Work Text:
You tailor her features to be sharp, sharper than they are. You apply eyeshadow to her eyes, contour her face, put her hair up. She sits, prim and proper, eyes cold. The Lantsov emerald shines in the low light of the queen-to-be’s bedroom, as if it were a reminder of everything that happened, as if it were the anchor that stops her from floating away and disappearing.
There’s a layer of ice where her soul used to be. You are not surprised: sometimes you can see Alina looking at her hands as if they were still stained with the blood of the Darkling and Malyen. It must hurt.
You don’t need to do this, Alina, you mutter, but you don’t stop working on her. Alina does not reply; instead, all she does is stare at the girl in the mirror as if she were a stranger. She is, in a way you cannot explain.
Her hair could do with more jewels, cords of thick gold braided around her white hair, rubies peeking through the tresses. She’ll be your masterpiece, a glittering jewel, and part of you hopes she’ll outshine Nikolai.
As the Sun Summoner, soon to be the official Sol Koroleva , of course she will. You work, add details, grab jewels and compare them to her skin tone, put the earrings in her ears. Piece by piece, you build a new Alina.
Her skin feels soft against the pads of your fingers. It’s almost as if she was untouched by the war, but you know all of her scars are internal.
It’s what I signed up for, Genya, she mutters in reply, finally looking at you, so close you can count her eyelashes. What am I supposed to do? Leave? I can’t.
You lower yourself, grab her hands, and Alina looks at you carefully. From this angle, she looks like a saint: the light that pours from the window shines on the gold cords, and reflects in a halo around her head.
Who says you can’t leave?
Me. I told Nikolai that I’d be his queen. And besides, where could I even go? I’m alone now.
You have me. You’ll always have me.
Alina looks at you, leans down slowly, as if trying to not disrupt the precarious balance of jewelry that’s upon her. She puts a hand to your face, kisses your lips softly. Alina is warm, as if the sun itself is inside her, as if she is not only its summoner but the sun as well.
You melt into it, because it is Alina and you love her. You’ve loved her since she was that skinny twig of a girl who looked longingly into the unknown, looking for someone she couldn’t reach because of you.
When she lets go, you can feel heat pooling in your cheeks. It’s a foreign feeling: usually, you’re the one putting color in people’s cheeks.
Stay with me, then . Alina says, and you, rising, nod to her. Her eyes go back to the mirror. You go behind her, looking at Alina carefully, thinking of what could be done. And maybe… Can I look like myself?
Your fingers go to her shoulders, tapping a beat in there, thinking.
You want a kefta?
Yes, and something simple to my hair. She tugs at the hair, and one part falls in loose curls: hours of work undone in seconds. I’m not - I’m not a princess. I’m not a saint. I’m just… Alina. Just another grisha.
You nod, and set to dismantling the complicated hairstyle. Maybe a simple braid, to pull in the fact she’s a saint, but not to the point Alina does not feel like herself. You know how that feels like, and you wouldn’t wish it into anyone. You put a hand on her shoulder again, squeeze it, hope it brings her some measure of comfort.
You’ll always be Alina to me, no matter what. You smile, the scars tugging at the corner of your lips. She smiles back as her hand - not the one with the Lantsov emerald, you notice - goes to yours. It’s enough.