#its NOT noticeable...unless youre RHYS!!!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

impossiblescissorspeachpaper · 11 months

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marks of love like blooming orchids on your skin

elriel month prompt eight: veil

Light NSFW.

Elain was sliding her arms into the sleeves of her black dress, having just finished the final touches to her makeup, when she noticed the shadows in the corner of the room thickening and stretching, warping the light around it.

Tendrils of soft shadow curled about like water rolling in a gentle boil before he materialized, and Azriel stepped out of the realm of his shadows.

His face was passive, as if he belonged there, as if striding into her rooms was the most natural thing in the world. Elain mirrored his expression, not succumbing to her surprise at his appearance in here, now.

He didn’t usually appear directly in her rooms at the river house unless it was one of their predetermined private meetings, and they had not discussed a meeting of any sort for now. Of all times, now was definitely not the time.

Elain quietly wondered why he would come to her just before their Solstice visit to the Hewn City. They had all decided to meet in the foyer of the river manor when they were ready.

Curious.

She tuned back to her vanity, the corners of lips rebelling against her wishes and lifting into a small smile. Her eyes narrowed in thought, remembering his apprehension upon hearing about the proposed plan when Feyre had come to them. He must be concerned then. Mother hen.

Flicking her eyes to him through the mirror at her dressing table she stated of the obvious.

“Everyone will be ready in a minute.”

She needed the reminder just as much as he did. Because if they started anything, gave in to their base urges and got carried away, they would surely be found, and it was almost time to go. It was imperative they not be late. Not tonight. Tonight’s mission was too important.

His eyes flashed, taking a step closer to her, his gaze not wavering from hers in the reflection.

“I just came from the House and Cassian and Nesta were still…busy. Rhys, no doubt, will still be primping.”

She huffed in amusement, eyeing him skeptically.

“And Mor?” she challenged. She was only a few doors down the hall, after all.

Azriel’s lip curled into a smirk. “Mor is even worse than Rhys.”

Elain chuckled, angling herself to maintain eye contact with him through the mirror as he moved closer to her. He loomed over her, his powerful wings peeking over the tops of his shoulders.

Already dressed in his full Illyrian armour, he was a menacing force, ready to deal the loathsome inhabitants of the Hewn City their reckoning— should it be found necessary.

Truth Teller was tucked at his hip and a long blade sheathed down his spine. Every step he took was deliberate as he stalked towards her, his eyes never wavering from hers as he edged ever closer. The heat he radiated warmed her bare back as if she were standing before a roaring fire, its warmth hungrily lapping at her exposed skin.

The scales of his armour gleamed in the low light, his cobalt siphons polished to perfection, the dazzling blue striking against the midnight black. Even his talons at the tips of his wings appeared sharper, more menacing, as they glinted in the dim faelights. She drank him in greedily, her eyes gobbling up the sight of him.

Azriel’s head tilted to the side, his hair sliding across his forehead with the movement as he observed her inspection of him.

The unextraordinary black dress they had chosen for her to wear tonight hung loosely off her form, the gown still unbuttoned up her spine, causing the tulle to hang low across her back. Azriel drew a hand up to her neck, his fingers grazing her skin and tucked his fingers beneath the black material. Heavy lidded eyes drank in her smooth skin greedily as he pushed the sleeve back down her arm, exposing her shoulder. She shuddered beneath his featherlight touch.

Elain had been styling her hair when Azriel appeared, sweeping half of it up with two combs of pearl, the remainder of her hair cascading around her shoulders. Azriel scooped up the rest of her loose curls with deft fingers, twisting the golden tresses around his mottled fist and held it up, away from her neck.

Hazel eyes roved over the expanse of her bare back and neck as the fingers of his other hand swept across the smooth stretch of her shoulder blade, down her arm, tracing the few scattered beauty spots across her skin and down the knobs of her spine.

He tucked his face into her neck, inhaling her sweet scent and Elain shuddered again, the caress of his warm breath igniting her senses. His lips fluttered across her skin, leaving a light, tender kiss on each dip along her vertebrae.

Lavishing the creamy skin of her neck thoroughly, he traced his lips along the elegant trail of her spine, reverently worshiping every tiny piece she allowed him to take.

He went down, inch by inch. Lower. Until he was on his knees, kneeling on those brilliant blue siphons behind her. His thumbs pressed into the dimples in her lower back, just above her backside, as his fingers curled around her waist, her dress gaping on either side, open and inviting him to touch.

“Az... we’ll need to go soon,” she bleated submissively, her voice breathy and weaker than intended. Her words not at all sounding convincing, even to her own ears.

“Mmhmm,” he simply hummed against the skin at the dip in her back, ignoring her flimsy objections.

Elain bit her lip, her fingers clutching the table of her vanity to stabilise herself as Azriel’s lips continued mapping every dip and freckle of her back. His exploratory hands kneaded and squeezed their way over to her hips, hugging at her curves greedily before he abruptly spun her around.

She wasn’t sure if it was the hurried movement or Azriel’s hands and lips trailing across her body, but her head was swimming in the most delicious of ways, heightening all the small touches and grazes Azriel was raking across her burning skin.

He gazed up at her, the look on his face reverent, awed, as if he was on his knees praying to a sacred goddess for salvation, rather than kneeling before her with no doubt much more debauched thoughts than what may cross one’s minds during prayer.

Unfurling his legs from his position at her feet, he stood before her once more, his imposing figure obstructing her view. He filled her vision. There was nothing but Azriel before her, he flooded her mind. His warriors’ frame crowding her sight, sheltering her from reality.

Wordlessly, he reached for the neckline of her dress, slowly prying it off her. He dragged it down her shoulders, her arms, her chest, her stomach. Unhurriedly pulling it away until it was merely a cloud of black lace and tulle pooled at her feet.

Leaning away from her just slightly, he took her all in as his eyes raked down her bare body. Every inch of her unmarked, alabaster skin gleamed at him in the faelight.

“You are exquisite,” he rasped. He grazed his knuckles along the line of her waist, his touch only intending to tease, causing tingles to erupt across her skin.

His pupils had all but swallowed his irises as they volleyed hungrily along her naked form. The fingers of his other hand twitched at his sides, aching to touch her too.

Elain had painted her lips in a deep berry red colour, and it was now the only thing she wore as she stood before him. The plump pillows of those deep red lips parted as her breathing grew shallow from the intensity of those keen eyes, rendering her to feel more exposed, more seen, than her current nakedness.

Sidling up to her, he ever so gently tilted her face up toward his with a finger and thumb at her chin, her eyes dragging up his broad chest, his strong throat, and ultimately landing on his mouth. Elain drew a hand up, resting it on the scales of his armour, right above his heart, the heat from his skin radiating through the cool leathers and warming her palm. He kept his heavy-lidded gaze locked on hers as he tipped towards her, pressing the faintest of kisses to her bottom lip, her lip-colour staining his own just slightly before he descended on her neck.

He groaned; a deep, wanton thing born from his belly. A hungry beast roaring to take, taste, devour. A flush erupted across her skin at the sound of his need, her blood vibrating in answer to his call just beneath the surface of her skin.

“Look how you blush for me, Elain.”

His lips ghosted her throat as he spoke, tickling her thundering pulse as he whispered the words into her burning skin.

“Like a flawless, cream canvas. Ready for me to mark however I choose.”

His breath skittered across her burning skin, Elain deciding she would be willing to be reduced to ash if it only meant he could consume her entirely. She would allow Azriel to take and take and take if it meant they could stay like this.

Sinful. It was so sinful.

Elain was ready to beg for mercy, beg for more, for him. All of him. He needn’t do anything but whisper those illicit thoughts of his. His wicked words truly were her weakness. Her need clawed at her insides, consumed her mind, willed her to give in. Risk it all, for him.

Scarred fingers grazed up her arm and retreated down her back, his touch teasing and leaving goosebumps pebbling in its wake.

Elain’s breath hitched; her eyes fluttering closed as her internal thoughts warred against one another. Duty and pleasure. Nightmares and dreams. Honour and disgrace. It was wrong, ill-timed, but… she could never stop. Didn’t want to. Not with Azriel. She’d damn herself for the eternal afterlife if it meant she could keep him now.

“Yes,” she breathed.

And that was all the permission Azriel needed before his sinful lips latched onto the delicate skin behind her ear, just hidden beneath the sheet of her thick golden hair.

He sucked at her flesh, his tongue greedily licking and tasting her. Her head lolled heavily to the side, giving Azriel more access, the anxieties of the looming mission they were about to head into melting away with his wicked mouth.

He pulled away and his eyes blazed at his hedonistic creation, the purple mark he had left on her alabaster skin already darkening. He seemed to relish in the imprints he left blooming just beneath her skin.

“So pretty,” he purred.

He dropped to his knees before her once more, his hands following the same path along her body. Those scarred hands caressed the soft curves of her belly, his fingers lazily tracing the contours of her stomach, her slim waist.

Eyeing her like a hungry wolf might observe its prey, he sunk his face into her abdomen, his tongue darting out to lick a wet trail from her navel all the way down to the top of her sensitive slit. He paused just before he reached where she longed to have him, lips lingering at the top of her delicate folds.

His fingers pressed into the soft flesh of her thighs as he kissed and licked his way back up, finding tonight’s desired target just below her protruding hipbone. His mouth latched onto the place adjacent to the where her hip met her thigh, his tongue lapping and sucking the pale, sensitive skin there.

A breathy moan escaped her lips as Azriel sucked at the tender spot, his teeth grazing her skin and causing her arousal to shoot through her veins like comets hurtling through space. He pressed his lips and teeth more firmly against her hip, the pleasure he was wringing from her deliberately bleeding into pain and he pulled at her skin with renewed fervour.

Elain bit her lip harshly as he continued laving at her, her hair tumbling down her bare back as her head rolled back in ecstasy. He knew how to balance her on that edge, expertly swinging the pendulum between the ache of want and the sweet relief of gratification in ways she never knew she would come to desire.

Dragging his mouth away with one last flick of his tongue Azriel blinked open his eyes and gazed hungrily upon his handiwork.

A scared thumb traced the moist patch of bruised skin with a reverence she didn’t know he possessed. His eyes addled with lust, he groaned at the sight, the sound shooting straight to her throbbing core.

“So pretty. Just like your flowers,” he murmured, his fingers trailing across her raw skin.

Elain sunk her fingers into his thick hair, not caring if she mussed it, and peered down at her stomach. A lilac bruise was forming where his mouth had been, three small marks in a little cluster, slowly blooming across her hip in various shades of pink and blues.

Elain bit her lip at the sight, stifling a moan. It wasn’t enough that Azriel was on his knees before her, dressed in his Night Court black armour, hair dishevelled, and lips swollen. But the marks he had left on that very intimate part of her body, the smile that crept across his face at the love bites he had left there... It was almost enough for her to throw caution to the wind and beg him to take her now, Court of Nightmares and Eris be damned! Let him fuck her into oblivion instead. Let him leave an entire valley of bruised flowers across her flesh.

Her knees wobbled as she clenched the muscles of that needy place between her thighs.

Elain inhaled a shuddering breath, tracing the marks with a finger as Azriel’s eyes hungrily followed their path.

“If anyone sees these—” Elain began.

“Who would possibly see them?” Azriel’s eyes glimmered as he responded.

Elain felt the pads of his fingers digging into the skin of her thighs with a hint of possessiveness, jealousy flashing across his features.

“Well, if the plan with Eris really backfires tonight…” Elain teased, before smirking down at the Shadowsinger still crouched at her feet.

A growl loosed from his throat as he buried his face in the soft skin of her stomach again, his hands each gripping the swell of her hips to keep her in place as he smothered himself in her curves. He licked a stripe from the top of her slit right to her navel. Elain’s fingers tightened their hold in his hair as she shuddered with pleasure above him.

“Wicked woman,” he uttered darkly into her sensitive skin before nipping a spot at her belly lightly between his teeth.

“Possessive male,” she shot back.

Her lip lifted at the side as she fought to stifle a smile, staring imperiously down at him. His lips left her skin, and she immediately regretted the loss of contact.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I simply didn’t want you to miss the flowers when we are down in the Hewn City tonight.”

She snorted delicately, seeing through his sarcasm. “Of course. It had nothing to do with you knowing your love bites would be blooming across my skin, just hidden beneath my clothes the entire time.”

A roughish grin spread across his face, a dimple appearing in his tanned cheek. “Not at all.”

“Scoundrel.”

Azriel chuckled, his eyes gleaming in the low light of her room.

“Something to remember me by, then. When Eris falls at your feet, begging for your hand in marriage and whisks you off to the Autumn Palace.”

Elain didn’t let her disdain at that idea show, playing into Azriel’s game instead. “Hmm… as much as I love to see powerful males on their knees before me, he would never look as good as you do down there.”

Something akin to a purr rumbled from his chest at the veneration. “And don’t you forget it.”

Pressing one last, lingering kiss to her navel, Azriel unfurled himself from his position before her, capturing her red lips with his on his way up before helping her back into the drab black dress she was to wear into the Court of Nightmares.

If their efforts were to be successful, Eris would overlook the middle Archeron sister completely. Even though it was impossible for Elain to appear as anything but utterly beautiful, Azriel silently prayed to any deity that would hear him that the glamours Rhys would weave around her would do their job tonight. He loathed the idea of any of them being used to bait Eris in this way, but both Elain and Nesta were adamant to go through with the High Lord’s plan.

Azriel finished helping her with the row of buttons that trailed all the way up her back and pressed a single kiss to the budding bruise he had gifted her behind her ear.

“Don’t let anyone uncover your secrets tonight, Lady,” he murmured hotly into her neck.

Shaking her hair so it flowed freely down her back, she locked eyes with him in the mirror before her, allowing a pretty blush to creep up her cheeks. The picture of virtuous innocence.

“Never.”

*******

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#elriel month 2023 #t writes #elriel #acotar #elriel month #acotar fanfiction #elain x azriel #elain archeron #azriel #elriel fic #elriel smut #prompt eight: veil

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thefangirlofhp · 1 year

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somewhere in these eyes (i’m on your side)

in which Elain and Nyx look after Azriel when she notices he’s not getting any rest.

The morning in the home of the Night Court royals had been particularly a busy affair from the earliest peak of the sun’s rays over the first mountain range, dawn having been greeted by a home up and running in defiance of its usual habit. For the High Lady’s sister, it is a normal ordeal to greet the sun, and her usually quiet time in her garden amongst her plants and flowers was interrupted by the commotion of the others waking up.

When Elain walked into the kitchen, early garden hours forsaken for the sake of preparing breakfast, she found herself face to face with the person she least expected to find so early in the day.

“Hello,” she says simply, hands absent-mindedly brushing her skirts down as Azriel straightens up from a slouch against the countertop.

“Good morning,” he bids back, voice sharp and well-attuned to match his alert eyes. His hands encircle a chipped mug, steam floating up from the interior and disappearing somewhere in the air. Elain’s nose picks up a startling smell of coffee—the good kind. The smell alone is enough to shake up the sleepier parts of her mind up.

“Up so early?” she asks, grabbing the lavender apron hung up amongst two others. She glances at him while wrapping the ends around her waist. “Or up so late?”

“The latter, I’m afraid,” he murmurs, head bowed over his beverage.

“Then the coffee is a necessity, it seems,” she tugs her hair up and over her wrist, wraps the long tresses around themselves and secures the sloppy work with a ribbon. Azriel leans back, stretching his torso, and widely yawns. He has forsaken his usual Illyrian leathers uniform or the armor, resorting to a fitted shirt and pants blacker than night.

“Always is,” he rubs his forehead, and her eyes automatically scout the counter for signs of a vial gifted what seems like an age ago. He notices her gaze. “Would you like some?”

“Mhm, yes please,” she nods, striding to the kitchen’s back door where the daily groceries are delivered every morning.

Ceramic clinks, hot liquid is poured, the door swings shut quietly, basket wickers against the table and eggs thud on wood. Upstairs, Nyx is heard loudly yawning, muffled bidden mornings and gentle greetings. Somewhere upstairs, a family is waking up. But downstairs, Elain reaches for a hot coffee, in her favorite mug, sips some of it and sighs deeply. Though almost everything consumable is far superior on this side of the Wall, in Prythian, than anything she’s ever had in her human years, there is a trick to brewing coffee that she notices many people have not mastered. It is an infuriating thing, because the beverage is still more delightful than anything of the kind she’s had before, but there is an itch in the throat that it does not seem to satisfy unless brewed in a particular manner. A manner which requires patience above all else.

“Thank you,” she breathes to the most patient male she’s ever met in all her years, and directs her attention to the stove and the eggs that need cooking.

It is without a word that she finds herself scrambling eggs into prepared plates and slicing bread while Azriel slices up oranges in halves and squeezes the juice out of them thoroughly, while Rhys strides into the kitchen and Feyre follows closely with Nyx perched on her hip, as they all take their seats at the kitchen table and pass along cutlery and plates.

The early morning is owed to Rhys’ week-long stay at Day Court, an affair Elain’s not been privy to the reasons behind. She bids him farewell when she catches him leaving his study, and is asked to look after her sister and nephew. It is a useless request, but made all the same. Still, she agrees. Watches him walk off to the front doors, and catches sight of Azriel stowing away reports into thin air in the study, catch her eye, offer an acknowledging nod before disappearing into shadows himself.

Off to sleep, she reckons. She faces her own day.

Cassian extends an invitation from her sister to come join her and her friends for lunch at the House after their training, and Elain plucks some flowers from her garden to arrange in a gifting bouquet. Cassian keeps a red net around the thing in Elain’s hold while he flies her up, and Elain tucks a smile away at the thought of the great Illyrian felled by simple pollens, thinks what weak creatures they all are.

Tea is hot in the pot, fish fresh and salty in their plates, laughter and teases generous between them as Elain gets to know the females Nesta’s taken a liking to. Cassian is kicked out the House for having not showered, and Gwyneth threatens to douse him in cold water if he hangs around any longer. Emerie shows an interest in the art of baking, and for once, Elain feels like her hobbies can be a topic of conversation not held in the late three o’clock hours by people too polite to ask her to shut up. Gwyneth asks about icing, and Nesta explains the basics she knows and somehow it is not a conversation made to end but one more thing that people discuss in the name of conversation and companionship.

Azriel is seen passing by, rubbing damp hair with a towel and suited up to the final buckle in his Illyrian leathers. Nesta calls out to him, invites him to share their meal, and he brushes them off idly.

“Why, where are you headed all suited up?” Nesta asks.

“Something Rhys asked me to do before he left,” he replies, slinging the towel over his shoulder and it disappearing into thin air. “Why? Need anything?”

“I was hoping you could take us to the theatre,” Nesta grins sheepishly. “I kicked Cassian out because we were going to discuss his birthday present.”

Azriel pauses, running fingers through his hair. “When do you need to go?”

“Dusk,” Gwyn chimes in. “It’s the seaside theatre? The opening act starts at seven.”

He nods slowly. “I’ll be back then.”

“Bye!” they all echo as he leaves, and Elain brings her teacup to her lips. Emeries asks Elain about any suitors and somehow it is the curious inquisition in order to get to know her, and she finds that it is easy to discuss her love life or lack thereof with women—females—her age and it strikes her dumb with how normal it is.

Emerie flies her down to the riverfront estate, promises her to once again repeat this happy occasion in the future and Elain gathers her things to go tend elderly fae’s gardens for the rest of the day. It is less about the actual act of snipping roses and pulling weeds so much as it is keeping them company in their lonely lives, previous losses having cost them their families and anyone to spend their time with. So they sit with her in their iron-wrought garden chairs and offers her refreshments while she listens to them recount their days and she plants seeds and waters bushes.

Sun sinks down, and Elain passes by the Palace of Bone and Salt to purchase lamb chops and spices for dinner. On her way to the estate, she finds herself face to face with Azriel once more.

“Oh, hello!” she smiles, hitching her basket up to her elbow.

“Good evening,” he bids softly, twisting his knuckles in his palm.

“Back from your task?”

“Mhm. Just dropped the girls off at the theatre. You didn’t join them?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t have the time. Feyre likes painting this time of day and I promised to look after Nyx. I’m preparing dinner. Come by?”

“Can’t, I’m afraid. I’ve a meeting in a few minutes. Need help carrying that home?”

“No thank you, I can manage. I’ll set you aside a plate, in case you stop by. Take care?”

“Thank you. I will, you too.”

Feyre paints in her studio, Nyx recounts the exciting tales of his day at the daycare from the kitchen table while he colours pictures his mother draws for him every night and Elain chops vegetables, cooks meat and stews soup. Birds chirp their final songs for the days in the trees outside, and it is calmly quiet as fire crackles under the pot and Nyx sniffs his way through dragging coloured pencils over parchment and it is serendipity at its finest.

Dinner is a gentle affair, Nyx repeating his day to his eagerly listening mother and Elain filling their plates with second helpings, Feyre asking Elain about the spices she’s used and it is another instance where Elain feels conversable; they talk about herbs and blends for the sake of hearing one another’s voice, companionship at its finest. Plates and cutlery clink and water sloshes and bubbles pop as they clean up after themselves, Nyx eagerly perched on a high stool to wipe plates clean after Feyre rinses off what Elain scrubs clean. Feyre sweeps up the floor, Elain gets the fire starting in the sitting room because the weather is taking a turn for the crisper tone and Nyx settles in his favorite spot of the furniture (Papa’s armchair) with his storybook that he’s too young to read on his own but still he entertains himself with the illustrations.

Elain fetches her book, while Feyre listens to Nyx interpret the tale of his book and logs pop in the hissing flames. Night-time rolls in, Nyx is soundly asleep all wrapped up in his father’s jacket and Feyre is looking over official documents and work fetched from Rhys’ study that she can’t be bothered to abandon the fire for. Her sister braves the hours wading through them and taking notes, while Elain reads through her book and feeds the fire. Just a little before midnight, Feyre calls it quits and sets them aside declaring them finished, quite proudly. Elain is proud of her, as well.

“I’ll take this one to bed, and turn in myself,” Feyre waves to her sister. “What are your plans tomorrow?”

“I’m spending the morning at the orphanage,” Elain flips the attached bookmark in place and closes the book. “I promised the children breakfast.”

“That’s sweet. Will you take him with you? I’m hoping he’ll spend more time around children.”

“Of course,” Elain smiles. “Do you need me to wake you for something?”

Feyre rubs the back of her neck as she thinks of her upcoming day. “No, I’ve got a meeting with the financial officers tomorrow at ten. I think I’ll sleep in and go flying after, Azriel’s promised to let me try an obstacle course.”

Elain blinks. “I think Nesta said he’s training the priestesses tomorrow.”

“Yes, after,” Feyre adjusts her sleeping son against her shoulder. “Cassian mentioned they’re going to start a tournament of sorts. I don’t know what the winner gets, he said it’s a surprise, though he might just be at loss, knowing Cassian.”

Elain softly chuckles. “He’s probably just bidding for time.”

“Hope he gets there in the end,” Feyre snorts. “Anyway, good-night, Elain.”

“Nighty, Fey-fey,” she softly echoes and her sister quietly giggles at the childhood nickname before making her way upstairs.

Elain decides to finish her book, and nods awake to the fire reduced to glowing ashy embers and faelights dimmed to little specks along the walls. She snaps the book shut and tugs her socks up her legs, only to hear the quiet snap of the door closing and Azriel’s tell-tale silent footsteps bringing him to the sitting room.

“Oh, hello,” Elain croaks hoarsely, softly in the quiet, as if the late night is asleep and mustn’t be disturbed.

“Hello,” he responds, sounding rushed, as he reaches for what Feyre’s left behind. “Did she say anything about them?”

“Um, not that I can remember,” Elain responds, confused. “Is there something the matter?”

“Was s’pposed to pick them up an hour ago,” Azriel leafs through them. “But I got held up by a spy.”

“Oh,” Elain realizes. “But I thought Mor or Amren were responsible for court affairs after Feyre?”

“Mor’s in Winter, Amren on holiday in Summer with Varian,” Azriel replies absent-mindedly and rolls the papers up in his palm. “Do you need anything?”

Elain blinks. “N-No, I’m all-right.”

Azriel straightens up, meets her eyes, breathes in and nods. “All-right. Good-night. Don’t stay up—“

“There’s dinner in the kitchen. Have you eaten—?“

He winces. “I can’t.”

“Sleeping can surely wait—” Elain chuckles.

“Oh, no, my work starts now. Bye, Elain.”

She is left staring at the spot he’d just been standing in. “…Bye.”

While Elain herself is one of those people who sleep little by default, when her eyes groggily open before the rise of the sun, she rolls over in bed and wishes she’d been a little kinder to herself prior when making plans. Still, she manages to push herself up and drag her feet to the washing room. Ice-water always does the trick, and pressing her numb fingers to her eyes squeezes remnants of sleep out of her.

She trudges downstairs to the cold kitchen in the quiet house, so eerie and calm this morning. Boils water and drags out the flour sack and hears the delivery boy set the groceries at the steps before rushing off to his next job. Flour is soft in her hands, finds its way beneath her nails and clouds up the air and surfaces around her, and kneading dough this early in the morning is the finest catharsis for all the things that are too early in the day to find names for. She packs up fruits and eggs and cheese, wraps up the steaming hot crispy batches of bread and wakes Nyx up.

The orphanage is bustling from all the children it houses, and Nyx remains glued to her side while she and her little helpers set out breakfast along the large dining table with its mismatching chairs. Eventually he is convinced to tag along with the others in setting out plates while Auntie Elain boils and poaches eggs, makes oatmeal and cuts up fruits into small colorful plates.

After breakfast she minds the children playing outside, holding the youngest babe and softly laughing at a young boy’s lispy jokes which he’s memorized from his joke-book that had been a solstice gift and guessing answers to a girl’s riddles. By noon, Nyx acts as if he’s never known any friends other than them and is too engrossed in their games. She helps the kids not old enough for school with their reading and mathematics and soon it is time to tend to gardens. She parts ways with them promising to come back, leaves Nyx with them to play for a while longer while she goes to work and sends word to Feyre in her studio.

The boy she sent off comes back with a note from her sister saying no problem I’ll pick him up, make sure to be back in time for dinner, I’ve got it covered!

It brings about a wince because while Feyre has the spirit of an artist, she has yet to extend that talent to cookery which makes actors of them all whenever they have to sample or—God forbid—eat some of her meals. Motherhood has brought a sense of proper nourishment requirements to Feyre but it’s yet to help her execute them in an orderly fashion.

p.s. It’s not my cooking.

Elain actually laughs out loud, too relieved for a supportive sister’s tastes.

By the time the sun calls it a day, Elain too takes off her apron and dusts of her skirts and walks back home through the busy city, taking the longer road in order to appreciate the sights Velaris has to offer in the twinkling twilight.

Coming home to the smell of a meal cooking might be one of those things Elain considers to be the equivalent of a hug that reaches the soul. It reminds her of simpler, nicer times. Nyx’s laughter is one of those too, as its tinkering and infectious sound brings a smile to Elain’s face as she takes off her shoes by the door and exchanges them for her slippers.

“Did my baby have a good time today?” Feyre is heard cooing, and she comes into Elain’s view standing in the doorway to the kitchen with her son at her legs, holding a spatula and making funny faces down at him. “Did he get to roll around in the dirt and soil his clothes?”

“Yup!” he proudly responds.

“Good boy!” Feyre cheers. “Oh, hello, Lain!”

“Hello, Lain,” Nyx echoes, grinning.

“Hi, baby,” she says into one of his cheeks and ruffles his hair. “Did you have a nap?”

“Uhu,” Nyx reports, eyes puffy and voice a smidge nasal. “Uncle Az put me down after we went for ice-cream.”

“Your Uncle Az was supposed to pick you up, put you down for a nap and take control of dinner in my name, but we’ve been abandoned.”

“Oh no, has something come up?” Elain startles, mostly from the way her heart drops so suddenly.

However, Feyre’s too unbothered for it to be serious. “No, he’s upstairs. Out cold. One day without their High Lord and mutiny runs amok—Cassian’s been holed up all day ‘working on that tournament’ and now Azriel abandons his post.”

“It was five minutes,” a deep gravelly voice quips and Elain whips round to find Azriel barefoot at the stairs in casual rumpled clothes, hair standing up at all odds. Somehow her heart leaps into her chest.

“In which I’ve already started on the chicken,” Feyre points the spatula at him.

His barely opened eyes fix on her. “Who do you think stuffed the fucking thing?”

Feyre hides a grin. “I thought it comes that way.”

“All you have to do is put the thing in the oven and make sure it doesn’t burn,” Azriel states, leaning an arm on the railing.

“A formidable task,” Elain teases.

“You just watch. It’ll be perfect,” Feyre promises, eyes narrowed. “Baby Nyx, go annoy Uncle Az.”

A task which their joy takes very seriously, and immediately carries out. Demanding Uncle Az read him his book, to watch him do cartwheels that he’s learned to do today, to draw with him and play soldiers with his blocks and to catch him when he runs around the sitting room.

“See that gorgeous female, Nyx?” eventually Azriel grabs the boy by the shoulders and points at Elain. “Unlike me, she’s dying to spend time with you. Shoo—“

“Lain not dying,” Nyx mocks, sticking his tongue out, but his uncle’s had enough. Evident enough by him slumping into the chairs at the dining table and letting his head thud on the table. Elain gives Nyx a magnifying glass and asks him to collect whizzles from the garden as much as he is able, without so much as an explanation what whizzles are.

Elain studies Azriel’s slumped posture and the leg he’s pulled up on the nearest chair.

“Are you all-right?” she finds herself quietly asking.

The question seems to take him by surprise, because he freezes for a while before sitting up. “Yes. Did you need anything?”

She blinks. “No. I—You look ill.”

He stares blankly. She can practically trace the darkness around his tired eyes and the circles expanded over to his cheek. His complexion looks pale to her, and she frowns a little.

“Are you sleeping well?”

He suddenly winces, both hands shooting up to clutch his temples with white-knuckled grasps and a soft gasp escaping his lips. She catches sight of red and open cuts along his arms and neck, and some littering his chin—she cannot remember the last time she’s suffered a trivial wound that hasn’t instantly healed-over. Illyrians like him wouldn’t even bear them in fractions of a second later—unless their powers were occupied elsewhere.

That’s it.

“You went flying with Feyre and trained the priestesses today, didn’t you?”

A muffled sound of affirmation resonates through clamped lips.

“Hold on,” she firmly says, marching into the kitchen where Feyre keeps the salve for her muscles and snatches up some from storage, boiling water and fetching cloths.

She comes back to him, only to see his pant leg rolled up to the knee and find him examining a large gash on the entirety of his leg covered by a thin meshwork of cobalt blue light. Elain quietly approaches, gently setting down the basin of boiling water, salve and cloths down before him.

“When was that?” she breathes, somehow heartbroken for a reason she cannot pinpoint. To think he’s been running around with those wounds on him—

He looks up and bites down on his lip. “Last night.”

“Why hasn’t it healed up?” she inquires, dipping a cloth in the water and soaking it up.

“Bit pre-occupied with this one,” he gestures to his chest. Her heart drops.

“Is it bad?”

“I’ve had worse,” he murmurs. “But the blasted thing’s claws had something in them that stops it healing. It’s a nuisance more than anything.”

“When—“ she stammers. “When have you been fighting creatures?”

“Yesterday, two days ago—more. Does it matter?”

“Can I see? Here, soak your hands in this.”

Azriel quietly obliges, stiffly grabbing the back of his shirt and dragging it off his back and torso, wings maneuvering mindlessly along with his arms. Elain finds herself facing a gash on his back tearing through a wing and another on the side of his chest wrapping around.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” she says quietly, staring at the injured wing. “But this is ridiculous and irresponsible.”

He tenses up. “I’m sorry.”

“Enough,” she says firmly. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“I don’t sleep—“

“When?”

His face twists in thought. “I—a week ago? I think. I haven’t been at the House for a while.”

“Why?”

“Your earplugs were a very thoughtful gesture but they fall short in the face of a freshly mated couple, you know.”

“Come sleep here.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Just can’t. Orders. Besides, exchange one newly mated couple for another?”

Elain finds herself frowning at the wounds on him. “Don’t you have a home?”

“The House was where I lived.”

“But now you don’t.”

“You needn’t worry—“

“Soak your hands,” she softly but firmly orders, soaking a cloth in the hot water mixed with antiseptic and healing potions. “May I?”

He quietly complies, and the way his shoulders slump is nearly comical.

“Can I touch you?”

“Mhm.”

Elain tentatively lays the warm cloth along a muscle by his wings, studying the blue-coated wound carefully. “I’m going to put salve on your wings.”

“Be my guest,” he mutters, his head hanging.

Her fingers shake in the slightest when they spread salve over wings and muscles, but her will’s reinforced by the way Azriel completely deflates and collapses against the table, upending the remaining water over his scarred hands and arms. Elain works out tight knots in his back, mindful not to stretch the wounds, to refresh the hot cloths along his muscles and the one at his neck. Azriel is exactly what dough was in her hands this morning, compliant beneath every movement of her fingers.

“Why don’t you lie down ‘till dinner?” she suggests, rubbing out the remaining salve from her fingers and picking up the shirt he discarded on the table.

“Azriel?”

He manages to push himself up, but not before wiping his face on his arm, making her heart stop.

“What is it?” quiet, soft, gentle, barely above the sound of a breeze in trees.

“Nothing,” he sniffs, taking his shirt, avoiding her eyes. Glistening face. “Just—no one’s noticed before.”

“When’s the last time someone looked after you?”

The question hangs heavily in the air, one Azriel avoids by ducking into his shirt and taking his time pushing his arms through it. In a way, it is answer enough.

“No-one notices,” he explains, ashamed of his reaction. “When you first did, I was taken aback, and it was funny at the time—the joke you passed it to be. But then I realized I’ve been too starved for my own good. I’m sorry, but I never know how to be when you see me like this.”

She doesn’t know how to be either.

He sits up straighter, tugs the leg of his pants down over the gaping gash and surreptitiously wipes his face on his elbow. “Has Feyre burned the chicken yet?”

Elain remains quiet, arms hanging at her sides, and somehow there’s a hallow feeling in her chest that sucks the air into it.

Azriel looks over his shoulder at her, putting on a smile that reaches his eyes but it doesn’t bring Elain much joy. “I boiled the potatoes, would you mash them, please? I’d do them myself—“

“All-right,” she quietly relents. “You just stay put. Go lie down.”

An order that’s ignored, she discovers. While she is mashing potatoes and boiling vegetables and Feyre sits like a cat in-front of the oven monitoring it with hawk-like attention and determination of a boar, Nyx comes back from the garden with all sorts of insects in his jar and grinning widely, worms his way in his uncle’s lap and insists on telling him all about the creatures. Azriel, bless his kindness, listens without a word.

“No living creatures on the table but us, Nyx,” Feyre reminds, bringing out the chicken with as much pride as she presents Nyx to the world, Elain following behind with potatoes and gravy and waits for the boys to clear the table up. Everything is swiped away into thin air, vanishing in a sneaky shadow that gobbles it all up.

“Teach him to put things away properly!” Feyre cries out. “Not whoosh everything off like there are people to pick up after him!”

“There are more things to do with your time than put things away neatly, Nyx,” Azriel tells the boy, just because Feyre’s scowl is funny to witness, who bobs his head in agreement and climbs into his own chair.

“You’re lucky you’re the politest of the bunch,” Feyre smiles through clenched teeth. “If you were Cassian, I’d spit in your food.”

“If I were Cassian, I’d eat it.”

Nyx laughs heartily, and it’s a sound that never fails to bring smiles to their faces. Elain takes a seat while Feyre plops mashed potatos and green vegetables on plates and pools gravy over them, passing them along to Azriel cutting up the chicken. Nyx balances his fork on the bridge of his nose—tries to—until Elain grabs her knife and shows him how. It’s nice to break decorum every once in a while for fun, especially in the company of your family who couldn’t care less about your misdemeanor. Nyx does them the honor of being their entertainment for the night, saying ten sentences for every bite he eats with his mother nagging him to finish his plate. Threats of cancelled dessert fuels him to comply.

“What did you want for dessert?” Elain asks, pushing around a bean in her plate.

Nyx’s face lights up. “Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate cake with strawberries and cookies and—“

“Hey,” Feyre nudges him. “What is this, solstice?”

Elain turns to Azriel, who’s been quiet all throughout. “What would you like..?”

Her question dies off as her eyes take in the food he has barely touched, the tight expression on his face and the clamminess of it. He stares at his chicken as if, if he moves his eyes, he will be sick immediately. Jaw clenched, brow furrowed, lips pressed tightly. The pain in his face physically ails her.

Her fingers toy with the fork in them, and redirects her attention to the bickering mother and son.

“How about cookies?” she offers.

Nyx bobs his head eagerly.

Elain wants to ask Feyre to make Azriel take a break, but she doesn’t think it’s her place to do so, not when Feyre and Azriel remain at the table after dinner overlooking documents and discussing court affairs. So she keeps her silence, implores Nyx’s help in baking all the while mulling things over in her mind.

Elain plates them cookies, cinnamon and vanilla that have a mouth-watering effect of a smell, and brews herbal tea from her garden. Sage has a never-ending list of beneficial properties, for all ailments, but she doesn’t know, still. For humans, sure, but faes who are self-sufficient and self-healing?

“Thank you,” Azriel looks up at her when she places a lavender plate before them, and three cups of tea. She avoids his eyes, busies herself with pouring the drink and offering one to excited Nyx.

She quietly monitors him out of the corner of her eye, while he and Feyre pour over court business together and she plays blocks with Nyx. He hides it well, incredibly well, while speaking with his High Lady—one look at him and you’d never guess he had a care in the world. But the untouched dessert and drained teacup tells Elain otherwise. Feyre eventually abandons the work an hour later, and joins them for a game of make-believe, leaving Azriel sat where he was, shoulders hunched and back bent over his work.

Block turns in Elain’s hand, she watches his frame contemplatively.

“Anyone up for a board game?” she asks the room at large.

Feyre pushes her hair over her shoulder, contemplates the offer and shrugs. “I’m up for it. Az?”

“I’ll have to decline.”

Elain leans against the couch, worrying her lip with her teeth. “It’s rude to work after dinner.”

“By whose decree?” he replies with a chuckle, pen audibly scratching away at paper, head plopped in his palm, fingers threaded in his hair.

“Mine.”

Azriel pauses, looks up and over his shoulder. “I must beg your forgiveness then, my lady, and ask you to excuse me.”

Damnit, polite people.

“I’m surprised you’re keeping us company. Don’t you have things to do?”

“If my lady is bothered by my presence, I can always make myself scarce.”

“And go where?”

“I’ll find someplace.”

“You would have if it was an option.”

Azriel stills. Feyre watches them closely with curious eyes, ignoring the nudges Nyx delivers her side, her lips toying with the idea of a smile but somehow unsure if it’s merited. “I invited him to stay. Well, forced him, really. I…” she hesitates. “I don’t like the house without Rhys. Feels empty.”

Elain pulls her knees to her chest. “What will your husband say to you replacing him so soon, I wonder?” she teases.

Feyre snorts. “Please. As if he hasn’t left an extensive list of instructions to look after us to that one before he left.”

Azriel blows out a heavy puff of air and bows his head.

Elain watches him clutch his forehead tightly, brow furrowed. Slowly, she stands up and strays to the liquor cabinet locked up with spells keeping the contraband out of Nyx’s wandering hands. She rummages through and finds a small bottle, just where she’d left it.

She comes to the table with her books and sketchbook, brings a new serving of tea and settles down in a nearby chair, careful not to move his things spread out on the surface, or to spill any tea.

“You didn’t have to,” he murmurs gratefully when she sets a saucer and teacup next to his hand. “Thank you.”

“It’ll help, with the headache.”

His eyes linger on hers for long, round and quiet and thankful, and somehow it warms her insides. Elain opens her botany and healing textbooks, and says nothing else. Bows her head, and so does he, and the silence is upheld by Nyx’s words, Feyre’s storytelling, blocks knocking into each other and the ground, thuds and rustles and pen scratching paper. Hours later makes the mother and son retire, Feyre to her painting and Nyx to his dreams, and Elain braves into her garden in the dark followed by floating faelights illuminating the way.

She must have overlooked at least one pesty root, she reasons. Hitches up her skirts and crouches by bushes and flowers. Faelight obediently glide overhead, and descend when asked, shedding light on the plants she examines. But Elain does not find what she’s looking for.

Her extensive care in her garden comes back to bite her, it seems. Growing such a large haven of plants brings her much joy, but it also means a large expanse of greenery to search around and under, and a crushing disappointment in her failure.

Eventually she’s scratched enough skin and irritated much bushes and insects, and her fingers find what they’re looking for. She grins with relief when her hands tug the itchy spiked root out from beneath a bush of roses, and nearly hugs the thing.

Azriel is still hunched at the table in a sore posture. She decides to ignore it while crossing the sitting room to feed the faint fire with more logs, and spread her kit on the floor. It requires much muscle-effort to ground the weed with her pestle and mortar, and it’s quite noisy but he doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t acknowledge Elain’s grinding of the remmenthond root and its mixture with athelas. By the time she’s found herself grinding her pestle in paste, an accomplished grin stretching her lips, Azriel sits upright with a deep sigh and a stretch that pops loudly in several places enough to make her wince.

“You should have listened,” she chimes, brushing hair from her face. Azriel groans lowly, and stands up carefully. “How’s your leg?”

He tests his weight on it, a flash of a wince ruining the effect of his words. “Fine.”

“Usually you’re a much more prolific liar.”

“I take offense,” he stretches his arms to the sides and approaches her. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Found weed in the garden, I read it could be useful.”

Azriel joins her on the floor, stretching out his long legs. “That’s not nothing. What’s the weed?”

She pauses, and glances at him. “Remmenthond. And athelas. Here, I made sketches.”

Stained, paste smeared fingers reach for her sketchbook and flip it open, slide it across the carpet. Azriel picks it up, and examines the drawings.

“I think I’ve encountered them before,” he muses. “Never thought they’d have uses.”

“Well you probably know Remmenthod as the Snare.”

He chuckles softly. “I’m ashamed to say I don’t.”

“That’s all-right,” she reassures, putting down the pestle and letting the paste sit. “Most people don’t.”

“And this?” he points to one she hadn’t named. “I know this.”

“Azuradan,” she informs him. “It’s a renown pain-reliever. It’s also known as Farmer’s Sorrow.”

“Mhm. I pride myself on my ability to survive in the wilderness, but I realize now that I’ve been suffering needlessly throughout.”

“You’re self-sufficient so you have no use for it. Others not so gifted with your powers need this information to survive.”

Azriel traces the pages tentatively.

Elain wraps her arms around her knees. “Azriel?”

His head jerks up suddenly.

“How was your week?”

The question is one that is casual, friendly, and caring. She asks because she wants to know, genuinely, and the way he stares says that is exactly what is leaving him at loss for words.

“Good,” he whispers.

“What have you been doing?”

He blinks. Then his eyes soften. “It’s an exhaustive list. Not entirely pleasant, either.”

She’s not an idiot. “What’s your favorite dessert?”

“What’s with the questions?” he softly breathes, gently closing her notebook. Elain shrugs.

“Can I not befriend you?”

An honestly innocent look overcomes his face. The expression is alien on him, the male who is renown in the entirety of Prythian for being the Night Court’s legitimate terror personified. One look at him when they first met and Elain had immediately known Azriel was the source of all the tall horror tales spun about faes. And still, his soft voice and polite conduct was a contradiction to everything he was that had ensnared Elain ever since.

Moth to a flame. She cannot help herself.

“The last time I’ve been befriended, it was Cassian throwing me off a cliff to teach me to fly,” he muses. “You’ll excuse me if I’m not acquainted with gentle friendships.”

She smiles. “I can be coarse.”

He tilts his head. “Why would you change the very thing that sets you apart? I like you for your gentle touch and kindness.”

It is Elain’s turn to be at loss for words.

He adds, after a moment’s hesitation: “We all do.”

“Yes…” she finds her voice. “Though sometimes I wonder if it’s… well if it leaves things to be desired.”

A little furrow appears between his brows. “How so?”

She pulls her knees closer to her chest. “It is alienating,” she confesses, hushed, barely heard over the roaring fire. “I am surrounded closely by…loud beings. Their personalities are boisterous and large, and I’m afraid they have to, well, purposely shrink in order to interact with me. Or I have to puff out my chest and be something I’m not comfortable being.”

Azriel stares, quietly, hanging onto every word.

“It’s hard to find a footing with them,” she clarifies. “I feel most times the only common ground to be found is something trivial, and it holds us back from true friendships. I’ve declined to use my voice for so long that it’s gotten hard to find.”

She looks up, hesitantly.

Azriel is staring blankly at her, notebook spine pressed to his knuckles.

“I understand,” he blurts out. “You probably think I don’t, but I truly do.”

Elain presses her cheek to her kneecaps. Shrugs.

“They really do give me headaches,” he says with a smile that brings one out in her. “I don’t exaggerate. They’re loud and pigheaded and incredibly stubborn, and on good days when they fight, only a few mountains rumble. Everyday is a power struggle. Another competition, another game, another bet to best. But they’re the fiercest loving fae anyone can have. They’d quake earths and tear skies apart for you.”

“I know,” she breathes out. “I only mean it’s lonely sometimes, being the butterfly in the background amongst giants.”

Azriel bows his head. “If it means anything, I like joining you in the sidelines.”

“I used to think you did too.”

His eyes flash to hers. “Why wouldn’t you still?”

Elain blinks slowly. “Wasn’t it a mistake?”

Azriel, to his credit, maintains his composure. “I was…confused. I misread and mistook and overstepped. I’m not proud of my blunder.”

She looks towards the fire. “Mhm.”

“But your company is never a mistake.”

Her lips twitch. “How was your day, then?”

The grin is practically audible in his voice. “Abysmal. I don’t know when it even started. Spent all night hunting down the Fourth Trove based on a tip in a spy’s report I’d met earlier, and all it led me to was this great ugly brute of a serpent creature in a cave guarding some High Fae’s lost heirloom with a bit of power to it. I had to send it to the Prison, it was a grade 2 and all I had on me was Truth-Teller so I had to get close and personal with it. Oh, we classify the great monsters into grades, have I ever told you? Worst of them are the special grades. I had the misfortune of meeting…”

And out spilling comes a gush of consciousness and words as Azriel recounted his days and tribulations. Elain listens to every word as if she’ll be tested on it, and in some ironic sense she’s too distracted by the cheer in her chest as Azriel spills every intelligent thought in his head in soft tones, enunciating his words with hand gestures and proper facial expressions, resorting to his shadows sometimes to depict a scene. He leaves nothing unsaid, all the things no-one’s deigned to tell her like Rhysand’s leave, or the objectives behind his missions, the problems reported in meetings and trials of court, the current geopolitical situation and afoot policies. He discloses classified information like his favorite winter drink and preferred dance, his first fight, his taste in clothes. Asks her sensitive questions like her favorite colour in a dress, or the interest behind her hobbies, plans for her gardens.

And for the period of time, there on that ground before the fire that he feeds occasionally, Elain is human once again, at home in her skin, listening to an interesting boy she’s met at a ball and sharing her own mind. For a while, Azriel’s exhaustion is forgotten, as he reclines on his back and stretches on the floor, asks about the healing properties of common herbs, listens to her talk about plants with fervor and incredible attention.

And when Elain’s eyes tease open, forced by the cool sky in the window lightening up a smidge, it is to a dark sitting room, ashes in a fireplace where red coals were burning, and a soreness in her side from sleeping curled up like a cat on the hard ground. She is sitting up, rubbing her hipbone and ribcage with a wince, until her eyes focus on Azriel stretched out a few feet from her, right where he’d been listening and talking to her. Out like a light. Arms lax at his sides, eyes peacefully closed, a faint blue glow emitted through his pant leg and shirt where his wounds are.

Azriel wakes to the ruthless onslaught of sunshine on his face, and the too-loud sound of boisterous Nyx in the kitchen shaking the very earth awake. A muffled breath escapes his nose and rumbles in his throat when he turns his head to the side, still getting his limbs to wake up as well, trying to make sense of where he is and how he’s fallen asleep.

His lips peel apart, his eyes are burning, and a cough escapes him. Somehow he feels like he’s been trampled by a wild boar and simultaneously been beaten into a pulp over every inch of his body. He cranes his neck, looks around him and realizes a pillow’s been placed beneath his head, and someone’s tucked a blanket over him. A frown twists his face as he sits up, barely holding in the loudest groan ever heard by sentient life.

Despite the physical soreness, Azriel hasn’t felt this clear-headed and rested in ages. He rubs his eyes, brushing sleep-dust from the corners and noticing the vanished marks on his hands.

Tugging up his shirt reveals a neat, crusted spreading of paste along his wound, covered by the blue light of his siphons. Smudging aside the smallest possible touch of paste from the edge, he’s surprised to be faced with a healthy red covering of healed tissue in contrast to the gaping open wound previously.

Feeling like he’s been slapped around the head, Azriel makes himself stand up, wincing at the ruckus that Nyx is making—too loud this early in the day—and looks at the clock hanging from the wall.

Noon.

He’s slept till fucking noon.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—

“Why don’t you go see if Uncle Az is up, Nyx?” Elain’s voice floats from the kitchen, soft and pleasant. “Don’t disturb him if he isn’t.”

“Okay!”

The little lord comes running, and pauses abruptly at the site of him. He then promptly cheers so fucking loud. “Uncle Az! Now we can have cake!”

“What?” he’s taken aback by his own hoarseness.

Elain pokes her head out of the kitchen, a pleasant smile on her face. “Oh you’re up! That’s nice, now we can play cards.”

“I—I’m late for—“

“Nothing,” Elain announces. “I’ve cleared it with Feyre, and she’s utilizing Cassian and calling in Mor from Winter. You have absolutely nothing to do for the entire day.”

“But Rhys—“

“He’ll understand. Besides Feyre gave the go-ahead. You have a fever and a cold, for crying out loud. Now go sit down and wrap yourself in a blanket, we’ve made you soup. Nyx, make sure he doesn’t move. If he does, scream at the top of your lungs.”

“Got it!” the evil little lord grins up at him. “Come on, Uncle Az.”

“Is this—is this Hel?” Azriel wonders when he’s taken by the hand and made to sit on the couch.

His nephew grins. Absolutely feral that one. “Absololotey.”

“Don’t you have things to do?” Azriel asks Elain when she brings a tray serving a large bowl of chicken soup. Nyx pats down the blanket over Azriel’s lap, where she places the tray.

“No,” she says, smiling brighter than the sun. “Nyx and I are going to stay and look after you all day.”

Azriel doesn’t know what to say, really. Or if there’s anything to be said. He doesn’t have the words to describe the warmth of a stricken belly by the soup made lovingly, or the way every tension in his neck disappears when Elain tackles the knots in it, while Nyx massages his palms (a loose generous term; he is testing how far he can twist his Uncle’s fingers and knuckles apart until it becomes borderline painful) and somehow Azriel feels like this is a hallucination from the fever Elain claims he has.

“How’s your back doing?” she inquires, tackling his hair with too-smart fingers that scratch his scalp and he swears, by everything anyone ever cherishes and holds dear, that it is witchcraft. “Sorry, I couldn’t move you to a mattress. I had to make do with a pillow.”

A pathetic muffled groan is the only response from his neck. Even Nyx’s borderline-torture is soothing.

“We’ll draw you a bath in an hour,” Elain reveals her plans. “And I’ll use the last of the salve for your back, then I promised Nyx we’ll play cards together and have cake. I made chocolate.”

His teeth bare in a stupid little smile. “Didn’t think you’d remember that.”

“That you’ve got a raging, practically debilitating sweet-tooth? Are you high?” she laughs. “Nyx wouldn’t believe his luck.”

“We gotta make you all the sweets so you’ll get better!” his nephew shouts, too close to his ear.

Azriel winces. “Inside voice, Nyx,” he mumbles. “And I suppose you have to taste-test to make sure they’re adequate for me, huh?”

The little boy seriously nods. “Your medicine.”

Azriel ruffles his hair up loosely and softly sighs, melting further into the couch. “Elain if you keep doing that, there won’t be anything left of me.”

She removes her hands from his hair—fuckingbullshitbringthembackrightfuckingnowthatsfuckingunfair—and presses a hand to his shoulders. “I’ll bring you more soup and then draw you that bath.”

“Hngh,” he manages. “Elain, you don’t have to, I’ll be fine—“

“Nyx, baby, watch duty!” the aunt calls over her shoulder as she walks away. The boy stands at attention like a stone gargoyle, eyes fixed unblinking at him with steely determination and wings poised at his back ready to wreck unholy havoc at the drop of a pin.

Azriel blinks slowly. “Chocolate cake, huh?”

The nephew mistakes his watch duty for an oath of silence.

“Any good?”

“So, so, so good!” he gushes, deflating. “Uncle Az, be sick a lot, please! Lain said it’s how you get better, and promised to let me help her whenever so—“

“All-right, you heathen,” Azriel chuckles quietly. “Let me close my eyes for minute.”

“As long you don’t go anywhere.”

Azriel would never leave, if he had the choice.

______

{Tags: @tswaney17 @julesherondalex @mis-lil-red @gorl-power @thesirenwashere @stars-falling @trying-to-read @dreamerforever-5 @hail-doodles @eloeloeheheh @i-am-lost-in-my-world @abraxos-is-toothless @queen-of-glass @elrielllll @negativenesta @b00kworm @harmonyindark245 @ducksmurf135 @empress-ofbloodshed @sleeping-and-books @thewayshedreamed @agem10 @superspiritfestival @maybekindasortaace @maastrash @courtofjurdan @ireallyshouldsleeprn @gracie-rosee @bookstaninthesoul @elriel4life @fawnandshadows @123moiaussi @impossiblescissorspeachpaper}

#elriel #azriel #hurt/comfort #fav kind of fic #elain archeron #that's enough content for the weekend

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 1 year

Text

The Light I Need (ao3)

Set mid-ACOSF, Cassian finally notices Nesta's aversion to fires. Wanting nothing more than to help the woman he loves, he turns to the brother who he knows has faced similar trauma in the past. Soft two-part Nessriel fic. (Paging @thesistersarcheron & @highladyofillyria because both of you encouraged me to write this fic, and it's been sitting in my wips folder for a whole month. Merry Christmas!)

Hold me close, in winter’s weather, I’m too weak to pull myself together. I’ve tried so hard to grow, in a place without your warmth and now there’s no place left for me unless its safe between your arms.

“I didn’t realise we were so short on chairs,” Cassian drawled, his words punctuated by the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Sprawled casually in a chair of his own, one fitted for wings and crafted with Illyrians in mind, he cast a wry glance at his High Lord and Lady. Violet eyes winking in the dim light of the riverhouse sitting room, Rhys sat nestled against the cushions of his own chair, Feyre draped over his lap as though there were, indeed, no other place she’d rather sit. Cassian smirked. “Will Az and I have to share, too?”

Feyre raised a delicate middle finger, the elegance of the movement undercut by the vulgarity of the gesture. Rhys didn’t deign to supply an answer or a retort of his own, only snaked a hand about Feyre’s waist and brought her closer, as though he relied on her touch. Like it was intrinsic, somehow. Feyre slung her arm around Rhys’ shoulder, and despite the teasing, Cassian felt his heart stutter at the sight of it, at the fact that they were here at all.

Rhys had died.

On that battlefield, Cassian had watched as his brother’s chest had stopped rising, had heard his last, gasping, breath. Was it any wonder that neither Rhys nor Feyre could bear any distance between them now? That neither would suffer an unnecessary parting?

Even if it earned them his teasing, they wouldn’t part, not even to sit in separate chairs as their family gathered around the hearth. Drinks were poured and candles lit, and Cassian felt gratitude and relief swelling in his veins. Lucky— so lucky, all of them, that they could have this moment, this night. Lucky that he was there to tease them at all.

He’d almost died too. Had felt his own breath rattle in his chest as Nesta’s hand had entwined with his, their fingers slick with blood.

Months ago, now. And yet as he looked about at those gathered in the sitting room and found the joke reflected, good-natured, in Azriel’s eyes, and in Elain’s too, the spectre of war still lurked. It was a shadow that remained even now, lingering even in the inability of the High Lord and Lady to part.

Feyre stuck out her tongue and crossed her legs over the arm of the chair, whilst Rhys’ hand came to rest on her knee. It was a touch that was as proprietary as it was devotional, his fingers curling about her as though it was a promise, a declaration, that they wouldn’t ever be separated again.

Gods, as much as Cassian teased… He looked at that touch and longed for it.

He couldn’t hep it— As Rhys whispered something in Feyre’s ear that made her blush, Cassian’s gaze shifted to his left. To Nesta, sitting in a chair of her own.

She wasn’t his.

Not yet.

No matter what promise he’d made to her on that battlefield, no matter what he’d tried to convey with that last, desperate kiss… She wasn’t his. But staying at the House of Wind and training with him every day had started something, and every time he saw her lately, he felt his heart almost beat right out of his chest. Whenever she touched him, he had to remind himself that it was real, that he hadn’t fallen into some fantasy. She was everything he wanted, everything he dreamed of, but he didn’t dare hope that she’d one day drape herself over him the way her sister did his brother.

Still, though. He lived to see that spark in her eyes, the one that had been missing for so, so long as she drowned in her grief. A spark that had only recently returned, a glimmer in silver irises that he spent every single day trying to coax, trying to cultivate. He wanted to see that spark now. Wanted to hear her hiss his name as she glared at him, so he raised an eyebrow and looked again at where Feyre sat in Rhys’ lap, their limbs tangled together.

“At least I know what to buy you for Solstice,” he said drolly, nodding to that single armchair, to the carved legs that supported both crowned heads of the Night Court. “Chairs.”

Rhys muttered under his breath, something that sounded a lot like fuck off, Cassian. As Elain giggled in the corner, Cassian felt a grin spread across his face, his lips splitting as he kept it going.

“So that Az and I don’t have to share,” he continued. “Because unless Nes wants to wrap herself around me like a scarf, I don’t really have much interest in sharing seats.”

He thought she’d tell him to piss off. That she’d turn and glare at him with those magnificent eyes. That she’d hiss his name the way she did when he kissed her and held back. Cassian— irritated and demanding and absolutely intoxicating. He yearned for it— every moment of every day, he longed to hear his name coming from her lips. Whispered or murmured or sang, he wanted it. Wanted her breathing it as he kissed her, screaming it as he—

Az cleared his throat pointedly in the wake of whatever scent that thought had elicited, stopping Cassian in his tracks. He offered the spymaster a small, smug, smile before turning his head, searching for her, in the way that he was always searching for her these days.

Beside him, in a chair of her own, Cassian looked to Nesta and expected to find a reluctant smile. Expected to see silver-blue eyes gleaming but… He saw nothing. There was nothing— Nesta didn’t smile, didn’t laugh, didn’t look as though she were there at all. Her eyes were fixed on the wall, as distant as she’d been in the days right after the war.

She didn’t lounge in her chair like he did, didn’t look comfortable like Elain. Didn’t even look casual, like Azriel. She looked empty and troubled, and Cassian searched in vain for the trigger. For what had caused her to pull away, when only an hour ago, she’d been seated beside him at dinner, her fingers crawling over his thigh beneath the table.

It had been Feyre’s idea, this dinner.

With Mor on the continent and Amren with Varian, it was a night for Nesta and her sisters. For Cassian and his brothers. Just the six of them, and after weeks in the House of Wind, it was Nesta’s first time back in the city proper. Cassian had expected her to be nervous, expected her to be wary, but she’d smiled at Elain at dinner. Had spoken with Az about the book she was reading, about the priestesses she’d invited to training. She was… better. Healing, and her touch had been searching beneath the table. Daring and curious, a promise of what was to come when they returned to the House later.

But as his joke died away and the conversation moved on without him, he didn’t think it was a promise either of them would be honouring. He didn’t pull his eyes away from her, and he watched as she seemed to fold in on herself, her shoulders dropping as though she wanted to make herself as small as possible. Those formidable, ferocious eyes were fixed on the hearth and the flames burning within, and he longed to know what she was seeing, what thoughts were running through her head.

Distantly, he heard Rhys’ laughter, heard Azriel’s low voice poking fun at something else now, but all of it faded as he looked at her. The woman who held his heart so completely in her hands, shirking away from something he couldn’t see, couldn’t fight off.

Secret by secret, Cassian had coaxed all manner of truths from Nesta’s lips.

From the man she had almost married to the cruelty of her mother, there wasn’t much about her life before the Cauldron he didn’t know. In the hallways of the House of Wind, or whispered and hushed when she came to his bed, slowly he had learned all of the things she kept hidden— learned her, all of her soft sounds and sharp edges. All of the things she guarded, kept close to her chest, buried beneath scowls and sarcasm.

And he loved her.

Loved her relentlessly, even though he wasn’t sure what it meant, that they met in the darkened hallways of the House and kissed and touched and fucked— but she never asked him to stay in her bed afterwards, and he never said the words that were so readily balanced on the tip of his tongue.

No, there wasn’t much about her life before the Cauldron that Cassian didn’t know.

But after—

Her life after the Cauldron was closed to him, a door locked and bolted. He could only guess at what kept her from sleep at night, at what it was that had driven her to all those bars in the city, into the arms of all those other men. He was in the dark, and as he sat in the sitting room of Rhys and Feyre’s newly built house, the smell of fresh paint still clinging to newly-upholstered furniture, he watched as Nesta flinched.

A log cracked, burning merrily in the grate, and Cassian didn’t miss how her skin turned even paler, her eyes even more distant. It cracked again, embers drifting up the chimney, burning bright and golden— and his heart stopped, because Nesta had blanched. He forgot how to listen, forgot how to move, how to breathe, as she shied away from that fire. Another log cracked, louder this time, and Cassian knew then… He knew what was wrong.

Not the fire, not the heat, but the sound.

The crack, the snap. The ruthless, vicious crack that echoed through the room every time a log broke beneath the flames. He could do nothing but sit there and wonder what horrors she was seeing. What sounds she was hearing with each snap of burning wood, what nightmare she was living in. What nightmare he’d brought her to, when he’d insisted that tonight was a good idea.

Guilt lined his stomach, curdled in his gut as he forgot about the rest of the room entirely. All fragments of his teasing crumbled away to dust, and all he could do was suddenly feign exhaustion, lean over, and ask if she wanted to go home.

“Nes?” he murmured when she didn’t seem to hear his question. Gently, so gently, so as not to startle her, he placed his hand on her forearm. “Do you want to go home?”

The chasm of grief and pain and anguish in her eyes almost killed him. Almost knocked him over, and when Nesta nodded, he saw a glimmer of gratitude at the edges. “Please,” she whispered, as though it pained her just to speak.

So Cassian made their excuses, and spirited her away, back to the House of Wind.

But for the first time in his life… Cassian didn’t know what to do.

Didn’t know how to help her, and didn’t know how to fix it.

***

For days, Cassian agonised.

The morning after, he’d asked her what was wrong. What had set her off. She’d gone quiet, and said it was nothing— nothing had happened, she was just tired, and even though he knew it was a lie… He couldn’t push. Wouldn’t push. Not if she wasn’t ready.

So every time he kissed her, he only held her tighter. Kissed her fiercer, to remind her without using words that she was still here— safe, that they made it through. That there was still breath in his lungs despite his brush with death on that battlefield, and that whatever she heard in the cracking logs, saw in the flames… She had survived, too.

He couldn’t concentrate.

Not on anything. Sitting in the House’s library, looking at a pile of papers and reports from Windhaven, he twirled a pen between his fingers. He’d read the same damn missive three times now. The pen spun over his middle finger and around his thumb, around and around and around, as his mind strayed from the pile of reports and found its way back to Nesta. So many feet below him, in the cavernous depths of the library beneath his feet, he thought of her, with the priestesses she’d come to view as friends. Had she told them, he wondered? Had she told anybody, what she heard in a burning hearth?

He was looking at the sofa, at the cushions that were still dented from where she’d sat, when Azriel opened the door and strode across the floor to another desk sitting by the windows. His arms piled with papers, shadows trailing, the spymaster gave him a brief hello, but Cassian couldn’t give any kind of greeting of his own— he was too busy still looking at that sofa, at the cushions that still smelled like her. Like a phantom, he could see her, curled against the arm, legs tucked up beneath her and a book in her lap. He could have almost convinced himself that he could hear the sound of her pages turning, her fingers soft and quiet against the paper. But it was a mirage— one that was shattered as Azriel walked past, his shadows brushing against the cushions as if they, too, could sense her. Could feel the absence of her like a wound.

Az dumped the pile of papers onto the desk, but didn’t sit at the waiting chair. He turned, dark hair gilded by the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, and frowned as one of those shadows moved by his ear, writhing across the shadowsinger’s skin. After a moment, Az tilted his head and leaned back against the edge of that desk.

With arms folded across his chest, he merely said, “What’s with you?”

Cassian dropped his gaze back down to the missive from Windhaven. “Nothing,” he said, letting the tip of his pen touch the blank sheet of paper he’d pulled out to compose a reply. He shrugged, but even he was unconvinced by it. His pen hesitated, and he realised that he still didn’t know what the missive was really about, and would need to read it a fourth time. He sighed, and Azriel raised one elegant, perfect eyebrow.

“You’ve been off since Feyre’s dinner,” he said casually, crossing his ankles as he leaned effortlessly against the edge of that smooth wooden desk. His eyes were sharp, and Cassian knew he couldn’t hide from that piercing gaze— he’d never been able to, in all the centuries they’d been brothers.

So he groaned, and let his head drop onto the surface of his own desk. “It’s Nesta,” he admitted roughly, his voice muffled by the papers pushing against his face.

Az was quiet for a long moment, and Cassian sighed again, turning his head to the side to look his brother in the eye. The missive he had been trying to read for the past hour stuck to his cheek as he did so, and he wanted nothing more than to rip it in half and toss it away. He had bigger things to deal with. More important things.

Like Nesta.

“It’s the fire, Az,” Cassian said quietly, keeping his head on that desk, utterly defeated and downtrodden. “She won’t sit near it. I don’t know why— what happened or what changed it for her, but she flinched from it at Rhys and Feyre’s that night and I…” he paused, trailed off. He raised his head at last, only to drag his siphoned hands down his face. “I don’t know what to do. She won’t tell me, she won’t talk to me and I…” He shook his head and said, again, “I don’t know what to do.”

His blood was screaming at him. Help her, with every pulse through his veins. Helpherhelpherhelpher— but how? When he didn’t know what set her off, what triggered her or why? How could he do anything, when she’d shut him out?

Az was silent. Cassian looked up at him warily, glancing briefly at his scarred hands. Azriel was the only one of them who had faced similar trauma and conquered it. The only one who might understand, who might just know what it was that Nesta feared. Azriel’s face was unreadable, but he looked down at his hands too, as if he’d reached the same conclusion. Different wounds inflicted by different hands, yes— but only Azriel knew what it was to sit before a fire and tremble, to stand at a hearth and not feel the warmth, too overcome by fear.

“Help me,” Cassian breathed.

A request— a plea, from one brother to another. From a man desperately, desperately in love with a woman, to the only other soul who might have once shared similar pain. Cassian couldn’t do it on his own. Couldn’t help her alone, but with Azriel… Together, they might.

Azriel’s face softened. He let out a gentle breath, his eyes flitting to the door, as if looking for Nesta. Cassian’s eyes followed, as if he were looking for her too. He was— he always was.

His heartbeat stuttered as he waited for Azriel’s answer. He was balanced on a precipice, teetering on the edge, feeling so utterly, utterly helpless that this was all he could think to do. He had helped her face so many things, and every time she stepped into that ring with him on the House roof, he felt a pride so violent it damn near knocked him to his knees. But this couldn’t be solved by training or shelving books in a library.

This… This needed an altogether different approach.

And after a long and painstaking wait…

Azriel nodded.

#nessriel #nesta x cassian x azriel #nesta archeron #acotar fic #title and quote at the beginning are both from the song Winter's Weather by As It Is

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theladyofbloodshed · 2 years

Text

A Court of Tangled Flames - Chapter Nine

‘Congratulations are in order.’

Rhys swept his head into a mocking bow as he stepped closer to the raised dais where the high lord of the Autumn Court sat. He was flanked by his family; two sons and a wife on one side, Eris, Nesta, and another son on the other.

Look at me, Cassian wanted to scream. Would have got on his knees and begged the words. But Nesta did not look at him. Not once. She looked through all of them, her proud face staring ahead as if she was completely bored by the whole charade. Cassian had scanned her body for marks, for any sign of a physical wound. She seemed intact - at least physically. If anything, Nesta looked healthy. There were no signs of weight loss or exhaustion. Colour bloomed in her fuller cheeks.

Rhys had to be pushing against her mental walls, had to be speaking to her whilst they waited for Beron’s address. They needed to know exactly how Eris had twisted her arm into marriage.

Nesta just continued staring ahead.

From the moment he had set eyes on her, Cassian had been captivated by Nesta. On her emergence from the Cauldron, she was utterly devastating. Even seeing her wearing the Mask in the Bog of Oorid hadn’t felt as unsettling as this. The female before them was truly faerie. Her silken hair cascaded to her waist in a sheet of burnished gold. The jewelled pins exposed the pointed ears gifted to her by the Cauldron. Her gown was from a story, heavy but delicate, framing the soft curves of her body, the deep green of the darkest forests. Her beauty was excruciating, a female who could bring males to their knees, drive them to insanity. And the wife of Eris Vanserra.

The male gloated from his post at his father’s side, relishing that fact. A sneer curled his lips. Cassian didn’t put it past Eris to have only wanted Nesta in a sick retribution over what had occurred so many years earlier between him and Mor. Nesta would suffer due to a silly mistake between two horny teenagers that Eris couldn’t let go of.

‘I have to ask why an invitation to the wedding wasn’t extended to her family.’

‘Where is your once mortal mate?’ Beron asked from his towering throne. ‘Why does the so-called high lady of your court not offer congratulations too?’

‘Feyre is high lady,’ Rhys snarled, temper fraying far too quickly in Beron’s presence, in Beron’s home.

Beron enjoyed the dissent. He’d capitalise on any misstep of Rhys’. The male had ruled long enough to know the laws that governed them like the back of his hand. Knew how to exploit them and twist them to his cause. He’d push Rhys until he snapped.

It was a mistake to come here. A mistake when Rhys was pushed to breaking point with the baby and Feyre’s lives at risk. A mistake when Mor had so much fear of this court. A mistake when even unflappable Azriel was panicked over Gwyn and Emerie. And a massive mistake for Cassian to see Nesta lined up with the Vanserras. None of them would hold their composure for long.

‘Your court disrespects my daughter when its high lady does not offer her own congratulations - much more when she is blood.’

Daughter. Cassian knew Nesta well enough to notice her glimmer of surprise at the honorary title. Beron did not care for her; she was simply a pawn in his court politics.

In an attempt to manage his temper, Rhys took too long to answer.

‘Unless your court does not approve of my son’s choice of bride, Rhysand.’

They could damn Nesta. Say she was not a model female who’d push out little heirs and it was her life on the line. If she wasn’t good enough for Eris, it risked her.

Mor spoke when the others could not. ‘Nesta would be a jewel in any court. The Night Court wishes them a successful marriage. Eris has waited five hundred years for a bride who is his equal.’

The high lord regarded her for a long moment, his gaze bitingly cold. He sat back in his throne, fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. The male ruled his court through intimidation. The sentries that lined every inch of the massive hall were austere, silent guardians who feared punishment to themselves or family. Even Beron’s wife and children had to stand still, the high lord not permitting them to sit. He was a bastard. Cassian needed to save Nesta from this hell - but how?

‘If you were my daughter, not Keir’s, I’d have hammered those nails through your skull.’ He sat forwards in the chair. Sentries pushed closer at the first noise of fury that slipped from Azriel’s lips. ‘Females should be seen, not heard. Do not speak out of turn in my court again.’

Throughout their minds, Rhys’ voice came clear and sharp, warning them to say nothing. They were seriously out of their depths here; all of them balanced on a knife’s edge.

‘Now, now Beron. I’m not foolish enough to bring my entire court to your doorstep. It would be a temptation you might be unable to risk.’

‘What temptation is there, Rhysand? Lesser fae brutes and two sullied females?’ His sons sneered at his words, excluding Eris. ‘I saw enough of Tamlin’s castoffs under the mountain. We all did.’

Magic swirled around Rhys like adders drawing up to strike.

‘In the laws laid out by high king Fionn, to instigate a fight against a male in his home is an invitation to open warfare.’ Eris raised a brow as he spoke, ‘Can the Night Court withstand another war?’

By some divine intervention, Rhys quelled his fury, forced his churning magic back into the abyss where it would pray for the day it could topple Beron Vanserra. As much as Cassian hated to admit it, they would still need to support Eris’ claim for the throne. The death of Beron Vanserra needed to come sooner rather than later.

Beron laced his fingers together and sank back into his throne. ‘You have passed on your congratulations.’ With a jerk of his chin to a commander, he said, ‘Escort my wife and daughter from here.’

***

Following behind the Lady of the Court, Nesta fended off the tremors in her body from seeing them again. On their exit, they were flanked by sentries who ensured the precious breeding mares of the Autumn Court saw no harm, as well as handmaidens who made sure they did not want for anything. Nesta did not even know the name of her mother-in-law. She doubted that Beron ever called her by it either.

Unexpectedly, they did not move towards the massive staircase that led to the main portion of the house. Instead, the Lady headed towards a different part of the vast estate until they reached an atrium. A patter of rain could be heard against the glass roof. Above them, the clouds were a deep grey, signalling further bad weather. Beyond it was the forest. Only a singular set of doors stopped Nesta from fleeing to its depths and figuring her way out of another mess.

Reedy plants grew in pots all around the room reminding Nesta of a jungle from her stories. Condensation lined the windows, and she imagined that in fairer weather, the room would be unmanageably warm. There were more plants growing in painted beds – delicate shoots and offcuts taken from bigger plants. All of it was work that required care and patience.

‘My lady,’ one sentry pressed when the Lady of the Autumn Court paused beside a raised bed in a wooden box. There was a warning in her voice. ‘We ought to return to the rooms.’

‘I don’t plan to garden. I’m not at all dressed for it.’

‘Then we must continue.’

The submissive female shifted into something fearsome. She raised her head to meet the guard’s eye, fire burning in her gaze. ‘Leave us.’

After a painful stalemate, the handmaidens filed out then the sentries. Nesta was left alone with her mother-in-law. The sentries on duty at the doors leading to the forest remained.

She had to wonder how such a place could exist – a glass room was surely too exposed to enemies.

The Lady leant forwards to prune a rose bush. A throb of pain bolted through Nesta. Her sister would love this greenhouse. If Elain accepted her mating bond – this female would be her mother-in-law too. She had not even considered the implications on Elain and Lucien by marrying Eris. And it brought her such a profound sense of sadness that Elain was so revulsed by Lucien when his mother’s hobby was gardening, just like her. Elain had never been loved enough by their mother. She deserved a mother’s love.

‘Pruning encourages growth.’ The Lady’s auburn hair fell forwards across her face like a curtain. Her voice was as sweet as sun-kissed apples. The dappling of freckles along her rose-blushed cheeks enhanced the russet of her eyes. Lucien’s eyes.

She went on clipping leaves in a precise manner, letting the discarded ones settled upon the soil.

‘Winter is the best time to prune roses, alas,’ she sighed, gesturing to the greenhouse, ‘eternal autumn.’

They stepped deeper into the mass of leaves and arching branches, the Lady making the occasional comment about pollination or invasive species which Nesta cared little for. She was tired and scared, wanting only to be somewhere safe and familiar.

Shrouded from the view of the sentries on the door, the Lady clutched Nesta’s hand, a wild fervour suddenly seizing her expression.

‘I can overpower the sentries to give you time to run. You must run, Nesta, and do not look back. Veer left at the gates towards the cabin. Tell the lesser fae that lives there that Eliška sent you. You will be free from Eris.’

The words were a punch to the gut. Nesta blinked with confusion.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I cannot offer this again. He will never let me be alone with you again,’ the female whispered, gripping her wrist so tightly that it would leave an imprint of her skin. ‘I can get you to safety.’

The lady’s beautiful face was wracked with terror. She had seen her husband warp her sons into grotesque versions of him. Did she truly believe that Eris was lost to her? That her first born child no longer could remove his mask?

‘I am Eris’ wife by choice.’

Her fingers dropped from Nesta’s wrist in shock. ‘I see.’

It could have been a test, Nesta realised with a start. A test of her loyalty so early on. But Nesta did not think the Lady of the Court would do such a thing. More than anything, she saw herself in Nesta; a female condemned to a life as the wife of a Vanserra.

‘I am glad to be his wife.’

‘Then I apologise for my words,’ the Lady replied, sweeping her head. When she lifted it again, hopelessness had taken the place of her bravery. Her russet eyes lacked any light. Once more, they were hollow, resigned to her sad life in the Forest House.

‘Your son is a good male,’ Nesta said, reaching her hand for the Lady’s.

Before their skin could touch, the Lady of the Court had stepped back, body going rigid. ‘Eris is his father’s son. I pray that your marriage is…’ She could not find a word. Nesta could not bear the look of despair upon her face. All she could see when she looked upon Nesta was a young female doomed to a life with a bully and she wanted her to save her from it.

***

‘You played your part marvellously. Well done.’

The Illyrian female did not share his mirth, instead stiffening her pose. ‘I don’t like that you cornered Nesta into marriage.’

It did seem that way, Eris could admit, but in the face of the Night Court and his father, it was the only option he could think of that would result in the least amount of blood spilt.

‘I can offer her protection this way.’

‘Please, don’t hurt her. She has been through enough.’ Not a forceful threat, just a female who wanted her friend’s safety above all else.

Eris would never hurt Nesta. He’d push her out of her comfort zone, encourage her to get a hold on her magic then thrive, but he’d never hurt her.

‘Give me time to figure out a way for you both to visit again.’

The copper-haired princess raised her eyebrows. ‘You’d really do that.’

‘Nesta isn’t a prisoner. I want the best for her – and that is you two.’

Eris had never heard so much laughter before. All evening, the three females had giggled and shrieked upstairs over only the Mother knew what. They were good together. He’d find a way that they could see each other again soon.

They readied themselves to be returned to Illyria. Eris was eager to be rid of them if only to ensure Nesta was safe in the Forest House without him there to stamp on his brothers.

A sudden thought struck him. ‘Will you be in danger from the Night Court?’

‘You think they will interrogate us?’

Eris could not say what they would do. The Night Court had been scared for their safety, but they were Nesta’s family and treated her worse than waste. He hoped they wouldn’t quiz the females though a nagging feeling said they might do.

‘Be honest with them. Nesta wanted you to visit. I brought you here. If they ask when we married, tell them the truth. This morning because the thought of going back to them terrified Nesta.’

‘What if they ask about this place?’ Emerie asked, eyes scanning the room as if Azriel’s shadows might already be listening in.

‘You don’t know where it is. You cannot locate it on a map. You can give them no usable information. Though now I am worried about returning you.’

The priestess grew unsettled at this remark, but Eris pushed on. ‘You would be safe in this cottage if you wanted to stay.’

‘I want to go back to the library,’ she murmured, fingers weaving through her hair.

The Illyrian, at least, did seem to consider the words but both females requested a return to Windhaven.

***

If Nesta felt any relief at the sight of Eris Vanserra slipping into the dining room to join his parents, it soon faded. It was the most excruciating meal of her life. Beron nit-picked at everything his son did, going as far as criticising the speed in which he cut his food. There was little reaction from Eris except thanking his high lord for his sage advice and promises to be a better heir. Not once did he call Beron his father. He wasn’t a father; he trod on Eris over and over again through their meeting then turned his attention on Nesta.

A hand brushed against her thigh beneath the table but there were no other signs from Eris that he regretted the topic. For what felt like hours, dainty courses were trotted out to celebrate their marriage. Nesta pitied the poor servants who’d had to prepare the meals with no warning under the threat of punishment. Throughout their courses, Beron commented on her appearance, her education, her abilities and his plans for her. She bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood.

‘I want her bred by the end of the month.’

‘Then let us make haste,’ Eris drawled. He gave Nesta a pointed look that meant she ought to rise too and depart with her darling husband. Was this what her life was to be? Her value would lie in how many sons she could produce for the Vanserra line.

Eris did not wait for her to gather herself as he slunk down the corridors without a farewell to his father or mother. The sconces lining the wall burst to life as his magic kindled them. Nesta followed his path, veering left through a corridor then down a set of stairs that led to rooms she recognised as his portion of the house that they’d winnowed to hours earlier.

‘Do not disturb us,’ he warned the sentries lining the doors on their duty. ‘Sentries or servants.’

The same intimidation tactic that Beron employed was mirrored in his son as he leaned in, inches from the young sentry on duty. His face was foreboding, a promise of pain if his orders were not followed.

Then Eris was gone, swaggering through the doors to his private rooms.

Did Nesta really have to follow him? The idea wasn’t appealing. Being found by Beron and having her appearance pecked at again was enough to force her across the threshold to him though.

Once the door clicked closed behind her, Eris locked it. His finger pressed to his lips. A hand linked in hers and tugged her through the lounge into a bedroom. That door was then locked too. A quiet hum enclosed around them as Eris set a shield around the room.

‘Off,’ he commanded to whichever dog had been sprawled out on the sheets then took a seat on the edge. ‘I returned Emerie and Gwyn to Illyria as soon as the Night Court winnowed away. They’re safe.’

‘How can I trust anything you say?’

For a second, Nesta wondered if her words had truly hurt him. His eyes had widened. He was too good of an actor to trust. She would be a fool to ever accept what he said.

‘I promised that I would never lie to you.’

Nesta folded her arms across her chest wanting to shield herself from him. ‘You have just spoken about me for the last hour about how you will use my power and breed me like a fucking sow, Eris.’

‘My father only sees you as a vessel. I tell him what he wants to hear rather than arguing.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘If you cannot bear to play a part or wear a mask then you shouldn’t have agreed to a marriage. You know my reputation.’

‘My choices were limited, Eris. Although, I have to say how convenient this whole arrangement is for you.’

‘Go on.’

‘You hate Cassian. I am a piece of leverage for you. You will hold me above the Night Court’s head. You brought me here when I was vulnerable because-’

‘Stop.’ Eris stood, face white with fury. ‘Do not try and twist what I did. I brought you here because that brute had you trail behind him for miles after you’d collapsed. Cassian laughed when you fell down the stairs and blackened your eye. He did not help you once, Nesta. You were under his care. You were vulnerable and he exploited you by sleeping with you. The brute couldn’t even manage to spend a night with you after he’d fucked you. You were never his priority and never will be. Do not project your feelings about him onto me. Your brother-in-law threatened to kill you – that is why you came with me. I threw down my guard, gambled all I have worked for, to keep you safe so do not say this is convenient for me. For you, I risk everything.’

Eris’ words pelted her one after the other. The truth she did not want to face barrelled towards her, a light too bright to look at. Eris was not the villain here; she’d chosen to marry him because the alternative was facing the Night Court and Nesta knew she’d splinter if she had to endure it again.

The male began to speak, a regretful apology spilling from his lips, but Nesta didn’t want to hear it. Couldn’t. She pushed past him into the bathroom and bolted the door.

She could not decide whether to be upset or angry. Nesta pivoted between the two, tears brimming in her eyes then vicious fury churned her thoughts. It had been a day of high emotions, one that left her mentally drained. And married. Nesta forced herself to push away the Eris she had seen displayed to Beron, who agreed with his crass words about filling her womb with seed, and instead think of the one who had found her in Illyria, the one who climbed through her window and made sure she ate, the male who brought a tutor out of retirement because she wanted to learn, who tricked her into jumping into a freezing cold river or who moved her into a cottage because she asked for space.

What Eris had said had been absolutely accurate – and Nesta hated that she’d refused to face it sooner. Under the guise of helping her, she had been brought to the House of Wind. They’d called her out of control. Only the Mother knew what they said behind her back. One of their issues had been that she slept with males she did not know. Then Cassian should never have touched her. Whatever sparks danced between them, he should have known that Nesta was not in a place to embark on anything. And she was furious with herself for seeking him out after he’d laughed at her, after he’d declared that everybody hated her. Where was her damn self-worth? Why did she crawl for the scraps of affection that Cassian offered her? Eris was right, Nesta would never be Cassian’s priority and she was ashamed and embarrassed for ever thinking that one day they could have been something more.

Once her temper had calmed itself, Nesta exited the bathroom.

Eris was waiting for her. He hadn’t tried to break into the bathroom or hammered down the door. She appreciated that he had given her some relative time alone.

Without saying a word, his arm came around her shoulders to guide her over the soft carpet and into the lounge. Candles had been lit around the room. To chase away the crisp, autumn night, a fire burned in the hearth where a smokehound lounged on its side, belly facing the warmth of the flames.

Eris settled her into a massive arm chair that seemed to swallow her whole. Reverently, he removed her shoes, bringing her bare feet to rest upon a pouffe. At the red skin where the straps had dug in, he drove his thumb in small circles. With his warm, gentle touch, he banished the pain.

Upon the low, three-legged table was a tray of tea, the steam still pouring from the spout of the pot as if he knew the precise moment her anger would break.

‘I’m sorry. I will never let my temper take over my tongue again. It was unkind and I apologise.’

A blanket was tucked around her legs then a cup of tea poured for her.

‘You said nothing but the truth.’

Eris winced. ‘I could have phrased it better. I should have. We have a saying here that some months feel like days and some days feel like months. This day has felt like a year.’

Exhaustion nibbled at Eris’ features. There had been little consideration of what this had cost him. He risked his alliance with the Night Court for her. So many of his decisions hinged upon risks and predicting others’ behaviour. He’d gambled not only with Nesta’s safety, but with his own. Nesta had not paused to wonder whether Eris even wanted her for a wife. Mor had been a bride that his father had decided for him. In five hundred years, he still had not married – a high lord’s heir was likely a popular choice for many but he hadn’t chosen anyone. And Eris was lumbered with her now.

Now that she had stopped, Nesta was exhausted. Pure adrenaline had forced her to the finish line. Her pathetic weeping in the bathroom had only helped to tire her.

‘Is this how you imagined your wedding night to be?’

Eris sat cross-legged on the floor, a hand scratching the dog’s belly. He gave Nesta a once-over then shrugged. ‘More or less. I thought that any female forced to be my wife would likely spend her wedding night crying. If I had a choice, I’d have picked a brunette.’

‘Sorry to disappoint.’

‘You could never. Gold is becoming my favourite colour.’ Eris gave her a weak smile. ‘I’m sure you didn’t wake up this morning with the ambition of becoming my wife.’

Nesta made a harumphing noise. ‘I will have you know that my life’s goal has been to marry a pampered high lord’s son with far too many dogs. Mission accomplished.’

Her eyes trailed the tattoo on her finger to marvel at the intricate detail. It was beautiful, she could admit that much. Eris caught her looking then examined his own. His long fingers flexed.

‘Can I ask a question?’

‘I am your wife. I rather think secrets should not grow between us.’

‘Why did you tense when you saw the fire?’

The beats of her heart tripped over themselves. She hadn’t realised her body had tensed. It was second nature to appraise the room and position herself as far from the fire as she could. The Autumn Court fire burnt without fuel, thank the Mother.

‘Have you been burnt?’

Nesta could not open that door today, could not think of that day against Hybern. Despite her words to Eris, she lied. ‘Yes. When I was a child.’

‘My flames will only hurt you if I will it. You don’t need to fear it. Sometimes it’s warm enough in the evenings to not need a fire either.’

The male rose with a groan. His hound came to his side without calling.

‘I need their names on collars. They all look the same except for Safera.’

‘This one is my favourite but don’t tell the others. Gelert is the only one allowed in the bedroom.’ Eris forced boots onto his feet and let out a yawn as he pulled on a jacket. ‘Nobody will enter these rooms while I’m gone. Do you need anything else to eat? Make sure you rest. I’ll sleep in the lounge when I return. Pray for me.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To face Orla and tell her that we are married.’ Nesta could not tell if Eris smiled or grimaced. ‘If I never return, I’m likely buried on her land.’

Taglist: @owllover123 @rarephloxes @fanboy7794 @sugardoll22 @kitkat-writes-stuff @this-is-rochelle @sv0430

#a court of tangled flames #neris

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hellogoodbye14 · 2 years

Text

Missing This (One Shot) - Feysand/Nyx

Feyre heard Mor, Nesta and Gwyn cackle loudly from the dining hall. After a few seconds, Cassian came stomping into her office, holding a giggling Nyx by the scruff of his shirt. She rolled her eyes.

“Stop holding my child like a pup.”

Nyx’s eyes lighted up at her voice and he reached out to her.

“Ma… ma … ma.”

She smiled at her favourite little boy, stood up and picked him up.

He squealed as she peppered him with kisses.

“Yeah, well your lil pup decided to astral project and drop a dozen eggs on me.”

And it was only then she noticed the goo on Cassian. She laughed as a yellow droplet made its way down his pert nose.

Cassian just glared.

Nyx was busy babbling while playing with his mothers hair. He cooed as the light streaming through the window illuminated the glowing streaks.

“What happened?”

“Mor winnowed me in and Nyx was behind us. He took a look at my wings and mistook me for Rhys. He then kept saying “da da” until I turned around. Then he frowned as if I’d committed the ultimate betrayal and then”, Cassian gestured towards his messy leathers.

Feyre winced.

Rhys had to be away for the last two days at Summer Court. Given that Rhys always found excuses to keep Nyx around him, Nyx was always used to Rhys being around. Even during Prythian convention meetings, Rhys would strap their son to his chest and blow raspberries at him while the generals and high lord’s gawked at him, forgetting all about battle reserves.

But the riot in Spring was now causing problems at the Summer Court and Rhys was busy helping Tarquin minimise any damage.

It was too dangerous to take Nyx with and Feyre had to deal with the remainder of the convention.

Nevertheless she poked her sons’s nose in a slight reprimand.

“That wasn’t nice Nyx. You can’t drop eggs on Uncle Cass unless mommy wants you too.”

Feyre could feel Cassian’s glare and winked back at him.

Nyx slightly pulled on her hair and she looked down at him.

“Da .. da.. da”, he asked as if in question.

“Sorry buddy, he isn’t here for two more days. I miss him too.”

Cassian quickly picked up Nyx and rubbed all the slime over Nyx as well.

Nyx squealed with laughter.

Feyre wrapped up her paperwork and walked out to spend some time with the others.

————————————————————————

Feyre eye’s popped open. There was someone in the room. She quickly reached for the dagger under Rhys’s pillow and jumped up only to find Rhys standing there, holding a sleeping Nyx.

His eyebrows popped up in amusement.

“I mean I knew we liked our kinks darling, but dagger play now?”

She sighed in relief and rolled her eyes.

He carefully adjusted Nyx’s head on the crook of his elbow and moved forward. He wrapped his free arm around her waist and leaned down. She stood up on her toes and met him for a kiss. She felt like she could finally breath a bit better, her heart soaring at the feel of him again.

He leaned back and rubbed his nose against her.

“I missed you”, she whispered, playing with the back of his hair.

He pecked her nose.

“How are you here right now?“

He shrugged and laid down, resting against the headboard. Cuddling Nyx a bit closer and then ushered Feyre, to lay against him. He sighed when Nyx was slumbering in his arm on one side and Feyre looked up at him from the other.

“I missed this too much.”

She’d known, he checked in all the time. But a frown marred his forehead.

“What happened?”

“I felt Nyx’s mind brush up against mine in question. Could feel his worry and I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“He was able to do that?!”

Rhys chuckled and nodded.

Cauldron help them, their son learned a new trick every other day and he was a hellion these days.

“I don’t want him to worry or be absent a father.”

Feyre rubbed the dark shadows under his eyes.

“You’re always there when he needs you Rhys. You’re not absent, things have just been busy lately.”

“Yes but… I just. I’ll make more time.”

She was about to tell him he was doing enough when Nyx’s eyes started to open.

One blink… two… three and they were now wide open. He frowned in confusion at first. But then as soon as Rhys said, “Hey buddy.”

A large smile blossomed on her sons face and he giggled and babbled, “da..da…da”. His arms and legs were jumping up in excitement and Rhys chuckled and gave him a big kiss.

A sudden light illuminated, and Rhys and Feyre had to blink away for a second. Nyx was glowing with happiness just like Feyre did when she was happy.

Rhys held them in closer, his eyes sparking with sheer joy.

@meher-sumedha @sunflowers-marigolds @lysandra-emrald @sv0430 @highladysith @imakeangelscry @thyme2getrekt @heartless - - aromantic @whoreforgwynriel @booksandlibrarys @cretaceous-therapod @story-scribbler @kneelingsince2012 @whenyadoesntcutit

#acomaf #acotar #acosf #acowar #rhys x feyre #feyre #rhys #feysand #nyx #baby nyx

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the-heaminator · 9 months

Note

go on then, let's have some horror. i'll give you a choice between prompt 8 or 22 - and why not have it include the uk bros? :)

[ 8 ] "you're insane!"

[ 22 ] "wake up!"

Ao3 Link here

They're so bloody fucking insane so much of the time, and a good half of the time they don't realise it, the rest of the time it is gloriously premeditated, I'm not frankly sure which one is worse. Have what essentially became a very shitty character study 2012 ff.net edge lord style. I am SO sorry Helia. Tw animal abuse, general gore and just like, flesh, all the bullshit of the past Cannibalism, Torture, death, mentions of insanity, gore, non-consensual drugging, Hansel and Gretel bullshit, not in that order, burning, just, bullshit.

Look do not expand this unless you want to kill your dash. its like 15k. so be warned

Alisdair knew that nations tended to have a considerably looser grip on their sanity after major conflicts, hell even he was feeling the effects of The War, he often found himself standing on the edges of cliff faces with no idea of how he got there, he moved in from the coast after these instances happened one too many times, drowning was not a pretty way to die after all, though it kept happening even in the city, finding himself next to blitzed roads and in the woods with not a clue of how he got there.

He needed to stop doing this, he needed to stop drinking so much before bed.

___________________________________________

He also knew that his brothers never had a particularly sturdy grip on what would be considered sanity ever since he had known them, it was a little more subdued when they were younger, but that was a long, long time ago, and even then he could viscerally remember how...transfixed Rhys was with flames even back then, a tree burned because of lightning and Rhys would stare at it for hours afterwards, not entirely present in this world as he did so, he watched the little creatures skitter away from the inferno, not making any attempt to help them.

It was odd the first time, he never seemed to be the type to enjoy others suffering, not then at least, gentle and stout he was, it was odd to see him take so much pleasure out of burning as he did, Alisdair thought nothing of it then, perhaps found it a little strange, but as long as he wasn't hurting anybody nor himself...it couldn't be too bad.

He found Cymru burning a rather large rat.

Albion was there too, all bones and teeth yet, could just about walk and talk, though half the time he gabbled to himself in a tongue that nobody else understood. This was one of those times, smiling and clapping, he prodded the flaming mouse with a stick more than once yelling "Fire! Fire!" over and over again, though not in an urgent way, he seemed to be enjoying it

Cymru had squatted next to him, he was barely moving, scarcely breathing as he watched it screech and scream as it went up in flames, he almost looked like an owl, it was in a little clumsily dug pit, just about big enough for it to not be able to scale its walls, he could smell tallow, this was pre-meditated, he felt sick.

He stood there frozen, Albion noticed he was there first, and picked himself up with some difficulty, he must've been in that position for a while for him to be so stiff, he didn't know how long it took to burn a rat, it was still alive, though its screams were dimming slowly as it was charred, Ma had told them about how nations could bend each other to their own wills, he had never experienced it before, he didn't think he could be swayed so easily, especially by those two, Cymru was kind, not like this, and Arthur was small enough that he still tended to crawl around because it was faster that way.

But he found Albion's chubby little hand in his, gently tugging him to the fire, he couldn't even bring up a shred of resistance, he felt sick, he felt overjoyed, he couldn't take his eyes off it, he found himself laughing.

He didn't know he was laughing, everything in his field of vision was going odd, the rat had finally silenced but its screams were still echoing through his ears three-way, his mind, Albion's and Cymru's, he could hear all of it, he could feel all of it, he could see all of it, Cymru hadn't seemingly noticed him there until now, he had been here a while, how hadn't he?

He sounded giddy, he could just about register him screaming at him, his mind felt a rush of fear which turned to anger as soon as Cymru noticed him being there, he was not like this, he was mild-mannered almost to a fault, Albion was positively howling in joy, his head spun, he vomited anything he had eaten earlier today out, Cymru was near a head shorter than him yet those eyes, usually full of joy or love or just something that wasn't this, he couldn't even name what this was, it was dangerous, like splintered wood almost, glinting like iron in a furnace, he couldn't name it, but he knew he didn't like it.

He ran back to Ma, things didn't scare him much, he was strong, but everything about this had shaken him to his core, both she and Éire looked scared for him, he didn't usually rush in like a storm and immediately cling to Éire's side, she thought he looked clammy and ill, she called Ma, she gently asked whether he had gotten a fright, he didn't have fever, but his eyes were darting around almost mad, his head felt full, it was a wonder he didn't have a fever.

Albion and Cymru walked in not long after, the sun was starting to set and they were always in before it grew dark, Ma wouldn't have it any other way, it was dangerous after dark, as soon as they walked in however, Ma stared at them, something was off about them, both smelled strongly of smoke and tallow, Cymru never looked so owlish, she could feel him lightly prodding her mind, she could feel Albion sleepily draping himself all over it, he was tired, but it was unusual to feel his presence as strongly as she did now, she looked at Alba, staring at the two like they had two heads a piece, Éire bit her lip, she could feel them trying to get into her mind, Cymru felt like a bludgeon of sorts, there was something wrong about him, he smelled like smoke, his mind always grew a little more active after he saw something burn, but never with the fevered intensity of this.

The room started to spin, he could feel Albion getting into her head, different to Cymru, worming its way into the cracks that Cymru had created, his felt less threatening, more docile, but he felt muffling, her head felt full of wool.

She clung to Ma, this was not normal, she understood why Alba was acting the way he was, both were so small, why did they feel like that.

Ma opened her arms to hug them, Alba felt warm and vomited again, he could feel Cymru's mind brush against his, too close for comfort, he could feel Albion worm his way in.

She didn't let them in, that would not be a good idea, even if they were small they could do plenty of damage, though she underestimated how strong it was, Cymru buried himself into her arms, she could smell burning on him, Alba blubbering something about tallow and a rat seemed to have its merit, she could smell a very strong smell of it on the both of them, Albion was tired, usually when tired he grew cranky, not as he was right now, bright-eyed and still laughing, though she could feel on his presence that he was tiring.

Cymru looked at Éire oddly, he did not understand why she was acting so strange, neither why Alba was, he understood a little of Alba, but not why he looked so ill, not why he was staring at him and Albion like they were the fae, what was wrong with him.

He opened his mouth, his voice was a little hoarse from disuse, he sounded childishly concerned "Alba, Éire what happened?" Albion was trying to curl up in the blanket with him after he got out of Ma's arms, he was cold to the touch.

He had stopped his prodding though Alba knew that it wasn't out of mercy, he was simply too tired, it was unlikely that he realised he was doing in the first place, he did still smell something terrible, he curled up in his arms and fell asleep oddly quickly, she told Éire to look after the two, and herself, she needed to go talk to Cymru.

Alba didn't hear the conversation, but Cymru came back looking odd, not scared exactly, but close enough, Albion and Éire had fallen asleep a good while ago, he could almost forget the whole thing had happened but as soon as Cymru came back he could hear, see and smell the rat like it was right in front of him, though it smelled sweeter, burned brighter and sounded louder than he swore it actually did.

He felt sick again and retched though now there was nothing left and drifted into a fitful sleep. Albion small and warm in his legs.

__________________________________

Ma passed and the Romans came, he and Éire were safe, too far up in the mountains to be of much use, practically ignored.

He hadn't seen either Albion or Cymru in a long time, he had no idea what was happening to them, there were occasionally incursions to his land, but even then he could always feel the pressure of the empire on the edge of his mind, though after a while that dimmed, there were no more attempts to take over his territory, it finally was gone, replaced by a different pressure, barely present, sluggish and disorganized.

The Romans must've left, he wanted to see his brothers again, he hadn't seen them in centuries, the journey was oddly quiet, met with next to no resistance, he could feel the presences of more than one, it explained why it felt so disconnected from where he was, it took some time, he was travelling alone after all.

It took some difficulty to find him, he could feel a dull tug towards him, sluggish but present, but he did eventually. Not where he wished to find him, but he found him nonetheless, he was free to roam as he pleased, not tied down by a household or any particular occupation just yet, he still had to earn his bread but even that was not too difficult, he could find or grow it himself more often than not.

Albion was tied firmly to both a house and a job.

When he first saw him he expected less, he himself had certainly had gotten taller since they last saw each other, but he did not expect Albion to age so much over the few hundred years, he was still shorter than him but he was catching up, he was met with fear, he may have looked a little wild, that must be it, Albion had his hair cut short, he was fidgety, when he offered help to cook he refused vehemently, more out of fear than of anything else, he looked ready to bite if he didn’t back down, with a type of fevered intensity that made Alba believe that he would actually do it.

He could not be older than maybe 8 or 9, yet he was living alone, not good enough, he spoke oddly, what he used to speak felt wrong out of his mouth, the syllables slid together oddly, softer than they should sound, he muttered to himself more than he used to, the gabbling he used to do became words, though not in any tongue Alba understood much of, he knew a lick of Latin, but most of what he was muttering was borderline unintelligible, he sounded deranged, he was too young to be going mad wasn’t he?

He didn’t have the bluish film over is eyes that spoke of a weakening mind, they were bright as ever, sure they were a little yellow, yet he was worried, he could be worried for his brother, no? But Albion didn’t let him, he forced him to sit down, the home wasn’t even that, a place behind the stables of the King he had stew, stashed away somewhere cool, it wouldn’t spoil anyways with how the weather was, but it wasn’t particularly much, there wasn’t much to sleep on save for a manky and scratchy wool blanket, it was frankly a little sad, he looked ill, pale and gaunt, still just bones and teeth, he had gotten taller, but hadn’t filled out whatsoever.

He gave what he thought was a lot to Alba, he was stingy with his food, it wasn’t nearly enough to fill him up, but he didn’t ask for more, the stew was watery with barely anything to it, he got half a nibble of something that resembled meat, but that was it. He seemed to have heard something, immediately forced Alba to hide somewhere, there wasn’t too much room, he didn’t see Albion’s face, but it mustn't have looked too good.

Somebody walked in and barked something Alba couldn’t understand, he seemed to respond to Edmund now, he left the place without even half a look at where he had stashed the other, he waited a long time, Albion must’ve hidden him for a reason, so coming out was a bad idea. He finally returned, sweaty despite how cold it was, grimy and shaking ever so slightly, Alba could see he was tired, he looked wrong, sort of scared, he must be sick to be acting like so, he was shaking so much he forced his hands into his cloth to stop it being so visible.

Albion's eyes narrowed seeing him "Why are you still here?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You wanted to make sure I was alive, as you said, I am alive, and it is not safe for you here. So, leave."

That was blunt, but not incorrect "You are not well Albion, let me take you with me."

"I'll be fine, I swear, it is not safe for you here. Leave."

He wouldn't stop moving, Alba wondered how he had enough energy to move so much on so little, it was a little dizzying "Sit first, then we can discuss. Do you have any bread?"

"No, we just ate, didn't we?" He didn't even seem worried, he didn't continue with that, this was awkward, Albion had sat next to him, folded with his head on his knees, how would he even go about this, they hadn't spoken in an age, Albion seemed too tired to care "So you answer to Edmund now?"

"I needed a name, and it was popular enough that I wouldn't stand out, do you not have a human name?"

"No, why would I need one."

"Do you not need to communicate with your..." he stumbled for the word, said it in Latin, and mumbled "Job person, or the people?"

"I do not need to do not often enough to need a name. No. I assume you do."

"Yes."

Conversation died of quickly after that, he wanted to ask how Rome was, he really did, but Albion had fallen into that state just adjacent to sleep while sitting, he hoped the other would relax a little in sleep, too much tension in sleep made the shoulders hurt. He did not in fact relax, not even slightly, tight as a coil of rope, the night was cold and while both their clothes were thick (his rather thicker than Albion's) it still wasn't enough to keep them warm, he knew for a fact that the other probably wrapped himself up tight in the blanket and hoped for the best.

He couldn't sleep like this, not at all, Albion wasn't even leaning on him but he could hear and feel him shivering, he needed to wrap the blanket around him or he was genuinely convinced he would freeze to death, he was still awfully thin, no insulation to speak of on him, he moved, small, slow and quiet, he knew what he was doing, nearly silent, yet Albion woke up and looked around wildly, like he half expected someone to come at him with a knife, he saw no-one, only Alba and convinced himself that it was a figure of his imagination and went back to sleep, this time laying down and covering himself as much as he could without taking all the potential blanket that Alba would take, he was larger than him so he would need more blanket.

Under the pale light of the moon he could see that Albion was feverish, shivering under the blanket, though that could just be because of the cold, he hoped so at least, he wouldn’t interfere, with how skitterish he was, it was unlikely that it would go down particularly well, he wasn’t even meant to be here, he would leave in the morning, he swore.

He still wasn’t the most sure why he made this trip in the first place, it was long and by no means was it easy, it was early spring, the days could be very cold and the nights even worse, frosting over still sometimes, as well as wet, he wasn’t sure what compelled him to do this, yet he did, he knew at least one of them was alive, though the conditions were admittedly not as good as they should've been, not nearly, but he was alive and it was something.

Albion always slept deep, now he woke with the slightest sound, he tried to be quiet moving about, Albion hadn’t moved an inch since he laid down, he could still hear breathing, so he was at least alive, he was in bad enough condition that Alba would easily believe that he could just pass then and there, and even now he knew dying hurt, he had died a few times, drowning, infection, drowning, injury.

He slept with this thought on his mind, not ideal, but he slept nonetheless, he was tired, he had walked a lot, he slept deep once he did.

He was surprised that Albion was up before he was, pale and clammy, afraid looking, but awake “Och, you look like you’ve seen a ghost, what happened?”

“Nothing that concerns you, no.”

“What is it.”

“Nothing.”

“It is something or you wouldn’t look like that.”

“Look, I have church in half an hour, I need you to go, I cannot be seen with a Pict, I would be hanged, as would you, it does not feel very good. So go, please.”

“Eh? You’ve been hanged before.” Alba swore church wasn’t today.

“You haven’t?”

“Why on earth would I be hanged?”

“Robbery, plotting, stealing food, the like.” His eyes were darting about almost violently as he was saying all of this, his voice took a crack he tried his hardest to hide, he started to fidget uncontrollably again, before nothing, everything seemed blanketed, gone all of a sudden, he took in a deep breath “Just go, it is the safest, for the both of us, go a little after I would.”

He nodded, he couldn’t really say or do anything about it anymore, Albion wouldn’t have it, he wondered a little detached why he was taking orders from his younger brother, but he seemed so vehement about all of them that he believed them “Will you not eat anything?”

“No, as I said, church, bread and wine, and on Sunday the household gives me provisions, I will be fine, you can finish the rest of the stew if you wish to.”

He was dressed in particularly grimy clothes though, things didn’t add up, but he didn’t want to call him out on it.

Now he waited, he took up Albion’s offer for the stew, he didn’t finish all of it though, goodness knows Albion could use it better than he. It took a while to make sure everything was clear, he headed out, heard shouting, and hurried back in, this was something he could understand only a little bit of, he heard Albion’s name, what sounded like lashes, a scream, silence, more screams, sobbing, he heard angry shouting, later soft words, and Albion came staggering back.

In his arms lay the remains of a few long dead rabbits, mostly bone with the smallest amount of meat left on them, the meat may have been Albion’s himself, he was bleeding, and badly, chunks of flesh hanging off his face and arms, a finger or three was missing, enough that Alba most certainly would be dead, he seemed not to notice the other, perhaps because of his vision blacking out, or he refused to acknowledge him. He panted, put the rabbits somewhere mostly clean, sat on the floor with a pot of sorts, and started putting his blood into it, his eyes were closed, but he was still very much alive, just about, he kept slumping down, head lolling on his shoulder like a corpse, but he jolted himself back to wakefulness each time that happened.

Scared of death he supposed, his flesh was knitting itself back together as he sat, where his fingers were missing soon grew bone, muscle, on wept as his skin grew back, unblemished and fresh, salty tears making the pain only worse, dripping into the bloodied pot. Least his stew will have salt, he couldn’t afford it normally

How had he the energy to fix himself to such a degree, gaping wounds on his arms slowly stitching itself back together with sinew and whatnot. Not a pretty sight, Alba felt beyond ill, and Albion seemed resigned to this, he could not care less.

Alba didn’t expect to feel him attacking his mind so strongly, he likely couldn’t muster it physically, the jabs were sharp and rapid, but not well aimed, all Alba could feel was fear, what he could feel from Albion was similar, mixed with resignation, almost pleading him to leave, the pot was half full of blood, he knew they could fix themselves if it wasn’t too serious, but whatever this was looked serious, yet the bloodflow was slowing and drying to the clothes, Alba simply stood in the corner, he was too scared to leave, he didn’t want whatever happened to Albion to happen to him, and he wated to make sure that he was all right. He certainly didn’t look it.

Albion managed to croak out, barely “Alba, leave. Please.”

He didn’t reply, how was he still fine after this, what was even going on?

“Leave, Alba.”

The bloodflow stopped, Albion forced himself up off the ground, sloppy and unfocused, he stumbled his way to Alba, he looked worse now, ashen grey, dried blood clotted all over him, hair matted with it and mud, a large chunk of his flesh was simply hanging off his cheek, going blue as his skin stitched itself together as Alba watched in horror, going blue then black, and falling off, dead onto the ground, Albion eyed it, contemplating whether to pick it up, he chose not to, it was filthy now anyway.

Some small colour returned to his cheeks, eyes yellowed and sunken, “Leave, Alba.”

He didn’t want to, he really didn’t, he wanted to hold him, tell him everything was all right, like Ma did, this wasn’t the same Albion, not the one that curled up in his lap when cold and tired, not the one that screwed around in shallow water with stones, gabbled to himself happily as he stared at birds doing their own businesses, he had seen Éire die, she was different after she did, she seemed not to realise it, he had changed too as he died and came back, but this was dramatic, had he died enough times to near become a whole new person, Albion hadn’t realised it himself if that was indeed the case.

He knew he should leave, he pulled Albion into a hug, he could feel all his ribs and his backbone, sharp and with no give, he reeked something demonic, but he was still his younger brother, a small child at that, still just brittle bones and chipped teeth, he sounded so much older than his years “I can still take you.”

Choked, nearly sobbing “N-no, it is not worth it, it will be better soon, this King just hates me, as do his goons, usually I am fine, I swear, he is getting old now, I know he will die soon, his son likes me, I take care of his horses well, he will treat me well.”

Alba didn’t know who he was lying to exactly, himself or to him, but he kept holding him until heavy breathing became slowed to near the point of suffocation, before bursting into painful sobs, Alba could feel him trying to curl into himself, embarrassed maybe? He was not like this normally by any chance, but he was so tired, he shouldn’t do this in front of Alba, he hadn’t seen him in centuries yet he did, he knew he shouldn’t have, yet he did, he hadn’t been held in a long time, and Alba was warm, he was getting blood all over him, he should apologize, he would, he would, once he could bring himself to words that is, he hadn’t missed Ma this hard in a long time.

He couldn’t remember too much before Alba was gone, he was sitting on his blanket, clean and in fresh clothes, but with no idea how he got there, strangely full, where had he gotten so much food from, was that a fever dream, it certainly felt like one, he had ended up places with no idea how he got there, this felt like one of those times.

The pot of blood was stored in a cold dark place, it was growing dark now anyways, he was so tired, always was after he had to fix himself, and he was asleep without a second thought,

Alba was worried, Albion, Edmund, he wouldn’t call him that until his life depended on it, it felt wrong, everything about that felt wrong, sick, frail, and afraid, he felt ill after seeing that, he never wanted to see him with chunks of flesh hanging off him.

_______________________

Alisdair knew that was a lie, Alba didn't

_______________________

Raiders were at his shores, he could feel them, he could feel them stealing, burning and looting from outlying islands, he was old enough to fight now, he had grown accustomed to it after a while, a burning on his peripherals that he couldn't stop, but managed to ignore, he had caught sight of their personification once, he could feel him at all times otherwise, cold, calculating.

His entire arm seized up once, luckily his non dominant one, he couldn't move it for all the pain, what even were these people, what did they want, he was not tied to a house per se, more as the guard to the monarch, not a formal part of the millitary, but he was allowed incursions, the monarch knew of his strange set of circumstances, he knew he couldn't die, not in any way that mattered and acted accordingly, through these incursions he learned a lot about this odd personification, he was younger than he was, by a good couple centuries, shorter than he was, though that might've been just because he was tall, his beard was coming in now, and he was quite proud of that fact, magical in the same way he and Ma were, he didn’t know any more of the type existed, pale hair, almost like snow in the light, braided, eyes that looked like the depths of the sea, he was a good fighter too, for all his lack of physical strength, he made up for it with mind-numbing agility, they had singled each other out on the battlefield more than once, an unspoken agreement that whenever they encountered, they would only fight each other, they were the only ones fit to go against another, they knew they could not die.

So why waste their expertise on people they know could, more fun that way really, and it was good to know the enemy anyways.

The burning dulled when it was in his blood, the burning was doused and extinguished only in his blood, he looked like ice and his blood acted the same, never mind that if fresh it was warm like it, or as any other humans, should be, though over time they settled onto the islands on the vestiges of his mind, they soon stopped being is, they were the Northmen’s now, he could do nothing to stop it, it was calm for a while, the Northmen had stopped trying to take over them, content with their island holdings.

________________________________

Norway, not the best first impression, Alisdair thought, turned out far better than he could’ve conceived then.

________________________________

Edmund was doing worse, far worse than Alba, he wasn’t sure if he had a human name now or not, he was not sure if he needed one yet, currently that didn’t matter, simply musings to keep the mind busy, he had been brought in front of the personification of the Northmen, he could scarcely breathe with how much he ached now, fire, all down his back, he had cramped so hard that his lungs wouldn’t inflate correctly, let alone be able to stand and walk with some sense of dignity.

Yet he did, he forced himself up, he forced his breath to slow, he forced himself to ignore the searing pain, the numbing dizziness, he had to adapt, or he would die, simple as, the personification of the Northmen was so much younger than he was, though a good head taller, if not more, steely sky blue eyes, far better fed too, fighting him would be worthless, he wouldn’t survive no matter what he did, he would get snapped like a dry twig.

A guard came, and he presented himself, not only to the personification but also to the highest-ranking warrior on this expedition, still no official governmental body, the personification stared at him, nearly dumbfounded, he had never gotten a good look at this wild island child before, only seen glimpses of green eyes and sneering teeth, he looked so small, starved too, he thought Noreg was small, this, this was still a child.

The Jarl thought the same, not exactly the highest-ranking warrior, but yet the most senior there, he spoke, the tongue unfamiliar, yet just about understandable to Edmund, English, not Norse, just about “You are the personification of this land?”

“Yes, I am, this area of it, there are more, further out, my brothers and sister.”

“How old are you, child?” He sounded gentle, why did he sound so gentle, they were not supposed to be gentle with him. He didn’t know how old he was.

“I do not know, I have seen the Romans, and a time before them too”

The Jarl was more than a little shocked, this tiny, fragile looking thing had weathered at least 800 years, perhaps more, the personification more so, more visibly so, he spoke up, his voice had started to drop, Edmund’s hadn’t, yet that boy was over twice his age, he could see it only in his gaze, the way he held himself was odd, stiff, as if he was in pain, the same way men injured after falling onto their backs during harvest held themselves, the Jarl kept talking, he kept replying, answers short, snappy and growing increasingly pained and panicked.

“Jarl, I do not think he is well.” Said in a manner that the boy could not understand, pure Norse, old fashioned to be at that.

“I can see that, yes, he is not healthy, could you take care of him for the time being?”

He blanched, he had only ever taken care of Noreg, for short periods of time, he was an invader, this boy would not go quietly, “I-I, look after him? Yes Jarl, I shall try my best.”

He turned back to the boy “Child, what is your name?”

“Edmund.”

“Edmund, this is Magnus, you shall go with him.”

Edmund squashed the blind panic that came with that announcement, that would not help him here, he would have to get out smart, he couldn’t do this by fighting, his face flickered for but a second, fear, panic, resignation all in one, then it was gone, replaced by a dull look undertone by pain, Magnus left, all he could do was follow.

Walking was hard, Magnus walked fast, his legs were longer and he was healthier, he could scarcely breathe enough to walk slowly, his legs barely obeying his orders, let alone fast enough to keep up with this pace, he tried, forced his legs forward, forward, forward, follow, follow, follow, Magnus was far ahead not even after a few minutes, practically panting he tried to run, that didn’t work.

Magnus had sharp hearing, he could hear the uneven footsteps getting farther and farther, and the breathing becoming louder and more laboured, occasionally interspersed by a cough, when he finally looked behind him he could see the personification, Edmund was it, quite far away, stumbling, he was scarcely walking now, held up mostly by the wall and by what he could feel was fear, when he stopped to wait for him, the mild feeling of fear at the edge of his mind spiked violently, his mind registered deathly fear, Edmund was getting into his skull and twisting things inside of his head, Noreg did this sometimes, but it was always far duller, this was sharp, searing, and it was gone.

Edmund had put his head to the cold of a stone, it was the height of summer now, he was sweating both from exertion more than his body could support and from the heat, all that was gone, leaving Magnus disconcerted in his own mind, the boy looked dizzy, far beyond that, he needed to rest or he would fall any second now.

“Edmund, rest, you look like you will fall over

"I…shall be fine, continue, I will follow." An obvious idea to run, but he couldn't of anything better now, he felt like he was to collapse at a moment's notice, he couldn't, the personification could do anything to him while he was down, he couldn't.

Magnus didn't even consider escape, he was too frail to pull it off even if he tried, practically only bone and skin, he waited for Edmund to gather himself, he had been given orders to look after him for the time being, and that was what he would do, Edmund vomited, nothing much, bile, water, and stale bread, the bread wasn't even too bad, a waste of it really.

He couldn't fall.

He wouldn't.

Though he practically did, leaning on a tree for support more than he should do, his stomach was cramping now too, hunger, fear, pain, anxiety, nothing good, he retched again, nothing came out, again and the smallest bit bread, something his guts had seemingly held onto, came spilling out.

White spots dancing around his vision, this wasn't so bad, he was floating, free, somebody was holding him, he was no longer flying, a bottle pressed to his lips, "Drink."

Even now he could come up with a reason not to trust it, slurred, near delirious "Mmm. Could be poisoned."

Magnus could've hit him right there and then, but he looked in bad enough shape that it could finish him off for good, he didn't want a dead personification on his hands, he could deal with people, their existence was fleeting anyways, not a nation, and not somebody whose health had been entrusted to him "It isn't, see." He took a swig, and very resolutely stayed stable, "I swear it is not poisoned, and why would I waste it on you if it was, you would die without it anyways."

He had a point, he could come back though, and it would be terribly embarrassing to go of sickness, he would rather go by poison.

He took a swig, then a gulp, not of his own volition, Magnus held the bottle to his lips, and he was limp enough to let it in, not sure if that was his body conspiring against him or he actually wanted to, he couldn't think, wool for brains bastard he was.

This would be gotten him killed in Rome, he couldn't trust any of those bastards, any food not made by his hand was poisoned, he always saw the jeering faces of Rome's grandsons as he faded from life, he couldn't remember their names anymore, maybe he did, it didn't matter either way now.

All he had to do was wait, wait until his body either have out or had enough strength to properly stand.

It frustratingly did neither, closer to the latter than to the former, he gingerly pulled himself up, Magnus had sat in a nearby rock, eyeing him with what was either concern or distaste, they were very separate but the face could meld together well, maybe his vision was just swimming, he stood up, the lack of blood to his head made him fall down, hit his head hard on the tree, and then nothing once more.

He awoke to Magnus fretting quite like Éire did directly over his face, worried, a stream of obscenities "Fuck, fuck, fuck, wake up, wake up!"

He was awake now, his body wasn't responding, he hadn't died, but had come close, slowly he managed to open his eyes, a harder task never performed.

Immediately he got crushed, he took what he thought was his last breath, it was not, it was a hug, this man barely knew him, a rival personification, yet he was hugging him, he was warm, still had some puppy fat that refused to melt away, he hadn't been hugged in centuries.

It felt nice, warm, he felt real, his lungs struggled painfully, but he didn't pull back, not sure if he had the strength to do so, Magnus put his ear on his chest, the heart was beating, slowly, it should be more panicked, even Edmund knew that, but again he couldn't muster the energy for string fear, he had run out of fear to run on, he was starved, and exhausted, he hadn't slept proper in days, it all was catching up to him at once, the pain of the invasion, he wasn't old enough, at least physically for his joints to be acting up like so.

Magnus was still holding him, not even a hug at this point, simply a grasp, to make sure he wouldn't dissolve in his arms, like honey in warm water.

He finally eased him down after he made sure he wouldn't just die then and there, he pushed himself up, Magnus pushed him down, roughly, but not enough to hurt "No, you rest, I will not travel with somebody as weak as you are without making sure you are healthy enough to walk."

Weakly, lying through his teeth, he was normally too timid to lie, his voice wavered when he did so, his voice wavered now enough as it was, it wouldn't be noticed "I-I shall survive, continue, I shall he following as closely as I am able to."

"That is not very close, we would make faster pace if I carried you, you seem very light, I probably could."

This was mortifying, he couldn't stand being carried, he wasn't so weak he had to be "No, no, I shall be fine in a few moments, do hold.”

Magnus was now having nothing more of it, he was smaller and much lighter than Noreg, and he could carry the other like he would do to a child, Edmund weighed about as much as a lamb, a small one at that, he lifted him, as gently as he could, he could feel his heart rate spiking, all of a sudden he could feel it inside him, before banishing it, he would not be influenced right now, he squirmed to the best of his ability, but failed to go anywhere particularly well, he could no longer swallow down his panic, nor could he keep down much of the water, he tasted bile, he couldn’t vomit it out now, that would be disgusting, not on top of Magnus, he swallowed it, sour and viscous, it was nearly funny how much smaller he was compared to Magnus, he passed into sleep, or sickness, currently the line was blurred.

He healed quickly, he always did, it was a little frightening to see how just a little food and drink, none of which were particularly rich, allowed himself to fix himself up from the inside, at least for now, he could stand straight, though even then he held himself with an injured back, his pride, black and pulsing, often where it had no place to be doing so, only occasionally did it turn on its heel for a burst of yellow cowardice.

Magnus found Edmund to be a better warrior than he could have ever hoped, completely subservient, while frail looking, he was stronger than he looked, in hand to hand combat he was still miles away from even getting close to Magnus, but he healed frightfully fast, and the subservience was borne, he hoped so at least, more out of obedience than fear, fear could very quickly become burning hot anger; Edmund was too timid for anger, it was not easily found within his constitution to be angry, he could try, but that only made him scared, so he stopped trying, it only made things worse when he did, clouded his senses and made him behave odd, imperative to stay focused or he would get thrown around like a rag doll.

He was good at picking himself up and licking his wounds after training, he usually had the element of surprise, no matter what was told to them, mortals did not understand that Edmund had been fighting for enough of his life that he was good at him, he had been running for even longer, he was quick to run and quick to strike, not good in a battle, but enough to keep himself safe, he hoped so at least, it would be murder if it wasn’t.

______________________________

He survived the Vikings because he was adaptable, he adopted their cultures as his own, he hated to say that he grew accustomed to them, but he did.

_____________________________

Rhys worshipped the earth for longer than his siblings had, few looked upon the ground, the leaves in the trees like he did anymore, at least what few were left were rebellious, but even then he was growing weaker, disconnect with ones people tended to do that, he did not wish to convert, he really didn't, but clinging onto the vestiges of a dying population had its effects on him, constantly tired, weak, not something that appealed to the royalty.

He was short and stout by nature, but recently he couldn't keep much food down, and it showed, he was still quite young, his voice had dropped but he hadn't grown a beard, he wasn't even close to adulthood, and he was ageing slower now, Edmund had started to catch up, all limbs, teeth and hurrying.

He was forced under the Normans, rather he gave himself in, he was too weak to continue running for too much longer, he was taken into the household, much as Edmund had been, converted, he felt empty afterwards, but he felt healthier, he put up more resistance.

He never thought he could bring himself to hate Edmund, yet he did, he did as he was told by these Frenchmen without questioning, he said it was because he lacked free will, as nations, personification, they lacked it, they were not human without free will, they were not human without the ability to die stay dead, rejoin with the Lord afterwards, they were not bound by law, nor by morals, for they had none, they had no genuine thought, only a combination of others.

He thought himself immune to human follies, though it was very visible that he wasn’t, he saw how he acted around food, one moment it was there, the next it was gone, he ate with fervour, like somebody would take it if he didn’t eat it as fast as possible, he had seen him falling asleep for seconds while standing, he rarely slept otherwise, his back was horribly burned, healing slowly, but still there from the Harrying, yet he followed around the very same people who did it to him like a well behaved dog.

Rhys didn’t understand why he didn’t even try to fight back, taking what he was given and never asking for any more, quiet and skitterish, he disliked how Edmund looked at him blankly sometimes, nothing in his gaze, no joy, no fear, no contempt, no distaste, it was not known to him how he could empty his gaze so wholly, nothing behind his eyes when he carried out orders, blank, methodical. Most of the time, the rest he saw was fear and anger, he wasn’t sure which one he preferred, though he relished in the mild look of fear he could see in Edmund’s eyes whenever he did something visibly that he was not supposed to, even something small.

Edmund was still small, though now the same height as Rhys was, he believed himself simultaneously above and below humans, above many, below only the lords and the monarch, but he could see Edmund was envious of them, envious of their life, rather, envious of their death, and recently he could feel him fraying, he had been so composed the entire time, but now he was fraying, it wasn’t visible, not just yet at least, but William was getting old, his son was not popular in England, that’s what Albion had become, nor was he very popular in Cymry, he hadn’t changed much.

They carried on doing as they did, mostly separate, he could feel discontent brewing in his own lands, dull and ever present, but not the type that he could see in Edmund, he started to do his orders wrong on accident, harried and stretched like vellum, nearly thin enough to be see through, he waited after every mild misstep like he would be executed, it hadn’t come, not just yet, though that seemed to only make it worse, the blankness he had perfected started to slip more often now, Rhys decided he liked the anger more than the fear.

With the fear he still looked like a child, his younger brother no less, not the leashed dog of the Normans that he had become, talking to nobody in particular during stress, he knew he wasn’t talking to the fey folk, he had been prohibited to do so, and the fey confirmed he hadn’t communicated in a long time, genuinely talking to nobody but his own mind, the king continued to deteriorate, now more rapidly, an accident with the saddle, he had burst his bowels, least that was what the physician said, and now he had to wait to die.

It took longer than it was supposed, 5 weeks, before he succumbed finally to his injuries, Edmund had taken to disappearing for periods of time when he was not needed, the fey informed him that he was in the woods not too far from here, always on one specific tree stump, staring at nothing in particular.

Rhys sought him out once, he knew he felt next to none of the brotherly pull Rhys had to him, if he did it was incredibly fragile and dull, Rhys had made the slightest sound, twigs cracking underfoot, Edmund leapt up from where he had curled up, tried saying in his most authoritarian voice possible, first in English, then in French “Who are you, show yourself, Coward.”

“It is not wise to insult your enemy when you do not know who it is Albion.” Only Rhys still called him that, why was he here.

Rhys didn’t miss the overwhelming look of relief on his face before it was quickly masked “Rhys, what are you doing here?”

“Seeing what you do when you go to rot in the woods, apparently nothing.”

“Yes, nothing, it is quiet here.”

Quiet wasn’t the exact word he would choose, the animals were loud, as was the wind, but it was peaceful, “Do you not speak with the fey anymore? You loved them as a child.”

Edmund stiffened “I was ordered not to; besides I do not wish to be mistaken for a changeling any longer, they already think I’m mad.”

“You do act it sometimes.”

“I do not!”

“You do speak to yourself often enough though.”

“You can hear that?”

“You think I cannot?”

He crawled back to the position he was sitting in, cloak over his eyes as he curled back up, Rhys sat next to him, he lightly poked his side, pinched it while he was at it, he was a little surprised he could grab anything at all, Edmund yelped and curled into himself further, Rhys gave a light little laugh, like the tinkling of bells “You’ve been eating well recently, you’ve filled out a little.”

He looked embarrassed for some reason “I’ve been eating too much you mean, ‘ve been stuffing myself at every chance I'm given.” He sounded mortified “I never eat this much, not a good idea to eat so much, but I'm so hungry all the time.” he pulled out the last syllable, he was whining.

“Nonsense, you are too thin still, don’t you freeze in winter?”

“A little, but if I am working, then I am warm, and the cold has no reason to bother me.”

“You are strange."

"As are you."

They sat in silence for a while, Edmund heaved himself up, hissed slightly as the material brushed his burned and blistered back, muttered to himself something foul "I need salve again."

He said louder "We should head back, lest our presence, or lack thereof is missed.”

He did have a point, neither particularly wanted to leave, yet they had to.

The king died the day afterwards, at least that was when the news came to reach them, William Rufus was crowned, both braced for the inevitable revolts, they came as expected, though Edmund noted that these revolts were less from the people, more from the nobility and clergy, William Rufus was not popular it seemed.

Only under Henry where they put to proper use. They were immortal, at least functionally, they were stronger than other boys their age, neither had yet become men, and since they could not die, their souls, if they had them, could not be judged once and if they died, nor at the Biblical judgement day, they could not suffer after death, they could do their dirty work.

They were good at it too, they understood what they were meant to do, and considering how young they looked, very few of those being tortured expected much from them, especially with the Welshman, he had soft eyes and a soft face, they expected nothing much from him, they expected more of Edmund, he had grown to be older than Rhys by this point, taller too, barely, he seemed much like a fox, eyes darting around wildly until fixed upon a victim, but he still looked frail, he could not do much.

That was often the worst thing they could make themselves believe, they showed no mercy, none at all, and the worst thing, the worst thing was having them force their eyes into yours, it could drive a mortal man insane in moments if they wished to, often they were saved just moments before their minds were shattered, information extricated from the husks of their minds, before being driven to insanity anyways, Rhys tended to drive people to inanity, the type that made them seem possessed, animalistic, crying and screaming until he finished them off slowly, he never rushed these things, slowly cutting bits and pieces of flesh off of them, never enough to kill them in one go, he had been seen tasting the flesh too, others had seen the glee on his face as he did so, it was wrong, but he couldn’t go to hell when he died anyways, they didn't have souls, they were not human, not alive precisely either.

Edmund was less surgical, he could drive people to death simply by allowing himself to feel the cracks in one's mind, finding even the smallest fissure and pulling it apart with such fervour that the mind and body collapsed unto itself, he only did that sometimes he preferred to get his hands dirty, he had perfected opening a man up through the middle, deep enough that he could see the entrails within, without killing him immediately, elbow deep in entrails, pulling open the ribs with his bare hands, the sounds of bones cracking was just lovely, he searched about the cavity, the prisoner usually died after this, some lasted longer, if they did he found their heart, lifeforce of their body, either stilled or pumping with fervour, and pulled it out, still warm, discarding it onto the floor, occasionally he took an ill-fated bite, the bites became more common, he started going for the liver too, if it wasn’t diseased he tended to eat the whole thing, raw too, there was nothing behind his eyes save for contentment after he did that.

They were both going mad, their behaviour had changed over the decades leading to the crusades, so much so that occasionally they seemed like entirely different people. Gone was a timid Edmund and a mild-mannered Rhys, the monarchy praised them, and they lived for that praise, they lived for the death of others, and they seemed perfectly fine with it, they had no morals, they never needed any, selfish and self-centred, obedient to a fault, Rhys occasionally acted up, Edmund was sent to deal with him when this happened, brutal force, and it worked well on him.

They had gone mad, no question of it, and there was nothing to be done about it now, you can lose your sanity easily, it is far more difficult to find it once it is gone, they would say it was freeing, getting rid of the shackles of sanity and normalcy of the mind, they were free, only shackled to orders and scarcely anything or anybody else, it was an interesting existence frankly, terrifying to an outside observer, but great in its own way.

_______________________

They grew to love the thrill of the kill, it was exhilarating, a feeling impossible to recreate, they loved it enough that they sought it out later, the start of a delicious spiral.

______________________

The Anarchy was terrible, everyone suffered as his people, rather his nobility turning on itself, he had felt stretched out before, obviously, but this was something else entirely, he felt not like a person, he was in places and didn’t remember how he got there, he had to support the king, it was his job, but of the found himself sabotaging his own tasks, it was frustrating, but even that passed.

The war with France went badly, he felt ill constantly, he had been sent off to fight, Rhys remained in the country, he had jobs to carry out and the like, he came back wrong, the insanity had rooted itself deeply in his mind, poisoning it and festering, it practically fed on his rational mind until scarcely anything was left, he had been sent to fight for a long time, he had seen a lot of deaths, he had caused plenty, experienced many more, had been tortured, did the torturing.

He came back berilligent and with a fondness for alcohol that bordered on illness, his hands shook if he was properly sober for too long, Rhys hadn’t been doing well either, he had picked up both of their duties, there were more incursions and invasions into his lands, trying to fully cement control over Wales, he vented out his frustrations when he was assigned to torture, he went all out then, it felt good, they were above the natural moral law “Thou shalt not kill.” that only applied to creatures favoured by the Lord, they were not, why would He create them if He wished for them not to return to His arms.

It was bullshit frankly, but he darent to say that out loud, he did as he was told, only occasionally misstepping on purpose, his people were angry too, as were the people of England, he could feel their malcontent without even being their personification, Edmund returned, Arthur now, Edmund was growing rather too old fashioned now, Arthur returned, bruised, battered and angry, and then not long after, the wars of the roses broke out.

Those finished too, Arthur often had to be wrestled, solely by Rhys into a state in which he was somewhat complacent, often he had to be filled with alcohol or he would at like a caged feral creature, Rhys had half a mind to join him, he was detached enough as it was, a little push and he would be reduced to the same as Arthur.

Arthur wasn’t the type to cry, he was too proud to do it, yet as he slept, on the off chance he did, he couldn’t bring himself to sleep, too scared that he wouldn’t wake up, he envied mortals because they could die, yet feared true death, odd, he wept in his sleep, this was worse than the Vikings, worse than the Anarchy, it lasted so much longer, so much more bloody, too many monarchs, he was exorcized a few times, it didn’t work, the priest died as soon as he entered the room, Arthur knew he shouldn’t have done that to a man of the Lord, he forced himself not to as he was bound and crossed, these servants didn’t deserve to be driven to insanity and then death.

His resolve did not hold up, the priest died, and luckily nobody, at least not for a good while, tried to kill him for witchcraft or possession or to exorcize him.

This cleared up eventually too, Henry Tudor coming out victorious, they returned to sanity, the best they could, Arthur now had more official duties, he was taught how to read and write again, he was a smart child, he had the potential for great things, taught in a monastery he fared badly, he was not cut out for the cloistered life of a monk, he was too wild for it, Rhys fared better, he could force himself to be more quiet, Arthur barely could, Rhys stayed in the monastery for longer, as soon as Arthur could read and write he was pulled out, put into official duties.

Rhys liked it, it was quiet, empty, beautiful in a queer way, stone was still, the air was slow, he could pray to the lord, whether he was up there or not.

He stayed there for a long time, came the dissolution of the monasteries, Arthur had grown, he had been forced to adapt to the court, stiff backed with a bland face, again like a glorified pet, he had gotten relatively plump, he ate all he was given, he never dared to reject any, the food was often too rich for him, he ended up vomiting a lot of it out afterwards, Rhys found it easy to tease him now, morseo than usual at least, but harder to get a rise out of him, his face was bland, his eyes held pleading, the country forcibly converted to another church, neither could do anything about it, the dissent surged again.

The ebb and flow they should have gotten used to, but they never managed to.

The new boy-king came in, he died in a blink of an eye, he was fond of Arthur and Rhys, apparently the only ones not trying to push him around, he liked discussing theology with them, looked more than a little scared when the boys of not much older than he was talked about death so casually, spoke of their contempt of the Lord, spoke about war and torture, he knew they were old, but how old always astounded him, he was nothing but a blip in their time.

Then Elizabeth, she also had a soft spot for them, Arthur had reverted back to barely restrained ferality, he was chosen to be a deckhand on Drake's rendezvous to the new world, he was more than an able seaman, he knew what he was doing, even then Rhys was worried for him, drowning was amongst the worst ways to die, especially out at open sea where he would die, come back to life, die, come back and so and so until he contacted land.

He came back with sun bleached hair that had some parts bordering on white, skin darkened by the sun and a filthier mouth than he left with, Rhys was of the more tame sort, at least relatively speaking, he was kept for the court, and he was frankly rather good at it, charming when he wanted to be, calculating at others, he was bitter, of course he was, but he had scarcely any other choice, so he played along, and frankly this wasn't as bad as it could be.

When Arthur came back the first thing Rhys did to him was fuss over him like a mother would, making sure he was indeed alright, most of Drake's crew had died after all, he admitted he had died once, not of drowning, rather of illness, which was fair, it was a small cramped place with a lot of men, it made sense, he was thinner now too, stronger though it didn't look it.

The Queen never married, never sired an heir, Arthur braced himself for a civil wat that never came, simply the monarch of Scotland, it was Scotland now, became the monarch, James I.

_______________

It was a delicate connection, but it stood the test of time more than anyone thought it would do.

_______________

Alisdair hadn't seen either of them properly in centuries, their queen died, they needed his king to be their monarch, it was an odd arrangement, but likely the only thing saving them from all out civil war, James the first of England and Wales, the Sixth of Scotland.

He didn’t know precisely what to expect when he did see them, somehow fate had separated them, and through some divine intervention surely, they would be back together as one, he could just about remember their faces, at least from when they were young, the details escaped him, but all of it was shattered when he ended up seeming them again for the first time, Albion practically looked wicked, Cymru was not too far behind, though he seemed a little more mild, Albion was scanning the crowd, but as soon as he made contact with him, Alisdair could feel the prodding of his mind against his, it felt different than it used to, less like honey, thick and cloying, but still generally benevolent, now it felt less suffocating, but stronger, now like that new laudanum that seemed to be gaining popularity medicinally, he had it once, too much really. It was overpowering and controlling but ecstatic in the maddest way possible, that is what Albion felt like right now.

Cymru seemed not to be trying, his gaze watchful and more searching than he was particularly used to, both of them were unnerving, he had had to have fought the English a lot before, but neither personification seemingly cared enough to write or communicate, they had caught glimpses at battles, but that was all, he hadn’t seen Cymru in nearly a thousand years, they were getting quite old frankly.

He forcibly broke eye contact, they would have to talk later, the crowns were unified, they were now all under one house, they met politely, Scotland’s English was bad, he managed to introduce himself as Alisdair though, they reverted to Latin, all were fluent in the language, it was the best they could do right now, they had all but forgotten the tongue they used to speak with each other, so they had to adopt another.

They finished introducing themselves, Albion was Arthur now, Cymru was Rhys and Alba was Alisdair, they all felt wrong to Alisdair, something in Rhys’ gaze was mad, he had no idea why or how, but he didn’t want to be at his mercy, more so with Arthur, his hair was still bleached for God knows what reason, he must’ve spent a lot of time at sea for it to be that way.

They were all colder to each other than they should have been, a thousand years was a long time though, all were dressed in their finest clothes, yet it felt like things were being mashed together that shouldn’t have been, very little discussion occurred on that day.

_____________________

Alisdair wasn’t sure if that was the best or worst thing to have ever happened to him.

_____________________

Alisdair thought fatherhood suited Arthur, he didn’t expect him to come back from the new world with anything, much less a child, rosy-cheeked, plump and happy even after months of being fed on nothing more than dampened ships biscuits, Arthur had already named him, Alfred, it suited him, he was the type of child that always felt heavier when you carried him no matter what you prepare yourself, like a cannonball of a baby, he had broken Rhys’ nose once, simply because he was moving too much and had hit him.

Happy in the way that he crawled about on all fours chasing insects and occasionally chasing the fae, the fae chased him back sometimes, he always had a cast iron bracelet toward them off, happy and simply all the best thing about the human constitution, Rhys missed seeing one of their kind so carefree, he was so young, still very much a babe in arms, he loved to be carried, Arthur had the arms strength to do so, Alisdair did, Rhys not so much, it always felt like his arms were being removed from their sockets.

The kid was strong that was for sure, but he was still a child, a fragile one at that, Rhys had never seen Arthur care about anything as much as he cared for this child, he cared for himself less than he did for this child, he was never scared for his own life no matter what was happening than he was when Alfred was sick, he got fevers that spiked so high he would start moving like a possessed thing, Rhys hadn’t seen Arthur pray in earnest for centuries, he found him crying over his cradle once after a particularly bad episode, praying to whoever would listen, he never believed in a benevolent God, yet he was still trying, and he hadn’t the heart to interrupt him.

He was a happy child, burned hot as the sun.

Their stance as personifications had faded into myth at this point, only the monarch knew what they were, no longer were they part of the royal household, there was suspicion that they were witches, they aged slowly, 3 men and a child living alone, they all did have their jobs, Arthur was in the navy, Rhys had an apprenticeship as a baker and Alisdair in the masons Alfred, once he was old enough, was left home often, Rhys stayed with him the longest, Arthur was out at sea more often than not and Alisdair was busy.

One day he was just gone, no trace of him, Rhys usually heard childish noises of delight when he came home, usually because he brought bread, and he was always hungry, Arthur had come only yesterday from his latest voyage, immediately fell asleep, he wasn’t even drunk, just bone dead exhausted, he didn’t find Arthur in his bed.

Rhys understandably panicked, he checked the orchards, he checked wherever he had found Alfred before, but he wasn’t there, Arthur could be anywhere, maybe he had Alfred, something told him that was not the case.

Burning was perhaps the most painful way to die, save for drowning, especially their kind, their flesh burned but it regenerated, constantly, constantly, until the fire grew hot enough that they couldn’t keep up.

Alisdair had gone to see what all the kerfuffle was about, he saw Alfred tied to a stake, Arthur next to him, the former was crying, of course he was, dying for the first time could never be rivalled in how much it hurt, Arthur had burned before, he wasn’t worried about himself, he couldn’t see Alfred crying, the ropes were thick ropes, the type used for rigging in ships, this was not the normal rope they used, blessed, Arthur could feel it burning against his skin, while he wasn’t fae, cast iron still burned them, his penance for being so far from God he supposed.

The fire was lit, Alfred screamed and screamed and screamed, Arthur resigned to his fate, it wasn’t as bad if he didn’t struggle, as the fire caught hold of them, Rhys showed up, Alisdair was watching in shocked silence “DO SOMETHING ALISDAIR!”

Alisdair sounded numb “What can we do. We will be burned alongside.”

It took longer for both to die than expected, Alred wailed and cried even as his throat practically was full of flame, he spat them out and screamed, Arthur barely moved, he had done this before, he could feel his flesh burning off and being replaced anew, an odd feeling, he screamed near the need, he knew he couldn’t keep this up longer, someone went mad as he screamed, jumped into the flames themself, Alfred had passed now, he was close to, Rhys held his head in his hands, Arthur was practically flaying his mind right now, another went mad, started attacking the crowd with her teeth and fists, eyes leaking black blood and teeth falling out as Arthur controlled her, she died too, Arthur collapsed on the fire, one last push, telling Alisdair and Rhys to run, and they did.

Rhys loved fire, even now he was enraptured, he just wanted to stare, it might’ve been his brother, but it was just so pretty, Alisdair grabbed his arm and pulled him out of his reverie, he wanted to stay, watch, Alfred’s screams were in his ears but he couldn’t care less, it was beautiful, it was fire!

He died, there was no doubt that they were witches now, Rhys and Alisdair ran, they would be burned next if they stayed.

__________________

Alfred barely remembered this, he was so small, he had blocked it from memory, he didn’t remember hiding in forests and finding another town, he didn’t remember how scared he was if he wasn’t in somebody's arms, and he would have like to keep it that way

_________________

The revolution hit Arthur harder than any of them thought it should have done, Rhys bore the brunt of it, Arthur was now the oldest out of them, Rhys the youngest, Alasdair was more focused on the French bastard child that Arthur had acquired, the child was small and scared, obedient to a fault, Matthieu, it reminded him painfully of when Arthur was small, and while now he was beriligent, often drunk and angry, or quiet and focused to a painful degree, the quiet obedience scared him, he didn’t want Matthew to turn out like that.

Matthew was clingy if given the chance, Arthur eyed him with an odd mix of contempt and...guilt, that was very clearly guilt, he was physically at least not more than 10 years younger than Rhys, he was old enough to look after himself, in theory, he was the type to silently sit in a corner with a crust of bread and not speak even if a dog was ripping his leg to shreds, more than once had shown up and fallen asleep on Alisdair’s or Rhys’ bed with them, or sitting in Arthurs study in silence just to make sure someone else was indeed there, Arthur usually knew when he was there, told him to go to bed, these were some of the few times he didn’t listen.

Arthur put him to bed himself in such instances, they were rare, but they did happen, he usually wanted to hurt Francis, but this was something else, why was his child like this, what did he do to him, he mustn't be too good of a parent if Alfred fought to leave, but he was, at least relatively, he was normal, not with the fear of the Lord that Matthew had.

He liked Alisdair the most, called him uncle Alisdair, which felt like it aged him a decade, fuck he wasn’t that old, Matthew liked sitting with Alisdair when he was in the family house, they had taken the family name of Kirkland, no one could remember their original family name, it was an age ago really, the kid didn’t know how to read, barely knew his letters at the age of what must be 7 or 8, that was bad, the combination of the three taught him his letters, they couldn’t afford a governess at this time, the revolutionary war, and the 7 years' war before that had been quite the drain on their coffers, and they preferred not to have staff over, save for a washerwoman twice a week and a cook

They barely had any reading materials for his age, Alisdair had a lot of books about plants and mechanics that he barely understood, the best they could do was the Catechism, but he learnt his letters eventually, he learned when he had to hide from each of them, he knew to hide from father when he smelled like sweet smoke, liquor and a whorehouse, Uncle Alisdair when he smelt of cheap gin and damp, Uncle Rhys when he smelled like wood smoke and blood, he had to learn, he picked up on their painfully suppressed tics and behaviours, a particular look in Arthurs eyes could spell the difference between a harsh shutdown and a soft cuddle, even if that look was barely different from any other.

A particular way in the way Uncle Rhys held himself, lax or stiff, spelt the way that he might not be welcome in his bed that night, the way that Uncle Alisdair’s voice sometimes went dangerously soft that showed that finding blood on the floorboards the next day should not be surprising, and finding Father deathly pale on the settee should be expected, little details, the little things kept Matthew safe, and warm, curling up in the library near the anaemic fire that they kept in there to stop the books moulding when he was shooed away from the roaring kitchen fire. He treaded on eggshells, but he was noticed as a person, the lesser of a couple evils.

Like Arthur as he grew it was clear he was mostly arm and leg, he was taller than Rhys and the same height as Arthur by 1820, Alfred had tried to invade a couple years prior, he understood why Rhys loved watching fire burn, untamed and wild, powerful, Matthew wished he could be like that, he was closer to the snow that coated his country, fragile, pretty and cold, cold can kill too, he liked Alfred, normally he did, but it was nice to have him get what was coming to him, older than Matthew, taller and certainly sturdier, it was nice to see him missing a limb or three, Arthur wasn’t even disgusted, he had done the same to so many, he had done it to Alisdair at some point, he had done it to practically half of Europe by this point, he was proud.

Alfred didn’t want to be so hardy; he didn’t want to be alive to see his brother dismembering him, it hurt, fuck, it hurt, he looked mad, “Y-you're insane!” It fell on deaf ears, he heard little twittering voices sometimes, this sounded like one of them, he paid no mind to it, father had told him not to listen to the voices, and it made sense, so he didn’t.

Fire, blood, he understood why Rhys liked it so much, it was a bit of an odd thing to realise, but he did understand.

The rest of the 1810s had gone in a haze, Father was practically never available, Jack was clingy and practically impossible to control, Eleanor was still too small to be much of a problem, Aunt Brighid stayed as far away from the rest of them as she could, for good reason, Matthew was pretty sure father hadn’t even noticed, too busy, rushing around, twitchy and most certainly going through cocaine like a snowplough, busy, busy, busy, Alisdair too, always busy, practically never home, always somewhere in Glasgow or Edinburgh, maybe abroad, personally Matthew didn’t mind too much, there was always someone at odds when all were at home at once.

Rhys was home the most often, but even that was rare enough, Eleanor and Jack both had a governess, father was of the opinion that she must be taught the same as Jack, that “She must receive a prime education for a young woman in the contemporary era, she will not be taken seriously otherwise.” and to her credit, despite being younger, she was a fast learner, faster than Jack by any account, and he was a bright boy, just with an incapability to sit still.

She was scary in an odd way, she gave Alisdair heart attacks in the same way that Matthew used to, sitting in the rafters with a book with large eyes staring down at him like an odd owl, one pair blue, nearly purple, and one pair grass green, Matthew liked her, as did Jack, that boy was practically sunshine personified, his memory was utter shit and he had moments of manic disobedient violence, but generally he was practically the sweetest child the world had seen. He practically channelled the sun when he smiled, gap toothed and ruddy, he didn’t deserve to be in such a family, he liked being hugged, the only one who would hug him was Eleanor and even that wasn’t a given. He didn’t deserve this, he deserved so much better, what cruel trick was the Lord playing to make him one of them, immortal, he would slowly be worn done and Matthew did not want to see that.

It should be said that Alasdair never wanted to see Matthew as worn as he had gotten, but it was par for the course for them, they scarcely had a choice in this matter.

Napoleon defeated for the second time returned some semblance of normalcy, Father had started coming back sober and normal-looking, less likely to shout or immediately retire to his study for the foreseeable future, not very often, but more often than before, Eleanor regarded him coldly, which even he didn’t seem to mind very much, it was fair, nothing more could be said about it, but she did eventually warm up a little to him, Alisdair took the piss out of him often, he had apparently started to grey, Matthew thought it pretty par for the course, he was nearly 2000 by this point, he was unaware that Father was the youngest by quite a good margin, Rhys was a good century older than him, Alisdair even more so, yet oddly enough, physically speaking father looked significantly older than Rhys, frown lines, crows feet and grey hairs, and frankly speaking Alisdair wasn’t that far behind, he was dependant on his spectacles to read.

More nations added under the belt of the mother nation, the glorious British Athena was certainly a better personification, one that people could die for, than who it actually was, mechanical and without freedom of thought, starting to age and practically empty without orders, an echo chamber if you would.

When he had no orders, Father often would barely do anything, he usually did have orders, but on the off chance that he didn’t, he seemed not to know what to do with himself, nearly to a frightening degree, Alisdair and Rhys were only marginally better, how long had they been under orders to have completely lost freedom of thought. How long did it take to no longer have a sense of self strong enough to know what to do with oneself if not told what to do. A frightening concept, Matthew didn’t want the same to happen to him over the centuries, he was mostly obedient, yes, but he did know what he could do if he chose to disobey, he doubted they did. How long did it take, he feared it happening to him at some point.

The unification of the many German states sent shockwaves throughout the continent; Matthew wouldn’t have given half a flying fuck if it wasn’t for how paranoid father had been growing. Odd, but questioning it would always be worse.

Jack and Eleanor were old enough to go to a boarding school, Jack came back frightened and beaten, Eleanor came back much better off, shrewd as usual, bitter that she was not allowed to get a proper degree, but oddly lonely, Matthew recognised that look, she had gotten attached to a human, and then the human likely died,, they had all experienced it, they had been warned, but they never learned did they. Jack was quiet, his schooling seemed to not have gone very well, father frankly seemed not to care that he was beaten and belittled, he got a good education and practically it made sense, at least to him, sticks and stones could break bones, but they could heal that without much hassle.

Matthew didn’t oft see red, anger, hot anger especially wasn’t his forte, yet if feelings could kill Arthur would commit mass murder through sheer apathy alone, he did not frankly care, he practically tore his throat out shouting, for a moment he saw fear, half a second if that, fear quickly bred anger, Jack and Eleanor had hidden somewhere, or out in the grounds, they never wanted to hear the fight, Jack hated that it was happening because of him.

It simmered for a good long while afterwards, Matthew could hold a grudge, Arthur still did not honestly understand the problem, but he left it, he had better things to be doing than dealing with whatever this was, he was not used to being challenged anymore, the first and foremost empire of the world now, he was rarely challenged, let alone by his own children, Matthew was simply being odd, had gotten too big for his britches so to speak, he would deal with that later, he had orders to complete right about now.

_________________

Matthew regretted he had a lot of regrets for his relatively short life. One of the things he regretted the most was not killing father at least once during peacetime, he knew he would face the consequences, but occasionally patricide was the best course of action.

_________________

There was a lot to be said about the first world war, and the Second, too much, so I shan’t, what you need to know is that a nation's mind tends to grow a little befuddled over long periods of conflict, and by far were these the deadliest conflicts anyone had seen, this wasn’t a dull ache, it wasn’t a slow poison for the mind, sharp, quick and angry, easily drove mortal men to madness, to a nation it was worse, the youngers had never experienced very much of war, this being a first experience was not particularly good, the nascent personification of Germany had never fought any war before, before being thrust into the two most deadly wars of history in practically everyone's living memory. It frayed them, stretched a couple to madness, Matthew being one of the latter, though relatively speaking, his thread was a lot thinner than most his age was, why that was the case was mostly the fault of Arthur and Francis.

For older ones, it snapped what little thread was holding their humanity, their sanity, their rationality, and their body together, they all did odd things after the war, America and Russia, started another war, cold, not direct, the old empires were fading, all clutched to their power with a white knuckle grip, they had gotten used to having power, unused to being challenged, Arthur didn’t want to be upstaged by his own progeny, but he as a person was too practically unstable to do very much about it, cities were still bombed out, he was missing people, running out of money, colonies were vying for independence, all rational thinking shut down, too much happening for the logic that frankly had only started to come about in the last 2 centuries to remain, reverting to a more animalistic existence, at least for now, until he mind stabilized.

Alisdair was considered the safest right now, the child Northern Ireland was sent to stay with him, Connor, he didn’t know exactly why he couldn’t see Arthur or Rhys right now, whenever he asked all he was met with was a stare that went through him instead of on him “You do not want to know Connor, you really do not.”

Alisdair did not know exactly what he was doing, he did find himself far from home on occasion, but he generally stayed in the vicinity, he would normally wander farther, but held by what must have only been duty towards Connor, had he never wandered too far in his empty minded, tipsy hazes, he could have gone far, he was known to wander.

He needed to stop doing this, he needed to stop drinking so much before bed.

He counted himself lucky that he hadn’t found himself elbow deep in entrails yet, he had done that before, it was never a pretty experience to have to go and hide the body afterwards, nor was it particularly quick either, he counted himself lucky that he was mostly sane right about now.

Arthur and Rhys were not, Arthur couldn’t remember a lot of the year after the second world war, not much at all, Rhys could, and he relished in it, they rarely did this, but their thirst for blood had to be quenched before it got any worse, the lesser of a couple evils, no one would miss just one person, especially now, so many had lost family members that stealing a person off the street could not have been reported as anything, good, dead of night. Rhys looked far less suspicious than Arthur, younger and still with a soft baby-faced look that spoke nothing of his intentions, a crowbar to the head, and he was out.

The man, who fucking knew who he was, they certainly didn’t and didn’t particularly care either, he just had to fulfil their needs and nothing else, he couldn’t remember who he was by the end of it either, woozy as if drunk, tied down to...something seemed to be a bed, he couldn’t remember any faces, only the smallest snippets of voices, he remembered a lot of food, too much food, more food than he had eaten in his life prior, sickly sweet puddings and food too rich for him, he wasn’t allowed to vomit it up, when he tried there was always a punishment, or he was forced to swallow it, where did they have so much money for so much food, the bonds started to cut into his sagging flesh, he couldn’t move, he had been tied up for too long, how long had it been?

Occasionally he could feel himself going mad when one of them entered the room, he could tell there were two of them, at least, they had different voices, one was higher and painfully sickly, the other was terrifying, he didn’t want to do what they told him, he couldn’t remember how they told him, they were in his mind, his body wasn’t his own at times like these, he felt both wonderful and terrible after they left, so empty, he could be used for anything and h wouldn’t mind, mind blank and empty, slow as molasses, he liked molasses, and honey, sweet was it, going mad was a strong word for it he decided, going mad was a bad thing, all he felt when they came was obedience, not even borne out of fear, completely obedient, he didn’t want to think for himself eve if he could, Rhys lowered the amount of drugs given to him dramatically, to see how he was like when on his own mind, he was practically the same, Arthur had done a very good job of breaking into his mind, filling it with sweet nothings, blind obedience, lack of feeling connected to the physical body, Arthur was good at this, he gave no mind to the complicated little scenario Rhys was doing right now, he was getting impatient, but even Athur could be bribed quite easily if you knew how, and Rhys certainly did, Rhys was more interested in before the death, Arthur more interested in during, the man had a soft spot for the human body, he liked to see what was inside it, cadavers could only do so much, yellowed and mummified practically, not how the human body truthfully worked, or rather stopped.

“Patience is a virture Arthur.”

“Rhys we wouldn’t know what a virture was if it bit us in the ass, how much longer are you going to take?”

“Not much longer, he is scarcely human, we need to wait for the rest of it to go, then we can, I swear.”

Arthur had a lot more to do than Rhys, he still had to deal with increasingly finicky international relations, he often came back stressed to the point of violence, their victim bore the brunt of it, Arthur afterwards made sure none of the lacerations would get infected, that would simply just be a waste of good meat, no one would eat infected meat, bullshit, the man scarcely noticed that he was being bled, he couldn’t think straight, or at all frankly, he hadn't noticed his eyes were no longer in their sockets, he could scarcely see before always.

Gone.

No one would miss him, slow cooked was best for such fatty meat, though first Rhys let Arthur play around a bit with the corpse, there was a lot of flesh to get through, and the organs frankly were all shrivelled due to deficiency, the food was rich but not particularly nutritious, the min was physically mush, there was no shape to it, the way he was killed perhaps had something to do with it, Arthur had not been prior aware that it actually liquidized the brain, frankly it was interesting, but he would not look into it too closely right about now, this was not the time, he tasted good when cooked and seasoned correctly.

Alisdair could only wish he didn’t know what was happening, he vaguely knew, he wanted to know no deeper, why were they like this, Alfred had stumbled in Lord Father's footsteps now enough that Alisdair was seeing the similarities and he hated it, he hated this all, Matthew had disappeared off into the woods for too long before he came back little of his well-formed humanity intact, Brighid had distanced herself, she was independent now so she had all reason to, he was left with Connor, he would have easily gone mad as everyone else had had it not been for him.

“Connor, go to sleep.”

“’M cold.”

“Come here.” He climbed onto his lap, he was still small, only about 5 or 6, he was the thing keeping Alisdair sane right now, and he would like to keep it that way, he had fallen asleep not 2 minutes after he lay down on Alisdair, who fell asleep on the armchair not too much longer after that. This was nice, good.

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strongfuck · 1 year

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@irrfahrer:

“If I were you, I wouldn´t go any kriffing inch closer to the ranks, because they are really moody and-”, The Tynnans pale ears had turned back, keeping track on the visitor while she watered the pods with lichen she had set up. By the following snarl from the ranks growing along the small greenhouses walls one of her ears flicked: “-ah yes, they bite as you just kriffing noticed. They like to bite, like yes, they really kriffing like to bite.” With a long, irritated sigh as if she was talking to a child the short woman leaned her back against the low table. She talked with a bored tune in her voice as if she had told the same a hundred times before: She did actually, everyone touched the always moving ranks, it was the first thing she did too when she had still been a agricultural student and had seen the plant in a laboratory: “Please do not hurt the plant, I needed months to raise it and no flora is better to filter out the air and give nutrients back into the soil.”

It isn't the first time Rhys has been inside an Atlas biodome. Even before its reemergence into prominence, he's visited enough artificially modified spaces to know the general rule of thumb: you don't touch shit unless you understand what's going on.

Still, he has to admire the Tynnan's dedication to the craft. Much as the back of his mind twinges with a mild annoyance, Rhys knows what it's like to have strangers in your workspace. (It's kind of ironic that he's the intruder now, though.)

"Sorry, Miss, uh... Ms. Odiz'Zee, right?" he starts, hands raised so she sees he isn't touching anything.

"I didn't come here to take any of your work out of the environment. I'm Rhys Strongfork" -- he wonders if she recognises his name -- "and I just wanted to see how things've been progressing here for myself.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?"

#irrfahrer #thread.#[ let me know if you need any changes! ]

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local-angst-dispenser · 9 months

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PLEASE FORGIVE ME

Ludus 2, storge 4, Eros 1, Eros 3, and Pragma 5 for Vortex

I think my heart stopped for a second /j

Final Judge - Vortex Praxidike

"Is your OC particularly skilled at flirting? Have they had to practice this or does it just happen naturally?"

Vortex is unintentionally really good at flirting. Like, he doesn't even realize he's flirting unless its pointed out to him. He just tends to point out positive things in a person, though sometimes it does come out as a flirt. But when he does intentionally flirt, he's a natural at it.

"Does your OC have any siblings? If so then did their parents have a favourite growing up? Has their relationship with their sibling changed in adulthood? If they don't have any siblings then do they perhaps feel they have missed out on an important relationship? Do they have any especially close friends who go some way towards filling that role?"

Technically, Star and Sanitive are his siblings, since all three of them were created from the same dream. It's complicated, if you want that expanded on send an ask. The Shining One, their 'parent' heavily favored Star, only giving Vortex and Sanitive necessary guiadnce and mentorship. Vortex had a good relationship with Star, often calling the other in whenever he needs help. His relationship with Sanitive is.. tense, but formal, the two can be civil.

As for friends, the only one he really sees as a friend is his Attendant, Rhys Leda. Since she often has to send documents and wrangle in defendants, plaintiffs, accused, and accusers. He does his best to help relieve her stress, making sure that she takes breaks whenever she can. He's often really blunt about it, but Rhys knows he means well.

"Is your OC romantic in the traditional sense? Do they enjoy giving or receiving gifts of flowers or confectionary? Or are there other courtship traditions from their culture of origin that are important to them?"

Vortex, being a God and such an important one at that, really has no limits in what he can give whoever he's fallen in love with. He can be very romantic, though he leans towards giving flowers and gifts, along with small notes of affirmation in case he ever notices they may be having a rough day. He also gets them anything they may be eyeing, but not have the money for. Really, he wants the one he loves to know that they can rely on him if they need it. He trusts them deeply, after all.

"How do they feel about public displays of romantic affection? Does it make them uncomfortable? How do they feel if a romantic partner kisses them in public?"

He's 'meh' on PDA. He doesn't mind it, be it kisses, or hand holding. He'll gladly reciprocate it if his romantic partner enjoys PDA, but if his partner doesn't, then he won't initiate it. It's as simple as that.

"What importance or value does your OC attach to marriage? Do they believe that it is important to make a public statement of commitment to another person (or persons)? Or are they more concerned about inheritance rights and security for their family? Or do they not see marriage as a necessary signifier of commitment and loyalty?"

Vortex puts so much importance on marriage. It means a lot to him if hes able to find someone he can trust and love enough to propose to them. It's not really about making a public statement or any other reason. He sees it as him and his romantic partner trusting each other completely, since them also being his lover can put them at risk sometimes. All in all, he holds marriage in a huge and high regard.

#oc - vortex praxidike #oc lore #ask game

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bloodycassian · 3 years

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Tender - Azriel x reader - Pregnancy fic. Fem! reader. LONG!!!

Prompt - Hi! I just read most of your imagines, and i loved them! You have me as your faithful follower, I don't comment much because English is not my first language. Could you write one where az manages to perceive that reader is pregnant right in the middle of the war?

You woke to yelling. Not screaming. Not fear or pain, but battle cries that you'd grown to love. They made your blood sing in harmony with the Illyrian voices. It made your heart hammer in your chest, and your muscles tense - ready to fight. Azriel groaned beside you, curling around your waist like a vise. You managed to break free from his muscled arms. Pale light shining through the tent tinted his shadows a light gray. They wrapped around you, drawing a chill down your spine. The war cries grew louder. "Get up. It's time." You shook him, pulling on your light armor. He covered his face with his hands, and did not leave the cot. He groaned again when you pulled the blanket off his mostly naked body. He was never a morning person. Cassian rushed in when you were putting the last of your gear on, and Az froze. His grip on his pants went white knuckled. Cassian's face was pale, and before he could say anything Azriel was hurriedly pulling on the rest of his clothes. Your stomach dropped at the sight of the Warlord. "It's a diversion." You said, voice hollow. Cassian's slight nod was enough to make the breath leave you. "It's going to be fine." Azriel grunted, pulling his tunic over his head. "We just need to move the troops. Get Rhys here." He waved a hand at his brother dismissively. Cassian grabbed Az's wrist. He forced the male to look at him, to see his worried eyes. You tensed, ready to defend your mate even against Cassian's might. "Rhys is on the battlefield already. We're on our own." His voice was low, and the warning in his eyes was enough to make the hair on your arms raise. Azriel pulled away from him, slowly. He began strapping his weapons belts on, pushed his hair back and sighed. "Where do you need us?" The air was cold, and the howls of battle echoed across the hills. Azriel's shadows curled around your legs, comforting. Then they slithered their way across the valley where the battle was beginning. + You could barely raise your sword by the end of it. The mud had been the most challenging part of the entire fight. The enemy horses had done a good job of making obstacles when they fell in the mud, lame with broken ankles and necks. You wished to put them out of their misery, but there was no time. The forces seemed to come in waves. Like a test against your small unit. Few were lost from your side. The dewey grass steamed in the morning light, carrying up the reek of enemy blood with it. You wiped your face, trying to get the taste of dirt and blood out of your mouth. Sharp stinging pain seared your ribs under your arm. You hissed. Then, you felt the warmth of your own blood. You swore, and looked for a medic that wasn't tending to wounded on the ground. Some Illyrian bodies were being lifted away, high into the air for burial at their homes. You dared not take a healer away from more critically injured soldiers. You nodded grimly to the ones that you passed. They were covered in blood, and yet still gave you fierce grins when you went by. They respected you. More than any other Illyrian Female before you. It was sad, but you hoped to forge a new path for other females of Illyria. You held an arm under your side and limped your way out of the mud. The packed mess inside your boots made moving your feet hard. You couldn't wait to shower. You spotted Cassian far down the field, and watched as he raised his sword high over his head. Your stomach twisted in pity for the suffering animal under him. You looked away before you could see the lifeblood drain from the horse's neck. He sent a blessing to the Mother for the animal, and continued on to the next suffering soul that would meet its end via his blade. + You hadn't seen her in a long while. Too long for a friend, but she gave you that same look she always did when she saw you hobbling up to her for help. Jeva was your favorite healer, and one you knew could keep a secret. She was round, and her voice was light and comforting. She smelled of nutmeg and berries. Something you had appreciated about her since you had met. "What is it this time?" She waved you inside, holding the tent flap open for you while you dumped your battle stained gear on the wood hutch beside the entrance. The tent was light and airy, filled with small plants of different varieties and cluttered with boxes and books everywhere. Her desk and bed were shoved to the corner, and a long wood table took up the majority of her area. As if she had known you were coming, she already had potions of different types laid out on the end of the table. "Probably nothing." You said, pulling off your armor as gingerly as you could manage. The soft light flickered and changed to a harsh beam when she laid you down on her exam table. "I'm not supposed to be healing anymore you know. I'm retired." She clicked her tongue at you, earning a pained grin. It was hard for you to bother a healer for any amount of time for something that you were sure was so small. But something about it stung too much for it to be just a scrape. And you knew Cassian would lecture you about it being infected if he saw through your mask to the pain. Az would force you to see one anyway as soon as he learned of it. "You know I wouldnt be here unless I had to be, Jeva." You said through your teeth as she cut away your muddied undershirt. "Oh, I know. That's why I have my best potions ready." She laughed, then paused. Your shirt lay limp on the table. Her eyebrows knitted together at the sight of your open wound. "Is it bad?" You asked, craning to try to look for yourself. She held you down. "Metal. Fragments are still in here, likely why it hasn't healed yet." You relaxed at that, grateful that it wasn't worse. "Thank the Mother. Az would have yelled all night." You rolled your eyes, and sighed as she started working on you. The first part was always the worst. The stinging hot potion that made the nerves around the wound numb. "One-" She began her countdown, then poured. You growled at her, gripping the end of the stained table hard enough to crack. "Easy..." She warned, and smoothed down your hair. She knew how to take care of her patients, that was certain. You relaxed as the stinging eased. The dull ache that it left behind turned into a bad memory. "I'm going to extract the blade then we can close you up. Simple and easy." She picked up her tools and began tugging away at your side. You could have fallen asleep with the relief the numbing potion brought. And with her humming in the air around you, it was a struggle not to. The time seemed to pass quickly, but when the clank of the metal tools jolted you from your dozing, the tent was lit in orange from the sunset outside. "Relax, we're going to close it up now. Once the potion wears off you will still be sensitive." She placed her hands over you, and the familiar warm vibrations of her healing magic set in. Then it stopped abruptly. You cracked open an eye, then narrowed your brows at her. "What is it?" You said gently, then again when she didnt reply. She stared at you, mouth agape. Her eyes locked to yours, even when you sat up to demand she tell you what the problem was. "Am I dying?!" you took her hand gently, in case she was going to push you away. Then she started laughing, her hand gripping yours back. The warmth glowed in your palm, the light radiating out from it was starkly contrasting the tent walls bedecked in orange. The light she emitted shot through you, and you felt the wound tingle, and seal. You stared at her in shock. That amount of healing power was incredible. Especially for field medics. "Youre not dying, no..." She waved a hand, fanning herself. Her eyes were glassy with tears. She sniffed and clutched your hand tighter. "Quite the opposite, darling." She pulled you in for a warm hug. + You spent the rest of the evening with Jeva. Until she got a hurried message about student healers needing help on the battlefield. You stayed in her tent as long as you could manage with the ringing in your ears. You stared and stared at the mirror across from you, showing you the bloodied warrior that you wanted to be. That you wanted to stay. The warrior that carried the Shadowsinger's child. The thought made tears sting your eyes. You refused to let them fall. You had been ignoring his tugs down the bond for well over an hour. You knew he was concerned, but you couldn't bring yourself to shout back down. The only thing that echoed in your mind were Jeva's words "You're pregnant..." Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. You nearly punched her when she told you she wasn't joking. The only reason you even believed her was because of that powerful zap of healing she sent to you. That she sent to scan your body and make sure the fetus was okay before you even knew about it. You could barely hear half the words she said as she told you your options. You roiled with the thought now. The Mugwart she left on the table was daunting. You desperately wanted her back. Jeva would be able to deliberate with you. You knew she would tell you to do whatever makes you happy. You knew that. But you wondered how ethical the choice that made you happy was. Bringing a child into a world of war seemed cruel. Even if it made you happy. You distantly noticed Azriel as you passed him, walking to the forest edge just passed your tent. Worry laced the bond between you. You tried not to show anything back. But you knew he felt the tension, the void there. "Where the hell have you been?!" Azriel's eyes were furious when you passed him, his wings flared out slightly. You couldnt even look at him with anger back. Your emotions ran wild. You were frozen, and as numb as the potion Jeva had given you when she began removing the blade. "Do you know how worried I have been?! I sent Cassian to-" He tried to grab for your hand to stop you, but you flicked him away. He stopped for a moment, stunned. Then returned with more energy than before. That yawning abyss in your bond was growing darker with shame, worry and anxiety. His shadows roiled around him as he caught up. "You dont get to-" "Azriel..." You stopped in the edge of the clearing. The small meadow was silent in the darkness, not even the monsters of Prythian dared roar tonight. Your mind did all the roaring you could handle, anyway. You tried to focus on the swaying grass, on the soft smell of wet bark and pine hanging in the air. "Dont try to excuse this I need to know you're okay and-" He stormed in front of you, ready to burst with rage. His fear always made him angry. And for good reason after losing so many close to him. A tear ran down your cheek, your face burned hot with hundreds of feelings at once. Fear, pain, shock, joy, hope.... elation. You wanted his children. You wanted to help raise his child. You wanted to see Azriel be a father. You knew he would be the best damn Illyrian father there had ever been. The thought hit you like a well placed punch. He saw your paleness, your tears and stopped his yelling. You fell to your knees, the mud splattering all around you. You wanted to lay down. Lay down and think about the implications of carrying his child. Would it be good for the baby to be born at all? Just because you wanted it didnt mean it needed to happen. You knew that Jeva would give you a potion to extract it without hesitation if it was what you wished. "I'm-" You choked out, fighting the panic that flooded you. Your mind roiled with the conflict of your mind and heart. It turned you into a muddied, dark ocean on the bond. A turmoil that he couldn't see past. If you were an ocean, he was your lighthouse on the cliffside. Signaling you home. His eyes darted to your body, to your hands and how they wrung together in front of you. "I'm sorry. I just-" He sighed and took one of your hands. "I'm sorry." He kissed the back of it and brought his forehead to yours. He normally needed a lot longer to cool down after a fight, but seeing you in tears shocked him out of his pride. "I shouldn't have said that... I know you can take care of yourself." his voice was low, and he ran a hand comfortingly down your back. A hysteric laugh bubbled from your throat. It sounded like a sob. You didn't know exactly which it was. He sat back and pulled you into his lap, despite the grass being dewey and damp. He rocked you there for a few seconds before you had to tell him. Before he could be too close if he didnt want you anymore. The doubt crept into your head, and the nerves ate at you. Your heart raced, you could feel it in your neck. "Azriel..stop." You pushed away from him, to catch his beautiful dark eyes. They were painted in a silver hue by the moon above. You took in his face, the curve of his cheeks and lips for possibly the last time. You had to consider the worst possible outcome. You braced yourself for the rejection, for the pain of his reaction. You knew it had to come out. You knew you had to say it now or you never would. Your stomach flipped over and over. You opened your mouth, a soft sob wracking out of you before you began. He froze. Went utterly still, his shadows even stopping for a second before whirling faster than before. Your eyes went wide. His nose flared, eyes narrowed. He held you closer, sniffing at your neck. He pulled back and his eyes were even wider than before. His mouth fell open when you nodded. "I'm-" "Youre-" his face went through a whirlwind of different emotion. Then, he broke out into a small laugh. He couldn't stop. You felt the tears running down your cheeks and didnt bother to wipe them away. "Honey... I'm sorry." He stopped laughing suddenly. "What do you want to do?" His eyes were masked, his expression the most serious you'd ever seen him. His aura on your bond seemed to go completely gray and still, as if he didn't want you to see him. He masked everything. In preparation for whatever you decide. The gesture made your heart squeeze in appreciation. You stammered, resting your forehead on his. "I dont know." You muttered, voice cracking. Then, he was wrapping his arms around you in a smothering hug. When he pulled away, he cradled your face in his hands. The hands that had seen so much cruelty in his life. The possibilities of the same thing happening to your child made your heart race. "I'm here for whatever decision you make." He brushed your cheek with a thumb. You nodded and let him hold you like that for a while. Quietly rocking back and forth with you in his lap. + You were near falling asleep when the war cries rang out again. Illyrians howling for their leaders to join them. Another onslaught of death coming their way. The calls were distant, but Azriel tensed the second he heard them. Your blood went cold. He buried his face to your chest, as if he wished he could hide there. "I'm not going." He said when you tried pushing him away. "I wont leave you." He promised, locking his muscled forearms around you. The echoes of battle cries faded. He stroked your hair, and traced his fingers along your back. Then he swore. "Let me take care of this." He said, voice edged with anger. Nerves pricked at your stomach, but you stood, wobbling on your feet slightly. He took off into the night sky painted in silvers and blues by the full moon. Then came racing back down right behind Rhys. the high lord took one breath and then he was hugging his brother. Azriel shoved him off, and they shot into the night sky. Well, Azriel did. He dragged Rhys with him. Grunts of pain and fleshy sounds of punching rang out. You followed them high into the air where they had their conversation. Your wings led you around them with ease. "Stop fighting and use your words, boys." You warned. You recognized Azriels growl and smiled to yourself as they broke apart. Rhys adjusted his tunic and cleared his throat. "I need you there. Cassian is handling the Western front, the others need a leader." Azriel began protesting against the high lord. "I cant with my mate-" "I know it feels impossible right now but-" "I will not, Rhys-" You set your jaw. If they wanted to fight over if you needed protection or not, you would take the option off the table all together. "I'll go." you said, voice strong since hearing Jeva announce what grew inside you. Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant. You shoved the thoughts away as far as you could. They both turned to you, horror striking Azriels features. "Absolutely not. No." Heat and rage flared down the bond. It made you want to defy everything he said. You locked eyes with him and glared. Rhys glanced between you with tense shoulders. He cleared his throat. "It would be a good compromise, Azriel. You can go together to the Eastern front. Think about it." He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder and gave him a grim smile. "I wont say a word." He said, summoning the darkness around him then winnowing away. Azriel's cold eyes made him look like a statue. "Let's go." He said, and started circling lower. Back to the meadow. "I'm going, you cant stop me from following you." You said, expecting a fight. He said nothing. You were met with that silence that drove others crazy tryin to find out what he wanted from them. The bond seemed to snap taut, then go into a relaxed state. He was hiding. You knew it, but would rather have silence and peace than him trying to fight you again. He walked you back to the tent, and exhaustion took you under before you could remember him laying down with you. You hoped it it was exhaustion, and not whatever the baby was doing to you. Despite your best efforts, you couldn't resist the urge to cradle your belly while you slept. There was no bump, but it felt like the most natural thing to do now that you were aware of the being inside you. You slept hard, and awoke to the breakfast bell chiming. The sounds of slow footsteps marching through the mud kept you awake. Azriel was gone, but the candle on the table was lit. A note lay there waiting for you. His messy scrawl made you smile, the familiarity of his writing reminded you of the notes he would leave you when he had to leave early for meetings with Rhys. "Back by nightfall, lover. A guard is at the tent, ask her to bring you anything you need. -A" You peeked outside the tent to see Jeva there, her long fur coat shimmering in the morning light. Her breath clouded in front of her when she gave you a soft smile. "Good morning." She pulled a muffin from her coat. "Your favorite." She winked, and you pulled her inside. She had a fire roaring by the time you finished your food. "How are you not freezing?" She complained, blowing into her hands to keep them warm. You brushed the crumbs from your shirt and really took into account the changes you'd noticed lately. How hungry you'd been, how tired after the easiest days. "Do you know... How um..." You gestured to your stomach. She gave a small smile and nodded. "Only a month or so." She said quietly. You stared at your stomach, as if waiting for something to answer you. To give some sort of affirmation that Jeva was right. She continued warming herself by the fire, and soon the tent was filled with her warm chestnut smell. Cassian entered the tent when you were starting to doze off again. The wool blanket on your lap reminded you of a time when you first met Az. Your heart squeezed at the memory of those long nights shared together by a fire. Taking your turns on watch duty. You shook yourself from the memory. Cassian froze. His face scrunched up at the sight of you. The scent, you realised. You swore to yourself, and Jeva only nodded when he looked to her. "Youre pregnant?" He asked breathlessly, and you could smell the fear and excitement coming from him. In fact, you could smell the smoked meat on his breath. And the cold air that clung to him from outside. It was refreshing, like a cool drink on a hot day amid the dry heat inside the tent. "I'm sorry, I shouldnt have.." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to remain focused. "Its okay, Cass. What's going on? Az left me this note." You handed it to him. His lips moved as he read it. He went white as bone. Your stomach dropped. + Azriel had gone in the night to take out the entire eastern flank with a small group of Illyrians. You felt your world skittering away as Cassian told you. Your vision went blurry, and tears fell, dripping on your hands that clenched the wool blanket. "He's on his way here now. He had to answer to Rhys first." Cassian waited for you to say anything. But your lips just couldnt form the words. The hurt, anger... the betrayal you felt for him going to battle without you. And defying a direct order from his high lord like a fool. "I suggest you leave before Azriel comes back. It may get messy." Jeva spoke for you, and you were grateful. You gave Cassian a nod of thanks before he turned and left. The cold wind that blew in from the door gave you goosebumps. "Take it easy, you dont want to be too stressed." Jeva handed you a mug of tea and gave you a small squeeze. You could smell Azriel before he entered. Jeva shot him a glare, but said nothing. "I'll be in my tent if you need me." She promised, gave you a look that said 'find me after' and left. Azriel took off his armor plates one by one. A bit too slowly to be considered normal. Stalling. You said nothing. You let the tension roil out of you, let it hit him down the bond. Like a wave getting ready to break. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his wings. The mask he wore cracked when he saw your fists balled in the blanket. "I couldnt risk you... or the babe." He tried to hide the fear that shone through. The fear of his mate or child being hurt in battle. He wouldnt be able to stand it. The fight was needed, anyway. He needed to get out his instincts to protect protect protect. You said nothing. You let that looming wave grow larger. He sighed, and sat at the end of the cot beside you. "I'm sorry. I needed....I needed to get my head straight. I should have told you. I'm sorry." That wave crashed, not on him though. Internally, guilt and fear melting in on yourself. "I cant lose you, we... We cant." You said through your teeth, trying to hold back the tears that begged to spill over. He tried his best to hold back his surprise. "We?" He asked, a small smile playing on his full lips. You gave him a grim smile. "If you're...ready to be a father. I like imagining you, with my child." "Our child." He said with a bubbling laugh. You laughed with him, and it turned to hysterics. He wiped tears from the corner of your eyes. "We're going to have a baby?" He cradled your face, looking into your eyes. You took one of his hands, and placed it on your flat belly. "Yes. We are." You said, voice quivering. He wrapped you into a hug, and you cried together in the cot.

#acotar #acotar fic #reader x azriel #azriel x reader #azriel

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snelbz · 3 years

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Life As We Know It {Chapter One}

Summary: After the sudden deaths of Nesta’s sister and Cassian’s best friend, they gain guardianship of their nephew, Nyx.

Based on Life As We Know It (2010) and a prompt sent in by anonymous for our Nessian fanfic contest. This is a modern au.

Instead of doing a tag list for this story, we have decided to have a set posting schedule. Chapters will be posted weekly on Mondays and Thursdays. Chapters will be posted on both my and Tara's blogs! >> @tacmc.

Life As We Know It Masterlist

Shelby's Masterlist

Tara's Masterlist

5 years later….

Nyx looked at his birthday cake and the lone candle that was lit atop the icing before looking up at Feyre with a confused expression on his beautiful, little face.

His mother laughed, quietly, before leaning forward and taking out the candle. She had just blown out the flame when Rhys barely pushed the cake closer to Nyx, who put his chubby, little hands smack-dab in the middle of the icing and dug in.

Everyone had come to celebrate, and even Nesta couldn’t stop her smile from showing. At least, she let it show when she was on the opposite end of the house from the one and only, and massively self-centered, Cassian Nazari.

Of course, he would be at Nyx’s first birthday party. He was Nyx’s uncle - maybe not by blood, not that blood mattered when it came to Cassian, Rhysand, and their other lifelong friend, Azriel.

He, too, stood across the kitchen, watching as Elain snapped picture after picture of the jubilant baby, the mess atop his high chair the largest Nesta had ever seen. She knew Elain was taking notes for their own daughter’s birthday party, though she was barely three months old.

Rhysand’s smile was as big as Feyre’s as they watched their son, listening as his giggles filled the kitchen. Nyx realized quickly that the cake was for him alone and after smashing it for a few moments, he lifted a large handful to his chubby face and took a bite. His eyes lit up and that started the giggling anew.

Nesta loved her nephew and niece, had loved him since the day they were born, but she didn’t envy her sisters and their happy families. Unlike them, she had remained perfectly content on her own, especially after the endless string of disaster dates she had been forced to sit through throughout the years.

And children? It wasn’t that Nesta disliked kids. Not all kids, at least. She loved her nephew and niece, anyway. Having one of her own, though? Having to be around one every day? Every night? Having to constantly try and make a tiny person content?

No, thank you. That was a challenge she had little interest in.

A deep rumbling laugh came from across the house and Nesta looked up to find Cassian entering the kitchen, still chuckling at something Mor had said.

As hard as she tried, she couldn’t keep her lip from curling slightly as she looked at him. It only infuriated her more when he caught sight of her as he raised his beer to his lips and winked.

He was absolutely insufferable.

After their catastrophe of a date years ago, which Nesta had made Feyre promise was a stunt she’d never pull again, she had only been forced to be around Cassian Nazari a handful of times.

One of which was during Feyre and Rhysand’s wedding, only months after their date.

“You only have to walk with him for thirty seconds,” Feyre had sighed, while Mor continued to pin and curl her hair into place. “You don’t have to be happy about it.”

“Good,” Nesta said, draining the glass of champagne in her hand. “Because I’m not.”

As Feyre’s maid-of-honor, it was customary that she was supposed to walk out of the wedding arm in arm with Rhysand’s best man. She wished that he’d picked Azriel, but since it seemed the Cauldron hated her, it had to be Cassian.

Elain, who was harboring the world’s most obvious crush on Azriel at the time, was thrilled with how they’d be exiting the wedding. Nevertheless, she said to Nesta, “I think you two got off on the wrong foot. He’s a really good guy, Nes.”

Nesta shot her youngest sister a look of pure annoyance through the mirror’s reflection. “Have any of you ever been on a date with the guy? And not only a date, but the worst date of your life?”

Feyre snorted, fully aware of where this conversation was headed. “No.”

“Then you have no room to talk,” Nesta snapped, admiring herself in the mirror. “Mother’s tits, Feyre, he wore jeans to the nicest restaurant in Velaris!”

“At least he didn’t wear his boots,” Mor muttered, then she caught Nesta’s glare in the mirror. “Really? He wore his boots?”

“He was dressed for an all-night, summer bonfire,” Nesta said, shaking her head. “And he’s completely full of himself. And, he forgot his wallet!”

“Not like you can’t afford dinner,” Feyre said, and Nesta’s lips snapped shut. She was fully aware that the conversation had somehow become a let’s-pick-on-Nesta session.

Feyre added, “You have to walk back down the aisle with him, share an entire table during dinner, and that’s it. No one is asking you to dance with him, but be nice.” Nesta met Feyre’s eyes, her jaw set. Feyre sighed, “Fine, be civil.”

She scoffed, but nodded. “Fine.”

The ceremony itself went off without a hitch. It was beautiful and elegant and the perfect wedding Rhys and Feyre had always wanted.

She ignored Cassian’s unending looks the whole night, managed to give her maid-of-honor speech without snarling at him, and after that, took advantage of the open bar her sister and new brother had so kindly provided.

She was coming out of the bathroom, a glass of wine still clutched in her hand, doing her best not to trip over her own feet when she walked into a wall.

A wall of solid muscle that turned out to be Cassian’s back.

When he turned around and she looked up at him, his eyes were nearly as glazed as hers.

“Hello, Nes,” he said, smirking down at her.

She bit out, “Don’t call me that.”

“That was a pretty, little speech you gave,” he said, leaning against the wall. “I know true love exists cause I’ve seen it first hand. Poetic.”

Nesta scoffed, brushing off the skirt of her dress as if he had tainted it. “Don’t flatter yourself. I wasn’t referring to you. I was talking about Feyre and Rhys, in case you thought otherwise.”

“Oh, I didn’t,” he promised. “Honestly, I didn’t think you were talking about anyone. Just some fluffy shit that sounded sweet. Unless it’s that guy that showed up at the restaurant and ruined our date. Oh, wait,” he began, tapping his chin as if in deep thought, “You dumped him though, right? Poor bastard.”

“You’re a prick,” Nesta bit out. She refrained from saying that Tomas hadn’t ruined their date. It was sad that seeing her ex was one the bright points of her night, rather than seeing the Greek god standing before her. The pretentious, cocky asshole of a Greek god.

He only grinned. “But am I a liar?”

Nesta’s jaw locked. She eyed his tux. “I’m just glad you decided to clean up for your own brother’s wedding. No jeans?”

He scoffed. “Is that the worst you’ve got?”

“Do you prefer me to give you my worst?” she asked, brows furrowing. “If so, you may want to be careful what you wish for.”

Cassian said nothing, just lifted the beer she hadn’t noticed in his hands to his lips.

Nesta rolled her eyes, brushing past him, and made a move to head back into the reception.

His voice called out behind her, “You don’t have to be such a miserable bitch, you know?”

She froze, looking back at him. He was no longer smirking at her. Instead, his eyes were intense. “Excuse you?”

“You’re so miserable that you won’t allow anyone else to have any fun, won’t allow yourself to either,” he said, still leaning against that damn wall. He crossed his arms over his muscular chest, his dress shirt tight and loose in all the right places. “You want everyone else to suffer, just because you’re forcing yourself to, for whatever reason.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” she bit out, stalking back over to him. She was so close she had to look up into his face.

“I don’t,” he said, words clipped. “I tried, but you didn’t seem very inclined to let me get to know you during our date. You were more concerned with my attire and your ex than you were with me. You thought all I wanted to do was fuck you.” His eyes, still glassy and glazed, dragged down her body and back up again. “Besides, you’ve got that damn stick shoved so far up your ass, there wouldn’t have been room for my cock even if I’d really even tried.”

A blink was Nesta’s only reaction. Then her hand was moving of its own accord, splashing her full glass of wine directly in his face and all over that pretty, white shirt.

“Go fuck yourself,” was all she’d said before she walked back into the ceremony, leaving him there to drip on the venue’s fancy carpet.

“Nesta!”

She blinked, Feyre’s voice drawing Nesta out of her memories, looking over at her sister. She stood next to Rhys and Elain, who had her camera in her hands, and Cassian stood behind Nyx’s high chair.

“I want a picture of him with his godparents, come here,” she beamed and Nesta tried not to cringe.

She had been so proud, her heart feeling like it would burst when Feyre and Rhys had asked her to be Nyx’s godmother. There was no hesitation when she said yes, tears lining her eyes as she’d hugged both her sister and brother-in-law.

She tried not to think about the fact that when they’d told her Cassian was his godfather, she nearly asked them to give the distinction to Elain.

But she hadn’t, wouldn’t. Despite what others, especially Cassian, thought of her… Nesta loved her nephew.

She loved her family.

With a sigh, Nesta meandered over to Nyx’s high chair. “Alright.”

“Closer,” Feyre ordered, gesturing Nesta to move in closer beside Cassian behind the high chair.

Nesta’s lips pursed but she took another step toward the boys for her sister’s sake.

“I’m not poisonous, Nesta,” Cassian muttered, smiling at the camera as he spoke. “You won’t burst into flames if we brush arms.”

“You’d be so lucky to brush arms with me,” she muttered back, hoping the smile she was giving her sister was convincing - and knowing full well that it wasn’t.

Without another word, Cassian tossed his arm around Nesta and said, “Cheeeeese!”

Nyx was giggling, looking up at his godparents behind him. There was so much joy and adoration in those big, beautiful eyes that Nesta didn’t have the heart to storm off, leaving Cassian in her dust, no matter how much she wanted to.

The camera’s flash went off and Nesta pushed Cassian’s arm off her shoulder.

The rest of the party was perfect. Feyre took Nyx up to the bathroom to clean him off, while Rhysand, Azriel, and Cassian hauled his many gifts out into the living room. Feyre opened them one by one, despite everyone knowing Nyx had no clue what was going on, though he did clap his chubby little hands and giggle at a few particular items. Nesta stood off to the side with Elain, holding a milk-drunk, sleepy Seph in her arms.

Azriel and Elain’s little girl had been a surprise, neither of them planning on Elain getting pregnant so soon after they got married. They both fell into the role of parents so seamlessly though, that Nesta knew another baby would be in their near future. They adored the baby girl, and she was the most perfect baby Nesta had ever seen.

Persephone hardly cried, only doing so when she was hungry or needed to be changed, and once whatever wrong was taken care of, she became a happy, smiley baby again.

Nyx, on the other hand, had been a hellion as a baby.

Which was to be expected, considering who his father was. Although responsible when necessary, Rhysand was just as much of a madman as Cassian...especially when infused with alcohol.

“You look good with a baby,” Elain crooned from beside her sister.

Nesta rolled her eyes. “You can keep trying to push me down the marriage-baby road, but I just won’t take it. Wasting your time.”

Elain sighed, dramatically, with that little grin remaining on her soft pink lips. “As long as you stay such a good auntie, I suppose I can’t complain.”

Nesta looked down at the sweet, sleeping infant in her arms. She didn’t mind those little snuggles.

She did mind the diaper blowouts, constant spit-ups, and loud crying, though. That’s usually when she gave Seph back to her parents and blissfully enjoyed her independent life.

Feyre gasped and Nesta looked up. She was holding a little guitar that had Nyx’s name and the night sky engraved into the dark-stained wood.

Nesta’s eyes snapped to Cassian.

Cassian smiled, fondly, at Feyre. “I know he won’t be able to start messing with it for another few years, but I couldn't help myself.”

“He made that himself, you know.” Nesta’s eyes shot to Elain, who was watching the scene before them. She whispered again, “He doesn’t do it for a living, of course, but it’s a hobby of his, making guitars. He’s really good.”

She blinked, the information catching her off guard for whatever reason. But all she said was, “That’s nice.”

She spent the rest of the afternoon, ignoring the man as much as she could, as she always did. But as the guests began to dwindle, as Nyx and Seph went down for their naps, the three sisters gathered in the living room, while Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian went out back to inspect the small jungle gym Rhys was building for Nyx. Again, he was too young to use most of it, but the tiny swing and slide would be hours of fun for the little man.

Feyre brought two cups of coffee out to her sisters before collapsing next to Elain on the couch. “That could not have gone better if we tried.”

Nesta leveled her a look and raised an eyebrow.. “If we tried? You had a minute-by-minute itinerary for a one-year-old’s birthday.”

“Everything was perfect,” Elain smiled, cutting off Nesta, blowing on her coffee gently. “Nyx had a good time, neither he nor Seph had a blow-up, Cassian and Nesta managed to be in the same room without stabbing each other. All in all, a good day.”

Nesta rolled her eyes before throwing a vulgar gesture towards her sisters, who were both laughing.

“Fine, new subject,” Feyre grinned. “Oh! Before I forget, Rhys and I are going out of town for our anniversary in a few weeks. I was hoping you could watch Nyx for a few days.”

It took Nesta a moment to realize that Feyre was talking to her. She froze, having been blowing on her own hot coffee. “I’m sorry, what?”

Feyre laughed, quietly. “I was hoping that you could watch Nyx while Rhys and I go away for a long weekend. We’re going to the mountains for our anniversary. To his family’s cabin.”

“Oh, that sounds nice,” Elain said, looking at Nesta.

Who blinked, having only unfrozen to set her coffee down on the table between them. “You want me…to watch Nyx…for the weekend? Alone? By myself? Just me and him?”

“That’s what I was hoping for, yeah,” Feyre said, nodding as she sipped from her cup. “You can come here, where all of his stuff is in one place, and make yourself at home.” She shrugged. “I’ll leave money for takeout and the key to the wine cabinet.”

Nesta hesitated. “I’ve only babysat Nyx a couple of times…all for, like, an hour each.”

“It will be fine,” she said, a genuine smile on her face. “It will only be three nights, really. We’ll leave after work on Thursday and be home Sunday evening.”

Nesta stammered and shook her head. “I have to work on Friday, the restaurant-.”

“I’ll keep him during the day on Friday,” Elain offered. “I don’t have any shoots that day, so he can spend the day with me and Seph.”

“You could keep him the whole weekend,” Nesta tried, looking at her younger sister hopefully.

“Seph is enough of a handful,” she chuckled, glancing at Feyre, who was nodding as well. “I don’t think I can handle two at once for an entire weekend.”

“Please, Nes,” Feyre said, drawing her eldest sister’s eyes to her. “I know you can do it and it would be nice for you to spend some time together, just you two.”

“And you can call me, if you need anything,” Elain added.

Nesta looked from Feyre to Elain. “You two already planned this.” They at least had the wherewithal to look guilty. She sighed, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “Fine. But I’ll probably end up calling both of you every thirty seconds.”

“I can work with that,” Feyre said, just as Elain said, “Then it’s settled!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nesta snorted, shaking her head. “But, I hope you know that I wouldn’t do this for anybody else.”

“Oh, I know,” Feyre grinned, “which is what makes you such a wonderful, wonderful big sister.”

“I am pretty damn wonderful,” Nesta agreed, grinning as she sipped from her mug.

As she drank, she peeked out the window, where the boys were putting together the playset. Once she did, only one thing caught her eye.

Cassian was already watching her.

And when he caught her gaze, that stupid little, cocky-ass grin appeared.

She hated that grin, hated it with every ounce of her being.

And she wouldn’t feel bad for it, no matter how much her sisters adored the guy.

She hated him, hated Cassian Nazari.

And she always would.

#life as we know it #snacmc lawki #shara #snacmc #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf

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