Now that it's officially the new year here's the official announcement for the ACOTAR Unnamed Characters Weekend 2025!
Ever been frustrated by the lack of names for important side characters? Do you wonder what Tarquin's last name might be? Do you enjoy coming up with poetic names for Rhysand's mother and sister, or alternatively seeing how far you can get without referring to any of the Vanserra brothers by a given name? Then this event is for you!
From May 16th to May 18th 2025, we want to celebrate all the characters in the ACOTAR series who remain unnamed. This counts any character who is mentioned in the book, whether they are an active participant in the plot or a simple memory. From the King of Hybern to the Lady of Autumn, Azriel's mother to the mercenary from the first book, Thesan's husband or the unnamed Human Queens - anyone is fair game.
We welcome any and all participation in this event, whether you want to submit writing, art, mood boards, playlists, headcanons, whether you'd like to name the character yourself or keep the mystery alive. All we ask is that you tag us in your post and use the hashtag #ACOTARUnnamed2025.
There are only three rules:
The character has to be mentioned in the books.
They don't necessarily have to show up in a scene to count! Examples for this would be Rhys's and Tamlin's families, Cassian's or Emerie's mothers, Alis' nephews, or even the Children of the Blessed from ACOTAR or ACOWAR. Create a backstory for them, imagine where they are now, how they would fit into an alternative universe, what their lives look like outside of their presence in our main characters' stories.
The character has to lack at least one name.
One example for this would be Papa Archeron's lack of a first name, or none of the High Lords (excluding Beron) having a last name. However! If you create something focusing on a character that is already well established, for example Rhys or Tamlin, we ask you to build your work around the name of the character and its meaning.
We do not accept AI!
Any submissions made using AI will not be acknowledged, reblogged or put on our masterlists.
All clear? If you have any questions around the event or just want to chat, our ask box and DMs are always open!
First of all thank you so much to everyone who participated! This was just supposed to be a silly little event to express my frustration at SJM not naming so many of her characters and going to (honestly kind of ridiculous) lengths to not give them a name, so I'm super happy so many of you resonated with it enough to create something, and give those characters a name, a voice, a face.
Thank you so much! See you again next year, maybe?
Day 1: Significance
All the World's A Stage by @some-sort-of-firefly
Eleni Merel by @fieldofdaisiies
Modern AU Sylas Vanserra by @velidewrites
Raivis Vanserra by @olenvasynyt
Sacrifice by @queercontrarian
Significance - Lady of Spring by @thornsinwinter
The Hollow Women by @acourtofladydeath
What Is My Name by @slytherin-pen
Day 2: Anonymity
Anemones by @themadmorrigan
Blood Brothers by @zenkindoflove
Imala Vanserra by @fieldofdaisiies
Not a World I Know by @some-sort-of-firefly
The Lady of Autumn - Outfits by @olenvasynyt
Day 3: Free Day
Adonto, Captain of the Peregryns by @fourteentrout
Give Your Name To Me by @some-sort-of-firefly
In Silt and Sun by @jules-writes-stories
Kallax Eiran Vanserra by @fieldofdaisiies
like the hungry crow in autumn by @buffy-vanserra
Mama's Boy by @slytherin-pen
Marcel Vanserra by @velidewrites
Nuan's backstory by @shadowqueenjude
Plenty Nights Under Pink Skies by @climbthemountain2020
Regis Vanserra by @mygreendandelion
The Brothers by @secret-third-thing
The flame that tempers steel by @irithiadourden
The LOA by @westrangecollectionkoalaposts
The Mantle by @wrraccountant
The Shadow of You by @queercontrarian
to explain the infinite by @temperedink
Thank you so much for all your submissions! Let me know if I missed any of you - this has been so amazing!
tags: mentions of Elriel, some backstory lore, Azriel is mad at Rhys
summary: After his fight with Rhys, Azriel retreats to the one place he can find peace—Rosehall. There, we meet his mother Eve.
a/n: sooo, i’m three days late for @nameless-acotar-weekend but listen—i did my best. also, i’m super excited about this one! i took this as an opportunity to flesh out some of my headcanons/theories regarding these two. i’m also trying to work on writing more of the small details and i think i did that. i hope you enjoy!
The Illyrian Steppes were quiet this time of year. A spring wind rustled the grass, the air crisp and sharp due to the altitude. Azriel soared above it all, his shadows trailing behind him as he approached the only place in the world that could offer him peace right now. Rosehall.
It was nestled far from the camps, warded so that only he and whoever he allowed could see it—much less enter.
Azriel landed softly on the dirt path before the estate. He barely had time to fold his wings before the cats came.
A blur of color and fur streaked toward him—tabbies, greys, calicos, and the one black tom who always yowled like he was swearing. Azriel knelt as they surrounded him, sniffing his boots, batting at the shadows that danced around his legs. He felt a rare smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
The door opened before he could knock.
Eve stood there in a soft blue tunic that clung to her slim frame, the sleeves rolled up signifying she had either been cooking or gardening. Her black hair was pinned back in a simple twist, and her wings drooped behind her. Azriel briefly wondered if there would ever be a day he didn’t blame himself for being unable to protect her. But her eyes, hazel and so familiar to his own, softened the moment she saw him.
“My boy,” she breathed.
Azriel’s throat tightened. “Hi, Mama.”
She moved forward, taking his face in her hands. She didn’t flinch when his scarred hands came up to cover hers. He’d stopped expecting that flinch years ago, but it still shocked him when it didn’t come. “You didn’t say you were coming.”
“Needed to see you,” he murmured.
Her brow furrowed. Despite the years they missed out on together, she could always read him like a book. “Something happened.”
He only nodded.
She stepped aside to let him in. The scent of roasting lamb and wild herbs hit him immediately. The estate was warm and alive, a fire burning brightly in the hearth behind the screen. Jars of pickled vegetables littered the shelves in the kitchen and dried herbs hung from the ceiling. Bolts of cloth were stacked in corners. Half-finished dresses hung from racks scattered around the room. And the cats who had followed them inside perched on the couch, coffee table, and windowsills as they watched him with flicking tails.
His mother pointed toward the couch in front of the hearth. “Sit. You’re pale.”
“I can’t be pale, Mama. I’m Illyrian,” he replied with a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Don’t argue with your mother Azriel Donnall,” she scolded.
“Yes ma’am,” he replied, chuckling softly.
Azriel unbuttoned his jacket and sat on the couch in front of the fire, resting his arms on his knees. One of the cats, a cream-colored puff ball of a thing, leaped into his lap without invitation. He began to stroke her head with his hand.
Eve returned to the kitchen, where she stirred something in a tall iron pot. “Did you eat?”
“No ma’am.”
“Good thing I make enough to feed an army, then,” she said in a light, sing-song voice.
He watched her in silence for a while, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders as the smell of garlic and spice filled the room. He hadn’t realized how tightly wound he’d been until he stepped into this place. Into her quiet, protected world.
“Rhys gave me an order,” he said eventually.
She turned her head but kept stirring. “What kind?”
He twisted his scarred hands in his lap despite the cat nudging them with her head, begging for more pets. “To stay away from someone I care about.”
Her stirring slowed.
“I kissed her,” he continued. “And he said to stay away from her.”
His mother said nothing for a long moment, then tilted her head as she asked, “Did she want you?”
“Yes.”
“And did you hurt her?”
“No.”
“Then he has no right,” she said, her face scrunching up in anger. It wasn’t a face Azriel saw very often. For many years he didn’t think his mother was capable of such emotion. Thought it was too deeply associated with his father, Fergus, for her to allow herself to feel such a thing—much less express it.
But one night he came barreling in through the door after a half-ass job of stitching himself up in his Velaris apartment—empty save for the few supplies and furniture items needed in emergencies like those—that she’d properly scolded him for the first time in his five hundred and sixty years of life. Her brows and nose had scrunched like they were now and her face had turned red as a tomato as she lectured him on taking proper care of himself. And on not letting Rhys overwork him, but they both knew that wouldn’t change, not unless another Shadowsinger appeared.
Her ranting had quickly ended when he had whispered that he just wanted his mother. She’d cooed at him and taken his hand, leading him to the dining room where she redid his stitches, fed him, and then sent him off to bed.
Nights like that didn’t happen often, the guilt Azriel felt too strong in normal circumstances for him to allow her to coddle him in such a way. The tables have turned now, and it was his turn to take care of her. But when he was vulnerable like that night, and tonight, he allowed her to be the mother she never got to be without fuss. To make sure he was fed, to kiss his boo-boos, and check on him throughout the night—though she didn’t know he knew about that part.
Azriel exhaled shakily. “He’s trying to protect his family.”
“And who protects you, Azriel?” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Who protects my boy?”
“I don’t need protection, Mama. I am a grown male, with multiple methods of defending myself.” He sighed. “She has a mate. She doesn’t want him but…he wants her. And Rhys is worried about the consequences that may follow should he choose to fight for her.”
His mother huffed indignantly. “While I may understand where he’s coming from in a diplomatic sense, a mating bond is not law. Especially if it hasn’t been consummated.” She raised a singular brow at him in question, and after he gave a brief nod, she continued. “That’s what I thought. Mother only knows what decides who is mated to who, and we’ve seen firsthand how incompatible some mates can be.”
Azriel scrubbed at his face, both in frustration and in an effort to remove the cat fur that was starting to tickle his nose.
“I know, Mama. But trying to tell Rhys that is like talking to a brick wall. His mating bond is something straight out of a fairytale. They’re perfect for each other. He’s so high on the happy hormones he can’t think straight.”
“Well,” his mother sighed, “just give it time for now. Maybe he will eventually see the error of his ways—however, that is doubtful. But maybe something will change between the two of them. Whether that be breaking the bond or…”
Azriel nodded solemnly.
“Dinners ready,” she called, thankfully changing the subject.
At the table were dishes containing fluffy rice, roasted lamb with garlic and figs, and warm flatbread brushed with butter and herbs. She sat beside him at the dining table, handing him his napkin and silverware like he was still her child and not one of the most feared males on the continent.
“Eat,” she murmured. “And then you’ll sleep.”
He did. He ate every bite. He helped her clean up after despite her swatting him with a dish towel, and when she nudged him toward the spare room that had been turned into his, he relented. He was asleep within minutes, curled beneath a patchwork quilt that smelled like lilac and woodsmoke.
Azriel woke to the sound of birdsong and soft humming. When he stepped out into the living room, he could see his mother was already in the garden through the living room window. She had a woven basket looped over one arm and a small trowel in the other, a few of the cats following her every move.
The goats roamed nearby, grazing on the grass and wildflowers. The chickens were still in their coop, but he could hear the roosters waking up to start their day—and everyone else’s within a five mile radius.
He stepped off the front porch steps, rolling up his sleeves. “What can I do?”
Eve handed him the basket. “Pick the ripe potatoes. And the mint. The rest we can leave another day.”
He did as asked, enjoying the silence between them. There was no need to talk. Not here. She moved between rows of herbs and vegetables with ease, nimble despite the wings that hung like broken branches behind her.
“They don’t hurt anymore,” she said suddenly.
“What?”
“My wings. I thought they always would. But they stopped.” She straightened, wiping dirt on her pants. “They still feel wrong, but they don’t ache constantly, only when it’s really cold.”
Azriel swallowed. “I’m glad.”
She looked at him, long and steady. “You were only two when they took you to the dungeons. And then when you were eleven you were sent to the camps and I thought I’d never see you again,” her voice cracked at the end.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”
“And decades later when you brought me here, I didn’t know how to be your mother anymore.”
“You learned,” he assured her, smiling ruefully.
A tear slipped down her cheek and he sent a shadow to wipe it away.
They resumed harvesting in silence, the spring breeze ruffling their hair. And Azriel, not for the first time, wondered what it would be like to stay here. He usually only stayed for a few days at a time, always having to rush off to his duties as Spymaster. Maybe in another world, he got to live with his mother. Got to be raised by her. Instead, he had to keep her hidden away like a princess in a tower for her comfort and safety.
His father and stepbrothers were, unfortunately, still alive. He’d like to think the beating he and his brothers gave them would deter them from ever trying to hurt his mother again, but he could never be too careful. Not with her.
Fergus, Uilleam, and là cob had been a type of cruel he still hasn’t come across again in his centuries of being the Night Court torturer. Even his stepmother, Dara, had been a piece of work. And though he and his brothers did not lay a hand on her, her screams of fear after witnessing what he had done to her husband and children that day told him she got the message.
So he keeps as much of his mother’s whereabouts a secret as possible, and that includes not visiting often or staying too long in case he is trailed. He doesn’t even tell his brothers much about her. They know she exists, and they know he visits her, but that is the extent of their knowledge. And he will keep it that way—until the rivers run dry, the moon turns blue, and Hel freezes over—because the more people who knew, the more danger she was in.
By mid-morning, the sun had warmed the earth and Eve had opened the front windows to let in the breeze. Azriel helped her move a display table outside, setting it up beneath the shade of a birch tree.
“Today’s trade day?” he asked.
Eve nodded. “Yes. The girls are coming.”
The “girls” were a loose collection of females from nearby hills and hidden cottages. Survivors, all of them. Some bore the scars of escaping their abusive husbands or families, others just had that hollow look in their eyes that he had seen too often in his mother. But here, at Rosehall, they were vibrant. Whole. Eve had given them that.
They arrived at noon with jars of honey, wool, bundles of soap, and bolts of cloth. They greeted Azriel with smiles and nods, some whispering behind their hands. It took some of them decades to become comfortable around him, but they learned to trust him as Eve’s son and not fear him as the Shadowsinger.
He watched as the females traded goods and gossip, tried on new cloaks, and stitched hems right there in the grass. One brought Eve a fruit cake, another a bottle of berry wine. The females smiled and laughed with each other, Azriel’s mother shining the brightest of them all.
Azriel smiled more that day than he had in months. Seeing his mother like this, in her element, in company that loved and appreciated her almost as much as he did, warmed his cold, dead heart.
When the sun dipped low, and the females gathered their things, Eve hugged each one like a sister. Then she returned to the house, her eyes alight.
“You’re staying for dinner,” she told him, bracing her hands on the archway to the kitchen.
Azriel turned from where he was adjusting the logs in the fire. “I wasn’t planning to leave yet.”
“Good.”
She made a stew with lentils, root vegetables, and chicken with a side of bread. They ate on the porch, listening to the goats and chickens wandering around the property. Several cats were draped over the railing or sprawled out on the wooden planks soaking up the last rays of the sun.
After dinner, she sat beside him on the porch swing with a needle and thread, repairing one of his tunics.
“You don’t have to—”
“Hush. Let me do this. I never got to patch your clothes when you were small,” she said with a small smile, but there was emotion swimming in her eyes, and a hint of pleading.
So he let her.
And when she brushed his hair back with gentle fingers, the way she used to when he was too bruised to move, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let himself lean into his mother’s touch. Savor it. His eyes closed on their own accord and a soft sigh escaped his lips.
That night, Azriel stood beneath the stars, looking out at the moonlit mountain. Eve joined him, wrapping a blanket around her thin shoulders.
“Are you going to stay angry at Rhys forever?” she asked as she stood next to him.
He crossed his arms over his chest, his shadows swirling around him. “No. But I needed space.”
“And will you go to her? This girl?”
He was silent.
Eve stepped closer. “You were never a mistake, Azriel. Not even in that house. You were the only thing that saved me.”
His throat burned. “I just want to be enough for someone.”
“Oh, my sweet boy,” she said, her voice thick with sadness. “You are. You were always enough. They were just too blind to see it.”
She pulled him close then, one clipped wing curling around him. “You are my heart, Azriel. My brave, beautiful boy.”
He closed his eyes. He would deal with the mess revolving around Elain and Rhys when he returned to Velaris, but for now, he would soak in every moment of peace with his mother. Because despite their immortality, there wasn’t enough time in the world to make up for the childhood they both lost.
Hi there!! First of all, thank you so much for putting together this event weekend. this was such a fun idea and I wished I could participate more!! Unfortunately I was only able to get one submission in, and it was sort of late last night, and I was just wondering if it would still make it onto the masterlist. Totally understandable if not! No pressure whatsoever. I had a lot of fun doing what I could, but like I said, I wish I could have participated more (bad planning on my part whoops) and I would love to see this event make another appearance in the future if you're up for hosting again! Thank you again!
Hiya! First of all thank you so much for participating! Sorry I missed your work earlier and it took me so long to reblog, I was traveling, then had work kick my butt AND I got sick rip.
I'm considering doing it again, because this was really fun! Stay tuned to find out if I plan better next time or if this mess is just the vibe of this event now haha
For @nameless-acotar-weekend ! I totally forgot the dates for it and I didn’t have time to work on anything up before hand, but I really wanted to include my design for Thesan’s Lover! I’ve named him Adonto, and in addition to being the Captain of the Peregryn Fleet, I like to think that he has some kind of lordly title as well. I kind of like the sound of Lord General or Lord Captain of the Dawn Court
I also have some headcanons for Adonto and Thesan. I think they’d have kind of a sun/moon, black cat/golden retriever vibe. Based on appearances and their public demeanors, people assume Thesan is the golden retriever of the couple and Adonto is the black cat, but really it’s the other way around, and also a lot more blurred than people like to imagine. They’re both very cold, calculating, and level-headed in their professional lives, and when they appear together in public, you wouldn’t even necessarily think that they’re together (unless you notice the way they seem to be able to communicate just with glances, the way Adonto’s feathers bristle and puff up and the way he crosses his arms and stares over Thesan’s shoulder whenever anyone talks to the high lord in any way).
When they’re alone, though, Adonto is VERY lovey-dovey. Hug-from-behind typa guy, always coming up with nicknames for his High Lord. “My Rising Sun” “My Dawn Star” “Jewel of the East” my love, my darling, beautiful, gorgeous. All with variants in the Peregryn language, if it exists, which it should. Thesan doesn’t reciprocate all the fluffy affection, but I like to think that when it comes to sex, he initiates more often. He also would die for Adonto, and kill for him, and everything in between. Adonto is automatically in a protector position, so I like to think that he doesn’t says realize how much that trait is reciprocated by Thesan. But if he catches anybody even looking at Adonto for too long, uh oh, suddenly they have a cold they can’t shake for weeks, or a nasty stomach bug, something that Fae usually wouldn’t contract, nevermind in the Court known for its healing remedies. (Idk I think it’d be cool if thesans powers could work in both directions.) Adonto is perhaps a little more obvious about his protective streak. Piercing glares, maybe even some growling or snarling if he gets really ticked off. But that sharp yellow gaze is often enough to disarm any offender.
I dont really know what’s going on with his fit tbh. I thought the leather strap thing just looked cool, and I imagine Dawn Court daytime fashion being very flowy and robe-based, so I just threw some cloth on him and called it a day. Also ignore the fact that I forgot to give him nips. Maybe peregryns don’t have nips. Maybe they lay eggs. Who’s to say.
Thank you so much for your contributions this weekend! I'll be creating a masterlist in the next few days, but I'm already so excited about all the cool stuff you've all posted! đź’ś
Character: Narine Iranaur for @nameless-acotar-weekend
Summary: Lady of Autumn? No, she was Autumn's heart. And when she learned she was carrying Eris in her womb, a far greater plan was set in motion.
The night after her eighty-seventh birthday, Narine learned she was pregnant. She had not yet sought the counsel of a healer, but she had perceived a shift in her magic, as if her fire had been stoked by an invisible force, driven by a desire to nurture and protect something precious.
Her family was said to be one of the most ancient and powerful in Autumn, and there were even some whispers that suggested it might be older and stronger than the Vanserra's. Narine Iranaur had learned to control fire before she could even speak. Her flames—free and wild— were a treasure coveted by many, which she had cultivated with precision.
If only her fire had allowed her to see the truth sooner.
Beron had charmed her with his honeyed words, offering her the liberty she yearned for, and a role at his side to help forge an honourable court. A different Autumn from that of Cadell Vanserra, where tyranny and wickedness were all too common.
With a gentle gesture, Narine placed her hands on her abdomen, which was still flat, and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Her red hair with its coppery highlights cascaded to her waist, and her eyes, a rich deep brown, bore a striking resemblance to the bark of an oak tree. She stood up straight, shoulders back, feeling a quiet determination blossom inside her. Narine couldn't afford to waver now. Perhaps she would never do enough; perhaps her schemes and the dangerous game of cat and mouse she was playing with her husband would not be enough to temper Beron's cold greed and calculating nature. But at least she could distract him from his more radical ideas —the kind that could endanger the entire court.
“You are mine, fireling.” She whispered, caressing his stomach as she closed her eyes. "And I promise you that, no matter what happens, I'm going to take care of you."
The time for running away had long since passed. Now, only one option remained: to fight. Narine could swear on the Cauldron that she was going to save her child, no matter what it took. She had a role to play and a part to act out. The perfect wife, the indulgent ornament.
One day, when Beron least expected it, Narine would show him why the priestesses had anointed her Narine Iranaur: the flame that tempers steel; the ever-burning fire; the heart of Autumn.
I've had this in my head for a while and was really looking forward to using that cool title for her. Everyone thinks she is fragile and needs protection, but Narine has been playing the game for years, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
@nameless-acotar-weekend I've never done a free day before, as I think I'm a better writer with prompts, but I wanted to try as this is such a short little event. I just thought it would be fun to do something for each day. Admittedly, this is the one I was least sure of, but I still like it, it was fun to explore a character that truly is a blank slate.
So I decided to write in an age old adage. Never give a fairy your name.
And since The Mercenary has come into contact with fae and lived, who else is a better candidate for such a thing? Once again, I took some inspiration from Throne of Glass with the Demi-Fae, because I love the idea of them being truly connected in some ways.
Title: Give Your Name To Me
Rating: T
Word Count: 2662
Characters: The Mercenary, Original Character(s)
Tags: Canon-typical violence, Identity, Loss of Identity, Encounters with the Fae
Read HERE on AO3, or read the full story under the cut
Avelina stood guard outside her Lord’s rooms, arms crossed over her broad chest as she surveyed the corridor. No one would get this far into the manor, and she knew that was why he stationed her outside his rooms. She had been ribbed and taunted over his apparent favouritism for quite some time. She took it all in stride, smirking at the jabs and arching a brow at her fellow swordsmen.
“Jealous?” she may have taunted with a little smirk.
They’d walk off with a chuckle or a huff – depending on who it was. The staff was extensive, and her Lord had many from which to choose a favourite. That he had chosen her was quite the achievement. Of course, she knew there was an extra layer to that. Cecil saw her as something like a child. He’d never had his own, and she had her own theories about that. But he’d been a rather paternal figure for many years. She knew he’d taken in strays before, and she was no exception.
Her family was descended from a line once held north of what was now the wall. The Spring Court, if she recalled the stories. Under a High Lord called Balor. Many of them had been slaughtered. That was how the stories had gone. The ones that escaped only did so with the help of fae blood that unwillingly ran through them, and the aid from some fae that took pity on them. Her strength came from that diluted blood, as did her ability to know where danger was coming from. It made her a skilled warrior, but also a feared one.
Stories of her family had echoed through her village for many years. Their increased lifespan, and ever so slightly pointed ears. The sharpness in their eyes and the way they saw the world just a little differently. There were always whispers. Suggestions that they were spies. That the first opportunity would send them running north of the wall. Avelina had learnt to tune them out, especially once she was picked up by the older nobleman who looked at her with understanding.
Cecil came from a similar line. Avelina had learnt that he, too, was demi-fae. His own blood was a little stronger, yet the magic was dulled. Non-existent. Especially on this side of the wall, where magic was scarce and feared. He needed protection due to that. His blood alone was a source of contention. He was already older than most mortals and yet he had years to go. Avelina would stand by him. Stoic and ever-loyal.
Just as he had been to her.
--
Their lives together had been mostly peaceful. Avelina had joined him a few months shy of fifteen, when her parents had finally been hunted down by those suspicious of their blood. They were barely fae-adjacent at this point, but that didn’t matter to the villagers. Any fae blood was a bad omen, and one bad harvest too many had pushed them past a breaking point. It had hardened Avelina. Trust no one, and no one would trust you.
She had only managed to flee because she had sensed it coming.
The warning had prickled at her skin; burning and pulling at her, like it wanted her to go elsewhere. Something wanted her to leave. So she had. She had hidden in the forest not far from her home. By the time she had returned, Cecil had already been there. He had been watching his men searching through the rubble as she crept towards the house, now made of nothing but ash.
“I know you’re there,” he said.
She had jolted somewhat. A frown appeared on her lips. She was usually able to hide better than that. But no warning bells went off. This group did not seem to want her harmed. At her approach, the warriors around the man straightened as they looked at her. Men and women alike, clad in shining armour with gleaming swords. Those in the debris of her home stood at her approach, and all of them had the decency to look as though they were sad for her. It was more sympathy than she’d ever been afforded by the townsfolk.
“I am Lord Blackwood. I am sorry about what happened here.” His gaze was sincere, and she felt her resolve crumbling as she took in the destruction.
A sob tore through her, even as she clasped a hand tightly over her mouth. She tried to fight the tears, but she couldn’t even hold herself up. Grief flooded her, relentless and unforgiving. She crumpled to the floor as she realised how alone she was, only for those with Lord Blackwood to step closer. They lowered themselves to the floor with her, and she felt a hand on her shoulder. Then arms around her. These people… These strangers, they didn’t know her and yet she felt as if they were there for her. As if they understood. They claimed her in that moment. As one who had lost just like them.
Avelina left with them that night, with nothing but the clothes on her back. There was nothing to salvage; no possessions to save from the rubble that was once her home. No one made her feel shame about that. If anything, they comforted her. They told her stories about their own journeys into the home of Lord Blackwood. Cecil, she learnt his first name was.
Each one of them was a demi-fae who had lost something to the mortals that had discovered their heritage. Each one of them had lived peacefully until they caught the blame for something that had little to do with them. Men and women with varying amounts of fae blood. There was no amount of being human that made humans hate you less if you had even a drop of fae blood in you.Â
No amount of being fae that made the fae more friendly, either.
--
One of the warriors Lord Blackwood had come across was Sienna. Sienna, unlike most of them, was not merely demi-fae. She was half. Born to a human mother and a cruel father. She had defied he who begot her, and facilitated the escape of human slaves from Prythian. Even when some courts would have preferred to see them slaughtered. That made her near five hundred when Avelina met her. She still aided them, taking comfort in Blackwood Manor as she awaited the next wave of hatred.Â
As she got older, Avelina had wondered whether Sienna and Lord Blackwood had ever been an item. Despite their age difference. And also whether their heritage had been what stopped them having children, if that was the case. It would stop her from doing so. How she’d been treated, just for being born. Why would she put a child through that same suffering? Why would anyone?
Even so, growing up in Blackwood Manor was not a bad existence to have, in fact it was rather wonderful. Her fellow warriors taught her all they knew, and she was happy to have a role among them. It wasn’t always easy, but nothing worthwhile ever was.
So she trained. She rose in the ranks until she was in her mid-twenties. She’d seen many things. Attempts on the Blackwood estate by people who realised that magic wasn’t completely dead there. Attempts to burn it, to kill them. Each one she fended off with minimal casualties. She had no wish to harm any humans, even after that which they had caused her. She could understand the fear. She felt it herself when faced with the unknown. When faced with the Wall.
She noticed her friends leaving, drifting away as they forged their own paths. As they posed as humans. Sad as it was, it wasn’t something Avelina could bring herself to feel bad about. Less demi-fae meant less attacks on their home and family. It meant they blended in better.
Some of them took boats south and east. Towards the Continent as they sought out a new life. She understood. But her life was here. Everything she loved was here. Most importantly, the memory of her family was here. She couldn’t leave them, not when it was awful enough that there’d been nothing left to bury. Not even of her truly mortal father. Sympathisers had always been treated just as badly. While she didn’t understand the Children of the Blessed, she didn’t think they deserved the vitriol they got.
--
“I wish you’d come with us, Avelina,” Lord Blackwood spoke to her softly, a hand on her cheek. He was frail now, and she knew he would likely pass soon. If she left with him again, she would be left alone in foreign lands and she would have to make her own way. Here in the mortal lands of Albyon, she was at least somewhat knowledgeable of what she might be facing.
“I cannot, my Lord.”
“Call me Cecil, if we are to part on good terms.”
She clasped his hand tight, and looked at him. He could not know the true scope of what he had done for her. She would always hold him in her heart, and she knew he would do the same.
“Cecil. You were like a father to me, when I lost mine. And for that, I will always hold you dear. But my home is still here.”
He nodded, but looked around with a frown.
“Be wary, my Avelina. I got word that some creatures have broached the wall of late. Martax.”
She knew what she had to do.
--
She was the only one who could do it. With all the demi-fae she knew, and many she didn’t, scattered to the wind and hiding who they were, she had no allies. But as the martax attacked a village in the night, Avelina knew she was the only one who could even try to help.
So she had.
With nothing but a sword and instinct, she had torn into the fray and taken down a couple of them alone. She was pushing them back. Her training had never felt quite so important than in this moment. She was greatly outnumbered, and there were still several creatures descending on her. Adrenaline pushed her harder, preventing her from feeling the bite until they had cut down about five of the fae creatures.Â
She staggered. Avelina knew this would likely meet her end, as she didn’t expect anyone to help her. Not with the risks they would face. Besides, many of them had perished in the attack, and she couldn’t ask them to help her after that. They had their own lives to lead. Their own people to grieve.
Avelina collapsed against a tree, and slid down to the floor when her legs would no longer support her. She could feel the burning agony of venom spreading. She tried to tie some straps around her leg, but her fingers weren’t obeying her.
She had never felt so weak.
Each breath she took burned. With every gasp, she could feel her heart hammering against her ribs. She was sure it would soon give out.
She was quite certain she was seeing things when a woman appeared to her. With hair like a halo of fire, the woman leant over her and touched her face. Her hand was warm, and Avelina couldn’t help but lean into it. She must have closed her eyes for a moment too long, because the woman’s grip on her tightened.
Then she shook her.
Avelina groaned.
“You have been brave,” the woman spoke, her voice warm like the sun and as crisp as the fallen leaves. Avelina swayed slightly in her grip. “It is not yet your time, mortal. Give your name to me, and I will make sure you are safe. Give your name to me, and you will serve your purpose yet to come. Give your name to me, child, and you will live to tell this tale to one who needs to hear it.”
Give… her name?
She had heard tales, of course. Fae could trick people into giving their names. But the stories also said fae could not refuse bargains. Some tales said they could not lie, but Avelina did not believe that. The woman’s touch was almost loving, and she wondered who she was. But she knew that just as her name was a bargaining chip, the woman would not reveal her own identity lest Avelina revealed it and put her in danger.
“Fine…” She wasn’t ready to die. So she agreed. “My name is Avelina.”
“Give it to me.”
“It’s yours.”
The magic settled, and Ave-- she swayed slightly, and the woman was there to catch her. She held her for some time, breathing life back into her, stopping the venom in its tracks.
“I cannot remove it entirely. But it will no longer spread. Go, and be the woman you were meant to be.”
The woman leant in to brush a kiss against her forehead, and then she stood. She wore robes of white with a blue stone nestled among her flaming curls. Then she walked away.
She took her time to recover, but felt much better for it in spite of losing valuable time. She walked back into the village, to be met with a celebration in her honour for saving them from the martax. She smiled, and was well enough to celebrate with them until it was time to go. She was sure more people would need her help.
--
The mercenary sat in her tent, as she fashioned amulets that would likely be ignored. People did not take safety as seriously as she believed they should. But that was why they would always have jobs for her when things went wrong. She leant back into her seat, waiting to see who would come to her. She felt a tingle of danger as her tent was opened. It was only a girl who came to her, maybe fifteen years her junior at most. That was not where the danger lay.Â
No.Â
In her arms, rolled up, was a pelt unlike any she had seen before. The mercenary’s gaze hardened as she looked at it.
“Where did you get this?”
“In the woods, I was hunting and-” she cut her off. She didn’t need to hear anymore. If she had managed to kill this beast. … She was in danger. But she didn’t think the girl was likely to listen to her at this moment.
She sought out her coin pouch, and sorted through a good amount of gold and silver. Far more than the pelt was worth. She knew the girl was aware of that, raising a hand to stifle any objections. She knew far too many people with more pride than sense; people who assumed any sort of aid to be something akin to charity.
“If this will be enough to keep you from the woods for a while, it will be worth it. Strange things are happening beyond the wall, and you’d do well to stay away, girl.”
The mercenary explained her run in with the martax. She explained the way the wall seemed to be unstable now. By the time she finished her retelling, the girl was wide eyed. Her enhanced hearing picked up on her breathing, just a bit faster than it had been before.
Good.
The fae were dangerous. The one she had killed clearly had an ulterior motive. She would never have been able to kill one in a real battle. Not without experience. Without help. Fae with motives were the most deadly of all. She’d never seen the woman who appeared to her again. Had no idea what the motive for helping her had been.
All the mercenary could do was hope their bargain was satisfied enough that she wouldn’t seek out retribution. She had told her story to anyone brave enough to listen.
For @nameless-acotar-weekend Day 3 | Rating: T | Complete (1/1)
Remember them here: Read on AO3
Two dead Vanserra brothers wake up in the Spring Court. How Inconvenient.
A campy homage to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.
A/N: I wrote and edited this in about 3 weeks in an effort to practice getting faster at turning around stories. Hounds took me seven months iirc. Worst Person took me five. I have a tendency to needle on things forever and the best way to break this habit is for me to force myself on an uncomfortable timeline. Thus this fic was born. Special thanks to @whisperingmidnights, @ninthcircleofprythian, and @nocasdatsgay for convincing me to post. Here is my absurdist tragicomedy. Be niceeee.
Skull Icon is from the 50th Edition of R&G are dead.
Tag List / Friends I've decided to Bother about this:
A little backstory for Nuan for @nameless-acotar-weekend
Nuan Jin had always had clever little hands.
She had only been born with one, but that didn't stop her from crawling around as a babe, or building marvelous structures with her blocks.
Her mother, Mali Jin, was a diplomat while her father, Anwei, was a fashion designer. Seeing how curious their little baby was, Anwei worked day and night to figure out how to make a prosthetic arm for his daughter until at last he succeeded. When baby Nuan was given a shiny new arm to go with her flesh one, her creativity only heightened. By the time she was 8 years old, she had designed a mini robot that cleaned the house and a talking robot to play with their pet bird when they weren't home.
While her father did not have healing magic owing to his gender, Nuan inherited the healing trait from his side of the family. In fact, her pet bird, Birdy, had been thrown out of his nest as a baby and was dying when Nuan saved him.
Nuan was merely 13 when her technical skills were noticed in school, and she was requested to attend the noble school of Dawn situated in the capital. So, her and her family moved to the Capitol, leaving her home of Xian.
On her first day of school, Nuan was excited, expecting to find like-minded individuals as interested in mechanics as she was. Unfortunately, she found the opposite. Most people at the school looked nothing like her: their skin lighter, their hair varying shades of blonde and light brown, their eyes violet and gold, a far cry from her sandy skin, angular black eyes, and long midnight hair. It was jarring, considering a majority of people looked nothing like them, yet they were the "nobles" running the court.
A large group of nobles sneered at her as she walked by, one male going so far as to strut over to her, looking down at her beneath his nose. "Go back to wherever you came from, peasant." More choice words were used, words that Nuan did not wish to repeat. She crossed her arms, looking straight into the man's ice-blue eyes. "My father designed the clothes on your back. My mother is the reason you can come to school without a care in the world, because she's out there maintaining peace. Have some gratitude."
Faster than she could react, the male grabbed her by the neck and shoved her against the wall. She felt a blinding pain in the back of her head, her ears ringing. She tried to refocus her eyes on the man before her. She didn't notice the glove on her metal hand sliding off, revealing it to the rest of the world.
He and his friend snickered upon looking at it. "You're missing an arm too? What a pathetic bitch."
"Oh knock it off, Westley," came a female voice. The man holding her down, who Nuan assumed was Westley, turned towards the voice, glaring at her. "None of your business, winged freak. Move along."
Nuan pressed her eyes closed before opening them again, finding her vision clear. Then she saw a fist fly into Westley's face, and the asshole fell to the ground. "One would've thought you'd learned your lesson by now, entitled scum. Don't mess with me, or you'll live to regret it."
Westley rolled his eyes, but he got up, brushed off his pants, and walked away, his friend group doing the same. The woman offered Nuan a hand. Nuan grabbed her glove before taking it.
"You've got to learn to stand up for yourself, girl," she said. Nuan took the time to observe her savior. She didn't look much like her, but she didn't look like the other nobles, either. Tanned skin, black hair pinned up, dark deepset downturned eyes, thick lashes and brows. Very beautiful, Nuan realized, hoping she didn't see her blush.
"My mother told me to always seek a peaceful solution," Nuan said. Her new companion chuckled, shaking her head. "Of course a diplomat would say that. But a diplomat also ought to know that sometimes, violence is unavoidable." She looked Nuan over. "What's your name?"
"Nuan."
"I'm Sireesha. Nice to meet you."
Nuan stared at her a little longer, noticing the blurred edges of Sireesha's figure, a telltale sign of a glamour. A little more concentration, and she could see glossy white feathers. "You're a Peregryn!" she exclaimed. Sireesha grinned, removing the glamour. "That's right."
"You don't look much like the other nobles here," Nuan observed. Sireesha nodded. "Can I tell you a secret?" Nuan nodded. "I'm not even a noble," Sireesha whispered. "I'm only here because my aunt is married to the High Lord."
"Well, I was granted admission here for being gifted," Nuan said. "No nobles in my family."
"That's way more interesting than me," Sireesha said. "Come on, we have some time before class. Let me teach you some basic fighting."
So the two became best friends: a Xian native with dreams of revolutionizing technology and an exceptionally talented musician already renowned in three courts for her play of the vina. A couple of years later, they added Blaze, an Autumn Court refugee escaping prosecution for protesting against Beron Vanserra's tyrannical rule, unsurprisingly training to become a diplomat. Together, they made an unstoppable trio.
When Nuan graduated, she was employed by the High Lord himself, who had already gotten to know her upon years of friendship with his niece. She had stopped wearing a glove over her metal arm years before, and now there was no one left to make her feel ashamed about it. She had become far more successful than she could've possibly dreamed, thanks to the support of her family and friends.
Summary: The first Starfall for Rhys, for Rhys's sister Carys, and for Nyx, with his mother an indomitable presence over all of them.
Featuring:
names for Rhys's mother and sister, FINALLY
itty-bitty Rhysie!
Easter eggs from canon (see if you can find them!)
so much sappiness (the sappiest thing I've ever written)
Read on AO3.
Because SJM has no coherent naming conventions for Illyrians (of the ones who are named, they have Welsh, Latin, Hebrew, Irish, Greek, and French origins for their names), I chose from those traditions for Rhys's family's names. Rhys's sister is Carys, Welsh for "love"--I assumed that since no other Illyrian has a Welsh name besides Rhys, his name may have come from his father's ancestry (and his father may have demanded it), and therefore so would his sister's. Rhys's mother is Valerya, a Roman name for "strength," which I felt would appeal to the Illyrian sensibility. The unusual spelling is for no other reason than I wanted Rhys's family to all have a y in their names, to go along with Feyre and Nyx.
Inspired by this song, which immediately made me think of Rhys's mother the first time I heard it:
my oc(unnamed vanserra brother who died pursuing lucien) regis vanserra for @nameless-acotar-weekend
yapping under the cut
he sucks and i love him so in the wip he survives. after coming up with him i also named the other brothers and now they all have their own issues and goals. i even made extended family. regis is the third youngest of the brothers and he has audacity for days.
he's the central oc for a fic i've been planning for a long time but never got the motivation to write. i did have the motivation to plan a whole ass sequel though 🤡
he gets along best with his twin and that's basically it. he also tolerates the third brother. regis beefs the most with lucien and eris and basically almost nobody there likes him.
Two moments in the Lady of Autumn’s life that define her relationship with her eldest son. Written for @nameless-acotar-weekend
tag list (lmk if you want on/off!): @the-darkestminds @lovely-vanserra-sunshine @secret-third-thing @chunkypossum @molcat07 @eatsbooks
Snippet below the cut; read it on ao3 here!
“He has the six of us searching for you.”
Draped in a cloak of crimson-dyed wool, her eldest son stands before her. A ruby-hilted sword hangs from the baldric slung across his chest, and his leather boots are tipped with mud. In the adjoining parlor, the padding footsteps of a hound creak along the wooden floorboards.
Eyes yellow as a hawk’s rest on her chest, where the swaddled bundle of her sleeping newborn is tucked safely against her. She tightens her grip.
“Funny,” she says, “he’s never much cared where I spend my time before.”
Chapter One on AO3 | Thesan x his Peregryn | Day 3 | @nameless-acotar-weekend
The winged alpha bowed again and Thesan could tell he was biting back his smile, as he caught a flash of white teeth and dimples. Gods. The Mother gave him dimples?
Nuan chuckled and it was then Thesan realized he’d spoken aloud. His face burned as she bumped their shoulders. “You can look, princeling, but no touching.” His best friend’s voice was smug and sing-song. He rolled his eyes.Â
The darling prince of Dawn would be good, would keep his sharp little tongue behind his teeth. But then, the Peregryn’s scent carried on the breeze. It was smoky myrrh and amber. It was mossy earth cooled by a late summer storm.
An alpha’s scent had never affected him this way. The cord in his chest coiled and tugged tighter, leaving him breathless. Sure, his mother gave him the talk and he’d laughed at the drawings in Nuan’s anatomy books. But nothing could have prepared him for this sensation.Â
It was falling from great heights, the rush pulsing low in his belly and trembling beneath his skin. Thesan felt the urge to grab onto the sturdy male and pull him close, to bite down and feel the crunch between his teeth, before it cracked open to melt in his mouth, viscous and sweet. It was sheer madness.
He quickly glamoured his own shifting scent, but not fast enough. The smarmy little beta at his side clicked her tongue. “And no scent marking either, Thee.” She huffed a laugh. His face burned even hotter, for if Nuan could smell him…Â
It was at this very moment those lush green eyes locked onto his. Had the alpha been able to sense an omega’s interest, sitting so close? Thesan tried to swallow, to look away, but felt pinned down by the male’s gaze. The tug at his breastbone intensified.Â
The young warrior turned to look away first and presented the final object from the leather satchel at his side: a large, opal-like stone. It was so beautiful, all light and prisms cradled in his large brown hand.Â
Thesan smiled conspiratorially and whispered low, “I want that alpha.”
“You cannot be serious,” Nuan smirked. “Have you noticed his wings?”   Â
How could he not? | Chapter One on AO3
Thank you to @the-darkestminds and @mistandmemories for help and hype and so much more ✨
. . .
Please let me know if you want on/off my Thesan taglist | @mistandmemories @the-darkestminds @zenkindoflove @g00seg1rl @themadmorrigan @ejkreader @buffy-vanserra @chunkypossum @weyward-fae @wovendreamscapes @thesourcabbage @irithiadourden @disney-acotar-hp @chaiblossom-code
