RGrey

Writing during my lost hours Join my Patreon to support me and read extras from the romance: https://www.patreon.com/c/RGrey You can also read my stories here: https://www.royalroad.com/profile/522059/fictions

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Ghoap Fanfiction

Ghost gets shot during the assault to capture Makarov. Despite his better judgment, Soap's not ready to face the military life without his brother-in-arms. Both Soap and Ghost end up needing some time away from their duties: Simon recovering from his injury and memory loss, and Johnny working through his war traumas.

How will they both handle their lives with that void occupying the space where love should bloom? Will they see each other again? Will they go back on the mission? Will they finally realise that life is too short to keep their feelings bottled up?

"We get dirty, and the world stays clean. That's the mission." Captain Price.

Hello~~

This is my fun project... I've been obsessed with these two characters for years now, and I need to write a little something about them, for my own sanity's sake. So, here it is!

There will be mentions of death, suicide, PTSD from war, and other traumas. I've taken liberties with Ghost's childhood and history (some differences can be found between the original games, the remakes, and the comic books), and with Soap's life in general; we have almost nothing about him from the developers. I'm trying to be as accurate as possible with the military references, but this is still fiction, and I plan to bend the rules a little to fit the ideas in my head!

Expect angst, slow burn, yearning, sex scenes, and gay awakening. Expect curse words, vulgarity, and depictions of violence.

I hope you'll enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing!

Thank you!

Here is the AO3 link: Call of Healing: After duty

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New chapter | Call of Healing: After Duty

Posted on AO3!

Check out the new chapter, up to six chapters posted now!

Tell me if you like it! <3

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Another chapter available!! Check it out!

Here.

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New chapter | To be loved in return

Chapter 17 posted on AO3! Check it out!

Things are getting serious... in more ways than one.

Tell me what you think of it in the comments!

[rox-grey]

New chapter | Call of Healing: After Duty

Posted on AO3!

Check out the new chapter, up to six chapters posted now!

Tell me if you like it! <3

[rox-grey]

New chapter | Call of Healing: After Duty

Posted on AO3!

Check out the new chapter, up to six chapters posted now!

Tell me if you like it! <3

[rox-grey]

Ghoap Fanfiction

Ghost gets shot during the assault to capture Makarov. Despite his better judgment, Soap's not ready to face the military life without his brother-in-arms. Both Soap and Ghost end up needing some time away from their duties: Simon recovering from his injury and memory loss, and Johnny working through his war traumas.

How will they both handle their lives with that void occupying the space where love should bloom? Will they see each other again? Will they go back on the mission? Will they finally realise that life is too short to keep their feelings bottled up?

"We get dirty, and the world stays clean. That's the mission." Captain Price.

Hello~~

This is my fun project... I've been obsessed with these two characters for years now, and I need to write a little something about them, for my own sanity's sake. So, here it is!

There will be mentions of death, suicide, PTSD from war, and other traumas. I've taken liberties with Ghost's childhood and history (some differences can be found between the original games, the remakes, and the comic books), and with Soap's life in general; we have almost nothing about him from the developers. I'm trying to be as accurate as possible with the military references, but this is still fiction, and I plan to bend the rules a little to fit the ideas in my head!

Expect angst, slow burn, yearning, sex scenes, and gay awakening. Expect curse words, vulgarity, and depictions of violence.

I hope you'll enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing!

Thank you!

Here is the AO3 link: Call of Healing: After duty

[carnelshephard-reblogs]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ The Calm Before the Storm | Chapter 1 | Modern!Azriel x Reader

Pairing: Modern!Azriel x Reader (2nd person, use of Y/N)

Words: 4.4k

Warnings: Mentions of corporate speak but other than that none.

Summary:

It's been a few years since you slept with Eris after one too many drinks and a few too many heartbreaks. He was there at the right time, but the consequences of your actions chased after you when the one night stand came to light. You had explained yourself to all but one, choosing not to tell Azriel that he was the reason for getting black out drunk and sleeping with the man every one of your friends hated. For most part, it took all of college to get your friends back to that sweet spot of calmness and ease and comfort. Just when you think dust has finally settled, Azriel, your childhood love, starts proclaiming he's found his sweetheart and you're the only one who sees through her bullshit. Mainly because you're the target for her snarky remarks and everyone else sticks to her honey trap while you fight against it. Living through the last summer of your lives before you inevitably split again to your respective faculties, you try to keep peace within the growing tension. Unresolved fights, unrequited loves and too many happenstances to not call out, you hold onto your resolve. You know what they say, it's not the lightning strikes you should be afraid of, but the calm before the storm.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ Masterlist ┈┈┈┈

The fan above you keeps spinning slowly while the sounds of Backseat by Balu Brigada blast through Mor's portable speaker. The guitar riff is soothing as the mattress sinks under your weight and the voice of Henry Baesley fills your ears.  

“Do you think that if I wear the Tony Bianco kitten heel with the wide hemmed jeans I can style the un-stylable wifebeater Feyre got me?” asks Mor. 

You have to look away from the ceiling to see what Mor is talking about, moving around the heap of clothes like you’re trudging through mud. Once you lift yourself up, you spy the exact pieces she is talking about, dangling from her hands while she wears nothing but her cheetah print underwear and a thoughtful expression.

You raise a singular critical brow, trying to evaluate the outfit she is painting for you but to no avail. So instead of coming up with some other version of ‘you’re beautiful’ you tell her, “You could wear those cartoonishly giant red shoes from Twitter and rock 'em.”

She looks up from the clothes, pursing her lips. “MSCHF's Big Red Boots?” She nods along, eyes growing distant. “Oh, you bet your ass I could.”

You stifle a laugh, throwing yourself back into the mountain of clothes. “Of course you know the designer's name.”

“Hey,” she points an accusing finger your way, “there's a reason I took those fashion classes in my freshman year.”

You openly laugh and give a thumbs-up to the outfit (as you have to the last five) and she scutters off behind a dividing screen. 

Despite being a political science major, Mor managed to pick out a few odd classes here and there during her study at the University of Velaris. Among which was also History of Fashion 101 halfway across the city (chosen mainly to spite her father who wanted her to go into business management). Cutting him off was probably the best decision she could have made, even if it left her a little broker than she might have been before.

“What about a bag?” came Mor's voice, while she battled with her pants. 

You were already dressed in your favorite jeans and a university sweatshirt, courtesy of Mor's wardrobe, waiting for her to finish up. Your bag was set on the dresser an hour ago, your polished Mary Jane's lined up perfectly for you to slide in when Mor decides her outfit is enough. Whenever that was going to be. 

“What about the Y2K purse you bought last semester?” you say, not even quite sure which exact purse you are referring to since Mor's obsession with them was on the brink of being unhealthy. Could this count as an entry to My Strange Addiction?

But Mor pokes her head out from behind the screen, a black bra strap sliding off her shoulder, as she says with a gasp, “You—are a genius.”

With the jeans halfway up her round ass, she runs out of her room and into the hallway. You chuckle and stand up, unplugging her phone from the speaker and cutting out the beginning to The Contract. You grab her wallet and follow after her.

Your apartment is modest, just big enough to house two grown women and small enough that you're glad you only ever come here to sleep in between classes and work. You have a tiny kitchen that doubles as the dining area and extends into the humble living room with a sole couch big enough for either of your friends to crash when the need arises. Right now, it is covered with a heap of blankets that housed you for the last few days. 

Ever since your last final, you could do nothing but recharge your batteries in between home office sessions right on that poor couch. You were sure your butt made a permanent imprint there but you were far too scared to check. The post-semester exhaustion left you with just enough sense of existence that you binged all seasons of 9-1-1 as if they were hors d'oeuvres. What could you say? You cannot tear your eyes away from police officer Angela Bassett's—face.

“Do you think someone will want to stay at ours today?” you ask Mor, who is rummagging through the wardrobe in the hallway. The pile of blankets is calling your name like a void that does not ever want to let you go. You feel inclined to answer.

“Only if either of us meet someone at the restaurant,” you hear her muffled answer. Yeah, that's not happening. “Ugh, it sucks so much now that everyone is coupled up! It's not even cuffing season yet!”

You cannot help but grunt your agreement.  

When you enrolled into university four years ago, the group you call your family wasn't so extended that you needed a party reservation whenever you wanted to meet up. For as long as you could remember it was the five of you: Mor, her cousin Rhysand, his two friends Cassian and Azriel, and you. 

Throughout middle school and high school, Mor was the popular girl that liked everyone and who everyone liked. She ran for class president any chance she got, filled her roster with so many extracurricular activities that it was a wonder she had time for anything else. On top of that, she had so many friends, it shocked you when she sat down next to you and complimented the Zelda and Link pin on your backpack. She struck up a talk about her favorite Nintendo game and decided to invite you to play Mario Kart with her cousin the very same day. And during these numerous gaming sessions you met Rhys's friends and the rest… was history, you suppose. 

When college rolled around, you all went your separate ways. 

Mor enrolled into political science, pushing through with her ambition of going into politics at some point and you two managed to keep in touch just so.

Rhysand went to the Business and Economics faculty, his school near enough yours that you could catch an occasional lunch together. But he was so busy with running his father's company that even that was very occasional. When he started bringing up a girl again and again during your monthly dinners, you knew he was a goner. He was smitten from the first glance and tried to act tough about it. Everyone saw through his bullshit, of course.

Cassian tinkered with a few ideas before he finally settled on kinesiology and then on physical therapy. He was the textbook definition of a gentle giant and you knew he picked his major right when he talked about school with passion. It stopped being an obligation and it became something he was excited about—you could not say the same about his time in high school. In between his jobs as a bouncer which earned you and Mor many an entrance to cool parties, he was elbow deep in volunteering work around the hospital. Before long, he stumbled into Nesta, Feyre's sister. After a strenuous situationship that resulted in you hearing about the big fat feelings in his stupidly humongous heart (this is verbatim), she fell for him too. 

And Azriel… His path crossed yours more than you thought it was going to. When he showed you his acceptance letter to the same faculty as you—the faculty of Computer and Data Sciences—you were giddy about the prospect of seeing him every day. Giddy and excited and hopeful. 

The sad truth was that inside your cold dark heart, behind columns of integers, strings and boolean values, was hidden a soft spot you had always reserved for him and him only. It was born from the times you beat him in Super Smash Bros tournaments, times where you could see his kind hazel eyes look at you through wisps of tousled dark hair and times when you made him laugh so hard it convinced you that there was no prettier sound than that. 

And so when you moved in together in the first year of uni out of pure convenience, you thought he would see you too. Perhaps through a lens of domestic bliss or through the times where you would have movie marathons and your hands would brush just so. But it never went anywhere. None of it did. It all just went to a ginger haired shithole of nothing.

Shaking your head and dispersing away the depressing thoughts of what-ifs, Mor yells out with triumph, “There you are!”

Blonde hair pinned and styled to a perfect ponytail, she crawls out of the dusty wardrobe that no one but her purses occupy and pulls out a pretty distressed denim handbag. 

“You know, Mor,” you start, leaning down to pull on your shoes. “There is fashionably late and then there is the 'I-don't-care-about-you-as-a-friend' late.”

Mor rushes into her room, returning with a hefty golden hoop already in one ear while she fastens the other one. “Oh, please, like Azriel has ever cared I was a bit tardy.”

You take Mor's purse from the ground where she left it, putting her belongings there along with the lip products strewn around the shoe dresser. “Well, we are meeting his girlfriend,” you state, closing the door of the wardrobe and shoving the same hand into the pocket of your jeans. Then you mutter under your breath, “I would care.”

She takes a good look at herself in the mirror, checking out the sight of her ass as she turns. You give her a chef's kiss to which she responds with finger hearts at her cheeks.

As if recalling the reason for leaving her home on a Tuesday night, she groans, “Ugh, I should have known what he was up to when he started declining our offers for movie nights.” She looks around confused. “Where are my things?”

You dangle the bag from your pointer finger, giving her a tight lipped smile and raised eyebrows, as if saying Right here!

Mor releases a loaded sigh, grabs the purse and then your free hand. “You save me again.” She kisses the back of it. “Now let's go meet Azriel's mystery girl.” 

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The restaurant is a short walk from the apartment and so neither of you even entertain the thought of calling a taxi. Mor quotes the waning funds in her bank account and you quote your latest weekly steps average. 

“A walk will be good for us,” you tell her. And then you pull out your work phone on instinct. 

Next to you, Mor groans as she sees the outlook app loading up. “Oh my god, Y/N, put that thing away.”

You coo at her, putting the phone in front of your chest as if it were a trophy. “Are you that elitist? Does the sight of an Android distress you so much?” you mock, pursing your lips. 

She smacks you on the bicep, glaring at you. “It's the sight of corporate Prythian that makes me gag. I'm not a stuck up bitch!” 

You giggle, your success rates in riling Mor up not dropping a single percent. She scoffs and mutters under her breath about you baiting her and while she's staring ahead, you look at her with a soft smile. But as usual, the phone's buzzing and its corporate beckoning drag your attention away. 

With a sigh you read the Teams message from your manager: 'Y/N, I know you've taken a few days off but the client moved the deadline by a week. Come to the office tomorrow. All hands on deck. Thank you.' And signed are her company assigned initials.

Well, there go your plans for starting 9-1-1: Lone Star. 

“Is that Az?” you hear Mor from your side and before you can tell her that no, it's your manager texting you, the long wire between your ears and brain finally carries over the meaning. You cannot even stop yourself from looking up. 

The phone almost slips from your grasp when you see him. 

Backlit by the setting sun down the road, the scene feels like a photoshoot for Sex and the City and Azriel is Mr. Big, jogging down the road while Carrie and Samantha stay behind on the sidewalk. Carrie is looking expectantly after him while Samantha is giving her an odd look. 

But Azriel, the real Azriel and not the personification of Mr. Big, is wearing a formal black shirt, sleeves rolled up his muscled forearms and the hems tucked neatly into a pair of black dress pants. You don't even have time to think of your own outfit as too casual because as he lifts a hand to run through his hair, you feel like are hit with a sock full of rocks below the belt. You grimace at the sight of his freshly shaven face and the small hairs at his neck that have sent a wave of scary feelings right to the pit of your stomach. 

In your head, you grab the assailant by the shoulders, throw them on the ground and wriggle the rock sock from their hand with a primal scream. 

Azriel disappears behind a row of cars and so does your internal meltdown. 

“Hey, don't lag behind!” calls Mor from a few feet in front of you and you jerk to her. You didn’t even realize that you stopped walking and thus, you find yourself standing in the middle of the wide sidewalk. Mor is tapping the tip of her kitten heel, giving you a cocked eyebrow. 

“Sorry,” you mutter and adjust the oversized shirt on your shoulders. You didn't think that seeing him for the first time in weeks was going to leave you this thrown-off, but then again life does like to throw curveballs—or rather launch them at you, secured inside a sock. “I got lost in thought.”

“Right,” she says and gives you a suspicious look partnered with a small smile. 

“I almost didn’t recognize him,” you continue, avoiding Mor’s eyes. 

“Yeah.”

“Did he cut his hair? He looks like Rhys now.”

“He sure does.”

When you finally deign Mor with a side eye, you find her smirking at you. And before you have a chance to defend yourself from her judging stare and the glint of… joy, the phone starts to vibrate in a familiar rhythm.

The Caller ID of your manager's name sends a shiver down your spine and you make a displeased sound. You have approximately five seconds to pick up before you get called unreliable in the next team meeting. And since the offer to start full time from September is in your cards, you cannot risk throwing your hand away. 

“I have to take this,” you tell Mor, wincing at being that friend. You motion to your phone and then make a self-strangulation gesture that makes Mor roll her eyes in understanding. 

You have complained to her in the last year more than you think is humanly possible but she told you time and time again that she was not friends with non-complainers and that if complaining could be a job she would have it. Then you made a remark that being a politician was basically that and she couldn't nor wanted to disprove that. 

Mor salutes you, strutting down the sidewalk and towards the entrance of the restaurant. You watch her lithe figure disappear through the front door, the distant sound of the bell ringing after her filling one of your ears. Before long, your other ear is filled with your manager's monotonous voice naming off tasks that need to be done EOB Wednesday. The mental load grows by the second. 

You stop just in front of your destination, turning your back to the restaurant, nodding and humming along to your manager's rants—when Azriel reappears. 

The call quickly becomes irrelevant when your eyes meet. 

He steps on the sidewalk, in his hand a dark blue sweater you don't recognize. He slows down to a spot an arm's reach away, not once breaking eye contact and you have to manually jumpstart your lung activity. His hazel eyes study your face, his expression not giving up anything he wouldn't want you to know.

Some people have called him intense in the past. You have only ever found him endearing. 

“Is that understandable?” comes the cutting voice in your ear and the spell on you is broken. You look away from the revival of William Thacker, letting out a long eeehm. 

“Sorry,” you mutter to your phone. “I think the network is choppy around here. Can I stop by your office tomorrow and go through that again?”

“I'm going to an in-house meeting with Freight Industries.” After a pause, she adds, “Ask Eris.”

Your eyes shuttering close, you keep the sigh to yourself. “Will do. Thanks for catching me up.”

“EOB, Y/N.” 

And before you have the chance to say some awkward stuff like 'Copy, boss!' or ‘On it, ma'am', your manager saves you from your misery by promptly hanging up. 

The sigh that escapes you takes all the air from your lungs and as you watch the screen on the phone dim to darkness, the realization that Azriel is standing right there catches up. 

You look up and feel the air gain a charge. 

Azriel’s hair is freshly cut and styled, judging by the short hair at his neck that would look like they would be the softest thing. He is eyeing you with that soft look that you remember from those months spent in your shared apartment. Like when you were telling him about your day and he was eating his dinner, watching from the island with his chin perched atop his fist. 

The green pigment of his eyes is dimmed and you think he looks tired beneath the preppy outfit. 

And just when you come up with something to say to him, Azriel speaks up, “You're standing in front of the door.” 

Jolting and stumbling away from the entrance stoop, you mumble, “Oh, damn, my bad.” 

“No problem,” he says as he drifts by and holds the door open for you. 

Again, moving with the coordination of a newborn foal, you do your best not to stumble on the raised threshold. The smell of Azriel's cologne—the same one he's been using since teenagehood, carrying notes of sandalwood, pine and strangely enough morning dew—tickles your nose and you have to turn your face to stop yourself from leaning in. 

And just when Azriel lets the door close behind the two of you, his scent is dispersed by the fantastic smell of food. You inhale deeply. Your olfactory senses tingle at the smell of olive oil, caramelized onions and roasted beef. 

You don't see the maître d' look at you expectantly from her place at the hostess table, because you’re taking in the decor of the restaurant. At your back, Azriel clears his throat. “She's with me.”

With his hand, that you note is covered in compression gloves, he motions to the left side of the restaurant. You ignore how close he stands, grasping the straps of your bag and shoving your work phone in there. 

It doesn't take long to find your group of friends, seeing as they are the most rambunctious bunch there. They are huddled around a table in the corner with just two chairs left unoccupied—for you and Azriel. 

Mor is already settled into her seat, listening to the conversation taking place with an eager eye, her purse hanging on the back of her chair. Settled into the booth is Rhys, whose arm is slung around Feyre. Cassian is on the other side of her, wearing a tight fitting sports shirt that makes him look like he just stepped out of the gym and just happened to have plans with you too. Surprisingly, Nesta is nowhere to be seen.

And then, there is the only person not actively participating in the group conversation, already looking at you with a wide smile and a predator's glint. Behind you, Azriel coughs and that sound alone has you remembering where you are supposed to be.

Right, restaurant. Meeting friends in the restaurant. Meeting Azriel's mystery girl who he's been hiding from us since the semester started in the said restaurant. 

And she's standing up from beside Mor right as you meet her eyes. 

Golly gee, you think to yourself as you place one foot in front of the other, short and sweet. 

Thoughts of size kinks and other things you shouldn't even have your mind remotely close to are disturbed as you take her in. She is dressed nicely, as if she had just left a corporate meeting and didn't have time to change. A nice vest with matching pants and tall black heels that put her above the five feet she must be without them are complimenting each other nicely. She looks so put together it casts a shadow of doubt over your own choice of clothing again.

You make sure a kind smile is plastered all over your face and you seem at least somewhat approachable. The smell of her sweet perfume overwhelms you as she steps into your space. 

As she smiles even wider (which you didn't think was even possible), her creamy smooth voice, pierces the air in just the right way to fully grasp your attention. “Oh, you must be Y/N! I have heard so much about you!” 

You want to ask what exactly she heard but you bite your tongue, offering her an outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“I'm Verity.” She ignores the hand and drags you in for a tight hug. “Nice to meet you too!” she says jovially once she pulls away and you get whiplash. 

Up close, Verity’s dark brown eyes glitter in the many lights strewn about the restaurant and her hair slides down the sharp edge of her exposed shoulder like water cascading down a rocky overlook. If you were a more sociable person, you would compliment her outfit or something about her makeup, but your mind is shooting blanks. All you can muster up is a smile and an awkward nod of your head.

She really is drop dead gorgeous this up close.

Then, over your shoulder, you hear the low rumble of Azriel's voice, “Sweetheart.”

Against your better judgement you turn. Not because you want him to call you that, no, those are the sentiments of the past, of course. You are detached. You are chill. He has a girlfriend. There is nothing between the two of you. Never has been, actually.

Yet you are still curious about the cadence and the tone of the word. The way it rolls around his tongue and out of his mouth and you are just nosy enough to want to see him say it. Not to you, of course. But just in general. For scholastic purposes. 

Verity lights up, gasping, “Oh, my sweater! Thank you, baby.” She reaches forward, pushing you lightly out of the way.

Your center of gravity must have been ever so slightly off, because as you feel her stepping towards Azriel, the view of the world tilts. You find yourself stumbling into the incoming waiter with several cocktails balanced on his tray. For a split moment, you see yourself falling into him and spilling drinks over the nearby occupied table. 

The thought alone has you scrambling to find your footing. The waiter just barely manages to bypass you and gives you a rather burning glare. 

“I'm so sorry,” you tell him, holding out your hands. You try to form a smile, hastily close your hands into fists and force them to your sides. “Such a klutz! I'm sorry.”

The waiter turns on his heel with a shake of his head, continuing his path to wherever, but not without muttering some foreign curse. 

You puff out a breath and steal a peak over your shoulder. The table is in an animated conversation about some old classmate from high school who invited Rhys to her wedding. You are saved from becoming a funny anecdote but the adrenaline has your hands shaking, and you want someone to acknowledge the fact that Verity just pushed you. But no one does. They're all too engrossed within their chitchat. 

You dare a glance at the couple and find your stomach shrinking in size like a dried plum left in the sun for far too long. Verity’s hands are woven around Azriel's shoulders, pulling him down to her level and you watch as he snakes his hands around her middle with easy familiarity. You look away before you can be considered the creep who watches her best friend get hugged. 

You clear your throat, silently and only to yourself and grab one of the chairs. Mor gives you a look as you unceremoniously plop down next to her, feeling your thighs shake for no reason. 

“You okay?” she asks, and you dip your chin once. 

“Yeah, jolly.”

Just when you're about to reach for the water, a cold hand grasps your shoulder. “Y/N, would you mind?” 

You look over your shoulder at Verity and wonder what she means when you see Azriel leaning on the chair at the head of the table. He is looking at you rather intently (and with an empty stare that you don't want to admit worries you) and you swallow the sensation of familiarity. The upholstered chair next to you is vacant and before long, you realize Verity sat in this exact chair before she greeted you. 

You scramble to your feet. “No, yeah, of course.”

With the scrape of the chair and the background noise of cutlery against porcelain, the table around you falls oddly silent. Feyre is looking at her phone, Rhysand over her shoulder and Cassian and Mor are both just staring at you with a little tense smile. 

To yourself, you frown. 

At the head of the table, Azriel pulls out the chair and the small detail of his biceps flaring against fabric doesn't escape you. You tighten the hold on your bag, shuffling between bodies and chairs. 

Azriel presses the chair forward and as you bend in your knees, you focus on the centerpiece candles burning brightly on the table. For a moment, you think that bending forward and letting your hair catch on fire wouldn't sound all too bad. It would give you an excuse to leave this table. Go home, recharge before work tomorrow. Watch an unhealthy amount of bad TV.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ Masterlist ┈┈┈┈

A/N: Back at it again with yet another WIP... I'm really sorry to anyone who might be waiting for a Kythorn's Blessings update.

Come to think of it, I haven't written anything set in modern times since my Steve Rogers fic back in 2019! And even that bordered on sci-fi/fantasy, lmao.

This is an experiment of sorts, borne from me reading too many contemporary romances and enjoying the witty style of writing. So one night I went and tried my hand at it.

Let me know your thoughts below! Or if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series—send me an ask, a comment, a message. Anything is welcome. :D

Toodles!

[carnelshephard-reblogs]

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. | Of Canopies and Twines: Chapter 9, Cornelian Cherry (Cornus mascula) | Azriel x OFC

Pairing: Azriel x Original Female Character

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Mentions of fantasy slurs, xenophobia, slavery, beheading.

Previous chapter | ❀ | Masterlist | ❀ | Next chapter

There were a few reasons why she shouldn’t even consider this, Kira told herself as she studied the small seeds of virelia in her hands. The Raskan salesman uttering the slur as if it was something carven into him by his father led her to weigh her decision with more care. 

Ever since the last war had ended and a new Peace Treaty had been signed, casual cruelty had seemed to disperse on eastbound winds in Prythian. As if the scars of the battles and of lives lost had brought forth an unforeseen fragility that led both Fae and the humans to live on with a little more tact. But Raskans, though—they were cut from the same cloth as Hybern and the sentiment had never quite gotten there. 

They were a people that looked down on others just on the principle that they were others. Their lands covered the majority of the western Continent, dwarfed only in size by Xian—the mark of a penchant that could only belong to a long line of conquerors. Not even the small, vulnerable kingdom at their southern territory was exempt from the propaganda that they sowed to make their own wicked ends meet.

Kira leaned back against a rickety chair, rubbing at the sore spot on her knee, right where just a few hours ago, her bone had met the paved pathway with a crack. In her hasty attempt to retire herself to the Palace walls, she took a tumble. Things she had heard in her travels rung around her head like a death knell the entire walk home.

The Sevvies are less than human, less than the dirt on the soles of our feet. 

These siltskins are false weavers, disbelievers in the Mother, spreading tales of their own gods, the Suhditze. Do not entertain this falsehood!

Did you know their wings could grow back? Heresy! Huskfolk, impostors in the world of High Fae kings. 

King Veikka said it himself, off with their heads!

Kira’s own head, for now still secure on her shoulders, could supply more than this handful of recollections. But she was not a masochist and she liked it when she felt at peace within her own skin and enjoyed the security of knowing that there was no imminent danger to her life. And the presence of a vendor such as that in Trinthi breached the serenity she had built here. At least in regard to her own genealogy.

Admitting to being of Severínian descent was a little less than a death sentence. It was tilting the hourglass, sifting the sand through the small neck and waiting until it ran out. Waiting until a Raskan found you, dragged you back to their shores as their own law allowed. Waiting until they sold you to the slaughterhouses littered throughout their lands for a little bit of silver. Getting sentenced to death was a blessing, as opposed to a long life of servitude. 

Your blood was never your own, you could never return to the home that was and you were bound to an eternity of wandering. And if chance had it you met someone who mingled with your forefathers, turning your back was the only correct decision. 

This was the mantra that kept Kira sane and alive. She knew that her safety was hidden in the hair dyes and the hexes and a lack of heritage, as it has been for the last five hundred and some spare years. 

The run-in with the Raskan had her hesitating as she looked at Nastya, who hadn’t opened her beak for the small pipette of food in the last hour. She tried to keep the little bird awake and alive but she sensed that the soul within was slowly dimming. 

Wiping at the wetness that she didn’t realize had appeared on her eyelashes, Kira straightened in her chair. The sun was setting over the horizon, counting down the moments of daylight with orange and pink hues. She kept rubbing at her knee, contemplating the choices before her in between the pulses of pain. 

She set the odd hollowness between her ribs aside, banished the memories away and grabbed her tools.

— ❀ —

She had her fingers buried in the soil for a better part of the hour, working the virelia seeds with her tidbit of magic when she felt the prickle of awareness between her brows. 

The zap of it stilled her muscles, cut off the weak current that extended from the space between her ribs and to the tips of her fingers. Lifting her head up, she found the twin to her stare staring back at her from the far end of the greenhouse. Astria had paused at the threshold, simply watching for Suhditze knew how long.

Astria was wearing a deep rich gown, decorated with Day’s signature fashion details—a sun, its beams stretching out in waves, rounded by an infinite wreath. From the distance, Kira’s eye caught on the glint of an emerald set within silver on her right hand, clashing with the rest of the outfit. But it was Astria’s face that had Kira retracting her fingers and wiping them on a rag. 

“Astria,” she said, standing up and pushing the small pot away. Using the dirtied cloth as cover, she threw it on top of it and hid the small bud poking out from the soil. 

Her aunt remained unmoving, wearing an unreadable expression. Kira knew it meant she was contemplating things. It was the same one she wore when Kira first dyed her hair and again when she had showed up with the bird but a few days ago. But in and of itself, the gaze was soft. As if she recognized something within the moment that Kira could only dream of grasping. 

In between the stuttering of candles and Astria sucking on her teeth, Kira’s guilt started nipping at her. She looked around her workstation (one that wasn’t even truly hers, she had just occupied it in the moment of vacancy), noting Nastya moving around in the cage due to Kira’s sudden movements. There was the open pouch of virelia seeds, a bucket of soil with a wooden scoop, a carafe of water and a book about robins. Nothing incriminating—to a stranger perhaps, but who knew what Astria was seeing. 

“Helion is cross with you,” came Astria’s voice, the tone so resolute and the words so surprising that Kira jumped. 

She furrowed her brows. “Cross? What, why?” 

Astria finally allowed the door to close behind her, choosing to lean against her cane as she leveled Kira with a stare. “The books.”

Kira rested her smudged palms against the wooden station. “What about the books— Oh.” Her eyes flickered behind Astria and at the onyx night behind it. “It’s after sundown.”

Astria cocked her brow, starting her slow and languid journey to where Kira was standing. “Which means?”

Kira sighed, her arms dropping. “Zinnia is closed.” She hung her head lower, scouring the remnants of the dirt that left her fingernails nasty. “I’ll apologize at dinner, profusely,” she stated once Astria stopped next to her. 

“You shan't.” Her aunt shook her head. “We are hosting the Dawn delegation tonight, so no. Besides, he already sent Theia to pay the fine and return the books come morning.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said honestly, frowning at herself. Her fingers reached up to play with the pendants and the cool feeling of silver caught her off guard. 

She knew she had forgotten something today, but doing so in the face of her promise and her attempt at reconciling both her and Helion’s feelings, it felt like the shortcoming of the millennium. 

As if thinking the same thing, Astria rested a hand on Kira’s shoulder. “It’s not like you to be so distracted. Does the bird have something to do with it?”

Astria’s question came from a place of genuine curiosity but Kira couldn’t help but feel as though her aunt had a sixth sense when it pertained to her. She was always somehow aware when she skipped dinner and sent for a hot meal to be delivered to wherever she was. When she forgot to take care of herself, it was upon Astria’s command that someone came and delivered the message that her presence was requested. Kira could always let her aunt see the parts of her that ached, parts of her that were still raw. 

And right now, Kira was hesitating. Hesitating because something happened and that something was no longer an intangible fear or an obsession keeping Kira from being a functional citizen of Day. It was very much real and it was walking the streets of Trinthi after she had so politely set the powder down and walked away with naught but a thank you trailing after her. 

But her aunt was here somehow, checking up on her in a gown while their foreign guests must have already been mingling in the Palace across the gardens, waiting for her to join them. It was all a dilemma today and Kira was giving up on finding an adequate solution to every single conundrum the Suhditze threw her way. 

She dropped the pendants, letting them fall with a twinkle against her chest. Meeting her aunt’s gaze for a single second, she shrugged. “No, it was not the bird,” she responded at last. “But she is not doing so well.”

As if on command, Nastya began moving inside the golden-lit cage. 

Kira grabbed the pipped, unlocking the cage and trying to feed her while she was awake but the little bird—as if out of defiance because it was the subject of the conversation—refused to open its beak. “She is not eating, not taking well to food Almas had prepared for her and she seems to only get weaker with each passing minute.”

But Astria did not get hooked onto Kira’s attempt at swaying the topic of their conversation. She waited until her niece was done with her task to ask: “So if it’s not the bird then what is it?”

Kira cleaned up the workstation, not touching the ceramic pot in front of her. “I… ran into a Raskan vendor at the Merchant’s Corner.”

“Oh? Hawking for gold so soon after the solstice?” she inquired, a small frown growing on her face. Contempt was probably among the many feelings Astria felt whenever Rask was brought up. “The foreigners are a never ending story.”

“I was looking for a certain plant that could help Nastya and I thought he would have it.” Scraping the dirt from beneath her nails, Kira pursed her lips. “He traded in spices, essential oils, extracts, dyes,” she named off, something latching in her throat at the very last word. “Dyes made of Severínian bone meal.” 

She lifted her head to study the realization dawning on Astria. She looked at her aunt, watched for the change in expression and wondered if her own reaction was too much or not enough. Whether the storm inside her was well-founded or whether she should just shove it to the same place any other unwanted emotions went.

For the first time that evening, something flickered across Astria’s face—as quick as a passing glance and swifter than a strike of lighting. “Out in the open?” she asked softly, holding Kira’s gaze, unblinking. “He dared speak it out loud?”

Kira could not look away from Astria’s eyes, catching her own reflection within the dark pools as the space between her ribs began feeling hollow again. “As if it were saffron.”

Astria broke away from Kira, taking a few steps away while she muttered under her breath. “To peddle carrion on our doorstep…” she distinguished among the murmurs. 

For a few moments, Astria kept staring into the night outside the building. Kira sat still, looking on as her aunt's mind probably worked harder than a mill after a harvest. Her golden dress appeared out of place amidst the dirt and the smell of her perfume dispersed traces of soil, stale water and pollen. Before long, Astria spoke again, “We shall set his record straight with the law of the Day Court and should he have anything against it, he'd find that the depths of our dungeons drown out the pleas for his homeland and mercy. Offenses such as that do not go over lightly with Trinthi's judges.” 

Kira nodded distantly, gnawing at her lip worriedly. “I truly hate them,” she admitted after a pause, thinking back to those sickly orange eyes. And then quieter, she added, “but I am also deathly terrified.”

Dragging a chair from the closest workstation, Astria lay a comforting hand on her hurting knee once at the same level as her niece. “It does not bode well that Veikka's people have grown comfortable enough to sow their evil in Prythian. But this was only one man and for all we know, he might have been lying.” 

“If he were wiser,” she said, hand grabbing at her neck again, “he would have taken me to the first boat sailing east and earned his silver like that.”

“If he were wiser,” echoed Astria, grabbing Kira's hand, “he would be tying his own noose for the trouble that wanting some coin is going to cause him.”

Kira nodded, squeezing the soft palm enveloping hers. Astria's wandering eye travelled from her niece's face and to the slab of wood in front of them. Settled among the many tools was the covered pot that had Astria pursing her lips.

“You do know the risks, dear child?” 

It took a moment for Kira to fully realize what she was referring to, but when it caught up to her, the reins around her heart were pulled so harshly she couldn't quite meet her aunt's eyes. 

Through a scoff, she said, “That a Besomar would come and eat me?”

“You speak of it as if it's a children's tale, Kira,” said Astria, freeing Kira from her hold. “But it is not.”

Kira frowned. “You know as well as I do that there is no chance of it. I made sure there wasn't.” 

“So you are still taking the faebane?”

“No,” she admitted and watched the lines on Astria's face become taut like strings on a harp. “I haven't been taking faebane for over three hundred years. I thought you knew.”

“No, I did not know,” admitted Astria quietly, leaning on a table. Between her hands, the cane was like a grounding pillar. “I knew you had done something when you showed up as you did.”

Kira was well aware of the day she was referring to. How she had stumbled through the city, still unused to her new center of gravity and how the guards questioned who she was. How she tried explaining, repeating her name over and over again in a daze. There had been no fight in her that day, even as Astria caught sight of her niece standing by the front gates with vacant eyes and yelled. 

“You never asked,” said Kira, grabbing a pair of shears only for her hands to have something to do while she awaited her aunt's reaction.

With the time that it took for Astria to inhale and exhale two times, the anxiety wrapped around Kira's body like a blanket of snow, chilling her to the marrow.

“I didn't want to know,” came the resolute answer and Kira looked up. 

She could only nod for there was nothing else to do when faced with an answer such as that. So she dipped her chin and bowed her head, as if understanding her aunt's reasoning. It was rare that she ever did, but truth be told, she had never once wanted to talk about that period of time in her life. How she had allowed those two somethings to be ripped from her for eternity, never to be seen again, all for a prize of… well, everything, she supposed. 

“Rest assured,” Kira tried to say with comfort, but out came something too close to indifference. “There is no way for the curse to swallow me too.”

“I shall trust your word, Kirina.”

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Taglist: @tele86 @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret

Divider made by: @uzmacchiato

A/N: Apologies for the shorter chapter!

[carnelshephard-reblogs]

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. | Of Canopies and Twines: Chapter 10, St. John's Wort (Hypericum perforatum) | Azriel x OFC

Pairing: Azriel x Original Female Character

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: None.

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Eyes followed every single movement of Azriel’s as he walked the worn, muddy paths of the Frostpoint camp. 

The evening sparring sessions were ongoing and he could see only two females looking on, none of them in the ring. Some pairs paused, sizing up the lonesome shadowsinger as if for a fight. None spoke to him. None even dared to cross his path, scuttering away to the snowy edges to warily watch him walk towards the sickhouse. 

The looks of the building were not reported to the shadowsinger which is why he was so surprised to find the building in a state of disrepair. Some of the window panes were cracked, some missing altogether. There were fissures in the facade and the door was a shabby, wooden thing. 

Despite his incredulity, Azriel walked in and followed the trail of his shadows. He didn’t find the interior to be in much better shape. The hallways were wide enough for one Illyrian to pass through, the paint was flaking in many places and he swore that in some corners he saw dark splatters of what appeared to be mold. 

That couldn’t be good for the sick. 

As Azriel peered through a cracked door into an impromptu office—which was more of a storage place, with all its crates and chests—he found Lord Gavin exactly where he expected him. Sitting on a chair and intently listening to what the healer had to say. 

None of it was out of ordinary, Azriel concluded. The amount of sick people that the healer spoke of worried him a little bit but he filed that thought for later, making sure to involve it in his report. Azriel sent one shadow to the patient wing, so it could monitor the situation further. 

It took fifteen minutes for Lord Gavin to finish his discussion with the healer. As the plump female opened the door of the office, turning from her visitor and to where Azriel patiently stood, she jumped at the sight of him. 

Lord Gavin, Mother bless his heart, stepped quickly into the doorway while pushing the healer behind him. Azriel spied the hand that drifted to the simple dagger hanging from his belt. 

“Oh, shadowsinger,” he exclaimed, surprise etched on his age stricken face. He dropped from his stance, stepping into the doorway fully. “I was not expecting you back so soon.” 

“Lord Gavin,” he greeted him, dipping his chin.

They both stared at him in expectant silence but when he didn’t offer any more explanation, Lord Gavin turned to the healer. “Tuya, this is Azriel, High Lord’s shadowsinger. Azriel, this is Tuya, she takes care of the sick in the camp.”

She dipped into an awkward curtsy, not letting her eyes stray from the shadowsinger for even a moment. He leashed his shadows, commanding them to settle down. Tuya watched them, her fear mingling with curiosity and… wariness. The wings on her back were clipped which meant that she must have been older than the amendment to the Illyrian law. 

Azriel dipped his chin to her and addressed Lord Gavin, “I came to talk to you.” Alone was the unspoken part. 

Lord Gavin nodded, turning to Tuya and telling her, “I’ll send Tarkhan with the assortment of herbs after supper.”

She thanked the warlord profusely and before she retreated to the office, she offered Azriel a quick passing glance, as if he were a beast that had been calm for a moment too long. Like she waited for him to lash out any time now. The door closed after her with a soft click. 

Pressing his wings to the wall, he allowed Lord Gavin to pass him. The tap of his cane echoed in this small space. “I would say it’s good to see you but under the circumstances…” he trailed off, turning his head sideways and showing Azriel his awkward smile. 

“I’m here on the orders of the High Lord.”

“Of course, of course,” he muttered, stepping outside and coming to a stop before the intersection of the main pathway. “What’s next?” 

Azriel appreciated Gavin’s discrete use of words. There were a couple of males standing around the tents on the other side of the wide path, glancing at him with that unwelcoming glare that was so incredibly Illyrian. He turned to Gavin, not sparing those males even a breath. “Nothing. The Court has listened to your inquiry and will deal with it in an appropriate manner.”

Gavin stepped closer to Azriel, lowering his voice so much that he needed his shadows to repeat the words to him. “Do we have any reason to fear, to… prepare?” 

Again, Azriel used that official tone and stated, “You are under the protection of your High Lord and he will make sure that no harm comes to his people.”

Gavin nodded and shuffled on his feet as a gust of wind picked up snowflakes from the roof of the sickhouse. It sent them scattering around them in a flurry. The rest of the camp was visible from where they stood and he saw the throngs of people moving towards the center of the camp. 

As if Gavin read his mind, he asked Azriel, “Will you stay for supper? There will be stew and some fresh flatbread set aside for you.”

Internally, Azriel grimaced at the thought of tasting the truly authentic Illyrian cuisine. “I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome,” he replied. 

“Nonsense! We’d be honored if you stayed,” Lord Gavin exclaimed with a smile. Then, his face turned serious as he lifted one of his arms in a cautious manner. “Though if your duties beckon you elsewhere—”

He shook his head. “Make sure both Caelum and Bertram will meet with us afterwards. We have things to discuss.” 

Delighted at his agreement, he motioned for him to follow.

“Can the Court offer help with any other matter?” Azriel prodded as they walked.

Lord Gavin shrugged, pondering the question for a few moments. “Not that I can think of but thank you. We have everything under control aside from the obvious.”

“I heard something about two missing persons.”

Lord Gavin sighed, stepping into a deep puddle of mud that sent it splattering all over his boots. His gloved hand brushed against his stubble. “A week ago my older brother, Dawa and his niece Zola disappeared,” he responded, almost unwillingly as if the fact presented a stain on his otherwise pristine record as warlord. “We are still looking for them every day.” 

“Do you believe there could be a reason why they went away?”

“No, there was none.” The warlord dabbed a napkin under his nose and the cold air tickled Azriel too. “Zola is pregnant, about to give birth any day and she had midwives running around her all day. Her bed was empty in the morning and not even our best trackers could find any sign of her.”

“And your brother?” inquired Azriel. The mess hall drew near.

“He’s older than me. Much older. By at least three hundred years. He can barely walk, let alone leave his home, which is why it is odd that he had gone missing too.” Lord Gavin stopped at the entrance of the mess hall, laying a hand on the swinging double door. Turned to Azriel now, he said with a frown, “I fear for both of their safety. The winter is harsh this far north.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said plainly, though he wasn’t sure how much he could do—he will mention this to Rhysand and that’s where it’ll probably end. The bureaucracy of court matters found no corner of its dominion to be exempt.

Besides, Azriel had many other tasks to juggle and playing detective was not in the rotation. People had gone missing from time to time in Illyria—it was nothing unusual. Either had been dragged into a conflict between camps or had wandered of their own volition. This was camp business and Azriel, as a court official, had no sway here.

Though as Lord Gavin smiled at him, honest and polite, his train of thought felt a little hasty. 

“Thank you, shadowsinger.”

Lord Gavin pushed open the double doors and with that, the noise of the spacious room engulfed them. People were talking, discussing, yelling and laughing over one another as they dined on the long tables flanked one each side by backless benches. Females in one corner, grouped together and the warriors divided into groups, scattered throughout the room. 

As Azriel let the door shut behind him, he realized that this camp was in a worse state than he thought. He wasn’t the one in charge of reviewing Illyrian budgets but it would seem like Frostpoint didn’t receive much gold since… well, ever. The walls were crumbling much like in the sickhouse. It dawned on him that perhaps the reason why there weren’t as many houses from brick and mortar wasn’t that they were creatures of habit, as Gavin had told him. Perhaps it was because there wasn’t any money left to build enough of them.

The general chatter of the mess hall quieted down once people started noticing his presence at Lord Gavin’s back. Azriel was quickly getting tired of this charade. 

Oristians, his shadows whispered, dragging his eyes to the group of males eyeing him to his left. Sizing you up. Chattering about you. They itch for a fight. They think you are a worthy opponent. Azriel brushed that shadow away from his ear with a scoff of a thought. 

Azriel followed the warlord to the very end of the long table, right by the doorway leading to the community kitchens. “You don’t take your suppers in your home?” he asked more out of curiosity than anything else. He knew it to be the custom for the other lords in Illyria. 

Settling down onto the bench, Lord Gavin explained, “Sharing a meal with my warriors offers them a chance to voice their complaints and allows me to manage the camp much better than if I were holed up in my home.” Azriel mirrored Gavin, taking a seat on the other side of the table. “The only reason these brutes haven’t asked for a younger warlord to lead them is because I listen.”

“M’lords,” came a soft voice and a female set two bowls of… broth in front of them. Since Azriel couldn’t smell any of the fragrant herbs his mother used, he didn’t allow the disgust to show on his face. Traditional cuisine, this was, in all senses of the word. 

“Thank you, Saran. Please, send Bertram and Caleum my way after they're done with their duties,” said Gavin and grabbed the spoon already in the bowl. Once the young Illyrian walked away, Gavin reassured Azriel, “If anyone comes and interrupts us, it is just the common order of the day.”

He couldn’t help himself as the words escaped him. “Not a very common order in Illyria.” 

Gavin bit off a piece of bread given to him by Saran, chewing through the dry dough. Obediently, Azriel picked up his own slice too. Once Gavin swallowed, he granted him a response, “Well, this camp is unlike any other one in Illyria. The north is unforgiving to those who are reluctant to carry some weight on their back. I'd rather be interrupted all day long than see this camp drive itself to madness due to their unquenchable bloodlust.”

Azriel heard those words and in part agreed with what Gavin was spelling out for him. But when he looked around the isolated camp, he found its inhabitants still lacking. It's not that the Fae in Velaris were docile, too peaceful for their own good and turned the other cheek when attacked. 

No, they were resilient, full of life much like this mess hall but they were a people that did not know war. And this camp seemed like a pot of hot water, simmering and preparing itself to boil over at any moment. 

So unlike home, so unlike who he yearned to be. Illyria was a sore reminder of the beast prowling inside of his heritage.

There were cheers on the other side of the hall that hooked everyone's attention. Like a sturgeon yanked by a fishing line, both Azriel and Gavin glanced towards the sound. 

Right next to the source of the noise—a group of young males welcoming another Illyrian that had walked through the door with a grin—the Oristhians from before kept a watchful eye on Azriel. He did not deign them with a look of his own. He knew that for Illyrians pride was a game. One that Azriel had been playing for centuries, willingly or not. 

And so he did his best to listen, in between the sips of his broth but the mental list of things he ought to do kept on getting longer.

Make the bargain. Write a report. Check on his spies. Write a report. Check on his hostages. Interrogate the said hostages. Write a report. Hand the reports over. 

He was being swarmed and he found that, with the same soft realization of waking up to a rainy morning and the quiet acceptance that followed, it served him. 

Azriel was not one to wallow in his feelings—though at times they overtook him and pushed everything else aside—, it was his job that dictated the tempo of his life and offered comfort in times of instability. Which is why the last few years were oh-so busy and he was oh-so distant from everything. 

That was until... 

His shadows tugged on his ear, dragging his attention back to the present. Lord Gavin was staring at him, brows lifted, awaiting an answer to his question. Azriel's shadows were forced to fill in the blanks, much to their chagrin. 

“Say, you grew up in a bigger camp, right?”

"Anything is bigger than Frostpoint," he settled on, not too keen on reliving his younger years. 

“I see,” Gavin said, a little crestfallen at the curt answer. “From my few visits to Ironcrest and Windhaven, I find the cruelty of the mountains a little comforting oddly enough.” 

Azriel heard the silent imploring in Gavin's words, Ask me more. But he did not obey and instead took a spoon to his mouth. 

Gavin did not allow that to deter him. “Did you know that every Illyrian here knows each other by name? Such a thing would not be possible in any other camp, I think. They have thousands of families, all with their own princes and lords.” 

“You must be proud of the community you have built here then,” he replied and seeing the light in Gavin's eye, he knew he guessed what he wanted to hear correctly. 

“I have been a warlord for four hundred and ten years, not long in the eyes of the Mother, but I remember when the late High Lord sent you to read the missive to us.” Gavin chuckled, glancing at the blue Siphons plainly in sight on his arms. “You were so young back then, you have sprouted into quite the warrior.”

“And you have aged by millennia in the same span of time,” Azriel said, eying the wrinkles on his face. 

Gavin chuckled. “Being a leader, a teaching hand and a judge to over fifty families is not an easy task. But I knew what I was doing when the old warlord had decided to keel over on the way to the training grounds and when we wrote the missive to High Lord Teàrlach. So I suppose I have no one to blame for it but myself.”

“It was a wonder that the line of succession was not settled before his sudden death,” Azriel thought out loud and found the glint in Lord Gavin's eye getting brighter. 

“And lucky,” he whispered into the air, holding Azriel's stare. “Who knows what'd've come of this camp otherwise.”

And just as Azriel was about to open his mouth, inquire further about everything that had transpired those centuries ago and just how exactly the warlord rose to his position, they were interrupted. 

Stopping next to their end of the table were the twins, one covered in mud and the other with sweat. “Were you looking for us, warlord?” asked Caelum and Azriel made sure to tuck his conversation with Gavin away as well. 

“Yes,” croaked out Gavin, taking one last sip of his broth. He took his bread in one hand and with the other, he grasped his cane. “Let us move this inside my home. Are you done with the supper, shadowsinger, or shall we wait for you?” 

The question wasn't biting, but softly inquiring and for a moment, it was like he was speaking to his own mother. He pushed the half full bowl away and stood to his feet. Without another word, he only nodded at the warlord and let them lead the way. All while he felt the traces of stares on his scarred hands again.

— ❀ —

Cassian waited patiently in the comfortable armchair in front of Rhys's desk. He was handed Azriel's report about his visit to the camp and the subsequent bargain he had struck with the warlord and the two grunts. He read it in silence, by the glow of the faelights. Outside of the window at his back, fat snowflakes drifted by and painted Velaris in white. 

On the odd occasion that Azriel's reports made their way into Cassian's hands, he was always surprised with his brother’s neat writing and the eloquent, but not overly flowery language. He wasn't one for literature but he could appreciate a well written text when he saw one. Azriel, as with many things in life, had mastered this aspect of his work as well. 

His descriptions of Frostpoint scratched at his conscience. Cassian knew barely anything about it, and since he was appointed General he didn't think too much about this relatively small and mild camp. They were always obedient, always delivered on their deadlines and never bared their teeth at anyone. He made sure to set time aside to check on the last year's budget and double check the reports that had come from the camp itself. The contents of Azriel's report did not quite match up with his memory of it. 

Then at the very end of the humble stack of papers was an additional report written in a code that only a select few understood. But the words dried there in the color of midnight were unmistakenably chilling. 

‘As of now, the phenomenon has spread by an inch since the last observation made earlier in the day, which would approximately amount to six hours of time. Such reality should be taken into consideration when forming a decision since it is apparent that the—’ here the ink gained a darker shade, as if Azriel had wondered what to call it too, ‘—withering will spread if left untreated.’

His train of thought was interrupted by a heavy exhale coming from the only other person in the room with him. Cassian dared a swift look at Rhysand, who was bent over a letter in front of him.

"What's the matter?" he asked, cautiously as if he were handling a wild bull.

Rhysand sighed again, dropping the paper and running a hand down his face. His violet eyes were rimmed with crimson, reminiscent of those weeks after he had returned to Velaris for the first time in fifty years. His hand continued on with its path, straying to the black nest atop his head. Cassian watched over the lip of the report. 

"Feyre just told me that she couldn't do anything about that... dead grass." 

The corners of Cassian's mouth drooped as he sifted through the report again. "Wasn't she meant to go tomorrow?"

"No, I had Azriel take her today."

"I see," Cassian hummed out but in reality he didn't quite see the sense in his words. Something must have happened between him and Az—as much was apparent by the way they kept eyeing each other like wild dogs in the woods—but it wasn't like them to let it drag on for so long. 

Cassian cleared his throat, straightening out the papers on his thigh. "So what's next? Helion? Or do you wanna talk to Drakon first?"

Rhysand waved both his hands in front of him, as if chasing away a swarm of fruit flies. "I don't want to disturb Drakon with this."

"It's growing, Rhys,” he nudged softly, watching for the twitch and pull in his face. “You don't think they'd want to help?"

Rhys shook his head. "This is outside of their area of expertise. I had gone to them when we needed help regarding the Cauldron because they were capable of handling it. I had sought them out when Feyre was pregnant and when there was a risk that she might..." Rhysand trailed off, groaning in both frustration and exhaustion. “I went to them because Miriam was also Made. I don’t think they’d know what this is, we should just let them live in peace.”

Cassian heaved a deep breath, exhaling through his lips. "Alright, then maybe not them. What about our libraries?"

Rhysand leaned over to the many drawers flanking his table and opened the top one. In Cassian's direction, he sent a singular scroll of parchment. His brother didn't need to explain as Cassian recognized Clotho's scraggly script. 

The missive read as followed: 

'Dear High Lord, 

'I have employed a select few priestesses in the matter, as they are the most familiar with the contents of our library. We have thumbed through indexes four times and have found no mention of the phenomenon you speak of. But we shall continue with our search regardless. I shall send another message once that task has been completed.

C~'

"Great," Cassian mumbled, sliding the scrap of paper back. Rhysand reread it with that expression of his that told Cassian he was pondering something. Perhaps a numerous amount of somethings. "That leaves us with only one other option," he muttered to him and from the way Rhysand's lip curled downward, he knew he didn't like where this was headed. 

"Helion."

Echoing it back to him, Cassian nodded. "Helion."

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Taglist: @tele86 @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret

Divider made by: @uzmacchiato

A/N: If you want to be added to a taglist, comment below! I'll be grateful for any thoughts you might have, so be generous with them!

Did I come up with a name for Rhysand's father? Well, of course! Teàrlach is a name of Scottish/Gaelic origin and I figured that since Prythian has been pretty much modeled after Britain, it'd be only right to pick names for Night Court like that.

For Illyrians, I had chosen names from the Mongolian group and if you had noticed in chapter 7, I had used common Mongolian dishes (Buuzy and Suutei tsai). My research isn't very deep so if I do not do justice to these cultures, I wholeheartedly apologize.

I hope you enjoyed reading. :) Whoever does read this work.

<3 May

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‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. | Of Canopies and Twines: Chapter 11, Common Juniper (Juniperus communis) | Azriel x OFC

Pairing: Azriel x Original Female Character

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: None.

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Cassian had always found the Day Court a touch too bright. Even in the dead of winter. 

The sun was beating down on the rooftops of the houses and drenching the entire city in vivid colors. Even the temperatures were milder than they were in Velaris and he hadn’t seen a speck of frost. Standing in the foyer of the Palace, the breeze wafting in from behind the gauzy curtains was chilly but not biting. It was warm enough to have him shrugging off the scarf Nesta had thrown his way before he left. 

Next to him, Rhysand tapped the tip of his dress shoe one time and one time only. “How long is he gonna have us wait?”

Cassian kept his thoughts to himself, looking up at the dome ceiling decorated with brass chandeliers. Even as he studied the faelights trapped within glass bowls, he could feel the impatience in Rhysand growing. He was about to open his mouth and make a point that, well, Rhys did give Helion a short notice and popped by without waiting for a response—but he was interrupted (saved) by the sounds of hinges moaning. 

From the double door in front of them stepped out the High Lord of the Day Court. As per usual, Helion wore a gentle expression on his face and befitting of its Lord, the sun bounced off of his golden crown. The sun seemed to offer special attention to the small snake winding itself around his bicep. 

Stopping just far enough from the door so the guards would be able to close it, he clasped his hands behind his back. 

“Rhysand, what an honor to have you here,” he said, eyeing them both with curiosity. “I must say, you are a trouble maker. I was just wining and dining my guests when a messenger burst into my rooms with your urgent letter.”

Cassian just barely managed to conceal the smirk clawing itself on his face and met Helion’s smirk with a nod of approval. Beside him, Rhysand dipped his head. 

“I wouldn’t have made it so urgent, if I knew I would be interrupting your… supper.”

Helion waved his hand away and at last, the male they had known appeared before them once the cocky grin slid into its rightful place. “I shall make up for it later in the day then.”

“Send my sincerest apologies.”

“Oh, I will,” he said, giving Rhysand a knowing wink. Then the High Lord turned away from Rhys and grinned at the Illyrian. “Cassian, where did you leave your delectable mate?”

He lifted one corner of his mouth, resting his thumbs on the belt of his leathers. “Back home, swinging a sword.”

Helion laughed softly. “I am starting to think you are hiding your court’s females from me.”

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, the action distantly resembling a laugh. But then his expression fell into indifference as he picked on the nonexistent lint on his suit. “I came to beg access to your libraries again.”

Since Rhysand didn’t indulge in Helion’s jesting, he studied the two males in front of him with narrowed eyes. 

Rhysand had made sure that neither of them had a hair out of place and had told Cassian to not appear nervous, let alone desperate. Helion had proven himself to be a trusted ally but one could never be too careful. Rhysand’s words. Cassian had learned this lesson in the last year or so when he was thrust into a role of courtier but faintly, he doubted that the political machinations that Rhys grew up in would ever make sense to him. Still, even he knew that Rhysand’s lack of… anything hoisted up some crimson flags in Helion’s mind. 

After a little pause, Helion cocked his brow, plastering a polite smile on his face. “Which one?”

“Whichever holds titles on natural studies—botany, soil, cultivation. Anything concerning growth and the land.”

With a smile too tense to appear organic, Helion narrowed his eyes. “Libraries of Zinnia. Are you looking for a specific book or—?”

Rhysand jumped in, “I was wondering if you’d be able to give access to a few priestesses of our choice, so they could take a look of their own.”

Helion was a good male, he had helped them before and he wasn't going to stop the habit now. Despite the knowledge, Cassian was surprised to hear the reluctant words tumble out of Helion's mouth with the slightest of wavering, “That—is not quite up to me. The Mouseion’s libraries are overseen by Grand Scribes and I unfortunately hold no sway over them. You can meet Zinnia’s Scribe and plead your case to him, if you want.”

“We'd be very grateful.”

— ❀ —

The Zinnia Libraries were for lack of a better word an architectural wonder. 

When Helion had winnowed them in front of the gates, he had briefly explained that all libraries of the Mouseion were protected by wards and people who maintained them, so they should be respectful of the no-magic rule once inside. 

But Cassian’s eyes widened at the sight alone. 

The hedges that separated them from the entrance were woven with flowers that appeared to have been frozen in perpetual bloom and in the scene of winter, this building stood out like a sore thumb. The sandy facade that stretched on a few streets to the left and right had wisterias crawling alongside it, interrupted only by stained glass panes depicting all manners of scenes. The reflection from the glass dome at the very center of the rooftop had Cassian looking away before he blinded himself. 

He could vaguely hear Rhysand’s voice in his head, telling him to ‘Stop gawking and follow along,’ but even he knew that his brother wasn’t invulnerable to the beauty. His eyes did snag on the evergreen gardens out front and once they stepped through the gate, at the numerous alcoves and benches placed along a paved pathway. He thought that only Elain out of all of them could truly appreciate the beauty and the effort it took to create a marvel such as this one. If Cassian had to guess, it was the size of the Moonstone Palace atop the Court of Nightmares. If not a little bigger. 

Helion had led them in through the front door and the spacious foyer that allowed the sun to illuminate each nook and cranny. There were ten more gated entrances inside, the giant doorways decorated by simple titles like, 'the Division of Mycological Studies' or 'the Division of Bestial Studies'. Cassian was feeling a little out of his depth here but he had been asked to accompany Rhys, so—who was he to decline? 

Helion led them through the threshold that belonged to the Division of Vital Flora. As they stepped through, he spied a High Fae hidden behind piles of papers and flower pots. On either side of her were archways to what Cassian assumed to be the rest of the library but instead of ordinary doors, curtain creepers hung there. 

Cassian's allergies were beginning to get tickled just right. He tried fighting it, moving his nose around in hopes it would stop the sneeze from manifesting. But as they moved closer and closer to the flowers, it got unbearable. 

Bending at the waist, Cassian sneezed so hard into his elbows that it most likely sent an echo through a mile wide radius. The Fae at the desk lifted her piercing gaze in surprise and as she noted who was standing in front of her, her eyes widened. She stood up, running a palm down the front of her modest uniform. 

“High Lord, what an honor to see you!” She shakily dropped into a low curtsy. Helion was already wearing a smile of his own, stopping a foot away from her desk. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” 

Her eyes strayed the two very obviously Night Court males and some of her excitement tapered off. Especially at the sight of a snotty Illyrian holding a palm to his nose. 

“It is my honor to see you, Eudora.” Cassian swore Eudora swooned at the crooked grin. Helion set a palm on the desk. “I'm looking for Yanni.”

It took a moment for her tongue to wrap around the words, but as she responded, she kept playing with a curl at the nape of her neck. “I think the Grand Scribe is attending a Symposium right now—but I could go fetch him for you!”

Helion waved his hand away. “No, that is all right. Just tell him to find me after he's done. I wouldn't want to interrupt their debate.”

Eudora nodded, clasping her hands in front of her and giving Helion another rushed smile. Her pointed ears gained a deeper shade of crimson each moment Helion kept staring at her. 

Cassian began feeling like they were imposing on something and suddenly he found the torturous blooms to be so interesting. Rhysand didn’t share the discretion as he cleared his throat. 

Reminded of their presence, Helion peered at them over his shoulder. “Do you care for a viewing of the library while we wait?”

Rhysand shrugged, “Might as well.”

As if torn from her bout of daydreaming, Eudora blinked and looked towards them. “You will need your Visitor’s Cords, my lords. Wait for a moment.”

Eudora masterfully maneuvered around the potted plants and took delicate steps to the walls on their right. Cassian wasn’t sure what exactly she was doing but as she pressed her palms against a painted mural of a doe learning to walk, an outline of a door had appeared. 

From the long row of robes, shawls, cotton gloves and shelves of magnifying glasses, she reached into a box and pulled out two green cords, each ends decorated with tassels. 

“Please, put them around your neck and keep them on. That way the Guards will know you are welcomed guests of the Library.”

While Rhysand placed it gently around his neck, letting the cords dangle down his front, Cassian decided to throw one end over his shoulder as if it were a scarf. 

Helion motioned to the curtain creepers. “Try to keep quiet.”

— ❀ —

Cassian had lost sight of Rhysand when some scholar had stopped him and handed him a clean handkerchief, as he tried to discreetly sniff. The High Fae male, dressed in the same uniform as Eudora though the details on his chiton were yellow and marking a difference that Cass couldn’t assign meaning to, walked away afterwards without a word.

Since Rhysand was not inside his head inquiring about his whereabouts, he supposed that the two High Lords were in a deep discussion about something. Trade agreements, budget allocations, all that boring bureaucracy probably.

Keeping his wings stiff and close to his body so they wouldn’t send a whoosh across the quiet library, Cassian looked at each side of the never ending corridor. 

Tall bookshelves were molded against the wall, sometimes sticking out into alcoves with tables and chairs for people to read. Above, another three tiers of bookshelves reached towards the skylight that illuminated the space. 

Cassian swore that the only sounds here were the occasional scrapes of chairs, turning of pages or the gentle closings of doors. But other than that, no sounds of conversation in this sanctimonious silence. 

As a warning, yet another tickle made its way into his nose and Cassian swore under his nose. He didn’t want to be chastised by a librarian. He walked around, meeting the stares of the passers-by with a nod. They kept looking at him as if he had grown a second head but one look at the Visitor’s Cord around his neck had their eyes rolling. 

Amidst his search for a blossom free corner, Cassian thought to himself that he liked the priestesses in the library beneath the House of Wind much better. They were nice, talked to him about the Valkyrie training and had never looked at him as less than. But the keepers of the library here… They all seemed to have a stick up their—

His search finally came to fruition, he realized suddenly. A small corner with a table and chairs held no plants whatsoever and represented the perfect place for him to pass time until Rhys was done. 

But the table was not empty. A Fae was hunched over it, her stark white hair spilling over her back in straight waves, covering a thick linen shirt. Across the back of the tall chair, a sage green shawl was spread. Since she hadn’t even tilted her chin to mark his presence, Cassian made sure his shoes scuffed on the marble floor as he neared. 

She, seemingly too immersed in whatever was in front of her, did not react. 

Cassian decided to step a little closer, curious to know what one does at a library so intently—even though he did know, he was just a nosy bastard with an aversion to boredom and this Fae didn’t seem like the scary scholars who glared at his presence. He positioned himself by the shelves, curiously ranking his eyes across the titles. 

The words were… quite honestly, not making much sense to him. He understood enough about botany to know that this was a section about a particular flower. Or maybe its… siblings? Cassian wasn’t sure about the term. But other than that, they did not ring any bells. He ran through the titles with his eyes and found a few blank gaps. Some of the spines read as followed:

‘Herbs of the Ancients: Virelia’s Role in Animal Development’

‘The Phyto-Processing of Virelia’

‘Virelia Seedlings and Growth Potential’

They were all written by the same person, some of the thin spines brand new while others peeled a little. 

Cassian was never one to sit down and read a book for hours on end. That was Nesta’s forte. If she had no other obligation, she could hide away in their rooms after morning training and Cassian knew not to disturb her quaint idyll—she had chucked books at his head a few too many times. He could be convinced if it were some historian’s annals, depicting wars or battle strategies. 

But reading about plants is where he drew a hard line. His nose scrunched, imagining his version of torture being these books read to him over and over again.

As if punishing his sinful train of thought in the middle of a library denoted to be a guardian of such topics, a powerful sneeze wrecked his body without warning. He barely had time to turn his head into his elbow, the sound echoing through the library and earning him sharp hushes. 

“Mother bless you.”

The soft words, Cassian realized as he turned, were coming from the Fae female. 

She had straightened in her seat, no longer bending her back at an unhealthy angle that would have sent Cassian into a lecture if they knew each other. Her eyes were dark brown, bordering on black and in the bright light of Day they appeared depthless. 

And she was smirking up at him. With that stare that made Cassian feel like she saw right through him. 

“Thanks,” he muttered. 

For a beat longer, they stared at one another. Her gaze more analytical, as if she were figuring out a problem and Cassian’s strayed towards the dark wooden table. A pile of books, most likely the ones missing from the shelf behind him, a pot with a small sprout and a hand bound notebook filled with charcoal sketches of a plant and a lot, like a lot of words he couldn’t discern from the messy handwriting. On her right forearm, sprawled on top of the notebook, were three parallel scars running from her wrist down to her elbow and they caught his eye. 

“You’re not from around here,” she stated. 

It was truly more of a statement than a question and Cassian smiled lightly. “What gave it away?”

She hummed, moving her forearm from sight. “I have yet to see a scholar dressed like you.”

He looked down at his fighting leathers and scoffed. “So it wasn’t the wings?”

Her eyes drifted beside his head, where the talon-tipped wings stretched like two mighty mountain peaks. He knew they looked nice and shiny because he admired them in the mirror this morning. They were his pride and joy. The female could tell as well, judging by the look of appraisal she gave him. 

“No,” she said lowly, keeping the volume low enough for the library. “Not the wings, I fear. Just your stylistic choices.”

He scoffed again and put his hands on his hips. He spared one look at his baldric and the bottom to his fighting leather. “I should have you know that back home, this is what everyone is wearing.”

Fighting a grin, she muttered, “How unfortunate,” before turning back to the notebook or sketchbook or whatever it was. Quill in hand, she opened her mouth and hesitated, as if fighting some internal decision. Her frown was gone as she faced him again. 

“If you have a healer at your disposal back home, ask for a butterbur extract,” she said, playing with the quill. “It can help with the allergies. Add it to a tea with honey. It’s a little bitter but the honey should hide it.”

Considering her piece done, she turned back to the table leaving Cassian to stare at the side of her head. “Thank you,” was all he could say for the second time that day. 

He didn’t quite have the time to say anything else because Rhys and Helion appeared in the main walkway. They were led by a robed High Fae who must have been the Grand Scribe. As they noticed him, their hushed conversation came to a halt. 

“There you are, Cass,” Rhys exclaimed softly, departing from the pair. He gave a quick glance to the Fae who was now subtly gawking at the newcomers. And most importantly at the High Lord and the Scribe. 

“We’re good to go?” Cassian asked, meeting his brother halfway. 

“Not yet.”

The Grand Scribe took slow, calculated steps closer, his young face stern as he glared at the female by the table and her charcoal covered hands. “Already back, Kira?”

Kira offered a long look to Helion, setting her quill aside and hiding her hands beneath the folds of her shirt. But the High Lord of the Day only straightened in his place, watching the scene unfold in silence with a curious expression on his face. 

“Eudora let me through,” she finally said in an even voice, meeting the Grand Scribe’s glare head on. The back of her neck turned red. 

Cassian and Rhys took this moment step around Yanni and towards Helion, whose eyes were stuck to the scene before him. Helion only nodded at them. “Go on, once he’s done here we will catch up to you at the front entrance.” 

And then he kept watching the Grand Scribe scold the Fae who was apparently not meant to be in this library. Cassian couldn’t help but think that she looked quite at home at that table and among the dusty tomes, almost like that spot was her favorite. 

They walked away, murmured scoldings of ‘charcoal fingerprints’ and mentions of ‘ancient archival texts’ mixing with their footsteps. 

“Who was that?” came Rhysand’s question once they were far enough that not even Helion’s Fae hearing could catch it. 

Cassian shrugged. “Some scholar probably. She said butterbur extract might help with my allergies.”

“Butterbur, huh?”

Cassian rolled his eyes at his brother. “Yeah, I’ll ask Madja.”

— ❀ —

“I shall have my assistant draft up a contract and send it to you momentarily, High Lords.”

The Debate Chamber echoed the departing words of the Grand Scribe back to the three males. And as the door closed after him, the tension that sat heavy on everyone’s shoulder grew tenfold. 

Cassian stood by the window, a lone ivy winding itself around the frame that held a scene of forget-me-nots in full bloom. The panes cast its colors across the room—the blues and the greens fell onto the table separating the two High Lords like a sea. 

Rhysand sat with his ankle atop his knee, sipping on a wine chalice. He had been talking for hours, fleshing out the details of the agreement and playing nice with the Scribe who questioned him at every turn. And during it all, Helion sat silent and watched both Cassian and Rhysand with curiosity.

It seemed that the cup of his patience had overflowed, because once Rhys had set his chalice down, Helion spoke up.

“Am I allowed to know what it is you’re looking for?” 

Rhysand looked at Helion with an assessing stare, weighing in thousands of variables and ascertaining which combination of them would allow for the best possible outcome. And then, a soft scratch against Cassian’s mind. 

‘Maybe Feyre was right,’ he said into his mind, ‘It couldn’t hurt to involve someone else in this.’

‘He had shown his discretion when she was pregnant.’ And for what it was worth, he added, ‘We can trust him.’

Rhysand dipped his chin almost imperceptibly before drawing Helion’s full attention with a simple string of words: “We have encountered something strange in our northern lands.”

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Taglist: @tele86 @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret

Divider made by: @uzmacchiato

A/N: Let me know if you guys have any thoughts/feelings/impressions regarding Kira's first contact with the Night Court and the Inner Circle :D

The pace is about to pick up a little, with the next chapter spanning over a few days while the priestesses are in the Day Court. Azriel will take a break from the limelight, taking exit stage left. Everyone clap! But don't throw your flowers yet, our favorite bat boy should be back around chapter 15. ( ˶°ㅁ°)

A long wait, I know. Hopefully you guys will excuse it.

But then again... I did tag this as the slowest of slowburns so you're getting what's on the can!

Take care, everyone. Stay safe. Hopefully this work brings a little light to someone in these dark days, as writing it does to me. (:

Much love.

May

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‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. | Of Canopies and Twines: Chapter 8, White Rose (Rosa alba) | Azriel x OFC

Pairing: Azriel x Original Female Character

Word Count: 5.7k

Warnings: Vague descriptions of animal death (like really vague).

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Kira woke up to the sweat beading on her forehead and her chest heaving as if she had run a mile. The adrenaline tensed her muscles to the point that she didn't realize how tightly she was clenching the duvet bunched around her middle. She forced herself to breathe in through her nose. Exhale through her mouth. Forced herself to let go of the silver-threaded cover and straighten it out around her. Slowly, her heartbeat calmed. 

Her mind, addled with the confusion from a nightmare, grasped at her surroundings, jumping from the small hearth at the other side of the room, to the two heavy oak doors and an opened dresser, filled with breeches and shirts and blouses. But there was nothing supernatural—not the splatter of Nastya's carcass from her dreams, not the garden, not the perfectly pruned branches shattered on the ground. 

She was in her room at the Palace in Trinthi, not at the outskirts where the dilapidated cottage truly laid. She was safe. She was all right. 

The scene of her nightmare was always the same at its core. It was the garden, and though each time it looked a little different, she knew it belonged to the house at the edge of the city—a building that is no longer a home, long ago abandoned by both her and Helion. In the dream, she was always pruning that plant, always interrupted by her late chaperone's scream as the monster tore her into shreds and it always ended with it lunging at her. And the worst part of it was that in each reenactment, someone else was there with her to meet their end. Sometimes it was Helion, sometimes it was Astria and right now, that little bird fell victim to her mind's conjuring.

The creature from her dreams, although very much real, was taken straight from folk tales. Kira had read the stories, heard them from the mouths of elders. 

There was no fur to cover its bones and rotten muscles, only black smoke not unlike shadows that blurred the edges of its body. It appeared lion-like, thick paws that could launch it dozens of feet forward, three tails swishing at the ground leaving the oil like liquid wherever it touched. But the most monstrous were the membranous wings protruding from its back, black talons dipped in inky night that seemed to consume all light decorating its peaks. It was ready to launch to the skies at all times. And there, on its head, a set of horns like that of an argali. Some called the monster a Czernobog, others used the name Besomar. 

Kira didn't care what that creature was called, she only wished to never ever see it again. She had enough of the recurring nightmare as it was. 

With the familiar grogginess of a fitful night, she slid from the mattress and into the washing room. After a few splashes on her face, the sleep was washed from her eyes. She ignored how the three parallel scars running down her forearm pulsed from the cold water.

Today was the morning after the Winter Solstice and not even this grand holiday could change the customs of Day people. It was normal and even expected to be out and about before the sun could have its chance to hang above the horizon in its entirety. Summer or winter, it was the sun that dictated the starts of their days. After all these decades, centuries even, the habit rubbed off on her too. 

Besides, her companions were bound to be getting up at this hour as well. A shared breakfast as well as an exchange of gifts awaited them. 

And so Kira dressed herself in comfortable clothes, letting the cold air from the open window caress her body as she gathered herself. She had cleaned up her travelling sack, sorting dirty and clean clothes to their respective piles, taking inventory of things she needed to buy before her next departure. Whenever that would be.

With two gifts under her arm, she reached for the handle and gently swung the door open. 

A pair of female servants, dressed in gowns befitting a High Lord's palace were just passing her room.

As they caught sight of her, both of them stopped, dipping into a swift curtsy. “My lady,” they whispered before Kira had the chance to greet them. She watched them pass the corner from the threshold of her rooms. 

Lady.

She found it a little uncomfortable, truth be told. But she was not so vain as to correct each servant that she ran into. It was futile trying to convince anyone of her social status, mainly because she herself didn't know what she should be called. She was High Lord’s ever-present guest, who has walked and dined with him for centuries. She was the niece of a counsel that also held no title, just a long standing position and a harbor of knowledge. 

So in the end, she supposed she was no lady.

Sighing, she pulled down the sleeve on her right arm and started her journey to the breakfast room.

On the left side of the breakfast room stood three thick pillars that divided the dining area from latticed screens, each decorated by gauzy curtains that billowed in the chilly morning wind. The tiled floor beneath Kira's sandals was made out of at least a million different shapes, clay and ceramic creating a precisely calculated tessellation of deep rich gold, beach-like sandy yellow and light blues of the awakening sky one could see past the drapes. 

In the middle of it all was a behemoth of a table, donning a similar design as the floor but more subtle. Its surface carried enough food for just the three people it was meant to feed—not at all obtuse in volume. Behind it was a pile with exactly four boxes of varying sizes.

At the head of the table and with his back to Kira was seated Helion, chattering away to Astria on his right side. The remaining dozen chairs were left unclaimed. 

"Good morning," she spoke up and Helion jolted a little at the sound of her voice. It took a while for Astria to move her gaze from Helion but she noted his lack of greeting. 

"You both look as if a carriage had run you over. When did you even retire to bed?" was the first thing that Astria said. "But good morning."

Helion cleared his throat, not meeting Kira's eyes as she passed him on the left. "It was a few minutes past midnight when I entered my chambers." 

"Hm," hummed Astria. "Good conversation?"

Kira gently placed her fragile gifts next to others and said, "Only the best." She threw a look in her aunt's direction. 

"Eat, you look thin," commanded Astria, pushing a bowl of hummus Kira's way before she even had the chance to sit. She didn't even dare imply that she had just the right amount of weight on her hips, so she grabbed some yogurt cheese balls to go along with it. Gluttony be damned. 

After a moment of silence, Kira asked her companions, "What are your plans for today?" 

It was Helion that sighed first. "The delegation from Dawn wants to meet and I can't postpone it any longer. So Astria and I will be doing that."

In Kira's periphery, Astria rolled her eyes. "As if they couldn't abandon their so-called duties and return home for one blasted holiday."

Helion, quite obviously not quite woken up still, waved his hand. "You know how Dawn people get."

"I do, I do know." Astria lifted her finger up as if making a very important point. "I simply think they could exercise patience and perhaps even show respect towards our customs. We do not work on the day of Solstice, nor the day after." 

"Duty does not know rest," chirped Kira. "Can I help in any way?"

"Uh," Helion thought for a moment, hand going through his hair. "There are some books that need to be returned to Zinnia, to the geoaetherics section." And then he went back to his plate. 

There were no please's, no thank-you's and if Kira were a lesser female, she'd feel a little insulted. But instead, she nodded and said, "I'll stop by your study come noon. I already have something planned in the morn."

"Sure, just make sure they are delivered by the end of today or the Scribes will bite my head off, High Lord or not."

Her eyes flicked to Astria who was already intently watching her. Her aunt only shrugged her shoulders, also returning to her plate. 

They continued to eat in silence, exchanging only polite comments about the food or tender requests for a bowl or two from the other side of the table. Once they licked their fingers clean and dabbed at the edges of their mouths with napkins, Astria motioned with her hands, a small flair of light following after her fingers. 

The empty plates and dishes were magicked away, leaving only the presents on the table. Astria ordered Kira, as they youngest one, to sort through the gifts. Astria looked quite pleased to see the biggest box being placed in front of her, humming in approval despite not knowing the contents. 

"Happy solstice," came Helion's voice. 

As Kira sat down again, she stole a glance at the High Lord. His face was so neutral that it unnerved Kira just the slightest amount. She wondered what had been said while she was not present in the breakfast room. Whether Astria had dared to breach the topic of their so-called trench with Helion too or whether his sour mood stemmed from something different altogether. Perhaps the Dawn delegation.

"Happy solstice," she echoed, hearing Astria murmur the same phrase under her breath. Then the only sound to be heard in the room was the tearing of wrapping paper, an unwinding of bows and sounds of wooden boxes sliding across the tabletop. 

Helion chortled gently, almost unwillingly at the ancient wine in his hands, saying that this one he would surely save for a special occasion. Kira, of course, knew that come next full moon the bottle she gave him would be empty under the same old excuse. 

Incredible company requires incredible refreshments. Or something along those lines. 

Across from her, Astria hummed contentedly, opening the gift’s lid to take out a piece of blown glass. Her aunt held up the glass the size of her palm to the light and watched the beach depiction glitter and shine. She told Kira that she appreciated the skill with which it was crafted, asking her about the region of origin and she stated that she ought to see the master behind this work. Astria collected such baubles and trinkets to the point where she had needed a separate room to store them. 

But looking down at her pile of gifts, she wasn't quite sure what to expect. In the past few years they talked sparingly about such trivial matters like what gifts they would want. In the wake of the war, all conversation that steered towards a similar topic felt useless, a waste of time and breath. There were bigger things to worry about. She couldn't blame them if the gifts they gave her were not exactly what she wanted. The same way she hoped they wouldn't think of her gifts as less than. 

It's the thought that counts, right?

Without much flair, Kira reached for the bigger gift first. The grey velvet box was encased with a sage green bow. She rubbed the soft fabric between the pads of her finger and felt the breeze caress the back of her neck in a gesture befitting a mother. Biting her cheek, she pulled on one end, unravelling the bow. 

Kira carefully brushed her hands against the velvet top and removed the lid quietly so as to not disturb the animated conversation between Helion and Astria that she wasn't listening to. 

She supposed it wasn’t hard for them to find something for the other. As a High Lord and his right hand, they spent so much time together that Helion had begun adopting some of Astria’s habits. Like the way he sits in a chair with armrests or the way he folds his blankets. The habits that used to be theirs have evaporated into the stagnant air of their respective absences. She couldn’t blame him—for his curtness or anything else.

Still, she felt a slight prick in her chest as the lid was finally set down and revealed the contents inside the box. 

A charcoal set, wrapped in a paper that was spelled to stay clean and keep her fingers stain free. Then a stack of papers, thick enough to withstand an onslaught of watercolors and a looking glass with a small chain fastened to its end, tied to a leather binding engraved with her name. 

'Kirina’s spying glass.'

She smiled to herself as her hand caressed the lettering, distant memories of her childhood brushing against the backs of her eyes. 

From Astria then.

The other box was small, no bigger than the palm of her hand and she wondered what kind of jewelry was inside. Whether a necklace or a pair of earrings, set with either moonstone or green agate. The vanity inside her rooms held an assortment of them already, with no occasion to be worn. They would gather dust for many centuries to come and she did not have the heart to pawn them. 

But when she pulled on the small knot holding the box closed, she was pleasantly surprised to witness a small, imperfectly round pendant void of a chain, sitting on a satin cushion inside. 

It was silver, just like the snake around her neck and held no gemstones. Its simplicity was almost startling and if she lacked her sharp sight, she wouldn't notice the small, almost invisible hand oscillating between two points before steadily settling towards the head of the table. 

She turned the pendant in her hand, watched as the small, iridescent hand moved accordingly to the position of the person before her. 

"To guide you to that which you need the most," came Helion's voice and Kira didn't even realize she was being watched. Looking up from the jewelry box, she met Helion's mellow expression with one of her own. 

She couldn't tell whether the High Lord was jesting and that it simply just pointed to him, but she took out the pendant either way. Astria raised her chin, and as Kira tilted it to her, her aunt hummed. 

"Enchanted?" she asked Helion since Kira's words have seemingly left her. 

Helion cleared his throat, choosing to fiddle with the new writing set Astria had got him and inspecting the black ink with a golden shimmer. "Only the person it was intended for can see this compass." 

"That explains why it looks like a plop of silver to me. Wise thinking, my Lord."

Kira turned the inconspicuous pendant in her hand numerous times, watching as the small hand hovering above the metal passed through the flesh of her finger like a beam of light catching dust. "Who made this?"

"It was a favor from a friend of mine."

"Oh," was the only sound that came out of her. 

Were she more rested or born with more wits about her, she would have said her thanks eloquently, perhaps even hugged him for the meaningful gesture this represented. But instead, she just sat there, dumbfounded and embarrassed by the simplicity of the gift she gave him. 

She hoped that the thought, the intent really added up to something in Helion's eyes.

— ❀ —

Helion had excused himself as soon as Astria winnowed in three cups of black tea. He quoted High Lord duties. Her aunt tried to offer him a compromise of drinking but one cup, tried to get him to stay with them for a moment longer but he refused her at every turn.

As the double door closed after him, Kira took her cup without a word and drank, listening to the rantings of her aunt. 

Sometimes, she couldn't believe how much courage it took to speak so easily and carelessly about someone as powerful as Helion. Someone who carried an incomprehensible amount of power just in his pinky. How her aunt had probably seen a fair share of High Lords hold court in this same city and how she advised each and every one of them. How every new High Lord, be it a son or a cousin of the previous one, always accepted the elder High Fae and never once tried to replace her. 

Her aunt was very wise indeed, Kira decided, and listened intently to whatever caused Astria to be so cross with Helion. 

And so at that behemoth of a table, only the two females remained, sipping away on hot tea. 

After a lull in the conversation, Astria grabbed the cane that was resting against the table and stood up. Kira followed, the pendant still held tightly in her fist. 

As if Astria could tell where her mind wandered off to, she asked, "Where does it point to?"

Kira inhaled, refusing to meet her aunt's eyes. "To Helion," she said with an exhale and walked out of the breakfast room. 

She added the pendant to her chain during her short walk to the greenhouse. It added a new sound to the symphony that followed after her as she walked. The rhythm of her feet was now enriched with the clinking of a steel snake hitting the plop of silver. 

Once Kira walked outside and into the nippy air of the gardens, she pushed the clashing thoughts regarding her only friend away from her head. With each step and each exhale, she breathed a little easier. 

The greenhouse stood adjacent to the Palace, covering a vast space on the side of the mountain and stretched into the sparse woods. The sun was still low, casting its rays through a thin mist and onto the city. Kira wondered whether the Head Botanist would even be working today. Wondered just how much attention he gave little Nastya since yesterday evening. 

But since he was present yesterday, she could only assume that he ought to be elbows deep in soil already. As she walked through the entrance of the greenhouse, the sounds of the sprinkling system and all kinds of smells welcomed her senses. She breathed in deep, thrown into a plump rainforest during the blooming season. 

The foyer, if one could even call it that, held a few benches along with a place to set your shoes and hooks to hang your belongings. There was only one another shawl, beige with small tassels of gold decorating its edges. 

She knew it belonged to the Head Botanist, mainly because his name, Almas, was carved into the steel plate above the hook. Next to it, dozens and dozens of names decorated each hook, leaving a few of them empty for guests. The air was so heavy with that moisture and heat, that she decided the light shawl around her shoulders was not needed. She threw her shawl on one of the guest hooks, leaving her only in the white, long sleeved blouse and linen pants. 

Kira meandered through the narrow walkways, flanked by soil beds, trellises, occasional sinks and a plenty of tool boxes containing preeners, little shovels and spare gloves. The working stations all held cabinets with small drawers, some empty, some with papers and pouches sticking out and others left open as if in a hurry.

She found the Head Botanist in a little corner, pouring over a book with frayed edges that gave the impression of being well loved. Next to it, a notebook and an inkwell with its edges coated in dark color. In fact, it seemed that everything had small splatters of indigo.

As soon as Almas heard her steps and the jingle of her necklace pendants, he lifted his head. 

"Lady Kira," he exclaimed, standing to his feet and turning to welcome her with a wide grin. 

It's not that Almas was her friend; she couldn't even consider him an acquaintance. 

She had run a few errands for him in the past, even bumped to him occasionally in the Zinnia libraries, where he mostly favored the Florae Conservatorium, which so did she, and they had exchanged a few hypotheses regarding what they were currently fixating upon. But she never saw him as more than a confrère. 

If she were employed by the Mouseion, the alliance of Court owned libraries, she could consider him a colleague of sorts. But alas, her path never strayed to academia and she was partially thankful for it. 

Almas looked a little frazzled, as if he didn't sleep well either. He was wearing the same dirt covered shirt and apron from yesterday and only one of his hands was gloved,the other had smears of ink all over it. He was a little flighty, even Astria often commented on his character but since he came into contact with no one but the members of Palace and other Botanists of Day, it could do no harm to be a little... strange. He always did his job tremendously well and no one could comment on it.

Kira dipped her chin, lowering her lashes in a polite gesture. "I'm sorry for startling you, Lord Almas." She gave him a small smile and clasped her hands in front of her. 

"That's all right! I didn't spill anything." He took one look at the messy table and added, "Well, at least this time."

"I came to check on the robin I handed over yesterday."

"Oh, yes," he straightened his spine and turned a few times, as if looking for something. "She is under my special care, after all, I'll take you to her at once!" 

He gathered the papers strewn across the small writing desk, shoved them into the book he was reading and put the whole thing under his armpit. 

"I fed her throughout the night and have been feeding her every thirty minutes or so," he said, picking up the plant he must have been studying. Its leaves looked as though they were dipped in a navy liquid and its beautiful stringy flowers that stemmed above the whole plant swayed with Almas's movement. He began walking deeper into the Greenhouse and Kira followed. "That little robin is severely malnourished. I have seen nestlings with less severe conditions not survive a night away from their mother, which is why I have spelled the cage with warmth and awoke so often. There is not much that the little bird says, either! No squeaks, no songs. It has been as quiet as a mouse. If not quieter."

Kira looked at the back of his head as he led her through the humid greenhouse. "Will she survive?"

Almas glanced over his shoulder, brows raised and slightly pinched, as if the last thing he wanted to do was lie to her. "Well, I will do my best, I have sent a colleague of mine a letter asking whether she had some virelia extract in her personal supply, but she has not responded yet. 

"You see, virelia maculatum is a strong plant that is capable of healing ailments of certain animals. Smaller birds, such as robins, react to it exceptionally well. I think it is because it belongs to the zinniinae subtribe, which as you might very well know is the same subtribe that echinacea purpurea belongs to. So, yes, virelia is a very powerful plant, especially if found near sites of tragedy. It is very rare, though and we do not carry the capacities for its growth at the time."

Kira listened to the rant, mainly because she has heard very little about this virelia plant, even despite her decades of study. She never really focused on this exact tribe ever before and found the gap in her knowledge a little alluring, if not embarrassing. 

Since Kira remained silent, the Head Botanist took it as a sign to continue with yet another rant. "I had asked the potion's apprentice for an extract the minute you left yesterday. She was the only one present in their chambers during the Holiday, she loves to work, much like me. But the plant is not in season, and they were out of stock on it! You would think the court's Potion Masters would be able to store such an interesting plant. Can you believe it?" 

She could. She could believe it, but instead she just bit her tongue and followed in Almas's steps silently. He led her further into the greenhouse, right to a small private corner where a wooden desk with numerous notebooks and small plants, ready to be repotted, stood. There were numerous other books already stacked atop its surface, most likely borrowed from Zinnia libraries. 

Then there behind it was a small cot with a nightstand and on it, a little cage with glowing gold runes. 

"This is she," muttered Almas, something on his desk already catching his attention away from the matter at hand. 

His murmuring continued and as he read through a stack of missives, throwing them here and there into piles only he understood, Kira stepped past him.

She peered into the cage and beheld the sad little robin, nestled in a soft blanket. Kira concluded that Nastya didn't look any better than yesterday and so with gentle hands, she turned the key in the keyhole. The runes stopped glowing with the movement, settling into a gray, still image floating above the metal rods. 

As soon as Kira's hand brushed against the soft blanket, Nastya wriggled and opened her tiny unwilling beak, awaiting food. Kira had nothing for her to munch through, so she only caressed it with her index finger and scooped it up. She was but a few days old and yet recognized Kira's touch from just that one time as she nestled closer and closer to the warmth. She supposed that the one touch of affection made up the entirety of Nastya's short life. 

Kira brought it closer to her face, a faint smile dancing on her lips. 

"It's strange, though," said Almas quietly from behind her and she felt his gaze peering over her shoulder, "robins do not hatch eggs until at least one moon past the spring equinox. Well, at least in our lands. I wonder how it was even conceived in this cold. It is very lucky to even be alive."

"It's the only one left of its clutch," she whispered back, turning the palm of her hand and glancing at Nastya's featherless face. "She'll survive."

The Head Botanist sighed. "She can't be older than a week, and considering how ordinary robins grow, she is far, far behind."

Kira understood what Almas was trying to tell her. With that, Nastya was settled back into the cage and onto the blanket, the key turning in its lock and jumpstarting the warming spell again. 

She stood to her feet, meeting Almas's eyes. "Do you have virelia seeds in your stock?" 

Almas sighed again, beginning to look exasperated. He walked to an apothecary cabinet near the glass walls of the greenhouse, rummaging through a few drawers before pulling out a tiny pouch with the label 'Virelia.' 

As he turned back, he wore a passive expression. "Your robin needs virelia within the next three days if she doesn't get better with feeding. I shall ask around for the extract and do my best to save her through other means. But do not keep your hopes up. Only one third of hatchlings live long enough to become nestlings and that is if they are born in the right environment." 

He dropped the pouch in her awaiting palm.

"I'll bring you the plant," she announced. And with that, she turned on her heel, her mind swirling with the plan already forming with each step.

— ❀ —

The Merchant's Corner was so oddly quiet. 

On any other day of the year, it would live up to its reputation as the city's busiest square, but right now, only a few of the stalls were occupied and even fewer people were mingling about.

The square itself was spacious, and it would take good thirty minutes to walk around its expanse—and that is without a crowd on a day like this. Not only was it the one place between the rest of the city and the harbor, but it was also the meeting place of every vendor with wares to sell and every buyer with gold to spend. 

But today, they were nowhere to be seen. 

Kira's eyes endlessly searched for a vendor who specialized in herbs or sold any potions. Someone who could, at the off chance, sell a virelia extract. She supposed this place was the one to start with, before giving it a try herself—what with her limited magic. If either Astria or Helion learned that she was considering this, they would probably look rather horrified.

She spent the better part of an hour talking to sellers who had their stocks out, asking whether they carried the mystical plant. Most of them were foreign—from other Courts of Prythian and some even from the Continent. The usual vendors, ones familiar with Day's customs, stayed away from Trinthi this time of year, knowing there was no business for them past Winter Solstice.

Once she conversed with every vendor who was selling, she came to realize that not a single one of them had virelia in their stock. Most didn't even know what it was. 

As she began losing her patience and blood in her feet from her uncomfortable boots, she spied one last seller with whom she hadn't spoken.

Among the empty stalls, almost hidden between the wooden beams, was stationed a lone cart, its showcase bursting with color and variety. Hanging from the window cover held up by simple wooden branches was dried lavender, some rosemary and other common plants that Kira recognized. Inside the cart were rows upon rows of short shelves with vials, small bottles sealed shut with wax, ordered seemingly at random but when Kira looked at their names, she realized they were all sorted by their families. In one row, ginkgo biloba, commonly known as maidenhair tree, in another some ground turmeric and willowbark and in the very last row she saw a familiar name, the cherubian rose. That one certainly caught her eye. 

Studying the names in front of her, she almost didn't notice the male peaking out from the other side of the cart. As he stepped around the giant back wheels and over the axels, she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. 

Standing at almost seven feet tall, his skin held a light green shade that offset the simple clothes he was wearing—Raskan fashion, Kira realized. A long, linen shirt belted at the waist with a simple strap of dark leather and a brass buckle. Red and blue swirls embroidered at the hem depicting flowers, leaves and other geometrical shapes. His brown pants had no stains on them and even his shoes were squeaky clean. A travelling salesman, though he was a long way from his homeland.

He smiled widely, leaning on the cart and tipping his brown hat to her. His eyes caught onto the pouch secured tightly at Kira's hip, which must have prompted him to speak, “Kind Lady, something from my stock catch your eye?” 

Weren't it for his clothes, then his accent and broken common tongue would have given him away. His r's were all hard-rolled and it reminded her of a language long forgotten.

Kira, trying not to let her prejudices get the best of her and walk away from this Raskan, thought of the little bird behind Palace gates and inhaled deeply. 

She looked the Faerie male in his bright orange eyes and asked, “Do you have a virelia extract?”

The male tilted his rounded ear to her, “Apologies?”

“Virelia. Virelia maculatum, it's a flower.”

“I don't recognize name.” The vendor looked a little confused as he reached for a roll of paper, probably his inventory. Once he read through it, he shook his head. “No virelia. Can I offer something else? On what do you need it?” 

“That's all right, thank you.” Kira was about to turn around and head back to the castle, but the vendor spoke again. 

“I see lady dyes her hair.” The tips of her hair still carried the dark pigment of the black she had used months ago. “I have in back new set of dyes, imported from Continent, Xianese females all use. They love it! I sell just to you. And with discount.”

The word discount dinged a bell in her head and she stopped in her tracks against her better judgement, peering over her shoulder. The male smiled wide, laughing with joy. 

It had been a long while since she dyed her hair and only did so when leaving Prythian's shores. It had been some time since her last visit to the Continent, perhaps it wouldn't hurt to keep a bottle or two around, if the wind decided to take her. 

At her lack of response, he disappeared to the back of the cart, moving things around. When he came out, he was holding an open wooden box. Inside were powders ranging from natural hair colors that High Fae were born with; blonde, brown, black and all the shades in between. At the very end were more exotic shades that Faeries usually sported, containing all the colors of the rainbow. 

As her fingers grabbed the black bottle, the vendor kept spinning his compliments. “Your hair is very white, good for dyeing.” 

Kira ignored the comment and inspected the powder closely, even lifting it to the sun’s beams and studying the way it glittered. Almost unnaturally so. “What's it made of? I've never seen a pigment like this.”

“Erm,” he pondered, looking to the sky deep in thought. 

He uhm-ed some more, clicking his tongue in annoyance. Kira realized that his understanding of the common tongue was flawless, it was the speech that he struggled with. Considering how different the Raskan language was to the one spoken in Prythian, he was doing very good indeed. 

She was about to pick up another container when he leaned in closer and whispered: “Ground Sevvie bone.”

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Taglist: @tele86 @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret

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‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. | Of Canopies and Twines: Chapter 6, Musk mallow (Malva moschata) | Azriel x OFC

Pairing: Azriel x Original Female Character

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of animal death. Cursing.

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The journey to the Widow’s Veil was as arduous as Azriel expected. 

His leathers fared rather well against the northern winds and despite not keeping him warm, they saved his extremities from falling off within the hour-long flight. 

He stayed a few paces behind his brothers who kept asking the twins questions. Cassian mostly stuck to topics that retained some warmth, asking whether they were actual twins and how was their training going. He had questioned the lead in the camp with an undercurrent of assuring their loyalty remained with the High Lord unlike in other camps where mutiny was brewing.

On the other hand, Rhysand asked quick questions about this phenomenon, the exact time when they first saw it and when the last watch had gone by there. 

It was Bertram that answered the last question, “We don’t go this far inland often, m’lord. We fly by the coast each evening and morning and it’s done by us young’uns. It was luck that we ran into it.” His accent was stronger now that he yelled, syllables of some words so mutilated that it took a while for Azriel to catch up with what Bertram was saying. 

“And why did you go through here this time?” he spoke for the first time, causing all four males to turn and glance at Azriel with varying degrees of surprise. 

Caelum paled slightly even against the harsh wind beating his face red and the look Bertram shot his brother didn’t escape the spymaster. It seemed that Rhysand and Cassian were not oblivious to it either. 

“Speak,” he prompted him. 

Bertram thinned his lips and so Caelum was the one to take the reins. “A male and a pregnant female went missing, m’lords.” He turned his face forward, denying the shadowsinger a view to the changes in his expression. His wings tucked in a little tighter and he lead them lower to the ground. 

“How long ago?” questioned again the General. 

“A week.”

“Lord Gavin knows of it,” butted in Bertram. “He was the one sending us on more frequent patrols, changing our routes. Ask him and he’ll tell you all he knows.”

Rhysand shared a look with his brothers and a ripple of displeasure curses through the air. Azriel could not decide whether it was from the bone-chilling weather or Rhysand’s grasp on his power slipping. His patience, it seemed, has grown far thinner than Azriel first anticipated.

Silence befell them as the gentler of the twins led them through never ending hills and meadows covered with white. The Widow’s Veil peak had emerged here and there between the breaks of clouds and with each appearance they grew closer. The fog this far north seemed to thicken and at once, they entered a particularly dense one that caused even Azriel to sharpen up.

“How much further?” came Rhysand’s voice. 

“Just around the bend.”

And as they tilted their wings to the left, going against a particular wind current there was nothing but thick fog beneath their feet. Azriel was sure they couldn’t be still that far up after dropping several dozens of feet but he chose to trust the two males who looked at home within the white gloom.

Bertram yelled out a warning and Azriel’s knees bent to prepare for the landing. The snow beneath his boot-clad feet dipped and dipped until it reached halfway up his calves and until he could not burrow any deeper. The shadows there melted against the pockets of air between snowflakes, going lower. When they emerged again, murmurs of the ground being still six feet beneath him twisted his gut. 

In front of him, both his brothers looked unsure of the ground and even more skeptical of the low visibility. With a huff, Rhysand lifted his hand and sent the fog scattering on a breeze. It revealed a few trees standing tall against the snowy cover but sparse with their needles. A few cones dangled here and there but it would have to be enough for the twins to find their bearings. 

The two grunts glanced at their High Lord with a semblance of fear and reverence, as if witnessing a god at work. He had yet to see any Siphons on them and wondered how many they needed to concentrate the Mother’s gift of magic. If they even needed any.

Bertram shoved his brother lightly, bringing him out of his stupor. “This way,” he stuttered out, hooking his thumb above his shoulder and fixing the sack across his chest.

Again in that dreaded silence, as if going to their own damnation, they walked—no, trudged. Periodically, Rhysand waved his hand for the fog to disperse and clear the way ahead. 

With one last sweep of the High Lord’s power, a tree came into a view, looming high above. Bertram stopped abruptly, capturing his brother’s shoulder and stopping him. 

“This is it, m’lord,” whispered Caelum but it felt too loud even against the wind. They finally beheld what Lord Gavin warned them of. 

Azriel and his brothers could only pick up their jaws from the white powder as they beheld the giant of a tree and the crater of the melted snow created around it. 

His shadows were correct to assume the depth of the snow. From the tips of his boots, a moderate slope led down to a dark grass that appeared almost burned. It was unlike the soil usually hidden under the cover of winter. That kind was yellow, thin and looked like grassy meadows after a drought. But this… 

Lord Gavin was right to claim it unlike anything he had seen in his long life. 

There was no sign of life there. The grass stems couldn’t even be called rotten as they spread around in an even circle. Azriel scouted that the patch may be fifty feet in radius and held his shadows on a tight leash. Though they appeared to be still, it was only him that could sense the wandering across his leathers and skin. Those pesky creatures wished to see and feel the phenomenon on their own but judging from what Lord Gavin had said and what he was seeing, he wouldn’t risk them getting too close.

“Cauldron.”

He heard the curse from his right and glanced at Cassian. He was not trying to hide his revulsion at the bones littering the expanse. There was the elk and deer and some foxes covering the space in between. Even their bones had turned an ugly grayish color, missing the brown tint they usually have. Azriel had seen enough bones in his lifetime to know that this was not what they ought to look like. 

Azriel’s gaze wandered further in, passing by more and more corpses, all animal. Stood perfectly in the middle was a pine so thick that it would take two grown males to encircle it with their arms. The bark was chipping in some places and branches littered the ground. No needles or pinecones decorated them, seemingly dispersed into dust with the harsh wind. It made the tree appear barren, like those you would stumble upon in deserts and not in the middle of a mountain range. 

The color of it all was like a bad omen. 

Blackest of blacks, as if meant to reflect the Night Court’s signature shade and made to draw attention in this snowy mountain range. Azriel’s mind whirred with possibilities as to what this could be and none of them were good. Mother, most of them didn’t even make sense. 

Rhysand burst into his mind, Get Amren. Quickly.

With the command, Azriel was wind and shadow, hurtling towards Velaris.

— ❀ —

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” was the first question Rhysand asked after Amren had taken a good look. 

With her height, the snow reached up to her knees and tickled the red fur cloak she wrapped around her form when Azriel knocked at her door. She had given Varian a rouge-stained kiss on his cheek, looking downright pissed at having to be out in the cold. But she had placed her hand in the crook of his arm, allowing him to take her away. 

Her dark hair swayed in the wind coming down in waves from the sea and Widow’s Veil alike. No one could ever read Amren’s expression, not even his shadows, as she flitted her eyes from one pile of remains to another. Not a frown or a blink came from her while she simply stood in place like an immovable statue. 

She just hummed a non-committal noise, moving at last to walk down the mild slope. Catching herself from slipping more unceremoniously than one would expect from Amren, she stopped near where the withered ground started. 

Azriel looked around, seeing Cassian’s face pinch with how close she got to it, something like worry creasing his brows. Rhysand himself craned his neck to glance at his second as he crossed his arms. Bertram and Caelum were nowhere to be seen and his shadows told him they returned to Frostpoint and awaited further instruction from their High Lord. They had to leave shortly after Azriel if not even their scent remained in the air.

After Amren stood up, she returned Rhysand’s expectant gaze, letting out a simple, “No.”

Rhysand deflated. “Do you think it’s a witch’s doing?”

“No.” He nodded along, as if not even surprised by her curt answer. “There are no wards or marks around it, so it must be natural.”

“There’s nothing natural about this.”

“No, there isn’t. I will look for things but I doubt we will find anything useful. This is…” she clicked her tongue, “peculiar.”

“Peculiar is not the word I would use, Amren,” piped up Cassian, moving from his place when Amren lifted her manicured hand. “Dangerous more like.”

“Perhaps we have angered the gods. Toying with death and escaping it not once but five times.” Amren looked right at Rhysand while speaking the last part of her response. And thankfully, Rhysand had his wits about him because he did not react.

“Don’t speak things like that into existence,” murmured Cassian, pulling her up with his hands around hers. Amren ignored the jab and once at the top, returned her gray eyes to the tree in the middle.

Rhysand sighed, first of the many signs that he was unsettled by this. “The boys have left us this.” 

He lifted the sack Caelum carried and the animal within it thrashed. Azriel watched as he took the hare out by its hind legs. His shadows murmured that the rabbit’s heart was beating out of its chest, and that it must have sniffed death looming about in the air. 

Before anyone could say anything, Rhysand tossed it, landing the bucking rabbit within the bounds of the area.

For a moment, it seemed as though the rabbit was all right as it rolled from its back and onto its hind feet. But while its muscles strained in its legs, the little black eyes had grown wide and its mouth opened in a silent screech. Azriel watched on as the little animal dropped to its side again, twitching and gasping for breath. Just when he thought the suffering was over, the brown fur on its back had begun deteriorating at a rate he had never once seen before. Holes and patches of baldness appeared, turned into rot, falling off completely and leaving only skin. 

Next came the flesh and the muscle, dripping from the ivory bone as if they were oil. That mutilated texture seeped into the ground with no sound, not even a sizzle and… disappeared. Nothing remained but the toothpick skeleton, empty skull and the black soil beneath it. It was as though the earth had swallowed all aspects of life like it was its birthright.

Amren watched with a passive face while Cassian let out a string of curses making up for the silence of the others. Azriel didn’t know what to think—the explanation they were offered back at Frostpoint could not make up for the experience of seeing it with his own eyes. Most of all, his mind couldn’t fully comprehend what it had just witnessed. His shadows, it seemed, were even more perturbed than him, growing more and more restless with each beat of Azriel’s heart.

Cauldron, he should have at least tried to sleep last night. Perhaps this day would have felt less like a fever dream and more like a threat it really was. From who, Azriel didn’t dare guess. 

“Has it grown?” asked Amren with a flat tone, not moving her eyes from the fresh corpse. 

This time, Azriel cleared his throat and pointed eastward and to a stone pointing out of a thin layer of snow further away from there. His shadows had picked it up while he was waiting for Amren to answer, probably deciding that a stick would simply just dust away. He had placed it there while his brothers explained just what was going on. “Not as far as we can tell but we will know once it does.”

Following after his finger, a single dip of her chin was all he got in response. 

“What about the camp?” Cassian crossed his arms, rubbing some warmth into them. “Can we trust those boys to not talk?”

Azriel met his brother’s eyes. “Gavin trusts Bertram and Caelum enough and my shadows said that no one else knew or spoke of it.”

“Speak and know are two very separate things, Az,” came Rhysand’s hushed response and though the High Lord wouldn’t meet his eyes, Azriel looked to him in challenge either way. “If we move them further south or merge them with the nearest camp, I think there would be a lot of questions from the people. Maybe outrage too.”

“Those brutes can keep their questions, you don’t owe them any answers,” seethed Amren, finally frowning as a gust of wind almost sent her tumbling backwards. Cassian reeled in his glare before Rhysand responded with his own and Azriel, well, he found himself agreeing with Amren for once. 

Rhysand flashed his teeth but only slightly, as the ancient female seemed to be on edge more than the High Lord. “Not when there are several camps with a growing negative sentiment towards us.” 

She sneered in Rhysand’s direction, baring her own veneers. “Towards you, you mean.”

His anger was doused within the moment, a reflection of things that had nothing to do with Illyria flashing in his violet eyes. He sighed, letting his hands drop down his sides. “Amren, please.”

Her scoff was carried by the air as she walked towards Azriel. “Let’s talk somewhere my fingers won’t fall off.”

There were no protests from anyone to the suggestion as Cassian shuffled to Rhysand. 

They appeared at the front of the River House in a matter of moments, and though the air was still frigid, it felt almost warm compared to the temperature in Illyrian Mountains. His fingers flexed in his fleece-lined gloves and the phantom pain still there. 

Amren said nothing to Azriel, stepping from his arm and making her way to the warmth of the mansion. Through the slit of the open door, he could see Feyre and Mor already waiting there, asking Amren questions and being redirected to the two males appearing in the walkway. 

Rhysand was the first to step around the frozen Azriel, meeting his mate in the doorway and settling a gentle kiss on her stern face. He thinks that she never more resembled Nesta than when she was cross. 

“You all right, brother?” asked Cassian, clapping his arm on Azriel’s shoulder and searching his eyes.

“With what we just saw?” he retorted. “I don’t think anyone would be.”

Cassian nodded along, gazing out to the house and dragging him along. “Trouble does not know holidays.”

— ❀ —

The library adjacent to Rhysand’s study was in quite the disarray. 

Amren had floated numerous books down from the mezzanine and some of them materialized out of thin air, probably transported from her own personal collection. She was tight lipped ever since they retreated into the warmth of the study, her face not conceding a sliver of her thoughts as she flipped languidly through the pages. 

An image of tranquility in the middle of a storm that was the rest of the Inner Circle. 

Mor had asked Rhysand to show him the image at least five times now and each time, her face turned into disbelief and then a mixture of fear and anger. The Night Court and her family did not deserve bad news on such a day as this one, especially after all that they’ve been put through. Dropping her hand from his, she stalked to the edge of the room, leaning against the bookshelves next to Cass.

Something about Amren’s comment, about messing with death itself worried Azriel’s conscience. He didn’t want to admit to her being right—that they must have angered the Mother in one way or another but he couldn’t see any other explanation. There wasn’t one bone of religious devotion in his body but if a deity grew pissed enough to retaliate, perhaps they should start praying for her clemency.

Feyre had chosen to take the seat across Amren and flip through pages of her own, being eerily silent. Rhysand, with a hand on the back of her chair kept stealing glances at his mate. 

“We can go to Drakon and Miryam, see if they know anything,” Mor offered, worrying her lip.

Nesta was tapping out a rhythm with her foot that only she recognized when she stopped, saying, “Is it that much of a mess?”

“You didn’t see it, Nes,” muttered Cassian. Truly, she hadn’t asked Rhysand to show her the image. She simply stood by as both Feyre and Mor’s eyes glazed over under Rhysand’s psychic talons. “Dry patches can appear further south, but not ones like that. Nothing can melt a layer of snow that’s six feet thick and kill anything that lands on it.”

With a sneer of disapproval at the image presented to her Nesta returned to tapping her foot. “What if it’s Koschei, playing with us? He’s a sorcerer bound to a lake, he would do anything to be free, even play with a foreign court.”

A layer of ice settled over Rhysand’s face as he glanced to Nesta. It was Amren, though, who spoke up from where she was hunched over her book. “He’s a death god, not a sorcerer. And it was not magic, there were no wards or spells.”

“Can you even see those things?”

The model of their world kept turning in the middle of the room, and Azriel could see from his position the carved shape of Prythian and the artificial sun throwing its beams across the solar system. His eyes focused on that northernmost part of the island, right where that corroded soil was.

“We know someone who can,” supplied Feyre, cocking her brow and meeting Mor’s eyes. “Helion could help, with his libraries and powers.”

“Feyre Darling, I don’t think we should drag other courts into this if there’s no need yet.” 

“He’s our ally,” she countered, straightening in her seat to get a better look at Rhysand. His hair was a mess with how many times he had run his hands through it. “He’s the spell-cleaver. If there’s one person we should turn our sights towards, it’s him or even Thesan. And besides, he’s our only neighboring court. If the places were switched, you would want to know.”

His expression softened. The ring-clad hand twitched in its place on her chair, as if wanting to reach out but thinking better of it. “I would also understand the need to keep it to himself. There are people who would exploit—”

The rest of the Inner Circle averted their eyes from their High Lord and High Lady as they began leading a silent conversation that was not meant to be witnessed by anyone else. Azriel turned his head too, his shadows swirling around his ear. Cassian cleared his throat once Feyre sighed and leaned back into her chair.

“For now,” started Rhysand and gripped the back of Feyre’s chair tighter and tighter until the wood groaned under his fists. “For now, we wait. We will search our libraries first, see if it does spread and we won’t allow this information to leave the court or this room. We will go to Drakon or Helion as a last resort. As of now, this is a confidential Court matter and I expect utmost discretion of you all.”

Cassian huffed. “What about the Frostpoint camp?”

At that, he turned his gaze to his spymaster, who was swarmed within his shadows in the corner of the room and closest to the exit. “Azriel, make your presence known in the camp. Let the boys and Gavin know that if they speak a word of it, they won’t keep their tongues. Keep an eye on the disappearances they mentioned.”

“I can go instead—” started Cassian but he was promptly interrupted by his High Lord. 

“No, it’s time he grows thicker skin when it comes to Illyria. You’ve been hiding from your homeland for too long, brother.” Rhysand kept his eyes firmly on Azriel. The intent in them seemed misplaced, he couldn’t help but think. 

To anyone else, it might have seemed like a playful jab but to Azriel, this was a splinter burrowed deep beneath his skin agitating him since boyhood. Both him and Rhys knew it. He wanted to take Cassian up on his offer but if biting his tongue was an artform, Azriel had long since mastered it. A dip of a chin was answer enough.

“You should try, girl,” stated Amren, her head not lifting from where it was burrowed in the book. “With the powers from Day and Dawn, perhaps we wouldn’t need to even contact them.”

Feyre leaned back in her seat, a comfortable looking chair not meant for winged individuals but rather those who wanted to curl up and read all day almost melted under her demanding posture. Feyre made it look like a throne, with both her hands on the armrests and her legs crossed at the knee.

She looked deep in thought, as if trying to find that drop of spell-cleaving magic within her. One seventh of those seeds that brought her back to life, the tips of her fingers twinkled gold and the healer’s gift mixed with that of Day.

Feyre pondered it more. “I can only heal people with my blood,” she told Amren, meeting the ancient one’s gray gaze above the table. “But if you think it’s worth a try then we will do so.”

“Tomorrow then.”

Previous chapter | ❀ | Masterlist | ❀ | Next chapter

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Divider made by: @uzmacchiato

[carnelshephard-reblogs]

Kythorn's Blessings | Azriel x Reader

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (3rd person, no Y/Ns)

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: Mentions of bruising and pain. Amnesia.

Summary: Reader has lost her memory during a mission when she was hit with a magic blast that was not meant for her. Waking up in her home, which she doesn't recall is hers, she is putting the pieces back together very slowly. That is until she sees a man wreathed in shadows winnow in.

|✶| Masterlist |✶|

As sleep began leaving her body, like a blanket of steel trapping her under, the first thing she noticed was the birdsong. The chirping coupled with the sound of trees rustling in the wind brushed against her consciousness, dragging her back to the living. The comforter, the real one she was wrapped up in, felt cozy and warm against the chill barging in from the outside.

When she finally dared to open her eyes, the light cut through her eyelashes like a knife, digging into her skull and sending her hand up to guard herself. But her arm staggered with too-weak tendons and all she could do to alleviate the pain ransacking her body at the moment was to turn. Even twisting her body from the window brought her immense discomfort as she groaned.

On her side and gritting her teeth, she looked around the room with confused eyes. She was laying in a massive bed, not made for regular Fae. There was a black satin bedspread that felt oh-so soft under her hand and cheek. The walnut nightstand was littered with all sorts of mementos—ones she didn’t recognize. A carved wooden statue of a bat, painted messily in black. A brooch made of the most brilliant shade of blue she had ever seen. A pair of reading glasses and a handkerchief with an embroidered A and… another letter hidden underneath a fold so she couldn’t see. 

She had half a mind to reach up and reveal the other missing letter when the realization dawned on her. The rest of the room was as unknown to her as the contents of the nightstand. She didn’t recognize the plush carpets or the fireplace burning bright at the far end of the room. As she craned her neck over her shoulder, despite her muscles barking in protests, she didn’t recognize the view of the garden either. 

In her chest, the thump of her heartbeat quickened into a gallop. She slowly sat up, clutching her ribs and letting the comforter fall from her. While her hand cradled herself, the feel of gauze was hard to ignore so she looked down, seeing her whole upper body wrapped in it save for the bralette covering her breasts. Shoving the satin fabric away, her legs weren’t much different. Little wounds gathered in odd places on her body. Her calves were covered in the gauze too and for the life of her, she could not remember how she got them. 

Scooting slowly and with hisses to the side of the bed, she raked her head for memories, sweeping through the grogginess her sleep had left behind. When her feet finally rested against the cold floorboards, she let her head drop into the awaiting palm of her hands, trying to still her breathing. Taking the air in, she recognized the birthmark on her bare left foot. Holding it in, she looked to the small scars on her knees from her childhood. Letting the air out, she looked up and around the room. There was a heavy dark oak door with a silver handle, carved with intricate mathematical preciseness that she could only describe as mesmerizing and befitting of the room. The shelves next to it were filled with more trinkets, little stones and books with half of the titles that she had read in the past. Or so she murkily remembered. Underneath the shelves was a small dresses and then a wardrobe with the same design. 

To the right of the fireplace and right next to the window with the serene view so contrastful of what she was feeling, was a simple desk pulled straight from her dreams. It was big enough to fit at least a dozen stacks of papers and some books too, but at that moment it was oddly clean and empty. Ink pens were put away into their cases, bottles of ink ordered in a neat row and a simple, leather-bound notebook smack dab in the middle of it. On it was a simple hand held mirror.

She noticed that thrown haphazardly across the back of a chair nestled against the desk was a robe. She stood up, suddenly feeling all too revealing in only her wound dressing and a simple bralette. Her knees felt fragile—most likely caused by her prolonged unconsciousness—as she took tentative steps across the massive room. Judging by the state of her wounds, she could have been out for days if not longer, even if the bandages look like they were changed often. As soon as the robe was in reach, she grabbed it and donned it, tying the string tightly around her middle as her ribs protested. 

Stopping, she looked down at her palms, feeling as though she had done the action at least a thousand times before. Shaking it off, she grabbed the hand mirror and peered at the face she knew would be staring back at her. Her hair was braided back from her face, only strands remaining to frame the grotesque version of it. There was a bruise forming on her cheek, still black and blue in the late afternoon light and a scuff on her forehead as if someone had dragged her limp body across concrete floor. 

The pieces of it all were coming together very slowly, in fact, as she stood half naked in the middle of that room, she felt like a drowning man grasping at any straws in sight. She wondered, had she been kidnapped? Has some psychopathic man deemed her prey and taken away from her home to have as his… plaything? 

She had to shake her head, the comforting decor of the home, the window and the view did not appear to be very good telling signs of a keeping cell. There had to be another explanation, something to set her on the right path to discovering her reason for being here. Glancing past her reflection, she set her sights on the desk. 

She set the mirror down and grabbed the journal next, pulling on the string keeping it shut from any privy eyes. And surprising to her, the pages were almost filled up. If the Mother was merciful, then this journal could give her more context as to where she was located.

The first entry read as followed:

‘The 20th of Nightal, 589 PS, the Winter Solstice.

‘Here is to staring a new journal at last! I had feared letting the old one go as I had grown so attached to it. In fact, I had finished writing the last page just this morning. I had half a mind to ask him to just get me papers of the same make from that market down the street, threatening to rebind it myself but he had somehow managed to outdo himself once again. He got me the same one. Cover and all. Even the string feels the same as I play with it while writing at this very moment.

‘Apart from the enjoyment of a fresh notebook, today I have managed to read up on the…’

She looked down at her right hand only to realize that she, too, had subconsciously been playing with it. Flitting her eyes back to the page, she skimmed it only to realize that the author of the entry had gone on a rant about a research that—had she been more informed on it—she would find riveting. But there were no mentions of names or of cities, the only clue she had gotten is that the year was 589 post scissionem which made her head go for a spin. The last year she had seen on her calendar was a long, long time ago.

She thumbed the pages again and opened another spread, this entry being dated to a little over two months later to the 28th of Alturiak, 590 PS. She decided to start in the middle as she saw a capitalized words that spiked up her hopes.

‘We have spent the whole day out in the city and it made me realize that during his time away, Nyx has turned into quite the little flirt. He had all the young ladies at the restaurant swooning with his crooked smile and the wink of his violet eyes. It was endearing to see him be finally free for at least a few days and he seemed happy to spend time away from the camps and with his parents. With his mother falling pregnant and him expecting a sibling at last, there was light returning to his face. Though… He did refuse to talk of his training and the impending Blood Rite so I suppose I can guess how the people of Illyria have been treating him. Still, it is good to have him back in Velaris.’

She paused, connecting the term Illyria with the warmongering people of the Night Court and the plains which they inhabited. She stole another peek outside, at the plush garden which seemed to be in full bloom and that could place her into Mirtul or Tarsakh, or any other spring month. But that beautiful display of nature didn’t seem like the Night Court and it didn’t seem like trees covering the remaining view of anything past them belonged to it either.

Velaris.

She had never heard of it. Vēlāre, on the other hand, she knew. In the ancient tongue that the common language stemmed from, this conveyed that which is hidden, veiled or covered. She supposed that if she had never heard of such a town, then it could only mean one thing: she was never meant to. 

This did not ease her nerves. 

She thumbed to the last written page, not caring for its contents but only peering at the date marking the year 591 PS and the month of Mirthul. She could only guess how long ago the entry was written. 

As she mulled over her options in her head, out of the corner of her eye, something dark and swift fleeted past. She snapped her head to it as fast as she could with her injuries. The black phantom had disappeared but with it came the creeping feeling of being watched. She swiveled her head, torn between running out of the window and to the door. 

With more speed than she thought she was capable of, she tucked the journal inside her robe and lunged for the door. Opening it, she was thrust into a narrow hallway with only one leading way. As she walked on bare feet and trying to listen out for any movement with her Fae hearing, she was glad that, when she walked into the common room connected with the foyer, the single-floor house was empty. Out of the window she saw the front garden, also neatly gardened into a wild but organized presentation of beautiful flowers and hanging willows. The paved way showed a small fence and past it, a city. 

A live, bustling city with lower fae and high fae mingling together if her sight was correct. There was little people but from what she was she concluded that this house was built between the rest of the city and the nature, put between those two like a wedge between a door and its frame. Her admiring, though, was broken as a person winnowed at the front entrance of the property, dark tendrils like the ones she had caught a glimpse of were swirling around him. His chest had been heaving and he held a calm mask on his face but even from a distance so great, she could see how some cracks have begun showing. As he took a deep breath, dragging a hand across his face, he reached for the front gate.

No other words or thoughts to spare, she shoved her feet into the first pair of shoes she saw—sandals that fit her like second skin, but she did not care to tie them properly. From the hanger, she grabbed a cloak that was few sizes too big and she bolted back into room, clutching at her ribs that did not like the sudden movements she was making.

Back in the room, and on the nightstand she had her back turned to the whole time, was an obsidian-hilted knife sheathed in a dark scabbard. She did not hesitate in grabbing it and shoving it into her robe as well. Her feet had somehow carried her thought the windowsill and outside, and as she passed through another and another garden that was connected to different houses, her lungs had burned. Her feet had scratched on some shrubbery a few properties ago but she didn’t, couldn’t care as she made a run for it.

She stopped only once and rested against a wall of a stranger’s home, getting a bearing of her surroundings and finally seeing the tall, red, towering mountains guarding the city. Faintly, the smell of the sea permeated the air and were she stood in a plain instead of a highly populated city, there was sure to be a vast ocean that the sun was currently setting on. As she glanced over her shoulder, she was relieved to see the crowds of people walking in groups or pairs along the decorated street. She could get lost in that crowd, find her way out and perhaps learn a thing or two about this place. 

Breathing in, she kneeled down to fix the straps of her sandals that have taken quite the beating with her jog through flowers and tall grass. As she worked on tying them, yet another dark tendril had appeared right by the shadow of her foot and her eyes widened at the sight of it. This time, it decided to stay still enough for her to see it properly.

The thing felt cool against her ankle, like a when a window is opened somewhere in your home and a draft is caressing your bare feet. Its shape kept merging with the real shadows, flowing between a state of invisibility and tangibility and as she went to reach out her hand to it, it began fleeing. 

“Don’t—!” came out her first, hoarse words of the day, perhaps even of the week. The shadow stilled at the entrance to the gardens and even if it didn’t turn, it felt like she had all of its attention. Her face fell as she pleaded, “Don’t tell him where I am, please.” 

The shadow, like the ever obedient thing it was, slithered across the pavement and stopped right before her, as if waiting for something. She took the hand that she startled it with and hesitantly reached out, palm facing up. The shadow twirled—if it could even do such a thing—and crawled onto her palm. It shot up her arm and she felt its chilly touch sit against the nape of her neck, cooling the sweat building up there. 

“Do you know where I am?” she asked, but the shadow did not answer, only settled deeper into the hood of her cloak. 

“What about where I should go?” she tried yet again and she felt the pull of the shadow back into the gardens. 

She shook her head with a frown, her voice gaining an edge. “No, I am not going back there.”

This shadow had to have its master and were she to take an educated guess, it was bound to be the man that had winnowed in just few moments before she had bolted. Swarmed in shadows, he was. This little creature had to belong to him. Considering it listened to her and obeyed her, it must have a mind of its own and she was hoping that it won’t go scuttling back to him and report her whereabouts. For now, though, she will keep this shadow near.

Tugging the hood lower on her face she stepped into the crowd with a deep breath. She kept with the flow of people’s tempo, dodging a rowdy child who was being chased by a parent. There were so many stalls interrupted by restaurants and their patios. All of the tables were filled up for dinner service and the servers were busy flying between customers. 

She decided to stop at a corner of an intersection, picking her hood up and looking around. The shadow in her hood tilted her chin to the right and she listened.

— ✾ —

Her name was being called somewhere behind her as she pulled her hood even lower, speeding up her pace and bumping through the crowd. The shouts of her name grew more and more confused and loud, but not distant. At that exact moment, she felt her knee give out under her as she dropped down to the tiled ground. Hissing with pain, her palms were splayed out on the ground and only then did she notice the band on her ring finger and the small scattered blue gemstones in it—they looked like sapphires. 

Frowning, she went to get on her feet but someone had already put their hands beneath her armpits and on her waist to help her up. She went to make her retreat but as she met his eyes, he said her name again with a soft tone, swathed in the fabric of the night and some twinkling sense of magic in his violet eyes. 

She went to pull her body away from him but as her knee buckled again, she was forced to rely on this male’s support. 

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in bed, resting!” he said, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. 

“I was just getting paper for my notebook, I ran out,” she lied but she could see it in his eyes that he did not believe her. Even as his eyebrows knitted together and he scoured her body for any additional wounds, she could tell that he knew something was off. She had no idea who he was but if he recognized her it only meant that he had known of her wounds and that she was not meant to be outside and walking. She could only play along. 

 He grabbed her arm and rotated her around so she was walking with him, tucked into his elbow. She fought him but his grip was so strong that she could not do anything but like a disobedient child pull at this pure strength. He stopped underneath a mezzanine of a closed shop and before he looked back to her, he scanned through the crowd as if expecting someone to be there already. 

He said her name again, so familiarly. “Where are you?”

“What? Don’t ask me stupid questions.”

“No. Tell me where you are.”

She took a shot in the dark and said, “Velaris.”

The male nodded at her, straightening up his spine and folding his hands in front of him. “Who am I?” he asked.

At that, she could do naught but stare blankly at him. After a few seconds, he said, almost defeatedly, “I’m your nephew, Nyx.”

Her mind scrambled for an excuse, for a lie that she could feed him, it pulled itself into several directions as it tried to make sense of things. The handwriting in the journal was familiar to her, could it have been hers? 

He—Nyx—called her name again, dragging her attention back to the present moment.

“When were you born?”

She frowned at him, almost guffawing if the pain in her ribs didn't stop her mid action. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he grinded his jaw, the analytical gaze flitting across her face, giving special attention to the black eye and other injuries scattered around her face. 

“28th of Mirkul.”

“So how long ago was your birthday?”

She scoffed, putting hands around herself and looking at the throngs of people walking past them. Some of them glanced their way, some looked at her with an odd mix of pity and relief, as if they recognized her and other looked at Nyx and dipped their chin in a polite greeting. All of which he ignored. She met his strikingly and supernaturally violet eyes. “Why are you questioning your aunt?”

This time, his face fell and there showed true concern. “Because she doesn't recognize me.” He looked towards the busy city street too, searching for someone in the crowd, impatiently, as if he was meant to meet them. 

In that moment, her mind told her to run, to slip from his grasp and find her way around. But she did not know this city, she could vastly guess she was somewhere in the Night Court and if the rest of it was as she had heard from rumors and hearsay, leaving the city could be a death sentence. 

So she could turn tail or she could see this through. Perhaps her initial reaction of running was misjudged. The wounds and bruises were like a low buzzing in the background that was becoming louder and louder each moment she kept standing. Faintly, there was a cool feeling at the back of her head before her legs quite literally folded and her bottom met the floor with a thud. 

“Oh, Mother,” she heard faintly, stars filling the backs of her eyelids. Again, Nyx called her name in a familiar manner and in an instant he was kneeling next to her, supporting her back with gentle hands. 

The pain was ebbing in and out, but the overpowering weakness she felt is what kept her down. 

“There you are!” another voice joined their small circle. Through her heavy breaths, she wrote the voice off as welcoming and even warm, but still, no recognition in the tone from her side. The speaker, as everything else, remained a mystery. “You can't just run off on us like that!” 

The last thing she heard before she passed out was, “Cass, we have a problem.”

A/N: thoughts? i had this lying in my drafts and i figured why not let it out for the world to read? ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

anyways :p

your kind words or any sort of remarks are always welcome down below!

lemme know if you guys want to see more of this - i think it could be a good series, perhaps a dozen chapters. there is enough of amnesia tropes out here but i wanted to put my own spin on it.

toodles! ( •̯́ ₃ •̯̀)

[chaosandchaos-deactivated202505]

(source)

[kaddyssammlung]

[rox-grey]

He could slaughter the innocents, destroy my heart and eat it, he could burn the whole world and watch me in the eye while he ravages my own mind and soul. He could ask me on my knees or up the Olympus fighting the Gods, I would scrap the earth until my fingers are bleeding, would climb all the mountains, drown my will into the deepest waters, just for him to find his peace. For him to recognize what he's been building through his art, what he's been saving in the dark.

You've been blessed with V. The vessel to your ascension.

[rox-grey]

DUUUUUUUUDE

[tangleendlessly]

(x)

[rox-grey]

Babiiiiies