[ Naturally, the Darkling had been drawn to the library. The library and war room back at the Little Palace had been his refuges, sprawling with books and paperwork and maps; slightly dark and claustrophobic rooms, certainly, but cozy in their own way. A haven away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the palace. And so he comes here in this castle, too— only to encounter a walking, talking remnant from his past.
At her bitten-off words, he shrugs a careless shoulder. ]
I didn't have much of a choice.
[ The last thing he remembers: someone, something? swooping in and scooping up those scattered shreds of his spirit — the Fold — he thought he'd heard the droning of bees — a long expanse of featureless grey sand, only for that sand to resolve into grey fog instead, and the water, and the Ferryman. Aleksander remembering the last words on his bloodied lips: Don't let me be alone.
And now he isn't, apparently.
He'd lingered in the doorway of the library, a shoulder tipped against the doorjamb, watching her even before she turned around to glower at him.
The first thought that struck him is how different Zoya looks without her bullet-proof kefta, as does he. The Darkling is clad in simple robes for once, the sleeves pulled down to hide the band at his wrist (a livid orange, with the occasional flicker of red). When his gaze slides down the line of her own arm, an eyebrow tilts slightly; he can see a faint glimpse of the ScryWatch, but not the tiger teeth which typically sink into her wrist. They had been a familiar and ever-present sight ever since she was thirteen. She looks oddly naked without it. ]
Of all the grim foreboding castles in all the world. Does this mean you're dead as well?
[ A flippant wave of his hand, indicating their surroundings, the island. ]
📚
At her bitten-off words, he shrugs a careless shoulder. ]
I didn't have much of a choice.
[ The last thing he remembers: someone, something? swooping in and scooping up those scattered shreds of his spirit — the Fold — he thought he'd heard the droning of bees — a long expanse of featureless grey sand, only for that sand to resolve into grey fog instead, and the water, and the Ferryman. Aleksander remembering the last words on his bloodied lips: Don't let me be alone.
And now he isn't, apparently.
He'd lingered in the doorway of the library, a shoulder tipped against the doorjamb, watching her even before she turned around to glower at him.
The first thought that struck him is how different Zoya looks without her bullet-proof kefta, as does he. The Darkling is clad in simple robes for once, the sleeves pulled down to hide the band at his wrist (a livid orange, with the occasional flicker of red). When his gaze slides down the line of her own arm, an eyebrow tilts slightly; he can see a faint glimpse of the ScryWatch, but not the tiger teeth which typically sink into her wrist. They had been a familiar and ever-present sight ever since she was thirteen. She looks oddly naked without it. ]
Of all the grim foreboding castles in all the world. Does this mean you're dead as well?
[ A flippant wave of his hand, indicating their surroundings, the island. ]