Chapter Text
Alina oversleeps and chooses to skip breakfast, she is barely in time for her training with Baghra as it is. The old woman scolds her mercilessly—Alina’s hangover state is too obvious—but then the girl is given some brine from a jar with gherkins and ordered to drink it, which blissfully clears her head.
Whenever she thinks of last night, embarrassment pains her. What prompted her? Why did she have to make up this wild tale? She desperately hopes that none of the girls will ever recall this story.
And at first, it seems possible. Business in the Little Palace goes on as usual till late afternoon when she is carrying some library books to her suite and notices Nadia whispering into a young Alkemi’s ear, the latter hiding her gasping mouth behind her palm.
Oh no. Please, let this be some other thing.
She knows too well that this is not some other thing but rather exactly that thing.
In the days that follow, the tale comes back to her several times, all with Alina blushing terribly and trying to pretend that she wasn’t the one who made the all up in the first place. Thankfully, both Nadia and Marie bought into her lies of this all being an otkazat’sya legend she learned in her childhood, so they weren’t naming her as the source, merely sharing some silly but steamy otkazat’sya legend.
It surprises and frightens Alina when she learns that some Grisha start looking for grains of truth in it.
“I wonder whether the Black Heretic actually possessed such power,” adds Tonya, a blonde Healer, when sharing “the hottest topic” with Alina after Botkin’s lesson. “I mean, yeah, it seems a crazy fairy tale, but I can’t help thinking whether something along the lines—mind control via controlling the pleasure of someone’s body—is possible—can it be possible? But then he was a Shadow Summoner, not a Heartrender or Healer—”
Genya is unhappy with the spreading of the tale, and she gathers all three of them together to scold them.
“What were you thinking? Who started telling it to others? Okay, Alina, I know it wasn’t likely to be you, but you two, what were you thinking? He was the General’s great-grandfather. I bet General Kirigan would be very angry to hear this and to learn that his ancestor’s already ruined image is dragged into the mud once again, and that it is his Grisha that are giggling at some filthy otkazat’sya tale while doing this.” The Tailor makes a pause before the words “filthy otkazat’sya tale,” looking Alina straight in the eye, and the girl knows that her oldest friend did not believe her “I am just retelling a story I heard in Keramzin” bullshit.
Thankfully, the General is currently at the Shu border and doesn’t return until well over a fortnight, so the story has lost its novelty already. Alina tries to avoid him as much as possible, feeling so ashamed in his presence, unable to meet his eyes. She knows she should act normally, but his aura of charisma and dominance reminds her of her terrible mistake, and she can’t help but feel guilty. Sadly, not all Grisha feel the same, some would be so bold to giggle and whisper when he is in the room. Once she stays too far to hear what Tonya and her friends are discussing, yet the General passes much closer to them and his gaze visibly darkens.
It is the second evening after General Kirigan’s arrival, and Alina is having dinner in the big hall. She is almost done when suddenly everyone falls silent around her. She is afraid to look up, yet it is Ivan who enters the domed hall through the eclipse-emblazoned doors. Her relief is short-lived, she realizes that just like that evening a month ago, the Heartrender has come to escort her to his soverenyi.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he’ll just check on her studies and how she’s getting accustomed to the Little Palace, the way he did it the last time.
The room with maps is empty, so Alina has to walk across it towards the open door and the study beyond it. General Kirigan is reading some document, so she has to wait uneasily, not having enough courage to start the conversation..
“Miss Starkova,” he finally acknowledges her presence. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“No, Sir?” — despite the questioning intonation, she thinks she does know, and her eyes can’t hide her shame and fear.
“So you don’t. Well. I suppose, I’ll have to tell you then.” He moves his chair, standing up and coming towards her. She struggles not to step back.
The General’s voice is steady, he speaks very slowly and deliberately, as if trying to keep calm. Alina’s shoulders tense up while he is circling her, his dark gaze inscrutable. A hundred scenarios flash through her mind, each showing worse consequences of her supposed crime.
“There have been quite nasty rumors spreading in the Little Palace, and I am afraid it is all leading back to you, Miss Starkova. Others have been dealt with… for the most part… but you, you have been the source of it all.”
“I’m… I’m just…”
“And you don’t get to hide behind that little lie, ‘I was merely retelling a folktale.’ We both know this to be untrue. You made this up by yourself, from beginning to end, whatever might have been your reasons for this… this…”
He can’t find a proper metaphor to call it. His anger comes to the surface, barely hidden now.
“Do you know what might have happened, what could still happen, should this story leak the walls of the Little Palace and become a real otkazat’sya superstition?” he grabs her chin and makes her look up, not having her hide her eyes anymore. “Could you even imagine the consequences?”
She is gaping silently, blinking at him as the room feels blurry and darkening, and her blood seems to have left her veins. No, it’s not her imagination, his shadows are crawling around, dimming the lights. For a moment, she thinks she sees pitch-black darkness in his eyes, but then it’s not there.
"They already fear and distrust us, they believe we are all monsters who would murder them in their beds if we were given free reign. You would give them more cause to hate us? Everybody knows the Black Heretic died when creating the Fold. So now you are spreading the story that he’s very much alive and will come for their daughters, am I right? How long do you think it will take till all Little Palace inhabitants are proclaimed the Black Heretic’s accomplices and slaughtered by an angry mob?”
The realization of the possible consequences hits Alina hard. She even forgets her fear of him, for what are they against a country of Grisha haters? If the Ravkans would turn against the Grisha, they would become refugees at best, refugees with nowhere to go, everywhere meeting with torturous death.
“I am sorry, Sir! Please, I am so awfully sorry! I was stupid, I didn’t think of it, I didn’t want… I never meant to do any harm! And I should have thought, I am so sorry to be so disrespectful, I should have never spread lies about your ancestor! Not telling it as if he were alive, and… and of course not all the other things! I am so very sorry to have spread those lies!”
A chuckle in the dark, sounding almost sad and tired. His hands leave her, and the General makes a step back.
“Ah, Alina, but that is the point. That is exactly the point, I am afraid. While you completely made up this story from the start, those were, in a way, no lies at all… and it isn’t my deceased ancestor you were talking about, the man being very much alive, you see.”
She doesn’t understand, her mind is trying to grasp the meaning of his words… So if her words were the truth, that means… that means…
His silhouette, so dark against the window, must be enough of an answer, especially with all those shadows crawling to him, leaning towards him, spreading around him like a mantle.
“No, it’s not possible… It can’t be true…” she starts backing from him, unable to tear her gaze away from his. She bumps into his desk, freezing. “You can’t be…”
“You can say it, Alina. The Black Heretic. If I let it slip before you, I may as well fully acknowledge it.”
He moves closer, taking in her expression, the disgusted curl of her lip she couldn’t help, the way revulsion stiffens her jaw, the sheer horror in her eyes.
“You- you are the monster who made the Fold!..” She leans further back.
“So this is what you think of me? This is all I get after the centuries I’ve worked only to make Grisha safe, to make Ravka strong?”
She just stares, now visibly trembling, hand blindly stroking the edge of the desk, slowly moving along it.
“And now my Sun Summoner is looking at me with loathing in her eyes? My Sun Summoner is crawling away from me? Oh no, this won’t do. Do you think I am going to put up with this?” He moves closer, looming over her, his voice coarse and bitter.
“Please,” she cowers behind the palm of her right hand, sobbing—as if in fear of a blow, though his hands are not even raised for one, “please, I am so very sorry. I won’t tell anyone, I promise, I’ll be good, I’ll do exactly as you tell me…”
“You will do as I tell you, you say? Oh, but you will indeed,” and it is as if something changes, something terrible happens at this precise moment. She notices it and is bracing for impact, even though his voice becomes calmer than before. He grabs her shoulders and pulls her to his chest, securing her hands in his free one. “After all, this would only be a fair retribution, truly poetic justice for what you have done,” he whispers right into her ear.
There is only so much fear a human body can feel. Alina, though still letting out choked sobs, relaxes into him, metal kefta clasps cold against her cheek. He starts stroking her hair, so slowly, so gently, each movement ending on her neck, and she savors the warmth of his touch and the calming pull of his power. Her eyes are closed, and her breath rhythm gradually becomes slower.
Then they start moving, his strong arms leading her and protecting her against bumping into furniture or walls. And then it's like he's whispering again, but this time she can't make any sense of it. It doesn't sound like human speech at all. It is the rustling of leaves, the rumbling of stones, the burbling of water. It sounds like the softest whisper and the loudest thunderbolt at the same time, and it turns her skin to goosebumps because it's terrifying in some eldritch, primordial way.
Alina opens her eyes to look at him and screams at the sight. His eyes are black pits without any semblance of irises, and his neck is covered with a network of thick black veins that are slowly spreading to his chin and upwards. His lips are still moving, uttering words that are not meant for human ears. She breaks free from his embrace, gaining a few feet between them, only to realize that they must be in his bedroom now and that he is blocking the door with both his body and the unnaturally thick darkness in his wake.
He stops chanting that dark curse (are there even such things? Wasn’t she taught that magic doesn't exist?) and stretches an arm in her direction, inky black darkness, so unlike his usual shadows, pouring out of his fingertips.
“Can you see it now, Alina? Look and behold what you made me do!” He is hissing, enraged. “I made a vow never to do this again, but you, you had to come and ask for it.”
She gathers the remnants of her courage to stand her ground and try to talk to him. “I don't understand. I… I still could…”
“You don’t understand, milaya? Why so surprised? Was this not in your story?” He walks past her to sit on his bed, and she is frozen in place, mesmerized, as he pulls her into his lap. Deft fingers get to work on the clasps of her kefta, while his other hand strokes her thigh from the knee up. His touch, now enveloped in this darkness, feels like fire even through the fabric, almost verging on painful yet so enticing, so desirable. Yes, what makes it painful is the way her clothes dampen the sensations, why is he so slow with taking them off her?
She remembers herself, breaking the spell, stiffening, clenching her legs together. He lets out a little laugh, followed by a melancholy sigh.
“You have probably heard about Ilya Morozov, the saint who was actually a Grisha, as all of the saints were?” This is the strangest topic to be discussed here and now, and she doesn’t know what to make of it. Still, she is grateful that his hands have stopped roaming. She knows of Sankt Ilya, of course, and it’s been just a couple of weeks since the Apparat gave her that book on amplifiers, but why speak of the man now?
“You see, as the man’s descendant and rightful heir, I have his diaries in my possession. And there is one detail of Sankt Ilya’s life that might have made you wonder, if you really gave it some thought. How do you think, malyshka, was Ilya Morozov able to make his otkazat’sya wife stay?” His right hand moves to the crown of her head, caressing her hair in the same soothing manner as before. “Mind you, those were the days when Grisha were feared and hated much more than they are now. We were considered freaks, exiled from any settlement at best, and hunted down as animals at worst. And this is Ilya Morozov we are talking about. The Bonesmith. The one even other Grisha consider crazy and unhinged. Seducing a woman is easy, but making her stay, no matter what horrors and abominations she has to deal with daily, keeping her mouth shut so the neighbors will never suspect a thing…
“So what I am trying to tell you here, Miss Starkova, is that you have surprised me with your insight like no one ever did. Such a bright and inventive mind you have. It would be a great shame to rob you of it.”
It dawns on her, the meaning behind his words, the implications. Breaking through her trance, she jumps to her feet, running to the door, but seconds later, shadowy ropes close over her wrists and ankles, pulling her backwards. “Let me go!” she shouts in utter desperation. “Let me go! Help!”
“No one will hear you, milaya. There is no escape now. The words were said, the process has started. It cannot be stopped or reversed. Trying to prolong it will only add to your agony now,” he meets her halfway, standing up, making his shadows turn her to face him with an elegant turn of his wrist. He returns to the remaining clasps, as she struggles in her restraints, and relieves her of her kefta, neatly hanging it on a nearby chair. She is still in her skewed collar shirt and woolen trousers, but losing her outer garment had some symbolic meaning, and she feels exposed and vulnerable under his stare. She crosses her hands on her chest, the shadows on her wrists not there anymore, lowering her head shyly.
She doesn’t protest, just glances up hastily as he leads her back to the bed. However, as he pulls her down onto his lap, positioning his legs between hers and spreading them wider, another wave of panic rushes through her. She tries to push his hands away, but to no avail, her trousers are unbuttoned and pulled down with her smallclothes. “No,” she begs, her eyes watering, as a finger probes her entrance, “No, please…”
Yet the feeling is overwhelming. Now she wants more of it, she needs more of it. Her skin is on fire. Her knees buckle, and she drops down to a sitting position. His arm moves to hold her back so that she doesn’t slide off. Alina leans into it, contemplating his beautiful face—the inky black patterns now barely visible over his collar—the chiseled cheekbones, the wet gleam of his eyes. Soft, half-choked“Ah”s leave her half-smiling lips, as she gets lost in the sensations, her gaze gradually losing focus until her eyelids close on their own. She is floating deep underwater, where there are only his fingers, now in the plural form, and his fingers are the only thing that matters. So she starts moving her hips to get more of those feelings, and it seems only right to move faster and to try squeezing him, and then her body is stretched into infinity and hit by a thousand lightning bolts, and there are white sparkles behind her eyelids, and she lets out a cry, one of agony or relief, it just feels so good as if she died and returned to life, and there are warm, gentle arms cradling her, and…
And then she remembers. She jerks upright, opening her eyes, and her own shriek rings in her ears.
With his shadows subsided, the room is not that dark now. There are enough lamps to light it well, though the door is still hidden behind the blackest smoke. Yet she can’t see it clearly enough. Or, rather, she can see clearly enough that something is wrong with her sight. Wherever she turns her gaze, everything on its periphery is void of colors as if she were watching it through a gray filter. Moreover, there are black veins radially lacing the gray area of her vision field, veins of the same inky black she saw on his neck and hands.
“What have you done?! What have you done to me?”
She runs for her life, only to bounce back off the suddenly solid shadow barrier at the door.
“I told you before. You are not leaving. I’ve done what had to be done, and you know what it is. Was it not you who told the story about the rich, beautiful, and haughty girl Irina?”
“Oksana,” she corrects automatically, as if it would matter.
“Don’t fight it. You cannot fight it. Now, come to me.”
There is a new strange quality to his voice. She feels it passing through her body, reverberating, making her very bones thrum and the gnawing need between her legs burn anew. She feels as if something is pulling her toward him, and it takes all of her willpower not to budge.
“You absolute brute! You vile, abominable creature! I don’t know what… how you are doing this, but I will fight you!” Anger makes her eyes narrow, and this way, she doesn’t see the grey-and-black periphery. “You will… you will pay for this, monster!”
“Oh, Alinochka,” he stands up, and she immediately regrets cursing him, “I can easily give you a monster, if you’re asking for one.”
This time he doesn’t use his shadows, he drags her himself, and she gives it all to fight back, but now her “all” is not much. Her body is throbbing from his touch, she needs to concentrate so hard to merely move any limb, so there is no way she can gain enough momentum to land a good kick on him. The shadows come back as he brutally throws her on the bed, pinning her, pulling her trousers and boots off, keeping her thighs wide open. She spits in his direction, missing his face, and then she is gagged, more shadows over her neck in almost a chokehold.
“I just have to keep myself from coming,” she thinks as his tongue draws the first circle around her clit, “just have to keep myself from coming.”
She really tries.
She fails.
She comes to her senses—or what is left of them—lying on the softest cushions. Her eyes are wet, and she rubs them to see that she is shedding inky black tears.
Alina is too tired of trying to fight off this unending nightmare. It doesn’t even feel real anymore. Maybe because it isn’t? Maybe she’ll wake up, and everything will be okay.
What do you do when you want to wake up from a dream? Could falling asleep in a dream help? A strange idea, but why shouldn’t it work? If she closes her eyes and tries to ignore anything around her, relax, and fall asleep, will she wake up for real in the end? It is definitely worth trying. Alina closes her eyes and tries to make herself comfortable on the luxurious silken sheets, breathing deeply.
Something bothers her. This gnawing sensation she cannot ignore keeps getting worse. She writhes on the bed, for her skin is itching. There are still some items of her clothing clinging to her upper body, and she rolls and twists and moves her arms until she is completely naked to rub against the sheets, but that doesn’t alleviate her suffering in the least.
Warm fingertips brush her cheek. She turns towards the touch, grabs the outstretched arm, and rolls closer to him because it is his body she needs now, and now that she knows it, now that she knows he’s here, she is going to hold onto him for dear life. But she needs more and more and more. She blindly rubs against him, trying to hug him with all her limbs. Why is he still clothed, why is he trying to move away, to push her away, can’t he see that her need for him is stronger than any force in the Universe?
She opens her eyes, and although black shadows are clouding the major part of her field of vision, his face is right in front of her, this most exquisite sight. There is something amiss with his regard, though. Strange emotions are lurking in his pupils, distorting his features. Is it horror? Disgust? No, it can’t be anything like that, she won’t be able to live with it, she can’t stand the fact that he might look at her with such disdain and…
She rubs against him, hands reaching to try removing his clothes. “Alina, not like that. Not like that, milaya,” and is there sheer sadness in his voice? “Oh, what have I done?”
“Need you. Want you,” she moans and begs. “Please, please, sir, I am burning, I am in such pain, please take me.”
She reaches for him again, and now he doesn’t protest. He pulls down his pants, descending on her. Hands stroking her stomach and sides, so gentle, almost with real care, but now this gentleness, these languid caresses are like torture to her burning core. Finally, after what seems like an eternity of suffering, he lines up with her entrance and, dripping wet and slithery as she is, fills her in one smooth movement.
Alina meets his eyes with her intelligent ones. Her mind has almost cleared now, though some pain still lingers, the urge to start moving, to reach the end of the road where only darkness and oblivion await. “Why,” she asks him softly and almost serenely, “Why?”
Why this? Why me?
He lowers his chin, avoiding her gaze and suppressing a sob. “I am so sorry, Alina.” He runs his fingertips over her cheekbones, leans to kiss her brow. “I am so terribly sorry.”
The nagging pain inside her raises its ugly head, robbing her of coherent thoughts. “Just do it, then!” She cries out, hitching her hips. “Get on with it, curse you!”
He moves at once, and angry and desperate that she is, she can’t help letting out a contented moan. Her features are relaxing, and a blissful smile is blooming on her lips, for all the pain is gone, miraculously wiped away. It’s like the pain was her punishment for resisting and delaying this, so now that they are connected and moving against each other, there is no need for it anymore. And it is horrible, this whole situation is horrible; she knows she cannot be feeling any real warmth or pleasure, she knows the reactions of her body are due to some ancient eldritch ritual and not natural at all. And yet this is what builds inside her, warmth and endless tenderness, mirrored in his eyes, in the way he moves, the way he holds her. She knows she should be afraid, but for now, it feels—he feels—like home.
“This is so…” she strokes his cheek, runs her fingers through his silken strands. Finds his hand, intertwining fingers with his, this feels like the right thing to do. Looks up at him, the most beautiful sight in the world. “I… I love you. I love you, General.”
She tries to adjust to the accelerating rhythm, pushing her higher up a steep hill, she doesn’t want to go there, she wants to stay here, to revel in this warmth and love. But his thrusts get more and more desperate.
“I want you to know my name, Alina. Will you… I want you to know it, to keep it for me…”
“Yes…” she manages to say between frantic breaths, “of course, anything…”
His answer never registers in her mind, muffled by her whole world exploding.
***
Aleksander is helping her dress. Alina doesn’t say anything. She hasn’t said anything since she came to her senses. If she ever did, that is. He is afraid to ask her. He is afraid to check what is left of her after the ritual—oh no, he has to check at once!
“Call the light,” he says, leaving her in the middle of the room and taking a few steps away. She doesn’t do anything, her calm look just becomes slightly bewildered.
He frowns. “Call the light. It is an order.”
She looks at her hands, brings them together, makes some rubbing gestures. Nothing happens.
“I… I can’t. I am so sorry, sir. I don’t know how to do it,” she says apologetically.
“No,” he says, “no, no, no, no…” He grabs her wrist roughly, pressing fingernails into her skin. Her hand starts shining.
Aleksander lets out a sigh of relief. He keeps the hold, while the light grows larger and larger, until it envelops the whole room, until it is blinding white and scorching hot. Then he releases her.
Just to think of it, he could lose everything. He rests his hands over her head, not touching this time, and the light appears again. He concentrates it between his palms, making a sphere, then takes a couple of steps from her. The sphere safely sits in his hands. He plays with it, moving from one hand to another, tries to make it envelop the room again (he stops halfway, but he feels he could easily do it), makes the globe burst into myriads of little lights that quickly fade away. He still can’t believe how lucky he is. How close he was to losing everything because of following his foolish impulse, to destroying his only chance of making it right. Instead, his plans are coming to fruition much earlier than he hoped. He can stop searching for the stag now. Or maybe not. That kind of power would always be useful.
He grabs Alina’s shoulders, looking into her eyes, smiling, unable to hide his joy. His joy is too grand not to be shared.
“Alina, do you know what it means? You and I are going to change the world, Alina!” He frowns, not seeing the reaction he was hoping for. The same calm gaze and shy smile, as if nothing has just happened. He is not sure whether she sees him at all. “Alina, are you here with me? Can you hear me? Answer me, Alina, I order you to answer me!” He shakes her, stopping abruptly when he hears her voice.
“I can hear you, sir. I am standing here with you. Can I do anything for you?”
A calm, smooth tone. An abyss, a black emptiness behind those beautiful eyes. Nobody would notice anything, but he knows where to look. He sees the tiny black flecks and filaments in her irises, and he knows they are in her pupils as well.
Alina Starkova. A brave girl who only looked like a mouse. Who was not afraid to stand up to him. Who could be his equal, his immortal companion. Who was now gone forever.
He can’t help it. There is no need to hide his true feelings from her anyway, she isn’t telling his secrets to anyone. He hugs her, hiding his face in her hair—yes, while logically he knows she is not herself anymore, he can’t let her see his tears.
“Alina, I am so sorry,” his grip on her pliant body strengthens. She just stands there, not attempting to hug him back, “will you ever forgive me? I am so sorry.”
Trapped deep inside her body, seeing the world in shades of gray marred with black merzost specks, writhing in endless agony, unable to move a muscle opposing his direct orders, Alina Starkova silently screams. But no one, not even the Darkling, can hear her.