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sarawritestories · 3 months

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Unwavering Presence Chapter 5

Cassian X Archeron Sister

Summary: Y/N falls into a routine and finds her place in the Night Court. Even gets to have a one on one moment with the renowned Spymaster. But her anxiety spikes when Rhys and Mor Bring Feyre back urgently from the Spring Court

Content Warning; Nothing comes to mind

Word Count: 3.1

Masterlist Chapter 4

The next few days I was able to fall into a routine. Mornings were dedicated to training with Cassian, where I could feel my body getting stronger little by little. The more I trained, I found that the nightmares were kept at bay. Lunches were spent with Rhys. He was casually asking me questions about Feyre. Her favorite color, if she had any favorite meals before we lost our fortune, any embarrassing stories I could share. Along with that he would lay out the King of Hybern’s plan and how he wanted to take the Human lands back. He gave me more information than Tamlin and Lucien were willing to share. Then Mor would take me to the closest café before we explored the town and all the shops.

After a long day of working out Mor made sure to take me clothes shopping to make sure I had a sufficient wardrobe even though we had gone shopping the day before. My hands were full of the bags from today’s excursion as walked toward the dimly lit sitting room of the town house. Azriel was lounging on the sofa staring at the fire in quiet contemplation, a glass of whiskey in his hand. “Hey, Az.” I dropped the bags and his head moved toward the thudding sound. He tilted his head, his mouth pressed in a tight line as his gaze met mine, a silent question in the air. “Mor made me buy every item that I glanced at for longer than 5 seconds.” He huffed out a breathy laugh, but I noticed how his shadows perked at the sound of the blonde female’s name.

Azriel lips quirked, and he reached over to the end table of the sofa and grabbed an empty glass and filled it with the Amber liquid and held it out for me patting the spot next to him. I dragged my feet over to him and grabbed the drink in thanks for taking a seat on the other end of the sofa, my back resting on the arm rest where I’m facing the spymaster. I hadn’t spent a lot of time with the Spymaster, he had been out doing some missions and I only got to see him in passing. “Thanks!” he nodded and clinked his glass with my own. I took a sip and let the burn of the amber liquid warm my throat. I watched as the shadows swirled around his shoulders and his wings; they were magnificent. “Have you always had your shadows.

Azriel took a sip of his drink, “For as long as I can remember.” He looked at me mischief in his eyes as a breath of cold kissed the back of neck and both of my wrists. Looking down at the sudden temperature change I found his shadows swirled around my arms like the night mist kissing my skin and tickling the back of my neck causing me to giggle. I lifted my free hand and watched as the shadows slid around my arm and through my fingers the scent of citrus and the night breeze wafted through my nose.

I was entranced by their movements and the sensation of them along my skin, “They’re so beautiful.”

I could feel the sofa move and I didn’t need to look to see he was shifting, not used to the compliment I paid his shadows. Though he whispered through his glass, “Thanks,” throwing back the rest of the liquid. He didn’t even flinch from the burn of the alcohol as I tore my eyes from the shadows that were now settling into my hands. Azriel stared back into the fire, his hand idly twisting his glass around his knee. The firelight accentuated the white scars covering his hands. Cassian left out how Azriel got those scars when he talked about how he and Az met, and I would never pry, but he looked glum. There was a haunted look gracing his features and it unsettled something deep in me.

I set my own glass down the whiskey long forgotten and scooted closer to Az. I was about to reach out and looped my arm around his and I caught how he tensed at my reached-out arm, and I retracted my arm the shadows pulling it in protest. As if they wanted me to reach my hand out. “I’m so sorry, Azriel,” I scooted back from him. The shadows left my arms and returned to their master. “I should have asked if it was ok to touch you.” I sighed and looked up at the ceiling guilt building in my gut. “I tend to want to link arms or hold hands or hug anyone who may be feeling sad. I’ve never been good with words but when I sense someone’s sad,” I looked at Azriel, “Or brooding.” Az snorted, but I pressed forward, “Feyre was never one to talk about her feelings including hard messy feelings, but I always knew when she needed me to hold her hand or be nearby. Apparently knowing I was there good enough for her.” Az nodded his head as in understanding.

I scooted once more to create more distance and clasp my hands together and looked at the fire letting the silence blanket us. My thoughts went back to Feyre and how lonely and afraid she might have been feeling. The anxiousness she might be feeling thinking that I’m dead. She was already falling apart while I was there, Tamlin happy to let her wither away. I closed my eyes and tried to level my breathing. The new month was approaching, and I would be able to see her. Would she be angry that I wasn’t dead or think that I ran away and abandoned her. What if she thou-

I blinked once, twice, and was able to acknowledge that a scarred hand over my clasped ones. The softness of them going against the raised skin covering them along with the warmth they provided. The warmth contrasted with the cool kisses his shadows skittering over my cheeks I finally met the Hazel eyes of Azriel that were so much like Cassian’s but different he had more flecks of green. “Your heartrate spiked; you were thinking so hard It was as I could see every thought that appeared in your head.”

Slinking one hand out of his grasp keeping one hand in his deciding the intertwining my fingers with his. There is a silent moment before he weaved his fingers through mine.” I smiled looking back at our entwined hands. “You remind me of Cassian you know.” My head snapped back to the Shadowsinger and he smiled, “When Rhys and Cass found me, and then tormented me like the pricks they are. Whenever I was stressed or scared, Cass would always put a hand on me should or bump shoulders with me. Especially In those first few months when I was free from my imprisonment. He always wanted me to know that he was there and that he had my back.” He gave me another small smile, “Because he knew that I didn’t talk especially big messy feelings.” I smiled as he threw my words back at me.

I leaned my head on his shoulder, “He’s a good male.” I whispered.

He pressed his cheek against the top of my head, “You’re a good woman, Y/N.” I felt the shadows swirl around our entwined hands, “You’re a good sister.”

I closed my eyes for a breath moment and let his scent calm me. “I wish that were the truth, Az.” I lifted my heads and gave him a small smile, “What kind of sister lets her twin get her neck snapped?” I yawned and was met with his concerned look, and I waved him off. “So, Mor’s pretty huh?”

Az groaned and leaned his head on the back of the couch, “Have you always been a busy body like this?”

I smiled at him, “For as long as I can remember, Shadowsinger.” I threw his words back at him. “Don’t worry. I won’t press you on it. She is gorgeous but that’s coming from a plain human girl. Everyone here is extremely pretty.” He rolled his eyes but gave her a smile. “I’m heading to bed, the last thing I want is for Cassian to make me run for being late.”

“Or have water splashed on you in bed. He’s notorious for that.” I snorted to myself, “I’ll be joining you guys tomorrow. Not that you mind the alone time with our general.” Heat crept in my face, “I just want to get some training in before I’m heading out again.”

“You’ll be a nice addition.” I bite my lip, “Do you like your position, Az?”

Azriel furrowed his brow, “I do. Why do you ask?”

I shrugged, “It just seems like being Spymaster can be lonely. I know you have known the Inner Circle for centuries, but if you ever want to talk, I’m around.” I blow him a kiss, “Good Night, Spymaster.”

“Good Night, Y/N.”

***

The next morning, I stepped out in the blazing sun to see the two Illyrian’s shirtless and sparring. Sweat coated both of their brows. Two predators were circling around ready to strike and I could not help but stare in awe. Azriel’s eyes flicked to me and back to Cassian whose back was to me his wings tucked back tightly, hair up in a bun. Azriel shifted his features into one of worry and Cassian spun in my direction and he immediately recognized his mistake. Azriel took the opportunity to strike fist hitting the middle of his back, Cassian barely flinched in pain.

He turned back to the Shadowsinger and went in straight for an attack. Punch. Dodge, sweep of the leg, The way Cassian fought was like the way Nesta would dance on the ballroom floor and there was a pang of sadness that hit my chest at the thought of my sister. I wondered if either of them missed me or Feyre. I honestly doubted it as they never really cared of my presence before so my absence would not make a difference doesn’t mean that I didn’t miss them and wished for Elain to brush my hair or Nesta to read me a story like they did when we were small.

A grunt pulled me from those thoughts to find Cassian putting Azriel in a chokehold, Cassian’s wings flared in triumph. “You gonna tap, Az.”

Az smirked and gave me a playful wink, “Not a chance.” Quickly Az stuck his leg and wrapped it around Cassian’s knee and twisted his body and Cassian found himself on his back and Cassian had just enough time to tuck his wings so that it wouldn’t scrape going down. Az in a snap had his hand to Cassian’s throat keeping his wings tucked.

Cassian’s eyes shifted toward me ever so slightly and an idea bloomed in my head. I gave him a wink and made a show of stumbling causing. Azriel didn’t take his eyes off his prey, and I let the world tilt on its access and collapse on the floor the sun blazing on my cheeks and behind my eye lids. I could hear feet shifting and shuffling. A scarred hand grazed my cheek, “Shit, Y/N” Panic laced in his voice, and I opened one of my eyes to see Azriel flaring his wings to block the sun from my face.

Azriel gazed back at me in a daze and Cassian placed him back in a headlock. Azriel eyes shone shock. “Do you yield, Shadowsinger?” I teased a playful smirk gracing my lips.

Azriel reluctantly tapped Cassian’s arms and the General released his friend. “You’re an evil little thing, Archeron.” Azriel rose and walked over to the water station. I remained lying down and enjoyed the sun on my face.

Shadows blocked my sunlight and then Leather and Sandal wood wafted over me. “What a clever little stunt you pulled, Princess.” I opened my eyes to see Cassian, basically touching his nose to mine. His eyes gleamed brightly and there was a sense of pride in his face, a smile wide across his handsome tan face. “Clever wicked, Woman.” He whispered, nudging his nose with mine and I smiled placing my hands on his chest and lightly pushing so I could sit up. He got to his feet and held out a hand,

I placed my hand in his and he hoisted me up and I stood up with such speed I ran into his chest. He wrapped an arm around my waist, to stabilize me, “You, okay?” He asked concern worn on his features.

I nodded and the General released me from his grasp. “I have to say I was hoping you would get what I was trying to do.” He chuckled as he put his shirt back on.

“Oh, he got it alright, He will always find a reason to cheat. Since we were children.” Azriel grumbled. Handing some water to his brother.

Before Cassian could argue Mor ran through the door with urgency, her eyes scouring until her brown eyes locked on mine, “Y/N we have a problem. Tamlin locked Feyre in a manor, she freaked out. Rhys could feel her pain, her fae power erupted. I brought her to Rhys.”

A hand slid around my waist, as the words sank in. “Is she okay?”

Mor’s lips formed in a tight line, “She’s unconscious but we got her out of the manor.”

My hand slid over the one on my waist to ground me. “Where is she?”

“Rhys took her to the House of Wind.”

“Cassian.” I whispered.

Cassian had me in his arms in an instant, “Hang on.” He instructed me and I wrapped my arms around his neck as he shot to the sky. My grip on him tightened and I closed my eyes as the speed we were going made my eyes water.

Time moved slowly even though Cassian was flying at rapid speeds. Feyre was alone when she was abandoned by Tamlin, and I wasn’t there. I am no better than Tamlin leaving her on her own. “Stop.” Cassian gritted. I opened my eyes, “Its not your fault.” He said as he landed on the balcony of one of the rooms. He placed me down and I was about to run find Rhys when his hand gripped my arm, “Princess, listen to me.” I paused, “This. Is. Not. Your fault. Tamlin did this, not you. You don’t need to shoulder this burden.”

I bit my lip and gave him a curt nod; the General released my arm and I darted to go find Rhys. I ran through the hall and followed the pull that I always have for my sister. I slammed open the door and Rhys stood his eyes rimmed red. “Y/N.” His voice was drowned out by my sister’s unconscious body. Her breath rising and falling.

Y/N, she’s fine. She had a major panic attack. She’s just sleeping it off.

I sat at the foot of the bed and gripped my sister’s ankle and rubbed my thumb. Her chest rising and falling in even Rhythm.

“Y/N did you eat?” Rhys asked, his voice hoarse.

“Rhysand.” I whispered and his hand gripped my shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze, “Shut up. I just want to be with my sister.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No. Stay.”

Rhys moved a chair next to the one he was sitting on, a purple lounge chair a chair that could accommodate wings. “That chair is yours when you want to move. I’ll go bring you some food.” I nodded as he walked out and shut the door behind him.

Once the door closed, did I let the tears fall as I squeezed her ankle, “Feyre, I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

I sighed and moved to the chair and sat there while I watched her chest rise and fall afraid if I look away she’s going to stop.

***

I was sitting on the large chair Rhys left for me, my knees tucked to my chest watching the rise and fall of Feyre's chest. I hadn't kept track of the hours and meals missed, just the even breathing of my slumbering sister. I could feel Rhys behind me he had not been able to sit down, and they came back from the Spring Court. I lifted my arm out of my palm open. Rhys slid his hand into mine. "She'll be okay, Rhys."

"I know," His voice was hoarse. I felt his lips abnormally dry on the top of my hand, "Get some sleep. She's not going to wake up anytime soon."

"I'm fine." I leaned my head on the back of the chair.

There was a prolonged silence, Rhys's thumb swiping the top of my hand when there was a knock on the door, and door creaked open and a familiar deep voice filled the room, "Y/N, can I steal you?"

I didn't look at Cassian focused on Feyre's pale gaunt face guilt overriding my system, "No, I won't leave her." The door shut, and Rhys released my hand. Boot thudded on the tile, and I could feel the General's gold flecked eyes on me.

"Princess, you need to sleep."

A tan hand tucked a strand of hair behind me, "I can't leave her. Not when this is my fault." My voice was hollow to my own ears as I reached out and stroked my sisters, overheated cheek and leaning back.

A sigh rang in the room, and strong arms lifted me from the chair, and before I could protest, Cassian was sitting where I was adjusting his wings in a comfortable position and placing me on his lap. “What are you doing?”

His toned, muscled hands tucked me close, and he maneuvered his wings to provide warmth “I know when I’m not going to win a battle. So, I’m compromising.”

The comforting smell of Leather and Sandalwood flooded my nose, and calm and exhaustion ran through my bones. I stilled and whispered, “Why?”

Cassian pressed his forehead to mine and whispered, “You take care of all your loved ones. Someone needs to take care of you. Someone to remind you this is not your fault, and you shouldn't punish yourself because of what happened. Rhys is here. You are not the only one who wants and can take care of your sister." He pulled away, and I finally met his gaze. He patted his shoulder, indicating where I should lay my head, and I obeyed the silent command. "Good, now close your eyes, Princess." I did and let the sounds of the fire pull me under, and I swore I felt gentle lips upon my forehead.

***

Cassian POV

The steady heartbeat of Y/N's chest almost lulls me to sleep when Rhys softly speaks, "I'm going to need you to go to Windhaven."

I softly swore working hard not to wake up the sleeping woman in my arms, "Are you kidding me?"

Rhys looked exhausted and rubbed his face, "We are going to need the Illyrians you'll need to spend some time there to make them more willing to join the cause." I formed a tight line on my lips. "It's bad Cass."

I adjust my arm so that I could cradle Y/N's head as she adjusts and sighs contently. "What about Y/N and Feyre?"

Rhys looked at the woman in my arms, "Y/N will be training with Az he's coming home tomorrow. Feyre, will need time and I'll take care of her. Though Y/N is going to fight me on it."

I chuckled, "Probably. She loves fiercely and she's so protective of the people she loves."

Rhys gives a waned smile, "Just like someone else I know."

"Prick."

"You love me." Rhys leaned against his chair. "Rest Cass, you'll need your strength"

"You too, Rhys." and I took in the sweet Jasmine scent of Y/N and placed my head against the head rest and fell asleep, with Y/N tucked tightly in my arms.

Chapter 6

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#cassian x reader #cassian fanfic #cassian acotar #cassian x you #acotar #acotar fanfiction #rhysand x reader #azriel x reader #archeron sister #cassian imagine #cassian acosf #unwaveringpresence

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tadpolesonalgae · 1 day

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Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 15

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: I became suddenly ill about three days ago and my brain is still quite mushy so I think this has been proofread but there might be some errors here and there I’ll try to iron out once I’m better!! Sorry for any scruples and I hope you enjoy!! 🧡💛

warnings: angst, general depression, violence (self-attempted)

word count: 16,175

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Azriel catches her eye from across the room, weary hazel locking with bright amber that swirls in the faelight of the living room.

His tension is more palpable than usual, the conversation from yesterday with the golden-eyed male only further contributing to the death knell gonging quietly at the back of his mind, creaking through his knees, echoing in each footstep—each breath he takes. Time seems to be dripping by faster, even more so than usual. In the cobwebbed chambers of his mind he’s able to recall a time where days were his chosen measurement, where a twenty-four hour period contained beginning, middle, and end. But as he’d grown older, those chunks had grown with him, his perception of time shifting the more of it he lived through. Soon enough weeks were his days, calculating how much could be done over the period, sleep a small break to be indulged in between work. Then it had shifted to months—twelve to fit everything into, nights morphing into short naps.

Now years feel like days once had, time no longer a steady drip of water from the roof of a dark cell ceiling where he’d been kept locked away from the light, but a steady trickle as it carves its way through stone.

Shadows conceal his absence from the laughter-filled room, removing himself from the uncomfortably bright corner to a place of familiarity, shifting into the darker hallways as he sighs, feet positioned instinctively equidistant, weight spread evenly, fearing one lapse in discipline might bring him back to those days where he knew nothing of fighting, nothing of how to defend himself. To those days where he had to learn relentlessly, practice until his body couldn’t move in desperate attempts to cover the ground he’d lost years to.

Mor enters into the darkness, coming from the yellow-orange light that’s spilling into the blue-purple hallway, heels effortlessly silent upon the floorboards as her nocturnal eyes seek him out. Her features are already serious, easily picking up on his mood despite his efforts to conceal it. The depths of it, at least.

“Az?” Mor asks quietly, expression curious but solemn.

“She’s gone,” he murmurs shortly. Mor’s eyes flash with alarm at the revelation, before her brows tuck together. “What do you mean she’s gone? Where?”

“I don’t know,” he admits grimly. “I paid a visit to one of her friends afternoon yesterday, but he refused to answer anything.”

“What do you mean, she’s gone, Az?” Mor hisses, disbelief sharpening her muffled tone. Azriel grinds his jaw, but relents—this is more important. “I mean, she isn’t at the House of Wind. She left a note saying she would be at Bas’, and would be back but she wasn’t. When I went to get her, she wasn’t there either,” he summarises, expression sombre.

“What else?” Mor asks sternly, the brightness about her having faded faster than a flame extinguished. Azriel licks his lips, bracing himself, before explaining: she has magic but it’s been giving her trouble, she’d wanted to try using it without anyone else knowing and he’d let her, Elain’s vision prophesying his death at her hand.

To Mor’s credit, her features don’t drain entirely of colour, and it takes her no more than a few seconds of heavy silence for her to muster up a response. “What magic?” Mor asks first, keeping her tone quiet but clipped, judgement clear enough she doesn’t need to voice it. And Azriel won’t address it, either. “Her hands could glow a little around the fingertips. We didn’t know what it did, though.”

“And the trouble?”

“It dried her skin out, among other things.” Mor’s lips part, eyes closing briefly as she sighs. “The gloves.” Azriel doesn’t need to provide confirmation for her to have connected the dots.

But then her eyes open, slowly sliding to his, an edge of viciousness underlying their amber cut, one he withstands reluctantly. Mor swallows, jaw tense, watching him. “How long have you known about this?” She asks, lethally softly. Not how long has she had magic, how long has he known. And not told them. “About a fortnight.”

Mor’s eyes gleam with hostility, and his features become stony, walls raising up as she watches him silently. Judgement falling heavy on his shoulders. “Why tell me now?” She asks shortly. She isn’t chewing him out, nor is she outwardly rancorous. Not good a good sign. “Bas won’t tell me where she is,” he replies neutrally, Mor’s eyes flaring as she puts it together. “You want me to ask him.” Azriel nods, despite her already knowing.

She glances at him reproachfully, another look he withstands passively, and then she’s turning sharply on her heel, making back toward the light, back toward the laughter. Silent as a shadow, Azriel catches her upper arm, having to exert surprising force to keep her still. “Where are you going?” He asks coldly.

“Where do you think?” She counters sharply.

“They have enough on their plates,” Azriel mutters. As if on queue, Nyx’s laugher giggles through the halls, a stark contrast to the gloom lurking just beyond the light’s end. Mor snatches her arm away. “You have enough on your plate,” she says lowly, eyes glinting as they cut through him, “we could have made room. You should have told us.” But Azriel stands his ground, not giving an inch. “It was the right call.”

“You have no idea where she is,” Mor counters. “No idea where she is, or what state she might be in. What makes you think that was the right call?”

“You’re questioning my judgement?”

“Yes, I’m fucking questioning your judgement,” she hisses back lowly.

“She told me she didn’t want any of you to know,” he counters coldly, “she’s reclusive anyway, suddenly outing her wouldn’t have done anything helpful.”

The wording seems to strike something in Mor, ire banking, eyes shuttering briefly, before she’s gritting her jaw again. “You should have told us.”

“She barely managed to tell me,” Azriel states, “Elain didn’t even know until the vision that her sister had magic.”

“You know you should have told us.”

“And betrayed her trust when she chose to tell me?” Azriel asks cooly. “You didn’t see how scared she was.”

“Maybe she wasn’t scared of us finding out but of speaking with you.”

Azriel blinks, the only sign of his falter he’ll allow, caught off guard by the accusation. She’s never shown any fear of him before… “She has no reason to be scared of me.” He says finally.

A look of frustration flits through Mor’s amber eyes. “She’s young. This is probably the first time she’s experiencing strong feelings toward someone else,” she says lowly, “surely you can remember what that’s like.” Azriel bristles at the pointed look, the insulting comparison between his past love for Mor and the affection being unwelcomely pushed his way. “She’s infatuated. It happens,” he replies tersely, not taking kindly to the manipulation. “And she went through the war too—she isn’t that unaware. You’re doing her a disservice.”

“The disservice here is you not affording her the care she needs—to the point she’s chosen to run away,” Mor practically spits.

Terse silence stretches between them, sour and resentful.

“We aren’t going to come to an agreement,” Azriel says at last, tone clipped, but both of them know it’s better to move on for now. They can fight it out later, once things are resolved and taken care of. “You speak to Bas first, then we can find out who she’s gone to. She could be anywhere in the Night Court, knowing him.”

“We tell Rhys and Feyre first,” Mor demands lowly. But Azriel shakes his head, “if you want to be the one to tell Feyre her sister is missing and we don’t know where she is, be my guest.”

Silence stretches further, growing tauter by the second, until Mor sighs sharply. “Fine,” she grits out. “Bas first.”

Azriel nods, making to turn around, heading for the door.

“But you are telling Feyre,” Mor hisses lowly. “Whether we find out or not. Tonight.”

Azriel pauses, jaw tightening. But gives a sharp nod.

————

Once again he slinks back to the male’s house, the bright sun lost to winter’s oncoming grip, dark clouds shielding the stars from view.

Despite the silence between them, he can feel Mor’s judgement pressing into him, but he has no time to argue or persuade. After the…discussion, with the male the other day, he’d needed time to plan, regroup his thoughts. Time. Seemingly so sparse, as of late. He could afford little more than twenty-four hours of inaction before a decision would have to be made—he hadn’t come this far by sitting around aimlessly when faced with a hard choice. It seemed the only reasonably way forward would be to acquiesce to the male’s demand, as much as Azriel despised so. It was the smarter option.

The other would have been to lay hands on him, and no matter how urgent the matter was, the male was still a civilian, and untrained for war, at that. Violence was entirely out of the question.

He knocks thrice on the door, sharp and punctuated hits to alert the male of company, before stepping back to allow space for Mor.

Gleaming golden eyes pierce out into the darkness, and Azriel knows he doesn’t miss the hint of smugness in their gilded depths as he marks the presence of another, as he’d requested. To verify his claim that there were indeed urgent matters afoot. Azriel refuses to show even a hint of irritation, keeping his face cold and passive—Bas won’t get the satisfaction of seeing him riled. He’d have to work much harder for that.

“You’re back late,” Bas drawls from the warm glow of his house, once again leaning cockily against the broad wooden frame, ankles crossed, one foot keeping the door held to—away from prying eyes. “And you’ve brought company,” he muses, glancing to Mor at his side. The female steps forward, the yellowy-orange light from inside making her glow as she offers a tight smile. “Bas, correct?” Golden eyes sweep over her analytically, before he nods, shifting slightly. “Mor,” he acknowledges, “she mentioned you, too.” No signs of surprise mar her open expression, kept sealed beneath that deceptive mask she can wear to charm at any time.

“That’s why we came to see you, actually,” Mor begins calmly, straightforward. “I’m of the understanding you know her whereabouts, but are unwilling to disclose them for various reasons.”

“That’s right,” he replies slowly, expression shifting to something more wary. His provocative nature shying away from perceived earnestness. “She doesn’t want any visitors.”

Mor nods her head gently, understanding shimmering faintly in amber eyes, threads of her hair catching the golden glow of inner light, glinting with the motion. “I can understand that, but this is very important,” she says sincerely, worry shining in her face Azriel know she doesn’t have to fake. Still the male remains cautious in the doorway. “Azriel wasn’t lying when he told you this conflicts with Court matters,” Mor begins slowly, and the shadowsinger tamps down on the urge to glance at her warily. Though he knows she won’t reveal anything, there’s no need to offer scraps. “I’m afraid there’s little I can honestly tell you due to their private nature, but nonetheless I would like to speak with you about her. She is a part of our family, and we are deeply concerned about her. I’m sure you can understand our worry.”

Quiet pauses long enough to take a deep breath, before resuming to its consistent noise.

Eventually, Bas nods his head, standing straighter. A grain of tension is released from his shoulders as the male opens his door, yielding to a conversation. He makes to step forward, but sharp golden eyes flick to him, piercing and accusing in their nature. “I’ll speak with Mor, and Mor alone,” he states clearly, an edge of provocation creeping back into his features, though the Shadowsinger doubts its sincerity.

But Mor nods her head, “that’s fine,” she answers, brushing past his side, pulling the cold night air with her, a whisper of icy breath grazing his side as she moves forward, leaving him out in the dark. “Don’t move from here until we’re done,” Mor instructs from over her shoulder once Bas has disappeared from the entrance hall. Azriel nods, understanding the implication.

Listen in from outside.

————

The room she follows Bas into is cozy, well-kept. Clearly lived in.

The pillows of the sofas are slightly worn, slightly faded in colour, waned down to more earthy tones that compliment the pale terracotta of the walls. Fire crackles from the hearth, dried rosemary hung from the ceiling beams, as well as other dried herbs and plants. On the wall are some paintings, mostly stills, but they’re watery around their edges, faded colour bleeding over fine, distinct ink lines.

Bas takes a seat that seems to fit him comfortably, likely one he usually chooses, while Mor opts for one nearby, a quilt thrown over its back, squares of purple, blue, turquoise, and magenta knitted together, and she can make out small patches in the yarn where its been run thin and had to be darned with slightly mismatched thread.

“So,” Bas starts, quieter than she had expected, sitting forward in her chair, attentive. “You’re worried about her. Why?” It’s hard to conceal her frown at such a strange question, but she doesn’t really try to. She doubts she’ll get anywhere through masking her reactions. “She’s part of our family,” Mor replies, “why wouldn’t we be worried about her.” Bas settles deeper into his chair, hands braced on arms, head tilted back into the pillow as he watches her intently. It’s not an expression she’s unfamiliar with, but not one she had expected to encounter here—something wary and deeply protective.

“She doesn’t speak much about any of you,” he hedges slowly, keeping his posture relaxed. “But it’s enough. You aren’t as close knitted as family.” Mor opens her mouth to speak, but he continues. “Even if you try to be,” he says, nodding, “she isn’t easy to get to.” Mor closes her mouth, lips pursing in a tight line. He sighs, shifting in his seat, pushing a thick loc of hair from his face, hooking it over a thoroughly pierced ear. “I believe that you’re concerned about her, and that you truly want to help,” he says heavily, attitude shifted from how he’d been outside, and Mor wonders what Bas might have been told about the Shadowsinger to warrant such ice.

“We do,” she urges sincerely, and Bas nods again, hearing her.

“What I…worry about,” he starts hesitantly, forming the words carefully, considering each one. “I worry you don’t understand her enough to make an informed call,” he settles on, and Mor bristles a little. How long has Bas known her for? Does he know her more than Mor does? “What leads you to that way of thinking?” She asks, keeping the stiffness from her tone.

“I know you don’t see her much,” he replies simply, and again Mor’s lips purse. “She doesn’t enjoy…full, settings. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care, though.” He sighs, eyes briefly closing, before reopening with a fresh intensity, sitting upright in his chair, forearms braced on his thighs. “Do you know how we met? Me and her?”

Mor’s brow dips, but she answers anyway, curious where he’s going with this. “Through Nesta, right?” Bas nods, something passing through his eyes at the right answer. “Right,” he confirms, “making time to visit those stuffy inns, filled with groping hands—she hates places like that.” Bas sighs again, hand rubbing one side of his face. “I don’t even know if it helped at all, but I know she felt it was all she could do. Even if it was just company, and nothing material. Even if it might not’ve had an overall impact, that was her way of trying to help.”

Mor remains quiet, not seeing what he’s trying to say.

Bas shakes his head, as if telling her to forget about it, again rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, I don’t even know if I can speak on her behalf, and I like to think we’re fairly close with one another,” he admits, sighing heavily. “I don’t want to mislead you.”

“So you’ll let me where she’s gone?” Mor asks, concern heavy in her voice, making no effort to conceal her worry. She watches as the pads of his fingers rub over his eyes wearily, as she wonders if this is straining on him more than he’s letting on. “Try to understand her, when she talks,” he requests quietly, eyes still shut, fingers rubbing faintly. “She still confuses me sometimes, and she never shows if it bothers her, but I can’t imagine someone being okay with being misunderstood.”

“Bas,” Mor urges gently, sensing he’s on the verge of telling her whereabouts. “Please tell us where she’s gone. We don’t want her to feel alone.”

Bas doesn’t look up, face still covered by his hands, but Mor can make out the tightness of his brows, torn between his decisions. So close to cracking open.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

Mor blinks, eyes locking with gold as he looks at her through his fingers, fatigue obvious beneath his gaze, the lines more pronounced as the flame casts the shadows of his digits across his features, deepening the half circles that have appeared.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Mor asks, biting down on shock, clearing it entirely from her voice. “She didn’t tell me,” he answers quietly.

Silence stretches, and even in the haze and confusion that’s been stirred up she has enough clarity to feel the piercing weight of a glare through a window, heavy and accusing. Tension crackles in her spine, flipping her golden hair over a shoulder, a subtle message to piss off to the shadows that are watching from outside.

She sighs heavily, meeting the golden eyes of the male opposite her, now sat back in his chair as he was before, but his back is slumped, as if containing all that worry had been stretching him taut. Relieved to no longer be the sole barer of her secrets. “Do you—…” Mor eases in a sharp breath, settling the worry and gradually increasing panic that’s tightening around her throat. She swallows, pulling herself together. Recomposing herself. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” She asks calmly. “Anything could help.”

But Bas shakes his head, guilt clear in his golden eyes. “She didn’t give me any hints. But she had a bag with her, so I’m guessing she had somewhere in mind and didn’t just aimlessly wander off.”

Mor nods, getting to her feet, golden eyes tracking her movements. “Thank you for telling me,” she says sincerely, before turning for the door.

“I know that leaving in the middle of the night without telling anyone where you’re going seems rash—maybe even a bit stupid,” Bas says after her, voice a little clearer to catch her attention. “But she’s smart. I’d wager it was probably something she’d had in the back of her mind for a while.”

Mor swallows thickly, the possibility not sitting well with her, but nods nonetheless.

“I’ll let you know when we find her.”

————

Azriel waits sullenly in the front garden for Mor to exit the male’s house, darkening the doorstep he’d been instructed to remain in until she was done.

He watches the door open and close, Mor stepping out into the night air, latch clicking softly as it locks behind her, and the two make their way silently at first down the garden path, back into the street before they begin communicating. “That certainly didn’t take long,” he muses lowly, glancing at her sidelong. “I take it you heard everything?” She asks quietly, tension clear in the cold bite of her usually honeyed voice. Azriel gives a brisk nod, and Mor sighs. “What now?”

“There are only so many places she could have gone to,” Azriel replies smoothly, mind already running through the possibilities. Honestly, Bas not knowing almost helps more—it has to be someone she knows. There are only two places she could have possibly run off to, though neither of them seem particularly believable. That being thought, he knows where he’ll check first.

“You have an idea?” Mor asks tightly, a bit of a bite to her question. Azriel nods grimly, “Elain mentioned a fox in her vision,” he explains, “apparently they grow close—enough to make a bargain of some sort, anyway.”

“Elain saw the bargain in her vision?” Mor questions. Azriel nods. “We don’t know if that’s symbolism or not,” she mutters, “we have no idea how accurate they are, either. Nor how soon they’ll come to pass.” Her tone softens toward the end a little, but Azriel isn’t willing to speak about that part of the prophecy yet. That he will be dying. Probably soon, going off how vivid Elain’s descriptions were—as if it were urgent. Impending.

“And you’re sure Elain doesn’t know where she’s gone?” Mor asks, keeping her gaze ahead, brows pulled together in concentration, a glint in her warrior’s eyes. “She might do,” Azriel sighs, “they are close, after all. And the fox…”

“Could be Lucien,” Mor finishes heavily. “You think she’s run to the mortal lands. Back to her home.” Azriel remains silent, keeping pace as they return silently to the River House.

Piercing amber eyes dig into the side of his skull, the intensity of her attention almost startling if he hadn’t had centuries to grow accustomed to it. He senses the question, just as she could sense he was holding something back.

Azriel doesn’t look at her as he speaks, “there’s only one other person the fox might represent.”

Even without visuals, he can hear how her pace nearly falters, then comes to a stop. He pauses with her, at last turning to face the golden haired female. Her skin is paler, even taking the silver of the moon into account. “You think she might have gone to Eris?” She asks, voice thick, but quiet. No more than a breath of wind. “I think it’s one of the two. There’s no one else it could be.”

“She’s only met him once,” Mor snaps lowly, nails digging into her palms. Azriel makes a show of shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “It’s one or the other,” he says calmly, “if she isn’t in the Mortal lands…”

Mor stares at him, amber eyes drained a little. “You really think there’s a chance he could have…taken her?” She practically spits, unable to keep the hiss out of her voice. Because when it comes to that long ago trauma, her only responses to fall back on are fear, or anger. He doubt she’ll allow the vulnerability of fear right now. Not with the tension between them. “I think it’s better to question Elain first to see if she knows anything. If she doesn’t, I’ll make my way down Prythian.”

Mor blinks, realising the situation. She had demanded Azriel be the one to tell Feyre, regardless of whether they find anything or not. But with the new possibility of her having somehow found herself in the Autumn Court…Mor’s throat rolls heavily. She can’t bring herself to go there. Even now, the thought alone…she pushes against the urge to settle her palm over her abdomen. “We question Elain first,” she manages quietly, and Azriel can see how she’s gathering herself back together.

Instinct is the closest it comes to, that feeling she’s somehow run off to the Autumn Court, like a tug toward the unfamiliar land. Surely Elain would have mentioned something to him about a plan for her sister to leave when she’d been telling him about the vision. It’s the option that makes the most sense, for her to have spoken with Elain, and used a tunnel to reach the border quickly. With all the books she’s read in the library…the kind of things they contain, he doesn’t doubt she’d be more than capable of figuring a way to sneak out of the Night Court. To sneak out of Prythian if she set her mind to it.

Mor nods, and Azriel redirects his attention to the street, continuing the pace. “Question Elain,” she murmurs, “then head to Autumn first. If she isn’t there, go to the Lower Lands. Be as quick as possible.” He nods, admittedly relieved he won’t have to yet face Rhys for the mess he’s inadvertently caused.

————

“Eris, I’m tired,” you sigh, hands aching, sitting dejectedly on a tree stump.

As much as you’d protested, he’d dragged you back out into the forest, where everything feels encased in a glass bubble. It’s hard to explain when you think about it, but it’s like being in another world, how easily the trees sweep away and redirect noise. Hairs prickle at the back of your neck as you remember the giant, boar-like creature that had rampaged upon you mere days ago. The sight and smell of steaming blood as skin slid from flesh, melted apart.

“You haven’t even done anything,” he mutters, watching. “Get back up.”

You sigh heavily, reluctantly getting to your feet, then blinking heavily, suddenly crouching down as you press your palms to your eyes, trying to steady yourself from the abrupt dizziness that had ballooned into your head. Lips part as you try to concentrate on your breathing, wishing away the sudden feeling of unevenness beneath your feet. Eventually it passes, a few extra moments spent crouched for good measure, before you slowly stand back up, hand pressing to the side of your head. Cutting whiskey and amber eyes are piercing into you from across the clearing. You scowl back.

“What was that?” He asks, disapprovingly, your scowl deepening at the tone.

“I told you: I’m tired,” you snap, but it lacks the bite you’d wished for, fatigue building into a slow but heavy pulse inside your head, just above and behind your brows. A yawn rises from your chest, and you cover your mouth as it stretches you open, eyes squeezing shut, watering a little before you slump back into your usual posture, no longer pulled taut by your muscles.

His sharp eyes narrow accusingly, and you bristle at the look, trying to summon up the energy to glare at him. “Did you eat breakfast this morning?” He asks sharply, and you grimace, knowing he won’t approve of the answer. But you really don’t have the energy to lie, either. “No, I didn’t,” you sigh, “I was feel sick.” Something flickers behind his eyes, but it’s gone too quickly for you to even attempt to recognise. “You were probably feeling sick from hunger,” he mutters, as if it’s obvious, arms folding over his chest, leaning back against a tree. “Using magic can take up a lot of energy, even if it doesn’t feel like it. You should have—”

“I know the difference,” you hiss, lip twitching up in the beginnings of a snarl, before once again flattening out, and you sit back on the stump, uncaring if it pisses him off. You hope it does.

“Do you?” He muses, a bladed edge to his tone that has your stomach tightening, glancing at him warily from across the clearing. You tense as he pushes off from the tree, then vanishes, and you jump as he appears on your other side, peering down at you, unimpressed. “You know how to tell when your magic is draining you? Because those are some pretty big steps to have made seemingly overnight.” Your lips purse, averting your gaze, sullenly looking away. “That’s what I thought.”

“I know the difference between hungry sickness and—” you falter, but manage to finish the sentence, “…and being unwell.”

Eris pauses, and you want to meet his gaze and glare at him, but your head just feels too heavy on your shoulders, and the general fatigue hasn’t been aided by the light sheen of sweat that’s been layering your body each morning, before you’ve wobbly stumbled to the washroom, clutching your stomach. You’ve yet to actually regurgitate anything though—your one blessing. It’s like those initial months after the Cauldron all over again.

“Look at me,” he instructs, and you glare at the ground, irritation growing in your chest. It wouldn’t hurt him to be a little more gentle with his attitude. His demeanour, in general. A curse sits, unspoken, at the tip of your tongue when he grips your jaw, angling your chin upward so he can examine you. Again your lips twitch in a slight snarl, but the energy fails quickly. Amber eyes sweep over your features, and you avert your gaze when his own settle intensely on yours. He releases you after a too-long moment, allowing you your space again, and you glare at him. “What was that for?”

“You look worse than usual,” he answers flatly.

You glare at him resentfully, unable to muster up the laugh you usually would whenever he makes a comment like that. Instead you just feel irritated. His brows narrow further, “how much have you been sleeping recently?” He pushes. You shrug, briefly glancing away.

“A normal amount. I’m fine, just let me sit down, it’s not that big of an issue if I’m not standing, right?”

“Are you coming up for your cycle?”

The bones in your hands creak, groaning with strain and you hiss as pain flares weakly beneath your gloves at your fingertips. You tuck your hands under your arms, trying to soothe their sting as you glare at him. “Do not ask me that,” you snap, legs crossing on the tree stump. You half expect his lips to quirk at the easily given reaction, but his brow dips a little. “You don’t have to give me a direct answer,” he says at last, a touch gentler than before, but still stern. “Just answer if it could be related.”

You hesitate at the tone, jaw still tight with tension, but you swallow thickly. “No,” you manage quietly, “not for another few months, at least.”

“Then as much as you disagree, it would be a good idea to eat first, then see if you improve,” he replies, back to his usual drawl, laced with distaste. Enough to almost have your lips curving a little at their edges. “So we’ll be going back to have lunch right this second,” you muse, glancing up at him, “and you aren’t going to set some stupid challenge for me to fulfil beforehand. Right? Because that would be very impractical.”

His amber eyes glint with something you’ve decided is the closest he’ll get to open amusement, brow raising slightly. “Why waste a good motive?” He counters, “looks like you’re catching on.” You force a groan, if only in attempts to lighten the mood from whatever dark grave it had settled into, and you reluctantly get to your feet, taking it slow incase your head starts swimming again. “What is it this time?” Eris nods to the tree that looks to have been recently cut down, the counterpart to the trunk you’re sat upon. “I want you to try touching the bark,” he instructs, and you look at him quizzically. Seems easy enough.

You watch him questioningly as you stand and make your way over to the tree, putting your hands down.

“Done?” You say slowly, confusion blatant in the furrow of your brows as you stare at him.

Eris stares at you blankly, before raising his palm to cover the lower portion of his features, concealing his mouth. “Using your magic,” he adds disbelievingly, mouth still covered.

You blink, then flush with embarrassment, hand covering your own mouth as laughter bubbles up from your chest. “Oh,” you manage, shoulders shaking lightly, not helped by the matching amusement reflecting in his amber eyes—amusement he’s struggling to conceal. “I thought—” you break off, a smile stretching wide behind your palm, chest stuttering with mirth. “I thought you meant I just had to touch it.” He shakes his head, seemingly beyond speech. “You want to see how the bark reacts when I touch it with my magic,” you clarify, nodding your head, still trying to tamp down the laughter that’s heating your eyes faintly. He confirms with a slight nod of his head, and you take a deep breath, trying to sober up. “I see,” you nod again, at last recovered enough to lower your hands to remove your gloves, a smile still faintly curving your lips. “I’ll give it a go.”

“Why would I ask you to touch a tree?” Eris asks from somewhere at your back, tone almost settled back to his usual drawl, dripping of disapproval. “I’m tired,” you reply, not nearly as practiced as he is at keeping your tone neutral as you glance at him over your shoulder, “you should have clarified better.” Eris shakes his head, before nodding to the tree trunk.

You take in a breath, returning to look at the bark—what would happen if you touched it?

Closing your eyes briefly, you steady out your breaths, inhaling slow and deep, feeling your shoulders lose their tension before reopening your eyes. Focusing on the bark again now that you’re settled. “What should I do?” You ask, not taking your gaze from the tree or your hands.

“Try thinking about different things, exploring how they make you feel,” he replies steadily. How helpful, you think, but leave the comment unvoiced—you’re trying to concentrate. You think about how the light had appeared before, when he’d gotten you to briefly sustain it. It had hurt at first, you’d had the chance to realise, but after the initial rush of pain, the creak of bones and your groaning carpals, it had faded more into a slight tingle, like your fingers had fallen asleep, wrapped in a vague warmth.

You swallow thickly, thinking about the flat-topped ring in your pocket, the absence of weight in your ears, how they correlate. You don’t regret the decision to sell them off, to your slight surprise. More indifferent to the change, if not slightly excited at your choice. Doing something for yourself, on your own, that nobody knew about. It’s nice, having secrets.

“Now press them to the bark,” Eris instructs, and you look down in surprise to spot the faint greenish-gold glow weaving between your fingers—almost like fish slowly weaving throughout water as they struggle upstream, but less frenetic. Slowly, keeping your breathing steady, you press your palms against the bark, palms shaking slightly as the light flickers, almost flinching slightly as it hesitantly makes contact with the new surface.

You jerk away when something lances up your wrist, stinging pain spearing beneath your skin as the tang of copper bursts in the air. The magic extinguishes in an instant, snuffed out with a single recoiling thought, and your breathing loses its pattern as you glance down at your right palm. What looks like a popped blister sits on the heel of your hand, except the liquid that gleams had a red tint to it, mixed with blood. You sigh heavily, left hand holding your right wrist lightly, thumb pressing the flesh just below the blister, watching as blood rises to the surface. The skin around it is flakier than before, a little discoloured, and you spot a mole at the knuckle of your little finger, poking meekly out from the skin, as if worried over being spotted and pulled away.

Eris walks up to your side, glancing down at the bark, the absence of any sort of change. It looks exactly the same. “I guess nothing happened,” you hedge, glancing warily down at the tree, searching for some kind of change.

Eris is quiet, and you at last turn to peer up at him, wondering what he’s thinking. His silence is waring. Amber eyes latch with your own, narrowed and slightly impatient, before the emotion is swiftly wrapped away. “I had hoped to make more progress,” he muses lowly, and you regard him with caution at the hushed tone. His eyes gleam with something you can’t figure out, wariness intensifying as he pulls something from his pocket—a small silk pouch.

You tilt your head, brows furrowed, “what is that?”

His lips sharpen at the edges, and tension coils beneath your skin—that type of expression is never good. “Open it,” he instructs simply, and you cautiously take it from his fingers, eyeing him again before carefully pulling the strings open, tipping the contents out into your palm. You blink as you take in the smooth band of metal, silver and gleaming against the flaws of your skin. “A…ring?” You ask, peering up at him questioningly. He nods, and you suppress your jolt when his fingers brush over your knuckles, plucking the band up and watching you intently as he smoothly slides it down to the base of the pointer finger on your left hand.

His demeanour has noticeably shifted, and your brows narrow further, suspicion roiling in your gut.

“It’ll help with keeping your magic calmer,” he explains lowly, secretively, and you manage a nod, confusion running rampant in your blood stream. “How so?” You ask, glancing down at the band, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist to keep you from moving. “You have a habit of straining yourself to keep the full force of your power from coming out,” he answers, thumb brushing your knuckle, and this time you glare up at him. His mouth only sharpens, amber eyes glinting with something that has the hairs raising at the nape of your neck. “I’m sure you’re familiar with how the Illyrians use siphons—so their raw type of magic doesn’t destroy everything around them?” You nod, tension lessening, again glancing down to the band. “Think of it like that—now you don’t have to waste concentration on keeping it all in check.”

He releases your hand, and you pull it closer to look at the silver, angling your head a little, understanding this must have been what that exchange had been about, when he’d gone down that dim, dark alleyway into the hidden chamber. “So it’s…a magic ring?” You ask, brows scrunched together as you look up at him. He raises a brow, “how astute of you.” You glare, lips curving faintly at the familiar intonation.

You swallow, stepping back a little, nodding your head. “I guess…” you breathe deeply, “as good a time as any.” You pull the flat-topped ring from your own pocket, and extend it toward him. “I saw this the other day in the market,” you say honestly, watching as his expression shifts, brow raising as he opens his palm. “It reminded me of you a little, and I probably won’t see you over the solstice anyway, so might as well give it to you now.”

Eris takes the ring, examining it, the small carving of the fox set in sterling silver. “A rather unique gift,” he muses, making the edges of your mouth curve.

“If you hate it, you don’t have to wear it,” you say, smiling lightly, “I just wanted to get it.” Though to your surprise, he doesn’t seem to despise it, sliding it over the thumb of his right hand—it seems to actually fit.

That viper’s smile returns to his sharpened mouth, eyes glinting again. “I don’t think your family would approve of a gift like this,” he drawls, more clearly than before, causing you to cock your head in question.

Lips fashion themselves into a razor-sharp grin, the expression more vulpine than fae.

“Isn’t that right, Shadowsinger?”

————

Eris raises his gaze to the forest, how the trees had whispered to him, calling out about the figure stalking their movements. Really, the shadowsinger should know not to hunt outside his own territory. The hulking, shadowy figure steps silently out into the clearing, with a quiet that’s been well-earned by the Spymaster of the Night Court.

Powerful wings are pulled to his body in traditional Illyrian fashion, save for the darkness wreathing the gleaming talons at their peaks, cold hazel eyes clashing with Eris’ own. Marking what the Spymaster has come for. It’s proximity to the male he hates viciously, bloodily, gruesomely.

“Shouldn’t you know not to sneak around in the shadows by now?” Eris drawls, hands settling around its shoulders, feeling stone-tight tension beneath his palms. Its magic fading, unable to winnow two people away, so left trapped in the clearing as the male prowls closer.

“Eris,” the Spymaster greets coldly, darkness unspooling upon the ground he treads, coming to a stop at the edge of the clearing. Not close enough for hand-to-hand combat, but too nearby for a proper display of magic. At least he’s smart enough to recognise he’s at a disadvantage in a foreign court—uninvited, at that. “Shouldn’t you know the consequences of displacing a member of Rhys’ court?” The Spymaster questions, lethally quiet.

Tremors flutter beneath Eris’ hands, still gripping her shoulders to keep her in place, and he glances down, only to find her already watching him. If it weren’t for the tremors, she would be as still as death. Her brows lifted and slightly curved, mouth pointed down at the edges. Betrayal stark in her normally bright eyes.

“You’re clearly uninformed,” Eris muses, pulling away from her scared eyes to meet cutting hazel. “This is a perfectly amicable meeting, isn’t it, cygnet?”

The Spymaster’s canines flash at the pet-name, the blatant taunt, the insinuation he’s made that she would choose himself over the Spymaster. That well-concealed wrath suffers a blow when she raises her hands to grip his wrists, nothing demanding about the touch—it’s a weak hold. As if asking for attention.

“Amicable or not,” the Spymaster says, expression stony, “you’ll return her. Unless you want Rhys to know about this abduction?” Eris shrugs, amusement sharpening his mouth as he selects his words carefully, “I’m not her keeper. She will return when she likes.” By the looks of it, the arrow lands, pupils constricting as the Spymaster takes a menacing step closer.

————

Your ears have hollowed out, stomach swallowing your heart. A quiet kind of panic tightening through your chest, pulse spiking. Dread sluicing through the rope holding you taut.

You’re staring up at him, holding on with as much strength as you can manage as a strange emotion rushes through your blood, softening your muscles until you’re struggling to stand, pushing every pleading word you’ve ever read into your eyes, silently begging for him to do something. To keep you from facing him on your own.

You know how easy it is for him to shatter you.

Amber eyes lower to yours, walls risen against Azriel’s presence, and your fingers stutter over the cuffs of his tunic, before the last of your strength drains. They’re glinting again with that challenge, and in the very back of your mind you can understand he’s using this as just another training exercise, but it’s hard to focus on through the ringing in your ears, that strange quiet that’s so loud it drowns out every other thought, like a thousand whispers hissing instructions too swiftly, too viciously for you to make them out, coming together in a swirling spiral that’s pulling you under.

Eris’ mouth is moving, eyes peering at something behind you, but you’re fine not hearing. Would prefer to fade from the world, to slip away quietly, unnoticed and un-missed. But then amber again returns to you, and with it sound comes crashing in too. “Pack up,” Eris orders, and you blink, his hands tightening on your shoulders as he feels the slight sway of your body.

“She’ll take a while,” Eris drawls, glancing back at the Shadowsinger—your stomach lurches—who remains a heavy presence at your back. “You may be unwelcome, but let’s not waste this opportunity. Using your General’s absence as an excuse not to meet has lost its worth. You will suffice.”

————

You feel half-awake as you pack your things, watching from some far away place as you fold clothes meticulously, with much more care than you usually would, taking your time gathering the few items you brought.

Clothes, an empty blue box, the thickly bound volume. A thin wooden box about the length of your arm, a note attached atop.

Use it wisely.

You pack the box in your bag, recognising the elegant script.

————

Azriel had followed silently, concealed within Eris’s shadow as he’d strode through the stretching hallways, leading the way to his own chambers, where they will be able to speak freely and most importantly, privately. Tension had simmered beneath his war-roughened skin the entire time, disliking even having to blend his shadows with the heirling’s, but it’s an intimacy he’s forced to yield.

The room Eris takes him to is big, to say the least, and open, with a large bed against a wall, a wooden chest at its foot, his desk adjacent so natural light fills the cavernous room—one that’s above ground. It’s here he emerges from shadow, filling space just beside the large wooden chest, an unlit fire quite a way to his left. Eris takes his time walking around the desk, sitting down comfortably, having the nerve to look relaxed—prick.

“So,” Eris begins, and Azriel bites against the urge to grind his teeth at the smug tone. “She ran away from you. Took her long enough.”

“How long have you been planning this?” Azriel asks coldly, completing a triple check of the room, making sure there’s no one else around. “You act like it was my idea,” the autumn heir drawls, successfully snaring his attention, something foul rising at the back of his throat at the implication. Likely the confirmation he needs that she had indeed left of her own volition. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“You want me to believe she came all this way on a hope that you’d provide temporary asylum?” Azriel asks, rooting deeper. “She has a smart head on her shoulders,” Eris drawls, amusement glinting in sharp, amber eyes, “she knows how to bargain.”

His blood ices over, skin turning cold at the wording, demeanour plunging as his shadows deepen. “You made a bargain with her?” Azriel growls, pulse spiking. If a bargain has already been made… But Eris waves his hand, enough of a light dismissal for Azriel to figure she hasn’t mentioned Elain’s vision to him. One small ray of light amongst the storming thunder clouds she’s already brought upon herself.

“Do you find it so unbelievable that she might be capable of making arrangements on her own? Why do you assume I had any hand in it?” Eris drawls, making that glittering rage sharpen into razor-tipped icicles, poised to carve and slice. “You’re a conniving bastard,” Azriel says lowly, violence glinting in his hazel eyes, “she wouldn’t have come to you without some prompting.”

“You think I tricked her?” Eris muses, a trace of humour in his tone, Azriel’s brows narrowing with detestation. “What would I get out of that, unless she was complicit? I have no way of forcing her magic out of her, she has to want that on her own—as much as that might irritate Rhys.”

Loathing simmers in Azriel’s chest, but he remains quiet, allowing Eris to talk so he can gather as much information as he can from both sides. So he can compare her side with his later.

“I’m sure after Nesta Archeron, Rhys would be eager to find out what other weapons he might have at his disposal.”

“She isn’t a weapon,” Azriel snarls lowly, fury held back by straining iron manacles.

“But she could become one,” Eris counters, tone shifting to something more serious, and Azriel stiffens. “The timing’s a bit strange, don’t you think? Her magic only now coming through? After two years?”

“That’s not for you to speculate on.”

“Even without an alliance, it is a matter of concern,” Eris growls, brows narrowing as ire blazes in his eyes, glowing like freshly forged steel. “Why doesn’t she know anything?”

Azriel growls in warning, violence itching at his fingers, fists aching to slam down. Sparks crackle in the air, his own intentions seemingly reflected in the male before him. “You don’t have the luxury to ignore this pathway,” Eris growls lowly, “choosing to turn a blind eye would be damning.”

“She has her own problems to deal with,” Azriel snarls lowly, “you do not get to make that call.”

“I will make the call if Rhys doesn’t,” Eris snarls back, canines flashing viciously, “she could use some toughening up.”

“You don’t know enough to make an informed choice,” Azriel mutters coldly.

“Then Rhys had better hurry up. It’s not as though he’s unaccustomed to having to make decisions like this. What’s taking him so long?”

Azriel keeps still, features neutral, refusing to let even a hint of emotion appear in his blank expression.

Eris’ eyes narrow, sensing he’s being denied information. Vulpine senses picking up on a weak spot. Unnervingly keen. Then he blinks, leaning back in his chair, torso losing tension. “You haven’t told him.” Despite the utter neutrality, Azriel knows he’s figured it out. The heirling nods, a cynical curve to his sharpened mouth. “She didn’t give the impression she’d willingly display her failures to you.”

“They aren’t failures,” Azriel mutters, ice burning in his eyes as he watches Eris with a glacial look.

“No? Because the control over her magic was pretty pathetic to me,” Eris replies lowly.

Azriel snarls, low and threatening, shadows concentrating into a darkness worthy of the Night Court’s Spymaster, deep and deadly as they writhe in warning. “I didn’t realise she had you so tightly wrapped around her flaky little finger,” Eris croons, and darkness rears back, preparing to strike, when three quiet taps are landed to the door, meagre and unimposing.

————

You peek your head into his chambers, bag slung over your shoulder as you pause on the threshold.

Tension is blatant in Azriel’s shoulders, wings slightly flared, an icy emotion tucked between the stern set of his brows, shadows darker—more frenetic—than they usually are. Looking over to Eris, you can see how he’s leaned back in his chair, that taunting glint in his naturally piercing gaze, and you can guess fairly easily the conversation they were having was not a friendly one—even without the aid of body language.

Maybe they were discussing Court matters.

“I—…Should I wait out—”

“Come in,” Eris orders, cutting you off, and your brows narrow a little at the tone, before softening out again, remembering who else is present. You shut the door behind yourself, turning your back to them to make sure it clicks shut quietly, then walking further into the room, stood a little distance from Azriel, not wanting to encroach on his space while he’s surely furious with you. At the very least immensely disappointed.

“Took you long enough,” Eris drawls, bringing your attention away from Azriel to meet his cutting gaze. Well, your eyes meet his. It’s practically impossible to not focus on the male at your right. You’re not sure if you're imagining the displeasure rippling from him, but you can only hope Eris hasn’t intentionally stirred things up. You know you won’t be able to protect yourself against whatever words he has for you after your abrupt departure.

“You haven’t left any tatters behind?” Eris asks, and a slight scowl dips your brows.

“I have everything,” you reply, readjusting the strap of the bag on your shoulder.

“Excellent. Then you can leave.”

You blink at the abrupt dismissal, glancing at him warily. “Weren’t you discussing something?” You ask Eris hesitantly, cautious about prodding where you aren’t welcome. “We were,” Eris replies, a viper’s smile on his sharp lips, amber eyes cutting to the male at your right. “But it appears your Spymaster doesn’t think you’re trustworthy enough.” It’s obviously a manipulation of truth, but that doesn’t make it easy to hear, heart hollowing out, spine losing a bit of rigidity.

“And who could blame him,” Eris continues, “you haven’t exactly been particularly honest with him, have you, cygnet?”

Your lips purse, averting your eyes from both of them, peering at the floorboards to your left, shame tightening around your throat. “Seems logical enough,” you say quietly, managing to keep your voice steady. You’d rather vanish right then and there, wiped clean from memory and existence than allow a tremor into your voice.

You’ve gotten yourself into this situation. Self-pity won’t fix anything.

“Then that is that,” Eris muses, pulling you from your thoughts. Azriel shifts, not saying another word to either of you as he makes for the door, and you glance at Eris a little longer, searching for a way back. He quirks a taunting brow, resting his jaw on his right hand, the flat-topped band of sterling silver catching the light with the motion. Your thumb brushes the ring on your own finger, before you turn, making for the door where Azriel’s waiting to take you back.

Back to the Night Court.

Back to Velaris.

Back to your family.

Back to be judged.

————

It was unnerving how alone you’d felt on the way out of the palace. Even knowing he was present, slipping through shadows, you couldn’t sense a single thing, and on more than one occasion had glanced around, worriedly trying to find him—but nothing.

It wasn’t until you passed the walls, heading out into the forest again that he emerged—silent and looming—unable to hear his footsteps even when he was right beside you. Unnervingly ghost-like.

You wait for him to speak, to say whatever it is that’ll inevitably bring tears to your skin, but he’s completely silent, leading the way. Knowing you’ll follow behind. Knowing you won’t speak to him until he initiates.

You’d been brought here by winnowing, but he makes no move to wrap either of you in his shadows, and a small part of you whispers that he wouldn’t want you to contaminate them. You try to ignore that part, but even the quietest voice will be heard over silence. Instead the tales spin deeper, that he hadn’t even wanted to retrieve you, content to have you out of the way, out of the Night Court, away from his home. At least that way there’d be no chance of his prophesied death coming to pass.

He’d be safe, and you wouldn’t be bothering him.

Wouldn’t be bothering any of them.

He walks deeper into the forest, silent and steadfast, while you watch as his boots tread through the fallen leaves, not daring to look any higher in case it disgusts him further. You have no concept of how long you follow after him for—long enough your feet begin to ache lightly, but you push through it—silently waiting for the conversation to start. For the first question to be asked. For the first blow to be landed.

Azriel doesn’t stop when you try to shift your bag to the other shoulder, your right one aching, and something in your stomach drops when your pace slows but his remains constant, so you hurriedly finish the switch, and make an effort to catch up, careful not to trip. Hunger gnaws at your bones, but you keep quiet, not wanting to interrupt his pace. It’s not until your stomach audibly protests that he comes to a pause, glancing over his shoulder to you, and you swiftly duck your head, averting your eyes from his painfully familiar hazel set. Breaths deepening as you come to a stop with him.

“When did you eat last?” He asks. The first words he’s said to you.

“Yesterday,” you answer quietly, pressure tight across your chest as you try to keep your breaths quiet but even. “Do you have food on you?” He asks. You nod. You’d wrapped up a pastry from breakfast, it being the only thing you’d be able to savour. Even years later, the habit of not wasting food still remains prominent.

His boots shift, turning to face forward as he begins walking again. You follow silently, seeing no point in nodding or replying. It’s not like you’re going to do anything else. “There’s a clearing up here. You can eat there.”

Azriel pauses beside a particularly large oak tree, and you swallow, and you habitually consider where the least offensive place to sit would be. So you’re nicely out of his way. The ground is muddy, so you’re forced to follow beside his footsteps to the oak, setting as silently as you can on one large branch that’s gnarled and shoved through the earth to curl into a large seat.

Your pulse spikes, wondering if this will be where you have the one-sided discussion, perching the bag on your legs, searching through for the little pastry. It’s made harder by your bare hands, how every piece of fabric seems to bite at your skin with each brush, piercing painfully as you search, until you spot the orange scarf, pulling it out to find the pastry wrapped in a napkin.

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel like you’re wasting time.

You peer at the pastry in your hands, not particularly keen on eating it. You’re close enough to nausea as is, and don’t want to tempt fate with giving your stomach something to regurgitate. But it would be weird to put it away now, so you’ll just have to take small bites. Hope that you can stomach it. A few minutes pass, but you’ve hardly made a noticeable dent in the food, guilt weighing on your bones, pausing between each mouthful to peer around the clearing dully.

Your fingers fumble a little when Azriel moves, settling on the root beside you, your muscles stitching themselves taut, and you hastily shift yourself tighter so he has his space. Almost dropping the pastry in your stuttering movements.

He’s quiet for a bit, and you swallow thickly, attempting to focus on the food before you so as not to stare, but internally you can feel the beats passing, heart ticking tighter…tighter…

“Why did you leave?” He asks quietly.

You still, able to feel the narrow wooden box digging into your thighs. Pausing as the tension abates a little, like how you imagine it would feel to watch an arrow loose from a bow, watching it arc in the sky, then slowly plummet down, seeking out its target. The breath that would breathe out in relief once it embedded itself in flesh, those few, stretching moments at last having come to an end, and one can relax into the clarity of the pain. The certainty of the wound.

“I wanted to get out,” you mumble thickly, keeping the shake from your voice.

“So you went to him?” Azriel asks. You head lowers a little in sorrow.

Where else were you supposed to go?

“You could have asked to be taken somewhere,” he says quietly, and guilt tightens itself around your throat. Is there any way to explain to him why you’d left when you hardly understand it yourself? It had been a crescendo of nerves, of bottled up worries tightening with pressure, like air being blown into a brown paper bag until it burst. Is there any way to tell him you’d like to be able to ask things of him, but in truth you’d rather be slowly pulled apart by pressure than worry him with pointless tasks that only serve your benefit? How can you ever hope to speak with him honestly, when your very heart seems to be the thing warning you away—that same heart that wants to press into him, to beg and cry for forgiveness and reassurance.

“At least have the decency to answer,” he says quietly when you don’t respond, and you feel the small tremor that shudders up your throat, fearing the oncoming disaster. “I wanted to go on my own,” you get out, words softer than a whisper.

He’s quiet, and you wonder if that’s the end of the discussion for now.

But, “did you think at all about what the consequences would be from going to him?” He asks, gaze ahead, but attention pressing down on you. “Or did you forget you have people around you, that your actions impact.”

Your grip loosens on the pastry, choosing to wrap it back up in the napkin, fingers shaking slightly. A lump rising in your throat.

“Answer,” he murmurs, promptingly.

“I just wanted to go,” you whisper hoarsely, fingers wringing together. “I thought—… I thought it would be better if I was fur—… If I was gone.”

“Are you going to tell Mor where you went?” He questions softly. “Or did you not think about that part either?”

“I made progress,” you try, raising your gaze to his. “I can summon it, if I concentrate.”

His lips remain unmoving, but his eyes…gods, his eyes. You betrayed her, you know. All of them.

Breath catches in your throat, and you have to look away. Unable to face him. It. Any of it.

“Why is it so bad?” You ask quietly. “All I did was leave for a little under a week. I was trying to get better.”

“Stop. Lying,” he mutters lowly, blood freezing in your veins, fingers wringing together. Silence ticks by, and you wonder if he can hear the humiliatingly loud pulse of your heart, erratic and stumbling as it usually does around him. You don’t think he’s ever so obviously shown what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling.

Why is this the first way you see it?

Why is this the first time he allows it?

“Just tell me what you want,” you ask quietly, voice faltering as you stare at him helplessly. “You’re never happy with anything I do,” you manage, trembling with growing turmoil, “so please, just tell me what you want, and put me out of my misery.”

He exhales harshly, leaning back into the trunk, lips tugged down at the corners, reproach tucked between his brows, so rarely softened by charm anymore. At least not while you’re around. Almost never when you’re around.

“I don’t feel I should have to tell you how you fucked up here,” he replies lowly, and you push back on the flinch at the crude wording. “You made a bad choice.”

“Imagine how much worse the others were,” you reply lowly, a hint of resentment—not directed at him—present in your tone. He stiffens at your side, then his gaze slides slowly over to you, lethal and condemning, but it’s like you can’t look away. You physically can’t duck your head, or shy away. “You’re really joking at a time like this?”

You meet his eyes fully, presently, taking him in against the darkening sky, winter sun already on the way out for the day, the chill more than prominent, but you don’t dare reach for the scarf in your bag. “Tell me what you want,” you repeat softly, no louder than a last breath on dying lips.

“I want you to be honest,” he replies, brows narrowing, “for once, apparently.”

“About what?”

“Why you went to him.” He nearly spits, unable to entirely keep his ire at bay, something passing behind his eyes.

You’re quiet. Silent.

Then you lean back into the trunk of the tree, head tilting back into the rough bark, hands settling numbly in your lap. Shoulders slope, and you peer up into the grey sky, gloomy and heavy with unshed tears. Thick and thunderous. Fitting for the storm that’s on its way.

“Please don’t be angry,” you whisper, hardly a breath from your lips, a prayer whisked away by the static air. He’s silent, and your throat closes up. “Azriel,” your murmur, swallowing thickly. “Please.”

Moments tick by, stretching and warping as your heart thumps heavily in your chest, utterly bewitched, utterly at his mercy. It’s exhausting.

He sighs, and you try not to stiffen as he glances over to you, feeling that familiar prickle of skin as lovely hazel settles on you. A few warm rays making it through the dim clouds before being frozen off by the icy breeze. Winter’s most definitely on its way.

“I won’t be angry,” he murmurs softly. “Just…talk to me. Like you used to.”

Your arms fold over your chest, closing in on yourself, feet pressing together as you hunch over the bag in your lap, peering at the muddy ground. The smell of parchment rises from your memories, dusty and familiar, but lacking the warmth of nostalgia. Like the bitterness of a tea left to steep for too long, so it dries out your throat, eyes watering from its ticklish bite.

“I couldn’t do it on my own,” you admit quietly. Fingers brushing your knuckles. Raw and flaky.

The thoughts swirl in the back of your mind, ready to roar and rage, becoming so loud they’re deafening, suddenly cutting quiet so fast you have no desire to understand what it means when the waters draw back. What it means when the sea itself shrinks away, leaving a barren and washed-up beach.

“But, the idea of trying in front of you…any of you…and then falling flat at such a small hurdle…” You look to your left, away from him, pulling tighter into yourself. Can anything good come of this kind of honestly? With him?

“I don’t have much anymore, Azriel,” you breathe lowly, struggling silently with the humiliating vulnerability. How bare you are, just waiting for steel to pierce your skin. Like tossing yourself over a cliff and hoping the jagged rocks far below will soften your fall.

“I just wanted to keep my dignity. The scraps left of it after…what happened…”

Your toes curl in your shoes, feet crossed, feeling as though your heart is trying to cave in on itself, swallowed by a vacuum suctioning you back down with the force of a flooded spring river.

“So it was better to fail in front of Eris?”

“But I don’t owe him success,” you argue uselessly, eyes squeezing shut in attempts to keep the tears at bay as your head falls into your hands. “I don’t—…I don’t owe him anything.”

“You don’t owe us anything either,” he replies.

“I owe my entire life to you,” you nearly hiss, spine curving in as your brows cramp together, jaw wound so tight you feel like a tooth might crack beneath the intense pressure, nails pressing into the soft skin of your brow.

“Feyre was the one who saved the three of you,” he reminds quietly, slowly, but you’re shaking your head. Staring down into your lap, tension rippling so clearly from your bunched up form Azriel considers laying a hand on your trembling shoulder as if to pull you from a trance. “No. I know, but…” Your fingers press into your eyes, unable to articulate what you can feel in your stomach. “If she hadn’t gone to Night,” you breathe heavily, shakily, “if she hadn’t gone here, we’d still be back there, entirely human, and I—… I wasn’t going to last much longer there.”

Azriel pauses at your side, taking on the information silently. “You were ill?” He asks softly—he’d had no idea about that. Your shoulders shake, and he can’t tell if it’s with laughter or muffled sobs. Maybe a little of both.

“Maybe,” you whisper, “I don’t know enough about medicine to say, but I…” You shake your head again, and he’s able to sense that’s as much as he’ll get. It’s been over two years, and this is the first he’s hearing of it even in vague detail—he knows this isn’t something he can press.

“It doesn’t matter now,” you say with rueful conviction, palms pushing wetness from your cheeks, spine straightening before collapsing back against the trunk. Tired and exhausted. “We’re out. I don’t need to do anything now.”

Azriel’s brow furrows. “You’re content to stay in your room and rot away?”

You rest your head in your hands, leaning over the bag, staring down into its contents. What else is there?

“You could spend time with your family, for starters,” he replies and you aren’t sure if you imagine the note of impatience in his voice. “Your sisters worry about you a lot. It’s not good for you to be up in that room all the time.”

“Well it seems every time I come out of that room I somehow end up getting in your way.”

“Is that what this is about?” He asks abruptly, and your lips press together, lower one curving over. “I thought we sorted that out,” he says quietly, calming the sharpness of his tone, hearing it even in his own ears, glancing over your hunched figure. “We did,” you reply, muffled by your arms, voice turning watery as you ease in a short breath. “We did.”

A beat passes, then tension stutters in your chest as he gently lays his palm over your shoulder. “Please just talk to me,” he says softly, and you struggle to keep your breaths even as your lungs shudder beneath that touch. After spending so long wanting it…craving it…convinced feeling how gentle his touch could be over and against your skin would fix everything…even temporarily… You try to swallow the lump in your throat. “If not me, then Elain, or Feyre, or Nesta,” he pauses, “…Bas.”

You aren’t paying much attention, though, thankful for the way your mind melts beneath the warmth of his palm. How heat is sinking into your skin, slowly spreading through your shoulder as your muscles thaw. Pressure is lessened, and the tension that had been stitching the tendon taut loosens, allowing breath the ease in and out of your lungs with tiring relief. You could deflate with fatigue. Just turn limp and boneless, better for absorbing impact than having it crack against you.

“Just talk with us some more so this doesn’t happen again,” he urges quietly. “Come down to the river house—you know Feyre keeps your room open—or join us for dinner. At least try. If that doesn’t work, we can find something else.”

You don’t reply. Just remain tucked away from the world. Content to remain within your small shell as long as you can keep that warmth on your shoulder.

The pressure lightens, and your heart hides away as his hand slips from your shoulder, leaving your skin starkly cold with the absence of his presence.

“I’m sorry for what I…for how things transpired. Between…us,” Azriel murmurs, unsure how much to say, to not bring up past pains, especially if they aren’t as healed as you’ve led him to believe. He’s starting to become unsure what to believe about you—he hadn’t ever considered you might run from them. How bad things might have become to force you into that position. Are things that bad?

“I’m sorry, too,” you mumble, voice a little hoarse, and Azriel listens attentively. “I shouldn’t have told you how I felt, in the library. I shouldn’t have made my feelings your problem.”

“They aren’t,” he says softly, but you shake your head as if you haven’t heard him.

“I’m sorry.”

————

He tries speaking twice more on the way back, but the conversations lead nowhere, no longer flourishing as they had, once upon a time. So long in the past they feel coloured by age. Turned stiff and yellow at the edges.

He tries slowing his pace so she’ll walk at his side, but she just drops further back, silently pressing between his footsteps as she trails, head kept down to remain focused on taking one step at a time. The shadow that is cast across her face from the down-tilted angle of her head is deeper than he would have expected.

When he hears her shifting the bag across her shoulders for the third time, he quietly plies the straps from her hands, relieving her of the physical weight. She makes no obvious protest, aside from the stiffening of her body at his approach, but he can spot the relief when he takes the bag. Moving it to his own shoulder, he can make out what feels like a wooden box, the kind made to keep a weapon from being damaged. The thought gives rise to instinctive alarm.

Why might she have a weapon in her bag?

His shadows subtly shift at his back, rising secretively to examine her. Questions begin rising to his mind: unkind, unfair questions that are habitual in his line of work. He tries to shake them off, but they remain firmly rooted in his mind, burrowing deeper with each stride that has the narrow box digging into his side, as if already trying to burrow into his flesh.

How did she know Eris would take her in? How could she possibly guarantee making the trek across Prythian over night would pay off? It’s an absurd risk to take, regardless of circumstance. He can think of answers to those questions, but they don’t sit well with him. An answer to why she might be so familiar with Eris supposing they’ve spoken less than a handful of times. A certainty she must have possessed to take the risk that isn’t one she would have from that little contact. And if she’s hiding how much contact she might’ve had with him…

She was already hiding her magic from them…then there’s the prophecy too. Bas, and the illness. Why were these things she hadn’t mentioned? He can understand the recent silence, but why not before…? Regardless of immediate relevance, it shows she’s prone to secret-keeping.

Azriel eases in a steadying breath, descending into a calm, cold mental state. Sinking into indifferent objectivity.

She isn’t stupid. Far from it, having spent so much time in the library, where there’s all kinds of information just ripe for the picking. And Eris isn’t stupid, either. If he saw a weak spot, he’d go for it. And if Eris went for her, would she be able to resist something she was unable to see for what it truly was?

Azriel’s skin goes a little cold, reminded of the prophecy.

He will die, and it will be by her hand.

He supposes he can only control how much impact it will have on those around him. If Eris has managed to wrap her up in some slow-moving scheme…but that’s just speculation. Still, his instincts are telling him something is wrong with the narrow wooden box, one that must have come from Eris. A box fashioned like those to hold weapons. From Eris. To the female who will kill him.

He should ask her what it is.

Azriel would’ve shaken his head if those habits hadn’t been crushed out of him centuries ago. He can’t just ask her if she’s planning to kill him.

But it would allow a chance for her to explain what’s in the weapon case.

But it would alert her to his knowing about the blade inside her bag. She’d wanted to hide her magic from the start, and earlier she’d mentioned she’d gotten further…how much further? If it’s magic any similar to Nesta’s, it would be unwise to have a confrontation here, alone. Still within Autumn Court territory.

But it would be more dangerous to bring her back to Velaris. To bring her back into the beating heart of the Night Court where her detonation would be fatal.

Azriel blinks, and returns back into the waning light of day—it’ll soon be night.

What can he do, really? If he’s destined to die….who is he to try and get in the way of the Mother? Would he kill her to save his own life? Is that what he would do in order to live a little longer, before a new threat looms to end him? He wants to kill her no more than he desires his own death.

But if it came down to it…what would he choose?

His shadows observe her silently, as they had been throughout his internal struggle. He focuses on what he can see, discarding the lens of suspicion that’s been embedded in him as Spymaster, centuries of limited trust having an impact on his mind.

All he sees is a young woman walking through a dark forest, following him off the pathway.

Internally, he sighs—there always seems to be a constant flow of problems as of late, and peace seems to be persistently remaining just out of reach. A few more years, and then there will be peace; a few more political aggressions to navigate, and then they can rest; just one more person to heal, and then they can be happy. When will the peace truly arrive, though? Is it all wishful thinking? An imagined utopia that will make every sin he’s committed acceptable? Is it just his mind finding more excuses to justify the things he’s done in the name of protecting his family and court?

She’s just one more disturbance, keeping peace from settling.

Azriel swallows, thinking heavily. Even if she was out of the way, there would still be everything else to deal with. Will this problem be the last one, or will a new threat fall in to fill the space of the old one? Hasn’t it been long enough, by now? Hasn’t he done enough?

Shadows check on her again, her head hanging silently, those once bright eyes dull and dark as they follow numbly in his footsteps. The female with whom he’d spent so many afternoons with discussing things in the library…where is she? Is he at fault for her disappearance?

Closing his eyes briefly to relieve the ache that’s been slowly building just below his brows, he allows himself to ponder.

Is it pointless to try and salvage their relationship?

Would it be better if she did kill him?

————

The storm clouds have gathered, full and swollen with rain and thunder. No lightening though. Lightening would suggest some kind of magnificence, and there’s nothing magnificent about the cool temperature of your blood, nor the dull buzz in the back of your mind. The overwhelming grey of your surroundings as you emerge from the tunnel.

The air is drier in the Night Court, you vaguely realise. No dampness nor humidity that you’d grown subconsciously accustomed to from less than a week’s stay in Autumn. A small break of sunshine between the dismay grey you’d all grown so accustomed to for the first few months of the year, back when you were human. Weak, fallible humans, but simpler. Quiet and peaceful, even if that silence was from the constant prowl of starvation. It had been easier to bear.

You don’t wait to see if Azriel will try to speak again once he’s flown the both of you back up to the House of Wind, silently turning your back to trace the familiar halls of the House, moving without awareness, muscle memory guiding you down the corridors, past the tables littered with napkins and cutlery, past the shelves displaying pale crockery and silver chalices, past the chest with a few discarded daggers atop, arrowheads littered haphazardly across the surface as if someone had cast them down carelessly.

The room is greyer than you remember, too tidy to be a lived in space, but it has those reminders—the gifts you were given, and you absently touch your earlobe, squeezing it between your finger and thumb.

Azriel pauses at the threshold, taking the bag off his shoulder. Does he know you sold the earrings? Those pretty, pretty earrings? Probably some of the nicest things you could have believed to be your own.

They must be getting tired by now. All of them.

Blonde hair and sparkling eyes pass dully through your mind, and your heart dies a little more, understanding how you’ve ruined the small blessing. There’s no coming back from what you’ve done—not without significant work, at least, and you’re so tired. In your bones, in your eyes, in your mind. You’ve lived through a lot, but thanks to immortality, you have no choice but to live through more. A body being dragged through the mud, carried towards a grave that was never dug.

Azriel’s mouth is moving, has been moving since he removed the bag from his shoulder, but you haven’t been hearing. Mind too tired and numb to manage focus, grasping only basic colours and lines.

He’s looking at you, and you’re looking back, but not into his eyes. His words pass through your mind meaninglessly, and you wonder if you’re real. A strange pressure is wrapping its tingling fingers around your skull, squeezing like you’re wearing a hat that’s a little too tight. It will take a lot of work to fix what you’ve done. A lot of work you can’t manage. A debt that deepens faster than you can repay it. A sink draining faster than you can fill it. Blood cooling faster than you can stop it.

Maybe it would be better to let it cool, for a while.

————

Azriel doesn’t feel comfortable leaving her in the House alone, with that dull look in her eyes.

He had planned to fly back down to the River House, to let Rhys and Feyre know she was back, and she was safe, to give her some space maybe for an hour or so to let her get her bearings again. Not too long alone, though. That look hadn’t been bright. Instead he ends up slumping into one of the boney, wooden chairs in the kitchen, the House already brewing two cups of tea. He reaches out for Rhys, mentally feeling for the hidden bridge kept open. He finds it almost immediately, and an icy wind slams into him in greeting. Cold, swift, and perfectly telling to his brother’s current temperament.

You’re back.

Azriel bites back on the cringe at the ice in his High Lord’s voice—belying fury. He should have put together Rhys would be furious for Feyre, too, for stirring up this kind of stress for his mate.

She’s with me. How is Feyre?

More furious than I am, though I doubt she’ll show you.

There’s a pause, and Azriel steadies himself.

How is she?

It would be good for her to have company. Preferably in the River House, but if not, then having people up here. This time Azriel pauses, before adding, I think the ward on her room should be removed. So she’ll be able to hear that people are around, should she need them.

He’s met with silence, and Azriel wonders if Rhys is repeating the message back to Feyre, or if he’s simply that furious. A small part of him feels resentment at the constant speculation, that if the matter had been left between him and her then it wouldn’t have gotten so blown out of proportion.

We’ll be up in ten minutes, comes the clipped reply, before the mental bridge is severed. Leaving Azriel no choice but to wait in silence. It will likely be Rhys and Feyre coming up then—knowing she isn’t ready to see all of them so suddenly, though they’ve yet to learn where she’s been.

Feyre will go and speak to her sister.

And Rhys will be the one to speak to him.

What a mess.

The tea has a few minutes left of brewing, and he wonders if the House will demand he be the one to take the mug to her, or if it will be delivered on its own. He’s not sure she would appreciate being disturbed right now.

As if his thoughts summoned her however, he hears quiet footsteps out in one of the hallways, reaching his sharp ears even through the closed doors and secure walls. He listens carefully, but she seems to just be pacing around, not coming toward him, or even really going in any particular direction. They pause, the silence heavy, and Azriel pays full attention. Another minute passes, then another, and another, but he couldn’t have missed those familiar footfalls.

After a fourth minute, he hears them again, ever so slightly heavier than before, and then they cut off abruptly. Sound sliced in two as she closes the door to her room.

Azriel glances over to the brewing tea, then blinks when he realises the House has set it on the table within reach. Just one cup, made with milk and sugar—not the way he likes it.

Looking over to the countertop, his mug remains steeping, steam trailing up from the hot liquid. The House seems to be demanding he take her the tea now.

Azriel shifts in his chair. It isn’t a good idea to disturb her again. He’s trying to give her at least these few minutes to herself, before Feyre arrives with Rhys—and that’s a conversation that might very well stretch hours. There’s a lot to discuss, after all. She’ll need her energy, and he’s probably the last person she wants to—

The mug slams down on the table before him, hot liquid spilling over with the force that it was dropped onto the surface.

He stiffens, watching the mug tensely as if the House might spill it onto his lap. The liquid ripples in the mug, splashing from side to side for longer than it should, before reluctantly calming.

Blowing out a breath, Azriel wraps his hand around the mug’s handle, reluctantly standing from the kitchen table.

If the House is being so adamant about giving her the cup, then he supposes he’ll just have to follow.

He still finds it a little strange, how the House came alive after Nesta lived inside it.

————

Silence hums in your ears, so quiet.

You’ve caused them so much trouble. Irreparably ruined your ties to the people you hadn’t wanted to hinder.

Silently, quietly, you move the bag to your bed, able to even hear the stretch of fabric as you raise it from the unnaturally clean floorboards. Opening it, you begin pulling the first thing you see out—the orange scarf form Autumn that has some small crumbs tucked between its folds, smelling faintly of pastry and something damp. One piece at a time, you make the slow trek to and form the wardrobe, feet unfeeling as they tread numbly across the smooth grain of the wood, mindlessly repeating the to and fro, the mechanical movements of unaware motion, folding fabric and hiding it away.

Your fingers bump the box, surprised by the hard collision, having expected to find more fabric, but are instead confronted by the narrow, wooden box. Use it wisely, written on the note in a neat and elegant script. Raising it from the bag, you sit down, hands resting over the surface before slipping your fingers into the indentations for ease of opening, cracking it open to find what’s inside. Eyes ease across the narrow length of wood tucked inside, the softly flared end for it to whistle through the sky.

The world disappears around you as you fall into thought, suctioned inwards by a gentle riptide as you dissolve into your mind. Imagining the blank look in Mor’s eyes when she finds out what you’ve done to her, the wall that will rise up as she sections you off from her life, rightly so, brings a quiet kind of sadness into your chest. A longing that has been numbed and dulled, desaturated by hopelessness. Imagining the dinners, voices chatting merrily around you but never at you, the way she won’t look at you. They are all immortal, and their disgust will reflect their lifespan.

You’ll be stuck. Endlessly dragging you feet after them in attempts to make amends. Stumbling and fumbling carelessly trying to make reparations, but smashing more pieces in your frantic hurry to clean the mess you’ve made. Gazing up from the pit of a well as the icy water slowly drains in, the small pin-prick of daylight so far above there’s no hope even trying to scale the wall. It would be more honourable to drown.

To wipe yourself from memory.

It would be better, you understand. To snuff out your own dwindling light, than force the trouble on them of bearing your sputtering flame.

You walk out into the hallway, quietly, silently. Passing the table with napkins and cutlery set, past the shelves with crockery and cups, past the chest with dull steel and blunt arrowheads. Passing further along, until you pause before the large mirror that’s mounted on the wall. You peer dully into the reflection, deciding to look upon and assign shape to name for what’s been causing all these problems. To see what they think of when burdens are mentioned, to understand where the impatience is directed.

You peer higher, the reflection skewed as you meet your own eyes in the blade’s polished steel, held above the mirror’s frame.

Time warps, and you look through the drawers. A few daggers, some unused sketchbooks, a piece of yellow wool, a ball of string. You check the second draw. Some folded napkins, more arrowheads, a shard of porcelain, a thimble, a discarded marble. You check the third draw. Some salts, spices, dried leaves, matching Illyrian blades, pots of ink, a copper coin. You check the fourth draw. Crisp bedsheets, off-white pillowcases, a dented metal mug, a small container of some kind, one arrowhead, a crossbow.

You return to your room with the ball of string and the empty crossbow.

Swallowed in the silence of the bedroom, hidden behind the wards.

The snare is easy to set up, directions still vivid in your mind and for a few short moments, you allow yourself to settle into the certainty of following through with those instructions. Encountering a bit of trouble with how to keep the tension of the string with no earth, but your mind works quickly, weighing the string taut with the one book from your shelf, and a square box containing a mechanical universe. Making sure the string is just tight enough so the faintest touch will snap the tension loose.

You glance at the string on the floor, eyes catching on the small painting on your desk.

You slot the arrow into the crossbow with a satisfying click.

The ash stings your fingertips.

You stand with your back to the door, facing the crossbow head on. Your heart bleeds a little, tears at last dripping slowly down your cheeks, but it will be better this way. Easing in a deep breath, you relax into that feeling deep in your chest that’s telling you this is the right thing to do. It was always going to happen, there was never a path you could have taken that wouldn’t have lead you to this one way or another. It’s a feeling almost like relief: there’s finally a way out.

One perfect, swift, execution. An ash arrow to your heart, splitting the muscle and ending its relentless beat. Your breathing increases to a stuttering pulse before calming, and you swallow, glancing to the windows. You know you’ll cause a mess.

Fingers open the latch to the window, fresh air gently rolling in, and your breathing stutters again. You’ll be irrevocably gone.

Peering about the bedroom, one you hadn’t felt was truly your own, but had stayed long enough to begin putting down roots—the bookmark laying beneath the pendant on the desk beside the painting, the jigsaw still wrapped in a bow beneath the bed, the sealed nail polish and briefly used lip tint within the cupboard. Sobs shudder through your chest strangely.

A part of you doesn’t want to leave yet.

A small, human part, that still fears solitude despite your chosen loneliness.

You step toward the book, body caving in, heart collapsing in on itself, the emotive feeling similar to the convulsions you’ve experienced after vomiting. A vacuum hidden inside of your chest, finally imploding. You should end it now.

The door creaks behind you, and you flinch from terror at someone witnessing your vulnerability.

Hazel eyes meet your own, at once scanning the room out of habit, and those lovely eyes widen as you recoil on instinct, foot knocking into the book.

————

Given the pleasure of time, he had been allowed to ponder the impossible question: to choose between his death and her own, each equally impossible. How is anyone to make a choice like that?

But, caught in between precious moments, there’s no time for thought or debate. It’s easy to declare gallantry, to flippantly comfort a companion with those easy words—I’d take an arrow for you.—but it’s an entirely different matter when the arrow is whistling straight toward them.

And yet before the mug has even hit the floor, he feels the familiar, burning pain as the arrow pierces through his flesh, slicing him open as the wrongness bleeds into him, swiftly poisoning his blood, draining the inherent magic from his body.

————

You stare up into wide hazel eyes, agony etched across his delicate features, the very tip of the arrow lightly piercing your skin from where it’s shot straight through him, caught in his flesh.

He groans lowly, his weight falling more heavily on your shoulders where his hands had grabbed you to switch your positions, and you’re helpless as his knees give out from pain, dragging you down with him as he collides with the ground.

Horror pounds through your body, heart beating a thousand times a second until it’s risen into your throat, hands shaking violently as you try to hold him steady, stinging with the burning heat of blood from his side.

Mother murder you.

“Az,” you stammer hoarsely, staring at his twisted features, brow furrowed deeply, breathing ragged as it puffs against your skin. The familiar scent of blood filtrates through your system, undiluted and metallic, and he’s dying he’s dying he’s dying—

His hand weakly grasps the back of your neck, grabbing your attention as your hands fumble, trembling with uncertainty and despair, fingertips beginning to sizzle as panic floods your veins, tossed into the rapids, utterly out of control as your mind unravels, regret stabbing through your heart.

His lips are moving but your ears are ringing, itches burning at your skin, a streaking noise piercing through your head like the screaming from those bloody fields. He’s speaking and you try to read his lips, but your eyes aren’t focusing, tears blurring your vision as sobs heave in and out of your chest, burning at your throat and lungs. You had tried to stop it! You were so close to preventing it!

Your hand settles on his cheek, already feeling cool beneath your burning, burning, glowing—

Feyre and Rhys, his lips form, and you shake. Eyes scanning his features frenetically. His own flick to the door, and you understand them to be here? You stare at him helplessly, hopelessly—it won’t matter how you scream or cry for them, not even if you bled your throat raw. The ward against noise that you’d been so thankful for, that Feyre had given in attempts to help, to remedy a wrong.

Something so small, yet so immoveable. Impossible to defeat. Felled by your own, stupid need—

He’s going to die.

Neither you nor Azriel have a second to prepare as the power wells up inside of you with the force of a damn broken loose, that internal wall shattering entirely, blown to bits as you feel the staggering pressure swallow your brain, crushing in intensity at the rapid division of cells, splitting atoms colliding as the explosion blows you apart.

Brilliant green light detonates, silence settling for a second before the noise crushes back down, the room blown to pieces.

The ground shakes beneath you, floorboards cracking and splintering as a hole is torn through the side of the House, tearing through the wards as the noise thunders above the city, sweeping across Prythian with the force of the Cauldron that had torn down the Wall.

One final surge of magic before the life is taken from his body.

Pain lacerates through your figure as something fundamental cracks open inside of you, all at once draining the agony that had beens steadily building up, all of it gushing out, skin resplendent with a sickening golden-green light, radiating your flesh.

Then you collapse, falling into the pool of steadily cooling blood surrounding Azriel’s body.

The prophecy having come to fulfilment.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel angst #azriel fic #cbmthy #can’t bring myself to hate you

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summerdiphylleia · 5 months

Text

The next right thing

Chapter 1: The 74th Hunger Games

Summary: Felicia has always been succesful at overlooking the tributes' names and faces, but ignoring Katniss Everdeen was proving to be a rather difficult task. And she hated herself for it.

pairing: coriolanus snow x wife!oc

Prologue / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2

*******************

“Are you ready, my dear? Our guests are arriving.”

Felicia stood against the bathroom counter, staring at the mirror. The same mirror that had been looking back at her for over twenty years. Two decades, wasting away in that mansion. It was hard to believe so many years had passed, but the reflection in front of her reminded Felicia of all the years gone by. There were wrinkles around her eyes, and the skin sagged a little around her cheeks and her neck.

She was often offered ‘enhancements’, as they liked to call it in the Capitol, but she refused all of them with a polite smile. She liked the way she looked, worn down as she was. Her eyes remained the same tender, amber brown, although they carried more wisdom and worry than before. Her hair still bore hints of the soft, buttery blonde colour she kept from her youth, but was starting to get lost within the handful of grey hairs she’d grown in the last couple of years. She usually had them fixed by her hairdresser, but didn’t brood on it so much. She took pride in carrying sixty years of age, and she didn’t mind showing it.

She turned around, and found her husband waiting with a hand extended for her. He also showed signs of ageing, even more so than her: his once impeccable blonde hair had turned completely white, and his face looked withered down; like her he had declined any offers of going under the knife.

But he had kept his height —he still very much towered over her— and every so often, when the Games were far off and politics sat low on his mind, Felicia could swear she got glimpses of his younger self on his eyes: on the way they curved into a smile after she teased him, on the way they shone whenever they discussed a subject he was keen on, on the way they kept on sharing that spark, that boyish grin, with a man from her past that hadn't been as yearning for power, as corrupted by it.

“Your bowtie is not properly fastened,” she chuckled, reaching towards him, “let me get it.”

He studied her, while she worked on fixing his tie, leisurely scanning her from top to bottom. She wasn’t wearing anything too fancy, a simple maroon dress embroidered with small golden flowers, and a pair of small heels matching in colour. Her hair was half up in a bow, and makeup sat simple, not at all too extravagant, on her face. “You look ravishing, dearest.” He whispered, lovingly. She kept focused on straightening his bowtie, but she could feel her cheeks turning the colour of her dress. She wished he wouldn’t say such things so often. It sounded so real.

Felicia simply hummed in response. “Arabella called,” she explained, in a soft voice, “she told me Max and her wouldn’t be able to attend today’s… gathering.” He stiffened at her words.

“As they couldn’t last year. And the year before.” He remarked. Felicia briefly glanced at him, and returned her gaze to his collar. “There,” she mumbled, patting on it, “all fixed. You look very handsome.”

He didn’t reply to her, and simply adjusted his suit. He didn’t share his words with her, but she could guess what kind of thoughts raced through his mind. Every time they drifted onto that particular issue, her mind replayed one conversation they had many, many years ago.

“What exactly are you accusing me of? Turning our infant children into rebels?” She snickered, chasing after him at an amused pace, but Felicia quickly regretted her words. Coriolanus went still, and when he turned around, the look on his face made her flinch. That was the only time she ever felt truly afraid of him. He didn’t just convey rage through his eyes, his whole body swelled on it. He suddenly grew inches in height, and his expression darkened, and she was nothing but a little girl once again. She felt all of her boldness flush away at the sight of him, regretting having allowed herself to yield into such insolence.

He strode towards her, eyes narrowing in a viperous manner, “don’t joke with that,” he hissed. She raised her gaze, her eyes met his, and anger dropped from his face all at once, and he swiftly glanced around. “Don’t say things like that out loud, you know better than that.”

She lowered her head. She did know better than that.

She hated losing her temper. Every time she lost control, he took it.

Felicia pursed her lips. “I’m sorry,” the words dragged out of her mouth, “but I’m setting my foot down on this. I don’t want them watching that… that thing.”

Irritation flashed through his eyes once again, then he turned his back at her, and started walking away. “Fine.”

That was the first time, but not the last one, that an orange pill found its way into her nightstand.

Felicia blinked the memory away. “Don’t dwell on it, darling,” she sighed, “they’re too busy with work, that’s it. I’ll call them and arrange dinner for the five of us some other time, alright?”

It was his turn to simply hum in response.

***********

The day went by in a blur. Felicia put on the same act she does every time she’s surrounded by such a crowd: she smiles, and laughs and comments on everyone’s gowns, and makes sure no guest ever has to stand with an empty glass on their hand; and she keeps close to Coriolanus and kisses him and pretends they are a perfectly loving couple. Surprisingly, that remains the easiest part of the facade.

She doesn’t really pay attention to anything in particular during those days, rather she seeks a void within her. To her, the reaping was nothing but an affair she needed to get through, as cautiously as possible. She doesn’t focus on any of the tributes, she always tries to ignore their faces; they would all die anyway. All but one. One lucky Victor. A lucky child she would get used to seeing in most of the pretentious parties she attended, usually accompanied by a disturbingly older man from one of the high positions in society, who didn’t need to care about keeping his hands to himself. Only seldomly she wouldn’t see said Victor around in such gatherings and, not long after their absence was noted, she would hear the news of their family passing away in some tragic accident. Those nights she went to sleep concluding she’d made an art form out of turning a blind eye.

The reaping came and went, and before she knew it she found herself in front of the whole Capitol, watching along the parade of the twenty four tributes. Once again, Felicia forced herself into haziness, avoiding to stare at any particular tribute. But the cameras kept on focusing on two of the tributes, though, and their faces were shown on the screens more often than not, even during the President’s speech. She recognised them, they were the two tributes from District 12. Felicia remembered her reapings. That girl… Katniss Everdeen, she’d volunteered for her sister, a little girl whose expression of fear made it obvious it was the first year her name was on the bowl.

Felicia scolded herself for remembering her name. It would hurt so much more when she ultimately learnt of her death.

***********

The gardens were in full bloom that time of the year, and Felicia often found herself walking around them, buntal hat on her head, and a pair of pruning scissors on her hand. That morning she was being accompanied by her husband, and Theodore, their youngest son. He was a tall boy, with piercing blue eyes, just like his father. His older brother, Maximus, had also inherited most of Coriolanus’s appearance. It was Arabella, the marriage’s only daughter, who looked the spitting image of her.

They were strolling around the rosarium, tending to the flowers, when Ivan, Coriolanus’ personal bodyguard, a big, brooding man with eyes of a hawk, approached them in a soft trot. “Mr. Crane is here to see you, sir.”

“Ah, yes,” her husband nodded, putting his scissors on Theo’s hand, “I’ve called for him.” Felicia turned her gaze towards him, annoyance creeping on her mien, but didn’t say anything. She forced her face into a welcoming expression, as Ivan brought the younger man to them.

“Seneca,” she greeted him in a kind tone, with a warm smile while offering her hand to him, “how lucky of us you’re visiting us.”

“Mrs. Snow, you look as exquisite as always.” He addressed her, leaving a kiss on her hand. He bore a worryingly stiff grin on his face. “Sir, young man.”

“Do tell me you’re joining us for lunch?” She urged him, with a cadence only her husband would be able to recognize as fake. “The cook is making some delicious salmon bites, you would be a lunatic for missing them.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline, Felicia, the Games don't run all by themselves.”

She turned her lips into a cheeky pout, and then her face split into a grin. “Then you’ll have to let me invite you over some other time, so I can properly commend you for the wonderful job you’re doing on them.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He smiled.

Coriolanus and Felicia shared a brisk glance, and she took Theodore by his shoulder. “Come on, sweetling, let’s keep our path. There’s a rosebush over there that desperately needs our help.”

They waved the gamemaker goodbye, and moved on with their way. Theo looked at her like he wanted to say something else, but she discreetly shushed him, guiding him into a more isolated spot, away from the two men and prying ears of the greenkeepers.

The pair sat on a bench, next to a particularly unkempt bush, and she showed him where the plant needed to be trimmed and neatened.

“Mom, why do you hate Seneca?” The boy asked, cautiously, while indifferently working on the roses.

The question caught her by surprise, and Felicia couldn’t help but giggle, until she saw the serious expression on his face.“What makes you think I hate him?” She questioned him, puzzled.

“It is because he’s in charge of the Games, isn’t it?” He muttered, “I don’t like him either.”

Felicia put the scissors away, and gently stroked his hair. “Sweetheart, where is this coming from?” She asked.

“They make us watch the Games at the Academy, did you know?” He explained, meeting her gaze. She nodded. Of course she was aware. She knew it was only a matter of time before he started commenting on it. “Most of my classmates think it’s some kind of… show, like it’s nothing but entertainment.”

It pained Felicia to see the defeated look on his face, but she couldn’t help but think of how lucky she was to be having such a conversation with her son, condemning the Games from their very privileged position. She couldn’t bring herself to imagine what mothers in the districts were forced to tell their children. Once again, a sneaky thought crept into her mind. “What if you killed him?” She blinked it away.

“Well, you can’t blame all of them, honey,” she sighed, “it’s what they’re instilled.”

“I know,” he murmured, “I guess I’m just glad you taught us better than that.”

Felicia smiled, and wrapped him in a hug, leaving a kiss on his head. “You know you can’t say that kind of thing around others, right?” She whispered into his ear. He nodded. She grimaced. She had taught them right.

***********

The rest of the week went by just as fast. Felicia was demanded to be in the front of the crowd for the tribute interviews, and she did it gracefully. Despite her efforts, she couldn’t help but notice the tributes from District 12. They had bewitched all of the Capitol citizens, especially after the boy had come forward with his crush for Katniss. For the girl, she reminded herself. Everyone swooned over the star-crossed lovers, but Felicia could tell a performance when she saw one. And she had to recognise, it was a very smart one indeed, surely it was securing them with a good amount of patrons.

With the interviews gone by, and the tributes already within the arena, Felicia could finally numb the rest of the Games out. They were the only thing everyone in the mansion and the Capitol could talk about of course, but she had always found it easy to disappear into her tasks. She answered correspondence, decorated the mansion, went for fashion fittings, attended charity events, visited her two oldest children, occasionally helping them with their work at the hospital. It felt nice reminiscing about her days as a surgeon, when she actually felt useful for something.

She had Lan, her trusted bodyguard for over twenty years, update her on any news about the Games, in case she found it necessary to discuss such events with anyone of political importance, and day after day she was surprised she felt relieved to hear the District 12 tributes were still alive.

One day, she heard Cesar Flickerman come into television, announcing that if two tributes of the same district were the last remaining survivors, the two would be declared winners. And for the first time in over thirty years, Felicia sat down and watched the Hunger Games.

******

so, this might be turning into a series after all! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it!

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x wife!oc #coriolanus snow x wife #the hunger games #tbosas #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x oc #president snow #president snow x wife!oc #president snow x oc #lucy gray baird #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #coriolanus snow wife #coriolanus snow x original female character #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow fanfiction #the hunger games fanfiction #coriolanus snow x y/n

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weemssapphic · 6 months

Text

Strange

PART TWO: Welcome home

Link to part one - please read that first!

Brienne of Tarth x f!reader

Summary: Being on the run is the hardest, most heartbreaking thing you've ever done. More than anything, you wish you could go home.

Words: ~1.8k | ao3 link in title

Content/warnings: angst, breakups, hurt/comfort for this part!

A/N: This part of the fic is loosely based on the song Welcome Home by Radical Face! Again huge thanks to @dianneking for suggesting the song for this chapter!

It’s been almost six months now since you left your life - since you left Brienne - behind you. Some days are harder than others - especially when you’re technically on the run. You’ve been lying low, never staying anywhere for too long. You’re in the North now, but winter is coming, and you know that soon you should head farther south - who knows, maybe you’ll end up in Dorne. You’ve never been. Perhaps, though, you should leave Westeros entirely - it’s all getting awfully exhausting, and everything just reminds you of Brienne, and of a life you’ve run away from.

Tonight you’re sitting in a tavern. It’s dark and everyone is drunk, and no one cares about a stranger nursing a pint of ale in the corner, so long as that stranger minds their own business. You stare into your mug and twirl it idly this way and that, watching the amber liquid slosh around. Tomorrow, you’ll move on to the next town, the next tavern.

Sleep, don't visit So, I choke on sun And the days blur into one And the backs of my eyes Hum with things I've never done

The door to the tavern swings open - the other patrons are too drunk to pay any mind to the tall, hooded stranger who enters, but you notice them immediately. Because they’re tall - too tall, even for a man - and there’s only one person in Westeros who’s that tall.

You couldn’t tell if you’d be excited or afraid to cross paths with Brienne again - your body can’t decide either, apparently, for your heart flips as your stomach sinks. But there’s no need to get all riled up - the Lord Commander wouldn’t come here, she has no business this far north.

Except the stranger doesn’t take a seat at the bar, nor do they head for one of the many empty tables - instead, they make a beeline for you. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat as you pull your own hooded cloak tighter around you. Your eyes dart about the tavern, trying to map out an escape route, but it’s too late - you hear the scraping of wood on wood and your eyes snap up to the tall stranger, who has taken a seat across from you.

“Didn’t think the North would be your style. I’d have thought you’d head for Dorne.” Their hood shrouds their face in shadows still, but you would recognize that gentle, gravelly voice anywhere.

You want to cry - you want to scream, actually. You want to fall to your knees and let out all the tears and anguish that you’ve kept in for the past six months. You want to grab onto Brienne’s cloak and beg her to stay with you, whatever she does, to take you back and never let you be so stupid as to leave again.

Instead, you shrug and take a healthy swig of ale. “Maybe for the winter.”

Brienne pushes her hood back just a little. You can see her face now - she looks the same as always, though maybe a bit more weary, a bit more worn-out. Or maybe that’s just your wishful thinking - that Brienne would be just as affected by the absence of your love as you are by the absence of hers. You wonder if she is - just as affected, that is. You wonder if she’s lost any sleep over you, if she still thinks of you sometimes, if she still reaches out in the middle of the night, only to find that spot right next to her in the bed cold to the touch.

Ships are launching from my chest Some have names, but most do not If you find one, please Let me know what piece I′ve lost

Blinking back tears, you drain the rest of the ale in your mug and slam it down on the table, harder than intended. “What’s the Lord Commander doing this far north? Gone to visit Castle Black? Wouldn’t it be more prudent to send a more lowly knight?”

A strange look crosses Brienne’s face. Her brows knit together and her lips part - she seems to be struggling internally with something, and it takes her a while to find her voice. “Haven’t you heard?”

You snort. “Heard what? I’ve been kind of busy surviving, been keeping to myself. I’m not really in the position to be partaking in local gossip.” You don’t mean for your voice to be so cold and so hard, and you feel sorry for the hurt that flits - however briefly - across Brienne’s face.

“I-I’m not… I’ve resigned.” The words come out in a rush. Brienne seems to be holding her breath now, and you cock your head to the side, furrowing your brow.

“What do you mean you’ve resigned? From what?”

Her breath comes out in an annoyed huff. “I’ve resigned. I’ve given up my position as Lord Commander.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

“You’ve what?” you hiss. You suddenly feel dizzy - you can hardly dare hope to be the reason Brienne of Tarth gave up the coveted position of Lord Commander, surely there must be another reason…

“Months ago, actually.” Brienne’s gaze falls to the table and she traces a long, slender finger over a little hole in the wood. “I’ve been searching for you… You’re hard to find, you know that?”

You can’t help but chuckle a bit - Brienne’s lips curl up into a little half-smile and she risks a shy glance at your face, peeking up through blonde lashes. Her expression is guarded but her eyes aren’t - they’re soft and hopeful and almost girlish in the sparkling naivety that they exude.

“I probably should have headed to Dorne, it’s fucking cold up here,” you say with a breathy laugh, letting your hood fall back slightly. Brienne’s eyes immediately drink in your face, your hair - in the spirit of becoming harder to recognize, harder to catch, you’ve cut it and dyed it. You suddenly feel self-conscious as Brienne stares at you, your cheeks turning pink. “Don’t you like it?” you mutter, your eyes dropping to your lap.

Strong fingers grip your chin and tilt your head up, stealing the breath from your lungs. “I do, actually. It suits you.” She offers you a soft, sincere smile, and your face reddens further. It all feels so familiar, so comforting, and that hurts. You gently pry your chin from her grip and lean back a tad, just out of her reach - her face falls, and it makes your heart ache.

“Why did you resign? Why have you been looking for me?” Your heart is hammering against your ribcage, so hard it hurts - you’re afraid of the answer but you need to know.

Brienne takes a moment to mull over her words. When she answers, her tone is serious, her expression solemn. “I thought about what you said, the day you left. I-I’m sorry that I got angry, I was afraid. I was wrong to doubt you - I should have taken your side. I afforded my loyalty to the wrong people, and I have been paying for that mistake every day since you left.” Her chin quivers and her eyes are glassy, but she sits tall and looks intently into your eyes.

A swell of emotion crashes over you and you stand abruptly, drawing the attention of a few patrons. You yank your hood over your face and grab Brienne’s wrist - she allows you to drag her outside, where you pull her around to the back of the tavern and push her back against the cold, dirty wall.

“You’ve found me. Now what?” you ask, your voice low and demanding. You can see your breath in the cool air - it mingles with Brienne’s.

“I’m not letting you leave again. I’ll go with you this time. Please. I want to be with you, I need to be with you.”

You search Brienne’s eyes - they’re bright and earnest. “You know what that means for you - for us? Don’t think the King has forgotten what I’ve done.”

“I don’t think he’s very fond of me anymore either,” Brienne breathes out, and you can’t help but chuckle. She laughs, too, and before you know what you’re doing, you’re pushing yourself up on your tiptoes, your hands curling around the base of Brienne’s hood to pull her in for a kiss.

Her lips are cold and cracked - regardless, you feel your heart being mended the second they connect with your own. Her tongue darts out across your bottom lip and, fuck, she tastes like home and you sigh into the kiss as you allow her to deepen it. You kiss until you run out of air - and then you kiss some more.

Peel the scars from off my back I don't need them anymore You can throw them out Or keep them in your mason jars I've come home (home, home, home)

“I have something for you,” she murmurs against your lips, and you rest your forehead against hers as she digs around in the pocket of her cloak. Whatever she’s just pulled out glints in the light of the moon and you pull back to get a closer look. Brienne takes your right hand in her own and places the object in your palm - it’s cold to the touch, and tears spring to your eyes when you see what it is. Her mother’s necklace.

“Bri-”

“It’s yours. It’s always been yours.” Her hand curls around your own and she closes your fist around the necklace, before placing a tender kiss to your knuckles. “I love you,” she whispers against your skin. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it back that day.”

You feel your face break out into a beaming smile - it feels strange (you haven’t smiled properly in so long) but it feels good.

“I love you, too, Brienne. I haven’t stopped, not for a minute.”

Brienne offers you a watery smile and chuckles - she sniffles a bit, her cheeks tinged pink.

“We cannot stay here now,” you whisper, your own smile faltering a bit.

“I know.” She sniffles again but her smile remains, and your stomach does a somersault - she looks so beautiful when she smiles and, Gods, you’ve missed her smile. You’ve missed her.

You bite your lip. “Where will we go?”

Brienne’s blush deepens and she takes in a shaky breath. “Would my lady like to accompany me to Dorne?”

Your smile returns full force - so wide that it hurts. “Your lady would very much like to accompany you to Dorne, Ser.”

“I’m not a knight anymore,” Brienne says with a quirked brow.

“You are to me.”

Brienne smiles softly and her fingers curl in the little ringlets of hair at the base of your neck as she pulls you closer. Her lips brush gently, slowly against your own as her other hand finds your lower back and tugs you flush against her. Her body is warm and comforting, and the tenderness of the kiss steals the air from your lungs and makes you feel dizzy. You wrap your arms around her neck to steady yourself and keep your knees from buckling as your tongue slowly enters her mouth; exploring, memorizing, coming home.

Here, beneath my lungs I feel your thumbs Press into my skin again

You know, without a doubt, that everything will be okay - no matter where you go. As long as Brienne is by your side, you will always be home.

Welcome home (home, home, home)

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#brienne of tarth x reader #brienne x reader #brienne of tarth

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bibi-brains · 1 month

Text

Stay

Dracule Mihawk x reader || wc: 790 || ao3 version

A/N: at first was writen for an oc but i also changed for reader insert

You waited at your seat as Perona floated through the tall stone walls of the living room disappearing seconds later to somewhere around the castle. Rising from your seat, you collected the empty tea cups that rested on the table in front of you, putting them on a silver tray and heading to the kitchen. You could feel Mihawk's amber eyes watching every gesture, those eyes burned into your heart and messed with your senses that could have you paralyzed like a small prey who ran away and stopped right in front of the beast. The swordsman sat still, arms crossed and wearing that intense gaze that had your knees wanting to wobble and drop onto the floor, wishing for his arms to hold as you threatened to fall.

Walking through the big door you headed to the kitchen, washed the two tea-cups you and Mihawk had drank the afternoon tea and left for your room. There wasn't much to be done now. Perona was leaving to search for Moira, you had already used and abused the Warlord’s hospitality of letting another person and most important an ex-marine stay in his home, having the care of Perona and Zoro to get out of bed again when your limbs and wings had given up to carry your body along the sea letting your half dead body drop in this island. You had great use during your time in the island, helping with farming, training, cooking and cleaning, although you shared more moments with the Warlord than the others, having him by your side while cooking, ordering you when plucking weed and cleaning dead leaves from his garden, you felt like those shared moments of quietness action different and grew needy of them. However there wasn't a chance for you now.

You walked along the large corridor to find your bedroom door, it was big just as all the doors in this castle, not as much as your bedroom. Yours was big, surely not as big as the owner’s but had plenty of space for your things and stuff you happen to keep like a small bookshelf that kept your favorite books from Mihawk’s enormous collection, some he had gifted to you, others you adored so much he allowed you to keep in your room, and one held the sound of his voice as he read to you in a cold rainy night.

Fool you to even think about that night, letting you mind recollect the way his soft gaze studied the words easily before speaking and his thin lips moved to vocalize them, such simple act but made it lustrous when performed by him, the strongest swordsman, the one once knew as marine hunter, who slaughter bodies and danced in their blood had such enticing voice that made you fall into sleep.

Yet you couldn't decide which ones to carry or leave them all behind to save space and weight, having to worry about clothes, weapons and also a stock of food so you don’t end up like the first time you landed on the ground of this island. As you collected three book and placed besides your clothing bag a light knock on your open bedroom door drifted you away from your past thoughts and pulled it back to Mihawk who was standing there like asking for permission to come in, which you authorized, as he walked through your room the same feelings agitated your heart but it was soon concealed by anxiety weighting in your guts.

Turning away from him, you quickly resumed packing your bag with the rest of the clothes just in time for Mihawk to arrive at your right side and questions about your package. It feels right to tell him you’re leaving and he can finally have the peace back without you, although his voice felt afflicted. But just like a wound, things that hurt need to be done fast.

“I assume it is my time. Zoro has made his way and now Perona is making hers, I’m the one that lasts.” you said avoiding his gaze. You don’t wanna look into his eyes and get lost in thoughts that will make you stay, even so, Mihawk’s gaze was facing away from you and that made you sad.

Until you reached your right hand to take the books and place it back in the bookshelf you felt Mihawk’s calloused fingers touch the back of your hand and motioned to slide their way under your palm and envelop your smaller hand in his.

“Stay, I want you to stay.”

It was enough to make you melt into his touch and stay with his in this enormous castle with him for a few more days, or years.

#mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #one piece mihawk #one piece #mihawk x you

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eywa-eveng · 10 months

Text

ɪᴠ. sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ɴᴏɴᴇ

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ – ᴊᴀᴋᴇ sᴜʟʟʏ, sᴜʟʟʏ ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ X ᶠᴱᴹ ᴹᴱᵀᴷᴬᵞᴵᴺᴬ ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ – 12.4

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ – angst

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs – widower!Jake, major character death

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪ – ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪɪ – ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪɪɪ

ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪsᴛ – @eywas-heir @fanboyluvr @amiets2 @neteyamforlife @itscheybaby @sunrays404 @im-in-a-pansexual-panik @eternallyvenus @bobojojoba69 @behindthearcane @elegantkidfansoul @goldenmoonbeam @ladylovegood-69 @slutforsmut4ever @myheartfollower @pinkiemme @arminsgfloll @wtf-why-do-i-gotta-do-this @onlyreadz @sovereignsylvia @scc7514 @ghost-lantern @calums-betch @nao-cchi @a--1--1--3 @crazy4books1 @meladollsims @yeosxxx

Wounds will heal with time. Scabs turned to scars. And these demons have gouged deep gashes across Pandora, ravaging everything they touch with no regard for anything outside of themselves. They are the aliens setting foot in a world that is not their own and yet they treat Pandora as if she is theirs to tame. To torture and abuse. Like a diseased plant poisoning all that it’s roots tough, they take and take, never returning that which they’ve stolen. They reap without sowing and destroy everything that wanders into their path. The Great Mother has surely weeped for many years at the atrocities these sawtute have committed against her. And even those years of peace were stolen away in a heartbeat. A scar long since healed torn open to bleed once more. Pandora had prevailed once before and yet these humans have learned nothing. Ignorant as children, repeating the same mistake and hoping that this time it will be different.

The oceans have been stained in blood by their hands. The blood of tulkun. The blood of Na’vi. But the favor has been returned and it’s now their blood that mingles with the waves. This battle may have been small, only a shadow of the might they brought down upon the forest, but they lost. What was left of their people retreated like wounded animals, chased out of the ocean back to whatever stolen piece of the forest they’ve made their home. But how long until they’ve regained their strength? How long until they return once more in search of revenge. These humans are like weeds. Cut away only to grow back once more. It will be a small miracle if they’re gone long enough for the People to heal, to grieve. Because both sides have suffered losses, though some feel greater than others.

“Tsireya!” It’s the first word you’ve spoken in what feels like days and it sears through your throat as if you’ve swallowed fire. The clouds of smoke had not been kind to your body, feeling your lungs and making each breath feel like you’ve swallowed thorns.

“Sa’tsmuke!” Sunlight spills over her in a wash of amber light, tears sparkling in her eyes as she finds you in the distance. Payakan had kept all of you in the cradle of his fins through the eclipse. It allowed for a fitful sort of rest in the soft rocking of the waves. It felt like the comfort of your mother’s arms gently bouncing you as your mind slowly began to stitch itself back together after coming undone by the thought of your son being one of the casualties lost to the hands of the sky demons. Even now you can hardly think further than what is in front of your eyes. Your children, your mate. Your family. You cling to the idea of them, terrified of what will happen if you allow the pain to consume you once more. To return to that great gaping maw that swallowed you whole, covered your eyes and quieted your mind to anything but seeking to make others suffer with you. It was deserved but the demons are gone. To lash out now would be to hurt those that you love. The only people that remain already share in your pain.

A deep breath steadies your resolve.

Tsireya stands shakily to her feet, swaying as she wraps her arms around herself, quiet sobs shaking her shoulders. She reaches for you as soon as you climb ashore the tiny stone island.

“Tsmuke’ite,” you cup her face until her gaze steadies on your face, “where’s your brother? Where are Ao’nung and Rotxo?” She shakes her head as falls into your arms, burying her face in your chest. Her heartbeat drums against the palm of your hand settles on her back. You curl yourself around her as if there’s anything left to protect her from. The damage has been done. All you can do is pick up the pieces left behind. Her tears wet your skin as your nose presses against the shell crowning her head. She smells like home. Like comfort and safety and happiness beyond this small piece of land wet with water and blood. Her hair carries the familiar scent of dried flowers and that sour fruit so few people seem to like. Your heart pinches at the thought as your arms tighten around her. Ronal and Tsireya were always the ones to share the sour fruit with you until the Sullys arrived. Neteyam seemed to love the almost bitter taste. It pains you to think you’ll never bask in the simple joy of eating with your son again.

The points of your fangs dig into your lower lip as you brace yourself to look over at where you know he’s lying. Tuk is at his side, holding his hand in her own. Her tears fall over his fingers and drip down his arm and still he doesn’t move. And his stillness can’t be mistaken for anything other than death. His eyes are closed but it hardly looks like he’s resting. The hole torn through his chest stands out against his deep blue skin, like a red flower blooming in his chest. The sight of it snatched the air from your lungs and the strength from your body. Lo’ak rushes to your side as Tsireya struggles to keep you standing. The ground meets your knees, stone chafing your skin, but you hardly notice. Tsireya says something. Perhaps to you, or maybe to Lo’ak. It sounds as if she’s shouting from across the horizon even as she kneels beside you. A hand touches your shoulder, just for a moment before falling away as you rise just far enough to move. Your hands keep your movements steady as you half crawl towards Neteyam’s prone body.

There’s a deceptive sort of warmth to his skin as you reach out to touch him, fingertips brushing over his cheek. The sun casts fleeting heat across his cold body as you pull him into your lap. He’s been here for hours, cold and alone save for Tsireya and the stone beneath him is wet with a facing wash of his blood. It stains your legs as you hug him close, Tuk nuzzling against you as you wrap your arms around the both of them. Her cries are quiet as she hides her face in your side, hands clinging to the beaded strings of your chest covering. The pads of your fingers find the shape of his pil, tracing the striped pattern so different from the ripples dappling your own face. Tears cloud your vision as you brush over the softness of his lashes, desperately hoping against hope that his eyes will suddenly flutter open.

The shape of the wound in his chest seems almost delicate. Small and insignificant if it were in another place. The ocean holds many wonders, but also great dangers. Warriors have come to you to heal far more grievous wounds. Your fingers find the shape of the wound you’d stitched only weeks ago. It has healed well, only a slightly raised scar, a pale slash across his arm. He bled then too. It had seemed like such a simple thing to heal. A needle and thread to soothe the hurt, but some things are beyond your abilities as tsakarem. Even a tsahìk would be powerless to this injury.

The thought weighs heavy in your heart. Already so much has been taken and still there is more to lose. But these things have a reason. There is balance in all that Eywa does. The Great Mother protects the balance of life no matter the cost. All things have a reason even when you cannot See it. This pain has blinded you, closed your heart. Your chest feels cold and empty as if the flame of your soul has burned out. Perhaps it has. The only thing left burning inside are the tears in your eyes, clouding your vision even as you try to focus on Neteyam’s face. To carve him into your memory before he is washed and committed to the ocean, returned to Eywa. Soon a search party will be sent to find those stranded and your family will be among them. Neteyam will be taken home. His adornments will be removed and his body washed in preparation for his burial, but you want to stay here for a while longer. To count the pale freckles dotted across his cheeks, to remember the pattern of stripes crowning his forehead.

Someone says your name. Gentle as a warm breeze as you hug Neteyam close, cheek pressed against his braided hair. A shadow falls over your back, blocking out the warmth of the sun and reminding you just how cold Neteyam feels in your arms.

“Come here, yuey.” Jake whispers. It’s his hands that move you more than any will of your own, gently unwinding your arms until Neteyam is laying on the ground once more with Tuk still at his side. It seems wrong to leave him there. Stone isn’t as gentle as sand. Surely his tswin is being pinched under the weight of his head. You reach to push a stray braid away from his face but Jake catches your fingers with his own. His grip is insistent as he pulls you away. Kiri takes your place at Neteyam’s side, taking his hand in hers just as Tuk had. You watch over them as Jake pulls you aside and wraps you in his embrace, arms tighten until the air is crushed from your lungs but you hardly protest. His grip is grounding though you can’t help but wonder how long this strength will last. Already you can see the splinters forming in the crease between his brows, in the hard line of his lips and the pain swirling like a storm in his eyes.

“Monkey boy.” Kiri’s voice is quiet, only the faintest hint of relief ringing in her otherwise doleful tone. Her eyes are staring past you and you turn to find the same human god threatened on the demon ship. He looks different now that your mind isn’t fogged with mournful violence. When he was under your knife you hadn’t cared much for the finer details of his appearance, but now you stare at him with a renewed sense of curiosity. He boasts the trappings of a Na’vi and yet he still seems so strange and out of place.

“Are you alright?” Jake asks, fingertips brushing over the scratch you’d left on his chest. It’s shallow as you’d expected and the bleeding has long since stopped. He nods but he eyes you warily before stepping away from the two of you. He joins the children around Neteyam’s body, speaking your language with assured fluidity. On the ship he had spoken in the human language but now he seems comfortable as he speaks to Kiri and Lo’ak, gently touching Neteyam’s arm. You stiffen, tail swaying tensely behind you.

“Shh,” Jake whispers, nuzzling his nose against your temple as he feels your muscles tighten in his arms. “He’s okay. He’s safe.” You aren’t sure if he means the boy or Neteyam who can no longer be hurt by the hands of a tawtute. You watch him as he interacts with your family. Tsireya eyes him warily, sharing a fleeting glance with you even as Lo’ak speaks to him with a familiarity akin to that he shares with his siblings. All of the Sully children seem at ease in his presence but you find yourself still wondering about his ties to humanity. The man that held your daughters captive, that nearly killed your mate, hesitated at the thought of this human boy dying by your hand. He hadn’t seemed so worried over his band of uniltìrantokx warriors and it makes you nervous to think of what importance he holds to the demons terrorizing your home. He must feel the weight of your gaze as you scrutinize him, picking out the finer details of his appearance, because his shoulders begin to curl as if he can become any smaller.

His hair is loc’d like Jake’s and adorned with beads, and you notice the end of a braid hanging down his back. Likely his equivalent of a tswin. A scowl finds its way onto your face, lip curling with distaste. Seeing something so sacred being mimicked by a human feels almost insulting. Your shoulders rise as your body seizes with disgust only to be soothes by Jake’s soft petting as he traces the shape of the stripes swirling across your shoulder beneath his fingers. You feel all five of them gliding across your skin. Five fingers. The same amount that Lo’ak has. That Kiri has. That this boy before you has. If he is so repugnant then what is keeping you from feeling repulsed by your mate and the family he’s given you. Your eyes move away from the braid, tracing over the rest of him. His armbands are handsomely made, the pattern indicative of the Omatikaya’s intricate weaving style. His tewng is comparatively plain but there is a songcord hanging from it.

“Sa’nok,” Kiri says warily, watching you watch the boy. She had always spoken so fondly of her human friend and now she seems almost resigned to your displeasure. Hearing about him is different from seeing him before you, and suddenly you can’t reconcile the thought of this seemingly peaceful boy with the demons that attacked your family only a few hours ago. Not when he meant something to one of them. Norm and Max had been abandoned by their people, left here to live out their lives in a place that they loved. They made sacrifices to be here. What has this boy done but aided the demons that attacked your home. Speaking the tongue of your people only to demand to know where Jake had hidden himself away in a desperate attempt to live in peace.

“Sa’nok, please.” Kiri tries again. You do your best to smooth out your expression and ease your body until a tenuous sort of neutrality returns to your face. Tsireya seems to calm with you, shoulders relaxing under Lo’ak’s arm. The boy–Spider–looks between all of you, as if he’s trying to piece together the threads that bind you to them. But he speaks Na’vi. He must know what sa’nok means. His eyes are brown and full of hesitancy as he stands to face you. So strange that you can See into him the same way you can with your People.

“Spider,” Jake says finally, introducing you by name. “This is my mate.”

“She is the sister of tsahìk of the Metkayina. A tsakarem.” Kiri adds. Spider nods but it hardly relieves the tension between the two of you. Part of you wonders if this is how Ronal felt when the Sullys first arrived. These strange new people, coming to join your clan despite their obvious differences. But if her animosity had been misplaced then, so too is yours now. This boy is loved by those that you hold in your heart. Even still he doesn’t seem any more at ease than he’d been a moment ago.

There’s a dip between his brows where the fear on his face has gathered. He’s frightened again. Though not nearly as terrified as he’d been with your blade against his skin. He looks afraid, but not of you. In his eyes the fear seems to run deeper than your appearance. This Spider does not fear Na’vi. And yet he is still afraid. He shrinks back when you take a step towards him, curiously staring into his brown eyes as if the dark depths will become clearer with closeness. Surely you aren’t easing his nerves with your continued silence, but you’re listening for something. A shift in the wind, a rogue screech of a hì’ikran. Anything that might tell you what Eywa wills you should do with this boy. When nothing comes you wonder if she’s already given you your answer. This boy is no threat to you or your family. He is precious to your children. That should be enough. Especially now when so much has already been lost. To turn him away would be to further fracture your family. Still you’re curious.

“Oel ngati kameie.” He bows, hand extending towards you in a customary greeting. You hum in acknowledgment but don’t share the sentiment. Just like his tswin you can’t help but wonder if he fully realizes the weight of his words or if he’s simply mimicking those around him. His body is adorned with fading war paint, stripes streaking across his skin in uneven lines. There’s no pattern to the blue markings as there would be on a Na’vi. It seems strange that someone like him hasn’t decided on a more traditional design for his paint. It’s almost childish how desperate the thick lines are, how obviously they’re meant to mimic the sharper stripes of a forest Na’vi.

“Where is your family?” You ask at last. Spider seizes as if you’ve struck him but you spoke softly, keenly aware that all your screaming had whittled your voice down to a rasped drawl that might make him hear anger where none was meant to be found.

“My mother is dead. And my father… he’s dead, too.” He looks away as he says this but you don’t need to see his eyes to know that isn’t the truth. A lie. A word Jake had to teach you. Something different from the truth. You don’t ask again. If he wants to lie to you then you will let him live in his delusion. No one corrects him and you wonder if they know he isn’t speaking truthfully.

“This is my family.” He says after a beat of silence. His voice breaks as he looks down at Neteyam. You hum and turn your back to him, eyes facing towards the horizon where riders will soon come to take you home. They arrive as you listen to the faint voices of the children reuniting with their friend. The soft screeching of skimwings echo over the open water followed by the long bellow of a horn. A scattering of voices whoop and yip in return as those left behind make their presence known. Your own voice joins the calls, the sharp sound burning your throat. Riderless tsuraks and ilus swim through the water and you mount the first one you find. The ilu tosses its long neck as you make tsaheylu, clicking as the storm in your mind mingles with their own. Tuk rides with you, her little arms clinging tight to your waist as you ride back to the village.

A net of silence has been cast over the island. The shallows are empty and the beach deserted, chores abandoned in favor of mending what’s been broken by the humans. Battle is not unknown to Na’vi. Clans fight amongst themselves when peace cannot be made with words. The humans had ravaged Pandora before. But never here. Never in the far reaches of the ocean reefs. Even the tulkun that had been killed were murdered far to the south. Now the shadow these demons cast has finally fallen over Awa’atlu. Kiri takes Tuk as all of you arrive home, leading her to the marui. All of the children trail behind Jake as he carries Neteyam’s body. He looks so small in his father’s arms. It’s your instinct to follow, to comfort. Instead you find yourself hand in hand with Tsireya as you make your way to your sister’s home.

Tonowari is the first to notice your arrival, nostrils flaring as he catches the scent of you and his daughter on the breeze. He meets you on the path overhanging the water, arms winding painfully around the both of you before he kneels before Tsireya. A gracious sigh comes from inside the marui as Ronal emerges with Ao’nung at her side. She goes to her daughter first, hands moving over her body in search of any wound that needs tending. Ao’nung strays toward you, head knocking against your shoulder. He doesn’t speak but his actions are enough. You rest a hand on his head. Not quite a hug but enough to offer comfort. He hesitates before grabbing your arm and leaning into the weight of your hand resting on his braided hair.

“Tsmuke.” Ronal moves in beside her son, eyes tracing over you. “You’re hurt. Come.” There’s no leniency in her words as she pulls you inside and sits you next to the cookfire. The needle stings as she threads the torn skin of your arm back together with meticulous hands, rubbing a soothing balm over the wound when she’s finished. The pain had already calmed to a manageable throb after being ignored for so long and now it feels all but numbed.

“What happened?” She asks after returning her healing items to their rightful place. “I felt your tirea so vividly but I could not find you. We searched but the demons were retreating. We had to look after the clan. We–I thought–” she gathers herself with a long breath, “I’m glad to see you safe.”

Ronal has never been a coddling person that speaks gently and soothes worries with softened words. She is plain in her speech, pointed and assured even with her own children. It has always been this way growing up in her shadow. You were kept under her impartial guidance in all things and even now she isn’t inclined to soften her strong voice, but she can do nothing to mask the worry she felt even if she hasn’t said it in so many words. The fear she must’ve felt turning for home without her daughter and sister at her side must’ve stabbed through her like an arrow but Ronal is tsahìk before she is anything else. The clan looks to her and Tonowari for guidance and they cannot waver no matter the circumstances. Though your olo’eyktan is more open with his fears.

“You are a fearsome warrior, but I feared for your death when we could not find you. I stayed until the last of our mounted warriors had retreated, praying that the Great Mother would spare our tsakarem.”

“Eywa has heard you.” You hum with little enthusiasm. “I was on the demon ship. They took Kiri. They had Tuk and Tsireya. I couldn’t leave them.” Tsireya looks towards the floor, ears pulled back tight as she leans heavily against her father. He holds her close, thumb rubbing soothing circles into her arm. A parent reunited with their child. You understood the need to keep her close. You’d felt it when you saw her stranded and alone on that little island, felt it when you saw Kiri and Tuk bound on the demon ship. A part of your family has been reunited but there is still a fragment missing. A piece that will never be replaced. Your hand finds the length of your songcord, thumb drawing over each piece in turn. Your first breath, your selection as tsakarem, your iknimaya. The whole of your life is strung here. And it will continue. Already there is a need for new additions. But so many cords were cut short in the battle. The threads slip through your fingers as your hands begin to shake. The bitter taste returns to your mouth as you try to find the words through the rising tears.

“I found Kiri and Tuk after Tsireya escaped, but–” your voice cracks as tears rise in your eyes once more, “I couldn’t protect them all. I–we lost Neteyam.”

“Neteyam? He–?” Ronal’s eyes find yours in an instant. Her eyes are wide with panic as her hands find yours now tightened to fists to keep the tremors at bay. You can imagine what she is thinking. How could Neteyam, the promising warrior, son of Toruk Makto, be lost in battle? Tonowari looks just as disbelieving. He has seen Neteyam’s prowess, trained him alongside Ao’nung and the others. His death must seem impossible and yet he is gone just the same.

“He is with Eywa now.” Is all you can muster. Your sister bows her head, eyes unblinking as she hears your words. When she meets your gaze again her eyes are resigned. It’s the same dark cast her green eyes had taken when Jake insisted on sending away the tulkun. Disbelief and rejection linger in her voice when she finally speaks.

“Go to them.” A basket is hastily filled with food before she leads you outside. “Your family needs you now.” The path from your sister to your mate is a familiar one and you arrive to find the children gathered outside the marui. The covering meant to keep out wind and rain is drawn closed and Jake is nowhere to be seen. Still, you tend to your children first. Tuk is hugged against Lo’ak’s side and Kiri and Spider are sitting in the canoe just beyond their hanging feet. There are no words exchanged as you offer each of them food, hesitating for a moment before offering some to Spider. He doesn’t protest when Kiri snatched the leaf wrapped meat from him, carefully picking through it before rewrapping it. They haven’t eaten in hours and you watch them carefully as they take their first bites, keeping a close eye on Spider.

He takes a deep breath before his mask hissed as he pulls it away just long enough to fit a gluttonous bite into his mouth. It must be easier to take larger bites than prolong his time without proper air. You find yourself waiting for something terrible to happen. It isn’t uncommon for children to explore the world with their mouth, eating anything that looks enticing. But some things are poisonous, meant to be consumed by animals that have developed immunities to them. But when Spider doesn’t begin to choke or itch you deem it safe to leave them to eat. You’re still weary of him but far too exhausted by loss to let another child slip between your fingers today. Human or otherwise.

Inside you find Jake kneeling beside Neteyam’s body, the faint blue light of the sun peeking through the marui membrane, the only thing lighting the somber home. His ears twitch at the sound of your approach but he makes no move to look at you. He takes in a deep breath through his nose, scenting the air instead of turning to see who you are. Only when you’re within arm’s reach does he move, his hand finding yours in a nearly painful grip as he pulls you down beside him. He curls himself around you until you’re nearly in his lap.

“I’m sorry.” He says it over and over, nearly choking on the words as the air refuses to stay in his lungs. Each inhale is shallow and rushed, too quick as each exhale rushes across your neck.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, clinging impossibly closer. His tail finds its way around you, the tuft of hair tickling your skin though you hardly feel like laughing as you watch your mate fall apart in your arms with no way to hold him together. He had been strong for all of you but at last the tide has turned.

“She killed him. I killed him. All of it was for nothing. I’m supposed to protect the People and I can’t even protect my own son.”

Your skin is wet with tears where he’s hidden his face. Even if you wanted to, you can’t pull away from him. He’s holding you tight, blunt nails biting into your skin as if even the slightest bit of slack in his embrace will leave space for something to take you away. He’s shattering like splintered wood and it’s all you can do to gather the pieces back together. He lets you. His cries grow quiet and his breaths slow as you try your best to soothe him. It’s only a temporary consolation. This type of pain isn’t one that can be healed with salves or prayers. Even tsahìk cannot heal this wound. Grief is something that only passes with time. And even if you like a thousand years it’s almost certain a part of you will die still mourning your son.

“I failed him.” Jake mumbles. His voice sounds utterly defeated. “A father protects. That was my job. Above anything else I’m supposed to protect my family. I couldn’t even do that. My son–” his words break off into a choked sob as he shakes his head. “My boy.” He touches Neteyam at last, his hand settling against his son’s cheek while the other keeps you close. “Neteyam.” Tears fall onto Neteyam’s cheeks as Jake bows over him. His eyes flit across his face, looking at every detail before he finally sits back.

“I wish we had more time.” Jake whispers. It breaks your heart, or what’s left of it, shredding the few fragile pieces that remain. No father wants to bury their child. Neteyam was meant to grow up, grow old. Be laid to rest long after Jake was gone. Now here you sit. Returning such a young soul to the Great Mother.

“I wish you had more time with him. He loved you, you know. I know he might not have said it much, but he did.” Jake’s hands hesitate as he takes Neteyam’s songcord from its place hanging on his loincloth. Some beads you know from when he would hum the melody of his life during quieter moments. His iknimaya, the shell marking his arrival in Awa’atlu. But there’s another close after. One you’d assumed was a chorus bead, a placeholder between events. Events that would never come. There’d be no bead for his Metkayina iknimaya. No bead for his mate. No bead for his first child or a triumph in battle. Every cord must have a last bead and it seems the one Jake is rolling between his fingers will be it. It’s a pearl, pale blue and lustrous in the muted light.

“This one’s for you.” Jake says, gently placing the waytelem in your hands. “It matches his mother’s.” There’s another bead, farther back in his life story. A light blue bead of stone laced with black veins. “This was the bead for her death. He wanted yours to match hers as a show of his love and respect for both of you.” It’s not until Jake thumbs away the moisture gathering on your cheeks that you realize you’re crying. Of course you knew Neteyam loved you. A tsakarem is taught to See all, to feel the ties that bond each being to Eywa and each other. When you quiet your mind and steady your soul, pushing aside any thoughts and worries you can almost feel the people around you. Their triumphs and tribulations. Their happiness and sorrows. Just as clearly as you can see it in their eyes, their tirea can be felt like the warmth of a flame wafting off their skin.

Neteyam always radiated calm and contentment when he was at your side. You often found him accompanying you in your chores the same as Kiri. The eldest of your children preferring the more subdued space of your marui to the mischief Lo’ak and Tuk seemed to stir the moment you take your eyes off them. Now there is nothing surrounding him, no air of comfort as you stare at his serene face. Nothing. This is only a body, waiting to be returned to the earth. Neteyam has been gone for hours, his vitra already passed into the hands of Eywa.

“We have to clean him.” You say finally, rising to gather some water. The freshwater spring isn’t far from the Sully marui and you find others there. Bowed heads and solemn faces as they gather their fill of water. Death is not uncommon. Life must always be returned in the end. Energy is only borrowed and one day you have to give it back. This is the way. And it is good. Eywa holds all those that have passed into her hands. No one is truly gone, and yet you will never see your son again. Not truly. The Ranteng Utralti will offer brief glimpses, small moments of comfort. But it won’t be lasting. No new memories will be made. No changes will be seen in his face. He will remain as he was while everything continues to change without him. Death has parted him and only death will reunite you in the Great Mother’s arms. Jake is still where you left him when you return, Lo’ak following close behind you.

“It is time.” You say gently. Jake nods. He’s slow in his work as he washes the blood from Neteyam’s skin. Taking off each of his adornments and setting them aside. His necklace, his armbands. They’ll be kept as memories, passed down to his siblings or their children as cherished items. Lo’ak puts them away with care. It’s plain on his face that he has many things he wishes to say but has resigned himself to the silence. You busy yourself with weaving, the familiarity of the task is strangely comforting even as you weave the bindings Neteyam will wear as he’s returned to Eywa. It takes hours, long enough for day to give way to evening as the sky begins to darken to dusk. Finally you set aside the last of your weaving to stand. It is time to allow everyone to say their final goodbyes. Jake has already had his time with Neteyam as he washed the blood and sweat from his body. Now he leaves you to say your parting words.

It’s so strange to touch him and know he will not move, to breathe in and find his scent stale in their air as if he hasn’t been here in many hours. And truly he hasn’t. The body before you is empty of life. Neteyam is gone. But there’s still a small comfort in sitting beside him one last time.

“We didn’t have long together did we?” You ask quietly, a sad laugh leaving your lips. “Even if it was only for a moment it has been an honor being your mother. Did you know your sempul still hasn’t told me your mother’s name. I’ve been too afraid to ask. You’re likely with her now. I’d like to think she’ll be happy to see you but I’m sure it’s a bittersweet reunion. And I’m sorry I could not do more to protect you. Our Great Mother protects only the balance of life, but if she willed it I would trade my life for yours. But what’s past has passed, all I can say now is goodbye, maitan. Until we meet again.” His skin is cold beneath your lips as you press a parting kiss to his forehead. When you emerge Kiri stands with Spider in hand. They duck inside and you leave them to their privacy.

Instead you find your way to your own marui. It stands as little more than a place to keep your things since finally being convinced to sleep with your mate in his own home without feeling as though you’re imposing. You’ve had your time with him. Now it is their turn to whisper their goodbyes.

“Here you are.” Jake stands at the entrance of your home, back turned to the darkening sky. The freckles dotted across his skin are beginning to glow faintly. The pattern is interrupted by a slash across the bridge of his nose, dipping over his cheek. You hadn’t noticed it before but now it gives you purpose. Just as weaving had you find a distraction in healing.

“You’re hurt. Come here.” You light the fire pit in the center of your pod, before finding a needle and thread. Jake’s eyes don’t leave your face as you stitch up his wound. When you’re done he doesn’t allow you to pull away. Instead his hands settle on your face, bringing your head close until your nose is pressed against his. One hand leaves your cheek to reach behind you, brushing over the curls of your hair before settling over the braid of your tswin. He draws it over your shoulder, bringing it to his lips. For a moment you expect him to ask for tsaheylu so that you might share this burden of pain, but it would only feel heavier as it weighs on both of you. Instead his lips brush against the braided hair for a moment longer before letting it fall between you.

“Tsmuke.” You’re drawn apart by the sound of Ronal’s voice. She arrives with her arms full, footsteps slowing as she sees Jake by your side. Her eyes turn away but you catch the edge of regret in her eyes. It’s been there in fleeting bouts in the months since the Sullys have begun learning the ways of your clan. She’s slowly grown past her previous misgivings even as things have ended in this way. With the sawtute turning their eyes towards your peaceful home in search of the man seated beside you.

“Jakesully,” she say at last, inclining her head towards him, “may Eywa ease your spirit.” Jake returns her show of respect, touching his brow and extending his hand towards her.

“Tsmuke,” she says evenly, “you are our tsakarem.” You aren’t the only one but you’re surely the eldest. The most experience and the most respected within the clan. Tsireya has inherited the honor as well with a few others but only one will be named tsahìk when Ronal passes down the mantle. “Will you lead with me tonight?”

The clan hasn’t suffered a loss this great in many years. Usually only one, perhaps two people are committed to Eywa in such a ceremony but tonight there will be many lives returned to the Great Mother’s hands. Ronal extends her own hand, balancing the basket she’s holding on her hip. She pulls you to stand but Jake doesn’t allow her to take you farther than necessary. His tail coils around your ankle before you can take even a half step away from him. His eyes don’t meet yours when you look down at him and he says nothing as you accept your sister’s request to lead with her. It is your duty to your people no matter the occasion. Eywa has chosen you for this and you can’t turn her back on her when you so desperately need her guidance.

The sky has turned a deep shade of blue like the darkest depths of the ocean, dotted with pearls of light as stars shine overhead. The village flickers in shades of orange and red, finally stirring after a day of lingering silence. A song lingers on the breeze, the familiar sound of chorus beads and the intimate words of each Na’vi’s life. Ngaru irayo seiyi ayoe… You know these words by heart. They’re the words that you sing in your heart as you trace the beads of your own songcord. Your hand finds your hip where you keep the cord wound around your tewng. The beads and crystals, bones and coral that symbolize your life. Jake’s fingers draw over yours before slipping his hand into yours.

The covering is drawn back by the time you return, Kiri’s voice carrying outside as she sings the beads of Neteyam’s songcord. Jake’s hand tightens in yours as he listens to your daughter sing. Her voice lulls over the last words before your home falls silent once more. All of the children have come to hear Neteyam’s waytelem. Tsireya and Ao’nung have come along with Rotxo as they kneel around Neteyam’s body to hear Kiri sing. Such an honor is only given to those closest to you and everyone here cared deeply for your son. There won’t be another chance to be beside him after this moment. Soon the ceremony will begin and Jake kneels beside him, carefully bundling Neteyam into the ties that you’ve woven. Tsireya offers you a jar of paint in customary white. It’s cold against your skin as Jake drags his fingers from your forehead to your chest. You return the favor, painting each of the children in turn. And when people finally begin to gather in the shallow waters you shrug on the woven shawl Ronal gave you as Kiri straightens the veil upon your head.

Firelight drifts over the gentle waves as Ronal’s voice rings out across the shore. She calls to Eywa to open her arms to her children, to hold each of them in turn. Your brothers and sisters, each treasured members of the Metkayina are pulled out to sea in their sämunge surrounded by those that were closest. Mother, fathers, siblings, mates, children. Tonowari announces their names as they’re given over to the anemones lighting up the ocean with yellow syuratan. The grasping fronds glow brighter as each body is accepted into the watery earth. Returned to Eywa.

“Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan.” Tonowari’s voice echoes into the night as you step away from Ronal’s side as she opens her arms to send Neteyam home, joining your family as Jake leads the ilu over the open water. Pale pink flowers trail behind as you carefully pull Neteyam from the woven carrier. His tanhì are still dark, no light glowing from within. There’s nothing left of your heart to break as each of you takes a final moment with him. Jake’s eyes find yours as you hold Neteyam above the water. He isn’t ready, but when will you ever be ready to part with your child? Lo’ak lingers beside you, his hand resting on Neteyam’s head until you and Jake pull him beneath the water. One swaying frond touches his skin, brightening until it’s nearly white. Another and another until they’re pulling him from your hands, wrapping Neteyam in their grasping arms and pulling him deep into their embrace. He disappears all too quickly. Blue skin lost in the sea of yellow. Part of you wants him back but that desperation won’t be quelled by holding his body. Neteyam is gone. Clinging to his body won’t bring back your son. Your tears mingle with the ocean as you linger longer than the others, knowing you’re meant to sing when you rise again. But it is your duty and you must do it.

“Utralä Anawm ayrina’lu ayoeng.” We are all seeds of the Great Tree. Words you know by heart. Words you’ve sung many times. Words that sting your tongue as you sing them for Neteyam. For all that were lost to the hands of those demons. How had a day like any other darkened so deeply with a storm that seems as if it will never pass. The clouds crowd your mind and darken your heart. It’s cold, and desperately lonely even as you stand beside your sister with the clan at your back. This pain is yours and yours alone. Others have lost those they love but they haven’t lost Neteyam. They haven’t lost those small pieces of him that you would never get back. It feels selfish to feel so anguished, to be so utterly consumed by this darkness of grief. You only had him by your side for a short time, but even so you loved him. He was your son. You were his mother. And now he is gone.

When the night draws to a close and the People retreat to their homes you find yourself wandering the shore. The ceremonial garbs have been abandoned somewhere behind you. Perhaps slipping carelessly into the sand or maybe you’d given them back to Ronal. You can’t quite remember but the air feels cool against your suddenly bared skin. Your hands run over your arms as you hug them around yourself, feeling the prickles flesh of your cold skin under your fingertips. Despite the slight chill of the night you find yourself wandering further than you have a need to, walking aimlessly until sand turns to dirt underfoot. Burst of blue and green light come to life with each step as the treeline swallows you. The forest holds a different type of silence. The sound of waves breaking over the shore is replaced with the buzzing and chirping of unseen insects and the sound of wind rustling through the leaves.

Fatigue creeps over you like a tree taking root, threatening to bind you where you stand. Two days you have fighting. The demons and your own grief-stricken mind, and finally it is beginning to take its toll on your body. Each of your footsteps is slower than the last, your legs feeling heavier with every passing moment. The forest is still bright with syuratan that dapples your skin in shades of purple and green but darkness is starting to creep in around you, tears only working to further disrupt your vision. So soon after you’ve been blessed with everything you could ask for it was taken away. The sea gives and the sea takes, no matter when your blessings were received. All life must remain balanced and equal. It is your sole purpose as tsakarem to abide by Eywa’s will, to uphold the Great Mother’s balance. But the mantle feels too heavy to bear at this moment.

Your feet slip, knees going weak, and fall to the ground. You’ve asked for so little in this life. Never wanting more than that which was given. Your heart never darkened against your sister when she was bestowed the honor of tsahìk. Never once did your happiness falter when those around you were mated and blessed with children. And when finally the tides turn in your favor a wave comes to wash it all away. Your arms tighten around yourself, nails biting into your skin as you curl in on yourself. Content to let this terrible moment pass in the cradle of the forest floor. Now you will allow yourself to grieve, allow the ugly, terrible feelings to overtake you. Your tears seep into the soil as your cheek rests in the dirt. Each breath is gasping and shallow as a weight like a thousand stones threatens to bury your prone body and return you to the earth as well.

The silence is nearly deafening until it isn’t. The lull of the forest is broken by the sound of something tearing through the trees. Too heavy to be a benign animal, yet too loud to be a hunting predator. There’s a stiffness to your limbs as you try to sit up, rolling to your knees in time to see Lo’ak vaulting over a fallen tree.

“Sa’nok!” He stumbles to a stop in front of you.

“Lo’ak? Why are you here?” He should be asleep.

“Why am I here?” He asks incredulously. “Why are you here? I’ve been looking all over the village for you!” Why are you here? You hadn’t meant to walk so far, to get so lost in your own head. Instead of answering you find your feet and begin walking the way he came. Despite his loud approach Lo’ak has left hardly any trace of his presence aside from the dimming light where his feet had been only moments ago. Veins of syuratan ripple like water through the ground, rising and fading as your son walks beside you. Grass turns to sand and the light of Naranawm washes over both of you.

“I’m sorry,” Lo’ak finally says, breaking the comfortable silence between you, “I’m sorry about Neteyam.”

“It was not your fault, Lo’ak.”

“But it was!” He is suddenly in front of you, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I was the one that said we should get Spider. Neteyam saved us and now he is gone because of me.” You hear his words before you speak, turning each one over in your mind. Of course it was not Lo’ak that killed his brother. He loved Neteyam. You raise his head with a hand under his chin, nearly drowning in the amount of guilt shining in his yellow eyes.

“It is no fault of yours, maitan. Many lives were lost. No one is to blame except the demons from the sky. They brought this storm upon us, not you.” He pulls away from you, pacing in the sand. It seems he won’t allow his guilt to dissipate so easily. You sigh and close your eyes, turning to the Great Mother for guidance. It’s a lesson you learned as tsakarem. Eywa speaks when thoughts are quiet and hearts are open.

Somewhere in the wind there’s a whisper of her voice. It’s a simple breeze brushing through the mangroves but you hear more. Somewhere in the stillness of your focus you hear the sound of a tulkun singing, slow and mournful. The same song that filled the air as you and Ronal laid Roa to rest yet the voice in your head isn’t as deep, still light with youth. A young tulkun mourning its mother. And then more. Many more. Na’vi and tulkun, all dead in bloodstained water. One remains, a single voice. Payakan. Your eyes jump open as if you’ve been struck. Eywa’s meaning is clear as the stars overhead as you look at your son. Lo’ak is still pacing and muttering to himself.

“But if I hadn’t asked… if I’d left Spider–”

“Neteyam might’ve died even still. Perhaps not on the demon ship but those ayvrrtep were everywhere in the water. What did you tell me when you bonded with Payakan?” His feet finally come to a stop as he thinks over it.

“Those Na’vi died, but it wasn’t Payakan that killed them. He wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.”

“And neither were you. We are not tulkun. Their way is not our law. I know Neteyam’s death is heavy on your heart, but it is not your fault, maitan. Who is to say he would not have been struck by their metal arrows later. It is the sawtute that should carry this guilt.” He sniffles and nods, eyes still staring at the sand, then he lets out a watery laugh.

“Bullets.”

Your ear twitches, “What?”

“The metal arrows are called ‘bullets.’” You taste the foreign word on your tongue. It’s your deepest hope that you will never have to say the word again, but it’s a naive thought. War has come to Awa’atlu and it will not end until every hostile human on Pandora is dead. But these are worries for another day. War is a heavy burden and you are barely carrying the weight of your son’s death. You draw Lo’ak into your arms and press a kiss to the top of his head. He smells like the ocean and home. It makes your heart long for the comfort of your family, of your mate’s warmth and the sound of Tuk’s purring snores. You’re tired and you both should sleep but for a moment more you find yourself standing still as Lo’ak wets your skin with silent tears.

The horizon is hidden behind the silhouette of the seawall. A small piece of protection around the village. But somewhere beyond, over the horizon yet far closer than they should be, the humans are lurking deep in the forest. Or perhaps they’re even closer, building a nest for themselves on some island just out of sight. The threat is great but you’re already so tired. Tired of the fighting and the death that it brings. It makes you wonder how tired Jake must be.

He doesn’t look peaceful even as he sleeps. His face is pinched, brows drawn tight as you finally lay down beside him. Lo’ak finds his own bedroll, the place next to him occupied by Spider instead of Neteyam. When you lay down Jake stirs just long enough to wrap his arm around you before falling still once more, and you wake to the feeling of his tail slipping from its place curled over your thigh.

The sky is already alight with light far past a blushing dawn. Voices and sounds float in from beyond the open marui as village life moves on. One day at a time. A first step and then a second until you’ll lose count and look back to see how far you’ve come. The pain will linger. A familiar smell or a comforting melody might bring echoes of pain to the surface like ripples across still water, but with time your heart will heal if you don’t allow the grief still clinging like a second skin to consume you. Just one step, one day.

Kiri kneels next to the cookfire, turning over carved skewers of fish. Lo’ak is missing as is Tuk, but you can hear her voice somewhere nearby, giggling and splashing in the shallow waters. Spider lingers in the shadiest part of your home, knees curled up to his knees as he watches Kiri cook. He’s uncomfortable, you can tell just in his posture. Pulled up tight into himself as if he will disappear from view if he can make himself small enough. He seems almost ashamed of himself, of everything that he is. He seems so like your children and yet no amount of warpaint will hide his true nature. Still, you quell the animosity still festering deep inside you. There is no time to dwell on darkness. If you stay still and wallow in these feelings, you’ll be lost.

“Good morning.” It’s a tentative extension of kindness, kinder than the few words you’d had for him yesterday. Spider raises his head, eyes darting between Kiri and Jake as if your eyes aren’t resting pointedly on his face. Kiri returns your greeting, murmuring about Lo’ak having already left to tend to his chores. It’s a distraction for him, you’re sure. It is easy to forget yourself in the needs of the many. You imagine it’s why Kiri is cooking. Busy hands, quiet minds.

“Good morning.” Spider says at last. It is enough. One step. You rise with Jake as he stands to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I have to speak with Tonowari.” His face is guarded, eyes clouded as he tries to hide his intentions from you. He’s pulling away and you reach for him. It’s instinctual. He is your mate, your love, and you want to stand beside him.

“Ma Jake, what is wrong?” So much is wrong, so much hurts. You want to bear this burden with him. Let me, you want to say. Spiritual burdens are something you were taught to See. The bond between Jake and the Great Mother still holds strong, the rope has not frayed. Eywa has not abandoned him and he has not turned his back on her. So what is so wrong that he would hide his eyes from you? He doesn’t explain himself as you trail behind him, hand still in his. You pull hard, planting your feet against the path until he can go no further without letting you go. He hesitates before his hand falls away from your own. For a moment it feels as though the world has fallen away completely, that there’s nothing left to ground you now that he’s pulled away. Anxiety rushes through you like bitter poison, pricking over every inch of your skin as tears begin to burn in your eyes. His rejection stings more than any other you’ve felt in your life. Every terrible thought rushes to the surface all at once.

“Jake?” Your voice wobbles as your arms hang limply at your sides. His shoulders rise and fall with a heaving sigh before he turns to face you.

“Ma muntxate.” His hands find your face and you, thumbs brushing over the shape of your cheeks. There’s conflict in his eyes, uncertainty, as if he is standing at the edge of a cliff wondering which way he should step. Away from danger. Away from whatever is causing him so much strife. The look in his eye is different than the pain you saw yesterday. It isn’t the futile longing of a father. It’s something more resigned. Whatever he wants to tell Tonowari, it shadows any of his own feelings.

“Don’t.” You say quietly. “Please, don’t. Whatever you are thinking, please, don’t do it.” He’s heard your words but doesn’t seem to take them into his heart. Instead he presses his forehead against yours. The world falls quiet for a brief moment. You feel grounded once more even as Jake pulls away with no intention to heed your words.

“Nga yawne lu oer.” And he means it. There’s no glint of deception in his eyes. Jake loves you as you love him and yet something inside you feels as though you’re losing him. Each step he takes away is like a thread straining and if you don’t follow it will break. His pace is slow as if he dreads what he is about to do. All it would take is a moment’s hesitation. If he would just turn around it would quell the panic rising in your heart.

Tonowari and Ronal rise as they see the two of you coming towards them. Jake trudging somberly with you quick at his heels. Ronal looks between the two of you, setting aside the spear arrow in her hand.

“What is this?” She asks before Tonowari can speak. Jake swallows thickly before he answers.

“My family and I, we’ll move on tomorrow. Far away from here.” Ronal takes a half step away from him as if moved off balance by his words. You feel the same. A weakness builds in your knees as you try to step towards him, to see his face, his eyes, and know what he is thinking. This is his home. Your home. He has built a life for his family–your family–here. You’d promised to follow him, but hearing the words makes you realize the path you’ve laid for yourself. A new life in a new place, far from anything you’ve ever known. Wherever you go it will be a place your previous life cannot follow. Ronal, Tonowari, the children, your spirit sister. They’d all be left behind. The thread begins to break.

Tonowari nods but it is a gesture you’ve come to recognize as disapproval. He is acknowledging Jake’s words but he will not heed them.

“Your son lies with our ancestors. You are mated with our tsakarem. This is your home.”

“Now you must stand with us. As our brother.” Ronal’s voice is steadfast though Jake still seems to hesitate even before the words of his tsahìk and olo’eyktan.

“I caused all of this. They were looking for me, for my family.”

“And we are here.” Ronal’s voice echoes your own as the two of you speak in tandem.

“You are Metkayina now.” Tonowari extends his hand expectantly. Jake looks at it, then at you. As if trying to decide if this is truly what he wanted. A moment passes before he clasps Tonowari’s forearm, committing himself to his place within the clan. With time, when Jake has fully committed his heart to the Metkayina, he might become eyktanay and stand beside Tonowari. The clan needs his guidance now more than ever. War is inevitable. All that’s left now is to prepare for the coming storm. He’s quiet as you walk away, aimless steps weaving through the village paths.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last, “I don’t want to abandon you. I want you by my side. You are my mate; I love you. But I have to protect the People. I can’t let anyone get hurt because of me.”

“These things we cannot decide. It is up to the will of Eywa who lives and who dies. The Great Mother’s balance is out of our hands. All life must be returned to death sooner or later.” It hurts to say the words and know that your son was among those taken into the Great Mother’s arms. It was far before his time if you could’ve chosen it. He would’ve lived a long life, far beyond your own and died with the legacy of a great warrior. With a mate and children of his own and many beads to sing of his waytelem. But it was not meant to be. Neteyam is gone and you miss him more than anything but he would not want this. He would not want his father, the mighty Toruk Makto, to give up this fight. Jake was like the brightest star in Neteyam’s sky, a place so high he could only ever hope to reach. His greatest wish was to be a warrior resembling his Jake. You will not allow him to abandon his son’s dream even in his absence.

“Eywa has not abandoned you, ma Jake, so you will not abandon us.” He nods but his eyes are shrouded with a fog of sadness. Grief does not pass easily and you don’t expect this wound to heal within a day, a year, or even a lifetime. You’ve lost people in your life. Great warriors and clan elders. Thinking of them is like pressing against a bruise. It pangs and throbs but soon you will forget until you touch it once more. Neteyam’s parting is still fresh in your mind, weighing heavy on your heart.

“I miss him so much.” There are no words to placate the pain in his voice. “I just want to see him again. Just once.”

The desperate wish leads the two of you to the Ranteng Utralti. It will not be a true reunion. Not in the way Jake wants, but it will be something. Neteyam still lives within Eywa. His vitra has not been lost even in death.

The sun is still high overhead, poking beams of white light through the water as the two of you dive towards the Spirit Tree. The fronds seem to beckon your arrival as they sway in the tide, tossing patches of purple light across your skin. You’re still wearing your mourning garbs, your paint, your veil. It seems fitting as the two of you lock eyes. Jake’s hand reaches for yours, squeezing tight as you both make tsaheylu with the Spirit Tree. One moment you feel yourself floating, water all around you, but it fades in an instant, swallowed by a swirl of flashing light that fades first to green and then to more defined shapes. Leaves, a forest. It’s only vaguely recognizable, just different enough from the forest of your home to know you’re far from Awa’atlu, returned to the Pandora jungle once more.

There are voices among the sounds of rustling leaves and chittering animals. The sun is warm against your skin as you trail towards the sound, wide tail brushing against the plants around you. A warmth unfolds in your heart as you peek around a tree and find Jake kneeling next to a stream, a young boy at his side. At once you know it’s your son. His smile is just the same as it was as he offers his little bow to Jake. It’s beautiful in a way only Eywa can provide. A peaceful piece of perfection, a sweet dream to tide over an ailing heart. You’re content to watch them but a sound draws your attention, an ear flicking towards the noise. It doesn’t seem to disturb Neteyam or Jake and you wonder if they even know you’re here just beyond sight. Perhaps you’re at the very fringe of Jake’s vision, peering in from the outside. You leave him to it, attention drawn towards the sound of a woman singing. The forest changes around you, wavering like air above a fire as you walk a seemingly long distance in only a few strides and stumble upon a marui. It’s large, much too big for its single occupant, and woven with the intricacy expected of an Omatikaya dwelling.

“If you have time to stand and watch you should come help.” She interrupts her singing to finally look up at you and her face is striking. Round eyes, full lips, and her pil slant upward in a way that makes her features seem sharper. And there’s a sense of familiarity within her features, as if you’ve seen her somewhere before, like a memory faded with time. You stare at her even as she hands you a stone bowl, expecting that you’ll begin to grind cycad seeds. It usually isn’t your place to make such preparations but you are a guest in this woman’s home and she wouldn’t know if you are better suited preparing meat rather than flour. Still it is the same as preparing plants for medicines, an easy enough task, though you nearly drop the bowl when she asks who you are. But it’s hardly a question as your name rolls off her tongue.

“That is your name, yes? Neteyam has spoken highly of you since he arrived.” There’s a bitter tinge to her tone. For a moment you think it’s directed at you as you finally recognize her face. It’s Neteyam’s face if only older, more feminine. This is his mother. Jake’s first mate. Your chin tucks towards your chest as you try to hide within the dark cloud of your curls, shrinking behind the curtain of your hair. Perhaps you had wrongly interpreted Eywa’s will. Perhaps you were not meant to mate with Jake. It had been a selfish thought just as you’d worried, inconsiderate to the woman waiting for him here. She curses under her breath and your fangs bite into your lip to keep from apologizing before she’s said her piece.

“I give my life to protect my children and still it is not enough. Faysawtute.” Her chopping begins to gain vigor, scoring the wooden slab as she goes. “I kill him and he lives even still. When will it end?” Finally she looks up at you.

“Are the children safe? Kiri, Tuk, Lo’ak? I have not seen them here. They have to be safe.” She is trying to hide her desperation, you can tell by the pinched doing of her voice, but her eyes cannot hide from you. She is terrified that more of her children will be delivered to her soon.

“They are safe. They’re all safe.” The tension leaves her shoulders.

“That is good. And Jake?”

“He is with Neteyam now. He might come to see you soon…” your voice trails off as you realize he never told you her name. In his quest to keep you from questioning his devotion he has hidden a piece of himself. She will always be a part of him and it is not your place to begrudge him that. It is because of her that you have the family he’s given you. She deserves your unyielding respect as the mother that came before you.

“Neytiri,” she sounds almost amused by your ignorance. “Neytiri te Tskaha Mo'at'ite.” She sets aside her cooking and reaches for you, her hands finding yours once you set aside the bow of ground seeds. “I’ve heard of you and your sister Ronal. A skilled tsahìk and her tsahìknay.”

Tsahìknay. No one had ever called you such a thing. It was always tsakarem; a tsahìk that never finished her training and earned the honored title of clan leader. That was your sister, that was Ronal. She was tsahìk and yet you’re still treated with such respect within the clan. Even Ronal defers to your guidance at times. Was it not you that told her to allow the Sullys to stay? Before the clan she reminded you of her authority, but she is your elder sister. It has always been her guiding you and giving orders. Of course she would bristle at her word being questioned before the clan, before outsiders. And yet she allowed it. Even Jake had acknowledged your place upon first meeting. He called you tsakarem just as the rest of the clan did. It’s a title for a child not yet completing their rites to become one with the People, but what else were they meant to call you. Rarely does a clan have more than one tsahìk. But just as Eywa has blessed Jake it seems she has chosen you for something as well. Why else would you be blessed to See things as you do?

You See and yet you are blind. Ronal has told you this more than once in your life. It was meant as a reminder. To look clearly at things as they truly are. The shadows retreat and you see at last. You were never lacking, never less than. You are equal. Second to none.

Neytiri smiles, “A clan with two tsahìks must be blessed. I am glad it is you that he has chosen. My children will grow up well.” Her hand presses to your chest, palm against the tattoo inked over your heart. It means loving, protective. These are words you live by.

“Oel ngati kameie,” she says with gentle reverence. Your name sounds like a prayer on her tongue. “You have a strong heart. I trust it to take care of everyone that we love.” Even when you’ve failed to protect Neteyam she has given her blessing to look after her mate, her children. Your mate, your children. You move to bow but she meets you halfway, pressing her forehead against yours just as Jake would. You aren’t taking her place. Tsaheylu bonds your body and soul. She is a part of Jake just as much as you are, so she is now a part of you.

When your eyes open the marui is suddenly full of white light. And though you’ve never seen a forest atokirina’ you recognize the delicate creatures at once. There’s something calming about the presence of the pure spirits. Their syuratan is different from the yellow glow of the tree spirits of your home but they still feel gentle as a kiss when they caress your skin. One lands and then another. Neytiri reaches out her hand as one dances over her palm. She holds the bouncing sprite in her hands, white light dancing in her eyes as they fill with a rueful sadness.

“When I died, I was afraid. I knew I was dead the moment my eyes opened. My sister, my father, Tsu’tey. Everyone I had lost was here to greet me within Eywa. But I was afraid for my family.” She lifts her hands and gently blows on the atokirina’. It swirls through the air, threadlike tendrils swirling about before it finds the breeze and floats away with the others. They leave in a shimmering cloud just as quickly as they came. When you turn back to Neytiri she’s smiling. “I’m not afraid anymore.”

For a moment you think you’re crying as her face begins to swirl into a wash of color like spilled paint, but when you blink it away the vision is gone and you’re staring at the Ranteng Utralti once more. Jake’s hand is still tight in yours as his eyes open as well. When you surface you find that you were crying, tears streaming down your cheeks along with the seawater as you mount your ilu.

“What’s wrong, yuey?”

“I saw her, Jake.” A smile finds its way to your face despite the tears. Your heart flutters in your chest, beating heavily where her hand had been. Your skin seems to sing as you touch your tattoo as if her hand would still be there.

“Saw who?”

“Neytiri.” His eyes go wide, ears standing on end. Behind him his tail perks up, curling anxiously as he sits on his own ilu. It has always been his greatest fear that you would seek out knowledge about his mate. He knows you, knows your heart. You would have compared yourself to her, belittle and bemoaned your every flaw until you felt like nothing by comparison. But that isn’t the truth of it. There is no comparison. He chose her. He chose you. Jake values both of you just the same in his heart. There is no superior. You see that now. See it more clearly than you ever have.

“Why are you crying? What happened?” Sharing what you’ve seen while connected to the Spirit Tree is always an intimate experience. Tsaheylu is sacred, and what’s seen while communing with Eywa is always a look into someone’s soul. But you do it every time you meet someone’s eye. Jake’s vitra is plainly clear in his eyes. The bittersweet feeling of being able to catch even a glimpse of his son, to relive the memories that he cherishes and know that’s all that will be now. Just memories.

“She called me tsahìknay, said I was blessed. We were touched by atokirina’.” The Great Mother’s has not been subtle with her intentions on this day. You are meant to be by Jake’s side, just as Neytiri was before you. And Jake is meant to be by your side. To part would be to spite the blessings Eywa has given you. There was a reason you were not mated before. He is the reason. This is the reason. You were not meant for Tonowari, not meant for any man in Awa’atlu. This is the path Eywa has drawn for your life. It has not been without its hardships and there will surely be more to come–more death, more destruction–but the only way is forward. The storm will come and you will weather it. One step at a time. For now, though, you return home, listening to Jake recount his time with Neteyam. Their fishing and climbing trees. He sounds younger, a quiet smile in his voice. His spirit is lifted if only for the moment.

“She would’ve loved you.” He says at last. “I wish I’d told you that sooner.” There’s so much he hasn’t told you, so much you’ve yet to learn. A sharp pain pinches in your chest as you think of Neteyam and all the things that died with him, all the things you’ll never know about your son. Part of you wishes you had seen him with Eywa, had a chance to speak with him, but the Great Mother doesn’t always show you what you want to see but what needs to be seen.

“She said she trusts me to take care of our family.” Jake smiles and for a moment he looks like himself again. His face isn’t drawn with sadness but bright with a satisfied grin.

“I know she does, because I do. This family is our fortress and I trust you to protect it. No matter what happens.”

ɴᴀ’ᴠɪ ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs

Tawtute, Sawtute – sky person, sky people

Sa’tsmuke – aunt, mother’s sister (speculative)

Tsmuke’ite – niece (speculative)

Hì’ikran – dorado verde, small ikran (speculative)

Sämunge – transportation device

Eyktanay – a step below clan leader

Waytelem – songcord

Ranteng Utralti – Spirit Tree

Vitra, Tirea – soul, spirit

Vrrtep – demon

Tswin – neural braid

Muntxate – wife, female mate

Maitan – (my) son

Naranawm – Polyphemus, the planet Pandora orbits

Syuratan – bioluminescence

Uniltìrantokx – dreamwalker, avatar

Pil – facial stripes, skin stripes

Tsakarem – tsahìk-in-training

Tsahìknay – a step below tsahìk (speculative)

Yuey – beautiful (inner beauty)

#jake sully x reader #sully family x reader #avatar x reader #avatar #atwow

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the-way-of-words · 11 months

Text

You Can Have The Best Of Me

Noah Sebastian x OFC

Content warnings: oral sex, P in V sex, hair pulling, unprotected sex

Contains sexual situations with a fictionalized version of a real person. If rpf if your squick, feel free to hit the back button.

Follow up to If That's The Best That I Could Be, Then I Would Be Another Memory also fitting into @signs-of-ill-portent's 30 Days of Bad Omens prompt for Dive

My MasterList can be found here

She takes him to a dive bar the next time they see each other. They're in her city this time and as much as he tries to put on a relaxed air, he can feel his leg bouncing where it's perched on the stool he sits on. He missed her an unbelievable amount for some who's practically a stranger and he almost didn't call her when they finally made it to Denver. Thumb stuck above the thumbnail of the picture he took of the two of them that he set as her contact photo. The one he forgot about until three days after she left and his phone went off. No words, just the picture and a blue heart emoji underneath.

Noah tried to start a call countless times, typed and deleted texts varying in degrees from "hey" to "I miss you". He probably would have kept going like that too, if Nick hadn't gotten fed up with his shit attitude; telling him to man the fuck up and call her or forget about her, just as long as he stopped being an asshole to everybody in a five-foot radius.

The bar is a far cry from the bowling alley they met at, but it's nice. Dark corners with a few tall tables scattered about, a couple of pool tables, and a jukebox on the far back wall. Best of all is not once has anyone glanced in their direction with recognition in their eyes.

"You know," her voice pulls him from his perusal of the bar around them, turning his face to hers, "I was starting to think I wasn't going to hear from you again."

Noah looks down, self conscious, "You almost didn't, if I'm honest."

Her eyebrows knit together before one of them curls up inquisitively. "And what changed your mind?"

"My friend told me to man the fuck up and call you or forget about you…" he laughs, "So I figured I better call you. Forgetting you seems kind of impossible."

Even in the low light of the bar, he can see her blush a split second before she clears her throat. Reaching for the beer in front of her, she takes a couple swigs of the amber liquid before she stands. "Come on… let's see how well you do at pool."

You laugh as he, once again, tries and fails to hit one of his striped balls still on the green felt. Taking your shot, you sank the black eight, winning the game. Satisfaction fills your chest and you can't help but laugh at his face when he realizes he's lost for a third time.

"Pleased with yourself?" He asks, stepping towards you, placing his hands on either side of the table behind you, effectively boxing you in.

Your breath catches in your chest. This is the first time he's been so close since all those months ago in California and you can feel your body respond. Clearing your throat, you smirk up at him as you nod, aiming for calm when all you feel is the arousal gathering in your belly. It doesn't help that he seems to almost sense it, the air between you rapidly becoming charged.

His gaze is dark, the brown of his eyes almost black when he asks, "You wanna get out of here?"

Against your better judgment, you bring him back to your place. The cab ride home is full of heady tension, the warmth of his hand burning through your jeans where it rests on your thigh.

He's on you almost as soon as you enter your apartment, his big hands cupping your face and pulling your mouth to his the second you lock the deadbolt. Your hands fist in his hoodie, holding him close as he licks into your mouth. There’s an emotion pulling at your throat, desperate to break free, but you swallow it down, focusing instead on how his mouth feels against yours. How every swipe of his tongue against yours sends sparks to your core when you remember exactly how it felt when he licked into your folds.

He lets you lead him to your bedroom, delicately stripping the clothing from your body as you travel down your short hallway. By the time he's lowering you to the bed, only your panties remain. His hoodie is gone when he kneels on the mattress. The of his white tank top stark against the ink on his body in the lamplight as he lowers himself to his stomach between your thighs.

He takes you apart slowly. Mouthing at you over your panties before tugging at the waistband and pulling them off you. His fingers touch you insistently, spreading you for his gaze. You gasp when he sucks open-mouthed kisses into your inner thigh until his lips meet your center. Using his tongue to tease at your opening before sucking your clit into his mouth.

Your hips buck against his face and he groans against you when you grip his hair tight, holding him close to you as he gives you what you need. Two fingers work their way into your cunt, a third following when you breathlessly ask for more. They move lazily, stroking your inner walls intently until you feel your climax break against you. He doesn’t object when your legs close around his face. If anything, he welcomes it, using his free hand to grip one of your legs closer, moaning as he laps up your release.

Noah moves willingly when you tug his head away from your sensitive folds with a whimper. His face twisted in a pleased smile as he moved up your body. You pull the tank top from where its tucked into his pants, hands wandering the expanse of his torso as he removes it. He ducks his head down, lips meeting yours in a wet kiss before standing, shucking his pants and underwear to the floor. You tug on his hand when he kneels back on the bed, pulling him onto you while you reach down to close your hand around his cock. His eyes close with a contented sigh, forehead falling to yours as you jerk him slowly and it doesn’t escape you when his hips start rolling to meet the movement.

Soon enough his hand closes around yours, the other moving to your face, your eyes meeting just as he pushes into you. A sound somewhere between a sob and a moan bursting from your lips as your inner walls stretch around him.

“God, I know… I know,” he says, soothing you with a soft voice. He sounds as wrecked as you feel. Something about the way he fills you permeates an emotion into the room you have no idea how to deal with.

You clutch his back, keeping him close as he rocks his hips back and forth, starting a slow, steady rhythm. It shouldn’t feel this good, having him close like this, moving in and out of you like this. Yet there's no one else you think you would want between your legs, breaking you undone with every thrust into you.

“Can you cum again?” He pants, groaning when you clench around him. “I wanna feel you again. Please.”

And you can. You know you can. You can feel it moving throughout you, the spark of pleasure, and when it makes its way to your core, you cry out, hitching your legs about his side. Your orgasm rolls through you and he grunts, hips stilling as you feel him pulse inside you, emptying his release into your wet heat.

He rolls the two of you until he’s on his back with you perched on top of him, his arms hugging you close. His heartbeat sounds in your ear, the fast-paced thudding slowing to a calmer rhythm as you both catch your breath.

“How long do you have?” You ask quietly, as if speaking louder could shatter the moment.

He sighs, arms tightening around you. “I have to be back by seven tomorrow morning.”

You nod, reaching over to set your alarm before falling back into his chest, letting sleep take you under.

Noah wakes to a head between his thighs, her quiet voice whispering, is this okay as her breath brushes against his cock. He gives his ascent, an audible gasp bursting from his lips when she takes him into her mouth. His hand weaves into her hair, fingers tightening when she hollows her cheeks, mouth sliding up and down his shaft. Just like last time, she doesn’t object when he rolls his hips, thrusting up into her mouth shallowly.

“Can I?” He asks, and he feels her nod, her hand falling away from his shaft to brace against his thigh. His eyes close, trying to commit to memory the feeling of her mouth around him, how her hair feels between his fingers; the way her hands feel on his thighs.

He can feel his orgasm nearing and Noah tugs on her hair, pulling her up to straddle him, because if he’s going to cum, he wants to do it buried inside of her. Their mouths crash together just as she sinks down onto his shaft and she plants her hands on his chest. It’s desperate, hurried. He holds her hips in an iron grip as he helps her move and he hopes he leaves bruises, something to keep the memory of this alive as he moves to the next city. Her nails dig into his chest and he knows he’s going to cherish whatever is left behind until they fade away.

She cums just as her alarm goes off. Her pussy spasming around him until he has no choice but to follow after her. When she slumps on to the mattress at his side, he turns to face her. Cupping her cheek and tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, he takes in her face. Memorizing the shape of her lips, the slope of her nose.

All too soon, he’s dressed and nursing a cup of coffee in her kitchen while he waits for his cab. Emotion pulls at his chest, crawling up his throat and clogging it. He tries to shake it, but it seems he won’t be able to open his mouth with the words tumbling out when she leans against the counter in front of him.

“I like you.”

She smiles, huffing a little laugh. “I like you too.”

“No…” he starts, inwardly cursing himself. “I mean… I like you… as in I don’t want this to be all this is…”

Noah closes his eyes, trying to stave off the embarrassment that’s starting to curdle in his stomach as the silence stretches between them. He feels like a fucking teenager again, asking his first crush if she wanted to go to a movie.

“I — I would like that too.”

He leaves her apartment ten minutes later with a smile on his face, a promise to text her when they hit the interstate. Noah knows it won’t be easy, but there's something about the prospect of more than this, leaves him feeling optimistic.

#noah sebastian/ofc #rpf #bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fanfic #bad omens fic #bad omens rpf #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian smut

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wed-in-the-apocalypse · 6 months

Text

The Conversation

Kinda drabble but its long so idk

Tara Carpenter x Reader

Fluff and angst

It was after 5 weeks of dating you that Tara started getting scared.

Not by you, never by you, but she was scared that if she told you what happened, that you would leave her, just like everyone else had, like her mom, and her father, like Sam did.

She was scared you'd call her a monster and leave her.

But she figured you already knew, of course you knew, she knew the killings were famous, that everyone knew who she was.

What she did.

What amber did.

But you weren't like amber, no, you were so sweet, and kind, you always made sure she felt safe, never pushed her to do anything, but you kept her grounded, kept her responsible.

5 weeks of utter bliss, 5 weeks of being the happiest she'd ever been.

And she was scared to ruin it.

She dreaded ever telling you.

And you never brought it up, until now.

She was sitting on your bed, she had told Sam that Mindy wanted to watch the latest horror movie with her, so she agreed to let her go.

She was scrolling through movies to watch while you were in the shower.

She settled on a movie when you walked out, hair still wet, wearing an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants and a towel over your shoulders.

You sat down on the bed, back resting on the headboard next to Tara.

"So what'd you pick?" You asked as she put her legs over yours and put her head on your shoulder cuddling up to you.

"Knives out" you quirked your head at her. "But I thought you wanted to watch the new insidious?" She nodded. "I know, but I've been picking movies and I wanted to put on something for you" your heart fluttered, even with something as small as putting on your favorite movie, it made you fall even harder for her.

"Thanks Tar" you kissed her forehead and she blushed. "Its nothing," you shuffled closer, if even possible. "Let's watch the movie now" you turned to the screen, still smiling.

It was halfway through when she noticed you hadn't talked for over 20 minutes, normally while watching a movie you loved to talk, not that she hated it, quite the opposite, she liked the way you were so engrossed by the story, or sometimes not, when you pointed out how ridiculous it was or how no one would ever do that.

But you were completely silent, Tara knew that was bad, silence never meant anything good, she learned that long ago.

And when she glanced at you it looked like you were staring right past the TV and through the wall, lost in thought.

"Hey y/n, you okay? Is something on your mind?" You shook your head to get out of your trance. "Yeah I was just thinking" you gave her a comforting smile, but she didn't believe it.

"Tell me what you're thinking, you know you can tell me" she placed her hand on yours that rested on your thigh. "I-..." you cut off, unsure if you should ask her, she nodded her head, encouraging you to continue. you inhaled deeply through your nose and turned to look at her with serious eyes.

"I want to know why you avoid talking about.." you hesitated. "Amber.." She froze, she avoided your eyes and took her hand away to rub the scar on her palm, one she created.

Her ears ringed, she felt nauseous, tears were pricking at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

She hated that name, she hated her.

But she had loved her, oh how she loved her, and she thought amber loved her too, even though she broke her over and over again, she loved her, she dealt with it because she thought it was what she deserved.

When she was first attacked, she went to amber, she had come to her hospital bed and faked concern, she remembered her saying; "I was so worried, I came as soon as I could" she had kissed her head and told her she loved her, and Tara believed it, but she learned later that she lied.

She lied, she lied to her, she's the one who gave her that scar, she's the reason she has a slight limp, why she has seven stab wounds littered across her body, from her stomach to her back, why she cried at night.

It hurt so much when she shot Liv, she was horrified, she tried to take the gun from her, but amber was stronger, she tied her up in a closet and taped her mouth shut while she cried and begged her to stop.

She had cried when she beat her with her crutches, and tears were still streaming when she shot her, and her voice trembled when she said; "you were a shitty girlfriend" and she fell into Sam's arms when she hugged her, she had seen ambers lifeless body fall on the floor.

She was a killer.

Just like her.

You immediately regretted what you said when she pulled away. "I'm sorry Tara, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, you don't have to answer" she didn't look at you, you took her hand in yours, she tried to blink away the tears but she couldn't stop herself from crying, tears felt like lava in her eyes, it hurt to cry, you pulled her into your chest as she did.

"I-... I loved her y/n.." She sobbed "shh.. Its okay I'm here" you whispered into her ear while she cried. "I killed her-" she broke off with another sob, and you whispered reassuring words in her ear, trying to soothe her. "I'm a killer.. just like her" you stroked her back and held her tightly as she broke down.

After she finally stopped crying and laid with you did she tell you everything, how she treated her, how she sometimes cries at night, how she haunts her in her sleep when she's alone in the dark.

Your heart broke and ached for her, your own tears were starting to appear when she told you how it hurt, you wondered why anyone, how, anyone could ever so much as think of hurting her, you would drive a knife through your own beating heart before you even lay a finger on her, so why would anyone especially her own girlfriend, try to kill her, her sister, and all her friends, for what? Fame? To make a new movie? It made you sick, your blood boiled when she told you, but you hurt for Tara more.

If you could heal her, take her place and take all that pain away, you would.

When she finished you held her tight, promising to never hurt or leave her.

And Tara believed it, and she knew you were telling the truth this time.

She would have you to help her heal.

Though she knew she could never forget, she knew you would be there to help her through it.

And she knew amber would still haunt her, and she'd still wake up at night because of it, but she knew you would be there to hold her and comfort her, you promised it.

Sorry not sorry :)

Go to @dreamersbcll they talk about her trauma better then I can

#tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter #fuck amber freeman #scream #my work #Spotify

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bluenotes75 · 11 months

Text

Aonunete oneshot

Originally posted on tiktok : @preachneteyam

Theme : friends in denial having a sleepover

fan art : maridee_arts

Aonung stared at the ceiling as he lay on the bed. He had tried absolutely everything: from counting sheep to watching to asmr.

Yet, no matter what he did, he couldn't sleep.

The reason was simple. His mind kept wandering to a certain someone sleeping in the room right next to him.

Yeah, Neteyam.

He knew this sleepover was a bad idea. What did he expect from an activity organized by Lo'ak?

Yet, he hadn't found it in him to refuse when his sister practically begged him to participate - their parents refused to let her go to the Sully’s house alone.

…and maybe Neteyam was also another reason why he agreed. He was his best friend after all.

Either way, he found himself in their living room with a unique thought in his head: passing time with Teyam. He already knew he would have fun in his presence.

What is funnier, however, is that things never went go as planned. Barely 20 minutes into the evening, Tuk stole Neteyam from him and stuck to his side the whole night.

While anyone could think it was an innocent action, Ao'nung knew she did it out of spite for not buying her McDonald's the previous day. (broke after spending all his money on Neteyam, Tsireya and Tuk).

So here he was, unable to close an eye or even think of how to make peace with Tuk no matter how hard he tried. He was in Neteyam withdrawal and he wanted to see the boy so badly.

After an umpteenth failed attempt at falling asleep, the light-skinned boy made up his mind and stood up determined: he would get his daily Neteyam dose. He headed toward the oldest Sully brother’s room and knocked on the door.

No answer.

After a second try, he opened the door to find an immobile silhouette on the bed, submerged in darkness. The dark-skinned boy’s soft snores were all that could be perceived in the quietness of the room.

He walked up to the bed and bent to reach Neteyam's level.

“Tey,” he whispered.

No answer.

The pretty boy was far too lost in his slumber to react. Ao’nung felt guilty for what he was about to do, he didn't want to cut short his hours of sleep, but the need to stay with Neteyam was stronger.

He shook Neteyam’s shoulder softly.

“Uh ?” the dark-skinned boy woke up in confusion, and squinted at the shadow facing him before softening his expression.

“ Oh, it's you Nung.’’

He slowly sat, his amber eyes staring right back at Ao'nung who watched in silence.

“You seem sad, is everything alright ?”

At the question, the wavy-haired boy pulled out his acting skills. He was aware of Neteyam's soft spot for him being sad and he was going to use it to his advantage.

“I had a nightmare,” he whispered, somber expression matching his tone.

The shorter looked surprised by his words, but that startlement soon melted into fondness. He scooped to the left and tapped the space beside him.

“Wanna sleep next to me?” he then asked in the usual gentle tone that Ao'nung has been missing all day.

The latter nodded eagerly, biting the inside of his cheek in hope of hiding his grin as he settled down next to his friend. Neteyam laid to face him and adjusted the bed cover over their bodies.

“You feel better now ?”

Ao’nung nodded before closing his eyes. Just being in Neteyam's presence made him feel much better. Yet, a few minutes later, he was still wide awake.

The small size of the bed made his skin brush against Neteyam’s at each shift. And each contact left a burn on his skin.

It wasn't enough. He wanted to feel Neteyam against himself. So much, it ached.

He stared at the object of his yearning who seemed to be back in his peaceful slumber. From closer, he could study him better, the darkness barely being an obstacle anymore. Neteyams long lashes, his nose adorned with freckles, his lips…

He swallowed. Sometimes he just wanted to-

Ao'nung looked away as his heart clenched. He couldn't let his mind wander to things about his friend. What would Neteyam think of him? Before he could beat himself over it, his eyes fell on another detail.

The red octopus plush Neteyam was hugging.

Two things crossed his mind. First, how precious the was scenery. The shorter one looked so adorable and Aonung was screaming inside.

Second, was how much he wanted to be that plush. Why was Neteyam hugging it instead of him?

He frowned and glared at the plush. Tuk already stole Neteyam, nothing would get his friend's time except for him.

'Watch and see,’ he mocked the poor plush as he rose on his elbows, making the mattress bend under him.

“I'm still sad, can we hug,” he let out before freezing at his own boldness.

Yet, Neteyam seemed too tired to notice as he opened his eyes faintly, sleep having returned to his body. He then opened his arms as an invitation after setting the plushy next to his pillow.

Ao'nung didn’t waste a second to slip into the hold, wrapping his own arms around Neteyam’s waist and hiding his nose right above his collarbone. The latter adjusted his position at the same time, and his braids fell on Nung's shoulders.

The taller sighed in satisfaction as Neteyam's body heat as well as the fruity scent of his shampoo invaded him. Soon after, he felt arms tighten around his neck and fingers play with his locks. He knew it was his friend’s way of comforting him and the embrace was just how he expected it to be :

Soft, welcoming and solacing.

“What about now,” Neteyam’s gentle tone caressed his ear.

“Way better,” Ao’nung whispered as he felt sleep slowly overpower his body.

But that peaceful state didn't last for long.

“You are such a big baby,” Neteyam giggled.

Suddenly energized, Ao'nung jerked up, a fake offended expression painted on his features.

“Hey ! I'm a man,”

Neteyam rose his eyebrow with a teasing grin.

“If that's what helps you sleep tonight,”

Aonung gasped before quitting the hold.

“You are so evil,'' he wiped a nonexistent tear.'' Tuk is rubbing off on you,”

Neteyam giggled once again, before opening his arm wide open.

“I'm joking Nungie, come back here.”

''Why should I? You are so mean,''

''You can also go back to your ro-''

Ao'nung took back his comfortable position with no further complaints.

“Good night,” he heard Neteyam laugh above him.

Silence fell over them as he thought of what to answer.

“With you, it will be for sure. Thank you tesoro,” he finally whispered as he tightened his hold on Neteyam's middle and laid his head on his chest, not noticing the boy's blush. Something else had caught his attention.

“Neteyam?”

''hmm,''

“Your heart is beating so fast,”

The shorter tensed at his words. When Aonung tried to face him, he had hidden his face in his pillow.

“Shut up and sleep,” the boy's muffled voice came out.

“Yes.”

Ao'nung fought down his smirk and soon, he let sleep overpower his body.

And if he stuck his tongue out at the now lonely octopus plush watching them, that's a secret between him and Morpheus.

Extra

Neteyam waited until faint snores filled his ears to finally let go of the breath he was holding. He watched fondly the usual confident boy now sleeping in his arms. It was so cute.

He then blushed as he remembered Ao'nung's hands around his waist. For some reason, it made them more flustered than it should, and he couldn't help but hide his face behind his hands.

His heart skipped a beat as his mind wandered back to the nickname Ao'nung had called him earlier: 'tesoro'. The boy would only call him like that on rare occasions. Until this day, Ao'nung had refused to tell him its meaning and all Neteyam knew was that it was from his first language.

He also knew it made him feel special.

When the shorter felt his cheek heat again, he decided it was enough pining for the night. He pecked the top of Ao'nung’s head, before hugging him tighter and finally closing his own eyes.

The end

#aonunete #neteyam #aonung #short story #neteyam x aonung #aonung x neteyam #gay love #avatar #avatar the way of water #fluff #friendsindenial #Spotify

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ivy-loves-chocolate · 1 year

Text

Note: Wesker brain rot, I can't help it. I mean, have you seen him? Total babe. I can't wait to bail him out;

Pair: Albert Wesker x F!Reader;

Tags: smut, submissive reader, the reader acts like his pet, vaginal fingering;

Word count: 900;

Ko-fi || Patreon

"Yes, the BOWs must be shipped within 2 days or we lose the deal," Wesker said in a strict tone while on his phone. He’s been swamped lately with his projects, and he didn’t have time for his personal life, which also included taking care of his pet.

Clinging onto his leg, you had your arms wrapped around his thigh as you looked up at him, having the demeanor of a lost puppy. You demanded attention all day, but your master kept pushing you away as he was very busy.

After he ended the call, he directed his attention to the beautiful pet that was sitting on the floor. Her eyes were glistening profoundly, emanating a great need for attention caused by neglect.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry" His tone softened a little, and his eyes changed shades, returning slowly to that sweet amber. "Do you want your master to take care of you?"

You nodded, and he immediately cupped your chin with his fingers. Then, he began to caress your rosy cheek in a delicate manner.

"Forgive me." He said, after pressing a tender kiss over your forehead.

Wesker gently pulled on the leather leash and guided you to the couch. You walked next to him, on all fours, just like Wesker told you to. Besides, the leash was short, and you had no choice but to walk close to him.

He sat on the couch and tapped the spot next to him a few times. Once you climbed up, his slender fingers reached to remove the leash from your collar, and then he positioned your body over his thighs. He was very strong, and he handled you with ease. You almost giggled in excitement because you knew what was coming next.

You lied on your belly, and Wesker immediately began to caress your inner thighs. You wore a very short and revealing dress, so it would be easier for him to access the favorite part of your body.

"Good girl…" he said as he slid a hand under the fabric to massage your cheek. Then, he lifted it to expose your ass. As he slapped your bare cheeks, a small whimper escaped your mouth. He wasn't rough, but you still felt a hint of pain. When Wesker was satisfied with the shade of red that your ass got, he proceeded further.

His other hand wrapped around your throat, forcing you to keep your head up.

His fingers quickly found your entrance, and he began to push inside slowly, enjoying the small grunts that would escape your lips. He pushed halfway in, then pulled out, and then again in, with each thrust, he’d go deeper and deeper until his fingers were completely engulfed by your pussy.

His other hand was holding you by your throat, forcing your head to remain up. You didn’t mind, because you enjoyed your master’s gentle and a little rough touch.

He picked up the pace, causing you to moan and whimper. He loved when you were vocal, and he was eager to feel your cunt throbbing around his fingers. Wesker wanted to see how badly you wanted him, so he kept squeezing your cheeks.

"Open." He demanded as his fingers were playing with your lips.

You did as told, and soon his fingers first rested on your tongue, then circled your inner cheek, causing saliva to drip down your chin. You kept your mouth open for him. Still, you kept your mouth open because you didn’t want to disobey your master.

"Suck." He said it firmly, and like the good girl, you closed your lips around his fingers and did as told. You sucked on those fingers with such passion that even Wesker began to let out small grunts as he was breathing heavily.

"Yes, like that." He said it with a sharp, needy exhale as you began to twirl your tongue around them.

You kept sucking and sucking, but it became harder as he picked up the pace. You were panting hard, but Wesker wouldn’t leave your mouth alone, so between sucking, you also tried to open your mouth to breathe, smearing saliva on both your chin and his fingers in the process.

"You are making such a mess..."

Your ass jiggled as he was going at high speed, and your orgasm was coming closer and closer. Eventually, all of that pleasure was released, and when it did, Wesker finally let go of your mouth. You coughed a little while you tried to catch your breath. You smeared both his hands, but Wesker didn't mind.

"Good girl." He said this as he licked his fingers, not missing a single spot. He was enjoying your taste.

After that, he caressed your body a little before lifting you up.

"My, my, what a dirty girl." A hand went over your chest to help you get up, guiding you to sit next to him.

"But, I-"

"You what, sweetheart?" His hand began to caress your face as he looked at you with loving and concerned eyes.

"I wanted…"

"Daddy’s cock?" He asked with a smirk, and you nodded. "For some other time, daddy’s a little busy."

Your gaze dropped as you sighed.

"But I will take care of you properly tonight." Excitedly, you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed his face.

"All right all right." He said it between chuckles as he picked you up, heading to the bathroom. "Let's wash this dirty girl."

Taglist: @shadow-wolf510 @skylar-todd @alewesker @rokurodokuro (if you wanna be added, check the link)

#albert wesker #albert wesker x reader #smut #resident evil 4 #resident evil

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j0kers-light · 9 months

Note

I am not sure if your requests are open but was wondering if you would do a smut one-shot where y/n and joker dress up like their getting married maybe it's y/ns weird fetish or jokers but it is one of thems idea that's up to you

[Most importantly hope you don't mind this but the joker isn't wearing any makeup in this]

Ps. Love his lighthouse love it

His Lighthouse: A White Future (LedgerJoker x f!reader)

A White Future - Oneshot

KEEP IN MIND THIS IS NOT A STORY UPDATE!

Hey hi @jokerslittlepage 🖤✨please excuse me for taking so long in writing this! This one was tricky to write I'm not gonna lie… I feel like Joker is a little OOC in it since I mostly head canon his against marriage but hey. I did what needed to be done. Please don’t hate me!! 🥹🥹 and at this point Joker rarely wears his clown makeup around Y/n so you’re all good beloved!

Enjoy as I post this in the dark at 1AM!

— Oh and this is definitely not possibly canon with His Lighthouse. You'll understand after reading lol 🤭

Also I'm kinda feeling this song playing in the background as Joker and Y/n dance on the balcony. Its soft and gentle enough yet angst for this ill fated couple 😘

taglist:

@blackreaderatrisk @twinkledinkle @clemdango04 @l3ejm @tears-of-amber @what-an-angel @darthjokerisyourfather @thatsnoteii @dollster @cheetahspy @kaidennnnn @urdariingdoll @motivation-idontknowher

Wanna be included in the His Lighthouse journey? Join the taglist!

Joker blamed you for this.

You unlocked another one of his weird fetishes that he never would have known existed, all completely by accident.

You were cleaning out the closet in the guest bedroom and trying on things to see if they still fit. If it didn't, you were donating it.

Joker had returned from a late night meeting at the main hideout and was relaxing on the bed, still dressed in this three piece suit. This one was all black, giving off mafia vibes, especially since he proudly wore the gold chain you bought him around his neck.

Your initials were on a small charm hanging from it. It was a subtle way for Joker to acknowledge his girl; he never took it off.

Joker washed his clown makeup off in the bathroom and was content watching the strip tease and mini fashion show you were putting on. So far he kept his hands to himself.

No surprise Joker was a great judge with his killer fashion sense. He was honest about the things you tried on.

"It's a no for meee."

"Wait, Bunny! Keep that one. It makes your hips look... mmm. C'mere pretty thing.."

"I dunno.. bell bottoms are making a uhhh comeback. I like the color, doll."

"Don't even try that on. Toss it."

"Y/n, what possessed you to buy that?"

Rude comments and all, you were making progress with Joker's help! You had almost everything cleared out and ready to either return back into the closet or in bins for charity, that is, until you squealed and dug out a white garment bag.

"I forgot about this!" You laid the bag out on the nearby couch and unzipped it.

Joker lifted his head at the sound and watched you eagerly lift up a dress. From here it looked cream or was it white? He spoke up to ask. "What's that, bunny?"

He missed your megawatt smile. "One of my fans invited me to her all white wedding before you and I met. She asked me to be her bridesmaid and I totally forgot I kept the dress!"

You held it up to your body and faced the mirror. She was so happy you made it and they were such a beautiful couple. You were glad you made her day even more special by being there. You smiled while reminiscing fond memories.

You turned just enough for J to finally see that garment in its entirety and his brain swiftly short circuited.

"Put it on."

You turned towards Joker. "Huh?"

He had this hazy look in his eyes as he watched you stand before the mirror. The urge to see you in white struck him hard and fast. He didn't know why.

"I said.. Put. It. On."

You knew that tone very well and scrambled to do what Joker said before he lost patience.

You took off your bra and shimmied into the cool satin material. The panty line was too harsh in the white fabric so without thinking, you peeled off your panties and tossed them aside.

Joker swallowed audibly watching them go. He liked that pair very much. However they looked better on the floor.

"Can you zip and button me up?" You held the front of the dress up to your breasts and moved your hair back for him.

Joker took in a shaky breath. The dress wasn't even on properly and he was already having impure thoughts. The ivory color against your darker skin just made it pop even more. You tried on countless articles of clothing tonight but this was the icing on the cake. He stood up from the bed and walked over to you.

His green eyes met your e/c ones in the mirror before you looked away, hiding your flushed cheeks. For once he didn't comment on your skittish behavior.

He reached out and pulled the zipper up, letting his fingers brush against your skin like a feather.

The intimate gesture sent shivers down your spine.

Joker was so close you could feel his body heat on your exposed skin and his hands were like a branding iron buttoning the two pearls at your neck. When he was done, Joker rested his hands on your shoulder and spoke to your reflection.

"You ahhh need heels." He whispered on your neck.

You didn't understand where he was going with this. You weren't trying on full outfits, just the clothing itself.

Joker rolled his eyes when you didn't move and stalked over to your endless pile of heels for himself. He flung a few to the side and mumbled under his breath when he couldn't find the ones he was looking for.

"J what are you doing?" You walked over barefoot but jumped when J laughed after finding the perfect pair. He wordlessly pointed for you to sit down.

Thank goodness a chair was nearby. Joker meant business when he didn't speak. You flopped down in your sage accent chair and waited for the lion to stalk its prey.

You were speechless when Joker got down on his knees to put a pair of Tom Ford stilettos on your dainty feet. They were the same pair he gifted you recently. He swore he purchased them with real money.

Like you actually believed him.

Regardless if he obtained them legally or not, they made your skin tone pop even more and highlighted the stark white of the bridesmaid dress.

You wore clear heels to the wedding but Joker was in charge here. Only the best for his Light.

"There... perfect." He whispered more to himself than you. His green eyes snapped up to you. Joker's hands were rubbing your calves but they slowly creeped up under the gown to caress your thighs. "A vision in white."

From the halter neck to the draped bodice, you were a sight to behold. This gown, what it represented, was doing things to him. His Light bathed in white whereas he was swallowed in darkness.

Yin and yang. The two of you were polar opposites and he absolutely loved it.

"A-Alrighty.. um it still fits! So um... can I take this dress off now?" You asked with a shaky breath. Green eyes pinned you down further into the seat as Joker's lips inched closer and closer to yours.

"NoPe. It's our big day and you look... phenomenal. You look so heavenly.. n' all for me." Joker tucked a wayward curl of hair back behind your ear.

His words made your eyes widen. Big day? What was he going on about?

"J.. what're you..?"

"Stay right here, doll. Don't. Move." He ordered. He grinned at you before backing away and leaving the room altogether.

You blinked in shock but did as you were told.

Just what had gotten into Joker and where did he go? It was taking him longer than a minute to return.

You tapped your heels on the floor as you waited.

He came back with your fresh bouquet of flowers that you always kept on display in the foyer. This week it was a hodgepodge of wildflowers mixed in with chrysanthemums and snapdragons; the perfect wedding arrangement. You finally had an understanding of what was going on here.

"Did you know it's considered bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?" You accepted the fresh flora and discreetly shook off the excess water from the stems before it soaked into your satin dress.

Joker just shrugged and helped you to your feet. He kissed your cheek and led you out of the bedroom. "Who needs luck when I have you?"

Now that was sweet.

You bowed your head and let Joker guide you out onto the balcony. He walked you out just like a newlywed couple to the reception.

The night was balmy and the distant lights from the Fashion District cast a neon glow on everything. Joker stepped away to turn on the patio's string of lights to soften things up a bit.

They came on and illuminated you in a warm intimate glow. You were missing a veil for this to truly be a dream come true. Joker would just have to go without. Your smile monopolized all of his attention anyways.

You shined brightly just like the lighthouse he named you after. You laughed when Joker bowed and offered you his hand, like a true gentleman.

You both knew he was anything but.

"May I have this uhh, dance?"

Joker's smile was genuine and without his signature makeup, he looked dazzling under the twinkling lights.

You could stare at J for hours. You didn't care about his scars. Yes, they made him into the fearsome man he was, but in your opinion, Joker was beyond stunning no matter how you looked at him.

How could you say no to such a handsome man?

With your bouquet in one hand– you gave Joker the other as he swept you up into a ballroom waltz right there on the balcony.

You heard gentle music playing from the speakers and knew this must've been what he ran off to prepare.

"But you don't plan things.." You mumbled under your breath.

Joker kissed your cheek to silence his laugh. You loved pointing out his affinity for structure and plans.

The two of you danced along to the soft music and stared into each other's eyes. Yours were more bashful whereas Joker did nothing to hide his desire. The grip he had on your hip clenched tighter when you bit your lip. It wasn't unusual for Joker to get handsy but your curiosity got the better of you at the origin of his passion.

"So... um you're not gonna tell me what brought this on?"

He scoffed as if you should've already known the answer. "Do I need an excuse to dance with my wife?" Joker dipped you suddenly.

You were sputtering and gaping like a fish. "W-Whahh? Wife?" He slowly straightened you back up.

"Do play along, Y/n." Joker said with an eye roll.

"Oh I'm sorry Joker! I didn't know we were roleplaying tonight. I was trying on clothes and you went all... thison me! How was I supposed to know you had a bridal fetish or whatever this is? I bet you wanna skip straight to the honeymoon anyways."

You looked away and missed Joker's licking his scars in agitation. You knew the exact buttons to press with him, it was infuriating.

The scene was set. Why couldn't you just play along?

Joker spun you again but this time he jerked you roughly so your back was against his chest. He kept you steady on your feet with his strong grip.

"I.... didn't know I had one until you found this... this... dress. White looks soo... ethereal on you my Light. So what if I wanna end our uhhh re-cep-tion early and consummate our bond. Hmm? Are ya gonna stop me? We both know that's what you wanT."

Joker leaned down to whisper in your ear. "You wanted me since the moment I came home."

That may be true, but he didn't have to call you out on it!

That matte black suit of his was equal parts sinful and alluring plus you really wanted that gold chain of his swinging in your face tonight.. An airy moan slipped out before you could stop it.

How did he know your body better than you?!

Joker ran his hand down the front of your dress and bunched the satin material up until your legs were bare to his touch. The humid air teased your bare sex, making you shiver.

"I bet you're thinking about it.. righT now, aren't ya? Let's see just how needy my wife is..."

Without warning, Joker plunged his fingers into your wet pussy. You clutched onto his forearms and gasped at the intrusion.

"Told ya, princess.. you're sopping wet for me." He groaned at hearing your wet lips gush out as he thrusted them deeper inside. Your eyes fluttered half mast but flew back open in fear.

You looked left and right, hoping it was dark enough for your neighbors to not witness what was going on your balcony.

Just because you owned the penthouse didn't mean there weren't other buildings surrounding yours. Gotham City was notorious for peeping toms and noisy neighbors.

"J-J... my mmph!" Your complaint fizzled away when Joker's thumb rubbed at your clit. Why did you take your panties off around this man?

J loves when you wear dresses and skirts for 'easy access' and for good reason.

The man was a sorcerer with his fingers and you loved when he worked his magic. He curled them just so and had you hurling straight to the cusp of pleasure in record time.

You were wet the moment he walked in the bedroom but he didn't need to know that. Joker knew his tailored suits turned you on.

Finally getting some much needed stimulation was sending you over the edge. You clawed at J's arms as the heat threatened to consume you entirely.

A flick of his thumb against your bundle of nerves and you were moaning out in ecstasy.

You made a mess of his fingers right there for anyone to see if they looked out their window. The thrill of being seen had you squirming in J's arms. You swatted at his hand with your flowers when he tried to prolong your orgasm.

He easily overpowered you and laughed at your sensitive walls clenching down on his fingers. Joker clicked his tongue when you tried bucking away from him.

"Tsk. Always running away." He sighed.

You squeaked when he picked you up, bridal style, and carried you back inside.

Usually Joker would toss you down on any nearby surface and watch your body bounce helplessly before he dragged you back towards him, but today was different.

Today, Joker stopped into your enclosed sunroom and set you down gently on the couch. He hit the light switch and instantly the balcony lights went out and plunged the both of you into darkness.

Now only the moonlight shining in from the glass roof guided his lips to yours.

You dropped your flowers to cradle the back of Joker's head and deepened the kiss. He let you have control for as long as it took him to discard his suit jacket and rip off his tie. He was working on the buttons on his shirt when you pulled away.

"Ngh, no let me... l-let your wife do it." You moaned out.

Your hands were shaking as you undid the buttons. You were too nervous to look up at the panting dragon before you.

Joker let you push his shirt off his shoulders but he tilted your chin up when you failed to look up.

You acknowledged your role and needed to be rewarded.

He whispered your name amongst the lush plants and flora in your sunroom. The air in here was stuffy since he left the balcony's sliding door open. You were already collecting sweat on your brow and good thing Joker took off his makeup earlier or it would be melting off of him.

He still licked at lips in that nervous habit of his.

"Do you want this? Tell me to uhh stop if ya don't." Joker slowly pushed your dress up to bunch up around your stomach. He had no plans of taking it off. If he did, he'd risk tearing it to shreds and that wouldn't do.

If he had it his way, you would wear white everyday, you looked so beautiful in it. But back to the matter at hand.

You nodded in the dark and wrapped an arm around Joker's shoulder. His gold chain was still cool to the touch and you ran your fingers over it fondly.

"I want this. I-I want you. Please, J."

He left a kiss to your forehead and groaned. "You already have me, Y/n."

Joker moved to remove his pants after earning your consent. The sound of his belt buckle in the dark sent a rush of adrenaline to your core. You were excited and the fact you could hardly see made this encounter even more hot.

Your heart was beating out of your chest when you felt Joker's hands slide up your heel clad legs and yank you closer to him. Your back hit the couch cushions and you scrambled for something to hold onto in the dark.

Joker must've seen you flailing around since he guided your hands back onto his shoulders.

No fair how he could see perfectly in the dark whereas you were blind as a hehe... bat.

"Hey.. I wanna see yo— ah!"

Joker slapped his cock on your pussy as if he heard your joke. You jumped at each impact of his hard on hitting your clit and clawed at his upper back in delight.

He seemed to enjoy the sting and tipped his head back in a groan.

Then a pair of neon green eyes stole your attention. It was unnatural the way they reflected off the lack of light, almost feline at times. Joker's night vision was legendary and it was all focused on you.

Your beautiful body sprawled out on the couch. Your curls framing your face like a halo and Joker swore the white of your gown made your melanin skin glow.

How did he get so lucky? He must be dreaming. If it were a dream, he would enjoy it while it lasted.

Joker slid his dick into you, slacked jaw and eyes filled with longing. Your eyes rolled back feeling him stretch you open and come to a rest inside. Joker panted above you and braced his weight on his hands near your head.

You were now caged in with nowhere to go.

"Yeah? This what you– mmhm d__n, is this what you needed, my Light? If ya want me, then take it. Take. All. Of. Meee." Joker grunted and set a rhythm; steady deep thrusts that jolted your entire body and stole your breath.

You buried your hands into his hair and tugged, knowing J loved that. He moved with the motion and laughed to himself.

"F__k, relax Princess and work with me." He pulled his hips back so he could slam into your pussy deeper.

You cried out and wrapped your legs around his waist. He felt the straps of your heels press into his back.

Note to self, clothed sex was hot.

"See? There ya go.. now I can beat it up just the way ya like it. Ohhhh, I got the best wife. Tight cunt, killer body... sexy moans– louder doll. I wanna hear just how good I'm making ya feel."

You bared your neck as he picked up the pace and plowed into your womb. Each rock of his hips hit your g spot and made you dizzy.

You looked up and watched the clouds distort the image of the moon through the roof. Such a beautiful night spent with the one you love.

Joker noticed your distracted gaze and brought your focus back on him by pressing down on your lower belly. You keened loudly in his ear.

"Haha. Eyes on me, Princess. I know, I know. You can cum if it feels that go~od."

You nodded, gasped sweetly, and then came on Joker's cock. And he didn't stop his powerful thrusts either. He plowed right through your orgasm with no regard for your hypersensitivity.

You couldn't escape his passion and took out your agony on his back. Joker hissed when your nails initially dug into his skin but laughed it off.

"Argh, those d__n nails of yours are sharp! Is it really that good, darling? Too much cock making you go crazy stupid already? You want me to stop? Huh? Too bad, cuz I'm noT done yet." He groaned when your walls clamped down tighter on this dick but he recovered quickly to resume his brutal thrusts.

He picked you up by your waist and positioned you to straddle him properly on the couch.

You cried out when you sank further down on Joker's cock due to the angle.

Now he could see you properly as a beam of moonlight shined down from the roof to a spotlight on you bathed in white.

Your hair was in complete disarray and your lips red from biting them in pleasure but in Joker's eyes, you were absolutely stunning.

You locked eyes with Joker and braced your hands on his shoulders. His fair skin was flushed red from exertion but he still looked every bit of Gotham's City most wanted criminal.

The dark gleam in his eyes was a warning in itself.

Your gaze latched onto the gold chain hanging around his neck, and most importantly, the tiny charm with your initial bouncing with each thrust Joker made up into your pussy.

It was hypnotizing and you couldn't help but lean forward to kiss Joker.

He didn't mind and slowed things down so you could feel each vein sliding against your gummy walls. The wet slap of skin and heavy pants was the only sound in the sunroom. You wouldn't be surprised if the glass behind Joker was fogged up by your lovemaking. It was still too dark to tell for sure.

You were the focal point here so you leaned back and put in some work to get Joker off.

You rolled your hips in figure eights that he loved so much and was quickly rewarded.

Joker placed his hands onto your hips and used them like handlebars.

"D__n Y/n. F__k meeeeee." He leaned back on the couch and watched you ride his dick, chasing another orgasm.

You didn't care that you were getting your dress dirty or that your feet were killing you in your stilettos.

Joker took one look at you dressed in white and gold and smacked your behind. You whimpered softly. The sting spurred you to go faster and you began chanting Joker's name like a prayer.

"Nuh uh bunny. You know what ta call me." J whined when you clenched tighter around him.

You bit your lip, looking away.

He could call you wife all night long but it was something different about returning the favor. You knew Joker needed this to get off but it meant more to you.

"Say it Y/n.. p-plea— nghh just once. That's all I, ahhh, that's all I neeeed, darling. I want you to have it, but I need.."

Oh. Joker begging meant he was serious. His eyes were squeezed shut as he neared his own release but you could tell something was holding him back.

You could feel it with how handsy and needy he became. Anything could spill from Joker's lips as he reached his summit. He needed whatever this fetish was.

You drew in limited air and blew it out in a shaky moan.

Just the sight of Joker, usually so composed and calculated, losing all self control– because of you, was empowering. At this rate you were gonna cum again.

You wanted Joker to cum with you; it felt right with the emotions floating in the air tonight.

You choked back a moan, "I want it! I want my husband to c-cum. I need you, J! Please fill me up!"

His reaction was instant.

"Yeah? Ya want it? My beautiful wife wants my cum? Anything you want, it's yours, Y/n. Ask of me anything. I will defy my own will to grant your desires!! Y-You can have it all just.. stay with me. F-Foreever. Never.. s__t, so tight! Never leave me Bunny."

You recognized your own book quote mixed in with Joker's pleas and moans. If possible, you fell even deeper in love. You wouldn't stop for anything after hearing that.

You felt the moment Joker came undone.

He squeezed you close as his hips bucked up into yours uncontrollably. He didn't care about moaning obscenely in your ear because he babbled his deepest darkest fears to you in between struggling to breathe.

"Stay with me, Y/n.. I need.. I need you please— you complete me. You own me. Don't go.. my beautiful wife. M-My Light. All mine.."

It was the most vulnerable you ever heard Joker speak. He was open about his future with you.

You were uncertain about his plans after he healed up and left, but tonight you got a glimpse of the future. He wasn't going anywhere and neither were you and you never felt more closer to him than in that moment.

You bared down and let a silent scream paint your features as your own climax was ripped from out under you.

The fact you came with Joker made the release ten times more intense and hearing him confess in your ear was like an atomic bomb.

Joker fell back and took you with him as the afterglow hit you both. Shivers and gasps were exchanged in the muggy room.

Your dress was sticking to your sweaty skin and you felt absolutely euphoric wrapped up in the arms of your lover. Joker wasn't in any better shape. The satin fabric of your dress was brushing up against his sensitive skin with every rise and fall of your breathing but he couldn't move.

He was slowly softening inside of you and cum was oozing from your pussy and pooling down to your inner thighs.

It was filthy but neither of you could bear to move. You were right where you needed to be. In his arms.

If Joker had a shred of morals he would carry you to the bath and help wash you up but first he had to address what he said during the heat of the moment.

Joker rubbed his scarred lips along your collarbone and subtly cleared his throat.

"I.. meanT it, Y/n." You turned your head and rested it under Joker's chin. "I dunno what started all of this but I uhh.. I'd like that. Us. You know... together.. Not right now! But ahh uhh.. it's on the table for the future... if ya want."

You tensed up in his arms and he thought the worst.

What if you disagreed and thought he was insane? What if you wanted nothing more to do with him? Was this the end of this phenomenal relationship all because he considered marriage?

Joker sounded so cute, all bashful and unsure of himself and you loved watching his eyes dart around in a panic. You put his worries at ease by leaning up and kissing him soundly.

"I meant what I said too silly. I-I need you too but only if you'll have me." You looped your hands with Joker's much larger ones.

He stared at the clash of skin tones and sighed. He was worrying over nothing.

"Forever then, yeah?" He kissed your palm before looking down at you. That breathtaking smile of yours was highlighted by the moonlight.

Since J quoted The Greeks Among Us, you decided to do the same.

"Until the last star fades in the night sky, I'm yours forever and ever, ο εραστής μου."

He rolled his eyes at your direct quote but attacked you with kisses anyway. His sweet little nerd. However the phrase summarized your love perfectly, all for a man who didn't deserve a single ounce of it.

Joker would spend the rest of his days proving his love for you. He could start by giving you that ring he bought.

#thanks for the ask!#ledger joker x reader #ledger joker #joker x y/n #reader insert #joker #heath joker #dark knight joker #black!fem!reader #romance #cross posted on wattpad #joker x reader #cross posted on ao3 #wedding #ledger joker smut #joker smut #long reads #you think J bought a ring yet?#his lighthouse

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