( pins and needles prick her limp arms, by the time paul and alia have gotten their fill of pulling them about, making alina whatever they need her to be. alia's punching bag, expected to take the beating of her anger, without much more than a grimace of pain when alia and paul both wrench her marionette arms this way and that. paul's urn, letting him pour his grief into her until she's overflowing with it, swallowing past the lumpy emotion in her throat. alina's stare stays disassociative-foggy throughout, retreating into the safe isolation of herself, barred doors and sealed windows. seeing without really seeing where it stays, unfocused, on the bumpy silhouette of paul's shoulder in front of her.
she doesn't mind it, really, being made into the vessel she's always been. that's always been her role, despite what alia's little-girl anger wants to say about it. there's no space for happiness inside of her ribcage when it's meant to be hollowed out and filled with someone else's dreams, someone else's rage, someone else's hopes and ambitions and needs. it should probably anger her instead, she thinks, but it's almost — relieving, to feel something after walking around half-dead for days, even if the echo of emotion isn't hers. she blows out a long breath, concaving with it, and presses her kneading fingers into the socket of her arm, restoring bloodflow, ignoring the little thought in the back of her head.
if paul is a monster for one death, what would the two of them consider her? )
You're wrong. ( simple, clipped, edged with a bite of bitterness. because alia had claimed she wouldn't go hunting for more. that she could be satisfied with not knowing, and alina had tried to believe her. as it turns out: alia is as much a liar as paul. like brother, like sister. ) I'm not going to thank you for doing the bare minimum to treat me like a person, Alia. And I'm not going to defend myself to either of you. You would just take each other's sides, anyway.
( she sags back against the lip of the bed, head arched back to stare resignedly at the ceiling. alina is the outlier here, after all, keeping track of every little way they defer to each other first. how she's the footnote to paul's confession, the addendum to alia's criticism, considered last. how she has to share even those private intimacies, here, too. she closes her eyes for a frustrated moment, then moves to sidle her fingertips beneath the binding on paul's wrist, finding — no, not even the burn from her summoning can make it budge.
for a second, alina's expression wrinkles into ugly crumples, like she's on the verge of crying at the hopelessness of it all. then: nothing, just a shaky breath of exhale. )
I'm not doing that. ( to alia. orgy, vetoed. ) Or cutting anything off. ( to paul, pointedly. his need for pain, vetoed. ) It's ... we've the same wedding rituals, back in Ravka. Grisha marry into their own traditions, with their own vows. The ribbon is just a symbol for tying their souls together, in front of the Making at the Heart of the World. Maybe —
( she chews on the inside of her cheek, begrudging. it hurts to even consider playacting, a cruel form of torturing herself with something sacred, something she won't have. after a breath, she lets it out in a rush, pre-emptively defensive, to the both of them: )
I don't want to be married to you any more than you want to be married to me. But maybe if we pretend to go through with the charade, it'll come loose.
no subject
she doesn't mind it, really, being made into the vessel she's always been. that's always been her role, despite what alia's little-girl anger wants to say about it. there's no space for happiness inside of her ribcage when it's meant to be hollowed out and filled with someone else's dreams, someone else's rage, someone else's hopes and ambitions and needs. it should probably anger her instead, she thinks, but it's almost — relieving, to feel something after walking around half-dead for days, even if the echo of emotion isn't hers. she blows out a long breath, concaving with it, and presses her kneading fingers into the socket of her arm, restoring bloodflow, ignoring the little thought in the back of her head.
if paul is a monster for one death, what would the two of them consider her? )
You're wrong. ( simple, clipped, edged with a bite of bitterness. because alia had claimed she wouldn't go hunting for more. that she could be satisfied with not knowing, and alina had tried to believe her. as it turns out: alia is as much a liar as paul. like brother, like sister. ) I'm not going to thank you for doing the bare minimum to treat me like a person, Alia. And I'm not going to defend myself to either of you. You would just take each other's sides, anyway.
( she sags back against the lip of the bed, head arched back to stare resignedly at the ceiling. alina is the outlier here, after all, keeping track of every little way they defer to each other first. how she's the footnote to paul's confession, the addendum to alia's criticism, considered last. how she has to share even those private intimacies, here, too. she closes her eyes for a frustrated moment, then moves to sidle her fingertips beneath the binding on paul's wrist, finding — no, not even the burn from her summoning can make it budge.
for a second, alina's expression wrinkles into ugly crumples, like she's on the verge of crying at the hopelessness of it all. then: nothing, just a shaky breath of exhale. )
I'm not doing that. ( to alia. orgy, vetoed. ) Or cutting anything off. ( to paul, pointedly. his need for pain, vetoed. ) It's ... we've the same wedding rituals, back in Ravka. Grisha marry into their own traditions, with their own vows. The ribbon is just a symbol for tying their souls together, in front of the Making at the Heart of the World. Maybe —
( she chews on the inside of her cheek, begrudging. it hurts to even consider playacting, a cruel form of torturing herself with something sacred, something she won't have. after a breath, she lets it out in a rush, pre-emptively defensive, to the both of them: )
I don't want to be married to you any more than you want to be married to me. But maybe if we pretend to go through with the charade, it'll come loose.