Work Text:
Valentina doesn’t bleed the way she’s supposed to.
You learn that the hard way, when, two months after she’s left (again), you find her in the sitting room, tying a thread through a nasty gash that’s ripped its way across her thigh, crimson coagulated around its edges. An opened bottle of antiseptic stands next to her; you recognize it as the one you purchased on your last trip to the Capitol after catching her pouring liquor on an open wound. Not in the house, you’d said, handing it to her. Not near the children.
(The children had been new then, flesh still barely clinging to their bones. Truth be told, you hadn’t known what to do with them for the first few weeks, but Tina had taken to them with an almost uncanny speed the instant they’d met. That night, she’d asked you if you were comfortable with her being around them. You didn’t even stop to think before nodding, but the look of shock that spread across her face at your easy assent almost broke your heart. You wouldn’t ask her to leave. Not then. Not ever.)
You’re startled out of your thoughts by a flash of movement as she pulls up her stockings, red vanishing behind the white covering. Vanishing is the correct word, because as soon as it disappears from your sight, she shoots a sunny smile your way and gets up with no visible effort. “Morning! I’m going to make porridge, do you want some?”
The gaping wound is still fresh in your mind as you watch her put away the medical apparatuses. Needles, thread, back into the box. The antiseptic goes into the spare kitchen cupboard next to your old carving projects. You catalogue them one by one, the creatures your mentor spoke of, voice betraying a softness she never had. A troll, darling girl, and a strömkarl. Take care to be kind to strangers, especially those you find at crossroads.
The earlier ones are coarser, made with the clumsy hands of someone unskilled. One of the húsvættir at the end is missing a nose from an accident with the knife, but your mentor had discouraged you from fixing it, murmuring something about letting things happen as they would. Those things didn’t need fixing, anyway.
Your mentor had never let you cheat at carving—not that you would, of course. The spark inside you is something you like to forget about on your best days, save for when Petra coerces you into its instruction. She is so young, far more than you’d been. Not for the first time, a spike of anger flares inside you at the thought of what she’s let slip about her parents. But they are a life away, and if she’s made her peace with them in her own odd way, you suppose you should too, even if peace is a concept you’ll never quite understand.
Take for example Valentina herself. She’d come in with the winter and stayed for the spring, speaking only of her past in halted words, eyes empty and voice dull. Maybe she thinks that if she doesn’t put emotions to them, they won’t matter as much. Your magic always feels like a betrayal then, because under her words it catches the taste of iron and fear. She always finishes with the same smile she gives you when she’s trying to convince you to drop a topic, her voice too light. “Well, anyway. I’m not going back there if I can help it.”
“I’ll kill them.” you’d said, and you would’ve sworn to, you’re sure. Your magic then was far more refined than it had been when you were a child, but it was still volatile enough that you sometimes still felt like you could burn the world down if you tried. And when you listened to Valentina speak of home, by God, you were more than willing to try.
“I don’t need you to fix my problems for me. I’ve survived just as well without.” her voice was cold, but the glare she’d shot your way was far icier, almost instantly extinguishing the burn of the anger that had built up inside you. She’d made you swear a different oath instead: that you’d stay out of it.
(You haven’t broken it, because if the world didn’t break her, you’re not going to be the one who does.)
In all honesty, it is a very simple recipe: humanity wants war, death wants blood, and neither humanity nor death care very much about each other. Your mentor had said, the very first night she’d met you, the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand. In that regard, you suppose you’re human too, even if you don’t quite feel like it sometimes.
You’ve played at it, of course. That’s why you’re here, not tracking down Petra’s parents, not searching for Valentina’s torturers, and certainly not back across the sea, axe across your back, magic at your fingertips. But forgiveness has always been a coy mistress to you, restless and relentless, the simple thought never sitting well in your stomach. Factum fieri infectum non potest, in the language of the ancient scriptures: it is impossible for a deed to be undone. You know that well.
A thought flits into your head, unbidden, and you feel yourself grimace. You’re not like your father (you won’t be like your father); you’re not reliant on your magic. It won’t bail you out of your problems. Those you face head-on, even past the secrets Valentina weighs on her shoulders, even past the cloth she rolls over the injuries. She never speaks of what she does for work, but you’ve put it together quite easily.
You’ve never found her knives, but you know they’re there. Her extra bow sits under the loose floorboard in the attic you’d pried up in the spring, except when she takes it out at Petra’s behest. You always read unease on her face, in her eerie stillness, in her hesitance around certain topics. She’s never quite tried to hide anything around you.
No. That isn’t true. Valentina is a stitched quilt of secrets; you’re simply fortunate enough to know more than most, and even if this whole wound situation is nothing unusual anymore, what you know is enough for you to worry. “Don’t you want to sit down?”
“Thanks for your concern.” she says, already having washed her hands and currently reaching for the lingonberries you’d harvested with the children yesterday. You’d spent the better part of the evening persuading them away from the basket, although you’re certain Erika’d managed a handful or two. “Porridge?”
The single word, however innocent-sounding, is not subtle in its meaning. Drop the topic. It’s a clear dismissal of what you saw less than five minutes ago, her injury as good as obsolete. It hadn’t looked shallow; you’ve spent enough time patching people up to know what a deep wound looks like. And where it was, too— she’s acting like she’s in perfect condition, while anybody else would’ve been fortunate to still be able to walk.
You level her with a look: we’re coming back to this. She appears to take no notice of it, but you know her well enough by now to understand she has. And she knows you well enough to know you’re not going to forget about it, no matter how much she would probably rather you ignore the whole situation. You’ve never been able to, after all, not when it comes to her.
So here you are again: this familiar impasse, an old conflict, the opposing sides of a divide between two things you can’t even name. All you know is you’re here and she’s there and if you were eight years younger and still the spitfire your father raised, you might have even mustered up something scathing to say about it.
As it is… right now, you’re just tired.
You want to know what’s going on. You want to know where the injury came from and why she’s so determined to pretend it doesn’t exist. You want to know where she goes when she leaves. You want to know why she always comes back like this, bruised and quiet. You want to know if she lets anybody take care of her. You want to know if she’s okay. You want the world to be good to her.
(Your eyes fall on her almost subconsciously. She’s humming the bars of a winter song as she whisks the berries in, completely obviously to the sharp flash of emotion that just flooded your senses. God, you want—)
“Porridge sounds great.”
The words that escape your mouth feel rushed and uncomfortable, but Valentina readily grasps the olive branch you’ve offered, easily returning the small half-smile you send her way. You dance around the topic for the rest of the morning, especially when the children come down, bleary-eyed but overjoyed at your surprise visitor.
Petra, through mouthfuls of the porridge, openly remarks that the version you make is far inferior to it. Valentina looks over at you, a subtle smirk on the corner of her mouth, and you roll your eyes and attempt in vain to stifle the laugh that threatens to bubble up in favor of telling her not to speak with her mouth full.
In the afternoon, you go out to look for butterflies with Erika. You’d been thinking of working on the chair that had been commissioned, but the second you’d stepped near your shed, Valentina had blocked your path. You had no idea how she’d known about the stupor you’d worked yourself into, or the fact that you hadn’t stopped working in days, but she had, and now you were off at Erika’s whims. Valentina herself had gone to the field out back with Petra, wholly intent on entertaining the latter’s dream of becoming a great knight.
You’d asked her if she wanted Petra to drop the topic, but she’d murmured something about training this generation of knights to be better than she was. And that had been that, apparently, since Petra was shaping up to be quite the formidable opponent with a fork (as well as thoroughly entranced by the idea of chivalry, which Erika derived great pleasure in mocking her for).
In the end, although you catch no butterflies, Erika proclaims herself satisfied with skipping stones on the lake and you are permitted to return home for dinner, which you manage to finish making just as Valentina and Petra return, twin grins on their faces as the latter sequesters the toy sword you’d made at her behest. Dinner itself is uneventful, as is the process of tucking them in. The whole day is light and easy—far too easy to get used to, but you allow yourself to enjoy it, even if just for a little while.
After the children fall asleep, you trail after Valentina to your room. You’d offered to build her a bed after it became apparent she’d keep coming back, but she’d quickly (and in no uncertain terms) turned you down. You weren’t sure why (the implied permanence is your best guess), but it did you no good to wander down that uncertain path. It was simpler to accept the fact that when she was here, she’d sleep in your bed.
Before, that had been just another thing you didn’t think about. It wasn’t the first time you’d shared your bed with another and this one was certainly big enough for two. At least, that was how it seemed originally; now, every single inch of space between you two seems suffocating and every aborted gesture feels stifling. She goes to sleep after you and wakes up before you; God knows what happens in the hours that elapse between then.
Every movement now feels purposeful, like an active choice you have to make. Taking a step towards the room and then another. Not looking at her. Pushing the door open. Inhaling, exhaling. Not looking at her. Going straight to your clothes, picking out the least remarkable night shift, head down, eyes away, not looking at—
“Can you help me with the laces?”
Your gaze whips to her, embarrassingly quick, almost as though you were waiting for permission. If she notices it, her face doesn’t betray anything (other than frustration at the aforementioned laces).
“Okay.” you say quietly. Your mouth’s far too dry to attempt any other words as you cross the room and take each end of the strings in hand, weaving them across her back. The air is suddenly too hot, the space between you too close, and every movement is far too much, an active choice you have to keep making. Your hand grazes her skin, just once, and you almost jolt away like it stings. After that, even if it feels wrong—it does—you keep your eyes continuously fixed firmly away from her. Your fingers, clumsy and terrified, tangle the laces more than once, but the alternative is far less safe than this.
“You’re good?” you ask, wondering if she can hear the halfway tremor that’s crept its way into your voice. At her murmured approval, you drop your hands and step shakily away, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You’re about to turn around, get dressed, wash your face, be anywhere but here, when her voice quietly cuts in.
“Knife.”
You blink, surprised at the sudden non sequitur. “What?”
“The… you saw this morning.” she amends. Her voice is deliberately casual, almost too much so, and that’s—more than anything else—what forces you to look at her. She’s not meeting your eyes, reaching for the ribbon around the front of her nightgown. “It was a knife that did it, back when I was in Avenstadt.”
You barely stop yourself from tracking the movement of her fingers as she ties the ribbon or tracing the hollow of her throat enough to scrape out a response. “Avenstadt is more than a week away.” Longer on foot.
“Someone tipped them off.” she waves off the distance, like it’s nothing to cross three hundred miles with a wound in your thigh. It’s a wonder that it wasn’t infected. A familiar wave of anger surfaces inside you at the idea of someone betraying her, but you force it down, remembering your promise to her, even as a quick flash of I’ll kill them crosses your mind. “I got out, though. I’m okay. Promise.”
You raise an eyebrow in disbelief and she grins. “Seriously. You should see the other guy.”
Against your better instincts, you snort. The tension drops quickly, the ease of the day flooding the room again (along with the familiar restlessness you’ve come to associate with being near her, although you pointedly do not put a name to it). From experience, you know it won’t last, but you try to pretend it will.
You’re the first to break, just a few minutes after you slip under the covers and blow out your bedside candle. Her breathing hasn’t evened out into sleep; you know it won’t until you yourself are asleep. But the aching feeling in your chest is boiling over, so you allow yourself four words, quick and quiet. “I’m worried about you.”
The silence stretches out between both of you, so uneasy and empty that it feels like she didn’t hear anything, even if you know she did. You’re just about ready to turn over and try to go to sleep again when you hear a response, even softer than the original statement. “I know.”
You look over at her, only to find her already looking at you, mouth pressed in a firm line, something unspeakable in her eyes. She rolls over into her side and takes your hand; you wonder if she can feel your pulse beginning to quicken. “Do you trust me?”
More than anyone , you think immediately, even if you know you couldn’t put words to anything you were feeling if you tried. “More important that you trust yourself.”
Tina laughs quietly, harsh and biting, apparently finding humor in a joke you didn’t make. “On my best days, I don’t think about that.”
You feel your heart break, just a little. “I wish you’d take care of yourself.”
“Then what will you do?” she grins. It is so obviously another attempt at teasing you, at making light of the situation. But nothing feels right at the moment; your stomach twists with unease and you can’t even find it in yourself to play along. Valentina’s facade drops after an uncomfortably long period of time, finally sensing that you can’t do it, and she lets go of your palm. “…Hey. I’m sorry.”
Another uncomfortable silence stretches out between you, so thick it could be cut with a knife. When it becomes apparent that it’s not going to be broken, she begins to shift away. You scramble for the last bridge between you two, desperate to fix the situation. It turns out to be her hand. She doesn’t flinch at the contact, only eyeing you curiously. Your heart is pounding in your chest, all the way up to your ears, and you try to shift the feelings in your chest into something that there are words for. Eventually, you settle for “Nothing to forgive.”
She smiles at you, genuine this time, and it is that smile that carries you off to sleep that night and into your dreams, which are blessedly absent of the familiar fire and prophecy you’ve come to associate them with. Instead, you find yourself in your bed again, except this time Valentina’s curled around you, her head on your chest, and that—more than anything—is what tells you that you’re dreaming again. You’ve lived in your dreams enough to know which ones you will never breathe a word of in the day; this is going to have to be one of those. She looks at you, something impossibly soft in her eyes, and whispers —
You jolt awake just as Dream Valentina’s mouth curves around the o of the second word, into the sort of smile Real Valentina’d never spare you, and almost immediately feel the sudden loss of heat from next to you. The sky’s still dark outside, although the bed across you is neatly made. You sit up, your gaze falling on the figure right next to your bedroom door.
God, you think, suddenly dizzy. You know this script far too well.
Valentina freezes minutely, her brown eyes meeting yours. There is no silent admission of guilt in them—she’s far too good for that—but you’ve been in this situation enough to know what it means. Even if you didn’t, it wouldn’t take a genius.
“You’re going.” you say. It’s not a question.
She seems to relax at the utter lack of emotion in your tone, upset or otherwise, her stance softening into something slightly more recognizable. You note that her nightclothes are folded neatly on top of the table behind her. She’s dressed in the same clothes she arrived in. “You know me so well.”
You think, will you ever let yourself rest? But the thought is smothered in its cradle; you have to force your voice not to waver. “Be careful.”
Her mouth tilts upward in an approximation of a smile. “Don’t worry about me.”
I always will, you think, feeling something in you fall into a familiar hurt. But it’s already been hurting for months now, so it’s easy to press the fact down and force yourself to forget about it. You don’t say it. You don’t think it. You won’t make this something it’s not. You won’t do that to her. Instead, you look at her and offer nothing more than a simple nod, not even when she pushes the door open and disappears into the dark.
She’ll never stay, not in the way you want her to. That’s something you’ve long accepted.
But at least this way she’ll want to come back.