#fic: blood will burn

[dunbonnets]

JACAERYS VELARYON & KEILA MANDAL

i vowed not to cry anymore, if we survived the great war...

available on wattpad

[ceruleanharley]

they had two minutes of screentime, showed up served enemies to lovers sexual tension longing resentment heartbreak and they died. pretty iconic tbh

[all-the-gory-details]

Vampire Whumpee P.2

P1 P3 P4

TW: Burning, captivity, sadistic whumper, nailed to a tree, gagged, restrained, dehumanization

The walk back to the hunters' camp felt like it took days. Whumpee's ankle was on fire, nerves refusing to die as their body tried to heal.

It wouldn't heal, not with the silver still clamping onto their bone. They tried to be thankful that their bones were immune to the burning agony, but it was hard when every step brought tears to their eyes.

They managed to make it to the camp with only a few stumbles, only a few shallow scrapes that were already healing. The sight of the clearing ahead brought a sense of relief.

Finally, no more walking.

The relief fled when they felt a hand in their hair, yanking their head back once more. "How about we get you nice and comfy, leech? Gotta make sure you won't be making any escape attempts when we're all asleep."

Whumpee whimpered, wanting so badly to beg for some form of mercy. But the sound only made the hunter grin, tightening his grip. "I think I have just the thing."

Suddenly, they felt the ropes around their wrists being cut, and their hands immediately went to the gag. If they could get just a few words in, they could make them understand.

The hunter grabbed their wrists tightly. "Oh no you don't," he growled. "I've got plans for these. Oi, someone get me one of those nails."

Whumpee's heart sank. They started pulling against the hunter frantically, trying to get away, away, away-

The hunter spun them around and slammed their back into a nearby tree, forcing all the air out of them. For a few moments, they just floundered, struggling to breathe, to see straight.

Then, they caught sight of a hammer, and the grin worn by its bearer.

Aaaand they were thrashing again.

"I'll hold its hands," said the hunter pushing them against the tree. "Make sure you get in between the bones, don't want it to rip its wrists in two."

Whumpee was sobbing, shaking their head as their hands were pushed up against the wood. The one with the hammer pulled a single nail out of their pocket, a long one with a wide head.

And then the point was resting on their pinned wrists, stacked on top of each other on that cursed tree, and they were crying, shaking, screaming, bleeding-

It went through their wrists easily, like a knife through butter. The tree was tougher. It took a few hits before the nail was deep enough to trap them like a pinned bug.

The hunter who had held them still was grinning as he pulled down lightly on their arm. "There you go, bloodsucker," he murmured, grabbing their chin and forcing their gaze upwards, forcing them to look him in his cruel, delighted eyes.

"Trapped and tamed. Just what monsters like you deserve."

Next part

Thank you to @scoundrelwithboba who requested a second part! Hope you like it!

[chairofchaos]

When the Blood Burns

Blood (Part 1)

Burns (Part 2)

Pairing: Azriel x Eris

Summary: Azriel and Eris find themselves drawn together during the first war with Hybern. (Requested here)

Rating: Explicit (see warnings- I mean it. I can give details in DMs if you want specifics before reading)

Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: violence, homophobia/homophobic violence (if you want details my DMs are open), graphic depictions of wounds and wound care with a very rudimentary understanding of the subject, alcohol use, and much less important than the others but still concerning: unedited.

A/N: Shoutout to @tsunami-of-tears for once again providing me with the perfect divider for this fic. Shoutout to @unanswered-stars forgiving me permission to do whatever I want with this request. And please know I tried to make it short. But now it's almost 10k so this is part 1 of 2. Maybe 3.

Their first meeting was unremarkable. Azriel, blinded with rage over Eris’ rejection of Mor and the ensuing pain it had caused his family, thought nothing of the young lord other than how callous he had been, and avoided him under the orders of his High Lord.

So the first time they had truly met was in a war tent five years and seven months into the war with Hybern. Eris stood with his elder brother behind Beron’s seat at the round table. Rhys and Azriel stood shoulder to shoulder behind Rhys’ father. When the High Lords had dismissed their advisors for a recess in planning, somehow only Eris and Azriel found themselves walking outside. 

They were silent. Azriel scanned the passing troops for any sign of Cassian. It had been three weeks since either he or Rhys had seen him, but there was a chance, stationed here near the western battle grounds, that they would encounter him. Still, even Azriel’s shadows hadn’t been able to locate his brother. 

The shadows' presence was thin. There were only so many he could task, only so many he could control. Only a fraction of his usual cloud of shades stayed with him. Still, they whispered to him. 

“The Autumn lord watches you,” they hissed. They seemed less concerned than intrigued. It wasn’t often people stared directly at him, and yet when Azriel turned his head, the lordling was staring, openly and with no concern.

“Can I help you?”

Eris shrugged evenly. His face was impassive, but he either didn’t know or didn’t care Azriel would notice the shuffle of his feet. “No.”

Azriel raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you have something you want to say.”

Eris’ lips pinched, his eyes darting to the tent entrance. “You have less shadows this time.”

“Yes.”

Eris waited, but Azriel was more patient and well aware that the Lord just wanted him to speak. Finally, Eris sighed. “Are you… well?”

Well? Azriel was… oh. He dared a glare. The lord was nosy. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You have less shadows. That isn’t a symptom of something being wrong?”

“No. It’s a symptom of being at war.”

“Ah,” the lord breathed. “That’s… good.”

Azriel didn't bother to respond before he turned and walked back into the tent. Such an odd male.

Two months passed before they crossed paths again. Azriel had shadow-walked to take a message from his High Lord to the High Lord of Winter. Rhys had been sent away as well. There was little to lure him back, so he would take advantage of the distance between the two encampments to take a night away. It was already after dark. He could safely return in the morning with no one noticing.

Once he retrieved the paper with the instructions, he walked the encampment shrouded in shadows. Here, Winter and Autumn soldiers did not mingle. In fact, the road Azriel walked through the camp was so stark a dividing line he found himself all alone. Except…

“Oof!”

A figure had darted awkwardly from behind a Winter tent. They were looking over their shoulder, and had plowed straight into Azriel. 

Azriel snarled, wings flaring behind him to keep himself righted as the figure fell at his feet.

“Watch where you’re going,” he growled, stepping back. His hand instinctively rested on Truth Teller’s handle while he glared at the figure. The road was so dark he couldn’t even see the insignia on the soldier’s tunic.

“I- My apologies.” It took Azriel the time it took for the male to scramble to his feet to place the voice.

“Vanserra?”

“Shadowsinger,” was the response. It was curt in a way Eris’ attempts at conversation hadn’t been previously. Yet this time, Azriel’s shadows said nothing.

“You really should watch where you’re going.”

“I know,” Eris snapped.

“Snippy tonight, aren’t we?” He had been moving quickly, and yet was no longer rushing. It was odd enough for Azriel to order shadows to examine him. It was dark, so it was easy for them to go unnoticed. 

“Do I owe you courtesy?” was the bitter response.

“You crashed into me.” His shadows slithered about his ears, talking over one another.

“And I apologized.”

It was then that the shadows’ one-word report made sense. Blood. There was blood gushing from the male’s body. When he paused, Azriel could smell the metallic tang from Eris’ general direction, distinct from the days old blood scent of the camp around them. It was enough to send his shadows into a vague fury, as if they couldn’t decide whether this was something to be concerned about given who the male in question was. 

Eris waited, standing there in complete stillness. 

“You’re injured,” Azriel finally settled on. 

Eris snorted. “And? So is everyone.”

“It isn’t a war wound. This camp has not seen battle in over a week and that wound is fresh.”

“Does it matter?” Eris snapped. “I don’t know why you bother to bring it up at all.”

Azriel took a deep breath. “Because if you’re fighting next to my brother your injury could get him killed. I know you haven’t seen much battle, but from what I’ve heard your father is doing everything he can to keep you on the front lines to get you killed. I’d rather not give him the satisfaction if it means my brother dies.”

Autumn and Night court soldiers had been fighting alongside each other frequently. With Winter replacing Night Court forces in this camp, chances were dwindling, but it wasn’t a risk Azriel was willing to take.

Eris tried a new tactic: complete silence. Still, Azriel saw his silhouette cross his arms defensively. It was a bad move. His hands were pinned where they were, and he was already off balance. Azriel took the opportunity to reach a hand out and shove the male’s shoulder with a moderate amount of force.

Eris’ sharp intake of breath gave Azriel more pause than he expected. “I’ll tend your wound,” Azriel said gruffly. “I refuse to let you get killed over some stupid fight with a soldier from another court.”

Still, Eris didn’t move. 

“You can walk, can’t you? You were doing fine when you ran into me.”

“I’m fine,” Eris bit out. “Leave.”

Azriel snorted. Now he definitely wouldn’t leave the male alone. “No. You’re in more danger like that than you know.”

“And what would you know of it?” Eris all but hissed at him, arms uncrossing to clench against his sides. “You don’t scare me.”

“I should,” Azriel snapped back. “I should terrify you. I could have killed you about thirty different ways in the course of this conversation.”

“You’re not touching my– wound.” Eris’ voice broke. 

“You aren’t tending it yourself.”

“I’ll go to a healer.”

“No,” Azriel shook his head. “You won’t. Because if your father finds out he’ll use it to his advantage. Why does he hate you so much?”

“I can handle it myself,” Eris’ voice was losing all conviction and confidence. 

“No.”

“Leave.”

“I trust you know somewhere safe enough. I’ll get the supplies and meet you there. A shadow will tell me where you end up, or I can winnow us there.”

That seemed to give Eris pause. “I thought shadowsingers did something called shadow-walking.”

Azriel balked. It was rare anyone bothered to know the difference, let alone remark on it. He nodded, then remembered the male likely couldn’t see him. He cleared his throat before saying, “Yes.”

“Can we shadow-walk?” Now, the lord just sounded tired.

“Yes. Where are we going?”

“North of camp, there’s a glade.”

“It’s safe?”

“Yes.” Eris reached his right hand out.

Azriel gripped the male’s wrist roughly with his own right hand, binding their hands together with shadows who seemed all too eager. “Don’t let go,” he warned. 

“I won’t.”

A blink and a breath of complete darkness followed before they arrived in the clearing, which Azriel’s shadows had found quickly. A small fire was reduced near to ashes in the center of the glade, but it was more light than the road had held. Eris moved to drop Azriel’s hand, but the shadowsinger shook his head, motioning for the lord to stay silent and wait.

The shadows not binding them together scattered, darting around the trees at the outskirts and winding back to Azriel once they had cleared the area and confirmed its safety. “Safe. Safe. Safe,” was their chorus, one after the other. 

When Azriel was satisfied, he sent a third of them for supplies, tasking another third to unroll the lord’s bedroll, which they had found tucked in an oak, next to the fire. Dropping Eris’ hand, he crossed to a small pile of wood at the edge of the glade and collected half of it to bank the fire. Eris stayed where he was, watching silently. 

“Come sit,” Azriel ordered, pointing to the bedroll as he squatted to blow at the cinders and coals and encourage what little flame was left to grow, to light the new wood and give them more light and heat. Eris made no move to help him, so Azriel didn’t bother to ask. 

With the increasing light, Azriel could see the dark gleaming of what had to be blood down Eris’ thigh as he walked. There was a lot. The side of his leg was saturated to the top of his boot, while the wound seemed to originate near his hip bone. It had to be nasty for Eris to be bleeding that much. That explained why he hadn’t offered to help with the fire, or, better yet, to feed the fire himself with his power. Yet, he walked. 

That took strength. Azriel almost found it in himself to be impressed as the male lowered himself gracefully to the ground. 

His shadows had begun piling bandages and other important things by Azriel’s side. He sent one of them off in pursuit of a new pair of pants for the lord, who wouldn’t be wearing this pair again without an excellent laundress, and those who could keep secrets were in short supply in a war camp when information was money.

“Take your pants off,” Azriel commanded. Eris winced.

“I’m not sure I can.”

“I'll have to cut them off.”

Eris hesitated, his eyes darting to Truth Teller. “Be careful.”

How badly hurt was he, that he would allow Azriel to have a knife that close to his skin, to vital blood supply? 

As the light increased, so did Azriel’s concern that the male’s condition may not be as stable as he originally thought. His skin seemed to pale more and more with every flare of the fire. Sweat dripped from his brow, despite the chilly night around them. And he was obedient. Vanserras, in Azriel's admittedly limited experience, were never obedient. Certainly not to orders given from a Night Court grunt.

As if they sensed his growing concern, shadows dispatched to scan the male again. They returned with whispers of blood and wounds– multiple. Azriel nearly sighed. This was perhaps a bigger job than he anticipated. He sent shadows now to retrieve his own bedroll and bag. He’d be damned if the last thing anyone saw before the autumn lord died was the two of them together, and there was no real way to guarantee he hadn’t been seen with Eris on that road. Damn it all.

“How many wounds are there?” he asked, unsheathing Truth-Teller and setting the supplies beside Eris.

“Just the one.”

“Don’t lie to me. If you die, it’s my wings they’ll come after.”

Eris glanced over Azriel’s shoulder at the reddish membranes which were his constant companion, his pride and joy.

“Three.”

“Only three?”

“Only three,” Eris confirmed.

“Where?”

Eris gestured at his right shoulder, waved a hand over his injured leg, and then looked away.

“That’s two,” Azriel commented. “You’re going to need to take that tunic off, too, but let’s start with your leg.”

Eris laid back. Azriel reached into his boot to retrieve a flask and offer it up. “Whiskey. It’ll take the sting off.”

Eris grimaced, but took the flask anyways, draining what was left of the alcohol from it before handing it back. 

Azriel knelt at his side, the fire on Eris’ other side giving him light to work. Truth Teller made quick work of a cut through Eris’ pants from ankle to waist, and Azriel sheathed the blade quickly. When he removed the fabric a barrier which had begun to form to protect the wound would be removed, and he needed to know everything he could before that happened.

“What blade was used?”

Eris blinked at him slowly. He was fading, fast. “A dagger.”

“Was it poisoned?”

“No,” Eris shook his head with conviction.

“Was there anything special about the blade?”

“Standard Winter court issue,” he said. 

Azriel nodded. “Alright. This is going to hurt.”

Eris paused, looking at Azriel, then turning his head to the fire. Azriel barely heard the quiet “I know” which followed.

Azriel pulled the fabric of the male’s pants away from him and grimaced. Eris didn't even flinch. The cut went across the male’s hipbone nearly twelve inches to the outside of his upper thigh, getting deeper as if Eris had rolled into the knife to protect his midline.

“Tell me what happened,” Azriel ordered as his hands began to move. Damn it all, they were cold. And tired. He was so tired. But he couldn’t let Eris die. For some reason, he needed the male to live.

“No.” Eris countered with a fire he hadn’t shown all evening. It was the first anger Azriel had heard from the male, and it awoke something in him. He dumped three antiseptic potions across the wound. Eris barely moved, blinking up at the stars.

“You could die,” Azriel snarled, pressing bandages against the seeping wound. “Why? You are the son of a high lord. If it was a standard issue Winter court blade it likely wasn't anybody of your status. Why protect them?”

Eris bit his lower lip. Azriel pulled Truth Teller out to cut through what was left of the male’s pants and underwear and remove them. A long strip of fabric wound around the male’s waist, then around his upper thigh, to secure the padding of bandages against the long wound. When Azriel was certain the bands wouldn’t move, he tied them off in a quick knot and looked up at the lord’s face. 

His eyes were closed, his face turned slightly toward the fire. He looked slightly flushed, and yet entirely too pale. His breathing was shallow. He needed water. Food, too. He didn’t seem to be interested in answering any more questions. Maybe those things would loosen his lips.

First, the other wounds. The removal of all his clothing revealed a gash along his shoulder, about four inches long. It wasn’t deep, but it was angled, and the skin could be folded back away from the wound. Azriel stitched that one with quick stitches. He would have stitched the large one, but without any indication that it wouldn’t get infected, he was unsure about closing it with the sutures which would solidify by the time the horizon had light on it. An infection growing beneath the skin was much worse than a scar from skin knitting itself back together.

The last wound didn’t immediately present itself, so Azriel had nudged Eris until he grudgingly rolled onto his side.

His bare back was a maze of scars. Azriel was struck immediately by how well his hands blended with the mottled skin of Eris’ back, burns seemingly crisscrossed by the stripes of what had to have been made by a very long, thick whip. It turned his stomach to see just how broken the male’s back was. They weren’t that different in age, and Azriel had his fair share of scars. But this was a level of brutality Azriel hadn’t expected to find carved into the male’s skin. It was no doubt he hadn’t flinched at the stitches, or even the bandaging. He had to be intimately familiar with both.

One wound on his back, a long stripe across his shoulder blade, was red and struggling to close. Azriel stitched that closed, too, before throwing the bandages he had used to wipe the male’s blood away into the fire. Seeming to know it was over, Eris rolled back onto his back. He didn’t open his eyes, but his breathing seemed slightly steadier.

Azriel grabbed his bag from where the shadows had dumped it unceremoniously behind him and retrieved a tin of dried meat and crackers.

“Eat,” he ordered, setting the tin on Vanserra's stomach. “I’m getting us water.”

Eris cracked an eye open to stare at him. “Fine.”

Azriel ordered some shadows to scout ahead for water, and some to watch over the lordling, as he unrolled his own bedroll next to Eris. Better to have the fire lord between him and the fire, he told himself.

His shadows returned with a satisfactory report, so he went when he was certain Eris would eat more than a bite or two.

On his return, the container sat on his bedroll, half the food gone.

“You should eat more,” Azriel said, nudging it towards him. 

Eris shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Drink, then,” he tried. Eris nodded, reaching a reluctant hand to grip the offered bottle.

He propped himself up on an elbow to drink, and swallowed until he finished the whole bottle with a gasp. “Thank you.”

Azriel nodded. He felt as though he hovered over the lord, but he found himself unsettled. “I’ll take the watch.”

Eris didn’t argue or say they didn’t need one. It would have been a lie neither of them would have accepted. He just nodded, dropping his head back and closing his eyes again.

Azriel didn’t bother to wake him through the rest of the night. When light began to peek over the horizon, Eris stirred on his own, sitting up with a groan and a stretch. 

“Thank you,” he said again. 

Azriel nodded. “I need to check your–”

“No,” Eris said abruptly, sitting. “Enough. I will go back to camp, and so should you.”

Azriel shook his head. “You can’t fight like this.”

Eris smirked up at him. “I’ve done it before.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Azriel narrowed his eyes.

Eris shrugged, shuffling awkwardly until he was on his feet, even though he panted. “That’s fine.”

“I just spent last night putting you back together. If I hear you undo that work, I’ll kill you,” Azriel protested. Eris seemed to soften at that. “I think you should go.”

Azriel bristled even as his shadows obeyed his silent order to retrieve all his things. “Fine.”

“I’ll burn away any trace of you being here,” Eris assured him, waving a hand at his bedroll. It disappeared.

Azriel nodded. “Check those wounds this morning.”

Eris nodded. “I will.”

When Azriel had his bag and bedroll in hand, he shadow-walked away, Eris not sparing him more than a moment’s glance as he disappeared from view.

Their third meeting was much like the first. Outside a war tent, the Autumn court delegation lingered in hushed circles. Their forces had been hit hard in the last of Hybern’s offensives. No doubt they were reconsidering their participation in the ongoing war, if only to save the rest of their soldiers. Still, from the thick of the fray strode Eris Vanserra, his gait no less even than it had been the first times Azriel had seen him.

Azriel couldn’t help but watch him as he stood outside the tent. They had tightened the circle allowed in. The recent losses had been too stark to eliminate the possibility that someone on the council or one of their advisors was selling information or even was an agent of Hybern. It was no doubt that fact which kept the sons close, and everyone else at a very great distance. Still, Azriel could watch from here. Could keep an eye out for either of his brothers. 

Shadows told him nothing of them. Their names were not on the rolls. But here was Eris. Alive, breathing. He would have known if Eris had died. And Eris had not.

“Shadowsinger,” a curt acknowledgement. Azriel nodded firmly in return. No words could explain his relief, even to himself. Eris rolled his shoulders, his embroidered coat restricting his motions. Instead of walking past Azriel, the lord stopped at his side.

“Thank you,” Eris murmured. If Azriel hadn’t been attuned to the male's presence, he wouldn’t have heard it at all. It was dangerous to speak this openly. Eris had to know that. Surely, a High Lord’s son would know that speaking to the spymaster of another court was dangerous. Surely.

Azriel turned to walk away. He would not risk it, but Eris still tried. “Azriel.”

He spun to face Eris, schooling his face into an angry mask. “What?”

Eris’ eyes flashed with an answering anger, then cooled. “I saw your brother. The soldier.”

This was unexpected. Azriel’s eyes narrowed. How would Eris know he searched for his brothers?

As if anticipating the question, Eris stepped closer. “Your shadows, the ones who stayed, told me. I asked them how I could… repay you. They told me. He’s in the next camp over. Injured, but not badly. Ask for Madja.”

Shadows zipped away from Azriel faster than he could respond. He had left some of them with Eris that morning to ensure the male checked and cleaned his wounds.

Now, Eris watched them go, nodding once, then walking on past Azriel. Eris knew what it meant to see those shadows go out. It was all he had needed to see. 

Azriel may not be able to get away on his own, but he could send those shadows. They would find Cassian, who would recognize them and maybe even be able to get away for a day. 

More pressing was that the shadows had spoken to Eris. Had deemed him worthy of information about Azriel. That happened so rarely. Only when Azriel was truly in need of something, or on the rarest of occasions, when he was in true danger, would his shadows bother to try to communicate with anyone. Never before had they shared with someone as nonsensical as Eris Vanserra. He would ask them later why. He hoped they would tell him.

Someone was calling his name. It was the middle of the night, and his shadows were rousing him from sleep with a frantic energy. Months had passed since he had seen Cassian, or Rhys. He had only just gotten back from a scouting mission in Hybern that evening. The war still raged, still slowly marching them all toward death. 

But someone was calling his name. “Hurry,” his shadows urged him. “Fight.” 

The second prompt was enough to speed him. He rarely slept without weapons at hand, and he grabbed two Illyrian blades and strapped them to his back with the speed of a soldier who had been at war for over six years. 

Finally ready, he ordered his shadows to take him where they willed. Emerging from their total darkness into the moonless night with Truth Teller clenched in his hand, he found himself at the edge of that familiar glade. 

This time, it was anything but peaceful. Eris fought against three warriors dressed in dark clothes, their faces concealed by darkness. Azriel recognized the fighting style more than the clothing, and it was for good reason Eris didn’t bother to use his powers. 

In a split second, Azriel shadow-walked to be behind the Autumn court soldiers, disarming one with ease while Eris held his own against the second. Azriel’s blade slid into the side of the throat and was pulled through the front, removing the attacker’s ability to scream as his life faded to a bloody end. 

The third spun from Eris to Azriel. He opened his mouth, but behind him, Eris flicked a dagger from his waist, the blade glinting before Azriel saw the male’s head jerk forward. When he fell, the handle of the blade stuck at a perfect right angle from the base of the male’s skull.

As Azriel had drawn Eris’ attention, his moment’s glance to throw the blade had left his left side unguarded. The remaining autumn warrior took advantage of the opening, and launched himself at the lord. His hand closed around the lord’s throat, and Eris was knocked toward Azriel, but Azriel was faster than the other warrior had perhaps anticipated.

In the span of moments, Azriel had removed the male’s hand from Eris’ throat, disarmed him, and bound him hand and feet with a cord he kept coiled in his boot for moments like this. His shadows had been dispatched to guard the borders of the glade.

Eris rubbed his neck as he offered a wad of cloth to Azriel, who crouched beside the bound warrior. Azriel took the fabric and shoved it into his mouth until he was satisfied the male wouldn’t be able to remove it.

“You need to kill him,” Eris said quietly. 

“I know,” Azriel said. The male’s eyes settled on Azriel as if he had only just now recognized the winged warrior. He began to scream through the fabric. Azriel’s remaining shadows spun around the warrior, examining him.

“Why do you scream?” Eris asked, crouching beside Azriel. “You chose to attack me. Your death was predetermined.”

The male’s eyes flicked to Azriel, then back to Eris, then back to Azriel again as his screaming increased in volume.

Eris snorted. “You truly think the death he will give you is worse than the death I could?”

Azriel couldn’t help but watch the Lord of Autumn as Eris stood. 

“A word, Azriel.” Eris looked down his nose at the screaming soldier. Azriel stood. They walked some distance away before Eris paused and looked over his shoulder at their prisoner.

“We have to kill him,” Eris said. “He recognized you.”

“That’s not surprising,” Azriel said. “Why did they come after you in the first place?”

Eris sighed. “I did something I shouldn’t have, and got caught doing it. Whether my father sent them or they took it upon themselves, I don’t know.”

Azriel paused. “What, exactly, were you doing?” If Eris was spying for Hybern, if he had used Azriel somehow…

Eris sighed. “I slept with one of their brothers.”

Oh. Oh. Prythian was generally safe for males like Eris. And Azriel. But some families held old ways of thinking that would incense hatred beyond caring that Eris was the son of a High Lord. It was that which kept Azriel hiding. He lacked the protection offered to Eris. Currently, he lacked even the protection of his brothers. 

So Azriel just nodded. When Azriel didn’t say anything, Eris sighed.

“How did you come here?”

“My shadows sent me. They were concerned.”

“Have they been watching me?”

“I don’t know,” Azriel admitted. “Sometimes they follow their own whims.”

Eris nodded. “I can handle him.”

“Do you want to?” What was one more body on Azriel’s tally? He’d killed nearly thirty yesterday, getting away from the Hybern guard who had started asking too many of the right questions. What was one more, in the face of the river of blood which had flowed from his hands?

“Not really,” Eris sighed. 

“You sound weary,” Azriel dared. After six years he was more than used to the ebb and flow of fights and battles, yet his heart still pounded in his chest.

“I am.”

“I’ll do it. Stay here.”

Eris said nothing in return but bowed his head.

Azriel crossed back to the bound warrior, who had started trying to roll and scramble away from them with whatever faculty he retained. Azriel placed a booted heel against the man’s collarbone, his toes grounded to the earth as he stood above the male.

“I’m going to take out the gag. Then you’re going to tell me who sent you, and what they wanted. If you don’t, I’ll torture you. This is your one chance. Do you understand?”

The male nodded, eyes glinting with starlight and terror. Azriel bent to remove the gag, whispering, “Scream, and I’ll gag you with something much more unpleasant than this fabric.”

He ripped it from the male’s mouth, and to his credit, the male said nothing.

“Who sent you?”

“No one. We came with him,” the male tipped his head at one of the bodies. “His brother died, and when they found his body on the battlefield, that bastard’s scent was all over him.”

“Eris’?” Azriel questioned. 

The male nodded. “They were… intimate.” He said it with a snarl, as though Azriel would not know and was being deceived. 

“You wanted to kill him.”

“Yes. For that, yes. It’s not–”

“Enough,” Eris’ voice sounded behind Azriel.

Azriel glared at him. “If it’s enough, kill him yourself.”

Eris shrugged. “Fine.”

The male opened his mouth to start screaming again, but Eris flicked his slender fingers. Azriel stepped back quickly as a reddish glow started emanating from the male’s throat and smoke began to billow from his mouth. 

Eris was burning him. Burning him from the inside out. The light of life in the male’s eyes was steadily replaced by the glow of that slow burning fire until the male was nothing more than ash in the wind.

Eris turned to Azriel. “Thank you for coming.”

Azriel nodded. Why was he so hesitant to leave? The second the male was dead, he should have walked away. Dawn was nearing again. He would need to be back before the High Lord woke in case he had further questions after last night’s debrief. Six years and ten months of this. Azriel wasn’t sure how much more of it he could take.

“Thank you for finding Cassian for me.” 

Eris smiled at that, not even looking as he lit the other two bodies on fire. “You saved my life.”

“You gave me the chance to see him. It had been a long time. It means more than I think you realize.”

Eris shook his head. “I imagine if I had a brother I trusted I would do just about anything in my power to see him.”

Azriel chuckled at that. “No friends among family?”

Eris sighed ruefully. “I’m afraid not.”

“Me neither. Except–”

They finished the sentence together, “my mother.”

“If you didn’t send for me,” Azriel crossed his arms, “Why did you trust I wasn’t there with them?”

Eris tipped his head back to stare at the sky. “My father has railed against your… proclivities in sexual partners. How he knew, I have no idea. I’ve never even heard whispers of you from anywhere else. I knew, if my father was somehow right, your presence was either on orders or to help me. I was willing to bet you wouldn’t kill me for something we share.”

“Beron knows about me?”

“Somehow. I think he had someone tailing you for a time, after Mor.”

Azriel bristled. He had been careful at 19, but apparently not careful enough. It was likely the best explanation. “You have no idea? Truly?”

Eris shrugs. “I was young when he brought it up. The timing seems right. I never put much thought into it.”

“So you assumed I was safe because of that.”

“No,” Eris laughed, quietly, but unmistakably amused. “No, I mostly assumed you were safe because the last time you saved my life you told me not to undo all of your hard work.”

“What happened then?” Azriel was demanding. He felt as though he was truly seeing the Autumn Lord, seeing him open and unguarded for the first time. Maybe now he could get answers.

Eris seemed to be willing to indulge him. “A winter court soldier didn’t realize who I was until I was on my way out of his tent. He tried to kill me.”

“It seems to me like you’re sleeping with the wrong people,” Azriel commented. Eris finally turned to face him, levelling him with a molten stare Azriel found himself drawn into. “And who are the right people?”

“People who have as much to lose as you do.”

“Like you?” Eris challenged. 

Azriel shrugged. “Are you offering?”

Eris smirked, turning to face Azriel. Dawn was growing, and the red light of morning lighting the leaves around him gave him the appearance of a body of molten fire. “If you ever wish to take me to bed, Shadowsinger, show up. I have spells on the glade. It will let me know you’re here.”

Azriel laughed. “Chances are slim, Vanserra.”

“But not zero.” Eris raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms in a slightly mocking reflection of Azriel’s own stance. 

“No.” Azriel admitted. “Not zero.”

[fairyfortalliance]

the imagery of no health regen…… wounded skin that doesn’t heal…. torn clothes….. burns…. scorch marks….. bite marks….. blood everywhere…… unraveling bandages…… oh…….

[ibrithir-was-here]

Some art for @see-arcane 's stupendous Blood of My Blood Novella "Never Loved", which ya'll should go read it first and the come back here and scream like I did

Bum bum buuuuuuuuuum...

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 5: Healing Salve

Ao3 link

- Time & Warriors

- Summary:

CW for blood and injury, torture, burn wounds, hallucinations, and near death experience

——————————————-

Heat. Terrible fiery flames that lap at his body, set his nerves screaming.

“Stay still, old man.”

Hands. On his face, tilting his head this way, that way. A gaze he cannot see roaming over him, inspecting.

He groans. He tries to move away. Murmuring voices urge him to remain where he is, cry out for him to take care what he does. 

“Move too much and you’ll aggravate your wounds.”

Fight and they’ll die.

His breath hitches. Fear spikes. 

Everything. Everything within him screams that he run. Danger is here, danger that he must escape. Even so…

Faces leer. Monsters dig their claws into his arms. Their relentless touch draws blood that runs hot, clammy down his skin. 

The chains around his wrists giggle gleefully with every movement. His breaths are haggard and sharp.

A hand grasps his chin so roughly blood bubbles beneath the skin. His head is angled up so that he has no choice other than to gaze into his captor’s eyes. They are filled to the brim with sadistic mirth. They mock him. 

“You want to run away, don’t you? You want to fight.”

Laughter, maniacal, endless. It echoes in his ears. It aches.

“Even if you could break free, I wouldn’t advise it.”

The snap and crackle of a lit match. He pulls harder of his bonds, choking on pain, on fear.

He won’t die here. He won’t.

“Your brothers are in our clutches.”

He freezes. His head pounds.

“Fight us and we will kill them. Slowly, agonizingly, in terrible, dreadful ways. Run and it will be even worse.”

A smile shining amongst flame. The whispers and roars of fire devouring old wood. It laps at him, lunges, thirsty for blood.

“Let us see just how strong the Hero of Time is when there are no deities to help him. Let us see just how much he cares.”

He coughs crimson. He gasps mouthfuls of smoke.

“They trust you, you know. They love you, even.”

More laughter. It sounds like the screams of the dying.

“Do with that what you will.”

“Sprite, you idiot. You absolute idiot.”

“Why? Why’d he do that?”

A huffed sigh, like a half-sob. 

“To save us.”

Something cool and smooth spreads across his skin. Time exhales shakily. The relief is only slight. But it is there nonetheless. 

He knows what he will do. His mind is addled by pain, strangled by lack of air. But he knows. 

Stronger than the desperate fight within him is the desperate love. 

The words very well may be a lie. He cannot risk gambling on the fact that they are not.

“Stay still!”

His eyelids flutter. Sky blues gaze into his pleading, imploring.

“Please, Time.”

He opens his mouth, coughing, choking.

“Hurts,” he says, because no other thought sparks to mind. 

“I know,” whispers the sky. 

He doesn’t struggle. Not when the flames envelope him. Not when the smoke fills his lungs. 

But when everything begins to crumble, when the agony is so great that it is all he has, he begins to. It is fruitless, it conjures more fear than even before he had begun. He tries to stop, tries to restrain himself.

For them. For his brothers. For his family.

“I’m sorry, Malon…”

He screams. He screams until his throat burns and nothing but hoarse whispers escape. 

“Hush little hero.” A murmur he cannot place, an order he cannot follow. 

He screams until darkness comes like a keese in the night.

“Fairy! The salve can only do so much. We need a fairy! Now!”

He shudders. An icy chill has joined the endless heat. He would be grateful for it if it were not so terribly excruciating. It feels as though icicles have burrowed into his bones. 

Somewhere, someone is crying. Somewhere, voices trip over themselves in their panic. 

Time breathes in air so clear it is painful. He breathes and he lets the warmth and cold battle over him.

A soft sweetness comes next. Deceptively gentle, it drapes over him. A cloak, a blanket. He melts beneath its touch.

“I’m sorry, little one,” a small voice cries. “You should never had endured such pain.”

He wishes he had the strength to reach out. He wishes he had the strength to say that it is not her fault.

No one could have saved him. 

“You loved so much that you were willing to die for it,” says a new voice, one he knows.

A tiny kiss on his cheek, featherlight and familiar.

“You are a true hero, Link. But listen, you foolish fairy boy, you are too selfless. Please…take care of yourself.”

His breath hitches. He tries to lift a hand. He tries to say the word.

…

“Navi?”

“Time!” 

His eyes open, peeling back with the sensation of sandpaper upon new skin. He winces, blinks into the dim glow of a clouded twilight. 

Several pairs of blue eyes stare out of several eager faces. Several pairs of varying blues and one of violet.

Wind, his mind supplies sluggishly. Wind, Wild, Legend. 

…and Twilight, with an expression so sorrowful and fear-ridden that it hurts. 

“Time, are you alive? Are you okay?” 

“We were so worried!”

“You’re a moron, you know that, old man? Scared us half to death.”

Their voices are loud and they make his head ache. But the relief he feels to hear them, to see them, prevails over all else. 

“‘M sorry,” he croaks in a voice that hardly sounds like his own, eye trained on Twilight’s face, “for sc-scaring you all.”

“Sorry doesn’t — ” Legend begins with passion, but Warriors pushes into Time’s view and cuts him off.

“Hey guys, let me through. I need to check on him.” 

The others reluctantly back away. Warriors bends over him. His expression is one of careful detachment, but Time knows him well enough to see past it.

He can see the terror.

“Captain I…” he tries. Warriors shakes his head.

“We would’ve come for you. We wouldn’t have let them kill us.”

His hands are gentle, careful as he inspects his burns. Only the delirium of fever could ever have made him believe they were the clammy, clawing fingers of Majora. 

“You didn’t have to sacrifice yourself, Sprite.” 

Time feels an uncontrollable cough rising and tries to hold it down. 

“You don’t know how powerful that being is,” he rasps. “I couldn’t allow you all to die.”

Warriors stills, exhales. “You were feverish for an entire week, Link. For seven days you didn’t recognize us. And when we first found you?” He skewers Time with a trembling glare. “You were hardly living. That should never…never have…”

His shoulders hunch, tears flood his eyes so far even ducking his head is not enough to cloak them. When he speaks again, it is a whisper.

“I can’t lose you.”

Time stretches out a bandage-wrapped hand, clutches Warriors’. 

“And I…can’t lose you either. Any of you.” He smiles, an agonizing upturn of the lips. “I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that that fate never comes to pass. You would do the same. I’m certain of it.”

Warriors scowls at him, but he holds his hand as though the touch is the only thing holding him together. He doesn’t even try to let go. 

“I’m your big brother. It’s my responsibility to protect you.” 

Again, Time smiles. He is tired, oh so tired, but he can manage this.

“You did, captain.” His voice is a mere murmur, a whisper upon the breeze. “You protected me well. You brought me back here and tended to me. You ensured Malon would not become a widow.

“You didn’t allow me to die.”

[peaches2217]

💪 Mario bridal carrying Peach for the win

Rescue (TW: Blood, Injury)

~~~

Steady footsteps, pounding rapidly against stone. A strong, racing heartbeat. Deep but quick puffs of air. After three months hearing nothing but the drip of stale water and the scrape of metal trays against a dungeon floor day after day, these sounds were like music to Peach, drowning out the slow roar of magma and the panicked shouting of soldiers scrambling to reassemble their ranks. 

It was foolish to assume that she was safe now, and she knew this well, yet she was all too happy to call herself a fool. She could die this very moment and she would die happy, so long as she never left the sanctuary of Mario’s arms.

She buried her face into the junction of his shoulder as he ran and inhaled deeply. Blood. All she could smell was blood, its sharp coppery tang permeating through layers of grime and sweat and charred skin, and she breathed it in greedily. It enveloped her senses and protected them from the acrid stench of sulfur. 

She had never seen so much blood pour from a single source. She hadn’t known the human body was capable of such a thing. 

“Hang on tight.”

Pleasant tingles sparked through Peach’s body at his command. His voice — it was exactly as she remembered it, solid and sure, only the slightest bit strained from exertion. She obliged, tucking her legs tighter over his right arm and repositioning to wrap her arms around his neck; he in turn hoisted her closer, his left arm bracing against her back and pressing her chest securely to his. 

Sweat trickled down her neck, and dizziness threatened to steal her consciousness away, the sweltering heat of Bowser’s fortress almost more than her compromised body could handle. This didn’t stop her from clinging tighter to Mario. His warmth was so much softer, so much gentler, and she welcomed it with open arms.

From there he broke into a dead sprint, his feet so quick that she may well have been floating through the air. They passed plenty of soldiers in the midst of their escape, Koopas and Paratroopas alike, but most were too busy fleeing or chasing deserters to pay them any mind. The few that did gaped in awe, like they had seen the dead come back to life.

Peach understood their shock all too well. She had felt it only minutes earlier.

It all happened so quickly. The crash of metal against metal, her cell door being flung open. The whisper of her name, so weak yet so relieved, its source so disfigured that she didn’t want to believe it was truly him. But the gentle smile that had graced Mario’s lips as he collapsed onto the cold floor left no room for doubt or denial.

She had scrambled her way into an ever-growing pool of blood and pumped every last ounce of magic she could muster into his motionless body, cradling him and urging — no, begging him not to leave her, not now, not ever. And she had been too horrified by his deathly pale and blistered and burnt face to notice the bleeding crawl to a stop; in her mind, she was failing. Three months starved and sedentary had weakened her too greatly for her to hold any meaningful amount of magic. 

Yet she gave her all anyway, and she had screamed out in agony, in sorrow, in terrified uncertainty. She didn’t stop until her body forced her to stop, at which point she slumped over him, shaking and on the verge of blacking out, willing the Star Spirits to bring him back or else let her die alongside him.

There had been silence save the sounds of her pitiful weeping. There had been stillness. Then, a hand reached up and brushed her tears away. From his place in her lap, Mario had smiled up at her once more.

Now his heart hammered against her chest as the gloomy stone fortress and the blinding lava surrounding it faded farther and farther into the distance. She shut her eyes and buried her face into his shoulder once more, and she thanked him in her mind for heeding her pleas. Thank you, thank you, thank you, I love you—

She had almost said it in the dungeon. She wanted nothing more than to pull him into an impassioned kiss and babble words of love against his lips. He hadn’t given her any time. The moment he realized he wasn’t dead, he scooped her up and ran.

When he put her down, she decided. As soon as her feet were on solid ground once more, she would kiss him and set years worth of words unspoken free. 

But he didn’t put her down, not even as the choking smell of sulfur faded and cicadas sang out into the peaceful night. His sprint slowed to a run, then a jog, and with each passing minute his breath grew more labored. When his arms began to tremble, he just tightened his grasp, and the constricting pressure against her legs and torso might have been painful were his strength and presence not such a comfort.

Peach did her best to focus on these sensations, because she knew she would fall into catatonia if she let herself process any of today’s events, and she couldn’t afford that until she was home, at least.

Home. Her dearest friend and the love of her life carried her through an increasingly dense forest as a groom might carry his new bride, and he was taking her home. Peach’s saving grace — the only distraction potent enough to keep her from crying once more — came from Mario’s lips. 

“Mario?”

It happened again: a small noise of distress, then another, and another. With each one his pace stuttered until he slowed to a stumbling walk, each footstep taking notably more effort than the last.

Sympathy panged deep within Peach’s chest. The magic that had brought him from the brink of death still coursed through his veins long after, giving him the stamina to carry them both to safety, but now that magic was wearing off, and with it the pain of his injuries was returning. Before she could suggest they were far enough from the Darklands to rest, the last of Mario’s energy evaporated, and he sank to one knee in the grass with a pained whine.

Peach remained tightly clutched against him.

“S— sorry— hold on—” His words came in breathless pants, and he shook so violently that Peach was impressed he could still hold onto her. At this rate, she truly feared he might pass out.

“It’s okay,” she soothed, her voice low. “You can put me down. We’re safe for now.”

For just a moment, he squeezed her even harder, and though she knew it was selfish, she found herself hoping he’d ignore her completely, that he would hold her here in the dark wilderness until the sun peeked through the treetops. 

Eventually, he grunted in agreement, lowering his other knee so he could place her on the grass. The movement was surprisingly gentle given his state; he slid his right arm from beneath her legs once her backend made contact with the grass, and his left hand lingered for a moment at her spine to ensure she was steady.

Then it slipped away, and he slipped with it, crumpling heavily onto his side.

“Mario—!” Peach twisted to face him and brought her hands to hover over him. She had coaxed him back once. She would do it again if she needed to. Not once did she stop to wonder if she actually could.

But he was stable, if only barely. His clothes were torn in multiple places, and blood still seeped from the cuts they revealed. Undoubtedly there was even greater damage beneath those layers. But the puncture in his side, the primary source of his brush with death, now looked like nothing more than a nasty gash — painful, something that would need medical attention quickly, but not immediately life-threatening. He groaned and quivered as he lay there, but he drew deep and somewhat consistent breaths with fairly little difficulty.

Already his face looked so much better than it had in the dungeons. Not unscathed, not by any means; it was still littered with scratches and angry red burns, but the blisters and charring that had rendered him near-unrecognizable were nowhere to be found, the work of her lingering magic. This was the face of her Mario. Her champion.

Only when she cupped his cheek did Peach realize her hands were trembling. No, it was her entire body that trembled, and splotches of black began to dance in her field of vision. With a nauseated moan, she lowered herself to the ground beside him. Their journey home would have to wait a while longer.

Once she was situated across from him, her palm returned to his cheek, rough with stubble and warm from trauma. Already her heart raced, and its pace only quickened when his eyes fluttered open. Those eyes, deep blue and filled with tenderness… she had dreamed of them every night for the past three months. And she had begun to believe she would never see them again.

“Hey,” she whispered, because she really wasn’t sure what else to say.

For the third time since their reunion, Mario smiled at her, and she was certain her heart would burst. The pain etched into his features melted away as he met her gaze. It was as if everything was alright in his world now. And as he lifted a tremoring hand and mirrored her touch, his tattered glove meeting her cheek, Peach realized that everything was alright in her world too.

“Hey,” he whispered back. That one word wasn’t weak and feeble, like his dying whisper of her name had been. Its softness came from timidity, a timidity she knew all too well.

That was it. That was the final push Peach needed to overcome years of shyness, dancing around social etiquette and expectations and uncertain affections. She was going to pour her heart out to him, right here, right now, consequences be damned.

Once again, he didn’t give her any time.

He kissed her before she had the chance.

[viking-raider]

Salt in Our Wounds - Chapter II

Summary-> You've brought the unconscious and injured man into your home. Now, you and Edmund attempt to get him medical attention, while figuring out who he is, and what side he's on.

Pairing-> Gus March-Phillipps/Reader

Word Count-> 4.8k

Chapters-> I

Warnings-> PG: Blood, Language, Infidelity, Fluff, Medical Treatment

Inspiration-> Since my favorite demon, @littlefreya, asked so nicely. The one and only Chaos Major, Gus March-Phillipps.

Author’s Note-> I hope you enjoy! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

-> If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST as well as my @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’

“What are we going to tell Papa, Edmund?” You whispered, looking at him suddenly.

Edmund pushed his jaw forward and rubbed his palms over the steering wheel. “You just leave that to me, Peanut.” He replied, hitting the village round-a-bout. “I'll talk to him. What we need to worry about is how we're going to get his bullet wound treated.”

“Oh, no!” You gasped, feeling ridiculous for forgetting that.

“Relax.” Edmund cooed, turning onto your street. “I might have someone in mind, who could help us and keep their mouth shut.” He said, parking against your curb, instead of his.

“Who?” You frowned, blinking at him.

“Old man Tremblay.” He said, killing the engine. “He used to be the village's doctor, before his son-in-law, Thomas, took over for him. They both hate the Germans. So, I might be able to talk to Dr. Tremblay about coming over to the house. I'll say we need him to look at Pops. No offense to Thomas, but he's more comfortable with the old man, which is true. Once he's here, I'll explain the situation to him.”

“If he doesn't help us?” You asked, chewing on your lip, worried.

“Then, we'll wing it.” He huffed, shoving his door open and getting out.

“Wing it.” You sighed, your hands trembling. “Right. Wing it.” You gulped, getting out and meeting your brother at the tailgate. “What end are we picking up first?” You asked, quietly.

“I'll grab his top end.” Edmund replied, casually. “No need for you to drop the poor bastard on his head. He's got enough issues.” He sighed, climbing into the truck. “We all do.” He mumbled under his breath. “Go, open the front door.” He said, jerking his head towards your modest cottage.

“Fair.” You replied, scurrying over and pushing the door open. “Papa, me and Edmund are bringing something in! Don't close the door, please!” You called inside, before rushing back to the truck, helping Edmund with your load.

You slide him half off the truck, enabling you to wrap your arms around his knees and calves, before Edmund managed the rest. Shuffling across the sidewalk and turning, so Edmund went in first, you stepped over the threshold into the cottage, feeling the heat of the fire your father had roaring in the grate.

“What in God's sake are you two bringing in!” Your father griped from the sitting room, where he occupied his favorite armchair.

“I'll explain in a minute, Pops!” Edmund wheezed back, kicking open the door to the cellar. “You go down first.” He bid you with a jerk of his chin. “Your side vision is better than mine, so you hopefully won't stubble down the stairs, while looking over your shoulder.”

“That's fine.” You nodded, turning so you could carefully go down the narrow steps into the dark basement below.

It was slow and cumbersome, but you and Edmund made it to the bottom. You sat your package down and unwrapped him. There were no windows into the basement, so there wasn't a need to hide or conceal him anymore.

“We can't lay him on the floor, Edmund.” You hissed at him, quietly.

“We're not, silly!” He growled back, shaking his head. “Pops has a camp bed up in the attic. Go, get it and bring it down here. We'll set it up in the cellar, he can lay on it.”

Nodding, you went back upstairs, peeking at your father as you came up, but found, to your relief, he had dozed off. Going upstairs and down the hallway, you reached up for a cord hanging from the ceiling and pulled it, revealing a hidden, folded ladder, leading up to the half attic. It took a few minutes for you to finally find the folded up, military green and canvas, camp bed. Once you were back in the basement with it, Edmund had the cellar door open and was waiting for you. He put the bed together like an expert, having gone on countless camping trips with it over his life.

“That should do it.” He sighed, wiping his face. “Let's get him in it, then I'll go talk to Dr. Tremblay.”

“All right.” You sighed back. “He doesn't seem to be bleeding as much.” You commented, once he was resting in the bed.

“Seems so.” Edmund agreed, narrowing his eyes at the wound in the dim lighting. “Whether or not it's a good or bad sign is yet to be determined.”

“Then, you should hurry and get the doctor.” You urged him, brow creasing gently as you looked up at him.

“I'm going. I'm going.” He defended, holding his hands up. “Can't a man take a breather?” He asked, wide eyed.

You reached out and took Edmund's hand. “I'm sorry. I'm just-”

“I know, Peanut.” Edmund interrupted, shaking his head at you. “You have a heart worth more than gold, itself.” He said softly, bending to kiss the top of your head. “With luck, I'll be back soon with Dr. Tremblay.” He called, heading out.

“You hear that?” You said, looking at the man. “We're going to get you looked after. You'll be right as rain again soon.” You smiled at him, though you weren't sure why. “How about I grab you a blanket?” You continued to babble at him. “You might get blood on it though.” You frowned, biting the corner of your lip, but scurried upstairs for a blanket and pillow anyway.

“What's that for, Peanut?” Your father asked, still half dozing.

“Oh, I just thought the basement spirit would like something comfortable to nap with.” You answered, pausing at the basement door, smirking over at him, knowing he wasn't listening.

“That's nice of you, love.” He slurred, head lolling forward.

You chuckled, continuing on. “Well, my father now thinks the basement is haunted.” You quipped, lightly spreading the blanket over your new housemate, then gently tucked the pillow under his head, noticing how sweaty his unruly, but short, curls were. “You've caught a fever.” You cooed, turning your hand to delicately rest it on his damp forehead. “Thankfully, it's cool down here.” You said, using the cuff of your blouse to dab at his sweaty brow.

“I'll be right back.” You hurried back upstairs, to the kitchen.

You grabbed a bowl from the cabinet and a dish towel from its hanger. Tossing the towel over your shoulder, you filled the bowl halfway with water and turned to the ice box and chipped ice from it, dropping some into the bowl. You made two trips between the upstairs and the cellar, taking a chair down there, before taking down the chilled water, so you had something to sit on as you gingerly dabbed his flushed forehead and face.

“Well, whoever you are.” You said, balancing the bowl in your lap. “It's a right mess this is.” You chuckled, before introducing yourself, feeling silly just sitting there in the silence. “I hope you're on our side or Edmund is going to have us both shot.”

Some of the heat in his skin cooled as you lightly draped the folded dish towel over his forehead, making you relieved to see him not so flushed.

You heard the door upstairs creak open and the floorboards overhead groan as heavy feet strode and shuffled over them. “That must be Edmund with Dr. Tremblay.” You commented, looking up at the dusty ceiling. “I should go up and check on them.” You said, standing up, setting the now warm bowl of water in your place on the chair.

“Edmund?” You called softly, appearing in the kitchen, where he was standing with a short, gray haired man, dressed in a wrinkled, brown three piece suit.

“Sshh.” He hushed you, casting an eye towards the sitting room and waved you closer. “As I was saying, Dr. Tremblay, I've brought you here not for my father, but for another matter entirely.” He continued, his voice low so as not to disturb your father.

Dr. Tremblay's bushy brows drew closer together, reminding you of a caterpillar. “Is that so?” He hummed, bringing his arthritic hand up to his chin. “Then, what was it you summoned me here for?”

Edmund's eyes twitched to yours for a moment, you nodded at him and he looked back to the good doctor. “I know you have no love for our occupiers, Dr. Tremblay, like I, myself, don't.”

“Ha!” He laughed, his head tipping back as he grinned. “Fripouilles!” He spat, with no small amount of venom.

“I agree, sir.” Edmund chuckled, smirking. “But, to the heart of the matter. My dear sister here, on her daily morning walk along the beach found something—someone, washed ashore.” He explained, his voice calm and steady, revealing no emotion or opinion. “We're sure he's of our morals. But he's been injured.”

“Injured?” Dr. Tremblay frowned, narrowing his ordinarily kind, but currently and understandably suspicious, brown eyes at him. “Injured how? Show me.”

“I would rather tell you.” Edmund answered, biting his lip. “In case, you wish not to have any further dealings in this matter.”

“Nonsense!” Tremblay huffed, waving his hand dismissively at the two of you. “Let me see this man.”

Edmund didn't move for a moment, before nodding and leading him down the basement stairs. “He was shot in the side.” He explained, entering the cellar, where your guest laid.

“I discovered he'd developed a fever.” You spoke up from the door. “So, I applied a cool compress to his skin.”

“That was a good thing.” Dr. Tremblay answered, distractedly, folding back the blanket and resting his hands on the man's injured side. “Has he regained consciousness at any time?”

“No.” Edmund replied, shaking his head and looking at you.

“He hasn't.” You confirmed, nervously.

Dr. Tremblay pulled a pair of wired spectacles out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, before untucking the shirt from the unconscious man's trousers, for a clearer view, and began fussing around the wound. “Help me turn him on his side, Edmund.” He bid, waving your brother over. “Yes, good. Very good.” He nodded, examining his back. “The bullet went clean through to the other side.” He said, indicating the exit area, just above his hip.

“Then, why is he still comatose?” You asked, concerned.

“He may have struck his head on something, while in the water.” He answered, allowing Edmund to rest him on his back, before moving up to his head and gently working his fingers through his curls, feeling for any bumps or soft spots on his scalp. “Ah, just here.” He smiled, finding a faint knot at the back, just behind his left ear.

“Well, get my bag from upstairs. I'll treat him.” Tremblay sighed at Edmund. “Are you squeamish, young lady?” He asked, while he pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down.

You thought of the Patrol Officer for a split second, before answering him. “No, sir. I am not.”

“Very good.” He said, crooking a finger at you. “You'll be taking care of this, when I'm not here to check on him.” He informed you, bluntly.

“That's fine.” You gulped, biting your lip and moving to stand beside him. “What will I need to do?”

“The dressing on both the entry and exit wounds will need to be changed.” He explained to you, calmly. “You'll make sure there's no sign of infection or the stitches I need to put in place have not come untied. As well as keep them clean.”

You nodded your head, somewhat apprehensive at the thought of doing all of this, but knew there was no other option, if you wanted to keep this man alive.

“You were correct in assuming he has a fever.” Dr. Tremblay said, lifting the damp towel and laying his hand on the man's forehead, feeling the heat there. “It's possible there's an infection in his wound from his time in the water.” He replaced the towel and looked up at Edmund as he rejoined the two of you, holding Tremblay's black, large and leather doctor's bag.

“I will show you how to give him penicillin shots.” He told you, taking his bag and setting it down between his feet.

“You mean with a needle?” You squeaked, startled, looking over at Edmund.

“Certainly not with a glass, mon chéri.” Tremblay chuckled, grinning at the contents of his bag.

The seasoned doctor removed an emerald, glass bottle of liquid antiseptic, a small package of silk sutures with a wickedly sharp needle, a tiny vial of a clear substance and a glass syringe. He laid them out on a small space on the bed, turning his attention back to the angry looking entry wound.

“Do you have any hand towels you could part with?” He asked, looking up at you. “It will help me clean these wounds.”

“Yes, of course.” You nodded, darting back upstairs and grabbing a couple of the dish towels you had that were in sad condition, bringing them back down as Edmund was wrestling an old nightstand into the room.

“Give him something to put his instruments on.” He explained to your expression.

“Ah.” You nodded, understanding.

Everything set up, you watched closely as Dr. Tremblay drew the milky antibiotic through into the syringe, pushing up the plunger slightly to remove any air, then set it aside and studied his patient for a moment, before letting out a sigh that sounded as if he was inconvenienced.

“We must remove his trousers.” He said, tapping his foot.

“Why?” Edmund blurted out, brows going up with surprised shock.

“So I may administer the shot to him.” Tremblay replied, with an air of impatience.

“Well!” Edmund started to protest.

“Men!” You huffed, shaking your head.

“Don't you dare!” He snapped at you, watching as you moved around the good doctor and removed the blanket you had laid over the injured man, but you ignored him.

First, untying his boots and dropping them at the foot of the bed, then reached up and unbuttoned his suspenders, followed by the button of his trousers.

“What if he's not wearing an undergarment?” Your brother protested further.

“Then, we will be finding out presently, brother.” You replied, shooting him a look as you tugged the zipper down, much to your relief finding the hint of white and blue striped shorts. “See, you're fretting for nothing.” You said, tugging the rough wool pants down off his surprisingly thick thighs.

“Possibly of questionable allegiance, but properly dressed.” You quipped, folding them.

“Watch closely, mon chéri.” Tremblay hummed and picked the syringe back up, with a practiced hand, squeezed the muscle at the top of his thigh and injected him, slowly pushing down the plunger. “That is how it is done.” He said, looking up at you.

“It seems simple enough.” You answered, attempting to appear confident in your ability to replicate it.

“Very good.” He nodded, turning his bespeckled eyes to the bullet wound on the man's abdomen.

Grabbing one of the hand towels you set on the table, he poured antiseptic on it and pressed it to the wound, eliciting one of the first major reactions out of your beached stranger with the stinging liquid to the open and bleeding puncture. He whined, brows drawing together as he shook his head, sluggishly lifting his hand. You moved back around to the head of the bed, hushing him gently and picking up the now wilted towel as it slipped from his forehead. You caressed his damp curls off his forehead and temple, attempting to offer some semblance of comfort as Dr. Tremblay continued to disinfect his wound and the area around it.

“You're all right.” You whispered to him, quietly. “We're just trying to help you.” You tried to explain to him, not sure if he could hear you or not. “You're safe here with us.” You mumbled, watching Tremblay set the cloth aside to pick up the needle and thread, you unconsciously took the man's limp hand in yours and hugged it to your chest.

“Is there no more light to be had in this room, Edmund!” Tremblay asked, leaning forward to stare at the wound in the dusky light of the single, naked bulb overhead.

“I may be able to find you a lantern.” Edmund replied, turning back into the basement and rummaged around the items, until he found an oil lamp. He shook it gently, hearing what oil that was left inside slosh about. “I found it!” He called out, before going upstairs, setting that lamp on the kitchen counter and crossing into the sitting room, where the once roaring fire was, but now only flickered.

He took one of the fire sticks from the holder bolted to the brick that made up the fireplace and lit it with one of the remaining flames. Carefully carrying it back to the lamp, Edmund lit its soaked wick and blew the fire stick out, before tossing it into the sink.

“Here.” Edmund sighed, setting the lamp down on the table. “I hope it's enough.”

“Yes, yes.” The doctor nodded, satisfied.

With all he needed, Tremblay squinted and made the first pick of the needle. The patient huffed, his stomach muscles flexing in response, but it didn't deter Dr. Tremblay in the slightest as he continued. You stroked his forearm and squeezed his hand, watching with an uneasy stomach as the old doctor made smooth sutures. Those sutures placed, Edmund helped roll him onto his side, so the wound on his lower back could be likewise treated with antiseptic and stitched closed.

“I will come back in a day or two, to check on his wound and ensure the fever has broken. Give him the next shot in the morning.” Tremblay said, arranging his bag and closing it. “Should he grow worse in that time, send for me.”

“We will.” You answered, staring down at him, concerned with the flush to his face.

Edmund showed the kind doctor back upstairs, while you gently tended to your sick house guest. Carefully pulling down his shirt and covering him back up, as not to leave him only laying in the camp bed in a long sleeved shirt and his boxers. Picking up the basin of water, you carried it back upstairs and dumped it out in the sink, refilling it with fresh water and a little ice, before taking it back to the cellar, resting it on the table. Dipping the folded cloth in the chilled water and ringing it out, then gently pressing it to his flushed and bearded cheeks wiping away the droplets of blossoming sweat at his brow.

“He's going to need some nursing.” You said, hearing your brother coming back.

“I can see that.” Edmund replied, folding his arms and leaning against the door frame.

“Is there any prospect of finding him a more comfortable bed?” You asked Edmund, looking the camp bed over, how it dipped under his weight, the only support were the ties that kept the canvas middle secure to the frame.

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Between both houses, while Willa and I have a guest bed, that he's not welcome to, for obvious reasons. We don't have a bed to spare.” He told you, but saw the glint in your eye. “I could piece something for him.” He continued, stopping you from asking the question that was on the tip of your tongue. “Topping it with the mattress from my spare bed.”

“That would be better for him, I think.” You said, worried about the safety of the sutures on his back.

“Well, for now, it'll have to wait until tomorrow.” Edmund sighed, scratching the underside of his jaw. “It's your turn to make dinner tonight, by the way.” He reminded you, watching you fuss with the stranger as if he was someone you knew.

“I remember, brother.” You replied, catching the edge in his voice. “I got a good bit of minced beef from Remi last afternoon, with some Swedes.” You told him, dipping the cloth in the cool basin, then lightly laid it over the resting man's forehead. “Juliette told me a recipe yesterday as well. It's called Beef Loaf.” You stood, planting your hands on your hips and massaging the small of your back, sore from so much bending.

“I thought we would try it tonight.” You said, turning towards him, with a lifted brow.

“Sounds interesting.” He answered, cocking a brow back at you. “You should get to it.” He added, looking at his watch. “Supper starts in two hours. You know how the Major is, when dinner isn't prompt.”

You chuckled softly, nodding. “Yes, I do.” You replied, casting your eyes down to your soiled skirt. “But, I should change first. If he sees me like this, he'll likely ask questions.”

“Very true.” Edmund nodded, squinting at your skirt and just making out the stains. “Off you trot, then. I'll stay with our friend for a little while, in case he wakes.” He sighed, pushing off the door frame towards the chair. “You mind popping over to my place and grabbing my sketch pad, after you're finished freshening up? I need to make some figures on the shelves I'm putting down here.”

“Of course.” You nodded, picking the basin. “Do you have another lantern or oil? So you have more light to work by?”

“I believe so.” He frowned, slouching in the chair. “Willa can find them.”

Nodding again, you left back upstairs, setting the bowl in the sink and headed up to your bedroom. Sighing, you unbuttoned your skirt and let it slip in a puddle around your ankles, before stepping out of it and opened your little closet. Reaching blindly in for a fresh skirt, pulling out a wool, black and green, plaid skirt and slipped it on. Smoothing your hands over the garment, you hurried outside and to Edmund and Willa's home across the street, knocking lightly as you pushed the door open.

“Willa!” You called out for your sister-in-law, looking about for the slight brunette. “Lila!” You shouted, crossing to the back of the house, where they had a small garden, finding your sister-in-law there. She sat at a small table, slightly sideways in her chair, as she held one of her Debs Rose-Tips between her slender fingers, her eyes staring off over the garden wall.

“Willa.” You hailed, stepping out onto the patio.

Head jerking as she startled and taking a deep breath, Willa blinked several times and looked around at you. “Oh, it's you.” She sighed, rolling her hazel eyes. “What do you want?”

“I came for Edmund's sketch book. I also wanted to know if you had a lantern or lantern oil?” You explained to her, ignoring her look of annoyance at being bothered in whatever she was doing.

“Fine.” Willa huffed, standing up and heading inside, you following after her.

Willa opened a closet in the living room, removing a lantern and a bottle of oil, handing them over to you, before finding Edmund's sketch pad and his graphite pencil in the kitchen, motioning to them. “Will my husband need anything else?” She asked, with an air of almost callousness.

“I should think not.” You answered, taking the book and pencil up. “I'll have dinner ready soon.” You informed her, juggling all of your items. “If you're going to grace us with your presence.” You added, with an edge of your own.

“I'll think about it.” She answered, lifting an arched brow at you.

“Right, I'll have Edmund get you, when it's finished.” You said, turning for the door. “If not, I'll make you a plate.”

You were gently turning out the mixture of mince meat, dry breadcrumbs, fine onion, an egg, a pinch of salt and a can of cream of mushroom into your four by eight loaf pan, when your brother came tromping up the basement stairs.

“You'll wake the dead with all that noise, Captain.” You quipped, lightly patting the meat concoction into shape in the pan.

“That I will.” Edmund chuckled, moving to stand beside you, peeking over your shoulder to see in the baking pan. “Is that the beef loaf?” He asked, giving it a questionable brow lift.

“It is.” You nodded, sighing at it, praying you had mixed it all properly. “Now, it's supposed to cook for an hour.”

“Well, hopefully it'll look prettier by then.” Edmund chuckled, smirking at you, then brought up his sketch pad. “I finished up the drawing for the shelves down there. What do you think?” He asked, cocking his head at the dark lines.

Opening the blazing oven and grabbing the pan in a thick towel, you paused for a moment to give your brother's picture a look. “They look good, Eddie.” You told him, smiling encouragingly, bending to slide the pan onto the middle rack and shut the door. “How are we to open and close the secret door you've made there?” You asked, pointing it out, careful not to touch it so you didn't smudge the graphite.

“The lock is magnetic.” He replied, pointing it out in the sketch. “We'll put something on the shelf that'll connect to it, so when it's moved, the mechanism is tripped and the door swings up.”

“That's pretty incredible.” You grinned, enchanted by the whole thing.

“It shouldn't take me more than two days to build.” Edmund said, sounding as confident as he could as he examined the drawing a bit more, slowly turning away to head over to the kitchen table, seating himself to refine it a bit more.

“What are we building?” Your father's voice asked as he made careful steps coming down stairs.

You and Edmund exchanged a quick glance at each other and you turned away to mind the violet and dusky yellow Swedes that sat boiling in a pot of salted water top of the stove. There was a lump in your throat, waiting to hear what excuse Edmund was going to give your father for the changes downstairs in the basement. Neither of you really worried about him going down there, he struggled with stairs because of his advancing arthritis, choosing to sleep in his armchair in the sitting room most nights and only making the arduous journey upstairs to his bedroom when he needed to change his clothes or shower.

However any change to the house, seen or unseen, would draw his attention.

“I'm going to build some shelves against the cellar wall, in the basement, for her.” Edmund replied, calmly, making an adjustment to his plans. “So she can tidy things up a bit down there.”

“And what of the cellar?” Mael asked, shuffling over to his chair.

“We haven't used it once for anything since we lived here, Pops.” He chuckled, smirking at the old man's back. “Might as well close it up.”

Mael made a sound as he lowered himself into his chair, something between a dismissive grunt and a stiff groan. “Very well.” He sighed, settling himself and tossing his knitted blanket over his lap. “If it makes Peanut happy.”

You chucked, smiling. “It does, Papa.” You assured him, draining the water out of the Swedes pot and looking over your shoulder at Edmund, who winked at you.

Mashing the Swedes and getting them nice and creamy, you set them aside and checked the Beef Loaf. Opening the oven door and filling the space with a rather mouthwatering aroma, but the dish still needed a few more minutes to cook, so you shut door and started pulling down plates, setting them on the stove to warm up.

“Dinner will be ready soon.” You announced to Edmund and your father. “Do you want to see if Willa is joining us?” You asked Edmund, biting the corner of your lip.

Edmund took a deep breath, setting his pencil down and rubbed at the smudged graphite dust on his fingers for a moment. “I think we both know the answer to that, sister.” He mumbled, a hardness coming to his eyes.

“I suppose.” You whispered back, heart sore for him. “I'll make a plate for her.”

“Best bet.” He sighed, pushing his chair back and standing, moving over to the sink to wash his hands.

[dashofmonsters]

Bonds of Blood & Delight- Prologue

Male Fae x F!Reader

"A bard? They'll let anyone in here these days," the gate guard scoffs as he tosses your order badge back at you.

The badge nearly slips out of your hand but you manage to grasp it and refasten it to your cloak. You hate when people call you a bard, even if they're not exactly wrong. You're a mage of the Order of Delight. Yes, a lot of entertainers have come from it but there are serious mages who take their skills beyond just illusions and spell crafted songs.

"I've taken the aptitude test like everyone else and sent in my qualifying spells. I've been accepted because I meet the standards," you frown at the guard as he checks your name.

"Whatever makes you feel better. You'll take a left once the gate opens and go towards the west tower where all the first years go," He sniffles and opens the gate.

You collect yourself and walk forward, trying not to feel too ruffled by the bard comment any longer. You've made it this far on your own with your own brand of spells. You're the first mage in your order to invent new spells in over two hundred years as well as the first to get accepted into the High Tower of magic research and development.

Here you'll be able to make a difference, here you'll be able to learn real magic and create more spells for your order. That, and hopefully learn more about the alchemists that reside here.

You grind your teeth just thinking about them. Alchemy has earned high regards in the world of magical research as of late due to the metal refining and greedy nobles. But it's demanding and requires a lot of blood. Not just normal blood, but blood with mana. There are many black market back alley alchemists who've take to kidnapping anyone with magic in their blood. You're late twin brother perished at the hands of a noble's alchemist and you'd have been next if it wasn't for his newly hired mage. Hendrick was a mage of the Order of Delight hired to entertain but his real job was a search and rescue. Unfortunately, you were the only one left to rescue out of the dozens of orphans that were kidnapped, drained and killed.

If Hendrick hadn't saved you when he did, you'd have followed your brother into an early grave. You recall how he took you in, practically adopted you and taught you everything he knew and then some. He was loud and boisterous with a stage presence that put many seasoned performers to shame. Nobody would ever guess that he was actually a mercenary.

It's funny to think that the least suspecting mage order has the most mercenaries and assassins than any other. Or maybe it makes perfect sense, no one would suspect the killing blow to come from the pretty man playing the flute.

The Order of Delight's underground sect known as The Dirge. It's small with only thirty members and you've been tasked with infiltrating the High Tower. You've spent the last five years crafting new spells that would allow me to qualify to study here, I created a persona that would be unassuming yet stereotypical. No one will know why you're here, least of all those fucking alchemists.

Feeling a bit more resolved you set your nerves aside. This mission is incredibly important in bringing down the alchemy rings and kidnappings once and for all and you'd be lying if you said that you weren't nerve wracked.

Biting your cheek you continue on to the West Tower and up the long winding staircase. The air is heavy with magic and a strange scent of salt water and incense. A guard stops you once you reach the halfway point and asks for your name and order badge. He doesn't give you any grief about what order you're from, in fact he seems to not really care about anything at all.

You decide to start making note of the guards first then since they seem pretty relaxed.

He points to a door to his left where all first years are sorted one by one in an interview given by the head of the West Tower. You've heard very little about this mage save for the fact that they tend to favor those from their own base order. A Daybreaker mage, probably the most logical and pragmatic of anyone here.

You enter the waiting room and see several young mages sitting around a fire rune. You instantly recognize one of them, a childhood friend of yours before you and your brother were kidnapped.

"By the light of the moon!" He stands up and holds out his arms as he rushes to you.

"Luan, it's good to see you," you hug him as he picks you up off the ground.

He swings you back and forth before setting you down, "I know you said in your last letter that you were coming to the capital soon but I never imagined that you meant you'd be coming here."

"And what about you? When were you going to tell me that you got accepted to High Tower?" you playfully shove him.

"It was meant to be a surprise for when you got here," He grins.

You laugh and shake your head, "I can't believe we'll both be studying here."

Luan nods and his sweet smile slowly fades, "Yes, well and then there's that."

You raise a brow and before you can ask him what he's talking about an elderly mage calls for him for his interview.

"That'd be me, we'll talk about it later," Luan smiles and waves you goodbye.

Though it was brief, seeing Luan has eased your nerves a great deal. You two became mages around the same time. You were both rescued by Hendrick however Luan had a knack for shadow and dark magic so he joined the newly reformed Order of Night. The both of you kept in close contact when you were separated and always sent each other gifts for birthdays and holidays.

He'll probably be the only one here who won't laugh at the fact that you're from the Order of Delight.

You roll your eyes and take his place in the circle around the fire rune. The other mages there eye you with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.

"So...," one of them speaks up, a girl with a badge from the Order of Despair. "A bard? How the hell did you get accepted?"

Here we go, you sigh.

"I have a knack for illusion magic and spell song craft like most bards but I got tired of the old spells that didn't have much practical or everyday use so I invented new ones. The elders here heard about what I was doing and had me test in," you explain.

To be honest it's a half truth, the Order of Delight has a hidden book of spells that The Dirge has full access to. All the spells in it are unregistered so no one would be able to track them back to another mage. You were told to use three or four from the book for your qualifying spells but instead of taking credit you took inspiration. You invented thirty new spells but only sent in seven. Thirty would be too suspicious.

"Sounds like you should have tried for the Daybreak order, practicality is their specialty," another mage chimes in.

"I would have but my family wouldn't let me," you shrug. An easy excuse, most mage families like to stick to the same order.

"Ugh I get that," the girl from the Order of Despair groans. "My folks were the same way, I have light magic and know a few healing spells but no, I had to honor tradition learn mind speak and dream bending. Gods I hate traditionalist. My names Ruya by the way."

You introduce yourself and tell her your fabricated backstory, one that's a bit more cheerful and normal.

A couple other mages open up to you, both from the Order of Bones, Tarek and Ilta... Twins. They both wore the standard skull tattoos on their faces though it looked more menacing on Tarek. They both wanted to join the Order of Delight since they're strong in illusion magic but of course their clan refused them. You knew there was an issue with traditionalist but you had no idea that it was that bad.

"Tarek Falswith," the elderly mage calls to one of your new acquaintances.

He stands tall and stretches, his short black hair shining in the light of the fire rune making his skull tattoo all the more wicked. He glances down at you and smiles, "See ya later bard."

His sister laughs as he walks away, "Just ignore him, he's a stupid flirt. Got himself in trouble time and time again back at our Order."

"Noted," you laugh. "Not looking for love here anyways."

"Not the best place to find it honestly," Ruya adds.

"Our older sister is a third year here and oh the stories she could tell you," Ilta begins. You and Ruya listen to the tales of the twins' sister Asra and her encounters with the opposite sex.

And as she spins her tales, one by one the young male mages are called off to interview until there's only the three of you. Ruya gets called while Ilta is recounting the time her sister wore a deer skull for a month even while she slept and ate to freak out a few of her admirers.

"She sounds crazy," you laugh.

"Oh yes, most say she should have gone into the Order of Twilight with how chaotic she is. But alas-"

"Tradition," both of you say then laugh.

"Ilta Falswith," the elderly mage calls.

Ilta mimics her brother, adding in a wink and the both of you giggle.

"See ya later bard," Ilta mocks her brother again but her voice sounds just like his.

You can't help but to be amazed and amused all at once and laugh as she walks away.

And then it's just you, or so you though.

"Good evening Thaneswell," an elderly voice rumbles your last name.

From the center of the fire run circle a figure slowly appears. An elderly man seated on a simple wooden stool. He's wearing a worn greyish blue cloak with a silver badge from the Order of Daybreak. His eyes are a milky white and his boney fingers tap gently on his lap.

Realizing who he is, you quickly stand up and bow your head.

"None of that now, none of that," He waves a hand and the fire rune dissipates. Ever so slowly he stands up, circling his hand in the air until a staff appears and falls into his hand.

"There is no need to bow amongst kin," he smiles.

You thought it was odd that you and one of the highest mages of the Order of Daybreak shared the same last name, it had to be a coincidence right?

"I did my own digging, my late brother was your maternal grandfather. He was a mage of the same order you belong to, and the same sect as well," He straightens as he starts circling you.

Your nerves reignite and you feel your gut sink.

"The family Thaneswell is not traditional and has members across every order there is. You of course wouldn't know this as your mother passed before you and your late brother were of age. This was," He waves his hand to another door that slowly opens on its own.

"Then my acceptance?" you ask.

"By your own skill, I'm not apart of the qualifying department. I put young mages where they need to be. Skilled and bright mages come here all the time to break from tradition and free themselves from bonds of a family or order. You met three such mages today did you not?" He asks as he lights up the room with a flick of his wrist.

The small room is filled with light crystals and fairy bobbles that produce a soft warm glow. Nic knacks of all sorts both mundane and magical line the shelves and a fat horned cat stretches across the large oak desk.

"Have a seat wherever you can find one," he chuckles as he lowers himself into a puffy armchair.

You turn and look for a chair but you only see mounds of books, small side tables and a taxidermy deer. Small side table it is.

Grabbing a table you pull it up close to the side of the desk as the front is occupied by an old dire wolf laying on a large pillow.

"Now then, let's get down to business. First off within close quarters you may call me uncle, I'd prefer it since we're family. You are after all the only closest living relative I have now," He sighs.

"Wait but you said our family has members in every order," you recall.

"Yes and because of that most of us have become estranged. My brother and his kept close but as the years went by, they were picked off one by one. I only learned of your existence after Hendrick rescued you. I'm so sorry about your brother... had I known... Why your mother never said anything..." he pauses and you see the grief on his face.

"She kept us close to the forest border, in one of the dump villages," you tell him.

His wrinkled face crumples and cringes, "By the gods why would she do that?"

"Hendrick said that the likelihood of us getting kidnapped at a dump village would be slim since the sick and dying are rarely ever kidnapped," you shrug.

"I'm so sorry, there must be more to this... I just know it but at least you're as well as well as can be," He sighs. "Now then, you're a member of The Dirge sect. Very few high mages know of it and I'm only privy of your mission as I'm the one who hired a mage to carry it out. It must have been Hendrick who threw your name in for it."

You blink once, twice and your mouth gapes wide open, "You're the one who- Wait a moment, you know why I'm here then and-"

"The alchemist rings are more corrupt than you can imagine. Both registered and unregistered, back alley and black market. If things continue on as is our nation will have the largest human trafficking outbreak in history. The Western Empire is already calling on our king to put an end to it since citizens of the empire have gone missing in the past few years. They've been putting more and more pressure on his majesty by raising taxes on goods and banning travel between our countries," he taps the desk before slamming his hand down.

"And the laws he made banning unregistered alchemy have been nothing more than a joke, I know. The Dirge has brought down at least fifty rings in the last few years but there seems to be no end to them. What in gods name are they after?" you lean forward, hoping your uncle will have some sort of answer.

"The same foolish thing the registered alchemists are after, immortality. Or at the very least, the next best thing. Long and youthful life, like that of a fae," he waves his hand and a book flings off the shelf and flies right to you.

"The War of Iron and Blood, a history book?" you start to pry the book open but it flings itself to a page near the very end.

"The book leaves out the most important part until the end. A fae specializing in Blood magic was caught and arrested. He is immune to iron and is able to heal himself if he wishes. Since those days long long ago, he has been held here, has been studied, has been bled for research with no real end in sight. I can only imagine what little hope he has if any," the high mage looks up towards the door.

A soft knock rasps the old wooden door, "Mage Thaneswell, it's Dargan, you called for me?"

"Yes yes, come in," your uncle flicks his finger and the door opens.

A tall and lanky mage shuffles in and slowly removes his hood. His skull tattoo looks rather odd on his face with how sunken in his eyes are and how gaunt he is.

"As you'll need to be focusing on your upcoming graduation I've decided to pass off your job to this first year. As you know all fourth years are to hand off their jobs to the new students. I've already given her a history lesson, the rest is up to you Dargan. Oh and once you're done, you'll be allowed a three week respite to recover," the high mage looks to you and nods towards the other mage.

Dargan bows a few times to your uncle and thanks him over and over before he grasps your shoulders, "Of course, yes, I'll get them up to speed and have them trained before then end of the day! Leave everything to me Mage Thaneswell."

"Yes and oh, once you're done could you give my niece a tour of the grounds? I'd do it myself but these old bones don't move like they used to," he smiles.

The Bone mage looks at you and then at the high mage, "Niece? Oh uh yes, yes of course."

Your uncle smiles and waves you off, "I'll be calling you back for a visit soon but please come and see me of your own accord when you can."

Dargan shuffles you out of the office and the door closes behind the both of you. His wide eyes look down at you as he continues to rush you out of the waiting room and down the tower stairs.

"What a horrible thing to do," he shakes his head. "To his own flesh and blood."

"Wait what are you talking about?" you ask.

Dargan stops and grabs your wrist, "This way, not here."

He pulls you aside and leads you down a path that takes you to the North Tower. It hikes up the wall and into a breezeway. The Bone mage looks around and when he's sure no one is in sight he has the two of you sit on the stone cold floor.

"Tell me truly, is High Mage Thaneswell really your uncle?" he asks.

"Great uncle but I fear we're missing the point here so-"

"You're from The Dirge then?" Dargan asks.

Your eyes widen and you grit your teeth but nod.

Dargan lifts his sleeve and reveals a scythe, "The Order of Bones has a similar sect."

"Reapers, I've heard of them," you nod.

"Mage Thaneswell has been hiring from all mercenary sects to take care of the alchemist rings. Myself and four others have been slowly cleaning up the High Tower these last few years, it hasn't been easy." Dargan stars and lays his head against the wall. "I suppose I should begin with what will be expected of you."

The Bone mage details your upcoming job and schedule, the grim nature of it all unsettling you the more he speaks. You're to become the jailor to the captured blood fae. You are to feed him, check his vitals, and collect his blood. You are not to speak to him, not to listen to him if he utters a single word, and you are not allowed to let him bleed unless collecting his blood.

Fear coils in your belly as Dargan tells you all the horrid things the fae could do if he was allowed to bleed out. Slice you up with his blood, set his cell on fire, undo the runes cast upon his chains or turn his blood into weapons and massacre the entire Tower. High Mage Thaneswell doesn't want that, he just wants him to take down the alchemists.

"Your uncle believes if we can find a way to free him that he'll be in our debt and will by the laws of the fae carry out the bounty against the alchemists," Dargan sighs. "Quite the pipe dream huh?"

"Very much so, but fae are keener on magic and can track down different users way better than mage hounds. Plus, he'll have a personal vendetta against them so he might be all for it," you agree and lay your head back as well.

"Still kinda fucked up that he's making his niece take on this job though," Dargan puffs. "But he must have his reasons."

"It's probably because I'll work closely with the Tower's alchemist ring. The more eyes on them the better," you note.

"True, but I rarely spoke with them and even if I showed any interest they kept me mostly in the dark. Get the blood, hand over the blood, and leave. That was the preferred sequence of things," he shrugs.

"Well, fuck..." you groan as you sag against the wall.

Dargan laughs and fishes something out of his pocket, "Here, it's a pass to the Tower. You'll need this to get in, get to the third level and to the cell."

You take the pass and grimace as the blood red runes carved into the small black iron tablet. You could feel the magic resonating off of it, feel it draining a tiny bit of your life essence. You quickly wrap it in your cloak.

"Disgusting, isn't it? They say the pass doubles to strengthen the runes on the Blood Fae's cell. I've tried my best not to over handle it but sometime the alchemists will examine the pass and if there's not enough life in it, they'll make you hold it all day. This job is super fucked up," Dargan snarls and slowly stands then offers his hand.

"Thanks for the heads up I guess," you allow him to help you up then stretch. "Anything else that I should be worried about?"

Dargan shrugs, "Not really, well that's a lie. I'd worry about you dorm placement. Mage Thaneswell pulled some strings and had me bunking with other mercs but I'm not sure how many he's hired this time around."

You nod knowing that it costs a lot to keep up this kind mission. You don't know if he's being funded by the King or if this is his own personal project but hiring you alone costs over three thousand gold.

"I'll introduce you to the alchemists and show you where the cell is real quick before I show you the grounds. Since it's hardly midday we have some time before your sorting," he beckons you to follow and leads you back out of the breezeway.

He takes you back down the wall path and towards the Central Tower, a massive and ancient mage tower built over a thousand years ago before the great culling of the Order of Night.

You feel the magic rolling off in droves with every step you take. The different auras confusing your senses and causing your gut to roil. Dargan places a supporting hand on your shoulder and holds up a hand before chanting a spell that shields the both of you from the onslaught of magic.

"Overwhelming isn't it? Someone here will cast a longer lasting shield on you once you start working. Try not to throw up on the stairs if you feel the shield fading, not only will they make you clean it up but they'll have you manually clean to toilets too," Dargan cringes.

"Sounds like you've been through a lot of hell here," you grimace.

"Hell would be nice in comparison. There's no graces here, no mercy nor kindness to be found. The Central Tower is where mages are truly tested, young and old. Are you certain you can handle this?" Dargan takes a step back and looks at you.

There's real concern on his face, something you feel like you haven't seen in ages. His dull dark red eyes search your face for hesitance and close once he realizes that there's none.

"I have my own reasons for being here, personal and sad as they are," you shrug. "But things can't continue on like they have been."

He nods his head and continues up the stairs, "Fair enough, well then, welcome to the Central Tower." Dargan flourishes his hand and bows. Turning on his heals he points to a bulky guard leaning against the wall, "And this good fellow is Max."

Dargan exchanges introductions between the two of you and has you show the pass. Max opens the barred door to the tower where you're ushered up a series of staircases till you reach the third floor. You're introduced to another guard, Gildred, who you show your pass to. Before you're able to say farewell, Dargan leads you into the third floor lab and quickly shuts the door.

You try and catch your breath but the Bone mage drags you along and takes you down a hall that leads you to a circular room. Several mages clad in maroon cloak turn and glare at you.

"Dargan... has it really been four years?" One of them asks.

"Yes high mage Cragsith. This is my replacement, young mage Thaneswell," he introduces you.

"A Thaneswell? And of.... The Order of Delight? How... Amusing," High mage Cragsith chuckles. "Very well, I assume she's been educated?"

"Yes high mage, of course," Dargan bows his head.

"Good, then you may leave. Estan will show her to the cell, you should hurry and take your respite. I know exams will be starting next month," He waves Dargan off with a limp hand.

Dargan bows and exits with haste, leaving you alone with the High Tower's alchemists.

"You've caught us at an excellent time, we're needing a fresh batch of blood. Estan will take you down and show you the ropes," Cragsith beckons to a hunched figure.

"Follow me," Estan orders and shuffles towards the middle of the room. He places his hand on the central supporting pillar and a door appears shortly after. It opens to reveal a lift that will take you down to the Tower's prison.

Estan tells you that all vials are kept in a desk outside the fae's cell and on a normal day that you'll receive a slip with how many you are to fill.

"He's basically docile at this point. Hasn't been an incident in over two hundred years. It's an easy job, just taxing as I'm sure Dargan has mentioned," Estan says in an oddly comforting way.

Once you're down under the tower and exit the lift, Estan leads you to the fae's cell. He pulls out nine vials from a drawer in the desk and checks them for cleanliness, "Don't want anything but his blood in these."

After his inspection he has you place the pass in a slot on the wall next to the cell. You fell just the faintest bit of your life force slip as the locks turn and door opens ever so slightly.

There's a dank smell that wafts in your nose and the sudden charge in the air has every hair standing on edge.

Estan hands you eight of the vials to hold as he escorts you in. You fear that you might find a horrid and fiendish fae as Dargan lead you to believe but instead all you see is a sad one, bound in chains and leathers with living runes.

What was probably once lovely long flowing black hair is now matted and tangled in several areas. His eyes and mouth are covered with greyish leather that have ancient magic imbued in them. His skin is sickly pale and nails are curled from neglect.

The fear and nerves you felt entering this place disappear and are quickly replaced with pity and then something else. A deep need to free him settles into you and it's one that's beyond your mission or any ethical reason. You feel sicked and in pain at seeing him like this.

"It's just a quick prick right here, same spot every time," Estan interrupts your thoughts as he points to a tattoo of a circle on the fae's arm. As he goes to poke it you quickly ask if you can.

"I learn better by doing is all, that and I want to do well with this job," you say with full fake determination.

Estan chuckles and hands his vial and needle over to you, "I get it, I was the same when I was a student here. Not going to lie, but you're the first Cragsith has really acknowledged this fast, well aside from myself. Maybe he sees some promise in you."

Or maybe he's warry of me being a Thaneswell, you think.

Not wanting to drop your facade, you go and draw the fae's blood.

Bile quickly threatens your throat but you do well in holding back the vomit.

This feels so wrong that it's hard to stomach, is this a curse that the fae has in place? Why didn't Dargan tell you? Maybe you'll ask your uncle later... But first, to fill the other eight vials.

It takes all your strength and will power not to throw up while extracting the fae's blood but you somehow manage. After Estan takes you back up to the third floor and sings praises about your enthusiasm do you ask to be shown to the bathroom.

Once your stomach is empty you resolve to find and beat Dargan black and blue for leaving out the part about wanting to blow chunks when extracting blood.

You stomp your way out of the central tower and down the path to the east but quickly stop in your tracks when a notice echoes through the grounds.

"All first years to the North Tower for dorm sorting. I repeat all first years to the North Tower for dorm sorting," the voice rang.

And before you could take another step you found yourself being lifted for a moment, cold dark air rushing around you, and then you were set back down amongst a crowd right outside the North Tower.

A few others look around in confusion but for the most part people just shrug it off as typical tower magic.

"Hey, over here," you here a familiar voice.

You turn and see Ruya with Ilta, Tarek, and Luan. Quite the odd ball group but you're about to make it weirder, being a bard and all.

"I heard you got to go to central tower, how was it?" Tarek asks.

"And who'd you hear that from?" you raise a brow at him and he grins.

"From a senior of my sect, Dargan," he smiles and shows his reaper mark.

Before you can ask, Ruya, Ilta, and even Luan all flash their arms with the subsect marks on them. They all tell you how they each ran into their seniors here and took on jobs close to or in the central tower. The twins have jobs in the library near the central tower, Ruya brings meals up for the alchemists, and Luan is set to clean the equipment for the central tower.

"Dargan said there's a high chance that we'll get bunked with other subsect members as the Dorm Matron works directly with high mage Thaneswell," Tarek smiles and looks at Luan, "No weird shadowy shit."

"Then I hope you'll keep your knives and bones on your side of the dorm," Luan smiles.

Ilta smacks her brother's arm and Ruya rolls her eyes.

You can feel this group's dynamic setting in place already.

"All first years, dorm mothers will be coming around with dorm assignments. These assignments are final and we expect no complaints. Once you have you receive your dorm and room token you will be teleported there. Potions for teleportation sickness are on the stands outside the rooms if needed," another announcement rings.

Your group looks around for dorm mothers, all middle aged or elderly mages wearing light blue cloaks with yellow ribbons. You've heard many stories about the dorm mothers here and how even the highest mages offer their respects to them. They're truly a force to be reckoned with.

"Here you are... Thaneswell's bunch," A dorm mother approaches your group and looks everyone up and down before turning to Tarek and Luan. "The two of you will go to Mother Margo's dorm, you'll be bunking in room eleven. Here are your tokens."

The two of them reach out their hands with slight hesitation but once they touch the tokens, they vanish.

"I have to say, that's gotta be the second fastest I've seen my brother disappear," Ilta smiles.

"What was the fastest then?" Ruya asks.

"When he found out he broke up with the head Reaper's daughter," Ilta laughs.

"You three," the dorm mother glares at us and then at Ilta, "I expect you to be prompt, never out past curfew, and not a meal skipped. I am your dorm mother, Mother Beatrice. You'll each have your own rooms, connecting. Seven, eight, and nine."

You look at the girls but before either can say anything, Ruya reaches out for her token and vanishes. Ilta smiles at you and shrugs before taking hers. Taking a deep breath in you reach for room token nine and feel yourself being flung around.

Left and right, right then right again. You feel as if you're passing through sheets like a child running through laundry on a sunny day. Warm and cold air take turns at slapping your body before you suddenly snap to a stop and your body slams right into a door with a hard thud.

"Ow," you moan as you peel yourself off the door. Your face stings where it met the hard wood.

You look around and see Ruya doubled over holding an empty potion bottle with Ilta rubbing her back.

"Going to be alright over there?" you ask.

Ruya nods but stays down.

"She was slung into her stand and it knocked the wind out of her," Ilta winces.

"This is why I hate teleportation, too volatile and under studied. Now I know why the fae rarely use it themselves," you cringe at the thought of being teleported again anytime soon.

After the three of you check yourselves over for any wounds and sickness you part to your own rooms.

Your room is cozy and well furnished. A few wooden boxes lay on your bed with a few notes. The first note is a greeting from the towers and what to expect in the coming days. The second is from Mother Beatrice with a list of rules and a meal schedule. The third is from the central tower... A letter just for you.

"Good evening young Thaneswell,

We welcome you to the central tower and have high hopes for you. Estan spoke highly of you and your eagerness, a most welcomed delight, as Dargan was most melancholic. Estan will continue to escort you to the cell for the next ten days as he trains you. We look forward to having a mage with your enthusiasm."

You feel your stomach churn as you finish reading the letter. You quickly crumple it up and toss it in the waste bin.

Something about being on their good side this quickly unsettles you but you'll do your best to turn it around and use it to your advantage. You can't let this continue, too many innocent lives are at stake and you're not sure how much longer your great uncle can keep funding missions like this.

With that resolve you go through the boxes next, supplies and a uniform. Papers, books, ink, and pens. A first year's dark brown cloak and knee high boots with metal plates on the toes and knees. There's a map with local shops and a post office where mages who come to study can send letters and receive parcels.

Next you notice a small wooden box with a stamp from the West tower. You open the lid and see a small mirror, a pouch, a dagger, and a note. You quickly unfold the note and it has instructions on how to use the mirror.

"Use the dagger to prick your finger and sign this rune with your blood. I will be alerted that you wish to speak with me. Only use this in your room or in dire emergencies."

You have a gut feeling that he wants you to try it out know so you prick your finger and write out the rune on the mirror. Within seconds it lights up and an image of your uncle shoots up from it.

"I'm glad my gift has found you. Though I wish we could chat longer I have the head Matron of the dorms coming up to see me. I'll keep this short, get the fae to speak. Get him to talk, get him to listen, and get him on our side," your uncle orders.

You nod but feel sick as you do, "Understood, but I must ask, is there a curse on him?"

The high mage's brows knit in confusion, "Why do you ask?"

"I...I took his blood and I felt sick and there was this wrongness. Like I couldn't stand that I was hurting him, it was odd," you mention.

Your uncle's eyes widen but he says nothing for a few moments too long, "No, no curse. Keep me updated on these, odd feelings. I must go now."

The image of your uncle vanishes and instead of getting an answer to your question, you feel like you've gained a long list of inquiries that will be left in the box.

"What have I gotten myself into," you groan as you flick your wrist and move your things off the bed so you can fling yourself onto it.

At least I'm not alone, you think as you curl up and slowly pass out.

[cartwrong]

For the @ficwip word of the week: bright.

Louisa rushed towards the sound of River's voice, ignoring the increasing size of blood drops across the hardwood floor. She pushed the door to the bathroom open, finding River sitting on the closed toilet, a towel held to his hand. The blood on it was bright and red and terrifying in its volume.

“River, what happened?” Louisa asked as she rushed to River, crouching in front of him, her hands hovering above the towel. 

“Sliced my hand trying to cut a sweet potato. It was stupid.”

[whump-tr0pes]

Luctus et Mors

So begins Dee's second recovery arc. This begins about a week after Comes Animae.

Masterlist

AO3

Contents: nightmare, comfort, sharing a bed, PTSD, blood, past attempted murder, past magical healing, past death and resurrection, survivor's guilt, grief, post-reunion, past burns, past torture, past religious abuse, recovery

~

Dee woke up choking on smoke. Blackness shrouded his eyes - blindfolded. Soft cloth restraints tightened around his limbs, and he cried out, terrified, gasping, lungs spasming around the smoke. 

His own flesh sizzles and peels away under the angels’ hands. His skin bubbles and burns under the eternal, blazing sun of hell.

His eyes streamed. His throat closed around a helpless scream. 

“Dee,” a voice murmured in the darkness. “Dee… shhh, I have you.”

Hands, gentle hands, loosening the sheets around his legs and chest. 

The sheets.

The hands left him, only for long enough to snap on the lamp beside the bed.

The bed. The lamp. The room he shared with Ilya.

Ilya.

His eyes found theirs immediately and he reached out, fingers grasping theirs. His hands were shaking. He could still feel blood - his and theirs - flowing between his fingers, hot and vital. He stared at his hands. 

Clean.

He could taste smoke in the back of his throat. 

“A nightmare?” Ilya said gently. 

He nodded and gripped their hands tight. The pain and smoke and blood felt as real as Ilya’s hands in his. 

“Yes,” he croaked. 

Ilya chewed their lip. “Was it… um…?”

Dee’s eyes dipped and settled on Ilya’s throat. There should have been a scar there, from where the angel had pressed his blade in to end Ilya’s life. 

Dee screams in rage, in anticipated grief that cannot have a chance to strike. He lunges forward and pries the knife away from Ilya’s throat. He tears Ilya from the angel’s grip and shoves them to the floor behind him. He growls his rage, his pain, as his shattered body burns.

Dee raised his hand and trailed his fingers along the unblemished skin. “Did Dara heal you?” he murmured. “After I…?”

After I died?

Ilya’s mouth tightened. “She did,” they said softly. They reached out and trailed their fingers along Dee’s jaw. 

Dee nodded. “Good,” he whispered. “That’s… that’s good.”

Pain flickered across Ilya’s face. Dee swallowed hard. “Dee,” Ilya said, fingers linking with his again. “Please talk to me.”

He wet his lips. His mouth was so dry. He should not stop his hands from shaking as he returned their gaze. 

Finally, he said, “I… dreamt of hell.”

Ilya nodded. Their head relaxed into the pillow and they said nothing. 

Dee continued uneasily. “I dreamt that the angels… followed me. Found me.”

Ilya’s brow furrowed and they squeezed his hands. “Oh,” they murmured. 

“I dreamt that they punished me again. For… for you.” Dee looked away. He couldn’t meet their eyes. After a long silence, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. 

“I’m… not the one who died, you know,” Ilya whispered. 

Dee stared at them, shocked, ashamed. “Venia?” he breathed.

They wet their lips. “I’m not blaming you, no,” they said quickly. “I’m not saying… anything like that. I’m saying…” They reached out and ghosted their fingertips along his cheek. “You’re the one who suffered. You’re the one who… who died for this, Dee.”

“You suffered, too,” he whimpered. “You were… were hurt.”

“Not like you,” Ilya said. “Not like that.” Their fingers slid down his cheek, down his neck, brushed his throat with the gentlest of touches.

Even that. Even that was too much. He stiffened. Ilya’s mouth hardened, as if something they had suspected had just been confirmed. 

“There were burn marks on your throat when we found you,” Ilya whispered. “Handprints.”

“I know,” Dee said brokenly. Tears burned his eyes. 

“I held your body for hours after,” Ilya rasped through their own tears. “I t-tried to hold you for… days. Dara had to take you from me so she could bury you.”

Dee squeezed his eyes shut. Tears rolled down his temples and into his hair, soaking into the sheets beneath him. 

Ilya hitched a sob beside him. “Dara healed me. I didn’t… I didn’t hurt. I didn’t have any scars. Once she took you away, I didn’t have you. I had… nothing left of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Dee whimpered. “Ilya, I’m sorry.” He rolled to his side and gathered close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against their neck. “I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Dee,” Ilya sobbed into his hair. “When will you see that it wasn’t your fault?” 

Grief clogged Dee’s throat. He shook his head and buried his face deeper in Ilya’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never… Ilya, I never meant for you to… I would have…”

“I know,” Ilya said roughly. They squeezed him tight. “I know.”

“I would take it back,” he whispered, barely loud enough to hear. “I would…”

I would take it all again. For you.

“Don’t say that,” Ilya said. “The Powers are dead. No one will… no one will… take you from me again. No one will take you from yourself.”

Smoke burns the back of his throat. Smoke from his own burning flesh. He gags on the smell, the pain, the terror.

He shuddered and pressed a kiss to their throat, over the place where the scar would have been. Over the place where the Power’s blade had tried to claim Ilya’s life. 

“I love you,” he breathed. “Forever.”

“And I love you,” they whispered back. “You. Forever.” Their thumb slid along his eyebrow, brushed his cheek, trailed back up to his ear. They kissed the top of his head. 

He did his best to relax into their embrace. With his face pressed to their neck, all he could smell was them; the smoke was merely a memory. If he tried hard enough, he could almost believe he would never burn again.

~

Translation of the Latin lines here:

Dee stared at them, shocked, ashamed. “Pardon?” he breathed.

@womping-grounds , @free-2bmee , @quirkykayleetam , @walkingchemicalfire , @inpainandsuffering , @redwingedwhump , @burtlederp , @castielamigos-whump-side-blog , @whatwhumpcomments , @whumpywhumper , @stxck-fxck ,  @whumps-the-word , @justwhumpitwhumpitgood,  @inky-whump ,  @orchidscript , @inkyinsanity , @this-mightaswell-happen , @newandfiguringitout , @whumpkitty , @pebbledriscoll , @im-just-here-for-the-whump , @endless-whump , @grizzlie70 , @oops-its-whump , @kixngiggles, @1phoenixfeather , @butwhatifyouwrite , @carnagecardinal , @laves-here, @mylifeisonthebookshelf , @wolfeyedwitch , @batfacedliar , @also-finder-of-rings , @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @extrabitterbrain, @i-eat-worlds

[all-the-gory-details]

Whumpmas in July: Day Three

"___ deserved it."

TW: Blood, knife, torture, victim blaming, burning

"You were bad," Whumper said, as they wiped the blood off their knife. "You disobeyed my rules. You understand that, don't you?"

Whumpee shivered from their place on the table. "I-I understand," they whispered, tears blurring their vision.

"Do you? Or are you just saying that to get me to stop?"

They choked on a sob. Of course they were saying it to get them to stop. They hadn't done anything wrong, they were only trying to get away, to escape this place of rules and punishment.

Whumper sighed. "Well, I suppose that's that question answered. What do you think we should try next? I've got a pyrography pen I've been meaning to break in..."

"No, no please-" they couldn't take any more, they couldn't, it had been hours since Whumper started carving into their skin, they couldn't do this-

"You deserve this, Whumpee. I'm not punishing you for no reason. You disobeyed, and now you deserve to be punished."

Whumpee nodded frantically, eyes following whumper as they walked to a shelf and grabbed a tool, a pen with a plug for an outlet. They bent down and plugged it in and oh god it wasn't done-

"Say it, Whumpee. Tell me what you deserve."

They sucked in a breath, and the air felt heavy in their lungs. "I-I deserv-ved it. I deserve t-to be punish-shed."

Whumper smiled, picking up the pen and positioning it just above Whumpee's thigh. Close enough that they could feel the heat radiating off it.

"Good. Now I just need you to believe it."

[chairofchaos]

When the Blood Burns

Burns (Part 2)

Blood (Part 1)

Pairing: Azriel x Eris

Summary: Over the last year and a half of The War, Eris and Azriel find themselves drawn into friendship, and eventually love. But will their love survive a war that so many could not? (Requested here)

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 5.0k

Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Major Character Death, sexual content, graphic violence, physical and emotional abuse (by Beron Vanserra), thoughts of self harm and suicide, graphic depictions of wounds from battle, canon divergent, and once again: unedited and no beta we die like men me once you all finish this fic.

A/N: I don’t really care what happened in canon right now so just roll with it, please. Including the fact that I had Summer join Hybern and Spring in the bad guy’s club. I couldn’t have ALL the other courts against them and didn’t care enough to do research. I picked randomly, I swear. Once again, I must offer thanks to @tsunami-of-tears for the beautiful divider for this fic. It is so perfect. You have no idea how much I love it. @unanswered-stars You said whatever I want. Whatever. I. Want. (Remember that promise you made me.)

As luck would have it, Azriel had time that night. A battle was raging, but Night wasn’t a part of it, and he had been unceremoniously dismissed and told to come back two mornings from then. He assumed his High Lord would head to his family home, and if Rhys was there, maybe Azriel would hear something of his other brother when he got back to camp.

At this moment, Winter fought Summer along their border, humans likely fleeing into Autumn to escape the battle. But Azriel paid it no mind. He got time off so rarely. And this war held no end in sight.

It was only a matter of time before he would be summoned again. But there he was, the glade in the pine woods a sanctuary where he could wait.

Eris winnowed to the edge of the glen after just a few minutes. The fire roared to life at his arrival, and Azriel quickly turned to him.

“I do recall you saying ‘chances are slim’ this morning,” Eris teased. 

Azriel shrugged with a grin. “I got the night off.” His shadows rushed to examine the fire lord and coil about his ankles like excited puppies.

Eris shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. Though I like the more relaxed look.”

Azriel had ditched his leathers in favor of a long sleeve shirt rolled up to his forearms and a pair of casual slacks. Siphons still graced his hands, and his leathers were folded neatly at the top of his bedroll where a pillow would typically be, but they were at war. Weapons were never far away.

Eris unbuttoned his long tunic with practiced ease. Beneath it, he wore only a thin white shirt tucked into pants tailored as though they were a second skin. Azriel couldn’t help but drag his eyes from the male’s boots to the crown of his head and back down again. 

“I’d ask if you like what you see,” Eris drawled, waving his free hand at Azriel as he drew closer, “but I can see for myself that you do.”

Azriel grinned, crossing his arms. “Well, there’s a reason I picked these pants.”

Eris hummed in amusement, dropping the tunic at Azriel’s feet. “Well, there’s a reason I like them so much.” Before Azriel had the chance to react, Eris had pulled him in for a kiss. 

It was heat and light; desire and longing. Azriel groaned into Eris’ mouth. Eris just laughed in return, sliding a hand around the back of Azriel’s head to tug at the roots of his hair. 

“Eager,” Azriel hummed, gripping Eris’ waist to pull his hips against his body. Cauldron. He could feel Eris’ heartbeat in his chest. He may be polished and poised, but his heart was wild, beating with eager abandon. Azriel kissed him deeply, relishing in the increased speed of Eris’ heartbeat as he did so.

It was Eris’ turn to groan, but he also stepped back, pulling Azriel with him and winnowing them a few feet.

Azriel found himself being lowered onto the bedroll. Something shifted, then.

Eris was as passionate a lover as his powers would suggest. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or just the fact that ten feet away, a fire popped and crackled with every moan of Eris’ against his throat, but Azriel’s attention felt foggy. 

He was painfully hard. Azriel had had only one lover since the start of the war. That had been over as soon as it began, the male’s death on the battlefield bringing it to an untimely end. Other than that, there had been no one. It had been four years since anyone had touched him. Kissed him.

Tonight was different. Perhaps it was that it had been so long. Eris stripped him of his clothes with a tenderness, pressing kisses up the length of his body as each new strip of skin was revealed by the raising of Azriel’s shirt.

When Azriel reached to rid the male of his own shirt, Eris swatted his hands and tugged it quickly over his head, leaning down to give Azriel another kiss and grinding his hips against Azriel’s. The movement drew moans from both of them, and again, Eris laughed.

“What?” Azriel murmured, turning his head to press kisses against the pale jaw of the fire lord.

“I’ve thought about this, you, for years,” Eris admitted quietly. Still his voice rang with joy, and Azriel’s heart jumped at the kernel of truth. Eris tossed his head back, looking up at the stars ringed with the leaves from the forest around them. 

“Years?”

Eris nodded, still gazing upwards. Azriel reached up to drag fingers against his cheek and draw his attention back to where Azriel lay beneath him, wings pinned against the bedrolls. Azriel intentionally avoided any thoughts about what his lack of panic at that fact could possibly indicate. 

“Why do you stare at the stars?”

Eris’ eyes glowed in the firelight when he looked at Azriel. “They’re glimmers of hope in the midst of the darkest night.”

Clearly done with conversation, Eris stood, shed his boots, his pants, and his underwear while Azriel, still sitting, quickly did the same for himself.

Azriel was quicker. He rose to his knees, reaching to grasp the backs of Eris’ thighs and pull him close. Eris groaned at the contact of Azriel’s lips against his hip, his stomach, his upper thighs. Azriel kissed along the scar he had helped tend to, still red and raised. “Does it ever hurt?”

“No,” Eris smiled. “Not when you’re kissing it.” Azriel smiled in return and pressed soft kisses all along the length of the scar, just because he could.

Tonight, Eris loved him. Truly. Thoroughly. Azriel couldn’t call it anything else. Didn’t want to, as the male touched him with such tenderness and affection, cradling Azriel’s head in his hands as he thrust into him slowly and gently.

There was only so much Azriel could chalk up to desire. The raw thrusts as they sank further into their need. The moans of pleasure at another’s hands wrapped around him. The heady scents of arousal mingling with the pine of the trees. 

Everything else couldn’t be purely lust. Warmth and the deepest pleasure Azriel had ever felt growing in his chest. The things he whispered into Eris’ skin, the begging, pleading for ‘more, more, please’ and even Eris’ own name, whined against Eris’ throat. Eris’ intuitive knowledge of the places Azriel needed him most– kisses to his wrists before Eris pinned them above his head, the scrape of teeth along the skin of his collarbone, the stinging bite of a light smack against Az’s ass when he didn’t respond to a question of consent. And then there was the fact that the need didn’t go away.

Once, twice, even four times weren’t enough. They couldn’t stop touching each other. Didn’t stop, except to drink a little water when they were both spent and to kiss once, twice, before their hands were tangled in each others’ hair again. And that last time, when Eris reached up past where Azriel thrust into him, to his shoulder then over it to stroke at the wing which extended fully in complete vulnerability… 

Azriel’s hips stuttered, something between a long shout and a moan fading into a hiss rising from him before he collapsed onto Eris’ chest, wings draped alongside them like a blanket while he panted, completely spent.

Eris dragged his hands up Azriel’s sides and murmured sweetly into Azriel’s hair. Azriel couldn’t comprehend what the words were, just that they were there, drifting over him like leaves falling from a tree on an autumn day. He drifted, too, into a comfortable sleep, his face buried in the crook of Eris’ neck, and knew in his soul that the probability he loved Eris was no longer just a chance. It wasn’t a probability at all. It was a certainty.

They passed the day together, Eris informing Azriel that while his brother was alive, no one really cared where Eris was.

So they slept. They shared stories from the months between their meetings. They compared scars. 

They ate while Azriel told Eris about the Blood Rite, how he and his brothers had crossed the face of a mountain to be together, killing anyone who stepped in their path. Eris told Azriel what it was like to be the second son to a High Lord who hated everyone, most of all his own wife and children. 

They tumbled back into the bedrolls, laughter ringing between them. Azriel had hardly felt this light in his entire life. Their lovemaking was urgent and entirely unhurried; as needed as air and as casual as walking. They were joy incarnate. Eris drew moans from Azriel loud enough he almost feared they would be heard. Azriel returned the favor, his mouth wet and loud around Eris while the male shuddered beneath him with his pale hands buried in Azriel’s dark curls.

Then, they compared scars again, Eris telling Azriel about the crack of the flaming whip which Beron insisted his brothers raise against him upon being caught with a male lover. Azriel told Eris about the burns on his hands, how little he could truly feel because of them, and how much he relied on his shadows to communicate things to him on missions when he couldn’t make out more than general shapes of things under his fingers in the darkness.

They passed the second night in much the same way. When they lay panting, Eris would stare at the stars. Azriel would stare at Eris. When their gazes came together again, so would they, until the light of dawn broke once again, and the spell which held them in the perfect sanctuary of the glade broke at last.

A battle had waged on the Autumn Court’s border with Spring. Eris stood pale behind his father as the news settled over the room. His older brother was dead. Eris was heir.

Azriel couldn’t watch. Couldn’t see the solemn look on Eris’ face for more than the second that it took to pretend to size him up, to examine him for weaknesses and sneer, the masks they had assured each other they would wear in front of their Lords.

Beron waxed about how weak his son had been, and how appropriate it was that he had died. Eris said nothing.

He looked like shit. Azriel promised Eris in his head that he would make it up to him, every minute of every day that they got to spend together. They would not be this forever. 

Eris would be watched now. The chances they would be able to steal away to the glade were slim. Azriel thanked the stars that they had had those two days. It wasn’t enough. But it was something. When this war was over, they had the rest of their lives.

Cassian’s bellow barely reached Azriel’s ears as he watched his brother get stabbed. The soldier had lay on the ground. Whether the soldier was injured, lying, or dying, Azriel didn’t know, but he had taken a moment’s strength to stab up into the sliver of space at the waist of Cassian’s leathers. 

Azriel was too far from him, ordered to the sidelines in case an urgent dispatch needed to be made between the humans or the High Lords of Winter, Autumn, Night, Dawn, and Day. Cassian dropped to his knees, clutching his stomach with shaky hands as blood gushed from him. They were so close to the end. This battle seemed so final, so hopeful, even in the midst of the terror and panic earlier in the day. 

Seven years. It had been seven years since the beginning of this war just last week. His brother could not die, not this close to the end.

So Azriel disobeyed the order his High Lord had given him. He summoned his best blades from his shadows and leapt into the thick of battle. He had killed his way to his brothers before. He would kill his way to Cassian again.

The terrible calm of battle sank into his bones. He hardly saw their faces in the fading light of dusk as he spun, wings flapping rapidly to raise him over a small group of soldiers without raising high enough to engage in aerial battle. There wasn’t enough time for that. Cassian had struggled to his feet again, engaged in a sword battle with a soldier from Spring who seemed determined to kill anyone in his path. Cassian was the better swordsman. Still, he struggled to defeat his attacker, stumbling back with an arm pressed against his stomach.

Azriel swung his blades faster, stabbing, swiping across necks. It wasn’t enough. Cassian would fall. With Rhys injured, only Azriel was left to save their friend who had saved him, early in life and many times since. 

A blade was knocked from his hand by a broadsword. He couldn’t let it delay him. It was out of his reach, so Truth Teller slipped into his hand with ease as he plunged his remaining Illyrian blade into the throat of the Hybern soldier who had tried to kill him.

Slice. Thrust. Blood. Sweat. Every step was labor. Every moment passed quicker than the last. He felt as if he would never get to Cassian’s side. All around him, the battle slowly died, and he saw nothing, felt nothing but determination to do what felt impossible.

In time, he reached his brother. Cassian looked at him in surprise, eyes glazed from pain. “Az,” he choked. Blood dribbled from his lips. 

“Don’t speak,” Azriel snapped. 

Cassian looked at him, eyes darting around. “Rhys,” Cassian tried to speak again, and Azriel snarled at him. “Rhys is going to be fine. Shut up.”

“Tell him–” Azriel cut Cassian off. 

“Tell him yourself when this fucking war is over.”

Cassian choked a half laugh, half sob, eyes closing for a second at the pain of the movement in his gut. “Fine.”

Azriel swung Cassian’s arm over his shoulder and hoisted him to his feet. They both groaned, but Azriel insisted they start moving immediately. Luckily, the thick of the battle had shifted away from them to where Peregryn, Seraphim, and Illyrians descended in undulating waves to attack the heads of the last advancing regiments of Hybern, Spring, and Summer soldiers. 

They made it three hundred meters before Cassian doubled over coughing, blood spraying across the bodies at their feet. They would have made it farther, but each step toward the edge of the battlefield required careful placement of feet not to step on the bodies of the dead or dying in case they shifted. Azriel’s shadows couldn’t even clear the way, spread so thin monitoring every aspect of the battle they could that they were too occupied to return intelligence that would serve him any use.

They had passed another hundred meters. Roughly three hundred were left to traverse. Azriel saw his discarded Illyrian blade, his custom leather-wrapped handle the only giveaway it was his. Someone must have picked it up to use it for it to have ended up here. He could buy another one when this was over. He left it behind, Truth Teller still clutched in the bloodied palm of his hand. He wouldn’t be able to wield the Illyrian blade and had strapped it against his back. Its handle bumped against Cassian’s arm as they walked, but he doubted his brother could even feel it.

If they made it to the edge of the battlefield, his brother would survive. Madja, the healer who had nursed him back to health on multiple occasions, would help patch up his brother. Rhys paid her handsomely to be there when they needed her. She was to be trusted, Rhys insisted, and the only one to touch them if they could at all help it. 

In the last six months, Rhys had grown suspicious, too suspicious for his own good. He thought people would use his brothers and friends against him if given the chance. Azriel and Cassian indulged him, though they teased him anyway, any chance they got.

Cassian nearly fell away from Azriel as he began coughing again, his wings shaking with the force of it. The battle was shifting again, headed their way. They had no time. None.

“Can you walk?” Azriel asked Cassian roughly. When he didn’t respond, Azriel slapped his cheek. Cassian seemed to jolt to attention, gazing at Azriel with wide eyes. “Hey! Can you walk?”

Cassian nodded slowly with a grimace. “Give me a blade.”

Azriel slipped a dagger from his belt, passing it quickly to Cassian. “That way,” he pointed, ducking under Cassian’s arm to let him go. “I’ll guard your back. Hurry.”

Cassian began to stumble toward the edge of the field, tripping once or twice as Azriel stood his guard. He would hold the line like Enalius. He would protect his brother, his friend.

The first soldiers began to reach him, and Azriel picked up a discarded Seraphim sword to wield. They began to fall around him, and he continued his bloodletting. Ten. Fifteen. Thirty. They would die, one after the other. A slight pause, and he took the chance to glance back at Cassian. He was making progress. Maybe a hundred meters more and he could be safe enough for Azriel to fly to him and get him the rest of the way.

Azriel turned back to swing his blade up and block the downswing of another sword, spinning to swing his dagger into the unguarded underarm of the soldier who had raised his sword high to bring down on Azriel’s head. He died quickly. Too quickly, and not quickly enough. Azriel yanked the blade from him, barely noting the spurt of blood which hit his face.

The soldiers kept coming, one after the other. A legion of Autumn court soldiers approached from the direction Azriel had come from with Cassian. Another legion of Darkbringers approached the force’s back. Most of the remaining Hybern soldiers were already turned to engage with them, and the few that stayed to fight Azriel died one after the other. He scanned for any would-be opponents, but finding no one looking at him, he turned his attention back to Cassian.

But as he did so, a figure appeared at the edge of the forest, running towards Cassian, staying in the shadows of the trees. They were moving fast, wearing a cloak of dark fabric Azriel didn’t recognize. They were similarly cloaked in shadows and darkness of the falling night. They clutched a weapon, the blade glinting in their hand as their arms pumped at their sides. 

Azriel saw what would happen. He saw Cassian with that slim blade in his throat, the Lord of Bloodshed downed so close to safety, so close to getting out of this war that had already taken so much from all of them. Azriel sprinted, not for Cassian, who hadn’t seemed to notice the approaching soldier, but for that soldier who stalked his brother.

Blood and sweat mingled, dripping from his hair into his eyes. He pumped his wings, moving faster and faster to get there, to intercept him before Cassian could be killed. The stranger winnowed, a little bit at a time as if their magic was spent, then resumed running, this time darting in and out of the trees. They were getting close. But so was Azriel.

Azriel had too few shadows to shadow walk. If the soldier winnowed again, he may not make it. His wings could not falter. His feet could not stumble. He poured everything he had into speed and steadiness, approaching that soldier as fast as he could.

They didn’t hear him coming. He made sure of it. Had cloaked his sound with the few shadows he did have. So they did not falter until Truth Teller in his hand pierced upward through the ribcage of the soldier, their own body weight and momentum driving Truth Teller’s blade deeper than Azriel could even have hoped for a male who had tried to kill his brother. Blood spurted over his hand as they toppled to the ground. 

Azriel felt the wound in his own chest. Felt his dagger pierce his very heart as the soldier’s face spun towards him, red hair falling about a pale face frozen in shock.

Eris.

A golden thread coated in reddest blood snapped between two pierced hearts.

Eris slumped backward, coughed once. Cassian’s coughs had been forceful. Eris’ cough was weak. He gasped for breath, and Azriel began to tremble, yanking his body from where he lay atop his lover the way they had in the glade.

“No,” he whispered, kneeling beside his body much the same as the first time he had tended Eris' wounds. “No, no. Eris.”

“Help,” Eris whispered as Azriel lowered him to the ground. If he kept the blade in place, if he could get Madja here to save him, to save his mate–

"I'll help, just give me a minute, Eris, I'll help."

“No," Eris coughed. Blood bubbled up, and Eris coughed it out. "I wanted… to help.” Eris gasped, blood bubbling from his throat. 

“Cassian!” Azriel screamed for his brother, who was already stumbling towards them, a mere silhouette as the sun set entirely.

Eris coughed again, weaker still.

“Eris, no,” Azriel hissed at him. His mate. His love. No. This couldn’t be his fate, his cauldron-ordained mate’s life taken by Azriel’s own hand.

“Az…” Eris coughed too much, and not enough, his hands grasping at Azriel’s face, his hands, anything he could reach. Panic was filling his eyes. “Hurts.”

“I know,” Azriel began to sob. “I know, just hold on, please, please.”

He didn’t know who he was begging. Night had truly fallen. The stars? The cauldron? The mother herself?

“Please!” Azriel screamed. A horn blew, and others joined in chorus. The battle was over, the war done. They had been so close.

“Az…” Eris wheezed. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Azriel sobbed, pressing his hands against the blood seeping from the wound. It forced its way through his fingers, pooling in the divots of his scars and rushing in a warm cascade to the ground. “I love you. I’m so sorry.”

Cassian reached them. “Az?”

Azriel bowed his head to listen to Eris’ heartbeat. It was slow. Far too slow.

“Get Madja. Cassian, please, get Madja,” he sobbed. He knew Cassian moved away only from the uneven, uncharacteristically heavy thud of his footsteps. He would get Madja. Eris would be alright.

“Eris, just wait a minute. She’ll be here,” he sobbed. So much blood. “She’ll save you, she saved Cassian, she can save you, just hold on.”

“The stars,” Eris whispered. “The stars remind me of you.”

“No, no, no,” Azriel shouted at him. He could hardly see Eris’ face, could hardly see his mate’s own tears trickling from his perfect, dimming eyes. He needed to see him. His heartbeat stuttered beneath Azriel’s hands.

Eris’ hands found purchase against Azriel’s cheek, his neck. They were warm. So warm. Hot.

Burning. The last flames of an Autumn prince, unintentionally burning into the skin of the one they loved.

“You were my stars,” Eris whispered. His hands flared with a burst of flame, then dropped to his sides.

Azriel screamed.

It was a scream of pain. His burning flesh didn’t even register. His heart, its core ripped out by the shredding of a golden thread that had snapped all too late, was the only pain he knew.

“Azriel!” A female’s voice, carried to him on the evening’s cool breeze.

“Here!” he screamed. “Madja, we're here!”

She ran. He heard her run, his shadows rushing between her and where he knelt beside Eris, as he begged the Mother to give him one more minute, one more second to save Eris, to save the male who had tried to help his brother and was now seriously injured. Madja could save him.

She didn’t spare him a glance as she dropped to her knees beside Eris’ body, one hand slipping to his wrist and the other to his neck. She was here. She could save him.

She stilled.

“Madja, do something!” Azriel begged, the force of his hoarse scream sending a spray of spit into her face. She didn’t move. Her eyes flicked up to Azriel’s face, then to Eris’. She tilted her head and bit her lip, pressing harder against Eris’ neck, her fingers sinking into the pale flesh the way Azriel’s fingers had once in their sanctuary, a glade in a forest where they were happy.

“Azriel,” Madja whispered, pulling her hands away and placing them atop Azriel’s, still pressing into the wound with Truth Teller between them.

“No,” Azriel shook his head. “No, do something. Madja, you have to save him! Please!”

“Azriel!” Cassian’s voice reached him, yelling.

Madja sighed, looking over her shoulder. “I told you to stay!” she yelled.

“Azriel!” Cassian yelled again. 

“Madja,” Azriel begged. “I’ll do anything. I’ll give you anything, please–”

“Azriel,” she said firmly, reaching to grip his chin. “Azriel, Eris is dead.”

He stared at her defiantly. She reached down to pry his hands away from Eris’ chest. “He’s dead, Azriel.”

No. No. His mate. His mate, dead at his own hands.

No.

Eris.

No.

Truth Teller.

No.

No.

No.

“Get him off of him,” a voice said. 

He was hauled backwards, screaming. 

“Mother have mercy,” a whisper from the person who held him, who kept him from Eris, from his mate.

“Eris!” he screamed. “Eris!”

A vial was forced to his lips. Liquid tipped down his throat, choking him. Azriel coughed. Eris was coughing. Eris. Eris.

Dead.

Azriel’s senses were dull. The soft fabric of a blanket against his arm. The dull light hitting his face from a window. A slender hand, holding his. Eris?

He opened his eyes. His bedroom at the cabin. Gauzy day curtains pulled over the window to soften the light. Mor.

“Azriel,” she whispered, tears lining her eyes. She gripped his hand between hers tightly. “Az, what happened?”

What happened? Who happened.

Eris.

His heart plummeted to the depths of The Mountain as if the Mother herself had tossed it from the stars.

The stars. You were my stars.

He said nothing.

“Azriel,” Mor tried again. He ripped his hand from hers, rolled to his side and covered himself with his wing.

Eris had stroked that wing.

He wanted to cut it off.

Footsteps sounded at the door. He screwed his eyes shut, if only to keep the building tears from falling.

“Az?” Cassian. 

“Azriel.” Rhys.

He waited, hoping against all hope to hear one voice, a golden, spiced-honey voice which would tease him until laughter was unavoidable.

“Azriel,” Cassian tried again. “Come on.”

“Leave,” he ground out.

“Absolutely not,” Rhys responded.

“Get out.”

“We aren’t leaving you,” Mor said gently. 

Gentle. Who deserved gentleness?

Not a male who killed his mate with his own two hands.

Glimmers of hope in the midst of darkest night. Azriel wished it were night, wished he could fly into the wilderness and never return, starve to death under a starry sky.

“Azriel. Get up,” Rhys ordered. His voice was full of command, command that it hadn’t held before the war.

Azriel begrudgingly shifted his wing and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood, and turned toward where Rhys stood.

A wide rectangular mirror covered a good portion of the wall above the dresser. As he turned to face his family, Azriel caught his reflection and froze.

Handprints.

His face, his neck. Burns.

Eris’ handprints.

Azriel raised his hands to trace the outline of the fingers burned into his cheek. The thumbprint which nearly brushed the corner of his lips. The palm burned into the front of his neck from the hand which had held his throat gently, so gently, even as Eris died from the wound that Azriel had given him.

“I tried to heal them.”

Azriel’s head spun to the door so fast it made him dizzy for a minute, his vision flashing with enough spots that he couldn’t see the female who had spoken the words softly.

Madja. Her eyes were sorrowful as she gazed at him, her hands wringing in front of her. “I tried, Azriel. I’m sorry.”

Rhys looked at Azriel with a hard gaze, ignoring the healer who stood beside him. “What happened? Cassian and Madja have refused to tell me anything. What did you have to do with–”

“High Lord,” Madja cut in.

“High Lord?” Azriel’s gaze hardened as he turned to his friend, his brother… his High Lord?

Madja was spared Rhys’ ire only by Azriel’s questioning. Instead, Rhys sighed. “Father died in the battle. It was sudden. An Autumn Court legion wasn’t where it was supposed to be.”

The commanding voice. An Autumn Court legion. Eris.

Azriel’s gaze cut to Cassian, who subtly shook his head. Rhys didn’t know Eris had commanded that legion. 

Madja, whose eyes filled with tears she was trying to keep from falling, shook her head as well. She hadn’t told them what she had guessed.

“Az?” Mor said. His gaze cut to her. She reached to the bedside table and opened the drawer. “Rhys thought you might want this back. Cassian found it in the forest.”

Blood bubbling through his hands, the blade of Truth Teller between them.

Truth Teller, which now rested in Mor’s hands.

The dagger which he had stabbed into his mate’s heart.

The dagger which told him the truth of his mate at long last.

Azriel dropped to his knees. His wings drooped behind him. “Leave.”

“What the fuck happened on that battlefield?” Rhys’ voice was the last to reach Azriel before their chatter and shouts faded to muffled sounds. His shadows whipped around him, their wordless fury and pain unleashed at last, their number multiplying by the minute.

Eris had saved his brother. Eris had doomed Rhys’ father. Eris’ last flash of magic had etched his hands permanently into Azriel’s skin, two more massive scars which he would never be rid of. A gaping hole in his chest which would never depart. 

He could never tell them the truth. Would protect his mate’s choice to save his brother, even as he had unknowingly doomed the life of their other brother’s father and Azriel’s High Lord. He could never tell them about his mate. His glorious, kind, funny mate. His mate who saw hope in the stars. Who saw hope in Azriel himself. The love of his life.

Azriel placed his palms flat on the ground in front of him and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath in, then out. The shadows settled around him on the floor, shrouding everything in darkness. He knew his friends, his family, watched in silent horror as he emerged from their growing darkness. He breathed in again. Everything went still.

And he screamed.

A/N: Yelling is fine, just don’t kill me please. I choose life. Also, does it help to know you voted for the nicer of the two possible endings?

Permanent Taglist: @ninthcircleofprythian @c-starstuff-man0

Fic Taglist: @somnolentsoul @lovely-vanserra-sunshine @ilikemintpeassss-blog @acourtoflucien @dusk-muse

[dweetwise]

The first chapters of my new fic are up on ao3!

Happy Valentine's day! 💕🥰

[212-apricity]

mastermind, part eight

two updates in 24 hours omg...

kinda shitty idk i dont rlly like this one but dw guys the next few will be better😍🙏💯

anyways enjoy this one and lmk what you think munchkins<33

warnings: barley any angst, swearing

masterlist

theodore nott masterlist

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚

Beep.

I turn my head to look at the digital clock on my bedside. The red numbers reading 11:55.

Thoughts frenzy in my mind.

Should I go?

Is it a trap?

Will it put the others at risk?

My mind debates with itself for a few more minutes, dodging back and forth as my heart battles with the conscience in my mind.

11:56

11:57

11:58

11:59.

Fuck it.

I throw the duvet off of myself, slipping into my coat and shoes before apparating to Spinners’ End.

Nervousness chews at me as I walk up the hill to the lone tree on top. I see a tall figure in the moonlight, leaning on the tree smoking a cigarette.

Fuck.

Anxiety and hurt flow though me, chilling me to the bone alongside the cold weather.

I take a deep breath, rubbing my hands together in a weak attempt to warm them up and walk to the figure. The light from the cigarette illuminating his sharp features as he raises it to his mouth.

“Hey.” I say simply, causing him to turn around in alarm. He drops the cigarette and breathes heavily, staring at me with an ache in his eyes.

“Hey,” he whispers out breathily, his eyes fixed on mine.

I take a long look at him, noticing the circles around his eyes suggesting he hasn’t been sleeping well, and the sunken look of his cheekbones and neck revealing he hasn’t been eating routinely either.

“I…” He starts off quietly and clears his throat, not taking his eyes off me once, “Are you alright?”

I scoff and release a humourless laugh, “As if you fucking care Nott.”

He visibly flinches at the name. Hurt flashes though his eyes as he looks down in shame.

I sigh, looking down at my shoes and up at him again, “What do you want Nott? Why this secret meeting?”

“I needed to see you,” He responds plainly and adds on after seeing my pointed look, “And I need your help.”

“With what?” “I need to get out if that house, of that group, of that.” He says, frustrated, “I never wanted any of this but now I need your help getting out of it. I know I hurt you darling, and trust me I’ll never forgive myself for it but please, you’re the only one who can help me.”

I look up to the sky, debating his words. I won’t forgive him, I can’t but I can’t deny him of help either.         I look up to see his blue eyes trained on me.

I sigh and answer, “I will help you. Not because I’m forgiving you Nott, I won’t forgive you. I can’t do that, you’ve hurt me too much. But I’m not going to depreive you of a better future either.”

Relief floods his body and it’s visible in the sigh he lets out and the big smile that appears on his face.

“I’ll need to tell Sirius and the others.”

“Oh no don’t worry, Draco’s already spoken to Sirius.”

I raise my eyebrows at his bravery. I decide to let it go becuase I’m cold and tired and tell him to follow me home.

“Come on then.” I grumble.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚

The preparations for the wedding are in full swing now, with Bill and Fleur arriving later today. The wedding was planned to be in a few months but with the upcoming war and constant fear from all around us, we’ve decided to do it as soon as possible.

“Alright, everyone ready?” Mr Weasley shouts from his place at the foot of the tent, “Wands at the ready, and up!”

We all raise our wands and help Mr Weasley raise the tent for the wedding. It’s beautiful, pale white with lavender embellishments. And its huge inside, big enough to fit all our guests and then some.

I head up the stairs to help Hermione and Ginny get Fleur ready.

“Oh you look absolutely dazzling Fleur!” I squeal along with the giggling girls as Fleur comes out in her wedding dress.

“Just wait till Bill sees you, we'll need to get Madam Pomfrey!” Ginny adds.

“Merci les filles!” Fleur thanks as Hermione finishes her hair with a big smile.

Theres a knock on the door and I open it to reveal Mrs Weasley, “Oh Fleur darling you look beautiful! Girls what are you doing?! Go get ready, hurry up now the guests will be arriving any minute now!” Mrs Weasley pushes, Hermione, Ginny and I out the room to get ready.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚

I’ve been avoiding Theodore all day today, at breakfast when he tried to sit next to me I shoved Harry down immediately to take up the seat. I avoided any eye contact he tried to make and ignored the numerous conversations people were having with him, everyones already loving him, especially Mrs Weasley, Sirius and Remus. Even Ron’s taken a liking to him. A Slytherin and Ron getting along? Unheard of.

I slip into my bridesmaid dress and call out for Hermione or Ginny to zip up my dress. Theres no response which concludes me to go looking around the house awkwardly, searching for someone to help me. My attention is drawn to outside, where almost everyone is setting up the last few flower bouquets and decorations. I walk into the kitchen to hopefully find Ron avoiding doing any jobs but am met with another figure.

Fuck.

I clear my throat to tear Theodore’s attention from the tea he was making from everyone, making him snap his head up. I see him looking at me up and down and I turn around before he has a chance to charm me with his eyes again.

“Zip me up will you?” I say, pulling my hair to the side to expose my back.

I hear Theodore’s footsteps come close to me and feel his cold fingers on the small of my back, taking hold of the zip and starting to pull up slowly.

I can feel his breath on my neck as he leans in and I can feel the heat from his body on my back, contrasting with the cold of his hands.

He reaches the top of the dress and before I can feel the brush of his soft lips on my neck, I walk away muttering a soft, “Thanks.”

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚

The wedding is going  beautifully with the odd mishap here and there but its nothing Mrs Weasley can’t fix in the flick of her wand. Hermione, Ginny and I walk up the aisle, waiting for Fleur alongside Bill and his best men. We walk up slowly and in order and I catch Theodore’s eye as I reach the aisle. Something flashes in his eyes as he stares up at me from his place in the back of the room but my attention is diverted when everyone in front of him stands up, hiding him from my vision. Fleur walks up the aisle gracefully in her stunning white dress. Hermione starts to cry and I give her a handkerchief I had brought for this very situation. I can’t control my smile as Bill and Fleur take vows and first dance.

The whole wedding seems magical and is in full swing by now. People are chatting, drinking, swapping war stories or either making out in a dark corner. I excuse myself from a conversation by a dull man, something about the history of transfiguration and its impact on society, and go to the bar to get a drink.

“Firewhiskey please.” I say to the bartender, he doesn’t bother to look up at me as he passes me a glass.

“Hello.” A strong French accent catches me by surprise and I look to my left to find the voice.

A handsome young man, brunette with blue eyes and sharp features stares down at me from his height with a dimpled smile. I smile back and reply, “Hello.”

“I apologise Miss, but I feel as though we have met before? At the Triwizard Tournament a few years back?”

“Ah yes! You’re Thomas, aren't you?” My memory jogs back up to me as I take a sip of the whiskey in my hand as Thomas nods and says,

“Oui, my apologies, yes, I am Thomas. Y/n right?” he speaks in his deep voice, his accent already taking me in a trance the second he said my name.

“Yes that’s right. How’ve you been Thomas?” I reply, trying to flirt with him.

Thomas and I had gone out a few times in fourth year, he’d taken me to my first Yule Ball and we had shared a kiss under the mistletoe, but in all the frenzy of Voldemort coming back and Cedric Diggory dying, we’d lost contact of one another.

“I am very well thank you, how about you? Still so bad at dancing?” He jokes, remarking the moment at the Yule Ball when I had slightly tripped over myself in the middle of our dance.

I laugh and respond, “Why don’t we find out?”

He raises a brow at me and smirks, holding his hand out to me. I down the drink in my hand, placing the empty glass on the counter top and take his hand, smirking as he leads us to the dance floor.

We dance well, joking around and coming closer and closer each second until my eyes catch anothers on the other side of the room.

Theodore’s blue eyes burn holes though me as he doesnt look away. Not once though the many dances and talks Thomas and I share. Thomas excuses himself to leave for the restroom when Theodore makes him trip up and spill his glass of wine on himself and I gladly let him go, planning to talk to Theodore about his problem instead.

I walk over to him and see him drinking a glass of firewhiskey, leaning on one of the pillars, looking handsome as ever in his black and white robes and neat hair.

“What’s your issue?!” I shout roughly at him, seeing the shadow of a hidden smirk on his pink lips.

He sips his drink and replies plainly, “I don’t have an issue.”

“Oh come off it Nott. What are you playing at?” “I already told you, I dont have a problem. Go dance with Mr. Baguette again.”

I give him a disgusted look and shake my head before he pulls me behind the curtain with him by my arm, bringing me impossible close to him.

“What are you doing Theodore?” I whisper, the proximity of our bodies making my face flush and breath get shorter.

His dark eyes dart between my lips and eyes and I begin to realise the situation at hand. “Are you jealous Nott?” I say with a smirk, bringing my hands slowly up his bicep and seeing his eyes dart faster and breath get heavier.

“Of course I’m not. What do I have to be jealous of?” he replies, his hands going to the back of my neck, up to my hair and the other tightening its grip on the small of my back.

“You tell me.”

“Who were you dancing with? What’s his name” Theodore whispers.

“Thomas.”

A laugh escapes from Theodore as he leans his head back, making my eyebrows furrow in confusion. “I’m sorry, what’s so funny?” He gives me a look as to say, seriously?

“Darling…you can’t be that blind.”

I give him another confused look to which he replies, “He’s exactly like me.”

I push him off of me at that and rip the curtain away, now back in the dark corner in which Theodore follows.

“No think about it,” He carries on, “He’s got blue eyes and brown hair, he’s almost as tall as me, european too except I’m not a fucking frenchie. And he’s had his eyes on you this whole time. If you ask me darling I think you’re the one here who’s jealous.”

“What? Of course I’m not.” I say in absurdity.

“So you’d be fine if I made out with that girl over there.” He points to a veela across the room, making my hands form into fists and anger rise up in my chest.

“Yes. I would.” I grit out between my teeth, seeing his satisfied smirk only makes me angrier, “You know, I don’t get it. You leave me alone without any real communication for months, and then Draco shows up with some stupid note of yours and you ask for my help and you expect me to just be fine with everything. Like oh no Theo, you shattered my heart and broke my trust but don’t worry it’s all good, lets go have a picnic at the beach?” I finish my rant sarcastically, looking at Theodore to find the smugness wiped clear off his face, replaces by a cold hard expression.

“You know, I tried to make things fine between us, I did send you letters when I could and you know why I had to leave. I’ve already told you that I’m sorry for leaving, and I am, but if you want to keep being like this then fine. I will too.” he replies back coldly.

We stare at each other with fire behind our eyes, filled with frustration from the person in front of us and I’m about to make a snide remark until my voice is cut off by Kingsley Shacklebolt’s voice, the patronus silencing any other conversations and stealing everyones attention.

“The ministry has fallen. The Minister of Magic, is dead. They are coming. They are coming. They are coming.”

The patronus dies out, causing eveyrone to run and apparate left and right in fear.

Everything after the announcement is a blur. My breath gets heavier as I stay there, stunned. I’m broken out of my trance as I see Harry, Hermione and Ron try running towards one another. A hand grabs mine and I look up to find Theodore leading me towards the three, we’re all being pushed by Remus whos yelling at us to, “GO! GO!”. All of us have got our wands out by now and are summoning our patronus’ to fight back at the dementors taking swings at us until Hermione apparates us to a busy road.

We all yelp and run out of the way of a honking London bus, trying to comprehend the last sixty seconds as we breath heavily.

Theodore’s hand has a strong grip on mine as we all walk to the footpath, trying to find somehwere to change per Hermione’s demand. The busy city rages on, the bright billboards showing ads and people walking quickly here and there. We get many odd looks plus a few wolf whistles from a couple of drunk men on the street, to which Harry, Ron and Theodore stop, reaching for their wands or fists until Hermione and I remind them what’s more important.

“Where are we Hermione?” Ron asks, almost getting trampled on by a group of tourists. “Shaftsbury Avenue. I use to come to the theatre  here with mum and dad.” Hermione replies, “I don’t know why I thought of it, it just popped into my head.”

We walk into a dark, empty ally and Hermione reaches into her small bag, it engulfs her entire arm as she pulls out ordinary clothes for each of us.

“How the ruddy…” Ron starts, as we all change into our clothes. “Undetectable extension charm.”

“Bloody brilliant you are.” Ron compliments Hermione, making Harry and I smirk as we change our shoes.

“Always the tone of surprise.”

“Come on,” Theodore says, walking up the ally a bit after we’ve all changed, “Let’s go here for a while. We can figure out what to do next.”

We all follow him to a depressive cafe. Blue lights everywhere and its mainly empty, spare the moody waitress.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚

part eight done!! like i said, lowkey shitty but done whatsoever

lmk what you think and feel free to give me requests<33

taglist:

@timmytime17 @cherry-hoe @jetblackpayne @ash-tarte @coolestgirlhere @ama1a2 @kezibear