Chapter Text
70 Years Later
Aleksander enjoyed the sound his feet made when descending into the dungeon.
The light tap of the leather sole upon the weathered stone, the steady cadence of it, the way it appeared then disappeared like the blink of an eyelid, the sound so easily muffled by the surrounding walls. He moved quickly and efficiently, with nothing but the two nichevo’ya that always trailed him as guard, traversing the grid-like layout to one of the farthest cells.
Unlit torches lined the walls, but Aleksander did not seek to light one. He didn’t need to. There was one benefit to his cascading pupils, how the whites of his eyes were swallowed up all those decades ago: his vision in the dark was keener than most, if not all, others. He pulled his cloak up and over his shoulders, the dark rabbit’s fur brushing against his scarred chin. It was midwinter, after all, and the Palace’s many hearths did not penetrate so deeply into its depths.
The prisoner was asleep, sat up in a wooden chair, his wrists bound together in his lap, his ankles tied to the chair’s legs. Four otkazat’sya guards loosely guarded the cell, though it was clear that the prisoner was in no shape for an escape even had they deserted it. His blonde Fjerdan hair was matted and caked in dirt, his beard scraggly and in just the same state. In sleep, his head was canted forward at an awkward angle, chin resting against his chest which rose and fell in even movements. There was a cut on his brow, furrowed even while unconscious, and another that split his lip, though both wounds looked to be clotted and scabbing over, in the process of healing. Otherwise, it seemed, he was virtually unharmed.
But that’s the thing about darkness.
By sunrise, it’s left no trace.
As Aleksander approached, the otkazat’sya guards straightened, their feet shuffling then snapping together at attention, muskets strapped across their backs, chins lifted but eyes downcast deferentially, nervously.
After a moment’s tense silence, when all that could be heard was the distant drip of a leaky pipe, Aleksander spoke:
“Well, will you have me unlock the cell myself?”
The closest guard stiffened even further, his jaw dropping open then lifting shut again with a click.
“Apologies, moi soverenyi,” he managed, grasping the key ring from his belt and shuffling through the keys anxiously, his shaking hands causing the metal to rattle like a baby’s plaything. Aleksander held in his sigh of annoyance; no matter how many years passed, the ineffectiveness of the non-Grisha never ceased to disappoint him. He could think of only one exception, a tracker, now senile in old age, who found Alina when even he couldn’t.
The cell door swung open with a mournful creak and Aleksander stepped through, his long cloak sweeping the floor behind him. He knelt down, peering at the still slumbering Fjerdan, leaning in close, close enough to examine the curve of each blonde eyelash, the mole beneath his lower lip, the flush of life in his cheeks. He was not a small man, but he was nimble. Stealthy. Aleksander saw it himself, before a well-timed whip of air, courtesy of a young, talented Squaller, brought him down as he attempted to escape. They’d nearly lost him.
Until they hadn’t.
“Wake up,” Aleksander ordered. Though he hadn’t spoken loudly, he was close enough to startle the Fjerdan into wakefulness, his head snapping up as if on a hinge, blue eyes blinking rapidly in the low light, seeming to search for the man that crowded his entire vision. Aleksander watched the Fjerdan’s face as his realization grew: first confusion, then disbelief, then fear, all in a row.
“No, please,” he choked out, the Ravkan vowels hollow on his tongue, his voice cracked and jagged, throat dry, lips chapped.
“No, what?” Aleksander asked, straightening to his full height. The nichevo’ya drew closer, their jaws clicking and snapping, a low hiss as they whispered across the ground. Docile. For now. “Please, what?”
The Fjerdan’s eyes traveled, first to Aleksander’s face, then down to his hands where the shadows snaked around his fingertips, coiling and releasing, then to the nichevo’ya as they waited in the wings, hungry, then back to Aleksander's face in a round.
“You do not understand,” the Fjerdan tried, eyes wide now, biceps flexing, wrists testing the strength of the bindings and finding no weaknesses there.
“Enlighten me, then,” Aleksander replied with a gentle wave of his hand. His scars were more difficult to see in the low light, but the deepest one, the one that ran through his right eyebrow, lid, and, in a jagged rip, down his cheek and through his lip, was still visible even to the untrained, fearful eye.
“I am hired to do a job, I do it. I do it to feed my family. But I pray for her, for Sankta Alina. I pray for her each night.” The Fjerdan stumbled through his explanation, his words choppy. But they were not unfamiliar to Aleksander. No. Infuriatingly, they were becoming more and more common.
“You pray for her, yet you will kill her for coin. Am I understanding the hypocrisy clearly?” Aleksander asked. He spoke politely, almost in a friendly way, but his lip curled into a snarl, and the nichevo’ya grew ever closer.
The Fjerdan gaped, confused and fearful, the translation lost somewhere after ‘coin.’
“I pray for her,” he said again with one last tug on his bindings.
“You pray to Djel that she burns atop the pyre, like all the other Grisha in your pitiful excuse for a country,” Aleksander spat, hands raised up, fingers steady as the shadows grew beneath them both, swallowing first the Fjerdan’s feet, then his ankles, then his knees, drawing further up like the rising of the tide. He panicked then, the legs of his chair clattering atop the stone floor as the shadow constricted, twisting and turning, a miniature tornado collapsing atop him, a dying star. Aleksander watched as his face turned first red then purple as he forced the air up and out of his lungs. Only when the whites of his eyes became red as blood did Aleksander release the pressure, stepping closer, that familiar tap of leather sole on stone as he did so.
The Fjerdan panted, sucking down oxygen like it would eventually run out. Under Aleksander’s ministrations, the shadows lowered, though only slightly.
“Who do you work for?” Aleksander asked, his tone as polite as ever.
The Fjerdan lifted his gaze up to Aleksander’s black one, but he did not answer.
“As you wish,” Aleksander sighed, raising his hands again. And again. And again.
He was on his fifth repeat of the process when he heard his nichevo’ya skitter and jump behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to find Alina, arms crossed over her chest, back resting against the cell bars as she looked at him, one singular eyebrow raised. Aleksander lowered his hands, canting his head slightly in her direction.
“Moya tsarina,” he said, his voice low.
“By all means, don’t let me interrupt,” Alina replied. Her white hair was knotted at the nape of her neck, loose strands tucked behind her ears. She wore riding boots and her kefta was unbuttoned, a simple linen tunic and trousers beneath it. Aleksander turned back around, preparing to tighten the coil yet again, but before he could complete the move, a thin splice of light, compressed to only a centimeter’s width, flew clean through the Fjerdan’s neck and the chair upon which he sat and, in an instant, he was dead from the Cut.
Aleksander huffed, the shadows evaporating, his nichevo’ya circling the freshly dead body like vultures, waiting to consume.
“So much for not interrupting,” Aleksander drawled, turning toward her.
“You were torturing him,” Alina said.
“You killed him,” Aleksander shot back.
“A quick death is a mercy. You know that as well as I do,” she replied, turning her back on him and walking with decisive steps toward the exit of the dungeons. After only a brief hesitation, Aleksander followed, swallowing down a retort that came right back up again.
“Forgive me. I don’t wish to be merciful with assassins looking to claim the bounty upon your head,” he bit out, the words heated.
“You were just doing your duty to the crown, then,” Alina said, still ahead of him, climbing the stone steps up and out, through a hanging tapestry and into the white light of the corridors in winter. Aleksander squinted -- it took him longer now, to adjust from pitch darkness to the daylight above. The rapid blinking and overt weakness frustrated him to no end, and he dragged his hand along the wall lightly in order to keep moving.
“Alina,” he spat, annoyed. If she would only just slow down for a second.
She rounded on him, stopping so abruptly that, once he responded in kind, they were only inches apart. They stood just outside one of the many concealed entrances to the Palace dungeons, the flap of the tapestry still moving slightly with their hasty exit.
“I don’t tolerate torture,” she reminded him, staring up into his scarred face, unflinching as ever.
“And I don’t tolerate people who try to kill my wife,” he snarled back, gripping her chin.
“I’m not your wife,” she answered quickly then, after a beat, amended it. “Yet.”
“What's a few hundred years between lovers?” he replied with a small shrug, a playful quirk to his lips. She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help but smile in return, twisting her hands into the heavy, black fabric of his cloak, drenched atop his equally-black kefta like a dark stain.
“You’re lucky I love you,” she sighed, tucking herself beneath his cloak, her ear to the buckles at his chest. “Because sometimes I don’t particularly like you.”
“I know, moya solnishka.” He pressed two kisses to the top of her head, then convinced her to ignore her next two meetings, however urgent they may be. After all, they themselves had business to attend to, in their private quarters, alone. And, for what Aleksander had in mind, it would take at least the rest of the afternoon.
x
When they tell stories of kings and queens, they don’t speak of the boredom. The monotony. How hours can be spent arguing less than an inch of landmass on a map, or the exact percentage point of tax on root vegetables imported from Novyi Zem. How petty squabbles between dignitaries spark wars like a ball of snow rumbling down a cliff, growing larger as it goes. How the smallest things -- wearing the wrong color scarf, not finishing a soup, curtseying instead of bowing, forgetting someone’s mistress’s name -- could affect the livelihoods of thousands. And all of it so tedious. So mindless. So frustratingly banal, after so long spent alive.
The repetition of it was almost cruel in its exhaustion, in its facade. Alina didn’t know how Aleksander managed it for so long alone; reinventing himself whenever time demanded him to, restarting again and again and again. Alina stifled a yawn behind a closed fist, her eyes drooping closed then snapping open again. The red wine in her glass was still half-full, and she knew that finishing it could potentially mean falling into slumber right at her table setting. A nobleman to her left was still telling her the same story -- something long-winded about his stepson’s tenant farmers, she knew a goat was involved, somehow -- that started during the second course and hadn’t seemed to find its ending during the sixth.
She reached for her wine, taking a dangerously long sip, feeling the liquid warm in her gut, her fingers tingling. She held in yet another yawn, gazing across the long table as Ravka’s longest friends and allies supped on meats stewed for multiple days, soups topped with rendered fat, truffles dipped in honey, pickled vegetables, and more. At one point in her life, she would’ve felt nervous to sit where she sat. Uncomfortable, like a stranger intruding upon someone else’s party. Now, as she sat alone at the head of the table, what nagged her the most was the empty chair to her right, the one upon which Aleksander was meant to sit.
It wasn’t uncommon for him to avoid such pomp and circumstance -- she had to practically bribe him each year just to attend the annual winter fête -- but that didn’t make it any less frustrating and, let’s face it, tedious, to endure them alone. She’d mastered the art of staring into the middle distance, not meeting anyone’s eye but portraying a level of alertness even though her mind was elsewhere. Such was her state when she felt a hand fall heavily upon her shoulder, the table’s chatter quieting simultaneously. His face was stern, implacable, his scarred chin raised. Even now, Alina could feel the fear in the room whenever he joined it. The ominous uncertainty that fell like an invisible fog, a density to the tension. And even though he wasn’t technically their tsar -- not while they remained unmarried, at least -- he commanded a level of respect that even Alina couldn’t quite seem to grasp.
Yes, they worshipped her in their churches, prayed to statues carved in her likeness. But they did not grow nervous when she drew near. They did not fear the next move she would make. They did not trap the air in their chests as if worried their exhale would trigger devastation. No, only Aleksander seemed to manage that.
He leaned down, angling his head toward her. She could feel his lips brush the shell of her ear.
“You are done here.” He was asking, a slight uptick in his tenor at the end of the sentence, but anyone who managed to hear would think it a command. But none had. For even though the room was silent as a morgue, the words were only for her.
She nodded once, decisively. Felt his fingertip brush the edge of the antlers at her collarbone as he straightened back up.
“Please excuse us,” Aleksander said, speaking to the room. The crowd waited for an explanation he did not give.
There was a scraping sound as Alina stood, her long, golden dress brushing the parquet floor. The design was one of her favorites: simple and clean, with thin straps that wove around her amplifier, crossed, and met again at the base of her spine. Her back was bare -- the dress only suitable for the hot summer months -- and Alina felt the coarse scrape of Aleksander’s palm resting there between her shoulder blades, followed by the familiar thrum of his own amplifier meeting hers. The light in her palms pulsed in response, one quick jolt that she stifled easily enough. Aleksander’s eyes glinted, however. He’d seen it, as he always had.
They left the banquet room together, two otkazat’sya guards shutting the doors on the quiet murmuring they left in their wake. Words of the tsarina and her demon, surely. The sinner, the Saint.
“What took you so long?” Alina asked, threading her hand through his. He was moving slowly, almost leisurely. She tugged on his arm, trying to quicken his pace.
“Alina,” he said, his voice surprisingly quiet, demurred. It was so unlike him that she stopped, brow furrowed as she examined his own face, which, as usual, gave little away. But in his eyes, the same pair of which many people told stories of horror, she saw something more. Grief, hiding away.
“What is it?” she asked. He grasped both of her hands, covering them in his own. Over the years, they had regained most of their original pale, fleshy color, but they were still coarse as if covered by a thousand scabbed cuts, and the tips of his fingers were stained as if by unruly ink.
“Ivan is dead.”
“No,” Alina said softly, shaking her head. “No, it’s not possible. I saw him two days ago. He was fine. He was completely fine.”
“I’m sorry,” Aleksander whispered, head bent toward her.
“But he was fine,” she pleaded, her eyes welling with tears. Yes, he was an old man now. Older than he should’ve been, really, kept alive with the continued use of his Heartrender abilities. But when she’d seen him last, he was sitting up in bed, conversing, smiling, Fedyor and his many friends by his side. He’d long since resigned his post as her personal guard, of course, but she hadn’t thought him yet on the edge of his life, not while she looked in the mirror and, day after day, the very same face looked back at her. She shook her head again as if the movement could deny the truth of things, or at least change them in some way.
“There will be a private ceremony tomorrow. Fedyor asked if you would be able to attend discreetly.”
She shook her head again, thinking of the prayers said every day in her name, of the miracles she was rumored to perform. But still, when it came down to it, the truth of the matter was that there was nothing she could do. Ivan, she knew, was the first of many. Eventually, all of her friends would die, and she did not have the power to bring them back, to breathe life into them again. Only once, on the sands of the Fold, had she done such a thing with the aid of merzost. That she couldn’t do it for everyone she loved was a tragedy and a failure on a personal level.
“I could’ve helped,” she said, the words falling from her tongue without forethought. “Somehow, I could’ve helped.”
“No, Alina,” Aleksander replied, his voice steady and preternaturally calm. “It was his time.”
“You’re just saying that because you never even liked him! Not since he betrayed you. You never forgave him,” she accused wildly, pulling her hands out of his grasp.
His jaw tensed but he took a breath.
“That isn’t true,” he finally said, reaching out to her with one scarred hand. “Come.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped, pushing his hand away. He let it drop. “I could’ve helped him. Maybe I still can.”
“No, Alina,” Aleksander said again.
“I helped you, didn’t I? I brought you back! And for what? I wasted it!” she spat, hitting her fists against his chest, the fury and helplessness and grief mixing up into a confusing cocktail of power, her fingers alight as each strike slammed into his kefta. They were drawing a small crowd, the normally stoic tsarina showing a surprising level of anger. Was she turning on the Darkling, the demon they all secretly and not-so-secretly feared?
Alina hardly noticed them, each pounding of her fist against his chest draining her of some of her anger, her helplessness. He was a great Heartrender, loyal and true. He was an even better man. And it was his time. She slumped against his chest, having tired herself out. She felt his arms close around her shoulders, his shadows cloaking them, giving them a modicum of privacy against the gaping passersby.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. He tsked, running his fingers through her hair.
“I’ve heard worse,” he said, nearly flippant, and she knew that to be true. “It gets easier,” he added after a long moment, an attempt at comfort. “It starts to hurt less.”
“I hope it doesn’t,” she replied, unable to meet his eye. “I hope I never forget what it feels like to hurt for the people I love.”
Aleksander didn’t answer, but he held her until the crowd dissipated, until her breathing grew consistent and calm, her body drooping against him. The next day, they attended the funeral together, even though the invitation was only for Alina. They were discreet, as requested, cloaked and standing in the back, the casket surrounded by friends and family. After the priest said his final prayer, Fedyor caught Alina’s eye and nodded just once before leaning down to pick up a young child, holding him close. Fedyor himself was growing old, and in a few short years would follow after his longtime lover. Alina would not attend the funeral, but she would still weep for the loss of another friend.
It would hurt no less.
x
The lake was calm and only just beginning to frost over, iced at the shallow edges, hardening puddles amongst the reeds. Alina looked out over the peaceful landscape, birds swooping over the tops of the trees, having just woken up. The sky was a motley of colors, pinks and reds and yellows and oranges, the sun still hiding behind the distant, white fog of dawn. She held a mug filled with rich coffee to her chest, a delicacy she’d grown addicted to as of late. The mug was still steaming, the scent wafting up as she breathed it in.
Aleksander was still asleep, which was unlike him. In the Palace, more often than not he awoke before her, sometimes he was even out of their shared chambers before she’d managed to get out of bed. But at the lake house, he was different. Less concerned with what others thought of him, less guarded. He smiled more, though it was rumored by peasants that he never smiled at all. It was a fair rumor, as only a handful of people ever actually saw the Darkling’s joy. Alina was one of the lucky ones, for not only did she see it, but she caused it.
Alina turned back to the bed. He slept on his stomach, the sheets and blankets bunched up around his hips, his arm splayed out over her half of the bed, his back rising and falling slowly, hair a touch overgrown and tangled on the pillowcase. Many feared the scars on Aleksander’s face, and Alina knew it was because they never had the opportunity to see the ones on the rest of his body. His face was the least of it. The volcra’s talons cut far deeper into the skin and muscle of his back, their claws leaving permanent scars that swept from the tops of his shoulders all the way to the base of his spine. They weren’t thin, either, but thick, grisly scars that still shone permanently pink and shiny, parting his pale, untouched skin like the Red Sea. Back in the early days, shortly after the fall of the Fold, he tried to lessen them. There were few Healers he trusted to such a task, Luda being chief among them. He would sit up straight, chest resting against the back of a chair, as Luda attempted to hide the scarring.
It was not painless work, drawing out the volcra’s poison, the skin resistant to all ministrations. He would squeeze Alina’s hands in his own, face pinched, cheek resting against the top of the chair as Luda worked. He never complained and he never cried out, but Alina knew that he was hiding the majority of what he was feeling, burying it deep inside himself. And when his brow began to dot with sweat and the muscles in his arms seemed permanently tensed, Alina would beg Luda to stop, to take a break. Aleksander never requested it. He would’ve endured in silence for as long as it took, Alina knew that. So she took it upon herself to stop the process, especially once Luda confirmed that there was no poison left, only the aesthetics of scarred skin after life-threatening wounds.
She felt them now, running her thumb from top to bottom lightly, feeling the rough, puckered skin, treating it like a caress, kneeling on the edge of the bed. In his sleep, Aleksander shivered, his hand contracting and opening slightly. She continued her motions, replacing her thumb first with her fingertips, then with her lips. Aleksander murmured something, and she wasn’t sure if he’d yet awoken. Not until his hand wrapped around her wrist, drawing her attention, did she stop, looking at his sleepy face, a wicked smile on her lips.
“Good morning,” she whispered, reaching down to lower the sheets around first his thighs, then the backs of his knees, then his ankles. He watched, his dark pupils trailing her actions, stretching out on the bed like a cat as she kneaded the backs of his thighs. He let out a little hum, tangling his hand in her robe and pulling her against him, their noses touching.
“Good morning,” he replied, his voice rough with sleep. He kissed her once then wrinkled his nose. “You’ve been drinking coffee.”
She covered her mouth with her hand, embarrassed, moving to get out of the bed. Before she could get far, he tugged her back down, where she landed with a whump on the down pillows.
“I like it,” he grinned playfully, rolling her onto her back as he perched atop her, naked as the day he was born. “And you’re too covered up.”
“What are you going to do about it?” she asked politely, batting her lashes.
“Rectify the situation,” he answered easily, untying the knot holding her robe together. His palms were warm, smoothing across the skin of her abdomen and up and over her breasts, fingertips brushing over the bones of her amplifier, then her neck, her chin and lips. It was in moments like this that Alina saw the truth of him, when he gazed at her with such uncompromising adoration that it took her breath away. Like he was afraid to move too harshly, afraid to even blink. Like she would disappear if he wasn’t holding her to him, long fingers in her white hair.
“Now what are you going to do?” she asked against the finger on her lips, letting one slip inside, her tongue wrapping around it. Aleksander let out a breath, smiling slightly, the weight of the moment growing lighter at once.
“I have some ideas,” he replied easily. She trailed her nails down his chest to the curve of his hips, he leaned into her touch then pushed her hands away with a gentle reprimand. “Patience.”
She groaned. This was always their game, her pushing him to speed up, him slowing her down, trying to make everything last as long as possible. Languid touches, unhurried in his affections, his lips drawing the same path as his fingers but in reverse, first brushing against her lips then moving downward, over her neck and collar, down her sternum, first left then right to each breast, to her navel then between her legs. She bucked against him, fingers in his dark hair, already tangled from the previous evening. He looked up at her once, grinning, blowing lightly on her clit until she tugged hard.
“Aleks,” she warned, twisting in the sheets. "Quit teasing."
“Patience,” he reminded her.
“I don’t want to be patient,” she complained.
“What do you want?” he asked politely, temple resting against her hip bone, like he had not a care in the world.
“You inside me. Now,” she replied, frustrated.
“Now?”
“Now.”
“What moya tsarina wants,” he said, trailing off. Then, he moved quick as lightning, lifting her hips and entering her so quickly that she gasped, transferring her grip from his hair to the sheets, her fists growing hot with light. He bent over her, lips near her neck, starting at a breakneck speed she wasn’t prepared for. It was all she could do to hold on, wrapping her legs around the backs of his thighs, knees bent, letting out little gasps of breath, her coffee going cold on the side table. Above them, skeins of shadow swirled about the room, weaving around the bed posts, the dangling chandelier, the clothes littering the floor. They flowed from him without effort, a part of him, caressing her naked skin as her nails clawed into his scarred back, their skin sliding against each other, slick with sweat. She clenched her eyes shut, overwhelmed with feeling as her body tensed and she cried out, muscles pulsing, the rush of endorphins causing her head to swirl.
She went limp, her vision spotting as she came back to herself. Aleksander redoubled his efforts, thrusting into her so violently the top of her head slammed into the headboard. He looked up, abruptly shoving a pillow between the crown of her head and the wood before letting his head drop again, wrapped around her like a cage. He was close, but he needed just a little bit more and she knew it like she knew all things about him, his beginning and his middle and his end. She let her fingertips grow hot, trailing down his spine to his lower back, to the two dimples there. She dug her fingers in and then released, the zap of pain causing him to tremble, his back rolling like a wave.
“Again?” she breathed.
He nodded into her neck, each hot exhale coasting over her collarbone.
She zapped him twice more, the second making him shudder and gasp, releasing into her and nearly collapsing, his heavy weight atop her chest. She let out a breath, pushing against him until he rolled over, splayed on his back, his own chest heaving, eyes closed.
“We’ll need to change the sheets again,” Alina said quietly, examining their torn and sticky remnants. Aleksander cracked an eye open, tugging on a strand of her hair once then letting it go.
“Later,” he requested. “Let’s get the most out of these first.”
She laughed, leaning over and propping her chin on his chest. His arm snaked beneath her waist, hand resting on her butt.
“You have more ideas?” she asked, grinning. He didn’t even bother to open his eyes before he answered:
“We haven’t even started on my first one.”
x
Alina was exhausted. She’d been up since dawn, meeting with the Kerch diplomatic party. Everyone wanted something from her, and most were wary of what she would decide, and what she could do. The Kerch tolerated Grisha far better than their neighboring countries of Fjerda and Shu-Han, but they were fueled by coin, and were known to sell Grisha if the price was right. A policy change in another country wasn’t exactly on the table, and until it was, Alina had no intention of being a cooperative neighbor.
In the decades since the fall of the Fold, trade reopened on the Ravkan coast, but tariffs were high. Higher still for Kerch, even though they were easily their most important trading partner. They fought on nearly every percentage point on every import and export. Alina’s advisors begged her to let their relationship ease, to trade allowances for certain items in compromise, to treat them as an ally instead of an enemy. But just because Kerch wasn’t actively invading Ravka's borders didn’t mean they deserved any more respect. Until Grisha were seen as true citizens with the same rights as otkazat’sya, Alina had no interest in peaceful collaboration.
On the opposite side of her advisor’s arguments was Aleksander. Often, he tried to convince her that a show of force was all the Kerch needed to succumb to Alina’s demands. A drowned ship or two, courtesy of winds brought on by Squallers and waves by Tidemakers. A burned farm by Inferni flame. Even a few dead council members, their hearts stopped by Heartrenders, would show the Kerch that cooperation was more advantageous than coin. But every time Alina tried to take his advice to heart, she couldn’t help but think of the people that would be affected by her decisions. The farmers whose livelihood would be ruined, the shipmen drowned in the True Sea.
And all of that push and pull meant she was exhausted.
She stole away into a sideroom, closing the door softly behind her. It was empty, thank the Saints, but there was a low fire still warming the space, alight in the hearth. She sat down in the armchair closest to the fire, letting her eyes drift closed. If only she could get a few moment’s rest. Just as she was about to drift off, a soft knock on the door interrupted her. She sighed, rubbing her eyes.
“Enter,” she ordered, though she did not move to rise from her seat.
In came a young Heartrender. Alina recognized her, but only barely. She was a new member of her guard, Alina thought. Young, only having just graduated from school at the Little Palace. Her blonde hair was piled atop her head, her red kefta nearly spotless, buckles shining. She looked nervous, her feet shuffling beneath her, her eyes trained on the floor.
“Apologies for the interruption, moya tsarina,” she said, hands twisting before her. Alina blinked long and slow. Normally, she would take a moment to sympathize with the girl, to get her more comfortable. But all Alina wanted to do was sleep.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s only… I’ve noticed that you’ve been tired lately. Or, I suppose, more so than usual. And I thought maybe I should monitor, I guess. I’m sorry I didn’t ask. It’s only that I sometimes can’t help what I hear, especially if I’m really listening…” she trailed off, stumbling over her words. Finally, she raised her eyes to Alina’s. “It’s just that when I listen to your heart, I hear two.”
“What?” Alina asked after a moment’s silence, with only the snap of the logs burning in the hearth.
“Two… hearts.”
“Two,” Alina repeated dumbly. Her head hurt and she was having trouble catching on.
“Yes, moya tsarina,” the girl said, ducking her head again. “Did you know?”
“Did I know what?”
The girl blinked, hesitating before answering.
“That you… that you are with child,” she finally said. Again, there was silence. Alina cleared her throat and it was achingly loud in the quiet room.
“Oh,” she finally said. “Sorry, what is your name?”
“Lena,” the young Heartrender replied hastily.
“Thank you, Lena. Please keep that information to yourself.” Alina considered threatening her -- news of a child was dangerous information to spread in normal circumstances, least of all the health concerns. There were the visiting dignitaries to think about, the bounty on her head, the country she was still meant to run. And a child. A child! Her heart thundered, then relaxed. Would the baby’s heart thunder too?
“I will tell no one, moya tsarina,” Lena promised, ducking out of the room.
She glanced down at her flat belly, letting her palm run over it through her kefta. She would need to tell Aleksander. Then, she would need to tell everyone else. But for a few hours at least, the news would be hers alone. Well, hers and Lena’s and the baby’s. Just a small, private secret, one that will affect anything and everything. Something terrifying and perfect and already exhausting. She let her head rest against the back of the armchair, staring into the dying flames, wondering if the baby, too, could feel its warmth.
She found Aleksander in the Little Palace War Room that evening. He was examining a map of the newly agreed upon border between Ravka and Shu-Han in the southwest. The map was not one of her own. She hadn’t had the time to draw one in decades. The thought made her sad, missing the feeling of the charcoal between her fingers, the smell of new parchment and the stain of spilled ink. She came up beside him, resting her hand atop his. He turned toward her, looking down with those serious eyes of his, curling her hair behind her ear with his fingers.
“I thought you would be asleep already,” he said, glancing out of the window where night had fallen, heavy and true. The stars twinkled between the distant clouds, spotting the horizon with light.
“It’s not so late yet,” she said, resting her hip against the edge of the table.
“Yes, but you’ve been sleeping more lately,” he murmured.
“There’s a reason for that. I went to the Healers to be sure,” she said, thinking of her quick stop in the infirmary, the wide eyes of the Healer who examined her and confirmed what Lena said to be accurate. She fell to her knees, whispering a prayer of health and prosperity for the future tsar or tsarina of Ravka.
“Are you ill?” he asked, his brow furrowed, pressing a palm to her forehead. “You feel warm.”
“No, I’m not ill,” she answered with a slight chuckle. He still didn’t understand.
“What is it then?”
“Aleks, I’m with child,” she said, staring up into his eyes.
He blinked, looking for all the world as if she’d just struck him across the face.
“That’s not possible,” he said quickly.
“Of course it’s possible,” she replied, threading her hands into his. He took a quick step back, though he still held onto her hands. She watched as he looked at her face, then her stomach, examining it as if it would betray its secrets to him. Then he looked at her face again.
“It’s possible?” he asked, quietly this time. Nearly hesitant.
“I’d say it’s a guarantee at this point, to be honest,” Alina said. Aleksander opened his mouth to reply but closed it again before any words came out. He looked at her like she was a problem to deduce, a military puzzle he needed to strategize, his head canted to the side, brow still furrowed. She was patient with him, knowing there were a thousand thoughts running through his head, letting him work through them.
“I--” he began, then swallowed. “You should be asleep.”
Alina almost laughed.
“That’s what you have to say?”
“Come, Alina, you need sleep,” he said, stronger now, tugging on her hands, pulling her from the War Room. She shuffled after him, following his looming form until he stopped suddenly, turning back to her. “You’re sure?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m sure. I can tell somehow. Once my Heartrender told me about the two heartbeats, I knew she was right. I didn’t really need the confirmation.”
“Two heartbeats?”
“Mine and the baby’s.”
“The baby’s heartbeat.”
“Yes, Aleks.” As she watched, shadows leaked from his fingertips, swirling around her in coils. Their touch was gentle and swift, a caress beyond his hands, which were still clasped tightly around her own. He took a breath and they evaporated like mist, his nichevo’ya drawing nearer, confused by his emotions. They didn’t typically close in unless he was feeling fear or pain or anger, something that would entice them to action, whether it would be to attack or protect their master. They hissed and clicked, grasping the walls and floors around them, scaring off the otkazat’sya guards and unlucky passersby.
“I never thought--” he began, but stopped again, glancing down to her belly.
“It’s okay,” she replied, letting go of his hand, reaching up to caress his scarred cheek. “Everything will be fine.” At her words, the nichevo’ya backed away slightly, appeased.
“Yes,” he said, focused now, driven by some mysterious purpose. “Yes. I’ll make sure of it.”
They moved then, back across the grounds to the Grand Palace and their private quarters. She sat down on the edge of the bed, truly exhausted but feeling peaceful, too. Despite the coming storm she knew would arrive when the news went public, she also knew that she would be able to handle it. They would be able to, together.
As if to spite her stillness, Aleksander’s movements were frenetic. She watched as he paced the room, unsure what to do with himself, crossing to the washroom then back again, unbuckling his kefta, running his hands through his hair. She lifted the covers, sliding beneath them and laying on her side, waiting for him to calm as she knew, eventually, he would. She knew the moment she closed her eyes she would sleep, so she kept them open, watching his anxious pacing as if it were a show to entertain her, the consistency of the actions lulling her closer to sleep. Finally, he sat down on his side of the bed, leaning over her.
“What can I do?” he asked. She shrugged lightly.
“Just be with me,” she said, then corrected herself. “With us.”
She patted the bed lightly with her palm. He took a breath, shucking his kefta to the floor and sliding in beside her. His dark eyes were glazed as he stared at her with nothing short of wonder.
“Two heartbeats?” he asked again in a whisper.
She nodded once, closing her eyes, and was asleep within moments, Aleksander’s hand resting against her abdomen, the tips of his fingers atop her heart.
x
“Papa!” Sofia cried, racing through the tall grass as fast as her little legs would carry her. Alina stifled a chuckle. Sofia had already fallen more than once today, her muddied palms and equally muddied miniature kefta proof of as much. At the sound of her call, Aleksander looked up instantly, watching as she hurtled in their direction, two full-grown Heartrenders chasing after her. For a moment, Alina was transported back to her childhood in the Little Palace, spending her afternoons fleeing from her minders in the gardens, finding secret passageways and hidden exits only to be caught immediately on the other side.
Sofia was just the same in spirit, her hair, darker even than her father’s and closer to Alina’s original coloring, was bouncing atop her back in a loose braid as she ran. Aleksander shaded his eyes from the sun’s glare as she came bounding toward them; Alina knew his eyes bothered him in such bright light, and though he still spent most of his time indoors, he was known to be coaxed out more and more since Sofia’s birth. Sofia loved the outdoors, after all, and where Sofia was, Aleksander was never far from. He claimed he felt more comfortable with an eye on her in order to keep her safe, but Alina caught his smiles when he thought she wasn’t looking, gazing out at their rambunctious daughter as she began exploring the limitations of her newfound power.
Visibly, she took after her father, with her dark hair and even darker eyes, pale skin and delicate features. But it was her mother who gifted her her ability to bend light, a second Sun Summoner in the making. Parishioners said prayers for her too, now. Sankta Alina was no longer Ravka’s newest, youngest Saint. That honor now fell to her daughter, Sankta Sofia of the Light.
The little Saint herself hurtled into Aleksander’s legs, splattering his trousers with mud. She raised her arms up to him for a lift. He gave in immediately, resting her against his hip.
“Did you outrun your Heartrenders, moya solnishka?” he asked her teasingly, a nickname shared between mother and daughter.
“Lena won’t let me go in the forest,” she complained, pointing out at the offending trees.
“Why do you want to go into the forest?” he asked.
“I want to see the clearing mama made,” she explained. “The one with the flowers.”
Alina laughed. Little did she know that that clearing, beautiful now in springtime, was once the picture of devastation, borne from frustration and from anger. It was Aleksander who saw it for what it was, even then. Magnificent, he’d said. It was magnificent.
“Well, you can’t go alone. But perhaps together,” he said, glancing at Alina. Her advisor had just arrived, ready to shuttle her to her next meeting, some conversation or another about the price of cows, no doubt. The advisor made a disgruntled nose when Alina shrugged in agreement.
“Surely we can save the meeting for another day,” she said to him, a small smile on her face.
“Yes, moya tsarina,” he agreed, deferential as always.
The walk to the meadow wasn’t far, though Sofia insisted on being carried on Aleksander’s back the entire way. The dense, dark forest was easier for Aleksander to navigate than Alina, and she trailed in his shadow as he made his way through, knowing the path to the meadow by heart. When they emerged back into the daylight, Aleksander set Sofia down and she ran ahead of them, straight toward a thatch of multi-colored wildflowers. Then, in an instant, she fell and started to cry.
Her Heartrenders made chase but Aleksander stopped them with a look, walking quickly toward Sofia with his long, commanding strides.
“What is it?” he asked, sitting down and lifting her into his lap. She held her hand up to him where a neat cut bled in the middle of her palm, bits of dirt stuck to the wound.
“It hurts,” she complained, chubby cheeks turned pink. “Will it leave a scar?” she asked, staring up at Aleksander’s face, which was riddled with them.
For a moment, he was silent, and Alina wondered what he was feeling. It’d been so long since his fear of being looked upon by his child. Alina remembered when Sofia was still a newborn, and Aleksander voiced his concerns out of nowhere, staring solemnly down at the small baby, asleep in her crib. What will she think of me? he’d asked. Who will she see?
They spoke of him as a demon. The Darkling. Evil in his eyes, evil in his heart. But they didn’t see the true Aleksander. They didn’t see what Alina saw, and what Sofia would eventually see. A man who sacrificed everything, even himself. And survived it.
“It might,” Aleksander answered as Sofia stared down at her wounded palm, fat teardrops splattering the cut. “But then everyone will know that you were hurt and you survived it.” Sofia sniffed noisily, placated, as the cut stopped bleeding, already beginning to clot. “Mama,” she finally said. “Look at my scar.” She held up her hand to Alina to show it off.
“Very nice,” Alina said, a small smile on her lips.
Satisfied, Sofia ran off, having already forgotten her last fall and headed, most likely, straight for her next.
Aleksander stood up again, sighing once, his hand coming to rest on the nape of Alina’s neck.
“You know, she might survive that cut,” he said, “But I don’t know if I’ll survive her.”
Alina laughed.
“Wait until I tell you about her sibling,” she replied. He turned to her immediately, his face pale as snow. “I’m teasing,” she laughed, leaning against his arm. “Managing Sofia is far more difficult than running a country. I think we ought to invade something first. Far less stressful.”
“I have ideas,” Aleksander hedged. She rolled her eyes.
“I’m still teasing.”
“I know that,” Aleksander replied, switching tack in an instant. “The sun’s nearly setting. Should we go back?”
“Let’s stay,” Alina requested, leaning further on Aleksander. He wrapped his arms around her fully, his heavy cloak draped over them both. She felt him nod. “Sofia can light our way home.”