Alina looked radiant that day in the dying sunlight, the Darkling thought, watching from the window of his study.

Confined to the palace grounds in disgrace, with an eight o'clock curfew, she and her friends had made the most of the situation nonetheless. Somehow they had gotten their hands on drinks, and food from the kitchens, and had taken it all to the edge of the woods near the Little Palace. Faint music could be heard playing, from a small Fabrikated music box that Volkova had made.

At some point, Alina had kicked off her boots, feet bare in the long grass. She was dancing now, spinning and reeling with astonishing speed and grace considering the amount of alcohol he had watched her drink. She'd been holding back at court functions. Or perhaps she just wasn't meant for the structured, rehearsed dances of a royal ballroom. It looked like she had been made to dance the way she was doing now; freer, looser, quick and lively, all skipping feet, sweeping arms and swaying hips.

The Darkling had only intended a brief glance at her, considering whether this went against the rules of their punishment, debating whether to have the guards confiscate their drinks and send them inside. But his attention had been caught by the intricate tendrils of light spilling from her fingertips as she danced, leaving unearthly, beautiful trails that lingered in the dusky evening light. Alina threw back her head and laughed at something her current dance partner - Nazyalenskaya - had said, hair tossing back as Zoya dipped her (of course that girl would take on the man's part). She looked so very real, vibrant and alive. After months of not seeing her, not knowing if she was lying dead in a ditch somewhere in Fjerda, he could not tear his eyes away.

He had never felt quite so old as he did in that moment. He briefly allowed himself to wonder - a foolish thought that he never would normally have indulged - about what would have happened if he at sixteen had met Alina at sixteen. She probably would have laughed at him, needled him, as she liked to do now, only his younger self did not have the self-control he did now. He'd have killed her or kissed her by now. Likely kissed her, who was he kidding. She would truly have been his equal, then, and Aleksander had been so desperate for an equal.

Wanting makes you weak. His mother's words from so long ago, when he had been no older than Alina was now - so long ago that the woman likely had forgotten saying them - echoed in his mind.

Then, there would have been no court, no expectations, no ranks between himself and Alina. She would have been at his side as he gathered the Grisha together, as he saved the King's armies from annihilation by the Shu, as he formed the Second Army and built the Little Palace. Darkness and light, together as the Lantsovs turned on them and he turned to merzost. Perhaps the Fold never would have existed. Likely it would have. Would she leave him, then? Would she care? Alina's morals had been known to be quite flexible, though she did get irritating fits of decency every now and again.

Wanting makes you weak. Would one of them have killed the other by now? Perhaps. It was useless wondering such things. She had only been sixteen for a month or two, and the Darkling was over four-hundred-and-fifty. Alina had not lived long enough to appreciate the pain of being without an equal for centuries, watching smaller lives wither and die. The triumph he had felt when he saw her that first day and realised the reports were true.

Watching her like this was stirring things in him that he had squashed down long ago. Not lust; he felt no shame for wanting her, and it was her power and longevity that attracted her to him before anything else. From the moment he had come across that wide-eyed yet fierce little girl surrounded by eight corpses, he had pinned a lot of hope on her. Alina would bring him control of the Fold, first and foremost. She would also be as close to his equal as anyone save his mother; she would not turn to dust as easily as most. The Sun Summoner would be the saviour of all Grisha, and also the catalyst to his carefully-laid plans.

Wanting makes you weak.

Baghra had a point. The Darkling was beginning to realise that this went deeper than lust, for her and her power. He wouldn't be so foolish as to call it love. But he was as fond of Alina as he could be of another person. He knew this because he would have never let anyone else get away with a fraction of the foolish things she did without stepping in and applying more... foolproof ways of controlling her. It should have become apparent by now that the girl was too reckless, too hedonistic, too indifferent to anything of consequence for her to willingly be of any use to him. He would be better off seeking to control her power completely; making her his puppet rather than letting her become a threat. So why didn't he?

Alina is intelligent underneath all of that nonsense, he had told himself. She shows an aptitude for politics and strategy. She is merely young. There was no point making a valuable ally despise him for eternity for a few childish follies.

And if the idea of those dark eyes turning on him in true hatred rather than simply anger made his skin crawl, then he would never admit it, even to himself. The look she had given him when he threatened to control her power was the closest she had come to that, and it had been... unpleasant. Let alone her perfectly sincere threat to slit her own throat before submitting to such a thing. He admired her ferocity and strength of character, even though it often irritated him. Her sense of humour amused him, even when it shouldn't, as did her blunt way of dealing with people. And in those rare moments where she let him see her vulnerable... He had never had such soft thoughts in a long time.

The Darkling had always prided himself on being in control of his emotions, and would never again be so foolish as to provide his enemies with such an easy weakness to target. He was stronger willed than most men, never letting himself be tempted by such ordinary things as feelings. All his decisions were based on strategy, ambition and careful planning; what would benefit him and his Grisha most.

Yet seeing her dancing there outside his window, dark eyes flashing, hair whipping through the golden threads of light from her fingers, pulled at something that he thought he had buried long ago. Something dangerous, something just as uncontrollable to him as her sunlight currently was. He was no stranger to desire, but desire like this had potential to turn him to ruin.

He was the leader of the Second Army. Closer to five hundred years old than four hundred. A sixteen-year-old girl with a habit of drinking too much and disobeying him to prove a point should not be making him feel this way. Lust was manageable. Whatever this was, it was stupid.

He would have to steel himself against this in the future. The Darkling could not let such a foolish, intangible thing ruin plans he had spent centuries building. He would destroy Alina himself before he let that happen. Or, a traitorous thought whispered, make sure that she was his, and his alone, for the rest of their long lives.

Perhaps he would not have the chance to do either. Alina said often enough that she could not bear to be shackled by anything, and made it very clear that she considered him one of those chains. Saints only knew her actions only reinforced her words. Perhaps some of her allure was that, at the end of the day, she might not even want him in return. And wouldn't that be painfully ironic?

The Darkling glanced back out the window. Golden light was still spilling from her fingers as she danced, giddily falling into Belsky's arms as the darkness of night descended over the Little Palace. She was young, yet. Perhaps that wildness, that fierce independence, would change as she got older. Likely it wouldn't. Either she would always be set slightly apart from him, or she would finally submit. Whichever outcome happened, it would be somewhat of a shame.

In the end it would not matter. Even if she refused him now, given enough years - enough dead loved ones - she would be drawn to him in a way that only two people who live forever can be. It was inevitable, no matter how long it took. Alina's will was strong, but the press of centuries was stronger. He knew that well.

After their curfew passed, he heard her stumbling through the doors to his private wing, mumbling greetings to the chuckling oprichniki, whom she knew by name, and they knew her fondly.

The guards immediately snapped to attention as he stepped out into the corridor. Alina did not. She looked up from where she'd been having a very earnest conversation with one amused oprichnik, and a big smile lit up her face. The Darkling doubted anyone had looked so pleased to see him in his life. It was certainly the most welcoming she had been towards him since her return from Fjerda; she had seemed slightly set-apart from him since, no doubt angry over the punishment she and her friends had received.

The girl hurried towards him, in a generally straight line, and practically fell against him when her foot caught on thin air. He caught her on instinct, and kept hold of her wrists as she swayed where she stood.

"Has anyone ever told you you smell really good?" She asked, only slurring a little; it was the compliment that gave away that she was drunk. "For a man, anyway,"

His lips twitched; this was perhaps the first time he had seen her drunk and happy, rather than angry, upset or looking for a fight. The oprichniki were all very determinedly not looking in their direction, lips pressed tightly together.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Alina?" The Darkling asked wryly.

"I did, no thanks to you," She jabbed a finger at his chest. He could have reprimanded her for the disrespect, but did not. She would probably just laugh in his face if he did, and say something mocking. "We did dancing, and eating, and drinking," The girl paused. "Maybe a bit too much drinking,"

"Perhaps a little," He said; whilst she was in a good mood, he intended to keep her that way. "How about you leave these poor men to do their jobs, Alina? Besides, I have a present for you," To soothe any ruffled feathers over her punishment for running off to Fjerda.

"A present?" She asked as he led her away to his study, remarkably compliant. "Why?" It wasn't the drink that did that - she was even more stubborn than usual when drunk and angry - but the fact she was happy.

"I had meant to give it to you for your birthday,"

She frowned, thinking. "Oh. It is a nice present, isn't it? Not a... severed head, or gory amplifier? Wait - did you find my lost finger?"

"If I had found your finger, I'd have given you the man who took it as a present too, to do with what you will,"

She laughed, clinging to his side as he left her on one side of the desk, which she leaned against. "I'd have liked that very much. I think I'd have cut off all of his fingers and made him eat them,"

It really shouldn't excite him so much when she spoke like that. Bloodthirsty little wretch. "As sweet as that would be to watch, that gift would only be temporary," He brought out a small flat box. "This, I hope, will last longer,"

He moved to stand before Alina, handing her the box. The girl opened it, and stared for a moment. As she lifted the gold necklace out of the box, the smile that lit up her face brought both feelings of satisfaction (the same that arose every time he won her over, little by little) and something else that he did not care to address.

"Can you put it on for me?"

"Of course," The Darkling took the necklace from her hand. "Turn around,"

She did so, and he brushed her hair out of the way, over her shoulder, enjoying her slight shiver. He fastened the delicate clasp around her neck then gently took her shoulders and spun her round again. The flaming sun pendant sat in the centre of her collarbone, and would be visible even when wearing her kefta. Smaller charms (tiny four-pointed stars, wrought in jet and diamond) glinted along the chain.

"Thank you," Alina's fingers played with the necklace. To his surprise, she wrapped one arm around him in half an embrace. "Can you always be this nice when I come back drunk?"

His arm closed around her. "Only if you are this agreeable, rather than obnoxious, foolish and rude. I wouldn't expect a gift every time if I were you, either,"

"I can't promise that. I'm obnoxious, foolish and rude most of the time,"

"At least you are self-aware,"

She laughed. "I am that," Glancing at his arm around her waist, something abruptly changed in her eyes, then, and her smile faded. She stepped back from him, the air between them no longer easy and carefree. "Self-aware. Yes," There was a pause. "I should go to bed. Thank you for the present," Her words were distant, like they were mere acquaintances.

He watched her leave, the door closing with a soft click behind her. It was a novel experience, seeing her walk away from a disagreement, rather than charge headlong into it, especially when she was drunk; because clearly there was something on her mind. It felt strange, not knowing what was going on in her head, with that mechanical tone and closed-off look. Alina was ragingly expressive, vividly alive; even her court mask wavered after all these years interacting with the aristocracy, usually intentionally, often not.

Perhaps this was a sign she was maturing. But the girl who had been laughing and dancing in the grass outside, golden light streaming from her fingers, said otherwise.

*

Bit of a shorter chapter, and quite filler-y at that, but it was a nice moment visually and gives us a glimpse into the Darkling's thoughts which we haven't seen for a while. Also a bit a break after the last few heavy chapters. I wanted to demonstrate again that Alina genuinely doesn't hate him. She dislikes when he tries to control her or demean her, and reacts accordingly, but when he treats her with respect they get along quite well. Even so, there is still the sizable underlying layer of toxicity between them on both sides, and plenty of bad feeling left over from the previous chapter.

Please let me know what you think, I hope you enjoyed!