When Aleksander woke up that morning it had not been with the intention of being kidnapped and used as a hostage in order to ensure the continued cooperation of an unimpressed Sun Summoner. To be fair, he hadn't planned on Alina being kidnapped either, but that at least had been semi expected, with contingencies and options discussed at length. Those carefully crafted plans, however, are now in tatters as nowhere in the many possibilities he and Ivan had prepared for had they factored in his being kidnapped as well.
There's no denying the pickle they're in. The situation is dire, made more so the fact that Aleksander still has no idea where the rescue party is, or whether rescue is coming at all. The Oretsev boy might be a decent tracker, but the gods hadn't gifted him with much in the way of intelligence, and for all he knows the boy could have forgotten his task or wandered off and got himself lost. It's not a thought that inspires much confidence, especially when he then factors in the probability of a lone otkazat'sya bumping into the rescue party in an area that measures (at a conservative estimate) several hundred square miles of land. Most of it dense woodland.
It's not a happy conclusion to reach, but at least it gives his mind something to do while trudging through leagues of first forest and then wetlands at what can only be described as an insultingly slow pace. How it's taken him four days to catch up with a group that are moving slower than snail, he has no idea. To make matters worse, his back is aching fiercely from the lashes the night before, and he and Alina are forbidden from speaking, either to each other or to anyone else. The ropes binding his hands are more for show than an actual restraint, but then with two swords and a rifle pointed at his back and a similar arrangement shadowing Alina, there is little need for physical restraints. Neither will be going anywhere.
On and on they trudge, slowly covering mile after mile, but with each step Aleksander can see Alina's weariness increase. There had been no sleep for either of them after the fun of his capture and Alina's almost escape. Instead, they waited out the long, cold hours of the night on their knees, a knife to the neck a constant reminder to keep them awake and alert. It had worked then, but he is not alone in recognising the increasingly sluggish movements and what they mean.
Zlatan's troops see it too, and they mock her for it. Otkazat'sya and grisha alike – and hadn't that been an unpleasant surprise to add to the shit pudding this week had turned into – grisha, two of them at least from the Second Army, and they were supporting Zlatan over their own General and fellow grisha. It's a betrayal that stings. Grisha from Novokribirsk he could understand if they had never been found by the testers, but here are two that he recognises as being listed among the dead from skirmishes with Shu Han. Worse is to come though when he spots Zoya some hours later.
It's lunch time when he sees her. Alina is already sitting on the muddy ground, eyes pinched with exhaustion, gulping down some much-needed water. At first, Aleksander thinks it is an otkazat'sya who has provided this small comfort to her, and he starts to make note of her appearance in case they do get out of this alive. The black-haired woman, now helping Alina to eat, is showing unusual kindness to his precious girl, supporting her and encouraging her in soft tones. It won't save her from his wrath, but it will buy her some leniency. Unlike the others, this one might be allowed to live.
Those thoughts are quickly forgotten, however, when the mystery woman stands and turns around. Zoya, his mind hisses. Zoya. It's Zoya.
Over the years, Aleksander has heard other people describe anger as like a red mist descending, but for him his temper has always been black. Black like his shadows. Black like the night. Black like the cut. His eyes bleed black, obsidian shadows writhing across his skin like snakes.
Traitor his mind shouts. Traitor. Betrayer. Oath Breaker.
Around the camp, people start shouting, but Aleksander only has eyes for the traitor. Zoya steps back when their gazes meet and lock, evidently taken aback and shaken by the venom and fury emanating from her former General.
A harsh blow to his sore back breaks his stare and almost sends him to the floor. Another blow brings him to his knees. Alina's cry is worse than the pain of the beating though. With each hit he feels her anguish and desperation grow, but he is powerless to help. All he can do in that moment is try to hold onto consciousness, a task which is growing increasingly difficult with each whack of the rifle butt.
"Please," Alina shouts frantically, no longer able to keep silent. "Please, you'll kill him."
"It'll take far more than a beating to kill the Darkling, little saint," Zlatan says, his voice sounding tinny and distant to Aleksander's foggy mind. "But I think he's learnt his lesson. Enough Yoseph. He needs to be able to walk, unless you would like to carry him…"
The threat evidently works, as the pain stops, and Aleksander is left alone once more. His breathing is shallow and laboured, but it's unfettered, and he can tell from decades of experience that while bruised, his assailant hasn't broken anything. It's a small relief amid a sea of larger worries. A punctured lung out here would almost certainly mean his – and likely Alina's – death.
That brings his mental musings to the reason for his beating. Zoya.
What is Zoya doing here, and showing such compassion and caring to Alina as well – the girl she had put into hospital bed and nearly killed the last time they had been together. His last memory is of walking away from the former Squaller in disgust after interviewing her. Botkin had told him she'd left, but he had been distracted, first by Alina and then with the situation with Shu Han, and had paid it little mind.
No, he thinks, working the problem through. Zoya joining Zlatan isn't a complete surprise. Having left, of course she would return to her native Novokribirsk. He knows Zoya, knows her ambitiousness, her drive to be the best, her resentful nature. Isn't that what led to the altercation between her and Alina in the first place? He knows those traits and he knows that spurned, angry and forced out that Zlatan would likely have seemed an ideal way to get her revenge.
But…
But why then the care shown towards the object of her jealousy and ire. He can't refute the evidence of his own eyes. The subtle kindness the dark-haired woman had shown his love, the concealed consideration. Before he'd known her identity, he'd been impressed and moved by her actions. It didn't fit, that's the problem.
The Zoya he remembers would never have behaved in such a way, would never have been able to set aside her emotions to care for someone else.
She looks frailer than he remembers as well, with a gauntness that speaks of a lingering illness. A wild thought flits across his mind, dark and ominous. He may not be allowed to summon, but he can still sense grisha power, reaching out he filters through the grisha he can sense: Alina, first and foremost, burning like a sun and eclipsing everyone else. Next he finds the three Inferni, then Squallers and the Tidemaker. He searches, but Zoya still feels like an otkazat'sya to him. Could this perhaps be an act to gain Alina's sympathy so that she will restore her power.
If so, it's a dangerous game she's playing. He will kill her himself before he allows her to hurt Alina again.
Part of the problem is that Alina herself seems comfortable with Zoya. The pair have an ease which is foreign and new, as if they have formed some sort of understanding. It's a mystery that keeps him occupied when scant minutes later he is once more hauled to his feet and told to walk.
They walk until night has well and truly fallen. The waning moon is bright in a cloudless sky, and it illuminates the ground with a cold light, that allows them to keep going far longer than before. The movement is good though. Already the temperature has dropped to below freezing but moving keeps him from feeling the worst of it.
Finally, though, a halt is called, and camp is set up.
The next hours are interminable. Zlatan orders them to remain where they are, kneeling upon the hard, frozen ground. The six guards watching them have their orders. Neither summoner is to sleep tonight, nor are they permitted more movement than the occasional shift in position to alleviate sore muscles. The consequences of disobedience are made only too clear - the cat is laid out in an ominous promise should either grisha test the rules they have been given. The only reassurance Aleksander has is that Zlatan will not allow Alina to be harmed. If punishment is required, it is he who will bear the physical pain, although he is not so witless as to think Alina will escape the mental torment of such an act.
Part of their torture is to watch as the others eat, drink and make merry while he and Alina remain cold, hungry and thirsty. It's a common tactic used most often to get prisoners of war to talk. Psychological torture can be far more affective than physical…as Aleksander knows only too well.
With the longer than usual march, it's clear though that Zlatan's men are tired, and most soon start to drift off towards the tents, leaving the lucky sods on first watch alone. The camp is quiet except for the grating snores of sleeping officers and the crackling flames from the central fire pit.
Lost in the quiet dance of the flames, time moves sluggishly in fits and starts, seeming to both move and stay still simultaneously. It's why he's taken by surprise when sometime later one of the guards appears with a steaming cup and offers it to Alina.
At first she stubbornly shakes her head, refusing the beverage unless he is given one as well. It's typical of Alina – her loyalty and sense of justice would never allow her to accept something if it meant the disadvantage of someone she cared about.
The guard pushes the cup forward again, his irritation visible even ten meters away. Next to Aleksander, another guard shifts restlessly, placing his hand meaningfully on the club by his hip. The threat is clear, and he watches sadly as it strikes home. Fretful eyes meet his, and he can see that Alina worries whether she should take the proffered cup. A soft smile and encouraging nod are all it takes for her raise it to her lips.
He's grateful that Alina at least will have her needs met. His gratitude lasts exactly as long as it takes for him to realise the trap he has encouraged Alina into. She starts swaying, her eyes closing of their own volition even as she fights the powerful sedative she's clearly been given. The drugged cup falls from her nerveless fingers, and Aleksander can't help the panicked cry that escapes him as she slumps on the ground.
It must be a signal, as Zlatan soon appears, smirk firmly in place. "Calm yourself Darkling," he commands, eyes fixed on the now swirling shadows, "she is only sleeping." He casts a glance at the recumbent Sun Summoner, "I thought it best if we are to have a chat that our Sankta was not awake and fretting."
"Bollocks!" Aleks spits, impotent fury making his shadows writhe. "You don't have a considerate bone in your miserable otkazat'sya body."
Zlatan looks away and shrugs, "think what you will," he says dismissively, "but even you would agree, I think, that a rested Sun Saint is better than an exhausted one, given we are to cross the fold tomorrow at dawn."
The General's revelation isn't news to Aleks. He's known how close they were to the unsea yesterday before his capture, and the hours since have only brought them closer. By his reckoning they are but half a mile away, scarlessly any distance at all. The greater mystery has been why they stopped when they were so close, but that's now explained. Alina has been awake for over 24 hours now, their guards determined and only too pleased to keep both Sun Summoner and Darkling awake throughout their journey. While he's gone longer without sleep in the past, Alina has not, and Zlatan is clearly aware that an exhausted grisha is less likely to get then across the Fold safely than a well-rested one.
"Bring him!" Zlatan commands, his voice jolting Aleksander out of his thoughts as his guards roughly pull him to his feet and propel him along the path to the command tent
"What is it you want, Zlatan?" Aleks snaps once his guards have left and the two generals are as alone as it's possible to be in an army camp.
"To talk, nothing more," the otkazat'sya General says, reclining back in his chair with nonchalant authority.
"You care for her," the other observes with cold curiosity. His tone no different to if he were remarking about the weather.
It may be couched as a question, but it isn't. This is a fishing trip to confirm what his adversary already knows, and Aleksander is in no humour to satisfy anyone's curiosity, let alone this man's, with information that could be so easily used to hurt Alina further. He stays silent, head turned away in feigned disinterest.
"Come now," Zlatan chides, lips twitching like he's amused at a joke only he gets. If there's something humorous about this situation, it certainly isn't apparent to Aleksander. "We are both reasonable men," the otkazat'sya continues, holding Aleksander's gaze. "We should be able to have a reasonable conversation."
"Even in an unreasonable situation?" Aleks replies dryly.
"Oh, but I'd think you'd agree that this is an eminently reasonable course of action. It's what you would have done had fate placed our little Sankta in West Ravka, after all - and there would have been far more bloodshed if that had been the case. We both know you would have come storming across the fold with your army and laid waste to any who stood in your way."
There's truth in that statement, truth which stings far more than the gashes still weeping on his back or the bruises littering his body. Zlatan, curse his rotten otkazat'sya soul to the black mountains and back, is right and it reignites the shame he's felt over those long aborted plans he once held for the Sun Summoner.
"You don't deny it?" Zlatan's head is tilted in thought as he scrutinizes his opponent's stubborn silence.
"Where would be the point?"
"Indeed," Zlatan murmurs, looking for a moment like he's been caught off guard.
"You'll think what you will," Aleks continues, shrugging his shoulders as nonchalantly as possible, grimacing as the movement jars his bruises and fiery pain race down his spine.
"You wished to speak," he reminds the other. "Do get on with it."
"So I did," Zlatan agrees, and then comes the offer Aleksander had half been expecting would come. His life for Alina's freedom and continued safety.
"When we arrive at Novokribirsk, I want you to say goodbye to the Sankta, then turn around and walk back into the Fold."
"And what do I get out of this suicide pact?" Aleksander ask, dark eyes assessing and calculating.
Zlatan laughs, "you make it sound like a death sentence," his eyes meet and hold Aleksander's own, "I'm a sporting man Kirigan, I'll give you a sporting chance. You'll have provisions and I'll even give you a blue light and a pistol with one shot."
Sporting man indeed, Aleks scoffs inwardly. There's nothing sporting about this, only a thin veneer to cover what is otherwise an execution. He knows it. Zlatan knows it. A large proportion of the assembled population will know it. But on the face of it, Zlatan is being merciful and is allowing a dangerous enemy the chance to return to his own army. It would be a dangerous gamble, except for the fact it's not a risk at all. Either the volcra will kill him or he will kill himself long before he can reach the eastern shoreline.
What makes you think Alina will agree to this? Aleks asks, "once I'm out of the way and can no longer be used as leverage, what's to stop her raising your city to the ground."
"She won't," Zlatan replies with smug certainty. "I know her type. She has a kindly heart, a softness to her, she wouldn't hurt innocents, and in time she'll come to see I'm right and to accept her new home. Why, in time, I might even marry her."
Personally, Aleks isn't so sure. There's a core of durast steel that runs through his precious girl. Yes, she does have a kind heart, and yes she has a conscience that would balk at hurting innocents, but then there's the other side to her. The side that's fiercely protective of those she loves, the side that hates injustice, the side that burns like the sun and doesn't shy away from what needs to be done. The side of her that told him only a few weeks ago, and in no uncertain terms, that she and she alone would decide who she would marry.
Zlatan thinks that because she's calm that she's malleable, that because she dislikes confrontation, that's she weak and won't stand her ground. He's wrong on both accounts. He's also wrong if he thinks Alina will meekly standby and watch him die to preserve her own life.
He thinks of the Fold and how it came to be; the fear, the rage, the pain, the endless grief that called it into existence. No, Zlatan's wrong. So very wrong. There's a good chance Novokribirsk won't survive Alina's pain.
But even so, he nods. There's little else he can do. This course, and this alone offers, the best chance for Alina to come out of this nightmare alive.
"How do I know she will be safe?" He questions with quiet resignation.
"You have my word," the other General replies, "West Ravka will allow no harm to come to their Saint."
And there's the crux of the matter, the reason Zlatan has changed tactics. Popular feeling is very much in favour of the Sun Summoner. Even in West Ravka, it appears. The other man has seen the sea change, and like all good politicians he adapted his strategy to win public support.
By bringing Alina to Novokribirsk, Zlatan will be a hero to the West-Ravkan's. He will be the man who liberated the Sun Summoner from the tyranny and oppression of the west. He wouldn't just win support, he'd be given power, the keys to the summer palace and unassailable position in West Ravkan society.
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Once more on his knees outside in the freezing winter night Aleksander has plenty of time to think. Zlatan could have been his mirror image. He's who Aleksander would have been if he hadn't met Alina that fateful day all those years ago. He would have been just as zealous, just as blind, just as fixated and determined and he would likely have caused enormous harm: to his people, to Ravka in general, and to Alina herself.
It's a bitter realisation to have. More so tonight. Even on the eve of his execution he cannot regret meeting Alina – she's his friend, his love, his guiding light.
His saviour.
Now it's time for him to return the favour.
For tomorrow he dies.
It's a long and lonely night Aleksander passes waiting for the dawn. His only comfort is the careful watch he keeps on the sleeping Alina, his resolve firming with each steady rise of her chest.
This isn't how he imagined his ending, but it's perhaps its fitting. The man who'd escaped death for so many years willingly embracing it to save the only person he's ever really, truly loved. He'd hoped for a life with Alina, but if he cannot have that then giving his life for her seems a small sacrifice to make.
Groggy from the lingering effects of the drug, Alina blinks awake. Her beautiful golden eyes dazed and confused as she fights off the last remnants of the sedative. It's an endearing moment, and one that softens his gaze and brings a smile to his face.
Slowly she sits up, Zoya helping her regain her balance when she wobbles a moment. Aleksander's smile turns into a troubled frown as he watches the former Squaller assist the woman he loves. Breakfast is tepid porridge which she helps the still woozy Alina to eat. It clearly helps, as does the extra strong coffee which she reluctantly swallows, grimacing at the taste of each mouthful.
To his surprise though, having finished with Alina, Zoya comes over to him with another bowl. Coffee is apparently reserved for the Sun Summoner – on the grounds they need her awake and alert – but porridge is another matter. It's bland, watery and cold, but Aleksander wolfs it down, thankful for having a full stomach and the strength it will give him through what is certain to be a very trying day.
Breakfast over, the camp is quickly broken down with typical military efficiency, and they are once more on the move.
In what feels like no time at all they arrive at the bank and the skiff looms out of the early morning mist, large and ominously real. Until this point, there's been a part of Aleksander that had stubbornly clung to a nebulous hope that somehow the situation was still salvageable and would yet turn out alright.
It's a hope that is now dying a swift and brutal death as reality smacks him in the face with all the force of a canon blast.
Around them Zlatan's troops are ebullient as they climb aboard the skiff. Shouting and hollering to their waiting crew mates. Some even start singing while they quickly set about securing the horse and cargo, and then set to making ready to leave.
Things are progressing swiftly and easily, until that is, Aleksander's guards try to remove his cloak and kefta. Until now he has been allowed to keep his own clothes. A small mercy he has been incredibly thankful for given the freezing temperatures. Little though he likes it, he makes no move to resist, understanding only too well that there are some battles not worth fighting for during a war.
It proves too much for Alina though. Normally a calm girl, her temper is a fearsome thing once provoked – as Aleksander has recently been reminded. Light explodes from her in rippling waves that sends her guards skittering away from her screaming and clutching at their scorched limbs. Chaos breaks out, but Alina is fearless in her fury. She punches a man who tries to grab her, then uses him as a springboard to deliver a punishing roundhouse kick to the face of another man who had been sneaking up behind her. The Inferni get involved then, firewhips intended to restrain the Sun Summoner lashing out to wrap around her arms.
For one heart stopping moment Aleksander fears for Alina. Firewhips are a painful form of restraint, often causing terrible burns to those they are used on. He's known people to lose arms from firewhips before now, the burns either turning gangrenous or else the heat damaging the surrounding nerves beyond repair. It's a skill that's taught only to senior grisha, and only under very careful supervision, and now these traitors are using it mercilessly on their own saint.
He needn't have worried. Alina's cry is one of fury, not of pain, and she catches hold of each flaming whip with angry determination. Around her the nimbus of light intensifies, and to his – and everyone else's – astonishment the fiery red whips transform to sunshine gold, power flowing back down the lashes to toss the Inferni off their feet with devastating force.
It's only the knife to his throat and the rifle suddenly pointing at his heart that brings Alina to heel. She subsides, once more motionless in the grip of two guards, and he stays still while his guards take his clothes and shift his bindings so that his hands are now tied behind his back. He knows this game. Knows that the aim is to humiliate him, to reinforce just how powerless he is. It smarts.
He and Zlatan might have an agreement, but his welfare was never part of the deal, and he knows that this is all part of the other General's plan to make sure he has no chance of making it back to Kribirsk alive.
Satisfied that all preparations have been completed, Zlatan gives the signal and with a great shuddering jolt they are off.
It pains her to see Aleksander brought so low. Zlatan has been in meticulous in his plans and has equipped his team with every advantage possible.
Aleksander himself has been stripped of his winter cloak, his Kefta and even his shirt, so that he sits half naked, exposed and humiliated, on his knees upon the harsh wood of the deck. His wrists have been bound behind his back like a common criminal in another slight. It has long been convention in Ravka that high ranking prisoners of war should have their hands bound in front as a mark of respect. For Aleksander to have his hands bound behind his back is an insult.
It isn't even a precaution aimed at preventing Aleks from summoning. After her demonstration two nights before Zlatan knows only too well that such restraints are redundant. She and Aleksander have no need of the traditional techniques people see grisha use - those are merely there as a tool to help less powerful or experienced summoners. Had Aleksander wished, his shadows could already have killed all those on the skiff. The dagger to her throat is all that stops him from giving in to his thirst for vengeance - that, and that alone, is all that is keeping him quiescent and obliging, and Zlatan knows it. It's why he feels safe to revel in his victory, to lord it over his captives and allow his men free rein to mock, hurt and humiliate Aleks as they like.
The wrongness, the injustice of it makes her blood boil. Every whip, every cut, every cruel word from their captors, pushes her a bit more towards a cliff edge of despair. Alina doesn't need to be told what their arrival in Novokribirsk will mean for them, but it isn't her fate that causes her heart to ache fiercely within her, or for the sunlight to burn that little bit brighter around the skiff - it is for Aleksander she fears.
That he will die is almost a certainty now - his only hope of survival is to act now before they reach the dry docks in Novokribirsk, but she knows he will not - cannot - for the same reason that all she can do is to obey their captors and keep the skiff safe from the circling volcra.
A tear slips down her cheek, first one and then a second and a third. Her heart is crying out in pain - screaming in impotent fury - to have all this power and to still be powerless is the cruellest irony of all.
The light reacts to the emotional maelstrom inside her, flickering, dimming and shrinking as her tears flow unchecked. Beside her the man shouts and she feels the bite of the dagger into her vulnerable neck, a sharp sting followed by a trickle of sticky wetness, but she ignores it - all her mind, all her concentration is fixed on the faintest flutter against her senses, as soft and ephemeral as a butterfly's kiss.
Vaguely she hears shouting and the sharp bite of pain, but she pushes it from her mind, intent on finding the touch she felt a moment before. Distantly she hears Aleksander's beloved voice, hoarse with panic, crying, screaming for her, but even this is swept away as she makes contact with the entity and reality disappears.
Zlatan has him in checkmate and all Aleksander can do is remain still and outwardly calm as his mind desperately searches for another way to save Alina, if not himself.
Last man standing. That's what the otkazat'sya had goadingly said to them on the journey here – that he, Zlatan, would be the last one standing. The threat had been clear, but in a way it had been a relief to have the ultimatum out in the open – to know where they stood.
Caring isn't an advantage. That's what his mother used to say to him. To love is to be vulnerable and open yourself to pain. Oh, how right she is. In another world, one where the Sun Summoner was just some nameless girl he could have acted – could have done what's necessary to save them both – but here, in this moment with Alina, his precious girl, at risk he is powerless in a way he's never before felt.
He cannot risk Alina and so he cannot act. It's a stalemate that has them heading for disaster and almost certain doom, and yet he cannot alter the course now. It's too late. He's failed her. He's failed their people.
All he can do is pray to saints he has long stopped believing in that they will intervene for Alina. He has no hope for himself, but if he can save his precious girl he will consider it a fair exchange, and one he would make a hundred thousand times.
With Alina's protection they are making excellent time across the Unsea. With each marker they pass hope that Ivan's party will catch up to them decreases. He is caught between a desperate desire for more time and an urgent need to get to Novokribirsk as quickly as possible. This is the most power Alina has ever used, and he worries that she will tire - and what it will mean for her if she does.
From his bowed and bound position, he watches helplessly as a tear slips down Alina's pale cheek. Her tears break his heart, and he longs to be able to comfort her, but the rules have been explicitly shown to both of them. Any communication is punished with whipping or a cut to his back. For his part it is a pain he will gladly bear if it means he can be of some comfort to his darling girl, but Alina with her soft heart isn't willing to pay that price, and so he can only watch in pained silence.
Such is his desperation to watch over Alina that at first he misses what else is happening around him. It's the panicked shouts from the Squaller which alerts him to the issue - around the skiff the protective light is flickering, the dome around them expanding and contracting at random intervals. Desperately, his eyes seek Alina's, but hers are shut - closed both to the danger around them and to the danger much closer to her, the threat of the dagger pressed against her neck with finely gauged force. Horrified, he can only watch as her captor shakes her roughly by the shoulder, the wicked sharp knife biting into the vulnerable flesh, causing blood to drip from the wound.
He screams then, cries and shouts, oblivious to the whips that lash his back in retaliation, desperate to wake Alina to the peril she faces, but it's to no avail.
The Sun Summoner remains stock still, a rivulet of blood streaming down her neck staining the white of her shirt crimson with blood.
The light flickers once, twice more and then vanishes. In the sudden gloom Aleksander can just make out the outline of Alina slumping to the floor, and in that horrid moment he knows that she is dead, that he has failed her. A shriek high above distracts his devastated mind and in horror he looks up. There above them are thirty swirling shapes in the fog, their cries echoing around them, and he welcomes them, welcomes the end he sees promised in the flap of their wings. There's no point in living if Alina is not with him.
Closing his eyes he bows his head, accepting his fate. He feels the brush of leathery wings against him and hears the pained scream as the trapper behind him is lifted into the air. It will not be long now before he joins his precious girl in whatever comes next. He thinks of Alina, her warmth and affection, and marvels at the feeling of her light washing over him.
The two traitor Inferni's are next to be targeted and he feels the spark of their gifts flash against his senses before suddenly snuffing out. Then it's the Squaller's turn, there's a pained, desperate shriek, a rush of wind followed by a sickening thud as she hits the deck with lethal speed. Still, he keeps his eyes closed - he might be resigned to his fate, but he has no wish to see it coming for him, or to risk catching a glimpse of his fallen Alina.
At first, he thinks he's imagining it, the press of arms around him, but slowly his exhausted brain hears the gentle, soothing words of a familiar voice. But it cannot be. It has to be the deranged imaginings of his dying mind. The arms tighten to near bruising force, and he feels a kiss brushed against his cheek. His eyes blink open, only to be dazzled by the starlight shrouding him in a protective bubble, so bright and fierce he can scarcely make out anything beyond the illuminated confines of the dome surrounding them. Beside him his saviour grins, brighter even than the sun. Lost in her gaze, he draws her to him, his mouth finding hers for a desperate, passionate kiss.
A/N
Phew, boy am I glad that this is finally done. Most of this chapter has been written for months, so I'm glad to finally be able to publish it - especially as this has been one of my favourite bits to write.
So, a question for my wonderful readers - there's two ways this story could go now. One is the quick way where we'll have this wrapped up in two chapters. The other is a slightly longer route (four to five chapters) and will mean that loose ends like the Crown of Night and Day and the Soldat Sol are explained and tied up.
Your choice - what do you think?
My other question is, does anyone have any favourite chapters/bits? I know which mine are :), but as a writer I wonder if they're the same as my reader's :).