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sxnktaalxna · 4 months

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Threads - Chapter 3

Azriel x Acheron Sister

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

As a child, (Y/N) had always been gifted with the needle. As young as she was, her nimble fingers could thread fabrics and string as though it were dancing across a silky stage. She supposed it was a blessing as time went on, and coin grew low. Coats with holes and thinning linings were given second lives. Curtains and old table cloths were stitched together forming misshapen blankets, too itchy socks and new pants that Nesta complained were unladylike to wear (but she wore anyway - how could she deny her youngest sister's efforts?). Those pants still stayed hidden in depths of Nesta's dresses.

Now this needle, growing blunt and losing its shine, found a home in her sister's skin. Dancing and weaving through a tapestry of an ocean of scars. (Y/N) always kept her spool of string in the back of the closet for emergencies - Elain's ripped sleeve, Nesta's too long hem, her father's fraying shirt, and Feyre's broken skin.

Feyre kept a straight face during those nights when stitches was needed, but (Y/N) only needed to peek from the corner of her eye to see the smallest wince each prick gave her. She knew Feyre had been through worse, but she did her best help her older sister as best as she could. It was the least she could do. So gentle notes of childhood lullabies began to spill from her lips. Nights filled with bloody threads and folk songs began to fill the house that once was drained of love and light.

(Y/N) would often ask what happened when Feyre would come home with a new cut or bruise. And each time, Feyre would dismiss it with a wave of her hand. Her younger sister was still a child, freshly 18 and still curious of the world. And yet, she had been robbed of the childhood and youth that Nesta, Elain and to some extent Feyre had. The night of her mother's death, when Feyre had curled herself into the dark corner of her bedroom, tears on her cheeks and a promise held to her heart, her baby sister crawled in next to her. As silent as a mouse, she said nothing as she cradled her older sister in that dark corner. (Y/N) had always been that way - too old for her age. She supposed that's what happens when the world leaves you to die. That's why Feyre kept her pains to herself - to spare her younger sister, give her a small relief that she never had. Protect her as best she could, while she still had her innocence.

But standing there, watching her beloved sisters fight for their lives, she felt lost. Helpless. Her heart wrenched at them, nightgowns dirtied and torn. No matter how much she fought, she remained defenceless as her sisters cries and shrieks echoed the battle.

(Y/N) could barely understand what was happening. Awoken and attacked in the night, in the safety of their home. Dragged and torn through the dirt as they fought their captors. Continuing to fight against the inhuman strength that held them hostage. And now, watching her fate bubble and boil in a cauldron. She could only cry as she watched Feyre fight so far from them. Could only watch as Cassian's wings were shredded apart and Azriel laid in a bed of crimson. Could only watch as Elain and Nesta fought against their fate, only to come out changed. Could only watch as it was her turn.

She could feel the ache in her bones as she fought against the guards dragging her towards the bubble surface of the cauldron. Her heart pounded like thunder in her ears. She dug her bare ankles into the floor, trying to stall as best as she could. She could only do so much before she was pushed in.

This must be what death felt like. To feel it flood ur senses, surround you and drag you under its cruel fingers into a dark abyss. To feel it flood your throat and tear the air out of your lungs in a fiery rage. The burn ran through each nerve of her body - she felt in behind her eyes, in her fingertips, within the bones of her frame.

The light blinded her as she tumbled out of the cauldron. What felt like hours was only a few seconds. The cold air sent icy pricks that stung her skin, leaving goosebumps. But none of that compared to what she felt under her grip. Her fingers clawed the wet soil, feeling as though a line had threaded itself between her fingers and to the very core of the earth. It anchored her so far down she thought she felt the quake of the world beneath her touch.

And she looked - she didn't just look, she saw. Saw gentle lines of threads dancing across each living being. They were so fragile and thin they were almost imperceptible- but they were there and they shone and glistened like glitter. A painting of golden webs danced across the wind - she imagined this must be the song of the wind Azriel had spoken of. And she felt a tug from one of the fragile threads in front of her - one that shone brighter and held stronger than the others. One that led to the man laying on his crimson deathbed.

-☆-

Even after months, the world had been too much. The colours had been much brighter, as if the Fae world was ripped from Feyre's paintings. The lullabies that floated in the wind carried by songbirds rang in her ears no matter where she was. Even when she locked out the doors, closed the windows, kept the curtains down. The world she had always dreamed of seeing, and she had been forced to see it everywhere. She couldn't escape it.

And those golden threads that seemed to weave the world to her fingertips... She could feel the urge to tug at those threads, to pull back against the own pulling of the Mother. And yet each time she reached out and held own, her fingers never seemed to hold steady.

She hadn't seen her sister's in a while. Nesta was often gone, and the only clues of her existence lingered in the tussled room next to hers. Elain had been just as bad, possibly worse. Locked in her room, Elain spent most of her days staring out the window, her lips remaining sealed from the world.

Feyre had tried. For (Y/N) especially, she had tried to coax them outside and to experience Velaris properly. There were good days, like when Elain and (Y/N) were sat by the window, hands held tightly - but most days were spent with the Acheron sisters out of sight, locked away and silent. During those days, Feyre would sometimes wish she were back in their cabin in the woods. Nesta and Elain staying inside, hogging the blankets. Their father carving creatures from woods. (Y/N) as fresh as the first winter snow, axe in hand and firewood in a circle around her. Huddled around a small fire in the cold nights, hungry but free.

And now they had been damned into an existence unwanted, cursed - and what good was a cursebreaker if her sisters remained crushed under this living burden?

She could hear shuffling behind the door, quiet yet frantic. Moments later, the door gave way to her baby sister. Nesta had been devastatingly beautiful, her features sharpened like a blade on grindstone. The moment she had come out the cauldron, power had emanated from her pores like waves of heat from an everlasting flame. Elain had come out like the personification of spring, bright and rosy and glowing, yet blank and shivering like a baby deer. (Y/N) came out...different.

Nesta had come out with power, but (Y/N) came out with purpose. Feyre remembered watching (Y/N)'s eyes dart around the air, as if staring at flying bugs that no other eye could see. For days, weeks, (Y/N) stared out into nothing, eyes darting and following the air. One night during their early days as Fae, Feyre caught her sister reaching out towards the stars, fingers reaching to hold onto something. That night had ended with (Y/N) in tears, weakly clawing at the air. No longer did her sister yearn for the unknown, no longer did she smile at the curious or giggle at the strange.

'Hello little butterfly,' Feyre grinned. Often (Y/N) would not answer, staying silent behind the door. Today was a lucky day it seemed.

'Hello,' (Y/N) nodded, her fingers tightly around the door edge. They were slender, thin, no longer covered in small red dots. Feyre's smile dropped slightly, but she quickly recovered.

'May I come in?'

(Y/N) sidestepped away from the door and back to the chair in the corner of the room. Today must be a very good day then. Feyre stepped in, closing the door and pushing away the last bit of artificial light from the room. (Y/N)'s room had been in perpetual darkness since her change. The only source of light was the small set of candles on her table gifted to her by Rhysand - 'So you don't prick your finger when you sew,' he'd said. Her sewing kit laid untouched on her shelf.

'Please don't ask me if I'm ok,' (Y/N) sighed once Feyre sat down on her bed. 'You know I'm not.'

'You won't get used to your new senses if you keep yourself locked away. Maybe if we opened a window-'

'It's not that, and you know it,' (Y/N) snapped. Her fingers gripped the wooden handles of her chair, nails digging in. 'I know you were there.'

'We were all there-'

'Not my changing.' (Y/N)'s eyes snapped up to Feyre's. Feyre almost flinched at the severity behind them. 'That night. You were there. I felt you - your thread.'

'My thread?'

'I felt it tugging that night. It only feels like that when someone is close by,' (Y/N) frowned. It looked like more words wanted to spill, but she kept her mouth shut.

'I've...' Feyre trailed off, confused. 'I've never heard of threads. Are you sure-'

'I'm not going insane,' (Y/N) cried, pushing her palms into her eyes. Feyre felt her heart shatter.

Reaching out, she took her sister's trembling hands, holding them steady in hers. 'You are not insane. There is nothing wrong with you.'

Feyre's hands reached up, cupping (Y/N)'s cheeks. 'You are just as you've always been. My dear little sister. My little butterfly.'

(Y/N) inhaled, closing her eyes. She felt her sister's fingers glide across her cheeks, tucking her hair behind her ears. For once, she could feel the golden strings. They gently grazed her cheeks, as warm and as soft as she could ever imagine. She could feel them connected to her being, connected to the love of her sister. They danced around her heart, tugging at her heart.

'I'm hoping to start a sewing workshop sometime in my art studio,' Feyre said, her hands holding (Y/N)'s hands in her lap. 'And I was hoping, you'd help me run it.'

(Y/N)'s breath hitched at the thought of leaving the house so soon, but Feyre gently squeezed her hands. Those threads made their presence known once more. (Y/N) could feel them tracing the outlines of their conjoined hands, a small tickle that ran along her skin. She wondered if Feyre could feel it too.

'Only when your ready,' Feyre said, 'We'll wait as long as you need.'

(Y/N) nodded, unsure of what to say. Or think. She felt a different tug at her heart - a stronger one. One that was familiar and warm in a way that brought her comfort. A small puff of air blew through her room, causing a small flicker of candles.

'I know,' Feyre said, seeing (Y/N)'s lips starting to slowly upturn. 'You have guests. No wonder you're in a good mood.'

'I'm not sure what you mean,' (Y/N) huffed, brushing her skirt down nervously.

Small shadows flowed from the underside of her door, immediately finding a place around her. They wrapped around her arms, like a gentle welcoming embrace, as if to say 'I missed you.'

Feyre stood up, chuckling at their puppy-like behaviour. 'I'll leave you two alone.'

Opening the door, she laughed and left down the hall. She stood up as the man she was excited to see walked in. And she too, almost giggled at his sight. His usual dark armour had been foregone, only in his undershirt he normally wore underneath his armour. His daggers had also been left behind. But what amused her was the abnormally bright bouquet of various flowers in his hands, slightly obscuring his face.

He coughed at her amused gaze, bowing his head slightly, 'Cerridwen and Nuala said you loved flowers, and I was passing by and figured I'd pick some up.'

'Thank you,' She said, gently picking the flowers out of his grips. Her fingers grazed his, a bright tingle running up her arm. The thread began pulsing, beating like a drum in the back of her mind. It had become a regular visitor alongside Azriel. At first it hurt, feeling like angry waves roaring at sea. But now, they felt like cooling waves meeting the shore. She had to crane her neck around the bouquet to see him, 'I'm not sure where I'll put these, but I'm sure I'll find a place.'

Gently she placed them on her bed. Azriel would never arrive back from a mission without a gift for (Y/N). Her shelves began to overflow with trinkets from all over. From flowers to small carvings, they lined her barren shelves, brining life to the otherwise empty room. Her personal favourite sat on her bedside - a music box. The very first gift actually, now that she recalled. She kept it close to her bed, and during nights where she found it particularly hard to fall asleep, the gentle tones of an unknown lullaby would guide her to her rest.

'Have you had dinner?'

'I'm not that hungry,' (Y/N) shrugged. 'Maybe later.'

Azriel frowned, but continued on. 'The florist told me the flowers would last longer in sunlight. There's a spot by the window sill you could put them.'

(Y/N) stilled for a moment, fiddling with the stem of one of the roses on her bed. She could tell what he was trying to do. He'd always tried, always with a different excuse. She felt disappointed in herself. Each time he came, she felt herself reach for the curtains, only to be too scared to go any further.

The shadow she'd made friends with curled down her fingers, pulling a tug at her lips. 'You must not be treating your shadows well if they prefer my company.'

'They have a weakness for beautiful women is all.'

(Y/N)'s nose wrinkled at his expression, 'No wonder they hate you then.'

Azriel laughed, 'Am I not beautiful at least?'

(Y/N) could feel her ears turn red at his question, her heart skipping a beat. 'And I thought Rhysand was the one with an ego.'

'I'll bring you dinner soon,' Azriel said. 'And I won't take no for an answers. My shadows will make sure you eat.'

'One day I'm going to steal your shadows from you,' (Y/N) said, toying with the shadow around her arm.

Azriel smiled. As the Spymaster of the court, he knew people better than most. He knew how to get into their heads, how to unlock secrets and force those to do his bidding. He also knew that being a spymaster took patience and time. And he would spare all his time for (Y/N).

'Your sleeve,' (Y/N)'s eyes caught the rip in his shirt. The seam had broken open long ago, and had began unravelling over time. It had reach his forearm now, exposing his wrist. (Y/N) reached over, turning his arm over to look at the seam. 'It's going to get worse if you don't get it fixed.'

'I don't suppose you know someone who could help, do you?'

'Haha,' (Y/N) sneered sarcastically, her fingers running along the sleeve. She went silent for a moment, her eyes blank. Azriel waited. He could see her thoughts churning in her mind, and gave her time to figure out which one to articulate it. The one she chose caught him off guard. 'Leave it with me.'

-☆-

It was past midnight now. Feyre had crawled out of bed, creeping towards the kitchen for a late night snack. It would've taken her a few minutes if she hadn't noticed something strange.

A small light stretched out from a certain door down the hall. Shadows flickered across the light. Someone was still up. The closer she got to the door, she began to hear the sound of a music box. The tune it played was a familiar one - an old illyrian lullaby Rhysand and Cassian had belted one drunken night.

As quietly as she could, she cracked the door gently open. She thanked Mother the door didn't creak as she peered inside. (Y/N)'s back was to her, humming along to the lullaby. Rhysand's candle set was lit, illumianting the room once more. Her hands gracefully moved through the air, in movements that Feyre had long since memorised on nights like this. And in her lap sat a familiar black shirt she had seen many times before.

-☆-

'You finally got your shirt fixed then,' Rhysand said, seeing the fixed sleeve.

'It was minor.' Azriel replied, fixing his armour properly.

Rhysand chuckled, 'I like the flowers.'

The armour covered most Azriel's upper body. But at certain angles, a small gift would make itself known. Along the seam of his sleeve ran a small green vine that twisted and brought together the two halves. At the very end of the stitch lay a small bouquet of embroidered flowers.

-☆-

Hello! Thank you so much for waiting! I might honestly come back and add more to the ending of this chapter but I don't really have the time or any ideas right now. But I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

Also thank you so much for all the support on this series. I wasn't expecting so many people to be invested and it honestly makes me a little nervous lolol. Anyways, I'm a bit busy lately with my uni enrolment and apartment hunting, but a new chapter will be up as soon as I can write. Thank you again everyone!

Taglist:

@wallacewillow0773638 @impossibelle @utterlyotterlyx @weasleyreidstyles @justdreamstars @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @fussel9913 @willowpains @eatsleepreadance1 @blueeclipsepaperstudent @pee-stachio @zara-aliza08 @woodland-mist @cherryinsalemverse @minnieoo @why4anne @brujitafantomatico @judig92 @robinbaum143 @esposadomd @sleepylunarwolf @darling006 @jesssicapaniagua @fxckmiup @nickishadow139 @hanitastic @scatteredstardustt @thisblogisaboutabook @bookaddictedgirlie @kindasleepywriter @hnyclover @sstrohma @dianxiaxiexie @azzydaddy @namelesssav @microwaveallthedemons @twsssmlmaa

#acotar x reader #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #azriel x reader #acheron

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finisnihil · 16 days

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I'm thinking about Sunday again and how we're shown that Robin is his weak spot over and over and really he probably wouldn't have slipped up if not for the people trying to exploit her death.

In 2.0 we see them hanging out together and the like but we don't see them interact much, Robin very obviously cares for Sunday but Sunday maintains a quiet atmosphere and professional facade and as such one could wonder how much he actually cares about her as his sister.

But then at the end of the quest we see the cracks start to show a bit. Sparkle pretends to be Robin and Sunday becomes enraged. Until then he's pretty subdued in his behavior in the aftermath, but the mockery of his sister's death is too great a slight and when Sparkle offers to pretend to be Robin so nobody gets suspicious, Sunday tells her to stuff it and go away which she does. It's a really telling scene that when Robin is involved his careful mask cracks down the middle and he begins to not think clearly or strategically because later in 2.1 it's noted he went back to accept the offer.

Aventurine notes that Robin's death is an entry point for the IPC to exploit but not for the overall Family, just for Sunday. Sunday is reeling to find control with the other heads pressuring him and the IPC closing in like a pack of hungry vultures. Sunday was always alone except for Robin and they're both pretty aware of the corruption as Sunday is desperately trying to root out the traitor while Robin left and is helping him research Death. Aventurine knows this and he knows Sunday is off balance and prone to overlooking things in his rage and grief that's potent in everything he does after 2.0's quest. Sunday went to Ratio for informatiom because he understands Aventurine's a threat needing to be taken seriously and he needs to handle him quickly and efficiently and that makes him sloppy enough to get duped by the Jade cornerstone.

When Welt and Acheron investigate his office they find all the letters and lists and investigations into the problem but they also find a beloved lightcone of a young Sunday watching his sister preform on a toy stage. Robin is noted as finding this preformance her favorite and most cherished one. Is Sunday clapping to applaud her or is he keeping time for her? Sunday keeps things running himself so she can free to persue her dreams. He does care about Robin, they really only have each other.

Finally... Gallagher. You really see the persona Sunday puts on finally shatter all at once. This is the man who murdered his sister and who's caused him so much trouble and stress. Nobody's around to fool, nobody's around to witness, and you finally see all his pent up rage and grief spill out. That's his mistake, he's so distracted letting out his bottled up feelings Gallagher's able to get him before he can even react.

Small side analysis, Robin's name and signature song come from the Emily Dickinson poem of the same name. She's an American Poet who mostly wrote works of Romanticism and Transcendentalism. We haven't see much of Robin but she seems to match Romantacism, a literary movement that focused on emotion and individualism with no regard for logic. Sunday seems to match Transcendentalism, a literary movement that focused on the relationship between humanity, the divine, and nature with little regard for science. The three aspects of Transcendentalism also match Xipe's motif of threes, like their three heads.

#honkai star rail #Finis Analyzes #sunday #robin #hsr robin #hsr sunday #I'm so sick of them (affectionate)#Do I make any sense #Probably not #I've been studying for an upcoming literature exam #The different movements are haunting me #Anyways Sunday is a wonderfully written antagonist

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chaotic-major · 3 months

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As someone who has just finished the Penacony quest, I would like to lay out my thoughts:

(Spoilers under the cut)

Aventurine is just the right amount of sassy and bitch to be likeable to me, and his continuous presence throughout the quest made me very happy. He’s easily one of the characters I am most excited to see more of story wise.

Jumping off of that, Sparkle was *chef’s kiss*. She was way better than I expected (not that I expected anything bad), and I love how she is everything I think makes a Masked Fool. She’s conniving, sharp witted, and smiley; making her interactions with other characters always feel very high stakes. The way I gasped when she said this to Aventurine, like I had to pause for a sec it caught me so off guard.

Here’s a list of people I trusted before/when the quest started (excluding the nameless):

Acheron, Black Swan, Misha, Firefly, Robin

People I trust after the quest:

Aventurine, Black Swan, Misha (Aventurine and Black Swan are on thin ice)

I think this questline is going to give me trust issues.

Also, the way Sunday absolutely deserves a villain arc after this. Like, HIS SISTER IS DEAD. AND HE JUST HAS TO KEEP PRETENDING SHE ISN’T??? DAMN.

Props to his VA for expressing such near boiling rage. He sounded so angry, yet controlled.

Something I also noticed and loved was the fact that this quest kinda played out like a movie. In the way that there were multiple scenes that took place without Caelus/Stelle being there. The scene with Aventurine and Dr. Ratio flirting discussing their plan. The scene with Sparkle and Aventurine. The scene with Sunday and Sparkle in the post quest. Last time they kinda did this was the Luofu main quest and even then, not really. There was always one of the nameless there (to my memory). Anyways, my point being that I really enjoy this version of storytelling for this game and I hope it continues.

Aventurine is also shaping up to be a very interesting guy. Just as people dislike Sparkle for being a Fool, they seem to dislike Aventurine and even seem to put him down bc of his species/race(?)

This is the only example I have, but I believe Sparkle also calls him out for his species/race in their conversation. I’m lead to wonder why being a Sigonian is such a negative thing. I think it has to do with his eyes, considering thats the only other thing I remember Sparkle mentioning when she brings up his species/race; is how pretty his eyes are.

Anyways,I’ve rambled enough. Curse you HoYo for that enthralling cliffhanger that we have to wait 40 DAYS for. Wish me luck for my Sparkle pulls in 20 days.

#honkai star rail #hsr aventurine #sparkle hsr #dr. ratio #hsr #firefly hsr #acheron #black swan

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jadegretz · 2 months

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Cammy's Fierce Pride by Jade Gretz

The crimson sun dipped towards the horizon, painting the cobblestone plaza of Acheron's Gate in hues of bruised flesh and simmering dread. Neon signs, warped by otherworldly glyphs, flickered promises of oblivion above taverns reeking of sulfur and brimstone. In this nexus of shadows, where reality frayed at the edges, stood Cammy White, her scarlet beret a defiant beacon against the encroaching twilight.

Whispers of an underground tournament, the Harbinger's Gauntlet, had lured her to this forsaken corner of the world. A chance to test her mettle against the galaxy's elite, they had promised, a crucible to forge legend anew. But the air, acrid with unseen things, hummed with a dissonance that prickled the Delta Red operative's instincts. This was no ordinary spectacle; it was a dance with madness, a waltz with the abyss.

As the obsidian moon bled onto the sky, the plaza pulsated with a spectral luminescence. From the swirling shadows coalesced the combatants – a grotesque menagerie of flesh and artifice. A cyclopean behemoth with skin like cracked granite rumbled a guttural challenge. A woman, her alabaster limbs woven from moonlight, flicked a razor-sharp bone dagger. Even the air writhed, taking the form of a sentient storm, its whispers promising oblivion in a thousand voices.

Cammy's senses, honed by years of Delta Red training, screamed of wrongness. These weren't mere fighters; they were echoes of nightmare, nightmares given flesh and fury by the malignant energies that seeped from the very stones of Acheron's Gate. Yet, fear was a luxury she couldn't afford. She was Cammy White, Queen Bee of Delta Red, and she wouldn't back down from a challenge, even one that reeked of cosmic pestilence.

The first clash was a symphony of the uncanny. The cyclopean brute swung a fist capable of crushing mountains, but Cammy, anticipating the blow with preternatural grace, danced past the impact, her Spiral Arrow finding its mark on the behemoth's obsidian eye. The creature roared, a sound that shattered eardrums and cracked cobblestones, but its rage only fueled Cammy's precision.

The alabaster …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

#cammy #cammywhite #streetfigther #capcom #gamer #gamerart #videogames #arcade #ai #aiart #digitalart #jadegretz #fantasyart #fanart #beautifulgirl #aiartwork #aiartcommunity

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hauntedwitch04 · 1 year

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I hate that I love you

Nyx Acheron x Eris’ daughter!Reader

Words: about 2.4k words

Warning: a bit of smut but more talking about sexy times

Author’s note: HI love! I had this idea about Nyx and I really wanted to write this down, hope you like it. I want to dedicate this to @b7717 , always so sweet with me and she helped me putting ideas down for this story. I took inspiration from “Boyfriend” of Dove Cameron.

p.s. I think I’ll post a second part of this, because I feel like it isn’t finished like this

Requests are open I Ask

My masterlist

Join the Taglist

Nyx playlist (yes I made a playlist about him, I'm crazy I know🙃)

You never liked dances, yet here you are, shining like the flame that burns in the deepest darkness and as powerful as the fire that burns whole cities.

A few weeks ago you received a letter where Lenox, the son of the High Lord of the Summer Court, invited you to his birthday party. You were very happy about this invitation, and even your father Eris could not help but be delighted and promise to accompany you to the party. You did not like the dances, however: too many people in a place too small to contain them, the music too loud and people shouting to be heard over the music and the general general commotion, in addition to the horrible discussions to be had with the various members of the Courts.

Another reason why you are not comfortable in this place is the presence of the son of the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court, Nyx, or rather the "pompous playboy who thinks he is better than everyone else."

When you were little you also got along very well, so much so that your father and Nyx had begun to be more civil to each other so that problems from the past would not interfere with their children; but as he grew up he became a snooty young man who thinks he is better than others and who believes that all girls fall at his feet with one word from him. Gradually you have begun to drift apart until you move on to insulting each other every time you see each other, in fact they generally try to keep you apart because they know you will end up beating each other up, and as you have shown several times you would win and kick the night prince's ass.

Back at the party, you finally managed to escape from the clutches of an obnoxious lady from the Spring Court. That woman had managed to send you into a rage with a few simple questions including why you didn't have a husband and children yet and whether you intended to take your father's place in the future, and when at the last you answered yes, she indignantly went on to explain that a woman should only think about her husband and children and not about ruling and power because that is the job of men. At those words you felt the fire of your family burning powerfully in your veins before you smiled and cursed her and left. Your father through it all was laughing at the scene in front of him, letting you do and say what you wanted knowing that you would manage perfectly well on your own without his help.

"Dad, I'm going to get something to drink. I'll be right back." You say looking at your father, he smiles and nods, so you head to the drinks table and drink a glass of wine. You're standing there deciding whether to get a second one that you hear the most obnoxious voice ever.

"Look who shows up here. How long has it been since we've seen each other Foxy?" Says Nyx flanking you as he too takes a glass of wine. You can't help but roll your eyes and pray he would leave quickly.

"Too little time. I was really hoping not to see you again, at least in this lifetime." You reply, trying to move away, but he, like the flies that buzz around just to annoy, stays glued to you.

"Oh come on Foxy, we both know you missed me." He whispers in your ear in a seductive tone.

"How I miss daggers stuck in my eyes." You exclaim sarcastically as you turn to look at him. You can't help but mentally beat yourself up for finding him so damn attractive. Nyx Acheron has always had an indescribable charm with his violet eyes and well-delineated facial features, and because of that he has always bragged believing he could get any woman he wanted and that has always bothered you a lot, but at the same time you can't help but notice his beauty.

"Do you like what you see honey?" He says with a grin, noticing the intensity of your gaze as you look at him. All you can do is shift your eyes, blushing slightly.

"More than anything, I was thinking about how to divide and hide the various parts of your body once I kill you, so that they can't find you." You answer before smiling at him. "Now if you don't mind, at your highness, I must go to my father, who will be looking for me." You continue with a mock smile on your lips and a half bow, before turning and going back the way you came.

"What took you so long?" Your father asks once you return to him.

"I met Nyx on the street and he obviously had to be an asshole." You answer a little too loudly, so much so that some people turn to look at you. Your father gives a cough and takes you a little further away from them.

"Try to restrain yourself a little my dear, you know how these nobles are, always looking for gossip." Your father continues in a low voice.

"Fuck decorum, that guy makes me mad every time." You say, as smoke seems to come out of your ears, and a hot flush rises all over your body. You think back to those damn purple eyes and curse yourself for wanting his hands on your body. Your father seems to read your mind.

"You know the line between love and hate is very thin, my dear, it often happens that we misunderstand which way we tend to fall." Says your father, smiling, as he hangs your face in his hands and places a kiss on your forehead. "Understand early which way you are going to fall, and let go without fear in case it is the one you don't expect. Fate may surprise you."

---------------------------------------------------------

You're bored out of your mind, and you can't help but let your gaze wander down the hall until you meet the eyes of the Prince of the Night, already fixed on you.

Instinctively you are reminded of your father's words, said just before, and you look away, confused by your feelings. First you thought it was sexual attraction, but what if there was more to it. As you think this and do not allow yourself to go any further, afraid of the response you might get. You see him out of the corner of your 'eye approaching you, but someone is faster than you.

"Would you do me the honor of this dance?" Asks the boy who had approached you without your noticing. He is none other than Calian, the son of the general of the Winter Court, who smiles at you and holds out his hand. You've known him all your life, too, and he's never been anything but kind and polite, as any boy should be, and you know that he's always had a soft spot for you, but you've never made it a point to let him feel that way.

Without answering, you smile back at him and take his hand, and together you go to the dance floor. You dance the whole song in silence, his hands resting on your hips with a light, gentle touch, but you feel that gesture is wrong, that his hands are not the ones you wish to be brushed against you. You feel someone's eyes glued on you, and between the twirls you glimpse that the eyes of the Sovereign of Dreams are resting on you, as an immense rage and power emanates from him like an expanding storm, ready to make lightning and thunderbolts at any moment. Once the dance is over you bow to Calian and feel a hand encircle your wrist, and all you can do is turn around. You see him in all his Nyx glory, with the stars of the night blazing in his gaze, gazing into yours that recall those of your Court. You do not realize that you have been staring at each other, saying nothing, until Calian gives a cough, and suddenly you both turn around. You see the young man laugh under his mustache, first leaving, not without first commenting.

"You better be careful Nyx, the girl has fire burning in her, you might get burned." He says chuckling, then adds. "I'll leave you to your looks. See you later my dear." He continues by kissing your hand. "Nyx."

The Prince of the Night does not respond, just makes a growl and then turns to you.

"May I have this dance?" He asks hastily, but you don't even have time to answer that he has already dragged you onto the dance floor. His hands rest gently on your hips, but his fingers cling to your dress as if they need to be certain that you are there with him. His arms and his warmth wrap around you and you feel the need to lean against his chest. Your and his eyes never stop looking at each other for a second, as if they were linked with an invisible chain. Your feet move on their own, and after what seems like an eternity, you stop dancing since the song is over, but your gaze does not fall.

"I...I need to talk to you." Says the serious boy, dragging you out of the room to a balcony overlooking a beautiful gulf. From here the party music is far away, and there doesn't seem to be a soul in sight.

"What do you have to tell me?" You ask pretending to be pissed off, so as not to give away that your body is betraying you. Every fiber, every cell in your body right now is screaming to get close to him and hold him to you, but you hold back.

"What's between you and Calion?" He asks in a tone as angry as thunder from the storm in the darkest night.

"What do you care bat? Even if I was going to marry him or take him to bed you don't have to care, it's my life and I decide what I want to do." You say in a harsh, authoritative tone as you look at him.

You get so close that your breaths become confused and before you can really understand what is happening your lips join in a passionate kiss. Your tongues entwine and try hard to overpower one another. Your hands immediately go to his hair, tugging lightly at it and making him moan with pleasure; while his hands go from holding your face to caressing your breasts and later to resting on your hips, pulling you closer to him. The kiss gradually becomes more passionate, until he brings you to have your back against the wall. His mouth moves on to torment your neck, leaving clear signs of his passage. For a long time you are silent, the only sounds are your repressed moans of pleasure so as not to give satisfaction to the other, until he lets out with a growl a phrase laden with jealousy.

"I can be a lover a thousand times better than any guy you've ever slept with princess, all you have to do is ask nicely. I'm sure I could do shit they never did, all night long, without giving up." He says whispering beside your ear, interrupting the talk with a few kisses. "What's more, I can be a gentleman, too. What do you have to lose?"

"Words, words, words. I need star facts before I can say whether a horse is thoroughbred or not dear." You comment, reciprocating with the same coin, leaving a bite at the base of his neck. You feel his muscles tense and a groan escapes his mouth.

"Sometimes I really hate that I love you know Foxy. You drive me so crazy that I don't know whether I'm about to fuck you so hard that even on the continent they will learn my name by hearing your moans, or keep myself from plugging you." He responds by stroking your face.

"Believe me, the feeling is reciprocated Starlet." You say with a grin.

Interrupting this moment is the voice of Nyx's cousin Hecate, a.k.a. the daughter of Nesta and General Cassian, and as much as she may be your friend, for a moment you curse her for interrupting you, leaving you wanting for this asshole.

"Nyx, where the fuck are you!" The girl asks aloud, stepping into the balcony. In the meantime we had split up, but it was obvious from the way we looked in our hair, clothes and various signs what we were doing. "Oh." The girl continues, looking at us with that obnoxious little smile. You give her the middle finger and the gesture makes Nyx laugh with gusto.

"What do you want Hec?" The boy asks, returning to why she is here.

"Uncle Rhys is looking for you, he certainly had no idea you were so busy." She comments.

"Okay, I think that's enough Hec." He stops her. "Go ahead, I'll follow you."

Hecate nods and leaves us alone for a moment.

"I have to go Foxy, but don't think this is the end of it, after all I am a man of my word." Says Nyx winking at me before walking away and following her cousin, not before leaving a kiss on my cheek.

You can't help but mentally slap yourself for falling into the playboy's mind, but then you remember your father's words and for a moment think about how true the line between love and hate is thin, and you really find yourself wondering if you hadn't misunderstood whose side you were on.

That boy is going to kill you, you are sure of it, as long as you are not the one to do it.

#nyx x reader #nyx archeron x reader #acotar x reader #imagine acotar #eris x reader

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shitty-mechs-headcannons · 8 months

Note

Both Ares and Dionysius are unaffiliated with Don Zeus these days. Ares is actually a political rival, he is less subtle than Zeus and Athena, instead, he tries to whip the populace into a frenzy, his rhetoric is pure rage who it is directed at depends on who he speaks with, and he worked with Poseidon industries to start the war with illium.

Dionysus actually started like Hercules, though that was not his intent. He had wanted to be a musician, but he was offered immortality, and he was going to damn well take it. His mission, to one of the most distant districts, failed, but he found something better, a cache of information, not connected to the Acheron. A cache which had DNA sequences for many forgotten plants. Grapes, Agave, Poppy, and many others. He saw a chance, and he took it. Demeter still hates him for what he did, but supposedly, everything he’s done is above board, and he filed the patents for his crops, after all, there is no proof that he uses them illicitly or that they are not his own work of genetic engineering.

that's really interesting!

-mod fen

#the mechanisms #shitty mechs hc #ulysses dies at dawn #udad #mod fen

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ellievickstar · 2 years

Text

Just Another Stereotype

Warnings: physical abuse, mentions of self harm, su!c!de, de@th, Swear words ( 13+ )

inspiration: Seasonal depression got to me

Ship: Inner circle x reader, Acheron!reader, Azriel x reader

So everyone knows the stereo type of how the youngest is the golden child, the child that can do no wrong, the favourite. But not my family, yes I was the youngest but when my mother died, things changed.

My sisters had things to do, so they were spared from my father’s wrath. And even when my dad was so rageful, he never did anything to my sisters. He loved Elain too much, Nesta was his heiress and Feyre kept us alive? But me? Twelve year old me who occasionally went with Feyre but was over all useless?

My father did things. And I remembered it all, the beatings, the pain, the terror. I never wanted to be alone but I could not tell my sisters. How could I? They all loved father and even though Feyre resented him, she loved her. And I cared, so I let it eat me alive. The words spoked, the physical pain. I was a girl, many would say they missed her. But I don’t, she was easier to use, and abuse, and she was, for very long.

I still remember it all.

“You brat! Why can’t you be more grateful? You can’t even help around the house!” The thunderous voice of my father rattled my senses as I burst into tears, I tried to shield myself but as my head met the wall I yelped in pain. It was too much, all too much. “You are a mistake, why can’t you be more like your sisters?” He hissed the pure anger in his eyes. The words from his poisoned mouth. I was dazed but the words echoed. Mistake, burden, useless. I was all that and more.

I was there the day we killed the wolf. I had gone out, afraid of father but I went with Feyre, claiming that I wanted to learn, to spend time with her. And when we went deep into those woods. She had taught me how to shoot the wolf, and she had sliced its throat. Granted it a painless death, even if she suspected that it was Fae.

I was taken away with her. She fell in love with the High Lord of the Spring Court but I did not buy it, not one bit. The act. I was seventeen years old when all that happened. I saw through the High Lord who wanted to coddle Feyre, take care of her, of me. I didn’t want that. I had been through enough that I did not want to be coddled, I wanted to fight. So instead of joining Feyre for her paintings, her walks, I taught myself skills. I trained with Lucien, bless him, and he taught me helpful skill sets. How to read, how to fight, how to remain calm in situations.

At the end I confided in him and we bonded over the fact that our fathers were pieces of shit. I was there the night Feyre was almost attacked by that group of scoundrels, I was ready to use what I had learnt to fight them off but then, “There you are, I’ve been looking for you,” That voice was like velvet midnight. The violet eyes of the stranger that was familiar yet not. The High Lord of the Night Court. Lucien had told me he was a prick but, he seemed more approachable compared to Tamlin and i trusted my instincts and did so, part of me knew that Rhysand was not all that bad I guess.

Of course, I was there to help Feyre fight off the Middenguard wyrm. I helped her read the riddle. I was there when Amarantha snapped her neck, end the stabbed me through my gut. I was brought back, but unlike Feyre, I was not given the power of the seven courts. No, I was focused on four courts. The seasonal courts. I could summon the Solar Court powers if I really tried but the Seasonal Courts came at ease, like a second conscience.

Unlike my sister, I didn’t crumble apart under the pressure of the Spring Court, I followed her to the Night Court but I mostly kept to myself, most of the time. Mor was too loud, obnoxious for me and she liked dressing up so much. Amren was terrifying and didn’t like anyone, Cassian was a general, Rhysand was busy and the shadow singer. When I was younger I used to talk the to the shadows when i was sad, I would sing and sometimes after a bad beating I would seek solitude in a corner filled with shadows, if only to see the shadows dance, it was comfort.

The shadow singer was that and more, he was quiet, nice to have around so most of my days I spent time in the library, thanks to Az who showed me. I often borrowed books because I enjoyed reading and sometimes I spent time with Az just in simple company. He helped to train me. And when I found out that I had been gifted the power to have wings, not from shapeshifting but something like Rhysand. He had been with me every step of the way.

Almost another year passed and I had turned eighteen. Feyre didn’t say anything since she was busy with her other plans so I had spent some time in the kitchen. I was alone, and when I opened a drawer. It was like it called to be, the knife. I felt so empty, m birthday being just another reminder that I was just as useless as anyone because of how young I was, how I burdened everyone. I almost did it. I was ready to resort to that if it meant feeling something, anything. But Azriel came in, grabbed the knife from my hands and swept me away to my room. He had sat me on my bed and listened as I cried for hours.

That was when I had finished my tale and I realised something. “You know when I started to let the hurt eat me alive, I thought that the pain went away,” I confessed, before another tear slipped down my cheek, “Turns out I just got good at hiding it,” I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get enough air in my lungs as I wanted to rip my skin from my bone.

Rough, scarred hands grabbed my wrist as Azriel forced me to look at him. “You are allowed to feel pain. The stereotyped that siblings are treated a certain way is horse shit and the fact that you did all that alone, you are so strong, Y/N, more then you know,” So I had sobbed screamed and let all my problems out. Had laid it out for him as I broke down. As my walls came crashing down.

A/N: This is just an idea. Something triggered me today and my trauma got to me again so this story was a little depressing. I might turn the idea into a series. Sorry to anyone who can relate to domestic abuse, I hope you know that we are all in this together and there is someone out there for you. Even if you haven’t found them. Bye my loves <3

tag list: @moonfawnx @bankerfrog @younxii @starlit-terror @hideing @flightlesslittlebirdie @menagerofmischief @famousbasementpainter @owllover123 @bookworm-nerd6 @gigisssz @bethany-bee0128 @cityofidek

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nmzuka · 3 months

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another redesign of Diablo and some development for Sinjin

#primal rage #primal rage diablo #sinjin von acheron #zuka doodles #drawings #I would like to draw a comic explaining Sinjin's new bat cape ffff #we'll see if I get to it #if not I'll do an explanation in text #has to do with magic and his relationship with Malyssa tho

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itusebastian · 1 year

Text

The Shadows of Malice

A Goblin King's Tale

The stench of damp earth and stale air wafted up from the cave entrance as Torg, the goblin leader, surveyed his territory. The walls were slick with moisture, and the only light came from torches mounted in the cracks and crannies. The lair was bustling with activity as goblin workers scurried about, fetching water and food for their ravenous kin.

Torg's beady eyes darted from tunnel to tunnel, making sure that all was in order. He was the strongest and smartest of his tribe, and they all knew it. He wore a tattered leather vest and a crude iron helmet that he had taken off a foolish adventurer.

As he made his way deeper into the cave, Torg spotted a group of goblin warriors dancing around a stolen treasure chest. They were clapping their hands and chortling with malicious glee, proud of their latest victory against the weakling humans.

Torg's lip curled in a sneer as he watched them. He was disgusted by their laziness and undisciplined behavior. If they didn't have him to lead them, they'd all be dead by now.

He turned his attention to the back of the cave, where the rat keepers were tending to their verminous charges. The rats were almost as important to the goblins as their own kin. They were their eyes and ears, able to scurry through the narrow tunnels and bolt-holes that human-sized creatures couldn't navigate.

Torg grunted in satisfaction as he looked upon his loyal wolf riders, who were tending to their mounts. They were fierce and agile, able to take down much larger prey than the goblins could manage on their own.

Suddenly, a commotion broke out near the entrance. Torg whirled around, his hand gripping the crude sword at his side. He saw a group of adventurers, armed and dangerous, storming into his lair.

With a snarl, Torg barked orders to his warriors, and they sprang into action. The lair erupted into chaos as goblins swarmed out of their hiding places, ready to defend their home.

Torg's heart was pounding in his chest as he charged into battle. He knew that this was a fight to the death, but he didn't care. He was a goblin, and he lived for moments like this.

As the battle raged on, Torg's mind drifted to Maglubiyet, the Mighty One. He knew that if he died in battle, his spirit would join the ranks of the goblin god's army on the plane of Acheron. It was a "privilege" that he both feared and longed for.

In the end, Torg emerged victorious, covered in the blood of his enemies. He looked around at his tribe, proud of their ferocity and loyalty. They were his kin, his family, and he would do anything to protect them.

As he strode back to his throne room, Torg couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. He was the ruler of his own small kingdom, and no one could take that away from him. He was a goblin, and he was proud of it.

Buy me a coffee!

#dungeonsanddragons #goblins #fantasyfiction #darkfantasy #shortstory #flashfiction #creaturefeature #villainous #horde #maliciousglee

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sunshines-child · 7 days

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Instead of Nico not feeling or showing emotion, how about Nico feeling TOO much emotion? Nico who wears his heart on his sleeve, who loves and loves and loves. Nico, who's joy is like nectar, bright and jovial. Who laughs with the joy of every spirit that Hades holds. Nico, who trusts too easily. Who has been shattered again and again and again, but still brings out his hand when someone reaches. Nico, who's rage is like the Acheron. Who's eyes start alight with a raging wildfire, rage and fury in eyes that hold no remorse. Nico, whose grief fills the earth like the sea. Who opens his mouth and screams, his grief an everstrong tide, that beats away till the earth is no more. Nico, who loves so much. Who's love is the knife he gives to every hand the brushes it, the love that turns to an arrow in Eros's hands and a blade in Percy's. Who holds love like a lantern in the abyss.

#pjo #pjo hoo toa #pjo shitpost #nicodiangelo #nico di angelo #percy jackson #nico di angelo headcanon

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sxnktaalxna · 4 months

Text

Threads - Chapter 2

Azriel x Acheron Sister

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

After the stiff encounter of a dinner, Feyre and her companions bid the three sisters a goodnight. Her companions seemed to disappear the second it wasn't deemed rude to leave, but Feyre lingered to embrace (Y/N) once more.

(Y/N) gently embraced back, though not as tightly as their first hug earlier in the evening. Feyre frowned, pulling away and holding her younger sister's hands, 'I know you have questions. And honestly, I might not be able to answer them all. But I promise you little butterfly, if you ever need me, I'm always here. I've never left your side, and I never will.'

(Y/N) nodded, 'It's a lot. And I don't know how to feel or what to think. But if there's anyone I trust in this world, it'll always be you.'

Feyre grinned, glowing vibrantly at her sister's words. (Y/N) wasn't sure if the glow was some kind of fae magic, or Feyre's genuine joy. Perhaps it could be both. Feyre was just relieved that (Y/N) still had faith in her after all this time. Relieved that her sister looked at her and still saw Feyre her sister, not the Fae.

'It's getting late and we'll need to clean since our servants have gone home,' Nesta said curtly, her jaw clenched.

'We're here when you need us,' Elain said, her lips curled up gently.

Taking Nesta's hint, Feyre bid one last goodnight to her sisters before following after companions to begin their planning. The moment the door closed, Nesta turned to her youngest sister in a rage.

'(Y/N), you cannot be serious,' Nesta huffed at her sister's impulsive behaviour, cheeks turning rosy, 'Inviting those things into our home-'

'It's our sister! The same sister who kept us alive for years,' (Y/N) exclaimed, her voice caught in her throat. Still, she continued, 'You cannot look at her and say she's changed.'

'She is fae,' Nesta snarled, her striking features curled into the image of beautiful fury. 'She will get us all killed with this business.'

'We'd be dead anyway,' (Y/N)'s anger and guilt began to build, her voice raising and arms flailing in frustration. 'You heard what Feyre said, if we don't help we're all dead anyway.'

'Nesta, (Y/N) please,' Elain sighed, placing a gentle hand on Nesta's wrist. Nesta didn't react, her piercing gaze remaining on (Y/N). 'Nesta, we're going to help our sister. (Y/N) is right, it's the least we can do.'

Without a word, Nesta stormed up the stairs and disappeared down the hall towards her quarters. Elain sighed, 'Nesta's right though.'

'How?'

'We don't know anything about fae or what's about to happen.' Elain said, plucking at her nails. 'We have to be careful. Especially you, little butterfly.'

'Do either of you ever stop caring about yourselves?' (Y/N) uttered before passing Elain to her own room without a word. Elain gulped at her sister's words, sorrow seeding in her heart as she blew each candle out.

-☆-

The morning came without an incident. Feyre and her companions were nowhere to be found in the house, but it was safe to assume they'd be fine. Nesta remained fiercely against their plans, but kept her disagreements to herself. Elain and (Y/N) outnumbered her unfortunately, and to some extent they were right. Not that she'd admit it.

Elain had her own reservations. After all, her own fiance warned her of the fae's dangerous nature. But (Y/N) was right, they owed Feyre their lives. The least they could do was offer a safe meeting place. Even with her trust in Feyre, the thought of fae entering her home had her reaching to fiddle with the iron ring around her slim ring finger.

Nesta insisted all the sister's began to wear their iron bracelets from the market at all times. Despite the clear wear from years of use, Nesta and Elain wore it on their wrists since dinner, hidden beneath velvet cuffs. (Y/N) wore hers to ease her sister's worries, but continued to be reminded of their shortcomings to Feyre.

Feyre did not have one. (Y/N) insisted that she share hers, ignoring Feyre's denials. Each day at dawn when Feyre would be ready to slip away, (Y/N) would catch her hand and slip the slim bracelet on with a farewell and a promise to come back. The one day she slept in, snuggling into the sheets to catch the last warmth... She knew it was silly to assume, but (Y/N) couldn't help but wonder if Feyre would've come home that day if she had the bracelet with her.

Nesta tucked her bracelet under her cuff, her hair done up tight and neat. Elain was behind her, cloak already around her shoulders. Embroidered daisies and marigolds lined the edges of her cloak, courtesy of their baby sister's talents.

'We'll be back soon,' Nesta said, gently brushing (Y/N)'s hair behind her ear. 'Mrs Laurent is here if you need anything, but please stay inside.'

'I'll be fine,' (Y/N) retorted, still slightly bitter about Nesta's recent protectiveness. 'Please remember to pick up some pins, I've lost most of mine.'

'You should do better to watch where you put them' Nesta grumbled, recalling accidentally pricking herself on a pin left on a chair.

'We'll be back by noon,' Elain bid her younger sister goodbye. With that, the sister's made their way into their carriage towards town.

The day had barely grew light before (Y/N) began to grow bored. As skilled as she was with the needle, she could only prick herself so many times before admitting defeat. Her hands held the history of her life, from the hard calluses on her palms from an axe with a broken handle, to the tiny red dots lining the tips of her fingers. Her hands weren't smooth like Nesta's, or slim and dainty like Elain's. But they held Feyre's hands in cold winters, and made artistry of string. They weren't pretty, but they held life.

She was glad to have a shared artist's eye with her sister. It wasn't uncommon for the two to start fantasizing what life as artists would be like. In the little moments Feyre allowed herself to sit down, they would point and say 'This would be a wonderful painting' or 'A piece like this on a tapestry would be incredible'. Now, as (Y/N) stared into the gardens around the estate, she wondered if Feyre would find herself painting in the flowers during spring.

A tickle ran through her as a cold thread brushed her ankle. Looking down and seeing nothing, she stood to reach for a shawl and caught sight of something dark moving underneath her bed. She swallowed, eyes glued on the moving darkness. Her fingers wriggled around her desk, wrapping around her thread scissors. Before she could take a step forward, the same cold thread slivered around her wrist and fingers towards the scissors.

Yelping, the scissors slipped from her hand. (Y/N) went to shake off whatever creature it was only to see...darkness. A beautiful swirl of blacks and dark greys that wrapped itself around her wrist and fingers like a curious pet snake. The strange shadow held no face, yet moved with sentience and...curiosity? (Y/N) watched in confusion as the shadow continued to move like smoke. It held no physical presence, appearing to constantly turning like ink in water. Yet it's cold presence ran around her arm, confirming it was very real indeed. Perhaps she should've felt fear. Or at least anxiety. Yet she found herself giggling at its cool touch as it slithered up her forearm.

The shadow underneath her bed creeped out and wrapped around her ankles. She wondered if these were some sort of hallucination, a trick of fae, but thoughts were cut off when the shadows seemed to tug at her ankles. A small yet firm tug as if to say 'Follow'.

Was this Feyre? Feyre never mentioned how fae magic or communication worked, so perhaps this was it. This must be a sign. Snatching the cloak off her wardrobe, she followed the moving shadow out the door. The shadow around her wrist seemed to find a home there, continuing to weave itself through her fingers. Walking out into the garden with only her bedroom slippers, she knew Mrs Laurent would have a fit about treading dirt, but perhaps she could ask Feyre to magic them clean perhaps? She truly should ask what her dear sister can do as a fae.

The shadow weaved through the garden at a pace that had (Y/N) jogging to keep up. It weaved through Elain's garden into the woods just north of the estate. The dark creature glided across the snowy floor, leaving no trace as (Y/N) fought her way through the snow. She shivered at the snow in her feet, but it was too late to turn back or else she may miss it. The shadow swiftly disappeared into the darkness of a bush, leaving only (Y/N) and her new friend in a small clearing. Turning around, she could see the peaks of her home just above the treeline. If necessary, she could run back the way she came.

'You shouldn't follow strange creatures like that.' A low, baritone reached her ears. Turning back to where the shadow had disappeared stood Azriel. Except he seemed much more...

His wings, now spread open and wide behind him towered above her, casting a shadow over her against the dawn sunlight. Despite the visible light, he was surrounded by a shroud of darkness that danced around his frame. He was slightly obscured, but on his body glowed seven blue lights that cut through the shadows. Looking at her own wrist, she realised the shadows must be his.

'I shouldn't, but I couldn't help it,' (Y/N) shrugged, lifting her other hand to play with the gentle shadow. 'It's quite cute.'

Azriel chuckled, seemingly in disbelief at her words. 'Cute is not how most would normally describe them. I usually hear the words 'terrifying' or 'dark''.

'Then people don't know the meaning of those words,' (Y/N) replied, stepping closer to Azriel to extend her wrapped arm. 'I believe this one's yours too.'

The shadow began moving towards Azriel, but (Y/N) felt a tug around her arm as like fingers had gripped to not let go. Azriel's eyebrows furrowed at the shadows strange behaviour, before saying, 'It's alright, it likes your company more than mine.'

'Surely not,' (Y/N) shook her head, looking up at him, 'How could it not enjoy company as delightful as yours?'

'I believe you're mistaken in enjoying my company,' Azriel denied, but (Y/N) could see the gentle smile on his lips. No matter how tiny it seemed to be. He didn't look that much different, but seeing him much more relaxed compared to the dinner... His shoulders had dropped down, his jaw unclenched and posture much more calm compared to his stiff body movement the night before. The metallic scent of magic had returned, stronger and sharper than before, an iron that stung her nose and almost felt like wool over her sense. The presence of magic was stronger than ever now that Azriel had not tried to hide as he did before. (Y/N) curiously wondered if Rhysand's power was just as if not more paralysing considering his status as high lord. But she did not wish to think of any other man than the one before her. He stood taller, mightier, freer, and (Y/N) couldn't look away.

'And I believe, you cannot tell me what I can and cannot enjoy,' (Y/N) said, the smile growing larger on her face the longer she spoke to the shadowed man. 'How's my dear sister?'

'She's well. She's gone training with Rhysand,' Azriel said, gently placing his hands behind his back. Walking over, (Y/N) could feel the air grow colder as she stepped closer to his shroud of shadows. With each step, the shadows seemed to buzz with energy, with some bouncing away from Azriel's frame to join her side.

'And you say they aren't cute,' (Y/N) sang, 'What are you doing out here this early?'

'I'm helping Rhysand and Feyre,' Azriel replied, 'I'm just waiting.'

'For what?'

'For when they need me.'

'I suppose that's all you'll give me,' (Y/N) signed in resignation. He was a very secretive person undoubtedly, but it wasn't her place to ask these things either. Perhaps it was safer she didn't find out. But yet she yearned for more. She wanted to know more about this curious man. The stories he told her during the dinner had drew her in like fish to bait, capturing her attention with his words. She had been so pulled to him and his world that questions of danger turned into questions of curiousity. Of food, culture, and language. All questions that she was dying to ask, threatening to break past her sealed lips.

Azriel seemed amused by her disappointment saying, 'I'll answer any questions you have soon. Maybe when I know your sister won't take my head for it.'

'Certainly sounds like her,' (Y/N) said. The two held eyes for a moment, gentle smiles exchanged. But a glance towards her other wrist has her reminded of her sister's rage. Quickly, she hid the iron bracelets behind her waist - an attempt at both protecting him and possibly herself, 'I'm sorry, I forgot I wore this.'

'Why are you apologising?' Azriel asked, confused at her reaction. It'd be stupid not to know how absolutely resentful Nesta was towards fae - they weren't very quiet in their arguments. Nor was Nesta subtle. And it was not (Y/N)'s fault should she find herself seeking some form of comfort, even if the comfort wasn't true protection.

And yet, peculiarly she seemed more regretful than fearful. 'Safety is not something to be shameful for wanting.'

'I know, but I know it can hurt you and quite frankly, I'd be quite upset if it were my fault you were hurt.'

'I'll let you in on a secret,' Azriel softly replied. Like approaching a cornered creature, he gently extended his open palm towards her. An invitation of trust. A flickered glance between his open palm and his sincere eyes has her reaching to place her fingers in his gloved grasp, careful to avoid accidentally grazing his skin with iron.

She couldn't help the gasp that escaped when his other hand, warm and rough, wrapped itself around the iron bracelet. She almost flinched, wanting to cry out for him but...

He gently pulled the bracelet off her hand, his callused palm laying flat on the back of her hand for a moment. A glimpse of raised flesh around his hand caught her eye before it disappeared out of sight when he dropped her hand. The iron bracelet rested on his palm, old and dull. There it settled, as if it were nothing more than a small novelty piece. An antique from the market. None of what she had expected happened.

'Iron doesn't...'

'I don't mean to scare you,' Azriel clarified with softened eyes, extending the bracelet back. 'I promise I don't want to hurt you. You have nothing to fear me with me.'

(Y/N) gingerly plucked her bracelet back from him, silent in thought. The more she learned of the Fae, the dizzier she seemed to get. If iron has no effect, then her family wasn't safe? Did that mean fae could lie? Or perhaps it's solidified what she had secretly hoped for - that fae are not monsters from nightmares. And that Azriel was as lovely as he seemed to be.

Azriel's soft expression hardened in an instant, his shadows no longer dancing around the air. Now they sat deathly still, like a thick fog that began to way down on your lungs. (Y/N) began to understand what Azriel meant about his shadows. 'I'm sorry I must go.'

In a split second of snow swirl and gust, Azriel flew into the air and disappeared out of sight. (Y/N) stumbled at the sudden force of his wings, the snow settling around her and in her hair. She glanced up at the sky to catch a glimpse of him, only to see nothing but the beginning of a new day. She sighed, wrapping her arms around herself. There, she saw that her little friend around her wrist, 'I suppose you'll keep me safe then.'

-☆-

This isn't exactly how I wanted it to go, but I wanted to give them a little bonding before shit hits the fan in the next chapter :3 It's funny too cus I'm reallllyy invested in developing the Feyre dynamic even tho I don't need to but I musttt 😆 Also I feel like azriel may be a bit ooc from the books (i havent read a court of silver flames or a court of frost and starlight 😭)...butt we all have our own perceptions and headcanons about characters, it's part of what makes fanfics and reading so fun! so yes, if you believe this isn't the azriel ur used to reading about, I understand and that's ok!

Also, biiiig thank you to everyone who's interacted with this series so far! I truly wasn't expecting any sort of response so to see so much support already makes me super excited to keep going :) I hope you all enjoy this series as much as I enjoy writing it!

If you'd like to be tagged for updates please lmk 💗 Happy holidays and happy new year! Also some people who asked to be tagged weren't showing up so I'm so sorry I'm not sure why but I'll be happy to send u updates if you'd like :)

Taglist:

@wallacewillow0773638 @impossibelle @utterlyotterlyx @weasleyreidstyles @justdreamstars @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @fussel9913 @willowpains @eatsleepreadance1 @blueeclipsepaperstudent

#acotar #acotar x reader #azriel x reader #a court of thorns and roses #acheron

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astrxlfinale · 5 days

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Why can it never be truly placed? Where each movement, appropriate jab to the fleeting style of her voice sitting on the crevice of monotony to lively glimmers just-- brought something back.

An experience gained but never truly happened all the same. It fell upon that border that likely danced a fine line between the mortal realm and Aeonic realities.

Nonetheless would he grip that sensation with a spiritual hand, steel clad in the way it's held.

Caelus would watch as her figure danced with grace that seems to detach from this land fashioned by dreams. Coasting by reality, delving to that hidden beyond as ivory and briefly dashes with violet fury, a decisive fate runs red amidst the applause of sparking limbs cleaved. Even as the cascading rain of glass fell all around them, seamlessly devoured by his aura imposed by The Destruction, it'd be that amused thought that's noted by Acheron that makes his nostrils immediately flare. A tinge of disbelief at that damnably cocky note she made.

"Get real. ...." An amused scoff follows, a hidden history of camaraderie momentarily flourishing. "Penacony has been a little lacking in entertainment. If I'm bringing along some company, naturally I'm going to pick up that slack twofold wit'cha." He adds in. Could what they share be an illustrious and envied 'meal' for what crawls from the shadows? A bastardization in many degrees from snazzy figures and automatons purposed to bring a dazzling gleam. What veils them like twisted shawls was a need to drag any and all into their nightmares.

To tear souls from bodies.

Just as another figure ripped from the shadows, a violet die being cast with their foul face, the path that Caelus blazes would burn gold as he's immediately by her side. A cerulean current dances by his side, an apt swing of that infamous bat solidified their entire being to a fate of being atomized, well before that burst of remnant energy crashed into a nearby wall. That would be the provocation that introduced a swath of the Dreamjolts. Hints of that crystalized violet, raging and volatile emotions clinging to their figures as a pale light sighs into their surroundings as they remain back to back.

"Manage. Be a little more honest, all these 'What ifs' are getting a touch more motivated. Come what may."

Infuriated by the promise of a future that nightmares could never claim, it lead the horde to immediately jumped them in a singular swoop of motion.

"We'll be having our time out here!"

Gnashing reptilian teeth, sound waves, to dream charged bombs of glass soda bottles being launched as missiles, for anyone else this fate would look perilous. Yet, what hums contently within the Trailblazer is a leveled calm that bonds seamlessly with his ferocity. One hand would lash out, snagging one of those bottles before violently changing it's course, using the abrupt momentum to uppercut the cooking reptile intending to take a bite out of his companion. Fizzy determination would rocket him skyward, leading to a Shoryuken-esque uppercut that sent it barreling at supersonic speeds to some airborne opponents.

Only then would he alter course, allowing his bat to viciously swat away some surrounding blasts, the altered course of a freefall charging that excitement as they'd become blurs upon the battlefield. Amidst this whole debacle, he still kept an eagle eye on Acheron's performance.

"How about you stop holding back a little bit! Since when were you a sweetheart to your enemies!?" As if he could talk right now!

Basking in the chaotic dance of combat by the Galaxy Ranger's side also felt so blissfully, painfully familiar.

@iceiclehorned from X

#iceiclehorned #| Threads #JUST U WAIT #I'ma think up a tag myself!#in the meantime #They got got a performance to make due with

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tsarisfanfiction · 11 months

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Eclipse: Chapter 21

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Adventure Characters: Apollo, Hades Finally we made some progress! But we still have a few things left to tackle... The ichor warning is back for this chapter! I have a discord server for all my fics, including this one! If you wanna chat with me or with other readers about stuff I write (or just be social in general), hop on over and say hi! <<Chapter 20

HADES XXI Trust The Ears of The God of Music

Hades had not intended in confessing his inadvertent fondness for his nephew, but after the warm – bordering on scorching hot, although never painful – essence had fluctuated with sadness, despair and self-loathing, of all things, he had found himself unable to keep his silence. He had known that Apollo was far more than the foolish clown he liked to play, but to feel it, so raw where it tangled with his own essence in a way that reminded him of small, nervous children hiding behind their mother, almost afraid to trust, had startled- no, shocked him.

Then again, Zeus was about as good at being a father as he was at being a brother, so perhaps it should not be a surprise that part of Apollo hesitated to trust his own family. Hades himself would be a hypocrite if he said he trusted most of them.

He didn’t fully trust Apollo, either, trusted no-one completely, not even his wife who parted from him for half of each year nor the Chthonic gods creeping around the Underworld, each with their own agendas despite their general obedience. However, he trusted his bright nephew more than most; Apollo didn’t flee from him, didn’t dismiss him out of hand or straight up ignore his existence. Apollo listened to him, allowed him to vent about woes their brethren simply laughed at, if they even paid attention at all.

Apollo was kind, in a way Olympus didn’t allow its occupants to be, and once Hades realised it was no act to catch him off guard and throw back in his face a century or several later, he had begun to appreciate that small flame amidst an ocean of derision and deceit. His words had not been a lie; he had no desire to see that small flame extinguished by the horrors of Tartarus.

Hades had not been able to explain all of that to Apollo – it would have been too much, a level of exposure that ran beyond indecent and into mortification – and had taken the loophole offered by his nephew’s open-ended why to avoid further baring his innermost thoughts and feelings.

As Apollo had not pressed for further details, he presumed that his nephew, too, did not wish to face those depths and was, if not content, at least able to continue with only the information offered.

Of more pressing concern was Styx’s curses. Of the two, the voice was the lesser evil, not least because while Apollo had proven multiple times that his voice held a power that Tartarus could not fully disregard, it was not his primary weapon. His nephew’s loss of his archery prowess was far more concerning, but Apollo had made no move to summon his bow or refill his empty quiver, even after Hades had done what he could to mitigate the curses of the goddess.

Apollo was not a one-trick god; Hades had heard tell of his speed and of his wrestling. Hermes and Ares both had never forgiven the sun god for their respective defeats, and those stories had made it even as far as the Underworld and Hades’ ears. That still did not make the loss of their ranged offense any less potent.

They were not far away from the prison, now. There was still no sign of the gleaming brass fortress on what passed for a horizon in the depths of the Pit, but Hades knew it did not lay too far up from the merging of the rivers, which they were only somewhat below, and now the correct side of. The raging of the Acheron was a near-silent call on the edge of his hearing, too far away to have any effect, but close enough to be there, to remind Hades of how it felt to be torn apart straight down to his essence.

How Apollo had found the strength to pull them both clear, Hades did not want to ponder. He suspected that was a trail of thought that would meander too close to the mortal trials Hades knew little of.

He was well acquainted with how much torment the mortal body could endure before it broke. He had seen souls finally pushed over the edge too many times not to.

No, that was not a thought he wished to pursue any further.

Hades instead cast his thoughts and attention to their surroundings, searching for any signs of approaching threats. Two injured gods would no doubt be a temptation to any monsters that caught sight of them, although so far in the depths of Tartarus, beyond where even most monsters ventured, they would be not just tempted, but also likely powerful enough to present a true danger.

His only consolation was that he and Apollo were both on guard, and that with the large expanse of visibility, nothing would be able to catch them unawares. Regardless, he was not keen to linger longer than necessary.

“We should probably keep moving.” Clearly, Apollo’s thoughts ran along similar lines, as his nephew’s broken and rasping voice reached Hades’ ears.

“are you fit to continue?” Hades asked in response, glancing over his shoulder at his nephew to assess his condition. His voice sounded no less rasping than immediately after he had pulled away from their mutual healing session, and Hades wondered – feared – that it would improve no further until Styx was satisfied.

What that meant for Apollo’s archery skills, he did not wish to contemplate.

“Fit enough,” Apollo replied. “Are you?”

Hades assessed himself. The curses from the Arai had all but entirely faded through Apollo’s intervention, and he felt no concern about a relapse. As long as they evaded the Arai, there should be no further issues.

“I am,” he said, and felt his nephew pull himself to his feet behind him.

“Then we should keep moving,” Apollo said. “I can’t say I want to stay in the Pit any longer than necessary.” That was a sentiment Hades fully shared, and he needed no further hints to pull himself to his feet in turn, casting another glance at the expanse of membrane surrounding them before facing his nephew.

Apollo’s hand was twitching, as though it missed the feel of a bow nestled in its palm. From the slight furrows in the handsome god’s otherwise perfect face, Hades suspected it was not just the hand of the god that missed the weapon.

When the bow haltingly materialised in Apollo’s palm, Hades had to resist making any indication of relief. Apollo had no such reservations, and relief broke across his face much like Hades faintly recalled clouds breaking apart to reveal the sun behind them again.

“Can you use it?” he felt compelled to ask. Apollo’s expression shifted into something complex, and Hades watched his stance adjust infinitesimally, changing the way the god stood in a single fluid moment until Apollo was standing with his bow at full draw, an arrow materialised from somewhere resting on the string.

It looked reassuring, but Apollo made a dejected noise as he released the tension without firing the arrow.

“Use it, I suppose,” he admitted, sounding like his mouth suddenly had too many teeth for its size and choking his voice up even further than Styx’s curse. “Use it well is… another matter entirely.” There was resignation in his voice, but also a hint of bitterness. Hades had never found himself bereft of his own domains before – weakened, certainly, and he could recall the time before the claiming of his domains, when he was simply a god and not a god of something, with no degree of fondness – so he could not empathise with Apollo’s plight. He could, however, bring enough conceptual thought to the possibility to at least feel some sympathy for his nephew – but it would do neither of them any favours.adHa

“That will have to suffice,” he said, pitching his tone to convey some degree of acknowledgement that the situation was not ideal – that Apollo was upset. Fortunately, his nephew was no fool, and did not attempt to argue futilely as he placed the arrow back in the near-empty quiver at his side and took a small step forwards, shifting his weight back out of his shooting stance.

“Maybe it’ll come back more in time,” Apollo muttered, sounding less than hopeful about it.

“Perhaps,” Hades agreed, more with the ideal than any real hope himself, either. “The prison is this way.” He didn’t bother to add the caveat that he was not completely certain, nor orientated. While true, he did recall that they needed to be further up the slopes of Tartarus, away from the deepest depths and the eventual inevitability of Chaos at the end of things.

Having spent so long descending through the Pit, it was a relief to finally be headed upwards again. His own domain was still far above them – and Apollo’s were even further way, barely a concept to Tartarus – but moving towards it, rather than further away, felt right.

Apollo followed his lead, lapsing into silence not for the first time since they had entered Tartarus, and it was no less disconcerting than the first time, although Hades could understand it, this time. Just because some of his voice had restored did not mean the rasping husk was pleasant to listen to, and for Apollo, whose voice had always been beautiful even in simple conversation, it was no doubt torturous.

He also, Hades observed out of the corner of his eye as they walked, his nephew a bare half-step behind him, appeared to be focusing on replenishing his quiver, despite his far reduced archery skills. Each arrow took time to appear, worse than even against Orion. It was abundantly clear that Apollo would not be able to fire off arrows indiscriminately in a confrontation – each shot would have to be carefully measured, and with Styx’s curse also affecting his ability to shoot, there was little guarantee that they would hit the intended mark.

Or any mark at all.

The prevailing silence of his nephew was not, however, enough to distract Hades from the first signs of Apollo noticing something. His head raised from where he had been watching his quiver as he walked, and his fingers began to once again tap out a rhythm that was becoming familiar to Hades after multiple performances as eyes of fire scanned the landscape ahead of them intently.

Hades had almost fallen foul of ignoring Apollo’s warning signs once. It was not a mistake he intended on repeating.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You don’t hear it?” Apollo replied, voice quiet but filled with an intent that ought to bode ill for whoever had crossed the god.

Hades had been unable to hear anything except their footsteps echoing against the taut membrane of Tartarus for some time. The cries of the Acheron had faded away into nothing shortly into their advance, leaving a notable gap of sound, and nothing substantial had broken that silence since.

Apollo was the god of music, for all that Styx had targeted that domain as part of her vengeance. It made sense, Hades realised abruptly, for his hearing to be keener than even most gods’.

“I do not,” he confirmed, assessing the way Apollo’s face had clouded over in an expression not too dissimilar to those he had worn when he had deemed Hades a threat to Asclepius – except, this time, the death-promising glare was not settling on him, but rather a nebulous point ahead of them. “What do you hear?”

“A voice,” Apollo told him, his own rasp low and fierce. “Calling for help.”

There was the possibility that a soul that should not have been sentenced to Tartarus had ended up there by mistake – certainly in the past year of mortal reckoning, entrances to the Pit appeared to have been opening directly into the Overworld with a frequency that almost guaranteed innocent souls falling foul of its chasms. There was the possibility that whoever Apollo could hear, they had nothing to do with his son, nor the titans and giants furious and scheming within the Pit.

Hades dismissed those possibilities instantly. Apollo would not have worn such a furious expression if the voice belonged to an innocent party. Even if he could not identify the owner of the voice, there was something about the apparent cries for help that his nephew did not take kindly to.

“Calling my son.” It wasn’t a question, but Apollo nodded regardless, confirming Hades’ instant suspicion.

“By name,” he said, then, “I recognise the voice.”

Hades did not know whether to hope it was Iapetus, foolishly requesting his son’s help, or if his original instincts were correct and the voice’s owner was a giant, rather than a titan. Were it Iapetus, he would be justified in punishing the titan severely, no matter his intentions. Summoning Nico into the Pit was unforgivable on all accounts.

Alcyoneus, however, would be a difficult battle, comparable to Apollo’s original encounter with Orion in Tartarus as best Hades could approximate.

Regardless, this was not a confrontation that Hades would allow them to pass by – not that Apollo appeared any more inclined to so, judging by the way he had a hand in his now-bristling quiver, and a look so bright it was dark on his face.

Apollo had always treated Nico well, and held him in high regard, even before the demigod had become romantically involved with the god’s own son. Hades was well aware that it was almost entirely down to the actions of the Twins that Nico, at least, had survived long enough to reach Camp Half-Blood for the first time (Artemis had failed to protect Bianca, yes, but with the pain of grief muffled into an ache, Hades was at least aware that his niece had tried).

It was true that Hades himself held no thoughts for William’s potential trip to Tartarus beyond the effect it would have on his own son, but it was equally true that Apollo cared for both demigods, even if his original plan had presumably still included Nico’s return to the Pit.

Even if it was Alcyoneus, Hades would not allow the calling to continue, and he was confident he could trust Apollo to share in that opinion.

“Lead the way,” he ordered, drawing his sword from its sheath.

There was no verbal response from his nephew, but an arrow was nocked to the string of the golden bow in his hand, before Apollo inclined his head purposefully, indicating a direction that was slightly off to one side from their original route, across the slope of Tartarus rather than further up it. If Hades had his bearings accurate, it was towards the delta where all five rivers mingled.

The so-called Delta of Despair, as he had told Apollo what felt like eons ago, before the Acheron and the Arai had torn them both apart. He supposed that was an appropriate place to hold the confrontation.

There was no thought about passing by, about doing anything other than marching in the direction of the voice with the full intent of annihilation. It was true that their aim had been the prison itself, but that had always been a proxy, an approximation of the most likely place to find the source of the voice summoning his son to the depths of Tartarus.

Now they had found the source of the voice, the prison was of no concern to him.

Apollo led the way, heading directly where his inclined head had indicated. Neither of them spoke, and Hades strained his hearing, searching for the first distant sounds of a voice, of the voice.

It was difficult to judge how long it took – not that Hades particularly cared about tracking the passage of time at that moment regardless – but the voice reached his ears before any of the vocal rivers’ distant cacophonies. Hades spared them no heed as they screamed on the very edges of his hearing, not after hearing the low, rumbling tones akin to the earth tearing itself apart and cascading together again.

He had suspected – more than suspected – that his bane was the true source of the summons plaguing his son. The giant was crafty, and vengeful – Hades was somewhat surprised that Nico was the one he had attempted to lure down, when the demigod that had proven to be a significant issue to the giant was a different person entirely, but it was also true that she would likely have recognised the voice and not been deceived.

Nico, on the other hand, had never directly interacted with Alcyoneus, and also showed clear guilt over Iapetus’ fate within Tartarus. Undoubtably, he was the easier, the softer target, to the giant’s mind.

Hades’ essence churned at the mere thought of it.

He shared a look with Apollo, a glare that wasn’t aimed at his nephew but broadcasted that he, too, was now in earshot of the giant begging Nico for help – to fall into the trap and be torn apart by if not Alcyoneus himself, at least Tartarus and its various inhabitants. Apollo matched the glare with his own, a mutual understanding that Alcyoneus had gone too far and that neither of them would stand for it.

In his hand, his sword vibrated, his anger pulsing through the Stygian Iron and causing the dark metal to deepen, indescribable patterns of void swirling across and through its presence, yearning for something to absorb and eliminate from existence entirely. Considering how Orion had withstood its effects, reducing it to no more than a regular sword, it was highly doubtful that Alcyoneus himself would be so easily downed, but that knowledge did nothing to sate his desire to see the giant disappear from existence forever more.

Alongside Alcyoneus’ voice – pitch raised a little from the voice that haunted Hades’ recall, no doubt in a further attempt at deception but still unmistakable to the one he was born to oppose – the rushing of water gradually entered his awareness. Hades judged that the Delta could not be far, and raised the hand not holding his sword in a gesture for Apollo to halt.

There was no point in the pair of them entering the Delta together, alerting the giant to his approaching doom. The moment Apollo paused, meeting his eyes in silent askance, Hades activated the Helm, disappearing from sight and tangibility. His nephew’s eyes widened, focusing on where Hades stood for a moment before flickering around, taking in their surroundings and, Hades realised, a futile attempt to find where he had gone.

Apollo would be no match for Alcyoneus – even if he had his full archery prowess, Alcyoneus was one of the most powerful giants, and even taking into consideration that Orion was specifically crafted to oppose him and his twin, Apollo had struggled badly against the weaker giant. Hades was not so overconfident as to assume he could defeat Alcyoneus single-handed – such thoughts would be foolish in the extreme; it had taken the combined strength of himself and Herakles the first time – but Apollo would be of little help in close quarters.

He would leave it up to his nephew to determine how best to intervene, given his current limitations. The brief thought flickered through his mind that Apollo would stay back, out of the fight, but it was banished almost immediately. If there was something about his nephew Hades had learned since their time together in the Pit, or perhaps remembered was the more accurate term – it was that Apollo did not back down, even when he was nominally outmatched.

Sure enough, as he slipped forwards, cresting a ridge of membrane and finally laying eyes on his bane for the first time in millennia, he caught sight of Apollo shifting where he stood, creeping forwards on silent feet and raising his bow.

The Helm united Hades with the shadows; even in Tartarus, it held its effect – in fact, Hades suspected the deep darkness of the Pit drew out degrees of shadow that not even the Underworld could emulate. With his back to him, Alcyoneus had no way of registering his approach until it was too late, Hades’ sword raised and ready to run him through as he increased his size to match the giant’s stature.

It wouldn’t be enough to kill the giant, but it would set the advantage in Hades’ court, pinning Alcyoneus on the back foot – so to speak – as their confrontation continued.

Giants could not see through the Helm. Hades recalled the discord he had sowed between Giants and Titans alike during the wars clearly enough to recall that. Orion’s hunting instincts had allowed him to react to the attacks, but even he, with his keen eyes combined with Hephaestus’ technology, hadn’t been able to see Hades.

Alcyoneus – a creature of the Underworld, of the darkness and shadows, Hades’ opposite and equivalent, in a body whose revived form had been reconstructed by Pluto’s own daughter – turned, black opal eyes boring straight into Hades’ own. The gigantic staff in his hand slammed into Hades’ blade, turning it aside and deflecting the stroke harmlessly past.

“Hades,” the giant greeted, dropping the fake pitch. His voice rumbled around the Delta loudly, the sound akin to a collapsing cavern. “Marvellous!” The staff swung back around, the intangibility of the Helm somehow doing nothing to stop its collision with Hades’ side, sending him crashing sideways.

Dazed, and caught a little off guard himself at how little Alcyoneus appeared affected by the Helm, Hades pushed himself back off the ground. His bane didn’t seem interested in hitting him while he was down, instead those black opal eyes bored straight into his with rabid, hungry delight.

“I thought I would have to content myself with destroying your children,” the giant loomed, leaning on his staff. Dark red hair liberally threaded through with gemstones of every type fell across his shoulder as his solid silver teeth bared in a manic grin. “But it seems Hades himself has fallen into my trap.”

Hades threw himself to the side as the staff whipped around again, lightning fast, and deflected it with his sword as it swung too close for comfort. Alcyoneus laughed, an awful grating sound not too dissimilar to Styx’s original curse on Apollo’s voice, and Hades slashed at him with his blade.

His actions were rushed, hurried in a way millennia had taught him he shouldn’t fight, but on the back foot, unable to determine why the Helm was failing to work on his bane when it clearly concealed him from his nephew in the direct opposite of Hades’ ideal preference, and facing the real threat of one of the most powerful giants, it was difficult to find the opportunity to recentre himself as Alcyoneus pressed forward, holding the same advantage Hades had intended to have.

The arrow that glanced off of the brassy shoulder powering the staff startled him almost as much as Alcyoneus.

The giant paused, glancing around their surroundings to no doubt find the source, and Hades took the opportunity to pull himself back up to his full, giant-equivalent, height, and adjusted the Helm on his head as his thoughts took advantage of the split second of Alcyoneus’ distraction to reorganise themselves.

Invisibility was doing him no favours; it would be disorientating Apollo, whose aim was clearly suffering dreadfully – the arrow hadn’t even made a dent in the metallic sheen of Alcyoneus’ skin, and Hades was certain the shoulder had not been where Apollo intended to hit, either – and the giant could see through it with ease. More than that, he was also managing to counter the intangibility it gave Hades, and Hades had no way of telling if that was specifically relating to Alcyoneus’ attacks, or if it also opened him to unexpected friendly fire from Apollo.

Given that Apollo’s aim was obviously dreadful, the chances of ending up on the receiving end of a arrow were far higher than the usual zero (wayward, at least. Intentional arrows were another matter entirely, but Hades did not think Apollo would shoot him, not while they were in Tartarus and united against a common enemy – and he liked to think not even otherwise). Hades cursed Styx for her choice of retribution – he and Alcyoneus were in theory equally matched, but Tartarus favoured the giant and Hades’ only ally was his nephew. Having his nephew’s greatest offensive skill stripped from him did not put them in a good position.

Fear would also likely impact Apollo far worse than the giant, so with a displeased frown, Hades let the Helm’s power fade away, bringing him back into the visible realm.

Alcyoneus laughed again, sharp like raw diamond, no doubt sensing weakness, and pressed forwards again, ignoring Apollo much the same way Orion had ignored Hades.

Hades could not expect Apollo to forcibly draw Alcyoneus’ attention towards him in the same way – the younger god would not be a match for the powerful giant by himself even at full strength, let alone with two of his domains compromised – but he hoped Apollo would continue to find at least some methods of assisting, despite his limitations.

He didn’t dare look away from Alcyoneus to see what Apollo was doing, however. Not when the giant was pressing forwards, staff spinning and whistling through Tartarus’ miasma with all the skill of a master wielder. Hades stood his ground, however, his recentred mind putting an end to any desperate defensive flailing.

Instead, he pressed forwards in turn, the inky darkness of Stygian Iron leaving voids in its wake as he fought back, no longer panicked but in control as he pushed back, planting himself firmly against the ground and refusing to be driven any further backwards despite the giant’s efforts.

Alcyoneus’ body was a strange thing. It was alive, in the same bastardised fashion that anything could be considered living in Tartarus, but it was not constructed of flesh and ichor, unlike the rest of his giant brethren. Instead, it was an amalgamation of precious stones and metals, fused together into a humanoid structure – completed by the typical gigantic serpent feet, which bore his weight well and provided an unfair degree of evasion as they bent and folded in directions ordinary legs never dared to mimic.

Hades – and Pluto perhaps even more so – had always considered that a great insult. That his greatest bane, the giant created specifically to oppose him, was constructed entirely of his own domains, yet remained outside the realm of absolute control despite his best efforts. There were things he could do, gemstones and precious metals scattered throughout Alcyoneus’ hair which could be yanked back and tangled, but it was negligible, and frustrating. He could feel the diamond cluster which made up Alcyoneus’ heart, in this form, but he couldn’t reach them, couldn’t yank them out from within Alcyoneus’ control and pull him apart from within, dismantling his body from the innermost workings outward.

Frustration was not a new feeling against Alcyoneus; it had been millennia since he had last faced the giant in person, having chosen to contribute to his brethren’s assault on the giants from the safety of the Underworld, rather than provoke Zeus’ wrath for some no doubt inane reason – his brother had been on edge quite enough during the entire revival of the giant affair and Hades did not care to become a target through whatever bastardised logic Zeus summoned. He’d felt Alcyoneus there, of course – it was impossible to miss the feeling of his own bane – but he had not come face to face with him even as he’d split the ground open beneath his feet and thrown him straight back into the Pit.

He could have gone without seeing him a while longer.

Hades seized the gemstones flying around in crimson hair, gesturing with his empty hand and throwing his arm out to the side. A part of Alcyoneus that actually fell within his domain, that sang out to him like gems of his own, they obeyed his violent gesture and Alcyoneus’ head was yanked viciously to one side.

Letting any advantage slip past untaken in this fight was a recipe for disaster, and Hades lunged forwards, his sword skating off of the vibrant hues of the god’s gemstone body. He didn’t allow Alcyoneus a moment to recover, hacking and slashing at the giant the instant opportunities presented themselves, seeking a way to break through the brass skin that kept turning away his blade.

A second arrow whistled past him, lodging itself in the mass of red hair. Behind him, he heard Apollo huff, and surmised that once again the arrow had not gone where Apollo had intended for it to go.

Alcyoneus made a distractedly irritated noise and yanked it out, losing some strands of red in the process, before pinning Apollo with a distant glare.

“Stay out of this, little sun god,” he rumbled. “You have no power here.”

He threw the arrow like a javelin, straight back at Apollo. Hades didn’t allow himself to follow the trajectory with his eyes, didn’t allow himself to be distracted as he knocked aside the staff and drove his blade against the elbow of the arm that wielded it.

Alcyoneus’ grip slacked slightly, and Hades smashed into the same spot again, side-stepping as the giant snarled and lashed out at him with his other hand, whose fist was adorned with natural knuckledusters in the form of diamond and adamantine, sharp and solid materials that would break for nothing and cause a lot of damage even to Hades if they connected.

The damnable staff did not fall from his grip, Hades’ forced evasion giving the giant a chance to re-adjust, and whirled around again.

It was made of metal, a dull iron that twinged only weakly against Hades’ senses – the only part of his opponent that didn’t shriek out ostentatiously, gloating at being a part of his domain and yet uncontrollable. No; while iron was of the earth, it was neither riches nor of the Underworld, and sat tauntingly on the edge of his domain, closer indeed to Hephaestus’ forging. Alcyoneus had chosen it specifically, millennia ago, for that exact reason; Hades could not lay claim to it through his domains, could not yank it away from him or stop it.

It crashed into the side of Hade’s jaw, clipping below where the Helm protected him, and the sheer force of it annihilated his jaw, splattering ichor everywhere.

Chapter 22>>

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