[ it isn't the carefully crafted speech she expected, another nikolai lantsov strategy to ensure the outcome he wants. he stumbles over himself where he's always stepped gracefully before, as though engaged in a dance only he has had the time to learn and master, and alina's hope sprouts wings in her chest — even as her eyes squeeze shut for another long moment, as if she can seal herself away from all of the terrible, impossible, beautiful things he's saying. as if remaining in the dark, trapped in the midnight hours of her own hurt, will make it any less true. ]
So you baited me here instead. [ her voice is just a croak, but it flares with a weary spark of indignant, accusatory anger. ] You could have asked.
[ he could have given her the freedom of choice to come to him without the need for bargaining chips or moving her like a pawn on a board, offering her a greater gift than aleksander's idea of compassion — granting her one mercy by allowing her the illusion of choice. and therein lies the fear she can't shake, a clinging thing that's grown claws; for as much as they've claimed to love her, she isn't so certain either of them loves her more than their victories and triumphs, their carefully laid plans and their boundless ambition.
her fingers pluck idly at his shirt, nervous fiddling she can't suppress, building herself up for a question that can't possibly have an answer she wants to hear — if it has an answer at all. ]
If you love me with all of your heart, then why does it feel like you're only loving me with half?
[ half of his heart. half of his attention. half of his time. it's ridiculous to crave more now. to be struck by that specter of greed that's haunted her since birth, when she's been content to settle for less for so long, unable to believe she's been worth more than scraps. maybe he's awoken that hunger, now that she's had a taste of what she could have. what they could be, if not for their own personal wars calling them away, soldiers drawn to their own causes.
furiously, her hand swipes beneath her eyes, collecting the tears that want to spill over without her permission. the moment she asks for more than he can give feels like the end for them, a final chapter to a beginning that had seemed so full of possibility and a story that's only half-written. ]
no subject
So you baited me here instead. [ her voice is just a croak, but it flares with a weary spark of indignant, accusatory anger. ] You could have asked.
[ he could have given her the freedom of choice to come to him without the need for bargaining chips or moving her like a pawn on a board, offering her a greater gift than aleksander's idea of compassion — granting her one mercy by allowing her the illusion of choice. and therein lies the fear she can't shake, a clinging thing that's grown claws; for as much as they've claimed to love her, she isn't so certain either of them loves her more than their victories and triumphs, their carefully laid plans and their boundless ambition.
her fingers pluck idly at his shirt, nervous fiddling she can't suppress, building herself up for a question that can't possibly have an answer she wants to hear — if it has an answer at all. ]
If you love me with all of your heart, then why does it feel like you're only loving me with half?
[ half of his heart. half of his attention. half of his time. it's ridiculous to crave more now. to be struck by that specter of greed that's haunted her since birth, when she's been content to settle for less for so long, unable to believe she's been worth more than scraps. maybe he's awoken that hunger, now that she's had a taste of what she could have. what they could be, if not for their own personal wars calling them away, soldiers drawn to their own causes.
furiously, her hand swipes beneath her eyes, collecting the tears that want to spill over without her permission. the moment she asks for more than he can give feels like the end for them, a final chapter to a beginning that had seemed so full of possibility and a story that's only half-written. ]
I can't have just half of you anymore.