Call Out My Name

Lovers In The Night

It was the norm by now.

Alina was going about her day, doing her chores as usual. The only unusual thing about it was the voice she heard from time to time.

Her name, a tiny whisper. A reminder that some people leave a lasting effect and memory on you. No matter if dead or alive.

She hadn't heard it in months, but she wasn't surprised to feel his presence in the dark. She knew he would search for her again.

At times, her healed wound would hurt. The one he gave her while kissing her, while lying on top of her in the forest. She had found it an act of ridiculous revenge at the time. Why stab her without killing her? Why leave her like that? So that she wouldn't be able to follow him and catch up to him?

Alina had thought he was there to get his revenge on her for stabbing him. She had thought he planned on killing her, but he didn't have the look of someone who wanted her dead; he had the look of someone hopeless and sad—broken over and over again.

She knew now he needed her blood to completely free himself of the consciousness of Yuri, the boy he had used to come back to life. He had used her to break free and run.

Her wound was healed, but it would occasionally throb when it was dark, when the stars were not visible, or the moon was new, when the sky was black and the night quiet.

He hadn't cut just her back then. He had cut through his hand using her brooch, the sharp edges of the sunbeams, made of Grisha steel. It was stained with both their blood. His hand was not smeared with only his blood; it had hers as well. The same went for her wound. They were connected like this. Every time it hurt, she knew he was near her; he was in the shadows, somewhere where the light couldn't touch him; he was watching her.

She had learned to live with his presence and to ignore it just like she had in the Little Palace, when they were on opposing sides, when they were trying to kill each other. The times when she used to read in the library, and he would stand behind her, or when he would watch her fall asleep.

Weirdly it calmed her down to know he was there; she knew he would not harm her. It felt like a missing piece of her was there, a piece that filled the void left by her lost powers.

Maybe she missed him in a weird way. Maybe he missed her too, and it was not just their powers that connected them. Maybe it was just them, as humans on opposing sides—opposites attract.

Like calls to like.

She was rearranging the books back in the library when she felt a shift in the air around her, when she felt his presence and his smell—the smell of cold winter air, bare branches, and the night.

She ignored him once again, just as she had done for the past months. He wouldn't visit every night, but she knew he would be coming back eventually. He never spoke to her; he never touched her. Sometimes she feared she had gone crazy, that she was seeing him, that he was not real. It was out of character for him to not talk to her or seek physical touch.

She dropped a book and kneeled down to pick it up. Her back hurt from the hard day she had behind her. Playing with the kids, carrying them around, gardening. She stayed there, one hand on her sore back and forehead pressed against the shelf. She sighed and picked up the book.

The Lives of Saints.

She chuckled to herself. There was a time when the Darkling had asked her why she was smiling, and she had told him she was laughing at herself, that she was hilarious. And she was. She didn't know why she found it so funny now, holding a book in which she made one of the pages in newer editions.