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The frilly white pillows are plusher than anything she’s laid her head upon. It’s easy to sink in and snuggle herself against them. Breathe in their soft lavender scent as waves of calm rush over her again as she wakes, anew and the same, this morning. The pull of sweet slumber gnaws. Alina keeps her eyes open but doesn’t get out from under the covers.
The luxury should be off-putting and strange for a girl who’s always had nothing but the scraps yet she takes to it like a baby duck to water.
She is wary of the Little Palace. The idea of being different runs through its halls, home to a people with a mastery of gifts no mere human can harness. Most Grisha do not bat an eye at her presence or comment on her appearance, but her trust is hard-won even by those who’ve—mostly—embraced her so warmly.
The expectations the Tsar and the country are loading on her shoulders increases by the day. The Apparat and his zealous followers cry her a saint but portray her as the ideal Ravkan daughter rather than in her true half-Shu likeness. For a savior can’t possibly look like the enemy.
Her room, when she is left alone, is her safe haven from it all. She could have only dreamed about the delicate nightgowns, the four-poster bed, the fluffy duvet, and matching pillows. She makes it all her own, carves a small AS into the headboard, marks the clothes with her scent, leaves her fingerprints all over the furniture and strands of black hair in the drain of the bath.
And if she chooses to hideaway this morning in between feathery mattress and silken covers, rest a luxury of its own, she will deal with the consequences later.
There is a knock at the door that she lacks the will to answer. If it is essential whoever it is will find a way in.
She turns, pulling the bedding close once more and burying herself beneath it.
“Comfortable I see.”
The General stands at the foot of the bed, impeccably dressed in his kefta. She hadn’t even heard him come in, silent as a shadow. Dark from head to toe, it suits him well. Black may be her new favorite color.
She sits up surrounded by frill and fluff all in shades of delicate light gray and white.
“It’s mine to be comfortable in isn’t it?” Alina challenges. Territorial as he’s never been inside this room with her. It was always her seeking him out.
He doesn’t look bothered, takes her petulance in stride. Keeps hands behind his back, ever the strapping commander of the Second Army.
“All of it is. It’s been waiting for you since the palace was built.”
For the sun summoner, a fairytale to soothe the minds of worried children, to give hope to those grown and scared of the dark. A possibility but not an inevitability. Yet—
“And how long have you been waiting?” Her brown eyes meet his black. They are soulful and old the only soft part of the General.
“Much, much longer than that.”
Alina wonders just how many years that is. Decades? Centuries? Longer?
The General moves in three short steps to her side. He hovers—doesn’t invade. “Shall we take breakfast in here? I wanted to bring you riding again but, perhaps you’ve been pushed too hard.”
He’s noticed. The struggles she keeps close to her chest only poured out in unanswered letters that are becoming more difficult to write by the day. Soon she will need a new outlet and new support, but she is stubborn with changes.
“It has… been an adjustment,” she tests. More unsaid than actually said, but a hint of what’s underneath. “I am Grisha but I am not like the other Grisha.”
“No,” the General agrees, hand reaching out to smooth her messy hair like a docile pet. She wants to bite at his wrist. Show him how vicious she can be if pressed, yet hesitates, the comfort paralyzing.
He continues upon her acceptance, “You are like me. Our burden is our own, history dictating need.”
In his way he understands. Different lives color their pasts though still, they are more similar to each other than she is to anyone else in this world.
“Yes, yes I think so. I can’t—“ words fail. Chokes on them and swallows them down unable to describe the foreign duty she feels.
She has never had a real reason to fight before. She had an obligation while in the Frist Army. Officially, she has not been tasked as a member of the Second Army, powers too new to be of use on any battlefield. Being branded on appearance as a foreign adversary doesn’t inspire a swell of patriotism. Even so, she feels the necessity of banishing The Fold or finding a way to control it.
Alina knows the General understands the pressure of fixing what no one else can. She looks up at him, hoping maybe this once someone will help her carry the load.
“You can.”
He pets her again in reassurance, such gentle tenderness the world has never shown her. Her vision clouds with wetness unable to bear having to leave this moment and this room. He saves her from the insufferable idea, “But not today. I’ll send for a tray and ensure you will not be bothered today. I need my sun summoner well rested to face our challenges.”
A break. A single day pause from the rush her life has turned into in the past two months, her life’s axis shifted.
“Thank you,” Alina calms, blinking away the tears before they fall and embarrass her in front of the General.
He removes his hand from her and stands at attention, “You’re welcome. I think it best I take over your training. I don’t believe Baghra’s methods are serving your specific needs.”
Her progress with summoning is slow and stilted at best while the Winter Fete creeps closer. A fresh start may be what she needs to push forward.
“That would be appreciated. I am a bit sore from being hit with her cane.”
Alina rubs absentmindedly at her side, an everpresent ache there she’s rationalized herself into believing is normal.
The General doesn’t miss her discomfort.
‘“She always believes pain to be the best motivator. Let us show her different, together.”
Alina nods, “Yes, General.”
Her chest warms with something. A pleasant reminder she doesn’t have to be alone if she chooses.
He shakes his head and holds out a hand to her to help her from bed, “Call me Aleksander, milaya. You’re no soldier.”
For the first time, the myth of a man before her is charmingly human.
“Aleksander,” she repeats testing the name on her lips, easy, easy, easy.
Like a gentleman, he guides her over to the small table for two pulling out her chair for her to sit. Only once she’s settled does he go to the door requesting a tray with two meals from an oprichniki on guard.
Alina could get used to mornings like this. Aleksander’s company welcome in the quiet, not pushing unnecessary conversation as they wait. Comfortable, she basks in the soft glow of sunlight that filters through the windows. She lets her fingers dance through their beams and imagines how she can bend and shape them new.
She is still safe in her rooms, the peace maintained with the inclusion of him.
At last a knock.
Alina looks over to Aleksander to answer it, and thinks Please let there be more than porridge for breakfast today.
When the tray is set before down her innermost wish is granted, it’s truly a morning of little luxuries.