Chapter Text
The House of Morozova, An Abridged Chronicle
(i)
Don't underestimate the power of the grand gesture, Alina. The people like spectacle, Nikolai had once told her.
So a spectacle was what she gave them. A subtle glow to her skin, a golden halo around her head that lent her dark hair a bronze sheen, and a sceptre of light in her right hand. Alina hoped that it was enough to draw their attention away from her filthy overcoat and muddy footwear. She lifted her sceptre to hush the cacophony of fervent weeping, reverent whispers and hushed prayers in front of her. When all was silent, she walked away from the infirmary tent with Aleksander by her side. The gravel crunched noisily beneath their boots with each step.
The Lantsov king and his sons, legitimate and otherwise, have perished in the war with Fjerda and the ensuing havoc brought on by merzost. The Duke of Balakirev, a first cousin once removed, was next in line to succeed the king.
Lord Demidov stood regally before the royal tent with his head held high and his hands clasped behind his back. He was a tall, wiry, middle aged man with salt and pepper hair and beard. The navy embroidered ceremonial garment that he wore with a small, pale blue cloak thrown over the left shoulder and pinned onto the right by a gold double-eagle fibula, left no doubt of his royal heritage.
The less you say, the more weight your words will carry.
Don’t argue. Never deign to deny. Meet insults with laughter.
The well meaning tips that Nikolai had given her on their way to Os Alta a long time ago rang through her head. It was sad and ironic how reliant on his advice she had become now with the recent demise of his Lantsov predecessors.
“I hear that you're a Grisha with the ability to manipulate light,” said the Duke in a voice that dripped with condescension.
Alina gave a saccharine smile. “The people believe that I am a Saint,” she answered.
“I believe that you are a fraud.”
“And yet, I've done what your late king could not.”
“What do you want?” he asked. His brows knitted in anger.
“Safety for all in Ravka. I could include you in on that too, if you'd like, my Lord.”
“You’ll include nothing under my authority,” he sneered.
I tried, Nikolai, Alina thought to herself. But Alina was an orphan from Keramzin. She had not been bred for politicking and negotiating like he was. Plus, she didn't have Nikolai’s charisma and right now, she felt that her charm offensive was less charm and more offensive. She considered poking Lord Whatshisface in the eye with her sceptre.
“My fellow Ravkans! The Lantsov line has marched your fathers, your brothers and your friends to their deaths countless times. This war would have dragged on, and your sons and grandsons would have faced the same fate.” The calm, cool voice carried through the air. Aleksander had finally spoken up.
“But the saints have heard your prayers. And they have rewarded your faith in them… Through our Sankta Alina.” He briefly turned to her and winked before addressing the crowd again.
“She is a daughter of Ravka. She is the future of Ravka. Pledge your allegiance to her and she will watch over you. She will guarantee safety for you and your family.” he ended with a flourish. Alina had underestimated her young husband. She had always assumed that Aleksander’s showmanship skills came with centuries of practice. She was wrong- this man was a natural.
“Sankta! Sol Koroleva!” came the rousing cries from the people. The chants continued to grow louder and clearer.
Alina turned to Lord Demidov and said with a shrewd smile, “Abdicate.”
(ii)
The powerful contractions had left her deranged. Why oh why can't the baby be a healer with pain killing powers?
“This one isn't even out yet and you're already trying to put another one in?” Alina hissed through gritted teeth. It took ten counts before her abdomen relaxed again.
Aleksander took his hands off her hips and put them up in surrender.
“But Tyotya said that it induces-” he replied gently in a feeble attempt to placate her.
“Tyotya has said a lot of things and THAT'S what you paid attention to?” she interjected, her voice now high pitched with hysteria.
She caught the little twitch at the corner of his lip. He was trying not to laugh. And that was a wise move on his part because saints have mercy on him if he did so much as smirk. Alina was still in a lot of agony, and still very pregnant with a living, kicking amplifier. It wouldn't take a lot to get the sun summoner triggered.
“Shall we go for a walk, milaya ? She said walking might help with the labour,” he suggested.
“But I can't go like this! My waters have broken! I look as if I've fucking pissed myself!” she bawled.
The colourless, odourless gas that Tyotya asked her to inhale had done little to alleviate her pain, but it had given her a foul mood and an even fouler mouth. Although in her defense, there was a very large wet patch on the back of her white, flowy cotton dress. The amniotic sac had unfortunately given up as she was stuffing her face with sugar plums on the velvet chaise lounge.
Tyotya finally arrived at the royal bedchamber and threw a large cloth over the black silken sheets. She helped Alina to climb onto the intricately-carved mahogany four poster bed and arranged the young woman’s legs so that her knees were propped up. The healer anointed her forehead with a lavender-scented poultice and then passed her hands over her abdomen with a practised skill. “Two counts apart now. The child is close,” she said.
Alina’s abdomen tightened painfully. “Now, push!” ordered Tyotya.
The healers called this part of childbirth the crowning of the head. To Alina, this part felt like trying to defecate shards of glass. She was squeezing Aleksander’s hand so tightly that she feared she might have impaired his ability to summon.
“Take quick, short breaths,” said Tyotya calmly.
Another wave of contractions. “Push!” she said.
Alina bit her lip, held her breath and pushed as hard as she could. She gasped for air and slumped into the cushions behind her once she felt that the child had vacated her body.
Newborn cries filled the room and Alina burst into tears of relief and joy. After wiping and wrapping the baby in a clean blanket, Tyotya handed the precious little bundle to Aleksander. He turned his glossy eyes to his wife and in a voice that was almost broken, he whispered to her, “Look Alina, it’s our son.”
Through her exhaustion she smiled, and she let her eyes leave his face to take in the baby that was being brought to lie on her bare skin. In that moment, as she stared at the beautiful, sweet-smelling miracle with a tuft of dark hair and tiny rosebud lips, all the pain from moments before melted away. Though only minutes old, the clever little boy began to root, mouth wide, his instincts strong.
“Welcome to the world, moi tsarevich,” murmured Alina.