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arlathavellan-acotar · 8 months ago

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Phantom Pains | III

Fandom: ACOTAR

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Reader: she/her, (3/4-High Fae, 1/4-Tartera), Y/N used

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2.7k

Something is... wrong. Time missing, memories missing, thoughts missing. Wondering where things both big and small disappeared to, like the dress you were working on or even the past seventeen hours of your day. Something is very wrong, and the thought seems to slip your mind as soon as it comes. || Azriel has been a part of your life for years now, and has been courting you since the fall of Hybern. Only, things don't seem to be as simple as you'd both assumed they'd be. It seems someone thought you were the weak link-- the easy ticket to infiltrating the inner circle through its spymaster. And maybe you are.

|| Previous Part | Next Part (wip) | Masterlist ||

All Azriel ever wanted was to keep you safe. From the moment he first saw you, he knew you were something precious, something to be protected. Convinced he knew best how, he kept you away from the inner court, away from the side of himself he was afraid you would turn from in fear. His hubris and shame kept you away from the people who could protect you while he was gone.

Cas and Mor had wanted to be introduced to you years ago, before things were even official between the two of you. Afraid it would only put a target on your back, he let himself pretend it was better for you to never cross paths with that part of his life.

After the war, he started to let his guard down. Mor would commission gowns from you, both supporting you and building a professional relationship as a compromise to respect Azriel's boundaries. When he eventually decided it was time to officially introduce you to everyone, he went to Feyre first, thinking it would be easiest for you to connect artist-to-artist rather than let one of the others completely overwhelm you. She was happy to agree, and excited at the prospect of helping ease you into their family. When she finally got her dress, it brought your little shop more attention than you'd had since coming to own it. The way your face lit up when you told him about having to hire someone to help you out helped reassure him that he'd made the right choice. He wanted nothing more than to introduce you to the rest of his loved ones, knowing they'd love you almost as much as he did.

It was obvious to them all how much you meant to Azriel.

It was obvious to everyone who knew who he was that you were the Spymaster's weakness.

That was his mistake; growing too comfortable with the bubble of peace that had existed undisturbed around the two of you. When he was with you, he let himself imagine he was someone else, someone with less blood on his hands.

He never should have forgotten, never should have let his guard down. It didn't matter how many times he'd been able to walk you home with no issue— every moment you were seen with him was a public admittance that you were important to him. Azriel could never be a normal illyrian, never act like it was possible to separate the parts of himself. Every waking moment he was the Shadowsinger, the Spymaster. His love for you didn't keep you safe, it only made you a target. Everything he did to put a smile on your face made it that much easier for others to hurt you.

——

Azriel is on his way back from his mission when Rhysand gets in contact with him.

Come home, he says. Now.

He tries to ask questions. Anxiety swirls in the pit of his stomach as he flies, any response met with a resounding silence.

The mission had been underwhelming, the intel he'd gotten no more than cold tracks leading straight to a dead end. Whispers of rebellion, more faeries foolish enough to act out against Rhysand moreso because of what he is than what he's done. There was nothing when he'd gotten there, just a long-abandoned camp that left no clues behind. His shadows couldn't find anything either, returning just to whisper confusion in his ear. While he was ready to call it and go home, he didn't feel right dropping the thread without seeing where it might really end. After a week of searching, he felt like he'd been run in circles, and told Rhysand he was coming back to Velaris empty-handed. It seemed to be a routine the past year, a lot of low-effort surveillance that seemed to result in nothing.

Not even a souvenir? He'd joked.

He wasn't joking now.

Azriel lands on the balcony of the Town House. If it were official Court business, Rhysand would be in the House of Wind. But the Town House? This was family business. He opened the doors swiftly, some of his shadows immediately fanning out to sweep the residence.

"Az," Cassian calls, voice tight and shoulders tensed as he practically marches towards him.

"What's going on?" He asks in response, scanning the room. The atmosphere of the house is low, and it has all of his senses on high alert. "Is everyone okay?"

Shadows curl at his neck, overloading him with information. He winces, unable to sift through it all at once. They're panicked, some moving around the room so fast they're knocking chairs into the table and toppling over vases. The noise draws another person into the room as Cassian steadies him by his shoulders.

Room, he can barely make out in their desperate jumble of cries. Your room, your room. Five in house. Three in room. High Lord, doctor, sw—

"Azriel!" Mor cries, ducking around Cassian's wings to help hold him straight as his shadows continue their barrage of information, nearly knocking him off his feet in their haste.

Five in house. Three in room.

"Mor, grab a chair before they knock him down—" High lord.

"We don't have time—" Doctor.

"—just get Rhys—" Sweetheart.

Silence falls over the room as his shadows still in a single breath. His wide eyes meet Cassian's, flicker over to Mor's distressed, tear-streaked face, and the pieces fall into place.

"Y/N?" he breathes, terror gripping his chest.

Hands reach for him once more, mouths opening in explanation, but as his knees buckle, the light is sucked out of the room in an instant, and he's gone.

——

"Now," you say, making a few final adjustments to the garment in front of you. "There's still some work to be done, mostly alterations, but it will absolutely be done in time for the party."

The woman behind you is absolutely giddy, facing away until you give the word.

"Before we get started on all that, I know you mentioned you wanted a draping that was loose and flowy, but I was worried the fabric might snag on your jewelry." You explain. "So It's still a loose drape, but a little less than what I first showed you when we were picking out fabrics."

She lets out an impressed 'ooo' as you explain. "That's so smart; I can't wear my chunky bracelets with half my dresses. My lady, I defer to your judgment."

Letting out a laugh, you fluff out the skirt in preparation for its presentation. "Okay! Now, three, two—"

"—one!" Mor cuts off, spinning around to see the dress. Her hands fly up to her mouth as she bounces on her feet. "Yes, yes! Oh, Y/N, it's even better than I imagined."

Pride wells up in your chest as she moves closer to see the gown, but a wave of confusion washes over you as you sway slightly on your feet. She… liked the dress? No. No, she didn't like the dress. This isn’t what happened. Your head spins as you watch Mor fuss over the skirt, playing with the fabric to have the gemstones on the inner layers catch on the light like stars.

You ran out of that fabric. There wasn't enough left for a full skirt, so you had to go without it. You stumble backwards towards the wall, but nothing catches you. Panic grips your throat as you float weightlessly, and everything is drowned in black.

It's okay, a voice whispers in your mind. You're alright. I need to see what memories they locked away so I can figure out what they were looking for.

Memories… that was a memory? But that didn't happen. You try to close your eyes tightly against the darkness, but you feel nothing. Light floods your vision, and suddenly you're sitting on your couch alone.

"Hello?" You call, voice shaking. "Who's there?"

"I suppose an explanation is in order, now that you're here." The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, until an unfamiliar faerie steps out of the shadows with his hands raised.

You stand unsteadily as he moves closer.

"My name is Rhysand, though you can just call me Rhys," he says.

"While I wish the circumstances were better, it's a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/N."

"Rhysand…" you mutter, feeling feint. "Azriel's brother?"

A fond expression crosses his face. "Not typically the first title that comes to mind for people, but I must admit it's refreshing."

The couch behind you seems to beckon you once more, and he has no objections when you sit back down. "What's going on?"

"I thought this might be easier to digest." A chair you certainly don't own appears on the other side of the coffee table for him to take a seat. "We're in your head right now. I can't say I've ever tried something like this, but I quite like it. Although I believe your mind may be doing most of the heavy lifting, so we don't have much time."

Holding your hands out, your flip them over as you curl your fingers. Everything has a bit of a smoky quality to it, like it would all disappear with a gust of wind, and feels the same sluggish consistency as your shadows.

"What… happened?" Quiet as your voice is, he seems to hear you perfectly well.

His gaze is pained when you look back up at him, eyebrows pinched as he tries to explain. "From what I can tell, someone has gotten access to your mind, and had been taking and altering your memories. I don't know for what purpose, so I've been trying to see what they've hidden to try and figure it out. Do you know when this may have started?"

The answer comes to you immediately, the incident having weighed on your mind since it happened. "I lost a few hours a little over a month ago. Azriel found me standing in the street."

Something passes over his face, and the moment of silence that follows has dread building in your gut.

"Az spoke to me about that night," he says softly, almost slowly. It reminds you of that moment with Mor, before everything in your head exploded. He opens his mouth to speak once more, but his attention is snapped elsewhere. Looking to the side, his expression twists with confusion and anger. "Someone's trying to break through my wards. I'll be back soon; let your mind rest, and we'll continue once you've regained your strength."

"Wait—" you lurch forward, reaching for him, but you continue falling forward as everything you see dissipates.

Your existence feels lighter and lighter, until you feel nothing at all.

——

Azriel feels the wards fighting him, digging under his skin as his shadows slip through cracks that aren’t there. He’s never tried to travel within the house like this, never had need to, but with his shadows guiding him to you he had no complaints.

His room explodes with darkness as he finally lands on his feet, the sound of an older woman screaming in shock filling his ears before they all congregated around his bed. Looking around frantically, he took stock of the occupants of the room.

Madja stood by his dresser, hastily straightening bottles of medicines and salves that had been knocked askew by his arrival. By his bed, stepping back from the writhing mass of darkness, was Rhys, with a displeased expression.

“What happened?” he asks before the High Lord can speak.

Rhys sighs, rubbing between his brows as they pinch together. “Was that you, bursting through my wards?”

“Rhys,” Azriel hisses.

“You were right,” Rhys says, leveling him with a look that urged him to try and stay calm. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you then, Az. But we can fix it, now.”

The ground seems to fall out from beneath his feet. Stumbling forward, the Spymaster catches himself on the foot of his bed, shadows curling up his arms.

“She’s had multiple memories locked away, and when Mor caught on…”

Azriel looks up at him, wanting him to finish but not wanting to hear the words.

“It was a Daemati.”

The breath leaves his lungs, and the illyrian curls in on himself at the jolt of pain that shoots through his chest. A steady hand grasps his shoulder, grounding him.

“She’s alright, now. I’ve shut them out of her head so they can’t do any further damage, but…” he trails off, as if it might ease the blow.

Azriel understands the implication loud and clear. “But they’ve already caused damage.” He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, taking deep breaths as Rhys sighs. The only sounds in the room are his breaths, the rustling of his sheets, and the near-silent clacking of Madja’s equipment. “How bad is it?”

Rhys’ hand twists on his shoulder as he moves to sit beside him on the bed. “She may have some residual issues with memory loss in the future. I didn’t get very far, but they’ve locked numerous memories away, most pertaining to interactions with you or Mor.”

The silence that follows is somehow more tense than the last, and when Azriel finally straightens back up to look at Rhys, the expression that greets him is pained.

“When I asked her when she began to have issues relating to her memory… she claimed that you found her standing in the street a little over a month ago.”

A month ago. Had you really been suffering for so long unnoticed that you’d lost so much time? Everything he’d just chalked up to stress about the customer influx, and you were missing three months worth of memories. What had they even left for you?

He turns to look over his shoulder at you, his shadows parting just enough for him to see you sleeping peacefully in his bed.

“I’m keeping her unconscious for now,” Rhys tells him. “It will give her mind time to rest and heal itself, so I don’t do more harm than good.” His hand squeezes his shoulder, turning his attention back to him. “With the depth and frequency of attack… they have to be somewhere in the city, Az. Somewhere close to her.”

His fists clench tightly in his sheets, a low-bubbling rage festering in his gut. “Someone in Velaris did this?”

“We opened our gates to Hewn city,” Mor calls from the doorway. The two turn to look at her, a heavy weight settling upon the room at her words. “We should start with any frequent visitors, see who spends a lot of time in her part of the Palace of Thread and Jewels.”

“The intel we’ve been getting,” Azriel says, voice raspy. “Almost a year of nothing.”

Rhys answers with a dawning dread. “Someone wanted you out of the city. Away from her.”

He shares a look with Mor as Azriel stands from his bed and storms out of his room, half of his shadows rushing after him.

——

Cassian is downstairs to meet him at the door. “Don—“

“Move, Cas,” he snarls, stopping in front of him.

“Think, Az. If you go tearing through the streets of Velaris—“ an attempt to shoulder past him is stopped with a hard shove, “—they’ll be in the wind before you can find them.”

The two have their stand-off, Azriel’s siphons beginning to burn as Mor makes it back downstairs, Rhys close behind.

“You’re needed here, Az.” She’s met with a glare, hazel eyes dark. “Don’t give me that. You know we need to narrow our search down so they don’t see us coming.”

Rhys steps forward with a subtle tilt of his head. Azriel’s gaze snaps towards him, brow cocking as he waits for a third iteration of the same argument. “Y/N needs you here, with her.”

Silence falls between them, a battle of wills crackling the air around them. Darkness creeps up his legs, his torso, curling around his neck to voice their deliberation.

Sweetheart, they say. Alone, hurt, with us, safe, sweetheart, safe.

He closes his eyes with a heavy, weary sigh, shoulders dropping and siphons fading. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder from behind.

“We’ll find the son of a bitch who did this,” Cassian promises. “And then they’re all yours.”

He opens his eyes for a moment, searching for deep blue. Rhys’ gaze meets his, darkening as he nods his confirmation.

“You’d do the same for me, brother,” he says. In a moment unshared with the others, the rest goes unspoken.

If it were Feyre lying there. If it were my mate instead.

----------

Here I am falling into my old dialogue-heavy traps! I was going to queue this for tomorrow but I got too excited lmao

TAGLIST (comment or message to be added/removed)

@pellucid-constellations @horneybeach1 @hyemishii @brujitafantomatico @batlokiuniverse

#acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #acotar x reader #acotar fic #a court of thorns and roses #arlathavellan: fanwork #arlathavellan: acotar #arlathavellan: phantom pains

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arlathavellan-acotar · 8 months ago

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The Silence Left in My Wake

Fandom: ACOTAR

Pairing: (past) Rhysand x Reader, Azriel + Reader, Morrigan + Reader, Cassian + Reader

Reader: she/her, High Fae, Y/N used

Genre: Angst, fluff

Word Count: 3.6k

<<request>>

For a while, you had convinced yourself they would come for you. Cassian, Azriel, Morrigan... Rhysand. It was the one hope you held onto over the years. But fifty years is a long time to hope for something that will never happen. || The world keeps spinning when we're gone. Unfortunately for you, that means when you're finally free after over fifty years of captivity, nothing is the same. Once told you would marry the love of your life and become his Lady of Night, you come come face-to-face with your new reality, and reunite with the family you had been waiting on to save you.

The Court of Nightmares was no place to dream. You had no hopes, no freedom, no choice in the life you would live.

Then came the High Lord; Rhysand. A dark force of nature, who came into your life like a terrific storm and upended everything you thought you knew. With Rhysand, you let your walls crumble, let yourself imagine a life outside of that mountain. There were politics to navigate before he could steal you away, of course, but he assured you that one day he'd sweep you off into his City of Dreams and make you his wife, his Lady.

But The Court of Nightmares was no place to dream.

Rhysand had the perfect story to spin for your father; a proper marriage alliance with the High Lord himself. Your father was not the ambitious fool your lover took him for. He knew there would be no true alliance, that marrying you off would be no better than sending you away to never hear from you again. After all, Morrigan was at his side, and Keir was no better in his good graces for it.

Cassian and Mor both advocated for taking you anyways, but you agreed with Azriel when he argued all the ways that could end badly. As much as you wanted out of that mountain, you wanted to truly be free from it. So, Rhysand continued his painstaking negotiations, with his patience whittling down to nothing. Compromise seemed impossible between the two bull-headed fae, and you began to wonder if the end was in sight.

Then, the worst came to pass.

Amarantha, who you had been carefully hidden from upon her visit to Hewn City (one of the only things Rhysand and your father could agree on), forever changed the the course of fate in one fell swoop.

It was Azriel who had visited you that morning, half-hidden in the shadows in case your father or one of his servants entered your room. He told you of the meeting Rhysand had been invited to with the other High Lords, Amarantha hoping to “make amends” for her actions during the war. He told you of Rhysand's plans to finally take you to Velaris, father be damned, before she was made aware of your existence.

"Pack only what you need," Azriel had said. "If Rhysand doesn't make it, I will come get you myself— Mor and Cassian have been preparing for you all morning."

You had laughed, sending him off with a chaste kiss on the cheek as he melted back into the darkness, his shadows curling around the hand you’d held against his jaw.

That was the last you had heard from them. For the next fifty years, you were well and truly alone.

-----

That night, your father had stormed into your room while you were getting your bag together. Grabbing it and you, he dragged you down to the dungeons and threw you in a cell with a simple “be quiet, and stay safe.”

It wasn't often that your father came to visit you himself. His visits became more and more scarce over the first few years, until you would go years before seeing him again. He looked more haggard every time. You were so lonely that you started to miss him.

You took solace in the darkness at first, but it soon became your greatest torment. Something would move in the corner of you eye and your heart would soar, thinking maybe—just maybe—those familiar shadows had found you. Maybe you would soon be free.

The wraith servants who brought you your food were your only company, and they barely said a word. The room was smaller than your bedroom, not much more than a cell with a bed, desk, and bookcase thrown in, and the bathroom had you longing for your carved tub.

No one would tell you anything. Screaming yourself hoarse got tiring after a while, and your father remained outwardly unmoved by your tears. A dread had crept into your chest, wondering if he had discovered Rhysand's plans to take you away to Velaris. He never mentioned it, but the timing couldn't have been more suspicious. No one had come for you, not even Azriel. How had he stopped even the Shadowsinger from getting to you? Surely the High Lord and his Spymaster had access to the Hewn City dungeon.

You stopped asking questions years ago. Now, you wallow in your monotony, reading every book on your shelf by dim candle light, and occasionally letting those delivering your food know that you needed new ones. They'd always bring you more the next morning, your father's scent, fir and petrichor, faint on the covers and pages. Some nights, when the isolation grew to be too much, you'd hold onto them and cry. You never thought you'd miss the days of your childhood, of him teaching you personally from his own library. You never thought you'd miss your father.

He'd never been like Keir, never treated you the way Mor was, but you'd certainly never have called him loving. And now, he'd locked you in a heavily warded cell and refused to tell you why. You started to feel an odd kinship with the monster you knew lurked beneath the stone, trapped here as you were, only seeing someone when it was time to be fed.

Time blurred together. How long had it been since Rhysand had promised to marry you, since Mor promised a shopping trip, Cassian promised to train you, and Azriel promised to make sure you made it to Velaris? Why had no one come for you?

"Who?" you ask, voice shaking as you sit up in your bed. "Why did you do this to me?"

Then, you’re woken one morning to some answers from your father.

"I'm sorry," he says, sitting on the edge of the mattress with his back to you. "I couldn't let them find you. They would have torn you to pieces just to hurt him."

A tense silence falls on the room. "Amarantha trapped the courts Under the Mountain. Rhysand stood at her side for fifty years, and his Inner Circle were unreachable."

Your heart plummets in your chest at his admission.

"I told Keir you were gone, that they had taken you before they disappeared," he continues, voice oddly soft. "I couldn't reach his daughter or the Spymaster, or even that damned General to take you away from here. He told Amarantha about you, wanting to get in her good graces, and she had that damn Attor tear the manor apart looking for you."

He runs a hand down the wall your headboard is against, and you get a peek at new scars across his skin as his sleeve falls at the motion. "This cell is warded heavily. If Rhysand knew you were in here, he was good at hiding it. But Keir kept sending his Darkbringers to check every so often, either hoping to catch me off-guard or just remind me of where I stand. This was the only place I could think of that even they wouldn’t search."

"What happened?" You finally ask. "Why tell me now?"

"Feyre Cursebreaker," he says with a resigned tone. "High Lady of the Night Court, and Rhysand's mate. She defeated Amarantha, and now we’re preparing for war with Hybern."

Nausea rises in your throat. Out of everything he said, Amarantha, Keir, war—one fact continues to ring in your head. "His mate."

“I’ve tried to get into contact with them since they reemerged, but they’ve refuse to hear me.” He looks back at you, and you wonder if his gaze has always looked so empty. “If Keir knows you are alive, he will kill us both. The High Lord’s lackeys are the only ones who can get you out safely.”

The stress of your situation settles heavily on your shoulders. “So I’m stuck here. Is that what this is leading up to?”

You watch his brows pinch as he considers for a long moment. With a weary sigh, he stands from your bed. “I’ll bring some stationery.”

He drags a heavy hand down his face, but makes no move to deny it.

“Let me write a letter,” you say. “They may not listen to you, but I may have more luck.”

-----

News of the war ending comes long before any response. A letter a month for three months, before they start getting sent back. Perhaps that in itself is a response. The first time he brings a letter back, you let yourself break down. It had been years since you had any hope hopes to crush, but you had let yourself imagine for a moment that it could all be over.

What was even waiting for you out there, now? Your future had been stolen from you the moment the High Lords put their trust in Amarantha, the moment Keir turned his gaze your way. Perhaps it was always supposed to happen like this, with you alone in the end and Rhysand with his mate and High Lady.

In the end, it's Keir who lets it slip and hands you the key to your freedom. Keir, whose mouth works faster than his brain, who looks for any opportunity to hurt his daughter. Keir who sneers, asking how Rhysand’s Hewn City pet felt about being pushed aside for Feyre Archeron.

And it's that daughter who finds you. Holed up in your cell, sitting on your bed and reading anything you can find to take your mind off of your eternal solitude.

It scares you, the way she throws the door open. Her eyes are wide, breath ragged, as if she'd run all the way down to the dungeon instead of the simple winnow she'd more likely done. You hold her gaze, eyes burning as the silent disbelief stretches between you. Setting your book down carefully, you stand from the bed slowly, as if moving too quickly would make her disappear. She stumbles forward, and you find yourself meeting her halfway as her arms wrap around you almost too tightly.

"I thought he was lying," she says, voice shaking. "I wanted him to be lying. I wanted to go back up there and tear his tongue from his lying mouth and—"

"I'm so sorry, Mor," you manage, squeezing her just as tightly.

"Rhys said you were dead, Y/N," she presses. "Your father—"

"Has been trying to tell you all."

A sob chokes its way through her throat, and you're soon joining her. You hear her try to ask more questions, most starting with why, but she seems to find the answers herself before she even gets them out.

"I'm so sorry, Mor," you repeat.

Your reunion doesn't last in peace much longer.

"We have to tell them," she says, face buried in your neck. "Cassian, Azriel— fuck, Y/N, we had a funeral for you. There's a bird bath in the garden with your name carved into it, we thought you were dead. Cauldron, we were just down here, how did we not…"

Pulling from her, you wipe your damp face with your sleeve. She doesn't let you go too far, an arm still wrapped firmly around your waist as she dabs at her own watery eyes.

"I'm getting you out of here." The words you wanted to hear all these years, feeling like a dagger to the heart.

"Mor," you sigh. "I don't know if I can go to Velaris anymore. It's been so long, but I don't know if I can stand in front of him and his mate and say I'm happy for him without breaking."

She cradles your cheek with her free hand, resolute. "Azriel should have taken you with him. He's regretted it every day, leaving you here. We won't make that mistake again. I have a place you can stay at, at least until you figure out what you want to do. But, please, don't ask me to leave you here."

Hesitation grips you tight, the fear of opening your heart up to hope once more. But the look in her brown eyes, her hands warm against your cheeks, has you nodding. "Okay. I'll go."

Her lips smash against your forehead, and you wonder idly if she left a smear of red behind as she pulls away to start grabbing your belongings.

The first time she winnows you into a forest, you cry. Maybe a single tear rolling down your cheek would have felt more poetic, but you're left with the embarrassing kind of chest-shaking sobs.

"It's okay," she murmurs, rubbing your back. "There's going to be a lot of that. Just let it out when it hits you."

Her attempts at lightening the mood are mostly successful, but a lingering dread persists in your gut as you get closer to Velaris. You trust Mor not to drag you there against your will, but there was nothing your mind was better at than exploring worst-case scenarios. The journey thankfully passes without incident, and as you set your bag down on her living room floor you find yourself buzzing with some kind of anticipation.

"Tell them." The sound of your voice has her head snapping to you, eyes wide. "I need a bath first, but… tell them. I can't ask you to lie for me, not to them."

Mor shows you to your room, and you do indeed take your bath. Feeling a little greedy with the hot water, you soak and scrub a little more than usual as you watch the trees outside the window.

A pained expression crosses her face as she takes you into her arms once more. As you wrap yourself around her in turn, you wonder the last time you've ever been held this much in your eighty-odd years.

"Take your bath," she says, voice soft. "There are very few things they'd drop to be here."

How did you ever survive inside of a mountain, never knowing the world outside? Would you survive if you were ever made to go back?

-----

You help Mor set the table. Adjusting plates to hide your shaking hands, rearranging silverware to keep your mind occupied. Eventually, she perks up with a shaking breath.

“Cas and Az are on their way,” she says, slowly sinking into her chair. Relief and disappointment grapple for control at the sound of the short list. The look she gives you does nothing to help.

“Feyre just… had a baby. She and Rhys won’t be leaving Velaris if they can help it.” A baby.

You manage a smile, as painful as it is genuine. “Tell them I understand, please. And that I’m happy for them.”

Her hands reach out across the table, taking yours and rubbing circles into your scrubbed-sore skin. “I’m so sorry this is how things happened. If we knew you were in there—”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” you interrupt. “Not really. But I’m out now.”

Squeezing her hands in reassurance, you watch her expression crumble. Desperate to change the conversation, a thought comes to you.

“Could we… eat outside?” Her head lifts at your words, eyes widening slightly. “I saw a table on the patio out back, and as lovely as your home is I don’t think I’ve gotten enough of… outside.”

She laughs, something happy and sad all at once as your words seep in. “Yeah. Yeah, we can eat outside. It’s nice out, anyways. Staying in would be a waste of a perfectly good sunset.”

And just like that, you once again busy yourself with setting the table. This time, however, your guests arrive before you can readjust the silverware. They sound like thunder as they near the patio, their wings covering you in momentary darkness. Then, a literal darkness as Azriel’s shadows swirl around you in a miniature tornado, checking for themselves that you’re you, and you’re alright.

“What the fuck,” Cassian begins, as eloquent as ever.

Mor comes behind you as you turn towards them, placing a grounding hand against the small of your back.

There’s a moment of stunned silence, no one knowing quite where to begin, before Cassian rushes in as he does best and sweeps you off your feet. You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of your throat, holding him tightly as he swings you around. What feels like a sentient breeze plays with your hair and caresses your cheek, and you find yourself in another pair of arms as soon as your feet hit the ground.

Unspoken words hang heavy as Azriel carefully lowers you back onto the floor. From the lack of questions, you can deduce that Mor had filled them in as much as she could before their arrival. This wasn’t to be an interrogation.

“Who’s hungry?” She asks, pulling out a chair.

-----

Dinner is significantly less awkward than you had feared. Cassian and Morrigan do most of the talking, and a familiar darkness curls comfortingly around your leg whenever it feels you drifting someplace less pleasant.

“I think you’ll like Nesta,” Cassian says. “She can be a viper, but only if you’re trying to piss her off.”

You laugh as you push what’s left of your food around. “I hear she’s quite the reader. We’ll have some common ground at least.”

Mor’s breath hitches and you feel the shadows at your feet twitch in apprehension, but Cassian takes it in stride with a booming laugh. “Cauldron, I’d like to see that. Maybe you could expand each other’s horizons, start a book club.”

The topic dances around what you’re all trying to avoid; the one you’d been waiting to save you for over fifty years. Your head is spinning a bit from all the talking and laughing, but you fear if you send them home you’ll never see them again.

“Do you want to come to Velaris?” Azriel’s voice startles you so badly you nearly don’t even register the question.

“Az,” Mor hisses, all her delicate conversation work thrown out with one question.

You look at him as you consider your answer, and find he has no expectations written on his face. It’s not a probing question, no demand for a response. Just a friend asking where you stand.

“Eventually,” you say, voice quiet. “Maybe not yet.”

He nods, unwilling to press further, and motions for Cassian to continue.

“Not like we’d mind coming out here to visit,” the General says, barely missing a step. “Mor never lets us come around, now she can’t turn us away.”

She laughs, brushing off the earlier upset. “If I want to spend time with you all, I can do it at one of our, what is it, four houses in the city?”

The two continued their lighthearted bickering as you all finished up dinner, acting as if no time had passed. While you had time to mourn your lost future as Rhysand’s wife, you had truly missed the friendships that had been taken from you. Right on cue, as the dark thoughts began to creep in, you were pulled back out. This time not by the shadows lazing about your ankles, but their master himself, his warm hand covering yours on the table. His gaze is soft when you look at him, more vulnerable than you’re used to seeing him.

Mor’s words from earlier swim in your head. ‘He’s regretted it every day, leaving you here.’

Turning your hand over, you squeeze his back with a smile. “It seems we all have some catching up to do.”

“I can go into the city tomorrow and get some stuff for your room,” Mor says, clapping her hands together and drawing your attention. “This place is mine alone, so it’s home for as long as you’ll have it.”

All the laughing, smiling, and talking is starting to make your face hurt, but you can’t seem to stop. “Make sure you stop by a market. I’ve been craving blackberry pie for the last thirty-odd years, and I might just have to make it myself.”

Azriel squeezes your hand. “Elain can make one. I think she’d like to meet you.”

“She needs more friends,” Cassian says. “She might even wander off and turn that weed patch over there into a garden.”

“Hey!” Mor laughs. “Those aren’t weeds, they’re the natural flora of the area!”

You shrug. “They’re pretty to me. But I wouldn’t mind some flowers.”

The blonde smiles with a roll of her shining eyes. “Fine, she can plant some flowers.”

“Pushover!” Cassian shouts with a barking laugh.

In the morning, you’ll wonder if dinner even happened. If you were really free, if Mor, Cas, and Az were really here, wrapping arms and hands around you like the past fifty years had been a bad dream. You’ll lay there thinking about the future, about the one person you had been longing to see most who hadn’t been there at all. You’ll think about how to move forward, how to build a new life, and how to find your place in lives already built. You'll wonder why no one responded to your father, what had happened to your letters, why no one seemed to notice a cell in the dungeons being used for fifty years. Why Rhysand told them you were dead.

But for now, you think only of the people who are there, who are keeping your thoughts light and your glass full. No matter what happens, you know you’ll be able to keep walking forward, in whatever direction that may be in. So for tonight, you let those worries sit in the corner of your mind for another time.

#acotar #acotar x reader #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fic #arlathavellan: acotar #arlathavellan: fanwork

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arlathavellan-acotar · 9 months ago

Text

Phantom Pains | II

Fandom: ACOTAR

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Reader: she/her, (3/4-High Fae, 1/4-Tartera), Y/N used

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2.8k

|| Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist ||

While there hadn’t been a repeat incident, you never could remember what happened during that near hour you had been standing in the street. The next few weeks passed by like a fog, and Azriel was more dutiful than ever when walking you home, even when you assured him you were fine.

Though, of course, he had his responsibilities. Inevitably, he was going to be called in for a mission that would pull him away from you. Which was how you found yourself in this situation.

"Morrigan," you greet, dipping your head slightly.

She takes the basket from your arms just as easily as your Illyrian, a lighthearted laugh lighting up the street. "Please, it's just Mor. Especially since you're going to be seeing a lot more of me."

That piqued your interest. "Oh? Is Azriel alright?"

"He's alright, it's just work. Duty calls." Her expression gives away nothing to the contrary.

The walk is filled with small talk, mostly carried by Mor. You'd only met her twice before, but she carried herself as if the two of you had been friends for years. It was reassuring in a way, keeping your mind off the melancholy that followed you when Azriel was absent. Even your shadows seemed in a good mood, dancing at your feet and twirling around your legs as you walked.

The conversation drifted into stories about the three Illyrians, mildly embarrassing stories you were certain you'd never get from the shadowsinger himself.

"Of course, Cassian would deny everything if you were to ask," Mor jokes, "though Az might come clean if you bat your eyes at him."

You can't stop the giggle from bubbling in your throat, bringing your hand up instead to cover your mouth. "And the High Lord just… let that happen?" You ask, finding your voice.

She sends you a near-conspiratorial look. "Let? Rhys planned it."

This time she joins you in your laughter, and you can't help but wonder the last time you'd felt such a lightness in your chest. As your shop door comes into view, you clear your throat to calm yourself.

"Well, here I am," you say.

Mor adjusts the basket in her arms, motioning for you to lead the way. You weren't too sure what to expect from the woman, but she slipped in easily as you held the door open for her, making her way to the back to set the basket down on your work table.

"Would you like some tea before you leave?" You can see her perk up, sending you a smile over her shoulder.

"I'd like that very much."

-----

The High Lord's cousin is easy company. She seems accustomed to carrying a conversation, and handles any lapses of silence with a careful grace. The look in her eyes, however, occasionally pricks the hairs on the back of your neck.

She's looking for something.

It makes sense, of course. You hadn't had many interactions with Azriel's family, and this was a casual enough situation to try and understand who you are. Even then, there was a nagging at the back of your mind, a feeling of something lurking in the shadows, trying to hide from her gaze.

Whatever her goal, she gives you a warm smile when her cup runs empty.

"I'll let you get some rest," she says, standing smoothly from her spot on your couch.

You rise as well to walk her to the door. "Thank you, for walking me home and keeping me company."

Mor's eyes soften, and her warm hands rest gently on your upper arms. "I do hope you can talk Azriel into bringing you around for dinner. I know everyone would love to officially meet you."

Heat rises to your face, and your shadows react in a swirl at your waist. The cold skin of the back of your hand is all the more apparent as you press it against your cheek, and she smiles at the gesture.

"Please, don't be afraid to let me know if you need anything." She finally lets go with a reassuring squeeze, making her way to the door.

Something in the back of your mind stirs, like a desperate hand reaching out for her from the darkness. But you simply smile with a hand raised in goodbye as she turns around, and it drops as the door shuts.

You find yourself very, very tired.

-----

The next day follows your usual routine as always. Amaria joining you shifted your schedule slightly, but every day still felt the same as the next.

"You know," you joke one evening as the two of you work on mending, "pretty soon I might have enough money to take a vacation. I should have hired another pair of hands sooner."

Amaria laughs, her hands ever steady despite the slight shake of her shoulders. "You wouldn't take a vacation even if you could. You'd miss working too much."

The smile that splits across your face is almost painful as you laugh with her. "I'm serious, Amaria. I'm going to pack a bag and pick a court. Maybe I'll go to Adriata and spend some time by the sea."

"And pick up some new fabrics while you're at it?" She asks. You look up in time to see your friend and co-worker roll her eyes with a slight smile, and a warmth blooms in your chest as she reads you like a book.

"Summer doesn't trade with us like they used to," you defend yourself. "They have beautiful fabric that you can layer easily—"

"—without bunching or overheating," she recites.

After less than a month, it was as if Amaria had been there forever. Her light and airy laughter echoes in your mind, and you wonder how you managed to do this all on your own the past decades.

She carefully folds the shirt she was working on before stacking it in the basket. "Are we doing deliveries tonight?"

Narrowly avoiding pricking yourself as you push your needle through the breeches you're mending, you nod in response. "We'll be closing earlier than usual, I promised Az I would be careful while he's gone."

"Oh?" Amaria says. "Is he away?"

A smile tugs at your lips as you think about him, your shadows twisting around your legs. "For the next few days, yes. Unfortunately, I can't keep him all to myself."

"I don't mind going home on my own if you'd like to be back before dark," she offers.

You shake your head as you tie off your thread. "Nonsense. He's a little overprotective, but I still know the city better than you. The last thing I need is to send you off into the night on your own."

Amaria laughs as she grabs her coat from its hanger on the wall. "Oh, of course not. How will you ever afford your vacation in Summer without your star employee."

Eyes shining in mirth, you shoot her a playfully scathing look. "Exactly! So you'd better keep yourself out of trouble and make us good money."

The two of you laugh, and she picks up her basket as you prepare your own.

The walk around Velaris is calming, especially as you go from the more populated areas to the more residential ones. Conversation with Amaria is light as ever, and you find yourself quietly appreciating the atmosphere of Velaris for most of the walk. You'd lived in Velaris most of your life, and you hoped she would come to love it as much as you did.

Though, of course, you couldn't fault her for the occasional melancholy that fell over her face when she was deep enough in thought. The Night Court was a very long way from Spring, and you couldn't imagine a shift like that. You wondered just how long she had been away from wherever she considered home.

As the two of you come up on her apartment complex, the light of the setting sun breaks through the buildings you're walking past and lights up her pristine braid like strands of copper wire. Her hair is long, the tail of her braid swinging at her hips, and you find yourself captivated by the motion.

You wait under the tree in the courtyard as she bids you good night at her door, and take a deep, steadying breath before adjusting the baskets on your arm and making your way home. For hundreds of years you lived in Velaris on your own, but Azriel seemed to sweep you off your feet in no time. It was like a crucial part of your day was missing if you didn't get to speak with him, as if he'd always been there.

Instead, you find yourself walking home alone.

The setting sun keeps you company, its dwindling warmth settling on your shoulder like a comforting hand. Knowing it won't be gone for some time, you let yourself walk slowly.

When you come up on the shop, a familiar face is waiting for you. She perks up as she notices you, raising a hand in greeting.

"Morrigan," you greet, dipping your head slightly.

Something flickers across her face as she lowers her hand, but it's quickly replaced with a smile. "Are you just coming back from deliveries?"

You raise your baskets slightly with a nod. "I wanted to walk Amaria home, so we left earlier than usual. Would you like to come in for tea?"

Mor seems to relax at the offer, readily agreeing and following you into the shop. Setting your baskets down on the table, you head into the kitchen to make some tea for you both.

"Azriel is due to be back tomorrow," Mor says, making herself comfortable on the stool beside your island counter. "It's almost a shame, one more day and it would have been Cassian's turn to keep an eye on you—he was really looking forward to it."

"I never would have considered that the Inner Circle of our great Court had so much time on their hands," you say lightheartedly, filling your kettle with water. "As much as I appreciate it, I haven't had another episode like that night."

Her voice is soft when she responds next, like she can sense the approach of a sensitive subject as you set the kettle on the burner. "If anything, it gives Azriel some peace of mind and the rest of us the chance to get to know you."

You falter as you open your tea cupboard. Gaze scanning each box, you lift and read labels looking for the container of your favorite evening tea. "That's odd…" you mumble to yourself.

Mor made an inquisitive hum, but you shook your head and grabbed a box of a similar blend to brew instead. "You say Azriel’s returning tomorrow; I assume his mission went well? He’s alright?"

“It did, and he is,” she responds happily, as vague as you expected. “I don’t know much he tells you about what he does—”

“Not much,” you interrupt before she can say more that she should. “I suppose he prefers it that way, and I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”

Mor laughs lightly, before leaning over the counter to continue. “I hope you don’t take it personally. It’s for your own safety more than anything.”

A heavy fog weighs down on your mind as she continues to reassure you. You’d never doubted Azriel’s intentions in keeping his work secret from you, but for some reason hearing it now has a nagging feeling stirring in the back of your mind. He doesn’t trust you, the voice insists. You need to know. You need to know. The overwhelming sensation nearly drowns you, cut only by the whistling of the kettle. You take a few steadying breaths, blinking to clear your hazy sight as you prepare the tea.

“Are you alright?” Mor asks, concerned.

“Yes, of course. Just a bit tired.” A reassuring smile over your shoulder ends your response.

Though she doesn’t seem too convinced, she doesn’t press the issue. Instead, she redirects the conversation to something lighter. Court politics have never been your thing, but you can easily see how she was the third-in-command of your High Lord. Her presence is comforting, like a tether to the docks keeping you from being swept out into the waves.

As the night dwindles and you try to gather your thoughts, its as if you find one long-lost, shoved under a dusty shelf in your mind. “Oh, your dress!”

She startles at the outburst, but recovers smoothly. “My dress?”

"The dress you commissioned for Starfall! I should have it done by tomorrow night if you wouldn't mind staying for a fitting."

Her brows pinch as she examines your face, and you feel something dark stirring at the back of your mind. "My dress. For Starfall."

Your head tilts slightly as confusion settles in. "Yes, the one you asked for last month? It's felt like I haven't been making any progress on it, but it's nearly done now. Do you still want it?"

Anxiety builds in your chest, squeezing your heart tightly as you try and decipher the expression she's wearing. Suddenly, she's smiling again with her hands clasped in front of her. "Oh, of course! Do you think I could see it now?"

"Absolutely!" The shift in demeanor almost throws you off balance, but you manage to regain your professionalism and return a smile. You lead her back into your workshop, head spinning like you just got off a swing. The backs of your cold fingers press against your forehead as you try to ground yourself, counting the steps to the dress form.

"I wanted to get your input on how the bodice hangs," you start, lifting up the sheet covering the dress. "I know you mentioned you wanted a draping that was loose and flowy, but I was worried the fa—"

"—fabric might snag on my jewelry," she says, breathless.

You perk up as she finishes your concern. "Exactly!" As you turn to see her, however, the harrowed look on her face stops you in your tracks.

Her eyes trail the near-finished dress, and you feel a creeping dread as you clasp your hands together in front of your chest. "Do you… not like it?"

The silence that stretches between you has alarms sounding in your head, as if something horrible is about to happen. A voice in the back of your mind is screaming, cursing the dress, telling you to send her away, get her out now, it’s just a damn dress. Morrigan's gaze meets yours, and it feels as if you're made of stone. "Y/N, how long have you been working on this dress?"

"I… off and on since you ordered it. It isn't finished yet, I know it's—" her hands clasp onto your upper arms gently yet firmly, cutting off your rambling.

Her next question only serves to worsen the cacophony in your mind, your teeth gnashing as you sway on your feet. "How long ago did I order this dress?"

"About a month ago, I think?" Her hands tighten their grip, enough to keep you steady but not enough to hurt. Something about her expression is scaring you, something soft and scared that tells you something is very, very wrong.

“Y/N,” she says, quiet and gentle like talking to a spooked horse. “I need you to come with me. Right now.”

This isn’t working. We’ll try something else, you useless girl.

The pain hits you at once. Jaw clenching, knees buckling, eyes rolling back into your head as you slam your palms into your temples. Just barely, you can hear the sounds of her shouting something incoherent over the tidal wave of screeching in your head. It’s all encompassing, as if you were submerged in it. Something cold and hard supports your body, and you can vaguely make out the grey stone floor pressed into your cheek.

Dark shapes rush towards you, wrapped in a suffocating power you’d never experienced before. You can feel that tell-tale twist in your gut that came from the rare occasion Azriel would winnow with you in tow, and realize Mor had taken you away from the shop. One of the figures stoops down, though you're unable to focus your erratic gaze enough to see their face. A hand covers your eyes, and everything goes quiet. Nothing but your ragged breathing and heart pounding in your head. Then, the feeling of something requesting entry to the forefront of your mind.

Don’t be afraid, Y/N.

Fear grips you regardless as the same manner of voice fills your head as before. But instead of whispering from some dark corner, this one spoke plainly, as though it had no reason to hide. Your chest tightens, and all you can think of is Azriel. He had been so worried that something more had happened to you, but you had brushed off his concerns like always. What had you done?

“Please,” you manage, barely more than an exhale.

I can get them out, if you let me in.

The weight of consciousness leaves you as you succumb to the encroaching darkness.

I will be quick. Rest, Y/N. Azriel will be here when you wake.

----------

Am I just going to pretend it hasn't been about half a year since I posted part one? Yes, because this is about my fifth rewrite of the overarching plot. Thank you for your patience <3

TAGLIST (comment or message to be added/removed)

@pellucid-constellations @horneybeach1 @hyemishii

#acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #acotar x reader #acotar fic #a court of thorns and roses #arlathavellan: fanwork #arlathavellan: acotar #arlathavellan: phantom pains

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arlathavellan-acotar · 1 year ago

Text

Phantom Pains | I

Fandom: ACOTAR

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Reader: she/her, (3/4-High Fae, 1/4-Tartera), Y/N used

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2.5k

|| Next Part | Masterlist ||

Velaris was always a sight to behold at night. Well, it was always a sight to behold regardless of the time, but something about the blanket of night just suited the city.

Your feet drag slightly as you walk, the fatigue of the day creeping up on you as you make your way home. A large basket weighs your arms down, your fingers barely able to interlock on the other side. The last errand for the night before you can bunker in and sleep until dawn. Well, maybe even a little later than that.

The city is still alive around you; though people are careful to give you room lest they knock your package from your arms. Your eyes barely peeked over the top, even with your chin lifted high, just to be sure you won’t run into anyone who isn’t paying attention. Your routine seemed to be predictably well-known by the residents in the area.

Routine was good, it meant you would know if something was wrong. And, as you come up upon the steps leading to your shop, your favorite part of the night comes. A shadow casts over you from behind, and the familiar sensation of a gentle sentient darkness winds itself up your waist to mingle with your own shadows.

“Allow me,” a gentle voice says.

The weight of the basket is suddenly gone, and you look over your shoulder at your new aide.

“Good evening, Azriel,” you greet, resting your hand in the crook of his offered elbow as he leads you up the stairs.

“Good evening, Y/N.” His smile is soft, not at all like the cold mask he’d wear when you first met.

His wing closest to you curls out slightly, acting as a barrier against the street traffic to make sure no one would bump into you. No one ever did, of course, but you weren’t going to complain about the gesture.

“It’s heavier than last week.”

He tests the weight with a slight bounce as you smile up at him. “Not too much, I hope. I’ve been getting more orders than usual since a certain High Lady was seen wearing one of my dresses on a very casual stroll through the markets.”

The brief puff of his chest doesn’t escape your attention as you reach the top of the stairs. “Our High Lady is certainly a patron of the arts.”

You bump into him lightly, but it does nothing to affect his stride. “Well, thanks to her generosity, I’ve found myself in need of assistance filling orders. I met my new seamstress at lunch today to get to know her; she starts in the morning.”

An utterly soft expression comes over his face, hazel eyes shining as he looks down at you. The walk to your shop was never more lovely than when he was at your side, telling you as much about his day as possible.

When you finally make it to your shop it seems all too soon. Never one to risk overstaying his welcome, Azriel sets the basket down on the front desk before turning to take your hand, placing a kiss on your knuckle.

“Until tomorrow,” he says, breath hot against your skin.

“Until tomorrow.” Your hand follows his for as long as possible as he backs into a dark corner, a sudden coldness replacing his warmth as he leaves for wherever he is needed next.

“One of these days,” you sigh to yourself. “I’ll get you to at least stay for tea before you leave.”

When you first arrived at Velaris, you could only dream of your shop being a staple of the city. Even five years ago you wouldn't have imagined the High Lady of the Night Court wearing one of your gowns just to support you; at the request of the man courting you nonetheless.

You started as a barely-paid aid, working off your family’s debts to the store owner. She was an old, haughty woman who tended to look down her nose at lesser fae like your half-tartera father, and by extension yourself, but even she couldn’t deny a hundred years of your beautiful work.

Even still, you were shocked when the store passed to you upon her death. It was a bit of a struggle, keeping it afloat by yourself during the last decade of Amarantha’s reign of terror. But now, the city was healing after yet another war, and with a little support from the fae who had been courting you, your business had never been better.

The bell above the shop’s door chimes, and you lean back to see your new employee.

“Amaria!” you call, catching her attention.

She smiles as she sees you and makes her way behind the counter to join you.

“Good morning, Y/N. I hope I’m not too late, I don’t have too much experience on this side of town.” The fae woman sits in the chair next to you, her copper braid sliding off her shoulder and falling at her back.

“No worries, I’m just getting an early start on some mending. Care to join me?” You lean across the table to slide a box towards her.

She takes it gracefully, lifting the blouse inside of it to find the damage. A small hole along the seam of the left arm catches her eye, and she picks up the matching spool of thread you’d left in the box.

You find yourself watching her thread a needle from your kit out of the corner of your eye, your own work stopping for a moment. It takes about three pokes for the thread to pass through, and you’re back to your own patching before her eyes turn towards you.

“If you don’t mind me asking; didn’t you mention an influx of dress orders at lunch yesterday? I’m sure those pay better than fixing some shirts.”

A smile pulls across your lips as you tie off your thread. “These customers were here first. I love making my own gowns, but if it weren’t for the people asking me to mend their clothes, the store would have been out of my hands decades ago.”

Amaria hums in response, focusing intently on the garment in her hands. Lithe and elegant, she almost reminds you of a spider weaving a web as she works the needle between long fingers. The two of you work for hours with the occasional work-related conversation until all of the garments sent in for mending are carefully folded on the far end of the table, client tags attached.

You roll your shoulders back, sighing at the accompanying crackle. “What would you say to a lunch break before we get started on those orders?”

A light, airy laugh is your response as Amaria follows your lead in standing from the table. “I had worried you might be the type to work until your body said otherwise.”

You can’t help your smile as you lead her out of the shop. “Oh, I do some days. I just don’t want to scare you off on your first day here.”

She falls in step with you, and you walk a little faster than normal to meet a compromising pace for the both of you. The streets are busy around this time of day, and your shadows dance around your feet when another fae walks too close.

Amaria breaks the silence as the two of you walk to the cafe you’d met her at yesterday. “You mentioned your father was tarteran, correct?”

“And one of the best jewelsmiths in the Court,” you answered. “He made quite a living before my mother fell ill.”

“So why dresses? If you don’t mind me asking.”

You focused on the steady fall of your feet as the two of you walked down the cobbled street. “It started out of convenience. My mother was a seamstress, so I had easy access to training, and could help with her work as her condition got worse. Eventually, I took over for her so she didn’t have to worry about that kind of thing in the few years before she passed.”

A silence fell between you, so you sent her a smile to quell the apprehensive look you noticed on her face. “I don’t mind talking about it. I’ve had my time to grieve, and will gladly take any opportunity to talk someone’s ear off about them. Keeps their memory alive.”

She tries to return your smile, but you can tell it isn’t completely there.

“What of you? Family or profession, whichever you’re comfortable sharing.”

Amaria’s gaze flickers up towards the horizon, and the pause before she speaks has you on the edge of backtracking. “My parents died when I was young; my siblings as well. I was taken in by a family friend who paid for sewing lessons so I could make dresses for myself and his daughter. We were originally in Spring, but tensions during the war had us moving up here with his sister to escape the fighting.”

Her words are tense, almost feeling rehearsed with their near-monotonous tone. An uneasy feeling in your gut has you redirecting the conversation as you approach the cafe.

“Well, as painful as our journeys may have been, I'm glad they led us here. What better place to make your dreams come true than the City of Dreams itself?” You catch another not-quite smile as you lead her inside.

After lunch, you and Amaria fall into a steady rhythm working on an order for Morrigan as the sun begins to set. You’d only met her a few times since Azriel had begun courting you, but she was a frequent patron and always paid more than fair. One of her requests had even led to a collaboration between yourself and Neve to design both gown and jewelry to complement each other. You’d always longed for connections in the Palace of Thread and Jewels, and her shop reminded you of your late father.

“I’ve heard tales of our great Inner Court,” Amaria says, working on the hem of Morrigan’s flowing skirt. “I never thought I’d be making something for them, especially not on my first day.”

You flash a smile as you arrange the fabric for the bodice on the dressform you’d had made for her. “Morrigan and Lady Feyre have been more than generous in their support. They’re actually the reason I needed to hire another pair of hands; everyone wants to see what’s so special about a gown to be worn by the High Lady herself.”

Amaria hums in response, and you’ve gotten the impression it's something she does often.

“And the others?” Her voice has you peeking over your shoulder, but her face is practically buried in the skirt. “The High Lady’s sisters, or the High Lord’s brothers?”

A slight tug at your lips betrays you as you think of your shadowsinger. “I get some repairs from them, but I don’t believe any of them have the taste for my gowns.”

Her laugh is light and airy, and you can hear the spring court in her. A few pins later, and you stepped back to get a better vantage on the pleats of the chest. A quick look over your shoulder showed that Amaria was finishing up the hem.

“Well, I believe this is a good place to call it a night.”

She looks up at you, blinking to clear her eyesight. “I don’t think I’ve sewed for this long in ages.”

You laugh as she stretches and curls her fingers. “If we don’t stop here I might end up working through the night, sleep be damned.”

Sighing with a smile, she stood from her chair and worked the strain out of her back and arms.

“Would you mind if I walked you home?” You asked, closing up your pins. “It’s getting dark out, and I know you mentioned getting turned around this morning. I can drop off some of the repairs we did as well.”

Her expression turns to shock for a moment, but fades to a grateful smile. “It would be much appreciated. I can’t say I’m too familiar with navigating the market squares at night.”

The night is cool and the walk is pleasant. Amaria is easy company, and you find the two of you don’t need to make much conversation. You even get to introduce her to a few customers, and they take to her easily.

Her apartment is at the back of a c-shaped complex, through a brief alleyway that opens into a shared courtyard.

“It’s beautiful,” you appraise, looking up at the large tree in the center as you pass. The last fading light of sunset filters through its leaves.

“I was fortunate to find this place. The neighbors are kind, and good company on sleepless nights.” Her voice is gentle, like she’s already more at home in the courtyard than she was in the streets of Velaris.

A sentiment you understood all too well.

“Thank you, Y/N. For walking me home.”

You smile at her as she reaches her door, and she returns it brightly. ”I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

Her head dips into a low nod. “Until then.”

The courtyard is silent as her door closes behind her. A night chill settles on your shoulders like a cloak, and you find yourself shivering as you enter the alleyway. It was getting late, which meant your shadowsinger would soon make his appearance. Feeling light and giddy, your pace is enthusiastic as you make your way back to your shop and home.

There weren’t many people out tonight, those that were awake likely seeking something in one of the districts. Your feet slow despite yourself, a sluggish feeling overcoming your body as you come to a stop in the middle of the street

The light behind you is partially blocked, and you feel the hair on the back of your neck prickle as your shadows swirl in a panic at your feet. Every survival sense in your body screams at once as spindly fingers enter your peripheral vision, caging your head. A feeling of claustrophobia overwhelms your senses, and suddenly every inch of you is paralyzed. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut tight at the sudden pain blooming in your head.

When your senses return, it's to the sound of wings. You inhale like you’ve been stuck underwater, swaying on your feet as the blackness in your vision recedes, showing the streets of Velaris once more.

“There you are!” Azriel calls, landing in front of you and grasping on your shoulders as you sway on your feet.

The heel of your palm digs into your temple as you wince at the volume of his voice.

“Are you alright?” His hands and shadows both brush against you, searching for any obvious injuries.

You blink the fog out of your eyes and steady yourself against him. “I’m… I’m okay. Just got lightheaded for a moment.”

A familiar, comforting feeling of silence surrounds you as arms and wings alike shield you from the world. “I was waiting for you by the bridge, but it was starting to get late. What’re you doing out here?”

You swallow a lump in your throat as you regain your bearings. Recounting your deliveries and how you walked Amaria home, you notice the sky is much darker than it was a moment ago. Azriel’s brows are pinched, his thumb running from your temple to cheek.

“Let me take you home?” Both an offer and plea, one you don’t plan on denying.

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