Archive of Our Own ^beta

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For five hundred years, he had fought. Searched. Bled and endured, century after century, carrying Ravka on his shoulders and shadows in his veins, never once letting go of the hope that she would come.
And now—now she was here. Living. Breathing. 
If she were lost to him—by blades, by schemes, by the Fold itself—he would not survive another five hundred.
He knew it. The shadows knew it.
She did not.

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"Saints, Aleksander—”
Her whisper broke when she realized why he wasn’t answering.
Not asleep. Not unconscious.
Simply too tired to form words.

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Ivan felt it first.
A wrongness, subtle yet undeniable, coiling in his chest like a phantom ache. It was not pain, not exactly, but a sensation he recognized—something off, something slipping.
It took him half a second to realize who it belonged to, and then another half to break into a run.

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Kirigan made a careful attempt to shift higher on the pillows. Both Heartrenders moved instinctively—not to stop him, but to offer support if needed. The gesture was so automatic, so unthinking, that it took a moment for all three of them to register what had happened.

The General stilled, his dark eyes moving between them with something that might have been curiosity. "This is new."
"What is?" Fedyor asked.
"This." Kirigan gestured slightly, a minimal movement that somehow encompassed their entire vigil. "The watching. The waiting. The..." he paused, as if searching for the right word, "...concern."

Ivan's expression didn't change. "You nearly bled to death. Concern seems appropriate."
"I've been injured before."
"Not with us there to see it," Fedyor pointed out quietly.

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it was weighted. Kirigan's gaze had turned inward, as if he were examining some internal landscape that had shifted while he slept. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"I'm not accustomed to..." He trailed off, then started again. "It's been a long time since anyone has felt the need to keep watch."
The admission was so matter-of-fact that it almost masked the enormity of what he'd revealed. Almost.

Ivan felt something tighten in his chest. "How long?"
Kirigan's smile was brief and without humor. "Long enough that I'd forgotten what it felt like to wake up and find someone still there."

The words hung in the air between them, carrying years, decades—perhaps—of solitary recovery, of wounds tended alone, of consciousness returned to empty rooms and absent comfort. 
Fedyor's expression softened with something that wasn't quite pity—Kirigan would never have tolerated pity—but a deep, quiet understanding.
"Well," Ivan grunted, his tone characteristically blunt, "get used to it."
That earned him a sharp look. "Is that a threat, Ivan?"
"A promise."

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Genya frowns. "You look like death." 
He glances up from his maps. "I feel worse."
It's the closest to honesty he's given her in weeks.

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Zoya told herself she didn’t care, that he was reckless and deserved every broken piece of himself. But when she saw him sway, his knees buckling as though the world had pulled out from under him, she caught his arm without thinking. Her jaw clenched at the weight pressing down on her—not his body, but the realization of what it would mean if he fell.

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Kirigan’s lips twitched faintly, a flicker of amusement in the otherwise pale and drawn lines of his face. “You’re awfully bossy for someone who answers to me.”

Ivan simply stared at him, utterly unmoved by the stubborn defiance that held Kirigan on his feet “And you’re awfully irritating for someone who can’t stand without swaying.”

Kirigan’s half-smile deepened, though it was brittle, strained. He shifted slightly, stifling the wince that followed. “I’m fine.”

Ivan stepped closer, his boots scuffing softly against the dirt floor. “You’ve lost enough blood to make dying look like the sensible option. The only reason you’re not unconscious right now is that your ego’s too big to allow it.”

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She brushed damp hair from his temple, her hand steady though her knees threatened to give out beneath her.

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Ivan shifted his grip, teeth clenched. Kirigan’s weight was leaner than expected, fragile beneath the heavy fabric of his kefta.
“Saints, he’s all edges,” he murmured.

Fedyor’s jaw tightened. “Careful. He doesn’t come with a spare.”
Humor strained against the tension in his shoulders.

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"You're not weak," she insisted, taking a step closer so that there was scarcely a breath of air between them. "But you're human. Even you need… something. Someone. To lean on, to—" She bit her lip, forcing herself to hold his gaze, even as his eyes searched hers with a desperation that made her pulse quicken. "To remind you that you’re not alone."

For a moment, it seemed as though he might push her away, that he might retreat back into the impenetrable darkness that had always surrounded him. But then, with a slow exhalation that trembled like the last leaf on an autumn tree, he let his head fall forward, his brow coming to rest against hers. His breath was warm against her skin, mingling with hers in the cool night air.
"You don't know what you’re offering," he whispered, his voice rough and quiet, as though afraid that saying the words aloud might shatter the fragile stillness between them. "The darkness I carry… it is not something you should have to touch."

Alina's fingers tightened on his arm, her other hand rising to gently cup his cheek, her thumb brushing against the stubble that roughened his jaw. "Then let me be your light," she begged, her voice steady despite the tears that now slipped free from her eyes. "Even if it's just for a little while… even if I can only push the darkness back an inch… let me help you."

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He had seen Kirigan cut down men with a flick of his hand. He had seen him break armies. But the sight that haunted him most was this—his commander asleep at last, face gaunt, lashes damp, breathing shallow.
It was the first time he had looked human.

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He had not intended to fall asleep. Had not intended to fall apart.

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Nikolai tapped the bedpost with two fingers, his eyes narrowing.
“You’re a disaster, Kirigan. Do you plan to terrify Fjerdans by collapsing in front of them?”
Kirigan’s mouth twitched. “It worked on you.”

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Now, as Fedyor watched them, he felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. They looked so... fragile. General Kirigan, who could command shadows to swallow armies whole, lay utterly still, his lips grey, his face ashen and damp with perspiration from extensive blood loos he had endured.
The luminous Alina Starkov, who could summon the power of the sun, was curled against him like a child seeking warmth. One of her hands rested lightly on his chest, just over his heart, as though she needed the reassurance of its steady beat, the reassurance that he was still alive, beneath her fingers.
“They’ll be alright,” Fedyor whispered softly, breaking the heavy silence. His words were meant as much for himself as for Ivan and Genya, who stood beside him. “They just need time.”

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It wasn’t until they were under the care of a cool-handed Healer, wet cloths on their foreheads, and a sharp herbal drink forced down their throats, that Ivan muttered, “This is humiliating.”

“Oh yes,” Fedyor sighed, eyes closed. “Three of the most feared Grisha in the Little Palace, conquered by fevers and bad decisions.”

“And no one’s even tried to assassinate us today,” Ivan grumbled. “What a waste.”

And Kirigan—well. He had collapsed before getting a say in the matter, so he had been spared the indignity of defending himself.

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Alina felt it—a pull in her chest, sharp enough to take her breath away.
It wasn’t that he was finally awake again. It was the way he looked at her… Saints, it nearly undid her. As if he couldn’t quite believe she was real. As if the sight of her beside him was something he didn’t deserve.
It hurt.

She had seen many versions of Aleksander Kirigan. The General, unshakable and composed. The soldier, fierce and commanding. The man, enigmatic and unreadable. But this—this was different. He looked vulnerable. Almost lost.

She wanted to reach for him, to cup his face, to soothe the wonder in his eyes, the exhaustion clinging to him like a shadow. But she didn’t dare—her fingers curled against the sheets instead.
“How do you feel?” she asked at last, voice hushed, uncertain.

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Three weeks of searching.
He hasn't slept, hasn't eaten, hasn't stopped moving. His eyes are wild with panic and fury.

"Aleksander, you have to rest."

He stares at her like she's speaking a foreign language. "They have her, Genya. They have her and it's my fault."

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Kirigan was slumped over his desk, his body curled in on itself, completely still. The strength that usually radiated from his features seemed to have vanished, leaving him fragile, almost delicate.

Fedyor’s stomach twisted with unease. This wasn’t the Kirigan he knew. The man who had always stood tall, unshaken by anything, was now a shell of himself.
This was a pale boy, too young, too hollow, burning with fever. A stranger wearing his commander’s face.

Fedyor knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder, feeling the heat radiating from Kirigan’s skin. His pulse was faint, and his breathing shallow. The illness was unmistakable.

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Alina hovered at the doorway, torn between retreat and approach.

He hadn’t seen her yet. His head was bowed, hair falling into his eyes, shoulders curved inward as though the weight of command had finally caved his spine.

She thought she could almost hear it — the silence of a man breaking.

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He had carried his Grisha and Ravka on his shoulders for so long he no longer remembered what it felt like to stand upright without weight.
When he closed his eyes, he did not see peace.
Only the Fold.
Only graves.

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“You’re surprisingly gentle for someone who spends half her time blasting light at people.” His voice was tinged with dry humor, despite the blood dripping from his hand.
She glanced up at him, caught off guard by the faint smile on his lips. “And you’re surprisingly fragile for someone who pretends to be indestructible.”

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He wanted to say he wasn’t weak. He wanted to say it didn’t hurt.
The words died before they formed.

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Alina reached for his hand.
It twitched once, then stilled in hers. She held it like something fragile, half-afraid of shattering.

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His steps were slow as he walked through the halls. Not out of hesitation, but sheer exhaustion. His body was protesting every movement, his mind still racing with strategy and duty.

He had not eaten today.
Had not rested.
He had barely stopped moving for weeks.
And everyone knew it.

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Kirigan was awake. Seated, though not properly—he was half-reclined against a mountain of pillows, looking more like someone tolerating consciousness rather than actively participating in it. There was a cup in his hand, steaming slightly, though he didn’t seem particularly interested in drinking from it.
Ivan stood beside the bed, arms crossed, watching him with the expression of a man preparing to be ignored.

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Two weeks of coordinated searches. Every available tracker, every spy network, every favor owed. He works methodically, ruthlessly efficient even as exhaustion carves hollows under his eyes.
"You need to sleep," she begs him quietly.
"I need her back alive," he replies.

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"You can't save her if you're dead," she whispers.
He looks at her like death might be easier.

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And so, Kirigan had not slept.
Not eaten.
Not stopped in weeks.
Because there was no time for that.
Not when the world was waiting for him to fail.

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She watched him lift his head in council, every line of him carved from iron.
She watched him afterwards, shoulders trembling once the doors were shut.
She never said a word. Her silence was another bandage.

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Her hand brushed his sleeve, warm, unguarded. He flinched—not from her touch, but from the thought of it vanishing. If she knew what he was, what he had done… she would pull back.
He could not bear that. Not from her.

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"Do you ever wonder," she asks, "what we might have been in another life?"
He looks at her—this woman who poisons kings for breakfast and spies on nobles for dinner—and almost smiles. "Saints," he shugs. "Probably something boring."

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The world blurred at the edges. For a moment, he could not tell if it was fever or centuries pressing down.

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He heard his name. Not the title, not the command. Just Aleksander. For a moment, it was almost enough to keep his eyes open.

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When they lifted him, he did not resist.
Could not resist.
His fingers curled, finding fabric, clinging harder than he meant to. Pathetic, he thought distantly.
But he did not let go.

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Alina’s hand lingered on his. Genya saw it, said nothing, and laid another blanket across his chest. They were both pretending he wasn’t dying in front of their eyes.

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Alina’s fingers finally brushed Kirigan’s, gentle and trembling. “Why didn’t he say anything?”
“He never does,” Fedyor replied. “It’s a whole thing. Stoic martyrdom. Very dramatic.”
"Idiot." Ivan snorted, exhaustedly. “You married one of those. Don’t throw stones.”
Fedyor gave a proud little smile. “Yes, and look where he is now. Nearly dead on his feet himself and still insulting people. It's endearing.”

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“But why...” Alina stopped; swallowed; started again. “He seemed tired, but…”
Ivan looked at her. “That’s how he works. He hides it until it breaks him.”
“I thought he was angry with me today,” she wrung her hands, almost speaking to herself. “He barely looked at me.”
“That wasn’t anger,” Ivan sighed. “That was him staying on his feet.”

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The night strechted endless. The silence stretched even longer. Only the shallow rasp of his breath filled it.
Ivan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
“If you die in your sleep,” he muttered, “I’m telling everyone it was out of spite.”

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He stirred, lashes fluttering, and she bent closer. Relief struck like pain, sharp and sudden.
“Don’t—don’t scare me like that again,” she whispered.
He did not answer. But his hand twitched, just enough for her fingers to catch it.

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Ivan stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded across his chest. His usual scowl was in place, but it didn’t hold its usual bite. “You scared the living hell out of us,” he stated flatly.
Fedyor gave a slow nod. “Two days unconscious. We kept you under — the Healers said your body needed it, or it’d fail altogether.”
“You were already halfway gone when we found you,” Ivan added. “Even for you, that was stupid.”

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"You're holding court in your nightdress?" Nikolai qipped, eyeing the loose linen shirt and trousers—convalescent's clothes, meant for rest, not working on reports from the front lines. His gaze lingered a moment too long on the stained bandages visible through the pale fabric, suggesting wounds too severe for even the healers to fully mend.
"Either you've finally decided formal dress is overrated, or you've completely lost your mind."

Kirigan didn't look up from his maps. "Both."

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They found them in the war room—Kirigan slumped over tactical maps, Alina curled in the chair beside him, her hand still resting near his.

Ivan shook his head, sighing. "We have to get them into proper beds," he whispered. "If possible, without waking them."

Fedyor sideeyed him incredulously. "Will you carry them or what? You take him then. I'm not built for—"

But Ivan had already moved past him and was gathering Alina gently.

Fedyor rolled his eyes. "Oh great. You're so much better suited for handling the big scary General."

"Shut up," Ivan muttered.

Alina stirred as Ivan lifted her, blinking slowly. "Ivan?"

"Sleep," he murmured quietly, his voice unusually soft. "Just moving you somewhere more comfortable."

She nodded drowsily and settled against his shoulder, trusting.

Fedyor watched them for a moment, then turned his attention to the General. He couldn't just carry Kirigan—wouldn't even if he could. Instead, he decided to wake him, though it proved difficult. It took several gentle shakes and soft calls of his name before Kirigan finally stirred, blinking sluggishly as though dragging himself up from the depths of sleep.

"Come on," Fedyor murmured, sliding an arm around him. "Let's get you somewhere with an actual pillow."

Kirigan swayed heavily against him, nearly dead weight as Fedyor hauled him to his feet. When his legs threatened to give out entirely, Fedyor had to wrap both arms around him to keep him upright, practically carrying him toward the door. Kirigan's head lolled against Fedyor's shoulder.

"This is embarrassing," he mumbled, though he made no effort to support himself properly.

"It is," Fedyor agreed cheerfully. "So is face-planting into your own war strategies, just for your information. But now stop being ashamed and just accept the damn help."

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He had 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 unshed tear.

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The truth had spilled from his lips like blood, and for one foolish moment, he thought it might save him; she might save him.

Her revulsion as she ran had finished what the centuries couldn't.

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So he went. Too weak to fight, too tired to care.

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He landed facedown in the hollow below, breath punched from his lungs, gravel biting into his cheek. The impact didn't hurt as much as it should have. Perhaps because nothing could outmatch the pain inside.
And as the blood pooled beneath him, for the first time in his long life, he longed for it to be over.

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Ivan found him between the last heartbeat and silence.

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Each contraction was fierce, uncompromising—driving life into a body that seemed intent on giving up.

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His lips were nearly blue, his breath nonexistent, and his face—a face that was always so commanding, so defiant—was slack and unrecognizable.
But Ivan couldn’t let it end here.
Not now.
Not ever.

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“No,” he hissed, his voice sharp with desperation. His fingers dug into Kirigan’s ribcage, forcing the battered heart to respond—to beat, to survive. “Not like this. Fight, damn you!”

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Ivan's power gripped harder, overriding every flicker of resistance in Kirigan’s failing body.

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Kirigan’s body jerked under his hands, the sudden convulsion so violent it sent dirt and gravel scattering. His eyes shot open, wide and glassy, but there was no recognition—only pain. His lips parted in a broken gasp as though he were drowning, his hands clawing weakly at the muddy ground.

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Ivan could feel the faint, uneven rhythm of his heart—too fast, too fragile—but it was there. Alive.
Barely.

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Yet, Kirigan didn’t respond. His eyes remained half-lidded, his lashes wet with sweat, and his skin was sickly pale.