Chapter Text
The army arrived six days after the attack.
Or so they say, anyway. The Convent of Sankta Marfa is tucked away on the side of the mountain, far away from any manor or village, and news can only be passed through couriers or pigeon post. The Abbess announces the news at midday, cradling a weary bird. The villagers are too shellshocked and the nuns are too busy tending to the wounded to care.
Alina’s labors began that evening.
There’s not much time to think in between the waves of pain, but she’ll admit it—she’s impulsive. Alina often acts without thinking, whether it’s stealing Popo’s mung bean cakes or trying to wax her own eyebrows or, in this case, getting pregnant. She’d thought about having a baby for about a week before she’d committed. She’d considered all the options, and this was the best—she liked babies, and it wasn’t as if she’d be destitute. She had her Popo, and a trade to support herself.
She had not considered labor.
Alina’s been in pain for as long as she can remember—“Chronic wasting disease will do that to you,” Fyodor had said before Alina pinched him. She’s used to the dull ache that clings to her muscles, the exhaustion that’s settled in her bones and joints that couldn’t bear standing too long, let alone running. Labor is worse. It’s so much worse that Alina wants to cry and throttle the painfully cheerful midwife and perhaps commit violence against Yasha if he bothers to show up.
“I’ll kill him,” Alina tells her grandmother. Popo doesn’t bother hiding her smirk as she helps Alina walk around the cramped room. “If I can’t kill him, then neither can you,” she says.
The object of Alina’s ire flickers into existence. He stares at her sweaty face with something close to horror. “It’s too early,” he says, reaching towards her.
“It’s fine!” Alina hisses, squeezing Popo’s hand. “It’s fine, I’m fine, lots of babies are born early.”
“That’s the spirit, Linka!” The midwife says. “A month early is nothing to worry about, and you’re doing wonderfully.”
Alina stares into Yasha’s dark eyes as he rubs soothing circles on her shoulders. “I’m going to castrate you,” she mutters as his touch spreads through her body. “Of course, malyshka,” he says gently. “Whatever you want.”
Another contraction hits, and Alina sobs.
“You’re almost there, Xiao Ling!” Popo says, and Alina clutches one of Yasha’s hands with her own. The midwife shrieks, and Alina looks down at her distended belly as Yasha sucks in a breath. Light pulses under her skin, illuminating bones and veins. She can see the outline of her child, glowing with power separate from her own.
“Get up!” Popo shouts at the midwife, who’d fallen to her knees. The world is blurred with tears, but Alina can make out sunbeams dancing on the walls. There’s something more than fire rising from Alina’s marrow—there is light and life, and it will not be contained.
“Come on!” Popo says, and Alina gives a final push, her eyes falling shut.
Sunspots dance behind her lids, and a child cries.
Alina doesn’t remember much after the birth, but it goes something like this:
“The Sun Saint,” the midwife whispers.
“Be quiet,” Popo orders, cradling her great-grandchild. Light ripples from the babe with each cry. Yasha helps Alina to the bed, struck dumb with shock and wonder.
“Sankta,” the midwife says, staring at the newborn with terrified reverence. She reaches for the child, and Popo slaps her hand away. “Sankta,” the midwife says, more loudly, and then, “Everyone! Come! The Sun Saint—!”
Popo passes the baby to Alina and grabs the midwife by the ear. There’s a scuffle, but Alina doesn’t pay any attention as she gazes at the baby in her arms. “A daughter,” she says with wonder.
“A daughter,” Yasha echoes, his finger tracing her slimy face. Her eyelids were puffy, not yet ready to see the world she’d entered. Alina has heard many a mother crow about the beauty of her newborn, but Alina’s own baby looks quite ugly. The darling thing hardly looks human, but Alina loves her all the same.
The door slammed shut.
“When did Fyodor get here?” Alina asked.
“Just a moment ago—I’ll get the baby settled while your grandmother helps with the afterbirth.” He sounded remarkably calm, given that said baby was the promised savior of their country. It hadn’t quite sunk in yet for Alina.
Yasha pressed a kiss to Alina’s brow. “I’ll come at once,” he vowed. “Stay with Fyodor. He’ll protect you both.” He gave her hand a final squeeze, and vanished.
There was a crowd outside the room. The door was latched shut, but Alina could hear them, crying and praying and begging for a glimpse of her baby as light crept through the cracks in the door.
“We have two options,” Popo said grimly, pulling a fresh shift over Alina’s head. Fyodor passed over the baby, freshly washed and swaddled. She whines for milk.
“First,” Popo said as the baby latched. “We split up. Alina stays behind to recover and Lieutenant Kaminsky will take the little one to the General.”
“No!” Alina said, clutching her daughter. “We just have to wait—Yasha said he’d come!”
Popo and Fyodor exchanged a look. “That’s not an option,” Popo said. Someone was knocking incessantly at the door. Sankta, sankta!
“The second choice is we get you and the little one off the mountain. I don’t like this, but it’s workable.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll stay behind—” The door creaked ominously, and Fyodor raised his fists as the crowd’s cries became howls. Sankta, sankta, sankta!
“We’re going with the second plan,” Popo said, wrapping her kefta over Alina’s shoulders. “Lieutenant, you will escort my granddaughters. The nuns keep a stable of Sikurzoi horses that can take you safely to the valley. You will not stop until you get to the healer’s tent.”
“Of course, Major,” Fyodor said.
“Good. But first,” Popo said dangerously, “take care of the problem outside.”
He nodded. Alina closed her eyes as he flung open the door, and the crowd’s noise turned to thumps and groans. “He only put them to sleep,” Popo said, scooping Alina into her arms. Her body twitched with pain as they ran to the stables, dodging the bodies of the fallen faithful.
She barely recalled Popo passing her over to Fyodor, strapping the baby to Alina’s chest. Everything becomes a blur of white and gray as they trek down the mountain, blood trickling out of her with each jolt of the horse. She knows it would be worse without Fyodor’s help, but Alina doesn’t think of that as they gallop towards the army camp set up in the ruins of her village. She thinks of the cold nipping at her bare feet, and the snowflakes caught in her daughter’s eyelashes. She thinks of the pain burning through her body as Fyodor shouts for healers, and they run out of tents like a flock of robins, all red and gray.
And then, Alina couldn’t think of anything at all.