Chapter Text
Genya Safin wasn’t a Healer. She could knit skin together seamlessly, masking scars and scrapes. But beneath the skin the hurt remained. Her Small Science was a temporary fix, glorified makeup and bandages. Not real blood-bending like the red of Corporalnik keftas signified. Her coat was white, like a cloud across the sun.
Genya’s wake-up call for Alina was normally bombastic, with doors being slammed and curtains ripped open. But as she’d entered the vezda suite this morning, a little later than usual due to a lengthier session with the queen, she’d been struck dumb. Sunlight was peeking through the cracks in the room’s heavy damask curtains, gilding the white sheets of Alina’s bed with cracks of gold. The girl herself lay curled on her side, one arm wrapped across her stomach while the other reached out into the empty space to her right. Her dark hair, still shimmering from Genya’s work the day before, lay splayed across a crunched-up pillow.
When Genya had laid eyes on the girl’s sweet face she’d quickly looked away. Something about seeing Alina like this felt intimate, different from all the other mornings. Maybe it was the late hour, the lack of servants, the closed curtains. But no matter how many external excuses Genya came up with, she had the strange suspicion that something had changed in herself. Something had clicked into place when she’d looked at Alina.
She and Alina had shared comfort before through light touches and teasing smiles, so the more familiar waking Genya felt called to wasn’t that strange. She took a deep breath and padded across the floor to the bed, making sure the wooden heels of her boots didn’t clack against the floor. Once she’d reached the bed she raised her gaze and felt an ache so strong she wouldn’t be surprised if there was a Heartrender hiding just out of sight, messing with her insides. The girl she was looking at was both Alina Starkov and the Sun Summoner of legend, caught in between the dusty orphan Genya had first met and the sankta Ravka believed in.
Genya wondered if anyone else had ever seen Alina like this. Not Mal, whose letters Genya guiltily read, the boy who seemed certain he needed to steal Alina away from her grisha captors. Not the Darkling, who dressed Alina up in silks and paraded her as a goddess. Genya softly sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at Alina’s outstretched hand. Every morning, Genya came to turn Alina from the soldier to the saint. And those moments in transition, where Alina smiled and laughed and talked of Little Palace gossip--did she have those with anyone else? Genya knew it was a greedy, selfish thought. She’d done endless selfish things in her time at the Little Palace. But when Alina looked at her in that golden way, like Genya was the light she summoned…
It wasn’t fair. It had never been fair, all that the Darkling asked of her, all that the queen demanded, all that the king took. Ever since she was a little girl, Genya had wanted things for herself. First, she made herself beautiful. Then she began to work, hoping to one day earn Corporalnik red. The deals she’d made, the things she’d sacrificed, the parts of herself she’d given up had never bore the fruits she’d dreamed. Her desire to try with Alina felt naive. But Genya was still just a girl, and moments ago she’d finally seen the sun.
She slid her hand into Alina’s and, tenderly brushing the hair from her face, murmured “Morning, sunshine.” As Alina’s eyes opened Genya slipped her hands away, back into her lap. But she stayed perched on the edge of the bed. Alina looked at the Tailor, sunlight glancing off her dark eyes. She grinned.