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jumbled-messy-confused · 5 months

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Silent Strength, Hidden Battles

Summary:

In the heart of Ravka, where power and politics intertwine, General Kirigan, a figure of myth and might, and Nikolai Lantsov, the future king, find themselves in a dance of duty and secrets. Amidst the grandeur of the court and the weight of the crown, Nikolai is drawn towards a different kind of strength, a different kind of battle. A tale of resilience and revelation unfolds, where every glance holds a story, and every silence speaks volumes.

Notes:

This story is an AU. It takes place before Alina turns up. Kirigan is not the villain he will be later in the series. Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!). I took certain creative liberties, particularly with respect to Nikolai Lantsov and his interactions with Kirigan, as well as the characterization of the main characters in general. But I hope, you will just roll with it. And now have fun! And thank you for reading.

Nikolai Lantsov, at the behest of his father, the Tsar, stood in the sun-drenched courtyard of the Little Palace. The air was thick with anticipation, a charged silence that seemed to resonate against the marble columns and whisper through the ivy-covered walls. The Tsar had summoned him to await General Kirigan’s return, impatient to hear the tidings the leader of the Second Army would bring from the front lines—tidings that were delayed, uncharacteristically late, and that alone was cause for concern.

The sun, a golden sentinel in the sky, cast elongated shadows across the cobblestones, mirroring the anxious thoughts that flickered across Nikolai’s mind. His polished boots shifted, a subtle dance of restlessness on the uneven ground. He adjusted the cuffs of his uniform, the elaborate embroidery a stark reminder of the future that awaited him—not just the future of the House Lantsov, but the future of Ravka itself, hinged on the information Kirigan carried.

Beyond the wrought-iron gates, a cloud of dust finally announced Kirigan’s approach. The General, a figure of myth and might, led a procession of his soldiers, their Keftas adorned with the scars of battle. Nikolai’s gaze swept over them— the Grisha, their presence an aura of formidable power, bore the marks of war on their very beings, their exhaustion visible despite their stoic fronts. Yet, the number of soldiers was noticeably fewer than Nikolai had anticipated. The sight of the small, weary group, combined with the visible injuries, painted a grim picture. It sent a chill of foreboding through Nikolai, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. Kirigan dismounted with a grace that belied the urgency of war, quickly wrapping an arm around an injured Grisha as he carefully helped him down from the horse. The soldier’s face was etched with pain, his eyes hollow, reflecting a soul touched by the horrors of battle. Kirigan’s handling was gentle, a stark contrast to the formidable presence he was known for, one that commanded respect wherever he went. Nikolai observed the General’s interaction, the careful, respectful way Kirigan aided his comrade. It was a moment that revealed the heart beneath the rank, the leader who valued his people above all else. But Nikolai had to intervene, despite the clear priorities that commanded Kirigan’s attention.

“You must report to the Tsar immediately,” he stated, his voice carrying the urgency of a kingdom teetering on the edge. Kirigan turned, and his eyes met Nikolai’s, a momentary connection that bridged the gap between General and future King, before he turned once more, issuing swift orders to his second-in-command, ensuring all injured were cared for with a newfound efficiency that brought the courtyard to life. The clatter of boots and the murmur of voices rose in a chorus of action and care. Then, with the situation in hand, Kirigan’s attention returned to Nikolai, a silent affirmation of his readiness to proceed. So Nikolai hastened across the courtyard of the Little Palace, acutely aware of his father’s impatience. Mid-stride, he turned to share a serious comment with Kirigan about the prevailing worry due to Kirigan’s delay, expecting the General to be at his side as usual. However, he found that Kirigan, usually matching his stride effortlessly, was slightly lagging behind. This unexpected sight momentarily surprised Nikolai. Then he reminded himself that Kirigan had been at the front for days and had endured much. With that realization, Nikolai consciously slowed his steps a little, allowing Kirigan to catch up before they continued towards the assembly together.

As they entered the council chamber, a cacophony of voices greeted them, the room abuzz with the restless energy of debate and speculation. The high dignitaries, a collection of Ravka’s most influential minds, were locked in heated discussion, their expressions a mix of concern and calculation. The King, seated at the head of the long table, wore an expression of keen impatience, his brow furrowed as if he were trying to decipher the future from the reports yet to be delivered. As Kirigan stepped forward, the council fell into a respectful silence. His report began with a strategic overview of troop movements and the shifting lines that now marked the war’s new phase. He spoke of recent engagements, the cunning manoeuvres of the enemy, and the unexpected brutality of an assault that had occurred not even two hours ago, perilously close to Os Alta. This attack, he explained, was not just a skirmish but a clear message from the enemy, testing the strength and response of Ravka’s forces. It had been executed with a precision that suggested intimate knowledge of Ravkan defences, had resulted in the loss of several Grisha. The information about the proximity of this strike to the heart of the kingdom sent ripples of shock through the assembly. The chamber reacted with appropriate alarm to the brazen assault. However, Nikolai paid them no heed. His keen gaze never wavered from the General, a slight crease forming between his brows as he observed. As Kirigan had spoken, there had been a momentary hitch in his usually steady cadence, so brief it could have been mistaken for a trick of the ear. But Nikolai, ever observant, had noted the anomaly with a frown. It was unlike Kirigan to falter, even in such an insignificant way. This minute irregularity, though inconsequential and easily overlooked by others, planted a seed of concern in Nikolai's mind. Kirigan was a pillar of unwavering strength; any deviation from that was enough to warrant silent scrutiny. The chamber’s atmosphere thickened with tension as the assembly members began to voice their concerns and strategies with increasing fervour. The cacophony of suggestions and counterarguments swelled into a storm of voices, each clamouring to be heard over the other. Particularly vocal were the calls for the Grisha to lead the counterstrike, their unique abilities poised to be deployed in the most senseless and wasteful of manners. It was a maelstrom of passion and fear, a testament to the gravity of the situation they all faced.

Amidst the council’s fervent discussions, Nikolai alone noticed General Kirigan’s unusual quietude. To some, Kirigan’s silence might have been dismissed as arrogance, a refusal to engage with lesser minds. But Nikolai knew better. It was not Kirigan’s nature to withhold his strategic insights, especially not when they were most needed. And yet, he did not participate in the discussion in any way. And even though Nikolai was accustomed to Kirigan’s customary reserve, often a fortress of quiet authority amidst the squall of politics, this time it seemed out of place.

Nikolai observed the ongoing debate, a sense of unease growing within him. The warlords, engrossed in their own world of revenge and power, were entangled in a cycle of short-sighted anger and posturing. Their discussions were filled with noise but lacked the foresight of long-term consequences. The room was abuzz with talk of immediate retribution, but there was little consideration for the far-reaching implications of their hasty decisions. In their fervor, they overlooked the Grisha, who would be led, metaphorically, to the slaughter. Too little respect was given to the individual lives, and far too little thought was given to what this would mean for the future of the war.

Then, a small but telling gesture caught Nikolai’s attention: Kirigan, with a slight furrow of his brow, brought two fingers to the bridge of his nose, pressing gently as if to stave off a headache. It was a momentary lapse, a crack in the facade of the stoic General that hinted at a brewing storm within.

The uproar intensified, with demands for swift vengeance drowning out the voices of reason, disregarding the far-reaching aftermath of such rash actions. It was then that Kirigan, his eyes opening slowly after a brief moment of respite, drew in a deep breath, evidence to his growing frustration. He tilted his head back, his gaze directed upwards as if seeking patience from the heavens above. And when he spoke, his voice did not rise, but it cut through the din with the sharpness of a blade. “Never would I lead my people into such senseless death,” he said, and then added, “Consider the cost,” his words simple yet heavy with implication, and the chamber fell silent. For a moment, there was nothing but the echo of his caution in the air. Nikolai felt a surge of respect for the General, even as he braced for the inevitable backlash. The assembly, stunned into silence, soon erupted into a greater frenzy, their indignation a palpable force. Kirigan’s intervention had struck a nerve, and the room descended into chaos, each member voicing their dissent louder than before.

When the Tsar eventually signalled for a recess, suggesting a half-hour break to allow the heated minds to cool, Kirigan rose with the same grace and authority that were his hallmarks. He acknowledged the Tsar with a nod, a gesture of respect that was met with a nonchalant wave. But as Kirigan exited the room, his hand found the doorframe—a moment of support that was out of character for the unwavering Darkling.

This subtle gesture was enough to send a wave of concern through Nikolai. It was another peculiarity in a short span of time, and now, a real sense of unease began to coil within him. Nikolai’s instincts drove him forward. He trailed behind Kirigan like a shadow, his presence slipping through the periphery of the room unnoticed. They didn’t venture far—just a short distance down the corridor—before Kirigan abruptly halted. The door he chose was unremarkable, a portal meant for the comings and goings of staff, not generals. Nikolai waited for his return, his intuition telling him something was amiss. When minutes stretched without sign of Kirigan, Nikolai’s concern deepened, ultimately prompting him to enter.

The washroom, austere in its simplicity, prioritized utility over aesthetics. Against one wall stood a basic water basin, its purpose clear and unadorned. Tidy shelves held fresh towels, ready to serve those who frequented this space. On a small table nearby, a pitcher of water and a couple of glasses were neatly arranged, a simple provision for refreshment. Hooks for clothing and a simple curtain hinted at the room’s multifunctional nature—a place where attendants could change, freshen up, or take a brief respite. In the corner beside the basin, a lone bench rested. And it was here that Nikolai found Kirigan. He was seated, his Kefta and tunic discarded carelessly beside him, revealing his bare chest. A thick makeshift bandage, drenched with blood, wrapped around his torso, and Kirigan held a cloth to the wound, which bore the subtle but unmistakable signs of fresh, red stains. It was a sobering image, and it explained everything.

Nikolai approached, his movements quiet but decisive. “You’re injured,” he stated, not as an accusation but as a fact. “Why haven’t you seen a Healer?” At this words, Kirigan looked up from the bloodied cloth in his hands, meeting Nikolai’s gaze directly. There was no surprise in his eyes, only a weary acknowledgment of Nikolai’s presence. Despite his focus on the wound, Kirigan had been fully aware of Nikolai’s silent entrance. “She was the first we lost in the ambush,” the General finally murmured, the weight of defeat heavy in his voice. He paused, before he continued wearily: “And afterwards…” He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. The implication settled between them, and Nikolai felt a sting of regret. He realized that he was the reason Kirigan hadn’t been able to see a Healer. He had pulled the General away from the Little Palace, away from any potential help. The possibility of Kirigan being wounded had not even occurred to him, despite having seen many of the Grisha injured in the ambush. Now, the realization settled with a subtle heaviness, an uncomfortable acknowledgment of his oversight. With resolve, he knelt beside the visibly exhausted man, gently prying the bloodied towels from his grasp. In that moment, Kirigan let all facades fall. His usual posture of unyielding composure gave way to tired resignation, he sank heavily against the wall behind him and accepted Nikolai’s help without resistance—a rare sign of trust that did not escape Nikolai. He unwound the old bandage, revealing a ghastly injury that still seeped blood. The gash was cruel, raw, and angry-looking, the edges torn and ragged. Despite the severity of his wound, Kirigan bore the pain with a quiet stoicism that was almost unnerving. Each touch as Nikolai cleaned the wound was a delicate balance between care and necessity. Finally, he folded a cloth into a thick compress and pressed it against the wound. Kirigan still remained silent, but the deep lines of discomfort etched into his features spoke volumes of the pain he endured. And eventually, Nikolai’s ministrations, though gentle, demanded their due from Kirigan’s battered resilience.

His pallor stood out starkly against the washroom’s utilitarian backdrop. Sweat clung to his forehead, and his body sagged, a silent plea for respite. His eyes, half-closed, betrayed the toll of pain and blood loss. Nikolai felt the urgency to act swiftly, knowing that every second delayed was a drop of blood lost too many. As he maneuvered Kirigan slightly forward to wrap the bandages around his torso, Kirigan’s body slumped unexpectedly into him, becoming limp and heavy in Nikolai’s arms. Nikolai’s heart skipped a beat from the sudden, disquieting surrender of Kirigans consciousness.

In that moment, Kirigan’s vulnerability was stark. His skin was clammy and cold, his breaths came shallow. Nikolai’s muscles tensed as he supported the dead weight of Kirigan’s body, keeping him from collapsing to the floor. With deliberate movements, he wrapped the bandage around Kirigan’s abdomen, pulling each loop tighter than the last, ensuring the pad was firmly in place against the wound. Thankfully, as Nikolai secured the final turn of the bandage, a subtle shift in Kirigan’s demeanor suggested a flicker of awareness. His eyelids fluttered, a sign of the struggle within as he fought to surface from the depths of his pain. With a faint but determined effort, Kirigan began to straighten up again, and with Nikolai’s assistance, he leaned back against the wall, opening his eyes. His gaze, though still extremely exhausted, held a clarity that defied the frailty of his form. The General’s resolve held firm, even in the face of his body’s protest. In the quiet of this room, removed from the council’s clamour, Nikolai wished he could simply lift Kirigan and carry him to a Healer as he would have done for any of his comrades. Yet he knew that Kirigan, proud as he was, would never allow his weakness to be so exposed let alone abandon his post during such a critical assembly. Resigned to this truth, Nikolai did the only thing within his power— he double-checked the bandage, ensuring everything was properly secured and in place.

“You will see a Healer immediately after the council,” Nikolai asserted, his voice a blend of command and deep-seated concern, fully aware that Kirigan would surely seek healing, but feeling the need to state it nonetheless. The only response was a hoarse grumble, a sound so faint it barely stirred the air. Kirigan cleared his throat with effort, a hard swallow following, his Adam’s apple working visibly against the lean line of his throat. Recognizing the need, Nikolai moved swiftly to fetch a glass of water, filling it to the brim and offering it to Kirigan. He watched with quiet satisfaction as the injured man drained the glass, each swallow a small victory against the toll taken by blood loss. The General leaned back with a sigh, his eyes closing momentarily in relief. Seizing the opportunity, Nikolai offered another glass, his resolve set on replenishing what had been lost. As Kirigan finally paused, a cloth cooled by the water was pressed against his forehead by Nikolai’s steady hand, wiping away the sweat. The cold touch seemed to revitalize Kirigan even more, a further encouraging sign of life returning to his weary form in the midst of his ordeal.

Assisting Kirigan to dress was a slow process, marked by Kirigan's pained grimaces as he straightened up, relying on Nikolai for support. But deep breaths helped him regain control, and Nikolai watched as Kirigan's mask of composure slowly but surely clicked back into place. Once the kefta was secured, there was no sign of the injury or the blood that had been so prevalent a short time ago.

In the stillness that followed, Kirigan met Nikolai’s gaze, a silent gratitude conveyed in the briefest of glances. Nikolai returned the look with a nod of his own, an unspoken acknowledgment of the strength and resilience Kirigan possessed. It was a wordless conversation, a mutual recognition of the weight they each carried. It was a moment of silent solidarity before returning to the roles they had to play.

As they made their way back to the council chamber, slowly but surely, Nikolai marveled at Kirigan's transformation. The Darkling's mask was firmly back in place, his posture regal, his expression revealing nothing of the pain he had just endured. Yet, a shadow of concern lingered in Nikolai's mind. He wondered how many such moments of vulnerability had gone unnoticed, and what other secrets Kirigan, the stoic leader of the Second Army, had concealed behind his inscrutable facade. Resolved, Nikolai made a silent vow to keep a closer watch on this enigmatic man, to ensure that his burdens would not go unshared again.

#jumbled-messy-confused #be kind #fantasy #hurt/comfort #h/c #Shadow and Bone AU #aleksander morozova #shadow and bone #the darkling #grishaverse #fanfiction #Nikolai Lantsov #(fan)art... kind of #(fan)art

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