LUCA COULDN'T REMEMBER how it occurred. One moment, he was standing in front of Freya Helvar, surrounded by a crowd of people during the annual winter fete. The next, a sharp pain tore through him, and he was falling forward. He gasped a breath, his lungs heavy as if filled with water. He was face down on the ground, he realised. The coldness pressing against his forehead was the marble floor of the ballroom. And there was something hot pooling on his back and stomach, and there was an agonizing ache pulsating through him like a second heartbeat.
Freya had tried to catch him, but he'd grown taller than her in the past years, and he was bigger than her in every other way as well. And Saints, how was she meant to carry him? He was faintly aware of her rapid intake of breath beneath him – because that was her beneath him, padding her hands over his back and gripping his silk kefta.
His mouth formed the shape of her name, but he could not bring it to life. He could barely inhale. His eyes burned and his limbs felt as heavy as lead, dead weight just like the rest of him. And then there were hands on him, tugging at him and pulling him off. Nausea swept through him like a tidal wave at the sudden vertigo that followed, and he blinked slowly as the bright light of chandeliers nearly blinded him.
The silhouette of the person above him faded and morphed until it was a person. A person he recognised, if only after a few long seconds. His father knelt above him, and Luca grew increasingly aware of how dire his situation was. Because his father never let himself break his facade of the cold general, but here he was, eyes wild like an animal cornered, pressing his hand into Luca's abdomen, right on top of the wound that must've been gaping, because Saints, there was so much blood.
"You're alright," his father cried, though the sound was muddled and delayed from the movement of his lips. Luca thought he shook his head, because there was no reality in which he was fine, but he couldn't be sure if he even swayed it at all. "Katya, you need to make room for the Healer." It took embarrassingly long for Luca to realise his father wasn't talking to him. His mother was there too somewhere. He could hear her voice. Then he could feel her hand, gripping his limp one.
This time, he did move his head, letting it tilt in the direction he thought she was. It flopped to the side, stopped from cracking painfully on the marble by his father's large hand cupping it from below, shielding it from the hardness of the floor. Katya Kuznetsov looked like a broken thing, tearing at her hair with the fingers not occupying Luca's.
"Don't cry." He thought he said, but there was no sign that his mother understood his words, so it mustn't have been intelligible anyway. He gasped, "Mother." And this time she had to have understood, because she nodded, wiping away at her tears and squeezing his hand tighter.
Foreign hands invaded his body, and he might've felt disgusted had the entire world not been swimming. It's just the Healer, he told himself over and over again until his mind couldn't work any more and the ballroom around him began to fade. Too much blood had spilt out of him. He knew that. A stray tear ran down the side of his face, hot and burning compared to the clamminess of his own body.
And then he was swept away, embraced by the cold arms of death. He sank through the floor like it wasn't solid at all, and then he was suspended in the air, or maybe it was water, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that it was calm there, a forceful juxtaposition to the chaos he'd been surrounded by moments before. It was calm, and so cold.
This was what death felt like, he realized with a sudden start. Everything was freezing, chilling him down to his bone marrow, and it was so dark that for a moment he thought he must've been dreaming of the Fold, for he couldn't recall anything else in existence that could be so abyss-like. He wanted to cry, but his body wasn't his body anymore, and he was only floating in it, trapped like in some sort of cage. Something was pulling him deeper into the blackness, something like claws or talons, he couldn't be certain, but he knew it felt like something sharp and jagged was being embedded between his ribs, tugging him forcefully in the direction it wanted. It wasn't as painful as he thought it would be.
For an awfully long, clarifying moment, he realised he truly dying. And what was perhaps even more horrifying was that he was alright with it. He didn't feel like fighting against the grasp of death as it tore at his ribcage to pull him continuously down into his cavernous jaws.
It was then that something happened. Whatever it was, it came hurdling down from above him, and it was perhaps even darker and more abysmal than the thing he was surrounded in, if not in appearance – for he couldn't see a thing – then the mere essence of it. Death was dark, but it was natural. This thing was woven from pure evil, something so cruel and abhorrent that he would rather wrap himself in death's safe clutches than allow it anywhere near him.
But it came anyway, ripping death's claws out from his body before firmly curling itself around him like a possessive little thing. Before he knew it, he was flying upwards faster than a hawk's dive.
His lungs expanded with the sudden inhale that came through him. The air felt fresh, addictive, like pure life support, because that was what it was, and he gulped it down over and over again as the world around him exploded in an array of jumbled colours. It was blinding, and disorienting, but he was grounded by someone's hands clutched tightly around him, pulling him into a hard chest adorned in black silk.
"You're alright, you're alright, you're alright," the person chanted hoarsely, and it was then that Luca realised it was his father who held him. He took a painfully short moment to revel in the comfort of that. Then he noticed he was no longer bleeding, and that the pain was practically absent save for a few dizzying throbs. He wanted to speak, but his throat was dry, and so he didn't say anything at all. He only tilted his head to the side, sweeping his gaze over his surroundings as the world blurred again.
He stopped when he found the head of pale hair he hadn't even realised he was looking for. Freya Helvar stared at him with such wide and disbelieving eyes that he wondered if he should rethink the entire existence of everything around him. She was caked in blood – his blood – and her skin was as pale as a ghost.
There were no words he could possibly say before the world collapsed around him again, and he fell with it into a dreamless sleep.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
When he woke next, he lay upon something soft and warm. He stretched his arm out, curling his fingers in what must've been the silk sheets of his bed before he peeled his eyes open. The room was swamped in bleak grey light which filtered in through the window, but there was a distinct sound of a fire crackling in the hearth. When he looked up, he noticed the ceiling was painted with various symbols and creatures. Oh, it wasn't his and David's room then. He didn't recognize the ceiling, or anything else for that matter.
He shot up, ignoring all the painful aches of his body as his mind scrambled to find any semblance of understanding. The walls and windows were the same as the Little Palace, so surely he was in a safe place. Yet his heart still thundered at the immense size of the room, so unlike the room he and David shared, which was as small as any dorm for trainee Grisha.
"Luca." He almost jumped at the sound of a voice beside him, and he always lashed out with his arm in a way he knew Botkin would be proud of until he realised he knew that voice all too well. His mother's ochre eyes stared back at him. "Shhh, it's alright, you're alright."
"What happened?" he gasped, voice gravelly with how dry his throat was. Saints, that was the question of the century, wasn't it? What did happen? He'd been dead, he knew he had been, so how was he here? His lungs expanded with each breath, his heartbeat of its own accord and his body was warm, so unlike a corpse–
No, he wasn't warm. He was utterly freezing. He tried to fight the urge to bury himself back into the blankets, but such a painfully harsh shiver coursed through his body that he had little choice. It felt like he'd been dumped into a frozen lake, a dozen needles pricking at his skin incessantly. His mother stared at him with pursed lips, eyes glassy with unshed tears. She reached forward to touch him, but then stopped her hand mere inches from his skin. It almost made a hysterical laugh bubble in his throat. His own mother was afraid of him? Was she disgusted by him? The world truly had a sense of humour. He'd spent years hiding the worst kind of secret just to avoid something like this, but here he was anyway, in the same reality. It was a foolish thought, not at all supported in reality, he knew, but he had it just the same.
"I will be right back, my sweet," his mother said, pushing herself up and all but darting to the door. Luca bit down on the tongue as she whispered to someone behind the door, fighting back the urge to cry as his skin crawled and the little child within him wept. It burned painfully, the bitter repression of everything.
His mother did return, and she spoke to him in a calm voice, but Luca barely heard it at all. Not until the door to the enormous room opened and his father crept in, regal as always in his black kefta. The only sign that something terrible had happened were the dark circles beneath his eyes, haunting against his pale skin.
His eyes scoured Luca's whole form, and then he sighed, inching closer to the bed upon which Luca still sat, and rolled up in the covers that did little to chase away the cold. The mattress dipped as his father put a knee on it, then another, until he finally drew his whole body up and sat in front of Luca.
"I need you to listen to me." His voice was a whisper, but it still bore the usual hard tone it always seemed to bear when he spoke to Luca. He exhaled roughly, looking away from his father as he fought back an annoyed scoff, but his father's hand shot forward to grasp his own and squeezed it painfully tight. "Luca, listen to me."
And in that moment, he realised his father was worried, afraid even. Luca could only stare at him with wide eyes, unsure of how to react in the face of that. He barely recalled the terror in his father's eyes when he lay bleeding in his arms, so this was the first time he was truly seeing it, understanding it. He nodded, letting his father continue.
"What happened to you shouldn't have happened, I apologise, but things are different now, you must be careful–"
"You speak as if I wanted it to happen to me," Luca seethed through gritted teeth, suppressing another full-body shiver. His father's face slacked in exasperation.
"That is not what I meant and you know it."
"Do I?" He rolled his eyes, glaring at his father as they fell into their same old pattern. If he wasn't being ignored, he was being criticised, there was no other option in their painful, turbulent relationship.
"Must you fight me on everything–"
"Boys!" Katya barked suddenly, drawing both of them out of their argument before the fuse could completely blow. His father being called a boy almost made Luca laugh, but it died in his throat at the sight of his mother's expression. It was twisted with worry-lines and something in her eyes told him he should listen, had to listen. He nodded, but still sent a glare in his father's direction.
His father sighed, running a hand over his face before letting it fall limp at his side. He looked at Luca with such a hard, desperate sort of gaze that goosebumps rose over his already freezing skin.
"You know what I am. What my bones can do, the power they could provide if someone kills me," he began, and Luca nodded because of course he was aware. It was how they tested if his powers had actually manifested. He was all too acquainted with the feeling of raw power clawing at his body, with how it felt like fire coursing through his veins. "You were dead, Luca. You have to understand that you shouldn't be here."
He blinked, staring at his father for a full ten seconds before the realisation crashed into him like a war hammer. He pushed away from his father, wanting to be as far away as possible from the man who'd done this to him. So that was why he was so terribly cold. He looked down at his hands, half expecting black veins to be marking them in a similar pattern to the marble floors of the Little Palace. Tears gathered in his eyes, blessedly blurring his vision. He shouldn't be here, he shouldn't be here, he shouldn't be here.
"Why?" he croaked it out like a demand. "Why would you do that? You always preach against the usage of merzost!" The air hitched in his throat, and he had to swallow to get rid of the discomfort of it. Unnatural. Comes with a cost. Those were his own father's uttered words, and they were mild compared to what the few books on the matter said. Abominable. Monsterous. What sort of power was laced within his being now? Would he twist and change into something unrecognisable? Was he even himself anymore?
"Luca, you need to calm down." A hand pressed to his back, and it was then he realised he was hyperventilating and that every muscle in him ached. No, he didn't think he needed to do that. He thought his reaction was perfectly acceptable. He'd taken an interest in merzost when he was younger, not because he'd ever thought of using it, but because the mere existence of it fascinated him. He remembered scouring the library without his father's knowledge, even going as far as to try and translate the oldest texts possible – which he failed at miserably. He recalled the dozens of drawings and strange-looking graphs. They didn't look like anything good.
The very essence of merzost is set in darkness, in something unnatural. It was not meant for this world, not meant for the greedy hands of mortal beings. He knew the book was right. And now that power was rooted inside him. He could sense it in the pit of his very soul.
"You are fine, Luca," his father whispered in a tone that was meant to be comforting, but it was anything but. Luca shook his head, wanting to just disappear from the world in his entirety. "We've looked over you, nothing in you has changed. Not in a bad way."
"Do not lie to me," Luca spat, blinking back more burning tears. "I can feel it inside of me." His father blinked, the only sign of surprise, and nodded.
"That is because you're also an amplifier now." That made the spinning world come to a sudden stuttering stop. Everything fell silent, and all he could hear was his own strong and rapid heartbeat. He didn't even realise he was curling his fingers and using his Heartrender powers until it began to calm a bit. It was a subconscious habit, the only way he could get himself out of a spiral sometimes. "Are you calm now?" his father asked and all Luca could do was shrug. A sigh, and then he was continuing. "You must be careful now. Few would dare to harm you here at the Little Palace, but that doesn't mean you are safe. Do you understand?"
"I understand that you've made me a freak," Luca spat, the words escaping his mouth before he could even consider trying to stop them. His father clamped his mouth shut and Luca saw a muscle in his jaw feather with annoyance. "But go on, tell me how I have to live by every word you say now, lest I be killed. Let us pretend I shouldn't already be dead."
He heard his mother's breath hitch. "Do not say that." Luca thought he understood her pain and the reluctance to allow her child – her only child – to die, but he didn't think he wanted to live if it meant feeling some strange creature crawling throughout his body. Whatever words he might've said got stuck in his throat, and they all sat in silence for a long while before he found his voice again.
"I'm cold," he stated. Stupid, he thought, feeling the word wash over him as it had done a thousand times before. Everything he ever said in his father's presence was out of place, foolish, naive. Usually, his father would stare at him with that general-like, cold expression, his way of telling Luca he didn't agree with whatever he'd said, that he found it to be all of those things and much more. This time, he frowned and reached his hand over, but he was beaten to any sort of touch by Luca's mother.
A mistake. The second her palm touched his forehead, probably checking for a fever a Grisha could never actually have, the ring on her finger melted. Katya inhaled sharply, jerking her hand back. Her eyes were wide with surprise as if she hadn't expected that, as if she'd forgotten for a moment that her son was no longer ordinary. But there was something else in her eyes as she flailed her hand in the air, trying to get the liquid metal off her finger even as it dug into her skin and seared it. Something Luca couldn't read. She didn't look at him again. Didn't look at anyone but her father with wide, haunted eyes. Even as a Healer was brought in to seal the skin and wash the wound. Even as Luca's father handed him gloves to wear when he left the room and ordered the fire in the hearth to burn bright, for more blankets and sweaters to be brought, and for tea to be brewed. Even as she bid him goodnight.
Even as she left.
A/N
HELLO THERE.
It's been 84 years since I've updated this and I'm so sorry for that. I am extremely busy at the moment and find it hard to write for any of my books but I promise I'm trying! The next chapter is gonna be either second to last or last before we get into the season 1 plot, depending on how much I decide to add (probably a lot, I'm a sucker for angst and depressing inner monologue).
For those who haven't read the first book in the series (These Shattered Hearts), here's a quick rundown of what happened moments before the start of the chapter:
The winter fete was taking place and one of the members of the Fjerdan delegation was a hired assassin. He ended up shooting at Luca rip, my boy deserves better.
Also yes, the darkling did use merzost to bring his son back to life. He was in a silly goofy mood.