jumbled-messy-confused

[jumbled-messy-confused]

For Just One Day

Fragments of Light

jumbled_messy_confused

Chapter 13: For Just One Day

Summary:

In the aftermath of a gruelling battle, Fedyor has to navigate a delicate web of responsibilities. Amidst the stillness of Kirigan’s chambers, he comes to a quiet realization: even the strongest among them have limits—and need care, if they admit it or not.

Notes:

What can I say? h/c. Nothing more. Nothing new here.

The morning light was barely beginning to filter through the stone corridors of the palace as Fedyor moved toward Kirigan’s chambers, his steps quiet but purposeful. He held his shoulders taut, his face a mask of composure, yet his mind churned beneath the surface. The previous day’s fight had been relentless, a clash that had left them all battered and worn. Fedyor could still feel the aftershocks of that struggle in his tired limbs. But it wasn’t his own pain that weighed on him. His mind drifted to Ivan. His husband had barely survived the battlefield, and the night at his bedside had been long. Despite Ivan’s stoic “I’m fine,” Fedyor had counted every heartbeat, watched every breath, until the Healers had assured him that Ivan was finally out of danger. His husband was safe, and for that, he was deeply grateful; especially to one person. Without Kirigan’s unparalleled strength, many Grisha might not have survived the ambush. His presence had been a stroke of luck in an otherwise dire, unexpected turn of events. Now, with Ivan recovering, Fedyor resolved to support Kirigan in his husband’s stead to the best of his abilities—this was the least he could do after the previous day's ordeal. Yet, as he neared the General’s quarters, his steps slowed, and a flicker of unease crept into his heart. The silence in the hallway was thick, almost unnatural. By now, Kirigan would usually be in his office, setting the day's affairs in motion. But today there was only stillness. The war room was too quiet. The curtains were still drawn, and the silence in the room felt almost oppressive. That man never slept this late.

Noiselessly, Fedyor moved towards the bedroom, pushing the door open just enough to peek inside. As he had feared, he found Kirigan still in bed—pale, motionless, his face exhausted and chiselled in the soft light of dawn. The General lay there in deep repose, an unnatural stillness about him. Fedyor approached the bedside carefully, his Heartrender senses immediately tuning into the steady but weak rhythm of Kirigan’s pulse. It was fragile and sluggish, a clear indication of Kirigan’s condition. The faint rhythm didn’t warrant intervention for now, but it was obvious that Kirigan’s body was labouring to regain strength, still overcoming the toll the battle had exacted. He knew his leader would never admit it, but he had evidently pushed himself too far yesterday. He was the strongest Grisha Fedyor knew, but even he had his limits; the fatigue radiating off him was palpable. On top of that, there was a faint tension in Kirigan’s face, a subtle tightening of his jaw, a furrow of his brow. It was clear even in his unconscious state: the man was in pain.

Fedyor’s eyes swept over the General’s form, and that’s when he noticed the discoloration along his abdomen, a shadow beneath the covers. Fedyor’s concern deepened as he leaned in closer, gently lifting the edge of the blanket to reveal a series of dark contusions marring the sleeping man’s stomach. The bruises looked painful, deep, but thankfully, there were no open wounds. Kirigan had taken hits yesterday—hits that would have probably sent anyone else straight to the infirmary. Fedyor silently berated himself for not having realized sooner, but the chaos of the battle had consumed him completely. From the moment Ivan had fallen, everything else had faded into the background. His husband had been his sole focus, his every thought dedicated to keeping Ivan alive. It hadn’t even occurred to Fedyor that Kirigan hadn’t shown up in the infirmary afterwards, despite the fact that his presence was usually a guarantee after such a battle. He should have known then—he should have noticed. But with Ivan's life hanging in the balance, everything else had fallen away. Kirigan always appeared indestructible, and it was easy to believe that nothing could ever truly harm him. But now, with the General lying there, clearly in pain and completely drained, Fedyor could see how much this battle had taken out of him. He was more than tired; he was depleted, his body spent from both the physical strain and the intense power he had wielded. He wasn’t invincible, not in moments like this, and Fedyor couldn’t help but feel a surge of protectiveness. For a second, he contemplated getting a healer, but knowing how much Kirigan hated being fussed over, he discarded that idea. Instead, he started moving quietly, adjusting the curtains, taking care the room would not become too bright. Kirigan had kicked down his blankets in sleep, but the room was quite cool, so Fedyor carefully pulled them back up, making sure he was covered and warm. With a renewed sense of purpose, Fedyor stepped out of the bedroom, closing the door lightly behind him. His next task was clear—he needed to ensure that Kirigan would not be disturbed, would be free from the weight of responsibility for a while. He moved swiftly, finding a passing Grisha and instructing him to ensure that Kirigan’s quarters remained off-limits. When the young Squaller looked at him with a mixture of confusion and worry, Fedyor’s expression softened, and he offered a reassuring smile.

“He’s occupied with sensitive matters,” he explained smoothly. “Just ensure that he isn’t disturbed.” The Grisha nodded, and Fedyor set about delegating Kirigans many tasks, speaking with different leaders, ensuring that each of the injured man’s responsibilities was temporarily reassigned. It took time, subtle persuasion, and more than a few carefully crafted explanations, but Fedyor was patient, meticulous. By the time he re-entered Kirigan’s quarters, he’d woven an intricate web of excuses, diverting any attention away from Kirigan’s absence.

Satisfied with himself, he returned to Kirigan’s bedside with the reports and paperwork that usually awaited the General’s attention in his office. He set up a small workspace in the corner next to the window, positioning himself so that he could keep an eye on Kirigan as he worked. While he sifted through the documents, he found himself replaying the events of the previous day in his mind. Fedyor couldn’t help but shudder at the memory; the chaos had been overwhelming, a blur of screams and bursts of destructive power tearing through the battlefield. A devastating number of opposing soldiers had wielded their blades and brute force, while the Grisha had fought back with their unmatched mastery of the Small Science. As Ivan had been wounded, his sharp cry and the sight of him collapsing had sent Fedyor’s heart racing with panic. He’d barely had time to think, throwing himself into a desperate attempt to reach his husband, his powers working frantically to keep Ivan alive. But even amidst his despair, his attention had been drawn—unwillingly, almost instinctively—to Kirigan. The General had waded into the fray, wielding his immense power with an almost frightening precision. He had turned the tide when the odds were overwhelming, shielding those who couldn’t fight back. It had been Kirigan’s intervention that allowed Fedyor to pull Ivan to safety, to breathe again. Without him, the outcome would have been unthinkable. The Genera’s power had spared them greater losses—but even a man like him paid a price for such strength. Fedyor would make sure he got the rest he needed, even if it meant shielding him from the world for a while. So, he diligently kept an eye on Kirigan, who hadn’t stirred except for the occasional pained twitch. Fedyor’s concern didn’t abate. The weak pulse, the bruises, the pure fatigue—his leader might rebound more quickly than others, but this was far from minor. It had been the right decision to ensure his rest. A few hours passed in relative quiet and for all this time, Fedyor had managed to keep the General’s condition hidden—but by mid-morning, a gentle knock interrupted his thoughts, an unexpected sound that put him on alert. He stood, crossing to the door quickly, and opened it to find one of the Healers, a woman with a calm, steady expression, waiting patiently outside.

“Fedyor,” she greeted him softly, her eyes serious. “Ivan sent me. He said you didn’t return to the infirmary for hours, and he hasn’t seen General Kirigan either. He’s concerned.” She shrugged. “He told me, it was obvious something was wrong.”

Fedyor almost smiled at that, an amused warmth stirring in him despite his worry. It made perfect sense: Ivan knew Kirigan too well, and he knew Fedyor even better. His husband’s perceptiveness was unmatched, his observations too sharp to miss anything out of place. It was so like Ivan, to intervene, even from afar.

“He’s right,” Fedyor replied simply, nodding for her to step inside.

As the Healer approached Kirigan’s bed, she took in his condition. Her expression was unreadable but her brow creased with a quiet understanding. She set her things down beside the bed, her eyes briefly meeting Fedyor’s with a reassuring nod. Then she reached for the blanket covering Kirigan, carefully pulling it back to reveal the bruises darkening his torso. Fedyor could now see just how severe they truly were—deep hues of blue and purple splotching Kirigan’s skin, in an extent that Fedyor hadn’t fully noticed in the dim light of early morning.

The Healer’s lips tightened slightly at the sight, and she reached up, flexing her fingers before holding them over Kirigan’s chest. Her hands moved in steady, precise gestures over his bruised ribs and down toward his abdomen, her expression focused. Fedyor could feel her energy, her calm dedication to her task, as she gently began to ease the internal injuries and speed up his natural healing.

The work was silent and unobtrusive, her hands moving in smooth, practiced motions, but even in his sleep, the General twitched slightly, his brow furrowing as if he could sense her touch. His breathing hitched for a moment, and his hand curled into a loose fist, but he didn’t wake. Fedyor stood beside the Healer, watching Kirigan’s face intently as the haematomas lightened ever so slightly under her touch, relief stirring faintly within him. The Healer’s work was meticulous, and as she moved her hands lower, her gestures targeting the deeper injuries, Kirigan’s expression began to ease, the tension in his brow gradually softening.

When she finally withdrew, she took a deep breath, and Fedyor could see the effort she’d put into her work. She looked up, meeting his gaze with a calm but weary expression.

„He’s healing quickly, as expected,” she explained quietly, “but these injuries… he took quite a bit. Cracked ribs, severe internal bruising. It’s no wonder he’s exhausted.”

“When will he be fully recovered?” Fedyor couldn’t hide his worry completely, no matter how hard he tried. The Healer gave him a compassionate look. “He’ll be fine soon. I’ve done what I can. But it wouldn’t have hurt him to spend the night in the infirmary. He’s not invincible, no matter what he likes to pretend. A day of complete rest would help him a lot.”

Fedyor nodded, grateful for her care. “Thank you,” he murmured.

„Just try to ensure he remains undisturbed for as long as possible, “ she added. “But it seems to me you have everything under control in that regard.” A slight smile softened her serious tone. She paused and gathered her belongings, then looked back at Fedyor, her expression reassuring. “I will keep this confidential, I’ll only inform Ivan, to ease his mind. No one else needs to know that the General is in such a state.” She gave Fedyor’s shoulder a brief, encouraging squeeze before slipping discreetly out of the room.

Once alone again, Fedyor sank back into his seat. He observed Kirigan quietly, noting the improvement in his breathing, the stronger pulse and the lightening of some bruises. The Healer’s touch had been a balm that had worked wonders in just minutes. But the enervation was still undeniable; despite the progress, the toll that the battle had taken was far from erased, its lingering effects etched into every line of Kirigan’s pale, exhausted form.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Fedyor heard a soft rustle from the bed. He looked up immediately, watching as Kirigan's eyelids fluttered faintly, his body shifting as he groaned softly, slowly beginning to wake.

For a moment, the injured man looked disoriented, his gaze unfocused as he blinked against the harsh morning light. Fedyor could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the way he struggled to fully rouse himself. His body was still trying to catch up, too drained to function properly.

Fedyor stood at once, crossing the short distance to the bed and sitting carefully on its edge. "General." He didn’t even try to mask his concern. "How are you feeling?"

Kirigan’s dark eyes found his, “Fedyor…” Kirigan’s voice was rough, gravelly, as though every word caused him pain. “How’s Ivan?”

A pang of warmth shot through Fedyor’s chest, his hands almost unconsciously reaching for the General’s arm. “He’s still in the infirmary, but he’ll be fine. Thanks to you.” He emphasized the last part with a quiet intensity, trying to convey just how much Kirigan’s intervention had meant.

At that, an expression that Fedyor could only interpret as a fleeting relief crossed Kirigan’s face. Then he nodded faintly. “The others?”

“They’re safe,” Fedyor assured him. “Everyone made it through.”

Relief softened Kirigan’s face, if only momentarily.

But then, Kirigan began to shift, attempting to prop himself up. Fedyor’s hand immediately found his chest, pressing gently but firmly to stop him. "Please, don't," he urged. "You need to take it easy. You didn’t allow yourself help yesterday, so I’m asking you now: rest." Kirigan’s eyes narrowed, the stubbornness that defined him rising to the surface even through his exhaustion. He gritted his teeth, trying to push himself upright despite his body’s protests. "You know as well as I do that I can’t stay in bed," he muttered, but his trembling limbs betrayed him, and his body seemed to resist even the smallest movement. He scowled at Fedyor’s hand, yet lacked the strength to shove it away. “There are decisions that can’t wait. Only I can make them.” Fedyor moved swiftly, his arm slipping under Kirigan’s shoulders, supporting him before he could collapse back onto the mattress. “You’ve done enough,” he insisted with quiet conviction. “Let us take care of things for today. Just this once.” Kirigan tried to resist, but the effort was too much. His pale skin glistened with the sweat of exertion, his limbs shaking with the strain. He exhaled deeply, the sound catching in his throat and turning into a barely suppressed groan as he allowed Fedyor to manoeuvre him back onto the bed. He lay still for a moment, eyes half-closed, his breathing shallow but slow, as though the weight of exhaustion finally took hold. “Just for today,” he murmured eventually, his voice hoarse and small. “Just for today,” Fedyor echoed softly. He watched as Kirigan’s breath steadied, the tension in his body slowly easing. There was no fight left in him now; he surrendered, giving in to the rest he so desperately needed. Fedyor remained at the General’s side for a while longer, his hand resting on Kirigan’s chest, offering silent reassurance. Finally, when the tired man was deeply asleep again, Fedyor exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. Rising to his feet, he adjusted the blanket again, tucking it carefully around Kirigan’s shoulders. He smoothed the fabric with an unconscious gesture of care before stepping back toward his makeshift workspace, continuing his quiet vigil. The General stirred occasionally, restless in his sleep. Each time, Fedyor was there, offering reassurance in a quiet word or simply watching over him until he settled again. By mid-afternoon, the sunlight had shifted, casting long shadows across the room. The golden light softened the harsh edges of Kirigan’s face, lending him an uncharacteristic peace. Fedyor couldn’t help but think how rare it was to see the General like this—unguarded, vulnerable. He would never say it aloud, but in that moment, Fedyor felt an overwhelming swell of gratitude. For Ivan, for the Grisha who survived, for the man before him who bore so much for them all.

Tomorrow would come soon enough, with its demands and decisions. But today, Kirigan would rest. Fedyor would make sure of it.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Flickers of the Past

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

A campfire. Shadows. Silence. As exhaustion claims the group, the night carries more than just the weight of the day’s events. In the quiet, bonds are tested, unspoken truths simmer, and a fragile new presence stirs old memories.

Notes:

This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace. As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series. Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!). I took certain creative liberties, particularly with the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it. And now have fun! And thank you for reading.

Night had settled heavily over the forest, casting long shadows that stretched like dark fingers across the path. Alina shifted in her saddle, her gaze distant as the cool wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it a chill that went deeper than the evening air. The weight of the day pressed down on her, an ache that refused to be shaken, no matter how many miles they put between themselves and what had transpired. She stole a glance at her companions; they rode in a sombre line, each figure shrouded in the dim light, silent but for the rhythmic clop of hooves. They were close now — one more day’s ride and they would be back at the Little Palace, back to some semblance of safety. But the events of the day had cast a gloom over them all, and the journey home still felt endless. They had passed through a village earlier that day — a haphazard gathering of cottages crouched low against the surrounding fields, barely visible through the morning mist as they had approached. The people had seemed wary at first, eyeing the travellers and their Keftas with suspicion, but that had been nothing new. What Alina hadn’t expected had been the way their expressions had shifted — from suspicion to outright hostility — when they had realized that Grisha walked among them.

She had seen it, felt it — the change had been as sudden and sharp as a blade drawn in secret. Wary glances had become hard stares, the kind that had tracked their every move. People had edged away, but not only out of fear. No, there had been something else. A tension simmering just beneath the surface, a hatred that had felt tangible, oppressive.

As they had led their horses to water and had taken a brief rest, Alina had not been able to shake the feeling that the air around them had thickened. The whispers behind closed doors, the way mothers had pulled their children close, the furtive gestures that had hinted at something lurking, unseen and unspoken... it had gnawed at her. This hadn’t been ordinary disdain for Grisha; this had been something darker, more menacing.

Kirigan’s posture had been steadfast, his face impassive, offering no reaction to the hostility around them. He had probably lived through too many scenes like this one to be fazed by another, yet Alina had noticed the way the others had pressed closer to him, as if his presence might shield them from the crowd’s resentment. She had glanced at Ivan, who had kept a watchful eye on the villagers, observing the crowd constantly, his entire stance taut and ready as though waiting for a fight to break out.

He hadn’t been alone. Fedyor, normally so gentle-hearted, had positioned himself slightly in front of them all, his gaze a mixture of unease and protectiveness. Alina had seen it in his eyes—he had been ready to draw his power if it meant keeping everyone safe. And then, from somewhere behind the cluster of gathered villagers, there had come a piercing scream — high-pitched, desperate. The cry of a child. Alina had turned, heart hammering, as a woman had been shoved forward, clutching a tiny figure to her chest. The woman’s face had been streaked with tears, her eyes wild, darting between the precious bundle in her arms and the crowd pressing around them. In her arms had been a girl, maybe two or three years old, her small body wracked with terrified sobs, her face hidden in her mother’s cloak. The villagers had drawn closer, muttering darkly, accusingly, and Alina had caught snatches of their words — “witch,” “dangerous,” “unnatural.” And when the child’s mother had tried to push them away, begging them to understand, someone had grabbed her by the arm and had yanked her toward the Grisha, her shriek piercing the tense air. Kirigan had stepped forward then, his dark gaze sweeping over the crowd, his presence commanding instant silence. For a moment, no one had moved, the sheer force of his authority rooting them in place. A few had even backed away, unease flickering across their faces, their dread of him palpable. But the stillness had not lasted. Slowly, as though emboldened by the tension simmering in the air, some had begun to recover, their anger and hatred clawing past their fear. Their glances had shifted from Kirigan to the child, and their dread of the girl—of what they believed she might bring—rose, outweighing their apprehension of him. Murmurs had started again, louder now, charged with bitter defiance. A grizzled man at the front had pointed a shaking finger at the child, his voice dripping with disdain. “She made the fire spark last night,” he had spat, his voice filled with anger and disgust. “Just sitting there, waving her hands — she called it forth herself! She’s unnatural, like you!” “She’ll bring ruin to us all,” another one had shouted. “We’ve seen it before. Children like her aren’t like us. We don’t want that kind of filth in our village!” The mother, clinging to her daughter, had tried to argue, insisting that she was just a frightened, innocent child. But her words had fallen on deaf ears. The people had been immovable, driven by a deep-seated dread that had festered over generations. They hadn’t cared about innocence, about youth — they had only seen a threat.

The Grisha had stood frozen, some in shock, others in anger, all held captive by the grotesque scene playing out before them. Ivan had taken a step forward, his hand on his belt, his stance taut with the readiness for violence. Fedyor, hovering next to him, had looked from the distressed mother to the villagers, his expression dark with something uncharacteristically volatile, something barely contained.

But Alina had known there would be no use in confronting them. The anger in these people’s eyes had been a living thing, boiling and cruel, so unyielding that even Kirigan’s intimidating presence had done nothing to sway them. Confrontation would only have made things worse. The villagers would never have seen the child as anything other than a curse, an unwanted burden.

At that moment, the little one had looked up, her face streaked with dirt and tears, her eyes wide and terrified as they had met Kirigan’s. Her small, trembling hands had reached toward him, as if sensing, somehow, that he could protect her.

Kirigan had hesitated, just for a moment, before leaning slightly toward the mother, his voice barely more than a whisper, meant only for her ears. “Come with us to the Little Palace,” he had offered, his tone soft, encouraging. “We will protect you both.”

The woman’s eyes had widened, gratitude flickering through the depths of her despair. Yet, her head had jerked in a sharp, tense shake, the motion rigid with a hopeless resolve, her voice cracking as she had whispered back, “They would never let me go.” For a heartbeat, Kirigan had simply held her gaze, before he had given her a single, sombre nod. Then, with resolute finality, he had extended his arms.

The mother’s tear-streaked face had twisted with anguish, her hands clutching the girl’s little shoulders as she had drawn her close for one last, desperate embrace. Her body had shaken, and eventually, with a shuddering breath, she had pressed her daughter forward into Kirigan’s waiting arms.

Alina had watched, equally stunned and devastated, as the little girl had wrapped her small arms around his neck, her head buried in his shoulder. Without another word Kirigan had turned, his expression unreadable, carrying her away from the crowd. The other Grisha had followed him in silence, their faces set, their steps steady. None of them had lingered. It had been Ivan who had turned away last, his movements rigid with barely checked rage, and Alina had felt his fury as if it had been her own. He had cast one last glance over his shoulder, his look a silent promise that he would remember this place.

They’d ridden for hours in silence, away from the village, each of them wrestling with the sourness left behind. Now, as night closed in, they finally dismounted to make camp, too exhausted to push any further. Tired bodies slumped against packs, and the low murmur of conversations gradually faded into the soft crackling of the flames. The little one was restless, her eyes red from the endless, choked sobs that now turned to cries, hoarse and high-pitched, a raw sound that set everyone further on edge. She shifted from one Grisha to the next, having been fed, been coddled, yet still desperately looking for comfort and finding none, sensing their own unsettled spirits as they tried to calm her. Alina had held her for a while, murmuring soft reassurances and stroking the girl’s dishevelled hair. But the child had only twisted and turned, her small fists tugging at Alina’s sleeve in restless frustration, her sobs escalating. The heart-wrenching wail echoed among the trees, carrying all the confusion, fear, and grief of what had happened. Alina felt the rawness of the sound claw at her own heart, knowing how helpless they all felt, unable to explain, unable to ease her pain.

Genya had taken her next, her soft, skilled hands cradling her with the same care she brought to all things. She had hummed a lullaby, her voice as light and delicate as a breeze, each note carrying a tenderness meant to lull the child into comfort. But the girl’s cries only grew sharper, her body trembling violently with each shuddering breath. Genya’s soft smile wavered, sadness clouding her eyes as the small girl turned her face away, resisting the warm embrace Genya offered. Eventually, with a reluctant sigh, Genya passed her to Fedyor.

Fedyor reached for her with the same warmth he brought into everything he did, his expression deeply compassionate as he took her into his arms. He held her close, rocking her in a slow, soothing rhythm, his voice a low murmur as he whispered soft reassurances meant to calm. He tried everything—gentle words, comforting pats on her back—but her sobs only seemed to deepen. Her little body remained tense, rigid with grief and fear, as though she couldn’t bear to let herself be comforted.

A heartrending mix of hope and helplessness lined Fedyor’s gaze as he looked at her, and then at the others, silently pleading for some answer they couldn’t give. Finally, he glanced to Kirigan, hesitation flickering across his features before he spoke, his voice low, careful. “I could…help her sleep,” he suggested quietly, though a trace of sorrow underlined his words. It was the voice of someone who only wished to spare the little one her pain, his gentle heart breaking with every desperate, shuddering sob.

Kirigan, silent for most of the evening, lifted his head and shook it. “No.” His voice was soft but firm, a quiet command edged with understanding. “She’s been through enough for one day. Let her come to it on her own.” And without another word, he stood up, extending his arms. Fedyor carefully passed the child to the General. Alina watched as Kirigan took her with surprising gentleness, wrapping her in the warmth of his cloak. His movements were calm, deliberate, and so sure it became clear he knew exactly what he was doing. To Alina’s astonishment, the girl didn’t flail or resist this time. Her small, trembling body stilled the moment he cradled her against his chest. She tucked her head against him, her tiny fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of his Kefta. He lowered himself to the ground then, sitting near the fire, leaning back against his saddle with a slow, steady exhale. For a long moment, he did nothing but hold her, his hand a warm, protective weight on her back, the other lightly adjusting the soft folds of his cloak around her. His touch was deliberate, unfailingly gentle, a rare patience radiating from him. All the while he murmured something low, too quiet for Alina to catch, his voice a steady undercurrent of reassurance. The child seemed to melt into him, her ragged sobs softening into faint, hiccupping breaths. A fragile sort of calm settled over her, as though his presence alone was enough to ease the raw edges of her grief and fear.

Alina couldn’t look away. The transformation was almost inexplicable. The little one, who had been inconsolable just moments ago, now nestled closer to Kirigan; it seemed she had finally found a semblance of peace, as if some invisible weight had lifted.

Watching them, Alina’s chest tightened. She couldn’t help but think of the way the child had reached for Kirigan in the village, as if sensing something in him that none of the others could provide. It struck her now how profound that instinct had been.

Does she feel it too? she wondered, remembering her own moments with Kirigan—the strange, magnetic pull she experienced whenever his hand brushed hers, the sense of power and connection that bloomed at his touch. She had never been able to describe it fully, the way it felt as though some part of her had been waiting her whole life to align with his presence.

The child’s sobs had quieted completely now, replaced by the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing. Her tiny fingers still clung to the General, her face nestled against his shoulder.

She knows! The realization settled heavily in Alina's mind. Somehow, even at her young age, the girl seemed to sense the truth of Kirigan’s nature—the vastness of his power, yes, but also the way it seemed to promise protection, solace. She had sought him out instinctively, and now, in his arms, she had finally come to rest. His steady, exhausted presence had soothed her into slumber.

Kirigan’s gaze was fixed on the fire, his expression unreadable as ever, but there was a softness in his posture that Alina had rarely seen. He held the child as though she were a fragile flame he was shielding from the wind. And for the first time since they had left the village, a quiet calm settled over the group.

Shadows danced against the trees, and the guards moved in steady patrols along the forest’s edge, watchful yet silent. Around the camp, a quiet had settled, a shared exhaustion that had seeped into bones and hearts alike. Tired and troubled, the Grisha stared into the fire, its flames holding no answers, only the unsettling echoes of the ugly scenes they had witnessed today in that village. Even though they were miles away now, a sense of unease lingered in the air, as though the hatred they’d left behind still clung to them. Alina couldn’t take her eyes off Kirigan and the little life he held securely in his arms. The girl was oblivious to the world around her, safe in her dreams for now. The rise and fall of her small form seemed oddly peaceful against the man who rarely showed any softness. There was something almost fragile in his expression, a quiet sorrow that Alina hadn’t seen before, as though the events of the day had reopened an old wound. Kirigan’s shoulders were tense, but his arms were wrapped protectively around the child, as though he were shielding her from the night itself.

The strained quiet was broken, unexpectedly, by him. “She’s lucky.” He looked down at the child, a tired peace in his gaze. “This world despises her power, but she won’t be alone. She has us.” He paused, lifting his head slightly, his eyes distant, fixed on the flickering flames. “Countless children have not been so fortunate.” His voice was steady but edged with something darker now. “Too often I’ve seen what happens when help comes too late.”

By now, all eyes had turned to the General. Those who had been lying back had pushed themselves upright, their gazes fixed on him in stunned silence. Everyone sensed that Kirigan’s words were more than a passing reflection.

“The first child I ever tried to rescue was only a little older than her.”  The fire’s glow illuminated Kirigan's features, highlighting the sharp angles of his expression. “It was many years ago, before any of you were born; before any Grisha even imagined a place like the Little Palace.” The words were deliberate, unhurried, but there was a weight to them that made Alina’s stomach knot.

“We had no safe place then. No sanctuary, no walls to keep us from the world’s hate. Like all of us, I hid my gift, hoping I wouldn’t be found out, certain it was only a matter of time.”

Alina had always known that life for Grisha outside the Little Palace had been perilous but hearing him describe it this way — this personal— made it feel uncomfortably real. The idea that he, the strongest Grisha alive, had once lived in hiding, forced to conceal his power, was almost impossible to comprehend — and all the more unsettling because of it. She noticed Genya and Ivan exchanging a tense, unsettled glance. It was clear they had never heard Kirigan speak of his past in this way. He was a private man, his silences well-known, respected. The fact that he was sharing this now, here, after the day’s events, was startling.  

“I had heard whispers,” he continued, “A child in a village. Cursed, they said. But I knew better. It was clear he was one of us.” Alina felt the foreboding settle like a stone in her chest. “I went immediately. I knew what would happen if I didn’t get there in time. But when I arrived, the soldiers were already there. His parents—beaten until they could barely kneel—were tied and forced to watch as the house was set alight. The villagers stood back, not a word of protest on their lips. They didn’t help. They didn’t intervene. They just… stood there. Most of them silent. But a few even cheering.”

Kirigan’s tone stayed maddeningly even, offering no rise, no fall — just the quiet, unrelenting certainty of someone who knew better than to let emotion interfere. “I didn’t stop to speak. I didn’t waste my time asking for help. I went straight for the house. Around the back, where the flames hadn’t spread as far yet. The fumes were thick, clawing at my throat, the heat so intense I could feel my skin blistering even with the shadows shielding me. But I went in.”  Everyone knew, of course, that this story would not end well. The way he had started it — the grim deliberation, the utter lack of reassurance — left no room for hope. And yet Alina clung to it anyway, refusing to let go until there was no choice. She glanced at Genya, whose lip trembled despite her efforts to keep her expression composed. Ivan’s jaw was locked, his hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles had turned white. “The smoke was nearly impenetrable, choking. I found him in a corner, nearly unconscious, barely able to breathe. But he was still alive. I picked him up, wrapped him in my cloak, and ran.” The General’s tone didn’t rise, his control absolute, but Alina felt an involuntary shiver ripple through her. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, as if shielding against a cold that wasn’t there. “Outside, in the fresh air, he started coughing. He couldn’t help it. And the soldiers… They heard us. They came after us immediately.”

She studied his profile, desperate to discern some flicker of emotion, but his face remained an unyielding mask. “I fled deeper into the forest, weaving between trees and shadows, hoping to lose them in the darkness.” His voice dipped, and just for one moment, there was a glint of something raw beneath the surface. “Back then, I still believed I could spare lives. That I didn’t have to kill to protect someone.” His exhale was sharp, bitter. “I was young—untested. I didn’t yet understand that hate and arrows will always move faster than we can.”

Alina swallowed hard, the bluntness of his words cutting through her like a knife.

No one spoke. The others seemed as frozen as she felt, caught between the horror of his story and the unyielding way he told it. The dread came not from him, but from the silence that surrounded his words, the details he left unsaid.

“The first shot struck me.” One of his hands moved unconsciously to his ribs, as if the memory were a physical thing. “And another. My leg. My side. But I kept going. Then I felt his body jerk against mine. An arrow had found him, too. I didn’t realize at first; he didn’t cry out. He didn’t even make a sound. So I just… kept running. Thinking I could still save him.” There was no flourish in the way he spoke, no dramatics. His words were stark, the details laid bare without embellishment. Yet that simplicity was what made the story so harrowing.  Alina’s breathing quickened, shallow and uneven, as if she’d run the same desperate path. Her mind filled with unbidden images: smoke curling through the trees, arrows slicing through the dark, and that helpless child—small, vulnerable, bleeding. “Somehow, I managed to lose them. But when I looked down…” Alina’s throat constricted. She didn’t need to hear him finish the sentence to understand. “I wasn’t a Healer.” There was a tired finality in his words. “I wasn’t enough. He died in my arms.”   A tear slipped down her cheek before she even realized she was crying. Yet, she didn’t wipe it away. Her gaze remained fixed on Kirigan, his expression betraying nothing, though the story itself told of a grief too deep to ignore. A heavy silence followed, broken only by the fire’s unrelenting crackle. “I buried him.” His tone was quieter now, but no less composed. “In the forest. Alone. Under a cairn of stones I could barely lift.” He exhaled softly, but it was a sound devoid of relief. “I was too weak to even dig.” He lowered his gaze, his words almost flat, as if recounting the facts of someone else’s life. “I lay there for days. Bleeding. Delirious with fever. Waiting to be found, waiting to die myself.”   He shrugged. “But I didn’t. And when I finally got back on my feet, I swore I would use everything I had, every bit of power, to try to stop this from happening again. To try to ensure no other family would burn for what they were.”

In that moment, Alina felt she understood him in a way she hadn’t before. It was clear, this was not an isolated incident, not a single loss. It was only one of many that weighed down their General’s heart, that formed the very armour he carried into battle. Kirigan was not simply protecting them out of duty or even out of love for his people. He was bound to them by the ghosts of those he could not save, by an unbreakable vow born out of grief and purpose alike; she understood now, why he’d fought so hard to create the Little Palace, why he held so fiercely to the idea of a sanctuary. This man had spent more years than any of them could fathom bearing these ghosts, fighting for each child he could save and grieving for each one he could not.

“I still carry his memory.” His gaze remained fixed on the flames. “Every time I saved a child after that, every time I brought one more Grisha to safety, I thought of him. And each time, I hoped that maybe I could stop it from happening again.” When he finally looked down at the girl in his arms, his expression softened. It was not peace, not exactly, but a weariness that seemed to settle deeper into his features. “And I will keep fighting,” he murmured, “until there is nothing left of me. A deep hush settled over the camp, and in the firelight, Alina could see the others’ faces — hollowed, stunned by the bleakness of his words. Genya wiped her cheeks, trying unsuccessfully to conceal how her composure had cracked. Fedyor looked down, his face unbearably sad, Ivan’s fists were clenched, his stance rigid with barely-contained anger.

Alina looked back to the General, then down at the child, asleep in his arms, and felt an unexpected well of emotion rise within her. She couldn’t begin to fathom the weight of his past, but she knew one thing with certainty: whatever darkness he wielded, whatever things he had done in the past, he had done it all to give them a future, to offer them the chance that so many had never had.

They sat in silence for a long time after that, each lost in their own thoughts. Then, gradually, one after the other began to turn in for the night. Genya lay down close to Alina, her face pale, eyes reflecting a deep sorrow as she closed them, trying to find some rest. Ivan settled beside Fedyor, but his gaze lingered on Kirigan for a long moment, a rare glimpse of respect and grief in his usually stoic expression. Finally, he gave into his exhaustion, Fedyor following shortly after.

But Alina couldn’t sleep. Even as the others drifted off, lulled by the weariness of the journey, she stayed awake, watching as the fire burned lower, the shadows on Kirigan’s face deepening; watching as he adjusted his hold on the sleeping girl, carefully pressing his hand to her forehead to check her warmth. For the first time, she wondered just how many nights he had spent like this, staring into flames with the weight of other people's burdens in his arms, gathering strength not from rest, but from some unspoken promise to never give in.

Alina shivered, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, yet still she could not tear her gaze from him, could not quiet the thoughts that stirred in her mind. She had seen him as a leader, a protector, but now, watching him hold this abandoned child with a tenderness she would have never expected, she glimpsed a man worn down by a thousand battles, both within and without, whose strength was not unbreakable but resilient.

The hours crept by, and the cold of the night seeped through every layer, wrapping itself around the camp like a relentless tide. Alina still lay awake on her bedroll, shivering. But it wasn’t just the chill that made her feel so raw, so unable to find peace. Her gaze settled on the General again, who had finally succumbed to sleep. A few minutes earlier, he had leaned back, closing his eyes.

Now he lay on his bedroll, his long form stretched out, his head resting at an awkward angle. The girl in his arms was wrapped securely in his cloak and blanket, leaving him with only his Kefta against the biting wind; even now, he cradled her protectively, shielding her from the harshness of the world with everything he had left to give.

In the dim, flickering light, Alina could see how pale he had become. The shadows beneath his eyes were deeper than ever, and the firelight accentuated the hollowness there, betraying the toll that countless battles and unending burdens had exacted.  His usual power and authority were replaced with a quiet weariness, an almost boyish vulnerability. When he was awake, Kirigan’s presence commanded every room, his gaze sharp and intimidating, his every move calculated strength. Now, he lay there, stripped of that intensity, but there was still a fragile grace to him. A tremor then ran through his frame, subtle at first, but as Alina watched, she realized he was shivering. More and more, betraying just how deeply the cold had seeped into his bones. The sight pierced her; Kirigan, who seemed impervious to weakness, was so utterly spent right now that the cold which he usually seemed immune to, had begun to take its toll. He gave so much to all of them—without question, without hesitation—and now, seeing him like this, so defenceless, she felt a fierce need to give something back.

Her fingers tightened on her blanket, and she was just about to get up when the faint rustle of fabric drew her attention. Fedyor was rising, slow and deliberate, careful not to wake Ivan beside him. But his eyes—his eyes, wide and full of quiet determination—betrayed the truth. He had been watching, waiting, just as she had. She observed him silently, noting the uncertainty in his posture, the way he hesitated as if debating whether to intrude on his General’s vulnerable moment. But concern overruled hesitation. He picked up his thick blanket and approached, stopping just beside Kirigan.

The unguarded worry in Fedyor’s eyes made Alina’s chest tighten. He looked down at Kirigan’s trembling form, at the way his shoulders curled inward as though warding off the chill. Wordlessly, he draped the thick blanket over the freezing man’s shoulders and the child in his arms. His hands moved carefully, tucking the edges close around them, smoothing out the fabric as if it might somehow soften the weight Kirigan carried. His fingers lingered for a moment on Kirigan’s shoulder, a touch that was neither casual nor accidental. It was a silent promise, an unspoken vow of loyalty — a reminder that even the strongest needed someone to watch over them.

Kirigan stirred faintly, a soft, almost inaudible sigh escaping his lips. His eyes fluttered open for the briefest moment, meeting Fedyor’s gaze. There was no sharpness in his expression, only a quiet weariness and perhaps a hint of surprise. “Can’t have the little one getting cold,” Fedyor whispered, his voice warm, low, and edged with a tenderness rarely spoken aloud. A faint smile ghosted across Kirigan’s lips — tired, genuine, and grateful. It lasted only a moment before exhaustion reclaimed him, his eyelids closing once more. The tension in his body softened, his shivering began to subside.

As Fedyor straightened, another sound caught Alina’s attention. Ivan obviously was watching too, his eyes reflecting the low firelight. He shifted and lifted his own blanket, a wordless invitation for Fedyor. The exchange was brief but spoke volumes; there was a depth of care, of shared understanding, that needed no elaboration. Fedyor moved back, sliding beneath the cover beside Ivan, who drew him close without hesitation.

Next, a flicker of movement near the fire’s edge drew her attention. Genya shifted in her place, her vivid red hair catching the light as she turned. Her eyes, wide awake and full of warmth and something like melancholy, met Alina’s. Then, she turned and without a word, she reached out and squeezed Fedyor’s hand. The connection rippled through them all, uniting them in a way no words ever could. They were all here, all sleepless, each of them unable to find rest after what the General had shared with them — after what he had revealed of himself and the endless battle he waged.

Alina’s gaze lingered on Kirigan once more. The shadows of exhaustion would not vanish overnight, but for now, he was warmer, protected, watched over by those who cared as fiercely for him as he cared for them. Sleep still wouldn’t come, but for the first time that night, the weight of unease began to ease. The quiet settled over the camp like a gentle tide, and even Kirigan seemed to have found a moment’s respite, his breathing slower, the burden of the past lightened—if only for a brief time.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

The Subtle Art of Subterfuge

jumbled_messy_confused

Chapter 2: Epilogue

Summary:

Waking from an unwanted stint in the infirmary, General Kirigan finds himself at the mercy of his overprotective allies—one armed with paperwork, the other with relentless teasing. As he navigates their fussing, he discovers that even the most unshakable commanders aren’t immune to a little well-meaning insubordination.

Notes:

This text has been lying around for quite some time... and right now I just needed something light and meaningless. Maybe there is someone out there who also needed something like this and could enjoy it. Take care of yourself and always remember that you are not alone.

The infirmary was bathed in a soft, golden glow from the candles strategically placed around the room. The light flickered gently, casting dancing shadows on the walls and creating an atmosphere of tranquillity. The air was filled with the subtle scent of medicinal herbs, a soothing balm to the senses. General Kirigan stirred, the faintest flutter of his eyelids signalling his slow emergence from a deep sleep. Though the worst of his illness had passed, a faint fever still lingered in his skin, a sign of the battle his body continued to fight.

He blinked sluggishly, his gaze blurred as it drifted across the room. It took him a moment to orient himself—to register the soothing surroundings of the infirmary. The world came back into focus in fragments— the warmth of the blankets that cocooned him, the cooler air on his face and the dull ache still throbbing through his limbs. He took a slightly deeper breath, noting with some relief that the sharp pain in his chest had receded, though fatigue lingered like a persistent weight, dull and unyielding.

Across the room, Ivan sat at a narrow table, hunched over a stack of documents. His brow was furrowed, his quill scratching rhythmically against the parchment as he poured over the minutiae of reports and orders. His sharp profile was outlined by the dim light of the nearby candles. Despite the exhaustion etched into his features, Ivan’s focus was unwavering, his determination clear in the way he meticulously worked through each paper. By Kirigan's bedside, Fedyor had fallen asleep in his chair, his head tilted back and arms loosely crossed. The gentle rise and fall of his chest, accompanied by the occasional muffled snore, added an almost domestic tranquillity to the room. His Kefta was draped over the chair’s arm, and his usually neat hair had a dishevelled charm.

Kirigan exhaled softly, a faint huff of air that lacked the strength to disturb the quiet. Despite his weariness, the sight of the two men brought a flicker of a smile to his otherwise pale and drawn face. His mind, slow to catch up with his body, pieced together fragmented memories of the journey and the events leading up to it. The fabricated story of the blizzard he had been too exhausted to call them out on at the time. The carriage ride. Ivan’s steady presence. Fedyor’s gentle support.

He shifted slightly, drawing a deep breath that ended in a dry cough, a reminder of his recent ordeal.

Ivan’s head snapped up, his quill stilling mid-sentence. “General!” He stood quickly, his sharp eyes softening as they landed on his leader; his relief tempered with a flicker of lingering concern. “You’re awake.”

“Observant as always.” Kirigan’s lips curved faintly, but the hint of humour quickly gave way to exhaustion again.  “How do you feel?” Ivan leaned closer, his words low, careful not to disturb Fedyor.

Kirigan considered the question, his dark eyes flickering with a mixture of thoughtfulness and enervation. “Like I’ve been trampled by a herd of horses,” he admitted, his candour uncharacteristic but honest.

“Sounds like an improvement to me.” Ivan’s lips curved into a rare, wry smile. Kirigan snorted quietly, then shifted, attempting to sit up. But a wave of dizziness forced him to pause. Ivan, ever watchful, moved to assist him, adjusting the pillows to provide support. Kirigan allowed it, his usual resistance muted by his tiredness. Once settled, he looked at Ivan, taking in the fatigue etched into the lines of his face. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“With respect, Sir, someone had to ensure you didn’t decide to rise and declare a campaign from your sickbed,” Ivan replied dryly, his tone carrying a subtle hint of levity.

A trace of amusement passed over Kirigan’s face again, then his gaze shifted to the figure slumped in a chair a few feet away. Fedyor didn’t fall asleep lightly. If even he had let exhaustion overtake him, the General realized he must have been here for some time by now. “How long have I been out?”

“Several hours.” Since Fedyor occupied the only chair next to the bed, Ivan simply settled onto the edge of Kirigan’s mattress. “The healers have been in and out, making sure you’re as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.”  He placed a cup of water in the General’s hands while he spoke, steadying it when the sick man’s grip faltered slightly.

Kirigan drank slowly, the cool water soothing his parched throat. As he handed the cup back, his gaze fell on the mound of paperwork Ivan had abandoned at the table. “I see you’ve taken it upon yourself to assume my duties.“ His remark carried a note of quiet gratitude.

Ivan tilted his head, a small shrug betraying his nonchalance. “You left me little choice. Someone had to deal with everything, and you were busy being comatose.” Kirigan hid another smile. It was rare to hear Ivan speak with such ease, and the uncharacteristic lightness in his tone didn’t escape him. Kirigan suspected it wasn’t just exhaustion loosening Ivan’s composure, but a subtle relief at seeing him awake again. At that moment, Fedyor stirred, blinking sleepily as he woke. He stretched, his movements slow and languid, before his eyes landed on the General. “Sir! You’re awake!” His face lit up with mischief, as if he had woken to a golden opportunity. Rising from his chair with a fluidity that belied his earlier slouch, he crossed the distance in a few easy strides and perched himself on the foot of Kirigan’s bed. “Good to see you looking somewhat human again.”

Kirigan raised an eyebrow, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and dry amusement. “Somewhat?” Fedyor grinned, his eyes twinkling with playful glee. “Well, considering Ivan here managed to convince the Tsar that you were practically at death’s door, I’d say you’re doing remarkably well. “ Ivan’s sharp eyes had flicked to Fedyor the moment the teasing began, his lips tightening in a silent plea for restraint. A small shake of his head followed, subtle but insistent. But Fedyor ignored the warning with all the light-hearted defiance of a man who knew exactly how far he could push. “Come again?” Kirigan’s voice carried a thread of incredulity, his brows arching faintly as his dark eyes narrowed. Fedyor leaned back with an amused grin, entirely unrepentant. “The Sovereign is so concerned that Ivan will have to step in for you for the entire coming week.”

Kirigan’s gaze shifted to Ivan, his expression unreadable. “Is that so?” The evenness of his stare and voice made it impossible to tell whether the General was displeased. Ivan couldn’t supress an embarrassed grimace, the memory of his embellished account to the Tsar playing in his mind. “I may have... emphasized the severity of your condition a bit to ensure you got the rest you needed.”

Kirigan’s gaze lingered on him, a mixture of weariness and mild surprise in his dark eyes. “You manipulated him.” “I protected you,” Ivan immediately responded, with steady conviction. “The palace needs you, Sir. Not a shadow of you, barely standing.”

A long silence stretched between them. Then, to Ivan’s surprise, Kirigan let out a subdued chuckle, a sound both drained and genuine. “You always did have a way with words.”

“Not as well as you,” Ivan countered, his tone respectful yet edged with familiarity. “But effective when needed.” Kirigan inclined his head, a faint, sympathetic smile playing on his lips. “But now you’re paying the price.” “It’s worth it,” Ivan replied simply. He hesitated, then added with a rare softness, “You needed this.”

The General didn’t respond immediately.  He sank a little further into the pillows, his posture loosening as though conceding defeat, before a tired sigh escaped him. “You both worry too much.” “You make it hard not to,” Fedyor’s quiet reply carried a note of warm affection. A silence settled between them, comfortable and filled with a calm understanding that didn’t need words. Kirigan closed his eyes briefly, the weight of exhaustion still pressing heavily upon him. Yet, beneath it, there was a sense of relief—of being surrounded by those he could trust implicitly. “Ivan, Fedyor.” His lips barely moved, his tired whisper no louder than the rustle of leaves in a still wind.

“Yes, General?” Their responses overlapped; Ivan’s composed and matter of fact, Fedyor’s lighter, with a hint of teasing melody. “Thank you.” The words were quiet, yet their sincerity was undeniable.

Fedyor leaned forward, an amused smile on his face. “See? I told Ivan you’d appreciate our fussing one day.” Ivan only rolled his eyes at his husband before he nodded his head towards Kirigan, his expression softening once more. “Rest, General. We’ll handle everything.”

At these words, Kirigan allowed himself to sink back into the pillows. His eyes fluttered closed, though it seemed less a choice and more an inevitability. It took only a few minutes before sleep overtook him once more. The rise and fall of his chest was steady but faint, as if even the act of breathing demanded more energy than it should. Ivan kept standing by the bedside, his sharp gaze lingering on Kirigan’s appearance.   His pale, drawn features, carved thin by weeks of strain and the illness he had not yet overcome, held a fragile stillness. There was no longer the sharp flush of fever, but the exhaustion that still clung to him was unmistakable—profound and all-encompassing. The dark shadows beneath his eyes lent his face an unsettling frailty, a stark contrast to the iron-willed presence Ivan knew so well. Still feeling a bit helpless and unsettled, he adjusted the blanket with quiet precision, his usual efficiency softened by a rare gentleness. Fedyor had risen too and now hovered at the foot of the bed, his gaze flickering briefly between Kirigan and Ivan. Though concern lingered in his expression, it wasn’t solely for the General.

“He’s still so pale,” Ivan murmured, his tone calm but tinged with lingering apprehension. The General was clearly on the mend, but it didn’t change the fact that the normally so strong man still looked far from himself. Fedyor reached out and gave Ivan’s arm a firm, reassuring squeeze, his touch grounding but gentle. “He’ll be fine.” He offered a small, wry smile as he straightened, his hand dropping from Ivan’s arm. “He has time to recover— no audiences with the Tsar for days, thanks to a particularly persuasive soul in this room.” His gaze flicked briefly to Ivan, his words light but his intention sincere. Ivan’s lips quirked in the barest hint of a smile, his sharp features softening as he glanced at Fedyor. A quiet gratitude passed between them, unspoken yet unmistakable. Kirigan’s breathing evened out further, his body surrendering to rest, and slowly, ever so slowly, his face softened. The lines of exhaustion, though not erased, seemed gentler in the warm light of the candles. And eventually, Ivan returned to his chair and resumed his work. Yet every so often, his sharp gaze would drift back to the bed, ensuring all remained as it should. Fedyor settled again into his chair, one leg crossed over the other. His posture was truly relaxed, but his resolve to keep watch over both Ivan and Kirigan was unwavering.

The room was silent once more except for the faint crackle of the candles and the occasional rustle of parchment. Outside, the world moved on, but within these peaceful walls, time seemed to slow. Here, concern and quiet determination held firm, wrapping around their fallen General like an unspoken vow of protection.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Interlude

Summary:

As Ivan had sat beside an unconscious Kirigan the night after the bridge's collapse, he’d promised himself he’d make things right. But when the long-overdue conversation begins with Kirigan’s unexpected apology, Ivan finds himself caught off guard, struggling with emotions he’d thought were long buried.

Notes:

Plays immediately after "Bound by Duty, Torn by Care" While this story can stand on its own, I highly recommend reading “Bearing the Burden” and the related works first for a deeper understanding and richer context. (Warning: Well, this is SO out of character.... But hey, who cares. It's fanfiction.)   The "Bearing the Burden"-universe is AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace. As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series. Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!). I took certain creative liberties, particularly with respect to magic, medical details and the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it. And now have fun! And thank you for reading.

The room was quiet, save for the steady, rhythmic sound of Kirigan’s breathing. Ivan sat beside the bed, exhaustion weighing heavily on him. Fedyor had left not too long ago, needing to take over watch duty, and though he had offered to accompany Ivan to their quarters, Ivan had waved him off. He had wanted to stay a bit longer.

His plan had been simple—sit for a few minutes, take a moment of reprieve while ensuring the General was still resting, then return to the preparations for the upcoming event at the Grand Palace. But as he sat there, the tension slowly ebbed from his muscles. His body ached; his thoughts grew sluggish. The tranquillity of the room, the quiet stillness, and the reassuring presence of Kirigan sleeping just a few feet away lulled him into an unexpected calm. It had been three days of relentless stress, constantly on edge, first the bridge collapse, then worrying over the General’s health, managing duties in his absence, and attending to the endless needs of the Little Palace. Ivan had been running on little more than sheer willpower, but now that he was still for the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of it all came crashing down on him.

His eyelids grew heavy. Just a few minutes, he thought. He only needed a few minutes. Folding his arms over his chest and leaning his head back, his mind started drifting. Faint sounds of the palace life filtered through—the low murmur of voices somewhere down the hall, the rhythmic echo of footsteps as Grisha moved about. Bit by bit, even these faded. His breathing slowed, matching Kirigan’s regular motions, and before he knew it, sleep overtook him. --- When Ivan awoke, it was to an unfamiliar warmth wrapped around him. The soft pressure of a blanket, heavier than the one he usually used, covered him from his shoulders to his feet. He blinked groggily, the world coming into focus as his mind caught up with his body. He wasn’t in his bed, nor was he in his room—he was still in Kirigan’s quarters, slouched in the chair beside the bed. His hand instinctively grasped at the cover. Dark, heavy fabric. It wasn’t his.

It was Kirigan’s.

Ivan jolted upright, stifling a grimace as a sharp ache jolted through his back and neck, a reminder of his awkward posture. The fog of sleep cleared as he processed what had happened. He looked toward the bed and saw the General, no longer asleep, but sitting on the edge of the mattress. His back was hunched slightly, one hand pressed against his ribs, the other resting on his knee. His dark eyes, though tired, were focused entirely on Ivan, watching him with the kind of silent concern that usually passed between them only when Kirigan was the one in distress.

“You’ve overdone it, Ivan.” Kirigan’s voice was quiet, but there was a firmness beneath the fatigue. He didn’t ask; it was a statement of fact.

Ivan swallowed hard, forcing himself fully awake. “You’re one to talk,” he muttered, though the edge of his usual bite was missing. He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the heaviness in his limbs. “I’m not the one released out of the infirmary just today and already overexerting myself again.”

As expected, Kirigan didn’t respond immediately. Ivan had known the General wouldn’t rise to the bait. He never did. His dark gaze simply searched Ivan’s face with that unnerving calmness of his, the kind that saw straight through Ivan’s defences. For a long moment, he said nothing, letting the silence speak for him.

Then, finally, Kirigan broke it with a quiet, firm, “No. You’re not. But you’re tearing yourself apart just the same.”

Ivan clenched his jaw, not knowing how to respond to that. Kirigan’s words cut deeper than he expected, because they were true. So often in the past had he criticised Kirigan for pushing himself too hard, for sacrificing his own health for the sake of others. And now, here he was, doing the exact same thing. Clearly, they were spending too much time together; Ivan had picked up more of Kirigan’s bad habits than he’d care to admit.

But Kirigan wasn’t done. His eyes narrowed slightly as he shifted on the bed, wincing at the movement. “You’ve been handling everything more than well,” he remarked, a note of appreciation resonating through. “I know how hard that is. But you can’t keep going like this.”

Ivan straightened his posture, forcing himself to appear steady, even as he shook his head. "I’m fine," he insisted, the protest gruff, though he could feel the effort it took just to sound convincing. “I just... needed a moment. That’s all.”

The duvet was still wrapped around him, its warmth a reminder that Kirigan had woken up and seen him like this—exhausted, vulnerable. And instead of rousing him and sending him off to his quarters, Kirigan had covered him with his own blanket, a gesture filled with a care that Ivan wasn’t sure how to handle.

His throat tightened. The General wasn’t supposed to worry about him. He was the protector, the one who was always there to ensure Kirigan’s safety, not the other way around. But here, in this quiet moment, Kirigan was looking at him with concern—true concern—and it felt too much, too tender.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Ivan muttered, deflecting. He observed his leader, noting the pale complexion, the tension in his shoulders. “You should be resting.”

Kirigan let out a small, breathy chuckle, though it was laced with fatigue. “Says the man who just slept through half the evening.”

Ivan stiffened, about to argue, but then Kirigan reached out and placed a hand lightly on his forearm. The touch was gentle, grounding. Rare. It was unlike Kirigan to initiate such contact, and Ivan knew immediately that it meant something. The General didn’t touch people unless he wanted to convey something significant. “You’ve been carrying everything.” Kirigan’s gaze held on Ivan, the rare acknowledgment settling heavily between them. “For me, for the Little Palace. I see it, Ivan, and I’m grateful.”

Ivan’s fingers curled, pressing into the fabric of Kirigan’s blanket as he tried to absorb the General’s words. He exhaled sharply, feeling a knot of unease form in his chest, the weight of Kirigan’s gratitude almost too much to bear. “I do what I have to.” The response came out a touch too rough; he could feel it catching in his throat.

Kirigan’s grip on his arm intensified, as if urging him to listen, truly listen. “No, Ivan. You’ve taken on more than I ever meant to ask of you.” He sounded extremely tired all of a sudden. “And for that... I’m sorry.” His voice was raw, carrying a weight that spoke of more than just today, more than just the pain in his body—it was the guilt that had haunted him since the bridge collapse.

Ivan felt a cold knot tighten in his chest. It hurt, hearing the self-reproach in Kirigan’s voice. He had hoped, by now, that Kirigan, like he himself, might see it differently, might understand that there had been more than just his own recklessness at play—that some things had been beyond anyone’s control. But here it was again, that burden, still so heavy in Kirigan’s voice.

Ivan clenched his teeth. He didn’t want to hear this - it didn’t sit right. Not after everything. “I don’t want you to apologize,” he muttered, subdued. “If anything,... it should’ve been me.”

Kirigan’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt. He waited.

Ivan inhaled, fighting the tightness in his throat. “I let it get to me. The panic. I wasn’t thinking straight.” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the pressure of all he’d held back over these past days, the stress of almost losing Kirigan, the guilt he couldn’t shake for what he’d said. “I overreacted… that day. When I said what I did—” He stopped, the sharp remorse making it difficult to continue. “I don’t even know if you remember it, but I regret it. Truly.” Kirigan’s expression eased, his head inclining almost imperceptibly. “Ivan… stop it.” Though faint, there was a quiet strength beneath his fatigue. “Given everything that happened, your reaction was more than understandable.” But Ivan shook his head in vehement denial. "No! I shouldn’t have said it," he repeated, and this time, he couldn’t quite keep the thickness from creeping into his tone. The apology he had been holding back broke free in a halting rush. “I had no right. You were barely hanging on, and I…I lashed out. It was unworthy of me, and it did nothing but cause you more pain.”

Kirigan’s expression clouded as though the memory still stung. His voice dropped, each word measured and deliberate, like he was choosing them with care. “I think I deserved it.” Ivan shook his head sharply, the guilt gnawing at him, clawing up from deep inside. “No. You didn’t. It wasn’t your fault—at least, not in the way you believe.” His eyes searched Kirigan’s face. “You think you’re to blame because you didn’t stop, because you didn’t go to the healers, but… no one could have foreseen that it would get this bad.”

“Yet, I could have sought help.” Kirigan paused, meeting Ivan’s gaze with unguarded sincerity, no shields left between them. “I should have.” There was a rawness in his expression, a pain he rarely showed. “Your reaction... it was justified. You had every right to be angry.” Ivan’s stomach churned at the reassurance. This was Kirigan at his most disarming—tired, genuine, and calm. His eyes held a depth of sincerity that Ivan had rarely seen; the unvarnished honesty brought a fresh wave of guilt, sharper than any rebuke could have been.

“Still,” Ivan managed, glancing away, “I shouldn’t have put that on you.” The regret sat heavy in his throat, unwilling to be ignored. “The truth is, I’d probably have done the same in your place. I know I have in the past, more than once,” he admitted with difficulty. “It’s not easy to pull back, even when you know you should.” He paused, his eyes drifting past Kirigan, as though looking for something beyond the quiet room they occupied. “I know that now,” he continued, slowly, “but back then…” His chest tightened, and he inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “When I was there, tending to you… helpless...” The words caught on his tongue as the memory surged to the surface. The sharpness of it hit him hard; the images of that day—how Kirigan, bloody and motionless, had simply stopped breathing—flashed in his mind as vividly as though it had just happened. “In that moment, I couldn’t bear it, seeing you like that,” he whispered, low and worn. “You were dying right in front of me… I just couldn’t accept it. I thought we were going to lose you.” The anguish was unmasked, too much to hide.

Kirigan’s eyes fixed on him, dark, unwavering. "And yet, you held on." His gaze carried all the regret of a leader who knew exactly what he’d asked, but was also filled with a respect and gratitude he rarely showed openly. “Despite all of it—your fear, the impossibility of it—you kept me alive till the healers arrived, Ivan. It’s because of you I’m still here.”

The simple acknowledgment was a balm to the wound Ivan hadn’t known he still carried. He felt it settle into him, grounding him as he wrestled with both the regret and relief of this impossible bond they shared. He took a steadying breath, his eyes closing briefly in exhaustion. “Just… never put me in such a position again,” he murmured, something dangerously close to a plea behind it, “Don’t make me watch you suffer like that.”

For a long moment, Kirigan didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he inclined his head. “You know I can’t promise it won’t happen again.” His gaze held a steady resolve. “But I swear I’ll try.”

The words settled something deep within Ivan, as though a knot that had been wound too tight was finally easing. He allowed himself a fragile, quiet exhale, letting the weight of the past few days lift, if only slightly, at Kirigan’s reassurance. He met Kirigan’s gaze, seeing, the unspoken pact between them both, stronger for all they’d endured. This was enough. There was no room in their lives for absolutes, but this promise—to try—was real, and Ivan could feel himself unclench around it. Eventually, Kirigan gave a short nod. They’d said what needed to be said. “Rest,” he ordered, his eyes softening just a fraction as he moved to carefully lean back, too weak to sit up any longer. “For both our sakes.”

Ivan didn’t argue, he just shot up from his chair as Kirigan began to shift and gently helped the General ease his battered body back against the pillows. Kirigan’s muscles tensed, and he suppressed a wince, but he didn’t pull away. For once, he let Ivan shoulder the weight without complaint.

Then, with careful hands, Ivan pulled the blanket he had been covered with back over Kirigan, smoothing it out over his shoulders. Yet, while he did that, the General’s gaze, though heavy-lidded, fixed firmly on him, sharp and steady despite the fatigue. “You know,” he remarked unexpectedly, “it took some guts not to wake me for the meeting this evening.” Ivan stiffened, caught off guard by this sudden change of topic. But contrary to his fears, Kirigan’s voice held no anger - there was only a quiet recognition, something that bordered on grudging respect. Ivan let a breath slip, steadying himself. “It wasn’t easy,” he confessed, the weight of his actions lingering in his voice. “But you weren’t in any shape to sit through that. You were barely able to stay upright all day.” Kirigan studied him for a moment, before he spoke again. “It was a bold choice, and not one without its risks...” His words trailed off, a thoughtful silence stretching between them. Then, with a small sigh, his gaze softened. “But you made the decision for my own good, and... I won’t argue with it. You were right.” Ivan stayed silent, nodding once, thankful. There was nothing left to say, not really. They would move on, as they always did. No more words were needed.

With a slow, exhausted blink, Kirigan’s eyes closed again. His body seemed to sink deeper into the pillows, the weight of the past days finally pulling him under. Ivan remained on the edge of the bed for a moment longer, watching Kirigan’s face relax in sleep. The lines of pain and tension eased, leaving him looking almost peaceful.

And in the silence that followed, Ivan allowed himself, for just a moment, to breathe. Then, with a final glance at Kirigan, he stood up and quietly left the room, seeking his own rest at last.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Unfamiliar Grounds

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

Kirigan’s walls may be down for now, but Ivan and Fedyor know they must guard more than just his recovery—they must guard his trust.

Notes:

This story is an AU. It takes place long before Alina turns up. Kirigan is not the villain he will be later in the series. Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!). I took certain creative liberties, particularly with the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it. And now have fun! And thank you for reading.

Work Text:

The early morning light cast long shadows through the forest as the company rode on, tired but quietly relieved. The skirmish had been brief and unexpected, but by some twist of fate, they’d suffered no fatalities—just bruises, scrapes, and the bitter taste of yet another delay on the road back to the Little Palace. Though everyone was weary and eager to be home, they travelled with the calm confidence of survivors, their minds already drifting to the promise of rest and familiar comforts.

Kirigan rode at the head of the group, his figure as straight and composed as ever. But nevertheless, something seemed off.  

Ivan’s brow furrowed as he observed the General more closely. He had been summoned more and more often by him in recent months, each mission bringing him closer to the man who, until then, had been more myth than reality.  But despite these latest, quite frequent missions, Ivan still didn’t know him well enough to understand every nuance in Kirigan’s demeanor. Yet now, for the first time, he felt a gnawing certainty that something was not as it should be.

Ivan’s eyes stayed fixed on him, searching, studying every slight shift of Kirigan’s posture, every minute tightening of his hands on the reins. Beside him, Fedyor was watching as well, his gaze troubled, his senses attuned to the subtle signs of strain his leader couldn’t quite conceal.

It was when Kirigan’s hand slipped from the reins to clutch briefly at his side that Ivan felt his stomach twist. Never before had the General let pain show, and Ivan was suddenly sure that right now, things were more serious than Kirigan let on.

A quick glance at Fedyor confirmed his suspicions. They had both seen it; the way Kirigan’s breaths came a fraction shorter, the tension that radiated through his usually controlled frame.

Enough was enough.

“Stop,” Ivan’s voice rang out, sharp and unmistakable, pulling the group to an abrupt halt. The Grisha responded instantly, horses stamped and snorted, shifting restlessly as the troupe exchanged puzzled glances.

Kirigan’s head snapped to face him, his jaw clenched, irritation flashing briefly in his dark eyes. “What are you doing? We’re wasting time,” he ground out.  His words were tight with fatigue and something more—a hidden tension, one that everyone who looked closer could feel.

“General,” Ivan responded undeterred, his tone unyielding. “With all due respect, we’re not going another step until you’re seen to.”

Some Grisha at the back of the group, unable to catch the exchange, furrowed their brows in confusion. But most understood immediately; he must have noticed something critical.

They trusted Ivan’s observations without question, and their eyes darted between him and Kirigan, watching the General with a deepening worry, their expressions reflecting their desire to ensure his well-being.

Kirigan’s lips pressed into a thin line, his silence enough to convey his displeasure, when Fedyor moved in, calmer but just as resolute. “We’re not moving ahead until you let us help.”

For a heartbeat, Kirigan remained motionless, defiant even. But as his eyes swept over his soldiers, the alarm reflected in some of the faces reached through his defences. He caught sight of a young Grisha, one he’d protected during the skirmish, now watching him with such raw concern that it almost touched him; a feeling he was not accustomed to.

He recognized, too, the look in Ivan’s and Fedyor’s eyes—the unwavering determination that would not yield, the loyalty that insisted he allow them to care for him.

Slowly, he nodded once in acknowledgment and reluctantly, he slid down from his horse. His legs trembled slightly as they met the ground; he masked it, straightening his shoulders, but there was a fragility in the gesture that sent a quiet ripple of alarm through those watching. The last Grisha around him quickly dismounted as well, realization dawning on their faces. Even those who had remained in their saddles until now hurriedly slid to the ground, concern etched in their expressions as they saw that their General was not just weary; he was struggling.

“Let’s get you settled and check this out,” Ivan insisted, already scanning for a place to lay Kirigan down.

With haste, some Grisha began spreading their cloaks and blankets on the ground, creating a makeshift resting place.

As they lowered Kirigan onto it, his body instinctively tensed as if trying to escape a wave of pain that seemed to surge within him.

“Relax,” Ivan instructed gently, kneeling beside him. Kirigan’s usual composure was beginning to crack, and he closed his eyes for a moment, taking a steadying breath.

As Ivan peeled back Kirigan’s Kefta, a collective gasp escaped from the surrounding Grisha. A huge, dark stain spread across his tunic, the ominous wet hue saturating the black fabric underneath.

Fedyor sucked in a sharp breath, his voice rising with shock and frustration. “Saints, you’ve been bleeding like this for—how long?”

Kirigan gave a faint, deflective huff, as though he’d been caught in some minor offense. “It’s nothing. Everyone’s tired; they don’t need me slowing them down.”

But Ivan was having none of this. “Stop that,” he ordered gruffly. “We’re taking care of this now.”

Carefully he pulled the tunic up, revealing a long, jagged wound that stretched across Kirigan’s chest and abdomen, still seeping blood. The flesh was swollen and bruised, and there were clear signs of at least two broken ribs beneath, maybe even internal injuries; each breath was a shallow, painful effort.

The Grisha who had gathered around murmured in shock, a few of the younger ones paling visibly at the sight.

“General…” one Squaller whispered strained. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Kirigan merely shook his head, his gaze set forward, a hint of defiance in his eyes. “It wasn’t necessary,” he replied. “I could hold on until we returned.”

“Of course you could!” Ivan’s tone was sharp with exasperation. He knew that if anyone could endure such wounds, it was Kirigan—his resilience unmatched by any other. Yet, that wasn’t the point. “But you simply shouldn’t. Look at yourself—you can barely stand…” He broke off incredulously, but Fedyor also had his part to say.

“Why would you hide this? You would never demand this silence from any of us. Why do you force it on yourself?”

Kirigan’s gaze flicked away, his jaw tight, his eyes hardened, unreadable. Compared to the weight of everything he’d faced, this pain was a small thing—no reason to burden them with it. He could have endured it, as he had endured countless wounds before, and to reveal it now felt like crossing a line he’d drawn long ago. They looked to him for steadiness, for strength that would not bend. Admitting to being injured, to any weakness, meant inviting them closer, meant leaning on a support he had taught himself never to need again.

And yet, here he was, lying on the ground and allowing them to tend to him because for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he experienced a flicker of trust, a sense that he didn’t have to bear this burden alone.

So he didn’t argue as Ivan began directing the troupe to bring what supplies they had, anything they could use to treat their injured General.

They sprang into action, a flurry of activity as they gathered clean cloths and materials. An Inferni quickly ignited a small fire nearby, its flames licking at the cool air, while water was heated for the task ahead, and Yuri, a Squaller who had some knowledge of field medicine, knelt beside Kirigan, his hands steady as he reached for the medical kit.

A Durast stepped forward too, a small pouch clutched in her hands. “I got this from the healers.” She opened it to reveal packets of potent remedies—herbs and fine powders. “Pain relief and more. It’ll help.”

“Good thinking.” Ivan’s gratitude was evident. “Get him some of that.”

Immediately, the Durast began preparing a tea, her movements precise when she measured the constituents, though her hands trembled ever so slightly.

“Hold still, General,” Yuri pleaded calmly. He crouched beside Kirigan, each touch careful, his fingers gentle yet firm, starting to clean the wound with warm water.

Kirigan didn’t respond, his face expressionless, though the tautness around his eyes betrayed the pain he held at bay.

Fedyor, kneeling on his other side, fixated his leader’s face with a rare intensity.

“You’re always thinking you have to endure everything alone, aren’t you?” He couldn’t quite hide his frustration. “You know, we’re all capable of waiting an extra hour if it means making sure you don’t end up worse off.”

His voice softened, though his gaze remained unwavering. “We’ve seen you lead, inspire, and protect us all, General. And maybe… it wouldn’t hurt for you to let others take care of you, too, once in a while.” His tone held the hint of a plea, but there was no expectation—just a quiet offering.

For a moment, Kirigan’s stoic mask slipped. There was a flicker of something close to reluctant acceptance appearing in his eyes. His jaw clenched as he allowed them to continue, perhaps surrendering to the moment, or maybe, for once, to the unfamiliar feeling of not having to hold himself so tightly.

Blood clung thickly to Kirigan’s skin, congealed in patches where it had begun to dry, while fresh rivulets seeped slowly from the jagged edges. Yuri’s hands moved with precision, his touch steady and unhurried despite the urgency of the task.

The other Grisha held their breath as they watched the crimson smears gradually give way to clean, raw flesh beneath.

Finally, Yuri reached for a soft cloth, folding it meticulously. Carefully, he pressed the thick layers against the gash, ensuring it adhered to the contours of Kirigan’s body. Once satisfied with the placement, he wrapped some bandages around it, securing the dressing in place, before he rightened himself up.

“That should hold till we get back to the Little Palace.” He glanced at Ivan, wiping his brow. “But we have to bind his ribs—tight enough so he can breathe easier without aggravating the fractures.”

Seeing the necessity, the others immediately began cutting long strips of fabric. As they worked, the Durast approached, her eyes lingering on Kirigan’s face with quiet concern. She held a small cup of tea, the scent of herbs and remedies wafting up. She offered it to him, her tone tentative yet firm. “Please, General. Drink this.”

Kirigan caught the scent of the mixture and immediately recognized its strength. “No,” he protested instantly, trying to push himself up, a rare show of reluctance. “It’s too potent; I’ll black out… “

Ivan placed a firm hand on his shoulder, gently but with authority. “We don’t care, General. You’re hurting, and you’ve lost blood. This isn’t just about you anymore. We’ll take the time, even if it costs us the journey home.”

Kirigan’s eyes narrowed slightly, a stubborn glint flashing as he eyed the cup. “I’m perfectly able to move on without this,” he muttered, irritation clear. “There’s no need for— “

“There’s no need for you to endure any more of this,” Fedyor interjected, soft but resolute. “None of us want to watch you suffer another minute. We’ll get home when we get home.”

With a resigned look, Kirigan allowed himself to lean back against the makeshift bedding. Slowly, he took the cup, a tired sigh escaping as he drank. The brew was bitter, the taste strong enough to make him grimace, but he drained it, his eyes fluttering as the warm, soothing effect of the ingredients began to seep in.

Ivan watched him with a faint shake of his head, his usual stoicism edged with concern. “Next time, General,” he repeated, “you say something. Just because you can endure it, doesn’t mean you should.”

Fedyor nodded in agreement, his gaze unwavering. “We’d rather lose a little time than risk your health.”

There was a beat of silence, then Kirigan inclined his head, the faintest trace of acceptance and contrition in his expression. “Noted,” he murmured.

After they took the empty cup from Kirigan, Ivan and Fedyor positioned themselves on either side of him, lifting him gently from where he lay. He grimaced, a faint crease forming between his brows, but made no sound as they helped him up, each movement deliberate, cautious.

Once he was upright, it became clear he had neither the strength nor stability to hold himself steady. His breath came in shallow, strained bursts, every subtle shift making his pain flare.

Seeing this, Ivan slipped an arm firmly around Kirigan’s back, supporting his weight and taking on as much of the burden as he could. Fedyor, on his other side, did the same, gripping his shoulder to keep him secure.

Kirigan’s frame remained tense, muscles taut as if he could will himself to stay upright, but Ivan and Fedyor felt the unmistakable tremor that ran through him. His head lowered momentarily, though he forced it upright again as he struggled to maintain some semblance of composure.

Yuri then began to bind his ribs tightly, the process meticulous, each wrap drawn carefully around his fractured bones to keep them secure.

With each pull of the bandage, Kirigan’s face tightened, his breaths becoming more and more strained as his battered resilience began to crack, revealing the depth of his torment.

Ivan watched closely, his worry growing as he felt Kirigan start to sway, his body sagging into their grip as if he might lose consciousness.

“Just breathe, General,” he encouraged, his words low, only for Kirigan to hear. A hint of alarm crept into his voice. “We’re almost done. You need to keep breathing.”

When they finished, Kirigan looked markedly more vulnerable, his skin pale and slick with sweat, his breaths shallow and ragged.

Ivan and Fedyor exchanged a brief, worried glance before easing him down, lowering him as cautiously as possible back onto the blankets. His body went limp, the tension finally releasing as he settled against the blankets. His eyes fluttered closed as he allowed himself a rare moment of rest.

The young Inferni stepped forward, a warm, wet cloth in hand. Her movements were hesitant, her hands trembling slightly as she knelt beside him. She gently dabbed the sweat from his brow, her touch feather-light, as though afraid even the slightest pressure might cause him pain.

While she cared for him, Kirigan lay there, eyes half-closed and head tilted slightly to the side.

He remained still, barely moving, save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. But as the initial agony from Yuri’s manipulations began to subside, it became clear that the bindings were helping. His breathing, though still labored, grew steadier, deeper, and the tight wraps around his ribs provided much-needed support. The fact that he was no longer bleeding into his tunic also contributed to his stabilization.

So, gradually, he seemed to regain a thread of his usual composure, enough that they knew he was ready to be dressed.

Ivan gave a subtle nod to Fedyor, signalling that it was time to get him back into his clothes and restore some semblance of his usual dignity.

Yuri placed himself behind him, sliding his arms beneath Kirigan’s shoulders to gently lift him upright again, giving the others room.

The two Heartrenders carefully adjusted his tunic and Kefta, ensuring his comfort and avoiding any strain on his injuries. 

As they finished, Ivan’s gaze lingered on Kirigan’s face, studying the pale cast of his skin and the lines of pain etched faintly around his mouth and eyes. There still was a vulnerability about him, one that none of them had ever seen before. The General who led them with unyielding strength was, in this moment, simply a man—worn, fragile, and undeniably mortal.

“You should rest, General,” Ivan suggested quietly, his concern evident. “It would do you good.”

Kirigan immediately shook his head, his voice firm despite his exhaustion. “No, we’re going home. Now.”

Ivan sighed, understanding the determination in Kirigan’s eyes. “We can do that. But unless you want to end up face-first in the mud, General, you’ll have to ride with me.” He raised an eyebrow, a hint of dry humour in his expression, but he quickly shifted back to seriousness. “Honestly, there is no other way. Those herbs will hit you soon enough.”

Kirigan simply nodded, acknowledging Ivan’s point.

His agreement brought a wave of relief over the group. Fedyor’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile, his eyes softening as he watched Kirigan.

The Grisha sprang into action. They quickly packed up their belongings, extinguished the small fire, and gathered their supplies, each one eager to get their leader home safely.

Once everything was ready, they turned their attention back to Kirigan.

When they lifted him to his feet, their hands remained steady and supportive, each motion gentle, aware of how much effort it must cost him to remain upright.

Kirigan swayed slightly, his face drawn with pain, but he kept his shoulders squared, still refusing to truly let show how much he was suffering.

Some Grisha then moved quickly to fold the cloaks, roll up the blankets, and dismantle the makeshift bedding with practiced ease, while others helped the General back onto his horse.

He leaned heavily onto the pommel of the saddle, silent, his determination overriding his discomfort. Ivan swung up behind him, slipping an arm around Kirigan’s waist to secure him with caution.

“Hold on, General,” he murmured, his voice a mix of concern and reassurance. “We’ll get you home.”

Kirigan gave a faint nod, too exhausted to put up any more resistance, simply accepting the care. He sank back slightly into the strong arms bracing him securely, the warmth of Ivan’s grip both firm and comforting.

Finally, the group resumed their journey at a slower, more measured pace.

For the first stretch, Kirigan tried to keep his head up, his gaze forward, fighting the overwhelming fatigue that clouded his mind. But as the minutes passed, the potent herbs began to take full effect, overpowering him. Despite his best efforts to remain alert, he felt himself slipping.

With a final sigh, Kirigan surrendered to the drug-induced darkness, his body sinking heavily into Ivan’s arms. His head fell back against Ivan’s shoulder, leaving him defenceless in a way none of them had ever seen.

“Easy there,” Ivan murmured, instinctively adjusting to hold him more securely. The concern of the group sharpened as they noticed, but there was no panic; they had prepared for this.

They moved as swiftly as they could under the circumstances, urgency propelling them forward. It would take another two hours to reach the Little Palace, and every minute felt like an eternity.

The whole time, Fedyor kept a watchful eye on both Kirigan and Ivan.

To his dismay, as the journey progressed, he sensed Kirigan’s pulse quickening, the medications wearing off. It was clear that the pain was intensifying again; Kirigan’s face tightened with each jolt of the horse, and his breaths became more labored. Fedyor had hoped they would reach the Little Palace before this happened, but the agony from Kirigan’s broken bones was too intense.

Then, Ivan intervened.

Fedyor could feel the small flickers of power emanating from his husband. Ivan was carefully manipulating Kirigan’s heart, drawing him back into a deeper state of unconsciousness. Each time Kirigan began to surface, Ivan would gently interfere, ensuring the General remained unaware of the pain that threatened to overwhelm him.

He knew the General wouldn’t approve, but none of them cared today; they were united in their determination to get him home safely, no matter what it took. Ivan’s need to protect the man who always put others first was a quiet rebellion he allowed himself.

The road stretched long as they pressed forward, each Grisha’s gaze straying every so often to their leader, their worry a silent thread weaving them all together.

Finally, as they approached the Little Palace, two Healers were already assembled. Word of Kirigan's condition had reached them earlier, thanks to one Grisha who had hurried ahead.

Their faces tightened as they saw Ivan riding in, his arms cradling Kirigan’s limp form.

As he pulled his horse to a stop, the two of them rushed forward and reached up to take on the weight of the wounded General.

Ivan released his hold on Kirigan’s heartbeat for just a moment, helping the Healers guide him carefully down from the saddle. Instantly, Kirigan's eyes fluttered, and a hoarse, involuntary sound escaped his lips; a faint, ragged groan, raw and filled with distress. It was a sound he would never have allowed himself had he been fully aware. But here, between the grip of consciousness and the dark of oblivion, his usual defences had fallen away, leaving only the unshielded pain of his injuries.

Ivan clenched his jaw, watching with a blend of worry and helplessness as Kirigan lay there, the true extent of his suffering laid bare for all to see.

One of the Healers immediately pressed a hand to Kirigan’s forehead, murmuring softly as her power flowed through him, coaxing him back into a deeper state of unconsciousness. She knew it was the only way to shield him from the pain that would otherwise tear him awake.

The healers then hurried him inside, weaving quickly through the bright corridors, sunlight spilling in patches across the stone as they made their way to the infirmary. Ivan, Fedyor, and the rest of the group followed closely, all unwilling to let their General out of their sight.

Along the way, other Grisha paused as they took in the pale, lifeless figure of their leader. Some watched with wide, stricken eyes; others whispered anxiously among themselves, clearly shaken by the sight of the unresponsive General.

They finally reached the Infirmary, where the Healers immediately set to work.

The troupe watched in silence as Kirigan was laid carefully on a bed in the centre of the room.

The senior Healer placed her palm gently on his chest, sending a wave of energy that anchored him into a profound oblivion. Kirigan’s body tensed involuntarily, his muscles convulsing slightly under the intensity of the Healer’s power before he fell completely limp. The brief surge faded, and his awareness slipped further away under her deliberate touch.

Another Healer began to move with smooth, practiced motions, summoning her power to knit the ugly wound and address the injuries hidden beneath.

Meanwhile, the senior Healer hovered her hands above Kirigan’s ribcage, guiding a steady flow of energy into each fracture and bruise.

As the healing process continued, Kirigan’s muscles, still partially tensed from the remnants of pain, began to yield. The harsh lines etched into his face softened gradually, revealing a flicker of peace that was almost foreign. His breathing slowed, settling into a more regular, deeper rhythm.

Eventually, the lead Healer reassured all the Grisha, “His broken bones have been set, and severel internal contusions and bruises have been treated. He should be pain-free now.”

Then she turned to Ivan and Fedyor. “He heals faster than any Grisha I’ve ever seen. But even someone of his power needs time to recover from these injuries.” She glanced back at Kirigan, her eyes filled with concern. “He’s lost more blood than we’d like. I recommend keeping him under for a few hours—force him to rest. We all know what he’ll do otherwise.”

Ivan nodded decisively, understanding the unspoken truth behind her words. Kirigan’s relentless drive meant that if he were conscious, he would insist on resuming his responsibilities immediately.

They had to ensure he stayed down long enough to recover properly, even if it meant going against what they knew he would want.

The second Healer had already moved to clean the remaining blood and sweat from Kirigans skin and now gently dressed him in the soft linen shirt and loose trousers designated for those in recovery. Then, a warm, heavy blanket was tucked carefully around his shoulders and along his sides, as though to preserve the restorative energy that still lingered in the air.

Before they stepped back, the lead Healer pressed her hand onto Kirigan’s torso again, one last surge of her power weaving through him, sealing his consciousness in the darkness for a few more hours at least. She met Ivan’s gaze and nodded; he understood the message—the General would remain safely unaware.

At last, Kirigan lay still, his breathing slow and even. The golden light filtering into the room cast a gentle glow across his pale face, highlighting the shadows beneath his eyes.

He looked almost fragile, a faint trace of vulnerability in the way his head rested against the pillow, a stark contrast to the imposing figure he typically embodied.

The Grisha lingered at his bedside, caught between relief and unease. The General—unbreakable, untouchable Kirigan—lay before them like any other wounded soldier, stripped of his customary armour of strength.

Though exhaustion tugged at their limbs, no one wanted to leave him alone in this vulnerable moment. Their glances drifted toward Ivan, seeking reassurance.

His silent nod was all they needed to stand down. It showed that Ivan would remain, and that was enough.

Over recent missions, he had proven himself enough times for them to look to him now without question. If anyone was to watch over the General, it would be Ivan, and they accepted this as naturally as they would a command

So, in the end, one by one, the tired men began to leave, some murmuring a quiet farewell, others offering a brief look of respect before they departed.

As the last of their troupe had stepped out, Ivan settled into a chair by the bed, his hand resting on the edge of the blanket, keeping vigil. Fedyor sank down beside him, a gentle but constant presence, his gaze steady as he watched over both his husband and their General.

Finally, Ivan glanced at Fedyor and tiredly murmured, “He won’t thank us for this.” His tone was dry, touched with a hint of exasperated affection.

Fedyor smiled, his eyes softening. “No,” he agreed, his voice a whisper, “but it was the right thing to do.”  They knew that once Kirigan awoke, the man who loathed any display of weakness would be quick to erect his walls again.

They shared a quiet moment, watching as Kirigan’s breathing remained steady, his face completely at peace. It was rare, even precious, to see him like this—unguarded, free from the heavy weight he carried for all of them.

In the stillness of the room, a silent agreement formed between them. They would take it upon themselves to care for Kirigan, to ensure he received the attention he so rarely allowed himself.

It was clear that he had fought alone for much too long; perhaps others hadn’t dared to offer care, or Kirigan, likely, had rejected any such attempts. But today, something had shifted—he had allowed them, if only briefly, to ease his burden. And they would be damned if this was the last time.

They would make sure that the man who fought so fiercely for his soldiers would, at last, have someone to fight for him.

They settled back in the knowledge that the hours ahead would pass quietly, but that was exactly what they wanted: time for their General to rest, fully and truly, under their care.

And when Kirigan awoke, they would be there—ready to meet his inevitable stubbornness with patient, steadfast loyalty, the same loyalty that had brought him back to safety.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Scars

Fragments of Light

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

After days of battle, General Kirigan is on the verge of collapse—worn and exhausted. Genya finds him at his most vulnerable, offering care for wounds that run deeper than flesh.

The dim firelight cast flickering shadows across the stone walls, adding some much-needed warmth to the cold, damp evening. Outside, the relentless downpour continued, the sound of rain drumming against the windows, mingling with the occasional gust of wind. A storm had gripped the Little Palace, its chill seeping through every crack, making the warm glow of the fire feel almost futile. General Kirigan stood by the hearth, his back turned to the door. He was bone-tired, his muscles aching from days of battle and the strain of endless responsibility. His clothes, soaked through with rain, clung to his body as he stripped off layer after layer, each garment falling to the floor with a wet, muffled thud. The physical effort it took just to remove them felt monumental. He was barely holding himself together.

As the last piece of his shirt slipped from his shoulders, his bare skin met the frigid air of the room, raising goosebumps across the pale, clammy surface. His joints and head ached with fatigue, and his dark hair, still damp, hung slightly in his face as he let out a deep, quiet sigh.

He had just fastened the waistband of his pants with stiff, trembling fingers, when an unexpected knock broke the stillness, the sound surprisingly loud in the hush of the room. For a brief moment, he considered ignoring it, letting whoever it was assume he had already fallen into the long overdue sleep that tugged at him with every passing second. But duty—always duty—compelled him to respond. “Come in,” he croaked, his voice rough, scraped raw from the chill and shouting orders that had marked the past days at the frontline. He didn’t turn around, too tired to muster the energy.

The door creaked open, and the firelight illuminated Genya standing in the doorway, a tray balanced carefully in her hands. Her breath hitched when she saw him—truly saw him—not the composed, ever-regal General she was used to, but Kirigan—bare, vulnerable, human. The sheer number of scars crisscrossing his chest and ribs was staggering, some faint and silvered with age, others dark and fresh. They were deep, angry in places, and all of them spoke of years of battles fought, of wounds endured, of a lifetime of pain.

A soft sound escaped her, a quiet, involuntary gasp. He heard it and turned his dark eyes toward her. They were not the sharp, calculating eyes of a general tonight. They were weary, dull with exhaustion, their usual intensity dimmed.

“What is it?” He sounded quieter than normal, his voice devoid of its typical authority.

Genya moved quickly, setting the tray down on the table beside the bed. The rich aroma of broth filled the room, the steam curling lazily upward, warming the air and carrying a subtle sense of comfort with it. She then stepped closer, her eyes drawn to his battered torso, the stories etched into his skin. It felt as if he was stripped of his armour, the power he usually carried so effortlessly nowhere to be found in this moment. He was just Kirigan now, not the feared general, but a man who fought every day and had given too much of himself.

“Do they hurt?” The words were barely above a whisper, yet clear.

Kirigan blinked, taken aback. He hadn’t expected the question. He hadn’t expected her to care. He was so used to the scars that he barely remembered they existed, let alone thought about them in the presence of others. But Genya was not like others. She had seen so much and endured even more silently in ways few understood. She carried her own hidden wounds from years of enduring the Tsar's abuse, standing strong for the Grisha. Their shared loads connected them in a way words never could.

“They... ache sometimes,” he eventually admitted, low, almost reluctant. “But I’m used to them.”

Genya’s heart tightened at the tired acceptance in his voice. Right now, standing before her, he seemed smaller somehow, diminished by sheer exhaustion. She had seen him command armies, face impossible odds without flinching, but at this moment... he looked so tired, so deeply weary that it pained her to see him this way.

She stepped closer, her eyes full of a sudden determination. “I could help with them,” she offered quietly. “If you’d like.” Kirigan turned fully toward her, and for the first time, his eyes were stripped of their usual defences. The man was clearly utterly exhausted, too tired to maintain his usual facade. But something else was there too, something more immediate and alarming—a ghostly pallor spreading across his face, a faint tremor in his stance. It was as if his body had reached its limit. And as if to prove her point, Kirigan swayed.

She moved quickly, closing the distance between them in an instant, her hands reaching out to steady him. Her palms pressed against his chest, feeling the unsteady thud of his heartbeat beneath. He was so cold, his skin like marble beneath her touch, and she realized with a start that he wasn’t just tired—he was on the verge of collapse.

“General, sit down,” she urged, worry lacing every word, her voice firmer than she intended. She applied gentle pressure with her hands, guiding him backward, down onto the edge of the mattress. He didn’t argue, didn’t protest. That, more than anything, alarmed her. She was so used to seeing him fight, push through every challenge, that his lack of resistance now spoke volumes. He just sank down heavily, moving with a weary, deliberate grace. His shoulders slumped forward, his head bowing low, dark strands of damp hair falling over his eyes.

Genya knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers for a moment, her fingers wrapping around his as if to lend him some of her warmth. She could feel the way he shivered; the tension still coiled tight in his muscles despite his exhaustion. Her eyes searched his face. The firelight cast shadows across his high cheekbones, deepening the hollows under his eyes, making him look almost gaunt. She had never seen him so exhausted, so utterly drained of the fierce vitality that usually defined him.

“Let me help you, General. Please,” she insisted, soft but firm.

For a long moment, Kirigan was silent, his dark eyes flickering with something indecipherable. Finally, he answered. “I don’t think you can fix them.” His voice was tinged with a quiet resignation. “They’re old. Some are too deep.”

Genya nodded. “Maybe not. But I can make them... lighter. Less painful. You don’t have to carry all of it, not all the time.”

Her words struck something deep in him. For so long, he had borne everything alone. Every scar, every wound, every loss. He wasn’t sure he even knew how to share that burden anymore. But Genya’s eyes—full of compassion, of understanding—made him wonder if it was possible, if just for this moment, he could let someone in. To trust. To rest. He was so tired.

Kirigan hesitated, his gaze flicking away from hers briefly, as though wrestling with something inside himself. And then, with a quiet breath, he nodded, the smallest movement, but enough.

“If you think you can help.” His answer was barely above a murmur.

Genya’s expression softened as she leaned in closer. Worry flickered across her face as she noticed how his lips had taken on an alarming shade of blue. "You need to get warm," she insisted, guiding him toward the pillows. With a tentative touch, she directed him to lay back. He complied, fatigue evident in the way he moved, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated. As he sagged back, she pulled the blanket over his legs, tucking it securely around his hips. He relaxed slightly, but she could see the way he fought to suppress a shiver, the hair on his arms standing on end. His dark hair was still damp, the strands clinging to his temples. For a moment, she hesitated. He had always been untouchable, distant, a figure of awe and respect. But here, now, he was just a man, vulnerable in ways she had never seen before. Yet, what troubled her most was not just the physical exhaustion. It was the emptiness in his eyes, the hollow look that told her he wasn’t just tired—he was done. He had nothing left. How long had it been since he truly rested? Genya cautiously sat next to him on the mattress. She raised her hand slowly, giving him a moment to stop her if he chose. But he didn’t. She focused and began her tentative ministrations, her fingers brushing against the raised skin of his abdomen. Kirigan didn’t flinch, though she could feel the tension in him, the way his body resisted the relief she offered, as if he wasn’t used to anyone caring for him in this way. It took a while till he seemed to relax under her care, the tautness in his muscles easing slowly as she worked.

The sensation was... unfamiliar for him. Not painful, but not entirely comfortable either. And yet, there was something in the way Genya touched him, in the way she was so careful, so deliberate, that made it different from the clinical hands of a healer. It was... kind. It was human. As he felt her warm fingers tracing one scar, deeper and more knotted than many others, a jagged line low across his side, memories flooded back—of a time long ago, when he had first understood the cost of sacrifice. Whenever he saw it, he was haunted by memories of the lives lost, of the blood spilled. But tonight, under Genya’s soothing hands, it felt... less raw. As if, for the first time, the wound was starting to heal. For a long while, neither of them spoke. The room was filled with nothing but the crackling of the fire and the faint sound of Genya’s breathing as she worked. And she was right; he could feel it. She did help him. The pain lessened, the tightness eased, the gnarled patterns of old wounds softened under her touch. But it was more than that. The warmth of her presence, the gentle attention she gave—he hadn’t realized how much he had needed this. Not just the physical relief, but the simple act of being cared for. Of letting someone else, just for a moment, carry a part of the burden. Yet, this moment of comfort made him painfully aware of how worn out he truly was. His body started to betray him, unable to keep up with the relentless pace he had forced upon it for what felt like years anymore. His mind began to drift, teetering towards the edge of unconsciousness. He kept his breaths shallow but deliberate, still trying to cling to some vestige of control. But even that was slipping, his defences crumbling, fatigue crashing over him like the storm outside. And so, Kirigan, for the first time in years, let himself surrender.

Genya was acutely aware of how his breathing began to slow, how the tightness in his muscles gradually loosened under her hands. His exhaustion was palpable now, radiating off him in waves. He wasn’t just tired—he was depleted, worn thin by the weight of everything he had carried for so long. “Just rest. Please,” she murmured, her hands gently brushing against his flat stomach as she continued her careful ministrations. He looked so delicate right now, lying there, his chest rising and falling slowly, his eyes half-closed as though sleep was tugging at him. As she had finished tending to the old wounds on his abdomen, Genya gently pulled the blanket further up, tucking it higher around his slender frame, before she concentrated on her task again. Each line told a story—of knives, arrows, of the brutal encounters that had shaped him into the man he was today. Her heart ached as she touched the jagged edges of stab wounds and the ragged gashes where blades had cut deep, still visible, still stark. She traced the impressions left by bullets, each mark a glaring reminder of battles fought, and sacrifices made. But it was the terrifying rips from Volcra claws that struck her most profoundly. She could almost feel an echo of the pain radiating from them, a visceral reminder of the torment he had endured. They were deeper and darker than anything else, an agony etched into his very being that even her skills seemed insufficient to soothe. One, in particular, stretched from his collarbone and disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers, a terrible gash that must have once literally rended him open. But this was the reality of the General of the Second Army. He had fought and bled for years, yet no matter how many battles he won, there was always another to fight. His power, his command over the shadows, had made him something more than mortal, but the price of that power showed itself in every scar. Genya’s eyes burned with unshed tears as she leaned closer, her hands trembling slightly now, as if the magnitude of his suffering was something she could physically feel. She had never seen him like this—so stripped bare, not just in body, but in soul. The heaviness of it, of his history, of his choices, of the decades of pain, was almost too much to bear. And yet, she stayed. She wanted to say something, to acknowledge the enormity of what he had endured, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she let her hands speak for her, her touch gentle, her movements careful and precise. So she poured everything she had into her ministrations, channelling her energy to ease his suffering. Each stroke of her hand was filled with compassion, a silent promise that he wasn’t alone. She noticed then that he was still shivering slightly, even beneath the warmth of the blanket she had carefully pulled further up before. His skin felt icy to her touch, and worry flickered in her chest. She paused for a moment, pressing her hand gently to his forehead, checking for fever. Relieved, she felt no heat radiating from him; she hoped it would stay that way. The last thing he needed was to fall ill after all he had endured.

Kirigan murmured something unintelligible, a faint whisper that sounded like "I'm fine," though she knew he was far from it.

His exhaustion was so complete, so overwhelming, that by now he barely reacted as she adjusted the cover once again to cover even more of his torso.

As she continued, his breathing became fainter, more and more of the tension in his muscles unravelled under her touch. He was slipping, and she could see it in the way his eyes struggled to stay open, the flicker of consciousness battling against the peaceful embrace of rest. His face, always so tightly controlled, softened as sleep began to claim him. His body yielded to the comfort she offered. He was letting go—of the pain, of the need to be constantly vigilant, if only for this moment. Eventually, his head lolled to the side, and he lay still.  Instinctively, she pressed a hand over his heart, feeling the slow, rhythmic beat beneath her palm. It was a silent reassurance—he was still here, still fighting, even if only in the quietest of ways. Taking a calming breath, she turned her focus back to the deep scars on his breastbone, resuming her care with renewed determination. Finally, exhausted from the intense work, she pulled the blanket up to his chin, covering him completely. As she did, his eyes opened just a fraction, and for a moment, their gazes met, though he was too tired to speak.

“Shh,” she whispered, the sound barely more than a breath. “Sleep, General. I’ll take care of your back tomorrow. You need to rest now.”

Wordless, he slipped back into the depths of unconsciousness, his breathing steadying as he surrendered to the warmth and safety surrounding him. He was so pale, so fragile beneath the thick duvet that she felt a lump rise in her throat, forcing her to swallow hard. The proud, unyielding General lay before her, vulnerable in a way that felt intimate, sacred. This wasn’t just a moment of healing; it was a moment of trust, a bridge between the weight of his past and the possibility of a lighter future.

Genya stayed by his side, her heart heavy with affection and worry, a fierce protectiveness swelling within her. She remained there, watching over him as he finally really rested. Though the worst scar—the terrible gash from the Volcra that had nearly torn him apart—remained as deep and gruesome as ever, many of the others had faded. The tissue was softer now, the angry lines less stark, less painful, she was certain.

Kirigan had allowed himself to be seen, to be cared for. And as she sat beside him, she knew she couldn’t erase all his wounds, not the ones on his body nor the ones on his soul, but at least for tonight, she had eased his burden. Even if just a little.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Tempest

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

Amidst the deepest shadows, the truth finally comes to light.

Notes:

This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace. As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series. Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!). I took certain creative liberties, particularly with respect to magic, medical details and the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it. And now have fun! And thank you for reading.

In the grand hall of the Tsar’s palace, the air was thick with the low murmur of political discourse, a world of power plays and strategic alliances. The major decisions had already been finalized earlier in the day, yet the droning speeches and the smug expressions of the attendees persisted. Lavish words of self-congratulation filled the air as various political figures lauded their own cleverness in brokering agreements that were, in General Kirigan’s eyes, merely fragile compromises. The Tsar, seated at the head of the gathering, basked in the empty praises directed his way, too drunk on both wine and the illusion of power to notice the undercurrent of conflict still lingering in the room.

Kirigan sat with him at the high table, a calm shadow amid the chattering diplomats. His patience was by now worn thin; he had been forced to endure this event for hours, because his presence was expected—required even. His status as leader of the Second Army left him little choice. Each person at the high table was accompanied by a group of trusted aides, who observed the negotiations. Among them were Ivan, Fedyor, and Alina, Kirigan's closest confidants. Alina was present not by her own choice, but because the Tsar insisted on showcasing her—an unwelcome display that she detested as much as Kirigan did. Though she sat toward the back of the room, the prying eyes of curious nobles weighed heavily on her, their relentless scrutiny reminding her that she was little more than a spectacle to them. Alina fiddled with the edge of her Kefta, her eyes often drawn to the General. His face was calm, composed as ever, but there was something restless in his posture. Not tension exactly, but a kind of simmering frustration. She was learning to read him, to sense the undercurrents beneath the mask he wore so effortlessly. Since she had met him, there was a connection between them—an invisible thread that hummed every time they were near each other, as if something pulled them together beyond understanding. Ivan and Fedyor, ever vigilant, flanked her, their expressions guarded. They kept their eyes on the whole room. As Heartrenders, they were trained to detect the slightest change in a human’s pulse, the barest flicker of any abnormality. But tonight, all seemed calm. Routine. The idle conversation around them continued unabated—frivolous chatter and boasts from the nobles, who had no idea of the sacrifices made by the people who defended their world. Alina had been to a few of these events now, and each one left her more exhausted than the last. But Kirigan—he always managed to endure, to carry the weight of these obligations without a crack in his façade. At least, he usually did.

Then it happened.

A messenger, a young man in plain soldier’s garb, wove through the throng of guests toward Kirigan. The two Heartrenders noticed immediately that something was amiss. He was hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller, to avoid drawing too much attention. Reaching the high table, he leaned down to whisper something into Kirigan’s ear, his words inaudible to the rest of the room. But whatever he said, it made Kirigan freeze.

Alina felt it immediately—a sharp shift in his energy, like the snap of a rope pulled too tight. Ivan went rigid in his seat, his eyes narrowing. Fedyor turned pale. The two shared a look; they could feel the storm that had just erupted inside Kirigan. Alina didn't need their Grisha abilities to know something was terribly wrong. She sensed it deep in her chest—a pulse of dread, sharp and suffocating. The messenger stepped back and slipped away into the crowd. Alina's breath quickened, her fingers trembling slightly. Something horrific had happened. Across the room, Kirigan remained perfectly still, his face a mask of indifference once more, but the air around him crackled with barely contained energy, a tempest of grief and fury roiling just beneath the surface.

Ivan was already on his feet, moving swiftly toward the messenger. Fedyor was right behind him, his hands clenched into fists, knuckles white. Alina followed, her legs feeling heavy as she pushed through the sea of oblivious diplomats, all still caught up in their political debates and negotiations. The contrast between the horror unfolding in their small circle and the self-serving manipulation around them was almost sickening. Ivan intercepted the young soldier before he could disappear entirely, grabbing him by the arm, his tone low and dangerous. “What happened?”

The ashen-faced man swallowed hard, clearly struggling to keep his composure as he spoke. “There was… an attack. A massacre. One of our battalions at the front was unexpectedly ambushed and completely wiped out. Over a hundred Grisha are dead.”

It was like the floor had been ripped out from under them. Ivan’s face twisted with fury, barely held in check. His grip on the messenger’s arm tightened, but he released it just as quickly, stepping back as if physically restraining himself. Fedyor stood rooted to the spot, his usually cheerful demeanor shattered. Alina thought she might collapse. She felt the world tilt as her vision blurred with tears. Blinking furiously, she tried to keep herself together, but the weight of the loss crushed down on them all, the enormity of it sinking in. Without a word, Ivan stormed out of the room to take care of everything, assuming Kirigan's responsibilities in organizing the response to the massacre. Alina felt the tears slipping down her face, unstoppable despite her desperate efforts to keep herself composed. Fedyor noticed immediately and, without a word, guided her swiftly toward the exit. They slipped out into the hallway, unnoticed by the oblivious crowd inside.

In the privacy of the corridor, Fedyor kept a steady arm around her, whispering soft reassurances while his power worked to steady her racing heart. Slowly, Alina’s sobs quieted, her breathing evening out as she regained control. After a few minutes, she nodded, signalling that she was ready.

They re-entered the room, Alina’s face flushed. She was grateful she’d had Fedyor’s support and the brief moment outside to compose herself.

Kirigan on the other hand… Kirigan had to sit there, pretending none of this was happening. Alina’s eyes found him again at the high table, surrounded by oblivious diplomats. His expression was stone, giving nothing away. But she could feel the storm inside him, like a distant thunder rumbling just beneath the surface. How was he keeping it together? How was he not tearing this place apart with the sheer force of his grief and anger? The minutes stretched on, agonizingly slow. There was nothing they could do, no way to pull Kirigan from the grip of this suffocating, twisted formality. After what felt like an hour, Ivan returned, his face grim. Without a word, he resumed his place beside Alina and Fedyor. The heavy silence enveloped them once more as they continued their vigil. They stayed close to each other, hovering on the edges of the room, their eyes never leaving Kirigan. The tension was unbearable, the air thick with unspoken horror and helplessness.

Finally, long past the point of endurance, the indulgent event began to wind down. Kirigan rose from his seat with a curt nod to the Tsar, who waved him away with a dismissive hand, clearly more focused on his next drink than on the general’s departure.

The moment Kirigan made his way toward the exit, Ivan and Fedyor moved to meet him. Ivan began to speak as soon as he was near enough. “General, search parties and healers are…” But Kirigan raised a hand, cutting him off sharply. "Take Alina back to the Little Palace," he ordered with a low growl of exhaustion, before walking past them without another word. Not even a glance. They stood there, frozen, watching him go. Kirigan had never acted like this before; it was unsettling, out of character. Something dark, dangerous had lingered in his eyes, and there had been something terrifying in his silence, in the way he had simply… left.

Alina’s stomach churned; that behaviour was so far from him, it frightened her. Fedyor seemed to feel the same. He hesitated, glancing between them. “What just happened?”

“It’s been a long night,” Ivan rubbed his face. “It’s not surprising he’s on edge.” But he sounded strained, his tone lacked its usual certainty. Alina shook her head, unable to mask her unease. “There's more to it.”

There was a long pause. The three of them stood in silence, the weight of what they had just heard—and what they had seen—pressing down on them like a vice. Ivan and Fedyor exchanged a look, a wordless conversation passing between them.

“We follow,” Fedyor decided firmly. “We don’t let him face this alone.” Then, without another word, they stepped out into the darkness after him.

--

The night air was sharp and cold as Ivan, Fedyor, and Alina trailed behind Kirigan’s retreating form. The grand halls of the Tsar’s palace gave way to the quiet, empty paths that led toward the training grounds. They exchanged puzzled glances, surprised that Kirigan wasn’t heading toward the Little Palace. Instead, he moved in the opposite direction. Their worry deepened, a disturbing sense of dread settling in their bones. None of them spoke. They had all felt it—something far darker than grief lingered in the air, an oppressive force, thick and suffocating. Kirigan’s silence after delivering his orders had been absolute, and the command to return to the Little Palace with Alina unmistakable. Yet none of them had obeyed. Ignoring his orders felt wrong, but the thought of leaving him alone felt even worse.

Alina's anxiety mounted as they approached the old training grounds, a sprawling space that was eerily empty at this time of night. Only the bright glow of the moonlight and the twinkle of distant stars illuminated the clearing. The world felt vast, yet closed in around them, as though even the shadows held their breath in anticipation. Alina felt the tension building with every step, a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead.

They spotted him from a distance first— Kirigan had stopped in the centre of the field, and for a moment, all was still. His back was to them, his posture rigid. But even from this distance, Alina could feel the energy radiating from him, a dark, roiling storm barely contained. She exchanged a nervous glance with Ivan and Fedyor. They all felt it—an ominous surge in the air, a premonition of what was to come.

And then it began.

Without warning, Kirigan’s arms rose, and the shadows followed. Not the gentle tendrils they had seen so often before, nor the sharp, calculated weapons that he wielded with such precision in battle. This was something else—something unleashed.

The darkness erupted from him in a violent, terrifying wave, swallowing the field whole. The very air seemed to crackle with power, an intense, choking energy that made Alina’s breath catch and the hair on her arms stand on end. The shadows twisted and writhed like living things, vast and monstrous, lashing out with a force that sent the ground trembling beneath their feet.

Fedyor gasped beside her, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the sheer magnitude of it. Ivan’s face was set in a rigid mask of shock, his body unnaturally still, but his eyes—his eyes were wide, filled with something close to anguish. “Saints…” he whispered, barely audible over the storm of shadows swirling before them.

Alina’s throat tightened. She had seen Kirigan wield his shadows before, had watched him manipulate them with a skill and grace that seemed effortless. But this—this was different. This wasn’t control. This were rage and despair. Pure, unfiltered, and devastating.

The shadows twisted and struck out with terrifying precision, crashing against invisible enemies in the darkness, tearing through the night with a violence that was almost too much to witness. Every strike was a release of something pent up, something buried so deep inside him that it had festered, waiting for a moment like this to explode.

The air itself seemed to vibrate with the intensity of his power, the shadows lashing out with relentless fury. Each strike felt personal, as if every shadow was born from years of pain, of loss, of carrying the weight of an army, of a people, on his shoulders. It was a war against the night itself.

The relentless assault stretched on, minute after agonizing minute. It was shocking to witness just how much Kirigan was pushing himself. But finally, gradually, he started to falter. Kirigan's movements were becoming unsteady, the precise command he always wielded slipping. His once fluid gestures turned rigid, jerky. Alina could see the strain in his face as he carried on nevertheless, shadows still swirling around him but losing their viciousness, their form.

And then, in one brutal moment, his knees buckled.

He collapsed, his hands coming up to cover his face, hiding the exhaustion, the sheer brokenness that had finally overtaken him. The shadows dissolved into nothing, retreating into the ground as if they had never existed.

Alina’s breath caught, her mind spinning with worry. She had watched him fight—fierce, unstoppable, commanding. He had always seemed so far above it all, so in control. But now, the facade had crumbled, his emotional walls shattered by despair. Tears slipped down her cheeks silently as she looked at him, broken and beaten. Without thinking, without hesitation, she ran to him.

He had told them all to leave. He had pushed them away, demanded to be alone, but she couldn't. Not now.

She dropped to her knees before him, unsure whether to touch him. Kirigan could barely lift his head when she reached him. His body was rigid, as if every muscle was locked in place, trying desperately to hold on to some semblance of control. His dark eyes were half-lidded, glassy with exhaustion, unable to focus. Alina placed a shaky hand on his shoulder, offering him her warmth, her presence. "I'm here," she whispered, her words thick with emotion. Kirigan didn’t respond. His breaths were coming faster now, as if he couldn’t get enough air, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. His whole body trembled, as though something deep inside him had shattered, and now the pieces were cutting into him, tearing him apart.

When she wrapped her arms around him, offering silent comfort, he didn’t resist. For once, he didn’t push her away, didn’t stand tall behind his mask of power. Instead, he leaned into her, all the pride and distance falling away.  He weakly returned her embrace, his arms barely able to hold her.

And then, without warning, his entire body went slack.

Alina let out a shocked gasp as his limp form collapsed into her arms. His head lolled against her shoulder, his face pale and drenched in sweat. “No,” she whispered, panic surging in her chest. “No, General!” She struggled to hold his dead weight, her arms tightening around him instinctively. He was so heavy, so still. Too still.

Ivan and Fedyor were at her side in an instant. “Let me take him,” Fedyor begged softly, his strong arms replacing hers as he gently lifted the unconscious man from her grasp. “Ivan, help him,” he implored, his words breaking as he carefully placed Kirigan on the ground. Kirigan seemed to be barely breathing, his body slack and unresponsive, his head sinking to the side.

“How is he?” Alina’s question was nearly inaudible, thick with worry. “Ivan…” Ivan was already at work. “I’m on it,” he bit through gritted teeth, his hand hovering over Kirigan’s chest, his power reaching out instinctively. His focus was razor-sharp, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of fear as he felt Kirigan’s pulse. The wild, erratic rhythm thudded against his senses. “He’s pushed himself too far,” Ivan muttered, as his power worked to slow the frantic heartbeat. “This was… reckless.” He didn’t voice it, but the fear that Kirigan might have gone too far, that he might have irreparably drained himself, was palpable.

Alina knelt beside them, paralyzed, her breath hitching with every small twitch of Kirigan’s body. She had always thought him unshakable, capable of withstanding anything. But now, seeing him like this—unconscious, pale as death—she realized just how wrong she had been. This wasn’t the collapse of a man who had overexerted himself in battle. No. This was the result of something far deeper, far darker. The weight of his decisions, the lives lost because of them, the endless burden of command—all of it had been pressing down on him probably for years, maybe decades, and now… it had finally broken through.

They had thought him imperturbable, emotionally distant, sometimes even cold. Yet here he was, a living testament to how much he suffered—how deeply he felt everything. He had borne it all in solitude, silently, without ever letting them see. Every death. Every battle. Every loss.

Fedyor wiped at his eyes, his breath unsteady. “I never realized…” He didn’t finish the sentence, and he didn’t need to.

Ivan’s lips were pressed into a tight line. He, too, had believed Kirigan’s strength came from his ability to detach, to remain untouched by the chaos around him. But now, as he looked down at the man he followed so loyally, he saw the truth—he wasn’t unfeeling. He was the opposite. And that was perhaps the most painful revelation of all.

Finally, fortunately, the General's pulse stabilized. Ivan's tension eased slightly, his hands retreating from Kirigan’s chest. Alina watched with bated breath as the Heartrender leaned in, gently shaking Kirigan’s shoulder. “Come on, General. Open your eyes,” he urged softly. “You need to wake up.”

But there was no immediate response. Fedyor glanced nervously between his unconscious leader and Ivan. “We should get a healer,” he suggested uncertainly. “This… this might be too much.”

“Not yet.” Ivan tried again, shaking Kirigan a little more firmly, but there was still no reaction. Yet, just as he was about to agree with Fedyor, a slight movement stopped him. A faint twitch in Kirigan’s hand, a shallow groan, and then, slowly, his eyes fluttered open, just barely. Alina exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, relief washing over her. But the weight of what they’d just witnessed—the realization that Kirigan carried so much pain—hung in the air, heavy and unspoken between them.

--

Ivan spoke gently but firmly, “Do you think you can stand?” Kirigan, barely conscious, gave the faintest of nods. With Ivan and Fedyor supporting him, they slowly lifted his trembling form to its feet. His legs threatened to give out beneath him, but with his arms draped around their shoulders, they managed to walk him back towards the Little Palace.

Each step seemed to take an eternity. Kirigan's body sagged heavily against them, his head hanging low, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. By the time they reached his chambers, he was on the verge of collapse. The moment they set him on the edge of his bed, his body gave out, and he sank into the mattress, unconscious before his head hit the pillow.

Working silently, the three of them moved around him with care. Ivan and Fedyor carefully peeled off his boots. His Kefta came next, followed by his sweat-soaked tunic, leaving him bare-chested and vulnerable in a way they had never seen him before. Beneath the layers, his body was shockingly pale, his skin drawn tightly over sharp bones.

Alina’s hands shook as she dipped a cloth into a basin of warm water, before gently wiping the cold sweat from his brow, his temples. She ran the fabric down his chest, along the pale lines of his ribs, her fingers barely brushing against him, as though any stronger touch might break him. When she finished, Ivan and Fedyor helped her pull the blanket over his limp body, tucking it around him securely.

As the night dragged on, each of them kept vigil by his side. Alina lay down beside him, tenderly drawing his head to rest against her shoulder. She had no idea if this comforted him, but he seemed to rest easier there, his breathing less labored, though the occasional twitch of his muscles told her his dreams were far from peaceful.

Across from her, Ivan sat stiffly in a chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes never left Kirigan. Every now and then, his head would dip, exhaustion pulling him towards sleep, but every time he would jerk himself awake, refusing to leave his post. Fedyor was on the floor, slumped against the side of the bed, head tipped back onto the mattress, lost in the haze of half-sleep.

The hours dragged on until the first light of dawn began to creep through the windows. It was then, in the quiet before the world woke, that Kirigan came to. Alina's heart skipped a beat as he stirred in her arms, his body shifting slightly as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. His breathing hitched, and with a low, strained sound, he pushed himself onto his elbows, his movements slow and deliberate as if every muscle ached from the toll of the night before.

His face was pale, his eyes dark, hollow, and distant. It was as if he hadn’t yet returned to the world, as though part of him was still trapped in the nightmare from which he’d awoken.

Alina sat up beside him, her hand hovering near his, unsure whether to reach for him or not. But before she could decide, Kirigan righted himself up and attempted to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, clearly intent on standing.

Ivan shot up from his chair and was instantly at his side. “General, you need to rest,” he urged, pressing him back down against the pillows.

Kirigan resisted weakly, “I can’t. I have to—there’s work to do.” His voice was fragile, hoarse, but still threaded with that unyielding determination that was so typical his.

Ivan’s temper flared. “You can’t be serious!” He was incredulous. “Not after what you put yourself through last night! You... you can’t possibly think you’re going to just... work?!” Kirigan’s tired gaze finally met Ivan’s. “I always do.” The room froze. Ivan’s hand, still on Kirigan’s shoulder, slackened, as if the weight of those words had stolen all his strength. He stared at the General, his mind struggling to process the reality behind the statement. Fedyor’s breath hitched audibly, his wide-eyed stare fixed on Kirigan as if seeing him for the first time. Alina could only watch, her lips parted in shock.

How often...? The unspoken question hung heavy in the air. How often had he broken down like this, alone, only to rise again and carry on the next day as if nothing had happened? How many times had Kirigan hidden behind his unyielding facade? How many nights had he suffered in silence, and no one had ever known? Ivan and Fedyor, who had followed him for years, suddenly saw not a commander, but a man who, at this moment, could barely hold himself upright, yet still would simply stand up and carry on.

The stillness was suffocating.

Kirigan tried to stand once more, his resolve as strong as ever despite the obvious frailty of his body. But again, before he could even plant his feet on the ground, Ivan stopped him. “No,” his voice was thick, almost breaking as he tightened his grip on Kirigan’s shoulder. “Not this time.”

Kirigan blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in Ivan’s gaze. He looked from him to Fedyor, who had moved to stand next to his husband, and then to Alina, her eyes shining with unshed tears. The resolve on their faces was unmistakable.

"Please," Fedyor whispered, stepping closer. “You need to rest. Just... at least a few hours. We’ll take care of everything.” Alina shifted, bending forward slightly to place her hand on his shoulder. "You don’t have to do this alone," she insisted softly but firmly. For the first time, the iron wall around Kirigan began to crack. Their unwavering support was too much for his battered resilience, threatening to break through the defences that had kept him going for so long. He had always borne this burden alone. But now, surrounded by these three who had managed to get closer to him than anyone had in years, he realized—perhaps for the first time—that he didn’t have to. The battle in his mind waged for another moment, but it was one he could no longer win. He was beyond words, beyond any kind of protest. He simply… let go. His shoulders sagged, the tension leaving his body. He began to sway, his strength utterly spent. Ivan and Fedyor held him, ensuring he wouldn’t collapse backward, knowing that such an abrupt movement might cause him pain. They gently guided him back down, laying him against the pillows. Alina tucked the blanket around him, her fingers brushing against his still too cold skin.

Kirigan’s eyes had already fluttered shut. He was powerless against the relentless fatigue, barely registering the way Alina’s arms wrapped around him again, his head finding its place against her shoulder once more.

And then, within moments, he was asleep. Deeply. Untroubled.

Alina’s fingers threaded through his hair; her other arm wrapped securely around his shoulders as she held him close. Her tears, though quiet, fell freely now. They were for him; for the realization of how much he hurt, how close he had come to breaking—and how none of them had seen it until now. As the first rays of morning light filtered through the windows, the three of them settled into their quiet vigil once more. Ivan sat beside the bed again, his face pale but resolute, eyes burning with fierce determination. Fedyor leaned against the wall now, his gaze fixed on Kirigan’s exhausted face, his heart heavy with both sorrow and a steely resolve. They couldn’t take back the years he had endured alone. They couldn’t erase the nights he had spent on the edge of despair. But never again would they let him bear that weight in silence. Never let him stand on the precipice of ruin without someone there to pull him back. They couldn’t change the past, but they could make sure this never happened again. And so they remained by his side, watching over the man who had given so much while asking for nothing in return.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

A Fragile Peace

Fragments of Light

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

Alina stumbles upon Kirigan in the midst of a restless night, uncovering a rare moment of vulnerability that leaves them both changed. As darkness presses in, a fragile connection offers a brief escape from the weight they each carry.

The night pressed down on the palace, thick and suffocating, the kind of darkness that swallowed everything whole. Alina walked the long, dimly lit corridors, her restless thoughts echoing in the silence. She had been at the Little Palace for only a few weeks, but it already felt as though the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders. Training, learning, adapting—it was a whirlwind, and the only reprieve she had was the quiet of the night, when the palace seemed to breathe a little slower.

But tonight felt different. Something in the air was heavy, like a storm waiting to break. Alina’s steps slowed as she turned down a familiar corridor, drawn by a sound she hadn’t expected to hear. It was faint, almost a murmur, but it carried with it a note of pain, of struggle. She paused, listening. There it was again, a low groan, barely audible but unmistakable.

Her heart quickened. She followed the sound, her fingers brushing against the cool stone walls as if the contact could steady her. The door she approached was slightly ajar, just enough to allow a sliver of light to spill into the hallway. Inside, the fire was burning low, casting a weak, flickering glow. Kirigan’s Warroom. She knew she shouldn’t intrude—this was his private space, his sanctuary—but something deep inside her urged her forward. As she slipped into the study, the sound came again, sharper this time; a broken whisper of anguish that sent a shiver down her spine.

Alina pushed the door to his bedroom open, just enough to peek inside. The room was dim, lit only by the pale light of the moon filtering through the window, casting faint shadows across the dark wood and heavy curtains. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and ink, mingling with the ominous, charged aroma of an impending storm, a combination that was uniquely Kirigan.

The chill felt palpable, as though the night itself seeped into the room.

There, in the middle of it all, was Kirigan. He lay sprawled on his bed, tangled in the sheets, his body rigid, tense, as though fighting something invisible. His face, usually so composed, was twisted with distress. His breath came in short, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling too quickly. He looked trapped, lost in the throes of a nightmare, and despite all the power he wielded, he seemed utterly defenceless in this moment.

Alina’s heart clenched. She had never seen him like this—so fragile, so vulnerable. Without thinking, she crossed the room, her steps quiet but quick, her pulse pounding in her ears. She reached the edge of the bed, her breath catching in her throat as she saw his hands, gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His whole body seemed to tremble, caught in whatever terrible dream held him.

"General," she whispered, unsure if he could hear her.

His head jerked slightly, but he didn’t wake. A low, broken sound escaped his lips, a wordless plea. Alina’s hand hovered over his arm, hesitant. She had touched him before in training, brief, practical contact. This felt different, intimate in a way that left her breathless. But she couldn’t just stand by and watch him suffer.

Her hand settled gently on his shoulder, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the cool air around them. His muscles were tense beneath her touch, as though ready to snap. “General,” she repeated, a little louder this time, her fingers tightening slightly. “It’s me. Alina.”

His reaction was almost immediate. His breath hitched sharply and his eyes flew open, dark and wild. At the same time, his hand shot up, gripping her wrist; not painfully, but with a desperation that startled her. For a moment, he looked like he didn’t recognize her, his gaze darting around the room as if he were still trapped in his nightmare. He was still breathing hard, and she could feel the tension vibrating through him, like he was poised on the edge of some unseen battle.  Finally, his eyes focused on her, recognition dawning slowly. “Alina?” His voice was rough, barely more than a rasp.

She nodded, her eyes wide, her pulse racing where his fingers brushed against her skin. “You were having a nightmare,” she whispered softly, her voice steady despite the way her heart pounded. “I... I heard you.”

Kirigan blinked, the wildness in his eyes slowly fading as reality took hold. His chest still rose and fell in feeble, unsteady breaths, and Alina could see the exhaustion etched into his features—the way his eyes were rimmed with fatigue, the fine lines of tension carved around them. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly in days.

His hand slid slightly down her wrist, his grip relaxing infinitesimally as he sagged back onto his mattress. His eyes began to close again, the fight to stay awake a losing battle as exhaustion claimed him. Gently, she began to ease her arm from his hand, thinking he needed the peace of solitude to rest. But the moment she moved, just as she began to pull away, Alina could feel his grip tighten.

“Stay,” he begged, his voice so soft she almost missed it. His fingers flexed around her wrist, unwilling to let her leave. He looked at her, his eyes unspeakably tired and dull, his breathing slowing but still uneven, as if he was holding on to her touch to keep the nightmares at bay. “Please… stay.”

Alina froze, her heart twisting at the raw vulnerability in his voice. This wasn’t the Kirigan she knew, the General who commanded armies, the man whose presence dominated every room he entered. This was someone else, someone who needed her, not as the Sun Summoner but as Alina, as a presence to chase away the darkness that clung to him.

She hesitated only a second before sliding onto the bed beside him. Carefully, she drew him close, her arm slipping around his back, cradling him in a way that felt natural, instinctive. Kirigan didn’t resist—he sagged into her, his forehead resting against her shoulder, his body trembling slightly as the last remnants of his nightmare still lingered. Carefully, she pulled the blanket over both of them, tucking it around their bodies, sharing the warmth and finding comfort in their closeness. His breathing, so uneven before, began to slow, his body relaxing little by little as she held him close. Alina swallowed, the warmth of him seeping into her as she stayed there, feeling the weight of his exhaustion, the sheer weariness that had driven him to ask for something he definitely never would in the light of day. She stayed there, her hand softly stroking his back, her presence grounding him as his breathing grew deeper, more regular. Kirigan’s face relaxed against her shoulder, the tension that had knotted his muscles slowly unwinding. His body melted into hers as he let out a long, shuddering breath. His eyelids fluttered shut once more, but this time, he didn’t fight it.

His breath eventually evened out, his grip falling away from her wrist as sleep finally claimed him fully. The lines of tension that had marred his features smoothed out as he slept, deeply and without the terror that had gripped him earlier.

Alina stayed, even as the embers in the war room hearth faded to ash, even as the room grew colder. She stayed, holding him, because he had asked her to, because in this moment, it felt like the only thing that mattered.

And as the night wore on, with Kirigan finally at peace in her arms, Alina found herself drifting as well, the quiet rhythm of his breathing lulling her into sleep. The shadows outside still pressed against the windows, but inside, for now, they had found a small, fragile peace.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Bound by Duty, Torn by Care

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

Ivan is the General's steadfast protector, but as Kirigan struggles with exhaustion and pressing obligations, he must decide where duty ends and care begins.

Notes:

Plays immediately after "Storm of Worry" While this story can stand on its own, I highly recommend reading “Bearing the Burden” and the related works first for a deeper understanding and richer context. (Warning: No Warning. Most of you should by now have given up on this series and I understand that! I just doesn't keep me from writing)

The afternoon sun cast long, lazy shadows across the training grounds, a soft golden hue warming the low stone walls. Ivan stood at the edge of the field; his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the young Grisha sparring before him. A group of eager children, their brightly coloured Keftas swirling as they moved in tandem, practiced controlled bursts of power under his watchful eye.

It was a peaceful, almost routine scene—except for the undercurrent of tension that rippled among the children, a subtle, shared worry that none of them could completely shake.

They missed their General.

Earlier that day, a boy named Misha, who had been late for training, had come running to them, breathlessly recounting how he had spoken to the General, that he was looking better and even promised to visit them. The children's relief had been palpable, a weight lifted from their small shoulders.

Puzzled by their demeanor, Ivan had begun to investigate and uncovered the depth of their concern. They all had been haunted by Misha's account of seeing the General being brought back two days ago, covered in blood, and barely breathing. The older kids' grim speculations about him dying and the teacher’s evasiveness had only added to their fears and certainly hadn’t helped matters.

Ivan had been startled to realize how none of the adults had truly grasped the depth of the children's worry. And despite Ivan having reassured them multiple times by now that Kirigan was indeed recovering, the weight of the little ones' concern was still palpable, and their fear and lingering uncertainty were evident in every glance.

So, all afternoon, they had whispered among themselves, eyes frequently darting to the path that led from the Little Palace towards the training grounds, waiting and hoping. And Ivan wished, just as much as they did, that Kirigan would come. And though he was confident that the General would try to keep his promise to little Misha, he wasn’t sure if the injured man’s condition would allow it. The upcoming meeting with the Tsar this evening was undoubtedly of greater importance, and Ivan wasn’t sure if Kirigan would have the strength to attend both.

Yet, just as their hope began to wane, the tall, familiar figure actually appeared at the edge of the grounds. The children's eyes widened with excitement, and some even let out small cheers. Their faces lit up, and Ivan, too, couldn’t help but feel a quiet joy as he spotted the General making his way toward them.

Kirigan walked with the steady grace that was still unmistakably his, though he was paler, his movements slower. He still wore only his black shirt and trousers, his figure more exposed, more human, than the children were used to seeing. His dark hair, usually meticulously combed back, was slightly ruffled by the wind. But none of that mattered. He was here.

The children’s formation momentarily fell into disarray. Some of them paused in their drills, standing a little straighter, faces brightening with visible relief. Kirigan noticed it, of course—he always did—and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was tired, but genuine.

A few of the youngest children even waved at him, their small hands fluttering in the air, which was particularly endearing.

He nodded to them, a subtle acknowledgment of their greeting, and that simple gesture seemed to lift the last remaining cloud of uncertainty from their shoulders.

Ivan let the children have their moment, allowing them to bask in the presence of their General. But after a few seconds, he knew it was time to bring them back to their training. “Alright, let’s continue!” He kept his tone low, but firm enough to draw their attention away.

The children hesitated only for a moment longer before resuming their exercises, though now their movements were more precise and focused, as if driven by a heartfelt desire to please the General.

Kirigan made his way to a bench on the far side of the grounds and sat down, slowly, carefully, with a quiet exhale. He closed his eyes for a moment, and in that brief span, he looked achingly human. It was not a sight many had seen before—the Darkling, the terror of their enemies, with exhaustion carved into every line of his body. And yet, even now, there was a dignity in the way he held himself, the quiet fortitude that spoke of a spirit unbroken.

After a deep breath, he leaned back, his dark eyes watching the training with an intensity that hadn’t faded despite his physical state.

A while later, from the corner of his eye, Ivan noticed Alina approaching, her own training finished for the day. Her face was flushed from exertion, and she looked quite tired herself, but she was clearly happy to see the General as she neared him. Without hesitation, she sat beside him, her shoulder brushing his in a silent offering of comfort. Kirigan didn’t pull away. In fact, after a moment, he leaned into her, subtly, but enough that someone as observant as Ivan could see how much he was relying on her support.

Ivan gritted his teeth. This wasn’t like Kirigan—to lean on anyone, even in silence. The General was still fragile—too fragile.

Ivan’s sharp gaze took in every detail, every slow breath Kirigan took. His chest rose and fell with a steadiness that was reassuring. But his pallor was worrying, and Ivan noticed how is normally sharp gaze had a distant, unfocused quality, betraying his fatigue.

With a sigh, Ivan gestured to the children, signalling for them to continue their training with less intensity. Their movements slowed, the atmosphere softened, as if the very air around them mirrored the calm that Alina’s presence brought to Kirigan.

For several minutes, the two summoner sat like that, Kirigan resting against Alina, his exhaustion evident in the way he allowed himself to relax in her proximity. Alina remained steady, not engaging him in unnecessary conversation, just being there, offering a quiet support. The connection between them was palpable, even if neither of them spoke a word.

Finally, Kirigan shifted, his dark eyes meeting Ivan’s. Ivan immediately recognized the exhaustion etched into his features. It was clear: Kirigan was at his limit.

Alina stood with him, her hand resting lightly on his arm to steady him. Slowly, carefully, he straightened as much as he could, his gaze sweeping across the children. His expression softened, and a small, appreciative smile touched his lips. “You’ve done well today.” The quiet acknowledgement in his voice was full of warmth. The children beamed at his words, some exchanging proud glances, while others began to hop with excitement. Then, Kirigan turned to Ivan. His tone was almost fond and there was a rare kindness in his gaze. “Keep an eye on them.” Ivan’s usual stoicism gave way to a faint smile. “Always.” With one final glance toward the children, Kirigan nodded, and, with Alina’s gentle support, turned to make his way back to the palace.

Ivan watched them go, saw the care in Alina’s movements as she looped an arm around Kirigan’s waist, and the way he allowed it, his pride softened by exhaustion. It was a strangely tender sight that left a knot in Ivan’s chest. He knew Kirigan well enough to understand how difficult it must be for the General to accept that support, even from her.

After they disappeared from sight, Ivan turned his attention back to the children, but his thoughts lingered on Kirigan. He could only hope the exhausted man would rest, that he would take the time he needed to recover before the meeting with the Tsar.

But deep down, Ivan knew better.

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time the last of the older Grishenka finished their drills. Ivan took a deep breath, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders. The day had stretched on longer than expected—small delays had piled up, pushing the schedule beyond what Ivan had planned. He had wanted to make his way back to the Little Palace, pick up Kirigan, and then head together to the meeting with the Tsar. But the time had slipped away, leaving him with little choice but to rush.

All he could do was quickly freshen up in the training rooms before hastening to the Grand Palace to make the meeting on time. He would be cutting it close, Kirigan would already be there, waiting.

Ivan rushed through the corridors of the Grand Palace, the urgency of his steps echoing off the marble. As he rounded a corner, he nearly collided with Nikolai Lantsov, the Tsar’s son, who was heading in the same direction. Nikolai easily fell into step beside him. "Are you standing in for Kirigan today?" Nikolai asked, his tone level, simply seeking clarification. "No," Ivan replied, keeping his pace brisk. "The General should already be there. I was delayed with other duties, so I couldn't join him earlier. He wouldn't miss a meeting like this." They entered the chamber together, and the atmosphere of animated conversation greeted them. Nearly every seat was occupied—except for one. The chair reserved for Kirigan remained conspicuously empty.

Ivan’s stride faltered; the confident assurance he’d just expressed wavering as he stared at the vacant seat. It wasn’t like Kirigan to be late. Beside him, Nikolai’s easy expression turned to one of quiet concern, his gaze flicking toward Ivan for a reaction. For a moment, Ivan tried to push the worry aside. Probably Kirigan was deliberately waiting until the last possible moment to avoid sitting in unnecessary discomfort. In his condition, it made sense. He would be here any second now.

But as the doors swung open, not Kirigan, but the Tsar entered. The sovereign’s expression immediately soured as he spotted the vacant chair, and the tension in the room spiked. Ivan’s stomach dropped.

With a swift, decisive movement, he adressed the king. “Your Majesty, with your permission, I would like to check on General Kirigan. I’m concerned about his delay.” The Tsar, obviously in a foul mood, scowled, waving a dismissive hand. "Send a servant to fetch him," he grumbled. "There’s no need for you to go traipsing around—" “With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Ivan interjected, frustration simmering beneath the calm. “Given that the General was only released from the infirmary today, I believe it would be best if I checked on him personally.” His tone was careful, but firm, and it carried a weight that made others in the room shift slightly, murmuring in agreement. Yet the Tsar only glared. “You ought to know his condition better than anyone, Ivan. You’re practically glued to his side.” But before Ivan could respond, Nikolai stepped in. “Ivan has been handling Kirigan’s duties all afternoon and hasn’t had time to check on him himself.” He met Ivan’s eyes briefly, silently conveying support, before turning back to his father. “I suggest you let him go and return quickly. Besides, we can hardly get started without Kirigan and his documents.” The Tsar’s eyes flickered between Ivan and Nikolai before he finally gave a begrudging nod. Ivan didn’t wait for anything more.

Bowing quickly, he turned and exited the chamber, his steps accelerating as he headed toward the Little Palace, his mind racing with every possible scenario that could explain Kirigan’s absence. Had Kirigan forgotten about the meeting? It was possible, given the tumult of the last few days, but it seemed unlikely. What if Kirigan was unwell? The image of his leader feeling worse without anyone noticing made Ivan’s chest tighten. Guilt gnawed at him; he should have been there to collect Kirigan as planned.

Even before reaching the War Room, his Heartrender senses had already begun seeking Kirigan’s pulse, reaching out like invisible threads of awareness. But there was nothing- the room was empty. Yet, after stepping inside, Ivan could feel him, if only faintly. Kirigan was in his quarters. Ivan's heart raced as he approached the door, suddenly afraid of what he might find. He rapped lightly against the wood; when no answer came, he eased the door open, the hinges creaking softly in the silence. The sight before him made him freeze in place.

There, on the large bed, Kirigan lay deeply asleep, his ashen skin contrasting sharply with the dark sheets. His torso was propped up by several pillows in an obviously unsuccessful attempt to find a comfortable position. The resting man looked utterly pained and drained; his face etched with lines of discomfort. His dark hair was mussed, his usually sharp features softened by the deep exhaustion that clung to him. In this state, he appeared painfully young and vulnerable.

The sight hit Ivan harder than he expected; Kirigan still seemed so debilitated. Yes, he was on the mend, but at this moment his condition was worse than Ivan had hoped. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths, but Ivan could sense the weakness in his pulse. Regular, thankfully, but frighteningly faint. The severe blood loss had taken its toll, leaving his body still struggling to recover. It was as if each heartbeat came with effort, a reminder of how close he had come to the edge.

Ivan stood there for a moment, watching his leader sleep, his mind swirling with worry. As he had feared, the man had overexerted himself on his first day out of the infirmary. He could see the signs of it now — the complete lack of tension in his limbs, the way he lay utterly limp, devoid of his usual alertness. This wasn’t just fatigue; it was the kind of weariness that left you defenceless. The kind that scared Ivan, even if he’d never admit it aloud. But there was nothing he could do now except make sure Kirigan rested - although of course that was exactly what Kirigan would not have wanted.

The General would want to be woken, to attend the meeting. But Ivan couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was a dangerous choice, one that might have consequences, but Kirigan’s recovery was more important. He would stand by his decision and face whatever came.

Notes and security plans for the upcoming peace negotiations were piled next to Kirigan. Some had slipped from his grasp and now lay scattered on his chest as if he’d been going over them until sheer fatigue had forced him into sleep. At least Kirigan had had enough sense to settle on his bed, rather than collapsing over his documents at the desk.

Ivan carefully plucked the papers from his loose grip, heart heavy with concern. Kirigan stayed entirely unresponsive as Ivan moved around him; furthermore, his skin was ice cold to the touch.

As soon as the papers were stacked, Ivan pulled a thick blanket from the foot of the bed and gently draped it over Kirigan's still form, tucking it around him with a tenderness that he would never have allowed himself to show under different circumstances.

Kirigan didn’t stir, his unconsciousness so deep that not even this movement disturbed him. That, more than anything, unsettled Ivan. It was rare — almost unheard of — for Kirigan to be this out of touch with his surroundings.

Ivan sighed, his worry weighing on him. He couldn’t stay, not with the meeting underway, but leaving Kirigan like this was difficult.

Reluctantly, he grabbed the documents and withdrew, stepping out of the room. On his way back through the palace corridors, he spotted a young Heartrender, a recent recruit who had just finished with training. “You,” he called, trying not to let the urgency in his voice startle the boy too much. The Grisha straightened instantly, sensing the tension in Ivan’s expression. "Find Fedyor. Tell him to come to the General’s room immediately and bring a Healer with him. The General needs to be watched. Understand?"

The boy nodded quickly, his expression shifting from confusion to concern as he took in the gravity of Ivan’s words. He hurried off without further questions, disappearing around the corner with swift strides.

Ivan watched him go, exhaling tiredly. There was a small comfort in knowing that Fedyor would soon be by Kirigan's side, that someone with a watchful eye would be there to keep him safe.

Ivan turned back toward the Grand Palace, trying to focus on the cold air stinging his face rather than the nagging worry that twisted in his gut. Yet, even as he retraced his steps, his mind remained anchored in Kirigan’s chamber, his pale face burned into his thoughts.

When he finally re-entered the meeting hall, the room fell silent, all eyes turning to him. The Tsar’s lips pressed into a thin line as Ivan alone approached.

“Well, where is Kirigan?” The Sovereign’s voice cut through the room, impatient and sharp.

Ivan straightened, his back rigid as he addressed the room. “The General will not be attending, Your Majesty. I found him deeply asleep, and given his current condition, I refused to wake him.”

While he spoke, Ivan did not take his eyes off the Monarch. There was no apology in his tone, only a quiet firmness that left no room for further discussion.

Murmurs rippled through the assembled nobles and advisors, heads nodding slowly as they absorbed Ivan’s words. The Tsar seemed momentarily taken aback by Ivan's unflinching resolve, his lips parting as if to protest. But a subtle, pointed cough from Nikolai, whose expression clearly signalled to his father to refrain from causing a scene, caused the Tsar to relent. “Very well. Let him sleep. We owe him that much.” The irritation in his voice was plain, but he forced a smile, masking his annoyance with a facade of composure. “We will proceed without him. You will represent him.” The Tsar gestured for Ivan to take his seat, and so he did.

Ivan moved through the discussion as if Kirigan were right beside him. Every document, every strategy, every detail they had carefully laid out in the past days came to him easily. He spoke with the General’s authority, because he knew Kirigan’s mind as if it were his own.

The hours dragged on, the discussions intricate and tedious, but Ivan remained sharp. He could feel the strain, but he pushed through, determined to do right by Kirigan. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the meeting ended.

As the room began to empty, Nikolai approached Ivan. "You handled that well," he acknowledged the effort Ivan had put in. "The General would be pleased." Ivan nodded curtly. "Thank you, Moi Tsarevich." Nikolai paused for a moment, then asked quietly, "How is he really doing, Ivan? My soldiers told me the fight for his life was harrowing. They were quite… shaken." Ivan sighed, knowing there was no point in hiding the truth. He felt a wave of fatigue wash over him and rubbed his face, exhausted. "It's a miracle he's even standing. Others wouldn’t have survived such injuries."

Nikolai nodded solemnly, absorbing the weight of Ivan's words. "We are all fortunate that he's so resilient," he finally murmured. "Give him my regards." Ivan gave another nod, feeling a rare moment of respect for Nikolai. Of all the Lantsovs, this one was the least unbearable. As soon as the Tsarevich turned and walked away, Ivan took a deep breath and without wasting another moment, he hurried back to the Little Palace, his thoughts already on the General.

He reached Kirigan’s chambers and pushed the door open with care, a knot in his chest loosening as he took in the sight before him. Kirigan lay exactly as he’d left him, still nestled under the blanket, still deeply asleep. Fedyor sat beside him, reading over a stack of reports, his expression serene. When he looked up and caught sight of Ivan, he smiled, a gentle, knowing curve of his lips that cut through Ivan’s lingering tension.

“He just needs rest, Ivan,” Fedyor whispered, careful not to disturb the sleeping man. “The healers have checked him over again. He’s not well, of course, but there’s no sign of worsening. Just exhaustion and pain. You know how he is—he’s done too much already.”

Ivan nodded, slowly unclenching his hands as he let the relief wash over him. He looked down at Kirigan’s face, still pale but now peaceful, and felt a tightness in his throat, a surge of warmth that was almost too much to bear. “Good.” His voice was so rough with the weight of the day, he had to clear his throat so Fedyor could understand him. “That’s... good.”

He took a seat next to Fedyor, feeling the solid presence of his husband beside him, and in the quiet that settled over the room, Ivan found a measure of calm. Fedyor continued working through his reports, and Ivan allowed his own eyes to close for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of Kirigan’s breath and the soft rustling of paper.

Everything would be alright.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Fragments of Light

jumbled_messy_confused

Chapter 9: The Price of Leadership

Summary:

In a rare moment of stillness, Alina recognizes that Kirigan's position of power has left him both respected and feared, yet also deeply isolated.

Notes:

Yes, well... I'm not even sure this makes sense at all.

The Little Palace hummed with a rare quiet, the kind of lull that only seemed to settle after a day of rigorous training. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of distant pine from the surrounding forests, filtering in through the open windows of the Grand Hall. Evening light bathed the room in a pleasant amber glow, creating pockets of warmth amidst the cool stone and glass.

Alina sat at the edge of a low marble bench, her fingers unconsciously toying with the hem of her Kefta. She was still getting used to the luxurious fabric, the weight of it a constant reminder of her newfound role. A faint ache lingered in her muscles from hours of practicing with Baghra, though the sensation was becoming familiar now, an anchor to her relentless training.

Suddenly, amidst the stillness, a ripple of laughter drifted toward her. It wasn’t loud, not the boisterous sound of soldiers celebrating victory, but something quieter, more intimate—a shared amusement. She turned her head toward the source, her curiosity piqued.

Kirigan stood near the arched windows, his black Kefta striking against the golden wash of sunset. His back was slightly turned to her, his posture relaxed in a way she rarely saw. Beside him, Ivan and Fedyor leaned casually against the wall, their shoulders at ease, expressions unexpectedly bright. The three of them were laughing.

Alina blinked, her mind catching on the image—Kirigan, the fearsome Commander of the Second Army, was smiling.

It wasn’t the small, tight-lipped smirk she had occasionally seen him give—those carefully measured responses to courtly conversations. This was different. His eyes were alight with something almost boyish, the smile softening his features, making him seem younger, more human.

She could hear snippets of the conversation now, Ivan saying something in his usual deadpan tone, and Fedyor following up with a wry remark, his arms crossed over his chest. Whatever had been said, it had struck a chord, and Kirigan’s laughter, low and rich, rumbled in response.

Without realizing it, her gaze lingered too long, and as if sensing her eyes on him, Kirigan turned. His smile didn’t fade immediately; it lingered, softer now, but still present as he regarded her.

“Miss Starkov,” he greeted smoothly, a trace of amusement still clinging to his words.

Alina felt her heart stutter in her chest. “General,” she replied, standing up but she couldn’t shake the small smile tugging at her lips.

Ivan and Fedyor, sensing the shift in the air, exchanged a quick glance before excusing themselves with a slight bow. They left the room quietly, their footsteps echoing faintly in the hall, leaving Alina and Kirigan in the beautiful glow of the setting sun.

As the door clicked shut, Kirigan stepped closer, the sound of his boots echoing against the polished stone floor. The room seemed smaller now, more intimate, as if the walls themselves leaned in to listen.

“You’re staring,” he remarked, his tone light, though there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes as he watched her.

“I wasn’t—” Alina started, then stopped, feeling her cheeks flush under his gaze. There was no use denying it; she had been staring, and she knew he had caught her. “I just… I’ve never seen you laugh like that before.”

Kirigan arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching again. “Am I so frightening that you think I’m incapable of such a thing?”

“No, it’s not that,” she responded quickly, stepping toward him without fully realizing it. “It’s just… you always seem so serious. Like the weight of everything is always on your mind.”

His expression shifted slightly, the fleeting humor from before still present in his eyes, though it was slowly fading. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, more thoughtful. “There is much to be serious about. I have a role to play, after all. And that role doesn’t often allow for... lighter moments.”

She looked at him closely, realizing how different their worlds were, even within the same walls. “You don’t always have to be so distant, you know. A little laughter might help. It wouldn’t make you any less...”

“Less what?” Though his question was soft, there was an edge there—a challenge.

“Less of a leader,” she finished quietly. “You’re already feared. Respected. It wouldn’t hurt to let them see something more. Something human.”

His gaze held hers for a long moment, searching, but then he sighed, the sound barely more than a breath. “It’s not as simple for me, Alina. You… you’re new to this world, and people don’t expect the same of you. You’re allowed to stumble, to laugh, to find joy. I don’t have that luxury. Every eye inside and outside of this palace watches my every move. Every smile could be seen as a weakness, every laugh a sign that I’m not the leader they need.”

Alina hesitated, his words sinking in. He was right, of course. He had been the Black General for so long, the one everyone looked to for strength, for answers. But even he was human—just as human as the rest of them.

His gaze, meanwhile, flickered over her, softening slightly. “You, however… I’m glad you’ve found friends, Alina. People who can share your burdens and lighten your load.”

Her heart warmed at his words. He was correct. She had friends now. Real friends. It was a new experience for her, having people who loved and accepted her as she was. She thought of Genya’s sharp humour, of Marie, of Nadia, and the laughter that filled their rooms late at night. She thought of how she had found companionship, even moments of joy, despite the looming responsibilities.

“They really take care of me,” she admitted, her smile widening. “Genya makes sure of that. She’s always trying to drag me away when I overdo it with my private studies, making me try some new beauty trick, or gossiping about court. Marie’s not much better—half the time we’re laughing about something ridiculous. It’s… nice.”

But the lightness in her words didn’t seem to resonate with Kirigan. He regarded her, his expression thoughtful, but a little distant now. The room felt cooler somehow, the shadows deepening as the sunlight faded.

“I envy that,” he murmured unexpectedly, his gaze shifting to the darkening horizon beyond the window. “I don’t remember the last time I had such a luxury.”

The weight in his voice pressed against Alina, and she suddenly felt a pang of guilt for her earlier words. She had moments of respite, of laughter and camaraderie. Kirigan, she realized, had none of that. Not really. His closest allies were his soldiers, his confidants few and far between. The mantle of leadership had isolated him in a way she had not fully understood until now.

“I didn’t mean to—” she began, but he shook his head, cutting her off gently.

“You don’t need to apologize,” His tone was gentle. “I’m glad for you. It’s a relief to know that, despite everything, you can still find some joy.”

There was sincerity in his words, but also a lingering sadness, as if he were watching her experience something he could no longer reach for himself.

Alina stepped closer, her voice barely a whisper. “You could too, you know. It’s not too late.”

His dark eyes met hers, searching, and for a moment, she thought he might argue, dismiss her words as naïve again. But instead, he gave her a small, weary smile.

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged, though his tone made her wonder if he truly believed it. “You could have friends,” she suggested quietly, her conviction wavering slightly. “Fedyor, Ivan… They’re close to you.”

“They’re loyal to me,” Kirigan corrected, his response sharp, though not unkind. “But even with them, there are lines I can’t cross. I am their general before I am anything else. I can’t afford to be too familiar, too soft.” Alina stood firm, her resolve steady. "But you could let them closer, at least here in the Little Palace. It’s different when you’re among your own. Your reputation wouldn’t suffer. They’d still see you as their leader, their General. You wouldn’t lose their respect by letting them in… just a little."

Kirigan’s expression flickered at her words, a brief crack in his controlled demeanor. His eyes darkened, and for a moment, something unreadable passed over his features. “You don’t yet understand the price of this life,” he murmured, his suddenly tired voice carrying the weight of something far deeper than she had expected. His words hung in the air between them, vague but laden with meaning. Alina understood then, even though he hadn’t said it outright. He had lost many—too many. He was probably too worn down by that loss to summon the strength to try again. He was a man surrounded by people, yet fundamentally disconnected. And the more Alina thought about it, the clearer it became how much he had given up.

The last of the sunlight slipped beyond the horizon, leaving the room in twilight. And as they stood in the quiet between day and night, Alina couldn’t shake the feeling that, both because of and in spite of all his power, Kirigan was lonelier than anyone she had ever known.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Storm of Worry

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

A whirlwind of emotion settles into a rare moment of quiet comfort, as Kirigan’s softer side comes to light.

Notes:

Plays immediately after "Between Duty and Healing" While this story can stand on its own, I highly recommend reading “Bearing the Burden” and the related works first for a deeper understanding and richer context. (Warning: No Warning. Since this is the third ficlet in this series you all know by now what awaits you. Always the same... 😆)   The "Bearing the Burden"-universe is AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace. As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series. Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!). I took certain creative liberties, particularly with respect to magic, medical details and the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it. And now have fun! And thank you for reading.

Alina kept a steady grip on Kirigan as they made their way back from the courtyard, his weight heavy against her side. His strength had noticeably waned in the last few minutes, she could feel the exhaustion radiating from him. But he pressed on with the stubborn determination that was so typically his. Beside them, Ivan’s face was a mask of composure, though Alina knew he was studying Kirigan’s every move, just as concerned. As they reached the wide hallway outside the war room, Ivan came to a stop. He offered a respectful nod, his eyes scanning Kirigan’s weary face. “I need to oversee the training of the children now.” His voice was quiet and respectful, almost gentle in its own way. “Just take it easy, General. Please.”

Kirigan returned the nod tiredly, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes. "Thank you, Ivan. I’ll see you later."

Ivan hesitated, just briefly, his eyes flicking to Alina. The question was clear: Can you handle this alone? Alina met his gaze with a firm nod, her jaw tightening with determination. She had this. She could manage. Satisfied, Ivan turned and strode away, leaving the two of them alone. With Ivan gone, Alina and Kirigan continued down the sunlit corridor, the bright midday light streaming through the windows and casting warm patterns on the stone walls.

They had barely taken two steps into the war room when Kirigan came to a sudden stop, so abruptly that Alina almost stumbled into him. Confused, she opened her mouth to ask what was wrong when he bellowed: “MISHA!” Alina’s heart leaped at the unexpected force behind the sudden shout and in the same instant, a small tornado erupted in the room. The curtains whipped upwards, and a fierce gust of wind sent papers flying off Kirigan’s desk, swirling in chaotic spirals.

Instinctively, Alina ducked, shielding her face from the onslaught of papers and flailing curtains. Her heart raced, not from fear but from the sheer unexpectedness of it all. When she glanced up, she saw Kirigan standing there, utterly unfazed by the chaos around him, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. In contrast to her, seemed completely at ease, as if this whirlwind of disorder was nothing out of the ordinary. After a couple of heartbeats, the wind began to subside, settling into a gentle breeze. Still confused, Alina slowly straightened up, brushing off the scattered papers that had landed on her. It was then that she saw him—hidden in the far corner of the room, just barely visible behind the now-dishevelled curtains.

A small boy, no more than six years old, peeked out from behind the heavy fabric. He was pale-faced and wide-eyed, his hands trembling as he stared at Kirigan. His expression was a mixture of shame and surprise at being caught; then it shifted to something far more raw. His face flushed with a sudden intensity, and his lips started to quiver as if he were struggling to hold back tears. Alina could see his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths as if his emotions were too large for his tiny body to contain. It was relief—pure and overwhelming; it washed over his face like a tidal wave, his eyes shining with a fragile, vulnerable hope. It was almost too much to witness, the way this little boy seemed to unravel before them. The depth of his distress, the innocence in his worry—it made Alina’s heart tighten painfully in her chest.

Kirigan’s smile had faded, a look of concern deepening on his features the moment he caught sight of the trembling child. He had clearly expected to find a mischievous boy, not one shaking with such obvious distress. Before Alina had even registered the situation fully, he was already stepping closer to the boy. “Misha?” His voice was now a soft murmur compared to the earlier bark. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in class?”

The boy didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still wide as he looked up at the man before him, fear and uncertainty written all over his face. He grabbed the edge of the curtain beside him, clutching the fabric tightly as if seeking some anchor. His lower lip still trembled. “I—I wanted to see if you were okay,” he finally stammered. “After the bridge collapsed, all the Grisha were so upset, and some of them were crying, and... and it scared me.” Alina felt a pang in her chest at the boy’s words. Of course, she thought. She hadn’t stopped to think about the children in the aftermath of everything—the fear, the confusion, the sense of helplessness they must have felt watching the adults around them break down in ways they rarely saw. It must have been terrifying, watching the pillars of their world—the Grisha, their teachers, their protectors—succumb to fear and panic. And Misha had seen all of it, through the unfiltered lens of a child’s imagination.

Kirigan’s expression softened, and without a moment’s hesitation, he knelt down, lowering himself to Misha’s level with surprising ease for someone so exhausted. Alina could see the strain it took, the way his body protested, but he did it without hesitation. His arms opened, wordlessly offering the boy the comfort he so clearly needed.

That was all it took. Misha flung himself forward, burying his face in the folds of Kirigan’s shirt. His small body shook with quiet sobs, his fingers clutching the fabric as if holding on for dear life.

Kirigan wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles across the boy’s back. His voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper, a soft murmur that seemed to fill the room with its warmth. “It’s all right,” he whispered, over and over, the words a gentle reassurance. “I’m fine. Everything’s going to be all right.” Misha’s sobs quieted, but he clung to Kirigan as if afraid to let go. And Kirigan, despite his weariness, held him just as firmly, as if nothing else in the world mattered at that moment. Alina felt her heart swell. For all of Kirigan’s power, for all his strength and unyielding authority, here he was, cradling a child who had been terrified of losing him. And the care, the quiet warmth he showed now, was something that stirred a deep affection in her.

After a long moment, Kirigan gently pulled back, still keeping his hands on Misha’s small shoulders. “Did no one tell you I was all right?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

Misha sniffled, rubbing his sleeve across his tear-streaked face. His voice came out in a shaky whisper. "The teachers said everything is fine and it’s not our business, but…" He hesitated, his lower lip trembling again. "I saw you. When they brought you back. You looked so... pale. There was blood, and... and they carried you like you were..." His breath hitched as he tried to continue. “The older kids… they said you might be... dying. They said the teachers just weren’t telling us because we’re too little.”

Alina’s breath caught at the memory. She remembered that moment all too well: the way Kirigan had lain on the cart, unconscious and limp, his face ashen, surrounded by Grisha too exhausted to mask their terror. Ivan, stoic, unshakable Ivan, who had been barely able to stand, looking utterly defeated; Alina herself—everyone had been at their limit. It had been a scene no child should have witnessed, and yet Misha had seen it all, his imagination filling in the terrifying gaps no one had explained to him. Kirigan’s expression had grown pained while he listened to Misha recount the events, the weight of the boy’s words pressing heavily on him. He tightened his arms, pulling the child closer again, lightly ruffling Misha’s hair. For a moment, they stayed like that, Kirigan’s exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders slumped, and his breaths came slow and heavy. Alina watched, her heart aching for both of them, feeling the depth of the General’s weariness.

Finally, he sighed softly, then gently pushed Misha back just enough to look him in the eyes. “I promise you, I’ll be back to my old self in a few days,” he assured the child. “I just need a little rest.” He offered a tired but sincere smile. “And this afternoon, maybe I’ll even stop by your training session, hm? Make sure Ivan’s not being too hard on you all.” Misha’s face transformed into a radiant smile, the kind of immediate shift from tears to beaming joy that only children could muster. He nodded eagerly, throwing his arms around Kirigan once more, squeezing tightly before stepping back. “Yes, General! That would be amazing!” “Good,” Kirigan gave his shoulders a final pat. “Now, run along and tell the others everything is fine. There’s nothing to worry about.” The boy beamed up at him, then turned and dashed out of the room, his small footsteps echoing down the hall.

Alina helped Kirigan to his feet, though it clearly took an effort on his part to stand again. With considerable difficulty, he pushed himself up, leaning heavily on her. It was clear he was at the end of his strength, despite his attempts to hide it. Once he was upright again, Kirigan took a moment to catch his breath, giving a half-amused, half-exasperated look at the scattered papers and overturned furniture. “Maybe I should have spared myself the shouting,” he grumbled. Alina couldn't help but laugh. “Well, I suppose we should be grateful he’s not a Tidemaker or an Inferni.”

Kirigan chuckled, though the sound was more tired than amused. “In that case, I wouldn’t have startled him like that.”

Alina nodded, that much she had figured. “You startled me, too, to be honest. I hadn’t noticed him,” she admitted. Kirigan had the decency to look somewhat embarrassed, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I saw his feet sticking out from under the curtain. There’s only one child that age who would be bold—or foolish—enough to hide in my office. Our biggest troublemaker.” He gave a small, weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Misha’s one of the more… spirited children. He’s a good boy, just… a little lost. Like many of the others. He’s been an orphan for years.” The weight of his words settled over Alina, touching something deep within her. She understood, perhaps better than most, the loneliness of losing everything. The fear that came with it. Kirigan smiled faintly, a touch of sadness in his eyes as he clearly understood what was going through her mind. His voice turned quieter, remorseful. “If I’d known why he was hiding, I wouldn’t have scared him.”

Alina felt another wave of emotion wash over her. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms gently around Kirigan, careful not to press too hard. He returned the embrace, his exhaustion evident in the way he leaned heavily against her. She could feel the weariness in his body, the way he seemed to struggle to stay upright. After a moment, she stepped back. “You need rest,” she stated, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Kirigan didn’t protest; he was too drained to resist her gentle insistence. Alina guided him through the door of his private chambers, leading him to the bed. She helped him sit down, his weight sinking into the mattress as he leaned back with a soft sigh.

As he settled against the pillows, she pulled the blanket over him, smoothing it out with tender care. He had no strength left, his head lolling to the side as he closed his eyes. Alina lowered herself onto the edge of the bed beside him. Taking a moment to observe him, she noted again how pale he looked, his features drawn tight with fatigue. Without thinking, she pressed her fingers against his neck, feeling his pulse beneath her fingertips—steady yet faint, a reminder of the toll the ordeal had taken on him.

Kirigan let out a low grumble, trying to muster some defiance. “I’m not dying, you know,” he finally murmured, his words hoarse and a bit slurred as he tried to fight off sleep. “I’m just… tired. And don’t even think about cleaning up the war room.”

Alina smiled softly, her heart swelling with affection. “Let that be my worry, not yours,” she replied, brushing a stray hair from his forehead.

He let out a small sigh, surrendering to his exhaustion, and she watched as he quickly drifted off, the battle against his weariness lost.

Alina sat there for a moment longer, watching over him. Then, quietly, she returned to the war room, where the remnants of the whirlwind still lay scattered across the floor; the chaos left behind by an anxious little Squaller. As she bent down to start gathering the papers, she couldn’t help but smile, her heart full from the tenderness she had witnessed. Misha’s storm had been born of worry and fear, a child’s imagination running wild in the absence of truth. But now, she hoped, the little boy and his friends would rest easier knowing their General would soon be well again.

Everything, at least for now, was going to be all right.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Cold Winds and Silent Gestures

Fragments of Light

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

In the silence of a frigid night, one Grisha stands watch while the other trembles in his sleep. A silent act of care, a wordless understanding—sometimes, the smallest of gestures carry the heaviest weight.

They made camp in a small, almost forgotten corner of the world. The moon was bright, casting a cold, silvery light over the trees and the weary group of Grisha. A canopy of thick clouds hung low over the dark trees, blotting out the stars, and the air was crisp with the scent of oncoming snow. The wind was sharp, biting, and the world felt empty, save for the occasional restless shuffle of the horses, who had been pushed as far as they could go. No fires were lit—too dangerous this close to enemy territory. The only warmth came from the thick woollen cloaks and blankets each Grisha huddled beneath. The cold had crept deep into Fedyor’s bones while he slept, making his limbs feel heavy and stiff as Ivan nudged him awake for his watch. There were no words exchanged—none were needed. Ivan’s eyes were as tired as his own, dark and unreadable under the shadows of his fur-lined papakha. Fedyor groaned softly, rubbing his face before pulling his own cloak tighter around himself. Additionally, he wrapped his blanket over his shoulders for extra warmth. His joints ached not only from the cold, but from the long days and nights at the front, and his body protested as he forced himself to stand.

The camp was quiet. Too quiet, the kind of silence that normally made Fedyor uneasy after weeks of fighting, where it often meant something worse was lurking. But tonight, it felt different. It was the stillness of exhaustion. The quiet of men and women who had given everything and had nothing left. As he walked, Fedyor allowed his mind to wander, though it kept circling back to the same point: They were almost home. Just one more day. The Little Palace—its warm halls, the sense of security, the familiarity of it all—was just out of reach. He clung to that thought, hoping it would help chase away the chill that had settled into him, though it did little to ease the knot of worry he carried.

As Fedyor made his way through the camp, his eyes swept over the sleeping forms, checking on each one out of habit. His gaze landed on General Kirigan, lying apart from the others. And the sight of him made Fedyor pause. The General always slept with one eye open, or so it seemed. His presence was iron-clad, even in rest. Untouchable. But tonight, there was a fragility in him that Fedyor had never seen before. He was trembling.

Fedyor stopped in his tracks, staring. Kirigan—the man who commanded the shadows, who always appeared unshakable—was visibly shivering. He was lying on his side, his cloak and blanket pulled tightly around him, but it clearly wasn’t enough to keep the cold at bay. Fedyor’s stomach tightened in concern. Kirigan never showed weakness. Never. Yet here he was, trembling like a leaf caught in this bitter wind. Fedyor stepped closer, his breath misting in the cold air. Kirigan’s usually composed features were drawn tight in exhaustion. His dark hair, usually immaculate, was tousled, and his brow was furrowed in discomfort. His cheekbones, sharp under the dim light of the moon, seemed even more hollowed than usual, a testament to the weeks of relentless strain. There was something so human about him in that moment, so fragile, that it almost didn’t seem real. This was the man who led armies, who held Ravka together by sheer will. His lips were slightly parted, his breaths shallow and uneven, the telltale signs of a man too cold and too exhausted to wake. Fedyor had never seen him like this.

For a moment, he simply stared. It was unsettling to see the General—his General—so vulnerable. He had witnessed the man take wounds without so much as a wince, had watched him stand unshaken amidst horrors that would break lesser men. But this—this quiet suffering, this simple display of exhaustion—it unnerved him in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

Fedyor pulled the thick woollen blanket from his shoulders and shrugged off his cloak, the cold biting into him almost immediately. Yet he didn’t hesitate. He carefully spread the warm garments over Kirigan, layering them atop the General’s own. Kirigan didn’t stir, didn’t even so much as flinch. It said everything about his current state that he hadn’t woken. Saints, Fedyor thought, he must be utterly exhausted. He could feel his heart clench with concern. They had all been pushed to their limits, but Kirigan more than any of them. Thankfully, the tremors in his body eased slightly as the added warmth took effect, and Fedyor watched as Kirigan’s brow smoothed out, his face relaxing just a little.

Fedyor lingered for a moment longer, his eyes still on Kirigan’s face. Without the usual sharpness in his gaze, he looked almost peaceful. Almost. But there were dark circles under his eyes, etched deep from too many sleepless nights. His hands were curled into fists under the blanket, as though even in rest he couldn’t fully let go of the battles he fought. He’s given too much of himself, Fedyor thought, a flicker of worry sparking again. We all have. But him, most of all.

Rising silently to his feet, Fedyor pulled his Kefta around him tighter, the wind biting at him now more fiercely without the extra layers. He glanced down one last time at Kirigan, whose breathing had evened out, and felt a strange sense of relief. It wasn’t much, but at least it was something.

---

Morning came slowly, the sky lightening to a dull gray. The cold was just as sharp as the night before, the wind no less biting. Fedyor stirred the Grisha awake, his voice quiet but firm as he moved from person to person. The General blinked groggily as he approached, his dark eyes clouded with sleep as they opened. For a moment, he seemed disoriented, his gaze drifting to the blanket that wasn’t his, then to the cloak that had somehow found its way on top of him.

There was a flicker of recognition. He knew.

Kirigan didn’t speak, but the look he gave Fedyor was enough. A simple nod—tired, but grateful.

Fedyor only smiled softly, bending to retrieve his belongings, then fastened his blanket to his saddle and pulling his cloak around him once more. He could feel Ivan’s eyes on him, sharp and knowing, but no one else had noticed the small, silent exchange. The camp was already busy with the sounds of preparation, the others too preoccupied with saddling horses and readying for the final push home.

Kirigan stood slowly, his movements stiff and measured. His usual composed mask slid back into place, though Fedyor could still see the weariness in his eyes. He didn’t need to say anything. The quiet nod had been enough.

As the Grisha mounted their horses, Fedyor gave Kirigan one last glance. The General met his gaze for a brief moment before turning back to his own horse. Fedyor said nothing, just squeezed Kirigan’s arm gently as he passed. Kirigan didn’t pull away, didn’t brush him off. They understood each other, and that was all that mattered.

They were all tired. But together, they would make it home.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Between Duty and Healing

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

Due to upcoming events, General Kirigan resumes his duties despite his still fragile health. With the support of Alina, Ivan and Fedyor, he navigates the challenges of recovery and responsibility, finding strength in unexpected moments of connection.

Notes:

While this story can stand on its own, I highly recommend reading “Bearing the Burden” first for a deeper understanding and richer context. (Warning: AGAIN completey pointless, but hey... I don't care and put it out here. 😆)   The "Bearing the Burden"-universe is AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace. As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series. Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!). I took certain creative liberties, particularly with respect to magic, medical details and the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it. And now have fun! And thank you for reading.

Only two days had passed since General Kirigan had been confined to the infirmary, his body and spirit battered by the ordeal at the bridge. His face, still too pale, bore the marks of a man who had brushed too closely with death. Yet there he was, back at his desk, submerged in an endless sea of reports and strategic plans. The weight of war once again settled on his shoulders, a burden he resumed with a quiet determination that was both admirable and concerning, albeit with a weariness that clung to him like a shadow.

The room was bathed in the soft, golden light of the morning sun, which filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floor. The scent of parchment and ink mingled with the faint aroma of the medicinal herbs that still clung to Kirigan’s clothes. The air was thick with the quiet hum of activity, the rustle of papers, and the occasional murmur of voices from the corridor outside.

Ivan worked through his own stack of reports, his concern for his leader etched into a frown that deepened with each sign of Kirigan’s fatigue. The General’s attempts to mask his exhaustion were futile; Ivan noted the slight tremble of his hand every time he turned a page, the way his eyes occasionally closed in a moment of silent struggle. The General, dressed simply in a light shirt and trousers, had forgone the heavy Kefta that had always been his armour against the world, its weight too much for his still-healing body. The simplicity of his attire only served to highlight his vulnerability, a stark contrast to the imposing figure he usually cut.

Alina, ever-present, listened intently as the two men set aside the reports and began to discuss the upcoming peace conference at the Grand Palace. Her gaze lingered on Kirigan with a silent worry; she could see the toll the past few hours of work had taken on him, the lines of strain etched into his face, the way his posture sagged as if it were too difficult to remain upright.

“General, perhaps we should take a break.” Alina could no longer bear to see him push himself so hard. “You’ve been working non-stop since you left the infirmary this morning.”

Kirigan looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers with a mixture of gratitude and stubborn resolve. “Alina, I can’t afford to rest right now. You know what is at stake these next days.”

Ivan, leaning forward, interjected with a serious tone. “With all due respect, General, your health is just as important as our strategies. Alina and I can handle things for a while.”

For a moment, Kirigan’s facade cracked, and the exhaustion he had been trying so hard to hide was laid bare. He sighed; a sound laden with the weight of his responsibilities. “I appreciate your concern but now is not the right time to take a break. Perhaps later.”

Kirigan’s quiet refusal hung in the air, heavy with finality.

Alina exchanged a glance with Ivan, both wordlessly conceding defeat for now. Though their unease lingered, they knew better than to press him further. They resumed their discussion, diving back into the topic of security measures for which the 2nd army was responsible. The subject was, of course, immensely important. Ivan detailed the plans, emphasizing the readiness of their forces and the contingencies in place. Alina listened, contributing her thoughts, but her attention kept drifting back to Kirigan, noting his growing fatigue.

After a while, Alina made another attempt. “General, you and Ivan have prepared the Grisha well. They know what to do even in their sleep.” Her plea for him to finally take a break was clear.

But Kirigan didn’t respond to it at all and only shook his head. “I’m not worried about the Grisha. It’s the Tsar’s soldiers I don’t trust as far as I can throw them.”

Alina raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on her lips at Kirigan’s unexpected bluntness, while Ivan snorted before he remarked, “Don’t waste your time on them. The Grisha will think for those idiots.” He leaned back in his chair, a smirk forming. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about the dignitaries ending up at each other’s throats during the meeting.”

Kirigan’s expression turned dry. “That’s why I’m bringing you and Fedyor along. If they can’t behave, you two can have some fun.”

A brief chuckle passed between them, easing the tension in the room for a short moment. And just as they had resumed their planning, their focus was interrupted by Fedyor’s buoyant arrival.

The door swung open with a burst of energy, and Fedyor’s bright smile lit up the room. His cheerfulness stood out against the sombre atmosphere. “You all need to come to the courtyard,” he announced, his voice brimming with excitement. “There’s something you have to see. “

Kirigan looked up from his desk, his brow furrowing in mild irritation at the interruption. “Fedyor, we are in the middle of important matters,” he began, but Fedyor raised his hands in a defensive gesture and turned serious for a moment. “General, you know I wouldn’t interrupt if it wasn’t important.” Then, his infectious enthusiasm returned as he moved back towards the door, beckoning them to follow. “Trust me, Moi Soverennyi, this will lift your spirits,” he insisted, his eyes sparkling with a joyful glint. “It’s worth a few minutes of your time.”

“Please, General,” Alina urged gently, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “A short break won’t hurt.”

Kirigan hesitated, his gaze shifting between the stack of reports on his desk and the hopeful faces of his companions. Then, with a resigned sigh, he pushed back his chair and stood, the movement slow and deliberate. “Very well,” he conceded, “but only for a few minutes.”

At these words, Alina and Ivan shared relieved smiles, grateful that Kirigan was finally taking a moment to rest.

As they stepped outside, the warm midday sun greeted them, casting its golden rays over the cobblestones. The courtyard, normally frequented only by Grisha, now held a different kind of gathering.

A group of parents and children stood waiting, the very ones affected by the recent tragedy.

The children’s faces lit up as they saw Kirigan and his companions approach. Their eyes wide with awe and curiosity, the little ones held up a large piece of parchment they had carefully painted. It depicted the bridge rescue, with Alina carrying them to safety and Kirigan’s shadowy figure holding up the broken structure. The vibrant colors captured the moment vividly; the figure’s faces, rendered with simple strokes of charcoal were endearing in their simplicity.

Offering the picture to Alina, they smiled shyly, yet their pride was evident in their glowing expressions.

The parents, their faces etched with a myriad of emotions, approached Kirigan. Relief, gratitude, and the lingering shadows of fear and shock were all visible in their eyes as they stepped forward, holding small tokens of thanks—simple, heartfelt gifts from those with little to spare. One mother, tears brimming in her eyes, extended a fine, intricately woven bracelet. “For you, General,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Thank you for saving our children.”

Kirigan, usually so composed, seemed momentarily caught off guard. He accepted the bracelet, gently taking the woman’s shaking hands in his. “I am glad we could help.” There was a rare softness in his voice, a quiet warmth that seemed to ease her distress. She managed a small, grateful smile as her tears subsided.

The toddler, whom Kirigan had pulled from the water moments before his own collapse, reached for him with chubby arms. Without a word, his mother handed the child over, and Kirigan took him with a natural grace, as though it were the most ordinary thing.

The little one’s laughter, pure and unburdened, filled the courtyard, and for just a moment, the crushing weight of Kirigan’s responsibilities seemed to ease. Ivan watched the subtle change in Kirigan’s expression—the usual hardness in his features softened, a rare and genuine smile finding its way to his lips.

The parents stood a few steps back, observing the General closely. They had witnessed the harrowing scene as the healers had fought desperately to save Kirigan’s life; seeing him standing before them, back on his feet, brought an obvious wave of relief. They had needed this reassurance, needed to know that he was recovering, that their children’s rescue had not come at the ultimate cost.

However, as they noticed the paleness of Kirigan’s skin, the dark circles under his eyes, and the faint tremble in his hands, a quiet understanding of the man’s fragility settled over them.

Aware of his weakened state, they quickly bid their farewells, ensuring they didn’t linger longer than necessary.

Their gratitude was palpable, but so was their respect for the General’s need to rest and recover. And even as they left, their gratitude hung in the air like a quiet prayer. The mother of the toddler, her voice thick with emotion, whispered, “Please take care of yourself, General,” before gathering her child and turning away. The older children, still wide-eyed and awe-struck by the man who had saved them, waved shyly as they were led off, their eyes lingering on the figure who had become their hero.

Fedyor accompanied the families as they left, while Alina and Ivan gently guided Kirigan back towards his office. The journey was slow, Kirigan’s step becoming increasingly unsteady as his strength waned.

Alina, her hand resting lightly on his back, could feel the tension in his muscles, the silent struggle to maintain his composure. Sensing his need for more support, she gently placed his arm around her shoulders. “It was the right choice to come to the courtyard,” she murmured, while she additionally wrapped her own arm around his waist. “They needed to see you, to know that you are recovering.”

Kirigan nodded, his gaze heavy with exhaustion. He actually accepted Alina’s support, leaning into her as they walked. This simple act of reliance was unusual for him, and it caught Alina by surprise. She tightened her grip, her concern deepening. But then, Kirigan spoke, his voice tinged with a rare vulnerability. “Fedyor was right to bring me here,” he acknowledged softly. “And I suppose it helped me as well.”

His admission eased some of her worry, bringing a small, relieved smile to her lips.

She exchanged a brief, understanding glance with Ivan, happy to know that despite his weariness, the visit had been beneficial for Kirigan.

The following morning, as Ivan entered the war room, his gaze was immediately drawn to the artwork now hanging in a corner. Its colors stood out against the room’s austerity, a splash of life amidst the somber tones of maps and strategic plans. A grin spread across his features as he took in the depiction, a rare moment of lightness breaking through his usual stoicism.

Kirigan, catching the moment, shared a soft smile with his second in command.

They returned to their work, the picture a quiet reminder of the lives they had touched and the reasons why they fought so hard.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Breathless

jumbled_messy_confused

Chapter 3: Racing Heart

Summary:

When the man across the street suddenly collapses, Alina is forced to act. What was once a distant connection pulls her into his world, leaving her to grapple with emotions far more intense then she never expected.

Like a woman possessed, she sprinted out of her studio, her footsteps echoing in the stairwell as she raced down the steps. The world outside seemed to blur as she dashed across the street, the icy wind cutting sharply against her face. Cars honked angrily as she splashed through the puddles that lined the road. She burst into the building’s entrance hall, where the stoic blond man she recognized from the sick man’s office was talking to an elderly porter. His hand was resting on the handle of a rolling suitcase, a coat draped over his arm.

Both of them had looked up, startled by the commotion outside, and were even more surprised when she came rushing in, breathless and frantic. “Your colleague—he just collapsed—fourth floor!” she panted, her words tumbling over each other. “Tall, dark, handsome.”

Her enigmatic neighbour was still on the floor, deathly pale, his skin slick with sweat. A pool of blood had formed under his head; his breathing was shallow and fast, each inhalation a labored struggle.

The blond man froze for a second, his face contorting into a mask of pure shock, before he shouted a hoarse “ALEKSANDER!!!” and dropped to his knees beside him. He placed his hand on Aleksander’s forehead for a moment, fingers trembling, then shook him gently in an attempt to wake him. “Come on, open your eyes,” he urged, his voice cracking with desperation. But Aleksander didn’t stir, remaining deeply unconscious. The stoic blond cursed and sprang to his feet, grabbing the phone on the desk to call for an ambulance.

Alina, meanwhile, was completely overwhelmed. So his name was Aleksander. It was all too much for her to process at once—how terribly sick he looked, far worse than she had feared, unconscious, his temple bleeding profusely; and yet, how strikingly handsome he was up close, so much more handsome than she ever imagined, even in this terrible state; his height, his slender frame in those tailored clothes, now hanging loosely on his shivering, sweat-soaked form. He looked incredibly fragile, clearly having lost weight over the past days. The blood under his head was a stark contrast to his pallor, and his breathing was so strained, it sounded like he was suffocating. She shook herself out of her stupor and rushed to his side. Kneeling beside him, she struggled to lift his upper body, knowing it might help him breathe easier. Aleksander was much taller than her, and she had to use all her strength to hoist him up. Yet, she managed, adrenaline and worry giving her the necessary resolve. His head lolled against her shoulder, the warm blood from his head wound soaking through her shirt, but she didn’t care; that was nothing compared to the searing heat radiating from his feverish skin.

Wrapping her arms around his torso to hold his limp form upright, she could feel his ribs under her hands, his chest heaving with each hectic gasp. The rattle in his lungs was palpable now, each breath a harsh vibration that she could feel through his lean frame. It was as if his lungs were filled with fluid, and every inhale seemed to take more strength than he had left to give.

“Please, hold on,” she whispered into his ear. “Don’t give up, keep breathing. Please!” She could feel his heart racing under her palms, a weak, frantic staccato beat that terrified her. She had never felt such panic; it was as if she had known him forever, as if she were worrying about a beloved family member, even though she had only just learned his name.

The blond man returned with a wet cloth, pressing it to Aleksander’s forehead, which seemed to bring him a tiny bit of relief. “Do you want me to take over?” His voice was full of concern; Alina sensed that his worry extended beyond just Aleksander, touching on her own distress as well. Immediately she shook her head, her grip steady despite the weight. “No, I’ve got him.” He nodded with a grateful but tense expression. “Then I’ll meet the paramedics and keep the elevator ready for them,” he remarked, before sprinting off.

The minutes until the EMTs arrived felt like an eternity. Aleksander lay in Alinas arms, his chest jerking with irregular, insufficient gasps and she was terrified he might die. She whispered to him continuously, her voice a desperate plea for him to hold on. Finally, she heard the paramedics arrive. The sound of their hurried footsteps and the clatter of equipment echoed down the hallway, sharply contrasting with Aleksander’s wheezing, feeble inhales that had filled the silence. As the paramedics burst in, their presence was a whirlwind of urgency and efficiency. One of them gently but firmly took Aleksander from her arms, while the other tore open a sterile gauze pad and taped it against the gash on his temple as soon as he was laid on the floor again. The metallic scent of Aleksander’s blood mixed with the antiseptic smell of their equipment, creating a nauseating blend. The lead paramedic, a woman with a calm yet urgent demeanor, immediately began checking his consciousness and gently shook him. “Mr. Morozova, can you hear me?” But again, he didn’t stir. “Unresponsive,” she called out to her partner, “fever’s dangerously high!” The bearded man nodded, already attaching a pulse oximeter to Aleksander’s finger. Without wasting time, the lead paramedic quickly shone a penlight into his eyes, then assessed his airway. Her brows furrowed slightly as she checked his breathing, but she swiftly moved on to the next step; she cut open his shirt, revealing his heaving, sweat-glistening chest. Alina gasped as she saw some large, prominent scars marking his lean torso, clearly indicating the sites of major surgeries. But the female paramedic was unfazed by that sight. She quickly grabbed a cloth and wiped down his chest, ensuring the skin was dry enough for the electrodes of the heart monitor. Meanwhile, her colleague was taking the temperature. “40.8,” he called out, before he put the device away and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Aleksander’s upper arm. The lead EMT nodded grimly and attached the monitor, the machine beeping to life, blaring urgently.

“Heart rate’s 132,” the paramedic noted. “SpO2 78%.” “Hypoxia, respiratory distress,” her partner confirmed. The woman was already ahead, fitting a mask over Aleksander’s face and adjusting it to a high flow. The hiss of the life-giving gas was a small comfort to Alina, though the red flashing numbers on the monitor still looked dire. Her throat tightened as she watched, feeling utterly helpless. “Blood pressure is 80 over 50.” The expression of the male EMT grew more concerned as he called out the numbers. He instantly inserted an IV line and attached a large infusion bag, injecting various medications into it. He kept his partner informed about every single one, but Alina recognized only some of the brand names. Meanwhile, his female companion listened to Aleksander’s chest with a stethoscope, her expression growing more serious with each passing second. “Severely diminished breath sounds on the left side, fluid in the lungs,” she announced finally. “He’s in critical condition.” The blond man, who had re-entered the room with the paramedics and had until now paced restlessly in a corner, abruptly stopped in his tracks. His face went even paler as he heard the paramedic’s words. The declaration of “critical condition” seemed to hit him like a physical blow. His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, and his eyes, previously darting around in fearful anticipation, now fixed on Aleksander with an almost desperate intensity.

And the situation grew increasingly dire. Despite the paramedic’s frantic efforts over the past few minutes, Aleksander’s condition showed no signs of improvement. The numbers on the monitor continued to flash red, still indicating dangerously low oxygen levels. The EMT’s exchanged a brief, knowing look.

Without a word, the male swiftly attached an Ambu bag to the mask and began to steadily press air into Aleksander’s lungs. The female had already jumped up and retrieved a bulky machine from the stretcher, setting it up quickly. Alina’s eyes filled with tears as she watched the man manually ventilate Aleksander, horrified that this treatment was necessary. But at the same time, she was relieved to see his chest rising and falling more effectively with each steady press of the bag, contrasting sharply with his earlier inefficient, shallow breaths. Then, the EMTs prepared for intubation. The procedure was distressing to watch, but the paramedics worked efficiently and with practiced precision. Once the tube was inserted into Aleksander’s throat, they connected him to the portable ventilator, ensuring his breathing was completely taken over by the machine. Aleksander’s chest now inflated steadily under the mechanical rhythm. “Let’s give it a few minutes,” the paramedic murmured, her eyes on the monitor. During this time, they used the opportunity to further stabilize the unconscious man. They carefully placed a cervical collar around his neck and transferred him onto the stretcher, elevating the head to help ease his breathing further.

The minutes stretched on, each one an eternity for Alina. She had time to think; too much time. Her years of working in the hospital with sometimes severely ill patients had given her enough knowledge to grasp the gravity of Aleksander’s situation—it was life-threatening, and that terrified her. All the while, the female EMT kept a close eye on the monitors, while her colleague organized their equipment. Finally, the lead paramedic nodded. “We’re getting some improvement. Oxygen levels are stabilizing. We’re at 92%.” Relief washed over Alina for the first time in what felt like an eternity, though the fear for his life still lingered. With the immediate crisis managed, the paramedics prepared to move their charge. They covered his lower body with a blanket to keep him warm, leaving his chest exposed due to the array of medical equipment. Once he was securely wrapped, they fastened him with straps and ensured all the medical paraphernalia was properly attached. Aleksander lay on the narrow stretcher, chalk-white and unconscious. The hiss of the ventilator, pushing air into his lungs with clinical precision, felt louder than it should have, a mechanical reminder that he was only holding on because of the machines keeping him alive. His cut up shirt, bloody and drenched with sweat, clung to his slender frame, completely ruined by the emergency; the countless tubes, cables, and lifesaving devices he was connected to were draped around him, with some of the equipment even resting on his legs and lap due to the lack of space. The sight was heart-wrenching, his slim body almost disappearing under the mass of medical apparatus.

As the EMTs prepared to raise the stretcher, the man who had been pacing stepped forward to assist. They carefully lifted Aleksander and began to move him out of the office. Alina followed closely, without a second thought, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. In the claustrophobic elevator, Alina was pressed between the wall and Aleksander. She couldn’t help but stare at his chest. His scars were partially hidden under the monitor-electrodes, cables, and tubes, but she could still see enough to know they were the result of severe trauma. The jagged lines told a story of past suffering and survival. But his survival this time was far from certain. The reality of his condition hit her hard. The sight of his blood, his pallor, and the machines keeping him alive was overwhelming. She felt a wave of dizziness wash over her for a moment, so agitated was she for him. Alina took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Just then, the elevator doors opened, providing a much-needed escape from the confined space. As soon as they reached the ground floor, the paramedics moved quickly, guiding the stretcher through the lobby. A few of Aleksander’s colleagues had gathered there, their faces already pale from the news. But when they saw his condition, they were struck with horror, their eyes wide with disbelief. One woman began to cry, obviously deeply afraid for his life. The paramedics rushed past them, heading straight for the exit. Stepping outside, the sudden change in temperature made Alina shiver, but she barely noticed, her focus entirely on Aleksander. The city lights cast a soft glow over the scene, the sounds of traffic a reminder of the world outside their immediate crisis. The ambulance was waiting, its lights flashing urgently. The EMTs worked with practiced efficiency, lifting Aleksander into the vehicle and securing him in place. Alina stood by, feeling helpless and small, her hands trembling as she watched them connect him to more equipment, the beeping monitors a constant reminder of his fragile state. The paramedics finished their preparations, and one of them, the woman with the calm demeanor, turned to Alina and the blond man. “We’re ready to go. You can follow us if you’d like.” The blond man, his face etched with worry, asked, “Which hospital?” “UWMC. It��s the closest with the facilities he needs,” the paramedic replied.

As the ambulance doors closed and the vehicle started to pull away, the blond man turned to Alina with a determined look. “You coming?” Alina didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I’m coming.”

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Breathless

jumbled_messy_confused

Chapter 2: Downward Spiral

Summary:

As Alina watches from her studio, the man across the street begins to falter in ways she can’t ignore. What starts as a subtle change quickly spirals into something much more alarming, leaving her on edge and desperate for answers.

The man across the street became more and more withdrawn. At first, Alina didn’t think much of it. Maybe he was just busy. Everyone had those days when they were wrapped up in their work, after all. The quick glances, the subtle smiles, and occasional waves had become a comforting part of her routine, but it wasn’t unusual for him to be more focused on work sometimes. She told herself not to overthink it. But as nearly a week passed, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. The contact had become rare; he seldom came to the window anymore and greeted her even less. His smile was no longer the warm, easy gesture it had been. It was almost mechanical, a pale reflection of what it once was. An unease began to stir in her chest, a vague but persistent discomfort that she couldn’t quite place.

She tried to ignore it, attributing his behaviour to a tough deadline or a stressful project. She had seen him look serious and preoccupied before. It had to be that, right?

Yet, despite her efforts to rationalize his distance, a small flicker of doubt crept in. Had she imagined the bond between them? She didn’t want to believe that. After their last interaction, she had clearly felt a shift, like something much more profound than before had passed between them. Yet now, as he remained distant and detached, she wondered if she had misread the whole situation. But even as those thoughts passed through her mind, they didn’t settle. It didn’t feel right. After a few more days of slightly overzealous observation (she had to admit that at this point her friends were right and she was watching him a little too closely), Alina began to realize what was really bothering her. His posture had changed; he no longer sat upright at his desk but seemed to slump over it more with each passing day, appearing increasingly drained, by now, diminished even. More and more, he would rest his head in his hands, but this was different from his moments of sadness; he looked tired, exhausted. At times, his hand pressed against his chest, and he frequently buried his face in the crook of his arm. Was he coughing? He tried to keep up appearances, leading the usual meetings and interacting with his colleagues. In those moments, he managed to mask his condition somewhat, but the second he was alone, the facade crumbled. Alina could clearly observe how much he was struggling. Once, she saw him take some pills, and after they seemed to take effect, he perked up a bit and even managed to give her one of the few smiles she saw these last days. But overall, his condition steadily declined, and Alina’s anxiety intensified. Yet, it reassured her to see that she wasn’t the only one who noticed how strained he was. His two colleagues, the stern blond and the always-smiling dark-haired man, were with him more often, and they too seemed increasingly worried. She could only guess at their conversations and gestures, but she saw one of them feel his forehead, which he weakly brushed off.

It was a Wednesday afternoon when he gave her a real scare. When Alina arrived at her studio and glanced over at his office, she was shocked to see him collapsed on his desk, his head resting on his arms, apparently asleep. In all these months, she had never seen him like this. He always seemed so composed, so in control, but now he looked utterly defeated; the fact that he could sleep in such an uncomfortable position showed just how badly he must be feeling. Alarmed, she kept a close eye on him, checking every few minutes. The air in her studio felt heavy with worry, the usual scent of paint and turpentine doing little to calm her nerves. She resolved to go over if he didn’t wake up soon. Though of course she didn’t know anyone in that building, she was determined to find someone who could help. There had to be someone she could talk to, someone who would listen. Because of her vigilant watch, Alina saw immediately when he began to stir. He seemed to struggle to sit up, and just as he managed to pull himself upright, his body was wracked by a violent coughing fit. He hunched over, clutching his chest, clearly gasping for air between the intense spasms, his entire frame shaking. Alina hastened to the window, her hand instinctively flying to the glass, fingers trembling against it. She was desperate to catch his eye, feeling an urgent need to connect with him, to offer her help somehow. But the distressed man didn’t notice her. After a few agonizing moments, he seemed to regain some control. He slumped back heavily into his chair, leaning against the backrest as he fought to catch his breath. Eventually, he managed to sit upright again. With a visible effort, he fumbled for the phone on his desk and made a call. After a brief conversation, he hung up and took another moment to gather himself, then got to his feet. He appeared incredibly unsteady, swaying noticeably as he clung to the desk for support. Alina watched, her breath catching in her throat, as he took a few unsteady steps, reaching for his jacket hanging behind the desk. He moved with staggering difficulty, each step a battle, his entire body visibly straining to remain upright. This wasn’t just a flu. He clearly was terribly, desperately sick. She should have gone over there. Why hadn’t she??? Alina pressed herself harder against the glass, her breath fogging the window as panic gripped her. "Please," she whispered, her voice cracking, though she knew he couldn’t hear her. And then it happened. He collapsed. Alina shrieked in shock as he pitched forward, his head smashing into the corner of the desk, snapping back violently before his body slammed to the ground in a brutal, uncontrolled fall. He hadn’t even tried to catch himself—no reflex, no flinch, nothing. He was out before he hit the floor. The sight was horrifying. Panic surged through her veins. Alina banged helplessly on her window, screaming at him in desperation, praying for him to move. But he lay still, lifeless.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Breathless

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

Alina Starkov, an art therapist by day and a passionate painter by night, finds herself inexplicably drawn to the enigmatic man in the office across the street. As their silent connection grows through fleeting glances and small gestures, Alina discovers a side of him that is both endearing and deeply human. Amidst the vibrant colors of her paintings and the quiet moments they share, separated by glass and opposite sides of the street, a bond begins to form, leaving her breathless with anticipation for what might come next.

Notes:

This is a modern AU that nobody asked for. I’m posting it anyway. 🙈   Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!). I took certain creative liberties, particularly with respect to medical details and the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it. And now have fun! And thank you for reading.

Chapter 1: Window to the Soul

Alina Starkov had always been a keen observer, a trait that served her well both in her profession and her passion. She loved her daytime job as an art therapist at the local hospital. Her patients adored her for her empathy and dedication, and she found immense satisfaction in helping them through their struggles. By night, she transformed into a painter, losing herself in the colors and textures of her canvases. At 25, Alina had faced her share of hardships. An orphan from a young age, she had learned to fend for herself, scraping by with the little she earned. Her friends, Genya, Mal, and Marie, were her lifeline, providing the support and companionship she needed. They had always encouraged her to never give up on her dream of painting, and after years of searching and saving, she had finally found a small atelier to rent a few months ago. Though the apartment was somewhat dated and lacked modern amenities, she had made it incredibly cozy. The bedroom and kitchen were rather small, but the workspace was a dream. Its large windows offered a perfect view of the world outside, particularly the office building across the street.

It was there, on the fourth floor, that she first noticed him. The man who seemed to work around the clock, always present when she left for the hospital and still there when she came back. He was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome - the kind of man who seemed to have stepped out of a classic romance novel. He always wore a black suit and a crisp white shirt, tailored to perfection and highlighting his lean, athletic physique. Her easel was positioned in such a way that he was constantly in her line of sight, and she couldn’t help but glance at him every once and again. And the more she observed him, the more she found herself drawn to this enigmatic, intense figure. He seemed to work tirelessly, rarely leaving his office before she retired to bed. On the sporadic occasions he did leave early, he always rode his bike, regardless of the weather. She admired his dedication, knowing that his cycling routine surely contributed to his fit physique, but it also spoke volumes about his character and discipline. Every once in a while, she would see him with a suitcase, either getting into or out of a cab, indicating he was traveling for work. And if she was honest with herself, she missed him when he was gone and found herself looking forward to when he returned.

As the weeks passed, Alina gradually discovered more and more of his quirks. For example, he seemed to prefer moving while on the phone. She would glance up from her painting to see him pacing, his long strides carrying him back and forth in front of the window. At times, he would literally storm across the room, clearly agitated, a rare occurrence that undoubtedly indicated frustration. This same intensity was evident when he went over the same documents repeatedly, his expression intense and focused, occasionally rubbing his temples or running his fingers through his hair, as if he wouldn’t rest until every detail was perfect. Another thing she observed was his habit of shedding his jacket as soon as he was alone. Alina couldn’t help but admire how striking he looked, especially when he sat at his desk with his sleeves rolled up, which made his slender figure even more of a sight to behold. Sadly, he always put his blazer back on for larger meetings with multiple attendees, which she found a bit disappointing.

Eventually, she realized that he only stayed casual in his shirtsleeves in the presence of three people: a stern-looking woman who might be his secretary, a stoic blond, and a perpetually smiling dark-haired colleague. The latter two seemed to be his closest confidants, often staying late into the evening when everyone else had left. Incidentally, Alina observed the comings and goings of his employees or colleagues, noting how content, sometimes even cheerful they seemed. She noticed how he would often take the time to listen intently to his colleagues in one-on-one conversations, offering nods or words that seemed to lift their spirits. This matched the atmosphere during the meetings in his office; the general mood of these events always appeared calm and composed, with no shouting or arguments. He seemed to handle everything with a quiet authority that impressed her. However, there were moments when he appeared intense, even intimidating, especially when dealing with people who didn't seem to be part of his regular team. Occasionally, she observed strangers entering his office, and his demeanor would shift, becoming sterner and authoritative.

Yet, despite his commanding, sometimes even intimidating presence, there were occasions when he seemed the absolute opposite—troubled and deeply forlorn. At times, she saw him sitting with his elbows on the desk, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders slumped as if carrying a heavy burden. Other moments, he would lean back in his chair, staring at a picture on the wall for minutes on end. She couldn’t make out what was in the photo, but it was clearly significant to him. Occasionally, he would stand at the window, one hand in his pocket, the other arm raised to rest his forehead against the glass, his posture radiating a sense of defeat. He would gaze out at the city below, seemingly lost in thought. These moments of vulnerability touched Alina deeply. In those instances, the powerful, intense man she observed daily seemed to vanish, replaced by someone who was profoundly human and heartbreakingly sad. It was in these moments that she felt most connected to him; it felt as if she saw a reflection of her own, past struggles.

She admired his strength, his ability to work tirelessly despite the melancholy that seemed to envelop him. She wondered what kind of person could endure such sorrow and still function at such a high level; she longed to know more about him, to understand the man behind the glass. Sometimes she dreamed of having a coffee with him, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that a man like him would never be interested in someone like her—a struggling artist and orphan who barely made enough to get by. So, she had never tried to find out who he was. To her, he was simply the enigmatic figure in the glass-fronted office, a man who exuded power and authority but also a deep, unspoken grief.

Alina’s friends were quite puzzled by her fascination with the stranger across the street. They often teased her about her “obsession,” but she knew it wasn’t that. She was simply deeply moved by the profound sadness he occasionally displayed. His vulnerability resonated with her, and it led her to glance over at his office every once in a while, almost unconsciously hoping to see him in good spirits. It weighed on her when he seemed so burdened.

One evening, as the early twilight of autumn settled over the city, Alina worked on a new painting in her studio. The days had become noticeably shorter, requiring her to turn on the lights earlier. She glanced up and noticed him taking his jacket, finally calling it a day. Their bright offices stood out against the encroaching darkness, and for a brief moment, their eyes met through the glass. Her heart skipped a beat, leaving her momentarily breathless. It was the first time they had truly seen each other, and the connection felt electric. He momentarily froze in his movement, then gave a slight nod before continuing on his way.

A few days later, it happened again. This time, it was a chance glance, their eyes meeting unexpectedly as they both turned towards each other, before they both resumed their tasks. But gradually, these fleeting glances became more common, and Alina found herself becoming more relaxed and confident. One day, feeling particularly cheerful, she beamed a bright smile in his direction. To her immense joy, he returned a small, hesitant one. That moment was magical for her, and she found herself longing to see that smile more often.

As time passed, Alina noticed that the man across the street began to seek her out with his eyes as well. It felt nice, knowing it wasn’t always her initiating the glances; sometimes, she would catch him looking at her first. Their exchanges became more frequent, and she found herself looking forward to these brief moments of silent recognition. They smiled at each other more now. Alina, ever the sunshine, always beamed at him, and she loved it when he returned her smile with that gentle, soft expression.

One day, as she was taking a break and sitting on the windowsill, the crisp autumn air wafting in, she sipped her hot tea, savouring its warmth. The leaves outside danced in the gentle breeze, their colors vivid against the gray sky. Then, she saw him across the street, raising his own cup in a playful toast. This was something new, something more outgoing than he had ever been before. She felt a surge of joy and immediately smiled, raising her cup in return. From that day on, this small gesture became a ritual for them, a silent acknowledgment of each other’s presence.

Several days later, Alina was checking one of her paintings in the bright sunlight streaming into her studio. She had taken it off the easel and moved it closer to the window, holding it up to the light to examine it more closely. As she turned away from the canvas, she saw him standing at his window, giving her a thumbs-up and nodding with that shy smile she had come to cherish. It felt like a genuine compliment, and it warmed her heart to know that he appreciated her work.

Encouraged by his response, Alina decided to show him each new painting she completed. Every week or two, she would hold up her latest work for him to see. He always reacted kindly, and his reserved nature made each appreciative gesture all the more meaningful.

But one Sunday, as she held up a particularly vibrant and colourful piece, full of wild, joyful energy, he surprised her completely. He picked up a large tablet from his desk and typed in huge letters, “Too much pink.” Her jaw practically dropped in startled amusement, and she stared at him, flabbergasted by his boldness. But before she could react, to her delight, he laughed. She had never seen him laugh before, and it suited him so well! Then, he quickly erased the message and replaced it with, “Just kidding. It’s perfect!”

She couldn’t help but squeal with happiness, feeling a rush of affection for this man who, in that moment, seemed so dorky and lovable. He wasn’t the sad, brooding figure she sometimes saw, nor the powerful, intense presence he projected every day in his work. He was just himself, open and human. In that brief exchange, he revealed a side of him that was endearing and genuine, a glimpse of the person he was beneath the layers of sadness and authority.

That moment felt so special, as if it marked the beginning of a even brighter chapter in their silent connection. Alina was convinced that this new, playful interaction would continue, and she felt certain that he too found joy in their small interactions. But, contrary to her expectations, the following two weeks were entirely different, unsettling even. The joy of that moment was overshadowed by a growing sense of unease.

tbc...

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Between Life and Death

Summary:

In the chaos of the infirmary, General Kirigan lies on the brink of death, his body broken from battle. Ivan, his young, inexperienced second, stands by his side, determined to keep him alive. As the weight of their losses bears down on them, Ivan’s unwavering loyalty and hope become their only beacon in the darkness.

The infirmary at the front was a chaotic mess of wounded soldiers and frantic healers. The air reeked of blood and antiseptic herbs, mingling with the groans of the injured. Dim light from flickering lanterns cast eerie shadows on the walls, adding to the sense of despair that hung over the room like a heavy fog. Whispered prayers and the occasional cry of agony created a symphony of suffering that seemed to echo endlessly.

General Kirigan lay in a secluded corner, hidden by thin, tattered curtains. He had been unconscious for two days, his body battered and broken from a fierce battle against the Fjerdans. Though the healers had done their best to mend his wounds and make him comfortable, the severity of his injuries left his survival uncertain. His face was ashen, his dark hair matted with feverish sweat.

Even though Ivan could never have imagined it, it was a fact: Kirigan, the normally indomitable leader, lay helpless, his life hanging by the thinnest of threads.

Since that harrowing battle, Ivan had barely slept, his responsibilities pulling him in every direction. The crushing weight of command pressed down on him: he had to maintain order at the camp, coordinate the defence strategies, manage the dwindling supplies, and keep the morale of the troops from crumbling. The ever-present threat of enemy attacks loomed ominously, and the pressure to protect his comrades was relentless. These last two days, he wondered how Kirigan managed to bear this burden for so many years, while he himself felt utterly exhausted after just two days.

Ivan, still new to his role as second-in-command, had only recently begun to grasp the immense challenges that Kirigan faced daily. This was his first true test, and it had opened his eyes to the sacrifices and unrelenting demands of leadership. He could only try to fulfil Kirigan’s duties as best as humanly possible.

Yet, no matter how overwhelming these tasks were, he felt an unyielding need to check on his commander.

Every night, Ivan found himself drawn to Kirigan’s side, his vigil a silent promise to guard his tenuous hold on life. This ritual had become a necessity for him, a way to ensure that Kirigan was not alone in his suffering. It was also a rare moment of solace, a fleeting escape from the relentless chaos, where he could reassure himself that Kirigan was still there, still fighting.

Pushing through the crowded infirmary, Ivan braced himself for the sight of his motionless leader once more. The acrid smell of smoke from the battlefield mingled with the oily scent of the lanterns, creating a pungent blend that filled the air. The oppressive atmosphere gave him a headache, and he took a deep breath, both to calm his nerves and to prepare for what awaited him behind the curtains. Parting them, he anticipated finding his commander still unconscious.

But to his astonishment, Kirigan was awake, struggling to sit up. His face was pale, his movements weak and unsteady. His eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, were now clouded with pain and exhaustion.

“General!” Ivan exclaimed, rushing to his side just as Kirigan’s strength gave out and he collapsed back onto the bed. Ivan caught him, feeling the delicate form of his commander sag lifelessly into his embrace.

Kirigan’s face contorted in pain, a low groan escaping as Ivan gently eased him down. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead while his breath hitched with obvious agony.

“You shouldn’t be moving. You have been through much.” Ivan’s voice was firm but laced with concern as he pulled the blanket up to Kirigan’s chest, trying to offer some semblance of comfort.

The sound of Kirigan’s labored breathing filled the small space, a harsh reminder of his fragile state. Ivan’s heart pounded in his chest, a mix of relief that Kirigan was finally awake and a surge of determination to protect him at all costs. Seeing his commander so weak and vulnerable, his body trembling with the effort of simply staying alive, was almost more than he could bear. A wave of despair washed over him, but he quickly pushed it aside, focusing on the one thing he could do: be there for Kirigan, no matter what.

Kirigan’s gaze, dull and unfocused, met his.

“Ivan,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “Our people… how many did we lose?” His words were a struggle, but he forced them out, determined to know his soldiers’ fate.

Ivan's heart ached at the concern in Kirigan's voice. Even now, his first thought was for his people.

"Too many," he finally admitted, the weight of those words crushing him more than any physical blow could.

Kirigan's eyes closed, a silent reflection of the pain he bore—not just the physical injuries that marred his flesh, but the deeper wounds inflicted upon his spirit by the loss of his kin. His sorrow was palpable, his head turning away as if to hide the weight of his grief.

"I should have seen it coming,” the injured man finally rasped, his voice barely comprehensible. "I should have been better prepared."

Ivan knelt beside the cot, his hand finding Kirigan's. "No, General. It is because of you that any of us still draw breath. Your foresight saved many. The Fjerdans were cunning, but you outmanoeuvred them at every other turn."

Kirigan was too weak to respond, but he didn’t need to. The crushing reality of their losses was etched deeply into his expression.

Ivan knew that Kirigan had been running a high temperature since his injury and hearing him voice his doubts aloud was a sign of how deeply the fever still gripped him. Normally, Kirigan would never express such self-doubt; he would internalize his struggles, never showing any sign of weakness.

It pained Ivan to see his commander so tormented, knowing Kirigan had done everything possible. He had anticipated the enemy’s moves, devised brilliant strategies, and fought with unmatched bravery. The losses they suffered were not due to any failure on Kirigan’s part, but rather the sheer number and ferocity of the Fjerdans. Ivan wished he could make Kirigan see that his leadership had been nothing short of extraordinary, that he had inspired them all to fight harder and hold on longer than they ever thought possible.

“You did not fail, General,” he whispered urgently, his voice filled with emotion. “You saved many of us. Whatever the Fjerdans tried, your strategy held the line. Your bravery kept us fighting.”

While he was talking, Kirigan’s breaths became more and more shallow, his energy waning. Ivan could see his consciousness slipping away, his head nodding in a feeble gesture of gratitude before darkness claimed him once more.

With a sense of unease, Ivan felt the weakening pulse of his commander. Despite the healers’ best efforts, Kirigan’s condition remained dire. His heartbeat was faint and irregular, a stark reminder of how close to death he still was. Although he was the most powerful of all Grisha, even his strength couldn’t stave off the grim reality of his injuries.

Ivan tightened his grip on the General’s hand, as if his touch alone could anchor Kirigan to the living world. “Please, General,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You have to know how much you mean to us. Your leadership, your courage—it kept us alive. We need you.”

The night stretched on, and Ivan remained a silent sentinel, perched on the edge of Kirigan’s cot. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, and despite his best efforts, he found himself drifting in and out of sleep. Yet, even in his half-conscious state, his Heartrender senses kept him attuned to Kirigan’s pulse, ready to spring into action at the slightest sign of his condition worsening. He was prepared to use his abilities at a moment’s notice; to strengthen Kirigan’s pulse, to keep his heart from faltering should the worst happen. His eyes fluttered open periodically, scanning the General’s face for any changes—the rise and fall of his chest, the twitch of a muscle, the flicker beneath closed eyelids. In the dim light of the infirmary, Ivan held his anguished vigil again, a commitment to the man who had given everything for his people.

He vowed that when Kirigan recovered, he would shoulder more of the burdens that his commander had carried for so long; for now, though, he could only watch over his General, guarding the fragile flame of his life against the encroaching shadows.