Chapter Text
The sunny Ravkan morning felt hollow to Aleksander. Any other day he might have found it a beautiful one, but the sun could do little to lift his spirits today as he quietly walked beside the hearse that bore his fathers body.
He died in the civil war that had been ravaging the country for years now. Too many lives lost, too many left behind.
Aleksander never thought he would be one of them. His father was strong, quick as lightning and smarter than he believed any general to be. Yet here he was, walking towards a graveyard to bury the man he had always looked up to.
The clatter of hooves and wheels on the cold cobblestone not enough to distract him as he sinks away in his own thoughts
His thoughts are absent as the coffin is lowered into the ground and the priest gives his father his last rites and his chest aches as he throws a rose on the coffin as a last goodbye, albeit, truth be told, they said goodbye to each other a long time ago. Yet his heart didn’t seem to have accepted that fact.
He watches as the gravekeepers close the hole shovel by shovel. He watches the gravestone when they are done and the hollow, aching feel in his chest only seems to grow the longer he looks at it.
He doesn’t register Ivan’s hand on his shoulder as a lump grows heavy in his throat.
Before he knows it, tears are rolling down his cheeks. The whole day he had not cried, but something about seeing the fresh grave and the neatly carved headstone broke something in him. Perhaps it was the realisation that he could no longer deny that his father was dead. That he was just another body on the ever growing pile that littered the Ravkan battlefields.
Just another life, given in vain.
Millions of thoughts went through Aleksander’s head as he walked the streets of Os Alta, thoughts of what he had wanted to say, things he wanted to do and old memories that stung like an old, infected wound. His legs carried him like they had a mind of their own as the buildings of the city seemed more dull than ever, their colors bleak in the sunlight and the joy that always buzzed through the streets now left him indifferent.
He barely noticed the fact that he was walking to the notary his father had written up his will with and briefly wondered what his father had left him.
The sound of a door slamming shut behind him pulled him out of his thoughts and he quickly observed he was in an office. The walls were mostly decorated by shelves filled with records, save for the occasional painting on display and towards the back of the room, there was a big desk with two seats in front of it and one behind it for whichever person happened to be working there.
“Mister Morozova, my condolences with the passing of your father,” a man whom he assumed to be the notary, spoke and Aleksander gave him a quiet ‘thanks’ as he and Ivan took the seats opposite of the man behind the desk.
“What has been left by him?” Ivan asked, knowing the boy next to him well enough to know that he did not want to speak up, lest he cry in front of someone else than himself.
“Not much I am afraid,” the notary spoke and Aleksander spotted pity on his face and for a second he wondered why. “The only thing he explicitly left you,” he said as he pulled out an old, leather bound book that Aleksander didn’t recognise, “is this book.”
“What about the house and all his other possessions he left here before he was taken to war?” Ivan’s voice sounded far away as he quietly took the book from the man across him.
Only a book. Why has he only left me a book? Was I not more important to him?
The thought raced through his mind as he somewhere far away heard Ivan argue with the notary.
“This can’t be all that was left to him!”
“The war takes its toll on everyone, mister Kaminsky. In the case of the deceased, he took to drinking I am afraid. If you ask me, he is lucky the man never sold the book. I am sorry, this is all I can give him."
The man paused for a second before he resumed. "Though, there might be a little light at the end of the tunnel here. Since mister Morozova is not of age yet, Baghra Morozova has taken it upon her to take you both in.”
“My mother? Ivan I haven’t seen her in years, much less spoken to her,” he said exasperated, “and now I am supposed to go live with her?” He paced around his room as he tried to take in the details of it one last time.
“Aleksander, if you had been of age I would happily have this conversation with you, but since that is not the case and I am your legal guardian, we are going.”
Aleksander let his shoulder fall at Ivan’s argument. Of course he was right, but that didn’t mean he had to like it as he silently took up the old book again and let his fingers trace over the worn leather and suddenly he had the urge to throw it away, across the room, into a fire, it didn’t matter. Instead his fingers just seemed to tighten around the bound pages as the ache in his chest bubbled up again and tears were prickling in the corners of his eyes.
It was all he had left of him. He had been rich when he left, but the war had taken its toll on him and like many, he’d started drinking. And gambling.
From the results Aleksander could tell he had not been good at it, but he briefly wondered what it would have been like if he had gone with him.
Would he have died too? Or would he still be alive, still stand over a fresh grave, but haunted by the war?
Thoughts like this haunted him as he absent mindedly packed his bags.
He wouldn’t need much, a few changes of clothes, a couple of books and the dagger his father had gifted him on his tenth birthday, he could fit it all in one suitcase and it felt strange to him.
People like him traveled with at least two suitcases at all times. And if they were making a big move like this, it should undoubtedly be more.
But it wasn’t and it stung him.
For a moment he considered leaving the old book behind, sure of it that it would serve someone else better than him, but the thought was quickly gone when he reminded himself that it was his inheritance. It was the only thing he had left of the man he’d always looked up to.
“Where does she live these days?” he asked quietly, glancing at the man beside him.
“In the countryside I believe. What the locals have dubbed 'The Moonacre’.”
Aleksander made a noise of disgust. “The countryside? Couldn’t she at least have chosen a city to live in? I’d rather live in Ketterdam than the countryside,” he scorned.
“You wouldn’t survive a week in Ketterdam.”
“Still.”
“Stop being dramatic Aleksander and start using that brain of yours. That’s why you got it.”
He huffed at Ivan’s response but said nothing as he checked the contents of his case again.
“Listen, I want to stay here in Os Alta just as much as you do, but we have nowhere to stay. Going to your mother is our best move for now. And let’s get moving, our ride is waiting outside.”
The carriage ride was soothing as it softly bobbed up and down over the Os Altan stone streets and Aleksander gazed at the buildings slowly passing them. Buildings he would likely never see again.
However, the calm of the city made soon way for the sandy roads of the countryside and it seemed like the charioteer made a point of going through every single hole in the road and drove over every bump he could find and soon both Aleksander and Ivan found themselves doing breathing exercises against the nausea.
Luckily, the longer they were in the carriage, the more Aleksander got used to the heavy swaying of the carriage, but Ivan seemed to be less lucky as he pulled out a bottle of pills and took a few out, swallowing them dry.
“I hate this,” he fumed quietly as he continued his exercises, not paying attention to Aleksander, who had taken to a little knife he always carried with him, flipping it over and over and making small moves in the constricted space.
He was able to entertain himself for a while like that, whilst Ivan seemed to recover from his motion sickness and had started to play with one of the strings on his red kefta to fend off the boredom.
But ultimately, the space was too small for proper practice and he put the knife back into its sheath as the landscape wobbled by.
Not finding anything better to do, Aleksander decided that sleep was the best option.
The bobbing of the carriage was soothing and quickly enough, he was drifting in and out of a dreamless sleep, though it wasn’t giving him any rest as the fields glided by in an ever repetitive motion, not changing much aside from the occasional roadside tree.
As he drifted in and out of the dream realm, his mind began to wander to other places.
Back to his old home in Os Alta, where he’d so often played hide and seek with his father, to the streets he’d roam when he wasn’t studying new techniques with him or Ivan, but ultimately his thoughts went back to the graveyard. To the freshly dug grave, the neatly cut headstone and the black casket in the ground.
The sting he’d felt earlier that day now clawed at his chest, as if it wanted to rip it open and escape from his body, making his throat feel impossibly tight. As if he might cry again any moment.
It hurt so badly and all he wanted to do was make it stop. Stop the pain, stop his father from going to the frontlines, stop the people who killed him. He wanted to stop it all. For the whole world to stop moving and let him grieve in peace.
With a sharp breath he opened his eyes and shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts from his mind as he turned his attention back to the window and the landscape that passed it.
The boring fields had made way for rolling green hills with the occasional flock of sheep and it made him jealous of the herders. To have little to no idea of what was going on with the war, or outside the fields where they herded their sheep. To have that peace of mind made him envious of them.
A few minutes later, the carriage came to a halt and Ivan stuck his head out of the little window to see why they’d stopped.
He could see something of a gate wall, but he could see no walls extending from it and muttered something about enduring the ride around it.
But just as he went to sit back in his seat, the door was yanked open and a figure dressed in bright browns and oranges darted in to grab Ivan by his Kefta, trying to drag him out of the carriage and with success as the man is too surprised to do much about it.
Not a moment after Ivan was half out of the carriage, another figure crawled over him into the small space, quickly making their way to Aleksander, who immediately pulled his knife out its sheath, but the other was faster, dodging the slash by using his movement to bury the knife into the wood of the carriage and was quick to secure their hold on his Kefta as they yanked him towards the open door.
But he wasn’t about to give in that easily as he made himself heavy, resisting the pulling moves from his assailant, though he quickly found out they were more experienced in this than he was as they landed a blow in his crotch, launching him up as they pulled him with them again.
Panicking, he decided to try and summon the shadows, to at least disoriënt them, but it was of no use. As he tried to call the familiar darkness, one of his hands was suddenly tangled in a very painful position, the pain making him grunt as he tried to work himself free.
“Morozova,” they hissed, as if his name were a profanity used by people trying to express their frustrations, before giving him another hard pull, nearly getting him out of the carriage until they suddenly cried in pain, letting go of him and falling back onto the dusty road.
Ivan was back in the carriage before Aleksander could blink twice, slamming the door shut as the carriage began to move again, leaving their assailants behind the gate and Aleksander silently hoped that was the last they would see of the bandits.