#literally just me trying to cope with angharad not being a real book

[morverenmaybewrites]

A Crown of Bone Preview

Pairing: Changeling! Reader x Fae Lord! Zhongli

Imagine being a changeling child and living your life in quiet yearning. 

It is a life of hollow hunger and a longing for something you cannot quite name. 

You had been found in the dead of winter, or so your mother tells you, a half-fey child abandoned in a snowbank. She has told you this story many times before. Sometimes in fond reminiscence, more often in hushed whispers, her eyes fearful and haunted as she recalled your unnatural stillness, the way the snowflakes that landed on your skin did not melt, 

You don’t answer whenever she tells these stories; she is already frightened enough. You do not tell her that while you had been found during winter, your first memories were of spring. 

Except it is not the spring of Snezhnaya, where you had been raised. It is not the cold sun, finally rising after months of not showing its face. Nor is it the first tentative buds of snowdrops, pushing their way up from the melting snow.

The spring you remember is brilliant, bursting with vivid color. You remember walking underneath trees whose leaves were the color of fire, you remember the taste of wine against your tongue. 

And sometimes, in those odd moments between dreaming and waking, you would remember seeing the gold of someone’s eyes and the curve of black, gleaming bone. 

You do not mention this to your mother, who is already half-afraid of you. Nor to your father, who gazes at you with a resigned sort of acceptance. 

Instead, you keep it to yourself, tucked away against the curve of your ribs, right next to your slow-beating heart. A secret that is half-yearning and half-memory: someone had left you there in that snowbank, and there are days that you think that they did not do so willingly. 

[novellaquill]

I can't wait

A Crown of Bone Preview

Pairing: Changeling! Reader x Fae Lord! Zhongli

Imagine being a changeling child and living your life in quiet yearning. 

It is a life of hollow hunger and a longing for something you cannot quite name. 

You had been found in the dead of winter, or so your mother tells you, a half-fey child abandoned in a snowbank. She has told you this story many times before. Sometimes in fond reminiscence, more often in hushed whispers, her eyes fearful and haunted as she recalled your unnatural stillness, the way the snowflakes that landed on your skin did not melt, 

You don’t answer whenever she tells these stories; she is already frightened enough. You do not tell her that while you had been found during winter, your first memories were of spring. 

Except it is not the spring of Snezhnaya, where you had been raised. It is not the cold sun, finally rising after months of not showing its face. Nor is it the first tentative buds of snowdrops, pushing their way up from the melting snow.

The spring you remember is brilliant, bursting with vivid color. You remember walking underneath trees whose leaves were the color of fire, you remember the taste of wine against your tongue. 

And sometimes, in those odd moments between dreaming and waking, you would remember seeing the gold of someone’s eyes and the curve of black, gleaming bone. 

You do not mention this to your mother, who is already half-afraid of you. Nor to your father, who gazes at you with a resigned sort of acceptance. 

Instead, you keep it to yourself, tucked away against the curve of your ribs, right next to your slow-beating heart. A secret that is half-yearning and half-memory: someone had left you there in that snowbank, and there are days that you think that they did not do so willingly.