understandably, no one wanted to get close to the darklingâs body.
she could understand their fear. genya found herself eyeing the corpse all too often, her eye drifting back to it as if drawn by a string, as if she was afraid he would suddenly rise and bring his hand down at her in that too-familiar vertical motion, finishing the nichevoâyaâs work. a foolâs thoughts, but she could not help herself. sheâd seen it happen, seen him die. was that not enough.
âsomeone has to clean him up for the funeral,â one of the soldat sol said. the crowd shifted on their feet, but no one stepped forth to volunteer. the silence stretched on, until genya pulled her arm out of davidâs grip and said, âiâll do it.â
âare you sure?â he caught her wrist again, his eyes concerned. âthey will find someone eventually, it doesnât have to be you.â
âwhat if i want to? itâs what they say, face your demons. david,â her voice softened a little, âi can manage it. if i canât, i wonât push myself, i promise.â she could see his thoughts whirring, not unlike the clockwork he loved so much. after a few seconds that felt like forever, he nodded, tight-lipped, and let go of her. she leaned forward to plant a kiss on his cheek, then stepped towards the tent. the soldat sol guarding it shifted to let her pass ; it felt like stepping from daylight into something new, something she wasnât sure whether she should fear.
the darkling lay on a stretcher they had set over a table, ready to be carried to the pyre. he did not look smaller in death, as sheâd often been told, simply less intimidating. how much of his power had been small science, and how much the sheer influence of his gaze, his stance, his words?
âi always thought you would outlive me,â she told the unmoving body, moving towards his head. what if the guards outside heard her? let them think me crazy. i asked for this for a reason. genya brushed a hand against his eyelids, shutting them for good. then she opened the small bag she carried, and set to work.
first his hair, brushed back with a comb of bone. as she arranged the silky strands of it, she found herself thinking back to her childhood, back when she was still fiddling and experimenting with her powers. heâd let her practice on him then, sitting still so she could bleed black antimony into his hair, darkening it beyond any natural color. only minor changes, none of which she needed, but she could see herself in his mindset now. the little tailor taken from her parents, though not without a comfortable sum to go with it. unique, and therefore valuable. an investment he was watching over rather than a little girl he cared about.
despite everything, sheâd loved him abjectly, the way one would love the only hand that had ever showed them kindness. she patted his hair, making sure it stayed in place.
stripping him was not enough to make her blush. she was not unfamiliar with the planes of his body, all smooth surfaces and hard angles. genya had seen him in the banya often enough not to let her gaze linger as she cleaned him up, wiping the dried blood from the dark red wound in his chest left by alinaâs knife of grisha steel. she wasted no time binding the wound ; he would not need it, wherever he was headed.
genya believed in her saints, in the holy figures wrought in gold. Â had prayed to them as a child, begging for protection, begging for a better day. it seemed her wishes had been granted, even after so long. she was not sure there was such mercy for him, though.
she folded the bloody robes heâd worn, left them in a corner of the tent. perhaps they would burn, or perhaps they would be washed, sewn back together and put on someone elseâs back, though the thought was strange to her. someone had left one of the darklingâs keftas on another table, and she shook it out to see. beautiful fabric, the lines of gold threading to it in a pattern that spoke of power. a beautiful outfit for a funeral.
moving his limbs to fit into the underclothes and kefta itself was an awkward thing, but  more awkward still was how part of her could not come to the realization he was truly dead. every once in a while her fingers would flutter to his throat, press two fingers there, like she expected to feel his pulse come to life beneath her hand. but it never did, and by the time she was done the darkling was every bit as unmoving as before, unmoving and still heartbreakingly beautiful. a beauty sheâd come to hate, perhaps, but beauty all the same.
she folded his hands across his chest, arranging them until it simply looked like he was sleeping. there was a peace to him now sheâd never seen before, as if death had given her a glimpse of the man he might have been instead of the man he had become.
this might be, genya realized, her last chance at an eulogy. the cremation would be much too public, and the crowd would cry for the girl they believed was alina, an almost-perfect lookalike. she remembered working on ruby, erasing the tattoo and changing her features until it had felt like staring her dead friend in the face, and sheâd had to turn away. funny how sheâd been the last care for both corpses.
what could she possibly say, though?
âi hate that i loved you, once. i hate that there was a time i believed every promise you made me, every word out of your mouth. they keep telling me itâs not entirely my fault, that iâm not the only person you fooled into trusting you, yet it still feels personal.â it was oddly satisfying to hear herself talk, to find that there was nothing he could do to stop her words from spilling out. âyet i keep wondering â and maybe that makes me all the more stupid â what if itâd been true? what if youâd truly cared? there will be no one crying for you at the funeral, and even for a monster, iâve seen brighter things. i wonât be the one to do it, but it seems like a shame to me.â
âsheâs going to have a good life, alina. i hope she will. she deserves it, as we all do. in time sheâll stop hurting over what youâve done, even if i donât think sheâll ever forget you.â what a way to live in someoneâs memory, though. be remembered with a shudder of fear, as a bedtime story to tell misbehaving children. or perhaps no one would take that risk ; perhaps theyâd all scare themselves into silence, and he would fade from everything but history books. âand weâŠâ genya took a deep breath. âweâre going to rebuild the second army. free the grisha, as you wanted. wonder what youâd say to that. thereâs going to be a triumvirate. all three orders, cooperating. mixing with otkasatâsya. maybe theyâll call me moi soverennyi. who am i kidding? no, they wonât, i wonât let them.â she adjusted her shawl on her head, took a shuddering breath. âi hope you come back, someday. some of the shu believe our souls walk in circles, that every one finds their way back here eventually. i hope yours does it, and that youâre born in ravka again as an united country, a strong country. i want you to see what you lost, even if you donât remember.â
genya smoothed out an invisible wrinkle on the sleeve of his kefta. âso this is goodbye,â she finished. âfarewell. whatever you call it. i wonât miss you none.â as her hand came to rest on the flap of the tent, she turned back one last time, opened her mouth and, finding nothing else to say, rushed back out towards the sun. towards david waiting for her, towards the life she still had while his had ended.
iâll have a good life, too. wonât that make you mad?