Notes:

-For whenwolfsbaneblooms / KaelsMiscellany, who requested Alarkling reincarnation fic. This was a massively fun prompt to work with, hope you enjoy it :D

-I draw a lot from Russian fairy tales/folklore, especially with the first life.

-Gets a little AU, but I tried to keep it as canon compliant as possible. Italic text is a line directly lifted from Shadow and Bone.

-I decided to keep the names the same throughout the lives for simplicity's sake. And the Darkling is going to be a little bit…nicer, this first life. Don't worry, it's not permanent :'D

-The first life became a terrible beast so it's been split into two parts. The rest will (hopefully) not be as long!

o.

It's believed that shadows chase the light.
But the truth of it is that the world was born from darkness.

It's known that light is the only thing that can conquer the bleak stretches of empty space.
But the fate of every candle is to go to the dark when it is extinguished.

Every time he is born, she follows.
Every time she dies, he waits.

"He has served countless kings, faked countless deaths, bided his time, waiting for you."

The First Life: The Firebird, Part I.

i.

She's heard the gossip about the new neighbors, but Alina doesn't have the patience for either rumors or people, so it's not until they come into her store that she cares much about their existence.

They. Already it seems like they belong as a pair. Which, Alina assumes, only makes sense if they're travelers as the old baker's wife likes to proclaim every morning when Alina buys her bread. And it's usually proclaimed with a curled lip and a heavy sigh, as if people moving from place to place left the places at a burdened disadvantage. Alina, unlike the baker's wife, didn't see the need to create a fuss. Travelers were, after all, known for traveling and it was unlikely that they would stay long enough to make a ripple in the tepid ocean that was life in the valley.

It's the mother that comes in first.

"I have blankets that need mending," she says, and her voice is cold and clipped.

Alina doesn't look up from the set of wedding linens she is preparing, rows and rows of orange and red flowers embroidered upon each other, almost looking like flames, "I don't mend."

"Neither, it seems, does anyone else in this village," the woman's tone is wry, but Alina catches the hint of scorn underneath it. And it doesn't surprise her that no one in the valley has been open enough to cater to travelers.

Alina's fingers pause, "You've been to the weaver?"

"And the tailor."

She slides the needle sideways through the cloth, securing it into the linen, before she looks up from her work.

A pair of black eyes stare back at her, and Alina feels her mouth suddenly go dry.

The woman is older, her features stern and beautiful in a harsh way, like the polish of quartz. She is all hard angles and clean edges, and she is most certainly not from the valley. Alina doesn't know why her heart rate picks up, but it does when she looks at the woman, and part of her can't help the desperate thrum in the back of her mind: she knows.

Alina clears her throat, "Do you have money?"

It's a fair question. Small places, especially small stores with a specialty craft like her own, do not survive on charity.

The woman nods, "More than what it's worth."

Alina sighs, and casts her eyes back on her linens. It's difficult, for some reason, to keep her gaze leveled with the traveler's, "Than I suppose I will mend you blankets."

The traveler snorts, "Good. And if you expect me to pay you more, I expect you to be quick about it."

Alina fought the urge to roll her eyes, "If you expect me to be quick, I expect you to pay more."

The woman's lips pressed into a thin line, before she gestured to the linens in Alina's lap, "And don't embellish anything, embroiderer. The horse'll just kick up mud on whatever you stitch and I'm not about to carry any wool that looks worth stealing because you want to put on airs."

She decided to take that as a compliment, backhanded though it might be, "…if you want them done quickly, I suggest bringing them in first."

"Do all the village girls have such barbed tongues?"

Alina bit the inside of her cheek. She knows. She knows she knows.

"No," she says with a calm she doesn't feel, as she withdraws her embroidery needle from the cloth, "Just me."

She locks up that night, and retreats to the upstairs room where she lives by herself. Her parents have been dead for a few years now, and the weaver has allowed her to pay off the small, wooden building in whatever payments she can afford.

The next morning, it is not a traveler who comes to her store, but the butcher's son. Alina is still working on the wedding linens, the flowers blooming in fine lines of thread, and spreading over the tablecloths like vines. She's so intensely focused on one of the leaves that she doesn't realize Mal has entered her store until he lets out a shrill whistle. Alina startles, the needle poking through the skin of her finger and she gives a harsh hiss in return, bringing the wound to her lips so her blood doesn't stain the fabric.

"What now?"

Mal only smiles, and suddenly her finger hurts a little less and her temper's slightly more restrained, "I can't come visit?"

Alina moves her finger from her lips, oblivious to the way that Mal's eyes follow the motion as she inspects it for a new swell of blood. Sighing, she stands and grabs some cloth to wrap around it, "Not if you wound me," she lifted her hand and wiggled her fingers, "My trade, remember?"

Mal chuckles, reaching across and wrapping his coarser, larger hand around her own, "Let's inspect then," he brings her fingers up to his eye-level and starts to slowly rotate her hand from one side to the other. Alina feels her heart thud, matched only in its staccato by that undefinable welling of sadness in the pit of her stomach. He smiles again, and she tries to savor the expression along with the warmth of his skin against hers, "I think you'll survive to sew another day. Which is good, because Ruby won't shut up about getting a new skirt. I think she might skin me alive if I were to take you out of business before it was finished."

She feels the start of a grin despite herself, "I'll skin you alive."

Mal's eyebrows rose. Alina was acutely aware of how he had not yet released her fingers, "Is that a threat?"

"Of course it is."

He drops her hand with a quick kiss to the back of it, and Alina feels herself warm around the backs of her ears. The hand that was previously wrapped around hers goes to clutch over his chest, "You'll be the death of me one day."

"Especially if you keep whistling," Alina mutters, eyes dropping down.

"I'll knock next time, but no promises if I have to resort to drastic measures to get your attention."

"Are you trying to get my attention?"

Mal mimicked her earlier words, "Of course I am." His smile fell a little, "But it's a lot harder lately."

Alina bit down on her lip, "I should get back to work."

"Alina-"

"I'll stop by the butcher's later."

Mal hesitated before finally rolling his shoulders, "Are you?"

"I said so, didn't I?"

He shakes his head, "You said so yesterday."

Alina winced, "I forgot. I'm sorry, I had an order come in-"

Mal gave the top of her hand a brief, fleeting pat, "I'll wait at the shop until sundown."

She tried to smile, "I'll see you then."

Alina doesn't go to the shop that day. Or the day after. And though it hurts, she knows it's for the best. For both of them. He's been less than careful about his intentions, and she also knows that Mal doesn't want to just be her friend anymore. Hopes that had been kept close to the chest were starting to show in his eyes, and when Mal stares at her she sees herself desiring those same dreams.

And so she must stay away from him. Because it's too easy to want.

Mal isn't like her. And not being like her is something she won't ruin for him.

In four days, Mal hasn't come to visit, her wedding linens are finished, and Alina is working on Ruby's new skirt when a traveler comes through the door to her shop. Like she had greeted his mother, Alina does not look up from her work when he enters: this time it's a firebird, dancing across the hem.

She hears the muted sound of blankets being placed onto a counter, the heavier sound of footfalls, "Are you the one who spoke to my mother?"

Alina wraps the end of a vibrant, red thread around her finger, "I speak to many mothers. Which one was yours."

There's a silence, and Alina is starting to wonder if he's been struck silent in the awe of her wit before he speaks again, "…I have blankets for mending."

She ties the red string in a thick knot, before she looks up from her work.

A pair of grey eyes stare back at her, and Alina feels her mouth go dry.

The man is younger, his features stern and beautiful in a harsh way, like the face of his mother. He is drawn somber and reserved, and he is most certainly not from the valley. Alina doesn't know why her heart rate picks up, but it does when she looks at the traveler, and part of her can't help but stare at the beautiful set to his jaw or the handsome elegance of his long fingers.

He is silent. And, after a moment of recovery, Alina realizes there is an underlying hostility to him. That the beautiful jaw is slightly clenched, that those elegant fingers are curled into fists on top of the blankets.

"Well?" He mutters, and Alina frowns.

"Do you have money?"

It's a cautious question. Her mind unwittingly moves to the ridiculous stories the baker's wife would tell, about bandits and robbers and travelers, just waiting for the right moment to take advantage of poor old women, small children, and helpless maidens-

And she snorts, her hands curling gently into fists themselves. She's far from helpless. And even if he is a traveler, he's not something she'll be afraid of.

"More than what these are worth," he replies, and she sees that flicker of irritation in his eyes. The begrudging set of his shoulders.

"I work quickly," Alina replies instead, not about to give any ground just because there's something so fundamentally…different about him than the rest of the villagers in the valley. Even different from his mother.

"Good," he lifts the blankets and Alina simultaneously puts down her needlework. The man (he might even be a boy, Alina wouldn't put him a year or two past her own age of sixteen) stills for a moment, and Alina doesn't understand what he's doing until he sees him staring at Ruby's skirt. At the red and gold flames that trail after the Firebird, darting across the navy fabric.

Her mouth tilts up in a grin despite herself, "Would you like me to make you a skirt, too?"

His eyes snap back to her face, and he looks at her grin with something that might be confusion. Eventually, his features arrange themselves back into that tightly wound expression of indifference, "…You're talented."

The words sound like they are being forced through his teeth.

Her eyebrows furrow, "I'm…sorry?"

She sees the hint of a small grin trying to grow on his face, though he forces it away before it truly forms. His hands offer her the blankets once more, "How long before they're finished?"

Alina looks at the stack. They are old and nearly threadbare, and they reek of horse, "Three days."

He nods, and Alina outstretches her hands to take the cloth from his hands. When she does, her fingers accidentally brush the underside of his wrist.

The second their skin touches, Alina feels a spike in her heart. And it's not like the warmth she experiences when Mal holds her hand. This is different. This is electricity. She feels something crawl under her skin like currents, settling down to that dark, secret thing she kept hidden inside her. Alina takes a ragged breath as she feels her power surge up over the dam she has built around it, eager to meet with whatever it was about this man's touch that called to it.

She rips her hands away. The blankets fall to the floor as she takes a terrified step back, the hand that touched him cradled to her chest.

"What-?" Alina looks at him, and is a little more at ease when she sees that his expression must mirror hers. That underlying anger is dissolved, replaced instead by what can only be shock. His jaw is no longer clenched, but slack.

He looks at her. Looks at her, this time. Alina feels a sweat break out onto her forehead. He knows. She thought to herself. He knows he knows.

"I-" and suddenly, he looks so much like a boy.

Fear floods over her stomach and into her heart. She hears her blood thrumming in a panic within her ears, "You-" she tries to steel her nerves. She tries to mask this strange, undefinable thing that has just happened to her, "-You can pay for them when they're finished."

His mouth opens and closes, as if he's trying to figure out how to respond to her sudden…normalcy. Finally, he nods, "I'll be back in three days."

Without another word, the traveler turns and leaves. And once she's sure he's gone, Alina runs over, locks the door to her shop, collapses in a heap on the floor, and stares at her hands for a very long time as sunlight glows from their fingertips.

The mother searches for her the next day.

Alina is in the market, doing her best to avoid the butcher's as she buys her bread from the incessantly chatty baker's wife, when she sees the woman walk through the village like a storm. Where she moves, the crowd parts, and for the first time it occurs to Alina how very lonely such an existence might be. She watches for a few moments, before she realizes that the mother is looking for someone in particular, and as the travelers have fewer friends in the valley than even Alina does, there is only one person that might be.

Alina quickly puts her bread into a basket, and goes to leave before the traveler sees her. It had been a sleepless night for Alina, tossing and turning and feeling her power swell underneath her skin. Even still, she heard its song, its desire for freedom, its urge to be shown to the world.

Alina slips quietly into the crowd and is not spotted. And she's thankful, because she does not want to see the travelers any more than what she must. Under her breath, she whispers a prayer to the saints that they leave just as quickly and quietly as they had arrived.

She mends the blankets, and she does not put any of her designs onto them.

"The travelers are asking about you," the baker's wife greets her coldly the next morning.

Alina stills her hand as it reaches for her usual roll, "What?"

The baker's wife rolls her eyes, "Surely you've heard. The young man has stopped in here three different times," the older woman's heavily-lined stare narrows, "Did you send them to pester me, girl?"

She shakes her head, "I'm just doing some work for the mother. That's all."

The baker's wife keeps her hawkish stare on her, "Well, don't go getting ideas. Traveling sounds romantic and foolish enough, but the valley is your home, and your home should keep you."

Even though the travelers frighten her, Alina can't help the amused tug at the corner of her mouth, "Do you think I'm going to run away with them?" Alina is many things, but she has never been accused of being an adventurer before.

"I think that young man is sweet on you," she scoffs, "As travelers often are to village girls. But don't fret, I made sure he knew you were spoken for."

Alina frowned in confusion, "You what?"

The old baker's wife shook a finger at her, "Don't be foolish. We-" Alina wondered who 'we' was, "-all know about you and the Oretsev boy," she huffs up in pride, flour-covered hands resting on her hips, "Told that traveler to go to the butcher's, if he had any other questions after that."

Dread washes over her in a heavy wave, "You. Sent him to the butcher's?"

She preens, "That's right. I did. You're welcome."

Alina swallows, setting her roll down on the counter and the basket beside it, "I've got to go."

The wife's lips puckered, "Not traveling, I hope. Don't you break that poor Oretsev boy's heart, you hear?"

Alina didn't dignify that with an answer as she walked out the door and into the road. The travelers knew what she was. Her pace quickened. They knew what she was and they were asking about her. Her walk became a jog. They were going to ask Mal about her. The jog became a run. Mal, who didn't know what she was because she would never, ever tell him.

The run became a sprint.

"It's not true!" She cries out the second she can catch her breath.

Mal stares at her from behind the rows of meat, cleaver in his hand, and apron over his clothes, "…what's not true?"

Alina sags against the wall, her heavy swallows of air the only noise in the butcher's shop, which is empty save for her and Mal. "Whatever. They said. It's not-"

She can see Mal's face morph from angry to concerned in an instant, as he sets the cleaver down and walks around his wares. He kneels beside her, "Alina, what are you talking about?"

Alina finally manages to regain control of her breathing, "Whatever the travelers have asked, it's not true."

Her friend tilts his head, "Alina, we haven't had the travelers here," his eyebrows furrow, "Why?"

She's never been good at lying, and as such, she struggles to come up with a response, "The baker's wife has been spreading rumors that I was going to run away with them," she finally settles on, relief flooding every bone of her body when she realizes that the travelers have not been here to see Mal yet. Have not asked him anything about her secret.

Mal tucks a piece of fallen hair behind her ear, "You ran here to tell me that?"

Alina bit her lip, "I-" she shook her head, unable to finish the sentence. It seems ridiculous now, but all she could think about as she ran across the expanse of the village was how desperately she wanted Mal to never know the truth.

She stares into Mal's eyes, the bright, clear blue of them. And he looks right back. And both are oblivious to the sound of the shop's door opening.

The hand that tucked her hair back rests comfortingly on her shoulder, "Alina, what's wrong?"

She steels herself, "There's something-"

The sound of a throat being cleared made both of them look up. And Alina went very still as she took in the traveler before her.

The mother looks down at them, mouth pressed into a thin line, "You are a remarkably hard person to find, girl."

Alina scrambled to stand, and Mal's hand slid from her shoulder as he stood with her.

"Can I help you?" He asks guardedly, looking between the woman and Alina.

The woman's cold, black eyes move like liquid from Alina to Mal. "You can."

A twitch of a frown flickers on Mal's face, "What can I get you."

"Anything but game."

He moved hesitantly back to the meat, as if he wasn't willing to leave the space between Alina and the traveler open, "We have pig."

"Is pig game?" She asks sharply.

"…no."

"Then I will have pig."

Mal sends her a bemused look, as if he had never encountered rudeness, before he dutifully begins to prepare her order. The woman turns towards Alina, and makes no effort to keep her voice quiet.

"My son finds you interesting."

Mal's hands still for a moment around the wrapping paper. The woman only continued to stare at Alina as if she were something in a cage. Alina wiped her hands on the sides of her skirt.

"I'm an interesting person."

Something about the woman tenses and coils like a spring, "We'll see," she waits until Mal reluctantly withdraws to the back room, where the ice box is, and out of sight, before speaking again, "Give me your arm, girl."

"Why."

"Because I have no patience for games," and before Alina can get a word in edge-wise, the woman wraps her small, birdlike hand tightly around her wrist.

Alina isn't sure if it was because she is prepared for it, or if it is because the connection between this woman and herself isn't as strong, but the surge of her power seems more manageable. She still feels the spike, the draw of it, the demand for her to unleash the force she kept tightly boxed in. The woman's eyes widened quickly, before her face became its usual vision of barely contained scorn.

"Hmph," she finally mutters, her fingers going lax against Alina's skin.

Alina's breathing shortened, and she tore her arm away from the woman's grip, "You can't tell anyone," she hissed.

The woman met her eyes, and Alina was again simultaneously drawn and repelled by the endless darkness to her irises, "Did you think we were travelers by choice, foolish girl?"

Alina froze, "Then you're-"

"Travelers." The woman states with finality, "And only travelers, do you understand? Just as you are only an embroiderer."

Alina began to respond, but silenced herself when she heard Mal's footfalls against the wood.

"Twelve coins," he says calmly, but Alina knows he is taking in the sweat on her forehead, the slight shake of her shoulders.

The woman pays for her meat, and leaves without another word or glance in Alina's direction.

Mal wipes his hands slowly on a rag, "…you've made some odd friends, Alina."

She closes her eyes for a moment, gathering her thoughts, before she walks over to him, "They're not my friends."

He raises an eyebrow, "But her son finds you interesting."

Alina's eyes dart away guiltily, but not for the reason Mal thinks.

And he looks at her as if for the first time, "Alina…" he sighs, "You've been avoiding me."

She bites down on her lower lip, "Yes." Because she can lie to Mal about who she is, but she'd never lie to him about anything else.

And she knows that emotion in his voice is hurt, "Why?"

Alina takes a deep breath, "I…have to go."

Mal stares at her with a coldness she has never seen in him before, "Alright."

And somehow that one word sounds like a nail in a coffin, "Mal-"

He shakes his head, "You'd better leave," she can see the strain in his neck as he picks up his cleaver and stalks towards the wood chopping blocks, "Interesting people to see and all that."

"It's not like that, Mal-"

"Be careful on the way home."

Alina isn't sure why her heart is suddenly lodged in her throat, rendering her incapable of speaking, but it is. And she leaves the butcher shop much slower than entering it.

The third day passes.

And on the fourth day she meets the son again.

ii.

She's working on a tapestry this time, something that she had started so long ago for her long-dead mother. It's of a sunrise, gold intermingling with pinks and oranges, breaking apart the darker sky.

And this time, she looks up right away when he enters. The son is still someone who requires an extra second or two of staring, but this time his attractiveness is secondary to the fact that he is a threat. That his mother is a threat. That they both know, now. And their knowing can ruin her here.

Alina doesn't greet him, doesn't acknowledge that his grey stare follows her as she moves from her work table to a counter where the blankets are. She takes them and gives his presence as little acknowledgement as possible when she places them in front of him.

"Thirty coin," she mutters.

He looks at them, careful not to touch her, which sends both relief and an aching disappointment through her, "You've washed them."

She stares at a point directly over his shoulder, "I can't have my store smelling of horse."

Silence stretches between them, palpable and thick. And she can feel his eyes trained on her, waiting for her to give him a hint of an opening.

"What are you." He finally asks, when she's about to tell him to just take the blankets and leave.

The question is so strange that she turns her attention to him, that passing of currents hits her again and she takes a shaky inhale, "What?"

The son still seems to have that barely masked anger about him, but now it's almost even with his curiosity, "You're…like me," he finally offers, "What are you?"

Alina backs away, a little, fingers curling defensively into her palms, "I'm an embroiderer. Unless that's a spare hobby of yours, we are nothing alike."

His attention drifts towards the tapestry on her worktable, and she feels the need to roll her work up and store it in a cupboard somewhere, if only so he can't look at it that way, "Are you from the village."

Alina's eyes narrow, "You haven't paid me yet."

The son's head tilts to the side, and she sees that he doesn't hide the amusement in his eyes, "Is that a precursor to asking you questions?"

"Absolutely."

He reaches into his pocket and withdraws her coin, placing it onto the counter between them, "What's your name."

That much he more than already knows from the baker's wife, that miserable woman, "Alina."

"Are you afraid of me, Alina?"

She frowns, "Yes."

The son looks taken aback by her candor, "Why?"

"Because you and your mother know."

His lips go into a tight line, an expression not unlike the one his mother makes at her, "…We know what it means to hide."

Alina takes a deep breath, "But you don't owe me your secrecy."

He leans forward and it takes every muscle she has not to move back again, "Do you owe us yours?"

The space between them is enough to establish a distance, but not enough for her to resist ideas of grabbing his wrist again. The part of her that hid her powers wanted to- to feel that strange, urgent call that formed lightning in her veins again.

Alina kept her hands on the counter.

"You never told me what you were," the son says, quietly.

Alina bites down on her lip, "You never even told me your name."

The question takes him by surprise, and she notices that second of hesitation that so clearly marks his next statement as a lie, "Piotr."

She nods, trying not to feel scared of this new direction of civility, "I'm an embroiderer, Piotr," she steps back from him, towards her worktable, "And that's all."

She can almost taste his disappointment in the air, and his next words have a cooler edge to them, "If you remember we're travelers, then I'll remember that."

Alina snorted, sitting at her usual chair, and carefully moving the tapestry to her lap, "Your mother already gave me this warning."

"You've spoken to my mother?"

"Yes," Alina brings her needle through the cloth. She's not sure why she says it, but it comes out regardless, "She says you find me interesting."

She expects the comment to get him to leave, but instead she only hears his next words, spoken quietly.

"You are interesting."

Alina focuses so intently on her work that she almost stares a hole through it, "I just want to get by. That's all."

His tone is still even, "Will you let me guess?"

She doesn't look away from the motion of her needle piercing the cloth, then resurfacing. Like a fish swimming on the top of a river, "Guess what?"

"What you are."

Alina feels herself scowl, "Why."

"…because I don't think I've ever met anyone like you."

She's not sure why that comment makes her ears burn, but it does. "Fine," she grumbles, "One guess a day," she turns on her stool to face him, "And only if you bring me work to do."

His face is expressionless, as he seems to contemplate this. Finally, he says, "I'll leave you to your art."

And Alina silently watches him exit her shop, blankets in hand.

After a few moments, she decides that she doubts she'll see him again, and returns to her tapestry.

She threads another sunbeam.

…no one has ever called it art before.

She's finishing a set of cuffs on a jacket when he returns the next day. In his hands is an old cloak, black and tattered, and he leaves it on her counter.

"Do you summon fire?" He asks, not bothering with a greeting.

Alina's eyes widen, and she shakes her head.

He nods, satisfied to be wrong apparently, and goes to leave. Alina lifts the cloak off the counter, the fabric pinched between her thumb and index finger, and calls out to his retreating back.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

He shrugs, and keeps walking.

That night, Alina sits by the fire in her small house, and embroiders the edges of it with gold.

If nothing else, it at least looks expensive and she can charge him accordingly.

The next day, he returns with a vest. Black once again.

"Do you control the wind?"

Alina shakes her head, "Paying, first. Question, second."

She puts the cloak on the counter, and he runs his hands over the edges. There's a hint of amusement to his face, "Gold?"

She raises an eyebrow in challenge, "Twenty coins." It's a steep price for the work she's done, especially when the cloak itself isn't worth that amount to begin with. But it's a way for her to get him to leave her alone, and perhaps think twice about returning.

Piotr puts the coins on the counter without ceremony, and repeats his question.

Alina sighs, "No. I do not summon fire or control the wind."

This time, he hesitates before he leaves, but then he leaves all the same.

The vest she lines in gold once again, dancing edges and a repeating pattern of circles and the vines of flowers.

"Twenty-five coins."

"Can you move the water?"

"I don't summon fire, control the wind, or move water."

Piotr only frowns, before taking off his hat and leaving it on the counter.

The hat she embroiders with the image of a stag.

The next morning, it is not the son who enters her store, but the mother.

The woman scowls deeply at Alina, watching as she finishes the last touches of her son's hat. "You've made quite a fortune off my boy's foolishness."

Alina meets her gaze steadily, "No one forces him to pay."

The woman returns it, "You do remember my opinion on games?"

She nods.

The woman does not move from her position, and now seems to stare straight through her, "Be careful about which ones you choose to play."

Alina sits, contemplating this for a moment. After a second of deliberation, she stands and wordlessly holds the hat out to her, but the woman sneers at it.

"And what would I do with such a thing?"

The younger woman shrugs, "It belongs to Piotr. And there's no need to pay if this means he's done seeing me."

The woman frowns at her, before something in her seems to resolve itself, "Keep it. If he wants to waste his coin on frivolities, maybe he'll learn a lesson when the coins are gone and his cloak is no warmer for it in the winter."

She leaves without further comment, but Alina can't help but feel like she's passed some sort of test.

He returns the next day, "How much for the hat?"

Alina bites the inside of her cheek as she hands it to him, careful not to touch his skin with her own. He runs his long fingers over the stag thoughtfully.

"Two coins."

Piotr's head snaps up, "Only two?"

Alina tries to look at anything other than his surprised expression, "It was a simple design."

It's a lie. And she's certain he knows it judging by his hesitance when he places the coins on the counter.

"I don't mind paying."

She feels the corner of her mouth lift up, "Then in your travels, you can repay me by letting all of your admirers know where you got such impeccable work."

He stills, and his next words are softer, "…you don't travel?"

Alina shakes her head, and her eyes land on the window, the one that faces the butcher's shop across the market, "The valley is my home."

"You could make more money for your work, living in a city," he offers, staring down at the stag again, "Your talents are wasted here."

Alina's teeth grind together, and she feels the flare of something ugly in her before she smothers it down with tersely clipped words, "It's only wasted if I feel like it is." And, because his words are words she has heard before, she decides it is time to move the game forward again, "What is your guess."

He looks up, but his thumbs are still running over the threads she has stitched into his hat, "I don't have one for today," he lies, "Perhaps I'll have one tomorrow."

Piotr pulls a glove from his hand, leaving it behind as he exits without another word.

She starts to embroider the back of the glove with a sun, before she stares at the circular outline she's made, and sets it aside. For some reason, it is hard to concentrate on her work this night.

When he comes in again, Alina puts the glove on the counter, "This can count for two," she amends, looking at the golden circle, "I didn't finish."

Piotr stares at the symbol, before he takes the glove and puts it on his hand, "I like it," he states quietly, and Alina wonders what it is about the tiny amount of color against the darkness that holds his attention so. He clears his throat, "Are you a healer?"

She shakes her head.

He leaves his other glove behind, and for some reason Alina wishes that he would stay for a moment or two, despite her better judgment.

When he goes to pay for his other glove, which she has matched to accompany the first, she decides to change how she plays.

"Why do you come here every day?" She asks, eyes narrowed and her fingers sore from the hours of needlework she has performed for the man standing across from her.

Piotr doesn't answer the question, instead he withdraws coin from his pocket, "How much for this one?"

Alina shakes her head, "I already owe you two. But answer my question."

He takes his time considering his answer, "Why do you embroider my things every night?"

"I need the work."

"Is that the only reason."

She hesitates, "The only reason you need to concern yourself with."

Piotr, once again, leans on the counter between them. His long form seems to take up all the available space that was previously occupied by air, "I come every day because you interest me, Alina. And because I find your work beautiful. And, mostly, because I am curious."

The words are plain enough to be honest.

She doesn't know what to say, so instead she merely offers him his other glove, "Here."

He reaches for it, and this time she's startled when his fingers intentionally rest over her own. The spark is there, once again. Powerful and electric and demanding. Alina feels a rush of fear flood her, but when she meets his eyes and sees his awed expression, that fear subsides a little. When she doesn't pull away, he moves his fingers to lock with hers, the glove falling to the counter underneath their joined hands.

She wants to drop his hand, she wants to pull him closer. Whatever this is, it's nothing she's ever felt before in this valley. Because there's no one like her in this valley.

No one but him.

"What are you doing?" She asks, because she knows this isn't her. This isn't how her curse, her secret, manifests itself.

His awed expression shifts abruptly into a skeptical one, and he stares at her in disbelief, "You don't know?"

Alina shakes her head. She's not sure if she's imagining him shifting closer.

He breathes in, "Can you hold hearts?"

She startles, "What?"

And sees him smile, "Your power."

Alina licks her lips, "No-"

"Don't let me interrupt," comes a shrewish, immediately familiar voice. Alina drops his hand as if it's struck her with lightning.

Piotr backs away much more slowly, and both turn to look at the woman who quite intentionally meant to interrupt despite her statement to the contrary.

The look the baker's wife gives to Piotr is pure poison, but she fastens on a slightly more pleasant smile when she places a dress in front of Alina, "If you're not terribly busy with the young man," she says in a tone she no doubt believes is conspiring, "I'd like something done with this for the spring festival."

Piotr stays quiet, but Alina feels his stare on her hands as she takes the dress, "What were you thinking?"

"Something spring, flowers maybe. Anything flattering," the old baker's wife raises an eyebrow, and presses with all the subtlety of a brick, "So how is your Oretsev boy?"

Alina wonders, uncharitably, if the baker's wife even cares about the dress. If she's not just using it as an excuse to facilitate gossip, "The butcher's is within walking distance. You could ask him yourself."

"He's so dreadfully hard to get ahold of lately. Poor boy spends most of his time in the woods, hunting of all things," the baker's wife tsks, "And everyone-" she sends a meaningful glare over her shoulder, where Piotr stands motionless, grey eyes observant, "-knows how close you are."

Alina sighs, taking the dress and bringing it back to her work table, "I'll have it ready in a week."

The baker's wife gives a soft humph!, before she points a finger at Alina, "Check on the Oretsev boy, it's not right to let someone reduce himself to pining you know."

Alina rolls her eyes, "If Mal's pining it's not something I brought him to," and she makes sure there's a note of finality in her tone, "Is that all?"

The baker's wife frowns, her displeasure at the lack of ammunition Alina provided her clear on her face, before she sighs as if the weight of the world is upon her boney, instigating shoulders, "Come by tomorrow and I will set aside those sweet rolls you like so much."

Alina blinks, "What's the occasion?"

The older woman crosses her arms, "It would just do you well to remember the values of home."

She feels her jaw clench, "…I'll keep that in mind."

The baker's wife gives a final nod, and a final sneer over her shoulder, before she goes.

Piotr watches her retreat, before turning back to her. And Alina feels like he's waiting for her to give an explanation for something. She curls her fingers into her hands, and tries hard not to think of Mal, and how much it hurts not to think of him. Of how that hurt was compartmentalized and pushed to the side, when she focused instead on her work for the traveler.

"She doesn't like you," is all she can muster, when the silence gets to be too much and the expectation for her to speak too heavy.

Piotr, for once, somehow looks small, "She isn't alone."

Alina manages a grin she doesn't entirely feel, "I don't mind you."

His eyes widen, and Alina cuts him off before he can speak again, "I mean, I don't know you. But I don't," she waves a hand in front of her face in a circular motion, as if it would generate an answer just like a windmill generated power, "Not like you."

The soft smile he gives her somehow manages to be both disarming and unsettling. He steps closer to her, and Alina feels the weight of his presence more acutely than she did even a few moments ago. Piotr moves, hand going into his pocket.

He withdraws a simple handkerchief.

"I'm going to run out of guesses, eventually."

Alina takes the cloth, not touching his skin, "I think you'll run out of coin, first."

He takes a moment to release his grip, "We'll see."

The next morning she only charges him one coin for the handkerchief, embroidered with a simple songbird.

Piotr looks at her store, and the question he asks surprises her, "Do you live by yourself?"

"Yes," she replies after her mind has had time to process the question, "Why."

He leans against the counter, a thoughtful expression on his lips, "You seem lonely."

Alina straightens in her seat, "I'm not."

Piotr watches her with those damnably cold eyes, "You don't have to be," he agrees.

She closes her eyes, pausing from her work on the baker's wife's dress, "You're the one who's a traveler."

He looks away, "I am."

Alina exhales slowly, opening her eyes to see that he is staring at the window, looking across to where the butcher's shop is. She rubs the bridge of her nose, suddenly feeling tired, "Do you have a guess?"

Piotr turns to face her, "Do you form poisons or explosions?" The way he asks makes her believe that he already knows her answer to this question.

"No," she says.

The two of them sit in companionable silence. Until he reaches over to tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear, and then he leaves.

It's not until she's finished with a sleeve of the dress that she realizes he left nothing behind for her to work on.

That night, as she is starting to drift off into sleep, she hears a knock on her door. Alina jolts out of bed immediately, pulling on a warmer housecoat over her nightdress. Her hand almost ignites in sunlight automatically, but she manages to grab a candle instead.

She is not sure if she is surprised or not when she sees Piotr on the other side of her door frame. He stands, hands deep in his black, gold-lined cloak, and looks as if he can't quite believe he's here. And that he can't believe she's there, either. For some reason, the thought makes her irritated. What did he expect, at this hour?

"I wasn't sure if you lived here," he confesses.

She snorts, bringing the candle up to illuminate the both of them. Piotr's eyes train on the flame, "I forgot, I clearly have enough gold for a side palace."

He continues to stare, and Alina shifts her weight to the other foot uncomfortably. The night beyond the threshold of her store is still and deep, and she can hear the chirping of frogs or crickets. It's the only thing that happens, for a few moments, before she frowns.

"What are you doing here?"

Piotr takes a step forward, but does not cross her doorway, "I wanted to use my other two guesses," he whispers.

She scowls, "Then use them tomorrow. You shouldn't be here so late."

He moves his attention from the flame to her eyes, and she sees something somber in his gaze, "Will you walk with me, Alina?"

Alina looks at him, to the darkness behind him, and she doesn't answer. She has known Piotr for barely a week, and that is not an appropriate enough time to know someone before taking isolated walks in the dark with them. But every time she's near him, she feels that call. That siren's song of-

…of like to like.

Alina inhales slowly, and lifts the candle up between them with severity, "You won't murder me?"

The corner of his mouth twitches, "No."

She lifts the candle higher, so it's in line with his eyes, "Or rob me?"

"No."

Her eyebrows raise skeptically, "Or attempt to steal any virtue I might have?"

The twitch of his mouth settles nicely into a smile, "…No."

She takes her time lowering the candle. "…Then I will get my boots."

They walk out of the village in silence, into the nearby woods of the valley. She keeps the candle glowing between them, and he gives her his cloak to wear.

"Where are we going?" She finally asks, as they go deeper in to the trees, "Because this is starting to seem like you're about to break one of the three conditions."

Piotr doesn't smile, but she senses his amusement as though he had, "I don't want anyone to see."

"…that is not reassuring."

He pauses in his step, turning to face her, "Can you change metal or cloth?"

"…I embroider for a trade," she says, slowly.

"Not like that. Can you…" he pauses, "Temper steel with a wave of your hand?"

She shakes her head, and a tension falls over him like a sheet. He reaches for the fingers that are not holding the candle, and she lets him grab them. Feels the effect of his touch wash over her like a wave. It becomes less startling every time it happens.

"Alina," he asks quietly, "What are you?"

The fear comes back. Because she has known him for barely a week, and that is also not an appropriate enough amount of time to give him a secret. She turns, walking forward again, and her fingers slip from his.

"You have to guess."

He sighs, and they walk further in silence. Finally, when they are so deep into the forest that there is no longer a village to look back at, he halts in his step and she stops a moment after.

Alina turns to face him, and Piotr is already looking at her with an intention that unsettles her.

"What is it?" She asks, and she feels that thrum of power in her chest, and knows she can and will use it on him if she has to. If he is not what he seems.

"I've never met anyone like you," he says, and she's taken back to the first time he said it, when their deal was created.

"You've mentioned that before," she replies carefully, bringing the candle in front of her.

His eyes are light enough to still be seen in the shadows that surround them, "Because of that, I've decided to trust you."

Alina frowns, "You don't know me." She, after all, does not trust him.

"I would like to," he admits, and he takes a deep inhalation, "But you must know that if you share this with anyone, even your friend..."

"Then don't tell me."

Even in the dark, she can see his eyes widen. It takes him a moment to recover, "You aren't curious?"

Alina moves to take a seat on a nearby log, "I've followed you out into the dark in a dressing gown. Of course I'm curious," he stays standing, "But I understand what it is to keep a secret. And I don't want to keep two."

Piotr moves almost silently across the forest floor, and he sits next to her, close enough that she feels the heat of him through his clothes, but far enough that they are not touching. "Don't you ever wish…" his hand goes to cover hers again, and Alina feels her back tense, "That you didn't have to keep it secret."

Alina frowns, "Of course I do. I've given up-" she thinks of impossibly blue eyes, of warm hands, of bright smiles, and she can't finish the sentence because it suddenly hits her that some part of her has already given up ever having a life with Mal. And the reality of it hurts worse than any knife.

As if sensing her turmoil, Piotr's hand grips hers gently, "Let me tell you my secret, Alina. You don't have to give me yours."

Alina turns to look at him, and that comradery, that bond, hits her again as he turns her hand over and threads his fingers through her own. She doesn't know why she agrees, but she does, and at her nod he lifts his other hand in front of her eyes.

"Watch," he commands, his voice a breath on her ear.

She does.

At first she sees nothing but Piotr's outstretched hand, his long, pale fingers stark against the darkness of the forest and almost luminous in the light of her candle. But then, in slow, small movements, she watches as the darkness bends around his palm. The shadows swallow his skin like an ocean would swallow a boat, whirling and dancing into an almost funnel shape, before the ribbons of shadow spin over his fingers and into an orb held above the center of his hand.

The hand she has in his goes lax, and he grabs onto it tighter. And Alina recoils, watching the shadows and somehow knowing this is not a power those like them should have. That this is not ordinary. That this is as unusual as her own, isolated ability.

"Don't be afraid," his voice is again directly in her ear, a hushed, heated whisper that almost seems to be a plea. The shadows uncurl from the orb, back into ribbons that move over and underneath his fingers like waves.

Her heart is hammering in her chest. She knows he feels her hand go clammy in his. For some reason, tears sting in her eyes, and she feels something lessen and unwind within her. He is like her.

"Alina?" He asks with obvious hesitance, and Alina feels the tears roll down her cheeks.

And she decides. Foolishly, she decides.

Her voice is near breaking as she extends the candle out in front of them, "Can you dim this."

Piotr still watches her with something that might be fear, but he nods, and the shadows grow to cover the candle. She sets it down on the ground once it's extinguished.

It goes out, and they sit in the dark together, breathing matching and hands still joined. Until a small, round dome of sunlight appears in Alina's palm.

They spend the rest of the night together in the woods, threading beams of light and shadow together and basking in the knowledge that they are no longer as alone as they may have been before.

Then he walks her home. And as Alina opens the door, ready to retreat back into the world where her power is just hers and something never meant to be shared, she hears him speak behind her.

"I had one more guess."

Alina smiles, and turns to face him, "Would you have guessed correctly?"

He's looking at her with an expression she can't place. And he takes a few, quick steps until he is standing before her. Piotr says nothing as he cups a hand alongside her face and presses his lips down to hers. It's a quiet movement, and as Alina kisses him back she feels something like relief fill her. Her hand moves over his, and she closes her eyes, enjoying the simplicity of the moment before he pulls away.

"No," he whispers, forehead resting against hers, "It would have been wrong."

He stops coming to her store every day, and instead comes to her door every night.