A funeral march for the passing of gods - Shadow And Bone- Nikolai Lantsov/OC

The hope of the rogue

Athena held Ivan's hand through the whole journey back. She held it tight, understanding sipping in the marrow of her bone, regret filling the cavities of her heart. Sorrow and grief, it seemed, were the only thing she could sense, in the flow of blood rushing through the crew's veins, in the way the humidity in the air seemed to tremble, as if in synch with her simmering rage. She took her post on the mast, one arm outstretched towards the sky that never listened, that never cared for feeble human lives. There was an eternity waiting for Athena, an eternity of mourning. Her father knew it, knew the heritage he left behind, the real curse that would mar his daughter after the war would end, after the line was crossed and the casualties counted. Athena would stand in those long agonizing seconds of silence, a friend holding on to his shadows and ghosts, to her hand and hollow fingers, and she would fear remembrance, would fear it with a force greater than she would do death.

In those hours of summoning mist, of searching for enemies that were not there, Athena would try to recount the heartbeats lost, the symphony that stopped suddenly, the echo of life still embedded in the little lives left behind. She tried to hold on to the painful memory, to use it as a crutch in dire time, as a reason to keep on marching.

She would think sorrow debilitating, just as much as love is. She would remember the glint in her father's eyes when he sent the Nichevo'yas towards Ivan, the mindlessness of her actions, the rush of terror seeping in her veins, the irrationality of her every actions. Love was a funeral for the lighthearted. It weakens and tears you apart.

Ivan would stay still, as if frozen in time, beside a friend he thought dead. He would hold her blackened hand, with the last piece of surety he has left, and make himself believe there was still a world worth fighting for, a chance for it to be right and mighty, glorious and full of light. There was a ring box in his lapel pocket even now, sitting right above his heart, a reminder of shallow graves, and hideous nights, of nightmares coming to life. The image of Fedyor's remains, splattered on the roof of the Little Palace would haunt him for the rest of his days, the gore scratched in his retina, the same gore he used to ignore as a soldier fighting for a country he never loved. The gore that took away the love of his life and torn it to shreds.

He would glance at Athena's face, immovable, only the slightest, most imperceptible glint of rage, and would feel the slightest resentment rising in the pit of his stomach. In the worst of days, he would blame her, he would blame her linage, he would blame the mere sun for shining. He would resent Alina for throwing the balance of their unbalanced way of life askew, he would blame the pirate prince for not protecting them further, he would blame his own cowardice for not stepping in front of Fedyor and keeping his beautiful heart from the fright of death.

Sorrow is no pretty thing. It searches for blame where there is none, it trembles with rage and fear, with a specific type of unconscious certainty. That the world should suffer for its sins, that the fault is close enough to grip.

Athena and Ivan would both love and hate each other on that flying ship, for the weakness they bring in each other, for the blissful peace, for the quite normality and everything in between. They were both sanctuary and prison, shelter and cage. They were each other's home, with both the soothing embrace, and cold corners.

In those seconds of silent mourning, they were mirrors reflecting the nothingness between them.

And from afar, a tired prince with aching shoulders would feel the slightest shiver of jealousy along a tidal wave of uncertainty. Beside him, the sun summoner, with her white hair cascading on her back, would glance at the pair, two soldiers trudging through a continuous storm, remembering meeting them for the first time. The way their movements were in sink, the way it seemed one completed the other as if creating an unshakable jigsaw. Now, with their margins torn and faded under the weight of loss, they clashed. Ivan seemed threadbare, close to collapsing. Athena, with her strained surety, with her caricature of composure, with her inner rage, showed the humanity Alina craved once, the humanity she would now fear.

Athena's portrait was the thread of certainty Alina has held on to in those days she was kept captive and in those she found herself on the run, desperately hoping that a grisha in red and blue would find her scavenging crew and bring them to safety, offering her a refuge to plan her next move, instead of trying to salvage her life.

On that long journey back to Spinning Wheel, the crew was silent. You could see Anastasia, the Suli squaller, praying under her breath, a new hope arising among them all. The sun saint, found at last, dressed in a torn kefka with an embroidery blemished by dirt, with the hems coming undone. This was the hope of the rouge, of the one that chose to be righteous and brave. They all tried to make themselves believe it was enough.

Despite her clouded mind, Athena could sense the tension of the people, the way they glanced at Alina as if she was a god fallen from grace, a god that abandoned them in need. These people were starving for hope, and still it was incredulous to believe this bunch of scoundrels could save them. Alina with her tiny frame and scowl and Athena with the many scars the crew has seen over and over again, with a privateer coat on her shoulders and a face that betrayed rage.

Yuyeh Sesh. Despise your heart, she would tell herself in those seconds of pounder. She would tell herself as she squeezed Ivan's hand three times and finally let it go. She would tell herself as she tugged the tacky coat loose and put on the most mighty stance she could muster, face frozen with certainty. She came towards Alina, a glint in her eyes, sending an imperceptible nod towards Nikolai, demanding his presence.

A commander, a king, a saint. They came together, a halo of moonlight seemingly surrounding them. And they reminded the crew what they were fighting for.

"There is no safely we can promise you, without deceit. What we can offer is a chance to fight. Against the man that took away your homes, your loved ones, your peace." Alina would say, slightly glancing at Mal, at the proud look in his eyes, at the still glinting hurt laying on his forehead. She would glance at Athena, already adding her own words, at her bare shoulders, at her vulnerability, knowing it was deliberate, knowing it was a show of power and might.

"We are all soldiers, here, uniform or not. We all bleed the same. And despite his atrocities, so does the Darkling. What we ask you, not as a general, not as a saint, not as a prince, is to march by our side." Athena would enunciate, stopping at exactly the right moments, accentuating exactly the right parts, the diplomat in her shining through. She was gracious and lovely, shinning like steal in the candlelight. Nikolai would glance at her hands for a millisecond, his thoughts slightly parting from himself, and he would imagine how glorious even the most mortal of weapons are. How Athena's bareness was slick and sharp, like the knife of a lover gently tugging at your heart.

Dangerous territory, he would remind himself, and go on with his own speech.

"These are dire times for each and every one of us. There is no one here not touched by grief, but were we to succeed, the one coming next have the chance to live in a better Ravka. A Ravka that nurtures and cares, a Ravka that isn't torn apart by war." This was his country he was fighting for. His country that could never love him right.

They were not the ones who should have carried the weight of the world, these barely adults whose bravery reached closely towards foolishness. They were only the ones that took the responsibility. It was not Nikolai's birthright to lead, Athena's duty to command, or Alina's obligation to be saint for those who persecuted her for being an orphan, for being scrawny, and Shu, for being young and poor, a simple casualty.

They were the ones that took the wanting in their hearts and made it mean something.