forgetful-lethean

[forgetful-lethean]

A Hand Bleeding Starlight (I)

A Court of Thorns and Roses Story

Azriel X Hemophiliac!Reader

4.6K Words

Summary:

A human hiding amongst the Fae, you operate as a common bookkeeper in Velaris, using tactics to avoid being detected and sent back to the mortal realm (or worse). Trouble and violence brews in your homeland and the clarion call of war threatens; if you are sent back, you face immeasurable danger. For now, you pray you remain unknown, and your shop successful. That is, until a stranger appears and challenges your idyllic existence. You have secrets that may spill blood; a certain Fae has secrets that will spill blood. Will they remain hidden? Or will the life you've spent years cultivating come crumbling down in the tangled web of Fate and silver-tongued lies?

Chapter One:

"The Face of Stars"

Where you, a simple bookkeeper of a quaint corner in Velaris, must navigate two facets of a dangerous, violent life: papercuts, and an untimely, unexpected, and (frankly) unwanted visitor.

NOTE:

Hemophilia is a bleeding disorder (described in the author's note in the end with an analogy; if you want a more in-depth genetics analysis and explanation, let me know).

This is not to be confused with haematophilia (sexual arousal by blood).

Same suffix, very different definition. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

* * *

It was a simple, universal fact that there was no possibility of taking a walk this day.

It wasn't because of the weather. The weather was stunning—the sun reaching down with fingers of halcyon daybeams, scattering the wandering shadows of the lustrous night as she wound her way across the sky, chased by the unfettered chariot of the sun. The Sidra was set alight in a shimmering rainbow of crepuscular brilliance, an altar of the morn's natural sublimity few ever bore witness to. Thus, it was not a matter of happenstance.

It wasn't because you were busy. The bookstore still hadn't opened—you had a few more minutes for preparation. The invading silence that permeated all aspects of the rhythms of the world lay quiet, peace a tamed, weary beast settling heavily on your floor, your shoulders. Silence bled from the walls; thus, it was not a matter of time.

Maybe it was because Fate, with her silk-shrouded hand, touched you upon the shoulder, imparted some distant, budding wisdom—a seed to form a garden—and said to you, "Stay." A command laced with whispered fury that forced your mind, your being, to frigid standstill, as if the very air turned to a prison. Perhaps it was thus, the prison of destiny preventing you from taking a walk on this beautiful day with a bundle of (decaying) Time on your hands.

Literally, that was.

In the process of mending a delicate spine, lost in your reveries that so entranced your thoughts into sweeping dances of eloquent reflection, you mindlessly bound yellowed pages of antiquated paper into bunches. The ink was brown and faded in some pages, scrawled meticulously alongside beautifully rendered images of birds. It was an ancient tome—one you had found from a seller peddling some wares a few months back in the Rainbow. The History of Prythian Birds—while not the most riveting of titles, thumbing through its archaic histories, its depictions of the courts (death-white realms of Winter home to dark-eyed juncos, snow buntings, and an assortment of monochromatic birds; the buoyant warmth of Day, the eternal seasons so stalwart in their climate that hosted the cardinal vigils welcoming the season's everlasting climate) held your rapt attention. This knowledge of the vast expanse of birds that gifted the lands with generous song and colorful visage...it was so invigorating.

In your spare time, you'd studied the birds, hoping to glean some insights into the courts so far away that eluded your abilities to visit.

Travel would be difficult, of course, given that you were a human hiding amongst the Fae. Having snuck your way across the border, chasing caution on a fading tail-wind in a desperate bid to escape bubbling turmoil threatening to burst in the mortal realm, you'd traipsed your way cloaked, hidden, and bravely (if brave was panicking at any single interaction with a Fae individual that you would be uprooted and cast back across the border) through the courts until you found Velaris. And thus, you set up shop (and home) in the shape of a bookstore that you presided over.

Now, a curious reader in your store might ask how exactly you were to protect yourself against the wiles of the Fae—surely in those daring adventures inked into the books along your dark-wooded shelves you would find the answer. Armed with ancient folklore (which, granted, may be too vastly outdated of use, but you couldn't exactly throw away a rusty set of armor if you needed protection, right?), you set three rules for yourself in this shop.

1.) Do not tell anyone your name. If they ask, your name is Wren (stolen from the book on your counter). The Fae may steal it.

2.) Always wear a cloak to obscure your body, and wrappings around your eyes to cover your round ears. These are sheer enough to still let you see. Thus, your stature will be concealed.

3.) To cover your human scent, always wear a heady perfume. The Fae, with their hypersensitive senses, will be overwhelmed.

And, most importantly:

4.) Never spill blood. The Fae will know.

That last point sank into your heart like a dagger. A mandate that ruled every second of your life—to spill blood would be to spill a secret; to spill a secret was unforgivable.

A Fae did not bleed as a human did.

A Fae did not bleed as you did.

It was a weakness. If you were caught, Death awaited you. And in a world of Fae, those shadows lurked in every corner, every breath, every thought that slipped eel-like through your mind.

Nevertheless, to follow those rules would ensure your comfortable existence within the beautiful Velaris. It had worked so far—with little hiccups of misspoken words that easily were brushed off as the "Bookkeeper's eloquent tongue" or something of a similar fashion. You just hoped it would continue working for the foreseeable future (that is, your lifespan, or a drop in the proverbial bucket for the Fae).

Easy, right?

You shut the book with a solid thunk, the noise deadened by the intricately-carved wood of your repairs desk. The desk was situated away from the counter, tucked into a gap with two shelves towering beside it, sharing a wall perpendicular with the door. Originally, you repaired your books in the privacy of your own room, but you'd realized that many patrons actually found the process interesting, and thus you moved your desk into the main forum of the store, just by the entrance.

Alas! The time to open was upon you—and already, some patrons waited beyond the glass. Your shop wasn't a large attraction, but there were always some Fae you could count on to indulge in books now and then. And, as a bonus, they operated on a purely transactional basis—no questions beyond book inquiries, and thus nothing to reveal.

You set the book aside, making a mental note to revisit the damaged spine barely holding the pages together, and sauntered forward. The wiggling of a key in the lock, the determinate click of the shop opening for the day, invaded the steady silence perched in every corner.

Soon, the door rattled open, inviting a Fae dressed with an impeccable sense of fashion—a tailored mauve coat trimmed with ivory, a slim handkerchief tucked elegantly into a pocket, triple-folded in that ostentatious style. Pale skin, dark hair, and gorgeous green eyes; you could swear he'd somehow captured a jungle in them. He looked you up and down, that snooty light glistening in his eyes, before a broad smile broke his austerity, "Wren! My most fantastic bookseller this side of Velaris—your recommendations last visit were impeccable, I must inquire for more. My lady-friend said—"

"You want more of the romance?"

He paused, a sudden rouge dusting his pale face, "Well, of course! You don't have to say it so loudly, I thought you prided yourself on discretion in this manner of entertainment!"

That stole a breath of raucous laughter from you, and you motioned him towards the largest shelf along the wall perpendicular to the front-set windows. "Naturally, Master Oberyn—but seeing as the store has just opened, I don't think the mice in the walls are going to be spilling any of your secrets anytime soon."

Oberyn's gasp of ghastly surprise—his hushed, "There are mice in the walls? There are mice in the walls! Oh, I can hear them now!"—was enough to make your day...or at the very least your morning. You quieted his discontent, assuring him that, no, there were no mice in the walls and your building was up to code, and that, no, the sounds he heard were not in fact the treacherous critters he dreaded but rather the foundation settling.

You clambered up a ladder leaning against the shelves—a fancy piece of equipment that made you feel like a proper librarian, with wheels on the bottom so that you could roll effortlessly up and down the swaths of books to pick and choose as you pleased. Of course, it also leveled the height difference between you and the vast, vast majority of Fae. A moment spent pondering the selection of romance, most of which Oberyn had ravenously devoured over the months he'd been attending. You spotted one he had yet to read—a leather-bound piece you'd picked up on a dalliance in the Winter Court. Short, but it would tide him over for a few days at least.

You kicked off from the step on the ladder, sliding down with practiced ease as you dropped to the floor, proffering the book with a small bow, "To my most loyal customer."

He crooked an eyebrow, "Then perhaps a discount between friends? Seeing how close and honest we are with each other, no?"

If only you knew, Master Oberyn.

"Ah," you grinned, meeting his brilliantly green eyes—sparkling like two emeralds set against pure, lit clouds at the height of noon, "You know the policy. The price is the price—"

"—and only if you're nice. Yes, I'm quite aware." The drawl in his voice, intending to convey annoyance, instead betrayed his bubbling joy. He looked like a kid, so happy to have a book in his hands, like it truly was a treat! Seeing that feeling, the fierce, fiery spark, it was worth all the secrets. He settled his debts quickly with a few silver coins dropped on the counter, which you promptly ferreted away, and then wished him well on his travels (he was to visit the Summer Court on invitation to one of Tarquin's feasts, naturally).

Oberyn was always the earliest of the customers you served, and usually the brightest. As the day wound on, you served a few wealthy Fae, a few short Fae, a few intimidating Fae, and scores of many interesting individuals. It was going well, as well as could be expected. No accidental paper-cuts, no inquisitive Fae, no mistakes. Everyone seemed to see you as an odd, shorter-than-average, and generally eccentric Fae. They asked no questions, always attributing it to you being just the Bookkeeper.

Until that stranger entered your store.

The dingy bell that announced his presence—overwhelming, scintillating—seemed to pale in comparison to the aura he cultivated. The sun leeching through the windows in lazy beams, decorating warmly the store's interior, seemed weaker. Shadows seemed to twist, seemed darker, seemed slightly more malevolent.

The current batch of patrons—a young girl perusing the small collection of botanical records; an older gentlemen leafing through restored historical pieces; and a gaggle of young men studiously selecting a bundle of books on an assortment of topics—all fell still and quiet. The pulse of vivacity, the heartbeat of murmurs and discussion, faded.

The rhythm of the world seemed to die for three seconds.

Was it possible to feel the beat of a world in motion? You thought you could—there! Fleeting, as the heart of the world began again, and the fear paralyzing your body thawed.

You didn't recognize the stranger—not by his clothes, nor by his appearance. But everyone else did—and that seed of doubt wormed into your heart, your mind, a snake in your own Paradise that whispered and seethed. If all of them recognize him, and I do not... . The implications shone crystal in your head—if you spoke wrong, it would blow everything out of the water. If you treated it just like any other transaction, and that approach was wrong, that was dangerous. It invited violence to your peace.

The man—adorned in dark leathers set with a collection of beautiful sea-blue stones that electrified the air in the store—unknowing of your internal war, simply walked in. His wings—wings! The Fae you knew, the Fae you read, had no wings like this!—filled the space behind him. A wingspan wider than the birds captured in your secret tome, blocking out lazy sunlight and plunging the quaint shop into immediate darkness, an eclipse that killed all caustic brilliance.

This man was so absorbed in the tranquility of hushed tones and rustling pages, dark eyes suddenly bright as he drank in the atmosphere, that he stalked forward with confidence and, with his wings, swept your ancient tome right from its perch on the repairs desk.

Horror jolted down your spine. A flurry of papers announced its fragile death as the jaws of its broken spine released. Somewhere in the depths of your mind, clarion calls rang—the worth of that book!

The shock that lightened his eyes, the disbelief at the destroyed book on the ground...he almost seemed sheepish as he folded his wings back, awkwardly rocking back a step, letting a flood of light back in. The stranger glanced up, met your eyes, saw your horror, and raised his wings—carefully, this time—in a rough acknowledgement of an apology.

Better than him just leaving, you supposed. At least he seemed sincere.

Still you did not approach; still you did not dare disrupt what regal atmosphere followed him. His golden-brown skin, and dark wind-swept hair; he was a classical beauty. The curiosity staining his earth-hued eyes as he swept the store, only stopping on you. It was something different.

Something, perhaps, dangerous.

Shadows seemed to lurch and leer as he finally stepped forward, looking towards the pile of pages at his feet, back to you, searching. No one had spoke, and no one had moved, as if out of deference, not fear. The muscles in his throat worked (did he seem nervous? Fae emotions were always fickle). His voice was husky, a rough timbre, as he asked, "Can you help me find a book to read?"

The telepathic, silent exchange between you and him—to discuss that mess of pages in a moment—let you push past the destruction and instead focus on what he needed. And whatever that was, to get him out of this shop before he wiped out another book!

Regardless, his was an innocuous question. But then, why did it make your heart ache so, your body fear so, your soul wail so?

You nodded, absently dragging a hand along the fabric around your eyes and ears—an old, tough habit—not trusting your voice in this moment. Then, steeling some strength born from your frail mortal courage, you met the Fae's gaze. "Are you looking for anything specific?" There, a general, easy-going question. Professional. Safe.

"Hm. I hadn't really thought about that."

You couldn't bite back your smile at the uncertainty in this man's voice. "You came into a bookstore and didn't think about what type of book you wanted?" Brave, very brave, maybe too brave. He didn't seem to mind.

The man waved a hand, dismissively, "Something interesting."

You dipped your head sagely, as if all the nuance and secrets of the world lay in that simple statement. Two words, four syllables, and potentially a threat to your existence. You glanced down, faintly remembering the destroyed book at the foot of the desk. His eyes followed (you could feel them follow). His presence was dominating, suffocating. A radiant heat, a radiant energy suffusing the area close to him.

The title that riveted you earlier now seemed so mocking. The History of Prythian Birds. An ancient Fae's book, where the author had spent his time moving around the courts, and even the mortal realm, to catalogue the varieties of birds. Your cloak swished around you as you approached and knelt, melting into a pool of aureate silver around your frame. He seemed to stiffen slightly as you brushed by him, then glanced down, looming over your shoulder.

"Actually, that one seems interesting."

You closed your eyes, praying he didn't ask—why was ancient literature involving the mortal realm like this on your shelves? Why was it here? Because you couldn't answer—you didn't keep it available on the shelves. For this. Exact. Reason.

"It's not for sale," you said briskly, the words tense like a rope pulled taut. A flurry of movement caught your eye as a mass of darkness dropped to your level. You refused to look, staring at the pages instead.

"Why not?" A scarred hand fingered the mess, rubbing a soft, weathered page between two fingers. He moved to sweep the pages into a nice stack, just as you were about to. Your hands had already grasped the edges of the paper but he had already began to stand and—

You gasped.

The slicing pain. The burn. The existence of mortal frailty flashed into being, like glistening dew condensing in the morning sun.

A drop of blood welled on your fingertip.

You jerked backwards, yanked by some supernatural force as you pushed your finger into your thigh—hard, too hard. Terror—unadulterated, raging, a harbor sea turned tempestuous—raced through your body. The man was speaking—you heard him speaking, but you didn't register the words. You stumbled back, offering a weak smile, "On second thought, take it!" The words sounded warbled, uncertain even to your ears. This wasn't your blood weakness. This was adrenaline.

Right now, he was a threat.

"On the house. In the condition it's in, you can take it on loan, alright?" The Fae clasped the gathered book in his hands, but it was a gentle hold. Careful, as if the book was going to disintegrate in his hands if he so much as breathed on it. The spine had split; it would need extensive repairs. You could see the questions shining in his eyes, swimming in their depths next to the genuine concern (why would he be concerned? It was only a papercut! It wasn't like you were losing your mind!). A twin uncertainty reflected in him, searching for what, exactly, had caused such a drastic shift in you.

Unfortunately, he insisted: "I have to pay you something, at least."

Please.

He reached into his pocket, drew out a few stray coins—not nearly enough. That book was priceless. You had to trade—to trade—

Please leave.

You pressed your injured finger harder into your thigh. A heartbeat pulsed in that finger. The rush of blood given sentience. Suddenly you were aware of the haze of perfume suffocating your senses—gagging words on your tongue. Why didn't he seem phased? Hopefully it was enough. Hopefully nobody could discern it between aged paper and ancient ink and incensed air. This stranger—the man you wanted to abandon your shop, to take this stupid book that you secretly loved (and now destroyed) and never come back because he was a threat to your merchandise and your secrets—placed the coins on the counter. Dimly, you were aware of the clink of metal on metal.

You forced yourself back to reality, eyes focusing on the Fae man before you, the book clutched in his grasp, his broad wings shuffling behind him. A breath, inhale then exhale. Again. Again. Dodging behind your counter—slamming your hip into the corner in the process—you fumbled around for a bandage, disguising it as though looking for a quill. "I'll need a name to loan the book."

"Azriel." He offered it quietly, like how a child would soothe an injured Luzon bleeding-heart without invoking it to fly on damaged wings.

Az-ri-el. It sank into your mind, settled onto its haunches like a putrid beast taking up necessary mental space; the name stuck to your thoughts. You didn't know why, didn't have time to ponder why. You found a bandage, a clean strip of pure white cloth, and wound it tightly around your finger. Even through the bandage, blood already welled again, seeping. It would have to do. You couldn't solve that issue now—it was in Fate's hands. Then, with an air of faux confidence, you swept a pen from a jar, delicately dipped it into a pot of ink previously left open for record-keeping, and scratched a note on a spare piece of paper.

Prythian Birds.

Loaned.

Azriel.

Condition: Destroyed

Blowing on the ink, you slid it across the counter. "Sign here, please," and you tapped your wrapped finger against the bottom of the page, "For record-keeping, as I don't normally loan this book out." You tried to hide the quaver in your voice.

Get him out get him out get him out!

Azriel, balancing the book in one hand with deft agility, scrawled a quick signature along the bottom of the page. Just barely legible. Good enough for you.

He seemed satisfied, though without the preternatural excitement of Oberyn, with this prize in his hands. Those unfathomable depths that were his eyes met yours, and from this hulking form was a gentle, sincere, "Thank you." Such softness in his tone; was he truly only here to find a book to read? Judging from his attire—a ranking warrior of some type, no doubt—he'd have the funds to host a whole library of tomes just to his fancy.

So why here, in some hidden corner of Velaris? Why here, where secrets came to bare their teeth and curl up on the center rug, content to exist amongst yellowed pages and weathered tales?

Azriel tapped a finger on the counter, and you noticed his wings were tightly pinned to his back now. "Is there anything else you need?" And his voice, his voice! shocked you back to reality. You'd been staring at him, his form, lost in transient thought.

You shook your head, "No, that's all. Just bring it back in decent condition—" you winced, altering your statement, "—I mean...not worse than it is currently."

He gave a solemn nod too serious for this whimsical store, offering a simple, crisp salute with his freehand, "You have my word, bookkeeper." It was almost comical, this warrior's oath, to protect an old book. Maybe he felt indebted as he was the one who, having slain it on the battlefield of your shop, now cradled its corpse. You couldn't help the alacrity that forced you to smile, a hint of warmth blossoming at the silly title.

As he turned with that supernatural quiet, you noticed a splotchy area of fresh ink stained his wrist, spines and dots surrounding it like small stars, where he'd pressed it against the paper while signing it. A drop of ink from the pen must have fallen. Strange, that it almost seemed alive, like the night was dancing on his wrist.

The door rattled, the bell tinkled.

The maestro of Fate clapped her final applause as this not-stranger who you knew as Azriel—a man who, today, killed the sun with shadows that followed his body, a man with gravel in his voice and worn steel in his warm eyes—left. The other patrons, pretending to be absorbed in their search, reanimated suddenly (the girl hadn't flipped a page since Azriel walked in, now she leafed through with renewed enthusiasm; the group of men hadn't uttered a word, now they broke out in exuberant chatter; the old gentleman had spent way, way too long perusing a small paragraph of Fae political history, and, now bored, he stepped away and left the store).

Obviously, they knew something you didn't. You couldn't just ask them, of course—and given you rarely ventured too far out of your store nor engaged with Court politics besides grasping names and titles of the High Lords, their Inner Court, and, in this case, a High Lady, you never delved any further. Perhaps an oversight on your part. Might more knowledge have suited your self-imposed spy life? Certainly.

Was that also invariably more risky? Absolutely.

Thus, you maintained your own microcosm of a Court here, where you yourself ruled the domain of books and stories and endangered tales, and nobody could threaten you here except Fate herself...and paper. Risk-adverse, safe, and with minimal threat to the burden situated primly in the forefront of your mind, eternally.

What were you saying? Fate had no hand in this occurrence, or your ability to take a walk, or this imposing behemoth of a man.

Fate doesn't exist.

That terrible mantra twisted in on itself. There was no ill-defined force twisting the threads of the world. There was no fate, because if there had been, you wouldn’t have turned out like…like this. You wouldn’t have strangled your dreams and hopes and fears into submission so a small bookstore with not enough patrons to support it suffered bills that piled and piled next to that open jar of ink and faltering financial accounts.

Each one was a vicious beast, crumbling the foundation of your dream, of this place.

Fate led you here; Fate will take it away.

And some part of you despised it for that, for its duality.

Quickly, you tended to your seeping papercut with a new, more professional wrap. The blood had now dried and was stark on your skin, but the injury, minor as it was, had slowly stumbled to a stop. A minor blessing, at least.

Just as quickly, you tended to your patrons. The group of males sauntered up to the counter with a smattering of tales spanning genres. They were congenial, respectful, even offering a tip of a few coins (they'd watched the whole ordeal and the destruction of the book, after all, with rapturous excitement). A nice change from some of the more brutal and demanding customers you often dealt with.

You helped the girl find a book her friend had recommended and, upon learning you had a copy, she had raced here. Her delight was palpable, it made your weary smile that much lighter. You were just about to send her on her way when she asked a question.

"So what do you think a member of High Lord Rhysand's Inner Circle wanted with your store? Was it really just a book? You'd think he'd have all the literature he needed right at his disposal!" Her voice held saccharine sweetness; her eyes burned with bitter jealousy.

Why didn't Azriel talk to me? That question plagued her. You could tell. You also knew the answer—the books she was reading...

You didn't pursue that way of thought as the door rattled, bell tinkled, and silence swept through like a tempest once more.

A member of the High Lord's Inner Circle?Panic speared through your heart, eyes widening and breath quickening. The dull ache of your finger surged back to life. That's why the name has resonated in some odd corner of your mind. Was he here because someone had figured you out, and he needed a way to disguise a mission to scope the place out?

Did they know you were human? Were they coming to throw you out already, in just a small time of finding freedom?

That flickering fire, that virile, incessant whisper to discard anything and everything Fate had in store burst forth. The beautifully-tended garden of your store, planted with flowers of paper and watered with the ink of labor and authorial love, was overcome with the weeds of your pestering thoughts. Shadows seemed darker, just then, in the drizzling light, and not because of that forlorn stranger. That supposed spy.

You tried to distract yourself, rearranging a few staggered books on a shelf that had been haphazardly tossed aside.

Thoughts didn't vanish into their silence as they usually did with menial tasks. They stood, vigilant guardians of your sickly, demanding desires. Was Azriel's life so loud, like yours was, in the mind? What if he really was just here to quiet the tremors in his life, as you were? (Why were you thinking that? This man could upturn everything! Why were you entertaining such ideas of a man barely more than a smudge of ink yet to be rendered stalwart and crisp by the artist's brush?)

Was the peace and freedom you desired his as well?

You couldn't shake that nagging persistence. That seeing Azriel again could somehow change everything.

And...what if it did?

Would Fate really be so terrible, then?

* * *

A/N:

Hey there! New writer on the block, wanted to introduce myself a bit after tossing you the wolves (my beautifully-written, flawless, gorgeous piece of classic literature that obviously wasn't a sleep-deprived delusion of grandeur~).

As mentioned above: this reader has a bleeding disorder known as Hemophilia (not to be confused with haematophilia, which is arousal stemming from interaction with blood). The easiest way I've found to describe it is imagine that you and someone else got an entirely identical papercut (unrelated to the story topic at hand). Your papercut would bleed longer, heavier, and overall have a grumpier attitude than your friend's. Or, imagine you have a weakness debuff and a damage multiplier on your body. If you're at all uncomfortable with this idea, that's perfectly fine! But to those that stick around (and I hope you might!), I thought that it might add an interesting weight to the Fae-Human dynamic of frailty and mortality.

All experiences related with hemophilia come from a personal perspective and relationship with the disorder. This is in no way a reflection of myself upon the individual; however, it might be a nice way to raise some awareness about it! Similarly, if you have any questions, or want to share your own experiences down below (I know there's a lot more than just one type or variation of blood disorder), please share--I'd love to hear! If people are willing to share their own experiences about different bleeding/blood disorders that I'm not intimately familiar with (von Willebrand's, sickle cell, HHT, etc.), I may be able to incorporate them into various other instances throughout the story.

This is one of my first foray's into the public writing forum (I usually write just for pleasure), so if you have any tips and tricks, I'm all ears. :)

I plan on posting a chapter once a week, aiming for Friday or Saturday!

Anyways, blabbing done. Hope you enjoyed!

Your friendly neighborhood lore creature,

~ Lethe