Summary: The truth is rarely pure and never simple, but sometimes is can set you free. In which Aleksander has a crash course in the Small Science and realises that everything he thought he knew is actually wrong
A/N Wow! Only three chapters to go. I'm super excited about this chapter as it marks one of the big reveals and explanations this story has been working towards since chapter three.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Alina finally pops in for a visit just as his evening meal is being served. It's bland hospital food of boiled chicken and potato, pre-cut into bite sized pieces so as to not tax him. It's another bruise to his ego – made worse because of the amusement it gives his mother - but one he has no choice but to accept gracefully as his wounds have not yet healed enough to return the motor coordination he would otherwise need.
Her presence is a balm to his increasingly frayed nerves and for the for the first time since he awoke in his grey tented prison he feels almost relaxed. The only minor frustration is how she skirts around any serious topic they even so much as begin to venture into. He enquires into the meetings Ivan mentioned in passing, Alina smiles at him and starts a humorous story about one of the First Army officers. He asks about how preparations are going for their returns to Os Alta and she talks about Ivan's tea. He speculates on what madness the Tsar has undoubtedly been up to in his absence and she starts talking about the weather. Finally, he raises the topic of Zlatan and what happened on the skiff. For a moment Alina's eyes dim, the golden flecks transforming into a dull caramel of pain, but then as quick as flash the moment is gone and the smiling woman of before is back.
She checks her watch and grimaces, "it's time for me to be off. Olena said half an hour at a time was all I was allowed and I have another meeting to get to shortly anyway. I'll try and stop by tomorrow."
And with that, his precious girl smiles at him and presses a lingering kiss to the side of his mouth as she stands up, her eyes finding his mother's where she is perched like gargoyle on a bed just out of his field of vision. "Alinocka?" He cannot help but press, anxiety starting to crawl up his spine at her deliberate avoidance.
"It's okay, Aleks," Alina says to him with a practiced, easy grin. "It's nothing for you to worry about. We'll talk properly when you're better."
The words are meant to be reassuring, but it feels like a hollow comfort to Aleksander who detests secrets and not knowing things. He wants to argue, to make her tell him the unspoken words he can almost hear, to get to the bottom of what happened on the skiff and why no one wishes to tell him. He can tell though that Alina will be unmovable on this – can see it in the stubborn set to her jaw and determined glint in her bewitching eyes – and knows that to press further will not yield the results he so desperately wants. Alina, for whatever reason, has decided that it is best he not know until he is better. So be it. He will trust her. He won't push.
Some of his thoughts must have been playing out across his face, for Alina who has been watching carefully now relaxes, gifting him the genuine smile he loves so much.
She bends down to brush a kiss against his forehead, making the skin burn and sing where her lips touch his skin. When she stands up it's with a wicked smile, bright with mirth and amusement.
"Do try to be good to your mother and the poor healing team. I'm not sure Olena could cope with another escape attempt," she teases as she leaves, waving to him once more before disappearing through the flap and into the darkness beyond it.
The days pass slowly in fits and starts. By the end of the first day boredom has well and truly made itself at home. When he's not sleeping he's feeling increasingly fractious as his energy returns and the pain from his injuries fade. He wants to get up and do things. He wants to walk around and reassure himself that all is truly well as Alina says it is. He wants to glower darkly at the otkazat'sya officers she's meeting to ensure that they are treating her with the respect she deserves.
Never the most patient of people, Aleks has never coped well with bed rest, but the gods must surely hate him to have teamed up these two menaces to torment him. Olena and Baghra are in their element and have seemingly set aside their usual dislike of each other in order to join forces in an unholy alliance. If he so much as sneezes one of them materialises to check on him.
He wants out, and damnit he wants it now!
Ivan, bless his regimental soul, tries to help by bringing him reports to read and sign off on. For the most part these are neither onerous nor interesting; supply requisitions, typically, or the occasional report by the outposts about possible enemy activity. Or more specifically the lack of it.
Shu incursions are at an all-time low, and since their dramatic exit from the Fold no one has apparently dared to try and cross the Unsea. Even the normal guerrilla attacks preferred by Fjerda are few and far between, with only one group of Drüskelle spotted by their scouts.
The quiet sits uneasily with him. This time of year there should be frequent minor spats going on as their enemies test Ravka's defences in preparation for a renewed offensive come spring.
He knows it unsettles his Second as much as it does him; it's unusual, and in their experience unusual in war usually spells Trouble with a capital T. His mother though, bless her ever cantankerous socks, seems to have a different take on the frequent occasions she decides to listen in to what ought to be a top secret meeting. "Don't be daft, boy," she cackled at one point on the second day, "despite all the evidence to contrary otkazat'sya aren't that stupid, you know. After that display their commanders would have to be several sandwiches short of a picnic, or else a wish to expeditiously meet their maker, to get within a hundred leagues of the Sun Summoner."
And doesn't that raise more questions than it answers. That Alina had done something that day in the Fold is easy to deduce; even without his somewhat fuzzy recollections assisting him. What he can't work out is what that is. The Fold is still there, he can feel it brushing against his senses like a particularly persistent and annoying cat, but the feeling has changed.
Somehow.
It feels different, less hostile maybe? Less… something, anyway. Or maybe that ought to be more. His fingers rub tiredly at his temples as the headache pounds his already exhausted brain; his thoughts whirling in dizzying circles. Either way it's a mystery he's unlikely to solve until such a time as his chief jailer sees fit to release him and he can do more than prod at the entity on the edge of his senses like a sore tooth.
At least there are other distractions to his day.
Fedyor is a regular visitor as well, although Aleks is uncertain whether it is he who is the draw for the Heartrender. The young man appears to be strangely fascinated by his mother, who has so far kept to her promise and not left him alone for more than the time he is allowed to relieve himself. The pair play poker – which Baghra usually wins – while trying to distract the other by telling increasingly dirty jokes. It's an experience Aleks could very well do without given that this is his centuries old mother he is having to listen to as she regales her audience with bawdy and ribald humour that would not be out of place in a drinking hole or house of ill-repute.
Olena stops by twice a day to poke at him and grunt at the results, and Botkin likes to drop by for breakfast to moan about the general inadequacy of First Army recruits, their abysmal training, and all the ways he plans for the Second Army to improve this. The fact that the Tsar is about as likely to give Grisha any say or control over his precious Imperial Army as he is to spontaneously develop a conscience and abdicate to join a far flung monastery in Shu Han to devote himself to the poor, appears not to matter to the martial arts instructor. Botkin is in his element, designing training plans, reorganising rations so that the meals will be more nutritious and generally turning the entire inner workings of the First Army upside down; and Aleksander finds he lacks both the desire and energy to try and stop him. Let the man build castles in the air, he thinks fondly, Botkin's plans are a good outlet for the man's energy and an even better distraction for a bored General on enforced bed rest.
It's Alina's visits though that he relishes and looks forward to the most. Their conversations are still resolutely light and filled with little of substance, but the contact soothes the itch he feels to be up and doing things in a way that nothing else can. Such visits are frustratingly short though – or that's how it feels to him, at least. His Alina is so busy with whatever it is she's working on that he only sees her twice a day for two short half hour periods; and sometimes not even that before Genya comes to collect her for some meeting or decision that requires her immediate attention.
It takes four days of this hellish imprisonment before Olena announces that he's sufficiently recovered and will be allowed to leave him prison cell to resume normal activities on the morrow. It's the news he's been waiting for since he first awoke and it brings a rush of excitement racing through him.
He practically bolts out of the bed once the Healer leaves, nearly tripping over a chair in his haste to change out of his bedclothes and into the kefta and uniform Ivan has thoughtfully set out for him. Sliding into the kefta feels like freedom and he cannot help the smile that breaks free of his usual control as he buttons it up. Then he's off, through the tent flap and out into the bustle of Kribirsk.
The camp is the same as he remembers. Hectic, smelly and full of bodies hurtling in every direction. It's only once he's out that it occurs to him that he has no idea where Alina, or any of his senior staff for that matter, are. For a few moments he stands there, feeling strangely disorientated. He's used to being the centre of the Second Army. The linchpin around which is revolves. The central engine that makes it work. What he's not used to is this peculiar dislocation – as if the focus has shifted and everyone has moved with it bar him.
He still has two Heartrenders posted outside his tent, as usual, but they aren't his usual guards. Ivan is fanatical about his protection and is generally stationed outside – complete with his desk and beloved filing system – but for the first time he can remember his Second is absent. In his place are Gregori and Maria; two well trained but hardly senior Heartrenders.
Calmly, he approaches the two who are doing a good job at avoiding his gaze. "Gregori, Maria," he greets them both with a nod. They bow back to him, appropriately low and respectful, but their eyes are fixed nervously somewhere over his left shoulder.
"Has there been a change in guard rotation while I've been recovering?" He asks when it becomes clear his Grisha have no intention of speaking.
"No, Moi Soverenyi…" Grigori stutters, darting an anxious glance at his colleague who sighs in a very put upon way. His gaze shifts to Maria who frowns but then tells him what he wants to know. "The Senior Council are meeting this morning, General; we were asked by Commander Starkov to fill in during those meetings. We were not informed that you would be re…" here she trails off, suddenly uncertain about what to say.
He nods, suppressing a smile at young woman's near slip. Released, indeed. It's an appropriate word for what had felt like a prison sentence. Normally, such a comment would be met with a stern gaze, but this morning he is too pleased at his regained freedom to take umbrage with the Heartrender's mistake.
"Where are the Council meeting?" He inquires instead.
The pair look at each other with matching frowns. "We could not say, Moi Soverenyi," Gregori offers. "I think it's one of the larger First Army Command tents, but as to which," he shrugs, looking nervous. That is a bother and an inconvenience, he thinks. He could ask his mother, but as Baghra has been babysitting him for the last four days he suspects this will be a pointless endeavour. Besides, after being cooped up with mother for such an extended period he needs a break if he has any hope of not throttling her.
He rubs his cold hands together in an attempt to warm them as he turns away from his guards. Well, as it's clear he's not needed here for the moment now would seem like a good time to go an investigate the Fold before his diary once again becomes the chaotic whirlwind he's used too.
His precious girl finds him staring at the Fold, some distance from Kribirsk, completely perplexed. His creation has changed, his senses were right about that. It's still has murky black eighty foot walls, but it seems… calmer somehow, less agitated. It also isn't giving him a migraine being this close to it, which is a welcome surprise.
"I should have guessed this would be the first place you would come," a familiar voice announces resignedly behind him. Swinging around he's confronted by the sight of Alina dressed regally in her black and gold kefta, her eyes fixed on the monstrosity towering over them.
"Alinochka," he calls, scooping her up in an embrace that feels oddly reminiscent of another moment months ago now. Such is his excitement and pleasure at seeing her that he cannot help but spin her around, setting her down only to kiss her deeply.
When he steps back, her cheeks are pink and she's grinning widely at him, her hands in his.
"If this is the greeting I can expect for surprising you, Aleks, I'll have to do it more often," she says softly, her eyes warm with affection.
Gently he brushes a lock of hair, which has escaped her elaborate up do, behind her ear, his fingers caressing her cheek as he does so. "I look forward to it, sweetheart," he tells her, his heart full to bursting at her nearness and the first privacy they've had since this debacle began.
"My Alina," he murmurs, eyes burning with intensity. "My love." His hands move of their volition to cup her jaw. This time it's Alina who kisses him, her hands twining through his hair, as she holds him to her. Pressing their lips together over and over until he is dizzy from it.
He might have passed the whole day in such a pleasurable fashion, but sometime later there is a loud bang from the direction of the camp. The sudden racket surprises them, forcing them apart as long honed battled instincts erupt to the fore and he swings around, shadows bursting from him to wrap protectively around them both, even as sunlight rushes to do the same.
For a long moment they stand together, battle ready and tense, surrounded by a dome of gold shot through with shadow, until they have assured themselves of their continued safety. It's a testament to how harrowing a time they have had recently that an unexpected noise could trigger such a reaction. Calmer now, Aleksander takes a deep breath to settle his shaken nerves. It's then that realises the beauty that he and Alina have accidentally created. Even fading into nothingness, the swirling forces around them make for an arresting sight and one he knows he will treasure until the end of his days.
Next to him Alina sighs tiredly, her eyes pinched in a way that speaks to him of long days and longer nights. Putting the mystery of his creation to one side, he instead focusses his attention Alina, drawing her over to one of the large boulders that litter the side of the Unsea and settling her against his side.
"You're exhausted," he observes carefully. Studying her closely and noting all the signs he missed while he was recovering. "Will you not let me help?" He asks gently. "I may not know what you've be up to this past week, my heart, but I know how lonely and tiring it is to be the one everyone looks to; the one who has to have all the answers and plans." Softly, he brushes a kiss against her hair. "You do not need to carry everything alone," the not now is unspoken but he knows she will have heard it anyway and understood the offer he is making.
Alina groans and burrows her head into the crook of his shoulder and for a long moment stays there, still and quiet, until he's almost convinced that she's gone to sleep against him. Just as he's preparing to lift her into a more comfortable position, though, she moves, pulling back so she can look at him.
"I had no idea that being you was so bloody exhausting," she says with a nervous laugh, brushing more of her escaped hair out of her face. "I don't really know where to start. How to explain." She looks away, expression troubled, and then she begins her tale.
He already knows some of what Alina went through with Zlatan, but now he hears it from her perspective. He listens as she tells him about the offer… the future his counterpart wanted her to accept and how angry it made her.
She tells him about the terror she felt when he was captured and how she was certain she would lose him. She tells him about the trick she pulled on the skiff, removing the protection of her light to allow a volcra attack to give them a fighting chance of making it out alive. Something is off about her account, though, and it niggles at Aleksander as it feels almost like Alina is holding something back; which is at odds with how candid her explanation is.
"It worked," he says to her with a small, proud smile. It had been a dangerous gamble, but it had worked and they had lived. So why was Alina looking so sad. "How many died?" He asks after a moment of careful study. Unlike him, his Alinochka still has her compassion. For them to have made it back alive the vast majority of those keeping them captive must have died, or else they would surely have killed their hostages rather than risk them returning to Kribirsk. While her actions were completely justified, they are likely weighing on her mind.
Alina meets his concerned gaze. "Everyone." She says flatly, expression blank, the hands twisting in her lap the only outward sign of the distress he's sure she's feeling.
Oh, his poor darling. His heart clenches in sympathy for her. Aleks cannot remember the first time he was forced into a situation like this – it's too long ago now and too many other atrocities have happened since – but he can remember the guilt that used to come after a battle.
Gently he tugs her hands apart, holding them between his larger ones. "You had no choice, dear heart," he tells her. "Don't hold on to the guilt of doing what you had to because they forced your hand."
Alina stills, her eyes puzzled as they search his. "I don't mourn for them, Aleks," she says with an edge to her voice. "They made their choice. They would have killed you – and everyone in the Second Army – because they believed themselves in the right. Do I feel sorry for their loved ones who will likely never know their fate; yes, of course I do. But do I regret what I did. No. My sorrow isn't for them. It's for Zoya."
Oh. Well. That rather changes things. Startled, Aleksander draws back slightly. While he's pleased that Alina isn't breaking her heart over the sixty lives lost on the skiff, he will confess that he's taken aback. What's particularly surprising is her visible sadness for a woman who made her life a misery those first difficult weeks at the Little Palace – a woman who's resentment and anger had nearly killed her.
"What?" the word accidentally slips out, his incredulity plain. Just to continue with the surprises, though, Alina laughs, her eyes sparkling with mirth at his obvious confusion; but then she explains.
Astonished, he listens as Alina tells him about Zoya's part in the miserable affair. He'd not been surprised when he'd seen her Zlatan's camp – had actually thought at the time that it would be just like the proud woman to go and work for the enemy upon being exiled.
He hears how the former Squaller had learned from her mistakes and, with Botkin's assistance, sort atonement: ingratiating herself with Zlatan as a spy and reporting information back through his own spy network as to the man's movements. He hears of the care the other woman showed her during her days as Zlatan's captive. Finally, he learns the manner of her death; not killed by the volcra as he had assumed, but by his chief torturer as he went to kill Alina.
"She took the knife meant for me," Alina says quietly, starting to tremble as the horror of that moment washes over her again. "No hesitation, no pause, she just shoved me out of the way. I incinerated her murderer, but by the time I got to her it was too late. She was gone." She fiddles with the cuff of her kefta, twisting it one way and then another, staring at it as if it held the answers she's looking for.
"Zoya gave her life for me, Aleks. We weren't friends, but I…" Alina trails off, lifting her eyes so she can gaze at him searchingly, as if trying to will him to understand what she cannot find the words to explain.
"Is this what you did not wish to tell me while I was recovering?" Aleks asks cautiously only too aware that the subject of Zoya has been a difficult one for them both, "Did you think this might harm my recovery in some way, for I can assure that it would not have."
Alina though shakes her head, her expressive eyes full of something complicated he cannot understand. "No," she says at last, "it wasn't that." She breaks their connection to look at the Fold.
"What do you see when you look out there?" She asks apropos of nothing, waving a hand in the direction of his mistake.
He glances at the Fold. "An abomination," he responds, flatly. "My greatest mistake. The sin that continues to stain my soul."
Alina nods sadly at his answer. "That's why I didn't want to talk about Zoya," she explains. "Because it means we're going to have to talk about that." Her gaze returns to the swirling mass of shadow and death before them.
Instead of reducing the swirling confusion Aleksander feels, this admission merely increases it, as he tries to puzzle out Alina's cryptic answer. He frowns, studying the towering walls with growing anxiety. They'd never really talk about his past had they? He muses. Alina had told she knew who he really was and that she loved him anyway and he'd been so desperate not to open that particular pandora's box that he'd taken what she'd said at face value; so desperately grateful for the slightest chance of absolution she'd offered that he'd been only too willing to follow Alina's lead and let that discussion slide. Perhaps he should have-
"Haven't you wondered how it is we got out of the Fold?" Alina asks quietly, disrupting his worrying and sending his thoughts screeching to a halt. "We were well beyond the fifth marker and all the Squallers were dead."
For a long moment Aleksander freezes, his normally active mind unusually silent in shock. Because, no, he hasn't wondered. He'd assumed that it was the rescue party who had fished them out of the Fold, but the way Alina phrased the question now makes him doubt that is what happened.
The young woman next to him takes a deep breath and he feels it in his bones that he will not like what she's about to say.
"It was the Fold that saved us."
No. He's right. He doesn't like this explanation; and he definitely doesn't like the implications that come with it."
"What do you mean, Alina?" He asks, his tone sharper than intended because of the anxiety and stress that are threatening to choke him.
Guilt immediately assails him for his cantankerous response and he shoots her a look of apology. He needn't have worried though for Alina just looks back at him calmly, apparently blithely unconcerned with his less than exemplary display of manners.
"I mean," she says firmly, "that the Fold saved us. I felt it months ago when I first went into it. So much grief and anger. The despair was…" she pauses, searching for a word to convey the enormity of what she'd felt, "overwhelming. The pain and desolation." Here she breaks eye contact, a shiver running through her that has nothing to do with the freezing air that neither of them feels.
Her eyes lift to meet his and he's startled by the intensity shining within them. "The Fold is alive, Aleks," she states with complete and total surety. "It's alive and it's been screaming for five hundred years trying to get the world to pay attention."
No. No. Saints no! He cannot believe what Alina is saying, cannot wrap his mind around such a discordant thought. She must be wrong, mistaken somehow, and yet this is Alina; the one person in the universe he believes in and trusts absolutely. For her to be saying this then it must be...
"It's alive and it's aware, not as we are, but in a limited way. I… it felt my pain and grief aboard the skiff at seeing Zlatan's goons beat you and it connected with me. We came up with the plan together. I would drop the bubble of light and it would direct the volcra to attack Zlatan and his men while I protected us. Afterwards…" when there was no one left, he realises with a hollow feeling, "it pushed our skiff back out beyond its borders so that could get back to Kribirsk."
The thought of the Fold being sentient terrifies and appals him in almost equal measure. As if his creation wasn't enough of a horror before it's somehow managed to be worse than even his worst nightmares.
Revulsion rockets through him, overpowering and devastating, and with it comes the flood of guilt. Guilt at what he's done and guilt at what he once planned to do with it. Never has he felt more of a monster than in this moment.
His thoughts are a swirling miasma of remorse, self-hatred and despair. But one thought raises above them all; the inescapable conclusion that all thoughts and feelings lead back to. The Fold must be destroyed. That it had somehow communicated with his precious girl is reviling enough, but that it had conspired with her, that it had acted to kill, is horrifying beyond words.
It's corrupting influence must be ended before it has a chance to stain Alina; to make her like it, like he had once been, like he would still be if not for her. Merzost is evil and there is always a price to be paid for meddling with it. It's one of the foundation lessons taught to every Grisha in the Little Palace. Invoking Merzost is what had led to the creation of that abomination out there. He had dared to summon the dark power and the result had torn his country apart and claimed hundreds of thousands of lives.
"When do you think you'll be strong enough to destroy the Fold, Alina?" He asks her, eyeing his hated creation venomously. He wants it gone so strongly it turns his stomach to acid. He knows it won't wipe the slate clean, but with it gone he will have saved Alina and done his duty to the world; and he might finally be able to move past the living reminder of his greatest sin and look forward to a new life, one with Alina and the family he hopes they will create together.
"I'm not going to."
Four words. That's all it takes, just four words, for his precious girl to turn his world upside down, inside out and give a shake just for good measure.
"What?" Afterwards, Aleksander could never say with any certainty whether he screeched or shouted at that moment. What by all the saints did Alina mean by that. She couldn't be serious. She's the Sun Summoner, the only one who can save them from the corruption of his creation and reunite their country. How can she say no. He must have misheard her. There is no other explanation.
"I'm not going to destroy the Fold, Aleks," she says calmly, apparently not at all concerned with the panic and devastation her words are causing. Is he… he must be too late. That perversion of nature has already got it's claws in his love, changing her, as it did to him so long ago.
It can't be too late, he thinks with panic. "Alina, please. You're the only hope of reuniting our country," he pleads with her in the hope of reminding her of the very high stakes in this decision, of her sense of duty and the desire to help people that he knows drives her.
"No, love," she says firmly, shaking her head, eyes glowing a warm gold. "It wouldn't be right and it's not what I'm here for."
"What?!" he cannot help but splutter. Not what she's here for. This is the reason for the Sun Summoner. The reason he's been waiting for one for half a millennium. The Sun Summoner is the only one who can undo what he did; who can reunite their country and give their people hope of a better future.
Alina's gaze returns to the towering monstrosity, regarding it with a fondness that makes him feel sick. "It isn't what you think it is," she continues, waving a hand at the swirling black fog. "What everyone thinks it is and it's got an important job to do before it's no longer needed."
Aleksander almost chokes on that thought. "Needed?" He almost howls. "That abomination isn't needed, it's the reason our country is divided. It's a death trap slowly choking the life blood from Ravka. Alina, please, you must see reason," he finishes by begging her, but she just shakes her head.
Aleksander watches Alina slide off their makeshift seat, her black kefta swishing out behind her in the breeze in a way that makes his breath catch with desire even as his stomach is a knot of anxiety and tension. Turning to face him she holds out a hand in mute request and what can he do but answer it.
The sensation of her warm skin against his own calms the thundering pace of his heart and reassures him that whatever is going on they are together and that is what matters.
"You didn't create the Fold, Aleks," Alina says with the sort of conviction that fells armies. "You might have been the instrument but Merzost was the composer. Think," she urges him when she spots the disbelief written across his face. "What were you thinking, what did you wish for, when you tried to summon Merzost?"
For a moment Aleksander considers running away from the dual torments of remembrance and the hope of salvation. He has no desire to answer this question, even after all this time he can barely bring himself to speak of that dreadful day, but if there is one thing he believes in it's her and she has asked this of him. "I wanted vengeance," he says finally, but even this isn't quite the truth: oh, vengeance was part of it, but there had also been a desperate desire to make them stop, to make the otkazat'syas see that their persecution of his people was wrong. He'd wanted justice.
"You wanted justice," Alina says, in an uncanny echo of his thoughts. "For the genocide to stop and our people to be safe." She takes his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm as she gazes into his eyes, sincerity radiating from her. "You've carried this burden for so long, my love, when it was never yours to shoulder. The Fold wasn't a mistake, and it's certainly not an aberration. Merzost heard you that day, and it acted through you to answer the call of its people. The Fold was created as a lesson - one that hasn't been heeded."
"But…" he begins only to stop as the words stick in his throat. He wants to shout that this isn't possible, that this defies everything he has come to understand about the Small Science, everything he has ever concluded about the Fold, everything he has ever been taught about Merzost.
He can still vividly recall his mother's lessons to him as a child about the dangers of it; how it is the dark side of creation. A powerful, unwieldly force that takes from those foolish enough to summon it, that perverts their desire or aim, often leaving them little better than a living husk. He remembers her whispered stories of his grandfather, the legendary Bone Smith, who is said to have dabbled in Merzost and been turned mad from the experience.
And with these comes the memory of that day; of the volcanic fury and desperation he'd drowned beneath at finding Luda's ravaged body, at seeing the massacre of his people, at the knowledge of what that same army was setting out to do.
He'd wanted to create an army of his own to match that of the Tsar's. He'd wanted vengeance and justice and to protect the enclave that housed his sick mother and what had been left of their people. In that moment where his sanity had teetered on the precipice he'd reached out for the elemental force he'd been taught to fear; desperation driving his actions.
"What do you mean Merzost answered my call? It's not a living thing, Alina. Merzost is a dark art, a…" but Alina interrupts him, shaking her head forcefully as she interjects: "No, it's not, Aleks. It's not that all."
The story that pours from Alina is truly astonishing as she tells him of the Court of Night and Day. A tale of legendary creatures who share their powers over shadows and light, of the corruption and greed which destroyed them and of where their gifts came from.
"Merzost created us, Aleks," Alina continues, eyes gleaming like miniature suns. "Our people. It's not a dark tool, the opposite of our powers as we're taught, but an entity far greater than us. We came from Merzost, we're its children, and when it felt your pain and saw the extermination of its creations it acted through you."
But that's impossible… inconceivable. It means overturning everything he's ever known about their powers and origins, and yet Alina is convinced; certain and confident in everything she's saying. Once again, she proves how well she knows him as without a word passing between them she sets out to address his doubts.
"What happened after the Fold came into being?" Alina asks with the sort of calm self-assurance that makes him suspect she is leading him down a trap to prove a point.
The answer is quite a lot, really. It was half a millennia ago, after all, much has happened since then. He hums as he orders his thoughts, trying to recall the order of things.
The immediate reaction to the Fold's creation had been panic across Ravka. The Tsar had hastily recalled those of his forces that hadn't been turned into murderous, flying beasts, and put a hefty bounty on his head. While inconvenient for him personally, this did have benefits for the remaining Grisha, as the Tsar called off his genocide in favour of pouring all his resources into finding the Black Heretic.
From there things had slowly but incrementally improved – especially once it was discovered that only Grisha were able to travel across the Unsea dividing the two halves of their country. That discovery had come about nearly a decade after it had been called into being and it had marked a vital sea change in their history. Grisha were still hated and feared, but now that they had become useful in some capacity the desire to kill them on sight had lessened. Slowly, over the next four centuries, he'd worked both on the front lines and behind the scenes to shore up their people's position, to turn hatred into apathy and tolerance. To carve a space for them in Ravka that they could call home; a space where they would be safe and looked after.
"Oooh," he breathes as understanding hits him in the face with a crow bar and a frustrated expression. 'Oh, indeed. He's been a blind idiot, hasn't he,' he thinks as he watches the delighted smile that bursts across Alina's face as she realises that at last he gets it; gets what she's been trying to tell him.
Well, that changes things, doesn't it.
Zoya's funeral is later that day. Perhaps echoing Alina's emotions, the crisp air and bright sunlight of the morning have given way to overcast skies that threaten more snow and freezing fog that seeps into the bones of any soul unlucky enough to be out in it.
It's a sombre affair, and one that raises complicated emotions in Alek's heart. This was the woman who he had mentored and guided. The woman who had betrayed him and the founding principles he had sought to instil in each of his Grisha out of jealousy; viciously attacking Alina, the one he loves, and nearly killing her. But she also redeemed herself - ultimately, when it mattered most Zoya had come through, protecting Alina even at the cost of her own life - and for that he can only be thankful.
And he's not the only one with conflicted feelings either. Most of the senior Grisha present are unsure how to react. Zoya wasn't known for her ability to make friends, and it shows in the unrest and disquieted glances. It's nothing like the final farewell shown for Marie, where the mourners had been united by their shared grief and their anger at her murder.
Marie, though an average student, had been well liked, with a wide circle of friends. Zoya, in contrast, was known for her standoffishness, her exacting standards and a prickly nature that did little to endear her to her colleagues and peers. She'd been an exemplary solider and a formidably talented Squaller, but as a person she'd often been found wanting.
The ceremony itself is blessedly short and within ten minutes the pyre is lit and all that's left is the final prayer.
Zoya alone of those who lost their lives on the skiff is accorded the respect of a proper Grisha burial. The others who died are to be interred in a mass grace. A fitting end for traitors. There had been some talk as to whether the bodies should be returned to Novokribirsk so that they could be claimed by their families, but the logistics made that impossible. Alina is still recovering from her stunt and The Fold is apparently impassable without the Sun Summoner, at least according to Alinochka; and he has no reason to doubt her assurance.
It may have been mid-winter, but nature isn't kind to the dead, and it would only be a matter of days before the corpses posed a health hazard to the camp, bringing disease and sickness as they decompose. No, with no certainty as to when Alina would be well enough to make another crossing, burying the traitors is the best option available.
It doesn't make the job any more palatable though and there are those who think the traitors' remains should be thrown into the Fold to be defiled by the volcra.
Alina herself is radiant in her black and gold kefta. She's changed since that day on the skiff – or maybe evolved is more appropriate, like a butterfly who has finally shed its protective cocoon to show the world its stunning colours. She's brimming now with a natural and hard won authority, a confidence and resolution he has only caught glimpses of before.
She leads the proceedings, using sun light to thaw the frozen ground. Under her power the earth turns easily beneath the spades and the grave is dug and refilled within short order; removing from sight and thought those who had nearly destroyed everything he had worked so long for.
Zlatan's torn and shredded body alone is kept to one side, later that day it will be encased in a special coffin David and the other Fabrikators have been working hard to create. There is a large part of Aleksander that resents the special treatment accorded to this enemy. Zlatan, in his eyes, deserves to lie in this common grave, forever to be unknown and separated from his beloved West Ravka. Whatever his personal feeling, though, he can see the strategic sense in Alina's decision. The Tsar will want proof that the rebellion has been dealt with – and there is little evidence more impactful or potent than being able to see the dead body of your enemy with your own eyes. There will also be the question of dealing with West Ravka at some point, and likewise his forces there will almost certainly demand proof before laying down arms.
Zlatan is popular there; popular and loved. It's a potent combination and could well spell trouble when the time comes for reunification if not handled correctly. It will be important to establish not only an effective power base but to eradicate any lingering desire to carry on their former General's plan for seceding. Their late leader's body will be an effective deterrent for the latter if not the former; but there they will have the combined might his and Alina's powers to contend with.
Once the dreary business of the day is finished, there is a light meal with music and dancing in the largest of the Command tents for the senior officers of both First and Second Army. It's a good way to end what has undoubtedly been a difficult day for everyone. Outside, Aleksander can hear the distant sounds of what must be a raucous party coming from the direction of where the junior ranks are enjoying their own celebration. It's a fitting, well timed and much needed release for everyone – even with the poor quality of the food and the questionable company – and he delights in seeing the happy smiles and joyful antics of his Grisha as they mingle with men and women who before this would not have given them the time of day.
It's a coming together, a healing of a rift that's been present so long he has ceased questioning it. This unity is Alina's doing he knows with a certainty that leaves him breathless with pride.
When his mother told him that Alina had been whipping the otkazat'syas into shape, she hadn't been joking. The less useless Lantsov is in awe of her, and so are the senior staff of both First and Second armies. In those few days he'd been unconscious she'd had to fight to establish her position and she'd done it with such aplomb that even the normally Grisha hating First Army officers had fallen into line and followed her orders.
Somehow – and he has no idea how – she'd not just got the two armies to cooperate but to unite; becoming something greater than their individual parts. The men and women dancing, drinking and singing before him were no longer divided into First or Second Army – they were one. One Army, one unit. The 'People's Army' Alina tells him when she joins him in his old habit of crowd watching, slipping an arm through his and leaning her head of his shoulder.
Their peaceful moment is not to last, though, as the one his mother has dubbed the 'pretty princeling' spots them and comes over to request a dance. For a moment he considers making a snide comment about how Nikolai isn't his type, but one glance at the grinning woman next to him makes him reconsider. Alina is his, heart and soul, he knows this. Let the prince have this dance, he will have the greater prize: Alina by his side for eternity.
"You've grown, boy," his mother comments from where she materialises next to him. The suddenness of her speech makes him jump, the substandard wine pilfered from First Army stores sloshing over the rim of his glass and onto his hand. With a curse he mops up the spillage before turning to his own personal torment and saluting her with his now significantly emptier glass. "Thank you, mother," he comments, dryly. "Although I think you might need to get your eyesight checked. I've been an adult now for over five centuries."
Baghra raises a disapproving eyebrow at the sass and hefts her omnipresent walking stick with ominous intent. "Bah, that's not what I meant and you know it, facetious child," the stick glints warningly in the low light as she digs it into the ground. Her expression, though, is thoughtful rather than annoyed.
"You've grown as a person, Sasha," she tells him in a tone no one would consider maternal. "The you before would never have willingly, freely and happily let our girl out there dance with the prettier princeling. You'd have been too eaten up with jealously and fear of losing her. Even a few months ago you would have suffocated Alina in an attempt to hold on to her. You've changed; and for the better."
"Who's to say I don't still feel all those things?" Aleks quips in an attempt at distracting his bloodhound like parent, unsettled by both her observation and the fact that she's actually saying it.
His mother's glare ratchets up a notch, but for once the wretched stick remains stationary. "Don't be absurd, boy, I wasn't born yesterday."
Unusually contrite, Aleksander looks down, studying his mother's weapon of choice as if it has all the answers in the universe. "I'm happy," he says simply, uncertain how to explain or convey the complex morass of emotions bubbling away in his chest that makes him feel like his heart is ready to burst with the force of them.
Baghra's expression softens, her black eyes swirling with shadows. She pats his cheek in a tender, strangely maternal gesture. "I know."
"Your father would be proud of you. And he would be proud of your choice." With that, Baghra vanishes back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as she appeared, leaving behind her a gaping, astonished son.
With the celebrations going on until the early hours of the morning, it's no surprise to Aleksander that the camp is slow and sluggish come day break. In the dawn mists, officers stumble to and fro readying themselves for the day. Fires are list, kettles set to boil and around him continues the hum of army life that has become so ingrained to him.
Ivan finds him first, standing once more on the dry dock, staring at the Fold with new eyes. Not his fault. Not his creation. The thoughts run through his mind on repeat. A lesson that must be learnt, Alinochka had called it. Not a monstrosity but a lesson; one the people of Ravka had failed to heed.
"Moi Soverenyi," the Heartrender salutes him with typical crispness.
"Ivan."
Ivan's expression shifts, perplexed. He has finally tracked down the General in the place he goes to brood and yet, for the first time in Ivan's considerable experience, he is not brooding. Thoughtful, yes. Contemplative, definitely. But brooding, no. His heart is calm, strong and settled in a way it has never been, as if a great weight has been lifted from his beloved leader.
The change prompts him to ask a question he would usually never dare to voice. "Are you well, Moi Soverenyi?"
Aleksander looks at his Second with a charming, lopsided grin, "Never better," he says, clasping Ivan on the shoulder. "Am I wanted?"
"Aye, General. There is a meeting in the Command tent." Ivan delivers his message with his usual textbook efficiency, noting as he does so the way the lines of tension that have carved themselves into his leader's brow seem to have eased overnight and the relaxed set to his jaw. Whatever has changed is evidently a good thing, he realises. General Kirigan is not just content, he's happy. Properly, truly happy. It's almost enough to make him smile.
"Very good, Ivan," the General replies, "lead the way."
The meeting in question is taking place in the Second Army Command tent. The black fabric walls are a stark contrast the uniform grey-green of normal army tents. It's isn't the largest of the options available, but it certainly the most imposing. The reason for this being the venue of choice, however, quickly becomes clear when he spots Alina and the senior officers from both armies clustered around the large map table that dominates the centre of the space. First Army Commander are only equipped with local maps and those covering West Ravka.
There is, no doubt, some clever piece of otkazat'sya logic to this, but Aleks has never understood what that might be. It seems short sighted and foolish, but then that pretty much sums up those in charge of the First Army.
There is the usual round of salutes and bows upon his entrance, which he returns as a mark of respect to their new allies, and notes with interest that every battalion and section is represented in this tent. The set up is quite unlike how the First Army is usually run, more reminiscent of the senior officer meetings he has with his Grisha, and yet different at the same time.
Alina is stood along one side of the map table, studying it carefully. Flanking her on her right side are Genya and Fedyor while on the left stand Lantsov, the Apparat, and the overly-chatty Major David Mertzov of the Ninth Imperial Infantry. The rest of the space is filled with an assortment of high ranking Grisha and First Army.
With a sharp salute, Ivan takes his place opposite Fedyor in one of the two open spots left, leaving the one facing Alina vacant. It has long been the rule in Command meetings that the closer you are to the table the more important you are. The position left for him is equal to Alina's, and it has clearly been saved for him – a painstakingly obvious message for all those present as to the joint powers running the show.
"General Kirigan," Alina greets him with a warm smile and a respectful tilt of her head, as one General would when acknowledging another.
It's another carefully choreographed display, one planned out on the banks of the Unsea. He knows of the schemes in motion, knows what she intends to do this day, and he cannot help but relish knowing what will unfold.
"General Starkov," he replies, copying her gesture and smile.
As planned, it's Alina who calls the meeting to order and opens the agenda; even though, strictly speaking, it should be the Prince who does so as the highest ranking person present. It's a demonstration of power and authority, reinforcing her position.
"Welcome, everyone," she starts, in a tone that effortlessly carries across the space. There is complete silence, her audience rapt with attention. "Now that our council is complete," here her golden eyes cut to his, burning with intensity, " we can finalise our plans."
So it begins. The Beginning of the end.
A/N
I can't believe we've reached chapter 30. Finally, we're on the home straight and the finish line is in sight. I have to confess that this was one of my favourite chapters to write. What did everyone think of big reveal with the Fold?
As ever, I'd love to hear what you lovely readers think, so please drop a review - they make my day :).
Only two chapters left and then the epilogue.
Next up: To Crown a Queen
Summary: Plans are in motion; plans which will see the old world overturned and remade a new. Plans which start with a stag and will end in the ruination of the Lantsov dynasty.