Where The Spirit Meets The Bone

Thirty: Aleksander Morozova

Thirty:

Aleksander Morozova

He had arranged for them to spend a month at the country estate. Zoya was taking care of things at the office. The first week was spent making love with Alina every chance that he got, in every room that he could. The bedroom. The library. The guestrooms. The kitchen once, where they were caught by the chef much to the servant's embarrassment and Alina's. The garden. The gazebo.... he was not used to wanting to get up in the morning. Or getting excited about seeing someone. Or someone being excited about being him.

They were in a blissful little bubble. Him and his wife. His wife, who he loved saying almost as much as he loved seeing her. They had breakfast together, and lunch, and dinner. It was the smallest of things. But Alina chatted happily away about her school memories and he told her about his brothers and it was the happiest he had been.

If they weren't eating meals together, or making love, he was showing her the grounds Or they look long country rides together. Alina was surprisingly proficient, having been coerced into joining the polo team at school by Nikolai against her will. In the evening, that was when he did his work.

He would slip out from their bed, carefully unwrapping his arms from Alina, and tread quietly to his office. Aleksander had made it all of six nights without her noticing a single thing. He snuck out, and spent hours pouring over paperwork or books or ancient sent to him by David about the grisha.

One night, he didn't go to his office. Instead, he went up to the attic where all of the family skeletons were kept. He turned on the light and went to the very back, where a large portrait was kept in a sheet hidden from view. The family didn't keep it on display. Their ancestor, The Black Heretic, The Starless Saint, The Saint with No Stars.... The Dark King. He'd had many names. He'd been a king's advisor too, and he had been responsible for starting the never-ending war that Ravka was in.

He'd helped enslave the grisha, turned them into soldiers, and there were rumors...rumors that he'd been one himself. One of the most powerful. That he could summon darkness at will. If he could find that power within himself, he could help win the war. With Alina by his side, if she were grisha too.... the possibilities were endless.

He had had her so many times, taken his fill, been in between her every crevice...and he enjoyed it. And each time, he silently prayed to the saints for an heir. A child. Something for Alina to love, to keep her by his side, and if they were grisha all of the better. They could start a dynasty more powerful than the Lantsovs, and rule Ravka side by side as King and Queen. They would be the revolution. He would bring the war to an end, and his family would have sainthood once more. Even more powerful than a King. More holy. No one could contest his power then.

"Aleksander?" a sleepy voice said.

He froze. He turned around and saw his young wife rubbing sleep from her eyes. She wore a white, lace nightgown with a pink ribbon that he had gotten for her. She looked so innocent he wanted to taste her again even though they had already made love that morning, and that afternoon, and so, so many times in between....

But all he could think of was how she was somewhere she wasn't supposed to be. Aleksander covered the portrait of his ancestor up quickly. "Alina, what's wrong, my Little Wife? Why are you awake?"

"I couldn't sleep," she said, "I woke up and you.... you weren't there. I think I heard you leave. What are you doing?"

"I was looking for something for work," he lied, "old paperwork about a past battle.... I got caught up looking at memories instead."

"A portrait?" she said.

"No one important," he told her.

He walked over to her, placed a hand on the small of her back, and started steering her out of the room down the attic stairs. "Why were you having trouble sleeping, my Little Wife?"

She hesitated. "You're not the only one that has bad dreams. I was in the car when my mother died and.... sometimes, I dream about it. We're in the car driving home from school and then..."

"Then what?"

"The bomb goes off in the back, and we hit the truck that's in front of us," Alina said.

Aleksander raised an eyebrow. "There was a bomb the day that your mother was in the car wreck?"

She nodded. "I thought you knew. Most everyone does.... the orphan from Keramazin. Mal's from there too, and he lived with his aunt and grandmother on the same road. His parents died a few years before mine."

"In a bombing?"

She shrugged. "It's not really that odd. Ravka's a country under fire. Things happen. You see the death count in the papers. Check the missing persons listed...."

"I'm sorry," he said, "war gets clouded in my mind. It becomes all about strategies. Guns, ammo.... rations.... I forget about the people involved that aren't even fighting it sometimes."

She reached up and brushed a stray strand of his dark hair out of his eyes. "It's easy to forget humanity if you don't have to think about it. Maybe that's why this happened. To remind you to be human, The Great War Machine...."

He frowned. "Aleksander," he told her, "I am Aleksander, to you only."

"Alright then," she said with a smile and a yawn, "Aleksander. Can you carry me back to bed, my darling husband?"

"Of course, my darling wife," he picked her up with his strong arms. Alina wrapped her arms around his neck, and it wasn't long before she had started dozing as he walked her back to their room. He placed her gently on the bed, kissing her forehead, and then when he was certain she was asleep, he slipped from the room and went back to work.