— what is infinite?

aleksander morozova; the darkling.

[dqrkling-blog]

⌜ gemmapavlova ⌟

He says her name like a prayer, like the answer to a question he’s spent an eternity mulling over, and she knows him—knows his voice, even though they’ve spoken fewer times than it would take her to occupy each and every one of the digits on her hands, knows the sharp angle of his jaw, the rise and fall of his cheekbones. But perhaps more than she knows him now, as he may or may not be, she remembers him then, as he was when she was but a village thief, a girl who’d seemingly stuck her nose where it didn’t belong and bloodied someone else’s for it. She remembers his hand, warm against the delicate skin of her wrist, his thumb tracing the bone like a road on one of her father’s old maps, the rush of certainty she’d felt—like waking up bathed in sunlight after a lifetime spent in a room as dark as it was cold—and light, enough to color midnight gold as noon.

She remembers, and she doesn’t shy away, because for all that black may suit her (his doing, undoubtedly), cowardice does not.

“Thank you,” Gemma murmurs, blue gaze slipping from his for a moment to admire the spill of black silk and gold thread she dons, the sun pendant peeking cheekily out from beneath one of the kefta’s folds. She looks strong, sharp—domineering, even—nothing at all like outcast she’d once been, and she can’t bring herself to chide him for making the decision for her, although the thought had made itself at home in the corner of her mind. Recalling her mother’s advice—to call a lovely thing what it was if only for the sake of not letting that loveliness go to waste, she continues, a distant relative of fondness seeping into her tone, “It’s beautiful.”

Her lips part, and a polite dismissal dances on the tip of her tongue, all pirouettes and piqués, but it remains there, prompted to pause by the questions that trail his apology, and she waits—one heartbeat, then two, then three—before she responds, light curling avidly around her fingers for lack of other direction. “Well.” As well as she could be, all things considered, but she has a feeling he knows, and men who live extraordinarily long lives must get so terribly jaded from hearing the same things over and over again. Something akin to a smile curls the edges of her lips, though, and she thinks the champagne might’ve made her brave. “You’re kind to offer, moi soverennyi, but I worry to think what I could possibly accomplish if a ball is enough to send me running.” And she’s joking, but only half-so.

To run for miles is one thing; to be dragged is another breed of tiring entirely.

“We’ll have to give them what they want. And that’s you.” Her smile falters a bit at that, ravaged by nerves and the nagging sense that there are few things in her life that haven’t changed—others’ opinions of her not being one of them. How strange, to have one’s presence be sought after after years of being turned away on friend’s doorsteps. How unnerving, to do so under circumstances such as these. The part of his tone that hints at his own discontent with the night’s arrangement doesn’t escape her notice, but she neglects to address it, asking instead, “Won’t you let me try to summon on my own first?” She supposes she could understand if he’d rather not risk it—not when their audience is so influential, but the question begged to be asked all the same; she’s never liked dependence, and it proves a thorn in her side, even now. “I can.”

He makes a mental note to thank the man who brought Gemma’s kefta to life. Not for the fact that Druvik followed the orders that were given to him, but because of the feelings that are rising up the Darkling’s throat the longer his gaze lingers on the Sun Summoner’s curving form. Once, he would have written it off as an influx bile, but the taste is far too sweet to be blamed on the acid that sizzles in the pit of his stomach. It’s a candy he hasn’t tasted since childhood. A sweetness he calls foreign with puckered lips and squinted eyes, but still savours with a sense of familiarity. He holds her stare and he sees himself reflected, but as much as he wants to claim her as his equal, he recognizes that he must allow her all the centuries of growth that were provided for him. He must be patient. For the first time, he has to sit back and give up all control.

The Darkling still takes a step forward. “You should praise the figure that gives it shape,” he starts with a low tone, standing far enough away as not to pressure her, but close enough that he feels the electric urge to reach out and take her wrist again. “Would you call yourself a selfish woman, Gemma? Do you take care of yourself?” He exhales something like a choked whistle, but it’s meant to be a laugh. “The longer you walk the halls of the Grand Palace, the sooner you’ll realize that the Ravkan nobility are only concerned with themselves.” A grin slips itself over the stretch of his lips, and he turns to stare at the stream of moonlight that floods the space between them. “Grisha must be selfless. We have to put the world before ourselves, then after that is done may we dig up our bones and try to mend the fractures.” He sighs. “Which is all and well, but what’s the harm in a little self-pleasure?” He’s not sure whether he’s trying to tempt her into making the first move, or if he’s just being metaphorical for the sake of the moment, so he shrugs off the subject altogether.

Her words are accepted with an inclining of his head, brow furrowing just enough to leave a single wrinkle. “Perhaps that is true. Can’t have the hero of our generation fleeing from a dance, can we?” His hand reaches out, but he stops before reaching her skin, instead letting the pale light pool in the palm of his hand. There was a time he’d have dismissed it, but he has found that as of late that he has an appreciation for even the smallest things. Gemma is the first bloom after a harsh winter. She is the fledgling bird that flies even after falling from its tree. She has taught him not to underestimate, and perhaps that’s her first mistake. His expectations for her are stacked so highly that should they fall, she’d be crushed. He continues to stack them regardless of the risks. It’s not her fault that she’s his dream. He recognizes that she’s never asked to be the object of his desires. But the night claims the stars without giving them a chance to declare independence, so he does the same.

The faltering of her smile pulls against the strings of his heart more than it should. “Are you sure that’s a safe decision? I can’t imagine the court would react well should you falter.” He sees her fire, however, and it’s not his place to scold a once free woman in chains. How pitiful; to be commanded by a man she’s only just met. A man she does not know. He realizes that it is wise to comfort her. “Gemma,” he starts, and he lowers his voice to a soft whisper. It cracks while he draws in a breath, almost unsteady. “I’m sorry. I should be more sensitive.” He turns on his heels, starting to walk away before speaking over his shoulder. “Walk with me?” He continues along the path, trusting that she’ll follow. “If I’ve ever pressured you, I’d like to apologize. It’s easier when I’m able to keep watch over things. When it’s on my hands if something goes wrong, not yours. I didn’t want to put you in danger of failing.” Then they’re out in the cold air, a flurry of snow around them and the cleared out entrance to the Grand Palace illuminated only by flickering lamps. 

“But you already are, aren’t you? I can’t protect you forever. You have to stand on your own.” He keeps going, boots thudding against the cobblestone until her turns to find her standing beside him, and he smiles with cheeks that are burning red. “Are you a gambling woman? Do you want to make things more exciting?” He lifts a finger, arching it in the direction of a golden spire that looms at the top of the palace. “Think you can reach it? Think you can make it shine?” He exhales with excitement, tendrils of visible air slipping from the gap between his lips. “If you can do it, you’ll stand on your own during the display. I will be with you, but I will not touch you. I will not assist.” He crosses his arms, his dimple appearing with a curve on his left cheek. “If not, I’ll amplify you like the first time.” He takes his place at her side, moving his hands to his waist and standing with a boyish pride. “What do you say? Sound like a fair bet, Sun Summoner?”

[dqrkling-blog]

⌜ anastasialantsov ⌟

     Walk faster. The crowd had just parted into finding who would share the first dance with who when Anastasia was snatched by a nobleman before they could dip into the hallway. “Princess, you would make the finest of treasures in my life. Set me free from the burdens of watching you and make me a happy man,” he whispered harshly into her ear with a swift push at her waist to send her into a sudden spin that left enough space for her to look desperately for someone to save her. No one came to her rescue as everyone was too preoccupied with their own lives to realize that she needed help. It was one of the longest dances she had to put up with as worse lines than the first were poured over her as if they truly had a chance to receive her hand. 

     Before another could claim her next dance, Anastasia foregone the grace expected of her and took off in a light sprint for the gardens with a harsh look going unnoticed by her mother. She needed to feel the chill of the winter air against her skin and give her time to remember her true calling. Her feet continued on at a steady pace until finding that halfway to her usual spot she was not truly alone in the gardens; a colder chill than the winter could provide her going up her spine at the sight of him. “Darkling,” she said with a gracious bow of her head towards him before catching her breath from the previous pace. “Tired? No. I am simply needing a break from society for a moment or two.” She laughed at the last comment that came from his lips before entertaining the idea. “Perhaps, but should you not be in attendance as well? Your absence is far more noticeable than my own.”

     The Darkling turns back to face the willow tree after Anastasia inclines her head in his direction. Part of him is unimpressed by her lack of referring to him as Moi Soverennyi, but he cannot fault an otkazat’sya for not giving him the level of respect that he is owed. Who is to blame a princess for not falling to her knees in awe of him? He is not the tsar that her people follow; he has not yet allowed the volcra to leave behind only the bones of the Ravka that she calls her home today. Tomorrow is so soon that it causes his palms to become slick with an excited sweat, but so far that he’s able to wipe them dry upon his kefta before Anastasia can observe the thrill of anticipation that has taken hold of his composure. Is this what a lion thinks when it circles its prey? When it spreads its jaws wide and goes in for the kill? The death of an innocent is such a riveting thing to experience. He savours the rust of it. The salty taste that lingers on the stretch of his tongue. He pretends like it isn’t as familiar as the breath that he draws in with a backwards arch of his neck.

     “You and I both,” he confesses with a sigh, lifting his arms and crossing them in front of his chest. He looks at her with a grin that he has practiced for the last few centuries. A cutting, playful kind of smile. Just focus on the dimple carved in his left cheek, and you’ll never notice the corpse that he’s got draped across his shoulders. It’s as entertaining a game as any. He’s always enjoyed pushing against the boundaries. He leaves hints of his heresy, of the beast that comes out when the clouds have parted and left the moon naked — but then you look into his eyes, and you see such a genuine sadness that you regret ever having seen him as anything more than a man broken by the weight of eternity. What no one realizes is that he is both. “And that might be true, but who I am to weigh my worth with that of a king’s child?” In truth, he’s a gambling man, but he keeps his hand hidden. “Perhaps neither of us are missed. Wouldn’t that be nice? To exist only here in this secret place, away from all of Ravka’s greed and the hunger of its society?” He snorts faintly, shaking off the foolish thought. “Impossible, I’m sure. Even when winter comes, the willow still keeps its leaves. It is forced to remain the same both in moments of warmth and in moments of a chilling decay.” He stares at her, calculating and intrigued. “I understand its burden. Do you, Anastasia?”

[dqrkling-blog]

⌜ iskraraevsky ⌟

like does not call to like, because i am nothing like you

@dqrkling

     “Moi soverennyi,” she says in way of greeting, neither a hint of a smile nor a ghost of a frown on her face. She has trained herself to maintain this expression of neutrality in his presence, has coached herself to smother the sneer that longs to make known her contempt for the man that commanded her want like a puppeteer with strings of steel. Strings made of yarn were easy to cut, but the strings that the Darkling used to keep her dancing for her? Impossible to sever. She was tied to him like a criminal to a noose. 

    She paused for a moment, waiting to see if she had said this out loud.

                     Since a light was not welcoming her into Sainthood, she assumed not.

    “Moi soverennyi,” she began again, chin lifting upward as she clasped her hands behind her back. Ever the perfect soldier. Not so much the perfect Grisha soldier. “Apologies for not having contacted you earlier.” I didn’t want to have to speak to you sooner than was needed. “I was sadly withheld by preparations for the fete.” I would rather have watched the queen wail on about the cakes and champagne than be near you. A partial truth – for her very bones ached to step closer, to gently brush the pad of her finger against his pale skin. And she hated herself for it.

           Did she say that out loud? A pause. Again, she was somehow still alive.

  “I was told to escort the Sun Summoner to the entrance of the ballroom before the procession. King’s orders. He wishes for her to be accompanied by me rather than another Grisha. Is that acceptable?”

     It’s rare that he cannot read a face, but try as he might to scan the stone of Iskra Raevsky’s features as she stands before him, the Inferni proves to be up for the challenge that the Darkling proposes. His lips purse in thought at the sight of it, black kefta rustling as he adjusts himself upon his throne, and he chooses to trust her loyalty to his cause. Because what other choice does a Grisha have in the matter? What child could turn against the god that lets them feed on the ichor that pours from his wrist? Not this one. He knows his power, and he's confident enough in the bond that he shares with his people as not to lose any sleep over it. He’s not against letting a little rebellion fester in the minds of his army. There’s always one who leads a charge every century. Some soldier with a bleeding heart that thinks they know what is best for their kind. There’s always a corpse that’s left split into halves at the end of it all.

     He blinks, inclining his head at her words. “You are excused for your prolonged absence,” he starts, the tone of his voice lingering in the comfortable space between a purr and a growl. Welcoming enough to entice, yet still strong enough to assert his dominance. “I imagine it must be tiring, yes? Holding onto the crown prince’s leash for a living, that is. Be careful not to chafe your hand.” He snickers just barely enough for her to notice, before rising to his feet and staring down at her from his elevated position. “Tell the boy I wish him well. I can only imagine what weight is pressing against his shoulders during these troubling times.” His brow crinkles when she speaks of the Sun Summoner, though he’s not much bothered by her request. “Are you not Grisha?” he asks, and there’s a harshness to the question that he doesn’t veil. “You would do well not to forget your place in all of this, Iskra Raevsky. You are not otkazat’sya — you are not abandoned. Go on. Accompany the Sun Summoner. As long as she is there tonight, I am not concerned with who escorts her.”

[dqrkling-blog]

date: december 21st year: one location: grand palace ballroom time: 10:50pm availability: closed for @altanyulsuhe​

The evening creeps by slower than any before it, and while he knows that it is unfair of him to do so, he places the blame on Gemma’s shoulders to carry on her own. It is by the Sun Summoner’s hand that the structure of his life has steadily begun to crack. Now the shards of her jut out from his scarred palms, and try as he might to pull the pieces out, he still loses them in all of the red that’s trickling down the length of his arm. How bloody this existence is; how lonely. He finds himself thinking of Altan after that thought. His bloodied prince and right-hand. If ever he could have an heir, it would be him. The wounded thing that he rescued from the cruel grasp of the Shu — who has since grown into such a capable man that a foreign organ swells in the Darkling’s chest at the sight of him. He used to wonder often of what it would mean for them if he could give the boy even just a shred of his immortality. A taste of eternity. But he’s lost an Altan before this one’s ancestors were even born, so he shrugs off the urge to care. He knows what fate has in store for the both of them.

Altan is already standing there when the Darkling turns and lifts his gaze, looking tired and restless all at once. He wouldn’t call it a smile in the genuine sense of the word, but the corner of his lip inches up the side of his face when he makes his way over to the Heartrender. The two are never far from the other, their bond positioned somewhere between brotherhood and the kinship of two military men, and there are times when the Darkling wonders which of them is truly the protector. He knows that he is the one that isn’t expendable, and he will steel his jaw and look away should ever Altan perish — but while he had been an unsteady chick when he was thrown into a nest of hawks, Altan learned to fly against all the odds. It is his duty to keep the Darkling safe from harm, but it is the Darkling’s right to shelter what is his and his alone. He is a selfish man; territorial and vicious to those that stand too close to his hoard. He recalls Altan’s first fete, he remembers holding him close and away from the whispers of court, and he often has to remind himself that Altan can stand on his own now. It’s a concept that almost pains him to linger on.

He wraps an arm around Altan’s shoulder in the way that a father would take his son under his wing, and he draws him close enough that his words are shared only with Altan. “Are you well?” the Darkling starts, looking the younger man over and wiping sweat off of his brow without registering the movement of his fingers. “I trust you’re still steady on your feet. I can’t recall a fete that was ever as endless as this one seems to be.” And then he does. “Do you remember your first, Altan? When I brought you to Ravka?” He doesn’t laugh, and he doesn’t grin, but there’s a warmth to his tone as he tells the story. “You were just a pup back then. I thought I’d have to use the Cut on the duchess that had you escort her to the dancing floor. She held onto you like water to a seal’s hide.” The chuckle comes before he can repress it, and it ricochets off of his teeth and into the air with an awkward hiss. He doesn’t let himself think about how long it’s been since he last made that sound. “Is it sentimental of me to think of how much you’ve grown? It’s been so many years, Altan. You’re no longer an infant wearing a soldier’s garb, are you?” His face clenches, a sharpness and gentleness taking hold of it all at once. “I'll always view you as one, though. Little soldier boy.”

[dqrkling-blog]

date: december 21st year: one location: the gardens time: 8:30pm availability: closed for @anastasialantsov

     He remembers when the gardens of the Grand Palace were nothing more than a simple concept. The selfish want of a Lantsov ruler who spent his days searching for anything that could get his mind off the despair of his kingdom. The man sat with wine pooling in his stomach and watched as flowers from the Sikurzoi mountains came to fill the place of his dreams, and the Darkling was sure that a portion of Tsibeya had been devastated just to please the king’s thirst for decadence. And how human was such a thing? Killing something just to feel better about existing in a world that was damned? Pathetic — and still somehow familiar. He could understand the desperation, but he chose instead to scorn the gluttony with a sharp sneer. 

     He turns to face them before they appear, all wild curls and a blushing face. This area of the garden had gone mostly unnoticed throughout the years. A simple willow tree and wildflowers sprouting just beneath the sway of its branches, choked and starving for sunlight. He had always found it comforting, and he believed there to be poetry in the sight, and he once thought that it belonged to him alone. How foolish of him to think that no other would come to claim it. Not that he can blame the princess. It’s in their blood. He inclines a head at their presence, facing them with his full self on display. They are little more than a child, a soft lamb toddling from a den of wolves, but he’s seen it before. They are not the first soft creature to carry the Lantsov name, but perhaps, they might be the last. “Princess Anastasia,” he starts in greeting, closing the distance between them but leaving enough space as not to frighten her. “Not tired of the evening already, are you? Should you not be dancing?”

[dqrkling-blog]

⌜ gemmapavlova ⌟

INTERRUPTED— date: december 21st, year 1 location: the grand palace ballroom time: 9:00 p.m. availability: open to all

Perhaps the most peculiar thing about the evening is what strikes her most: not the beauty of it all—the Grand Ballroom’s elaborately painted ceilings, the glittering necklines of noblewomen dripping in jewels, the richly woven tapestries adorning the walls—but the difference in her, the way she’s holding her glass, holding her posture, holding her breath: a girl cast aside turned woman under scrutiny. It’s a change she supposes she should welcome—one she supposes many would, yet she’s become so enthralled in making sense of it all that she no longer remembers where the flute in her grasp came from, nor who she’s agreed to wait there for, patient and preoccupied; she knows only her need to breathe, to take a moment and regroup, and at the first opportunity, she slips out into the corridor like a wisp of smoke, silent and champagne-warmed.

For a child who had once feared the dark as fiercely as she’d loved all else, she’s remarkably grateful for its embrace now, for the respite it provides from the bright and boisterous celebration on the other side of the mahogany door, and she ventures a bit deeper into it, lets the moonlight streaming in through a nearby window dance about her fingertips—a cheap trick, to be sure, but one she’s grown rather adept at, so much that she’s found specks of silver on her skin some nights, and specks of gold some mornings (and it’s warm, so warm—it always is). And for the first time in what feels like hours, the Sun Summoner draws in a breath and releases it, uninhibited and uninterrupted.

Freedom comes in small doses; deprivation has made her ravenous.

But then the door behind her creaks open, and she turns, elegant chin high and blue eyes slightly widened—wary, waiting, as if she’s had the chance, as of late, to be anything else.

He’s had enough centuries to practice the proceedings of the evening. He’s walked at the head of the Grisha line from the very first generation of the Second Army to the present one, and he’s inclined his head to Lantsov kings that have long since lost their names to the hungry teeth of Ravka’s history. He’s yet to bother pondering if the surviving members of the family will go on to be remembered. Such a shame for them; to exist in the era of the Sun Summoner’s arrival. The Darkling knows what is coming, and in dreams that appear without sleep, he has seen the blood of the abandoned dripping down the spokes of a golden crown. The spare-turned-heir should have wished his brother a longer life, but as fate would have it, the damnation of the otkazat’sya will be his to suffer through alone. 

Not yet, however. There is much time before the boy will need to learn how to handle hearing the screams of his people each night, begging for a salvation that he is powerless to give. Aleksander learned, and the Darkling carries those memories from his boyhood still today. That’s another chapter, though — long since given to the flames as an offering. He blinks with pursed lips at how easily his thoughts have drifted recently. His muscles are taut and his body is coiled as if ready to escape at any moment. One would never expect him to let his consciousness drift so freely away from its cage, but he has always allowed it to fly without fear. No one dare stays in his presence for long, and he needs never lift a hand to clear the way. He exists on a field parallel to this one, but too far off for it to be tangible. And he once believed that he was content with the loneliness of it all.

Hunger is as fickle as it is cruel, and for a man who thinks himself above such a simple want, he is unable to shake off the urge to seek the Sun Summoner out. Their conversations have been fleeting since her journey to Os Alta. He told her during their first meeting that she would soon learn what she was, and while he’s watched from the shadows to notice a steady surety take hold of her posture, he’s yet to inform her of her purpose. Her true duty. She has no knowledge of being the key to his plans — of being the equal that he has shaped with the tendrils of his darkness each night. The figure always fades within seconds; a blurred form that stands before him but disperses when he outreaches a hand to caress its surface. Gemma has yet to leave him, and regardless of being a sinner throughout so many lifetimes, he finds himself begging the Saints not to let him lose her. Not to anyone else; not to herself. Not even to himself.

He spreads his palms to send waves of his dark substance snaking away from his form, warping the light around his sides to make him invisible to the crowd. He slips through with ease, having learned the easiest route to flee many fetes ago. He knows Gemma well enough to seek her outside of the ballroom, but he’s surprised to find her standing so close once he opens the heavy doors with a sharp creaking. The moonlight glides down her face and splits her features with one half shadowed and the other illuminated, and he damns the moon and blesses it all with one inhale. Once for how fair it makes her; twice for how it dares to touch her skin without his permission. His fingers itch at the remembrance of amplifying her — of how the sensation reflected onto himself, and he’s thankful for his composure, or else he would take to her like a wolf to a bloodied lamb without hesitation.

“Gemma,” he greets her, and he pauses to savour the taste of her name on his tongue. “I must say that black suits you,” he goes on, looking over the way the kefta clings to her form. Traditionally, he knows that she should be wearing blue and gold, but he is selfish. In the eyes of the nobility and his soldiers, he wants no dispute over who holds control of the Sun Summoner. Not them, and not himself — but at least he has the right to her, over all the rest. He’s waited the longest for her. A frown takes hold of his features at the thought. “I apologize for how sparse I’ve been. There’s much to attend to, and I find myself lacking the time to speak with you.” He trusts that he already has the answer, but he asks regardless. “How are you faring? Is any of this too much for you? Just ask, Gemma. Ask and I will take you away.” He exhales a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Only for a time. We still have so much in store for tonight. We’ll have to give them what they want. And that’s you.” He's never been one for sharing, but he’ll play the court’s game for now.

[lostcap]

And the stars, they do sing, to the remains of dust in our veins; we, too, could be eternal.

this is the temptation of the the living and the gospel of the dying, we are all, already falling | p.d (via lostcap)

[goldenmythologies-blog]

[ghostlywriterr]

[rocketcandycouture]

Headcanon meme~

[iskraraevsky-blog]

rocketcandycouture:

Put a symbol (or several) and a character/characters in my ask box, and I’ll give you a headcanon.  Yes.  Do it.

☾ - sleep headcanon

★ - sad headcanon

☆ - happy headcanon

☠ - angry/violent headcanon

✿ - Sex headcanon

■ -  Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon

♡ - romantic headcanon

♥ - family headcanon

☮ - friendship headcanon

♦ - quirks/hobbies headcanon

☯ - likes/dislikes headcanon

▼ - childhood headcanon

∇ -. old age/aging headcanon

♒ - cooking/food headcanon

☼ - appearance headcanon

ൠ - random headcanon

◉ - Any other question of your choosing

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, TRIS!

You have been accepted for the role of ALEKSANDER MOROZOVA. Admin Bree: We knew when we decided to include the Darkling as a playable character that he would be a competitive role, and as the character with the most applications for our initial acceptance, he certainly didn’t disappoint, and neither did his applicants. But Tris, you stood out. Your application was incredibly thorough and true to character, both by the standards set by his biography and the very core of who he is in the trilogy, and it’s crystal clear that you understand his motivations and desires, which is all that we could ever ask for in his player—your application was all we were looking for and more. Congratulations! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

Keep reading

[ruleandruinrpg]

ALEKSANDER MOROZOVA

UNKNOWN ❈ THE DARKLING THE ORDER OF SUMMONERS (ETHEREALKI)

Man’s greatest folly is, perhaps, not his tendency to put his gods on a pedestal, to lay at their altars his heart and other fragile things, but his forgetfulness—his failure to recognize that all gods were once men, and all men were once children. He, too, was a boy once, a child who listened more than he spoke and learned far more than he let on, building empires out of sticks and stones and daring to call himself the king. Yet for all that he was once ordinary, he was different in a way neither he nor those around him could ever reconcile, and he knew it from a young age, knew it as well as he knew his own name: Aleksander, a name given to blacksmiths’ boys, to merchants’ sons, to fishermen’s heirs—a name he would one day give up in favor of another, in favor of the sort of infamy that demands blood sacrifice, though it would never be his own. To be remembered was to be forgotten, and so he was—year by shadowed year, death by hallowed death. Infinite. He became infinite, in name and ability, in lives and in victories, so entrenched in the shadows he commanded that the boy he’d once been was lost along the way, left to live on forever in oblivion or to die there—whichever suited him best. The darkness in his heart had never left any room for love, for gentleness, for light; it took and devoured until there was nothing left of what might’ve been, and all that was left was this: a man, half-legend and half-horror, with a heart black as night.

They called him the Darkling, though none could be sure whether the name had come from his own machinations or from the blackness that loved him like a son, and they feared him, as they did all terrible and unknown things, for it is in the nature of man to fear that which he does not understand, and he—perhaps even more than the rest of his kind—was utterly beyond comprehension. Strange and powerful though he might’ve been, however, his dreams, in the beginning, were the same dreams shared by countless others with similar gifts: a world where his people did not have to run like fugitives, did not have to hide like animals bred for the hunt, did not bear their gifts like crosses—like martyrs. They hailed him as their leader, thrust him upon a throne and called him moi soverennyi, and from his reign the seed of the Second Army grew, planted by hope and nourished by ambition. Beneath his guiding hand, Grisha became something to be valued, sought after—if not trusted, then tolerated, and in due time, his followers believed, they would be not simply Grisha, but Ravkans, seen as countrymen where they had once been only weapons. But great power begets great ambition, and a man gifted with the power to cast down the sun and stars if he so desired it could be no exception. His greed would know no bounds, as wild a thing as the dark it was born from; his greed would swallow the world whole.

And it did, ardently and utterly without his permission or control. It was ravenous, this power, this cold and cruel darkness—even crueler, perhaps, than the man it bowed to, and when the otkazat’sya told their stories in the centuries that followed, they would struggle to distinguish the servant from the master, the good intentions from the terrible. It was meant to be a good thing, a noble thing—a means of defending the kingdom from those who sought to destroy it, but his greed pushed him farther still, edged his power over the line that separated natural from merzost, forced his hand in ways none had ever seen before. Years later, they’d say the Fold was a mistake, the creation of avarice that knew no bounds, but the truth, dark and deep and raw, was that he’d wanted every wicked bit of it and more. It was his pride, his terrible hope, his mark on the world that no amount of inferni hellfire could burn away; he branded the world for all to see that infamous day, and the warning it gave rang throughout the kingdom like church bells, reverberated in the bones of his people like a prayer for which there were no words. Yet he hated it, too, this unconquerable, immeasurable thing, because for all that it came to be by his doing, it proved unruly even to him. And though it outlived the version of him that created it, as a man who never aged was far too much for mere mortals to understand, he swore that it wouldn’t outlive the last version of him; even if it took an eternity, he would see it bow to him once more, and with it, the world.

He has seen empires rise and empires fall, he has led rebellions and quelled them, he has tasted conquest, brewed terror, created vainglory as thick as a man’s torso and as crimson-deep as the cut which severs it. Moi soverennyi. That awe-tinged echo clings to him like the shadows to the hidden face of the moon; relentlessly, possessively – like brazen worshipers at the dais of their god. And darkness incarnate rose like a phoenix from the ashes of his own demise; remaking, retelling, reliving the same story of immortal splendor, inherent horror. Again, and again, and again he has made himself new. Five lives, five legacies, five tales of rule and ruin. Aleksander, a boy forgotten. Morozova, a man made myth. Moi soverennyi, moi soverennyi, moi soverennyi. He is their tsar, their emperor, their conquistador, their fragile life and rotten death – a thousand nights of fear, a thousand days of majesty and sin so sacred that it burns. His ambition drives him, his power feeds him, his pride rears up and swallows his enemies whole. He is cold and beautiful and void of love; yet still they come, with their prayers and their hatred, with their numinous wonder and effervescent longing. And as they cling to the black of his robes, there is nothing but odinakovost and etovost, manifesting like twin wolves at the heels of their master. For what is power? Power is power. And what is infinite? Nothing but the universe, and the g r e e d of men.

CONNECTIONS

GEMMA PAVLOVA: It wasn’t something as mundane as loneliness—which all ordinary men and their faint, fool’s gold hearts are susceptible to—but a hunger for some great and terrible kinship, that led him to ask the universe for an equal, that led him to wait lifetimes for their deliverance, and at long last, he believes he’s found her: his balance, the only one that might keep his power in check, the light that might drive out his darkness. But for all that she seems a proper adversary in theory, she’s young, and she has much to learn before she can reach her full potential, before she can liken herself to him. Fortunately, he’s a patient man, and he’ll wait as many lifetimes as it takes for her to rule the world alongside him or be forced to lay it at his feet, for there are only two names for Grisha like them: saints and heretics—one cannot be both.

ALTAN YUL-SUHE: He’s capable, if nothing else—obedient enough to follow orders and ruthless enough to follow them faithfully, and he values the man for it, in the way one might value a prized hound. His right hand toys with heartstrings like red ribbons, steals the air from men’s lungs with a mere curl of his fingers, and he can’t say he doesn’t wonder, at times, what it must feel like to feel a man’s very life sifting through your fingers—that is, of course, until he remembers he already knows. He’ll keep him around, this red-cloaked brute, this heart attack of a soldier, until he’s served his purpose or strayed from it; even the best of men are replaceable.

ANTON LANTSOV: He is but a boy trying to fill the shoes of a king, little more than a child compared to his father and brother before him, and thus far, his attempts at preparing to run a country are laughable. Sooner or later, he’ll learn that wit only serves a man when choosing his last words; sooner or later, he’ll see that the fall of kingdoms and the rise of empires is inevitable, and by then, it’ll be too late. Let him whisper sweet nothings in the ears of his people; let him give them false hope with his victories and rally them onward with his defeats, for the real enemy fights not with guns and toy soldiers, but with horrors unseen. This war was never his to win.

THE DARKLING IS PORTRAYED BY SEAN O’PRY & IS TAKEN BY TRIS.

[oqhelia]

graphics are credited to @andromeidatonks; thank you for helping me bring this idea to life

I. Lifeforms — Daughter | II. Disarm — The Civil Wars | III. I Need A Forest Fire — James Blake (ft. Bon Iver) | IV. Which Witch — Florence + The Machine | V. Iron — Woodkid | VI. Thousand Eyes — Of Monsters And Men | VII. Broken Crown — Mumford & Sons | VIII. Home — AURORA | IX. Arsonist’s Lullaby — Hozier | X. Something To Believe In — Young The Giant

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