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Chapter 5

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Alina lay in bed, curled on her side in the dark. She felt the bed shift as Mal joined her, carefully staying on his half of the bed. The hovering ball of light tossed sharp shadows, alive with motion on the walls of the room, and gave the rustic wood of the boards nailed over the window a sinister feel. Alina didn't move, and didn't speak. As she closed her eyes, she allowed the light to begin to dim slowly, silently begging for sleep to come quickly.

It did, but it brought nightmares. Blood, and running, running until she had to walk, her feet dragging, leaden and clumsy, and the streets tilted upwards into the sky in front of her. She climbed them on her hands and knees until they became so steep that she fell back off of them, out into space, landing hard on the deck of a boat. Like a turtle on its back, Alina was unable to sit up or flip over, and she stared upwards, a man's face hovering over hers. She knew him, but couldn't tell who he was. His face kept shifting, confessions falling from his mouth like injuries—

Alina woke with a jolt, her legs tensing and her hands balling into fists around handfuls of blankets. She didn't sit up, and she made no noise, save for an audible, shaky inhale and forceful exhale.

"Alina." Mal's voice was deep, but soft. She didn't turn toward him, and the bed didn't move—he didn't shift or reach for her, either. "Are you okay?"

Alina swallowed thickly, her mouth dry. "Yeah. I dreamt… that I tripped over something," she lied. "I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

"No."

Alina's eyes had adjusted to the darkness since she'd let the light fade out, and the small amount of moonlight that drizzled through the boarded up window in the room had dust particles that danced in it, weightless. "You haven't fallen asleep yet?" she asked hesitantly.

There was a pause before he repeated his answer. "No."

Alina finally shifted slightly, pushing a section of hair back off of her cheek. Most of her hair was still damp, as was the fabric of her pillow case. She must not have been asleep for more than an hour. "I know you usually have trouble sleeping."

The darkness behind her didn't respond.

"And tonight's situation doesn't make it any easier."

Still no response.

Alina watched the fingers of moonlight scratch the edge of the bed for another minute before she twisted, trying not to tug the blankets as she spun to face Mal. He had his back to her, laying on his side in the mirror image of her previous position.

"I'm worried that if—" Alina broke off, wondering whether she wanted to admit to yet another weakness. She saw the shadow of Mal's head turn, just barely, as he listened, waiting for her to go on. She licked her lips. "I'm worried that if I go back to sleep I'm going to pick up right where my last dream left off."

"I had no idea you were so frightened of falling down, Alina."

"Will you talk to me?" she asked, ignoring his statement.

"About what?"

"Anything. Just… talk. Pick a topic. Lecture me about proper rifle maintenance, or tell me about the first time you snuck into a tavern, or explain the difference between the tracks of an eighteen month old fox and a nineteen month old fox…"

That last suggestion earned Alina a quarter turn of Mal's head, so his face gazed up at the ceiling as he answered her. "You think there's a difference in the tracks of a fox based on it aging...one month?"

"I think you're a good enough storyteller that—given a prompt- you can talk to me for the next ten minutes while I fall back asleep. Would you do that for me?" Alina studied the curve of his forehead and the line of his nose, a murky profile in the darkness. After a moment, Mal turned his face away from her again.

"I've heard of a place outside of Ravka… I don't even know if it's real… but I like to think it is. I'd love to see it. It sounds beautiful," he began, his voice a low rumble. "This village… it has festivals every few weeks. They correspond to the seasons, and the local religions." Alina rearranged her pillow and the bed creaked with the movement. Mal remained completely still. "There's one in the spring where everyone makes pots of colored powder, and they celebrate the triumph of good over evil and one of the local gods by tossing and sharing the colored powders until everyone in the village is covered in rainbows. But the festival I really want to see is the festival of lights. It's in the fall, or early winter, when the days are shorter and the nights come earlier…"

Alina closed her eyes, listening to the story. She wished Mal would turn around to face her, but he'd been so adamantly motionless since he'd gotten into bed that she could tell he was purposefully maintaining his position. She could think of several reasons for this, and each one caused an ache in her chest.

She settled for advancing her hand along the mattress, stopping just shy of touching his back. Her fingertips could feel the warmth coming from his body, and it wasn't likely she'd managed to move her arm that much without him being aware of it, but she didn't care. His steady, deep voice didn't falter.

"…through the streets, and the lights… the lights decorate the rooftops, and the windows… front stoops… in rings around buildings and all the way up the steps of their oldest temples. There's fireworks, and they celebrate the eventual victory of light over darkness."

"The destruction of the Fold?" Alina murmured softly.

Mal was quiet for a long moment. "You're supposed to be asleep by now."

"Keep talking," Alina requested. "Who did you hear this from?"

Mal's mouth tugged into the barest suggestion of a smile that Alina couldn't see as he remembered the night he'd heard about the village. "I was in a tavern, but didn't have enough money to buy more than one drink. It was a cold night, and I had a seat near the fire. I nursed my drink for as long as possible to avoid going back out into the snow. There was an old woman at the next table who'd been there for several hours, and obviously had enough money to buy many more drinks than me… She was telling stories to anyone who would listen."

"What other stories did she tell?" Alina asked.

"Oh, most of her other stories were complete nonsense," Mal admitted. "That's why I'm not entirely sure that the village exists. She also insisted three inch pixies live in her linen cupboard and control the weather."

Alina gave a small laugh, but the humor faded from her face quickly. "Do you know any other stories? Something like… a bedtime story, or a fairytale?"

"A fairytale?"

"No, I'm not… I'm not asking for a childhood story about princesses… That's not what I…" Alina sighed, her exhausted mind unable to express itself adequately.

After a brief silence, Mal asked, "Do you know the story of Layla and Majnun?"

"No," Alina said.

Mal seemed to shift uncomfortably, and Alina moved her hand quickly, in case he rolled toward her and found her hand on his back. He settled back to his previous stillness quickly.

"I think…the story was a poem first, and it's very old..." He trailed off, and was silent for so long this time that Alina thought he'd decided against recounting the tale for her. She knew he hadn't fallen asleep, because his breathing hadn't slowed, or deepened. His shoulders still seemed tense.

"Mal—"

"There was a beautiful young girl, Layla," Mal began, stopping Alina. "A boy, Qays, fell desperately in love with her, and she with him. When they were old enough, Qays asked to marry her, but her father refused, and kept them apart. Denied the woman he loved, Qays wrote poem after poem about her; for her. He never tried to hide his adoration, he never tempered his devotion. People noticed.

"Layla's father continued to refuse to let Qays see her, and the longer they were kept apart… the deeper Qays' obsession became. Layla was miserable, and she could see what their separation was doing to Qays. She begged her father to let them be together, but her family felt that Qays was dangerous, and thought that the intensity of his love was more of a descent into madness. Layla's father promised her to another man… a more suitable match for her. A noble merchant who had power and wealth.

"When Qays heard of the marriage, he fled into the desert, wandering for days to distract himself from the fact that the woman he…" Alina felt the bed shift slightly. "He couldn't bear the idea of Layla in the arms of another man, a man who had been arranged for her… Someone who most likely just thought of her as...useful."

Mal's voice trailed off, and Alina frowned. "You said the story was about Layla and Majnun. Is Majnun the other man she married?"

"'Majnun' means 'madman'…" Mal replied, turning his head to look up at the ceiling. "The nickname given to Qays as he wandered in the wilderness, pining for Layla."

"Madman?" Alina repeated.

"He roamed the desert, talking to himself, reciting poems of Layla's beauty and his love for her. He poured his longing and despair into his verse. When he strayed too close to the villages, people would write down what he said, and his words traveled… His poetry was made into song, and passed on scraps of paper. No matter where Layla's husband placed her, no matter how far away they traveled, Majnun's words of devotion and love always found her. Afraid of her new powerful husband, Layla kept quiet, her love silent, and secret. She knew Qays still loved her, despite her marriage to another man.

"After years apart, Layla's husband died. Finally able to openly mourn her love for Qays, she slipped into a deep despair and under the weight of her broken heart, she died. She was buried in the wilderness, and Qays was later found dead on her grave, his final three verses of poetry, dedicated to her, carved into a nearby rock."

Alina let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "That's not a very happy ending."

"You didn't ask for a happy ending."

"No… I didn't." Alina paused. "Mal...you said you wrote to me. Over the last few weeks. What did you write?"

"Wasn't my story supposed to put you to sleep?" Mal asked her pointedly, obviously trying to halt the conversation.

"It's a pretty safe bet that neither one of us is going to sleep any time soon," Alina said with conviction. "So I'm going to need you to turn around and talk to me."

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TBC.

Author's Notes:

Oblique references to Holi and Diwali, and the story of Layla and Majnun is a real Arabic legend. This is a very brief (and slightly altered to fit the story) version of the poem, so if it intrigues you, go look for the real thing!