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batmanlovesnirvana · 2 months ago

Text

— The name he buried

pairing : the darkling | aleksander morozova x sun summoner fem!OC

tags : some of my fave grishaverse accounts on here @stromuprisahat @aleksanderscult @is-today-tomorrow-in-nz @kasagia & @devoted-people-hater who asked to be added on the tags <3

words : + 2,6k

notes : sooo here’s a little snippet from my fic ‘Solar Børealis’ that I’ve been nervous to share (lol)... It’s one of the first scenes I wrote between Aleksander and Sunna, inspired by the iconic lines: “What should I call you? You must have a name. Everyone does.” and “Slaves do not have names.” (thanks to @black-rose-writings for the reblog and @yototothelalafell-deactivated20 for the original post!). Would love to hear what you all think, and if I managed to keep the Darkling true to canon. Hopefully he doesn’t feel too OOC!!! :) I apologize for any mistakes; English is not my first language.

THE FOREST lay in a veil of mist, hushed in a way that made every sound seem sacred.

The only break in the silence was the steady rhythm of hooves pressing into the damp earth, a soft pulse that echoed between the towering trees.

The air carried the scent of moss and rain, cool against their skin as they rode in a shared silence that stretched on, heavy yet unspoken.

Sunniva's eyes wandered toward him—the Darkling—General of the Grisha. His presence was unnerving in its quiet intensity, his expression unreadable, his figure almost blending with the deep shadows that clung to the forest floor.

Standing atop his black horse, he appeared as though he were a living part of the darkness itself, all sharp lines and mystery. His black cloak draped around him like the night sky, merging seamlessly with the world around him, making it impossible to discern where he ended and the shadows began.

It unnerved her—the way he seemed so ethereal, so impossibly perfect, as if sculpted from a dream she couldn't wake from. His beauty was unnaturally precise, a handsomeness that stirred something within her that she could neither name nor understand. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she quickly looked away, ashamed of the thoughts that fluttered unbidden to her mind.

Mammá would have scolded her, a disapproving frown creasing her brow. “Don’t stare at strangers, Nana,” she would say, her tone gentle yet firm. “It’s not proper for a Fjerdan lady.”

Yet, even when her eyes fell, they were drawn back to him, as if compelled by an invisible force. It was like trying to resist the pull of the moon over the tides—a futile effort, a gentle surrender.

Her curiosity gnawed at her, sharp and restless, refusing to be silenced by the quiet.

Finally, she spoke, her voice soft yet cutting through the stillness, "What should I call you ?" The question hung in the cool air, fragile yet persistent, one she'd longed to ask since their first meeting. "You must have a name. Everyone does."

The Darkling didn't look at her, his gaze fixed ahead as he guided his horse through the narrow trail. His silence lingered so long she wondered if he would answer at all.

"Slaves do not have names," he said at last, his voice low and cold, but there was a weight to his words—a bitter edge that struck something deeper.

Sunniva blinked, taken aback by the statement. "Slaves?" she echoed, her dark brows furrowing. "You're no slave."

"Not now, perhaps," he replied, his tone as smooth as ice, though she detected a flicker of something beneath it. "But I was born into a world that would have seen me bound, powerless, just like them." He glanced at her then, his eyes like storm clouds on the verge of breaking, dark and turbulent, yet gleaming with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. "I broke those chains."

She stared at him, her heart pounding harder. "And now you bind others in them?"

He laughed, a sound devoid of warmth. "Is that what you think, little saint? That I revel in control? In power over others?"

Sunniva stiffened, straightening her back as she shifted her position in the saddle. The way he uttered "little saint" made her feel small, insignificant. Instinctively, she brought her thumb to her lips, nervously biting the corner. But she wasn't about to retreat. "Well," she lowered her hand, as if suddenly remembering herself, "you rule through fear, don't you?" Her brows arched in challenge.

"Fear," he murmured, a faint smile curling at his lips, "is a tool. It maintains order, where kindness would invite only chaos."

"And what would you invite?" Sunniva countered, her pulse quickening. "What do you really want?"

The horses slowed, and the Darkling pulled his to a stop. He dismounted smoothly, his black cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. She hesitated, but followed, her boots sinking into the soft moss of the forest floor.

He stepped closer, his presence a looming shadow that consumed the silence between them. He towered over her, her head just reaching his broad shoulders, but she stood firm, crossing her arms in a silent attempt to show she wouldn’t be intimidated. His long fingers, adorned with silver rings, brushed the edge of her sleeve, the touch so light it almost felt unreal—yet it was enough to catch her breath.

His gaze, sharp and searching, roamed over her as the sunlight pierced through the leaves, turning her pale hair into threads of spun gold. His eyes lingered on the beauty mark beneath her eye, where her dark brows stood in striking contrast against her fair skin, and then settled on her eyes—deep green, like the heart of an untouched forest after the rain, harboring secrets she hadn't yet revealed.

She was a creature of contrasts—fragile and fierce, light and shadow intertwined. She looked like something otherworldly, a Saint made flesh.

And though he knew he should resist, the pull was irresistible—magnetic, a force beyond defiance. It ensnared him, hypnotic and inescapable.

Foolish boy, his mother’s voice echoed in his mind, but he silenced it. Her beauty—the gentle curve of her high cheekbones and the way the sunlight danced around her—made her seem untouchable. The lavender scent that clung to her was both intoxicating and haunting, lingering in his senses. Yet, there she stood before him, flesh and blood. Real.

"What do I want?" he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. His eyes drifted lower, tracing the scattered beauty marks along her neck before his hand rose to her chest, gently clasping the pendant that hung there. The sun-shaped charm caught the light, and his rough fingers moved over it with surprising tenderness, as though it held some profound significance.

"I want to change this world, Sunniva," he said, his tone tightening with fierce determination. "I want to tear it apart and rebuild it. I want to make Ravka safe for us—for the Grisha. To end its endless wars, to protect it from the chaos that constantly threatens to consume it. So no one ever has to suffer like we have."

She met his gaze, her heart hammering. "We?"

For a moment, something flickered in his grey eyes—something almost vulnerable, but just as quickly, it vanished. He stepped back, the distance between them sharp and sudden.

"I've lived too long to believe in naive dreams," he said quietly, his voice colder now, the warmth from moments before slipping away. "But you—you're still searching for hope in a world that has none."

Sunniva clenched her fists, holding herself back from moving closer. "Maybe hope is all some of us have left." Her Fjerdan accent, still softly woven through her voice, was like a distant melody—one that resonated with him, haunting and beautiful, as if it carried the weight of an ancient song.

The general looked at her for a long time, something unreadable passing over his features. Then, without another word, he turned back toward his horse, leaving her standing in the stillness of the forest, the tension between them thick enough to drown in.

Sunniva watched him mount again, her heart in her throat, pulse racing, but she couldn't leave the conversation unfinished. Not now.

She stepped forward, her voice more sure than she felt. "You didn't answer me! What should I call you? You have a name, don't you?"

The Darkling, still mounted, turned his head slightly. His eyes flicked back to her, the shadows around him seeming to deepen. "Names are for those who seek to be known."

"And you?" she challenged, her gaze steady. "You prefer to remain a mystery?"

A ghost of a smile played at the corners of his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps you're not ready for the answer."

Sunniva's jaw tightened. She was tired of his evasiveness, of the way he danced around everything while making her feel like she was always one step behind. Stepping boldly closer, she crossed her arms and lifted her chin in defiance. "Try me," she challenged, then added, "or should I keep calling you Wrönche?"

For a long moment, he said nothing, simply watching her with that intense gaze of his, as though weighing her very soul. The silence stretched on, charged with the tension that had been building between them from the moment they'd first met.

Then, finally, he dismounted once more, the air between them crackling as he closed the space.

"I was born Aleksander," he said softly, the name slipping from his lips as if it were a secret long buried. His eyes locked onto hers, dark and unreadable. "But that name belongs to a boy who died long ago."

Sunniva's breath caught.

Aleksander.

It sounded so... human, so unlike the shadow he had become. She had expected something else, something distant, something cold. But this—this was a piece of him that felt real.

"Aleksander," she whispered, almost testing the name on her tongue. It felt intimate, strange. "Is that why you hide behind the Darkling? To bury that part of yourself?"

His expression hardened immediately, the softness vanishing in an instant. He stepped closer, his towering presence making the air feel thin. "Do not presume to know me," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I am not someone you can save with a name."

Sunniva stood her ground, though her heart pounded against her ribs. "Maybe not. But I think you're someone who wants to be saved, whether you admit it or not."

The Darkling’s chuckle was low and dark. “Saved, she says,” he muttered, as if the very idea amused him. His gaze flickered over her, assessing. “What makes you think I need saving?”

Sunniva didn’t flinch. “Because no one chooses to live in shadow unless they’re trying to escape something.”

His smirk faded slightly, his jaw tensing. “You know nothing of what I’ve endured.”

“Maybe not,” she admitted, her voice soft but unyielding. “But I see the way you carry it—like a weight you refuse to set down.”

His eyes darkened, the forest seemed to dim with them. “You speak of things you don’t understand.”

“I understand more than you think.” She stepped forward, daring to close the distance between them. “You think power will fill the emptiness, that control will erase the pain. But it won’t. You can’t outrun it.”

His jaw clenched, and for a split second, she thought she saw something raw flicker across his face—anger, perhaps, or pain. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

He leaned in, so close she could feel the chill radiating from him. "Hope is a weakness, Sunniva," he whispered, his voice like a dark wind curling around her. "It makes you soft, it blinds you to the reality of this world. You think you can change me? I've outlived hope."

"Maybe you have. But I haven't." Her throat tightened, but she refused to look away. "You're a pessimist—"

"No, realist." Aleksander's eyes bore into hers, the tension between them so thick it was suffocating. He was so close now, his breath brushing against her cheek, the scent of earth and something ancient lingering in the air. For a moment, she wasn't sure if he would push her away or pull her closer.

"Realist?" she scoffed, her voice trembling with defiance. "You've given up hope. That’s not realism, that’s surrender."

Aleksander's jaw tightened, his eyes darkening as he stepped closer, the air between them crackling. "Hope?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Hope doesn’t win wars. Hope doesn’t keep our people safe. Power does."

She lifted her chin, refusing to back down. "And what about peace? What about all of this—" she gestured to the world around them— "Is this your idea of protection? Of safety?"

"I already told you Sunniva. I want to make Ravka safe for us. For Grisha," he said, his voice lowering, thick with frustration and something deeper, almost pleading. "I want to end Ravka’s endless wars, stop the bloodshed, and protect it—protect us—from those who would destroy us."

"And at what cost, Aleksander?" Sunniva's voice softened, the fight slowly draining from her. "How far are you willing to go?"

His gaze flickered with something unreadable, his face hardening into resolve. "As far as I have to."

The weight of his words hung between them, thick and unyielding, as if they had pushed a wall between them. Sunniva could feel the gravity of his conviction, the depth of his determination, and it chilled her to the bone. He wasn’t the type to back down—not when he believed so completely in what he was fighting for.

Then, just as quickly, he stepped back, the tension releasing like a snapped thread. Aleksander turned his face away, looking toward the trees, shadows playing across his sharp features. His voice, when it came again, was quieter, almost resigned. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"I'm not afraid of you," Sunniva said, though the words felt like a dare.

His dark eyes slid back to hers, his expression unreadable. "You should be."

Sunniva’s frustration boiled over, her voice trembling with barely controlled anger. “I don’t even know why I care,” she spat, her voice tight. "This isn’t my land. Not my country. Not my people." She took a step toward him, her hands shaking. "But your soldiers—they came through my village. They took my brother, took others… and what for? They destroyed everything. My family, my home, my life—shattered, because of your people."

Aleksander’s gaze hardened. “Your brother was drüskelle, Sunniva. A killer of Grisha. He hunted us—”

“You can justify my brother. Fine. He fought in your war. He made his choices.” She cut him off, her voice rising, raw. “But what about my sisters? My parents? They weren’t part of your war! They weren’t drüskelle. They weren’t hunters. They were just… they were just living their lives, Aleksander! And now they’re gone, all of them, because your men—your war—came to our doorstep and swallowed them whole!”

He opened his mouth, but her words were relentless, spilling out faster than he could respond.

“My parents didn’t even know what a Grisha was! My sisters? They were just children. They didn’t care about the war, they didn’t care about your power, or the politics that go with it. But you sent your soldiers, and now they're gone. I’ve lost everything, and you expect me to stand by your people? Your country ? To trust you?”

Aleksander’s eyes flickered with something unreadable before he regained his composure, his voice low and fierce. "I didn’t order their deaths, Sunniva. I ordered the capture of the drüskelle. Your brother was one of them. Do you understand that? They hunted my—our people. They hunted me.”

“And what about the rest?” she demanded, her voice cracking. “What about my sisters? My parents? You may not have ordered their deaths, but they died all the same. Your war—your quest—it stole them from me."

“And what about the Grisha who died before your family? Your village? The centuries of torture and persecution?” Aleksander’s voice was tight with fury, his jaw clenched so hard it seemed his teeth might shatter. He was seething, each word a flame, burning through the cold between them.

Sunniva stayed silent, unable to find an answer, her throat tightening around the emotions she could no longer voice.

He stepped closer, the barely contained rage in his eyes flickering with something else—something deeper. “I didn’t choose this war, Sunniva. The drüskelle choose it the moment they came for us. I am trying to build a world where no more innocents—Grisha or otherwise—have to live in fear. Where your family, your sisters, would still be safe.”

Sunniva let out a bitter, broken laugh, shaking her head. "Safe? You think you're building a world where people like my family would be safe? No. You're just replacing one kind of fear with another. You’re trying to control everything. Maybe you think it's for some greater good, but all you're doing is leaving more destruction in your wake.”

His gaze turned cold, resolute. “I’m doing what I must. For Ravka. For the Grisha. Whatever the cost is.”

She stared at him, tears burning in her eyes, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re destroying lives in the name of saving them.”

For a moment, something flickered in his expression—regret, or perhaps the weight of his own choices—but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. His voice was steely again. “If I don't, who will? The Grisha have been hunted for centuries. You think peace will come without a price?”

He swung back onto his horse, the leather creaking beneath him, but the tension was unmistakable—his jaw clenched tightly as before. Running a hand through his thick, dark hair, he ruffled it absentmindedly, the cold distance between them quickly returning as he resumed the mantle of leader.

Sunniva's chest tightened, her heart racing in her throat. “But what if it’s too late for all of us?” She pressed on, “What do you plan to do?”

The silence felt suffocating, the questions lingering in the air pressing down on her as she wrestled with the enormity of their situation.

His gaze shifted to the horizon, where dark clouds gathered ominously, casting a shadow over the landscape. “What needs to be done,” he declared, his tone firm yet lacking warmth.

Frustration bubbled within Sunniva, and she huffed in annoyance, angrily brushing the tears from her cheeks.

When he turned to her, the coldness in his expression was as stark as ever, and in that moment, she recognized the depths of his burden—the weight of loss and horror etched into every line of his face.

But before she could organize her thoughts or find the right words, Aleksander’s sharp retort cut through the air like a blade. He glanced back at her, his face set in a cold, unyielding mask, making it clear that he had no intention of softening his stance.

"You think I don’t understand loss? I’ve watched my people slaughtered for centuries. You’ve lost, yes. But so have I. So have most of us. Don’t you dare lecture me on the cost of war."

Sunniva’s breath hitched, her voice cracking with fury and grief. "You think your loss gives you the right to take everything from everyone else? You think that justifies all of this? You think it makes you different from the ones you claim to be fighting?"

His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. "I’m not like them. I’m saving my people, my country."

Her laugh was bitter, hollow. "At what cost, Aleksander? You’re not saving anyone. You’re just creating more graves."

His eyes flashed, but instead of responding, he turned his face toward the trees, his voice icy, a final warning. "Again Sunniva, you don’t know what you’re asking for. And you don’t understand the burden I carry."

She took a step back, her voice trembling with finality. “Maybe I don’t. But I won’t carry it with you.”

For a long moment, he said nothing, his back to her, his grip tightening on the reins. When he finally spoke, his voice was sharp and cold, cutting through the air like frost. “Then don’t.” He spurred his horse forward, his words hitting like a lash. “Spare us both the trouble.”

She flinched at the harshness in his tone, but he didn’t look back.

Sunniva stared after him, her heart heavy. She was angry at him. At herself. At everyone.

The weight of it all pressed against her chest, suffocating, relentless. Maybe he was right, and that was what hurt the most. Each breath felt like a battle against a truth she didn’t want to accept, a truth that gnawed at her insides and wouldn’t let go.

Neither uttered another word as they rode through the forest, the silence colder than Ravka's harshest winds.

Yet, Sunniva couldn’t shake the sense that the battle wasn’t over.

She had seen Aleksander—just for a fleeting moment—beneath the darkness, beneath the icy armor of power and fear.

And now, she couldn’t let him slip away.

I didn’t know how to end it … and like I said, this is just a snippet :) I’m probably going to change/cut things later

Børealis : references the Aurora Borealis (Northern Lights), a natural light display in the Earth’s sky, often seen in high-latitude regions.

Wrönche : Darkling (a term used by the Fjerdans/Drüskelle during the forest scene in the first episode)

#the darkling #aleksander morozova #the darkling x reader #aleksander morozova x reader #the darkling x OC #the grisha series #grishaverse #Grisha #pro darkling #darkling #general kirigan #sab #shadow and bone #shadow and bone trilogy #shadow and bone netflix

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