( self-loathing bleeds her more than the sharp curve of a knife ever had. the darkling. hawkins fuller. david collins. danny johnson. every man she hadn't taken for a wolf until it was too late to ignore the glint of canines in the dark, oblivious to an obvious threat. she shakes her head, like it might shake free the wool from her eyes, her permanent blindness to their intentions.
her fingers drift from alicent, a slow fall — like even that small uptick in energy exsanginuates what's left of her strength. when the rage empties, all she has is — this. too much space to fill inside of her. the invading grief that follows like an overgrowth of weeds, strangling anything else that tries to grow. the feeble cold that tries to seep into her bones, her warmth smothered under the thin layer of merzost lingering in her soul.
she drifts to the window, sifting her fingers beneath the straining october sunlight, just to feel its kiss on her skin. just to watch the light refract from paul's father's ring, turning metal-warm, as she spins it around her finger )
You were wrong to say I haven't sacrificed. ( numbly matter-of-fact, resigned to the truth wedged between them like a double-edged sword. alina can't move forward without impaling herself on it, without thinking of alicent's cutting condemnation. ) I thought I could escape it here. I thought ...
( her voice trails off, a pensive heartbeat of thought. )
I thought I could be free from making the hard choices, the decisions everyone else seems to suffer for. But the shadow of it follows me everywhere.
( it should be me, she doesn't say, but the truth remains: there isn't a single soul that hasn't met their punishment for following her. genya, marred. nikolai, monstrous. mal, fated for death. every fallen grisha crumpled under rubble, every soldier she couldn't save from the darkling's slaughter. wetly, she exhales. )
Thinking I could be anyone but who I am — it's never worked. I don't know why I thought it would be different for me, this time.
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( self-loathing bleeds her more than the sharp curve of a knife ever had. the darkling. hawkins fuller. david collins. danny johnson. every man she hadn't taken for a wolf until it was too late to ignore the glint of canines in the dark, oblivious to an obvious threat. she shakes her head, like it might shake free the wool from her eyes, her permanent blindness to their intentions.
her fingers drift from alicent, a slow fall — like even that small uptick in energy exsanginuates what's left of her strength. when the rage empties, all she has is — this. too much space to fill inside of her. the invading grief that follows like an overgrowth of weeds, strangling anything else that tries to grow. the feeble cold that tries to seep into her bones, her warmth smothered under the thin layer of merzost lingering in her soul.
she drifts to the window, sifting her fingers beneath the straining october sunlight, just to feel its kiss on her skin. just to watch the light refract from paul's father's ring, turning metal-warm, as she spins it around her finger )
You were wrong to say I haven't sacrificed. ( numbly matter-of-fact, resigned to the truth wedged between them like a double-edged sword. alina can't move forward without impaling herself on it, without thinking of alicent's cutting condemnation. ) I thought I could escape it here. I thought ...
( her voice trails off, a pensive heartbeat of thought. )
I thought I could be free from making the hard choices, the decisions everyone else seems to suffer for. But the shadow of it follows me everywhere.
( it should be me, she doesn't say, but the truth remains: there isn't a single soul that hasn't met their punishment for following her. genya, marred. nikolai, monstrous. mal, fated for death. every fallen grisha crumpled under rubble, every soldier she couldn't save from the darkling's slaughter. wetly, she exhales. )
Thinking I could be anyone but who I am — it's never worked. I don't know why I thought it would be different for me, this time.