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nualaofthefaerie · 1 year ago

Note

In another post you mentioned you had marked all your favorite Sunflower moments/interactions. Do you mind sharing your favorites with your devout followers?

Much love, Fauxraven

It is high time I come back to writing in here.

I will start by answering some questions, I've been overlooking for a while and then will share why I was away for as long as I have.

Let's discuss my favourite Sandflower interactions though. Thank you for the question and this is going to be quite lengthy as a post, but please bear with me. + the interactions are not ordered by how favourite of mine they are, but rather chronologically for the sake of order in the post 🪷

!Spoilers for the entirety of the Sandman comics under the divider!

Season of Mists

This one is very easy. It's the first time they meet and immediately two panels are very important to me as far as their relationship goes.

People make the VERY wrong assumption Nuala was always enthralled by Morpheus but she wasn't. She met him under her "Ice Maiden" title - a fairy so desired men died for a sliver of her attention. She went to the Dreaming as ordered by Titania, the reasons for which could be discussed in another post. Nuala being a gift to Morpheus is a very calculated move by Titania, putting both Nuala and Morpheus in extremely uncomfortable for them positions. Initially. The reason I love this panel is because it shows simultenously that Nuala didn't care about Morpheus at all and she was being arrogant towards him.

The second interaction in Season of Mists that I want to point out is this panel right here. Although on the surface this entire interaction is quite meaningful this panel right here is very important for two reasons. One and that is the obvious one, he is forcing Nuala on a journey of self-discovery and love, stripping the deceptive glamour thrusted upon her from the moment she first existed (all fairies wear glamour). Second, Morpheus notes to "misliking little magics in his realm", which is factually untrue - everything in his realm is magic in one form or another. What he dislikes is not being in control of the magic being distributed throughout his realm. So here already he had begun very clearly being dishonest with Nuala, which we will see further becomes a pattern - he will say one thing and do the exact opposite.

A Game of You

The famous page. But what people rarely talk about this panel is that Morpheus makes the active choice to be nice to her. Something he doesn't do. It is okay to not believe me, but go back, read for yourself, Morpheus doesn't praise people, he doesn't hand out empty compliments or say nice things to people in general. Now, this is the first time he does that with Nuala. He will do it one-two more times I think - he will praise her to other people and briefly before they separate for the last time. Nuala is someone Morpheus harbours positive feelings for. However, from that point forward, we will see Morpheus making the choice to act in a way he usually doesn't and do things he doesn't usually do. This is the face of the Sandflower community (me and my three bitches), but it is not my favourite panel by a long slide.

Brief Lives

I can choose a lot of interactions from "Brief Lives" however that will take an excrutiating amount of time. The most important thing about Brief Lives is the pendant Nuala receives from Thessaly, Morpheus' nasty attitude, because he is being whiny he got broken up with and what a wonderful pretty girl Lala is. This panel encapsulates that so that's why it's here.

THIS interaction has to be top 3 of my favourite interactions between them. Remember when I said in the beginning people hold big misconceptions about Nuala as a character - that she is a weak, spineless character that fades into the background. This panel is my favourite to disprove those.

"Nuala is meek to Morpheus."

No, Nuala likes Morpheus, there is a difference. Because if she was meek, she would've never stood up for herself or put him in his place, which she does in this very conversation despite their more than obvious power dynamics. While Morpheus shows open distain for her people, Nuala simply and confidently tells Morpheus she cannot change who she is, which is a surprise to the Dream Lord. She is unwilling to allow to be slandered like that whether he is a king or a jester.

This one is here because 1. He lets her keep the pendant, which at that point is not deliberate on his side but it will become a point of deep connection between them (there is a theory about the pendant, another post I want to write a lot), in a way he didn't have with Thessaly mind you. 2. He calls her "Little one" and I think that is adorable.

World's End

I will not put anything from Worlds End because it's the most important Sandflower volume in my opinion. I will, at some point write a whole post about Issue #52. For now, if you're interested go read Issue #52.

The Kindly Ones

This is my single favourite panel in the entire Sandman. Nuala and Morpheus were the original "You came/ You called" and I can't wait to see it in the series through the eyes of Nuala's actress and Tom Sturridge. ( I want to write a whole separate post about the pendant too, so, for now this is enough).

And lastly, I could put their whole conversation here and I could put the numerous comparison's between Morpheus' relationship with Thessaly and with Nuala. But I won't do that because they are irrelevant.

When Nuala became "The Maiden" both in the sense of the Kinly Ones and Persephone, she became a tragic figure bound by her love for a man that is quietly self-distructive. If you go back and read through the comic, there is a distinct uncertainty about Morpheus' coldness from his official partners - Calliope says he suddenly became cold; Thessaly believes he sees people as things he wants until he gets them and then he gets bored; Titania does not talk a lot about the nature of their relationship, however from context we can infer he also stopped responding to her at some point and she is still hung on him (as seen by her conversation with Nuala). Only Nuala recognizes his coldness for what it is - a deep inner hatred of himself and usage of loneliness as a means of punishment of himself. She ecognizes the patterns of his behaviours from his standpoint as opposed to her own, symbolizing the level to which they are connected, whether we as readers realize it or not (because I initially didn't). Nuala wants to save Morpheus, but she is very well aware that she can't.

As for Morpheus he choose Nuala as the last woman (because he did choose to go to her, he had every right to refuse and protect his kingdom, despite the boon) to visit before his death, even though Thessaly had at that point broken him up and he had given up (as by the red flowers in their feet). It is such a heartbreaking panel. Because it is the one that actually shows the depth to which Nuala sees Morpheus past his mask and the level to which Morpheus lies to her for a reason we never find out.

An amalgamation of all they had experienced together is him saying "He didn't notice" and yet, no one who has read the comics from start to finish believes Morpheus. He doesn't believe himself. She was the last person outside of his closest circle he ever saw. Why? Because of his responsibility to a boon? No. He could've left, he knew she would understand, even though she was most adamant he should stay. He stayed because he wanted.

~*~

My personal belief here is that Morpheus in his evident self-hatred did everything in his power to make Nuala turn away from him. He recognizes her as something good and we know Morpheus does not believe he deserves good things. So their last conversation is also a way for him to hurt her to a point where she wouldn't be in pain once he dies. Because she is good and he is not.

Author's note:

It's on posts like these that I realize how much I've uncovered about Sandflower since I first started. I genuinely thought I was in a crackhead space and yet, going back and reading again it's truly baffling how many times Neil wrote actions instead of words - because the good thing about comics is that we can not only read we can see, and the actions Morpheus takes towards someone he doesn't seemingly care about all that much, do not align with his words. I encourage everyone to make their own headcanons or draw their own conclusions. These are my personal and of course they highly reflect my biased viewpoints.

Love,

#the sandman #nuala #nuala of the faerie #morpheus #sandflower #dream of the endless #the sandman netflix #nuala the sandman #Sandman analysis #sandman comics #the sandman comics #sandman meta

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ricardian-werewolf · 4 months ago

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Take Me to War - Chapter II: Humbly beg the death upon my knee

Part I

Summary:

Cecily-Anne awakes in Ser Gwayne's tent and must come to terms with where she is in this new world. It is within it that she will come to form a new friendship and realize the depths of her grief.

TWs: Suicidial idealization, grief, child death, incest mention, abelism, mention of rape (though not committed)

Tag list: @lordbettany @fauxraven @rmelster

Cecily awoke to the clanking of chains.

Chains, which by all accounts snaked around her wrists. Jangling them did nothing except force her to realise how tightly she was bound. In short, she was not a noblewoman kept here for her safety, but a prisoner. The thought and realisation filled her with fear. As a highborn woman, she was protected by a social code of purity - had she come through that cut wearing a serving woman’s gown, the horrors would be inconceivable. But seemingly on part of her fine dress of black velvets and wolf fur, she had been spared such horrors - for now. Raising her head, Cecily found her snood that held her hair back to have been torn off. Her braided coiffure tumbled down her shoulders. She had been tied to some sort of central tentpost and rested upon a woven rug bearing the image of a tower with green flames bursting from its roof.

Studying it, Cecily felt confusion rise in her. Not once at any point had she seen someone’s family heraldry bear such a symbol. As an avid studier of heraldry herself (Her own being the white stag of Richard II on an emerald green backing with ivy leaves at its feet). Lifting her head, she could hear the sounds of men carousing and making merry. Evidently the battle must have gone in their favour, perhaps?

As Cecily looked about once more, she noted the candles flickering in their sconces, settles upon which furs and rugs had been thrown to make a more comfortable space. A mirror and washbasin with a finely carved jug sat nearby. The mirror was a cut of fine glass backed (she assumed) in silver, and bore gold detailing. Whomever’s tent she was in was certainly wealthy. As she shuffled in a circle around the pole, Cecily noted the bed and its posters laid with yet more imagery of the same tower below her feet. She could only guess at the kind of fabric the bed-curtains were, though she assumed either satin or velvet. Cocking her head to one side once more, she heard the sound of two men arguing in what sounded like English, though it was certainly more heavily accented. A Northern twinge to it. Hope stirred in her chest, which she frantically squashed. No good Yorkshireman would ever have the daughter of the Lord of the North tied up like some common ne'er do-well. The tent flaps (made of stiffened oilcloth dyed deep green and edged in silver with goldwork thread made out to be tiny flames) parted and two men stepped in. One was more weary than the other, with dark hair and eyes. He carried a bottle of wine or spirits, which he uncorked and took a generous swig of. The other man spoke little, and as his shadow of a valet stepped into the room followed by squires of the body, Cecily watched.

“What do we do with her, then, Ser Hightower?” The man hissed as he drank. The other - Ser Hightower, shrugged. Cecily froze as his eyes flitted to her, and she noted his age. Young, he was. Perhaps about ten-and-seven if not a year older. A knight, then? Of which order? She saw no familiar garter-belt about him or mantle-chain of office. He certainly wore spurs, yet not of gold but of burnished silver. Across his front of his chestplate was that same tower, and the name stuck.

Hightower. His name was of a noble family. Unlike Cecily-Anne who held no legal last name, she could say she was of House Plantagenet. Through both sets of her family, thanks to her parents being first cousins and ensuring a papal dispensation was needed to wed. Shaking her head silently, Cecily turned back to half-watching as the body-squires and barbers tended to this Ser Hightower.

Was he a poor knight then? No, his tent could not have been so lavishly furnished as such. Perhaps he was someone who preferred his material comforts over his godly ones. She wondered if he prayed as much as he ought to. What surprised her was no signs of crucifixes or depiction of the mother Mary or Holy Host. In fact, no priest had come to take Compline with the men or offer the Host in mass. Perhaps it was not yet Sunday. She did note however seven small figures in an alcove of the tent over which a glass image hung of a star with seven points.

“Have you no priest?” She spoke at last, coughing it out. Both men wheeled to look at her.

“W-what?” The first man asked. Cecily ignored him, holding Ser Hightower’s gaze.

“No, no Septons have been on this expedition, My lady.”

Well at least he is not calling me a wench. Delightful. I wonder how this other man is faring, seeing as he is deep enough in his cups to call about a guard.

“Septons?” She replied. “Of what order of clergy is a ‘Septon?’ “ Cocking her head again, Cecily sniffed. “One of the friars?”

“Nay, My lady.” Ser Hightower spoke again. “They are of our priestly order and raise poor boys to follow the faith.”

“So they do be priests.” She raised a brow. “Have you nuns?”

“Septas.” The other man coughed. “My lady.” He added after a long, cold pause. Cecily hungered to ignore such a slight, and settled herself back against the pole. “Tell me your conditions of capture, please.” She raised her head to glare at both men.

“C-conditions of capture?” The other man murmured.

“We have no reason to view you as a prisoner, M’lady.” Ser Hightower spoke. “These ropes were to keep you from getting up and further injuring yourself.” He signalled to a squire who slashed through the ropes holding Cecily in place, and stepped back. Cecily rose to her feet unsteadily and gripped the tent-pole for support. Somehow, this did not feel right to her eyes and ears. Women such as herself in positions of little to no power when left with monstrous men, were often raped openly and if not that, brutally wounded, sold into slavery or worse evils. While she was Highborn as she had reminisced on earlier, her household did not exist in this place. She could not simply claim to be of some family either, seeing as she knew none of them.

“Leave us, Ser Cole. I have reason to speak to the lady alone.” Ser Hightower spoke to the other knight, who nodded. As he passed her, he turned his head and spat at her feet. Cecily’s hands balled into fists and she nearly moved to punch him. However, barely it seemed, she stayed her hand.

As soon as Cole was gone - Cecily would have to watch her back - she found herself faced with Ser Hightower. The knight took a seat upon a settle piled high with furs and leaned one of his elbows on his portable writing desk. His emerald green eyes stared at her, and Cecily sat herself on a cushioned pouffe. Glancing down, she found her skirts to be torn and the velvet edging frayed.

“Once we reach King’s landing, I shall have my steward fetch you new clothes. There is a place near the port that sells very fine fabrics.” Hightower turned to his letter and Cecily shifted forward. She did not watch him per-se, but she was curious to see the writings of his hand in this foreign place. It seemed as though the people spoke English, but there was an accent to it that she had noted earlier.

“Oh..” She paused. “Thank you.” She inclined her head. Where was he going with this? She was only ten-and-five, he was ten-and-seven years. A proclamation of marriage had not been offered, at least not yet. Knights of noble households did not take strange women into their care. Perhaps he meant to replace her wardrobe before having her packed off to… a nunnery? She shuddered at the thought. Although there was none of her family left, she hoped to God that her grandmother would at least be going a little mad on her behalf.

The idea of Gran-mére Cecily tearing apart that nunnery for her brought Cecily-Anne the first relief she’d felt in days. She half expected the old woman to come charging through the tear she had stumbled through and rescue her.

Sadly, that would not be the case. As soon as the letter had been dispatched to a place known as Oldtown, Cecily was re-shackled (for her safety according to Ser Hightower) and “gently” escorted from the tent by him to a waiting carriage on four wheels that looked nothing like any litter Cecily had ever sat in. Long, grand and consisting of no windows - which made her wonder what the blasted thing was like in summer - Cecily was put inside at once, her chains unshackled and dumped onto a soft bed of satin in that same deep green as everything else. The wood inside was dark oak with pearl inlay and heavy curtains were kept apart by splendid cords of gold.

Seated across from her was a woman, with white-blonde eyebrows and arresting violet eyes. Drenched in the same green as the curtains and bedspread, she almost seemed to disappear into the fabric. The door opened again and Ser Hightower stuck his head in.

“Apologies, Your Grace. This is the lady I wrote to you of. Her name is…”

Cecily swore under her breath. The bastard had not asked her name!

“Cecily-Anne, Duchess of Gloucester.” Cecily rubbed her hands together. And princess royal, lady of Middleham, etc. She added silently to herself.

“Lady Cecily-Anne.” The woman spoke, inclining her head. She had a nervous air to her, but one not unfriendly or unkind. Cecily noted her hair tucked into a heart-shaped hennin adorned with a crown of gold and emerald stones.

“I am Queen Helaena Targaryen. Ser Gwayne; my uncle, has elected you to be my lady in waiting…. As my family believes I am no longer able to care for myself and require more proper… feminine company.”

Her slow way of speech would have concluded to Cecily that this woman was slow or stupid, had she not been much the same. Cecily gave a gentle smile in return and inclined her head.

“I thank you for this acceptance, your Grace.”

Reaching across the expanse of space, Helaena squeezed Cecily’s hands tight in her own and gave the other woman a beaming smile. “You are the first light of life I have felt since my son was killed. Please, call me any name you so wish.” Helaena giggled, the grief in her eyes fading a little with each passing moment.

At that second, the wheels of the litter jerked into motion and they were off. From the patterned lattice screens surrounding the litter - or wheelhouse as Cecily learned it was called - she began to see Westeros in all of its late summer glory. Gwayne and his retinue of knights accompanied the carriage on its slow procession from the battle of Rook's Rest back towards the capital. To pass the time, Cecily found herself falling into the role of ladies maid as Véronique de Crécy had been to her mother, with ease. Helaena was an easy soul to charm and adored nothing more than kindness and attention. Her fascination with bugs and propensity to say the most hilarious things off the cuff had Cecily relaxed within moments. Cecily delighted in showing off her new gowns that were going to be sent, and listening to Helaena speak all about her children and her dragon, Dreamfyre.

“Do Targareyens really place a dragon egg in the cradle of their babies?” Cecily breathed as she and Helaena sampled a picnic lunch packed by one of the cooks. She simply couldn’t believe that dragons existed, and that the lady she was now serving had one as her steed!

“Indeed.” Helaena replied with shocked cheerfulness. “Do you not have dragons where you are from?”

“Nay, they’re just stories.” Cecily answered as she bit into a hard-boiled egg smeared with summer mustard. She examined the grapes on her platter, dark purple ones with a seductively sweet bite when chewed. “Are these not for wine?” She examined them in turn.

“Yes, but they’re my favourites. Aegon says I have a confuddled taste and concedes it is due to something happening before I was born.”

“And Aegon is…?” Cecily paused in sipping her wine.

“My brother.” Helaena responded as she smeared more preserves onto her bread slice. “And my husband.” She added as Cecily bit into her selection of preserved salted pork. Cecily coughed, half bent over as she struggled to process the words she was hearing.

“By the saints!” She breathed. “I-is that not violation of some rule of incest your…” She paused. “My parents were first cousins, but the idea of my father marrying my aunt…” She shook her head. “How does your church not think it sinful?”

“The Seven turned a blind eye to it.” Helaena explained. “It is… strange. He is my brother and I have born him three children and lost one. Yet, I know naught else. My mother who you shall meet as soon as we reach the Red Keep married the king. Her father was the king’s right hand and she was only ten and five at the youngest!” She bit down on a pickle as she spoke and winced at the sour taste. “Eugh. Aegon says these are good for my health. I detest them.”

“May I?” Cecily asked, holding out her hand. The jar of pickles was passed to her and in reciprocity, Cecily handed Helaena the stewed plums. She hated plums with a passion and gobbled up the pickles. All of this was washed down with sweet wine sweetened with strawberry syrup. For afters were sugared violets and little balls of fried dough filled with flavoured preserves.

It seemed like no time at all before they were back on the road and rolling over more of the dirt-packed and stone-riddled expanse of Westeros. “What reason is there for such large carriages?” Cecily asked as she watched the candle-lamp swing from side to side. A darkening sky heralded a storm with the crack of lightning. The sight of it flashing across the heavens reminded Cecily of an earlier time, another place where she had sat in her bedroom window up in the western tower of Middleham Castle. Rubbing against her arm then had been Ned, her dark haired, freckled twin. He had clutched her hand tight in his and the two of them had held their breaths.

Their father had said that if one counted the time between the flash and bang of thunder, they could determine the location and direction of a storm. Then, there had been the waiting period and the yelps of joy both of them had let out when the proverbial bang did come. The flash of lighting across the night sky that one summer where Ned hadn’t been as sickly had made his dark eyes turn milk-white. It was as if the stars they had loved to create constellations of their own had taken her brother’s soul for a single, shining moment.

Then those stars had faded, gone out like candles in the night. He was up there now, dancing amongst those beautiful, alien lights. Him and Maman and Papa. And Cecily was down here, stuck somewhere between Heaven and Hell. She pressed her hands to her forehead and began to weep.

“Oh..” Helaena breathed. She had settled down for the night with her pet snake, which she now replaced in its basket and crept over to Cecily. “What is it? Did the lightning frighten you?” She asked, her voice so maternal and soft that Cecily only wept harder. Fetching a blanket from the bed, Helaena drew the material around Cecily’s shoulders and pulled it tight, then leaned against her.

“I noticed you do not like to be touched. Neither do I. I think this should help.” She explained. Cecily sniffled, and reached her hand hesitantly towards Helaena, who after a moment, gave it a bone-crushing squeeze. “My mother, father and twin brother are all dead.” She confessed in a whisper. “I was reminded of them with the lightning storm.” She hiccuped. “My father died only ‘ere this morn, and my mother went this past April. My brother went in the winter. He was only ten.”

“You said you are ten-and-five, yes?”

“Yes.” Cecily coughed.

“I am truly sorry for your loss, sweet girl. W-when women like us know loss such as this at such young ages, it can be difficult to bear. My son Maelor was murdered in his cradle by assassins. I was forced to choose between him and his older brother.” She squeezed Cecily’s hand again. “I wonder often if the Seven do wish to test my faith and my love for my children with such horrors. I have wondered also why I do not go mad. You must be too.” She looked into Cecily’s eyes and the other woman recoiled in understanding.

“Y-yes.” Indeed, Cecily did wonder why she had not gone mad. Some days it felt like a good, merciful thing to do. Allowing herself to go mad would have meant her father could put her away somewhere. It would allow her a quiet death at her hands or the ones of her guard. Yet the church said to take one’s own life was sin. Did God not look upon her and Helaena and understand their pains? Was this just one test in many they were set to face?

Another flash of lightning, another boom of thunder. The door to the wheel-house opened and Gwayne poked his head in. In the low candlelight with the two women wrapped in blankets, he swore they looked like witches come to cast some spell upon him and this country.

“Your Grace.” He inclined his head. “My lady. We will be stopping for the night on account of the weather. The wheelhouse will keep you dry.” He nodded at Cecily. “If you need anything, please use the bell cord and I shall have a maid sent.”

“How big is this carriage?” Cecily asked after Gwayne had left. Helaena had turned to lighting the candles, which cast a warm golden glow over the room, and turned to face her. “It is large enough to carry us, a retinue of servants, luggage, a garde-robe and kitchens. In short, it is a moving palace.”

“Remarkable.” Cecily was amazed. “Where I hail from our wheel-houses are able to only carry perhaps one noble lady and her children. It is closed by wooden slats and drawn by horses.”

“Draft-horses?”

“Nay, we use others. At least I believe so.” Cecily replied as she rang the bell-cord. A maid came in, richly dressed and curtsied. ‘M’lady.” She had the comforting accent of a northern English woman, and Cecily started. It seemed that her homeland was seeping into this place in more ways than she expected.

“I would like to be readied for bed, please.”

“If ‘er ladyship wishes to follow ‘me, ‘ll ‘ave ‘er ready in no time.” The maid paused. “‘beggin your pardon, m’lady.” The maid curtsied. “‘Er Grace allows us to be much more open about our appearance and mannerisms as ‘he ‘mall folk.”

“Smallfolk?” Cecily inquired. “Ah. Common-people.” She surmised, and rubbed her hands together. “Well, As Her Grace’s lady in waiting, I am inclined to ‘gree.” Her voice was slipping back into its older more rough-and-tumble northern accent with the French roots and Latin pronouncements.

It felt like home.

Helaena gave her a warm smile, and for the first time since arriving into this strange land of dragons and politics, Cecily smiled back. No malice or pain shone in her eyes, and she found herself beginning to feel at home more than perhaps she had ever been since her brother and mother had died.

As she crossed herself and knelt before her bed, the rosary-chain in her hand, she prayed silently to her mother once more.

Maman, Thank you for bringing me to a place as close to home as I can be. I hope that you and Ned and Papa are happy, wherever you are. She opened her eyes and glanced at Helaena who was talking to her snake. And keep a little Targaryen boy in your sights. I feel as though he and Ned would make wonderful playmates.

Cecily crossed herself again and rose to her feet. She returned the crucifix and rosary to her pocket, then clambered into the turned down bed. She watched as the maids reached for tapers to extinguish the candles, and in the darkness, mused on one thing that had been made apparent by a mere day’s travel.

Ser Gwayne Hightower had been the lever and servant to her whims and had accepted them wholeheartedly. She had him to thank for her position. In the morn, perhaps she would ask the cook in this carriage to make him something sweet. Until then, she would sleep, and dream of boys with brown hair and freckles like stars, and somewhere out there, a mother who held her close.

Somewhere out there also was a father who had died in a battle to keep his throne, and one who deserved to know she was at peace.

#wyn rambles #house of the dragon #gwayne hightower #gwayne x reader #ser gwayne hightower #ser gwayne #freddie fox #helaena targaryen #helaena the dreamer #aegon ii #alicent #queen helaena #hotd helaena

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ricardian-werewolf · 1 month ago

Text

Chapter 9: Portrait of a Dead Girl/Beautiful Boy.

Ao3 Link

Summary:

Alina has hit rock bottom. It takes a hard look from Zoya and Genya to get her back up. She has sheathed her claws long enough. Now, she is out for blood.

Notes:

Title taken from two songs by the Last Dinner Party Apologies for the long, long delay. Midterms swallowed me whole, and horrific writers block sapped me of any energy. I hope y'all enjoy!

Taglist: @lordbettany, @dreadbirate, @fauxraven, @hysterionic @rovinglemon

Chapter below the cut!

Alina’s sleep was plagued by painful nightmares.

It seemed as though the memories of the past few months could not flee her mind, even in the depths of post-amplification fever. She tossed and turned in the bed, feeling the pitch-dyed satin sheets rustle as she moved about. The antlers were horrific to get comfortable with sleeping in, since them being around her neck caused some issues. Finally, it seemed as though days had passed, she awoke. As her eyes adjusted, they locked onto the sight of a creature on her chest, snuggled close under her chin and began to purr . It had seemingly endless shadowy limbs that writhed and reformed with every movement it made.

“Oh..” Alina whispered weakly. “Who are you from?” She asked it as it yawned, showing a gaping maw of endless teeth that glittered like distant stars. It couldn’t have been the Darkling. He wasn’t kind enough to send her something like this. No, it had to have been Nikolai.

Alina looked up as a sudden intake of breath filled the room, and stilled at the sight of Genya and Zoya carrying a box of tea and a tray of food respectively. Zoya’s hair was frazzled and crackled with static. Her left cheek bore a long, dark smear of grease or oil. Genya was perfectly pristine, though she now bore an eyepatch on her ruined eye made of the same blood red fabric with the blue embroidery of her Kefta . Both women looked extremely fetching, though even their powers couldn’t hide the crushing exhaustion of being in the Darkling’s camp. The fear of reprisal and violation hung over everything with the delight of plague .

“Morning.” Zoya replied briskly as she marched over to the samovar and set about brewing a pot of tea for them. She fiddled with a match, finally coaxing the wind to allow the sparks to light. She grumbled in Kerch as she worked, never liking to be the one relegated to tea-girl duty. Meanwhile, Genya took out a bowl, saucer and cup from the box on the tray. She held up the plate silently to Zoya. her first finger pointed at the black porcelain with gold rim and in the centre of the plate’s surface, the Darkling’s symbol combined with Alina’s.

Zoya rolled her eyes, and mouthed tacky.

Genya snorted, then stiffened as Alina sat up. The critter gave a sort of almost purr, and skittered across the sheets to sit on Alina’s lap. Genya lifted the lid on the tray and grimaced down at the dinner given to her by the harried cook. Canned vegetable and pheasant soup with hardtack, and wafer thin slivers of chocolate. Peaches swimming in their juices were in a cut crystal bowl, carved into the shapes of suns. Alina noted all of it, and her lip wobbled. She pushed back her greasy hair, feeling the collar around her throat digging into her windpipe, and winced.

“How am I supposed to eat?” She asked softly, feeling the hollows of her cheeks. She felt the antlers around her neck, probing the infected edges. A sob formed in her throat, and she buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook as she clutched the critter to her chest until it gave a plaintive cry of pain. Her hands crept up to her hair and she tugged her long, ragged nails through her dirty tresses. She and Nikolai were no more than a half mile apart, and yet she couldn’t go to him. She was bed bound despite her body and mind being whole and hale. Yet…

You’re weak, Alina. Mal’s been shot, Genya had her eye ripped out, Nikolai is dying, and you’re here, in bed, crying .

“SHUT UP!” Alina cried, clapping a hand over her mouth in shock. She’d not meant to say that aloud. Genya and Zoya jumped, their faces paling. Zoya gave Alina a sideways glance and her eyes roamed the antlers around the girl’s neck. She looked at the older girl like a cornered, wild animal. The months of being on the run, constantly looking over her shoulder and waiting for the Darkling’s snare to take had broken her.

“Self doubt?” The squaller inquired as she poured tea. Alina’s greasy hair and her evident distress made Zoya’s heart twist with pain. She had never truly hated Alina, merely seen her as a threat to her power over the other Grisha. Power, she realised now, was something none of them held. That was all the Darkling. She crossed over to Alina’s side and pressed the tea into her hands. A wave of her hand removed the grease buildup in Alina’s curls and she sighed in relief. Her wan face and plain features were starker in the soft light of the oil lamps that wavered and sputtered around the room, like miniature suns.

“Is Nikolai…?” Alina whispered, daring not to speak of his condition aloud.

“He’s alive. Recovering.” Genya squeezed Alina’s hand. “On his feet already.”

Her eyes brightened at once, and she moved to get out of bed, but Zoya pushed her back down. “You won’t be able to see him, Alina. We must make the Darkling think he’s sicker than he is.”

Alina glared at Zoya.

She glared back.

“I knew that.” Alina snipped, sipping her tea. Zoya hid a brief smile at the surprised expression on the sun Summoner’s face. Even one of the darkling’s favourites knew how to brew a cup of bloody tea. Genya rolled her eyes - eye - and sighed. She turned to examining Alina’s food again and beckoned Zoya over. In low tones of the southern Ravkan districts, the two girls discussed feeding Alina.

“She can probably feed herself.” Genya grimaced. “But the Antlers…” She gave a helpless shrug. Zoya snorted.

“They’re in her collarbone , Safin. She won’t be choking anytime soon.”

“She certainly thinks so.” Genya rubbed at her jaw and turned back to the food. She laid the hardtack against the soup’s surface to soak and handed Alina the tray of food. Alina stared down at it for a moment, then began to eat silently. For all of her training at Ana Kuya’s hands, the starvation of amplification made her forgo her manners. As she drank down the dregs of soup with the bowl’s rim at her lips, her eyes skirted to Zoya again.

“Why’re you helping me?” She asked as she wiped the back of her hand against her mouth. Zoya raised a brow. “Should I not be?” She shot back. “If your estimates are correct, I should have put strychnine in that soup.” Crossing her arms, the squaller sighed and rubbed at the bridge of her nose.

“I hate him as much as you do, Alina, if not more.” She raised her gaze again and shook out her cuffs. “I’m not doing this out of a desire to be your friend, or some sort of cuddly word. We’re allies. We watch one another’s backs, the three of us.” Zoya looked at Genya and then back to Alina. “We all bear his scars.” She replied cryptically.

Genya sat down beside Alina and turned to digging through the drawers of Alina’s vanity. Her face was pale, the black wounds stretching long over her empty eye socket and face. She looked monstrous, as horrific as Zoya’s amplified wrist and Alina’s collarbone. The Darkling’s greed took and took, caring not for a sinner or a saint. Her fingers closed around a black package of silk tied with a pitch coloured ribbon, and she stilled. Alina looked over her shoulder, knowing instantly what that was.

The kefta she had been ordered to wear to the Winter Fete. The one she had refused to wear. The cycle had come back to the beginning. Once more, Alina was powerless, everything out of her control. She cut her gaze to Genya again as the Tailor smoothed down the crinkles in the tissue paper. “Is… is there more?” She breathed, looking at the other drawers. Genya nodded, and began pulling out more silk-wrapped packets. It was a wedding trousseau. This vanity was a glorified steamer trunk with drawers and a closet, turned on its side.

Alina closed her eyes and pressed her palms to her face. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to sit here in this bed with sheets that weren’t hers, in a tent that wasn’t adorned with her symbols. It wasn’t just the collar that kept her bound here. There was more. A noose so tight and so secretive that she couldn’t say she was being strangled without sounding like a madwoman.

“Alina.” Genya’s hand reached out, gripping her wrists tight with the strength of manacles. “Stay here. Stay here, with me.” Her eyes - eye - was wide, like some sort of cornered animal. Alina supposed she must be much the same. A broken girl with nothing to offer the world, not even her light. She squeezed her eyes shut, let the tears drip down her face once more. What was strength when one’s aims and hopes were scattered to the four winds? What was trust and mercy when the knife was always plunged back into the same gaping wound, always twisting?

There would be no bandaging up this scar, no hiding the pain of this cut.

“Is he alive?” Cecily choked, thinking in that moment not of Nikolai but Mal. She didn’t give two shits about him, but knowing he was alive was her sign of the Darkling’s mental stability. If he hadn’t killed such an insignificant tracker, then Nikolai would be safer a little longer.

“Yes.” Zoya replied automatically. “It seems he still has a need for that wretched boy.” She looked over her shoulder at Alina, goading the girl. If rage kept her out of the endless dark pit that was defeat, by the saints, Zoya would be the first in line to keep her upright. The three of them, they kept one another marching, teeth bared and claws unsheathed.

“What kind of need?” Alina growled, leaning forward in the bed. The tray on her lap teetered ominously. Zoya leaned over, her hands clamped down hard on the wood to keep Alina from kicking it up at the Squaller’s next words:

“The need to keep you like some whimpering, simpering whore of a girl.” She purred. The crack of Alina’s fist colliding with Zoya’s nose was welcome. Genya looked up, her eye widening. She stepped forward at once to repair the bones, and Zoya sighed in relief. Shaking out her cuffs, she glared at Alina, who spat out a wad of rock-hard carrot.

“I want that fucker’s head.” She growled. “On his own heraldic platter.”

“Consider it a given, Starkov.” Zoya groaned. “But first we need to cut it off. And to do that, you need to stop lying around crying hysterically. You’ve been through worse shit. Pull yourself up.” She ordered.

Alina swore.

“You…” She scrunched up her face and glared at Genya. “You’re in on this.”

“Of course.” The Tailor snorted. “As Zoya said, I want that fucker as dead as you do. He made me into what I am. I want him to suffer as the Tsar has.” She pushed up the cuffs of her Kefta and picked up Alina’s tray.

“You in, or are you going to keep cowering in that bed, Starkov?”

Alina sucked at her teeth for a moment, then touched the antlers again. She remembered the way the stag had been cut down at the Darkling’s orders, the rage and powerlessness she felt at his hand. His leeching of her power, what was not his. Her light, snuffed out.

Something within her writhed, gnashing its teeth. It wasn’t some sort of animal of prey, hunted and cornered like a wild rabbit. No, it was far more vicious, a pure predator . She looked up at Genya and Zoya again, and pushed the sheets back. The cold air was a shock, but she ground her teeth and forced herself past it.

Swinging her legs down, she stood on steady legs. Her white nightgown swept the floor as she gripped the edge of her vanity and glared at herself in the mirror. She had avoided staring at herself until now, and she forced herself to focus on the antlers, their silver gleam reflected in all of the honey-combed oil lamps and candles scattered around the tent. As her rage rose, the lamps flickered and flared, blooming like miniature, wavering suns.

The creature of pure shadow Nikolai had made her brushed against her feet, chittering excitedly. It purred as she picked it up in her hands and placed it on the vanity in front of her. Glancing through the mirror at Zoya and Genya once more, she gave them steady, sharp stares.

“Call him in.”

It was full night by the time he came to see her.

The Darkling stepped once more into Alina’s tent expecting darkness. What he found, instead, was light . The gas lamps and candles around the space glowed with the light of suns. Alina herself stood by the vanity, dressed in the black kefta he had originally given her for the Winter Fête, her hair pinned up and decked with the infamous garnets of Obetz. The yellow stones suited her ink-dark hair and regal expression. But, what surprised him was the rage that rolled off her skin in waves of visible heat . She radiated power.

Aleksander nearly flinched, nearly let his fear show. He had sought to punch her down, to bring her to heel so that she saw him as her only option. But something, some small seed of righteous power , survived. Not even his hand with the antler’s fragment in it, brought her down. Aleksander averted his gaze for just a second, thinking over what he would say to crack the ground under her feet. Her submission meant everything to him. To chase her, to have her, this maddening obsession, would soothe the raging hunger in his mind.

No matter how much of the world he burned to possess her.

Cocking his head to one side, Aleksander regarded Alina again, saw her hands creep toward the kefta’s collar. Similar to a frill-necked lizard, she pulled the collar out and bared the antlers. her eyes flashed with cold fury.

“You made me this, when we could have been equals.” She spoke softly, but each word was a dagger to his blackened and withered heart, that to him, had just begun to pump blood again.

Alina… His thoughts scattered with the storm of betrayal she threw at his feet. He looked up at her, swallowed once more. She was wide-eyed, her voice reedy with hysterics. If he could just dig up her old insecurities, threaten her with the Tracker’s death, or Saints forbid Prince Nikolai, she’d crack, shatter even.

But that had been then.

Now, he was face to face with something not even he was sure he could tame, nor bring to heel.

“I did it to protect you. Protect the Grisha. We are hunted, Alina. I did this to ensure your safety-”

The words sounded foreign falling from his lips. What he had done was make her a martyr. She was more the Otkazatsky’as than the Grishas. He could see it now. Sankta Alina, with a golden halo, clothed in gold with the silver antlers glowing with pure light. His work of the antlers was not a power play. She’d find her own way to break free from under him soon enough.

Alina, meanwhile, glowered . She was sick of being afraid of this thousand year old man. Lied to at every turn by him. He wanted her to expand the Fold? Fine. Then she’d feed him to the blasted Volcra that her parents or some such became, and go on her merry ass way with Nikolai.

“You did this to control me. To make me your little pet.” She picked up a glass of kvas , slugged it back. To him, this was no time to be drunk. To Alina, this was what she needed . She cast him a dark glare.

“You want me to be your little pet?” She snapped. He winced, smoothed it over with a dark cough and a curl of his lips into a smirk. If she agreed to his power play, then it would be so easy for him to keep her pinned down and malleable. Soon it would be so that she could do nothing but watch as he expanded the Fold to cover the whole of the West, to silence their enemies.

There would be no more war, no more of the money-greedy Kerch and their exploitative work against Grisha, no more of Shu Han’s experiments, no more of Fjerda’s Drüskelle. Nothing that threatened their people would remain, and she would herald in a new age of saints. Mechanization had weakened the need for Grisha. By cutting off access to the West, the need for Grisha would surge, rearing its head. They would be necessary once more, honoured . A deposition of the current Tzar and him taking the throne would all slot together perfectly.

It would be only Ravka. Nothing else would dare breathe, dare go against them. Novyi Zem and its honouring of Grisha would allow them to survive. Until Aleksander got bored and decided to colonise them. However, that would be a problem that was best suited to a few years' time down the line.

Alina sniffed, and slapped the glass down onto the table, which he noted with a wince, was carved with his symbol - the sun in eclipse. She stared at him, and pursed her lips. Crossing her arms over her chest so that the double sunburst on the front of her kefta was hidden, she raised a brow.

“Fine.”

He blinked. She’s agreeing? Why isn’t she fighting me? She should be screaming, be cursing my name aloud, be… His thoughts trailed off, and he stiffened. Something felt off, felt wrong . No girl he’d broken like her before had been so willing to turn around and accept his offer of submission. They so often bared their teeth, never letting his hands near their fragile, trembling pulse points on their throats. But Alina had. She had bared her throat with all of the fire and regalness of a queen, and in turn unsettled him.

He could only stare at her, open mouthed.

“When do we leave?”

Aleksander stilled as he stepped toward the tent flap. The carriages were waiting. The Tracker had fled in the night, and Prince Nikolai had been sent south to recover in the Royal Army Hospital outside Poliznaya. Nothing would protect Alina from him.

Perhaps that’s why she’s so agreeable to me. He thought hopefully, and extended his hand to her. His palm was up, slender and pale in the glimmering light. Alina glanced at it, and sniffed. A maid placed the matching cloak around her shoulders, made of black corecloth. It bore more of the golden sunburst embroidery that she deserved as his queen . The high collar framed her chin, and the cloak fell to her feet, which were encased in impractical heels. Alina flexed her gloved hand, and placed it into Aleksander’s.

What the Darkling did not know was that the cloak had been tailored. Doing more than keeping her warm, it acted as camouflage and dampened her light. Alina’s free hand, hidden under the fabric, produced a glowing, miniature ball of light. She snapped her fingers, and the ball of light extinguished, only to reappear seconds later as all of the camp’s lamps flared to light at once.

The Darkling’s eyes widened as the light flared all around them, and he raised a brow. He flexed his fingers, but the night did not waver, nor flicker out. Confusion registered upon his features, and Alina gave a ghostly smile. “I believe it is a saintly thing to allow the men some light for which to read and rest by.” She replied, knowing that this would soothe the man beside her. Baghra had spoken in mere fragments of her eldest son, but also had mentioned that he feared the dark. Alina dipped her head.

“Indeed.” He replied gruffly, and guided her by the arm to the black lacquered carriage. Fedyor opened the door, and bowed his head, murmuring to the couple: “ Moi Soverenyi, Moya Tsarina. ” The door snapped shut behind Alina and she settled effortlessly into the seat across from the Darkling. Quick, simple flutters of her fingers had the cloak falling from her shoulders. She allowed a female Heartrender stationed in the carriage to wrap her in thick, fur blankets and place heated bricks under her feet. The Darkling afforded himself no such luxury.

The crack of the reins jolted the carriage into motion, and through the crack in the curtains, Alina saw the fort and its Grisha camp grow smaller with each passing second. She laid back, and sighed deeply. Behind the black carriage, the red Corporalki carriage fell into line, then the blue Etheralki carriage. She knew that Zoya would no doubt be there, along with Genya, perhaps.

But what neither knew was the silent, steady purr of a motorbike moved to trail the convoy. For atop it was a rider whose body and soul crawled with the Morozova taint; a boy who had seen the darkness in others, and forced himself above it. Slung across his back was a repeating rifle, and strapped to his belt were two pistols. His booted feet clenched fast to the great machine’s flanks, and he adjusted the strap of his goggles over his eyes.

A feral, fox-like grin split his face as the moon emerged from behind the cloud cover. He watched how it painted the lacquered carriages in jewel-bright tones, and shifted his foot placement.

Under his skin, the shadows sang and writhed with the promise of bloody, righteous vengeance. For him, for his childhood friends, and for the woman he loved. He certainly knew she could handle herself, but Nikolai Alexandrovich Lantsov was not the kind of man to leave a duel un-answered.

He pulled his goggles over his eyes, and let the engine roar. The cry broke the night sky like a crack in the ice, and with a howl of war, Nikolai gave chase.

As he roared off into the distance, Dominik watched him go from his office window, and turned his head. Now, it would be his turn to act, to have the First Army desert the Tsar and follow their prince. He picked up the telephone resting on his oak desk, and dialled a number he knew by heart.

In the room across from him, Baghra snapped her carpetbag’s mouth shut and strode out of the fort’s walls, to a simple cart embellished with a red cross on a white circle. Propping herself against the wall, she felt the cart judder under her, and begin to creep forwards. Glancing around the half-lit space, she turned her attention to the wounded at her feet. No more boys would die, none more deserved to.

It would take three days to reach Kirbirsk. There, the stories of Alina and Nikolai had converged. Now, once more, they would meet again, under far darker and more drastic circumstances. It would be seen as to how the events unfolding went, and what good would come of things.

End of Chapter 9.

****************

End of Act II: Twist the Knife

Beginning of Act III: Saints, Guns and Money.

#nikolai lantsov #wyn rambles #shadow and bone #alina starkov #nikolina #fic: I don't want to set the world on fire

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ricardian-werewolf · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 3: Strangeness and Charm

MASTERLIST

Chapter I

Chapter II

______________________________________________________________

Summary:

Cecily-Anne is put into the hands of Team Black during a prisoner exchange, and settles into Dragonstone. She also meets Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, and takes stock of what she must do to survive.

TWs:

Mentioned/Referenced SA, trauma, grief, loss of family.

Tag list: @lordbettany, @fauxraven, @rmelster

Being a prisoner at the hands of the Greens had broken Cecily-Anne irreparably. As she stood in the vast entrance of Dragonstone, wrapped in merely a travelling cloak and her stained bedrobe, she was truly conscious of her frailty. Once more, she was a leaf in a gale, tossed hither and fro without a care. Despite her favour at court as Halaena’s lady-in-waiting, her dark hair and blue eyes; her northern accent and lack of understanding of Westerosi culture had put her into a precarious position. Now, she was being exchanged as a prisoner of war. Aegon had assumed her to be a member of the Stark family or some other Northern family (she’d heard rumours of her as a Mormount bastard). Since it had seemed like these Starks were pursuing an alliance with the Targaryens, Aegon wished to have her stuffed into a cell. Unlike most men of his court, he cared not for her highborn legitimacy. Whatever Alicent saw in him was severely misplaced.

But what Cecily had learned as Helaena’s lady-in-waiting in those first few months had been invaluable. Like the England of her world, a highborn lady wielded considerable power. While unable to take up arms and fight, a highborn lady and her retinue wielded serious fiscal and political control over the realm, vassals and any tenants her husband or her own lands were serviced by. With Helaena as Queen and Alicent as the Dowager, their retinue of ladies in waiting were evenly split between the major households of the south and the houses of Essos who had gone with The Greens.

House Velaryon had gone to the Blacks, due to Queen Rhaenyra having wed the father of her three sons, Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey many years earlier. With her had been Princess Rhaenys of Targaryen and Baratheon lineage - the Baratheons had been split in going with the Hightower off-shoot of Targaryens - what Cecily coined as “Rhaen-garyens,”. She had come from a world where boys were commonly all named Edward, or Richard. Women in her own lineage were named Anne or Cecily. Common denominations to keep that in check included nicknames such as “Nan,” or their “Of the castle/town of birth,”. Because last names were not a common signifier in England (unlike Westeros, which were a sign of pride or scorn), Cecily had had a horrific time trying to keep track of just the names of the people within the household of the Hightowers.

She hadn’t even had a chance to unravel the mysteries of the small council. What she did know was the “Hand of the king,”, some form of official status in the king’s circle that she thought was similar to the chief advisors of her father’s days. He was signified by a literal chain of metal hands that acted as a chain of office.

Lord Chamberlain of England.

Cecily was not a stupid girl. She had been raised all her life, from her very days in swaddling cloth, to be a noblewoman. She could balance an accounts book from Michaelmas to Michaelmas, keep track of stores, manage an army of small-folk servants. She knew what her own terms of marriage had been to Manuel - she’d assisted her parents in drawing them up and providing her father with what she needed as a good, catholic lady of fortune. She spoke Portuguese, Latin and French. Now, she was taking in the languages of Westeros through simply sitting with her embroidery as Helaena held court with her ladies and hearing of their troubles in places such as the Riverlands. Her dowry was sizable chunks of the north of England. Men certainly made war, but the women of the nobility often negotiated secondary treaties to the first, or interceded when trade deals went awry.

Now, she stood in another court, in another castle. Her third one in three months. A part of her hungered for her tongue of her people, for the familiar smells and voices of a mummery composing ballads. She longed to stare up at the banners and see the Bear and Ragged Staff; the Lovell wolf and the Sunne in Splendour crowning it all. But instead she stared up at the Targayen red two-headed dragon on black canvas, and the Velaryon sea-horse against a teal backing. These houses had stood against the Greens, taken up arms against them. A similar story to her own - over the right of inheritance of a throne.

The game of thrones simply changed locations and times, yet was eternal. Stretching her chained hands, Cecily sighed. She allowed the guards to lead her through the stone corridors that leached the heat from one’s body, and looked up at the slit-windows. The rumble of the sea crashed like distant thunder, and despite the fact that Cecily was once more a prisoner, she was too tired and too angered to fight. She didn’t want to remember what had happened at Aegon’s hands.

Sin had corrupted the greens like rot and crept all the way up. Cecily gnawed at the inside of her cheek with her back teeth. The pain focused her, allowing the memories to fade. She did not make conversation with her guard, nor plead the man’s mercy. Instead, she stepped into the small councilroom and took in the great stone map of Westeros. Illuminated by candles under its feet, the work was a piece of masterful masonry. It showed in all of its true geographic features the expanse of Westeros from end to end, and she could see the sigils of each house carved into the rock.

“It is obsidian.” A voice at her elbow murmured and Cecily turned to stare into the ink-black eyes of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. His mother’s heir and bastard, his face was the same pale of his Targaryen forefathers but his hair was undoubtedly the colour of Harwin Strong. A member of the Black council, he served as his mother’s voice of reason and sword to enact her will. Not a hand of the Queen by any means, but a powerful boy. Distantly, Cecily felt grief stir in her.

If Ned had lived, this would be him. A prince, honourable, inheriting great titles. The sword-point that could have brought down Tudor. Instead, Ned had died and Cecily had lived. She was the useless one, the one packed off to marry a Portuguese prince - all for naught. Now she was in another time, another place and worse off than ever.

“I see.” Cecily inclined her head. “Thank you, Your Grace, for inform-”

“You are not some common wench.” He raised a brow. “No. It would seem not. You are too well fed, under those ragged robes. You hold your head too high. So.” Jacaerys cast his gaze towards his mother’s councilmen and ladies, who exchanged glances.

In low tones, he leaned over and murmured: “And you are welcome. It was I who arranged for your release.”

With that cryptic statement shared only between them, Jacaerys straightened, and examined his gloved hands. “Shall we begin, gentlemen, your Graces?”

Cecily straightened, confusion running through her from the tip of her tongue to her toes. Shock painted her face. She was not being passed judgement, nor being hauled away to some cell. At the head of the table, Queen Rhaenyra signalled to her guard. A key was produced and the shackles removed from her hands and feet. Attempting to step forward, Cecily stumbled. Jacaerys’s gloved hand stuck fast around her elbow. “Come now. Not even a noble lady such as yourself would dare tread upon her own skirts?” He teased. She glared at him, rage burning anew in her eyes. Was he as bad as Aegon? Would this all be some jest, only for her to be thrown once more into some dank cell? Would he do as Henry Tudor had done and spit upon her form? Dare imply that she was naught more than a whore insufficient for bedding? He had already called her no wench. What was worse?

“A lady of no standing claiming to be a noblewoman is taken into the Greens court and given to the queen as a lady-in-waiting?” Rhaenyra raised a hand containing a paper that her spies must’ve taken from the Red Keep. Cecily stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. Sweat crowded under her armpits, rolled down her temple. She shook with the effort of keeping herself stationary, from picking up something and screaming as she tore the room apart. She was tired. Tired of having every movement questioned, of moving on what she thought was a clear path. Instead, she found every movement she made caused brambles to tie themselves to her legs and pull her further into the darkness. She was tired of being scrutinised, of having no safe harbour to flee to.

“Who is she?”

Cecily jerked, her head looking up at last, into the queen’s violet eyes. Her hair, oily and ragged from no washing, was pushed off the nape of her neck as Cecily discarded her shawl and bedrobe.

Under both, she wore merely a dirty, bloodied shift. Blood still caked her shaking legs. Her hands shook as she bent down to remove from the bedrobe’s pocket her crucifix and rosary. She did all of this with much hesitancy, watching the members of the Queen’s guard and small council with wide, frightened eyes. Prince Jacaerys’s touch reviled her. Fear sat heavy in her stomach and she knew that she would have to say the unmentionable, to make it so.

“I am Princess Cecily-Anne of House Plantagenet. We are a house ruined by war and strife, left only in our male line to a traitor king. We have suffered much, and gained little. I am the daughter of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and his lady Duchess Anne Neville. My twin brother was crowned Prince of Wales before sickness took him shortly ‘ere his twelfth name-day.” She paused.

“I was taken into the care of Queen Halaena on the basis that her family regarded her unable to care for herself. Ser Gwayne Hightower took-” She coughed weakly into her elbow. “The care to send a letter to her convoy and inform her that I had been found and was in all estimations, a perfect candidate.”

“How long were you in the Queen’s service?” Rhaenyra stepped down towards Cecily, the train of her gown sweeping the floor. Her hair tumbled down her back in long waves and a crown laid atop her head. She bore no signifiers of the fashion of Cecily’s own time, though the sight of her ladies wearing what seemed to be coifs and veils was welcome.

“S-several weeks, alas, Your Grace.” Cecily averted her gaze, but her breath hitched as Rhaenyra gripped her jaw in hand and turned it toward the light. “Tell me, Princess. Have you suffered much at the hand of that false King, Aegon?”

Cecily swallowed, not trusting herself to speak. She pressed her legs tighter together, and cast her gaze nervously to Rhaenyra’s council, who looked to be in varying states of disgust. Jahaerys’s gaze was locked on her trembling body, and something akin to rage simmered within him.

“You need not ask, Mother. Look at how she trembles. He has ruined her, made her damaged.”

“Is what my son speaks true, Your grace?”

The respectful usage of her title made Cecily nearly weep with relief. Her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, clinging to Rhaenyra's skirts. “Yes.” She cried softly. “Yes, he speaks the truth.” Her face was pressed into the dark stone floor and she shuddered with cold and hunger.

“But this is not all you wish for, no?” Rhaenyra lifted Cecily’s head. “There is a rage within you that does not extend to Aegon - he is too low for you to dirty your sword with his blood. You seek, it seems, a better quarry.”

Cecily nodded, and spoke softly.

“I seek to kill the man who tore my father’s realm apart, who callously threw his corpse over the back of a steed and marched it through the town of Leicester. I know not what has become of my father’s corpse, but it is an evilty and affront to God.”

She sniffed.

“I seek to sink the blade of my father’s knife-” She lifted the hem of her shift. Tied to her inner thigh on a mere scrap of ribbon was a sheathed knife. “-into the heart of Henry Tudor.”

The room went deathly silent. The guards did not move, but their hands hesitated on their sword hilts. Rhaenrya merely gave a grim smile, and eased Cecily’s shift down once more. She cupped Cecily’s face in her hands.

“Then I shall grant you the sanctuary needed to hunt this quarry of yours, who so defiled your father.”

Cecily’s emotional walls shattered, and she wept without restraint, clinging to the queen who had brought her finally, a sense of safety. Rhaenyra waved off the maesters and her ladies with a gentle hand, and had Jacaerys help get Cecily upright. “Have her washed and clad in something more befitting her station.” She called to her son and the maid gripping Cecily’s other arm.

The maid nodded, averting her gaze.

***

Washing her proved easier than anyone assumed.

Weeks - no, months of grief with no hope of relief had caused Cecily’s body and mind to stutter to a stop. She was eerily silent and still as the maids cleaned her body and hair. They used soap she would’ve called Castille to clean her hair and the blood from her legs. An elder serving maid tended to her intimate areas, knowing the violation that had befallen the princess. Many a girl of a station lower than hers had suffered such at the hands of invaders or Westerosi man alike. But for a noblewoman, it was sinful. The pride of clean, holy women had carried into Westeros society, yet the violation of such a law called for honour-bound, brutal violence. Violence had already torn the realm of the Seven Kingdoms apart as Aegon had usurped the throne from Rhaenyra’s rightful claim simply for two reasons:

The first that he was a man, and the second was that as Alicent and Viserys’s son, the belief of a firstborn boy inheriting was inherent in the laws of rulership. Cecily herself would never be a powerful enough claim to take the throne. Only through marriage, as her cousin Elizabeth was doing, could she bring the York lineage any closer to the throne. She stirred sluggishly, and focused on the room around her. Blinking, Cecily-Anne squinted.

“Where are my spectacles?”

“Here, Your Grace.” One of the maids placed the glasses on Cecily’s nose and she sighed in welcome relief. “Thank you.” Allowing the maids to haul her from the tepid bathwater, Cecily refused to look at herself in the silver-backed looking glass. It was more out of habit than the recent trauma that had befallen her. She knew that stretching across her stomach was a scar of two jagged lines. She knew of their origin, for she and her brother had been born a month ‘ere their predetermined dates. Cecily had ailed and struggled for the first few months, nearly coming close twice. But she did not flag where other children would have, and her parents had considered it a holy miracle.

Now the Holy Mother had sent Cecily to this foreign land where she felt nothing but fear. It scared her to no end. As she watched the maids brush out her hair and apply oils to help it retain its lustre, she found herself remembering her mother’s ladies do the same. Sitting in the vanity chair, her hands in her curls as they gently ran the comb though, Cecily was hit with an overwhelming wave of homesickness. She pressed a hand to her eyes, and spoke hoarsely:

“I believe that is enough. Thank you.”

The maids looked at one another, but did not push the matter. “What else will you need, Your Grace?”

“Nothing.” Cecily replied. “Please, go.” She sighed, and watched them leave from the corner of her eye. Once the wooden door had shut, Cecily walked over and stood in front of it for a good few moments. Finding the latch, she traced the keyhole with a finger. A door with a lock. Not even she’d gotten that as Helaena’s lady in waiting. She’d been waiting so long for the court to approve her, and yet she was still expected to pay favour to the queen and accompany her. It was exhausting, and boring. Because she’d been so closely under guard, any true conversation with Helaena was impossible. Now, she stared at the lock, admiring the raised relief of the dragon carved around the keyhole. She pushed the jamb down, and stepped back, her breath quickening.

Yet not with elation.

Fear. The fear of being hurt as she had by Aegon - or was it Aemond? Her memory was terrible and the fact that she couldn’t truly pin the blame on one man or the other terrified her. It had all been some awful mistake; a break-in into her chambers one night. Whoever of the Targayen boys it had been, was deep into his cups and knew exactly who she was. Why break a highborn woman when the maid-servants were all so willing to be taken for a few coin?

Because it keeps me silent.

Cecily stepped back from the door again and stared at the wooden frame with unease. It seemed to be made of strong wood, but then again, she knew from experience of sieges from her father’s books. Doors could be picked or broken into. Thieves willing to work dirty jobs with high prices attached were common. Blood and Cheese had broken into a palace and done unspeakable horrors to Helaena’s children. The youngest had been brutally slaughtered, all because Prince Aemond had slaughtered Lucerys Velaryon.

An eye for an eye, a son for a son.

Why not go for Aemond? She thought hopelessly. Why me? Why Me? Why exchange me as a prisoner? I’m just a girl. A ten-and-five year old girl who has no skill but as a nobleman’s wife and is far out of their league in learning than what is expected!

Cecily reeled back from the door and scrambled toward the bed on shaking legs. She tugged up the coverlet, ignoring the fine silks of the bed-curtains. The blood-red of it all, from the curtains to the woven floor rugs, reminded her painfully of the York Murrey. She hungered desperately, with the madness of a daughter grieving, to be abed in her tower room at Middleham Castle.

But never again would she see that room. Never would she sit in her favourite window-seat and look out the oriel window to the village nestled in the castle’s great shadow. She would never again hear the calls of servants and squires to one another as her mother reigned with a firm, yet kindly hand. A queen of her own domain, now interned in the great marble and stone prison of her effigy. She should have been buried in York Minister along with Ned.

Oh, Ned… Cecily felt tears form behind her eyes. The night of his death haunted her. Shaking her head, Cecily leaned over in the bed and tapered the candles with the nearby taper. Darkness flooded the room, and Cecily for a moment deceived herself into being home in Middleham, the ocean’s roar being no more than distant thunder. But the sounds of dragons calling to one another sent her once more tumbling from her sanctuary point. Down, into the darkness of endless night and pain Cecily-Anne fell.

For with the darkness of a child’s grief came an uneasy sleep that made her envy, as always, the dead.

End of chapter 3.

#wyn rambles #richard iii #Hotd #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x reader #prince jacaerys #hotd jacaerys #Alicent Hightower #aegon ii targaryen #the wars of the roses #the dance of the dragons

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ricardian-werewolf · 16 days ago

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Chapter 10: The Show Must Go On!

Summary: Nikolai is faced with a conundrum in the leadership of his beloved Ravka, and Alina comes to him in the night needing more support than either Genya or Zoya can provide. Things escalate quite a bit. taglist: @lordbettany, @malkaleh, @fauxraven

Chapter below the cut

Kirbirsk, First Army Encampment, 3 days later.

Nikolai’s fingers clasped tight around the tin mug of coffee Isaak had handed him hours ago.

With it having gone cold, he found his fingers frozen stiff with the reality of riding for three straight days from the north of Ravka to its western edge. Standing as he did now, he found his toes cracking and popping inside the prison of his knitted socks. It was warmer here, frightfully so, and Nikolai had been quick to remove his scarf and goggles in succession. They were tossed carelessly along with his jacket over the back of his chair. Staring up at him, brows furrowed, was Colonel Raevsky of the 22nd Regiment. On Dominik’s orders, he’d been informed that Nikolai was following the Black General’s convoy. He had been told also, in stilted code, that the Sun Summoner was here.

Raevsky regarded him with a raised brow.

“What do you intend to do, Major?” He asked, crossing his arms. Nikolai sipped his coffee, grimaced, and ran his hands over the mug to strengthen the metal. Placing it on the rim of the oil lamp at his elbow, he turned back to the colonel. It would be easy for him to say that he intended to lead the First Army into the Fold in a victorious charge a la the Light Brigade, but that would be a tactical disaster.

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!” he said.

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

He knew, from Dominik and Isaak, that First Army’s entire 24 regiments had been sent from their forts and posts to witness this miracle. However, the need for First Army to be there to witness the actions of such a man as the Darkling confused Nikolai. He knew that the Apparat had helped the Darkling take the throne from his father - Genya’s poison had worked too well.

Good riddance.

But Vasily was hardly the man to lead Ravka. Too many of his father’s ministers would use the power vacuum to seize ownership and legitimacy where they would have none under Nikolai’s rule. For that matter, the idea of Vasily leading his cavalry regiment to witness Alina’s saintly coronation frightened him. She was something far too precious, far too unique to be drowned in the mire and muck of court rule in the hands of the older generation. Nikolai found himself gnawing at his thumb cuticle as he thought all of this over, and flexed his free hand worriedly.

“What would you suggest?” Nikolai threw back, worry creasing his brows. He turned to his coffee and sipped it, relishing in the warmth. Colonel Raevsky glanced over his papers, shifting a few of them across his desk. He unfolded several tactical maps of the Unsea and its markers. Neither man knew what the Darkling planned, and it frightened both of them. “The other regimental leaders are assuming that whatever the General has planned, it’s a diversionary tactic. With our Tsar in such poor health, the cabinet has moved to speak with the war Ministry on whether to take up martial law or not.”

“Martial law?” The cup of coffee fell from Nikolai’s fingers with a clatter , and he cursed. “Has the ministry been informed of this happening-” He waved his hand outside at the general setting up of the second army’s tents in the one space set aside for them. “Was my brother told?”

“Of course.” Raevsky’s moustache quivered as he huffed in evident displeasure over the coffee staining his ottoman rug. Nikolai gave him a dark glare. “And he elected to mention that he wished to delay any sort of troop movement until his father was in better health.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Nikolai ground his teeth. “And-”

“As a result.” Raevsky pressed on, ignoring Nikolai’s curse. He shifted some more files on his desk and then held out a manilla folder stamped with the ministry’s seal. Printed in bold cyrillic across the top were the words: PRIVATE. FOR PRINCE NIKOLAI’S EYES ONLY.

Nikolai’s brows furrowed once again as he lifted the seal’s edge with a penknife and tore open the file. Staring him clearly in the face was a piece of blue carbon papers with more typed words, and a TOP SECRET stamped in the right hand corner. His hands began to tremble as he realised just what he was holding. In the case of the heir being unable to work proactively with the war ministry in place of the Tsar, the ministry had the ability to hand the power of rulership to any of the Tsar’s other sons.

Even if they were a bastard.

Nikolai chewed at his lower lip and began to sift through the files. The papers discussed what would happen in terms of military structure, absorption of Second Army under the crown’s rule in case of the Darkling’s uprising - which had happened! - and who would be punished. Nikolai winced at the thought of having to execute these orders, and turned his head to look out the tent flap. Sparing only a few of them would mean that First Army would bay for blood. The fragile and strained relationship between the two armies could be his undoing. But his going after the Grisha would alienate Alina from him perhaps forever. Nikolai ran a hand through his curls.

“When’s this meeting?”

“So you accept?” Raevsky muttered. “Good.” His eyes brightened, and he slid a box toward Nikolai. Nikolai’s pulse thundered in his ears as his gaze shifted to the box. The Tsar’s rule was legitimised by both the crown on his head, but the coronation ring. Where the Lantsov Emerald was the Tsarina’s ring, the Alta Ruby would go only on the Tsar’s finger. Nikolai’s fingers twitched.

“It’s not like Vasily to not claim power when it’s given to him.” He said aloud suddenly, quickly snapping the file shut and winding the ribbon around it. Fear made him uneasy, and the reality of such a heavy burden on his shoulders caused him to pause. Looking at Raevsky, Nikolai sighed. He needed verbal confirmation that what was happening was the truth. He’d been hunted, shot, nearly died twice, and all to protect Alina from the Darkling. Now power was being handed to him on a silver platter, and he was expected merely to scrape and bow and say yes to the massacre of people who may have allied themselves with a monster who went against the crown? All in order to protect them? Nikolai twitched again.

“His Highness is not in much order to do anything .” Raevsky replied dismissively. “He has abandoned the capital for the fields of-”

Careyeva. Where he goes, as is his veteran’s right - despite seeing no action - to drown out his memories. If only he knew a mere scrap of what the horrors of war can appear as.

Nikolai’s thoughts churned with all the anger of a tempestuous sea, and he glanced down at the box again. He could slip that ring onto his finger, take control of First Army, and go toe to toe with his brother. Rain down hellfire and fury. But the Grisha who had been so effortlessly persecuted even without Fjerdan propaganda seeping into their states like rot, there was still danger. Ravka had only recently become better. If he did not take control of First Army, steer her toward the shore of the nation over the people, he would be no better than his father!

“I’ll do it.”

The words fluttered from Nikolai’s mouth and he stiffened, feeling at once that uncanny dissonance between his mind and body that he hated with all of his heart. He stopped, and glanced down at the ring again. Before his mind could catch up to his body, Nikolai flipped the lid on the red velvet jewel box open and stared down at the Alta Ruby. Men of lesser spirit than him had worn this ring and died wearing it. They’d made Ravka into what she was in this day, yet also doomed Fortuna's wheel to spin ever onwards.

He’d break the wheel.

Let his false father and mother see what their adopted, feckless, second son could do with Ravka under his control. This ceaseless war against Fjerda would end. The Fold would be torn to pieces, cast out with Alina’s holy light. The Apparat wished to venerate her? He’d have to do so from the very depths of hell where Nikolai knew, he would one day bring that monster to.

Nikolai flexed his hand, feeling the bite of the gold band of the Tsar’s ring dig into his flesh. Raising a brow, he met Raevsky’s gaze again, and gave the man a hint of a smile. He glanced over his shoulder to the huddled tents surrounding the largest camp on this side of the Fold, and then turned his head back. Protocols would need to be followed, and he needed new heraldry if the crown was to be his. Nikolai rolled his shoulders back, tucked the manilla envelope under his arm, and reached for his kepi.

“Tell the men by the morning.” He ordered, and turned to leave.

“Yes, Moi Tsar .” Raevsky murmured, bowing his head. Nikolai smiled softly, and left as rapidly as he could. Crossing the expanse of packed earth to his tent, Nikolai watched the soldiers still not yet abed smoke and play cards. Some, he knew, found solace in the whorehouses scattered like small satellites near the edges of the once sleeping town of Kirbirsk, near the single chapel with its blue onion domes and gold crosses. It had been here he had made his first Fold crossing at 17, weeks after saving Dominik from the jaws of death. It had been here that he’d been posted before crossing once again to head back to Os Kervo and the Volkvolny.

Here, had been Alina.

Now, as he raised his head and looked across the sea of canvas tents to the Grisha pavilion with the massive, ink-black tent and the smaller tents hosting the other Grisha orders, Nikolai shivered. The darkness inside him, the shadow summoner he was by birth and from the Darkling’s magic with the stag, writhed . It wanted Alina close. It wanted her safe, free from the Darkling’s corrosive and controlling grasp. Nikolai turned his head away from the pavilion. However, as he did, he felt the darkness within him perk up. Turning back, he saw the tent flaps part and a familiar, little form creep out. Clad in a jet black cape with gold sunburst embroidery and her hair braided, Alina crossed down the set of rickety wooden steps and crept through the camp. The wind tugged at her braid, sending strands flying every which way. She looked sicklier than ever, which caused Nikolai’s heart to tug in his chest. He stopped in his tracks, and then crept closer.

“Alina.” He breathed, watching her turn. In the half light cast by the flicker of an oil lamp, she looked like a saint sent to this place to either redeem his soul, or cast it into darkness. She stared at him a moment more, and then began fumbling with her cape’s hooks. As she unclasped it, he saw not the black and gold kefta of the winter fete, but a milk-white nightgown, simple and unadorned. She gave a weak smile, and shivered. The cold air sliced through her like a knife, and she drew the cape more tightly around her shoulders.

“Come on.” Nikolai murmured, gently throwing his arm around her. With not even a whisper of protest, he helped her toward his tent. Flipping the flaps back, he nudged her inside. Once more, to his eyes, the ornate and redundant heavy tapestries kept the light filtering in at only a weak trickle. The warm Fjerdan pelts were thrown on his set of armchairs upholstered in rich emerald velvet, between which stood an ice cold samovar. With Isaak retired for the night, Nikolai had let things slide a little in his absence. He busied himself with making tea as Alina let her cape drop to the floor in a puddle of ink-black silk and corecloth. Unknown to her, light wreathed her skin and caused her body to glow much in the way fireflies did. She examined the tapestries hanging on the walls of his tent with gentle, prodding fingers. Silence hung over them, crowding in at the edges much like the shadows that pooled about in the tent’s far corners. Nikolai examined his bundle of leaves and let them set about steeping. Raising his head again, he caught Alina’s gaze stuck on the tapestry he ’ d commissioned - the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, cursed to wander eternally through the underworld until the lord of death would be kind enough to let Orpheus guide his lover from the cold and dark of the world below. He had honestly no idea why at the time he’d commissioned it. The artist, while an excellent weaver, had given Eurydice white hair and a gold gown.

For saint’s sake, Orpheus wasn’t blonde either.

Nikolai shrugged and returned to his tea making, while Alina cocked her head to one side.

“Who are they?” She asked, tapping the tapestry he’d just been examining. Nikolai sniffed, and finally seated himself on one of the two armchairs. His fingers dipped into the drawer of the samovar’s table, and he began fiddling with the bag of gears he’d been working on the day he’d been sent to take Alina east.

“Orpheus and Eurydice.” He replied, finally.

Alina raised a brow. “I didn’t learn Greek myths.” She answered, and crossed her arms. In this low light, the white of her nightgown made her look more ghostly than mortal. Nikolai sighed, and returned to his tinkering.

“Orpheus was a mortal man who, given a lyre by Apollo that made it impossible for man nor beast to resist his music, fell in love with a woman named Eurydice. They were both very happily married, until one day Eurydice was dancing with a group of Nymphs, got bitten by a snake and died instantly.”

Nikolai paused in his tinkering to fish out two tea glasses, and made Alina a cup of tea exactly as she liked it - a splash of milk and a hint of sugar. Alina accepted the glass and sipped it wanly, scrunching up her nose. “Sorry.” She apologised quickly. “I’ve been struggling with food… lately.” She winced and scratched the back of her neck. “My powers…” She gestured weakly to the antlers sticking from her skin, and pressed her knuckles to her lips.

“Fucking hell.” She added shortly. “I think…” Tears blossomed in her eyes. “Either I’ll make it through whatever the Darkling’s planned for our wretched little crossing tomorrow, or I’ll die tonight. I’ve still not decided.”

She looked at him then, her eyes dark and wide with an animalistic fear - the kind of glance a creature caught in a trap gave its potential saviour. Nikolai’s brows furrowed and he placed the glass of tea in his hand down onto the table. Standing up, he coaxed the glass from her hand and found that her palm was bleeding from the jagged edges of her grip.

“Alina…” He breathed, touching her cheek. “Why didn’t you have Zoya or Genya tell me…?”

“They didn’t know!” Alina burst out, closing her wounded fingers into fists. She ducked her head and looked down at the rug and rush strewn floor. “I didn’t want them to know. I didn’t…” She broke off again, and pressed her hands to her temples. Blood dribbled down her cheek, and she curled inwards on herself, pressing her chin to her chest.

“I can’t be what you need.” She breathed. “I can’t be what anyone needs.” With all the effort of a dam breaking, Alina’s legs wobbled and she collapsed. Nikolai’s hands reached out and grasped her tight, one hand snaking up into her hair while the other steadied her back. Pressing her face into his shoulder, Nikolai ran his fingers through her curls as Alina sobbed without remorse. They were the kind of sobs that wracked her entire body and frame, with the sick gasps of someone pushed too far over the edge into the dark. Nikolai merely held her tight and ran his hands through her hair. He could do little else, even as his heart tore and cracked under the strain of his lover’s pain.

Oh yes. He thought, brushing his lips against the crown of Alina’s head. I love her. I love her with all of the fire and fury this world has to possess, and I would destroy myself for her.

“You are exactly what I need. You always have been.” He murmured against the shell of her ear, tucking himself to be partially coiled around her. Nothing would touch her as long as he was here. “And for what anyone else needs?” He tilted her chin up, glancing down into those fathomless depths of the rich earthen brown of her eyes, and smiled.

“Fuck them. They don’t need you. They don’t deserve you.” He breathed. “The Darkling wishes to make you his Saint, the Apparat his martyr, my father his little ornament. But you are none of those things, sunshine . And you never will be, unless you wish it so.”

Alina hiccuped, and sniffled.

“You say that, and yet…” Her hand snaked up to the antlers, smearing her blood across the surface. She glanced at him again with those widened eyes, and Nikolai sighed, gently reaching for her hand. He pressed his lips to the bloodied skin, and Alina’s eyes widened, but she did not pull back.

“Yet, you are still wounded. Still someone else’s.” His hands dropped from hers and reached up to the antlers. His fingers skimmed the chilled bone, searching for a hinge, a catch. But David’s work was seamless.

“But this will not be your shackle for long, sweetheart.”

Alina swallowed and looked at him long and hard.

“How can you be so bloody sure?” She whispered.

“Morozova made more than one amplifier. There is another.” He lifted her hand and pressed his thumb and second finger around the expanse of her wrist, which made Alina’s skin prickle with gooseflesh, albeit welcome. “The Darkling contracted a notorious privateer to find it.” His expression was turning wickedly charming, and Alina felt her heart skip in her chest.

“You…?” She whispered.

“Who else?” He murmured, touching her cheek again. “Come west with me, Alina. Leave Ravka behind. As a member of my crew, you would be honoured. Be amongst fellows such as yourself. Grisha. Orphans. Outcasts . We could put a head start on the Darkling, get the sea whip before he even thinks to follow you. Return to Ravka, and…” His ringed hand cupped her other cheek, and she felt the cold sting of the gold.

“...Claim the throne of Ravka. There are two thrones on that dias. Think of it, Alina. Us, ruling, justly and fairly. Two outcasts made into the most powerful people of Ravka. Our dynasty would be eternal. Endless.”

Alina’s eyes widened. She could see it as easily as he described it. And, for the first time in her short life, she didn’t feel fear about such a momentous change. It felt right . Welcome, like she’d felt when she’d figured out how to call the light willingly. Now, she would be stronger than what even the Darkling could offer. He’d called her his Queen, yes, but that had been in a place of subservience. Now, it was an equal partnership being laid at her feet.

“Yes.” Alina breathed, her eyes widening. Without thinking, she brushed her lips against Nikolai’s in a chaste kiss, and pulled back, shock colouring her cheeks. The look Nikolai gave here was devilish, sinful. With a smirk, he cupped her cheeks once more and brought his lips down upon hers. The crash of his cracked lips against her raw ones was not unwelcome, and she smelt his scent of brandy and sea salt against her nostrils as his lips melded effortlessly against hers. Distantly, she felt him pull back, only to lay open-mouthed kisses down the expanse of her throat. His fingers pushed aside the buttons of her foppish and conservative nightgown’s collar, and she heard his voice softly murmur something.

“Tell me to stop.” He breathed.

“Don’t.” She replied. This was all moving so fast, so suddenly. But unlike with the Darkling, who had been all take with nothing given back, this was warm and welcoming. Nikolai gave and ensured none of her was left wanting. She felt his hands skim down her back, lifting her, and her head lolled back. Her hands skimmed up the back of his tunic and fisted in the seams of his shoulders as they fitted together. The height made for some awkwardness, but Alina’s back was soon sinking into the expanse of the featherbed mattress topping Nikolai’s cot.

She quickly lost herself to the passion of the moment, and when bliss came, it was as welcome and filling as she had always read about in the stories Ana Kuya had told her were for older girls. But, as Alina lay tucked against Nikolai’s chest, his arm over her stomach and lips pressed into her shoulder, she realised that this was what love was about. The horrors of the world were far easier to handle when one was given the rock solid support of a lover.

Which, Alina knew as she drifted off into that calm and endless post coital bliss, she had with her fox prince.

End of chapter 10.

#harriet rambles #nikolai lantsov #shadow and bone #alina starkov #nikolina #fic: I don't want to set the world on fire

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ricardian-werewolf · 4 months ago

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Chapter 6: Crawl Out through the fallout!

Summary:

Alina, Nikolai and Genya are on the run from the Darkling, and in order to flee his malevolent grasp, they must make a decision - go West to the safety of Novyi Zem, or return East to find Morozova's herd before the Darkling can. It is this choice that will rend them apart or bring them closer together.

Notes:

Title taken from the song: Crawl out through the fallout - References to other universes are pretty explicit in this fic, and feel free to comment if you catch any references! Swearing otters is of course owed to @rthstewart. - Serious apologies in the length between chapters of this fic - my writing muse abandoned me for two months straight and i'm only now just getting her back. Hoping this continues!

Taglist: @lordbettany, @fauxraven, @portiaadams @jammerific

Reblogs/replies appreciated, and for every kind comment, another chapter!

Chapter below the cut

3 weeks later, close to the Fold.Kiribirsk.

Alina rolled straight from her bed-roll to the hard, packed earth of the First Army tent.

At her side, Nikolai crouched, his fingers taut on the canvas flaps of their tent. They’d pitched camp here easily enough - three Grisha refugees hidden amongst the First Army. Nikolai had slipped back into his major’s uniform, with Alina clad in his hussar’s pelisse and dolman. The usual olive linen uniform’s summer skirt covered her legs, with standard issue puttees and boots. Around her neck was a scarf of Shu silk edged in gold, the colour of the scarf a blazing teal.

With them, Genya had pinned her hair back and sat clad in the First Army medical corps’s nurses uniform. Behind the lines against the Fjerdan forces, she’d found work in a medical tent and put her work in healing the wounded with scalpels and forceps. Her tailoring had been a secondary concern, and she did so sparingly. Alina sat beside Nikolai as the three of them broke their fasts with cups of hot tea, slices of fried potatoes, smoked herring and wafer-thin slices of black rye bread with small dollops of plum jam. Typical First Army fare.

“I’d forgotten what army food tasted like.” Nikolai muttered as he swigged back his tin cup of tea. Reaching across Genya’s plate, he exchanged her smoked herring for a pile of fried potato cakes and picked up Alina’s compass.

“We’re facing directly east.” He twigged the compass for a few moments to ensure the mercury was level, and then leaned over to watch Alina tap her pencil against the map-paper. Three weeks of hiding amongst the very people sworn to find them had made each of them jumpy in their own ways. Nikolai badly wished to run straight for the Volkvolny at the first chance he had, but doing the cowardly thing didn’t save Ravka from its own evils. Alina needed him, and Genya needed someone on the inside of the Great Palace to clear her name. No doubt the Tsarina and Tsar were hungering to plaster Genya’s face across the countryside for a fat reward. Palace servants carried more secrets of the realm than even the cabinet-ministers.

What none of them had been prepared for was the Darkling’s revolt against the Tsar, backed by the Apparat. Nikolai had learned the news from a harried runner he’d intercepted on the camp’s outskirts and taken the message directly to the commander of the fort. He’d been a mere corporal. Long-term fighting against the Fjerdans had picked off their commanding officers and the new weapons of warfare Fjerda was importing from the Soviets and rapidly re-arming (illegally) Weimar Germany made Fjerda the undisputed master against the pitiful Ravkan army.

Nikolai swished the tea in his cup as he took another sip and examined the paper map more closely. “Baba said that the herd was here…” His finger traced a path up from Kiribirsk to Chernast, a long, difficult trek to the north. It would’ve been better to go directly, but the lack of First Army outposts from the two bases put them in direct fire of Drüskelle attack or roaming brigands. Only an army caravan would keep the threat mediated.

“Any suggestions?” Alina asked as she sniffed her potato cake and stuck it between her teeth. “We could take the Vy back to…” She studied her map more closely. “Ryevost and then head into the Petrazoi…”

“Too many people.” Genya tapped the grey expanse of space between the Sokol, breaking the capital zone with the Midlands of the plains. “But do we know if there are any places to hide on the western river's edge?”

“We could…” Nikolai traced the Sokol’s expanse up into the Petrazoi with the pad of his finger. “Take the canal boats or barges up. Hide there amongst the traders. It’ll be easy. Obviously…” He broke off as he looked at Alina, and furrowed his brows. Alina flinched.

“I’m not being tailored to make me look less Shu.” She murmured.

“Of course not, Sunshine.” He rushed to explain. “I was more worried because I saw things on our trip out here - they’re making icons and relics of you.”

“Relics?” Alina breathed. “O-of what?”

“Bones.” Genya scraped up the remnants of the drippings from the bacon she’d pilfered from the cook-wagon with the last of her rye bread, and popped it into her mouth.

“My bones?”

“Your bones.” Nikolai squeezed her hand. “Seeing your face could cause a panic. And what with their iconography of you making you more Ravkan…” He shuddered. “I don’t want you to be plucked off the street and mobbed by your followers.”

“My followers?”

“The Apparat.” Nikolai handed her a rolled-up newspaper, which Alina flipped open. The headlines were filled in a bolded typeface of the ongoing search to locate her. SUN SUMMONER MISSING, ROYAL GUARDS BROUGHT OUT TO HELP SEARCH.

She shuddered and pushed the paper away. “No more, please.” She begged. “I just want to get out of here. We’ve lost weeks already. If we don’t do it, he’ll find the herd.”

“Alright.” Nikolai reached for the paper once more. “We’ll go. Tonight.” He squeezed her hand and then Genya’s. “Does Dominik know where we are?”

She nodded.

“Make sure he forgets. As far as he knows, we’ve disappeared off the map. I’ve gone back to my apprenticeship in Novyi Zem and taken Genya with me. Alina has gone…” Nikolai paused to consider what to say, and she provided. “I’ve fled, driven mad by the Darkling’s powers and his lust.” She paused. “And I’ve become with child.”

She could not ignore the way Nikolai’s hand tightened on hers, the crush of his fingers. She swore that in the moment, Nikolai would have bludgeoned the head of Second Army to atoms.

Alina did not stiffen, did not draw back. She couldn’t bring herself to. Why should she? She finally had a protector. Mal had done nothing to keep her safe, nothing to keep her from being taken by the Darkling. But Nikolai had. He’d taken her into his household, subtly moulded her to be her own person. Now, she would be that person. She straightened.

“I agree with Nikolai’s plan.” She examined the scar on her palm, the one she’d made to keep the testers off her back. The mark that without fail reminded her of Mal. Distantly, she remembered an instance of seeing the peasant wives who had not received their ducal lord’s favours as children. She wouldn’t be that girl. She wouldn’t let herself take the life of a wife. If she did, it would be of her choosing, and when she wished it. Lifting her head again, she held out her palm to Nikolai and Genya.

“Can one of you remove this?”

“Are you sure?” Genya murmured, her fingers paused over her skin.

Alina gave a firm nod. “I want it gone.”

Nikolai silently watched as Genya’s fingers twitched, moving the flesh’s cells to heal over the scarred tissue. He leaned forward as he stuffed a map into the tube case and let out a low whistle. “She’s getting better.”

“Not good enough.” Genya growled as she concentrated. “It’s as permanent as I can make it.” She swatted Nikolai’s hand away and got to her feet. Looking around the tent, the three misfits paused for a moment.

“Tell me how we’re giving this place the slip.” Alina implored as she tugged on her old cartographer’s tunic. Genya shrugged. Nikolai smirked. “We just walk out. First Army’s experiencing a notoriously high level of desertion. As far as the Crown is concerned, we’ve already been gone for weeks. Now, come along.”

He tugged on an enlistment’s worn greatcoat and hid his officer’s sword in the map tube. Genya twisted her hair up under a peasant’s headscarf. Alina stuffed the scarf and dolman out of sight over a similar worn greatcoat.

From their tent they crossed the expanse of flat, barren land given over to the cookwagons and hospital tents. Kiribirsk had spread out from its command tents to encompass an entire division of regiments. Amongst all the yelling of the sergeants and whinnying of horses in the Hussars and artillery, the three of them slipped into obscurity easily enough.

Alina paused however, for she spotted several of her old friends from the cartography tent sitting around a fire, drinking tea and eating pierogi. Their lives of drawing surveyance maps and doing scouting missions sounded so strangely safe to her own. Alina stopped dead.

“We need to go.” Genya hissed, clutching her bag of provisions close to her as a hand-drawn cart rumbled past with that day’s dead piled high. The stench of rotting flesh rolled over the air, causing officers and soldiers alike to curse out the poor souls doing the duty. Alina pressed a hand over her face and dropped her head. Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned her back on the cartographers. With them went prayers of safety and hope.

Nikolai winced, his normally warm face turning the colour of curdled milk. Alina watched his hand pull the signet ring he wore with the king’s sea from his hand. Into his pocket it went. In its place was a simple silver band with a fox in mid-leap. Looking into his face, Alina realised that her own powers had saved her from the horrors of war. Being the Sun Summoner had been her ticket away from the war against Fjerda and now… she owed it back a thousand times over.

“Let’s go.” She hefted her pack of food, books and compass further up her back, then took Nikolai’s hand. He pressed her knuckles to his lips and she blushed, but welcomed the touch. No one gave them a second look as they passed over forged passes to the guard at the gate. Another division was arriving, armed with stolen Fjerdan repeater rifles. Two soldiers heading eastwards under the care of a nurse was routine - war fatigue. Shell shock.

The war had gotten to be too much, so they were breaking. Instead of shooting them, sending them east to the care of one of the royal hospitals was much preferred. Nevermind if they were ever seen again…

Alina shook her head, and let Nikolai take the lead. As they made work along the Vy, he broke into a whistling tune that Alina recognized snippets of. She remembered hearing it once when Mal and she had disappeared into the nearby town to see the penny operas play in the dingy theatre hall.

Mack the Knife.

“Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear

And it shows them pearly white

Just a jackknife has old MacHeath, babe

And he keeps it, ah, out of sight

You know when that shark bites with his teeth, babe

Scarlet billows start to spread.”

Alina turned the lyrics over and over in her mind as they moved eastwards. Their back-tracking of weeks of travel forced them to realise that winter was fast drawing to a close, if one followed the Gregorian calendar. However, this was Ravka and winter lasted from October to May. There was still snow on the ground. A blizzard that swept down from the Petrazoi and through the riverlocks of the Sokol set them back another week.

“Fancy gloves, oh, wears old MacHeath, babe

So there's never, never a trace of red

Now on the sidewalk, huh, huh, whoo sunny morning, un huh

Lies a body just oozin' life, eek

And someone's sneakin' 'round the corner

Could that someone be Mack the Knife?”

Ryevost came into view on a balmy Sunday morning, and Alina realized with a jolt that it was Butter Week already. The city shimmered in the light of the morning sun, with even its poorest districts bearing clean stoops and washed windows. Such a craze of cleaning frenzy had swept the entire city that the three travellers stuck out like dirty sore thumbs as they made their way through the streets. Nikolai led in front with Alina sandwiched between him and Genya for her own protection. If anyone tried anything it would be good for Nikolai to cleave them in half or charm them back into their darkened alleyway.

Alina, who had little experience with cities, found herself soon overwhelmed by the rats-warren of streets and alleyways that double-backed or became dead ends. Genya was incredibly composed, and waved her hand at the various smells and noises emanating from alleys.

“We leave them alone and they won’t bother us. Now, if you were alone, I’d have advised you to come into the city through the main gate. It would’ve put you into the central district near the river and out of this section. But Nikolai knows his way around.”

“How?” Alina asked. She knew Nikolai was barely at court but the idea of him coming to a port city like Ryevost made her feel uneasy. Nikolai, who had stopped at a stand to haggle with the owner, looked at Genya. She nodded, and Alina barely had time to say anything as Genya stuffed a kepi onto her coiffure and shoved Alina behind her larger form.

“Two bedrolls, please. And who can I ask for maps of the Petrazoi?” Nikolai asked as he felt the bag of coins in his palm. All of them were gold 10 cent pieces. His fingers reached to his wallet tucked into one of his breeches pocket as the owner handed over two bedrolls and tent-bags.

“Thank you.” He had already calculated the amount in his head he owned along with the tax, and slid three 20 bills over the wooden tabletop. The owner counted them, looking furtively from Nikolai to the money, then back again. He shrugged, and finally pocketed the money.

“Map seller off the Sankt Grigori square should be able to offer something, Major.” His gaze skirted to Alina who had been looking over Genya’s shoulder and his face whitened. “Sankt-” He shook his head suddenly and squinted.

Nikolai froze, the bedrolls still in his hand. Too late, he realised he’d unbuttoned his coat to reach for his wallet and the golden braid of his uniform had become apparent. Steadying his breath, the second-prince of Ravka slid a golden coin across the table.

“You didn’t see us.”

“Never did. Travel safe, Major.” The man saluted Nikolai discreetly and then went back to assessing his wares. As Alina and Genya passed, an uproar broke out. Not from the seller, but a group of First Army scouts had been taking tea from a shop on the pavement. They rose to their feet as one, voices raised in cries of shock and anger.

“She’s with me, gentlemen!” Nikolai announced, weaving his way through the serfs and peddlers who crowded the street. His tall form and broad shoulders made his appearance even more imposing.

“Major Lantsov..” One of the scouts stammered. “Begging your pardon, sir, but we’ve got orders to take both ladies back to the Great Palace. Tsar’s orders, you must understand.”

“Tsar’s orders?” Nikolai replied blankly. Since when was his father making orders about servants and missing Grisha? Normally that would be for his ministers. Or… Nikolai hated to think that the Darkling was finally acting on his plans, that he’d delay this long until they were so close to safety. All they had to do was get to the port a few streets below this one and hop on a Gyptian barge. Then, assuming they were on the Costa’s, they could float merrily upstream till they reached the town at the bottom of the Petrazoi-

“I’m not going!” Alina hissed, coiled close to Nikolai. He shook his head, and refocused on the situation. “Soldiers, I believe there’s been a mistake. The woman here with us is a nurse from the Sisters of Mercy. She is escorting this patient to Os Alta for medical treatment.”

“Why go through Ryevost, then?” The tallest scout of the trio challenged. His friends cast one another wary glances. Challenging a Major on such a statement was a death sentence. Nikolai’s face hardened and he stepped forward, grabbing the scout by the ear. In low tones, only for the other scout’s hearing, he hissed:

“When I find out who you three are, I’ll have you court martialled so fast that you won’t even be able to find clemency with a lawyer.” He pushed the scout back, and stepped back himself.

“Let’s go.” He hissed to Genya and Alina. The bedrolls he slung up onto his back. With a wave of his hand, the glasses of tea in the scout’s hands shattered and they began to scream. Nikolai barely spared them a second glance. Passing by little shops selling tea, clothes, knick knacks and stalls of religious wares. Alina breathed in scents of unwashed bodies, cloves, spices from Novyi Zem, saw Jade pieces from mines in Shu Han, the exquisite embroidery and odd, brutal weapons of Fjerda all laid out on tabletops much like the one Nikolai had traded over.

Looking up, she saw the rickety buildings of stone and brick of Ravka with their arched windows which merchant’s wives leaned out of to talk, hang washing and simply people-watch. She knew, with an uncanny instinct, that if anything went awry, a simple cry from one of these birds on high could send the local militia and police sweeping down to apprehend any pickpocket. She buttoned up all her pockets just to be safe, and hoped she hadn’t already been pilfered. First Army soldiers of all the regiments mingled, some on leave from the nearby fort stationed here, others en-route to be shipped West to the Fold. Some were retirees, who wore the old, faded blue uniforms of the Pre Halmhend First Army. Nikolai watched those men with hawk’s eyes and grumbled under his breath.

The slowness of their trek up a single street made Alina realise just why people loved Nikolai so. Anything they needed, from salt to cooking oil was made with an added inquiry to bless and keep the royal family in their thoughts. Even with the fact that so many of them were serfs indented to some lord or another who held their lives and family’s welfare in their hands, these people loved Nikolai like a son. Some of the older babushka pinched his cheeks and fretted over his lean frame. Other women, the wives of merchants, asked for his advice on how to make something just right. His embroidery on the cuffs of his hussar’s Pelisse were fawned over, with the seamstress (or seamster) asking how he got something so complicated to lie flat. Offers of paying for their items were waved off, and Alina and Genya found themselves being handed entire wheels of cheese or links of smoked sausage, all from Nikolai’s charm. Simply due to the fact that he was kind enough to listen to these traders' woes with landlords and offer suggestions had them on the edge of their seats.

“How do you do it?” Alina asked as she shoved the massive wheel of cheese into her pack. She’d stopped at a stall to admire a pair of fur gloves and hat. Now they adorned her person simply due to the fact Nikolai had once helped the stall owner appeal his taxes to a proper magistrate. Nikolai, who had been chewing on a stick of bingtang hulu from a sweet seller, spoke around a mouthful of sugary sweetness:

“What, sunshine?” He murmured, taking her pack. He placed another stick of the sugar-hardened fruit into her gloved hands. Alina sniffed it, her eyes widening in pleasant surprise. She’d not gotten much of a chance to try Shu delicacies, and munched on her stick as Nikolai turned them left and then right down a series of winding alleyways. Making up for a good period of lost time, he led the three of them into the port district. The smell of river-traffic only heightened the sticky-sweetness of spices and aromas permeating the city’s air, and the stench of fish from the fish-wives crowded the docks.

“Who’re we getting a boat from?” Genya asked as she bit into a powdery bun dusted in sugar, filled with jam preserves. The size of it made Alina’s massive wheel of cheese feel juvenile in comparison. Nikolai whistled a cheery tune as he led them down a set of winding sandstone stairs, across a long wooden dock made extremely cramped by long stands of tables headed by fish-wives disembowelling that day’s river catch. The river otters waiting in droves at the bottom of the docks swore at one another.

Audibly.

“Look here, you fucker! Give me that fish head or I’ll drown you with my own paws!”

“Shut up you wheezing old windbag! It’s mine!” Thus displeased, the otter armed with the fishhead dove under the water and the others gave a rapid and angered chase. Amongst this the fish-wives’s curses at the otters rang out, threatening turning several of them into gloves and stoles. Returned threats to the fish-wives consisted of telling affairs and destroying their stock, or enlisting the local beavers to eat through the wooden frames of their homes.

Alina scurried to follow after Genya and Nikolai and passed by fewer and fewer stalls until the bustle of the town had retreated into the distance. Yet the docks and jetties wove further onwards as the river slimmed down at its banks. As the ground beneath them turned to fresh planks, then worn and finally, rotting, they stopped.

“They’re here.” Nikolai slung the two bedrolls off his back and marched down the dock to a long houseboat carved and painted in a multitude of colours. Sitting on top of the boat was a boy with dark hair and eyes, a hawk at his shoulder, which in an odd way, seemed to mirror the boy himself.

“Tony.” Nikolai greeted, swinging himself up onto the rooftop of the boat. Tony stirred, and jumped to his feet. “Nikolai! We got your letter and came as soon as we could. Good too, since it’s nearly spring and we want to be back in Oxford for the Trinity term. Lots of College boys and their families wanting to sample our-” His voice broke and took on a vaguely debonair air. “Such rustic and mysterious wares.”

“That’s ‘nough out of you, Tony. Get back below deck. I’ll ‘andle ‘im.” A woman with another hawk at her shoulder had appeared out of the stern end of the rowboat. Bearing the same dark hair and eyes as her son, this woman merely had to give Nikolai a glare and he was scampering across the boat-top to kiss her hand. She pinched his cheeks more aggressively than any babushka and cast her gaze to Alina and Genya waiting on the dockside.

“Who’re they?” Tony asked, as his mother whacked the top of his head with the back of her hand. He stuck his tongue out and scurried below deck, cackling as his hawk screeched gleefully. Nikolai turned back to the woman.

“Ma Costa, this is Genya, who I’ve told you much about and you met her at the horse festival last autumn.” Nikolai explained, to which Mrs Costa nodded in recognition. “The other? Small, spry girl. One of us?”

“No, not that I think. This is Alina Starkov, the Sun summoner.”

Mrs Costa’s eyes widened and she looked at Alina more closely. “Heavens and all the stars, this is something.” She murmured. “Come below, all of you. We can talk more easily. Your blasted First Army has been having us rope up out here. Fearing ‘ell do somethin’ unpalatable.” She scoffed.

Nikolai sighed, and sat down on a long bench-seat set into one of the porthole windows. Alina collapsed next to him and Genya next to Alina. Out of sight of anyone, Genya undid her scarf over her hair and shook out her curls. Alina yanked off the kepi and tucked it inside her bulging pack.

“Here, these are for you.” Nikolai reached into his pack and began to withdraw a whole multitude of items he’d gotten from talking to people. Alina had thought it strange when the items he was buying had begun to veer into things no one needed for an expedition to hunt a stag, and now realised this was their way north. She went to her own pack but stopped herself.

Nikolai waved his hand over all the cloths and bolts of linen, medicinal herbs, maps of the “North,” and other bits and bobs, from sewing kits to hunters knives. “Is this enough?”

“Yes.” Ma Costa examined a long bolt of Zemeni purple cloth and held it to her knee. “‘Hat’ll look lovely with your complexion, Nikolai. You should keep it.”

“It’s more important for your upcoming Roping, Ma Costa.” Nikolai pressed a hand over hers. He reached into his pack and held out something else, for her eyes only. “I got this from an informant. It’s about Billy. Use it as you wish or bring it to John Faa.”

Ma Costa seemed to pause in her work for the moment as she looked at the package. Finally, with trembling fingers, she took the package and unwrapped the paper. Out fell a small, metal disk inscribed with a person’s name and an image of the animal on the other side.

“This is what the Gobblers have been doing. They don’t know you have this.” He closed her fist around his own and squeezed tight. “Take it to John Faa, and he’ll do somethin’ I’m certain.” Alina watched this all play out with her eyes locked on Nikolai’s.

“What do you folks need in return for all this, eh?”

“Safe passage to the mouth of the Sokol. I believe there’s a tear up there.” Nikolai raised a brow. “One that leaves you somewhere within the bounds of the Fens.”

“This boy!” Ma Costa murmured to herself. “Always one step ahead of everyone else.” She shook her head, then settled her gaze on Nikolai once again.

“‘Eard that, Tony?” She called to her son. Tony put his head into the cabin and gave a nod. “I’ll go unrope her and we can get set off at ‘nce.”

Ma Costa got to her feet and lit the spirit flame under the little stove set into the opposite wall. Wordlessly, Genya got to her feet and came over to stand beside Ma Costa, who wrapped her arm around Genya’s shoulder. Genya leaned her head against the older woman’s, and sighed. Alina examined her pack wordlessly as Nikolai slid into Genya’s old spot.

“Who are these people?”

“Gyptians. Romani. They’re a nomadic group from England, which they call Brytian in their world.” He paused. “Genya and Ma Costa are very close since I took her to England last autumn for the Horse Fair.” He paused and looked at Alina. “You hadn’t been found yet. It…” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you later. There’s something I need to look at.”

He got to his feet and rummaged about in the cabinets for a moment, then pulled out a long canvas tube. Alina watched him roll it open on the table and got a good look at the paper for a few moments, then looked away. For some reason, she was seized by the urge that this map, whatever it read, was for Nikolai’s eyes alone.

She had never seen anything like it, however, and she found herself taking short glances whenever she could. The map was dark blue, and instead of countries displayed multicoloured dots arranged in a circle connected with grey, almost white lines. An outer circle of more connected dots of varying colours made up the rest of the map, and vaguely shaped constellations brought it all together.

He took a pen in one hand and an abacus in the other, and set to work. While the tea brewed, the long-boat slipped its moorings and began to glide up the expanse of the Sokol, leaving Ryevost behind. Alina leaned her head back against the wall of the cabin and closed her eyes. It had been several long weeks of walking, and as she let herself fall asleep, she realised that this was the first time she’d felt safe since fleeing the Little Palace with her friends.

As the coal-powered long-boat steamed further north, far to the east, the Darkling began to mount a rescue attempt to find the Little Saint, and capture the Stag. Too much dalliance during the long winter months had robbed him of a chance to set out a proper rescue mission. With the weather turning warmer, he knew it was needed for him to find Alina.

He had to find her, and no matter the cost, he would. Not only that, he would put the antlers of Morova’s stag onto her thin shoulders and let fate decide what came next.

For the Darkling, fate was his servant and his lever. It was up to Alina whether she would let fate control her.

End of chapter 6.

#shadow and bone #nikolai lantsov #wyn rambles #nikolina #alina starkov #genya safin #david kostyk #fic: I don't want to set the world on fire

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ricardian-werewolf · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 7: We were Never Alive

Ao3 Link

Summary:

Alina and the gang find the stag in the wilds of Tsibeya, and are forced to come to terms with what the amplifier means for Alina. They must be ready for just how far the Darkling is willing to go to gain utter and complete power. What is infinite? The universe and the greed of men

Notes:

Tws: The Darkling, brutal violence, pain, abuse and physical assault

Taglist: @lordbettany, @fauxraven, @dreadbirate, @hysterionic

Chapter below the cut.

Tsibeya - Early Spring.

In the moment of lucidity that Alina felt while she stood between the Darkling and the stag, she realised just how unprepared she was.

To fight him. To live another day. The trek had been easier after they’d commandeered the Costa’s long-boat and bumped into Mal in the foothills. Weeks of tracking, traipsing up and down and back up mountainsides had brought them… here. To the clearing of the herd. On Mal’s advice, the four of them had reluctantly set up camp under a thicket of low-hanging pine branches and burned no fire. Alina’s light had given them enough heat to stave off dying of the cold. They’d eaten the last of their rations and Mal had prepared to lay traps.

Yet… When twilight had fallen, from the fringes of the clearing came the Darkling’s Grisha and the Black Heretic himself. Amongst them were First Army soldiers armed with rifles and bows, along with the needed local trackers from nearby mountain dachas . All had been going well enough until one of the soldiers saw Alina’s flash of uniform and chaos erupted. A scuffle had broken out - Three Grisha and one tracker against a centuries old Shadow-summoner and his team of well-trained soldiers, Grisha and not. It was an unfair fight by any standards. In the chaos, the herd had bolted, and someone had shot the stag clean through the left upper shoulder. It had staggered, then fallen, its legs breaking under it.

Alina had made the stupid decision to bolt for the stag at the same time one of the First Army trackers shot Mal through the stomach with an arrow. Charging into the mess, she yanked Mal up under his shoulder blades and the two orphans collapsed in front of the stag. Throwing her hands up, she summoned a dome of light.

“Bloody hell, Alina…” Mal groaned. “You idiot, what're you doing?!”

“Trying to keep us alive!” She yelled.

Alina’s hands shook, sweat pouring down her face and settling into her armpits and curves of her body as she fought vainly to keep the shield up. By her side, Mal lay prone. Genya was switching between her Corporalki training and work with Nikolai every moment it seemed.

And Nikolai… Her fox-prince was firing off on all cylinders. His pistols let off smoke in the frigid cold as he switched off on firing them with excellent accuracy or cutting down the Darkling’s Oprichniki with his officers' sabre. Either way, he was the blade Alina had desperately hungered for. Yet… even he was mortal.

She could only watch in terrified horror as his powers, stolen and corrupted by the Darkling, crept over him slowly. Merzost sunk its claws in deep and made his hands cramp with unimaginable pain. All of it made him that bit more sluggish. So when an Inferni ’s flame shot found him, Nikolai couldn’t dodge. It threw him backwards, crashing through Alina’s light shield. He hit the snow-bank with a sickening thud , and laid there, blood pouring from a wound in his leg.

But he still cocked his pistols back and got to his feet. Blood dripped in a steady stream onto the snowbank at his feet. Yet, he fought on. Alina’s hand gripped his arm and she shook her head, begging him not to exert himself so. “Please, Nikolai…” She whispered. “You’ll die.”

“At least I’ll die on my feet.” He shot blindly, the bullet clipping the Darkling’s left ear. Silence followed.

“Enough!” The Darkling shouted, shadows cloaking the ground around where the shield touched the snow. “Your tracker is hurt, you don’t know what you’re doing, Alina. Time is running out for your blessed prince! Before long, he’ll to a monster and kill you!” He taunted.

“No-” Nikolai groaned, stepping in front of Alina. He tugged off his greatcoat and rolled up the sleeves of his dolman . Alina’s eyes widened as the black veins stretched up his arms and writhed . Somehow, they were alive. “She knows just what she’s doing.”

He raised his hands in front of him, his nails becoming long black claws, jagged and edged with something sharper than diamond. Shadows - not the Darkling’s, but the ones Nikolai had cast long ago at the crossing in the caravan to the Little Palace - poured from his hands. They formed something monstrous at his feet. Something with teeth and jagged claws.

“Drop the shield, now!” He yelled over his shoulder. Alina barely had time to cry out as she did, and the shadows - the Darkling and Nikolai’s - careened towards one another. The explosion created a shockwave that rattled the trees, and in the darkness, Alina gasped as Nikolai grabbed her wrist. Light exploded out in a multitude of colours and surged up in a solid beam . Her other hand was latched tight around the antlers of the dying stag. In the twilight, Nikolai’s eyes burned gold . The beam of light formed a stronger shield, illuminating everything around them so that the snow was blinding .

“Sunshine, you’re glowing .” His grin was infectious, and Alina looked around at their little motley. Mal was still collapsed at her feet, but even his pallor looked healthier. Genya had stopped in her heart-rending to watch this light-show, and through the wall of darkness, Alina saw the Darkling’s soldiers stagger backwards in awe and horror.

“W-what…” The Darkling breathed as Nikolai waved his hand and the shadows faded. In its place, only a surge of light flowed upwards around Alina and her crew. Her left hand was clutched tightly in Nikolai’s, and her right still clung to the antlers.

Alina closed her eyes, the surge of power almost knocking her over. She needed the amplifier, like a dying man needed a healer. She grasped Nikolai’s hand tighter and kissed his bloodied knuckles. Snow fluttered around them, sticking fast to her hair and his coat-collar. But the moment of peace ended with a wet noise coming from Nikolai’s mouth.

None of them, foolish teens as they were, had remembered that Nikolai was wounded. That the clock to him becoming a monster was indeed ticking down. He sank to his knees in the snow and pulled Alina down with her. The beam faded and the shield cracked , its strength fading more with each second.

“Nikolai!”

Her grip on the antlers slipped, and the power surge died, leaving her wanting more than ever. Desperately, she lunged for the antlers once more, but screamed as a bolt of shadow drove into the back of her hand.

“NO! NO!” Panic filled her as she saw the Darkling advance and spread his hands wide. Shadows rose up in waves and rushed towards them. Desperate, Alina threw her hands over her face. Light fought against the inky blackness swallowed her, blocking out her vision. Distantly, she could hear Genya’s screams, and Nikolai’s hoarse cries filling the air.

“Nikolai! Genya! Where are you?! Help me!”

“Alina!”

The darkness lifted with a great, sudden whoosh of air, and Alina glanced up. Buried as she was in the snow, she’d fallen within a few feet of Nikolai. He’d caged Genya under him and his hand was scrambling in the snow for anything he could fight with. But he stalled as the wound in his leg became too much and fell sideways, pulling Genya against him. His free hand snatched Alina’s wrist and she was yanked harshly into his embrace. Rage had furrowed his brows and he glared up at the figure leaning over them.

Zoya.

“Don’t move. Not one of you.” She hadn’t lifted the darkness completely, merely moved it a few feet to shield the Darkling from the sight of her. She knelt before them and adjusted the collar of her kefta , then dug around in her pockets. She seemed to be looking for something, but in low words spoke to them:

“He’s going to wound you in more ways than one. He’s already got Nikolai, and Genya…” Her voice broke as Alina’s gaze snapped to the Tailor. Shuddering, shaking in Nikolai’s arms, Genya had thrown her hands over her face. She pulled them down to reveal black wounds dripping blood. Somehow, the shadows had slashed all over her body, torn her Sarafan in multiple places and ripped out her eye.

Vomit surged up the back of Alina’s throat and she crammed her hands over her mouth. No, By the saints, no! She gasped, reaching for her friend. Genya flinched, smacking Alina’s hands back. “No!” She howled. “No! Not me! Baghra said I had nothing to fear!”

“She was wrong..” Nikolai groaned. In the dim twilight, he looked pale. Distantly, Alina heard the moans of the dying stag and Mal’s whimpers. The arrow was still embedded in him. She looked up into Zoya’s eyes.

“What if we surrender? W-would he heal them?”

“Only to use them as pawns against you.” Zoya replied sharply, fishing out a dark blue hair ribbon. She tied back her braid and her sleeve slid down to reveal the amplifier embedded in her skin. The wound had festered and rotted for years, but such was the price to pay for such power.

What is infinite? The universe and the greed of men.

The greed of the Darkling has no end. He will never be satisfied. We are all just his means for an end. A way forward for his conquest of power.

Alina’s gaze locked on Zoya once more. “Do it. Go back and tell him we submit. Tell him that…” She closed her eyes. “That I’ll allow him to put the antlers on me.”

“Alina-” Genya grabbed Alina’s hand. “No.. no, please… no.” She sobbed weakly. “He’ll break you.”

“She’s right, Sunshine.” Nikolai growled as he sat up. “You’d be his slave forever. I can’t lose you.”

“You’d be dead!” Alina sobbed. “Both of you!” The rage of weeks, months spilled out of her, causing the shadows at their feet to rear back in fright. Light surrounded the three of them, bathing them all in its incandescent glow. She shook her head, the cold freezing her tears in their ducts. “I won’t let it happen. I’ll… think of something.” She gripped Nikolai’s shaking hands in her own, and pressed her face into the expanse of his shoulder blade.

“Are you certain, Alina?” Zoya asked softly, leaning over them once more. The light shining around the three of them bathed Zoya in the dimness of a new dawn, and her deep blue eyes reminded Alina of uncut sapphires.

“Yes.” She replied, her voice breaking. All of the hopes to be the first to take back the stag, to win against the Darkling once and for all, were dashed. She hung her head, and wept unabashed tears of defeat. The fight drained from her in that instant, and she felt Nikolai kiss her forehead. He murmured something against her eyelids, tears dripping down his face.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

Those were the last words Alina heard before she was pulled under by one of the Darkling’s heart renders lowering her pulse.

Alina woke in darkness.

In a sense. There were sputtering candles, but the dimness of a low heart-rate, pounding head and blurred vision made them glow like distant stars. She stretched out an arm and felt her knees buckle. Her face smashed into a rug of woven threads. She was tired - so, so tired. Rage, and the cost of fighting this endless race against the wretched Black heretic was getting her nowhere. He would win. He was stronger, older and wiser than she was.

Where the hell is this coming from?

Alina shook her head, knowing these thoughts of defeat were not hers, could not be. She had hoped this doubt had been behind her after all of these months under Nikolai’s care. She’d been shedding the skin of the little, frail girl she’d been. It was only upwards from here, right?

No. You’re back in his clutches. What will he do to you for this transgression?

Alina knew what was going to pass, knew instantly the cold, sickening bite of the antlers around her neck. A chokehold. She could feel the antler tips pressed to the fragile skin around her collar bone and brushing her chin. She knew what an amplifier did to a grisha’s skin - it dug in deep and the power fed into one’s very veins. Sickening their mortal bodies to open them up to the powers they needed to stave off death . There had always been the argument in Grisha theory that an amplifier strengthened a Grisha, sanctifying their craft with godly purity.

In reality, it weakened them. Broke them. To remove an amplifier was to strip their power from them. Alina had seen the greyness under Nikolai’s skin. The Darkling had first infected him and given him the amplifier when it was still an animal. He must’ve killed it and fused the bones to his wrist. Somehow, it had broken and fallen from Nikolai. His half-deathly pallor in the low light of morning showed just how sick he was.

What is infinite? The universe and the greed of men. What is Infinite? The Universe and the greed of m-

Her thoughts broke, scattering like petals in a gale with the sounds of low, pained moans. At the other end of the space before her, the door - no, tent flaps - parted, and in stepped the Darkling. He had Nikolai’s hands bound in chains. His shirt-sleeves were pushed up to reveal the black veins of his arms.

But it was his face that broke Alina’s heart. Blood trickled from a wound in his temple, and his face was blackened and blued from angry fists. She glared at the Darkling’s Corporalki guards, baring her teeth. Finally, she noted the Fabrikator with them - David Kostyk.

Genya’s sweetheart. He was fiddling with his glasses lens, wiping them on the hem of his kefta , and adjusting his dark mane of hair. His kefta’s sleeves were pristine… something that Alina had never seen once in her time at the Little Palace. She felt confused, terrified. What was Nikolai here for? To witness the Darkling shoving the antlers around her neck, to witness the removal of her power? If he wanted her acceptance, he had it already.

“Alina.”

Her gaze snapped to the ink black eyes of the Darkling. The endless depths of his pupils and irises dragged her into his thrall. She shook her head, bowing her head. “N-no.” She whispered. “P-please, no.”

“Alina!”

That focused her gaze. She looked up once more, tears beading in her eyes. “I am not going to kill him. Nor the tracker.” The Darkling’s gaze was almost kind. Almost . The hint of something dark and endless danced behind his pupils. “You surrendered. You came willingly. You accepted your sins as merely a girlish mistake. I am proud of you.”

I am proud of you.

Alina shivered. Not once had Baghra said that. Nor Ana Kuya. She had never heard anyone say to her that they were proud of her. No one had ever said it. She’d never received a scrap of love in her life, or from any sort of fellow figure of authority. And now…

Saints, how she almost believed him. She hungered to go back into his embrace, if this would be what awaited her. She could see herself once more, his pet , his beloved Sun Summoner. She could easily submit, turn her back on the Little Palace and its cliques, rule at his side, rule-

Nikolai! A small part of her mind screamed suddenly. If you go with the Darkling, he’ll be gone! Forever!

Maybe not. Maybe he’ll stay… be an advisor of sorts. Or he’ll go back to First Army and go quietly… A small, girlish voice begged. Alina realised it was her… before she’d met Nikolai, before all of this.

ARE YOU STUPID? The other part of her screamed. The only place he’s going is hell! The Darkling will kill him to make an example and make sure that you are so utterly broken, you’ll let him pour whatever nice words you want down your throat so that by the time the mask comes off, you’ve obliterated half of Ravka!

Alina flinched, imagining her power in the hands of the Darkling. She could see the fires burning from Os Alta to Kiribirsk, cutting a swathe of death and suffering. The power would not be hers, it would never. She would be all his, in name and word if not…

Body. He had made no uncertainties of his desires to have a romantic relationship with her, despite being thousands of years older. Despite her only being 17. Despite the obvious power imbalances… all of it. He wished to possess, to control her.

“Well?” The Darkling asked, tapping his booted toe against the floor of the raised platform his tent had been pitched upon. “Do you wish to renounce your sins, to come once more into the embrace of the Little Palace?” He stepped forward and tilted her head up. She skirted her gaze to Nikolai, to see her prince so broken, so wounded. This was a trap the too-clever fox couldn’t escape.

Not without help. Not without a lockpick and a few prayers. She settled her gaze upon the Darkling once more. “Not without one condition.”

The Darkling gave a lazy sort of smile, a one to lure prey in. The kind of movement a cobra made before it killed its target. Alina bared her teeth once more. “State your treatise, little Saint , and I will decide whether or not to meet it.”

“Nikolai is granted full pardon. He will be allowed to leave Ravka and come as he wishes. He will not be brought into whatever plans you decide to operate. He will be allowed a life you and I will never gain.”

She licked her lips, panting. Rage and the fight to survive had exhausted her.

“And what if he simply escapes across the True Sea to another place? Another time? We found this map on him-” The Darkling produced the map Nikolai had been studying in the Costa’s longboat. “He could simply go anywhere. Raise an army against us.”

“Then…” Alina’s gaze hardened. “Let him. Let him go against you. Saints know Ravka deserves a change from a thousand years of your festering rot creeping in under the floorboards.” She reared back, the chain that bound her legs snapping with her movement. The strike of the cobra’s fangs missed .

“David!” The Darkling shouted. “Undo the Prince’s chains.”

David’s eyes widened with fear. Alina stilled. What is he planning? She thought as the Darkling stepped over to the richly appointed sideboard and peeled off his gloves. He signalled to Feydor and Ivan, who gave him surprised, almost shocked glances. But they agreed to whatever pre-planned idea the shadow summoner had in hand, and raised their hands. Alina’s pulse dropped, but not enough to put her under. She grunted, her fingers twitching. Nikolai was shoved into position beside her, and his hand wrapped tight around hers. The momentary warmth of the contact was immediately poisoned as the Darkling had Genya - poor, ruined and wounded Genya - undo the shawl around Alina’s neck that hid the antlers. In the dim lamplight, they shone molten silver, and refracted the light back.

“I’m sorry.” Nikolai began. “I’m so, so sorry, Alina.” He whispered. She stilled. “W-why?” She breathed. “Why are you so-”

She was never given a chance to ask her question. David’s trembling hands touched the antlers at the planned joining point of the two pieces, while the Darkling’s hand gripped the upper tips in his slender, pale hands.

He closed his eyes, and the process began.

It was excruciating . As the antlers sunk into Alina’s flesh, they cut the skin and tissues of her collarbone and fused to her bones. The collar had no clasp, no endpoint. It was fused into her tissue, bound up in the very strands that made her… her. The moment passed with the agonising slowness of a bullet being removed from a wound - not that Alina had ever had it happen to her, but the screams of the wounded wormed their way under her skin regardless. She hoped, for a moment, as nothing happened, that the Darkling had gotten it all wrong.

But a whine from Nikolai showed her the wrongness of her hope. Her eyes flew open, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. In her moment of foolishness, she had grabbed his hand and wounded his hand from the pain. But… this was no mere whine of a trod upon foot. He looked sick, weak. As though the mere moments of weakness she had seen in his body were magnified.

“Summoners are the only Grisha capable of removing another’s power.”

Removing another’s power? She thought mutely. Both the Darkling and David looked no more different than they had moments ago, but Nikolai…

“Your hand in his caused the power surge to rend his powers from him.”

What?! Alina thought, her mind screeching to a halt. “W-what?” She breathed. She looked at her prince, felt his hand once more in hers. His skin was cold, clammy. Fever burned in his face. He had never been a healthy boy… but his Durast powers had been his stop-gap from illness, from the decay of whatever the Darkling had put inside him.

“Why?!” She cried suddenly.

“He could never be allowed to roam free, Alina.” The Darkling tutted, his face gleaming with a triumphant smile. He looked every inch a man who had just won a game of cards and walked away from the table leaving the other in crippling debt. “Now, he is merely nothing. A prince. A second son, too weak even to do any-”

Nikolai’s hand shot out and he yanked the Darkling by the jugular. “Shut up.” He growled. Sweat dripped down his temple. He was shaking with the effort, with the exhaustion. “St-”

He pitched to the ground. The Darkling leapt aside and nodded at Ivan. “Good job.”

“Thank you, Moi Soverenyi .”

“See that he is put on the first troop transport back to Os Alta at once.”

Alina’s eyes widened and she dropped to her knees beside Nikolai. “Please, please, no!” She cried, shaking his body. He gave a low, dying moan “R-run.” He whispered, his fingers twitching. “Run, Alina.”

Tears formed in Alina’s eyes as she pressed her head against his side. “I’m so sorry.” She cried. Sobs wracked her, blurring her vision as she wrapped her arms around him. “So, sorry.” She pressed her cheek to his, and felt his pulse dropping

Ivan and Feydor pulled them apart. Alina bucked wildly, lashing out like an animal. She kicked her feet and lashed out, baring her teeth. Screams tore themselves from her throat. “YOU MONSTER!” She cried at the Darkling as she was put back on her feet. Dimly, she watched Nikolai be carried out by First Army stretcher bearers. Bowing over at the waist, Alina tugged at the stag’s antlers and sobbed at the blood that coated her hands.

“W-why?” She wept.

The Darkling's hand returned to touching the antlers, and Alina screamed as Nikolai had. Light poured from her, framing her face. It was as gold as a prince’s hair, and as wild as the roaring ocean that he so loved.

But it was not hers. It would never again be hers to control.

The Darkling smiled, but his eyes were full of pain.

“He was no good for you, Alina. Men like him are no more than spring flowers. Beautiful in their blossoms, but so quick to fade. He will be a mere flash in the night sky, while you will be eternal. He would only break your heart.”

Through her reddened eyes and blurry gaze, Alina spoke with full malice, full rage.

“I would rather live knowing he will die in a month’s time than share my bed with you.”

The Darkling stepped back, and the light faded out, the tent returning to its dimness. He turned toward the exit, and had Zoya, who had stood by the doorway witnessing it all, wave her hand. The light snuffed out at once, and she departed with the man who had ripped Alina’s power from her.

Alina’s legs buckled, and she fell to the floor once more. She dimly crawled into the space Nikolai had laid in, and curled into a ball. She dragged the wool shawl over her shoulders, pressed her face into her hands and cried. Once more, fate had dealt her a cruel hand, and she would bear the burden.

Distant from her, Nikolai’s form was carried not to the waiting first aid cart, but to the grouping of buildings who made up this outpost of snow-covered tents and rotting buildings. It had been here that Nikolai had tapped into the merzost that had saved Dominik three years before. In the dim light, He was carried into the main barracks mess hall. The space was clear of tables except for a single one. Awaiting him was a first Army surgeon, a corporal, and a woman wearing a mourning sarafan and button boots.

“Go.” She croaked. The stretcher bearers bowed, and departed. The surgeon turned to his aid. The colonel shooed him away from Nikolai’s body, and instead began to unbutton Nikolai’s bloodied tunic. “Nik…” He whispered.

Nikolai’s face grimaced in pain. “Dom…” He breathed, his voice as light as a moth's wing. “H-help,"

“We will, old boy.” Dominik replied. He nodded at the woman in the mourning gown, and she pushed back her veil to reveal a mane of inky black curls so like her son’s. “The Little Saint has been careless, but there is still enough here to save. I will need time alone with him.” She indicated Dominik and Nikolai, then looked at the surgeon.

“Your services are not required.” She jerked her head toward the door. The Surgeon bowed and left, his aid trailing him. As soon as the door was locked, the 22nd Regiment’s elite soldiers stepped in front of every possible entrance, threw tarps over the windows.

Their major was wounded, nearing the inky blackness of death. But they would die before allowing him to cross the Styx. As the woman helped Dominik tear off his tunic, Nikolai spoke.

“Baba?” He whimpered.

“I’m here, my boy. Always.” Baghra kissed his knuckles and stroked her hand over his face. “Always here, when no one else would be.” She replied. “My poor son.”

Dominik froze, but continued to work. Nikolai’s healing took precedence over his lineage. He of all people, knew that. Turning back to the mending of Nikolai’s broken and scarred body, Dominik began to pray.

“Sankts, give us hope. Bring us not unto temptation, but saveth the man who layeth before me. Bring him not into your embrace, not yet. He has fought long and hard, but it is not his time.”

The same prayer was whispered over Alina’s slumbering form by Zoya and Genya, who carried Alina to her bed and cocooned her in blankets. The same prayer echoed in the words of Nikolai’s men, of the Grisha who had come to like Alina, even as the Darkling sat in his tent and penned a letter to the Apparat to be ready and waiting in Kirbirsk.

If the Saints were able to walk amongst mortals, they would discover how feverishly the intonation to protect the weak and dying was spoken. How desperate mere mortals were to save a little boy and girl who had seen more horrors in their short lives than their ancestors saw in decades.

Alina faintly heard her friend’s prayers, and in reply, reached out a trembling hand. She was too deeply asleep to stir, but somehow she felt that Nikolai was in pain, nearing the end.

“Nikolai..” She breathed. A faint shimmer of light flickered from her hand, before dying out.

All across the camp, the candle-lanterns and oil lamps snuffed out.

End of chapter 7.

#fic: I don't want to set the world on fire #shadow and bone #nikolai lantsov #alina starkov #nikolina #wyn rambles #the darkling #genya x david #Baghra #Dominik Vertov #Isaak Andreyev

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