Disclaimer: I don't own the Grisha Trilogy and its characters – it belongs to Leigh Bardugo. I do not own the Shadow & Bone TV series, which was developed by Eric Heisserer for Netflix and based on Leigh Bardugo's books.
This is very slightly inspired by Scooby-Doo and the Witch's Ghost – if you've seen it then you'll probably get where the inspiration came from, but it won't make any difference if you haven't seen it.
Mal isn't a fan of small towns.
There isn't enough to do, the people tend to be nosy and you can't get ever find a decent fast-food place.
Still, when the invitation arrives for him to attend Keramzin's autumn festival as a guest of honour – all-expenses paid – then he is more than happy to take a trip to the little town his ancestors built for a long weekend.
It's basically like a free holiday, after all, and he'll be able to enjoy the rest and relaxation, the only compulsory item on his schedule being a meeting with a historian – Aleksandr Morozov – who is based there and wants to interview him.
Mal can't imagine what he could tell the man – he's never been particularly interested in his family's history, after all – but he sends off an email accepting the invitation anyway.
A free holiday is always good, after all.
Keramzin isn't quite as dire a place as he had expected it to be.
The whole place has been transformed into a tourist attraction, an attempt to make it look as it did back in the 17th century.
And everywhere he looks, there seems to be pictures and models and a haunted graveyard walk based around the ghost the Sun Witch, one who had allegedly burned her enemies and nearly destroyed the town before his ancestor – the first Malyen Oretsev – had trapped her.
It's a nice little ghost story, a good way to attract tourists near Halloween.
People come every year, after all, to get spooked by the holograms and puppets of the alleged Sun Witch, to visit the museum, to pretend they've stepped back in time.
The ghost is all just smoke and mirrors, of course. The townspeople are all very welcoming and accommodating, pleased to have a descendant of their town's founder visiting. It's easy enough to charm one of the local girls, who all bat their eyes at him, and Ruby – who has lived in Keramzin her whole life – is delighted to tell him all about the tricks they use each year to make their autumn festival spectacular.
"On the last day – Halloween – we always do a really cool display with the Sun Witch's ghost. Everyone always says it's seriously spooky and super realistic."
Mal – eager to prolong Ruby's good mood to increase the chances of a positive response if he asks her back to his hotel room – tries not to roll his eyes. The show they put on is all well and good for kids and easily scared adults, but it's simple enough to spot the pyrotechnics and illusions and hidden technology that create the whole thing.
After all, ghosts and witches aren't real.
Still, he'll enjoy the benefits of the pretty blonde who wants to tell him all about the town's festival.
After all, he'll no doubt be bored by the historian he has to speak to tomorrow afternoon. He might as well have some fun tonight.
After a late (and very satisfying) night, Mal doesn't wake until just past noon.
Ruby had left earlier in the morning, needing to get into work.
She'd been rather clingy, which he wasn't too thrilled about, but he'll only be in the town another two days and he's sure she'll forget about him soon enough.
He has enough time to shower and grab some food before he walks over to the museum.
As he'd imagined, it's a tiny little place, nothing compared to the Os Alta Museum in size, and seems to be entirely focused on local history.
The historian himself, however, is nothing like Mal had expected.
Mal has envisaged a doddering old man in an outfit three decades out of date. What he is faced with is someone who could likely be a model if he chose – tall, with dark hair and a close-cropped beard, maybe in his mid-thirties, with the kind of hot professor thing that most of the girls at Os Alta University would go crazy for.
The man looks up from the heavy tome he is perusing, "ah, Mr Oretsev."
Morozov's lips are twisted into a sneer, almost as if he isn't pleased to see Mal. That makes no sense, though, since he knows his invitation came from the historian.
"Follow me," Morozov continues, standing and walking toward the back of the room.
Mal follows in silence, glancing at the paintings and photographs that line the walls as he walks.
Half way down a long corridor, he comes to a sudden halt when he spots a familiar face in one of the paintings. The scene must be from centuries ago, but it's like looking into a mirror.
"The first Malyen Oretsev," Morozov says with derision, "founder of this illustrious town."
"You … you don't seem to like him much."
"The man was cruel, grasping, greedy fool who lacked sense and let his fear rule him."
Mal feels as if he should defend his ancestor. Unfortunately, he knows almost nothing about the man and would not have a clue where to start.
"But we are not here to discuss the failings of your ancestor," Morozov adds, heading towards a door, "I invited you here to discuss the legend of the Sun Witch."
Mal gasps as he enters the room.
In pride of place, hanging above a fireplace, is a large painting of a young woman.
About twenty years old, wearing a magnificent golden dress, beams of light shining around her.
"This," Morozov gestures to the painting with reverence, "is the Sun Witch."
Mal frowns, thinking of all the puppets and pictures and holograms he has seen of the Sun Witch throughout the town. They depicted an old woman, gnarled and bent, like a fairytale crone. Nothing like the pretty picture before him.
"Do not be fooled by the town's biased legends," Morozov says, gesturing for him to take a seat, "they paint her as a monster who laid a blight on this area, burned houses and crops to ashes, boiled men and women alive. Certain historical records – ignored until recently – show a different side. They say that Alina Starkova – that is the true name of the so-called Sun Witch – blessed the area, using her power over light to help their crops grow and battling enemies who sought to do harm to the town."
The other man sighs then, "unfortunately, a good witch isn't nearly as exciting for the town's Halloween economy than an evil one. Besides, the church at the time frowned on anything remotely like magic, even when it helped people."
Mal nods. It's clear that Morozov is passionate about this particular topic, but he still doesn't quite understand why he's asked Mal to visit.
"I don't have any old papers, you know," he tells Morozov, "I'm pretty sure that my father donated everything to this museum before I was even born. I'm not sure why –"
Morozov waves his hand, "I have all the papers and letters. I know the truth, even though I doubt people will ever accept it. No, what I truly wish for is to be able to enter her resting place. The legends say that she was trapped by holy words and left to die in a cave in the forest at the edge of town. I only wish to retrieve her remains and give her a decent burial."
Mal personally thinks this is a bit too much for a woman who died almost four hundred years ago.
It's sad that her reputation has suffered, but she's dead now and he doesn't really understand what good it will do to exhume her skeleton and bury it somewhere else.
Still, people are entitled to their own strange hobbies and Morozov has provided him with a nice little holiday, so he'll play along.
"What do you need me for? I assume you already know where the site is?"
"I discovered it about a year ago," Morozov confirms, "and have spent the time since translating the code carved around the entrance to the cave. The body is protected, and the code confirms that a descendant of the first Malyen Oretsev must willingly bleed onto the stone so that the body can be found."
Mal grimaces, "surely that can't be real, though. Magic and all that."
"Quite real," Morozov tells him coolly, as if it is the most sensible thing in the world.
He eyes the man in front of him. Morozov certainly doesn't look like a run-of-the-mill lunatic, but he's talking rather like one.
"Have you not tried, err, regular methods?"
Morozov rolls his eyes, "I have checked for hidden doors, tried to shift the stone, done some excavation … but nothing has worked. I can see you are a sceptic, Mr Oretsev, but I do not need you to believe me – I only need a little of your blood."
And it can't hurt, can it?
Clearly, Morozov is a bit mad if he thinks there is some secret entrance that will only open using blood – like this is a Harry Potter book – but Mal supposes it'll be a funny story to tell his friends when he goes home.
"Alright then," he nods, "sure, I'll go with you."
After all, it's not like anything is going to happen.
"Right here, Mr Oretsev."
Morozov points to a smooth, rounded stone that has odd symbols carved into it and hands Mal a pocket knife.
"Just a few drops should be sufficient."
Mal nods, feeling a little unsure now he's actually faced with having to cut himself. He isn't a wimp or anything, but he's never deliberately done harm to his own body. And then the whole atmosphere is just a little spookier than he expected – again, he's not scared, just a little … uneasy.
Morozov doesn't help. Dressed all in black, with eyes so dark they seem like black voids, he looms over Mal, intimidating without even trying. He looks irritated at the delay.
Trying not to tense, Mal slices his palm with the knife, hiding his grimace as his blood drips onto the stone.
For a moment, nothing happens, and Mal waits for the awkward silence and any sign of Morozov's embarrassment.
But then, to his shock, the ground begins to rumble.
Fuck, he thinks, is this a cave in?
They're right by the entrance, and it's a tiny cave anyway, easy to get out of, but Mal has no desire to put himself in danger.
The rumbling stops after a few seconds, though, and Morozov shines a light to where there was once solid wall.
However, there is no wall now. Instead, the stone seems to have shifted to reveal a small hidden space, just big enough to fit what looks horrifyingly like a body wrapped in a thick cloak.
Morozov, without any hesitation, steps forward and reaches into the space, lifting the bundle out with careful tenderness.
When he lays the cloak out on the ground, Mal can't help but gasp.
He expects a skeleton, bones wrapped in scraps that were once clothes. Instead, he is faced with the body of a woman who looks almost as if she is sleeping, not centuries dead.
And that woman is identical to the one depicted in the portrait hanging in Morozov's office.
"That …" he stutters, "it … she … impossible."
He's heard of bodies being preserved in the right circumstances, but never so perfectly. There is no pale or blue tinge to her skin. Her magnificent golden dress is in pristine condition.
Morozov does not appear to have heard him, though.
He is leaning over the body, gently brushing her hair off her face, murmuring words in a language Mal doesn't understand.
"I … I should go," Mal mutters, not entirely sure what the protocol for this kind of occasion is but assuming Morozov will take care of it.
Before he can move another step, though, he feels something wrapping around his ankles, rooting him in place.
He looks down to see tendrils of shadows keeping him still, wispy in appearance but strong enough to prevent him from moving.
"I'm afraid you cannot go quite yet, Mr Oretsev."
Morozov stands, looking even taller now, pale face triumphant, eyes glittering in dark delight.
"What the hell is this, Morozov?"
The man twists his hand and Mal watches in horror as the shadows converge, swirling around him menacingly.
Morozov smirks, "you cannot go quite yet," he repeats, "don't you want to know the real story?"
-x-x-x-
In fact, Mal doesn't have much of a choice except to listen.
"Once upon a time, Alina did try and help people," Morozov says as he picks up the pocket knife and swipes his fingers through the blood, tracing odd shapes onto Alina Starkova's forehead, "as did I."
Mal freezes at those words, a confirmation that Aleksandr Morozov is certainly not who he seems.
"Jealousy breeds contempt and fear," the man continues as he marks Alina's bare arms in the same way as he did her forehead, "and we fled once grateful thanks turned into bitter hatred. We wandered for a long time, trying to help, still naïve enough to believe that we could find a true home. We learned our lesson soon enough."
He sounds angry, fury in every line of his body. Mal tries to get loose, but the shadows hold him fast as Morozov talks.
"The first time they tried to burn us as witches, we simply escaped and fled. I wanted to make an example of the people, but Alina – she was always the more compassionate of us – said they were acting out of ignorance and we should leave them be. The next time, however, and all the times after that, neither of us was that kind."
"What –"
"We destroyed the towns, Oretsev. Burned by Alina's sun or swallowed by my shadows."
Mal's eyes widen, "but all the people."
"Do you think there is anything I would not do for Alina? Those cretins threatened our safety and I reacted accordingly."
He sighs, "Keramzin seemed different at first. The people were friendly and respected our solitude. They never knew for sure that we were responsible for the three years of excellent harvests they had, or the fact that bandits and other such dangers never seemed to touch them, but they seemed to sense it was our doing. And then, of course, your ancestor had to get involved. He was an overly pious man – in public, at least, for I know he was quite the lecher in private – and he declared us to be the spawns of Satan, the bringers of darkness, servants of evil … well, you get the point."
Mal nods, trembling, but Morozov doesn't seem to be paying much attention to him right now.
"We had no warning. No rumblings of discontent, no incompetent mobs sent to lay hands on us. Instead, Oretsev used his connections with the church and managed to trap Alina in this cave, using his own blood to seal it and laying a curse that only the blood of his descendants, willingly offered, would be able to open the tomb."
"Surely you could have found someone from my family before this," Mal says, "they all lived in Keramzin until my father moved away."
"Do you not think," Morozov hisses, "that I would have freed Alina earlier if it was so easy? I did not know what became of her, and I had to flee to ensure Oretsev could not entrap me too. I waited nearly a century to return, and ever since I have been searching out the location of Alina's prison – they could not have killed her, I knew, as she is too powerful for that, but it was torture to be separated from her, to know she was trapped and alone."
"And then you found it," Mal concludes.
"Yes," he confirms, "and it was easy enough to find your contact details and invite you back here. Oretsev's descendants were rigorous, at first, in passing down the story of the Sun Witch and the Black Heretic, ensuring their children knew never to offer their blood willingly. As time passed, however, people began to see such tales as simple ghost stories to amuse children rather than reality. I researched you, Mr Oretsev, and you did not strike me as the sort of man to be interested in your history, or to be knowledgeable about the warning that had been passed down through your family. As expected, I was right."
"Right, well, you've got your … err … wife?"
"We have been married seven hundred years, boy. She is far more than merely my wife."
"Ok, but she's back now. So can you …?" he gestures to the shadows keeping him there.
Morozov snorts in cruel amusement, "oh, Mr Oretsev. Surely you did not think it would be that simple. My Alina is free, but she requires more than a few drops of blood to revive her from her centuries-long slumber."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Mal might not have believed in the supernatural until five minutes ago, but he has watched enough horror movies to guess what is coming.
"Please, I swear I won't tell anyone. You two can just go off on your merry way and I'll go back to town and we can just pretend this never happened."
"I do not forgive and I do not forget, Mr Oretsev," Morozov tells him gravely, "I will have my vengeance on your family and you, Malyen, are the sole survivor – now your family will be dust, consigned to obscurity."
He tries to lift his arms as Morozov stalks towards him, knife in hand, but the shadows wrap around his wrists like manacles, leaving him wide open, defenseless against attack.
He isn't gentle. Morozov does not slit his throat – quick and simple – but instead he delivers what feels like death by a thousand cuts.
Mal slumps over, his blood soaking the ground, the shadows retreating now they are no longer needed.
After all, he couldn't make it two steps even if he wanted to.
Morozov hefts him up like he barely weighs a thing, and then drapes him across Alina Starkova' body, letting his blood soak into her dress and skin.
As the life drains right out of Mal, he can see Alina's skin becoming rosier, notes her chest beginning to rise and fall evenly.
His mind is fuzzy, thoughts hazy, when Morozov shoves him to the side.
The Sun Witch stands, glowing so brightly Mal has to shield his eyes.
She is beautiful. She is the sun incarnate. She is deadly.
"You came for me," he hears her musical voice say.
"Always," Morozov murmurs.
Mal's eyes close for the last time, the remains of his life fading away.
Neither the Sun Witch or the Black Heretic pay his body any mind.
"My Alinochka," Aleksandr takes her hands into his, power rushing through him as they are reunited.
"My Sasha," Alina beams at him, her smile wider than the sun she commands.
They turn in unison to look at the town, the sounds of the autumn festival filtering through the trees, a false story spread among those who have no idea of the truth.
"Shall we?" he offers her his hand.
She takes it eagerly, "it has been far too long since the world witnessed true power and magic. I look forward to reminding them."
Keramzin would fall. The Sun Witch and the Black Heretic would endure.
Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it.
You can find me on Twitter under the username Keira_63. At the moment I pretty much just post mini prompt fics.
