horology | the darkling

spilled blood

hey guys! sorry I've been kind of inactive. I've just started the summer holidays and ive been trying to finish off the last of my school work. This chapter's a bit shorter than normal so, sorry to those who were looking for a longer read! Also, I'm kind of running out of ideas of where to go with this so if anybody has any advice or where this story should be going, feel free to comment!

xx

/

blood//water - grandson

we'll never get free
lamb to the slaughter
what you gon' do
when there's blood in the water?

/

'why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief" - anne Carson

-

aleksander

Too fast and all wrong. Aleksander thought he could stand the feeling of her lips. But he tore away, gasping for breath.

His mind drew him back to Time. Of when he was under her malicious lies, when he was trapped in the dismal prisons on his mind. The persistent empty feeling of dread possessed him, an unknown spectre, always there in the corner of his eye. The ghost of his past.

The last time he had kissed, the last time he had allowed himself to feel, he had lost Luda. And he had really loved her. He didn't know what he felt for this girl. The girl whose fate was forced onto his. Whatever they had, it was exciting but it was make-believe. Did he really believe that it was possible to fall in love with someone he had just met, someone who was the key to his destruction? She was a living reminder of the scarred wounds that Time had inflicted on him. What he felt, what Seraphina felt; it was a lie. Another trick of time.

Seraphina was looking at him. Her head was cocked to the side, radiant black curls of hair falling around her shoulders. Water dripped from her face in steady drops. The pink of her lips were pulled into a small frown. The girl's uniform was soaked

She took a step forwards, Aleksander took a step back. Seraphina stopped. She opened her mouth, as if to say something but she didn't. Aleksander wished that she had screamed or yelled. It would have made his retreat less cowardly.

What was he thinking? He wasn't a coward; he didn't owe her anything. They hadn't made vows, hadn't pledge love, hadn't even spoken. He was the Darkling; kings, empires, emperors bowed to him. Kingdoms collapsed under his armies, the Grisha that he had made a future for. The Ravkan army, his creation, was the most powerful in the known world. He owed the girl nothing. But he kept stepping back.

A wind blew clouds in from the west. Somewhere in the distance a crackle of a large fire was heard followed by a short scream. Probably a novice Inferni training with Botkin. He was surprised a fire could even be conjured in this weather. Seraphina stared at her General, each hoping to find understanding, something to make sense of what he was doing. He avoided her eye, skeptically. If Mother could see me now, she would laugh and tell me I deserve it. He did deserve it.

'Moi soverennyi?'

He turned his back to her and started to walk away. Slowly at first but once he was certain that there were no sound of the crunching of gravel after him, he began to run. Now you are a coward. Aleksander was glad she didn't follow.

He slowed his pace as the white walls of the Little Palace rose into sight. The gardens were meticulous and in spite of the strength of the rain, flowers still boast full petals of red, white and blue. He slowed his pace and felt the thud of his heart against his chest through his heavily drenched kefta. He had forgotten it was there. The dismal sheets of rain droned on endlessly; even Botkin and his class had scatter to seek shelter in the heated rooms.

He didn't register that he was shivering until his hands threw open the doors to his own lodgings. The heat of the fire struck him hard. Sheets and sheets of paper were on his desk; reports regarding the advancing of Shu troops, sightings of Fjerdans crossing the border, cases of missing Grisha. Aleksander ignored he pile of documents on his desk and threw himself down onto a chair. His shadows climbed higher on the walls, weary of his anxious mood.

With a jolt of realisation, he realised how much he had to do, all the work he had neglected. All because he was too busy gawking at Time's little pawn. His work represented everything he had accomplished, that he was close to achieving his true intention. But the more he drown himself in toil, the more he realised that there was nothing more he could do.

Work had kept him sane but now he wondered if he was being slowly drawn into insanity by his obsessive vision for better world. He was losing his sight, his innovation.

He was fuming, angry at himself, at Seraphina for being distracted. For making him lose his edge. She had advised him of changes, many changes which had completely derailed his original plans. He was a fool for following her suggestions; they might have been useful but they were foolish in the long term. Had it been her devious plan all along? To drive him to insanity so she could take the army for herself?

He bent his head into his palms and let out a blood curling scream. Of anguish and of anger. And hate. The silhouettes on the walls retreat for a split second then explode into a blinding flash of black. He stood up roughly and pulled the papers from his desk then the books from his shelves. They clattered to the floor in sad clutters. Aleksander was blinded by hot sharp rage. The chair smashed to the floor, splintering into useless shards of wood.

He was losing control. The dark rush of deformed shapes slashed at the walls and at the gilded mahogany desk. Scars in the shape of claws reminded him of the cuts on his heart. He lashed out with all his might. Shadows exploded all around the room, shattering windows and the oil canvases on the walls. Pieces representing ships and armies melted at the touch of a shadow and turned them into ashes.

I can't control it.

The demons inside his head magnified his powers. He was an amplifier and now, he amplified his own. The grief and wrath that he had built and bottled up over hundreds of years, released in one swooping, fiery storm. Objects tore themselves in two and flew across the room. The Cut.

No. Using the cut without control was murderous, cold blooded murder. The dark pine green wallpaper shredded away. The painted black door, reinforced with the strongest birch wood was no match for the frenzied magic of the brilliant madman. His merzost controlled him now. He had tried to fight it before, when he created the Fold but there was nothing he could do other than accept his fate now.

Out of the corner of his eye, a shape emerged. No. Aleksander, blinded by the shadows, heard a gasp and the sickening crunch of bones. A form fell to the floor. The magic drained from his body. The General fell to his knees, terrified and exhausted. The carpet was no longer pristine, a nauseating thick crimson crawled its way towards him. No. On his knees like a wounded dog, he dragged himself to the body on the ground. Pathetic, he heard them whisper, the tiny voices from his childhood.

With all that was left of his worn out magic, he summoned a barricade of shadows to block the open space where the elegant door had once been. A curtain of black void settled like fine dust into the gap. He couldn't be caught, he wouldn't give his life's work for a life. No matter how much guilt he would have to bear on his conscience, he couldn't lose his army, his kingdom.

The man died a clean, terrifying death. There was so much blood, pooling in little red, almost black puddles. It trickled towards him, confronting the General for his crimes. Aleksander didn't care; he made his way towards the body. The room smelt of death. A foul odour of tangy, metallic blood. The stranger was lying face down, Aleksander flipped him over, trying not to gag at the horrid stench. It stung his eyes, seeped into his mouth and out of his nose. The Darkling felt sick. The vile taste of bile burned his throat. A thousand rotting corpses on the battlefield was a more pleasant sight than the calamity in front of him.

His face was stained. He looked familiar, very much so. His dark blonde hair and calloused eyes. The papers that the man was carrying bore a seal. Blood was streaming continuously out of his mouth. His lower body had been fully severed but his clothes looked important. He was wearing military uniform. The Darkling let out a guilty sigh of relief; it wasn't a Grisha. The man's head lolled to the side and with a numb shock, he recognised the man he had murdered.

Colonel Vessensky of the First Army lay bleeding on the floor, dreaming of the saints who took him to his wife and daughter for the last time.