"if i was orpheus i would simply not turn around" yes you would. if you were orpheus and you loved eurydice, you would. to love someone is to turn around. to love someone is to look at them. whichever version of the myth — he hears her stumble, he can't hear her at all, he thinks he's been tricked — he turns around because he loves her. that's why it's a tragedy. because he loves her enough to save her. because he loves her so much he can't save her. because he will always, always turn around. "if i was orpheus i would simply —" you wouldn't be orpheus. you wouldn't be brave enough to walk into the underworld and save the person you love. be serious
Summary// Your engagement is to be announced at the Court of Nightmares when you catch the eye of two particular Illyrian males.
(Part Two) (Part Three) (Part Four) (Part Five)
It was going to be a long night. You sighed to yourself as you stood in the corner, party in full swing. You tried to keep your head up, but you were slowly dying from the inside out. Your engagement was to be announced tonight and you wanted nothing more than to run. Run and never ever look back. This, however, was the plan from the start. You were the daughter of a higher-power male in the Court of Nightmares, meant to be sold off for breeding when you’d reached adulthood. You hated it. Hated everyone standing in the room. Everyone standing by and allowing this to be done to you. You wanted to scream. Wanted to unleash your power and rip every person standing to shreds. Regardless, that wasn’t an option. The outcome of those actions would be far worse than your sealed fate.
Lost in your thoughts, you almost missed it. If it weren’t for the wave of dark power that filled the room, you would’ve. You rushed to check yourself as you bowed to the High Lord and Lady of Night Court.
They were all there; Rhysand, Feyre, Nesta, Morrigan, Cassian, and Azriel. They’d all come to celebrate your engagement. You didn’t blame them. The whole ordeal would greatly help your father and the Court of Nightmares which would in turn help the Night Court itself.
Your blood boiled at the reminder of why you, and everyone else, was there. You’d tried for weeks, months, to get out of the marriage. They were weak attempts that ended in more pain for you. Eventually, you’d learned to keep quiet and try to forget about it. To enjoy the little freedom you still held.
His voice echoed off the walls, demanding every ounce of attention, “You may rise.”
You stood, rolling your eyes and choosing to tune him out. You had zero interest in what the High Lord had to say.
Your eyes, instead, roamed the group gathered around the thrones. As you did so, you noticed the Shadowsingers hard stare was on you. Your skin began to heat in response although you kept your face neutral. You tilted your head to the floor, deciding that was better that having a stare-down with him, as you waited for Rhysand to finish his speech.
————————————
You’d been practically thrown from person to person, dancing with just about every male in the room. Thirty minutes. That was it. All you had left until the engagement was made official. The thought made you sick. It was tradition for the new couple to have a solo dance after the announcement was made, simply the thought of having that males’s hands all over you sent a shiver up your spine.
As the song ended, you were spun around to face your new partner. You froze as you realized who stood before you. The Illyrian general placed a hand on your hip as he began moving with the music.
“Congratulations,” he purred.
His voice. Cauldron boil you. His voice was unlike anything you’d heard. Your body’s reaction to the smooth sound was embarrassing.
You bowed your head, “Thank you.”
He smiled at you as he continued to spin you around the floor. You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped your lips.
He cocked his head, “What’s so funny?”
Your cheeks reddened, “Your not very good at dancing, General.”
His expression turned into that of disbelief, “I am a very good dancer, y/n.”
You only laughed harder, not missing the way your stomach flipped at the way your name rolled off his tongue, “If you say so.”
“Please, show me the right way if I’m really that poor of a dancer.”
You smiled nervously as you took the lead, dragging the male with you as you lead him through the steps.
You became lost in your movements, dancing through the next few songs with him.
As the final song came to a close, you realized it was time. Your smile faded as you bowed to Cassian.
He caught your arm as you turned to leave, sensing the change in your demeanor, “Keep your head up, y/n.”
You felt your heart shatter at his words. He knew. He knew how utterly wrong this was, and yet he could do nothing to help you.
You only nodded as you made your way to your father, straightening your spine as you went.
————————————
You stood behind them, waiting to be announced.
Your fathers voice rattled your bones, “It is my deepest pleasure to provide my daughters hand in marriage to better this Court and it’s alliances.”
There was a light applause before he continued, “Their wedding will occur in two weeks time in our very own Court.”
Zephyr turned to extend his hand to you. You took it, trying not to gag at the feel of his hand in yours, the look in his eyes that told you this marriage was going to be anything but happy. He brought you to his side.
“Introducing the soon to be Mr. and Mrs. Zephyr Caspian.”
The applause in the room was deafening, the loudest being your own father. He might’ve been smiling, but his eyes said something entirely different. He could care less that he was damming you to eternal pain and suffering. He only wanted the money and status boost that came with it.
Zephyr dragged you to the middle of the floor, wrapping his hand around your waist as he began leading your dance. His skills were laughable, being somehow worse than Cassian had been. You knew this was different though. If you said anything you’d be punished instead of being made to teach. You bit your tongue to keep yourself from so much as smiling. The way he was looking at you made you sick. You felt his hand slowly creeping down towards your ass, letting it rest on what was soon to be his property. You thanked the mother above that part of the agreement was to wait. He couldn’t touch you more than that without risking losing the engagement. You did nothing to move his hand, instead trying to focus on anything else.
Your eyes drifted, once again snagging on the Shadowsingers hazel eyes. He was watching you, expression solemn. You new your eyes betrayed you, showing him the war of emotions you were facing. He expression flickered, flashing sorrow and heartbreak, before resuming its original position. You were confused by his reaction, watching as he dipped his head towards you as you turned to face your fiancé, helplessness beginning to set in.
————————————
His world was crumbling. As Azriel stood there, watching you dance, he wanted to scream. Wanted to get that male as far away from you as he possibly could. You were his. His mate. All it’d taken was one look and that sleepy coil had woken up and reached for you. He needed to move. Couldn’t possibly stand there any longer and watch you.
As he turned to leave, he found Cassian beckoning him to the door as well.
He turned the corner to face his brother, “Az, I need to talk to you.”
His alarm was evident as Azriel realized his brother was just as stressed as he was, “What is it? What happened?”
As a child, (Y/N) had always been gifted with the needle. As young as she was, her nimble fingers could thread fabrics and string as though it were dancing across a silky stage. She supposed it was a blessing as time went on, and coin grew low. Coats with holes and thinning linings were given second lives. Curtains and old table cloths were stitched together forming misshapen blankets, too itchy socks and new pants that Nesta complained were unladylike to wear (but she wore anyway - how could she deny her youngest sister's efforts?). Those pants still stayed hidden in depths of Nesta's dresses.
Now this needle, growing blunt and losing its shine, found a home in her sister's skin. Dancing and weaving through a tapestry of an ocean of scars. (Y/N) always kept her spool of string in the back of the closet for emergencies - Elain's ripped sleeve, Nesta's too long hem, her father's fraying shirt, and Feyre's broken skin.
Feyre kept a straight face during those nights when stitches was needed, but (Y/N) only needed to peek from the corner of her eye to see the smallest wince each prick gave her. She knew Feyre had been through worse, but she did her best help her older sister as best as she could. It was the least she could do. So gentle notes of childhood lullabies began to spill from her lips. Nights filled with bloody threads and folk songs began to fill the house that once was drained of love and light.
(Y/N) would often ask what happened when Feyre would come home with a new cut or bruise. And each time, Feyre would dismiss it with a wave of her hand. Her younger sister was still a child, freshly 18 and still curious of the world. And yet, she had been robbed of the childhood and youth that Nesta, Elain and to some extent Feyre had. The night of her mother's death, when Feyre had curled herself into the dark corner of her bedroom, tears on her cheeks and a promise held to her heart, her baby sister crawled in next to her. As silent as a mouse, she said nothing as she cradled her older sister in that dark corner. (Y/N) had always been that way - too old for her age. She supposed that's what happens when the world leaves you to die. That's why Feyre kept her pains to herself - to spare her younger sister, give her a small relief that she never had. Protect her as best she could, while she still had her innocence.
But standing there, watching her beloved sisters fight for their lives, she felt lost. Helpless. Her heart wrenched at them, nightgowns dirtied and torn. No matter how much she fought, she remained defenceless as her sisters cries and shrieks echoed the battle.
(Y/N) could barely understand what was happening. Awoken and attacked in the night, in the safety of their home. Dragged and torn through the dirt as they fought their captors. Continuing to fight against the inhuman strength that held them hostage. And now, watching her fate bubble and boil in a cauldron. She could only cry as she watched Feyre fight so far from them. Could only watch as Cassian's wings were shredded apart and Azriel laid in a bed of crimson. Could only watch as Elain and Nesta fought against their fate, only to come out changed. Could only watch as it was her turn.
She could feel the ache in her bones as she fought against the guards dragging her towards the bubble surface of the cauldron. Her heart pounded like thunder in her ears. She dug her bare ankles into the floor, trying to stall as best as she could. She could only do so much before she was pushed in.
This must be what death felt like. To feel it flood ur senses, surround you and drag you under its cruel fingers into a dark abyss. To feel it flood your throat and tear the air out of your lungs in a fiery rage. The burn ran through each nerve of her body - she felt in behind her eyes, in her fingertips, within the bones of her frame.
The light blinded her as she tumbled out of the cauldron. What felt like hours was only a few seconds. The cold air sent icy pricks that stung her skin, leaving goosebumps. But none of that compared to what she felt under her grip. Her fingers clawed the wet soil, feeling as though a line had threaded itself between her fingers and to the very core of the earth. It anchored her so far down she thought she felt the quake of the world beneath her touch.
And she looked - she didn't just look, she saw. Saw gentle lines of threads dancing across each living being. They were so fragile and thin they were almost imperceptible- but they were there and they shone and glistened like glitter. A painting of golden webs danced across the wind - she imagined this must be the song of the wind Azriel had spoken of. And she felt a tug from one of the fragile threads in front of her - one that shone brighter and held stronger than the others. One that led to the man laying on his crimson deathbed.
-☆-
Even after months, the world had been too much. The colours had been much brighter, as if the Fae world was ripped from Feyre's paintings. The lullabies that floated in the wind carried by songbirds rang in her ears no matter where she was. Even when she locked out the doors, closed the windows, kept the curtains down. The world she had always dreamed of seeing, and she had been forced to see it everywhere. She couldn't escape it.
And those golden threads that seemed to weave the world to her fingertips... She could feel the urge to tug at those threads, to pull back against the own pulling of the Mother. And yet each time she reached out and held own, her fingers never seemed to hold steady.
She hadn't seen her sister's in a while. Nesta was often gone, and the only clues of her existence lingered in the tussled room next to hers. Elain had been just as bad, possibly worse. Locked in her room, Elain spent most of her days staring out the window, her lips remaining sealed from the world.
Feyre had tried. For (Y/N) especially, she had tried to coax them outside and to experience Velaris properly. There were good days, like when Elain and (Y/N) were sat by the window, hands held tightly - but most days were spent with the Acheron sisters out of sight, locked away and silent. During those days, Feyre would sometimes wish she were back in their cabin in the woods. Nesta and Elain staying inside, hogging the blankets. Their father carving creatures from woods. (Y/N) as fresh as the first winter snow, axe in hand and firewood in a circle around her. Huddled around a small fire in the cold nights, hungry but free.
And now they had been damned into an existence unwanted, cursed - and what good was a cursebreaker if her sisters remained crushed under this living burden?
She could hear shuffling behind the door, quiet yet frantic. Moments later, the door gave way to her baby sister. Nesta had been devastatingly beautiful, her features sharpened like a blade on grindstone. The moment she had come out the cauldron, power had emanated from her pores like waves of heat from an everlasting flame. Elain had come out like the personification of spring, bright and rosy and glowing, yet blank and shivering like a baby deer. (Y/N) came out...different.
Nesta had come out with power, but (Y/N) came out with purpose. Feyre remembered watching (Y/N)'s eyes dart around the air, as if staring at flying bugs that no other eye could see. For days, weeks, (Y/N) stared out into nothing, eyes darting and following the air. One night during their early days as Fae, Feyre caught her sister reaching out towards the stars, fingers reaching to hold onto something. That night had ended with (Y/N) in tears, weakly clawing at the air. No longer did her sister yearn for the unknown, no longer did she smile at the curious or giggle at the strange.
'Hello little butterfly,' Feyre grinned. Often (Y/N) would not answer, staying silent behind the door. Today was a lucky day it seemed.
'Hello,' (Y/N) nodded, her fingers tightly around the door edge. They were slender, thin, no longer covered in small red dots. Feyre's smile dropped slightly, but she quickly recovered.
'May I come in?'
(Y/N) sidestepped away from the door and back to the chair in the corner of the room. Today must be a very good day then. Feyre stepped in, closing the door and pushing away the last bit of artificial light from the room. (Y/N)'s room had been in perpetual darkness since her change. The only source of light was the small set of candles on her table gifted to her by Rhysand - 'So you don't prick your finger when you sew,' he'd said. Her sewing kit laid untouched on her shelf.
'Please don't ask me if I'm ok,' (Y/N) sighed once Feyre sat down on her bed. 'You know I'm not.'
'You won't get used to your new senses if you keep yourself locked away. Maybe if we opened a window-'
'It's not that, and you know it,' (Y/N) snapped. Her fingers gripped the wooden handles of her chair, nails digging in. 'I know you were there.'
'We were all there-'
'Not my changing.' (Y/N)'s eyes snapped up to Feyre's. Feyre almost flinched at the severity behind them. 'That night. You were there. I felt you - your thread.'
'My thread?'
'I felt it tugging that night. It only feels like that when someone is close by,' (Y/N) frowned. It looked like more words wanted to spill, but she kept her mouth shut.
'I've...' Feyre trailed off, confused. 'I've never heard of threads. Are you sure-'
'I'm not going insane,' (Y/N) cried, pushing her palms into her eyes. Feyre felt her heart shatter.
Reaching out, she took her sister's trembling hands, holding them steady in hers. 'You are not insane. There is nothing wrong with you.'
Feyre's hands reached up, cupping (Y/N)'s cheeks. 'You are just as you've always been. My dear little sister. My little butterfly.'
(Y/N) inhaled, closing her eyes. She felt her sister's fingers glide across her cheeks, tucking her hair behind her ears. For once, she could feel the golden strings. They gently grazed her cheeks, as warm and as soft as she could ever imagine. She could feel them connected to her being, connected to the love of her sister. They danced around her heart, tugging at her heart.
'I'm hoping to start a sewing workshop sometime in my art studio,' Feyre said, her hands holding (Y/N)'s hands in her lap. 'And I was hoping, you'd help me run it.'
(Y/N)'s breath hitched at the thought of leaving the house so soon, but Feyre gently squeezed her hands. Those threads made their presence known once more. (Y/N) could feel them tracing the outlines of their conjoined hands, a small tickle that ran along her skin. She wondered if Feyre could feel it too.
'Only when your ready,' Feyre said, 'We'll wait as long as you need.'
(Y/N) nodded, unsure of what to say. Or think. She felt a different tug at her heart - a stronger one. One that was familiar and warm in a way that brought her comfort. A small puff of air blew through her room, causing a small flicker of candles.
'I know,' Feyre said, seeing (Y/N)'s lips starting to slowly upturn. 'You have guests. No wonder you're in a good mood.'
'I'm not sure what you mean,' (Y/N) huffed, brushing her skirt down nervously.
Small shadows flowed from the underside of her door, immediately finding a place around her. They wrapped around her arms, like a gentle welcoming embrace, as if to say 'I missed you.'
Feyre stood up, chuckling at their puppy-like behaviour. 'I'll leave you two alone.'
Opening the door, she laughed and left down the hall. She stood up as the man she was excited to see walked in. And she too, almost giggled at his sight. His usual dark armour had been foregone, only in his undershirt he normally wore underneath his armour. His daggers had also been left behind. But what amused her was the abnormally bright bouquet of various flowers in his hands, slightly obscuring his face.
He coughed at her amused gaze, bowing his head slightly, 'Cerridwen and Nuala said you loved flowers, and I was passing by and figured I'd pick some up.'
'Thank you,' She said, gently picking the flowers out of his grips. Her fingers grazed his, a bright tingle running up her arm. The thread began pulsing, beating like a drum in the back of her mind. It had become a regular visitor alongside Azriel. At first it hurt, feeling like angry waves roaring at sea. But now, they felt like cooling waves meeting the shore. She had to crane her neck around the bouquet to see him, 'I'm not sure where I'll put these, but I'm sure I'll find a place.'
Gently she placed them on her bed. Azriel would never arrive back from a mission without a gift for (Y/N). Her shelves began to overflow with trinkets from all over. From flowers to small carvings, they lined her barren shelves, brining life to the otherwise empty room. Her personal favourite sat on her bedside - a music box. The very first gift actually, now that she recalled. She kept it close to her bed, and during nights where she found it particularly hard to fall asleep, the gentle tones of an unknown lullaby would guide her to her rest.
'Have you had dinner?'
'I'm not that hungry,' (Y/N) shrugged. 'Maybe later.'
Azriel frowned, but continued on. 'The florist told me the flowers would last longer in sunlight. There's a spot by the window sill you could put them.'
(Y/N) stilled for a moment, fiddling with the stem of one of the roses on her bed. She could tell what he was trying to do. He'd always tried, always with a different excuse. She felt disappointed in herself. Each time he came, she felt herself reach for the curtains, only to be too scared to go any further.
The shadow she'd made friends with curled down her fingers, pulling a tug at her lips. 'You must not be treating your shadows well if they prefer my company.'
'They have a weakness for beautiful women is all.'
(Y/N)'s nose wrinkled at his expression, 'No wonder they hate you then.'
Azriel laughed, 'Am I not beautiful at least?'
(Y/N) could feel her ears turn red at his question, her heart skipping a beat. 'And I thought Rhysand was the one with an ego.'
'I'll bring you dinner soon,' Azriel said. 'And I won't take no for an answers. My shadows will make sure you eat.'
'One day I'm going to steal your shadows from you,' (Y/N) said, toying with the shadow around her arm.
Azriel smiled. As the Spymaster of the court, he knew people better than most. He knew how to get into their heads, how to unlock secrets and force those to do his bidding. He also knew that being a spymaster took patience and time. And he would spare all his time for (Y/N).
'Your sleeve,' (Y/N)'s eyes caught the rip in his shirt. The seam had broken open long ago, and had began unravelling over time. It had reach his forearm now, exposing his wrist. (Y/N) reached over, turning his arm over to look at the seam. 'It's going to get worse if you don't get it fixed.'
'I don't suppose you know someone who could help, do you?'
'Haha,' (Y/N) sneered sarcastically, her fingers running along the sleeve. She went silent for a moment, her eyes blank. Azriel waited. He could see her thoughts churning in her mind, and gave her time to figure out which one to articulate it. The one she chose caught him off guard. 'Leave it with me.'
-☆-
It was past midnight now. Feyre had crawled out of bed, creeping towards the kitchen for a late night snack. It would've taken her a few minutes if she hadn't noticed something strange.
A small light stretched out from a certain door down the hall. Shadows flickered across the light. Someone was still up. The closer she got to the door, she began to hear the sound of a music box. The tune it played was a familiar one - an old illyrian lullaby Rhysand and Cassian had belted one drunken night.
As quietly as she could, she cracked the door gently open. She thanked Mother the door didn't creak as she peered inside. (Y/N)'s back was to her, humming along to the lullaby. Rhysand's candle set was lit, illumianting the room once more. Her hands gracefully moved through the air, in movements that Feyre had long since memorised on nights like this. And in her lap sat a familiar black shirt she had seen many times before.
-☆-
'You finally got your shirt fixed then,' Rhysand said, seeing the fixed sleeve.
'It was minor.' Azriel replied, fixing his armour properly.
Rhysand chuckled, 'I like the flowers.'
The armour covered most Azriel's upper body. But at certain angles, a small gift would make itself known. Along the seam of his sleeve ran a small green vine that twisted and brought together the two halves. At the very end of the stitch lay a small bouquet of embroidered flowers.
-☆-
Hello! Thank you so much for waiting! I might honestly come back and add more to the ending of this chapter but I don't really have the time or any ideas right now. But I hope you enjoy nonetheless!
Also thank you so much for all the support on this series. I wasn't expecting so many people to be invested and it honestly makes me a little nervous lolol. Anyways, I'm a bit busy lately with my uni enrolment and apartment hunting, but a new chapter will be up as soon as I can write. Thank you again everyone!
Summary// Your engagement is to be announced at the Court of Nightmares when you catch the eye of two particular Illyrian males.
(Part Two) (Part Three) (Part Four) (Part Five)
It was going to be a long night. You sighed to yourself as you stood in the corner, party in full swing. You tried to keep your head up, but you were slowly dying from the inside out. Your engagement was to be announced tonight and you wanted nothing more than to run. Run and never ever look back. This, however, was the plan from the start. You were the daughter of a higher-power male in the Court of Nightmares, meant to be sold off for breeding when you’d reached adulthood. You hated it. Hated everyone standing in the room. Everyone standing by and allowing this to be done to you. You wanted to scream. Wanted to unleash your power and rip every person standing to shreds. Regardless, that wasn’t an option. The outcome of those actions would be far worse than your sealed fate.
Lost in your thoughts, you almost missed it. If it weren’t for the wave of dark power that filled the room, you would’ve. You rushed to check yourself as you bowed to the High Lord and Lady of Night Court.
They were all there; Rhysand, Feyre, Nesta, Morrigan, Cassian, and Azriel. They’d all come to celebrate your engagement. You didn’t blame them. The whole ordeal would greatly help your father and the Court of Nightmares which would in turn help the Night Court itself.
Your blood boiled at the reminder of why you, and everyone else, was there. You’d tried for weeks, months, to get out of the marriage. They were weak attempts that ended in more pain for you. Eventually, you’d learned to keep quiet and try to forget about it. To enjoy the little freedom you still held.
His voice echoed off the walls, demanding every ounce of attention, “You may rise.”
You stood, rolling your eyes and choosing to tune him out. You had zero interest in what the High Lord had to say.
Your eyes, instead, roamed the group gathered around the thrones. As you did so, you noticed the Shadowsingers hard stare was on you. Your skin began to heat in response although you kept your face neutral. You tilted your head to the floor, deciding that was better that having a stare-down with him, as you waited for Rhysand to finish his speech.
————————————
You’d been practically thrown from person to person, dancing with just about every male in the room. Thirty minutes. That was it. All you had left until the engagement was made official. The thought made you sick. It was tradition for the new couple to have a solo dance after the announcement was made, simply the thought of having that males’s hands all over you sent a shiver up your spine.
As the song ended, you were spun around to face your new partner. You froze as you realized who stood before you. The Illyrian general placed a hand on your hip as he began moving with the music.
“Congratulations,” he purred.
His voice. Cauldron boil you. His voice was unlike anything you’d heard. Your body’s reaction to the smooth sound was embarrassing.
You bowed your head, “Thank you.”
He smiled at you as he continued to spin you around the floor. You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped your lips.
He cocked his head, “What’s so funny?”
Your cheeks reddened, “Your not very good at dancing, General.”
His expression turned into that of disbelief, “I am a very good dancer, y/n.”
You only laughed harder, not missing the way your stomach flipped at the way your name rolled off his tongue, “If you say so.”
“Please, show me the right way if I’m really that poor of a dancer.”
You smiled nervously as you took the lead, dragging the male with you as you lead him through the steps.
You became lost in your movements, dancing through the next few songs with him.
As the final song came to a close, you realized it was time. Your smile faded as you bowed to Cassian.
He caught your arm as you turned to leave, sensing the change in your demeanor, “Keep your head up, y/n.”
You felt your heart shatter at his words. He knew. He knew how utterly wrong this was, and yet he could do nothing to help you.
You only nodded as you made your way to your father, straightening your spine as you went.
————————————
You stood behind them, waiting to be announced.
Your fathers voice rattled your bones, “It is my deepest pleasure to provide my daughters hand in marriage to better this Court and it’s alliances.”
There was a light applause before he continued, “Their wedding will occur in two weeks time in our very own Court.”
Zephyr turned to extend his hand to you. You took it, trying not to gag at the feel of his hand in yours, the look in his eyes that told you this marriage was going to be anything but happy. He brought you to his side.
“Introducing the soon to be Mr. and Mrs. Zephyr Caspian.”
The applause in the room was deafening, the loudest being your own father. He might’ve been smiling, but his eyes said something entirely different. He could care less that he was damming you to eternal pain and suffering. He only wanted the money and status boost that came with it.
Zephyr dragged you to the middle of the floor, wrapping his hand around your waist as he began leading your dance. His skills were laughable, being somehow worse than Cassian had been. You knew this was different though. If you said anything you’d be punished instead of being made to teach. You bit your tongue to keep yourself from so much as smiling. The way he was looking at you made you sick. You felt his hand slowly creeping down towards your ass, letting it rest on what was soon to be his property. You thanked the mother above that part of the agreement was to wait. He couldn’t touch you more than that without risking losing the engagement. You did nothing to move his hand, instead trying to focus on anything else.
Your eyes drifted, once again snagging on the Shadowsingers hazel eyes. He was watching you, expression solemn. You new your eyes betrayed you, showing him the war of emotions you were facing. He expression flickered, flashing sorrow and heartbreak, before resuming its original position. You were confused by his reaction, watching as he dipped his head towards you as you turned to face your fiancé, helplessness beginning to set in.
————————————
His world was crumbling. As Azriel stood there, watching you dance, he wanted to scream. Wanted to get that male as far away from you as he possibly could. You were his. His mate. All it’d taken was one look and that sleepy coil had woken up and reached for you. He needed to move. Couldn’t possibly stand there any longer and watch you.
As he turned to leave, he found Cassian beckoning him to the door as well.
He turned the corner to face his brother, “Az, I need to talk to you.”
His alarm was evident as Azriel realized his brother was just as stressed as he was, “What is it? What happened?”
Summary: Years after Eris frees you from his father’s prison, you’ve managed to find a new love, new friends, and build a life for yourself in Autumn. But when a certain Shadowsinger stumbles upon your home, dragging in painful memories of betrayal and longing, you’ll have to face the things you left in the past and make choices about the future you want.
Note: Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! This fic will update every Wednesday evening starting October 25th
Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.
Warning: Fluff and violence
The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist
Masterlist of Masterlists
Azriel didn’t have any reason to show up on your doorstep the next day, but he still flew through the pouring rain and waited patiently for you to answer.
“Hi.” You said, breathlessly.
“Hi.” He answered, dripping water onto the doormat.
Azriel filled up too much space in your apartment, but maybe that was just the constriction of your thumping heart. Az smelled like fresh rain and cedar. Your mother had once taken you to the mountains on the western coast. Citrus fruits sticky and tart in your palms as you sat by the edge of the cliffs and tasted the salt water in the air. It made sense that Azriel should smell like one of your best memories.
“I wanted to give you these.” Azriel said once he’d stepped inside, a quick spell of yours drying the rain off his clothes. Cradled beneath his arms were a bouquet of yellow flowers and a box of pastries from your favorite bakery down the street. The box was soft and supple, but he’d shielded them from the worst of the rain.
“Oh? What’s the occasion?”
He cocked his head to the side, “Does there need to be an occasion? I thought you might like them.”
Liar. He knew you liked them. He was the Shadowsinger after all and the first thing he’d done this morning was track down Cherp.
“Well… no,” You said, gingerly accepting both packages from him. Shadows darted out from his gloved hands, slinking up your arms like living jewelry, cool and comforting. “No, I suppose there doesn’t need to be an occasion.”
“Think of it as a thank you gift. For everything you've done for my family.”
You blushed, “That was really nothing.”
“Rhys and Feyre would disagree. I would disagree. And if Rhys were here he’d probably offer you a dress made of diamonds as a gift instead.”
You blinked, “That seems excessive.”
“That’s Rhys.”
“Then I will consider myself lucky that you’re here instead.”
Azriel seemed pleased with that answer, dipping his head in a subtle bow.
He started off at the kitchen counter, pouring himself a cup of tea as you snipped the flowers and arranged them in a vase. But soon he was drifting around the room, setting your heart alight whenever his fingers would graze the mantle, linger on the pages of an open book, or brush your handwritten notes. It all felt too intimate. The way he could make your breath catch in your throat with every rustle of his wings, the soft sigh of leather as he bent over to look at your scribbled handwriting and smiled. He may as well have grabbed you by the waist and kissed you breathless. Not that you were thinking about kissing him...
You hovered by the kitchen, then moved as close to him as you dared, close enough that Azriel could smell the orange icing that clung to your lips and fingertips. He wanted to taste you.
He shook his head, moving aside and pointing to the newest of your notes. He read, “Immunity - the innate biological process of recognizing and protecting against foreign entities - is a phenomenon that can be extended and applied to magic. From mating bonds to daemati powers to shielding, everything related to magic can be made analogous to the function of a biological immune system.”
He gave you a look - a silent act of permission to continue reading to himself. And before you could think it through, you were nodding.
Azriel took up a spot on your couch, wings cramped against the velvet backing and long legs bumping into the coffee table. You wordlessly moved the furniture and started to pace the floor, busying yourself with the theatrics of organizing notes when you were really keeping an eye on him.
He had a careful look of concentration on his face, lips silently forming the words as his eyes raked over the pages.
You’d presented it to Cherps last summer, and as kind and forgiving as he could be when it came to intellectual exploration, he’d told you flat out that the manuscript was a waste of time.
It was a review paper in its earliest stages, stringing together the connections between different forms of magic and basic biological processes - namely the immune system. The greatest force working against you was the simple fact that fae didn’t concern themselves with such things. Sickness was an inconvenience at worst, nonexistent at best, and any possible fears were quickly wiped out in the face of immortality.
But humans were a different story. Their time on this earth was short and precious. Their weaknesses made them curious, fueled by a desperation for more time - more health - that fae held in spades.
It fascinated you to no end. And after the war against Hybern you’d gotten your hands on some manuscripts from the Human Lands and the Continent.
The concept of white blood cells searching through blood for foreign pathogens didn’t seem so far off from spells designed to unearth enemies hidden on a battlefield. The power wielded by daemati analogous to some virus able to hijack existing cellular machinery for its own purpose. You’d even heard of a blacksmith in the Dawn Court capable of imbuing her magical signature into weapons so that only she would be able to wield them. What better example of immune system magic was there?
Your heart hammered in your chest as Azriel continued to flip through the pages. Long, nimble fingers fluttering along the edges of the pieced together manuscript. His shadows curled around the paper like curious children.
Perhaps it was a mistake showing it to him. It was a rather weak and pathetic argument anyhow. You’d be ridiculed for presenting your ideas at any respectable meeting of the-
“Brilliant.” Azriel breathed.
You snapped your head up in shock.
He looked at you, something like awe in his eyes. “You’re brilliant.” Gloved fingers flipped through the pages once more, marveling.
“It’s not finished yet.” You admitted, wringing your hands together, “It’s barely even begun, and I’d have to fight tooth and nail to get it published. If I ever managed to get it published.” You muttered the last part beneath your breath.
“Why wouldn’t they want to read it? You present a convincing case.”
You tipped your hair to the side, as if the answer was obvious, “Fae don’t like bringing humans into the conversation. They think the work they accomplish is beneath any respectable Librarian. Unworthy of study.”
Az chuckled, “My High Lady would probably say otherwise.”
The High Lady was a curious case - a human soul housed in one of the strongest bodies Prythian had ever known.
“I’m sure.” You said, excited that you had found someone who approved of your ideas for once, “It sounds contradictory, but I believe we could learn more about magic by studying humans.” You were standing now, pacing in front of Az.
He’d managed to crack some forgotten dam inside of you and words began pouring out.
“I have another hypothesis that spell-cleaving comes from the very specific ability to identify and imitate the magical signatures of others. I mean, just imagine! If you could change your magical signature to match that of another fae, any spell crafted, any barrier built-” You made a motion with your hands, “Pff! Useless. You can’t keep yourself out in a spell. Or you can try to at least, but any respectable fae would leave a backdoor for themselves in case something went wrong-”
You rambled on - the biology of immunization and its function in the last war, the Dawn Court artificer, Helion and Feyre’s powers - before finishing with, “I suspect my own powers have something to do with it.”
“What are your powers?” Azriel asked curiously. He leaned forward ever so slightly. “Aside from being brilliant, of course.”
You blinked in surprise. You hadn’t meant to say that. You’d meant to keep it in your mind, quiet and hidden. You swallowed thickly, picking at bitten fingernails.
Azriel swore internally upon seeing the way you flinched, “You don’t… you don’t need to tell me. I’m sorry I-.”
“No! No. I-''
He stared at you openly. Or at least as openly as a person like him could. There was a softness to his eyes you suspected didn't come naturally to him, like he was trying very very hard to convince you to trust him... And it was working.
His hazel eyes were a swirl of gold touched by the first kisses of Autumn.
“Can you… can you promise not to tell anyone? Truly promise.”
He stilled - the very picture of seriousness. Even his shadows seemed to stiffen in the air and become less translucent, “I swear on my life, Y/n. I won’t tell a soul.”
And you knew he wouldn’t. You could feel his honesty in the air, as if something was tugging at your chest and gingerly pulling you open.
You swayed gently, fingers crunching your linen skirts.
“I’m a Clairvoyant.” You admitted, as if it was a shameful thing, “I can touch things - people, objects - and gain knowledge from them. Usually it’s memories or emotions or something else I can’t quite describe.” The scattered books were beginning to make more sense to the Shadowsinger. You pointed to them with open hands, “It’s useful for work… overwhelming when it comes to everything else. Especially after the war with what everyone went through.”
You hesitated. You waited for him to say what you’d been told your entire life: It’s an incredible power. You should be so proud. The Mother has blessed you with this gift. You’re special Y/n.
But Azriel only looked down to your tightly clasped hands, and then to his own.
“That must be quite a burden. To be exposed to all of that.”
Your eyes snapped up to him as he quietly tugged at his gloves.
“It is.” You murmured beneath your breath, feeling tears begin to prick at your eyes.
Azriel’s heart clenched in his chest.
“Is that why you won’t touch anyone? Why you ran away from the party?”
Why you ran away from me that night?
You nodded guiltily.
Azriel sighed, eyes closing in relief. All this time he’d been terrified that you hated him, thinking that you’d seen him for what he truly was - a monster.
“It was nothing to do with you.” You said quickly, leaning closer.
Your hands shot out towards him before freezing midway. You wanted to touch him. You wanted to hold his hands. You felt him tugging at the edges of your heart, like a curious hand pulling at fraying threads. You’d known him less than a week and already you’d spoken more with him than anyone else in the past year. Spent more time with him. Shared your secrets with all the recklessness of young love. What were you thinking?
You pulled away, lips tightening into a flat, angry line. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. You hadn’t asked for this power, even though others never failed to envy you for it. It was a terrible gift that you couldn’t return when the real thing you wanted was the simple joy of holding Azriel’s hand.
But that wouldn’t be fair to him either.
He was a Shadowsinger - a Spymaster to be exact - filled with enough secrets to break the world three times over. To touch him… to kiss him, would be the worst invasion of privacy. Even if you didn’t intend for it to happen.
Azriel finally spoke and his voice filled the silence with a music you wanted to hear more of, “Being a Shadowsinger… It's not easy. I’ve had plenty of people tell me I should be grateful for it. Grateful for my power and the prestige it's brought me. But sometimes I can’t help but wonder if it was worth the cost.” You stared at him, eyes so wide he swore they could swallow him whole, “I understand, Y/n. I know it’s not exactly the same… but I understand.”
“Do you think you’d be happier, Azriel, if you hadn’t been born a Shadowsinger?”
He shrugged, “I don’t think that’s the way it works, Y/n.”
“No… no I suppose you’re right about that.” You murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
He gently nudged the coffee table and it lightly tapped your shins.
“It’s not all bad.” You raised your eyebrows, urging him to continue, “If I wasn’t a Shadowsinger, I wouldn’t have met you.”
You chuckled, a stray tear slipping out and dripping onto the rug. You brushed the rest of the moisture away.
“Maybe you would have. Maybe you would have come to the Day Court to study.” Azriel snorted. The sun would sooner rise in the west and set in the east before anyone called Azriel an academic. “Maybe we would have gotten into arguments about research and books.”
“About the historical accuracy of chicken eggs?”
“About the anatomical considerations of having sex with a dragon-born.” You clarified. “Obviously.”
“Obviously.” Azriel said, smiling.
He’d never been born for the quiet life. Shadowsinger or not, he was a warrior through and through. But looking around at the plush sofa and the faelights flooding in from the athenaeum, he couldn’t help but imagine what kinds of peace you’d bring into his life if he ever mustered up the courage to tell you the truth.
You’re my mate.
You’re my mate.
You’re my mate.
The words kept rattling around in his mind as the pair of you spent the day holed up in your apartment.
It was a comfortable haze. You didn’t ask why he lingered, although he felt your burning curiosity through the bond, and he never offered you an explanation. The truth was, no matter his reason for sitting on the couch reading his own sensitive reports, you liked his company… and you wanted him to stay. He saw it in the way your eyes always latched onto him when he stood up, only relaxing when he settled back down.
It was a comforting pain to know that you wanted him, even if you didn’t know why and even if he was too much of a coward to do anything about it.
He didn’t eat, politely declining every stubborn offer of yours until you finally gave up. He wouldn’t be accepting any food from you from here on out. It wasn’t until you made the mistake of yawning from your spot on the floor, papers radiating out from you like a sunburst, that he made any effort to leave.
He looked towards the window. Long, sharp shadows crept along the floor and mingled with his own.
Fuck. He promised Rhys he’d be back by mid-afternoon.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stay so long.” He stood up, wings stretching out so you could see every ripple of muscle, every inky vein that ran through the thin membrane like offshoots from a river.
You scrambled to your feet, pressing an open book to your chest like that would stop your pounding heart. Time had passed too quickly.
“There’s no need to apologize. I-I liked your company. I like your company. Present tense.” You sighed without thinking, “It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone around.”
Cruel, malicious voices rang in Azriel’s mind. They sounded like his half-brothers and the asshole he was unfortunate enough to call a father.
Don’t do it. You’ll ruin this. You’ll ruin this like you ruin everything.
Look at this place. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong with her. You’ll never be worthy of-
“May I come see you tomorrow then?” Azriel’s words were loud, laced with hope. “I’ll bring breakfast.” He said, quieter this time.
You blushed and tried to sound nonchalant when you answered, “I would like that.”
With the promise of another day hanging in the air, that tight coil in your chest loosened, even as Azriel bowed his head and stepped outside. You gasped when he unfurled his wings, the faint glow of the street lights shining through the membrane.
There were few things Azriel loved about himself, but his wings? His wings were his pride and joy. The one beauty he felt he possessed. So when he saw the awe in your gaze, he took off a little harder than usual, delight shooting through his heart when he turned around to see you laughing and brushing the hair from your eyes.
You watched him and he watched you as he climbed higher and higher into the sky before fading into nothing.
There were three books you treasured above all else: The Natural Trials and Tribulations of Leonora Bedroot, Three Knocks for A Kiss, and A Touch of Cinnamon. They’d been your mother’s favorite novels - comforting, slice of life books that promised a happy ending no matter the sorrows that came before. Dog-eared, finger-print stained, and loved beyond measure, your mother had read them to you over and over and over again. Her notes were still scrawled in the margins, her joy still pressed between the pages like preserved flowers.
Being a Clairvoyant meant you could tap into the essence of objects, and objects held memories and emotions just as readily as people. When you thrummed your fingers over the clothbound books you got flashes of your mother. Flashes of her scent. Flashes of her affection for you.
You relied on that familiar comfort as you sat by the window and watched the sky. Every swirl in the clouds looked like Azriel to you. As if he’d swoop down from the heavens and burst through your door so you could wrap your mind around that scent of rainfall and cedar.
You buried your face in your knees and cried out in frustration. You’d wanted to crawl into his lap the entire day. To feel the warmth of his wings wrapped around you like a blanket.
Stupid stupid stupid.
You knocked your head against the worn leather-bound books. One look at his windswept hair and faint smile this morning and you’d been lost.
What would your mother say? Three days and you were already drunk on him. Were flowers, sweet treats, and a modicum of undivided attention all it took for you to fall for someone?
But it wasn’t just a bouquet of flowers - they were daisies picked from the florist down the street with the lilac doorway and hand-painted cards. It wasn’t just a box of pastries - they were from your favorite bakery with the orange icing so heavenly that for years you’d ignored cake on your birthday in favor of them.
Such detail required more than a modicum of attention. If you were right, Azriel would have needed to fly around the city inquiring after you and your mother to gain such information.
But why would he do that? Why would he bother?
The window was cool against your skin, whisking away the heat that had gathered in your cheeks after hours of thinking about the Shadowsinger.
It was a quiet night, as most nights were in the Day Court, and aside from the three Librarians who had entered The Alcove for a late night of reading, you hadn’t seen a soul. The streets were as still as a painting.
Someone drunkenly staggered out of The Alcove.
Meryl. The Alcove’s Bookkeeper.
You frowned in distaste.
Meryl was a middling Librarian at best, although he was skilled enough at the sword to have been selected for Bookkeeper training. Standing easily over six-feet tall with the strong legs of a bison and horns to match, he’d chosen the simple life presiding over The Alcove where he could drink and fuck to his heart’s desire. After all, who would care enough to attack an athenaeum dedicated to boring fiction?
Meryl clopped forward another three feet, one hand pressed to his throat. His red-trimmed robes swayed in the breeze. But his robes weren’t meant to be that red.
He stumbled to the side, close to the base of your front steps, and his eyes locked with yours.
His ears were missing, two gaping holes where the gentle slope of the cartilage should be. His lips parted in a silent scream and blood bubbled out hot and thick.
<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->
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Author's Note:
Did I steal the *hi* from Heartstopper because I've been rewatching it for the fourth time this week?................. Maybe???
[F.U.C.K] LIMONENE is a compound naturally found in all citrus fruits which boosts your metabolism, relieve heartburn and reduce stress and anxiety.
Why Limonene? Because this whole thesis will revolve around that component and of course, with the seven men interacting with you, you’ll be needing it. Trust me!
Can you please reblog if your blog is a safe place for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, asexual, aromantic, pansexual, non binary, demisexual or any other kind of queer or questioning people? Because mine is.
his name is stephen mader and not only did he refuse to shoot, he actively wanted to help the man (ronald ‘rj’ williams) because he could tell that he was only acting out because of mental illness. rj williams was suicidal and holding an unloaded gun and, while mader didn’t shoot him, a fellow officer (ryan kuzma) did and murdered him on the spot. here is the source and here’s to hoping rj williams gets justice
“Saying the words ‘Just shoot me’ sent up the red flag that he was just trying to harm himself and no one else … That’s what made me make my decision. He needed help”
I hate this fucking world. The guy was actually trying to do his job by actually desculating the situation the right way (desculating these days apparently just means shoot them) and was fired for “failing to eliminate a threat.”
I once received a DM comprised of just that sentence. Nothing else. No constructive criticism or any reason as to why this person clearly agreed with my own view of myself.
For someone who has never told anyone in their real life that they write anything, reading something like this from an anonymous user only solidified in my mind the fact that this person was right.
I’m not a good writer.
After an embarrassing amount of minutes passed, in which I thought about deleting every story I ever posted, I decided to delete the message instead. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean I could delete the feelings it caused or change the fact that I’m not a good writer.
Two weeks went by and I didn’t write anything, let alone post. Then I received a comment on a story I had posted three years prior, one I’d written after a death in our family. The comment read, “Thank you for sharing this heartfelt story. I really needed this. I just lost my mom and this really got me today.”
I stopped thinking about being a good writer after that. I thought instead, “what if I had deleted my stories and that one person three years later hadn’t read it that day?”
Here’s what I realized: no one is a good writer.
Good means to be approved of, but stories aren’t created from approval. They’re built from life experiences, feelings, and emotions Therefore, the impact of anyone’s story isn’t good or bad. It’s a million other things.
Heartfelt.
Sad.
Funny.
Inspiring.
Romantic.
So to all the story writers out there, hold your head up, write what is in your heart, and never doubt that there isn’t at least one person out there that needs to read your story.
So, no.
We’re not good writers, but why would we want to be?
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dededos
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germansingergirl
janainaart
annaxmalina
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