To the world, he was an anomaly. To Grisha, he was a miracle. To Drüskelle, he was a witch. To The Darkling, he was his son. To himself, he was a monster.
WORK IN PROGRESS
2023-20234
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003. a daughter
˚ · • . ° .
423 | THE LITTLE PALACE, OS ALTA, RAVKA
In the embrace of August, Anastasia endured a labor that stretched over twelve hours. The triumphant cry of a newborn finally pierced the air, prompting a sigh of relief to escape her lips as exhaustion clung to her. Nestled against the pillows, she allowed weariness to claim her, sweat glistening on her brow and breaths laboring.
"A girl, My Lady," a healer said as she handled the umbilical cord, waiting for the pulsing to cease before severing it. "Kicking like a goat," she added, a subtle note of amusement in her voice.
A wild smile adorned Anastasia's face as she cradled the newborn to her chest. A small tuft of silver hair caught her eye, eliciting overwhelming joy.
The door opened and Aleksander entered, whose steps faltered when he beheld the infant. A month prior, Aleksander had returned to the Fjerdan front, much to his dismay.
Anastasia looked up from her daughter's face, "Sasha," she whispered, a mixture of relief and love flashed in her tired eyes. With long strides, Aleksander moved across the room. As he walked up to the bed, his demeanor changed from one of exhaustion to one of joy at the small life that Anastasia was cradling.
"Meet our daughter," Anastasia offered him a weary smile.
His fatigue immediately disappeared, lost in the presence of his newborn daughter. He carefully reached out to touch the newborn's small hand. He felt it, the slight pull of his shadows. After years of careful practice, Aleksander had mastered control of his shadows whenever in contact with an amplifier. "She's an amplifier," he said quietly.
Anastasia smiled, her eyes filled with joy as she gazed down at the newborn who was still covered in vernix, her body wrapped in a small blanket.
Once the Healers had left, Aleksander let his lips curl into a wide smile, placing a soft kiss to Anastasia's head. "I am sorry that I wasn't here, milaya." He said quietly, a tinge of regret and possibly sadness in his tone.
"It's alright," Anastasia replied, "I'm just glad you got here in time."
There was a moment of silence between the two as they simply stared down at their daughter, "I do hope the labor was easy," Aleksander muttered.
"I think I called Daria a cunt." She mused, her eyes shifting towards her husband.
Aleksander laughed softly, "Oh, well let's just hope she won't hold that against you."
They called her Rhaella.
Rhaella Aleksanderova Valtheos-Kirigan.
They used the patronymic name for their daughter's middle name, choosing to combine their last names so that the child had a connection to their mother's homeland.
˚ · • . ° .
Aleksander entered the room to find Anastasia cradling the newborn, the delicate infant nestled against her chest as she nursed. The baby, Rhaella, clung to her mother's breast, her tiny fingers relaxed. "She's not latched properly," he observed.
Anastasia looked up, a teasing smile on her lips as she responded, "And what would you know about feeding a child?" she questioned, her voice quiet.
"I've lived a long life, moya lyubov. I've seen my fair share of children." Aleksander replied with a small smirk, placing a gentle kiss to her Anastasia's forehead.
She chuckled softly, "Well then, care to share your expertise?"
Aleksander took a seat beside her, his eyes fixed on Rhaella. "Support her head," he instructed, his large hand cradling Rhaella's head. He hooked his little finger beneath his daughter's top lip. "She needs to latch with a wider mouth."
After a few minutes, Anastasia lifted her head. "When will we know? If she's Grisha?"
"It's hard to tell," he admitted, "manifestation typically differs in most. But generally, we should be able to tell by the time she's around four or five." Aleksander explains, his thumb stroking Rhaella's cheek.
Anastasia sighed, leaning back against the pillows. "Five years," she repeated softly, her eyes fixed on the tiny bundle in her arms. "That seems like such a long time."
Aleksander nodded sympathetically, his gaze filled with a mixture of pride and concern. "Yes, it is. But we will be here for her every step of the way, no matter what she becomes."
Anastasia looked down at Rhaella, her heart swelling with love and worry. She knew the power that coursed through their bloodline, the weight that came with being Grisha. It was a double-edged sword, a gift and a curse all at once.
"I just want her to have choices," Anastasia whispered, her voice laced with vulnerability. "I want her to be able to decide who she wants to be without feeling trapped by expectations."
Aleksander's grip tightened around Rhaella's small body. "She will have choices," he assured her, his voice steady and firm. "We will raise her to be strong, to embrace her power as a gift rather than a burden. And no matter what path she chooses, we will support her."
Anastasia leaned into him, finding solace in his words. They both knew the struggles that came with being Grisha—being feared and revered, hunted and wanted. But they would do everything in their power to shield Rhaella from those burdens until she was old enough to bear them herself.
As the days turned into weeks, Anastasia and Aleksander found joy in watching their daughter grow. Rhaella's first smiles, her attempts to grab onto her parents' fingers, and the way she would bury her face in the crook of Aleksander's neck when she was held.
˚ · • . ° .
"Papa!" Rhaella babbled as she saw the man in the black kefta enter.
"Hello, malen'kiy," Aleksander replied, picking the now 11-month-old.
Just a few weeks ago, Rhaella had picked up the word Papa. Aleksander had entered the nursery early in the morning, responding to Rhaella's fussy cries. When he picked her up, Rhaella mumbled "Papa" in her half-asleep state.
Aleksander smiled at the sound of his daughter's voice, his arms cradling her like she was made of glass. He pressed a tender kiss to the crown of her head and asked rhetorically, "How's my milaya today, hmm?" He asked rhetorically, tilting his head slightly as he gazed at the girl with awe.
Rhaella reached out a chubby hand to touch his scruffy jaw, and Aleksander gently captured her hand in his. "Careful, my love," he cautioned, and she giggled, her laughter echoing throughout the room.
The innocence that glistened in Rhaella's gray eyes attracted Aleksander as she fiddled with the fallen strands of his dark hair. The black kefta he wore, a symbol of his authority and power, seemed to soften in the presence of his daughter.
