#perhaps from silver's pov later.....

[llondonfog]

a little something based on this eldritch horror!silver concept because you lot encouraged me

Lilia knows that there must have been a time before the boy.

A time when he lived his quiet life in the woods alone, trapped in the same, mundane drudgery over and over again, as if the rhythmic pattern alone would be enough to keep the nightmares at bay. A time when he kept to himself at the fringe of society's gaze, raw and aching for the healing peace of the forest he had roamed endlessly in his youth, seeking a familiar balm against the scars left by a great and terrible warfare etched into his mind. A time that must have been so bleak, so dismal that it hardly bears remembering, for it surely wasn't a life worth living without the bright-eyed, sweet-faced child snuggled like a priceless treasure in his waiting arms.

That's right, he thinks to himself, pleased in his confirmation as he tightens his embrace around the boy slumbering peacefully against his chest. There had been no meaning, no light in his life before Silver had found him.

The boy is properly exhausted, and the satisfied smile on Lilia's face widens even further as he hums tunelessly, fussing over the little pieces of moonlit strands that have fallen into the child's face. They had enjoyed such fun this afternoon, hiking together into the secret parts of the dense brush along invisible paths that only Lilia could see. With that little hand held securely in his callused and scarred fingertips, he had led the boy through the shadowed trees, pushing past gnarled branches and over raised roots as thick as a man's fist until the land itself seemed to yield and give way beneath their feet, dipping down low to expose a bejeweled cornucopia of wildflowers, swaying and bobbing their heads enticingly in the faint, dappled sun.

Silver had gasped in rapt wonder, fingers squeezing Lilia's with a giddy kind of gratitude as those eyes as brilliant as the flowers before them gazed upon the field with an innocent, childish glee. They'd stayed there all afternoon, Lilia content to sit at the edge of the glen for as long as the boy wished while Silver romped around happily among the dancing petals and occasionally bounded back to grace him with a clumsily made bouquets of beaming daisies and plump milkweeds, until the sun began to dip below the fluffy tops of the turning oak trees. It had been second nature to scoop the yawning child up in his arms, to walk the long miles back to the cabin with him propped up against his hip as if the fire burning along the old wounds of his back were mere twinges of irritating mosquito bites.

It had felt like a reward when that warm weight melted in his arms under the gravitational pull of sleep, and those feather-soft strands of hair tickled against Lilia's neck as the boy rested his head along the breadth of his shoulder like a pillow. It had felt like bliss, the likes of which he'd never known before— never mind the fact that he had scoffed bitterly over a pint to Baul at the prospect of being bullied into being a glorified babysitter for Meleanor's soon-to-be spoiled babe. Never mind the fact that his hardened heart had only crystalized into darkest coal after the gruesome monstrosities he'd witnessed and orchestrated by his own hand for the sake of their kingdom and country. Never mind the fact that he had growled at the boy to scram upon first sight, exasperated at the idea that some foolish parent had allowed their snot-nosed brat to wander off the forest paths unsupervised.

None of that seemed worthy of remembering now.

No one else seemed worthy of remembering now either, hazy memories that were easily shuffled away out of sight and out of mind by Lilia's own willing consciousness long worn down to make room for what was truly important: the sound of Silver's laughter, sweet and clear like birdsong on the breeze, a sound that Lilia would do anything to hear again and again; the benevolent grace of the boy's smile like a benediction for his bloodstained soul, the sight of which he would greedily hoard over all the wealth in the world; the adorable sleepy wrinkle of his son's nose as it scrunches up just before he wakes, squeezing Lilia's heart along with it in a funny ache just like it's doing right now—

" . . . did I fall asleep, Papa?"

That darling little voice is apologetic, fretting aloud over how his poor father must have had it rough to carry Silver all the way home, and it's all that Lilia can do to laugh and nuzzle their noses together despite the fiery waves of pain lancing along his spine.

"It's fine, my dear," he croons, savoring the way that those bashful eyes turn on him with such hope, as if it were Lilia who held the key to his happiness and not the other way around. "Your papa was happy to carry you home," and the title fits as naturally as a glove as it weaves itself into his heart, as if there were no other name he needed to be known by ever again, as if there were no other role he could ever imagine himself playing.

The boy smiles up at him, joyous and beatific— there are no words, and yet Lilia feels strangely like he'd been praised, a pleased rustle of something invisible that's taken up residence in the back of his mind that sweetens the dizziness swarming at the edge of his vision— and the moment passes the second that he blinks, leaving him oddly winded as if he'd just run a marathon and collapsed on the couch.

"Are you sure that you're alright, Papa?"

And how sweet of Silver to worry over him still, the child closely scrutinizing his face as he wrestles his breathing back under control. Lilia tweaks his nose playfully in answer to elicit a gleeful yelp that has the boy scrambling away in a flurry of limbs, escaping with laughter towards the kitchen in clear search of an early supper before his beloved father could spice it up with a few more inventive ingredients.

He's alright. He's more than alright.

How could he not be, with his precious son finally at his side?

[kalims]

kiss your best friend | diasomnia

kiss your best friend and see how they react!

parts. one , two , three , four , five , six , seven

characters. malleus, lilia, sebek, silver

content. gender neutral reader as usual, mentions of murder by lilia's cooking, someone faints lol

note. finally last part after ten years /j

malleus

goes absolutely silent but his surprise is definitely there -> eyes widen, brows raise on a miniscule scale. you'd think the guy would be all lowkey about his joy but five seconds later and there are comical sparkles surrounding his face.

I mean. you had to formally confirm that you two were friends before, and you had off-handedly linked his name and best friend in the same sentence a few months later (he was bursting for like a week.) and now all that?

thrown away, nu-uh. you two are NOT friends no more, he doesn’t have a single care in the world. he's throwing the friends label off a cliff with his foot and skipping off with joy cause you just got upgraded to the next ruler of briar valley wink wonk.

or perhaps you'd like being referred to as his consort? he can always make the people refer to you as both.

if you're wondering why he's so silent all of a sudden; malleus: already thinking of how he'd decorate the castle when you move in with him. maybe... he can break down the wall to link your two bedrooms together—wait no he'd very much like to share the same room instead..

"child of man, do you prefer violet or green?"

"uh... green...?"

"excellent choice, you have my gratitude."

the thing you should be asking is 'why' because it's either the main color theme of your wedding or the gem he'd engrave on your ring (he's very happy it's green though, since it'd be a constant reminder of him.. oh he knows! he should get his a color of your eyes too—)

someone stop him.

lilia

spiderman kisses spiderman kisses spiderman kisses spiderman kisses

more knowledgeable than malleus about the level up of relationships so he doesn't jump from best friends to newlyweds immediately. actually he doesn't even need a label, if you're going around kissing him he's just gonna act like you two are a married couple without a confirmation on your status'

"darling, could you hand me the sugar?"

"lilia, I hope you know that you're supposed to use salt for the sauce not sugar." <- *passes the right bottle*

ignoring lilia's attempts on lives he acts pretty normal.

ahem, besides the fact that your first kiss on him has made him come to the conclusion that he can now incorporate kisses in your daily routine since you've already done it, so apparently that means he can too.

kiss him once, he kisses you thrice I guess. it's either the occasional jumpscare from the ceiling since he felt like reminding you of his love through a pack or the times you blink and feel a sensation against your lips without seeing anything cause his affection can be silent as it is loud you suppose.

pov student you were speaking to who definitely saw that but you didn't midst your blink: 😨—

"lilia are we dating."

"i suppose it would make us more official like you humans like, so of course~"

he just accepts it without any complaints, just announce you're spouses and he'll accept that too probably.

#chill

silver

if we have spiderman kisses surely we can have the sleeping beauty kiss?

sleeping beauty kisses sleeping beauty kisses sleeping beauty kisses sleeping beauty kisses

I reckon he would be a pretty light sleeper though the quantity of his sleep is more often than not so even though he accidentally passes out a lot he's really easy to wake. trained to be vigilant and all, courtesy of his murderous father (well, murderous through food?)

he knows the weight of certain things. a blanket draped over him, the feeling of something squirming on his shoulder—a squirrel, most likely. something on his head, a bird or some other critter. but this?

a light press on his lips, gone as quickly as it came. that, he isn't sure of. the animals don't tend to linger around his face so the unknown origin of it has curiosity opening his eyes.

and boy, he is trying to find every reason to not believe that you didn't peck him.

perhaps they touched it? he furrows his brows lightly, attempting hard at trying to avoid your gaze because he feels guilty at his first assumption, you're his best friend! you wouldn't do such a thing..

"did you touch my lips?"

"nah, is it fine that I kissed you?"

"..."

"..."

*passes out*

is he dreaming?

sebek

in what scenario will sebek even let you near him? hmmm.. I suppose being 'best friends' (he calls you self proclaimed, and that you guys aren't that close but still rages over someone and hits them with an essay why you're so much better than their insults) makes you more tolerable around to be closer.

totally not the fact that he might have a crush on you, which can't be right cause he can't be capable of having feelings for a *gasp* human!

scandalous. he knows.

raises a brow when you do anything but be discrete with your intentions of shuffling closer but he doesn't really double back, okay. he's getting a little concerned now when you continue getting closer, he takes a step back not because you're near or anything but this behavior is... just strange.

you're in his face already and before he can question (loudly) what in the seven's name you're doing before you just casually peck him on the lips?

WHAT IN TARNATION!

stiffens up immediately, his face looks like it's holding in a yell. maybe that's why it's getting so red? he's just standing there with shoulders so tense he looks like he's trying to seem big.

"..." WHAT JUST HAPPENED. DID THIS HUMAN JUST.. NO, WE ARE MERELY BEST FRIENDS—are we even friends.. NO! THIS IS THE MOST INAPPROPRIATE ACT TO COMMIT. THIS HUMAN NEEDS TO KNOW BOUNDARIES. I mean he enjoyed that and all—I mean what..

"why are you so quiet."

if only you knew.

[thesunloveschips]

Eye of the Storm - Chapter 12: Dinner

Summary: In the wake of Rhysand’s ascension as High Lord, the Bone Carver gifts a prophecy. More than five hundred years later, Azriel continues to wait for the one who is finally reborn as his High Lady’s sister. All it takes a dip in the Cauldron for things to start falling into place.

Chapter Summary: Dearest gentle reader, welcome to another chapter of Nyra exists and Azriel is obsessed because who wouldn't want a morally grey, shadow-wielding, winged male obsessing over them?

Warnings: Azriel's wrath. It's mad. He's the Spymaster for a reason. Hints of lust here and there because he's obsessed with his mate.

Click here to access the Masterlist of the Eye of the Storm

****

Azriel's POV

"You're a real piece of work." Amren said, examining Nesta like a cat with her silver eyes.

"Why do your eyes glow?" Nesta asked coolly. Nyra looked at Amren's eyes, noticing the glow for the first time. She tilted her head, an action that indicated her confusion. Azriel felt a semblance of peace at how adorable Nyra looked like that. Like a curious innocent female he wanted to corrupt so badly.

"Don't you already know why?" Amren looked at Nesta and then at Nyra.

"Decorative purposes?" Nyra asked, knowing completely well that was not the case. Azriel felt mischief rise within her. She was starting to forget all the guilt and grief in relation to Feyre. Amren shot her a glare and Nyra raised her eyebrows, her chin dipping just a bit, inviting challenge.

"We are the same." Amren announced. The twins blinked and sat straight. "Not in flesh, not in the thing that prowls beneath our skin and bones..." Her eyes narrowed. "But... I see the kernel. The two of you did not fit—the mold that they shoved you into. The path you were born upon and forced to walk. You tried, and yet you did not, could not fit. And then the path changed. I know what it is to be that way. I remember it, long ago as it was."

"You're that old?" Nyra asked. Azriel couldn’t help but be in awe at the way her moods changed. From a bloody fucking panic attack not an hour ago, she’d hopped on to confusion and then a whole load of guilt and in between all of it, she’d flirted with Mor, started a weird sort of banter with Amren and he could not even understand her enough to predict what she’d feel the next moment. 

And this was… refreshing. 

A storm of emotions and how she carried all of them so openly. 

Nyra’s concern for Feyre after they met after the latter was Made. Scolding her sisters for going for each other’s throats during dinner. Laughing at the entirely wrong time when Nesta ignored Cassian and trying to cover it up with a cough. Her knowledge of the political situation in her part of the world. And the humour—fucking brilliant sense of humour. Flirtatious on occasion. Serious too. And she owned every last one of her feelings with such grace. 

Those newborns… they were born because of her. Because of how fascinated he’d been by her as their first meeting progressed.  

He remembered what he told her back then before leaving after Rhys had caught the Attor. “If fate wills it, we shall meet again.” The memory of him kissing her hand had the shadows around him fluttering. 

"Speak carefully, girl." Azriel returned to the real world when Amren delivered a warning. She took a sip from her goblet filled with blood and licked her red lips, her eyes narrowing into glare as a warning for Nyra. 

"A manner of speech unlike anyone else here despite the age gap of five centuries between us and them. Are you perhaps older?" Clearly, Nyra Archeron found it far too amusing to notice or if she did, she did not heed it but Azriel could feel the power rising to the surface. That feeling charged him from within.

"I am ancient." Amren watched like a predator ready to pounce. Nyra simply hummed. The petite female frowned.

"Older than ancient ruins?" Nyra felt the power within her rising. Allowing her to see so much about this seemingly delicate female.

Amren's silver orbs remained on Nyra. And Azriel's hand was already ready to unsheath the Truth-Teller. 

The ancient one smirked and raised her glass towards Nyra. "When you strike, girl, cleave through providence." She turned to Nesta. "And when you erupt, make sure it's felt across worlds." And she emptied the goblet, the blood staining her lips as she continued to smirk. "And keep off your silly dagger, shadowsinger."

Azriel continued to remain wary even as all eyes turned to him. His shadows danced wildly around him. Watching. Waiting for anyone to breathe wrongly. Mistress went into the shadows. Azriel froze immediately. He commanded more information. She was upset earlier. We went to her and took her with us. Her twin found her. He looked at Nyra in shock and slight fear. The shadows had claimed her. They had already started claiming her, even when she was mortal and now, they'd cemented it. She was crying. They sounded upset. 

For now, there were a few mysteries.

The shadows had only ever used words and phrases with him but now, they were using proper sentences.

The shadows never did anything without his instructions. Until Nyra. The little shits were always touching her. And now, they had taken her to the realm of shadows on their own accord.

How did Nesta find Nyra when she was in the shadows? Did it have anything to do with them being twins?

As he contemplated these new developments, Azriel watched the twins. Nesta Archeron had piqued his interest. He knew from Nuala and Cerridwen that twins shared a certain bond that siblings with age gaps did not. It had something to do with an exclusive connection forming between them during their time in the womb. And it was another matter that the Archeron twins were thrown into the Cauldron at the same time. Was there something more because of that?

Azriel figured the best way to distract himself tonight would be with the varieties of delicacies served for dinner tonight. He looked around, trying to identify which ones he'd prefer. The shadows kept telling him about the twins and how Feyre served the first dish to Nyra and from then on, the twins served their own food and passed the dishes around. Lucien Vanserra is nervous. Azriel looked at him to see the male looking at his food and looking around. He had been unconsciously placed at the head of the table with Nesta and Amren by his side.

"You get used to it—the informality." Feyre addressed Lucien.

"You say that, Feyre darling, like it's a bad thing." Rhysand served himself some trout before passing it to Feyre. She served herself before looking at Nyra questioningly. Nyra shook her head, took the dish and passed it to Nesta. Azriel observed her hesitation. She does not like trout.

"It took me by surprise that first dinner we all had, just so you know." Feyre's comment had Cassian snickering.

"Oh, I know." Rhys grinned.

"Honestly, Azriel is the only polite one." Cassian and Mor cried in outrage as Feyre said that but Azriel smiled a little and took a dish from Mor. "Don't even try to pretend that it's not true." A small ball of delight hit the shadowsinger in the chest when he saw that Nyra had taken the delicacy he had just served himself. Chicken roast. She might like it. He certainly did and now he'd wait for her verdict.

"Of course, it's true." Mor sighed. "But you needn't make us sound like heathens."

Azriel watched Nyra pick up her fork and play with the food for a few seconds before she took a bite. Her eyes widened a little and she took her next bite, thoroughly pleased by the taste. Azriel made another mental note. She likes roast chicken.

And that was enough information for the shadows to have another celebratory dance. The older shadows around him loved her but they could control themselves. In a sense, they were mature. Clearly not mature enough to go through one dinner without complimenting her, but at least they weren't singing and dancing like the younger ones wrapped quite literally around her fingers. They were small, their touch featherlight and they had already ascended to her wrists and above to give her space to handle cutlery.

“Do you like chicken?” Mor asked, a smile on her face. Nyra slowly nodded. “Then you should try it with this.” She passed a bottle of sauce but Nyra simply stared at it and looked back at Mor. What if she turned her gaze and looked at him? After all, he was sitting right next to Mor. And he fought a smile. A very difficult battle but he won.

Just as Nyra extended her hand to take the bottle of sauce, the younger shadows around her wrist darted forward to take it from Mor’s hand, taking care not to make contact with the latter’s skin. They opened it and set the bottle near Nyra’s plate. She smiled gently and whispered. “Thank you.” 

“Try it. Mor likes it and I tolerate it. It’s chili sauce. Spicy as it is, it’s quite good once you get used to it.” Rhys spoke as he looked at her. Nyra nodded and took a tentative bite and her eyes snapped to Mor who waited for the verdict. Nyra nodded with soft enthusiasm and then hummed before looking at Rhys who grinned with the raise of his glass. Azriel was observing everything. She liked it with that sauce.

The shadows near Azriel's ears were dancing with joy and subsequently, tickling his ears and irritating him. He banished them away from his ears and focused. He was the Spymaster. Surely he could spy on one female sitting across from him during dinner without his shadows.

“Thank you.” She addressed Mor once she had chewed and swallowed the piece in her mouth and then turned to Rhys and nodded at him. The High Lord lifted his spoon in acknowledgement and ate his peas.  

“So, what are your favourite foods?” Mor eagerly began. 

Nyra was silent for a while before she replied. Chocolate, Azriel noted. "My diet was regulated owing to my illness."

"You have no illnesses now." Amren spoke up. "Take complete advantage of that." Azriel hoped Nyra would enjoy the world and all that it had to offer now that she was no longer ill and had a long, immortal life ahead of her. Explore places. Eat foods from all over the world. Meeting new people, not in a romantic capacity else he'd accidentally slice their necks. Enjoy the weather—the sun, the rain, the snow. Everything she wanted, he'd lay down at her feet.

Nyra hummed thoughtfully, cutting through a particularly large piece of broccoli and asked. “Do you eat flesh too?”

The ancient one smirked. “What makes you think that?” 

“Bloodthirsty people being flesh eaters does not sound too odd.” Rhys spat his wine. Mor and Cassian laughed and Azriel smirked, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth to restrain the laughter. Nyra and Nesta were the only ones who did not laugh—the former looking amused while the latter looked grumpy. Why was Nesta so grumpy?

“Troublesome female.” Amren spoke after the laughter had died down, a wicked smirk on her face as she imagined something that nobody was too eager to know. Nyra did not reply and resumed her meal. The chicken and potatoes and the broccoli, she decided, were too delicious to be ignored in favour of a bloodthirsty midget. "No, I don't." Amren's voice had Nyra looking at her again. "I don't eat flesh." 

Dinner progressed with Nesta telling Feyre about how she understood the difference between the food in Prythian and in the mortal lands. It was when Feyre brought up training with Cassian that Nyra paid attention. "What time are we back in the training ring tomorrow?"

"I'd say dawn but since I'm feeling rather grateful that you're back in one piece, I'll let you sleep in. Let's meet at seven."

"I'd hardly call that sleeping in." Feyre muttered.

"For an Illyrian, it is." Mor sighed again. Azriel was already starting to get irritated at the banter between Cassian and Mor and at his stupidity for situating himself between them. His peaceful observation was being interrupted by these loudmouths. His shadows were also joining that group anyway.

"Daylight is a precious resource." Cassian's wings rustled as he took mock offence.

"We live in the Night Court." Mor countered.

Cassian grimaced and turned to his brothers. "I told you that the moment we started letting females into our group, they'd be nothing but trouble." Azriel did not bother paying him any mind.

Rhys raised an eyebrow. "As far as I can recall, Cassian, you actually said you needed a reprieve from staring at our ugly faces, and that some ladies would add some much-needed prettiness for you to look at all day. And now, we have more pretty ladies with us." Rhysand threw a welcoming smile at the twins who were suddenly overwhelmed at the sudden ball of attention thrown towards them but they did acknowledge him with a nod of their heads.

"I was a young Illyrian and didn't know better." The movement of Azriel's shadows caught his attention and Cassian pointed a fork at his brother. "Don't try to blend into the shadows. You said the same thing." Azriel sighed, annoyed at Cassian for not shutting up and letting him watch Nyra in peace.

"He did not." Mor objected. "Azriel has never once said anything that awful. Only you, Cassian. Only you." Cassian stuck out his tongue. Mor mimicked his action. Azriel, who sat between them, now regretted his choice of seat. He should have chosen the seat on Mor's other side. He would have had an easier time observing Nyra without the two chatterboxes of the millennia breathing down his neck.

"You'd be wise to leave both of them at home for the meeting with the others, Rhysand. They'll cause nothing but trouble." Amren's words surprised Lucien. Nyra focused on her food while conversation progressed regarding the High Lords' Meet but then the mention of a Court of Nightmares seemed to have caught her attention.

"What is the Court of Nightmares?" Nyra asked Rhysand but it was Lucien who answered.

"The place where the rest of the world believes the majority of the Night Court to be. The seat of his power. Or it was." Nyra looked at the red-haired male.

Azriel was beginning to feel even more irritated. This Autumn-born was an unwelcome guest in their Court and he was already stealing her attention. Something within him stirred with rage. The thought of anyone other than him trying to do anything for her woke up all the wrath he had carefully concealed. And even when Cassian slung a seemingly friendly arm behind him, Azriel felt the strength in the warlord's grip.

Rhysand's presence waited for him outside his mind's realm. I urge you to calm down, Azriel. The Vanserra is here for his own mate, not her.

Then he should stay away from her. Azriel's response was cool but he knew that Rhysand understood his rage. He is responsible for their transformation. It was unbearably painful and traumatising for them.

Partially responsible, yes. Rhysand countered, trying to placate him but Azriel was having none of it.

The Cauldron did something to her. And her sisters. She died in there, Rhys. Very painfully. And he was complicit in how things turned out for all four of the Archeron sisters even if he has a mating bond leading to one of them. I don't understand why we are dining with him instead of taking him to the prisons. Azriel knew he had spoken more than he usually did. It was uncharacteristic of him but then again, he'd already lost his mate once and that made him immensely protective of Nyra. And the rage within him rose like the icy wind it was. Cold and unforgiving. 

Azriel knew his anger was something everyone feared, even Rhys. And this was the most powerful High Lord to ever exist. And that cold, cruel feeling continued to swirl within him like a blizzard. 

Azriel. Cassian's voice spoke. They're simply talking. 

He, who is responsible for the pain she endured, be it partially or wholly, is not worthy of her words or attention. Azriel declared his verdict. He could feel himself shaking.

His shadows were trying to calm him down by saying good things. Sweet memories of his mother. Her latest letter. How lovely his mate was. And how he had yet to tell his mother about his mate. The anticipation because his mother, the sweet female, had been waiting for him to bring home someone. Had prayed for him to meet someone who would love him. And here she was. The only female he was capable of loving. The shadows panicked and danced around him, ready to take him to the realm should he snap in front of Nyra. 

Oh, how he’d carve this Autumn-born. He’d start with that metal eye. Rip it out of him and crush it. He’d pour whiskey into the bleeding socket before pushing the crushed metal eye back into it. And Azriel would take his time. He’d cut and carve into his skin with the Truth Teller. 

Mistress is looking here. And at that, he froze. He finally noticed Nyra looking at him, doubt in her gaze. He noticed the ironclad grip on his shoulder by Cassian. Mor and Amren seemingly invested in the conversation but radiating their power subtly enough to put forward that they were ready to strike. By then, Rhys had taken over the conversation but the High Lord was ready with the night to restrain him. 

And then there was her. 

This beautiful, wonderful female. 

The way she was looking at him, ocean blue eyes wide and questioning. 

She’d guarded the heart of her youngest sister, the newest addition to his family, his sister. And now, he was ready to beg her to protect his own because he’d seen Feyre so happy whenever she talked about Nyra, was talking to Nyra, was even near her. The comfort Feyre had found in this female was something he’d started craving. He could see how Nyra sitting between her sisters was a good arrangement. Both Feyre and Nesta craved the comfort she’d offered. And in their own flawed way, they returned it. 

Was he capable of offering her comfort? Since it was for her, it could not be anything less than perfect and he was anything but. And that thought saddened him more than he expected. 

“Are you alright?” She mouthed the question, trying to ensure secrecy but everybody was focusing on their interaction except for Nesta and Feyre. Everybody pretended to be in a conversation to indulge the other Archerons at the table while she was asking him. How beautiful she’d be with his cock in that pretty mouth. Or maybe, he should make her beg. Or even scream. 

“Yes.” Azriel mouthed back. Erotic fantasies about Nyra were better than murderous fantasies about the Vanserra. Anger dissipated like the fog and she then smiled at the shadows which had tugged at her fingertips. She then looked at him with that smile and Azriel swore the moon rose in those blue eyes. 

Has she always been this impossibly enchanting? 

And what was that smile? 

Was she happy? 

If he kissed her right now, as her lips smiled at him, would he get a piece of that happiness for himself? 

Azriel stood up and nearly began leaning towards her before Cassian caught his arm and jerked it. He came to his senses and immediately knew everyone was looking at him. He spotted the first dish near her and took it, pretending that he’d needed to stand up for his hands to reach there. Just as he sat, Cassian coughed rather loudly. Of course, the bastards he had as brothers caught him. 

"It still is to everyone outside Velaris." Nyra turned to Rhys who had spoken. He nodded at her once before looking at Mor. "And yes, Keir's Darkbringer legion is considerable enough that a meeting is warranted."

"Why not just order them?" Nesta questioned, her brows narrowed. "Don't they answer to you?" At this point, the three Archerons turned their heads to Rhys simultaneously, waiting for him to answer.

Azriel watched them in surprise. The three Archeron sisters with startlingly similar features turning to look at Rhys was an incredible sight. Golden brown hair, blue eyes, fair skin glowing under the golden faelights. All of them were wearing something dark. When a lock of hair escaped their respective hairstyles and fell near their left ears as they immediately turned to face Rhys. When they placed their cutlery on their respective plates in unison. The way their hands rested on the table and they assumed the same posture as they waited for Rhysand to speak. It hit him too hard that these three were sisters, in blood and bond. No matter how fractured those bonds were.

"To think there's another one of them upstairs." Amren muttered, taking a heavy gulp of blood. It seemed the stark similarity in looks, postures and overall disposition as it seemed at the moment had caught everyone unawares.

"Unfortunately, there are protocols in place between our two sub-courts regarding this sort of thing." Cassian spoke, his back straightening when Nesta shifted her gaze from Rhys to him. "They mostly govern themselves with Mor's father—their steward." Nyra looked at the warlord sitting to Azriel's left. The shadowsinger noted how particularly different Cassian behaved around Nesta and how Nyra had noticed the same.

"The steward of Hewn City is legally entitled to refuse to aid my armies." Once again, the three sisters turned to Rhysand. "It was a part of the agreement my ancestor made with the Court of Nightmares all those thousands of years ago. They would remain within that mountain, would not challenge or disturb us beyond its borders... and would retain the right to decide not to assist in war."

"And there are no loopholes in this agreement?" Nyra asked. He could feel her thinking. He could not discern her exact thoughts but he was glad at the way her mind had been distracted from the grief and guilt she was consumed by earlier.

"None that we have identified so far." Rhys answered.

"And have they refused?" Feyre asked.

Morrigan's fumbled response brought Nyra to another realisation. And as dinner progressed, Azriel felt her as she let her grief be a forgotten thing. The conversation continued regarding the Court of Nightmares and Feyre's training with Cassian.

"Let's train at eight tomorrow. I'll meet you in the ring." Feyre spoke after the silence in the wake of their discussion on the Court of Nightmares.

"Seven thirty." Cassian countered with a grin.

"Eight." Feyre tried to. negotiate. "Care to join, you two?"

"No." Nesta's answer was final, not inviting any negotiations.

"Nyra?" Feyre tried. Nyra was in the middle of looking at the table for broccoli. She looked to her right to her youngest upon being called. 

"What exactly are you training for?" Nyra asked and then took a bite of the chicken, resuming her search.

"Combat." Cassian grinned at her. "What are you looking for?"

"Care to elaborate? I'm looking for broccoli." Cassian noted that the bowl of vegetables including the broccoli was next to Mor. He spoke to Nyra and tried to keep her attention as much as possible while Mor discreetly pushed the bowl as quietly as possible to Azriel's part of the table. The shadowsinger looked at her once and nodded.

"You'd learn to be a badass like me."

"I highly doubt anybody wants to be like you, Cassian." Mor interjected. Azriel quietly lifted the bowl and stretched his arm. Nyra extended her own arm to take the bowl from him.

Azriel always wore fingerless gloves and today was no exception. It concealed his scarred hands as much as possible but the fingers were bare in case he needed to write or handle small objects. And right now, he felt Nyra's fingers brush against his under the bowl as she took it from him. He froze and slowly withdrew his hands. Soft hands. He wanted to hold them. Feel her hands on his chest, his neck. Wanted them tugging on his hair. And he’d die if one of them ever descended and snuck inside his pants.

"Moving on from that unsolicited comment, you'd be learning to control your breathing, balance your body, work on your muscles, throw nasty punches, wield weapons. Basically, you'd be a badass at fighting like me." Cassian already sounded excited at the possibility of teaching another Archeron how to fight.

"I'm sorry, Cassian, but I cannot participate."

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you want to stay grumpy and read all day like your twin." Cassian's gaze turned to Nesta who was doing her best at pretending that she was not the centre of his attention. Azriel did not know whether to envy his brother at being able to confidently look at Nesta even when the female seemed confused between killing him and fucking him.

"Reading is fun." Nyra frowned. "Being grumpy is not my preferred method of passing time. But I want to focus on training my magic. It is,” she lifted her left hand and looked at it. Lightning crackled between her fingertips. “Rather dangerous and I might end up hurting someone if I don’t learn how to control this.”

“I’ll help you with that.” Rhysand offered. 

“Nonsense. I’ll teach you. Both of you.” Amren declared and waited for anyone to challenge her decision. Nobody dared. Azriel wondered how this little demon would be while teaching the sisters. He’d have to monitor for the first few days at least. Cauldron knew whether the mouse-sized female would terrorise Nyra. And maybe not even the Cauldron would know how Nyra would react to that. As endearing as it was to him, Nyra’s moody self might not be appreciated everywhere. 

“Why the sudden interest, Amren?” Feyre asked teasingly.

“Your sisters, High Lady, possess powers like no other. They require training not only to wield it effectively and efficiently but also to keep themselves from harm.” Amren left it at that. 

****

"The King of Hybern." Feyre breathed deeply. And at the mention of the scum, everyone felt the power shift. The Archeron twins' eyes began glowing, albeit faintly. Nyra gripped the arms of her chair and Nesta clenched her fists. Azriel swallowed, trying to keep away the envy against the arms of the chair. To keep away the question as to why it was not his hands or arms that she was gripping so tightly. Those beautiful hands, as small as they were in comparison to his own, had quite the grip as observed by his shadows. Would she hold his arms or shoulders that tightly when he’d thrust into her? Would she scratch his back and mark him? 

"The king is trying to bring down the wall." Nyra began calming down, her curiosity taking over her rage slowly. She turned to Feyre, a silent command to continue speaking. "By using the Cauldron. There are already holes in it and he wants to expand them. I might be able to patch up these holes, but you... being made of the Cauldron itself... if the Cauldron can widen those holes, perhaps you can close them, too. With training in whatever time we have."

Nyra looked at Feyre, as if she were assessing something. "Fine. I'll do it." She turned to Amren. “Do you have anything introductory for me to read through the night or will your lessons be completely practical?” 

Amren brought her palm forward and a few books appeared. And then they vanished. “They’re in your room. Read as much as you can before tomorrow morning. We start at ten. And before you ask, it’s their responsibility to bring you lot to the city whenever you need.” 

“How do you expect her to read those overnight?” Cassian sounded outrageously shocked. 

“We will see that tomorrow.” Amren smirked at the spark in Nyra’s eyes. A challenge had been ignited. Azriel felt Nyra’s determination to win. What he did not realise was the quiet wave of encouragement he had sent across the bond. Nyra’s eyes widened at the warm feeling rising within her and before she could dwell on it any more, Feyre addressed Nesta.

"What about you?"

The sisters stared at each other impassively. "Fine." Nesta spoke in the same tone Nyra had—giving up the stubbornness.

"Good. We'll go to the Court of Nightmares with you and find objects for practice." Amren clapped her hands once.

"What?" Feyre immediately looked at the delicate female, the idea of her sisters going to the Court of Nightmares appalling to her. 

"Let the girls get a feel of something like the wall or like the Cauldron." Amren added when Azriel seemed poised to object. "Covertly."

“Is there something in the Court of Nightmares we should be worried about?” Nyra asked casually but the silence that followed was not so casual.

“The Night Court does not exactly have the best reputation.” Lucien spoke, breaking the silence. Cassian cursed and Azriel could feel his anger rise again and be a palpable thing that demanded he tear the red headed male to shreds. Nyra looked at Lucien and Azriel would have roared in anger if it weren’t for Rhysand’s presence right outside his mental shields, trying to subdue the beast that was him. 

Nevertheless, the Autumn-born continued oblivious to the bloodlust rolling off the shadowsinger. Bloodlust that was warded by Mor and Amren, Cassian physically restraining him and Rhys casting and maintaining a mental shield. 

Lucien continued. “To outsiders, this place is cold and cruel and Rhysand is a merciless High Lord. They believe it to be a structure of Hel in the land of the living and equally, if not more miserable.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Nyra spoke, her impatience rising. 

“This reputation stems from the way he holds court and from now on, how Rhysand and Feyre will hold court. He rules over them with an iron fist like some dark lord and it feels like a mausoleum in there. Blood and deceit coat those walls. People adorn masks to pretend like every gathering is a luxurious party when it’s just the inhabitants of Hewn City putting up a performance so that Rhys is not displeased.”

“And what happens when Rhysand is displeased?”

“The general executes. The spymaster tortures. Anything could happen.” 

And Azriel froze at what Lucien had revealed about him to Nyra. At the implications of it. How it could influence her opinion on him. On his family. He looked at Rhysand. Why did you not silence him?

She would have found out sooner or later. She will make her judgement after seeing us in the Court of Nightmares. Rhys sounded worried even after he said this. As if it was not only meant to convince Azriel but also himself. 

She deserves to be at peace. You of all people know how being strong can tire your spirits. She needs time to process this transition before she’s introduced to other horrors. Azriel all but yelled at his brother.

And I have no doubt you’d make it painful for anyone who dares to breathe wrong near her. Rhysand nodded once. We all will. The sisters won’t be harmed, not by any member of my Court or by any power in the Night Court territory so long as I’m alive. This is my promise. Azriel felt the tingling sensation of a bargain near his left waist. And even with a bargain, the shadowsinger was not in favour of this. 

Nyra could be taken to the Court of Nightmares after some time. After she had time to process all the trauma she had been recently subjected to. He seriously debated what was worse—facing horrors one after the other or facing them all at once. Nyra did note once that the former was what Nesta had gone through. He’d understood enough to know that Nesta’s mental health was in a very fragile condition.

Azriel only wanted Nyra to have enough time to process the transition before she learned about everything. He’d personally teach her as much as he could. He had no intentions of hiding or sugarcoating anything. He simply wanted her to have enough time to cope with the trauma and the stress it brought. 

Silence ensued. Feyre waited for Nesta to say something because this Archeron had been glaring at her plate for too long. To kill all hope. But she posed another question. "Why not just kill the King of Hybern before he can act?"

The shadow of death seemed to loom above them. Cassian, the Lord of Bloodshed, and Azriel, the shadowsinger, seemed to thrive off of it. Nyra and Nesta felt at ease, as though they were home. Death really seemed to be a comfort space for the four of them.

The room descended into the cold as Nesta’s eyes burned silver. The younger shadows around Nyra were trying to create a wall between the twins out of fear for their mistress’ safety. A few of his older shadows joined the endeavour. His hand went to the hilt of the Truth Teller. And with everyone on guard at how Nesta could release her mysterious power, Nyra’s hand broke through the shadowy barrier and grabbed her twin’s hand. Lightning crackled just a bit. Enough to jolt Nesta out of her trance. 

Silver bled into blue and Nyra released her hand. Nesta looked at her twin once and nodded. The twins resumed eating as though nothing had happened. As if Nesta’s presence had not suddenly made them feel like they were in a battlefield with their lives endangered. 

"If you want his killing blow, it's yours. Both of you." Amren said, her voice taking an understanding note. 

And as Nesta looked at Amren with the eyes of a predator, Nyra clenched her hands. She had already abandoned her cutlery but the way her power roared like a storm within her was becoming too much. She needed an outlet. The shadows around her wrists started tickling her hands and she was too scared of releasing her grip. Too scared of letting the power go away. And the storm was becoming uncontrollable. 

Azriel was beside her in an instant, his large hands covering her own. “Let it out.” That was all she heard. 

Thunder roared in the skies above Prythian. Lighting flashed a great many times. Nyra’s breathing became heavier. The shadows swarmed around her body and the darkness consumed them. She felt herself in an embrace, warm and strong. Nyra whimpered, her power starting to become painful. And through the bond, Azriel felt it all. And he held her through all of it. 

She released her power in that realm of shadows, enough to tire herself out. Azriel was surprised by how welcoming the shadows were. How the realm had welcomed the roar of her storms so easily. And he realised that this was not a change. It was a preexisting factor. And that the shadows were waiting for her just as much as him, if not more. The compatibility of his shadows with her lightning was showing itself. 

Her eyes glowed and her neck craned. She trembled under the weight of her own power, groaning and nearly screaming under the weight of her own power. Mistress. Lightning. Perfect. The shadows caressed her arms and hands. Azriel’s hands were on her waist and head, holding her close. 

“Nyra.” He called out when the lightning had stopped roaring. 

“Azriel?” Her voice was so small and confused, he was beginning to worry. “Where are we? Why is it so dark?”

“We are in the shadows.” He responded, worried about how she’d take that news but he couldn’t lie to her. She did not deserve to be lied to.

“I think I was here before.” Her voice was a clear indication of her tired state. She had released so much power that he clearly understood that she could take down all the High Lords and their armies easily. He could imagine the extent of her power if she were to be taught how to control it.

“Yes. The shadows told me that they brought you here earlier.”

Nyra did not say anything and he continued to hold her. 

“Are you embracing me?” Nyra asked. He could feel her hands trying to move around to analyse their surroundings only to fail because he was holding her close. 

“Yes.” His grip on her loosened and his soul faltered at the possibility of her not wanting his touch. After all, how could these desecrated hands touch her? However worthless he was, he did not want her to remain in the shadows if she was uncomfortable here. 

“Do you want me to release you? I must tell you that we do need to maintain contact to navigate back safely but we can simply hold hands.” And even when he’d used the word ‘simply’, there was nothing simple about holding her hand. How had he not already fainted? 

Nyra’s hands rose and her palms found his chest, fingers curling to grab the fabric. Azriel was suddenly afraid of breathing. Of making a single sound. He would have willed his heart to still if he could since it was beating so loud and fast. Her fingers were so gentle as they found his shirt to hold. 

“Did I hurt the shadows?” She asked softly. Azriel could hear the shadows whisper to him. How touched they were by her concern for them. “Did I hurt you?” It was a good time to fall into a ditch and stay there because Azriel severely doubted whether his knees had enough strength to stand and to not falter as he held her. 

“No, we’re fine.” He felt her shift, move just a bit to the back. If they could see each other, they would probably be looking at each other’s faces. 

“Are you sure?” She sounded determined to know if she’d hurt him or the shadows even in the slightest. And with that sweet voice of hers, she’d awakened something so wholly pure within him that he’d doubted whether that feeling would be corrupted by existing inside someone like him even if it was his own. 

Azriel had already believed that he was in heaven as he embraced her. Was it not the best thing to be able to touch her even though he was an undeserving bastard from the dirt? But he was a selfish bastard. And that selfishness demanded that he take every scrap she’d leave in her wake. Anything she’d throw at him. 

“Az?” That was the first time she’d called him by that nickname and his heart leaped to his throat at the realisation.

“Yes?” He held her because he was afraid to let go. And it felt good to take a page from her book and start acknowledging that. Not that he’d ever say it out loud but he was afraid. He’d lost his mate once and he certainly had no intentions of letting her go to some place he couldn’t follow. Or maybe, he could. He could follow her. The shadows let him travel anywhere and if she were to go to the afterlife like last time, he’d simply follow. The Truth Teller was always with him so he wouldn’t have much trouble arranging his own death. 

“I’m so tired.” She felt so much fear and pain and confusion and Azriel felt it all. He wondered whether being able to feel her through the bond helped her. If he could at least take a part of that pain for himself. 

“Go to sleep, Nyra. I’m right here.” The hand on her head began patting her. After a few moments, the hand stopped patting and began stroking her hair. Azriel pushed wave after wave of calm towards the bond and he felt her breathing slow down. And like a baby, she was asleep in his arms.

****

TAGLIST:

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[anarchiii]

Worlds apart-13 —ACOTAR x TOG AU

Part Thirteen | warnings: angst, blood, violence, | Azriel x Celaena Sardothien

Summary; pain and sorrow one after the other, Azriel decides that maybe he isn’t meant for this world, but maybe for another…

Note: this is an AU it’s not in the books.

Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Azriel’s POV

“What’s wrong with you, boy?” Amren snapped, clearly having enough of his tensed body and impatience, everything, he almost wanted to say, everything was wrong, it had started an hour ago when he woke up to a nightmare where he watched as Celaena choked to death on her own blood right infront of a door, a human man simply watching her die, he stood there and could no nothing. It had felt so real. So real in fact that his love seemed to watch him as she lay there, tears falling from her beautiful eyes.

“She’s in danger,” he finally said, whispering more like it, what if she was dying right now, dead even? “Who?” He could barely think straight, she could be suffering right now and he wasn’t doing anything, “Celaena, I can feel it, I need to help her.” She looked up at him. Her eyes a blazing silver, she nodded once, eyes landing back on the book she was reading, after a few more minutes she said, startling him, “I’ve got it,” he immediately got up. A small spark of hope filling his chest but he ignored it.

“Let’s do it,” he said, before she could say anything, “right now, this very moment,” this was the first time he had seen the Firedrake look concerned but she didn’t disagree, besides, if it didn’t work, Rhysand and the inner circle would never know, they didn’t have much time if what he suspected was true, his family would understand, they had to.

She nodded again, running out of the Day Court library and down a long winding staircase, he didn’t ask where she was going, just followed, by the time they were reaching the bottom, he was out of breath, the exhaustion of running and barely sleeping for weeks could come later, love first.

“Grab Truth-teller and make a semi-deep cut along your forearm, don’t ask questions just do,” Amren snapped, dropping to the cold stone floor and flipping through the book violently, he indeed didn’t ask questions, just did, he made the cut, his blood flowing quickly. The ruby liquid like a river. Amren grabbed his harm harshly before dipping her child-sized fingers into the liquid and drawing marks on the ground, the same marks Celaena had drawn, though there was a difference between then and now, he was not afraid, he would not be afraid.

-

He forgot how terrifying it was, standing infront of the sickly green portal that would lead him—hopefully—to his darling, if he could even call her that, perhaps he would come all this way and show himself fully to her just for her to send him back home, when she didn’t realise that she was his love, was this all for nothing? Was he so pathetic that the first person that had shown him a love that wasn’t platonic made him think and act like this? No, this couldn’t all be for nothing.

He shook his head, trying to disperse those thoughts, Amren was eyeing him but said nothing, she had been incredibly patient, it was almost like she knew something he didn’t, there was no other reason for her to act in such a manner, she started tapping her foot on the floor impatiently, but still stayed silent, everything was so odd— right. He had to go now. If it was anything like last time then the portal would not be here much longer.

Breathing in deeply and exhaling, he went through it, picturing nothing but her lovely face, that pure smile that made her look goddess-like, the strawberry blush that covered her cheeks when he said something about her, the way she put her hands on her hips to prove a point not realising that she was like a beautiful siren to his sailor, the beautiful maiden seducing the unprepared guard, she was his temptress without even trying. Lovely.

-

He landed face-first on a marble checkered floor, the first thing he noticed was the haughty laughter and clinking of glasses all around him, he got up, groaning as the pain retested in his nose, he ignored it, everyone around him was in dresses and suits, except him. People around him were eyeing him and some blushing as they took in his body but relatively ignored him, Azriel bestowed the same upon them.

He also noticed a mousy-brown haired man watching him from a wall, in the same moment, another plain looking man appeared and instead walked up to him and offered a glass of champagne, he refused a couple of times but the man didn’t stop insisting so he grabbed the glass but didn’t drink it, he keep surveying his surroundings but there was no sign of Celaena anywhere, but if his dream was right, then she was near a wooden door. And she looked like she was in a hallway. The servants quarters, kitchens, or even power-rooms were his guesses.

He didn’t think to hard on it as he started running down halls and rooms, his surroundings seemed to become more familiar from the dream so he kept going, he was nearly there to where I knew Celaena was when something hard hit his head, he slammed into a wall but got up instantly and drew Truth-teller—the blade mercifully staying with him this time—he turned and faced the wait from before. He drew a simple long dagger and threw it—aiming for his head. Thankfully, he missed, moving to the side before welding his blade and slicing along his neck, the man bled out instantly and fell to the floor, not even a worthy opponent.

He didn’t linger long, wiping the blood off of his blade quickly and breaking out into a run as he raced to find his love, small puddles of blood lay on the floor, the further he went the larger they became, what the Hell? Bodies started appearing, the inflicted wounds janky and uneven, their eyes still open. Gazing to the covered sky. No matter what they had done—he still sent a silent prayer for them to whatever Gods inhabited this world, the Mother was not here to save him, she never had. Anyway.

He slowed down as to not slip and stopped, listening for anything, anything that could help, he heard gurgling, choking even, he turned another corner and beheld the sight in front of him, there she was, her sweat-covered forehead leaning against the doorframe of that oak door. Blood spilling out from her wicked mouth. Her lovely skin covered in old—and new—blood, blood, there was so much of it.

He slammed to his knees and came before his lovely Fire, her eyes flicked to his but held no emotion, the golden ring in them gone dull, she was dying, the woman he had dreamed about every second he had been away from, dying—suffering, he didn’t know what to do. Azriel had planned everything he was going to do and say to her when he was here but now. . . Now he was here. He was completely lost.

Her expression grew pained as time went on and he got enough sense to act, he took off his shirt and ripped it up into strips, wiping away all the blood to see what he was working with, she bore many wounds but he knew those were not the main cause, it was invisible, poison. He looked to the oak door and, before he could think straight, put his whole body weight into it and started shoving into it, it didn’t take long for the door to snap off its hinges and bang open, he rushed to the sink and started collecting water. Washing Celaena’s wounds and making her drink the liquid. He didn’t know what to do, he wasn’t very familiar with poison, only using it a handful of times, and the Cauldron knew what poisons people used in this world, Azriel had no antidote. He was useless.

He started crying then, utterly useless, perhaps this was his punishment for all the horrible things he’d done in his lifetime, forced to watch his heart stop in front of him, he didn’t stop the tears, didn’t stop them as they fell onto her pretty face, she was crying as well, neither could tell which tears were their own. He rested his brow on hers, closing his eyes and wishing to anyone that would listen to save her.

He heard the panting of breath first, he turned his head slightly to see Dorian rushing their way, covered head to toe in blood, a dagger hanging from his grip, his face laced with anguish as he took in his friend—friends, Celaena made a small whimpering sound as she spotted him, the Prince got on his knees as grabbed her hand, rubbing his thumb across the scarred-skin, “I’m sorry,” he breathed, “I’m so damn sorry. Cel. I left you for five minutes and they attacked me, I fought them off the best I could—I see you did aswell,” a soft laugh accompanied by a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “it was my Father that sent the men, he tried to take us both out, I should’ve known this would happen, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . .” The Crown-prince was shaking with barely contained tears.

This was all his fault, it was his fault Celaena Sardothien and Dorian Havillard were suffering, being punished for being good, being fare, these humans were infinitely better than him and yet they were suffering, it was cruel, it was torture. It was injustice.

He distantly heard panicked yelling—for the Champion and her friend, not him,—the stomping of feet and clashing of swords against swords, yet no one moved, there was no point, not when time was running out, her heart would only beat so long. A person could only be so strong for so long.

He heard a shocked gasp as those loud footsteps stopped, he didn’t turn around this time, though, he did react when a strong hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back, he just kept staring at those lovely eyes, the dulled blue that had once been brighter than the sky, she was the light he had been searching for-for centuries. And now that light was going out. The fire in her was getting smothered.

“Azriel!” He heard someone yell in his ear, he came to, realising it was Chaol, he turned his head, looking into the man’s eyes, he didn’t move, just met eyes with her again, watching as her breathing turned slower, how she closed her eyes and didn’t open them for longer periods of time, he heard the Captain swear—a colourful combination—he pushed him aside and ran to his friend, holding her face in his hands. Azriel just watched. He watched as Chaol yelled for the antidote, watched as Dorian was dragged away by struggling guards, their expressions apologetic.

He watched, just as he had done his whole life, the only thing he had ever been good at—apart from killing and torturing, but that was and never would be something he was proud of,—he watched as one of Chaol’s men shoved a strange liquid down Celaena’s throat. Blood kept flowing from out her mouth but she swallowed. Nothing happened, it was too late, it would never work, he saw the truth in her eyes, she knew this was the end.

He crawled over the blood to her, putting his scarred hands that were so beautiful to her on her face, the marks looked so strange on her un-marred skin, beauty and the beast, he kissed her lightly, his lips staining with the scarlet liquid, he looked deep into her eyes. Hazel orbs meeting those of cerulean. Water and earth. The perfect clash.

In that moment, he used all the power he had to beg to the Gods, to anything, that he would do anything to let her live, even if that meant the end of him, he used everything he had to ask for mercy, he felt a strange thing flow through him, like a curious cat rubbing against his legs. Though its voice was older than the obsidian blade that lay discarded mere-meters away, “and what would you give me in return?” It purred. “Anything” he whispered, anything.

“Your soul, even?” Curious, to see what he would do for love, “my soul, yes,” it made a humming noise, like it was contemplating its options, if it could even do that, “your love will live, but you will not be standing by her side while she does, that is your price, if you visit this world again I will see to it that your Fae girl will perish.” It said. It’s voice cold and cruel, and—Fae girl? Celaena was fae, well, that wasn’t much of a shock but. . . Why didn’t she tell him? It made so much sense now, that un-earthly grace she held, the beauty she possessed that no human should have. Fae. He would’ve laughed in any other circumstances. But not this one.

“Okay, yes, i agree, but give me at least ten minutes with her,” he said at last, Chaol and Dorian were giving eachother wary glances as they watched Azriel talk to himself, he didn’t care, though, not when he felt the thing nod its head and watched in wonder as Celaena’s face brightened ever so slightly, her breathe evening out, it had worked, it had damn worked!

He kissed her again and again, he knew his time was running out now but he had enough time to kiss her, everyone else excused themselves, their faces full of shock and amazement at Celaena Sardothien’s recovery, but he didn’t care. He looked at the assassin again. Fearful for their time to end.

He tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, brushing his fingers down her cheek, his beautiful, wicked thing, the woman with a heart of fire, his Fireheart, he had to leave her and yet he had never loved her more, the lady who walked with death by her side, the girl that smiled at the sun that rose and frowned at the sun that set, the female that kissed the scars on his hands and called them beautiful, she would make a great queen. And an even better lover.

He kissed her once more, the last time before grabbing a folded up piece of paper from his pocket and placing it in her hands gently, she didn’t move to pick it up or read it but that was fine, she didn’t have to, he didn’t cry this time, no, he smiled. Smiled as he looked deep into her eyes and said, no pain in his voice, “I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you, you were—and are, incredible. Never in my five hundred years of existence have I met someone like you. And I damn well hope the person that steals your heart realises that, you and I both knew this wouldn’t last, no matter how hard we wished it otherwise, there is a female in my world who is just as amazing, and I think you would love her, she’s not you—and never will be. But I think it would be easy for me to love her. As easy as it was to love you.” She nodded her head slowly, still dazed but seemed to understand what he was getting at.

“What is her name?” She got out, her eyes held no agony or jealousy, just pure, unfiltered love, he smiled, showing all his teeth, “her name is Gwyneth Berdara,” she smiled at that, copying his, she hit his shoulder in a playful way before saying, “very well, send me a solstice card,” he laughed, it wasn’t loud but it was full. Gods he adored this woman.

“You can count on it,” he said, she laughed softly at that, he kissed her head in goodbye before getting up, Azriel Shadowsinger was still smiling as he grabbed Truth-teller and made a return portal, and he was still smiling when he arrived back in the Day Court library, he was moving instantly, hugging Amren quickly before flying back home to Velaris.

-

He landed hard on the main balcony of the House of Wind but shook it off and made his way to the library, Clotho letting him in with a wink and a smirk, he ran through stacks and stacks of books and papers, the Priestesses curious but didn’t stop him, he kept running. And then he saw her—

He pulled to a stop right in front of her, her copper hair shining in the light of the candles, she didn’t reject him when he put his hands on her face, warm skin meeting that of cold, nor did she pull away when he put his lips against hers, no, Gwyn just kissed him back.

Yes, both Azriel and Celaena had a lot of healing to do but that would come with time, he knew the assassin was strong and would survive and not only that but flourish, but him on the other hand? He wanted this incredible Valkyrie by his side as he did, he wanted to wake up to her teal eyes sparkling and know she wasn’t going anywhere, to know she saw all of him and embraced it.

Celaena Sardothien and Gwyneth Berdara were similar in a lot of ways, but also so, so different, and he loved that, Azriel would never stop loving the haughty female that shone like the sun but he also had a lot more love to give, love that was reserved for the sassy red head and her only. His Oristian.

-

Celaena’s POV (bonus)

Everything hurt, and not just physically, not as Azriel said what he had said and handed her a piece of paper and simply left, she knew things would end badly but like this? Celaena had no idea what or who he had been whispering to before—because she’d slipped in and out consciousness many times—but all she did know was that whatever he had done, had worked. And she was so, so grateful, but. . . Now he was gone, she was alone again. Well, not really.

Dorian sat next to her, his eyes vacant as a few Royal healers patched him up, said Healers did the same to her, working quickly and quietly, no more than ghosts, she had stopped crying some time ago but her eyes still burned, her body still shook. She had nearly died. That wasn’t something someone got over instantly, Celaena had a feeling it would be a while of healing. Especially with the news.

It had gotten out that the King had attempted to assassinate his Champion and Son and the public had been outraged, revolting against him and seemingly snapping, it seemed all the citizens had gotten sick of the Rules he’d in-forced, and, rightfully so. Many people had-had enough of their family members being sent to Endovier or its sister camp, Caculla, the Assassin couldn’t help but agree with them.

But what had shocked her the most was that one of the King of Ardalan’s court members had gone rouge and killed the man, stabbing him right through the heart with his Rapier, she had been incredibly amused to hear that, apparently the old bastard was right, there were a lot of traitors working for him. Though, Dorian hadn’t found it amusing, simply nodding and staring at nothing, like he had been doing for two hours now.

She couldn’t find it in her cold heart to feel sorry for him. No, not as she remembered how much the man had made her and her family suffer for so many years, he deserved it, everyone in Erelia could breathe.

Sighing, she finally decided to open the folded paper the Shadowsinger had given her, it was relatively new but still had a few ink stains on it and lots of folded marks, as if he had opened and closed it many times before giving it to her. She breathed in—this was the only thing she could ever remember him by, faintly, she could smell the night-chilled mist and leather of his sent, and if she tried hard enough. She could almost imagine that lovely smile of his that she adored so well, her Azriel—closing her eyes for a second, she exhaled and began reading. . .

‘Celaena Sardothien-

I write you this to tell you all the things I could not voice out loud, if you are reading this then we did indeed not last, it pains me that we did not get to see how far our love went for one another but I think, even with the short amount of time we had together, that it was one of the happiest few weeks of my life, I have lived a long life but experiencing such a short amount with you has made me realise how unfulfilling it was without you in it, you made me feel alive.

I hope this letter finds you well and I hope that you are happier now or are getting there, you deserve all the joyous moments that you will have, I have never meant anything more than that—except for when I told you I loved you, perhaps I love another person when you’re reading this but you will always hold a special place in my heart, I hope the man that steals your fiery heart is worthy of it. And I hope he knows how damn lucky he is. A piece of my heart will forever belong to you, even when we both are nothing more than dust, I am yours and you are mine, just in a different world. Star-crossed lovers, remember?

—Azriel Shadowsinger’

The End. (Actually)

Note: this series is finished, I know it might not seem like much to some but this series kept me going when I was having a rough time and that is why I want to say a special thank you to these people;

-A big thank you to @cynthiesjmxazrielslover for supporting me through this all, I know we are only mutuals but you are a great friend to me and I couldn’t have done this without you, you’re my motivator and my inspiration, I love you girl, stay amazing. 🫶

-A big thank you to @azrielslittleslut for liking and believing In this series from the start, your stories are a huge inspiration and I aspire to one day write as beautifully as you do, Mwah. ❤️

-A big thank you to @shadowsingercassia for loving all of the chapters and making me want to keep going, you appeared halfway through the series but you might as well have been here since I started writing, your love for what I do has helped me more than you could’ve imagined, I know I am not a very big or popular writer but the one little like you give me amounts to hundreds others could give. I love you so, so much. Keep being the person you are. 🫶

-some thank you’s to @aelincaddel, @yashiw, and @snoopyspace for loving this series so much that you asked to be on the taglist, that little thing has meant so much to me. Thank you, lovelies. ❤️

Thank you once again everyone, even if you just liked one of the chapters from this series and no other, or rebloged one or even commented, thank you, that small gesture of appreciation made my day. The epilogue for this series is already written and I hope you all like it. I know some people wanted Celaena and Azriel to end up together but—sadly—that didn’t happen, but I hope the ending was still good. If anyone has any questions about something in the series. Please do ask.

I love you all so much and I hope to make more stories that are just as entertaining. ❤️❤️

-

[sarahreesbrennan]

Hello! If IOL were to get adapted into a TV show (or film I suppose), what are some things you'd be excited for, or things you'd want revealed that we don't get from Elliot's POV?

(also fun fact: my name is Elliot too! It may or may not have been very helpful in getting me to read the book three years ago)

Hi Elliot! A fine name. :)

The silver screen by its nature allows us into more points of view - it’s why my TV tie-ins always had more and briefer PoVs than I usually write, to give the same effect as a moving camera. And In Other Lands is a very limited third by design, since we really have to feel Elliot’s feelings to be in it with him. So immediately a visual, more-on-the-surface medium would open the story up to more reveals - there’s a lot to be done with Serene and Luke, and (for my money) with Captain Woodsinger, Golden, Adara and Myra.

The question also arises what the director’s or showrunner’s vision is, because the showrunner would not be me. There are so many different ways to tell a tale.

If they’re going gritty child soldiers, there’s more to be done with the wars between the different peoples, with dryads and dwarves, and with Delia Winterchild and her lost twin. If they’re going, say, romcom like a fantasy Heartstopper, we’re probably putting Wings In the Morning and In Other Lands in a blender and starting with the characters 15 and up. If they’re doing children’s adventure a la (gayer, weirder) Percy Jackson, we might meet the key three waking up in their respective settings on the day they head off to the Border camp - Serene exiting in a rebellious huff after blazing row with her mother, Luke worried under the weight of loving expectation, Elliot totally clueless and friendless in another world - are these children going to meet? What will hap— Holy SHIT the redhead is being rude! But we’d get it, because we saw where he came from.

The mood of a story is often dictated by what information you parcel out when.

And TV throws curveballs. (Movies less often.) What if the Elliot and Adara actors had lightning-in-a-bottle chemistry? What if Luke and Dale did? I hardly dare imagine. But then again, if it was a She-Ra-style animated series, that would be far less likely. So it’s hard to say what I’d be excited for, as I wouldn’t know what to expect!

I’d be really excited if they did any kind of series, because that’s such a show of faith in my work. And it would mean more job security, and new covers, and more chances for me to get more readers and perhaps most important of all to write more in the In Other Lands world… which (more on this later) I would love to do.

A show is always a wild shot - I’d always try to think of the books as my first concern, as they might do something totally bonkers with an adaptation. (Me, if Luke and Serene fell in romantic love while Elliot died a cowardly weasel’s death: What Show? I Cannot Perceive the Moving Pictures, I Just Do Not Know.) Buuuut, if it ever did happen, I would love to see more of the interdynamics at the Border camp, stuff that flew totally over Elliot’s head. I’d love to have Golden introduced earlier. I’d love to have the harpies in sooner, but as a sinister presence until the big reveal. And of course, channeling my inner Elliot, I’d love to see the mermaids. Throw the whole budget at mermaids!

Thanks for asking, and dreaming with me. 💜

[crowns-of-violets-and-roses]

Some Desperate Glory

Earth has been destroyed and 14 billion humans are dead with it. A handful of courageous survivors hide from the aliens who killed the earth and strike back as much as they can. Kyr (short for Valkyrie) has been raised since birth to avenge the earth and she fully intends to do so. Given the title and marketing around this book I don't think it's a spoiler to say that the human survivors aren't as heroic as they portray themselves; I will try and be relatively circumspect about the actual plot but if you're planning to read it and sensitive to spoilers you may want to skip this post.

It's Emily Tesh's debut novel though her novella Silver in the Wood was critically acclaimed and won her some major awards. And what a debut it is! I enjoyed Silver in the Wood but never picked up the sequel, this has done much more to pique my interest in what she will write going forward.

Gaea Station

The book begins on Gaea station where Kyr is shortly going to come of age and receive her assignment in the war this remnant of humanity is waging. It will be clear to the reader practically immediately that Kyr has been indoctrinated. The story is told from her POV not to set up a shocking twist that Gaea Station is evil but to explore the psychology of a teenager who has been indoctrinated from birth by a fascist cult. In the acknowledgements Tesh lists a series of books on cults and fascism that she read while writing the novel and the influence of them on the book is clear.

This is where the books excels. Kyr buys into the ideology of Gaea Station with fervour and is fully dedicated to the cause it fights for. It's an entirely convincing portrayal not just in terms of her beliefs but her emotions and even what she subconsciously avoids thinking about. The beginning of the books where the reader is immersed in her perspective is a fascinating perspective of someone who has been indoctrinated to the point that they don't examine the worldview that has been imposed at all.

If this aspect of the book has any flaw it's that Kyr's indoctrination is in large part the result of manipulation and abuse by the man who runs the station. The vast people majority of people in a fascist regime or even a member of a cult that has attained any great size is unlikely to receive such personal attention from the leader and it's one point that lacked verisimilitude.

Along with Kyr Gaea Station is where we're first introduced to the majority of the significant characters. Kyr leads The Sparrows a group of teenage girls training to join the war once they reach adulthood. Kyr is a cruel taskmaster to The Sparrows to put it mildly. Kyr's brother Magnus is interesting in his own rights and even more so when viewed in contrast to Kyr and their relationship while rarely the central focus is compelling. Commander Jole the leader of the station is seen for the first time but it's only later we'll get a in depth sense of him. Magnus's friend Avi is perhaps the most significant character introduced here and is often terrible in a way that feels similar yet distinct to Kyr.

Crucially, Tesh is willing to let Kyr be horrible. Some of the other characters are just powerless and trying to survive but Kyr treats both people she's close to and everyone else terribly. She's harsh to her teammates to the point of driving them to tears, punishes younger children ruthlessly and all the time is unbearably smug and self-righteous about what she's doing.

Until that is, Kyr inevitably leaves Gaea Station and becomes gradually disabused of her commitment to its ideology. While I say gradually in practice it happens remarkably quickly. There is justification for the speed it happens in the plot so I won't complain on the grounds of realism. Nevertheless it's a shame that there wasn't more time given to focus on Kyr getting deprogrammed.

Even as she changes her previous actions are not forgotten. With the exception of a handful of people at the top the book doesn't condemn those who were complicit with Gaea Station but neither is it willing to absolve them.

Humanity, Fuck No!

I expect most people reading this are familiar with the internet subgenre of stories called Humanity Fuck, Yeah!, described by a popular subreddit that collects such stories as "all media exhibiting the awesome potential of humanity, known as HFY or "Humanity, Fuck Yeah!", or I once saw concisely summed up as "human chauvinism" science fiction. On Tumblr you're probably most likely to have come across it through humans as space orcs posts and stories. Some Desperate Glory seems as if it is in part a critical response to these type of stories

Even before Kyr leaves Gaea Station we see what the greater universe things of humanity through excerpts from texts written in the settings. I adore using documents written by people in the setting as a framing device when it's well executed and it is here. As we see more of how humans are viewed, first through the excerpts and later through Kyr experiencing the wider universe - seeing Kyr's initial reactions to people not raised in a fascist cult is a highlight of book - it is clear that humanity fits an inverted HFY mould where the characteristics HFY stories idolise made humans the terror of the universe and ultimately led to their doom.

It does frustrate me that this follows countless other novels that insist on humanity being special (or so unremarkable that they are remarkable in their unremarkableness). It's far from the worst offender and "humanity is uniquely terrible" is a little less tired than "humanity is uniquely great" but it still felt repetitive.

The portrayal of humanity as a violent yet honourable primitive species with bizarre customs also mirrors how empires view people they are colonising. It's unclear how intentional this is but the book never actually does anything with this so that parallel just hovers in the background.

The Majo

The Majo, the society of aliens that inhabits most of the universe and annihilated the Earth, are not an empire. You can tell because the book goes out of its way to tell us they aren't one. Which isn't to say that they are an empire but there are enough similarities that I would have liked to see it addressed more substantively. Chalk it up to this book being way less concerned with imperialism than fascism, I suppose.

The various alien species never feel truly Alien. Nothing so cheap as just humans with rubber foreheads but their mindset is never incomprehensible.

At the centre of Majo society is The Wisdom a godlike supercomputer capable of doing basically anything to the point where we might as well just consider it magic. Princes of a near extinct alien species control The Wisdom and are the ones choosing which course of action to take (including say destroying the earth).

Yiso a young Prince of the Wisdom, comes into focus during this section. The training he undergoes to prepare him for his role had clear similarities to Kyr's own childhood which could have been explored more.

As the book leaves behind a tight focus on Kyr in Gaea Station it begins to stumble occasionally. Aspects of the wider setting are introduced but not given enough focus. Nagging questions are left unanswered. Some parts race by too quickly. There are parts of it where I wasn't sure what the books was aiming for and I'm not convinced Tesh knew either. Despite not quite living up to the standard set by the excellent early chapters it continues to be a deeply engaging book.

With the Wisdom introduced the stage is set for the next section of the book. It poses an almost philosophical question. Would it be better:

1. to kill 14 billion humans.

2. let humanity conquer the universe.

These are the only options. In a thought experiment you can just declare that your only choice is whether to pull the lever or not but stories are not thought experiments. The presentation of those choices as the only two possible options is unconvincing. In a short story you could just gloss over it but in a novel length work you need some sort of justification for why they can't do one of a hundred other alternatives. It's far from a grievous flaw but it bothered me.

Alternative Universes

In the penultimate section of the book we move to the viewpoint of Val a version of Kyr from another universe. After being immersed in Kyr's head from the beginning of the book the shift is jarring in the best possible way. Even the name even though it's a potential shortening of Kyr's own feels wrong.

In this universe humanity won the war against the aliens and now is an empire expanding across and endangering the universe. I don't want to belabour this point too much but this section puts another mark in the "Tesh is significantly less interested in imperialism than fascism" column as any focus on imperialism itself is dispensed with perfunctorily.

Val though lacking Kyr's specific indoctrination is still eager to serve as a soldier in the conquering human military.

Before long Kyr gets her memories of the old universe back as do some of the others. Although notably not Magnus who everyone agrees shouldn't get his counterpart's memories which provides a good moment in itself. Cleo, one of the Sparrows, was already interesting from the little we'd seen of her before and rapidly rose to one of the most interesting characters when we got to see her with two lifetimes worth of memories.

It could fairly be suggested that the number of characters from the original universe who Val has significant relationships with in the new one is contrived but frankly I don't care. It's great to see how they develop in a radically different context and my only complaint is that this section isn't longer. Both seeing the alternative versions of the characters initially and then seeing them integrate a lifetime of memories provides some of the books best moments.

The end of the section undermined the dilemma of whether it's better to kill 14 billion people or let humanity develop into an imperial power by changing the stakes that not destroying the Earth will ultimately lead to the annihilation of countless worlds. The initial dilemma was compelling once you suspended disbelief about the lack of alternatives the new one stacks the deck towards destroying the Earth to the point where the question is less interesting.

More focus on the human empire as an empire and not changing the terms of the consequences of destroying earth so starkly would have been great but the character writing in this section is brilliant enough to more than make up for it.

The Old Lie:

While most of the book after the initial section takes place planets and universes away from Gaea Station it looms over the narrative and as inevitably as Kyr left the climax must return to Gaea Station with the lies it's built on now laid bare to Kyr. Unfortunately this is by some distance the weakest part of the novel. If in the sections after Kyr leaves Gaea Station the book stumbles here it faceplants.

Kyr quickly starts working to undermine Gaea Station and brings The Sparrows on board with her plan and then it quickly becomes clear that apparently Kyr was the only one who ever actually bought into Gaea Station's ideology. I exaggerate but not that much. It's hard to think of a named character who is on board with it. The Sparrows are instantly ready to betray Gaea (and not out of any personal loyalty to Kyr most of them don't even like her), middle ranked officer are shown to be acting out of a mix of self interest and fear and the few at the top are just nakedly self-interested under a thin veneer of justifications.

It makes Kyr's earlier genuine belief appear as a rare if not unique exception. When you combine this with the focused personal manipulation of Kyr from Jole (a couple of scenes do a great job of conveying his charisma and skill with influencing people) we don't see anyone who has been indoctrinated to actually actually in circumstances typical of the average person on the station. Something like having one of The Sparrows betray them or at least have to be argued into going along with the rest would have improved this a lot.

This section of the book moves to directly address racism and sexism on Gaea but I often found the manner it did so awkward. Half the time it was just showing something about Gaea Station that we'd already seen and then tacking on "and that's bad because it's racist/sexist" when that was already obvious. A little subtly wouldn't go amiss. There are some notable exceptions including memorably an excerpt from a book written about Gaea that talks about it in a manner that the framing made feel much more natural than when it came up at other points. Interestingly by contrast homophobia was left more implicit. It's more directly addressed later in the book but even then it's more of a light handed show not tell approach.

The ending itself is no better than the rest of the final section. It pulls it's punches and gives a happy ending that feels two easy after everything that happened. It jars with the rest of the story.

Some Desperate Glory tends to be better the smaller the scale it's operating at is. When it's laser focused on Kyr it's damn near perfect, when it's about Gaea Station or the handful of major characters it's still amazingly good but when it pulls out to a larger scale it's still interesting but a lot more flaws start to show.

If it gave the parts with The Wisdom some more thought, allowed Kyr's deradicatilisation a higher page count and showed others who genuinely believed Gaea's ideology, addressed imperialism with if not as much focus as fascism more than the book gives it, and doubled the length of the section with the alternative timeline I'd have no complaints that weren't quibbles. Even so this is an amazing book and I'm eager to see what Tesh writes next.

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

i assume you'll be coming for blood (that makes two of us)

Chapter 7

Ao3 | 3.2k Words | Sweetheart's POV

TW: Conflict, discussions of injuries, chronic pain, crying... lots of crying.

Davey Shaw was a quiet, shy man who had the unfortunate habit of running himself ragged for others. It was something you could empathize with, but having that attention pushed to yourself was uncomfortable. After that initial healing session, Davey slept for twelve hours. His core was exhausted from the amount of healing magic he’d poured into you. You didn’t even know shifters could be healers. The fact that he had managed to heal as much damage as he had was either a testament to his considerable power and skill or proof that he was going to get himself killed trying to help others. Perhaps a bit of both, 

After emerging from the upstairs bedroom, looking ragged and still exhausted, he banished Milo to go get some rest and assessed you gently in the momentary privacy of his living room. He let you ask questions as he worked, rotating each of your joints, checking the scars, prodding your chest to make sure it was still intact. 

“How do you know Milo?”

“Old friends.”

“Where did you learn to heal?”

“D.A.M.N..”

“Did Dr. Collins teach you?”

“Yes, actually. I took four or five classes with him.”

“Did you like him?”

“He was… unconvinced of my ability, but ultimately an excellent teacher.” 

“Man, you’d think… because of…”

“Actually, that’s why he was hesitant to recommend me as a paramedic. He knows how his magic is limited, so he knows how mine is too.”

“You’re a paramedic?”

“Part time.” 

Davey’s bedside manner seemed to rely on his patient. He answered each of your questions, some more thoroughly than others, but all honestly. You didn’t know how you could tell that. Maybe it was just something about him. 

After affirming to himself that your lung wasn’t going to collapse in the next few minutes, he helped you stand. You had your forearms rested atop his, your grip shaking and unsteady. He muttered words of encouragement, corrected your posture, told you how to hold your weight. 

“You’re really good at this.” You winced, gazing straight ahead like he’d told you. It put you in the unfortunate position of essentially ogling his chest. You struggled not to let that be your most prominent thought.

“Thank you.” You stared up at him expectantly. Davey caught your eye for a moment before pursing his lips and nodding. “More words.” He breathed, as though to himself. “My father was in a car accident a few years ago,” he explained softly. He shifted so you rocked your weight back and forth, wincing every time you rested over your right leg. “I managed his recovery.” 

“He’s okay now?” 

“Mostly.” Davey nodded. “He has some chronic pain in his leg. He has good days and bad days, but mostly, yes, he’s fine.” 

“Will I…” you pursed your lips against the question. It felt silly, childish. You didn’t want to appear weak in front of him. But then again, you were unable to stand without help, half blind, and your guts were currently rearranging themselves inside of you. You didn’t really have a choice but to appear weak. You leaned into it. “Will I be okay?”

Davey took a deep breath, rocked you back and forth a few more times before helping you lower back down onto the couch. His dark eyes found yours and held on. You didn’t dare look away. 

“You’re going to be different.” He said. “And you’re going to have to live with that.” 

Davey dug out a cane from his medical supply cupboard. It was silver and clinical, and he adjusted it down from its highest setting to its lowest. With one hand in his and the other braced over the cane, you managed to stand. He showed you how to use it, that you had to brace it on the opposite side as your injured leg, which felt unnatural to you at first, and how to swing it along with your stride. In the solitude of Davey’s living room, you took your first, unsteady steps on your own. 

Two days later, when you gained enough energy to be uncomfortable with continuing to take Davey and his mate’s hospitality, you relented. It was time to deal with the fall out of your bad decisions. You started with the easiest one of the bunch. You didn’t care what Jet thought of your little excursion, and you didn’t care to appease his emotions in regards to your behavior. He was your Captain, and not blameless in all of this, as Milo reminded you readily. He was the one who sent you half cocked into Rebane territory after one of the most dangerous rogue vampires in the last century. He was the one who sent you after this shade alone in the first fucking place. You were sure, with conduct like that, he’d make Commissioner before the year was out. 

As evening rolled around, Milo retrieved one of his cars and picked you up. Davey’s mate produced a set of their own clothes for you. They fit better than Davey’s, and their simple, professional style was appreciated. Davey and Milo hovered over you as you walked- limped- to the car. You let Milo catch your arm when he grew nervous, and threaded your fingers into his. You didn’t need his steady form to hold you up, but he needed to know that you wouldn’t fall out under his nose. You could give that to him.

You did not, however, let him follow you inside. He opened the car door for you, help you stand, and stared up at the imposing, dark building like it was the enemy. 

“Stay out here, please.” You asked, you ordered. 

“And let you go in alone? Sweetness, I’ve got your back.” 

“I know.” You nodded. “But I don’t think I can do this in front of you.” 

Jet’s office was still lit up by the time you made it through security and made it to your bullpen’s floor. You were grateful that the floor was mostly empty. A few of your peers glanced up at your arrival, their eyes hungry on your cane, your gate, the scar marring your face. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jet breathed when he got a look at you. For a guy with little care for your wellbeing before this moment, he jumped quickly to pull out a chair for you. His face ghosted white as he took you in, his mouth agape and unsure. For the first time since it happened, you were glad the shade had left such visible marks on you. It served Jet right, having to look at what he’d, in part, done to you. 

“I quit.” You said, unceremoniously. Jet balked at you, halfway through reaching for a thick file that you assumed was yours. 

“I’m sorry-”

“Thank you.” You shifted and pulled out the loose-leaf notebook paper on which you’d scrawled your resignation letter. Jet snatched it from your hand, reading it over before scowling over his desk at you. “I have a few questions first.” 

“So do I.” Jet seethed. 

“I’ll start.” You raised your hand and inspected your nails, which Milo had taken the time to clean and cut while you were unconscious. Prissy, pompous little prince. “How long did it take for backup to arrive?” You tried for all of the world to seem unbothered, although you knew your current condition was working against you. Jet sighed and scrubbed a hand over his haggard face. He looked tired. 

“Forty-five minutes.” He reported numbly. You nodded. 

“If I hadn’t been found before they arrived, I would have died.” 

“If you had waited for backup before engaging you wouldn’t have been in the situation to begin with.” 

“If I had waited forty-five minutes for backup, half of D.A.M.N.’s student population  would have been that thing’s dessert.” You snapped, more passionately than you’d intended. You took a deep, steadying breath. You’d blown your cover, showed your hand. You had to regain your composure. “I know that my decisions in all of this have not been sound. I know that I’ve alienated and isolated, that I’ve pushed away what little help was afforded to me, but that is exactly what the culture of the Department breeds.” 

“Hold on-”

“I’m not finished!” You raised your voice to Jet for the first time. His mouth clicked shut in shock. “You are running a system that all feeds off of delusions of individual success and grandeur. You cut resources from investigators not meeting casework quotas, hand easy, safe work to the people with actual experience and allocate deadly cases to the rookies with no partners and no support. Oh, but backup is just a short, forty-five minute wait away!” 

“That is a wildly bad faith view of our practices, Investigator.” Jet interjected as soon as he could. 

“You sent me after a dangerous, fifty-year-old vampire on my first fucking day!” 

Silence hung in the office. Jet scowled at you over his stacks of files. Finally, he broke. 

“Is there anything else?”

“Yeah.” You nodded. “That kid in the park. Has his next of kin been informed?” 

“No.” Jet blinked, thrown off by your change in tone. “We’ve only just found his name. You know how it is with the homeless.” 

“People experiencing homelessness.” You corrected. “Christ, Jet at least attend the sensitivity training you assign.” 

“Lasko. Moore.” Jet ground out between gritted teeth. 

“The contact for his next of kin?” You asked expectantly. 

“You are no longer a Department employee.” Jet retorted. “I can’t disclose that information.” 

“You’re lucky I don’t sue D.U.M.P. for my injuries and report your incompetence to the Ruling Council.” 

“You have no case.” 

“You wanna take that risk?” Stalemate. Jet held your eye for a long, tense moment before glancing away. One benefit to your fucked up face, it seemed. People couldn’t challenge you for long. Jet sighed, scribbled down a name and number on a spare sticky note, and handed it over. 

“Since you’re blackmailing me, what else can I do for you, Investigator?” He spat the word like it was an insult and it felt like one.

“Actually,” you grinned, snatching the cane from where it rested against Jet’s desk. “You could leave my clearance active for an hour or so.” You stood with some effort and fished your badge from your pocket and threw it down on a teetering stack of papers in front of him. You lumbered towards the door at as fast a pace as you could manage. Just as you crossed the threshold, you painfully twisted back to catch Jet within your limited vision. “I hope things do change, Jet. I don’t want anybody else dead. And I don’t want you to have to live with it.” 

Now to the harder ones. You moved through the Department halls slowly, the click of your cane the only noise in the sleek, empty space. You ran the tips of your fingers across the papered walls, catching against framed pictures of former department heads and deceased D.U.M.P. employees. If you looked hard enough, you could probably find your mother’s portraits somewhere. 

She used to bring you to work with her during the summers, while your siblings went to daycare or camp. She would sit you at her desk, hand you a little yellow legal pad and a pen. You would play Investigator, gather clues to your nonsensical cases, interrogate her obliging coworkers, and you’d always, always win. It was always something you could win. That was the spark, you thought. You’d never wanted to do- to be- anything else. You didn’t know what you were now. And you didn’t know if what you had been was anything like you’d thought it would be, was anything you could even recognize. 

Collins was in his office alone, the lights dimmed and the infirmary all but empty. When he looked up at you, his eyes flashed with fear before settling into shock. 

“Jesus Christ!” He barked. 

“That’s what they keep calling me.” You tried for a joke that didn’t land. He shot up from his chair and pulled you towards it, sitting you down with no room for protest. 

“What the fuck did you do?” 

“Went up against a shade. Alone.” You said shakily. Collins had gone into doctor mode, checking over you the exact same way Davey had that morning. 

“You’re an idiot.” Collins snapped. His magic sparked and raced through you, searching, observing. 

“I am.” You nodded. “I’m… I’m really sorry, Doc. I lashed out at you in the middle of a fucking self destructive spiral.” 

“I know.” Collins growled. “I’ve had one or two of my own, which is why I tried to intervene.” He looked up at you after a moment, his face softening. “But… given how I’ve treated folks who’ve tried to help me? I should have seen it coming.” His silver eyes flitted around your face for a moment before giving you a single, curt nod. “This healing was sloppy. Can I?” 

He indicated towards the gauze taped over your eye. You swallowed heavily, but nodded. Gingerly, he peeled the medical tape back and bent out of your vision to examine it. 

“Lord have mercy.” 

“He did the best he could.” You said, defensively. “I was out there for at least half an hour before anybody got to me.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.” Collins grumbled. He tutted before discarding your old gauze and walking out to the infirmary. He pointed a single finger at you as you attempted to rise and follow him, holding you in your spot. He returned a moment later with an armful of medical supplies and a fresh pair of gloves on. He redressed your eye, pulled up your pant leg to ease on a knee brace that would help support your weight, smeared a cold, translucent ointment over as much of your scars as he could reach. 

“You went to D.A.M.N.?” He asked after a considerable, somewhat uncomfortable silence. You nodded. “Then you know where the healing school is.” Another nod. “My office is on the first floor. I’m there Tuesdays and Thursdays for office hours, after dark, obviously. Come see me once a week and we’ll see about these scars.” 

“What?” You breathed.

“I can’t promise anything,” Collins snapped his gloves off. “But we can try to reduce your scar tissue, maybe work on that leg too.” 

“You don’t have to do that.” You felt like you might cry. 

“I’m a healer.” Collins dismissed you easily. You imagined that he a lot, went above and beyond, gave more than he had to, more than he strictly could. You two also had that in common. 

It was dark out, but Cam was right where you expected to find him; perched on the bench you shared every day, no food in sight, staring up at the light polluted, starless sky. 

“Hey,” you all but whispered as you approached. His large, star-filled eyes found you and filled with something between guilt and concern. 

“Hey.” He replied. 

He didn’t attempt to help you sit, just waited patiently for you to settle next to him. 

“What are you doing out here?” You asked. 

“Stargazing.” He kept his eyes on the sky, searching through Dahlia’s early-autumn cloud cover for any hint of light. 

“There aren’t any.” 

Cam leaned into you. He was on your blind side, but the warmth he gave off was enough to telegraph his movements before he made them. His shoulder bumped into yours. 

“We can’t see them.” He said softly. “But they’re still there.” 

By the time the two of you were done talking, you were calmer than you had been for weeks. Months, maybe. He walked you back out to the parking lot, and you held his arm instead of the cane. Milo was waiting where you’d left him, leaning against his sinfully expensive sports car, his phone to his ear. You didn’t catch his conversation, but you did catch the line of tension that disappeared from his features as he laid eyes on you. 

“All done?” He asked. You nodded. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” You said. Cam handed the cane back, his hand hovering over the small of your back as you regained your balance. “Milo, this is Camelopardalis.” 

“Cam.” He corrected, extending his hand for Milo to shake. 

“Camelopardalis.” Milo mimicked back perfectly. “Milo Rebane.” 

“My friend has fallen in with royalty.” Cam smiled down at you, somewhere between impress and horror. 

“I ain’t so high and mighty.” Milo smiled. So he did have a self deprecating bone in his body, little as it might be. “I have heard that you did everything you could to help them out. I appreciate that.” 

“It was simply the right thing to do.” Cam replied easily. 

“I don’t make it easy.” You said. Cam looked down at you, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Something like pity quirked his features. Or maybe it was fondness. 

“I’m under strict orders to get this one back in bed before the night is out.” Milo reached towards Cam for another handshake. Cam reciprocated and bent to meet your eye. He squeezed your free hand tight, like he didn’t want to let go. 

“You have my number.” He said. “I expect you to use it, or I’ll track you down, royal boyfriend or no.” 

A blush creeped up your neck as Milo laughed. You shoved Cam’s shoulder, but there was no strength, no malice behind it. 

The engine of Milo’s stupid fucking sports car hummed through your entire body, sending waves of pain up and down your leg. Milo drove gently, avoiding potholes, taking turns slowly. His hand twitched on the gear shift, as though longing to touch, but not willing to. You fished your phone out of your pocket and clicked through to your emergency contacts. 

Before you pressed the call button, you took Milo’s hand in yours. 

“Hey!” Your dad nearly shouted. “I’ve been calling you for two days!” Tears welled up in your eyes at the sound of his voice. You sniffled pathetically and you could feel Milo’s eyes on you, even if you couldn’t see him. 

“I know.” You said. You felt your guts shifting inside of you. You thought you might vomit. A tear slid down your cheek before you could stop it. You couldn’t let go of Milo’s hand to wipe it away. “I’m really sorry, Dad. I fucked up. Really bad.” 

“Okay!” All of the anger was gone from your dad’s voice. “Okay, kiddo. Whatever it is, we can deal with it.” 

Over the drive between D.U.M.P.’s headquarters and Milo’s mansion, you laid it all out for him. You detailed your case, what exactly a shade was, the kids it was draining. You explained your spiral, your thought process, the stupid decisions you kept making. You told him, baring some of the gory bits, about the attack. The dead kid- Lasko, you reminded yourself to say his name, to remember it, for someone to remember it- how terrifying the fully formed shade was. Your injuries. 

He cried. You shook with the effort to keep your own tears in. He had earned this. He had fought tooth and nail against your self-destructive habits. He had earned the chance to let it out. 

“You’re gonna be okay?” He asked after taking a moment to collect himself. Davey Shaw’s words shook around in your head. 

“I’m gonna be different.” You replied. “But yeah. Yeah, I’m gonna be okay.”

[bg-brainrot]

Prompt: Ornaments

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Premise: Winter continues to be Astarion’s least favorite season, but when you give him the chance to show off his nimble fingers, he can’t possibly refuse. Time for some arts and crafts!

Tags: POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Holidays, post-canon, comfort, astarion is a crafter

Word count: ~1.1k

“Astarion, could you come here a moment?”

The vampire in question stops in his tracks, turning to look at you. You’re currently hunched over a desk littered with all manner of materials– various strings, glass beads, sequins, pieces of wood, cloth, and so much more. 

Taking in the situation as he walks over, he asks, “Darling, are you crafting a diabolical poison? Or perhaps a seasonal explosive?”

You laugh, halfway through tying a string, and gesture him over with your head. “Nothing so deadly, I’m afraid. Could you put your finger here so I can tie this?”

Like the supportive partner he is, he places his finger in position before continuing to press. “So what exactly are you doing, love?”

“Making ornaments,” you say, as you finish tying together a tree made with green beads. You hold it up for him a second later. “See? Do you like it?”

The look on his face doesn’t give away much, but you can sense the emotions underneath at war with each other. “It’s…”

“Don’t finish that,” you say, holding up a hand. “It’s my first attempt, so it will only get better.”

Astarion crouches in front of the desk across from you, folding his arms over the edge. “I was only going to say that it’s quite twee. Though it may be missing a little something.”

“Oh?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him. “What do you suppose is missing?” You spin the tree a few times to get a better look at it before he holds out his hand to you. After a second of deliberation, you place it into his awaiting palm. “Don’t break it, I lied about getting better. This is probably my best work.”

He smirks at you. “I know, dear. But that’s why I’m here to help.”

“What are you going to do to it?”

Tilting his head as he looks through your various materials, he simply gives a soft hmm. His long fingers sift through a variety of silver strings, pushing them aside for a delicate, metallic silver. He spends another few seconds searching through the beads while you watch and he comes away with a few glimmering, silver beads that look like stars. “I think,” he finally says. “It could use a bit of dressing up, don’t you?”

You nod at him with a smile, getting out of your chair. “Alright, love. Let’s see your nimble fingers at work.”

At that, Astarion gives you a suggestive little look, but he moves around the desk and sits down all the same. “Watch the expert, darling,” he says, his tone entirely too seductive for the task at hand.

But watch you will. After giving him a kiss atop his head, you settle in. At first you stand behind him, watching him weave the thread through the beads in a regular spacing, tying off after each one. Then you lean a bit forward, resting your arms on the back of his chair, as you watch him begin to sew the beaded thread into the tree, his fingers working in a way that manages to somehow be both elegant and swift. By the time you’re watching him tie off the additions, your arms are draped around his shoulders, melted by the easy way he fell into the rhythm of his work.

“There,” he says, holding the finished tree to your eye level. Then, tilting his head back toward you, he asks you the same question you asked him, “Do you like it?”

You want to be a little snarky, give him the same blank stare he gave you, but you know it’s pointless– the glee on your face is already unmistakable. 

While you were proud of your work before, Astarion wasn’t far off the mark when he called it twee. Now that he’s had a turn with it, it looks like a piece of art. The silver stars and string drape across the green beads like delicate garlands, twisting up the tree to culminate in a crown of stars on its top.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, hugging Astarion through the chair. “Your talent is a thing of wonders, love.”

Astarion tries to appear nonchalant about your praise, lifting his chin up and looking at you with a smirk. But something about the look in your eyes proves to be too much and he turns back around, clears his throat, and says, “Thank you, my dear.”

“I mean it!” you say, misinterpreting his sudden shift for disbelief. Using a finger to turn his head back towards yours, you see the truth of it when his wide eyes meet yours. He’s bashful– in fact, you think if he wasn’t a vampire, he might be blushing under the heat of your praise.

“I believe you,” he says in a soft voice. Then his voice picks up strength and he adds with a smile, “I didn’t realize that such an insignificant little thing would be worthy of so much praise.”

You move around the chair to face him and shift the hand that was holding his chin to cup his cheek. Staring down your ridiculous, brilliant lover, you impress upon him the truth you know he needs to hear, “There’s nothing made by your hands that is too small to be worthy of praise. And it’s significant to me. Understood?”

He nods into your hand and presses a kiss to your palm. Then he heaves a great sigh. “Ugh, why must you try to infect me with these absurd holiday emotions? I was perfectly content just milling about, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, removing yourself from his face and going to pull up another chair. “And now that I know you’re willing to help–” you raise a hand when he begins to open his mouth in objection. “Only to the extent you feel like, of course. I think it would be nice to make some ornaments together.” You place the chair next to him and scoot in, looking at him expectantly.

Astarion purses his lips at you, as if he’s trying to figure out if he’s fallen into a trap he hadn’t realized you’d laid. After deciding it doesn’t matter, he replies, “How could I say no?”

You spend the rest of the evening together, crafting a variety of ornaments. Some are seasonal: A snowflake, a ribbon, a candy. Some that are more for the two of you: A dagger, a skull, a snake. Once the night is over and you’re both cleaning up, Astarion looks up at you, a wry smile playing on his lips. “You may have tricked me into helping, but I did quite enjoy myself.”

With all of the innocence of a trained liar, you simply blink at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m glad you had fun.”

[sgiandubh]

Spy Wednesday. Treason

Sidenote: Still very late with all this, but decided to keep the pace. Perhaps it is better like this, since this is the slightly haphazard result of scattered thoughts throughout the day and as such, a personal experience of it.

Obviously, powerful bystanders are not happy about Jesus entering Jerusalem at all, especially since this peculiar event coincided with the feast of Passover: 'and the chief priests and the scribes sought how they might take him by craft, and put him to death' (Mark, 14:1 - from Palm Sunday's reading). Just try and imagine the bureaucratic kerfuffle, the whispered speculations, the slow burn alarm building up in those circles. Political unrest, with a twist: local consensus was not enough - Rome had to be persuaded to step in, and it was everything but obvious. About all this, later this week: it is, to me at least, perhaps the most mysterious episode of the New Testament.

Judas Iscariot. Tragically instrumental to this plan, we know it. And treason, coupled with dark alley maneuvering, was the only way to make it happen. Treason: not betrayal or treachery, which are either too vaguely moral or too general - what is about to happen is a political assassination disguised as trial, followed by public torture as punishment.

This year's lectionary brings along a second, slightly alternate POV of the Last Supper, as related by Matthew Levi (my favorite), this time. Matthew, the tax collector, is a man acutely aware of the value of money and he is the only one to give us a very precise quotation of the reward Judas received from Caiaphas' middlemen: 'And said unto them, What will ye give me, and I will deliver him unto you? And they covenanted with him for thirty pieces of silver.' (Matthew, 26:15). Again, we have a very telling, albeit approximate, conversion in today's currency. Matthew's Greek text is very vague, in that respect. It speaks about 'silver' (coins), to an audience that immediately understood the value of it. And even if we will never know for sure if those coins were Ptolemaic (Egyptian) or Athenian (Greek) tetradrachms, Tyrian (in today's Lebanon) shekels or Antioch (Greek) staters, we can make a rough evaluation based on their actual weight and purity (isn't it ironic?).

Ready?

In 2024's value (based on the current JP Morgan's quotation of 30 USD/ounce), Judas Iscariot sold Jesus for an something that varies between 97,8 USD (if reward was received in Ptolemaic tetradrachms) to 472,8 USD (if the reward was received in Athenian tetradrachms). The median and geographically more plausible amount being of about 325,5 USD (for Antioch staters) or 380,7 USD (for Tyrian shekels).

I don't know about you, but what sickens me is the complete ludicrousness of this all. Think about what these money could buy in your respective worlds: would you do it?

Rhetorical question, of course. What is at stake, here, is not money. It's Power, in its political, appallingly punitive dimension the Romans called imperium, as opposed to the organic, ethical dimension they called auctoritas (and which we would translate by 'prestige' or 'influence'). With this deal, Judas hopes to save his life, soul be damned. Only to lose both, in complete, endless dishonor.

The day's somber and reflective sounds come from François Couperin's Première leçon de ténèbres pour le Mercredi saint (1714). Couperin was the Sun King's favorite harpsichordist and as such, was commissioned to arrange into music Jeremiah's lamentations, for the Holy Week liturgies of the Longchamp Royal Abbey. In a Baroque universe filled with light and joy and levity, these are the most dejected sounds perhaps ever written:

PS: I will try to catch up tonight. Pinky promise and thank you all for your patience (I never thought you'd like these, but here we are - still, the topic is a very difficult one, don't you think?).

[its-jaytothemee]

Until I Met You - Chapter 38

Chapter 38: Balance

Pairings: Halsin x Tav

Word count: 5,173

Rating: Currently M, will be Explicit in later chapters.

Chapter 1

Read on AO3

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Summary: The tadfools learn about the purpose of Astarion's scars. Arabella comes to terms with her parents' deaths. Part 37 of the slow burn fic. Tav, Astarion, and Halsin POVs.

Tags: Slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual love confessions, eventual smut, angst, implied past rape/non-con and abuse, graphic description of injuries, brief suicidal thoughts.

A/N: Chapters 37 AND 38 are being posted today!! Have a couple of fun camp chapters before we go back to the Gauntlet :)

Astarion kept his eyes fixed on Tav as she turned away.

My name is Ria…

He recalled a story, one that graced a handful of editions in the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette and other lesser tabloids in the city. A silver-haired beauty, fleeing from a lavish engagement party, shooting many attendees and even family members in the process. Hers was a name he remembered well; a name that had given him hope. A name that had allowed him to live vicariously through her daring escape.

Tav’ahria Mendelre.

He had only met Lady Mendelre once and “met” was perhaps a strong word for the encounter.

It was a particularly terrible evening with Cazador. Not that there were any good evenings with him, but this one stuck out among many of the events where he was dragged along as his personal escort.

There was an event at Wyrm’s Rock, some celebration of sorts that he couldn’t be bothered to remember the details of. He remembered a young elf, no older than forty, dancing and laughing with another young man. Her long, white hair twirled to the same rhythm as her dress. The red and orange fabric looked like flames swirling out around her ankles each time she was spun under the man’s arms.

Cazador’s eyes had been drawn to her immediately. Astarion had recognized that predatory stare that haunted most of his dreams. His nightmares.

Now, his master wasn’t so stupid as to make her a target. There was a reason he sent his spawn to the grimy, desolate flophouses and taverns of Baldur’s Gate. Few would miss a lonely beggar or drunkard, even if they did, they didn’t have the power to do anything about it once they were gone.

But if someone like Tav’ahria Mendelre went missing? Well, that would cause quite a stir, wouldn’t it? So that night, Cazador was likely just trying to lay on the charm, to find yet another person to help cover his tracks and line his pockets.

He had glided up to her with such confidence, the same way he approached any of his spawn or servants. But when he took her hand and gave her a low bow, she simply looked down her nose at him. A spurious smile twisted her lips as she indulged him for a moment – a picture of noble civility.

Astarion watched from a distance as Lord Mendelre came to his daughter’s side, not even bothering with a polite look as he sneered back at Cazador.

For the first time since he had been turned, he had the pleasure of watching someone have power and influence over his cruel master. And it was delightful. Everyone in the city knew hers was not a family you crossed. Not unless you wanted to have an unfortunate "accident" conveniently cleaned up by the City Watch the next day.

As he was lost in the sensation of seeing Cazador’s embarrassment, he had let a small laugh slip out at the sight. He paid dearly for that little lapse in judgement.

Cazador had pulled him close, keeping a bruising grip on his arm for the rest of the night, the harsh movement but a drop in the sea of pain that would follow. But what Astarion really remembered was how Lady Mendelre had smiled at him. The first in decades to look at him like a person instead of an object. The smile she aimed at him wasn’t the fake, polite smile she had flashed at Cazador, but one that was bright and warm.

A smile not unlike the one he had just seen from Tav.

Honestly, Tav. If you truly wanted to hide your identity you shouldn’t have just shortened your name again. You could have at least dyed your hair, you idiot.

He fought an eye roll at the thought. Though he supposed there were few people left who would have known about that night, especially among their group of adventurers. Of course, all of this could be just another bizarre coincidence, but he felt that they were running short on those.

Astarion bit back the quips and teases he felt on the tip of his tongue. Every part of him itched to poke and prod her, try to get her to admit something, anything. He still felt that instinct tugging at his mind to find any information that he could hold and use against her. After all, ties to the Mendelre family were not the most innocent of connections to have.

But those thoughts melted away when she turned back around and smiled at him.

Yes. Yes, I remember that smile now.

Strangely enough, he believed Tav when she said he owed her nothing. But he would do this favor for her regardless.

Your secret is safe with me, my friend.

***

The first thing Halsin saw when he arrived back at camp was Tav sitting with Astarion by the fire. She looked much better than when he left her there this morning. Karlach and Shadowheart were close behind him. Each of them had one of Gale’s arms slung around their necks helping him walk back to camp.

Both Astarion and Tav shot concerned looks their way as their companion was practically dragged between the two women over to the fire.

“I must say, you are looking rather healthy compared to when I saw you last, Tav.” Gale’s words were slurred as he tried to point a finger at her. Shadowheart let his arm drop as they approached.

“Good gods, Gale.” Tav held her arm up over her nose as his breath puffed out in a stiff, alcoholic cloud. “Are you…are you drunk?”

“Ah, yes. ‘Twas a creature in the old distillery, redolent of a liquor stronger than I could imagine,” he said with great effort. “He asked for stories in exchange for drink, and I was most inclined to acquiesce his requests. Even before I met you lot, I had plenty a tale to titillate the bystanders among even the most minacious of Waterdeep taverns. I have been known in my time to deescalate brawls in such establishments, talking its participants down with no scarcity of aplomb.”

“You sure they didn’t just get bored by your yapping and leave?” Karlach still had one arm around his waist to steady him.

“Gosh,” Gale threw his hand over his chest, offended, “I know my ears must be deceiving me. Surely you wouldn’t question those abilities after you bore witness to my talents in such circumstances?”

“Where do you store all these fancy words when you’ve been drinking, wizard?” she cackled as she helped him to a seat by the fire.

“Well, let me ponder that rumination for a moment, my friend.” Gale held a finger to his lips, lost in fake thought. “After careful deliberation I do believe that I have arrived at the supposition that I store them up your ass.”

Another bout of roaring laughter rang from Karlach. “Fuck me, that was some strong stuff he was serving you.”

“Yes, well, needless to say I shall be sticking to my carefully curated selection of fine wines from here on out.”

“Care to translate that for us?” Tav turned to smile at Halsin.

“We met two more cursed beings in town. One in the distillery and one in the old tollhouse.” Tav scooted closer to Astarion on the log they were sharing so Halsin could sit next to her. “They were much like you described the doctor from the House of Healing.”

“How so?” She rested a hand on his back, rubbing slow, small circles between his shoulders.

A welcome relief after their exhausting day. Halsin still hadn’t quite adjusted to the adventuring life, especially now that he was spending each day in battles and fighting through any other perils they found in between. It had been some time since he had gone in and out of his wild shape so many times in a day, not to mention the enervation of his constant spellcasting – whether it be for healing or used against their foes.

“These beings still maintained more of their sentience. Both of them spoke to us, talking about guarding the Thorm family’s secrets.” Halsin recalled their fights with both large monstrosities with Tav and Astarion. One filled to burst with a strange brew, the other coated head to toe in gold and demanding more.

“WHAT DO YOU BRING?!” Karlach shouted in a mocking voice, startling a yelp out of them. She and Wyll just laughed. Halsin felt Tav’s hand drop from his back, and he hoped the disappointment wasn’t too plain on his face.

“Well,” Tav responded once she caught her breath again, “I’m glad to see you all made it back safely at least. Did you–”

She stopped mid-sentence and sat up a little straighter.

“Please tell me my head injury isn’t fully healed and that’s why I smell sulfur,” Tav groaned.

“Do you know what happens when a devil is struck down on this charming plane of existence?”

The sound of Raphael’s voice caused everyone to throw their heads back in exasperation.

“It returns to the hells – to the very point where it last stood before venturing to whichever devilforsaken plane it died on. In the case of our mutual friend Yurgir, he manifested in my House of Hope.” Raphael held his hands out to inspect his nails, projecting nonchalance.

“A deal’s a deal, devil,” Astarion snapped, standing up to glare at him. “We killed your orthon, now tell me what you know about these scars.”

“Tut, tut,” Raphael’s smooth, crooning voice made Halsin’s skin crawl. “I find that the foreplay is almost better than the deed itself. The anticipation, the buildup, the–”

“We’ve had more than enough buildup, Raphael,” Tav interrupted. “You’ve kept him waiting long enough. Why didn’t you come yesterday once you knew the orthon was dead?”

“Oh, little flower, I heard you had gotten hurt. Surely you do not think I would let you miss something as delicious as this.” Raphael winked at her before turning his attention back to Astarion.

Little flower.

Once again, Halsin saw Tav flinch away from his words. The first time he saw the devil in Last Light, he thought he had imagined it.

“Brace yourself vampling and listen close as I reveal your destiny.”

***

Tav watched Astarion pace in front of them once Raphael had left. He was muttering to himself and making erratic hand gestures.

The Rite of Profane Ascension.

Raphael’s reveal of his scars’ purpose left Tav with her skin feeling prickly and gross. He said Cazador would have to sacrifice a “number” of souls…but how many?

“Astarion?” Tav called out gently.

He whipped around to face her, a manic look in his eyes.

“Talk to us. What are you thinking?” She kept her voice soft.

“I…I don’t know,” he stammered. “If what Raphael said was true, I would have expected Cazador to send more lackeys to hunt me down. So far, all we’ve seen is one Gur.”

“Well, we are in the midst of the shadow curse,” Halsin offered. “As you’ve seen, it is a difficult land to traverse. The Underdark is not much safer, either. Perhaps they were felled before they could make it to you.”

“Or perhaps the tadpole is preventing Cazador from being able to locate you?” Wyll chimed in next.

“Perhaps…” Astarion started pacing again.

“I don’t know that I would put so much stock in luck, my friends.” Gale’s words were still a bit slurred. “At least if our previous experiences are anything to go on.”

Small nods and grumbles of agreement sounded among them.

“Regardless, I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone even when I was just another one of his wretched toys. Now…” Astarion let out a frustrated grunt. “If I’m the key to this power he craves, he’ll hunt me to the ends of Faerûn and beyond.”

Tav nodded slowly, realizing before he even said his next words what he was going to ask.

“If I won’t be free while he’s alive, I suppose I’ll just have to kill the bastard.” He turned to face Tav again. “And I’m going to need some help.”

She froze, the panic likely obvious on her face. The fact of the matter was that Cazador Szarr lived in Baldur’s Gate. A city to which she had never planned on returning.

“Don’t worry Fangs,” Karlach came up and put a hand on his shoulder, “we’re not going to let Cazador touch you again. Right, sis?”

Tav remained still, thinking through her options as everyone looked at her expectantly. The guilt she felt gnawing at her for her hesitation was immediately doubled by the look of disappointment on Astarion’s face.

“Of course we aren’t, Astarion.”

He relaxed a little, but still looked skeptical.

“I’m sorry, this is just a lot to take in, is all.” Tav joined Karlach at his side. “You know I won’t let him hurt you again if I can help it.”

“You hesitated.” Astarion stared her down.

“I…I haven’t been back to Baldur’s Gate in a very long time. Honestly, I had never planned on returning.” Tav took a deep breath. “But I would go back to help you, love.”

Another flash of distant recognition crossed his features, less fleeting this time as he studied her face.

“I appreciate that, Tav.” He relaxed after a moment. “We need to find out about the ritual. If we can get to the city, perhaps we can learn more. And who knows…”

Astarion’s expression darkened, a look that sent a chill down her spine.

“Perhaps there could be an opportunity for me to take his place.”

Tav had no idea what his ritual would cost, she still didn’t quite understand its full purpose. But she had a feeling that letting Astarion complete it would be unwise.

“One thing at a time, love.” It was the only thing she could think to say.

“You’re right, of course. I’m getting ahead of myself.” Astarion waved a hand in the air. “Still…the thought of being able to walk in the sun again…without a mind flayer parasite…”

He stared off into the distance, wearing a soft smile. The look on his face was so hopeful…

Tav hated thinking that she might have to squash that hope.

Astarion started to walk toward his tent, still looking pensive. When he was about halfway there, he turned back around.

“Thank you, again.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t have any of this information without you. Without any of you.”

She smiled in response, feeling a small wave of relief hearing such sincerity from him. Seeming a bit embarrassed, he disappeared into his tent.

“Are you okay?” Halsin nudged her arm.

“Of course,” Tav sighed. “Just…just a little worried about him.”

He nodded, staring after Astarion alongside her.

“It’s just…no matter the outcome, completing such an intricate, ancient ritual given by a devil seems risky to say the least. And not just a devil, Mephistopheles himself.”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

Tav’s heart rate quickened, and her eyes welled up.

“And what if we find the Absolute here at Moonrise? What if we find a way to be rid of these tadpoles?”

Halsin arched an eyebrow at her.

“How will he be able to face Cazador without the tadpole? I’m worried that he’ll just be compelled back into slavery.” Tav choked back tears at the thought. She felt Halsin tug her close to his side.

“One problem at a time, my friend.” He let out a deep breath after speaking.

If only our ever-growing list of problems would follow that advice.

***

An air of trepidation hung over the camp after their most recent encounter with Raphael. The reveal of the purpose of Astarion’s scars had left them all feeling a touch more dejected than earlier in the day.

The shout Halsin heard across camp did nothing to help that mood.

Arabella was speaking to Withers; the conversation had turned rather heated.

He jogged behind Tav over to the pair. The young tiefling’s face was twisted with anger and grief.

“They’re dead…”

“Listen,” Withers spoke in his hushed, unhurried tone. “Thou must find the balance within.”

“No…I can’t…”

Halsin and Tav had reached her side. She reached out for Arabella as she sobbed.

“No!” Arabella screamed again as a wave of energy slammed into them, sending Tav stumbling backward.

“Listen! Dost thou not hear it?” Withers called out to her. “Where creation meets ruin, where morning meets midnight – the root of all being.”

Arabella continued to take heaving breaths. Halsin could just make out her hands trembling.

“Balance.” Withers had softened his tone once more.

“Balance,” Arabella sighed, tears still streaking her face.

Halsin could feel the raw, untamed power radiating from her. Her magic as wild as the source from which it came, and heavy with the grief she felt at her loss.

“The girl must learn to control her arcane abilities – but she shan’t remain here to do so.” Withers turned to address Tav.

“Excuse me?” Tav whipped around to glare at him. Halsin hung his head, already knowing what he was going to say.

“Arabella’s power is unbalanced, she holds abilities beyond reckoning. Her power was born of the decaying forest, and the seedling that bore it.”

Despite his best efforts, it seemed Arabella’s magic had indeed been touched by the Shadow Weave. As hard as it was to admit, it was a distant hope that he could have prevented it. Growing one’s powers in a cursed place such as this was bound to have lasting effects.

“Once thou dost leave these accursed lands, Arabella will depart from thee.”

The young tiefling ran over to Tav, wrapping her arms around one of her legs. Her soft sobs were muffled by her pants, her tail curling loosely around Tav’s ankle.

“I’m not sending her out alone.” Tav held her glare as Arabella continued to cling to her.

“THOU MUST!” Withers shouted back, startling both her and Halsin.

“Bone Man, you’re making me leave?” Arabella sniffled back at him.

“Thou hast nothing to fear, girl. The Weave knows thy purpose and shall provide. It will guide thee, if thou dost listen.” Withers had returned to his normal soft cadence of speaking. He held his hand out for a moment and closed his eyes.

Halsin felt Arabella’s anguish, once heavy and unyielding, start to float away. A light came down to cover the dark power within and cloak her in its warmth.

Tentatively, she let go of Tav before looking around in wonder.

“Is that my future?” she asked softly. “Is that why they died?”

“It is,” Withers replied with a nod of his head.

“It’s wonderful…” Arabella looked all around her, watching the pieces of her future invisible to the rest of them.

The warmth he felt began to fade as she absorbed the feeling into her own power.

Then, he heard a familiar giggle.

Thaniel and Oliver popped out of the nearby trees to stand beside Arabella.

“Don’t be scared, little tiefling,” Thaniel laughed.

“Yeah, you’ll be back here soon, and we can play again! We’ve seen it!” Oliver said with a smile.

“Remember,” Thaniel reached out to take one of her hands, “if you open your heart, nature will listen. Let the light guide your way.”

“The shadow will always be there,” Oliver warned, “but you can wield the light to keep it away.”

Halsin watched in awe, realizing Arabella’s new purpose had taken on a deeper meaning than he had originally thought. A piece of the shadows would live on in her forever, securing them away from the world. Should she learn how to control it, how to find balance with the light within her, she could prevent them from ever returning.

It would seem that the Oak Father had chosen an anchor of sorts. A heavy burden, but one he had no doubt Arabella would be well suited for.

“Arabella…” Tav knelt to her level.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you so much.” Arabella turned with a smile on her tear-stained face.

“Don’t apologize, love.” Tav held her arms open, and Arbella threw herself into them. “I’m sorry you won’t be able to stay with us.”

“That’s okay,” she sniffled into her shoulder. “As long as there are people like you around, maybe everything will be alright.”

Once she let go of Tav, she came over to Halsin.

“Thanks for trying to teach me. I guess I have to do some more learning before we can practice together again.”

“I look forward to it, little one.” He held out a hand to her, but she wrapped her arms around his waist instead.

Halsin heard the small sniffles from Tav as Arabella let go of him.

“And thank you, Bone Man. For being…nice.”

Withers gave her a small nod of his head. Tav pointedly avoided his gaze as she followed Arabella across camp.

Halsin knew that Tav would have trouble accepting Arabella’s new path. It was difficult enough for him and he had a more fundamental understanding of why she would have to walk it alone.

“You’ve helped her a great deal,” he said to Withers after Arabella had walked away.

“Where matters of balance are concerned, thou shall find me.” He spoke in his typical quiet, deliberate tone.

“Were my instincts correct? Is she to serve Silvanus? Preventing the shadows from returning by concealing them within her own power?” Halsin asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Withers’ lips twitched into what he could only assume was a smirk.

“The girl shall be a light in darkness, and the weight to tip scales back to their proper balance. So I have spoken, so it shall be.”

A cryptic answer from our resident riddle master. What else did you expect?

Halsin took the finality in his tone to mean they were done speaking, so he made his way back to his tent so he could at last change out of his armor. His arms continued to ache from the previous day and his eyes already stung with the need for rest, but he still felt jittery.

Rather than turning in early, he grabbed his whittling tools and a chunk of wood he had been chipping away at. He went back to the center of camp to work by the light of the fire. The others were still milling around, chatting about the day.

Tav and Karlach stood with Arabella, Karlach sharing Tav’s sour expression as she likely filled her in on Withers’ orders. He watched as Tav pulled a small neckalce from her bag and held it out to Arabella. She took the trinket in her hands before staring back up at Tav, tears shining in her eyes once more. She threw her arms around her waist and held the locket up to her chest. Tav walked around to help secure it around her neck so she could run off to play.

Despite it all though, Arabella looked happy. Like she had already embraced her new purpose. Among the worry and sorrow he felt at the thought of her leaving, Halsin still had hope. He hoped that she would find the balance within. That she would find the peace she needed from her grief and hardship.

It wasn’t long before Thaniel and Oliver came to join her again, speaking soft enough that he couldn’t make out their words.

Arabella was giggling at something Thaniel said to her. A nostalgic ache seized his chest watching them play. Part of him wished she could remain here, learning from him and Oliver, but it would be some time before this land healed. Too long for her to remain here and risk warping her power further.

The sound of someone clearing their throat pulled his attention away.

“I wondered if I might hear your opinions on our little friend’s abilities.” Halsin looked up to see Gale standing in front of him. He seemed to have sobered up a bit. Shadowheart must have finally taken pity on him.

“I’m still not quite sure what to make of them, if I can be honest,” he sighed. “To have been blessed from the idol, she indeed would have needed to win Silvanus’s favor. But the way Withers spoke…”

He shook his head, still trying to make sense of Arabella’s place in all of this.

“He speaks as though she is an anchor of sorts. But those are typically chosen by Mystra, not the other gods. I do not know how or why the Oak Father would attempt to make her one in his stead.”

“Mystra will not take kindly to another god attempting to anchor the Weave.” Gale took a seat next to him on the ground.

“I don’t know that he is attempting to anchor the Weave itself within her. This curse was a horrible blight on this land, Gale. Locking Thaniel away for a century, shrouding what was once a sanctuary in darkness.” Halsin took a deep, steadying breath, not wanting to let his anger get the best of him. “It was a slight against Silvanus himself and something tells me he simply wants to prevent it from happening again. Even if it means causing Mystra some grief.”

“Bah,” Gale waved his hand dismissively. “Honestly, Mystra needs to get her magical knickers in a twist every now and then. It doesn’t take much, I’m afraid. I think she needs to be reminded from time to time that her followers aren’t the only ones who rely on the Weave.”

Halsin could hear his tone souring with every word. “Regardless, I am sure there was some level of negotiating that had to happen between them to make this a reality.”

“I hope for her sake that’s true.” Gale’s voice had quieted. “Mortals who have their souls fought over by the gods do not tend to be long for this world.”

Halsin spared another glance at Arabella, still playing with Oliver, Thaniel, and now their animal companions across camp. He hoped that she could at least enjoy the time she had left in her childhood before the crushing weight of responsibility fell on her shoulders.

“Perhaps Mystra favored this outcome as well. After all, she has no love of the Shadow Weave, or Shar, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh, you are very correct, my friend,” Gale chuckled. “She does not approve of wizards pulling from the Shadow Weave. After all, Shar did at one point seek to replace the Weave with her own distorted version of it. Even I must exercise caution in my spellcasting while we remain in these cursed lands, lest I draw from the wrong side.”

“Then I suppose that would be our best hope for our young friend.”

Gale contemplated his next words carefully.

“If that is the case, I would not be surprised to find her receiving an unexpected visit from Elminster.”

“Is that so?” Halsin set aside the chunk of wood he had been whittling. He had finally gotten the curve of it just right, but his hands were starting to cramp.

“Oh yes,” he smiled, but it was a sad and pensive look, “I was a year younger than her when he first came to me. I had just conjured a fireball of sorts, destroying a rose bush. I hid behind my mother’s skirts, sure I was to be taken away for my crime. Elminster simply smiled and assured me they would grow back.”

“I do not know much of Elminster aside from the legends told of him.” Halsin took a shaky breath. “Will he help her? Will he look after her?”

Gale considered the question for a moment. “He will help and guide her to the best of his abilities. Despite my own…shortcomings, Elminster was a good friend and an even better teacher. The rest will be up to her.”

“Then we shall have to trust in our gods’ judgement, and hope she is up to the task.”

“Something that’s easier said than done for me of late.” Gale’s eyes had grown distant as he stared into the flames.

Halsin reached up to rest a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, thank you for indulging me, Halsin,” Gale slapped his knees as he stood up. “I suppose we’ll just have to admire her efforts from afar for now.”

“Anytime, my friend.”

Gale’s company was quickly replaced by Tav and Karlach’s.

“Whatcha makin’ bear man?” Karlach had plopped on one side of him with Tav on the other.

He glanced at the tools and piece of wood sitting at his feet and fought the urge to glance at Tav.

“I’m not quite sure yet,” he lied. “Often times I don’t know what a piece will turn into until its well underway.”

“Oooh, mysterious,” Karlach cooed at him. He hoped his face didn’t look as warm as it felt.

“Are the two of you alright? I saw you speaking with Arabella.”

“I’m better,” Tav sighed. “I…I understand if she has to go. It doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna miss that little hellion.” Karlach was watching the children play.

“What was that necklace you gave her?” He turned to ask Tav.

Her eyes welled as she watched the game of chase continue before them.

“It was her mother’s. Komira gave it to me as a gift after convincing Kagha to let her go. I…I couldn’t bring myself to sell it. Something about it felt very sentimental.”

Thaniel said something indecipherable to Arabella as he pointed at the locket. He made some hand gestures that almost looked like he was casting a spell. She mimicked the movements and suddenly a few bright orbs of light burst into existence around them.

All three children shrieked with delight as they chased the lights around the camp. Scratch barked at each orb and tried to pounce at them, the light dissipating under his paws. Halsin’s chest tightened as he took one of Tav’s hands.

“Well, how wonderful it is that you were able to give Arabella something to remember her by.” He smiled watching them all play together, the lights shining around them not the only thing brightening their little camp. “And not to mention provide an endless source of entertainment it would seem.”

“That’s a good point, Hal!” Karlach stood up to chase after them as well, causing more excited screams from the kids.

“Hal?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“She’s trying out new nicknames for everyone,” Tav snickered.

While they enjoyed the heartwarming scene of Thaniel, Oliver, and Arabella swarming a prone Karlach, Shadowheart came over to stand in front of them, her hands crossed in front of her, thumbs nervously warring with each other.

“Okay, I’ve made my decision.” She took a deep breath.

They waited patiently for her to continue. Tav looked at Halsin, confused. He hadn’t gotten a chance to brief her on their conversations from the day. “I’m ready for the trials. Tomorrow, we’ll return to the Gauntlet.”

[forgottenvalentina]

ok so, based on lizzy's idea of black w snakes, and paired w the fact that valentina's only v distantly related to royalty, this is a mockup i did for valentina's og crest! i went w sable/argent/vert/tawny as the primary color scheme (and am only just now putting together that i think i was really channeling house slytherin but whtever i stand by that we all know valentina'd be a slytherin lsdkfjklsdfkljsdf ANYWAY!! im thinking that the ram/serpent motif is the og royal one but the moline cross and crescent showcase that valentina is descended from the eighth son of a prince who was, himself, descended from the second son of a king soooo yeah, not exactly next in line till roderick decided to change all of that ;DDDD

Serpent: Wisdom, knowledge, defiance; fertility and renewal; medicine

Ram: Authority & leadership; strength, perseverence

Goat: Political ability, diplomat/diplomacy, practical wisdom; persistence and strength

Sable (black): Constancy or grief

Vert (green): Hope, joy, and loyalty in love

Argent (silver/white): Peace & sincerity

Tawny or Tenné (orange/brown): Worthy ambition

Crown: Heaven; victory, sovereignty, empire; success

Crescent: One who has been honored by the sovereign; hope/ hope of greater glory; service in holy war/House of the second son

Cross/Moline Cross: Service in holy war; faith/House of the eighth son (or, as used in conjunction with the crescent, house of an eighth son from the line of a second son)

Ermine or Fur: Dignity

ANYWAYYYY, when she got married that got adapted, and since she was of royal blood, her kids get to wear the crests of both their parents, perhaps smth...like...this...?

literally just used the first vaguely nautical sigil (since its the riverbend) w the default colors as an example to represent what their dad's sigil might've been, but yeah since their mom, being of royal blood, technically outranks their dad, they would have been permitted to slice their arms to use the sinister (no, really, that's just the word for 'left' in latin -- romans had weird supersticions abt the left and that's why sinister means what it means to us but, anyway, its what the mother's side is called when you get to use that and, obv, it therefore appears on the left -- as assigned from the pov of the person carrying the shield which pov i forgot when i initially made this which is why the words are backwards bc i flipped it since they later changed which side is sinister and which is dexter [right/paternal] lkasdjflkjsdflkj)

so yeah!! that's a mock up and i wondered what you thought? i def think the dad's side needs some work (im actually thinking, personally, that a portcullis could be cool esp bc its symbolic meaning is 'protection in an emergency' and that's precisely what valentina failed to give them aklsjdfkldsjfsdf annnd its what cassimir is sort of promising to eithne so yeah idk thought it had ~meaning but yeah anywayyy alksjdflkjsdf)

anyway!! smth along these lines would've been the family sigil that valentina and her kids would've been entitled to wear from the day of her marriage, so yeah! when valentina married lord m, the stepkids might've either quartered their arms (dad/val/mal/val probs), or they perhaps might've just left it as the above? once they were adopted (or 'adopted' ;D), the stepkids would've been entitlted to wear the malconaire arms. after her marriage, valentina probs took to using a val/malconaire split herself, but whatever her kids wanted to do would be their own call once they're formally entitled to use any arms they want etc. they could also potentially rest a crown over whatever their dad's sigil was to mark that they, themselves, are of royal blood, and valentina would defff encourage this and even more so after the rest of the royal line is wiped out laksjdfkljdsf

(also just realized i used a mullet instead of a moline in the second mockup, so just imagine that's a moline cross not a star on the cresent in the second one laksdjfklsdjafkljsdf this is why i really shouldn't try to do anything after a tag sale day hahaha)

anyway gonna respond to the overarching thing soon but when you set the challenge of 'like valles but not' i was like 'that sounds like fun!!' hahahaha (tho also lowkey hc'ing that they're related to the valles somehow -- we know the ~mega bad news came from house karr anyway soooo i think it works ;DDD)

[redrandomposts]

hi, I think the little mermaid au idea is so cool and I really like the concept! How does Mizi feel when she sees what left of Ivan and figures it out? I feel like since they are very close she would be very sad and mad at herself :(

Maybe Ivan can come back and everyone can be happy! :D

-🍎

hi 🍎!!!

mizi wouldn't notice, actually, because sua didn't tell her (or let ivan tell her) what would happen to ivan if he failed. sua's just like that. and... idk, man, she's pretty sheltered. too much to even make conclusions based on death, because she barely knows of it. she only feels something is wrong when she has to go back to the ocean without catching a glimpse of her best friend.

(she doesn't notice the letters, either. perhaps a passing servant had dropped them on accident, or it was specifically left for till)

but i can one up you!!! hahaha!

...it's kinda implied that till actually falls in(sane) love with ivan. why else would ivan would have his own entire wing near till's personal office, with jewelry and all kinds of clothes at his disposal?

ivan doesn't notice this because he was a prince and thought that ah yes, fancy lobster dishes and clothing made of the finest silks... this must be how everyone is treated. (guys ive grown fond of ivan and long black hair??? i knew what i was doing)

i have ideas for a HE, but for now...um, ok, here u are, something u did not ask for (till's pov (might be ooc))

===

it started at the beach. till ran away from his duties yet again (he was six! who entrusted him (of all people, nonetheless) with duties?!), this time heading to the beach. he's never been to the ocean so closely before, and couldn't help to just... get closer.

he never learned to swim before, as he was swamped by all other tasks that he despised. oversight on everyone's part. he was swept away by the waves, hopelessly fighting against the salty water. the salt burned his eyes, making him close them, but when arms (...smaller than him, what the hell!) wrapped around him he tried to open them.

pale skin, a pearl breaking through the water's surface. red and black scales that reflected the light so beautifully, as if sunset had just reached its end. jewels and silver chains that slowly fell back to place when displaced.

...skin? scales? what was going on?! is he like those... those addicts his mentor talked about?!

he closed his eyes. this was not happening. this was not happening.

when he opened his eyes, he caught sight of an angel from the sea. her face was beautiful, her pink hair, wet, fell like waterfalls. she had... blue scales, slightly tan skin, with gold decorating her. (what about the black and red sunset scales? the pale as pearl skin? the silver that reflected the sunlight like the moon did?) she was the most beautiful person he's ever seen in life.

a week later, he couldn't help but sketch the angel that had the wrong colors again and again by the beach. perhaps, if he got her attention again, they could become friends and eventually the king and queen of his kingdom! in his fervent imagination, he didn't notice the pearl until it slipped into the waters again, far from his grasp.

annoyingly, this repeated for weeks on end. over a year (or way more) of weeks, actually! the only reason till didn't think this was a weird doesn't-actually-exist image were the odd things he'd find when he was done sketching. fish, crabs, actual pearls, clams, a shattered but ornately-made hand mirror, a locket without anything inside, dadada...

and when he went into the library to find out (the first time he's stepped into there! everyone weeps in joy!), all he found were books about creatures in the sea that love music and make others love music.

music? he could do that! he brought a guitar out to the beach, and somehow got so lost in the music he forgot to check for the pearl! when he looked again, all he saw was black slipping underneath the waves again. what the fuck?!

each time he'd try this, it'd have the same result. he'd be so engrossed in his music and making songs that he'd barely, if at all, catch black hair and silver jewelry slipping into the ocean before he could clearly see it.

and he had a solution! if he came at night, then he'd surely catch the pearl before it could see him!

...listening to the singing, till once again missed his chance. pearl-pale skin reflected the moonlight, the ocean grew quiet to listen to the music, birds and fish crowded the rock the pearl sits on. black hair blended into the night, and the silver took and stored the moonlight, reflecting it to mimic the moon the best anything ever could.

and when it stopped, till was too dazed to react! he had to watch helplessly as it slipped into the ocean once again.

this continued for years. till was driven insane. a face he's never once seen, yet one he kept on chasing and chasing. he bought silver jewelry, imagining that one day, he could lay it out and trap the pearl once and for all. he bought various clothes, both men and women's, so one day he could cover the pearl and keep it for his eyes only.

it turns out he didnt need it, though! on his sixteenth birthday, the pearl was in the sand, a coat on his body, covering his thighs from the sun. long black hair splayed out, framing the face he's gone insane over trying to catch a glimpse of.

till decided to put him in the unused wing, the one right next to his. he carefully washed him, combing his hair and dressing him up to the neck. this could be a foretelling of his future, maybe. it's a much brighter future than he could have ever imagined.

ice-cold water, the kind that only appeared when the snow fell and the nights grew longer than day, poured on him when letters slipped through his door, sea foam decorating the parchment.

[illarian-rambling]

Wip Introduction: Master and Apprentice (placeholder title)

So I figured I'd do a proper intro since I've been talking about it so much recently. Master and Apprentice is a project I started sometime last year, but I was in the middle of finishing Honor's Outcasts book 3 at the same time, so it kinda got left in the dust. I'm not sure how far I'll go with it now, however, I'm willing to give the ole college try!

The What: MandA centers around two sets of masters and apprentices, predictably. Heshorian is a master alchemist with the goal of being able to transmute dirty water into clean water. At the beginning of the story, he takes in a young man named Bayl after he steals Heshorian's coat. The other titular master is Daila, a necromancer. Necromancy has been banned for a few years in her area, yet she practices anyways, helping townsfolk with bandit raids and working towards her own goal of true resurrection. She also has an apprentice; a siren refugee named Pherrin, who arrived on the surface about a month ago. Daila is hunting someone with Pherrin's help, an alchemist she shares a bloody past with and who took something of hers long ago. How convenient that Heshorian is running from someone---a necromancer he once dearly loved. When the two master mages meet and powers collide, a terrible mistake occurs. It's left up to Pherrin and Bayl to navigate this new world of magic if they want to save their mentors.

The Where: MandA takes place in the province of Skolan, mostly around the mage city of Yewbury. Timeline wise, it happens between HO books 1 and 2, and 24 years earlier than MG. So the technology is roughly around Earth's golden age of piracy.

The Who: The story mainly switches between 4 POVs; Bayl, Heshorian, Pherrin, and Daila. Let's take a look at them!

Bayln Maersh: Born to an immigrant mother and an absent father in the city of Landanium, Bayl was orphaned when his mother died in a factory accident. He lived on the streets, stealing to survive, and generally being a punk. He joined five separate gangs, not telling them about the others, in order to move through the city freely. He's a bit of a shithead, fights dirty, trusts no one, and has a mouth on him that'd make a sailor blush. Despite this, he's deeply curious about magic and has a soft spot for animals.

Height-5'7"

Weight-155lbs

Hair-blond, wavy, and very pretty

Skin-whiteboy tan

Eyes-dark brown

Gender-cis man

Age-18 or 19

Sexuality: bi

Heshorian Ciarathyiys Greenbow: Bayl’s master's path to alchemy was an unremarkable one. He was born to a merchant nobility family on the Nabafyrian border, and is one-quarter Nabafyrian elf himself. He attended the Yewbury College of the Arcane when he decided to leave the family business to his sister. There, he would meet his first and truest love, Daila. The pair would travel together for a while until their falling out. Now, Heshorian spends his time working on transmutitive alchemy. He's a talkative man, very sociable, and well mannered, or even posh. Perhaps also a little naive, despite his well-traveled nature. He believes in helping people above all else.

Height-6'0"

Weight-210lbs

Hair-long and dark green, with a smartly trimmed beard

Skin-dusky brown

Eyes-leafy, elven green

Gender-cis man

Age-38

Sexuality-hetero

Pherrin Thasslenon: Being a normal siren girl, Pherrin grew up in Seluthena at the bottom of the ocean, ruled over by the absolute theocracy of the Way of Lamsara Hedandros. She was happy growing up, tending to her garden and playing in elthuryah (chess basically) tournaments, as well as working in her mother’s general store. All of this changed when the Silver Sovereign was assassinated while on campaign in the Araunian desert. Pherrin's father, an armorsmith for the siren army, was killed in a fire set in the warcamp after the assassination. Later, when riots swept Seluthena, her mother was killed while defending her shop. Pherrin fled to the surface, terrified and desperate for vengeance against the one who killed the Sovereign and caused her parents' deaths by extension---the infamous Burnsong Traitor, Sepo Kaiacynthus. Despite her grim purpose, Pherrin is slowly falling in love with the surface world, even though she tends towards nervousness. She believes that surface dwellers aren't sentient and only mimic the emotions of Illaros's true people, sirens.

Height-6'8"

Weight-190lbs

Hair-black, long, and straight

Skin-very pale

Eyes-onyx black

Gender-trans woman

Age-20

Sexuality-hetero

Daila Ray: Born in Bouerco, Sulu'Oku, Daila lived in poverty for most of her young life and worked from the age of 10. It was after a rune-rigged skeleton saved her mining crew from a collapsed tunnel that she decided she wanted to pursue necromancy. Daila saved up and eventually attended the Yewbury College of the Arcane at the age of twenty-two, quite old for a first year student. Even though necromancy has never been terribly 'en vogue,' she pursued her studies with vigor and graduated in an astonishing three years. While she was in school though, she met Heshorian. They fell in love and decided to travel the world, doing research and exploring. She loved him until disaster struck. Then all that love burned away into the purest hate. All she wants from his now is what he stole from her. Even though this drive consumes her, Daila is a down to earth, selfless woman, who took a chance on taking in a young siren refugee. She uses her necromancy to help people and to prove that it's not an evil art. She believes a mage's purpose is to protect the innocent and to condemn the wicked.

Height-5'4"

Weight-180lbs

Hair-short cornrows

Skin-dark brown

Eyes-brown and spectacled

Gender-cis woman

Age-40

Sexuality-bi

.

Anyways, hope this seems interesting! Idk how far I'll stick with it or how consistently, but here's for hoping!

Have a bitchin day <3

[agentrouka-blog]

"Last of all the dogs would come sniffing, lean and hungry, the feral pack that was never far behind the khalasar."- Dany(AGOT). The pair of dogs here has some similarities with Ramsey hounds. Thoughts?

It's probably part of a broader metaphor in which dogs almost always assume the role of knights (obedient servants of violence) or soldiers.

They are, interestingly, often placed in antagonistic roles toward wolves, for good or bad. Dogs are also generally placed in a negative light with Daenerys, used as an insult in various contexts, and she later eats "unborn puppy" as a delicacy. There's Ramsay, the Cleganes, the wildling dogs fighting Ghost... In fact, perhaps the only positively connotated dog we ever see in the series is the eponymous Dog (a play on the Hound) protecting septon Meribald travelling the war-ravaged Riverlands, gentle with children. This true knight of a nameless dog "belongs to himself and the Seven", and is - tellingly - described in Brienne's POV chapter.

In your quoted scene, it's the feral state of the dogs that sticks out especially. These are not well-kept and trained working dogs, like Ramsay's "girls". They more closely mirror the Hound, post-Blackwater, or the "broken men" left over from the war. Scavengers in the aftermath of violence.

When the battle was done, Dany rode her silver through the fields of the dead. Her handmaids and the men of her khas came after, smiling and jesting among themselves. Dothraki hooves had torn the earth and trampled the rye and lentils into the ground, while arakhs and arrows had sown a terrible new crop and watered it with blood. Dying horses lifted their heads and screamed at her as she rode past. Wounded men moaned and prayed. Jaqqa rhan moved among them, the mercy men with their heavy axes, taking a harvest of heads from the dead and dying alike. After them would scurry a flock of small girls, pulling arrows from the corpses to fill their baskets. Last of all the dogs would come sniffing, lean and hungry, the feral pack that was never far behind the khalasar. (AGOT, Daenerys VII)

These dogs, descendents of domesticated pets that used to serve a purpose mostly likely, no longer receive human care. They follow behind to devour what is left over after the khalasar has had its fill of food or violence. The khalasar moves on with its plunder and slaves, they don't care about what they leave behind, so the dogs eat the corpses.

There is a sense of abandonment and decay in that image that we see mirrored in Westeros in the aftermath of the recent wars, too. These feral dogs depend on violence or waste to eat, there is no other place for them. And where there used to be shepherds and sheep and a replenishing lifestyle, glorious battle leaves corpses, flies, scavengers.

[sunderedazem]

14 - bitter

Ancients? :)

You KNEW what you were asking for. So have some Elidibus POV of Azem and Emet-selch's break-up before the Sundering.

-

There are shards of red on the steps, and utter silence in the square. He blinks. Etheriys feels a little like a dream now, with the soft roaring of so many souls dulling his senses- but this sting of sorrow and shame he feels, distantly. It aches in a way he's sure he's forgotten, almost. And yet he and all those within yet remember…

The people are watching (not saved- but soon) stricken, frozen - all but one, whose cowl hangs down his back, whose silver staff is still tight-gripped in white-knuckled fingers. Who is walking away with a snarl on his lips and tears streaming down his bare face. Who has before the entirety of Amaurot denounced the Convocation, who has accused them of forgetting their duty, who has- has accused him of bias- 

They had to save the star. They have to save the star. And He was their answer. Is their answer. The roaring in his ears will never cease, now. He thinks the stretch of his very self was a small price to pay for the blue of the sky. He knows it. He volunteered.

So many had. And yet-

Azem storms out of the city center with his staff aglow in Light, wreathed round himself like a shield against- something, and he does not look back. There is only the sway of his long white braid as he departs, and Elidibus- watches it. Watches the narrow shoulders and frail stature recede into the distance, until shattered and broken and burning buildings obscure him from sight completely. Watches as one of Themis's closest friends turns his back on Zodiark and all the salvation he promises.

Elidibus does not understand it. He- remembers. Azem had pleaded with the Convocation to stay Zodiark's summoning, to give him time to find an alternative. Half the lives of their people was too awful a price for him - and Elidibus cannot condemn him for that love he has for their star and people, cannot condemn him for his dissent. Azem is the Traveler - the Shepherd. It would go against everything his seat stands for to agree. Lahabrea had not agreed - nor had Pashtarot - but in the end, Elidibus could not be partial. And thus Azem was given his time to find another way. But should Amaurot begin to burn- then they would have to act.

But he returned too late. Three days too late. And his solution was…incomplete. An effort commendable, to be sure. A solution worthy of gentle praise, and perhaps use later. But the star had fallen to ruin, and Zodiark could restore it. And then- then the star could restore their people. And Zodiark would save them all. He would save them.

He will. No matter if one man refuses to understand. Elidibus and Zodiark will save him too.

No matter how bitter that salvation tastes.

There are shards of red on the steps. Emet-selch is kneeling among them, his hands shaking, gathering the pieces one at a time. He is not crying, Elidibus thinks. Not yet, at least. He seems more stunned than anything. Of course, he is not the only one, if the way the silence still rings deafening has any meaning.

Azem has always had a temper, though it was not often apparent. But this- this by far had been the worst outburst Elidibus had ever seen from anyone, let alone from Azem. And worst of all, it had been a willful misinterpretation- a cruel misinterpretation, made solely to make a point about their plans to sacrifice the lesser creatures of the star to return those given to Zodiark to life. And- and perhaps Azem even had a point, if a misguided one.

He had always been thin of aether, incapable of all creation magicks no matter how simple, and sickly for it besides. His elevation to the Fourteenth Seat had been long delayed by a discussion of his health and the risks posed to his own wellbeing, rather than any disagreement with regard to his temperament or accomplishment as a researcher and theorist both. But to use his own recurring illness - which Emet-selch had cared for him through countless times - as a bludgeon to say that the Convocation must therefore count him among those lesser creatures-

I too am thin of aether. Weak, sickly- imperfect. Incapable of creation. Are these the only requirements for you to be willing to slaughter living beings in order to undo the willing sacrifice of half our people? I gave you another option! Those who are thin of aether - thinner than me! - may use this dynamis to restore our star, and you dismiss their capabilities save for their worth as livestock? You swore to hearken unto my solution, Emet-selch- you promised me you would have faith I would find a way and now you- you reject what I have found in favor of dishonoring your seat and returning the dead to life? Fine then! I count myself among these lesser beings freely, for I am more akin to them than you. And should you wish to wet Etheriys with their blood, you will start with me. And you will draw the blade across my throat with your own hands.

But even if he had a point- Emet-selch had only stared, utterly lost for words. The entire square had been quieter than death. Even Zodiark had seemed to still. And then, caught in the folly of sentiment, Emet-selch had stepped forward, had reached out a hand, had called- 

Helios- Helios, please-

There had been a whirl of black, a flash of red- and then Azem's mask had shattered on the wall above Emet-selch's head, had shattered into shards of his office even as his sigil had glared red over silver eyes.

I am Azem,  Emet-selch. I revoke the privilege for you to call me by my personal name- not only do I not know this man you have become, but us lesser creations have no names to speak of, now do we?

Elidibus had not known how to stop him. Emet-selch had just dropped his hand, jerking a little as if he had been struck by a physical blow.

And then Azem had gone.

And now he is gone. And Emet-selch is on his knees, gathering the shards of that shattered mask, cradling them carefully, as if he could piece together what was broken. As if he could repair a heart threaded with thorns, or another cracked down the center. As if saving the mask would save the man.

“...he will come back,” Emet-selch whispers then, staring at the bitter, broken ashes of Helios in his hands. “...I- I will have that much faith in him.”

And Elidibus- and in Elidibus, the dark waxes strong, and he lays a hand on Emet-selch's shoulder. 

“Nay- we will save him, my friend,” he promises, and watches as golden eyes behind a red mask snap to him and glaze over. There is weight in his words now - the promise of a thousand thousand souls and the hope of their people. “We will save him, and the star as well. We will.”

The doubt and grief in Emet-selch's eyes disappears, wiped clean by faith. And Elidibus smiles, heart heavy with certainty and the knowledge that in time, Themis's dearest friends will mend the rift born between them here. They will save Azem - they will - and the star he so loves, and all the people too. Elidibus will not allow for any end other than perfect salvation. The bitterness of these sorrowful days will fade, and Azem will smile again, and look upon Emet-selch with that loving mischief in his eye, and this will all be but a distant memory. 

They will. 

He will make sure of it.

-

Enjoy the angst/keep the change ya filthy animal

[songofthesibyl]

Ferry Me Down, Leave Well Enough Alone

A stream-of-consciousness style Tamlin POV set shortly after A Court of Silver Flames that I wrote over the weekend.

The further he got, the more he realized he had never left. And he had known it the whole time, just as he had known with Feyre’s half-step back at the wedding that it was over between them. He had seemed to be confused at the time, had given her a questioning look.  But underneath, the cracks were there, ever widening. And then she had said, in so many words, that she did not wish to marry him. And it had all fallen apart. Splinters of wood, red on the walls. Because he had known, really, that it was already over. It was just that they could keep pretending. They never spoke, they spent less and less time together. He had given her over to Ianthe, and oblivion, and the red paint. But she had made him face it, in that moment. 

Their love had ended when she had stepped back that day, a year after their meeting. And then, as his view of the day widened to take in Rhysand, entering through that rift, he knew it had ended even further back than that. Much more horribly, and irrevocable—their love had ended when she died. And it was his fault, and he could not go back, and he could not make it better. And he realized—

He had never left the Mountain. 

The earthquake that buried it had spread, yet he was always at its center. He was still at Amarantha’s side. 

He was still.

The Night Court hadn’t come back for a time. Every day he breathed in, and the space was wider, the air cleaner, free of scent. They were busy, he supposed. Lucien had briefly spoken to him, told him the babe had been safely delivered. There had been something in his eye as he said it, but he no longer asked, and Lucien no longer bothered to stick around to explain further. 

He didn’t know why he had been so upset at the news of her pregnancy. A lingering resentment. And an insane sense that there had still been a chance, that it could still be possible between them. Yet, he had wished for her happiness. And she seemed happy, Lucien had said. The only other information he offered before he left.

It was the way of things, he had told himself. They were mated. It had happened fast, but they had both died. It was understandable. It always seemed to be after that he understood.

He curled up his paws under him suddenly, shuddering at the memory of dragging his claw. The look on Feyre’s face. And the heat later, that came to his own face, as he stood in the quarters Thesan had prepared for him. He had been so sure. He would be Rhysand, if that’s what she preferred. He would enter through the rift as Rhysand had at the wedding, he would shame and insult her as Rhysand had, if that’s what she wanted to be married to. He had come with all of his gathered intelligence on Hybern. All of his intelligence. He had been so sure of himself. 

It was only, as usual, after the storm that it all became clear. He had passed a sleepless night before returning to Hybern. An eternity of regret for that storm, for the earthquake forever just below the surface, waiting. Just as Hybern had been waiting. Just as Amarantha had, century after century, until he was at his proper place at her side.

He curled up, his paws still under him, in the form that had never worn a mask. He had always shown Feyre exactly what he was. It had been folly to appear in his unglamored High Lord form. As Ianthe had encouraged him, as he had wanted to, beaming with happiness, unable and unwilling to hold it in. But Feyre had looked at him, and remembered, and stepped back.

And it was all so far away from him now. He was not so naive as to think it was over—he had heard the name Koschei, he felt Beron waiting at the edges, as Amarantha had. Had made himself just as weak, perhaps weaker than he had been then. His court as vulnerable, the land even more ravaged than at the worst of it. 

And a heart, made of stone. 

He had pushed it so deep inside himself. Even at the height of the curse, the waning of his power and Amarantha’s hold on him, it had not been so still as this. Heavy, but he had always been strong. It was not a burden to carry it. He hardly felt the weight at all. It was inside, yet so far from him, as it had been then.

But even then, for almost fifty years, he had been able to perform the Rite. Year after year the paint, and the hunt, and losing himself. 

Shapeshifting, he remembered, that was how he had learned to see it. What Rhysand had told him once, and he had remembered when he had been alone as a newly-made High Lord, unprepared, and untested.

The horror of those early days. Of the first Rite. Of what he had done since then. 

You are a shapeshifter, he had told himself. You will be High Lord now. And then, at Calan Mai, you will be Hunter. The entire land will be birthed from this. From your renunciation, your nonbeing. Just for this night.

And every night, and day, after. How many years, he had lost count. But he had learned to retain a bit of himself, just as Ianthe said he would. After the Rite, even. A little. Not enough to notice. Imperceptible, as what remained of his heart beating within the stone, that had struggled to break free in his months with Feyre. That had given way, and rushed forth, a torrent, a storm, his fierce desire to be free, to love, to not be afraid.

He had not been afraid when he had looked up at Feyre at the last trial, and the dagger she held. Perhaps for the only time in his life.

And the feel of the blade penetrating him, and the stone cracking, the gasp of breath, and his blood pooling on the floor.

It had not happened. He had not broken free. He was still there. She couldn’t do it, and Rhysand had grabbed the dagger, and cried out for her. He didn’t remember until after.

It had been the mask. He was pretending the whole time. Shifting the whole time. Amarantha had chosen the theme of that masquerade for a reason. 

And now he had been reduced to Beast. To violent, awkward, plodding thing. He had exhausted himself these weeks, taking every form he could, running to the very edge of his court, refusing to cross, or unable, as most had been unable to during the curse. It was his own prison, as the stone was, he knew. But it was his.

And he felt that now—that he was himself. He was done shifting. It was pointless. They were only shapes. Underneath, it was still him. He could not escape himself any more than he could leave his court, or cease to be High Lord. So he would be this now, and not lose himself in different forms, or play at being what he was not. He would no longer perform. For the gods, for the Mother. He would not be anything, or anyone else. It was the third time he had not performed the Rite. The call to do so—the expectation, the pressure, the sense of duty, as well as the magic thrumming inside him—had been as painful, and horrifying as performing it. His stomach lurched, the call a screaming in his head, that did not go away until the night had passed. 

But the relief hadn’t come either. Only the knowledge he had once again sent Lucien instead of himself.

But then the next year, he had felt it a little less, as the land died around him. This year, even less still. But much of the land was still intact. Though the forests were quiet, the trees were still in forever blossom. When Eris, or the Night Court—when Nesta had come, it was much the same. But even that had gone quiet, and he could rest, and be nothing. Not even Beast. Stripped of even that form.

And he found—he did not miss it. Not the blood pouring, or the screaming, or the biting, or the scraping his claws, the shivers of pleasure. The release. He had so much power, so much strength, and he had thought to sublimate it, to transcend it, over and over. He had forgotten all of their names. All but one.

But even that was fading. The heartbeat not even detectable under the stone. 

He had only been a body, to everyone, even himself. A collection of parts—hair, fang, claw, chest, arm, leg. A collection of roles, that he had now abandoned. A lover, a tyrant, a friend. A coward. A betrayer. All gone now. And his blood cooled, and hardened. He was deep inside. There would be no screams, or steps back, now that he was far away, and deep within the collapsed mountain that had shattered around him, his court that had been ruined. He had wanted at first for them to come for him, for the tearing of flesh, the sword through his head, his manor a pile of rubble. But though they came and went, the manor stubbornly stood, the trees blossomed, the court silent, but persisting. So would he.

He had been laid bare, and exposed, shorn of all forms but this, immobile and cold, and found that it suited him. He never wished to be touched again. If they came, when they came, they could do what they wished to his court, that was no longer his and never had been—but he would not yield to their touch. Not respond. If they came for him again, as Hybern had, tearing asunder the ruins of the Mountain to find  Amarantha’s rotting corpse and retrieve Jurian’s ring—he would be as dead to them. They would find him still kneeling, hoodwinked, bound, helpless and useless as he had been, still there, all this time. 

And, finally, when they would think to finish the job, and take what they wished—his power, his body, his mind. Stab at him with daggers of steel, of adamant—they would not simply bend. The next time the dagger came for him, it would shatter like glass.

Note: The title is a lyric from the Siouxsie and the Banshees song “Turn To Stone.”