#Illyrian wings

[tremsing82]

Can you all imagine the bat boys plus Rhys in their awkward, gangly teenage years with their Illyrian wings? They wake up and their wings are these huge monstrosity on their backs that don’t match their slim, still skinny bodies. They don’t have any depth perception and keep knocking their wings into things, breaking lamps, knocking bowls off the tables. One of them them got their wing caught in a door. The wings are so heavy that they drag them across the floor half way through the day. It just would be hilarious to see Rhys mom and dad exasperating these wings and removing all the breakable objects for the next few years.

[ennawrite]

Sue me but it’s not sexist to think Gwyn & Azriel could possibly be mates off of the Gwyn having “pliable bones” comment in a book where it was HEAVILY discussed (to the point of it being a whole god damn plot line) how women need a certain anatomy to birth Illyrian babies.

I also think it’s important to remember that at the end of the day, you are reading a book by SJM. There will probably be more babies.

[jules-writes-stories]

I've always questioned the ethics of Feyre "wearing" Illyrian wings (particularly for aesthetic or sexual purposes). This post stayed with me, and inspired this little story. CW for mention of wing clipping/brief mention of violence/Rhys and Feyre critical

below or on AO3

Valkyrie

For every Emerie who has ever held the door open for another. Your wings are perfect.

Illyria, The Night Court

She woke at dawn and stretched her arms, rubbing at the aches of her shoulders and lower back that came from holding up the deadweight of her wings. If they had not been clipped, these wings would have the muscle and strength to hold their own. 

If they had not been clipped, she would spend hours in flight. They would stay aloft or tuck neatly between her shoulders in a symmetrical resting position, as the Mother intended.

(cw below)

But instead, at the age of fourteen, after her first bleed, she was held down as the village healer sliced through the central tendons of each one. Five incisions in a starburst pattern. These made certain no rapid healing occurred.

No second chances for female flight. 

She dressed in the simple shift and rubbed ointment along the jagged silver scars, like rivulets running down the maroon membrane. The morning was crisp, the sky blue as a Siphon and Ramiel gleamed granite in the distance. 

Nodding to the camp mothers, she found her work site, cauldron already bubbling, laundry in the basket waiting to be boiled, scrubbed and rinsed. This was her lot. The brown skin of her hands and wrists was calloused and streaked with several more scars from the boiling water and caustic herbs used to remove blood stains and treat Illyrian fighting leathers. She healed quickly, but not perfectly. Nothing about her was perfect anymore. 

She lifted the heavy basket with a grunt, shifting it to her hip for better support and dumped the soiled clothes into the pot. Stirring, she hummed low and watched as the young males trained on the western steppes. 

In a few weeks, the young females would be offered a chance to train, but only those who were not bleeding, and only those who had finished all their chores, and only those whose fathers and brothers allowed. And only those who were brave enough to weather the names, and the looks, and the cold shoulders…

Sometimes, on slow days, when there wasn’t too much laundry, she let herself imagine that her wings were whole. That she could climb the cliff sides and leap from the heights. In free fall, the air and wind would propel her body, and at the last minute, right before she crashed upon the steppes, her wings would snap out to their fullest and she would coast along the wild grasses, their blades grazing her face. Or maybe she would take off from the peaks and pass straight up through the clouds, tasting rain and smelling ether. She laughed at herself then, but the sound held no music. 

“It will be your skin when the çamaşır shrinks, Asli.” A camp mother called out from the next fire. Damn. She’d let the laundry boil for too long. The Illyrian used the long wooden paddle and pulled the steaming clothes from the cauldron, praying it was not too late. Her skin already blistering as the water splashed her legs and forearms, burning her hands. 

A shadow dappled the sky above. A peal of laughter followed. She looked up. And there, leaping from a cliff’s edge, to the east, was a young female with golden brown hair and moon white skin. She was not Illyrian, yet she possessed Illyrian wings. They were enormous, unclipped, and perfect.

And for a heartbeat, the laundress wished on every star that ever graced the Night Court sky that she could have those wings. No, she did not even need those wings. She would be content with the ones on her back. Before she was held down. Before they were taken from her. 

The female leapt from the cliffside and with a wild whoop, her wings caught the wind and she banked, one with the current and the sky. How free, how magical it must be. There was a male flying beside her. Not any male. This was the High Lord and his High Lady. They continued to fly off into the horizon until they were mere specks in the vast sky. 

And the injustice of it coiled like a snake and struck. Its venom coursed through her veins. This twenty year old High Fae who shape shifted wings on a whim, taking pleasure in a birthright not her own. The Illyrian's rage was a living thing. For this was her sky. The wind was a song thrumming in her blood. 

The High Lord had made it illegal to cut a female’s wings, but he did not enforce it. He tried to help females learn to fight, but did not enforce it. Most powerful in history, but not powerful enough to stop an Illyrian farmer or soldier from tying a fourteen year old to a chair and breaking her body. From stopping a mob of warriors from throwing rocks at mothers who wished to learn how to block a blow.

How could the High Lady take such joy in flight and not defend the very females whose wings were still being clipped, when she knew firsthand the pleasure and power, the joy and freedom, that was being denied them? Instead, she blithely coasted above those whose wings would never extend to their full span or feel the wind catching so perfectly. Did she not see how hurtful it was, how harmful, to overlook the suffering of the very fae race she was impersonating? 

The laundress lay the clothes on the rocks and furiously beat out the blood stains. Her back ached and her hands were on fire as she watched her daughter, Banou, collect firewood at the edge of camp. Her little velveteen wings were still uncut, youthful talons still rounded. Her body was unbowed and unbroken, for now. The laundress had a thought. What if she got her daughter out before she could be bowed, broken, and clipped? And what if other younglings, they too, could get out? For if their High Lord truly could not protect them from the blades and rocks and fists that would inevitably come their way, then they would have to save themselves. 

What if Banou could one day leap from a cliffside, her perfect laughter pealing from the skies? Why should joy only be free for the rich and the powerful? The sky and stars should be the birthright of every Illyrian. And now, the laundress wanted this more than anything. Tonight, she would walk the mountain pass and seek out the one whose name was Emerie. The Valkyrie. 

She continued to scrub the blood stains from white linen, and this time, when she laughed, there was music. 

[small-z24]

One-Shot: A Shadow’s Legacy

Summary:

When Azriel and Y/N are tasked with babysitting Nyx, it stirs unexpected emotions and deep conversations about their future. As new challenges and surprises unfold, they face their fears and dreams together. Discover how their journey leads to a life-changing revelation and a heartwarming new chapter in their lives.

Word Count: 2343

Warnings: None

The serene twilight of Velaris was just beginning to settle as Azriel and Y/N arrived at the River House. Feyre and Rhysand had asked them to babysit Nyx for the evening while they attended a diplomatic meeting. Y/N had been thrilled by the request, her eyes sparkling with excitement, but Azriel seemed more apprehensive.

"Thank you for this," Feyre said, handing a giggling Nyx to Y/N. "It means a lot to us."

Y/N beamed. "We're happy to help. Aren't we, Azriel?"

Azriel nodded stiffly, his eyes on the tiny winged infant. "Of course," he said, though the edge of his voice suggested he was far from comfortable.

As Feyre and Rhysand departed, Y/N turned to Azriel with a playful grin. "Relax, Az. It's just one night."

Azriel huffed, crossing his arms. "I’m not sure I'm the best choice for this. I'm better with enemies, not infants."

Y/N laughed softly, adjusting Nyx in her arms. "You'll be fine. Besides, look at this little guy. He’s adorable."

Nyx cooed, reaching out to tug at Y/N's hair with a delighted giggle. Her heart melted instantly, and she found herself imagining what it would be like to have a child of her own. A child with Azriel’s dark hair and hazel eyes.

She shook the thought away, focusing on the present. "Let’s get him settled."

The evening went smoothly enough. Nyx was a cheerful baby, full of laughter and curiosity. Y/N was a natural, playing with him and making him laugh, while Azriel watched from a cautious distance. Every time Nyx made a sudden movement or loud noise, Azriel would tense, as if expecting an ambush.

Eventually, it was time for Nyx’s bedtime. Y/N carried him to his nursery, Azriel trailing behind. As she rocked Nyx gently, singing a soft lullaby, Azriel lingered by the door, his eyes softening as he watched the scene.

"Az," Y/N called softly, "come say goodnight."

He hesitated but finally stepped forward, his usually composed features revealing a hint of uncertainty. He reached out, brushing a gentle hand over Nyx's tiny wing. "Goodnight, little one," he murmured, his voice surprisingly tender.

Nyx gurgled happily, his eyes drooping as he succumbed to sleep. Y/N carefully placed him in his crib and turned to find Azriel watching her, a contemplative look in his eyes.

"See? You’re a natural," she whispered, smiling.

Azriel shrugged, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. "You’re the natural. I’m just trying not to break anything."

Y/N moved closer, taking his hand. "You did great. And...seeing you with Nyx tonight made me think."

Azriel raised an eyebrow. "Think about what?"

She took a deep breath, her heart pounding. "About the future. About having a family. With you."

Azriel's eyes widened, surprise and emotion flickering across his face. "Y/N, I...I never thought about it. I never imagined...children."

Y/N squeezed his hand. "I know it’s a lot to think about. But seeing you with Nyx, it just felt right. Like this is something we could do. Together."

He was silent for a moment, his eyes searching hers. Then he pulled her into a gentle embrace, his wings cocooning them in warmth. "If it’s with you," he whispered, "then I think I could do anything."

Y/N smiled against his chest, feeling a rush of love and certainty. "We’ll take it one step at a time. But I know you’ll be an amazing father, Az."

As they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, Y/N knew that whatever the future held, they would face it together. And with Azriel by her side, she felt ready for anything.

The next day, Azriel found himself in the training grounds with Rhysand and Cassian. The morning sun cast a golden glow over the landscape, and the crisp air was filled with the sound of clashing swords and laughter as the Illyrian warriors trained.

Rhysand and Cassian noticed Azriel’s contemplative silence as they sparred. Finally, Cassian, never one to shy away from a probing question, lowered his sword and approached Azriel with a curious look.

"Alright, Az. Spill it. What’s got you so lost in thought today?" Cassian asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Rhysand joined them, a knowing smile on his face. "Yes, Azriel. You’ve been unusually quiet, even for you. Something on your mind?"

Azriel hesitated, glancing around to ensure they were alone. Taking a deep breath, he decided to confide in his brothers. "It’s about Y/N. And Nyx."

Rhysand's smile widened. "Ah, the babysitting adventure. How did it go?"

Azriel sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It went fine. Y/N was amazing with Nyx, as expected. But it made her think about the future. About having a family. With me."

Cassian's eyes widened in surprise. "Whoa. That’s big."

Rhysand's expression softened with understanding. "And how do you feel about it, Az?"

Azriel shifted uncomfortably, his wings twitching. "I don’t know. I’ve never thought about having children. With my past, with everything I’ve done...I’m not sure I’d be a good father."

Cassian clapped a reassuring hand on Azriel’s shoulder. "You’re not alone in feeling that way, Az. We all have our doubts. But you’ve got a good heart. And Y/N clearly believes in you."

Rhysand nodded in agreement. "Azriel, you’re one of the most honorable and caring people I know. You’ve protected this family, this court, with everything you have. I have no doubt you’d be a wonderful father."

Azriel’s eyes flickered with a mixture of relief and uncertainty. "But what if I can’t protect them? What if I fail?"

Cassian’s gaze was steady, his voice firm. "You won’t. And even if you stumble, you’ve got us. We’re family, Az. We’ll be there to support you and your family, no matter what."

Rhysand added, "Trust yourself, Az. You’re stronger than you realize. And you deserve happiness, a family of your own."

Azriel looked between his two brothers, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. Their words were reassuring, a reminder that he wasn’t alone in his fears. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I needed to hear that."

Cassian grinned. "Anytime, brother. Now, let’s get back to training. Can’t have you going soft on us, future dad or not."

Azriel chuckled, the tension easing from his shoulders as they returned to their sparring. The conversation with Rhysand and Cassian had given him much to think about, but for the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope about the future Y/N had envisioned for them.

As they trained, Azriel resolved to talk to Y/N again, to share his fears and hopes, and to take that next step together. Because with her by his side, he believed they could face anything— even the daunting prospect of starting a family.

That evening, Azriel found Y/N in the garden of the River House, surrounded by blooming night-blooming flowers that seemed to glow under the moonlight. She was sitting on a stone bench, gazing up at the stars. The sight of her, so peaceful and radiant, filled him with a sense of calm.

He approached quietly, his footsteps barely making a sound on the soft grass. "Y/N," he called gently, not wanting to startle her.

She turned, a smile spreading across her face when she saw him. "Azriel. Join me?"

He nodded, taking a seat beside her. For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence, the night sounds of Velaris creating a serene backdrop. Finally, Azriel took a deep breath, ready to open up about the thoughts that had been swirling in his mind all day.

"I talked to Rhys and Cassian today," he began, his voice steady but soft. "About what you said last night. About having a family."

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, a mix of curiosity and apprehension in her gaze. "And what did they say?"

Azriel smiled faintly. "They were supportive. They think I’d make a good father."

Y/N reached out, taking his hand in hers. "They’re right, you know."

He squeezed her hand, his expression serious. "But I have my doubts, Y/N. My past...the things I’ve done. I worry that I’m not capable of being the kind of father a child deserves."

She moved closer, her eyes searching his. "Az, everyone has a past. But it’s who you are now that matters. And you are one of the most caring, protective, and honorable people I know. You’ve saved so many lives, including mine. That’s what matters."

He looked down, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "I’m afraid of failing you. Of not being able to protect you and any children we might have."

Y/N cupped his cheek, making him look at her. "Azriel, you’ve never failed me. You’re always there, always strong. But it’s okay to be afraid. We’ll face those fears together. Just like we do everything else."

Her words soothed the turmoil inside him, her unwavering faith in him a balm to his doubts. He took a deep breath, feeling a sense of clarity and resolve. "I want this, Y/N. I want a family with you. But I need you to know that I’m scared."

She smiled, her eyes shining with love. "We’ll figure it out together, Az. One step at a time. And I’ll be right here with you, every step of the way."

Azriel pulled her into a gentle embrace, his wings enveloping them both in a cocoon of warmth. "Thank you," he whispered against her hair. "For believing in me. For believing in us."

Y/N hugged him tightly, her heart full. "Always, Az. Always."

As they sat there under the stars, wrapped in each other’s arms, Azriel felt a newfound sense of hope and determination. With Y/N by his side, he felt ready to face the future—whatever it might hold. And for the first time, he allowed himself to dream of a family, a life filled with love and happiness, with her.

A few months later, Y/N stood in front of the mirror in their bedroom, her heart pounding in her chest. She had suspected it for a while, but now it was confirmed. She was expecting a child.

Taking a deep breath, she placed a hand on her still-flat stomach, a mixture of excitement and nervousness swirling within her. She knew she needed to tell Azriel, but the weight of the news made her hesitate. How would he react?

Gathering her courage, she went to find Azriel. He was in the library, engrossed in a book, his wings folded neatly behind him. As she approached, he looked up, a smile lighting up his face.

"Hey," he greeted, setting the book aside. "Everything okay?"

Y/N took his hand, her fingers trembling slightly. "Az, I have something to tell you."

Concern flickered in his eyes as he stood, his hands gently cupping her face. "What is it, love?"

She took a deep breath, her eyes meeting his. "I'm pregnant."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, Azriel’s eyes widened, his expression a mix of shock and wonder. "Y/N...are you serious?"

She nodded, tears of joy welling in her eyes. "Yes, Az. We’re going to have a baby."

A slow, radiant smile spread across his face, and he pulled her into a tight embrace, his wings wrapping around them both. "We’re going to have a baby," he repeated, awe in his voice. "I can’t believe it."

Y/N laughed through her tears, holding him close. "Believe it, Az. We’re going to be parents."

They stood there for a long moment, reveling in the joy of the news. Finally, Azriel pulled back slightly, his eyes shining with love. "We need to tell the others. They’ll be thrilled."

A few hours later, the Night Court gathered in the main hall of the River House. Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian, Mor, and Amren were all present, curiosity evident on their faces.

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "You called us all here for a reason, Azriel. What’s going on?"

Azriel exchanged a glance with Y/N, his hand squeezing hers for reassurance. Together, they stepped forward.

"We have some news," Y/N began, her voice steady but filled with emotion. "We’re expecting a baby."

The room erupted in cheers and congratulations. Feyre rushed forward, enveloping Y/N in a warm hug. "That’s wonderful news!" she exclaimed. "I’m so happy for you both."

Cassian clapped Azriel on the back, a proud grin on his face. "Looks like you’re going to be a dad, brother. Congratulations."

Mor hugged them both, tears in her eyes. "I’m so happy for you two."

Even Amren, usually stoic, offered a rare smile. "Congratulations. The child will be lucky to have you both as parents."

As the celebrations continued, Azriel and Y/N shared a quiet moment together, their hands intertwined. "We did it," Y/N whispered, her eyes shining with happiness.

Azriel kissed her forehead, his heart full. "Yes, we did."

Months later, Y/N was in the birthing room, Azriel by her side. The labor was intense, but she drew strength from his steady presence. Finally, with one last push, the cries of their newborn filled the room.

The healer gently placed their baby girl in Y/N’s arms. She had tiny wings, just like her father, and dark hair that framed her cherubic face.

Azriel looked down at their daughter, tears in his eyes. "She’s beautiful," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

Y/N smiled, exhausted but elated. "She looks just like you, Az."

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to their daughter’s forehead. "Welcome to the world, little one," he murmured. "We love you so much."

As they cradled their newborn daughter, surrounded by the love and support of their family, Azriel felt a profound sense of peace and fulfillment. This was their new beginning, a future filled with love, joy, and the promise of a lifetime of happiness together.

[tothestarsinvelaris]

Sometimes I think about how the Illyrians and other winged characters need to have little slits in the back of all their clothes to accommodate their wings but like....

how big are the slits? Are they stretchy at all or are they just like... baggy against their backs? Do their backs get cold from the breeze? bc their wings are like... smaller where they attach to their back than they are in the middle, but the shirts need to fit over the biggest part of the wings so like... do they cinch closed in some way? How do they pull the shirts on over their wings? Do they all button or tie up in the front so they're like pulling it on over their wings first, then arms, then closing it up at the front? Do they need to have their shirts specially made to accommodate different wingspans or is it like a universal thing among the Illyrians / angels etc?

so many questions...

[thewickedjenny]

A little paint splattered Illyrian wing ornament anyone? 👀🦇✨🥣🎨 It’s single-sided, measures approximately 2.75 inches long.

Available in my Etsy shop!

If you repost anywhere, please credit me wherever you do so. I put a lot of work into my pieces. ✨💀🎨

[reblogandlikes]

So random, but has it ever been explained how Illyrian, Seraphims, Malakim or any winged being in SJM's books wear uperbody clothing?

How the fuck can you put on a T-shirt, Hunt? When Rhysand magically brings out his wings, does it just rip through his normal clothes to accommodate them? How do you get wings comfortably through armour unless it's pre sectioned out?

I'd like to think their shirts would always be fastened at the back with material precut to leave spaces for wings by going around them. Or just strut around in backless tops like bad bitches. Or is it just magic?

[romantasyreader28]

This sounds like ACOTAR

Eldest daughter struggles

[kaelderdoer]

The freedom she must feel when being carried by the wind in her wings high in the sky, has to be exhilarating ✨🖤

[jamie-photo]

Delve into the captivating world of A Court of Thorns and Roses with this mesmerizing ACOTAR Inspired Embroidery Pattern 2 PACK. This digital pattern features intricate details, bringing to life the magic, romance, and adventure of Prythian. Inspired by the Night Court and the unbreakable love between Rhysand + Feyre.

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Another reason Illyrian wings are badly thought through: they have no natural insulation from cold and ILLYRIANS LIVE AT HIGH ALTITUDES IN COOL CLIMATES. Literally on and and in and around mountains.

I was about to make a joke about frostbiting your genitals, but I'm pretty sure I can't beat Prince Harry's frostbitten todger, so we are going to just leave it there.

[luna-art-12]

One of my favourite things I've ever made 😍😍

Available as stickers, magnets, pins and etc.

[ennawrite]

the maasverse is so funny when you think about it like wdym a chewed off hand and wings cut at the base can be regrown in one world but wings can’t be unclipped in another??? But also SHREDDED wings can be mended (only if they’re male wings, though) but they still haven’t figured out how to cut a baby from the womb…

Screw the shipwars, lets get one of these bastards into med school 😭

[chunkypossum]

I'm sorry… WHAT? My breath stalled reading through this. It was beautiful and tender in a way I have seen few people pull off so wonderfully. The lore alone was something out of a dream and the way my mind painted little Azriel as he crawled into his bed and looked out into the night sky was divine indeed. Thank you for this!!!

Familiars

Azris Week - Day Two: Familiars

~~~ Welcome to day two! It is so early right now and I'm rushing this note because I need to go to work, but I'm literally so excited. This community is truly so talented and wonderfully kind it inspires me more and more. Fair warning this follows none of canon, like literally none. I went a little rouge with the lore but I couldn't care less because it was fun. Anyywaayyy, hope you enjoy! :D ~~~

~~///~~///~~///~~

Made for

Azriel keeps his hands wrapped in cotton gauze the first week he’s in Zebedee’s fields. Every now and then, listening to the tall grass rustle, the canyon gale skipping across the steppes plains and buffeting against him, he’ll grasp his hands together and itch. It’s a bad habit, but the feeling, the weight, of his hands together brings him more comfort than he could ever voice.

The moon rises early, the summer season slowly cresting into autumn, and with it the midnight sun begins to disappear behind the fish-toothed ridge of the Illyrian mountains—every moment cut shorter and shorter. So Azriel sits in the flickering firelight of the hearth in the clay burrow, Zebedee humming a soft, low tune that makes his little, withered wings shudder. His mother is somewhere, sitting in a corner darning the holes in pant legs and socks, her narrow shoulders hunched—much like his.

It’s a quiet Azriel isn’t used to. A noisy quiet. Darkness, those familair shapes and figures takes their place along the walls and outside the glass pane windows—yet Azriel is not alone in it. For now, his shadows have settled comfortably along his shoulders and the frayed edge of Zebedee’s colorful patterned rugs. They had their time to stretch and play when the sun began to set, and now laze like fattened cats on the high beams of barns. The shadows are familiar; the light, the noise, is not.

Breathing, steady and deep—Zebedee keeps his eyes closed as he hums, swaying gently from side to side on the cushion he claims his own. The deep impression he has left on it from a lifetime of use evidence enough. Every now and then Azriel will pick up the softest snick of a needle through fabric, the pre-meditated rip of a seam, and he’ll picture his mother’s face, trace her name but won’t dare to turn around.

Azriel’s hands reach for each other, clasping fingers to fingers, like a lock latched. He soothes himself with the steady scrape of his bandages over skin, back and forth. He hardly thinks further about it, so lost in the dancing flames that he startles with a jolt when Zebedee’s large, calloused hand folds over his own.

His eyes jump to his, wide in his sockets. Zebedee’s gaze is open—it’s the only word Azriel knows for it. His eyebrows are lax, not pinched or furrowed, and his mouth isn’t pursed or twisted into a sneer like he’d so often see on his father, his step-mother. The dark, wet shine of his eyes looks into Azriel and it feels like his words come from there, not his lips.

“You must not agitate your scars, Azriel.”

Zebedee is a conflicting male. His gait is long, his feet so big Azriels can fit twice in his shoes. His hair is dark, wild and wiry with tight curls that match the thick of his beard around his mouth down his neck. There’s a sternness to his stance, his face, that comes from a lifetime of experience in the wilds of the Illyrian Steppes. Yet his eyes have retained their kindness; his hands their gentility.

A contradiction. Males who loom are cruel, Azriel had learned that and now he wore the bandages to prove it.

The room has gone completely silent, a blanket shrouding a candlelight. He can’t even hear the faint tug of a needle through fabric anymore.

Azriel tenses, his narrow, bony shoulders drawing up to his heated ears. “Sorry.”

Zebedee shakes his head, leans closer with his palm eclipsing Azriel’s hands entirely. “No apology needed, b’nee. I know from experience how umcomfortable scars can be, yet I also have the wisdom to know that itching and picking makes everything a whole lot worse.”

Azriel keeps his gaze pinned to Zebedee’s hand. The deep ingrained lines around his knuckles, the faint barrier between the dark skin of the top and the lighter, if not more calloused, skin of his palm. What he would give to have hands like Zebedee’s; strong and unbroken, crooked but powerful, large but kind.

His bottom lip juts out, knee boucing as he glares. “But your hands are fine.”

A laugh rumbles through Zebedee’s chest. “They may look it now, yes, but that is only because Oya and the Ko-kaw’eloi gave me time to make it so.”

“Ko-ka’eelohi?”

“Ah,” Zebedee says. Simple, his eyes glimmering with the shine of a secret and Azriel wonders if he’s going to tell him a story.

“I forget, sometimes, that you are unaware of our divine watchers.” He says, though he leans closer he still remains sitting straight, keeping his beetle black eyes trained on Azriel.

Azriel’s face twists, wings shuddering gently. “I know Oya, but I thought the Mother was the—the,” he loses his words slightly, fumbles for a meaning he doesn’t know how to place.

“The only divine one? That is what you were taught, yes?” There’s no judgement in his voice, only a curiousity as warm as the heat of his hands.

Azriel nods. “I thought Oya and Ena—Enalius were a myth.” He stumbles on the pronunciation slightly, but Zebedee takes it all in stride.

“Some think so, many in the moutain camps believe both to be a fairytale. But there are others, like us in the village, who believe otherwise.”

“That they’re real?” Childish wonder, the kind he had been denied his whole life, shamelessly fills his face. He’s too caught up in Zebedee’s simple story to think aout the incessant itch of his bandaged hands.

“That they were real, alive, and that even now they watch over us. They send us rain from the mountains, give us the wind we need beneath our wings. They watch over us under the midnight sun and the eternal moon—but always under the Ko-kaw’eloi: the stars divine.”

It paints a picture. Azriel had spent more than one night sleeping under the skylight in the stable—memories of dark, endlessly dark, cells and iron bars chasing him from his bed time and again. There’s a special pleasure in looking up, seeing the stars, watching the migration they track through their sky.

It makes Azriel feel less alone, some nights. There are not only shadows to comfort him, to clothe and keep him. But a night sky bursting with life and light that has been denied to him until now.

He wonders, though. “Can they only watch?” His little voice balances on the edge of something, a realization, or a confirmation of what he already knows.

Zebedee sighs deeply. “They have their places,” he says, face softened with understanding, “and we have ours.” His hands fall away from Azriel’s, and then spread like two great wings to his sides. “We are Illyrian, Azriel. We are made of this very stubborn, difficult land we build our farms and houses on. But, we are also gifted our freedom, our honor from the Ko-kaw’eloi—our wings are not just for decoration, to determine us different from others. They are a part of our history, in what we are made of. Made for.”

As if hearing the words, impassioned and earnest, Azriel’s wings twitch. They don’t often move, cramped as they had been the first eleven years, their growth had been severely stunted. Now in one great pull, pantomiming the spread of Zebedee’s arms, they fold out behind Azriel with a great shudder.

There’s a lance of dull pain, a discomfort like a pulled muscle, but even that cannot keep the wide smile from blooming across Azriel’s lips. “Ko-kaw’eloi made me my wings?”

Zebedee’s face is alight from the inside with pride. He’s kept his body still, but his own wings quiver as if longing to join in. “Made your wings—your soul, Azriel. That is something that cannot, will not be broken because it is not of this world’s to break.”

“I am made of stronger things.” He whispers to himself.

“Our guidance, our compass, our birthright. Remember them, b'nee. Even when there is discomfort, even when there is pain they are watching, and they know each and every piece of you because we are a part of them.”

The night wanes on, a slow march of stars—Ko-kaw’eloi, Azriel calls them fondly in his head—across the blanket of heavens and Zebedee sends him to bed. His mother had disappeared from her chair in the corner, he doesn’t know when and doesn’t care to search her out right now.

Instead he says goodnight to Zebedee, a respectful bow of his head, and when Zebedee nods back he scampers off to his little room. He’s held tonights revelations in his hands like cupped water, and he’s trying hard not to spill. When he gets to his room, he closes the curtain that cuts him off from the main room and clambers up onto the piled furs that make his bed. His wings fluttering behind him like they’ve had life breathed into them. His face presses against the cold glass pane of his window; eager, bright eyes looking up at the spread of stars and feeling Zebedee’s story, his sincerity sink into his skin.

He falls asleep that way. Cheek pressed to glass, his breaths fogging the window, and his scarred, bandaged hand clutching the fabric of his tunic over his chest.

The stars never waver.

~///~

It’s years later, Azriel hardly remembers what it was like to be tweleve because he’s eighteen—there is only eighteen and everything that comes after.

There was, however, time between the two and change that swept in like a particularly vengeful wind. A comet with bright, auburn hair, golden eyes the spitting embers of a fire, and a trickster mouth crashed into his life one chilled winter’s day.

Eris had swept into his life, little and careful though it was, with such ease Azriel can’t remember a time he wasn’t there.

They’ve intertwinted their lives now; to the point where removing one would rip apart the other. Their connection runs deep, straight into secrecy and with every word and look dipping into the waters of something more.

Azriel wonders about it, keeping his hand over his eyes to shade them from the beaming afternoon sun as he sits on the crest of a golden hill. Eris lays beside him on his front, back bare as the contours and dips of bone and muscle glint with a thin sheen of sweat. Azriel swallows hard, his mouth dry. His eyes are drawn to the spread of bare skin, even if he keeps pulling his gaze away it strays right back to the little spot at the base of Eris’s spine—two dimples right above the hem of his trousers.

“I thought Illyrian summers were more temperate than this. I’m being baked like a particularly pale potato.” Eris grumbles where his head his pressed to his folded arms. His mouth is pinched, eyes squinted up at Azriel.

Azriel laughs, and without a word unfolds his wing like a sheet and adjusts it to shadow Eris. “Better?” He asks. “I don’t know how I ever thought you were from the Summer Court, your heat tolerace is worse than mine.”

“It’s not my fault the sun has a vendetta against me—I’m too pale for it’s attention, Azriel, it’ll cook me alive.”

“And here I thought you were getting used to it so I wouldn’t have to hear your complaining every summer.”

“Oh hush, you love my whining, it brings joy and substance to your life. Where would you be if I wasn’t here to verbally protest how hot it was? You would never know without my complaints and then you’d be roasted like a duck on a spit and everyone would throw a sad funeral for you because I wasn’t there to tell you how hot it was.”

Azriel smiles down at him, crooked, his teeth biting into his lower lip to keep the laugh he feels bubbling up from bursting out. Eris talks like no one he’s ever met, ever known. He’s blustering and proud, sharply witty and yet he can have these spells of absolute nonsense that makes Azriel want to fold up next to him with a stick and keep prodding to see how ridiculous he can become.

“Roasted duck sounds good right now.” Azriel says, his gaze trained on Eris.

His cheeks are pink, freckles stark in contrast against his pale skin. The heat, as much as Eris hates it, loves him. He’s a blush color, like the tall stemmed, small five-petal flowers that hug the steppe floor. It rises in paint strokes along the tops of his shoulders, the bridge of his nose to his cheeks, and, strangely, the very tips of his ears. Maybe in some places the sun has kissed him a little too hard, he’s sure he’s burned at least slightly—yet still Azriel can’t help but think he wears the color well.

Eris snorts. “With some lemon and herbs—”

“Rice and spices, I think you mean.”

“Do you wish for me to perish from burning? Is that what your grand plan is?”

Azriel leans back on his palms, smirking. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Heathen.” Eris grumbles. One of his arms comes out from under his head and he swats at Azriel’s exposed flank.

“Ah,” he tuts, wagging a finger, “I wouldn’t abuse your only shade from the sun.” Threateningly, his extended wing shudders as if he’s about to fold it to his back.

Eris scrambles closer to Azriel, eyes wide. “Wait—no, no need for that. I will eat your fire food, no problem. Do not move your wing, I beg.”

“And your tongue will fall out of your mouth, it will be so hot, and I will be forever spared from your whining.” He deadpans, keeping his wing extended.

Eris grins up at him, boyish and charming, his chin resting on his folded hands. “Only for you, dear bat.”

“Lucky me.” Azriel says, quieter than intended.

A pause falls on them, comfortable and warm. The slight breeze rustles through the grass, a lock of Eris’s rich red copper hair falls into his eyes—he crosses them looking at it.

Azriel huffs a laugh, hardly thinking about it when his hand comes up and his fingers gently tuck the stray strand behind the point of his ear. Eris’s eyes snap to his, his body frozen for a moment before he melts under the attention, the touch.

Azriel doesn’t move his hand.

It’s his feet dipping into those shores of something more, this time, and Eris seems to be egging him on from a couple feet away, eyes bright and mischief in the curve of his pink lips.

His breath shudders out of him, trapped in his lungs, as his fingers curl gently around his ear. It’s so strange, the difference; round and simple, pointed and elegant. It’s even stranger how such a small difference denotes a much larger one between the two of them.

Eris doesn’t push him away, just keeps his sunlit eyes trained on him like the barn cats that wait on the beams or in the corners. So Azriel decides to indulge.

His hand sweeps over the curve, down his ear where the scarred pads of his fingertips meet the tender, warm skin of his neck. They land on his pulse, and Azriel has to inhale deeply at the quick tempo, the hard pound of it against his. Eris hasn’t moved, but he softens slightly, drawing in a quick breath as Azriel continues on. Mapping, tracing, wandering.

“You have freckles.” It slips out—low and hoarse, a secret dragged out blinking in the harsh light of day. He feels the heat of a flush against his cheeks, down his neck and chest. “I mean—of course you do, I just didn’t know if they…” He snaps his mouth shut.

Eris grins into the bare skin of his forearm, eyes glinting. “If they…are everywhere?”

“Yes.” Azriel grits out. His eyes have wandered past where his hand stopped and now rest on the curve of his spine, the jut of his hips and—lower.

“Hm.” Eris hums, and leaves it at that.

Azriel’s gaze flicks to his, pinned with a look in his hazel eyes shadowing a much deeper want that remains unspoken.

“Are they?” He asks bluntly. Eris shouldn’t be so surprised anymore, after all the very beginning of their aquaintence turned friendship started mostly because Azriel was blunt and cut through all of Eris’s frilly, verbal avoidance.

Eris sucks in a sharp breath, a shiver trickling down his spine. “Yes.”

Azriel’s eyes darken. Suddenly, looking is not enough.

He asks, “may I?” as his fingers brush against Eris’s thundering pulse, pinky twitching where it rests lower, near his collar bone—foretelling the journey his hand wants to take. Eris nods, lips parted. “Yes.” He says again, and Azriel can’t help the swoop in his stomach like being buffeted by a strong wind on a cliff when it comes out breathy—needy.

He needs nothing more than that, so trains his entire focus on the expanse of porcelain, freckled skin and the path his hand takes down the warm skin of his neck, to the dip of his collar bone he swirls around, and then to the plane of his shoulders, the corded muscles of his back.

Every inch of him is speckled with little marks and tan dots. Clustered together and spread apart, darker and lighter; every one Azriel wants to map and trace and keep.

His hand lays flat against the dip in Eris’s spine, skin to skin, and it’s unbearably warm—more than the sun. “It looks like the stars imprinted on you.”

Eris hums, comfortable and molten beneath him. It’s not a hum of derision, but one that gently nudges, ‘tell me more.’

“There’s this thing we have in our culture—I guess you could call it a religion, but it’s much simpler than that.” His fingers caress the knobs of Eris’s spine, up and down, following a pre-ordained trail he feels was made solely for him.

“We, Illyrian’s, are made of the stars. We call them Ko-kaw’eloi, the ‘stars divine’. We are part of them, and they have gifted us our wings—they watch over us. Our struggles and our joy, our sorrows and laughter. There’s some who really only worship the stars because they feel cast aside by the whole idea of the Mother, but most worship because they know what they were made of. Made for.”

As if in a trance, Azriel traces circles around clusters of freckles, like he would knots of stars in the sky.

“Ko-kah-ehlohi?” Eris tries out, the Illyrian prounciation missed slightly with his sharp tongue. Azriel’s stomach jolts hearing his mother tongue come from Eris’s lips—swallowing hard.

“Koh-kaw-elo-i.” He corrects softly.

Eris’s brows furrow, and Azriels hand comes down to smooth it out with his thumb before returning to it’s place on his back. “Ko-kaw’eloi.”

“Mhm.”

“Can I say that’s beautiful? I don’t particularly enjoy religion, or really anything to do with the orgin of Fae and what mastermind, resentful, immortal beings had to puppet my miserable life. But that, that is beautiful.” Eris says softly.

Azriel smiles, a gentle breeze ruffling the feathery, raven locks of his hair. “Thank you, Eris.”

Eris nods, then falls quiet. It’s a pensive sort of silence, one where Eris falls still because his mind has done the opposite. Azriel waits patiently, keeping his hand brushing up and down, swirling and stroking the bare skin of his back. He knows Eris will say whatever he’s figuring out right now, it takes a minute sometimes, especially for personal things. Azriel doesn’t mind. Right now he’s just basking in a glow of companionship and warmth, he’s wholly content, time itself could stop and Azriel would thank it.

Eventually, Eris takes a sharp breath—like he’s pushing himself to say whatever he needs to before he closes back up. Azriel keeps his eyes on Eris, who meets them with hesitation. His fingers dig into the grass below him.

“The night before I met you for the first time, I prayed to the stars. I wanted—I needed freedom, and I asked for it.” He says.

Azriel goes still, balanced on the razor edge of the intensity burning in Eris’s golden eyes.

He doesn’t look away. “And the very next day, like some great cosmic prank, I met you. You showed me this,” he waves a hand around, gesturing to the endless, rolling hills and plains of the Illyrian steppes. “And I have since been afraid that at any moment all of it would be taken from me.”

“What changed?” The words rips out of him.

Eris looks up at him, swallowing hard. “Ko-kaw’eloi gave you your freedom,” Azriel’s wings flutter as if they know he’s talking about them. “Perhaps they could let me keep mine.”

“Eris,” Azriel’s plea is raw, wanting, and his hand jumps to his chin, lifting it gently so Eris has no choice but to meet his eyes.

“I am part of them, they are part of me. I swear on both that you can keep me, if I can keep you.”

Eris’s eyes turn molten, his mouth twitches and his bottom lip brushes Azriel’s thumb. “Is that even a question?” He breathes.

Azriel supposes not. The certainty of knowing the sun will set and rise, the moon will wane and wax, the fields with grow and die sets into his bones like steel. No, it’s not a question, it’s a promise and Azriel doesn’t intend to ever break it—not if the Ko-kaw’eloi keep watch.

~~///~~///~~///~~

B'nee - 'My boy/son'

Ko-kaw'eloi - 'Stars divine'

Alrighty cool second day is posted! Had this idea bouncing around in my head of Illyrian lore, and thought it would be cool to tie in "familiars". Not just the form of a divine being looking out for their charge but also in the more common form "familiar", being known and having a close association to. Anyway, lol this one was a little longer than planned but eh who cares <3.

[acomaflove]

Rhysand and Azriel: *walk into the room laughing*

Feyre: SHHHHHH! You’ll wake the baby.

Rhysand, whispering: I thought Mor was babysitting Nyx tonight?

Feyre: She is.

Rhysand:

Feyre:

Azriel:

Rhysand, LOUDLY whispering: THEN WHO IS THE BABY?!?

Feyre: *points to Cassian passed out on the sofa*

Rhysand: You did not just refer to a 500+ year old war general as a BABY.

Feyre: Correction: An Illyrian Baby.

[reblogandlikes]

Random SJM nitpicking.

The thought just came, but Rhysand showing his wings to the other High Lords was this big moment of transparency, I suppose.

So, did that mean for 500+ years no one knew or suspected he had wings despite being half Illyrian aside for a selected few? Isn’t that odd? Was the same image presented in Illyria and the Illyrian camps? His wings weren't there because he disappeared them? Wouldn't make sense because he's already an outsider being half Illyrian as it is. Now add on not having visible wings. Like, why would he be there then, training as an Illyrian? No, he must have had them out. Or was his wings only known in the NC and dissapeared them outside of the court for appearance?

Because his sister's wings were known, weren't they? Tamlin's dad cut them off, along with the mother's, and kept them as a trophy. Could she not disappear her wings, also? What were her powers?

Come to think of it, who's the elder sibling? Unnamed sister or Rhysand?

How do any of the winged fae wear clothes? Are shirts just zipped, wrapped, strapped on?

Rambling now, but yeah... don't know why he bothered hiding his wings. I dont see the difference it makes. It may have already been explained and I just didn't pick up on it, or it could just be another thing in this world that's just the way it is for reasons unknown. Did he wipe people's memory about them like he did that had people who knew about Velaris, forget?