I hadn't wanted to go to him, not really. Not after he had destroyed Nikolai and driven his own mother off of a cliff. And yet, as I lay down to sleep with the tether between us ringing with his despair, I found myself unable to resist. Perhaps some small, cruel part of me longed to see him vulnerable, wanted to bask in the pain he was so used to inflicting—or perhaps I was just too exhausted to fight the pull of him. I closed my eyes to the warm glow of firelight, and opened them to darkness.
As always, my surroundings were murky, blurred as if in a dream. I stood in the shadows, my eyes drawn to the only clear thing in the room. The Darkling was seated in a chair I didn't recognize, some shabbily upholstered monstrosity that would not have been allowed in his quarters. A threadbare grey shawl covered his knees, and he gazed a small square object, turning it over in his long, pale fingers. Despite myself, I reveled in being able to watch him unnoticed. His face was lit by what I assumed must be moonlight, but still darkness clung to him. It gathered beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheekbones; sitting there, perfectly still but for the movement of his hands, he could have been a statue. He did not weep.
I must have moved towards him, drawn nearer unconsciously, because he drew a startled breath, his eyes flicking up to rest upon my face. I felt something twist in my chest as I met his gaze. There was no spark of desire, no flash of anger or sheen of tears. Instead, I was met with the darkness of infinite anguish, of despair so absolute that I felt my own eyes prick with tears. His eyes were flat black pools in which I couldn't help but drown.
"Alina," he whispered, an exhalation. I dug my nails into my palms to remind myself that this solemn entity before me had killed hundreds, had cursed one of my best friends and murdered many others. But he did not gloat, or quirk his lips into a smile. Instead, he closed his eyes for a breath, two, three. When he opened them again, the sorrow had not left. "Why are you here?"
"I…" I didn't know. Had I not vowed hours ago that I would never visit him again? When I remained silent, he sighed, and returned to staring at whatever it was that he held. Curious, I walked towards him, my surroundings shifting as if underwater. As I approached, he closed his fingers over the object, hiding it from my view, and slumped backwards. Up close, the shadows beneath his eyes were more pronounced, and his hair stuck up as if he had torn at it. Perhaps he had.
"Where are we?" I asked, but he did not respond. Annoyed, I pressed the tips of my fingers to his shoulder so that my surroundings would clear. He tensed beneath my touch, but I barely noticed, a startled breath escaping through my teeth.
We were in Baghra's hut—miraculously, it had barely been damaged in the battle at the Little Palace. The windows, which had been perpetually boarded shut, were thrown open, and through them I could see the ruined ground, burned but thankfully free of bodies. There was no moon—the only light in the hut came from the starlight that filtered in weakly through the windows. The cavernous spaces between them reminded me of the Darkling's eyes. Inside, the hut was dark and spare, with the Darkling occupying the only real chair. He shivered, an infinitesimal trembling beneath my fingertips, and my heart twisted as I realized that Baghra's hut would never again be stiflingly hot.
I lifted my hand from the Darkling's shoulder and gasped as he caught my hand, grasping at it like a lifeline. The room drifted in and out of focus as our connection was reestablished, and I had to grit my teeth against the feeling of surety, of rightness that surged through me at his touch. His fingers were cool.
"Don't leave me," he said softly, his voice raw and pleading. I moved my hand away, but his grip tightened a fraction. "Please." That bare whisper, barely a breath, undid me. His eyes searched my face, and in that moment he was not the Darkling. He was just a boy, exhausted and grieving, with a hole in his heart and empty eyes. He was an orphan, like me. He was tired, so tired, and so was I.
"Alright," I said simply, and he drew me to him, curling me against his chest in that hideous chair. I didn't fight him—I was too exhausted for hatred. He rested his chin on the crown of my head, and I let him hold me. I lost track of how long we stayed there like that, with his breath in my hair and his heartbeat thrumming against my ear.
Eventually, his breathing slowed, and his hands fell slack. I could have killed him right there, slashed him in two with the Cut as he lay asleep, vulnerable. But I didn't. Instead, I drew away. His dark eyelashes twitched, and I found myself wondering if he could still dream. Then my gaze turned to his hand, at the object that was now revealed by his loosened grip. I took it carefully—it was a small painting in a simple wooden frame. It depicted two people, a woman and a child. The woman was beautiful in a harsh way, with dark glittering eyes and long ebony hair that softened the sharp slash of her high cheekbones. As my gaze fell upon the boy, I felt as if someone had squeezed my heart. The Darkling—just Aleksander then—had been beautiful, with his mother's black eyes and pale, perfect skin. But there was something vulnerable too, in the way his cheek rested against her arm, the way his small hand grasped at hers. I traced the lines of the painting absently, aching, despite myself, for the Darkling's loss.
As pale tendrils of dawn light curled into the room, the Darkling stirred and opened his eyes. When he saw me with the painting, the sorrow behind his eyes vanished as if thrust behind a wall, and he fixed me with his flat black gaze. I said nothing, only flitted forward and pressed it into his palm before drifting back into the shadows.
"Thank you," he murmured, so softly I wondered if I had imagined it. I said nothing, already returning to my body, to my friends, to my responsibilities.
Before my vision darkened once more, I saw him break the frame in two. Then he tucked the painting carefully into the breast pocket of his black kefta, over his heart.