Work Text:
It was a Grisha tradition.
One of Alina's favorites.
At the end of every year, a grand celebration. For those who had made it through.
Those who had made it past the darkness and the claws and fangs of the Shadow Fold.
Who had made it through joint postings, ever-vigilant for signs their otkazat'sya counterparts had set them up, sold them out to Druskelle or slavers across the sea.
Through long, undercover assignments in Kerch, Shu Han, and Novyi Zem.
Through the advent of the Fjerdan repeating rifle.
Who made it through the treacheries and subterfuge of the Grand Palace during the day. And for one, who had persisted for years despite the dangers of the night.
For the children, who made it safely to the Little Palace. Orphans--like her, but orphaned by a living family who would rather drown their own child for witchcraft.
This night, tonight only, the Little Palace cellars opened, flutes overflowing with sweet bubbly libations, the sound of laughter and the clink of fine glasses. Good humored rounds of near-death experiences, inflating with each retelling, until the most exuberant would regale others with the most unbelievable, fantastical tales.
It was all in good humor, through the toll of the midnight bell. When couples would kiss, and then embrace their brothers and sisters around them, cheering in the new year. Forging bonds with their fellow survivors, their fellow Grisha.
Celebration would continue for a few more moments and then, at quarter past, another bell would toll. Signalling a winding down.
Tables would be cleared in silence.
Wine flutes exchanged for candles.
Inferni lit their own, and then all others.
The lights would dim.
The room would fall silent.
The next bell would toll. Thirty minutes past.
The next thirty minutes spent in a stillness, a solemn respite from... everything.
To reflect on those left behind.
Who would not be continuing on into the new year.
Whose time had passed, existing only ever in the past.
Voluntary--this part was voluntary. But Alina always partook. Even still, despite her new role amongst them. A scroll of parchment and quill at the front of the room. To scrawl the names, to be formally announced one final time.
When the next bell tolled, signalling the conclusion of the first hour of the new year, Aleksander would enter, clad in formal kefta, take his position upon the dais, and read the names aloud, one by one.
This year, the list was far shorter than the previous years. A testament to their work together, hers and Aleksander's, to bring peace to Ravka.
Oleg Havarson
Andrei Tarasov
Pavel Nazarov
Vasilka Moryakova
Mariska Merushkova
Zorik Oshkin
Lukas Stavrov
Kiryl Pamenko
Feliks Grimlikov
Artem Zakharov
Fedyozia Lubova
Kseniya Ryabova
He was already through the list of Corporalki and Etherialki. Under the tyrrany of the Lantsovs, the General would still be in the first third of the Etherialki casulties alone.
But it was more than just the far fewer casualties these days; their ranks had begun to recover. Much had changed since they'd reconciled.
His eyes found hers from across the room.
She nodded.
She knew the meaning in his gaze.
Happy New Year, love.