Summary: A gossiping healer, who won't shut up, no tea (again) and a loopy Sun-Summoner with a concussion, just when Ivan thinks his day can't get any worse the Drüskelle attack.

"-and you'll never guess what he said then…" Olga exclaims excitedly, oblivious to the blatant disinterest apparent on the face of at least one of her captive audience, as she continues with her gossiping undaunted and happily unaware. After four hours even Fedyor, who is a champion gossip, is starting to flag under the relentless stream of chatter that is emitting from the previously surly healer.

After what had been a promising introduction the previous afternoon - in which Olga had said barely two words and spent the majority of the time scowling at anyone who dared to breathe in her vicinity - Ivan had hoped that he had at long last met a kindred spirit. He was to be disappointed, for as soon as the healer had awoken that morning her mouth had opened and it had seldom been closed since.

Later, an exhausted Ivan would muse to Fedyor that it was if the healer had a solar powered gob – they had set off at dusk in glorious silence, silence which had continued uninterrupted until the sun had crested the horizon, then as soon as there was light to see the babble had started.

It was shaping up to be another not-good-very-bad morning and from the position of the sun through the dusty carriage window Ivan suspected they hadn't even reached 10 o'clock yet.

He, Fedyor, the incurably garrulous healer and the newly discovered Sun Summoner had been trapped in this saints forsaken carriage for well over 15 hours by this point with only two brief breaks to relieve themselves and avail themselves of some of the hastily packed food and water. His back hurt from the highly sprung carriage bouncing around on poorly maintained roads, the dust being kicked up was playing havoc with his hay fever and he had pins and needles in his legs from sitting still for so long in too small a space for legs as long as he had been cursed with. Needless to say, Ivan was not happy. In fact, all things considered, Ivan thought it would not be an exaggeration to say he was very not happy.

To make matters worse, Ivan was without his tea. Again. For the second time in as many days.

He had discovered this calamity on the second and most recent stop. Breakfast had been consumed, the facilities (such as they were) used and the horses checked, when Ivan had gone looking for his tea, only to find it missing.

An apologetic Fedyor had bravely gone where the other Grisha feared to tread and broached the topic with his irate partner. In the chaos of the previous afternoon, the bag containing his tea had accidentally been left behind - along with quite a few other essential supplies, but those weren't uppermost in Ivan's mind at the moment.

With a scowl, Ivan had hauled himself back into the death trap that was the General's favourite carriage, bracing himself for more skeletal trauma, as he morosely considered the probability of his beloved tea being snaffled by some thankless First Army bastard who probably wouldn't know how to properly prepare it or even have the good sense to enjoy the boon.

The only Brightside to an otherwise awful start to the day was that she was still out cold, slumped against the velvet wall of the carriage in an awkward position Ivan gleefully hoped would give her a painful crick in her neck.

So of course, that's when the accursed girl woke with a start and a curse that would make a sailor blush.

Someone had a headache.

No, Scratch that. Someone had the mother, father and grandfather of all headaches. It was as if an irritable and poorly trained percussion group had taken up residence nearby and were diligently practicing a particularly energetic piece on bits of her skull.

Raising one trembling hand and pressing it against her aching forehead, Alina let out a curse she remembered Alek using when he thought she couldn't hear. The hammering and white-noise inside her head was reaching a crescendo when her stomach decided to make itself known. With the clumsy, vague thinking that comes with this sort of pain it belatedly dawned on her that she was about to be sick. Reacting on instinct long perfected through the inevitable consequences of many nights of First Army drinking games, Alina rolled, intending to lurch over the side of the bed before the contents of her stomach could make a reappearance. Instead with a jolt and sharp shock that forces her eyes open she finds herself on the floor, which appears to be inconveniently and inexplicably moving.

Forcing bleary eyes to focus, Alina sees four – or is that eight – shiny black boots that could only be army issue, before promptly throwing up over at least one of the boots, her head hitting the floor again with a solid thunk as she moans in discomfort. From above she hears a muttered curse as her fellow occupants react to the impressive amount of vomit now liberally coating the floor.

The brief interlude, while disgusting and unpleasant, has at least one positive – for Alina, that is – as she no longer feels sick and her thinking is slightly less fuzzy than before.

Firm hands pull her off the floor and get her back onto a seat in what she now recognises as a particularly expensive and luxurious carriage. While under normal circumstances Alina would object – vociferously – to such manhandling, on this occasion she is rather thankful as her legs seem temporarily disinclined to work. With an attempt at a grateful smile that she suspects is rather more a grimace than anything else, Alina settles herself more comfortably in the sumptuous cushions, using the opportunity to gaze around the interior of her prison? And the faces of her three would be kidnappers, unsure as to whether to be relieved or not that one of them appears to be Aleksander's postman.

"Err, not to sound rude, but where are we, why have I been kidnapped by a postal worker, who are you two and what am I doing here?" Alina blurts out, still dazed from her unexpected fall and the bongo drums beating out an enthusiastic dance on bits of her brain.

"And why am I wearing a kefta?" she adds after four failed attempts at finding the handkerchief she always keeps in her left pocket alerts her to the unexpected wardrobe change.

"What do you remember?" the smiling Grisha in Heartrender red asks, voice and eyes kind as they meet Alina's.

A frown pulls at Alina's mouth as images flash across her mind's eye, too fast and chaotic for her fuzzy brain to understand.

Flame red flashes. The cries of injured soldiers. Shouts in the dark. Wind rushing as dark shapes swoop down, the snick of clenching claws and angry shrieks. Sorrow and pain. Anger. So much Anger. ScreamingScreamingScreaming. Grief more than the human heart can bear, calling to her, tearing through her.

"Screaming," Alina says at last with a frown, fingers massaging and pushing at the escalating pain in her temples.

The smiling Heartrender lets out a chuckle that nearly covers the sour looking messenger boy harrumph in displeasure. "A perfectly understandable reaction to a volcra attack. I would scream too." He says kindly, evidently trying to put the confused girl at ease.

"No… no, that's not right. Not me. Someone… something else," Alina murmurs, her fingers now pressing so hard against her forehead that they leave red marks. "Something. I can't… why can't I…" With a sigh, Alina gives up trying to remember and instead looks around the carriage. "That still doesn't explain why I'm here though or who you lot are," she points out distractedly as she spots a luminous yellow blob dancing above grumpy's head.

"You're the Sun Summoner!" Olga blurts out, after Fedyor has finished with the introductions, apparently unable to stay silent a moment longer despite the withering glare Ivan has fixed on her. "After the attack the skiff the General insisted you be taken to the Little Palace immediately to start your training to destroy the Fold. He handpicked us especially to be your escort. Wouldn't even let us properly heal him until the arrangements were made. It was soooo dramatic! Just wait, no one is going to believe me when I –"

"What do you mean, Sun-Summoner?" Alina interrupts, shock making her uncharacteristically rude. "I'm not a Sun-Summoner, don't be daft." She shakes her head causing more dark strands to pull free of the regulation bun she wound her hair in just prior to boarding the skiff. The motion is foolish one, as she quickly realises when the pounding in her head ratchets up a notch and her stomach makes itself known again, but one she can't seem to stop as if the act alone can make the words untrue.

Whatever sanity Alina had hoped to cling to with her denial is quickly and efficiently dispelled under the onslaught of excited, almost fanatical babble from the newly introduced Olga. The Healer is in her element as she raves about the power Alina allegedly has and what she means to Grisha, the great destiny before her and what she will do.

It is insanity. Madness.

"I mean, look at me," Alina cries overwhelmed, the hysteria creeping into her voice making it go high and shrill after her new acolyte has finished swearing herself into Alina's service in this life and the next, "I'm just a Herbalist in the First Army, I'm not… I'm not… I can't be… there has to be some mistake. This. Has. To. Be. A. Mistake!"

Panic claws at her throat, her thundering heart makes it hard to speak, hard to think, hard to even breathe. In the space of seconds her world has shrunk, condensed within her to the point where all her mind can focus on is the fear rapidly escalating inside her and the desperate denial she clings to – this isn't - can't - be happing. Not now, not to her. She isn't a mythical hero or one of the fabled saints so revered in Ravkan culture. She's Alina Starkov. She's barely even Grisha. She's not a – the – Sun Summoner.

From far away Aleksander's voice floats through the chaos that is her mind telling her to breathe, telling her to control the panic and not to let it control her. But it's too late, it has her tightly in its grip and she can't breathe. Her lungs are frozen, pinned beneath an ever-constricting band as darkness dances at the edge of her vision. She needs the world to stop, for the woman beside her to stop her fervent flow of words. Nothing makes sense in this strange new world she had awoken in. Nothing. She needs her mama, she needs to wake up from this nightmare, she needs Aleksander.

Just when she fears her heart is going to explode from the pressure of everything it slows, her lung gasping back air as the band suddenly relaxes. Alina's last thought as unconsciousness greets her like an old friend is to think that they're doomed if the fate of the world depends on her.

"Was that really necessary?" Fedyor asks as he rearranges the slumped slumbering figure into a more comfortable position.

"She was hyperventilating," Ivan replies, calmly adjusting his rumpled kefta.

"Yes, but both of them?" Fedyor demands crossly.

Ivan looks at the two sleeping girls on opposite bench, lips twitching in what for anyone else would be termed a smile and raises a sardonic eyebrow, "oops."

Heart-sleep is a difficult and tricky skill to master. It requires the Heartrender to constantly control the rhythms of that person's heart in order to keep them in an artificial sleep. Even a slight lapse in concentration could result in the target waking up… or the Heartrender accidentally killing them. While to Ivan's mind it would be no great loss to the universe in this particular situation, the paperwork would be a nightmare and that's before factoring in the General's probable reaction. A trek through the Fjerdan tundra, naked, without tea and carrying an irate Baghra, would be more enjoyable.

Ivan is a talented Heartrender, but even the best would struggle to keep two hearts forcibly asleep during an ambush, which is why only a few hours blessed silence later he reluctantly allows both Sun-Summoner and Healer to wake up as they enter the thick forest between the Petrazoi mountains and Balakirev. This is the most dangerous part of the journey as they come perilously close to the Fjerdan border. Wolves, bears, treacherous weather conditions and the Drüskelle are all things they have to look forward to as they take the less known roads on their desperate flight to the Capital. Only the direst need for secrecy has sent this them this way and not along the Vy as normal. The route selected is a gamble and a desperate one at that - a forlorn hope that their enemies will assume they will use the Vy to whisk their new Sankta back to the safety of the Little Palace, acting as a distraction and so letting the convoy move unseen and unmolested cross country.

The ride is silent now, even the unstoppable Olga is quiet, staring pensively out into the heavy gloom of the forest.

Far from being restful, the silence now is oppressive and ominous, the clip-clops of the horses hooves the only sound echoing in the stillness. Beside him Fedyor is tense, his habitual smile missing as his brow furrows in concentration, ears and mind straining to sense any enemy that might be lurking nearby.

Despite being prepared for – and expecting – an attack, the assault, when it finally happens, still takes them all by surprise.

It starts with a shiver running down Ivan's spine as he hears the outriders shout about a tree in the road. There is no doubt in his mind that this is staged, but even he is taken aback by the sheer number of Drüskelle and the effectiveness of the ambush. While normally a complement of highly trained Grisha and Oprichniki would have no trouble eradicating a raiding party, they are hampered by the thick undergrowth in the wood and the presence of strategically hidden sharp shooters.

With a firm glare he tells the girl to stay in the bullet proof carriage where she will be safe, while he, Fedyor and Olga hop out to help their comrades.

Within seconds their team of 16 is already down four officers, three certainly dead and one who probably wishes he was given the moans of pain and garbled calls for his mother. Bullets whiz past with dizzying speed, and then the smoke bombs arrive, choking them even as the Squallers try to diffuse the toxic air. It is chaotic and terrifying. Such is the speed of the assault that Ivan and the other Heartrenders cannot even be sure how many attackers there are let alone locate their hiding places.

Far from taking control of the battle, Ivan finds himself and his fellow Grisha being pushed back as they attempt to defend their position. Eventually they take cover in a small gully, large oak trees providing much needed cover from the terrifying accuracy of the sharpshooters, and regroup. They are down to 11 now. It would be folly to continue trying to push ahead in such conditions and their greatest hope of survival lies in changing from their usual tactics of confront and pursue to more guerrilla strategies.

It works. The Fjerdans start to leave their cover and converge on the ditch. With the precision and ease of experience Ivan and Fedyor drop two of the Drüskelle as they attempt to flank the huddle of Grisha while one of the Inferni lights another on fire. With each Drüskelle killed, his unit gain ground and confidence.

It feels as if the battle is finally turning in their favour when shouts of "The girl! The girl!" make him look around, Through the orange smoky haze, Ivan can just make out Alina's slight figure darting through the trees. Annoyance flashes through him at the evidence that the girl can't even obey a simple instruction given to keep her safe when he realises the trap he and his fellow Grisha have unwittingly fallen into.

Fools.

The lot of them.

They thought they were ones laying the trap for the Drüskelle, but they weren't. Because this was the Fjerdan's plan all along and they had walked right into it.

They had left the carriage – and by extension the girl - unprotected.

With rising horror, Ivan realises the girl had good reason for her flight – the General's carriage is burning, flames licking up the sides and along the roof line. This creates another problem though - does he take off after the Sun-Summoner and hope that he can protect her, or does he stay here with his fellow Grisha, and try to kill their ambushers in the hope that it will buy her time to get to safety.

Thankfully, before he is forced to decide, the decision is made for him as a familiar black horse thunders through, shadows racing behind in its wake.

Hidden in dark interior of the carriage Alina crouched in the footwell, arms over her head, covering her ears in a futile attempt to block out the sounds of battle as they raged around her. While normally she would baulk at an unknown officer in the Second Army bossing her around, on this occasion she is more than happy to abide by the Heartrender's hastily barked instruction. She has no intention of moving and is quite happy where she is, thank you very much. Even with her legs going painfully numb she stays in place, back to the door, trying to make herself as small and as unnoticeable as possible in the hope that whoever the other side are they won't see her if they look into the carriage.

It is terrifying. Around her there are the sounds of bullets, of men dying. It tugs on a half-formed memory, soldiers screaming-crying-dying in a thick dark fog, bright light, ecstasy and fear intermingled, that is lurking at the edges of her mind, not yet ready to be remembered in full. With shuddering breaths, Alina buries her head further into her knees, desperately willing the last few hours to be nothing more than an horrendous nightmare, for what else could this be? The last time she was conscious she was nothing more than a medic in the First Army – she was no one special, no one important – and now she's been labelled as some sort of mythical Sun-Saint, kidnapped by Aleksander's Second Army and is very much afraid that this skirmish occurring outside is because of her. That she is the reason why Grisha are dying out there.

If this is what comes of having power then she wants no part of it.

Alina would be the first to say that she is far from perfect. Her mother has called her stubborn on more than one occasion, she takes tidiness from a virtue to a vice with the level of order she prefers in her home environs and the only way she could carry a tune is if one is handed to her gift wrapped in a drop proof bucket. If asked, however, Aleksander would say her greatest flaw is her total inability to multi-task while thinking. More than once he has lamented Alina's lemming like lack of situational awareness, even to imminent danger, while puzzling over something. Growing up he frequently had to caution his young charge as to the dangerous ramifications that could arise from her casual disregard while thinking to what was going on around her. His concern was prophetic.

Alina is so deep in thought that she fails to hear the sound of heavy footsteps outside the carriage or the squeak as the door handle turns. The first she is aware of the new danger is when the door which had been providing her back much needed support is suddenly yanked away causing her to overbalance and topple backwards with an alarming lurch.

It is pure luck that she lands on her attacker, winding him, as she knocks him to the dirty floor of the forest. The few seconds it takes to orient herself though are costly as the man grabs her, pulling her onto her feet with bruising strength, before hitting her painfully in the stomach with enough force it would have sent her to her knees if not for the tight grip he has on her arm. In the damp light she sees him reach for a silvery knife tucked into the thick belt around his waist.

Luck, however, is on her side as a moment later a flaming arrow shoots past narrowly missing her assailant's head before embedding itself in the plush interior of the sumptuous carriage, flames rapidly racing along the fine velvet. Bullet proof that carriage may well be, but it is evidently not fire retardant. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction caused by his near-death experience, Alina pulls herself out of the man's grip and sprints into the forest, one arm wrapped around her aching ribs, hoping her luck holds and she can lose him in the undergrowth.

It is not to be.

Racing through the trees, ducking under branches, Alina runs on, some instinct driving her towards the light she can see flickering through the tree line. Just as she breaks through into the clearing something hits her back sending her flying towards the ground with tremendous force. Alina cries in pain as the rough landing jostles her bruised ribs and aching head. Dazed from shock she rolls over, desperately trying to catch her breath only to shout in surprised horror as her pursuer grabs her ankle and starts to drag her along the ground, stones and twigs catching and tearing at her now grubby kefta.

She kicks and thrashes as she is pulled further out into the too-bright sunlight, but it is to no avail. This man, different to the other one, has a good tight grip on her and with her ribs aching fiercely she cannot get enough purchase to escape. It is with horrifying, terrifying clarity that Alina realises she is about to die; that this is her end, in the middle of nowhere, afraid and alone – so alone – and for a reason she still doesn't understand.

High in the sky the sun is shining, warming her face. For a moment to Alina's dazed mind it almost looks like it burns brighter, just for second, in what could almost be a greeting and Alina smiles back, a sense of peace spreading through her.

The precious tranquillity is broken as the sun is suddenly blocked by the towering figure of the scruffy foreigner as he drops her legs only to straddle her waist before ploughing a gloved fist into her temple, making her ears ring and her body feel dull and useless.

This close she can smell his fetid breath and see the crooked, yellow teeth hiding behind the unkempt beard as he drawls something that is evidently an insult. With her ears still ringing and mind only hanging onto consciousness by a thread she has no idea what he said, or even what language it is, she knows only that he means to kill her.

From the dim and distant past long buried and half-forgotten memories flash across her mind of another time, of blood spreading across the ground of another glade, of tears and terror, of screams and bodies lying where they fell, of another bearded filthy man leering down at her, his yellow teeth showing in a predatory smile. Lost in the memory, Alina acts on instinct, squirming and bucking as she tries to throw her assailant off. It is to no avail - he is so much bigger and stronger than she is – all she achieves is him dropping his axe to wrap a hand around her throat, squeezing so hard black spots dance across her vision.

She feels the change before she sees him. The air grows heavy and shivers run along her nerves as shadows race over the grass. The twinkling light in the glade grows dim and the birds are suddenly quiet.

It is the silence before the storm, the pause before the next wave crashes and, as her attacker looks up startled, she knows she is safe.

A/N so what do you guys think? Things are getting exciting now, if I get 10 reviews I will post the next chapter... just a little motivation ;)