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Fedyor Kaminsky has never thought about himself as a defector or a traitor, nor has he ever wondered if he could have had it in himself to defect or even betray the very cause for which so many of his people had died before him. To secure a place where Grisha could live free, thrive even, in peace. A safe haven. A place where the walls wouldn’t have been purposefully thick and defended day and night from the masses waiting for a chance to turn on Grisha once and for all. A small smile dances on the brink of his tired lips. Oh, but that has been an illusion all along, right? There was never a safe haven, not for Grisha. Not for him. Despite what Aleksander used to preach so prodigally before this whole mayhem erupted, the little coven they had created wasn’t made to last. All of this , he muses, taking in the sights of his and Ivan’s quarters for the last time, was just an illusion with which we’ve kept lying to ourselves for centuries, hoping to never leave the home that was built only for us.
And yet, the war had decidedly backfired, and with such knock-off power that the Second Army is now in shambles and the First Army…well who can say shit about that? The Tsar has fallen ill and he’s openly hostile towards Grisha, so much that those who aren’t at their posts anymore are barricaded and confined inside the Little Palace fearing outbursts of state-sponsored attacks – or even worse. If there’s something traveling fast in the Little Palace, that’s gossip, and whatever happens behind the heavy wooden doors of Aleksander’s former quarters isn’t something that everyone of them is entitled to. Aleksander is behaving like a madman and has started using merzost liberally, in the saintsdamned open, showing off his powers like a teenager exposing himself in the banya and waving his hairless dick at a bunch of girls. Yeah. Things that used to happen before everything went to shit. And Fedyor, for how much he would like to find a culprit or someone to blame for the chaos that has turned the lives of so many people upside-down, can’t even place the blame on Alina, may the Saints always bless her, because if it has sprouted so fast the seed had always been there and, if anything, he is the one who had to see it coming. He and the other senior officers, that is.
Ivan should have.
The mere thought of Ivan is enough to send a jolt of stabbing pain directly through Fedyor’s heart, the uneven rhythm skipping a couple of beats before he can steady himself, getting a grip on reality once more, flattening his palm on his chest and breathing in a couple of times to avoid another massive breakdown. He has locked himself inside this bedroom so many times already, his eyes wet and dripping, a steady stream of uncontrollable tears impossible to contain. He has cried so much the high collar of his perfectly pressed kefta has permanent stains where the corecloth has imbibed the product of those private self-pity sessions and, thanks but no thanks, he is so fucking tired of having to excuse himself from common areas just to cry until his eyes are physically incapable of producing anymore tears. So fucking tired.
And, no, Ivan would have never raised a finger against Aleksander, not even in the face of blatant treason, not even if he had seen it coming long before any of them, so better not to count on him on this. He has always been the most loyal lieutenant, the most loyal soldier. Aleksander’s right hand man, a confidante on Aleksander’s good days, a friend even. And he will be loyal to the end, which is why Fedyor must –
Oh, for the Saints’ sake.
What is he doing? What will he do once Aleksander attacks - because he will attack - with his army of indestructible Shadow soldiers, what will they all do when they’ll realize that Alina, their little Sun Summoner, the living Saint, the Miracle of Ravka, isn’t fit to command them, nor has the right experience to win a fucking war? Is this defecting or merely getting back to the fold?
How ironic such a phrasing sounds to his ears. He scoffs quietly, packing his everyday kefta with extra care, folding the sleeves perfectly right under the collar, gently brushing the tip of his fingers over the hidden buttons, smiling fondly at the memory of how his first kefta had almost driven him insane with all those buttons, clasps and embellishments, and that belt that has always felt tacky on the whole, a little ostentatious. Now that he’s grown accustomed to it, he would never feel at ease with a coat and a shirt, for how the fabrics could be rich and luxurious and glide over his skin like water over smooth rocks.
Whatever. He’ll endure otkazat’sya clothes, if need be, and he strongly suspects he will endure something far more unpleasant than roughspun cotton brushing against his skin when he will - no, if he will - be admitted to Aleksander’s presence to be pardoned.
As if the man has ever granted his pardon to anyone.
Potentially, he’s walking towards his death. The worst thing is that he is doing this willingly and only for the sake of one person: Ivan.
If you can’t beat them, join them. If you can’t talk some sense back into the man you love, you’ve got no other choice than to silence your own conscience and do whatever it needs to be done in order to stand by his side.
Not all hope is lost, though. A small, though naively overly-optimistic, part of him still hopes to perform a veritable miracle and persuade Ivan to defect. The life of a Ravkan defector is rarely a good one, but it’s always better than to die in the midst of a civil war, doing the bidding of a man who has obviously taken leave of his senses and that’s now monstrously inclined towards annihilating all those that oppose him or dare question his methods.
Someone knocks at his door. Quickly, Fedyor kicks his pack under the bed, smoothing the silky duvet to hide the very proof of his guilt, and then he simply answers with a faint “Come in”, casually giving the door his back. For how much the almost empty Little Palace can grant a modicum of privacy, one may never be too cautious, especially while planning to side with the enemy.
“Fedyor.”
Sergei’s voice is grave and low, the beating of his heart familiar and welcomed. Fedyor releases the breath he was holding and gestures for him to close the door, running a hand through his disheveled hair to look at least a little decent. Not that he was expecting any guests, or to get summoned any soon for another interminable session of the War Council.
“Please, Sergei. Have a seat. The teapot is empty, I’m afraid. Otherwise, I would have offered you some,” he apologizes with a smile, sitting on the edge of his bed while Sergei collapses into the padded chair at the writing table, his hand flying to the small fruit bowl that keeps some yellowed sheets from flying everywhere when Fedyor airs out the room. He grabs a wilting apple and starts fidgeting nervously with it, the hitch in his knee unmistakable. Fedyor can’t help but sigh warily, rubbing at his sore eyes until they get all red and itchy, the silence stretching between them heavy and unbearable.
“I…did it. I did what you asked me to do,” Sergei finally says, freeing them both from the impasse of deciding who’s going to talk first. Fedyor nods. Under usual circumstances, he would have patted Sergei on the knee or flashed him a smile, a real smile, but the pathetic grimace he manages to muster is far from reaching his all too melancholic eyes.
“Thank you.”
A stilted reply, but it’s better than nothing. Sergei’s knee is bouncing now, unnerving and distracting. Fedyor shakes his head and spares a glance for the view out of his window, where the dusk has set and the lamp posts scattered around the garden gleam orange and yellow against the purple sky. It’ll soon get dark enough for him to leave. There’s a series of old and forgotten passageways well hidden under the Little Palace, long tunnels running all the way down to the lowest slums of Os Alta, perhaps, Fedyor has never seen any blueprints depicting the passages and he isn’t even sure there could be any at all. A secret must remain a secret, right? And sure as hell Aleksander values - and has always valued - his secrets. Nevertheless, Fedyor’s knowledge of the maze stretching under the city is enough to take him far away from the Palace grounds, where Sergei has left a horse to a Grisha in hiding – Lavrentij Pavlov, Tidemaker, determined not to take any side before sensing for good where the wind was blowing. He must have made up his mind to crawl out of his burrow and be of some assistance. Provided that he won’t be a liability, that is. Fedyor isn’t enthusiastic about killing but, all things considered, he’s not one to chicken away; if something needs to be done, he’ll do it in a heartbeat, especially if the predicament he’s finding himself in is desperate. And…well. No one can say the whole situation isn’t desperate.
“So you’re…really doing this,” Sergei whispers after a moment, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his pristine kefta, still tormenting the wrinkly apple with his free hand. Fedyor refrains from sighing at the very last second. He’s not so old he’s entitled to sigh all the time, isn’t he? What a silly, vain thought. He’s desperately clinging to something familiar - the ancient atmosphere of vanity, gossip and shallowness of the long winter evenings spent in the common room downstairs, sipping tea and talking nonsense - not to let the merciless currents drag him down. He licks his lower lip instead, pondering on whether he should switch on the gas lamps or not, and when he speaks there is no real bite in his voice despite his words being cutting, straight to the point.
“And you’re really staying.”
He’s not being accusatory, far from it. Just proving a point. He realizes he’s struck true, by the way, because Sergei seems to deflate on his chair, slumping forward and biting hard at the pliable lining of his inner cheek. It takes him more time than Fedyor was expecting to answer, but he does it anyway, as much as his voice falters and his words sound uncertain.
Who could be so sure about their allegiances nowadays?
The soft flesh of the apple gives in under the crushing pressure of Sergei’s fingers.
“I am. At least until I can be sure that Marie…” He cuts himself off rather brusquely, shaking his head vehemently and masterfully avoiding Fedyor’s gaze. “Anyway, good luck, Fedyor. I hope you can…find whatever you’re looking for.”
Fedyor swallows compulsively, feeling the familiar sting of tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. He keeps his emotions in check, this time, though barely and with inhuman effort, but he doesn’t recoil when Sergei pulls him into a friendly embrace instead of formally shaking the hand he was offered. A single tear spills over his cheek when Sergei buries his face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in with a quiet whimper.
“You too, Seryosha ,” he replies, unable to resist the urge to use that soft nickname once more. “And please, when I’m long gone, can you tell Alina I’m sorry? I…I would really wish she could understand, but she won’t. So just tell her I am sorry. Here.” He’s sniffling, but he disentangles from the hug anyway, rummaging through a drawer until he finds a sheet of ruvid paper covered in his thick handwriting and shoves it into Sergei’s hand unceremoniously, not bothering to check if the ink has dried out already. Sergei frowns, tucking the piece of paper away, a puzzled expression on his face.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“It’s your insurance. If Alina’s threats aren’t empty, you’ll need an alibi before you tell her that I am sorry, right? You have one, now. You can tell them you found this in my room, but I was already gone when you came knocking at my door.”
Eventually, Sergei seems to be persuaded that Fedyor’s plan is worth a shot and nods solemnly, though his face remains scrunched in a sorrowful grimace.
“She’ll treat you like a traitor, you know that?” He says before taking his leave, all the nervous energy keeping his body going now depleted. He too looks tired, pale, as if consumed by an ailment no one will be able to cure until the Shadow and the Sun Summoner put an end to their charade for good. Fedyor can only pray that the casualties won’t be too many.
“I know. But you understand why I have to go, right? You’re the only one who can understand.”
Sergei doesn’t even try to deny it; Fedyor knows better that the only thing that has convinced him to champion for Alina’s cause is Marie’s loyalty to the Sun Summoner and nothing else. Like all the Corporalki, he was supposed to be loyal to Aleksander to the end and beyond, his preference towards the Heartrenders manifest and palpable. They all basked in his favor, eating crumbs from his hand and ruffling their feathers whenever the man dignified them with some praise or a compliment. How foolish was that? How foolish and senseless and utterly nonsensical has every single thing been? If he wasn’t sure Sergei would think ill of him, he would cackle bitterly.
“I do, Fedyor. I do.”
Without uttering another word, Sergei slips out in the silent, eerily empty hallway, the blood-red and white decor complimenting the frescoes running the entire length of the walls, from the lower skirtings to the stuccoes plastered along the ceiling. Once again, Fedyor inhales the distinctive smell of the Little Palace - flowers, painted wood, brewing tea - and strains his ears to their maximum capacity to fill his mind with the domestic sounds of clattering plates, glasses and overlapping voices, everyone trying to steal the spotlight by talking a little louder than the others.
Saints, he will miss this. He will miss all the evenings spent huddled with Ivan by the tiled stove downstairs, a blanket carelessly thrown over their shoulders, talking well into the night or playing stupid card games with Timur, Viktor, Raisa and that little Squaller girl whose name he has long forgotten, the one with that booming laugh and her hair always sticking out from the high bun she resolutely tied anew every morning. He will miss the gossip and dozing off in the banya, the greenhouses full of exotic plants and flowers, the freak accidents involving the Inferni. He will miss his old life. Fuck, he already misses it. He casts one last, longing glance to the deserted hallway. Downstairs, someone is laughing. Good thing that not everyone is in a gloomy mood tonight.
***
He waits for the sky to darken. Given his newly-found private nature, no one has come up to look for him, asking if he wants to partake in some board games - even in times of war, youths are still youths - or to have a cup of tea, and Alina won’t have have him summoned until tomorrow morning at this point, so he’s on his own virtually forever and that’s one of the few blessings he can count.
It’s easy to locate the secluded entrance to the passageway, if one knows where to look, and Fedyor has made use of the same little trapdoor so many times now it would be impossible for him not to notice it. Whether one can spot it or not, it’s just about the right lightning and possessing a pair of observation-inclined eyes. Good thing he’s got both. He tries to be deadly silent as he squeezes inside the trapdoor and plants his foot onto the first descending step, the slippery metal made even more slippery by the fact that the passage has laid unused for years.
I’m sorry Alina, he thinks, not without a pang, but there’s someone far more dear to me than an Idea.
The low, muted thud of the hatch closing a few inches above his head marks his irrevocable decision. No second-guessings. No turning back. Now he’s a traitor, a defector, a deserter. Will Alina issue an apprehension order in the next few hours? He won’t know. Not until someone will be pursuing him actively at least, and the Saints know how good he is at disposing of those who try to follow him around. Been there, done that. He wasn’t one of Aleksander’s best spies for nothing.
The tunnels smell of mildew and rotting wood. Some gas lamps hang from the walls, but only half of them actually work when Fedyor dares giving the handle a little tentative turn.
It’s still better than the pitch darkness in which the passageway was engulfed, though. Now he can proceed without fearing an incoming concussion or walking with his hands outstretched to know in advance if he’s barreling into a column or if he has ended up in some cul-de-sac.
He walks for what feels like an eternity, avoiding looking around too much and giving the many rats only a perfunctory look, relying on his memory alone to find the right way through the many forks and sharp turns that would surely mislead anyone else. One turn, two, three, four. At the fifth turn, he plunges towards another fork, taking the paved path on the right, and there it is, a little door hidden by a scaffolding, the wood so blackened and swollen Fedyor wouldn’t be surprised if it collapsed on him as he tried to push it open. What really amazes him, though, is that the ancient mechanism holds steady and the door opens up before him without uttering a single squeaky sound. It’s more than he expected and, actually, Fedyor might want to count this as a blessing too. He peeks out of the hidden door with excessive cautiousness, fairly aware that this time of the year - with a civil war going on, moreover - the place would be as deserted as it can get, but one might never know. He minds every sound and click, making his way through the darkness in a somewhat blind fashion, the pale moonlight merely casting a white glow over the rough patches of weeds and damp grazing grass under his feet, until he’s finally able to detect a heartbeat and spots a carefully concealed light in the distance. A shaded lamp. Either it’s the Squaller he’s hoping to find, or he’s - one way or another - screwed. Or he could put up a fight and show whoever is waiting to ambush him why Heartrenders has always been rewarded with a place of honor among the Darkling’s inner circle. He relaxes his fingers only when a gust of wind sends a spiral of dead leaves flying away and he instantly recognizes the brand whirlwind of those pranksters that often lurked near the lakeshore, back at the Palace, waiting for some incautious fool in blue or purple to toss in the water – they always left Corporalki in peace, though. Go figure why, Fedyor considers not without a hint of pride.
He whistles and the lamplight gets shaded once more in a haste.
“Lavrentij. It’s me,” he explains, his voice a whisper in the still air of the night. “Fedyor Kaminsky.”
Lavrentij whistles back. Under the twisted branches of a bare tree, the two share some info regarding the war, then the Squaller shows him the horses, tied to a low branch and grazing quietly. Fedyor has never been a master rider, but he knows his shit when it comes to horses and the beast Sergei has provided him is huge to say the least.
He’ll make do.
He’ll fucking make do.
Not that a man needs his legs to go to war anyway, right?
“I trust you to know where the Second Army is stationed?”
Fedyor finds himself shrugging. He doesn’t know where they are stationed, no, but at the same time he seems to know. Not that a Squaller would understand what he’s trying to say, though. He’s sure that no one would, except for him. Or Ivan. No matter how far, or how grudgingly, they have never failed at finding one another, even in situations that would discourage anyone from attempting anything, like in the midst of a charge on the battlefield or while facing a band of drüskelle.
“Yes,” he states, even nodding his head to emphasize the concept. He is a good liar when he wants to. Besides, Squallers can’t detect heartbeats, so it’s easier to lie to them than to his fellow Heratrenders. He climbs on the saddled, massive horse and pats its big head, gently stroking the dark mane as he inhales mouthfuls of cold, damp air. He needs to go now; otherwise, he’ll simply turn himself in and jeopardize the whole plan.
Fuck.
With a light kick, he spurs the horse forward. He doesn’t bother checking if Lavrentij Pavlov is following him.
***
It’s a chilly dawn on his sixth day of riding when Fedyor reaches one of the secluded encampments in which the Second Army is split right now. He’s tired, dozing off on the saddle from time to time, only to rouse rather brutally some seconds after having fallen asleep, the panicked rush of his own blood in his ears and his guts threatening to spill out of his mouth any minute.
Given the welcome committee waiting for him and Pavlov - it’s a bunch of Heartrenders, who would have fucking figured, again - they were expected. And Fedyor is painfully sure to know why.
Hands in the hair, he dismounts, and Lavrentij mirrors him with panicked solicitude.
It strikes him how close the two contenders of this senseless internal squabble are located, the Little Palace eastwards behind the curtain of steep hills bifurcating the region diagonally, all the way up to the Fjerdan border, where they grow into mountains and slope into a strip of barren permafrost on the other side. As if Alina could simply sweep here and put an end to this madness…or the other way around. Yet, Aleksander is far from a clueless teenager and he’s playing out all the cards in his deck just right. Scouts won’t venture here, and if they do – well, they won’t simply live to rat him out. Fedyor hasn’t had the pleasure to see these nichevo’ya yet, but he’s sure that many an experienced soldier would soil his pants at the sole sight. He, too, shivers a little, trying to imagine how warriors made out of pure darkness could look like. Lavrentij looks decidedly more frightened than him, something that helps soothe the constant waves of self-doubt washing over Fedyor in icy buckets. He straightens his back, keeping his eyes sharp-focused, and doesn’t allow his muscles to relax the tiniest bits until Vera Aslanova, with whom he has served countless of times, steps in, slightly bowing her head out of courtesy and gesturing sharply towards the other Heartrenders - some veterans, some young enough to be still in training for what Fedyor knows - to take Lavrentij and then disperse.
Unexpected, but not surprising. Fedyor bows his greet in return.
“The Darkling is waiting for you,” Vera says, showing him the path towards the largest and undoubtedly most beautiful tent of the whole encampment. Oh, the ostentatious bastard. Not even in times like these Aleksander can put his sense of grandeur aside. Fedyor matches Vera’s long, stomping stride without even breaking a sweat, although he doubts having ever felt this exhausted his entire life. The tent is heavily guarded, of course. Two Heartrenders and two oprichniki. One of the Heartrenders, a young woman Fedyor can recognize but not name, sports an amplifier with justified pride and casts him a look that doesn’t mistake where her sympathies lay.
A traitor is a traitor is a traitor…and so on.
When he gets admitted inside, his heart skips a painful beat, then an entire fucking row. As if they’re lounging about and not fighting a civil war, Aleksander’s tent is lavishly furnitured, with a nice tiled stove in shiny black and bronze decors, his usual profusion of handmade rugs, a samovar in the living quarters and a longuette strategically placed next to a low table where several crystal bottles are aligned neatly. As if perched upon a dais, Aleksander’s chair towers - empty and imposing - at the very opposite end, Ivan standing straight while guarding Aleksander’s makeshift throne as if his very life depended on the well-being of that stuffed chair.
Fedyor’s feet are glued to the entrance rug. Ivan’s eyes, so dark and beautiful and stern, threaten to bulge out of his skull when they finally gaze at each other, their hearts beating in a chaotic cacophony of unsynced thumps and fluttering fits.
No, he can’t stand it. He can’t stand being so close to Ivan without even trying to utter a word, or throw himself in his arms as he would have done under any circumstance. He abuses his legs into motion, determined to run to Ivan and smack into him at full force until all of their bones crash and melt and they can be one again, when a sudden chill creeps up his spine, freezing him into place when he has almost made it to the presumptuous throne, he was so fucking close, he was almost there, he was-
His train of thoughts comes to an abrupt halt when a gloved hand touches the small of his back, fleeting and terrible. He feels his breath coming out in short, fractured gasps, his shocked eyes searching for Ivan’s. He hasn’t abandoned his post but there he is, looking at him, almost as terrified as Fedyor himself.
“Fedyor. We were waiting for you.”
***
Aleksander’s voice is cool, controlled, brushing against his eardrums like the subtlest gust of cruel winter wind. Suddenly, Fedyor’s mouth feels dry, as if he’s swallowed sand and shards of glass combined. He tastes blood on his tongue, but it might only come from where he has sunk his teeth in the tender flesh to prevent himself from gasping out loud.
Walking as if he owns the world already, Aleksander saunters to his chair, letting out a pleased sigh as soon as his ancient back touches the high and finely carved backrest, flashing Ivan a wolfish grin and then dragging his gaze back towards Fedyor, perfectly still at the very center of the room, whose eyes glower, transfixed, at the waxy immobility of Ivan’s standoffish figure.
Something’s not clicking, and he’s got a dreadful sense of things being just not right.
Ivan is just a tad too rigid, but it could depend on a multitude of factors, couldn’t it? The possibility that Fedyor is about to face court martial or whatever the fuck might Aleksander have conjured up in the previous, concitated weeks could be one of the forementioned.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Kaminsky, he scolds inwardly, trying to decipher the mystery behind Ivan’s weirdness.
Sure, he has always been built like the old walls around the Little Palace itself, unmovable and stoic, stark white marble made to endure and last, headstrong and stubborn to stick to his place no matter the circumstances but – there’s simply something amiss. Something that Fedyor can’t see but he should, something regarding Ivan and this horrible situation in which they’ve been dragged against their better judgment, something –
“I didn’t think you had it in you, Fedyor.” Aleksander’s tone is openly mocking now, derisive, and it sets Fedyor’s teeth on edge. A part of him, the most brash and probably the less sensible to the pleas of his self-preservation instincts, would very much like to show this man a taste of what a very pissed-off Heartrender could do, but a glance from Ivan is enough to put his murderous intents aside for the time being.
“What, moy sovereinij ?” He replies, swallowing the lump rapidly building up in his scorched throat, unable to refrain himself from calling Aleksander with his due title. Well, shit.
Aleksander chuckles, the sound of a dry branch cracking in the northern taiga.
“The guts, Fedyor. The guts to betray your little Sun Summoner and come back to me.”
She wasn’t my Sun Summoner, he would very much like to say – no, to scream. She’s just a girl trying to make sense of a world where you exist, the Fold exists and she exists.
In the end, he doesn’t say anything, but he refuses to drop his gaze, for how utterly frightened he might feel. That wolfish smile hasn’t left Aleksander’s beautiful - albeit suffering - face once. Fedyor can’t help but question the whole entirety of his existence, the very core of his life both as an individual and a Grisha; a soldier, a spy, a Heartrender, a goon, a traitor. There has been a time, not long ago, in which he was happy to serve. He had a purpose, a home where to come back and rest between a mission and the other, and he had Ivan. That counted as happiness. But happiness, he has learned, is just a fleeting moment and a permanently unfulfilled hope, and it can be stolen right from under your nose in an instant.
His life has changed over a handful of weeks. Who could have thought about that? Who could have even imagined that chaos could erupt so easily in a country like Ravka, where nothing seemed to happen and things always stayed the same?
You leave your home on a classified rescue mission and come back to find it in shambles, the prized Sun Summoner gone, the king having fallen irremediably ill…and then some.
Up until some months ago, Fedyor would have brushed such a story off as the perfect plot for a political tragedy, not even daring to entertain the possibility that said ruckus would have happened any time soon.
Still.
Again, his eyes meet Ivan’s. It’s impossible not to notice how much effort he’s putting in staying where he is, his whole body tense and quivering under his blood-red kefta. Aleksander watches them intently, as if to crack a secret code or read between the lines of that silent staring, then he clears his throat, making them both snap into the unpleasant here-and-now they seem to be stuck into.
“I know you both long to be reunited,” he says, detached, almost as if he’s reading the menu at a boring dinner party and wants to be done with the inconvenience as soon as possible. Sensing the catch, Fedyor’s legs grow suddenly weak. “And I get it, I really do. I too long to be reunited with somebody, Fedyor, I’m not the monster they all picture me to be nowadays. It’s useless propaganda, if you ask me, but let’s not dwell on the subject for the time being. I’m just doing the right thing, such as you. But unlike you, I’ve got a broader…political vision, if you allow me. A broader political plan. That being said, let me offer you a deal. It will be mutually beneficial, of course, but you have to listen to me carefully.”
Do I look like someone who’s not willing to listen?
Saints, Fedyor must beat himself inwardly not to sneer at him.
“Yes, moy sovereinij, ” he says, when Ivan’s eyes widen with horror and realization. He knows me better than anybody else. He knew what I was about to do. With a slight nod, he reassures him of his own intentions - he will behave for now, because he’s well aware how much he has got to lose - and allows himself a moment to recollect. Aleksander tilts his head on a side and then, as if pushed on his feet by an unknown yet unstoppable force, he rises from his perched throne, an unpleasant smile stretched wide on his lips, and lets his hand rest carefully on Ivan’s unmoving shoulder, squeezing just so.
“You will give me any information regarding our beloved Sun Summoner’s plans and you will pledge allegiance to me,” Aleksander says, brushing his long and slender fingers against Ivan’s shoulder. Fedyor doesn’t miss the slight twitch in his partner’s jaw, and the somersault in his chest at the touch. Nevertheless, he finds himself nodding even before having issued his body the command. “And in exchange you will suffer no harm. Nor will Ivan, for what it’s worth. He’s always been loyal…unlike you.”
The mocking edge in Aleksander’s voice, undoubtedly used for the sole purpose of hurting Fedyor and toying with his vulnerable state of mind, does the trick and he gets under his skin pretty easily. That’s the worst part. Realizing that he has betrayed not once, but twice, and that he’s now walking on ice so thin it could crack under his boots at any moment. It feels like bleeding from a million paper cuts, without being able to locate the source of all that blood, all that raw pain. Despite his best efforts, Fedyor crumples on himself, his fists balled so tight he almost breaks the skin with the frayed and chewed tips of his fingernails.
“What do you mean with pledging allegiance, moy sovereinij ?”
There’s a long pause in which all the color seems to drain from Fedyor’s face. Aleksander collapses back into his chair, as if the brief pacing has worn him out - which would make sense, given how deep he has dived into merzost and how consuming that kind of power is - and he ponders, considers, his long legs clad in black stretched comfortably and crossed.
“Nothing too terrible, Fedyor, nothing too terrible. It would just be…a formality, a little ritual. Do not look at me like that, I don’t want your blood. And, after that, you will be questioned, of course, and give out any information you have. As a senior officer, I’m sure the Sun Summoner must have entrusted you with some of her plans, I stand correct?”
“What about the pledge of allegiance, moy sovereinij ?” Fedyor urges through clenched teeth. He doesn’t want to hand out information, of course, but he had thought about the eventuality, and he is prepared to endure an interrogation, even if he’ll most probably be bound and restricted and subject to the mercy of his very brethren – again, he’s not surprised, that would be only standard procedure when facing the possibility of accepting a defector in their ranks. Alina would have probably done the same. Saints, even he himself would have done the same, if he was in Alina’s - or Aleksander’s - shoes.
Aleksander’s eyes glimmer with a flash of self-satisfied malice. It’s hard not to see how dark-rimmed and sunken they are, the steel-gray of his irises dull and sickly. Fedyor can’t help but feel the slightest compassion for him. Not even this everlasting war could beat his humanity out of him.
“See? I’ve always admired your… eagerness. Very well. Ask and you shall receive, they say. Kneel, Fedyor.”
For a long, agonizing moment, the world starts spinning around him in maddening circles that tighten and tighten around his head, his mouth falling agape in mute dismay.
For centuries, Grisha society has been fairly equal in terms of personal dignity, aside from the Darkling’s whim for Corporalki, Heartrenders in particular. No one has ever had to kneel. Not to him, for all Fedyor knows. And he is very well versed in Grisha history, thank you. The simple idea of kneeling sounds ludicrous to his ears, as insulting and humiliating as it is specifically designed to be.
Alas, does he have any other choice? Does he have any choice at all?
Ivan’s gaze pins him to his post like a nail hammered in his foot. Please, Fedya, he seems to be silently begging, just do what he wants and get done with it.
Time halts to an almost still snail’s pace as he bends one knee, then his head. If Ivan wasn’t there, if he wasn’t steadily watching him in the fervent, desperate way of a man held in chains by a cruel tyrant, Fedyor thinks he would have long died of heartbreak – or for the lack of a heart altogether, because suffering such a mortifying rejection from the very man he loves would be just the same as having his heart scooped out of his chest with a fucking spoon. If Ivan didn’t love a traitor, then Fedyor would be as good as dead, plain and simple.
Just to torture him some more, Aleksander leaves him there, kneeling like a penitent before the wooden icon of a Saint, even having Ivan pour him some brandy to enjoy the sight.
The cold seeping from the damp ground underneath crawls into Fedyor’s bones, making him shiver slightly. A hundred interrogations. A hundred interrogations would have been ten times less humiliating than this. Minutes pass. Hours, maybe, he doesn’t know, he doesn't want to know. Only when he starts sensing Ivan’s discomfort - a loud shuffle of his feet, the unsettlingly quickened pace of his heartbeat, a respectful clicking of his throat - he really questions how much time has Aleksander had him on his knees, enduring his grueling demotion like a child being scolded by a zealant parent.
“ Moy sovereinij- ” He hears Ivan whisper, in lieu of a real request. Aleksander, though, turns a deaf ear on him, swings his crystal glass, picks at his nails childishly, his face an impassive mask of void, unreadable and deadpan.
Fedyor wonders if his knees will give in. If he’ll break or crumble. If Ivan will ever find the strength to oppose Aleksander and take a stand for him. Yet, for another long stretch of time, nothing happens, not until Aleksander starts to get bored - even the most ancient of beings gets bored eventually - and waves his fingers in the air, shaking his head.
Ah yes. The tsar-to-be has finally lost interest in his little game.
“Help him on his feet, Ivan. And turn him in for questioning.”
The relief he feels in the way Ivan’s posture loosens abruptly is almost physically painful. Fedyor’s joints have turned unpleasantly stiff, but he won’t give Aleksander such petty satisfaction as to require Ivan’s assistance to get upright. Which would be welcomed, of course - his palms are itching to touch Ivan - but not necessary. He can look after himself.
I can look after myself, Aleksander, or have you forgotten about that?
He grimaces when he straightens up, his knees threatening to buckle under him, but when he’s about to take a first, tentative step towards the dais, Ivan is there to support him, his bulky arm ready to catch him if he’d fall, his broad chest and shoulders and his beloved face filling Fedyor’s field of vision like a hazy dream, a mirage in the desert.
“Vanya,” he whispers, and there are tears streaming down his face, Saints, when did he start crying? And why does it look like Ivan too is on the brink of tears, what twisted sorcery is this? He reacts, rather than thinking. Desperate and eager, he wraps his arms around his partner’s waist, pulling him close, breathing him in. The ground stops shaking under his feet the very instant he’s holding onto Ivan and Ivan is holding onto him, a safe harbor in a sea of storms and hurricanes. And his heart, his cherished heart , so close Fedyor can feel it echoing in his own chest, making his whole ribcage throb.
This is it, he thinks. It’s done. His fate is sealed and Ivan is in his arms, alive, maybe not unscathed but alive. He’ll question him about his health later, though. The Saints forbid he’s dappling with merzost himself, Fedyor would personally kick his ass to Kerch and back if he was to discover that Ivan has been anywhere near that shit.
But they are alive. He is alive. And he will figure out a way to keep them safe from the incoming confrontation, one way or another. And despite all of the despicable things he has done just for the sake of being at Ivan’s side no matter the cost, Fedyor Kaminsky is a man of his word.
We’ll survive this war, Vanya. We’ll find a way. Together.
Ivan can’t read his mind, of course, but he might as well have been doing that all along, because he nods while brushing his lips against Fedyor’s, his hunger lingering beneath the gentleness of the moment. Now Fedyor is even more determined to survive.
No matter the cost.