[ as far as safehouses go, at least it runs close to the geldstraat. he tells himself that if he does break free, he'd rather the merchers be the first to go than the poor bastards trying to make a living in the underbelly of the barrel. more importantly, after spending longer than planned picking the damned schuyler lock, he discovers the house has a hidden cellar.
leaving the main level undisturbed, he pays a visit to little ravka and seeks out a fabrikator to forge chains of the same type that david made for him all that time ago. as sturmhond — sporting the fox's smile and still wearing his bloodied shirt — his requests are easily met. hunting a sea monster that takes the form of a drowning man. he dines in a tavern while he waits, nursing his headache with terrible ravkan swill, and buys a set of weeks old newspapers to pass the time. the horse auctions in caryeva are booming this season. the duke in grevyakin is expanding his cotton farming business into the surrounding settlements. os alta's gates will soon be open for the winter festival, sketches of zoya splashed across the front page in complicated gowns that she would never wear. an opinion piece dedicated to the fall of nikolai lantsov takes up a corner of a page, which he's in the middle of reading when a group of giggling travelers come over to beg him for stories about his adventures at sea.
it's late afternoon when the chains are done. he is no fabrikator but has spent enough time in their workrooms to fasten them securely to the stone walls himself. the demon grows more and more agitated, moving restlessly inside of him, its hunger growing at a pace that's increasingly difficult to ignore. he tests the chains anyway, giving the monster the barest measure of freedom and swiftly yanking back control when the fetters begin to cut into his wrists. but they hold fast. that's all that matters.
he thinks of penning a message to kaz and dropping it off at the white rose for milena, but in the end decides against it. he doesn't want him to come looking for him, though he knows at least after a few days of silence, he likely will. he purchases what he hopes is a complicated lock for the cellar. the rest of the safehouse he leaves untouched, as if he was never there at all. he tries to reset the schuyler lock to make it seem as though he never picked it in the first place, but is unsure if he's entirely unsuccessful, and makes a show of going back to his ship instead, making sure kaz's dregs see him. while he waits for nightfall, he repairs the kaleidoscope, fitting a new mirror inside, carefully hammering out the dent, and engraving a pattern of curving sea waves onto the slender tube to cover any trace of past damage.
it's dusk when he locks himself in the cellar with a stockpile of nourishment and brandy, iron fetters clicking around his freshly bandaged wrists and throat. the monster is starving, but he doesn't allow it a final hunt. his will is strong enough to get him through this. it has to be. it's the reason the darkling didn't choose imprisonment or torture to punish him with, fates too easy for him to endure. he thinks of his last words to zoya. it's not wise to starve a monster. but starve it he will, until it heels under his command once more. until one of them gives. it won't be him.
the chains hold. for days, the only sound he hears is the monster in his own head. no footsteps above, no rattle of the lock at the cellar door at the top of the narrow, dusty staircase. he spends more time as monster than man, howling in the dark, his claws leaving slashes in the walls and the packed earthen floor. doesn't relent when the monster leaves him battered and bruised from trying to break through the walls, just spits the blood from his mouth and washes down the pain with brandy.
he doesn't know if it makes it better or worse to think of kaz, to remember the sensation of falling asleep with him in his arms, more peaceful than he could have imagined. ruined now, thinking of the monster tearing into his flesh. trying to put it out of his mind proves unsuccessful, staring down at his bloodied hands, the ring safely tucked away in his coat. he wishes he could catch a glimpse of the sky now, dreams of it between moments of lucidity, but he finds himself in the same dark place every time his eyes open, no cracks of light, nothing to hold onto but his dwindling hope as he grapples with the monster. ]
don't make fun of his very good not terrible plan
leaving the main level undisturbed, he pays a visit to little ravka and seeks out a fabrikator to forge chains of the same type that david made for him all that time ago. as sturmhond — sporting the fox's smile and still wearing his bloodied shirt — his requests are easily met. hunting a sea monster that takes the form of a drowning man. he dines in a tavern while he waits, nursing his headache with terrible ravkan swill, and buys a set of weeks old newspapers to pass the time. the horse auctions in caryeva are booming this season. the duke in grevyakin is expanding his cotton farming business into the surrounding settlements. os alta's gates will soon be open for the winter festival, sketches of zoya splashed across the front page in complicated gowns that she would never wear. an opinion piece dedicated to the fall of nikolai lantsov takes up a corner of a page, which he's in the middle of reading when a group of giggling travelers come over to beg him for stories about his adventures at sea.
it's late afternoon when the chains are done. he is no fabrikator but has spent enough time in their workrooms to fasten them securely to the stone walls himself. the demon grows more and more agitated, moving restlessly inside of him, its hunger growing at a pace that's increasingly difficult to ignore. he tests the chains anyway, giving the monster the barest measure of freedom and swiftly yanking back control when the fetters begin to cut into his wrists. but they hold fast. that's all that matters.
he thinks of penning a message to kaz and dropping it off at the white rose for milena, but in the end decides against it. he doesn't want him to come looking for him, though he knows at least after a few days of silence, he likely will. he purchases what he hopes is a complicated lock for the cellar. the rest of the safehouse he leaves untouched, as if he was never there at all. he tries to reset the schuyler lock to make it seem as though he never picked it in the first place, but is unsure if he's entirely unsuccessful, and makes a show of going back to his ship instead, making sure kaz's dregs see him. while he waits for nightfall, he repairs the kaleidoscope, fitting a new mirror inside, carefully hammering out the dent, and engraving a pattern of curving sea waves onto the slender tube to cover any trace of past damage.
it's dusk when he locks himself in the cellar with a stockpile of nourishment and brandy, iron fetters clicking around his freshly bandaged wrists and throat. the monster is starving, but he doesn't allow it a final hunt. his will is strong enough to get him through this. it has to be. it's the reason the darkling didn't choose imprisonment or torture to punish him with, fates too easy for him to endure. he thinks of his last words to zoya. it's not wise to starve a monster. but starve it he will, until it heels under his command once more. until one of them gives. it won't be him.
the chains hold. for days, the only sound he hears is the monster in his own head. no footsteps above, no rattle of the lock at the cellar door at the top of the narrow, dusty staircase. he spends more time as monster than man, howling in the dark, his claws leaving slashes in the walls and the packed earthen floor. doesn't relent when the monster leaves him battered and bruised from trying to break through the walls, just spits the blood from his mouth and washes down the pain with brandy.
he doesn't know if it makes it better or worse to think of kaz, to remember the sensation of falling asleep with him in his arms, more peaceful than he could have imagined. ruined now, thinking of the monster tearing into his flesh. trying to put it out of his mind proves unsuccessful, staring down at his bloodied hands, the ring safely tucked away in his coat. he wishes he could catch a glimpse of the sky now, dreams of it between moments of lucidity, but he finds himself in the same dark place every time his eyes open, no cracks of light, nothing to hold onto but his dwindling hope as he grapples with the monster. ]