Soviet of the Vampire World

Yeletsky had awakened, yet the rescued man showed no trace of joy.

"You shouldn't have saved me... You really shouldn't have..."

The man kept repeating these words until his voice grew hoarse, still muttering incessantly.

"Alright lad, drink something warm first."

Old Captain Koen handed him a bowl of pale yellow broth, his bushy beard twitching as he offered comforting words.

"Thank you..."

Yeletsky's eyes were vacant, his voice weak.

He mechanically took the dented tin bowl and tilted his head back for a gulp—only to feel his tongue, throat, and halfway down his esophagus instantly ignite.

"Cough! Cough! What in the— Hah... Hah..."

Watching Yeletsky gasp for air, the old captain chuckled and placed the soldered tin kettle back on the phlogiston-pipe-turned-stove.

"See? You've got some spirit in you after all."

"No matter how tough things get, young folks shouldn't give up. You've got time to face your troubles. And if you can't handle it alone, let others help."

"Say, lad, do you smoke?"

Old Koen offered his pipe, but Yeletsky waved it away.

"No... I don't smoke."

"Tch. Missing out on life's great pleasures."

The captain cheerfully placed the packed pipe between his own lips instead.

Taking a deep drag and exhaling through his nose, he studied Yeletsky still panting with his mouth open.

"Really now, just some spicy soup got you like this?"

"It's not—cough—what did you make me drink? My mouth feels like it's on fire!"

"That's called 'là' (spicy), not burning. Clearly you don't drink—no palate at all."

"Là?"

Yeletsky rolled the unfamiliar word—definitely not from the Sideros lexicon—around his numbed tongue.

"Means that burning taste in your mouth. Word's from Yeglin's homeland, specially for flavors that bite back."

"Though yours was mild—Yeglin would complain we skimped on the mountain pepper."

The helmsman chimed in: "Aye, Yeglin loves là more than anyone!"

"Mind the rudder, boy!" The captain swatted at his apprentice. "Last thing we need's you steering past the docks again because you're gossiping!"

"But I was watching over this gentleman earlier! Otherwise I'd never—"

"Still backtalking? Need your ears boxed?"

"Yeglin says we're revolutionary comrades—equals! No corporal punishment! That's old thinking, Captain!"

"You little—! Fine, no hitting. But I'm kicking your backside!"

Their bickering gradually eased Yeletsky's tension. At least this didn't seem a pirate vessel. Yet certain terms in their conversation tickled his memory—familiar yet alien.

"Feeling better, lad?"

Seeing Yeletsky calmer, the captain nodded approvingly and produced half a black bread loaf.

"Eat up. Never seen a man weep so long—not even Yeglin when we fished him from the river."

"Wait—Yeglin cried? When?"

"None of your business! Eyes on the water!"

Their camaraderie stirred bittersweet memories of his own lost domestic banter. Even the coarse bread seemed sweeter in recollection.

"Need some fish to go with that?"

Before Yeletsky could politely decline, the captain was already shrugging into his coat. Resistance proved futile against the river-hardened sailor.

"Don't argue with the old man," the helmsman advised. "Just praise his cooking later—he'll beam till his beard curls."

Curiosity finally overcame Yeletsky: "Who exactly are you people?"

"We're the Leman Swamp Corpse—" The apprentice caught himself. "Apologies—should've checked with Yeglin first. Let's just say we're... salvagers from the Leman Marshes."

Leman Marsh salvagers?

Viktor's words echoed in Yeletsky's mind—these were the decent folk who buried the dead. Had some deity guided him to them?

Then realization struck like lightning:

"Alyosha! Did you find Alyosha?!"

He sprang up, clutching the helmsman's arm desperately.

"What Alyosha? Explain!"

But Yeletsky's fractured mind couldn't form coherent sentences, his grip tightening in wordless panic.

"Enough, boy!" The captain pulled them apart. "Out with it properly!"

Wrapped in blankets and paternal patience, Yeletsky's story finally poured out—the blood tax, the impossible choice, the tiny coffin-sized bundle handed to vampires, and the rope that took his Alyosha.

Silence swallowed the cabin. The captain's eyes glistened; the helmsman's shoulders shook at the wheel.

"Lad..." Koen's calloused hand gripped Yeletsky's shoulder. "You bore impossible burdens. You did enough."

"No! I should've—"

Sobs wracked his frame again. "My fault... all my fault..."

Between gasps, the damning truth spilled:

"I signed the Communion papers! I fed my child to them! I killed Alyosha!"

His confession spent the last of his strength. Slumping to the floor, he stared blankly at the darkness beyond the porthole, tears carving silent paths down his cheeks.

As the apprentice reheated the neglected fish stew, the captain draped the fallen blanket around Yeletsky once more.

Settling beside the broken man, Koen packed his last shreds of tobacco with ceremonial care.

"Here. This helps."

This time, Yeletsky didn't refuse—though the pipe just dangled lifelessly from his lips, its smoke rising in a straight mournful line.

"Earlier I said it wasn't your fault. Know why?"

The captain's voice was soft as the river outside.

"You fought for your family harder than most. Hell, harder than I did back in my day."

His gaze turned distant. "Want to hear an old man's story?"