THE SCREAMING AROUND them didn't stop. It only got louder. Luca didn't tear his eyes from her – glazed over, confused, but still aware – and then he tilted forward and fell. Freya's knees buckled as she shot forward to catch him. Her arms wrapped around his torso, and she fought to keep him upright, but he was taller and bigger than her, too heavy for her to carry, and they both went down with him on top of her.

Hot blood spilt from his abdomen onto her, coating her in the sticky substance. Tears gathered in her eyes, and her mouth fell open in a soundless cry. She couldn't see the attacker anymore, and her mind whirled in a panic. Her hands were free, and she brought them together. If she made a loud enough sound with her summoning, the air would force the danger away. For such a loud sound to happen, she'd have to focus, and she couldn't do that with Luca bleeding out on top of her and gasping for breath.

A man stepped up to the two of them. The silvery glint of metal in his hand forced Freya to try and summon anyway. As the gun was aimed at them again, Freya was sure it would be her end. But then, a powerful gust of wind barged into them, and the man was sent flying away.

Barely a second later, hands on her and Luca, pulling him off her. The sudden absence of his weight was strange and not at all comforting. The floor beneath her was freezing, and the blood soaking her kefta was searing like fire on her skin.

Freya sat up as quickly as she could, ignoring the spinning of the world around her. Black dots were swarming her vision. She was kneeling now, twisting to look at Luca, sprawled on the floor with multiple people around him.

The General was among them, his eyes wild, unlike anything Freya had ever seen. One of his hands was beneath Luca's head, a soft surface for it to rest on. The other was pressed tightly to the bullet wound on his abdomen. The pressure did little to quell the blood loss. A torrent of red flowed between the Kirigan's pale fingers.

Luca's mother was kneeling on the other side of him, her hands clawing at her face as she sobbed, screamed, and wept. Luca was looking at her, babbling something unintelligible. And then he was coughing, blood spraying up from between his lips.

"The bullet went clean through," the Healer beside the General said, her hands working quickly. Still, they were shaking, and her Grisha power didn't seem to do anything. Freya inhaled deeply, realising she'd completely forgotten to do so when looking at the sight.

The crowd around them had dispersed as the nobles ran, and only guards and Grisha remained. A large circle was formed around them, those who remained looked on with grim expressions. The man with a gun – the assassin, attacker, drüskelle or whatever he was – was pressed onto the floor by Ivan's knee on his back, arms twisted in a painful angle. He was writhing beneath the Heartrender. It was the first time Freya saw so much emotion on Ivan's face, a twisted grimace of anger and helplessness.

"Freya, you're bleeding," someone called from beside her. She blinked and turned to look at the person. Zoya's raven hair was no longer impeccable but wild and unkept around her face. Freya, for but a moment, found herself thinking she still looked as beautiful as ever. Then Zoya's words registered, and she looked down at herself. Her stomach squeezed and twisted as she took herself in.

The entire front of her kefta was painted red. As the blood seeped into the blue fabric, it turned a deep purple. A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. The ground beneath her shifted from marble to rotting wood. She was in Mosava, then in the ballroom, then back again. She looked at Luca again. Had she looked like that when Harshaw laid her on the floor of that old hut and pulled the bullet free from her body? Had she looked worse or better?

"It's not mine," she breathed as the realisation came barrelling in. She wasn't the one bleeding. Because her wound was long healed, only a scar left in its place, a memory of Harshaw's awful stitching. Luca was the one who was shot now. Not on the battlefield like she was, but by a man in a ballroom dressed in noblemen's clothes.

"Freya, your arm." Zoya gripped her elbow carefully and tugged her arm into her view. Oh, Freya thought, at least it's not bad. There had been two gunshots, she recalled. She hadn't even thought of the second one. The sleeve of her kefta was torn where the bullet skimmed her.

Skimmed, she told herself, because that was all it truly was. It didn't even hurt, though she knew that was because of the panic. The threads around the hole of her kefta were singed and blackened by the bullet, and a trickle of blood seeped through, so unlike the river gushing from Luca.

Someone shouted orders to the guards, their booming voice louder than Katya's sobs. It took a while for Freya to realise it was Nikolai. With his princely facade gone, the soldier took its place.

"I'm fine, Zoy-" A gut-wrenching cry cut through the air like a knife. Freya jumped at the sound, then looked at where it came from. Her heart stopped in her chest.

Katya was wailing now, her hand gripping her chest as if her very heart was tearing itself out inside. Opposite her, Kirigan was yelling at the Healer, his face strained, a far cry from the usual calm and collected demeanour he usually sported.

"Do something!" The Healer flinched. Her hands weren't on Luca's wound anymore, lifted in front of her as the blood dripped down in rivulets. She looked lost and perhaps a little afraid.

"I'm sorry, General," she exhaled the words like they were the most difficult things she'd ever said. "I cannot do anything now." Kirigan's face twisted in anguish, and his hands visibly shook.

Tears pooled in Freya's eyes before she could stop them, and they ran down her face in torrents. Luca wasn't talking anymore. His face was blank as he stared at the ceiling, his grey eyes empty of everything. The grip on his father's arm was stiff and unmoving. And his chest... it did not rise and fall anymore.

The words went unspoken, but everyone in the room knew. Luca Kirigan was dead. Even as Kirigan ordered the Healer to get to work again, to at least try, everyone knew it was the end. There was no coming back after one's heart stopped. Those few who did were lucky, and Luca would not be one of them.

Deep red blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the pants and keftas of those kneeling around him. There was so much of it. How it was even possible for a human to have this much of it inside was unfathomable to Freya.

Her body was shaking, her breath erratic. Zoya gripped her so tightly it was painful, but she made little attempt to push her off. Somewhere in the distance, Freya could make out Vanya crying and David attempting to comfort her. The vicious cracks in her heart ripped further and turned to cavernous ravines.

Time seemed to stop, and all she could do was stare. Her mouth fell open to scream or cry, but no sound came out. Then everything came back, all too quickly, barrelling into her like a war hammer to the chest. Everything inside of her clenched as the understanding settled in to its fullest extent.

She'd seen her friends die before, had walked in their blood and gritted her teeth to stop herself from mourning too much. But she'd never thought she'd witness this. Luca, that boy who scrambled and clawed at life so desperately, who fought against everything that might tear him away, lay dead in front of her. With every second that passed when Luca's chest remained still, the sharp blade of torment dug deeper between Freya's ribs.

Kirigan was muttering something under his breath, gripping so tightly onto Luca's hand that his fingers paled from the pressure. He cupped Luca's still face with his other hand. The Healer was still trying to work beside him, but her movements were languid and defeated. And then Kirigan lifted Luca's hand to his lips and pressed a hard kiss to his knuckles. His eyes squeezed shut and he held the hand there.

There was a moment of stillness where nothing happened, but then the very air around them seemed to shift into something sinister and cruel. It felt like oil filled Freya's lungs and coated her skin, a layer of grime and dirt that she couldn't get rid of. She swore she saw black veins crawling up the side of Kirigan's neck, barely visible over the high collar of his kefta.

Luca dragged in a deep breath, and Freya could not believe her eyes. A sob of relief tore from Katya's throat, and she lunged forward to wrap her arms around her son, even as his chest jerked with every new bout of air he inhaled. His quartz eyes were wild, uncertain, and confused. He clawed at his mother's arms, then his father's. Then his eyes met Freya's.

And the entire world collapsed in on itself.

"Thank you!" Katya cried, grasping at the Healer's arm. The woman knelt on the ground, arms limp on either side of herself. She stared, confused, at the breathing boy who was supposed to be dead, the gaping wound that was sealed and not bleeding, the life that wasn't supposed to be.

Luca let out something akin to a whimper, brows furrowing together tightly. His eyes didn't leave Freya's, and it almost looked like he was screaming at her from the inside, pleading for help that she didn't know how to give. Kirigan pulled him to his chest and held him there. Luca's face finally turned, hidden in his father's chest, and he inhaled rapidly like he couldn't get enough air no matter what he did.

"Saints," Zoya muttered beside Freya. She couldn't help but agree, sending a prayer of her own to Djel. But only one response came to mind.

Djel djeren je töp. Djel turns his back on you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Despite his relatively short life, Nikolai Lantsov prided himself in knowing and understanding things many others didn't. It was why he joined the infantry instead of taking on a commanding position like his brother and father before him, why he tried to listen to those around him, be they Grisha or otkazats'ya. Hours were spent thinking about something better, how to fix that which was broken around him. He understood, and he tried to help. But nothing could have prepared him for that night.

After Freya left him in the garden, he stood still for what felt like an age. His skin felt cold without her presence, and the heartbroken, somewhat betrayed look on her face pricked at every one of his nerves until his mind and heart screamed in pain. By the time he pushed his limbs to move, she was already long gone. There was no chance he would get her alone again, no way of explaining to her that he didn't want to leave her, that he desired her more than he ever did anything else in his life.

Nikolai loved easily, he knew that. It was easy to love morning dew and books and peaches. Even easier to love the other soldiers in the twenty-second, or his mother or the puppy he'd received as a gift for his eighth birthday. It shouldn't have surprised him that loving Freya Helvar was the easiest of all.

He craved her smile and her touch, the melody lull of her laugh and the sparkle in her north-sea eyes. When he first kissed her, he felt more complete than he'd ever had in his entire life. And now she was out of reach. Perhaps forever.

The gunshot rang just as he entered the ballroom. The sound layered him in paralysing fear for longer than he cared to admit. All he could do for those few short seconds was stand there and look at where his family was sitting, hoping to all the Saints and gods of the world that the bullet hadn't been aimed at them. To his profound relief, the scream his mother let out wasn't one of pain, only of fear. It took only a few more seconds for the guards to start moving, creating a barricade between the royal family and everyone else in the ballroom.

Nikolai was pushed from all sides as people scrambled away from the centre of the ballroom. Limbs shoved and pulled at him until he was nearly certain he'd be torn into pieces. When he remained intact save for a few already-forming bruises, he let out a breath of relief.

Whatever repose remained in him fell apart into ashes when his eyes laid upon the scene in front of him. Freya – his darling, most beloved Freya – was on the ground in a pool of blood. Nikolai's face twisted and screwed up. A sound came from his throat, ragged and like a wounded animal writhing on the ground. Those few moments where he thought she was the one who was hurt were the worst of his life. And when he realised she was fine and it was someone else who was hurt... he would never be able to put that feeling into words.

By the time his senses returned to him, the pliant body of Luca Kirigan was already being pulled off Freya, and she was pulled to her knees by the raven-haired Squaller she spent so much time with. It took every fibre of Nikolai's being not to run to her immediately, and he forced himself to instead turn to the guards and shouted commands.

Get the tsar and tsaritsa out of here, secure the perimeter, bring the Fjerdan delegation into custody, the words fell from his lips with a surety that he could've only gotten from the frontlines. They did what he asked without question, much to his own surprise, but he was glad for it. When two of the guards walked towards the stern-faced Heartrender holding the shooter on the floor, the man scowled at them and refused to give him up. They were in the Grand Palace, but the shooter attacked the General's son and therefore was under the Grisha's jurisdiction. Nikolai looked around himself then. Maybe if they'd been in the Little Palace, as most winter fetes were, this wouldn't have happened.

Yes, it would've, the rational part of his brain told him as Luca's mother wailed over his body and his hands shook. The security of both palaces was high, and it was almost impossible to get into one of these events without months of paperwork before, especially if one was part of the Fjerdan delegation. And the man was from Fjerda, Nikolai knew that. He'd seen him around plenty of times, and the worried looks of the rest of the delegation only confirmed it.

When it became apparent that Luca Kirigan wouldn't survive, all Nikolai could do was clench his jaw and look away. He'd witnessed death before. Had held Dominik in his arms as he bled out. Much like the General was doing now. He felt for the man, knowing that losing a child must've been a horrible pain. But something happened that even Nikolai did not know and did not understand. Because while as Dominik died and never walked the earth again, Luca Kirigan rose from the dead in a way Nikolai had never seen.

This was not resuscitation or the work of a Healer. Nikolai saw the confusion on the Healer's face. He felt much the same, but he could not comment, all the words stolen from his tongue. He could only watch as the General pulled his son towards his chest and held him there, pressing his face into the boy's ebony hair. After a while, Nikolai looked away. It felt wrong watching such a vulnerable moment. And so he turned his attention back to the guards and set out more instructions and commands.

By the time the palace was secure, the immediate shock of what had occurred was gone, replaced by an air of uneasiness. His mind felt too sensitive, running rampant and coming up blank. The Grisha were leaving the Little Palace then, grim looks on their faces. The General didn't let his son walk back, despite the already healed wound, instead carrying him in his arms and clinging to him tightly.

Nikolai caught a glimpse of pale hair streaked with red – blood deep and crusted on liquid moonlight. His heart jumped at the sight. Even with blood covering her form, she looked beautiful. He shook the thought from her head. She was visibly shaking, her face the kind of blank he knew only from the front lines. The raven-haired Squaller held one of her arms, while a tall dark-haired Heartrender had a hand placed on the small of her back, nudging her along.

"Freya!" Nikolai called before he could stop himself. He regretted it almost instantly. The cold and empty look she gave him substituted a thousand stray bullets. Freya's lips parted as if to answer, but her lower lip quivered, and she turned away.

The raven-haired Squaller glared at him and pulled Freya closer to her, while the Heartrender only looked at him and bowed his head in the usual respect given to him as a prince. Nikolai bit the inside of his cheek, staring as the three of them walked away from him. He wanted to run towards them, to pull Freya away from them and hold her in the protection of his arms and never let her go. Who better to make sure she was alright, safe, out of harm's way, than he himself?

But he'd hurt her earlier that evening, and she was even more hurt now, walking through the Grand Palace halls like a ghost. She wouldn't want his comfort or his touch. And so Nikolai steeled himself and let her walk away.

A/N

Did darkles use merzost to resurrect his son? yes, yes he did.