Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aleksander has always had a fascination with the night sky. He can’t help it. It’s the darkness, he thinks, it runs in his blood and makes up his flesh, how couldn’t he be absolutely enamoured with it?

Maybe it’s because it was the only constant.

So much of his childhood, his years as a teenager and as a young adult were spent travelling, creating new identities, learning new landscapes, new faces, new names, new buildings, all of which would disappear and be replaced every two weeks. And sure, the daytime was nice with the sun and all. But it wasn’t as peaceful, didn’t bring him that same tranquillity as when he would lay down in a field, gaze up and try to name all the constellations, find new shapes and make up new stories.

Perhaps it all changed due to the incident at the Grisha camp. He had loved sunlight, the dark had scared him. But now, something was different - that air of peace was replaced by a penchant for the tenebrosity that the night brought with it, and a love for the small lights which decorated the dusk.

No matter where he went, whether he was North, East, South, or West, the night-sky was the same. Always that deep monumental blue speckled with little dots - little lights, little moons, little stories - which people like him called Stars. There was nothing quite like laying in a field, feeling the cool summer breeze or the biting winter gusts and knowing that you were so small, so insignificant compared to everything that burned up in the cosmos.

He was young then. Young and naive. And it was before her.

Looking back on it, Aleksander should’ve known better. Hadn’t the incident at the Grisha Camp taught him that? Wasn’t it what his mother drilled into him constantly? Trust no one. Never show your abilities. Touch no one. He was, politely put, a fool.

He was a young man when his life changed, for the better and for the worse. It’s hard to remember exactly, but he believes he was around nineteen, and he remembers it was a hot summer’s evening. The day had been spent working. He couldn’t have known then, but that ‘work’ was the beginnings of The Little Palace. But back then, it was him being - as his mother would put it - foolish, and helping other Grisha travel across Ravka. They were hard to find, and even harder to trust, but gradually, slowly yet surely, he was building a good network.

But during the nights, just for a little while he could let that go. He could lay in the tall grass, head tipped towards the dark vast sky and he could stare up at the stars and pretend he was normal, that shadows weren’t absentmindedly curling around his fingers.

For some reason he struggles to remember memories before that time. They’re blurry and vague, little snippets and days that he’s lost with his extended age. But that particular night, he remembers it vividly - his long hair brushing his cheek in the wind, the hard dirt under his head, the hum of nature and bugs, the bustle of a town not so far away carried on the wind, and the stars. They were the brightest he’d ever seen them, almost restless, buzzing in their eternal placeholders. Something, he could feel, was wrong.

The image of the star falling to Earth is eternally seared into his memory.

It appeared faster than he could comprehend - one second it wasn’t there, and then one second it was. He sits up on his elbows, completely transfixed and stunned by, what he at first presumes, is a shooting star. But gradually, he realises it’s getting bigger, faster… closer.
This burning bright ball of cream yellow light, tumbling through time and space and existence, tumbling towards him. Sitting there in the field, stunned by the sight, he’s sure he can hear it fizzling and crackling, knows it’s completely impossible from this distance, but he’s certain of it. Something tugs in his chest, somewhere between unbridled intrigue and panic, his mother’s words of warning echoing in his head. The intrigue wins, it’s an easy internal battle of common sense and childlike wonder which he thought he had long abandoned.

Aleksander scrambles to his feet, accidentally getting dirt on his palms and his trousers but he barely notices, head still tilted to the sky and his breath caught in his throat. He can see the trajectory of the star, where it will land in a section of the forest just a bit off from where he’s camping out. His eyes widen, a small smile, and before he knows it he’s stepping towards the tree-line, his black boots thudding on the ground as his footsteps get quicker and quicker.

To anyone else, the forest might’ve seemed daunting, especially so late at night. But the Shadow Summoner stepped into it without hesitation, the wizened terrain underfoot switching to a softer crunch of twigs and leaves. Once inside, he loses sight of the star, the canopy of the forest shielding it from him, its only indication being the unnatural light it shines through the leaves onto the forest floor, making his journey easier. He dodges twigs, branches, spider-webs, ducking and batting them out of the way quickly, balancing looking at the floor and where he’s going with gazing up at the foliage covered sky for any indication he’s travelling the right way.

He doesn’t know why he’s following after the star. He doesn’t know how he knows it’s a star. It feels more akin to when you’re in a dream, and you just know something is. Something about it compels him, drags him forward and pushes him on, deeper into the forest.

When the star makes impact, he feels it. In fact, Aleksander’s sure the entire world might’ve felt it, the shake in the trees and the ground, the birds disturbed from their midnight peace quickly fleeing their homes at the rattle of the branches and leaves, the dust-like dirt stirring. And it guides him to the star - the cracking noise it made as it hit the ground unmistakably came from a fraction to his left and so, he followed that way.
He knows he’s getting closer when the damage becomes more destructive. It’s no longer just disturbed birds and dirt, it’s entire trees tilted at an angle as if God had pushed a finger into the dirt and tilted them, their roots peeking through the soil. But in the middle of the makeshift clearing it is dark, the disturbed dirt floating and drifting through the air and concealing his surroundings. The ground is severely dented and compacted, forming a large dark crater which Aleksander can barely peek over.

He shuffles from the damaged treeline, his boots creaking on the soil as he tries to catch a glimpse over the edge of the vast crater, but it’s wide and deep, and the edges are loose. He’s careful, his Shadows waiting obediently for his hands to move - for some form of attack or defence. But it never comes.

Instead, as the clouds of dirt clear, the centre of the crater gradually became more visible. The middle was, overall, smooth but it slopes and nicks here and there. He had expected to see a rock, some large grey bland thing which ultimately would’ve made this all less exciting. But what he sees instead has his eyes widening. There, in the middle of the crater, is a young woman. She’s asleep - passed out maybe - her arms loosely stretched outwards, her hair splayed, messy and white. It’s not even like he can say it’s grey, or silver, or blonde. No, her hair is white, paper white, as white as the dress she’s wearing. It fits her well, skims over her body without constricting too much movement. He notices she has no shoes on. It dawns on him that this sleeping woman, this girl, is the Star and his brow furrows softly.

He barely hesitates before he’s sitting on the ledge of the crater and sliding down it, his boots landing on the compacted soil with a thud. In a few strides he’s standing over the sleeping girl, and then in another quick action he crouches down and picks her up, the back of her knees bent over his arm, her waist in his other as he supports her back and her head lolls. He huffs in soft amusement, and walks back the way he came, gently hoisting her up the wall of the crater with as much care as he can, using his shadows when he has a spare hand. It’s hard, and takes a bit of manoeuvring, but he gets there eventually before he pulls himself up. It’s a surprise to him that she hasn’t woken up yet.

He didn’t feel comfortable leaving her there like that, asleep, vulnerable and barefoot where anyone could’ve found her and not have known what they had stumbled on. He picks her up again, and begins his journey back through the forest, a little slower and with a little more care, mumbling to himself - to her - as they go. She doesn’t stir once, her head propped against his chest, her hair tickling his arm slightly.

The journey back to where he was camping out is peaceful. It’s quiet, save for his footsteps or the rustle of clothes. Occasionally, the moonlight catches her and she sparkles a bit. Literally sparkles, reflects it like a goddamn mirror. It really is a sight to see and it makes his lips quirk up a bit.

When they get back to the field, he’s careful. Aleksander lays her down on his mat, adds a few more logs to the fire and covers her with his coat. He thinks of checking her for injuries or damage, but decides that can wait until she wakes up. He doesn’t want to be a creep, and if she’s in pain she’s probably better off telling him when she wakes up, than him finding out for himself.

And so, he settles himself on the other side of the campfire. He leans his head on his pack - considering the girl next to him has his mat - and tries to get what little sleep will come.

-

When Y/N wakes, it’s in unfamiliar surroundings. The first thing she’s aware of is the cold. It’s not freezing, but it’s uncomfortable, and she tucks her legs up under her until she’s in a ball, tugging the blanket under her chin. Blanket? No. She shouldn’t have a blanket. It shouldn’t be cold…

She sits up fast and quick, all lethargy gone from her body as her eyes widen and she takes in her surroundings. She’s in a field. On a mat. And someone’s dark, large coat is over her body. It’s early morning, the sky a pale grey, a low mist settling on her surroundings and a light dew coating the grass. She can feel heat on one side of her, but her head is turned towards the foggy treeline. She tries to recall the last things she remembers… being in the sky, existing, and then a sudden gap which she can’t figure out, and then she wakes up here.

She’s caught in thought, trying to make sense of her surroundings when a voice says, “You’re awake.” and her head whips around. On the other side of a fresh campfire is a young man, dark eyes, long dark hair, pale skin and dark clothes. He’s roasting a rabbit over the fire - no doubt freshly caught from the knife that sits beside him. His pack sits beside him, his eyes never leave her, even as she expresses soft panic.

She tries to get up, but her body aches, and he holds out a hand, “Easy. I’m not… I’m not going to hurt you. What’s your name?” he asks softly, waving to her to relax.
She answers hesitantly, her eyes scanning the boy, “Y/N.” she says eventually, “You?”
“Leonid.” Aleksander lies, looking between the campfire and her, “Are you hurt anywhere? You took… quite the fall.”
“Funny.” Y/N says drily, “How long have you been working on that one?”

From the grin that splits his face, he’s clearly secretly pleased with his dad-joke, “Just this morning.” Leonid - Aleksander - turns a bit more serious, “Are you, though? Hurt?”
She shakes her head, kicking the coat off her and putting it to one side so she can sit up properly, “No, I’m fine.” she mumbles, “Just achy.”
“Mhm, I suppose that’s to be expected.” he holds the cooked rabbit out to her on a makeshift fork, “Here, eat. You’ll need it.”
Y/N takes it hesitantly, sniffing it before picking a bit of meat off it with her fingers and eating it, “Thanks… who are you?”
“Leonid.” He repeats.

“No, I meant like - where am I? Who are you - like - how did you find me?”
“Well,” he leans back on his elbows, glances around, “You’re in a field, near Vernost, in Ravka.” he says, “and I am…” his brow furrows softly as he figures out how to phrase this. She’s a Star - would she even understand the difference between Grisha and Otkazats’ya?
He says it anyway.
“As I said, my name’s Leonid, I’m…” he’s hesitant - would a star really have prejudices? He hopes not. He takes a foolish chance. “Grisha. You know what that is?”

She nods, offers him what remains of the Rabbit. He waves it off, indicating that she finishes it. “Why are you helping me?” She asks, tilting her head.
“My, you’re just full of questions.” he sighs, “I saw you fall. I wasn’t just gonna… leave you.”
“Right.” Y/N’s eyes narrow slightly, “is this your coat? Here you can have it back.” she nudges the coat towards him.
He gives her an amused look, his eyes moving down, then back up, “I think you’ll need it more than me, zvezda.” he muses, smug almost.
She glances down at the dress she’s wearing. It’s simple, plain, and he’s right. It’s too thin for the current weather - she’ll be better off as it warms up during the day - but for now, she accepts the coat with a small, amused huff.

"C'mon, eat that fast," he says, indicating to the rabbit, "We've gotta get going before the sun is too high." He's already tucking away the few things he got out, "I'm gonna walk you to the nearest town, Vernost, leave you somewhere safe, okay?" he glances at her, "Get you some shoes and some more suitable clothes. Until then…”
He reaches into his pack, produces a spare undershirt and hands it to her with an almost apologetic look, "Better than nothing." she nods in thanks.
She takes the shirt with a grateful nod. Once she's finished the rabbit, she stands and hands him the mat, watching as he rolls it up and tucks that away too, and then they're set to travel. She pulls on the undershirt over her dress and while it hangs loosely it provides a bit more comfort, and then she shuffles on his coat. It’s too big for her, completely contrasts her bright eyes and white hair, the sleeves hang loosely and she has to roll them up.

He wants to make her as comfortable as possible, and so shows her the map he’s using, highlights the path they’ll be travelling with his finger, showing their way through the woods, worries a bit over her lack of shoes and then they’re walking.

The path to the town is simple, through the woods, past her crater, and then a little further for about fifteen or twenty minutes. He’s careful to go first, his harsh boots making some attempt at flattening the ground for her barefoot condition. Aleksander considers picking her up - no, too weird for someone he’s just met - and she doesn’t seem to be in any pain.
They keep walking. The sun rises higher, the morning beginning just as they make their way into Vernost. It’s a small town, but a good town. The hustle and bustle of people, farmers, artisans, builders and blacksmiths is accompanied by the gentle murmur of the small local market, travellers and locals who move between stalls and shops, horses’ hooves on the cobblestone, the crowd parting for an occasional rickety wooden carriage.

He glances over to her. The look of awe on her face is somewhere between sad and endearing. She’s struck completely by this tiny town, the smallest, simplest form of inhabitance, and yet it brings nothing but awe and wonder to her gaze. There’s a sense of yearning in the way her eyes run over everything as they walk, as if she’s desperate to take it all in, to retain it, keep it held to her chest - to make life hers. To have all of it - to know the joys and the sorrows like the back of her hand. Aleksander could practically see the light come to life behind her eyes, as if she’d finally woken up to something wonderful.

He smiles, somewhere between amusement and appreciation, and places a hand on her shoulder to steer her through the crowds which are slowly getting busier, “Easy tiger.” he says and she laughs sheepishly.

“It’s just all so…” she doesn’t know how to describe it, the words to explain the way her heart is racing all jam up in her throat. She has a heart. The rushing of blood, just the wind against her skin, it’s all she ever wanted to feel, and now that she can feel it, now she’s no longer confined to the night sky, she’s in complete and utter astonishment, raptured by everything around her.
“Kinda overwhelming?” He suggests, raising an eyebrow as they walk. He’s keeping an eye out for a Cobbler - or anywhere that sells shoes, really. Again, he casts his eyes down to her bare feet and feels guilt and concern rise in him, that the streets of Vernost, nor the woods are exactly clean, and they must be hurting by now.

But one glance at her face and he can tell she barely feels it. It’s just dirt - it can be washed off. However, it doesn’t ease the guilt.
-
The first time she ‘shines’, is over a piece of cake.
They’d been travelling together for a few weeks now. Aleksander was a fool to think he could leave her alone in Vernost, his worries, concerns and guilt over the Star getting the better of him. They stayed for a few days there, giving her a general introduction to the workings of human life in a contained and somewhat non-threatening environment.
In their few brief days in Vernost she tries a range of food, stews, desserts. He explains money, the current politics of the country over a bowl of stew from the Inn they were staying at, explains the prejudices and segregation of Grisha, the violence. They get her clothing, a shirt, an overvest, trousers and boots, and a small bag to carry her non-existent belongings. She folds her dress into it for the first few days - that silky silver material which catches in the moonlight - and it fits surprisingly well, tucks into the corner of the satchel. He explains to her how to read the map, all the different little symbols. In some ways, she’s like a child. Her lack of general knowledge about the world is understandable, but she catches on fast, much faster than anyone else could’ve.
Well, they’d been travelling together for a few weeks, developing a relationship that might even be called friendship. Aleksander had to make a few adjustments to the way he travelled - he was still telling Y/N his name was Leonid - occasionally they travelled at night. Honestly, it made more sense, he felt more comfortable in the darkness, and she had more energy. But it also made them bigger targets for suspicion, people travelling at night were often suspected of Grisha related activity… which is exactly what he was doing. She was just along for the ride, and the last thing he wanted was for her to get dragged into his problems and potentially harmed. Conflicting morals, he knows.
They’d passed through a few villages on their travels, small places which minded their own business and were good for occasional stock ups on food, water, supplies.
He doesn’t know why he bought the slice of cake. Aleksander had decided it was good for her to develop her own independence, and so she had gone to make her own way around this small town they’d stopped in. Meanwhile, he perused the sparse shops for anything of use.
The slices of cake were sitting in the shop window, all of them uniform in their cream decoration and the small slices of strawberries which sat inside and on top of the layers of sponge, and all of them placed delicately on little porcelain dishes. He enters the shop without thinking, purchases a slice to take away, lets the person wrap it away in a small tissue and carefully takes it, slipping it into a safe part of his own bag. He’s careful for the rest of the day in the way he moves - making sure not to squash or compromise the baked good. He can’t quite wrap his mind - nor his heart - around why he’s done it. Why did he suddenly feel the urge to buy her a slice of cake of all things. But he’s glad he did. Aleksander hopes she’ll like it.
He presents it to her over their campfire for the evening. It’s a small thing made of dried grass and twigs or any larger pieces of wood they could find but it provides light and heat and that’s enough. They’re sitting either side of it, across from one another, having just eaten bread and cheese for dinner. Twilight is setting in the sky, and he can see it on her - the way her eyes are slightly brighter, her laugh slightly more mellow as they chat over their food.

He reaches into his bag by his side, clears his throat and says, “I got you something.”
Y/N’s brow furrows softly, and she tilts her head as he continues, “I just… it’s small, but I thought you might like it.” and he produces a square shaped thing, slanted, and wrapped in tissue, still preserved, offering it to her in the palm of his hand over the campfire.
She takes it gently, “What is it?” as she delicately peels back the tissue. The cake is… well, cake. The sponge is a soft pale yellow, the cream delicately placed and the strawberries are slightly softer than they should be, but won’t make too much of a difference. She raises it to her nose and hesitantly sniffs it, which gets a chuckle out of him.
“It’s cake.” he answers, “Go on, try it.” Aleksander encourages her with a wave of his hand.
She raises her eyebrows and lifts the cake to her mouth, taking a small bite. Her eyes instantly light up, and he laughs at her reaction as she mumbles, “Oh, Saints, this is really good..” Around a mouthful of cake.
She eats a bit more, and then holds it out to him, “Want some?”
And that’s when he sees it. She’s shining. Literally glowing. Radiating light, her very skin and hair giving it off like it’s nothing. His breath hitches as she lights up the field. It’s not particularly bright, but it’s strong and it makes itself known. She’s like a mellow night light, and it only causes his smile to widen, “You’re um…” he gestures at her - at her glowing.
Her brow scrunches up - it’s cute - and she laughs sheepishly, “Shining?”

“Yeah. That.” he grins, leaning back on his palms.
She huffs, a huff of mock exasperation, “I’m sorry - I can’t… it’s not something I can really control. It just happens, y’know. Like…” She averts her eyes to the flames of the small campfire, “If I’m happy. I shine - it’s what stars do best.” They both laugh a little.
“Well, it suits you.” Aleksander says gently - his voice much softer than he meant it to be, or than he’s comfortable with. When did he get so… compassionate? He internally grimaces, but for some reason he feels an odd sense of endearment to this girl.
“Yeah,” She responds with a wry grin, “I should hope so. I am a star, after all.”
And again, they both laugh.
-
Aleksander didn’t intend to keep her with him for so long. He didn’t intend to introduce her to his friends - to his connections, to the people across the country who help him with his work. He didn’t intend to get her involved. But they’ve been travelling together for three months and in that time, he’s discovered a wide array of things.
The first is that she’s good with a sword. Perhaps good is an understatement. She has a natural balance about her, maybe it’s her celestial nature, but watching her with a sword is like watching art. The handle sits in her palm with an easy weight, she swings it with an air of freedom and lax, yet with complete control. The blade is, undoubtedly, hers.
They had discovered her penchant for swords in a rather unfortunate situation. They had been a touch careless. He was feeling more secure with someone else travelling at his side. And so, had paid less attention to his surroundings. If there was one con of her having her around, it was that she was a touch of a distraction.

They had passed through a village. They stayed to briefly eat lunch sitting in the town square, and then had gone to pass on just as quick as they came. It shouldn’t have drawn attention. But it did.
They hadn’t noticed the group of men watching them, looks of disdain on their features as they eyed up the two of them, mumbling to one another. They’d managed to avoid trouble so far, steering clear of Druskelle and negative situations, but on that day, something had given them away as both travellers and Grisha. It was hard to say what - perhaps it was the way they murmured and laughed quietly with one another, maybe the tell-tale way his hands moved. Perhaps he’d been careless and a slip of shadow had been noticed. They couldn’t say for certain. But these men, standing and sneering, they knew.

Either way, Y/N and Aleksander were followed back to where they were camping out by the night. It was just a clearing off the main path they were following, and they had been very comfortably sitting, eating, laughing as they did each and every evening, lit by firelight and accompanied by the low hum of bugs and the weather slowly turning cold. She noticed the figures first.
They seemed to come out of nowhere, far enough away that she could tap his shoulder with a quiet, “Leonid. There’s people.”

His brow furrowed softly, and he turned over his shoulder in the direction she was looking at. Three men, two shorter, one that was a bit taller and lagged behind - all three variously armed. One man - short, dirty blonde hair and a face marred by smudges of dirt - carried a small dagger. The second, slightly taller with a slightly more muscular frame, had dark hair that was greying at the roots, a knife, and a snarl. The third and final man, the tallest of the lot was passive, but his eyes glinted in the firelight with nothing malevolence, and in his goliath hand was a sword.

The man with the dark hair speaks first, accented and gruff, his eyes pinned to Aleksander, “Grisha, aren’t you?” he asks the question in a way that betrays he already knows the answer.
Aleksander doesn’t answer. He’s careful. Delicate. She’s sitting behind him, watching the interaction, hesitant to move. He needs to think this through in a way that puts Y/N out of harm's way. His eyes never leave the men.
There’s a movement out of the corner of his eye - the second man, wielding his dagger up quickly, his movements fueled by disgust. Aleksander’s quicker, raising his hand with two fingers pointed up, creating a wall of shadow which the dagger clashes against, and in that moment he’s scrambled up to his feet, grabbing Y/N by the arm and pulling her up with him. He runs.
He’s not used to running. He’s used to fighting. But at the moment he’s responsible for two people’s safety, and so he pushes forward, yelling at her to go. He expected the men to follow. He didn’t expect the largest to go after her, the three men separating into groups of one and two. The two come after him, dagger and knife, and he has little time to worry about Y/N before they’re gaining,
Aleksander’s efficient, his hands move fast to bring forth his shadows, forming sharp points which pierce the chests of the two men with harsh crunches, their weapons dropping into the grass as their bodies go limp, blood drooling from their mouths as the light leaves their eyes.

He breathes a sigh of relief, but then he’s alert again at the sound of someone crying out from behind him. His head whips around, and he sees Y/N, and the largest man. He’s backing her up against the tree line, she’s almost frozen in fear when she trips over her own feet and onto her back. Her eyes widen, the man leers over her, sword readied and in a brief moment of fear and desperation she rears her legs and kicks his knees.

The man grunts, hisses in pain as the sword drops from his hand so he can clutch at where she kicked him. Amateur. And in the next instant she’s lunged across the ground for the sword, where he dropped it, scrambling for it. She’s still on the floor, and she turns onto her back as the man’s attention is brought to her again, large hands reaching to cause her harm.
The sound of the sword cutting into the man is almost deafening. She does it without thinking, pure survival instinct as she cuts the man's stomach, her hands firm on the handle as blood coats them both, her breathing heavy as she pulls the sword out and the man falls back, dying slowly.

She’s frozen, and Aleksander’s eyes are almost as wide as hers. He takes a few loose footsteps towards her, a few more which are a bit firmer before he’s by her side, kneeling beside her and cleaning the blood off her cheeks with his sleeve, gently taking the sword from her iron grip and laying it beside her.
“Are you okay?” He asks quietly, and it feels stupid. She’s covered in blood, shaking, tears in her eyes and the only thing he can think to ask is ‘are you okay’? Saints, he’s an idiot.
He moves on, still wiping the blood off her as well as he can as she nods her head shakily, “It’s alright. You’re alright.” He says quietly. He remembers the first time he killed someone - the guilt, the fear, the horror at yourself. He frowns softly, as the thin shine of tears comes to her eyes and she looks away.

Without thinking about it much more, he picks her up, scooping her into his arms, hooking the back of her knees over his arm as she turns and curls into his chest, her crying quiet and barely audible as he carries her back to their camp.

-

After that, things are different. They’re closer, in a way.
Y/N keeps the sword, keeps it tucked by her side, takes care of the metal and the handle. She’s good with it, he knows for a fact, and he feels more comfortable knowing she has a means of handling herself. The emotional toll of the murder hit her hard. Perhaps, she thinks, she wasn’t meant to feel emotions like this. Her very existence is in conflict. She’s not meant to be able to feel this way, she’s meant to be a star for Saint’s sake!

But there is something so very human in the guilt she carried in the days after the attack. She was quiet, much quieter than she usually was. At first, she was hesitant to carry the sword. So, instead he carried it for her, catching her eyes flickering towards it occasionally, the way it swung by his hip and the metal caught in the sun.
One evening as they walked, she offered to take it instead.

“Do you want me to take that?” she had said, a quiet, unspoken I think I’m okay now.
“Are you sure?” he asked, “It’s not heavy, I’m okay to carry it for as long as-”
“No, I’m sure.” She nodded, her look determined and firm, “My safety shouldn’t be your responsibility alone.” She explained, “We should be responsible for one another if we’re going to be travelling together. And I can’t do that if I’m unarmed.”

He nodded in understanding, and softly unhooked the sword and the holder, and offered the handle to her. She took it, measuring the weight in her palm, before she put the holder on herself and slipped the sword into it. She took a breath.
He spoke first, “I should tell you something, Y/N. Y’know, if we’re going to be stuck together for a while, I don’t want to keep you in the dark.” he said.
She didn’t respond, simply nodded and waited for him to say what he had to say.

“My name isn’t Leonid, I lied. I’ve spent most of my life having to conceal who I am, what I am, and so I hope you can understand and forgive my deception.” He paused, breathing relief into the night air, “My name is Aleksander.”

“Aleksander?” She echoes, and a small, intimate smile finds her features, “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Aleksander.” She says, in that half-teasing tone he’s become so accustomed with.

He rolls his eyes but can’t fight back the grin, “You’re an ass, do you know that?”
“Ah, you may have mentioned it once or twice.” She shrugs, unable to wipe off that teasing smile from her features.
He huffs in mock exasperation before his tone turns softer. He’s found he has a habit of doing that. Something about her makes him better, gentler. He almost feels human around her, “I mean it Y/N,” he says quietly, “I’m sorry I lied to you, especially for so long.”

“It’s fine,” she says with a small smile, nudging his shoulder, “You’re forgiven, if that eases your conscience.” She’s still slightly teasing, but her tone is mostly compassionate. Endearing, even.
“Thank you,” he says, grinning as he nudges her back, “Saints, you’re insufferable.”

She gasps, dramatically feigning offence. For a star, she’s caught onto the culture of sarcasm and drama rather well, and he laughs at her display, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as they walk. It feels right.
“How are you finding it?” He asks, as they walk, “y’know, being human? Is it weird?” He checks in on her this way every now and then to make sure she’s not overwhelmed. But this is the first time she answers differently.
“...As a star…” She sighed softly, weighing up her words, “You’re constantly watching. You’re up there, watching all these little people have adventures and lives and romance, and it’s… it’s yearning. You want those things too, y’know? You want to be flesh and bone as well, to feel emotion. To cry, and be happy, and be angry, and to know what love feels like. You want adventure, the big things in life like… meeting someone. Or having a family. Or getting an education. Making a difference.” She laughed softly, “But you also want the little things - like cake, for example. And music, and friendship, and to share meals with people you care about.”

She glanced at him, and then back to the path, “I’m glad you found me. I don’t think anyone else would’ve done such a good job at making me feel welcome in a world that isn’t strictly mine.”
Her words were soft, quiet, and sincere. And it made Aleksander’s heart stutter in his chest, but he kept his composure and managed, “I’m glad I found you too.”

-

Aleksander takes her to a place he calls ‘the sanctuary’.
He explains it to her on the way there - a building, a place, where Grisha can support, aid and train other Grisha.
It’s been months since they first met, and by now the warm comfort of the summer is fading, replaced by cold golden sunlight and browned leaves, wetter grounds and harsher gales. And so, he takes her there.

The sanctuary is a medium-sized, pale stone structure, hidden away in the middle of nowhere, concealed by thick woods and trees. It’s squat, but wide, the front of it gives away nothing but a set of rounded wooden doors. He takes her hand - she’s not even sure he realises that he’s done it - and guides her with him to the front. Her sword swings at her side as she follows, standing beside him as he raps his knuckles on the wooden door a few times.

The door opens a crack, she can’t see who’s on the other side, but Aleksander’s gaze meets theirs and they open it. On the other side is a man, short brown hair and green eyes. He’s rather skinny, but his strength is held in his eyes. He lets Aleksander in without issue, nodding his head softly. Their hands are still linked together and so, she goes to follow.
But the brown haired man stops her, a hand coming to her chest to halt her, his eyes narrowed and dark, glancing back at Aleksander. He answers, “She’s with me, Andrei.”
“Grisha?” The man interrogates.

Aleksander huffs, “No, Andrei. But she’s been helping me for the past five months, let her through.”
Andrei’s eyes narrow in suspicion, and he glances at Aleksander finally before letting his hand drop and allowing her entrance. She nods her head softly, and follows after Aleksander. Y/N feels him squeeze her hand, a quiet apology. She squeezes back as he guides her deeper into the sanctuary. They pass rooms, beds, people who nod at him as they pass and whose eyebrows furrow when they see her trailing after him, and her stark white hair.

Inside, the sanctuary was busy. It was filled with the hum of people working, all in various clothing - some injured, some healing, some cooking, some reading, teaching, training - it was almost a wonderful study in the kindness of human nature and community that had her eyes widening.
“Are you alright, Zvezda?” he asked softly, turning back to her over his shoulder, “Are you overwhelmed? We can…”
“No, it’s… it’s wonderful.” She said quietly, her wide eyes meeting his, “I mean- it’s astounding. I’m good.” she nodded, indicating for him to keep going, “It’s just… in all our time travelling, I’ve never seen anything like this.”

He laughed softly, pulling her closer by her hand, “I guess,” he grinned, “I’m proud of this place. I’m glad you can see it like that.”
They spend at least three weeks at the Sanctuary.
Aleksander takes his time to introduce Y/N to those around her. He shows her around to all the Healers, the Heartrenders, the Inferni, the Squalors, Tidemakers - technically, he shows her off to everyone. But no one knows, really, who - or what - she is. He doesn’t say. People press and ask and inquire, “Oh, what’s her Grisha order?” “Grisha, are you?” And everytime, one of them answers, “Oh, uh, No.” and refuse to elaborate further.
It has the entire building utterly perplexed as to who this strange white haired girl is, and why she has the Shadow Summoner wrapped around her little finger. Not that The Star or The Shadow Summoner can see it, no, they’re completely oblivious. They don’t see how they’re quiet giggles, teasing, conversations might be perceived as intimate. Nor how the amount of time they spend together might be seen as suspicious.

But when you’ve spent everyday with a person for just over five months, all day, everyday, it’s very hard to separate yourself from the comfort they bring.
The confession comes late at night.
Now that they’re in a place like the Sanctuary, they have their own rooms. They’re only small, and they’re a short walk away from one another, and it gives them each a privacy they haven’t experienced for a few months. For the first week - it’s nice. Having their own beds, their own time, being able to spend some of it alone with their thoughts.
He notices it first. That he’s restless. It’s late at night, most of the building is asleep save for those on night watch, and he can barely close his eyes without feeling disturbed. He feels the need to do something - anything - and so, he gets out of bed, slipping back on his boots at the end of his bed and deciding he’s going to go for a walk. Maybe it’ll help clear his mind.
Aleksander’s almost embarrassed. He can’t… he can’t stop thinking of her. He’s annoyed at himself for it, for letting him get that close, for letting him be so vulnerable to someone who wasn’t even human, who had a child’s grasp on the world…

No, that was being unfair. He calms himself as he steps out of his room. He knows he’s just agitated, tired, a little giddy, and he takes a deep breath as he starts off down the corridor, careful not to let his boots thud too heavily. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he decides he’s just going to walk until he comes across something distracting or gets tired.
His feet take him to her room.

It’s the same size as his, and from the crack in the door he can tell she’s still awake, can hear a slight shuffling inside, candle light flickering on the floor. He realises now, why he’s there. What he’s come to do. And his heart lurches in his chest, but he understands that it’s now or hold his tongue for another few months and he doesn’t want to do that.

Aleksander wants her to know about the Y/N shaped cavern she’s carved into his life. He wants her to know about how all those nights spent travelling in fields were not something he was willing to give up so easily - that when spring came he hoped to do it all again. With her. That he thinks of her endlessly. That when he wakes he hopes she’s still sleeping beside him, just a campfire away. And he wants her closer. He wants her. It’s as simple as that, that he wants to see her smile at him, and laugh - he doesn’t care if it’s at him or with him - Saints, he just wants her happy.
The revelation comes to him, standing so close to her yet so far, on her bedroom doorstep. He takes a breath, steels himself to the sound of her soft humming from the other side of the door, and then raises his fist and knocks three times.

By the first knock, the humming stops. By the second, she’s walking over to the door, he can hear her footsteps. And by the third, the handle is turning. The door opens and he lowers his hand. She’s standing on the other side. Of course it was her, he knew it was her. It doesn’t stop his heart from thudding against his ribs, nor his breath hitching quietly.

The light from the candle makes her seem fully celestial, casting a golden hue across her features, and darkening half her face to accentuate them. It bounces off her silver hair, catching in the strands like a contained forest fire.
“Aleksander?” Y/N greets softly, a small amused smile as she tilts her head in soft confusion, her brow furrowing.
“Zvezda,” He greets softly, his eyes catching in the candle, so dark you can barely separate the pupil from the iris, “Can’t sleep?”
She shakes her head with a small laugh, beckoning him in with her hand, “Always got more energy during the night,” she sighs, “And it’s taking some getting used to, not sleeping in a field, not waking up…” next to you.

But she doesn’t need to finish the sentence, he simply hums in agreement and shuts the door behind him, leaning on it, “I know, it’s a big adjustment.” He runs a hand through his long dark hair, “How are you finding the Sanctuary?”
“It’s nice,” she says softly, briefly fixing her words in a slight hurry, “Sorry, that sounded- it’s lovely. The people are kind, the community is wonderful, food’s much better than bread and cheese and meats,” She grins, “No offence.”

He laughs, his nose wrinkling with the action, “None taken. In fact, I completely agree.”
She sits on her bed as they talk, tucking her legs underneath her, “Can’t sleep either?” She probes.

Aleksander shakes his head as well, “No, feeling restless. Same reasons as you.” He admits, feeling a bit more at ease with the slight indication that the comfort they feel around one another may be mutual, “I guess,” he sighs, bracing himself to admit it, “We spent so long together. A week was fine - but it’s weird. I keep on… waking up and expecting to see you.”
“I know,” she agreed quietly with a small laugh, her head bent down to her hands in her lap, “it’s strange, isn’t it? I feel weird not… walking with you, or doing something, seeing a new town or whatnot. And I have this feeling.” She frowned softly to herself.

He tilts his head, folds his arms, “What feeling, Zvezda?” He asks, his brow furrowing gently.
“I… I don’t know.” she said, her eyes narrowing as she looked not quite at him - but just over his shoulder - “It’s like… this…tightness.” her hand came to her chest, her nose scrunching softly, “Here. Like… nausea. But not quite - I’m not going to be sick. And I can feel my heart. And it… it feels like wanting. But stronger?”
His eyes widened a fraction, “And uh, when do you feel it?”

She tilted her head, her eyes zeroing in on him in confusion and uncertainty, “When…” when I think about you. “Oh.” She said quietly, “Is that what that is?” her hand gently rubbed her chest, clearly where she felt it strongest, a sheepish laugh as she turned her eyes to the candle, anywhere but him, “They don’t describe it like this in the books.”
He breathed a sigh of relief as he realised that he wouldn’t have to explain to her that what she was feeling was, at least, a crush. If not more. Aleksander laughed softly, “No, no they do not.”
Y/N laughed too, mildly embarrassed and still somewhat avoiding looking at him, her hands fidgeting, “Look, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be.” he cut her off, “Don’t be, please don’t be, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He cleared his throat and took a sharp breath, standing up from leaning on the door, “It’s… it’s mutual, Y/N.” and he took a hesitant step towards her, “Zvezda.” He said the nickname to get her attention.
It worked, her head turning slightly, and he continued, “Please don’t ever apologise for having feelings.” He said, his tone so much softer than he was comfortable with, “You’re a human now.” he laughed a little, crouching down in front of her as she sat on the bed, “It’s your job now. To feel. To make the most of life. So,” he said with a playful shrug, “we both have… crushes on one another.” It felt childish to say ‘crushes’ but he couldn’t think of a better word.

“I mean…” he sighed softly, “That’s kind of… why I came here.” He confessed.
“Really?” she asked quietly, watching him intently as he spoke.
“Really.” he echoed, standing up. She patted the bed beside her for him to sit, and he gratefully took it, glad she was taking this all so well and she wasn’t clamming up about their feelings for one another, “Look, Y/N, Zvezda. You’ve changed my life,” he said with a small laugh of disbelief, “I mean… you’re a Star, for Saint’s sake. You are, by nature, brilliant. And you’ve been nothing short of that in the months we’ve been travelling. Even if your humour is appalling.” He softly teased, earning a playful grumble of, “It is not.” from her.
“It is!” he insisted with a teasing grin, “You laugh at all my bad jokes, dear.”

“Yeah well,” her initial embarrassment was beginning to fade as they engaged in their usual banter, “I think that says more about you for making the bad jokes.” to which he scoffed, and she dispersed into laughter, the two of them leaning back on the single bed.

The laughter lasted a moment longer before fading out with a soft, content sigh. He grinned at her from where he was, a hand reaching forward for hers as he softly, half-teasingly, murmured, “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Shining, Zvezda.”

“What can I say?” she laughed quietly, her head finding his shoulder, “I’m happy.”

Chapter Text

The rumours around The Sanctuary start instantly. The change in the Shadow Summoner and the Star is clear to see - their little giggles which are closer than before, the casual touches - a hand on a back, a hip, an arm, the occasional kiss to the cheek or playful glance across the mess hall - it’s all noticeable to those who are watching.

And people are watching. It’s endearing in a way; it brings a warmth and a light to the halls which had previously been found in the other young couples. For a little bit, life in The Sanctuary is quiet and good and domestic.

Winter changes that.

Winter brings harsh winds and even harsher journeys. More groups of Grisha begin to arrive at The Sanctuary, with that familiar hollow gaze and blood stained nails, throats screamed raw and clothes muddied and singed at the edges. Winter brings an increase in Royal patrols and Druskelle raids. Winter brings war, and death and hunger: the sudden decline of crops means rations are implemented, and with the ever rising population it suddenly becomes very hard to feed all the Grisha.

Living becomes a team effort - it has to be, or else if one person goes, everyone goes with them.

The Sanctuary, once filled with warmth and sunlight and laughter, becomes quiet and cold, pensive and reflective, serene in a melancholy way. The world, once golden, has been bathed in grey.

They’re laying in bed together one night, an act done in intimacy, but also to preserve warmth, when Aleksander murmurs something against Y/N’s hair. When she hears the muffled noise, she pulls the lower half of her face out from under the patchwork sheets and glances up at him, “What’s that, lapushka?”

“I think we should leave The Sanctuary.” And her heart stops.

He pulls his face out of her hair to repeat, “I think we should leave The Sanctuary. For good. We could go - and make our own life. Away from all this suffering.” he says quietly, and he knows it’s selfish but suddenly he finds himself with something to lose - he refuses to lose her to this life.

Her eyes widen a fraction, her brows drawing together, “…How?” She says softly, “Everything we have is here We can’t just…”

Aleksander leans up onto his elbow to gaze down at her, his eyes almost pleading, “But it wasn’t always. We survived together when we first met, we can do it again until we find a… a home. Please, Zvezda.” And his spare hand came up to cradle her face, “Let me take you away from all this. Please.”

She swallows as she leans into his hand and lets her eyes flutter shut. The Star sighs, “Aleks… You really want to?” She asks hesitantly.

He answers instantly, “Yes. I do. Let me take you somewhere where we’ll be happy, and we’ll always be safe.” He leans his head down to press a kiss to the apple of her cheek, “I promise.”

-

They leave in the early morning, their few belongings packed into bags and placed on the back of a brown speckled horse, which they ungraciously name Madga, after the fairytale. It’s the type of morning where the sun doesn’t rise properly and instead paints the sky a pale blue, a low fog has settled on the grass and the mud has yet to thaw. The only noise for miles around is the brush of the wind and the leaves, and the crows calling down the morning.

The goodbye is hard. Consisting of furrowed brows and slight sniffs, Aleksander and Y/N hug, and shake hands, and kiss cheeks with the people whom they have lived with, survived with, for the past few months. The people who are the same as them, who they have an identity and kinship with - who know their struggles and feel their hardships.

They know they’re leaving together, neither one of them is alone, but it’s still the loss of a community. And a damn painful loss at that.

The final goodbye is said and done, and suddenly their backs are to The Sanctuary and the winding path in front of them is daunting yet manageable. One of his gloved hands is holding the reigns of the horse, the other finds hers. Likewise, one of her hands rests limply above the handle of her sword, tucked neatly into its holder, but the other’s fingers intertwine with his, an unspoken I’ve got you. And then they’re going, leaving their home and their friends and their cause, in hopes of a better life.

With each crunch of their boots the mud begins to melt, the winter morning sun doing very little to soften the blow of the winds which knife them. The horse trots happily behind them, whinnying and huffing sometimes but overall content with the gentle pace they’ve set. It’s the beginning of their journey and their not trying to exhaust themselves on the first day. The first day, which they spend walking among trees and branches which have been stripped by winter, is gentle. They talk idly and laugh occasionally, settling into their choice that they have made. Coming to terms with it.

They spend the first night in, what was once, a field, but was now mostly cold dirt and frozen mud. Aleksander and Y/N set up a small fire just big enough to cook the little meat they had decided to use with a tiny bit of bread, and they place their roll mats side by side, layering their thin blankets with their coats and jackets and curling up beside one another to preserve heat.

They exchange soft kisses and quiet murmurs, compliments and hands slipped under shirts, her fingers tracing over scars, his thumb rubbing circles over her hip. It’s comfort and sweetness in a journey that is unsure and vague, but familiar in its routine. They’ve been here before.

The first village they come upon is uninhabitable. The signs of struggle are clear - the piles of belongings abandoned on the road, the out-of-place burnt husks of homes, sandwiched between pristine cottages and buildings. Makeshift memorials and graves. The entire village buzzes with paranoia and anger, people’s heads whip around too fast and the entire market is full of yelled accusations - so they make a point to avoid it.

It’s clear what’s happened here: any and all Grisha families, travellers, people even so much as suspected of being Grisha, have had their homes and livelihoods stolen from them, their belongings, their toys, photos, trinkets and memories, tossed onto the street like rubbish. As they pass both Y/N and Aleksander keep their heads down with the quiet knowledge that, hopefully, those people had a peaceful end.

The Star and the Shadow Summoner pass through the village quickly, hiding any and all marks of being, or being associated with, Grisha - both their Kefta’s hidden by large coats and layers for warmth. They get a few odd looks but nothing that’s out of the ordinary for travellers. They pass through with pits in their stomachs and tightly clutched hands.

Their journey is long and never easy. Winter only gets harsher, only seems to punish them. There are moments where leaving the Sanctuary feels like a mistake - cold nights with only one another for comfort where they miss the food and the beds, and the warmth of a proper fire or the food-hall.

And it’s hard with both the Druskelle and the King’s Men suddenly being so much more vigilant. They’re everywhere, around ever village, town, city. Which means their journey is limited to lesser travelled paths and darkness - which isn’t too much of a bother. Aleksander is a Shadow Summoner, and Y/N’s a literal star. So, darkness is something they’re rather familiar with and is hardly a daunting or unwelcomed propsect.

However, an odd tension rises when they pass by another city - this one, ransacked by the King’s Men. And the flyers which litter the town: she manages to catch one under her shoe, and she bends down to pick it up, Aleksander’s brow furrowing, “What do they say?” He asked softly.

Y/N turns it around, her eyes scanning over the paper to read the words. A demand from the King, calling for the arrest of the Shadow Summoner. Her eyes flickered to him, wide and alarmed, “Sasha…”

“…damn.” He muttered, running a hand through his dark hair, “…Y/N, zvezda.” He sighed, taking the pamphlet off her, “…We’ll have to take extra care to avoid towns. C’mon.” And he took her hand, guiding her out of the town and to the path which went around the settlement, a good distance away.

During the journey he’d taken on that brooding look she was so accustomed to, which she recognised as him either being deep in thought, annoyed, or angry. And it seemed to be an odd combination of all three. She let him simmer in it for a bit, until she tapped his hand with her fingers, “Love?”

He glanced towards her, acknowledging her questioning. He simply squeezed her hand softly.

“We should talk about it,” she said gently, “This is a big threat, and we can’t just pretend-”

“I promised you safety.” he muttered, his eyes dark and focused on the path ahead, “I promised you safety and happiness, and just you being with me jeopardises that. Jeopardises you, and I refuse to be the reason that…”

Her brow furrowed softly, her eyes pinned on him as he continued, “I refuse to be the reason that something happens to you, all because you… and…” He swallowed, “You are… so, precious to me. And the idea that you just being around me may put you into danger - if anything happened to you-”

“I know.” She said softly, “Sasha, I know. We’re both hazards to one another.” She acknowledged, “I mean, Saints,” she playfully untucked a strand of her silvery hair from her hood, trying to lighten the mood, “I’m a glaring obstacle,” she weakly joked, “And- not to mention our Keftas. So, yeah, we’re risks to one another. A risk I’m willing to take.”

Aleksander sighed, finally glancing at her, still burdened but slightly relieved. He nodded firmly, his thumb tracing her knuckles.

-

The end of winter brings the husk of a tiny cottage, on the edge of a glade. The trees are sparse and the ground is mulch but there’s a stone structure, half falling apart, the walls slightly toppled and with little proof of previous inhabitants save for an old wooden table and the shell of a bed: just a wooden structure.

They spend the first night there, make a mattress out of their clothes and bags and coats, light a meagre fire in the unused hearth but it’s enough to provide heat. The first night, turns to two nights, then to three, and then a week, and all of a sudden things are… comfortable. Suddenly their belongings find homes - their little trinkets kept on mantles and sides.

By the second week, it’s decided they will stay. And they settle into domesticity. The first action is to fix the bed, and they quickly discover there’s a nearby village, tiny, but enough to purchase produce and other resources. She goes, having teasingly banned him from entering any villages or towns due to the declaration. The declaration which they keep as a slightly playful memento above the fireplace, pinned to the wall and the stones.

Gradually, the seasons change.

It gets warmer, sunnier, days become longer. They fix the walls, make a mattress, they take it in turns to chop firewood and cook, days are filled with joy and ease and love.

It’s a quiet evening, the two of them sat side by side at their dining table as the share intimate memories and stories, Aleksander’s voice low as he recounts the stories she knows on surface level, “…I travelled around a lot as a kid. My mother - well, we’re both Shadow Summoners - She works at The Sanctuary. She meant well when she raised me, I think. Now, she’s just bitter.” he murmured, “We stayed at a Grisha camp…” And the story goes on, as he finally tells her the truth of his childhood.

And his first incident with The Cut.

In return she tells him of her experience as a Star. The years spent above, witnessing human life, longing for that. Of having an unimaginable understanding of human civilisation and development and being entirely unable to partake in it. And the stories which the mortals make of her and her kind, this need to understand and name, to see figures and shapes in the constellations.

They listen to one another’s stories respectively, offering soft smiles and gentle encouragements. They listen to one another’s stories with love.

-

It’s been months since they’ve settled at the homestead, and it’s late summer. The air is thick and warm and comfortable, and they’re working in the field together. She’s hanging up their laundry, while he folds what’s been taken off the line and places it onto a chair they’ve brought outside. The line which they put up together, connecting from the side of the building to the treeline. He’s sitting in the grass as she rinses off and wrings the clothes, shaking them out and putting them out in the sun.

And then suddenly water hits her cheek. And she makes a show of gaping at him, “Oh, you did not.”

He’s got his hand in the bucket, sitting cross legged in the field with a mischievous grin on his handsome face, “And if I did?”

Y/N narrows her eyes at him, and then makes a show of dipping clothes in the bucket, wringing it out, and then shaking it out in his face so the water flicked all over him, “Milaya!” He cried out, as she chuckled at his reaction, “Fine, I suppose I deserve it…” And then suddenly, he pauses.

She’s standing above him, the setting sunlight just behind her head, lighting up her hair like… well, starlight. Spun silver. And she’s laughing, and his heart stops in his chest.

“What?” She laughs, noticing his expression, “What is it?”

Finally, Aleksander shakes his head and returns to folding, an amused quirk at his lips, “Oh, nothing, zvezda.”

She mutters something in return, making another show of huffing as she returned to hanging up the laundry.

“You’re so pretty when you’re annoyed,” he teased, resting his head in his hand.

“Aleks…” She warns, a playful glare in his direction.

“What?” He laughs, leaning back on his hands, “I’m simply stating the truth.”

“You are insufferable.” She huffs.

“You love me.”

“I do.”

And he softens like ice cream on a hot day at her words, his smile shifting from teasing to adoring, dopey and warm, “I love you too, zvezda. Even if you think I’m insufferable.” In return she gives him a smile over her shoulder, finishing up the laundry, “C’mon. We’ll cook together tonight, love.”

“If you insist,” he muses, standing with a soft groan. As they go into the house together, he wraps an arm around her shoulder, “I’m getting old, lapushka.”

“Oh, please,” she playfully scoffed, “You’re barely…” She falters then, her brow furrowing, “…I don’t actually know how human age works.” She admits.

His brow raises a fraction, before he begins to explain to her how human’s - mortals - classify age. Which leads to their evening being full of age-based jabs and him explaining to her the concept of birthdays over stew. It’s easy, and they tumble into bed together that night in fits of giggles and quiet kisses.

It’s home.

They sleep peacefully through the nights beside one another and gradually the searching and persecution begins to die down. Just enough for them to toy with the idea of going out together for the first time in months. Typically, only one of them goes out a time, keeps their head down and focuses on getting whatever they left to get and returning as soon as possible. But things are changing, and Spring always has a certain… ability, to put a haze on life. Especially when you’re in love.

And so, on an early Saturday morning, they set out for the nearest town with the hope that the market will be busy and they can slip right in with all the other travellers and unfamiliars.

When Aleksander and Y/N arrive the market is busy. Thriving. Wonderfully convenient for the two of them to walk hand in hand and to browse things they’ll never buy: various fabrics and jewellery, cheeses and jams and expensive cuts of meat. It’s easy to get swept up in the current of the constantly moving bodies.

“Hey, look at that,” he lets out a soft huff of amusement through his nose as he points out a little stall of baked goods, already taking her hand and dragging her there, “Shall we?”

“Aleks-”

Before she can stop him he’s reaching into his pocket, handing over a number of coins to the vendor and receiving two slices of cake. He nods his thanks before turning to her with a cheeky grin, holding out the slice, “For you, milaya.”

Y/N sighs but takes the cake with a grateful smile, “Thank you.”

Simultaneously both the Star and the Shadow Summoner raise the cake to their lips and nod in agreement that it’s good. And they keep walking, arm in arm and eating their cake.

For a little bit they’re just… normal. He doesn’t have shadows at his fingertips, and she’s not a celestial body. For a moment, as they buy carrots and onions, garlic and cuts of meat, they’re just an average couple without an arrest warrant on their heads. They relish in it, the lack of stares in the busy market, their anxiety doesn’t spike, her hand doesn’t clutch his any harder. It’s sunny, and they’re browsing, and somewhere church bells are ringing, announcing mid-day.

They return home, arms full of produce to ensure good-tasting meals for the next few days. And they don’t suspect a thing.

-

“Milaya,” he says, entering with a panic and already gathering their bare necessities, “We need to go. Now.”

It’s a mild summer evening, she’s sitting at the table when he enters, her brow furrowing. Aleksander’s panicked and tense manner is clear. He had only gone into town for an hour or two, she doesn’t understand what’s changed.

“Sasha,” She stands, discarding whatever she was doing at the table, “Calm down - what’s wrong?” And then a noise from outside, the huff of a horse. “Sasha, why is Madga?- What- What’s happening?” As she watches her lover hurry around their small home, swiping things into two bags.

He doesn’t look up as he hurriedly answers, “We were too careless, Y/N.” She can hear his anger in his tone, “God- I don’t know what we were thinking,” He huffs. And finally pauses and looks up at her, “They’ve found us.”

“Who have?” she urged, rounding the table to stop him, taking him by the arms, “Aleksander, who have?”

His dark eyes, as dark as his shadows, meet hers and he swallows, his hands shaking slightly as he urges them to still, “…The King’s Men.”

“…The King’s Men.” She echoes, her eyes widening before she turns and hisses, “Shit. Shit. Alright, let’s go.” And begins to help him in gathering their belongings, “How? I don’t- we-”

“We were careless.” He says, his voice low as he begins to gather any food they can take with them, “Careless and presumptuous. We got too comfortable.” And it all clicks into place - busy markets and bustling stalls hide more than just Grisha.

“The market,” She mutters, “And then we just- kept going back.”

He glances up and nods, “Yeah,” he sighs, a shaky exhale, “The market. I noticed them there today and… well, they noticed me, Lapushka… we don’t have long, before-”

The sound of hooves on the dry soil outside still both their hearts and their eyes widen. There’s yelling - goading and jesting - laughter echoing through the summer air and causing nausea to well up in the guts of the two lovers.

They both know it’s too late but still Aleksander’s shadows swarm the room in a mass of black and extinguish the candles, she barely has time to see his hands move before they’re plunged into darkness.

The only thing she can hear is their breathing and, guided only by moonlight, her hand slips into his, their mutual fear palpable. She want to whisper to him, to tell him no matter what happens she loves him. She doesn’t. Instead she attempts to swallow her nerves and blocks out the sound of footsteps around the house.

And then a voice, low and teasing and menacing, “We know you’re in there, Grisha scum. And that whore you keep with you.” It earns a round of laughs, “Come out. Or we’ll have to come in.”

Aleksander can feel his heart in his throat. And Y/N’s hand in his. The decision isn’t hard, and he’s quick about it, too quick for her to stop him as his hand slips from hers, and he steps out of the house, moon and firelight flooding in through the door.

She watches him go with words of protest dying on her tongue as he steps out, his hands raised at his side, still and displayed, “I approach peacefully,” His voice low and calm as he steps into view of the King’s Men, “With a message for the king: if he or his men slaughter any more of my Grisha-”

She takes the chance to gather final belongings, her back turned to the door as she listens to the exchange, desperate for any kind of final escape.

Y/N can hear another man’s voice, a low chuckle, “The King wants you back alive…” there’s footsteps, she can see Aleksander’s expression in her mind’s eye: disdain and anger, “…but maybe you resisted, so…” it’s taunting and it turns her stomach.

There’s a sound of piercing clothes and flesh, a low grunt and her heart seizes as her head whips around to the doorway. But it’s too late, and she makes eye contact with a man in a royal uniform, twice her size. She lurches forward for her sword but he grabs her hair and yanks it back. Y/N falls against him, right up to his chest, whereupon the soldier wraps his arms around her neck and torso, keeping her pinned to his body and unable to struggle, his grip tight as he marches her out the house and into Aleksander’s line of sight.

She watches his face pale and fall, “Zvezda…”

“I’m sorry,” is all she can murmur, “I’m sorry…” And there’s an overwhelming fear running through her. This sudden realisation that this is it, her short-lived life as a human brought to an end by their own carelessness and comfort.

Aleksander turns to the man who is obviously the soldier’s leader, “Not her.” He says, “Please, not her, she isn’t apart of this- you don’t need her! I’m begging you-!”

And the soldier laughs, “Our orders were to bring you in. And you alone.”

“If you want our co-operation-”

“Not our orders.” The soldier repeats, and he glances at the other man, the one with his arm tightly around her throat.

It all happens so quickly. His knife is drawn, panic filling her eyes as she mouths the words I love you, a pit settling in both their guts. The blade shines in the twilight of the evening. The moment is slow, the drag of the knife across her throat, her eyes widening as she gargles, and the spilling of blood down her throat. Silvery blood, shiny and metallic, viscous and hot, which shimmers like the ocean in sunlight.

Aleksander can barely feel his hands, his legs, his face, for the pounding of his heart against his ribs, the lump bubbling in his throat. He is silently distraught.

The soldier sneers, “Still have a message for the king?” He taunts, holding his lover’s limp body, still twitching.

It isn’t long before the surrounding world is plunged into an irredeemable darkness.

Chapter Text

Aleksander’s headache comes on in the early hours of the morning. Still hunched over his desk and working by the flickering light of a steadily declining candle, his eyes strain to focus on the paperwork in front of him and to ignore the throbbing pain slowly travelling from the base of his head to the gap between his eyes.

After ten minutes of trying to battle through Aleksander gives up, his head falling to his hands with a huff of exasperation. It’s moments like these that no one else will ever see - moments when the exhaustion catches up with him, his body overwhelmed with the nausea of overexertion and aching for sleep. It’s moments like these when he finally sets his work aside and rises from his desk, his black Kefta rumpled and his hair a mess from the amount of times he’s run his hand through it.

Aleksander sets his pen down, kicks his chair back under the desk and picks the candle up off the desk. He doesn’t bother to pretend to tidy his desk, abandoning it to move over to his bed. He sets the candle on his bedside cabinet - an elaborate piece of woodwork, a deep coloured beautifully varnished piece, covered in various books and papers and maps, and huffs.

He sits himself down on the edge of his bed to unlace and kick off his boots before unbuttoning his Kefta and hanging it over the end. He barely unlaces his shirt or his trousers and climbs into the sheets, his eyes shutting almost instantly.

The Shadow Summoner’s sleep is restless, filled with thousands of things he’d rather forget, people he’s killed, mistakes he’s made, world destroying choices for some, lifesaving for others. And yet, this particular night he’s back in a field, and it’s so dark he can’t see anything in the sky - not the moon, not the stars - and nothing in his surroundings but the tree line in front of him and the field he stands in. He’s barefoot, in simple clothes from hundreds of years ago, and he’s sure if he had a mirror he’d hardly recognise his face. He knows he’s looking for something, in that way that dreams work, but he doesn’t know what. His eyes scan the woods in front of him, deep and dark and unyielding, searching and searching some more.

And then a soft pale white light begins to glow from the heart of the woods, casting a soft dance of shadows across the field, twisting tendrils reaching for him in the shape of branches and darkness. He takes one step forward and the field falls out from under him, and his back hits hard dirt floor and the sun’s too bright in his eyes and he’s back in one of his mother’s training sessions. He sits up and sees Baghra’s figure but he can’t focus on her face. Aleksander’s aware that while this is a training session, it’s also a funeral of some sort. There’s a makeshift grave in the corner of the scene, a hand carved cross and a bunch of wildflowers. But his mother’s shadows are lurching at him once more, her voice scolding him for his slow reaction. But it’s not her voice.

It’s a voice he hasn’t heard in a very, very long time. Not even in his dreams.

Aleksander wakes in a cold sweat, clutching at the bed sheets twisted around him, panting heavily with tears in his eyes. He blinks them away, taking a deep breath as he hunches over slightly. He’s not just crying, he’s quietly sobbing into his hands - albeit against his will. But he can’t help the harsh tide of emotions in his chest, his heart beat loud in his ears, the memory of love he had attempted to bury under piles of paperwork, saving his people, fighting a war.

This lasts for ten minutes before he gathers himself, sinking back into his bedsheets. He turns his head a fraction to the drawn curtains, made of the finest fabrics, to witness the sunrise through a slither of a gap in the curtains, the gradual shift of the sky from a dark blue to a sunny morning.

The day must go on.

-

Zoya Nazyalensky is a perfectly nice Squaller.

More than perfectly nice, she theoretically matches him to a T: sharp wit and a biting mouth, confident and ambitious. It’s easy to see how Aleksander fell into an affair with her, using her to fill his lonely nights, the nights where he didn’t want to sleep, when the work wasn’t quite hitting the right spot. But right now, standing across the mess hall from her, running on less than half a night’s sleep and with regrets swirling in his chest he can’t help but regard her with disdain. It’s not something he means to do - she’s been nothing but good to him.

But she’s giving him eyes, dark, half-lidded, knowing and enticing… and he turns away. Someone might’ve seen the way her face slightly falls. It’s not often he turns her down but he feels like he’s betrayed something. Someone. It’s too much.

He’ll call upon her later when he needs a distraction, he thinks, when it all comes crashing down. But right now, he’d rather stew in his thoughts. Alone.

The Darkling leaves before she can question him, before she can cross the hall and convince him to bed her. In his state, he’d probably cave and regret it afterwards, kick her out of his chambers with subtle scathing words. He can’t bring himself to deal with her right now.

He goes through the corridors, down a set of regal stairs, and out into the courtyard. People stare as he goes - something he’s gotten used to. He’s a dark stain in the middle of bright shimmering colours, some regard him with fear, others with reverence. Either way, he ignores it, pretends not to see, and goes to collect his horse.

He knows where he’s going.

The stables are a well-maintained structure, wooden, housing a handful of horses - some for riding, some for work. A number of stablehands maintained the animals and the building - and the first time one of them had tried to ready his horse for him (a couple hundred years ago) he had found himself deeply offended at the notion he was incapable of maintaining his own animal, like the other nobility. But now, he had settled into it.

As he had settled into other things - people cooking for him, making his bed, preparing his clothes, writing his orders, so on and so forth. It had taken some time and he had certainly fought against the luxury for the first few years, but now he saw very little point in disallowing menial tasks to be done for him, especially when he rarely had the time.

And so his own horse was a dark haired beautiful thing, tall and strong and very well taken care of. The moment one of the stablehands saw him coming the young boy had slung a saddle over the horse’s back, and given the animal a quick brush down before bringing the horse out of the stable, and round to him.

He nodded, a quiet “Thank you.” As he accepts the horse by the reigns, running a gloved hand down its nose, before guiding it out to the main area of the courtyard. He swings up onto it, hooking his foot into the stirrup before finding a comfortable position. And from there, he commands the Little Palace gates open, and rides.

The unmarked grave is a medium sized rock, just tucked into the tree line of the clearing. He knows there’s no body there, no disturbance in the soil save for the rock lodged into the ground. But it matters to him. It matters that she’s remembered, at least somewhere. Whether that’s a story, whether it’s ‘Y/N and Sasha were here’ written on the wall of some random historic monument, whether it’s an actual grave stone, dedicated to her, or a rock shoved in the soil a long long time ago.

It still matters. She still matters.

And yet, he sits there, the sun high in the sky and his back against the rock, and he thinks about her. He knows, a long time ago, she had a face. She had a laugh. He knows she held his hand, and kissed his lips, and cared for him and loved him as much as he had loved her, and yet, he can’t remember any of it. Her face is a blur of faded and fading memories, over one hundred years, four mortal lifetimes. His brain is pushing out those distant things, the things he holds most valuable, to make room for war planning and maps.

Aleksander hates himself for it. Hates what he’s become. He hates how tired he is all the time. And he knows if she were here… he sighs. His fingers trace the blades of grass around him before he leans his head back, eyes shutting, and he tries to remember her. Not just what he knows is true, not just the colour of her hair and the shape of her nose. No, he tries to really remember her, tries to carve the shape of her face and the crinkle of her laugh out of the darkness behind his eyelids.

His heart breaks when he can’t.

His chest seizes in defeat yet he keeps his eyes shut as he feels a wave of something between frustration and devastation. Hadn’t he fought hard enough? Wasn’t his entire life’s work in dedication to her? And now he couldn’t even remember her face? What sort of man, what sort of lover, was he?

His hand sharply grasps the blades of grass and tugs them out of the earth without thinking, before tossing them to the side, a soft huff leaving his lips. He opens his eyes and rises awkwardly, dusting off his Kefta and trousers, before settling a hand on the rock, a gentle goodbye, an unspoken ‘see you soon’, before he moves to collect his horse.

There is work to be done. The sun is moving through the sky. Time waits for no one, not even an immortal.

-

That night, Zoya is in his bed. And the night after that, and the night after that.

The dreams subside for a day or two. But when he bolts up out of his bedsheets, heart racing, eyes wide and teeth bared like an animal as he sucks in harsh breaths, he knows something is wrong. He can barely fill his lungs, his skin is too hot, and just the sight of the woman sleeping beside him is irritating to the point of making his skin crawl. Saints.

As quietly as he can he climbs out of the bed and pulls on his breeches, running his hand through his hair. He’s unable to settle the discontent inside him, that unending restlessness that plagues him in moments like these. Soundlessly he pads over to the window, parts the curtains and cracks open the latch, filling the room with cool air which seems to soothe him, just a bit.

It’s then that Zoya stirs, the sheets rustling as she mumbles, “General? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He grumbles, not even turning around to look at her, guilt eating at him. It’s been hundreds of years. Hundreds. Part of him longs to cling onto the feeling, while the other feels pathetic for it.

He hears the sheets rustle some more, before a hand places itself on his bare back, “…Aleksander. Come back to bed.” She says gently.

He hates it. Without thinking, he bristles away from her touch, his eyes still glued to the night sky, “Leave me, Nazyalensky.” he orders, more war commander than lover, “This ends tonight.”

The woman’s brow furrows, a frown settling at her lips, “But-”

“No ‘But’s.” He snaps, “Leave. We are through.”

Zoya huffs, and retracts her hand sharply, shaking her head as she moves to dress herself, “I’ll see you when you come crawling back.” She mutters, gathering her things and hurriedly leaving.

The comment stings and if she were anyone else he wouldn’t have let her get away with it. But he supposes he has to leave her some leeway. He doesn’t think too much about it, eyes pinned to the night sky, examining the stars like they might mean something, like they might transform before his eyes into something more than burning balls of gas, a million years dead. He knows they’re more.

-

It’s weeks later when a soldier comes bursting into his study.

It’s early morning, so early the sun hasn’t even risen, the sky a gentle shade of melancholic blue. He’s drowning himself in work, as per usual, when the young boy bursts in, breath heavy and face flushed, barking, “Sir!”

“What is it?” he glances up, rubbing at his brow.

“Sir…” The soldier swallows, his lanky frame leaning up against the doorframe, “Apologies, sir, but there’s been reports…” he’s trying to get out as much as he can through catching his breath and it’s irritating Aleksander.

“Catch your breath, boy.” He commands, setting his pen down and folding his arms. The boy nods, mumbling out ‘yes, sir’, as he takes a moment, before finally he speaks, “Sir, there’s been reports of… light, in The Fold.”

That has Aleksander’s eyebrows raising to his hairline, brow furrowing as his lips press into a line, “Light? What kind of light? Impossible.”

“The soldiers say white light, sir, like um-” The soldier’s brow furrows, trying to find some metaphor or simile.

“Forget it.” The General sighs, before he stands from his chair, “How did you get here? Horse?” he makes quick work of bundling up his projects, scooping them up in his arms and dumping them to the side.

“Yes, sir.” The soldier nods, eager and now standing straight instead of slumped against the doorframe.

“Good. Best go get it. We’re going to the front lines.”

-

The journey there is composed of long tracks and winding roads, but it doesn’t take long. They reach the front lines by the next morning, General Kirigan, his Oprichniki and the soldier. The only conversation is between the soldier and the Oprichniki, mostly the young boy's murmured and insistent conversation.

The General himself rides ahead, stoic and silent, his leather gloves gripping the reigns of his horse, his mind running.

When they reach the camp the air is alive with a buzz. It’s clear the news of this 'light' has spread far and wide, gossip already spreading - some saying it’s the Fold clearing, the other side, others saying it’s a trick of the light, others claiming the sun is shining through.

The wall of black stands vast and impenetrable. It shifts at the edges, shadows curling and tendrils licking at the sandy ground, stretching up into the sky as far as the eye can see. Aleksander feels the same pull he does whenever he’s faced with it, his own creation, the simple recklessness of love and heartbreaking dedication. He keeps that secret locked tightest.

And yet, sure enough, it seems to glow. There’s the faintest of lights, illuminating the wall of shadow like a light held to skin, betraying the way the shadow pulses and shifts, and the flitters of the evasive creatures within.

He spends no more time dwelling on it, climbing off his horse and handing the animal away, marching through the camp to find the first commander he can. The man he locates is tall, but thin, a young man, clean shaven with a scar across his cheek. He salutes upon Aleksander’s approach, barking, “General!”

Aleksander wastes no time, “Get me reports. I want our best working on this, Otkazat’sya, Grisha, I don’t care. Just get someone to figure this out.” He snaps, eyes flitting across the landscape.

The commander nods and scurries off, already barking out orders to any soldier in his sight. The vision of The Darkling, a pinpoint of black amongst khaki and green has people jumping into action, a flurry of activity around the camp.

Within about an hour it has been decided that the best way to figure out what’s going on is to send a Sandskiff. The crew is decided through lots, squallers placed at the ready to fill the sails. And The Darkling stands, waiting, watching the ship pierce into The Fold, hands clenched at the railing of the platform he’s on, jaw gritted.

He’s waiting for any result, anything, though he knows it will be some time before the skiff comes back. He doesn’t move from his post, eyes boring into The Fold, teeth worrying at the inside of his cheek.

The camp carries on around him, pretending it’s business as usual, more mapmakers and soldiers fussing around him, offering anything they can get him. He waves it all away.

-

The sandskiff is a mess.

There’s the smell of charred wood, dismembered body parts, not to mention the remaining crew wide eyed and most likely traumatised. The top deck has been completely ruined, and at the moment a number of Grisha are trying to put out the flames eating away at the wooden structure, the air clouded with smoke so thick it’s hard to see the damage.

But Aleksander steps onto the deck anyway, waving away the smoke with a gloved hand, eyes hard. He watches the Tidemakers work from buckets of water to quell the fires. And finally it’s revealed.

There, in the middle of the deck, was a very large hole burned into the wood exposing the second floor of the ship. His brow raised just a fraction, and he took a step closer, trying to peer into the gape, attempting to see through the gradually clearing smoke. Gradually it began to clear, squallers pushing air to waft it away, to expose… a person?

A woman it seemed, H/C hair, as naked as the day she was born and completely passed out on the wood, face marred with ash, and what seemed to be… scars? No. Not quite. Something else.

His eyes widen and he moves fast, “All of you, back!” He commanded, before climbing down to the next floor, jumping through the hole. He didn’t take the time to look at her before removing his cloak and wrapping the woman with it, picking her up as he went, supporting her head with his arm, and her knees over his other, “Get me a stretcher!” he called up, moving through the lower deck for the stairs, and emerging through the hatch back to the top.

The Grisha and Otkazat’sya around him seemed stunned, a silence settling over the skiff and those around it, watching their General emerge with a knocked out woman in his arms, who seemingly had crashed out of The Fold and into the world. And he was calm. Suspiciously so. Though wether that was his demeanour or something else, no one could quite tell.

Meanwhile, Aleksander’s heart was racing. The woman in his arms looked different. She was older, more beaten, marks decorating her skin which weren’t there before. But so was he. He had scars, he had tired eyes that had seen too much and a face he hardly recognised.

But he hoped his love for her was the same. His Zvezda. His Y/N.

It took all he had, all his self control and composure, not to caress her face. Not to kiss her eyelids, not to burst into tears like a child. But he couldn’t. Not here, not with so many people watching him, watching them.

So he gently laid her on the stretcher, when it came, and ordered her to be brought to The Little Palace.