I'm Not The Devil

I'm not the devil

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova/The Darkling x Durast!Reader

Summary: Things only get worse now that you've left the savety and familiarity of the Little Palace.

Warnings: attempted murder, murder, death of animals, skinning of animals, breaking bones, gun violence

Word Count: 4.6k

Authors' Note: I definitely have to go back and edit the old parts after the last chapter is out. Also, I'm heavily overpowering the Fabrikators in this fic, but honestly, who cares. They get barely any love from the canon material, so I think I deserve to have some fun in fanfiction. This isn't edited/proofread and I'm not a native English speaker.

Part 1 | Previous Part | Series Masterlist

It begins to snow shortly after you leave Os Alta behind. Thick, heavy snowflakes drop from the sky like a wall, and for a few hours you're genuinely worried that mother nature decided to start the ravkan winter with a devastating snowstorm, debating if it would be better to hide in the city for a while.

But before you can actually decide to turn around, you remember that Kirigan has the entire Little Palace at his disposal. Finding deserters and bringing them back no matter what is an honour for some of the Grisha there. A chance to prove themselves and their loyalties to the Second Army and General Kirigan.

The Heartrenders would be able to find you quickly if you decide to hide in or around Os Alta, picking up on the panicked heartbeat of someone hiding in a tavern or in the woods, and Squallers can make the travel through the thick snow easier for the General.

They also have horses, which makes them a lot more mobile and faster than you are right now.

You have to use the limited time you have until someone notices your absence from the Palace to create as much distance between yourself and the General as possible if you want to have any chance at escaping and living out the rest of your life in anything at least kind of resembling peace.

So you move further north, walking as quickly as you can to keep your body warm and get away from the only home you have ever truly known. Away from your friends, your family, your bed, your books, your research, your everything.

You think about returning home to your biological family for a while, but you know that he will look there first. In two days soldiers of the second army are going to stand in front of the house of your family in Duva, the house you were born in, and search the place for clues of your location, unaware of how little contact you've had with your family over the past few years.

No, you can't go there. Never again, probably. That chapter of your life has been forcefully closed, and no matter how much you might want to, you don't think you will ever be able to pry it open and revisit it. Not anymore. Not after all of this. Never again.

There are only three places in the world the General will not follow you to. You know this as well as every other Grisha.

Fjerda and Shu Han, due to the absolutely horrendous political situation between the two countries and Ravka, which would lead to him being reprimanded by the king if word came out that he send his Grisha – or himself – into the neighboring countries just to catch a deserter, and literally anything on the other side of the Fold.

You don't think you'll make it over the mountains in the south, so you move northwest, planning to stop in Ulensk before moving further up north to Fjerda or west through the fold to West Ravka, all depending on the situation in Ulensk and whatever seems more convenient and safer in the moment.

It's going to take a week to get to Ulensk on foot, because while you did remember to steal the winter coat of a servant to wear instead of your kefta, you did not think of stealing a horse.

You don't stop walking on your first day away. No, you walk and walk and walk until you lose feeling in the lower part of your legs, and even then, you don't stop, speeding up instead in hopes of heating up your body. It snows the whole day and night, thick flakes dropping from the sky as if the clouds have an endless supply of water collected in them, and the world around you transforms into pure white in the matter of a few hours.

The temperatures don't go above freezing during the day and the night only brings more frost, meaning the snow stays, piling up higher and higher while you attempt not to leave a trail, trying to stay in the steps of the people from nearby villages as much as possible in hopes of confusing anyone who may follow.

You fall asleep during your first break between the benches of a forgotten chapel, covered by a tapestry depicting one of the lesser known saints while you watch the shadows move and stretch on the dust covered walls. The fabric is so old and dirty that you can't recognize who it's supposed to honour.

You dream of bleeding out in a lake, dark eyes watching you as you struggle to breathe and beg for your life.

Throughout your travels, you can't stop chastising yourself, mind going over every single stupid mistake you've made that has led you to this situation in the first place over and over again. Cursing the names of the General and your own over and over again.

Homeless and alone, and it's all your fault.

The bag on your shoulder is surprisingly heavy, digging into your skin despite the many layers you put on before Baghra dragged you out of the Palace and sent you off. All you have with you is two bottles of water, a pouch full of nuts, some money, tea leaves, and half a loaf of bread. You can't bring yourself to complain.

It's not like the woman had much time to make you a care package that could keep you alive until you reach Fjerda. You should honestly be glad that she packed you anything at all. That she bothered to warn you of the General.

With every step you take north the snowflakes seem to grow heavier and heavier, slowly taking your sight until the only way you can still tell where you are is through the Small Science, your powers reaching out to trace along the trees, the metals sleeping deep in the ground and the bones of people in nearby villages and distant cities to keep track of your location and progress.

Less and less villages start to appear in your vicinity after a while, which means that after day five, you're not only drowning in snow, but you're also entirely alone. You've been lucky until now, always able to find firewood and a save place to sleep, usually close to a village in some form of abandoned shed, but so far up north it's almost impossible to sense anything close. People are scared to live in small villages so close to the border, and even more scared to pray to the saints, so you doubt you will be able to find a place to sleep tonight.

The only upside is that the weather has finally calmed down a bit. The snowflakes are still thick, but you finally don't feel like you're wandering through the forests of Ravka blindly. Travelling is still slow due to the deep snow that refuses to melt away, but at least you're able to see where you're going.

It's the middle of the night between day five and six when you finally pick up the feeling of bones and metal moving close by, your eyes noticing faint light between the trees only seconds later. You briefly wonder how how didn't notice them miles ago, the ache in your bones and heaviness in your eyes answering you a heartbeat later when you move to hang your bag up on a branch and get into position to fully use your powers.

You're absolutely exhausted. The cold has found its home in your bones and muscles days ago, and the fact that you're also getting closer and closer to the fold isn't helping, it's looming, dominant power distracting you sometimes.

The fact that you haven't frozen to death yet, that you've always been able to always find a roof to cover your head when you had to rest, is a miracle. You have only ever managed to sleep for a maximum of three hours, plagued by nightmares of gruesome death, but at this point you're thankful for any break, no matter how short. A bigger miracle than anything you could ever even hope to achieve with the Forbidden Science, you're sure of it.

There's a whisper in the back of your mind that questions if it may have been better to stay in the Little Palace. Sure, the General would've probably executed you for your experiments by now, but then you wouldn't feel like you're three minutes away from freezing to death. Your muscles wouldn't be screaming at you like this. You wouldn't be starving.

The camp in front of you seems small, based on the few quiet noises you hear, so you reach out to count the people, just in case it's a small family. There have been reports of people fleeing the villages near the borders in order to get closer to the safety that Os Altas proximity provides through the royal guard and the second army, and you don't want to take resources from a family on the run, especially not one with kids, no matter how desperate you might be.

Your power crawls through the trees like invisible fog, following your command as you count the moving, living things in the little camp, then their equipment.

Three men.

Three tents.

Two bags with water bottles and food.

Three guns.

Three sleeping... dogs? Wolves?

No. Too big.

Three Isenulf.

The fact that the beasts haven't woken up yet is another miracle to add to your never ending list, but you're barely able to focus on that as a wave of fear threatens to take over your mind. The sudden rush of adrenaline makes you a bit dizzy, your body overwhelmed after getting so little food, water, and rest over the past few days.

Drüskelle. This is a camp of witchhunters. Witchhunters who will kill you the second they notice that you're close by.

Your mind works faster than usual, your thoughts almost too fast for you to grasp as you try to come up with a plan. The smartest move would be to go, to leave the camp behind and disappear between the trees, making a big detour around the Drüskelle and their horrible pets, but that would probably delay you even more. Another day to spend in this unending, ruthless weather, starving slowly to death.

The little food you have left will not be able to keep you going for much longer, and your clothes barely keep you warm at this point. Sure, the Drüskelle might kill you, but if you don't get their food and the warmth of their fire you'll be dead tomorrow.

Before you can stop yourself you move towards the closest tree, using your powers to silenty bend the wood into a better position, and climb up until you sit high up, body hidden away from sight by the many needles decorating the spruce.

In the distance you can see the fold towering over Ravka. The ink black wall that splits Ravka into two, it's darkness so all consuming that you can still make it out during this moonless night. The merzost keeping it stable and in position hums almost, with a strength so noticeable that you can feel it even before fully waking your powers. It almost feels like a friend standing behind you and cheering you on silently, as stupid as it might sound. It gives you strength you need right now.

Taking a deep breath to calm your keyed up nerves, you reach out to try and grab hold of the vertebrae of one of the Isenulf, the warnings of one of your teachers echoing loudly in your mind.

These are not normal wolves. They are bread to be immune to the powers of heartrenders. If you see one of them you will have to run. Your fellow Grisha will not be able to protect you.

But are they immune to the powers of a curious and powerful Durast as well? You have never done this before, never tried to break bone the way you break metal into smaller pieces to make working with it easier. Will you be able to do it? Can a Fabrikator really control something in the human body? Shatter it like glass?

Are we not all things?

Your fingers cramp up a bit when you force your left hand into a fist, and you can hear a yelp a few metres below you.

The formerly calm and peaceful Drüskelle camp wakes, the men grab their guns and yell orders at the two remaining Isenulf. You grab hold of the pelvis of the next wolf before you even know what you're doing, breaking it into pieces half a second later.

You're about to reach out for the third when a shot rings through the air, your body involuntarily flinching. The witchhunters don't realize where you sit, their attention glued to the ground level while they fire more shots into the shadows of the forest. If one of them looks up for just a second, they might notice your eyes staring down at the chaos, liking your lips as you watch them panic. It's almost addicting, seeing the men who have instilled so much fear in you and your fellow Grisha tremble in fear. Fear of you.

The breaks are not as clean as metal, the bones a bit softer than you anticipated. You never had the privilege of working with bones in the Little Palace, aside from your experiments with the dove, and it shows now.

The last Isenulf left barks loudly when his eyes finally find you, but you manage to break his neck before the Drüskelle notice.

You can almost taste the panic they feel when the animal drops to the frozen ground, limp like a wet blanket.

The other two wolves yelp in pain, but the men don't seem to really hear it, too busy yelling commands at each other while they try to figure out what's going on. Your Fjerdan has never been great, but you understand enough.

Their voices are younger than expected. Another miracle to add to your list.

"Drüsje!" You hear one of them call out. Witch.

"Desjenet!" Another yells. Stand down. Probably a command meant for you. Like they wouldn't shoot you in the head the second they see you.

His lips move, his voice almost too quiet to reach your ear. A sick feeling of pride swells in your chest when the word registers in your mind.

The third man is quiet, eyes flickering around as he tries to detect movement in the forest. You decide to have fun, just once, using your power to bend the material of the gun he's holding towards him, curling the metal around like the house of a snail. It moves like clay under the influence of your powers, m carefully bending to your will. The witchhunter drops his weapon quickly, taking several steps back before stumbling and falling to the ground.

"Demjin"

Demon.

You let the word seep into your muscles and bones, flodding your body with confidence as you move your hands together, grabbing the hard material of the mans skull, before clenching your right hand into a fist, your left hand wrapping around it only a heartbeat later, breaking the hard bone. You can feel the splinters of his skull dig into the soft tissue of his brain. His body drops fully to the ground and one of the other two Drüskelle screams, but you pay him no mind.

It's stupid how easy this is for you. How could anyone see your order as weak weapon makers if this type of potential sleeps under your skin? A power that moved a witchhunter to call you demon?

Shaking your head slightly, you reach out to shatter the rib cage of the second Drüskelle and break the neck of the last man before beginning to climb back out of the tree. When your feet meet the ground, you grab your bag and walk into the camp.

It's obviously small, with only three men and three wolves to take care of, but you will survive comfortably for a while with their supplies added to your own. You dig around in their bags for a knife for a bit, humming when your hands wrap around the sheath of a dagger.

A smaller knife than you would've preferred, but it will do.

You work quickly and efficiently, skinning all three wolves as fast as possible before removing the meat from the animals. You try your best to hang it up to let gravity pull out the blood while you work, making sure to keep the fire alive. Something in you finally finds rest while you complete the simple tasks. Skinning animals and hanging their meat up to cook later is something you learned, like all Grisha do, years ago. Simple survival techniques that are drilled into your mind and require no thinking from you.

You are too tired to think.

Two and a half hours later you sit in front of the fire, covered by the still fresh and stretchy skin and fur of the wolves, and eat a piece of meat as you watch the rest of the flesh cook. The Drüskelle carried mostly dried food with them - meat and fruits that you can keep for a long time, if you're smart - and you don't want to waste the meat of the ice wolves either. You've already taken their fur. Might as well take their flesh too.

The corpses of the witchhunters are hidden in one of the three tents they brought for them and their wolves, stripped of their clothing. It will be helpful in Fjerda when you will no longer be able to wear the recognizable fur of the Isenulf to warm your freezing body. Their clothes warm you just like the furs of their former companions.

You do not feel bad, not for a single second, but when you finally get comfortable around the fire, covered in bloody wolfs fur and stolen cloaks, you ask yourself if the price of your second time summoning merzost, the first time you tried to shape it into something, was your very soul. Or perhaps your innocence.

You dream again that night.

A dark figure is standing over you, holding your face between his large, cold hands as he looks at you.

His voice is smooth like satin when he finally speaks.

"You can't run from me forever, moya golubka. I will catch you."

When the sun rises, so do you, packing your bags quickly before abandoning the camp. You're well rested, despite your dream, and warm too. You can feel your hands and your feet, more than a bit relieved that you probably won't lose your fingers or toes to frostbite. Another miracle.

The heavy white furs are tied to your body with leather strings stolen from the supplies of the Drüskelle. It would be easy to shape them into a well-fitting coat, but you're pretty sure that it will probably be easier to sell raw furs for some money in Ulensk than a full coat. You won't be able to enter Fjerda safely in a coat made of Isenulf fur after all. You have to get rid of it before you cross the border. Hopefully, you will find the time to change the cloaks worn by the Drüskelle enough until they're no longer recognizable before you leave the town.

You're moving a bit slower now because of the extra weight of two new bags hanging off you, filled to the brim with food, water and fabric, but you have hope that you won't have to add another day to your travels. You can feel how close you are to Ulensk, even with the Fold so close. In the back of your mind, an idea crawls out of the darkest corner of your thoughts once more, asking what would happen if you did get close to the fold.

Would you be able to move it? Or to take some of the Forbidden Science inside of it and clean it from the darkness tainting it? Maybe use it for something else? The only experience you've had with Merzost that's not summoned by you is the Merzost tied to the bones of General Kirigan, and it's not like you were able to do anything with it before you had to flee. You just felt it, tried to understand how it works, how nature weaved it into his body when he was still an unborn baby growing in his mothers womb.

You're almost in Ulensk when you notice it.

The most familiar thing you've ever felt, more familiar than the wood of your bed frame, the plates in the Little Palace, the chair of your workstation in the basement.

Corecloth.

There are keftas in Ulensk. More than there should be.

You have come up with many different plans for all sorts of emergencies that could come up during your travels, but not once did you stop to think that the General could predict your plans to go up to Fjerda. There is no reason why so many Grisha would be in Ulensk otherwise. He must've known, somehow.

Maybe the saints betrayed you, led him right to you for the crimes you have committed against the order of things. There has never been someone who messed with merzost and got a happy ending, after all. Maybe this is supposed to be your end.

And how poetic it would be. Getting your heart ripped out by one of the Generals lap dog heartrenders after being pushed around by them for years.

Turning your head, you stare up, eyes finding the fold immediately. It's incredibly unlikely that you'll be able to cross it undetected. There are guards making sure that no one unauthorized crosses.

The corecloth starts moving.

But do you have another choice? You can't stay in Ravka, not while the General is looking for you. You won't be able to cross the border either. If there are Grisha already up in Ulensk, then there are definitely more at the border, waiting to catch you.

The corecloth gets closer.

In the distance, you hear someone bark out an order, and you drop your bags a heartbeat later, all three of them hitting the cold, snow-covered ground and tangling around your legs. Thinking quickly, you lift your hands, trying to locate the closest person moving into your direction before quickly breaking their legs in half.

As soon as you realise what you've done, guilt begins to rise in your chest. The break was not as clean as you would've liked, the bone shattering into dozens of splinters under the pressure of your raw, uncontrolled power. But you don't have time to take a short breather and take care of the Grisha the way you did with the Drüskelle.

Reaching down, you free your legs from the bags on the floor before turning to the fold once again.

Your one chance. Your only chance.

There's more yelling in the distance, now a lot closer and louder than it was when you broke the first persons legs, and you feel a bit like a deer frozen in fear after seeing a hunter, before you finally manage to rip yourself out of your paralysis and start running.

Between the trees you can see the brightly coloured keftas of your fellow Grisha, and you silently pray that the white fur covering you helps you blend in more with your surroundings while you jump over roots and rocks, reaching out with your powers to get an idea of what treacherous traps linger below the undisturbed snow, waiting to trip you and break your neck.

When you think you see something red in the corner of your eye, you reach out further, moving your hands together once more to break the first bone your powers can grasp.

But your heart is still beating.

A scream echos through the trees. Your lungs are burning. Your body feels like it's on fire.

A gust of wind hits you seconds later, throwing you against the trunk of a tree. You cry out under the impact, unable to move for a few seconds while you try desperately to figure out where exactly up and down are, where the fold is.

Your luck can't run out right here, right? Not when you're so close to the fold. So close to your last chance of freedom.

Biting your teeth together, you lift your arms again, focusing on the squaller. You almost rip her left arm off her body with the force you use to detach it from her shoulder, accidentally cracking her shoulder blade in the process.

There's another heartrender a few metres away, flinching when he hears the squaller scream out in pain. You use his distraction, breaking ulna and radius of his left arm cleanly in half before jumping back up to your feet.

Your ears are ringing and you stumble a bit, the world turning, but the only Grisha you can see right now is a single Inferni who is too busy hiding behind trees and calling out for back up to attack you right now. You have to use this small window of opportunity, or you'll be stuck here until Kirigan finally shows up, so you take the risk and turn away from the other Grisha, running towards the fold.

Distracted by your panic, you miss some roots, stumbling and almost falling to the ground when a fireball crashes into a tree right in front of you, just barely missing your head. The wood goes up in bright orange flames, some sparks flying into your direction and making contact with the Isenulf furs that keep you warm.

Cursing loudly, you sprint around the tree, hands frantically hitting the furs to prevent them from going up in flames. A second ball of fire hits a bush left from you, and you stop, whipping around quickly and looking for the Inferni who seems so determined to set you on fire. When your eyes find the blue kefta, your hands are already up, grabbing her femur and breaking in half before you turn again and continue running.

This is it.

As soon as you leave the last trees of the forest behind, you speed up, desperate to cross the wide strip of grass and dirt as quickly as possible and enter the all-consuming darkness of the fold.

So close. You're so, so close.

You're only a few metres away when you hear his voice call out, calm and smooth in the worst way.

"Moya golubka," He says, triumph and glee audible in his voice, and a heartbeat later, you feel something wrap around your ankle to rip you off your feet. Your body hits the ground with a scream, the fold only centimetres away from your outstretched hands.

Digging your fingers into the dirt, you try to fight against the pull of whatever is wrapped around your legs, tears filling your eyes as it slowly dawns on you that you've lost. It's over. This is the end. All of that suffering in the last few days was for nothing.

You refuse to look up when the shining black shoes of the General enter your view, his shadows continuing to drag you away from the fold. He towers over you, watching you struggle for a few seconds before positioning himself right in front of you, between your body and the fold, blocking your last chance of freedom from your sight.

"I finally caught you, little dove."

When you look up, you see a smile on his lips.

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