#the sheer anger i felt last night was unreal

[madeofvoid]

*Getting my ass kicked by a Banabro and becoming more and more feral every time I faint*

Deviljho was right. War crimes are good actually. Fuck These Bastards In Particular.

[orsuliya]

This part (4 of who knows how many) of my Awu/Xiao Qi married headcanons resembles nothing more that a dying whale full of confused feelings. Which is exactly what I would swiftly turn to left alone with this drama without @madeleineengland’s continuous friendship and support. What I actually want to say is: Happy Birthday, my dear! I am thankful to have met you. I hope you like this instalment, even if I couldn’t quite manage to fit in a kneeling Song Huaien. Sorry!

There are some things that no woman can choose for herself. Some things simply happen – or not – as they please with no regard to wishful thinking or social status. A princess or a gravedigger’s daughter, a young maiden or a stately matron, none can simply will themselves pregnant, no matter how many prayers have left their lips and how many offerings have graced the altars, set there by gentle hands yearning to hold a living, breathing child instead of a bowl of rice or a stick of precious incense.

And yet, no matter how many times she whispers this truth to herself in the middle of the night, Xiao Qi’s broad hand resting on her lower belly in a sincere attempt to soothe the twinges of pain that come every single month without fail, there are still moments when Awu cannot help feeling as if she’s failing in the worst of ways. Not failing her husband, for until the day she dies she will never forget the truth shining in his eyes, still fever-bright from Wang Qian’s vile mixture despite the self-inflicted blood loss. And not even the twelve generations of Wang Empresses. After all, hadn’t she courted their disapproval already by choosing to walk through life hand in hand with her husband instead of living torn in half until her very last breath? No, the person whom she fails is always herself.

And in her mind she fails a lot. There is a bitter taste on her tongue as she pushes Xiao Qi’s wise, warm hand off her abdomen and rises from their shared bed to stand at the window, throwing open the shutters and trying to breathe, even as the feeling of warm blood pooling between her thighs makes her remember her first and worst failure, committed right in the middle of the palace courtyard. There were pamphlets, she knows, vicious, cruel rumours of how she bled her baby out from sheer disgust of having been bred by a man born nobody knows of whom and where. Only after every wagging tongue had already been silenced with a cloak of red silk set around her shoulders, did she realize that half the court must have been tittering excitedly over the prospect of seeing the proud Wang daughter set aside and brought as low as she had once sat high. And they hadn’t been kind about it, going as far as to comment that her swift appearance at the scene of the coup must have been motivated by her eagerness to be rid of her spouse as the balance of power finally shifted. Fools, what blind, base-minded fools all those high-born courtiers – many of them her distant kin – have turned out to be!

Princess Shangyang wouldn’t have felt such dark, all-consuming anger. Princess Shangyang, as Awu has learned in all her years as Princess Yuzhang, had been something of a fool, a bird kept in a gilded cage, encouraged to sing and chirp happily regardless of how the bars of that cage withered her wings. It was only later that this caged songbird discovered that she was no songbird at all, but a bird of prey. And like a bird of prey Awu wishes she had known of every single salacious rumour – but only so that she could tear their originators to shreds for using her poor never-born first child for their own vicious purposes, for making a spectacle out of her – their – pain.

In her anger she barely notices how her fingers have curled tightly over the windowsill… at least until big, calloused hands descend onto hers and she finds herself cradled in Xiao Qi’s loose, yet strangely grounding embrace. For a moment she wishes to slip away, to escape and simply be angry, no matter how futile it may be after so many years… And had he tried to lead her back to bed, had he spoken a single word, she might have done just that, but there is only silence between them. Only slightly unreal, moonlight-washed silence and Awu feels the flames of her anger sputter and go out, leaving only bitter, choking ash of regret.

Yet there is one kernel of failure she can exorcise right here and now for both of their sakes, even if it can never be made right in this life. If I have children of my blood, she says, allowing herself to let go of the magical ‘when’ this one time, seeing them entered into the Xiao family book would bring me greater honour and joy than if they were feted as princes and princesses of the first rank. And maybe after a moment she feels the need to explain further, to say that she would have been honoured to act as a filial daughter-in-law to his parents, no matter their birth and status, but before she can get out a word, he manages to catch her off-guard. Not with a kiss to the side of her neck, that much she has come to expect always, but rather with his quiet, sleepily tender reply: Before we get to filling any pages, we need to have a book in the first place. Help me with that in the morning? And what can she do in response to that except hum in agreement and lean backwards?

____________________________________

Some things simply happen – or not – as they please. Which does not mean one should not help them along in any way that comes to mind. Or several minds, as it happens in this case.

Doctor Shen, however wise and famous, is far from the only – or even the best – available authority on the matters of female body, partially due to not being of female persuasion himself. Unlike, for example, his assistant and niece Shen Yunxin, an aspiring female doctor in her own right. Once that accomplished, if rather young lady managed to make herself heard, she swiftly rose in Xiao Qi’s regard, and would have done so for her gumption alone, even if her medical skills hadn’t been excellent in the first place. Shen Yunxin, skipping the dancing-around that most of her male colleagues invariably tended to degrade to in the presence of any person of power, rather daringly announced that perhaps instead of concentrating solely on curing Awu’s infertility – and thank you, the acupuncture treatments she herself administers every week are going just as planned – they should perhaps focus on the picture as a whole. That is, after all, what a doctor should look at first, right? Especially as there is no material proof of Xiao Qi’s high fertility. The ‘or is there now?’ part remained unspoken; even though Shen Yunxin came to like her primary patient a lot and had her own reasons to distrust men and their promises, she – this time and always – held to the standards of professional behaviour.

Awu, for her part, really enjoys seeing Xiao Qi drinking bitter herbal concoctions of his own. Even if she might not be all that convinced by Shen Yunxin’s words, it surely cannot hurt anything. And why should she be the only one to suffer under a tyrannical medical regime? What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. And if in truth Xiao Qi doesn’t mind the taste at all, who would blame him for exaggerating a little for his wife’s amusement? Certainly not his wife, who has seen through his play-acting at once and swiftly decided that there is something to this mouth-to-mouth method of feeding particularly vile medicines to recalcitrant patients.

And yet Shen Yunxin isn’t the only fount of knowledge to be found in Ningshuo and, truth be told, has shown much interest in the secrets of folk medicine herself, especially as practiced by Alima’s kinswomen. Although some of those women, in particular Alima’s crone of a grandmother, have proven astonishingly… direct and rather shameless with their advice, to the tune of making a fully-fledged practitioner and an old married woman such as Awu, both of them hardly prone to prudishness, blush like girls not yet through their hair-pinning ceremonies. Or perhaps the advice was actually fine and tamer that one might expect. The enthusiastic appreciation that Alima’s kinswomen seem to hold for Xiao Qi, however, could probably fluster anybody, much less the man’s wife!

____________________________________

It is not entirely out of the realm of possibility that Awu decided to follow the kindly-meant advice of Alima’s grandmother. After all, the woman had successfully given birth to nine babies and gotten eight of them to adulthood, which would make anybody pay attention. Perhaps there is something to be said for the value of hard-won experience? And perhaps it was Shen Yunxin’s acupuncture skills that helped in the end, or even her insistence to look at the greater picture first. Or Doctor Shen’s bitter tinctures, or Xiao Qi’s unwavering, ah, helpfulness. Or possibly the fact that Awu finally decided that what will be will be and threw herself with doubled energy into the whirlpool of domestic concerns… which are truly never-ending, if one counts an entire province as one’s home.

Whatever the cause, Awu eventually achieved her goal… And yet she was among the last ones to actually suspect anything, the first being Xiao Qi and A-Yue, who had informed Doctor Shen and Shen Yunxin respectively, after having noticed some rather peculiar changes. A lady’s maid knows her mistress better than her own husband, although in this case, with the husband being an exceptionally affectionate one, that might not ring quite so true. Incidentally, the symptom that both of them had noticed was Awu’s sudden heightened sense of smell combined with a rather noticeably expressed aversion to her previously favourite perfume, which, you must admit, is a rather worrying sign.

As it turns out, both the uncle and niece had a good idea of Awu’s state, going by her last bleeding being more of a spotting than anything else – and you may bet Shen Yunxin monitors that closely – and yet they remained unable to fully ascertain their suspicions without any clear accompanying signs, nor were they willing to give any early hope, which may later be dashed. In fact, Doctor Shen would have preferred to avoid any agitation whatsoever for at least a week or two more, having had difficult experiences with this patient in particular, but one look at Prince Yuzhang’s face had him rethink that plan. Had Hu Guanglie been there – or alive in the first place – he would have immediately recognized that expression as Xiao Qi getting ready for battle, which he is quite sure he can win… but not entirely sure, with his doubt rising with every hour of there being no news of enemy movements. But even an amateur would be immediately wary of this sudden tension, for all that it might be hidden under an impressive facade of pretended calm. And Doctor Shen, after thirty years of practicing medicine among the upper echelons of Cheng nobility and staying alive – which is no mean feat – has learned to be quite sensitive to his powerful employers’ moods. As a survival tactic, if nothing else.

Another important skill, which Doctor Shen hasn’t yet imparted onto his niece, is judging when and where a doctor’s presence might be wanted... and when and where it is most certainly not needed. Pulling Shen Yunxin from the room by her sleeve might seem like a rather abrupt reaction, but it was by no means unjustified. Some things are simply not meant to be seen by outsiders. Prince and Princess Yuzhang facing each other and simply looking into each other’s eyes in perfect, tremulously joyful silence before the Princess lets out a hiccuping laugh and hides her suspiciously shining eyes against her husband’s collarbone is certainly one of those.

____________________________________

Xiao Qi’s first emotion after hearing the news is joy, then absolute panic – as far as that man ever panics, that is – and then steely determination most usually reserved for military planning. Having heard one word too many about miscarriage being a real possibility this early on makes him frantic and this in turn means that something really, really foolish is about to happen. Something like riding for the capital with only ten thousand troops. Something like going into Hulan alone. Something like dealing ungodly amounts of damage and letting his hair fly loose. Hu Guanglie would call this state a silence before mass decapitation. Were he there and alive, that is. Thankfully Hu Yao is both alive and there (deal with it, people!) and manages to redirect this thrumming energy into something actually constructive, which is probably the only thing that saves Awu and Xiao Qi from having an epic row over a series of very unreasonable ideas. Like, for example, shutting Awu in her rooms in the middle of Ningshuo Fortress and standing guard over her until the baby is born.

Meanwhile, Awu’s behaviour couldn’t be more different from that exhibited by her very own husband. Now that her years of continuous disappointment are over, she refuses to even consider that something might go wrong. At least not during waking hours, when she’s surrounded by a steady throng of people and children; and there is no way she would ever agree to being imprisoned in her rooms, although she agrees to retiring at the first sign of true fatigue and actually keeps her word, which causes her to share more than one nap in the middle of the day with little Song Guanglie. Which, in turn, makes for a pretty mellow Princess, especially right after she rises.

Which is exactly why this is the exact moment the brilliant tactician Hu Yao chooses to inform Awu that her fool of a husband (even if she doesn’t use exactly those words, she means exactly that) has evaporated with a troop of six into direction unknown, which may or may not be Hu Yao’s fault. Awu confirms that yes, Xiao Qi came in as she slept, woke her up briefly and said something about going on a short trip, promising to return as swiftly as possible. The look on Hu Yao’s face is rather telling and a tiny bit guilty.

That little overnight trip? Hu Yao is reasonably certain it is a hunt for something big and impressive. A local variety of wolf? A big feline of unfriendly persuasion? Probably not Hulan raiders, such as they are those days; she is rather insistent on that last point and for a good reason. That reason being that Xiao Qi had been making things strangely tense in the training yards, which are Hu Yao’s rightful domain, and so she decided to get rid of him by asking about preparations for the birth, no matter that the happy event may be six months away yet, and describing in great detail the extent of the prospective father’s involvement in those.

And seeing as it’s paramount – for future good fortune and the safety of both the mother and the baby – that no products of the birth are allowed to touch the ground, hence the need to provide a layer of ash, rushes or perhaps a cow’s skin as is the case in the wealthier families of Hu Yao’s acquitance, and taking into account that Xiao Qi has never done things by halves, his plan is rather obvious. Awu doesn’t know whether to feel strangely amused, immensely flattered and touched… or perhaps increasingly annoyed by losing her bedmate for such paltry a cause. For the moment she chooses option one, if only because amusement helps her forget about any apprehension the word ‘hunt’ might be causing her for rather obvious reasons. She will hold her judgement on options two and three until she sees the result of Xiao Qi’s bout of paternal madness.

The hero of the hour returns four days later, impossibly smug and with a bloody enormous salted pelt of a great brown mountain bear. Which he will then proceed to cure himself, because why wouldn’t he. Awu doesn’t have the words for what she’s feeling. Exasperation? Fond exasperation? A sudden onset of unexpected horniness? And I mean really unexpected, because bears smell and she’s still not over her olfactory oversensitivity. But mainly a burst of love and womanly pride. Sure, her man might be a fool, but he’s her fool and… I mean, it is a really big bear. Very, very impressive, if one was prone to being impressed by such things. Which Awu usually doesn’t find herself to be… Oh, who is she even trying to fool?

____________________________________

Xiao Qi has made something of a study of his wife’s body, which she had always been cognizant of to a certain degree. So it’s rather hard to say that it comes as a surprise that he’s able to tell when she begins to show even before she herself does – and she shows very early due to her general slimness. All the other things, however, are somewhat more out of the left field.

Like how he starts to send Awu’s maids out every time he catches one of them with a comb even before she confesses that somehow her scalp became really, really sensitive and in a rather peculiar way. Which he has apparently noticed and decided to take shameless advantage off, especially as the pleasure is mutual; Awu’s hair has become somehow both thicker and softer, a true delight to touch for a person as tactile as Xiao Qi.

Or how he suddenly stops going after Awu’s earlobes to her sincere confusion and irritation. She liked it, dammit, and what Awu wants, Awu gets, so the next time his mouth appears anywhere in the vicinity of her neck, Xiao Qi finds himself rather brusquely pointed at the desired target. The problem is, upon his acquiescence Awu finds it not as pleasurable as all that and really rather painful, her ears apparently having become rather sensitive practically overnight. By which point she has no other choice but to demand how had he guessed before she realized this about herself. His answer turns out to be rather disarming: You haven’t worn a single pair of dangly earrings for half a month.

The worst thing is, he is absolutely right. Every single time, which at the beginning causes no little exasperation, especially when Awu’s body starts rapidly changing and sometimes she feel like she hardly knows what she even looks like anymore. Is that pale, drawn face in the mirror actually hers? Why are her eyebrows suddenly so pale and whispy? And has she always had dark patches on the underside of her breasts? As time passes, all those other changes start looking less and less dire, having taken second fiddle to the most important thing of them all: a growing, living child nestled between her hipbones, which have lost all pretense of sharpness during those last few months. And so she starts asking questions. Not to fish for compliments – she truly cannot complain of a shortage of those – but out of true curiosity. What have you noticed that I haven’t? Show me.

And he does show her, claiming and re-claiming every inch of her skin as it changes and there is not a single moment in which she does not feel beautiful, or wanted, or loved, even when she’s absolutely miserable and sick, and bloated. Although she calls him a liar the one time he truly earns it by announcing her stitches on the newest piece in the increasingly elaborate layette to be the height of perfection despite them being crooked and all over the place due to her suddenly clumsy fingers. But just as he is her guide to her own body, she is his and there is little that she finds herself unable to complain of.

It’s their journey, their child, perhaps their only chance at this miracle and she absolutely refuses to hide, especially as her time comes near. Refuses to hide both literally and metaphorically, spending hours upon hours of increasingly warm, stuffy summer evenings laying naked on top of the covers and drawing nonsensical labyrinths upon her own skin with the tips of her fingers, every line closely followed by eager eyes, calloused hands or gentle lips; every single tap or movement from within met with genuine fascination and something not quite unlike worship.

____________________________________

There has hardly been a military campaign that involved more meticulous planning than the birth of this one tiny child, Ningshuo’s first princeling. Taught by Wanru’s premature experience with childbirth, both Awu and Xiao Qi remain rather wary of any fixed dates. The child will come when it will come, rather like the enemy, announces Xiao Qi, stopping the rather spirited discussion between the womenfolk about the necessity of early preparation and earning himself a fiery glare from Awu for using such inappropriate comparisons. By which I mean there is little to be done aside from observing the terrain and getting ready for an ambush, which may or may not come at any time, he explains, trying to mollify Awu and enclose her into his self-imposed bubble of confidence, usually reserved for use upon soldiers on the verge of panic, which is exactly what this discussion of premature birth has brought into their home.

And you know what, it actually helps, if only a little. Enough to take Awu’s mind off the possible complications and redirect her nervous energy into consulting with the astronomy charts and then choosing an appropriately situated side room, setting up curtains around the bed to serve as a birthing tent and getting that blasted bearskin out of storage. Which process they will ultimately go through four times, as the star charts – and thus best orientations – keep changing every month. And which neither of them will begrudge, as every single time they move the birthing tent Awu grows just a tiny bit more confident in the success of the upcoming labour and also more attuned to her own needs. At the very last milestone – during which she is comically enormous, but no less able to give out commands – she is an absolute nightmare, having everyone running around to and fro as well as throwing an absolute fit over the birthing rope, which she has agreed to previously.

Doctor Shen, being a great believer in getting his clients through labour alive and having a long-standing grudge against the usual way of birthing practiced in the Imperial Palace – which means supine, surrounded by a crowd of panicking women and with the doctor hardly able to see the patient in order to preserve their chastity – instills a certain regime, which is perfectly in accord with the traditional ways dictated by medical practitioners of old. By which he means peace, no more that two calm attendants at one time and letting gravity do part of the work; the last thing meaning that a length of rope or cloth should be suspended from the ceiling or perhaps stretched between two pillars at at appropriate height, so that the mother can support herself while kneeling or squatting.

In Awu’s case the arrangement changes from a hanging horse bridle – which while a show of status and a portent of good fortune proved to be not that comfortable after all – to a length of silk, to a rope stretched between two pillars. Which apparently doesn’t suit Awu any longer, not providing her with a steady enough support. While A-Yue and Alima keep tying and retying the rope to Awu’s continuous disapproval and even irritation, Xiao Qi doesn’t get involved. Yes, partially because in contrast to everybody else he doesn’t find his heavily pregnant wife a nightmare to deal with. Adorable, more like, the man is that hopeless. And partially because as long as Awu acts out on her irritation, she’s not getting apprehensive or despondent. So let her rage to her heart’s content. Now, the moment she goes silent and perhaps a little bit bashful over her previous outburst, he decides it’s high time for an intervention. Any intervention, even an absurd one. Which means that he disappears for a moment and brings back his spear, which he then secures in place of the rope to the growing disconcernment of everybody present. Awu finds it steady enough for her needs and it’s not like anything else matters.

Seeing as she goes into labour the very next day and finds herself properly appreciative of this improvised solution, Xiao Qi can’t find it in himself to really mind the rapidly growing slew of jokes and ditties starting to make rounds, although he makes a point of trouncing the most intrepid joker rather soundly. Or perhaps five of those, not that he’s in the right mindset to actually keep count once the entrance to the birthing room is barred to him. Before it is, there is still time to tell Awu– not for the last time, this isn’t going to be the last time! - of her bravery, of how only now does he start to truly appreciate what it means to send a loved one into battle and of how they’re going to carry this moment through their whole lives. You’re Princess Yuzhang, you will come back with a victory, hale and whole. You will always come back, he whispers into her hair, not sure who is he actually trying to convince as he hold his entire world in his arms, desperately trying to hide his fear. And failing miserably, which Awu cannot help but notice… once she gets through the current set of contractions. Don’t you dare to be a coward now, my Prince Yuzhang, she scolds, resting her sweaty forehead against his chin. Don’t you bloody dare. I have asked for this and I don’t take upon myself what I cannot carry. And now get out and let me fight my war. You know what I’m capable of.

And by all gods, he knows. And this steely determination in her voice scares him as little has ever scared him before. This time, unlike every other time when she’s risked her life this bravely, there will be nothing he can do to help her, no miraculous rescue, no last-minute shot, no hand ready to break her fall. Has he been too greedy, he ponders, only by a miracle avoiding skewering Tang Jing straight through the gut and then actually earning a light graze from Hu Yao’s blade. Useless, she pronounces, confiscating their weapons and hurrying both men off the training field. Absolutely useless. Go and do whatever it is that men actually busy themselves with while women do all the work.

It turns out that what men actually do in highly stressful situations is sharpen their swords as well as any other blade they may encounter. They are joined in this endeavour by Xiaohe, who will later be unilaterally – and wholly unfairly – blamed for each and every single skewed edge. Of which there will be quite a few. But then, what does an imperfect sword or ten actually matter, when after long hours of absolute hell, during which Xiao Qi has imagined at least five different worst scenarios ending in a pool of blood – just like that terrible day – and prayed to all the gods he has ever heard of, A-Yue finally comes, her wide smile speaking for itself.

[lady-therion]

At Second Sight: Part 2 [Elriel]

Summary: Elain accidentally turns Azriel into a dragon.

(Post-ACOWAR)

A/N: Okay, so it gets worse.

***

   “If you don’t stop fussing, I will put you in the basket.”

    Azriel scowled at her from the center of her bed, huffing and and puffing as much as he was able, the blue and black scales of his chest swelling with each beat of his tiny wings.

    It was adorable.

    Elain fought the urge to grin. The shadowsinger could have been dwarfed by a house cat, which amused her as much as it alarmed her. Though she had enough sense not to make light of his misfortune—a misfortune she was directly responsible for.

    It was a very sobering thought.

    At any other time, she would have yielded to her winged friend. But here and now? She would not bend. She may not be as formidable as her sisters, but she inherited enough of their mother’s imperious manner to face down the Spymaster of the Night Court.

    Of course, Azriel refused to cease his growling. How else could he argue with her? But as much as Elain wanted to soothe his agitation, she merely raised her brow with a haughtiness that would have made Nesta proud.

    “I don’t see what all the squawking is about,” she said. “It’s just for the night. Or until Amren finds a way to break the spell.”

    More squawking.

    Elain folded her arms.

    Azriel, ever the gentleman no matter what form he took, nearly singed her bedsheets in chivalrous protest when she insisted he sleep with her.

    Sleep next to her, she clarified, though she could barely hide her blushing as she said so.

    Azriel had looked so scandalized at her suggestion that she found it almost charming. As if this centuries-old fae warrior hadn’t done or encountered more shocking or salacious things…

    “It will be easier this way,” she continued. “What do you think will happen when the others return? Cassian’s room is right next to yours and he almost never knocks when he wants to see you. Unless you’d like to greet him as you are now?”

    A tiny ring of smoke told her what Azriel thought about that.

   “I’d have to come fetch you in the morning anyway,” she continued. “It would be harder to explain why I’d be poking about in your room. The others would ask questions.”

   The shadowsinger gazed at her in that keen and uncanny way that would have made other fae loosen their bowels. But Elain was not afraid. She could never be afraid of the gentle fae warrior who rescued her from a dark abyss. Even when his hazel eyes pierced her with that strange and assessing intensity, she did not feel a shred of apprehension.

   Instead, she felt an odd kind of pity.

    For all his selflessness, Azriel was always reluctant to accept any kindness or compassion on his behalf. As if he didn’t think he was worthy of such things. The thought of it pained Elain in ways she couldn’t explain.

    She sat on the edge of the bed and extended a hand, beckoning him to come closer.

    He didn’t. Not at first.

    “Azriel,” she said softly. “Please.”

     A beat. Then…

     He padded over to her, chastened. His tail dragging behind him as though he was regretting his stubborness. He pushed his snout into her palm, leaning into her by way of apology.

    Elain breathed a sigh of relief.

    “You can sleep at the foot of the bed,” she said. “I won’t have you sleeping on the floor.”

     Azriel sniffed, but obeyed, retreating the farthest corner before circling into a little nest among the covers. The sight of it, as strange it was, softened her heart. She was one of the handful of people in the world who this scarred and lonely warrior seemed to trust—even when she so clearly wronged him.

    She would not take that trust for granted. His faith in her was humbling, and she wished she could give voice to the gratitude she felt. But it was late and she was tired…and a new day of challenges was looming ever closer.

     So she changed into her nightgown, noting how Azriel had turned his back to her while he slept (no doubt an appeal to her modesty). Then she climbed into bed, mindful of the shadowsinger who watched over her. Only this time, she watched over him…counting each of her breaths until sleep finally claimed her.  

***

    There were many reasons why Elain hated her visions.

     They frightened her. They angered her. They were thrust upon her against her will. Worst of all, they imprisoned her in a realm caught between dream and reality. A place where the difference between one and the other was as razor thin as Truth-Teller’s blade.

     Her visions were like memories. So vivid and visceral that she could reach out and touch them, experience them in motion. And yet they passed through her like so many grains of sand; a collection of impressions, feelings, and words fighting for some kind of coherency. Images both real and the unreal formed labyrinthine corridors within the chambers of her mind. Corridors where monsters like Hybern always seemed to lie in wait.

    It was unbearable.

    But tonight, her visions were softer, kinder—like the falling of spring rain.

    For once she saw and was unafraid to look.

    There was a bed—not her own—and a warm and comforting presence. The sheets were tangled around her legs in a casual disarray. Her bare skin was cooled by the breeze seeping through an open window. And there was someone in her arms. A man. A male.

    It was like watching herself and yet not. A passive viewer in an unfolding scene. Everything was hazy at the edges, not unlike the oily texture of one of Feyre’s paintings.

    The male in her arms was still as she stroked his bare back. Elain held him close, murmuring sweetly into his ear. Then the dull blue light of dawn filled the room and filled her heart. And oh. She hadn’t realized until then…just how empty her heart had been.

    Then the male, bared to the waist, reached for her. Buried fingers into her golden-brown hair as he kissed…no devoured…her lips like she was ambrosia. There was shadow and there was light, melding together as easily as love and desire. Then suddenly, roses—like bright drops of blood—grew between the slats of the wooden floors.

    The strong contrast threw the passionate scene into a deeper relief, and the words came to her lips with the finality of a prophecy.

    A flower that blooms in light and shadow.

    The words reverberated through her like the tolling of a bell. Its echo like a hook that dragged her back to the shores of consciousness. Yet the words were still there when she woke, etched into her heart.

    She cracked open a bleary eye and wondered at the fluttering darkness surrounding her.

    Then she realized that it was the membrane of a wing.

    Had the spell been broken in the night?

    She shot up in bed, the mattress groaning strangely beneath her. Then her eyes alighted on Azriel and—

    “Azriel…oh no.”

***

    “He’s um…he’s bigger.”

    Amren smirked. “In what way?”

    “This isn’t a joke,” said Elain, raising her voice as much as she dared. “It’s just…come and see.”

   Amren trailed after Elain at a far slower pace than was considered polite. It wasn’t as if she didn’t care about the little seer’s dilemma. She simply relished how much she fretted and blustered over her precious shadowsinger.

   A shadowsinger who was clearly much larger than he was the night before.

   “I’m sorry Azriel,” said Elain. “I had to bring her.”

    It seemed like only a few hours ago that Elain could hold her friend in the palm of her hand. Now he was the size of a young thoroughbred: big enough to ride, like the wyverns that once roamed the wastelands of the old world.

    “It’s a good thing our High Lord saw fit to give you such wide and spacious chambers,” said Amren.  

     Elain wrung her hands while Azriel glared. His shadows roiled about him, whispering in his ear and winding about his massive spiked tail like tendrils of smoke. How much of his powers remained intact while trapped in this form remained to be seen…

    It was a miracle that the only things in the room that bore the brunt of his latest transformation was an upturned dresser, a broken chair, and a sagging bed. All of which would require far too much explanation if discovered. Given the sheer breadth of him, it could have been much worse. But at least it had shown that Azriel still possessed enough self-restraint to not have torn the room apart in rage and confusion.

    Amren wondered what would have happened had this spell inflicted itself on Cassian instead. Though the thought of witnessing how Nesta would take Cassian in hand, bridling him under her uncompromising control, made her smirk all the wider.

    “What do we do now?” asked Elain.

    “Well, you’ll need a bigger basket.”

    “Amren!”

    Azriel couldn’t answer her with words, but his growl of irritation said enough. But unlike last night where the sounds he made were barely above a whisper, they were now loud enough to be heard throughout the entire house. As loud as the baying of hounds.  

    Fortunately, the rest of the Inner Circle had yet to return from their duties to the Hewn City. Though given the late hour of the morning, Amren knew that time was not on their side.

   “Did you find out anything from the book?”

    Amren tilted her head, choosing her next words carefully. “Yes and no. It wasn’t a page-turner by any means, but I was able to glean the important things. Some of which I will tell you now and others I will tell you later.”

    “What’s that supposed to mean?”

    Amren waved the question away like a fly. “The book you discovered was the grimoire of a seer who lived in an age before the seven courts came to be. Here.” She handed Elain a scrap of yellowed paper. “This flower is the key to reversing the spell. Though its like is rare and has not been seen in many years.”

    Elain’s eyes widened.

    “A flower that blooms in light and shadow…”

    Now it was Amren’s turn to be curious. “What was that?”

    The girl blanched, fooling no one as she stammered that it was nothing. Amren narrowed her eyes but decided to let it be. They had more pressing matters to attend to.

   “That flower still grows in the valleys near the Steppes.” And here, Azriel bared his teeth, a tremor running through his folded wings. Not surprisingly, his birthplace was one of his least favorite places to be. “You’ll have to find the flower, crush it into a powder, then have him drink it under the light of the full moon.”

    “But the full moon is several days away,” said Elain. “What happens if we don’t find it in time?”

   “Well then you’re in for quite a wait until the next one, my dear. And I’m not sure how much longer we can keep the rest of the Inner Circle unaware.”

   As if on cue, the door to the townhouse creaked open. The hum of familiar voices followed.

   They were home.

   Elain cursed with a word that Amren didn’t even know she could use.

   “I’ll distract them,” said Amren. “And take this, as well.” She pressed a sapphire-like stone that hung off the end of a long chain into Elain’s palm. “Its glamor will keep you both undetected, even from us. Use it wisely.”

  “Thank you, Amren.”

   “Feh.” She turned to the shadowsinger. “I’m actually disappointed you don’t wish to stay in this body, little spy. You look like quite the warrior now.”

   The look in Azriel’s eyes could have charred meat. Amren laughed.

   “Head to the roof,” was all she said, before shutting the door behind her.

***

   Elain packed what few supplies she could in a leather satchel before throwing on her cloak and a more practical dress. She didn’t know how long she would be gone, and although the prospect of doing something so dangerous made her heart stutter, she couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement as well.

   This was an adventure, she thought. An adventure all her own.

   Azriel stood on the edge of the balcony, his wings beating as they opened to catch the open air. The air was his element, she remembered.

   He was born hearing the song of the wind…and the song of the shadows.

   “Obviously, I’m coming with you,” she had told him. “I made you promise, after all.”

    She had expected Azriel to snap at her, as he did with Amren. But no, he only bowed his head as he crouched down, allowing her on climb onto his back. Elain gulped. She had ridden before as a girl…at her family’s estate, her father leading her pony through the park on their grounds.

    But this was no pony.

   It took a moment to settle herself. The height from his shoulders was dizzying. She wriggled until she could find a comfortable seat, trying to stop the blood from rushing to her face as she did so.

   Why did this have to be so awkward?

    But if Azriel felt that way, he didn’t show it. In fact, he was patient and steadfast as ever. Then the tendrils of his shadows appeared, securing around her wrists like reins.

   When she was little, Nesta used to read her stories about princesses in towers, and the dragons that kept them there. But her dragon was no jailer. No, her dragon was her savior. It was a twist in the narrative that made her smile, and she leaned forward to clasp Amren’s jewel around Azriel’s neck.

   It gleamed bright and blue, just like his Siphons.

   “Well my friend?” she said, grasping his sides. “Are you ready for an adventure?”

    Azriel answered by spreading his beautiful wings as he reared back, running at a leap before taking off in the sky, leaving nothing behind save for the boom of his wings.

***

Thank you for reading, my loves.

Other chapters be found in the Masterlist in my Bio / I am Lady_Therion on AO3

[forgedasset-a]

Grief (jfc)

Physical pain doesn’t come close to the pain that he’s being forced to endure. Loss was a concept he was all too familiar with, and it’s been a long time since he’s bothered to grieve anything, or anyone. Everything would eventually fall apart, everyone would leave him. It’s his damnation for surviving the fall, for cheating death when it had finally claimed him. Death was often seen, visited by death more times than he can count. Usually, it came by his hands, or it were those that were around him. Simple, easy to move on. No connection, no memory that tied his bond to them. And his mind? Well, there were days that he’d forget his own name. There was no guarantee that he’d even remember them, their passing. Or if he’d even been responsible. Time and time again, it was the same story. 

This time, it was different. Death had come, and it had claimed once more. Taking someone that meant everything to him, that had easily become the world he would give, and do anything for. When it comes to pain, there’s different ways to cope. Some laugh out of the sheer shock, tears instantly run for others. Anger, frustration - denial until they see the body being put under the ground, and some… shut down. A reaction that Bucky had taken to. He felt numb, the world becoming muted, time slowing down. 

Voices called him to no avail, the tight pressure in his chest keeping him from reacting. For days, everything had seemed slow, unreal - a horrid nightmare that he expected to wake from. Eyes would reopen, and he’d be laying on his side. Face nestled into her hair, inhaling her scent while his arm locked around her waist. He’d pull her close, and press kisses to the nape of her neck. Whisper praises in her ear, until he’s worked his way across her jaw and has reached the right angle to steal a soft, lazy morning kiss that’d leave a smile plastered on his face. Because she was there, and she was his - and he was hers, and everything had worked out. After all the long fought battles, she was at his side, where she was meant to be. 

Every morning, he would wake to an empty bed. Where the realization would once more come, and it’s as if he’s reliving the moment of her death all over again. Again, he’d force himself to shut down to spare himself the full blow of the pain. 

Today, he notices that her scent is already fading as he rolls onto his stomach and onto her side. Face buried into her pillow, eyes closed. Smell of her shampoo is hardly present, and even the sheets hardly carry the scent of her perfume. She’s fading from his life, and he hardly realizes, because he’s so damned stubborn he doesn’t let himself feel her passing. Bucky could almost fall asleep in his current position. He’s hardly slept, spending long nights alone, staring at the ceiling, contemplating, thinking… rewinding the moment of her death in his mind. Over, and over again. Torturing himself, by thinking of all the different things he could have done to save her. If he’d reacted seconds quicker, if he’d pulled her out of there the moment he had a bad feeling… if he’d been able to shield her. If he’d forced her to stay back, she’d hate him for it. She’d hate him, but she’d be alive to do so. He could live with that, he could live with knowing she despised him, over her being cold and dead, and under dirt. 

Alarm starts to blare from his phone, vibrating as it plays an unfamiliar song. Today’s the day that all of those that had passed, would get their grand memorial. They’d be mourned and remembered, and then buried to be forgotten. 

Getting ready to show up is dreadful, sitting in the car for a while, until he’s mustered up the strength to walk inside. Chosen location is large, and grand. Men and women adjourned in their best suits and gowns, those that didn’t even know them - dressed in black, and having the audacity to present speeches. About how the individuals that had passed, had fought bravely and will never be forgotten. How everyone will forever be grateful, thankful for their sacrifice, about how they would be repaid by given the best tombstones in a private cemetery, where they will be worshiped as heroes for eternity. So much shit spewing from their mouths, it was unbelievable. People were mourning their loved ones, this should have been private. This should be the time they get to say goodbye, but instead - as everything else, it had turned into a public affair that was being streamed. 

Light dims, and the attention is finally on the deceased. Names are called out from the list that resides at the podium, opportunities to speak of them coming. Some names, he recognized. Names that were dismissed, until they’d called out Lorna Dane. 

Instantly, he draws in a rattled breath. Unable to exhale, chest tight, jaws clenched. Certain that if he lets out that breath and allows himself to catch another; everything he’s fought to keep hidden away, is going to come pouring through. Many speak of her, praise her. He’d like to think that if she could hear what individuals thought of her, how she’d live in their memory and how she’d touched their lives; she’d be proud. But, disappointed that he’d been a selfish coward that couldn’t stand to speak of her. He couldn’t bare it - the burden is so heavy on his shoulders, it’s a miracle in itself that he hasn’t collapsed yet. Little did he know that it was just the very beginning of things, because today, was the day where this became real. There was no avoiding it, he couldn’t lie to himself anymore and pretend that this was a dream, a vivid and shared hallucination, that there was a mystical fix to it all. 

It becomes real when the graveyard clears out, and he’s left alone. Standing next to the pile of dirt in front of a grand tombstone. Made of black marble to match the other fallen heroes’. Names and dates engraved, insignia of their organization and alliance dead center, and a thank you marked at the very bottom. But her name stood out above all the other words, large and bold, a silver engraved Lorna Dane. As much as he wanted to convince himself that she wasn’t the one in that box, he couldn’t. He wanted to believe that she was just pulling another one on him, that she was going to show up when he’d least expect it. And he’d hold her until the day that she truly was meant to die. 

Pain is inevitable. One can distract themselves from it, pretend it doesn’t hurt. Avoid the situation for as long as possible, numb themselves out as much as possible. But it always comes, and it’s always ruthless.  Hitting so suddenly, that his breath hitches and holds. Heart aches, the pit of his stomach feeling so hollow, he feels so hollow. Day is beginning to turn into night, and the weight has finally brought him down to his knees. Flashes of memories running through his mind so vividly, her smile, her touch, her warmth and comfort. Her voice and laughter, the taste of her lips against his. Soft skin under his touch, bright eyes that he’d never have the pleasure of looking into again. Her face was the first he’d seen when he woke, distressed and afraid. She’d comforted him, had walked him through his second chance at life. Helped him when he needed her, feeling the phantom sensation of fingers threading through his hair to pull it back into a messy bun or braids to fight off the heat. 

And he’d been the last face that she’d seen before her eyes closed, never to be reopened again. He’d failed her, all the promises of keeping her safe and sound - of protecting her til his last breath. Promises, of how they’d escape and never be found again so that they could live their happy ever after, now laid six feet under, just as she did. “Fuck.” Voice cracks, tears stinging and pricking, threatening to fall.

               Blood pools from the palm of his hands, screams and debris coming from every direction. It’s dark, their only exit slowly being cut off. Panic has taken claim over everyone, trying to escape - trying to bring their friends, their family, and their lovers through that exit with them. Blood seems to have painted every surface, limbs sprawled across the ground; bodies draped over the remains of each other. Even he had sustained injuries, the deep gash in the crook of his knee causing blood to squelch - for the wound to reopen and close again with every step he took. Slowing him down, making her feel heavier than she was. Light was dimming, every step he took was a desperate attempt to get her out. Begging her to stay with him, that they were so close... she’d be at a hospital soon and she’d get fixed up. But the blood is flowing quick, injuries so deep that even if he’d gotten her to a hospital; there was no salvation. “I got you, baby... I got you.” He’d spoken this phrase to her so many times. Every time, he’d gotten her out. They’d both made it. Bloodied and bruised, sore and scarred; but they made it. “Keep your eyes open, Lorna... we’re almost there.” 

              Every word he’d spoken fell upon deaf ears. She’d been dead minutes after finding her, pale skin stained red. Dead weight in his arms, without a warning. Without a word. He wouldn’t have known, he wouldn’t have stopped. He only wanted to get her out, on that stretcher. Where he’d hold her hand and steal a kiss, tell her it was over, and they’d see each other soon. The ambulance would take her and he’d eventually find her, and they’d walk out of the hospital, hand in hand. Fate had other ideas. Instead, he’s been told that they can’t take her. They can’t take her, because she’s dead, and there are others that need the assistance that are still alive. But he’s stubborn by nature, and stubborn for his love for her. Denial is instant, and he begs and begs - something he promised himself he’d never do. He just wanted them to kick start her heart with adrenaline, get it beating again. Anything, but there was nothing. She’d been dead for far too long, and he hadn’t even realized... he hadn’t realized how the world was so cruel, that it let him carry the love of his life, dead in his arms. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” Hardly a hushed whisper. No one else would have heard him. It wouldn’t have mattered, because he’s alone. Alone, how he’s meant to be. Head is kept low, unable to even look at her tombstone. Warm tears dribble down the bridge of his nose, crescent teeth marks imprinted against his bottom lip. Biting so hard, he’s sure to draw blood soon. Biting, so that he can keep himself from crying out, to force some false stability into himself. A man that’s broken and battered with nothing more to lose. He’d just lost everything, with nothing more to gain. There was nothing more to give. All he could do now, is mourn her loss. Every day, he’d relive their first, and final moments together. Forcing himself to torture himself with her memory, out of fear of forgetting her. Terrified, that one day he’s going to wake up and he won’t remember she had even existed, that he’d been ready to drop everything in his life for. Truth be told? There were instances where he wondered if they were ever meant to end up together. Always seemed, that life had other plans for them, instead. 

Meant to fall in love, meant to hope and desire. To see a future together, but never meant to get there. From day one, she was destined to die in his arms, and he was destined to grieve her every day since. 

Which, he does. Every single damned day, he grieves for her. Some days, feel a little easier. Others, it hits hard, taking away his will, making breathing even seem impossible. Forcing a facade in the eyes of others, only for it to crumble the moment he gets home. To their home. Their home, that still has everything where she had last placed it - untouched, making him see her everywhere. Side of her bed is usually left untouched, not wanting for her scent to completely fade away or mix with his own. He still lays on his side, facing the direction she would always lay in. In his sleep, he’d instinctively reach over to put his arm around her. Metal would fall against the soft sheets, would sometimes stir him awake. Eyes would open in the dark of the night, to nothing. But today? Today, his will falters. Where he holds her pillow and buries his face, where he lays on her side to feel somewhat close to her, where the pain of his loss takes reign once more. It’s been exactly ten days since her death. Ten days, that he’s gone without her for the first time since he was brought out of cryo. 

Three years, that he could have spent with her, wasted. Three years, that could have been spent holding her, loving her, cherishing her. Telling her he loved her, and protecting her. Instead, he’d been selfish and left her. Now, she’d left him. Only this time, unlike him leaving - there was no coming back. Never destined to reach their future together. 

 Send “Grief” for a drabble about my muse grieving when yours has died.  @emeraldhellfire