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Aleksander was still a young man when he stumbled across the long row of crosses. It was cold, he remembers because while he was cloaked in wool, the bodies of crucified grisha had been stripped down to their shifts or breeches. Men and women alike hung from the beams, their arms stretched wide, pinned through the hands by nails, their feet the same. Heads fallen forward, skin mottled blue and purple. Their hair swaying in the breeze.
He can remember the smell, the way he had gagged as he stumbled along the road. But he couldn’t leave them. With every cross he passed, he looked up into the decaying faces hoping that he might come across one he could save. Any sign of life, a groan or flushed cheeks or eyes that looked back at him.
The Lantsov’s doing. This new invention that ensured a slow death, and long entertainment for the king’s men. Their bodies hung for display while their life bleeds out of them, while they are pierced through and struggle for breath under their own weight. Their hands pinned down so they are unable to summon, to defend themselves.
There would be a day of reckoning. Aleksander swore it.
.
He’s with his wife now, his queen and sun summoner, hundreds of years later and living in a different world. The two of them ride side by side, scouting the area for the rumored Lantsov supporters. The rebellion is small, only amounting to a few scuffles here and there. But as Aleksander frequently reminds Alina, it’s important that they stamp it out now.
She has a tender heart. She’s good. And she loves their people. It does not bring her joy to fight violence with violence, but she’s learned to make concessions. Aleksander has learned much the same. In fact, he’s learned a great many things from her, the most important of which being how to navigate a partnership. They work together. They lead together. Ravka is a new country under their reign, and Aleksander has never been more proud of it.
Their tether is stronger than ever and he feels her through it, her mental nuzzle as she trots past him. “Getting slow,” she teases. Oh, but he just loves to follow. He fights back a grin, lets her canter away. Rather than challenge her or chase her (though that is often entertaining), he watches her preen for him. After years of practice, she’s a wonderful rider. Beautiful form, in control, confidant.
The gold threading on her kefta stands out against the black cloth. Even after so long, she still wears it for him, his color. Their color now.
When Alina reaches the top of the hill, she draws her horse to a stop. She uses her vantage point to look out over the land, eyes squinting against the bright sunlight, the rays shining through her hair as it’s caught in the wind. Twisting in the saddle, he loses sight of her face for a moment but sees the tension in her shoulders, the way she draws them closer as if frightened.
“Aleksander,” she calls out, her voice shrill. Immediately, he hurries to catch up, prepared to stand between her and whatever has caused such obvious distress in her. Still facing away from him, she reaches an arm out, pointing at what is still hidden from view.
He does not see it until he’s at her side. The flush has left her face, leaving her pale, as the two look down on the crosses erected neatly in a row. From each one, hangs a corpse.
Centuries before, he had choked up the contents of his stomach at a similar sight. Now, his breakfast sits like a stone in his belly. His breathing loses its steady rhythm, and he sucks in a ragged breath as he tries to catch it again. The horse underneath him sidesteps nervously, growing skittish as if sensing his rider’s mood.
Alina has been trying to catch his attention. He hears her now, calling his name and it comes to him slowly. The poor girl has never seen anything like this. How frightened she must be.
How many are there? A dozen at least and Grisha for sure. He can just see bits of purple and red, their keftas in scraps but still recognizable. Some are sporting garments common amongst the peasantry and he wonders if they are otkazat’sya lumped in with the group, or if they had been Grisha in hiding. Now, there is no way of knowing.
There have been no modern instances of crucifixion. The sight of this grande execution is nearly enough to knock him from his horse.
“Who is doing this?” she’s asking and when he looks over, he notices the tracks of tears on her face. She knows there are skirmishes, knows that supporters of the Lantsov dynasty are still present in Ravka. But this is new. She can’t imagine such brutality could be done at the hands of their own people.
“Aleksander, who could do something like this? If Fjerda—“
He shakes his head. “This isn’t a Fjerdan practice.” No, they’d prefer to butcher their victims, cut them open and burn the bodies. Clenching his jaw, Aleksander spurs his horse forward.
“What are you doing?” She doesn’t want to be left behind, but is hesitant to follow. He won’t make her come along. Thinks she’s seen enough now.
“Checking for survivors,” he answers tonelessly, knowing there are none. Has to check anyway.
.
He’s quiet throughout supper. Chews his food slowly and when he rises from the table, leaves most of the food still on the plate. Alina finds it difficult to eat as well, so she joins him as he pours a drink from the decanter.
“We knew there would be rebellion,” she tries to tell him because she hates to see him in such a state. This man who is always so assured and collected, he now looks completely frayed at the edges. There’s a flinch in his shoulder when she lays a gentle hand on his arm. “Aleksander—“ but he turns away as she speaks his name, and tosses the drink back down his throat. The fire is still bright so he sinks down into the chair before it, doesn’t look away from the flames when Alina kneels before him.
“Sasha,” she breathes, taking his right hand in hers. “Look at where we are. Look at what you’ve built.”
It’s not enough.
Their people will always be feared. He sees that now. Always hunted.
Absent-mindedly, she rubs at the scar that decorates his palm. Long and jagged, puckered pink flesh. Genya has offered to tailor it away, but he’s always refused. It serves as a reminder. This is why we fight.
“It was a popular practice when I was a boy,” he tells her, lets her pet him while he talks, comforts herself as much as she tries to comfort him. “String Grisha up by the hands, keep them far apart so they cannot summon. Sometimes with rope, more often with nails.”
“It’s barbaric.” Her eyes glisten, either out of worry or fear or both.
“They managed to pin my right hand.” The hand she holds closes into a tight fist. Slowly, she brings it up to her lips. “Over time, it became common to use on otkazat’sya as well. A punishment. An execution. As soon as I came into some power, I campaigned against it. It fell out of practice some few hundred years back.” A shudder racks through him and he covers his face with his hand, thumb and fingers pressing into his temples as if he might squeeze the memories out of his head. Another shudder when he feels her arms around him.
“I’m a cynical man but--” he lets himself fall into her hold, breathes her in, embraces her warmth. Knows they’re safe. Resting his head on her shoulder, he feels her fingers card through his hair. “I thought it was over.”
She holds him like that by the fire until the embers die out, leaving them in the dark.
.
When he wakes in the morning, he dons his kefta like armor. Any feelings of weakness he felt the night before are safely tucked away. His heart he leaves behind in bed.
.
News begins to spread as the corpses of crucified Grisha grow in number. Usually it’s only one or two at a time, some poor soul found in the remote countryside, near some village whose inhabitants refuse to speak.
“The people fear change. We have to show them that we are not their enemy. Perhaps we can begin a campaign, tour the country--”
“No, Alina.” It’s a gentle dismissal of her idea. He is willing to bend on many issues for her but not this one.
.
It’s a few days' ride out to the camp. They’re not far from the village and knowing how close he is to the men who started this has set him on edge. The reckoning always comes, sooner or later. Now they hide like rats in the corners of their homes while he stands with all the power in the world, just outside their gates.
“We must be careful,” she tells them as they prepare for bed that night. The kefta slides off her shoulders, soon followed by her trousers. The cotton shirt is loose around her neck, revealing lovely skin still bruised from his kisses. “The majority of them are innocent, Aleksander. They should not all be punished for the crimes of a few.”
When she approaches, he opens his legs wider where he sits on the bed, making space for her to move into.
“And what would you do with the guilty few, wife?” Slipping his hands up her loose shirt, he grips her hips, feels the soft flesh give under his insistent fingers. His palms continue their journey, rising up along her back, feeling the ridges of her spine. His forehead dips to press against her sternum and when he tilts his head to the side, he can just nuzzle the breast still hidden under cloth. Ignoring the barrier, he licks the tender curve of flesh and feels her pull him closer. His cock hardens against his thigh, a blatant reminder of his ache for her that never seems to leave.
“I’d burn them out,” she promises. “But first I’d make them bow.”
He pulls her down then, cupping her face as he steals the breath from her mouth with a heavy, wet kiss.
.
He sends men into town to track down the rebels but when they return, they’re empty handed. They are under strict commands from their queen to practice amity but the villagers refuse to cooperate.
“They refuse to speak, moi tsar,” he’s told, and he stares out thoughtfully at the town, the idyllic scenery, smoke rising from the chimney stacks where families are surely gathered around, waiting to hear the sound of marching feet heading towards their door. A peaceful community that has probably lasted for centuries. It has seen its last, he decides.
“Burn it down,” Aleksander easily commands. The order is put to action quickly, his Inferni moving to the frontlines. Beside him, Alina grows visibly rigid in her saddle.
“What are you doing?” she hisses and she cries out at the sight of flames spreading through the fields.
“Sending a message.” Hatred eats at him and he knows Alina will be angry, that they will argue and she will shut him out. And perhaps she will have a right to. But they have all the time in the world to make peace. She’ll come around, just as she has before.
“Aleksander, you can’t.” Gun shots sound in the distance, the inhabitants running from their homes, children pulled hastily into the arms of fleeing mothers.
He breathes in sharply, quickly losing patience as around them, the violence escalates. “Go back to the camp, Alina.”
“I’m not leaving,” she insists and doesn’t expect the way he reaches out and snatches her reins, pulling her closer to him.
“Will I need to escort you back myself?” he snaps. “Would you have me leave my men behind?”
“Don’t do this,” she desperately implores. “Please. There’s still time to save them.” Thinks instead of all the Grisha he has failed to save.
He truly hates to disappoint her. Releasing her reins, he turns his attention to the Oprichniki. “See that the tsaritsa gets back safely. Go.” Alina bends to his will easily enough, despite her protests, and leaves with a group of his best guards.
Her bleeding heart, Aleksander thinks as he turns back to observe the escalating scene below. It will be the death of them one day.
.
Things are going well for a time. The flames catch quickly on the timber houses and they spread and spread, threatening to reduce the whole village into ash. But his Grisha are dying. At alarming rates.
He doesn’t understand where the issue can lie when they have the numbers, they have the power, they have the advantage. He doesn’t understand until the young Corporalnik at his side is shot through, the bullet piercing through his crimson colored kefta.
He can’t help but stare as the blood pours out, soaking the boy’s kefta before he drops to his knees. There is shouting, a healer runs forward to help only to catch a bullet to his shoulder. Aleksander’s horse rears up and he hastily tries to calm the beast as around him, Grisha begin to drop like flies.
“Fall back,” he begins to shout. “Fall back!”
The loud cracking sound of homes falling, screams as people are caught in the flames or caught in the gunfire. It is unexpected carnage as his Grisha fall, many of them scurrying back as the order to retreat reaches their ears. They trip over themselves, summoning their element to protect themselves rather than to fight. Aleksander waits as long as he dares before he claps his hands together, and the valley falls into darkness.
Silence, except for the groans of the wounded and the ragged breathing of Grisha running for the hills. The Otkazat'sya women weep in the distance, but their men can no longer fight having lost sight of their attackers. The shadows do not not lift until Aleksander has left with what is left of his unit.
He doesn’t realize until after the commotion that the tether has grown slack. Probably pouting, he thinks. When he tugs on it, Alina does not respond. She knows better than to block him out in the midst of military conflict, when he should be focusing on his soldiers rather than worrying over her. He yanks on the tether now, more forcefully, but still she refuses to answer. He can feel her there, just on the other end, just out of reach.
He flies into camp, sweeps past his lieutenants towards his tent. Ducks past the flaps that serve as a crude entryway only to find it empty. Everything sits as it had this morning, when he and Alina had pulled themselves from bed to prepare for the day. Untouched since the two of them had left together, side by side.
She’s up to something. It’s why she’s blocking him out. She’s not pouting. She doesn’t want him to see.
There’s still time to save them, she had said. Alina was always going to try.
Barges into the officers’ tent, sees them jump to attention at his sudden appearance.
“Where is the tsaritsa?”
They look stunned, eyes wide and lips parted as they splutter in shock at having lost a charge they never knew they had.
“We thought she was with you, sir—“ The senior officer speaks to Aleksander’s retreating back as he stalks out the tent. There will be time later to reprimand them all for losing the queen.
Stupid, foolish girl, he thinks angrily as he rides back towards the village. He’ll have her hide for this. If she can’t follow orders, she can play Queen in the Palace, she can host dinner parties and wear gowns rather than keftas.
Anger, before the fear sets in like the cold seeping into his bone. Stupid, foolish girl, he thinks frantically, hands tightening on the reins. Where are you? The tether guides him and he reaches out through their bond, feels her pulling back, shutting the gates to him. He rams into them, refusing to let her do this, forcing his way through the cracks and he hears her. Feels her terror and confusion. All the horrible things she tries to keep from him.
Fight them, Alina, he roars. I’m on my way.
Then, even more desperately, Don’t lock me out. Don’t leave me alone.
A sudden, sharp pain. Her scattered thoughts are reduced to hazy feelings of regret and longing. They drip through the bond slow and thick like honey.
Alina.
He feels the moment the bond snaps in two. It chokes him, this sudden feeling of emptiness and silence, and he clutches at the kefta, gripping the fabric that rests over his heart. It’s a staccato beat, alone in its tempo for the first time in decades. It hardly knows how to work on its own now, without her to even it out, without that balance he’s grown so used to. It skips and stumbles and leaves him behind.
“Alina,” he rasps, speaking out loud now, digging his spurs into the horse’s sides, urging him forward into a frenzied gallop. The hooves pound like thunder against the ground, kicking up dirt as they fly towards the village.
It takes him too long, as if time itself is working against him, the world spinning slower, passing the ground underneath him one slow inch at a time. It’s too silent, he can hear the rush of his breathing, the blood rushing in his ears, all these sounds heightened now that she’s gone.
Where are you?
The beast can hardly take much more but Aleksander rushes it up the hill, doesn’t mind the way it grunts and tosses its head.
Rides to the top of the hill, looks down over the land.
The town has been laid to waste. Smoke still rises from the ashes, the smell of death thick in the air. The remaining Otkazat'sya seem to have fled, leaving the land barren and only littered with bodies of the dead.
Amidst the ruin stands a single cross. It is too far away to see in any great detail but he knows already who is nailed to the tree.
A smart blow through his chest, as if struck by a stray bullet, one left over from the squirmish. One left flying, having never hit its target until it met Aleksander. He remembers the way the boy had fallen, chest torn open. He can’t continue, he can’t approach just to look up and see her face. How much must he lose? he wonders.
Not this. He will pray to any saint, on his knees, bowed before his country for all to see. He will turn missionary if only they don’t take this from him. All this and more, he prays. He will give everything, he promises as he rides forward.
Dismounting his horse, he does not look up. He cannot bear the sight. Ignores the black kefta that the body is robed in. Walks behind the thing so her face is hidden from view. It’s a shabbily made cross, made under pressure and short amount of time, but it’s strong enough to support her weight. Wrapping his arms around the beam and her body, he lifts, uses all his strength to pull it from the ground, grunting as he shifts the weight of it back against him so he may lower it back horizontally over the ground.
Next, he focuses on freeing her hands. Grits his teeth as he yanks the heavy nails free, then moving onto her feet. The blood is warm, where it pools from the wounds there, and where it has spilled from her chest and stomach. Bullet holes in the corecloth.
Now he can look at her. Pulls her into his lap, cups the back of her head so that it does not fall back. The sweet, old scar on her forehead that he brushes his fingers over. Her eyes, once so dark and vibrant, now turning cruelly opaque. Her mouth, where no breath is drawn.
“Alina, no,” he whispers. “Alina, no.” He grinds his teeth together, a groan of pain rips through him as he begins to rock her. Blood smears on her skin when he touches her face, the blood that had poured from her hands and feet as he wrenched the nails free of her. He remembers the pain of being pierced through. How she must have screamed.
But he pays the stain no mind as he grips her jaw in his hand, kisses her lips, feels them slack under his. And he tries again and again, hoping that she might respond to the next one. Then a kiss on her cheek, on her brow, her temple. Until finally, slowly, he stops. Stops and stares, breath fanning across her face, as her head tilts back and her eyes stare up past him, looking towards the gray sky, unseeing.
The sun does not rise the next morning.
.
Sankta Alina will be remembered for saving two dozen women and children before her husband, The Black Heretic, razed the village to the ground.
.
It’s too quiet. Everything is still except for the birds circling overhead. Aleksander sits bowed over the queen in his lap, as if he can still protect her.
“Rest now, darling,” he whispers, lips brushing across her hairline. “I’ve got you.”
“Moi Soverenyi,” a voice calls. He recognizes it as Ivan’s. The man has never been able to quite shake Aleksander’s old title. Old habits. Ivan approaches slowly until he stands at Aleksander’s back. “What are our orders, sir?”
What a ridiculous question. Can’t he see there’s nothing left to do? Aleksander’s eyes slip closed as he rests his cheek atop Alina’s head. Continues to cradle her close. So small, she folds up so easily in his arms.
He sighs, let’s out a deep breath, feeling weary and exhausted.
“Go home,” he says.
“Moi tsar--” But Ivan grows silent as shadows seep from where Aleksander sits.
“I’m not your tsar,” he snaps. “Go home. Damn the throne. You never wanted it anyway. Damn the country, Alina. Let them have it.”
He’s left alone then, for a short time, before the sound of debris crunching underfoot breaks the silence once more. A figure crouches down beside him, too close, and when he looks up from Alina he sees familiar red hair and kind amber eyes wet with tears.
“She deserves a proper burial. Let’s bring her home.” Her tears begin to fall though she tries to smile. Nodding her head in encouragement, she reaches out to touch the woman in his arms. It’s too much, this idea of burying her, setting her deep into the ground so that he may never see her again. In time, he’ll forget the shape of her face, the depth of her eyes, the sound of her laughter.
Genya’s arm wraps around him as his shoulders begin to shake, as he breaks and sobs. He lets her. Lets her pull his head to rest against his shoulder as he cries and clings to what is left of Alina.
.
The whisper in his head, the memory of the apparat’s voice saying, saying, saying--
the path of saints is full of suffering.
Aleksander closes his eyes, breathes out. His fingers curl, brushing over the old scar on his palm. Last he felt such grief, he had created the fold.
The pyre before him burns until dawn.
.
They say Sankta Alina performs miracles.
The pilgrims find their way to her site of death yearly to pay tribute. They come away with tales of seeing the sankta, having been blessed or healed or gifted with boons. Aleksander pays the rumors no mind.
He’s too old. Never once witnessed an unexplained miracle or saint. And he remembers her still, remembers how human she was. A simple girl from an orphanage when he found her. And then a queen. Then, nothing.
Decades pass before he makes his own pilgrimage to her shine, only goes when too much time passes between his dreams of her. Never thought he’d have the strength to return, didn’t believe he could bear it. A small part of the world cut off from him, left to the strays who wandered there.
Until he finds himself walking across frozen ground where nothing has grown since Alina, as if she took the sun itself with her. It stays concealed behind thick, gray clouds and Aleksander aches for it. How she once kept him warm even on the coldest of nights.
There must be another life, he thinks as he gazes upon her shine. This one is far too cruel.
It’s the only thing that stands for miles. A crude statue of a woman, gazing up at the sky, hands offered out to reveal the wounds there. Cold eyes made of gray stone. At the base of the monument lay old, dead flowers, coins, carvings or other pieces of art. Anything one might bring in the hopes of pleasing their Sankta.
“Sol Koroleva,” he says, bitter and unfeeling. For he had seen the queen’s corpse, had held it in his arms before laying her to rest. No Sankta rose from the ashes. No Sankta whispered prayers into his ear. They worship nothing but a statue, a stone cut from the earth. The only thing left of what was once a living, breathing woman.
This statue is nothing close to the real thing. Alina would have laughed. It does not show the woman who woke in the morning, hair a mess and eyes bleary. The Grisha who trained for years to hone her power, with a dedication he was in awe of. The tsaritsa who had a penchant for mercy, yet would ferociously defend her loved ones. Lover and wife and friend and queen, all erased in this rendering of her.
“I come empty handed with nothing to give. Will you still bestow your blessing upon me, sweet Sankta?”
Silence answers him. He wants to scream, wants to topple the facade but it’s hers. Even if it’s not real, just a figment of the people’s imagination, it still belongs to her and he can’t bring himself to hate it. Let it bring others peace, even if it brings him none.
Weary, he drops to his knees. Prostrates himself before her like he’s done to no other saint.
“I’m sorry,” he cries, fingers digging into the dirt, ignoring the ice scratching into his skin as he searches for something to hold onto, to ground himself. “I’ve lost it all. I failed you. I failed our people.”
The first time he’s ever spoken the words, though they have for so long haunted him. His vision is blurry when he looks back up at her, but still she keeps her gaze to the sky. Does not acknowledge the pitiful ghost of a man at her feet.
“I couldn’t do it anymore,” he continues urgently. “Not after you left. I couldn’t Alina. When is it my turn to rest?” Chokes back his cries as he bows his head, squeezing his eyes shut.
Warmth blooms in his chest, a feeling he hasn’t known since their bond had severed upon Alina’s death. As if no time had passed at all, his heart falls back into that familiar rhythm that it used to share with hers.
He feels her. In his blood, in his head, in the air he breathes. That familiar scent of irises, though none bloom here. This is a place of death, not life. And yet, it smells of the gardens she designed at the palace, how they blossomed during the spring. The scent that clung to her skin when she came back in from her promenade. Such a small detail he had almost forgotten.
There’s a tickling sensation against his palm, right where his scar is. And when he pulls it from the earth, unfurls his fingers, he sees the blue iris cradled in his hand. Her favorite. It knocks the breath from his lungs. He stares at the thing, then back up at the statue. Back down at the flower, trying to make sense of it. Knowing that if anyone can surprise these days, its her.
Brings the flower up, presses his lips gently to the petals. As soft as her lips had been.
““I can’t,” he sighs. “I can’t. What would you have me do?”
Centuries he spent trying to create a country where Grisha could be safe. A place without persecution. What did he have to show for it? What else could he be expected to give?
The visions in his mind flash so brightly and quickly that he almost topples over with the force of it. Images of their people running, in hiding, tortured. Screams and fear and blood. Alina, hanging from her nailed hands, alone, surrounded by nothing but rubble and ash. Alina reaching towards him, holes in her hands healed into scars of gold. Grisha children laughing and safe with their families. Aleksander smiling, happy, safe.
It leaves him shaken. Sweat gathers at his temples, though the cold remains unforgiving.
“Okay,” he whispers, voice shaky. “Okay, Alina.”
Understands now that he must do this for her. No matter how tired he may be, no matter how disillusioned with the world he is. He can do this one last thing for her. He will protect her people.
When he closes his eyes, he swears he feels lips brush his brow. Sucks in a breath at the touch he’s been denied for decades now, the lips he had memorized, the kiss he knows too well.
Then warmth on his face, even in this chilled barren wasteland. And he opens his eyes to the sun.