summary: | book two | lovers separated, powers that won't be controlled, a doomed wedding. with the threat of war looming over prythian, lucien, Y/N, tamlin, and rhysand's inner circle must scramble to find allies and prepare themselves for what is to come. but Y/N only has one aim; to find her way back to lucien, and protect him at all costs.
chapter warnings: canon level violence, death
chapter word count: 2318
🔮 series masterlist 🔮
please remember to reblog, like, and share a comment if you enjoy this series - it is always appreciated by writers to see their hard work valued.
🔮 tip jar 🔮 tag list 🔮
BATTLE OF VELARIS
Rita’s eyes slid to you as you hurtled toward the four soldiers surrounding her, but it wasn’t fear that you felt in that moment, as reflected in Rita’s eyes. Rather, it was surety that ran through your veins, determination that pumped throughout your body as if it was always meant to have been there. You had fought before - fought for your life, fought to train, to become stronger - but it was nothing like that moment. In that moment, it was almost as if you were born to do this, to be the defender of those more innocent than you, those who had never committed the sins that you yourself had.
Your feet skidded on the blood-slick stones as you brought the knife in your right hand up, slicing through the right lumbar of the soldier closest to you, the small size of the knife making it easy to slip up under his armour to cut through his skin. The soldier cried out in pain as your knife came back wet and red with his blood. Your hair, damp with sweat, flicked across your face as your head turned just in time to see the blade aimed right for your throat; it wasn’t difficult to dodge it, a move that you and Silas had practised countless times.
The movements you made were slick and smooth, carefully executed strikes and blows with such precision that it would make both your old and new tutors proud. There was a soldier on all sides of you, from left to right, in front and behind. You were surrounded, encircled by enemies that wanted nothing more than your head on the end of their sword as a prize to return to their vicious king.
Each and every blow struck against your knives, sparks flying from the metal as they clanged together. You ducked and dodged every attempt made by the four soldiers, slicing endless jabs at each of them as they circled you, a dance where the leader was outnumbered, but knew every step by heart. You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face, one of maniacal clarity; this was everything you had been waiting for, a chance to prove yourself.
“I never would have expected such flawless swordsmanship from the Spring Court sister.” The voice was rough and gravelly, enough to pull you momentarily away from the fight you had found yourself in, quick enough that you didn’t miss the sword aimed for your abdomen, deflected with graceful ease, but with enough counted seconds to catch glimpse of what was taking place behind you.
Rita’s eyes were resolutely wide, determined but fogged with panic and fear. The old dented metal of an ancient-looking dagger was pointed into the soft flesh below her jaw, enough to draw a drop of blood from the column of her throat.
“Is this what they were teaching you in the fields, hmm?” The soldier holding the dagger spoke, his grip on Rita’s arm pinching her tighter, to the point that the skin surrounding his fingers was turning a ghostly white. His yellowing grin seemed to glow eerily from amongst his thin lips, coated in a sheen of scarlet blood as he cocked his head to one side, eyes trained on you. “Did your little trainer never teach you that it’s usually those you’re trying to protect that become your greatest weakness.”
No, Silas had never taught you that. But Azriel had. Time and time again he had drilled into you that your first priority should be making sure any innocents made it to safety - you cursed yourself for forgetting what he had taught you.
“Just let her go,” you said, attempting to sound stern, commanding, but failing as the bile in your throat made your voice croaky and weak. You flinched as that dagger pressed closer to Rita’s throat, masking the slight movement with a flick of the knife in your hand as you jilted your head toward the bar owner. “You don’t need her. Your fight isn’t with her, it’s with me. Let her go-” you spread your arms wide as an invitation to finish what you had both started, “and we can finish this here and now.”
It was then, as the soldier grinned in an almost unearthly manner, pushing Rita from his side as he took the first strides toward you, that you felt the pain; sharp and unyielding and unbearable right in your side, just below the final rib. A scream ripped from your throat, your bones cracking as you fell to your knees beside Rita, barely able to see the figure of the two soldiers - the one who had held Rita and the one who had snuck up behind you and pierced you with their blade - looming above you through your tears.
Your eyes slowly slid to Rita, even as the cobblestones surrounding the bar keep’s knees grew sticky with your own blood. Her eyes were wide, her skin so pale it almost seemed translucent. But that wasn’t important, not when those soldiers were still lingering so near, when the city itself was under siege, when your friends were out there on the streets fighting for their lives. No, what mattered was that female before you, your friend, an innocent.
“Run!” A pained croak that seemed to echo across the river. And as the two Hybern soldiers behind you muttered something about letting the Attor finish you off, the last thing you saw was Rita’s boots as they slammed against the cobblestones in the opposite direction.
A gnawing ache, just below his last rib. It only seemed to grow with every second that Lucien paced the bare stone floor of his rooms. At first, he had thought that it was perhaps his worry manifesting itself into physical pain - anxiety and panic ruminating in his body, only swelling with each second that passed on the clock. Each second that passed without him knowing if she was safe. If he had - in his loyalty to Tamlin - sentenced her to death.
It was his fault.
His fault.
His fault.
It was heinous.
The words seemed to echo through those empty, silent streets, carried on a phantom breeze straight to the House of Wind standing tall in the golden hues of the morning, across every rippled of the Sidra, across each and every blood-soaked cobblestone.
A putrid smell hung in the air like a heavy blanket on Velaris, that once beautiful city now turned to ruin. The place where so many had lost their lives that day. Amongst them you lay, unsure if you were dead or alive; unsure of which you’d rather be. Something warm and heavy lay upon you, crushing your body under its weight. The Hybern soldier, now dead it would seem.
You drew in a deep staggered breath, ignoring the sharp-shooting pain that ran through your stomach at the movement. If you could just keep breathing, keep inhaling and exhaling, perhaps you could make it through this. If it was even worth trying to survive at all.
No, of course it was.
Minutes, or even hours passed, you weren’t sure. The buzzing of flies spun around you, and you could hear the far-off caws of the crows, likely coming to claim their victims, the bodies of the soldiers that surrounded you, littering the streets of the city.
You dared a glance to your left, your neck tight and stiff. You almost wished you had never done it; the glassy stare of a young fae on the front steps of a building you presumed had once been a store gazed back at you, unblinking, mouth agape and tongue hanging out to lick at the ashes of the building that had fallen around you. A fly crawled across her eye, but the fae did not move. You looked up, eyes trailing over the body toward the sky, an attempt to dissipate the vision from your mind, but froze. A sword was embedded in the back of the fae’s skull. She looked no older than a girl - older than you were, but young for her limitless years. You wondered what the girl’s name had been, if she had lived in Velaris for long, if you had ever stepped foot into the store she now lay dead outside. This fae’s death was on your hands, her blood staining your palms. You knew that, just as well as you knew that the girl’s soul was now no more than dust in the air that you were inhaling. You could have saved her, if you hadn’t failed.
Was it truly fair for you to survive - to walk away from that battlefield when you had caused her death? That fae’s ghost would no doubt haunt that riverside for centuries to come, for longer than you were sure your years would grant you even if you did make it out of there alive. Perhaps you should join her, should go down with those you had damned to that fate, who had died defending their homes - defending Velaris.
Once again, as if she were still the mortal that wandered those frozen woodlands so long ago, death seemed somewhat welcoming in those moments of solitude, the heat of the body across you seeming almost like a swaddle, the type that would lull a child to sleep. Perhaps that was your fate, after everything, to die like a stray dog, forgotten and alone, with only those crows and the rising sun as your unwavering companions until your last breath. Your name would become yet another scrawled on the list of fatalities that this battle had already stolen from this realm.
Slowly, as if the very weight of the world you were trying to protect was upon him, you allowed your eyes to open once more, the sunlight near blinding as it continued its descent over the looming mountains that surrounded the city. A great groan ripped from your dry and aching throat as you pushed the body of the Hybern soldier above you, the resounding thud of the body slumping to the ground rippling through the eerie silence. You didn’t know how he had died, who had delivered the killing blow, and perhaps you never would. You inclined your head; there were no sounds of Hybern soldiers coming to collect their dead and rid themselves of any of their enemy that were still breathing, but that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t be there soon enough. If you were going to live, you would have to move. Now.
Every bone and muscle in your body seemed to scream at you to stop as you rolled himself over onto your stomach, pushing yourself onto your knees. Your chest heaved with the effort, rising and falling with every sullen breath, every breath that you breath whilst those around you would not. One glance across your surroundings told you that the House of Wind was to your North, across the sea of the dead. It was illuminated by the setting sun behind it as if Mother Nature herself were guiding you. And so you moved.
You barely paid any heed to the bodies of the dead as you passed by as fast as your shaking legs would allow you. You crawled over their outstretched limbs, black from dirt and dried, coagulated blood. You ignored their glassy stares and tried to block out that smell, tried to avoid the gags that were pushing your way up your throat. That smell seemed to cling to the inside of your nostrils. The smell of death.
There would be time to mourn their losses later, to take in the faces of each and every fae that died in that battle, whether on your side or the enemy, when you reached safety. Your eyes slammed shut as you desperately dragged yourself away, willing your feet to move, to run as far as you could from that place, as far as you could from the faces that would no doubt haunt you.
Your surroundings were unfamiliar, unknown to you despite having walked the route a thousand times before. It looked different now, no longer an ethereal paradise but rather only the setting of the bloody massacre that you had fought through. You moved faster, although you were more than acutely aware that should any of Hybern’s soldiers still be lurking down any of the side streets, they would likely be on his trail in no time, seeking out your body amongst the dead on the streets. Crimson blood stained the hand that you used to clutch the wound in your side, your own mingling with the blood that had been smeared on your hands from the bodies you crawled over, marring your skin, enemy and kin combining in the rivets of your palms after death.
But your vision was growing darker, blurrier, and your foot caught on something below; an outstretched arm hidden by your watering eyes. You groaned in pain as you hit the ground, not even trying to hide the sound from any enemy soldiers nearby. If they killed you, then they killed you. At least it would put you out of your misery. Your hands reached out to cushion your fall, leaving scratches and grazes along the heels of your palms.
That was when you caught sight of the figure that loomed above you. Freshly polished boots scuffed with blood and dirt planted on the stones mere centimetres from the tips of your fingers, reflecting your own bloodied and battered impression back to you, just one more amongst the other broken corpses that lay surrounding you. A squint, a hint of what you were sure was auburn hair silhouetted by the sun, and then a voice.
“Come now,” the voice said, smooth and warm and velvety. “This is no place to die.”
Your lips twisted into a pained smile as they curled around the word. “Lucien.”
So, I had some issues with my laptop that meant my entire plan for A Court of Fate and Fortune, and it's sequel, were deleted, meaning I have to replan the whole thing again!
Would anyone be able to point me in the direction of a chapter by chapter summary of ACOMAF that might make this a little easier? Honestly, I've been putting it off for so long because I knew it was going to be a pain to plan again
summary: | book two | lovers separated, powers that won't be controlled, a doomed wedding. with the threat of war looming over prythian, lucien, Y/N, tamlin, and rhysand's inner circle must scramble to find allies and prepare themselves for what is to come. but Y/N only has one aim; to find her way back to lucien, and protect him at all costs.
series warnings: 18+, minors DNI, smut, non-con, dub-con, domestic violence, ptsd, character death, canon-level violence.
🔮 book one: a court of ash and smoke 🔮
💜 indicates smut
please remember to reblog, like, and share a comment if you enjoy this series - it is always appreciated by writers to see their hard work valued.
summary: | book two | lovers separated, powers that won't be controlled, a doomed wedding. with the threat of war looming over prythian, lucien, Y/N, tamlin, and rhysand's inner circle must scramble to find allies and prepare themselves for what is to come. but Y/N only has one aim; to find her way back to lucien, and protect him at all costs.
chapter warnings: canon level violence
chapter word count: 3480
🔮 series masterlist 🔮
please remember to reblog, like, and share a comment if you enjoy this series - it is always appreciated by writers to see their hard work valued.
🔮 tip jar 🔮 tag list 🔮
City Under Siege
The music and rowdy laughter seemed to seep through the very stone bricks of that castle. Lucien’s heart was in his throat as he walked down the winding hallways toward the source, the labyrinth-like layout of the King of Hybern’s home making it almost impossible for him to find his way around. He’d had a swirling nausea in his stomach in the days since they had arrived in Hybern, and had done his best to keep to himself, locked away in the chambers he had been given - even the rooms here were cold and void of any comfort. There were no personal touches, nothing to suggest that this was, in fact, a home and not just a castle, only the blank walls and stone floors and cruel residents. But he couldn’t, not that night, not when the King of Hybern himself had requested his presence alongside the High Lord of Spring.
A party, the messenger had informed him, in honour of their new alliance.
But Hybern was so much like another court he had once been forced to endure living in. A court under a mountain, ruled by a ruthless self-titled High Queen, one who had stolen his eye from him. Who had nearly taken his life. Who had broken the female he loved over and over again.
Of course, Amarantha had been from here, he had to remind himself. She had grown up in Hybern, had been trained by the King himself, had been his greatest General. It made sense that their courts would be so terrifyingly similar, even if the comparison made him sick to his stomach.
The King’s throne room was packed full of people, music wafted from a small minstrel band in the corner, bodies pressed together, dancing without a care in the world. Barbaric laughter echoed from the walls, barked by males who held no respect for the social expectations of a King or High Lord’s court. As he pushed his way through the crowd, he saw those same brutes of men - large with pale skin and dark, hollow eyes - grabbing at the maids that served them, touching them in places that made him grimace. So similar to the treatment of Y/N Under the Mountain. So similar that he had to force himself forward, stop himself from turning around and making those males pay for their depravities.
Tamlin was already hovering at the side of the King’s throne, and the King himself lounged back in that throne of bones, watching the revelry with an almost neutral boredom written across his face. His eyes lit up for just a moment as Lucien approached, but he ignored the King, eyes settling on Tamlin who offered him a low nod as he took a place on the dais beside the High Lord. His eyes fell on Ianthe, flirting and batting her eyelashes at what seemed to be a Commander in Hybern’s army, close to the edge of the dais; he didn’t miss the way her eyes flickered up to the King every so often, as if waiting for him to notice her and extend to her the same invitation to stand by him as he had to Lucien and Tamlin.
But it was a loud clap that sounded through the throne room, silencing the talking and laughter and music in a second as all eyes fell to Hybern. He didn’t even bother to rise from his throne - didn’t even sit up and straighten his spine as he addressed the Fae of his court.
“Today is a day to remember!” The King called in an unmodulated tone. “Today we embark on an alliance with the Spring Court, who will help steer us to the victory that is rightfully ours!”
A sneering cheer came from the crowd, and Lucien tensed at Tamlin’s side as the King rounded on them, his grin snake-like and foul.
“A gift for you,” he crooned, extending a hand to the door to his right. It opened, and a moment later two of Hybern’s guards appeared, a female gripped between them. She thrashed and fought, but the guards were stronger than she was tenfold, pushing her to her knees before the King, who smirked in what Lucien could only assume was glee.
Lucien was thrown back to that day Y/N was taken Under the Mountain, thrust in front of Amarantha for the first time, when she had just been mortal. The day that he had lost his eye, and lost Y/N in one fell swoop.
“Perhaps you don’t know Merida,” the King snarled. “She only works in the kitchens after all.” Lucien tried not to snarl at the insinuation, his mind immediately flashing to Alis, insulted by the insinuation that she was any less because of her occupation. “Well, Merida here has been selling information to the enemy, haven’t you?”
“W-What?” The female Fae before him stuttered, glancing from the King, to Tamlin, to Lucien, and back again. She was pretty, Lucien thought, young with porcelain-like skin. “I-I never, Your Highness!”
“Don’t even try lying,” the King hissed, taking a step down the dais, closer to her. She looked so frail before him, so fragile and feeble. “My guards have told me that they caught you trying to flee, with a notebook filled with detailed outlines of our plans in your bag. How did you get that information? Did you eavesdrop?”
“N-No!” The female blanched. “I didn’t, I swear! I was going to the market to collect an order of venison for the kitchens. P-Please, Your Highness! I never did anything wrong!”
“Enough!” The King’s outburst rippled in waves of malice throughout the room. Every person there was silent, not a single word uttered, barely a breath exhaled. “You are a traitor to your people, to your Kingdom, and you will pay the price for it.”
One flick of his wrist had the female screeching - screaming in a way that made Lucien’s blood run cold. He wanted to run to her, to help her, to stop the King’s barbaric torture…but he couldn’t. Not now they’d made their alliance, not when the safety - the very life - of Y/N hung in the balance.
“P-Please!” The female screeched, her voice cracking and breaking from the pressure of whatever unholy pain was embedding itself into her body. She hunched over, her bound hands still tied behind her back, making it impossible for her to hold herself up as she crashed to the floor, writhing and thrashing on the floor in a futile attempt to fight off the pain. But it was internal, Lucien knew, and there was no fighting it, no getting rid of it. Not unless the King made the decision to stop. “Please!”
Her face turned a startling shade of red as the pressure within her grew too much. It was then that Lucien did the only thing he could think of, the only thing that he could do that wouldn’t jeopardise their alliance, or put his life at risk. He prayed.
“Cauldron save her,” he uttered under his breath, quiet enough that no one would hear him besides Tamlin. The High Lord shot him a glare from the side of his eye, but after a moment, Lucien was sure he heard the whispers of his friend mingle with his own. “Mother hold her, guide her to you. Let her pass through the gates; let her smell that immortal land of milk and honey. Let her fear no evil. Let her feel no pain. Let her enter eternity.”
And then the female drew her last breath, the veins in her forehead and neck bulging, her eyes an alarming purple, and her body fell limp to the floor.
The crowd, much to Lucien’s disgust, cheered. His lips curled up in anger, but he kept it inside. He didn’t want to end up like that female - Merida. Her name had been Merida.
The King swung back to them in a flamboyant flip, a poisonous smile on his conniving face. “And one more gift for our new allies.” He spoke with a low voice, one that didn’t carry over the raucous cheers of the crowd. And when the King uttered his next words, his eyes turning to Lucien with a harsh smile, he realised it was because these words were meant only for the two of them. “My forces are already on the way to the Night Court. That city of theirs will be dust before sunset.”
Two days passed since the meeting with the Mortal Queens - since receiving the second half of the Book of Breathings. Rhysand had disappeared to Hewn City in accompaniment of his cousin to return the Veritas Orb and ensure Keir was preparing his forces for the upcoming war almost immediately after, and had left you with little explanation of what was happening. Feyre had simply muttered something about how you, “should’ve been more present”, before Azriel had returned you to the House of Wind.
That night had been spent sitting before the fire, tea filling your cup rather than wine, as Azriel debriefed you on everything you had missed. On the trip that Rhysand and Feyre had made to the Summer Court, and Feyre’s training, how they had honed the powers that she possessed from all seven courts. He explained about Keir and Hewn City, as well as the Darkbringers, which Rhysand hoped to utilise in the war. The Illyrians in the mountains who would form an aerial force against your enemies. How Hybern reportedly had his hands on the fated Cauldron - the one that so many had thought simply legend - and planned to use it against you.
His face had been taut with concentration as he had explained - as he had gone through every detail that he thought might be salient for you to know. And the Book of Breathings, the key to destroying the Cauldron, was in Amren’s hands, the code that would decipher the spell to hinder the Cauldron useless entirely still not cracked. Yet still, you and Azriel hypothesised, theorised, about what was to come. He talked you through battle strategies that he was planning to discuss with Cassian, spoke so fervently about how exactly they intended to win the upcoming battles. Discussed with you intel that he hoped to gather to help in the plan.
“And where exactly will I be placed during these battles?” You asked one afternoon. The pair of you were sitting in the slithering sunrays that trickled along the cobblestones like liquid gold, reminiscent of the Sidra that flowed only a few streets away. When Azriel had suggested that morning that you head into the city and experience a taster of one of the tea rooms in the Palace of Salt and Bone, you’d been hard-pressed to think of any reason not to. The walk along the Sidra had been a glorious moment of peace amongst the chaos that you had grown so accustomed to, and he’d even allowed you a moment to ponder a dress in the window of a seamstress’ - one of Autumn Court gold.
He paused as he poured himself yet another cup of lemon tea - one of his favourites, he had informed you just before ordering it. His head cocked to the side in confusion, as if he thought the answer should have been plain.
“You’ll be in the camp with Feyre,” he said slowly, hazel eyes scanning your face, gauging your reaction. You blinked once, and then pursed your lips, your brows dropping to a low frown.
“I won’t be on the battlefield?” You asked. Azriel swallowed and shook his head. “I had thought…I thought there would be a place for me within Rhysand’s ranks, if I had wanted it.”
He bit the inside of his cheek. “Well, that’s something you would have to bring up with Rhys,” he countered, resuming the pouring of his tea, although his eyes never left you. “And I’m sure he’ll make the choice your own, but I doubt he’ll be pleased about it, and if Cassian finds out he’s more likely to make sure you stay off the battlefield, rather than on it.”
Your jaw dropped slightly in protest. “So even if Rhys agrees to let me fight, Cassian will still prevent it?” You asked, tone laced with incredulity. “I thought Rhys was the one who made the orders round here.”
“He is,” Azriel said, slightly dejected. “But Cassian is the General of Rhysand’s armies. When it comes to you, Rhysand would never order Cassian to do something he’s uncomfortable with, and having you on the battlefield - someone that we all care about - would definitely make Cassian uncomfortable.”
“Why?” You countered, your confusion palpable. Azriel shrugged, hazel eyes boring into yours as he placed down the teapot and leaned ever-so-slightly closer to you.
“Because he’d be worried about you,” he explained matter-of-factly. “We’d all be worried about you, and we can’t fight to the best of our abilities if we’re too focused keeping an eye on you and making sure you’re not getting yourself killed out there. It’s the same with Feyre, although I don’t think Feyre has any intention of fighting in battle anytime soon.”
You let out a deflated sigh. “Then what the hell have I been doing all this training for if not to fight?”
He fiddled with the signet ring on his left pinky finger, the one that housed the insignia of the Night Court, twirling it round and round just below his knuckle. “To protect yourself,” he stated, face suddenly stern. “We can’t always be there to protect you.”
You bit your lip, your mind suddenly replaying everything the Suriel had told you. ‘In order for the High King’s destiny to come to fruition, you must sacrifice your life on the battlefield in place of his. And his destiny must happen, for the sake of all Prythian.’
You had to find a way onto that battlefield, regardless of if the Illyrian males agreed with it or not. It was your destiny, the reason, you presumed, that you had found your way to Prythian in the first place. There was nothing in this life that would stop you from making that sacrifice - that decision had been made already, whether you felt that you were ready for it or not.
You opened your mouth, ready to find some way of convincing Azriel that you had to fight, that you had to stand on that battlefield, staring down the enemy, no matter what. But it was then that a shiver ran up your spine, silencing your arguments before they had even left your tongue when the wind turned harsh, and the air colder. An alteration in the city around you, a tremor shifting down the river, leaving ripples in its wake.
Your eyes snapped to Azriel, but he was already on his feet, black scaled armour overlapping across his arms and chest, blue Siphons gleaming. “Get back to the House,” was his only command before he was shooting into the air, hovering above the rooftops, scanning the perimeter, seeking out a threat that had not yet come to light.
Your feet pushed you upward out of your seat and toward the river edge, careening over the railing. Your eyes scanned that river, the point where the glistening water met the seamless horizon - there was nothing there. The sky was clear and cloudless, the streets lively and vivid as ever, the residents of Rhysand’s hidden city cheerfully going about their day as always. Azriel remained hovering above, and in the near distance you were sure you saw Cassian doing the same, swooping low over the streets.
Heart beating rapidly, you swallowed down your dry throat, and that was when you saw them. A smudge in the sky straight ahead, coming from the ocean, wings flapping sleekly, cutting through the air with ease as the smudge split into multiples, and continued directly toward the city.
People began shouting then, pointing at those things in the sky, figures that grew and grew, wider and wider, more threatening with every inch they came closer. Pushing yourself from the railing, you dragged your feet across the cobblestones toward the nearest group of onlookers.
“Get inside!” You snapped frantically at them. “Get inside now, and take as many people as you can. Spread the word. Get to safety.”
“What is it?” One female said, dark midnight blue eyes widening at your panicked demeanour. Your eyes flashed back to the oncoming threat, breathing in a calming breath through your nose.
“Nothing good.” You hiked up your skirt, turning from them, shouting over your shoulder, “Go, now!”
The restaurants and cafés of the Palace of Salt and Bone whizzed past as you ran; the patrons and customers there seemed to sense the danger, perhaps from your frantic run, or those behind you who shouted to hide. To get to safety.
Safety. That wasn’t where you were going. You wouldn’t cower and hide, not this time. You circled through the streets, warning as many people as you could, until you reached that little tea room once again. The pot of lemon tea sat cold on the outside table, the chocolate torte that Azriel had bought for you untouched. But it was neither of these that caught your eye, but rather the glint of the meat knives on the next table, abandoned by the customer who had ordered venison for their lunch and scrambled to find sanctuary before even having their first bite. Two knives, sharp enough to cause some damage if used properly, but small. They would have to do, with no signs of any swords in any of the shops nearby.
A feral shriek sounded from somewhere further to the heart of the labyrinth of city streets. The arrows - they were shooting arrows from those flying creatures above down into the streets. The sky shone in bright bursts of red and blue as Azriel and Cassian’s Siphons bounced arrows back and away from the streets. But it wasn’t enough, you knew, to shield everyone.
A wall of red encased the city border where the streets met the ocean - Cassian on the far side, near the Rainbow of Velaris, guarding his home with everything he had. But those flying creatures - reminiscent of that nightmarish creature named the Attor that you had encountered Under the Mountain - lunged for it, pushing and reaching through it, battling with their every might to reach this city. Another wall of red, pushing some of those forces back, but the majority remained even as those that peeled away from the shield rained hell upon the city outskirts, the screams of those left outside of Cassian’s shields echoing even to your own ears from so far away.
You began running, not back to the safety of the city, nor the mountain that housed the House of Wind where you would no doubt be safe. Not even in the direction of Rhysand’s townhouse that would provide some semblance of safety. Rather, your feet began running directly toward that shield, down the path that paralleled the river. Azriel’s bellow of your name could be heard above the chaos, but you ignored it. You kept running, faster and faster, breaths coming out in pants, just as a gaping hole ripped open at the centre of the shield of red and Hybern’s legions leached through.
A swarm passed through that hole, like ants bursting from their nest, and each one carried with them a soldier of Hybern, each of them wielding a weapon that promised imminent death to whomever came into contact with it. Each street turned to a blur as you hurtled past them, one by one, and caught glimpses of Hybern Soldiers dropping to the cobblestones, weapons at the ready. The thuds of their heavy boots ricocheted down the spiralling streets. I tried to ignore the blood that splattered up my legs with every step, the trickles running between each stone. Even the air smelt of death and decay.
I reached the end of the street and hurtled around the corner - there was no intention in my mind of where exactly I was going, I simply had to be there, to defend this place as Cassian and Azriel were doing. Defend these people against the anguish that the enemy had brought upon them.
It was a few moments before you realised where you had found myself; the alley that homed Rita’s. But it wasn’t that little bar where you had spent so many days wallowing in your own misery that your eyes landed on, but rather the landlord of that establishment. Rita was stood on the front step of her bar, a fire poker in her hand raised up in front of her, the pointed end jabbed in the direction of four Hybern soldiers, their eyes gleaming with greed and hunger.
summary: bucky wants you. you want bucky. only one thing stands in your way; steve.
word count: 3500 words
warnings: smut, 18+, minors dni, cheating, fingering, unprotected sex
a/n: fuck, this ended up much longer than i'd intended but i don't even care because it was so much fun to write!
🍃 tip jar 🍃
🍃 join my taglist 🍃
Bucky had never done it before, thinking of you when he was alone in his room, the door firmly locked. He’d thought about you many times before, but never like this, never as passionately as this as his hand stroked up and down himself, small moans and whispers of your name escaping his lips. It was new to him; it wasn’t something he would usually do. He was old fashioned that way, and preferred to wait to be with a woman instead of simply fantasizing. It wasn’t his way.
But he couldn’t have you – he couldn’t wait for you to be his because you already belonged to another, his roommate, his best friend, his brother. Bucky knew that he had no chance with you, not up against him; the man was perfect for you for Christ’s sake, a living legends, and what was he? An introvert with a broken mind. You would never choose him, he knew it, and that was the only reason he was fantasizing instead of acting, wishing instead of doing. That was why he found himself sitting on his bed, alone in the dark, pleasuring himself to the thought of you; to stop it from seeping out to the rest of the tower whenever you were around. He didn’t want other people to know his business, he didn’t want Steve to know what he truly thought of his girlfriend, and he especially didn’t want you to know the thoughts that ran through his head whenever he saw you. It was ungentlemanly, and he’d be damned if anyone said he wasn’t a gentleman.
He was certain that you thought he hated you, positive that you thought that was the reason that he disappeared from any room that you found yourself in together. But in truth it was because every time he saw you he felt a burning ache to push you up against the wall and have his way with you. It was hard for him to keep his thoughts to himself, and he was certain that each time he licked his lips of blushed at the sight of you that he was letting his true intentions known.
Your name tumbled from his lips once more as he felt himself finish, his pleasure coursing through his body, the guilt following shortly after as his load coated his flesh hand, his metal one gripping at the edge of the mattress. He sighed as the wave ran its course, falling back on the bed and staring up at the blank ceiling. He knew what he had done was wrong, he knew he was probably going to end up in Hell just for the thoughts he had about you, but he knew that was where he was heading anyway, and he hadn’t been able to control himself any longer. It was too late – the deed was done.
You had never done it before, thinking of him when you were alone in your room. You’d thought about him before, but never like this, never as passionately as this as your fingers rubbed delicate circles over your most sensitive spot, small moans and whispers of his name escaping your lips. It was new to you; it wasn’t something you would usually do. You had a boyfriend, and you would never normally be the one to think about another man. It wasn’t your way.
Bucky hated you, you were almost certain of that. The way he always avoided eye contact with you, and he seemingly refused to be in the same room as you, even when Steve was there to act as a buffer between you, told you as much. But there was something about his cold actions towards you, something about the way the muscles in his flesh arm tensed whenever you were near, that you found strangely attractive, and it just made you want him even more. You’d wanted him from the moment that you’d seen him, but you knew that you couldn’t have him. You had Steve, and you belonged to Steve, at least you heart did. But the burning ache in the pit of your stomach that you felt every time you looked at Bucky wasn’t something that you’d ever felt around Steve. Nothing that Steve had ever done had made you moan more than just the thought of Bucky’s hands touching you did. He made you weak in a way that Steve never would.
You leaned your head back against the headboard of your bed, your eyes closed as you pictured his hand in place of your own, his breath against you skin, his lips flushed lips in a place that you shouldn’t be imagining them. That’s all it took for you to fall over the edge of oblivion. You lifted a hand over your mouth to silence your moans, not wanting Steve to hear them from the bathroom where he was showering. Your back arched as you reached your peak, heart racing as you mumbled Bucky’s name into the palm of your hand.
You felt guilty afterward, as you knew that you would, removing your hand and lying back on your bed, resting your head on the pillow and staring up at the ceiling. You waited for Steve to get out of the shower, but it wasn’t Steve that you were thinking about; your thoughts were entirely trained on Bucky.
Bucky watched as you entered the party, one of the silly fundraisers that Tony insisted on throwing. His eyes trailed you up and down; you looked incredible, in a little red dress that was slightly shorter than acceptable for a good girl like you, but it wasn’t something he would complain about, certain that behind closed doors you weren’t a good girl at all. Your lips glimmered in a matching shade of lipstick and for just a second Bucky imagined what that lipstick would look like smudged across your face after he had his way with you. Steve paraded you around on his arm, showing you off to the investors as if just one look at you in that dress would push them to give Steve all of their money. He knew that Steve wasn’t doing it on purpose, he was too good for that, but it wasn’t right nonetheless. If you were with Bucky, he would make sure you were treated properly, not pranced around the room like an accessory.
Because to him you were so much more than that. You weren’t a thing to be owned or shown-off, you were a thing to be cherished, to worship, to treasure with everything that he had, and he would if given half the chance. Bucky’s room was right next to Steve’s in the tower and through the wall he was able to hear you when you were together, Steve’s pleasure echoing down the hallway. But he’d never heard you scream Steve’s name, not in the same way that he would scream yours. It was unfair, criminal even, Bucky thought, for you to receive less than what you deserved – less than heaven brought down to Earth, just for you.
You felt Steve tug on your arm gently, silently directing you away from the group of investors that he had been talking to whilst you aimlessly sipped at your now empty cocktail. It had been the same all night – you knew that Steve needed to help Tony find investors, but it pained you that it came at the expense of any attention shown towards you. He pulled you over to the sofa where three familiar faces sat, drinking dark liquor from crystal glasses – the good stuff, pulled out by Natasha and Sam when they were fed-up with endless parties and chatting. You perched beside Sam and your eyes fell to the dark-haired super soldier across from you, his gaze immediately falling down to the glass in his flesh hand, swirling the liquid around inside as he leaned back in his seat. You thought back to that afternoon, the way you had imagined that very same hand bringing you to the very edge of reality, and you felt the blush rise in your cheeks, not allowing your eyes to look up at the man before you.
“I’m just going to find Tony,” Steve said with a smile, planting a gentle kiss on your temple. You wanted to argue, argue that he had already spent most of the night ignoring you, but you knew that there was no point. “I won’t be long. Wait for me here, princess?”
You nodded, only letting out an exasperated sigh when he was out of earshot. Suddenly a glass appeared in your lowered eyeline, filled a quarter way with the same dark liquid that the others were drinking. It looked less-than appetizing, not your usual choice of drink, but you took it anyway, smiling up at Bucky in thanks. Your fingers grazed over the cool metal of his for a second as you slid the glass from his grip, sending light tingles up your arm.
He tensed, enough that it was visible to you even from your spot across the coffee table from him. Within seconds he was rising to his feet, discarding his glass on the table and pushing through the crowd, his hands running through his long locks.
You don’t know why it angered you so much this time, why this normal reaction from him to your presence had irritation and annoyance rising within your chest more than usual. Perhaps it was the alcohol that you had already consumed, perhaps it was the fact that you had spent most of the night being ignored by the person who was supposed to give you affection. Whatever it was, you found yourself following him through the crowd of people fiercely, the mysterious liquor left to stew on the table.
It wasn’t until you were already in the rooming quarters that you finally caught up with him, grabbing him by his left arm. He spun around, eyes wide, but they weren’t filled with anger as you had assumed you’d find them – it was something else there, hidden behind those blue irises, something that you couldn’t quite place your finger on.
“Bucky, seriously,” you said as you came to a halt before him. “I don’t know what I did to make you hate me, but can you please just tell me what your problem is? Maybe that way I can actually fix it.”
He said nothing, simply staring at you with those wide eyes. What was that you could see hidden behind those pupils? What was the emotion you saw mingling with the greys and sky blues of his eyes?
“Can’t we just friends, Bucky?” You asked slowly. “That’s all I want.”
His eyes remained trained on yours but his body began to move, edging closer and closer to you. You stepped backwards, stumbling until you found yourself pressed against the wall. He was so close to you now and you could smell his thick scent. It reminded you of sandalwood, and you assumed that it was some kind of cologne, yet it seemed so natural, so uniquely him.
“I don’t want to be friends.” His voice was low and rough, and his breath whispered over the skin on your cheek, causing your own breath to hitch in your throat. “That’s the problem, I don’t want to be just friends.”
It was then that you realized what that look in his eyes was; it wasn’t anger or hate, it wasn’t even distaste. It was hunger. Lust. Want. And you were certain, based on the way that his tongue trailed across his bottom lip and his breath grew ragged, that you had the same look in your own eye. Everything made sense suddenly, like the final piece of the puzzle falling into place.
“Tell me you want it,” he whispered, quiet enough that it couldn’t be heard by anyone nearby, although you were certain you were entirely alone in the dim hallway, but loud enough to draw goosebumps across your skin. “Tell me it’s not all in my head. Tell me you want me, princess.”
You closed your eyes, barely able to form a sentence as your mind fogged over at the sound of his voice in your ear, so close, so wanting. You knew that he was mocking the name that Steve had given you, but you didn’t seem to care. Steve was the last thing on your mind at that moment; all you wanted was for those hands that caged you to the wall to touch you. “I want you.”
He leaned forward swiftly, catching your bottom lip between his own, slowly and hesitantly as if you both knew that you were crossing a line that couldn’t be undone. The bitter taste of the liquor he had been drinking lingered on his lips, giving you your first taste as he pulled you closer, pushing your body in tandem with his own as he guided you to his bedroom. Once inside, the room still dark aside from the gleaming city lights that streamed in through the open curtains, he lifted you into the air, your legs effortlessly wrapped around his waist, his lips never leaving yours as he carried you towards the bed. His fingers, both human and metal, traced the hem of your dress as his hands rested comfortably on your thighs, the action of carrying you seemingly easy to him.
When he finally lay you down you let out a small whimper at the loss of his touch as he leant back, pulling his shirt over his head. You longed for his hands to return to your body in any capacity that he saw fit – longed for his touch to mark you forever so that you’d never have to go without it again. It was a hunger, a yearning, that you had never experienced before, not with anyone, not even Steve.
When you felt the weight of him again you gasped, his lips coming to suck at your neck, running down your collarbone, pulling at the neck of your dress slightly. His fingers which had only fiddled with the hem before, now tugged at it gently, and you raised your arms upwards, allowing him to pull it off and throw it to the floor with little care. Only a moment passed and he was on you again, his sweet lips trailing kisses down your chest, across your rib cage, in the dip between your breasts. When they eventually caught your nipple you let out a breath that you didn’t even know you were holding, arching up towards him as his tongue swirled over it, causing it to pebble and harden under his tongue. He chuckled against your skin at your reaction, a light laugh that you had never heard from him before but was a sound that you would happily replay each and every moment of each and every day.
His hands expertly trailed down your body, over your stomach, slipping under the waistband of your underwear, teasing and testing you as you mumbled and moaned for him to go lower, to feel you where you’d fantasized him feeling you, the spot where you really needed him.
“Bucky,” you whispered, reaching down to grasp his wrist in your hand, pushing it down further. He obeyed, doing as you wished, the warmth of his flesh fingers running across your folds, sending a ripple of pleasure through your body and eliciting a moan. His thumb trailed over your clit, sensitive from the flashes of bliss that came with every touch. He rubbed gently a few times causing you to gasp, your head slipping to the side to muffle your cries of ecstasy into the pillow. That was when he slid a finger inside you, and then another, and you felt that you could hardly hold on. His touch was like ecstasy, a drug made just for you, and all it took was a few twists of his fingers, curled inside you, hitting your spot as his thumb gently caressed your clit for you to fall over the edge, his name on your lips.
He removed his fingers, allowing you a moment to come down from your high as he leant back, undoing his jeans and throwing them to join your dress on the floor of his bedroom. You watched him, your breath heavy, your body flushed; the twinkling lights of the city landscape shone behind him, enveloping him in an ethereal glow and you realized that everything you knew about him was wrong. The harsh line of his jaw which was seemingly always tensed was in reality soft and supple, moving freely behind the slight shadow of stubble that ran along it, reaching down his neck. His body, usually hidden beneath baggy clothes, was strong, muscles dancing beneath scarred and marred skin that showed a history that you knew but had never seen. His shoulder, where the skin contorted to join onto the metal of his prosthetic arm, didn’t house danger or a weapon, instead only pleasure and beauty.
He must have caught you staring because a smile appeared on those lips, stains of your red lipstick visible even in the darkness, a smile that you had never seen before. He leaned forward, his weight feeling natural against your body as if this wasn’t the first time but the hundredth time, and he planted a gentle kiss to your lips, his tongue slipping across the border and into your mouth, intertwining with your own.
It only took a second for him to line himself up with you and slide inside, causing your whole body to tingle in a way that felt as if this was right, even though you knew that what the two of you were doing was wrong. It felt like he was meant to be there, with you, and when he started to move that feeling grew, accompanied by the knot in your stomach. It was stronger now, stronger with him than it had ever been with anyone else.
He started slow at first, just as he had done with the kiss in the hallway that felt so long ago, but the more you moaned and whispered his name, moving to meet his hips in unison, the harder he got. Your legs wrapped their way around his waist, pulling him closer to you. With each thrust he pulled your hips, his hands roaming your body as if they already knew their way around. He leaned forward, his hand resting on the back of your head to pull you up against his chest, and you took in his scent once more, your eyes closed, mouth parted as your bottom lip caught against his skin with each movement.
“Tell me he doesn’t make you feel this good,” he whispered, his voice low and lustful, his breath hot against your neck. His grip on the back of your neck tightened but you didn’t care, too overwhelmed with the endless euphoria that you were feeling to even be able to distinguish the pain from the pleasure. “Tell me he doesn’t fuck you like this.”
“He doesn’t,” you whimpered into his chest, whining against him, your head falling back into his grip as he slid a hand between your bodies, slick with sweat, to circle the spot that you had imagined him touching only hours ago. “You feel so much better.”
“Tell me you’ll come back to me,” he whispered again between thrust and grunts of curses. “Tell me this won’t be the last time.”
You could feel that coil in your stomach, so close to snapping. You were nearly there, nearly at the very peak of your pleasure, and it was even better than you had imagined it being. His words, the way that his voice almost begged as he asked, were more than you could handle. He wanted you, more than just this once, more than a one-time-thing to get it over and done with before it was never spoken of again. He wanted you to come back, and the thought alone was enough to push you over the edge.
“I’ll come back,” you gasped between convulsions of your body, your legs shaking as you rode out the strongest and most pleasurable orgasm that you’d ever had. It was unlike anything that you had ever experienced before, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt that you would be coming back for more. “This isn’t the last, I promise.”
“Fuck.”
He finished at your final words, spilling inside you, his lips tracing over yours, swallowing your promise as if to seal the deal with a kiss. His body was flushed and wet, his rough breathing matching your own and he fell to your side, running a hand through his tousled hair as it fell against the pillow, haloing his face as he looked up at you, his blue eyes catching yours with an elated smile.
Holy hell the build up to this was SO good! Not one for cheating tropes but mannn when I tell you, Bucky over Steve anytimeeee😩😩😩
Because to him you were so much more than that. You weren’t a thing to be owned or shown-off, you were a thing to be cherished, to worship, to treasure with everything that he had, and he would if given half the chance.
Also this part?? Had me worshipping Bucky for real ((and hoping for a real life man like that because yes worship me please 🧎🏻♀️))
summary: | book two | lovers separated, powers that won't be controlled, a doomed wedding. with the threat of war looming over prythian, lucien, Y/N, tamlin, and rhysand's inner circle must scramble to find allies and prepare themselves for what is to come. but Y/N only has one aim; to find her way back to lucien, and protect him at all costs.
series warnings: 18+, minors DNI, smut, non-con, dub-con, domestic violence, ptsd, character death, canon-level violence.
🔮 book one: a court of ash and smoke 🔮
💜 indicates smut
please remember to reblog, like, and share a comment if you enjoy this series - it is always appreciated by writers to see their hard work valued.
summary: | book two | lovers separated, powers that won't be controlled, a doomed wedding. with the threat of war looming over prythian, lucien, Y/N, tamlin, and rhysand's inner circle must scramble to find allies and prepare themselves for what is to come. but Y/N only has one aim; to find her way back to lucien, and protect him at all costs.
chapter warnings: n/a
chapter word count: 5157
a/n: i'm finally back! sorry for going mia - my son started school, i've been job hunting and house hunting, and on top of all that my laptop decided to die! so very sorry, but here's the next chapter to make up for it! it's a long one guys - so sorry! enjoy folks!
🔮 series masterlist 🔮
please remember to reblog, like, and share a comment if you enjoy this series - it is always appreciated by writers to see their hard work valued.
🔮 tip jar 🔮 tag list 🔮
Mortal Queens
It was hard to ignore the flush of embarrassment that crept up your necks and blanketed your cheeks as you reached the top of the stairs, hovering by the doorway that led out onto the rooftop training area of the House of Wind. You had debated long and hard whether or not to train that morning, sure that at least one of the others would be there, but your head was pounding from a merciless hangover. Whilst a handful of days ago you would have remedied that with another drink first thing in the morning, you had made a promise to yourself to stop forgetting your problems at the bottom of a bottle. Training had been the other other option.
It was early enough that the sun hadn’t risen yet, and you’d hoped that the early hour meant you’d miss any of the others training that morning. Azriel and Cassian were renowned for their early spars, and you knew Feyre had begun training with them too. But if your memory served your right - which you prayed it did despite the hangover fogging it - they began at sunrise, which was another two hours from now. Enough time to get in a quick exercise and disappear back to your room before they arrived.
To your gratitude, perhaps a gift from the Mother herself, the training area was empty when you finally plucked up the courage to slip out. There were no clinks of swords, no grunts of exertion from any other willing trainee, just the quiet emptiness of the mid-night above the tops of Velaris. The stars twinkled down at you from their perches in the darkness of the sky, seemingly shining a little brighter than you remembered seeing them before; approval, maybe, that you were finally doing something other than spiralling. Putting that anger and resentment and frustration into something constructive.
You wandered toward the sand-packs first, taking your time to wrap your hands carefully; you knew that any bruises formed from your exercises would be healed by the end of the day, and the you from days ago that had been veering dangerously close to self-destruction might have forgone the wrappings just so you could feel the pain of those bruises forming on your knuckles. But not now.
As you positioned yourself in front of the sand-bag and raised your wrapped fists in an offensive stance, you whispered four words to yourself - your new mantra.
“I am not weak.”
One punch, and then another. One, two. One, two. Your body was stiff and rigid from a lack of use, and your muscles burnt with each movement, but you could practically feel the bitterness and rage seeping from your body with every punch against the sand-pack. Your cheeks were wet, and you hadn’t even realised you were crying until your vision blurred, your jabs becoming sloppier as your perception grew bleary.
Crying for what you had lost, for what you had become. What others had forced upon you - that never-ending ire that threatened to engulf you, had drowned you in the days since Lucien had left you in those woods.
Fuck Hybern. Fuck Amarantha. Fuck what they had turned you into. Because it wasn’t just what you had done, what had forced Lucien to leave you behind, that had kindled your spiral into the depths of your incorrigible mind, but it was everything. Everything from the moment your family had been murdered.
“I am not weak.” You said it again, uttering it like a prayer, as if the more you said it, the more likely you were to believe it. You did believe it. No matter how much others made you feel it, you were not weak. You were strength itself - you were powerful. Your punches became harder, more strength thrown into each one, pouring out all of your fury. This was what you needed - the cathartic bliss that training brought with it. “I am not weak!”
That final punch carried the force of your entire strength, and the chain rattled as the sand-bag split open at the top, hurling back into the balcony’s barrier, smacking against the ground with a thud, a trail of sand left in its wake. You stared at it, chest heaving as you gasped in weary and fatigued gulps of air.
“Well, this is much better than finding you clutching a bottle to sleep,” a smooth, velvety voice sounded from behind you. You turned jaded eyes to the doorway, where Azriel stood with the ghost of a smile against his lips. You inwardly winced at the sight of him, but whether he realised the flash of guilt that washed over your features, he didn’t mention it. He lowered his head as he took a few long strides across the training area, reaching the weapons rack with that silent grace of his.
“Az, I-” You began slowly between pants, but he held up a hand, glancing at you from over his shoulder. That small, soft smile was still evident, still curling at the corners of his mouth.
“You don’t need to apologise.” You baulked, mouth opening and closing as you searched for the right words to sound your confusion. Azriel simply chuckled, shrugged, and picked up two swords. “I understand.”
“Y-You do?” You stuttered in confusion, watching as he flipped one of the swords over in his palm, weighing it carefully, and then turned around to face you.
“At first, no I didn’t,” he admitted. “In fact, I was pissed.” You winced again, and this time he caught it, cocking his head to the side in a smooth manner. “I know what it’s like to be in your shoes. Hell, I beat Cassian to an inch of his life for it centuries ago. I don’t- I don’t want to see you in that pain.”
You swallowed down your dry throat, mind reeling. It certainly wasn’t the reaction you had been expecting - you’d replayed how they might kick you out of the house, or disown you as their friend, so many times in your head that morning. But this…raw vulnerability showcased before you, the same as how he had been that very night when you had spat such vicious, venomous words at him - at all of them - hadn’t been something you’d anticipated at all. Somehow it made you feel a little warm inside, as if that gaping cavity inside your heart had healed just a fraction.
“I still shouldn’t have said what I did,” you replied quietly. “And for that I am sorry. I was angry, at everyone, at the world-” you motioned to the sand-bag “-and I guess I’m trying to find better alternatives to release that frustration.”
Azriel offered a solitary nod. “You’re welcome to use this area whenever you want.” He handed you a sword, the smaller and lighter of the two, and motioned with his head to the training ring. “I honestly wasn’t expecting anyone to be here so early.”
You blushed slightly. “Well, I was sort of avoiding everyone,” you admitted with a small shrug, earning you a knowing look from Azriel. “And I wasn’t really expecting anyone to be here either. If there was someone here, I had planned to go back to my room.”
Azriel shrugged, his broad shoulders bobbing once. “I couldn’t sleep,” he confessed. “I just kept thinking about our fight.”
Same as you.
“I guess I’ve got some grovelling to do,” you said slowly in an attempt to change the subject, not wanting him to feel uncomfortable. “I doubt the others are going to be as understanding as you are.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Azriel said, leaning down to grab the rope that encircled the training ring and lifting it up, holding it in the air to allow you to slip under, before doing the same himself. “We’ve all had moments like that over the centuries, where everything feels like it’s weighing too heavy on our shoulders. We all know what it’s like to crack under the pressure of it. I don’t think anyone will take it to heart.”
You grimaced, but nodded anyway, hoping that his theory was correct. He cracked his neck to each side, and turned his hazel gaze on you. “So, friends?”
You drew in a deep breath, and nodded, showing him the first real smile you’d had in weeks. “Friends.”
With that, he struck the first blow.
His room looked oddly empty. Not only were his clothes packed, but so were a fair amount of his books and weapons too. In fact, the only things that remained in his wardrobe were a few dresses and underthings that Y/N had left behind on his bedroom floor after one of their many trysts - he hadn’t had the heart to return them to her before she’d left, preferring that she was forced to show up at his bedroom door whenever she needed one of them, and he’d certainly not been able to take them back across the hall now that she was gone.
But those dresses weren’t coming with him, not where he was going. They were delicate, too pretty and perfect, to be taken to a place like that. Especially when she wasn’t there to wear them for him. An image crossed his mind - him laid back on his bed in their guest chambers, Y/N standing at the end in one of those delightful dresses that hugged her body perfectly, maintaining eye-contact with him as she pulled at the strings of the corset…
No, he couldn’t think like that. He was going there to help bring her back to him, to help save her. That’s what he had to keep telling himself, even if something sat heavy in his gut, pushing at him to acknowledge that it was, likely, a terrible idea.
To align themselves with the invaders.
A hand landed on his shoulder, and Lucien finally pulled his eyes away from the rich pink silk of one of the dresses that hung from the wardrobe, turning to find Tamlin looking back at him with thin lips. It was time, he realised, to leave the Spring Court. He wasn’t sure when he’d be returning.
He followed Tamlin silently, neither having a single word of assurance to offer the other. When they finally reached the bottom step of the staircase, they found Ianthe waiting for them, a snivelling grin on her face - Lucien knew that Ianthe thought she had somehow won whatever battle she had been fighting in. By getting Tamlin to ally with Hybern, she was winning, because it had been her plan from the start. Little did she know that this game she was playing was one she was playing alone - no one else was opposing her.
They paused close enough to Ianthe that she might take Tamlin’s hand to winnow. It was unnecessary, when both Tamlin and Lucien knew that Ianthe could winnow herself, but she was always one to insist that the High Lord took her instead; just another way to push herself closer to him.
Yet, when she reached a hand out, it wasn’t toward Tamlin, but rather to Lucien. He bit back a growl of distaste and anger, even as her eyes sparkled with a promise that Lucien didn’t want to be fulfilled. Avoidance had been the only way he’d been able to come to terms with what had happened in that cave on the night of Calanmai; he had pretended that it hadn’t happened, had stayed as far from Ianthe as he possibly could, and it had worked. Until she reached that hand toward him, and it all came flooding back to him.
The pleasure, the way he had buried himself in her with no hesitation, the way she had writhed and moaned beneath him, the way he had found such intense pleasure in her body.
A shudder ran its way down his spine, but he didn’t have the energy to argue with her. Not today, not when he knew their destination. Not when he knew that it was his final push that sent them on this path. So, he allowed Ianthe to take his hand, ignoring the confused glance that Tamlin shot between them, and allowed an Autumn mist to surround them both, winnowing them away to the one place he wished he never had to return to again.
Hybern.
‘This is for you, Y/N,’ he told himself as the Spring Court manor evaporated around them. ‘I’m doing this for you.’
It felt odd to be wearing Illyrian leathers again, after so long wearing those frilly little dresses in the Spring Court. Wrong, perhaps, to wear the clothes of Rhys’ people after everything I had said to him. But none of them blanched when I winnowed myself onto the balcony beside them, my rest smoke curling around me and seeping back into my palms. Instead, Mor simply turned to me and asked, “You’re coming?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” you replied with a soft smile, one that you hoped told her how sorry you were. She nodded once in confirmation and looked away, but you didn’t miss the small smirk that pulled at her lips.
She leaned in a little closer to you, and whispered, “Well done for finally standing up for yourself.” She turned to look at you from the corner of your eye then, just as Rhys and Feyre made their way onto the balcony, both wearing their matching Illyrian leathers. “But never snap at me like that again.”
She chuckled, light and airy, and you couldn’t help but reciprocate it. Azriel appeared at your side then, throwing you a look that almost said, ‘I told you so.’ He held a hand out toward you, and you allowed him to hoist you into his arms, as Cassian and Rhys picked up Mor and Feyre respectively. And almost simultaneously, all three shot into the sky.
The dress that Mor had thrust you into upon arrival into the Mortal Lands was one of Spring Court green, made of sleek panels of velvet and lace and satin that hugged your body but concurrently seemed so light and loose-fitting. It flowed around your body in waves of material, as if the trees of green in the Spring Court had been sewn together themselves to create the perfect hue. You tried to ignore the crown of overlapping, twisting golden bands that house emerald encrusted flowers that was plaited into your hair. You’d hardly even been able to look at Tamlin’s court when you’d flown over it - Lucien was down there somewhere, and Tamlin was down there too. The thought made you nauseous.
“Stop fiddling with it,” Mor conceded when she caught you pulling at the edges of the diadem on your head once more. You huffed.
“I just don’t know why I have to wear it,” you muttered. “Or the dress for that matter.”
“You represent the Spring Court,” Rhysand said nonchalantly, as if we weren’t about to meet the Mortal Queens themselves, the ones that ruled over the lands where Feyre and I had grown up. “You’re Tamlin’s chosen sister, whether you agree to recognise that title or not. Technically, you deserve that crown.”
You tutted in annoyance, but stopped your tugging at the crown. “Won’t they wonder why the High Lord of Spring isn’t here himself?”
“They won’t know you’re from Spring,” Azriel explained in a low voice. “But having you wearing the colours of another court suggests that it isn’t just us-” he motioned to those from the Night Court, “-that are pushing this alliance.”
You opened your mouth to say something, but didn’t have the chance, not when the Mortal Queens winnowed directly into the sitting room of Feyre’s family estate. You knew that those from each court had different ways of winnowing depending on which court they hailed from, with Rhys and Mor winnowing in darkness, Lucien winnowing in an Autumn mist, and Tamlin and Silas winnowing in a Spring breeze. But what you hadn’t expected was for the Mortal Queens to be able to winnow at all, let alone for their method to be that of a thick fog, like the type that obscured the mountaintops in Illyria, or swept across the woodlands of the Mortal Lands during the colder seasons.
Only two of six Queens showed, but even without their sisters, they were just as regal as you had imagined. Emerald and golden gowns flowed down to the floor, the green of the eldest Queen’s dress shimmering as she sat on one of the couches. The golden-haired Queen paused a moment, her eyes flashing around the inhabitants of the room - lingering for a moment on Rhys and Feyre who led the charge, hands clasped tightly together, the perfect image of a High Lord and his mate - before taking a seat beside the elder Queen.
“We appreciate you taking the time to see us again,” Rhys said, but the younger Queen’s eyes had once again flicked around the room, settling on the two mortal females behind us by the window - Feyre’s sisters. The older of the two - Nesta - hadn’t graced you with even one word, nothing more than a vicious glare, and had shuffled the younger - Elain - away. No doubt Feyre had told them exactly who you used to live with in Prythian. Azriel and Cassian were flanking them, just as Rhys had ordered them to, but Azriel’s eyes were locked on you. One friend protecting another.
The older Queen scoffed. “After being so gravely insulted the last time, we debated for many days whether we should return. As you can see, three of us found the insult to be unforgivable.”
Feyre lifted her chin and levelled her gaze on that older Queen as she said, “If that is the worst insult any of you have ever received in your lives, I’d say you’re all in for quite a shock when war comes.”
You couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at your lips at Feyre’s words. Fierce, that’s what she had become after so long kept under leash - she had become perfectly cut-throat.
“So,” the younger Queen chirped, her voice melodic and beautiful, “he won your heart after all, Cursebreaker.”
Feyre stared her down, a lioness meeting a wolf. “I do not think that it was mere coincidence that the Cauldron let us find each other on the eve of war returning between our two peoples.”
“The Cauldron? And two peoples?” The golden-haired Queen crooned, her eyes flicking to you for just a moment, taking you in, looking you up and down as if reading you like words on a page. “Our people do not invoke a Cauldron - our people do not have magic. The way I see it, there is your people, and ours. You are little better than those Children of the Blessed.” She lifted a brow at you studiously, and then flicked her eyes to Azriel and Cassian behind you. You curled your hands into fists, hiding them behind your back so as to maintain that mask of the exquisite High Lord’s sister.
“Feyre sacrificed enough for what the Cauldron has granted her,” you cut-in, trying to keep your voice steady and calm. “The Children of the Blessed do not, although your distaste for your own people intrigues me.”
“What does happen to them when they cross the Wall?” She asked as plainly as if she were asking about the weather, ignoring you completely. Rhys threw you a small nod of approval, eyes flashing with pride. “Are they prey? Or are they used and discarded, and left to grow old and infirm while you remain young forever? Such a pity. So unfair that you, Cursebreaker, received what all those fools no doubt begged for. Immortality, eternal youth. What would Lord Rhys have done if you had aged while he did not?”
In a monotone voice, Rhys said, “Is there any point to your questions, other than to hear yourself talk?”
The golden-haired Queen chuckled, cocking her head to the side as she looked at you. “I see you brought someone new this time,” she said silkily. “Tell me, who is our new guest?”
“Lady Y/N, sister of one of my fellow High Lords of Prythian,” Rhys said, although you didn’t miss the grit of his teeth when he mentioned Tamlin. You lowered your head slowly, feeling the Queens’ eyes trained on you.
“Sister of one of the High Lords?” The golden-haired Queen asked, brushing down the folds of her dress. “Tell me, do you intend to take your brother to war with you?”
“My brother does as he pleases,” you retorted. “Although I have no doubt in my mind that he will make the correct decision.”
‘Liar,’ you told yourself. The younger Queen did nothing but smirk, whilst the elder tutted her tongue, and turned to Mor, who stood to Rhys’ right. She extended a wrinkled hand toward the box in Mor’s hand. “Is that the proof we asked for?”
Feyre cleared her throat. “Is my love for the High Lord not proof enough of our good intentions? Does my sisters’ presence here not speak to you? There is an iron engagement ring upon my sister’s finger, and yet she stands with us.”
“I would say that it is proof of her idiocy, to be engaged to a Fae-hating man, and to risk the match by associating with you” the golden-haired one sneered.
Your eyes snapped to Elain, taking in that iron engagement ring, her awkward stance, the way she seemed to want to hide from the eyes observing her. She was to marry a Fae-hating male, a male with such loathing in his heart - this pretty, timid creature. It made no sense.
“Do not judge what you know nothing about,” Nesta hissed, taking a firm step forward, blocking Elain from the sight of the Queens.
“The viper speaks again,” the younger Queen muttered, not even daring a glance at Nesta. “Surely the wise move would have been to have her sit this meeting out.”
Her voice was laced with venom, and you felt Azriel’s presence beside you as he moved closer, no doubt sensing the altercation that might be about to arise. You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “Protect the sisters,” you whispered, quiet enough that only he would hear. Azriel hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Elain over his shoulder, but slipped back into position beside her.
“She offers up her house and risks her social standing for us to have these meetings,” Feyre said. “She has the right to hear what is spoken in them. To stand as a representative of the people of these lands. They both do.”
“So, you have representation for two courts of Prythian, and the un-monarched Mortal Lands beneath the Wall,” the older Queen bit. “Yet we only have two representatives from our lands. You expect us to trust you when you very clearly have the intention of making us nervous by outnumbering us at such vast amounts.”
“It was your choice for the other Queens not to come, was it not?” You questioned, keeping your face blank. “We have no intention of outnumbering you, or trying to make you nervous, simply to show that alliances on our front are already taking place, and you would be a fool not to do the same.”
Another flicker of approval from Rhys as the elder Queen leant back in her chair. “You would call us fools?”
You lifted your chin - you knew what they were doing. You had been in enough verbal spars with Lucien over the years to know the game they were playing, and you certainly weren’t going to back-down. “Anyone who would sit by in idle neutrality whilst death was threatened to their people, is someone I would call a fool.”
The elder Queen narrowed her eyes, but the younger one watched you, gracefully cocking her head, watching you with almost…curiosity. But it was the elder that spoke, with a wave of her crone-like hand toward Mor. “Show us then. Prove us wrong.”
Rhys turned to Mor and offered her a single nod, and then Mor opened the lid of the box she had been holding. Inside was a small silver orb - it seemed to shine of its own accord, emanating starlight, radiating delicate beams of white light outward. “This is the Veritas,” she said in a voice that sounded nothing like her own at all. “The gist of my first ancestor to our bloodline. Only a few times in the history of Prythian have we used it - have we unleashed its truth upon the world.”
Your eyes widened for a moment, flashing a look of confusion from the corner of your eye toward Azriel, but his eyes were trained on Mor as she lifted the Veritas into her hands, small enough to nestle within her palms perfectly, and continued, “Truth is deadly. Truth is freedom. Truth can break and mend and bind. The Veritas holds in it the truth of the world. I am the Morrigan. You know I speak the truth.”
Her eyes were no longer the warm brown that you had known them to be as she leant down and placed the orb in the centre of the carpet, now a blaze behind the irises.
“You desire proof of our goodness, our intentions, so that you may trust the Book in our hands?” Rhys asked calmly. You found yourself subconsciously leaning closer as the orb began to pulse, almost as if you could feel its power, as if you were drawn to it, just as the others were. “There is a place within my lands. A city of peace. And art. And prosperity. As I doubt you or your guards will dare pass through the Wall, then I will show it to you - show you the truth of these words, show you this place within the orb itself.”
You blanched, glaring at Rhys. He was going to show them Velaris, was going to show them that city full of love. The place where you had once imagined a future with Lucien…
Mor stretched a hand out in front of her, and as if answering to her unuttered call, a cloud of pale smoke emitted from the orb. The guards edged closer to their Queens, and you shuffled back slightly, closer to the veritable safety of Cassian and Azriel. Yet, you couldn’t drag your eyes away from that cloud, even as the ripples of an image appeared within it - Velaris. Gliding over the rooftops of the city, past the waters and along the Sidra, the House of Wind at the tip of that mountain, showing the real, raw truth of the place that Rhys and now Feyre called home.
Then as soon as it had come, it was gone, and you stumbled back another step as if whatever link had been drawing you to it - drawing everyone to it - had snapped, letting you all fall back to reality.
“That is Velaris,” Rhys said proudly. “For five thousand years we have kept it a secret from outsiders. And now you know. That is what I protect with the rumours, the whispers, the fear. Why I fought for your people in the war - only to begin my own supposed reign of terror once I ascended my throne, and ensured everyone heard the legends about it. But if the cost of protecting my city and people is the contempt of the world, then so be it.”
Mor cleared her throat, causing the golden-haired Queen to startle and dropped her lace handkerchief. She closed her gaped jaw and leant down to pick it up, blush flushing her cheeks as the older Queen said, rather slowly as if she were surprised at what she had just seen, “Your trust is…appreciated.” A pause - a moment of heavy silence, and then, “We will consider.”
“There is no time to consider,” Mor pleaded. “Every day lost is another day that Hybern gets closer to shattering the Wall.”
“We will discuss amongst our companions, and inform you at our leisure.”
“Do you not understand the risks you take in doing so?” Rhys asked firmly. “You need this alliance as much as we do.”
The elder Queen’s eyes flickered to you, looking you up and down. “We do not make alliances as easily as you apparently do,” she said nonchalantly. “Those that we ally ourselves with must prove that they are worthy of our alliance.”
You didn’t even baulk at the intended insult.
The elder Queen narrowed her eyes and shrugged her shoulders. But a warm hand found my elbow, tugging me toward the door. An explanation, you realised, one that hadn’t been afforded to you before then. The Queens didn’t even notice as you and Azriel slipped through the door and into the adjoining dining room. You rounded on him the second the door was set ajar behind him.
“He showed them Velaris?” You hissed, and Azriel had the dignity to look rather guilty for not having told you earlier. “Why would he do that?”
“He needed to gain their trust,” Azriel whispered softly in a low tone. “This was the only way he could think to do that.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?” You whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You had enough on your plate,” he whispered in return. You huffed out a sigh, turning away from him, your fingers instinctively finding the gold of that crown on your head - the crown of the Spring Court, one that you weren’t deserving to wear, not anymore. You fought down the urge to rip it from your head.
“This is a terrible plan, you know,” you sighed. Azriel cocked his head.
“I know,” he confirmed. “But we were running out of options, and with the spellbook lost-”
You spun back to him, eyes wide, but he held up a mediating hand.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said softly. “I’m not saying it was your fault.”
You bit your lip, opening your mouth to say something, but it was then that you heard it. Your entire body went rigid and stiff.
Life and death and rebirth
Sun and moon and dark
Rot and bloom and bones
Hello, sweet thing. Hello, wielder of black arts, Queen of devilry. Love me, touch me, sing me.
A chill ran through your body as you slumped forward, Azriel’s hands catching you with ease, concerned eyes tracing over your face. It was too much, too similar to that dark light that had once consumed you, had yielded to you. Dark. Dangerous.
“What’s wrong?” Azriel asked, but you were already pushed from his grasp, back through the door into the sitting room. The Queens were gone, you realised, but the eyes of your friends were planted firmly on the couch, on the book that sat there, open and waiting.
It was Azriel that spoke from behind you, words a single breath. “The Book of Breathings.”
I havent seen a new post in awhile, I hope everything is okay.
Hiii lovely! I'm so sorry for going MIA!
I've had the most insane couple of weeks, with my son starting school, me going to about 1000 job interviews and trying to find adequate housing for us. And as if that wasn't enough, my laptop decided to give up on me, and I had to wait for it to be fixed!
Buuuuuut I'm back! Just editing the new chapter now!
Like the boy has been dealing with interworkings of courts and shit for c e n t u r i e s. Handling tamlin's cranky ass. Navigating diplomacy in meetings, wars etc. Tactfully choosing words. Tightly dressed to the 9's. Jaw ticking, shoulders taught, not a hair out of line.
i have need.
- Lucien languid in the grass. His shirt hanging open. Pants half unbuttoned. Long boots always.
- Arm propped on a knee, wine in hand. Another hand lazily stroking the back of a gorgeous female as she strolls kisses down his happy trail.
- Leaning back his head in sweet, undone bliss.
He shows up to the next war council or whatever.
- Auburn hair is a rat's nest. He has three hickies trailing down his neck. His scent is sinful.
- He clears his throat and just goes about business per usual as if he didn't just spend five entire days giving and receiving with enough fire to burn the whole of Prythian to ash.
fuck it, i never ever do those “reblog for X, this one really works!” posts, but this one doesn’t have any of that BS, this is just straight up wishing us good things; and then the comment doesn’t even say any of that either. Zero claims on this post, all positive vibes
May you end this week feeling ever more certain of a future you’ll love
summary: | book two | lovers separated, powers that won't be controlled, a doomed wedding. with the threat of war looming over prythian, lucien, Y/N, tamlin, and rhysand's inner circle must scramble to find allies and prepare themselves for what is to come. but Y/N only has one aim; to find her way back to lucien, and protect him at all costs.
series warnings: 18+, minors DNI, smut, non-con, dub-con, domestic violence, ptsd, character death, canon-level violence.
🔮 book one: a court of ash and smoke 🔮
💜 indicates smut
please remember to reblog, like, and share a comment if you enjoy this series - it is always appreciated by writers to see their hard work valued.
