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sarah-bae-maas · 4 years

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Reign of Queens Chapter Three

When Aelin fell through worlds, she never dreamt that she would make it to Erilea alive. Half of her dream became a reality, she was alive, but she certainly wasn’t in Erilea. With foes at every corner and a powerful family ready to cull her for invading the body of a loved one, she has no choice but to play the games of the Night Court until she can figure out how to return home, hopefully without dragging anyone with her.

An AU! where Aelin fell into Prythian by mistake.

Masterlist Ao3

Chapter One Chapter Two

(If you’re wondering why I don’t much anymore, I feel like the audio it’s mental illness innit on TikTok sums it up pretty well. But I’m working on it!)

***

Azriel watched as the women hurried in the direction of the city. The woman, he thought, because that was most definitely not Nesta. He didn’t know how though. Because in a way it was still undeniably her. She smelt the same, she spoke with her usual venom, but Azriel had watched his brother’s mate for many years, and the way she moved was beyond the capabilities of Nesta.

And although her words held malice, he also found himself wanting to laugh with her. Like before, when she’d told Rhys he’d look lovely with a blade him in. Azriel had to forcibly refrain from laughing, and to remind himself that he should not find threats on his brother’s life as funny as he did. Azriel never really felt like laughing when Nesta was around.

He did not fly after her, Not-Nesta was too often searching above her. She was a smart one, too. If she wanted to evade him she could have. He could tell the moment they hit the forest’s edge as they were fighting that she meant to flee into the thicket, and she would have been able to if it had not been for Rhys.

That fight alone was proof enough to Azriel that this wasn’t Nesta. He had never seen some of the techniques used, and he found her a worthy opponent. He also took note of her visceral reaction to a whip, which was unusual considering it was Nesta’s weapon of choice.

Azriel did not want to go to Rhys with his theory until he had either proof or information on what Not-Nesta was up to. He could not so lightly break Cassian’s heart.

Velaris was still hesitant after the evacuation, not as many people milling about. Nesta wove through them without a thought – moving around them with footsteps as light as a dancer.

_____

The library was one of the grandest Aelin had ever seen. Sprawling in large spirals and winding in every direction, she could tell why this would be a solace for the women that worked here. Nesta gave her a brief history on the library’s inhabitants, but even if she hadn’t Aelin would have been able to tell. They had the look to them – that undeniable gleam in their eyes that spoke of trauma, of hardships but survival. It was one Aelin had seen in herself, in Lysandra, in little Evangeline. It was a look no woman or person in Endovier would ever have the chance to have. No person in Terrasen, Erilea, the world once Erawan was done with it. Her throat felt tight, and she rested her hand over her heart as if it might subside the pain. One of the librarians noticed and touched her elbow gently.

“If there anything I can get you, Lady Nesta? The usual?”

“Water would be nice, thank you,” her words blurred.

So you know them well? she asked Nesta. Well enough to have a ‘usual’ at least.

Cassian suggested I get to know them. Grow from them. Learn a little something or two.

Aelin didn’t need to ask why that might have been.

The woman returned and gave her a glass of water. After skulling it, Aelin asked after the book. Nesta had already told her that what you tell these women is always in confidence, and not even Feyre or Rhys would ever reach into their minds for information. It was too much of a violation, apparently. Aelin personally thought doing it on anyone seemed immoral. When Nesta explained Rhys’ magic Aelin had vivid flashbacks of the Valg princes at Mistward – but who was Aelin to judge morality?

“We haven’t had it here for years,” the librarian said apologetically. “The High Lord thought it’s presence made us vulnerable to attack.”

Aelin’s face fell; she felt Nesta sigh in regret.

“However,” she continued, “we have books about that book, and ones that date as far back. And if you have a particular subject in mind, I may be able to find you something with comparable content.”

Aelin gave them something better. She asked for a piece of paper to write on and jotted down a few harmless wyrdmarks. She asked for anything that had those symbols, and they gladly helped. Aelin took a seat, recognizing that although all libraries felt like a little slice of home to her, this was not her forte. And honestly, it was about time there was something she wasn’t at least fantastic at.

Aelin didn’t know if it was because she had been thrust into this world of if it had been from her forced rest, but she was exhausted. Even Nesta was quiet. Her eyes were sore, arms heavy, and her shoulders and neck started to ache.

She rested her head in her hands, her heavy eyelids fluttering. Whenever they closed, she saw the face of Rowan – grave, scared, hopeful. She perfectly saw the set of his jaw, and the twitch to his hands. To anyone else, it might seem like he was showing nothing at all. But she knew him better than that. Between visions of him, she saw Dorian. Both Dorians, now that she knew there were two. Gods, she hoped Dorian was alive and well. And she hoped that Chaol had learnt not to be as emotionally stunted as a pin cushion, so he could help his friend through this time.

Aelin wasn’t quite sure when she fell asleep, only that she was awoken by a slamming hand next to her head.

“Nesta, fancy seeing you here.”

Aelin bolted upright and turned to sneer at Azriel, who was closely followed by Rhysand. They both looked well, and although Rhysand was scowling, Azriel looking down-right jovial. An act, if his hard-set jaw was anything to go by.

“What brings you to the library?” Aelin asked casually, as though she didn’t still have drool on her face from her nap and tangles in her hair from where she had pulled at it in her sleep.

“Wanted to do some light reading,” Rhys said, his eyes glowing with something Aelin couldn’t name.

“What about you, Nesta? It’s been months since you’ve come here for a social chat.” Azriel’s hands were fisted too, even if his body was relaxed.

“Keeping tabs on me?” Aelin sneered. Good thing she had spent half her life learning how to talk to pompous men with big bank accounts and bigger egos, otherwise she might grovel at their unworthy feet. Instead, she presented herself as a challenger – as she knew Nesta would.

Azriel looked at her – dumbfounded. “Yes. Yes I am.”

Aelin didn’t expect such an honest reply.

“Don’t you want to know how he is?” Rhys questioned, stepping to Azriel’s side, one of his hands going to his shoulder.

“You look ravishing Azriel, your arm healed nicely I assume. Fae blood does such wonders.”

Aelin knew she had said something wrong the moment the words fae blood left her mouth. Nesta, who before now had chosen to stay out of this interaction, cursed.

Azriel shared a look with Rhys.

“I was not asking about me,” was not what Aelin thought Rhys would say. “I meant Cassian. You haven’t asked how he is.”

Azriel isn’t a fae you dumb fuck. He’s an Illyrian, so is Cassian, and so was Rhys’s mother.

Aelin coughed at the name. It wasn’t something she’d never been called before, but to hear it so softly spoken as though it were a fact was quite jarring.

And ask about Cassian. Please. I need to know he’s okay.

Aelin did just that, and Rhys practically glared at Azriel as he answered. “He’s worried, and Feyre is beside herself.”

“She’s thirty weeks pregnant, it’s to be expected that she’s emotional.” Repeating facts was good, showing them that she knew things was good. Calling Azriel a fae had been a strong misstep, one hopefully redacted as a slip of the tongue.

“The baby has nothing – Nesta, what are you doing?” Rhys glanced behind her, taking a peek at the books the librarians had procured for her. Books and – and cookies, bless their hearts.

“Some light reading. Which I was hoping to do in peace, if you would politely leave.”

Good luck trying to get HigH LoRd RhYSanD to do anything. He’s so stubborn he makes you look reasonable. Ask more about Cassian. Ask if he’s still going to Illyria today.

“Is Cassian still going to Illyria today? Maybe you could join him. He might actually like being in your presence.” Aelin smiled sweetly at the two men, trying to distract them from the books she was subtly trying to push aside.

“Cassian has decided to stay home, in case you need him,” Azriel said slowly, carefully deciding his words. Aelin tilted her head, studying him. He was quite beautiful, the kind of beautiful that would have made her do reckless things in her youth. And the darkness that surrounded him… although personified in the male in front of her, it reminded her so much of her Rowan that she wanted to scream. What had become of her in her own realm? What horror was Rowan facing alone? When she did what she did, she did so knowing that she would die. This was infinitely worse in some ways – she had no idea what was now happening at home. Was she comatose? Was she dead, and this was the afterlife?

And a possibility she didn’t want to linger on. That she could go back and be with him. But only if she made it in time. She knew Rowan better than she knew herself, and she ached at the possibility of what he might do if he lost another mate.

He might just try to join her in a death she hadn’t yet been granted, and she couldn’t exist in any version of reality that didn’t have Rowan in it.

That is how I feel about Cassian. He is everything to me, Nesta confessed, the words honest and strained. Tell them they should make him go. He needs a distraction, and I don’t want him seeing me like this. Azriel may assume I’m on a bender, and I don’t think I could cope if Cassian thought the same. Azriel and Rhys would feed him that lie. I fucking know they would.

“He should go. He has so much to do, and I don’t want him lingering and worrying,” Aelin said, looking down to try and seem more passive. Maybe if they thought her harmless, they would leave her be even if something was wrong.

“We tried. He doesn’t want to leave you.”

His gallantry was noted and would otherwise be appreciated. It was also clear he wasn’t the only stubborn Illyrian Nesta knew. The two in front of her wouldn’t budge even if it meant saving themselves from her wrath.

I don’t think they respect you very much, she told Nesta.

I prefer fear anyway.

Aelin hummed.

“Something funny?” Rhys asked, pulling up a seat beside her and swiping one of her cookies.

“I was just thinking… maybe I will go home. Make sure he’s okay.”

What? Why are you doing that? He’ll figure you out, idiot. Or worse, he’ll think I’m on the piss.

Aelin picked up the books, hoping she would be allowed to take the volumes home with her. There, they would leave her be. She just had to hope that if Cassian really was Nesta’s Rowan, then he would love her enough to keep her secrets. Aelin had the whole walk home to think of a lie extravagant enough to get them all off her back and figure out how to ask Cassian to not mention her new choice in genre. Something told Aelin these books differed from the obvious romance titles that lined Nesta’s personal shelves.

I’ll help you, Nesta said. If only so you leave quicker.

#rowaelin #nessian #tog #kingdom of ash #a court of silver flames #acotar #fanfic #feysand #acowar

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i-did-not-mean-to · 3 years

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Never say never - Chapter 6

So, here’s the next instalment of this little romcom story...

°6° ~Victoria~

“But, I insist upon apologising to the other people in attendance, again.” Victoria hated apologising, but Martin had been right in telling her off about snubbing people who had done her no harm…this far.

Knowing that it would make Martin laugh, she snatched up a bowl of peanuts and held it in her palms like an offering.

As expected, the man beside her doubled over in hilarity, holding his sides as the wheezing grew painful. The polite but confused looks of his friends and colleagues seemed an endless well of amusement to him.

“Ah, thank you.” Hiddleston took up one of the nuts gingerly and shoved it into his mouth as if it had been a ritualistic offering indeed. “See? The tamest of…beasts.” Martin whispered into her ear, and she was tempted to pat the golden hair on the man soothingly.

Following the other man’s example, Armitage also picked a nut and ate it, keeping his eyes questioningly on her face.

“Look pleased, girl, smile at them.” Martin said in a hushed voice, nudging her in the side gently.

Victoria was almost sure that she was grimacing, her teeth bared awkwardly, but she had never been good at smiling on command and this fraught situation was, unfortunately, no exception to this shortcoming of hers.

“So, tell us, what did you refer to when you called this a “nerd-fest”?” Martin prompted her gently to speak, seemingly understanding that direct exhortations would get him nowhere with her. It was, in general, always best to come at a petrified Victoria sideways, starting a seemingly inconsequential conversation and letting it flow from there.

“There are literally dolls of you.” Victoria scoffed, moving her hands vaguely in front of her body in an imitation of how a child would play with a doll. “Not soft though, hard plastic…” Her hands sunk back, she was making a fool of herself.

“Dolls?” Liza hooted gleefully. “Well, I’ve also seen the theatre productions.” Victoria said, just a moment too late, her voice tinged with resentment again. She hated being caught unawares and being goaded into saying stupid shit.

“No, you tell me more about the dolls.” Liza was having fun, but her expression was devoid of malice or ill-will.

“Liza, I have seen those funny movies with the costumes and the creatures and…” Victoria sighed, she didn’t remember the names and she was already at a disadvantage here. She felt caught and put on the spot amidst these people who, naturally, knew those movies so well, down to the very lines of the characters.

“And did you like them?” The good beast, Tom as he had introduced himself with a smile, was grinning at her warmly again. Yes, she could see what Jenna saw in him, he seemed to radiate warmth and a polite friendliness.

“Oh, yes, very much. It was a bit…sad though.” Victoria shrugged. She was not ready to explain to a bunch of strangers that she didn’t like seeing bad family relations and vicious fights, as her reality had enough of those to last for a lifetime.

Liza looked at her questioningly, but after a moment, she understood. She had seen Vic pick up on the most random things, but strained family relationships and weird homosexual undertones were always amongst the things that moved her most. Also, like most soft-hearted, even though Vic was equally hard-headed, women, Victoria hated untimely deaths.

Maybe, her plan would work after all. All she had to do now was to draw back and hope that Armitage had a tad of charm on his own. He had taken the peanut and he was giving them his best constipated smile.

Waving discreetly at her wife, she withdrew, pulling Jenna along with her, much to the chagrin of the young woman.

“That is one good-looking man.” She sighed under her breath and Liza turned around, scanning the room for the person her wife’s employee might have meant by those words. Martin followed them discreetly, coaxing Benedict along with the promise of more cakes and sandwiches (and a prime vantage point to follow the developments of their plan).

“Where are you all going now? What?” Vic called out, distress in her voice. “I’ll be right back; you stay with Armitage.” Liza grinned suavely, physically shoving Jenna along as she dug her heels into the carpeted floor.

Victoria blinked, looking up at the man in front of her until she could feel herself grow slightly dizzy.

“Oh darn it! That’s it. I’m done trying to be pretty.” She cursed under her breath, opened her tiny clutch bag and fished out a pair of gold-rimmed, round glasses that she put on resolutely. Unfortunately, she could not suppress the gasp.

“Oh Saints.” She sighed under her breath as the slightly blurry surroundings became sharper instantly. She had known that these were dangerous men, but she had believed that her myopy and the artistry of the editors had embellished them considerably; suffice it to say that she was shocked to find that she had been wrong.

~Richard~

They had left her alone with that woman. Not entirely alone of course, Hiddleston was still hovering around, but Martin that treacherous weasel had followed the cakes and the gentler women, leaving him stranded with this surprising creature whose eyes made it quite hard for him to find something relevant to say.

She blinked owlishly up at him until he thought that she’d go cross-eyed. To his surprise – another one – she usually wore glasses and when she put them on, an obscene sound of pleasure escaped her half-open lips.

Again, she called to the Saints, pushing the glasses up before they had even had the chance or the time to slip, which told him that she wore her glasses more consistently than him and probably had done so for a long time.

She had made an inane comment about no longer attempting to be pretty, before putting on her glasses but that made no sense at all to him, as her glasses were beautiful and, in a strange way, so was she.

Obviously, pushing up her glasses was a habit or a tick as she did it twice while looking at him as if he was a painting in a museum rather than a real, living, breathing person. Then again, he stood nearly as still as a statue under her forbidding, critical gaze that roamed over his face with detached curiosity.

“Hmmm, how do you find the 1971 Armitage then?” Hiddleston stood next to her, eating peanuts, and joining her in her intense study of the immobile man facing them. No doubt, he deserved the attribute of “stony” now, Richard thought, dismayed to be the butt of the joke after all. He had known that had been a risk and he had walked right into it.

“1971?” She asked absent-mindedly, throwing a quick questioning look at her interlocutor before returning her gaze to him, and Richard flinched a little bit. Why did that man have to lead with his age when talking to a woman that young?

“A collectible, I’m sure.” Hiddleston purred, his voice laden with affectation which made Victoria chuckle again.

Hmmm, if it made her laugh rather than growl and spit, he would be standing there and be mocked for a little while longer, Richard decided. She looked like she needed a laugh.

“Not quite an antique.” Victoria opined, but Hiddleston was quick to reassure her: “Almost though. It’s been wonderfully preserved.” Again, that pealing, throaty laughter resounded, and Richard’s own mouth curled into an indulgent smile.

“This deserves to be in a gallery.” Victoria murmured, her voice devout and strangely vulnerable.

“I am right here; I can hear you.” Richard interjected, without much hope to break up their little game.

“AAAH, as you can see, Ma’am, it is unfortunately haunted. It can tell the time…if you hang it opposite a clock that is…” Hiddleston was quick to take Richard’s intervention in his stride, giving himself an apologetic expression that amused Victoria greatly. “Haunted? A piece of art so young?” She expressed her doubt and suspicion.

“Yes, yes…It’s looking for a good home though, a nice attic or a cellar maybe…” Hiddleston was waving his hands around Richard’s face as if to dazzle Victoria by the speed of his movements, an old trick salespeople used to distract from the inferior quality of their wares.

“I have a home, thank you, Hiddleston. I am not a piece of junk to be sold for 50p in a yard-sale.” Richard growled.

Her face grew grave, and he wondered what dark thought had crossed her mind to make her smile die on her lips. Immediately, he regretted having cut short their fun. He really was the grumpy, old sad sack he never wanted to be.

~Victoria~

When Tom spoke of attics and cellars, Victoria was immediately reminded of the stately house her father had raised her in. She could imagine a man like that one living there, she could picture a painting of a man such as that hanging in the great hall over the fireplace or high above the broad staircase winding its way to the two separate wings of the manor.

He had a skin like the Italian marble that had been so ridiculously slippery and that had made her afraid to take a fatal tumble down the very same staircase. Many people had told her that the idea was ludicrous and overly dramatic, but she knew it to be possible. Her mother had died that way.

Yes, there had been a bottle of bourbon and some prescription drugs in the mix as well, but the fact remained that her mother had fallen down the staircase and died on the spot from a broken neck. Father had replaced that patch of marble, but its veining was different, and they all hated that marred, ugly square that stood out like a sore thumb.

Thinking of her childhood home invariably made her sad; but she couldn’t deny that Richard Armitage would have fitted better into the décor than the little girl she had been.

He would look terribly imposing on the steps of the stairs or sitting in the huge armchairs in front of the roaring fire in the library. He would not be swallowed by every piece of furniture, he would not look out of place in the huge copper bathtub, and he would certainly not blend into the dark corners of the much too spacious rooms when the main lights were turned down. Maybe, she would have to get a painting of him and try to sneak it in to see if her father would even notice.

“Would that he were a painting.” She murmured, a desperate note sneaking into her voice that Tom picked up on immediately. There was pain in this woman, and he could see the gooseflesh on her arms as she tried to keep still. Evidently, she was on the verge of breaking into another run, unable to cope with something that distressed her, a thing that escaped his notice though…which frustrated him, as he really wanted to help her.

“So, you prefer the theatre to the cinema?” He asked, hoping it would be the right path to choose.

Victoria took a deep breath; this was what Liza and Angie had aimed for, for her to meet new people and talk about herself again. “I don’t know, I’ve only been to the movie theatre a few times before. It was a long time ago though.”

She could remember the smell of popcorn and of anticipation as the room grew dark and the screen lit up like a window to another world. Even then, she had been consumed with an absurd fear to be among so many other people; terrified of what they might think of her if she was to gasp or cry at the wrong moment, so she stayed immobile.

The man who would marry and divorce her within 10 years had thought that she had hated the experience and hence had not asked her to go to the cinema often afterwards. Maybe, if he had believed that she liked it, he would have taken her instead of other girls and this shared hobby would have strengthened their bond rather than frazzle it.

Victoria coughed, she had said too much already, and her heart was pounding. She was not ready for this.

“I’m sorry. I have to go home. I’m not feeling well.” She uttered hastily, turning to leave.

She was a terrible person; she had tried to make things right and all she had managed were fits and starts, broken off conversations that would leave a stale taste on the silver tongues of these men.

“I…can’t.” She stammered to no-one in particular as she waved at her friends and vanished before they could make their way back through the room to keep her from leaving like an absurd perversion of Cinderella.

She wanted to say how sorry she was, she wanted to thank them for their kindness, but she just couldn’t…so, she ran, her feet drumming against the pavement and her dress soaking up the moisture of the ground as she made for the next corner to catch a cab.

By the time she arrived home, her chest was heaving frantically, and she was crying with panic and distress.

When she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, Victoria had to admit to herself that she was irrevocably broken. She had had the great honour to meet people so fascinating and charming that many a woman would have torn out her own throat to be in her shoes and yet, she had not been able to shake the ghosts haunting her every breath, dogging her every step, spoiling her every pleasure.

Whatever Angie and Liza had thought they could achieve here, it would not happen, it never could.

~Richard~

That woman was utterly confusing. There were threads of a vibrant, quick-witted, funny person shining through behind a veil of confused anger, but somehow, they couldn’t get a hold of her.

In his mind, he could not reconcile the words he had read on the pages with the wide-eyed distress on her face; there was such a difference between the person he had imagined her to be and the person she had turned out to be in reality.

Now, it was true that his own taciturn demeanour had not been exactly conducive to drawing out the parts of her she was obviously hiding from the world, shielding them like deep wounds or fragile saplings.

Hiddleston however… that man was charming and even he had not managed to make her let down her guard for more than a few minutes at a time.

“What the fuck have you done to her?” Elizabeth stormed over, dismay writ plain on her face.

No, she had been angry before, she has bloody screamed at YOU, Richard thought, you cannot blame us for her leaving…but he still felt responsible and a tiny bit guilty. If he had been a little more open, she might have felt less insecure.

She has made it very clear that she’s afraid of you, he reminded himself, and you have done nothing to assuage her fears. No, you’ve given her your crooked, sharp-edged smiles that must indeed have looked like a predator baring its teeth at her more than the shy warmth he wanted them to convey.

“We were nice, all was well until Armitage gave her one of those cold, snide smiles.” Hiddleston shrugged and Richard felt weirdly hurt and betrayed even though he could hear that it had been a joke. Cold, a thing he had been called much too often and that made him despair within his own heart. He had not chosen his face and even after 50 years of life, he could not outrun its angular repulsiveness.

She had not known him well enough to be prejudiced, maybe, she would have been able to find warmth where others saw ice, but he had not managed to make her see. Also, Hiddleston had not been a great help.

“Awww, Richard, come on!” Martin sighed, disappointed, as if he was pursuing some ulterior motive Richard ignored.

#richard armitage #fanfic #fanfiction #fluff #romance #romcom #ao3 #writing #rpf #hurt #trauma #a miss is a miss #vintage armitage #humour

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