#proelriel

[najuanjuu]

Btw, Acotar 6:

Comm by: me

Art by: taizinhaart

[ater-love]

ANOTHER ONE THANK YOU

It feels so good to be an Elriel…. We never lose and we never have a bad day

[mirrorballpages]

This pull—this ridiculous, maddening pull—was the real problem.

The next morning, Azriel wasn’t sure if she would come to the garden. He wasn’t even sure if she would want to be around him again after yesterday. He had replayed the moment in his mind for the rest of the day—her soft words, the faint flicker of warmth in her eyes as she smiled at him. He could still feel the press of her small hand in his, the way she hadn’t pulled away from his scars.

He had tried to bury the memory beneath a mountain of work. Cassian’s booming laughter and Nesta’s sharp remarks had grated at him more than usual, his frayed patience threatening to snap. But it wasn’t their fault.

This pull—this ridiculous, maddening pull—was the real problem.

He kept telling his shadows to stay away, to stop hovering near her, but they didn’t listen. The moment her footsteps sounded on the stairs yesterday, they had whispered incessantly: “Elain… Elain…”

And when they had shouted, “She is hurt! She needs you!” he had nearly flown into the garden. His heart had thundered, his blood rushing with the same panic that had consumed him when she’d been dragged to the Cauldron.

But it wasn’t the Cauldron this time. It wasn’t some deadly enemy.

It was a thorn. A small cut, barely worth noting.

Still, the panic hadn’t left him. It lingered, tightening his chest as his hands closed over hers. Her skin was soft against his, delicate, and he’d hesitated to touch her at first, afraid of what she might see in the gnarled ridges of his scars.

But she hadn’t flinched.

When her brown eyes flicked up to meet his, wide and trusting, his shadows had murmured softly, “Light and grace.”

The garden around them had been bathed in the gentle light of morning, the roses still heavy with dew. Bees flitted lazily among the blooms, their quiet hum blending with the distant song of birds. The townhouse loomed behind them, its stone walls warm with the glow of dawn, but all Azriel had been able to focus on was her.

Her golden-brown braid had slipped over her shoulder, and her linen gown was streaked with dirt. A smudge of soil darkened her cheek, but to him, she had looked… radiant. Alive. The hum of her voice as she thanked him had soothed something raw in his chest.

They sat in companionable silence after that—him pretending to read, though the reports blurred before his eyes, and her lost in her work, the soft rustle of soil filling the air. But as the moments stretched on, Azriel found himself wanting to do something for her. Not out of duty, but out of a quiet, primal need to care for her in this fragile, serene morning.

Not in the way Nesta might have, with prodding and questioning. No, he wanted to offer her comfort. Something simple. Tea.

He knew she loved tea—green tea with one teaspoon of honey. She had once told him about her dream of growing tea back in the human lands, though she hadn’t been sure if it would thrive there. He had assured her she could grow anything, and the memory of the way she’d smiled at him then sent a soft warmth through his chest.

He loved making her smile.

So he’d gone inside, quietly preparing a pot of tea. As the water warmed, he’d also grabbed a small bowl and a towel, knowing her hands would be streaked with dirt as they always were. It was a feature he couldn’t help but admire—how unafraid she was to plunge her hands into the soil, to nurture life even with the scars of death still lingered around her.

When he returned, tea and bowl in hand, he sat beside her without a word. Her wide brown eyes blinked at him in surprise as he set the tea aside and gently reached for her hands.

“May I?” he asked, his voice soft.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” He gestured to the chair, and with a smile, she sat, and he dipped the towel into the warm water, carefully wiping the dirt from her fingers. His scarred hands moved slowly, reverently, against hers. It was the second time that day he had seen his hands against hers—but this time, he didn’t look away.

“Thank you,” she murmured again, her eyes locked on his.

His heart began pounding, but he needed to ask her one more question. “I should be here most mornings this week. Would you care if I joined you? It seems we’re both the early risers of the family.”

He held his breath as he waited for her reply, already preparing himself for her rejection. If she asked him to leave, if she told him never to return, he would. He would do as she said.

But then she smiled—a small, soft thing—and said, “I would like that. I enjoy your company.” The words were simple, but they hit him like a blade to the heart. She enjoys my company. His soul beamed.

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[ater-love]

This is too funny honestly. Their actions and words really do speak for themselves.

I’m not even upset because it’s hilarious lmaoo

Never seen more bitter, delusional and miserable people

Over fictional REDHEADS, mind you

[ater-love]

where in HOFAS was the cauldron corrupted?

If you mean “where was mentioned in HOFAS that the cauldron was corrupted?”:

“The Cauldron was of our world, our heritage. But upon arriving here, the Daglan captured it and used their powers to warp it. To turn it from what it had been into something deadlier. No longer just a tool of creation, but of destruction. And the horrors it produced ... those, too, my parents would turn to their advantage.”

Chapter 19, HOFAS

[mirrorballpages]

“Hold tight, and don't make a sound”

As she sat on the cold, hard ground of the tent, the chill seeped into her bones. Elain’s trembling hands were raw from the shackles cutting into her wrists. Her breaths were shallow, her vision blurred with despair. She closed her eyes, wishing for escape, for relief from the nightmare. But then…

A whisper. Soft and sure, curling through her thoughts like the tendrils of a shadow.

We will protect you.

Her eyes snapped open. No, it couldn’t be. She was imagining things. Another cruel vision meant to torment her. But then, the tent’s canvas shifted, and there he was.

Azriel.

Cloaked in shadows that seemed alive, wrapping around him like a second skin, he moved with lethal precision. His hazel eyes glowed gold in the darkness, piercing straight through her disbelief. Behind him, disguised as a priestess, Feyre entered with a solemn grace, but Elain knew it was her sister at once.

Azriel knelt beside her, his movements achingly gentle as he removed the gag from her mouth. The warmth of his fingers, the steadiness of his touch, rooted her in reality.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was low, calm, but beneath it, she could sense the tightly leashed fury.

Elain shook her head, her breath hitching as her eyes locked onto his. She devoured the sight of him, as if she couldn’t quite believe he was real. His presence felt like a dream, a fragile thread her mind had conjured to keep her from breaking entirely.

“You came for me,” she whispered, her voice cracking with disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

The shadowsinger didn’t speak, only inclined his head, his expression a perfect mask of calm. But his eyes—those hazel depths rimmed with gold—searched her face, her body, as if cataloging every mark, every bruise, ensuring she was truly unharmed. She stared at him, disbelieving. His shadows swirled around her ankles, curling like vines, as if trying to soothe her.

Feyre whispered, her voice barely audible, “Hurry.” She began murmuring prayers, her guise flawless.

Azriel’s siphons flared, gleaming cobalt in the dim light, as he tried to break the bonds around her wrists. The magic sparked but fizzled, the iron shackles immune to his power. His eyes locked on hers, searching for any sign of deeper injury, any proof that she had been harmed.

“It’s not working,” Feyre hissed, urgency lacing her voice.

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his focus never leaving Elain. She couldn’t run with the shackles on, couldn’t fight. 

“We don’t have time,” Azriel said, his voice a quiet growl. “He’s coming.”

The first screams echoed through the night, followed by the unmistakable sound of chaos: shouting, snarling, the clash of weapons. Without hesitation, Azriel scooped her up, looping her bound arms around his neck.

“Hold tight, and don't make a sound” he ordered, his voice steady, grounding.

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[mirrorballpages]

Elriel Headcannon: Azriel cleans Elains hands after she is busy in the garden.

From my next series, Ivy (WIP)

For a while, they existed like that—her in the dirt, him with his reports. The quiet between them was comfortable, the soft rustle of pages mixing with the distant song of birds.

After some time, he broke the silence. “Would you like some tea?”

Elain looked up, startled. “I can get it! You keep working.”

“Allow me,” he said simply, already rising to his feet.

She didn’t protest. A few minutes later, Azriel returned with a tray balanced in one hand—a pot of tea, two cups, and a bowl of warm water with a cloth. Elain stood to meet him, brushing dirt off her apron.

“Come,” he said, setting the tray on the table. “Let me clean your hands.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” He gestured to the chair, and with a reluctant smile, she sat.

Azriel sat beside her, taking her hands in his as he dipped the cloth in the warm water and began scrubbing the dirt away. His movements were careful, deliberate, as though he were handling something precious.

“Thank you,” she murmured again, unable to look away from him.

When he poured her tea, he added a single teaspoon of honey without asking.

Elain blinked. “How did you know?”

He looked up, meeting her gaze. “Spymaster,” he said with a small, teasing smile.

She laughed softly—soft enough that if someone weren’t paying attention, they’d miss it. But Azriel didn’t miss anything.

[mirrorballpages]

I'll spend forever wondering if you knew

Azriel had heard about the Archeron sisters long before meeting them.

He wasn’t eager to make their acquaintance.

She’d been thrust into the role of provider far too young, her family’s fall from grace forcing her into responsibilities no child should bear. At barely more than a girl, she had hunted in the freezing woods, hunger gnawing at her ribs, dangers lurking behind every tree.

And she had done it—without faltering, without complaint. Not because she wanted to, but because someone had to.

Azriel respected her for it. Admired her, even. He had seen the strength it took to survive when the world abandoned you. It was a strength that burned quietly, like an ember beneath ash. Azriel had spent centuries studying people, unraveling their masks and defenses. But Feyre’s love for her sisters—raw, complicated, unyielding—was not something that needed to be unraveled.

And so, as he stood in the shadows, waiting outside with Rhysand and Cassian while Feyre ventured inside, he wasn’t sure what to expect.

His shadows, as always, had gone ahead, slipping through cracks and crevices to survey the home. The estate was striking in its quiet elegance, with a roof the color of emeralds and pale marble walls that gleamed faintly even under the gray winter sky. Holly and evergreen adorned the windows, their deep green leaves and scarlet berries a festive contrast to the cold stone.

And yet, it was not the house that drew their attention—it was the figure inside.

Azriel felt the shift immediately, the way his shadows fluttered and murmured, their whispers threading through his mind like the opening notes of a song. "A thing of secret, lovely beauty."

They whispered of her voice, soft and lilting, a melody that stirred even the most reluctant hearts.

They described her grace, the way she moved with quiet confidence, as if she belonged not to the world but to some dream just beyond it. Her smile, they said, was a rare and delicate thing—gentle but powerful enough to lower even the most unyielding guard.

Elain, the shadows named her, their voices hushed as if they, too, were captivated.

They spoke of how she persuaded Nesta, her calm yet insistent voice smoothing the room’s tension like a balm. Her words carried weight despite their softness, her unyielding gentleness swaying even the wary servants. There was no sharpness in her, no demand—only quiet determination that left no room for argument.

Azriel’s jaw tightened as the shadows painted their picture of her.

Beautiful. Delicate. Captivating.

She reminded him of Morrigan.

That same light, that same grace. Morrigan had always possessed a way of bending the world to her will, softening its harshest edges with her warmth and wit. Azriel’s shadows fluttered at the thought, their whispers carrying a faint echo of longing.

But Morrigan had never been quiet.

This one—Elain—seemed to wield her power differently. Where Morrigan blazed, Elain glowed. Her light was not fierce or commanding but soft and inviting, a warmth that seeped into the cracks and filled them without force. It was subtle, steady, an unassuming strength that drew others in before they even realized it.

And though Azriel’s heart should not have stirred at such whispers, he found himself listening more intently than he cared to admit.

---------------------------------

Azriel fell in love with Morrigan the moment he saw her at seventeen.

Her golden hair had caught the light, framing her face like a halo, and her laugh—Cauldron, that laugh—had rung through the air like music. She was everything he wasn’t: optimistic, confident, unflinching. The sun seemed to radiate from her, lighting everything she touched.

He could never forget the way her lips curled—not just in a smile, but in the way she spoke. Provocative, bold, fearless. She never seemed afraid of being wrong, of being judged. Azriel had been drawn to that light, to the life she carried in her every step. 

It wasn’t just her beauty—though it was undeniable, breathtaking. It was the way she made him feel, as if everything dark and shadowed within him could melt away under her gaze. At seventeen, he believed with all his heart that she could save him.

He had carried that love with him for centuries. At first, it had been a boy’s love, fragile and burning, a love that believed he could one day prove himself worthy. That if he was strong enough, if he was good enough, Morrigan would love him in return.

But then came the day he found her.

The note nailed to her womb. Her blood staining the ground in the Autumn Court. The broken, hunted look in her eyes.

Azriel had tried to explain himself to her. Tried to tell her what was in his heart, to tell her how much she mattered, how much he cared for her. But before the words could escape, she had turned and left.

The pain of that moment had settled deep in Azriel’s chest, a wound that never fully healed.

Over time, his love for Mor had changed. It was no longer the love of a boy believing in a future, but a quieter, more guarded thing. A love that morphed into protection, into reverence. It was easier to love someone who would never love him back, someone who could never destroy his heart completely. It was easier than opening himself up to the kind of pain that could destroy him.

Sure, he had lovers. Hundreds of them, scattered across the centuries. He knew his effect on females, how his reputation preceded him in Velaris and beyond. Getting them into his bed had never been difficult. Seduction was a skill, as much a part of his arsenal as Truth Teller. 

But intimacy?

Intimacy was dangerous. It required vulnerability, required laying bare parts of himself that even his closest friends never saw. Instead, he kept his lovers kept away—nights spent hidden in his private apartment in Velaris, far from the prying eyes of the Inner Circle. Cassian, ever nosy, had asked once why Azriel didn’t bring anyone around.

"There’s no one worth the effort," Azriel had lied smoothly, his shadows curling tighter at his boots.

But the truth was simpler: Morrigan still held that piece of him, the piece he had given her so willingly all those years ago. Even when he learned of her female lovers—Andromache, others whose names blurred into the quiet ache of memory—he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t sever the thread that tied him to her, no matter how frayed it had become. She remained his constant, his quiet torment, the wound he refused to heal.

He had known about Andromache, of course. He was the spymaster. He heard whispers, saw things others missed. But it wasn’t his place to confront her, to ask questions that weren’t his to ask. He told himself he was waiting for her to tell him in her own time. And if she never did… well, that was her choice.

And still, Azriel loved her. Deeply. Unconditionally.

A part of him knew that if Morrigan ever looked at him and said she wanted to be with him, he would say yes in a heartbeat. He would bury the doubt, the pain, the centuries of quiet yearning and unspoken rejection, and give her anything, everything, without question. He would reshape himself to fit the pieces of her world, no matter how jagged they might be, just to hold her in his arms.

His shadows, which whispered to him of truths and lies, of danger and safety, would fall silent in her presence. Because Morrigan had been, for so long, the embodiment of everything he craved.

Hope. Courage. Life. 

Azriel had chosen Morrigan as his symbol of all the things he thought he could never have. And now, he couldn’t let go.

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