[He lets the silence settle between them undisturbed. As much as he wants to say something — words of reassurance, one of their dear private jokes, I'm sorry, I love you — he resolves that whatever conversation they have now, it should be on Alina's terms.
What to expect from her, he doesn't know. Not the question that arises in the quiet of the car, amid the steady murmur of the engine and the patter of rain. His long pause of silence might be mistaken for his missing the question as he concentrates on the road — if not for the subtle tightening of his blackened fingers around the steering wheel, timed with a deliberate inhalation.
The stab of grief is for both his friend and his would-be son, who might still bear the name someday, true, but never the particular expressions of the girl beside him.]
Dominik was my friend when I was a boy. I regarded him as my brother. [A quiet scoff.] Hell, I loved him more than I did my actual brother.
[His gaze does not stray from the road for even a moment. He has not spoken of Dominik aloud since he was laid to rest there on the battlefield, one of thousands upon thousands of Ravkan boys returned to the soil of his motherland with a bullet in his guts in place of hope. Since he visited Dominik's family to grieve with them, to apologize for failing to protect their son.
Instead, Nikolai has carried his name and memory inside his heart like an oath. I'll do better. A private thing, the shadow of his public oath to serve Ravka. For all his gifts of language, he feels that he cannot adequately explain his friend's significance. Any attempt risks dishonoring his memory, which is the closest thing Nikolai has to anything sacred.
no subject
What to expect from her, he doesn't know. Not the question that arises in the quiet of the car, amid the steady murmur of the engine and the patter of rain. His long pause of silence might be mistaken for his missing the question as he concentrates on the road — if not for the subtle tightening of his blackened fingers around the steering wheel, timed with a deliberate inhalation.
The stab of grief is for both his friend and his would-be son, who might still bear the name someday, true, but never the particular expressions of the girl beside him.]
Dominik was my friend when I was a boy. I regarded him as my brother. [A quiet scoff.] Hell, I loved him more than I did my actual brother.
[His gaze does not stray from the road for even a moment. He has not spoken of Dominik aloud since he was laid to rest there on the battlefield, one of thousands upon thousands of Ravkan boys returned to the soil of his motherland with a bullet in his guts in place of hope. Since he visited Dominik's family to grieve with them, to apologize for failing to protect their son.
Instead, Nikolai has carried his name and memory inside his heart like an oath. I'll do better. A private thing, the shadow of his public oath to serve Ravka. For all his gifts of language, he feels that he cannot adequately explain his friend's significance. Any attempt risks dishonoring his memory, which is the closest thing Nikolai has to anything sacred.
But for her, he can try.]