained the border of the strait near the human land. He watched as Lizaveta struggled to swim back to the surface, but over time her balance failed, and her energy was slowly lost by her sister's body being dragged by the pressure of the water. Raskolnikov watched everything happen with a face that was inexpressive, but unnatural at the same time. His heart throbbed violently. Humans cannot survive long underwater, Raskolnikov now knew that for sure.
He hurriedly swam deeper in another direction, reaching for the bloody sword that was also polluting his surroundings. The blood on the metal seemed to cleanse itself, and Raskolnikov still felt an inexplicable excitement that again zapped all his adrenaline. He stared at the reflection of the metal; eyes blurred with another emotion… something like terror. Good God! This sword will never be part of my collection again… what has crossed my mind…?
Raskolnikov needed to take it far away from here. Even though he looked clean, the atmosphere certainly wasn’t. He needed to pull himself out of here - He needed to swim far, far more than he had ever done. Before that, Raskolnikov rose to the surface, then he pushed the boat with all his strength until all the fishes fell, including those that were no longer breathing.
He took the sword and ran away from there.
* * *
“You didn't really kill her! Oh, Rodya, tell me. You keep taking your eyes off me, tell me the truth, Good God! What was going through your mind at that time?”
Raskolnikov still ignored Sonya, even though there was no other sight for his gaze to focus on other than the stars perched in the dark sky. The two of them had sat on his large rock together. Sofya Marmelodova was not one of the mermaids trapped in St. Petersburg strait. The family decided to exile themselves in a more distant place. He met her accidentally when Raskolnikov witnessed her father being hit by a boat that was bigger than the one Alyona and Lizaveta always used. As he wandered without purpose or awareness, something filled his nostrils with a metallic odor. When he looked up; a merman was sinking down while bleeding. Not to mention the condition of his mother who was nonetheless pitying.
Sonya never came to his strait, but Raskolnikov was more comfortable in choosing to find her than the other way around. The breeze tickled their skins, while Sonya shivered and covered her smooth shoulders with thick vines, Raskolnikov merely let his slender, moon-like body open in the cold air. He didn’t want to dive back yet.
“I expected that there was a book that they always quoted on the boat, but in fact there wasn't. You should know the magnitude of my disappointment, Sonya... I'm really curious," Raskolnikov whispered, turning to another topic. “I wonder what consequences I will bring on land. I can hide it here. I don't even need to confess. Would they look for her with her relative? I would love to, to be honest… I cannot express to people the good deeds of a sea god for humanity.”
“Oh, Rodya, don't you ever think about that! You were born a merman. Why is it necessary for you to be so curious about what is happening on land? You won't be any good there, they'll hate you! So full of prejudice and misjudgment. They're hard to accept,” Sonya insisted, trying to catch his gaze.
“How can you be sure?” Raskolnikov asked blatantly. “Logically we don't have similar biological attributes to them. We couldn't walk. You know that in itself… is kind of unique?”
“You want a pair of legs, Rodya?” Sonya widened her eyes.
Raskolnikov finally turned to her, but his gaze was blank and unperturbed, leaving silence in response. The silence stretched as they just stared. Raskolnikov's finned ears twitched in surprise when an echoing sound came from the distant. He turned and - a big boat was coming nearby. No, this boat was a ship.
"Good God! We have to get out of here right now!” Sonya shrieked. But before she could reach Raskolnikov's hand, he had already dived under the sea and swam quickly towards the ship as if a transparent string was pulling him there. He ignored Sonya's screams from afar until they faded in his ears. This was the first time he had seen so many humans.
Raskolnikov slowly peered out of the sea, turning the ship to look for a window. When he found an opening, he almost had a heart attack when a - he didn't know what it was called - appeared suddenly before his eyes. The four-legged beast barked, with all its fur as white as millions of pearls. Likewise, the body was very, very large, Raskolnikov didn’t know whether to say its form was scary or... adorable?
Fortunately the animal did not see him; only wagging its thick tail to the tune of an instrument. Raskolnikov cocked his head to see who was playing it; there stood a young man - perhaps his own age, holding an object that looked like a simple stem. His hair was pitch black, tousled by the wind, with a smooth unshaven beard. He turned towards the animal, a wide smile that lit up his tourmaline eyes. The young man laughed, painting the atmosphere like the stars above them. He let the animal licked his face.
The scene was disgusting for Raskolnikov. He didn’t know why, but he couldn't look away from the man.
“You want to dance, buddy? Yes? Will you? Try twirling for me. Good Girl! Nobody can dance as perfectly as you, Bukhanka,” he laughed as the animal barked happily and spun around until hitting a barrel that dropped a small book. “Ah, it's okay, buddy. I forgot to put it in my bag. I just read it while you were sleeping."
Raskolnikov did not understand why the man was conversing with an animal that clearly does not have a compatible language. Maybe it's like how he talked to whales and stingrays and seahorses, and other people in the middle of the ocean. He watched the man sitting above the wooden surface of the ship, with the animal sleeping on his lap while the book was opened. Raskolnikov leaned forward, curious if it were a book like the one Alyona and Lizaveta had been quoting to each other...
But not. It didn’t sound like that.
This one sounded…romantic.
"My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearning," read the man, with a smile playing on his lips. “ Disturbs night's dreamy calm... Pale at my bedside burning.” The animal hummed and nestled deeper, burying its head onto its owner's stomach. “ A taper wastes away... From out my heart there is a surge.” The man's voice now resembled that of a merman - at least, that's what Raskolnikov could only compare it to.
His heart raced for no reason, transfixed by how every word of the poem rolled off the man's tongue. The next line flowed as clear and beautiful as the sea coast.
Stift verses, streams of love, that hum and sing and merge.
And, full of you, rush on, with overflowing passion.
I seem to see your eyes that, in the darkness glowing, Meet mine... I see your smile... You speak to me alone
The smile he wore turned a little melancholic, but still seemed full of tenderness and affection, as if he had said the entire verse to someone who wasn't there. " My friend, my dearest friend..." he sang with great passion as his hands stroked the animal's white fur. “ I'm yours...your own.”
Raskolnikov blinked slowly. There was a great desire to hear him read again. And again.
And again -
The man chuckled and lifted the head of the animal which looked half asleep. “Aww bukhanka, have I made you sleepy with my poetic beauty? There's so much more I can impersonate! Do you want to hear it?”
If Raskolnikov could appear, of course he would declare the answer yes , straight and confident.
“Razumikhin!”
“Yes? What of it, Zametov?” The man - Razumikhin now stood up quickly, the animal whimpered as if whining. "Did we manage to find them?"
Another man appeared in front of him, dressed similarly to Razumikhin, but layered with a dark blue coat instead of a loose white shirt and dark black vest. Zametov showed a doubtful expression, but forced an answer; “We found Alyona Ivanovna's half-destroyed boat near the rocks, but we haven't been able to identify Lizaveta's boat. The fish were no longer there. And…"
"And what?"
“There seemed to be… indications of blood spatter from the wood of Alyona's boat.”
Raskolnikov watched as Razumikhin's face turned pale, his lips quivering as he didn't know how to process the information. While Raskolnikov himself felt his blood run cold, his breath became more rapid when he realized the main reason why this ship was roaming in the middle of the sea in the first place.
“So… what is this - does it mean that she was eaten by a sea beast?” he cried. “It makes sense that the boat could reach here! I'm sure there are many creatures living freely below us, as questionable as that was. Surely the tides come from the same direction."
“I'm not sure Alyona can go that far. St. Petersburg is known as the most calm and still strait.”
As their discussion grew, Raskolnikov slowly moved away from the ship; nausea gradually flooded him. He shouldn't have seen this or come even close. Before he could escape, a large, shiny bolt of lightning struck to the ship’s bird nest, only then did he realize that a sudden heavy rain had come.
The waves were rising. He could see many people going back and forth, rushing to pull the ropes and hoist the sails, while Razumikhin was the first to reach for the wheel when their captain stumbled and fell. He tried to turn the other way, but rushed into an iceberg that they didn't expect. The ship rocked and collapsed alarmingly. This incident happened so quickly, especially with the angry waves. When a lantern fell and set fire to the boat's sail, many passengers let go of their small boats and attempted to evacuate themselves. Raskolnikov had recoiled from this terrible event from the start, watching it with his mouth slightly apart, completely at a loss as to what emotion was appropriate to feel at that moment.
“Razumikhin! What’s awaiting you!”
“Go ahead! Save yourself! Bukhanka had disappeared from my sight and I ought to look for her.”
Raskolnikov's heart stopped for a moment, his gaze fixed on Razumikhin who climbed onto the main deck which was surrounded by burning fire, with his beloved white animal barking for help. There was no time left to save himself, even Raskolnikov knew that. The ship tilted more and more and when Razumikhin managed to pick up his companion and drop her into one of the small boats, he slipped across the wooden surface until cries of terror rose up; the ship was half-submerged and several small boats had been separated by the waves, hitting each other in the middle of the rainstorm. Raskolnikov swam closer to look for Razumikhin, but it seemed he was no longer on the ship.
His panic increased drastically. He dived into the sea, immediately finding the black-haired human figure who was gradually sinking. He also remembered Lizaveta's condition when she agreed to save her sister. They were unable to survive underwater .
Raskolnikov didin’t think twice. He sped up, grabbed Razumikhin's broad shoulders and swam upwards with all his might. Arriving at surface level, even though it was still stormy, Raskolnikov tried to observe the man's pale and helpless condition. His hand rested on Razumikhin's chest, feeling the glimmer of a still pulsing heartbeat.
He needed to take him back to land.
* * *
At dawn, Raskolnikov slowly placed Razumikhin on the shore of an island located close to his strait. His red tail shone on the sand, the sparkle of his scales resembling dozens of gems as they reflected by the rising sun. Raskolnikov pressed Razumikhin's chest repeatedly, trying to release the water that had been pressed into his body. He gradually gave up when his own strength declined.
"How idiotic! A human being must have a self-defense instinct, why don't you have it? Why was it that you even… sacrificed yourself?” Raskolnikov rasped, sentences spilling out of his mouth. He touched Razumikhin's neck, feeling the throbbing pulse. A blood mark stained his forehead. "What should I do with you…?"
He touched his cold, wet cheek; gently stroking his black hair that covered his shut eyes. Raskolnikov stared at him steadily, as if his intensity would wake him up. Mouth slightly separated; his melodious voice emerged again. He remembered the poem that Razumikhin had read.
A taper wastes away... From out my heart there is a surge.
Stift verses… streams of love… that hum and sing… and merge.
Razumikhin's eyelashes moved like a glimmer of light. Raskolnikov continued to stare at him and reciting the lines.
I seem to see your eyes that… in the darkness glowing, Meet mine
I see your smile... You speak to me alone
His eyelids fluttered open until Raskolnikov's breath suddenly hitched. " My friend... my... my dearest friend... " Razumikhin groaned, now his consciousness was coming back. Raskolnikov found it difficult to continue. “ I-I'm… I'm y - ”
The commotions from several humans startled him. Without seeing how many there were, Raskolnikov immediately dived back under the sea, hiding on a nearby rock. He was unable to interpret what they were saying, but he peeked out and saw two people helping Razumikhin to his feet and leading him up into the village. Razumikhin glanced at the horizon, his eyes seemed to be searching something particular before he was forced to climb the stairs.
Razumikhin was not a human with a degree like Alyona.
Razumikhin was not… a useless man. No. Raskolnikov failed to gather the adjectives in his head, becoming internally desperate.
He was different.
Raskolnikov didn’t know how to come to that conclusion.
“Rodya! Oh, my God, I’ve looked everywhere for you! Why are you here? We need to get to the middle of the Strait right now. Don't say you saved a man? I saw you briefly in the rainstorm yesterday. Is this why you're here? You… saved him?” Sonya was astonished, reaching out to his hand in worry that made him flinched at her sudden presence.
He was silent for a moment, then met her gaze, “Yes.”
“Wh… why did you do that…?” her eyes widened, yet curiosity peaked in.
His voice turned hoarse, “I… I don't know.”
The only thing he was certain was that he would never meet Razumikhin again.
And that subconsciously hurt him.
* * *
Razumikhin was not mad, and God forbid, delirious. He knew that deep within his heart; that a man appeared with a beautiful voice, reciting the oh, so familiar lines like the call of a long lost friend. His hair was dark from his blurry vision, appearing to be streaked with gold from the sun shining against him. Razumikhin still remembered the gentle contact he felt on his chest… neck… cheek…
Razumikhin was not mad.
And he would prove it when they find the mysterious man who saved him.
“I'm not possessing hallucinations – I am not delusional, Zossimov, he was right in front of me. He knew the poem, oddly enough. And… I think he read it to me. Yes, that's what he did! He's the one who saved me, how could he have done it, that’s also our mystery! I ought to see him again," Razumikhin said as firmly as possible while gripping both of his friend’s shoulders. “I ought to thank him, and I… I need to know him. Zossimov, if you had seen how he lit up in the seconds before I came to my senses…”
Zossimov touched Razumikhin's bandaged forehead, his friend's gaze suddenly became dreamy. “All right, Razumikhin… you're still a little hot.”
"Why is it relevant to what I have said?" he cried suddenly. He shook Zossimov, who blinked rapidly. “We need to relay this information to the nearest guard. They can find him, I know. Whatever you do to me! If you want me to stay at rest, just know, I won't be able to stop moving or sleep until I know that he is being sought.”
“I'll convey it, let's sit down first. You need to eat your soup, then don't forget your medicine, I have it ready on the table.” Zossimov tried to pull him to the sofa, but Razumikhin withdrew his hand, looking like a disappointed child.
"I'm fine! Maybe I am meant to do it right now. Yes. He could still be out there -” Razumikhin was stopped by Zossimov who looked at him unimpressively. “Zossimov -”
“Razumikhin, I don't want to discourage you, but those guards only aim to look for Alyona and Lizaveta. Meanwhile, you were only on that ship because you were being paid for your talents in seafaring and keen mapping. The money will come in a moment through your letter. If you'd like, we could buy our own boat to look for him; I don't think your myopic memory will convince them to take over.” Zossmiov patted Razumikhin on the chest, telling him to stay calm.
“Yes… that's a good idea, yes, you're a genius, my friend! All right then, I'll sit down and eat for a while," nodded Razumikhin, more relieved than before. He fell onto his sofa and sighed tiredly. This simple wooden house was actually owned by his uncle, but he hadn't heard about it since he was little. There was still a legacy left for him to live his life as wisely as possible, as well as continuing his education until he’s able to graduate from college. He still needed money to pay it off. Independence has become his main way of life, Razumikhin was sheerly grateful that he was able to become friends with Zossimov when they met in the practicum exams. “But you believe me, yes?”
"Of course I believe you, I can't if your face is like that."
Razumikhin felt his cheeks warm instantly. "Like what?"
“Like have lost something valuable,” Zossimov shrugged. “And you're seconds away from finding it.”
* * *
Raskolnikov half hoped that he would not return quickly to his hiding place - aka a cave full of collections of human objects that he had found either by accident or on purpose. In his grasp was a bamboo-shaped instrument that Razumikhin had been playing from above. He tried to blow it; Small bubbles appeared from the holes of the instrument which strangely made Raskolnikov smile a little. He still needed to understand how to make a tune as beautiful as Razumikhin. His instrument seemed to be more important than all the objects Raskolnikov had discovered.
However, when he was there, his mother had been waiting for her son to come home for a long time. Raskolnikov immediately paled. He couldn't feel Pulcheria's warmth when she attacked him in a tight embrace.
“Oh, my Goodness, Rodya, my darling, you are back! I was horribly worried about you when Sonya told me about -”
"Mother, why are you here?"
“Aha, what are you saying, Rodya? Of course I must come here! I begged Sofya Marmeladova to know where you were. You rarely come home and when you are not at the border, your sister and I began to be greatly worried. We intended to look for you but instead we met with the girl you have mentioned. I remember that gentle girl clearly! We asked for her knowledge of your presence, and she explained what happened to you. How I wish I was there and not! Truly a horrifying event you have witnessed,” Pulcheria lamented, clutching her son's cold wrists.
“How did you find this place…?” asked Raskolnikov instead. His realization sooner hit. “...Sonya told you.”
“Yes, she was awfully doubtful at the time but she felt your mother needed to know. That maybe you could be here. We arrived before you did, and she assumed that you would come any minute, for you wanted to meet her here today. Dunya was taking a stroll with her not far from here, they will come at any moment now.” Pulcheria paused, then frowned. “What is this, Rodya? Why do you… own this place? These human things! How perplexed -”
“They won't hurt you,” said Raskolnikov quickly, overcome by thunderous anger. “They are my collection, and you and Dunya should not know of this place. I want you both… to leave, for the time being.”
“But Rodya! I don't understand you, my dearest. Is your time spent exploring human objects? Truly I plea to not swim near their frightening approaches ever again, especially after what Sonya told me, oh Goodness, I cannot imagine it with the naked eye! You have to go back to your mother and sister and leave this place.”
"No."
“W-What?” Pulcheria gasped.
Raskolnikov remained firm. “I will not leave this place. It had been mine for a long time, more than you know. With that I sincerely seek your forgiveness-“
“Rodya?”
Raskolnikov turned to see his sister coming along with Sonya - who looked saddened by Pulcheria's annoyance. Avdotya Romanova still looked like the beauty of an angelic siamese behind the darkness of the water; her ruby tail matching the shade of shimmers as her brother’s. Still, despite the longing that Raskolnikov could himself feel, the frustration of having so many people in a place that should be sacred to him made it all the more difficult to be calm and civil.
“Dunya,” Raskolnikov greeted her with a faint smile. “Please take mother away from here. You too, I beg you. I required to be left alone."
Dunya looked uncertain. “But why did you… why did you do it?”
Raskolnikov stared at her. "Do what?"
Dunya found it difficult to say what she wanted to say. But her eyes were diverted to what her brother was holding. "What is that? Can I look at it?"
Raskolnikov hesitated for a moment. But his trust in his sister characteristically went beyond limits; so he gave her the instrument. “Careful with that…”
Dunya's eyes widened curiously, touching the holes. “This is a human thing? What do they do with it?”
“You blow it.”
"Is it true?"
"Oh no! I heard this. Human whistling proved to tie with such bad causes, similar as our singing attracted their emotions. Dunya, give it to me!” Pulcheria suddenly swam towards her. Dunya protested, but even though her mother's pull wasn't very strong, the bamboo was already brittle from the pressure of the water - the instrument broke as easily as a twig.
Silence followed.
Raskolnikov stared in disbelief, transfixed by the crumbling bamboo that fused with the water around them.
“It's the only thing Razumikhin has,” he said with no tone, the sound even reaching his ears.
"Who, Rodya?" Sonya looked at him a little nervous and confused.
Raskolnikov blinked several times. Dunya looked panicked. “Brother, forgive me and mother! That should be -”
“Did I not say to leave me alone? How many times should I repeat, truly?” a burst of laughter escaped from Raskolnikov's mouth. “Now you hear it again clearly and concisely. Leave me alone! There's no point in talking to me anymore. I'm feeling… a little sick…”
“Oh, Rodya! Forgive your mother… are you not well...? Perhaps we should -”
Raskolnikov shook his head quickly, his breath suddenly quickened and he immediately soared outside the crevices of his cave as easily as a sea snake. He swam as fast as possible as if he would erase the memory of Razumikhin's beaming light voice from his mind. What had that man done to him? How maddening! Raskolnikov's heart squeezed and he stopped to control his breathing properly. That's when the pool of tears mixed with the water he was breathing. He wanted to sleep; getting as much sleep as possible and forget about that irksome instrument.
"You there! Are you not Avdotya Romanova’s brother?”
The voice of another merman came to him. Raskolnikov remained staring at the emptiness of the sea, calming his pulse till it was once again normal. Only then did he look at the merman with a tired expression. "Yes. Do I know you?"
“Of course you know me! Your sister should have introduced me a few days ago,” the merman said half offended.
“I haven't seen her except today. And our meeting was also very short. What is your status with my sister?”
"Oh no! Your mother introduced Avdotya to me and we are having a solely basic acquaintance. I'm quire curious where you are heading, as I'm already curious to get to know you while your sister often mentioned your name, entirely in the first time we met. You may call me Luzhin.”
Raskolnikov really wanted to interrogate him again, but his body was half dead and he couldn't resist it. “I want to go… get some air…” his gaze averted away.
"Air? Above the sea?"
Raskolnikov glared at him, but kept his mouth shut.
"It's only that Avdotya once mentioned you have an odd interest in our foreign neighbor. A quite unexpected hobby, if you seek my opinion. But it seems you’re not fond to hear that. Well, if this is of interest to you, I would like to say that there is a way to meet these humans without dwelling on your differences. In fact, those differences won't hinder you at all!” Luzhin said it so proudly.
“What did you say? I don't understand any of it."
“You'd better follow me. You would believe if I told you how directly.”
* * *
The cave that Luzhin had shown him was in stark contrast to the cave that Raskolnikov had made into his collection room. Before that, there was no identity or comfort in the cave which had many crevices that rose upwards as if almost touching the surface of the sea, although it was only an illusion. This cave was darker and spread horizontally, the atmosphere became increasingly gloomy as he swam and looked around.
“Is this safe?”
“Of course it is safe. It is not the first time someone from our kind had wanted to taste himself on a human path!” said Luzhin, even though Raskolnikov had a feeling of lies in his words. However, the desire to try out this new theory… Raskolnikov could not ignore it any longer. Something deep in his heart whispered that this was not just a desire to achieve satisfaction with the thought experimentation he had grown in his mind - there was a personal and intimate desire... if he could meet Razumikhin completely.
Knowing him like he was… a friend.
“Witchcraft had been long forbidden, however.”
“The price for being magnanimous, is it not?”
Raskolnikov couldn’t argue of what’s forbidden and what’s not when he himself had done such… he forgot not to think about that. He was not here for another debate like with Porfiry anyway. “You said there are criteria for this. What are they?"
“How ambitious you sound,” Luzhin grinned. Raskolnikov stared flatly. “As long as you know; I am a a merman who is known to be exceptionally generous and noble by the many of our kind, remember that. Likewise, I have witnessed who was the suspect in causing human blood contamination near our strait border many days ago.”
Raskolnikov's tail almost pulled him to the sand when it froze.
“I would not confess this to anybody of course. What for? Telling Avdotya Romanova was considered unworthy. If anything, truly, you confessed your own confession, for they are private and fragile matter," Luzhin muttered, mixing several potions in a large cauldron until various colored smokes rippled magically as if he had done this for a long time. “Remember your payment? One scale is enough, make sure your blood remain intact.”
Raskolnikov reached out his tail, feeling the red scales – so crimson as if his blood cells was swirling outside. “Wait,” he said, sounding unsure. “I'm not certain… if I were there, knowing the failure of my theory.”
"What do you mean?"
What with the murder - no, could the ‘murder’ be called a failure? If he was successful, why would his mind clouded by various things that he could not stand? That didn’t make sense, did it? "I-I could accidentally confess what I did to Alyona a-and her relative,” he said, his tone turned unsteady for nanoseconds.
"You don't plan to confess to anyone, both on land and at sea?"
Raskolnikov did not know that Luzhin had offended him like Porfiry, but when he glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, Luzhin looked unreadable. “Would a sea god claim to desire what is best for humanity? Just think about it… even a leviathan wouldn't confess. No, I don't feel the least bit of sympathy or need to feel it. Recognition will… change that.”
“Changing what?”
My view on all this. It could destroy me and poison me from within. "Can you not guarantee that I will not admit to that incident when I am to be human?" he asked instead.
Luzhin thought about it, but his eyes brightened suddenly. “You can, yes. It's possible! Anything to help Avdotya’s brother, my insistence will be on it.”
“You will not share this information with my sister or my mother - or anyone. This is classification, understand that first.”
“Believe me! It's a secret I vowed to keep till the end of my breath.”
Afraid of further hesitation, Raskolnikov removed one of the scales from his tail; His eye twitched at the sting, but his expression remained natural as a trickle of blood flew from the wound. He dropped the scale and came magenta smoke and endless boiling bubbles.
"I want you to admit it."
The high frequency sound emitted from the cauldron drowned out Luzhin's voice, but his words were all that only Raskolnikov could hear. Suddenly Raskolnikov’s throat tightened. "What?"
“In order to ensure that you will not be able, physically, to confess to the truth, I need you to admit it first,” Luzhin said, eyes blazing behind the explosion of the potion mixing.
Raskolnikov's hands clenched into fists until they turned white. “I… I killed -”
“Say it louder, if you can.”
“It is I,” answered Raskolnikov, looking him straight in the eye. But his voice sounded far from his own ears, like it wasn't his own. “I was the one who killed an old fisherwoman named Alyona along with her relative, Lizaveta.”
"Perfect!"
Raskolnikov suddenly gasped, a sudden lump clogged his throat. Something flashed from the neck and a glowing ball floated into Luzhin's grasp. “I will protect this confession until you prove yourself that you can be a worthy human being. Precisely like them. Remember what I told you Raskolnikov, you only have three days before your time on land will be ended, if you did not meet the main criteria as I have just given you.”
Raskolnikov did not move, although the smoke of the potion immediately surrounded him, as if entwining him in the deepest vines of all seas without touching his pale skin. His head felt light, his vision suddenly became dim. He didn't dare to move. His tail stopped, but he continued to float. Was Luzhin still in front of him? He didn't know - the shadows only hugged him this time; ready to appear again to choke him half to death. All the oxygen was drawn from his lungs, and he entered the misery of chasing life.
“Swim to land! Save yourself, Raskolnikov.”
It was strange that of all people, he did as Luzhin said and paddled quickly upwards, out of the cave and leaving a shadow behind him. At the same time - his tail felt like it was being dragged by a rock weighing a ton. His stomach grew cold, and a blinding light surrounded him; when he reached the surface and took a deep breath of relief, he felt something was wrong.
Something different. Odd.
Raskolnikov frowned and dived back, only to regret it and pull his head again, coughing up the water. His eyes widened with a mixture of feelings. He had seen a pair of legs. On his own body.
He thought it was implausible - and for the most part, it was.
But it was also terrible. What did he need to do now?
Raskolnikov forced himself to swim until he reached his familiar large rock again and rested, pushing his wet hair from his face and meeting the sunlight that seemed to have highlighted his sins so clearly. Was this a sin? A betrayal?
He wanted to swim to the shore, the land like Luzhin had advised him. But his body shook with exhaustion. Having legs drained his energy faster, it seemed. So he remained silent for a moment on the rock, eyes half closed before his consciousness slowly drifted off.
* * *
"Maybe we need to look again tomorrow -"
“Zossimov! I can feel it, he must be around the middle of St. Petersburg,” Razumikhin insisted, stubborn as ever as he gripped the oars of the cheap boat they had bought that morning.
“Aren't you mistaken about what Ilya Petrovich is looking for?”
"Don't worry about being obsessed with that case anymore!" Razumikhin cried, looking repulsive. “No, we looked for them around here, then our ship sank a few kilometers from here. Then he appeared and saved me, like an angel of the waters.”
“Okay… but my apologies to tell you this, Razumikhin. And I say this as best as I can -”
"What?"
Razumikhin frowned when his friend fell silent suddenly, amazed by what he saw from afar. Razumikhin looked back and his eyes widened when he found a male figure leaning against the rocks; gentle waves rocked his body as if lulling him to sleep.
“That's him!”
“How do you know?”
“Of course I know. I can feel it."
His friend wanted to argue again, but Razumikhin was famous for carrying his heart on his sleeve. So warm and authentic with intuition. He rowed so hastily towards the sleeping man that the boat almost threw Zossimov into the sea.
As they got closer, the man slowly woke up. Razumikhin's heart pounded. The man turned at the sound of rowing – and their gazes immediately met.
Sparks of signals invaded Razumikhin's mind like a rush of bees, alarming his heartstrings; The man's intense gaze had plucked all his blood vessels deeply at once, making Razumikhin naked amidst all nature. And Razumikhin quickly became addicted to that feeling.
But there, alas, where the sky
shines with blue radiance,
where olive-tree shadows lie
on the waters glittering dance,
your beauty, your suffering, are lost in eternity.
“Razumikhin! Don't just stay silent like that, God. Take my hand.”
Zossimov's voice broke the spell that had overtaken him. Razumikhin blinked, and he saw the man move away from his friend's outstretched hand, looking skeptical and guarded.
"It is alright. We won't hurt you,” Razumikhin said quickly, holding out his own hand. Raskolnikov glanced at him, then at his hand, gaze softening slightly. A few seconds later, he reached out his hand and - oh, how cold his skin was! As white as a jewel, defining all beauty with its sharp and thin face...
Zossimov made an irritated sound. “He needs clothes,” he said suddenly when Raskolnikov was half out of the water.
"Oh yes! Put on my coat!” Razumikhin suddenly took off his long coat and gave it to Raskolnikov. He instantly looked away, face as red as a tomato and let the man put on his coat to cover himself. Truly, Razumikhin was weak. Kind of ridiculous, actually. Razumikhin didn't know whether to hate it or not - He rarely felt something as passionate as this. He shouldn't feel this way – the poor beautiful man! Of course it would be inappropriate to rely on Razumikhin's raging emotions.
He heard a shift in front of him and opened his eyes, seeing that the man was wearing a coat that hugged his entire body to the top of his knees like a blanket, it was clear that the man was thinner than him. His gaze remained directed at Razumikhin, and the spell slowly returned again... making him want to drown in his gaze...
“Razumikhin! He could get pneumonia if we don't hurry at once! Oh, that's right, he already got it. At least potential flu symptoms," said his friend in annoyance, touching the man's forehead.
Who suddenly hissed like a cat.
"What are you doing?" he bared his teeth.
Oh. His voice… Razumikhin was indeed not mad at all.
Did he remember? Of course he remembered. Why did he keep looking at Razumikhin like… wanting to pull him under the sea and lock him there forever like a rare treasure.
Was Razumikhin's mind just full of fantasy?
“I just wanted to check your temperature -”
"What's your name?" Razumikhin asked suddenly. He had to know. He must know to fill in who he was that constantly haunt him every night.
The man looked at him again, now a little… shy? “Rodion,” he said quietly.
“You saved me. At that time…"
"...Yes."
“I want to thank you,” Razumikhin enthused again. "...Thank you... my name is Dmitri Prokofitch Razumikhin.”
Rodion didn't say anything, just nodded, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
“He must be in a state of shock. It's a miracle that he still remembers his name.” Zossimov appeared unhappy with Razumikhin's actions, and Razumikhin immediately felt guilty. He picked up his oar and continued rowing as fast as he could, nagging at his friend to row harder so he could reach land before dusk.
During the journey, Rodion was muted. But his gaze expressed silent thanks; which Razumikhin could read very clearly.
* * *
When Raskolnikov was in the bathroom wearing the clothes that Razumikhin had given him, he felt completely heavy with the way the texture rested on his shoulders. Do humans often wear things like this? He didn't dare to look in the mirror for reasons he didn't want to reveal or think about.
He shivered softly. It's very cold. His head felt like it was being stabbed with every step he took forward.
Raskolnikov came out in a white, loose shirt, showing a little of his collarbone which still glistened with traces of salt water. His dark hair had not been combed (What was a comb? He didn't understand some of Razumikhin's instructions, to be honest), so the strands remained torn around the edges of his face. "Is there nothing else?"
Razumikhin who had apparently just been pacing in his own bedroom looked up, mouth parting slightly. “W-what?” finally he asked.
“It's just…”
"Uncomfortable? Too slack? Too hot? Do you need other clothes? I can buy it -”
“No,” Raskolnikov immediately refused. His guilt and ungratefulness hit him. "No. This is enough… thank you.”
"...Alright. Didn't you find the comb?”
"What?"
“The comb is on the sink, as far as I know. But if you don't find it, I can take -”
Of almighty gods, he did not understand what Razumikhin had just said. And Raskolnikov suddenly felt annoyed because one, the authenticity of his identity clearly needed to be kept secret, and two, he felt - however irrational this was - very, very stupid.
“No, I don't want… a comb.”
"Why?"
"What's wrong with my hair?" Raskolnikov asked, his irritation coming out. “Doesn't my appearance… seem polite?”
"No!" Razumikhin widened his eyes, approaching him until Raskolnikov froze in place. “You don't look like that - in fact that's far from my mind! You look…” Razumikhin paused, looking tense and flushed. “Very.. beau - “
“You two come here! Razumikhin, bring him here. I have prepared the ginger tea. Hurry, before it's no longer hot.” Zossimov's voice broke any tension Raskolnikov was feeling.
"What's that?" Raskolnikov asked.
“Tea,” said Zossimov simply.
What is tea? Raskolnikov wanted to scream in frustration. “Hmm… I want to sleep again.”
"Are you okay, Rodya?" Razumikhin asked, furrowing his eyebrows. However, he realized the mistake in calling him and tried to correct himself with shame. Raskolnikov did not catch him, for he suddenly collapsed in Razumikhin's arms, breathing slow and sweat dripping from his forehead. Razumikhin held him warmly and tightly, his panic so loud.
He woke up five hours later.
Raskolnikov groaned and attempted to sit up.
"Slow down there! You’ve fainted and you shouldn't get up from the bed yet."
A gentle voice came next to Raskolnikov. He forced his eyes open, meeting the bright lights from the ceiling. He tried to lift his body; all his muscles felt like they were being electrocuted. “D-Dmitri -” he croaked without thinking.
“Yes, yes. I'm here," whispered Razumikhin. Raskolnikov turned his head and saw him smiling gently. Raskolnikov looked the other way if he wanted to quickly catch his breath. “You have to eat and drink. Zossimov has checked your temperature and heart rate. Obviously you need a lot of nutrition after being lost in the straits for so long. I hope you like chicken soup. You see, I don't consider myself particularly skilled at cooking, especially when it comes to soup dishes -”
Razumikhin's chatter, oddly enough, was enough to make his head heavy again, like a music box pulling him into the deep sleep he had been in just a few minutes ago. But he couldn't sleep anymore, because the warmth of Razumikhin's body was beside him, supporting Raskolnikov's back without realizing it. The warmth suddenly made him dazed.
“Rodya? I need your help not to sleep yet, do you hear?” Razumikhin asked worriedly. Raskolnikov could feel his hands around his thin hips, steadying him in a sitting position. “Just eat a little. Then you can rest as much as you like. Zossimov will be back later for medicine and compression, considering you're burning up. Come on, open it.”
Raskolnikov blinked several times before realizing that there was a metal object hovering his lips – the same object that he once found, now filled with a dull yellow liquid. Raskolnikov sniffed it and withdrew, although Razumikhin's grip tightened. “It smells strange.”
“But you need to eat!” Razumikhin looked hurt. "I promise, after this I will buy you better food, but then I have to -"
"No, no. It's not like that," said Raskolnikov again, his guilt resurfaced. He opened his mouth and swallowed the liquid. The harmonious warmth of Razumikhin's body brought calm to his throat. "It’s good.”
"Really?" Razumikhin's eyes lit up. Raskolnikov would prefer to see him like this forever.
"Yes. But still a bit strange. The sensation, I mean. I've never taste anything like that before.”
“You've never had chicken soup?”
Raskolnikov chose not to answer. “I want more.”
This was enough to satisfy Razumikhin, so he continued to feed him until he was half finished and Raskolnikov complained that he was full. Razumikhin touched his forehead again. A small desperation grew like a blooming flower; Raskolnikov did not want his touch to go away.
"I'm going to sleep again," he grumbled, dropping his head onto Razumikhin's shoulder, who didn't move for a moment, before stroking his hair that made Raskolnikov let out a trembling sigh. Why was his touch so pleasant?
"Yes, I think you can sleep again after this," he said so softly.
And Raskolnikov fell asleep again. Slowly he could feel his body being covered by a blanket, his head meeting the soft, warm pillow. He almost wanted to reach Razumikhin again, yet his energy drained quickly. A few minutes before he could actually fall asleep, he could hear faint whispers between Razumikhin and his friend.
He woke up when he found the sky was completely dark. But Razumikhin was not in the room.
* * *
The sound of the wooden floor creaking was enough to wake Razumikhin, simply because his brain was preoccupied - he even argued that he was awake while experiencing dreams based on mere imagination.
He couldn't stop thinking about Raskolnikov; from his slender and intelligent appearance, how his voice can become as fierce as a shark and change as soft as spring leaves in the blink of an eye. How he said his name, like it stated in the oldest poems of all time; like no human has ever read or felt Razumikhin’s name in the air except him.
Razumikhin realized that this was really just a fantasy. Because damn him! The man had just survived from the middle of the sea and he didn't even know the story behind it! What a delusion his mind played on him.
Razumikhin got out of bed and followed the quiet footsteps, remaining in his pajamas.
He found Raskolnikov in the living room, right in front of the dim fireplace; his hand traced the corners of the books on the shelf.
“Oh. Did you rest well?”
Raskolnikov was stunned. He turned his head and cursed the darkness, he couldn't see the pink that painted his cheeks. “Razumikhin! Don't startle me like that. I don't like it.”
Ah, Razumikhin also explored this distinctive trait; so authentic but hesitant at the same time. He could detect the embarrassment and nervousness emitted by his guest even though his voice was loud.
"I'm sorry, Rodya," Razumikhin just smiled, approaching him. “Are you alright? Or do you need something?”
Raskolnikov froze in place, letting Razumikhin touched his forehead. Even though there were no lights on, Razumikhin's heart still jumped when he caught Raskolnikov's intense gaze as if it could emit its own light.
“You don't seem as hot as you were yesterday. I'm grateful. I must inform Zossimov of this —”
"I still want to be here," he immediately interrupted.
"What do you mean?"
“I mean, what would it mean if you told him… that I'm fine…?”
“Oh, he got a doctor's degree. If there is someone worthy of informing about this matter, it’s him. And I trust him," he said, tilting his head slightly while softening, as if he knew what Raskolnikov really meant. "You can come here anytime, you know..."
Not like you want to leave, right?
“…Dmitri,” Raskolnikov began. “Can… is there light…”
“Yes, hold on."
Razumikhin went to the fireplace and took out a match that had been sitting on top of it when he had arranged the sticks neatly. The fire boomed like a dragon's breath, lighting up the entire space like a small sun.
"Come here, it will reduce the cold," said Razumikhin. However, Raskolnikov was quickly at his side, eyes wide with a mixture of amazement and curiosity. Suddenly, his hand reached out to touch — “Rodya! Don't touch it! Why do you dare do it?”
Razumikhin immediately pushed his hand back to his chest, heart sinking with anxiety and confusion.
Raskolnikov stuttered for a moment. “I don't know — is it really that dangerous? How does it feel?"
“You shouldn't feel the fire, Rodya! A reasonable human being certainly wouldn't try that — not that I'm saying you're mad! I'm sorry if it sounds like that, surely you're just dazed from your sleep — do you realize that you've slept 13 hours in a day? That's the total if we count when you passed out." Razumikhin grimaced slightly. “Do you want to go back to sleep again? I have no problem with that of course…”
"Oh, no." Raskolnikov paused, pressing his lips together for a moment. “Dmitri? Do you have… a testament?”
"You mean the Bible?" Razumikhin blinked. “I just have one. It's old and a bit dusty. I didn't know you were religious.”
“I — no. I just heard someone read it… so I was curious.”
Razumikhin didn't need to raise his body to reach the Bible which was in the upper right corner of one of his bookshelves. The cover resembled a dull red like rotten cherry. He swept the dust, the paper was yellow and slightly folded. “Err… if you need a better one. We can borrow it at the library tomorrow —”
"No need." Raskolnikov immediately took it from his hands, opened the very first sheet. Then he flipped several pages. His face remained unchanging.
“...Would you like something to drink? We can read it together. You can sit down and warm yourself.” Razumikhin didn't realize how his mouth could move on its own — since when did he open the book since the first semester of college? More precisely, what kind of activity was… drinking vodka along with reading the holy bible in front of the fireplace with the most handsome man he had ever laid eyes on?
Funnily, it still sounded romantic.
Razumikhin was sure he was the only one who thought that way.
Raskolnikov didn't seem to hear the question, just sat on the wooden floor and let the roar of the fire be the source of his lantern. Razumikhin went into the kitchen to get two glasses and filled them both before returning to the living room and sitting next to Raskolnikov. “Is there a verse that interests you?” He asked, really curious too.
“There is, but…” Raskolnikov's mouth suddenly dropped. He flipped through page by page, looking gloomy. “Dmitri… can you read one of the verses to me?”
Razumikhin, who was drinking his vodka, half choked. "Pardon? Uhm, alright. Which part do you want?”
Raskolnikov reached out to the glass, staring at the transparent liquid before smelling it, then he gulped it down, not realizing how much he savoured the burning taste. Razumikhin flinched and grabbed his wrist, telling him to slow down.
“Uhm,” Raskolnikov thought for a moment when he caught Razumikhin's question. “Is there anything about… the sea?”
“I know one…” Razumikhin looked at the table of contents, then he turned over several pages, then he cleared his throat; “ And God said, “Let the water teem with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the vault of the sky. So God created the great creatures of the sea and every living thing with which the water teems and that moves about in it, according to their kind, and every winged bird according to its kind.” Razumikhin paused, glancing at Raskolnikov who stared at him, absorbing every word carefully. Razumikhin tried not to blush under the attention. “ And God saw that it was good. ”
“Did God really say that?”
Razumikhin was silenced by his question. “That's what the believers say. And the history written in other books.”
"What about your opinion?"
"I'm optimistic in fate; God or not," said Razumikhin with a shrug.
Raskolnikov exhaled slowly through his nose, apparently wanting to continue something that was already on the tip of his tongue. However, suddenly, he asked, “Is there anything about… the fate of the sinners?”
Razumikhin frowned, wanting to ask, but he was sure that he wouldn't get a concrete answer either. “You'd fit perfectly in my philosophy class. You'd be the brightest there, I know," he chuckled, turning several pages, looking at the verses that he skipped before becoming more familiar with their contents. He glanced over to see Raskolnikov's gaze soften to him. “ Even if I caused you sorrow by my letter, I don't regret it. Though I did regret it—I see that my letter hurt you, but only for a little while— ”
Raskolnikov was confused for a moment. But Razumikhin continued; “ Yet now I am happy, not because you were made sorry, but because your sorrow led you to repentance. For you became sorrowful as God intended and so were not harmed in any way by us.” Razumikhin looked up at him. “ Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, but worldly sorrow brings death .”
Raskolnikov's mouth twitched, but not in a smile. “This is repentance.”
“That's what automatically comes to mind when you mention sinners.” Raskolnikov's shoulders slumped slightly, drinking his vodka down. “I could look for something more specific, but it would take a little longer. Does this have anything to do with something? Why don't you look for it yourself?”
He hoped he didn't sound reluctant — he would read all the literature in this world without stopping if Raskolnikov had asked. That's the only requirement; it’s really that simple.
“I want to have another drink… is that okay, Dmitri?” Raskolnikov asked instead.
“Of course.” Razumikhin got up and took a half-filled bottle from the fridge, going to the living room and poured it into his glass. Razumikhin finished his own and gulping it down till he could pour in more.
He mumbled a thank you, then drank a quarter of the glass. Razumikhin gaped for a moment — throat dry as Raskolnikov sighed and looked at him with wet lips, pale cheeks growing rosy and radiating from the firelight; a strand of hair dramatically fell in front of his eyebrow.
Beautiful.
He was beautiful.
Razumikhin knew that and still, it was starting to hurt.
“I don't want to read the Bible anymore. Forget it,” said Raskolnikov dismissively and obliviously. “Do you know any of our ancestors?” It seemed that Raskolnikov accidentally said the word 'ancestor' but Razumikhin also found it difficult to understand why. “ — Poseidon. God of the sea and water, have you ever heard of him?”
Razumikhin knew he was going to dive into a story that might get a little long. He drank his vodka and shook his head, for he had not really delved into this subject, and Raskolnikov seemed to be on the verge of ranting with passion. “What is it about?”
And his guess was correct. Raskolnikov told the story with his eyes blazing like the red flower next to them; looking alive and healthy than before. The conversation began to branch out into other subjects. Between the beast known as the Leviathan — Razumikhin knew it as mere mythology, but it's as if Raskolnikov has discovered it and mastered its tameness — and about… the afterlife, oddly enough. Still, Razumikhin found nothing strange or worth judging. Raskolnikov babbled like a professor who Razumikhin didn’t think he could get along with.
He found it difficult for the two of them to get along — theoretically, that was, because he could identify that they were the complete opposite of each other.
But if they weren't destined to not get along with each other — was there a person, or a single living creature, who could explain this bond, right at this moment, that gradually grew into something truly special?
“That's absurd, Rodya! I can't believe you said that. It sounds so dishonorable, so unreasonable and unclear, not to mention so very wrong!” Razumikhin exclaimed.
Raskolnikov snorted, almost smiling. “And why is that?”
"Because you will never be Poseidon." Raskolnikov straightened his shoulders slightly. “Because you're not cruel—that's not what I see in you. You can shake this earth as you say, and the only thing I believe is, there is indeed an element of humanity in you. There is light, something that deserves to be revealed like how a god should do. I see that goodness in you, Rodya. I'm waiting when you're ready to tell me your personal stories that has nothing to do with the ideas you have in that great mind of yours. I will wait forever, but I will not change my mind.” All of Razumikhin's statements are firm and confident. “Not until you prove me wrong… and if that happens too…”
Raskolnikov threw back his head, eyes half closed by his drunkenness. "What would you do if that happened, Dmitri?"
Razumikhin was unable to think long or logically, because he was on the verge of drunkenness too. So he said what his conscience spontaneously whispered. “I will accompany you through it. Till the very end. I would not let you go.”
He expected Raskolnikov to snort or roll his eyes, or even make something scathing and derisive. He didn't expect a laugh at all — a genuine one that gradually reduced to giggles and hiccups from the amount of alcohol he had consumed. “Why you are so loyal, I really don't understand! You're the delirious one among us... you..." His cheeks slowly turned red, smile gradually turning shy and nervous when he realized how intensely Razumikhin was looking at him. He longed to hear Raskolnikov laugh again.. "Why are you so sure... I don't understand... everyone is capable of misleading each other... what you say is very untrue and unrealistic..."
“Because that's what a friend would do, Rodya,” Razumikhin muttered. “I didn't ask you to understand it so deeply.”
“F-friend…?” he whispered, lips trembling slightly. " I... I seem to see your eyes that... in the darkness glowing, Meet... mine..." Razumikhin's eyes widened. " I see your smile... You speak to me alone..."
Raskolnikov gave a small smile, very small, like it some sort of secret. “My friend… my dearest friend…”
Razumikhin knew the next line like it streamed through his blood. And he looked at Raskolnikov as if begging him to say the next line, because he knew that Raskolnikov knew it too. Tell me... even if it's just my deepest desirable dream... tell me —
Raskolnikov held back the next line, swallowing instantly. “Do you have the book with the poem?”
Again, changing the topic. Razumikhin swallowed his disappointment too. But he still smiled cheerfully. "Yes! If I know that you knew the lines by heart, I would always be happy to show you an even more moving line —” He got up, almost losing his balance with a stumble. He went to the bookshelves and before he could search for the poetry, he heard a thud sound that made him jump in panic.
“Rodya?” There his guest was sprawled next to their glasses due to a heavy hangover. Razumikhin was just relieved that there hadn't been any vomiting just yet. It seemed like the poetry session would have to be later.
Carrying him wasn't that difficult, in fact it was impossible to feel burdened at all, considering how light his body was, which reminded Razumikhin of a fish out of a comfortable aquarium. He took him to the guest room again and placed him gently on the bed, pushing away the strands covering his tightly closed eyelids, lips parting slightly in a peaceful breath.
He was very beautiful and Razumikhin's drunkenness could not stop him from concluding that he had fallen in love with this man - and that was just as, if not more, painful than ever.