[penance fic] cw: burning, persecution,

[unsainted]

Aleksander has lost track of how many times in his centuries that he has witnessed the very sight unfolding before him now. Grisha burning. People blaming Grisha for all the wrong that has gone on around them, for being sinful and horrible, for being demons, for existing with abilities they are granted without choice in it.

He has smelled their charred flesh. He has heard their screaming. He has attempted to save as many as he could from the Fjerdans who religiously burn each and every last one of them, put them on trials that are not in fact trials at all. But executions.

For centuries, he has not been able to change this, to change the fate of his people, to turn the tides against the relentless suffering Grisha have gone through. The Little Palace is not enough. Wielding shadows, wielding what power he can has never been enough.

That is not even beginning to speak of the horrors Ravka itself has done to Grisha, not speaking of what the Shu have done to Grisha as well, but fire- fire he is so well accustomed to, so sick at the sight of. He is centuries old, and he has had all this time to school his reactions carefully, to put on the mask he wishes no one else can see beyond. He has many masks. He knows how to utilize them- In this moment, he cannot wear a single one.

They shatter in the full weight of generational trauma weighing down on his very bones.

The demons take the witch. The people blame her- this witch. They bring her to the pyre, and he seeks for a safe way to free her without drawing too much attention. He has made his deal with Alina. They have to return to their own world whatever that means, and it means he cannot take risks- But then the witch is burning, screaming- the scorch of her flesh in the air.

And he reacts, lashing out with his shadows, performing the cut, slicing many in half, getting to her, freeing her briefly- one moment. She does not wish to be freed at least not in this way, but they have his arms before he can end it quickly for her, before he can grant her peace if he cannot give her the safety she wishes for.

There is no stopping what is to come next. They make him watch. With his hands apart, he is unable to use his shadows, and he cannot even reach for the merzost he desperately attempts to in this moment: fear and anger. They've clamped a dirty rag into his mouth, and he is rendered useless- as useless as he felt when he was a child, afraid of the very darkness he could control, useless as he felt as he watched Luda murdered in front of him despite his pleading and his attempts at peace, as useless as he has felt before he carved out a position of power for himself again and again.


For the crime of attempting to stop persecution, attempting to protect an innocent witch from those who would persecute her, he is imprisoned. His powers rendered useless, his hands broken-



It turns out Hell is no different than the world he has come from, than the centuries he has experienced. And he is so tired of pretending.