( your brother's a duke, alina's first envious draft blinks back. you don't have to wed anyone if you don't want to. doubtful that paul would ever command it of his baby sister, coddled with a family that loves her. coddled with a family that alina is distinct lacking — no one to guard her from what duty dictates. the second, once she's deleted the first: and your parents were never unhappy? the way queen tatiana's lover must have been, creating nikolai beneath the very nose of the king. the way mal had dug a chasm between them, impossible to bridge, the moment nikolai had set his sights on transforming her into a queen.
she deletes that, too, unable to stomach the jealousy that cramps her insides, suddenly, at the thought of being relegated to paul's secret, to alia's shame. to watching idly as the two of them marry themselves off to others, playing wife and husband to some nobleborn beauty, while she's shunted to a corner. meant to watch it all, like she imagines alia's parents must have, taking their respective alliances and only coming together in the dark.
her fingertips twitch, refusing to torment herself by rooting out the sordid details. instead: )
Not every political match has to be so terrible, does it?
( like a child, asking someone to tell them a scrape isn't as bad and bloody as it looks. she knows the answer, even as she asks it. a memory, curdled in her mind: wincing while she watches a young wife struggle uphill, salt strapped to her back. ana kuya biting back, to alina's questions: he doesn't need a donkey. he has a wife. the horror coiling inside of her as mal, oblivious, insisted he would one day marry her. ana kuya again, blistering, that's what happens to peasant girls who do not have the benefit of a duke's kindness.
alina swallows around a sour mouthful of nothing. imagines she must be the packmule, carrying ravka's burdens uphill for nikolai, tired and worn under the staggered weight. still, she types, anyway: )
Look at Nikolai and I. Some betrothals begin with friendship. Even if it never turns to love, we would still have Ravka's best interests in common.
We both know Paul would never stand for a political match made against your wishes, anyway. Especially if it's to a self-serving ass.
no subject
she deletes that, too, unable to stomach the jealousy that cramps her insides, suddenly, at the thought of being relegated to paul's secret, to alia's shame. to watching idly as the two of them marry themselves off to others, playing wife and husband to some nobleborn beauty, while she's shunted to a corner. meant to watch it all, like she imagines alia's parents must have, taking their respective alliances and only coming together in the dark.
her fingertips twitch, refusing to torment herself by rooting out the sordid details. instead: )
Not every political match has to be so terrible, does it?
( like a child, asking someone to tell them a scrape isn't as bad and bloody as it looks. she knows the answer, even as she asks it. a memory, curdled in her mind: wincing while she watches a young wife struggle uphill, salt strapped to her back. ana kuya biting back, to alina's questions: he doesn't need a donkey. he has a wife. the horror coiling inside of her as mal, oblivious, insisted he would one day marry her. ana kuya again, blistering, that's what happens to peasant girls who do not have the benefit of a duke's kindness.
alina swallows around a sour mouthful of nothing. imagines she must be the packmule, carrying ravka's burdens uphill for nikolai, tired and worn under the staggered weight. still, she types, anyway: )
Look at Nikolai and I. Some betrothals begin with friendship.
Even if it never turns to love, we would still have Ravka's best interests in common.
We both know Paul would never stand for a political match made against your wishes, anyway.
Especially if it's to a self-serving ass.