Chapter Text
Things are not going his way, between the headaches, the ravening anger, and his own loneliness -- Aleksander is miserable.
He didn't think being away from Alina would make him such a way, but he should have known better. Of course, it would. She is meant to be his balance, and instead of being balanced, he is chasing her across the country like a demon.
There can be no balance in that choice, and now he has lost her entirely. She has vanished, her entire group has vanished without a trace. The tether that binds them is the only thing that reminds him she is alive, but it is faint. It grows fainter every day that passes, and that scares him.
It makes him more desperate to find her. He has tried to visit her in her dreams, beseech her to allow his help. She must need it, weak as she has become. But there is nothing but hot white light when he tries. And he has tried; he has tried until his nose bled, until he nearly fell unconscious from the agony. He has dug the slivers of bone into the top of his hand until they leaked black blood.
His Grisha have barely been allowed to sleep he's been so desperate to find her. It doesn't matter how much he overworks them, there can be no real future without her. If he must view those he swore to protect as pawns for the greater good, then that is another crime on his mantle.
Aleksander traces along the groves of his face, they no longer hurt, but his headaches never abate. There hasn't been a method he hasn't tested: medicine, Alkemi treatments, meditation, blasted masturbation (the way he'd had to picture Alina was downright boyishly embarrassing). They never really stop unless he passes out in a chair or bed somewhere.
He fell asleep kipped on the floor in front of the fire last night like a dog. These might be his lowest moments, stuck in this run-down manor, hiding from a child king. Subjected to humiliation at every turn: deformed, beaten, alone.
The Darkling collapses in the chair by the roaring fire, hoping the heat will get rid of the chill in his veins. Now he understands his mother's endless complaints. Every time someone enters he wants to snap that they are letting the heat out. He rubs at the side of his temple, trying to remember what he's currently supposed to be doing.
Reports?
Correspondence?
A knock sounds on the door, steady and rhythmic. Ivan. Another thing to interrupt him, "In." He barks and drops his hand, schooling his expression to one of indifference. He is not so bested that he will let his Oprichniki see him aching.
The heartrender walks in, and it's the first time he's ever seen him look truly shaken. Granted he's been a ball of rage since Fedyor left to side with Alina. Split from his lover by a difference of opinion, Kirigan can understand the betrayal well.
"What is it?" Aleksander asks, looking him over for injury. He's as well maintained as ever, minus the tremor in his fingers. Normally he has such still hands.
Ivan glances back the way he's come, "Starkov is here."
His body floods with emotions, relief being the most notable, anger after, smugness that she has come to him and not he to her. "Where is she? How is she? Who is she with?" He asks in quick succession standing, pressing the creases from his kefta.
"She's being brought to you." Ivan replies, "She arrived alone and in poor condition."
No Fedyor, that is why his hands shake.
"I will inform you where the others are as soon as she tells me." Perhaps not immediately, but he will tell the boy. His loyalty has earned at least that small respect.
Ivan nods, quickly bows, and leaves the room.
As he waits for her to arrive -- any second now -- he thinks of what he will say. Will he gloat? Will he beg? He decides on something in the middle as she is brought in by four Grisha, boxing her in. They are ready for a fight, despite the fact she has her hands are bound behind her, the long rod keeping her subservient.
Any desire to gloat vanishes at the sight of her. Alina is a ghost.
Her head hangs low, staring at the floor, feet dragging against the hardwood. Her clothing is baggy, and loose around the shoulders and hips. There's a gauntness to her face and neck, a sharper jawline, and deep-set eyes only made more noticeable by the paleness of her skin. Wasting sickness clings to her like she is diseased, but then it is a disease, isn't it?
There isn't any fight in her as she stops, head lulled as if she barely has the strength to hold it up at all. A puppet dangling on loose strings. There's no Grisha luminosity, nothing but a dull tone, and all of it highlighted by the bone white of her frayed hair.
He jerks to look at the others, "Leave us."
They shuffle out at the intensity of his command, granted lately they've all been quick to want to flee his presence. Word of his shadow beasts spread quickly.
He steps closer but keeps his distance in case she bolts, "Alina?" He murmurs, surprised by the gentleness in his voice. The anger he's been feeling toward her is gone, at least for now. She is in such deep pain; he can sense that much, physically, mentally. Her proximity makes it all the more apparent.
She doesn't reply, still and quiet as the grave.
He takes another step closer, easing inward, holding out a hand to touch her, "Alina?" He says again, even softer this time.
Finally, she looks at him, and the blankness in her eyes terrifies him. She is a broken empty porcelain doll. Glassy eyes that seem to look over his shoulder more than at him.
Whoever has done this to her will pay. He will slaughter them all. His rage bubbles in his gut -- how dare they. His hope, his light, reduced to burning embers. He moves to her, reaching out to touch her cheek.
She flinches away from his hand, stumbling back.
His heart breaks a little more than it already has. The world takes so much, soon he will run out of things to feed it, "I know what you think of me ... but I won't hurt you. I've never wanted to hurt you."
Silently she stares at him and makes no move to struggle. No move to speak or react at all. A blank piece of parchment.
With a twist of his hand, the restraints fall to the floor in a clatter that produces a second flinch. He bites back the rise of anger. There will come a time for retribution, he demands it. But not this moment, Aleksander forces himself to keep his posture open and nonthreatening, "Come, let's get you cleaned up."
The manor doesn't have much in the way of luxury, but he can have a bath brought for her. He walks to the door poking his head out to Ivan, who hovers outside in the hall, "Have a bath fetched." He orders, and shuts the door, not bothering to wait for confirmation.
She is in the same spot, hasn't so much as twitched. She could have made a run for it, could have attacked him. But there is something to say with the fact she is here, that despite whatever has happened to her, she has in response returned to his side where she belongs.
"Sit by the fire." He offers, gesturing with a hand toward the flames. Alina makes no move to do so. She remains her ghostly visage in that exact spot even when the first Grisha comes with water. They have to skirt around her into the washroom to set up the bath. He sees the way they look at her. They can't seem not to.
Half his Grisha are pleased at her return the other half nervous, they expect an ambush. Aleksander doesn't think that is the case. She is not the Alina he knows, and she was never particularly skilled at acting. Before her eyes gave away everything, every hope, every fear.
Now they tell him nothing.
"The bath is ready." He informs her, even though it's obvious. For the first time, she seems to hear him and walks toward the washroom, snapping the door closed. He hovers outside the room, unsure what to do. It makes him antsy to have her out of his sight.
It doesn't take long however for her to return, pushing the door back open. She looks at him, and he can swear she's asking for something, but he can't tell what. They stare at each other and then she starts to undress.
Aleksander jerks his head to the side, looking away. He had thought to have her once, but this does not feel like that. There is no seduction to the action, it is plain, objective in nature. "I'll leave the room so you can have privacy please do not try - "
"Stay." Her voice is hoarse, deeper than he knows it to be. Aleksander's body shivers involuntarily, because he knows that sound. Years of experience have made him familiar with what screaming does to the vocal cords. It can take weeks to heal, even for the likes of them.
His hands curl into fists as the shadows in the room try to draw toward him. He pushes them away, not wanting to frighten her any worse than she already is.
She continues to undress, seemingly unconcerned with his presence, so he finds a strip of the off-green wallpaper peeling from the wall and looks at that instead. He counts each spot he sees where the paper has begun to peel away. Alina is a bit like this paper, they have attempted to strip her to the bone to see what is underneath. Everyone wants to know who the Sun Saint is.
When he sees her dress puddle to her feet, he dares to glance at her from the corner of his eye. His body forces him to look in earnest, to put his eyes on her alabaster skin, and the absolute carnage of it. She is coated in molts, scabbing cuts, partly healed scars, and flakes of dried blood.
Aleksander has seen many things in his long life. He has seen things that have given him nightmares, things that have made him create monsters. But nothing -- nothing -- has ever made him feel this before.
Oh, he has failed her.
"Alina." He gags on her name. She doesn't respond in words. She stands there and allows him to see her. Alina meets his eye, and there --finally -- a flicker of his little saint is inside them screaming to be heard.
Propriety no longer applies, he pivots toward her. It takes six wide-legged steps to reach her. This time she doesn't flinch away, a sliver of progress. Up close he can see how many of them need treating, there's a gash in her arm that is infected, more that could easily follow.
This cannot stand. This cannot stand. This cannot stand.
"I'll summon a healer." He says.
"No!" She shouts hand swinging forward to grab his sleeve. It is not a soft grip, her fingers go white around the fabric, and if it were anything less than corecloth it would have torn. "No." Alina says again, quieter.
His brow furrows, "You need a healer, Alina."
"Please." She begs. "I can't - please don't."
He can feel how frightened she is by the idea, can feel it in their bond, in the tremors that shake her body, in the tears that bubble along the seam of her eyes. This is the only thing she has asked of him, and after the mistakes he has already made Aleksander needs to start listening, "Alright."
Her body goes lax in relief.
"But you need to work with me, because these must be treated." He says, moving so close to her he is looking down, "Will you allow me to treat them?"
She nods, "No - no ... do it like a - like a medic."
Like an otkaza'tsya. It is unnerving the thought that she fears corporalki. There are so few reasons that could be. He cannot picture her Grisha turning against her, only the most devout had fled to her side. And he knows from centuries of experience that the devout never fall easily.
"I'll gather what I need," Aleksander explains and moves to the spot in the washroom he has for his frequent injuries. There should be some things here that will do her some good, at least for now.
Grabbing a basin with fresh water he dips a rag in it and faces her, "May I touch you?" It seems more crucial than ever to receive her permission for such a thing. He has been forced backward, made to repeat all the work he has already done.
He must rebuild the house he was attempting to craft for them.
Alina nods, waiting for his next move. He hates the obedience he sees there, at one point he would have been grateful for it, but Alina is her stubbornness. One of the things he loves about her is that obstinacy.
He starts from the top and works his way methodically down. Alina makes nearly no noise as he cleans all of the wounds left on her. There are so many, too many. When he crouches beside her to treat a spot on her thigh he starts to see bruises. Little coin-shaped indentations that coincide with fingers.
He had hoped at least she would be spared from rape. The damage he sees, the dried blood, says that there is no pity sitting in the clouds for them. Cursed immortals that they are.
Aleksander swallows.
"I'm sorry."
He snaps up to meet her eye and the floor floods with shadows. They bundle up around them, climbing the walls, ducking beneath the furniture. She does not seem to fear them any longer, "Never apologize." He hisses, "You are not to blame for this. You will never be to blame."
Alina blinks and returns her dead stare forward.
Aleksander focuses back on his task, once he treats the cuts he wipes her down from head to toe with another damp cloth to get most of the dirt free. None of the cuts seem to need stitches, so he'll settle for wrapping the worst of them after her bath.
"Come." He holds out a hand and lets himself enjoy the feeling of her palm in his as he leads her. Carefully he helps her into the tub so she can sink into the warm water. Her hair is so white, it halos around her like a colorless star.
Some peace seems to come from the warmth, because her expression turns somber, which is better than blank but not by far. She pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. He rests to the side leaning against the wall, trying to keep his eyes on the tile.
He won't ask her for information on where she has been, it can wait. All that matters for now is that she is alive and beside him. In the lull, he can feel his headache again, no longer distracted enough to push past it. He sighs and rubs his temple.
"Did the volcra do that?" She asks.
"My face?"
She nods.
"Yes." He hates the markings, can no longer stomach looking into a mirror. His entire life he's known himself to be beautiful, ethereal. Saintly. Now he is a beast deformed. What was it that his mother had said, a reflection of the thing that you are inside?
"Good."
Aleksander laughs, it's a low tired chuckle. "I suppose I deserve that."
"If you weren't the only thing I have left I'd kill you." She says next and for the first time, he believes her. When he meets her eye again, there is nothing but truth there. A part of her wants to kill him, sees him as responsible for all the pain she has experienced.
And she would be right. He is responsible. His choices led her to run. If he had been honest, or at least more observant she wouldn't have gotten away time and time again. His failure had become in a painfully physical sense her failure.
"What do you need of me?" He offers, because she is owed something. Aleksander has too heavy a hand in this not to offer anything she would like to fix it.
"You got your way." Alina's tone is dry, "There is no shelter but you. Shelter me."
"Always." He vows. An easy request to give into. It is meant to be them, eternally. This does not change that, no matter what has been done to her he will be there to coax her back to health and happiness, by his side. Neither of them alone.
Aleksander is aware there is a part of him that seeks out the desire to be needlessly cruel. It is an unfortunate side effect of immortality and a poor upbringing. That vain bastard wants to tell her that none of this would have happened if she had stayed the course -- if she hadn’t run.
Luckily, though he is that bastard, he is not always so. He says nothing.
She soaks in the tub, the only sound being the slow breaths they both take and the occasional slosh of water. Still, he does not ask where she has come from and she does say.
It’s a tense sort of quiet, he can feel it in the tightness of his muscles, and the headache that still pounds behind his eyes. He should drink another vial for the pain, but he doesn’t want to leave her alone. Afraid when he returns she’ll have vanished or drowned herself.
That is becoming a very real fear. In her state, she could turn Merzost on herself. Kirigan does not want to think she would give up so easily, but whatever she has been through is no simple event.
“No one else is coming.” She whispers into the silence and twines a strand of wet white hair around her fingers. She pulls the white hair taut to the point he wants to reach out and loosen her grip, lest she tear it out.
“Will they come eventually?” He needs to know, to prepare for more mouths to feed or a fight to wage. Or maybe that's just an excuse for his errant curiosity.
She lets out a long sigh and finally releases the harsh grip on her hair. “They’re dead.”
He expected that given her injuries, given her blankness. But it still stuns him to hear it put so simply. Everyone she left with: Mal, David, Genya, Fedyor, Nadia, and more. So many more. Grisha and otkazat’sya alike.
She leans forward, pushes her head under the water, and screams. The liquid doesn’t entirely block out the sound, it makes him jump, throwing his hands up to summon. Bubbles drift upward as the tone fills the room, it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
There’s something familiar about the sound, something so Unsea about it. Nausea rolls in his stomach, until he starts coughing. He hacks, a dry yet damp sound that matches her agony, blood pooling into his hands.
Alina sees when she pulls her head out of the water. Sees the black goop that drips from his fingers to the tile as he watches it. He rinses his hands in the same water still thick with her blood.
Together, they are defeated. Certainly, this is his lowest moment.
“Aleksander.” It’s the first time she has said his name with anything less than malice since she left. He turns to her, a ship seeking land in the storm that wages around them.
“Alina?” He replies, and slinks closer to her, resting his hands on the curve of the warmed tub.
She tilts her chin up toward him, and he can make out the sharp outline of her collarbones and the barely visible antlers that have sunk into her flesh. “I need the use of an Alkemi.”
He nods, “For the pain?”
Her smile is grim, “No. I need something to butcher the child inside of me.” She pulls her eyes away and he swears he sees shame in the shape of her shoulders, “I swear I can feel it.”
Aleksander’s hands go bone white as he clings to the metal. It is as if the saints themselves are mocking them. “Of course.” His voice sounds hoarse, charged with unspoken insults and rage. “Immediately then.”
Because if he can barely stomach the notion, then she must be rioting inside. This time he has to trust that she’ll be there when he returns. Aleksander heads right for the door, past Ivan, and toward the room where his mother used to reside.
She’s gone now, dead perhaps, like the rest of Alina’s company; or simply vanished into history, to be a thorn in his side in the years to come. It can wait, regardless she is dead to him in every way that matters.
Ivan knows not to follow, although he no doubt wants to. He remains stationed where he belongs, guarding Alina.
He uses his time traversing the hallways to level his breath. Even now he has a reputation to maintain, calm, collected, powerful. Since Alina left he's lost the respect that Grisha gave him automatically, now he is forced to earn their fealty. He keeps his chin up and folds a hand through his hair to fix it.
The Darkling cuts into the Alekmi's room without knocking. Vladim jumps, but manages not to knock anything over -- this time. He pauses what he is doing to wait for direction, lately he has gotten quite good at not speaking unless spoken to.
“I am in need of your services.”
The Alkemi nods, “Yes, Moi Soverenyi. What would you like me to prepare for you?”
“I need to nullify a pregnancy.” He explains, this avenue isn’t one he has much experience with. Aleksander has never forgotten to take appropriate steps when choosing a lover. It’s not something he’s ever had to ask for before, but he knows of its existence. “This is your highest priority. Do you have what you need here?”
The boy is red in the face, second-hand embarrassment by the assumption it is the Darklings. It is not. He would never stoop to such a level. Monster that he is, he draws the line far before what has been done to his equal.
“Well?” He snaps, “Do you or do you not have the ingredients?”
Vladim practically jumps out of his skin, “Yes, Moi Soverenyi. It will take at least an hour to prepare.”
“Bring it to the Oprichnik at my door when it is finished.” He commands and leaves the room again. His steps are quick, determined to get back to her as soon as possible. Every second they are separated is a risk.
He stops before Ivan, eyes cold, even when perhaps he wants to be a bit warmer. Aleksander has forgotten how, “It is my assumption that Fedyor is dead. Alina reports that her entire company has fallen, but I know no other details. Find someone to relieve your station.”
He can at least give the man some time to mourn.
Ivan blinks at him, digesting the words like he’s not entirely hearing them. Finally, he gives a jerky nod but says nothing. As Aleksander closes the door he catches the tail end to a muffled sob, but bothers to listen no further.
She is still in the tub when he returns, thankfully unharmed. His relief must show because she speaks down into the pool of water, "Be a long way to walk just to kill myself here."
He shuts down any expressiveness he might show at the morbid notion and nods, “My Alkemi said an hour.”
“Any way I can convince you to repeatedly punch me in the stomach beforehand?” She says it like a joke, in the same tone a soldier might remark about a good run in the hay or a fight worth remembering. It is the closest he has heard to her normal tone.
He doesn’t laugh. Aleksander can’t even bring himself to speak he is so horrified by the thought of it. Of the fact that though she is joking, she is not. If he said yes, she would have him do it.
Aleksander has grabbed her, held her in place, felt his fingers around her throat. But it was never truly to hurt her. His fallible temper gets the better of him, but he's not struck her in such a way. Never curled his fingers into a fist and swung.
He does not want to be that man.
It’s getting dark, sundown is on the cusp of completion, dipping the room into blackness. It doesn’t bother him, he can see well even in the pitchest of shadows, but it will likely bother her. “I’ll get some candles.”
“No.” Alina shakes her head and stands. There’s a notable tremor in her muscles as she does so. The elevated bath only makes her an inch or two shorter than him. “I like the dark.”
Aleksander holds out a hand to help her down, and she takes it. He offers her a towel to dry and begins to prepare the wrappings he will need. He double-checks everything, before turning to see she’s dropped the towel to the floor now that she is done with it.
He’d not known her to be particularly shy, as an orphan and a soldier, but the complete disregard for her nudity makes him uncomfortable. There is a reason why, and he’s not sure if he wants to know it.
Now that she is washed her hair looks even brighter, vibrant even. He can count her ribs, and see the jut of her hips. She needs to eat and summon. Recovery will take time.
Three spots need wrapping, he focuses on those instead of his desire to level a town. He starts with the worst one, the infected gash along the outside of her bicep. He uses the poultice he has on hand, and dabs it along the wound, before wrapping it firmly.
She silently observes him as he moves to the torn skin on one of her ankles, drag marks from what he can make of it. He does the same for these, and then to the gash on the inside of her thigh. This one is neater, made with a knife if he knows anything at all.
Once they are wrapped he stands and realizes he has not called for any clothing. He winces, “I’ll fetch you clothes.” A childish mistake, in hindsight. He is better than this, Aleksander feels like he lost his attention to detail to the damned volcra. He heads out of the room, to see which guard has been brought as a replacement.
The Tidemaker that stares at him is young, new at this. So eager to please, she is one of the few who smiles when she sees him, “How may I assist you, Moi Soverenyi?”
“I need clothing for Miss Starkov, right away.” He commands and snaps the door shut again.
When he turns Alina has crossed through the study to the bedroom he has left relatively unused. He finds her pulling on one of his undershirts, he’d forgotten they’d even put his clothing in that dresser. He doesn’t change often anymore.
The shirt is massive on her slight frame, hanging off one of her shoulders, the sleeves fall past her hands, and the bottom to her mid-thigh. Now is not the time to delight in her wearing his colors again, but he does regardless.
This had been a dream, but he hadn't wanted it like this.
It’s colder in this room, given the fireplace hasn’t been tended. He moves to start one, as he works she sits on the edge of the large bed and watches him. Despite what he might expect he likes the feeling of her eyes on his back.
Aleksander missed her more than he dares to admit. What is light without shadow, and shadow without light? With her here he is no longer only half a whole.
Once he has finished loading the logs and striking the flint, he moves to face her. The white of her hair contrasts so boldly against the black. It accentuates her eyes too, these deep endless pits of sorrow.
He keeps waiting for her to cry, or to rage, but she never seems to. He wishes for her anger, for that righteous indignation he knows her for. To look at him scathed and irritated, demanding to know his plans or insult him.
Instead, the two of them stare at each other until the knock comes. A shiver runs through her at the sound, but she doesn't speak. The Darkling moves from his position to answer the door. The vial handed to him is nearly the same color as blood, and he can tell with a glance that the clothing will be too big.
Returning to the bedroom with the handful of items he sets them down on the nightstand. She wordlessly holds out her hand. Aleksander doesn’t bother to insult her by asking if she is certain. He gives it to her.
Alina looks down and gazes at it for several motionless seconds. She twists off the lid, throwing it back like cheap kvas. As soon as she swallows she gags, slapping a hand over her mouth so she doesn’t vomit it back up. The tears come now, unbidden with the way her eyes squeeze shut. She bends in on herself, arms wrapped around her torso, holding the pieces together.
He doesn’t touch her, even though he wants to. It would be more to do with comforting him than her.
“Do you know how the process works?” He asks carefully.
She nods, “Knew a few girls in the army.”
They sit on the edge of the bed closest to the fire for a few minutes waiting for it to start. Alina throws herself up and through the joined room into the washroom and slams the door shut. He doesn’t follow.
It’s silent except for the crackle of flames, and the late-night critters that call from outside. The house remains hidden by his diligent summoners leaving them in safety to rest. She’s gone for a while, long enough he starts to wonder if he should do something when he smells it.
Almost a millennium has passed in his life, yet the scent of burning flesh always turns his stomach.
When she opens the door the metal pail she used to dispose of the waste is still smoking. He’s relieved that she can at least still summon.
Already she looks a little better, her skin glossier.
“Food?” She asks and closes the washroom door so the smoke and scent are hidden behind the fractured door.
“Of course.” He stands, walking toward her. She doesn’t spook, but she doesn’t react much either. Things feel stalemated between them. “Do you want anything specific?”
“If pickled herring comes through this door, I will actually hurt you.” She replies and he can’t help but smile. A real smile, not one of the ones he uses to appease worried Grisha.
“What if it’s on rye?” He teases, grasping for any kind of joviality.
“You thought the Fold was dangerous?” She says back, and there’s a tiny kernel of amusement in her tone, “Just wait to see what I can do if it’s on rye.”
She heads back into the bedroom without waiting for a returning quip.
Once again he finds himself sticking his head out of the doorway. Fruzsi is prepared this time, waiting diligently for orders, “Dinner for Miss Starkov.”
He clears a spot in his study so she can sit by the fire while she eats, and grabs a blanket too for good measure. She seems to notice that the spot is for her and wanders over to sit, curling her legs underneath her.
Aleksander can almost picture a different situation. Nothing so grim and scarring as today has been. Instead, he pictures her curling up by the fire after a long day, draping a blanket over her lap while she reads and waits for supper.
He’ll come in irritated by some trivial matter and she will tilt her neck up so he can lean down to kiss her, touching her jaw as he does so. They will eat together, share glasses of champagne, and Alina will listen to his frustrations and smile in that gentle way that says, ‘you’re being foolish’.
None of that is his reality. He presents her with wild berries and a soup made of roasted venison and mushrooms found in the forest. He does not eat, and he says nothing about his day because she is absolutely having a worse one.
With the way his life has gone, he's starting to think that any chance of a happy future will always be out of reach. Just beyond the length of his fingers, words of adoration on the tip of his tongue. Joy is a steak dangling on a stick above the howling mutt he's become.
Alina eats methodically, one bite after another. No expression to the quality at all. “Can you taste it?” He asks.
She shrugs.
“If you have wasting - “
“I don’t,” Alina replies before he can finish. “It’s recoil from the Merzost.”
He didn’t know that she knew how to use Merzost.
Alina seems to know what he’s thinking because she shrugs again and takes another bite, “I don’t know how I know, but I know. You are probably to blame.”
Aleksander thinks she might be right. They are connected in so many ways. Memories, emotions, location, touch. He nods, “Let me know if you experience any wasting symptoms: cough, headaches, shortness of breath, difficulty sleeping, loss of taste or scent.”
“Like you then?” She asks, and he’s grateful for the snark. It is a reminder that she is alive, desolate though she is now.
“I am a shining example.” He waves a hand at himself, and leans back in his chair, stretching his legs toward the fire. The nichevo'ya are killing him, one day at a time. Consuming his flesh from the inside out. They like his taste more than his first abominable creations.
Wordlessly she finishes her food and stands holding out her hand to him, “Come to bed.”
He blinks, shocked, before he takes it, “As you wish.”
Just like a dog come to heel.