#fedyor

It had been days since he last felt hunger. When he entered the dining hall some time after midday, the other Grisha had long since eaten, the room quiet save for the muffled sounds of staff clearing dishes. They barely met his gaze, cautious, respectful. Even here, he was the Darkling before he was a man.

He knew, he should eat; but his body ached with the weight of exhaustion, and he didn’t feel hungry; just a hollow fatigue that pressed into his bones. Sitting stiffly in his chair, he stared listlessly at the meal that had been set in front of him. The food was well-prepared, fragrant, and hearty, but in his current state, it simply wasn’t appealing.

Suddenly, movement caught his eye—a small plate slid across the table toward him. Alina. Sitting a few seats away, half-tucked behind an open book. She didn’t say anything, just nudged it closer, smiling softly. On the plate were a few slices of apple, a handful of grapes, and a small square of dark chocolate. Simple. Thoughtful. Nothing he had expected—yet, exactly what he needed. He met her gaze, and for the first time that day, he exhaled.

She was pure sunlight. He watched her from his window one grey afternoon. Down in the courtyard, Alina was surrounded by a handful of children—orphans, his soldier’s sons and daughters, too young to be in the war, too familiar with its aftermath.

She knelt among them, her hands alight with her wonderful power, drawing their laughter as she conjured gentle orbs of vibrant light that danced above their heads. The little ones squealed with delight when the spheres burst into a thousand tiny shards, like a rain of crystal, scattering golden reflections across the cobblestones. One of the smaller girls clapped, beaming with joy, and Alina laughed, head tipped back. The sound carried, clear and bright. This ethereal being didn’t belong in a world shaped by war, yet here she was, scattering light like it might reach even him. A part of him wanted to walk away before the sight of it could settle too deeply. Another part—one he didn’t know how to silence—hoped it already had.

Kirigan lingered a moment longer than he should have.

A few days later, it was his neck. He hadn’t noticed how tight his shoulders had become, how the strain of endless meetings and hours spent hunched over his desk left his muscles aching. Not until Alina sat across from him one evening, a book open in her hands—the one he had assigned her to study.

She was supposed to be reading, absorbing the knowledge he had deemed necessary, but instead, she was frowning at him. At the way he rotated his head, trying to relieve the tension, rubbing the back of his neck absently.

With a quiet sigh, she closed the book, set it aside, and pushed back her chair. He glanced up as she stood, but before he could question her, she stepped behind him.

Then, without hesitation, she placed her warm hands on his shoulders and pressed gently.

Kirigan went still.

Her fingers examined the muscles lightly, finding the knots of tension built up over time. “You don’t relax enough,” she remarked, half concerned, half reproachful. Her touch was maddening, not because it hurt—but because it soothed. He hated how easily she seemed to disarm him. He had spent centuries building walls, fortifying himself against weakness, yet her hands on his shoulders threatened to dismantle all of it with a tenderness he didn’t know how to refuse.

He wanted to tell her he couldn’t afford to relax. But before he managed, she pressed her thumbs into a spot just below his neck, and he exhaled—too sharp, too sudden. His control slipped for the briefest moment.

Her lips quirked. “See?”

He didn’t argue.

She made him laugh. It startled him every time. He was on his way to the Grand Palace when he heard it—Alina, arguing fiercely with Zoya on the training yard.

“No, I did hit that target!”

Zoya folded her arms. “You grazed the edge. That’s hardly the same.”

“It absolutely counts!”

“Saints, you have the aim of a drunk Shu mercenary.”

“I do not!”

“Fine, then prove it.” Zoya gestured casually toward Ivan, who had just finished training a group of Grishenka and sent them off. “Hit his shoulder from here.”

Ivan barely had time to turn before a small, shimmering orb of sunlight zipped past his ear. He flinched, scowling.

Alina’s eyes went wide. “That was—”

“… my head,” Ivan growled.

Kirigan laughed.

The sound surprised them all.

Alina turned, startled, then—seeing the rare, unguarded amusement on his face—she grinned.

He shook his head, still smiling as he continued on his way.

It was solitude that he thought he wanted—until she broke it. The war room was quiet now, thankfully. The tense bustle of another demanding day finally gone, leaving behind only the soft glow of flickering candles. It was well past midnight, and for the first time in hours, Kirigan was alone. He pressed two fingers to his forehead, a futile attempt to ward off the crushing fatigue settling over him. His eyes skimmed over the page in his hand, more than once. But he didn’t take anything in.

He felt her before he heard her.

A gentle warmth against his arm, a touch that pulled him from the haze. He tensed instinctively, but then he recognized the familiar pressure of her fingers. He blinked, lifting his head slightly. “Alina?” His voice was rougher than he expected.

Her eyes were steady, determined in a way that left no room for argument.

“You’ve read this report three times already,” she pointed out softly. “It hasn’t changed.”

He exhaled, a slow, measured breath. Weary. He didn’t resist when her fingers carefully pried the parchment from his grasp, easing it from his hold. A part of him wanted to argue—he couldn’t afford to stop, not now. But with her hand still warm on his skin, the idea of pausing, just for a moment, didn’t seem quite so impossible.

He thought he could keep going. His body disagreed. Kirigan had ignored it for days. Weeks. Pushed past the headaches, the sluggishness, the way the world seemed to blur at the edges when he moved too quickly. He’d endured worse. Survived worse.

The meeting with the Tsar had dragged. Hours upon hours of veiled threats, of measured words, of navigating the Sovereign’s insatiable hunger for power. Kirigan had kept his composure—he always did—but it had cost him. The moment the war room door closed behind him, exhaustion slammed into him. It wasn’t just physical. It was in his bones, in his thoughts, in the marrow of his soul. His body felt heavy, like he was dragging a weight behind him with every step.

His mind, however, was still racing. There were decisions to be made. Plans to be executed. The war was not won, not by a long shot. He could not afford to falter—his Grisha, his people, and those suffering under the Tsar’s rule depended on him. He carried their hopes on his back, every step becoming heavier as the days passed, his strength waning with each blow he took, each sleepless night, each life lost. But tonight, his body betrayed him.

Suddenly, his vision swam. The world tilted. And then he was falling.

On his way down, he collided with a wooden commode. The impact was brutal, his body slamming into the sharp edge with a sickening crack before crumpling to the floor. The breath was knocked clean from his lungs, and a sharp, unbearable pain exploded in his ribs.

For a moment, everything was a blur of agony. The searing heat in his chest spread like wildfire, cold sweat trickling down his forehead. His body, overwhelmed by the shock, refused to respond to him anymore. It simply shut down; everything went black.

His world was reduced to fragments—pain, cold. And her voice. Breathing was an effort, shallow gasps rasping from his throat.

Somewhere, through the haze of his suffering, a voice drifted toward him—distant, but urgent. Familiar. A hand on his shoulder, strong yet careful. “General!” Alina’s call sliced through the fog, sharp and clear, like sunlight piercing the thickest clouds. He tried to respond, but his mouth wouldn’t obey. Fragments of conversation echoed around him now—Ivan’s steady baritone, Fedyor’s lighter reactions—but he couldn’t make out the meaning. Hands slipped beneath his knees, his shoulders. They lifted him, the movement jostling his broken ribs, sending fresh waves of agony through his chest. His body arched involuntarily, and a strangled, gasping sound tore from his throat. It was raw, unguarded—a guttural response to the sharp, burning pain.

Ivan barked something again, demanding and concerned, but the words blurred together while his consciousness drifted further away. His body was unable to hold on. He slipped away once more.

He came to the sensation of being lowered onto something soft. But he barely felt it; the world had turned to numbness. His chest heaved but it was useless—he managed just breathless gasps, weak and fading.

Somewhere above him, voices tangled together in sharp commands, hurried motions, but then—

Heat. Gentle, soothing heat seeped into his bones, into his battered body. The pain dulled, fading into a distant ache that no longer burned. Slowly, his chest expanded, a full breath filling his lungs for the first time in what felt like forever; not his own but guided by unseen hands. A Healer, his clouded mind supplied. The warmth deepened, and with it, his awareness faded. It wasn’t sleep, but a controlled darkness, a deep stillness meant to protect him while his body healed. His mind quieted, the world slipping away as he was gently pulled under, safe in the Healer’s care.

Warmth had been a foreign thing, for too long. Until now. When he finally woke, his body ached as if it had been dragged through the Fold and back—every muscle heavy, his head pounding with each thready beat of his heart. His eyelids refused to lift, but amidst the exhaustion, he sensed it—he was warm. For the first time in weeks, he felt warm.

Multiple blankets had been piled over him, tucked carefully around his frame. His boots were gone. His Kefta, too, replaced by a loose shirt and soft trousers.

And there was more. A presence—

A hand.

Small. Resting lightly on his shoulder.

He tried to shift toward the touch, but his limbs barely responded. When he finally managed to crack his eyes open, the light burned against his vision, leaving him disoriented and dizzy. But there, beside him, was Alina. She was perched on the edge of his bed, her gaze fixed on him with so much relief that it nearly undid him. Her lashes were wet, cheeks blotchy in a way that spoke of recent tears.

"You’re awake," she whispered, as if saying it any louder might undo the fact.

Kirigan exhaled slowly, voice hoarse. "It would appear so."

A breath of something that might have been a laugh escaped her—but it was too thin, too fragile. Her fingers twitched against his shirt, but she didn’t let go. “You were—” She swallowed hard. “You scared me.”

He averted his gaze, shame cutting through the fog of his exhaustion. He hated this—hated that she had seen him like this, vulnerable, weak. Hated even more that she had worried, had cried because of him. "I didn’t mean to," he murmured.

"I know," she assured him, swiftly. Then repeated, quieter, "I know."

A slight movement near the door caught his attention and he turned his head toward it, though even that small action was a struggle. Ivan stood there, arms crossed, his usual unreadable expression tinged with a rare softness. Fedyor had stood up and moved closer, leaning casually against the foot of the bed now. It was obvious they’d been keeping watch.

There was no rebuke in their eyes. No frustration. Only concern.

Kirigan let out a slow, unsteady breath. "You two had a hand in this?" His voice was rough, but wry. He tried to gesture with his chin toward the bed.

Ivan snorted. "You think Starkov could have dragged your sorry ass there alone?"

Before Alina could react, Fedyor did. "Ivan," he scolded, shaking his head. "Tact."

"What?" Ivan replied, deadpan. "It’s a fair question."

Fedyor snickered, and even Kirigan let out a faint breath of amusement, though the motion sent a dull ache through his ribs.

Alina huffed, but she was smiling now, just barely. That was better.

He sighed, letting his head sink back against the pillows. "I take it you’re all going to insist that I rest?"

Ivan’s eyebrow arched. "What gave it away?"

Kirigan hummed. "The blankets, mostly." He tried to shift slightly under the heavy mount of fabric, but even the attempt was too strenuous. "…and the fact that I seem to be practically restrained by them."

Fedyor leaned in just a little, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Restraints are unnecessary. Let’s be honest—if you tried to get out of bed, you’d end up flat on your back in less than five seconds. And none of us wants to deal with that kind of drama again." Kirigan turned his face away for a moment, exhaling slowly as the resignation set in. Fedyor, undeterred, flashed a bright, almost mischievous grin. "And before you ask—no, that tender bit of care wasn’t Ivan or me. That was all her." He tilted his head toward Alina, practically beaming.

Kirigan glanced at her, surprised.

Alina shifted, suddenly looking unsure. "You just—" She swallowed. "You were so cold."

He blinked. It was such a small thing. And yet, it wasn’t.

Kirigan held her gaze for a moment, his chest tightening. Her words weren’t accusing or demanding—they were simple, sincere. But the way she said it made something inside him stir; an ache he couldn’t quite place.

For a long beat, neither of them spoke.

It was Ivan’s sarcastic comment that broke the silence. “Still breathing under all those layers, or should we start digging you out?”

Kirigan huffed softly, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. Yet, he felt his strength ebbing. “Stop hovering,” was the only thing he managed.

“You’ll have to get better before you can give orders again,” Ivan retorted dryly. “Until then, I’ll hover as much as I damn well please.”

Fedyor rolled his eyes and stepped in, nudging him firmly in the side. “That’s enough, Ivan.” He put a hand on his back, steering him toward the exit. “It’s obvious the General prefers Alina’s hovering to ours.”

Alina’s cheeks flushed a soft pink, her gaze dropping to the edge of the blankets as though they suddenly held the secrets of the universe.

“Fine.” Ivan allowed himself to be manhandled out of the room, though not without some parting words. “But if you pass out again, don’t expect me to carry you. You’re heavier than you look.” Kirigan couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at his lips, amused by the antics, despite his exhaustion.

Fedyor grinned at the display, then turned to follow his husband. Yet, just before stepping out, he glanced back over his shoulder, his tone warm and teasing. “Rest, General. That’s an order.”

The last sound lingering in the air was Ivan’s good-natured snort before the two disappeared into the hall, their footsteps fading into the quiet.

Now, they were alone. As the door clicked shut behind the two Heartrenders, the room felt a little quieter, a little emptier.

Kirigan’s attention drifted back to Alina, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was still staring at the blankets, her fingers fiddling nervously with the edge, like she was debating something she wasn’t sure how to say.

Keeping his eyes open was becoming a battle he was losing, but he fought against the pull of exhaustion with sheer determination. He couldn’t let himself drift off- not yet. Summoning what little strength he had left, he rasped, "Alina?"

Her gaze flickered to him, wide and uncertain. The concern still etched into her face sent a sharp pang through him. It ate at him, knowing she felt this way—because of him. He tried to speak, but no sound would come. He swallowed, tried again. “What… is it?”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. But then, as if she could no longer keep it in, the words spilled out. “You work yourself into the ground, and I—I don’t know how to help, and I hate it.”

He should reassure her, give her some well-practiced answer about duty, about responsibility, about the burdens he had carried since long before she had been born.

But he didn’t.

He barely had the strength to stay conscious, let alone spin empty reassurances. And so, he said the only thing that was true. “You… do help.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “I—”

“You do,” he repeated, though the words came out even weaker this time. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, his words seemed to die before they left his mouth. With what little strength remained, he whispered, “Alina… please.” He needed her to see. To see, how important she was. To see, how much he needed her. Because he did. More than he could ever admit; needed her so much it hurt, more than he could bear to hold back any longer.

With a final surge of effort, he pulled his arm from beneath the heavy blankets, the endeavour burning through his already shattered strength. It took everything he had just to tug weakly at her sleeve, a touch so feeble it barely registered.

But she moved immediately, shifting onto the bed beside him. The mattress dipped under her weight, and she pressed herself against him, her arms wrapping carefully around his frame, mindful of his injuries, of his exhaustion.

Still, even that slight pressure was enough to steal his breath. He let his head fall against her, his overstrained body sagging with the rare comfort of being held, sinking into the relief of her presence. His breath came in uneven shudders, his head aching from the mere act of staying conscious.

She tucked her face against his neck, and he felt the dampness of her tears, even as she fought to hold them back.

He was the Black General, the one who bent armies to his will, whose very name conjured fear. But here, with Alina’s arms around him, he was nothing more than a man—a fragile, broken man who didn’t deserve her warmth yet couldn’t bring himself to let it go.

His lashes fluttered. The fog in his mind was becoming thicker with the second, pressing in from all sides.

Her voice cut through the haze, barely more than a whisper. “Please, Aleksander. Rest.” A pause. Then, softer, “I’ve got you.”

Something inside him cracked. The last of his resistance crumbled, and he let himself fall. It was so easy to slip under again, to let the exhaustion pull him down. Because she was here.

Darkness took over once more. And this time, he didn’t fight it.