and in the end, there will always be a home to return to

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Words: 3186

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He has felt her since the beginning of time.

There was always a part of him that felt something was missing and she had filled that sinfully dark abyss. He felt her presence, her silence, the whirl of his heart in his chest when she drew near, sending him into dizzying spirals under all that armour. If to feel was to be human, to feel her and all that she came within her righteous fury was to be alive.

It is her absence that he feels the most. No matter how many years may pass, the sight of her leaving reminds him of how she has always completed him, been the second, purer, half of his cruel soul.

He can taste the empty space she has left in him in blood, spilling out his lips like a sinful confession of him and her absence in him. He knows only blood, pouring from his lips and his body, in torrents, ruthless and warm, dribbling down, a lost shred of sanity. He fights, for he is a king, and only kings of old dynasties sit back and let the others fight for them.

It is not that he has ceased to live without her, for he will die preaching on a parapet soaked with blood, preaching violence till the last. He will not die from this absence in his heart, but he will know forever that while she is gone, he will ache to the very marrow of his strong but broken bones. For she has dragged him through the red waters he was born from to the soft beach of gold they will make theirs.

The moon rises in ketterdam two hundred and eight times before she returns, her longest voyage yet. Over half a year of bloody mouths, grins of knives, the ache in his bones, and whispers of the cruel boy on the throne, strengthening him, bringing him to the very height of power one can claim. There is no one he fears, other than himself at her return, for he is unravelled at her very voice, never mind her airy and sensual touches.

Unbeknownst to him, she slips through the streets, a ghost, unseen and unheard to the people below her. She does not pause to watch, to sit in the rain, and watch the world move on without her, for once. She leaps and soars, going to a leaning building that had been the sight of his crimson coronation.

Her hands and feet are sure and do not slip on the slick tiles, and could he see her now, standing on the building across from him, illuminated only by the lightning, he would put her to the Istorii Sankt'ya, for she is godly. She looks on at his window, dark, shut, the final wall between them.

Her deft hands pick the lock, which has always been just at her skillset. Slowly opening the windows, she shimmies inside, removing her rain-soaked hat and jacket, placing them on the sill to close the window. The room is lit only by low embers in the fire, but she can see him now, asleep in his beauty and alive, and hers.

His eyes open as she crouches in front of him. Even in his sleep, he is aware of her, her presence that fills him now, the taste of the blood in his mouth forgotten. He knows now what her absence has always been: the poison that was missing and loving one far away, in danger, on the seas, and not in your arms. He learned that many years ago.

He whispers something, his eyes fluttering closed, while his hand, which is barren of gloves but not bandages or scars, cups her face. His fingers are bloody from his wounded fingers, and she is sure that her face is now red, but she cares not. It is a touch, a brush, a whisper and a promise of some greater goal, something they will both live to see one day.

"Inej," he whispers, "Why come here? There are beds that await you in the Van Eck mansion, not dying embers and half-awake men."

"But the Van Eck mansion is missing the one I love. And he is here, so I have come here, for I cannot bear one more moment without him for a good long while."

"And how long do you plan to stay?" His voice is barely a whisper, as he shifts, pulling her closer, and closer, until she is sat on the bed his body inches from her legs. She leans over him, brushing a hair from his fair face.

"As long as I deem fit. Until I am once again sick of this city, and I am ready to leave once more."

"Stay," he says, and she remembers a boat, a shift between them, and she knows what words he will utter next. "Stay in Ketterdam. Stay with me. I've asked you once, and I will ask again, but I will also tell you again. I want you. "

Till the end of time, I want you, he told her in a quiet chapel in the countryside, her hands in his.

I will have you without armour, she remembered, Or I will not have you at all. His hands were uncovered, he had laid himself bare for her many times over, and that was enough. He had shed that armour, once, twice, a hundred times, for her and their future, and now he did it once more, revealing himself as he lay upon his bed, eyes closed, black lashes fanned against his scarred cheeks.

She knew him from head to toe, the feeling of his lips on her skin, his under hers. She knew him and he knew her, and so she would stay. Stripping into nothing but her undergarments, she climbed into the bed, her body warmed by the thick blankets. His nose brushed hers, closing all thoughts of distance between them.

Lips know bloody lips, hands know bodies, and all they hear is the rain, their breathing, and the crackle of the embers in the fire.

They sleep soundlessly, awaking as the world brightens ever so slightly, the only sign of morning. It will be very dark for weeks, with this eternal storm. She gets up and puts a new log into the hearth, the embers cooled in the night. "We should go to the house today," she tells him, "It is warmer there. And quieter."

The wood is cold against her bare feet, so she is glad to crawl back into the warmth of the bed, and in the greyed gold light she sees him better. He had always had a beautiful face, one the women of the richer folk had many thoughts on.

Inej couldn't count on two hands how many mercher women admired his beauty, sure they could fix and soothe the monster, unaware or uncaring of the true monsters in their home. Their monstrous husbands sat a room over, drinking booze and thinking of his visit to the pleasure houses mere hours before.

Eventually, they both rose from the bed and its heavy quilts. It was the weekend, and while trade and profit never truly stopped on these days, folk were lazier, and time loosened her chokehold on the Kerch just a bit.

She slipped into the shapeless clothes of the Wraith, tucked away in his room should she need it. She wore the boots she wore on her ship, though, tucking Sankt Vladimir into the pocked made for him. Sankt Vladimir, she spoke to herself, Patron Saint of the Drowned, she cast a glance to Kaz as he straightened his jacket, shaking her head after a moment.

Sankt Vladimir, Patron Saint of the Drowned and Unlikely Achievement, hear me now. Keep my blade sharp and let it do what others deem impossible. Rest the waters, my lord. Keep the water and the blood out of his—out of our lungs. Amin.

"Praying?" Kaz said, and her eyes opened. She had not realised they had fallen closed, as she met his and nodded.

"I will be going to the church soon, the one near Little Ravka. I did not have a chance at my last trip to Ravka." She told him, slipping Sankta Marya and Sankta Anastasia into their sheathes at her thighs.

Sankta Marya, Patron Saint of those who are Far From Home, thank you for guiding me home once more. Sankta Anastasia, Patron Saint of the Sick, bless Kaz and protect him from sickness once more. Amin.

Sankta Alina to her left. Sankta Alina of the Fold, Friend, and Saint of Orphans and Undiscovered Gifts, bless Nina, Kaz, and Matthias. And stay safe, my friend. Sankt Petyr to her right. Sankt Petyr, Patron Saint of Archers, may in your glory, my aim be true as yours. Amin.

Her long coat, embroidered by the very people who made Keftas and a gift from Zoya, would hide them from prying eyes. She pulled on that coat now, and she saw Kaz eye the bone-handled knife that was named for the Sol Koroleva. "And how is Alina?" he asked. "You went to Keramzin or your last trip, no?"

They left the slat, and Inej made sure to speak in a low voice, and in Ravkan until they reached the tunnels. "She is well. There's a lot of snow to shovel, apparently. She was complaining about it to me."

He snorted. "I see, she can defeat the Black General but shovelling snow is too much for the Sun Saint." Inej rolled her eyes, smacking his arm lightly, and the rest of the walk to the club passed in silence.

The club was hours away from opening when they arrived, entering through a back door. To enter through the front would convince the tourists that she was to open soon, and then they'd have a flock of squawking pigeons on their doorstep. Kaz opened the door to the tunnels, and with one last look out at his office, closed the door behind them.

Their conversation rose now that they were alone. She spoke of her travels, painting a beautiful picture in the blood of her kills. He spoke of his plans to extend even further, to stretch his hand so far the foolish would mistake him for a prophet of Ghezen.

Inej laughed at that, "You? A prophet of Ghezen? Any prophet of any god or saint would get their martyrdom at your hands. This city is truly full of fools."

He smirked at her, "It is as they will it. I am taking suggestions as to what to do with this from anyone but Jesper. He is convinced I should go about making myself look like a fool and cry wolf and spew false prophecy."

"It's not a horrible idea," she ventured lightly. "Knowing you, you could do that and double your coffers in half a year."

"No," he said slowly, drawing it out. There was a slight twang to his word, an old accent revealed, an old injury. "It's what he thinks I should wear." He faked a shudder. "Ask when you see him next, it's horrible."

She grinned at him, as he stopped. "Perhaps I will."

They had arrived. They summited the stairs, and he threw open the door to their home, the one place in the world that was purely theirs. No one except for their tightest circle knew this place existed, let alone knew the address. The man who owned it, one Jordan Rietveld, was a private man, at least to the neighbours.

He always arrived at night, at an hour in which his arrival would be invisible to anyone prying from their windows. He had a wife, that was known, a kind woman who left the house on occasion, almost always to go to church, soon after they would return. She seemed to travel with him.

The neighbours longed to know what happened behind the grey stone home. The lights would burn from behind the thick curtains well into the night, and sometimes you could catch the silhouette of Mister and Misses. Rietveld living their private life, black figures against gold light. The stolen kisses, the shape of their laughter, the piano that would fill the street.

The children knew that they always returned in the winter, so when they saw the first oil lamp light up the home, they cheered and knew winter had finally arrived. Soon, the true sea would be uncrossable by even Grisha, and snow would fall on the paved roads. School would let out and they would entertain themselves by making snowmen outside the Rietveld's house.

Misses Rietveld would sometimes watch them from her porch, and the adults would comment on the sad sort of smile that would pass over her face. They had a sinking feeling that the young couple were the sort of folk who knew many tragedies, and that was why they stayed away, unwilling to damper the free and happy people who they lived near.

Kaz glanced out the windows, smiling slightly as the children passed by, eyes lighting up at the sight of his home showing signs of occupancy once more. The curtains were Grisha made so one could look out but those outside the home could not look in. They had cost a fortune but were ever worth it.

"That boy is going to fall over with how many books he's carrying," Inej said, coming to stand by him, pulling her coat off as she did.

"Which one?" Kaz murmured, looking over the gaggle of boys making their way to their afternoon classes.

"The one with the yellow hat," she said, pointing to the boy in question. Kaz aahed as he spotted the boy, whose back was bent slightly under the weight of his books.

Kaz looped a lazy arm around her, pulling her close, "Unlucky sod. I think he's carrying him for the boy with crutches, the one with the green coat. You see him?"

"Yes," Inej said lightly. "Tea? I'm going to brew some. Or would you like coffee?"

"Coffee please," he said, settling down in the chair by the window, propping his poor leg up. Inej kissed his brow, and he allowed himself to doze until Inej returned, coffee in hand. She sat on the window sill, tea in hand, and her knives glinting. They watched the passing of the neighbours they barely knew, their trained eyes seeing all.

Inej rose after a while, and spoke, "I am going to go to the church now. Stay safe while I'm gone." He grabbed her hand, kissing it in goodbye, before letting go. She smiled at him, brushing a stray hair from his pale brow, kissing it lightly before turning out the door.

She never dressed as she did as a spy or captain when she went to pray to her saints. She abandoned the shapeless coats and trousers and high boots of leather, for long dresses, with plenty of hidden spots for her knives, but she rarely drew them. These were the clothes she wore when she was just Inej Ghafa, faithful, and another one praying to the Saints.

In the warmer months, she would wear the fine silks of her people, but it was cold, so she went more Kerch, with a twist of Suli. The colours and embroidery were by Suli craft, forged into the simple lines of the Kerch dress. Pulling a shawl over her head and fingerless gloves on, she left the house, her hands stuffed into her pockets. She fingered something, pulling it out.

She paused on her doorstep as she saw the coin. The face of the old King, not Nikolai, stared at her. This must have been from my childhood, she thought, turning the coin over in her gloved hand. She pressed a kiss to the tails side, where the Lanstov Eagle was stuck in her eternal war cry, before slipping the coin into her pocket.

The trip to the church took little time, and she took solace in the lack of second looks at her. These people didn't know who walked amongst them, she was just another person living in the city of commerce, another faceless devotee. She was not the Wraith now, she was Inej.

She slipped into the church in silence, clasping her hands in prayer. She didn't know how long she sat in the site of Saints, but she rose after saying all she needed to, touching a hand to her corset, where a wicked little knife was hidden. She had aptly named her Little Knife, after the Ravkan story of the River, the Beauty, and the Jealous Beau.

Little Knife was no Saint, but the river had saved her beauty. Inej kept her close to her breast for that reason. She made the sign of the saints and left the simple chapel, her hand brushing over the necklace Alina had given her one day. The gold was fashioned into a rising sun, but even then, it was cold against her skin.

The necklace could open, and there Inej had hidden the last resort, should she be captured with no hope of retrieval. So she could choose her end and her death, and be the one to force her last breath to come. When Inej had told Alina what she had done, something unspeakable had passed between them, one lost girl to another lost girl. In the end, they'd pressed their heads together, and said nothing more.

Inej picked up some fresh bread on her way home, the loaf warming her hands as she returned home. The children were returning and greeted her exuberantly as she passed them. She dipped her head in acknowledgement. She could feel him watching her from the window although she could not see him.

She entered her home, setting the bread on the table, and hanging up her coat and shawl in the entryway. Her low shoes followed, and then she rushed up the stairs, her skirts bundled in her hands. She entered the study breathlessly, rushing to his side to kiss him. She had missed him, and the feeling of her eyes upon him had sent her into dizzy circles.

Even through her clothes, she could feel the press of his thumbs as he kissed her back, running in slow and painstakingly deliberate circles. Warmth filled her as he smirked against her lips, knowing what he did to her.

"You," she breathed as she pulled away her still gloved hands cradling his sharp face, "Drive me insane."

His eyes glimmered with mirth, as he replied, voice just as breathless, "And you, look beautiful ."

Her reply, as it would be to the end of the world, was a kiss, that washed away all of their sins. For love could blind them, if just for a moment, to their evilness and their darkness, setting the world ablaze into a white-hot paradise, where nothing was everything, words were nectar, and the kisses they stole was the ambrosia they would live off of until there was none left for them. 

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I am strangely in love with the ideas in this fic, so I very well may more add to this fic, but it's one chapter for now. There's a lot I could add, just about the idea of these two owning a house together, being able to retreat from the world for once. Idk, I have a lot I want to write.