Whatever they have between them, it's not love.

Ivan thinks that the Sun Summoner lost whatever capacity she had for that on the Fold, with a tracker's dying gasps and the choked gurgle of the Darkling soon after.

That kind of power doesn't come without a price.

There's a part of him that's mildly surprised when she turns that burning gaze on him, and he doesn't immediately turn to ash. They all know that she had only accepted his allegiance because she didn't have a choice.

She has all the choices in the world, now. She could raze it to the ground and start anew; for a second, Ivan sees the urge flicker to life behind empty, golden eyes.

The world holds its breath, awaiting its fate. And then she screams, and the sound holds nothing. Not even total destruction could fill her, now.

She retreats from the world. The bastard prince supplies a house with a garden in some nameless section of countryside, where the Sun Summoner has no memories and can't be reminded of things she'll never have again. Some of her Grisha go with her, and so does Ivan, because where else is he going to go?

His life has been following the power he believed would destroy Ravka's enemies and satisfy the hole in his own chest. That power no longer exists, has combusted and become something new and bright and awful. So he follows that, because she's as purposeless as he is, and that's as good a reason as any.

One by one, her Grisha fall away. They have duties, responsibilities, lives to return to. Most of them threaten him in some way before they go, and Ivan simply bares his teeth in a smirk back at them, because he can. Their threats, after all, are empty.

"Are you going to stay here to babysit me?" he asks. He receives curses, insults, guilty silences in turn. They all go eventually. The Sun Summoner's brilliance is too bright and too alien to be borne by those who need to live outside it.

"You don't even like me," she says one day, apropos of nothing. They're in the garden, and he's watching her confuse onions for weeds, because being an all-powerful something-else doesn't make you any better at growing vegetables.

"You don't like me," he points out. "I don't think it matters that much any more."

He's not sure what's left of her to like. Not sure what's left of her that knows how to like. He'd blame it on what happened to her, what she did to herself, but the truth is, the same could be said about him. And he definitely did not kill his lovers to save a country and become a monster.

She comes to him, when the last of her followers have deserted, and they are left alone to the house and the garden and the countryside. Her slight, too-warm form slides into his lap, and she grasps his chin in a burning grip.

"I'm not ready," she rasps. "Not yet."

Her forehead rests against his, and there's no escape from that too-bright golden gaze. He's not even sure he wants to run.

"Don't let me be alone, Ivan."

Not entirely a monster, he thinks dizzily, before he digs his fingers into her hips and kisses her. The words taste familiar, like she's quoting someone, but he doesn't know what. He doesn't care to find out.

He's not ready to be alone yet, either.