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It was pouring. Outside his chamber’s window, the wind had started to sing—if he closed his eyes, the Darkling could picture himself out there, he could almost feel the rain touch his face, brush it, caress it as everything around him would’ve bowed to the will of Nature: the trees would have bent towards themselves as their canopy would have started to tremble. The Darkling could hear the leaves move to the rhythm of the rain, he could feel the grass under his feet quiver at the quivering of his soul—he would’ve lifted his head in search of a ray of sunshine, then he would have seen the outline of the moon hidden by the ash-colored clouds.
Lastly, by reaching out with his hand, he would have touched the same rain that was now soaking his clothes: he smiled, imagining himself there, among thunders and lightings, as he would’ve glimpsed a seagull’s wing—white, so full of hope and joy and lightheartedness. Then, he would have thought about her hair—white as snow—and that day when, by explaining her that they were a Whole ( a communion of souls ), he realized for the first time ever what that poor girl meant to her: she was an orphan, yet she had known love. The Darkling, on the other hand—who would lose his mother by his own hand only shortly after—, had always been alone in the world and his childhood memories had served him as a reminder: the mind forgets, the body remembers ; that’s what her mother used to say. And now, in his own imagination, he let the rain, the water, kiss his lips. Now , the Darkling thought, fear has found a new companion .
A familiar darkness enveloped the room, in the distance you could make out glimpses of light: the Darkling imagined his people safe, at home and alongside their loved ones. He imagined their faces as they gathered around their tables, drinking from silver mugs. They would be safe, nothing would happen: now that things had changed, they wouldn’t be scared.
“What are you thinking about?”
The Darkling turned and stared at the girl next to him: she was naked and her long hair covered her shoulders—it was black, so back it reminded him of his own hair.
“Nothing. Everything” he replied, reaching out with his hand and playing with the strands of her hair. And when he noticed Alina’s smile, he couldn’t help but smile too—his lips curved slightly against his will. It was a matter of instinct.
The first time the Darkling’s gaze landed on her face, he thought he had forgotten what being alive, free and happy meant for him. Then, years later, he realized his mistake: he had never been alive or happy or free, the Darkling had never felt those kind of feelings, not for a long time, not before Alina— My Alina , he thought immediately. She had locked him up in a cell and showed him her light ( a life he could have had ). Alina, he thought—she had made him both her predator and prey. And in return, he had made her both his predator and prey.
“I’m not pleased with your answer.”
“You must be” he replied, caressing her naked skin. She lowered her gaze, following his palm against her shoulders—the Darkling forced himself to keep his own eyes open. His rough fingertips brushed against her soft, smooth skin, then they touched her hair. He lowered his hand, tracing the outline of her body and then up to her back and hips. Alina’s eyes were now closed as her eyebrows rose at the feeling of his hand against her, forming two curved lines at the center. He felt her quiver against his touch, he could feel everything she felt and everything she desired and wanted—she wanted him, she wanted his hand around her wrist, in her hair, on her belly and around her neck.
The Darkling watched Alina’s body next to his: they were setting on the bed, his shoulders rested against the wooden headboard and her small body was half covered by tick, ivory sheets. In front of them, a fire was illuminating the whole room—the Darkling was happy to be there, alone, with Alina by his side, with the only person who gave him something without demanding anything in return.
“Do you ever think about the past?”
Alina opened her eyes, turning her head. Then she stretched her body. She was now laying on her stomach and supporting her weight with her elbows. “Yes” she responded a little too quickly.
“Did you ever regret it?”
“You mean if I ever regretted killing you?”
“You didn’t kill me, but yes, did you ever regret it?”
“You hurt me.”
“And you hurt me in return, Alina.”
She waited—the Darkling never said those words to her out loud, not until then. He found himself wishing to be able to open up to her, to make her understand the pain he had been through—how he wished her death once and regretted it right away. He had wished a better world for her and their kind, but when she had destroyed every bit of it, it drove him crazy. He wanted to scream, hide his face and give himself to the darkness, but he would never surrender to the blackness of his soul.
The expression of her face changed as soon as the truth found her—clean and sharp. “We hurt each other, Aleksander. And in an attempt to destroy each other, we destroyed everything in our path.”
“I regret nothing” he confessed. “I don’t regret what I said or what I threatened to do.”
“Neither do I. I was scared—before everything happened, before I met you, I had never met anyone so...” Alina stopped, staring at something behind him.
“Monstrous?”
“No. I had never met someone so similar to me” she admitted, staring at him. “Your mistake was believing that I, during my childhood, had never known pain and misery. Maybe I didn’t endure what a Grisha has to during their life—I mean, not until I found out about my powers, but pain? Poverty? Despair? I felt that, too, Aleksander. I felt hunger and I wished for more power.”
The Darkling twirled a strand of her jet black hair around one finger, then he shoved it around her ear. “And now?”
“Now I have everything.”
The Darkling met Alina’s gaze as he caressed her cheek. And as he stared at her, she put her hand around his wrist, pressing her own thumb against his pulse. The Darkling let out a sigh of relief and closed his eyes, letting Alina discover a new part of himself: a part so vulnerable and infinitely human. He thought of the words a past lover had told him a long time ago, when—after he had destroyed part of the Ferjda’s army—the Darkling decided to open up to him.
“I have a rotten heart” he had said that night.
He cupped his cheek. “A rotten heart is still a heart.”
That day, the Darkling mistook his words for a love confession, later he understood their malignant nature: nobody had ever loved him, and if they had, it was only because they were attracted to his powers.
Alina followed his gaze, tilting her head slightly. Then she leaned forward, letting their lips touch briefly. “What about you, Aleksander?”
“What?”
“Do you think you have everything you wished?”
The Darkling felt Alina’s slander fingers against his lips, how her breasts fitted snugly against his own chest. “I don’t know” he admitted. “Why are you here? Why did you come back? Who pushed you?”
Under that faint, warm light, Alina’s eyes shone. “No one” she said, her voice growing rougher as she spoke. “Not even you.”
The Darkling’s hand moved, resting now on her back. Then he lift it up to the curve of her back and neck, putting more pressure.
“I lost everything. You are the only thing I have left of my previous life.”
“So I’m just a memory for you?”
She shook her head and opened her mouth making a sweet sound as the Darkling caressed her naked skin with his own ring. “You were—you are my past, Aleksander, and my present and my future. I tried in vain to escape from you but the more I tried to get away from you, the more I found myself alongside you. The more I tried to tell myself that you were different from me, the more I realized that we were alike. No one noticed me before you and as much as I tried to convince myself of the opposite, I knew I deserved better. I didn’t belong to that life.”
“No” he confirmed. “Not at all. You were meant for greatness.”
“Just like you.”
His face darkened. Quickly, the Darkling tried to hide his surprise from her but Alina, who had began to understand his language, shook her head vigorously. “You’ve been forged by pain” she said, “but that doesn’t mean you have to live with it for the rest of your life. I...”
“I’m not weak.”
Alina’s lips curved in a compassionate smile. “No, you’ve never been weak.”
The Darkling wrapped his arms around her torso, drawing her to him. Alina sighed, sitting on his lap and resting her hand on his chest. “Aleksander...”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.”
She traced his chest with her finger and when she reached his belly she stopped. “Will we ever forgive each other?”
There was a pause, then she heard his reply. It was only a whisper. “I forgave you a long time ago.”
Alina licked her lower lip and the Darkling, who hadn’t stopped observing her, noticed a flicker of light between her fingers—a smile hinted on his face: seeing Alina so comfortable and confident with herself, watching her conjure her own power as she sat on his lap, made him feel warm and proud of her.
Moye vse , he thought as he felt a warm feeling inside his body—he wanted Alina to touch him, to leave a mark on his skin and heart, to burn his body so he could be reborn from his ashes and forget about everything: his mother‘s voice, the danger, the knowledge that no one would truly love him—that everyone would use him as a tool; he felt like he couldn’t escape, at least, not from his past. He wished for pain, for Alina to caress him tenderly.
“Do you think” Alina said, moving her gaze from her own hands so she could see the man in front of her, “we had known each other?“
“What do you mean?”
“Before. When—when we met each other, you told me that you were waiting for me. How did you know?”
The Darkling shrugged. “I didn’t know, I felt it. Alina—even when I didn’t know you, you were the only thing I knew. You’re my constant, my opposite—my equal.”
Under his gaze, Alina leaned forward and stopped before their lips could meet. Her gaze was following his pink, plump lips. “What do you want, Aleksander?”
His grip tightened around her hips. “You.”
Alina rubbed her nose against his, then she wrinkled it. “But you have me already.”
The Darkling allowed himself to look at her, to remind himself that everything had changed and that because things had changed, everything was the same: when he was a kid he had wished for someone to touch him gently. Then, he wished for himself pain and the pleasure that can be found within this familiar feeling: he had threatened her, promised her a better life and the destruction of everything she knew. And now that she was with him willingly, now that she had stopped hiding her true self—giving herself to her power—he finally understood himself.
The Darkling closed his eyes, gripping her hip with one hand and her neck with the other, clutching her hair. “Please, say it.”
“What?”
He opened his eyes. “You know what I meant.”
Alina smiled once again. Just then, a bolt broke into the sky, illuminating half of her face. “Aleksander” she whispered and the Darkling, by hearing her calling his name, closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. “Aleksander” she continued, murmuring his name against his half-closed lips. “Aleksander.”
The Darkling clenched his jaw and leaned forward, kissing her lips. “ Moye vse ” he whispered through his kisses. “My Alina.”