#she is not a soldier the way mal is is not a commander the way zoya is

[lingeringscars]

I am a soldier. I am the sun summoner. And I'm the only chance you have.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mal de Mer - A Silco x Mel Piece - Ch: 1~ A Tide, Rising

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV

꧁꧂

A honeymoon, they say, seldom sets the tenor for matrimony.

Rather, that tenor is set by the bride: her willingness to be wooed by the ebbs and flows of fate—indifference, infidelity, intrigue.  Or, the tenor is set by the groom: his readiness to weather the storms—dejection, disharmony, despair. But in time, they say, life anchors itself to safe harbors. The sky may darken; the waves may crash the hull and splinter the timber. But soon a path is carved out and a safe berth is reached. 

And, at long last, the ship of marriage settles to a staid old couple, side by side on the porch, rocking together as the evening of life slides, like the day before it, into the gentleness of that good night.

In time, they say.

They, whoever they are, say a lot, don't they? 

They say even less that's worth hearing.

꧁꧂

For Mel Medarda, there was no they. There was only she: Ambessa of House Medarda, its illustrious lineage stretching back, unbroken, for three hundred years.

There was only her glory as the Immortal Bastion's most celebrated military strategist and its de facto Commander General. There was only her legacy of victories, from the Battle of the Black Mast, where she'd sent the Zhyunian warships fleeing with their prows between their legs, to the Siege of the Bel' Zhun, where, at the head of one thousand troops, she'd broken through the great sandstone gates of the Shuriman city like a knife through butter. There was only her legend, doused in blood and lit with flames, spreading as far as the sun, and as deep as the tides.

She, the warrior. She, the victor. She, the conqueror.

She, Mel's mother.

Since the nursery, Mel—who'd been schooled by the Grand Matron herself in the arts of Noxian womanhood—was dutybound to uphold her mother's heritage, to keep it burnished and blazing as a sun-stone. And, when the time came, she would pass the glory down to the next generation, and so forth, ad infinitum.

Pass down, too, her mother's lessons.

"I am your mother, little one," she'd say, after catching Mel sobbing into a pillow after a tiring day of mastering the art of the Fallgren blade. "I am your liege, not your friend. I am not here to kiss your tears or dry your sorrows. I am here to see that you survive life’s hardships, and one day, rise to greatness."

Or:

"There is no love in the world, child," she'd say, after catching Mel sighing over a Morrinese portrait of two young men, embracing beneath a trellis of flowering white magnolia. "There is only the prettied-up lie to hide the hungers we dare not bare, except behind the locked door of a bedchamber." 

Or:

"War is the natural order, girl," she'd say, as Mel stood trembling on the deck of her mother's favorite frigate, overlooking the Kalmanda port, its streets despoiled by Noxian soldiers eager to take and, when the taking was done, take some more. "It is the way of all things to grow, expand, consume. The only difference between the war of man and the war of nature is the tools wielded." 

And, always:

"Men will come, and go," she'd say, after Mel's first, second, third suitor had fled to the ends of Runeterra to avoid her mother's ire, leaving her wed to her work and her books, her art and her ambition, her loneliness and the long, sleepless nights where she'd cry into her pillow, having learned to do so without sound. "They will leave you for a pink-cheeked handmaid. Or a round-arsed boy. Or they will die on the field, leaving their seed in a stranger's belly. They will leave you because your beauty has faded. Or your body has failed. Or, worst of all, your power has outgrown theirs. They will always leave."

"But I won't," Ambessa would add, tipping Mel's chin up, her eyes alight with a pride that warmed her daughter from crown to soles—and yet left her cold, as if a ghost had passed through her. "I will always be here. And my lessons will always stand. So, too, must you. Stand, daughter. And carry on our lineage."

And, Mel, with a smile of spotless serenity, and a fire for better hidden deep in her heart, would say, "Yes, Mother."

And, on the eve of her wedding, Ambessa, her shadow filling the entire room, towered over Mel—who sat before her vanity, daubing her lips with blood-red Fallgren cosmetic, her bedroom wall adorned with Morrinese paintings of lovers' trysts in flower gardens, her carved-mahogany wardrobe stocked with sumptuous gowns of Kalamanda silk brocade, her escritoire heaped with dozens of letters from suitors devastated by her upcoming nuptials, her bedsheets still scented with her husband-to-be's cologne, before he'd dressed and departed with a kiss that hadn't left her skin for the remainder of the day—and she said:

"You will regret this."

"Perhaps." Mel stared into the mirror, her smooth visage and her mother's scarred one, twinned. "But I will never regret that the choice was mine."

"He is not worthy of you."

"He is the leader of a nation. A king—though Zaunites detest the term."

"If he's a king, then his kingdom's a cesspool."

"A cesspool of gold and gems."  Mel dipped her brush into the pot and dabbed it, expertly, across her lips. "The wealthiest cesspool in Runeterra."

"And he, an upjumped thug who'd slit your throat if the wind blew the wrong way."

"The wind only blows one way, Mother. Forward."

Ambessa's shadow grew taller. "Then I will sweep him off the board."

"You would start a war over a wedding?"

"You would shackle yourself to a shark to avoid it? I taught you better, child."

"You taught me wrong."

Ambessa's shadow darkened the whole room, like a moon eclipsing the sun. Mel's smile did not dim.

"We have shared interests, Mother," she said, setting the brush down: lips painted, poise perfect. "Shared enemies, too. We work well together. We understand each other. United, we'd protect our borders. Strengthen our cities. Secure our future."

"Future?" Ambessa scoffed. "What's a future steeped in slime, and tainted with soot? That's the world he will leave behind. And you, his willing accomplice."

"A world of equity instead of elitism. Of cooperation instead of conquest."

"So, you'd sell us to the lowest bidder, is that it?"

"I would unite us under a single banner."

Ambessa's eyes, two golden rings in the dark, glowed searingly hot.

"Marriage is not a merger, Mel. It does not seal two souls together. Marriage is a sea unto itself. Its tides are fickle. Its depths are unplumbed. There are dangers in the currents, and monsters in the murk. If you try to tame it, it will swallow you."

"I'm a strong swimmer, Mother."

"Your husband will be stronger. A shark never slithers to the surface to breathe. He stays, silent, waiting for the prey to come to him."

Rising, Mel smoothed out the folds of her gown. "We do have a ceremony scheduled today."

"That is not what I meant!"

"Then what did you mean, Mother?!"

Mel swiveled to face her. The general, the warrior, the legend. And she, the girl again: no more than a living vessel to hold the Medardas' lessons. Lessons too great for her small body to contain. Lessons that left cracks in the heart, and scars on the psyche.

But the mind and heart are strong muscles. They grow, through hardship and heartbreak.

And Mel's had grown to equal Ambessa's in every dimension.

"The sea," Mel said, "is no dark morass. It connects us all, shore to shore. Marriage is the same. It doesn't just bring two halves together. It takes them to horizons beyond anything you can imagine."

"I have imagined everything, Mel. I've seen all the horrors the world can conjure, and survived."

"And yet, you've learned nothing."

Silence. Her mother's eyes bored into hers. Searching for weakness; finding nothing. Mel's spine had grown equal to her mother's, too. She was, strangely, proud of that.

Nothing Ambessa had taught her would be forgotten. And nothing Ambessa had done would be repeated.  For better or worse, Mel had learned her mother's lessons.

And now, she'd make them her own.

"Mark me, child," Ambessa said, her deep voice charged as thunder, "This is no victory. You're sailing into uncharted waters. And he will drag you down until you never resurface."

"Then we will go together."

"To the grave?"

"To the future."

Ambessa's shadow shrank. Her smile was a thin, brittle thing. Sad, almost. A glimpse of the woman beneath the legend. "As you say, Councilor Medarda of Piltover."

"As I say."

"But remember. When you are drowning, and he leaves you, gasping, to die. Remember that I did not wish it to end like this."

"It won't."

"Remember."

"It won't, Mother."

"And remember, also," Ambessa stepped closer. With a callused hand, she cupped Mel's chin, the way she'd done when Mel was a child, and her touch was the only anchor in a storm, "if he leaves, as men always do, you will still have a home. With me. With our legacy. That, no one can take from you."

"I know, Mother."

"Remember."

And, saying so, she swept out of the room. And Mel, alone, was left to stare into the mirror: the bride’s serene smile a mask for the churning sea below.

꧁꧂

That was three weeks ago.

Now, Mel is a married woman, navigating the sea, with its currents, and its depths, and its monsters.

And the waters, she admits, are choppier than expected.

The SS Woe Betide—("A fitting name," her new husband declared, "for a ship bound for a honeymoon.")—is an ironclad warship built for the mercantile fleet of a Piltovan privateer, long deceased. After her owner's demise, the vessel was repurposed for diplomatic missions and state functions.

She is outfitted with the finest appointments: elegant cabins, sumptuous dining halls, and a grand ballroom for entertaining foreign dignitaries. The interior is decorated in the Art Nouveau style, which was all the rage in Piltover in those days: hand-etched moldings; marble and onyx floors; and a glass domed ceiling that evoked a celestial firmament, its colors changing with the time of day.

It is also, by Mel's count, a floating deathtrap.

She'd boarded the ship in the bloom of health. By high tide, they'd slipped past the Hex-Gates, and were southbound along the coastline. Their destination was a remote Ionian archipelago: a place of white sands, swaying palms, and aquamarine seas, where a private villa awaited the newlyweds.

The retreat was no passionate debauch. Rather, it was an overture to Piltover's long-standing allies. To that effect, Mel had chosen invitations with the same care as Ambessa's military campaigns chose artillery. Each passenger was a heavy hitter hailing from the high-society circles of Piltover, Demacia, Ionia and Noxus.

They'd be joining her and Silco at the villa, where, over the course of a fortnight, they'd feast on the finest fare, toast to the sweetest wines, and, in time, forge lasting bonds of amity and alliance between Piltover—and Zaun.

She'd planned every detail: the itinerary, the entertainment, the ambience.

By nightfall, it had all gone to hell.

The onset was subtle. A touch of nausea. An ache behind the eyes. A fatigue she'd attributed to nerves—or temper. For years, she'd navigated the glittering circles of statecraft like a waltz.  She knew better than most how treacherous the steps could be.

But she'd not anticipated her guests' antipathy toward Silco.

Her husband's reception into their exalted sphere has been decidedly antagonistic.  Most of Mel's clique were accustomed to dealing with new money. New power was another matter entirely. For many, Zaun remained a mere extraction colony. The rest: its culture, its art, its innovations, was either begrudged or belittled.

Sometimes right in Silco's earshot.

Of course, they know his history as a firebrand. To some, it was an amusing eccentricity, something they'd boast about encountering in the same vein as a savage tribe from the jungles of the Targonian Steppes. To others, it was an affront to their stations, and a portent of just how close the world was to tipping out of balance.

On his part, Silco kept his temper. He'd played the part of the polished politician for a half-decade by now. In a social sphere where the smallest slip of etiquette could signal an irredeemable descent in station, his bearing was so faultless as to verge on parodic. He relished taking the elite's rules, and twisting them to his ends, like a street urchin filching food off a banquet table.

There's little to learn, he's often sneered to Mel, from a roomful of fools so far up their own arses, they'd mistake their wind for incense.

Zaunites, Mel thinks dryly, have a gift for metaphor. 

He'd held his composure admirably throughout the banquet. But when an over-served Noxian baron had slurred a disparagement about Jinx, spurred on by a tableful of sycophants, she'd seen that telltale switch in Silco's eyes: that flicker that transformed them from precision instruments to lethal crosshairs.

His reply was languidly polite. But the subtext was a dagger: barely felt until blood seeped through the doublet. Most guests were too thickheaded to pick up on it. The Baron and his retinue, on the other hand, took umbrage and returned the thrust, clumsily.

By the night's end, they'd made fools of themselves, and had to be escorted out—to Silco's dark satisfaction.

But the damage was done. 

A chill set over the rest of the dinner. It lingered long after the final course was served. By the time dessert was cleared away, Mel had felt the tension, like a lit fuse. Silco had retired early, citing a headache. And she'd let him go: a costly mistake.

They were married. She should have gone with him. Stood by his side, and shown solidarity—as a wife ought to.

Instead, she'd stayed to mitigate the fallout—as a diplomat must.

She'd smoothed ruffled feathers with a mot juste and doused smoldering tempers with a coy anecdote. She'd spun circles around the room, as a circus star spins plates, keeping fragile alliances from collapsing and precarious friendships from falling apart. She'd danced the dance she'd perfected, and won applause. Won handshakes, and smiles, and pledges of support.

All while the room spun, the lights dimmed, and the air thinned like a drowning breath.

By midnight, she'd retired to their suite.

Silco was idling by the porthole, a silhouette against the starless night. His cigarette cherry glowed and died with each drag. In the glow, his left eye was a depthless black.

That was the first sign, she'd learned. In his worst rages, the bad eye went dead.

A void that sucked in all light, and spat out nothing. 

Mel, daughter of Ambessa Medarda, was no coward. She was born to a family of warmongers. Her own temper was a high-spirited thing: quick to flare, quicker to fizzle. But years of playing politics had taught her the fine art of deflection. In a spar, it wasn't the force of the blow that counted; it was the grace of the parry. Her precision strikes, sheathed in cool courtesy, could disarm the strongest opponent. And her shield of charm, backed by steel conviction, could deflect the nastiest volley.

As a stateswoman, she'd cut down men twice her size, with nothing but a well-chosen word.

Her husband was no ordinary man.

In public, he was a study of calm. In private, he was a raging sea. Mel could neither deflect, nor disarm. The harder she pushed, the more he unbalanced her. The tighter she held, the more he slipped through her fingers. And when she let him go, she'd lose him for days: to schemes, to silence, to shadows. 

His anger was like his city. It took root and grew in darkness. And, once ignited, it consumed everything. It was the pyre that'd left hundreds dead in the wake of his revolution. It was the fire that'd kept his nation alive, against all odds.  

And her guests, Mel knew, were the tinder that lit the flame.

Now his city was a rising inferno, and their hostility was colored by fear. Fear of what they could not control. Fear of what they didn't understand. Fear that the world's tectonic plates were cracking beneath their feet, and the devils in the depths, ready to drag them down. 

And I will, Silco's eyes vowed. I will.

Marriage, Ambessa always said, is a tilted territory. If you don't stake your claim, the ground will slide out from under you.

And instead of a husband, you'll have an enemy in your bed.

And she, Mel, had failed to stake her claim. She'd let him down. Chosen sides when there should have been none.

Now she must weather the storm.

So, shoulders squared, she'd stepped into the cabin.

And they'd fought.

Fought like they'd never fought before. Not the fights that've become a kind of foreplay: the static between them, of sparring and subterfuge, melting into pure sensation. Not the fights that've defined their alliance: political posturing and personal grievance tangling into a web of illicit trust. Not the fights that've forged their bond: betrayal and blackmail spun in the dark, and the forgiveness that comes with the dawn. 

This was a fight to the death. A fight, conversely, for their very survival. The lastingness of their marriage. The legitimacy of their union. Their lives, and the future.

And it was a fight she'd lost.

By one o'clock, her head was spinning. By two, the room was spinning. By three, the room was gone.  She'd collapsed on the carpet in a heap of velvet and taffeta. Her last waking memory was Silco, kneeling over her, calling her name. She'd wanted to answer him. She'd tried.

And failed that, too.

Afterward, she'd learned that Silco had carried her to bed, and summoned the ship's physician. He was a stolid gray Yordle who'd outlived the Void Wars: more adept at patching up gunshot wounds than the ills of the mind. He'd checked her vitals, prodded and probed, and made dire pronouncements in his quaint parlance.

Mel had drifted in and out. But from the back-and-forth between Silco and the doctor, she'd gathered the gist:

—Mal de Mer.

—What in Kindred's name is that?

—You know: seasickness.

—The treacherous bitch.

—Your wife?

—The sea. We never should've crossed her.

Mel, half-drowning, choked on the irony. For weeks, she'd prepared for their journey. She'd reviewed the manifest, vetted the menu, stockpiled the supplies. She'd known, in advance, what each guest's preferences were: aversions, allergies, indulgences. The Demacian dowager's penchant for sugar cubes. The Noxian duchess's fondness for a good red. The Piltovan Exchequer's craving for a dirty blonde.

She'd accounted for every contingency.

Except her own.

The doctor's prescription was straightforward: a week of bedrest. No wine, no spirits, no salted fare. Only silence and sleep.

A bride, Mel thinks, bedridden on her honeymoon. 

Her mother would've laughed herself sick.

Politics and warfare, Ambessa always said, are zero-sum games.

So, Mel is learning, is marriage.

In both cases, the honeymoon is the loser.

꧁꧂

The SS Woe Betide is in its last leg, a day away from the archipelago.

The slant of evening sunrays fills the promenade deck. The air is balmy; the scent of frangipani wafts in the breeze. Tinkling music floats up from the ballroom. The revelry of the passengers, enjoying the last night of their cruise, is in full swing.

Inside the cabin, Mel's body is a languid starfish on cool sheets. Her ivory chemise—which she'd packed with the full understanding that it'd be worn precisely once, before her new husband ripped the gauzy lace to shreds between his teeth—has been reduced to a makeshift hospital gown. Her hair—loosely swaddled in a silk scarf to keep her locs off the pillow—is a frizzy nimbus. Her complexion is ashen; her eyes dulled to a feverish sheen.

Three weeks ago, she'd wedded the lord of Zaun's underbelly.

Now she's the color of the underworld.

The porthole window admits the barest golden streaks of light. They fall across the foot of the bed, leaving the rest of the chamber in shadow. Not an hour's conjugal bliss has passed between the elegant paneled walls. Not a single sigh has echoed off the brocaded wallpaper.

The groom's devotions—shockingly—have gone unsung.

He'd left at noon, as he does every afternoon, to oversee the ship's affairs. Her husband is a hands-on taskmaster. Or, put differently, a tyrant. Never once does he raise his voice. Yet he steers the voyage as surely as the tides. Everyone, from the quartermaster to the chief of security, snaps to attention at his barest word. 

His command of the ship is absolute. But so is his competence. If there's trouble to be sorted, he's the first to wade in and the last to leave. He's a man accustomed to a degree of chaos; wrangling a hundred souls in a single vessel is a breeze compared to keeping a city alive.

The crew, habituated to the idleness of aristocracy, are shocked by his exacting standards. But in short order, they've come to respect him.

And, Mel suspects, fear him.

Fear, Ambessa always said, is the most efficient way to run a household.

Or an empire.

By daytime, her husband's a force to be reckoned with. By nightfall, he's a presence without form. He comes and goes; sometimes slipping in before midnight, other times gone until dawn.  In her absence, he's taken over her social duties.  At dinner, he greets her guests, engaging in small talk and steering conversation adroitly through the minefield of snobbery and class politics.  He fends off inquiries about her condition. When pressed, he demurs, citing privacy.

The gossip, Mel's certain, is that she's either with child—or dying. 

Silco's behavior doesn't dispel the rumors. Once the night's agenda runs late, he retreats, like a shadow slipping through cracks. No cigars. No card games. No after-dinner drinks. No company, save his own.

Which, Mel knows, is a dangerous sign indeed.

A tide, rising.

And yet, in its own way, the tide is tender. He never coddles or cossets her. But his vigilance is unceasing. Every morning, she awakens to the scent of sweet teas and steaming broths. He keeps her carafe filled with fresh lemon-water and the fruit basket stocked with her favorites: tangerines, pomegranates, figs. Thrice a day, he's by her bedside, plying her with strange Zaunite tonics: bitter rosemary tinctures; pungent eucalyptus balms; salves of aloe vera that leave cool tingles wherever his fingers trace.

His touch—gentle, impersonal—is that of a medic, not a lover. And yet Mel can't help but be aware of him, in this space, in these hours.

His rage is a slow burn.

But so is his devotion.

Her own mother, Mel thinks ruefully, would've jettisoned her to the closest shore. She would've left Mel to the mercy of the doctors, and the ministrations of her servants.

Or, lacking either, to fend for herself.

Adversity, Ambessa always said, is an education. It hardens the character. Steels the will.

And, above all, breeds success.

Since the cradle, Mel has been bred for success. Now she's the color of failure. Five days of fever, and her marriage is yet in its infancy. She can't afford to let it falter. Not when so much rides on it. Her career. Her reputation. Her city.

The weight of a world.

And yet, for all that, she feels so very light.  Her only constants are the sway of the ship, and her husband's return.

At the porthole, the glass glows gold. The last wisp of sun sinks into the sea. Mel's eyes are drawn to a flash of light on the horizon. A streak of red brightens the twilit skies. A signal flare, launched by the SS Woe Betide, alerting a nearby freighter of their approach. A beat later, a second flare rises in the distance.

The call-and-response is an old one, shared by ships everywhere:

I am here.

"Mel."

She starts.

A silhouette fills the doorway. A lean man: sharp-cut, spare. The angular peaks of his shoulderblades jut beneath his suit jacket. His eyes, like two-toned crosshairs, catch the flare's dying light like an inferno on calm sea.

The Devil, cometh.

With her supper.

"You're back," Mel says, a little muzzy.

"I am."

"It's not yet six."

"We're a day from the island. All's in order."

"But—"

"Hungry? Here's soup."

The soft click as the door shuts. The softer sound of his footfalls. The rest is shadow. But Mel's senses, attuned, feel his proximity the way a compass feels the North. Instinctively, her body shifts, seeking. The hairs on her nape rise. Her skin pebbles.

A primordial instinct that whispers: Beware.

She'd felt the same sensation during their first meeting, in Zaun's fire-gutted harbor. In a single step, he'd filled the space. And she'd looked him in the eye, and known:

This man will change everything.

Including me.

Now, here he is, changing her again. His silhouette reappears at the vanity, then the bedside. His movements are languid, liquid, predatory. There's a rustle of fabric, then the delicious scent of tobacco, bergamot, and of him. A moment later, something is set down on the side table: a tray, judging by the clink.  

The lamp clicks on. In the sudden buttery glow, Mel blinks. There he is: a loom of living color.

The Eye of Zaun.

And, as of three weeks, her husband.

He's dressed with his usual sleek austerity: a sable-dark suit, a silver-embroidered waistcoat, and a white cravat pinned with a crooked blue jewel in the Zaunite fashion. His good eye, with its glowing twin in the scoured socket, is a half-lidded blue-green. The rest of him is a cipher.

Before their first meeting, Mel had read his dossier, cover to cover. A Fissure-bred industrialist with a chip on his shoulder. A criminal kingpin with a taste for bloodshed. A ruthless, uncompromising zealot who'd razed a city, and reclaimed its ruins as an independent state. 

Not a man, she'd been warned. A monster.

A warning, Ambessa always said, is often an invitation.

And the devil is in the details. 

Mel's first impression was of a man whose life had left its marks. Her second was of a man who wore the marks well. Her third was of a man who'd lay his own. Across her city, her skin, her self. Marks that would sear, and stay, and shape her future.

Her fourth impression—her last—was: 

I want this.

I want him.

And I will have him.

Now, she watches as he lifts the lid off the tray. Steam spirals. Supper, unveiled, is a light fare. Fish broth. Steamed dumplings. Fresh mangoes. From a tall carafe, he pours a drink—hot lemon-water infused with honey.

Placing the glass in Mel's hands, he perches at the edge of the bed. 

"How are you feeling?" he asks, in those silk-on-gravel tones.

"I believe Jinx has a term for it."

"Oh?"

"The blahs."

He smiles. She likes his smile, the barely-there crook of lips. Likes his lips, cool and dry, and how they feel against her skin. She'd like to feel them now. One touch, and she's sure her fever would break. One taste, and she'd be anything but blah.

Except she can't recall the last time they kissed.

Not since—well, her collapse.

"I've a few terms myself," Silco says. "Profane ones."

"I suspect you and Jinx have that in common."

"We've a mutual dislike for doctors."

"They do tend to be tedious."

"Especially the incompetents."

He presses a hand against her breastbone. Mel hitches a breath. It's a light touch, but his palm is heavy. The coolness seeps deliciously into her skin.

"I believe," he says, "the doctor has misdiagnosed your malady."

"Has he?"

"Your seasickness is not the root. It is the symptom."

"Of what?"

"Marriage."

She laughs, weakly. He does not.

"Marriage," she repeats, "has given me Mal de Mer?"

"Mal de Matrimonium."

"I don't understand."

"Marriage," he says, "is a singular affliction. You'll find the symptoms vary. For some, the first sign is a case of jitters. For others, the it is the absence of jitters. For the rest, there are no signs at all. Just a quick drop, and a sudden death."

"You're being dramatic."

"Am I? You believe you took ill the moment we set sail. You didn't. You've been in a fit of nerves for weeks. I should've understood sooner."

"Medardas are not known for nerves," Mel retorts. "We are a very steely stock."

"Even steel has limits." He drops his palm. "Fortunately, there's a cure."

"What?"

He's already up and off. From the nightstand, he fetches a vial of Shimmer. Medicinal—a special dose distilled by his chemist for treating tropical fevers. Deftly, he uncorks it, then pours three drops into her glass. The liquid turns a pale shade of violet, and begins to fizz.

"Drink up," he says. "That'll put color into those wax cheeks."

"And a roiling stomach. No, thank you."

"It's not a request."

He's so very serious, her husband. All his features are sharpened and elongated, as if drawn to extremes. It's not a handsome countenance, or a tender one. But there is something compelling about the asymmetry of it.

"If," Mel counters, "my ailment is Mal de Matrimonium, as you've diagnosed, then why aren't you affected?"

"Because I'm an old hand."

"You've never once been married."

"I've known my share of bondage. Poverty's an institution. So is matrimony. Your choices, your freedom, your fate. All bound, as surely as Zaun's old chains."

"The chains of Zaun, if I recall, were made of gold."

"So's your ring."

It is. Twenty-four-carat gold, to be exact. It is from Zaun's richest seams; cast into its first bullion. The band is engraved with the sigil of her family crest, and Zaun's dagger-winged emblem. A union of two cultures, forged in blood. The setting is a brilliant cut of emerald, tinted blue, the same hue as his eyes.

The symbol, Mel knows, of loyalty.

Silco's own, a cool platinum band, is a near twin. The only difference: the gemstone. A deep, iridescent ruby. It's a Medarda heirloom—her great-grandfather's. Ambessa had gifted it to Mel on her sixteenth birthday.

A symbol, she'd said gravely, of your proud heritage.

Mel had never worn it, much less coveted it. The Medardas' legacy of strife, treachery, and warfare wasn't one she wanted weighing on her finger.

Or her soul.

And yet, when she'd met Silco, it had felt fitting. His was a world of hard choices and harder lines. A world, like the Medardas, where blood was the currency. But a world, unlike the Medardas, where the true bonds were not blood, but will.

Hers, and his, entwined. 

She hadn't expected him to accept the ring. He was a proud man, and not one for trinkets. But when she'd slipped it on his finger, it'd fit as if made for him. And she, Mel, had felt a heady thrill she could only liken to how Ambessa must've felt after a battle: the sheer, sublime pleasure of conquest.

I have him, she'd thought. He is mine.

And I am his.

"If matrimony's the affliction," she muses, "perhaps the cure's more of the same."

"Hair of dog?"

"No dogs," she purrs, a hand straying across the coverlet, to his thigh. "Just the man."

He catches her wrist.

"Drink the potion."

"Not even a kiss?"

"Your lips are chapped enough to start a brushfire."

"So?"

"So, you need to replenish your fluids. Drink."

Checkmated, Mel sullenly takes the glass.

He's an unyielding opponent, her husband. Her wiles have little effect. And it's frustrating, when the prize is so close. So close that she can see his pulse, ticking slowly in the hollow of his pale throat.  So close his body-heat bleeds between them. So close her temperature spikes, a sweet throb low in her belly.

She wants to be touched. To be held. To be made love to.

She's never been a woman in thrall to her appetites. She's certainly never pined for a man.  Seduction is her art, but sex is merely the medium. The satisfaction comes not from the act, but its orchestration: the first chords of desire plucked, the leitmotif of longing threaded imperceptibly through the words, then rising in pitch, octave by octave, until it crests in a crescendo of erupted passion, followed by a coda of mutual relief.

Only then does she claim her prize.

Her husband bypasses the prelude altogether. He hits a raw, primal nerve: one that sings at his barest touch. It's not a dynamic Mel is accustomed to, let alone one she can account for.

But the aftermath is real as her desire.

Except he'd rather nurse her fever than her fantasies. He'd rather sit by her bedside, plying her with illicit potions, than slide under the sheets, and give her a taste of his own. Worse, she can't tell if the denial stems from pure perversity—or if he is playing the long game.

A Medarda, Ambessa always said, revels in a good challenge.

And she, Mel, will revel in her victory, when she has it.

She always does.

"You're smiling," Silco says, a touch suspiciously.

"Simply appreciating the humor of my predicament."

"Sick wives are a feature of tragedies, not comedies."

"I'm a wife of great contradictions."

"That, I knew."

"What? That I'm your wife?"

He laughs. She likes his smile; she loves his laugh. It's a once-in-a-blue-moon bassline: dark, deep, full of grit. Like his city. But it's his eyes that intrigue her most. The red one, all brimstone and shadow, unblinking in its web of scars. The blue one, the ordinary one, that, when the light catches it, is in fact extraordinary.

The window of the soul, the ancients used to say.

Mel believes it. She can see his, even if it's a window to the underworld. When he's guarded, it's a cold and twisting maze. But when he laughs, she glimpses the best parts of him: his ferocity, his ambition, his wit.

He's no fairytale prince. Not by half. More a subterranean beast, his cruel visage shed only by slow degrees. And yet, there's a delight in each discovery. She's always adored puzzles.

And Silco, by law and oath, is all hers.

"I'm thinking," she says, "that the guests likely believe we're locked inside, making mad, passionate love."

"More fool them."

"Oh?"

"You're weak as a kitten," he says flatly. "I'd get more action out of a washrag."

"A washrag? What a thing to say!"

"And yet the washrag proves sturdier, when pressed for service."

"If such was the only service I could offer, I'd give it."

"The only thing you'll give me," he rejoins, "is your empty glass."

"Or?"

"Or—" He looms in, "—I'll pin you down and pour the lot down your gullet."

It's no idle threat. He's a singleminded man, her husband. Once his course is set, he sails it, no matter the obstacles.

A good strategist, Ambessa always said, knows when to pivot.

Mel holds his stare, and lifts the glass.  Tipping her head back, she downs the drink in three gulps. The Shimmer hits like a thunderbolt. Lights pop before her eyes. Retching, she doubles over.

The room deliquesces. The bed disappears. She slips, and is suddenly enfolded in a steady embrace.

"Well," Silco says, somewhere above her, "I've seen that look before."

"You—you have?" she says dazedly.

"In the mirror."

Her laugh is nearly a sigh. The warmth spread outward. From her gut, to her fingers, to her toes. From her skin into her blood. Nuzzling Silco's neck, she threads her arms around his waist. He's all hard angles and taut lines, her husband. A man without an ounce of give.

But he's giving her this: the cool cradle of his arms, and his cool palm circling her nape, and his cool breath on her temple.

"Better?"

"I don't know." She licks her lips, a dark sweetness lingering. "It tastes... like you."

"Does it?"

"Mmm. I like it."

His stare goes a little dark, a little eerie. "Never say you've a taste for Shimmer."

"Isn't it Zaun's proudest innovation?"

"For the desperate, it's also bondage. Worse than Mal de Matrimonium. I'd see you die before I see you addicted."

There is no gentleness in his voice. But the graveled intensity pours down her spine. She shivers, eyes closing. She wants, nothing more, than to stay like this, her cheek nestled in the smooth curve of his neck.

By nature, she's tactile; they both are. It's only in the intensity that they differ.  He's a man who holds on to his desires, like his rage, like his city: a grip that relinquishes nothing. And she's a woman who's always had her desires at her fingertips: her pleasures, her power.

Betwixt them, there's no middle ground. Only a question of the inevitable: her will, or his. 

Against a well-matched opponent, Ambessa always said, your only ally is patience.

Hold your ground, and wait for the tide to turn.

"We have all night," she says, stroking his lapel, "to test your theory."

He doesn't stir. But his voice drops a decibel. "What theory is that?"

"The cure for Mal de Matrimonium."

"There's no antidote to marriage." His notched lip twists. "I only know Shimmer works because I've seen worse cases."

"Of?"

"The blahs."

"Jinx?" she guesses.

The barest nod.

"Was she..." Mel hesitates, "ill, often?"

She senses his withdrawal. It's a subtle thing, the slithering retreat. He's no longer in the room with her, though his body hasn't moved an inch.

It is how he gets when his family is mentioned. 

Slowly, he breaks the embrace. She clings, but weakly. The languor is bone-deep.  Laying her against the pillows, he nudges the tray closer. The message is plain: Eat.

She does, if only to appease him. The broth is light, satisfying. The dumplings are a burst of ginger and chives. The mangoes, juicy morsels.

It's an intriguing paradox. A full belly and an empty need: coexisting.

Compromising.

Silco, rising, crosses the room. He doesn't go far. At the sideboard, he pours himself a measure of brandy. In the umbra of the lamplight, his features are remote. But he stays, and that, too, is a compromise. It means something.

Something, Mel hopes, that will bridge the gap of fury before her collapse.

"Jinx," he says, "was a strong girl. But not always. Not at first."

Mel waits. She doesn't want to miss a word. His past is a private space, and Jinx, his most precious sanctuary. To breach that sanctity is a risk. To be granted a glimpse is a gift. One she dares not squander. 

A single misstep, and he'll close off completely.

"There were... episodes. The first one, I didn't recognize. Or refused to." He swirls the glass. "She'd been in my care a month. She was yet a shadow. Skittish. Sad. Never smiled. Rarely spoke. But the night the sickness took hold, she was a shrieking banshee. I was out. I came home to her thrashing and raving in a fevered stupor."

"What was it?"

"The illness? Mild pneumonia. But the root was something else. Her mind was a battleground. She'd fought, night after night. A war without end. Now she'd succumbed to the wounds, and was losing. I sat by her bedside, and made sure she didn't."

"You took care of her?"

"Who else? Sevika's a competent right-hand. But her maternal streak's as pleasant as my face is pretty. The crew? They're loyal. But they've their limits." He knocks back the brandy, and kisses his teeth. "A child, a girl, alone in the world. That's a degree of vulnerability that invites exploitation."

"By the wrong sort."

He nods. "And there I was: the worst. The only difference was that I understood what she could become. How she could thrive. So I took her in. And when she fell ill, I did whatever was necessary. I fed her, cleaned her, comforted her. When the fever spiked, I kept her cool. When the night terrors came, I chased them away. I did it all for her."

He stops, the shadows gathering.

"And, I confess, I did it for me."

"Silco..."

"It was selfish, really. But when her fever broke, it was the first time I felt... at peace.  She was so small. So vulnerable. I'd keep her tucked against my chest, her heartbeat to mine. I'd watch over her, hour after hour. I'd feel her breathe, and I'd breathe, too. In that moment, she was my world. My little universe. My everything."

He stops, refilling the glass.

Mel, touched, imagines young Jinx. A little girl, with scabbed knees and tangled blue braids, and a gap between her teeth. She'd have been a dynamo of energy. An exhausting one, too. Nursing her at her sickbed would've been an act of monumental forbearance.

And love.

"She was lucky to have you," she whispers.

"I was lucky to have her." He shrugs, with the air of a man who's stopped parsing out the threads of fate. "A daughter's a rare thing. It took me time to understand. To see past the complications, and accept what I had. She was a gift. Unexpected. Unlooked for. But she was mine."

His eyes, both, seem to drift. He might be looking at the portrait above the mantle. Or his reflection in the mirror beyond. Or nothing at all.

Nothing but Jinx.

"Her fevers," he says, "were a symptom of her grief. It took time, but she fought them off. The closer we grew, the stronger she became. And soon she'd outgrown the spells. Soon, the nightmares were just that: nightmares. Now she's a grown woman. A capable one. She's still my world, but she's also her own."

He downs his drink: a solo toast.

Something constricts in Mel's chest, affection and envy tugging the same strings. She's never been the maternal sort. Too selfish; too headstrong. Too much her mother's daughter. She's better at finding loopholes in trade disputes than untangling knots in little girls' hair.  Better at wielding power like a bonbon on a tray, than baking a birthday cake or kissing a skinned knee.

And yet, Silco makes it seem easy.

He's a father in the same sense that Ambessa is a mother: a force of nature, implacable. He's shielded Jinx, as she's shielded Mel. And yet, for him, fatherhood is neither a foible nor a liability. It's an extension of his steeliest self.

He's a man who, once he loves, loves with everything in him. Even the darkest parts. On the backbone of that darkness, he's forged his city. He's stopped at nothing to give his child everything. 

And, the past week, he's shown Mel the same devotion, if only a drop.

But a drop, like any, turns the tide.

Mel whispers, "Thank you."

"What for?"

"For staying. For... taking care of me." She bites her lip. "And, yes, for the Shimmer. It's working, I think. My head is clearer."

"Good." He's silent a moment, as if debating whether to add more. Then: "It's funny."

"What is?"

"When Jinx fell ill, she'd always apologize profusely. As if she thought I'd be angry at the time and trouble. As if a father, doing his damn duty, requires an apology."

"It's a hard lesson to learn." Mel shivers, and not from fever. "Believe me. My mother taught me the same."

"Not tolerant of sniffles, was she?"

Her fingers pluck at the coverlet; a girlhood tic bubbling to the surface. "Not a single tear. I learned, very early, not to cry. And if I fell ill, not to let it show.  Else she'd take the pain, and make it worse."  A shadow of Ambessa passes over her: a ghost-chill. "She had a way of doing that. She'd twist everything—my hurts, my fears, my failures. Until the pain was the worst thing I knew."

A shadow crosses Silco's face too. The bad eye gleams like old blood.

"How old were you?" he asks. "When she twisted your first fear?"

"Old enough to remember. Young enough to never forget." She smiles wanly. "I'd helped my handmaid hide a stray kitten in my chambers. It was a sweet thing, a tiny tabby. But in our household, there was a rule: no strays. They carried vermin. Plagues. Sometimes, a rival house would slip a sickly mouser into the Medarda stables. The next thing we knew, death was on the hoof." Her smile fades. "I'd found the kitten in the garden. He was caught in the stablehand's trap. Taking pity, I'd freed the poor thing, and given him a hiding place. My handmaid, bless her, even smuggled in a little dish of milk."

She takes a shuddering breath. "I was clever enough to keep it a secret. And foolish enough to pay the price. Soon, the handmaid fell ill. A fortnight later, she was dead. Poisoned, our chemists found, by a toxin in the kitten's claws. I'd survived only because he'd never scratched me. When Mother learnt what I'd done, she was furious. I'd put our family at risk, for a silly whim. I'd cost a loyal servant her life." The bedclothes twist in her fists. "She had the stablehand put the kitten down. Then she made me watch as they burned the handmaid's body. Afterward, I cried myself sick. When I'd finished, she told me: Remember, child. There is a cost to kindness. If you cannot bear to pay it, don't be kind. For the kind are fools. Only the cruel survive."

"Kindred's bones."

Silco looks the way he always does when she talks of Ambessa. Like he isn't sure whether to gut the woman, or to shake her hand. Half-revulsion, half-recognition. 

Ambessa, Mel knows, feels the same. Their antipathy is mutual, but so is their respect. Two monsters on opposite polarities, who will not cede an inch to the other. And who, yet, understand each other as no one else can.

And here I am, Mel thinks. 

Trying to navigate my way between them.

"Don't misunderstand," she says. "I'm grateful for my childhood. Whatever the cost." For a moment, she smells the ash of her handmaid's funeral pyre. She sees the smoke curling like a black halo around her mother's silhouette. "I had everything a child from a noble family could desire. Clothing. Servants. Luxury." The barest smile. "All the things, as you say, A right proper bitch is bred for."

"Yet here you are," Silco says. "On the far side of proper."

"Here I am." She cradles her elbows in her palms. "My mother is a warrior. A survivor. And the survival of a dynasty is a hard-won thing. In her eyes, my softness could be its downfall. That's why she tried, so hard, to mold me. Why she pushed me, and pressured me, and punished me. So I'd survive." A breath. "And I did. Just not the way she'd hoped."

Silco is silent. He does not do mercy. But he listens. And it's the same, in its way.

"Small wonder," he muses.

"Small wonder, what?"

"Small wonder you turned out the way you did." He tips his near-empty glass. "All that pressure. It can either crush a spirit, or forge it into diamond. It's the same with Jinx. You're as different as night and day. And yet, you're a similar breed." 

Mel's smile wavers. "Are we?"

"Driven. Strong. Willful. But you've the same void. All the glitter poured inside won't fill it." He sets the glass down. "Fortunately, the cure's simpler than you'd think."

"Is it?"

"A full belly, and a full night's sleep."

Her tray of supper is taken away. From her armoire, he removes a silk paisley blanket. The fabric, midnight blue, shimmers as it unfolds. It's her favorite; imported from Kalamanda. The weave is impregnated with hyacinth oil, rose hips, tea leaves, sea-salt and spilled ink.

It's the scent of Piltover: her city. Her newfound heart.

She'd packed it with a vague fantasy of sprawling across it, a picnic blanket on a sun-drenched Ionian hillside. With her husband's arm draped around her, his cool palm cupping her skull. His cooler fingers tangling in her hair. The rest of him, tangled in her.

Now, they're together, and there's no fantasy. Only pragmatic hands and a practiced touch. He enfolds her in the blanket, not like a babe but like a meal left to cool.  His lips are cool too. They avoid her mouth, drop a kiss to her temple, then withdraw before she can thread her arms around him.

"Rest," he says. "The night's a balmy one."

"Where are you going?"

"To bath, and ready myself for dinner." 

He turns, and begins unthreading his cuffs. The vest follows, tossed onto the vanity chair. The cravat is tugged free; the buttons at his collar undone. A pale triangle of skin bares itself. There's no deliberation to the strip-tease. Just a man, methodically disrobing.

And the sight, Mel thinks, is almost unbearably intimate.

The Shimmer is a pooling heat in her body. The silk of her blanket—a light thing—teases her skin. His nearness torments the rest.

She is still a little sore. A little achy. But it's a savoring ache.

A hunger that needs filling.

Catching her ogling, Silco quirks a brow. "Eyes up."

"Can't I admire the view?"

"No." His tone is stern. "This is not a performance. You're meant to rest."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Five days of nothing. And you've not once complained." She lets her lashes fan down and up. "Surely you don't expect me to believe the washrag's proving equal?"

"Not yet," he says, a bitter crook to his lips, "but it's not a bad substitute."

"Is that why you're hurrying? To take matters into your own hands?"

"Better my hand than a guest's."

"A guest?" This is a perturbing pivot. She half-sits up; her chemise strap slips down her left shoulder. "Have you been propositioned?"

"With a missing bride, the groom's fair game."

"Let me guess. The Demacian Countess, dripping in diamonds and innuendo—" 

"—a vapid harridan, of whom I am thoroughly sick."

"—the Piltovan exchequer's wife, who's not above a bit of bed-hopping—"

"—an insufferable busybody, whom I plan to toss overboard."

"—the Vastayan princeling, who's famously partial to men with scars."

"That one's partial to anything with a prick." He stops, a glint of slyness in his eyes. "Why? Are you jealous?" 

She shouldn't be. It's irrational and foolish and beneath her. She is not a woman easily threatened. Her desirability is her stock-in-trade. She is used to being measured as the superior of the most celebrated sirens, and the brains of the outfit, besides. It's a point of pride.

Yet there is a gut-wrench of possessiveness. The thought of someone's hands on Silco. Of him, touching someone else. A stranger undeserving of the gift. 

My husband, Mel thinks, and it's a fierce and terrible burn.

Home territory, Ambessa always said, is to be defended to the last drop.

Else the rot sets in, and the foundation crumbles.

Softly, Mel says, "And if I were jealous?"

Silco's hands still on his buttons.  His good eye, in the lamplight, is a green-lit spark.

"I'd tell you," he says, equally soft, "that you're mad."

"With jealousy?"

"With fever."

"Mal de Matrimonium, after all."

"A shared affliction, I can abide." Wryly, he shakes his head. "The clap's a different matter."

"Silco—"

"Sleep it off, petal. Tomorrow, you'll laugh at your silliness."

The endearment—a rarity outside of their pillow talk—pierces through her. She dares a smile: a little teasing, a little raw. 

A lot wanting.

"You could," she stretches languidly, and a smooth thigh bares itself from under the coverlet, "join me?"

"The party will start soon."

"Not to sleep. Just to talk."

"About what?"

Silco sits, again, at the foot of the bed. It dips beneath his weight. The mattress, a wide affair, is more than big enough for the both of them.

His palm rests on her ankle. The touch, impersonal before, lingers. Emboldened by this small intimacy, Mel lets her fingers itsy-bitsy-spider up the cuff of his shirtsleeve. The weave is cool; the arm beneath deceptively lean in an armature of sinew and bone.

She thinks of the rapiers her mother kept on display in the gallery: honed, fine, deadly.

But a deft touch, she knows, can disarm even the sharpest blade.

"We could," she says, "talk about our itinerary. The island we'll be staying at is renowned for its beauty. There are waterfalls a stone's throw from our camp. And ruins, where the locals say the gods themselves used to frolic. Or the villa itself: designed to merge nature with civilization. The rooms are like gardens, each with their own sunrooms and fountains. All of it, with a view of the turquoise seas." She toys with his cuff, and watches his face. "I know you like the water."

"I'd like it better if I weren't sharing the villa with a half-dozen parasites."

"Don't think of them," she says coaxingly. "Think of me. Think of you. Think of the possibilities."

"Their security detail? Paid for by my dime. Their staff? Paid for by yours. And the bill?" A scoff. "We're footing that together"

"It's a modest bill. Barely a pittance." Mel's fingertips skitter up his forearm. "Meanwhile, we'll have a wing entirely to ourselves. The most luxurious in the villa. Its own beach, white as snow. Its own grotto, with a natural sauna. Its own garden, full of exotic blooms and birdsong."

"And mites, and mosquitoes, and yet more parasites."

She ignores that, continues to speak in that satiny tone she uses for closing deals. "At night, we could light the bonfire and dine beneath the stars. We could take the yawl out and anchor offshore." Her fingers creep higher, and so does her smile. "We'd make love on the deck, and listen to the sea, and make love again, and listen to the sea."

"And all our guests, with their telescopes, would watch, and lay bets on the size of my cock."

"Let them," she husks. "They'll be most impressed."

His mouth, the unscarred side, crooks. He can smell the game a mile away.

"And in the morning," he says, "if the yawl's not capsized, we'll row ashore. Where we'll join our guests for a breakfast of freshly-squeezed Navori plums, and rashers of smoked Sudaro pig. And you, glowing like a sun goddess from your night under the stars, will query the Demacian countess on her favorite spots for birdwatching. And the Noxian baron, eager to ply his charms, will offer to guide you along the nature trails. And you, with your far superior wiles, will steer the talk toward the fresh air, and the healing properties of the ocean, and how healthy living is the key to a long life. And then, while everyone's chiming their agreement, you'll ask if the guests will be so kind as to invest in Zaun's new filtration plant. The plant you've banked so much coin on." His stare, heavy, settles on her. "Am I wrong?"

Her fingers go still. "How did you know?"

"Because I know you." His thumb circles the jut of her anklebone. "Because I know the playbook. A good con needs three things. The place, the pitch, and the pigeon. You've got the first: a tropical paradise full of freshwater and sunbeams. You've got the second: a roomful of rich marks high off their gourds on said freshwater and sunbeams. And the third, well—" His circling slows. "The third is the least obvious."

"Is it?"

"And the most difficult."

"How?"

"Because he's no pigeon. He's a sly sumpraker who's never tasted freshwater, and is immune to sunbeams. And who's already been played, and paid in full." His fingers curl around her calf. "Am I wrong?"

Their eyes meet. His bad one is edged black. It's the smallest, most subtle shift. The first ripple of the tide. His moods, his temper, his impulses: they're all beyond her. Only the undercurrents are tangible, the secret push and pull.

Mel feels it now. A warning.

Her pulse stumbles, nearly slipping. Her smile does not. "Pigeon? Hardly. You are my husband."

"And the difference? You invited our guests to show them Zaun's a rising star in the constellation of Progress. But you'd not anticipated the frosty reception. They're not ready for the union between Piltover and Zaun. Much less the honeymoon. That night—the night you took ill—it hit you like a gut punch. You realized your sea-legs weren't ready for the voyage. And so, the Mal de Matrimonium set in." He tilts his head. "Or am I wrong about that too?"

His gaze is like his grip: a soft, cool pressure. The heat of her chagrin congeals between them.

"It isn't like that," she says. "Not exactly."

"Tell me how it is, then."

"That night... I should've handled it better. I should've taken a stand. For you." The admission is like an anchor lifted. All at once she's unmoored. "I know I made a mess of things. And you were... upset. The past week, you've cared for me, and now I need to pay you back. I'd planned our stay at the villa to be a diplomatic mission. For you. For your city. But if I can sweeten the deal with a few charitable donations, well—" Her teeth scrape her lip. "It's a bargain, I'd say."

"You'd say?" He seems almost darkly titillated. "Or your mother?"

"Does it matter?" she retorts, a little sharply. "You'll have your honeymoon. Your city will have coin."

"And I, Mel? What's my role to be?"

"Nothing." Her fingertips rest on his knuckles. "Only... play nice? Turn the charm on, a little? Let them see the side of you that I do."

He does not withdraw. But his fist, unmoving, feels suddenly like iron.

"You," he says, "want me to play your pigeon."

"I—"

"An exercise of social reform." His bad eye flickers, the red inked black. "Take the sumpraker to the villa. Where the blue skies will temper him, and the sun will burn away his shadows. And at breakfast, you'll show them the tamed beast, and how civilized he is. You'll make your sales pitch: Invest in Zaun. Turn the hellhole into your next holiday destination. And if they refuse, well, at least they'll go home, and spread the word that Medarda, Janna bless her, keeps that lowborn beast on a short leash."

Mel, stung, drops her hand. "That's not true—"

"Isn't it? These guests you're so eager for me to impress: they're the ones who made a mint off the Council's neglect. They've profited for years from the Fissures' degradation. They'd have let us die, if we hadn't fought tooth and nail for our freedom. And now you expect me to not only play their game, but pretend their coin—their condescension—holds value?" His scoff is sibilant as a slit throat. "It's a fine world where you believe I owe those rats anything but a gutting."

"It's a world," Mel retorts, "that's made of trade."

"Trade is an accommodation. A negotiation between equal parties. My city is not a thing to be traded."

"Your city, or your pride?"

"My city!" he erupts. "The city we built from the ground up, with our bare hands. Now it's a jewel, and they'd try to make it a bauble. Their notion of investment is the same as their notion of progress. They'll buy up acres of real estate where Zaunites live, and overhaul it into luxury condos. They'll bulldoze the bazaars where our commerce thrives, and erect monuments. They'll flood our markets with their gewgaws and bury our goods in the dirt. Until every last inch of Zaun's soul is sold, and its body is a carcass, and its corpse is turned into a carnival!"

The words echo like a thunderclap. He is the sea. He is the storm. And Mel, who is neither of those things, still knows that if the world were the two of them, and only the two, she'd hold her ground. 

In safeguarding their cities, they are equal. He is the Eye of Zaun. And she is the vanguard of Piltover. It's a duty she'd embraced from the beginning. But it's been a forked road, full of twists and temptations. A path where her own ambitions were at odds with her duty.

And those who've suffered are those she'd hoped most ardently to save.

People like Jinx, cast to the bottom of the pit. People like Silco, risen up from the dregs.

She's seen the underbelly of Zaun: the sickness and squalor. But she's also seen its beauty. The resilience of spirit. The creativity that burns like a bonfire.  Silco and Jinx are living proof. Their survival is a triumph against the odds.  

But the odds, sometimes, need a helping hand.

She can be that hand. Silco has the drive to take, and the cunning to hold. But not the pliancy to wield. Whereas she, with all her guile, can take, and hold, and wield. She can be ruthless, but not cruel. She can temper the fires, and sweeten tempers, without the horizons set ablaze.

She can be the force that holds Silco steady, and keeps his city safe. 

She believes that. Truly. But if she cannot persuade him to believe too, then she will have no recourse but to fight.

Diplomacy, Ambessa always said. Works best with a large sword at the enemy's throat.

"They'll do none of those things," she says. "Not if I have a say."

"You mean your word? Or your name?"

"One and the same."

"Ah, but what's in a name?" Silco drawls, without rancor. "A word, by itself, is meaningless. A drop in the ocean. Even marriage, my dear, is just a paper bobbing on the waves. There are no contracts beyond the ink. Water will always seep through."

This jabs a sore spot between her ribs. Her mother's voice rings, an ironclad echo:

"When you are drowning, and he leaves you, gasping, to die. Remember that I did not wish it to end like this."

And her reply: "It won't."

"Ours isn't a contract," she says quietly. "It's a partnership."

"A partnership, like trade, is between equals." His voice, too, is quiet. But it is an icy quiet. "We'll never be equals if you keep thinking of me as the shark who's scales need sanding."

"I don't."

She squeezes his hand in both hers. It is a gesture she uses to soften a hard sell. But never has she been so earnest in her entreaty. 

"Zaun is not the problem," she says. "Nor are you. But the two of you are caught in a bind. What was done in the past was wrong. But what will be done is right. I'll see it done, by changing hearts and minds. Because that is true progress. Once the upper echelons are educated, they'll see the wisdom in change, too. They'll understand that Zaun's wellbeing is theirs. That the pollution is their pollution, and the sickness is their sickness. If only you meet them halfway, they'll see the future. And they'll want to join you." 

"Diplomacy in action, hm?"

"Diplomacy is compromise. And compromise, by definition, is a dilution of what you set out to do. The question is not whether you'll compromise. It's how far. At least, if your cards are played right, there's the chance of a mutual win."    

"The chance. Never the certainty."

"Nothing is certain." She summons a smile. "But I believe in our chances. I believe in us. Do you?"

Silco says nothing. In his eyes, the void is banked. But still there. Still hungry. Sometimes she thinks he's staring down, not the past, but a path yet to come. The future, where his daughter will grow up in a city resurrected. Where his people will live without humiliation or hunger.  

Where they will truly be free.

"Belief is a luxury," he says at last. "In Zaun, the first step is survival. Everything else is a bridge to be crossed. Or burned." He leans in, a cold, dark flame. "So: no. I don't believe. I act. And it's not by prostrating myself before the privileged. Their pity will not keep my city alive. Their profit will not keep it safe. For Zaun to survive, it must upend their rules, and play by a different set." 

"You've done that once," Mel cautions. "And it nearly burned down both our cities."

"Fire is a cleansing force."

"Fire is a monster, with no regard for who it consumes."

Their stares clash. The air crackles.

Deliberately, Mel softens her tone.

"There was a time when I was a girl full of ideals. But ideals are fragile company. All it took was a single stroke of my mother's sword, and they broke. All I had left were the splinters. And they hurt. Oh, how they hurt. If I can save a person, even one, from enduring that hurt, then it will have been worth it. It will have been worth the compromise, the dilution, the diplomacy."  

Silco smiles. It is a strange smile: soft and yet utterly devoid of softness. 

Her mother, Mel thinks, would've smiled the same way.

"Compromise," he says. "A beautiful fever. Like Mal de Mer."

"What?"

He kisses her.

It's a quick, fierce thing. Like the snap of a blade. The air cuts from Mel's lungs. His mouth is cool, his tongue hot. When he draws away, she finds herself clutching his shirt, her fingers knotted in the lapels. His hands, likewise, slide beneath the hem of her chemise.  

"Beautiful," he breathes against her lips. "Like the idea that two cities, and two souls, can be one."

He kisses her again. The next thing Mel knows, he's on her, a long leg sliding between hers. And she is already liquid. Already aching. She can't help it. The fever was only a fever. But his distance was hell. Always a footstep away. Always was a thousand miles beyond reach.

And she, cut adrift: a shipwreck in the night.

Now he's here, and the tide has turned. His body, lean and hard, is an anchor. And his stare, unblinking, is an ocean's depth.  

"I've seen the truth," he murmurs. "Of the world. Of its heart. And it's always torn in two. It has a thousand wants. And it wants them all at once. There's no middle ground. No compromise." He palms her breast through the chemise. She bites back a gasp. "Only a war, fought until one side burns the other. And the victor? Gets the spoils."

"It's not the only way." Mel's lips find his throat. His jaw. His mouth. "We can—"

"There is no 'we.'"

"What—?"

"I've lived in a city of we's. Piltover and Zaun. Two cities. Both bound together, and yet pulling apart." His teeth trace her earlobe. She whimpers, and his thumb, deftly, circles. "The only 'we' is the two of us. Not because of our marriage. Not because of vows, or trust, or fairydust. This will work only if we make it. And we can't make it if you take my ring, then trade my city for a price."

"I did not take your ring for a price!" Mel snaps, her temper fraying. "I took it because I wanted a future with you. Whatever that future holds!"

He pushes her back. Pins her wrist to the mattress. It's a gentle manacling, and yet the effect is electric. His eyes take their time, moving languidly up her body—the hem riding high on her thighs, the silk taut across her breasts, the tendrils of her hair a corkscrewing darkness on the pillow. 

Mel's skin hums beneath the scrutiny. She's been looked at a thousand times: by artists, by admirers, by aesthetes. But never, she thinks, so closely. As if her flesh were pure gold. As if she were something worth coveting.

Worth keeping.

He meets her eyes, with something like witfulness. And then, with a sigh, he kisses her, everywhere through the silk. His lips on first one breast, then the other, weighing them in his hands. Mel sighs, her fingers tangling in his hair. His kisses drift lower. Down her belly, across her navel, then down further still, soft kisses pressed in a circle around the place that aches the most. Mel's thighs fall open. Her sighs unravel on a moan. 

She's missed this. She's missed him. His skin on hers is a balm.

Then his mouth reverses its journey. Higher, higher, higher, until he reaches her throat. Its soft, unguarded pulse. He kisses there: a hint of teeth like a brand. Mel hopes he will go further. Bite deeper. That this, the barest tease of friction, is not all he's willing to offer.  

But it is.

He drops a parting kiss to her forehead. Then he is gone.

Mel, bereft, opens her eyes. "Silco?"

"You're still feverish."

"But—"

He's already rising. His shadow, cutting across the wall, is a shark's fin.

"Sleep," he says. "Dream of a future. For me. For you. Full of spoils, and no compromise."

"Where are you going?"

"Dinner's begun. Your precious guests await." He begins unbuttoning his cuffs. "I'll make sure to play nice."

"But—"

"As it happens, I have an inkling how they can be made to play nice too. Zaun's version of nice. Industrial-grade, chemically-clogged, toxin-fueled."

Mel, warily, "What do you mean?"

"An excursion."

"Where?"

"Why spoil the surprise?"

Stripping his shirt, he steps toward the adjoining bath. The lamplight limns the dips and angles of his torso. He's a lean man, her husband, and the delineations of his body is stark as whipcord. The skin is lashed with old scars. A life in the streets etched into his flesh.

Mel knows every inch. And every inch fascinates her.

"Tomorrow," he says, "We'll dock on the island. With luck, you'll be well, with roses in your cheeks, instead of sealing wax.  We'll dine at the villa, all our cabbages and kings. But before—"    

"Before?"  

"Before," he says, a sideways flick of red and black, "we'll see whether pigs have wings."  

The door swings shut. The sound of running water starts.

Mel, propped on her elbow, is left to simmer in the silence.

Her new husband, it must be said, is like Mal de Mer, too.  He creeps in: sly, stealthy, secret.  And before she knows it, her body is aflame.  

Except she can't say whether tomorrow bodes a cleansing cure.

Or a blaze that leaves nothing but ash.

[whatisinfinite]

the nature of the firebird

T | 1/5 | 0.5K

for @bearholdingashark as part of the 2023 Grishaverse Rarepair Exchange! Malarklina is one of my absolute faves in this show, and I hope that shines through ✨ Happy reading!

💕 ship: Mal/Alina/The Darkling

Alina and the Darkling are desperately on the hunt for the same thing. It is closer than both of them think.

“Alina wakes often in the Darkling’s bed.

She commands the second army, now, appointed as the Darkling’s replacement by King Pyotr himself. By all rights, she should have his quarters, and the adjoining study lined with dismal books, and the war room with its black-painted replica of the fold jutting up from the Darkling’s wooden table. As if by design, that is where she spends most of her sleepless nights, nudging the little soldiers into place, wondering when it’ll stop feeling like pushing toys around and start feeling like protecting the people she loves.

Protecting Ravka. Protecting the Grisha. Hoping there is a way forward where both goals are one and the same.”

🗡 Read on AO3

[thesmokingguns]

The Darkling Sunshine

Word Count: 2715

A/N: There is one scene scene in the show and book that I did not agree with and really thought that should have went the other way. Yes it would have changed the entire story but you know for the better. This is just my reimagining of the scene where Baghra tells Alina she needs to go. I did write Alina in the ‘I POV’ and didn’t use her name.

YOUR POV

“Oh Saints.” you had no sense of direction. Mal had tried to teach you by pointing at stars and giving them names but what help did that give you as you rushed through stone hallways on command on Baghra.

Baghra, the mother of the Black Heretic.

You did believe her that he was her son. You believed that he was the man who created the fold and you did trust that he was planning on using it as a weapon but there was something gnawing in your gut about what else she said. Was Aleksander trying to make you his slave or did he see more in you?

Part of you wondered what he could see, a poor orphan girl who had been sent to the army to draw maps but instead wasted paper daring mythical creatures. You who didn’t understand the way the grisha were meant to live and who made mistake after mistake. You, who he had just been kissing.

There had been an anger in his kiss, you could taste it as his teeth gnashed yours and his hand slid your skirts up to your belly. But hadn’t you been angry as well? There was so much happening and everyone was pointing you in different directions, wanting to control you. But maybe you needed to stop and start asking questions of your own.

The Night air was cool and you were thankful for the black kefta that you had on as you emerged by the stables. Everyone was still inside the Little Palace celebrating the grisha’s performances. No doubt they are all talking about you, the sun summoner. These same people who had for years ignored you now kneeling down before you.

The power had felt…amazing.

You needed to gather your wits around you, looking around and realizing there were more enemies than friends. Especially after Baghra had said some grisha were loyal to her. You were given two options: you could run and hide or you could sneak back in and talk to Aleksander. Both options terrified you.

Where would you go if you ran? What would you do? The world was at war and the Fold existed like a black scar across the land, an emptiness that you couldn’t travel around easily. And if you went back inside you would be surrounded by silent enemies and a man who was powerful and could have been using your affection as a toy. He could be trying to bed you just to get you closer to him, instead of actually wanting you. But didn’t you deserve answers?

You were torn.

It was hard to describe your feelings for General Kirigan. It was different from how you felt about Mal. Mal was this comforting presence in your life, your best friend who had been there for you at all the worst times. You had known that he would always be there for you and that safety had provided you a comfort that had been what you thought was love. But Mal hadn’t seen you that way. Instead he tumbled in the darkness with anything that had a mouth and legs. Grisha or soldier. Mal didn’t care as long as he could press his strong body into someone and forget. He just never had wanted you.

But with Aleksander, the way he looked at you made your heart stop. He understood the burden of your gift but also the magic you couldn’t see in it. When you two had kissed the first time you had tasted his surprise, the loneliness on his lips. And you had understood him then because you had been lonely like that for a long time. There were layers to a man who was branded one way and your fingers itched to peel them apart, to see who he was under all the shadows that swirled around him.

“Oh Saints, I hope I’m doing the right thing.” You turned quickled slicing your cheek on a sharp corner of the barn. Your blood slid down, staining the gold embroidery of your kefta. You were quick in shrugging it off. Wiping some of your blood on the fabric and letting it fall down to the ground of the barn as you turned, looking at the hidden way you had come out of and knowing you were going to climb back up.

You had questions that needed to be answered and you weren’t going to just let them not be, And if Baghra was right you were going to be making the worst mistake of your life, but if she was wrong. You breathed out, this could be the start of your life and not the continuous running away from your problems that you had been doing.

The Darkling POV

‘Y/N?” I strode into the room, looking for her. Heart racing after the assassination attempt and needing the weight of her in my arms to make sure that she was safe. “Y/N?” I turned to look into my bedroom, hoping I had taken too long for her.

The empty room took my breath away and I struggled for a moment for control over my emotions. Fear. I had fear for the first time and I had to grab at my heart that was trembling in my chest to verify that it was true, that this was what I was feeling.

She was gone.

My breath struggled and I was weak, giving in for a few seconds before the cool familiarity of my anger slid into place. My hand knotting in a fist as I turned rushing from the room as I felt teh sneer on my face.

Mal.

Pathetic little tracker boy who had realized that as soon as someone else got their hands on Y/N they would see she was special. He had a lifetime to be with her and yet he had chosen wrong time and time again.

I had been wrong, thinking that their childhood lovesick story was over. Had done so well in intercepting the letters that they wrote each other, burning them after reading about how they confided in each other, playing with words to avoid using words of true feelings. But Y/N had stopped writing a few weeks ago and Genya had stopped asking about the tracker so I had thought it was fine.

Now he had come into my palace and he had taken her? He would pay for this. He would pay for this greatly. And he better not have touched a hair on Y/N’s head.

Striding across the grounds I was panting, out of breath as I gre angry with the thought of how I would find them. He idea of her under him letting him rut against her like a dog twisted my stomach, making bile burn my throat. But as I looked up, I saw her.

My mother and knew that something was wrong.

“He’s not here.” she said cooly and I knew she knew who I was looking for but I played along with her anyway.

“Who?” She was wasting my time and I think she relished in seeing me like this, seeing me hurt. Not everyone had all the graces that came with motherhood and mine had too many years to let me down.

“The tracker. Yes, I know about him and your little mission.” Baghra was strong and trained all the grisha. I had given her too much power in touching so many lives. Power that I was regretting now because obviously she had formed bonds and connections with people who were loyal to her over me.

That would have to be dealt with at a later time. Right now I just needed to find the tracker and rip him limb to limb. Find Y/N make sure she wasn’t hurt and bring her back inside, keep her safe. I just needed to keep her safe.

“What have you done with him?” She wanted to play games and I knew by now I had to play along for a little bit to get the answers I was searching for.

“Disposed of along with your hopes of killing the stag.” Ah so she did know about the stag. The stag that would give Y/N more power, let her really unleash her light onto the world.

My little saint was going to be stronger than me and I couldn’t wait to see her shine. This would be my greatest gift to her. The way I would express my feelings to her, to show her that I didn’t care if we weren’t equal. I would give her the world just to be by her side.

“I always have hope, mother. Even you can’t kill that.” She thought I was evil. Fine. Let them all thing I was evil. They didn’t understand the weight of keeping grisha alive. Y/N would. She would understand me.

“That isn't hope. That's greed. You would use y/n against the rest of the world.” I didn’t give her any emotion. There was no way I was going to let her know that what she was saying confused me endlessly.

For years my mother had stood beside me and helped me protect the grisha. She remembered how we were hunted and treated so above all else she should understand the sacrifices that needed to be made for our kind. And here she was, standing against me as she talked about the world like it wasn’t full of people who wanted to erase us.

“You mean against our enemies? Without me, there’s just her. Standing alone She is all that matters now, not me. She is the future She is the one-”

“Yes, but where is she?” Now this, this I did not like.

She had taken Y/N from me. She had taken her and done something to make her leave. What had she done  to poison her against me or was it so easy that she had just told her who I was and she had run away, afraid of me? Y/N liked the old stories, the stories that were my memories but were her history. She smiled, as she recited the tales of the black heretic, looking at me and not knowing that the story she told was mine.

And now she knew and she was gone.

“Careful, you don’t really matter anymore either.And if you put her in harms way think about what I might do.” I turned, the anger was too much now but the hurt was there and surprising me with its ache.

She had chosen to leave. Chosen to go. Chosen that I was not good enough for her. She had made me her villain and if that was what she wanted, I would play my part.

“General Kirigan.” I stopped, freezing as Ivan held up her Kefta, stained in blood. My head turned to Baghra as her mouth fell open, hand coming up in shock as she saw it too. I took it, my hands feeling like they were trembling as I touched it, smearing it.

“It’s fresh. Send out troops to find her and make sure she isn’t harmed. I will head out in the morning. The King must not know about this.” I knew Ivan could be discreet, knew he was at least loyal.

As he rushed away I turned, holding the bloody kefta, eyes narrowing as I looked at Baghra now.

“This blood is on  your hands.” She didn’t know what to say to that, letting me turn walking back to my rooms, holding the kefta and hoping no harm had come to Y/N. Maybe she had been forced to go. Maybe I had been wrong to think she would leave so easily.

All I cared about was her safety

Your POV

The stairs were endless and where they led confused me more and more. I was exhausted, dried blood on my face as I finally pushed open a door, stumbling inside  and falling to the ground. Deep struggling breaths for what seemed like miles of climbing. My thighs and calves ached from the exercise. All that champagne instead of water not doing me any favors. I wiped at my face, cursing as I reopened the cut and watched my blood spill out on the floor to General Kirigan’s war room.

My foot kicked the door closed behind me and I laid on the ground for a second, trying to gather the strength to stand again.

The door to the room opened and I knew it was him. I could tell from the way he strode in, heavily stepped and confident that he was here.

My eyes closed as I sighed out, safe. I hoped.

“Aleksander.” I said  his name, pushing myself up. He was told me quicker than I expected, helping me stand as he looked at me. His eyes wide in surprise. He had thought I had left him, he thought I could leave him.

“Y/N. I thought that…you’re hurt.” he touched my cheek, my blood on his finger smearing it as he moved me towards his room, sitting me on his bed as he kneeled beside me, holding my hands in his.

“I know who you are, Aleksander. I know that you’re the Black Heretic. But what I don’t know is what you want from me and what I am  to you.” It felt silly to ask these questions to him. To ask this powerful man who I was to him.

I wanted him to say I was more than just one of his grisha. I wanted him to single me out and to feel special. But I was afraid that he was going to say that I was just a piece in his puzzle. The weapon he needed to make the fold do what he wanted. But I needed to know. I needed to know if I had made a mistake coming back here.

Aleksander stood up, walking away from me as he poured a glass of water, handing it to me as he looked at me, hand to his mouth as he thought.

“Let me call for a bath for you and for Genya to heal you. We can talk of-”

“No. Aleksander, please.” The tears were in my eyes as I begged him and he sighed, dropping to his knees in front of me, the emotions on his face so prominent that I dropped the water, neither of us caring.

“Y/N, you’re the future. You’re going to save the grisha. You can destroy the fold or we can use it to bring peace to a world that knows nothing but war. We can save so many lives. Grisha and not. And…and we can do it together. You and I as…equals.” I nodded my head, understanding what e was saying.

It wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I had wanted to-

“And…I’m afraid that I’m quite in love with you, Y/N and you have presented yourself to be my greatest weakness.” He looked so vulnerable then, so unsure of himself as he told me this and I knew it hurt him to be weak. But this was what I needed from him.

I slid down, landing more in his lap than on the floor, cupping his face, fingers over the beard as I pulled him to me, kissing him to seal my fate. I had come back to him and I was glad of it. His hands were wrapped around me, lifting us from where we kneeled by each other on the floor, pressing me into the bed as he covered his body with mine. His hand slid over my cheek, stopping as I flinched.

“We have talked. Now you must let me get Genya here to heal you, my little saint. Please, let me take care of you?” I nodded, allowing this as he got up, stopping as he turned, looking at me in his bed, “I’m going to love you for eternity, you do know that?”  he asked as I looked at him, tilting my head.

“And not a day less.” He was so beautiful when he smirked like that, when he allowed himself happiness. And I wanted to be that for him.

The Darlkling’s sunshine.

[theoperativeif]

The Governor’s War

Alfred Burdin stood on the empty observation deck of the ISFN Lilith, his fathers inherited battle cruiser, her interior resembled more of a pleasure liner then a hardened navy cruiser. But his father was a man of high taste. He ran his hand over the redwood table sitting next to the long front window, a fine meal still steaming on his plate.

He wasn't hungry, not yet, anyway. He stared out the windows, down on the burning city below, small sparks of light would shoot up as his soldiers fought below him. It was a strange feeling to be so close yet so far from the dance of life and death happening below his feet. 

"You should eat your food brother," Vance, his brother said from behind him, his voice a strange raspy sound that roused an unease in all that listened to him. 

Alfred turned, raising an eyebrow at his brother. He was a well-built man with cold dull blue eyes and a sharp mustache with a triangle goatee below his lip. He grinned, lightly bouncing the escort on his lap.

"I can't eat until our men have taken the town," Alfred growled, casting a disapproving look at his brother, "meanwhile, I see you aren't having a single bit of trouble distracting yourself."

"Aww, don't be like that Al, the finer the distraction the better you would feel too! Angel here was such a delight, took all my worries away!"

"I'm Lola," the girl said shyly, her raven black hair hiding half her face.

"Oh shit, oh that's right she was blonde, well lets not dwell on that, off you go, I think my younger brother has a scolding for me," Vance let out a long laugh before gently lifting the woman off his lap and dismissing her, "you know Al, I think if you relaxed and enjoyed some of the local offerings, you wouldn’t be so high strung."

"I'm married Vance," Alfred replied with a disapproving look, "besides, Mal will be here soon and will be helping out with our efforts," Alfred took a long breath, there was no use in delaying, "I've been told you burned down the Blair estate, with them in it."

"A fine roast," Vance cooed with a fake smile that his eyes betrayed, "you don't supply weapons to religious fanatics and get to stay on house arrest."

"I can't keep giving excuses to our supporters in the Admiralty of your conduct, that was a noble family with ties to very powerful people!" Alfred ran his hands through his hair while pacing back and forth, silently cursing the tightrope he had to walk.

"You don't have to worry, there are no witnesses to what happened, it was a misplaced artillery barrage from an allied militia."

 Alfred whirled on his brother, the smug look thrown back at him filling him with rage "what about the soldiers?"

"Dead," Vance replied calmly, taking a messy sip of red wine, the crimson dripping down his chin, "thats the upside to the kind of people I hire, they were rapers, the looters and the ones that just love killing, and when the deed is done I get to kill them and bury them in ash of the very house they just burned."

Vance began laughing; the lack of emotion in it always sent shivers down Alfred's spine, he needed his brother to win this private war, but he always wondered if one day his brother's bloodthirst would turn on him day. 

"Commander Burdin," a gruff voice spoke as a military supervisor walked in, giving a clumsy salute to the brothers, "our forces have secured the town center, several of the religious leaders were captured, Captain Jarris requests instructions on what to do with them."

Vance cast a cautious look at Albert who ignored him, staring at the supervisor before turning back to gaze down at the burning city. 

"Are any of them of the nobility or civic leadership?"

"No sir."

"Then there were no prisoners taken, unidentifiable casualties."

"Understood sir."

The supervisor left, leaving the two brothers in silence, they shared a knowing look. They would retake their father's planet, and no one would get in their way. 

[goblins-riddles-or-frocks]

Malina and Genya x David

Oh. Oh these are tough.

Malina

1) I did think the really doomed dynamic they had in R&R was pretty fun! I enjoyed that kind of chivalric devotion, commander/saint and soldier thing and the tragic undertones of it all.

2) The letters Mal wrote to Alina in S&B era that she never got are actually really sweet!

3) Um… I’m wracking my brain here rip… okay from a narrative perspective I do genuinely enjoy Alina upholding Mal as this like symbol of the life she wanted, and her old identity and never letting go of that. Personally I feel like that works best in a scenario where he stays fucking dead lmao but oh well

Genyadavid (Danya?)

1)…. I… like that it makes Genya happy? I guess?

2) Okay I did think they were pretty cute in the show, the actors had decent chemistry and the bit about him asking about her favorite gem was sweet

3)…. They could contrast each other in an interesting way. I tend to like complimentary ships and the dichotomy of her being so outgoing and like the social butterfly while he’s a very in his shell nerd is fun.

Send me a ship and I’ll list three things I like about it regardless of my overall opinion about the ship!

[mysg1spacemonkey]

Pls ignore my previous ask. The coffee hadn't worked yet. 🥱 Make Me Choose: Stargate Edition Janet Fraiser or Vala Mal Doran the Nox or the Asgards

I hear ya. My coffee hasn’t kicked in yet, either. Lol.

Janet or Vala… Janet all the way. Vala is a fun character, and I like her, but I love Janet. She’s smart and strong and spunky. For such a diminutive person she has a commanding presence. She’s an amazing doctor, a great soldier, and a loving mother. And depending on the day, in my mind she’s either Sam’s best friend or wife. *nods*

The Nox or the Asgard…. This one is surprisingly difficult. Part of me wants to say the Nox because they brought sg1 back to life after Apophis’ Jaffa killed them in season 1. If it wasn’t for the Nox, the show would have ended there. Lol. But I have to go with the Asgard. Sure, there were a few bad eggs, and they pretended to be people’s “gods” while protecting them, but the Asgard did more good than bad. They protected Earth, they helped in our petty political squabbles, and they provided us with technology that would have taken us centuries to come up with. We were able to do so much because of the Asgard and their help.

[marvelmusing]

The Three of Us

Part 3

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x Fem!Reader x Alina Starkov

Summary: You begin your journey North with Alina and General Kirigan, stopping first at the outpost in Chernast.

Warnings: canon level violence and injury to the reader.

My Masterlist

A wince flickers across your face as the carriage rocks from side to side, causing your shoulder to clash against Alina’s. There’s a small sting from the almost healed wound at your shoulder. Aleksander observes the wince from his position in the seat in front of you, but he doesn’t make a comment despite his concerns.

The three of you have been sitting together in the General’s carriage on your way to the First Army outpost at Chernast. It’s still early morning, so there’s been little conversation between you all. Alina has spent the majority of the time with her eyes still closed, trying to gain a few extra moments of rest. Your attention has been occupied by watching the scenery go by out the window. With both of you distracted, Aleksander has taken the opportunity to admire you both. Alina, peaceful and soft as she rests, and you, with the view of trees and hills reflected in your eyes.

Once you reach the outpost, a Grisha tent has already been set up, which Alina is escorted to by the Heartrender that seems to always accompany the General - you think his name was Ivan. Which leaves you with the General. The two of you walk through the camp together, heading towards the Kaptain’s tent. As your old commander, the Kaptain needs to be informed of your trip North with General Kirigan. You know that the General will be taking you no matter what, seeking the Kaptain’s permission is merely a formality.

The General gives you a small nod as he steps into the tent, and you stand waiting outside. The outpost is as busy as it was when you left it, with First Army soldiers going about their day. There’s a huddle of soldiers lounging nearby, you recall them exchanging scornful looks as you and the General walked by them. From where you’re standing you can hear them as they swap stories about the General. That the infamous Darkling stole the souls of his followers - because you would have to be truly soulless to follow him willingly.

You sigh when you recognise one of the voices. Mal. You and Mal have never gotten along. When you were younger, Alina had admitted that she thought Mal was in love with you. She thought that was why he became a tracker - to spend more time with you. You were not impressed to say the least. Not only because you were already in love with Alina, but Mal seemed to think arguing with you was the best way to attract you. At some point he must have realised that you weren’t interested, and from then onwards he had increased his attempts to annoy you at every opportunity.

You try to ignore the comments they all make about the Grisha you had arrived with, though you can’t help but bristle when they make remarks about Alina and the General. It’s only when you hear Mal mention your name that you begin to listen properly.

“I bet tracking isn’t the only service she’s been offering them. Grisha have poor taste apparently.” The boys around him snicker, and your skin crawls, causing you to snap at them,

“You’re talking about two living Saints, have a little respect.” You try to ignore the flare of embarrassment that burns in your chest at his insinuation. He laughs, his lips twisting into a sneer,

“Saints? A Darkling and a little orphan from Keramzin?” One of the boys grins, slapping Mal on the back before joking,

“If they’re Saints, Mal here must be a volcra.” You’re tempted to agree with the boy, but you don’t want to start anything. Not when the General is in the tent behind you.

“So when’s the wedding?” Mal asks you, and you frown at him,

“What?”

“Alina and the General. It’s nice that they’ve kept you around, I suppose that rumour about otkazat’sya pets is true.” You turn to face him fully,

“The hell did you just say?” He stands up, broad shoulders towering over you.

“You heard me.” You raise your chin in defiance, as you sneer,

“Get out of my way.”

“Why don’t you make me? Show everyone you’ve got more value than just spreading your-” You cut him off mid-sentence with a punch to the face. But it doesn’t stop there. First Army brawls only end when someone loses consciousness, or when a superior breaks it up. You pin him down, throwing another punch to his face. His knee juts out, hitting your stomach, which allows him a chance to scramble away from you. The two of you are on your feet instantly, eyeing each other with fists raised. People begin to gather around, clamouring for a fight. He smirks,

“Ready to back down?”

“You wish.”

Aleksander’s talk with the Kaptain is tedious. It’s clear that the man doesn’t value Grisha as much as his own soldiers, which tries at Aleksander’s temper. He also seems rather unwilling to surrender his best tracker, and is eager to know when you will be returning. Aleksander doesn’t tell the Kaptain that he hopes you will never return to the First Army, that once you’ve found the Stag, you will stay at the Little Palace with him and Alina. In the past few days, he’s thought about the future in a much more positive light. Part of him insists that it’s the proximacy to the Stag after centuries of searching, though deep down he’s certain that it’s because of you. Mainly because you now feature in all his thoughts of the future. Once he tells you about the Sea Whip, he knows you’ll become as obsessed as he is, and in his heart he knows that you will be the one to find it. After that, the Firebird. Then Alina will truly be his equal, and the Fold will be theirs to command as they please. In the meantime, Aleksander has to deal with more meetings. The only thing that keeps him going is the fact that you’ll be waiting outside for him.

The bright Winter sky greets him as he steps out of the tent. At the sound of a commotion, the Kaptain stands at his side. Aleksander looks over as a group of First Army soldiers gather around what appears to be a fight. He raises a brow at the Kaptain. Fights between Grisha could turn dangerous very quickly, so he made a habit of breaking fights as soon as they started. First Army officers tend to leave the fight going for a while, allowing the troops to release some tension. The Kaptain gives a weary shrug, running a hand over his face. He moves towards the group and Aleksander follows at a distance. He’s searching the crowd for you. He stills when he hears your name as a few soldiers exchange bets on the fight. Surely not? Moving closer to the crowd as it begins to disperse, he catches a sight of the two fighters.

“Oretsev!” The Kaptain shouts as a boy kicks his opponent in the stomach from their position on the floor. What he doesn’t expect is for his opponent to shove their weight against his kick, toppling him over and landing several hits to his face. Two pairs of soldiers grab at the fighters pulling them apart. The boy, Oretsev, throws a handful of curses, and his opponent spits blood at him with a snarl. It’s you. Aleksander stands still, watching as one of the soldiers stands in front of you, trying to talk you out of struggling against their hold.

“Oretsev, report to field medics now. Once you’re clear you’re on sewage digging.” A wicked grin of satisfaction pulls at your lips. Though your smile fades when the Kaptain calls your name, “You’re no longer my responsibility. General Kirigan will deal with you.” You freeze, suddenly aware of the General’s presence. With a sudden flare of embarrassment, you wonder how much of the fight he had seen. The Kaptain heads back into his tent, and the rest of the crowd disperses now their entertainment is over. Mal limps as he turns in the direction of the medics tent, though he can’t resist one last dig at you.

“Have fun on your leash.” A dark look fills your eyes, and Aleksander realises you might be more like him than he had originally thought.

Soon it’s just you and the General. A few passersby soldiers cast curious looks between you both. He doesn’t say a word as the two of you make your way through the camp. Once you’re in the General’s tent, the tears fall down your cheeks as you experience a mortifying mixture of fear, anger, and shame. He regards you with an expression you can’t decipher, but his voice is as soft as it was on the night you met him.

“Are you alright?” A startled laugh escapes your lips sharply, confusion colouring your features,

“I’ve just made a fool of you, in front of everyone, and you’re asking if I’m alright?” His lips press into a line, and you’re certain he’s about to berate you for your actions.

“Are you hurt? I know you won’t accept a Healer, but I have some supplies if you require them.” You stand in the centre of his tent as he pulls a first aid kit from one of his trunks, your tears drying in warmth of the wood burner beside you. He looks up at you, eyes scouring you for injuries.

“You’re not mad at me?”

“I do prefer my soldiers to stay out of trouble, though I’m certain there was a valid reason for this incident.” The only response you can manage is a quiet,

“There was.” You sit down at the table as he spreads out the supplies.

“Alina?”

“Am I really that obvious?” A small smile tugs at his lips as he shakes his head,

“Dependable perhaps, but certainly not obvious.”

You both turn as the tent curtain is pushed back, and Alina steps inside. Her eyes fall on you immediately. You attempt to hide your bruised knuckles, an action that is not necessary, as Alina can read what you’ve done on your face. The guilty expression and the bloodied lip are her main indicators. The General sits in the chair opposite you as Alina begins the process of patching you up.

“What happened?” She demands. You shrug lightly,

“It was a stupid mistake.”

“I wouldn’t consider defending Alina’s honour to be stupid.” The General argues. Alina’s eyes widen as she realises you are in this state because of her. She’s quiet for a moment as she cleans the blood from your split lip. Then she says softly,

“You don’t need to defend me.” You sigh, irritation flooding through you as you remember their words.

“Yes I did Alina. You didn’t hear what they were saying about you both.” Aleksander freezes. He had caught some of the comments that the soldiers had been making about Alina earlier in the day, and he had subconsciously ignored the ones about him. He’d been dealing with insults, mocking, and suspicion for centuries.

You’ve always been eager to show the correct amount of respect to him, something Aleksander isn’t familiar with. It’s also obvious that you think your actions through thoroughly before you make a decision. So, either the comments had pushed you past reasoning, or you had fully intended on throwing that first punch. Aleksander’s not sure which option he’s most flattered by. But he does share Alina’s concern. He doesn’t want you to get hurt, an ironic realisation as you are about to head into enemy territory together.

“Was it Mal?” She asks, and you nod. “He’s only trying to get your attention.”

“Well, if he likes me that much he should just ask me out, instead of riling me up into punching him.” There’s a flicker of a smile on Alina’s face, but it drops as she ask in a small voice,

“What would you say, if he did ask you out?” Aleksander remains quiet, studying your response carefully. A smirk tugs at your lips.

“I’d tell him to go jump in the Sokol.” She laughs, and your smile widens. Aleksander watches the two of you, admiring the care in which Alina cleans up your wounds, and the tender expression in your eyes. Once Alina has finished, Aleksander stands up. For a moment, you fear he may be about to reprimand you for today. But he simply looks at you both before saying,

“Get some rest. We leave for Fjerda tomorrow morning.”

The Three of Us Tag List: @joossieisdabomb

[prince-septimus]

return of a prince

pairing : nikolai lantsov x heartrender!reader

summary : the return of the youngest son of the king leads to the return of some old feelings. 

word count : 1.3k

Your head snaps up as the doors open, your whole body tensing as you look straight forward. It hadn’t occurred to you how anxious you were, but now you can feel how on edge you are. You attempt to keep your expression stoic, but it becomes almost impossible when they enter the room.

You spot Vasily first, and it gives you half a second to gain your composure.

Their names are announced and your breath catches at the sight of the younger prince. 

It had been so long since you had seen him, and a part of you so badly wanted to run to him and catch up on everything he had missed. You wanted to fall into his arms and become those two sly 14 year olds who had nothing better to do than terrorize everyone in the palace. 

Instead, you stand your ground next to the King’s throne. Your crimson kefta making you stand out among the white and gold clothed servants. You don’t miss Nikolai’s eyes roaming over you, but he’s quick to look away, turning his attention towards his parents. 

You force yourself to tune out of the reunion of the Lantsov family, instead focusing on the Sun Summoner. 

You had almost missed her in all the commotion of Nikolai returning, but there she is, and standing with her is the boy who had risked it all for her. You had heard of Mal Oretsev, but didn’t know much about him. From the way he stood next to Alina, though, you could tell they meant a lot to each other.

When Nikolai leads his father and mother out of the throne room, Vasily carefully following behind, you’re left with the Summoner and the tracker. You can see them getting antsy, and you’re feeling much the same, but for an entirely different reason. 

Nikolai’s handsome features flutter into your mind for a moment, but you push them away. You will have your time.

When they return, there’s a difference in their composures. Nikolai, though, remains passive and seemingly at ease. You wonder what he has told them and make a note to ask him later, when you get to have your own reunion.

You calm your heart and try not to think about that.

The next few minutes go by quicker -- Alina is given the second army to command and Mal is dishonorably discharged, something that everyone except Alina seems to agree with. 

When it’s all over, Nikolai catches your eye. He gives you that signature smile that you realize hasn’t changed in all the years he’s been away. There’s a tilt of his head and you immediately understand.

Meet me after.

They exit the throne room and you’re left with the King and Queen. You turn to them, opening your mouth to speak, but the King gets there first.

“Go. Just this one time.”

The King wasn’t the worst ruler, but this was one of the few acts of kindness he had ever showed you. You tried not to let your shock show as you bowed, giving a small ‘thank you’.

The palace is bustling around you as you make your way through the halls, but as you get closer and closer to your destination, there’s less and less servants milling about. The ones who are pay no attention to you. 

You had been to this part of the palace several times since Nikolai left, but it felt strange to be back knowing that you would not be the only one occupying the space. 

The small hidden library remains dusty from no use, and no one bothering to keep it tidy. There are still books from your many ventures scattered across the tables, and Nikolai stands looking through one of them. He only looks up when the door shuts behind you. 

He’s turned the lamp on, leaving the room covered in a small glow that barely illuminates anything. You move to pull back the curtain on the window, revealing the sunlight and sending a cascade of dust flying up.

“We’ll have to get someone in here to clean up all this,” Nikolai motions around.

You smile. “Maybe I like it like this.”

Nikolai returns the smile, and it sends your heart scurrying. “Surely, you don’t.”

You don’t, but you aren’t going to tell him the truth -- that you hadn’t wanted to change anything about the room until he had returned. 

There was a small part of you that had toyed with the idea that he might not return, but you didn’t think of that now. 

Nikolai steps toward you, and you finally get a proper look at him after all these years. He’s handsome, something you had known would happen when he left. He still holds himself the way a soldier does, but he has the beauty of a prince and it startles you. His blond hair and hazel eyes, and nose that is just a bit more crooked than when he had left.

You can only imagine the things he had gotten himself into.

“I missed you,” you finally say softly. You want to reach for him, but don’t. Not yet.

“I missed you too. Far too much, I think.” 

Another step.

“They let you keep the red,” Nikolai notes. He’s close enough to touch you, and he does, reaching out to run his fingers over your kefta. “I would’ve thought they’d give you the white and gold.”

“Technically, I am still a servant,” you explain, “but this is my one privilege.” 

“I would’ve thought that my mother would use you as a tailor now that hers is gone.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to ignore the feelings brought up by his mentioning of Genya. “I never was good at being a tailor. The Queen claimed I made her look worse.”

Nikolai grins at that, his fingers falling from your kefta. “What do they have you doing then?”

“Protecting the monarch.”

Nikolai quirks a brow. “Does that mean you’re my protector now?”

“Isn’t that what I’ve been doing since we were children? Protecting and saving you from the worst when we got caught?”

Nikolai laughs, and it’s big and boisterous. All-too-familiar even though it had been years since you had last heard it. It makes you laugh too, the contagious feeling running through you. “Well, I can’t promise that won’t continue to be a part of your duties.”

Your laughter dies down, and you’re back to staring at the prince. The room is so quiet and still that it puts you on edge. “Where have you been? And don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t think I could lie to you if I wanted,” Nikolai chirps, smirking, but that falls away when he looks at your expression. “I became Sturmhond.”

“The pirate?”

“Privateer.” Nikolai takes in your reaction. “You’re not surprised.”

“Should I be?”

“Everyone else was.”

“I don’t know how I could be when I know you, Nikolai.” You grin. “I know the kinds of things you can get yourself into when left to your own devices. I’m just happy you’re back.”

Nikolai’s lips turn up, but this isn’t his signature shining smile. This is something softer, only reserved for you. “I’m happy to be back.”

You take the chance then, reaching for Nikolai and pulling him into your arms. You rest your chin on his shoulder and take in a deep breath. Nikolai’s arms slide around your waist, pulling you into him. There’s a comfort to this intimacy that you had missed, one that had never been able to be replaced. 

This close to his heart, you can feel it pounding beneath his skin. 

“Your heart is racing,” you comment. Carefully, you reach a hand up to his neck, your fingers pushing gently beneath the collar of his uniform. You don’t have to do this in order to use your ability, but you do anyway.

Nikolai makes no sound as your fingers caress the skin where his pulse lies. He can feel it slow under your touch, and he takes a deep breath when you move your hand away.

“Nikolai?”

“Yes?”

“I really did miss you.”

Nikolai squeezes his arms around you tighter, feeling the slow and steady beat of his heart in his chest. “Me too.”

[shadestepping]

The Bad Batch: Trespass -- Character Building

Some of you have been asking to know more about the Trespass crew, so I wanted to share some tidbits about their working relationships with the members of The Bad Batch!

This was from a post I made a while back but forgot to put read-mores on. I wanted to make it more dashboard-friendly before sharing again.

Mal Kryze

Mal and Hunter are both fiercely protective of their kid siblings, and she can relate to him being a stressed dad™ because she went through a lot of the same things with Trinn. She offers him a lot of advice on how to deal with Omega when she’s being difficult or when he’s just not understanding what she needs. They spar a lot, and have a lot of conversations about knives.

Mal adores Omega almost as much as she adores how much she looks up to her little sister. Trinn is not the best role model, but to Omega she is just so damn cool and she wants to be just like her. Omega asks for a braid in her hair, steals Hunter’s headbands and sunglasses, and finger-gun poses in front of the mirror when she thinks no one is looking. But Mal is always looking, so is Hunter.

Mal intimidates Wrecker in a way that amuses the hell out of him because even though she’s shorter and much, much smaller, she can still throw him like a ragdoll and he doesn’t understand how that’s even possible. Every time they see each other, his greeting is to charge and try to put her on her ass but he hasn’t succeeded in the two years since they've met.

Mal isn’t very social, but she loves animals. She has a very large Massiff named Dala, who takes an immediate liking to Clone Force 99.

She is absolute putty in Hunter’s hands, so gentle and sweet, she follows him around because he just exudes Alpha energy and he gives the best scratches. She has to always be touching him or she isn’t happy.

Echo gives the best cuddles- she can tell when his heart is aching and she will either put her paws over his shoulders, lay on his chest, or set her chin in his lap and wait for a hug. She helps get him through the long absences of Fives and Fae-Rao, and comforts him when he's having a bad trauma day.

Wrecker is her absolute favorite playmate- he takes her on walks and runs, they wrestle constantly. If she’s not sleeping on Echo at night, she’s snuggled up to Wrecker; he has one arm around Lula, and the other around Dala.

Tech is so aloof, she’s afraid someone is going to attack in the middle of his work. She’ll lay at his feet and keep watch, every once in a while he’ll reach down and stroke her ribs with a “Thank you Dala, good girl,” and it makes her incomprehensibly happy.

She immediately goes into mom mode around Omega. This tiny human is so precious to her, she protects her with her very life. No stranger gets within ten feet of her without a very serious warning snarl, but if Omega tells her it’s alright, she immediately backs off. She will only leave her side if Hunter or one of the boys is present to watch her.

Crosshair is her hunting partner- Mal has her very well trained to follow commands in Mando’a, which she teaches to Cross. If he’s on a mission with the Kryze sisters, Dala is at his command. If she’s not keeping an eye on his perch, she’s flushing out targets. She is the only one Crosshair will give compliments to, and he spoils her with treats and pets when she does a good job.

Trinn Kryze

Wrecker and Trinn are best buds who share all of two, maybe three brain cells between them and it’s to inflict as much targeted destruction as possible, laugh in the face of any and all danger, and make Crosshair feel like someone actually gives a damn about him. Omega often helps with the last one, and Crosshair cannot stand this. One of them was bad enough, but three…?? Gross.

Trinn has a very easygoing personality and is very good at shrugging off Crosshair’s harsh criticisms and throwing him off-guard. She flirts as easily as she breathes, calling him nicknames like sunshine and soldier-boy in an attempt to lift his constant brood. It makes him extremely uncomfortable, but she reminds him of Wrecker in so many ways (loyal as hell and would never leave him behind) and maker knows Crosshair needs more people like that in his life. Plus, she is teaching his dumbass brother the finer points of patience and volume control so he can’t really complain.

Trinn once out-shot Crosshair and he didn’t speak to her for a week until he won in a rematch. He went right back to being his snide, condescending self and never realized that she let him win. She keeps the true extent of her skill in her back pocket to preserve his ego, waiting for the right opportunity to remind him of it, but she doesn’t have to. He thinks about it constantly and secretly admires her for it.

Her self-deprecating sense of humor is an entirely new concept to Crosshair. He’s not used to people agreeing with or laughing off his insults, so when she defuses them he doesn’t usually have a comeback ready. The more often they work together, the more he gets the hang of the mean-but-friendly banter, and it lightens his moods. The idea that someone so exceptional would degrade themselves while still retaining their self-worth is amusing to him. He picks this up after a while, it becomes their secret code of affection to trash talk each other incessantly. The Batch thinks they’re insane and they’re right about that.

Doctor Noei Darr

Echo just fawns over Noei because she helped Fae-Rao save Fives’ life. She’s also just so nice, like- incredibly nice, and oh gosh just so pretty! He could listen to her talk for hours about her work even if he can’t understand the science of it. She taught him the basics of botany and now he keeps a few small plants in the Marauder, because nuturing something that can thrive in even the darkest conditions is therapeutic to him.

Noei offers to research how to get some of the augmentations out of his body and regrow the bone and organs damaged by them so he could feel more like his old self. Tech works with Reina to make a prosthetic for his scomp arm, they all just want to help him however they can.

As a Doctor, Noei is also well versed in Psychology and is used to playing therapist for the Trespass crew when asked. This used to be Tech’s role with the batch, but he was too good at disconnecting himself from his brothers’ emotions and often came off as condescending even if his intentions were genuine because he had all the answers but not the empathy. With Noei’s help, he realizes the importance of validating a person’s emotions when appropriate. This emotional growth helps him better diffuse tension among his brothers while still remaining the neutral party.

Commander Reina Darr

Tech and Noei have a lot to talk about scientifically, but he vibes more with Reina because they’re very tech-savvy and they’re an incredible pilot. Tech knows his way around the Maurader, but Reina behind the yoke of the Trespass is ballsy AF and they cut some of the most flawless, complicated maneuvers he’s ever seen, like it’s second nature. He’d fly co-pilot to them anytime.

The first time they met, they were making adjustments to their prosthetic legs and Tech didn’t balk in the slightest. They’ve always appreciated his pragmatism and effortless tact, and genuinely enjoy his company. Tech shares this sentiment.

Reina has a tendency to hyper-fixate on her work, so Noei gives them tactile reminders to stop what they’re doing periodically and take their meds / eat something / drink some water / go to bed / do anything to take care of themself- a series of taps on their shoulder, their forearm, their hand, their head, etc. works like an alarm but better. Tech notices Noei doing this for them and Reina’s response and starts giving them the same tactile reminders when they are unhealthily fixating. Reina does this for Tech as well. They help manage each other’s hyper-fixations.

Although their traumas are long past by the time they meet, Reina and Echo bond over their shared loss and become Physical Therapy buddies. When Reina loses their vision, Echo makes sure they still get their workouts in, so they don’t just sit around and mope.

Commander Fae-Rao Viszla

Echo knows Fae-Rao has eyes for Fives (and Fives for her) but he still refers to her as cyar’ika and mesh’la. Since they both adore him (and both are stubborn about coming right out and confessing to each other), Echo sneaks gentle platonic affection (hugs, smooches, hand-holding) whenever he can, hoping to incite his brother to stop being such a weenie about his feelings. Fae-Rao reciprocates because it makes him happy, and Fives eventually follows suit. Cuddle piles are frequent when these three are together (which is sadly, very rare). Everyone gets to feel loved.

Omega is absolutely SMITTEN with Fae-Rao, as she is the first Jedi she has ever truly been able to interact with. Hunter has to really struggle to keep her in-line and out of her hair so she's not constantly bombarding her with questions and requests to show her cool tricks, but Fae doesn't mind in the least. She patiently entertains her every whim and teaches her everything she wishes to know, including how to use her lightsaber.

For the most part, Fae-Rao has a very superficial relationship with the other members of Clone Force 99, mainly due to her role as Commander of the Night Watch- however, that doesn't stop her from understanding and appreciating each and every one of them. She works most frequently with Hunter to make requests for, or exchange intel. As commanders of their respective units, they share a mutual respect for each other and often commiserate over the difficulties of life in command.

Crosshair's transition into the Night Watch was rocky for most part, but being both Balosar and Jedi, Fae-Rao sensed his internal struggle the moment they met. Against the better judgment of most of her advisors, Fae entrusted his integration with Mal and Trinn, which provided him with the outlet he needed to fulfill his need for purpose, and eventually, reconciliation with his brothers.

And one small bit of quick scene-scripting because Echo, Fae-Rao, and Fives' whole relationship makes me soft.

When Echo meets Fae-Rao on Saleucami for the first time, he can tell his brother is more attached than he lets on. Behind the facade of loyalty to the one who went out of her way to save his life and clear his name, there’s devotion- and it looks good on him. Echo calls it with all the delicacy of a hammer on glass.

“I really like your girlfriend. She seems nice.” Fives sputters an off-guard wheeze and doubles over, arm still around his shoulder, and grips him in a headlock. “She’s not my-“ Echo lets out a boisterous, strangled laugh as he tries to escape. “If you don’t marry her, I will.” “An ugly di’kut like you? Please…” “We have the same face!” “I’m still better looking!” “Ah ha! So-” He prods again, Fives wrestles him to the ground, Echo whining about how it isn’t fair because he only has one good arm. Fae-Rao comes out to see what the ruckus is about. “You two… okay?” They freeze in alarm, caught in their shenanigans. Echo speaks first, just to get a rise out of Fives, and confesses as breathlessly as he can, “Maker, you are beautiful… has Fives ever told you that?” She blinks hard, then bursts out laughing. Fives gives him a good slap and pushes him away as she bends down to help Echo up with her good arm. “Your brother is charming, Fives…” Echo blushes and his face lights up as she plants a soft kiss on his cheek, he flashes a beaming grin over at Fives. “Y’hear that…? CHARMING.” Fives smirks back and rolls his eyes to hide his jealousy as he pushes himself up out of the dirt. Echo leaves when Tech calls for Echo’s help in the Marauder but halfway there he turns and trots backward, triumphantly mouthing the words I’M CHARMING!! before he disappears into the ship. Fives chuckles and crosses his arms. “I think you just made his day.” She smiles warmly. “I can see why you love him so much- your heart swells in his presence, he brings out the child in you.”

Before they part ways, Echo makes sure to embarrass the hell out of him again (like any true brother would) before they say goodbye. Fives expresses that he hopes that they’ll see each other again, Echo laughs lightheartedly in response as he hangs out the hovering ship’s ramp and replies, “Well we’re gonna have to! How else am I gonna steal your girl?” Snorting, snickering, and laughing erupt from inside the Marauder at the way he shamelessly belts it out for everyone to hear. Fae-Rao blushes, hides her face in her hands, and shakes her head with a smile. Fives swears he is going to die of embarrassment, but instead he grins. This is how he wants to remember him.

[caprica99]

Shadow and Bone

Rewatching the first two episodes of the series made me realize what I hate the most about Alina and Mal: they don't act like young soldiers grown up in a war-torn country having to take on responsibilities early. Instead, they act like modern teenagers tossed into a time of war.

Let's start by calling the Grisha show-offs when they know that their training is important to cross the Fold successfully.

When Mal gets assigned to the sand skiff, Alina wants him to talk with his commanding officer about it, while in the military you get orders and you carry out orders, even if you're let's say 18 years old.

Then Alina goes and destroys important maps so she can go with Mal, which is wrong on so many levels:

1. Those maps were important, especially in war.

2. The problem with her codependency with Mal never gets addressed, she doesn't feel guilty.

3. There is no way she didn't know that her whole team would be assigned, this is the military, they have protocols for everything, and it would be pure idiocy to think that they would send only one cartographer (assistant cartographer mind you) to replace entire maps.

On the sand skiff, Mal simply demands to speak with General Kirigan. A simple soldier just cannot demand to speak with a general.

And when Alina is escorted to the general's coach she refuses to get in even when she got clear orders. She simply says no. Again in the military, you get orders and carry them out, it is no surprise Ivan doesn't like her.

I get it they are young but an army doesn't work like that, even if you are 16, 18, or 20 you do as you're told, otherwise it's insubordination.

(Bonus: the carriage scene is pure gold: Alina speaking from her high horse, Ivan putting her in her place, Ivan I love you.)

[greensaplinggrace]

What Is There To Celebrate About the Darkling? (Part 4)

1 2 3 4

He’s calculating but impulsive. Gentle yet firm. Stubborn and adaptive. Just a real mess of contradictions that makes him all the more interesting.

He loves nature. He loves the forest.

Fond of luxuries and nice things. After growing up as he did, I think he deserves them.

Very socially awkward. Introvert just trying his best. Anything that isn’t manipulation and therefore something he’s planned in his head is just a social train wreck waiting to happen.

The way he pushes up Alina’s sleeve when they first meet. This man had zero compunctions about acting completely unprofessionally in front of his soldiers and I think that’s very sexy of him.

He’s constantly tired and exasperated with the people around him.

The way he says “quiet” with the softest voice imaginable and a room full of laughter instantly goes silent.

He had no interest in Elizaveta even though she was utterly obsessed with him and I think that’s hilarious.

Elizaveta: I have a plan to resurrect the Darkling Everybody Else: Oh the Darkling is so evil for trying to come back! The Darkling, who just wants a nap and is sick of this mortal bullshit: Why am I even here? This is such a pain in the ass. I should have killed Elizaveta when I had the chance.

How he asks if Alina “will have” his name like a man proposing.

Has his bedroom attached to the war room.

Constantly checking up on Alina just to know how she’s doing. Never pushing her beyond her limits as she’s training.

Very creative with his shadows and the extent of their abilities. So many of the ways he uses his powers are genius.

His ending in RoW is a tragedy and an injustice. He deserves better.

This old man pouting at Alina in episode seven as he says “please, I just want to talk to you 🥺”

There is a black kefta made for Alina after like two days in the Little Palace. He really was already planning their entire immortal futures together as Mr. and Mrs. Starkov wasn’t he?

His bed is covered in maps and notes when he’s plotting how to find Alina. Also before that, the way he’s poring over the notes at his desk and giving orders is 👌🥵

Him acting like a real General at all is simply amazing.

The fact that he trusts Luda with his life. That they have a whole intimidation routine set up around him purposefully getting himself fatally injured knowing she’ll heal him.

He looks like a vampire in the show and a fae in the books.

His favorite ABBA song is probably “Lay All Your Love On Me.”

Looks composed but that’s only a façade. Is actually an unhinged feral terror of pain and misery.

That scene where he tells the king she will remain in the Little Palace to train undisturbed and he puts his foot down. ON THE RED CARPET. the king’s carpet. and uses a commanding voice that’s just on the edge of an order…I’m surprised he didn’t get flogged for that. IMO nothing conveys the fine line he walks with those in power while wielding his own like this scene. Literally he should just be celebrated for this alone.

“‘Why won’t you leave me alone?’ I whispered one night as he hovered behind me while I tried to work at my desk. Long minutes passed. I didn’t think he would answer. I even had time to hope he might have gone, until I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Then I’d be alone, too,” he said, and he stayed the whole night through, till the lamps burned down to nothing.

Trapped a bunch of Saints in the Shadow Fold like a true amoral disaster villain. What an icon.

His barely concealed amusement and half hidden smile when Alina comes to put his kefta on. The way he finds Alina utterly hilarious and tries so hard to act like he doesn’t.

That small amused smile when Alina jokes about finding Volcra hilarious. Please he’s so adorable 😭

“‘I know what you feel when you’re with the tracker,’ he said. ‘I doubt that’ He gave a dismissive wave.” - My Malarklina obsessed self, vibrating at the edge of my seat: but what does it mean?!?

Mal and the Darkling’s entire fight in the Fold: dumbass on dumbass violence.

The way he stands with his back turned to Alina when she enters his tent the first time they meet and then does the slowest Godfather turn in history. 1999/10 - points removed for a criminal lack of cat petting.

“I may lead the second army, but the king is still the king.” - the delivery of that line. the implications, the history behind it and also the foreshadowing for his plans.

That slow turn face reveal in episode one though. Like okay we get it you’re pretty alkjsdflkj

Confused Old Man Face™ whenever Mal or Alina do anything remotely defiant in his presence.

How he tells Alina to come closer and she only takes the tiniest step and he doesn’t even react.

His little head cock whenever someone says or does something that just doesn’t vibe with him.

Darklina tumblr has now convinced me that the Darkling is a cat in human form.

“You’re an amplifier,” she said. He glanced at where Sylvi was pouncing on another helpless tree, oblivious, and gave a single, frightened nod. How could he have been so stupid? He would have to tell his mother now, and she would insist that they leave right away. If word got out, they’d both be in danger. Amplifiers were rare, hard to find, harder to hunt. Their lives would be forfeit. Even if they got away, word would spread. He could already hear his mother’s voice: Foolish, careless, callous. If you don’t value your own life, show some concern for mine. Annika touched his sleeve. “It’s okay,” she said. “I won’t tell.” Panic crowded in. He shook his head. She slid her hand into his. It was hard not to pull away. He should. He was breaking his mother’s fundamental rule for keeping them both alive. Never let them touch you, she’d warned him. - 😥 I just want to give him a hug all the time.

His strangled shout when Mal tackles him off of the skiff.

His smile when he’s summoning the sun. The expression on his face when he does so. Like I know I’ve mentioned this before but damn. If you ever needed a reason to celebrate him, this would be it.

“Shame, I’ll have to give that speech again now.”

The way he flips Mal over his shoulder in the Fold after Mal attempts to strangle him.

His little lecture on the Small Science to Alina when they’re going to meet the King. Info dump.

“You make it sound so easy.” “A bird makes flight look easy. But it was born to do so.”

When Alina looks at him for guidance on whether or not to remove her veil and he gives her a small nod.

The handhold in the throne room after Alina’s demonstration is absolutely precious, but it’s in a room full of people he should be keeping up a façade for and it’s so unwarranted and yet he does it anyway, I’m-

The way he says “welcome home, Ms. Starkov,” in the most tender voice I’ve ever heard and then goes “ok that’s enough emotions for one day” and then just straight up leaves without even a goodbye.

He has his symbol?? Sewn into Alina’s kefta??? bRo???!?!

Disaster Simp never gets tired of introducing Alina to other people or talking about how she’s the best thing that ever walked this earth.

The Darkling lying: honestly

“I have devoted my life to undoing the great sin of my forebearer, but I am never seen as the solution. Only as a reminder of the problem.” Sasha you were literally the problem. What a manipulative little shit. We love to see it.

The way he closes his eyes and kisses the coin before he makes a wish at the wishing well.

“I think the Grand Palace is the ugliest building I’ve ever seen.” - I love him your honor.

This man has the most intense lines for Alina. Like straight up I would have booked it when he said “you and I are going to change the world”. But then the head grab?! “I’ve been waiting a long time for you.” He’s so intense like sir can you tone it down a bit please I am begging you.

“I shall be right by your side.” / “We can do anything. Together.” / “For us.” / “You cannot do this on your own. And neither can I” / “I want you to know my name. The name I was given, not the title I took for myself. Will you have it, Alina?” - WEDDING VOWS

That scene in the war room when Alina comes to find him and he instantly drops his guard and lowers his arms and welcomes her with a soft voice.

“Am I bothering you?” “Not at all.” - girl you could be stabbing him in the chest and you still wouldn’t be bothering him.

This whipped disaster sounds like the proudest man on the planet when he talks about how much more his enemies fear Alina over him.

His shadows react to his emotions.

“YoUr’E nOt IvAn.” asjlkdfjs god he’s so embarrassing.

Local Dark Lord Sasha offering Alina the throne after she literally tries to kill him.

He gets so jealous of Mal.

Has a great relationship with his soldiers and his men. His men trust him implicitly and believe him to be an amazing general.

When he turns around after Alina puts the kefta on him and looks flustered/has to take a breath because she’s a lot closer than he expected. The way he’s breathless and literally can’t string a sentence together because he’s so distracted by her closeness.

His jokes are absolutely terrible.

GF: *jokes about throwing herself down the stairs to get out of an event* Sasha “no thoughts head empty only Alina” Morozova: haha I’d just have my healers heal you right back up again.

How genuinely touched he is by Alina admitting to wanting to help Grisha and Ravkans.

That scene in Demon in the Woods when he notices the intricate details of the politics in the Grisha camp after one meeting with the Elders. He has the Ulle pegged almost instantly.

Born to be a leader. Born to take care of others. Born to protect. Even in Demon in the Woods he’s protecting people. Even in Demon in the Woods he’s leading them and caring for them.

The way he cups his hands around Alina’s face when they’re kissing.

This man gets so starstruck by Alina walking into the Fete that he doesn’t even excuse himself from the King’s side to go to her.

Long haired Aleksander rights!

Ok I know the wig was kind of ugly but he looks pretty with long hair and I think it would look very good on him naturally.

The way he slams his hands together in the Winter Fete scene and instantly turns the room pitch black.

Literally any times he summons shadows is a blessing and we should all celebrate him for it. They are so beautiful. On god if I ever saw his shadows in real life I would be awestruck.

He asks Mal if he’s okay when they first meet.

The pure, barely contained fury directed at the Conductor for daring to harm Alina and kidnap his Grisha.

He always has to make a grand entrance.

This man is like a bloodhound when it comes to Nina. He is very invested in finding her and I feel like that’s never really talked about.

“I know exactly how she felt. The King’s soldiers treated me the same way. Because they knew- they knew that I was more important than any of them.” - the way he says it, like it’s something he has to remind himself of in his head constantly. a justification for the way he’s been treated, the fear he evokes in others. a way to protect himself from the hurt of being ostracized and reviled. arrogance and conceit as a defense against emotional harm.

Also the way his face instantly changes after that, like he’s said too much. vulnerability. lowering his eyes. shifting his eyes. literally just everything about this scene makes me love him all the more.

Dark carriage rides up to the Crows’ hiding place. Grisha circle the area as Aleksander steps from the carriage slowly, dressed all in black, floofy cloak high on his shoulders. Villain Entrance™

Him slowly pulling a knife out of his chest like it shouldn’t have killed him is hot as fuck and also totally badass. Big dick energy.

“I’ve had enough of your lies.” “And what lies are those?” - Alina, pulling out a fifty mile long scroll of grievances: Well, for starters-

This man is literally just an Alina Starkov compliments machine.

He cares so much about the Grisha and their protection. He loves Ravka and his people so much.

He had an entire cult dedicated to him.

“They would approach him. They always did. But he felt more anxious than usual. He’d stopped trying to make friends in the places he and his mother visited—there was no point when they moved on so quickly. Now he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it.”

Save a Villain. Murder the King.

Openly admits to staging a coup like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He speaks so slowly. He moves so slowly. Everything he does has to have Purpose and Gravitas.

Theater Nerd™

He knew Nikolai for years and yet couldn’t recognize him as Sturmhond. We do stan an oblivious icon 💕

The Darkling after he gets his ass whooped in Siege and Storm: Mom can you please come pick me up? I’m scared!

He’s here to manipulate sun summoners and murder cities. And unfortunately he’s all out of sun summoners.

Would absolutely get drunk on real alcohol. This man thinks kvas is strong liquor.

Has his wrists exposed exactly one time in the most skin he’s shown all season and it’s when Alina visits him at night in the war room. WHORE!

Was too emotionally slutty and fell for Alina. RIP.

He’s passionate and cold and beautiful and hurt and twisted up in ways nobody could ever hope to understand and he’s stunning.

I would literally kill for this man 🖤✨

[where-theres-smoak-2]

Don’t know if you’ve seen this conversation between LB and the author of All the Boys I’ve loved before books and there Leigh pretty much says that the most important thing for her was seeing Mal’s journey(now that they were outside of Alina’s head)and what it meant to be expandable: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=4vwah4HO8us

She really thought that makes their relationship stronger somehow.Frankly I would rather they have kept his abusive personality instead of whitewashing him because people are now blaming Alina for being a bad friend and that book!Mal was actually like show!Mal Alina just couldn’t see his man pain.🙄😡

We knew Bardugo only cares about Mal but can she try and not be so transparent about it? It’s embarrassing and it’s making me hate the ship even more. I despise it when writers keep trying to shove a couple in my face without showing WHY they’re meant to be together and even worse the couple afecta negatively the characters especially if we have a main female protagonist.

I didn't watch all of it but I did watch the part where she talks about M*l and him being expendable. In one way I get what she is saying in that in the books you don't really see what Mal is doing or what is going on with him whilst Alina is at the LP so it is interesting to see M*l's journey on screen as oppose to just being told about it when Alina reunites with him, if that makes sense. I do think seeing what he went through added to his character and I had a genuine emotional reaction to seeing him lose his friends, I think that was helped by the fact that I loved Mikhael and Dubrov in the show (in the books they were trash). But when I was watching his scenes I did not get the idea that he was just an expendable grunt. I mean he volunteers for one thing, he's not just sent by an unfeeling general who doesn't care if he lives or dies, he chooses to go. I got expendable from the grisha and the first army as a whole. Like when that commander was talking about how his superior considered grisha lives more valuable because they were able to make a difference in the war in a way otkazat'sya soldiers couldn't but how as modern technology got more advanced and the grisha less effective they became more expendable. Expendability in the shadow and bone world is measured by how useful you are to the king. But M*l was a valued tracker in the first army he was probably a lot less expendable than many of the other characters.

I will say that I kind of get where you are coming from with them making M*l such a nice guy compared to the books that for some people it makes Alina look like she didn't care enough about M*l and his pain. I didn't like how they played the scene where Alina erases her scar because by playing it next to M*l and his friends getting shot it put Alina in a bad light like, look M*l is in pain trying to do something for her but she is just giving up on him. But that scene should have been an empowering moment for Alina where she is breaking free from something that was weighing her down and holding her back, instead they made it about M*l.

As for LB trying to show why M*lina should be together I actually find that kind of laughable to me because all through her books I kept waiting for the moment M*lina figured out that they don't work together. I mean book two in particular shows very clearly that these two characters are not good for each other and they wouldn't make each other happy. LB keeps trying to push this idea that they are both content and happy in love together in their cottage core life but if you have to have one character give up who they are in order for them to have 'happiness' then I am sorry but that is a unhealthy relationship. It's part of the reason why I find mortal/immortal romances so sad because either one has to watch the other grow old and die without them or to get their 'happy ever after' one has to change who they are, the mortal has to become immortal and give up their family, or the immortal has to give up their immortality which has because an integral part of themselves and is also often times tied to a magical power that they have. It's always about sacrifice with those kind of relationships and I don't understand how a person can be truly happy if they have to give up something that is such an integral part of them. One of the things that I found so upsetting about Alina losing her powers was how LB tried to play it off like Alina was happy without them. Of course she couldn't be happy without them they made her who she was.

[cheekygreenty]

Little Witch - Part 22

The Darkling x Reader

'The General is busy' Ivan stood blocking the door, not letting you through. His red silk kefta stood out like a warning sign in the dead of the hallway and his face a stony expression but you didn't miss the slight tinge of a condescending grimace.

'Ivan move away from the door.'

'The General wished to not be disturbed.'

'Ivan I could eat you for breakfast. Now move for your Deputy.' Whether it was your assertion of dominance, the copious amounts of alcohol in your system, or the firey shadows erupting from your hand, Ivan moved away from the door, defeated. You were done playing nice and done playing the diplomat. You were taking the evening off.

The doors were pushed wide open with a mere flick of your fingers, quickly meeting Aleksander's gaze already set on you. No doubt there was no need for such a dramatic entrance, but as you said, you were taking the evening off, Deputy Y/L/N has retired for the night. Y/N is here to play now and she doesn't fight fair.

There was someone right in front of him, a dirty and ragged First-Army soldier. If it weren't for the soldier's slight bow of the head in your direction, you would've guessed you walked in on a pissing contest.

'Hello Soldier'

'Deputy Y/L/N'

'You know who I am'

'Of course'

You smiled and looked at Aleksander, inspecting his face for any sign of emotion but all you were met with was a clenched jaw. 'The Stag?' A map of Ravka lay open next to him on the table but there was no indication on it of a precise location.

'Mr.Oretsev is bargaining. He won't give up the location if not for a meeting with our Sun-Summoner.' Oretsev. As in Mal Oretsev, Alina's tracker?

'And have you started to vet him? Cause from what I can see you're just standing here.'

His hands balled into fists at his side and he quickly moved past the tracker to you, grabbing your elbow tightly and dragging you out of the room and into the adjacent drawing-room. You shrugged him off just as roughly and shut the doors.

'Is this how you treat your second in command?' You brushed off your kefta, adjusting the sleeves.

'I'm getting really tired of you trying to show me up'

'Well I'm sorry I'm naturally more intimidating than you.'

Y/N and Aleksander were completely different from Deputy Y/L/N and General Kirigan. For as long as you could remember, you both kept work and life separate but now things somehow changed. The dynamics were shifting in nobody's favor. You unknowingly kept prodding for dominance which never happened before. Years ago, you were happy to listen to Aleksander, to do as he said, to go to sleep cuddled into his side having forgotten the workday, to put aside the orders he gave that didn't sit well with you. But now you craved to call the shots and he seemed to notice too.

'What do you want? I really do not have time for this.' He started pacing the room impatiently.

'Oh pray tell what is it that's so pressing? You can't get the location out of him without Alina finding out about the letters. Your lies are going to catch up with you' Didn't I tell you so.

'Can you not even pretend to be helpful?'

'No' You pursed your lips and crossed your arms.

'Have you spoken to the Queen?' He stopped pacing and waited for your answer, obviously eager to hear what the Tsaritsa had to say but despite the heartiness of the situation, you chose to stay quiet.

'No, I didn't.'

'Then do your job Deputy.' With that he swung open the door and walked out, the tension visible around him and palpitating as he strode out of view with Ivan trailing him. There it was, his small yet effective remark to remind you of your place. It was as if overnight he came to the conclusion that you were after his Grisha and was making it known you were just a Deputy and he was Aleksander Morozova, the Black Heretic and it angered you beyond reason.

*****

You found yourself right back next to Zoya with another drink in your hand. Although you felt it hitting you and relaxing all the muscles in your body, your mouth was glued shut when it came to spilling out all your problems for a shoulder to lean on.

'Zoya have you ever been proposed to?' You didn't know why you asked, but it slipped out. You could see her momentarily freeze but she covered it well with a flick of her ebony hair.

'All the time. Have you seen me? But it's always the poor and useless ones. The good ones don't want a weapon, they want a housewife'

'Wise words spoken by an even wiser woman'

'I accept credit where it's given' You both laughed and went back to meaningless conversation. Had you known when you arrived at the Little Palace that the sneering Squaler would become one of your closest friends and trusted soldiers, you would've laughed. She was still vexing and shrewd but behind all the remarks, you saw the true Zoya and you liked her.

She was very guarded, her walls built up so high from years in the Second-Army but sometimes her facade slipped. It would be the faintest look of sorrow on her face or a slight pause in her voice that would catch you off guard, slowly letting you piece together who Zoya really was. You had already come to a conclusion; she was the best damn soldier Ravka had ever seen and no doubt will amount to great things. Her fire burned bright and fervid and that's all it takes to be and do good.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see one of the Inferni twins following an oprichniki with a suspicious gaze. The alcohol might've been enough to dull your senses, but your job was still to protect the Palace and so you hastily excused yourself and followed the two from a distance. No doubt you caught the attention of many people as your gown trailed behind you and drew unnecessary attention. You looked ahead of the Inferni and studied the guard, noticing a limp. Now that you thought of it, you could've sworn the same guard had briefly conversed with a female guard too, one strikingly similar to the silks artist that dangled down next to the stairs. You shot a brief glance toward the staircase and sure enough, the silks were there but they were empty. Intruders.

You pursued the two men, noting their direction toward the chapel but another oprichniki suddenly blocked your way.

'Deputy, The General requests your presence right away.' The guard stood in front of you, the panic so vivid on his face it sobered you up substantially.

'What's the matter?' Your voice was short and annoyed as you watched the blue kefta disappear from your line of sight.

'We caught an intruder trying to escape after murdering Marie. The General thinks it is the conductor' At this you froze and your eyes widened twice their size. You suddenly felt a pang of guilt as Marie's name was mentioned. You were in charge of Marie and Alina, and if you had just done your job tonight instead of being in your head then maybe Marie would've been alive.

'And where was Genya Saffin?'

'She fought him off as much as she could but he fired at her'

'Saints' You were mad now. Not only was this man killing Grisha in their home, but he was the conductor. You had read Nina Zenik's reports about him, but knowing he somehow penetrated the walls of the Palace you had so tirelessly tried to fortify angered you beyond compare. The limping man, the silks artist, now this.

'Was he alone?'

'Seems so, Ivan and Zoya are interrogating him now, they wish for you to accompany them.'

'I'll be down momentarily, but for now come with me.' You nodded him to follow you as you hurried to the chapel not giving him a second to object. The noise of the party fizzled out, no foreign dignitary finding it appealing to pray to the Saints at this hour.

Your joined steps echoed through the golden halls and your heart rate picked up. This evening was turning sideways really quickly, maybe you shouldn't have had all those drinks. Maybe you should've told Aleksander about your predicament. Maybe you should have stayed with Marie instead. So many maybes.

You directed more guards your way as you walked, all of them silently obeying your command and not speaking. If you were right, the whole Palace was compromised and you would need reinforcements.

'You three head that way, I'll take this door.' You pointed down the hallway and turned into the door to your left. The chapel was silent and peaceful. The candles were all lit, begging to be witness to prayer, but the room itself screamed danger.

You listened for a heartbeat, felt the air for a body, but came up empty-handed. Still, you couldn't shake that strange creep of unease. Your feet took you behind the altar and between the pews, where with a gasp and a curse, you found the Inferni's body dead and surrounded in a puddle of his own blood. The gash in his head was obviously made with a knife, but the remnants of the blade were gone.

The rage flew through you like a ghost in a graveyard. A Grisha was murdered in a chapel. It felt like both a personal attack and an attack on all Grisha living in the Little Palace. The Inferni lying dead at your feet was killed in his home, murdered in the home of his Saints. You needed to find Aleksander and tell him. You needed to get the King and Queen out of here even though that would be the last thing you wanted to do.

But as soon as you found Aleksander in the courtyard facing Baghra, that unease turned into outright fear. Aleksander loved his mother, but the way he looked at her right now spoke the opposite of love. He always had doubts about her, always assumed she was scheming but she rarely ever acted. The fear pushed you to assume she definitely did something.

'What is it?' You were shivering, the bottom of your gown ruined now with dry leaves and dirt clinging to it as you made your way to the two. 'What have you done Baghra?' So much has already gone wrong.

She looked at you with a smirk, a smile that yelled in triumph 'I won' but uttered no words. You turned to Aleksander for an explanation. The shivering now chattering your teeth and turning your lips blue.

'Alina is gone, the tracker is dead'

All the air in your lungs vanished as your hands unknowingly went to wrap around the old woman's throat. 'You wretched old witch. How could you do this' Your words dripped in venom so vast it made you wince. She didn't respond to your assault in the slightest, just kept that condescending grin stuck on her lips.

You felt his hands grasping at your arms, roughly pulling you back from his mother and your chokehold. 'Y/N stop it' You didn't care about Alina too much, but purposely doing all of this to pull you and Aleksander off the rails was like a thorn in your side that never got pulled out in 98 years.

'Are you the one who killed the Inferni in the chapel too? Or the one who let intruders into my Palace? Huh? ANSWER ME' You pushed his arms away from you and ignored his questioning look. Baghra still said nothing, just shook her head as if in pity. 'Every time you leave that damn hut you cause nothing but trouble'

Taking a step back and then another, you forced yourself to walk to the dungeons to interrogate the conductor not caring if Aleksander followed you or not. If you didn't leave, you would've surely killed her.

-------

Part 23

Masterlist

Taglist (tell me if you want to be added to the Little Witch taglist!!)

@theonelittleone @searching-for-gallifrey @0-artemis @lostysworld @xceafh @fire-in-her-veinz @patdsinner33 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @wizardwheezes @aleksanderwh0r3 @tomhollandisabae @hotleaf-juice @justmesadgirl @exo-1204 @houseofdupree @oberonpascal @eireduchess @lunas1x1 @adoringb @grisha-of-shadow-bone @rosiethefairy @carlywhomever @allisjustok @keepdaydreamingbb @luciadiosa @toujurspure

[serpenteve]

🔥🎂 Leigh wanted actually make a war story more than a fantasy one, but I don't know how valuable this is since she fails on that too.

It's just hit me that a lot of Leigh's decisions make a lot more sense if your strip the world of its fantasy. Like the disparity between the First Army and the Second Army. It's just the army troops bearing the brunt of war in the trenches eating the bare minimum vs the much better off navy officers who eat good food and go out on the field sometimes, that good old rivalry. Mal's supposed arc where he's a rude, impulsive, toxic as fuck army brat to an actual honorable soldier??? Worthy of Alina I think??? At the very least it makes sense of the overbearing way he tries to make himself lesser than Alina and stays her subordinate.

That's another bit of it. In war stories, military hierarchy, discipline, and titles is important, since Leigh threw in royalty and nobles, exceedingly important. Mal's way of acting would make more sense if Alina actually acted as if she was in a position of power and had the discipline of the title? But she never really does. Alina disrespects her would be superiors a lot with no recourse only because they think it's cute.

It makes sense of what the Darkling is supposed to be. If you take away his fantastical elements and, subsequently, his trauma of oppression and noble ambitions... You get an older official that's pretty high in status wanting more power for the sake of it, taking advantage of young military recruits. Another rotten cog in the machine. Of course this completely different from the character we love but I think this is what Leigh sees and was trying to go for??

The obvious reason all this falls through though is that Leigh doesn't write them like they've been actually impacted by war? If that makes sense? They went through training. You would think they would of seen a glimpse of awful injuries and this would haunt them (and would understand that yeah, gruesome fates happen in this 100 year war). Alina would be used to rigid roles so she would notice how unusual the Darkling acts towards her or at the least there would be framing for the audience to note that it was unusual behavior.

I may be just reading too in depth but there are just so many different levels these books can be frustrating.

I definitely think she was more interested in the Muggle affairs than the magical system she created looking at the direction the later Gregverse books go in.

I haven't read a lot of military fiction but the kind of aloof approach that the Darkling takes to his subordinates and even Alina at some points does remind me of a higher ranking officer who doesn't fraternize with the lower ranks. The Grisha orders also seem to keep to themselves and there appears to be an ongoing snobbery war between the Corporalki and Etherealki orders. And no one cares about the Materialki 😂 Possibly Bardugo was trying to invoke the competition between Hogwarts Houses or something but I think it also works as a handy metaphor for competition within different army ranks.

I'm also not really clear on the chain of command here. After the Darkling, the next in command would be Ivan, presumably? But Ivan seems awfully young and I'm not even sure who would be reporting to him. People kind of just talk to whoever which struck me as weird, only because my very brief stint in a cadet program has it drilled in my head that you can only speak your direct superior and let them carry your request/concern/complaint/whatever up the chain of command. You can't just walk up to a random senior officer and start talking to them or they will literally shun you and you will die of embarrassment ☠️

[roguestarsailor]

my hot take on mal and why hes wonderful and why malina is the proper coupling (and im gonna shit on darkling/darklina for a bit)

*these might not be new thoughts but i want to express my love for mal and malina (and i just finished the books like a few hours ago so my brain is on fire) there was so much mal slander on the malina tags and i wanted to throw in my 2 cents!!*

- mal literally had nobody. this kid is a literal orphan! i love that he figured out what to fight for and kept his head in the game. i am a sucker for characters who needs to fight to get anywhere in life. he was gifted the tracking skill and befriending alina and thats it. characters like him have grit and a personality that makes them tough and fearless and i am always going to root for their happy endings

- this poor man has to face these super powerful beings without powers. its hella intimidating to be just regular while being surrounded by folks who can blast light, manipulate winds and waters and fabricate things from nothing. he worked with what he got and that was tracking and being physically fit to fight and i fucken applaud that!!!

- he never got in alina's way. i think whats tragic is that he internalized how much of a "low born"/"nobody" he was and saw that alina was destined for so much more and he made sure he was useful at all times. at the beginning of seige and storm, it felt like mal was hindering alina because she couldnt use her powers and that made her feel like complete shit (i wasn't team mal at that moment but what else were they suppose to do. darkling was worse tbh!!)

- he's just a kid. hes struggling! i was sad when it was confirmed that he and zoya were a thing for a bit (and has been with other girls) but thats just being a teen in a war torn society (and also hyping him up to be desirable for the audience)

- even his maturity is very much in line with him being a kid and trying to navigate being a soldier and then having to shifting his entire purpose to aligning with just alina. he was suppose to just be a soldier, and die honorably depending whos attacking who. but he rejected his training/soldier mindset and found alina because he knew she needed him! he could have died soooo many times, he lost friends but he had to roll with the punches the entire time. and again, this man got nothing going for him! just his love for alina!

- i dont think YA books appreciate the boys without power; those who aren't royalty and aren't born with wealth and poise. mal had to learn to survive at an early age and that includes learning to be likeable and social, being a skilled soldier, and tracker (but that was a gift). i love that alina also started out in a shitty position but she also learned her power and voice.

- mal lets alina be herself! I love female protagonists who are ambitious and want to stay in power but for alina, i like that she wants the ordinary things. she wants a normal life that isn't full of explosion, talk of war or politics or grand dresses. mal let her be goofy and let her be childlike-- see their banter, see their mischiefs growing up. darkling and nikolai needed her to be a summonor/weapon and a queen/leader. they demanded her to use her powers and be a face that decorated their arms; they demanded her to be this surreal being that hordes of people will follow. she has to be regal; has to be poised and laugh and smile on command; be an intimidating figure especially in this war torn country.

- mal wanted alina because she's his best friend! thats it! my favorite moment (and ended up being the sad moment) was in ruin and rising when there was a meteor shower and nikolai found alina first and them walking together arm-in-arm to go see it. mal, with a big smile on his face, was rushing to her to tell her about the shower but stopped short when he saw them together. in that paragraph, alina talked about how mal always ran to her when something that made him happy happens (ugh my sappy heart!!!)

- grishas are the marginalized group and face horrendous torture and systematic prejudges and ravka should have been a place they could feel safe. i like that darkling was fighting for them...but it falls apart when it seems he was hell bent on making sure alina fall in line. he could be that radical; thats fine but he was so obsessed with alina; he was manipulative !!

- i know we're suppose to sympathize with him because he grew up filled with hatred from his mom, grew up in a society that hates people like him and at its core, hes just a lonely boy where nobody understands him because hes soooo powerful and can live 5ever and only alina could understand him because her power measures up to him. but heres the thing, just learn to be a good person wtf??? also he had his mom???? he had someone???? also learn to make friends?? mal fucken did it and he got nobody. learn to build ships??? like nikolai who is an outcast in his own family. (im harsh to characters that live forever and refuse to budge from their original notion about the world. because u spent all that time being alive and not do a thing about that??)

- darkling just latched onto alina for her power. and he is demanding her to be his partner without understanding her and what she needs. he flirts w her, seduces her and plays her so he can be the ultimate powerful figure to lead ravka--so his goal stopped being saving grisha and demanding things from people. ugh how can anybody ship darkling and alina???

- at no point would it feel balanced if alina and darkling were a thing because alina will constantly play catch up. she will always feel like she has to be an adult and has to be this face for the people to follow. she could live with him forever and what?? learn to love him??? i guess??? doing what?? controlling ravka forever???

- anyways i love mal. i dont think hes boring. while browsing the tag for s&b and malina, it was just filled with mal slander! and this is my response to some of the hate. he's literally trying his goddamn best; he literally has no power and has to learn to defend himself the best he can. he is the type of character that has to fight for his survival, fight for his worth and fight for his love!!!! whats not to like???