Chapter Text
Her heart skips a beat. The light she's maintaining is enough to make out a dark crumpled mass several feet away in the sand. She leans over as the skiff comes to a stop. Mal drops overboard and approaches slowly, pistol held out. He nears it and with his foot, gives it a hard shove that flips it over. A strangled cry of pain meets their ears, and she recognize the voice that gives it. Aleksander. The Darkling lies there, unmoving; his kefta is torn and bloodied, his chest barely rising and falling. His dark hair is disheveled and falls into his face; his face itself, she notices, is marred by several cuts and scratches. She's inclined to feel pity, seeing the state the volcra had left him in, but pushes the feeling away, steeling herself. She hesitantly draws her hand up to her collarbone, her fingers tracing the aching protrusion of bone beneath her skin.
There's a soft thump somewhere in front of her, and he coughs, his breath rattling in his chest. She jerks to attention to see Mal nearly on top of him, his foot on the man's chest. Mal glowers down at him, aiming the pistol right between his eyes.
"Don't," Alina says loud enough to be heard. The tracker pauses, looking up at her over his shoulder.
"Lina. . .we could kill him," he nearly whines. "One shot and the universe is rid of the Darkling. Don't tell me you're seriously thinking about letting him live?" She alights softly from the skiff and drawing up her skirts, walks towards him. When she reaches him, she lifts one hand to his cheek, stroking it with her thumb and holds his gaze for a moment.
"I know," she answers, this time glancing down at the man on the ground. She reaches out slowly and gently pushes the pistol down and away from its target. She turns on her heel and begins to walk away when his words stop her.
"He doesn't deserve it." The words still her, and she hesitates, remembering the broken man standing before her only weeks ago, the sorrow in his eyes speaking volumes to her of a loneliness too great for him to bear, of darkness too great for him to face. Her breath is shaky when she takes it in, and it is an effort to swallow back the tears that threaten to brim on her lashes.
"It isn't deserved," she says, simply. She pauses now, her eyes on the two of them.
"Well, how does that leave us then?" She takes a moment to think, looking around her at the swirling darkness swarming around them and the sharp burst of lightning flickering in and out of its folds.
"Where are we?" She delivers the question in a gentle but firm tone, and the tracker understands perfectly.
"I believe we're still on the Ravkan border if we keep straight," he mumbles, fumbling for a moment to find his compass. He holds it out, knocking the glass a couple of times and watching as the needle jumps and swivels, seeking direction. "It didn't move further once hell broke loose," he remarks, jerking his thumb to the skiff. There's a scuffle of movement then, and she can just make out Inej peeking down at them from atop the skiff beside a somewhat dazed Jesper, rubbing his head. He'd lost his top hat in the fight.
"Let's leave him at the edge then," Alina says softly. "The volcra will not venture so far, and the Second Army should find him sooner or later. Then, Saints know what we do next." She lets the last statement off with a shrug and looks at Mal, awaiting a response. He dips his head in a nod, pockets his pistol and steps over the Darkling's inert form, now standing at his head. Without any warning, he drops down, hooks his arms under the other man's shoulders and in this fashion, drags him off into the darkness. "Mal! Wait!" she cries out, too late. She's already summoning a soft light to guide the way, but she's jarred by the sharp cry that tears from the wounded man's lips as Mal's manhandling shakes and pulls at his injuries. The cry is followed by a string of Old Ravkan curses, and for once she is glad she does not understand the dead language. She holds the light steadily for them as they proceed, only releasing as she notices the darkness thinning and diffusing away from them as they near the edge of the Fold. They break through the whisping blackness and find themselves in the sand, staring out at an open expanse of wasteland. Mal grunts and roughly tosses the Darkling away from him. He moves to stand by Alina and turns to walk away. She follows suit, but glances over her shoulder one last time. She hadn't known if the man was conscious or in a daze from the hell he'd put himself through, but now, she's convinced otherwise as he shifts, pushing himself painfully onto his side and struggling with some difficulty to lean up on an elbow His head droops, but he lifts it and with heavy-lidded eyes, meets her gaze. Her heart catches in her throat once more; she tears herself from the scene, twining her arm around Mal's and leaves.
He doesn't see her for months, afterward. The seasons pass, and he remains in the Little Palace, immersed in an endless pile of missives, letters and war stratagem. The cold months are easier to bear because the sun reminds him of her, and the memory leaves a painful ache in his chest. It's been a year since they found him at the border. The Healers had tended to him almost immediately upon arrival at Os Alta, and his injuries, not grave, had been too extensive not to leave scars. He looks down at the palm of his right hand, running his left thumb over the jagged scar she'd left there. You needed me, but I have never needed you. He can still see the black hatred burning in her eyes as she looked up at him from the deck and had, in one swift movement, shoved the Suli blade through the palm of the hand he'd extended to her and dislodged the stag's bone, severing the amplifier's bond.
He's lost for a moment or two in the memory of a year ago when he feels a tightness in his chest, as if something were knotted around his heart, tugging at it. Hesitantly, he reaches out for it, shivering when, as he grasps at it, warmth such as he hadn't felt for a very long time, spreads through him. He swallows thickly, a familiar ache in his chest as he remembered the warmth he'd had in her embrace once long ago.
He relishes the warmth, his eyes just beginning to drift closed as the sleep that had been evading him comes now, when a flicker of movement not far from him catches his eye. He shifts, blinking several times. He can just make out a small figure near the door, huddled in a crouched position. A soft sphere of light winks into existence, illuminating her face in a soft glow. Her dark, slanted eyes spark with delight as she admires the tiny sun in the palm of her hands and the long raven tresses framing her face catch the light.
Alina.
Her hair is much longer than the last time he'd seen her; unbound by braids or any elegant updo, it falls like a dark mantle about her frame. She looks somewhat thinner, and he wonders whether life has been cruel to her since the events of the crossing She's dressed simply, in loose pants, boots and a thick woolen tunic that hangs loosely about her frame and is too long for her arms, the sleeves rolled and folded around her wrists. White flecks of freshly fallen snow cling to the strands. She must be in the North, he muses. He watches, still, as she expands the sphere, rising to her feet and slowly shifts, bringing her hands together and twisting. His brows furrow slightly; he recognizes the movement. She's summoning a Cut, almost exactly the way he'd taught her to shortly after she arrived at the Little Palace. She twists her wrists and lifts her arms slowly, before releasing the golden crescent blade with a sharp flick of her wrists. It skitters off into darkness, undoubtedly slicing some object he can't presently see. Her face is rosy, aglow with the effort of her summoning and delight gleams in her dark eyes. "Alina!" A voice calls to her, and the vision of her dissipates.
He is alone again.
The next time he sees her, he is in the War Room, poring over the maps spread haphazardly on the table. He hadn't been able to sleep that night, preferring to occupy his mind with anything but her. Thoughts of her bring pain, like a wound opened again and again, never allowed to heal. He loves her, but it doesn't necessarily mean it doesn't hurt to do so. He is in the process of absently re-arranging the tiny figurines on the table when a soft sound breaks the silence in the room.
He stiffens.
He isn't startled easily, but he knows that here, now, he is alone. There should be no one else in his rooms. Where had the sound come from?
He sets the glass of kvas down on the table and strides softly, silently back to his bedroom, grabbing the Grisha steel dagger from the box in which it rests as he passes by. He curls his fingers around the blade and holds it low at his side as he opens the door slowly and peeks inside.
He almost drops the blade in surprise. There is Alina, lying on the bed, hidden under heavy blankets, tossing and turning, small whimpers leaving her lips. He leaves the blade, forgotten, and quickly crosses the distance between them, holding himself at the foot of the bed, watching her with concern. She sleeps, and her eyes flit beneath closed lids. Her brows are drawn together as if in pain, and a quiet moan falls from her lips. Her hand snakes out from under the covers and finds its way to her collarbone. His eyes widen slightly as he can just barely make out the shape of the antlers protruding from her soft skin, and he blinks at the moisture in his eyes. The collar. . .why hasn't she had it removed? He nears her and tentatively reaches out to stroke her brow as if to smooth away the furrows.
She shifts, her heartbeat and breathing quickening. Her eyes blink open, and their gazes meet. There is initial surprise, followed by shock and confusion and. . .to his dismay, fear. She jerks away with a sharp cry, scrambling backward and drawing the covers up around herself. Her image dissolves, but the memory of the fear and pain held in her eyes remains with him. He tries to swallow, his throat suddenly dry as he recalls the last time she'd looked at him like that.
They'd been standing in the tent, the Durast between them. The boy had just laid the antlers of Morozova's Stag on her collarbone and a small ring of the same bone on the back of Aleksander's right hand. He'd closed his eyes and worked, letting the power siphon from his fingertips to the pieces of the amplifier. A soft glow surrounded them, the light flickering as the antlers sank into the girl's tender flesh, and the ring sank into his own. He'd grunted, furrowing his brows against the pain. She'd released a heavy, pained sigh, her small figure slumping as if a weight far too heavy for her had been thrust upon her shoulders. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the Durast was finished and stepped back. The Darkling had reached out tentatively and laid his hand on the crook of her shoulder, willing her power to surface, drawing on the strength of the amplifier connecting them. He'd stood, still, his eyes fixed on the glow of light that rose at his bidding. But before him, hed seen her stiffen, her body resisting even as her own power obeyed his will. She'd lifted her head and stared up at him with wide, dark eyes bright with unshed tears, gleaming with hurt, pain, betrayal. He'd been too focused on the fact that he controlled her power then, too absorbed in the temptation of power at his fingertips, too rapt in the fulfillment of his desires, that he'd failed to see the harrowing consequences it had wreaked upon her.
He stays there a moment longer, clenching the fist at his side. Regret pierces him like a blade. I lost you, Alina; the fault is none but mine. He turns on a heel and strides back to chair he'd been sitting in, facing the fire in the hearth. He stares into the flames dancing among the broken pieces of wood. The warmth reaches him, chasing away the frigid cold from his extremities and almost tempting to lull the tired man into the embrace of sleep, but it's with some semblance of pain that he realizes the warmth doesn't reach his heart.
The muscle in his jaw twitches, and there is nothing he can do to numb it. He has lost her. The wind howls outside his window, ramming skeletal tree branches against the pristine glass. The window is closed, blocking out the frigid air, but a cold all too familiar to him settles in his heart. He releases a weary sigh, reaching up to rub at his eyes. He is not afraid of the cold; it has been a constant companion, even through centuries of solitude.
The pain in his heart sharpens like a dagger once thrust and twisted, and he blinks furiously at the moisture in his eyes. He cannot bear the cold now because he has felt warmth. He had the sun in his arms, and her light had melted the ice. But she was gone now, and he faces the cold, alone, once more.
She wakes screaming. Her heart hammers in her chest, and she feels a slow ache spreading across the back of her hand, a bruise from when she'd smacked her head against the headboard of the bed. She pushes herself upright in the bed, her chest heaving from the sharp, short breaths she can barely take in. She draws her hands together and twists with her wrists, spreading her fingers and drawing them apart until a small sphere of light pops into existence. She holds it up, raising it to illuminate the dark room and scans the dim darkness. Nothing. The wraith of her nightmare has gone. She slumps back among the pillows and heaves a weary sigh, letting her eyes slip closed. The image of him returns to her mind--he'd been there, inches away, his hand extended, his thumb lightly stroking her brow. His face held no emotion, save for his eyes. They'd held a deep sadness, and something else she couldn't put a finger on. Confusion floods her now at the thought of it. How different this had been than the last time she'd seen him.
A shiver runs through her as she lets her mind drift back to the events in the Fold. It all seems a blur now, but she remembers. In her mind's eye, she stands on the deck of the skiff, her ankles shackled to the planks beneath her. The Darkling stands beside her, his hands uplifted and shifting as he manipulates the darkness swarming around them. Pain flares in her breast as the amplifier calls her power against her will, and she remembers her act of defiance. His gaze snaps to her, and a dark fury blazes there. He takes her gift, twists it, corrupts it and leaves her breathless and weak, scrabbling at the deck beneath them. The memory shifts and changes; the image of the Stag flashes before her, the only thing she sees now. A new strength floods her members, and her fingers reach for the bloodied blade discarded by her side. Her eyes settle on his outstretched hands, and she empties her bottled rage in the next words that leave her lips, "You may have needed me, but I have never needed you." She brings it swiftly, forcefully through the back of his hand, dislodging the antler the Durast had placed there. He drops to the deck, on his knees, cradling his injury. Pain flares in her own wrist, but the adrenaline flooding her veins is too strong for her to register it.
Tears prick her eyes now. Why? Why this phantom pain in my heart? she asks herself, rubbing at her breastbone as if to dissipate the sharp pain piercing the beating muscle like a dagger.
Her breath leaves her in short gasps, and her heart still slams furiously against her breastbone, recovering from the sheer shock of the moment. The ache persists and her brows draw together in confusion. She holds nothing but hatred for him, and the fists at her side clench as if to solidify the truth she clings to. Her battered heart beats feebly at the thought, and she tries to calm it, repeating it like a mantra. I hate him. He is a monster. There's a soft rap at the door, and after a moment, the old wood creaks as it slides on its hinges. Mal is there, lingering on the threshold, his brows furrowed in concern.
"You okay?" She nods, running a hand through her hair.
"Just a nightmare." She isn't sure if the words that leave her lips are the truth or a lie. She rubs at her breastbone as the dull ache that had settled there fades.
"Some nightmare," he mumbles. "The snow's set in. We might not be able to leave for another day or two." She can't hide the dissappointment that settles on her tired features. She turns her gaze to the window, watching as small flakes dance and swirl outside, gathering on the frosty glass pane. She scoots to one edge of the bed and reaches down to pull another fur over her shivering form.
"Mal?"
"Hmm?" She forms the question in her mind, rolling it around on her tongue and pauses thoughtfully. The strange dreams flash in her memory, and she shudders against them, shaking her head. He'll chase them away, she tells herself.
"Keep me company?"
The tracker stands there a moment, and his mouth falls open slightly. He's grateful it's too dark for her to see the rosy color of his cheeks. He adjusts the color of his coat and rocks on his heels.
"I--Alina. . .erm," he stammers, fumbling for words. Her dark brows draw together and she tilts her head to the side, regarding him with a quizzical expression before lifting a finger.
"Not like that," she chides with a giggle. "It's just. . ." She lies back down and watches him as he shrugs off the heavy duster, the thick scarf and kicks off his boots before approaching the bed. The mattress dips as he tosses himself onto it beside her. She's nestled safely beneath the furs, and he lies on his back beside her. "The nightmares felt. . .real," she whispers. "If it's going to be the two of us stuck here for the next two days, I don't want to be alone with them." He shifts slightly, scooting backward so his back rests against the headrest and looks down at her.
"What exactly did you dream about, Sticks?" Her lips curl at the use of her nickname, but the smile fades as her mind goes reluctantly back to the subject of his question.
"Shadows," she mumbles and shakes her head. He huffs, and they are close enough that she feels the movement when he nods a few times, slowly, thoughtfully.
"He's dead, you know, he has to be," he answers just as softly. "I was fighting him, and then a volcra came out of nowhere and ripped into him. We left him at the edge, but chances of survival are slim at best." He can feel the sharp intake of her breath against him and reaches down to stroke the dark waves of her hair. "He's dead, Alina. He can't hurt you anymore." She nods against his shoulder, too tired to argue any further.
He is right about the snow. Two days later, the sun comes out and melts the thick layer of white that had descended upon the land. She watches the horizon, squinting against the brightness reflecting from the fresh snow. Birdsong wafts gently from the patch of trees to the left, and a brisk wind tickles her cheek. She gazes at the landscape before her and is almost overwhelmed by its emptiness. Miles and miles of white, marked by skeletal trees and hemmed by the distant craggy peaks of the mountains. Such a sad land, she thinks to herself. She stands there, shrouded in the fur mantle Mal had laid on her shoulders that morning and lifts her head towards the midmorning sun, closing her eyes and basking in the same light that flooded through her veins.
"You look like a queen, you know that right?" The voice that reaches her is Mal's, but another echoes in her mind. "You are special. You do know that?" The sweet innocence of her reflections shatters like a hammer striking a glass window. The shards of the violence, and the fresh pain the words cause prick her sharply. She remembers the betrayal in the anguished furrow of his brows after she'd thrust the dagger into his hand and wonders whether or not he'd felt then as she does now. She lifts hands to her face and rubs at her temples as if to dissolve the memory.
"Of such a sad kingdom? It's cold, and empty. I am the Sun," she answers, turning over her shoulder to offer him a smile.
"The Sun Queen," he says appreciatively. She whips around and crosses the distance in a lightning flash. Her hands are on his chest, and the gleam in her eyes is sharp as a dagger. She shakes her head once, firmly.
"Don't call me that," she pleads softly. "The Apparat called me that. He is. . .a distrustful, frightening and villainous creature." He backs away a step, lifting his hands in surrender.
"Agreed then, not calling you that. Now, if you're quite ready," he begins, "We should make it to the next town by noon. There's a small market there; I can ask about things." She nods her approval and they trudge out into the snow.
Within a few hours, they have the town in their sights. Her feet are tired and aching from the trip, and she has half a mind to ask him for a pause when a bright flash of crimson catches her eye. No, Saints, no, she pleads silently. She twines her arm more closely around Mal's and wants to hide her face in the shoulder he offers, but curiosity gets the better of her. They make their way slowly towards the town, and soon enough, the figure in red is now closer in her line of vision. A man, not much taller than her, is outside a shop, his hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke with someone she couldn't see. He is the owner of the crimson kefta she'd seen from afar. Her heart leaps into her throat when she can just make out the black embroidery spreading across his lapels and down the back of the garment. He turns, almost as if on cue, and in the second before she turns her head away, she recognizes him. His dark hair is combed neatly to the side, and impossibly dark eyes glitter beneath his brow. Fedyor.
"Mal, hide me, quick," she mumbles against him. She draws the fur more closely around her face and takes in deep quiet breaths, remembering the instruction the self-same Heartrender had given her to slow her heartbeats.
"Is that a. . .Alina, the guy in red, he's--"
"I know, please hide me."