By the time Anastas turned twenty-one, Thomas had become a part of his life so naturally that he hadn't noticed the exact moment it happened.
For the first long while, he felt a certain irritation about this, treated it with caution and anxiety, tried to push him away and ignore him, treating him just like everyone else around. He saw people, spoke to them, simply playing his role as the younger son of a noble family—educated, well-bred, calm. But almost no one touched what lay deeper. He did not allow it himself. But Thomas became an unbidden exception. It did not happen immediately; it took a truly long time—he simply walked into his life and stayed.
At first, he was just a neighbor—the son of the owner of the neighboring estate; then, a companion on walks; a rare interlocutor whom silence did not irritate; and finally, a person whose presence began to matter.
They spent hours together doing nothing in particular. Sitting on the stone wall by the old garden, watching the wind sway the treetops. Riding horseback along country roads, not racing, but simply moving side by side.
Thomas was different. He knew when to speak and when it was better to be silent. He did not try to drag confessions out of him, did not pry into the past, did not demand explanations for his oddities. He accepted Anastas as he was—silent, distant, at times cold.
Thomas was alive, stubborn, laughing—the way Anastas did not allow himself to be. Perhaps this was the reason for their closeness.
Anastas knew he was making a mistake. He knew it as clearly as he once knew that to attach oneself means to lose, but with Thomas, this knowledge seemed to lose its sharpness.
Anastas sometimes forgot himself beside him; he spoke—spoke of his thoughts, of his worries, of life and feelings, of his family.
"You look again as if the world will collapse tomorrow," Thomas said one day as they sat in the stable, leaning their backs against the wooden wall.
"Perhaps," Anastas replied briefly.
Thomas chuckled but said nothing. He demanded no explanations at all. That was precisely why Anastas allowed him to stay.
The decision to set off on a journey had been maturing for a long time. It was not a sudden or impulsive decision, but a self-evident event.
The world beyond the boundaries of the estates called to him, in search of a special person.
Preparing for the road, he thought of his family. Of how his mother would worry, how his father would nod silently, understanding more than he said, how his brother would send him off with words of advice and his sisters would hug him tightly.
The thought was bitter, but it was necessary.
He packed in silence. A minimum of things, weapons, money, paper with stamps for letters to the family. He planned to leave in the morning.
Anastas and Thomas sat near the stable. They were silent, each thinking his own thoughts. Suddenly Thomas decided to break the silence:
"You are leaving," he said, not asking.
Anastas raised his eyes to his friend. He had intended to tell him, but the other had beaten him to it.
"Yes," he replied, pursing his lips.
"For long?"
"I don't know."
"Alone?"
The pause dragged on.
"Yes," said Anastas firmly. "It will be better this way."
Thomas was silent for a time. Then he said resolutely:
"I am coming with you."
"No."
The answer sounded too sharp.
Thomas turned, looking at his friend.
"Is this not up for discussion?"
"No," repeated Anastas. "You will stay here. In safety."
"And will it not be dangerous for you alone?"
"I am used to it."
"Why do you say that?"
"You are dear to me," he finally said. The words came with difficulty, as if he had kept them locked away for a long time. "And that is precisely why you will stay here."
"And do you think you are not dear to me?"
Anastas looked at him for a long time, intently.
"I know you are looking for someone."
Anastas's heart skipped a beat.
"What did you say?" his voice became serious.
"I said I know you are looking for someone. You aren't leaving just for the sake of it."
Anastas felt a chill rise from his spine to the back of his neck.
"How? I told no one about this."
Thomas looked away.
"Do you remember how you were ill last winter?"
Anastas frowned.
"Vaguely."
"You had a fever. You were delirious. I was there." He swallowed. "You spoke in your sleep."
The air in the stable became dense.
"You called for someone," Thomas continued quietly. "By name. You said you didn't make it in time. That you were late again. That you wouldn't bear it if you lost him one more time. There were several names. Unusual ones."
Anastas swallowed hard.
"You spoke as if this person…" Thomas faltered, his voice growing quieter. "As if he is more important than everything you have."
The words struck him like a blow.
"Why are you telling me this now?" asked Anastas hoarsely.
"Because you are leaving," Thomas replied. "And because you intend to do it alone."
He moved closer and looked him in the eye.
"You don't have to take me," he said calmly. "But don't pretend it will be easier alone. I know why you are going. I don't want you to be alone. Again. Although I don't understand everything. I never asked you about your strange answers, your words. But I believe you, and I want to be by your side."
Anastas felt something old, built over years, crumbling. The wall that protected and isolated. He suddenly looked at Thomas with different eyes.
Anastas closed his eyes. Inside, everything mixed and resisted—memory, fear.
"If you come with me," he said slowly, "I can promise you nothing: neither safety nor return."
"And I am not asking," Thomas smiled. "I am asking to walk beside you."
The silence stretched. Anastas looked at him and suddenly realized: this person had already become part of his destiny. To refuse meant to lose him now.
A long pause. Thomas froze.
Then Anastas exhaled.
"Very well," his voice became hoarse.
Thomas exhaled:
"Thank you."
"Do not thank me," Anastas replied. "You may yet regret it."
"Perhaps," agreed Thomas. "But I will be nearby."
Anastas turned away, looking into the darkness. But somewhere deep inside, for the first time in a long while, he felt not anxiety—but a strange, frightening relief. Because beside him would be the one who had become almost home to him.
And he understood: the path had already begun.