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✧

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧   I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧  I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

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✧

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧   I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧  I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

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gemma

For all that she’s keen enough not to foolishly point out every curious thing she lays eyes on, she’s unfailingly observant, as is the way of a young woman so often regarded with mild—if not piteous—interest and then avoided entirely and given, by such treatment, no other choice. His charming smile seems a bit weaker than it did a moment before, and her inkling of suspicion that her kefta may be the cause grows to a flood when he suggests that he order a black one be made for her. She neatly fits her palm into the crook of his offered arm as he speaks, blue gaze shifting up to meet his own when his fingertips brush against the silk of her sleeve.

Unease slips between her ribs like a knife, settles in her stomach in a knot—stone-cold. “You flatter me, moi soverennyi, but—” They’ve only just rounded the corner into the main corridor when she feels the steadiness of his arm beneath hers vanish and the pressure of his palm against the small of her back bloom, warm and secure. It’s as if she blinks and then they’re there, in a vacant room, her back pressed against the wall and his hand flush against her hip. She has the good sense not to cry out even before he brings a finger to his lips in warning, but the familiar gesture comforts her in a way, and it feels intimate, somehow—like the sharing of a secret with implications unthinkable.

And perhaps they are; as far as she knows, the Second Army has only ever seen one man wear black for centuries. What would a newcomer donning it mean, for the Army, for Ravka—for her? Even as warmth rushes through her at the idea of belonging where few others ever have (and never in the company of another), she’s had her fill of revelations for the evening. Tonight, she is content to be a girl in a blue kefta, in a deserted, dusty room lit only by the moon, or on a nearly unbearably chilly walk through the gardens—she’d like to wake and still know on what ground her feet will land when she swings them over the side of her bed in the morning, and it’s a humble, impossible thing to want, but she wants it still.

He’s impossibly close now, so much that she can smell the subtle scent of shaving lotion on his cheeks, and she shifts, blue eyes wandering—around the room, up and down the silhouette of his shoulders—before settling, at last, on his. “Capable,” she repeats, a hand she hadn’t even realized was on his arm falling to her side, “but not proven—yet. I like to earn what I’m given.” As if to convince him further, she musters a coy half-smile. “Something to aspire to.”

“My saying you are makes it so,” he whispers, voice far more stern than the last time he spoke, and there’s an edge to his tone—intentionality unclear to her but the potential lingers in the air, he makes sure of it. In the way he hangs his head low, the way he hooks her gaze with his, the way he tempers his breathing to match with hers. It’s all intentional; he’s no fool in the art of romance, though he sees it as something far more appealing, far more appetizing—the taste of power. The sweet scent of what she represents, what she means to him, to his world—the one he intends on creating. And he has every intention of doing it with her by his side, whether she likes it or not is entirely up to her, or at least it will be. Eventually.

But you don’t tell the lamb you’re going to slaughter it. You don’t frighten the prey before you pounce. You whisper sweet little nothings into the nape of their neck. You entice them, draw them close as can be. You make them feel safe before you go in for the kill.

“I’ve seen what you can do,” he breathes, reaching a hand up and sweeping away a stray silver-blond curl away from her face. He places it behind her ear and drags his fingertips down along the side of her neck. “It’s remarkable,” he pauses, eyes alight like that of a conqueror gazing upon his biggest and best find. “You are remarkable,” a twitch of his upper lip and he smiles, faintly in the darkness, with the moonlight to his back, but it’s there if she looks hard enough, if she cares enough to find it—and it’s for her.

“One of a kind,” he finishes, lingering there for a few seconds before taking a step back, giving her the space she had before their side trip into the shadows, though it had worked so well, he cursed himself for not having actually arranged it.

He turns slightly and extends his hand, gesturing with his head in the direction of the door. “So,” he starts, “shall we continue?”

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✧

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧ I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧  I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

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✧

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧   I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧  I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

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arina

When the plague hit, healing became the work of both poisoners and healers. It was the polar opposite of what Arina has been so used to doing that she was pleasantly surprised that she took to the science of healing like a bird to the skies, albeit in less than favourable weather. She understood the body and how it crumbled and toppled under the potency of her poisons. So, creating a cure was merely reversing the process, rebuilding the body and undoing the effects of the plague. And while it was easier said than done, it was, nonetheless, done for even considering otherwise would not do. Not for Arina.

But there were instances when even she had to admit that Death had bested her wit. 

“No, moi soverennyi,” she said honestly, for what use was there to sugar coat a bitter truth. Her glacial hues dropped to the sweat-soaked, sleepless man—he seemed to be trying to focus on some invisible figure, his bloodshot eyes were heavy lidded but the grip of fever and delirium was a vigilant captor keeping its victims far from ease. “He’s been here for days now with no significant improvement despite our…efforts.” An otkazat’sya—frail and feeble, and a proper guinea pig for testing the new serum the Alkemi and Healers formulated just that morning.

Arina passed a small bottle containing the would-be cure to the medic and nodded, gesturing that they administered it now. Turning her gaze back to the Darkling, she continued though her lips parted with hesitation before saying “If that doesn’t work, he’ll have two days left to live.” If she had been honest this time, she would have said to remain in pain.

It’s a rare find, someone who speaks the truth. Most tend to bend and twist the facts, force them to appear as anything but what they are, dressing them up to whisper them sweetly in his ear. He has no doubts as to why they do this; they’re loyal subjects, and while to Aleksander loyalty means always speaking true, fear has a nasty little way of turning truths into pretty little lies. Though the girl before him dares to speak candidly, and he could not be more grateful. A breath of fresh air amid the putrid smell of destruction and decay, as sweet as lavender and as welcome as death’s embrace to the suffering.

He watches as she works, delegating this and that, and he's impressed albeit only slightly—as impressed as Aleksander can be. She's delicate and caring when it comes to patients, but that minuscule quirk of her lips suggests she's far more talented at inducing suffering rather than healing. And he can't blame her. While healing may be a more rewarding path, causing pain has its attractiveness, its opportunities.

"A shame," he whispers, flicking his tongue against the back of his teeth. Tsk, tsk, he says as he cants his head to the side, eyes still glued to the helpless that lay before him. "Rather cruel, wouldn't you say? To keep a man alive only to let him die in two days time?" He clears his throat and turns about to face her, eyes narrowing on her tiny frame, her kissed-by-fire curls. "Your name?" He asks, unable to recall, though he's sure they've met, even interacted before, but he has a terrible memory regarding those who carry little significance in his life.

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ALEKSANDER MOROZOVA

UNKNOWN ❈ THE DARKLING THE ORDER OF SUMMONERS (ETHEREALKI)

Man’s greatest folly is, perhaps, not his tendency to put his gods on a pedestal, to lay at their altars his heart and other fragile things, but his forgetfulness—his failure to recognize that all gods were once men, and all men were once children. He, too, was a boy once, a child who listened more than he spoke and learned far more than he let on, building empires out of sticks and stones and daring to call himself the king. Yet for all that he was once ordinary, he was different in a way neither he nor those around him could ever reconcile, and he knew it from a young age, knew it as well as he knew his own name: Aleksander, a name given to blacksmiths’ boys, to merchants’ sons, to fishermen’s heirs—a name he would one day give up in favor of another, in favor of the sort of infamy that demands blood sacrifice, though it would never be his own. To be remembered was to be forgotten, and so he was—year by shadowed year, death by hallowed death. Infinite. He became infinite, in name and ability, in lives and in victories, so entrenched in the shadows he commanded that the boy he’d once been was lost along the way, left to live on forever in oblivion or to die there—whichever suited him best. The darkness in his heart had never left any room for love, for gentleness, for light; it took and devoured until there was nothing left of what might’ve been, and all that was left was this: a man, half-legend and half-horror, with a heart black as night.

They called him the Darkling, though none could be sure whether the name had come from his own machinations or from the blackness that loved him like a son, and they feared him, as they did all terrible and unknown things, for it is in the nature of man to fear that which he does not understand, and he—perhaps even more than the rest of his kind—was utterly beyond comprehension. Strange and powerful though he might’ve been, however, his dreams, in the beginning, were the same dreams shared by countless others with similar gifts: a world where his people did not have to run like fugitives, did not have to hide like animals bred for the hunt, did not bear their gifts like crosses—like martyrs. They hailed him as their leader, thrust him upon a throne and called him moi soverennyi, and from his reign the seed of the Second Army grew, planted by hope and nourished by ambition. Beneath his guiding hand, Grisha became something to be valued, sought after—if not trusted, then tolerated, and in due time, his followers believed, they would be not simply Grisha, but Ravkans, seen as countrymen where they had once been only weapons. But great power begets great ambition, and a man gifted with the power to cast down the sun and stars if he so desired it could be no exception. His greed would know no bounds, as wild a thing as the dark it was born from; his greed would swallow the world whole.

And it did, ardently and utterly without his permission or control. It was ravenous, this power, this cold and cruel darkness—even crueler, perhaps, than the man it bowed to, and when the otkazat’sya told their stories in the centuries that followed, they would struggle to distinguish the servant from the master, the good intentions from the terrible. It was meant to be a good thing, a noble thing—a means of defending the kingdom from those who sought to destroy it, but his greed pushed him farther still, edged his power over the line that separated natural from merzost, forced his hand in ways none had ever seen before. Years later, they’d say the Fold was a mistake, the creation of avarice that knew no bounds, but the truth, dark and deep and raw, was that he’d wanted every wicked bit of it and more. It was his pride, his terrible hope, his mark on the world that no amount of inferni hellfire could burn away; he branded the world for all to see that infamous day, and the warning it gave rang throughout the kingdom like church bells, reverberated in the bones of his people like a prayer for which there were no words. Yet he hated it, too, this unconquerable, immeasurable thing, because for all that it came to be by his doing, it proved unruly even to him. And though it outlived the version of him that created it, as a man who never aged was far too much for mere mortals to understand, he swore that it wouldn’t outlive the last version of him; even if it took an eternity, he would see it bow to him once more, and with it, the world.

He has seen empires rise and empires fall, he has led rebellions and quelled them, he has tasted conquest, brewed terror, created vainglory as thick as a man’s torso and as crimson-deep as the cut which severs it. Moi soverennyi. That awe-tinged echo clings to him like the shadows to the hidden face of the moon; relentlessly, possessively – like brazen worshipers at the dais of their god. And darkness incarnate rose like a phoenix from the ashes of his own demise; remaking, retelling, reliving the same story of immortal splendor, inherent horror. Again, and again, and again he has made himself new. Five lives, five legacies, five tales of rule and ruin. Aleksander, a boy forgotten. Morozova, a man made myth. Moi soverennyi, moi soverennyi, moi soverennyi. He is their tsar, their emperor, their conquistador, their fragile life and rotten death – a thousand nights of fear, a thousand days of majesty and sin so sacred that it burns. His ambition drives him, his power feeds him, his pride rears up and swallows his enemies whole. He is cold and beautiful and void of love; yet still they come, with their prayers and their hatred, with their numinous wonder and effervescent longing. And as they cling to the black of his robes, there is nothing but odinakovost and etovost, manifesting like twin wolves at the heels of their master. For what is power? Power is power. And what is infinite? Nothing but the universe, and the g r e e d of men.

CONNECTIONS

GEMMA PAVLOVA: It wasn’t something as mundane as loneliness—which all ordinary men and their faint, fool’s gold hearts are susceptible to—but a hunger for some great and terrible kinship, that led him to ask the universe for an equal, that led him to wait lifetimes for their deliverance, and at long last, he believes he’s found her: his balance, the only one that might keep his power in check, the light that might drive out his darkness. But for all that she seems a proper adversary in theory, she’s young, and she has much to learn before she can reach her full potential, before she can liken herself to him. Fortunately, he’s a patient man, and he’ll wait as many lifetimes as it takes for her to rule the world alongside him or be forced to lay it at his feet, for there are only two names for Grisha like them: saints and heretics—one cannot be both.

ALTAN YUL-SUHE: He’s capable, if nothing else—obedient enough to follow orders and ruthless enough to follow them faithfully, and he values the man for it, in the way one might value a prized hound. His right hand toys with heartstrings like red ribbons, steals the air from men’s lungs with a mere curl of his fingers, and he can’t say he doesn’t wonder, at times, what it must feel like to feel a man’s very life sifting through your fingers—that is, of course, until he remembers he already knows. He’ll keep him around, this red-cloaked brute, this heart attack of a soldier, until he’s served his purpose or strayed from it; even the best of men are replaceable.

ANTON LANTSOV: He is but a boy trying to fill the shoes of a king, little more than a child compared to his father and brother before him, and thus far, his attempts at preparing to run a country are laughable. Sooner or later, he’ll learn that wit only serves a man when choosing his last words; sooner or later, he’ll see that the fall of kingdoms and the rise of empires is inevitable, and by then, it’ll be too late. Let him whisper sweet nothings in the ears of his people; let him give them false hope with his victories and rally them onward with his defeats, for the real enemy fights not with guns and toy soldiers, but with horrors unseen. This war was never his to win.

THE DARKLING IS PORTRAYED BY SEAN O’PRY & IS TAKEN BY SIDNEY.

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When he felt her fingers, he flinched; he had not been touched with such gentleness since his childhood. He was no stranger to women and had felt their hands on all parts of his body, but her touch made him feel like he belonged some place.

-Melina Marchetta, Finnikin of the Rock

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Darkness hovered softly.

The Ballad of the Sad Cafe, Carson McCullers

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svetlana

She spent the night up with Adrik, sitting in front of the fire place in a dreadful, heavy silence. Fyodor was somewhere else, out, perhaps drowning his demons in kvas or someone’s embrace. But the two of them, spend long hours in each others company without a word, without putting their worry into words. Insomnia is the first sign, they say, and although their bed has been unfamiliar and cold and gave no comfort, they both wanted to believe it was only their mind playing tricks on them. She cannot remember the last time she had to stop for a moment and contemplate, to weight her chances, the possibility of loosing to something. This, Svetlana knows, is not a battle she can win with brash violence and showing her teeth. This, she won’t be able to get out of by using her head either. She’s never liked the sound of fate, relying on luck and the standing of the stars, but now she has no choice but to.

They try to stop her as she pushes through the crowd gathered around the cathedral. Healers, corporalki or not, guards and those looking for salvation, but it’s as if they are talking to a wall, she only sees what she wants to get to. They tell her she’s human, that she’s too weak, her body won’t be able to take it. They tell her that she will end up choking on her pride and determination even before the plague has a chance to get to her.

She almost stumbles when he looks at her and it is embarrassing, how her whole soul trembles under his gaze. This man, this terrible, terrible man has a power over her she desperately wants to tear from his grasp, but cannot make herself move to actually do so. She bows her head shortly, standing next to him, but a step behind. Moi soverennyi, ungrateful bastard, she still hates him for denying her the only thing she’s really yearning for: recognition.

‘   No.   ’   She answers after a moment, bright gaze turning to look at the sick and she shivers. How strange, she thinks, is that she is not appalled by the most gruesome scene on the battlefield and yet sickness scares her so.   ‘   Most people are victims, not survivors. I suppose this is what’s called … natural selection.   ’

She trips and he extends his arms to grasp her arms, to steady her from what he assumes would be a harsh fall, especially if she’s already infected. Their muscles ache, he recalls from one of the briefings, mind wandering off to what it must feel like, to feel such pain, to be trapped in a prison of your body’s own making. Svetlana is no different. She’s resilient as all his Corporalki are; it is a requirement to be, but resilience is no match for Death. Just ask the man laying before them, look as he takes his last breath. His clothes give him away, his armor as well as it lays at the end of his bed. A soldier. Resilient, undoubtedly. And yet here he lies.

Natural selection, she says. And his upper lip curls slightly, barely noticeable, most of all to her. Affection is not what she deserves, not from him. She’s happy to seek for it elsewhere, to demand it even, but he’ll never see the likes of her as an equal to himself. Nothing will change that. No matter how many she slays in his name, no matter the way she kneels before him as if he is a Sankt and the only who can offer her salvation, absolution. Regardless, he rather enjoyed her answer, hence the semblance of recognition, but surely it is not enough to feed her ravenous soul.

She moves away, taking her place a step behind him, notably on the right—as if she thinks she deserves to be there. “Perhaps you’re right,” he offers, and he lets it linger there, the approval, the notoriety. That is, until he snatches it right back. He turns his head to glance at her over his shoulder, “but a smart person knows extinction is not the problem,” he pauses, slowly turning back around. “The enemy, those who wish to eradicate the species,” the man before them gasps audibly, clutching his chest, and Aleksander breathes in deep as he takes his last breath. He watches as the life leaves his eyes, lingering on them until the healer brushes them shut with their fingers. And then he turns.

"There is nothing natural about such a selection, is there, Svetlana?" Her name lingers on his tongue, rolling off slowly, cruelly, a smirk playing along his lips. "When an enemy chooses to cut of your head, instead of another's?" He leans in, head dipping low as he reaches up a leather encased hand to sweep away a few of her auburn locks, "but...perhaps a betrayal—an act of war—such as that seems natural to you, hm?"

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And Death, in his shame,
built a kingdom from dust 
as penance, as proof,
that his fingers were made 
for more than destruction.

emily palermo

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anton

The urge to roll his eyes burns, digging into his chest with a ferocity that made him want to spill blood. The Darkling always had this affect on Anton – the feeling that he was in hell, that the battle would never be won, that the clang of metal against metal would always ring in his ears. Then again, he would suppose the Darkling had little need for something so crude as a weapon when all he needed to do was use his mind. 

He thinks it’s the way he says your highness instead of the standard moi tsarevich, the first holding an almost incredulous, even amused, tone. It does not speak of the respect Anton knows he deserves. It does not speak of the respect Anton demands. (His hubris has always been his defining trait, and the Darkling had always been good at playing into people’s weaknesses, making nooses of them and draping them casually around his target’s necks; they, of course, always did the hanging themselves. That was the beautiful part about tragic flaws. If only Anton could see theirs were the same.)

He wants to roll his eyes, but instead he rolls his shoulders back. A good soldier, a better king. 

“The Shu,” he says, ignoring the slight. Anton was just as good at this game as his opponent, he’d be sure of that. He always made sure of it, and he was finding it easier as time passed to put aside his hatred for the sake of grace, for the sake of glory. “They’re a mutual dilemma, and I’d like to collaborate.” 

He pauses; greatness lies in the silent, and allowing the Darkling to sit gave it all to Anton.

“Someone told me two heads are better than one, and I’d imagine the same stands for armies.”

This is all he offers to begin with; not an apology, not a nod to the Darkling’s titles, not a nod of the respect he supposes the other is owed. If he wanted to fool with the laws of propriety, then Anton would skip them as well and head straight for business. Besides, it would certainly be entertaining to see how he reacted to such little information – the Darkling has never seemed the patient type.  

Mutual dilemma, he says and Aleksander scoffs, shaking his head and taking a step forward. He walks past the boy and begins to pace as he talks, half listening, half wishing him dead. Such ignorance, such arrogance from a mere child who knows nothing of suffering, of pain, of loss. Born with a pristine silver spoon in his mouth and he’s only ever tasted as such; his tongue only gracing the most holy of places, the most decadent of foods, the most sweet of ambrosia. And it’s a joke, his stern face, his concerned voice. Acting as if he gives a damn each time one of his people fall, each time of his kills them, burns them, cuts them open.

“Agreed, if they were even in the same league,” he smirks, pausing and turning to look at the bastard before him, “if they were lead by a true king.” Perhaps then, yes, Aleksander would agree and even condone working together. But these words come from that of a boy who does not belong, a boy who has done more drinking than training, more fucking than fighting.

He’s a disgrace. To his family, to his nation, to his name.

Taking a step forward, he turns about and approaches the large table before him, a map sprawled out. It takes up nearly every inch of the table and he gazes upon this world, sighing slowly before he speaks again. “The Shu Han have always been a problem, but thank you for taking notice when and only when they lay their savagery at your feet.”

He leans forward and rests his fists against the table, frustration rising at an alarming rate, and there’s no stopping him now. One man can only handle so much disrespect in his lifetime, and Aleksander is surely filled to the brim of his barrel. “How generous of you to offer up your band of misfits led by an incorrigible general.” He stops and spins slowly, now leaning against the edge of the table with his arms crossed over his chest, “and to think,” his voice is low and steady, sarcasm dripping through his teeth as thick as molasses, “I thought you’d have nothing to offer me.”

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It’s your night, but the dark belongs to me.

excerpt from chapbook “Underdogs of the Underworld” | l.x.

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gemma

INTO THE HEART OF DARKNESS—  DATE: January 14th; Year 2  LOCATION: The Darkling’s Quarters; the Little Palace  TIME: 5:30 P.M.  AVAILABILITY: @infinitegreed

Given the circumstances and the Second Army’s uncanny tendency to call things exactly what they are, it should come as no surprise that a man deemed the Darkling lives in quarters black as night from floor to ceiling, from wall to wall, in every crook and corner imaginable—yet it does, if only a small one, and if only made perceptible by the way the man sent to retrieve her blends in with the upholstery and she, in her dark blue and gold, clashes in a manner that’s almost uncomfortable. If she had the energy, she might have the grace to be self-conscious.

So much black, so much darkness—and this was only the foyer. 

The oprichnik abruptly draws her out of her thoughts with a clear of his throat, and at the inclination of his head toward the magnificent black door, cracked open like a leering grin, she slips inside, the feverish ache in her bones settling in her gut like a stone. Chin up, bloodshot eyes as cool as ice. “You sent for me, moi soverennyi?” She can’t imagine why, but then again, the man himself defies imagination.

She enters, and from the moment he sees her, he worries. She’s far paler than usual, alabaster skin more white than he’s ever seen it, and it forges a pit within his stomach, one filled with anguish and dismay. In the back of his mind, he curses this sickness—this wretched plague—as any sane person would, as any monarch would when their greatest weapon falls incapacitated at their feet. Though he’s sure she’ll swear she feels no symptoms, shows no signs of illness, and he loves her for that, as much as Aleksander can love a thing, a person. 

“Yes,” he nods, looking up and offering her a small smile. Dropping his pen atop the paper, he closes the notebook and braces his hands along the edge of his desk and pushes his chair out, careful to snatch up his gloves from the edge of the table before approaching. He slides them on quickly before gazing up at her, and its a look of admiration, of praise. So strong, he thinks. She’d fair well in battle and Aleksander would be loathe to consider such an epidemic anything but. “I’m concerned for your health,” he pauses, choosing his words carefully, picking ones that shall show him in the best light possible, “as well as our people’s.”

He sighs, feigning frustration as he brings his index and thumb to the bridge of his nose, and as his eyes fall shut, he pinches and turns away. She must see the weight of the matter, the necessity in banding together, the need for her as much as him. But he cannot say such a ravaging illness would be bad for it seems to take them much quicker than it takes his Grisha. “This sickness...” he trails off, turning back and taking a step toward her, “I’m afraid it will have ramifications beyond simply the number of those who perish.”