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blurbfics · 22 days ago

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There'd Better Be a Mirrorball | Azriel x OFC [part eleven]

Summary: A shift in the wind and in her mind. He makes a vow.

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: violence, heavy swearing, brief description of sex. drugging/poisoning, threats, skinning (brief), anger, angst

Minors, do not interact.

a/n: sometimes you just have to go out to a goth bar with your friend and make out with a random guy for research/inspiration purposes, you know? he actually gave me a great idea, right as i was leaving, i made eye contact with him and he rushed up to me, said "come here, dame un beso," and pulled my face to his for a goodbye kiss. he did the whole cupping-my-face-with-one-hand and slid the other one around my waist thing too, and then gave my bottom a quick smack when i pulled away. writing material indeed

part ten

masterlist

"A tear in the membrane

Allows the voices.

They wanna push you off the path

With their low frequency wiring."

Thom Yorke, Hearing Damage

The late afternoon air was brisk to all around her yet she barely noticed, skin flushed and damp with sweat as it was.

“-it was a matter of misinterpretation!-”

“-but the leader of the last clan of lightsingers grew ever more arrogant and unforgiving-”

She rushed through the throng of people in the main avenue, uncaring as her shoulder knocked into those around her, not hearing their insults and name calling as she pushed her way through the blurring masses, letting out a breath of relief as she broke through the crowd and into a grim alleyway, closed off by a single heavy chain crossing from one establishment to the other.

“Elain Archeron gives the Shadowsinger a powdered remedy meant to treat his headaches from-”

Eowyn easily stepped over the heavy chain, but stumbled slightly at that particular whisper. It wasn’t often they said anything of interest about anyone she cared about. Not having the right headspace nor the time to linger on it, however, she regained her balance and continued on, evading the occasional obstruction in her way as she walked further down the alley towards the other side of the street.

Halfway down she huffed to herself at the shift in wind that was now so familiar to her, the whooshing sound of flapping wings echoing from above before his voice did.

“A little late to be out here, isn’t it?” Azriel’s voice called out cooly, keeping a step behind her. Whether by his doing or by their own accord, she felt his shadows crawl up her skirts and under her veil, weaving affectionately through her hair.

Any other time she would’ve laughed at their gentle tickling, pleased to see Azriel again after a week long mission. Now all her mind could focus on was getting to where she needed to go before she lost it again.

“I don’t recall inviting you,” she shot back immediately, but she knew she lacked her usual teasing tone. She shook her head quickly, as if trying to shake the shadows out from her hair but regretted the movement immediately, both because of the piercing pain that stabbed through her skull and because of the incomprehensible droop of the one specific shadow that liked to ride along her wrist or cupped in her hand whenever they were around.

She didn’t have time for this.

“Must’ve slipped your mind,” he parried, either ignoring her unamused tone or not noticing. Likely the former.

“If you’re going to follow me, fine, but don’t get in my way,” she practically barked, and found herself rather surprised that he didn’t so much as flinch at her tone, as anyone else would do. He simply remained silent and unruffled, following close behind. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her curiously and attempting to decipher what had her in such a rotten mood, and although she regretted being so hostile to him, wishing she could simply greet him and converse with him as she did whenever he came back from missions, she simply couldn’t. Not now.

She huffed and rounded the corner into the less busy street.

Quick to surmise her intentions as she looked up at the sign outside the apothecary door, Azriel’s shadows rushed before her, opening and holding the door open for her to push her way through. Barely murmuring a short “thanks,” she stomped through the shop.

“Don’t believe a single thing this bitch says,” she hissed at the young fae male who flinched in place, head whipping to look at her in terror as the herbalist merely patted his hand assuringly. “She’s a fucking charlatan,” she continued, finding herself being held back by Azriel who immediately rushed in after her to stop her from launching herself at the herbalist.

The fraud in question didn’t seem the slightest bit alarmed, much to her chagrin, as she only handed the young male his coins back, placing a hand over the tonic in front of them. “You give this a try, free of charge, sweetheart, and you’ll notice the difference immediately, Mother give you strength.”

The fae male– shooting a nervous look at the entirely veiled enraged female and the huge winged male holding her back– could do nothing but snatch the tonic and his coins and bolt out of the shop.

“You fucking cunt,” Eowyn seethed at the herbalist. She had begun to make monthly trips out into Velaris– a great achievement for someone who was something of a recluse for such a long time– and found her usual herbalist, Madame Loerma, growing increasingly suspicious of her use of sleeping draughts. She had thus begun to circle around other apothecaries, dabbling in a few only to get the products for twice Mme. Loerma’s price and half of its quality. Eowyn had thought that this particular herbalist wasn’t as bad as the others, however Aniika had royally and truly fucked her over. “What was in the fucking dwale?”

“You already know what was in the dwale or you wouldn’t be here, lovely.”

“Answer her question,” Azriel growled lowly, clearly wanting an explanation himself.

Eowyn ignored him.

“How do I get rid of it?” She shrugged Azriel’s arms away from her, stepping around the counter to face the herbalist who mirrored her movements, circling away while eyeing her and Azriel.

“You already know,” the grin the female sent her was unsettling, her eyes glinting brightly, almost reflective. If Eowyn didn’t know any better, she would say the herbalist was under the influence of some mind-bending nostrum, but alas she did know better. She had seen those glassy crazed eyes before.

“Oh quit it with the cryptic talk,” she snarled, “there must be another way to stop my head from fucking pounding.”

“Eowyn,” the way Azriel said her name, softly and only to her, yet firm and commanding of attention brought her face up to look at him, although he couldn’t see her under her veil. “Explain.”

She took a deep breath and held it before exhaling, trying to calm herself down. “She poisoned me,” no sooner had she spoken the words than he had the herbalist pinned to the wall, his shadows restricting her movements.

“And why,” he held Truthteller to her throat, “would you do such a thing?”

“She’s a witch!” The fae screeched, “I only put a little black hemlock in the dwale. It’s inoffensive to most High a-and lesser fae,” she said the last part quickly as he pressed the blade harder into her, “but it causes mild symptoms in witches.”

“What symptoms?” He pushed.

“Fever, headaches, body aches, visions,” she looked over his shoulder at Eowyn, but he deftly raised a wing, covering her from sight.

“And why would you do that?”

“I felt her,” her horrid breath shuddered in ecstasy that made his nose wrinkle in disgust, “I knew she was a witch when she came in for her sleeping draught last month and decided to add the hemlock to the batch she picked up last week— tell me, my Lady, have your eyes turned to their natural state? Can you feel her power coursing through your veins?”

“Fuck you,” she hissed, then placed an arm on Azriel’s shoulder, “let’s go Az, she won’t tell me anything.”

“I’ll make her tell you,” he gritted, the dagger beginning to cut deeper but not into the thin flesh and muscle, but rather slicing parallel in the slow beginning of a skinning.

“No! No!,” she yelled out in fear and pain, “you can either access your full power-“

“No.”

“-or you can just ride it out! There’s no other way, I swear it!”

“How long?”

“Two o-or three days, give or take— oh no, please!”

“Anything else?” Azriel looked over his shoulder and when she shook her head, if perhaps trembling and feeling drained as she crashed down from her explosive rage, he only turned back to the herbalist and hissed with icy cold rage. “Explain to me why you care if she’s a witch, and why I should let you live another miserable day.”

“Th-the Daughter… carries the wisdom of the Mother,” she stammered, but she looked at him confusedly as if she only shared common knowledge, “she will bring us salvation from the clutches of twisted thinking and shield us from—“

“Don’t listen to this bullshit, she’s just a cultist, she’s been brainwashed,” Eowyn insisted, pulling on his arm.

Az frowned at her but let the fae go.

Eowyn made her way outside, but the wind carried his voice out with her. “Tell the others I want that poison out of this city by dusk tomorrow. If I find just the slightest indication it’s still in Velaris, or that you told anyone what happened here, I’ll come back and finish the job,” he snarled lowly.

It wasn’t a threat. It was an act of mercy.

—

Azriel remained silent by her side as she leaned heavily onto the brick wall on the side of the street, barely managing to round the corner into the same alleyway before taking a deep shuddering breath. Uncaring that the walls were slick with an unknown sticky substance, she leaned her head back to the wall, squeezing her temples with her trembling thumb and middle finger.

“Eowyn,” he breathed softly, lowly, and she almost kissed him for it, for her head felt like it would explode if he spoke any louder.

“Can you take me home?”she asked, equally as soft and while on any other occasion she would’ve felt profoundly ashamed and embarrassed to ask for help— wouldn’t have dared to ask for it in the first place, too proud to be seen as weak, to feel herself become weak— she found she just could not give a damn.

Azriel said nothing in reply, yet she flinched slightly when she felt him approach her. Her eyes, hidden behind the veil but still closed with heavy tiredness, were both burning and felt like they didn’t belong on her body and she knew, without looking at her reflection that they appeared all-white.

She was a monster. She was a burden. Why would he ever bother with someone like her?

She felt his large strong and oh-so-careful hand cradle the back of her neck at the base, his other powerful arm reaching under her knees to swoop her in his arms while not jostling her head.

In sync, as always, she moved of her own accord in response to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and even went so far as to lay her head on his sturdy collarbone as his arm slid around her back, holding her firmly and steadily to his chest.

“You okay?” He asked in a whisper, much too used to the way their bodies seemed to just instinctively move in response to one another. She told herself it was due to their frequent sparring and proximity.

He flew them home in silence for a while, not rushing her response until she breathed out an “I will be” into his neck, resting her face there and inhaling deeply. She breathed in his soothing scent of cedar and night-chilled mist. What mist smelled like, she had no clue, but it was the only way to describe that specific scent that was true only to him.

He smelled like the misty droplets of almost-nothing water suspended in the air just before becoming tainted with the smell of earth as it lands upon a leaf or strand of grass. He smelled like the anticipation of nature, of life.

She pushed her straying thoughts away, fearful of any resurfacing delusions after a long day of loud voices in her head—loud voices! So loud she could barely hear herself think!— and the haunting visions she’d been plagued with all day.

The visions that came to mind now were of a different nature, basing entirely on the feeling of him so close, so solid, so safe around her.

Finally, she breathed, settling into that cloud of him, her left hand grasping a fistful of his wavy hair behind his ear, the other arm pulling him close to her. She couldn’t help but bask in his warmth as he flew through the early night sky, allowing his scent to permeate her senses. She buried her nose into his neck and inhaled deeply once again, shuddering at his smell, at the sound of his solid heartbeat under his skin, his strong powerful body carrying her so easily. She couldn’t get enough of him, she needed to dig deeper, fill every millimeter of her lungs with his scent, needed to fill all of her with all of him.

“Eowyn?” his voice sounded like it was underwater and thus was easy to ignore; his voice only fuelled the rest of her senses; she saw him bare and hard and aching, begging for her to take him, to let him take her. Flashes of him pounding into her, of him pressing such a strong powerful body down onto hers— “Eowyn, you’re trembling, are you alright?” He sounded scared and concerned and so unlike her eternally unemotional Illyrian.

His evident fear was like a bucket of ice cold water being poured over her head, as she gasped and jolted in his arms, eyes snapping open and pulling away from the vision she’d gotten sucked into. Like all the other visions she’d been plagued with all day, it seemed so solid, so real.

While the majority of her visions often replayed memories deeply buried, often distorted and turned extreme to exploit and lay out her vulnerabilities, this vision was different, if only just as concrete. Familiar, although it had never happened, but with the certainty that it was somehow fact and inevitable.

“I’m sorry,” she moaned, squeezing her eyes shut once again as she hugged him tighter. Tears slipped from her eyes, thick and viscous and burning, as if small trails of acid poured down her face. She panted as she tried to regain her composure, feeling her fingertips begin to tingle again, a telltale sign of her incoming episode, a sign she’d dismissed after her confrontation as lingering adrenaline. “Azriel, I can’t con-I can’t control them. Take me straight to Clotho and don’t- don’t listen anything I say-“

His jaw tightened, eyebrows furrowing as he frowned down at her, “I think I should take you to the house and have Madja look you over-“

“No,” she ground out through gritted teeth, “no, Clotho will know what to do, I—“ she cut herself off with a choked gasp, nails digging into Azriel’e shoulders, “please.” Then her voice changed like the flip of a switch, body falling limp and curling into itself. She spoke in a language he didn’t recognize, the consonants smooth and fluent but breathy and frightened. Her voice was barely a whisper in his ear as she spoke to someone in the recesses of her mind.

Nuunta caëderete

The next few hours came in blurry images to her. All out of order.

She knew she screamed and yelled and cried, but she couldn’t focus on anything at once as one vision turned into the next and twisted into a delusion.

She came back to consciousness, if only briefly enough, to catch a brief glance at Azriel rushing her into the library, calling out for Clotho. She remembered seeing Gwyn standing over her, face contorted with concern as she reached over to remove the veil from her head. Eowyn was only conscious enough to place a hand over her mouth to try to quell the wave of nausea that hit her, trying to cover her burning eyes with the other hand only to be stilled in place by Azriel who held tightly onto her hand.

Movement and the soft press of a mattress confirmed she had been put down in bed, but barely noticed it with the flurry of robed figures around her shuffling the large and angry winged male out of the room who refused to leave her side.

Somehow still aware of him– always aware of him like some kind of echo-location– she only had the presence of mind to snarl an, “out!” before the visions and the darkness took over again.

–

She was not aware that the Shadowsinger paced outside of the healers quarters for half an hour until the High Lord himself came in to fetch him, finding his brother angry and concerned, his hair a mess from running his hands through it and eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears of worry.

She didn’t know that that was the moment when he decided he couldn’t live without her.

No one was any the wiser to know that at that moment, he swore an oath, if only to himself– if the bargain ink that appeared in the shape of an unfamiliar rune on the side of his hip, in the exact same spot where Eowyn had her scar, confirmed– that wherever Eowyn went, Azriel vowed now and forever, to follow.

part twelve

taglist: @lilah-asteria , @a-courtof-azriel, @honk4emoboyz , @feyretopia , @mrsjna , @buttermilktea11 , @bravo-delta-eccho , @kylieinwonderland, @adventure-awaits13

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blurbfics · 12 days ago

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There'd Better Be a Mirrorball | Azriel x OFC [part twelve]

Summary: Azriel frets over Eowyn's wellbeing. Gwyn delivers an unpleasant message.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: angst, yearning, self-deprecating talk, anger, worry, self-doubts

a/n: can't be a proper slow-burn without some yearning, right? sorry lovelies, we gotta go through Angst Road to get to Smut and Fluff Blvd. all i have to say is please go vote! and of course, rest in peace liam payne (rip my eternal hope that we'd see the boys together again at some point)

Minors, do not interact.

part eleven

masterlist

"But she once fell through the street

Down a manhole in that bad way

The underground drip

Was just like her scuba days

Days

Daze"

Interpol, Stella was a diver and she was always down

He goes four nights without seeing her.

Three days and four nights of prowling the entrance to the library, of having his shadows slither down to investigate and report on her progress. Three days of not seeing her, and although Cassian tried to console him with the reminder that he’s gone longer without seeing her when he goes on long missions, his brother is well aware that it isn’t the same and with a single look from Azriel, pointed and unfaltering, he doesn’t try to bring it up to him again.

All the waiting and the worrying and the asking, the begging for the smallest crumbs of information from any priestess that came into his path (that of which was usually Gwyn, who blessedly went directly to him to report on Eowyn’s wellbeing), was torture for him.

And Azriel knew torture. Knew it quite literally like the back of his marred grotesque hands.

He doesn’t sleep that night, the first night. Didn’t sleep much the other three but that first night, after the priestesses kicked him out and he was ‘persuaded’ to leave the library altogether with Rhys’s logical reasoning and Cassian’s… physical cajoling, he allowed them to move him only as far as the entrance to the library leading up to the House of Wind and then he stayed there, alone and in silence, awake the entire night.

His shadows, finding it easier to sneak through, didn't even confirm with him before going down to look after her at their own accord before he could even think about sending them out to do it, and they stayed by her side to relate to him everything that happened to her.

That is, until he considered that what he was doing was an invasion of her privacy, so he retracted them much to their (and admittedly his) chagrin and he remained there, fretting and pacing, murmuring to his shadows and to himself. He found he could not sit longer than two and a half minutes without feeling frantic energy build within him, and sleep came to no avail. Throughout that time, he finally took Cassian’s invitation to stay at the House of Wind, if only to wash and get his meals, in the rare occasion he remembered to eat.

The second day went by much the same but he had the entirety of the day to consider not only the turn of events in the apothecary and what the herbalist revealed, but particularly her words as she was having her episodes. While still herself, she told him not to pay any heed to her words yet how was he supposed to forget her pained cries?

Her voice echoed through his mind.

“B-but I did! I swear it ada*, I did! I mended every single one of your— no no, ada, please!”

The things the shadows managed to capture while still inside only got worse in nature. The first words she had spoken in his ear, however, those words spoken in another language echoed through his mind day and night. The frustration at not knowing what they meant was driving him half insane. On the third day, after hearing from Gwyn that she was doing much better, now seeming much more lucid— he had admittedly sniffed derisively at that but made no further comment— he took to the skies and paid a quick visit to his brother.

Without any hemming and hawing he went straight to the point. “I need you to translate something.”

Rhys was quick with it, immediately breaching past Azriel’s lowered mental walls to dig his talons to peer inside. Azriel freely offered him the memory, not lingering on the details he wanted to keep only to himself, like the feel of her soft supple body in his arms, and the way she’d dug her face in his neck and inhaled, consequently bringing her so close to his face that he could do nothing but freely bask in her scent himself.

Clearly guessing where Azriel’s train of thought inevitably trailed off to, Rhys didn’t linger long inside Azriel’s head but didn’t offer the answer with the immediacy Azriel was seeking.

“Well?” He pressed in a manner that was more natural to Cassian.

“It’s a very ancient tongue. One I thought to be extinct long ago,” Rhys answered at last. “I’ll need to ask Amren.”

“There’s no time,” Azriel hissed, running a hand through his hair, “she won’t be here until next week.”

“Amren arrives today,” Rhys raised an eyebrow, his own violet eyes scanning Azriel in concern. “Have you slept at all, brother?”

Azriel dismissed him. “There’s no time,” he repeated under his breath. With shadows furling faster around him, he turned to leave.

“I’ll let you know what I learn,” is the last thing he heard from the High Lord before he stepped into his shadows back to the House of Wind’s entrance to the library.

By the fourth day, his shadows— disobedient things that they were— reported back that Eowyn’s seizing visions were becoming few and far between and she was now resting, reading and conversing with Clotho and Gwyn. After he’d made sure that Eowyn was faring better, he accepted Nesta's insistence for him to have dinner with her and Cassian, only to have Gwyn herself step into the kitchen as they ate.

He startled when the young priestess stepped in, however, heart in his throat at the thought of something happening to Eowyn in the ten minutes he’d been away. “Is everything-“

“Oh I’m sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she blushed shyly and the way she carried herself spoke of curious trepidation, not the concerned urgency he feared. She did, however, seem rather tired and he found he was endlessly grateful to her for caring for Eowyn in a way he couldn’t do. In a way Clotho hadn’t allowed him to.

(It sent a sharp shooting pain through his chest to consider that it was Eowyn herself who hadn't wanted him there; that she didn’t trust him to stay at her side after the long months of spending almost every day together, of having gotten to know each other so intimately. It was easier to blame Clotho for not allowing him to stay. The alternative left him with a feeling that was too raw and ugly to consider at the moment.)

“You’re not,” Nesta said mildly, if a touch concerned herself. “Everything okay with Eowyn?”

“Oh yes, she’s doing much better,” Gwyn assured them quickly, “she’s been reading dreadfully boring old texts all day about minerals or rocks or something, so you know that means she’s pretty much back to normal.”

Cassian and Nesta immediately invited her to sit and eat with them, which she did after a brief moment of hesitation. “I mostly just came up to let you guys know the good news and deliver a message from Eowyn saying that she’ll join us tomorrow morning, but she won’t be able to stay for training with Azriel,” she gave Azriel a quick pout as if to emphasize her point. He chuckled lightly at the sight, feeling a heavy weight lift off his shoulders at the certainty of seeing Eowyn the following morning. The pang of disappointment that shot through him at not being able to see her during their session together was immediately quelled by the reminder that she still had to take it easy and recuperate after such a dreadful episode– which inevitably led to the reassuring thought of spending that time with her anywhere else for the day, taking care of her if she allowed him to. “For some time.”

It took him a second to understand.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Gwyn swallowed nervously, “we were talking about training and how she’s doing much better now. Remember Cassian? When you mentioned last session how she can start training with Em and Nesta and I? And well, she-“ she continued to ramble, speaking quickly, “well she thinks that since she’s pretty much caught up now, she doesn’t have to stay after and train with you anymore.”

“She doesn’t get to decide when she’s caught up,” he hissed through his teeth, incredulously, still trying to wrap his mind around her words. He narrowed his eyes, unbelieving, ��and why doesn’t she tell me this herself?”

“Well she said she would, but thought it would be a good idea if I just… told you, while you're here,” she blushed again, looking up at him through her lashes. “She… well, she insisted she doesn’t need to train as much anymore.”

He pursed his lips in annoyance, but tried not to let it show as he considered Gwyn’s words, still reeling. He zoned out for the remainder of his quick dinner, too lost in his head as he considered Gwyn’s announcement, spoken with such nonchalance that he couldn’t bring himself to accept it.

Still, the more he considered that, the more he considered the way Eowyn had so viciously attacked the herbalist and the more he thought about that, the more he thought about the herbalist’s revelation.

She said that Eowyn was a witch, and had Eowyn tried to deny it at all? Now that he thought about it, he realized she hadn’t, but she hadn’t confirmed it either. Had she lied right to his face when she talked about her abilities?

He felt his mind begin to clear now that the concern for her wellbeing was wearing off. He considered everything that had happened since he came back from his mission to find her stomping through the streets of Velaris, seeming angry and unlike herself. He hated himself for not having considered telling Rhysand about the herbalist’s accusation.

Witches were extinct. Those that were rumored to survive the Great Witch Purge, lived in the far reaches of the Middle, where they practiced all sorts of dark magic and were rumored to hate all faeries, but were known to consume their blood to be able to access their magic.

Witches were typically considered evil beings by all species, but most importantly, they were known to be extremely powerful.

Rhysand, however, was never the type to believe the stereotypes applied to different creatures, an Illyrian and Shadowsinger like himself included, and knew better than to believe the necessary facade of dark infamy and notoriety in order to survive in this world as a powerful creature, lest they be hunted down to be enslaved and used for barbaric acts.

To have a witch under one’s control would be just as dangerous, if not more, as having access to the Cauldron itself.

Rhys had never expelled nor hunted a witch himself, but it wasn’t in his nature to outright mistreat or deny a being that could be a possible ally, as well as an equal.

For only the briefest of instances– born out of centuries worth of friendship, of fraternal familiarity, acceptance, and love for his brother– he considered telling Rhysand about the accusation made against her.

But he wouldn’t tell his brother about Eowyn, he realized grimly. Both ashamed at himself for withholding possibly valuable and integral information that could strengthen their Court and the general citizens of all of Prythian; and ashamed by even considering betraying Eowyn’s trust before he could even have the opportunity to speak to her about it first.

If he slept at all that night, it was sparse and filled with dark and tortuous nightmares of his family hating him. The thought of Eowyn hating him left a sinking empty void in the center of his being that stole all sleep and breath away from him altogether.

When he woke up hours before the break of dawn, having dreamt of her briefly, an entire audience of hers, laughing at him as he opened up and shared with her a part of himself that he didn’t think worthy of sharing with anyone else, his guilt and grief turned into simmering anger.

So when he saw her the next morning, wearing a covering that revealed only her eyes, he approached her and asked, “how are you feeling?”

“Much better,” her voice was calm and neutral, lacking both the usual teasing lilt and the anger and desperation of the last time they’d spoken. “Thank you for bringing me back to the library. And for asking for me while I was indisposed.”

The way her voice came out emotionless, formal, and cold while her eyes looked just as dark and beautiful as ever— even rested, for once— pissed him off even more.

“Good,” he snapped and turned away from her, refusing to watch as she walked over to her usual spot and decided, at that moment, to not look at her at all for the rest of the session. Still, he was always aware of her presence and as his shadows reminded him, they had not promised to look away from her, so he knew, even without looking at her, that she trained in unfaltering unison with the rest of the priestesses.

Two things happened during that session. First was the feel of Rhys talons in his head as his research finally paid off; then came Eowyn’s impressive but entirely unsurprising achievement, for she was a natural warrior and she had made great success in the months they had trained together.

Failing to remember his resolution to not look at her, he watched her in complete open awe– as expressive and adoringly as a stoic and unemotional male like him could show.

In an effortless and perfect stance, she stood before the pole with a familiar light-consuming obsidian dagger held in an offensive hold above her head, hips and feet positioned perfectly, knees bent at just the right angle.

At the end of that morning session, the morning after she’d had someone else tell him she didn’t need him any more, Eowyn cut the ribbon.

While he was indescribably proud of her achievement, the act was like a slap in the face.

As if the Cauldron or Fate or the Mother herself were sharing a laugh at his expense, her action only reinforced the words Rhys had translated in his mind earlier in the day: I will never cede.

—

After training, as all the Valkyries filed out of the training ring and back into the library– Eowyn among the last few who happily celebrated her successful cut– he called out her name.

She pretended she didn’t hear him.

His irritation was only fuelled by Cassian’s knowing look and understanding pat to the shoulder before taking off into the skies to offer Azriel some privacy.

As soon as his brother took off, he tried to call Eowyn’s name again but despite it catching the attention of a few priestesses, Gwyn among them, who quickly turned to Eowyn and nudged her, Eowyn did not stop.

He hadn’t taken her for a coward. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Beyond annoyed at that point, Azriel sent off a few shadows to cinch around her waist and stop her from going further, even pulling her back a little.

The surprise in her eyes was brief before her face fell back into cool neutrality. The sight of it pissed him off so much, he finally understood his family’s frustration at him when he schooled his features back into place.

She waved at the others to continue without her and then turned to him, her gaze blazé and unlike her.

“Didn’t Gwyn tell you?”

“Tell me what exactly,” he bit, wanting to hear it from her.

“I won’t be able to stay and train with you after our group sessions anymore.”

It was a simple statement of fact, and the way in which she said it, so nonchalantly and unbothered, had his cool anger boiling in his veins, fueled by the hurt in his chest.

“Why?”

She looked away then, but not for long. She observed him quietly for a moment, seeming to be thinking of how to form her words. “I just… don’t think I need it anymore,” he saw it coming yet it still struck him- this time in the pit of his stomach, “the main reason why I accepted the extra training was to wear off some of the excess energy I felt, but I’m doing better now, now that it’s all over,” she waved her hand casually, as if her being so ill and delirious for days was a normal occurrence.

“You’ll have questions, I imagine,” she tilted her head and he felt how she watched him, taking him in. He wondered if she smelt or felt the anger rolling off of him, if she knew of the growing desire and necessity for her. She didn’t let him reply to her, merely shook her head, “it’s not a good time right now-“

“Don’t you dare-“

“I have a lot of work to catch up on,” she interrupted him. She looked to the stairs and sighed before turning back to him. “Are you free tonight? For dinner?”

His heart leaped to his throat, “yes.”

She nodded, “Nesta and Gwyn, they… they have a dinner planned tonight. You’re welcome to join.”

He deflated slightly at that, disappointed it wouldn’t be just them. Another thought struck him, however, for how would she eat if her face was covered?

With a kindled excitement he managed to control, he nodded to her, releasing his shadows from her waist to let her go. “I’ll see you tonight.”

*ada is elvish for father in tolkien’s lotr’s lore. all credit goes to him. he is, of course, a great inspiration of mine

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