#beneath the ashes of our broken oaths

[illyrianbitch]

Beneath the Ashes of Our Broken Oaths — Part Three

Pairing: Morrigan's Sister!Reader x Azriel

Summary: After abandoning the refuge of Velaris, you, Morrigan’s twin sister, returned to the forsaken Hewn City fueled by a vision for a better future. Now, your estranged family seeks your help when rumors of rebellion spread at a time of utmost inconvenience. Torn between your anger and a desire to protect the good, you begrudgingly agree and are forced to face memories of a past life and the unsettling presence of Azriel– the first man you ever loved.

Warnings: depictions of physical injuries, alcohol use, mention of drugs, Rhysand being a condescending prick, reader being shady

Word Count: 5.5k

← Part Two

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Your nose was broken.

This you were sure of. So was your right leg. And your arm.

Your father was a thorough, thorough man.

There was a nauseating metallic taste in your mouth, a darkening in your vision. You couldn't see much. Eyes too fat, too swollen. Your mouth wasn't any better. Busted, bruised. You couldn't make out the silhouette in front of you--- but you smelled her.

"You shouldn't be here," Evadne said. "Why did you come back?"

You felt her hands on you, tender and soft, examining you, assessing the best way to help. Her hands were warm against your cold skin.

“For you,” you whispered. Your voice is ragged, broken. You weren't sure how you managed to speak. You continued. “I couldn't leave you.”

A heavy sigh. Her arms wrapped around you. A flickering sense of pain spreading throughout your body. You slumped against her.

"That heart of yours will get you killed," she murmured softly.

A cough. Liquid trickled from your lips. The taste of iron flooded your mouth. Blood. You leaned against her, heartbeat in your ears.

“Then I’m already dead.”

“Gods, you look like hell.”

You groaned, slowly lifting yourself up from your sprawled-out position on the worn leather couch. As you blinked away the remnants of sleep, your eyes struggled to adjust to the harsh glow of the day, slowly leaking in through the opened windows— Evadne’s work, you assumed. They were closed last you remembered.

Lifting your hand to shield your eyes, your gaze settled on your best friend who stood over you with her arms crossed over her chest, brows furrowed as she stared down at you.

“Did you sleep on your couch all night?”

Your eyes shuttered as you let your hand fall back down, a deep sense of exhaustion settling heavily upon you. “Maybe,” you said, your voice hoarse. “Yes.”

With a gentle shuffle, Evadne made her way around the piece of furniture, her footsteps muffled against the worn carpet. She tapped lightly at your legs, silently urging you to make room as she settled herself beside you. You complied, maneuvering yourself into an upright position as she took her place at your side.

Her brows furrowed, gaze sweeping over your disheveled appearance. She leaned in, soon pulling away with her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Did you drink a whole damn bar?”

It had only been a few days since Rhysand and Azriel visited you, a few days since you’d practically sold them out to your father. You couldn’t sleep, your mind plagued by visions of your family — of Azriel. At first, you welcomed them, embracing them as a refuge from your normal nightmares. But soon, those new images became worse, more volatile, more painful. You let out a sigh, slowly turning your head to look at Evadne.

“I had no mirthroot left.”

“Y/n.” She widened her eyes. “I just gave you that. It’s supposed to last you weeks.”

“Well, I’ve been under a lot of stress recently,” you retorted. Your tone was sharper than you intended, the stress of your situation festering into a reactionary annoyance. She let out a small sigh and a sense of guilt chewed at you for your flippant response. You deflated.

“I’m sorry,” you said, “I’m just on edge. I don’t mean to snap at you.”

Evadne shook her head gently. There was a moment of silence as she looked you over.

"How do we live in a city of decay and you're still the most depressing thing I've seen today?"

There was a glint of amusement in her dark brown eyes.

“Bite me,” you shot back, managing a weak smile in spite of yourself. The corners of your lips twitched upwards as you looked at her. A second passed. You both let out a small laugh.

Evadne had this effect on you, the ability to make you feel like you were in your body again, like your anger wasn’t consuming you the way you always felt it was. Headstrong, funny, kind… she was all the things you wanted to be – all the things your sister was, once upon a time.

Her smile softened into a smaller, more gentle expression. "Do you wanna talk about it?" she asked, her voice filled with a genuine care that made you want to cry— out of desperation, if anything. Out of a longing to be freed of the worries that now plagued you.

You shook your head. You didn’t have to look in a mirror to see what Evadne was worried about, to know why her eyes kept carefully scanning your face. The impact of everything, the lack of sleep, the stress, the alcohol, the mirthroot, it was all no doubt evident in every line etched into your face, in your sluggish movements.

“It’s all falling apart.”

“No,” she replied. “We planned for some complications.”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and empty in the quiet of the room. “Yeah, complications, not my nosy cousin and an even nosier spymaster,” you grumbled bitterly.

Evadne fixed you with a pointed look. “So we’re refusing to even say names now?”

You shot her a glare, annoyance boiling up inside you. The feeling quickly simmered when you met her gaze, patient and unwavering. It had gotten worse recently, your ability to keep your emotions in check. It was all the stress, all of this faith being put in you. It was smothering you. But you couldn’t admit it– after all, you’d brought it on yourself. Eventually, you let out a weary sigh, feeling the fight drain out of you as you slumped against the worn cushions of the couch.

"Fine," you muttered, the resignation evident in your voice. "We didn’t plan for Rhysand and Azriel."

Evadne mirrored you, falling back further into the couch. “Maybe it's time,” she said with a simple shrug.

You frowned, looking at her with knitted brows. “Time for what?”

“To confront that past of yours.”

Your reaction was instant, your body shooting upright, pointed and stiff. You rose from the couch, taking a moment to gather your thoughts.

“No,” you said sternly, turning around to look down at her. There was a deep sense of anger churning in your stomach, a sense of betrayal that had been unearthed from the depths of your being—you didn’t want to dwell on it, didn’t want to go deep diving into the black hole that was your family history.

Evadne didn’t back down, though, blinking slowly. She met your gaze with a calm resolve, eyebrows lifted ever so slightly as if she had anticipated your reaction, as if she viewed it as nothing more than a momentary outburst– a child throwing a tantrum. “Y/n,” she began.

“No,” You said again, your voice firm and resolute. “There's nothing I need to confront," you threw the word back at her emphasizing it with a shake of your head. "Don't treat me like I'm some child."

Evadne let out a heavy sigh, a sense of frustration rolling through her body as her shoulders sagged. She shook her head slightly. "Y/n," she began, "I'm not treating you like some child."

With a fluid motion, she rose from her seat, her movements graceful, purposeful. Meeting your gaze, she continued, "I've never seen you so rattled." She paused for a moment. "And you've dealt with a lot worse than two pretty boys."

You stood there, unmoving, lips pressed together into a thin line, your eyes fixed on the worn floorboards beneath your feet. With a subtle tilt of her head, Evadne attempted to catch your lowered gaze, her own expression still soft, still determined.

"This anger," she began, as you lifted your eyes to meet hers. She furrowed her brows, a flicker of sadness passing through her eyes, she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your anger, it is killing you."

With a small exhale, you shook your head, a tightness in your jaw evident as you clenched your teeth. "No," you asserted, the word resonating with a sense of defiance. "It's fueling me." Your eyes bore into hers.

Evadne didn’t move, didn’t look away. Instead, she simply tilted her head, reaching forward to grab your hands in hers. The crease in her eyebrows deepened. “It is still killing you all the same.”

You stilled, your face falling at her words. She was right. She usually was. You’d spent so long harboring your grudges, holding onto them at night like they were warm bodies, like they were things that could comfort you, fill the holes of the people they used to be. But the grudges only made you bitter, made you angry— and you were the only person that felt that anger. Not them. Never them.

You looked down, your gaze falling to where her hands gently held yours. It was then you caught a glimpse of her arms under the long sleeves of her dress, wrists decorated with a plethora of gold bangles. You tilted your head, taking in the glimmering sheen of the metals. Evadne loved her jewelry— loved her gold. It made her feel like a queen, she had told you once, reminded her of her worth. But she was always very careful about parading such shiny things around. Shiny things were noticed in a city of gloom. Shiny things got you hurt.

You pulled her hands up to eye level, a fast and swift motion that had her letting out a small gasp, your name falling from her lips in protest. You ignored it, fingers pulling up her sleeve, pushing the bangles up her arm.

A surge of icy rage flooded through you, coursing through your veins like a bitter chill. The feeling mingled with a fiery anger that simmered in your stomach, a volatile concoction that left you breathless, left you seeing red. Clenching your jaw tightly, you lifted your gaze to meet Evadne's.

“I’ll kill him.”

She looked at you for a moment, holding your intense gaze. Her eyes then flickered down and she gently pulled her hands away from you. She observed them for a moment, the dark bruises that marred her delicate wrists, stark against the golden hue of her skin. Then, she carefully slid her bracelets to their original position, pulling down her sleeves to cover any evidence of her hurt.

“No,” she said calmly, “But I will, one day. Like we’ve planned.”

"Evadne..."

You looked at her, taking in the beauty of her features, illuminated by the soft glow filtering through the windows. She was beautiful, so beautiful. And she was trapped here, in this city of filth, of ruin. You imagined a different future for her, a future where she lived in a place full of life— a place in the Day Court, perhaps, filled with sunshine and fresh air. A life where she could wear jewelry for the sake of their beauty, where she could be treated like a queen. A life that she deserved. Another wave of rage hit you. Evadne noticed, instantly leaning in to catch your eyesight.

"Y/n, It’s okay," Her voice was calm, collected. She reached out, her hand resting gently on your arm. "You keep your family busy. I’ll stick with the plan."

You nodded your head slowly, taking a deep breath as the fiery storm of rage slowly subsided within you. "Okay, I can do that," you said, "Are you sure?"

You searched Evadne's eyes for any sign of doubt. But all you found was an unwavering resolve, a fierce determination mirrored in her gaze. She smiled, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Yes, I’m sure. We just need to buy time.”

Your fingers trembled slightly as you anxiously ran a hand through your hair, your head still nodding at her words. You made your way across the room to where your liquor collection sat, the bottles gleaming in the light.

“How many do you think we have for tonight?” You asked, throwing the question over your shoulder. You heard her let out a small breath, footsteps following as she walked towards you.

"Not a lot,” she admitted. “Less than half.”

You let out a sigh, the tension in your muscles releasing slightly as you poured yourself a drink. The amber liquid flowed smoothly into the glass.

“They’re scared. Rhysand visiting is enough to unnerve them, but visiting you?”

“I know.” You felt a sense of guilt nag at you, tightening your stomach. You grabbed the crystal class in your hands turning to face Evadne. She glanced at you, then at your glass, and frowned.

“Are you sure you’re okay for tonight?” you asked her, your gaze momentarily falling down to where she held her hands together.

She met your eyes with a flat look. "Of course I am,” she responded. “I always am.”

You wanted to press further, to ask what else her golden dress was concealing, what else he had done to her, but you held your tongue, storing away your anger for when it would be useful, for when it could be power.

There was a thickness in your throat that wouldn’t move. Instead of replying, you lifted your brows at her, pulling your cup to your lips. Evadne moved before you could blink, grabbing the cup from your hands.

“What the hell?” You asked with a pinched expression. She merely stared at you, head tilted, eyes narrowed.

“They need a leader tonight, not a drunk," she asserted, her gaze steady upon you.

You met her eyes with a tightening of your jaw, a subtle crease forming between your brows. "Fine," you muttered, begrudgingly.

Without hesitation, Evadne downed the cup’s contents before placing it back in your hands. "Pull yourself together," she said firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. You kept her gaze for a moment, and then her eyes were softening, her lips curving upwards, corners of her mouth lifting in a tender yet somber expression.

“They are not worth you falling apart."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

It was dark when you returned home, your cloak hanging heavily on your shoulders. Your limbs protested with every step, heavy and achy, beads of sweat along your brow. Tonight had given you a release, a time to channel all your energy into something useful. But even then, there were too many things to think about, too many new factors to take into account. It exhausted you— your mind had never been so active, so anxious. You let out a defeated sigh as you opened the door.

You paused in the doorway, your heart stiffening at the sight of him, all fatigue momentarily forgotten. You were too caught up in your thoughts, too distracted to notice the other presence in your home, the other scent that filled it.

Rhysand’s gaze fixed expectantly on you, sitting in a chair that faced the entrance of your home. There was an eerily calm sense to him, an unnerving comfort in his body language. If you didn’t know him, if you weren’t aware of your relationship, you could've mistaken him for a man in the comfort of his own home, sitting at his own table.

You looked at him for a moment, taking in his appearance— a picture of regal confidence, a relaxed posture that was still commanding, still poised. He was alone tonight, no figures hidden in darkness, no smooth slithering of shadows. Azriel wasn’t with him. There was a squeeze in your stomach.

"Do you ever knock?" you spat, your voice sharp with irritation as you closed the door behind you with a forceful thud.

He remained unphased by your display of frustration, watching as you moved across the room, settling to lean against the backside of your couch. You crossed your arms, glaring at him.

"I did," he replied, his voice smooth and unruffled. "You weren't home."

With a sharp exhale, you scoffed, the sound laced with annoyance. Every second spent facing him filled you with an itching irritation, an anger that seeped through your skin. Deep in the back of your mind, an aching appeared– a tiny part of you that longed for his company, that craved for some resolution. You shoved it away, breaking it apart into pieces.

"So what? You just let yourself in?"

"Yes," he replied, his tone nonchalant. "I didn't want to wait outside. It's dangerous. You should really find a new place to live."

The condensation in his tone flowed out smoothly, a habit that almost appeared like second nature. His casual demeanor only fueled your irritation, each word he spoke like a taunt– pompous, arrogant, asshole. You tightened your arms together.

"Did you have a reason for coming here, Rhysand?" you snarled, the words punctuated by a simmering rage. There was a clear disdain in your voice, pointed and sharp. "Or do you just find pleasure in being an arrogant prick?"

Rhysand's facade of confidence faltered for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features before he composed himself once more. His shoulders sagged slightly, a movement so small you almost missed it. The air of authority around him diminished— as if he was transitioning from High Lord to something else, something smaller. He blinked, and then he let out a sigh.

"You're right. I'm so-" he began, but then stopped abruptly. You felt a prickling sensation crawl up your spine. There was a brief pause as Rhysand scanned you, his eyes falling from your head to your toes as he took in your appearance– sweat-dampened leathers, a cloak draped haphazardly over your shoulders. Your heart thudded anxiously in your chest. Rhys met your gaze once more, his brows furrowed now– in confusion, curiosity, or suspicion, you couldn’t tell. It unnerved you.

"Where were you?" he asked.

You felt a surge of defensiveness rise within you.

"I wasn't aware I needed to report my extracurricular activities to High Lords who break into homes," you shot back, the words dripping with sarcasm. You took a moment to break away from your outer layer, quickly throwing the cloth on the couch behind you.

Rhysand remained rooted in his seat, his posture stiffening before he eased back into the chair with a sigh. His movements were deliberate, calculated, betraying a sense of resignation beneath his surface. As he spoke, his hand gestured towards you.

"Is this really how it's going to be, Y/n?" he questioned, his voice laced with a hint of exasperation. "We don’t have to be uncivilized."

Your initial shock dissolved into a burst of incredulous laughter, your mouth falling open in disbelief. "You storm into my home uninvited– twice may I add," you emphasized, your voice rising slightly, "and then call me uncivil when I refuse to drop everything for you?"

Rhysand's tone shifted, his eyes narrowing. "Oh, please, Y/n," he said, "I didn't ask you to drop everything. I asked you to hear me out and you wouldn’t even do that."

His audacity cut into you like sharp knives. You almost winced at his tone; so condescending, so arrogant. It was hard to look at him, to attempt to find the boy that you used to know. Rhysand, your cousin Rhysand, would have hated the prick standing in front of you– would have despised his superiority complex. The thought made you sad— but only for a moment. It quickly faded.

"Has being a High Lord truly given you such a lack of class?" you challenged, your voice rising with indignation. You didn’t bother to hide your contempt, didn’t bother to collect yourself. "How dare you think I owe you anything, even the time of day?"

Rhysand met your gaze, violet eyes burning into yours. They were darker now than they were years ago, more fury in them. More broken.

"We are family, Y/n. I would think it's the least you owe me."

You recoiled at his words, a bitterness rising in your throat like bile. You’d spent so many of your days reminding yourself that your family didn’t care, spent so many nights wishing that they did. Here, sitting in front of you, was proof that the former was correct. You were only their 'family' when it was convenient for them— and you hadn't been convenient for centuries.

"There you go, using that word again like it should mean something.”

You were clenching your jaw so hard you could have sworn it was going to break, that a tooth would snap– that you would snap. Rhysand didn’t back down.

"It should," he insisted, his voice steady.

"It doesn't."

Your voice was cold and unyielding, to a point where Rhysand felt a wave of discomfort come over him. His jaw ticked and he let out a deep sigh, his chin falling slightly. There was a clear frustration in his body as he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and bringing a hand to his face. His fingers settled under his chin while the other hovered near his lips as he shook his head. A moment passed as you watched him, and then he turned to look at you again, his hand falling flat on the table.

"I don’t understand you, Y/n,” he said, “I just- I don’t understand.”

Because you’ve never made an effort to. The exhaustion on his face, the frustration that you could see– even smell, it made your stomach sink. The anger in your body felt like something else, like sadness, like grief. Maybe Evadne overestimated you, maybe you couldn’t handle being around your family. If being around Rhysand made you this emotional, you didn’t want to think about what it would be like to face all of them, to report to them.

"It shouldn't take you over 500 years to understand that people don't owe you anything," you stated, pushing yourself off the couch. You walked towards the front door of your home, reaching it as you spoke, "Get out of my home."

Rhysand's voice faltered, his expression softening with a touch of desperation. "Wait, Y/n, wait,” he said as he stood up.

There was a tinge of desperation in his voice, something you were sure he didn’t realize was showing. Maybe you recognized it because, once upon a time, you had known him– truly known him. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of that familial bond. Or, maybe, Rhysand was faltering in your presence because for the first time, he wasn’t being feared.

If Rhys was struggling to keep a calm facade, there was something deeply wrong going on — something with you, or something outside of this city. You thought back to his words from before, I'm dealing with a larger threat that has me on the defense. You furrowed your brows, eyes settling on him with a scrutinous gaze.

"Why do you need my help so bad?"

Rhysand hesitated for a moment before responding, his words measured. "I told you. There are rumors about an u—"

"An uprising. Yes, I remember," you interjected, cutting him off.

Rhysand's brows furrowed, his patience wearing thin as he searched your face for any hint of relenting. He found none. “Then why are you asking me?”

You met his gaze head-on. "Because there are always rumors here," you repeated, emphasizing each word with a pointed stare. "And every time, you, and now Feyre, swoop in to quash them with a well-timed visit, a show of power. So forgive me if I find it curious that this time, you're suddenly in need of my assistance."

A flicker of frustration crossed Rhysand's features, his jaw clenching briefly before he regained his composure. "Our methods may have been effective in the past," he conceded, "but this situation requires a more delicate touch."

There was no evidence of regret in his tone, no acknowledgement of the fear-mongering that he used with his people. You weren’t sure why you expected it, why you looked for it. Of course Rhysand wouldn’t show signs of guilt regarding his treatment of Hewn City. Why would he? He didn’t feel guilty, at all.

You raised an eyebrow skeptically. "And what exactly makes this situation so different?"

Rhysand's expression tightened at your insistence, his eyes darting away momentarily before meeting yours once more. "Nothing you have to concern yourself with," he hedged, his tone cautious.

There it was again, the sense of audacity he held, the superiority he wore like a cloak. There was something in his tone, in the way he spoke to you, that made you feel small, foolish. You hated it.

You narrowed your eyes, a sense of frustration bubbling within you. "If I'm going to stick my neck out for you, and potentially betray my people, I need to know why.”

Rhysand's discomfort flashed across his features. His lips parted, emitting a breathy laugh tinged with disbelief. "Your people," he repeated, a hint of mockery lacing his tone, as if the very idea amused him.

"Yes. My people.”

Rhysand's jaw tightened visibly. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he relented. "Koschei.”

You blinked.

Koschei, Koschei.

You recognized the name, memories of childhood tales flooding your mind. Koschei was a name thrown around, starring in stories whispered by mothers to keep their children in line, to warn them of the consequences of misbehaving. But you knew better– all adults did. Koschei wasn’t a real threat, he was somewhere far, somewhere unreachable.

However, the look on Rhysand's face told a different story—a story of genuine fear, of a threat far more tangible than mere folklore. The mighty High Lord of the Night Court was worried, on edge. It filled you with a sense of dread that momentarily wiped away any sadness, any anger. "Koschei?" you repeated, the name feeling heavy on your tongue

"He is taking steps to free himself," Rhysand said, "I'm working to ensure that doesn't happen."

You eyed him cautiously, scanning him for any sign of deceit. You found none. He took your silence as an invitation to keep talking, to explain further.

"That means I do not have time to sift around this city and find the origins of these rumors– to waste time discerning if they are legitimate.”

You paused for a moment, your mind racing now. Perhaps this was a stroke of luck. Koschei's looming threat could align perfectly with what you needed. You needed Rhysand distracted, needed him vulnerable enough for your father— needed your father to be vulnerable enough for you. Surely, Koschei wouldn’t be a lingering threat. Rhysand was right, it wasn’t something you needed to concern yourself with. Keep them busy, Evadne had said.

"Isn't this Azriel's specialty?" you asked, "The feared Spymaster?"

A tick in Rhysand’s jaw.

"Azriel's reach is limited," he explained. "These rumors may be quiet, but they are there."

He needed someone who wouldn’t call attention. Someone who knew how to work this city. Someone like you.

”Where is your guard dog, anyway?”

The words slipped out of your mouth before you had a chance to catch them. Rhysand stiffened at the question. He bit down the anger that formed in his throat.

”I thought it would be best to come alone.” He shifted on his feet. "In truth, my intentions were to come and offer an apology," he confessed, his voice carrying a weight you hadn't anticipated. Meeting his gaze, you found a flicker of vulnerability in the violet of his eyes, a softening in his features.

You weren’t sure if you should feel angry or touched. It certainly seemed like Rhysand expected the latter, his brows slightly furrowed, awaiting your response. But, instead, your reaction was disbelief, almost scoffing at his attempt at reconciliation. His intrusion into your home, his condescending demeanor, all of it burned into your skin. "Certainly didn't feel like one," you remarked, a bitterness lacing your words.

"I know,” he admitted, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I shouldn’t have approached the situation in the manner that I did. I apologize.”

His voice was genuine, filled with remorse— its presence was fainter that you would have hoped for, but it was there. Noticeable. While you appreciated the gesture, and your heart held onto the regret he showed, you said nothing in response, not wanting to give him the clear forgiveness he was hoping for.

“So, I’m coming to you again, properly. We need your help.” A pause. “I need your help.”

You sighed, running your tongue along your teeth. "Fine,” you relented, “What do I have to do?"

Rhysand visibly relaxed, a wave of relief washing over him. Then, he straightened his posture, dusting off his shoulders before he began walking towards you, towards the door. "Azriel will come to you. You both can work from there.”

The name made your stomach drop, and your eyes widened in response, brows furrowing.

"Azriel?"

Rhysand paused mid-stride, his gaze locking with yours. "Yes," he said, his eyebrows raising ever so slightly. "You said it yourself, this is his territory."

The crease between your brows deepened as you frowned.

"And you said he was unable to work with it. That's why you need me.”

Rhys narrowed his eyes, scanning over your face before letting out a small breath.

"We do need you,” he replied, “To work alongside Azriel."

Your stomach clenched further. To work alongside Azriel. Azriel, Azriel, Azriel.

“You didn’t say anything about working with Azriel.”

Rhysands eyebrows fell as he narrowed his eyes at you.

“Will that be a problem?”

Anger simmered beneath your skin. Rhysand's insistence on involving Azriel was a direct affront to your capabilities, a direct showing of distrust. You knew, logically, that you weren’t allowed to be so angry– he shouldn’t trust you. But the reality of it, a clear reminder of how far you’d drifted, hurt in a way you couldn’t ignore.

“Yes,” you responded, your voice firm, “I don’t need someone watching over me.”

He let out a deep sigh, his face scrunching in with annoyance.

“That is not wha-”

“Oh, please,” you replied, “It’s definitely part of it. You don’t trust me.”

Rhysand didn’t reply, didn’t even acknowledge your words. Instead he simply shrugged. The nonchalance of his movement only added fuel to the fire, and you clenched your jaw to suppress the rising frustration.

"Azriel is our court’s Spymaster. He knows what needs to be done," he stated dismissively.

A surge of frustration rose within you. The room felt stifling, suffocating. You could keep them busy, could work with Rhysand distracted, with him worried about Koschei. But having Azriel around, a looming presence, someone overseeing you, would make things more complicated. And it was Azriel. Even the thought of it made you feel sick, nausea forming from the mix of emotions in your chest.

Silence enveloped the room like a heavy fog. You remained still– jaw clenched, eyes still on Rhysand as he walked past you, hand reaching for the door. He stopped, falling still in his place. Then, he looked at you. The expression on his face wasn’t one you were familiar with– it seemed like one he used to wear when you knew him, a softer version of himself. Kind.

"I'm sorry about Caladan.”

It hit you like a punch to the gut. You weren’t sure what hit you harder, the apology, laced with a deep sincerity you hadn’t expected, or Caladan’s name– on Rhys’ lips, of all people. You hadn’t heard his name in so long; Evadne was always so careful. It was a pain you thought you had grown accustomed to, buried beneath layers of duty and obligation. But it was resurfacing, rising with a raw intensity that left your chest tight.

For a fleeting moment, you felt the urge to lash out, to reject Rhysand’s words and the sympathy they carried. But beneath the anger and resentment, there was a small flicker of something else— of gratitude. With a heavy heart, you met Rhysand's gaze. You couldn't move, couldn't speak.

"I meant to give you my condolences when I first came." Rhysand’s voice was soft. “I know he was special to you. I should have reached out when I heard."

Green eyes. “This is good, Y/n,” he smiled at you, a dimpled, soft smile. “It’s all coming together.”

You blinked the image away. After a beat of silence, you nodded slowly. "Thank you," you murmured. The anger was still there, the bitterness towards Rhysand, towards your family. But you accepted his words, letting them ease some of the sizzling resentment.

Rhysand bowed his head in acknowledgment. With one final glance, he turned and left.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

a/n: guys i promise after this azzy will be in every chapter. now we begin the angsty forced proximity trope that i LOVEEE 🫶🏻🫶🏻

(i’m prewriting chapters rn so lemme know if there’s anything you’d love to see👀👀 always open to ideas)

taglist:

@kalulakunundrum  @janebirkln @thelov3lybookworm @secretlyhers @nightcourt-daydreaming @sidthedollface2 @gorlillaglue25 @abysshaven @historygeekqueen @acourtofbatboydreams @justdreamstars @darling006 @inloveallthetime @dr4g0ngirl @makeagoodnamethen @kht1998  @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @rhysandorian @llovelydove @minnieoo @cassianswh0reeee @anuttellaa @hnyclover @sfhsgrad-blog @carlandonorri-s @gingerblood @inesven @emptyporsche @itsswritten @tele86

#azriel #azriel fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #azriel fanfic #azriel fic #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel angst #a court of thorns and roses #acotar #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #acotarfandom #beneath the ashes of our broken oaths #baobo #about baobo

[itsswritten]

Could you share your favourite fics with us on here please? I trust your opinion!!

Oooo yessssss! OMG where do I start, there are sooooo many amazing writers on here!! Im not sure I’ll get to everyone in this post, so I’m just going to share the series that I’m currently reading/or have read recently. And then I’ll do another post for everyone else I’ve missed 🤍

Okay so there’s my girl @illyrianbitch !! I devour anything she writes, and I’m loving her current series ‘Beneath the Ashes of Our Broken Oaths’ (Az x reader) 🥹 it’s so so so good! Everything she writes is amazing, she also wrote for Cassian recently, and its converted me to a Cass lover! 😍 Go read her masterlist asap! 🩵

Of course there’s @pellucid-constellations she’s the one who actually got me back into acotar!! I originally found her through her BEAUTIFUL Bucky pics (so any marvel lovers should head over, because her Bucky masterlist is a dream 🤤) and then she started writing for Azriel, I quickly realised I needed to find out who this character was. Now I’m on acosf and well… I’m truly obsessed! She has an amazing series called ‘If It All Fell’ (Az x reader) that is currently in progress and I really encourage you to go give it a read, along with everything else she’s written! 🩷

I LOVE @florencemtrash , if you are not reading their ‘The Shadowsigner and the Inkbird’ series (Az x reader, you can see there’s a theme 👀 I love Azriel) then you are missing out! The latest chapter was an absoutle killer, I’m still recovering! 🥲 But GO GO GO!! It is truly a masterpiece! 💛

@assassinsblade has some truly beautiful work as well! ‘Forget me not’ was how I found her, and it’s beautiful. ‘Arrows and Ashes’ had me in the feels for sure! Truly incredible, she’s also written something recently for Eris which was just *chefs kiss* 💚

I’m also reading @fieldofdaisiies ‘Whispers of the forgotten’ it’s ongoing, and I’m so so so excited to see what happens!!! It’s AMAZING! 💜

There is literally sooooo many other writers on here that I love, and I know I’ve missed so many. I’m a sucker for a series, hence all the series reccs but I need to have a deep dive into all the one-shots, so I can compile and share my faves!

I’m also open to any of your faves too! Let’s spread the love <3

#acotar #azriel x reader #acotar reccs #Lottie reccs

[isilwhore]

For @maedhrosmaglorweek Day 6, an AU that fixes nothing and makes everything worse (sorry)

****

“…but less evil shall we do in the breaking.”

Maglor knows his argument has been lost. Still, one final plea is cast upon the night’s wind:

“Please.”

But Maedhros does not stop, nor look back. He only answers, “I need you.”

Maglor swallows back a response. His brother has seen the Darkness. He carries a piece of it with him. It usually lies just beneath the surface, under his control; lately it has shown itself more frequently, more fiercely than ever.

And Maglor understands. He pities him, defends him, loves him. He always has. But he can no longer follow him. It pains him to think it and now to speak it, and it only comes forth with every bit of courage and strength he can muster.

“I cannot do it.”

He collapses to the ground, weeping. His cries are not deep and piercing like his singing, but weak and pitiful, barely registering in the silence.

Maedhros turns to him with a fiery stare. Maglor recoils from this wretched, familiar flame. He has seen it many times; it takes them all, eventually.

“You are bound by our oath. Our brothers died for this.” His voice is powerful yet empty.

“Then let me fail, as I failed to save them.” Maglor chokes over these words; he will never forgive himself for it, even though they were doomed to their fates. “I am ready to face judgment. I want to go back.”

When he feels the blade press against his neck, Maglor knows his brother is gone. The madness has finally claimed him, and soon he too may become no more than ash in the wind.

“Please, Nelyo,” he shivers. He thinks briefly of their father and shakes the memories away. Then he recalls the boys he raised as sons; how he loved them and sent them out into the world with everything he could teach them, sent them far away from his weary heart. That is how he saved them. But saving Maedhros may be beyond Maglor’s power.

Maedhros lowers his sword and stands completely still, save for the rise and fall of his broad chest. His eyes are ablaze. And empty.

“Nelyo, you are broken, we are broken. Nothing may mend you now but I love you still. Come with me, or let me go. I beg you.”

He reaches out to touch him, to graze his scarred cheek or smooth back his hair, which has grown wild during their roaming. But Maedhros pulls away in agony, as if his brother’s hand is a torch.

“It will be over soon. We shall end this! Together.”

“No, please no! Come back to me, Nelyo!” Maglor fears the madness will overcome him now too. He wishes for it to come quickly; perhaps this would be easier if he had already lost his mind. He lets out a wail and leaps at his brother. He grabs for his once fine cloak, now weather worn and ragged, a last desperate effort to shake sense into him, or hold him or…

It is a mistake, for Maedhros has quick reflexes and the flame sparks and overtakes him. A flash of silver, a flash of red.

And now it is too late to save either of them.

Although it takes no time for Maglor to fall, it feels like centuries. An indescribable sound escapes Maedhros, like a terrible roar, deeper than the ocean and darker than the Void.

Maglor realizes he is dying and it is a strange relief. His mouth moves quickly, silently, one last song upon his lips.

“Thank you.”

His eyes open wide and catch their final sight: his brother, his Nelyo as he once was. Maglor had pitied him, defended him, loved him. He always had.

“I never meant to hurt you. Some peace for you now, I hope.” Maedhros holds him and sobs and it feels like centuries.

“But no peace do I deserve. Now you will meet your judgment, and I shall never face mine.”

#maedhrosmaglorweek #cw character death #maedhros #Maglor #the silmarillion #silm fanfic #been a loooong time since I wrote anything over 100 words! #I was actually nervous to post this lol

[addieslibrary]

Azriel Masterlist 7

* means smut, minors get lost

Series

Bargain part 1 part 2 ✔️

Pushing the Limits part 1* part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6* part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 ✔️

Practice on Me part 1 part 2* part 3* part 4 part 5 part 6* part 7 part 8* part 9 part 10 part 11* part 12 part 13 part 14* part 15 epilogue ✔️

Arrows and Ashes part 1 part 2 part 3✔️🤍

Inadvertently Yours part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5* part 6 part 7* part 8 part 9✔️

Pieces part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 Epilogue ✔️

Don’t Act Like You Care Now part 1 part 2✔️

Guarded Hearts part 1 part 2 part 3 ✔️

Alone part 1 part 2✔️ read the warnings, don’t be dumb

The Artificer part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 ✔️

Pushed to the Edge part 1 part 2 part 3 Epilogue bonus pretty please read warnings ✔️

In Every Lifetime part 1 part 2✔️

Control read warnings part 1 part 2 part 3

Beneath the Ashes of our Broken Oaths part 1 part 2 part 3 🖊

Ratatouille part 1 part 2✔️

I wouldn’t marry me either part 1 part 2 ✔️

Love Lost part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5✔️

Oneshots

Overprotective mate

All I’ve Ever Needed

Asphyxiated

The Green Emotion

In a Year’s Time

The Other Woman

Rest Now, Darling

Waiting read the warnings babies

I’m Still Stuck in the Moment

Reversal

Haven

Share Your Pain

Exile

All I Want

Cauldron Blessed*

Unworthy*

Confessions of the Heart

Here Without You

#azriel x reader #masterlist

[phoenixyfriend]

#9 “Tell me to stay and I will be here for as long as you’ll have me.” with Obi-Wan & Jango & Satine? (... or Obi-Wan/Jango/Satine, I'm not picky)

Hurt/Comfort Dialogue Prompts

Oh, I'm going to make this deeply stupid and AU because I got struck by a plot bunny and I'm taking it out on a prompt.

Satine hates the man named Jango Fett.

They've met before, once or twice. He'd known her father, before the latter's assassination. She'd met Jango when she was a child, before he'd lost his people at Galidraan, before she'd lost her sister to a terrorist group and her father to a blaster shot. She'd thought him gruff but kind, at the time, and very sad.

Now, she just wants him to trip on a pipe and brain himself on one of the many rusted, broken beams around them. She won't strangle him herself, won't turn her back on her oaths and commit violence, but she's not too proud to hope for an accident.

"Pick up the pace, princess."

"I am a Duchess," she snaps, lifting her skirts to step delicately over something that might have been machinery at one point.

The only light they have is from his helmet, and the only reason she hasn't fallen from the fabric catching on some matter or other is that he has a sense for when she gets caught.

He'd suggested that she pull the skirts up to gird her loins, and then found that the numerous layers made it impossible. He'd offered to cut the skirt down to something more manageable, without depriving her of the coverage she still needed in the cold of these darks, dank ruins. He'd then found that the vibroblade did nothing against the skirts.

(She was a pacifist, not stupid. Of course her clothing was reinforced.)

"I don't care," he says back through grit teeth. She's not sure why he hasn't just left her for dead, but she's not going to complain. Much. "Just move."

They've been making their way through the ruins for hours. They still don't know how they got here. They have no way to find out.

They just head up, and hope it gets them somewhere.

(Signs litter the walls, all in a script unfamiliar to them. Archaic, or simply foreign, they don't know.)

"Wait."

She freezes.

Fett moves behind her, light shifting with the noise of his beskar, and then he says, "I'm going to turn out the light for a second. Give us a minute to adjust to the dark after I do. I think I saw something glowing, but I can't tell with the flash on."

She nods, sure that he can see it, and they are engulfed in the dark again.

It's not for long, because the glow that Fett described is real. Faint, far off down the hallway and a pale blue that winks in and out in multiple spots at once, but there.

"We'll need the light to make it there without you getting rust sickness," Fett mutters. He flicks the headlight back on. "Might get some kinda hint out of it, whatever it is."

"You'd risk it?"

"Don't have any other choice," Fett tells her. "Move out, Princess."

----

They reach the blue glow, entering a large, cavernous atrium, just as dark as the rest of the ruins so far, but much less cramped than the previous hallways.

It is mostly floating motes of something, and the something in question makes Satine's skin crawl. She has no idea what it is. She doesn't think Fett does either, but he's a little busy trying to get a scan of the room around them. Satine can just barely see the floor from the blue light, and she steps closer carefully. Part of her screams about deep sea fish and wild space ancients, creatures that use light to hunt, but they've had nothing else yet. No hints.

This place feels ancient. Perhaps the spirits that linger are even older.

"Kryze!"

"I'm fine," she calls back, deliberately refusing to understand the man's worry. She just... reaches out.

And one of the blue lights comes to her.

Fett swears and comes closer, but Satine pulls her hands to her chest, cradling the little light to herself. It's larger than she'd expected, perhaps the size of a Chandrila plum. It's warm, too.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Fett snaps.

"It's friendly," she says. "I think."

"You think," Fett hisses, the noise crackling through the vocoder. He puts a hand on her shoulder. "Listen--"

The lights coalesce. They are, for the moment, blinding, and Satine flinches away.

Fett has a blaster out before Satine can even open her eyes again. She knows the noise better than she'd like. She can identify which blaster it is by the click of the safety alone.

Any Mandalorian her age can.

"Oh dear," an unfamiliar voice says. "I'm afraid that--well, yes, Mando, hello there. I'm afraid that the blaster won't do much to me. I'm already long dead, you understand."

When Satine manages to blink the spots out of her vision, it's to see a glowing, slightly blue-tinged human figure in clothing that is distinctly Jedi, if very... very outdated.

The man--she thinks it's a man, beards usually indicate such--smiles and waves at her. "I apologize for the light show. It's been quite some time since I've had reason to take a solid form."

"I can imagine," Satine says, her voice weak even to her own ears. The man isn't much older than her, or at least wasn't when he... died? Or perhaps he was elderly when he died, and just rolled his age back as this spirit for some reason.

He smiles kindly, and then looks past her shoulder to Fett. He rolls his eyes, and smirks, and says, "Su cuy'gar, Mand'alor."

"I am not Mand'alor," Fett growls out. "I don't hold that title anymore."

"You do in spirit," the figure claims. "None other can say the same, not yet."

Before Fett can argue further, the man smiles pleasantly, and says, "I don't suppose you could remove yourselves from my shrine? Just a few steps back, thank you."

Satine looks down. She notices the raised platform and carved sigils and the stone column she hadn't seen in the earlier darkness, and flushes. She steps back and down, and Fett does the same.

"Now," the figure says. "As I was saying--"

"What are you?" Fett demands. "Ghost of a Jedi?"

"Something like that," the figure allows. "I was not just a Jedi, but... yes, I'm something you could call a ghost. I'd prefer simply a spirit."

"Like the ka'ra," Satine mutters, and grunts in disagreement.

"Those, Duchess, are only Mandalorians."

"Then I suppose it is fitting that I am both," the spirit says, and his form shifts.

Armor. It does not cover all of him--his pelvis and head are distinctly bare--but the shapes are distinctly Mandalorian. The colors aren't quite exact, with the blue glow he carries about him, but she's fairly certain she's seeing blue, green, and black. Reliability, duty, and justice.

Fitting, for a Jedi. The symbol for the Order is on his pauldron, even, and the hilt of his saber hangs easy at his side.

The gasp that comes through Fett's vocoder is harsh. She can't imagine he likes this.

"You--" he cuts himself off, takes a breath audible even past the helmet, and tries again. "There is no way you are Tarre Vizsla."

"No, I'm afraid not."

"So you must be Obi-Wan Kenobi."

The man smiles and tucks his hands into his sleeves, the swinging of the fabric allowing them the glimpse of vambraces beneath. He ducks his head in a shallow nod. "I am indeed."

Satine feels how empty of blood her own face is. She can't imagine Fett is doing much better.

"This is the Kar'ta-yaim be talyc rang," Fett mutters, horrified in a way that Satine feels her own self echoing. "You..."

"Well, we certainly never called it that," Kenobi says, head tilting faintly. "But I imagine that after the siege... Yes, Temple of Bloodied Ash would certainly reflect our final days."

It was one of the few stories that didn't pit Jedi and Mandalorians against each other, in the histories.

It had been the first attempt to coexist, the warriors of the saber and the warriors of iron. None managed to wed the two philosophies the way Kenobi had, but that hadn't mattered. They'd lived together, in peace. The reports had been clear enough, that there hadn't been weapons storage. There hadn't even been real defensive measures, barring the force fields. The Jedi had refused to let war reach this building, even whilst the Sith still raged across the galaxy. The other temples could handle the atrocities afar. The children, the elderly, the infirm, they were all to find a home here. The only weaponry were the sabers and whatever metals the Mando'ade carried in their armor.

Just a place of peace, a home to research, to children, to hospitals, all slaughtered to the last man, and set ablaze after. Nobody had ever tried such an attempt at peace between Mandalore and Jedi since. The location has been lost for longer than anyone remembers, but...

"Why are we here?" Satine asks.

"I wonder," Kenobi says, seeming far too pleased for the revelations of the last minute. He strokes at his beard, and then turns and sweeps an arm across the air. As he does, a whirring noise surrounds them, stuttered and heavy, but growing in power. Bit by bit, the sections of the wall that he'd gestured at begin to glow.

There are lights set into the wall like circuitry, warm and bright. The generators, which much be centuries old, at the least, continue to run.

"They draw energy from the river in the mountain," Kenobi says, before either of them thinks to ask. "Come along, my dears."

Satine hesitates. So does Fett.

Kenobi turns, presumably noting that their footsteps aren't following him. He smiles, and the corners of his eyes crinkle.

Satine can't remember how old he supposedly was, at his death. His eyes are much older, but...

"I assure you, it's perfectly safe," he tells them. "The building won't hurt you."

"The building?" Fett asks, sounding perhaps a little more dubious than the situation warranted. They were already talking to a figure of legend.

"Yes, the building," Kenobi repeats, indulgent in a way that Satine would have found irritating if aimed at her, but rather approved of like this. "The walls are already straightening out, I feel. And the droids are going to be clearing out the debris soon enough. The rust will be a little difficult to manage, of course, but..."

"What do you mean the walls are going to straighten out?" Satine asks. "And how... this place has been dead for centuries, hasn't it? How did you wake it?"

"Duchess Kryze, I didn't wake the Temple," Kenobi tells her. She doesn't know how he got her name. "You did."

She doesn't know what to say in response. She stays quiet, and waits for him to elaborate.

"Is it because she woke you up?" Fett asks, clearly unwilling to play a waiting game. "You're a... guardian? The keyholder to the power?"

"Mand'alor," Kenobi says, with a smile playing on his lips behind the carefully-groomed beard, "I am the Temple."

What.

He smiles and starts walking backwards, gliding in a way that makes it clear he doesn't need to step, really, because his feet don't stay planted where he puts them. They have to follow, now, or risk losing him. "My consciousness, my very self, is woven into every bit of this building. I have no flesh, not anymore, but while my sense of self stays coherent in the Force... the Temple is my body."

"How?" Satine demands, hurrying to keep up. She tries to ignore the way the flagstones shift and settle ahead of her, still and level by the time she steps forward. She tries to ignore the grinding of metal, as it's pulled into the walls like it's soup instead of stone. She tries to ignore the creaking of the foundation about them, and stays focused on the pleasant smile of one of the only two Mandalorian Jedi in history that maintained the balance.

"Do your history books carry the name of my apprentice?" Kenobi asks.

"Skywalker," Fett says immediately. "And... Tano, I think, before she changed it. She escaped, didn't she?"

"Yes, she was away at the time," Kenobi says, voice distant for but a moment. Somewhere far off among the tunnels, there is a mighty crash. "I'd fought until I couldn't any more. My armor, what I had of it, protected me from the flames. I'd worn a helmet during the siege, and it filtered the smoke, even as I lay dying from other wounds... between that and the Force, I lasted long enough that Anakin found me. The others had all died of smoke inhalation, if they hadn't succumbed to their injuries or the flames themselves by that point."

"The fire didn't reach you?" Fett questions.

"Mm, no, the alcove I was in was all stone, and there wasn't anything flammable enough nearby to reach," Kenobi says, sounding distant again. "In any case, Anakin found me. He was... distraught. Desperate. Not entirely sane, I think, but with what he walked into, I can't find it in myself to fault him."

"Master Kenobi," Satine finds herself saying. "What did he do?"

Kenobi's smile is sad. She'd call it resigned, really. He's lived--sort of--with this situation for centuries now. It makes sense. "He took my mind, my soul in the Force, and 'saved' it in a way that would leave me tied to the world past my death. It was ingenious, but... I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. I don't think Anakin realized what he was doing until long after he'd already succeeded at the impossible."

"He cursed you," Fett declares.

Kenobi shrugs. "I think he expected the temple to be cleaned and re-inhabited again soon enough. It wasn't, as you can see. The generators have been gathering power for centuries, but the fire destroyed most of them, and we didn't have anything in reserve with how much we poured into the shields during the battle. I couldn't fix the ruins, and with the horrors that had occurred, nobody was coming back. Anakin said he would, he promised, but... he disappeared. He visited, and he spoke with me, but a few years in he was simply... lost. I had a connection to his ship's signal, and it winked out in the blink of an eye, and never came back."

Oh. Terrifying.

"For all that I am the Temple, now, there are still secrets here that I don't yet understand," Kenobi tells them. "Your arrival, for one thing. The sediment carried up the mountain has slowly buried the temple over the centuries. There isn't a way in, save for two tunnels leading to the river, both of which I know are untouched."

"We just woke up here," Satine admits.

"Yes," Kenobi says. "You did. And part of me knows why."

"...part?" Fett asks.

It's a fair question to ask of a man who happens to have a brain that is also an entire building, somehow.

"Areas are cut off from my awareness," Kenobi admits freely. "Cave-ins and the like, mostly. There are one or two that I think I cut deliberately, due to what lay within."

Also terrifying, thank you.

"But I do believe I know what happened," he says, with that same damnably soft smile. "You two are the leaders of your people, yes? Tradition on one side, and peace on the other."

Satine shares a glance with Fett, and then turns to Kenobi and nods.

"Then I do believe it's simply the right time," he tells them. "You'll need to work together."

"I don't think so," Satine immediately denies.

"The Force works in mysterious ways," Kenobi tells her. "And if it brought you here--and you couldn't have arrived otherwise, I promise you that--then it was for a reason. Two leaders, the same people, with ideologies that I do believe are possible to bring together into, if not mixing, then at least coexistence."

"Impossible," Fett says. "The New Mandalorians are cowards, Kenobi. To share a culture with them--"

"Is as unlikely as Jedi and the old Mandalorians?" Kenobi asks, smiling so very politely that Satine wonders at how they aren't frozen stiff at the sight of it.

The sigil of the Order gleams mockingly from his pauldron.

Kenobi huffs out a breath, just a shadow of a laugh the slightest duck of his head, and then he turns and waves open a door.

Beyond him, sitting clean and pretty and entirely free of dust on its ancient stand, rests the Darksaber.

Satine stares.

She's sure Fett does, too.

"That can't be real," she says, her mouth moving before she can control it. "The Darksaber is lost, but it's popped up in history too recently to have been here since the fires."

"I saw it in Tor Vizsla's hands less than a years ago," Fett confirms. The vocoder cuts emotion from his voice, but not enough. "This place has been locked tight for centuries. The saber can't be here."

"The same could be said of the two of you," Kenobi points out.

It's true.

Satine steps forward, when it becomes clear that Fett won't. She picks up the weapon, holds it like the antique it is, square and unwieldy, but so very, very old that she cannot deny its importance. Weapon or not, it is her people's history.

She lights it.

The blade burns black.

"Turn it off," Fett rasps, and she does.

Satine looks back at him, and then to Kenobi. She turns fully, and steps forward, and holds it out to Fett.

He looks at her, uncomprehending.

"If you'd like to check for yourself," she says, and her voice is too quiet, but she can't help it. Something is happening, something heavy and broken, and she can't ignore the pressure of the future in this moment.

Fett takes the saber. He looks at it in his hands, and she thinks he is shaking.

"Your people need you, Mand'alor," Kenobi says, and there is no room for question. "They also need the Duchess."

"Why you?" Fett asks, voice strained and shattered in a way Satine can't even begin to pick apart.

"It was either me or Tarre, really," Kenobi says, with an idle shrug unfitting of the situation. "And I'm a little more... accessible, shall we say, to those who aren't sensitive to the Force."

Kenobi steps forward and rests an immaterial hand on Fett's shoulder.

"I already failed my people once," Fett says, barely audible.

"And now you shall save them," Kenobi says. His voice is firm. It is as if there is no question, to him, about whether or not Fett will succeed. "You won't be alone, either."

Satine shifts her weight, refusing to meet Kenobi's eyes. Her hands fist in her dress, and her mind races.

"What do you need of me?" Fett manages.

"...Mand'alor?"

"What do you need of me, Master Kenobi?"

Satine looks up.

Fett... Fett removes his helmet, and looks at Kenobi with an expression that is more desperation than deference.

"To cooperate with those who would follow a different creed," Kenobi says, so low it's practically a murmur. His hand, still intangible, reaches out to cup Fett's jaw. Fett leans into it. "To protect those who cannot do so for themselves. Our people are warriors, Mand'alor, but to refuse violence for violence's sake, after the wars that have killed our home and rendered it little more than glass, that is its own bravery."

"Master--"

"Listen to me," Kenobi says, and Fett falls silent. "You will need to protect them. The Duchess may have the funds and the support to bring forth education, agriculture, childcare, and so on, but there are many who would take advantage of that peace. She provides the home for tradespeople, but you are the shield that keeps them safe."

It could be a balance, Satine tries to tell herself. Maybe.

Kenobi seems so certain of it, and Satine may hate violence, but she is far from unaware of the pirates and warlords that nip at their borders.

"The foundlings need homes," Kenobi continues. "The stories need to be told. The culture is fading, Mand'alor. Bring it back."

His eyes flick to Satine, and she looks away.

(Her pressure was only ever on violence. Her advisors had pressed at the erasure of the rest, but if it meant children grew up without the worry of their parents dying in pointless battle, then wasn't it worth bending?)

(Couldn't she look the other way as they tightened restrictions on even symbolic vambraces, if it meant few too-small bodies in the streets?)

(Her planet was a wasteland. What did culture mean in the face of so many dead?)

(She knows Fett doesn't see it that way, but she is the only governing New Mandalorian with any blood on their hands. She knows the weight of violence, of lives taken by her actions.)

(She knows it, and she rejects it knowingly.)

Fett breathes harshly, and Satine closes her eyes.

"I agree to try," she says. "If we can get out of these ruins and back to our people... I will try. I cannot speak for my people on this, but to instate the old Mandalorians as a planetary guard... it may be doable."

"Little steps, my dear," Kenobi says. He looks down at Fett, who's... not well, it seems. "The Mand'alor needs some help, I think. I'm no trained mind healer, but I imagine I can help. More than most, maybe. There are few who know what it is to be a sole survivor."

He smirks, just a little, at the joke that he is not, in fact, a man who survived.

It's not very funny.

"I'll stay," Fett says. "I'll... I'll learn. Master Kenobi, you... Tell me to stay and I will be here for as long as you’ll have me."

"As a student?" Kenobi asks, catching on to just the same thing as Satine has. "Not in the Force, surely, but... you truly wish to stay?"

"There are none left alive that I would trust to show me the way," Fett says. Beseeching, he reaches for Kenobi, and his hands pass through. There's a pain in him that Satine can't quite comprehend, and Fett falls to his knees. "Please."

"You need only ask," Kenobi says. "The Duchess will look after our people until the King takes his throne, and then you will rule together."

They'll have to, Satine tells herself, and steps forward. She puts a hand on Fett's shoulder, and pulls him to his feet.

"Where do we begin?" she asks.

#satine kryze #obi wan kenobi #jango fett #ghosts #massacre mention #is this vaguely inspired by GLaDOS and Castle Heterodyne? ...yes #but less murdery overall #star wars #the clone wars #Phoenix Answers Memes #supernatural au #kinda #one shot #death mention #child death mention #horror au #also kinda

[of-forossa]

"It's a tired cliché that you seem to see the beauty and virtue in everyone else but yourself. Modesty is certainly a wonderful practice, but to deny yourself the honor you deserve and downplay the weight of your achievements by the minute, fleeting primal thoughts that pervade your mind. You're a good man Brom, good enough that you do yourself a disservice by falling into this train of thought."

@bcwblade // chance encounters on a journey without rest.

For a painfully long moment, Brom simply looks at him. He regards him not with the scornful eye of the common Yharnamite who can't look beyond the filthy rags to witness a man of great skill and greater perception. Nor is his gaze reminiscent of the clinical coldness their superiors in the Church carry that accept nothing short of satisfactory results and care for nothing but the effectiveness of their tools. It's the look of a fellow struggler in a place where there is nothing left but to struggle; the look of a man haunted by what he has done to survive and harrowed by the knowledge that he will no doubt do it again, as many times as it takes.

He breaks the silence with a humorless chuckle, not so much leaning back against the unyielding stone of the alleyway as sagging against it. Perhaps the darkness of the Yharnam evening is keen on playing tricks, but his face seems far more wearied and weathered than the mere thirty-and-four winters to his name-- lines of sorrow carve trenches into his expression, the bags beneath his smoldering gaze telling all too plainly of how often sleep eludes him, and the rasp of his voice seems more the growl of a dog than that of a proper man's.

"Cliché. I like that. It makes it sound so... so inane, doesn't it?" He doesn't wait for an answer, allowing his knees to give way and sliding down the wall until he's seated onto the filthy cobblestones. The pure white of his cloak, of the noble holy veil of their blessed Healing Church, is immediately tarnished by the grime and debris. He seems grimly pleased at the sight before it slips from his face. "You call it modesty, that I say I am disgusting for the urges that echo within my blood. You would name me honorable despite the gallons of red proof that rises up to drown me saying otherwise. Good... you would call me good..."

Brom's shoulders shake, though whether from some macabre mirth or choking sorrow isn't clear from how his head hangs. A broken noise manages to slip past his lips, his ever more beastly maw.

"Years, Simon. For years I glutted myself on the blood. Drank and drank and drank, reveling in the strength and power coursing through my veins as I crushed the bones and mutilated the corpses of the beasts. I held nothing but contempt for the men and women that could not resist the call of Oedon, and delighted in their screams as I cut them down and burned their remnants to ashes." There is an audible creaking of bone, then, followed by a low groan. Brom seizes his jaw in a vice grip, straining against... something. "I did nothing for them. Nothing. While my fellow Holy Blades risked their lives night after night for the betterment of our city and people, I fought only to prove I was stronger than them. All of them, be they beast or man or anything in-between. I discarded all manner of oaths and supposed honor, justifying every atrocity and every horror I committed as the will of the gods ordained by our unshakable faith... as proof of my righteousness."

His scarred hands flex and clench, crooked claws digging into his knees after fleeing from his twisting visage. An audible creaking follows, then a slow and wet crack of bone accompanied by a splash of pouring blood from his expression into his lap. His loosened mane obscures it all, save for the low noise of pain tumbling from his throat, before he shifts to peer up into his eyes and the veil is lifted in full.

"Simon," Brom slurs from a fractured face. His lower jaw has split, separating into a pair of hideous mandibles lined with rows of monstrous teeth, and his tongue slithers out to lap up his own spilt blood. "This is my penance. To bury the truly noble in shallow graves and tremble at the thought of burning them as I did so many fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, husbands and wives. To wake every morning and see the proof of my hypocrisy twisting my very flesh in like turn, as so many others have suffered before me." He rises to his feet as unsteadily as any drunkard might, clinging to the wall behind him with a hiss of pain and a hoarse cough, before reaching out to him with a malformed hand....

It settles heavily upon his slighter shoulder, firmly but not forcefully, followed by the press of Brom's forehead against his own.

"Do you still believe otherwise, Simon?" He lingers a moment longer before releasing him, pulling away to regard him. For all the hideousness of his expression, the gratitude in his eyes is unmistakable. "Thank you, though. For keeping faith when I cannot."

#bcwblade #verse; holy blade ( bb. ) #tw;; body horror #// brom: gods my brother if only you knew... #// just come into my inbox and putting me on full blast... god bless my heart #// simon confirmed good lad. blessed.

[metanoiamorii]

❛Peace through Power; Faith through Fire.❜

♧ Title: War of Wrath [WoW]

♧ Status: Brainstorming and Drafting

♧ Point of View: Third Person

♧ Genre: Fantasy, Action, Drama, Epic

♧ Warnings: Violence, War, Death, Nudity, Racism, Past Abuse, Generational Healing, Generational Trauma, Vengeance, Genocide, Colonialism, ethics vs morals, history erasure, history repeats itself, humans are the bad guys really.

♧ Featuring: Dragons, Dragons in themselves deserve recognition; found family, diverse LGBTQ+ characters, complex and complicated characters, fantasy religions, plenty of symbolism, complex world building, ethics vs morals, a whole lot of moral grey can be fit into this bad boy, there is some enemies to friends to lovers going on, and some enemies to friends to family too.

♧ Setting: there will be encompass of territories and areas explored. Few inspirations are Mongolia, The Incan Empire, Viking Scandinavia, Ancient Greece.

♧ Synopsis:

In Gri'lian, the gods have vanished and the mortals overstep their boundaries.

Long have been the years of war between human and dragekind. Humans kill the dragons for territory and control; the drage kill the humans in self defense. As time goes on, history proves the humans will not stop. They revel in the war they have instigated, they thrive on the power and authority they have taken by force.

It has been proven the gods have abandoned their creation, they are nowhere to be found. If they will not stop the humans... who will? Who will place the world back into natural balance?

What happens when a single dragon decides enough is enough? He makes the call, if the gods will not intervene, new gods need to be bore. He alone begins a collection of misfits, the most qualified to end the terror of humans and reinstate the drages; those he can trust to bring a new era.

They make their peace and take on their new role. They carve into their skin their sacred oath and adorn themself in the paint of their ancestors. Together, they go to war against the human. They go to war and fight like no one has before. They turn the tides of war and make a name for themself.

They have won every battle, but the war isn't won.

The only way to win the war, they come to realize in time, is not through violence, but through peace. By living in harmony with the human, not in war. They have to learn to live with the humans, to share the world and their lives with one another.

♧ Tease:

Faith through fire, peace through power; our souls bear written this vernacular. Our intentions we laid bare, yet all still cower in fear. To absent gods you make your prayers.... when we answer, you acclaim we give scare? If the help you wish to shun, why should we give chance upon chance to you anymore?

We fight for family, for it is our duty and sacred honor; with blood and fire, we will show you the price of war.

A battle you wished for, know a war you shall now pay for. The natural order we shall restore. Know, although bound to be ignore, our actions are only sincere. This war, by your hand, was it made so severe... For pride, a glut of greed, you were made a whore. Nay, your life we will not spare.

Why?

Why of your lives will we not spare?

Perhaps reminder is require.

The waters have turned red, from the blood we have bled. Of you, we pled, yet our mothers and fathers and our brothers and our sisters you behead. Of daughters and sons you have killed.

Your acts you dare to justify, lacking a shred of dignity?!

You have denied us as your friend, with caution you should have tread... for now? You are dead.

A warning:

They say, the red sun marks death, signal bloodshed beneath the light of its brothers and sisters in the passing darkness... know, for you it is coming.

♧ Excerpt:

"... Father." With only respect, Svihar greeted.

Violkoa shifted his hold onto his fan, blowing a light gust with it. "Svihar." He greets back, in a tone less than kind. "You are a rare one to come, what is it?"

It was no lie. He paid more respect to Kallai, sharing in her beliefs. But still... Here he was, kneeling before his father. "I seek your blessings, Father."

That scowl so neatly woven upon Violkoa's features nearly lightened. Bemused. He cocked an eyebrow and closed his fan. "What do you seek blessings for?"

"An honour battle." Svihar drew his head forward, daring his eyes from the floor to meet Violkoa's.

Now that scowl faltered, the rare smirk pulled onto that stoic and weathered face. "An honour battle?" Violkoa's repeated. "With whom?"

"Whomever I desire." It is a bite, with fangs drawn. Realizing his mistake, Svihar lowers his head and draws in a breath through his nose. "All that have broken their oaths to you, those that cannot adhere to order, the ones who know no law..."

Violkoa unfurled his fan. He shifts the arm he holds around himself and stands, fanning himself.

Silence.

Svihar keeps his head low, awaiting a response. He knows better than to raise his head and tempt a response. He waits. He waits.

He waits until the fan snaps shut in harshness, a gust of wind sent through the chambers. The fan disappears into Violkoa's sleeve as his arm raises, he plucks the center spine from the bun he wears and strides forward. He does not drop to his knees, but he lowers himself so he may spin his son's hair into a similar bun and tuck the spine into it.

To his feet, Violkoa rises. He turns upon his heels, his quilled tail dragging behind him as he disappears back into the temple. He gives a simple command, as Svihar rises to his feet, only when Violkoa no longer is in sight: "Go to war, My Son."

♧ Characters:

— The Lovers

Kaithrine Eve Flora; The First Dragonlord

Female • She/Her • Human • Pansexual • Demiromantic

The young woman that rules Virta'Niliq. Ruler from a young age, Kaithrine has matured faster than she should have. She understands the way of the world more than the adults around her do. As she ages, she meets her future husband, and she becomes the heroine of a story as old as time when she joins forces with the league of dragons that plague the humans. She leads by example and creates history as its known.

Eoin'fynil Sirenheart; The Blood Taint

Amab • Agender • He/They • Water Dragon • Pansexual • Demiromantic

A man with a legacy to uphold: his grandmother is the refined ruler of a sea with a ruthless reputation, his father is an enigma with a merciless reputation.... Eoin'fynil is a nomad, trying to put a distance with his family to raise his son. He puts distance with his family, but he can't outrun a young girl with high ambitions, and his role in history.

— The Order

Svihar Hopebringer; The Father of the Order

Intersex • Genderqueer • He/They • Rainbow Dragon • Asexual • Aromantic

The drage who has brought on a revolution. Although he carries a ruthless reputation to his name, demonized by the humans, he's a very compassionate man. He cares immensely and expresses deeply. He's faithful till the end to his kindred and protective of the family he has created.

Ryltar Flametongue; The Cinder King

Transmasc • Agender • He/They • Fire Dragon • Grey-Asexual • Demi-Homoromantic

The one Svihar trusts the must, and the drage all know stand as his favorite child. He's a drage without compassion that will raze everything before his eyes to ashes, if it means winning the war. He is one the humans fear, as they know he has no mercy to give to them for their crimes.

Dyiare Seawraith; The Wraith of the Sea

Transfem • She/Her • Water Drage • Grey-Asexual • Demi-Homoromantic

The grandmother of Eoin'fynil, known as one of the Sages of the Sea. She's a woman that doesn't smile, her mind fixed only on her responsibilities. She's serious and stern, she has no room to relax and laugh.

Syvtnr Venomtongue; The Enchantress of Reckoning

Afab • Nonbinary • She/They • Nature Dragon • Polyamorous Pansexual • Aromatic

A drage known to masquerade as a human. Famed for her beauty, she is a seductress who uses that weapon to bring humans to their knees. Apathetic, she does not regret using her tacts of manipulation to secure victory for her kindred. And yet, it's her price to bear few see beyond her beauty, she's not seen as a individual, but often only as a tool.

Ayros Golden-Father; The Heart of the Order

Amab • Agender • He/They • Light Dragon • Polyamorous Pansexual • Polyamorous Demiromantic

The trusted advisor, the one Svihar will most frequently turn to when he needs the truth, or advice. A quiet man, Ayros will keep to himself and not offer his unsolicited advice. He will most frequently stand back and observe; he will make himself known, his authority acknowledged, when necessary.

My'fel Frigidbane; The White Shadow

Amab • Demiboy • He/They • Snow Dragon • Bisexual • Aromantic

Simple-minded compared to the rest, My'fel is a drage with a one-track mind. He cares for his basic needs: food, sleep, reproduction, and the art of hunting. He's ill-tempered and reclusive, he doesn't care for companionship, and nothing seems to be able to make him change his ways.

Nyhmar Bronze-Heart; The Righteousheart

Afab • Nonbinary • They/Them • Earth Dragon • Demisexual • Demiromantic

Viewed as Benevolent, Nyhmar is anything as. Perhaps the most bloodthirsty of their family, they have earned a reputation for being amicable and approachable. History forgets how they reigned as a warlord before they joined Svihar, and they demand the blood of all humans, deeming no one innocent of their ancestors' crimes.

Rauor Savage-Heart; The Heartless Beast

Amab • Agender • They/He • Fang Dragon • Pansexual • Aromantic

The youngest of the family and it shows. He follows closely in the footsteps of his more heartless siblings, particularly My'fel. Known for his sadistic streak and apathetic nature, Rauor is an individual that never quite learned that you don't play with your food.

Za-Ylviar Nightstalker; The Eternal Nightmare

Afab • Agender • They/Them • Energy Dragon • Asexual • Aromantic

The most revered of their family by the humans. They favor the terror Rauor instills, the flavor of death Ryltar enjoys, and the dread Zivaryz embodies. They are brutal, erratic, dangerous. No one believes they are capable of compassion and thread with caution when their name is evoked.

Clyte Starforger; He Who Lights The Way

Male • He/Him • Star Dragon • Asexual • Aromantic

Compared to his siblings, Clyte is harmless. He's not violent, nor does he care for blood. He enjoys mischief, causing problems and reveling in watching others trip over their own feet. He's a trickster, to put it plain.

Zivaryz Endbringer; He Who Will Destroy The World

Intersex • Agender • They/He • Bone Dragon • Asexual • Aromantic

Viewed as an object, a weapon, Zivaryz is not viewed as a living and breathing individual. Although a dragon, both human and dragekind will vy to possess the weapon that is Zivaryz. Known to destory everything they touch, they will wither and drain the life of all things they can. A valuable weapon to have in a war.

L'ymra Spiritwalker; They Who Know All

Afab • Genderfluid • They/She/He • Spirit Dragon • Asexual • Aromantic

Perhaps the most soft of their family, L'myra is not a fighter, they do not care for blood and war. They desire peace, harmony. They wish to see the land heal, and the mistakes and crimes of the past be acknowledged. There is a long way to recovery, but they are adamant it will happen one day.

Blym Serenescales; The Guardian Beneath the Skies

Intersex • Genderqueer • They/Them • Air Dragon • Demisexual • Demiromantic

The most akin to their father, Blym puts family and responsibilities before all else. They hold the goals Svihar has set out for them. They aspire to be honorable and never be swayed, no matter the trouble they face for keeping a positive outlook on life.

♧ Taglists:

WOW: @lend-your-lungs-to-me, @wannabeauthorzofija, @northernrosewritings, @shadeshadow234, @necros-writings, @rhikasa

GENERAL: @endlesshourglass, @writerray, @poore-choice-of-words, @primusesgiantmetalballbearings

BOTH: @notugalan, @cecilsstorycorner, @little-boats-on-a-lake, @hazard-writes, @aligned-stars-writing

#Wip intro #Wip introduction #Dragons #My writing #fantasy writer #Fantasy #Wip: WoW #Wip: War of Wrath #Have some found family #Have some dragons #Have some everything #This is a giant wip let me tell you #I can't begin to tell you if I start it with Svihar founding the Order; or if I start where Kaithrine becomes relevant #All we know is it's a big excuse to write so many dragons #Because we love dragons #Who doesn't love dragons? #Fucking weirdos #That's who. #in the midst of chaos there is queue #Morri's collection

[illyrianbitch]

Beneath the Ashes of Our Broken Oaths

Pairing: Morrigan's Sister!Reader x Azriel

Summary: After abandoning the refuge of Velaris, you, Morrigan’s twin sister, returned to the forsaken Hewn City fueled by a vision for a better future. Now, your estranged family seeks your help when rumors of rebellion spread at a time of utmost inconvenience. Torn between your anger and a desire to protect the good, you begrudgingly agree and are forced to face memories of a past life and the unsettling presence of Azriel– the first man you ever loved.

Warnings: ANGST, Helion being compassionate and its sexy, Inner Circle slander (sorry feyre baby), Y/N is kind of a bitch (but its warranted and a slay), family trauma.

Word Count: 2.9k

Part Two

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

It was Helion, the High Lord of Day, who had seen the flicker of hope in your eyes. A man of discerning wisdom, he recognized your yearnings of a better world. He knew you, he knew your heart, and he trusted your vision— with the promise of your support shall he need it. You knew that your support, in the grand scheme of things, meant nothing to Helion. He had always held a heart of gold, of understanding, and he would have helped you without anything in return. But you had insisted, declared that you needed to give him something to thank him. Your support, he had agreed on. It was all you had left, anyway. 

Now, you stood before him, pleading. Your chest was tight and a calm panic filled your veins. You needed to act. You needed to keep things in place.

"Helion, please," your voice, normally composed, now carried a tremor, a plea that hung in the air, reeking of desperation. Low light poured through stained glass windows as the sun slowly set, painting a kaleidoscope of muted colors on the marble floors.

His eyes, usually filled with warmth, held a regretful sympathy. 

"Y/N, I wish I could," He replied, his voice caressing the air,  "But with the current state of affairs and your father’s growing paranoia, it's too risky. I can't jeopardize my people. My help is needed elsewhere."

Approaching you, he extended a large hand, gently cupping your chin, his touch reassuring and pained. "Give me some time, sweetheart."

Desperation deepened in your eyes, and the intensity of your plea swelled. Aching with fear and worry, your gaze remained locked on his. "I don’t have time. Hewn City corrupts swiftly. You know this.”

Helion sighed, a sound filled with a blend of both compassion and helplessness. "Perhaps you should reach out to Rhysand. His influence might help, now more than ever."

Yor felt a bitterness surface, like bile rising through your throat. A soft scoff left your mouth as you roughly pulled Helion’s hand away from your chin, withdrawing from his touch in offense. "Rhys had a chance to help. He didn’t. He couldn’t care less. I won’t go crawling to him."

Helion's gaze softened, a tender response to your rough tone. He let out a sigh and pulled you close to him once more. His touch sent a wave of comfort through you, something that happened often when you visited him to discuss these things. Helion was a man who loved physical connection— you didn’t mind it. It made you feel seen, understood. Now, you craved that feeling more than ever.

 "I don’t understand this contempt you hold. Surely they will want to help you. They miss you."

You rolled your eyes at this. Of course Helion would think so. As much as you trusted him and his admiration for you, he always did love your family. Your sister and your cousin would always be in your life, tied to you in one way or another. Frustration tinged your voice. 

"It's too late. Going to Rhysand now would draw unwanted attention or, worse, he’d halt my efforts because of some perceived danger."

There was a moment of silence, and your eyes bounced around the room, searching for somewhere to land that wasn’t Helion's burning gaze. Once more, he moved a hand to gently cradle your face.

"You cannot foresee every outcome. You're not a mind reader, Y/N."

A bitter laugh escaped you, and you looked up at him through your lashes. "I might as well be when it comes to family."

 "You've accomplished so much. Allow yourself a reprieve. You can't bear the weight of the innocents lives in Hewn City alone."

You blinked away the tears that welled in your eyes as you admitted, "I can't afford to stop. If I do, they'll think I've given up." 

"No," Helion asserted, his voice unwavering. "Your dedication is commendable, but you need to care for yourself. Let me help you."

You bit the inside of your cheek as you stared at him, his brows furrowed slightly and a sad smile on his face. He moved his hand once more, gently tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear. Then, he ran a finger along it, a soft caress carried by a weight of understanding. You shuddered at the lightness of his touch. 

 "Stay, Y/N,” He suggested, his voice smooth and low, “Let me be a distraction. You take care of others; let someone take care of you."

You leaned slightly into his caress, feeling the warmth radiating from his hand. A fleeting sense of comfort teased at the edges of your weary soul. Yet, reality swiftly reasserted its grasp, and you gently withdrew, a soft sigh escaping your lips.

"I appreciate the offer," you murmured, your voice tinged with regret. Your hand delicately intercepted his, guiding it away from your cheek. "But I can't afford the luxury of distraction right now."

He acknowledged your decision with a small nod. 

“I wish I could do more for you."

A tender smile found its way to your lips and you held his gaze for a fleeting moment of gratitude.

“I know.” You replied before you winnowed away, leaving the luminous embrace of the Day Court behind.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You were on edge. You had been for the last few weeks. Now, after failing to convince Helion, you could feel it catching up to you, a dark hole forming in the pit of your stomach. It felt like you were being swallowed alive, eaten by your own anxieties and fear. But you didn’t have time for this. You couldn’t risk falling apart, becoming vulnerable. No, not at a time like this.

You had mastered the art of drowning your thoughts, of discarding the weight that threatened to pull you under. Tonight would be no different. The impending storm would be weathered, as it always had been. You would begin to drink your worries away, give them time to manifest, and then shove them away into the crawlspace of your mind, free to collect dust and rot away.

You moved toward a small table where a simple platter of dark amber liquid awaited. Your fingers tightened around a small crystal glass as you poured. As the first sip touched your lips, you felt the familiar burn, a welcomed distraction. The amber liquid offered solace, if only for a fleeting moment.

And then, you stilled. The creak of the floorboards behind you announced their presence, and you felt it—a pricking at the base of your neck, the subtle disturbance of the air as someone entered, no, appeared. Your body tensed instinctively, shoulders rigid, as you ceased your movements. You took a moment to compose yourself, closing your eyes and inhaling deeply-- a futile attempt to ground yourself.

You downed the drink, the warmth spreading through your veins, and set your glass down, a definitive thud echoing in the silence as it met the table. You turned around slowly, the ever-present undercurrent of anxiety beneath your skin momentarily masked by a face of composure. The simple décor of your home surrounded you—the tattered tapestries, broken furniture—all a testament to a life you had built in the aftermath of your return. One that lacked the color that you once held.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Your voice, laced with both mockery and a hint of something darker, hung in the air.

In front of you, Rhysand stood tall and proud, a figure of authority. His eyes, once familiar and comforting, now held a look determination. His gaze held yours strongly, and for a swift moment, you saw them soften. But the tenderness quickly dissipated, his eyes narrowing with a slight tilt of his head. You ran your eyes along his face, then down his form, taking in the detailed and intricate patterns of his clothing— an embodiment of Night Court royalty. Then, you looked at him again, your jaw clenching. It had been a while since you looked into his eyes, a violet color deeply embedded into your mind. For a moment, his presence consumed your thoughts, distracting you from the other man that you felt in your home.

From the corner of your eyes, you could see the dark figure stepping out from the corners of your room. A darkness licked at your skin.

"Hello, Azriel," you acknowledged him, your eyes remaining fixed on Rhysand.

Azriel's presence was a dark whisper. The edges of your room seemed to blur with shadows as he stood there, a silent observer.

"I’ve come to request your help," Rhysand's voice cut through the stillness, his words carrying the weight of urgency.

Your response was swift, dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, that's rich."

The corners of the room seemed to darken further as Rhysand's frustration manifested in the clenching of his jaw. The subtle play of shadows accentuated the lines on his face, revealing the strain of a desperate plea.

"Please hear me out."

You shook your head. They shouldn’t be here. This was risky, dangerous. You needed them to leave. They needed to disappear, to let you go and never find you again. That was the only way you would be able to survive.

But every fiber in your being was screaming to do the opposite, to embrace your cousin and explain to him, tell him everything. You wanted to get on your knees and beg for the kindness he always showed you, to ask him about your sister. For him to tell you about his life, his love, his child. But you couldn’t. And from inside you, your heart tugged you to Azriel, his stoic form. You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to catch his gaze. It was all so wrong. This disconnect, this anger you felt for them, for your situation, for yourself… it was eating you up. But this wasn't the time. So you pulled your thoughts together and focused on the one thing that had never let you down: your fire.

You reminded yourself of the resentment you held, deep down. Reminded yourself of how they had failed you, separated themselves from you, your vision, and the suffering of the good people here, in Hewn City— your city. Rhysand's city.

Ignoring his original words, you looked at Rhysand with the hint of a wicked grin on your face.

"Where’s your child bride? I heard she’s reading at the same level as your babe. You must be overjoyed."

Rhysand's expression tightened, anger simmering beneath the surface. The mention of his mate touched a clear nerve, and for a brief moment, you reveled in the discomfort you had caused. It was a twisted satisfaction, a way to regain some sliver of control in this unexpected encounter.

His temper flared, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability replaced by a presence of anger that you knew all too well. He bit down on his frustration, attempting to maintain a semblance of composure. But you pressed on.

“I’m only kidding, take a joke, Rhysand. 500 years and you still have the emotional regulation of a teenager. Nice to see some things don’t change."

Rhysand's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and confusion, observing you and your wall of icy nonchalance. His name sounded foreign on your lips, spoken with such malice and distaste. Even the last time he had seen you, during a bloody war against Hybern, you had not been so venomous. This was a fact you both thought of as you stood here, now, in front of one another again. You moved gracefully through the room, ignoring their presence, and opened a small box that sat on your table. The delicate aroma of sugar wafted through the air. You took a seat.

Azriel and Rhysand exchanged glances. Your fingers idly played with the box, an ornate creation that held delicate, candied treats. With an almost casual indifference, you brought one of the sweet confections to your mouth, savoring the taste as if the weight of their presence meant nothing to you. You could feel the tension building in the atmosphere, heightened by their growing sense of agitation and frustration. It radiated off of them like heat. You welcomed it with open arms, like a freezing child in the cold.

"These are the loveliest desserts,” You explained, bringing the candy close to your face with an examining eye, “Hard to come across here. But I know a guy.”

“Want one?" you offered, dropping your candy back into the box and extending it toward Azriel, whose stoic expression remained unchanged.

"What? Doggy can’t take a treat?" You taunted with a measured smile. You didn’t miss the slight flare of his nostrils, or the way his shadows began to snake up his arms, angry and riled up.

A tense silence lingered as Azriel remained perfectly unmoving, his eyes holding a depth of attentiveness that made you uncomfortable. But the discomfort within you sought distraction, and you continued with your mockery. You waved your hands in the air as a dismissal.

"Bah, you guys are no fun."

The room felt charged as you baited them, your attempts to deflect the gravity of their visit becoming slowly evident in every casual gesture.

Rhysand's frustration reached a boiling point, and he took a step forward, shifting the conversation.

"We didn't come here for sweets and jests. We came for you."

You chuckled, a sound that held a bitter edge. "Me? You must be desperate, Rhysand."

A flicker of hurt crossed his eyes, swiftly replaced by a steely resolve. "There are rumors of rebellion here,” He took a pause, glancing around the room as if he was contemplating continuing. He spoke again, “But, I'm dealing with a larger threat that has me on the defense. I cannot afford an uprising."

Your laughter cut through the air like a blade. "Is the idea of civil unrest among your people an inconvenience? My, what an issue, must be terrible."

Rhysand's patience waned, his features hardening. "Stop this, Y/N. We need your help to prevent a disaster."

You leaned back against your furniture, your eyes narrowing as you regarded him with a chilling indifference. "I've heard nothing about any unrest. You've wasted a trip."

Rhysand's gaze bore into yours, an unspoken challenge. "Azriel has been in Hewn City, gathering information. He's heard the rumors. I know you're lying."

In that moment, a silent battle waged within you. The desire to help, to make a difference, warred against the fear of exposing yourself to the dangers lurking beyond your sanctuary. The memories of the past, the reasons you returned, echoed in your mind. You wanted to help, but you knew their presence could unravel the delicate life you had crafted.

Rhysand's voice softened, a genuine plea beneath the layers of frustration. "Y/N, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious. Why do you refuse to acknowledge that?"

Then, his eyes softened, sensing a crack in your facade. Inner turmoil clouded your eyes as you locked gazes with him. The conflict within you played out in the subtle tremor of your fingers, a telltale sign of something bubbling beneath your icy exterior. But as quickly as it manifested, you shut it down, fast enough to resolve Rhys of his attentive eyes. He swallowed and fixed his composure.

"Azriel has gained information that it's not just a rise against me. There are whispers of a rebellion against Keir himself. I need you to listen for information from your father."

Your father. A wave of nausea rippled throughout your body and you clenched your jaw in response. The title sounded strange coming from Rhysand, a stark reminder of your place here, of your place in his family. No, no. You thought. I will not let them see me falter.

Rhysand continued, "Azriel has gathered intelligence, but we need someone on the inside. We need you."

A cynical smile now played on your lips as you taunted them, "Maybe it's time for a change. The mighty High Lord struggling to keep control – how novel."

Azriel, who had maintained a cold silence until now, spoke up for the first time, taking a heavy step forward towards where you sat.

"We both know you do not mean that."

You turned your gaze to him, eyes dark. "And what do you know about what I mean, Azriel? You don't know anything about me."

Rhysand put a hand out in front of Azriel’s form, biting back his retort. The room hung heavy as you finally declared, "You've overstayed your welcome. It's time for you to leave."

Rhysand's eyes met yours with a determined glint.

"I will be back. Family does not give up."

His words pulled out a surge of anger bubbling within you. Family? Without a second thought, you stood up, your chair scraping against the floor. "Family, huh?" Your voice dripped with bitterness, and you moved toward him, anger etched on your face.

But before you could reach him, Rhysand winnowed away with a controlled fury, leaving Azriel lingering.

Azriel stood still, his eyes slightly narrowed, his brows furrowed at you. You met his gaze and felt a wave of guilt through your body, filling the hole where your fury once was a second before. If you didn’t know any better, it seemed as if Azriel was….. Disappointed? Hurt? But you stabilized yourself, pushing the observation away. Your anger, raw and unfiltered, had an intensity that took even him by surprise. He held your gaze. Then, like a wisp of darkness, he too disappeared, leaving you alone with the remnants of unresolved tension and the taste of bittersweet candied treats lingering in the air.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

a/n: hello hello!! welcome to my lil new fic!! im new here and i have no idea what im doing but i hope at least one person enjoys what has become my creative fictional baby. when i tell you this story has a place in my HEART....y/n here is multilayered and complex and flawed but that is why i love her!! serving cunt 24/7!!!

tumblr scares me so any feedback is so very loved and any advice is great too!! mwuah

#azriel #azriel fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel acotar #azriel spymaster #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #azriel x y/n #azriel/reader #acotarfandom #acotar #acotar writing #reader insert #acotar reader fic #a court of thorns and roses #helion acotar #high lord helion #rhysand #morrigan #hewn city #night court #court of nightmares #this is terrifying #im so sorry feyre baby its for the plot #pls validate my new writer heart #beneath the ashes of our broken oaths #baobo #about baobo

[vosh-rakh]

the scathing bay

Malacath stands at the almost perfectly circular coast of the crater, and the sea struggles not to become steam. The air smells of sulfur and char, choked with fire and ash from the mountain, shaken to violence. It has been thousands of years since he has been here, but no amount of time could lessen the shock of the change. He stands near the only landmark he can decipher, a twisted, molten mockery of a dragon, once decor to Castle Ebonheart. All the rest of the Ascadian Isles are either obscured by ash and steam, or they are gone. 

As always, many fall, but one remains. She is on her knees by Malacath’s feet, and the blackened stone beneath is covered in discarded faces. She peels each one away, tearing at her features with thirty fingers, trying to remember from behind all the masks how to cry. 

Malacath says nothing for a while, and does Mephala the courtesy of not looking at her. But finally he asks, “What happened?”

Mephala has given up, and every one of her muscles, usually so tightly-strung, hang limp from her bones as she stares blankly at the wreckage. Her lips cannot form the words sharply enough. “The fools. Ruined the machine. Vile admits no fault. I believe him. For once.” Mephala’s loose form slumps over, leaning against Malacath’s legs. “It is always the children who fail. Shortsighted. Stupid.”

Malacath sighs. He places his hand softly on Mephala’s head, the seams red and tender from the tearing. “I know,” he says.

Mephala’s claws suddenly grasp at the flesh of Malacath’s hip, pulling herself up. “I tried! I tried to fix this!” Her crimson eyes stretch themselves so wide, almost to bleeding. “I saw this coming and I should have been able to…” Her nails dig into Malacath. “Blast that damned s’wit! Playing at our games! ‘Hang over their heads’ ... ze understood nothing, nothing at all!”

Malacath tries to scrape the black hands off his skin, but they latch on again, desperate. He manages to wrest his leg free and steps back.  “Have you never lost before, Mephala?”

“Of course I have!” Mephala jumps to her feet, her six arms splaying out like a threat display. “More than you or anyone knows! But there is always a plan bedt, a plan cess, a plan doht, through every damn mortal alphabet!” Her hands move as if independent entities, some clutching her head, one gripping her throat, the others wringing the air. “There are failsafes upon failsafes! This does not happen! I do not allow it!”

Malacath says nothing, but turns back to look at the steaming crater.

“Shut up!” Mephala screeches, and launches herself onto Malacath’s head, latching every limb around him and scratching, sending them both to the ground.

Malacath tries to detach her, and shouts to object, but fingers attack his open mouth. He bites them and rolls over onto Mephala, headbutting her into the stone to loosen her grip. The Webspinner spits and kicks but Malacath manages to wedge a hand between them, pinning her to the ground. “Stop!” he yells as Mephala scratches at his wrist. He points with his free hand towards the center of the crater. “Look.”

Mephala glances quickly in that direction, not giving up her assault just yet. But then she whips her head back in a double take. There, in the very center of the bay, shimmering in steam, was the shadow of a figure, standing on some rock that was spared obliteration. 

She screams again and pulls on Malacath’s wrist, swinging him over her head, sending him crashing into the stone behind. And then she crawls like a demon on eight limbs, her rage burning the waters so quickly underfoot that she seems to run on water. Even the steam makes way, clearing a path for her rampage, and whips up an opening around the island, a peak of ash rising from the waters.

And it is Vivec. Ze stands barefoot in the ash, hir head turned to see the Daedra Lord approach. Hir head is bald of flame, and the gold in hir skin is fading grey. If ze is afraid of Mephala in her most horrifying aspect towering over hir, ze does not betray it.

“I came because I felt it,” Vivec said unprompted, turning hir head away from the gasping Prince. “I am sure you know what that is like.” Ze rotates, surveying the rim of the crater. “It was not just a symbol of my body; it was my body. And it has been destroyed.”

“You dare to come here, after what you have done?” Mephala skitters closer to Vivec’s exposed back in a blink. “To feign innocence? Paint yourself a victim?”

“Oh. This was the High Fane,” Vivec says without answering. Ze picks up one of hir feet and examines the ash clumping between hir toes. “Ground zero, of course.”

“Do not ignore me!” Six black hands reach from behind and spin hir around to face Mephala. Tears streak down hir grave face.

“I cannot,” Vivec says, placing a hand on one of Mephala’s. “I never could. You have always been a part of me. I tried to make you a part of me, in times of weakness, so that I would know the way. But I could never admit it.”

Mephala stares at hir wet face, and at the hand on hers. And then she flips over her hand underneath and crushes hir hand within. Vivec screams and falls to hir knees, clutching hir wrist and hir shattered right hand. 

“You insolent fetcher,” Mephala screams, looking down at hir, “I made you! Did you really think yourself so clever, all this time? That all your successes were anything more than convenient outcomes for me? Inflated like a netch, this whole time.” She grabs hir broken fingers and pulls hir up by them, making hir howl louder, hir tears turned blubbering. “Ever since you and the Sotha had the ‘idea’ to use the tools anyway, despite your oath. I even let you play at this game with the rock in the sky, even after the first time it almost fell. I assumed you would one day deal with it proper.” She throws Vivec back down to the ash. “That was my mistake. Now I make it right.”

Mephala reaches out to grab Vivec by the skull, but a hand grabs her arm from behind. Vivec blinks repeatedly and then stammers, “M...Malacath?”

The Prince ignores hir. “Stop, Mephala.”

Mephala spins around to confront him. “Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I destroy hir? This is vengeance, Malacath.”

“No, it is not.” 

Malacath stares into Vivec’s eyes, which widen as ze understands. “No. Wait. Let her finish it. This is vengeance. This is right.”

“Your masks are usually so foolproof, warrior-poet. But perhaps this one is your last, because it is showing cracks.”

Mephala turns back towards Vivec. “What?”

“The heart may be gone,” Malacath says, stepping forward, “but you know Vivec is not this weak. Ze could easily put up a fight … if ze wanted to.” Mephala begins to understand.

“Shut up, shit prince! Let her - ” 

Hir voice is cut off by a black hand around hir throat. Mephala sniffs around hir. “I see...You don’t ignore your guilt. You reek of it.”

“Just kill me already! I’ll find more ways to ruin them if you don’t. I enjoy it! Every life lost today, I relish it, their pain and misery, all by my hand - ”

The hand tightens, and a smile stretches across Mephala’s face. “You used to be such a good liar, scamp. It’s so sad seeing how desperate you must be...carrying all this mortal pain. Ran out of all the justifications that make it easier on your conscience?”

“Please,” mouths Vivec, hir voice unable to escape hir throat.

“You aren’t a god. And you never really were. All you are is disappointingly...mortal.” Mephala relinquishes hir throat, dropping hir in the ash. “If you want to die so badly, do it yourself. I won’t do it for you.”

Vivec heaves on hir hands and knees. “If you’ll excuse me,” Mephala says, turning to leave, “I have to go take care of cleaning up your mess...and go help my people.” She taps Malacath on the shoulder. “You’ll come help, won’t you dear? Could use the muscle.”

Malacath looks into Mephala’s face and sees it is fresh, a mask whose eyes glisten with plots anew. He nods silently, and she begins to walk across the waters towards the mountain.

Vivec sits on hir knees, weeping quietly, clutching the wrist of hir broken hand. Malacath approaches until he is standing right above hir. But ze does seem to acknowledge his presence.

“‘The one-handed king finds no remedy,’” quotes Malacath. This causes Vivec to lift hir face, hir eyes wide and brow furrowed. “Yes,” answers the Prince, “I read your books. Waste of time.” And then he walks away to follow Mephala.

#tes #tesblr #my writing #malacath #mephala #vivec #morrowind #vvardenfell #baar dau

[flowerflamestars]

Destined and Dreamt

PART ONE  PART TWO  PART THREE  PART FOUR  PART FIVE  PART SIX  PART SEVEN

Nesta Archeron wasn’t sleeping.   Wrapped in a quilted silk robe, she paced the length of her bedroom, once, twice, before giving into the urge to throw back the curtains from her windows. It was the darkest part of the night. Thick clouds had long shrouded the stars, the only light the reflection back from the fire burning in the grate across the room.

But still, it felt a little easier to breathe.

Her life had felt like cage for a long, long time. Like any other creature of clipped wings, when Nesta slept, she dreamt of the sky.

There were so many places she hadn’t seen and longed for: the impossible high mountain gardens in the Sky kingdom, the sharp gold eyed fairies of Hesperia;, that Blooming Country, under their lavender sky. The horrible beauty over the Wall, wilder and more dangerous than the fae of the continent she worked with. Fifteen thousand year old trade routes that crossed between the sacred spaces of the Great Desert, books written by the hands of gods in the Weeping City.

The mountain peaks in her dreams, so vast their summits turned the very wind to song.

Tonight, however, it was the nightmares that kept her awake.

Some were nearly as old as she was: Feyre devoured by magic, Elain with cold metallic eyes, Nesta alone- Nesta a monster, without her sisters.

Newer, were what was haunting her now: humans turning on them. Elain in chains, Nesta made ready for a pyre, the horror Lucien would unleash trying to get to Elain before the sheer number of mortals brought him down.

It should have been a comfort- if everything went to hell, they were going to burn too.

But hell was coming for them in worse, different ways. It wouldn’t be their neighbors condemning them- if Feyre got her wish, took that gamble on all their lives, it might be the Queens to whom their tiny human world was personal property who ordered all their deaths for consorting with faeries.

Or Hybern, bringing their brutality to bleed all of Prythian dry.

In the very back of her mind, Nesta heard again, soft and fathoms deep, the voice that had responded to Elain’s charm. We’re called Illyrians, born hearing the song of the wind.

Behind her eyes, the mountains sang the icy air to shape. Not words, but feelings that bubbled up beneath her breastbone and completed a longing so desperate tears ached in Nesta’s throat.

She had nightmares, and then nightmares.

Nesta had bargained and cheated, lied and bought her freedom. She might not have been able to save her baby sister- a failure she could never, ever take back- but Nesta would be damned if she failed their vassals too. Failed Elain or Lucien, besides.

The cold wind in her mind was a wilder thing than the chill of this snowy night, she could almost feel it if she tried. Ice and power and freedom, the air twisting around her like an embrace.

There had to be a way to keep them safe.

Beauty would not distract her. It was the oldest human story, wasn’t it? The innocent maiden and the wicked faery. The lost kingdom and it’s chosen heir, a quest, a sacrifice.  Destiny. The trick at the end- the pure of heart is worthy, but faeries always lie.

This wasn’t a tale and Nesta couldn’t freefall through the very sky into the arms of her true love.

She’d find those mountains someday, climb them until Nesta touched the clouds herself. Cross the dangerous, fathomless enchantment of an ocean to follow the path of her families old compacts in blood. Her mothers homeland, the faery smith who’d bound gold on steel for the first Archeron Lord, maybe even Lucien’s lost and savage Autumn.

She would live, and she would see it all.

Nesta just had to find a safe route through a war first, and nothing- no one- was going to stop her. 

— Lucien was a liar. It was possible it was in his blood- learned over the cradle, crooned by his mother the deceptions that would keep him safe.   He’d let himself believe the lie he could survive Beron intact in youthful fury. Shed his colors and lied through centuries of brittle, false Spring Court charm. He would lie now- lie and burn and bleed if it meant he could protect the Acheron sisters from what was coming.   Sleep had never arrived.

When Elain finally gave into the overwhelming exhaustion of magic and conflict a few hours before dawn, he’s stayed still. Felt the soft sigh against his shoulder as her eyes tipped shut, halfway through the litany of what he knew of the Day Court, the exchange for a cheekily retold explanation of the ties between the Archerons and the north’s fell High Lord.   “We’re not his subjects,” Elain had all but growled, face pressed to his arm. That several hours into that tangled space between them, curled together on her floor, she’d cajoled him out of his coat and most of the asinine human layers Lucien wore these days, was not something Lucien would let himself dwell on.   How infinitely pale she was in comparison, the smooth curve of a freckled cheek pillowed on his bicep.   “The original oath ensures it,” Elain went on, “Prythian’s courts don’t allow humans to belong to them in legal truth, but for us it’s a protection. Not under Rhysand’s rule, but we can enter the protected city- carry things from it on our ships to countries who don’t know it exists.”   Adamant to his gold, but that wasn’t right either- aspen, ash to his birch bark maple, the trees that cut paths through Autumns heart.   “Velaris,” Lucien crooned back at her glee, the syllables smoke in his throat.   “The City of Starlight,” Elain’s laugh had no sound, the amusement a twist in her voice as it swept over his bare skin.   In an urge he’d been turning over and ignoring for the better part of an hour, Lucien risked reaching out to brush the curls from her face where they’d fallen into bright, half-lidded eyes.   “Wherever a High Lord is,” Lucien found himself saying, as the silence stretched a beat too long, as he looked into those dark, dark eyes, “is their court. Rhysand has more power than any of them- wherever he is, Night lives.”   His hand was still in her hair when sleep took Elain.   The trust of it- asleep against him, like Lucien wasn’t High Fae, magical and monstrous as they came- froze him in place.   It was a longer while than he’d ever admit before he carried Elain the scant step to her bed, left her wrapped in warm down- the temptation to stay so huge- and insane- that Lucien started walking and hadn’t stopped until he was here; deep in the snowy woods.   Dawn was only now cresting through the clouds, the light silvered pink and slow to reach him.   It was too damned much.   His mother- not just alive, or miraculously unhurt as he only hoped and dreamt of- but apparently seizing her own fate with a surety Lucien hadn’t known existed in his entire lifetime. His mother’s freedom.  They’d both be safe, at least as much as was possible, from Beron and Lucien’s brother’s wrath. For the first time in his life.  How had she broken a bond of blood? Stolen a High Lords crown?And why, after untold centuries of it’s wildness trapped in Beron’s hands, would it accept being wielded by one human girl? And what- he was truly afraid of the answer- what waited in the Day Court for them?   Lucien had only one guess, and it made it hard to breathe.   While he was already damned and ceding oxygen, Lucien let himself think of Elain. A Court’s crown should have had an effect- magic, in it’s truest, oldest aspect, shone on the skin of mortals- but Elain remained herself.   An utterly human, utterly feminine beauty. Bottomless clever eyes and a vicious, brilliant mind only countered by that kind unforgetting heart- everything in the world Lucien wished to hold.   It wasn’t fair, but he blamed Feyre.   He’d had it locked away. Bound in so much red ribbon behind his ribs to call enchantment down- and then Feyre in her pointed frustration had spent an entire day making asides about how ridiculous it was, how unnecessary it was, for Lucien to marry her sister.   While he’d been braced for the condemnation, for Nesta to brush away Feyre’s fears in that cool way of hers, that wasn’t his first impulse. Like a madness- like the High fae that he was- Lucien wanted to get in a fight.   This was where he belonged. In pace with Nesta, forever at Elain’s side.   He wanted to tear apart anyone who’d try to take that away. His home, his family, his-   Love was not a word Lucien allowed himself to think. It hadn’t lived in his vocabulary for enough centuries it had been easy to bury. Passing fondness of course existed, friendship- though his last lover had in fact been killed by Feyre’s hand, in these very snowy woods.   Andras hadn’t even been allowed to die wearing his own face.   There was nothing Lucien wouldn’t do to keep the eldest Archeron sisters alive.   He’d forgiven Feyre- been as close to her as he had anyone in decades, a friend- but Feyre had protectors too powerful and numerous to name now.   Before the sunlight reached the forest shadows Lucien’s body had melted through the snowdrift, burned so hot he was settled in summer warm soil instead of mud. A few red plumes of leaves had tried to unfurled out of their time on the oak behind him, scattered down at his displeasure between racing thoughts.   He’d never burned Elain. Lucien wasn’t actually sure it was physically possible for him- and that thought, at least, was a balm.   Lucien needed to bury it all.   Needed the lying diplomats face he’d perfected, the utter and complete act he, Elain, and Nesta pulled off in concert- Lucien needed the lie. Not to escape what he was feeling- it wasn’t possible, and he didn’t want to lose all the insane hope and fear he carried- but to face this day as the clever fox he’d been and find a path through.

  If Rhysand planned on endangering them, he had another thing coming, Nightmare Lord or no. — Elain woke up alone.   It shouldn’t have been a surprise- much less an imposition that filled her with the sort of blinding frustration a less keen observer associated only with her elder sister- Elain was the maiden daughter of Lord.   Not just a Lord, so far as the gentry were concerned, but Flatha, scion of a distant crown across the ocean, given their noble lands in totality from the personal property of the Council of Queens, their dangerous wayward relations contained within their own tiny kingdoms. Six centuries ago, Elain would have been gormflaith;  a princess named for the blue of her blood, just for being born Archeron.   For her purity.   The reality was, of course, that her father was an absent, worthless wastrel at best and Elain very clearly remembered falling asleep in Lucien’s arms.   Brown skin warm on her face, the air around them sparking- with Lucien’s laugh it ignited, a hundred little shining flecks to mix with the deep sound.   In the darkest part of the night, it had seemed like a whole other world. Effortless magic everywhere, that she looked on with such enormous fondness it was impossible to hide, a wreath of flower and bone- where exactly in the Autumn Court had the bone of a dragon come from?- tucked in her hair and humming with a power that lit along Elain’s muscles like adrenaline, easy as breathing.   Tumbling into Lucien’s embrace to bask in the predator-intent, faery savage way he watched her face.   His hand in her hair. Gentle, so impossibly gentle as curls rasped over knife callouses, the gesture completely separate from the wickedness in his molten eyes.   Waking up alone, under no less than three layers.   Elain bit the inside of her cheek and rolled over, kicking off suffocating blankets two and three as she went. The one left tucked around her with the precision of rolled pastry was rabbit fur- warm, soft, and usually housed across the room on a divan near exclusively used by Nesta.   The perfect repose of a noble heiress- but most women of Elain’s outsize standing were not hiding a house full of dangerous faeries. Did not turn every bit of glittering charm and very real companionship on their fake- but not quite- fiancé to get them out of their eminently fashionable great coat, all the way down to a silken tunic that left perfect, near obscenely sculpted arms bare, only for fire to paint the air with happiness. The average daughter of Flatha weren't able to summon the crown of Court of Prythian out of thin air, or possess a High Fae sister, and a triplicate strand of pearls that lived on her wrist to hide a scar whose sensitivity felt like- felt like-   Elain rolled back over and groaned.   There were a thousand things to do. Nesta needed to know that Sorcha had passed them off impossible power, offered refuge that could reshape their plans. Lucien needed to sign off their shipping manifests, go to port and glamour smuggled faerie cargo.   Their farms needed the roads cleared, the staff accounted for in the blizzard, extra supplies taken to the orphanage to begin the winter holiday celebrations. A ball to finish planning, ash wood to burn and hide, Feyre’s arrival to stage so that she could move freely at home.   Elain was busy. But instead of moving she was staring out the diamond paned window that showed her pink sky and blinding white snow; thinking about Lucien’s hands. She wanted to hold those hands and let their matching rings clank together. Let him feel the pulse in her wrist and see how pleasure arced over her skin from that silvered mark.   She wanted Lucien at her side for everything. — Back in fighting form, at least on the surface, Lucien was more intrigued than alarmed when halfway back home he ran into Feyre, coming out of the woods.   It was that old friendship- Feyre the huntress, Feyre the human unafraid of magic tempered spring green groves, Feyre newly changed and desperate to be outside- that kept him from the immediate warning sign.   She was alone, for one thing.   Smiled that cocky, antagonistic smile he hadn’t seen since she was a human. “Vanserra,” She called, and Lucien heard cauldron damned Rhysand in the syllables.   It was not like when Nesta called him by his surname.   Because being pricks to each other was the friendly foundation for them, Lucien squashed his shoulder into hers in reply, the snow liberally sprinkled in her hair sliding over his still bare arms. “Where’s your crown, little Fey? Thought Night Court fashion had rubbed off on you.”   With a half smiling snarl, Feyre used both hands to send him careening, before hiding them away in the deep pockets of a gigantic leather coat he could smell Illyrian blood on. Hair in a simple braid, she was leagues closer to the woman he’d known.   “Rhys is dramatic,” She said, unbearably fondly.   Rhysand was setting her up as an equal, and the ruler of the most populous court in Prythian, but Lucien was not going to be the person to tell her that.   “Dramatic,” Lucien repeated with a grimace, melting the snow in his path. He didn’t miss that Feyre watched impossibly fast motion- ice to slush to water, soaking deep into the soil at his behest- with rapt attention. “What are you doing out here?”   He was going to make a joke about her hunting pheasant with unfair fey advantage, perhaps extol the virtues of the terrifying, wonderful woman Nesta had employed as a cook and really grind in the fact of his life here, when Feyre blinked. 

And then again.   High Fae tells were dangerous, subtle things. Control was a mark of age, and power, with the rush of instincts that ran thick in their blood with adulthood. High Lords were volatile, courtiers deadly.   Feyre, for all her obvious immortal grace and power, still feigned like the nineteen year old mortal she was in many ways.   And lied like one.   “Practicing,” Feyre recited, face normal and eyelashes fluttering. Untruth changed the entire tone of her voice. For someone who looked so damn much like Nesta, sounded so much like Elain, the lack of ease felt bizarre. “Rhys is training me, but I can’t control all the courts power yet.”   The woods led to both the main road out to the farms and the local village, in the other direction, apple orchards and the shattered Spring Court border. Lucien decided to play along.   “No more accidental fires?” He teased.   Feyre laughed, almost genuine. “Autumn is easy,” She insisted, which told Lucien enough to know that whatever drop of Beron she possessed, its depths had not been reached. “Darkness is obvious, but I’m still finding out what came from who.”   Before he could reply, Feyre twisted, fluid as a Dawn Court assassin, to pose before Lucien. “Spar with me?”   He’d fought her as a human. Fought Tamlin for the chance for her to learn to master her new body, retrain in old skills. Even if Feyre had been fighting with Illyrian’s every day for the last year, Lucien had three centuries and an impossibly savage upbringing on his side- there was no danger.   But still, his pulse said look closer.   “You should know,” Lucien teased, mirroring her wide stance, “I did already fight the ceremonial duel with Nesta for Elain’s hand.”   Feyre stopped mid motion darting forward lightening fast to laugh. “Nesta held a sword?”   Something utterly indignant, blood red and fey, twisted in Lucien’s chest. He caught the hand that had been about to slap into him and sent Feyre flying back, her knees hitting the snow bank his melted path had created. “Hand to hand? No weapons or magic?”   Feyre grinned, shoulders aligning. “Just one round, fight me for real.”   Lucien didn’t immediately realize what a mistake it was. — Elain’s first sign something was off was Nesta’s pale face, crashing through her bedroom door.   It was early enough- the house empty enough- that much like much like Elain pulling Lucien into her bedroom the night before, Nesta looked like herself. Ink already visible on both hands, her wine colored dress without the sleeves laced on, carrying both books and letters balanced under one arm, the Archeron seal clutched golden in the other- this was the real Nesta.   Who tossed herself down on a chaise, catlike, to glare at Elain.   Not at Elain- not really, no true malice could live between the eldest Archerons- at the world. “Feyre didn’t sleep in her room last night.”   The fur blanket tucked around Elain’s shoulders slid to the floor as she turned, taking the comforting smell of Lucien’s hair with it. “Did she stay with Rhysand?”   She’d thought, not yet. Feyre might speak to him like a lover, invade the High Lords space in that half casual way Elain assumed faeries would take very seriously, but they didn’t seem there yet. There was a restraint, hunger in those ancient purple eyes.   Starvation.   Nesta sighed, began to shuffle the books she’d set down into a perfectly straight pile. “No, she took one of the guest rooms. It wasn’t even made up.” It wasn’t even- Feyre had come home, crossed the continent back to the land of their childhoods, and pointedly slept in a room without fresh linen? Or candles, or water brought in?   Elain joined Nesta on the chaise, silk magic warm beneath her.   Feyre’s rooms were exactly where they had been when they were children. The eastern wing, where she could see the sunrise over the gardens from her bedroom. Before the house had been plundered straight to the ground to pay debt- the very beams and rooftiles sold- the room next to it had been a tiny childrens library, just for her.

They’d rebuild it three times the size with more windows than walls. Elain had spent an obscene amount on fine glass, Nesta filled it with supplies from four countries- a studio, for their sister who’d always wanted to make beautiful things.   Elain swallowed the hurt, shared a look with Nesta that said all that needed to be said.   With it went the thoughts she kept thinking seeing Feyre’s face, both utterly young and preternaturally frozen, beautiful. Mortal freckles but no smile lines left. That same unrestrained laugh, but their mother’s blue eyes looked at Rhysand for answers. She was back, she was alive, she was- “Why do you think she came home?”   Nesta handed her the largest envelope.   It contained not one letter, or map, but more than a half dozen missives on blue paper, written by equally many hands. Elain dumped them on the cushions between them and began to read.   Humans in business with faeries had unique tactics to stay ahead. For one thing, compacts bound to bloodline meant most of the immortals didn’t care to know their business partners, after all, by their standard, they’d be dead soon.   But mortals stuck together. Many of their ancestors had been the same once, royal blooded and wild with nothing to loose. Explorers, who’d gone looking for whole new lands to gift their children, bereft of a crowns direct privilege.   Their descendants learned care in the cradle, and the power of passing knowledge.   Blue paper for the secret city’s Court, incendiary powder ink for High Fae information, moon silk ribbons, for Sangravah, the weaving capital of the world.   Elain compared the words, reiterating the same thing again and again, before meeting Nesta’s blazing eyes. “The Night Court has been invaded?”   Of course it had come from a dozen people; merchants made money in conflict. Human worlds changed, when those conflicts were fae. The danger was near suicidal for mortals in magical wars- but those rare survivors ended up rich beyond promise.   “No one knows who it was.” Nesta said lowly, frustrated, “They infilitrated the civilian population, took something, and burnt half the city to the ground once it was found.”   A valuable something, if they needed that much chaos to dissuade pursuit. What did Sangravah have? The best rugs and tapestries in the world. The only port where Dawn Court silk could be bought. Libraries and temples, pink light and poetry.   “Isn’t Sangravah a stone city?”   Nesta’s pale bitten lips said yes without the words. Elain swore.   For something to do with her hands she tipped the book pile closer and read down the spines: Alchemic Fire: A Compendium, Mother’s Moon: The Priestess Orders, and White Stone, Silver Blood, The Complete History of Northern Conquest. That Nesta hadn’t slept wasn’t a question Elain needed to ask, anymore than she knew that she’d find colored coded annotations if she started reading along. Completely illegal tomes, of course, Nesta’s favourite import.   She tried not to picture centuries old stone made molten, leveled to the ground. The heat, the chaos- the magic it would take for that kind of destruction.   “Hybern?” Elain asked, her own doubt clear.   The shake of Nesta’s head knocked loose her hasty updo, wooden pins catching in the freed waves of her dark hair. Recognizing the sheen and sharp points, Elain tried and failed to sympathize with the storm Rhysand had coming.   Nesta was walking around with ash wood in her hair.   “Hybern,” Nesta repeated with equal dubiousness, “Or Night Court rebels, or another Court or the Queen’s Council. Rhysand has more enemies than the thrice damned Plague Lord.” A High Lord who had specialized in bloodline curses- a single faery who’d brought the continent to it’s knees, a thousand years before. Elain wondered if they were of any relation. The male Feyre called Rhys and laughed with seemed to have an equal notoriety with his own people.   And possibly worse power running in his veins.   “Prythian,” Elain began carefully, “Might be even less stable than we know.”   Whispering despite the warding, echoed adrenaline making her awake, awake, awake, Elain managed in a steady voice to tell Nesta about Sorcha. Crowns and the Autumn Lords crimes, asylum waiting in the most foreign of places. — Feyre cheated immediately.   Lucien, who’d once had nightmares about that exact look of mischief on a human face, like a Suriel waiting in the dark, knew it was coming.   So when the youngest Archeron sister rolled out of the snowbank he’d neatly tossed her into with a laugh, Lucien was able to smartly dodge the ice that came railing toward him. Not sharp, but a barrage like giant hail that cracked against tree trunks, sent snow flying.   Feyre had never actually seen how fast Lucien could move.   And he wasn’t trying terribly hard now. If she’d been training with Illyrians all along, she’d be used to superior ungodly strength, but not the speed of High Fae. Even if she hadn’t been given the opportunity, Lucien thought Feyre would have sought it- Nesta’s infuriated face that those were Illyrians, childhood legends made real was evidence enough.   Rather than reengage, half a kind thought to the looming oak behind Feyre had the tree shaking every bit of wet snow off its drooping branches.   The weight of the snow knocked her back down with a groan. “You talk to trees now?”   Lucien straightened from the trunk he’d been leaning against and tried not to sound full of the vague insult he felt, “I always talked to trees.”   Feyre didn’t bother to get back up, shaking the slush from the hugely oversized shoulders of her coat. Narrow eyed, she tilted her head in question. It was still bizarre to see Feyre so- the mix of her human mannerisms and the instincts of a faery body muddled, indistinct. It was even more confusing now that he knew her sisters. When Nesta had the same posture, with her utterly similar and painfully different face, it was all fae- aggression, focus, the shape of a hunt.   Feyre looked baffled. And angry? “How’d you learn that from Spring?”   He waited a beat too long for the quicksilver teasing smile, for the punchline. It was long enough for the temperature to drop several degrees, for her brow to furrow completely. Lucien swore. “You’re joking.”   Incised, Feyre tossed an impressively articulate fireball at him, straight autumnal gold. “Of course I’m not joking. Spring controls plants.” Spring controlled plants. Gods and immortal honey.   “What,” Lucien growled, pausing to dodge Feyre’s barrage of fire, “In the Crones darkest mercies is Rhysand teaching you?”   It was an obvious mistake to snarl Rhysand’s name like that in her hearing. Like he hated the bastard- which in some ways he did. The High Lord, even if it had been Feyre’s idea as Lucien feared, had brought death and danger to the Archeron’s doorstep.   Was, after a sole year of what was clearly painfully basic training, touting her as the greatest magical force in Prythian.   Feyre’s eyes visibly flashed and Lucien braced himself.   But what he was met with was a wall of fire. Not warding, not bloodmagic, not sunfire, but only Autumn’s burning grace.   He could have parted it like a curtain. Eaten it up with hotter flames, pulled back until it belonged to him. It was exactly the sort of magical pageantry Beron insisted upon- no one raised in the Forest House wanted to be the weaker end of that pull.   Disallowed, Lucien’s thoughts still managed to flicker to the crown that fit his head. Day’s gold and Autumn bone, a missing piece, a-   Lucien stepped into the fire.   He could tell she was angry just from its depth, roil. Like stepping into the titanic baths of a Winter chalet, like the Summer court sea; Lucien had forgotten how good it felt. Living heat coiled up his arms, caressed his face.   Swore he could taste just a hint of bonfire on the back of his tongue. The ritual kind that burned and burned under a full moon, hawthorne and rowan, violets and rose. It was, he thought, painfully near the scent of Elain’s rage, protection that littered the air like embers.   Lucien was only aware he’d closed his eyes when it all went away. The world was blinding white, and Feyre was talking so fast her words bled together.   -“why the hell would you do that,” She was saying, “Do you think I actually want to hurt you? Shit, shit shit.” Lucien tried not to smirk, but the action was ruined by his recoil when Feyre grabbed his bare arm with both hands. Not that it stopped her- she kept swearing right up to the moment she actually managed to trace up his arm, staring at his unblemished skin with giant eyes.   Friendly, afraid, and awed; but still Feyre’s touch crawled over his skin with wrongness.   It had a name, a very specific reason, but Lucien wasn’t about to use the word, even in the privacy of his own mind.   Finally he snarled, discomfiture actually real enough for Feyre to drop his arm in sheepish apology. Clearly, some fae things she had learned.   “I don’t understand,” She said, “What just happened? Are you okay?”   It had been easy, Under the Mountain, to forget the savior of Prythian was a teenage girl. “Of course I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me, Feyre.”   Forcefully, Lucien made himself remember that he’d once wanted to be her teacher. Trapped under Tamlin’s rule, less than a shadow of himself, he’d wanted to make sure the world leveling power in her veins didn’t destroy her. Now, he wondered what in Cauldron’s name Feyre had been doing for the last year.   And wished, wished, he’d thought to take a real shirt with him leaving Elain’s rooms.   Feyre was still staring at him in that half hollowed out way that spoke of something like human shock. Lucien made himself smile through the grimace. 

“Fey, you know who I am now? My history?”   Feyre nodded, pulse visible in her throat. “Heir to the Autumn Court.”   He didn’t let himself blink, but it was a near thing. The North still called him heir? How that must burn in Beron’s gut, infuriate Eris.   It wasn’t the right time to explain his banishment, the price on his head. Much less grin over it. “Could you drown Rhysand in darkness?”   Caught between the human impossibility of Lucien’s utter lack of injury and what she had been taught was a fearsome faery weapon, it was a long moment in the frozen morning before Feyre smiled again.   “He’d like to see me try,” She drawled, giving much more information that Lucien really wanted but- “You’re flame retardant? “   Lucien laughed, but the warning bells hadn’t stopped. There was no one in their history who’d ever had the power Feyre did. Some things were universal to High Fae; instinct and strength, winnowing and healing, longevity and vengeance. But even a faery child born whose parents had mixed two court bloodlines, or grandparents, or great grandparents- it could happen for generations down, still the result would be the same. A favoring of one, maybe two Court’s vital skills.   There were theories about how it worked. That the solar courts had more malleable, airy skill, but the elementals blood was more physically shaping.   Lucien himself was not a good example.   He’d taken the name Vanserra the second he could for a reason- he’d favored completely Sorcha’s skills from the cradle. There had always been talk along with it- Lucien who burned a little too bright, whose very name was light like his mothers.   Remarks about his deeper skin, the shape of his mouth, and the height he grew into- so unlike his siblings.   The last Vanserra heir. It was the savagery that saved him long enough to grow; had the Lady of Autumn’s whole family not been slaughtered? The male heirs had disappeared centuries before, the loss of all the rest to Hybern was a tragedy that bore the mark of Beron’s fingerprints.   Of course Lucien would be unloved- hated. So different than Beron, than his brothers- yet still the most powerful son of all. A walking reminder of crimes and bloodshed, it made a very Autumn sort of sense.   Lucien was a very Autumn-blessed faery.   But that didn’t mean he didn’t receive a basic education on other courts before his banishment. He was not fire retardant- like calls to like. Too much an Autumn blaze to ever feel anything but it’s embrace; but sunfire would burn him. A ward twinged with Summer’s roaring heat could wound.   He wasn’t the child of every Court like her- but he knew the difference.   Lucien kept right on smiling, despite the peaked horror. How could she be ready for war?   “Not inflammable,” He drawled right back, laid on an eye-roll whose familiarity brightened her smile, “Just Autumn born.”   Liquid fast, Feyre reached out to tug on a long red tied braid in his hair, “I would have never guessed.”   Could she smell Elain on the ribbon?   Not letting the thought show, Lucien swatted at her playfully. He loved her- not like he loved Nesta, but affection all the same. Her youth scared him. “So fires so easy,” He asked, “Are you getting all the elements now?”   Feyre started walking again, meandering toward the house as she talked. Fire and water, darkness and wind. Was it actually possible a drop of each court wasn’t enough to obtain their more esoteric skills?   Or had she simply not learnt to access them?   “-the hardened wind shielding is dead useful, not sure if it’s Day or Summer. The same with the light show, but I don’t know what it does”-   “Light show?” Lucien interrupted.   Feyre raised her eyebrows. “Sometimes when fire won’t come I get light instead, this kind of glow?”   Summer Court light was weapon, she’d have known if she conjured it accidentally. But if it went along with flame-   Lucien summoned a ball of flame. He didn’t need to hold it over his hand like a showman, but it would be better for his point. “Is all your fire red?”   Feyre only made a face in response.   He started slow, relying on the old adage that instinct would catch up once possibilities were realized. Red to orange, orange to gold, gold to peach and pink. Pink to the burning, seething white he carried around in his chest, the natural color of Lucien’s flames.   Delight and determination shaped Feyre’s face, before she mimicked it perfectly.   The white of the snowing, pristine world before had nothing, nothing, on the gleam and glow. It was identical. But, but- Lucien realized, flames gutting out, it wasn’t fire.   Pure magic, the rise of the sun that fed the world. Feyre couldn’t tell what the light did, because she hadn’t let it loose on darkness. It was cleansing, hungry as his own flames. Daylight.   Enchantment had always been Lucien’s specialty.   Now that he let himself think it, the prospect that he’d never questioned was insane. His mother was a creature of blood and the Bone Forest- her spells were binding, clever. Had he ever seen her break one?   Had her flames ever eaten magic, destruction tempering in a whole new shape?   The fire of High Fae is not always, simply, fire.

@breath-of-sindragosa

@flxwer-petals

@ladyvanserra

@illyrianinterrasen

@missanniewhimsy

@tntwme

@ourbooksuniverse

@pitterpatterpot

@thestarwhowishes

@abillionlittlepieces

@my-fan-side

@the-eightofswords

@wonderland–memories

@ourbooksuniverse

@cohen-theeleven

 @donnarosemary

#I'm back!! #I know I promised a Cassian bookend but it got too long #his pov is coming!! #with angst! #and rage! #unadulterated need to fall down at Nesta Archeron's feet #Feyre is having trouble #adjusting to a world were her first faery friend #and big sister #are VISCERALLY IN LOVE #But will they admit it? #soon ish #will Rhysand have a good day soon? #LESS SOON ISH #Lucien is so pissed on Nesta's behalf #Elain I talked him out of his cravat Archeron #Next up: queens! revelations! Cassian forgetting personal space exists #Azriel is so very tired #acomaf au #nessian #elucien #feysand #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #nesta archeron #cassian #azriel #rhysand #feyre archeron

[chrysalispen]

xxiv. they breathe like trees unstirred;

UPDATE: This is now on AO3. Link is HERE

===

”Help!”

The distressed cry shocked Aurelia out of her paralysis. Hastily she slung the bag of herbs over her shoulders and secured them, fumbled with the knife sheath as she tucked her tools away, running as fast as she could down the incline that led into the partially excavated ruins.

Another roar, another dull cracking, another cloud of pebbles and ancient mortar showering her head and shoulders. She ducked and wove her way through the flying rock and soil as best as she could manage. In another moment she rounded the corner, wiping dust and sweat from her eyes with the back of one hand.

A second scream directed her gaze upwards to the source of the commotion: a young Miqo’te girl clinging desperately to the overhanging root system of an old-growth tree, her eyes huge and pupils blown wide with terror. Her tail lashed in sweeping circles while her feet made frantic and rapid kicks and found naught but empty air.

The treant that had cornered the Miqo'te bellowed in rage, swiping at the small and compact frame. As Aurelia watched, the trapped child managed to curl her knees upwards and tuck them beneath her tail. It was all that saved her. She narrowly avoided a vicious blow that would have crushed her on impact; the treant’s open claw impacted instead with a portion of the stone wall which shuddered, crumbled, and fell to rubble, leaving a dirt and root-adorned crater in its wake.

The girl wailed, near mindless with fear.

Cursing softly, the Garlean loosened the strap on her belt where she kept her novice’s wand at the ready-- her heart thumped heavily in her chest in a way it hadn’t done since Carteneau as this was neither a combat simulation nor a lecture hall. Although she had mastered the basics of aether manipulation and control, she was painfully aware that her current skills with her wand were not yet sufficient on their own to appease a berserk woodkin.

This initial point, however, dovetailed into the second: it couldn’t be helped. Unless she acted quickly, the girl would lose her tenuous grip on the exposed roots of the tree and fall to her death - and Ewain wasn’t here to dispatch the miserable thing, meaning the decision to turn the land’s magicks against a denizen of the forest would have to fall to her. She couldn’t very well run and leave the girl to her doom. Her skills, such as they were, would have to do.

“Hold on!” she shouted at the girl. “I’m coming over there to get you! Don’t let go until I tell you!”

No answer: only hoarse screaming broken by great, whooping sobs. Aurelia wasn’t certain if she had understood or even heard the orders through the panicked fog that clearly had her in its grip. Seven hells take the bloody elementals if they had issue with it, Aurelia thought, and the Hearer could yell and lecture her behind closed doors all he liked later. Swearing under her breath, she held out her wand and reached with her mind’s eye for the aether in the air, then loosed it at the frenzied creature.

Wind coalesced in a sphere and flew towards the treant in a small and contained explosion, slicing into bark and branch. It had the desired effect; the treant reared upwards with an angry cry, spindly appendages flailing as it roared its fury to the forest canopy. Leaves shivered and hissed, and the cursed thing barreled towards its new target.

In response, Aurelia took several leaping steps backward out of range and lifted a fist. Debris rattled and swirled around her willowy frame, brought aloft by the manipulation of wind-aspected aether, rippling in smooth currents from the ring of trees growing in and around the ruins.

She kept her control as steady as she could manage, watching as twin tendrils of air and stone wound themselves about her right forearm like a ribbon. Out of the corner of her eye she caught movement. The treant was sweeping its arms -- what passed for arms -- wide to strike and had left itself open.

With a flick of the simple ash wand in her hand, she hurled the projectile. The composite stone crashed into the treant’s branches, its trajectory bolstered with the force of compacted wind. Aurelia caught the scent of sap and the sound of snapping limbs; its roars were now laden with pain as well as anger. Clawing at everything within reach of its limited perception, it shambled forward to rid itself of its tormentor, gnarled roots scraping into old stone and packed earth like overgrown toes.

But for all its size and ferocity, its movements were ponderous and slow, and she found it a simple enough task to predict its next attack and react accordingly. She tucked and rolled under its wildly swinging limbs and had already regained her feet to run for the trapped child before the fiend could change track. Sweat trickled into her eyes and distorted her vision but she did not pause. The urgency of their current situation had rendered both the irritant and its mirroring sting at her hairline unimportant.

“Now!” she shouted to the girl, lifting her arms. “Jump! I’ve got you! Jump now!”

The Miqo’te’s breath hitched audibly in her chest but she had stopped screaming long enough to watch the fight with wide eyes, and only hesitated a moment before she released her grip on the roots. Aurelia caught her before she could hit the ground, set her down feet-first, and grasped her wrist.

“Run into the woods! Don’t look back and keep running until I say stop!”

“Miss-”

“Don’t talk,” Aurelia barked, ”run!”

For the first two breaths the girl hesitated, then she got her feet under her and the two fled into the depths of the wood, crashing through bush and briar without stopping or sparing a glance at any possible pursuit.

The treant’s furious yowling echoed once from the direction of the ruins, the leaves of the surrounding trees seeming to shiver with a dim reflection of its ire, but did not seem to have left the bounds of that clearing. Once Aurelia judged them to be safe her sprint slowed to a trot and then to a walk; she grasped a handful of the girl’s kurta to signal that they were safe.

At her side, the Miqo'te first tilted forward to brace her hands upon her knees before she dropped into the dirt and dead leaves at their feet, panting. Her tail slapped with visible agitation against the forest floor.

”Hells,” she said, explosively. “That near ended poorly.”

Aurelia raised a brow at the oath that fell from those young lips; their owner couldn’t have been more than ten summers- though she allowed that she might be wrong, as Sazha had been small and spindly too. The look of the girl rather put her in mind of the wood sprites she remembered from childhood fairy tale books. She had a build a bit like Sazha’s had been, but it was less compact and more slender, with long and skinny limbs. Her skin was perhaps a shade or two darker than Keveh’to’s and her eyes a soft grey with large and rounded pupils. Brown ears the color of oak tree bark flickered idly, swiveling at each small noise that came from their surrounds.

“Yes, it did,” Aurelia said at last. More sweat trickled into her eye and she blinked again. “What were you doing in there?”

“Could ask you the same, miss.” The girl paused, carefully swiping at her face to clean it of her tears. Her eyes were still red-rimmed, but they were clear and her expression was calm now that she was well out of immediate danger. “Though I’m full glad you were there, make no mistake. I was looking for something in the ruins.”

“By yourself?” Aurelia was immediately concerned. “Those ruins are no place for a child.”

An affronted scowl furrowed soft brows and crinkled that little button nose.

“I’m not a child,” the girl declared irritably.

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course not! I’m fourteen summers!” She paused, then added: “Well, nearly. I will be at the end of the season. How old did you think I was?”

“Ah… twelve, mayhap,” Aurelia hedged, unwilling to admit she had assumed younger. The girl appeared only slightly mollified.

“Mayhap twelve is naught but a child where you’re from, miss, but for me that’s practically grown.” She squinted, annoyance forgotten. “I saw that wand you were using. Are you a Gridanian?”

“No.” Technically it was true. “I learned my craft in Gridania but my homeland lies to the north.”

“Hm.” The Miqo'te girl looked her up and done once more as if coming to some sort of decision before she regained her footing, dusted the leaves off the backs of her legs, and thrust out a small, soiled hand. “Well, Miss Mysterious Conjurer, since you asked, my name is Vahne. Vahne Wolndara. Thank you for saving me.”

With a faint smile, Aurelia clasped the proffered hand and shook slightly.

“Aurelia Laskaris. Pleased to meet you, Vahne -- I can call you Vahne, can’t I? What were you doing poking around a place like that? You know what it is, surely?”

Vahne shot her a slightly withering look as if to say ‘are you stupid? ‘

“Aye, I do. It’s part of the old city of Amdapor. Said to be haunted.” She crossed her arms, expression smug. “Your Gridanian conjurers aren’t the only ones who know about that sort of thing, you know. We Keepers have our own stories.”

Not about to allow an adolescent girl’s cheek to provoke her, Aurelia merely shrugged.

“Well, if you know that much,” she said, “then one would assume you should have already known about the traps placed all over these ruins, not just by us but your own people. That treant shouldn’t have gone so wild as to attack you without cause. Unless you touched -- or stepped on -- something that was meant to be left alone.”

Vahne flushed, her expression equal parts indignant and embarrassed, and the veneer of self-assurance faltered beneath it.

“I-I know that!” she sputtered. “I’m not stupid, I just-- I was worried, all right? I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking and I didn’t see the roots until I stepped right through them-”

Aurelia held up a hand. "It’s not a lecture; I only want to help. If you know as much as you say about these ruins, then I would think you also know they aren’t a place that most people would go unless they had a very good reason.”

The girl muttered something unintelligible.

“What was that?”

Vahne sighed. “I said I was trying to find some lavender. And cloves.”

“Surely there are safer places to look.”

“Not as many as there used to be,” she said dismally. “Ever since last summer, it’s been much harder to find. It used to grow all over our hunting grounds but the fires destroyed most of it. You would think the Gridanians could spare some, but their bloody Wood Wailers-”

“Language,” Aurelia interrupted absently. The girl rolled her eyes.

“...all right, fine, blasted Wood Wailers are near as like to shoot at us as talk to us if we get too close to their settlements. The village folk think we’re all thieves and poachers so they won’t treat with us, but they won’t dare cross the ruins for fear of curses and ghosts and such.”

“So you thought you’d find those things in the ruins? Hardly anything grows in there other than belladonna and poison oak.”

Vahne shrugged, grey eyes finding their study of the ground suddenly very interesting, and Aurelia felt the familiar twist of guilt in her gut. Dalamud’s shrapnel had set a large portion of the Black Shroud ablaze, and once the Greenwrath had been quelled along with the wildfires few if any of the people in the Gridanian settlements had spared a thought for the forest folk or their losses. Herself included.

She stared thoughtfully down at her bag.

“I think I might have some herbs I could give to you, but to do so would require a trip back to the village in order to obtain it.” At Vahne’s cautious stare, Aurelia added, “You would owe me nothing in compensation if that’s what concerns you.”

“No, miss, it’s not that, it’s… if my aunt knew I got anywhere near any of the Gridanian settlements she’d have my hide. We keep our distance for good reason. ...But you do have some? And you’ll let me have it?”

“Yes.”

“Might you also have foxglove?”

“That I cannot promise. Foxglove comes from Coerthas and their snows have killed most of the harvests. The rest I can get for you-- if you tell me why you need it so much.”

“Healing,” she said, perhaps a touch too quickly, and the Garlean raised her brows at the obvious evasion. “...What? Don’t look at me like that! I’m serious!”

“What sort of healing?” Aurelia pressed. “Lavender and cloves I understand, but foxglove can be quite toxic.”

“Just… you know… the usual sorts of things! Easing pain, and all that.”

Her gaze lingered upon the Miqo’te - rather pointedly - but the girl continued to stare at the ground in strained silence as she awaited a response. It was more than obvious she was hiding something but would offer nothing further without duress, and Aurelia knew better than to think she would have any luck coaxing her into breaking whatever personal code she held close to the chest.

Not without compromising what fragile trust she’d gained, anyroad.

“Oh, very well,” she said. Whatever the girl’s secrets, she saw no reason to withhold supplies if they could be spared. “Follow me. You don’t need to enter the village. If you come with me as far as the wall, I’ll fetch what is needful and bring it to you.”

Vahne’s grey eyes came alight with relief. “Oh, miss, thank you, tha-”

“You’re welcome,” Aurelia said, not without a touch of wryness in her tone. No good deed goes unpunished, after all.

~*~

It was nearing dusk when they reached the treeline that stood on the far side of the creekbed from the village. Most of the wood already lay shrouded in shadows and visibility was so poor Aurelia could barely discern the path even once it became familiar again.

She was relieved to see she hadn’t completely lost her way in their mad dash from the Amdapori ruins since she hadn’t exactly paid attention to where they had fled at the time, but her third eye afforded her a variety of advantages over most hyur, and one of those things was a reasonably good sense of direction. If the Twelve actually existed, she’d thank them for small favors.

Vahne paused, hanging back in a stand of brambles, tail lashing and ears flat.

“This is as far as I can go, miss,” she said, though not without a note of apology. “My aunt-”

“I know. ‘Tis all right.” She parted a stand of low-hanging ivy from an ash branch overhead and stepped into the clearing. “Stay here. I’ll be gone less than a quarter bell. Do you know how to find your way home?”

Vahne scoffed, and like that her confidence had returned. “Auntie used to tell me that a Keeper who couldn’t survive a night alone in the Shroud by the time she was able to string a bow wouldn't be a huntress worth the name. I’ll be fine.”

“Where’s your bow?” Aurelia asked, curious, and that flush returned.

“That stupid tree--”

“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

The creek was near full this time of year, the banks muddy and steep, but Aurelia had quickly discovered the safest place to ford it. She skipped from rock to rock and splashed across the water, adjusting the leather bag on her shoulder. A glance at her back showed no sign that she had been followed at all, which meant Vahne was probably hiding in the brush.

Ewain’s place, befitting a conjurer’s hermitage, lay one foot in and one foot out of civilization. It had been nestled behind the old palisade line along with the rest of the village but he had declined to rebuild his portion during the recent reconstruction, confident there was precious little in the way of threats that his link to the land could not turn back. The creek itself provided a natural border to his gardens, and the wall receded to little more than neatly stacked rows of stone.

“Miss Aurelia!”

A small, sandy head, peeking over the stones. Aurelia exhaled, smiling.

“Just the lad I was hoping to see. You’ve stayed in the village while I was gone?”

“Yes, miss. I was about to go home.” He shuffled from foot to foot, looking agitated, but making no move to leave her to her own devices. “Do you need me to open the gate?”

She didn’t but wasn’t about to say so. Just the fact he’d offered to do so without prompting was a positive sign; of all his family Bran had proved the most difficult to win over. “That would be lovely, Bran. Thank you.”

For a few moments he disappeared completely from sight, then there was a quiet creak as the small, low-slung gate - more suited to holding sheep than aught else, she thought - eased open on its iron hinges. She slipped through the opening and latched it shut at her back, then smiled at him. He stared at her with huge and solemn eyes, a frown creasing his brow.

“Thank you for waiting,” she said. “I’m sorry I took so long to come back. Have you taken your basket back to your mama?”

“Not yet, miss.”

“Pray tell her that I’ll be along tomorrow with her dried grass for the weaving once I’ve done my rounds.” Aurelia refrained from ruffling the boy’s hair as she might have done were they more familiar with each other. “Now go straight home, you hear?”

He was already halfway down the path to the main street before she had finished speaking. Amused, she watched him trot away and adjusted the leather strap of her gathering bag before crossing between one of the rows of cabbages Trevantioux had planted on her way to the front porch steps. Aubin briefly lifted his silvered muzzle in greeting, sniffed the air, then settled back on his haunches to doze again once he had determined the familiar scent.

Scratching absently at her hairline, she rapped on the door only for it to swing open immediately; a man’s hand snaked around her wrist and yanked her across the threshold so abruptly she nearly dropped her belongings. Panic, bright and sharp like fire, sparked across her nerves for a split second before she saw the familiar outline of fluffy hair and ears. Keveh’to’s eyes glittered in the dim light of the cabin.

“Where in hells have you been?” he demanded, his teeth flashing as he spoke. “You know you have a curfew! I was about to send a search pa-”

“That’s a bit dramatic of you, don’t you think?” Aurelia shook her head, pushing past him to make way for the herb cabinets. “As you can see, I’ve arrived in one solid piece and I promise I’ve been a very good little prisoner. In fact, I shall have you know I’ve not attempted to cross the border wall even one time today, which to hear Trevantioux tell it is quite the accomplishment.”

“Very funny. Perhaps you might answer the question with something other than sarcasm?”

“For goodness' sake, Keveh'to! I was foraging for lavender and ended up near the old Amdapori watchtower. I would have returned earlier but I got a bit sidetracked, that’s all. And before you ask, I’ve already sent the lad home to his mother.”

“Good. He needs to stay there, and you and I need to speak. Something’s happened.”

“Can it not wait a few moments? I've a quick delivery to make.”

“Delivery? Aurelia, you can’t go back outside. Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“If you’d sit down for a few moments, I could tell-” His eyes darkened. “Twelve, you’re bleeding!”

Keveh’to’s face, even in the poor lighting, had paled visibly. Aurelia could only offer a blank stare in return.  “...What are you on about?”

“How could you not have noticed? There’s blood all over your face.”

“What… oh,” she raised a hand to her hairline and winced at the stinging sensation she felt. What she’d thought was sweat was, she realized now, dried blood. “I suppose it must have nicked me.”

“What nicked you?”

“A treant in the ruins. I’m fine,” she said with perhaps a touch more impatience than she had intended. Without a pause, she brushed aside the hand on her arm and reached for the pinned bundle of dried lavender overhead. Removing roughly half the sprigs, she set it aside, then began to rummage through the cabinet for the cloves. “Get me that empty hemp bag on the hook, would you?”

Keveh’to had already handed the bag to her before he had formulated a response, but whatever he had been about to say died on his lips. She was already shoving the herbs in the bag.

“As I thought. No foxglove,” she said aloud. “She’ll have to live with it.”

“You're being far too cryptic for my liking. Who are you talking about?”

“A girl whom I met today at the ruins. Feel free to come with me if you’re concerned for my safety for whatever mad reason, but I’ll not make her wait longer than needs must.”

“Aurelia, this is-”

“She only needs some healing herbs and she’ll be off. I promise we’ll talk as soon as possible, but pray let me handle this one matter first. It won’t take but a moment.”

Keveh’to shook his head, frustration evident in the deep knit of his brows. "I see you’re not going to listen to me until I’ve done as you asked - and I'm not letting you out there alone.”

“A bit of a wait won’t kill you.” She swept past him to reach for the door latch. “Come on.”

Spring in the Black Shroud was waxing to its zenith and wearing on into summer, and the scent of late perennials and the reedy sounds of tree frogs hung heavy in the air. No other soul seemed to have marked their departure, Aurelia noted, as the pair slipped between Ewain's flourishing vegetable rows and back towards the gate.

“It’s oddly quiet this early in the evening,” she murmured. “Where’s Ewain and Trevantioux?”

“They’re at the Millers’. Talking to the children- look, I’ll tell you when we get back, but let’s hurry. I really don’t want those two listening in.”

“All right, all right, don’t fret. Hand me that bag.” He did, unlatching the low gate as he did so with a disapproving frown. “Stay here.”

“What? Where are-”

Keveh’to trailed off, watching her hop nimbly from one outcropping to the next down the creek bed as if she were born to it. In the winter months, a great deal of the water had slumbered deep under ice as the excessive rains had filled it near to its flooding point, and he found himself observing yet again that this small village had been almost absurdly fortunate. Few others had managed to escape the damage that had destroyed other settlements lying closer to Mor Dhona’s borders.

Aurelia grinned back over one shoulder, trying to ignore her limp and the vague soreness in her leg; though it had largely healed it did still ache if she overtaxed it (which she had very much done, this day), then turned her attention back to the timber line.

“Vahne,” she called. “I have your herbs.”

For a long moment nothing happened. She frowned, wondering if the girl had perhaps lost her nerve upon seeing her companion, when a quiet rustle of the undergrowth below a nearby sycamore tree caught her eye and one small hand extended outward in an expectant silence.

“Let me see you,” Aurelia said.

Another rustle, then a displeased mutter: “You weren’t supposed to tell anyone about me.”

“Keveh’to is a Keeper like you. He’ll not harm you nor will he give away your secret.” Reflective grey disks peered between the blind of leaves, looking at her, shuttering in a blink, then narrowed in a distrustful squint as they focused past her upon the Miqo’te man standing at the opposite side of the creek bed. “I’ve told him to stay where he is.”

Cautiously Vahne’s ears came into sight, swiveling and flickering wildly, then the crown of the girl’s head, before she stood completely upright. Her hand was still extended.

Aurelia held out the hempen sack.

“Lavender,” she said, “and some of our cloves. I don’t have aught else to spare right now, unfortunately. There’s little enough to go ‘round since the ice storms overtook Coerthas last summer. I’m sure the botanists’ guild in Gridania will manage to get their hands on a seedling or three for cultivation but in the meantime, we all must needs make do.”

She waited as the girl opened the bag and sniffed its contents, then made a satisfied nod and tied it shut.

“Thank you, miss.”

“It’s Aurelia,” she repeated. “If for some reason you do ever need help, you can come and find me here. Or if you can’t find me, look for my companion. His name is Keveh’to and he’ll be easy to spot, being as he’s the only Keeper in the village.”

Vahne cradled the bag close to her chest.

“I best be going. My aunt will be wondering where I’ve got off to if I’m not back soon, and there’s also-” She cut off abruptly, wincing, as if she’d nearly let something slip Aurelia wasn’t supposed to know about. “....Well, anyroad, cheers.”

“Be caref-”

The girl had already melted into the shadow with little more than a rustle of leaves before she could even finish her admonition.

Aurelia shook her head ruefully. She had extended the offer suspecting the girl would have need of aid if she was truly this desperate for healing items, but doubted anything would come of it. Ewain had emphasized that there were Keeper tribes in the forests who refused “civilized contact” and would rather keep to the old ways than cooperate with Gridania, and Keveh’to’s accounts seemed to at least partially back up that claim. If the girl would rather keep to herself, then that was her right, and it was hardly the place of an outsider who knew nothing of Eorzean ways to deny it to her.

You’ve done what you can here. Right. Time to go talk to Keveh’to about whatever it was he wanted to discuss with you before he has kittens.

As she turned her back on the forest to find her way back across the creek bed to Keveh’to and the Hearer’s cottage, Aurelia felt the sensitive skin around her third eye prickle, and a chill crawled up her spine.

Yet again, she realized, they were being watched.

#chapter 24 #reborn by fire #aurelia laskaris #edit complete!

[lordshaxx]

the one-horned speaker

    the visions had become clearer shortly after cayde died and, for the longest time, shaxx kept them to himself. the traveler never bothered with him and he has things to do ----- gates to keep and taken to banish; his loyalties had been split in half, dedication questioned by either side as innocents died and all he could do was watch with a sorrowful gaze. his strength has barely climbed to half of what it was back in the distributary -- shackled by darkness yet growing back quickly due to an awakened traveler.

    he knew it would only be a matter of time before the consensus grew desperate and, in the wake of their indecisiveness and bias, ran out of candidates to vote for to replace the speaker. the traveler’s chosen -- that blessed guardian -- had gone mad with rage, their anger only tempered briefly by the deaths of uldren and his barons though now consumed with an addictive need to purge the dreaming city of its curse. played right into mara’s hands.

    zavala and ikora were shattered upon their grief ----- ikora melting into a rage just barely shy of bursting from its perfectly wrapped package she had tucked away in her heart. zavala drew further into himself, forced his gaze inward and closer to the city -- guilt gnaws at the both of them and with their image of unification broken, they fell quickly from the consensus’s eyes.

    there’s a brief moment of consideration toward lord saladin and osiris both but they had been brushed away quickly. saladin no longer had a penchant to lead, no longer had that fire, and osiris... well, he’s osiris -- power fallen from grace of the city’s favor.

    and so, all eyes turn to the one authority figure barely holding a group of crazed and grief-stricken immortals together. he voices soft sorrow to the fall of a dear friend but his grip around order remains tight, even as he momentarily disappears to the dreaming city. if only to restore guardian order there when they grow out of petra’s control.

    the gatekeeper of two great cities. secret confidant of mara sov. hero of twilight gap, six fronts-- hell, even the red war. a man who laughs at death as he breaks its arm. the last man standing. there’s not many others they can consider, not many still living or willing enough with his kinds of credentials.

    he sees the question before it falls from the consensus member’s -- arctur han, he thinks, he forgot immediately after he was told -- mouth, but it doesn’t stop him from letting out a ridiculous scoff as he turns to look out the broad window in his barely-used office. his view faces the city, he likes having the traveler in view, seeing it pulse softly with renewed energy. tonight, it does little to soothe the spike of irritation? annoyance? no he doesn’t know what he feels. it’s not familiar.

    “ that’s not a question, ” he says as he finally turns around to look at the dully robed mortals. there’s a flicker of fear that seems to pass through arctur’s gaze and shaxx can’t help the slight smirk that forms beneath his helm. “ i was wondering how long it would take you bumbling fools to come to a decision. ”

    “ w-well, s-s-sir-- ” shaxx holds his hand up, effectively silencing the nervous stuttering before it can really begin.

    “ don’t bother. i’ve been to too many of those inane meetings to know how it works. functions like a stuttering clock on its last legs if you ask me, ” the last part is a grumble as he walks over to his desk, placing his hands flat on the mahogany top. he leans forward, bracing his weight on his hands, making the wood creak uncertainly as arctur and his companions shift nervously, fidgeting more the further shaxx leans over that small barrier.

    his helmet shifts, clicks, and falls away, folding in on itself and away from his face to reveal a terrifyingly wide and toothy smile, eyes glimmering with the knowledge of a man who imagined what he would do in this sort of position should he have been given it countless times. lord shaxx is a man with the knowledge of who his enemies are in this mortal ring ----- and he knows exactly how to weed them out.

    “ so, ” comes the amused purr, “ when’s the coronation? ”

    shaxx doesn’t like the speaker’s robes. he’d heard the complaint from the previous speaker himself numerous times and when the tailors attempt to drape the new robes on his sturdy form, shaxx burns them off immediately, not caring to leave himself bare. he announces loudly as he brushes the ash off his shoulders that he would design something far more comfortable and practical before he turns and marches out of the room. the helmet stayed on.

    the titan comes back an hour later, fully clothed, with a handful of sketches, immaculately drawn and he explains them in even greater detail as the tailors pour over them. they begin immediately once choosing a practical and favorable design, shaxx watching them stitch for stitch, thread for thread. he doesn’t interfere, no, seeming confident that they can handle it on their own, but nonetheless, he remains until they finish late into the night.

    he waits until the last tailor leaves, hearing the door close softly, before he walks over to the mannequin and inspects it one last time. after one walk around, it’s then that he finally grabs some armor paint, dipping his fingers in gently, and he draws one long vermilion stripe down the immaculate chest piece. he bows his head, hand resting at the edge of the stripe, and he heaves a long sigh once his silent prayer is finished and stows away the paint.

    now, he’s ready.

    the titan doesn’t expect such a huge turn out to his coronation, i.e. the entire city. and then he remembers that while the people know the vanguard had shattered, they don’t know the finer details of cayde’s death -- of how broken the tower and its commanders truly are. and so, the city streets leading from the tower to the traveler are littered with people, decorations strung up along the buildings and confetti raining down from above as the procession of sparrows make their way through.

    the cheering is deafening, almost making shaxx want to cringe at the wall of noise that surrounds him on either side, but he keeps his wits about as they continue forward. he hadn’t know that the consensus and the speaker were so strongly celebrated ----- he never paid much attention to the celebrations of the city if they never made it to the tower. for the coronation of the speaker, a private banquet is usually held after the ceremony -- spent with guardian consensus members and other heads of the democracy -- those are what he attends.

    but this... this is all new to him.

    by the time they make it to the temple directly beneath the traveler, shaxx’s ears are surely numb and his claws are trying desperately to break through his gloves as he dismounts his sparrow, staring up at the endless steps leading into the temple. he sucks in a breath and squares his shoulders as someone comes up behind him and clasps the furred cape over his right shoulder.

    he walks with purpose, his strides long and elegant, head held high, just as saladin taught him all those years ago. never falter, never hesitate -- even if you don’t know what you’re doing, simply looking as if you do can get you anywhere. and so he strides up the steps of the intricate temple, never tearing his gaze from the entrance until he finally makes it inside and the cool air blows over him and the doors close to block out the voices of the city.

    his ears ring as he looks around the dim hall, taking in every branch, every torch, and every guard stationed around. there isn’t much in terms of decoration, save for the occasional plants or bench, and the long carpet spread before him and it doesn’t change as he traverses into the main chamber where the head consensus members await him. zavala, ikora, the newly appointed shiro, the faction leaders, even saladin who stands at the head of the small semi-circle.

    the old iron lord has his helmet off, a lacquered oak box in his hands, and he offers a small yet proud smile as the traveler’s glow falls upon shaxx when he steps into the ring. shaxx’s heart swells and warms at the sight even as kneels before them, placing a hand on his knee. ikora and zavala’s smiles don’t quite reach their eyes, grief still clouding them, but he sees the faintest glimmers of hope threaten to break through, and for shaxx ,that is enough.

    saladin opens the oak box, revealing the speaker’s mask, redecorated into the familiar colors of shaxx’s old helm, and shiro moves to remove it. as the new hunter vanguard strides forward, saladin’s deep voice reverberates throughout the small chamber, echoing out into the city as he recites an ancient oath,

    “ lord amia shaxx forge, on this day of remembrance and in this age of recollection, do you cast aside your name, your title, and your past to serve the city and the traveler as its oracle and becomer of the future? ”

    “ i do. ”

    “ do you swear yourself to call upon your visions and dreams in truth and honesty as the traveler intended, imparting your given wisdom to the consensus of the people to further our future into a peaceful golden age and the end of the darkness’s reign? ”

    “ i do. ” with the last words of lord shaxx spoken in the chamber, the mask rests over his face, obscuring his vision momentarily until the hud activates and he is given the sight of the consensus proclaiming together,

    “ from here until irreparable death, the holy voice of the traveler is reborn ----- arise, o blessed speaker, arise! ”

    getting to his feet, the speaker squares his shoulders and puffs out his chest, stance tall and proud. there was going to be a lot of work to do in the coming months, but for tonight, he will relish in his new role.

    his first meeting as the speaker happens the day after his coronation and he’s not surprised. they want to catch him off guard, unprepared, to hound him and prove that he’s not a capable leader and perhaps drive him out and replace him with an unsuitable stand-in. but he knows their tricks, knows how they think, and he walks in with a list.

    the speaker remains standing even as the full consensus hall is seated and he looks at the dark and hooded faces out in the dimness. he eyes narrow as he picks out particular faces, watching as they fidget when he turns his head towards them, and there’s a soft snort. they know and if they don’t they’ll figure it out soon.

    “ welcome! ” he booms out, letting out a soft laugh at the way the consensus jumps at his voice and he claps his hands together, spark dancing between his palms. “ how convenient that you should all convene today! there are a number of items i would like us to... consider before moving forward to heavier topics. ”

    “ what would you like to go over, speaker? you have our attention, ” ikora says gently, her firm tone killing any noise of protest that had any hope of springing up.

    the speaker spreads his hands out and from the arc springs up bright blue holograms, six panels in total that begin rotating around his broad form. the panels begin streaming dozens of names, and he relishes in the terror that begins to grow on some members’ faces.

    “ today, my dear consensus, we will be cleaning house. ”

#[ i went back and edited the FUCK out of this im so sorry ] #[ its so long but here it is ]

[soillidariserious]

War of Thorns pt. 1

War of Thorns pt. 1

Kiodinius

Screams of agony, bellows of anger, riddled steel clashing against one another. This was the sound of a battlefield, and every noise had him on edge.

No… not a battlefield… a war.

Why?

Why?

Why had the Dark Lady authorized the occupation of Darkshore? Why had she authorized the attack upon the Night Elves?

The smoke was thick in his mouth, ash coating his hair. Wailing of the dying and gasped breaths. The feel of blood upon his boots as he walked amongst the bodies, crouching down to examine a few of them.

It took him back. Back to a time where there was nothing but ash from a different kind of fire, and agonizing screams… but not from their enemies… No, to the innocent souls that were being used for fodder.

Just what was their Dark Lady up to? And why had his Master agreed to helping?

“Master…” His voice was soft, yet hard… A graveling of rocks dragged across stone. And yet, it was very pleasing to listen to. “This is not a war I wish to be part of… This…”

An anguished cry cut him off from another dying soldier - but for which side, he wasn’t sure - and it all came rushing back.

The agony. The pain. The pleading of innocent souls… It was enough to set him on edge. The smell of burnt flesh and rotting corpses wafted through his nostrils, downturning his lips in a frown - but also clamping his mouth shut and grinding his teeth in order to not vomit from the stench.

He needed to stop them. He needed to help them!

It was his mission, wasn’t it? It was who he was! For who was he - what was he - if he could not save innocents? That was the prime objective of a Demon Hunter… To save Azeroth and fight off the Legion invasion before it could knock on their doorstep.

They had given everything, sacrificed even who they were! They could never return to their former life, they could never see their loved ones or family members again. They all had taken that oath when they had drank the blood of a demon and joined the ranks, hoping to keep all those on Azeroth safe from the horrors that are the Legion.

But this?

How long had it been? How old was he now?

Time had no meaning. It never did through the years. His wife, his little boy…

No! That was a dangerous road to travel down, as he had before and had Illidan tell him it was fruitless, would only bring pain and anguish. Could his heart take that again anyways? Last time it had taken quite a bit for Illidan to piece back together one of his best.

“Kiodinius…” The voice seemed to come from far away. “Kio!”

“Kio!” The familiar voice echoed to him, a hand coming to rest softly upon his shoulder. The metal beneath it clanked while the fire crackled from the fel flame. His head snapped in the direction of the owner, sighing as he saw the flow of magic from the only man he had ever seen to contain what he did within him.

“Master…” Bowing his head, he cleared his throat, voice still gravelly as he spoke next, emotion almost stealing his voice away. “Apologies…” He then was pulling away from the Warlock, causing the blood elf’s hand to fall limply to his side.

“Kio…” Dawn’s sultry voice flitted through his ears, causing Kio to halt in his place, a slight shake in his hands. “Something is bothering you…”

“This… battle, this… war… this is everything that Illidan always was against. This type of tactics, these… brash decisions… He always frowned and adamantly argued against us wanting to use these tactics.” Kio spun back to look at him, fel infused eyes flaring as well as the tattoos upon his skin. “This isn’t a battle for the Horde! This is a way to fuel her anger, her agony! Our Warchief is not a leader… She is a tyrant! She takes and takes, but never provides! She cares not for the casualties that are around us…”

With those words, he spread his arms wide, indicating to the strewn bodies around them everywhere. Both Alliance and Horde.

“She wants to make people suffer! Have we all not suffered enough?! And the Azurite! It is Azeroth’s life and blood! Does she not care that every ounce of it we use is bringing our home closer to death! Something that Illidan and all of us Demon Hunters fought so incredibly hard to stop!”

He looked towards the shore, the slight breeze rustling his hair and sending ash falling down into it. The sight to anyone else would be slightly terrifying, but for Dawn - who could not see except for magic - the effect was almost lost on him.

“We gave up our lives, our souls!” Kio bellowed out, and Dawn swore he saw tears full of fel energy welling within the corners of his eyes. But that… couldn’t be. Kio never cried. “We gave everything so that Azeroth would be safe, Azeroth and her people would prosper! We still do! And all everyone does here is fight amongst themselves, kill off Azeroth herself, and become worse than the Legion ever could be here!”

Once more that reassuring hand came to rest upon his shoulder before it moved slowly up to his face, brushing tears from his eyes. “I know,” were the whispered words of his Master as Dawn came in a little closer, placing his forehead to Kio’s. “I know… I do not agree with this either. I had not known…”

Another cry had both of them wincing. By no means were either of them weak willed, but this? This? This was not something either one of them would ever have agreed to if they had known what they were getting themselves into.

“This is a massacre, and I want nothing to do with it, Master!” Kio’s eyes sealed shut if agony. “Please… dismiss me…”

His words died as he heard a warcry from in front of them, and instincts kicked in as he spun, bringing up his burning blade to run through the figure that stood there, sword raised and ready to run Dawn through. Unimaginable anger roared through him, drowning out any sounds that had the chance to pull him back, any outside stimuli that could pull him from that moment.

Eyes burning in absolute fury, he stared at the Sentinel that had attempted to end his Master’s life. “No one… will take him from me!” He bared his teeth, body lurching, growing, creaking in pain as the metamorphosis started. Seconds later, his body had twisted and transformed.

Spikes, both bone and full of fel… both rock and flesh. Twisted and monstrous. Enough to usually scare someone.

“No one takes my Master from me!” The bellow was powerful, a roar of intimidation as a claw with talons wrapped around her neck, squeezing ever… so… slowly as the life bled out of her - literally.

“Kio…” Dawn’s whisper couldn’t get through to him, as it rarely could when he transformed into that hellish monster in order to protect him better. But the hand to his side as Dawn came around him to stare at the barely alive Sentinel. “Drop her…” The order had its desired effect, and the Demon Hunter dropped her to the ground.

“You monster!” She coughed out, barely alive.

“Oh… I assure you… That is me!” Dawn’s smirk didn’t hold the truth it usually did as he manifested a green flame within his hand that was not placed upon the Demon Hunter- fel, the Sentinel realized, looking towards the Demon Hunter.

He was siphoning fel energy, fel fire, from the Demon Hunter!

Just… how dangerous were these two? And she… wouldn’t be able to report back to her Shando about the danger.

“Just remember,” Dawn whispered to her, his fel infused eyes - not as much as Kio’s - flaring for a moment as he leaned down to whisper into her ear. “We did not ask for this… We did not want this… Our Warchief did.” His voice tinged with a bit of sadness, “But no one takes my Kio.”

With those words, he placed the fire against her chest, closing his eyes at her agonizing screams while her body disintegrated into ash. “Rest in peace…”

Clawed hands wrapped around him to stead the Warlock for a moment before they became regular hands, wrapping fully around him as a face buried into the back of his neck. “Master…” The whisper was soft, broken, and Dawn could feel upon the bond that the two had, that it was taking everything for Kio to not break down.

“To be honest,” Dawn whispered, tilting his head back a little to let the light from the barely seeable sun beat down on them through the ash and the smoke, “I do not know how much more of this I can handle…There’s been enough fire and death. Time to go.”

“Where do we go?” Kio asked, moving so that he was beside Dawn.

“To Silithis,” was the quiet answer he received.

#oc:kio

[legionofthedawn]

A Promise Broken.

FOR THE HORDE.

Highlord Lys Raseri knew the battlecry well. It was one that haunted his dreams, and now, it had come to the waking world to rouse him from his sleep.

“No.” He muttered, lifting himself out of his bed and seizing verdict from it’s stand. The hours were still early morning, the defenders wouldn’t be ready. Only the Dawn, the battered, bruised, and bloody Dawn would be ready to fight, but even with 800 soldiers they wouldn’t be able to stand against the Horde. Alarm bells began to ring throughout the camp as screams erupted from nearby Lor’danel.

“No.” He spoke, fastening his armor as quickly as he could, his hands shaking with rage and the weight of what he knew was coming. *Gunfire. Shots ringing throughout the camp. Death cries of both Orc and Human alike.* He bumped his pauldron onto the floor, cursing as he picked it back up to secure it to his shoulder. An explosion sang, shaking the ground as smoke began to curl up the tent.

“No!” He shouted, at last fully outfitted and armored, tossing his way out of the tent.

And before him he beheld Chaos. Darkshore had been set fully ablaze. The Dawnsmen’s camp under attack from every side as Horde seemed to pour from the hills like ants. The ammunition of demolishers flew through the air and landed on tent, on defense, on alliance and horde alike, killing men by the dozens. No amount of defenses could hold, not when they had already been caught so unaware. Raseri readied Verdict in hand, looking to his side to see Godwyn crushing a troll’s skull, already with wounds upon his face and scratches upon his armor. Raseri ran to him, grabbing him by the shoulder and shouting orders. He had no time for shock.

“Get Northwatch! Get Frostwind! Get anyone and everyone you can to the boats and get to Teldrassil, with the civilians from Lor’danel. I’ll stay behind.”

Godwyn’s eyes lit up with confusion and despair. “Sir, no, you can’t stay behind, there’s too many, you have to-”

“We all knew this day would come! The Dawn can live on without me. My life means nothing in comparison to the innocent that you will put on the ships.” Raseri spat the words out.

Godwyn stuttered for a moment. “But, without you, we-”

“We took Oaths that our lives will be forfeit. I’m keeping mine. Now go!” The Highlord pushes Godwyn away, turning to face the Horde, the vile, Horde, the murderous Horde. Distant screams and battlecries echoed in his ears, his eyes glazing over with light.

“Sir. Highlord. Raseri. Please.”

“Don’t you know that there’s no better way to die? It’s better this way. The Dawn will protect, and it will watch over you. And I, in death, will do so as well.” Raseri smiles for a moment, hefting Verdict and holding it upwards.

Godwyn nods. He looks behind him, to the fleeing Dawnsmen, the dying civilians, the screams and cries of butchered innocents and the shouts of the defenders. “Die well, Highlord.”

“GET THE INNOCENTS TO THE BOATS! SET UP A DEFENSE ON THE COAST! GET GUNS IN PLACE!” The Lord-Cavaliers roars seemed so quiet in Raseri’s ears as he marched slowly onwards towards the Horde’s battlelines. Jack’s death, Dengarl’s sacrifice, it had all made everything seem so muted. He was tired of living past the men who served under him, tired of watching others make his sacrifices. As the first Horde warrior charged towards him, he knew he was tired of watching tragedy, as well.

No more.

Verdict swung upwards, and the Orc was no more. It swung downwards, and across, the Highlord’s feet dancing across the Horde’s lines. Steel parted like paper beneath the fury of the black blade, blood splattering upon sand and dirt in gallons as Orc after Troll after Forsaken after Orc fell, in pieces to the ground. They tried to move past him, tried to continue rampaging into the camp beyond. They tried to escape his wrath and fury.

No more.

Verdict slammed into the ground, a wave of holy light and lighting passing over the encroaching army. Those nearest to the impact were seared down to bone, skin turning to ash that floated away in the winds of destruction. Lightning jumped from orc to orc as the weight of their own evil was exorcised from them, bringing them, dead, to their knees.

“Fight me! Fight me, cowards! I am the death you seek!” The Corner of the Highlord’s eye was focused on the waters, focused on where line after line of Dawnsmen made their stand, opening up the shield wall to allow civilians to pass through and board onto their ship. Some horde still made their way, but before his wrath, they could not attack in force. Both Godwyn and Northwatch looked on at his dance and his slaughter.

From this distance he could not see the sorrow in their eyes.

He was unstoppable. Years of training, years of rage boiled over in him, Verdict feeding off both as runes of light slowly began to shine upon the surface of the normally smooth black blade. The Horde couldn’t touch him. Nothing could stop him.

Until his skin split open. Until he felt his organs push apart, and blood from sundered veins fill up in his stomach. The Highlord looked down at the spear that rested in his abdomen, buried within his skin, his armor doing little to stop it. The entire world seemed to stop, even those he fought abated.

Until the guttural roar erupted from his lips, and Verdict slammed down upon the troll that had pierced him. Another flurry of blows cleared their way through any that stood before him. Yet he was slowing down. The pain was great, his limbs felt heavy. The tip of an axe crested across his forehead, freeing his hair from the ponytail that he usually kept it, spilling blood down his forehead, blinding him. He flailed his sword, killing any who’s footfalls gave them away.

Then the arrow pierced his shoulder. Raseri could feel the impact split his ribs, and sunder his bones. His arm hung limp at his side, slowing long enough for another to land in his chest- his heart beat against the flint, and blood filled his insides with every waking moment. The pain was unbearable, yet Raseri roared all the same. His eyes glowed golden with fury, and the light pushed his pain away, and filled him with resolve. It was just blood. It seemed as if his body moved itself.

Verdict sliced again, and again, the Highlord’s wrath and rage overtaking him. He roared out in blind, primal fury. His purpose was clear, his promise would be kept- if his life could be given so that his people- the Alliance-, may live, then he would give it. His wings erupted from his back as fire coalesced around him, standing alone on that beach.

Standing alone against an army.

Standing alone against fate.

And as he roared, and fought, and pushed, and *stood*, despite his broken bones and bleeding insides, for a moment he beat fate back.

“They’re almost onboard! Start unfurling sails!” He heard Northwatch’s voice. It seemed a thousand years away from him now, and he turned, watching the Horde pass him by as their boots thundered onward. He felt an axe rip across his back, felt the steel clatter against his spine, but his rage dimmed his pain. He only turned, grabbing the neck of the orc that dared face him, crushing his throat in his lightforged hand- another blade swung down, severing the metal limb from his forearm. It’s shattered pieces fell to the ground, and with another roar of pain, Raseri split the foe that faced him in two.

He needed to buy more time.

Another roar left him as he leaped through the air, moving through the Horde, cleaving through their mass, and their lines. His wings left him, his golden eyes faded, his light seemed dimmed. His foot stamped onto the ground, a mass of power erupting from him as he held his arm forward, palm open and outstretched. Demanding for them to stop.

His gaze was steeped in blood, and his beard was caked in soot. His body was nearly broken, his armor in pieces around him. Verdict fell uselessly into the sand, his other arm powerless and held limply at his side. Yet he stood, holding his hand outward. The message was clear.

You will go no further.

And the Horde stopped. Surrounded by the bodies of their kin, for one moment, the faceless mass stopped. They readied their weapons, but he had proven his saying. They feared him. They feared the Dawn.

Raseri’s cloak lifted in the breeze as quiet overtook them. The last sounds of men loading onto boats and paddling away were all that was heard. The last civilians escaping the brutality as the ships sailed onward to Teldrassil, preparing for the siege to come.

Raseri still stood. The horde still waited. Until another spear was hurled from the army, and landed squarely in his neck. The Highlord stepped back, and a hurl of shouts and jeers erupted from the army as they yelled in orcish. “He’s not immortal! He’s just stubborn!” They cried, laughing. Another arrow shot landed in his stomach, bringing him to his knees. The crowd gathered around him, coming closer as more spears, rocks, and arrows were hurled at the golden figure, his armor stained red with blood.

And a smile washed over his face. He had won. To him, he had upheld his promise.

“Should we tell the High Warlord about this one? He’d be happy to hear the Eagle’s dead, at least.”

“No.” An Orc spat on the Highlord’s face. “This one will be dead in moments. Leave him. We’ve other things to do here.”

Raseri’s eyes closed as he fell to the ground, and let the darkness curl around the corner of his eyes. He had won. He could be at peace now, with all those who had given themselves to the Dawn before him. His power was extinguished, his body, broken. And he was content. The burning of the camp around him faded out as life slowly left him, and he consigned himself.

He faded away into nothing.

A heartbeat.

He felt it. His own. The barest trinkle of life still in him.

Again, his heartbeat.

Power flowed back to him. The barest trickle. The smallest gift. Enough that he could smell, smell through the copper scent of blood the smell of ash and flame, choking, intoxicating.

Enough that he could hear the roar of a flame, enough that he could hear ten thousand screams.

The smoke reached him, choked him, forced his eyes open as tears sought desperately to clean his pupils. The roar of the fire continued in the background, though his back was turned to it. What was it? What choked him so? Why was he not dead?

His fist clenched slowly as his mind returned to him, crushing sand in his palm. He steadied himself on his fist once more, extending his arm as he lifted himself up, upwards through the pain. A scream erupted from his lips. His bones were still shattered, but he couldn’t rest here.

Highlord Raseri, with the last of his will, turned around.

His eyes widened in shock, and rage. His teeth clenched and chattered in his mouth.

Teldrassil Burned.

“No.” He screamed, rage granting strength he didn’t know he had.

“No!” He screamed, lifting his head up to the sky and shouting in the midst of the chaos and carnage. He screamed at the sky, screamed at the dead, screamed at himself. He bit his own arm, dragging it up as he attempted to stand. The bone of his arm split out of his skin, blood still seeping from the wound, but his rage wouldn’t allow him to die. The pain was immense, his wounds were immense. His vision went pure white with agony, but his rage pushed him through, blood escaping from his mouth with every anger choked scream to the sky. The man who was dead stood, limping, and began to walk- to where, he knew not. But he knew that he could no longer die. He knew Justice laid in his hands.

The Horde thought they knew Blood and Thunder, no. The Dawn would show them what a storm truly meant.

#warcraft rp #writing #Teldrassil #BattleforAzeroth

[aglaecan]

‘ we’ve all got to stop running one day, you know. ’ ( u kno for who )

watership down || @nihtwulf

All her short life, she had known the Noldor as refugees.Never did she see them in their glory, in the height of their power. Never didshe stand beside Caranthir’s black lake, in the shadow of his white keep. Neverdid she look out across the rolling plain… green in the spring, golden by autumn, become a study in monochromes for winter… which was Thargelion, dotted bythe homes of his people, their arching walls and sinuous curves which gracedthe landscape as elegantly as if they’d grown there.

She had only ever seen them as this. This reduced folk, muchfaded, in their wild and woodland life among the feet of the mountains, betweenthe rivers, beneath the spreading canopy of trees. She had only ever seen themafter they had started to run, retreating from a battle which had torn nearlyeverything from them. Everything but their Oath, and their pride.

He watched her, in the dimness, never sure how much hermortal eyes could see, but knowing it was less than his own. His armor laynearby, prepared for the morrow. His axes had been honed, ready to be borneinto battle again. He could feel the Oath stirring in his blood, beneath hisskin; if he looked at the inside of his wrist, he nearly expected to see inkthere in his veins, shifting tengwar in his father’s tongue. It had been putoff for so long. It could be, no longer.

The Girdle had fallen. The half-blood whelp was defenseless.The Silmaril was nearly burning within their grasp. It had to be now. It had to be now.

And Caranthir, with the foresight so often granted to hispeople, knew that he’d not survive it. He knew that, should he walk into thoseunderground halls on the morrow, in the van of his folk, he’d not walk out fromthem again. He’d bleed out his life in the pursuit of his Oath, and his bloodwould be the color of ink with how it swarmed in him.

He looked at his brave girl, who’d been his daughter despiteall the reasons she should not be. He looked at her, with her own armor readiedfor the assault, and her own brave oath… not the one he’d taken, but toosimilar by far, so similar it tasted of bitter walnut gall in his throat…driving her to stand at his side. He remembered the moment of his own father’sdeath and how Fëanor, before his spirit had fled and his body had dropped toash, had made his children recite again their Oath to him.

He would not do the same. He lifted an arm and she squirmedand burrowed under it as she had done when she’d been so much littler, so tiny he’dfelt like he could break her with a careless gesture. “We will stop running,”he told her. “We are done with that. We will turn at bay, and savage them who’dkeep us from our rightful heritage.”

A long silence fell, broken only by the pop and crackle ofthe fire as sparks flew up to join Varda’s stars. He tasted smoke, and ash, andknew them for portents and memories at once. “If I should fall, my i arya, my daughter,” he said,carefully. “I want you to run. Find the dwarves in the mountains. Use my name.Cross into the eastern lands, where I have always wanted to walk. Make a lifeanew, and bring with you your memories of me. If I should fall, you must not.”

#nihtwulf #i sure do know. i sure do. #welcome to die.

[anoutlandishfanfic]

Metamorphosis: Chapter 14 - Jet Black, Part One.

The premise: What if Claire conceived on her wedding night?

You can read previous chapters here.

October 20th, 1743; Inside the Courthouse

“Let us call the next witness,” bellowed the jowled examiner, dismissing the man who’d recounted my brush with the Loch Ness monster with a flick of his hand, “Laoghaire MacKenzie of Castle Leoch.”

It wasn’t a surprise, per se, to see Laoghaire step forward to cast her stone, but I also hadn’t expected it. I’d known since the very beginning that she was the one behind this whole debacle, and, yet, it seemed I’d underestimated her.

Laoghaire would stop at nothing to ensure that I was convicted guilty of witchcraft.

“She wasna Mistress Fraser when we first became acquainted,” the bitch began, “she was Mistress Beauchamp then. I came to her for a potion tha’ would open Jamie Fraser’s heart to my own.”

Wavering, she brought a white handkerchief to her cheek, eliciting a murmuring of sympathy from the crowd, “I’m sorry, tis painful to talk about.”

Jesus H Roosevelt Christ, how could anyone believe these crocodile tears?

“Did you concoct such a potion?” The examiner on the left demanded.

“It wasn’t an actual potion,” my head spun at the preposterous accusation, “I was just trying to--“

Ned Gowan leapt up from his bench, “Clearly, she’s a just a young lass with a broken heart!”

“Aye! My heart was broken,” Laoghaire rounded on him, eyes blazing, “I was the one Jamie was meant to marry!”

She quickly regained her composure, her sudden fury slipping beneath a mask of feigned grief, and started again, “When I confronted her about the potion, she said she’d taken it herself, that she needed Jamie to fall in love with her to conceal the true nature of her bastard child. She told me how she’d lain with her kelpie lover and conceived in Loch Ness and without Jamie’s affection the bairn wouldna be born human.”

My jaw dropped involuntarily as I struggled to process her words. The uproar around me spoke of their immediate comprehension, but I was still several paces behind.

I — with — what the hell?

“And—” she waited until she could be heard once more, “and that’s when she struck me.”

“This is nonsens—“

“Did you, in fact, strike this woman?” The first examiner inquired, outraged.

Yes, and if she was within reach just now, I’d gladly do so again.

”She put an ill-wish under my bed and then tried to seduce my husband!” I exclaimed instead.

…

Later, by the shores of Loch Beannacharain on the outskirts of Cranesmuir.

I cried out as the leather strap struck me once — twice — three times. Each lash tore across my shoulder blades with the searing heat of a branding iron, every stroke encouraging the mob of uneducated peasants into an even greater frenzy.

Four.

My body recoiled, pulling against the men who held my bonds. They stood firm, irresolute as they leered at me. My bare back and gaping bodice left little to their imagination, it seemed, and they made no effort to hide the pleasure they found in their job.

Five.

“Ye’ll burn, witch,” one of them spat, making Laoghaire’s parting words swarm around my head.

I’ll dance upon your ashes.

Six.

A cry, of sort I hadn’t heard since the war, pierced the air and it was with considerable shock that I realized it had come from me. I’d lost the control over my voice, I was at the mercy of the primal instincts that overtook my body in response to the unbearable pain.

Seven.

I was plunged into a soundless chasm of darkness as a ripple of agony started at my shoulders and descended into my hips. The shockwaves stole the very air from my lungs, making me wish for death itself. I felt each individual muscle constrict and release, only to do so again and again.

Eight.

I had no doubt now, none whatsoever, that I would loose them… it was only a matter of time.

Please, my spirit begged, let it be over soon.

Nine.

“Claire!”

Jamie’s voice yanked me to the surface, up and out of my pain induced stupor. I struggled to open my eyes and, suddenly, there he was; he and Murtagh. They stood back to back, swords brandished and teeth bared as they fought their way towards me.

“Hold still,” he commanded, tossing something at my head. It hit its mark and the jet rosary Colum had given me as wedding gift fell around my neck. I’d never worn it and Jamie had kept it in his sporran from the moment his uncle had given it to me.

Addressing the crowd at large, Jamie surged forward, “Jet will burn a witch’s skin, no? Still more, I should think, would the cross of Our Lord.” I wobbled as the men who’d been holding me upright let go. Jamie pulled me to him as he lifted the crucifix off my skin, “But, see? Not a mark.”

“Sir,” one of the examiners objected, “you have no place in the workings of this court!”

“I swore an oath before the altar of God to protect this woman!” Jamie roared, his arm tightening around my waist, “If you're telling me you consider your authority to be greater than that of the Almighty, then I must inform you that I am not of that opinion, myself.”

We slowly began creep towards the edge of the crowd, moving in the general direction of Murtagh and the horses. The mob didn’t give way for us. They muttered amongst themselves, instead, as they held their ground.

“He’s the witch’s man.” “She’s hexed him, to be sure. Ye can see it in the lad’s eyes.” “Look at tha’ horse! No doubt o’ what he is, ye ken.” “The kelpie — He’s come to rescue his lass!” “Take him too!” “Burn him! Burn ‘em all!”

Without warning, Geillis’ voice rose over the top of the cacophony of threats and gossip, sending them all into a stunned silence.

“This woman is no witch, but I am!”

#outlander #outlander fanfic #Metamorphosis AU #chapter 14 #jet black