A/N: Due to popular demand, here is Aleksander's take on Nadya's birth-a big helping of Daddy Darkles, a bit of fluff, and a lot of angst. Better to ready the tissues, don't tell me I didn't warn you.
Also, he had a lot to say, so, to keep the lenght of the chapters in this verse in the 3-4K words range, I divided the story into two parts. I'll try to hurry with the second one.
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Part I
Aleksander had been General Kirigan for a handful of decades when the current Lantsov heir was born.
The moment the Tsar—a younger man then, with a less generous girth, but the same wasteful and greedy temperament—learned of the Tsaritsa's labor, he called for a feast, with his closest advisors, lackeys, and ass-kissers in attendance; Aleksander was obliged to be there as well. And so while his wife labored in a distant wing of the Grand Palace, the Tsar ate, drank, and made boisterous comments about his own virility. And when, hours later, he was at last informed of the birth of his son, he just shouted, red-faced from the alcohol, about how the Saints favored him, and asked for more champagne.
Aleksander was appalled . The Tsar never once expressed concern for the well-being of his wife—Aleksander even doubted he would have cared much if the woman died—, and only saw his son as an extension of himself, the sign of his own greatness. (As far as Aleksander knew, he hadn't even gone to see the babe until after he shook off his hangover the day after.)
And yet he raised his glass when he was ought to, and murmured a toast to the young Tsarevich, even if in the meantime he was silently praying for the child not to fall into the same vileness as his parents, and cursed everything that allowed such an undeserving creature as the Tsar to experience fatherhood.
Nearly quarter a century later, on the day that would become the birthday of his child, Aleksander wakes… well, maybe not happy, but very close to it. Troubled, but blissful, would be perhaps the closest definition.
Because he is still plagued by his old problems: he is fighting a war on three fronts—or four, depending on what one considers the Tsar—, with limited resources and great threats looming over his shoulders, which sometimes make him feel like a stray dog backed into a corner. But at the same time Alina—Alina is there. Alina is there, every single day, listening to his woes and offering him her smiles and accepting his kisses, and, now, even demanding some of her own.
And by the end of the month, their child will be with them, too.
So yes, he wakes troubled, but blissful . Because he might take his breakfast in a hurry to get to the Grand Palace to another pointless, early meeting with the chancellor of the exchequer (no point in carving out time for a shared breakfast; Alina prefers to stay in bed late these days), followed only by more meetings, but then he'll have an hour and a half free to take lunch with her, and once the the sun goes down and he finishes with all of the paperwork for the day, he'll have even more time to spend with her. To have her sit on his sofa in front of the fireplace, gaze tired but content, letting him read to her, perhaps some old folk tale he remembers from before it was written down, or even some grand love poetry. She might put her feet in his lap, silently asking for a massage, which he'd gladly give; or he might be able to coax her to lean against him, even lay her head on his thighs, letting him play with her hair as he read, lulling her to sleep with the gentle rhythm of his fingers.
So yes, he is very nearly happy, because he has something lovely to look forward to.
His blissfulness lasts until the precise moment he steps out of the chancellor's office after their meeting and finds himself face to face with Genya Safin—face drawn, hands worrying the hem of her ivory sleeves.
"Miss Safin," he starts with a customary, formal bow, heart giving a painful, frightened thud at the sight of her.
She is less concerned with such niceties. "It has started," she says without any preamble.
His whole body goes taut for a moment, like the string of a bow, pulled back to near-breaking point. "What?" he hisses, half in disbelief, half in terror, and then he is already in motion, striding down the corridor with hurried steps Genya has a hard time matching.
"When I went to Alina this morning, like I usually do, I found her standing by the foot of the bed, holding onto the post," Genya explains, her breathing strained as she tries keeping up with his much longer strides. "When I asked, she said she just had trouble sleeping, and that she was sore, but that it was nothing out of the ordinary this late in the pregnancy. So I let it go. But then as I was brushing her hair, she just stiffened one moment, and grabbed the edge of the vanity, and hissed in pain. When I asked then, she admitted she'd been having pains since before sunrise."
"And what did you do then?"
"I called for the midwife and came to fetch you."
"Good," is all he says as he throws the doors of the Grand Palace open and marches out into the cold, not even bothering to take his cloak.
He ends up having to wait in front of the vezda suite for what feels like an eternity, but in reality could not be more than ten minutes, before the midwife steps out.
"Moi soverenyi ," she greets him with an appropriately deep curtsy. He knows and trusts this woman — although an Otkazat'sya herself, she has a Tidemaker for a niece whom she is close to, and thus harbors no ill will towards Grisha. Next to being present at the births of numerous noble children in the capital—a testament of her skill—, she is the one who has seen to the births of the handful Grisha babes born in the Little Palace in the last three decades or so. "The lady's labor has definitely started, although these are still early hours."
"Isn't it too early?" Two weeks, maybe three ; first babes are rarely in a hurry — that was what the Healer, who has been overseeing Alina's pregnancy ever since she came back to the palace, said barely two days ago.
"A little, but not alarmingly so," the midwife answers with a small nod of her head. "We should not worry—most babes born at this point are perfectly fine."
Oh, but does he worry; it boils in the very core of him, threatening to consume him. "How long?" he forces out the question.
The midwife considers the answer for a moment. "It's impossible to tell. The baby's well positioned, the lady's been having pains for a few hours, and they are coming nice and regular, but she is still in early stages. We'll have to wait and see how she progresses—some birth in a couple of hours, some have prolonged labors, but first children do like to take their time. It could be this afternoon, it could be tomorrow morning. Some even take several days."
He glances at the white door, the one thing that separates him from Alina at the moment, helplessly. He so desperately wishes to be with her, to ease her pain and see her through the labor as quickly and safely as possible.
"What can I do?" he asks after a long moment.
The look the midwife gives him is as indulgent and patronizing as a schoolmarm's. "You can stay out of the way. The birthing chamber is no place for a man. The most help you can provide is letting us do our job undisturbed."
He swallows, throat constricting painfully, but he still nods in consent. "Alright. But keep me updated."
"Of course, moi soverenyi ," head bowed, the midwife curtsies again, then quickly retreats to the suite—the door opened just to a crack to let her slip through, not wide enough for him to catch a glimpse of Alina, but for long enough to hear her low, pained moan.
So he does his best to stay away, even if it pains him to do so, even if every fiber of his being is screaming for him to be with Alina. He calls for the Healer who oversaw her pregnancy and tells her to join the midwife in the vezda suite—just in case, just as a precaution, lest something happens that requires care beyond the midwife's capabilities—, then slips back into his schedule as if it was an ordinary day.
At least he is trying his best to do so.
He is twenty minutes late from his next meeting, this one with some of his lieutenants from the Southern front, to iron out the details of the winter campaign. He knows he is short with them, and snappish, and way less attentive than he should be, but he just can't help it. This is their third such meeting in a week's time, and they should be able to figure things out by themselves based on the previous two meetings.
Plus this is not where he is supposed to be right now, and it's eating away at his soul.
He ends up concluding the meeting sooner than scheduled, with strict instructions to the lieutenants to handle the finer details themselves, but keeping in mind their previous discussions— he is no nursemaid to hold their hands — and to bother Ivan if they still happened to have questions.
Once alone in the war room, he runs his hand through his hair, pours himself a drink, then, with the alcohol burning down his throat, he rests his forehead against one of the great wooden columns around the war table. After a long moment, he glances at the clock with a great sigh.
Barely an hour has passed since he was outside of her rooms. Many more to go, most likely. He has no idea how he will endure it all.
His next meeting is marginally better—it's a report from one of his spies in West Ravka, relayed by one of his agents, and this time it's just the two of them in the room, and he'll have it in written form on his desk by the end of the day anyway, so he nods and makes little noises of agreement and dissatisfaction, while his mind wanders, travelling back many seasons past.
They lay in bed, Luda reclined on the old pillows, him on his stomach, in the cradle of her thighs — one of her legs thrown over his shoulder, the other tucked under his arm, as he rested his head on her belly, both of them without a stitch of clothing.
"He is going to be so smart. And kind. And talented. And powerful," he said, his tone revelential, every sentence punctuated by a kiss pressed just under her belly button.
Luda chuckled, her smile brilliant in the weak candlelight. "He could be a she."
"Then she'll be all that. And beautiful. And, first and foremost, loved." The last word was underlined not by a kiss, but a raspberry blown against her soft skin. Luda laughed out loud and tried to squirm out from under him, but he held her firmly.
"Oh, Sasha," she sighed, tangling her fingers in his hair, once her laughter subsided. He looked up, so their gazes met, and he saw the carefree happiness dim in her eyes. "How are we going to do this?"
He caught her hand, gave it a quick squeeze, then brought it to his lips. "I don't know," he admitted, "but we will. We'll build a safe haven for him, and raise him in safety and care."
"Or her."
"Or her," he acquiesced, laying his head on her stomach again. "She'll never have to fear the world," he told her, and, at that moment, he was so sure of it.
But their children never got to see the sunlight, and Luda never got to see the safe haven he built.
He is done with his third meeting of the day by lunchtime—by that coveted hour and a half of freedom he was so looking forward to spending with Alina just that morning. He'd even organized the meal to be served in the solarium, to steal a little bit of a Spring into the drab, unforgiving, late-Autumn day.
Instead now he finds himself in front of the vezda suite once again, barely keeping himself from pacing nervously.
It takes a minute or two for the midwife to emerge from the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her—Aleksander cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Alina, but he can see nothing, but a sliver of the bed's curtains.
Just like in the morning—was just only three hours ago? It feels infinitely more—, the midwife greets him with a curtsy, her head bowed. " Moi soverenyi. "
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, unsure what he is supposed to say exactly. "How—how is she?" he asks at last, the words tumbling from his mouth with less elegance than what he usually allows himself.
"Well, so far," the woman answers. "Her waters are yet to break, but her pains are getting stronger and closer together. She's making good progress, and the Healer you sent assures me that the child is not in any distress."
"And?"
"And that's it." Here's that look again—the one that awfully reminds him of his mother's from his own childhood. "She's progressing as well as expected, and at this point we have no reason to worry, but it'll be several more hours before she gives birth. I'll send a servant if there's anything worthwhile to report, but until then, the best we can do is to let nature run its course. And the best you can do, pardon me my straightforwardness, moi soverenyi , is to let me do my job, helping nature along."
A part of him wants to be angry at her for insolence, but his gratitude for the woman smothers the sparks of his temper before it could catch fire, so he just nods.
That's when he hears it: it starts with a low moan coming from the heart of the room, getting gradually louder, until it culminates in a rather… colorful curse in a mix of Kerch and Fjerdan.
His lips pull into an amused smirk without his consent—he knows it was born out of pain, and he'd take all of her agony if he could, but… He's barely heard Alina swear before, and never this vulgarly, and it's oddly entertaining.
The midwife takes a quick look over her shoulder before turning to Aleksander again. "I told you her pains are getting more intense. Which is good, because it means she's getting closer, but… it also means more pain. She'll be hollering before the day is over. This is our lot in life."
His throat constricts painfully.
Luda had him for support when she was going through pains, and she lent her support to a number of Grisha women in their camp as they labored. Even the Tsaritsa had her ladies and confidants with her during her labors. And what does Alina have? A Healer, who is barely more than an acquaintance, and a midwife and her apprentice who she has maybe met once before today.
And she is in pain, which is only going to get worse.
"Would you… would you mind if I sent somebody in to be with her?" he stumbles through the words. "A woman. A friend of hers."
The midwife's face softens. "Not at all. It'll be good for her to have a friendly face nearby."
"Thank you," Aleksander nods, "I'll tell her to come right away." He gives her a quick nod in parting, then turns around, and, before he could lose his nerve and run into Alina's rooms, he marches down the corridor.
First, he'll find Genya, then—since he has nothing better to do, and he would much rather have her hear it from him than from one of her spies—he'll go and visit his mother.
He's gone to see his mother a handful of times ever since the cursed and blessed night of the winter fete.
The first time it was right after he realized that Alina was missing.
"What have you done?" he asked her, his blood boiling.
"I told the girl the truth. I owed it to her," Baghra said, her chin jutting out proudly. Tore my hope from me, that's what you did , he wanted to scream at her, but instead he just said, as evenly as he could manage it:
"You told her your truth. What about mine?" What about the changes she wrought on my plans, on my very soul? Why didn't you give me a chance to explain myself?
"I did her a great service. Now she might be free of you. Now the world might be free of your plight," she hissed, her tone, the one not tolerating any arguments, so familiar from his childhood.
He didn't go to see her again until Alina was back at the Little Palace.
"I found her," he told Baghra after invading her hut without even knocking.
"Poor thing. Never stood a chance, did she?" she asked from the shadows, her gaze trained at the flames in hearth; she wasn't even looking at him.
"She is with child."
"Yours?"
"Likely."
He expected her scorn then, for taking Alina, for robbing her of her innocence, for using the pleasures of the flesh to manipulate her. But instead she only said, with complete resignation: "Then it won't keep. It never did."
He knew then that she was telling the truth, but he was desperately clinging to hope, so left her without another word.
The next time happened some weeks later.
"The baby is mine," he told her out of childish anger and pettiness. "And it is thriving."
Baghra scoffed, but at least looked into his eyes as she told him, "The gods have some twisted sense of humor."
A season had passed before he went to her again.
"I love her," he told his mother. It was a truth he had known for some time, but wasn't ready to say out loud. He was still not ready to say it to Alina, but he needed to hear it, just as he needed another person to hear it. "I love Alina, and I love our child."
Baghra was sitting in front of the fire, like she always did, embroidery in her lap, the stitches, done by her ancient hand, surprisingly even. She looked at him, her face entirely unreadable. "And you delude yourself into thinking that your love is a blessing?"
"Can't it be?"
She picked up the needle again. "Love can be even more destructive than hate."
"And it can build wonders."
She scoffed. "The Fold is a wonder of sorts. An awful, dark wonder."
"How fortunate it is then that Alina is full of light."
"And what about you, Prince of Darkness?" Her gaze was sharper than a Fabrikator-made sword.
He took a deep breath. "I bask in her light. She balances me out."
Baghra made a contemplative little sound. "Balance can be beautiful." The needle slipped through the fabric, dragging a blood-colored thread through between the wefts. "So you are determined to love her."
He nodded. "For centuries to come."
"Then be careful to love her right."
When he gets to Baghra's hut this time, he finds his mother standing by the worn, ancient table, folding freshly pressed linens, tucking bunches of dried herbs into the fabric. No matter how many times he has offered to have the palace servants take over from her, Baghra insists on running her own household. Deep down he understands—he, too, craves control and a place to call his own after so many years spent on the road, without a home.
"Strange winds are blowing," she says in lieu of a greeting, not raising her gaze to meet his. "Yesterday, it was blowing from the South-West, and my left knee pained accordingly, but by this morning it has turned, and now it's blowing from the East. I wonder what it'll bring."
"Alina's in labor," he tells her, as if it could be an answer to her question. "I'm to become a father today."
She looks at him then, her face unreadable, but something very akin to pity glimmering in her eyes. "No, you are not," she shakes her head.
His breath hitches. "If you—"
"The simple fact that a child you sired is born," she cuts it, "won't make you a father. Just like the man who begat you was never your father." She turns her attention back to the linens. "When you'll rock your child to sleep, when you'll keep vigil by their bedside when they are feverish; when you'll kiss away tears over a scraped knee and chase away monsters slipped from a nightmare—that's when you'll become a father."
He blinks at her. "If that's how it is, have you ever been my mother?"
Her hands still over the last pillowcase. "Not as often as I should have been. And never as good as I was ought to. As you deserved." She finishes the folding, then gathers up the linens, and, turning her back on him, carries them to the chest in the corner. When she turns back to him, there is a package wrapped in brown paper in her hands. She gives it to him without a word.
Gingerly, he opens the package. There are clothes inside—an infant's nightdress; swaddling clothes; socks the size of his thumb, woven with colorful ribbons; a cap edged in lace.
He looks at Baghra, waiting.
"Aleksander," she says; he can't even remember the last time she called him by the name she'd given to him. "Be a better parent than I was."
