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How long had it been since those early days? He had been an innocent, hopeful, naive little boy once, long ago. Or had he? Memories seemed to become a bit blurry after existing for so long… (he wasn't sure "living" was quite what he did). So many years living in isolation, running away in fear, never settling down, never getting attached to anything or anyone. This had been his constant reality from day one, unwavering. The only certainty that little boy had was fear. With time, he was given another one: there was no one in this world he could trust but himself. He remembers the fights, certainly. How he had tried, time and time again, to prove her wrong, how strongly he wanted to be normal so he could play with the other kids. He had learned his lesson quite well, despite his best efforts, and so he had stopped questioning her teachings. And she was far from gentle, far from loving. It hardly mattered now. She had been right all along, and because of her he had grown capable not only of protecting himself, but also of fighting for others like him. In a way, he was grateful to her. Where would he be now had she not molded him this way, this merciless, fearsome beast? Would he have survived all these years, these decades, these centuries? Would he have been able to create and fight for a safe haven so that his kind would rise to its full might? Probably not. However dark the path was to get here, she had been as responsible for it as he was. There was plenty of blood on her hands too.
He had spent more time than he would like to acknowledge trying to figure out the motives of her betrayal. Her, the woman who had taught him everything he knew, who had raised him to trust no one, to love no one. As he had been a very apt student, he understood that he did not love her. So how could her actions affect him so? He had outgrown that naive little boy far too long ago, he was way past yearning for her approval and a pat on the head. None of this made sense and he was furious. He hated her, and yet he was thankful. There had been a time when they had nothing but each other, not even a roof over their heads, not a blanket to shield them from the cold nights, not a piece of bread to sate their empty stomachs.
The Darkling had come to be as a beacon of hope for grisha, hope of a better, safer future. Yet he knew his actions were also driven by outrage, anguish and disgust at everyone who had put them in that position. All the bigot villagers they had to evade, never staying too long at one place, unable to build a life, to find any sort of comfort in this world. This was their fault too. The Fold was their fault, too.
He hadn’t been ruthless for revenge. He had made himself as much so that he would never have to starve, be homeless, run away or bow down to anyone ever again. And neither would his mother. Who died believing he was a monster. Good. She had raised him well.