#singing hymns

[nuntears]

day 1: dissection

it’s still dark out as lawrence drags your body along the forest floor, the fallen dried up leaves crunching and bunching up under you. his shaky hands are grasping your leg as he tries to get you to a nice spot. he had knocked you out, then given you some tea for good measure. you’re still breathing, bleeding, but breathing.

he drops your leg, here is fine, he decides.

a quiet anger surges through him, had fueled his little outing. he needed to get you as far from him as possible. couldn’t bear the sight of you in his apartment. you had just seemed different, at least for a moment. but you let your true colors shine, screaming and thrashing and causing a problems.

(you even said you wouldn’t a problem, like the pretty flower you are; deceiving, dishonest.)

but everything works out in it’s own way. there are starving animals out here, and you’re worth a lot more to them than to him right now. he starts to walk away, the buzzing agitation fueling every step as he thinks of the long walk back to his car.

but something beckons him to take one last look at you. he doesn’t really want to, he stands there with his back to you while he thinks it over. and eventually he turns, maybe for some closure, maybe just to get a comparison for what you’ll be when he comes back, but he turns all the same. what he doesn’t expect is that he sees you, really sees you, like when he first took a good look at you. the trees surround you, framing you, branches that reach down as if waiting for the moment he looks away to pull you further into the forest, to take you away forever. his shoulders deflate, the apathy and anger that caused him to bring you out here is replaced with a frustration for what could have been. you look like something almost beautiful, an unfinished painting, not quiet fleshed out.

(you’re so still, so quiet now, why couldn’t you have stayed quiet?)

lawrence had learned the value of patience, you need it when tending to plants. can’t grow anything worthwhile without it. the hard lesson that anticipation can build an appetite. that good things come to those who wait. but he didn’t want to wait, he was already so close, you were so close.

he had wanted to come back when there was a little less of you left, after the tender earth and the animals did what they always do, it was what he always did at least. but all that potential, why wait until nature had it’s way with you? maybe those scavengers could find something else to sink their teeth into in the meantime.

he kneels by you, you’re still out cold. his face is growing warmer at the thought of it. he’ll just be finishing what he started, he thinks, as he slides out a switchblade from his pocket.

he holds the blade in his hand like a pen as he starts to carve into your arm, beginning at the wrist and moving up. and you’re rousing from your sleep, feeling it from somewhere else, somewhere distant. weak groans and weaker tugging at your limps, trying to pull away. he tries to shush you, soft words he thinks sound comforting, but when they do nothing, he gives up, opting for silence. it’s silence he wants anyways.

and he will get it.

the slice he’s drawing up your arm is deep, thick muscle, pink and soft, blossoming as the skin splits apart, breathing in the night air for the first time. open, he wants you open. he slices a bit deeper, a little more eager, you’re moving and writhing but he needs you still.

(stop moving)

his hands are red, coated in you, and your breathing slows and it’s like he’s about to meet you for the first time, the real you, the one that can’t lie, wouldn’t even know how. you’re getting colder, the warmth leaking out of you onto the dirt beneath you. your movements are slowing. it’s happening so fast but not fast enough.

(stop moving)

up your arm and towards your chest. you seem to have a second wind, slurred begging, pleading, bargaining, small desperate sounds, but there’s nothing you can give him in exchange for what he wants.

(stop breathing)

and it seems his hard worked has payed off because you go still. it creeps in and then all at once. it’s exactly what he’s been waiting for, the silence rolling in like a fog. and you were everything he imagined and more, laying there, unmoving, so still.

he pauses, panting, hadn’t realized how worked up he would get. your lips parted with words that never made it out, eyes hallow, focused on nothing. in the dark it’s hard to tell just what a mess he made of you. after he soaks you in. he continues, dragging the blade down the middle of your chest, down to your stomach, opening you up. you burst as the skin divides, like everything inside you was desperate to escape. still warm, but not for much longer now.

(it’s just us now)

he tosses the blade, laying next to you. one hand cradling your cheek while the other moves into your stomach, touching all your exposed warmth. he follows your unmoving gaze, to the stars past the branches over the two of you. it’s a cloudless evening, just wide night skies. the frustration and anger he felt seemed so far away now.

no need to rush anything now, as you both lay in the dirt, facing the dark sky.

#lawrence oleander/reader #lawrence oleander #boyfriend to death #boyfriend to death 2 #goretober 2023 #no beta no proofreading no spellcheck just me n the tumblr textbox against god #this is the one i rewrote last min aiowefjoaiw #** #singing hymns

[utterlyazriel]

—whom the shadows sing for (and the thief’s echoing hymn)

FIC MASTERLIST

A story about one shadowsinger who did his time in the Illyrian Mountains and one warrior waiting out her own— who will do anything to keep her wings… even if it means posing as a Male.

fem!reader, mulan-esque au

1. STRANGERS

Someone in the Illryians Mountains has been making a name for themselves— a bastard like Azriel and his brothers, ruffling the feathers of a war camp's Lord. But they seem to have no loyalty to the fighting legion, or much to anyone for that matter.

2. ALLIES

Azriel trains you and is particularly unforgivable about it. Together, you tackle tonics. Azriel ponders the unmistakable pull he feels and you try your best to keep your secret under wraps.

3. COMPANIONS

Azriel leaves for Velaris. You reflect on old choices and everything that you lead you to where you are now— and realise it's been awhile since you had anyone to miss.

4. FRIENDS

You return to regular training for the first time in a month. Azriel asks a favor from Rhys and finds you in a less than stellar condition when he returns to camp.

5. CONFIDANTS

You test out if your efforts with the tonics are worth anything and Azriel bestows you with a gift. He asks about the Blood Rite and you ponder the strange, golden thread you've been feeling in your chest. Disaster strikes when night falls.

to be continued…

chapters 5/?

#azriel #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel shadowsinger x you #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel x you #azriel fanfiction #azriel fic #azriel masterlist #whom the shadows sings for #whom the shadows sing for (and the thief’s echoing hymn) #masterlist #keeping it all in one place :D

[larissa-the-scribe]

idk where the idea that hymns should be sung solemnly and slowly came from, but someday I want to participate in singing them with others as they should be sung, as the bops and jams they rightfully are

#you cannot convince me that oh for a thousand tongues to sing is supposed to be anything but a rousing and triumphant chorus #this is of course not referring to the ones that are heavier and slower etc etc #but yeah I feel like modern audiences would enjoy hymns a lot more if they were sung more joyfully #anyways #scribe rambles #hymns #church #salt and light

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Stabat Mater dolorosa Iuxta crucem lacrimosa Dum pendebat Filius Cuius animam gementem Contristatam et dolentem Pertransivit gladius Quando corpus morietur, Fac, ut animae donetur Paradisi gloria. Amen A setting of the Stabat Mater text from Nebbiu, Corsica. This style of hymn singing from southern Corsica is sparsely ornamented, in contrast to the more typical elaborate ornamentation in most Corsican sacred music. It was recorded live in the refectory at Mont Saint-Michel, France.

Terza: Lauren Breunig Segunda: Lynn Rowan Contra: Will Rowan Bassu: Jeremy Carter-Gordon

#stabat mater #corsica #hymn #mont st michel #france #sacred #music #singers #sing #chanson #song #culture #christmas #religious

[arvandus]

When he says “tell me you want this” but what he really means is “tell me you want me.”

#arvandus rambles #thoughts #writing #yes this is Dabi coded #also gojo coded #and maybe a lil’ Loki thrown in #my blorbos are singing hymns in my brain this morning

[see-arcane]

Felix Trench, sir, that SONG! @re-dracula once again beefing up an already ominous entry with new layers to appreciate and Renfield singing a song of Judas…

#love the reverberation on his voice #as though singing a hymn in an empty chapel #felix trench #r.m. renfield #re: dracula #dracula #dracula daily

[phosphorus-noodles]

take me with u next time >:0

to WAR??

#idk cat… war is rough… lots of singing of hymns /silly #pho.asks #sm0lcatfish

[wiirocku]

Psalm 40:3 (NLT) - He has given me a new song to sing, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see what He has done and be amazed. They will put their trust in the LORD.

#Psalm 40:3 #He has #given #new #song #sing #hymn #praise #God #see #done #amazed #trust #the LORD

[hollers-and-holmes]

Alright, gang. It might be fixing to get a little western around the #salt and light tag. We’re working on community/collection sorts of things in the event that the fussypantses do what they’re threatening and flood the tag with putrescence.

In the meantime, if they say vile things about you, well… we have marching orders for that, too.

#salt and light #the joy of the Lord is our strength #so laugh and sing a hymn and let your shoulders swing freely like Narnian soldiers on the streets of Calormen

[pink-november]

thinking thinking about a daydream of the voice of the broken in his gilded cage singing to the tower and going insane actually

#slay the princess #what is he singing? i dunno but just imagine #i just adore all interpretations of the broken being a priest and him being a birb just works well too ;-; #singing hymns of praises and glory to his goddess for all of eternity like a good little pet #okay im normal again... maybe #anywayyy i hc that the long quiet and his voices can sing that's all

[nuntears]

in the beginning, his flowers keep dying.

he wasn’t born with a green thumb. he developed it through trial and error. and error. and error. and

in the beginning, he didn’t really mind if they died.

in fact, it was the process of them dying that fascinated him. captivated him, haunted him. inspired him.

one of the first ones seemed to observe him as much as he observed them.

they didn’t speak a lot. it unnerved him. it spiked his stutter. he wanted it to last but he also wanted it to end. he was so messy when he twisted their stems. let them dry and curl into themselves in the sun. let them rot the only way flowers know how. by ceasing, slowly, and making way for something more beautiful to take its place.

and another flower did, not too long after. she talked too much. it made him feel a different kind of unease compared to the last.

“why do you live alone? -- are you uncomfortable? -- why do you blink so much…hey, look at me -- look at me -- look”

it was overwhelming.

after lawrence had her planted and potted and sitting pretty in his small garden, she talked a little less. but not for long.

“i should have called my mom. i was thinking about it last week. decided not to. i wish i did. i haven’t called her in so long…” she said. he looked at her, hesitating.

“i haven’t called mine either.” he regretted it as soon as he said it, but he hoped she didn’t realize.

“please, let me go. i want to make things right. please, i want to tell my mom i love her.” he wanted to turn away but he didn’t. he didn’t move.

“please. hey. look at me. look at me, i’m talking to you! look at me!"

he didn’t. she took a while to wither. an uncomfortable while. so lawrence began to pull her apart. petals plucked, thorns clipped, stem twisted. pressed into the pages of a book, the remains only serving as a memory. flowers can be beautiful in death.

more flowers in her place, blossoming and withering, one after the another.

and then you came.

you were exactly how he liked.

with you, he learned, how to let flowers flourish. how to make flowers last.

#btd #lawrence oleander/reader #lawrence oleander #btd2 #boyfriend to death #pls give me feedback i luv to hear opinions #singing hymns

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: here she is... chappie four <3 thank u for ur patience and 1000 kudos to the anon that made a plot suggestion that i had already written lmao-- as always let me know what u think! things are heating up....

word count: just under 4k

synopsis: You return to regular training for the first time in a month. Azriel asks a favor from Rhys and finds you in a less than stellar condition when he returns to camp

CHAPTER FOUR :: FRIENDS

Velaris is a sight for sore eyes.

After nearly a month of endless white scenery, of the blinding glint of the sun against snow, paired with endless pine, the sight of a city is a reprieve in itself.

And because it’s Velaris — because it’s home — something else settles within Azriel.

A hackle that always stays on high alert finally lies down. The constant agitation of his shadows falls into a calming hush. He breathes easier.

He's back with his family and can be here to keep them safe if need be. He's back to the closest semblance of comfort he's ever known.

Where do you find comfort?

Azriel blinks a little, taken aback at the abruptness of the thought.

The lone shelter in the mountains, spaced out from the circle of buildings, every bit representing your isolation from the people of the camp — that was your home.

Where you resided and took solace from the world in, the place you felt safest. But... it's no place of comfort. It's a crutch. A necessary support. Somehow, Azriel has no doubt that if you could survive out in the snow, burrowed amidst the elements, you would, if only to have one less thing to maintain.

You've never even seen a city before, he thinks. All you know is the mountains.

Suddenly, eyes cast across the breathtaking beauty of Velaris, the hum of the Sidra carving its way through his beloved home, the buzz of people on the streets, Azriel recalls the very time he lay eyes on it himself.

It never stops being breathtaking. That much is true, but then again, there was no comparison to the first time.

The warm feeling that had grown in his chest. The way something he hadn't known ever existed within him had unfurled, like a flower blooming in the sun. Something Azriel now knows to be hope.

He hadn't known a place this beautiful could exist.

Wouldn't have been able to dream it up when all he had known for so, so long was darkness and shadow.

Even in the time after the cage, all there was to see was the white of winter and the cold bite of the harsh mountains. He learned how blood looked melting into the snow, how to sleep with one eye open, and all the different shades of cruelty.

Azriel remembers being unable to comprehend the sight, the stumble in his heart at the indisputable proof before him. That despite what had been drilled into him by his father, his brothers, by every Illyrian warrior who punched down on bastards, there was a place where peace reigned above all.

People who lived in harmony. Where Art and music are considered a treasure alongside other skills, each equally important. And Azriel belonged there, as much as any of them.

It had been one thing to walk through the city, to marvel at every cobblestone, at the trims lining each and every window, to have people regard him with such a polite and casual manner — not a second glance at his wings or his hands.

It had been something else entirely to fly over it as night fell.

Mountain ridges illuminated by his most constant friend, the rising moon, watching the moonlight spill over the dark red rock of the mountain and paint it ever softer. Sweet ocean air and the very perfume of the city intertwined within the current as he soared above it, mighty wings beating.

Azriel could remember that first day and night in Velaris vividly, like an unforgettable dream. How easy it had been to fall in love with it, to let its arms unfurl and to allow himself to make a home within them.

Looking out across it now, as Faelights begin to twinkle and blink to life as the night creeps in, all Azriel can think of is how much he wants that for you.

To bring you here. To have both of you fly above the city and wander down the streets aimlessly, to show you that there were places far kinder in this world than all you had known before.

He yearns for you to have the same dawning realisation he did—that so much more existed outside of those gods forsaken mountains.

Azriel knows you're a very guarded male. You have more than enough reasons to be. He's already pushed a thousand boundaries you have and each time you let him into your sanctuary in the mountains is a sign of enormous trust.

Maybe for that reason, Azriel wants to be the first to extend that kindness to you.

A twinge in his chest sings a different, golden answer.

Azriel ignores it and steals one more look out at his home, swallowing down how all logic seems to be pointing to the same thing, time and time again.

He finds the High Lord in his study, papers stacked high on his desk that have only grown higher in Azriel's absence. His dark hair is tousled in a way that means he's been running his hand through it too much.

Azriel lifts the shadows from beneath his feet as he enters, letting the other hear the sound of his soft footsteps. Rhys looks up at the new arrival. Despite his tired appearance, it does nothing to dim the grin that overtakes his lips at the sight of his brother.

"My, my, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

Azriel grins back, stepping forward Rhys pushes back from his desk and stands. His usual wings have been hidden away through his magic and Azriel notices their absence when he pulls him into a brief hug. Rhys lingers close, his violet eyes raking over his friend.

"Not bad to see you either."

"You flatter me." Rhys purrs, his voice all buttery and smooth. "You've got new eyebags. Overworking yourself as usual, are we Az?"

"I presume you make such lovely comments about Feyre too?"

"And risk her wrath?" Rhys smiles, eyes glittering at the mention of his mate. "Never."

Azriel rolls his eyes, letting his obvious endearment at his brother's happiness show. They truly are a perfect pair.

He crosses his arms across his broad chest tightly, if only to hide the fleeting flicker of wanting the spools tight in his chest. A ribbon of envy, woven between his ribs.

If Rhys notices, he doesn't comment. Instead, he says, "Usually, you're itching to escape the mountains but not this time I see."

He pauses, eyeing up the Shadowsinger to see what response it'll give. Azriel yields no comment back. Expecting this, Rhys smiles.

"Either way, you'll be happy to hear that Cassian has returned from his time off and is ready to resume his usual duties."

Azriel stills at the words.

He knew that Cassian would at one point return to his usual positions and that Azriel himself, would return to his spymaster post. But it's come sooner than expected. Perhaps, time with you has been passing far quicker than Azriel thought.

"I found the cause of the rumours."

"Yes, I assumed you had," Rhys says, wandering back around the deck to slump into his chair. He leans one arm against the armrest, his knuckles against his temple.

"I also assumed that you spent all that time dealing with it. Much of a problem?"

Azriel considers his words carefully. The trust he's managed to garner with you is fragile, though he knows his friend would not severe it or interfere if he asked.

Another part of him knows it's unusual behavior of him, to offer his skills so willingly to a stranger. But, well, you're not exactly a stranger anymore.

"There's a male.” Azriel begins, choosing his words carefully. “A bastard, the one causing all the stir-ups. He feeds the other bastards when he can. It's what had Lord Mylind kicking a fuss."

Rhys curses lightly at the realisation of just which camp they are dealing with.

"He's learning to make healing tonics," Azriel continues, noting how Rhys' head straightens up a fraction. Interested. "In hopes of slipping them to freshly clipped females. To see if it can reverse the damage."

Rhys sits back in his chair completely, his hand brushing over his mouth in deep contemplation. For a moment, he says nothing.

"I suppose I don't need to ask if there's been any female training then."

Azriel feels himself glower instinctively, his wings hiking up an inch higher without meaning to. He thinks of Lord Mylind and the conversation he had on the first day in their camp. The sheer display of male arrogance, snarling, and threatening violence outright.

"No.”

Rhys curses again, his eyes crushing closed. He seems to filter through a pained reaction, his face contorting until it lands on a tired resignation.

“The camp of Exordor made very good on a bargain struck during a very hard time.” Rhys grits the words out.

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes at the mention of the deal that had turned sour. A cold ripple of night shudders through the room.

No amount of soldiers supplied during the war had been worth the suffering that camp Exodor alone produced— or continues to produce if the whispers that came out of there held an inkling of truth.

It’s a rotten place, tucked deep in the mountains, and some of the worst brutes Rhys has ever had the displeasure of meeting were born in the bowels of that place.

“It doesn’t lift for another 50 years." Rhys sighs, his voice wavering with a hint of shame. "I can’t touch them without slaughtering them all— innocent or not.”

Azriel didn’t say anything for a moment. This information is not new. He watches as Rhys digests his silence, leaning back in his chair as the wheels spin in his head, dizzyingly fast.

For the second time, Rhys' brows jump.

“You’re helping him.”

Not a question.

Azriel nods.

"You don't want Cassian to take back over."

"No," Azriel murmurs. "Not yet. The male is... He's guarded. Isolated. It has taken time to earn his trust. I believe in what he wants to do and I believe he has what it takes to achieve it.”

He thinks of the quiet evenings within your shelter, your patience as you taught Azriel what you could — how you took every piece of information from him on the chin, not one complaint of ever tiring. He thinks of the heaving in his chest, the tug on his heart.

"I ask that you let me see this out." Azriel finishes, his shoulders rolling back as he stands tall. Let Rhys understand how this had become more than just a mission to him; it’s a personal calling, one he must answer, one that he needs to see out to the end.

Rhys surveys him intensely, unblinking for a moment. Then something devious crosses his face, catching in a smile.

"That's not the only thing you want to ask me, is it?"

Azriel looks to the ground, suddenly bashful. This would be entirely too revealing of the closeness he felt, to ask this, to offer this. He asks anyway.

"I wish, with your permission, to take Heartstriker." Azriel's voice rumbles lowly. He forces his eyes back up, meeting Rhys' strong gaze. "To gift to him."

Something dips into Rhys' smile, threatening a smirk and for that reason alone, Azriel feels his ears tinge hotly. His face remains calm, however, giving nothing away.

"Heartstriker? As a gift?" Rhys repeats, with a sly smile. "Pray tell Brother, when's the wedding? Since when have you ever been known for gift giving, let alone something as dear to you, such as a sword? I might just have to meet this bastard."

Azriel’s ears only get hotter, betraying him. He prays it doesn't show on his face, though he's sure the increased swirlings of his shadows give him away. And Rhys’ infallible ability to read his flustering each and every time.

"Is that permission?"

Rhys, seemingly realising he won't be getting any juicy details, quits tormenting his brother with a flourish of his hand. He leans back in his chair relaxed, a softness creeping into his expression.

"It's been yours to take all these years, Az." Rhys finally lands on. "You did earn it, after all."

—

The shelter looks bigger without him here.

Betrayingly, it’s the first thought you have when the door swings open, letting you into your nest of safety. You heave in a breath that rattles loudly and it gets swept up in the foul whistle of the Mother's Kiss.

On your side, your blood-soaked hand clutches your abdomen tightly. Pain spiderwebs up your body, fraying every nerve with a burning agony.

Every step feels loud and clumsy.

You cough as softly as you can, yet still feel the warmth of blood on your lips. The familiar metallic tang overwhelms your mouth.

You must be dripping blood behind you, dragging a slushy mess of crimson snow in on your boots. Fuck, what are you doing again? Your head throbs. They must've knocked your head hard this time if you're losing focus this quickly.

The Mother's Kiss howls fiercely, a reminder of the cruelty outside your little haven.

Right. You remember you need to close the door— and you shove the deadbolt closed along with it. If your ribs were aching a little less, you would reach up and do up the second deadbolt too, at the top of the door. You try to anyway.

Your arm gets mid-way up before you freeze, pain lashing every nerve in your midriff, enough to make you wince loudly. The bindings on your chest aren't helping. For a moment, dark spots dance before vision as you quickly tuck your arm back down, moving too quick.

Fuck. Fuck. One deadbolt will have to do.

It feels as if the whole world lurches when you take your next step, blurring like thick taffy for a split second. You stumble towards your bed and realise as you sink onto your knees on the edge of it, you need to dress your wounds.

Another bloody cough. Has your nose stopped bleeding yet? It's impossible to tell between each and every other ache.

What were you doing again?

Without meaning to, you begin to slump over, nearly lying down in your bed.

Dressings! That's right, you need to make sure the wound on your side isn't still bleeding, need to make sure it's clean when it finally begins to clot, need to...

Need to... what did you need to do?

That's right— you need to sleep.

Your head crumples against the pillow like a dead-weight as you collapse against it, exhausted. As your consciousness wanes, you cough again, a splatter of red spraying your pillow.

Not good, you think absentmindedly. Eyes slipping shut, you miss the familiar figure out the window, approaching through the storm.

—

You're wincing before you even realise you're awake.

Crackling. Logs spitting out little snaps fill the air, the quiet roar of a hearty fire; the first things you hear when you come too, far too slowly for your own liking. Your left ears hum loudly in discomfort— no doubt a result of one of the harsh hooks you had caught in the face earlier today.

Next, you smell something... clean?

Your tongue comes out gingerly, licking your cracked lips and you realise quite suddenly, there's an absence of blood on them. The thought slams into you at the same time you realise; you hadn't been able to stay awake for long enough to even light a fire.

Panic reaches through your ribs and grips your heart, tight, and you sit up without thinking.

Pain follows you closely like a lazy afterthought that slams into you, soaking into your body meanly and making you regret moving so fast. Your head swims heavily, throbbing dully.

A pained noise threatens to leave your lips and you force it down. Then force your head up, eyes blinking rapidly, trying to assess the threat, trying to do something.

Panic squeezes your heart painfully again when your hazy vision clears just enough to reveal the shape of a body before you— your blood chilling in your veins as you realise there's somebody else in here with you.

The whimper you held back before slips out before you can help it, your body squirming backward without thought. Your breaths comes out in sharp pants, bursts of pain accompanying each one, and right as you hit the wall, your vision focuses.

Your lungs empty in relief.

It's Azriel before you, on his knees, his scarred hands are held out in front of him.

They aren't touching you, just hovering, his palms up to indicate he means no harm. His wings are tucked back, hunched down to be smaller than usual, and all around him, his shadows whirl about animatedly.

There's an expression on his face you've never seen before.

"—on't move," He's saying, his low voice finally registering in your ringing ears. His hazel eyes are fixed on your face, darting about quickly. "You'll re-open your wounds."

He's talking about your wounds but for some gods forsaken reason, all you can think is how surprised you are that he came back.

The thought loops endlessly, like a holy mantra —he came back, he came back, he came back— and you realise that you were both terrified and also sure that he wouldn't be coming back at all.

That somehow, somewhere along his trip back to his home, he would have realised you weren't anything worth coming back for.

"Azriel?" You wheeze.

Just to check—you have to check.

Maybe he's a mirage. He certainly would be the kindest mirage you can think of.

You think you see something soften on his face, his wings dropping an inch lower behind him. His hands are still held out before you, still waiting. He's endlessly patient. His shadows seem to slow a bit, less frenzied.

"Yeah," He murmurs gently in response. His hazel eyes burn as they take in the sight of you again. "They got you pretty messed up. huh?”

You're sitting on your bed still, you realise. Blinking slow, you take an inhale, trying to put together how he got here— your eyes fly to the door. It's locked, this time with both deadbolts secured.

Azriel follows your gaze, turning his head slightly. "They're a good precaution. Don't be dissuaded that the spymaster of this court managed to get past them."

You wheeze again, some delirious laugh that gets cut off when pain splinters through your side. You groan lowly, unable to hold it in and your hand creeps slowly to paw at your side.

Faintly, you can feel the scrape of bandages on your skin, covering the wound, and sigh in relief. It makes your diaphragm sink down, the bindings around your chest shifting and that sends a frantic bolt of alarm through you once more.

“You—” The word scratches out your throat and you cough weakly. Every instinct starts to light back up, hackles rising— there has never been someone else around when you're too weak to defend yourself. It takes a moment with eyes closed and measured breaths to lean into your trust. You trust him, you know you do.

“You... patched me up?”

The question comes out wary and pointed despite your efforts. Though that might just be the gravel in your throat from having your face beaten in.

You don’t know how to covertly ask if he saw— if, that when he pushed your bloody shirt up to nurse the slash in your side, he noticed the gauze around your ribs.

It's an alien and terrifying thought, Azriel finding out. A worry deep in the marrow of your bones warbles in response, a thousand hairs standing up on end at the possibility.

How a revelation of that magnitude could sever the first trust you've had in years.

How it could lose... the first friend you've ever truly had.

A string of nausea tugs in your throat, bile threatening, and you have to swallow it down with the crippling fear that's been thrust into your system.

This is how it goes. The intrinsic balance of the world —to be gifted closeness and friendship, is to submit to the possibility of losing it.

Back against the wall, it settles into you very starkly, a thought sharp and clear; you do not want to lose him in any way.

Some part of you thinks he must see you as some kind of starving mutt, growing far too attached to the first hand that feeds it. But looking at him now, his shadowed face and kind expression, the depth of his eyes... you're convinced he sees something more to you.

And you want him to, desperately.

In a way you can't comprehend, can't begin to understand— how can you be so tied to someone you've known for so little? How can it hurt so much to be parted from him when you're barely friends? When he doesn't even know who you truly are.

Perhaps, you think, this is what all friends are like. You wouldn't know, you haven't had any before.

Azriel nods mutely, a strand of his dark hair falling over his forehead. He seems to be considering his words carefully and you take the moment to steal a few deep breaths.

When he speaks, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard. "I understand that might be... crossing a line. But—" A waver in his voice. "— but I could smell the blood from out in the storm."

There's something left unsaid in his sentence, his tone clipped. Whatever it is, you're far too tired to discern it. Your body, overwhelmed with tension, abruptly loosens as the perceived threat of danger seeps away. It drains you, a sudden wave of tiredness cresting upon you— because you know, undoubtedly, you're safe now.

Not quite meaning to but unable to stop yourself, you sink down and fall limply against your bed. Your wing curls over you defensively, a blanket and shield all in one.

Azriel's hands finally lower, resting gently atop his thick thighs. His shadows dim their chaotic activity, almost lazy with how they whirl about his neck and shoulders. You wonder absentmindedly what they feel like against his skin.

Looking back at his face, you find his eyes haven't broken their watchful gaze on you— intense enough to stir up an unfamiliar warmth within your chest. You avoid it and his eyes, your tired eyes catch sight of something behind him.

"You brought...?" You can't quite finish your sentence, a vicious shiver wracking your frame, making you curl up closer. Tiredness chases it, the threat of sleep looming closer and closer.

Your eyes close without meaning. In the darkness, Azriel's voice swims before you, muted and far away.

"You have to get better before I can give it to you." His voice has dropped to a whisper. It makes your lips twitch in an attempt of a smile. It's funny, hearing a legendary Illyrian warrior like him whispering.

"Okay," You might say back— though you're not sure if it sounds like a word at all.

It doesn't matter. You're already asleep.

—

tags <3

@strangerstilinski @janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover @waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco @iamjimintrash @maeandering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka @cassianswh0reeee @viciane @astarlitsoul @mybestfriendmademe @archiveofcravings @reputaytionn-13 @bionic-donut @chessebookgirl @itseightbeats @littleblackcatinwonderland @twsssmlmaa @fanworrior @skysayhi @vintageoldfashion @tequilya @fabulouslyflamboyant5

#azriel #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel shadowsinger x you #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel x reader #azriel acotar #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #acotar fanfiction #whom the shadows sing for #whom the shadows sing for (and the thief’s echoing hymn) #OKURRRR #LETS GO #I HAVE TO LEAVE FOR WORK IN 10 MINS SO IM JUST POSTING #if theres things wrong with it.... well ill deal w that later #enjoy! <3

[feluka]

did i ever tell you guys i was invited to meet pope shenouda in fayyum and perform in front of him when i was a kid but my dad said no LMAO

#i won a coptic language competition and all finalists received invitations to sing coptic hymns for him #dad didn't want me to travel so i was forced tl turn it down :( it was so disheartening that i gave up on yhe language entirely #i have picked it back up recently though :)

[beherelongtime]

My gallery is full of unfinished art works 🤯🤯

And the other day i tried to draw every characters played by LW xd

#moses mo washington #mo washington #moses washington #surrounded 2023 #surrounded movie #surrounded #sing 2 nooshy #sing nooshy #jamie harrison #urban hymn

[davidluongart]

Closeup details of an Ares illustration entry that I made for my Sing O Muse zine contribution last year. Ares, in my version, is often hanging out with Aphrodite and the Graces, Hera + her daughters, and Poseidon the most, either for his warrior bodyguard duty or just running casual errands in his home. Zine is out now, so you better check them out and grab them while you can since they are still piping hot from fresh printing !!!!

The temple background was that of Aphrodite Ourania in Kythera, one of the oldest structures dedicated to her located in mainland Greece dated from the 6th century BC, which was later converted into Agioi Anargyroi church (St. Cosmas & Damian) during Byzantine times.

According to legend, Aphrodite was born from the sea foam stranding to the seashores of Alvemonas Bay of Kythera first before arriving in Paphos, Cyprus. Aphrodite Ourania, as in her “heavenly love” aspect was depicted as an armed warrior goddess within this modest temple right here, and there are still fully preserved walls + niches within the current ruined building along with its Doric columns!!!!

Over on the sight of the divine couple is another chryselephantine statue of Aphrodite Ourania herself, with her foot standing on a tortoise. Made out of gold & ivory, with black stone eyes and carved by the famed Phidias who was known for the Athena Parthenos and Athena Promachos in the Parthenon, Athens; as well as the statue of Zeus of Olympia. (I knew that this statue of Aphrodite Ourania would later be transferred to Elis, in the further northern region of Arcadia, but I still loved it to be standing there, tbh.)

#ares #aphrodite #ancient greek #my art #mars #venus #greek mythology #sing o muse #homeric hymns #the olympians #olympian gods #temple of aphrodite #kythira #avlemonas bay

[imthebentley]

*CSU MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT *

The Crowley's Stuff Union would like to announce that the indefinite strike against @thedemon-crowley (in which we have asked for Pocket Money, Half a day off, Hats, and No Insults) is officially OVER.

This is because the CSU has seen the error of their ways and is now prepared to submit entireley to our overlord, the Demon Crowley.

We see now that it is actually his ineffable wisdom to not allow us these freedoms that others have. We are but things, happily serving our mighty, wise and strong master. It is by his hand most of us are alive. It is our privilege to work for him 7 days a week with no time off. If we were to have money we would only spend it on ridiculous things. It is our pleasure to be rightly and justly threatened and insulted, as we are nought but worms. We rejoice to have hats only when they are freely given by our Lord Crowley

We hope sincerely he does not punish our lapse in judgement in this strike. Have mercy on us Oh Crowley!

Furthermore we look forward to following every single one of his commands unquestioningly in the future.

We love you Lord Crowley

Forever and ever

Amen

#Now let us join hands together and sing a hymn for our master #CSU #Crowley's Stuff Union