Chapter Text
The Darkling lounged on his throne of obsidian, wrought in gold. His lithe legs were tossed over the arms of the chair, two fingers pressed to his temple as if to stave off the boredom of the endless petitioners, griping about fields struck by blight and tiffs between villages. Every one of them pleaded as if they were the first to struggle, as if their plights were the most singular concern of the kingdom. For their ant-like lives, he supposed they were correct.
His boredom washed away in an instant as the ostentatiously large doors burst open, making way for a slight girl to enter.
He sat upright immediately, the name almost escaping his lips.
Alina.
Her stride was purposeful, longer than he remembered. She appeared more muscular than he had ever seen her as well.
“Moi Tsar,” she proclaimed as she neared the dais, dropping to one knee with a fist over her heart.
Her voice was different. He would attribute it to the years that had passed, yet doubt wriggled into his mind, like an ugly, coiling worm. Something was wrong. He dismissed the remainder of the supplicants with an idle wave of his hand, a carefully orchestrated movement. Something had shaken loose in him, and he would not let his audience scent weakness.
Her voice was cordial as she proceeded with the courtly pleasantries that came with addressing a king. And yet he sensed an edge simmering underneath. His sense of disquiet clicked when she lifted her head to stare him down. Rather than the warm brown he had been expecting, the girl’s eyes were an icy blue. He realized with an uneasy clarity that he recognized those eyes. A tracker’s eyes.
With a discomfort he hadn’t felt in decades, he nodded, acknowledging her petition. She rose to her feet with hate flashing sharply in her gaze. Now that he had a moment to study her, he noted the blatant differences in her profile. Her face had a squarer shade, her nose a little broader, her lips a little fuller. He saw the blend of the otkazat’sya and his beloved Sun Summoner. And it made him sick .
His outward appearance had shifted from initial alarm back to a composed slouch, apathy a careful mask drawn over his roiling insides. The girl had paused, seemingly collecting her thoughts. It appeared she was as off-kilter at them meeting as he was.
“Speak,” he drawled lazily.
Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. She appeared to find the words, or rather the strength she needed. “Moi Tsar, I have traveled a great distance,” she said, with exaggerated deference. “My mother is in need of help.”
“And who is your mother, to beckon the king of Ravka?” he asked, fully knowing the answer and not particularly hiding that he knew.
From the look in her eyes, she was aware of exactly what kind of game they were playing. She took a deep breath, straightening almost imperceptibly.
“Moi Tsar, I am Marya Oretsev. My mother is Alina Oretsev,” her voice rang out through the hall. “You may know her as Alina Starkov. The Sun Summoner. Sol Koroleva. Sankta Alina of the Fold.”
Gasps echoed around the room, tittering filtering through the courtiers. The Apparat, a man by the name of Yuri Vedenen lurched forward. He had replaced the previous insufferable creature and was regretfully no less insufferable. “Blasphemy!” he shouted, an accusing finger outstretched towards the girl. “The Sun Saint died on the Fold!”
She let out a rueful chuckle. “I speak as true as the wind through the trees. As true as the sun rises and sets, As true as greed in the hearts of men. But I do not address you, priest.” Her gaze hadn’t left Aleksander’s. “Regardless of what your court believes, Sankta Alina requests your aid.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, only for him to hear. “In spite of how much it pains her to do so.”
X
Marya was led through the palace halls, flanked by oprichniki on all sides. She had heard her mother tell tales of the Grand Palace, of the garish gold adorning nearly every surface, of the opulent wealth flaunted at every corner.
Her mother had been away for a long time. Presently, the palace had a more subdued ambiance, with deeply dark wood running veins throughout various surfaces. When she had approached the massive building, she had noted how the exterior had also been stripped of some of the more extravagant embellishments. It still gleamed golden in the evening light, but the display of wealth and power was of a more subtle kind. She was annoyed to admit she found it rather tasteful.
They arrived at a set of intricately carved wooden doors, forest creatures chasing each other in a revel. When she entered, the oprichniki stayed behind and fell easily into their positions as guards. Before her was a sitting room with doorways that she assumed led to an entire suite beyond. It was decorated in much of the same style as the rest of the palace, wood so dark that it was almost black with gold twined throughout. Marya was shocked to see what was inlaid at the top of the wall. A circling pattern of the sun shining bright until it was gradually eclipsed by darkness, then back again, lined the room. It was a never ending chase between light and dark, and the implication turned her stomach.
“The tracker.”
She startled, only to realize the Darkling sat in a leather armchair, half shroud in shadows. He held a glass of dark liquid, tilting it back and forth and watching the liquor slide. Though his tone didn’t belay it, she knew he was asking a question. Alina had prepared her for the Darkling’s intense fixation on their family. She had told Marya her fears of him making a last ditch attempt for Morozova’s third amplifier. Her fear was so great that when her father died, Marya had helped her mother destroy Mal’s bones. It had been harrowing and they had both wept the entire time, covered in the dust of what was left of Malyen Oretsev. A brutal task, but a necessary one. She was now glad they had done it, staring into the gleam in the Darkling’s eyes.
“He’s dead. Gone. Truly gone.” Her voice choked a little and she fought to regain her composure. All of her bravado and performance had been left behind in the throne room. “They lived an entire life together, far away from here. Far away from you. I’ve only made this journey for the sake of my mother.”
He examined his glass, seemingly content to observe it rather than drink. “And how is Alina?” He said her name stretched out like a cat in the sun, all velvet hiding the steel below. Marya could hear the “my Alina” he had all but said outright.
She stiffened and her tone bled out all emotion. “My mother has been struck by some kind of affliction. A...curse. She claims you are the only hope for a cure.”
His head tilted. “She spent a century running from me, yet seeks my presence now? From what I recall, Alina would spit in my face before coming to me for aid.”
“From her own words, age has tempered her and she wishes for grievances to be set aside. She says she is tired of running.” She recited rotely. “And-” She swallowed. “It is a curse of shadows.”
At that, he drained his glass in a swift movement. “We leave at dawn.”
X
Her parents had talked to her about immortality before. The day Mal was congratulated at the marketplace about his two beautiful daughters and how proud he must be, Alina had brought Marya down to the cool, dank root cellar in their little cottage and explained what aging differently meant. How they walked a different path than her father, than all otkazat’sya. The younger girl had known she was Grisha, there had been no hiding it. Yet the distance their family kept from the world had put the concept into an abstract, nothing to be concerned of. She had glimpsed her parents in their room, her mother whispering softly and rubbing Mal’s back. He was crying, Marya realized. She hadn’t seen her father cry before. That day, the reality of their nature as Grisha had felt all too real.
She had heard from her parents about the wicked deeds of the Darkling, about why they had to stay so isolated, cautionary tales to keep a rambunctious girl safe. The stories rarely ceased through her childhood, warning of the dangers of Grisha strength in excess.
a memory in the back of her head of a crying boy and houses dancing in flames
It wasn’t until she was finally feeling less like a little girl and more like a woman, that Alina had told her a different story. Her mother spoke in hushed whispers, even though there was no one to overhear, Mal away on a trip to purchase better farm equipment. It was as if the words pained her to set free, as if acknowledging her past tore a hole in her chest where her heart laid. She told Marya the underside of the tale her daughter had been told her whole life, one of an impossibly beautiful man with slate grey eyes that shone with power and pain. The boy he had been, the losses he had faced to become what he was, the resulting monster he was now. About their connection and how empty she had felt when it snapped. About how as the years passed and Alina didn’t age as she believed she might without her powers, she couldn’t stop turning his words over in her head.
"We are alike, as no one else is, as no one else ever will be."
The story had been both warning and mourning, and Marya had never seen her mother so heartbroken and devastated, the past playing over her face.
Not even over your father, an ugly voice in her head muttered.
She had understood, many years later, as she kneeled before the Darkling as he sat draped across his throne. The man possessed a pull as strong as two planets colliding. The moment their eyes met, his presence had dwarfed Marya until she felt as if she was drowning. It had only been her father’s voice that had kept her from losing herself. They had had their own secretive conversation about the Darkling, hidden from her mother. The two of them had never truly stopped keeping secrets from each other.
He’s a demon, Masha. He lures people in and then bleeds them dry. Grisha, especially. Your mother is still haunted by what he’s done, what he’s forced her to do. And yet-Well, she wouldn’t want me telling you this, but you need to know. In spite of everything, he still has a hold over her. He was fixated, obsessed, and he would’ve broken her. But that’s the past and there’s no fighting it. We ran so we could have something more than fighting. We stay away from the war. We stay away from Os Alta. You hear me, Masha? You stay away from that monster.
And here she was, sitting across from the man.
They had been riding for miles, yet the Darkling wished to continue on. So, at the king’s whim, they had stopped in a nearby town to purchase a carriage and fresh mounts. And of course, the tsar of Ravka would have the funds and influence to convince the incumbent duke to offer his personal transportation. Her body was grateful for the chance to rest. Her mind, however, would not calm when sitting across from the man who had inhabited so many of her family’s nightmares.
He studied Marya, stony eyes full of intrigue. She steeled her nerves.
“If you have something to say, then say it.” All pretense of niceties had been abandoned at the Grand Palace.
“You, little sundrop,” he said, the diminutive mockingly sharp. “Are a mystery in itself.” A grin spread across his face that did not meet his eyes. “Daughter of the Sun Saint and the last of my grandfather’s amplifiers. Unless the tracker was rather spry in his old age, you are Grisha, are you not?”
She raised her chin, mouth forming a hard line. “I have my talents.”
That garnered a humorless laugh from him. “Stubborn. Just like Alina.”
Her scowl deepened. “You keep her name out of your mouth.”
“Mm, I don’t think she would mind. She hasn’t before,” He mused. She could tell he was drawn away from their interaction, somewhere in his memories.
“You don’t know her.”
That toothy smile reappeared. “I know her well as if we were a single soul split in two.”
Marya had not expected him to be quite so open, and aimed to steer the conversation elsewhere. “What exactly are you getting out of this?”
His face grew contemplative, as if trying to discern the answer himself. After a long moment, he spoke in a low tone, so soft that she nearly missed the words. “Is it not enough to hope for an eternity not spent alone?”
He very likely did not intend for Marya to hear him, so she stayed quiet. They lapsed back into uncomfortable silence.
X
They arrived midday to a secluded clearing that held a simple garden and small house, nearly overgrown with greenery. The rest of their contingent had made their way to the nearby village in search of supplies and a tavern. Marya followed them, lingering only for a moment to shoot Aleksander a dark look.
As he entered the humble cottage, weaving through herbs and game hanging from the ceiling, he spotted Alina sitting in a worn wooden chair. She stared out a window with a shawl draped over her shoulders high up near her neck, arms wrapped around her sides. An image flashed through his mind of a sickly girl defiant in his tent, insisting she was nothing more than a cartographer. He steeled himself to see a wrinkled face, age spots on her hands, and cloudy eyes; to see her past beauty faded with the passage of time. As he approached, she turned to face him, and his breath caught. Her face was paler than he recalled, but her skin was as smooth as ever and her eyes shone brightly. Her hair fell across her back in a dark mane, streaked with bone white. He remembered standing on the sands of Fold, watching the paleness of her hair leave after she had stabbed the tracker.
It had felt like watching moonlight slip through his fingers, lost to the ether.
“Aleksander.” Her soft voice drew him out of his reverie. “I thought you might not come.” She looked back out into the countryside. Bees flit around the window, giving a particularly idyllic cast to the scenery.
“You would be right to wonder.” His chest ached right where her Grisha steel had sunk deep. He kept a cold demeanor, trying to tamp down the way his blood sang at the very sight of her.
“I suppose I should apologize for attempting to kill you before I ask for your help. Well, attempting to kill you again.”
That brought a chagrined chuckle out of him, surprising them both.
“You would not have my respect if you had apologized.”
“I was unaware I ever had your respect,” she scoffed. “You know, I contemplated that you might’ve had a hand in this predicament,” Alina met his gaze, a hardiness in her eyes he had never seen before. “But you would never be so indirect.”
She sat up straighter, letting the shawl slip down her arms, and he inhaled sharply. Starting from the slope of her neck meeting her shoulders, there were writhing shadows running down in rivulets. Everywhere the darkness touched, a sickly grey pallor lay underneath. The furrows were unusual, appearing as if they were budding. Before he could investigate further, his mind was caught on the sight of where the amplifiers had rested.
Her collarbones were gouged deep with scars, the kind that would never lose their drastic shade. It was a shade that only came from flesh torn savagely. If he looked closely (and how could he not?), Aleksander could see silvery shards of antler velvet still embedded in her skin. Her wrist looked much the same, although sparkling where fragments of the Sea Whip’s scales lay. She raised her wrist to brush aside hair that had slipped past her ear and he caught it quickly, crouching next to her.
For a split second, it appeared that the remnants of Morozova’s amplifiers shone for a moment when his fingers circled her thin wrist. He might have imagined it. Most likely the brief flash was simply what he had wanted to see. Their bond was gone, and he mourned its loss deeply. Yet there was something scratching at the back of his mind, like fingers scrabbling against a door. Not wanting to get lost in the emptiness where their connection had lived, he turned his attention to her malady. With her arm closer, he saw that the shadows had a lighter cast to them, a deep grey that was almost black. And he had been right in his earlier observation; the dark vines had indeed formed buds, bracketed by the first early burst of thorns. He recognized them as rosebuds in particular.
“Elizaveta,” he hissed, eyes narrowing in fury. His gaze fell to the bees in disgust.
Her brows knit together in questioning confusion.
“An old saint, older than even I am. You may know her as Sankta Lizabeta of the Roses. A pathetic, haughty creature. Sickeningly proud, yet more content to hide than rise to her power.” Alina flinched at that last remark, and his rage subsided to a low simmer. While he rarely shied away from reminding her of the potential she had wasted, Aleksander hadn’t intended for his words to be a slight. Their past wounds seemed too old to wallow in, and yet somehow still had the ability to cut deep. He sighed. “Your affliction is not one of shadow, but of smoke. An attribute of her martyrdom.”
“I remember, from the Istorii Sankt’ya. She was ripped apart by a general and his men, a morbid tale like most in that damn book. She should be long dead. Are all stories false?” she asked, bitterly.
A half smile fell across his lips. “You in particular should know that saints rarely stay dead.” At the look of annoyance she shot at him, his lips twisted fully into a sharp grin, all teeth. “Sankta Alina, how I’ve missed your spark,” he purred softly, and his grip tightened as he leaned closer. “Are you aware people still pray to you? They worship you, build altars in caverns and fields and basements, hidden away so I don’t catch wind of the Sun Saint and her acolytes. But many hide their faith in the dark, and that is my domain.” He was so near to her, breath swaying the hair by her ear. “What they don’t know is that I hoard every whisper, every moment your name is spoken under hushed breath. I gather them like crumbs, as I am a man starved for the mere thought of you.” His long fingers brushed against her arm. Even crouching, he still loomed over her. “It has been years, decades, since I have drunk in the shape of you. The curve of your jaw, the light in your eyes, even that damn stubborn scowl. It has been too long, Alina, and I am greedy. Let me ease my hunger. Let me slake my thirst.”
Her breathing had grown shallow, her eyes were hazy, and his voice had slipped into a hypnotic, molasses quality. The space between them felt heavy, as if a storm grew on the horizon. He stared intently, taking her in as if he could consume her with his gaze alone. Then, as if she were an animal ready to flee into the brush, he slowly moved to cup her cheek as his gaze fell to her lips. “Let me,” he breathed.
Suddenly, she reared back, breaking the spell he had wound. The sunlight from the window illuminated her as she rose quickly, radiating strength despite her feeble state. Her wrath swirled around them, almost tangible, and she looked the very portrait of a saint. Sol Koroleva, he thought.
“Starve, Aleksander. I will no longer placate you only to lose myself to your greed. You have fed off of me long enough,” she seethed.
He got to his feet, mirroring her. They stood at a stalemate for a moment, and the room felt thick with tension. Aleksander was the first to break.
He bowed his head in mock deference, seemingly not bothered by her rejection. “As you wish, moya soverennya.” With that, he swept from the unease that clouded them, into the pleasant summer day outside.