Chapter Text
Mal paused, holding the stub of a pencil poised over the remaining empty space on the paper. What could he say that he had not already said? Why was he still writing when he knew Alina had likely forgotten him months ago? Because of hunger, the cold, and the blisters. Because of the risk he and his friends had already taken trekking through Tsibeya and now in Fjerda. Because until he looked Alina in the eye while she told him to leave her alone, Mal knew he would never be able to let her go.
“The truth is-” he wrote and paused, wincing. ‘The truth is I love you.’ was what he had been going to say, but he already looked like a desperate idiot going all this way for a girl who’s silence clearly printed how little she needed him. Still, he had to say something.
Then he heard it in his mind; the sound memory and his pencil went back to work.
“Truth is, when you lit up Kirigen’s tent, there was a sound. A high tone, and I knew it was you. When we were kids you’d hold my hand and sometimes I’d hear it in the back of my head. It’s the middle of the night but I am awake-”
A second sound, that of a steady stream of water, outside the tent a few paces away distracted Mal.
“-As is Dubrov and his tiny bladder.” That would make her laugh. (Assuming she bothered to read this…)
“And I hear that sound again, softly, calling to me” It was real, he was hearing that sound again, now.
Mal stuffed pencil and scrunched paper into his pocket, and stood to snuff the light. Silently, he picked up his coat, and rifle and slipped out of the tent. The sound was closer than he had heard it since… well since they had taken Alina. Mal slipped on his coat, readied his gun, and stepped softly out the tent and towards that sound.
That sound touched something Mal did not understand, like a vein of ore newly struck but barely harvested. He knew only that it was powerful, that it was a part of him, and that it was a piece of why he needed Alina.
His eyes stung and watered in the cold, his ears and the tip of his nose were already numb, but Mal barely noticed.
There, between two snow clad fir bows a stream of frozen breath appeared. It was more breath than the average man would have produced without making more sound and the origin point was a shiny black nose. Mal barely breathed as he raised his rifle.
“Mal!” whispered Mikhael from behind him, “What is it?”
The nose vanished with a rustling of pine branches. Before Mal could even find the right curse for his friend for ruining their entire mission- another sound arrested his focus; Mikhael choking.
Mal turned only to see his friend struggling to breath as the Fjerdan soldier pulled a leather strap tight around his neck.
Mal raised his rifle. It was unloaded. His spare ammunition was back in the tent. He threw the rifle into the snow and ran towards the Fjerdan, punching him away from Mikhael.
Then the universe shrunk to the two things; the moment and survival. More Fjerdans appeared and Dubrov joined he and Mikhael as they shot, stabbed and pummeled to keep their right of breath. There was barely enough light to see by but Mal smelled the Fjerdan’s last ragged breath, and felt the warmth of his blood as it spattered his face. The man was barely limp before Dubrov was calling for help. Mikhael got there before Mal, shooting the last Fjerdan in the back of the head. The three stood backs to each other, peering out into the frigid darkness.
“Is that all of them?” asked Mal.
The only answer was the sound of his friends’ catching their breath. No, there was something else, light tink-ing of metal against metal shoved by hasty fingers.
Hesitantly Mal stepped away from his friends, willing his eyes to see where there was no light. He knew this dread in his stomach. It never proceeded anything good.
Skha!-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!...
Lights flashing broke the trees just ahead of Mal and at the same instant twin white hot spikes of pain skinned Mal’s upper arm, lanced straight through his right shoulder. A third clipped the left edge of his jaw as he fell hard against the snow.
Right, the Fjerdans had gatling guns. Mal had heard them described by soldiers who had been stationed much longer along the Fjerdan border. Now he could say he had seen one himself.
Assuming he told anyone anything…
His breath turned to panting. His skin broke into a cold sweat. Overwhelming pain sent his thoughts into a jumbled illegible heap. His heart was pounding far too forcefully, or was that still the sound of the gun?
He had seen the stag. He had been so close.
“Alina…”
Mikhael’s screaming jolted Mal back to consciousness. A Fjerdan stood over him, looking over his shoulder, talking to a companion in their blocky language as if they were taking a piss at midday rather than gutting men in the night. Mal grabbed the pistol from the Fjerdan’s grip, shot him, and the second he fell out of the way Mal shot the Fjerdan with a boot on Mikhael’s chest. The bayoneted end of a rifle pulled free from his friend’s stomach as the Fjerdan fell.
No.
“Mikhael?” he called, crawling towards them despite the pain.
Mal’s whole life had been cratered by death. His Shu father tossing him up into the air and catching him, taken in the Fold, Dima and Flav taken by the Thistle Fever that passed through the orphanage when he and Alina were children, Melnyk, Bondar, Koval brutally ended by soldiers of the Shu Han, then Alina in the Darkling’s carriage, disappearing from view. A desperation rose up in Mal, childish and ancient in the same breath. The experienced soldier part of his mind already knew what he would find ahead of him. His wounds screamed at him to stop moving but he continued to claw forward in the snow .
He reached Dubrov and rolled him over.
Mal and Alina had stayed out in their field to watch a summer thunderstorm once. The rain, and the roiling gray above and their secret daring had all seemed like electric adventure.
Then lightning struck the tree just outside Ana Kuya’s garden.
The tree had exploded sending shards of burning wood flying over their heads. The half of the tree that remained had broken at all the wrong angles; the edges blackening as it burned from the inside out. Had the rain not been so heavy that day Keramzin would have been in serious danger from the fire. That had been the moment he and Alina had decided to run for cover. Even under the pursuit of the crackling thunder, he had Alina’s wet hand to cling to.
Now Mal was alone, in the ice; his insides shattered as surely as Ana Kuya’s tree. He did not even have the strength of breath to properly scream. Mal stared into the lifeless faces of his friends and cried like the abandoned child he had always been.
The sound; that high clear tone was still there.
Mal’s soul latched onto that sound desperately shoving himself onto his feet. He turned. The stag had come into the clearing, just as a break in the clouds allowed enough moonlight to properly see the creature’s grandeur.
Mal met the creature’s black eyed gaze. Before he had taken three steps towards it, the stag had approached him. The creature’s antlers ringed the moonlight like a crown made out of thorns, or rays of sunlight. Mal stared, tears already frozen on his face, his breathing remained shallow. That well of power, that knowing sameness, it was inescapable with the creature this close. The majestic creature approached.
A pink tongue shot out and licked the left side of Mal’s face. Mal started, stumbling back a step. His grazed jaw bone, the severed muscle and skin of his cheek itched like a thousand mosquito bites, then the itch evaporated. Mal touched his face, the skin was new and though he still felt a faint scar where the bullet had grazed him. Mal reached up and stroked the stag’s face. “Thank you.” he breathed.
The creature turned, beginning to walk south west. Mal kept his hand on the stag’s neck, reluctant to let it go. The pain was still there but it did not overwhelm him; he was able to keep his mind clear. The stag began to walk and Mal walked with him slowly but steadily. Mal did not know how long they had walked together like that, when the clouds lowered into thick fog that swallowed them.
Glimpses of fir branches, sudden downward turns in the snow banks, and gray rock faces appeared from time to time. His whole life Mal had only used a compass to confirm what his senses already knew. He had never understood other people’s lack of innate direction. In that fog with his shoulder slowly leaking blood, Mal had the new sensation of utter dependence as he lost all knowledge of where they were or where they were going. Ordinarily this would have terrified him, but Mal was half convinced he was still lying in the snow next to Dubrov; that the stag was taking his soul to meet the Saints.
If that were true however, why did his shoulder still burn in pain? Why did his exposed ears and nose still aching with cold? He must be alive but in that case he had no idea how to explain what was happening. It did not matter. He was with the stag, and the stag was his way to Alina. Whether the creature led him to life or death Mal would follow. His shoulder had been ripped through, he should have bled out long ago, but while his hand leaned on the white fur of the stag, Mal found the strength to continue.
He awoke parched, numb and bleeding. Snow beneath him and the fog all around and a frigid tree at his back. Mal turned and watched something large fade into the mist. Mal grunted, shoving himself upright. Sharp wind dispersed the fog revealing barbed wire, and the charred remnants of a town. Mal let out a disbelieving breath, could he really have made it back to Chernast?
He stumbled at the edge of the Ravkan bulwarks, but by then someone had seen him. Soon several soldiers wearing the familiar green uniform coats were running towards him. Tofin was among them, helping him to his feet again.
“Where are the others?” asked Tofin, as they walked towards the officer’s tent.
Mal shook his head. He saw grief, quickly followed by a practiced numbness cross Tofin’s block of a face. Mal’s legs decided they were done with walking, at the same time as the dizziness in his head increased. It was then that he realized he had not eaten a proper meal in … he could not remember how long. Tofin angled in the opposite direction after that. The medical unit had requisitioned an old church to Sankt Ilya in Chains. The building looked to have been grand once but was now scorched on one side and like all the other buildings in the town, pock marked by ammunition. The pews had been discarded outside, and the interior was now crammed with cots, a few overtaxed medics and one Grisha Healer and a few braziers set up for heat. Mal got a cot on the second level of the altar. Every mote of his matter ached for sleep, but he gripped Tofin’s coat sleeve before his friend could leave.
“I have to see the lieutenant.”
“I’ll find him,” said Tofin, uncorking his canteen and passing it to Mal, “You rest.”
The canteen was full. Mal drained it and then immediately lost the fight with exhaustion. His mind plunged him directly into a dream of Tofin taking the message to Alina without him. When Tofin offered her the letter she looked at it and laughed. “Silly boy, can’t take a hint.”
Mal woke not long later as a lean cheeked bearded doctor and an orderly lifted him up to take his coat and shirt off. They removed the pittance of a bandage he had thrown over the wound and proceeded to examine it.
“Sorry, Soldier. We’ve run out of numbing salve I’m afraid. They say more will come with the next batch of supplies, but that won’t do you much good now.”
Mal nodded, biting down on the piece of wood offered by the orderly as his shoulder was examined. The side of the altar was painted with scenes depicting one of the saints. That was only to be expected, this had been a church after all. What caught Mal’s attention was neither the iron collar nor the fetters around Sankt Ilya’s neck and wrists. It was not even the Firebird painted in flight behind him. Nor was it the snake-like white creature at his feet. It was the third creature half obscured now by soot and gored by the hole in the wall; a circlet of antlers topping a milk white stag.
Sharp pain brought Mal back to his situation with a barely stifled scream.
“Well, the good news is, there is nothing lodged in your shoulder. The bad news is the whole goes all the way through. It will take a while for you to fully regain the use of that arm.”
Mal didn’t have a while. He needed to see Alina. He needed to go now. Once his shoulder was wrapped, Mal thanked the doctor, grabbed his bloody shirt and coat from the end of the bed and pushed his way past the startled orderly.
Mal had barely shoved his bad arm into his stained shirt when he entered the tent. The lieutenant was in the act of placing his seal on a letter at his desk. Tofin stood in full gear receiving orders.
The lieutenant stopped mid sentence when he saw Mal and frowned.
“You should be resting, Soldier.” he said, but Mal knew the old man well enough to know that he was glad to see him.
“It’s about the stag isn’t it?” said Mal, he turned to Tofin, “You’re riding for Os Alta.”
“You’re in no condition to go,” said Tofin firmly. Then turning back to the lieutenant he inclined his head, “Sir.”
Barging into the officer’s tent was irregular, disregarding an inferred order was downright wrong, and trying to take another soldier’s assignment was just plain rude. None of that however stopped Mal.
“I’m the one who found the stag.” he panted, “I should be the one to deliver the news to her-”
The lieutenant barely stifled a knowing smile.
“-To him,” said Mal, “To General Kirigan.”
The lieutenant nodded, stamped the hot wax with his seal decidedly and folded the papers. “You’ll ride together,” he said, handing them to Mal.
Mal nodded.
Tofin made no protest, only saluting before he left the tent. Pain made Mal’s salute much slower and utterly lacking in polish but the lieutenant did not seem slighted. As he stepped out into the sunlight Mal allowed himself a wince as he let the injured arm back down to his side. He resisted the urge to cradle it with the other hand. He had no idea how he was going to make it to Os Alta.
He only knew he had to try.
“Corporal Oretsev,” said the Lieutenant.
Mal forced his posture straight and his tired eyes wide. He turned and reentered the tent. “Sir?” Was he going to insist on sending Tofin alone after all?
The lieutenant looked at Mal as if by staring he could read something written in fine print. Eventually, he pulled a leather pouch out of his pocket and smacked it into Mal’s hand.
“Jurda.” he said.
Mal blinked, the chewable stimulant was a Zemeni grown luxury, one he had never been able to afford. Though a fight had earned him some a few times. The effects had helped him stay alive in a battle, and keep sharp during long night watches. The stuff in the pouch was much more than Mal had ever possessed. He looked up at the officer questioningly.
“Get to the Little Palace. See your girl, and let whatever answer she gives you be the end of it. You’ve gone off trail lately, Son,” he said, “I need you focused, understood?”
Mal nodded, “Understood, Sir. Thank you.”
Barely out of the tent Mal took a few of the dried orange blossoms and began to chew. Jurda did nothing for his pain, or hunger but by the time he and Tofin were saddled up and riding south, Mal’s mind was wakeful enough to match the morning.
He and Tofin rode hard that day, speaking little. Tofin wasn't much of a talker at the best of times and the wind in their faces made speech utterly impractical without slowing their pace. Mal was grateful. Between grief, the pain in his head and shoulder, and anxiety about where they were headed he didn't feel like making conversation. They changed horses at a small inn, which seemed to be the main building in the town.
"Need a break?" asked Tofin, nudging his head in the direction of the inn's main dining room.
Mal shivered, but shook his head.
Tofin looked him over, concern in his eyes, but he agreed to continue.
Their third day on the road, there was no town in sight when the sun began to set. Tofin suggested making camp in the nearby trees before the light left completely. Mal wondered if Alina had focused her power enough to light lamps by now. He shook his head, of course she could. It had been months. She was probably near ready to tear down the Fold itself.
"You don't want to rest?" asked Tofin, his expression skeptical.
"There's a town 6 dlinas down the road. I can make it there." said Mal, slipping another Jurda blossom into his mouth.
Tofin raised a thick eyebrow, and nodded. Mal shivered, though there was little snow in the valley. Earlier in the day he had thought over what to say to Alina when he got there so many times his mind had gone numb. Despite the Jurda his pain made thinking difficult. Every time the horse's legs came down, the motion jostled his arm and shoulder. Clouds made the sunset anticlimactic. It was dark so quickly.
Mal jerked his head up and his eyes opened. Tofin was ahead of him on the road, quite a ways away. Why had his horse slowed so much? His shoulder throbbed and he couldn't think. Every piece of him begged for sleep. He couldn't even get his fingers to pull the Jurda pouch from his pocket. Tofin had stopped, and turned back in Mal's direction. Mal could not hear what he said. His horse's head and the ground tilted inevitably to the left.
Darkness followed by something hard and flat against his right side. Mal groaned, his eyes fluttered open a moment. His horse's hooves were dusty. He should get up. He had to get up. Instead his eyelids overroad his will, closing him in darkness.