horology | the darkling

romeo & juliet

fire on fire - sam smith

fire on fire would normally kill us
but this much desire, together, we're winners
they say that we're out of control and some say we're sinners
but don't let them ruin our beautiful rhythms

/

'oh how cruel it is to want to love so much but the feeling of chaos is too intoxicating to ignore' - a modern catastrophe

-

seraphina

The Darkling was laughing like he did in her dream. She had to blink many times to make sure she wasn't still asleep. He was laughing. He was using her.

She had felt everything at once, standing in front of the King, the soldiers, the Grisha, the Darkling. She had vowed to become their leader, to help to fight for a safer and reunited Ravka. She had given a speech; a short, sharp, to-the-point speech. Something she had been taught at a very young age. Rising into position was an act of political advancement and politics was just the art of negotiation. She had pledged promises of a better future in exchange for power. So why did it hurt so much when she looked at Michail?

The General had let go of her hand but he was still smiling. They were walking rapidly to nowhere in particular. He turned left at the next corridor and then the pair were walking down a marble white staircase, leading to the garden. The storm hadn't finished brewing; it sat, stubborn and selfish in a squat of darkness above the Little Palace. Baby blue replaced by black. Bluebirds by ravens.

Seraphina felt her heart pound in her chest as a dreadful realisation settled in, darker than the sky above. They were going to Baghra.

Her heart leapt in her chest. The Darkling didn't know yet but Baghra would tell him. A dread ran cold through her boiling blood. She heard her pulse underneath her panic; the thumping steady rhythm was almost hypnotising, luring her away from the horrid possibilities of the Darkling learning her powers. In times like this, she wished she was religious. She wished that she believed in the spirit of dead, merciful saints who would be watching over her. She needed them now.

Seraphina hated to think what he would do to her if he found out. He didn't know her at all; it had been only a week since they had officially met. She knew wildfire rumours that spread about his closest allies who betrayed him. It was said that their hollow screams still lurked in the catacombs under the palace. A frosty wind nipped at her cheeks and coiled into her hair.

Seraphina didn't realised she was holding her breath until they tracked a different path, away from Baghra's hut. This path was formidably nicer, lined with oak, cherry and birch trees that would have blossomed beautiful leaves in the spring. It was a shame that the storm was settling in the middle of winter.

*

They fell into a steady rhythm and walked on in silence. The Darkling was staring at the sky, lost in thought and contemplating if what he did was right. He had revealed his hand; by making her his lieutenant, he had shown his lack of trust in Michail Sidorov. Michail had proven to be loyal and unbiased but he couldn't say the same for the girl walking next to him.

The Time turner. Of course he knew. She thought she was clever, that she could deceive him. But he knew the Time goddess. He knew her tricks, her cruel manipulations and terrible lies. The Darkling knew that the celestial would send a vengeance, a girl to destroy him. Ever since he had escaped to Earth, he had been studying the Saint's books and lesser known prophecies. It was a curious day; he was in some library in Ketterdam, that den of misfits and criminals, when he caught a glimpse of a leather-bound book. The plaque on the side of the shelf stated in bold wooden letters SAINTS AND CELESTIALS. It was ridiculously unremarkable yet the book caught his attention. It was covered in illustrated images and cursive writing. The ancient Ravkan language; dead to the newer words that were drawn from other languages: Kersch, Fjerdan, Shu. The young brilliant man flickered through the pages until he came to a familiar figure.