Summary: The best laid plans of mice and men do often go awry.
Time passes, bringing with it first Alina's 17th then her 18th birthdays. It is the longest time she has been without a visit from her Shadow Man since she was five years old. It has dragged by, marked only by the usual events of the year, the common milestones in growing up and his letters.
It is not that Alina is miserable, or has a poor life, spent pining for the man who went away and has not returned. It isn't. For the most part Alina is happy. She does well in her exams and finishes with honours, securing a coveted apprenticeship at the same medical clinic her mother works at. While he mixed heritage always sets her apart, she does have some friends, close friends, and she has her beloved mama, who is still after all this time her closest confidant. However happy she is though, she still misses him – her oldest friend, the man she dreams about. The man she associates with safety, with belonging, with something more.
When she is 17, Grigor Zolotov, the baker's son, asks her to a public dance. She goes and enjoys herself – Grigori is an amusing sort with wide youthful eyes, a ready smile and engaging manners. He takes to walking her to her lessons and meeting her after apprenticeship training. It is sweet, but there is something missing. When he smiles at her, she feels no instinctive need to smile back and her heart remains stubbornly constant and unphased when he stoops to kiss her. The experience is not at all like how she has heard attraction and loved talked about by her older colleagues or her mama, on the rare occasions she talks about papa, and quite different to her dreams.
In the end, Alina gently but firmly sends Griori away. The same happens again with Pyotyr and David. They are nice boys. Sweet boys. The sort of boy any mother would approve of if you brought him home and yet they fail to illicit any reaction in her. There is nothing where she should feel her blood burn. They are pleasant company for a few hours, but when they are gone she does not miss them. Her friends don't understand. Anya and Katrina are both eager to experience the rush and heady decent into love even if they both protest that they are too young to consider marriage yet. Her mama watches with tired, concerned eyes, but says nothing other than it is better to wait for the right man than to settle for a wrong one.
Baghra just hurrumphs in her usual grumpy way but is otherwise silent on the matter, for which Alina is eternally grateful. She has no desire to hear what the old woman would have to say if she knew about who visited her nightly in her dreams.
Things start changing two months before her 18th birthday. It starts with a persisting malaise, a lethargy so at odds with her usually energetic nature. Then comes a cold she can't shake, fever and chills keeping her in bed for nearly two weeks before she is strong enough to manage the stairs in their cottage.
As the moon wanes, so to does Alina's strength and vitality. Her face grows gaunt, her skin unhealthily pale and waxy, even her hair looses its sheen, changing from luxurious ebony to a dull matt black. By the day of her 18th birthday she is unable to continue with the lessons she has so loved and faithfully kept to with Baghra for the last decade.
Her dreams have changes as well. Gone is Aleksander and those vivid dreams that seemed so lifelike and in their place is listless tossing and turning in a grey void where horrors lurk waiting to pounce.
The change in Alina worries Baghra enough to stir her from her hut for the first time in years. She and Madam Starkov huddle around the fire brewing concoction after concoction to try, but always with the same result.
With each failure Alina's mother grows more desperate as her mind draws her back to those terrible months when her daughter was five. In whispered fits and starts, Madam Starkov slowly tells Baghra about that dreadful time, the fear and desperation that led them to start out on that fateful journey, and of Alina's sudden and miraculous recovery. The old woman listens silently, eyes closed in thought, as she ruminates on an idea, a last-ditch effort to save the girl wasting away in front of them.
It is not easy convincing a worried parent to part with their beloved child, even if it for their own good. It is even harder when that is child is desperately ill and the only cure is an implausible leap of faith. Baghra has seen much in her millennia of existence but she has never seen the connection that ties her son to Alina or its like before. If she didn't know better, she would be inclined to think that the girl was the fabled Sun Summoner, but that was most unlikely, after all Grisha gifts run in families. With an Inferni for a mother and an otkazat'sya for a father it was almost certain that Alina would be like her mother. Besides, if Alina is the long-awaited Sun Summoner, Aleksander would have known, and her son would never have willingly left the treasure he had spent centuries searching for.
It is not easy but eventually Baghra carries the day. Five weeks after her 18th birthday, Alina leaves her home in Os Alta for Kribirsk, accompanied by two of Baghra's most trusted students.
The journey to Kribirsk is more challenging and takes longer than usual due to Alina's ill health, so it is with great relief to both herself and her companions when she started to feel better as they leave Balakirev. It almost seems that with each mile they cover her strength returns that little bit more. By the time their reach the recruitment tent of the First Army, on the outskirts of Kribirsk, Alina is looking a hundred times better than the sickly girl she was in Os Alta. She still has some way to go before she is completely returned to her previous vitality, but given the usual state of First Army recruits and their desperate need for those trained in medicine, her appearance barely warrants a second glance from the officer noting down her name and details. With a few strikes of a pen and a dismissive wave of the hand, Alina is now a fully signed up member of the Imperial army.
It takes Alina some time to adapt to life in the First Army. The food is dreadful, for a start, and the accommodations deplorable, but it is the lack of privacy and blatant hostility from her fellow soldiers that takes the most getting used too. And then there are the petty power games. It isn't that Alina led a particularly sheltered life in Os Alta, but the First Army could be a foreign country for how different the people in it are to the cultured citizens of the capital city. She is unused to people openly sneering at her for Shu heritage, unused to being treated as either invisible or as if she was only good for one thing, unused to the casual cruelty with which she is treated.
The first week is the worst, as it always is when settling into a new place. It is like she has a giant target painted on her back inviting people to line up and kick her. Soldiers in the food tent spit in her meals or make her return to the back of the line, sometimes multiple times. There are lewd comments, followed often by handsy boys who think they have some saint's given right to her person and don't, or won't, understand what 'no' means. It is lonely and isolating in ways she has never known and it makes her miss the safety of home all the more. If it wasn't for how much better she feels, she would be tempted, oh so very tempted, to jack it all in and run away.
Things get better once she gets to know her new unit. The Herbalist division is a small but valued part of the Royal Medical Corps. They are the botany experts who know how to make the lifesaving medicines and poultices that the First Army relies on to stitch their soldiers back together and keep fatalities to a minimum. Slowly Alina makes friends and starts to feel at home with her fellows in the Medical Corps. Her letters home become happier and return to their usual liveliness as she regales her mother with stories of army life. In her letters to Aleksander though she makes no mention of her change in address or her new occupation. It would only worry him, and as she doesn't know exactly where he is at the moment or what he is having to deal with, she is keen to avoid any unnecessary distress such news might cause him. Instead, Alina does as she has for years and encloses them with her regular correspondence with Baghra, who even hundreds of miles away is still setting her homework, to be sent on by his mother with her own letters to Aleksander.
As she becomes comfortable in her new surroundings Alina discovers the steel spine her mother said all the women in her family line possess. She starts arguing with the prejudiced arses in charge of the food line, she refuses to duck her head and look away when she hears slurs and insults aimed at her and the next time a soldier puts his hand on her bottom she punches him so hard it breaks his nose in two places. It gains her a reputation, but it is her encounter with the trackers that cements it and gives her a new nickname.
Afterwards, Alina is never quite sure how she came to be accepted as an honorary member of the fifth Tracker unit. It certainly wasn't an auspicious introduction and yet, somehow, out of her telling them off Alina has been adopted by the flirty tracker and his two sidekicks. From that moment on they are a regular presence in her life, albeit a not entirely welcome one.
Malyen – just call me Mal – Oretsev is an outrageous flirt and Alina is never entirely sure whether he is actually interested in her or that he just can't conceive that he might meet someone who doesn't fall for the blue eyed boy routine he spends hours a day perfecting and views her as a challenge. Either way, she learns to ignore his innuendo laden comments, suggestive winks and total inability to respect her personal space. The girls in the Medical Corps think she is bonkers for turning down "dreamy Mal", but she only has to think of how many beds he jumps in and out of on a regular – nightly – basis to know it is the right decision.
It doesn't stop him, Mikhael or Dubrov from occasionally stepping over the line she has drawn in their interactions, but a firm whack to the back of the head quickly sorts them out and reminds them of the rules. It is Dubrov who first calls her Firecracker, following one such incident which resulted in itching powder being liberally applied to the offending tacker's uniform, but it quickly catches on and soon they refuse to call her anything else. It is a name that unfortunately sticks and soon that is what everyone calls Alina – she is the Firecracker Herbalist, a tiny woman with a terrifying temper and a wicked sense of retribution.
Between her new reputation and her new friends, life in the army improves and becomes easier. She still misses her home, her mother and Aleksander, of course, but it is no longer a fiercely aching wound. Sometimes, usually after one of his letters arrive, she can't help but wonder what Aleksander would think of her new nickname and the life she has made here in the First Army. She rather doubts that he would approve.
He must be mad, that is the only explanation. Or, if not totally mad, then definitely well on the way. How else could Aleksander explain seeing Alina around camp other than by his brain conjuring a facsimile of the girl he still missed. It is fast getting ridiculous. At first it had just been the odd moment, a laugh which sounded familiar or a voice which in passing sounded like hers. Now though his tortured mind it seemed had gone a step further – two nights ago he could swear that he had seen her there outside his tent arguing with his Oprichniki to be allowed to see the Black General, yet when he finally convinced his stupefied feet to move, she was nowhere to be seen.
His mind is clearly degenerating. Alina is safe and sound in Os Alta, as the monthly letters he receives from her, Madam Starkov and his mother all affirm, progressing with her apprenticeship and pestering Baghra with her insatiable curiosity.
His mother had told him for years that he was destined for hell. He should write to the old bat and let her know that on this matter at least she was right, and that his damnation had already arrived.
Thankfully, for Aleksander's piece of mind, it only takes a few weeks for the mystery to be solved – albeit in a way which gives him a whole new problem to worry about.
As with many important events in life it is a total accident. Stressed and sleep deprived from a combination of reports of an unexpected encounter with an elite squadron of Shu soldiers 5 miles into Ravkan territory and the resurgence of those dreams, Aleksander goes for a walk, determined to find somewhere he can brood in peace without Ivan's apprehensive hovering. Allowing his mind to wander, his feet take him out of the camp and along the banks of the Unsea, where he eventually settles against a convenient tree that commands an uninterrupted view of his unwitting creation. He is far enough away now from Kribirsk that the noise and bustle is just a droning hum in the background – this is the closest he's had to solitary reflection for months.
He has just got himself comfortably settled for a good long brood – not moping, thank you Genya, Darkling's don't mope – when his much-prized solitude is shattered by a familiar happy voice singing. To begin with he thinks this is yet another hallucination, sent by his personal devil to torment him further, and so pays the singer no mind, merely shifting into a more comfortable position and closing his eyes. This proves to be a tactical mistake as less than two minutes later he finds himself knocked sideways by the force of a body colliding with his accompanied by a delighted salutation.
With Alina clearly flesh and blood and babbling in his arms, three things become apparent: firstly, that she really is here and not a shade conjured by his diseased mind. Secondly, that the saints must have a twisted sense of humour, and thirdly, that for Alina to be here either she has just arrived, unexpectedly and without warning, or she has been here for a while and their mother's (and Alina herself) have conspired to keep him ignorant of this fact. Given the dreadful uniform Alina is wearing, he is willing to bet money on it being the latter.
Their happy reunion goes down hill spectacularly fast from that point and the ensuing discussion is loud, unpleasant and results in both parties storming off in opposite directions, albeit for different reasons: Alina because she is sorely tempted to throttle the Darkling, and Aleksander because he is having trouble controlling his hormones.
It takes three days and twice as many grovelling notes before Alina agrees to meet him again. It is hard to tell who is more put out by the frequent communiques; Aleksander who has the fun of finding new, and ever more creative, ways to apologise with using the S word, Alina who has displeasure of reading them, or Ivan who has the unmitigated joy of trekking through rows of First Army tents for hours on end trying to find the erstwhile recipient who had decided to maturely deal with his lovelorn boss by hiding in unusual locations.
Their second conversation goes better, aided no doubt by the spectral presence of their mothers, which keeps both parties focused and civil, for the most part at least. Until, that is, Aleksander gets onto the topic of Alina's unexpected presence in Kribirsk.
"Your mother sent me here for health reasons," Alina replies tartly, bristling pre-emptively at the introduction of a subject that is bound to ignite her friend's more annoying characteristics.
"Health reasons?" Aleksander raises a derogatory eyebrow, "clearly mother has lost her mind. What utter garbage. If you're unwell you go to a healer or one of those health resorts our revered Tsarina loves so much. No one in their right mind would send someone in ill health to the First Army and actually expect them to get better. The food would prohibit it, for a start, not to mention the lack of hygiene that most otkazat'syas demonstrate."
Alina crossed her arms moodily, "well it worked. I started feeling better not long before we reached Kribirsk and since we've been here I'm completely back to normal: not one cold or sniffle, no more lethargy and not one stupid headache, not in the two months I've been in the camp."
Apart from that one contentious moment, however, it is otherwise a much calmer and more productive meeting than their last one. Aleksander will never support, or be happy about, Alina joining the First Army, but in the face of her evident happiness and visibly good health it is a situation he is forced to reluctantly accept. He might not understand why his mother's mad plan worked, but the evidence that it has is indisputable, despite his best efforts, and he will not risk Alina's wellbeing by sending her back to Os Alta until he understands the risks to her.
It might be assumed that the knowledge that the girl he has been trying to forget was here in Kribirsk – the very place he strategically retreated too trying to avoid her – would have a life changing effect on the recalcitrant General. Ivan certainly feared that it would be so and spent many long hours with Fedyor worrying over the havoc that the girl's presence might have on their normally staid and unflappable commander.
He needn't have worried.
Weeks slowly pass into months without Alina's presence have much, if any, discernible impact on the status quo. The only change is that the letters between the two now have a much shorter journey time as they no longer have a scenic detour via Os Alta before reaching their intended recipient. This change has the benefit of pleasing the dispatch riders, who no longer have to deal with an anxious Darkling looming up as soon as they arrive in Kribirsk, but it isn't one that wins universal acclaim and support. Ivan, in particular, is not in favour of this development as he increasingly finds himself seconded from his usual activities and responsibilities (unwillingly and with a great deal of frowning) to play courier in the dispatch rider's stead.
It is a precariously balanced house of cards that Aleksander has built, glued together through a combination of careful avoidance and strategic ignorance. So long as Aleksander can pretend that Alina is still safely miles away from the dangerous stupidity of the otkazat'syas in charge of the First Army, the delicate balance in maintained.
As time passes and nothing happens, he slowly starts to relax his hyper vigilance and complacency sneaks in.
Things come to a head just before Alina's 19th birthday, and with it the whole house of cards comes crashing down. For Aleksander it is a nightmare made real. There, in the cheap black ink of the First Army, is Alina's name on a list of the latest blood sacrifice the Tsar has ordered to cross the Fold. He barely glances at the mission parameters – they don't matter – nothing is worth this price.
The crack of his pen breaking brings Aleksander back from the dark, panic driven path his thoughts had been flying down. In his mind he sees Alina's lifeless body lying on a volcra torn skiff, or abandoned on a strange field somewhere in West Ravka, just another statistic to the otkazat'syas, but a loss of unimaginable magnitude to her mother… and to him.
Staring at the puddle of ink spreading across his immaculately organised desk, the Darkling picks up a new pen and marshals his thoughts, ruthlessly supressing the incipient panic that threatens to take over. With a stroke of his pen Alina Starkov, Senior Assistant Herbalist, is removed from the mission document. With a pleased smile, Aleksander relaxes back into the welcoming embrace of his chair, relief soothing the perpetual ache in his chest that had been his constant friend the long years since that night. Alina is safe. He might not be able to send her home, to the safety of Os Alta and the watchful eyes of her mother, but this he can do.
Was it an abuse of his power – definitely.
Should he be interfering with Frist Army decision – certainly not.
Would he do it again – in a heartbeat.
He will always act to keep this precious girl safe from harm. He has no doubt that Alina will be cross with his involvement, but she will come around soon enough, and he is a patient man. He thought of the way her beautiful eyes, always so expressive, will flash with ire when she finds out. He could almost hear her complaints, her cries of how she didn't want favours and how she should be treated like everyone else. Even as a young child his Alina had had a strong sense of justice and he couldn't imagine that had changed much in the intervening years. She wouldn't like this, would no doubt rail against it, but she would accept his decision, just as she always had. He could wait out any tantrum. He could wait for her temper to cool. One day she would understand and be grateful for his intervention. He was willing to wait for that day, secure in the certainty that this was the right thing to do, that he has her best interests at heart.
There is an old saying that his mother is particularly fond of trotting out – usually accompanied by an unhealthy dose of gleeful gloating - that even the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. Why mice would be making plans, or need them, has always confused him, but he takes the point of the aphorism. It is advice he would have done well to heed in this situation but unfortunately, for all concerned, he doesn't.
It never crosses his mind that the Alina he remembered had grown into the strong, capable woman he had glimpsed all those years ago standing over her father's grave. He never thinks that Alina might disagree with his carefully considered plan. It never occurs to him that Alina as an adult might take matters into her own hands and put herself back on that bloody list.
Which is why it is such a shock when two days later he sees her name on the passenger manifest for the skiff due to cross the Fold that afternoon and realises she has done the unthinkable.
Terror, true terror, is an unfamiliar foe to the Darkling. When you get to his age, most things lose any fear they once held over you: after all, death and time have different meanings to an immortal.
Alina, as ever, is the exception.
Now twice in the space of a week this one girl had caused him to feel that unwelcome sensation of heart stopping, mind paralysing terror – and that wasn't him succumbing to a bout of melodramatic hyperbole either, whatever his mother might say. The shock is sufficient to warrant Ivan entering his tent unbidden at a run, hands outstretched, and panic etched on his usually impassive face as he searches for the unknown danger that has caused his General's heart rate to skyrocket.
It takes 10 – frustratingannoyingwasted – minutes for him to reassure Ivan to the point where he can escape from his tent to search for Alina and beat some sense into her. Even then he has to send the loyal heartrender off on a spurious mission to track down some lost paperwork so that he can conduct his search without a minder.
It is only once he starts his search that he realises just how foolish an endeavour it is. The encampment at Kribirsk is huge and while he can find almost any member of the Second Army with little difficulty, the same could not be said for the First. After nearly an hour of fruitless searching, rendered more difficult by the need for discretion and secrecy, he is verging on total panic. Time is running out.
It is in this panic driven mindset that Aleksander finally spots his quarry. There she is standing around with a group of young officers, laughing as if she didn't have a care in the world, as if she hadn't turned his world upside down and then given it a shake for good measure.
If he thought it had been difficult before while trying to find her, it was nothing to the torture he feels waiting for her to leave those accursed otkazat'syas. Each minute seems to take an eternity. He could have wept with relief when the group's commanding officer suddenly appeared and started bellowing instructions. It was almost amusing watching the youths who had previously been so relaxed and jovial snap to attention and start scurrying like rats to obey their Sergeant. Making sure to keep a careful eye on Alina, Aleksander slips through the shadowy paths between the rows of tents in search of the perfect spot to ambush the girl. It takes only a matter of moments for the Black General to find what he is looking for and then to put his plan into action. In the space between one breath and the next Corporal Alina Starkov is no longer visible to any interested eyes that might have been watching.
Had Aleksander been less angry he would know that this is not the best way to approach either Alina or her imminent trip across the Fold. Angry people, however, are rarely sensible. Nor are those consumed by a potent mix of panic driven terror. Unfortunately for all concerned, the Darkling is both.
"What do you think you're doing," Aleksander hisses furiously as he grabs her shoulders in a crushing grip, giving her a shake with each word, "volunteering for the mission to cross the Fold. What in the name of every damned saint were you thinking?"
The bright smile that had lit up Alina's face at the site of her abductor dims once his angry tone registers. By the end of his speech a stony expression has taken its place as she growls out "Wha-how did you… that was you? You had my name removed from the mission?"
"Of course, you little fool, and you should be thanking me on bended knees that I did!"
"Thank you? Do you have any idea how hard I worked to get this assignment. The honour of it? I'm being sent-"
"To your death," Aleksander erupts, his grip tightening on her shoulders. "The Fold is dangerous enough but with everything that is going on in the West this expedition is suicide."
"You don't know that," Alina shakes her head, "this is a great honour. I'm the youngest herbalist to be selected to lead the medical part of an expedition across the Fold."
"And you think that's an honour, do you? – that the First Army has grown so desperate that they will send children to their deaths."
"I'm not a child, Aleksander," Alina cries in outrage, "it may have escaped your notice but I'm 19 now. The same age as many of the soldiers fighting in both the First and your precious Second Army. If I was an ordinary village girl I'd almost certainly be married by now…"
"And that makes it okay, does it!" he demands desperately, "Alina, please, I'm trying to protect you…"
"Well, no," Alina quietly agrees, voice so soft he almost misses it, "it's not right that so many young men and women are dying, but that's war, Alek, and I won't shirk my duty just because I'm scared I might die." She looks at her oldest friend, seeing the poorly disguised panic written across his beloved features, "I know you're just trying to look after me, but I won't let you wrap me up in swaddling cloths out of some misguided sense of obligation."
Alina watches as the Darkling paces up and down between the tents, fists clenching and releasing over and over, before he spins round with a dark glare.
"I could take your name off the list again," he threatens.
"No point. I'll just volunteer again." Alina sighs, already weary of this game.
"I could forbid the Commander of the Skiff to leave with you onboard."
"I'll just stowaway on another," Alina replies, unwillingly amused by the dark scowl on Aleksander's face that gets blacker with each of her retorts.
"I'll write your mother, I doubt you've told her of this hairbrained scheme," the Darkling announces suddenly, playing his trump card.
"You wouldn't dare," Alina pales rapidly at the thought of what her mother would say to that information. "Please, Alek," she says desperately, "please… just let me go. It's not worth all this bother, it really isn't, certainly not to you. This is a First Army issue - I'm little better than an otkazat'sya – and I know how you feel about them. This doesn't concern you, so just let it go."
"Of course it concerns me," Aleksander cries in aguish, looking like he can't believe what she just said. "You're not just some otkazat'sya cannon fodder. You're Alina. My Alina. Of course I care. How can you ask me to stand back and do nothing when those idiots in the First Army are willing to throw your life away and for what? Nothing!"
"Oh, so it's okay for someone else to die in my stead then, is that what you're saying?" Alina asks snidely.
"Yes, damn it, if that's what it takes, then it a price I will gladly pay," Aleksander replies earnestly, one gloved hand tugging at his hair, disarranging the normally immaculate styling, as the shadows around him grow thicker, darker and more ominous. It is a sight that normally has people bowing and scraping in terror before him.
Alina, however, is unmoved, patiently waiting out the fit of temper with the experience of one long familiar with it and blithely unconcerned.
"There's nothing I can say, is there," Aleksander reaslises sadly once he has regained control of his shadows.
Alina smiles softly at her old friend, lifting a land to cup his cheek – "'afraid not. This is goodbye – again - at least for the time being, and who knows, maybe I'll be one of those who get to come back," she finishes with a bright smile and jovial tone that are both patently false.
"Do I get a farewell hug?" she asks uncertainly, after several long moments of uneasy silence.
There is no conscious thought on his part as Aleksander sweeps his precious girl into a tight embrace, eyes once again glassy with tears he will not let fall. How long they sand there, intertwined in the shadows, he cannot say but eventually the moment is broken as Alina steps back, sniffing and dabbing at her eyes with the corner of the hideous First Army uniform she wears.
With a last nod, Alina picks up her forgotten papers and leaves their sanctuary, quickly disappearing among the other grey uniforms milling about the camp. Silently, Aleksander curses first himself, then Alina before moving on to the idiots in charge of the First Army. There is only one thing remaining for him to do now, one option left, one that would be unthinkable if it was for anyone else. It is a decision that should be unthinkable for him to even consider, let alone take. He is discovering, however, that in truth there is very little he is not willing to do or sacrifice if it keeps her safe.
"Oh Alina, my precious girl," he whispers brokenly, the knowledge of what he is going to do is like lead in his stomach as he watches her leave, "you're stubbornness will kill us all."
Certainty is a fickle friend. She had been certain she was doing the right thing when she turned Aleksander's assistance away. Certain when she boarded the sandskiff. Certain as she watched her fellow officers march aboard, her team among them. Certain as the accompanying Grisha took up positions. Certain, even, as the tall imposing figure of the Black General appeared unexpectedly on deck – clearly surprising both First and Second Army officers alike – before informing the Commander of his intention to join them on the trip with a dismissive and vaguely contemptuous "I have business with General Zlatan."
The certainty is a warm buzz in her stomach, insulating her from the freezing niggle of doubt and the familiar searing gaze that kept sweeping over her. Certainty keeps her warm and calm right up until the moment the skiff starts with a jerk that nearly knocks her off her feet and then realisation hits as the Fold looms larger and larger in front of her.
Gripping the rail tightly, Alina felt the first bubbles of panic start to rise, her thoughts racing in a stream of nonsense babble as the reality of her decision sunk in. It is stupid really, here she is about to cross the Unsea, one of the most dangerous voyages anyone could make and all her brain could focus on was wondering why it was called the Fold.
Something of her anxiety must have showed on her face as Mal turns to her with his signature cocky grin, putting his arm around her shoulders, tugging her into his chest with a jovial "Don't you worry, Firecracker. You stick with me – I'll protect you from any pesky volcra that might be hanging around."
"Thanks," Alina mutters without much enthusiasm., trying to duck out of the embrace. It isn't that she doesn't appreciate the spirit behind the gesture, she does, but there is something inherently annoying about a man just assuming that because she is a woman she needs him to protect her that always provokes her rebellious, cantankerous side.
Had she thought he would welcome her presence, she would have happily gone to stand by Aleksander and allow his thunderous scowl to keep her flirty stalker away. As it is, however, her brooding friend is giving off such strong don't come near me vibes that there is over a metre of clear space around him as he engages in a one-sided glare-off with the fuzzy edges of the Fold. Given the less than spacious proportions of the skiff and the number of people crammed onto its deck, the circle of space around him and the way officers of both armies are skirting around him, is quite an accomplishment. With a sigh, Alina resigns herself to her current company and her designated spot uncomfortably squished against the skiff railings.
For a journey into the Fold it started surprisingly well. They passed the first, then the second and even the third marker volcra free and unmolested until, that is, some idiot gets scared and lights one of the few kerosene lamps.
The attack happens in seconds. High overhead there is an unhuman screech, followed by another and then another and the sound of flapping wings, as the flying monsters appear out of the gloom and start grabbing at the captive victims on the deck of the skiff.
Ducking down out of the way, Alina crouches half hidden in the shadows of the balustrade, hands covering her ears in a futile attempt to block out the anguished cries of her fellow soldiers and the rapid, explosive sound of rifles being fired in close quarters.
The attack however is soon a distant second on Alina's priority list as all her attention, all her focus, is taken up with the smoky darkness enclosing them. Tears start falling down her cheeks unhindered as the maelstrom of emotion hits her. The grief and anguish is overwhelming, suffocating, smothering in its intensity. She has felt this before during those hours she had sat watching the Fold, but those were like embers spat from a fire - short lived and dulled - compared to the raging inferno she feels now that she is entombed within the unnatural darkness.
The pain, the desolation, the desperation and helpless fury which called it into creation. Alina feels it all, feels it cry and scream and claw at the intruders in its midst. Feels its escalating fury at the incursion as the skiff travels further and further into the heart of the darkness. It wants them out. It wants them gone. It wants vengeance. It wants…
it wants…
it wants to be heard.
It's heart breaking. Here in the void tearing Ravka apart is sorrow more than the human heart can bear, calling to her, tugging at something deep inside her. Alina knows this pain, recognises this grief.
Like calls to like and with a cry Alina answers.
The power roars out of her like a tsunami, flooding outwards in roiling waves, blinding in its intensity. It obliterates the circling volcra, incinerating them in seconds, their screams echoing in her ears.
Through the golden haze she dispassionately takes in what is happening on the skiff. She watches the panicked First Army Officers firing at the second wave of volcra who have appeared out of the darkness and the flash fire of the Inferni trying to ward them off. She sees the bloodied bodies littering the deck and the faces of fallen friends. She sees it all, but it is like she is viewing it through a pane of glass, or in a picture, she feels nothing but a vacant interest until, that is, her eyes land on Aleksander. He is in the thick of the fighting, a shadowy beacon at the epicentre of the chaos, shadows lashing out at the attacking volcra. She feels it then, the ominous focus the dark has, the way it is rushing towards him, trying to swallow him whole.
Too late she understands why it is the Black General never ventures into the Fold.
Too late she understands the fear on the faces of those who did know when he boarded the skiff.
Too late she understands why the most powerful Grisha in the world is powerless in this place.
Too late she sees what her certainty has wrought. The sacrifice he willingly, knowingly made.
Because in that one endless second she understands so much more than she did before, than she ought to as a human, she sees and she understands what will happen, what the Fold is trying to do and here - in this moment suspended in time - she makes a stand.
'Take it,' she screams into the grasping fingers of the Fold, pushing more and more of the thing burning inside her outwards, 'Take it all!
It cannot have him! It will not! She will not lose her him. She will not allow it. Confronted by her determination the darkness buckles and gives ground, retreating from her presence as if hurt. The golden dome surrounding her grows, surrounding the skiff in protective light.
No more.
No more death.
The darkness surrounding her will bow to her. It will obey her.
With a sigh Alina gives herself over to the warmth flowing hot through her veins.
It could be seconds or minutes or hours since the attack started, since Alina entered this ethereal world, but distantly she becomes aware of a familiar voice calling to her. It is screaming, pleading with her, telling her to let it go, to let the power go before she burns. The naked grief in that voice is almost enough to pull her from her trance, tugging on something, some connection deep in her mind, a need to soothe the distress, to make the caller smile and banish his pain.
It is almost enough -
But how can she let this go when it is her – this is her, her true self, and it is glorious. It is blazing, scorching, scarifying her from the inside out, purifying her. She is the light and the light is her. In this place she sees everything – all that she was, all that she is, all that she could be.
She is flying high on a tidal wave of light, so completely consumed she no longer feels connected to her earthly body. Blood drips unnoticed from her nose as the last threads anchoring her to corporeal form pull tight and threaten to snap.
A hand grasps her wrist yanking her attention away from the mesmeric ecstasy of the power within her.
It is a familiar touch, a welcome touch, a touch associated with protection, with safety and calm. But it's wrong. Instead of soothing, instead of calming the raging torrent, it makes it worse. It pulls the power out of her faster and faster until it is too much, too much, too much, and Alina wants to cry at the pain of it.
This is how it ends, with a bang not a whimper, as the light explodes out of Alina in one final, destructive blast, throwing both her and her protector in opposite directions.
The last thing Alina sees is the top of the skiff flying past her and then she feels the impact as she hits the deck with bruising speed. The Sun is smiling at her, warming her aching body, and Alina knows no more.