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A monster lies waiting.
A monster you know.
Leather, overly starched, chaffs against Alina’s hand. Her eyes rake down to the pair of gloves covering Nikolai’s hands, and she is well aware of the ugly, grotesque sight that lies buried underneath: skeins of darkness that crawl through purple-black veins, protruding against the gnarled skin like mountainous ridges. Concealed behind the pretense of dignity, and the rusted prestige of a once-glorious double-headed eagle. (She briefly wonders why she was not offered a similar pair of gloves, then remembers the coffers are running dry.)
But Alina is perhaps the only one to see past his guises and lies — half-truths, he’d correct her. Perhaps the only one, apart from the strong-headed Squaller he keeps sending discreet yet obvious glances to, laced with the bitter tang of unanswered longing.
She knows that in the ever-changing masquerade of politics and mutual sabotage, beneath the bejeweled mask he dons is still the too-clever fox, who lies await in a muddy trench below enemy sight lines, searching for the perfect moment, that chink in the armour to leap out, claws extended. And, well, if his dance partner is shifting from the Shu to the Fjerdans as the tune changes, Alina has sufficient confidence in his capabilities to defuse the situation, even with threats of war and bloody agony on the horizon.
But then again, there will always be hungry, voracious beasts to placate, even when Shu and Fjerda are long gone. That is a lesson that time and lost battles have taught her. The beasts are circling; she offers them her tender flesh to keep their hunger at bay, but in the end, how much of her will be left to sit on the throne? She will be a victim, not a victor. And war does not take kindly — it takes and takes until there is nothing left to give, until the soul has been scraped clean, until bones are held together only by the sinews of tragedy and grief of a future torn apart.
A monster lies waiting.
Is it a monster if you know it?
“Smile for the crowd,” the fox urges, mouth beside her ear. An unnatural, perfectly tailored smile stretches his lips, appeasing the restless crowd with false pleasantries. His fangs are showing. (That fact alone leads Alina to believe that this public demonstration is another power play, too.)
She takes care to plaster a smile on her face as well; after all, should the heralded Sun Summoner of Ravka not be perfectly content, smothered to the neck with riches and silks she couldn’t possibly begin to fathom? Paraded around like a jewelry-encrusted ornament, or a victory laurel? The stag’s antlers, poised around her neck like a pretty noose, remind her sharply that maybe, she is. But no matter. She will wear her noose like a necklace, and she will flaunt it. There is power in knowing yourself to be a pawn.
Alina turns her head to the right, just ever so slightly. In her periphery, she thinks she sees the shadows jump by a cluster of trees, but then they lie still again, barely encroaching on the conquered territory of the harsh sunlight. Merely a trick of the light. She laughs to herself privately as that thought crosses her mind — after all, is light not just one big trick? And she, the puppeteer? Light chooses to illuminate what it wants to be seen. But the darkness; the darkness is another matter.
There is nothing to hide in the darkness. Deepest secrets, forbidden desires, secretly uttered wishes — the darkness always weeds them out, flays them open until there is nothing left to conceal, until there is solace in seeking its gentle, painful caress.
Alina frowns. Is she growing sentimental? A foreign feeling, one her mind has not had to contend with for nearly six years. But there is no use in growing fond of the darkness, not when she is its opposing force, not when its master is long gone. And if the darkness seems more lively as of late, then why not let her thoughts intertwine with those of feeble hope?
A monster lies waiting.
You see it, too.
There it is, again. A slither of darkness up against the tree trunk. She is not imagining it — does that thought terrify or exhilarate her? Alina’s eyes glitter with the unexpected. After all, a girl gets tired after a dozen balls and a thousand more false smiles. In that instance, she has half a mind to run off the stage, to chase the shadows like a young schoolgirl and giggle as they give her a long lost lover’s caress.
Alina risks a glance towards the fox, standing by her side. His fangs grow sharper; they gleam in the morning sunlight. They are inches from her skin. She fears they will draw blood soon, suffocate her until her veins run dry. Perhaps then, her decision is already made for her. Alina shifts her gaze, and her eyes lock onto the shady alcove beneath the tree canopy. The shadows there writhe like a pit of venomous snakes, thirsty for the fresh blood of prey. Never mind that, Alina has already had these snakes under her charm from the very start. And they are lonely. She would be a cruel master to ignore them now, would she not?
A look towards the fox, again. But he is distracted, busy cleaning his claws so that he can sink them into the waiting crowd and sway them to his agenda. (He needs their votes, otherwise his reign will be too short, over too soon.) Now is her chance, to escape from the execution block that is this stage. The axe falls closer by the second. She runs.
Ah, misfortune strikes. The fox has her held by the wrist, and she senses that he knew of her daring escape plan. She cannot take her eyes off those razor-sharp fangs, off those bloody, matted claws. A question falls from his lips, heard only by her. Going somewhere? It is both a promise of a threat and a test of her allegiance. An elegant smile, warm and fake like the very sunlight she creates, graces her lips. She strokes his fur soothingly. Of course not. She thinks his answering smile is a little less toothy this time.
A monster lies waiting.
You can come home, now.
Alina stifles her emotions, crudely ties a bandage over the wound in her heart. The bleeding stops, if at least for now, until she can be free from this entire ordeal. But she cannot ignore the shadows, pleading for her attention. Come home, they seem to call. We miss you, they scream. She knows they do, because she misses them as well. (She misses their master, but it is pointless to mention that.)
A commotion ripples throughout the crowd. Alina’s gaze is calculating as she searches for its source, and the fox’s claws sink tighter into her wrist. Unfailingly, her eyes fix onto a man standing at the far reaches of the crowd. He is elderly, she notes, a mottling of sparse, grey stubble covering his temples like a badly sewn piece of cloth. A modest, even alarmingly plain robe adorns his skeletal frame, giving the impression that he might crumble into ash at any moment, carried away by the fleeting wisps of a gale until all that’s left is a figment of her imagination.
His physical strength is not a cause for concern. The muscles that remain on his body, if any at all, seem to struggle to grapple onto his bones, simply clinging on as if for propriety’s sake. And, besides, she has the power of a thousand suns on her side, and the heat of their ire. If she so wished, she could turn this entire meadow into a graveyard, or the monument of a tragedy.
But she won’t. Both because the consequences of such an action have not left her mind, and because a sliver of her is, well, amused. What is a little trouble when eternity lies stretched on a dias before her, sweet and coy and pliant; tempting? Let this man say what he wants, cause all the trouble he wants. A bit of wind is nothing to eternal sun.
A monster lies waiting.
You yearn for it.
The man starts to speak. “Sankta Alina,” he rasps, and it is the voice of a dead man walking, of a dead man kept alive by filial devotion to a false god. “Sankta Alina, Sankta Alina, Alina of the Fold, Alina the Bright…you have brought salvation to us all, salvation is upon us by your merciful hand…we offer you our unwavering devotion in return.” A fanatic, crazed gaze filled with lunacy meets her own.
In a split second, her veins are consumed by rage. His words, the blind, unseeing devotion in his eyes, begging for the chance to worship — they are stifling, a too-tight collar pressing against her throat, the forewarning threat of a choke. No matter that the collar is made of satin, his words of honey; for they do not see her, the real her. The very fact angers her, and she does not know whether it is because loneliness occupies her waking hours, or if it is because the last time she felt seen was in the unholy embrace of the dark.
Alina’s eyes shift to the fox, claws still digging into the soft flesh at her wrist, exactly atop her pulsepoint. And yet, what is a fox to a god? What are claws to heavenly fire? What is malice to divine will? A god does not kneel, a god does not bend, and a god does not beg. A god conquers. She can’t help but wonder, too: If she is a god, where is her nemesis, her rival god, her opposing power, the one to keep her in check? She knows the answer all too well, hates that it is by her own design. Had time been any fickler, she would have turned it back herself and drawn that blade from his chest, looked him in the eyes and told him I see you, and I do not forsake you.
What is a fox to a god?
Alina feigns appreciation, a benevolent smile tacked to her lips while fury froths beneath. She parts her lips to speak, ever the picture of sainthood and divine holiness. “I am glad for your devotion,” she lulls, much like a zookeeper appeasing a caged, rabid animal. She leans in, eyes sparkling with a glint, of something they do not know. Suddenly her chocolate brown eyes seem less of an oasis of paradise and more like the depths of hellfire. “But I am afraid that you are mistaken, for I do not offer salvation.” — the fox’s eyes narrow and they seem to inquire, Do your words seek to deceive? — “I offer ruination.”
A monster lies waiting.
Stop running from it.
A snarl. The fox’s lips are stretched wide apart, and there is murderous intent in his eyes. Alina’s heart fumbles in her chest, and just as he lunges for her exposed throat, she opens her palms, pulling on the primal, ancient power bestowed deep within her soul. A blinding flash, and suddenly, heat is crawling across her skin, alive with the power only a Saint could have. Do you see now ? she wants to scream, proclaim to the skies with a haughty, self-satisfied laugh. You cannot shackle me to subservance.
She is power incarnate. The sun courses through her blood, until they are one and the same, until they cannot tell where girl ends and where god begins.
A sizzling sound punctuates the otherwise still morning air. Heat waves make the ground shimmer like a mirage, iridescent in the potent sunlight. Alina can’t help it; a smile curls her lips, and it is one of victory. They will burn at her feet, the ones they have kissed for so long, and she will make sure that their ashes are lost to the ancient winds, until naught remains of them, until even their memory has slipped through the slender fingers of history, both tender and cruel. She will carve her throne out of bones if she has to, and who’s to say it wouldn’t make a glorious sight? She is a phoenix born out of death, out of destruction.
Phoenixes fly high.
The realm of destruction and ruin before her is gratifying, in a macabre and morbid way. It is like she is alive, for the first time in a long, long while. She recalls the last time her shoulders were free from burden, when her veins thrummed and sang with a lethal cocktail of power and adrenaline, when she was on a chessboard — of war — but at least she was the queen, not a pawn. That memory is dead to everyone but her. She worships it daily in the altar of her mind, feeling its phantom fingers sweeping across the flesh of her arms, feeling its frosty breath trailing fingers down her spine. She misses it, but she will only admit that in her grave, where no soul dares tread to hear her sinful confession.
A monster lies waiting.
Surrender your heart.
Alina’s mind clears as reality stares glaringly back at her. She knows what they will call her, murderer, monster, psychopath. She will endure their barbed words gladly, for it is a small price to pay for a Saint’s freedom. An unexpected wave of joy surges through her, and a somewhat crazed laugh burbles in the depths of her throat, caught. The dove has flown out of its gilded cage. Her wings spread, shaking of months of disuse like a mere disguise as sunlight flares in her veins.
Her triumphant gaze sweeps the battlefield, neither weary nor bashful. (Really, was it ever a battlefield if there was no fight?) She will not shirk from the sweet relish of victory, even if it means confronting horrors by her own hands.
Incinerated. Everything, incinerated. Obliterated. Touched by power. Undoubtedly an unnecessary loss of life, but do Saints not require sacrifice? She has demanded a price, and they have paid it, whether willingly or otherwise. Because of this, she knows they will not cross her again, lest they face her ungodly wrath. The dead bodies show, they do not want that. The fox has all but vapourised, leaving behind nothing but his military attire, and Alina thinks it is rather fitting, much like how a fox stalking prey leaves but its footprints, a mark of its legacy hidden away in the foliage of the woods. His claws are useless now.
Just then, Alina feels a valiant tug, deep within her soul. Her eyes snap up, a wild and untamed glow lurking about them. What creature dares remain after her siege on this once fertile land? A fool. She does not account for impossibilities, for Aina Starkov was a girl who stopped believing in miracles a long time ago, even if she hopes for one. Alina looks up once more.
Her eyes meet with that of another pair, and they are made of unflinching steel and quartz.
A monster lies waiting.
Maybe you are one, too.