With Alina in safe hands and himself effectively banished from Garin's domain until after the dinner hour, Aleksander finds himself at leisure to finally consider the ramifications from the events of that day. Alina had demonstrated her power, had wielded it like a goddess, showing what a formidable adversary she will be once fully trained and come into her gifts. But there will be consequences. Alina's light show is unlikely to have been visible outside of the safety of the Little Palace, but gossip knows no such bounds or borders, and already he suspects the servants here have started tattling to their fellows at the Imperial Palace.

That in and of itself is not an insurmountable problem. The Tsar will no doubt find out about today, but he should be easy to appease with vague references to a training mishap. The corpulent-corpse-to-be that is their illustrious leader is not a man gifted with either intelligence, perspicacity, or – it has to be said – much in the way of a concentration span. All Aleksander will need to do is dangle something suitably shiny before the rotund idiot and the details of the incident today will be forgotten in a heartbeat.

The bigger problem are the rumours that will run rampant, spreading like wildfire outside the confines of the Imperial Palace to Os Alta… and even further. Aleksander has too much experience with the unpleasant side of humanity not to see the danger that could arise as a result of today – not just to Alina, but to Grisha everywhere, as ignorant and uninformed and reminded of the power that their long awaited saint has locked within her. Divinity, in his experience, is only desirable in the abstract. People want a saint but they don't want a powerful one, one who could tear down their cities and lay waste to their land. They want a saint who is pliable, malleable, a willing sacrifice to their needs. They don't want strength or independence, and they especially don't want one they cannot control.

Perhaps with another Sun Summoner he need not have worried so much about this, but Alina is the very antithesis of what saints are expected to be and he fears – he very much fears – what this might mean for her in the long run from people who crowd around the gates of the palace every day just in the hope they might catch a glimpse of her.

Had he been less distraught he might have been able to squash some of the rumours, or at least start spreading a counter story. But alas he had not and now it would be too late. All that was left was to try and make the best of a bad – and very volatile – situation.

But first Mei-Xing must be informed before whispers reach her that something might have happened to her daughter. There are few people that have the power to scare him, but Alina's mother is definitely high on the list, and he has no doubt whatsoever that if she finds out any other way that he will lose an important ally – and the respect of someone he holds in high esteem. It is not an easy letter to write, and he resents every word that his pen scratches on to the fine paper. Alina should have been safe here. He had promised Mei-Xing that her daughter would be safe within his home, and in this he had failed. Alina had been attacked, hurt - possibly even permanently injured – and he still didn't know why.

He wants to rush to Mei-Xing, not to exculpate himself but to explain and throw himself on her mercy and understanding. Unlike last time, though, he cannot go himself – nor can he risk sending Ivan or one of his Oprichniki in case they are recognised – that only leaves one person he would trust with such a missive. His mother.

The journey to his mother's cottage is not as long as he would wish and he barely has time to start gathering his jumbled thoughts before he arrives. Heaving a deep sigh he knocks on the dark wood door, listening intently for his mother's voice giving him permission to enter, so as to not annoy her unnecessarily by entering without her permission. A faint murmur reaches him and just as he's about to knock again the door is wrenched open with surprising force by his mother, scowl firmly in place, that only deepens when she sees who it is who has disturbed her peace and quiet.

"Oh," she says in a surly tone of voice, "it's you. Well, I suppose you'd better come in then," and steps out of the doorway so he can enter.

The visit starts off badly and only gets worse.

"What have you done now, boy?" Baghra demands as she whacks him with her walking stick before he's even sat down, a quelling look on her face.

His mother's faith in him is touching, it truly is. Not for the first time, Aleksander wonders if he would have turned out more normal and well adjusted if he hadn't been cursed with a mother like Baghra.

"Meh," is all his mother has to say with a dismissive shrug of her shoulders when he voices this whimsical notion. "You wouldn't have made it past four with a normal mother," is her considered opinion. She might have a point, but even so Aleksander suspects things might have played out very differently had his mother been less… like herself.

As distraction techniques go, this is a poor one as the topic he's picked is quickly exhausted and discarded by his darling mother, who repeats her demand, fingering her cane with ominous intent.

Heaving a put upon sign, Aleksander recounts the excitement of the afternoon. His frazzled nerves feeling inexplicably soothed by the familiar sniping and back and forth banter that characterises every interaction with the woman who birthed and raised him.

"Stupid boy," his mother hisses when he's finished, "what on earth were you thinking by involving one of your discarded lovers in such a plan? And that one in particular," she adds, thumping her walking stick on the floor.

"I was thinking that Alina needed help – help, I might add, that you wouldn't give. Zoya had a similar problem when she was training and I thought that she could be of assistance to Alina."

"It was stupid," his mother states with finality as she stares down her only child.

"More than stupid. It was idiocy at its finest. I did not raise an idiot son, so I can only think that you're being this idiotic because you're not thinking with your proper brain."

"Mother!" Aleksander exclaims, partly in shock and partly in traumatised horror at Baghra of all people referencing that part of his anatomy.

"Don't you 'mother' me," Baghra responds, ire puffing her up. "I'm not the one who decided to use one of my cast offs to assist her replacement."

"Alina is not Zoya's replacement! Zoya was… was a mistake. She means nothing." Aleksander growls, very much taking offence at the implication.

"Well, at least you understand that much," Baghra says with all the satisfaction of having forced a concession out of her opponent that he had had no intention of giving.

"What a saints forsaken mess," Aleksander sighs, settling back into the uncomfortable chair his mother insisted on keeping for visitors. He had long suspected that Baghra's attachment to this particular piece of furniture has less to do with her having had it for over a century and more because it is the single most uncomfortable piece of furniture he has ever had the misfortune to sit on; which makes visiting his mother a doubly painful experience and encourages all guests, her son included, to depart quickly. As if visitors here needed any additional encouragement to want to leave. Baghra's legendary lack of social skills were quite sufficient to ensure no one – even the most foolhardy or devoted of students – would wish to linger.

"It would considerably less messy if you could learn to keep it in your trousers," Baghra gripes, stick tapping on the floor again. "Just like your grandfather. He could never resist…" she pauses for a moment as she searches for a suitably euphemistic term, "entanglements, either."

Aleksander sighs, a frequent occurrence when around his mother, and runs a hand over his tired features.

"What did you think would happen?" Baghra continues, ruthless it appears in her determination to show him each and every one of his many failings.

"I thought that Zoya understood it was a one off and would be the consummate professional she can be."

"Heh," says his mother, "just goes to show you how much you still have to learn about women." She shakes her head, her grey hair catching the firelight and making it shine like starlight for a fraction of a second. "There's no fiend in hell that can match the fury of a disappointed woman," she continues. "I taught you better than this. You're meant to be intelligent."

"I am clever," Aleksander protests, only to receive a whack to his already bruised shin.

"Then start acting like it," Baghra demands. "this is embarrassing."

"Are you sure I'm not adopted?" Aleksander asks, nursing the impressive bruise taking shape on his right shin.

Baghra raises a sardonic eyebrow, "I could only wish." She snipes back, causing Aleksander to let out a huff of quickly supressed laughter.

"You will take the letter to Mei-Xing," he asks after a pregnant pause.

Baghra nods regally as she accepts the missive. "Yes." She agrees. "But not for you. I'll do this because that woman deserves to know and she's one of the few people in the world who doesn't seem to be an idiot."

That's surprisingly high praise from his mother, who's general view of humanity is that they're only one – or possible two, if she's feeling generous – steps above pond sludge.

"And what will you be doing?" Baghra asks her son.

"Finding out what happened," he replies, as impassively as he can. "Garin said that Zoya should be awake by tomorrow morning. I'll know more once I've talked to her."

"And if it turns out she did attack Alina?"

Aleksander can't stop the growl low in his throat, nor the way the darkness around him suddenly seems thicker and darker than a moment before. "Then she will wish she hadn't."

His mother nods, the corner of her lips ticking upwards in what for Baghra is an approving smile, completely unperturbed by the unconscious show of power. "Good," is all she says, clearly expecting him to leave now that they have covered the essential points, but his mother's question has reminded Aleksander of another part of the puzzle.

"Why did I feel her call?" he asks, mindful of the walking stick currently leaning innocently against his mother's leg. Experience has taught him the risks of ignoring that particular piece of wood and he has no desire to add to the bruises he has collected on this visit.

His mother turns to him with a questioning tilt of her head. "Alina," he clarifies when it becomes clear further explanation is needed. "I felt her call me, felt her need," and her pain, but this he doesn't disclose.

The walking stick starts tapping again while his mother thinks, irritating him as it hits the floor with no discernible pattern.

"Like calls to like," Baghra muses thoughtfully to herself, turning her gaze to the fire. "I will think on it," she says at last, eyes fixed on the dancing flames. Long inured to his mother's way, Aleksander knows a dismissal when he hears one and he wastes no time in trying to push the older woman for answers he knows she is in no mood to give, instead making his escape back to the relative sanity of his study for some quiet thinking time of his own.

The next morning dawns grey, cold, blustery and with no new answers for the frustrated General of the Second Army. He feels like a child who has been given a puzzle beyond his years to complete, with no instructions or guide to go by. The solution is there, just out of reach, he can feel it – and yet he has no idea what it is.

It isn't a feeling Aleksander is either used too, or appreciates, and it puts him in a foul mood that continues well past breakfast. It must be bad as an unusually solicitous Ivan plonks a second large cup of coffee in front of him along with the usual overnight reports. His morning gets slightly better after a large infusion of caffeine and the established familiarity of going over duty rosters with his trusty second in command. Ivan is his usual competent and taciturn self, which is oddly soothing and by the lunch hour his mood has mellowed sufficiently that he feels able to visit the Infirmary and chase Garin for an update.

In hindsight, he really should have anticipated that Garin's uncharacteristic silence was a portent of yet more complications in an already difficult and convoluted situation. His first clue that something wasn't right was the lack of update from his trusted Head Healer, which he had expected first thing. The second is the worried hush that greets him in he the Infirmary. Something is wrong. Whatever is it has unsettled his healing staff, a unusual happenstance on its own, but it quickly becomes clear that it hasn't just worried them, it has them frightened as well.

His first thought is for Alina, and he finds himself making his way towards her room before conscious thought has even had a chance to comprehend what it is his eyes are seeing. His precious girl is as she was yesterday. Lying still on her bed, pale and doll like, with her dark hair a stark contrast to the starch white of the sheets and the unhealthy pallor of her skin. The gentle rise and fall of her chest is a balm to his frantic heart and he cannot help but cross the few steps between them so he rest his fingers against her pulse. The reassuring pulse of blood in her veins sends a rush of relief through him as he realises that it isn't Alina – whatever has spooked the healers it isn't his precious girl. She, at least, is safe.

It's in this state that Garin finds him moments later, worried frown firmly in place as he guides his General from the Sun Summoner and into his own office, before shutting the door. Quietly, the healer explains the shock they, the healing staff, have had that morning. Zoya, who they treated last night, is not healed as she ought to be. The Squaller is awake and lucid, but her injuries remain. It's an unheard of thing for a Grisha to not respond to healing in some way, even if it may take more than one session for the healer to fix what is broken.

"It's frightened my staff," Garin says quietly, eyes serious as he watched Aleksander.

"Understandably," Aleksander nods, "do you have any idea what might be behind this."

At this Garin looks almost nervously towards the door and his voice drops to almost a whisper as he says, "aye, Moi Soverenyi, I do."

"Yes?" Aleksander demands, not in the mood to play guessing games.

"We know that Grisha healing can work differently with otkazat'syas," Garin starts, his discomfort clear.

"Of course," Aleksander prompts. It's one of the common problems between Grisha and otkazat'syas and has led to no end of ill feeling over the years. Grisha healers can heal almost anything with a fellow Grisha, but it is much more difficult for their healers to fix an otkazat'sya's injuries or illness. Studies into this concluded that there was a biological difference between Grisha and otkazat'syas – slight though it may be, what allowed Grisha to use the small science also acted as a barrier that prevented otkazat'syas from being healed in the same way. Experience had taught their healers how to work around these limitations, but it cost the healer to do it as it required far more energy and time, and even then was slower to work. It was the primary reason Second Army healers rarely helped out the medical corps of the First Army. There was little point. Not that the First Army saw it that way, of course. But as to what baring this had on Zoya, Aleksander couldn't understand. Zoya was Grisha.

"When Gregori first reported his concerns over how little Miss Nazyalensky had healed from yesterday, I admit I was inclined to dismiss it. Gregori, as you know, has something of a crush on Miss Nazyalensky and I thought he was probably being overly cautious."

"But he wasn't?" Aleksander queried, an uneasy feeling starting in his stomach.

Garin shook his head, "not on this occasion. I checked her myself. Her injuries are slightly further along than they would be if we hadn't applied the healing yesterday, but they are nowhere near as healed as they ought to be." The healer sighed deeply. "The problem is, by the time I'd finished examining her, Gregori had evidently been talking and the story was around the whole ward… as was Miss Nazyalensky apparent claim that she couldn't feel the wind anymore."

With a start, Aleksander sat forward in his chair, the unsettled feeling growing. "What?"

"Aye," the healer replied, "that was my reaction as well. Miss Nazyalensky hadn't said that to me, but when I returned and asked her, she admitted that she had been trying to summon when Gregori came into the room to do the morning rounds, but nothing had happened."

Aleksander sat back, eyes closing as he listened to the healer.

"I've tested her, moi soverenyi. There's no doubt, whatever happened yesterday, today she is no longer a Grisha."

"Saints have mercy," Aleksander breathed. He could understand why the staff were so alarmed now. He was quite shocked himself. He had never heard of such a thing before. You were born Grisha and you died Grisha. It was an immutable biological fact, just like colour of your eyes or the shape of your nose. It couldn't be taken away with the snap of the fingers.

"Do you have any idea…" he trailed off.

The healer shook his head. "I've never heard of such a thing before," he confessed. "Some are saying the Saints are punishing Miss Nazyalensky for what happened yesterday. It's stirring up a lot of ill feeling – and that'll likely spread once my staff start mixing with their friends at dinner."

Garin was correct about that. So far he had been able to keep the healers confined to the Infirmary wing, but sooner or later they would have to be allowed out, and once that happened it was only natural that they would talk. Aleksander felt little affection or sympathy for Zoya at this point, but the prospect of a lynch mob was unacceptable. They needed to understand what had happened yesterday so that the residents of the Little Palace could be updated with facts and not baseless speculation. People were already asking about Alina and why she and Zoya hadn't been seen since the incident.

With a nod, Aleksander stands. "Is Zoya awake?" he asks. Garin nods, leading him out of the office and down a corridor to a different part of the Infirmary.

The medical wing at the Little Palace is divided into large general wards, which have multiple beds, surgical rooms for operations, and private rooms where Grisha with injuries or illnesses that will take longer to heal, or which might be infectious, are housed.

Zoya's room is one of several identical private rooms. It is white washed, with a single bed, a basin and a bathroom. The only splash of colour in the room are the two blue damask chairs placed by the window which overlooks the walled gardens and hedge maze.

Zoya is sitting on a chair by the window when he enters, head turned to so she can stare at the gardens. At this time of year, there is precious little colour or greenery to be seen and the vista makes for a depressing sight. The creek of the door alerts her to his entrance, and he watches, face impassive, as her head snaps round and her eyes light up when she sees him, fervent and bright.

It's a sight that unnerves him and for a long moment he stands still, examining the expression on her face. He has been blind; he sees that now. A blind old fool, just as his mother accused him. He had assumed he and Zoya had been on the same page with regard to their short, ill advised fling. Instead, he finds that not only are they not on the same page they aren't even in the same book.

Their conversation goes about as well as could be expected – which is to say not at all. 20 dreadful-horrible-stomach-churning minutes he spends in that tiny room questioning the Squaller and seeing for himself how no matter what she tries not even a whisp of air responds to her. As a last test he places a hand on her skin to see if he can still feel the thrum of power he should be able to sense in all Grisha. The results of the test make him frown. At first he thinks it is gone, but then just as he about to release the girl he sense it – a faint buzz against his senses - and he chases it further than he has ever had to go before to call another's power to him. He finds it – eventually – buried deep within the girl, and it reminds him of something from years ago, of another child whose powers he tried to summon and instead met with a barrier he could not pass or overcome. But how? Alina had pushed her gifts away, creating a block that she alone could overcome. Zoya has done no such thing and yet… and yet the result is the same.

It is one more mystery to add to the growing list, but this one is perhaps the most disquieting. Three things though are clear: Firstly, that Zoya is still Grisha, albeit only by a technicality and not in a useful way; secondly, that Zoya is now power bound, just as Alina had been; and thirdly, that his precious girl is somehow at the centre of this.

It's while he's thinking about this conundrum that Zoya decides to grab his hand and place a fervent kiss upon it, voice trembling with emotion as she professes her love for him and declares that she'd forgive him anything, even the iniquitous sin of seducing the Sun Summoner as part of his plan to bring down the Fold.

For a moment all he can do is stand there, mute in his shock - but then his fury erupts, and it is a cold and terrible thing. Is this what she said to Alina yesterday? Is this the poison that made his darling girl lash out in the way she did?

A kinder man would have let the Squaller down gently. A less tired man might have considered his reaction more carefully. A man less in love with her victim might have shown more compassion. Aleksander is none of these things. His anger is like a living creature in the room, the shadows writhing around him, as all the agony, anxiety, misery and anger of the last day coalesce inside him into a maelstrom of dark unforgiving emotion.

Something of his feelings must have been apparent as Zoya says, "I thought you loved me," a plaintive note in her voice.

The Darkling laughs coldly.

"But…" Zoya's voice trembles as she forces the words, "what we had. Three years ago… I thought…"

"What did you think?" Aleksander demands in an icy voice.

"I thought, we had a connection. That we loved each other. How you were when we were together, I thought… I thought we were waiting until the war was over. I understood that the difference in our ranks would make it difficult to make our relationship public… but once the war was over..."

"Then what?" Aleksander raises a mocking eyebrow, "it would be rainbows, fairytale weddings and happy ever afters? If I loved you, do you really think I would have gone three years without touching you, without being near you? Do you really think I would have stood back and allowed other men to paw at you, to take you to their beds?" his laugh is cold and mocking as he delivers the final blow, "If I had wanted you, I would have made it happen, no matter what."

Zoya's distress is palpable but then she rallies herself, pride smarting and heart hurting, to spit at him, "you're lying. You have to be. What we had was special. You can't tell me you'd throw it all for that girl. I know she's the Sun Summoner, but-"

"That girl, as you call her, is worth 200 of you and I would tear Ravka apart with my bare hands to protect her," Aleksander explodes, voice raised for the first time as his shadows writhe about him with malevolent intent. "Not because she's the Sun Summoner, but because she is Alina. Someone who is brave and kind, someone who is honourable and loyal, someone who loves wholly and unconditionally. Someone I…" but he cannot finish that sentence, not now and especially not to Zoya. He has already said more than he meant to and revealed more than he should.

In a voice so cold it could freeze glaciers, he pushes his point home with all the subtlety of a 6 tonne anvil to the face, "what we had was a fling, a momentary weakness on my part – and a barely memorable one at that." His anger makes him cruel, and he watches in satisfaction as red stains Zoya's cheeks, tears glistening in her eyes.

"You are nothing to me but an officer in the Second Army, and that is all you will ever be."

In a whirl of shadows, he stalks from the room before he says, or does, something he might regret.

That night he visits Alina and sits beside her bed, his left hand wrapped around her own as he wills her to wake. It is a long and lonely vigil.

What a mess – and what's worse, it appears his mother is right, and this is a mess very much of his own making. It's a hard thing to face and a harder thing still to accept. Head cradled in his hands, Aleksander realises that time has run out. He will have to tell Alina about what Zoya and his mistake three years before.

When Alina finally awakes it's to the sensation of a hand stroking her hair and someone humming a gentle lullaby. Twilight glittering through the shutters of the window gives her just enough light to see a familiar shape and she sighs as she lets Aleksander's lyrical voice wash over her. It's rare to hear Aleksander sing, though he has a beautiful voice, and she treasures the moments he is happy enough that he does.

It doesn't take her watcher long to realise that the subject of his concern is no longer unconscious but very much awake, and with a start that makes his chair screech painfully against the marble he rushes to check on her, shouting loudly for Garin. She tries to smile in reassurance at her friend, concerned by the dark circles she can see clearly under his eyes and the deep worry lines writ upon his brow, but it quickly falls flat. Her cheek hurts. That is the first thing she realises. The second is that it isn't the only pain now making itself known. Her back is stiff and sore, her shoulder feels tender and the less said about her ribs the better. As far as she can tell the only thing not hurting at this moment is her head which feels fine, for a change.

Gentle hands help her to sit up and take much needed sips of water from the cup he has brought to her lips. The cool water is heavenly in the desert that is her mouth, and she can't suppress the whine of discontent that escapes her when the healer arrives and the cup is taken away. Garin smiles at her, warm and comforting as ushers a protesting Aleksander out of the room, before returning to her bedside.

Now more aware and alert, Alina looks around the unfamiliar room, confused by both the strange environment and how she came to be there. This not a part of the Little Palace she knows – even the view from the window is different and unfamiliar to her. The mystery is soon solved as the Head Healer informs her that she is in one of the healing rooms in the Infirmary wing and has been since she was brought in two days ago.

Two days – it is little wonder that her mouth is so dry then, but the mystery of why she is in there remains. Garin frowns when she voices this, soothing hands brushing against her as they check over her various aches and pains, but the kindly healer tells her not to worry. It's a nice sentiment, but a futile one. Too much has happened over the last few weekss for Alina not to feel concerned at being injured yet again, especially as Garin has taken pains to avoid telling her what happened this time round.

When his assessment is complete the healer steps back and smiles. "Well," he says jovially, "considering the state you were in, you're doing really very well. Another couple of days of rest and you should be ready to re-join your peers." Discovering that she will be spending yet more time stuck in bed is not what Alina wants to hear. She's always been a terrible patient whenever ill or injured, as her mother likes to remind her, and she doubts that this time will be any different.

"Well, I suppose we'd best let the General back in before he wears a hole in my floor," Garin's tone is conspiratorial as he flashes a grin at Alina that she can't help but return. She likes Garin and can see why Aleksander trusts him enough to make him Head Healer. True to the healer's predictions, Aleksander is pacing up and down the corridor outside her room, scowl in place as if the floor has somehow offended him. The moment he notices door open the General strides towards it, scowl gone but with the look of a man who won't be taking no for an answer.

It's fortunate for him that Garin is happy to oblige, on this occasion, as he repeats his observations and prognosis for the benefit of his commanding officer. Throughout the update, Aleksander's eyes remain fixed on Alina, carefully cataloguing the healing injuries one at a time, with an intensity that makes Alina's heart start racing and brings a blush to her still pale face.

Eventually, Garin finishes his update and vanishes off into the labyrinthine halls of the infirmary, leaving the Sun Summoner in the General's care. The Aleksander who sits with Alina that afternoon is not her normal playful friend, or even the slightly aloof and regal General she has come to know in the Little Palace. This Aleksander is sombre and secretive. He will not say what happened to her and whenever she raises the topic, he merely replies that he will tell her later, when she is stronger. This is not the answer Alina wants and her frustration only grows as her friend continues to refuse. For a naturally curious person like Alina, it's torture not to know and yet Aleksander will not be moved, no matter how she pleads with him.

In the end, Aleksander leaves just before the clock chimes 10, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead as he stands. Alina playfully crosses her arms and looks away, bringing a smile of Aleksander's lips as he regards her with emotion filled eyes. "I am glad you are on the mend, Alina," he says as he pauses at the door to her room and for a moment she thinks he is about to tell her something important, but then he shakes his head and leaves the room muttering under his breath.

With Aleksander gone, so to is Alina's distraction from boredom, but to her surprise she finds herself yawning and sliding down the pillows to nestle in the warm covers of her bed. Her eyes sliding shut of their own accord.

The next day follows a similar pattern, and the day after it as well. Aleksander appears sometime after breakfast – usually with a book he thinks she might be interested in – and they spend an hour or so talking before he returns to his work and Alina slides into the deep sleep of the recovering. The frequent need to nap breaks up the days, and the books help as well, but in the absence of distraction she returns to worrying about the gaps in her memory. Aleksander is different, in some subtle way she can't explain. There's an energy to him that reminds her of a hornet's nest – and a kicked one at that – a buzzing, almost vibrating resonance that makes her nervous, as if he's feeling too much to hold inside himself and this is the physical manifestation. Add to that the curious behaviour of the infirmary staff and it feels like something big, something important, something monumental happened, and everyone knows but her.

It's a disquieting thought.

It takes time, but on the third day memories start coming back to the Sun Summoner. It starts with flashes of colour and snippets of things half remembered, but slowly over the next few hours the memories become clearer and clearer as what was lost is once more found. By the time the sun has started to dip below the horizon, Alina can recall with horrible clarity Botkin's class and the feeling of being pinned to the ground while the Squaller drips poison into her ear.

Her head is hurting, but it is heartache that brings tears to her eyes as she tries to muffle her desperate sobs in the thick blanket wrapped around her. Distantly she hears the creak of her door followed by hasty footsteps retreating from her room, but she is too lost in her misery to look up. Loneliness and fear are pressing in on her, crushing her beneath their weight and all she can do is cry out her pain and betrayal.

Zoya. Aleksander.

Zoya and Aleksander.

Zoya who knew about her problems summoning.

Zoya who knew how she felt about Aleksander and threw it in her face.

Zoya who had trampled on her fragile faith and confidence.

Zoya who had confirmed all her worst fears.

Zoya who said she was the one Aleksander really loves.

Light burst from her, turning her once gloomy room into a kaleidoscope of colour as it cocoons her, hiding her from view. In her pain she turns into the light, grasping the comforting warmth as it washes over her. Vaguely she's aware of movement around her, of people trying to get close to her, but all she wants is to be alone, and it's a relief when the cacophony of sound is replaced by a heavy silence interrupted only by her laboured breathing and hiccoughing cries.

The first Aleksander knows that something is wrong is the hurried message from Garin's deputy, Erik. For the third time in as many days he leaves his study at a run.

He arrives in the infirmary panicked and fretful. Has there been some sort of set back? Have Alina's injuries taken a turn for the worst? He had left her in a deep healing sleep at lunch and before that she had been her usual alert and happy self, if somewhat frustrated that she was still not allowed out of bed.

The sight that confronts him in the infirmary is like a twisted parody of that day in the training yard, only this time he has to battle through the throng of inquisitive healing staff rather than students, as he pushes his way through to the door of Alina's room. Erik is standing there, barring the way to stop the curious crowd from entering the room. Both his hands are red raw and blistered and the skin on his face looks like he has been badly sunburned.

It doesn't take a genius to suspect it has something to do with the glow visible through the crack between the door and frame. It's at times like this that the Darkling's reputation is most useful, with only a few curt words and one of his infamous looks, he is able to achieve what Erik and his injuries had not, and the accumulated crowd quickly disperses back to their respective stations.

With a relieved sigh Erik tells him what he knows – which is frustratingly little. Alina had been asleep for most of the afternoon but is now awake and distressed. Very distressed.

As to what has upset her, Erik cannot say. She's had no visitors, no letters, nothing at all that could account for her change in mood. All he knows is that some twenty minutes before, one of the apprentices had heard her crying and had come to him, as per Garin's instructions the day before. He had gone to her room immediately, but on entering had found the Sun Summoner enveloped in a ball of light which had burned him as he tried to reach her. Fearing worse injuries, the healer had left the room and dispatched a note to the General, as this was beyond his knowledge.

With a worried frown, Aleksander dismissed Erik into the waiting hands of another healer, before entering the room.

The light burns, that's the first thing he notices, searing his skin as he calls on his own gift to protect him. The coolness of his shadows is a blessed relief after the blistering heat as they wrap around him, but even encased he can feel the raw power emitting from the figure on the bed.

With careful steps, Aleksander crosses the room, one gloved hand reaching to touch the girl's shaking shoulder, a pained hiss escapes him as the heat sears through both the protective layer of clothing and darkness. "Alina," he calls, pitching his voice to be low and soothing.

There's no visible reaction, not even a flinch or twitch to show she's even aware of his presence.

"Alinochka," he tries again, pleading. This time there is movement. Out from the nest of blankets Alina's beloved face emerges tear stained and distraught.

Ignoring the pain, Aleksander gathers Alina to him, enveloping her in his embrace as he hums a familiar lullaby. In his arms his precious girl shakes with the force of her muffled cries, her face pressed into the crook of his neck as he gently soothes her.

Slowly the light dims, fading gently out of existence until the two figures are left shrouded in the comforting gloom of dusk.

With gentle, unhurried motions, Aleksander disentangles one arm and reaches over to twist the knob on the lamp beside Alina's bed, bathing the room in a dull orange glow that's a pale facsimile of what had come before.

In his arms Alina sits quiet and quiescent, her head resting on his shoulder as if she has no more energy to support herself – and after that display, that might well be the case.

Gentle fingers stroke her hair before slipping down to grip her hands. "Can you tell me what's wrong, sweetheart?" he asks softly, reluctant to disturb the peace, but needing to know how to help, how to fix whatever has distressed her so. Seeing her like this has torn at his already battered and ragged heartstrings. There is little he would not do to protect this precious girl from any – and every – harm, and he feels it now, the desperate need to do anything that's within his power to make her smile once more.

"Why do you call me that?" Alina asks, as she pats at her tears with the cuffs of her nightgown.

"Call you what?" Aleksander replies with a frown, not understanding – or liking – the despair he can hear in her voice.

"Sweetheart."

"It's what I've always called you," Aleksander's frown deepens with confusion.

"But it's not true," she cries, suddenly wrenching away from him as if his touch pains her.

"Alina-" he starts, but before he can say more than her name the girl in question continues, her voice turning shrill as she says, "it's not true! You call me that and its not true. I'm not your sweetheart, or your dear one. I'm nothing to you. I'm no one. I'm Alina Starkov, a peasant girl you took pity on years ago, who just happened to be the Sun Summoner – and even in that I'm a disappointment! I. AM. NOTHING."

"Do not say that," Aleksander hisses, his heart tearing at the pain in her voice, even as it eviscerates itself over her denial of the connection he has long cherished between them.

"You are not nothing to me-"

"Of course, I am your precious Sun Summoner, after all. I mustn't forget that fact," the mocking tone to Alina's voice sends chills racing down his spine.

"I couldn't care less about that," Aleksander almost bellows, shooting to his feet in agitation and distress.

"Two days, Alina," he cries, voice hoarse with pain. "Two days where I didn't know if you would wake up. Two days where I didn't know if you'd even live." He takes a deep shuddering breath as he tries to regain control of his rioting emotions. "Two days where I feared I had lost you forever. I would take this burden from you, if I could. I would spare you the pain of being the Sun Summoner, no matter the cost to me, or what it means for Ravka, or for our people. I would undo the gods decision in a heartbeat if it would save you even a moment of pain."

Alina is silent and still in her shock. He runs a shaking hand through his already dishevelled hair, desperation clawing at him. "I call you sweetheart and dear one, because that is what you are to me. My better self, my dearest friend… my living heart." It's a challenge to get the words out with the chaotic maelstrom of emotion choking him and paralysing his voice, but somehow he manages it.

If nothing else, his darling girl must understand just how precious she is to him: not because she is the Sun Summoner, but because she is Alina - the girl who's smile lights up his world, the girl who understands him like no other, the girl who managed to do the impossible and gave him back the heart he had long ago thought too broken by life to ever beat again. She is Alina and he loves her.

"So don't you dare say I do not care." He finishes, chest heaving with supressed emotion and heart pounding as if it can impress upon her the extent and depth of his feeling through sheer force.

Alina's beloved features telegraph her shock before she hides her face from his, turning away from his gaze to stare fixedly at the blanket still partially wrapped around her.

Silence falls, and with it Aleksander's hope.

"Zoya said that you were just using me, that once I destroy the Fold you won't care for me anymore," Alina's voice is heartbreakingly shy and quiet as she at last breaks the stillness, her eyes still fixed determinedly on the bed and her shoulders hunched in clear discomfort. Her face has lost the haughty, mocking look that had turned his stomach to acid, but in its place are anguish and despair, and it makes him want to cry to see such pain in her eyes and know that he has helped put it there.

Aleksander curses violently under his breath. The smouldering embers of his fury towards Zoya reawakened once more into a blazing inferno. Would he never be free of the consequences of his mistakes?

"She was wrong," he states resolutely, firm conviction making his voice strong even as his heart pounds painfully against his ribs. And Zoya had been wrong. He could never not care about Alina. Such a thing is unthinkable. It also proved how little the Squaller understood either him, or his plans regarding the Fold.

"but you and she…you never, - I mean, you weren't…" Alina's discomfort and embarrassment are clear to Aleksander in that moment, as is the question she is asking.

"We aren't in a relationship," Aleksander begins cautiously, "if that's what you're alluding too."

Alina nods, her face is still downturned with her eyes fixed on the thick blanket her nervous fingers are twisting into random shapes, but he can see a relieved smile spreading across her face and it brings one to his lips as well.

It would be so very easy to leave it there, to swallow the words that he is desperate not to speak. He has no desire to own to the truth he would do anything to undo, but the words of Mei-Xing ring in his head with devasting clarity, and he knows what he must say next.

"I am not - nor have I ever been - in love with Zoya," he says uncomfortably, hating the confusion that flashes across his Alina's face. His eyes blink shut of their own accord, as if to stop the pain he knows he will bring her, as he steels himself for what he has to say next; "but there was a time when we shared a bed."

Alina's sharp intake of breath makes him pause, but he forces himself to continue knowing that if he doesn't say it now that he will lose his courage and determination to see this through. At over 500 years old he has long known the damage that miscommunication and misunderstanding can cause. If he made a mistake with Zoya and failed to ensure she understood, he will be damned if he repeats it with Alina.

With a sigh, he forces his eyes to open and lock on Alina's face. "It was only for a few weeks several years ago now. It isn't uncommon for Grisha to look for such comfort from one another. Life in the Second Army isn't what one could call conducive to the forming of romantic relationships and, given our reception in some places, it's often safest to find companionship within the safety of the Little Palace. When Zoya approached me that night I thought it was in search of just such an arrangement – companionship on a short term basis, before she resumed her duties in Kribirsk – I had no idea she thought it was more than that. In hindsight it was a foolish mistake, and one I am ashamed to admit to making."

Alina has now lifted her gaze to the potted fern in the corner of the room, but her refusal to meet his eyes hurts his battered heart. With gentle fingers he softly touches her chin, guiding her to face him. "It was a mistake, Alina. I knew it at the time, but I had hoped that as she never spoke of it again that it was one that would be short lived."

She isn't crying, yet, which reassures him slightly, but her eyes are glassy and it doesn't look like it would take much before she does. Alina sniffs, fingers white where they are gripping the blanket, "then why did you?" she asks quietly.

Aleksander laughs darkly. Why is a question he has asked himself many times since that night, but the reason is complicated. How can he begin to explain the complex emotions that drove him to what could turn out to be the greatest mistake of his very long life. How can he explain to Alina that it was his love for her - his overwhelming desire for her - that sent him running into the arms of another woman in an attempt to rationalise and stop the foreign feelings he was desperate to rid himself of. At the time it had made perfect sense, but now he can see the futility and outright stupidity of his actions, and he hates himself. It's one more mistake in a long line of them where it comes to his Alinochka.

"Because I'm an idiot," is what he says to Alina, with a sardonic smile, "the worst kind of bloody idiot."

"I was… three years ago was a difficult time, Alina. Zoya offered comfort and release at a moment when I was struggling, and in my misery I thought it would help." It's not the complete truth but it's as close as he will go. If Alina was angry with him before she will surely hate him if he confesses the feelings he has harboured for years. He had come perilously close to telling her earlier, but he hopes she will see his declaration as that of a friend, not as a would-be lover. If the events of the last month have shown him anything it's confirmed that he doesn't deserve her, and this situation today has merely reinforced what he realised in his mother's cottage the night they arrived: no matter what his heart wants nothing can ever come of it.

The silence has a sad quality to it and Aleksander has the horrible feeling that his relationship with Alina is deteriorating with each breath they take, as neither shows signs of breaking it. He is still trying to resign his determined heart to a life of only friendship with his Alina, but now he may not even have that. As the silence stretches his stomach clenches in fear that this is it – that they have already passed the point of forgiveness and redemption.

A familiar hand sliding into his own shocks him out of the dark spiral of his whirling thoughts and with awe filled eyes he looks down, watching Alina knit their fingers together before squeezing their clasped hands. Terrified Aleksander lifts his head to find Alina's beloved eyes fixed on his, filled with warmth, as she brings their joined hands to cradle them by her heart.

Hope is truly the cruellest emotion.

A/N *hides*

Up next: Zoya's POV and some much needed wisdom from Botkin