he’s still playing chess with the memories in his head ; still trying to rearrange the events of the last two hours into a story that makes sense . they’d been on a skiff ; he & lucy ⸺ of this , peter is certain ( when her name had been drawn from the nightmare lottery , peter had found a way in beside her , burning maps & intelligence from west ravka until the lieutenant had decided that the only way to suffocate this fire was with darkness ) .
the rest , admittedly , will not come easily . he remembers the markers ; the volcra . lucy’s screams . and then ⸺ nothing . nothing but light . and yet ⸺ as he’s led to the threshold of the general’s tent , unanswered questions quickly gathering dust ‘pon his tongue , peter is quick to realise that he may very well be the only occupant of the camp without a theory . sun summoner , are the words that the wind catch & carry out to his ears through the fluttering tent flaps : already , he knows he’s in trouble .
❛ please , just ⸺ let me see my sister first , ❜ he mutters , glancing between the guards by his side with an increasing sense of desperation . ❛ she . . . she was hurt . on the skiff . i need to know that she’s alright . ❜ but the grisha to his left only shakes their head . ❛ she’s in surgery . it won’t do either of you any good to see her now . ❜ she’s alive , then . peter will have to live with that ⸺ for now .
the tent is still ; dimly - lit ⸺ even as peter is brought to a halt ⸺ but he’d have to be blind to miss the black kefta that cuts void - like edges into the smoky darkness ( if peter were indeed the sun , he would be swallowed ) . he’s well aware that only one grisha in ravka is permitted to wear this colour .
❛ i’m not what you think i am , ❜ he says finally , eyes tethered helplessly to the silent silhouette that faces the war table at the back of the tent , ❛ and if i were , i can’t imagine why you would let your men haul me around like an animal . ❜ at that , he jerks his right arm out of a corporalki’s grasp ⸺ though the second heartrender only tightens their hold in response , and peter’s subsequent surrender manifests as a near - imperceptible dip of his head , eyes dropping to the plush carpeting beneath his boots for little longer than a heartbeat . as if the opulence has reminded him where he stands among the elites of the second army , his next words are quiet . deferent , almost . ❛ there’s been a mistake . . . general . i didn’t do anything . ❜
that feeling , the one caught in your throat : is it fear , or fascination ?
plotted starter for @cairspian !
