Chapter Text
Nina regretted it some days, but she was glad that she had not returned to Ravka, mainly because she knew that Zoya would never have allowed her to do this if she had. Zoya would have been breathing down her neck, urging her to apply her grief, her rage, to channel that into something productive. For Ravka—for Grisha. The idea had appealed to her only months ago, but halfway there, after burying Matthias, she had suddenly been overcome with a wave of dread. She had hopped out of her carriage, gone to the nearest port city, and caught a ride back to Ketterdam on a passing merchant vessel. The thought of arriving in Ravka, returning to the Little Palace, explaining herself, and sitting through another scathing look from Zoya at her failure was too much to bear.
When she arrived at the harbor, she found that Inej had left on a ship to hunt slavers and that Wylan and Jesper were living in practically wedded bliss in his father’s old mansion. So Nina decided to move in with Kaz Brekker, who remained comfortingly unchanged. Kaz did not make her break herself for every Grisha in the world--- for the glory of Ravka. He didn’t make her talk about it or remember. Fuck, Kaz didn’t even make her leave her bed. He let her rot.
She rotted there, in the room below his own, for days or maybe weeks. Sometimes, he would come by and drop food and water on her bedside table, sit next to her, and hold a spoon over her mouth to ensure she was still breathing. On one memorable occasion, he had sat next to her and combed through her knotted hair with a gentleness that had reduced Nina to tears. He never spoke to her beyond reciting stocks or discussing the numbers for the Crow Club at her, nothing she needed to focus on or respond to; she could let his low, monotone voice wash over her like a wave. He never even acknowledged that he was helping her in any way. She was sure that if she ever tried to discuss it with him, he would break her kneecaps.
So, under the watchful eye of the Bastard of the Barrel, Nina rotted. Jesper and Wylan never stopped by, so Nina assumed that Kaz had not told them she was there and was wondering what the fallout from that revelation would be. She didn't want to see them, she knew they would be kind, would be caring. She didn't want that, and she could barely stand the strange care from Kaz. Then, one day, it seemed they suddenly knew.
The door slammed open, but the person in the doorway lingered there, not saying a word. Nina knew she should be jumping up, thinking about defending herself, but she could not muster the effort. After a moment, her ears caught the sound of a cane on hardwood—the lurching, painful gait of Kaz Brekker. She melted into her bed more; Kaz would not be bothering her. He stopped next to the bed. Then, strangely, there were footsteps following him inside. The sound of the light scraping of Wylan dragging his feet and Jesper's quick, bouncy step in his sturdy boots—the only sensible part of his wardrobe– reached her ears.
“Do you see what I mean?” Kaz asked. His voice was the sound of hornets buzzing in Nina’s ear, low, rough, and easy to tune out.
“Saints, yeah.” Jesper breathed out. He sounded concerned. Nina rolled her head to look up at him and got an amusing view of the bottom of his chin. It looked like he was trying to grow some stupid little beard.
Wylan crouched down next to her and took her hands in his. Jesper sat down at the head of the bed. Kaz stayed standing, but he leaned down and brushed a piece of her hair behind her ear in a bizarrely gentle move, and she basked in the feeling of the soft leather of his gloves. He always smelled like leather, she had learned. It was like leather, expensive cologne, and a tinge of bleach. She had a hunch that he might wash his hands with it, and the cologne was just an attempt to cover the bleach. Trapped there, in the floating in-between space of her mind and the bed, she wondered if he was trapped in those gloves and if he scrubbed at his hands with bleach because he felt dirty. The thought made her heart twinge a little. It was a horrible thing, this grief, that broke her spirit and her mind and gave her tender feelings towards Kaz Brekker.
“Hey, Neens,” Jesper began nervously. “Kaz says you haven’t been leaving this room. Or eating.”
“Or bathing,” Wylan muttered under his breath. Jesper shot him a pleading look.
“Kaz has been giving you space, which is nice of him—” he hissed as Kaz’s cane made contact with his shin. “Which is totally neutral and has no warm feelings or kindness behind it, but uh, we thought that maybe it was time to get up and maybe try getting some fresh air, going on a walk? A little walk around the block? We can go to the park!”
“She’s not a dog, Jesper!” Wylan hissed.
“Well, I'm sorry! What did you want me to say? And Kaz—when you said Nina hadn’t asked for us, you didn’t mention she was practically comatose! How could you let it get this bad?”
“I didn’t ‘let it’ get anything, Fahey; she was like this when she found me! And what was I supposed to do? Call a healer, let them lock her away someplace? Throw her out on the street?” Kaz hissed back.
“That’s enough!” Wylan snapped, and the two of them fell silent.
Wylan looked at her sternly, mouth set in an obstinate frown, refusing to budge. Jesper had gone easy because he was kind. Kaz had made many allowances because he knew how a person’s mind could break. It seemed that Wylan was wise to the cruelties of life and a proponent of the school of tough love.
“You need to get up, Nina. You’re going to rot away here.”
“Good.” She spat. Kaz frowned and squeezed her foot painfully.
“Not good. I want to rent this room, and no one will live here if it smells like sad, dead Grisha.”
“Not helpful, Kaz,” Wylan said calmly. Kaz grunted in the way that always meant he agreed but didn’t want to admit it.
“You can’t make me go anywhere.” Nina slurred, glaring at Wylan’s beautiful face. He frowned severely and raised an eyebrow.
Nina was in a park now, beside a very smug Wylan Hendriks, brushed, washed, and tucked into a heavy coat. She had no idea how she ended up here. Jesper whistled nervously, swinging Wylan’s hand back and forth, glancing at her from the corner of his eyes.
“What?” She snapped after she could take it no longer.
“Nothing!” He said, eyes darting ahead. Wylan sighed next to him, nudging him to go in front of them, and he fell back a little to loop his arm with Nina’s. Despite her irritation, she leaned into him, the warmth of him, his slight body cuddled up next to her. She could rest her chin on his orange curls if she turned her head. He smelled like gunpowder and roses and Jesper’s cologne. She didn’t want to be irritated with him—but why wouldn’t he just let her rot?
He cleared his throat nervously, “Nina, you know we care about you, don’t you?”
She didn't answer him. Of course, she knew they cared about her (although she still wasn't sure about Brekker) and loved her, but the problem was— they were the wrong person. She wanted Matthias— his bright eyes, loving, kind heart, and strong hands. She wanted his placid nature. She didn't want Wylan, clever and caring, or Jesper, funny and kind, although the thought made her feel ashamed. She certainly didn't want Kaz Brekker, strange and mercurial and cold. (Nina did not understand why he had been helping her.)
“We're your friends, Nina. We aren't just going to watch you waste your life away.”
“It's my life.” She snapped, anger writhing in her chest. What right did Wylan Van Eck have to dictate how Nina should live her life? What did he know about grief like hers, suffering like hers? What right did any of them have, trying to control and save her? Wylan frowned more.
“What happened to Ravka?” He asked desperately, waving his free hand. “You said you were going back there, back to the Little Palace—none of us thought you would be back for years if you ever came back. Why are you here?”
She didn't know. She didn't understand why she was in Ketterdam, why she had wandered back to the Slat like a moth to a flame, but she had just known that she couldn't go to Ravka– couldn't stay in Fjerda. None of it seemed right; nothing was right, not without him. She'd returned to Ketterdam because…because her friends were there, she supposed. She knew what to expect from them and how to navigate their pitfalls, quirks, and humor. The world beyond Ketterdam, a world without Matthias, beyond the last place he had ever seen, was suddenly frightening to her. Going back to Ravka now would feel like wandering into the Fold with her eyes closed and hands tied behind her back.
After a while, with no answer, Wylan sighed.
“Nina, I'm not saying you need to move on or stop caring. You just….you need to get up every once in a while. Go outside, talk to someone.”
“I talk to Kaz.” She said petulantly.
“No. Kaz talks at you. And he's so emotionally constipated that I'm sure he talks about stocks or something.” When Nina snorted, he laughed. “See! He wouldn't recognize an emotion if it came up to him with all of Inej's knives, Nina. Talk to a real person! It will make you feel better.”
Feel better. It wouldn't make her feel better, she thought viciously. Nothing could make her feel better, not now. And even if it could—she didn't want it to. She wanted it to hurt. It should hurt being here without him. She broke free of Wylan’s gentle hold, walking ahead. She called back to him.
“You're right! I'll talk to someone, just not you.” She said tightly. It was a mean thing to say; she could see the hurt flash very quickly across his face, but she needed him not to follow her. She pushed past a confused Jesper, knocking shoulders with him, and disappeared into the city.
She walked around for a few hours, not looking at anything or going anywhere. Nina wandered in and out of shops, pretending to browse, buying drinks and then pouring them out, taking small bites of food and finding they had turned to ash in her mouth. Around midday, she wandered into a bookstore, the sight of which surprised her because Nina hadn't realized there were any bookstores in the Barrel. Something wiggled under the blanket of apathy that had settled over, sticking its head and demanding attention. Curiosity.
It was a small store with floor-to-ceiling shelves, books crammed into every corner, piled on random tables, stacked in piles on the floor. One ancient man slept at the till, and Nina petted a cat that wandered by on its way to the window. It smelled old, like old paper, mildew, and dust, and she was the only person there. She idly shifted through the books, picking up the most interesting-looking ones. There were Zemeni fairy tales, treatises on trade embargoes, parent manuals, ancient cookbooks with ingredients she was sure were extinct, and even medical textbooks, which she examined with interest for a while. She looked up and saw that the sun was starting to set. Fuck. She'd only meant to be gone for a while; she didn't mean to linger this long. Her friends would probably be running around looking for her. She jumped up to leave, but a book caught on her dress and tumbled to the floor. She bent down to pick it up, glancing at the spine before she set it down.
How to Speak With the Dead was written in curling golden Ravkan letters.
What? Frowning, she opened it. There was no author, a strange bookplate with a symbol she couldn't make out. She scanned the pages—this was…it was a Grisha reference book—mentions of the small science, of merzost and the string connecting all things. The disclaimer at the front said that no Grisha had managed it. Still, the theory would work if only there were that rare Heartrender who could push beyond the restrictions of the mortal body, beyond the veil, and tip over from the control of the living into the control of the dead, the author claimed. Like Nina had. It was no silly divination book; this was real, natural Grisha science! And if it was real, if the concepts behind it were real…then maybe she could. Perhaps she could speak to the dead more than she did already. Since using Jurda Parem, the dead had been clinging to her senses, trailing her like shadows, whispering in her ears like the chattering of birds. She could see a glimpse of them from the corners of her eyes. But it was almost as if they couldn't make themselves known, solid or lasting. They were the traces of the living, clinging on far past their expiry date. With this, maybe she could see even them. Perhaps she could see Matthias. She read down the page a few more lines, and there, in bold text:
And with the correct application of merzost, one might even return the deceased to a living state.
A living state. Return someone back to life—this book thought she could return someone to life. She could return Matthias to life.
With a glance at the man still sleeping at the counter, she shoved the book into the deep pocket of her dress and walked out into the Barrel. Turning on the street, she was overwhelmed by the lights and shouts of everyone enjoying themselves in full force after hours of quiet solitude. She couldn't tell where she was. She needed to figure out where she was, cursing the lack of foresight she had not at least to keep track of road signs. But she felt a sigh of relief when she smelled the sea and heard the waves—-the Crow Club was near the harbor, and she could find her way back to the Slat from there.
Finally, she rounded the corner to where the Crow Club sat, next to Fifth Harbor. She spotted a dark figure, hunched over on the railing, looking over the harbor, swinging his legs back and forth. Was that? She walked closer, noting the presence of a silver-tipped cane—it was.
“Brekker!” She called out. He turned, and a cigarette dangled from his lips. He took her in momentarily and then turned back to the waves. She wandered over and leaned against the railing next to him.
“What're you doing out here?” She asked him.
He jerked his head towards the water as if that was an answer.
“Ah. Visiting your mother, then?” Wasn't that what he always said? That the harbor birthed him?
He took a drag of his cigarette—she hadn't known that he smoked. She didn't think he should; his voice already sounded so bad, but no one could stop Kaz Brekker from destroying himself.
“I am a dutiful son.” He said flatly.
“Mmm.” She agreed, rolling her eyes at his drama.
“Jesper and Wylan were looking for you. Said you were upset. Told them I didn't care, but they wouldn't leave me alone.”
She felt a pang of guilt. She shouldn't have run off like that. She shouldn't have been mean. They were trying to help, no matter how clumsily.
“I'll find them.”
He sniffed, stretching out his bad leg.
“You should stay with them. I had your things moved.”
Right. It seemed that whatever small amount of mercy and compassion remained in his heart had been drained away looking after Nina. She had outworn her welcome. Fine. She could understand that—she had hardly been a pleasant houseguest.
“Okay.” She looked at him, and he looked pale and gaunt in the fading light. Sick. He always looked sick to Nina. “Kaz, why did you sit with me?”
His shoulders tensed, but she pushed on, desperate for one last bit of care from him when she had grown used to the scraps he had given her.
“I—” The deafening sound of a barge cut her off, and she whipped her head around to look at it. It was huge, not one she had seen before. She squinted as it slowly floated away, trying to make out what was piled on its slats. It looked half-empty. She looked back at Kaz to ask his opinion and was startled at the look of animal fear on his face—like a dog about to be struck when it had spent its life getting beaten.
“Kaz?” She asked softly. His face smoothed back into indifference.
He pointed with his cigarette. “Reapers Barge.”
She turned with a sick feeling in her gut. Everyone in Ketterdam knew about the barge—the way they transported the dead poor out of the city and just dumped them into the harbor like trash. The pile she'd seen, the mysterious cargo, had been bodies. She once heard from a woman at the White Rose that the pile had looked like a mountain during the plague. Even the small pile now was enough to make her stomach churn—she couldn’t imagine what it must have looked like—what it must have smelled like when they burned it.
“Let's hope they're all dead,” Kaz muttered, eyes far away, trained on the Barge like he would find himself on it if he looked away for even a second. “Go home, Nina.”
“I'll go back to the mansion—”
“Not what I meant, and you know it.” He snapped. He wouldn't look at her; he had hardly looked at her this whole time. That wasn't new—Kaz hardly ever looked at people when he talked to them. The thought filled her with irritation. She gathered her skirts and got up.
“Fine, I was trying to be friendly, but clearly, that's lost on you. Die here for all I care, Brekker.”
She turned and began storming away towards the Van Eck manor.
“I already have!” He called after her, and she rolled her eyes—another bit of Brekker melodrama. But the sound of it haunted her, full of grief, rattling around her head until she was welcomed inside the warmth of the manor by Wylan and Jesper.