Archive of Our Own

He sees her at the market.

Golden skin. Warm brown eyes. A sunshine smile.

The shimmer of magic surrounding her.

Interesting.

“It’s a bad idea, Mal.”

“The crops are failing again. We have to do something.”

“I know, but not this. You know what happens to people who don’t pay Morozov, and we have nothing to barter with.”

“We’ll be fine,” Mal insists, “we’ll have a luck potion anyway, so that will keep us safe.”

Alina isn’t so sure. Morozov doesn’t strike her as the sort to miss loopholes – he won’t offer anything that might help a customer avoid having to make payment.

“We can find another way. Maybe –”

“No,” Mal interrupts, “I’m going to see Morozov tomorrow.”

He’s stubborn, her husband, and Alina knows he won’t change his mind.

She just hopes he doesn’t do anything foolish.

He watches her frequently, goes to the market far more than he really needs to try and learn more about her.

She’s an artist, he soon discovers.

He slips a potion into the mayor’s tea and instructs the man to commission a painting of Keramzin Forest. Once it’s completed, he retrieves his prize and ensures that the mayor won’t remember the transaction.

It’s an astonishingly beautiful piece. He doubts most of the inhabitants of this little town would realise quite how extraordinary Alina’s work is, but he knows better. She is highly talented, of course, but only an artisan with magic could – apparently unknowingly, in Alina’s case – imbue their pieces with their own emotions.

He looks at the painting of the forest and he doesn’t only marvel at its beauty, he can also feel the rush of emotion that Alina experienced while she was painting it – a sense of peace and a calm that soothes his soul.

He knew there must be some reason he felt drawn to this place and now he realises it.

It’s Alina.

Mal sets out in the early morning, while she’s feeding the chickens, collecting the eggs and tending to her small vegetable garden.

It’s not too far to Morozov’s home, a pleasant walk of a little under an hour, and so Alina expects her husband to be back before noon.

Lunch comes and goes, though, and there is still no sign of him.

She tries not to worry. He’s prone to stopping by Dubrov’s tavern for some vodka or ale and she won’t be surprised if he turns up in a few hours, drunk and demanding his meal.

She spends the afternoon finishing a few chores, baking and then painting – she does commissions for those looking for a personal gift, bringing a little much-needed extra money into the household, even if Mal does act as if her art is a useless hobby.

Mal’s share of dinner has gone cold and the sun has fully set when she truly starts to panic.

Even Mal wouldn’t stay out this late. It isn’t safe to linger outside after dark in these parts.

Something has gone wrong. That’s the only explanation.

Alina had warned him.

Morozov is not a man to be crossed.

She shivers as she recalls the few times that she’s seen him while visiting the market. His dark eyes had always seemed to watch her intently, a faintly amused smile on his face.

Morozov is an aberration in Keramzin.

His home might be a modest stone cottage, but he dresses in rich – if always black – fabrics, has a thick fur coat to keep him warm in the winter, and never seems to endure the lean periods most of Keramzin do, when their faces are gaunt and their bellies are empty. He is allegedly willing to share his bounty and the mysterious potions he makes with those who are willing to offer payment – be it in coins or other goods or favours – but Alina has always avoided the temptation to visit him, worrying that it seems a bit too much like a deal with the devil.

A man like Morozov might have engendered hostility and perhaps even attempts to raid his cottage, but everyone knows that those who go to Morozov seeking trouble always come away worse for the wear.

When people see him, they keep their distance, but they’re always respectful. They say they’re not scared, but Alina knows anyone with sense is wary of Morozov.

And now Mal has almost certainly crossed him. The one man in Keramzin that should not be trifled with.

He’s planning to simply kill Oretsev.

A tragic hunting accident would certainly not be suspicious, considering how much time the man spends with his friends in the forest. Oretsev leaves poor Alina alone far too often – a man who does not appreciate his wife surely does not deserve her.

He’s planning to kill Oretsev, but instead the man turns up on his doorstep before he can put his plan into motion.

And he’s never one to miss an opportunity when it is presented to him.

“A luck potion,” Oretsev demands.

He names his price – extortionate and likely impossible for Oretsev – and watches with amusement as the other man pales.

“I … I can pay it,” he insists.

Every one of Oretsev’s words drips with deceit.

Still, he retrieves the requested potion and hands it over with a warning that he will pay Oretsev a visit to retrieve payment that evening.

“And if you do not have payment,” he adds, “then I assure you, Mr Oretsev, you will regret it.”

The trap is set and the man in front of him steps right into it.

He takes the potion. He promises payment.

And then he leaves, his plan to flee clear on his face.

Foolish boy, really, to think he can run from the consequences of his actions.

She waits for the dreaded knock on the door.

When it comes, she tries to stay hopeful.

But it is Morozov standing outside, nearly blending into the darkness.

“Hello, Alina. May I come in?”

She stares, frozen, “I …”

He smiles, a genuinely warm expression, like she is an old friend he is happy to see.

“I made no bargain with you,” she tells him.

“No,” his eyes dance with amusement, “you’re far too sensible for that. Your husband, on the other hand …”

“Where is he?”

Is he dead? Is he hurt? Has Morozov done something to him?

“Your husband promised me a payment he had no intention of honouring and then fled like a coward.”

Alina winces. She’d like to think Morozov is lying to her, but Mal has always had trouble taking responsibility for his mistakes.

What’s worse, she thinks, is that he’s left her behind. Kept the luck potion for himself and ran, apparently giving no through to the fact that he’s leaving Alina to face the consequences of his theft from Morozov.

“I don’t appreciate those who steal from me,” he continues, “but I always get what’s owed to me in the end.”

“I … I can –”

“No,” Morozov frowns, dark eyes stormy, “Oretsev is the one who owes me and he cannot avoid payment, no matter how confident he is that he can evade me. He will return eventually and then I will have my pound of flesh, so to speak.”

Alina isn’t so sure that Mal will come back. With a luck potion, he can establish himself across the country, living an easy life away from the trouble he’d find in Keramzin. And, sadly, she really doesn’t believe he’d return for her.

“Why have you come here?” she asks Morozov, still suspicious, “if not to demand a price from me.”

“I have come with an offer. We both know that you will not survive this winter alone. Your paintings are exquisite – you charge far too little for your work, but I suppose we cannot expect most Keramzin locals to appreciate true art – but there are too few here with the extra funds to order such lovely pieces.”

“I can manage,” she tells him tightly.

He sighs, “we both know you cannot, Alina. Let me help you. I have a great many contacts throughout Ravka who can help to sell your paintings for something closer to their real worth.”

She narrows her eyes, “and what would you want in return.”

“Simply your company a few times a week.”

“Company?”

“It can be lonely, living alone.”

She recoils. Surely he isn’t suggesting …

“I’m not … it’s just talking, right?”

“Whatever you’d like,” he says, polite and pleasant, “talking and dinner, perhaps a few times a week.”

She stares at him for a few moments, but can’t find any particular loopholes he might seek to exploit.

“Alright then.”

His smile widens, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Alina.”

He vanishes into the darkness and she shivers, although she can’t tell if it is out of fear or anticipation.

Alina is suspicious and distant at first, nervous and quiet when she visits.

He draws her out slowly, talking to her about art, admiring her paintings, praising the cakes she bakes, entertaining her with his performance on the fiddle, discussing history, and teaching her how to make a few basic potions.

She doesn’t know that you need a spark of magic to be successful with a potion. She doesn’t realise how special she is. She isn’t quite ready to accept that truth about herself, but he’ll tell her one day.

When he first saw her, he felt lust and fascination.

Now that he’s got to know her, he knows it’s love.

He’s never met anyone like her, never smiled as frequently as he does around her, never believed anyone else to be his equal.

Her visits go from three times a week to every day.

She begins to stay longer, lingering for further conversations. She smiles and laughs frequently.

It’s a pleasant surprise when she initiates a kiss.

Short and sweet but still intoxicating.

She doesn’t go any further. He knows thoughts of Oretsev plague her.

That’s alright, though. The problem of Oretsev will be dealt with soon enough.

The knock at Aleksander’s front door is loud and frantic.

Alina reluctantly tears herself away from the potion book she’s reading – trying to decide which one she wants to try next – and heads towards the front door.

It takes a few minutes to get there. For all that Aleksander’s home appears to be a simple cottage, it is much larger than it first looks, with three floors as well as a large basement for brewing. She thinks it might be something magical, but she hasn’t asked yet.

She reaches the foyer just as Aleksander opens the door and she gasps when she sees who is waiting outside in the rain.

“Mal!” she whispers.

He doesn’t even seem to notice she’s there, ranting and raving as soon as he lays eyes on Aleksander.

Mal looks awful. Thin and gaunt, his clothes ragged, his eyes haunted. A broken man. It’s been less than a year since he left.

“You’re a fraud,” he mumbles, “the potion … the potion didn’t work … no luck … bandits … soldiers … robbed …attacked …”

Alina knows Aleksander’s potions work. She’s seen evidence of it many times since she began visiting him.

“I don’t give potions to those who don’t pay the price, Oretsev,” Aleksander says coolly.

“But I had the potion,” Mal cries, “and the payment … Lina could give you the payment.”

“Our terms did not include you passing the burden of payment, Oretsev. And that potion you had would have been useless without the final spell performed by me – a spell that would have activated the potion.”

“So that foul concoction did nothing.”

“Oh, not nothing,” she sees Aleksander smirk, “those who do not pay cannot expect to get away unscathed. The potion didn’t make you lucky, Oretsev, it made you unlucky.”

Alina should be angry. Mal is her husband, after all, and he has been tormented for almost a year.

And yet she feels nothing.

He is her husband, but he abandoned her, left her to face what he presumed would be Aleksander’s wrath. He had every reason to believe that Aleksander might well kill her in revenge.

“Alina!” Mal shouts, clearly having just spotted her, “help me.”

“Like you helped me,” her lips curl into a sneer.

“He’s a monster!”

“No,” she shakes her head, “you’re just a thief.”

Alina turns to Aleksander, “I’ll see you at dinner. I’m making Medovik for dessert.”

And, with that, she turns on her heel and walks away from Mal and his whimpering, pitiful cries.

She doesn’t know what will happen to him and she realises that she doesn’t care.

He made his bed and now he has to lie in it.

Alina has made her choice. It’s Aleksander.