This is PERFECT. It’s like you reached into my heart and soul to write this based on the prompt. Thank you so much, @qqueenofhades <3
75. "Promise me just one thing…" for Darklina? Sending lots of love and hugs your way!
75. "Promise me just one thing..."
The great Basilica of the Saints is huge, echoing, and crammed with thousands of people that Alina has never met before in her life: diplomatic delegations from Fjerda, Kerch, and the Shu Han, the serried ranks of the Ravkan nobility, the Grisha in their formal keftas, First Army in dress uniform, and everyone else who has traveled to Os Alta in order to see this happen, and craft their new plans and cunning political stratagems accordingly. It's all on this. All on her.
Alina stands by herself in the vestry, her veil obscuring her face, her splendid white-and-golden gown glittering with painstakingly handmade embroidery. Her heart rattles like a broken dish in her chest, and her hands tremble where they clutch the bouquet. Genya stands behind her, silently holding the heavy rim of her train. She has kept her opinion of this to a tactful minimum, but Alina knows that she, to say the least, has reservations. All of them do. But if this is the only way -- if she can end the war and bring back peace and maybe reach the idealistic, good-hearted boy that the terrifying man used to be --
She can hear the patriarch praying the nuptial liturgy, hands upraised to the gilded eyes of the icons that gaze down from all sides of the dome. Then the real eyes of the crowd turn to her like a thousand candles, burning into her more brightly than her own sun, and Alina quails. For a moment, she almost breaks. Almost throws down the flowers and turns and runs. Doesn't want to do this at all. Can't. Can't.
But she does.
Slowly and regally, she moves out of the shadows, as Genya gets a better grip on her train and matches Alina's measured, carefully rehearsed steps down the aisle. The two of them walk what seems an endless length, a mile, down the nave, past all the watching eyes and the wary guests, waiting to see if this is, in fact, a new era or merely the great and terrible culmination of the old. The patriarch glitters in his tall hat and ceremonial stole. And at the altar, waiting --
Aleksander looks very handsome, of course. He always does, and even now, after all they have been through, it's still enough to turn Alina a little weak in the knees. For once he's shed his trademark blacks, and his bridegroom's clothes are as white as hers. It's a lie, Alina thinks. It's a lie, but I have to make it true. Somehow.
She reaches the foot of the altar. This is her last chance to flee, if she's going to. But she doesn't. This is her duty, her choice, and she's made it. She mounts the steps, careful not to trip on her beaded hem, and reaches the waiting men. Aleksander holds out a hand to help her, and Alina braces herself not to flinch at his touch. Whether from fear, desire, or both, she doesn't know.
"You look lovely," Aleksander says under his breath, as if he's truly seeking to put her at ease. "Truly."
"I... thank you. Sir." The formality helps her, a little. But Alina screws up her courage, looks him in the eye, and swallows hard. "Aleksander," she corrects herself. "Promise me just one thing."
His eyes hold hers, unblinking. "Of course."
"Please," Alina whispers, so quietly that she can barely hear herself. "Please don't betray me again."
The almighty Darkling flinches, just a little. His hand squeezes hers, holding her tight, drawing her in and turning her to face the patriarch, who raises his psalter and prepares to begin the ceremony. "I'm sorry," he says, not looking at her. "I know I've hurt you before, and I can't promise that I won't do it again, even by accident. But you have my word, Alina. I'll.... I will try my best."
That might not be the answer she wants, but Alina can grudgingly respect the fact that at least, this time, he won't lie to her. That's not much to build on, not nearly what they used to be, but it's a start, and she is determined to seize it. And so, as the voices of the choir swell toward the sky, the congregation sits with a whisper and a murmur and a scrape of chairs, she draws a deep breath, tells herself to be brave, be brave, and turns to marry Aleksander Morozov.
[fic prompts]
in average
are photos
are videos
are texts
are gifs
are audio