Notes: For harry-up-n-kiss-me on tumblr! First full paragraph (Darkling's speech) is lifted directly from Shadow and Bone.
It was over. The Saints could forsake her, but that was all she had in response to what had just happened. For Alina, there were no exclamations, screams, or questions. No tears. Just that one, final and horrible thought: It's over.
The Darkling turned his back on the stunned and angry expressions of the ambassadors and addressed the Grisha and soldiers on the skiff. "Tell the story of what you've seen today. Tell everyone that the days of fear and uncertainty are over. The days of endless fighting are over. Tell them that you saw a new age begin."
Alina tried to breathe as the cheers of the Second Army converged with the fading screams of the dying. Her fingers curled into a fist at either side of her, and even though she had closed her eyes some time ago, the sounds of the beating, leathery wings and hungry shrieks were so visceral that it didn't make a difference.
And she somehow already knew she'd hear the echoes of those sounds until her grave.
No longer being held up by that invisible hand, Alina's body felt boneless and heavy. She sank to her knees, taking deep breaths despite the difficulty of the action. Part of her already knew that there wasn't anything living anymore, in that dark and empty wasteland beyond the barrier of her power.
The Darkling was still speaking, and Alina caught a few words out of his diatribe. Grisha. Peace. Brotherhood. The empty statements ran around in circles, as if they could protect the people from thinking too hard about what the price for that was. Alina could still see that woman trying desperately to pick up her child before the darkness swallowed them—her hair had been blonde.
Like Mal's.
Her back slouched in her kneeled position. Mal is in Tsibeya, she repeated to herself once again, for it was the mantra that had taken the place of prayer in her mind. Mal is in Tsibeya. Mal is in Tsibeya.
Mal was in Tsibeya and she had paid for his escape by agreeing to this. Shame filled her, and not for the first time, she was glad she had spared Mal from whatever the Darkling had planned. If he was willing to do this to Ravkans…
She couldn't cry.
Alina heard his footprints, but didn't look up until she felt those long, cold fingers curl under her chin. Instead she stared at the deck of the skiff. The clean, bloodless grains of wood that held it together, broken only by rusted iron nails.
The Darkling kneeled in front of her, his fingers still in place. And it was with a bitter sort of humor that Alina realized, to the onlookers, he probably looked comforting right now. She knew better. And as Alina finally tilted her head up, she saw that eternal bleakness that resided behind his eyes. The tensing of his jaw.
"Stand."
Her fingers curled into fists in her lap, "Why."
The Darkling gave a harsh exhale from his nostrils, as if the question itself was yet another offense against him, "You are part of the new Ravka, Alina. And I will not have you kneeling for its birth."
"I'm not part of any of this."
He leaned forward, his forehead touching her own, and for its appearance it was intimate. But unlike the watching ambassadors, Alina felt the bruising grip on her jaw.
The Darkling's voice was calm, unshakeable, "You will stand beside me. You will smile. If you must shed tears, it will only be because you are overcome with relief for the end of the war. Otherwise I will find your tracker, and I will give small pieces of him to the volcra until there's nothing but bone."
Alina felt her heart crawl into her throat. Her stomach rolled. Mal is in Tsibeya.She whispered to herself. Mal is in Tsibeya.
"Stand, Alina."
He put his arms around her. And the Darkling lifted her up from the deck.
Alina closed her eyes. Mal is in Tsibeya.
She stood beside him, one of his arms wrapped around her waist. She failed to smile. When she opened her eyes, they were not brimmed with tears at all, only something dry and hollow.
The Darkling stared at her from the corner of his eyes, giving an almost imperceptible frown. She didn't care. And she didn't react when the Darkling abruptly dragged her closer to him. His movements were rehearsed, a performance for the crowd, when he brought a hand to the back of her neck—over the collar—and lowered his lips to hers.
The kiss was slow. Unhurried. And the pressure of his lips against hers was uncharacteristically gentle. It was the sort of kiss she imagined Mal might give her, after the day she gave herself that scar on her palm.
And Alina had never felt more disgusted. Her fingers dug into the front of hiskefta, in what was probably interpreted as passion, but was really a desperate move to get him away from her. The Darkling let out an irritated sigh as he withdrew.
"Your eternal gratitude needs some refining," he said darkly, though he kept a nearly pleasant smile on his lips.
The words were heavy with warning, and it made her release her hands from his clothes as if burned. Before she could reply, the Darkling inclined his head at something over her shoulder.
A heavy hand gripped onto her bicep. Alina wasn't surprised that when she craned her neck it was Ivan she saw behind her.
The Darkling's instructions were spoken in a near-silent whisper, "Take her to the front of the skiff. Don't let anyone speak to her until we've reached the shore."
Ivan nodded, and Alina opened her mouth to scream, to protest, to dosomething that made her feel outside of his influence, but the Darkling's withering look silenced her. And his next words destroyed any other outburst she might have enacted.
"If she mentions the tracker at all, or tries to escape, contact his escort to Tsibeya and have him killed en route."
Ivan bowed his head, and started to drag Alina behind him without further ceremony.
Alina's eyes widened, and she struggled to face the Darkling even though Ivan was determined to march in the opposite direction, "You said-"
The Darkling's smile faded, just for one moment, "Do not try to assign integrity now, Alina. Or should I remind you who it was that turned her back on her country at merely a word from an old woman?"
That old woman is your mother, Alina thought, her mind racing with poison, And even she knew that this is wrong. For some reason, thinking of Baghra, thinking of her voice calling her a "foolish girl" once again, made something steel and solid enter her chest. And Alina dug her heels into the ground.
"You need to keep Mal alive," Alina almost growled, and she wasn't oblivious to the couple of soldiers who were starting to look at their exchange.
The Darkling was not oblivious either, if his tightened jaw was any indicator, "You are not in a position to make demands. Neither," his lips tugged into a frown, "is your otkazat'sya."
Alina jutted her chin up, she straightened her posture, and she looked him dead in the eyes, "Then kill me now."
Ivan's grip on her arm went slack, and he sent her an annoyed glare, but he stayed silent by her side. Everything seemed silent in that moment as she stared down her captor.
The Darkling said nothing for several, long moments, before he crossed the distance between them and leaned down.
"I can make life very difficult for you, Alina," he whispered, eyes not breaking from hers, "I can make death seem like a mercy," his voice grew softer, "But I will not kill you."
She wasn't afraid. She had nothing to be afraid of if he wasn't going to protect Mal. Her words were equally quiet, but they were intent even if her voice was hoarse, "If Mal dies by your order, someone will. I'll make sure of it."
The Darkling's face was impassive, but she could almost sense the agitation rolling off of him in currents. He watched her expression carefully, but she was positive that whatever he was looking for—doubt? Insincerity? Bravado?—wasn't there. She wouldn't let him hold Mal's fate over her head like a sword. They had made a deal, and he would either keep his half of the bargain, or she would end hers.
He looked at her mouth, then her neck. "…Keep her from her own stupidity."
Ivan cleared his throat, "Yes, moy sovereniy."
And with that, the Darkling turned his attention away from her and Ivan, and back instead to his crowd of jubilant soldiers.
—-
Alina was pale and furiously silent as they moved across the threshold. She didn't look up from the endless expanse of darkness in front of them as Ivan carted her past the raging ambassadors, the disgusted envoy of the King, or the still cheering Grisha.
"You are walking too slow," Ivan growled down at her, his lips barely moving.
"Afraid I might rain on the parade?"
Her warden only grit his teeth, "You're an arrogant idiot for questioning his mercy."
"Good," Alina whispered, her hands balling into fists, "I'd rather be an idiot than someone cheering about Novokribir-"
"Like this is about the village."
"It's about everything, he's murdered his own people!"
Ivan's fingers curled tighter into her arm, "Be quiet, or I'll let him know we had this conversation. Do you really think he cares if a deserting soldier makes it to Tsibeya?"
Alina took a short inhale, his words sliding like a knife under her ribs.
Ivan snorted, and Alina wasn't sure if she was imagining it, but his tone seemed more subdued, "If you want your tracker to live, you'll shut up. If you want to live, you'll shut up."
"He won't stop," she said hollowly, looking at the Unsea and trying to see its nonexistent horizon in the gathering dark, "It won't be enough for him. He'll make his own war."
Ivan's gaze was trained straight ahead as well, "Then let him. Maybe this time we'll be on the side that wins."
Alina closed her eyes. She thought of Keramzin. Of Ivan's brothers, father, and uncles. Of the darkness that just swallowed Novokribisk whole. Of the woman with her blonde hair. Of her son who was still too small to run.
"I think we both know that side doesn't exist."
—
The rest of the return trip to Os Alta is a silent one.
