A century in, she began to worry.
It had been some time now since anyone but the two of them had a personal memory of the Black Heretic. She had hoped that the distance would allow him to regain some of his interest, some of his intensity, but if anything, it was the opposite.
She walked the lake beside him, the noon sun hot above. The grass was summer-green and unmoving – no natural wind to stir it, no Squallers to disrupt the stillness. The Grisha who would normally be training or playing around by the water were inside the Little Palace, avoiding the heat, but heat had never bothered either her or her son. Not after spending so many, many cold years.
The two of them walked the gravel path by the lake, the Little Palace behind them, rolling hills in front. The oprichniki the Tsar had given him for protection – spies, more like – kept the perimeter at a healthy distance.
"Still no Ilya." He made the observation sound tired, rehearsed. He spoke Suli, because he knew the oprichniki did not. "I made the Shadow Fold a hundred years ago, and there’s still no Ilya. Do you think he figured out how to die?"
"I know why you’re asking."
"Are you going to answer?"
She chanced a glance up at his face, the clench of his jaw. She wouldn’t push him on this farther now. "Do I think he figured out how to die? Perhaps," she admitted. Perhaps he had been too Grisha to die, or perhaps he had been just Grisha enough. Not unnatural they way she was. The way he was. And then, because she remembered the decades when her son had asked question after question about her life, about her wants, she added: "I like to think he would have found me hadn’t."
A fish jumped in the lake beside them, shattering the reflection of light on the pond. "Are you still scared of me?" he asked.
Damn her mouth and his memory. She sighed. "I’m scared for you. You’re waiting for something we may never find."
"Never is a very long time."
"I don’t need a lecture on eternity, boy."
A hint of a smile played on his lips. "It’s a long while since I’ve been a boy, Madraya."
"Then maybe you need the reminder."
He didn’t respond, and they walked the path together in silence, the scrape of pebbles beneath their feet the only sounds. Even the oprichniki moved quietly, conserving energy in the midday heat.
"We’ll be expanding the grounds of the Little Palace," he said, gesturing to a hill beside them. "Our expeditions to find Grisha children in other countries and bring them to safety have been increasingly fruitful. We’re going to need more space."
She looked in the direction her son indicated, the leaves on the trees unmoving without a hint of breeze. "Still working on your penance," she observed.
"Penance," she repeated. "For the Fold." Baghra had long since realized that life was cyclical for a reason – the straight line of immortality broke too many tethers to the world, made it impossible to keep one’s center. Without the threat of death, a practice of repair was the only thing that could bring one back into alignment with others, with nature. Wasn’t that repair why she was at the Little Palace in the first place?
"Penance." He rolled the word in his mouth as if he’d never heard it before. "That’s one idea, I suppose."
I briefly futzed around with the idea of this chapter being from Aleksander's point of view, and then I realized it would be so, so boring. I did not want to write 400 years of the type of depression going on in his head and you did not want to read it. It's not like Baghra is doing great at this point, either, but at least she's got coping mechanisms (shitty ones, but still!) So here we are. Bold is my commentary.
*
A century in, she began to worry. Another one for 'mom of the millennium' award. She waited a century before she started worrying. "It's just a phase," she told herself, years one through ninety-nine.
It had been some time now since anyone but the two of them had a personal memory of the Black Heretic. She had hoped that the distance would allow him to regain some of his interest, some of his intensity, but if anything, it was the opposite.
She walked the lake beside him, the noon sun hot above. The grass was summer-green and unmoving – no natural wind to stir it, no Squallers to disrupt the stillness. The Grisha who would normally be training or playing around by the water were inside the Little Palace, avoiding the heat, but heat had never bothered either her or her son. Not after spending so many, many cold years. I don't go deep into this headcanon but I definitely believe that Baghra & Aleksander are sensitive to cold but not heat. There's a reason that Baghra keeps the fire going all the time, and though I think it's partly religious/superstition, I think a lot of it is just straight up trauma.
The two of them walked the gravel path by the lake, the Little Palace behind them, rolling hills in front. The oprichniki the Tsar had given him for protection – spies, more like – kept the perimeter at a healthy distance. I deeply, genuinely believe that the oprichniki were the Tsars' attempts at spies post-Shadowfold. Why on earth would the most powerful Grisha need protection -- and why would he need otkazats'ya protection? Genya was not the first spy between the palaces!! Aleksander was just better at getting his spies to be loyal to and side with him than the Lantsovs were.
"Still no Ilya." He made the observation sound tired, rehearsed. He spoke Suli, because he knew the oprichniki did not. Spiesssssssss. "I made the Shadow Fold a hundred years ago, and there’s still no Ilya. This is the sort of thing that should bring Saints out of the woodwork, don't you think? Every disaster is an opportunity, etc. Do you think he figured out how to die?"
"I know why you’re asking." Because he wants to die, too.
"Are you going to answer?" This is almost a 'do you love me enough to help me die' question.
She chanced a glance up at his face, the clench of his jaw. She wouldn’t push him on this farther now. "Do I think he figured out how to die? Perhaps," she admitted. Perhaps he had been too Grisha to die, or perhaps he had been just Grisha enough. Not unnatural they way she was. The way he was. Here we have the beginnings of Baghra acknowledging that maybe she and her son are not Grisha at all, or were Grisha of a different type. Her powerful father might not have had the same immortality. And then, because she remembered the decades when her son had asked question after question about her life, about her wants, she added: "I like to think he would have found me hadn’t." She thinks he'll snap out of his century-long depression if she shares one (1) personal fact.
A fish jumped in the lake beside them, shattering the reflection of light on the pond. "Are you still scared of me?" he asked.
Damn her mouth and his memory. She sighed. So annoying when your son remembers that you almost said you loved him. "I’m scared for you. You’re waiting for something we may never find."
"Never is a very long time." A line he uses with both his mom and Alina.
"I don’t need a lecture on eternity, boy."
A hint of a smile played on his lips. "It’s a long while since I’ve been a boy, Madraya." Legit, can you imagine being four hundred and your mom calls you boy. You are three hundred years older than everyone else other than her and she's all "You'll always be my baby (derogatory)"
"Then maybe you need the reminder." I don't think he's forgotten what his childhood was like, Baghra, but thanks.
He didn’t respond, and they walked the path together in silence, the scrape of pebbles beneath their feet the only sounds. Even the oprichniki moved quietly, conserving energy in the midday heat.
"We’ll be expanding the grounds of the Little Palace," he said, gesturing to a hill beside them. "Our expeditions to find Grisha children in other countries and bring them to safety have been increasingly fruitful. We’re going to need more space." There's so little about the intervening years! I assume he had parties going into other countries and getting Grisha out of there on the reg.
She looked in the direction her son indicated, the leaves on the trees unmoving without a hint of breeze. "Still working on your penance," she observed.
"My what?" Penance? I don't know her.
"Penance," she repeated. "For the Fold." I was so curious in the trilogy when he says "Redemption. Salvation. Penance. My mother's quaint ideas." what their conversations about those must have been like. So here's one.
Baghra had long since realized that life was cyclical for a reason – the straight line of immortality broke too many tethers to the world, made it impossible to keep one’s center. Without the threat of death, a practice of repair was the only thing that could bring one back into alignment with others, with nature. Wasn’t that repair why she was at the Little Palace in the first place? There's a lot made of Baghra's shift in perspective from DiTW to TGT, and also what her religious beliefs really are. This is my attempt at a quick explanation for that – it's more pragmatic than religious, though it's not dissimilar to some religious practices. Here she's really trying to help her son.
"Penance." He rolled the word in his mouth as if he’d never heard it before. This guy, man. "That’s one idea, I suppose."
