( it had absolutely been done for her benefit. strange to think that he could ever find himself in a position where he almost welcomes the collar.
almost. )
What would you prefer?
( no endearments at all, obviously, but she's not getting away with that. for all her claims to the contrary, he doesn't think she wants him totally obedient. )
( rather than take offence, he's amused. for all that she has seemed so determined to distance herself from him and all that he represents, she's still styling herself in his image.
does she even realize?
but then he dips his head, decides to accept this like he has everything else she's set before him. if nothing else, humouring her will prove interesting. )
[ she doesn't relish his company. she moves quickly for the door, not touching him as she does but keeping her hands close to her sides. the white dress swishes behind her, long and draping and elegant in a way that alina is simply not. ]
[ she doesn't have a good answer. truth be told, she's terrified that she might. it is too easy to forget herself here. to forget the war and the fold and the nightmares that plagued her for months.
so instead she leads him from the house. the car she has called arrives for them -- just a taxi, but it saves them the walk. at least until they reach the edge of the festival area, where the streets are cordoned off and the city is packed with foot traffic milling from stand to stand.
alina gets out first. the minute she's on her feet she's glad she planned ahead with the car. hours of these shoes will be plenty, even without the hike from the house to the festival. she comes around to the other side of the car to let the darkling out, the way one might a child. ]
( it's adorable, really, how she's trying to exert her control. it's the sort of thing that he knows should annoy him, except that he's perfectly aware of what she's doing and why and so it's easier to swallow back anything but mild amusement. )
With you be holding my hand throughout the festivities, or will I have to earn that privilege?
Is that what you want, Aleksander? To hold my hand?
[ there's a sneer in her voice. the smug insinuation of doubt. it's so ... pedestrian. childish, even. she cannot imagine holding hands with him any more than she can imagine rutting on mal's boot like an animal.
what would he say if he saw her now, like this?
i barely recognize you. had he ever said that, or was it just his voice in her mind? no. she remembers. at the little palace. he's all over you. the humor drains out of her expression. the smugness evaporates. ]
Don't touch me. [ she makes that clear. an order he can't step around. she shuts the car door behind him and pats the roof to signal the driver to leave. then she turns to regard the swelling festival. already she feels sick. ]
I think you know better than to ask, moya soverenyi. ( the word rolls off his tongue, rich and dark and tasting of home.
unfolded from the car, he smooths his hands over the front of his suit. it's immaculate, of course. all sleek, perfect lines even if the color really does nothing for him. )
Shall we then? ( a nod toward the festivities. a smile that shades a little too close to a smirk pulling at his mouth. )
[ she sets a brisk pace into the festival. too quick to look casual, comfortable, and she realizes it when the first crowd of bodies bottlenecks on the path ahead of them and she has to slow down.
she looks like she's competing in a race, not enjoying an afternoon. alina draws a slow, steadying breath.
up ahead, music spills out of the central square. beneath it, the sound of a crackling fire. smoke fills the air. she glances over her shoulder to ensure she hasn't lost the darkling — not out of worry for him, but for what kind of trouble he might get up to.
but the bottleneck gives way, and they filter into the square, where people dance in unfamiliar but energetic steps in staggered congress near the roasting pig. a dance, a wrestling match, and an offering. she can make it through just three things. she draws her shoulders straighter and turns to him, offering her hand. she can't claim to have quite parsed all the steps, but failure is a part of joining in for festival dancing. you figure it out as you go. ]
( he'd been thinking about all the similarities between this and the winter fête. it wasn't the sort of thing he'd muse aloud — not with alina's temper already so frayed.
that doesn't mean his brow doesn't dip, briefly skeptical of the proffered hand. )
How long has it been since you danced like this? ( his voice is neutral, carefully so, as he finally takes her hand. )
If I told you that I danced like this with Nikolai Lantsov in West Ravka?
[ she draws him nearer, taking his other hand too so she can tug him into the first skip-like motion, turning into a side bend together as they find the rhythm. there are other movements, but her first order of business seems to be the footing and turning. ]
[ Nikolai wasn't the first person to use Alina to make himself look better, to try to advance his claim on Ravka. At least Nikolai's method didn't involve murder.
The dance involves a peppy step, a sort of near constant bounce that has Alina releasing one of the Darkling's hands to twirl around him like he was a kind of maypole. She draws her other hand back and picks up too-late on a series of claps, fumbling. Her brow furrows as she loses step. ]
I wouldn't conflate a lack of ability to collar you with a lack of desire to do so. Given the choice between you and his throne, which do you imagine he'd choose?
( simple, unweighted. in this, he and nikolai are perhaps not that different — what is different is that he had always intended to have them both. and what he wanted, he tended to get. )
The question you should be asking — [ the steps bring her in against him as she says this, and she bumps against his chest in her own clumsiness. it's a natural part of folk dance, the staggering. people around them laugh at their own mistakes. alina doesn't. she glowers at him, hesitating. ] — is how many innocent people he would kill to get either. And the answer is fewer than you.
( hands immediately lift to steady her. there's an awkward moment that verges on intimacy, which threatens to push memories of the beach ritual to the surface of his thoughts.
but this is not that kind of situation, even if her proximity makes his skin tingle with the desire to touch her everywhere. )
Leading is never wholly bloodless, Alina. No matter how pure your intentions.
There is a difference between accepting that fact and embracing the bloodshed.
[ she shoves him back from her. the dance has continued. the couple next to them is trying to move into their space as the whole group rotates, and alina pulls aleksander with her, trying to catch up. her steps are out of rhythm. too fast, too jerky, too angry.
the fire is hot, even with the air billowing under the loose shift of her dress, the light breeze rustling over the sweat of her bare back. ]
If all you wanted was to lead, do you really think I'd have stopped you?
( he'd considered it, actually. not immediately, because she had still been an unknown quantity, then, and he had been so close to his goal. close enough to taste it. but eventually, he had.
and then she'd run and whatever tenuous trust he'd had withered like fruit on the vine. there were no chances after that. )
( they settle into the rhythm of the dance. it's still clumsy at points, because he really hasn't danced anything like this in years but there's something about being close to her, being swallowed up by the music. )
[ sweat gathers in the hollows of her collar bones, pools against her lower back and soaks the silken fabric of her dress where it dips there. the dance is animated and lively, the music thudding and energetic. yet there's something melancholic about it.
we could have had this. even attempting to negotiate like civilized people. it was what she had gotten good at amongst the grisha of the little palace, even as she gave the lantsov family tight smiles and vapid agreement. it could have been the two of them grappling to terms. she would not have mourned for the king who violated genya if he were the only casualty. she wouldn't.
how many years had they missed that chance by? how many lives lost because time had made the darkling hard, had swallowed up aleksander and left only shadow and ink behind?
she tires out after some minutes, realizing there will be no break in the music. her feet are sore. she staggers past him, holding onto his arm so she can pull off the straps of her sandals and carry them in her free hand as they depart the courtyard that has turned to a dance hall. her breath still comes in uneven pants.
the evening is young, though, an cheers from the arena interrupt the music, competing. ]
Let me take those, ( it wouldn't do for a dominant ㅡ even one as stubborn as she is ㅡ to be seen carrying her own shoes.
he considers, briefly, offering to carry her instead. he imagines her reaction, the way her expression would twist and pinch, and refrains. he did promise to behave himself.
[ he acts so unbothered by all of this. alina knows it's an act and she still falls for it at times. she surveys him with something sharp in her eyes. he isn't made for subservience, yet he settles patiently into it.
fine. let him. she hands over her shoes. ]
You're taking to this well.
[ suspiciously so. she doesn't miss a beat, though, leading the way towards the arena. she should have known he would have an easier time of it than her. should have guessed. yet here they are. ]
I'm afraid it'll take more than a little nudity to shock me.
( this is an objective truth. he's old. he's seen things and done things ㅡ endured things ㅡ she can't possibly imagine.
saying that it's easy for him, though, is a mistake. so much of this place grates on him. anathema to everything he stands for. but he is patient, eventually he'll find the cracks in their system and he'll dig in his fingers until it bleeds. )
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almost. )
What would you prefer?
( no endearments at all, obviously, but she's not getting away with that. for all her claims to the contrary, he doesn't think she wants him totally obedient. )
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[ she arrives upon this after a moment of thought, lifting her chin stubbornly. ]
'Moya soverennyi.'
[ in case their discussion of tactics had given him any delusions as to whether she would treat him like an equal. ]
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( rather than take offence, he's amused. for all that she has seemed so determined to distance herself from him and all that he represents, she's still styling herself in his image.
does she even realize?
but then he dips his head, decides to accept this like he has everything else she's set before him. if nothing else, humouring her will prove interesting. )
Very well, moya soverennyi.
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[ she doesn't relish his company. she moves quickly for the door, not touching him as she does but keeping her hands close to her sides. the white dress swishes behind her, long and draping and elegant in a way that alina is simply not. ]
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saints. it must be deliberate, her choosing this particular dress. it must be. )
Are you so sure you won't enjoy it?
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so instead she leads him from the house. the car she has called arrives for them -- just a taxi, but it saves them the walk. at least until they reach the edge of the festival area, where the streets are cordoned off and the city is packed with foot traffic milling from stand to stand.
alina gets out first. the minute she's on her feet she's glad she planned ahead with the car. hours of these shoes will be plenty, even without the hike from the house to the festival. she comes around to the other side of the car to let the darkling out, the way one might a child. ]
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With you be holding my hand throughout the festivities, or will I have to earn that privilege?
( because he's certainly game if she is. )
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[ there's a sneer in her voice. the smug insinuation of doubt. it's so ... pedestrian. childish, even. she cannot imagine holding hands with him any more than she can imagine rutting on mal's boot like an animal.
what would he say if he saw her now, like this?
i barely recognize you. had he ever said that, or was it just his voice in her mind? no. she remembers. at the little palace. he's all over you. the humor drains out of her expression. the smugness evaporates. ]
Don't touch me. [ she makes that clear. an order he can't step around. she shuts the car door behind him and pats the roof to signal the driver to leave. then she turns to regard the swelling festival. already she feels sick. ]
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unfolded from the car, he smooths his hands over the front of his suit. it's immaculate, of course. all sleek, perfect lines even if the color really does nothing for him. )
Shall we then? ( a nod toward the festivities. a smile that shades a little too close to a smirk pulling at his mouth. )
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she looks like she's competing in a race, not enjoying an afternoon. alina draws a slow, steadying breath.
up ahead, music spills out of the central square. beneath it, the sound of a crackling fire. smoke fills the air. she glances over her shoulder to ensure she hasn't lost the darkling — not out of worry for him, but for what kind of trouble he might get up to.
but the bottleneck gives way, and they filter into the square, where people dance in unfamiliar but energetic steps in staggered congress near the roasting pig. a dance, a wrestling match, and an offering. she can make it through just three things. she draws her shoulders straighter and turns to him, offering her hand. she can't claim to have quite parsed all the steps, but failure is a part of joining in for festival dancing. you figure it out as you go. ]
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that doesn't mean his brow doesn't dip, briefly skeptical of the proffered hand. )
How long has it been since you danced like this? ( his voice is neutral, carefully so, as he finally takes her hand. )
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[ she draws him nearer, taking his other hand too so she can tug him into the first skip-like motion, turning into a side bend together as they find the rhythm. there are other movements, but her first order of business seems to be the footing and turning. ]
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It does seem like the sort of thing the little Lantsov would enjoy.
( the spectacle, at least. like the rest of his family, nikolai knows how to make a scene. )
Particularly with the Sun Summoner on his arm.
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[ Nikolai wasn't the first person to use Alina to make himself look better, to try to advance his claim on Ravka. At least Nikolai's method didn't involve murder.
The dance involves a peppy step, a sort of near constant bounce that has Alina releasing one of the Darkling's hands to twirl around him like he was a kind of maypole. She draws her other hand back and picks up too-late on a series of claps, fumbling. Her brow furrows as she loses step. ]
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( simple, unweighted. in this, he and nikolai are perhaps not that different — what is different is that he had always intended to have them both. and what he wanted, he tended to get. )
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but this is not that kind of situation, even if her proximity makes his skin tingle with the desire to touch her everywhere. )
Leading is never wholly bloodless, Alina. No matter how pure your intentions.
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[ she shoves him back from her. the dance has continued. the couple next to them is trying to move into their space as the whole group rotates, and alina pulls aleksander with her, trying to catch up. her steps are out of rhythm. too fast, too jerky, too angry.
the fire is hot, even with the air billowing under the loose shift of her dress, the light breeze rustling over the sweat of her bare back. ]
If all you wanted was to lead, do you really think I'd have stopped you?
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( he'd considered it, actually. not immediately, because she had still been an unknown quantity, then, and he had been so close to his goal. close enough to taste it. but eventually, he had.
and then she'd run and whatever tenuous trust he'd had withered like fruit on the vine. there were no chances after that. )
The West was rallying against us.
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[ How many times will they rehash this argument? How much time do they have to do precisely that?
She falls back into step with the rest of the crowd, tugging the Darkling along with her. ]
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( they settle into the rhythm of the dance. it's still clumsy at points, because he really hasn't danced anything like this in years but there's something about being close to her, being swallowed up by the music. )
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we could have had this. even attempting to negotiate like civilized people. it was what she had gotten good at amongst the grisha of the little palace, even as she gave the lantsov family tight smiles and vapid agreement. it could have been the two of them grappling to terms. she would not have mourned for the king who violated genya if he were the only casualty. she wouldn't.
how many years had they missed that chance by? how many lives lost because time had made the darkling hard, had swallowed up aleksander and left only shadow and ink behind?
she tires out after some minutes, realizing there will be no break in the music. her feet are sore. she staggers past him, holding onto his arm so she can pull off the straps of her sandals and carry them in her free hand as they depart the courtyard that has turned to a dance hall. her breath still comes in uneven pants.
the evening is young, though, an cheers from the arena interrupt the music, competing. ]
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he considers, briefly, offering to carry her instead. he imagines her reaction, the way her expression would twist and pinch, and refrains. he did promise to behave himself.
more or less. )
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fine. let him. she hands over her shoes. ]
You're taking to this well.
[ suspiciously so. she doesn't miss a beat, though, leading the way towards the arena. she should have known he would have an easier time of it than her. should have guessed. yet here they are. ]
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( this is an objective truth. he's old. he's seen things and done things ㅡ endured things ㅡ she can't possibly imagine.
saying that it's easy for him, though, is a mistake. so much of this place grates on him. anathema to everything he stands for. but he is patient, eventually he'll find the cracks in their system and he'll dig in his fingers until it bleeds. )
Are you uncomfortable, being here?
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