Chapter Text
He was impossible not to spot, a stain of red climbing up frost-muted hills that seemed to converge in their downwards slopes solely to centre him at their intersection. There was a stumble here and there, a boot slipped in the mud, a knee gave out, a hand aborted a fall and tangled the conspicuous bear claw at its back in the shallow roots of the heather. But there was barely a sound to be heard, the stumbling man never once letting out so much as a groan as he slid his way up the hill. Only the birches rustled softly, their leafless twigs extending eastwards with the wind. Zoya pondered her options. They both were powerful Grisha, having mastered their respective disciplines and acquired an amplifier. But Ivan was clearly wounded, by the looks of his fumbling attempts to reach the hut she had put up shelter in, and unlike her, he needed to have her within his eyesight to inflict some actual damage. And unlike her, he did not know of the other’s presence.
Finally, she ducked to one side of the doorway, grabbing a piece of rope and slipping a knife out of her boot. It was more of a utility knife than an actual weapon, straight at the pointy tip, jagged closer to the antler handle, but for this it would suffice. After what felt like an eternity of waiting in the shadow of the corner, she could finally hear his boots unevenly dragging across the landing.
As he neared the door, she prayed to the Saints he might be too exhausted to perceive her heartbeat. She was heard. After he stepped through, she rushed at his back, bringing her knife up under his chin and seizing his right hand with hers.
“Don’t even think about trying any tricks, Maksudov,” she hissed into his ear. “Zoya,” Ivan wheezed. “Not with your precious Sun Summoner anymore, I see? She abandon you like the rest of us?”
“Shut it.” With a swift movement, she let go of his wrist, taking the rope and then forcing both of his hands behind his back. She wrapped it around them two, three, four times, the rough fibre visibly compressing the skin beneath. Just as she was about to make a knot, she felt something under her hand shift and Ivan’s whole body twitched, almost imperceivably, as if he was fighting against any display of weakness or injury.
“It’s broken, isn’t it? Your arm?” Ivan only huffed in response. His breath crystalised in the air. Zoya only heated the hut during the night, when no one could see the smoke. This time on purpose, she dug her fingers into the flesh of Ivan’s right arm, along the ulna. Again, something shifted. Several somethings. A small, suppressed shout slipped from Ivan’s chest, and Zoya dropped her rope. Instead of further restraining him, she gave Ivan a strong push, squarely between his shoulder blades. He stumbled and fell to his knees, just barely breaking his fall with his left hand. It left a faint, muddy print on the wooden planks.
“Can’t heartrend with that,” Zoya laughed, now much more relaxed. “Mighty brave of you, to help Kirigan decimate an entire town and then prance around the area defenceless in that,” she spat at him, making a clipped gesture towards his kefta, still bright red beneath the mud and other, darker patches. Ivan struggled to get back up, desperately trying to remove himself from his position beneath her. But his knees kept failing, his feet unwilling to find footing. After a while, he gave up and instead scooted towards the wall, leaning his back against it. Finally, Zoya had a chance to properly survey him since he had entered the hut.
She took a few steps towards him and came to a stand before his legs, slightly angled to protect his torso and the injured arm he had lain into the crook of his hips. He had lost most of his uniform, missing the large felt hat and the cloak that usually covered the kefta. He still wore the kefta itself, but it was torn in places, exposing scratched underneath, most noticeably in a gash along the left side of his torso, seemingly connecting to a wound along the side of his face of the same angle. Surely, a Volcra’s strike. The would was clearly from the day of the attack on Novokribirsk, four days ago, but it had not closed and was burning a venomous red, swelling the eye next to it shut. If it hadn’t been for that and his kefta, he would have perfectly blended into landscape of the boggy hills and its birches, with the dark brown filth covering him, apart from some spaces where the ashen white of his skin showed. Zoya let her eyes drift over him to assess every little detail, how injured he was, how much of a fight he might be able to put up. Ivan shifted under her gaze, his eyes flitting around the corners of the room, as if he might be able to escape her. He stayed put. Zoya smirked. He clearly was panicking at being at someone’s mercy like this, she did not have to be a heartrender to know that. Then her face fell stony again and she took a deep breath.
“Are you proud?” Ivan stopped looking for an escape and fixed his gaze on her. A few seconds of silence passed between them, the rustling of the branches outside had amplified and become a whipping.
“Yes.” His good eye twitched minutely.
“Yes, a very good demonstration of power, wasn’t it? Very mighty, very brave, to slaughter an entire town of innocents, that’s going to improve our relationship with the otkazat’sya,” she sneered back at him.
“It’s either them or us at this point, the hate towards Grisha has grown in the last decades. I was only a matter of time before it turned outright violent again.”
“That was why we were going to destroy the Fold! To heal Ravka, to show we are more than just destruction. This was supposed to be a peaceful display of hope, and you and Ale- the General turned it into a slaughter. Have you forgotten your oath to the Second Army? To serve Ravka? I’m sorry if no one told you this, but that includes its people. All of them.” She was now baring her teeth at him, her head cocked forward into his face. Ivan huffed.
“Just because I was not born within Ravka’s borders-“ “Oh shut up, I don’t care that you’re Fjerdan, and you know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“But are we not doing that? Are we not protecting them? Do we not give our lives, each and every one of us, to serve Ravka and keep its borders and people secure? They can choose whether or not they want to serve in the army, but all of us have to fight, just so that we are not executed or our bodies flayed apart in experiments, and does our struggle for Ravka’s sovereignty not protect them too?” He was trembling now with the exhaustion of his rage and his wounds. “For years, Ravkans murdered Grisha too, not just back in Fjerda. They branded us unnatural, driving us from our homes. Pulling anyone out of their beds in the night they suspected of being Grisha, to burn them alive or string them up on a tree. And still we protect them, and still they stare at us with hate in their eyes, with distrust. Don’t tell me you haven’t felt their eyes in your neck.” Zoya had stood silently in the middle of the room during his rant. She shifted her weight onto her left foot and sniffed.
“I wouldn’t put that down to you being a Grisha, Ivan. Have you ever looked into a mirror? You’re not exactly the epitome of a man someone would like to have a friendly chat with.” Ivan fell back against the windowsill. “I’m glad you can find amusement in our oppression,” he murmured towards the wall. Immediately, the dust around Zoya’s feet was blown behind her, and she tensed, reaching her full height.
“Oh no, Ivan, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to tell me how I should deal with this. Do you really think I don’t know about the danger that we live in from the moment we first feel our powers? But we can’t keep creating ourselves more fronts to fight on.” She took a breath to compose herself. Her neck and cheeks were now red with rage. “I went down to Novokribirsk. I had family there, I thought…” She clenched her fists. “I thought maybe one of them survived, just one. Just one managed to hide away in some cupboard, or fight the Volcra off for long enough. But the whole town is laid waste, it’s like the darkness has eaten itself inside the place, into its walls, and burst them to rubble. Nothing is standing anymore, and my family… there’s not even corpses in that place, they’re all either eaten by Volcra or…” She swallowed thickly. “Or they’re becoming Volcra. Ivan, this can’t be the price. Never. Especially when it isn’t even yours to pay.”
Ivan was silent now, staring at his knees. The mud had somewhat dried now and was peeling off his trousers in flakes, like dead, grey skin.
“What will you do with me now,” he asked eventually.
“I won’t kill you, if that’s what you’re wondering, you’re not that much of a threat right now.” She gestured towards his injuries. “You were there on the skiff and no doubt Kirigan has already started telling his amended version. People need to know what happened, there’s going to be a war and they should know what they are laying their lives down for, so we are going to tell them. Two voices speak louder than one.” She was turning towards the corner of the room now that she had piled old clothes and blankets from the town in to make a makeshift bed. Her cloak served as a thin blanket.
Ivan swallowed. “What if I lie?” Zoya let out a short laugh as she unearthed a bag from the pile, containing some old bandages and scissors.
“Oh, I know at least one person you could never lie to.”