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Only Alina was allowed to see his scars, those awful things that punctuated and tinted his skin; Nikolai had never seen in her gaze pity or hatred, and it meant more than he could put in words.
Usually, he kept the scars hidden beneath the silk of gloves, or even the rough feeling of cotton in the bad days, dabbling in wool and some Grisha fabrics. The only thing that he avoided was leather - the feeling too alike his clawed hands had. He’d had tried it, but the touch of that against his fingers had made him seek the nearest sunny spot and stay there, basking, for longer than he’d wanted to admit he did.
Alina, part of his retinue, indulged him, claiming the room was too dark and making light pour out of her fingertips. He didn’t know how to thank her for that, still. She stayed, after everything that had happened in the Fold, as a counselor, as part of the Second Army, as a friend, and Nikolai was thankful for her presence.
What they had was a precious, fragile thing, a few stolen moments of privacy where Nikolai had the doors guarded and he could relax, letting his scarred hands touch things, feeling sensations that were not muted by fabric.
Lately, though, things had been… Complicated. He could feel it clawing its way up his throat again, the scars pulsating in the beat of merzost’s drum in a way Nikolai did not feel comfortable. And, of course, the pillows that seemed to have decided to explode on their own, the cut apart sheets, and most importantly, the deep gauges in the walls all seemed indicative of the creature coming back.
Why, Nikolai had no clue: as far as he was aware, the only source of merzost had died and been burnt in a pyre, ashes scattered to the wind.
It was easier to swallow the secret, to pretend there was nothing wrong, that the servants did not need to clean his room, someone already had done so. Easier to hide the shame of claws than to confront it.
That was the plan, at least. To keep it away and far from his mind, ignoring the fact that his tastes grew fond of the taste of iron and salt.
Until Alina found out - a complete accident he had no memory of -, and told him in the morning after, sitting amidst the gore of what had been his mattress once, a halo of light around her and a serious look to her dark eyes. He quietly patted himself, and was glad at least his clothes had survived the night, clambering to shaky feet.
Nikolai, coughing out feathers, stared at her, aware of how he looked like, aware that she had seen all of it - but in her eyes, Nikolai found no pity, irritation or fear.
“Are you back?” Alina rose as Nikolai took out a feather from his teeth, and scratched the back of his head, pleased at feeling the blunt edge of fingers on his scalp.
“I suppose so.” Nikolai paused, and Alina, quietly, rose to her feet, coming closer. “How long were you here?”
“I was going to deliver you a few documents, but then I heard you and I barged in. Sorry.” He glanced at his door, which, yes, had a very definite mark of someone using the Cut to open the lock. Nikolai ignored that. “You reacted to the light, and… Well. It was a familiar situation to me, that’s all.”
Nikolai could hear the sadness in her voice, and he could understand it; after all, for the precarious few hours of the night, the two of them were back in the civil war, with more people alive than dead.
He avoided her gaze for a second. Alina let him have it, gently grabbing his hands.
“It’s not the war anymore. I think we can try new things.” She said, but Nikolai did not miss the way her voice wavered.
The attempt was simple: Alina asked to see his hands, poked at them with careful fingers, and then shone her light over his palms, warm and comforting and absolutely frightening - he could feel the merzost crawling under his skin, a thousand ants under tissue, fleeing from light like bats.
It hurt horribly; Nikolai bit his cheek until the heavy taste of iron coated his teeth, and when Alina, with a gentle voice, asked if he was alright, he hoped that his smile did not hold a faint pink quality to it.
It worked, and that was the worst part: for a few days, Nikolai did not wake up to feathers in his mouth and his bedroom trashed.
All he had to do was subject himself to the pain of light in his hands - his gloves grew darker, wanting to escape even the sun itself when unattached to Alina - for a few minutes every night before bed, and he’d have the best sleep of his life.
Then, like most first drafts of experiments, it failed in the worst way possible. Nikolai woke up with a mouthful of blood and surrounded by feathers that had once belonged to the chickens he’d bitten, corpses littered around him like a massacre.
It was Zoya who found him in some farmer’s coop - something she attempted to explain about air currents and air pressure later -, but it was Alina he let in, carrying a cloak and not wincing at the sight of his bloodied fingers. Nikolai, with trembling hands, covered himself, head bowed and heavy heart before they ushered him into a carriage, the family he’d disturbed left with a sack of coin to last the next two winters.
He did not speak on his way back, ruminating over his thoughts, chewing his lower lip, aware of the gazes of Alina and Zoya over him - but the wound still felt too fresh to touch, and thus, the silence was preferable.
He sunk into his bathtub, and futilely tried to scrub off the viscous feeling of blood off his skin. And even though his skin grew red, it didn’t go away, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much soap he used. The scars pulsated under his touch, as if gleeful about his despair.
The surrounding water grew cold and murky, his fingers pruned, but Nikolai kept going, desperate for salvation that did not come. He did not want to be covered in blood, but it seemed stuck to his skin, a thin layer that soap did not dissolve.
A knock on the door interrupted his misery, and Nikolai only had time to look at it before Alina came in, looking upwards, carrying in her arms what looked like a towel and a pair of bottles.
“Not looking, don’t worry. Wouldn’t want to ruin your precious modesty. I’d have to marry you.” He laughed, a strangled noise that barely sounded like something he could produce, averting his eyes. At least the foam hid him from view.
The scars were bad in his arms, growing with each transformation. There were others, too, hidden by drapery and clothing. He did not want Alina to see them, to see the creature instead of him.
Alina paused behind him, and Nikolai looked at her. No undesirable emotions clouded her brown eyes, but Nikolai slid further into the water, avoiding the weight of being seen.
“Can I wash your hair?” She asked, voice gentle, and Nikolai gave her a nod, staring fixedly at the wall in front of him. He heard her roll up her sleeves, and soon felt the touch of her hands on his scalp, washing the dried blood off his hair.
For a moment, time stood still: he allowed her to do it, humming some nameless tune that Nikolai, in a futile attempt at distraction, tried to pin, running mentally through the list of sea shanties, hymns and bawdy songs he knew, and coming up empty.
Nikolai liked the feeling of her fingers in her hair, soft and careful, but he did not know how Alina could stand to touch him. Nikolai was barely a person anymore, merely a mass of merzost scars and regret, with a too full stomach and a great desire to not be a creature again.
And yet - and yet, Alina’s touch did not hesitate, touching him as if Nikolai was a mere human, instead of a monster inside a vaguely human-shaped receptacle.
“How do you do it?” He blurted, and Alina hummed an interrogation. “Touching me. Being near me. I killed people. I ate them.”
There was a minute pause, to feed into a bowl enough water to wash out the soap out of his hair, suds falling down his skin in trails that reminded him of blood.
“Murder by murder, I also killed someone.” Alina said, voice too controlled, but he could feel the way her hands shook as she put them on his shoulders. Nikolai looked up, into Alina’s eyes, and scoured them for an emotion he couldn’t name, before looking away, focusing his gaze on an undefined spot on the wall.
“You did what you needed to for Ravka.” He said, the guilt thick in his tongue. “Me? I did what the monster wanted to do. The Darkling made me his creature, and still makes me his.”
Alina’s hand left his skin, surely in disgust at his words, realizing what he was: a creature that followed his base desires.
Nikolai allowed himself one moment of pity before he saw Alina pausing at the other side of the tub, barely hesitating before jumping inside it, the water splashing noisily into the floor. Nikolai yelped, coiling into himself.
Alina laughed at him, and Nikolai thanked the Saints for the sheer amount of foam in the tub, obscuring him from view.
He was no blushing virgin, but he felt like one, while under the seriousness of her gaze.
“That’s not behavior appropriate for a saint.” Nikolai joked, aware of the blush coating his cheeks. Alina approached, her wet clothes clinging to her body, and Nikolai kept his eyes trained on hers as her hands touched his face.
“I’m not a saint, I’m Alina, and you’re not a monster. You’re Nikolai.” Her hands were warm against his face, warmer than the redness that seemed like a fever in him. His eyes slid down to where her clavicles showed, that area that was always paler where the horns had once rested. “You’re not a monster. You’re not what he made you. We are not what he made us be. If one thing didn’t work, fine. We can try other things.”
He put his hands on top of hers. For a moment, the world stilled, and then Alina, probably coming back into her senses, scrambled to the other side of the tub.
“Well, I suppose I might as well… Leave? You need to get out and dry yourself and…” She let her words die out, embarrassment taking over him, and Nikolai offered a hasty nod. He watched her get out of the tub, clothes dripping soapy water, and kept watching her as she walked, one hand in the rim of the tub.
Alina paused at his side, and Nikolai looked at her as she lowered herself down to his level. A few wet strands of white hair stuck to her face, and Nikolai gently used his scarred fingers to pull them away.
“You know, Nikolai, I don’t think you’re a monster.” She then did the impossible (improbable): leaned in and kissed him, so fleeting only the warmth remained as she fled the room, and Nikolai touched his lips, allowing himself some hope.
Maybe he was not the Darkling’s creature, but he could be Alina’s.