Summary// Life in the Hewn City was anything but enchanting. Having to deal with backstabbing family and friends, and rudimentary politics, it was a place that you always dreamed to escape of. The only true happiness you could find was the night of Starfall each year, where you would journey up to see the stars streak across the sky and this year, meet someone new.
(This is my first time writing Mor and I truly hope I do her justice. I’m very nervous about it but this was such a sweet thing to write. I hope you enjoy! :)) @starfallweek
Prompt: Character A and Character B meet at Starfall
WARNINGS: None
The Court of Nightmares was bustling with excitement as Starfall grew closer by the hour. It was all anyone was talking about, giving you a nice break from the constant threats and schemes that were the usual tones of conversations.
You were currently sitting in your bedroom, lounging in your chair and writing in your journal when your door opened loudly. It was your older brother, his eyes cruel and smile just as wicked as he took the seat opposite of you. Not wanting to entertain any of his antics, you continued writing in hopes he would leave.
Unfortunately, he simply sat there and waited. It was only after ten minutes of uncomfortable silence that you finally sat your book and pencil down and looked at him.
“What do you want?” You asked tensely, crossing one leg over the other.
“Is that the welcome I get? And on Starfall?” He jeered while leaning back comfortably. “I thought we were closer than that.”
“If you have come to annoy me then you can leave, I am in the middle of writing.” You snapped. “I don’t want to play your games today.”
“I simply wanted to be one of the first ones to congratulate you on your engagement, dear sister.” He said sweetly, savoring the ashen look on your face when you immediately stood up.
“What are you talking about? What engagement? No one has proposed to me.” You said, your eyebrows furrowing together in worry. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Your brother shook his head while sporting a large grin, motioning you to look out the door to see for yourself. It was only a few steps away but it was as if you had suddenly gotten tunnel vision, your heart pounding loudly in your ears as you peeked out into the main parlor.
Both of your parents stood there with an older gentleman who had greasy black hair and a smile that made your skin crawl. He was shaking hands with your father, clapping him on the shoulder as they conversed just loud enough for you to hear.
“I’m so glad we could arrange this union, sir. I think it will be most beneficial to us, even if it may take some time to grow on your daughter.” The man laughed, your stomach twisting in disgust as they talked about you like you were an object.
“Oh, it does not matter whether she adjusts to it or not, Nuhun.” Your father chuckled right along with him. “She knows what she was brought up for, the duty she is to fulfill just like every other breedable girl that lives in these halls.”
They both clinked glasses, your father’s last words making your spine go rigid. “She will bear you many children, Nuhun, and as she is fruitful to you I hope you keep your end of the deal with being fruitful to us.”
You stumbled back into your room, feeling as if you were going to throw up all of your dinner, while your brother laughed at your shocked state. “Gods am I glad I was born a male.” He taunted, leaving the room with a smile while your world crumbled around you.
It was always made clear to you that as the only girl in the family, your own significance was to secure matches that would strengthen the family. You couldn’t pursue your studies, couldn’t choose someone of your own, and every decision of your life was taken out of your hands from the moment they found out you were a girl.
Hewn City was a place you desperately wanted to escape from ever since you were a child. You would stay up late at night, dreaming of life above and what you could become, of who you could become if you weren’t limited by the patriarchal hell that you were stuck in.
You had been planning your getaway for quite some time but now it seemed that that dream was now also shattered. A small tear ran down your cheek as you ran your fingers over your journal, all of your best-kept hopes lying inside. It was all you had left.
Footsteps were making their way to you and you felt your fight or flight kick in, the voice of your “betrothed” making you tense in fear. You had heard his name before, and knew he was high up in the chain of politics in the Court of Nightmares, which told you just how savage he probably was.
Before you could even form a proper plan you found yourself grabbing your journal and cloak, throwing the latter around your body, and making a break for the door. You ran into your father, heard him shout angrily at you, but you were determined to get as far as you could.
It was your only chance.
The hallways were full of people heading up to the surface to watch Starfall, all of them too engrossed in themselves to notice you, and you used that to your advantage. You slipped and spun your way around the mass of bodies, your parent's voices growing more and more distant the closer you got to the main doors.
“Please, please, please…” You begged under your breath, looking for a break in the swarm, and finally seeing a tiny sliver of light. It only took you a few seconds to reach for it, not caring who you shoved out of the way as the first breath of fresh air hit your lungs.
Your knees fell to the ground as you raised your head to the sky, looking up at the first stars that were twinkling to life. An overwhelming sense of relief washed over you, the rest of the world falling silent as you soaked in this brief taste of freedom.
A hand on your shoulder made you jolt out of your serenity. You quickly rose to your feet and spun around, raising your hand to strike your father before running, until a soft, feminine voice stopped you.
“What are you running from?”
It was Morrigan. Right-hand woman to Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, and daughter of Keir. She frequented your city often, making sure everyone was in their places and pissing off her family in the process. You looked into her eyes, stunned by both her beauty and her actually speaking to you.
“Well?” She pressed, her brown eyes studying you closely. You swallowed thickly, looking down at your journal before back up at her.
“M-my parents, they’re planning on marrying me to-” You stopped midsentence when you saw the top of Nuhun’s head, terror written across your face as plain as day. “Please, please help me.”
She followed your line of vision and grimaced, turning back to look at you. “Take my hand.”
You followed her instructions with no hesitation, grabbing onto it tightly and closing your eyes as she winnowed the two of you somewhere hopefully far away. She cleared her throat and you opened your eyes, noticing that you now seemed to be in a house of some sort.
“Wow…” You breathed, your eyes catching the open window that had a view of an ocean that spanned for miles and miles. It was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. “Where did you take me?”
“Somewhere safe, at least for now.” She responded, looking down at your hands that were still conjoined. You immediately flushed and let go, biting down on the inside of your cheek. “Now, tell me your name and what happened.”
It wasn’t a request, her gaze intimidating as you brought your journal up to your chest for security. “My name is Y/N, Y/N L/N. My father, he was making a deal to marry me off to a man, a stranger, and I just…I ran.”
Mor was being very cautious. She didn’t think you were a threat but she also acted stupidly, not even thinking that you could have other intentions just like the rest of the swine that lived in that mountain until she had already stolen you away. Rhysand was going to be pissed.
“Marriages get arranged every day in Hewn City, surely this wasn’t that much of a surprise.” She commented, offering you a chair which you gladly took. You frowned and stared at your lap, scared that she was going to take you back.
“I don’t want to marry him…” You said, your bottom lip quivering as those tears from earlier threatened to come back. “Him, all of them, they are so wicked and cruel and I thought I had more time to escape, to sneak out into the night and run away to wherever my heart took me but I didn’t. When I heard them talking, I just ran. I had to.”
Her eyes softened at your confession. She knew exactly what you meant, knew how you were feeling, and felt a strange sort of protectiveness over you. You and she seemed to be cut from the same cloth.
“I don’t have to stay here with you, I promise I won’t burden you anymore, I just, I needed to escape. I couldn’t do it anymore.” You whispered, raising your eyes to meet her soft brown ones. “I owe you my life.”
She laughed, her smile dazzling you as she said, “Sweet girl, you don’t owe me anything. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t like the rest of them.”
Her warm tone caught you off guard, making your heart skip a beat as you returned her smile with a tentative one of your own. “I promise I’m not. I think of myself as a, oh how do I describe it?” You question out loud, frowning as you rack your brain.
“Like a dreamer in a Court of Nightmares?” She answered for you, humming when you nodded immediately. “That’s exactly how I felt.”
It was refreshing to meet someone like Mor. She made you feel safe and welcome, if not a little awestruck as well. You were trying your best not to stare or ogle at her, your hands sweating every time she touched you.
The moon was rising in the sky and you suddenly remembered what night it was, standing abruptly to look out the window once more. “I completely forgot about Starfall. Do you have somewhere you need to be? If you could just drop me off somewhere safe, I can get out of your hair.”
Mor rolled her eyes and shook her head, her golden curls bouncing gently. “I won’t just leave you alone in a strange city. Have you ever seen Starfall?”
“A few times, when my family would take me up to watch it.” You replied with a shrug, gazing out into the night. “It’s been many years since that though.”
“Well, then I think you’ll like where I’m about to take you.” She winked, looking over your outfit and pursing her lips. “Do you want to change before we go? Or freshen up? Who knows, you might meet a nice male for a change.”
“Oh, well I-” You were about to say that you weren’t interested in any males, but knowing how people can still view people like that, you instead look to the side and mumble, “Yeah, maybe.”
Of course, she immediately picked up on the change in your demeanor. Her own heart seemed to speed up at her realization, being able to pick up on it so quickly as it was the exact same response she had given people countless times. She walked over to you and lifted up your chin, gazing at you tenderly.
“Or, perhaps, a nice female?” She cooed, enjoying how big your eyes grew. You didn’t know what to say, your throat dry, but luckily she took pity on you. She smirked and turned around, rummaging around her drawers until she pulled out a dress and tossed it to you.
“Here, this will look amazing on you. Go get changed and we can leave.” Mor said, watching you disappear behind the door of her bathroom before she reached for your journal. She briefly flipped through it, noting the drawings and dreams you scrawled out across the pages, before putting it back in its place.
A dreamer, just like her. And to meet on Starfall? Mor felt as if it were some kind of fate, not knowing you were behind the door feeling the exact same way.
You did your best to look presentable, stepping back out into the room and blushing when Mor gave you a low whistle. She held out her hand again and you took it without hesitation, feeling excited for once in your life as she said, “Let me take you to the Court of Dreams, Y/N.”
synopsis : decades after you left azriel, searching for freedom, he finally goes to visit you, in hopes that you're willing to be friends, but unexpected heartbreak sends him tumbling through a lifetime's worth of memories
warnings : angst, fluff, sadness, suicidal thoughts, trauma, cursing, death
word count : 5,601
notes : ok, so this is something I've been thinking about for a while and I think I've finally got it all down. this was supposed to be a painfic that would help me deal, but I think it has also become more than that if that makes any sense? i don't know if I portrayed his pain well enough, but hopefully you like it
enjoy your reading
cal xx
It had been fifty-five years, three months, and twenty-three days since you left him, moments after the mating bond snapped into place. Every single second since then, Azriel could feel the link connecting you both fade slightly due to time and distance. Occasionally, he would think to tug on that bond, hoping there would be a reply on the other end, but then your wishes come to mind and he refrains himself, forcing himself to put his energy into something else.
And now, he couldn't feel anything. Over half a century later, the bond has faded to near-nothingness, except for the faint tendrils of light that were the memories both of you shared during your time together. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but he liked to think that the faint connection he felt was you thinking of him from miles and miles away. But the reality was much harsher, the light being his own thoughts trying to fill in the missing hole in himself.
Fifty-five years, three months, and twenty-three days after that unfateful day . . .
"Az?" you whispered softly, brushing your hand softly over his as you turned to face the breathtaking male laying down next to you on the roof of the House of Wind.
"Hm?" he murmured, turning your hand over so he could hold it gently. His eyes found yours and you stared deep into the warm amber color of them, mesmerized. It didn't matter how often you saw the comforting shade, they would always be striking.
"The stars are pretty tonight," you said, your gaze drifting over his shoulder for a moment before snapping it back to Azriel's eyes. The stars you had caught in that brief glance were . . . breathtaking. You had always loved the night sky, but experiencing the stars every night in the Night Court was an absolute dream come true. The stars glimmered against the dark purple of the sky, shining their light down on you and your lover, lighting up his hazel colored eyes. Azriel hummed his agreement, his eyes not straying from your own for one second.
"What are you thinking about?" you asked quietly, noting the slightly faraway look in his eyes. Like his mind was galaxies away, but his body was left here with you.
"Just you, as usual. You're beautiful beyond words. And I love you so much," he whispered, pulling your joined hands toward his mouth and pressing a gentle kiss to the back of yours.
You smiled, "You're more gorgeous than the stars could ever be, and that's saying something. And I love you more."
Azriel tilted his head back and laughed freely, not agreeing with your sentiment, but reveling in the love that he felt from you anyway. When he looked back at you again, there was something different on your face. There wasn't a single glint of sarcastic humor in your eyes, the warm shade filled with pure joy and love. And Azriel would give away the entire fucking world for you to always feel that way. You were his entire world anyway.
His breath hitched as there was a sharp tug on his heart—his soul—and a blinding light erupted behind his eyes. When he blinked the brightness away, there was a warm glow in his chest and he felt the glowing bond connecting both of your closely intertwined bodies.
In that moment, he felt an unreal amount of joy. There was nothing in the world that could trump that level of happiness and love he felt at that moment. Because it was something he never thought he could have for himself. He had never thought the impossible would happen to him.
"You're my mate," he breathed, still not believing the worlds coming out of his mouth in a rushed gasp. You turned extremely still in his embrace and for a moment, he let himself hope that you would lean in and tell him you accepted the bond.
But the things he wished for tended to avoid him.
You disentangled yourself from him, releasing his hand that you had clutched so tightly moments before.
"What?" you asked, almost regretfully.
"We're mates."
You stared at him for almost an eternity, the sorrow in your eyes nearly breaking him. You had been so happy moments before. And he had screwed it up.
"No."
No, such a simple word that can hold so much meaning. Too much meaning. Azriel held his breath, trying to numb his body so he wouldn't feel the inevitable stab of pain in his chest. The lack of oxygen made no difference. There was a dagger buried deep in his heart. He was dying. He was sure of it. The pain felt so real, and he knew subconsciously that it was real pain. Excruciating emotional pain.
"No, I'm so sorry, I can't do this."
Azriel couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe or think or come up with a rational response. All he could do was stare blankly at you, hoping that this entire thing was a nightmare he would wake up from and be able to hold you tightly in bed next to him.
"I—It's too early. I-I can't do this right now," you stammered, staring at a spot on the rooftop in front of Azriel, but he still caught the tears lining your eyes. "I-I want to live life, I want to experience things. I didn't think this would last this long, but if I had known . . ."
With every word out of your mouth, Azriel felt a small part of him die. He remained quiet, not sure what to say or how to say it. Even if he did, he wasn't sure if he could say it.
"Please. Az. Please know that I love you so, so much. I don't think that I would be the same without you. You truly have changed me and I wouldn't have traded our time together for anything. But this wouldn't have lasted. You know that. You're the spymaster of the Night Court and I'm just a random faerie who you met a few years ago," you felt the tears burning in your eyes, but you refused to cry, you didn't want to taint this moment any more than you already have.
"Your status doesn't matter to me. Not at all. I love you no matter what," he whispered, unable to stand the thought of you thinking that you were less than him. You weren't. In fact, you were better than him. You were all the things he was not. You were kind, loyal, funny, and an exceptional friend. You would stay behind and check up on others if you knew they were struggling. You would lend a hand whenever you could, not expecting any type of reward or acknowledgment for what you had just done. You were too good for him. Maybe that's why you were leaving. Because you had finally realized that.
"I know that. You were always special that way. But, apparently, our time together is up. I'm so sorry, Az. But, please, let me go. I want to experience life. I don't want to settle down and not know true freedom. I've been trapped all my life. Please, give me a chance to live." Your gaze slowly drifted up to meet his and he felt the remaining bits of his heart shatter at the absolute heartbreak written clear on your face.
"I love you so much, but please, let me be free," you whispered, the hot tears sliding down your cheeks no matter how hard you tried to repress them. Azriel reached out for your hands, finding them in the dark. He couldn't deny that wish. He knew about your childhood, how you were locked away and confined by the strict rules of society. He could understand your need for freedom. And he couldn't deny you.
"I understand. Be free. I was never in change of your freedom, y/n. You were. You could have left whenever you wanted. But I love you so much too. I hope you know that. If and when you ever decide to come back, I'll always be here waiting. No matter what happens or how much time has passed. Know that you will always have a friend in the Night Court." Azriel pulled you in tight for a final hug before releasing you. He offered you a sad smile and your lips wobbled for a moment before you threw yourself at him and held him tightly.
"Thank you so much, Azriel. For our time together. I will come back. I promise. Maybe in fifty years. Maybe less. But . . . come and find me if you want, after half a century has passed. I know you can. And, I think I would be ready by then." You pulled back and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before pushing yourself up to standing.
"Goodbye, Azriel," you said, looking down at him for what would be the last time. "I love you."
He watched you leave, watching as every step you took that led you further away from him left his heart even more shattered than before if that was possible.
"I love you more," he whispered, the night his only witness as he kept his eyes on your retreating figure.
It had been over half a century. Maybe you had truly forgotten him, the fading bond solid proof of that. Or maybe you still weren't ready. Or maybe you found someone else, someone who could fulfill your need to be free while loving you unconditionally.
But you had promised to come back. At some point. And he knew you well enough that you would never break a promise.
So he would try to look for you.
Even if you didn't want him, he could at least make sure you were safe and happy. All he wanted was for you to be safe and happy.
Safe and happy . . .
With your face in mind, the memories of you barely dimming after five decades apart, Azriel sent a burst of his shadows out into the world, searching for the other half of his soul.
+ + +
It had been two days since he sent his shadows and spies out into the different courts to look for you. There was a solid possibility that you had traveled beyond Prythian and gone to the Continent for a sense of freedom.
But no matter what, he would find you.
In any world, time, or space.
With you constantly on his mind, he couldn't bring himself to read through the reports his spies sent him for another job that Rhys sent Az on. To him, that was secondary to the news of your wellbeing.
Azriel rubbed his temples and stood up from his desk, feeling the blood rush from his brain, likely from the lack of proper sleep or food. He stood there for a moment, orientating himself before stepping out of his office.
He walked down the halls of the House of Wind, not paying any particular detail to his surroundings, a first for the Spymaster of the Night Court.
He numbly walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of tea from the teapot that was half full on the countertop. It didn't matter that the drink had been cooling for hours and was now room temperature. All he needed was a distraction.
"Az? I thought you were in the Winter Court working on something for Rhys," Cassian said suddenly, making Azriel jump slightly from his spot leaning against the counter.
"No, yeah, I came back early. My spies can retrieve the information easy enough," he replied.
Cass peered closer at Azriel's face, noting the dark eye bags and half-lidded eyes from his poor sleep schedule. "You okay? When was the last time you took a break and rested?"
Azriel shrugged, not caring to remember when he last cared for his wellbeing. He could lie and say a week ago, but Cass wouldn't believe that. Az didn't know when the last time he had a full night's rest was. Probably before you left, if he was being honest with himself.
Cassian sighed, tossing him an apple from the fruit basket near the oven. "Eat that or I'm reporting it back to Rhys."
"Report what? My eating and sleeping habits?" Azriel retorted, though his tone and expression weren't matching the teasing words.
Cassian offered him a concerned look, but didn't say anything further. "Just eat. And take the rest of the day off too. You look dead, Az. Please, go rest. Let your spies take over for the next day or two. Like you said, they got it."
Azriel stared blankly at his brother, screaming at himself to agree to his terms, but he couldn't lie to Cass. Both of them knew that once Cassian left the kitchen, Az would head straight back to his office and skim through more papers that he wasn't remotely interested in reading.
But less than a second later, Azriel's entire demeanor changed when a swarm of his shadows rushed into the room, their song blending in with one another until he called one shadow forward to relay the entirety of the information.
His heart was alight with hope, the thought of his mate making it lighter than it had been in decades.
"Az? What is it? The Winter Court?" Cassian asked, his eyebrow cocked at the massive gathering of darkness in the room.
"No, something much more important. Excuse me, I have to go. See you later, Cass," Azriel breathed as his shadows rushed after him, content to trail him on his way to you. As he ran through the halls, desperate to reach a balcony, they whispered and sang your whereabouts into his ear, one of them mentioning a letter addressed to you found the Day Court.
To only think, you were only a court away.
Azriel raced toward the open balcony doors, not bothering with niceties as he ran past a confused Nesta.
His wings automatically unfurled the moment he stepped outside and he was up in the air within seconds. He didn’t look back as he flew for a whole day straight toward his mate.
His mate . . .
+ + +
Azriel landed in a small village, the name of the town the only thing written on the letter besides ‘Day Court’. After twenty-six hours of straight flight, he landed in a clearing in the forest near you, his breaths coming in fast from the sheer exhaustion and excitement. He practically ran into the village, noting nothing of significance. He walked around for a few hours at first, hoping to catch sight of you meandering along the roads, doing whatever it is you wanted.
But after a while, he realized despite the size of the town, the fae there were numerous.
At first, he only asked a select few people about you, trying to keep his search a secret, but the more people who gave him a confused look and the more time that had passed made Azriel more desperate to find you.
After a few more hours, he was asking anyone and everyone he saw on the street if they had even heard of you, but most of the people he talked to shook their heads no and left on their merry way. Some offered sympathetic glances or arm pats, but no one went as far as to help him look.
Of course not. Who would help me?
He snorted at himself when that notion first came to mind, but then the thought increasingly turned sadder until he started to flat-out sprint just to avoid his thoughts. When Azriel reached a bar toward the center of town, he walked in, thinking that if no one had heard of you, he could at least have a drink and hopefully calm his speeding heart.
When he walked in, he noticed what he thought was a tavern was actually a diner. And a bar. The diner-half was full of smiling and laughing faeries, all enjoying their time together. The bar-half was almost empty, save for a few fae who looked a couple glasses drunk. And who could blame them? It was midday, the second day of Azriel's search for you, and the servers had no one else to attend to.
Azriel sent his shadows skittering to the different corners of the diner / bar, hoping they blended in with the shadows of people eating and chatting. But the agitated mass of darkness only darkened the room and sent a wave of chills across every body in its path.
Azriel walked up to a group of females chatting animatedly over a light lunch and cleared his throat.
He softened his stance, trying not to seem too intimidating. He needed people to talk to him. Azriel dropped his arms to hang casually at his sides and relaxed his facial features to give the allusion of serenity. Or something close to it.
“Have you heard or seen of anyone named y/n?” he asked when the females turned to him. Tucking his hands behind his back, he shifted uncomfortably under their gazes as they stared at him for a few seconds.
“No, I’m sorry. We don’t,” one of the females said, offering a sympathetic smile before turning back to their friends.
“Ok, thank you,” he said quietly before heading off toward the next table. Before he could take another step though, he caught sight of a female carrying a tray of drinks headed right for him.
He quickly stepped out of the way as she walked right by him and placed the drinks on the table of the females he just left.
“Uh, hi?” she said, her greeting sounding more like a question. She tilted her head. “Did you need something?”
“Yes, actually. Do you know anyone named y/n?” Azriel asked, knowing the answer before it left her mouth. Of course it would be a no. Then he would continue on asking everyone in town for someone who seemed to not have existed to them. Maybe the address was wrong. Maybe Azriel went to the wrong town. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . .
But before he turned away again, the female who had been carrying the tray of drinks touched his arm. He whirled toward her, confused for a second before catching a glimpse of the tears lining her eyes.
“Are you a friend of hers?” she asked and Azriel couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was getting closer to seeing you again.
“Yes, sort of,” he said, not caring to elaborate on their situation.
The female’s eyes clouded over with grief and Azriel’s stomach turned. “We were friends over a decade ago. She was amazing. When she first got here, I knew she was a good person from the start. I think she had been traveling Prythian, just exploring.”
Azriel knew the reason for the explanation, but he wouldn’t let himself dwell too much on it. It couldn’t be true. This female must have the wrong y/n.
“I’m so sorry, but she died a dozen years ago during one of Hybern’s raids. She died fighting and protecting my baby sister. And I owe everything to her.”
Azriel’s world stop. His entire self stopped. He stopped breathing and his heart stopped for a second as well. He could’ve sworn time itself took a break just to absorb this new piece of information.
You were gone. Dead.
You had died protecting a young female, a hero til the end.
“She was an amazing person though. I hope you know that,” the female said, offering her condolences. That word shouldn’t hurt so much. Was. You were dead. You were past tense. Was. There one second and gone the next. And then you become a was.
Azriel nodded stiffly, expressing thanks and walked quickly out of the diner, trying to staunch the waves of emotions rushing over him.
No, no, no.
You couldn’t be dead. There was no way that was true. Because . . . because if it were, that meant that—
It meant that half of his soul was gone as well. It had left the second you had passed on and entered the next world. Maybe that was why the bond had faded so much. To the point where he had to delude himself into feeling the shimmering rope that tied both of your souls together. The bond that was no longer there and hadn’t been for a dozen years.
Desperately, he tried feeling for that link between the both of you, but he was grasping for empty air. There was nothing there anymore.
A sob ripped from deep in his chest, the pain radiating throughout his body. He tried taking in a deep breath, to clear his mind, but his knees trembled and he felt hot tears clouding his vision.
Dead, dead, dead.
Tears wracked his body as he lifted his wings in the air and pushed off of the ground in a solid wing beat. He was flying blindly, no set destination in mind. His tears ran down his cheeks in streams of pain, the wetness dripping off his chin.
You had never known the full intensity of his love.
That was all Azriel could think of as he thought about your last night together, the words coming to his lips, but not daring to escape. You would never know.
And that harsh reality struck him like lightning and he found himself dropping from the sky. He plummeted toward the ground, not a single fiber in him caring.
Instinct kicked in at the last second and he spread his wings to slow his fall, his knees buckling on impact. He didn't care.
His legs trembled and he crashed to the ground onto his knees, his head dropping down in defeat. Az let his wings relax and drag on the ground, not caring about any stupid, fucking Illyrian rules.
He sat there for a while, letting the tears come and go, letting himself feel the pain of your loss. But he had to get up at one point. Even if he was content to stay there forever and let himself rot on the very ground that you had died on.
He lifted his head, trying to look up at the bright sky for comfort, but his eyes snagged on a small worn-down cottage at the end of the road he was currently kneeling on. He pushed himself up to standing and he slowly walked toward the house, an undescribable tug drawing him closer.
When he reached the stormy blue door, he almost sobbed again, the paint the exact shade of your favorite color. Was it . . . was this your house?
Azriel tried the handle and felt no resistance, so he turned the doorknob and the door swung open, the hinges squeaking with age.
He peered inside, the small home reminding himself of your bedroom. How could it not with its icy blue curtains and pure white furniture despite the numerous complaints from your mouth at the stains littering the light fabric? It was an exact replica of your room at the House of Wind. And that may not have meant anything, but his eyes strayed to a framed photo of you holding a small dog, a wide grin on your face.
His heart stuttered at that. You had been so happy . . .
He took another step into the room, a creamy white envelop lying on the dining table in the room next door snagging his attention from the open doorway. He walked toward it unconsciously, the rectangular piece of paper solid proof of your existence.
His heart dropped, and so did he when he saw the name scrawled on the envelope. Azriel.
The second impact on his knees hit harder than the first, but he all but crawled toward the awaiting letter. The second his hands touched the parchment, he tore it open and read through the letter slowly and carefully, absorbing each and every word.
Dear Azriel,
I know it's been forty years since I've left. I didn't think I would be away this long, but there were so many places to see and not enough time. And well . . . time has passed. Quite quickly.
Of course, neither of us are the same. We've both changed. Forty years can change any person. I would like to say I've changed for the better. And I've matured. Or at least, I hope I have.
The way I left you was horrible. I was . . . scared, I guess. I couldn't think about not being able to travel and live. And I've also been too scared to write to you. That's why this letter is twenty years late.
Maybe if I had the courage to send something to you earlier, we would be happily mated and living together right now.
But I was a coward.
Hopefully, this letter makes up for the lost time. Because I'm ready now. I have been for a while. I want to be with you for the rest of our lives. I love you so much. Please, if it's not too much to ask, I would like to visit you.
I completely understand if you had found someone else in the years I've been away. Forty years is a long time.
But, best wishes to you Azriel. I love you so, so much.
y/n xx
You had written. You had wanted to be with him. But you had died before you could send it. Before you could be in his arms again. And for that, Azriel broke. Completely.
Everything that he felt multiplied and he felt the pain and years of longing swirl around him in a hurricane, dragging him with it.
Years and years of silently suffering, hoping you would one day walk back into his life and brighten it. Make everything worth living. Bring life to him.
But you would never, ever give him another smile. Another laugh. Another grin. Another hug. Another kiss.
That warm spot in his heart that he reserved solely for you exploded. All the happy memories he had stored away in there when the past became too much endured flowed out in a steady stream, each memory fighting for attention at the front of his brain.
Azriel was walking along the Sidra, trying to clear his mind. Sometimes, even the quietness of his home was too much and his head swarmed with unwanted thoughts. Uncontrollable thoughts that dragged him down with them.
He kicked a stone from the center of the dirt path and watched it drop into the water running in a calming flow to the right of him. The sounds of the river helped drown out his inner, self-deprecating monologue and he took a clearing breath.
There was a sudden, loud thud behind him and he whirled around, his hand poised on the handle of Truth-Teller. What he saw was a young female face-planting on the well-trodden path.
He froze but immediately rushed over to you to help you up. As he extended his scarred hand, you pushed yourself onto your knees and grinned sheepishly up at him. Without a second of hesitation, you took his outstretched hand and pulled yourself up, brushing the dirt from your leggings.
"Thanks," you said, face flush with embarrassment.
"It was no problem," he replied and you rewarded him with a breathtaking, dazzling smile beyond words. His breath caught and you continued on your way, a slight bounce to each step.
He fell in love that day. Maybe not for you entirely, as he had just met you. But you were someone he would want to be with. Someone he thought he could love.
And the rest was history.
A strangled sob broke past his lips as your first meeting with him played over and over in his mind. You were so happy. You had been alive. And now you were gone.
After that initial meeting, you bumped into each other a few more times until he worked up the courage to ask you to lunch. You had accepted. The both of you grew closer. You fell in love. Then the mating bond snapped, and you left to live your life.
His mind was the perfect torture machine, each painful and yet wonderful memory of the both of you during your time together flaring up in perfect detail.
You laughing as a star splashed across your face during Starfall.
You grinning as you and Azriel teased each other.
Your determined expression as you sparred with him.
Cassian swinging an arm over you, loudly making fun of Mor.
Mor and you going dress shopping and dragging Az along.
Azriel and you reading together in the safe confines of the library.
"I love you so much, y/n," he breathed.
You smiled tenderly, "I love you more than any words can express, and I will always love you, even after the Mother claims us."
The small conversations the both of you had together . . .
"What do you think happens after death?"
"I'd rather not think about that. What about all the living that can be done right now?"
Dancing at Rita's.
Drinking til you're stupid drunk.
Messy kisses.
Obnoxious laughter.
Every smile.
Every grin.
Every laugh.
Every embrace.
Every kiss.
Every 'I love you'.
Playing over and over in his mind, each repetition a new stab to the heart. Over and over again. Until he couldn't take it anymore. Over and over again. Until he was sure his heart was in shambles and he couldn't ever move again. Over and over again. Until he wished for death just so it would stop.
You had wanted to go and live your life like a free spirit. Unlike when you were a child and trapped in the confines of your home. You were trapped your entire life. Simple things to others were impossible privileges to you.
You wanted to experience everything the Mother could offer you.
And Azriel let you go, because he didn't want to weigh you down.
And now you were dead. Gone forever.
Never to laugh or smile or grin or dance or sing again.
Silent.
Quiet.
Dead.
Empty love.
Because Azriel was still alive and you weren't. His other half. Gone. Dead.
The only reason for his survival so far. Gone.
Az wanted to follow you into the afterlife. He wanted to be reunited with you, even if it meant leaving his family behind. Because what was life without you in it? Nothing, that's what.
You brought sunshine to any rainy day.
You were the light in his darkness.
You were the green sprout that sprung up amidst the cold deadness of the world.
You brought happiness to everything you touched. Gave it life. Just like you did to him. You brought him back to life, after the childhood that had killed him.
And then you killed him again when you left. Like you're killing him again now. But he was already past gone, his soul empty the second you left.
You were the shoulder to lean on when things became too much. Whenever his life caught up to him. Whenever he couldn't handle another day, you were ready for him. You were ready to stay up all night holding him or talking through anything that he wanted to. You didn't erase his pain. You soothed it. Brought it down to a manageable level. You had warmed his dead heart.
The heart that was turning still and cold while still beating incessantly.
His body shook with sobs, his entire weight against the table. It was the only thing holding him up. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't survive. The pain wrenched a shudder from his body and he slid further down toward the floor. His heart clenched and his stomach flipped, his lungs screaming for the air he wouldn't give to them.
He sucked in a sharp breath, the sudden intake causing a shudder to ripple throughout his body.
He couldn't live while you were dead.
He wanted to follow you and find you in the afterlife. He wanted to take his blade and sheath it deep into his heart. He wanted to bleed out and let his soul drift up toward you. He wanted to leave any emotion or feeling behind.
His fingers trailed toward the blade strapped to his thigh, his thoughts screaming at him, not allowing a single moment of silence to think his decision through.
He was going to you. He was going to see you again.
But you wouldn't want that.
You would want Az to live, to experience all that you could not. To experience the love and happiness that you could no longer feel.
If Death claimed you, then it evaded him, allowing Az to wield it like a weapon instead of bringing him down to its level.
His fingers strained toward the blade, wrapping themselves around the solid handle.
But, but, but . . .
You would kill him for even thinking of doing this. It was worth it though, to be able to hold you in his arms one last time.
He could almost hear your voice through the haze of his mind, Please, Az, no. Live. For me.
He would do anything for you. Even if it meant giving up eternity with you.
So Azriel would live. Continue living. Not thriving, however. Just surviving. Because you were gone. But he would do that for you. He would live.
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I spotted Mor walking with Viviane and a stunningly beautiful young woman who looked like either Viviane’s twin or sister. Viviane was beaming, Mor perhaps more subdued for once, and as she twisted—
Viviane began to lead Briar away, chattering merrily, and Mor and Viviane’s possible-sister lingered to watch them. Mor said something to the stranger that made her smile—well, slightly.
It was a restrained smile, and it faded quickly. Especially as a High Fae soldier strode past, grinned at her with some teasing remark, and then continued on. Mor watched the female’s face carefully—and swiftly looked away as she turned back to her, clapped Mor on the shoulder, and strode off after her possible-sister.
This is all the canon content we got from them in ACOWAR and from that I turned into over 10k of wlw fic :) This is part one. Please enjoy. Tagging @confused-as-all-hell and @queen-hypaxia
Title: A Quiet Beyond Silence
Length: 5k
Warnings: Internalised homophobia from Mor’s POV. Mentions of past homophobia by family.
Summary: After her fight with Feyre in ACOWAR, Mor seeks solace in the Winter Court camp and runs into an old flame, Selene, Viviane’s younger sister. They revisit their history with one another. MOUNTAINS of hurt/comfort and some angst. But soft angst.
Rating will go up in the next part but this one is SFW. Mor’s POV, Canon compliant.
Teaser:
‘“Fifty years apart, or five hundred, it makes no matter. I know you.”
Mor’s anger recedes at those words, at the truth contained within them. She does know her, she always has. Even from that first moment that they met, she had looked into her eyes and known. Known that something darker than the bright sunshine she coated herself with lurked beneath her warm eyes.
She’s always had this effect on her. Has always been able to gentle her, quiet her, soothe her with a few soft words. Bare her body with some soft touches. Brush herself against her very soul with a kiss.
“I know when something is wrong,” Selene continues, every word carefully selected. Controlled, quiet, precise, as they always have been, “What happened?”’
Link: AO3
***
The thick heat of the Summer Court is near suffocating as Mor prowls through Adriata, still on edge from the battle. The air is wet with blood after a day of battle and the mourning tears that followed.
As she steps into the Winter Court encampment, it still somehow feels cold. Comfortingly so. A sharp breeze lifts, tugging at her hair, stirring it around her face, as though trying to pull her away somewhere. She ignores it.
She’s still in the clothes she had worn when she’d descended down into the battle, not bothering to strip out of them. The armour feels like a lead weight now, dragging her weary limbs down. Exhaustion gnaws at her and she should sleep, should go back to her own camp, her own tent, curl up and let that fatigue drag her into tomorrow but...
She had needed to get out, to get away from all of it.
Cassian’s injuries had rattled her, even if the stupid prick would be alright. She had been there, feet from him, as he’d been torn apart before her eyes. She’d felt sure she was watching his death. Again. As she had watching his wings shredded in Hybern. And she’d been helpless. Again.
Helpless when she had returned to the camp and found Feyre gone.
Helpless as she had fought to restrain herself from shaking that sister of hers to make her tell her where she had gone so she could find her and drag her back.
Helpless as she had looked into Rhys’s terrified eyes and been forced to confess that she had been tricked, that she had been lied to. Again. That those closest to her would rather go behind her back than trust her and tell her what was happening. Would rather make her helpless again than let her in.
She despised it.
When she had woken at seventeen, after bleeding out, too agonised and exhausted even to crawl for help. Waiting there to die. Before Azriel had found her. She had sworn to herself that she would die before she ever felt that way again.
That had been a lie. Another lie. A comforting lie that had made her feel better. But now she knew how hollow and empty that was and it tore at her, and nearly succeeded in tearing the tears she’d been fighting back for what felt like months.
Then the fight with Feyre in her tent after she had returned. In one piece, thank the Mother… But the things that she had said to her, the things she had heard come tearing from her friend’s lips…
She closes her eyes, hugging herself, her fingers gripping onto her arms until it hurts, fingernails biting into flesh.
That breeze lifts again, carrying with it the tears that burn her eyes fall as she bows her head, shaking, failing to master herself.
They’re at war. She doesn’t have time to sit here and feel sorry for herself. She doesn’t have the luxury of falling apart. She’s never had the luxury. They need her. She’s their Third. She’s the Morrigan, she can’t do this.
She should be in camp, helping, planning, doing something.
Instead she’s sitting here like a child. Pathetic and frightened and helpless all over again.
She holds her head in her hands, shaking, not caring who sees. None of the Winter Court soldiers are likely to bother her. They would have to come seeking her, where she’s huddled on the edge of this war camp, overlooking the battle field that Feyre had tricked her onto, where Cassian had nearly died right in front of her, where-
She looks up at the soft, lithe footsteps that sound at her side.
A beautiful Winter Court fae stands there, looking down at her. Selene. Viviane’s sister.
It’s been decades since they’ve been this close to one another, not since before Amarantha. Yet she hasn’t changed. Like Mor’s memory made manifest before her, she stands.
A tall, willowy pillar of frozen steel, cold and unyielding, precise and elegant as a sculpture. Her long silver hair restrained by a thick braid wrapped around her head like a crown. She looks strikingly like her older sister, except her eyes, they’re sharper, colder, and of a steely grey. The windswept mountain to her sister’s bright ocean sapphire.
For all they look alike however, there are no squealing outbursts and desperate hugs between the two of them. Only quiet. The same kind of quiet that always fills Mor whenever she looks into those pale, fathomless eyes. The same kind of quiet she wishes she could exist in for the rest of her life.
The tension seems to bleed from her as that silence sweeps through her, a bone deep calm that she only ever feels around a few people in this world.
Wordlessly, taking Mor’s lack of brusque demand for her to leave her alone as acceptance of her presence, Selene carefully lowers herself down onto the ground. Then passes over a cup of tea from underneath her thick fur mantle.
Mor accepts it gratefully, holding it between her hands to warm them from the chill night that’s starting to draw in around her. She sniffs at the tea before she takes a sip. The mixed scents of citrus and apple draw a small, sad smile from her. All these years...All these years but Selene still remembers her favourite blend.
They sit in silence for a long moment, sipping their tea. Mor is grateful for the other female’s company, despite the faint knot of tension that starts to pulse in her stomach at her presence.
So long, it’s been so long since they were together. All this time, both likely fearing the other lost after Amarantha’s conquest and yet...Yet still the quiet embraces them, holds them tight, somehow more intimate than the embrace Viviane had swept her into when they had seen each other again.
It’s a gift, this respite that she offers her. But eventually, Mor finds herself breaking it, needing to ask the question.
Quietly, she murmurs, “How are you?”
Selene stiffens almost imperceptibly, takes a sip of her own tea, mint, if Mor isn’t mistaken. Even without the scent she would have known. She remembers her too.
Then she says, “Well.”
Her voice is the same as she remembers it, like snow melting from a mountainside, cool and heavy and smooth, with that soft rasp to it that makes her shiver.
It had been a loaded question, a question asking after how she had fared all these years they had been apart, with the distance of grief and loss between them. That she had chosen not to answer it, to confine their discussion to the present...Says all she needs it to.
She turns to face Mor, her eyes seeming to glow a dark silver as the light from the camp behind them catches in them.
“How are you?” she asks in turn.
There’s enough pointed emphasis in the last word that Mor knows the female can still read her as easily as she remembers how she prefers her tea.
She turns away, looks down the sharply sloping hill to the battlefield again, churned and ragged and raw. A good mirror for the way she feels.
All she says in answer to Selene’s question is, “Fine.”
To her surprise, that response tugs a soft huff of laughter from the female sitting by her side. The sound still makes such a contrast to her. Legs folded beneath her, back perfectly straight, the image of a noble lady.
“All these years, Morrigan,” she says quietly, taking a drink of her tea before shaking her head and adding, “All these years and you still think you can hide from me.”
She doesn’t look at her as she says it, continues gazing serenely out over the battlefield, stray locks of silver dancing around her face like lost spirits.
The calm, impassive set of her face implies that they might be talking about the weather.
Mor bristles. At the words. At the assumption in them. At the calm. She had loved it at times, yes. But at other times, times like this, times when she wants that mask to shatter and reveal the storm beneath, she hates it.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demands sharply, the words laced with a snarl that makes them harsher than she had intended.
Selene, as is her wont, remains utterly composed and unruffled by the display of aggression on her part.
“It means that I know you,” she says simply. She takes another draught of tea then adds, before Mor can protest, “Fifty years apart, or five hundred, it makes no matter. I know you.”
Mor’s anger recedes at those words, at the truth contained within them. She does know her, she always has. Even from that first moment that they met, she had looked into her eyes and known. Known that something darker than the bright sunshine she coated herself with lurked beneath her warm eyes.
She’s always had this effect on her. Has always been able to gentle her, quiet her, soothe her with a few soft words. Bare her body with some soft touches. Brush herself against her very soul with a kiss.
“I know when something is wrong,” Selene continues, every word carefully selected. Controlled, quiet, precise, as they always have been, “What happened?”
Mor closes her eyes, looking away from her. When she opens them, she lets her gaze stretch to the endless horizon beyond.
Out past the bloodied battlefield and the crows that are starting to gather in clouds above it. A feast of the dead that she does not want to look at or think upon right now.
Her throat tightens as the memory again surges. A part of her wishes to shove it down, wishes to continue insisting that everything is fine.
Yet...Yet it’s not fine. And she hasn’t seen this woman in fifty years. But it’s as though they’ve been together through it all. Side-by-side as they once were, as they perhaps should always be. And the words come before she truly gives them permission to.
A world in which she feels the need to hide from this woman, this woman, who has seen and knows every inch of her body, her heart, her being...Is one she might not feel inclined to save any more.
“I had a fight with a friend,” she confesses tightly.
Selene’s eyes slide to glance at her, though she remains facing the field, without turning her head. But she notes the tone, the rawness in Mor’s voice, as though the aftermath of the fight still stings at her throat, ravages the words when she tries to speak of it.
“About the war?” Selene enquires carefully, slender silver eyebrow arching. “Surely that is not enough to-“
“No,” Mor grits out, voice brittle.
She takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching her hands in her lap, a gesture that isn’t missed by Selene’s razor eyes.
“Not about this. About. About-“
She can’t say it, can’t get the words out, not even to Selene, who knows, who understands she can’t she-
Mor doesn’t realise how violently she’s shaking until she feels Selene’s hand on her back. Ice seems to spread from where they connect, the cold spreading through her, soothing her. Like a cool balm on a feverish ache.
Swallowing hard, Mor lets Selene gently rub her back in big, broad circles, unable to bear, for all her cool indifference, seeing her suffer this way.
The touch is intimate, deeply personal, and again it feels like no time has passed between them. Like it was only yesterday they were bundled naked together beneath furs, in front of the roaring fireplace in the small mountain lodge that Selene called her home.
Finally, Mor manages to say tightly, “She knows.” Selene stiffens, her eyes going wide in surprise, “About me. About-“
She doesn’t have to finish, the way she squeezes her shoulder communicates well enough that she understands.
Mor bows her head, thick golden hair falling over her face, shielding the pain carving lines into her skin, hollowing out her eyes.
She had been careful, she had been so careful all these years. She had hidden all those she had been with, all those she might have fallen in love with...All those she had fallen in love with to keep herself safe.
If the Circle knew, the male lovers she had taken confused them enough that they kept quiet, kept wondering but never...Never in five hundred years had anyone challenged her the way that Feyre had.
They’re quiet for a long time, until a tear finally breaks free of Mor’s iron restraint and slides down her cheek. Before she can lift her own hand, Selene is there, pale, delicate fingers brushing it away, strengthening her.
“Don’t you think,” she asks, voice quiet and measured but with a tightness that hasn’t entered it since she joined her here. A tightness she hasn’t heard for fifty years, “Don’t you think it would be so much better for you if you just told them all?”
There was no judgement in the words. None. There never had been. Not from her, never from her. She understands too well, understands her and understands this. What it feels like to be asked to bear such a tender, delicate part of herself that has never been seen, never touched before by any who don’t have a similar part of themselves to protect.
“Don’t start that again,” Mor snarls viciously, pulling away.
The words snap out of her and she regrets them the instant they leave her mouth, as Selene’s hand leaves her back but...She can’t go through that again. Not with her. Not now. Not so soon after Feyre, when everything is still so raw.
Selene holds her furious stare, her own burning gaze meeting one of calm, tempered ice. Neither of them look away, neither bending or breaking, but it is Selene who speaks first.
“I only want you to be happy, Mor,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically soft and gentle, “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“I know, I know,” Mor whispers, dropping her eyes at last and staring at the hands that are now fumbling uncomfortably in her lap to keep them from seizing one of Selene’s. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, quiet and brittle.
Selene surveys her for a long moment without saying anything, then, “It was bad?”
Mor can’t bring herself to answer her, the words jamming in her throat. She only manages a tight nod.
Selene draws in a heavy breath, fidgeting, uncharacteristically, with a loose thread in the fitted silver tunic she wears.
Selene rarely wore dresses, feeling out of place and uncomfortable in the flowing silks and frills that Mor and her sister so loved. She had coaxed her into a few over the years, and the sight of her in them always damn near destroyed her. But there was something right about Selene in the tunics and jackets and furs of her court.
Finally she says quietly, “I was pleased to see you, today, you know.”
Mor blinks in surprise, not having expected the conversation to take this turn.
“I know I may have reacted...poorly, especially compared to-“ A muscle feathers in her jaw as she snaps her mouth shut, forestalling the comparison to her sister. A slight shake of the head, “I apologise,” she says stiffly. Too stiffly.
A soft smile brushes Mor’s lips for the first time that night. “You seem to forget,” she says quietly, reaching over and slipping her hand, warm from the tea that’s slowly growing cold, into hers. “That I know you, too.”
Selene looks up at her, those impenetrable grey eyes yielding just a little for her. Her thumb strokes absently over the back of Mor’s hand. She shivers at the contact.
“I had thought you must be dead,” Selene says quietly, “After all that time, no word from you in that court. Even...In that place...”
Her eyes darken at the mention of Under the Mountain. Mor stiffens at the mention too. She had gone with Kallias that day, his right hand, his sworn shield, had remained there with him during Amarantha’s reign. From Rhys, Mor knows some of the horrors she experienced there.
Selene swallows hard, composing herself, pushing down whatever dark memories had reached up to take hold of her and Mor realises...Realises that she knows this woman but...There are scars that she doesn’t know, demons she has not yet met, ghosts that have not been buried.
However, her voice is perfectly steady when she resumes, “I thought of asking Rhys for news of you,” she says quietly. “I was never close to him, rarely spent time with him, but I knew he was your cousin, knew he cared for you, trusted you and yet...The mask he wore there, the things that he did-“
She cuts herself off when she feels Mor starting to shake beside her. Her thumb strokes over her hand again and her voice is controlled when she continues, weighing each word.
“I was not sure if I could trust him. I wanted to ask after you to know if you were safe, if there was even a shred of hope but...” She bows her head, shaking herself. “I told myself it would be worth it, whatever bargain he might strike with me, whatever wicked price he might compel me to pay it...It would have been worth it...For you.”
Mor swallows tightly past the lump in her chest, struggling to remain grounded, present.
“I was a coward,” Selene whispers, hanging her head, her eyes closing, though she doesn’t pull away from Mor, their hands remaining entwined, bridging the distance between them.
Mor opens her mouth to push back, to counter her, but Selene is already going on, speaking her words into the dark, cool night that’s slowly starting to unfold around them, darkness embracing them both.
“I should have asked him. I should have asked after you then I would have known. Then today perhaps I-“
She straightens her spine, exhaling, her breath blowing out in a cloud in front of her. Reasserting her famous control.
She turns at last and looks at Mor again as she says, “Seeing you again today, it was a shock. After all this time I, I-“
She stops herself, turns away again, unable to say what she feels for her in this moment. But Mor hears it all the same, echoing across fifty years spent in fear and uncertainty and distance, the longest they had ever gone without seeing one another.
I missed you.
The argument with Feyre keeps playing over and over in her head. A never-ending echo that makes her feel an odd combination of emotions. Anger and fear both strong amidst the torrent.
Then there are the feelings that Selene has now stirred, the lust, the want, the desire. With the words, spoken and unspoken...It’s too much.
They all rage within her, a fire that’s blazing out of control, setting her on edge and making her wince as every movement sends it flashing through her raw nerves.
She wants the softness she knows she can draw from Selene. That tenderness she isn’t sure anyone else has ever truly known from her. Not in the way she has. The ice in her touch would be the most welcome thing in the world right now, to still the inferno within.
Others had fled from it, had turned their backs on her, not wanting the cold, distant woman. Mor had never understood how they’d been unable to see the light that burned in her eyes when she set them on fire. There was a Starfall whenever they were entwined.
She longs for it, has longed for it all these long year. She had never thought to have it again. Had never thought to even have a chance. Had never thought to be this close again.
Mor realises that she’s leaning into her, instinct drawing her forwards. The same kind of force as the pull that ties her to the earth, irresistible, inevitable. She wants this. She wants her.
She wants the soothing calm that always floods through her whenever they’re together. Other lovers have set her on fire, stoked the flames that writhe and dance in her blood, in her heart. Selene...Selene had soothed it, had gentled it, had made it all stop for the first time in her life.
When she had taken her to bed that first time, all those years ago, on a diplomatic mission to her court...She had never experienced anything like it before.
Selene was so often dismissed, so often in her sister’s shadow. Many made the mistake of assuming she was bitter about that, that she disliked the attention lavished upon Viviane but...She had confessed to liking it. The two of them understood one another and Viviane’s shadow, quiet, calm, peaceful, was exactly where Selene longed to be.
She would have died for her sister. A hundred times over, before letting so much as a scratch touch her soft skin. That was Viviane’s power, her charm, the way wielded the beauty the Cauldron had given her, deflected attention from her reserved sister but Mor…
She loved Viviane dearly, the two so alike in personality and taste that they had connected at once, all bubbly laughter and excited shouts. Viviane was alive with energy and joy and yet, despite that shine, that presence, that magnetic pull towards her...The moment Mor had set eyes on Selene she had wanted her.
She had not taken a female lover since Andromache’s death but when she saw Selene...Her heart had constricted, her lungs emptying of breath. The world around her had gone quiet and dark and cold and she had never wanted it to switch back on, had not wanted the raucous laughter or pounding music to distract from this.
Mor had looked at Selene and she had been home. She was Velaris when it came alive after the sun had set and the stars scattered themselves about the sky above.
She was the quiet time she spent during the nights. Alone on a balcony, the cool air a fresh and welcome touch upon her skin, fever hot from dancing and singing and laughing at Rita’s.
She was the heavy embrace of the darkness gilded with moonlight that made her feel safe, cherished.
Their courtship had been quiet, tentative. Mor had made excuses, so many that Cassian had teased her mercilessly, and Az had quietly asked if everything was alright, to return to the Winter Court to visit her.
She pretended it was for Viviane, their friendship so open, and the letters they sent one another so constant that no-one questioned it. But as soon as she could she went to Selene.
It took her time to open up, to trust Mor, to let her in. But before long she had been showing her the court. At first just the cities, her favourite places to eat or to shop. Different from the bustling places Viviane had dragged her too, but still within the cities, safe, distanced.
Then something had changed between them. Selene had softened, a more vulnerable side emerging, and she’d taken her to all of her secret, intimate places. The places she had only ever gone alone, and had never shared with another soul before her.
Mor hadn’t been able to get enough of her. There hadn’t been enough hours in the day, enough weeks in the year, enough years in her eternity to spend with her.
She had been so timid, opening up to her, revealing how she felt about females. It had been easier with Andromache. She had been human, separate, distinct, from the world she hid herself from so keenly.
Selene was fae, was part of that world, could have ruined her so easily and yet... She had not been able to help herself.
That first time they had slept together had been the first time that Selene had seen Velaris.
She still remembered it so well. Mor had taken her to all of her favourite places, shown her everything she could all in that one visit. She had been sure she had overwhelmed her, sure she would simply wish to return home the next day, exhausted.
But instead they had ended up in that cabin in the mountains and Selene had stared with wonder at the night their court was famous for and then...Then she had kissed her.
They had tumbled into bed that same night. And Mor had not known pleasure like it since Andromache had died. She had never thought to feel that kind of pleasure again. Everything had gone quiet and still. She had forgotten that there was a world out there beyond that cabin, beyond the space where their bodies connected.
It had not lasted.
Reality had rushed back in.
One particularly bad visit to the Court of Nightmares had caused her to end it in a blind panic. She had been unable to stop herself imagining all of the things that her father would do to Selene. Her beautiful, wonderful Selene.
If he had ever found out about her, about what they had, he would take it. He would take it, and he would break it, and she would be as helpless as a child before him again with that power it would have given him over her.
That terror had been too much. She had handled it badly and Selene...After all the time it had taken to build up her trust, her interest, she had ruined everything between them that night.
Yet it hadn’t ended there.
They had both been young and foolish and Mor was still connected to that court through Viviane. Selene, it seemed, had never explained to her sister what they had had, what they had been to one another, what they might have been had Mor not rejected her. Viviane had, eventually, dragged her into staying with her once more and when she had seen Selene...She had broken.
She had confessed everything to her that night. The Court of Nightmares. The vitriol she had grown up with. What her father and Eris had done to her after she had slept with Cassian and ruined her betrothal.
Selene had listened in that way of hers, that quiet that somehow went beyond silence. A calm so razor-edged and lethal that Mor had seen the wild thing stir to life in her eyes. They had fallen into bed and into love with one another all over again.
But it had still ended. It always ended.
Mor panicked. Or Selene needed more than she could give her. The distance grated on them. The need for secrecy and lies broke them both.
Something always happened to tear them away from one another. But then something always happened to bring them back. No matter how far she ran, no matter how far apart the world pulled them, something was always stronger. It always brought them back. Even conquest and war and tyranny had not been enough to separate them.
Here they were again, on the precipice of the dawn of the new world, and they were together. They had survived. They were here. And Mor wants her. She craves her. She needs her.
Not just for the reckless defiance that blurred the lines between sense and spite after the argument with Feyre.
Not just because she needs something, anything, to take her away from the horror of this war.
Not just because she’s desperate for a distraction from the prospect of watching those she loved die around her.
Not just because she wants someone to just hold her for one damned night where she can be soft and vulnerable, and something less than strong.
Because she wants her. She needs her. She always has. A part of her likely always will.
Selene feels her stare and turns slowly to her. Mor catches a flicker of lust lighting the deep slate grey of her eyes, making the silver dance through them. Then they slide down to her lips. Remaining there.
She does not look away this time, does not flinch from the heat and lust that she must be able to feel blazing from her, that she can surely scent with so little distance between them.
Mor moves closer to her. They’re out here in the open, a stone’s throw from the entire Winter Court army. Her own army is camped not far from there, her own father among them.
But she feels reckless, defiant in the face of Feyre’s accusations, the words she had hurled at her.
Liar. Liar. Liar.
She squeezes her hand tightly, their lips a mere fraction from one another.
She feels it, tastes it, when Selene whispers, “Mor.”
It’s a warning, a reproach, a hesitation...But she does not pull away. Her eyes flutter, half-closed, her lips part slightly, seeking for Mor’s.
A flicker of uncertainty stirs inside her as she realises how close they are, how open and exposed and vulnerable.
She covers the moment, getting smoothly to her feet, as though this had always been the intention, the moment that had passed between them just now nothing more than a tease.
“Come,” Mor murmurs quietly, not taking her eyes from the female still sitting primly upright on the grass, not having moved.
Mor holds out her hand. Invitation. Offer. Plea.
“Mor-“ Selene begins, still not moving.
She keeps her hand held out to her, says once more, not bothering to try to hide the faint note of desperation in her voice, not from her, when she says again, “Come.”
Selene takes a breath, closing her eyes, pressing her lips together. Then, faster than Mor can see, her hand shoots out, closing around Mor’s own, her grip death tight.
A moment later she’s winnowed them, drawing them both into darkness and shadow. Away, away, away. omewhere they can be alone together at last.
synopsis : at their mating ceremony, y/n reminisces about their time together so far [ bonus ;; az's pov ]
warnings : fluff, mentions of trauma, cursing, alcohol
word count : 2,783
notes : this is meant to be a sweet, fluffy chapter of just pure love memories <33 but I don't know how mating ceremonies are like in prythian, so I'll just try to make it as whimsical as possible lmao [ also ignore the weird title, I'm feeling very disney ] also I'm so sorry I didn't exactly like writing the nervous 'bride' trope but I literally had no idea what I was doing and made it up as I typed
this is me finally finished with writing and I think I managed to write and share a theme that I really needed before [ at the end ] i hope this story reaches you well and I hope you have a wonderful day ahead of you <33
[ also im lazy so this isn't proofread or edited. i may go back in to change a few things but I'm so so sorry if there are any grammatical or spelling mistakes ]
cal xx
"Oh my fucking gods, I'm actually doing this," you breathed, already out of breath. You wiped your sweaty palms on the skirts of your flowy dress and tried to shake out the nerves.
Feyre offered you a warm smile, "You look so beautiful." Your eyes flickered to the mirror propped up against your bedroom wall and scanned yourself up and down. Your black satin dress had a slightly modest neckline and long, mesh sleeves draping off your arms. Your dress came down past your ankles where the tips of your silver heels peeked through the fabric. Silver glitter had been dusted on the hem of your skirt and sleeves, giving off an ethereal feeling to your mating dress. Your hair had been pulled half-up, your thick strands of hair forming a crown around your head.
"Do I?" you asked nervously, terrified that you looked different in the eyes of others.
Mor nodded in agreement as she dusted sparkles over your cheekbones and gave you a dazzling smile. "You look amazing. Now, stop moving around so much, I still have to fix your hair." You quickly switched your energy to bouncing your leg up and down, ignoring Mor's huff of amusement.
"Don't be nervous, y/n," Feyre said, placing a crown of burnt flowers in your hair, the dark shade of them matching the ebony dress.
"I'm not nervous, exactly. More like absolutely petrified because I'm sure I'll piss myself and then die," you answered, muttering the last bit.
Feyre gave you a pointed look, "You won't piss yourself or die. You'll walk down that aisle, and offer Az your best fucking meal in the history of food."
You stayed quiet for a few seconds, adding quietly, "I can't cook shit."
"I warmed up soup for Rhys, you're fine," Feyre said, a slight smirk gracing her features.
"OhmygodsnowIsoundneedyIneedtoshutup," you muttered, letting your thoughts swirl around your head instead. Azriel hadn't dared propose the idea of officiating our mating bond. Only a few weeks ago, you had planted the idea while extremely drunk at Rita's. Azriel had been hovering over you, being overprotective as usual and making sure you didn't drink too much. It was endearing, truly, but at some point, you were sure you had just snapped and slurred, "We're not mated yet, stop being a busybody." After that, he had fallen silent and you had asked the question. Want to mate me?
And here you were, trying to convince yourself that you hadn't imagined that entire conversation in your wine-addled head and were now dressing up for nothing.
Because that would be a shame. Especially after sitting in this damn chair for over two hours.
You subconsciously rubbed at your arms, feeling the silky mesh material glide across your skin. You started playing with the sleeve and as you twisted your arm around, you could faintly make out the white outlines of a large scar you had earned by being dumb.
You turned your arm back over and stared directly in front of you. You focused your gaze and could've sworn you saw the air particles moving around in the space in front of you.
You let your eyes unfocus and small stars appeared in your vision. There were streaks of white across the walls that reminded you of the night when the mating bond snapped into place. Azriel had been dumbfounded at first, freezing on the spot and staring at you with wide eyes. The bond had shone brightly, illuminating your mind with its light. Neither of them dared to breathe the words aloud. We're mates.
You had stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. When Azriel's eyes had filled with tears and he collapsed against you, you held him as he held you, both of you understanding and yet not saying a single word.
A few weeks later, both of you laying next to each other on the roof, watching the stars twinkle against the dark sky, you had shared a special thing.
After hours of talking about everything that was important to you and him, your gazes interlocked and he looked so beautiful at that moment. His eyes were glowing and a smile twisted his lips upward, warming his features. He stared at you with love shining in his eyes and you felt your lips curve up into a smile to match his own. His breath hitched and he murmured, "You're beautiful."
Your smile had faltered slightly, the words coming out of a different mouth for a moment before you were back in the present. "You're absolutely breathtaking," you responded.
His gaze was so understanding and empathetic, that you had no other choice but to move closer so that your bodies were only an inch apart. You didn't remember who moved first, but you both angled your faces toward each other and brushed your lips together. The soft touch made your heart clench at the gentleness he was offering and you leaned in further to press your lips firmly against his own.
He draped an arm over your waist and pulled you in closer, sharing a beautiful moment for all of a few seconds before it was over and you were both smiling stupidly at each other.
"y/n?" Mor asked and your head snapped up. "Stand up for me real quick, I need to adjust the hem."
You tilted your head and did as she said. "You don't have to help me, y'know. I don't want this to be a big thing."
She smirked at you and shook her head, "Small thing or not, you're going to look fucking gorgeous out there. I don't care if you fight me every step of the way, I am going to fuss over you. I didn't get to do this for Feyre, and Nesta had her sisters." You couldn't deny her when she made it about herself.
After a few more minutes of absolute torture, you were ready for the ceremony at dusk. You hadn't wanted a normal ceremony, you wanted to break out of the box and be unique, all for the fact of not being confined to society's rules.
You had worn all black instead of white, your silver shoes being the sole exception, and held a bouquet of dead roses. It had taken a lot of convincing to make this all happen. Convincing yourself and others. You didn't say anything, but you wanted this ceremony to double as a funeral for the person you once were. It was stupid, honestly, so you kept quiet.
You stood in front of the double doors to the roof, mentally preparing yourself for the embarrassment you would feel when you tripped and fell flat on your ass in front of everyone.
You took a deep breath and opened the door slightly, knowing the Inner Circle sat on the other side.
You tentatively took a step down the aisle created by the parting of chairs and heard Cassian whoop enthusiastically. You grinned at that, feeling the fear leaving your body. Only slightly. You continued down the walkway, avoiding any and all eye contact, though furiously scanning the perimeter of the roof for anything amiss.
When you reached the altar and the priestess was waiting there for you, you nodded at her and offered a small smile of thanks. Your gaze swept out over the blurred crowd and you swallowed, feeling the fear rear up again. You clenched the bouquet of flowers closer to you, knowing for a fact that no matter how hard you squeezed, you wouldn't damage the roses.
Movement from your peripheral vision caught your eye and you automatically zoned onto the double doors where wisps of shadows were seeping through the cracks and joining you on the altar. They curled over your wrists and the cooling brush of the tendrils helped calm your heart rate.
The doors opened and Azriel stepped out dressed in all black, as per usual, but instead of leathers, he had donned a silk tunic and trousers that perfectly fitted his figure. His wings were flared out behind him and your gaze drifted to his face. You found his eyes already on yours and you felt your heart stutter. His eyes softened, just for you to see, and the tips of his lips tilted up in a reassuring smile.
For him. For Azriel.
You took a deep breath and watched as he made his way toward you. When he turned to face you on the altar, the priestess took that as her cue to start the usual bonding words. You zoned out slightly, your mind running over all the different scenarios that could occur where you would screw this entire thing up.
A calming shadow curled around your ear and you heard a faint song with lyrics you couldn't interpret. When the priestess took a step back, you reached your arms forward for Azriel's and as you clasped hands, shadows slithered down your arms, meeting where your hands were joined. You held Azriel's gaze and felt a slight tug on the bond. A surge of happiness and love followed and you were almost felled by the potency of the emotions.
In return, you quieted your thoughts and pushed the words, I love you, through the bond, hoping he could hear the message through the pounding of your heart.
"Do you accept Azriel as your mate for the rest of eternity?" the priestess asked, interrupting your silent conversation with Azriel.
You smiled, letting your happiness show on your face.
"I do."
azriel's pov
His breath caught, the impossible words filling his head as you smiled up at him with all the love in the world. You were beautiful. Gorgeous. Breathtaking. He couldn't believe he was standing in front of you, with his ruined hands entwined with the most unbelievable female he'd ever met.
"And do you, Azriel, accept y/n as your mate for the rest of eternity?" the priestess repeated. Your gaze swiveled to meet his eyes and he couldn't help the pang of anger when he saw that hint of doubt in your eyes. Anger at everything in the world that had taught you the curse of doubt.
He made sure you were looking at him, letting all his walls down and letting you see all the emotions crossing his face.
"I do."
Your face betrayed no negative emotion, but he felt a slight stirring of relief through the bond. He gave another reassuring tug and clasped your hands tighter.
"Then, y/n, you may present the food," the priestess said, breaking and adding to the moment all at once. You let go first, the shadows twining around your arms breaking as well.
Your face was flushed as you turned and offered him a plate of homemade brownies. "You said you like chocolate, and I don't know . . . "
Azriel stretched out his hand to take a brownie and took a large bite, not hesitating for a second. A dazzling smile graced your features and he would've fallen onto his knees at the sight of it were it not for the events that would come after. The sweetness of the chocolate erupted in his mouth, and it was the absolute best brownie he had ever had.
"I now pronounce you officially mated," the priestess said, a small smile spreading across her face at the pure joy hanging around in the air. And Azriel felt that joy, felt everything. He felt undiluted happiness as he stood in front of his mate, her face glowing and full of love. He had never thought he would've experienced this day in his entire 500 years of living, but all that pain was worth it to be here. With you.
y/n's pov
Azriel turned to face you completely, his eyes softening with love and gratitude, something only meant for your eyes and you smiled at him, trying to convey what words couldn't: how much you loved him.
The shadows swarming around both of you erupted as Azriel stepped closer and cupped your cheek, bringing his head toward yours. He gently pressed his lips against yours, his other hand going around you to hold your waist. You arched into the kiss, your hands reaching for his hair. You smiled against him and you felt his lips tilt as well, both of you eventually dissolving into snorts and chuckles.
When you pulled away, you grinned at him and held him tight.
When the priestess moved to step off the slightly raised podium she had been standing on, Rhysand and the others stood up immediately to rush at you both.
"y/n, my precious little, baby sister," your brother greeted as he wrapped his arms around you, giving Azriel a pat on the back. The two males grinned at each other, Azriel more carefree than you had ever seen him.
Cassian swung an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into a side hug. Feyre offered you a warm smile and you reached for her hand, clasping it gently. Cassian whooped with joy for you and his brother. Even Amren gave you both a smile, the expression on her face showing more emotion than normal.
"Alright, let's all get stupid drunk and then pass out!" Cassian hollered, heading straight for the drinks set out on a table near the edge of the roof.
In small groups, the Inner Circle broke away to lounge on the chairs set around the roof as they all celebrated Azriel's and your mating ceremony.
You turned toward the rising moon and found Azriel standing by your side like he always would from this point forward.
You reached for his hand, holding it tightly. When he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, you pulled his hand up and pressed a kiss to his scars.
"I love you so much," he whispered, his fingers moving to twine with yours.
"I love you more," you returned, wrapping your arms around his waist, hands still linked together.
"I'll be with you forever. From here on out until the Mother claims us. Beyond that even," he promised, leaning down to kiss your hair. You tilted your head to lean on his chest, squeezing tightly.
"And I'll always treasure you, my precious, sweet, chicken leg," you muttered against his black tunic.
Azriel pulled away slightly to look you in the eyes. "Chicken leg?" He asked with a deep laugh.
"I don't handle on-the-spot decisions well. How about you try thinking of something, right here, right now," you retorted.
"Easy, starlight," he said, his voice soft.
You released a huff, "You got a few seconds to think."
"Yes, that's why," he returned, voice dripping with sarcasm. He wrapped his arms tighter around you held you even closer than before if that was possible.
"I'm glad I'm back. I'm glad that I managed to find you even when I was trying to kill Rhysie," you admitted, glancing at the stars that twinkled in the night sky like small bursts of reassurance.
"I'm glad you're back too. Even though the circumstances which we met through were questionable," Azriel replied. You hummed in agreement, averting your gaze from the stars to his eyes. They were liquid honey, absolutely beautiful, and truly Azriel.
"My beautiful, handsome, absolutely perfect mate," you breathed, staring deep into his soul. You saw everything and held no fear. Azriel was by no means perfect, but he was perfect for you, scars and all. The blood on his hands was there from protecting his High Lord and Court. And you couldn't fault him for that. Hell, you've tortured and killed before. You've tried to kill your brother. Both of you had endured so much as well. Under the hands of his brother, Azriel had suffered, but he was alive. He was alive and living. He didn't let what happened to him affect him. He was as strong as an army of thousands.
And despite everything that had happened to you, from your mother's death to the torture of the King, you lived as well. And when two halves of a whole, both merely surviving met each other, you learned to thrive together. Because that was what you were doing. Both of you had learned to thrive and found love where you thought had been impossible.
The Mother has some strange plans, you thought. But truly wonderful plans.
Incredible plans, actually, because throughout the course of her plan, you had met your mate and you were currently being held by him on the roof overlooking the night sky, surrounded by your family and friends.
Life sucks for sure, but in the end, there is always a turn of destiny and something truly wonderful awaits you.
synopsis : y/n gets invited to dinner, flashbacks of her life coming back to make her rethink everything she's ever thought
warnings : implication of torture, cursing
word count : 3,695
notes : sorry i havent posted in a while, im currently on vacation and don't have many opportunities to write rn
You had spent the last few days pacing around your room, loathing any type of interaction with the occasional fae that visited you. The window was constantly open and sometimes, you could find a brown-haired female wandering around the gardens, working on her plants and flowers. When you had caught the Shadowsinger walking with her one time, his wings a dark blot against the greens, you rolled your eyes and slammed the windows shut.
Everything was uneventful. Only Mor, Azriel, and Cassian bothered to visit you, and even then, in short bursts of time because of your tendency to chase them away. It was a skill you had perfected over the decades, the talent to know what to say and when to have anybody running away from you as fast as possible.
You had no idea what to do, making no progress on your plans of assassinating the High Lord. It consisted of getting your hands on a deadly weapon and whacking him until he died. There was a success rate of less than 5%. Pretty much impossible.
The only breaks in your pacing were the three meals the twin wraiths, Nuala and Cerridwen brought to you every day. And of course the stupid visits. Visits you despised and looked forward to everyday. Maybe it was just the faerie contact. It had nothing to do with the fact that you were starting to see the Inner Court as real beings with thoughts and feelings.
There was a knock on your door and a pair of footsteps made their way into your room.
“What?” you asked immediately, currently face-planting in the bed sheets. You rolled onto your side, squinted at the blonde figure perched on the edge of the bed, and flopped back onto your stomach.
“Who knew you could be so mopey? But I distinctly remember when you were sick and had to stay in bed all weekend. Oh, I heard so much whining—”
“Mor,” you interrupted, your voice slightly muffled by the sheets.
You heard a smirk in Mor’s voice in her reply, “I was just going to ask you something, but I suppose you don’t seem to want a break in your . . . living pattern.”
You sighed and rolled onto your back, using your elbows to push you up into a half-sitting position. “What did you want to ask?”
Mor grinned, “Do you want to have dinner with us tonight? As long as you don’t try to flay someone alive, we’re all good,” You raised an eyebrow and looked at Mor. “So, you in?”
You sighed and nodded, “Sure.”
“Alright, get ready soon then, we’re having dinner in three hours,” she replied, getting up.
“Who needs three hours to get ready for dinner,” you mumbled as you watched Mor leave the room. When the door closed, you sat up fully, realization hitting you. You were going to have dinner with the High Lord and his family. Even if you couldn’t attack anyone in a room full of powerful fae, you could try to survey them all. Maybe. Possibly. Hopefully.
+ + +
There was a knock on your door, two hours after Mor had barged in. You were trying to tie your hair back so that your overall aesthetic wasn’t washed up trash, but a dark head of hair poked itself into your room. You side-eyed Azriel as he opened the door further and stepped in.
“Are you ready?” he asked casually, voice gruff.
“I suppose,” you answered, securing a strand of hair to your head. You gave yourself one last once-over before turning away from the mirror on the vanity you were sitting in front of. You stood up and adjusted your cream colored sweater quickly, letting your hands fidget at your sides.
Azriel nodded as he pushed the door all the way open and gestured for you to step outside with him. Right outside of your room, the Shadowsinger gestured for you to stick out your hands so he could bind them together.
“Is this really necessary?” you asked as the rope was tightened around your wrists.
Azriel glanced at you, giving you a pointed look.
“I still have to eat,” you said, dropping your hands as soon as he was done.
“And we still have to be cautious,” he contradicted, moving a hand behind you, hovering over the small of your back to lead you towards the dining room. As you walked through the halls, you truly looked at your surroundings. Paintings lined the walls, all masterpieces, and sconces were found every few feet. The dim candlelights cast the hallway into shades of orange, the shadows dancing and elongating. You felt a sense of déjà vu, a memory hitting you hard enough for you to stumble.
You were running through the halls of a large manor, two males close on your heels. You were cackling as you turned the corner and promptly ran into a third male. His wings were spread wide enough to block your passage and you skidded to a stop.
“What the hell,” you said, a childish lilt to your voice.
“Your fault, princess,” the male laughed, his high-pitched voice grating. He took a few careful steps closer. His grin was wide as the two other males herded you in from the other side, entrapping you.
“Fine, losers, you guys win,” you grumbled, tossing the closest male with purple eyes a pink towel.
“That sentence is so contradictive,” the third male stated and you stuck out your tongue at him.
“You’re contradictive,” you retorted, eyes rol—
“y/n?” a voice startled you out of . . . whatever that was. Azriel was staring at you intensely and you shot him a glare.
“What?” you shot back, hoping nothing gave away your wandering mind.
“Nothing, you were just going to bump into that wall,” the male said, pointing to the stone wall one foot away from your face. “And, the dining room is right through there.” Azriel pointed at the double oak doors to the left of where you were headed.
“Yeah, now take off my bonds so I can eat like a civilized being and not slurp food right off the plate,” you said sarcastically, raising your arms to give Azriel access to your wrists. He deftly untied the rope and pushed the doors open, keeping a close eye on you. Not like you would try anything with no plan and no power.
That sense of familiarity hit you once again, and you felt like if you closed your eyes, you could still state where everything in the room sat. You slightly wondered if it was a mind trick of the High Lord’s or if somehow, against all the odds of the Cauldron, you could possibly, maybe, actually be Rhysand’s brother in a very sick, twisted way.
But, that was impossible, you had lived in Hybern all your life before leaving for the Continent. There was no way Rhysand’s lies were true.
Rhysand and Mor, already sitting at the table along with their entire family, stood up, Cassian quickly following.
“I’m glad you could make it, y/n,” Rhysand said, offering a small smile. You had to clench your fists to prevent yourself from jumping him and ripping off that smug grin from his face. Tonight would definitely test your restraint.
“Really had no choice,” you muttered as you let Azriel lead you to an empty seat, right next to Cassian. The Shadowsinger took the other empty seat, right next to you. You noticed that all three males were surrounding you at all sides, with Rhysand standing before you. The Inner Court wasn’t taking any chances, even if they were the ones to invite you to this dinner.
Rhysand’s smile tightened slightly, his shoulders tense. “How . . . is your room?”
You raised an eyebrow, wondering if his question was some kind of joke. When he remained quiet for another minute, you rolled your eyes and responded, “Fine, boring as fuck, but fine.”
He nodded slowly and faced the brown-haired female sitting to his right. “This is my mate and wife, Feyre”—he pointed to the two females across from her—”and her two sisters, Nesta and Elain. You know Cass and Az. Amren, sitting next to me, is my second-in-command and you know Mor.”—Rhysand turned to the small boy in a high chair, right next to his mate, Feyre—”And that’s our son, Nyx.” There was a hint of pride in his voice, which, you supposed, was warranted given the rarity of fae children.
“This is my sister, Cie—y/n,” Rhysand said, quickly correcting himself.
“First of all, if we’re going to eat together, I’d like to get one thing straight. I. Am. Not. His. Sister,” you said promptly, not letting your own hesitation leak into your tone. Feyre, exchanged worried glances with her mate at your statement. “Second of all, don’t act like I don’t want to kill that son of a bastard.”
Mor shot you a warning look, which you ignored.
“y/n, we know how you . . . feel about Rhys, and we aren’t pretending that you’re fine, but we’ll try,” Mor said, trying to calm the tension between you and the entire room. You rolled your eyes but nodded, your attention turning to the spread of food in front of you. It had been a while since you’ve had actual food, your meals from your years on the Continent consisting of the slop served at the docks and Nuala and Cerridwen serving you cold leftovers.
“Eat whatever you want,” Rhys said, noting the hungry glances you were giving the potatoes and corn. With his words, it was like a leash had snapped in the room and everyone consecutively reached out to take their portion of food. It wasn’t like the mad chaos in the cheap inns you normally stayed at, but the polite passing of dishes and conversation. You hesitantly reached out for a stick of boiled potatoes and took a slow bite.
“Holy Mother,” you muttered, already taking another stick for yourself. You shoved potato after potato in your mouth, finally realizing the extent of your hunger. You had practically devoured half of the potatoes before you realized the two males at your sides were staring at you.
“What?” you asked, voice muffled by the food in your mouth.
“When was the last time you’ve eaten? Truly eaten?” Cassian asked, concern etching his features.
You shrugged, “I mean, I’ve been eating your food for the past few days.”
Cassian shook his head, “Those were . . . it wasn't real food.”
“I don’t know, then. A couple of years? I was living on the Continent and occasionally visited the King for dinner and updates. Whenever those visits happened,” you said, shoving another small potato in your mouth. You still felt Cassian and Azriel’s gazes on you, but you forced your attention on the amount of food in front of you, and not in your stomach.
Cassian’s question got you thinking, however. The last time you had dinner with the King hadn’t gone so well.
“What do you mean you haven’t found anything yet? Do you understand how crucial your mission is? You’ve been spending hundreds of years with the humans on that gods-forsaken continent and you haven’t found a single piece of incriminating evidence? How are we supposed to invade with no intel? Go in blindly?” the King spat, his face red and his fists clenched tightly around his utensils.
“I’m working on it. I know I’m getting closer,” you said, trying to make him see your point. The Mortal Queens were careful. They weren’t stupid and would definitely notice a faerie in their midst. Especially one who has been spying on generations of humans. You were building a reputation for yourself, one based on the fact you could draw. To the mortals, you were an architect, a designer of buildings. One with a centuries old legacy of building manors within the human realms.
“Well, get to the information faster! y/n, I need this information as soon as possible, or I’m afraid I’ll have to dispose of you. I don’t need a faulty spy.” The King viciously stabbed his food in front of him and he kept his gaze on you, slowly chewing. There was malice in his stare and you knew it was a threat. He speared an asparagus and you flinched.
“Get the fucking information, got it? Or we’ll have a problem, and you know what happens when we have a problem, don’t you—
“y/n,” Azriel said from beside her, breaking the strength of her memory.
“Yes, Shadowsinger?” you said, taking another bite of food.
“You okay? You didn’t cram food into your mouth for a whole minute,” he said, the concern on his face contrasting the slightly teasing tone. He’s trying, you realized. He’s trying to separate the person who he wants me to be and the person I am.
You scoffed at yourself. Apparently you’re a psychologist now.
“Yep, completely fine. I had to use my magic to expand my stomach before I spontaneously combust,” you deadpanned as you shoved in a piece of cheese, making a point.
Azriel, always the spymaster, saw right through you, but to be honest, you didn’t really care. “And . . . your magic? Is it still the same?”
You raised an eyebrow, “I didn’t realize magic could change.”
“I mean—”
You interrupted, saving the Shadowsinger from further embarrassing himself. “Yes, my magic is still the same, or whatever. Never changed, never will.”
Azriel nodded and returned to staring intently at his food and his surroundings. You sighed as you slumped in your seat, taking another bite of food. You let your gaze wander and you found yourself observing Feyre. She was practically glowing in the light of her family. With her husband and mate on one side of her and her son on her other side, she was truly thriving. Her brown hair was hanging over one shoulder as she attempted to get Nyx to eat some mashed potatoes. Her gray blue eyes were focused as she slowly moved the spoon toward her son’s mouth.
She switched her attention to the small Illyrian boy and saw his bright purple eyes staring right at her. They were the same colored eyes as the ones conveniently on her face. Nyx smiled and giggled, revealing his toothless mouth. His small wings flapped as he laughed at his mother who was currently sporting a glob of mashed potatoes on her face from her efforts of feeding her son.
There was a booming laugh from the male on Feyre’s left and you finally stared at the male who claimed he was your brother. You knew the small family knew you were observing them—it wasn’t like you were trying to hide it, but they continued on with eating and pretending you were too. Whatever for? You didn't know, but they were either thinking you were harmless—which was far from the truth thanks to your centuries worth of training—or they were just blind.
When Rhysand’s purple eyes met yours, you felt a sharp jolt of absolute and pure hate. A memory slipped free from the deep confines of your mind and your gaze unfocused.
“What the hell are you doing?” you asked, struggling against someone’s hold on you. “Let me go.”
A cruel voice whispered into your ear, “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” His voice was smooth like the night, a cool male baritone.
“When the King hears of my imprisonment—”
The male interrupted you and tightened his hold on your arms, “Oh hush, your King won’t ever find you alive. When we’re done, you’ll be dead.” The male seemed to signal for another male and two Illyrians stepped out from the shadows, their siphons glistening in the light coming in from above them through the skylight. “Cass, Az, get the bonds.”
“No!” you had screamed, trying to break free from the male’s tight hold on you. There were three distinct laughs as you were spun around to face the male holding onto you. His face was cast into shadows, but his dark purple eyes were fully visible, and they were shining with malice.
“Get the tools, Az, we’ll be done with her shortly,” the purple-eyed male said, his mouth stretching into a horrid grin. “And—
“You look like you want to commit murder,” Azriel muttered from your right and you jolted out of your memory. You glanced around at the three males surrounding you at the dinner table, seeing them for who they truly were. Monsters.
“y/n?” Rhysand asked, his brows furrowing in concern and confusion.
Your King won’t ever find you alive.
“y/n,” Cassian repeated for his brother, his hand waving in front of your darting eyes.
When we’re done, you’ll be dead.
“Are you okay?” Azriel asked, his voice closer than before.
Get the tools, Az.
You jumped and narrowed your eyes in suspicion, “Yep, perfectly fine, no thanks to you pricks.” Rhysand, the only one who you could see fully, offered you a worried glance, but you ignored him. You ignored them all. But where the three males were deadly focused on preventing you from making a spectacle or hurting anyone, the fae at the other end of the table were obliviously unaware of you.
You were no longer hungry, the memory of the three Illyrians surrounding you attempting to fucking torture you canceling any chance of your appetite appearing. You caught Rhysand looking intently at you, and you double-checked that your mental shields were up before you turned your gaze to the innocent child babbling incoherently—
“Those Night Court bastards,” the King seethed, relentlessly pacing the perimeter of his office. “How dare they attempt to take one of my spies and torture her.” You watched the private meeting commence through a metal grate from the room upstairs. Through the thin slats, you could see two other commanders standing at attention before their king.
“We need to take care of Prythian, before everything goes to shit,” your King said, slamming his hand on his desk to emphasize his point. You jumped slightly at the sudden noise and heard the crash of something falling to the floor.
“Yes, of course, Your Majesty. We’ll have armies prepared for the sea journey as soon as possible,” one of the commanders nodded in the direction of the soldiers training in the courtyard visible from the King’s window.
“No, we can’t just march in. We need a plan. A plan and someone powerful enough to execute it,” the King said. He stroked his chin and peered around the room, hoping for inspiration. “Amarantha. Is she still training the spy?”
“I believe they’re almost done. y/n’s magic training is almost to an end. Amarantha should be available after that,” the commander offered.
The King nodded, “Good. Then let’s make the Illyrian bastards pay.”
“What’s so great about smut books? That’s what I don’t get. Why read it, when you can do it yourself?” Cassian asked suddenly. Though according to his mate’s face, it was a response to a long since discussed topic.
“You have no class,” Nesta retorted. “It’s beautiful reading about it . . . and it’s just good. And some people can’t or won’t do it.” You shifted your attention to your left, still slightly reeling from your latest memory.
“There’s such thing as—” Cassian started, before he was stopped by Feyre, who was trying to keep the conversation appropriate. You blinked, slightly startled by the switch of everything. From above the office of the King of Hybern to talking about smutty books.
You spent the rest of the dinner drifting in and out of memories, quiet to anyone who was around you, but absolutely silent to the people who were paying attention. You had no idea why now of all times was the past coming back to plague you. Maybe it was the people in front of you triggering the sudden memory relapse. Or maybe it was just your environment. You had no idea, but wanted to be free of the remembrances’ hold on you.
“I’m tired,” you told Azriel and he nodded dutifully, standing up to lead you back to your room.
As you stood up, your hands itched to wrap itself around his neck, but you held back and let him shackle your wrists together. You couldn’t make your move, not now. Especially not now when you’re mentally unstable.
The pair of you kept quiet until you were standing in front of your room. When Azriel made to untie your bonds, you stared at his hands, noting his nimble fingers. You were conflicted. You didn’t know if he was truly the bad guy or not, your first memory contradicting the last two. Was he the villain here? Or maybe you were making him out to be one simply because there was no other way for you to see it?
It was too much thinking. Too much thinking and not enough information for you to create a sensible opinion.
“Good night,” Azriel said softly as the rope fell away and your hands were free again. You nodded and slowly turned the doorknob into your room.
As you stood in the center of everything, you felt the world flip itself upside and stay that way. Because nothing was making sense anymore. Everything was much easier when things were black and white. Rhysand was the villain and the King was the hero. Or maybe that’s what he wanted you to think.
You clutched your head, heaving a sigh. A couple flashbacks later and suddenly you were rethinking everything you have ever thought.
What would happen to you tonight when the nightmares hit? Would you suddenly be the Night Court’s biggest fan?
Or maybe the bloodthirsty thoughts would return and you could keep to your promise to the king? Or maybe you would be too out of your mind to be of any help to anyone. Because these memories—real or not—were coming back for a reason. A reason forsaken by the King and brought on by the Mother? Or forsaken by the Mother and brought on by Rhysand. Who knows?
synopsis : y/n finds herself in a room with all her limbs tied to a chair and three illyrian males standing before her
warnings : imprisonment and cursing
word count : 2,151
notes : im so sorry for the wait but i got covid and didn't get a chance to write for a while, but here it is!! also this chapter is also a bit bland, but it gets a bit more spicy in the next two or three chapters
You knew you were a prisoner. You felt the coarse rope binding you to the chair and the cloth gag keeping any noise from escaping your mouth. You knew your hands were tied behind your back and you knew your feet were bound together. And yet you knew you weren’t in a cell. Quietly shuffling your feet, you felt the softness of the carpet under you.
“Cierra?” a male’s voice asked. The gag was taken out of your mouth rather gently and you blinked at the three dark-haired males standing in front of you.
“Cierra?” he repeated.
“What do you want?” you snapped, struggling against the rope binding you to a wooden chair. You surveyed the plaited cords twining around your arms and legs, noting the type of knots that were used.
You glanced around the room, looking for any possible weapon or exit—the thought process of any old assassin. You were in a lavishly decorated room with all the furniture pushed against the wall and the single chair you were sitting on in the center of the room, right under a crystal chandelier. These males were rich, then, if they could afford all this luxury.
Finally, you turned your gaze to the three illyrians before you. The one in the middle had purple eyes and dressed immaculately—like a businessman with his embroidered blazer. The two winged males standing behind him wore dark leathers with glowing stones scattered over their bodies—seven in total for each.
The three males exchanged conspiratory glances and the one with purple eyes stepped forward.
“I’m Rhysand, that’s Cassian over here, and that’s Azriel, in the corner. Cierra, we’re your family,” the male said, taking careful steps closer to you.
“You’re not my family, and my name isn’t Cierra, dumbass,” you spat. “You’re mistaking me for someone else.”
The purple-eyed male furrowed his eyebrows, “I—I’m not sure if I am.”
“Well, I’m sure and you are,” you contradicted.
“Cierra—”
“y/n,” you corrected.
The male stared at you for a second before continuing, “Ok, y/n, do you not remember us?” You rolled your eyes and shook your head. “Please, try to think?” You sighed, deciding to entertain the male. You closed your eyes and wracked your mind for any memory of this Rhysand. Years of living on the continent flashed through your mind, but you remembered one thing about the male in front of you: Rhysand, the High Lord of the Night Court.
Your eyes flew open, glaring at the powerful male standing before you. Kill the night lord. The words from the king’s letter flashed in your head. You didn’t know how you didn’t make the connection before, but the three males in front of you were the Illyrian brothers of the Inner Circle.
With that acknowledgment came the pure and unfiltered hatred for the males in front of you. You didn’t know where it came from, but it was as if staring at the High Lord yourself unlocked a secret chamber of undiluted rage. Even without the king’s letter, you would have killed the males in front of you with no hesitation. It felt like Rhysand felt your anger or used his powers to sense it because he took a step back as if you were not what he expected.
“Cie—y/n, please, do you not know me?” Rhysand asked. He closed his eyes for a second before summoning a single drop of his power, letting a cloud of night swoop in through the window. He gestured at the dark blot as if a show of his power would make you realize anything but the fact that he was powerful. Insanely powerful and it would be a wise idea to be careful around them, but your mouth wasn’t going to cooperate.
You scoffed, tired of this game they were playing. “Oh, I know you. Mister High Lord of the almighty night. I know you.” You accentuated the grand statement with a particularly aggressive kick against the bonds.
“I-I don’t get it, what’s wrong with her?” Rhysand whispered to his comrades.
“Why do you assume it’s something wrong with me? What if something’s wrong with you?”
The High Lord didn’t answer but instead turned to his brothers. “Let’s talk in private.”
You struggled against the bonds as the High Lord took a few steps away. This was your chance, your chance to kill him and fulfill the king’s orders. You tried to kick or punch or anything. You just wanted to get the fuck off this chair.
“Wait! I have one last thing to say!” you screamed as you felt the High Lord’s power recede into the walls. The writhing mass of night seemed to pause as you continued kicking against the bonds. “I will kill you! Someday, maybe not today, but don’t be surprised when you find a dagger in your chest like a hateful bastard like you deserves. I hate you and I will kill you!”
Rhysand stared at you as you finally lost it and started hysterically struggling against the rope. “I really hope you don’t.”
His infuriating calmness. You felt like screaming as you watched him leave the room with the other males. When his back was out of sight and when the powerful wings of his two brothers were around the corner, you stopped kicking and just slumped in your seat. It was pointless to continue struggling, no one was around, and who would free the Night Lord’s prisoners?
With that thought, a fresh wave of silence washed in the room, and like the Mother herself was blessing you, the sound of the Illyrian’s conversation filled the air.
“What do we do with y/n?” Rhysand asked.
“I’m not sure, I don’t think she’s the same. She looked like she really wanted to kill you, Rhys,” a deep voice answered, one of the two Illyrian brutes.
“We can’t just leave her in that room tied up.”
“Maybe not, but what else do we do? Release y/n and let her have free roam of Velaris?”
“No, but we can at least be hospitable captors.”
“Very funny, Az, but what are you saying? Give y/n a room?”
“Why not, we don’t have to give her access to the hallways and rooms, just the one she would be staying in. It’s a much better approach than to keep her in the living room in binds.”
“True, he makes a good point, Rhys.”
There was a long and loud sigh, but it seemed like there was an agreement because the conversation became more distant, like the males were walking away together.
“y/n still wants to kill you though. What do we do about that? We can’t possibly lock her up forever.”
“No, no, you’re right. But what do we do? It seems like all her memories are gone, or rather, new ones were put in their place.”
“But . . . there has to be a way to get them back.”
“How?”
The conversation faded away, each word harder to hear until there was a new wave of silence, quickly broken by a door slamming somewhere in the house. You closed your eyes, bracing for one of the three Illyrian bastards to come running in and dragging you into some god-forsaken room, but a blonde female walked in instead.
You sat up, watching the female warily as she circled behind you to start untying you from the chair. You knew she didn’t just happen to walk in and decide to free you, so she must be working for Rhysand.
“I’m Morrigan, but just call me Mor. Rhys told me everything—or rather showed me everything, so I’m all caught up. I mean you no harm, but I’m just taking you to your room.” The female—Mor—finished untying the rope connecting you to the chair, but the ones keeping your hands tied behind your back were still intact. The bonds keeping your feet planted on the floor and against the chair legs came off right after.
“Alright,” Mor said, helping you stand up. “Let’s get you to your room.” She remained behind you as she gently guided you around the maze of hallways into the room furthest from the living room.
“Nice and quiet right here,” Mor said, winking.
The door was already partially open, so you nudged it all the way with your hip and stared into the small bedroom. There was a massive bed in the center, right in front of a window overlooking the gardens. The window was open, sheer curtains on either side of the hole in the wall flowing in a soft breeze that hit your face. There wasn’t much else, just a desk and a dresser in the room, but there was a huge mural of the night sky on the right side of the room, completely taking up one whole wall. It was absolutely beautiful and you knew, if you looked closer, you would find small details hiding in the masterpiece.
“Pretty,” you mumbled as you flopped onto the bed.
Mor cautiously approached you with her hands up, “If I untie your hands, do you promise not to gut me?” You rolled your eyes but nodded and gave the female access to the rope.
“Look, I don’t know what happened to you, or why you’re so intent on killing Rhys, but can you promise me that you’ll try to behave while you’re here?” Mor asked as you felt the rope tying your wrists together loosen.
When you remained quiet, Mor added, “I’m not asking for much, but please, don’t try anything right now. You can plot Rhys’s death or whatever, but please don’t kill him. Or I’ll have to slit your throat.”
You sighed, “Ok, I won’t kill the Night Lord right now.”
Mor nodded and offered a grim smile. “Well, that’s good enough. I’m going to leave you alone now, is that ok?”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” you replied as you watched the female get up and leave the room, closing the door softly behind her. The lock clicked into place and you sighed, flopping back onto the bed and covering your eyes with your forearm.
You had gone from some super secret spy to a prisoner within a few hours, and there was no chance you would be freed with the High Lord knowing your current agenda. There would be no way to make you stop, that’s for sure. You were intent on what you were doing, focusing solely on your mission, and the target certainly wasn’t going to change that.
The door opened and closed again.
“Mother above, does everyone that walks into this house have to come and bother me?” you mumbled, sitting up again. Your eyes focused on the dark figure of a winged male standing in front of the door. You caught the tail end of a shadow darting behind the male’s arm and curling over his ear. Shadowsinger.
“Azriel,” you said, hoping you sounded diplomatic.
He inclined his head, “y/n.”
“What do you want?” you asked coldly, letting your tone imply for him to leave.
“I . . . I just want to know what happened. What you’ve been doing these past four hundred years,” he replied, somewhat awkwardly. It was slightly endearing—but not so much so that you forgot your mission here. He wasn’t the main target, however, it was Rhysand. But if you killing the High Lord somehow extended to the Shadowsinger, then that wasn’t your problem.
You sighed, wanting Azriel to be gone as fast as possible. “I worked for Hybern.”
His eyebrows furrowed, “Could you be a bit more specific?”
You rolled your eyes, huffing a breath. “I spent most of my time on the continent. Nothing interesting. Is that all you wanted to know? Or did you want to hear my long and boring life story?”
Azriel eyed you for a while, something like concern shining on his face, but he shook his head and turned for the door, a defeated look in his eyes. He had his hand resting on the doorknob as he turned impulsively and looked you in the eye. “Look, I know you may not remember who I was to you, but I am glad you’re alive. And so is everyone else, especially Rhys.”
“Yeah, well I don’t care,” you responded, waiting for him to close the door behind him as he finally stepped out of the room.
You immediately dropped your head into your hands, already tired of all this fae interaction. On the continent, you spent most of your time spying on the Human Queens and doing Hybern’s dirty work, not much time interacting with other beings. But you supposed this was your new life now. Living with the High Lord, the fae you were supposed to be killing. But Mor had said you could plot the Night Lord’s death while you lived with him, but not actually kill him yet. Why not? Nothing was stopping you.
Title: Relief
Rating: NC-17 (for BDSM)
Words: 3,333
Summary : Frustration and Salieri never go well together.
Prompt: A friend gave me good ideas to write some Primal!Mozalieri.
Little warning : do not engage in Primal play lightly, be aware of risks and possible limits you may cross by doing so. Always notify the DM during public playing.
Link : Ao3 & FF.net
He wanted to close his eyes. But that would show that he was becoming more than bothered by the situation. “…Herr Salieri, he will obliterate the beauty of this libretto, your reputation is going to suffer from this…” Some good 10 minutes had passed, now. “… The Viennese court, public and emperor himself are expecting the greatest, you’ve made a foolish decision…” He tried to pay attention to the book in his hands, his pulse quickening bit by bit. “…It’s a calamity, it is clear that the childish play of notes will put the operahouse to shame… ” He glanced at his pupils. They were trying to conceal their annoyance as well. The maestro sat back, exhaling very slowly, calming himself.“… The commission was first given to you, you need to take your responsibilities…” The little man was weaving his cane outwardly, visibly outraged. “It’s scandalous, preposterous! And…” His skin was really pickling and the muscle in his jaw was tensing almost painfully, he wanted to keep his expression blank. “…I will not let this happen !” He was going to lose his control. “…I am in the power to make this all stop, just give me the word and I…”
“Enough,” he didn’t raise his voice and closed the book in his hands, “You keep babbling in circles, Rosenberg.” He slowly looked up to the man, “Yes, I gave Maestro Mozart the libretto of La scola degli amanti, and this, for good reasons. Now will you please leave my office, so I can continue my lesson ? We have a dinner planned on Thursday and we can speak further on that matter in a more private environment, if you so terribly wish doing so.”
The count pursed his lips as if he had eaten a rotten fruit. His hands ticked upon the cane. He and Salieri exchanged meaningful stares. The Italian composer tuned down an urge to smack the hautain look off the politician. He really didn’t take well on disrespect. “Well, if it’s the maestro’s wish,” the snide tone gave Salieri goosebumps, he stretched his neck, ignoring the itch in his knuckles. Keeping his cool was something he always mastered doing. He decided not to reply.
Rosenberg picked up his cane and with another sour glance he left the room, banging the door as loudly as possible. Silence followed, the rant still ringing in everyone’s ears. The Italian composer sighed in frustration and picked up the book to resume his lesson, putting his glasses on. He searched where he had left off.
“Maestro ?” He looked up from the book, inquiring what was instigating this new interruption. Three pair of eyes full of apologies were looking at him. “The hour has passed, we have a fencing lesson,” said Joseph Weigl pointing at his comrade at his left. “And I have to help my mother at the bakery,” added the third student.
He glanced at the clock on his desk. They were right. “Indeed,” he closed his book again, annoyed that he hadn’t had the time to finish the lesson. “For next week, I want you all to study a violin concerto from maestro Glück and speculate why he used the counterpoint specifically at the place they appear, you may all continue your day along. Thank you for coming and staying. I’ll try not to let us be interrupted again for the next upcoming times, apologies you were to witness this quarrel, even if they are sometimes part of a musician’s life.” The students nodded, acknowledging what he had said. The maestro didn’t feel like smiling, still slightly on edge by the frustration. They left quickly within in the three following minutes.
The door closed and Salieri took off his glasses. He brushed the hair of his bangs out of his face before putting his glasses back on. It felt obnoxiously silent in his music room. He sat down. It was time for dinner but he was not feeling like leaving or interacting with people at all. The clock at the fireplace ticked away. He picked up his satchel and took out the music scores of ‘La chiffra’. He was mid the second act, right before the strings joined with the fortepiano at the fourth measure of the new aria he was composing. He had been interrupted in the middle of writing his set of notes. He read back what he had composed. The strings in basso continuo, leaving space to the flute to come back in solo as a rhythmic set of notes and…
No. It didn’t suit. Nothing suited. It wasn’t harmonic. It wasn’t light. It had no personality. No clarity. He didn’t like it. He just didn’t like it. He flipped to the previous page. Then to the other one. No. No. And No. He sighed in annoyance, it was one of these days again. The ones where his muse disagreed with everything he had written. Exasperated, he discarded the music scores. He was not going to be able to write or even compose anything today.
He stood up and folded his glasses. He put them in the inside of his breast pocket. He had a sour look at the music sheets of Ia ciffra and collected them. Tomorrow he had a rehearsal with the Viennese grand orchestra, next to the one with the chamber orchestra. He would have to postpone his composing until the next day. Somewhere a headache was forming in his mind. The door opened and Da Ponte waltzed in.
“Maestro Salieri ! I heard there is going to be a new opfer introduced tonight.” Salieri closed his satchel and look up at his colleague. “I’ve had a tiring day, I was thinking of only staying an hour if not less,” replied the composer. Da Ponte looked extremely disappointed, his shoulders slumping but his face was showing understanding. “You indeed look a bit on edge, mind if I join you in your coach ? It will prevent me needing to walk ?” The composer nodded in agreement, even if he wasn’t enthusiastic about sharing his coach with the librettist.
They left the music room engaged in small conversation. Salieri walked without haste, he was not in the mood for anything, the club had been a comfortzone he could get some energy back from, but today he wasn’t sure it would be of any help to him. His ears were still ringing from the count's loud shouts. They got into the coach, Da Ponte barking playfully the address to the driver and they took off.
They entered the main hall, both agreeing to an offered glass of wine. Their coats and any luggage was left behind securely. Salieri sipped his glass once and then put it back on the tray. Not liking the alcoholic drink all that much, he was more an amateur of tea, if not water even more preferably. He just believed this one could relax him a bit.
The couches were all arranged to form a circle, an empty bed was put up as a stage, no blankets, no cushions, and a wooden bedpost enabling any tying up, was all that was needed. Da Ponte checked his pocket watch, muttering they still had quite a lot of time before the show was going to start.
Salieri took off his glasses and crossed his arms over each other; searching for a distraction. His eyes roamed over the crowd, looking for acquaintances, if not for a specific person. Da Ponte cheered almost loudly “Looks like he is here tonight, maybe you two could…” Salieri tuned the voice of the librettist completely down, locking his eyes with his regular playpartner, if not almost-companion. The tension in his shoulders and temples suddenly came to the front of his consciousness.
He was whispering in the ear of a redheaded woman, caressing her thigh. She was giggling, loudly. The younger man’s eyes then switched focus, boring his gaze into Salieri’s. The Italian maestro exhaled through his nose. The younger man was challenging him, his brown eyes gleaming with wildness. He had a very obnoxious day and honestly he could use the relaxation the prodigy composer was offering.
He let go. In a few steps he was in front of the couple. Mozart retracted himself from the woman’s body. Salieri grabbed his wrist, the woman yelped, Salieri dragged the younger composer behind him. Mozart fought back, clawing at his wrist, groaning.
The older man flew open the door of an empty room, the only thought of beating up the prodigy composer in his mind, wanting to show where his place was. There was only a single person couch. He entered and threw Mozart against it. He turned himself and was satisfied to see a key in the lock. The younger man flew toward Salieri, who was able to close them in before he was pushed against the door. His head hitting the door hard, a body pressed against his, an erection rubbing itself against his arse. The pain stung hard upon his head, making his anger flare even more. He clawed at the prodigy composer’s hair, tugging as hard as he could and destabilising the younger man. Mozart whimpered and bared his teeth, the rush and adrenaline rising in his veins as Salieri turned himself toward him, taking advantage of his loosened grip. He looked the Italian composer into the eyes, defiance clearly visible on his features.
Salieri snapped, tugging the head of the prodigy composer backwards. He bit the flesh of the neck, the younger man whimpered of pleasure as the older man was forcing them backwards. He was losing it, but not quite giving up yet, he kneed the erection of the Italian composer. Salieri released the flesh in surprise, the younger man had missed so he raised his fist to collide it with the other man’s jaw.
Mozart's teeth clashed painfully against each other and he growled as he staggered backwards. The heat underneath his skin was palpable, his eyes not quite seeing white yet. He wanted to fight him, ravage him, hurt him. The black hair of the Italian composer was almost completely undone and the hairlocks were not even hiding the wild eyes Salieri was currently possessing. A shiver of excitement or pleasure ran through the younger man’s spine, his mind gone; he only felt himself and his instinct. He lashed out at the Italian composer again. The older man resisted and didn’t budge as Mozart took him by the collar of his shirt. The brooch got ripped off by the aggressive movement.
Salieri bared his teeth and his hands flew toward the hair of the Austrian composer, tugging at the locks once. Mozart didn’t react verbally this time, he just undid the buttons of the older man’s shirt, knowing it could have given him an advantage that he now wouldn’t take.
Nails dug into the first layers of flesh. The Italian composer growled, the heat of pain overwhelming his senses as he shuddered. His mouth watered. Anger rose. He was forced on the ground by the other man’s weight. His grip on the scalp bringing the Austrian composer down on his knees with him. In a groan Mozart’s legs collided with the floor. The younger man took the lapels of the other man’s shirt but a hand grabbed his wrist mid movement and teeth dug into the spot underneath his ear. It hurt and an actual cry escaped his lips as the hand fisting his hair brought him further down to the ground. He started kicking, trying to free himself, the hand pressed his head against the floor, he was on his side. The mouth of the older man left his neck. Salieri straddled him and the younger man fought back with all his strength, trying to get the Italian composer off his body. The older man grabbed his jaw, pushing on the junctures; the prodigy composer’s mouth fell open, a groan of pleasure escaped his lips. Salieri turned Mozart’s face toward him, relishing in the dilated pupils he was seeing. He lowered himself, growling in the younger man’s ears, a feeling of satisfaction settling down inside of him. Mozart then turned his body, almost throwing the other man off him. His free hand tried to grab the throat of the older man, he failed. He scratched the throat before both of his wrists were pinned down above his head. He kicked, he tried to break free, he groaned. The older man wouldn’t budge.
After what felt like a minute the younger man gave up, accepting defeat; accepting that he turned into the prey this time. He closed his eyes and relaxed. Their breathings were ragged and lungs were aching. Salieri could have had a smug smile on his face, but he didn’t, he felt more at peace than he had been the whole day. The physical act had made him calm down completely and he felt liberated from his frustration. He released the younger man’s wrists and stood up, taking their playing to another level. Mozart stayed on the floor, looking at the ceiling, waiting for instructions. He felt his shoulder sting.
“Get undressed.”
The order was plain and simple; Mozart complied, undressing as swiftly as he could. Salieri took his glasses out of his pocket, somewhere glad they didn’t break. He put them on and looked at the undressing younger man, the muscles of the back fascinating him. Mozart was folding his clothes, his nudity wasn’t bothering him the slightest. Salieri smiled to himself, liking the view. He opened the drawer of the room and searched through it for something with which he’d like to mark the prodigy composer’s body.
The younger man shivered as he positioned his shoes next to the folded clothes. The drawer of this room contained various whips and ropes. He wondered what the Italian composer had in store for him. He raised himself, turning himself around to face his Dominant. Salieri was inspecting the plain riding crop. Mozart couldn’t suppress a smile. He knew the older man would only choose his favourite, especially since he had a concert tomorrow, it was very kind of him to not have chosen the cane. The Italian composer eyed him over the rim of His glasses: “The floor will be suitable for today.” His voice felt like a warm liquid being poured over him, anticipation tenderly licking at his being. Goosebumps prickled his skin. He turned himself again and went to his knees. Hands in front of him.
“Lower,” said Salieri. Mozart sunk to his elbows, his face against the carpet. The soft leather caressed his rear. His back. Between his thighs, which he spread slightly further. His calves, his arms, his head and cheek. It then left him. The first blow on his right rear cheek was hard and a pained moan escaped the younger man’s lips as his body jolted. It looked like Salieri wasn’t going to start lightly. A blow on his left rear cheek, a softer one, made him buck again. Another swiftly followed just above. He moaned as the stinging pain covered his buttocks when the riding crop made contact again. He relaxed his muscles. The sound of the impacts echoed through the room. Salieri switched hands, positioning himself better. Mozart panted heavily as he felt the leather caressing his upper legs, to his thigh. The sharp blow made his whole body shiver and jerk, he couldn’t keep in a scream. Another one and his tears broke out.
The tip of the riding crop travelled again, giving him space to breathe, to recover. His rear was prickling. He bucked himself against the leather as it caressed up his spine. His blood was rushing, he was feeling so well. It was softer, gentler, but it clashed against his skin nevertheless when Salieri aimed between his shoulder blades. He whimpered. “Down.” Without knowing he had raised himself upon his hands, pain was stinging in his shoulder by the abrupt movement he hadn’t even realised he had done. The carpet was digging into his knees. But on the command he laid his face next to his hands again. Obeying without thinking. Salieri stood next to him and another soft blow landed between his shoulder blades. He groaned contently, it was making him feel peaceful. The sound echoed through the room once more. He moaned.
The Italian composer switched the riding crop from one hand to the other again. His body started to shake. “A few more ?” Salieri’s voice was low and deep. “Yes… please… hard.” He stammered difficultly. There was silence. He screamed. Sweat broke from his entire body as he older man inflicted 3 hard blows with the full extended length of the riding crop against his rear. His body shuddered as his mind was shouting that he wouldn’t be able to stand more; the pain being more than what he had anticipated. His whole body felt enveloped by the aching, at the same time comforted and panicked, also trusting that it would end here.
There was nothing; just their breathing and presence in the room. Then Salieri’s body relaxed as well, “You did good, I’m proud of you,” a truthful tone coating his voice. Mozart’s face broke into a smile, feeling the flutters of happiness inside his being. “Thank you” he whispered as he let himself slump on the floor. His knees were tingling because he had been holding the same crouched position for so long. Relief washed over him as he felt himself float into the clouds of calmness.
The Italian composer laid down the riding crop against the couch and sat down on it. He was feeling himself come down from another mindspace. Relaxation washed over him. All his body tension was gone. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, looking at the reactions of the younger man. He took off his glasses while doing so.
“You really strained my shoulder muscle,” Mozart said, breaking the new silence; his cheek still touched the floor. The older man put his glasses back into his pocket. “Will you still be able to play?” Salieri’s voice clearly transpired concern.
The younger man laughed softly and he turned himself to lie on his side. His muscles protested energetically. “I believe I’ll manage.” His head was still half in the clouds. Salieri got up and took a blanket from underneath the drawer. He came back and draped it over the other man’s frame. He sat down cross-legged next to the prodigy composer.
“Rosenberg came by today, raging about the libretto I decided to pass on to you.” Mozart chuckled as he opened his eyes to look at the older man, who laid his hand upon the Austrian composer’s head. “I’m not surprised, he acts like a vulture whenever something doesn’t suit him in the happenings of the Viennese court.” He relished from the fingers intertwining with his hair. “You are right. I have, however, told him we could discuss the matter later,” said Salieri with a sour tone, clearly unhappy with his own decision. “It’s your reputation and your art that is ‘threatened’, he’s concerned. Perhaps it’s not so awful if you give him your reasons. It is better than him spreading rumours.” The older man sighed. The younger man was once more right again. He looked at the brown eyes that always gave him the peace he was seeking. “Are you willing to spend the night at my house tonight ? We’ve been pretty busy lately and I haven’t gotten the chance to see you as often as I wish.” Mozart reached over toward the Italian composer’s hand. He laced their fingers.
