The boat to Novyi Zem is overcrowded. Cramped and damp, with the miserable murmur of voices from every corner as a dull susurration accompanying them night and day. The tenor changes along with the sea; panicked scatterings of prayer when the waters are rough, pattering, easy conversations when waters are calm.
Their trio of companions make themselves at home one way or another. There are days when Mal joins Jesper to gamble on the deck, or observes Kaz making a circuit of the deck, or climbs up into the rigging alongside the sailors. The restless prickle of anxiety he'd carried out of the darkness with him has settled, grown muted in the course of their crossing; there is only so much planning to be done aboard this ship.
It still circles at the edges of their conversation. A snippet of when we disembark— or we must be sure to—
But there is not yet conversation tonight.
There is the two of them, tucked close on deck. The sea is choppy, and their cloaks are damp, and Mal stands very close to her, arms bracketing her to keep Alina steady as the boat plows forward towards the uncertain future they've chosen for themselves.
"Are you tired?" is an idle question, perhaps not worth breaking the quiet over. "It should be safe to go down. Madame Apolena should be asleep by now, so we won't hear of her bad knees and neglectful sons."
"I don't want to go down yet," which is not a yes or a no to his initial question, but the soft loll of her head to the side, the slow blink of heavy lids speaks for her.
Dull and cloudy skies make her hands look even paler against the deep brown taffrail of the ship, but the skies and temperamental are not the only thing that steal the color from her cheeks, not the sole source uneasy nights that leave her tired into the day. She strums her fingers, imagining the light twirling around them like she might fidget with a pencil. Sankta Alina is a title she is not ready to reconcile with, but in tucking it away she hides another part of herself, bright and bold but not at all suited to subtlety.
Invisibility is their safety here, but no mastery of light or shadow is needed to accomplish that. There is some nostalgic comfort that sits in being anonymous and ordinary. Ghosts that can slip away unnoticed.
His bicep makes for a comfortable place to rest her head, his body the protective shield and comfort of a home she never had, a warmth echoing a comfort she could never concretely place. There is so much uncertainty ahead of them that she has grown less cautious with Mal. Hesitation is for those who have the luxury of time, although there are still questions she cannot put words to, instead asked and answered in held breaths and gentle touches, steadier than the rocky seas below their feet.
"And she's just lonely," not to be too defensive of Madame Apolena, but that's a feeling Alina understands well.
"Her snoring is worse than her stories though," Alina muses ideally, having given up on trying to keep her eyes open, and settling for just pillowing her head against Mal's arm. "Worse than your impression of a bear in hibernation you do each night."
Among all the ways Alina has become someone different, it is a comfort to note the ways in which she is the same. Still generous, kind when she doesn't have to be. And here, she fits in against him the way he remembers. It requires so little thought to adjust the fall of his cloak around her as one hand pinches lightly at her elbow.
"Me, a bear?" he counters, mock-affronted. "I'm not sure what that makes you then."
A second, gentler squeeze at Alina's elbow.
"Not to mention these elbows. I've been fending these off for years now."
Except here is the thing: Alina is not so skinny anymore. Her elbows are not so sharp as they were once. It looks good on her, yes, but there is some minor uncertainty as Mal thinks of it. The change lives in the space after the tease, a quiet kind of weight.
"Ana Kuya called me a bird, didn't she?" And well... she was skinny and oddly proportioned, although that doesn't mean Alina has to be pleased about the assessment.
"I have new tricks you'll have to get used to now that I don't have such sharp joints," Alina fidgets in his arms, although her protest is more for show than earnest. She turns, poking at his ribs with the accuracy gained only from years of affectionate squabbling.
(Baghra had made a comment about hiding where she didn't belong, but that wasn't true. That's not fair. She was exactly where she needed to be with Mal at her side. Each step in her path mapped her way here.)
"And I still think I got you pretty good a few nights ago," where Alina perhaps had thrashed a little bit underneath the blankets in the narrow bunk of the ship. "Do you still have that bruise?"
New tricks twinging like a half-healed wound. It's set aside at the prod of Alina's fingers. Maybe that emotion shows for a split second, some minor uncertain thing shadowing his face before his grin splits and widens.
"I've more than just one bruise," he complains, mock-aggrieved as he squirms under the dig of her finger. "By the time we disembark I'll be all blue and black if it keeps up."
Which will certainly be the least of their concerns, once they disembark. Just like Alina's new tricks are both the cause and the least of their present worries, but it is easier to feign worry over a few bruises he may or may not acquire than it is to delve into the real worry he has over how he'll keep Alina safe, knowing what's chasing her.
Is it possible to know someone else better than herself? Alina sees that flash of something uncertain cross Mal's expression, it tugs on something deep in her chest. They have moments where they pretend like everything is the same, but it's just that. Pretending. Pretending that they haven't crossed a threshold that they can't walk back through, that the whole world's axis hasn't shifted beneath their feet.
And while pretending might be easy when it's just her, and she can sometimes be blind to the uglier truths in front of her to indulge in an old story about belonging, the small change in Mal's face is a bit like a sudden spray of the cold ocean water or a sharp rock of the ship that sends her stumbling back to a reality that they are different. She is different, and she is not sure it's fair to have asked Mal to upend his life and risk things she doesn't even know yet because of her.
Ducking her head, she gathers herself to play along with the game she's started. Her lip pulls tight before giving way to a smile. Still, her hands pull back, fingers folding into her palms to hold in something that she's still not sure how to actually own.
"Maybe it'll make people think you're tough," delivered more softly, but still with the cadence of a joke. Mal is the most resilient person she knows, but it has nothing to do with how he looks coming out of a fist fight.
Alina smiles, but the sunny, genuine beaming isn't quite there. Too much worry weighs down on her for her to really appreciate it earnestly.
"Don't say that so loudly. Everyone on this ship loves to gossip." Not that she can blame them with little else to do. Still, a joke is easier, than the truth right now when all they have time to do is wait. It's strange to be back in this spot, waiting for life to happen.
And then, ideally, "We'll need better covers eventually." Maybe they should have picked Kaz and Jesper's brains for ideas.
Eventually. Now. They'll need some air-tight lie to draw down over the truth of themselves until they are somewhere safe. (Where is safe?)
His hands fold over hers.
"Do you remember any of the things you wanted to be? Back at the orphanage?"
What can Mal volunteer? Would it be risky to volunteer himself as a tracker still? Maybe he can be a fisherman, a merchant, something mundane that no one will look twice at.
It's delivered with a joking tilt, but dreaming and possibilities feel a lot like a luxury when there's so much more to worry about, when deep down you know you don't belong. It abated a little, when Mal arrived. Gave her space to breath and feel and get lost in the little stories from the few well-worn books in the Keramzin library.
"I thought..." She hums, uncertain. "I thought that after the army, I don't know." Settling on a farm? She flushes a little, realizing she's now detailing a boring life for the both of them. It's also just something written for them rather than a choice they make for themselves.
"An artist," she finally offers softly. It seems silly and frivolous to say it now as it did back then when survival is so important. But Mal is Mal, and he is her safety where she can whisper silly and impossible dreams and know they'll be held as safely as he holds her on these rocky seas.
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2/2
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Dull and cloudy skies make her hands look even paler against the deep brown taffrail of the ship, but the skies and temperamental are not the only thing that steal the color from her cheeks, not the sole source uneasy nights that leave her tired into the day. She strums her fingers, imagining the light twirling around them like she might fidget with a pencil. Sankta Alina is a title she is not ready to reconcile with, but in tucking it away she hides another part of herself, bright and bold but not at all suited to subtlety.
Invisibility is their safety here, but no mastery of light or shadow is needed to accomplish that. There is some nostalgic comfort that sits in being anonymous and ordinary. Ghosts that can slip away unnoticed.
His bicep makes for a comfortable place to rest her head, his body the protective shield and comfort of a home she never had, a warmth echoing a comfort she could never concretely place. There is so much uncertainty ahead of them that she has grown less cautious with Mal. Hesitation is for those who have the luxury of time, although there are still questions she cannot put words to, instead asked and answered in held breaths and gentle touches, steadier than the rocky seas below their feet.
"And she's just lonely," not to be too defensive of Madame Apolena, but that's a feeling Alina understands well.
"Her snoring is worse than her stories though," Alina muses ideally, having given up on trying to keep her eyes open, and settling for just pillowing her head against Mal's arm. "Worse than your impression of a bear in hibernation you do each night."
no subject
"Me, a bear?" he counters, mock-affronted. "I'm not sure what that makes you then."
A second, gentler squeeze at Alina's elbow.
"Not to mention these elbows. I've been fending these off for years now."
Except here is the thing: Alina is not so skinny anymore. Her elbows are not so sharp as they were once. It looks good on her, yes, but there is some minor uncertainty as Mal thinks of it. The change lives in the space after the tease, a quiet kind of weight.
no subject
"I have new tricks you'll have to get used to now that I don't have such sharp joints," Alina fidgets in his arms, although her protest is more for show than earnest. She turns, poking at his ribs with the accuracy gained only from years of affectionate squabbling.
(Baghra had made a comment about hiding where she didn't belong, but that wasn't true. That's not fair. She was exactly where she needed to be with Mal at her side. Each step in her path mapped her way here.)
"And I still think I got you pretty good a few nights ago," where Alina perhaps had thrashed a little bit underneath the blankets in the narrow bunk of the ship. "Do you still have that bruise?"
no subject
New tricks twinging like a half-healed wound. It's set aside at the prod of Alina's fingers. Maybe that emotion shows for a split second, some minor uncertain thing shadowing his face before his grin splits and widens.
"I've more than just one bruise," he complains, mock-aggrieved as he squirms under the dig of her finger. "By the time we disembark I'll be all blue and black if it keeps up."
Which will certainly be the least of their concerns, once they disembark. Just like Alina's new tricks are both the cause and the least of their present worries, but it is easier to feign worry over a few bruises he may or may not acquire than it is to delve into the real worry he has over how he'll keep Alina safe, knowing what's chasing her.
no subject
And while pretending might be easy when it's just her, and she can sometimes be blind to the uglier truths in front of her to indulge in an old story about belonging, the small change in Mal's face is a bit like a sudden spray of the cold ocean water or a sharp rock of the ship that sends her stumbling back to a reality that they are different. She is different, and she is not sure it's fair to have asked Mal to upend his life and risk things she doesn't even know yet because of her.
Ducking her head, she gathers herself to play along with the game she's started. Her lip pulls tight before giving way to a smile. Still, her hands pull back, fingers folding into her palms to hold in something that she's still not sure how to actually own.
"Maybe it'll make people think you're tough," delivered more softly, but still with the cadence of a joke. Mal is the most resilient person she knows, but it has nothing to do with how he looks coming out of a fist fight.
no subject
Now it feels like walking a forest path in the dark. It feels like he could lose his way, for the first time in his life.
And he can see the way Alina registers this too, the way it works across her face as her hands clench.
"I hope so. I'll need to be tough, if I'm going to be the Sun Summoner's bodyguard."
A shadow of an old joke. It's all so much more serious now, isn't it? Trying to hide, trying to keep Alina free after all she's suffered—
He'll have to be more than he is now. Somehow. Cleverer, stronger, quicker. He has to find a way to make himself all of that before they hit land.
no subject
"Don't say that so loudly. Everyone on this ship loves to gossip." Not that she can blame them with little else to do. Still, a joke is easier, than the truth right now when all they have time to do is wait. It's strange to be back in this spot, waiting for life to happen.
And then, ideally, "We'll need better covers eventually." Maybe they should have picked Kaz and Jesper's brains for ideas.
no subject
Eventually. Now. They'll need some air-tight lie to draw down over the truth of themselves until they are somewhere safe. (Where is safe?)
His hands fold over hers.
"Do you remember any of the things you wanted to be? Back at the orphanage?"
What can Mal volunteer? Would it be risky to volunteer himself as a tracker still? Maybe he can be a fisherman, a merchant, something mundane that no one will look twice at.
no subject
It's delivered with a joking tilt, but dreaming and possibilities feel a lot like a luxury when there's so much more to worry about, when deep down you know you don't belong. It abated a little, when Mal arrived. Gave her space to breath and feel and get lost in the little stories from the few well-worn books in the Keramzin library.
"I thought..." She hums, uncertain. "I thought that after the army, I don't know." Settling on a farm? She flushes a little, realizing she's now detailing a boring life for the both of them. It's also just something written for them rather than a choice they make for themselves.
"An artist," she finally offers softly. It seems silly and frivolous to say it now as it did back then when survival is so important. But Mal is Mal, and he is her safety where she can whisper silly and impossible dreams and know they'll be held as safely as he holds her on these rocky seas.