#inej is a real crow

[ruins-and-rewritez]

The room is not gaudy or opulent in a way benefiting of Ketterdam's most notorious and unseemly wealthy boss of the Barrel. Nor is it depressingly downtrodden and cramped in the way of lesser headquarters.

The office is of simple elegance and sturdy craftsmanship, polished oak planks not yet worn through their shine, walls perhaps made of stone behind wooden paneling, bookshelves and desk made of the same dark imported lumber.

Nothing too fine, nothing on the edge of disrepair. Measure of balance unseen in nearly all the criminal underworld. Not that anyone dare call Dirtyhands a criminal.

The man trembles visibly, subdued shuttering wracking up and down the trail of his spine, hands wrenching his cap so tight its a wonder they don't break from the pressure.

A grunt named Rotty or some such gives him a shove, sending him almost sprawling at the foot of the desk. He rights himself, stumbling and runs a weathered hand nervously through his thinning hair.

His darting eyes flashing toward the door in surprise when it shuts with an audible click, the man guarding him seemingly dismissed without a word.

Rotty for his part sends the him a pitying look on his way out, having escorted many men to a similar fate.

Fenway Rutger is not a nervous man, not by trade or practice. He moves about his days with a sort of misplaced arrogance unfitting of a small, weasely man such as himself. But the people of Ketterdam know more than most that money is power, and fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) for him, Fenway has quite a bit.

His self sense of power seems to hold none here. There is something ominous about this room and it's occupant. Something dark, heavy. Enough so that Fenway can not bring himself to lift his eyes from wooden floors, locked onto their polished shine.

"Rutger, was it?"

It's not a true question, the answer is already known. The voice that asks, is raspy, demanding. Such a command that Fenway cannot refuse the underlying order to look up.

Kaz Brekker cuts an imposing figure. Almost hideous in the cruel beauty of his face. Like some ancient deity carved of ice and stone, looming presence sweeping the room, a malevolent Northern wind.

A crow, so black, so still, perched on the arm of a chair, just this side of a throne, glints with stolen light. For a moment he is not sure whether this bird is mere decoration, a tribute to Brekker's syndicate, or an illusion brought on by fear.

A shift in the bird's shadowed feathers and intelligent glare of its pitch eyes, is warning enough.

"F-fenway Rutger. Fen," he despises the terror in his tone.

He watches the bird preen under Brekker's pale hand, slow, smooth strokes hypnotizing in their tempo.

"Do you know why you're here?"

The Bastard cares not for formalities.

Fen gives his cap another angry, anxious twist before responding, "I weren't cheatin' if that's what you think. I ain't never cheat Three Man Bram-"

"Do you know why you're here?"

Something sinister lurks in his voice that makes Fen's blood freeze solid.

Fen does not know Brekker. Their paths have never crossed but a city like Ketterdam talks and being in a position like his, Fenway is inclined to listen.

His spider, his Wraith, his miniature fly on the wall, is gone. And there has been no news, no flicker that she'll been replaced. His most essential flow of information has been (permanently?) dammed.

Yet he sits, a unholy King, and Fen is somehow certain that he knows.

"Do you know?" Brekker demands of him.

He hates himself, not for his actions but for the weak, sniveling mess he's become in front of this man, just a hairs breath from a teenager.

"No, I ain't know nothin', 'kay.. I ain't done nothin' wrong!"

Kaz's eyes turn iron sharp, a frightening change from the hazed brown of before.

"So," he asks unflinching, "you're unaware of the underaged children found in your warehouse this afternoon?"

Sweat broke out on his forehead. "I don't got no warehouse."

"You have no knowledge of a warehouse under the name of Bran Henson?"

His eyes found the floor at the base of the desk, "Don't know any Bran..."

"You're unaware of the crying and pain of the children housed in a warehouse on my own wharf? Unaware of the fear and terror expressed when my men broke in to free them from their blood crusted chains? You claim no knowledge of the deposits in your account in accordance with the ledger found on the premises? You hold no guilt over the two they couldn't save!?"

Fen felt the jolt of wood hitting his knees as he knelt in submission. Fear was a powerful sedative, he could not move, couldn't speak.

Kaz stepped forward, leaning back against the desk, and used his cane to lift up Fen's chin.

His eyes watered and he fought not to let the tears fall.

"You are pathetic. Pathetic and sick. Selling children as if they were meat to the highest bidder. You'll pay for you crimes. You'll regret ever setting foot in my city."

Fear reeked. It stung.

"Please," he blubbered, but Brekker was not a forgiving man.

Fen watched the great black crow, shudder and ruffle from it perch, watched it's held tilt in curiosity, the scrap of claws on wood as it hopped it's way to Brekker side.

Kaz let his gaze soft to adoration and something like love and flicker to the beast. "My darling Inej would be fair. Just. Perhaps even merciful in her execution."

He ran his fingers through the down black of it, it lifted it's great head to nuzzle into his palm. "Wouldn't you my love?"

The bird squawked, almost sweetly. Brekker smiled in response. A cold, broken thing.

His gaze was ice when he glared down at Fen. "I will not be so benevolent, Mr. Rutger."

~

Kaz watched the floor from the shadow of his office. Watched the chitter flick of Maker's Wheel, the cheers of a win at the card table, the smash of glass on the floor as a drunken bum tried dancing with an equal drunk woman.

The screeching weasel had not disrupted the spirits of the patrons who continued on unabashedly and joyous.

The creatures warm blood dripped off his chin, it'd splattered everywhere. He felt it hit and stain his crisp white shirt. He frowned then. He'd have to buy a new suit.

A crows call sounded out behind him. Pure and melodious.

"Coming Inej."

[barrel-crow-n]

One thing about Kaz is that instead of thinking "I don't deserve her" he went "I will work on myself to deserve her" Bro is a simp, not a quitter.

[jayb1rb]

I love Six of Crows so much because the way that the whole story ties together in such a neat little bow is so sweet to me. Its things like this:

A man who pats his wallet to make sure it's there is signaling to every thief where his wallet is. He pats it to make sure it's there.

Kaz glances over to Inej on Vellegeluk when he knows he shouldn't have. He knew it was a dangerous situation, but he couldn't help but look.

He looked to make sure she was there.

[kazs-inej]

s2e3 like calls to like / s2e6 ni weh sesh

[elevencllara]

inej when someone looks at kaz the wrong way:

[neptune-scythe]

Six crows walk into a bar...

[furiouswritingbiologykid]

Inej really just said "he would not fucking say that," so hard it snapped her out of a poison induced hallucination huh.

[jazzkrebber]

if you ever feel like a hopeless romantic then remember Kaz got the girl by ripping a guy's eye out

[lunarthecorvus]

When we were taught 'no mourners, no funerals'

we were lied to, it was never the truth

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

*emphatically explains six of crows analysis out loud to self whilst completely alone and gets so passionate that I accidentally throw my teabag across the room and at that moment happen to have been talking to self about all the reasons I hate Van Eck and therefore adds to the list of reasons I hate Van Eck that he caused me to drop my teabag*

[bug-under-a-rug]

the crows as my notes app quotes (pt 2)

jesper: i can’t just wear my slut shorts and a tank top! i’ll get cold

kaz: i really love that guy and i wanna watch him suffer

wylan: i’m gonna grab my flute. (distantly) AWAY!!

jesper: why is there so much moisture?

wylan: because i’m sad

nina: orbs… you lost me man

wylan: diy music reading babyyy

mattias: it’s called being dirty minded and it’s usually frowned upon in mature society

inej: no you can not have my toes

jesper: ohhhhh that hurt. right in the cheese whiz

inej: i don’t like him anymore because he’s not attractive- I MEAN ATTRACTED TO WOMEN

wylan: my eyes are like, it’s time for a nap now bud

[swiftie-as-a-coursing-river]

Kaz Brekker is so raccoon coded

[barrel-crow-n]

Do you ever read a fic that rewires canon in your brain?

[goindownwiththeship]

The brain rot is getting to me

[six-of-cringe]

Something that is sad but also that I hugely appreciate about CK is that by the end, most of the systems that harmed the crows are still in place, but their relationships with themselves have grown and changed. I find this particularly interesting in the cases of Jesper and Wylan (shocking I know). Their identities still put them in danger of being exploited or harmed - Grisha indentures are still the norm in Kerch, and the auction scene made it very clear that if the Council knew Wylan's illiteracy was true, they would treat him much the same as his father did due to the culture surrounding productivity and ability. This might seem disheartening, but the hope lies in the shift in how these characters see themselves and their role in the world. By the end of the book, Jesper and Wylan are beginning to put away their internalized shame surrounding their identities. They may still have to hide who they are from the world to survive, but they're no longer hiding it from themselves - their true selves are no longer this crushing burden they have to turn away from to function. A general theme of the series is how, in accepting who they are and what has happened to them on a personal level, the crows place themselves in positions to make change on a systemic level - Inej and her ship, Nina and her mission, Kaz and his Barrel empire, Wylan and Jesper with their political, high-society empire. None of them are all the way there yet by the end - they're still healing, and both the loss of Matthias and the weight of those oppressive systems are going to weigh on them for a long time - but we get to see the very beginnings of that process. I'm going to bite someone.

[tough-n-dumb]

lullabies

this ficlet is shamelessly inspired by the ending of No Reason to Be Afraid by @insignificant457 because i couldn't get inej wishing kaz a goodnight out of my head. thank you for writing this beautiful pre-canon fic—all credit goes to you!

“Goodnight,” she calls after him, then winces. Goodnight? You’ve just joined a gang, Inej, have a little dignity. He pauses, already halfway out of view, then leans back to look around the doorframe, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “Goodnight,” he says stiffly. She gives him a weak smile, which he registers before leaving without further comment.

Read below or read on AO3

It becomes a habit; a nightly routine. A goodnight, Kaz her closing remarks of most evenings—or sometimes in the dark and early hours of the morning, depending on the day. More often than not, he’ll murmur it back. If he doesn’t, she’ll give him a little tsk and a hushed, chiding manners before slipping out the window. 

They spend more time together than she thought they would—probably more than he thought as well. But after jobs, she begins to linger, the windowsill in his attic rooms now her designated perch. From it, she can watch both him and the city like the spy he’s crafting her into. She likes to dangle her feet into the cool air and observe the stars that burst through Ketterdam’s cloudy sky. They’re in different places in the night sky here than in the Ravkan plains and mountains, but the constellations are familiar. She is so far from home, but the longer she spends in the Slat, in her perch in this dangerous boy’s room, the more the definition of home starts to change (though for her, home has always been other people). 

She sometimes uses variations like sleep well or sweet dreams though she knows he’ll most likely have neither. She tries not to worry about that; tries not to listen to his pacing above her, the way his bed will creak in the middle of the night from him tossing and turning. She can only imagine what he sees when he closes his eyes in the dark. She understands what it’s like to face your demons even in sleep. 

When she uses these softer variations, he’ll often smirk and offer a wry remark in return. Something along the lines of, “What’s next Wraith, you’ll sing me lullabies?”

“Maybe if you ask nicely,” she shoots back. She gets comfortable, teasing him like this, and it pleases her that he doesn’t seem to let anyone else get away with it. 

But what neither of them know—and how could they?—is that years down the line when those same nightmares come knocking she will do just that, lending him the lilting words her parents sang to lull her to sleep whispered into his hair, the rich Suli consonants curling around them in the darkness. Their voices, they find, are one of the best ways to bring each other back from the crumbling ledge of their memories—though they’ve always known to some degree that that was the case. 

One night, she’s reclined on the sill, legs stretched out and head tilted back, the warmth of summer bathing over her even after the sun has set. She yawns and rubs her eyes, and when she opens them, Kaz is staring at her. He clears his throat and looks away, shuffling some papers on his desk in a manner she knows is just for show. 

“Go rest, Inej.” It’s a dismissal, but not an unkind one. Simply a directive. She nods, rubs her eyes once more and sits up all the way, about to wish him a goodnight when—

“Goodnight. Sleep well.” He mumbles it while still staring down at his mess of papers. 

She freezes and lowers her hands, a big smile spreading on her face. 

“What was that?”

“Go to bed, Inej.”

“Oh, no, that’s not what you said.” She is absolutely grinning now, much too pleased that she’s taught her Barrel boy niceties. She thinks his face is slowly turning pink, the tips of his ears bright with color. 

When he finally looks up at her, she feels her chest tighten at the sight. His eyes are so dark they’re nearly black in the room’s low light. The shadows crease his face into hard lines, but yes, there it is—a high blush spreading across his sharp cheeks. 

“Goodnight,” he finally repeats. “And have the sweetest of dreams, darling.” He’s injected a gratuitous amount of sarcasm into the words, but the way his eyes dart over her face—and, she thinks, settle on her lips before he looks back down at his desk—gives him away. 

“Goodnight, Kaz,” she says before slipping into the night. Tonight, she isn’t plagued with her usual nightmares. Tonight, she dreams of a leather-clad hand in hers, warmed by the sun, and sea breeze in her hair.