Elriel Month: week four: choice, true mates, and balance (peace version)
They painted her as a frail maiden who would faint upon encountering violence for the first time. Their mistake, not hers. Elain was not a maiden neither an estranger to the cruelty of the world, she saw violence many times.
When they dragged her from bed in the middle of the night. When they hauled her across the room to push her under the cauldron’s dark waters. When her humanity was taken from her as if it was nothing, replaced by this strange new existence. When she was taken prisoner, lured by the illusion of her heart's desire coming true, submitted to eons of visions she wanted no part in. When she went to war and watched people dying, lost between memory and reality, watching her sister and brave Cassian killed on the battlefield. She saw it all. Countless of times. Whether she closed her eyes or not, the dreams would find her and take away her sanity.
Azriel’s large hand came to rest on her thigh, pulling her further up his lap. They had agreed on entering in a clandestine romance two months ago, becoming basically inseparable since. Elain let herself slouch against his chest, his gentle but firm strokes undoing the knots in her muscles, moving under the hem of her dress with less firmness, changing into an intimate lovers caress. Aware of her wandering mind. Tenderly anchoring her to the present. She breathed in and out, lungs filling with pure air, watching the stars sprinkling the night sky like powdered sugar covering a fine desert. Azriel kissed her temple and Elain sighed content, leaving long mellow kisses in his strong jawline. Once, twice, thrice. “Aut inveniam viam aut faciam.” She vowed against his skin, his scent burning a fire in her soul.
His other hand knotted around her hair, turning her face to him. “What does it mean?” he voiced with interest.
Azriel was slightly familiarized with the intonations of the language she was set on learn at the moment, having spent a few nights sharing her with the old book that either rested on her bedside table, or her lap. Elain caressed his cheek, tracing the shape of his round ear, his eyes growing soft and lovely, melting into a beautiful shade of hazel that was almost green. Watching her.
Unable to hold back, she gave him a peck, not caring that they were in Feyre's garden, their family still lazing around inside, bellies full from dinner, fully trusting his shadows to veil them
“I shall either find a way, or make one.” Elain translated patiently, her words sounding more of a promise than a simple translation.
Azriel bumped his nose on hers.
“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that?”
“So say it,” she challenged.
Azriel cleared his throat, rehearsing the words on his mind. “At vain. Vain vian,” he struggled and stopped, deciding he had better odds to do right from the beginning. “At vain, vain–what?”
Elain giggled at his attempt to pronounce, flattening her palm on his cheek.
“Not ‘at’, my love, is ‘aut’.” She corrected patiently, kissing the tip of his nose. “Aut inveniam viam aut-”
He crashed his lips on hers.
“Curl your tongue like that again.” He challenged, drunk in love. Azriel wasted no time before slipping his tongue in between her plump lips, lapping the roof of her mouth, as if he was trying to learn the words through taste, coaxing a moan out of her. Elain pressed her chest to his, their heartbeats frennetical, synched, turned to one.
The path the gods chosen mattered not;
They were determinate to create a new road;
Together.
105 notes
·
View notes
meeting wyll at the grove, as someone who the tieflings trust enough to train their children, says so much about him. it's so sad that he doesn't get explored in acts 2-3 as deeply as the other companions, when his problems are equally intense. the average player probably long rests once before coming across the grove, but even if not, in that time wyll has already proven to the tieflings that they can rely on the Blade of Frontiers.
this is the immediate first thing he chooses to do after being condemned to slow death via ceremorphosis. his priority list in the first conversations with tav is: 1) hunt down a dangerous devil, 2) help zevlor with the goblins, 3) once nothing threatens the tieflings he will gladly search for a tadpole cure. wyll is perpetually his own last priority, and i wonder if it has to do with the lore about souls.
if he believes mind flayers' souls have been destroyed, and fiend warlocks will all have their souls sent to the hells after death, then becoming a mind flayer isn't the worst possible way for him to die. he would never become a mindless monster to save his own soul, but he's not gripped by horror the way that some of the other origin characters are. lae'zel has been made revoltingly impure to her people, astarion is terrified of losing the scrap of bodily autonomy he just regained, gale is guilt-ridden over the orb detonation if he dies, shadowheart has to survive to prove herself to her cult leader, and karlach has also just regained bodily autonomy and is desparate to live.
this is just another quest for the Blade, whose persona guards wyll ravengard against the vice of self-concern when he ought to be concerned for those in need.
1K notes
·
View notes
al-haitham’s the kind of guy who tilts his head slightly for a kiss before you even lean in to give him one. he just knows it’s coming. expects it. trusts it’ll happen.
he’s yawning when he sits at the table for breakfast, hair slightly disheveled from sleep. he sits down and when you place the mug of coffee in front of him, his head angles a little for that kiss you place on his cheek.
he’s drowned in endless paperwork at the akademiya when you stop by to visit, chuckling when he gives you that look of despair at the all the work he has to do. you don’t even manage to walk up to him fully before he’s leaning in and waiting for the kiss to the top of his head.
he’s shirtless in the bathroom, brushing his teeth at night when you walk in to brush yours too, bumping hips with his as you giggle. you don’t even have to turn before he’s tilting his head so he’s exposed and ready for that gentle peck you leave at his jaw.
“have you ever noticed how demanding you are for these,” you chuckle one day, pressing a kiss to his cheek to prove your point.
he grunts, leaning in and burying his head into your neck as you greet him at the door after a long day. “what makes you say that,” he mumbles.
“you’re ready for one before i’ve even come close,” you grin, “what if one day i don’t kiss you?”
“you’d stop kissing me?” he asks, squeezing your hips as he nuzzles into your neck. something tells you he already knows your answer.
and he’s warm. he’s close. he’s here and he’s everything all at once. he’s all you need and everything you’ve ever wanted. he’s the messy hair of your mornings and the pouty lips of your afternoons and that shirtless back of every night. he meets you halfway—maybe even takes the first step so you don’t have to.
he leans in for that kiss before you do. because he needs you, wants you, loves you—and he never lets you forget it. so you turn your head, press your lips against the side of his head and run your fingers through his hair as he sighs in content.
“no,” you hum, falling in love all over again, “no i’d never stop kissing you.”
2K notes
·
View notes