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jessilynallendilla · 3 months ago

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FAE/CREATURE/NON HUMAN JASKIER

I Am The Wild T

Years ago, Geralt meets a little boy befriending a monster. Years later, Geralt meets a bard. There's something familiar in the way he tries to keep Geralt from killing monsters. "Real monsters are human", he'd always say.

The Shapes Of Us T 33,142 SERIES

Jaskier was a shapeshifter. It was as simple as that. Except for nothing was ever simple with him. Especially not since that white haired man had rescued him. Protected him. Healed him. Saved him. What other option did he have but to try and return the favor?

We Can Do Good, Together M 8,391

Geralt had heard rumors of it before he'd been approached by Yennefer and asked, "How much?“

He stared at her, unimpressed, "How much to do what?"

"Don't play coy," she replied, "You know just as well as I do that there's been something wrecking havoc across the Continent."

Hidden By The Forest M 15,496 SERIES

“Geralt, please, I... can... let me explain, please...” Jaskier’s voice wavers and he takes another step back. Geralt strengthens his grip on the blood-soaked sword still in his hand and glares at Jaskier. At who he thought was Jaskier but is clearly something else.

Salt And Ash, Iron And Bone EX 47402

After Geralt’s death, Jaskier returns to the fae realm, unable to live in the human world without the witcher he loved. When he’s attacked and nearly killed eight centuries later, Jaskier flees back to the human world, where he finds himself face-to-face with Geralt. This Geralt is a redheaded, freckled human with no memory of his life as a witcher or of Jaskier. But as Jaskier gets to know his oldest friend all over again— and starts to fall in love with him all over again— a mysterious enemy threatens both their lives.

The Red Prince EX 72,058 SERIES

Jaskier has lived many lives over the span of humanity's existence, and yet he's still fascinated by them. But when he catches word of Witchers, he has to know more. He follows them, befriends them whenever possible, and saves their lives. They know him as The Red Prince. Bloody-handed and handsome. Some kind of patron saint of Witchers. A legend. A fairy story. The same story Vesemir once told a young Geralt the night before his Trials. And many years later, Jaskier meets a gruff, white haired Witcher known as the Butcher. But the man is no murderer. He's interested. Smitten, even. So he follows the White Wolf on adventure, expecting that at some point he'll have to revive the legend of The Red Prince. Because Witchers get wounded. They die. He won't let that happen to Geralt. Not so long as he can retie the strings of Fate.

Try, Please Try For Me EX 131,979 SERIES

Jaskier was part fae. A quarter to be precise. There was an old superstition among humans that names held power, but for fae it was so much more than that. Names meant control. If you knew a fae’s name, their true name, they would be completely at your will. If someone knew your true name you were nothing more than their servant. A slave. All it took was a single command. When war breaks out between neighboring kingdoms, Jaskier's father uses his true name and commands him to marry a witcher as part of a peace treaty. Neither Jaskier or Geralt are particularly happy with the arrangement. But as Jaskier gets to know him better he realizes that the witcher might just be able to give him the thing he's always craved. Freedom.

Fair Folk, Or: The Difference Between Honey And Destiny Is That One Of Them Is Sweet T 35,322 SERIES

wherein everything is the same, except when it isn’t.

So Can We Pretend, Sweetly T 2,131

Jaskier is a regular human bard, and Geralt could swear that yesterday he’d had regular human teeth. They’re just a little bit too long for his mouth, now- too white, too sharp. A predator’s. Jaskier clicks them together, experimentally, and winces when he bites his tongue. “Fuck anyone you weren’t supposed to?”

“I don’t fuck anyone I’m supposed to,” Jaskier says, a little proudly.

Drawing Our Destinies In Closer T 649 SERIES

Jaskier encounters a dangerous killer.

Wróżka G 2,600

jaskier has a secret, and geralt is trying to find the clues to figure out what it is.

When We Bloom (And We Will) T 12,132 SERIES

a fic in which geralt acquires a baby, jaskier saves the life of said baby, and ciri insists that she has a new sister until it becomes true.

In Your Arms, I Am A Wild Creature T

A different version of Geralt and Jaskier meet; Geralt is still a witcher— it’s Jaskier who’s different.

Fae Jaskier G 964

This was a request, but it's one of my favorite things I've written so I posted it separate of my ask collection.

Pray All Ye Meet Are The Gentle Fae EX 11,631 SERIES

“It was remarkably foolish of you, witcher,” Jaskier drawled, his glamour gone and the picture of his inhumanity complete. “Stumbling into my clearing like this.” Or: Geralt and Jaskier take a night off to have some fun. Less fun? They're overheard. If only their dirty talk didn't sound so...incriminating.

A Deal Which Cannot Be Refused T

Jaskier got into trouble a lot, that was normal. But not until he was too late to help Jaskier did Geralt ever realise that Jaskier was perfectly capable of solving his own issues. He has the ability to turn a whole argument on its head, unfailingly coming out the victor with a smile on his face, and the slightly burnt scent of pure magic in the air. Every time Geralt asked how exactly he got himself out of some new impossible situation Jaskier had just smiled and offered a well crafted but purposefully vague answer. Usually relating to a deal of some form, or a favour that Geralt didn’t really know if he wanted to know any more details of. Or - Jaskier isn’t quite human, Geralt can tell that much. What he can’t figure out is exactly what Jaskier is.

Featuring misunderstandings, very confused and slightly oblivious Geralt, morally grey and at times ominously terrifying Jaskier and some healthy doses of angst.

The Weight Of Life M 25,855

A few years after the unfortunate adventure with the dragon hunt, Geralt accidentally runs into Jaskier in the exactly same tavern, where the said adventure began. Maybe it wouldn't be that surprising (we are talking about the travelling bard after all), if Jaskier didn't look and behave so strange. How else can you describe approaching the witcher without making any indication to what has happened on the top of a certain mountain and simply paying him for killing a monster?

Long Live The King EX 47,450 SERIES

Geralt placed the crown on his head before kneeling at his side, and the weight of it felt heavy on Jaskier’s brow. Jaskier’s path to becoming king, takes place five years after the fall of Cintra.

He Fell Into A Faerie Ring EX SERIES

Traders are a gossiping sort. If there was a scandal within the noble houses of Posada, you’d hear about it in Cretegor by the end of the week. So, the quick spread of a rumor about a little village in the Kestrel Mountain range was not at all surprising. What was surprising was the story that the traders wove. They said that Luibhtorrach, a sad, ghost of a farming town, had miraculously become a hub for trade, as if overnight. Their lands unbelievably fertile and brimming with crop. Even stranger, each and every one of Luibhtorrach’s people professed that their good fortune was the work of a mysterious beast they’d claimed as their personal deity. Most recent news foretold of their plans to throw a midsummer festival celebrating this newfound god. In preparation, silken blue banners were erected in every corner of the town, each bearing the symbol of their new patron: A delicate dandelion wrapping around a golden sun.- Or -Jaskier accidentally becomes the god of a village he stumbled upon after Geralt’s post-dragon hunt meltdown. Maybe it had something to do with his new look.

Honey, Where Do You Think I Came From? M

It was little things at first. A glare on his face, narrowed eyes and frowning lips, or a comment a touch more cutting than it needed to be. All explained away with simple enough rational: a bad day, lack of sleep. No reason to suspect what truly lay beneath. Looking back, the signs were there. But he didn’t look for what they meant. What the whispered sweet nothings shared in a corner but never taken to a bedroom meant. What the cutting glances and sharp words at an annoying lord meant. What the lack of a dagger tucked away in a boot meant In the beginning, well, he was a simple bard really. Talented, yes, but simple. And that was all.

A Crown Of Crows M

There's something about Jaskier that Geralt can't place. It isn't the bard’s boldness in waltzing up to him, or how he seems strangely unswayed by the witcher's cold front, or even the way he glues himself to Geralt’s side. Jaskier makes Geralt's medallion quiver and tug at its chain any time they touch. Could be that lute of his is enchanted. But Geralt has a funny feeling Jaskier’s hiding something behind that warmhearted smile he finds himself so spellbound by.

Rues And Bees G

Geralt is sick and tired of standing in front of his oak cottage door and peeking through the peep hole as Yennefer stands on the other side, beckoning Geralt to, "Open the door and let me in. It's cold out here," and replying, "You're not Yennefer, she's in the other room, sleeping. I can hear her snoring." So naturally, he does the next big thing: he falls in love with the doppler.

Through A Field Of Poppies T 1,060

Jaskier dies in autumn. Geralt lays him to rest at the edge of a birch grove overlooking a flood plain on the northern banks of the Pontar. He remembers the place, now gilded in the afternoon sun by wayward wheat having made its way to the rich river soil, where his bard had once pressed a ring into his palm (“How about this,” he’d said. “You keep this near and I’ll know you still want me at your side.” And Geralt had closed his fingers around it thinking he’d take ten thousand golden trinkets just to be gifted with that smile) and he knows that come spring it’ll be a meadow thick with wildflowers. The next time he sees Jaskier, he reaches for silver.

I Want To Know You T 2,980

Four questions that they ask each other over the years they spend together. Jaskier herded him to a table when their drinks were on their hands, talking more nonsense and pulling out of the Witcher the information of the monster he was after. The human seemed to take a weird interest in what Geralt did for a living considering his species who preferred to have the whole continent between them and one of Geralt's kind.

Sunk But Sinking NR

He wakes up with a tightness in his chest, the reason for it revealed as soon as he opens his eyes. It’s not light yet, not exactly, but the fire is long gone and the cold had enough time to settle in his bones. He’s aching more than most mornings, but maybe it’s just the weather’s fault. Jaskier grunts and pushes Geralt’s hand off his chest, the unreasonable panic not quite evaporating from him at the same speed as the details of his nightmare.

He Sleeps In His Bed (While He Plays Pretend) M 34,049

When Yennefer leaves him, Geralt comes back to Jaskier, heart in his hand, anger, hurt, and heartbreak bleeding from it. Geralt grieves his love life with his eyes closed, his body bare and fucking into his bard, Yennefer's name on his lips. On the other hand, as months pass, Geralt's begins to fall in love with Jaskier himself, leaving a huge misunderstanding his wake.

Ensnared EX 32,014

Geralt is hired to hunt a creature that has been terrorising the local hunters and traders of Belhaven. He heads into Caed Myrkvid and finds more than he bargained for

This Isn't The Beginning Of A Joke, This Is The Beginning Of A Love Song... EX

Jaskier sings Renfri and Yennefer to life and doesn't think enough about the effect it could have on two powerful women. And the effect it could have on him. After all; he's the first music note ever heard, not a fertility god.And everybody knows Witchers are made, not born.

No No, Not I T

Geralt meats Fae!Jaskier due to a slight misunderstanding (or maybe its destiny messing with them?) and when Jaskier hurts his wing they are kind of stuck together for a while. It’s a journey that not only brings them in more and more danger and to unknown magical places but it also brings them closer together, if they want to admit it or not. The Fae is annoying Geralt to no end but he can’t just let him die, can he? Jaskier saw the jagged edge of the stone a fraction of a second too late and he couldn't stop himself from stepping on it with his bare feet. He hissed in pain, baring his fangs. “Wait, damn it,” a deep voice behind him demanded but he would not obey. He wouldn't dream of obeying the command of a monster that wanted to kill him.

Namesake Retrograde EX

'Fifty years of meticulously crafted lies become dust in the wind before Jaskier can realize what's happening. Distantly, he thinks he hears the tonal crack of shattering crystal, before his mouth rushes with hot saliva and bottom drops out from his stomach.' Jaskier's glamour is obliterated. It goes worse than expected.

Welcome, Oh Summer Love G 2,390 SERIES

After leaving Geralt and making a home in a fairy circle somewhere deep in a forgotten wood, Jaskier learns to move on. He makes a home in that stone ring, detached from the world and his worries. That is, until Geralt stumbles into his ring looking haggard and weary, trailing a lost princess behind him. Should Jaskier stay silent in his tree, let them pass by him as he rests? Will he finally face the love he'd run away from?

With Romantic Intent M 8,934 SERIES

Jaskier decides that it's finally time to start courting Geralt. He just needs to make it obvious enough that the silly man will take the hint — and, in the process, figure out that he was never quite as human as Geralt thought.

Of Music And Motion And Love T 12,412 SERIES

When Jaskier was four, he slipped his mother’s watch and went to the field to gather a bouquet of dandelions. He climbed back into the yard, as stealthy as a child really cared to be, and crept over to the barn. In the barn, lived a secret. (The man he thought his father said the secret was a monster, a plague. His mother said the secret was his sister.) OR Jaskier comes from a far humbler background, and would really like to know why Yennefer never came back for her youngest brother.

I Come Round Back To You M 15,567

He is fifty and there is a man in the corner of a tavern in Posada who hasn’t moved save for the rise and fall of his tankard to his sculpted lips. Julian knows what he is before he knows to know. He should have started chasing monsters sooner.

Where We Belong T

Geralt had many uses for the parasite living inside him. Jaskier could heal bones and regenerate a limbs like it was nothing, could eat the heads of monsters faster than a Witcher could draw his sword; even help Geralt breathe underwater if they so wished. Jaskier was a blessing in disguise if one forgone the constant hunger that came with hosting them. It was not, however, nearly enough to have to sit through the twice-damned singing and chatter inside his fucking skull.

There's Magic In A Bard's Song (O Lei O Lai O Lei O Lord) T

There’s something different about the way the bard sings. There is something underlying his voice, his music. It bothers Geralt.

As Daylight Dies T

The Witcher keeps to himself, gaze downcast, gloved hand extended to his tankard to keep within his lips' reach.

"Are the stories true?"

"Depends." The voice that comes from under the hood is deep, a wolf's growl and grunt. The White Wolf, an apt name for the man. A different, darker meeting between Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier. It's going to get darker.

Once Written In The Stars EX

When Geralt accidentally trespasses on a fae forest, only the unexpected kindness of one of the forest's inhabitants saves him. Unfortunately, it also leaves him saddled with a travel companion who has never really met a human, let alone thought about how to play at being one. It goes about as well as you'd think.

Will You Be Coming Home? M 52,104

At fifteen, Julian hires a bodyguard and runs away. At twenty, he's quite happy. At twenty-five, he's fucked.

(Don't Ask Me) To Follow Where You Lead M

Bitter irony that Jaskier had fallen for him despite knowing that his freedom was linked to Geralt wanting him gone deep down more than he wanted him to stay – if Jaskier ever got what his heart yearned for, he'd lose even more than Geralt's affections in the same breath. In that sense, Geralt's words on top of that mountain were a blessing, for all that Jaskier did not at all agree with being blamed for things that were in no way his fault. For someone who had held someone else's fate in his hands for almost all of the years he had walked this earth, Geralt was surprisingly scared of destiny and way too concerned with running from it in vain. Jaskier could and actually had sung several songs about how escaping destiny was impossible – her cruel claws would sink into you one way or another, running from it was nothing but a waste of breath.

Honey, Bread and Summer Flowers G 910

Geralt and Jaskier meet at a crossroads. Neither is what he seems.

Can’t You See I’m Unholy? T 1,006 SERIES

Jaskier was dead. Oddly enough, that’s the part he could handle. The part he couldn’t handle, the part that he’s never been able to handle, is the aftermath. The rebirth. -In which Jaskier is a demon that can’t ever fully die and Geralt is witness to his resurrection.

Upon The Waking Of The Spring T 2,074 SERIES

When Spring comes along, and brings with it new life, Jaskier finds the man with white hair asleep on a bed of violets. And, though they’re not meant to meddle with the Fates of humans, Jaskier just can not resist.

Like Real People Do T 3,989 SERIES

“Are you hiring me, girl?”

After a beat of silence, the two staring at each other, she stands tall and scoops the coin into her apron pocket and shakes her head. “No, Witcher, I don’t believe I am. Just thought you should know is all.”

He sighs out a breath through his nose, looking away. He grips the mug still in his hand a bit stronger and brings it to his lips.

“It’s the wood near your professor is why I thought you should know.”

Not Quite Right M

The meat suit ages around him. He can feel it grow every passing year, stretching and contorting over a too-big entity. The original soul died far before it was born into this world. It allowed him to step in and takes its place. His brethren are like vines that choke out trees, retaining their shape even as the mighty oaks or pines wither and die beneath them. He is like a weed with a lovely flower atop it. Mistaken for something meant for a bouquet, but even when identified, still plucked for flower crowns or innocent gifts. He calls himself Jaskier.

The God Of Scraped Knees. M 8,342

Jaskier’s been pretending to be human for so long now that he hardly remembers what it feels like to be a sorcerer. He doesn’t want to remember what it feels like to be a sorcerer. But people still murmur his name with reverence in certain dim halls; Dandelion, Dandelion, destroyer of worlds.

Blue And Yellow, Blue And Gold T 4,292

There is a blue-eyed boy living in Geralt's shadow.

Fallen For A Lie T 6,995

It was a long time before Geralt suspected anything. Geralt had been trained to notice such things at Kaer Morhen, and had gone years, decades even, without missing something as large as this. He could hear Vesemir shouting now at Geralt’s blindness, unexplainable aside from the locked away knowledge that this had escaped his attentions because he liked the way Jaskier chattered at him, the coin he brought in from his little tunes, liked him. Any bizarre incident that arose was brushed aside in favor of Jaskier’s easy company. And there had been many incidents.

What's Mine Is Yours T 7,506 SERIES

Jaskier had always had a set of lungs to rival the North wind. By the time he was old enough to put words to his wailing, his poor mother’s head was grey and her heart torn by the babe who had never once stopped crying. There wasn’t a healer or witch she took him to who didn’t say the same thing: there was nothing to fix. They could treat a bruise, bandage the reflections of another’s injuries that sometimes echoed onto his skin, but there was no curing pain that wasn’t his.

Edge Of Nowhere T 1,361 SERIES

Jaskier needed no introduction to Geralt of Rivia, not when he knows who this Witcher is on sight. On the other hand, this is his opportunity to make a new and different name for himself, a guise within a disguise, and perhaps fame that'll hide the secrets that he keeps.

Wolf & Songbird T

“Do I not warm you when it’s cold?” asks Geralt. “Feed you when you’re hungry, carry you when you’ve had too much too drink?”

“Well,” says Jaskier. He gulps. “But you never said anything.”

They may be destined to meet in every universe, but they always stay together by choice.

And The Seasons, They Go Round And Round T 2,938

Taking hold of his emotions enough so he won’t begin shouting, Geralt stands before Jaskier, arms crossed protectively around his beating heart. “What are you?” he growls.

With a heavy sigh, Jaskier leans on his elbows and peers up at Geralt. “Do you know the story of the seasons Geralt?” Jaskier inquires.

In which Jaskier isn't all he appears and his rivalry with Valdo Marx is a bit more complicated than Geralt realized.

Dear Fellow Traveler EX 39,567

Geralt had a rule: he refused to accept anything but coin for his work, no matter what was being offered to him. So when a man offered him a creature by the name of Jaskier, he elected to say no. After several incidents left the two no choice but to become traveling companions when they are forced to go on the run, things begin to change between the pair as they struggle to find a way for Jaskier to return to his home.

The Man From Oxenfurt M

Jaskier is an assassin from the school of Oxenfurt, assigned a target with no name, picture, or any information besides the target's species (witcher) and the fact that he trained under Vesemir. His luck changes when he meets another witcher from the same school in a tavern in Posada, and he vows that he'll build a life with Geralt with the money from this last assignment. If only it could be that easy.

Granted EX 12,314 SERIES

Jaskier feels it the moment the words leave Geralt’s lips. A rush of energy flooding from his core to the tips of his fingers and toes. ‘Oh no,’ he thinks. The magic spills from him like wine from a glass and before he can grab it, it’s done. He’s bound. Geralt’s wish has been granted.

Lord Of The Forest NR 7,521 SERIES

Jaskier is not human, he is Lord of the Forest, and post season 1 episode 6, he returns to his natural form to wreak vengeance on Geralt.

Pathway To Your Lips EX 5,5145

Geralt meets with Lord Pankratz about a monster in the forest of his duchy. In the process, he meets Jaskier, the Lord's son who is always dressed in a most extravagant manner. Amidst chaos at the dinner time and troubling thoughts, Geralt gears up to fight the monster he has been hired to kill.

Into The Woods G 1,318

Geralt gets lost in the woods. But there's someone -- or something -- else following him.

Like Real People Do G 55,687

A twilight that refuses to wane, the lingering scent of clean, bitter dandelion milk, and a strange man buried deep in the soil of a peaceful bog. Or, Geralt finds a traveling companion in the strangest of places.

Muse Of White And Gold G 1,573 SERIES

It’s been a week and the person is still following him. What’s more, they haven’t attacked yet. Geralt isn’t quite sure what to do with this. OR Jaskier sees Geralt slay a beast and is instantly drawn to the stunning man of white and gold.

Play Out A Spell In Your Sequence Of Chords (To Inspire And Sharpen Our Rusted Swords) T 10,813

Geralt cocked his head to the side curiously to regard the chittering fox caught in the hunter's trap. The beast had deep chestnut fur and eerily bright blue eyes. He knelt, and the creature hissed at him, baring his teeth in fear.

"I mean you no harm," he rumbled, hands palm-up. His swords were at his campsite, regardless. He reached forward slowly, and the fox didn't move, though it's teeth remained bared. It was a simple matter to pry open the trap, and the fox leapt away, chattering its teeth at him. Their eyes met for a long moment, amber to fantastical blue, and the fox dashed off.

Sighing faintly, hands resting on his knees, Geralt bowed his head tiredly. He rolled his neck to crack it, and rose to his feet to shuffle his way back to his camp.

Set out neatly next to his bedroll were three cleanly gutted rabbits, and Geralt paused in surprise. Roach whinnied softly, and stamped a hoof. A crown of golden wheat rested primly between her ears.

Ah. Fae, then. Services paid for services rendered. Hopefully the fae would consider them even, now, but something in him doubted it.

Left Alone T 7,026

There's almost something between them, Jaskier can see it. An almost relationship. Almost love. That's why the sight of Geralt and Yennefer shatters his heart, leaving him broken and alone and in pain. And well, all there's left to do is go home.

While Jaskier reunites with his siblings and remembers what's it like to hold his blades, Geralt looks for a way to break what the djin made. And well, Destiny wants them together so, in the end, they always come back to each other.

Farewell Wanderlust T 1,124

After being left on the mountain, fae!jaskier goes dark. Geralt is contracted to take out the dark fae tormenting the village, unbeknownst to him that it is his old friend.

Of Home And Gentle Hands G 1,582 SERIES

It’s been almost a year since Jaskier started travelling with Geralt, and he still can’t believe his luck. Geralt is having trouble understanding the way he’s feeling. Meanwhile, Yennefer shows up with a job offer. Travelling with Geralt, Jaskier decides, is far better when he’s allowed to walk next to him rather than stuck to following him from a distance. From this close, he’s able to see different things, things he never noticed from afar.

Normal Human? Never Heard Of Him. EX 6,955

Three times Jaskier acts suspicious and one time Geralt gets his mind blown.

What Is A Monster? G 996 SERIES

“You’re not a monster.”

Geralt sighs, and puts his sword away. Kissing Jaskier’s head, he wants to say a million things, I’m not a monster to you, you make me feel normal, I love that’s how you see me but reality is different, I love you, but he understands that what would make Jaskier feel better is none of that. What he wants, needs, is far simpler, “I know.”

Welcome To The Storm, I Am Thunder EX 4,239

They've barely left the tavern in Posada before Geralt has made up his mind about Jaskier. He's annoying and persistent, has zero sense of self-preservation, talks too much and is, first and foremost, painfully, vulnerably human. The next few weeks prove almost all of those things to be true—all but one.

Look What You've Done To Me M

Jaskier can't ignore who he really is, and Geralt's not sure he can either.

A Rose, But Only One T SERIES

A retelling of the ballad Tam Lin wherein Jaskier is Tam Lin.

Witness Me, Old Man, I Am The Wild T 1,787 SERIES

Jaskier always asks to stop whenever they reach meadows, to cut as many flowers as he can manage. He usually aims for white heather and feverfew, and Geralt usually ends up with some threaded through his hair. He assumes at first it’s just Jaskier’s restless fingers and part of his campaign to change Geralt’s image. It takes him nearly three years, and a fight with a higher vampire, to realise there's more to it than that.

Surprises Surprises T 2,832 SERIES

Yennefer isn't sure what's so special about the human bard that the Witcher cares so much, but she intends to find out. They meet again and again and again, and each time she sees more and more. Turns out there are more than a few surprises there

Changeling Jaskier T 1,022 SERIES

Jaskier was far more observant and aware than most people gave him credit for, after all he had grown up among the fae and had gotten himself his freedom. He also knew Geralt better than the witcher thought he did, and he was not above using that knowledge when the man was doing something stupid.

I’m Lost, I’m Found In You T 1,190 SERIES

Meeting Geralt of Rivia had initially been quite the shock. The man offered up his name so easily, thinking nothing of it, and everything in Jaskier’s body screamed mine mine mine. It wasn’t as if he didn’t get first names on a daily basis. But that was from humans, gullible creatures that had forgotten the tales of the fae, the warnings, choosing to live in blissful ignorance. But Geralt was a Witcher. Surely he could smell what Jaskier truly was, if not see through his glamour entirely. And yet…Jaskier felt his instincts awaken and tingle with joy - his mind was begging him to take, use, own this beautiful man with his name. But Jaskier gave up that life long ago.

I Am Flesh And I Am Bone T 2,601

Geralt is pretty sure Jaskier isn’t quite human. He has a list of evidence, really, he does. And it starts with a petty challenge issued by Jaskier one night at a tavern. The list grows from there.

His Love, Soft And Sweet G 754 SERIES

"I'm going to die," he says, voicing the thought aloud. "This is the end of me, dear heart. My final moments, the finale, the fine. Remember me fondly as you continue your journey down the Path—"

"You're not going to die, Jaskier," Geralt interrupts him with exasperation. "It's a fever, that's all."

A Wilted Warning T 1,071 SERIES

After the initial discussion, Geralt decides it’s best if he explores the woods surrounding the village. There’s only one issue…

“I told you to stay in the room.”

“And I told you I’m coming with you. How else am I going to write my songs?”

OR Jaskier and Geralt search the woods for the culprit. Geralt gets to learn more about Jaskier, even if the bard is acting a bit strange... Well stranger than usual.

Day By Day G 1,261 SERIES

Jaskier has been alive for a long time, has met his fair share of witchers and sorceresses and even Princesses. Some were dumb, some were smart, and some were somewhere in the middle. However, none were so completely dense that they didn't realize he wasn't human by the end of a five-year friendship. He's known Geralt for twenty years. Geralt still hasn't caught on. Now, Jaskier isn't saying Geralt is dumb because the man is obviously very intelligent, but Geralt is…. Well, he's dumb. Jaskier loves him, would sacrifice immortality for him, but his witcher is very stupid.

The Curse Of The Fae-Child T

“I… there’s an estate, half an hour up north,” Jaskier started, avoiding Geralt’s questioning gaze. “It’s not on the map, but there’s a chance they won’t kill us if we ask for shelter. Don’t ask me to elaborate, if I am wrong we’ll simply find somewhere else and forget about it forever.” Forced to go back to his childhood home, Jaskier is soon tasked with some fae nonsense, because fairies do not exist... right?

A Midwinter's Daydream G 1,396

“Either I mistake your shape entirely, or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite called Julian Goodfellow?” Her laugh tinkles on the breeze, shrill to his ears. “Are you not sheep-stealer, milk ruiner, or wife stealer? Come sprite, I recognise thine face.” Her pale hand stretches out to pluck a delicate yellow flower from his hair, “or should I call you Jaskier, or sweet puck, and then will you bring me luck?”

He matches her pitched giggles with a sharp strum of his lute, bowing low in mockery. “Thou speak’st aright! I am that merry wanderer of the night."

Check Mate, Valdo Marx T 1,227

The sanctuary of Kaer Morhen was broken so much sooner than Geralt had hoped. He had a sorceress and three other witchers on his side to fight the whole army of Nilfgaard. All while a bard hid out in the pantry with his child surprise and a dagger in hand with instructions to use it when their last defence had fallen. Except, Jaskier was going to have none of that. He had won this round fair, Valdo was just a sore loser.

The Voice Beloved By The Trees NR

“Why do you not like the forest, mama?” Julian had asked her once, age nine, knees pressed in the mud beside her. His mother sat demurely upon a rich blanket of gold and sky blue—the colors of their house. He remembered, briefly, how her fingers stilled at his question, though careful not to bruise the bud of the flower she was attending.

“It’s not safe,” His mother had said simply, her blue eyes much too bright. She plucked the scissors up off her white saffron gown and quickly snipped a mature bloom, placing it tenderly in her wicker basket. A basket that was always full of flowers: roses, forget-me-nots, orchids, and the handfuls of dandelions that Julian snuck in—his mother's favorite name for him. For the wild boy with mud on his shins and rumpled riches. Her little Jaskier.

On The Wings Of Love EX 5,420 SERIES

After spending the winter in Kaer Morhen, Geralt and Jaskier get on with their travels again, and Geralt gets to see Jaskier in all of his Fae glory - the good, the bad and the weird. Somewhere along the way they get married, acquire a child and meet a djin. Somehow, they're all good things.

Wolf's Temper M

Geralt never expected himself to be stuck traveling with a werewolf, but when one night of drinking with Jaskier turns into a secret being revealed Geralt realizes what this means for him as a person and as a Witcher. He needs to protect Jaskier at all costs.

You Don't Have To Hide From Me T 1,737 SERIES

Geralt had always known, something was different with Jaskier but he hadn't been able to say what it was until the day they slept together for the firs time

Curiosity And The Cat T 2,834

Jaskier had always been different from everyone else. Odd, loyal, and a touch too curious for his own good. Or Geralt isn't sure what kind of being Jaskier is but one night while hunting a werewolf, his bard's persistence leads to a great deal of trouble.

Through The Desert M 3,397 SERIES

Jaskier is hungry for the world - even before he flirts with the wrong woman and gets turned into a vampire. Jaskier is not a bard anymore, he is a creature. (And witchers kill creatures, don't they?)

Could Be, Will Be, Maybe? T 6,445

“Do you want to hold her?” The princess doesn’t really wait for Jaskier’s answer; simply deposits the little babe into his arms, and Jaskier scrambles to hold her right, sneaking a hand to delicately cradle the head. She’s so small, he thinks to himself a little hysterically, and then, in quick succession, Geralt is going to love her. Or: the story of how Jaskier visits Cintra over the years, and carves lasting bonds with Pavetta, with Ciri - and finds himself as bound to Geralt as if Destiny herself had twined their fates together.

A Buttercup Plucked From The Side Of The Road NR

Alfred Pankratz is barely two years into his professorship when he finds a boy passed out by the side of the road leading to Oxenfurt. A small, adorable child with a buttercup tucked into his hair. Alfred Pankratz is 27 years old and can be described as many things, whimsical, flighty, headstrong but not as father material. He's not fit to be a father, he's not. He'll take Jaskier to the healer and then the orphanage as soon as the healer is done with him. Aforementioned healer raises an amused eyebrow, “You’ve named him?” Fuck he's already named him. Mentally, he rearranges his plans for the next decade or two. By sunset Alfred has already filled out the necessary papers, informed his colleagues, bought new children's clothes and cleared out a room in his quarters. He brushes his new son’s, Jaskier’s, hair out of his sleeping face and sighs a deeply resigned sigh. It will be the first of man

The Heart Is A Muscle T 31,045

The one where Jaskier is fae, Geralt can’t connect the dots to save his life, and, with some help, the pair discover what it means to find your true family.

Masquerade As The Love Of Your Life EX 20,667

“As you know, Nilfgaard is pressuring Kaedwen borders. Our lands are struggling.” Vesemir has his arms crossed over his chest, his face stony. “We have a very promising solution but it’s also our least favourable.”

The Highest Reward T 2,240 SERIES

“What do you want in return?”

The fae’s smile was anything but reassuring. “Oh, nothing you will miss. Nothing you have ever wanted. I only ask for your first child.”

His Bard, Eternal EX 3,678

Geralt is just about to Kaer Morhen with Ciri when he comes across a village that desperately needs his help. He continues taking Ciri to Kaer Morhen so she is safe before turning back to take the job offer. There, he comes across a familiar bard that he had not seen since the dragon hunt with Borch. Can he make things better? Is Jaskier willing to forgive him? Find out here!

Make Them Hear You M 2,514 SERIES

The first year Jaskier goes to Kaer Morhen, he's struck almost dumb by the pain of the keep, the losses it's seen, and the cries of the land. There's little he can do to help, but what little he can, he will.

Thomas The Rhymer T 37,401

Jaskier, heartbroken and banished from his Witcher's side, finds himself employed by the Fae Queen for seven years. In return for teaching music lessons and performing for guests of the Seelie Court, she promises the bard a longer life, knowledge of the Faerie Tongue, and an escape from the pain that haunts his shattered mortal heart. After seven years of searching the world over for his bard, Geralt stumbles upon a familiar face in a clearing. A man with cornflower blue eyes, wavy brown hair, slightly pointed ears, and absolutely no memory whatsoever of the White Wolf.

Iron Blood T

It’s inevitable that it would’ve happened, sooner or later. He’d imagined that it would be at the hands of some mercenary or a hunter, though. He presses his eyes closed, hissing against the smell of burning flesh as it tears through his throat. In which Jaskier pretends Geralt doesn't know anything, and Geralt tries to court a fae.

Love/Home/Heart T 34,851

Jaskier remembers his birth. Or rather he remembers his first breaths in this world. A woman, unrelated to him by blood but his mother all the same, pulls him wailing out of the ground. He feels her joy and the stench of old magic in the air, the… the knowledge is gone. Contrary to popular belief, thank you Lambert, Geralt was not stupid. As soon as he’d walked into the Tavern in Posada, he’d known something was different about the bard. After an encounter with a Djinn, Yennefer finds herself with a Fae indebted to her. They keep running into each other.

Fingertip Distance. NR

People didn’t like to touch Geralt unless it was for a purpose. To hand him coin so he could deal with a couple of pesky monsters, to try and best him in a fight, or to lay with him for a night after they’ve been paid. People didn’t like touching Geralt, but Jaskier isn’t people. Jaskier touches him all the time, when he’s drunk and trying to regain his balance, when he’s tired and needs someone to lean on, when he needs Geralt’s attention he will press his fingertips to Geralt’s elbow. And Geralt? He finds himself fixating on those fingertips. Yennefer has warned him, told him that his control wasn’t as good as he thought it was, but as Jaskier stares at him, wide eyed and open mouthed Geralt can only hide his head in shame and blame the summer heat. For all the times Jaskier might have touched him, this is the first time Geralt reciprocated.

Escaped My T 17,005

Jaskier followed Geralts wish, of course he would grant his friends' one final request to leave. Jaskier was done with singing, after all his friend hadn't thought much of it, instead used his silver tongue for other things- much less honourable things. What did it matter Geralt was gone anyway so no one could tell him to stop.

His Name Means Air T 7,062 SERIES

Always too loud and too bright, Jaskier believes that he’s a changeling. He also believes that if Geralt finds out, he’ll kill him.

Out Of The Night That Covers Me EX 37,820 SERIES

Jaskier has begrudgingly agreed to accompany Geralt to Kaer Morhen for the winter. He has not, however, agreed to being up front about his true nature. Meeting the family is stressful enough without the threat of a painful death.

You Wingless Thing M 26,650

So, Geralt saves the terrorizing for the actual noble lord, and makes himself as unthreatening as possible. Contrary to popular belief, he isn’t a savage, bloodthirsty beast, and he’d rather this boy not be raised under that falsehood - though, it’s likely no matter what Geralt does that he will.The boy’s voice stutters as he looks up at Geralt, words coming out too fast and heart beating rabbit-fast. “S-sir, Lord Erynd requests your presence.” Geralt gets a contract in a town called Eristan, but it turns out the only monster there is human.

The Price Of Wanting M

He hadn't the imagination to build a human from scratch at the time, when he decided that no other shape would truly suffice, so he acquired one in the grand tradition of his people. He had offered the mortal a trade, as one did, and in return for his aid, he was granted his name: Julian Alfred Pankratz.

#the witcher #fic rec #jaskier #long post

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stone-stars · 11 days ago

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here is a post with the lyrics for every song from lullabies for the wild side! (thanks to alli @operationslipperypuppet for transcribing half of these)

Serpent’s Serenade child, don't listen to their words you're not a monster no matter what you've heard you're everything i dreamed you'd be a miracle to me they don't get to tell you what you're worth

darling, you're native to the night so take these wings i gave you and take flight don't ever be ashamed of your claws, your bite, your strength they don't get to tell you who you are

honey, don't ever change a thing your fire breath, your many heads, your poison serpent sting just because they're afraid doesn't mean that you have strayed they don't even get to have a say

i can not give you their love but i can make you strong and brave and i can make you tough their swords and arrows cannot pierce the hide of one so proud, so fierce they don't get to tell you who you are

they tell you you're a prophecy but you're a possibility they don't get to tell you what to be and let them write their histories clinging to their legacies you and me, we know just what we're worth

The Moon’s Elegy Oh, how I love you, though you’ll never know. Anywhere I go I’m in your shadow. No, I will never find the nerve to broach, anywhere you go I will follow.

‘Cause we share a sky but I still can’t seem to catch your eye. And try as I might, I’m a pale reflection of your light. I tied my life to your chariot of fire— why? Oh, why?

And the prettiest nights are the ones I cry the most, teardrops turn to stars and start to glow. And an endless chase of your golden blaze I go, hiding just behind but all alone.

Cause we share a sky but I still can’t seem to catch your eye, and try as I might, I’m forever half a day behind. I crave your light like a moth to the fire— why? Oh, why?

And you burning brightly and me so blue, how can I get close to you? And you with your fire and me with my gloom, what’s a moon supposed to do when everyone wants to be with you? That’s why I’m so blue.

Ballad of a Green Knight Darling I can’t see you anymore, I’m afraid they’ve summoned me to war. Promises I have made to the Queen and to the Fae, and I intend to keep ‘em with my sword.

Darling if I never make it home to you I’ll visit you as butterflies and dew. In another place and time, I swear I would have made you mine But I have got a duty to strike true.

Green though I be, remember me, and who I could have been if we lived in peace. Married my blade to the fate of the Fae, traded my days for honor and fame.

Green be my steel, be my bow, be my shield, Pledged to defend the vine and the hedge. Remember me when the leaves, and the breeze, and the trees start to tease the first breath of spring.

I would’ve loved to pledge myself to you, but that is not the world that I was born into. A knight is always forged in the crucible of war, And that is what I gave my word to do.

So I will fight with all my verdant might, the blight of night will never dim my light. Though the memory of you makes me turn a shade of blue, a Green Knight has a duty to the Wild.

Green from my head, to my toes, ‘till my death Pledged to protect the vine and the hedge. Green is my blood, I’m sorry my love, remember us after I’m gone.

Oh, that I could be in love and be good, But I made an oath to the fields and the wood. So think of us all when the snow starts to fall, and though we may fall, the order lives on.

Darling, in another place and time I’d have been content to make you mine. And in the dream of death, I’ll dream the life I could have had if I hadn’t pledged myself to hedge and vine.

A Gloaming Lullabye In the gloaming of the night court, the queen calls you to sleep, she blankets you with moonbeams, she beckons you with dreams. So surrender to her majesty, and heed the queen’s decree, she’ll swaddle you in starlight and beguile you with peace.

So meet me in your dreams and we will never be apart. I promise I will find you in the shadows and the dark. The day is gone, the nights are long, and this is just the start. So meet me in between the moon, the galaxies, and stars.

As the scene begins to set, the queen collects her debts. She comes to you with heavy lids to tuck you into bed. As the day turns into night, the queen demands a tithe, you cannot run, you cannot hide, but you can close your eyes.

So meet me in your dreams and we will dance across the sky, a minuet, our heart’s duet, a tango improvised. And who’s to say what lays in wait when day turns into night, so look for me in your dreams, I promise so will I.

And when the sun returns, we’ll savor all we learned; the tutelage of dreams, the alchemy of sleep. And if we spent our dreams in pleasant company, then you will wake in harmony.

So meet me in your dreams, cause I can’t get enough of you. I’ll climb the stars, I’ll scale the moon, there’s nothing I won’t do. And when we meet in sleep so deep, I think that you will find, the day is nice, but nothing beats the night. The days are nice but, oh my god, the nights.

Winter’s Mantle Winter’s Mantle, heavy with fur and snow Icy, still, until the north wind blows Frost on the panes, darkness pervades, rest my pretty babe

Flowers grown shy, dirges and lullabies

Rest, my darling, there’s no work to do Sleep, my child, night is calling you

Sunlight estranged, darkness remains, rest my pretty babe Flowers grown shy, dirges and lullabies

The Giant’s Lover gather round the giantess, beaming with tale to tell listen as she weaves her web of a lover that did excel, small though he was, the way that he loved was enormous stature be damned, he was two times the man that a giant was

met him down in irondeep, sailor of sky and sheet navigated expertly her every last giant need never before had a lover performed like this tour de force titans and ogres rendered mediocre by this tall dwarf

small folk, big fun, sure-foot, hard-won giant lover like no other thick of quad, colossal heart, his size belies a huge surprise

so she waits by window side, dreaming of his return never to be satisfied, inside her his memory burns smallfolk take heed, this tall dwarf has pleased with enormity a small folk she met but a titan she wept for when hardwon left

#naddpod #ba2mia #technically? technically it's ba2mia #emily axford #naddmusic tag #is the punctuation/capitalization on these consistent? no.#am i fixing it? no.

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see-arcane · 3 months ago

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Giving your annoyance with sad fuckboy versions of Dracula, If you were to do a Carmilla adaptation, would your take of the titular character lean more towards the "sympathetic/tragic" or "monstrous" direction?

It could lean either way with Carmilla, I think. It's like that trick of changing a person's face in a photo depending on what angle the light is coming from.

Is Carmilla genuinely infatuated with Laura beyond the clockwork craving that has led her to court and kill other girls in the past, finally craving love along with blood for the first time in her long undead existence? If only she won Laura, she might take a turn for the better! It is not her fault, really, she was preyed upon too! Her maker did not stay for her, did not give her aid; she had to scramble to carve out this damned existence all on her own...

Or is this a case similar to "The Vampyre," where, like Lord Ruthven, Carmilla (Millarca, Mircalla, et cetera) is only out to feign romance, use up the latest victim, discard the corpse, and move on to the next target with no care as to whether Laura rises as fellow undead or not?

Or could it be a mingling of the two? A reveling monster who craves better company than the human cohorts who help her slip into the houses of her victims. Perhaps Laura touches on something in Carmilla that makes her think, Yes. Yes. This one is mine. This one I keep. Come kill with me, Laura. We shall have so much blood to swim in... (All those foreshadowing dreams have to mean something, after all.)

It could spin all kinds of ways. I love a tragic vampire who has an actual foundation of tragedy to work from, just as I love mean hot vampire ladies who like to go out and bite and murder and marinate in blood bath coffins because yes.

What I think would be really interesting is filling out some of the empty places in the narrative and taking a look at this missing vampire who came along and chomped Carmilla back when she was Mircalla, as well as examining the possible Fae rules about always having (?) to use her own name for aliases. And also, who the hell are the human cohorts? Why are they such good actors? What's the deal with your whole situation Carmilla??

And are you really gone or is Laura's epilogue a hint at something meatier?

Sure would be nice to have a cool gothic horroromance adaptation to find out with! [Glares a hole through Hollywood 👁️👁️]

#looking forward to the Re: Dracula crew's rendition at least #I trust you friends #carmilla

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casuallivi · 4 months ago

Text

Trying

It's ironic, she thinks. That they now have time and money to simply be. Young ladies whose bellies are full and beds are warms. Beds. One for each of them. One to no longer be shared with starved spiteful sister fighting for a ragged sheet. And a child. A fae child born out of love and brought back to life by it. And at night, when he cries for his mother, she's not usually the first to get to him. You see, it causes a terrible competition to have a young adorable faeborn in a house where people barely sleep. Not people. Not anymore. That's what their nightmares are usually about. Killing the innocent in order to not be killed, her own hand raising the knife to protect a male she thought she'd love forever. Dirty hands dragging their asleep bodies out of bed, putrid breaths and horrible laughs drowning their screams. The feeling of dying for the first time. Such a violent death the only thing left of you is a tether to the other half of your soul. The feeling of dying and having no tether at all. A death that makes you realize there are darker paths to walk than the ones of life and death. Your human body boiling and purged out of existence. Replaced by perfection and immortality you never craved to beging with. Drowning in murky water with the promise of revenge trapped in your lips, a harsh slap silencing the pointed finger that refused to go. The cold hilt of blade meeting the hands that swore never to dwell in violence like the man who left her. Still, she dove that blade to a male's throat. Straight to the hilt. Blood spurting at her face, her neck, her dress. Standing and watching as the other beheaded him, never straining her eyes from the dead ones which would soon be recurrent in her nightmares. Nightmares that warrant the newly changed females are probably awake when the calling comes. So they go when he cries. A crying full of life and need. A cry for the living. A cry for the ones who are not doing awfully well. But are trying. Very, very, very hard.

#elain archeron #feyre archeron #nesta archeron #elain #nyx archeron #acotar #archeron sisters #feyre #nesta #mood board #snippets of another realm #my writing

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the-lonelybarricade · 10 months ago

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The Other Side Of The Apocalypse

What would you trade the pain for?

Summary: One last grand adventure. Rhysand had promised his father that after this final journey, he would take a wife and resign himself to inheriting his title. As it turned out, Rhysand had other plans, and so did the huntress he'd encountered in the village.

Note: If you've missed Rhys being dumb and horny, then @separatist-apologist and I have a treat for you!

Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter・Masterlist

Chapter 6/10: Hurricane Heat In My Head

The chains returned to Rhysand in his sleep.

He knew, even as he thrashed against them, that they were not real. Suspended in darkness with no beginning and no end, there was only Rhysand and the icy slither of those chains, constricting around him like serpents of black, heavy stone.

They bit into his skin, drawing lacerations across his biceps, his thighs, his chest, and as he screamed into the oblivion that held him, there was no response. Not even the echo of his own pain.

Blood welled and dripped from his wounds. It was the only color he could see—a dark, foreboding red. The same that rippled in wine and glinted jewels. The color of sharp nails and long, draping hair. Where had he seen something like that before? He swore he could hear sinister laughter on the cusp of his memory, a phantom of a woman with a cruel smile.

She was not real. This place, these chains. None of it was real.

Except for the fear. He could feel it pulsing through him—a second, rampant heartbeat, as if he’d swallowed a war drum that rallied every dormant instinct inside him. Their singular cry pumped through his blood until it leaked out through his wounds, whimpering: Run. Run.

RUN.

Rhysand sat up in bed, gasping. Red light leaked over the horizon, spilling onto the sky and snow in both directions, warmer and altogether gentler than the scarlet that invaded his dreams, but… He placed a hand on his thundering chest, calling for it to still the way he might soothe a spooked stallion.

He was reminded of the stories he’d heard in childhood of men who wandered into Prythian only to be driven to madness. Was this how the minds of those men began to deteriorate? It was dreadful to think that a sunset could unnerve his unconscious mind so greatly. But he couldn’t deny he was apprehensive. A new court awaited him, and he could only assume its dangers were more perilous than the last.

This could be my last sunrise, he thought. He rubbed at his naked chest, absently tracing the whorls of ink and the dread he felt roiling beneath them. He wished, not for the first time, that Feyre hadn’t slept in a different room.

At least then, Rhys could have faced death knowing he’d had the chance to wake up beside her without the fear that one of them was dying. He resolved he would survive this next Court just to have that pleasure. He wouldn’t die without kissing her.

If nothing else, the Mother owed him that much.

He bathed and dressed, rueful that Feyre wasn’t there to taunt him all the while. Privacy was all he’d craved at the start of their journey—was one night apart really all it took? It was absurd and yet he was so agitated that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Where she was, how she slept, if she was awake… if she had company.

The thought struck him violently, causing Rhys to shut his door with too much force as he slipped out of his room. A servant at the end of the hall gasped and dropped their tray of neatly folded bedding.

“Shit, I’m s—“

Their snow-white hair disappeared around the corner, fleeing the hall before he could finish his apology. That was another strange thing. Faeries wary of a human. Rhys supposed he had killed two of their High Lords, the most powerful fae in their lands. He had the marks to prove it, though they were hidden beneath his layers of fur-trimmed clothing.

He was reminded of his sister’s shrill cry whenever a spider had the misfortune of crossing her path.

Rhys! Kill it! Kill it!

They were such small, feeble creatures compared to the size and might of a human. He used to tease her for it.

What are you afraid it’s going to do? Eat you?

But he would always kill them anyway. Because she was scared, and he loved her, and he knew no matter how meager the threat, he’d quell it to soothe her fear.

Tarquin, Kallias, even Eris. They seemed to love their people.

He might survive Dawn, Day, and Night. He might very well liberate all seven Courts. But he knew, as he kicked the servant’s fallen silver tray aside and watched light streak off its surface, that he would not be returning to the mortal lands. Either a monster would kill him, or…

Feyre. He needed to see Feyre and talk to her about all of this. The need gripped him like a fist around his chest. He couldn’t breathe as it pulled him, some vestige of that infernal chain, begging him to find her, to see her, to ensure she was safe.

From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, he’d felt an inexplicable urge to protect her. But it was worse now, after almost losing her. He knew the glaze of her eyes slipping from the world, and he would do anything to never witness that horror again. He also knew that if he revealed any of this to her, she’d gut him for assuming she needed anyone’s protection.

Rhys stopped outside the front hall, taking a moment to compose himself. The corridor was empty, and apart from the faint torrent of wind clawing at the palace’s bastioned exterior, his beating heart was the only sound.

Then, voices. Distant at first. But in the great, open hall, they carried to him easily.

“I just think we should give him more time before the Solar Courts.”

His heart rate quickened. That was Feyre’s voice, tense and limned in such rare candor that he couldn’t resist ducking through one of the many doors lining the hallway.

A deep, rumbling voice drifted through the thin gap Rhys left in the door. “More time for what, exactly?”

Cassian.

“To rest. We almost died in Winter—I almost died. He’s… we’ve both been through a lot. He needs time to restore his strength.”

Cassian’s voice was gentle if a little prying. “Or maybe you need time. What’s troubling you, Fey?”

“Nothing.”

Liar. Rhys could perfectly imagine the stubborn set to her jaw, the way she squared her shoulders and raised her chin in defiance. But there was no hiding the strain in her voice.

“He’s gotten this far,” Cassian reasoned. “I talked to him last night, and I swore I could feel the spirit of Enalius standing over his shoulder. He’s going to make it through all seven Courts. I can feel it.”

Silence hung in the air.

“Unless…” The word rumbled through the corridor. “That’s exactly what you’re afraid of.”

Feyre’s voice was hoarse. “Cass—“

“We need him, Feyre. He’s our only shot at freeing Nes—“Cassian’s voice cracked. He took a moment to clear his throat. “He’s the only one who can free them, Feyre.”

“I know.” She sounded miserable. “And that’s why I just think we should just give him time—“

“I don’t need time.”

They both turned as Rhys pushed through the door. Cassian raised a brow towards the study Rhys departed, looking uncertain whether to be angry or amused that he’d been eavesdropping.

Feyre was staring at him, looking exactly as stubborn and defiant as he’d imagined. He thought the thing lashing in his chest would settle at the sight of her, but it only pulled harder, twining so tightly that he thought he couldn’t breathe as those starry eyes dressed him down and narrowed to crescents. Her pretty, bow-shaped lips were pursed just enough that he thought he could kiss her scowl away if she let him close enough to try.

He mirrored her crossed arms in an attempt to reign himself in, and said with a cocky grin, “That was the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. I’m ready to take on anything those High Lord bastards throw at us.”

It’s okay, he wanted to tell her. I already know they won’t let me live by the end of this. At least let me save your sisters.

Feyre pressed her lips flat together. Sadness flickered in her eyes, so brief he would have thought he imagined it had his heart not plummeted in tandem. He knew that grief. He still choked on it whenever he passed the ribbons shop in the village, confronted with the unbidden memory of crouching on a lowered stool, braiding satin through his sister’s hair until his back was stiff. The years could muddy the details—the colors of the ribbons and the words they exchanged in those long hours—but never the pain.

Rhysand dropped his arms, intending to comfort her, but whatever sadness had been in her eyes vanished. Only cold, glittering calm remained.

“If you’re ready, then there’s no sense wasting time.”

In reality, he would have very much liked that time with Feyre. Even just a day to know her without the threat of dying. But he would not be the one responsible for losing her sisters. He would do anything in his power if she could escape that grief.

“Let’s go,” he agreed.

Cassian punched a hand into his palm. “I hope it’s another beast,” he said, with an excitement neither of the humans in his company shared. “I’ve been itching to get back in action.”

They stayed long enough to have breakfast, a bountiful spread of hot and cold dishes presented to them in the High Lord’s personal dining room. Cassian helped himself to a sizable portion of each dish: smoked fish, pickled vegetables, fresh bread, and a collection of cheeses, each more potent than the last.

Rhysand ate a bit of the fish and bread in the interest of keeping up his strength, though he didn’t have much of an appetite. The gods knew what horrors he would face in Dawn and whether he’d even be able to hang on to his breakfast by the end of it. Feyre seemed in an equally sullen mood, pushing her food around her plate without saying much of anything to anyone.

Kallias seemed relieved to see them go and consequently was more than happy to winnow them to the door to Winter. The blizzarding snow had carried away any evidence of the creature they’d disemboweled. But Rhys could still hear Feyre’s scream against the wind, and he remembered the way her body crumpled against the pine tree, how the beast’s blood warmed his clothes.

She was fine now, squinting against the winter onslaught, her cheeks a bright, healthy color thanks to the benefit of warm clothes and fae healers. Even so, Rhys prompted her to enter the tunnel first, prepared to withstand the blow of any winter beast that wandered by.

There was only Kallias, his fair skin and lighter hair nearly blending into the Winter landscape at his back.

“Thank you for helping my Court,” he said, fisting a hand over his heart. He bowed low enough to make Rhys feel unsettled.

“Thanks for hosting us.”

It didn’t feel like an equivalent debt, but Rhys was unsure what else to say.

Kallias raised to his full height. “Good luck in the Solar Courts.”

You will need it was an unspoken addition, though expressed nonetheless in his grim smile. He nodded farewell to each of them, then vanished in a flurry of ice crystals.

“Shut the door,” Cassian complained. “It’s fucking freezing.”

Rhysand didn’t need to be told twice. He was happy to say goodbye to this Hell-sent Court and never look back.

“What were you doing in Winter, anyway?” He asked with a grunt as he hauled the stone door shut.

The howling wind immediately seized. Rhys blinked against the sudden darkness, taking in the vague, hulking shape of Cassian and Feyre’s much slighter shadow just a step away. It was a ridiculous impulse, but he found himself reaching out to press his palm to the small of her back. He considered it a victory that she didn’t immediately flinch away.

It was cold enough that Cassian’s sigh expelled a cloud of air in front of him. “Azriel and I were on reconnaissance, searching for… a cure. We got trapped in Winter when the borders closed.”

Rhysand frowned. “A cure for what?”

Against his palm, he could feel Feyre tense.

Cassian stared hard down the tunnel. At his side, his hands turned into fists so tight that the brown skin over his knuckles turned pale. “These seals you’re destroying, it’s true that their magic impacts the wellbeing of each of the Courts, but their true purpose was precautionary; to prevent us from lifting the curse placed on the Night Court.”

“And the curse—”

“Enough.” Feyre’s voice sliced through the tunnel. Cold and authoritarian in a way that sent a perverse thrill down Rhysand’s spine.

He didn’t have time to linger in the fantasy of how Feyre might use that voice in the bedroom before she was striding down the hall, each step reverberating against the stone walls.

Cassian winced before pitching his voice in a whisper, “Tread carefully bringing the curse up around her. Tamlin’s the bastard who betrayed all of us, but Feyre… She feels responsible for what happened to the Night Court. To her sisters.”

“I wish she told me,” Rhys said, watching her retreating figure with open dismay. Cassian offered a wry smile, clapping a sympathetic hand on Rhysand’s shoulder before he turned to catch up with Feyre.

Every time Rhys was starting to feel like he knew her, he uncovered a new layer of secrecy. He felt as if he were perpetually wiping the fog away from a mirror and it was beginning to feel doubtful that he would ever see a clear image of who Feyre Archeron was.

He only gave himself a moment to dwell on it. Then he was jogging to catch up with Feyre and Cassian, determined to be the first to step through the Cauldron-damned door this time.

In an effort to return to some sort of normalcy, he asked, “No Eris to wave us off before the next Court?”

Cassian snickered. “I doubt Eris will be leaving his quarters for at least a week.”

“A week?” Feyre snorted. “If Az has any say, it will be months before we see Eris again.”

“Doesn’t he have a court to run?”

Cassian and Feyre shared a look. It was the sort of mutual understanding that could only be found through years of knowing another person. Rhys resisted the urge to ask, but the question burned his tongue. How long has Feyre’s life been intertwined with Prythian?

“You have no idea what it’s like,” Cassian said, finally. A shadow passed over his features. “To be separated from your mate for that long… it’s enough to drive even someone like Eris Vanserra to extremes.”

“Mate?”

Rhysand could guess what that meant. The way that animals found mates. But there was a reverence to the way Cassian said the word that gave him pause.

“A mating bond is the deepest connection you can have with another living soul. They’re your perfect match, your equal in every way. A bond more significant than any vow, even marriage.”

“I see.”

“I doubt it,” Cassian said, not unkindly. “You think you understand it, but…” He shook his head, a far-off look in his eyes. “It’s not until you feel it snap. Until one look at them brings you to your knees. Your entire world, reoriented to their gravity.”

Rhysand was putting everything together too slowly. “Nesta’s your mate.”

There was a strange mixture of grief and pride on his face as Cassian nodded. Rhysand didn’t have the courage to ask if that meant Feyre had a mate, too. Had it been Tamlin? He knew his glance towards her was anything but subtle.

Feyre was glaring ahead, the door to the Dawn Court now in view. It was carved from bright red stone, light spilling from its gaps as though it were single-handedly holding back the might of the sun.

“Are you ready?” Feyre asked, to no one in particular.

Rhys stepped forward, placing his palms against the smooth stone. It was surprisingly warm to the touch. He heaved the stone forward, exposing the tunnel to the torrent of red light waiting impatiently on the other side.

Squinting against the brightness, Rhysand’s hand fell to his sword, readying for another beast. There weren’t any tell-tale signs. No distant roaring or eerie quiet. He expected they would find themselves in another isolated area separate from the rest of the Court. But in fact, as Rhysand’s eyes adjusted, he found himself staring at the deck of a lowered drawbridge. Two guards stood on either side of the gatehouse, wearing royal red and gold livery.

The doors were open on the other side of the iron gate, revealing the fae milling about their day through the gaps in the latticework. The first thing he noticed was the flood of warm, humid air. Not quite as smothering as it had been in the Summer Court, but oppressive enough that he was already sweating in his fur-lined clothes.

After enduring the extreme weather in each of the seasonal courts, Rhysand had nearly forgotten that the Mortal Lands were in the peak of summer when he and Feyre left. Was Dawn also in summer eternal, or was it aligned with the changing seasons of the human realm?

Rhys angled his head toward the sky, marveling at the scarlet clouds that domed over the land in every direction, betraying not a single sliver of blue. Rhys was certain it had been midday when they left Winter, but he couldn’t discern if the sun was somewhere behind the glowing red haze or if it was still nestled beyond the horizon. He supposed that if seasons were eternal in the previous courts, then in the Dawn Court, it must always be sunrise.

Feyre was frowning at the sky, too. He might have studied the oddity longer had his interest not fixed on the way the red light painted her skin the most alluring shade of pink. Like him, she must have been overheating in the Winter clothes. He could see sweat shining at her temple, giving the impression she was glowing. And with her neck arched upwards, practically in invitation, he thought it would be all too easy to lean forward and trace the column of her throat with his tongue.

The only thing stopping him was the pair of guards quickly moving towards them. The blade strapped to her hip might have also been a deterrent, but he found he minded the idea of Feyre pulling a knife on him less and less.

She cast him a quick glance as the guards approached, one that read, Step away and keep your mouth shut.

As the guards stumbled to a halt midway across the bridge, Rhysand noticed they seemed a bit… frazzled. With the borders newly opened, he imagined they were among the first visitors that Dawn had received in years. Humans, no less.

“Feyre Archeron,” one of them said, with what Rhys thought might have been awe.

They ought to be awed at the sight of her. A firestorm of a human woman swallowed in white furs and staring down two armed faeries as though she had nothing to fear.

She tipped her chin. “Tell Thesan that the Cursebreaker is here.”

“The High Lord is expecting you already,” the guard answered. He shouted over his shoulder at the guards in the gatehouse.

A small commotion flitted through the slit windows of the barbican above the gateway, followed by the clink and drag of chains. The metal grating lurched, and Rhysand flinched at the screeching sound of stone scraping together as the golden gate ascended into the tower above. How the guardsmen could stand the noise with their fae hearing was a mystery.

The guard gestured them forward with a jerk of his chin. “The captain will escort you to the palace.”

Great, Rhysand thought upon seeing the male in golden armor, already waiting for them on the other side of the gatehouse. Another handsome faerie staring at Feyre like she was his next meal. Rhys found himself drifting closer to her as they walked through the gates, prepared to draw his sword if the faerie’s smile proved deceitful. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Cassian hide a smirk.

“Oryn,” Feyre said with a smile that erred closer to politeness than familiarity. This wasn’t someone she knew well, at least. “Thank you for coming to meet us.”

The male’s wings shifted, tucking closer to his body. Unlike the wings Cassian and Azriel bore, Oryn’s were more avian in nature, feathered and shaped like a white dove’s. “I wish we were meeting under better terms, Cursebreaker.”

Feyre’s eyes drifted back toward the red clouds above. “The sky—”

“We’ll discuss it once we’re in the palace.”

Rhysand wanted to snap at the male for interrupting her, but Feyre chose to simply nod her head and press her lips together. She kept her eyes on the red mist above, cautious. As if she suspected a rift would open at any moment and present some horrible creature for them to slay. Rhys flexed his fingers above his sword. He trusted Feyre’s instincts. If she sensed something was wrong, he knew better than to question it.

The captain led them through a series of narrow pink-stoned streets. They were built on a steep incline and boarded on either side by red-roofed buildings. Some billowed smoke into the sky from their chimneys, and Rhys watched as the white clouds rose into the sky above, only to turn a foreboding scarlet color the moment it breached the layer of mist.

He stepped closer to Feyre and murmured to her, “I take it the sky isn’t usually red.”

“The Solar Courts adhere to the laws of nature,” Feyre said back, a certain tightness to her voice that sent warning bells blaring in his head. “The High Lords can’t control the sun’s path or strength. The Courts observe day and night the same as the human realm.”

Rhys exhaled a deep breath. “Please don’t tell me we have to fight something in the sky.”

Cassian, who had clearly been listening in, cut them a wolfish grin and flexed the batlike wings towering over his shoulder. “It’s a good thing you brought me along. Illyrians specialize in aerial combat.”

It was difficult to feel soothed by that fact when all Rhys could picture was needing to be cradled by one of the winged fae while he battled some beast on wings. Hardly the dashing heroics he’d want to recount to an audience once this was all over.

Feyre pursed her lips. She was scanning the city as they passed, tracking each of the fae that quickly moved aside, giving their retinue a wide berth. He noticed some High Fae, like Eris and Tarquin, but the far majority of them were lesser fae, sporting the same feathered wings as Oryn. Feyre didn’t say anything, but he practically heard the observation she was making—for a city filled with winged people, it was strange that there was not a single person in the sky.

Especially when the route to the palace proved to be rather… intensive.

“You’re kidding me.”

They stopped at the entryway to the palace: a double set of doors with stairs that spiraled up, up, up into the towering mountainside. Rhys craned his head to trace the towers and spires that rose high into the mountain, so tall that their peaks disappeared into the red mist.

Cassian let out a low whistle. “And I thought the steps to the House of Wind were brutal.”

“The great Illyrian warrior, felled by a few thousand stairs?” Feyre teased.

A few thousand was putting it lightly. Suddenly, Rhys missed Eris’s abrasive winnowing tactics.

Oryn grimaced. “We are a flying people, and as such, we have built a great deal of architecture above the clouds.”

Cassian eyed the captain’s wings, “And we can’t fly them up because…?”

The captain made no effort to hide his grief as he answered, “Because flying is forbidden.”

The red stones on Cassian’s gloves sparked and flickered, a mirror to the outrage blazing in his eyes. His chest puffed, and he took a deep breath as though he were about to demand an explanation when Feyre pressed a palm to his shoulder. It was remarkable to watch—how that small, simple touch from a human girl somehow managed to reign in the fury of an ancient fae warrior. Again, Cassian looked at her, a million things exchanged between them in that short glance.

He huffed, tucking in his wings as he strode towards the staircase. “Good thing I had a big breakfast.”

Rhysand supposed now was as good a time as any to begin disrobing. Perhaps it made him incivil as a visitor to this court, but if he was going to climb up an entire damned mountain, there was no way he was doing it covered in heavy fur. He was coated in sweat from just the walk.

“Really?” Feyre placed her hands on her hips as he pulled the parka over his head and discarded it on the ground. “You’re doing that here?”

“Were you hoping I would wait until I was in your bedroom?”

Over her shoulder, Cassian placed a hand over his mouth from where he’d turned to wait for them.

The blue in Feyre’s eyes was muted under the red light, turning them more gray than usual, but just as piercing. Rhysand held his breath as her gaze raked over his exposed skin, from the planes of his muscular chest, down his corded abdomen, to the slant of his hips, where he noticed her eyes track the path of hair that disappeared under his waistband. And lingered.

Rhys wanted to make a joke, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He was still overwarm from the Winter clothes, and it wasn’t helping that Feyre was staring at him that way—as if she were debating dragging him into the nearest dark alcove to put her lips where her eyes were. It wasn’t a bad idea. He wouldn’t mind pushing Feyre against the stone wall and tangling her hair around his fist. Heat itched up his skin at the fantasy. It felt keenly as though he were back in the Autumn Court, confronting the firebreath of a dragon. Except then, his trousers hadn’t been so tight.

Finally, Feyre composed herself enough to twist her face into a scowl. He knew it was all for show. Her irritation didn’t pass any deeper than the surface of her features, and beneath it… beneath it, he thought she might have felt a kernel of the desperate, burning wanting that was flooding through him.

She said cooly, “I think I’ll save my bedroom invitations for men who know how to conduct themselves appropriately.”

“And you’re determined to climb all those stairs dressed like that?”

He eyed the fur trim of her parka, the excessive padding insulating her thighs and hips. It was impossible. She would overheat and leave one of them dragging her the rest of the way. Feyre crossed her arms, determined to make this as difficult as possible.

“Don’t be stubborn,” he snapped. “I’m not in the mood to spend another day hauling you over my shoulder.”

“And here I thought you came to my gallant rescue,” she mocked. “No wonder you’re chasing after a bedroom invitation. It seems you can only undress women when clothing is an obstacle to survival.”

Rhysand cocked his head. “Do you want to wager on that, Feyre?”

He would bet there were a decent number of women in this Court who would be interested in the novelty of bedding a human male. And if catching their attention could make Feyre jealous, even better.

“Are you two done bickering?” Cassian was leaning against the archway to the great stairwell, a slit brow raised. “Or should I do this savior of Prythian thing on my own?”

A few steps away, Oryn muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, my thoughts exactly.

With a glare in Rhsand’s direction, Feyre stripped to her underlayers. He was used to the chemises and stays of the mortal realm—tight, restrictive underclothing that anticipated women wouldn’t be completing feats much more exciting than having children and keeping a nice household. Clearly, things were different in Prythian. Feyre wore a panel of fabric that wound around her chest, encapsulating and binding her breasts. The fabric knotted at the back of her neck, tight enough to keep her breasts slightly suspended. It was an effort not to stare, particularly as he noticed the sweat gleaming on her collarbone.

“Satisfied?” She demanded.

Not nearly. Not until he had the chance to run his mouth over every inch of her bare skin.

The hunger must have been plain on Rhysand’s face because Cassian warned him, “I wouldn’t answer that truthfully.”

Feyre only scowled and brushed past both of them, the first to take the stairs behind Oryn. Rhysand’s intention for darting in front of Cassian was hardly subtle; he wanted to be the one directly behind Feyre. Partly in case something happened and she truly did need his help, but also because it meant her ass was directly in his field of vision and he had a penchant for torturing himself.

The novelty only lasted until his muscles started groaning. Up and up, around and around. The stairway spiraled on and on, its monotony broken only by the colorful medley of arched windows through which he could see the city they’d emerged from, growing smaller and smaller as they ascended. The constant circles were beginning to make his head spin. Never mind the sweat he could feel collecting in every crevice of his body.

Through it all, Feyre carried herself as composed and seemingly unbothered as ever. Except Rhys could see the way her braid clung to her neck, and if he held his panting back long enough, he could hear her sharp little breaths that said she was winded, too. He was fascinated, and he passed the time thinking how much he would enjoy the sound of that breathing while she lay under him. What other sounds could he draw out of her?

They climbed on like that, no one wasting breath on talking, for what felt like hours. The scarlet mist obscured the sun and any chance of telling the time, but soon, the sounds and sights of the city disappeared entirely. They were high enough, now, that Rhys could see the adjacent wilted countryside and the long, winding river coaxing through it. Should one of them grow clumsy and tumble out one of the rose-tinted windows, at least they’d have quite the sight to behold while they fell to their death.

Above them, the dark red sky drew larger and nearer.

Finally, they reached an open-air chamber full of fat, silk pillows and plush carpets. A large fountain gurgled at its center, pushing out clear water that arched and fell into the pool below, sending ripples across the red sky reflected on its surface. At that moment, all Rhys wanted was to cup the precious liquid into his hands and douse it over his head.

A High Fae male stepped through the large door on the other side of the chamber. The wisteria draping the doorway swayed as the male glided past on soft embroidered shoes. His tunic was tight-fitting around his slender chest, but his pants were loose and flowing. He bore a smile that crinkled the brown skin around his upswept eyes.

Warm, Rhys thought as he looked at the male. He had the warmest eyes he thought he’d ever seen, the kind that begged him to trust the stranger, though he hadn’t spoken a single word.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice as rich and deep as his brown eyes. “I am Thesan, High Lord of the Dawn Court. Though most of you are already familiar.”

Oryn immediately detached from their group to join Thesan at his side. If the male was winded from their ascent, he hardly showed it. Thesan’s gaze slanted towards the captain for only a moment, but Rhys caught the open affection in the High Lord’s eyes. Thesan reached out his hand, the tension in his body loosening the slightest bit when Oryn threaded their fingers together.

Not just the captain of the guard, then, but also the High Lord’s consort. Mate, perhaps, though Rhys wasn’t certain how to identify such things.

“Thank you for receiving us,” Feyre said. Behind them, Cassian bowed his head respectfully at the High Lord, though Rhys noted that Feyre did not. So in turn, neither did he.

Thesan raised his brows at the impertinence. Rhysand saw no reason why he and Feyre should bow and scrape to adhere to their customs. If they were going to be made to climb up a whole damn mountain to free Thesan’s Court, they at least deserved equal respect. Equal footing.

Even if their current state of dress was admittedly pitiful.

“Thanks,” Rhysand echoed. His breath was still ragged from the climb, and he resisted the urge to wipe away a bead of sweat as he felt it trail down his chest. “Your home is lovely. It’s a shame so few can behold its grandeur, what with the deterrent of those stairs. Or is their ascent a pleasure you save uniquely for your most favored guests?”

He expected Feyre might have thrown an elbow in his side for being uncouth, but she merely turned her head to look at him, something unreadable in her eyes. Her braid was damp from sweat, and the short cropping of hair she wore across her forehead was mussed, the pieces clumped and sticking in places that he knew must be driving her mad, though he thought she’d never looked more beautiful. The observation struck him so acutely that he quickly glanced away, before he was tempted to do something foolish.

Thesan, on the other hand, looked distinctly amused. “This is my private residence,” he said, his voice betraying none of the usual guardedness of the fae. He seemed earnest, this High Lord. A bit like Tarquin but… wiser, Rhys sensed. Someone who had walked on this earth far, far longer than Rhysand’s twenty-odd years and saw no reason to rise to a human’s barbed words. “The deterrent of those stairs is intentional, as it were. I find it limits the risk of surprise visitors.”

There was a story behind that knowing smile, of the times when surprise visitors might have attempted to enter the palace without explicit invitation. Maybe there were a thousand stories, some humorous and some grim. The High Lord of Dawn looked as though he were reflecting on them all as he turned his brown eyes towards the sight of the sprawling Court below, peaking between the marble arches of the open chamber.

And above it all, the red sky loomed like the most peculiar storm cloud. Thesan assessed that, too, and then released an aggrieved sigh. “I do apologize for the exertion. My invited guests do not usually need to climb so many stairs—most can winnow or fly, and my palace boasts the most remarkable moving platform for those who can do neither. However, it’s operated in one of my highest towers, which has become… inaccessible, of late.”

Rhysand narrowed his eyes. “How so?”

“I’m certain the red sky hasn’t escaped your notice,” Thesan said with a frown. “It originates from this palace. From an enchanted lotus, gifted to me by a friend. Or who I once regarded as one. It sits in our highest tower and is responsible for this fog that has plagued our sky.”

“And this… fog,” Feyre ventured. Rhys was trying very hard not to look at her. “Is it dangerous?”

“Yes,” Oryn answered. He was standing at Thesan’s shoulder, still holding his lover’s hand. His expression darkened with a grief that Rhys felt he had no right to be witnessing. “Peregryns have been dropping from the sky since the day it arrived.” He tucked his wings in tighter. “Skilled flyers, suddenly plummeting to their deaths. We’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Is it poison?” Cassian asked. “If they were incapacitated—”

Oryn shook his head. “We have not ruled out poison. But we know they were conscious as they fell. We could hear them—” his throat bobbed.” We could hear them screaming.”

“There were some we were able to save,” Thesan said. “Our best healers could find no damage to their wings, nor any trace of known poisons. It was their minds that seemed altered—agitated by sights and sounds that no one else could witness. We’ve yet to find a cure.”

Not many people in the mortal realm lived to old age, but some did. Some, like Rhysand’s grandfather, who had reached such a state of mental frailty that he could be in the same room and occupy a completely different reality. Often, it was one of a past life, from a time before the plague had taken Rhysand’s mother and sister. His grandfather would relive the grief of that discovery almost every day, before Rhysand and his father decided it was better to play along, to claim that his mother and sister were simply out in the village and would be returning soon.

Rhysand had long thought he’d prefer to die young on one of his beast-slaying adventures than to live to an age when his mind deteriorated so much that he could no longer remember the people he loved.

He was thinking of his grandfather and the ever-distant glaze in his eyes, as he asked, “It turns you mad?”

Thesan nodded, expression grim. “We believe it’s inhalation that causes the illness. Contact of the skin does not appear to trigger the same symptoms, or at least not immediately.”

And there was no cure.

Rhysand’s head spun, trying to think of a way to reach the seal without compromising his mind to do it.

It was Feyre who cut in, voice surprisingly rigid, “Thesan, I would appreciate if you allowed us some rest before we ponder this subject any further. Rhysand and I could do with a bath and a change of clothes.”

It was as though Thesan had only just noticed that they were both half-naked and coated in sweat. He tore his eyes away from the skyline and blinked, before scraping them over Feyre from head to toe. Rhysand tried not to twitch at the scrutiny.

“Of course,” Thesan said. He lifted a hand in the air and a small bell appeared, pinched between his fingers. He needed to only flick his wrist and ring it twice before a flock of attendants flooded in, each dressed in similar loose clothing of blushing pink and orange and gold. “Please show our guests to their rooms.”

Even Cassian breathed out a sigh of relief at the promise of a bath.

They were led through the lavish, winding halls of the palace, all of it carved from golden stone and boasting open views of the valleys and villages below. It was a beautiful, well-decorated maze. Rhysand did his best to track every turn they made past urns filled with flowers, pillow-bedecked alcoves, and elevated courtyards with roaming peacocks, but he wasn’t confident he’d be able to navigate through them on his own.

Eventually they came to a suite built around a lavish sitting area and private dining room. All of it was carved from the same golden stone, identical in color to the first rays of the sun bursting across the horizon. He surveyed the jewel-toned fabrics and cushions, the thick carpets, and the golden cages filled with birds of all shapes and sizes. He was begrudged to admit that this was the nicest Court he’d seen so far.

The attendants directed each of them to their allotted rooms. When Cassian eagerly pushed through the door to his, muttering something under his breath about polishing his swords, Rhys suspected Feyre would do the same. But she stayed, hand mired to the doorknob so she might escape at any moment.

But she stayed.

He hadn’t had a moment alone with her since she’d kissed his cheek. A million things ran through his head of what he wanted to—and wished—he could say to her, starting with how badly he wanted to invite her into his room so they could bathe together. With the way she was drinking in his bare chest, her cheeks the most maddening shade of pink, he thought there was a chance she wouldn’t say no.

Rhys opened his mouth to ask, but she interrupted him.

“You don’t need to break the seal today.”

He needed more than a moment to reel in the fantasy of lathering soap over her freckled shoulders. “I… What?”

“It doesn’t need to be today, or tomorrow. You can take your time. Enjoy the luxuries of this court and your freedom before…” She swallowed, unable to finish her thought. But he knew what she was going to say.

Before you go mad.

It was the first time he thought she’d ever truly acted concerned about him. He asked gently, “What about your sisters?”

Feyre angled her head, staring hard at one of the faelights over his shoulder, blinking like she was holding back tears. “My sisters are frozen in time,” she said. “Literally frozen. They can wait. It makes no difference to them.”

Another time, when she didn’t look like she was about to cry, he’d ask her what that meant. Frozen where? How?

“But it does to you,” he said. “And to Cassian.”

She shrugged. “Cassian’s immortal. He has nothing but time.”

Rhysand strode toward her and was grateful to see her hand slip from the doorknob. She pressed it to his chest before he could get too close, keeping him at a distance, but that was perfectly fine by him.

She didn’t act the demure lady about touching his bare chest, and he wouldn’t expect her to. Though he was pleasantly surprised to see the flush climbing up her throat, and to feel the subtle flex of her fingers as though marveling at the firmness of the muscle beneath her palms. He wanted to feel those calluses scrape the entire length of his chest. Fuck. He wanted to feel them against his cock.

But now wasn’t the time. And he tried to shake those thoughts away, even as Feyre’s breath hitched and he watched her next inhale expand the swell of her breasts, that entrancing flush growing a deeper shade.

Her lips parted, their offer so tempting that he reached to grip either side of the doorframe, holding himself back just as much as she was trying to do with that maddening hand on his chest.

Maybe now was the time for honesty.

“I’m not worried about losing my mind,” he said to her, his voice rough and low like he’d never heard it before. “I’ve already been losing my mind for every damn day I’ve spent on this journey. Feyre, I am losing it rapidly by the second.”

Her next breath shuddered out of her.

“It’s happening too fast,” she whispered. “I just want—”

All of his focus, his entire being, narrowed in on those perfect lips and the words she held back.

“You just want what?” He was practically begging now. “What is it that you want, Feyre?”

He knew what he wanted. He wanted it so badly he would give up his mind for it.

Feyre stayed silent. What he would give to be able to see into her mind, to just know one thing that she truly thought about him.

“How about a thought for a thought?” He tried. “You tell me one thing on your mind, and in exchange I’ll tell you something on mine.”

She considered this for a moment before nodding. “You go first.”

A chuckle rasped out of him. How predictable. “I’m thinking,” he said, leaning in as much as her Cauldron-damned hand would allow. For once he had her full attention, and he wondered how any man was meant to endure the force of her gaze without wanting to fall to his knees. “That I have endured utter Hell since the moment I met you. And all of the beasts and riddles and even the fucking stairs weren’t nearly as agonizing as how I feel right now, trying not to kiss you.”

Her eyes fell on his mouth. Rhysand could feel his heart hammering against her fingertips.

Feyre flicked her tongue across her lower lip and he thought that might die right there.

Then she said, “I’m thinking we could both use a bath.”

He practically purred, “Is that an invitation?”

“No.”

It was like slamming face-first into a stone wall. Feyre dropped her hand like he’d scalded her, and before he could scramble for something to say, she yanked on her doorknob and shut the door in his face.

Rhysand blinked, still gripping the doorframe as he reeled from the rejection. Cassian’s door was still shut, but he swore he could hear cackling laughter behind it.

Thesan summoned them all to breakfast the next morning.

With the mist blocking any and all sunlight, it was impossible to tell if it was early or late in the morning, but by Rhysand’s account, it was much too soon. He’d stayed up late pacing his lavish bedroom, debating whether to knock on Feyre’s door to apologize for his brazenness or demand that she apologize for being so Gods-damned guarded. Was it really so hard to tell him one thing—just one—about how she truly felt?

Evidently so, if the way she was spearing fruit onto her fork was any indication of her mood. She’d taken supper in her room last night, leaving Cassian and Rhys to eat together in their private dining room. It was another night bonding over their shared exasperation of the stubborn, elusive Archeron women.

It hadn’t made him feel any better, though. Sitting across from Feyre, watching her javelin her fork at a piece of sliced melon, he still felt as though she’d slammed the door in his face moments ago. A night wouldn’t be sufficient time to get over Feyre Archeron. Nor would a year and, he suspected, even a lifetime.

The prospect of losing his mind to the red mist was sounding more and more appealing by the second.

“If the affliction is only caused by inhaling,” Cassian said. “Does that mean Rhys could just hold his breath long enough to destroy it?”

“Theoretically,” Thesan agreed. “Though it’s possible that a human would be more susceptible to contact.”

Feyre dropped her fork. “And there’s no cure?” When Thesan shook his head, her voice raised an octave. “The Dawn Court is best known for its healing abilities, and you haven’t been able to develop any sort of antidote?”

“My magic has not been able to remedy the afflicted. It’s possible that once the seal is destroyed, their condition will stabilize.”

“So,” Rhys said slowly, “I just need to keep a grip on my sanity long enough to destroy a flower?”

Thesan frowned. “Theoretically, yes.”

His voice implied it wouldn’t be so simple. Rhysand wasn’t fool enough to think it would be. None of the trials had been easy thus far, and he knew the lotus flower would be no exception.

Still, he rolled his shoulder and said, “I’ll take a flower over a dragon any day.”

“The lotus sits in the reflection pool at the center of the room,” Thesan said. “It should be easy to locate, provided your mind doesn’t lead you astray.”

Rhysand’s gaze nearly trailed over to Feyre as he mused, “It wouldn’t be the first time.” The pause in the aftermath was uncomfortably heavy. Enough for Rhysand to push his chair away and announce, “Well, no sense in delaying the inevitable. Show me where to get to this tower.”

Cassian nearly choked around his next mouthful of food. “Now?” He gestured with his fork towards Rhysand’s empty plate. “You’re not even going to eat breakfast first?”

It was easy to summon the boastful, unearned confidence to say, “You can all carry on without me. I should be back before the food so much as cools.”

The mask of arrogance was familiar to default back to, though it didn’t fit as comfortably as it once did. The lordling he’d been when he’d entered Prythian believed he had the tenacity to vanquish the fae and reclaim these lands for humankind. And yet with two High Lords slain, he couldn’t summon pride for his triumphs. Not while knowing that Feyre still mourned for one or both of those High Lords—that she might have withdrawn from him last night for that very reason.

Feyre stood from her chair, sending the wooden legs scraping against the marble floor. “I’m coming with you.”

“Why risk the both of you?” Thesan asked, his brows pressed together.

For once, Rhysand didn’t mind the implication that he was the more expendable of the two of them. He agreed. If he failed, there was no point in them both losing their sanity.

Her expression hardened into uncompromising will. “Because,” she said, meeting Rhysand’s eyes. They were the same blue as a churning storm-swept sea. “We can look out for each other.”

“Okay.” Rhys held out his hand. “We’ll go together.”

She wrapped her hand around his, so much softer and smaller than his own. Holding it felt right in a way he couldn’t quite explain. And she didn’t drop it, not once, as Thesan led them up the winding spiral staircase on the other end of the palace, where they climbed up the bare face of a tower. Every step had Rhys bracing himself, but Feyre’s grip on his fingers remained unwavering. She did not falter one single step.

The scarlet mist became a deeper, more saturated color the higher they climbed, until they came to the final flight, where Thesan stopped.

“This is where I’ll leave you. The lotus is just through that doorway,” he said, nodding up to the large open doorway at the top of the stairs, where red mist poured out and plateaued in line with the highest step. He assessed them both, lips pressed into a thin line. “Do you trust each other?”

Rhysand didn’t need to look at Feyre to answer. “Yes.”

She squeezed his hand in what he interpreted as agreement.

“Don’t.” Thesan’s expression darkened. “Don’t trust anything while you’re in there, not even yourselves. The seal will try to protect itself, and it will use every trick in its arsenal to do so.”

With that inspiring speech, the High Lord nodded his farewell and turned to begin his descent back down the tower. Leaving Feyre and Rhys before the final steps to the open doorway.

“Feyre,” he started. “Just in case I don’t get another chance to say it—”

“Don’t.”

“Feyre—”

“No goodbyes.” She turned those stormy eyes on him, and all at once he was nothing but a helpless sailor succumbing to their pull. “Whatever you want to say to me can wait until after we destroy the seal.”

He didn’t know for certain he’d still remember. But he nodded.

“Don’t let go of my hand. No matter what.”

She raised her chin, staring down the immortal gloom like she might part the mist through sheer force of will. “Take a deep breath,” she said.

It wouldn’t be his last. Rhys knew that with confidence. Even if the fog carried away his conscious mind, his lungs would carry on breathing and his heart would continue pumping. So it wasn’t the gulp of precious air that he savored in that final moment. It was the smattering of freckles across Feyre’s cheekbones. She had more than he could count, but some stood out more than others—the one by the corner of her left eye, sitting in the crease of those rare moments she smiled, was slightly darker and bigger than the others. So was the one on the bridge of her pert little nose. Another, following the perfect arch of her lips.

One day, if she had the patience for it, he would map out every constellation hidden on her body.

He kept hold of that thought as they summited the final steps to the open doorway and plunged into the thicket of the mist. Feyre disappeared entirely from his periphery, shrouded in fog so thick that he could hardly distinguish his own fingers when held in front of his face. The only sign that Feyre was still beside him was the steady pull of her hand, guiding him forward over a long bridge connecting to the other half of the tower, where the lotus flower waited.

They felt their way forward slowly, fingers skimming the cool railing, twined in plants long wilted from the lack of sunlight. His lungs were on fire by the time they emerged into the open chamber, marked by a curved archway—its stone smooth beneath his searching palm.

Straight ahead, he thought. Just get to the pool in the center, crush the flower, and this can all be over.

There was nothing to feel to guide their path. Only empty, open air and Feyre’s hand intertwined firmly in his. Her steps wavered. They were entrenched in a void of red, stretching in every direction. It wasn’t clear which way, exactly, was straight ahead, but they couldn’t afford to waste any time.

His lungs were already seizing, desperate for air. He couldn’t imagine that she was in any better state.

Rhysand chose a direction and strode forward, pulling her deeper into the fog. She tugged back, digging her heels in. They couldn’t speak without wasting air, but he imagined she was telling him, not that way.

He paused, waiting for her to correct his course.

One beat. Two. He was beginning to feel dizzy.

Rhysand squeezed her hand. Which way?

Another beat. And then she began pulling him sideways. He stumbled after her, his vision spotting as his lungs rioted in his chest. He needed to breathe. Needed to soothe the burning before his lungs gave out. He was going to collapse on the floor if he didn’t.

His body betrayed him. He opened his mouth, polluted air flooding in. Feyre paused at the sound of his gasp. His vision swam, whirling from the sudden intake, his head pounding—

And then he blinked. The fog cleared, revealing a pretty chamber of polished marble and golden stone. Outside the open archways, the sky had cleared as well, revealing an expanse of blue sky stretching towards the horizon.

It was like seeing the sun for the very first time. Not because of the light streaming into the chamber. But because Feyre was standing before him, hand in his. Smiling.

The breath whooshed out of him anew. “Do that again,” he whispered.

She did, smiling just for him. It was the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen.

“We did it,” she said.

Rhysand shook his head. “We didn’t do anything.”

“Look.” She nodded towards the puffy white clouds drifting just outside the tower. “The mist is gone. It was another test.”

“We still need to destroy the seal,” he said, turning to look for the reflection pool.

Feyre stopped him with another insistent tug on his hand. He turned to face her and lost track of all thought when he saw the way she was beaming at him.

“We did,” she said, raising her freehand to his cheek. Her skin was impossibly soft, and he couldn’t resist leaning further into her touch. “You absorbed the seal when you inhaled it. That was all it needed.”

“That sounds too easy.”

Those smooth hands glided up his jaw. “The fae underestimated you. They thought a human would be too wary of the risk. Their pride is their greatest weakness.”

Her fingers were in his hair now, winding through the strands. She tugged against them, pulling him closer, and suddenly he couldn’t think straight.

“What now?”

Feyre leaned onto the tips of her toes to close the remaining distance between them. When she whispered, he could feel each syllable ghost across his lips. “What were you going to say to me outside the chamber?”

Something warm and golden unfurled in his chest as he looked at her. His arm slid under her back, holding their chests flush. “Tell me one thing, before I reveal it to you.”

Her smile was more intoxicating than his father’s finest wines. “Anything,” she promised.

“Tell me—” he pressed his forehead to hers. “Tell me, truly, if you might want this one day. Want me.”

“I do,” she said without any hesitation. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Rhysand. I want you. Desperately. I need—”

He should have let her finish speaking, especially now that she was saying everything he wanted to hear. But it was impossible. He was just a man and her lips were so close to his they were sharing breath and she finally admitted she wanted him, too.

How could he stop himself from kissing her?

The most delicate noise slipped out of her when their lips met. Like the sigh of a door being opened for the first time in years. Like relief. Finally, finally, relief. After so much pent-up longing, he was kissing her, and her hands were twisting in his hair, and his tongue was skimming her lower lip, and all he could think was:

Maybe salvation was real.

The golden warmth kindling inside him was growing stronger. He felt the first of its tug when they tore their lips apart, both of them gasping.

Feyre’s pupils were wide and wild. She was smiling again, which made it impossible not to keep kissing her. But first, he said, “I was going to tell you that I am yours, Feyre. I’m yours until my dying breath.”

A blush was rising to her cheeks, spreading beneath her freckles. He leaned to kiss her again, but she broke away with a giggle, tugging playfully at the collar of his shirt. “I’ll be yours, too,” she said, eyes shining. “But I won’t make it easy for you. You’re going to have to catch me first.”

The little vixen. She launched into a sprint, fleeing to the other side of the chamber, and he laughed as he raced after her.

“Rhysand!” She called, weaving between the wisteria-twined pillars. Sheer panels of blushing peach fabric drifted behind each of her shoulders, attached to the elegant golden pauldrons she wore on each shoulder. With the light of the skyline beyond haloing her lithe frame, he felt more as though he were chasing a celestial goddess than a human woman.

She called his name again, the second syllable tapering on the most beautiful laughter he’d ever heard. He vaulted through one of the open archways, desperate to get to her, to taste that laughter beneath his tongue. He landed and slid across the smooth stone, nearly carrying him off the ledge were it not for his sharp reflexes. At the last second, he grabbed at one of the marble pillars and hauled himself back into the chamber.

The sight of the jagged cliff face and the sprawling countryside far, far below was enough to sober him.

He felt another tug. This one more insistent. As if the chain connecting him to Feyre had rematerialized. She was still dancing between the pillars, completely undaunted by the risk of falling if it meant taunting him.

But the tug didn’t pull him towards her.

Rhysand!

And that voice… it was hers, but it sounded so far away.

Another tug. Another Feyre calling his name.

Was it a trick?

“Come here, Rhys,” Feyre purred, turning to face him. Light bounced off the glittering panels of her dress, as if Thesan had seen it right to thread her in gold.

He stepped towards her, despite the taut thread pulling him in the opposite direction. “Tell me again,” he said.

“I’m yours.” Her eyes were like stars. Ceding the game, she prowled back to him, teeth gleaming so white in the full vibrancy of the sun. “I’m yours and you’re mine.”

Rhysand shut his eyes. He pictured Feyre in his mind. The stormy eyes and the withering glare and her beautiful, devastating face. It was an almost identical likeness. But as Rhysand opened his eyes, he searched for that freckle beside her eye, the one which was darker and bigger than the others around it. And it wasn’t there.

He released a heavy sigh. “You’re not real.”

Her soft palm pressed into his chest, void of Feyre’s hard-earned calluses. “I could be,” she said to him. “We could stay up here forever.”

Forever wasn’t tempting to him. Not without Feyre.

The moment he decided, the Feyre in front of him vanished. The scarlet mist returned, as thick and unnavigable as before. He could hear Feyre calling his name, voice raw and panicked. Likewise he could feel a golden tug in his chest, leading him in another direction.

He didn’t know which was real. He supposed they might all be tricks.

Not for the first time, and he suspected not for the last, he thought how much he missed that Cauldron-cursed leash.

Dropping to his knees, Rhysand elected to crawl across the chamber rather than risk taking a wrong step and plummeting to the bottom of the valley. He only hoped that Feyre hadn’t made that mistake, either. Was she also trapped in some blissful vision? A pathetic part of himself hoped he was in it.

Soon, his searching hands found a tiled pool filled with tepid water. He crawled into it, not caring that it would ruin the bright, loose-fitting tunic and trousers that Thesan had lended him. The thin fabric clung to his skin as he waded through the pool and skimmed his arms over the surface in wide, sweeping gestures.

He felt something bob against his elbow and quickly seized it. His fingers met the soft suede of flower petals and a thin, bumpy stem that resisted his initial tug. He yanked until the infernal thing came away with a snap.

Then the lotus flower, as fragile as the minds it twisted, crumpled in his fist.

Rhys had never imagined what it would be like to sit at the center of a stormcloud, but he imagined the experience would not be so different from the violent release of energy that swept through the chamber with a deafening thunder clap, Rhys at its epicenter. The water rippled through the pool and spread beyond it, dissipating the fog in a great sweep of wind that he imagined would carry through the whole of Prythian.

The skin on his chest and shoulder itched terribly. If he looked down, he would likely be able to see through the translucent fabric of his tunic that the tattoo was spreading. But Rhysand didn’t care about his tattoo, nor his wet shirt, nor the entire gods-forsaken Court he’d just liberated.

He only cared about Feyre. He could see she was curled up just a small distance away, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her lips were moving, over and over, shaping words he couldn’t make out.

“Feyre?” He leapt out of the pool with an urgency that sent a wave of water spilling over the sides of the reflection pool. Water dripped from his clothes, splattering haphazardly in his wake as he slid across the stone floor to reach her.

It occurred to him, as he delicately placed his hands on her shoulders, that this could be another mind trick. He had no way of knowing that he’d truly destroyed the fifth seal or that this was truly his Feyre in front of him, besides the inclination in his gut and the warm, inexplicable pull he felt to her.

Her entire body was trembling.

“Feyre?” He said again, softer.

“No,” she whispered. Her eyes were wide and brimming with tears. “No, no, no, no. Not again. Not again, please.”

Her voice was scraped raw, as if she’d been screaming. This was the same woman he’d witnessed slay beasts and stare down High Lords twice her size. For whatever she’s seen to have terrified so greatly…

“It’s okay,” he soothed. “You’re safe now, Feyre. It’s over.”

Those blue eyes focused just enough to register that he was crouched before her. And then her lower lip started trembling, and she shook her head violently, scrambling back as she whimpered, “No, Rhys. Not again. Please.”

He floundered at the fear in her eyes. Whatever she’d been shown in the lotus mist, clearly, he had been part of the vision. And his heart shattered to think he’d been the one hurting her.

“It’s just me, Feyre.” He held up his open palms. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you. I destroyed the lotus. It’s done.”

Her gaze drifted from his open palms to the markings visible through his translucent tunic. A sob hitched her throat. “It’s over?”

Rhys nodded, extending his hand so that he might help her up. She stared at it a moment, perhaps sharing his earlier doubt that this was another trick. Then she looked at him, studying his dripping clothes and wet hair and what he hoped to be an earnest expression.

Then she launched herself at him.

The momentum barrelled into him was such force that he was sent sprawling onto his back, a surprise grunt pushing out his chest. He didn’t have time to reorient himself, or make sense of what was happening, before Feyre gripped his face between both of her callused hands and kissed him so hard he forgot there was a reason why people needed important things like breath.

He could taste the salt of her tears and the melon juice that was still on her lips from breakfast. Every ounce of rationality dissipated at that revelation, and all he could think was that he’d never had a favorite fruit until that moment.

With a groan, Rhys slid his hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head while also angling her closer, so he could lick into her mouth and commit the taste to memory. He no longer cared if it was real or only a vision. He would gladly surrender to the madness if this was his eternity.

He might very well have flipped her over and made love to her right there. She would have looked beautiful flushed in the low light of the morning as dawn finally greeted its namesake. But towards the far entrance, someone cleared their throat.

That was how Rhysand knew this was real. If this had been a vision from the lotus, he would have continued kissing Feyre for eternity, and they certainly wouldn’t have been interrupted by Thesan standing beside an apprehensive-looking Oryn. Over their shoulders, Cassian was grinning like a fiend.

“Celebrating your victory?” He said with a suggestive quirk of his brows.

Rhysand never hated the fae as much as he did in that moment, when Feyre hastily scrambled to her feet. He already missed the weight of her body and her sweet lilac and pear scent. He took his time rising to his feet, and when he reached his full height, he offered her a heated look that said, This isn’t over.

She looked away, heat blooming on her cheeks.

That made it the first trial that actually did feel like a victory. He couldn’t help the pride swelling in his chest, and no amount of his cocky grin was forced as he looked to Thesan and asked, “Is breakfast still warm?”

#The Other Side of the Apocalpyse #TOSOTA #Feysand #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #Feysand fic #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Rhysand x Feyre #Feyre x Rhysand

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azsazz · 2 years ago

Text

The Midnight Hour

Vampire!Cassian x Reader

Summary: After a rough night at the bloodhouse, you stumble across a handsome male you've only seen once, a soft gleam in his eye as he reaches out to help.

Warnings: Blood, reader works at a bloodhouse/brothel.

Word Count: 3,366

Notes: Happy Monday my lovelies! 💙

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Your mind swims in darkness, but not the soothing kind. Not the kind that streams down on you from the bright moon, a caress of silver that drives your heart’s steady beat. It isn’t the darkness of calm, nor lovers, but of one so achingly painful and lonesome that you don’t know how you’ve managed to survive it.

Chilled to your very bones you groan, blinking yourself awake. The room is plunged in black, and if you couldn’t feel the plush couches beneath your tender body, hear the muffled moans of pleasure through thin walls, and smell the metallic twist of blood in the air, you wouldn’t know that you’re awake.

Your neck throbs like a bee sting, painful as always upon the first break of skin. If you reach your fingers up to trace the punctures on your throat, they will prick with discomfort. You wonder if the blood has even dried yet, how long you’ve been unconscious.

The memory comes back in bursts. Golden hair. Green eyes. A set of dimples almost as startling as the sharp set of fangs he donned. Voice a low rasp that even without compulsion could bring anyone to their knees.

Used to it, is what you are. Selling yourself to make a dime in the city of Starlight, where vampires roam freely, drunk off of lust and well, blood. They crave it like the moon chases the sun, needing it to survive, just as you need the shiny coins lining their pockets for that exact reason. A trade to survive.

You told yourself that you wouldn’t stay here long, fleeing from your home court to find out if the others were any better.

The first time you had ran into one of the creatures of night, you almost hadn’t survived. Just like tonight, the vampire drank and drank, eyes glazed over like they were painted with lechery, his firm hold pinning you to this very chaise had gone soft, pliant like a lover’s as your blood sated the primal urges flashing hot beneath his skin. He was hungry, starving nearly, pupils pinpricks and canines as sharp as the knife stowed in your boot.

The owner of the bloodhouse, Aima, had greeted you with a sinful smile and offered you refuge for the night in exchange for your services. Sleeping with him you could handle, but as he led you to a room with nothing more than a wink, you knew you should’ve kept running.

Even the werewolves weren’t quite as ravenous as the vampires.

Groaning, you manage to force your arms under you, shoving yourself up. Your head spins like a dancer’s twirl, her captivating beauty only one you’d been able to view as a server at the party, silver tray in white-gloved hands, offering fae wine to royals who ignored you completely or glared at you as if the action alone would send you bursting into flames.

It never did though, even as much as you wished it would.

Coins glint in the low light sweeping in from beneath the door. They’re scattered everywhere, running from across the sofa to the floor. One tumbles down the front of your gown as you right yourself. The hungry vampire who paid for your services had either come to his senses when the haze of bloodlust had washed away from his vision, guilt fueling him to toss the payment haphazardly in his haste to leave, or he simply did not care, the only thing stopping him from being able to come back even if he had sucked every drop of your blood dry would be if he didn’t pay.

They always pay.

It takes you longer than you’d like to collect all of the coins. Your head is dizzy and your breathing is labored as you move sluggishly throughout the room to gather your payment. It takes you two tries to curl your shaking fingers around the first one, appendages colder than the vampires skin themselves, stiff and stinging like needles.

You count, then stuff the few extra coins in your boot, right next to your knife. The rest you’ll leave for Aima. Hopefully you can slip out without him seeing. You huff as your fingertips brush the hilt. Fat lot that it does. You’ve never been able to so much as reach for the weapon, as more powerful vampires can paralyze their prey. Handy for them, very much a danger for yourself.

Your knees buckle as you try to stand but you can’t stay here any longer. Aima will come looking soon, when he either realizes you’re in here alone or when he walks by and doesn’t hear the muffled moans and gasps of the ecstasy that comes with a bite.

You might only have mere moments, so you lock your legs and twist the doorknob. Your body feels heavy. Sweat already lines your brow just from the effort you’re using to keep your body upright. You lean heavily on the wall as you stumble your way down the familiar halls, legs unable to bear your full weight with the amount of blood you’ve lost tonight.

Close. So close to completely losing your life. You never wanted this for yourself.

The iron door is almost too heavy for you to shove open. You’re sure your shoulders will be the perfect evidence of how you’d shoved your body into the metal, mottled purple, green, and yellow. But not even those colors will take the eyes off of the red holes in your throat.

You don’t live far from the bloodhouse, five blocks at the most in an apartment building that has seen better days, next to a neighbor who drinks and fucks like she has both on retainer.

Even so, it’s yours. You can’t wait to hear the slide of the lock on the door with you on the other side, safe for the night. With the tip the vampire had left you tonight, you wouldn’t have to go back to the bloodhouse for a few days, but with the way that your head pounds and your neck burns like flames, you’ll have to spend all of the extra money you’ve earned on seeing a healer tomorrow, and you’ll continue in this never ending circle of Hel you’ve managed to find yourself in.

City of Dreamers, what a lie.

You trip over upturned cobblestones. Your knees crack loudly on the ground, echoing through the abandoned streets, and you know the vampires nearby will stir. You can feel your palms tear open on the stones as you try to catch yourself. The last bit of energy expels from your body and you slump to the ground, a breathless lump in the middle of the streets. The bite of your hands is the only thing keeping you from slipping into the warm embrace of darkness yawning a chasm in your mind.

Forcing your eyes open confirms what you’ve thought. Your palms are bleeding and you know without a doubt that one of the creatures lurking in the night will follow like a bloodhound, hungry.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is how it was always supposed to be for you, a wholesome meal for the vampires of the Night Court. Maybe it had been your mistake to flee here, even if the lure of having all your dreams come true was the one thing on your mind. You should’ve gone to Summer or Autumn. Surely sirens and kitsune are better than vampires. Dawn would’ve been ideal but you never would have had enough money to travel all the way to the Lands of the Angels.

A voice cuts through your thoughts like a blade through soft flesh. It’s rough, a strain of confusion as he speaks your name.

“Cassian?” you gasp, blinking away the darkness trying to swallow your vision. He towers over you, even more so than he had that single time he’d bought your services for the night. You can still remember the flash of his stubble against your neck when he went in for the bite, pressing a soft kiss to the skin before a brush of his fangs, sending a shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the icy cold of his skin and everything to do with the handsome male.

But he hadn’t come back. It was unusual for a vampire not to return to the bloodhouse after a particularly tasty meal, and you had more returning customers than you could count, but Cassian had never been one of them.

“What are you doing out here all alone at night?” He sounds like he’s scowling and when you finally focus on him he is. His thick brows are furrowed and there’s a frown adorning his perfect face. His hazel eyes glow as they take in your crumpled form.

It’s so hard to lift your head up to meet his gaze, heavy with cement. “Bloodhouse,” you breathe, “Greedy–ah, greedy asshole.”

Cassian growls low in his throat. You watch his nostrils flare as he takes in your scent, the blood on your palms, coating your throat, and the slow pace of your heart. That’s how he knows you’re not yourself. The last time he’d seen you your heart had been beating so fast he thought it might try and jump from your chest into his.

It’s why he hadn’t come back. He could’ve sworn that his own heart had jumpstarted in response to yours, jolting in his chest when it had been an unmoving thing sitting inside of him for centuries. You smelled like the sweetest perfume and tasted like ambrosia of the gods. The tender touch he’d used to hold you close to him turned iron as he tore into the cushions trying to hold himself back from draining you and mounting you all in one.

If he had blood running through his veins it would be boiling. He’s angry nonetheless, and you can tell by the way he goes as still a stone for a second, thunder raging in his gaze and wings twitching at his back.

His gaze goes soft as he looks you over once more. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, gathering you in his arms. “You’re too cold. That’s not good, especially coming from me.” He tries to joke, brushing some of the damp hair from your face. You’re too hot but you’re shivering, lips tinting blue.

“I’m f-fine,” you whisper, but your teeth are clacking too hard for you to make out the words.

Cassian tuts softly, making sure you’re secure to his chest. Large, membranous wings unfurl from his back, and the moonlight shining down across them makes him look like a winged hero.

Your winged hero.

“Let’s get you home.”

You’re too weak to protest, to even stay awake as he flies. You would love to see the sparkling stars above and the twinkling city proper as he goes but your eyelids feel like anvils, shutting on their own accord.

You rouse when Cassian lands, the jolt of his feet on solid ground again stirring you from your slumber.

“Where are we?” you slur, looking around in wonder. Your eyelids are still heavy, the comforting feeling of unconsciousness that your body screams that it needs is drawing you in like one of those sirens from Summer, but you force yourself awake, drinking in your surroundings.

It’s a quaint home, buttery light casting warmth throughout the room. There’s a fire raging in the hearth and Cassian snags a blanket off of the back of the well-worn sofa as he goes, tucking you in.

You bury your nose into the softness of it, and the smell of sandalwood melts your straining muscles.

“This is my home,” Cassian says gently, and before you can even think about protesting, he’s answering. “I will be taking care of you, sweetheart. That’s an order.”

“An order?” you snort, peering up at him. His hazel eyes are a shock of freshness as he holds your gaze, not needing to look up to know the way throughout his own home. “Who do you think you are?”

The smirk he gives you makes your head spin. You squeeze your eyes tightly and let your head fall against the hard planes of his chest again. “An order from the High Lord of the Night Court’s commander of armies.”

You huff in his arms, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself as his boots hit the first stair. “I’m no soldier.”

“No,” he agrees softly, “But you are a survivor.”

Something coils in your chest and you refuse to open your eyes, to answer. If he asks you’ll blame it on the loss of blood, the throbbing in your throat and head becoming louder and louder the longer you stay quiet, pounding like his boots against the wooden stairs.

You let yourself be, floating in and out of consciousness as you cuddle into Cassian’s strong chest. There’s the sound of water, and he adjusts you for a moment as he pours sweet scented oils into the bath. The room fills with the warmth of sandalwood, the scent that’s clinging to his very being.

Cassian murmurs your name, and when you blink up at him, he smiles. “I’ve run you a bath. It will help warm you up and I’ll take a look at your neck afterwards. Are you able to get into it on your own?”

You look at the inviting tub, filled to the brim with bubbles. There’s ripples of heat wafting from it and the thought of even sitting in something that luxurious brings tears to your eyes.

He sets you on your feet but your knees buckle. Cassian holds you upright and you try to cling to his shirt but your grip is weak.

“I can’t,” you shake your head, an errant tear escaping. It rolls hot across your cheek and the male before you is quick to wipe it away, shushing you soothingly. “I need help.”

You can see his throat work around a swallow but you don’t call it out. He nods once, curtly, like this is just another mission he’s on, formulating a plan and how best to execute it. Overthinking it.

His fingertips are deft as he pulls at the ties of your dress. It falls away in a wave of blue but you don’t blush or shrink away from him, you’re much too tired. Cassian holds your hand while you slip out of your undergarments and helps ease you into the water.

You sigh, immediately settling back against the side, reclining so your body can absorb as much of the warmth as possible. You’re still feeling a little dizzy but the aroma of Cassian helps ground you, calm you.

“Can I take a look at your throat?” Cassian asks after a few moments. He’d been a statue at your side as you settled, the little pleased noises you released going straight to his cock. He willed stillness into his bones, thought about the worst things imaginable, like the bathrooms at the warcamps or the beast living in the library.

You hum in agreement, tilting your head away so he can have a better look.

Cassian plants himself by the side of the tub, fingers brushing your wet hair away from the wound. He hisses, cursing. The wound is tender, red dribbling out of the marred flesh. The bastard must’ve been half-feral with the way that these punctures look. He’s undeniably furious.

“Well, how bad is it?” you ask, though by his reaction you think you already know.

“You’ll have to drink some of my blood,” he answers, and you can hear the grimace in his voice, “But I think a tough female like you will pull through.”

You let your head fall his way in a lazy motion, wincing as it stretches your wounds. You try to cover the twist of your mouth with an unconvincing grin. “Oh yeah?”

He nods, affirming. “Yes, you’ll live. That’s an order.”

Your smile turns real. “Sir, yes sir.”

Cassian chuckles as he brings his wrist to his mouth. You watch with intrigue as his sharp, glorious fangs rip into the delicate skin of his wrist. When he moves the bloody arm towards you, you catch the sight of his pink tongue lapping up the remnants of blood on his lips and you wish he was doing that to your skin, your mouth, your cunt–

“Drink,” he demands softly, hazel eyes nearly glowing in the low light, as if he can tell what you were thinking.

You do as he asks, a tentative brush of your tongue that drags heat up his spine with the motion. You nearly moan at the taste of him, all hot and heady like a drug. Your second gulp is eager, blunt teeth clamping at his wrist like you’re a vampire of your own.

Cassian lets you drink as much as you want, even after your wound begins to close. He watches you closely, his pupils becoming larger and his breaths become deeper the more you swirl your tongue against his skin. This is everything to him, to have what he’s been aching for but not letting himself have for so, so, long.

This…this is better than him drinking your blood, the sweet sight of you taking your fill from him, the prideful feeling that he’s providing for you fills his chest.

“Thank you,” you breathe, breaking him out of his trance. He blinks, not realizing that your lips had left his skin. Apparently it’s not only vampires that can paralyze their prey.

“You’re welcome.”

He stays by your side, helping you with the soaps even though you feel better than ever. You feel like a whole new woman, ready to go back to the bloodhouse and kick Aima’s ass. Cassian’s blood is vibrating through your body, and it feels like every icicle that’s been slowly forming in your body after these last few months of working at the bloodhouse melt. You feel invincible, and as your head clears you begin to understand the very appeal to blood the vampires of this court have.

“You look cold,” you murmur before you can think clearly about what you’re saying. “You should get in.”

Cassian frowns, “Get in?”

You nod, even though your heart trips at his reaction. Your anxious fingers skim the top of the water, wisps of heat coiling around your fingertips like smoke. Shrugging, you answer. “You look cold out there.”

“Cold,” he whispers, “Always so cold.”

Your heart aches for him in that instance. He can see it in your eyes, too, that you care. So he takes off his shirt.

The fabric lifts over his body, revealing rippling muscles that look carved from precious stone. Your breath catches in your throat and your heart skips in your chest.

Cassian tosses the clothing into the growing pile at his feet. His hazel eyes are hot as they take you in, the top of your knee sticking out of the water and up, to the mark on your throat, now only to pink dots across your otherwise smooth skin. They linger on your mouth, and when he meets your gaze, you know that you’re his.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” His voice is throaty, rough like he’s been screaming for years. “Because if I get in that tub with you, I don’t think I’ll be able to let you leave.”

His admission makes the breath catch in your throat. You don’t dare break eye contact, even as you see the way his pupils dilate in response to the way your heart picks up in pace.

“I know.”

The breath leaves his chest in a whoosh and nearly as fast his trousers fall to the ground.

“Are you positive?” he asks again, ever the nervous gentleman, so close to having what he’s always wanted.

You roll your eyes, sitting up further so he has room to join. The water slides down your body and Cassian can’t seem to look away, his throat going dry when it covers the bottom of your breasts.

You flutter your lashes at him, a siren beckoning its prey into dangerous waters.

“Yes. And that’s an order.”

#cassian x reader #cassian #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #cassian/reader #vampire!cassian

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illarian-rambling · 6 months ago

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Thanks for the tag @mk-writes-stuff!

Favorite Character Poll

Rules: post brief descriptions of some characters and a poll, then get people to vote on their favorite

I think this would be a fun way to introduce some of my Starbreaker characters, so that's what I'll do!

Character descriptions under the cut :)

Faalgun is a little (three and a half feet tall) dragon guy with the distinguished air of a military officer and the level-headedness of a fighter pilot. He's the pilot of the RS Starbreaker, predictably, and also serves as its unofficial captain. Keeping the ship and crew running smoothly is a full-time job, but he does it gladly. However, his honor-bound demeanor masks a craving for adrenaline and a serious addictive personality. Faalgun has a crippling gambling addiction and was killed in life by loansharks he couldn't repay. He seeks redemption by completing this quest to the edge of the solar wheel.

Nyda is an elf, a transwoman, and a certified punk. She hates authority, is supremely unorganized, has a mouthy temper, and will rail against any perceived injustice. In her life, she failed to live up to the expectations of her family of famed mercenaries, so she became an astronomer instead. This haunts her, though. She believes her astronomy is pointless because she's not the warrior she should've been due to her cowardice. Her death came after traveling to the Next-Door Land to study the stars there and immediately getting hunted for sport by a pack of Fair Folk.

Kaulakri, a halawemavish selkie, is Nyda's opposite in every way. She's neat, meticulous, rigid in her beliefs, compassionate in a blunt way, and probably more than a little autistic. She is also Nyda's contemporary by four hundred years and serves as the RS Starbreaker's cartography. Mapping is Kaulakri's passion, and she would like nothing more than to complete a map of the solar wheel. In her mortal existence, she died trying to map the Janazi Isles, catching a deadly flu before she could return with the completed product. She will never again fail in her quest to put every piece of land onto paper.

Pash is a bit of an oddball in the group. He's not Illari, but one of the Fair Folk. His Contribution, his express purpose for existence, is music, and while he does love music, he also has a passion for travel. He took several jobs as a honeytongue, leading to his post as the RS Starbreaker's negotiator. Though generally laid-back and kind, Pash inhabits a headspace particular to the fae. He does nothing if it isn't pleasurable, and will do anything in the pursuit if pleasure. To the fae, everyone is out for their own happiness alone, so you can't get mad when someone hypothetically kills you for playing an unpopular song in a tavern. They were looking out for themself, just like you look out for yourself.

Anarac is the quietest and most mysterious of the group. He hides for most of the time and barely speaks when he isn't. No one recognizes his lineage as the Araunian people have been extinct for millenia. The rest of the crew is unaware of his true purpose as their expert on End, the starry demon bearing down on the solar wheel that the gods battle eternally. Anarac is such an expert due to the fact that he was End's vessel for much of his life. The demon forced him to wreak much carnage and punished him terribly when he refused, and even when he died, his soul remained a part of End for thousands of years. Simply put, Anarac does not want to be on this boat in space. But he will protect his new friends with his unlife if it means keeping them safe from the demon who tormented him so.

Gonna tag the whole gang so this gets votes ;)

@amandacanwrite @elsie-writes @riveriafalll @kosmic-kore @kaylinalexanderbooks

@bard-coded @carrotsinnovember @patternwelded-quill @somethingclevermahogony @whatwewrotepodcast

@the-angriest-author @mk-writes-stuff @frostedlemonwriter @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @watermeezer

@leahnardo-da-veggie @mr-orion @televisionjester @ray-writes-n-shit @evilgabe29

@trippingpossum @tragedycoded @halfbakedspuds @ominous-feychild @cain-e-brookman

#writing #writerscommunity #writblr #my ocs #favorite character poll

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captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship · 9 months ago

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FM2M Ch8

Nothing Is Going To Wake Me Now

Summary: Feyre is delving further into herself as she becomes more and more isolated in the Spring Court. Her powers are erratic, Tamlin's temper is on the rise, and she has some things to consider before she needs to make a decision about her future.

Read here on AO3

My nightmares began to blend together until they were reduced to pools of blood on marble floors, the cracking sound of bones splintering underfoot, and Amarantha’s last testament as I lay dying. Those words still echoed in my ears, haunting me even when my view of blood and bones were replaced by that of my reality.

“Admit you don’t really love him, and I’ll spare you. Admit what a cowardly, lying, inconstant bit of human garbage you are.”

“You think you’re worthy of him? A High Lord? You think you deserve anything at all, human?”

I hated to agree with that monster, but… I was not worthy. Not worthy of the screams that echoed my name, threatening to banish her ruby stain away. Not worthy of this new life I had been given when the two innocents I had murdered met the Mother’s embrace in my stead. Not worthy of those who have vowed to protect and love me.

Not worthy.

They say that sometimes you have to fake it until you make it, and I wondered just how long it would take for me to truly believe that I was not damned for Hel. That all of the pain and loss and death was worth it.

I am nobody.

I am no one.

I am not worthy.

I felt my power stir beneath my skin, but instead of coaxing it from its hiding spot and letting it comfort my aching soul, I pushed it down, down, down until it was firmly locked away. For once, I was too tired to care. All caring did was cause more pain. I just crawled back into bed where I slept, and slept, and slept.

Days bled into weeks, and soon I forgot how long it had been since my new existence began. As a fae, it didn’t seem to matter now anyways. The need I once had to acclimate to my new life was stifled by the sheer unchanging nature of this court. I made my home within the walls of my room and the library, only leaving the haven of the manor to stroll amongst the rose gardens. I hadn’t dared enter the wing of the home where my painting room lay dormant, awaiting a soul to wake it from its slumber.

Tamlin was away from the Manor more often than not. Part of me hated myself for feeling a little more at ease when he was gone. It was just one less person to lie to, to fake smiles with, to pretend that I was the same girl who had drank faerie wine and danced the night away during the Summer Solstice. I didn’t want to disappoint him, and I didn't want to tell him that there was no fixing a soul that was broken beyond repair. Fortunately, he hadn’t tried to kiss me again, save for a kiss on the hand or cheek here and there. It felt as if all of the time we had put into our relationship leading up to now had been swept away in the wind.

There was no lack of effort on Tamlin’s part to return to simpler times, to our life before we went Under the Mountain. When he was home we would sit at meals together, walk through the grounds, and make small talk. I could see how much he craved a sense of normalcy, and I tried my best to fall back into our old routines.For his sake, I could at least try. He tried to hide his stress from me when we were together, but every time I tried to get him to open up about what was bothering him he just shut me out.

In the days that Tamlin was around and in the mood for company, Ianthe rarely left his side. They would have lengthy conversations over meals, and I could hear them bickering over tea and pastries long after I would excuse myself from their presence. Sometimes I wondered if one of my new budding powers was invisibility because I was rarely acknowledged, if I was noticed at all. Just as well, I suppose, because there was something unsettling about Ianthe. Without Lucien, it was just the three of us and part of me was grateful to fade away into the background. It made it easier not to care- not to bother with court posturing that I felt completely out of my depth with. The conversation I overheard a fortnight ago became a distant memory, and no one seemed to suspect that I had been lurking in the shadows.

Ianthe spent her days doting around the manor, acting more as a Lady of the house than I did. I was greatful that she took those menial tasks away from me, I wanted nothing to do with picking what teas would be served at meals and seating arrangements for parties. Apparently, she was planning a gathering next month for the people of the land and deemed my input invaluable. I truly didn’t care for any of it, but there was no point in denying her.

My aloof relationship with Ianthe made me appreciate the time I had spent with Mor even more. I was slowly realizing that Mor was the closest thing I had to a true friendship with another female. I was always surrounding myself with the boys of the village- at first because they were happy to run out in the mud with me across our estate and later because they knew the tips and tricks to surviving in the woods even in the harshest winters.

Mor’s friendship was one of the few things keeping me sane. When I was sure that no one was paying attention, I would pull out my notebook and talk with her. No matter the time of day, she was always quick to respond. There were some days where she was the only other being I would speak with. We would talk to each other about our days, tell each other stories from our childhoods, and it was nice to know she would always be there. She never once passed judgment- never once shied away from the hard conversations. In some ways she was becoming more of a sister to me than my own were.

Thinking of my sisters always cleared the way for a pang of loss and grief to strike my chest. There were some days I wished that Elain were here. She would love the party planning, talks of the latest fashion, and spending hours on end in the extensive gardens. I even missed Nesta, and in her own way I think that she would fit in more with the fae than even I did. She was born to be a general, commanding anyone and everyone in her wake with an iron fist. I tried not to think of them that often, as it only ushered in memories of a life that I no longer was welcome in. I quickly buried thoughts of them away into that part of my human heart that had withered away.

My headaches seemed to come in waves. Some days I felt fine, the connection to my magic almost feeling normal. When I had access to it, my whole body hummed with a contentment that made me feel whole. Other days I was so sick that I didn’t have the strength to get out of bed. I had brought it up to Ianthe once during an afternoon tea in the rose garden. She had just told me that when a fae comes into their power it wanes and flows until it settles. That what I was experiencing was normal . That maybe I might not even have significant magic once its volatile nature settles. There was no point to have it during the time of great peace our lands are now seeing, she had said. I didn’t bother to remind her that nothing about me was normal. In reality, no one really knew what was wrong with me as I was the first and only of my kind. My existence only raised questions with no answers.

No one seemed to notice me these days, especially with Lucien gone. He was off on emissary missions to the neighboring courts, and his missing presence weighed on my heart. He was the only one who I could talk to here, who knew my secrets. The only one I trusted in this court to confide in. Most would use that knowledge against me, but not him. Never him.

The loneliness was made worse by the fact I was never really alone. There were always at least two guards stationed near me- outside my bedroom, below my balcony, outside the study. No matter where I roamed, there were sentries. I could tell they were trying to be discreet and keep a respectful distance away, but that didn’t stop the hairs on the back of my neck from constantly standing on edge. None of the fae around the manor bothered to speak with me, aside from Alis, but they did gawk. Gawk at their savior- cursebreaker- they called me. I know they tried not to stare, and I couldn’t really blame them for it. It didn’t make it any less comfortable, though.

Some were wary of my presence, like I was a lion prowling amongst gazelles. Others looked at me like I was holy. Those were the ones I hated the most. I was never treated like this when I was a human, when I was so fragile and weak compared to the immortal beings surrounding me. Now that I was one of them, they treated me more like a porcelain doll than ever before.

I hated the title almost as much as the staring. I didn’t dare leave the grounds and visit my glen again. There were too many eyes on me these days. No real chance to slip away. I would have to explain where I was going to the guards stationed around my room, and they would be obligated to tell Tamlin. Despite his consistent absence from the manor, the temporary reprieve wasn’t worth the ire and inconvenience it would cause him.

I floated through the estate like a ghost, stuck to relive my human life on repeat for eternity. I began rising later and later in the day, and some days I stayed in bed well past the time Alis would bring lunch to my rooms. I rarely ever ate what she brought me, and some deep rooted part of me screamed at how spoiled I had become. Long gone were the days when I would have dreamt of having a plate of hot food to fill my aching belly. My mind often drifted south, below the wall, to the life that felt so distant now that it felt like it belonged to someone else. It was only a year ago that we had been so desperate after an unusually slow summer that we went almost a week sustained on nothing but broth and some half-edible vegetables. Elain had recieved them as payment for helping a more affluent townsperson with their garden. These days, I seemed to eat less than I had then. The food in this court was too rich, too harsh. It felt like a waste to consume it, only to inevitably end my nights kneeled in front of my toilet heaving my stomach contents out of my system.

When I was up for a change of scenery from my bedroom, I would hole myself up in the study. I would spend hours sitting at a small desk in the back of the library underneath the tapestry of the creation of Prythian. I gave up on my search for finding books on those strange symbols and focused instead on learning as much as I could about the world I now lived in.

Most days I would rarely ever see or speak to anyone. My reading and writing had been accelerating at an incredible rate, and by the second week back I was consuming any tome I could get my hands on. The only marker for the passage of time became the increasing stack of books I had read in their entirety. I finished the Unabridged History of Prythian within a week, and began learning about the customs of the different courts. It was fascinating how each court developed right next to each other, but they could not be more different. There were similarities across all courts, of course, but each court was so unique in their clothing, histories, and customs.

I would read a page from a book and then copy a paragraph onto a piece of parchment. Soon, the feel of a pen was as natural to me as a paintbrush once had. My brain consumed all of the information around me like a sponge. I didn’t realize just how little I knew about our world, and how ill equipped I was to navigate it. I could not believe that just a few months ago I almost died from not knowing the skill that felt like second nature now. I hadn’t lied when I had told Rhys that I never wanted to feel weak again. I realize now that if I had eternity to live, I needed to know these skills.

Once the sun set, the library would grow dark and eerie. Despite the large windows to my back, the walls would always seem to close in, and all of the darkness lingering in my thoughts would begin to swarm. It kept pushing on my subconscious until the once expansive room felt as cramped as the Middengard Wyrm’s lair. I would be forced to seek shelter from the storm of emotions and memories that threatened to be released from their cage. More often than not, I would find myself staring up at the stars until I would fall asleep on my balcony, with only a candle and a book to keep me company. During the day, I would read more practical books, ones that taught me about the world. In the evenings, I tried to read something light if only to keep the darkness from my nightmares at bay. The nights were warm- balmy despite the crisp autumn chill that must have begun to settle into the Mortal Lands. Even the weather here was content with leisure and had long forgotten what change was like.

When I wasn’t reading or practicing my writing, I would work on building up my mental shields. Soon it became a striking adamant wall, glistening, thick and impenetrable. I would hold it in place until the feeling became as inherent as breathing. Despite all my hard work, it was impossible to tell how well they actually held up under pressure without another daemati to help me train. On the days where I could feel my magic, I would train it until I was spent and tired. I would only have enough energy left to drink some tea before going to sleep. Many times after my clandestine training sessions, I would wake up and my magic would lay dormant again.

I tried to not let my spiraling thoughts overtake my life, but I was haunted by the abyss my power left in its wake when they would disappear. It was just another hole in my chest that I had lost my desire to fill. But, my magic felt… empty. Almost as if it had been missing. Although I could still practice my mental shielding no matter my ability to access my magic, my capacity to feel the world around me had been dulled- censored. Every few nights, in between the nightmares and trips to the toilet, I would feel the rush of my powers, and it would overtake me once more. They still felt distant, somehow, and I couldn’t help but wonder what was going on? What was wrong with me? I was too tired to delve further, though.

Too tired to care.

I hadn’t heard a word from Rhys, not a single tap on my mental shields. We never shared our dreams with each other again, either. Honestly, I barely felt him on the other side of the bond most days- if at all. He was busy, and his court must have been in as much shambles as this one. He didn’t have the time to check in down the bond, despite the ache in my chest that would sometimes surface at the thought of it. At the idea that he didn’t think of me as often as he seemed to pop into my head. At random times during the day, I would think of him, what he was doing, if he was alive.

Stupid mating bond- I didn’t know if it was me who cared about such things, or the instincts involved with having a mate outside of my grasp. I had no idea how any of it worked. I pushed the thoughts of Rhys out of my head as fast as they had popped in. I am sure he is getting a lot more work done now that he doesn’t have to go back and forth between the moonstone palace and wherever he spent his days.

Despite it all, I didn’t care about most things anymore. With books being my only source of consistent company, there was no one, including myself, who cared enough to notice that I had delved further and further into myself. No one bothered to see the raging empty pit inside me that was growing by the day, threatening to devour me whole with every passing breath.

Continue on AO3

Tag list: @thebelladonnamoon @s-uppertime @vulpes-fennec @the-lonelybarricade @panicatthenightcourt @coracrowart @starfall-spirit @freyjas-musings @vikingmagic33 @hlizr50 @valeridarkness @lokisllama @aldbooks @foreverinelysian @dxnniiix @popjunkie42 @mis-lil-red @rhysiedarling @bearbluebooks @sadiegirl2021 @foundress0fnothing @climbthemountain2020

Let me know if you would like to be added :)

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