#varentain

I’m glad people are liking the explanation! I always worry it’s going to be an info dump or something, so I try to work things in well, but eh, can’t win ‘em all.

And yeah, so Alina is out main pov character and....look, she’s an unreliable narrator. There are definitely things happening she’s missing, and therefore so is everyone reading. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Okay, but fun faaaaacts hm, okay. I dunno if this is quite what you were looking for but I suspect it won’t be put into the fic but I love it so:

When the Grisha are found as children and brought to Grishaville (fun side fact: Not actually the town’s name, but just what everyone calls it conversationally), they are allowed to bring their parents. Most parents, however, are not interested. There is a lot of “My child would NEVER want to DRINK BLOOD” (ergo, this must be a changling, etc.) -- Honestly, on the more depressing note, there’s a fair bit of loss of young Grisha’s because of some of the misconceptions of them and also the fact that they get found via blood craving. Which, ya’know, not shocking.

In any case (I got a little off topic there), so when Baby!Grisha (relatively speaking, age does range from actual baby to ten, depending on a handful of things) are brought to Grishaville sans family, they get adopted. Some by non-Grisha families who maybe had Grisha in the family line way back when and just still live there, some by Grisha who want to adopt, some by Grisha who had children but the children weren’t Grisha and watching their children die before them broke them so now they just adopt.

Ivan was seven when he was brought in, and he was put into a family that had one other Grisha adopted, and that Grisha was Fedyor, who was fifteen at the time. A week in, little nine year old Ivan goes up to Kirigan and demands to be put in another home -- not because the family is bad, but because he’s going to marry Fedyor someday and he obviously can’t do that if they’re brothers. Kirigan, bemused, tells the family and moves him to a different family.

The smiling woman - and really, who is quite so happy to be sent to fetch tea? - sweeps out of the room the same way she swept in, leaving her alone again with a man who has yet to introduce himself. He’s not smiling. He did. When she first walked in he smiled like … well, if she had to put a name to it, she’d say it was like he knew her and was happy to see her. At the time, she brushed it off the same way she has a million little moments of false familiarity, but now, after the woman…

“Would you like to sit?” he asks for the second time, and this time gestures to the chair ahead of the desk he’s chosen to lean against rather than sit behind.

“I’m not an invalid,” she says. Rehabilitation has made her rather gruff. Months of learning her own body - for the first time, it seemed to her - were frustrating beyond belief, and though she knows her scars lead many people to consider her weak and frail, she’s worked hard for her strength; she won’t be coddled when she has no need of it.

His lips curl, but it’s a sharp expression, nothing like the warm smile he gave her at first. It doesn’t frighten her though; she has the oddest sensation that that unhappy expression is to be followed by something immensely pleasant, and an anticipatory thrill goes through her as a result. 

“I never thought you were, but we might be here a while.”

The door reopens and the dark-haired woman from Jane’s memory sweeps back in, affording her the opportunity to focus on something other than the man. While the tea things are settled on a tray nearby, she studies her, searching for … something. She has no idea what. She doesn’t find it, but she does find another of those unsettling smiles when the man says a gentle, “That’ll be all, Skye.”

Skye. Jane fixes the name in her memory as she studies the books on the shelves. 

From this distance, she can only see that each is well worn. Spines are bent and creased, more than one has a page marker sticking out the top, and she’s fairly certain the blank spots she sees can be filled by the haphazardly stacked volumes on his desk. This is an impressive office with what would, were the curtains open, sport an impressive view overlooking the city, but those books aren’t for show, they’re here to be used.

“This isn’t a job interview, is it?” she asks as she turns to face him.

The smile softens. “No, it’s not. I’m afraid I manipulated you to get you here.”

Well, at least he’s honest about it. “Why?”

He pulls in a long breath and lets it out. His easy demeanor goes with it, leaving uncertainty that seems out of place on his face. But why she should think that when she’s only known him for ten minutes, she has no idea. “This is gonna sound insane, but I want you to hear me out before you start throwing things and calling me a psycho, all right?”

She crosses her arms and tips her head, adopting a look of mild superiority. It’s an odd request which she thinks deserves some measure of derision.

He takes in another breath, clearly bracing himself, and says, “You and I know-”

“Know one another,” she supplies.

“-each other,” he finishes dumbly. His expression freezes, but she thinks she can see a few cracks of hope when he asks, “You remember?”

She looks away, unable to face that. “No,” she says, genuinely sorry not only for herself but for him. “But I know you know me. I can feel it in the way you look at me.” She looks to the closed door. “And I do remember her. Or her voice.”

“Oh?” he asks, his voice much closer than it was before. She turns and finds he’s closed most of the space between them, come far more than near enough to touch. That thrill is back; she doesn’t hate it.

“She said something about violence.” She moves slightly nearer as she settles her feet under her to face him properly. His responding smile is as unique as the rest, and she finds herself drawn to it in a way she can’t explain. “That this - though I have no idea what that’s mean to refer to - would end in it.”

He moves her hair behind her ear, fingertips drawing along the edge of the scar that makes so many people turn away from her. The sensation of his touch echoes through her, and she knows, more certainly than she’s ever known anything, she knows him.

“She was right,” he says softly, almost like a secret. “The people who did this to you? Who took you from me and hurt you?” His hatred of them hangs in the air between them while his hands settle over her hips. She thinks he’s testing her, seeing whether she’ll accept not only his anger, but his touch. She doesn’t pull away. “They’re going to pay.”

She considers that. Considers him and the way her body longs to melt into his. Considers the woman with the eerie smile and the months of her own anger, waiting to be unleashed. She tips her head. “We were in love, weren’t we?”

If he’s surprised by the question or by the way she’s ignored his wrathful promise, he makes no sign of it. His hand slides along her jaw, calluses rough against her sensitive skin. “You tell me,” he says and bends to kiss her.