Exile |The Darkling|

Chapter 2: Balancing

You would never forget his eyes in that moment.

The pure, unbridled rage that was aimed directly at you alarmed even the lowliest of stablehands that had listened to the soaring chatter the palace had commenced in after Alina was taken away. The girl would be fine, just in need of some rest to recover her strength.

Your mind was racing with a mix of pain and frustration. There was a heavy hand of guilt regarding Alina, as you knew you went too far and could have easily killed her, but there was also the frustration over her. The young girl had stuck her hand into your soul and pulled apart the one aspect of your life that had been steady. As you would never forget the eyes of the man you loved protect another over you, Alina would never let yours escape her memory during that moment.

There was a pain she had once understood. The anguish of being alone in the world when a piece of your life that mattered the most was slipping away. Alina had seen it before in the friends she had lost, in the eyes of Mal when she was transported in the carriage weeks ago, in her own mind when the Volcra lifted her into the dark sky of The Fold before him. She didn't even have time to regret her words before she was accursed into obscurity.

And she was hailed the saint, the hero, the victim of the ordeal because she suffered a physical ailment inflicted by a superior.

The halls of the Little Palace were empty when you escaped through them, locking yourself into the room you had withdrew from not long before. The room was suffocating; a searing reminder of the life before and the one now–alone and riddled with an agony unfathomable. You couldn't even bring yourself to cry resentfully. It was just too difficult to even breathe.

You couldn't sit at your vanity to calm down because you were reminded of the events of the morning. Important. The unmade bed was howling of years of passion, the chairs of quiet lounging and the wall filled with whispered secrets. You shouldn't have gone there looking for seclusion when it could never be granted. But there was a stillness that hours granted that day. No one had come knocking, no one had come looking to burn you at the stake for an accidental overreach of disgruntled emotions.

Tearing off the yellow kefta that was stained with speckles of dirt and blood, you filled with porcelain tub with water that had been left from the morning. It was nearing later evening, the time having muddled together in a string of moments rather than distinct fractions of a day, and you sat in the tub until it went cold. Curled into yourself where not even the declining temperature of the water could bring the chills that shook your core at the sound of the door opening roughly and slamming close.

So much for being alone.

Against the darkness of night, his shadows could still be seen lingering around him in a ferocity that had gone unchanged from the morning. Only now the sun was tucked away, the moon and stars illuminated the room, and the few candles lit colored golden tiles in the washroom. Wickedly serene for the time, Aleksander felt the cracks of the many weeks beginning to show. The world was spiraling out of control without any direction from the ones causing it to crumble. The starless one went about his routine with an eye on the gleaming archway.

First the boots, each unlaced carefully and pushed aside near the end of the bed. The chaise served as an undressing station, taking on his kefta and fastened jacket underneath, leaving him in a black poet shirt and trousers. The discarded pieces folded carefully in two piles and there was still no movement in the other room. Without his heavy soled boots, his steps were quiet against the wooden floor as he moved about–the ambience was far from content sans the noise.

There was a thick unknown feeling in the air. Aleksander attributed to the fact he was sure you were in the other room, most likely unwilling to move due to the uncharted waters you both had crossed. It was like walking a thin line, or balancing on branches that were moments from a snap. He replayed the events of the morning knowing now that Alina would live and you wouldn't be reprimanded by the King, and he could see where everything had gone awry. The second Alina approached, the languid movements of her mouth, and the ferociousness of your explosion–the signs were there, he chose to do nothing.