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CHAPTER NINE he can tear you from my cold dead hands
MERCY HAD NEVER BEEN on a sinking ship before, but she imagined it went a little something like this: due to a reckless crew or simple unfortunate circumstance, the wooden panels of the boat would be useless against the rampage of saltwater as it crests and falls. It's taking on water - and, if the sea is anything but calm, it's taking on water fast.
Despite her own fervent god complex, not even Mercy could entertain the belief that she could stop the flow of the tide and so, she'd have one option - bail. She'd take whatever she could find, whether that be a bucket or her hands or a shoe, and she'd hope that the energy in her small mortal body could rival the energy of the seas.
So she'd start endlessly and relentlessly bailing water out with her hands – bail, bail, bail and maybe – at best – manage to almost keep up with the sinking of her ship.
She'd be safe in the knowledge that in doing this her boat might not sink - as fast. But it's going down anyway. So what was the point?
And this is how it felt ignoring Nikolai Lantsov: useless. Utterly, utterly useless.
He was like the sun. He was loud and bright and unavoidable. Whether that be walking through their camp at night in a pristine white shirt or in the golden hours of the morning, when he'd hound down Alina with incessant lessons on grace and decorum ( both of which he evidently lacked ). There was no fleeting glances, not even a simple acknowledgement of her existence. It seemed like Mercy no longer existed to the Prince of Ravka and although it was exactly what she had asked for, it tasted far more bitter than she expected.
Mercy didn't do well in silence. Her fight was rooted in anger and rage and violence. She blossomed in the space between clashing blades, not the quiet that sprung from ignorance. In the days that followed, as they travelled on horseback through the heaving Ravkan streets, the distance between her and the Prince nearly drove her insane. She longed for him to shout and her, scream and curse until they were both red faced and hollow. And it would feel like hell. But at least it felt real. Anything was better than this, this emptiness.
The only distraction was the endless stops at every single town, village and small congregation that they passed. Only then could Mercy finally spare her body the agony of travelling horseback and her ears the jovial tones of the Prince.
It did well to avoid the way the people cooed and worshipped him. Otherwise she'd start to throw things.
Luckily, she wasn't the only one with an intense desire to be anywhere else. It seemed Mal Oretsev was a kindred soul and in their distaste for spectacle, they often gravitated towards each other. Sometimes Alina would join them, sometimes she was too busy being shepherded around like the Prince's prize goat. Mercy would have objected, if she hadn't all but told him she wanted him dead.
