THE QUEEN OF SORROWS
Ⅰ
SUMMARY: The queen arrives. A dinner is shared, and the aftermath is not exactly what one would imagine.
CW: body-image is discussed; Azriel is a bit of an asshole; attempted murder
TW: none yet;
WC: 5k
A/n: omg hi! I am so sorry for the wait! i ended up changing graphics, plot points and rewriting this first draft a total of six times. Not counting the number of times I've reread this. And I think i hated it at every reread. Still, I've finally gotten on it. a forewarning: canon is bound to be a little disrupted here, as well as that there is a high possibility of characters being ooc. I wanted to get this out in autumn, but I didn't have the famous six chapters ready, so I had to postpone.
alas, this project is bound to break my back regardless of that! I'll leave you to it, enjoy!
Azriel was a patient male.
Or, at least, he was patient enough for his line of work to be perfectly adequate to his person. Patience fit him like a leather glove.
There was, still, something he was not very patient about.
Unplanned trips. Even more so, unplanned trips which Rhysand had orchestrated to welcome someone whose title had all of them on edge.
All Azriel knew was that letters had been exchanged, but they’d somehow bypassed his shadows. Which, knowing Rhys’ modus operandi…was not reassuring in the slightest.
He’d grown restless (more than usual) once he realized all this secrecy might have stemmed from the events of the Solstice, only a few weeks past. The Shadowsinger couldn't guess what his brother had been plotting and it worried him a little more than he liked to admit.
Cassian, too, seemed off. He’d sided with Rhysand on the matter, and that had irked Azriel a little bit too much.
It was, overall, not a nice situation to be in.
Azriel did not like being kept in the dark like this.
It made him feel powerless and useless, things he’d only felt when he was a child, alone and in his crummy corner, with only the shadows as his companions.
And once he’d discovered why everyone had been so damn silent about the whole deal, Azriel had been up in arms.
Hybern. Of all places to look for an alliance, fucking Hybern? The fucking Queen, nonetheless! A spineless wench who’d stood and stared while her husband raged on.
No wonder Tamlin had turned out to be an asshole when his sister was a coward.
Azriel did not pride himself on killing females, but she sure as hell was someone who he wanted to topple over and strangle, even if he didn’t have the slightest idea of the type of person she was.
Because Gods fucking damnit, even in the extensive research he’d managed to get into in the few days prior to her arrival, Azriel had only gathered one, useless fact: the Queen of Hybern was regarded as one of the most beautiful creatures that ever graced this wretched world with their presence.
A fact he honestly held no interest over.
Snakes had beautiful coloring, and the more elaborate it was, the more dangerous they were.
His unease had started showing more than he intended when he discovered Elain had found interest in the matter, and that she didn’t step back even when he’d directly gone up to Feyre to ask for an explanation, getting his ass handed to him both by his High Lady and Nesta once she got wind of it.
Elain wouldn’t hear any of it.
She purposefully avoided him.
The little touches, all the carefulness he’d shown for her and the patience he’d had… they’d meant nothing.
Absolutely fucking nothing.
That morning, he was seething. His humor had gradually had a fall deeper with each passing day, and going to retrieve a Queen he didn't like, a Queen that didn't winnow (because of course she didn't, dead weight as she was), a female that had never not known comfort soured his mood even more so.
Cassian, beside him, sported a neutral expression, his arm holding Elain’s, the steads behind them looking more like statues than actual beasts.
He had yet to ask why Elain was there, but he wouldn’t dare speak. He feared his voice would betray his inner irritation and he needed to calm down before he sent himself further in despair.
The summoning circle etched in the stone had yet to light up. Azriel was wondering if Mor had even gotten the coordinates right…it wouldn’t have been the first time; he had a distinct memory of one guest from the Continent ending up in the middle of a frozen lake.
Elain detached from Cassian to go lean over the railing, turning her head towards the small staircase, one of the few things that had remained connected to the ruined structure downwards.
Her thick dress swung around; a wonder of leather and wool made exactly to withstand frosty weather she had commissioned Emerie.
“They’re arriving,” she whispered, to no one in particular, clouds of white forming with each breath she took.
Cassian moved first, Azriel following suit while they descended the stairs.
“How do you know?’
“I just do. I feel them,” she explained, soles hitting every white marble step until they were down, the transmigration circle even more clear and unsettling the closer they got.
In ancient times, these circles had been used to move whole legions of soldier from one part of Illyria to the other when flying was unfit for the weather.
More often than not, some soldiers would not survive the teleport, and their bodies would give out; splotches of old, dried blood were the only testament to that.
Azriel had the horribly twisted desire to witness blood that day.
Elain leaned her head forward carefully, the elements converging to raise her brown hair with a gentle breeze.
Then the circle illuminated eerily, and that soft breeze turned into an aggressive wind whirl, whipping Elain back a few steps.
Azriel acted on instinct in pulling her back against his chest, his shadows weaving armor around them, a shield of blue crystal thick and unbreakable.
Then light blinded him, and his shield shattered in glittering magic, his hold on Elain tightening to the point he could feel her bones, and his ears detected the slightest shift in her breathing pattern.
Cassian had his sword drawn, and battled against the wind until it finally placated.
The circle’s light dimmed slowly, tinting with a sheer red before dissolving.
The silhouette that presented itself was concerningly big. Was the Queen of Hybern one of her husband’s failed experiments? Were they going to witness the first three headed female created?
When his eyes readjusted, Azriel’s shoulders relaxed at the same time Cassian’s did.
The Queen wasn’t alone.
It came almost as an automatic response to Azriel, to detect and focus on the figure directly behind the Queen, shadowing her.
A knight of the King's guard…or rather, Queen’s guard, since there was no King to protect anymore.
With full armor and everything, impressively tall, his mantel barely touched the ground, it moved slightly in the gradually dispersing wind, and its deep purple color contrasted with the reddish color of his ensemble.
The Queen's Shield.
And, before him, hidden in his frame, was the Queen.
Azriel nearly laughed.
This…this proper, small, huddle thing was the Queen of Hybern? Oh Gods, he was going to have the funniest time of his life.
He was about to make a comment to Cassian, but refrained.
His amusement died down the moment he sensed the fear in Cassian’s defensive stance.
Elain escaped his hold right then, when he was searching for what had set off his brother.
He cussed at himself, walking behind her as she made for the summoning circle.
Elain walked with grace and purpose, every step she took giving Azriel a closer, clearer look at the Queen and Her Shield.
It was almost laughable, how small she was compared to her bodyguard, and yet…the difference in power permeated the air like the promise of rain.
Where the King had been surrounded by magic old and aggressive, his widowed wife…felt new and charged with magic so different that it stung his nose, made his eyes water.
Azriel couldn’t take a step further.
Not with that pair of bloody red eyes staring at him.
He didn’t see it.
Call him blind and tasteless, but he didn’t see any of the praise of her looks he’d read in those puny poems. What were they going on about, comparing her hair to spun gold, her skin to alabaster, and her eyes to strawberry syrup?
Were they even speaking about the same person?
Whatever beauty had been there, was now completely desaturated, sucked away and reimbursed with ghastly meekness.
Yet, now that he saw her better, he knew what he was reminded of.
The ruin that was Spring. Decadence was their common denominator.
Her trampled homecourt suited her.
He didn’t have the time to mull much about it, not when a heavy presence settled beside him.
The Queen’s Shield slid one red rimmed eye towards him, like he’d sensed the thoughts swimming in his mind.
He stood a good two heads taller than Cassian, maybe even more, but it was not his size. Azriel had been up against bigger foes.
The Shield wasn't scary in itself; he had the faintest smell of seasonal flowers on him, courtesy of his constant nearness to his Queen.
It was his face that sent Azriel deathly still, because he’d recognized in a scar that marred half of his face, the same fashion of the ones Azriel wore on his hands.
He hadn’t spared either guest a second glance, and seeing someone so close made a crack in his composure.
The Shield sported buzzed hair, brownish.
With his strange incarnate —something between a lilac pallor and a weak tan— the scars on his face and neck looked like indentures on metal, and Azriel had the sensation that, if he watched closely enough, he’d find letters woven into that skin.
Thin lips moved to speak.
“What’s your name, Sir?” a voice boomed, softer than one he’d expected.
Azriel cringed at the title.
“No Sir. Just…Azriel.”
The male nodded, respecting the request like he had no qualms about it.
He provided his name, even if Azriel already knew it.
“Dumas.”
“You’re her…”
“Shield, yes. But you already knew that, right?”
He knew that and many things.
He knew Rheia’s close collaborators had been handpicked by Her Majesty in the flesh, that they’d never once wavered when a threat had been in their Queen’s path.
He knew Dumas was of humble origins, that he had been deemed a dangerous force to be against. One it was better to have as ally, rather than enemy.
He knew the Shield, a long time past, had been a fighter, that he had rose to the ranks because he had been favored by none other than his Queen.
Azriel knew it all.
He’d memorized every piece of information he could get his hands on, every whisper his shadows would carry back, every letter his informants had managed to whip out with such short notice.
And still, he couldn’t get a full picture of the people surrounding her. A fog was around them, one he failed to fully see through without his head throbbing in pain a moment later.
There was a Spider, a Snake, something that shone, the clatter of silver coins, bird feathers…but nothing else.
Of course the Shield would be the only one with widespread information.
People needed to know who they were up against, if they ever had the guts to challenge Hybern’s Queen.
His eyes bore into her form again. Sat over in one of the many lounge rooms of the Moonstone Palace, she conversed politely with Elain.
She would have looked almost nice, had she let go of her coat.
The space was magically heated, there wasn’t a whisper of the breeze that moved the gossamer curtains.
There was no need of that much coverage
Nevertheless, Azriel had never been one who’d rip clothes off a lady; usually, they were the ones begging him to do that.
He wondered, in his silent contemplations of the intricate braiding that held her blonde hair together, how many hearts she had trampled over and played with through her years.
Azriel had heard enough stories about women of the upper class (and lived through a few daunting experiences himself) to know females like her had nothing but their own gains and advantages in mind.
Which was not a problem.
It became one when he started to wonder how much of her reign relied on her own desires.
Oh, he didn’t like what his mind conjured, he didn’t like it one bit.
And he needed to get Elain away from her before she started whispering venom in her angel ears.
To rescue him, unsurprisingly, came the High Lord and High Lady in tow, one holding the other’s arm in perfect, statuary formation.
Rheia sprung to her full height beside Elain, before bending in a gesture of respect.
Azriel was not surprised when Feyre and Rhys bowed to do the same, nor was he surprised when Rhys offered his arm out to her, as gentlemanly as he could manage.
On her part, the Queen was using every bit of the education she’d been imparted.
Rheia’s social battery had drained long before dinner had even started.
Having Dumas beside her did not mean anything; her limits were already pulled at a strenuous tightness.
Still, she hid everything perfectly behind that good, barely-there smile that held her façade together.
Her braided bun was pulling at her scalp, the wool of her collared dress was making her neck itch to the point she was sure her face had involuntarily spasmed.
Being observed so clearly gave her little reassurances but she pushed the nerves down her system.
The deal had been sealed. Everything was alright and she’d be home before Silas could start submerging her office with piles of work.
Rhysand had not debated one of her conditions, he’d even shown a moderate level of good nature.
Feyre, although visibly distracted by her appearance, had interjected animatedly.
It had been strange being treated so well, with her dead husband’s spectre still haunting her actions.
Not like they could stab her without causing horrendous repercussions.
They weren’t stupid, nor reckless; if they wanted to kill her, they would have already done that a long while ago, like others had tried.
And, in the event of something happening to her, she knew Dumas would not let them go unpunished.
She’d seen him in action. She knew the extent of his fury, the power of his devotion.
Even now that he sat beside her, his towering presence softened by his impassive expression, with his fine shirt rolled up his sleeves to avoid the warm soup seeping in it, Rheia knew how this, too, made him feel like an outsider.
She droned in and out of conversations that died down quickly, no thanks to her inability to keep responses frequent, and Dumas looked quite taken with the meals in front of him.
He would occasionally check her plate, frowning at the ample leftovers she had to force herself to finish for the sake of table manners.
She knew he’d tell on her once they got back. He would tell Yura, and then everyone would start fussing over her like she was some wounded animal in need of comfort.
A thing they all knew she loathed, that they would insist on doing to the point she’d boil over and wallow in her own self-pity.
She swallowed a bite, directing her thoughts to the interiors of the dining room, the people around her and the conversations at hand.
A beautiful space, made out entirely of moonstone.
Entirely as in, even the table they were sitting at. A rich chandelier hung at the center of the ceiling, refracting light all throughout the space.
A stark contrast to the dark, rich blue of the midnight sky.
Gossamer curtains spun at the mercy of the wind, the powerful heating magic keeping every little change in the weather outside.
Whilst she’d become very familiar with Rhysand through letters, and Feyre through her own sparse missives, there were people here she’d only ever heard wind of.
The famed General, in deep conversation with his Lady Death, dark and revenant in her deep burgundy gown.
Beside her, the Morrigan was nursing a glass of rich red; she interjected every now and then, her smile so bright it was blinding.
A cold thrill passed through her; the Shadowsinger, nestled between his High Lord and High Lady, was staring daggers at her. Her ears perked up, the sound of his breathing loud even through the distance.
He hadn’t looked at her twice since retrieving them, and if he’d done so, she couldn’t picture his expression as accusatory as it was right now.
He didn’t like her, and he wasn’t going to hide it.
And she would respect that, even if she was not really sure how positive of an outcome it was, getting in the Spymaster’s bad books.
Whatever. As long as she fulfilled her end of the deal, there was no reason for her to fear a spear in her side.
Not with Dumas around, at least.
She didn’t linger much in that exchange of gazes, not when curious doe eyes were already on her, the Kingslayer’s hands gripping the table in a subtle attempt to reel in her excitement.
It was a welcomed change for Rheia, and a strange satisfaction.
“How’s the weather in Hybern, this time of year?”
Rheia fought the smile that was about to spring on her lips. Such a simple question, from a clear and sweet voice, could only come from someone who was eager to get out and discover what the world had to offer.
Much like she had been a long time ago.
Rheia knew the spymaster’s eyes were not straying from her, no matter how the High Lady had roped him in a conversation that should have required his full attention.
That, though, did not tick Rheia off.
By then, she’d gotten so used to stares from people, external judgement had stopped making her self-conscious when she was perfectly at peace with herself.
“Humid. Windy. But we manage,” she replied, voice steady.
Elain looked as intrigued as she had been when she’d first seen her that evening.
Rheia’s mind went back to their previous conversation, to how Elain had let her speak freely of whatever she wished, and how her face had lit up once Rheia had chosen flowers to break the ice.
A shared interest was good.
A shared interest could the start of a great friendship.
“This time of the year I like walking through meadows. The flowers of the season are lovely. Right, Dumas?”
Her poor guard stopped mid bite; he moved his head slightly with a nod, even if the look in his eyes screamed I’d rather stay silent.
His thin lips bent in a polite smile.
“It’s true. Queenie here gets so hung up about pretty blooms she makes everyone worry.”
Rheia swatted his arm playfully, apologizing when she, too, felt the momentum of her blow knocking off his chair a little.
The action caught everyone by surprise, including her.
She cleared her throat a moment later, the conversation easily resuming.
Feyre stared across the table to her sister, Elain offering her a small nod.
“Elain has quite the penchant for flowers. I imagine you do, too.”
“Natural disposition,” she quipped readily, but not enough to hide the tips of her ears reddening.
All that timidness contained in just one person made Rheia look over at the whole table.
Everyone in deep colors, glittering like stars, and this little flower, sporting a rosy shade, layers upon layers of spun white lace…
The divide was so obvious. She stood up like a dove among ravens.
Rheia made the mistake of letting her eyes still over darkness a moment too much.
Azriel’s expression hardened considerably.
She gulped.
This was going to be difficult to deal with.
Azriel knew he looked like he was about to commit heinous crimes when Cassian suggested a fly as soon as dinner was done with.
Azriel also knew it was not a mere flight.
There was no way Rhys was going to allow them to use any of the unoccupied areas to unwind; the Moonstone Palace may have stood for centuries past, withstanding the elements, but Rhys wasn’t going to risk having such a beautiful structure blown away by Azriel and Cassian.
Not with guests around, anyway.
They still needed to save face.
The destination was a plain they’d bantered on a few times, where there were still remnants of a fight that had taken place not too long ago.
Fighting with Cassian always worked to blow off steam.
They were both competitive bastards, always looking to catch the other off guard.
This time, it was no different.
Their fitted clothes were bound to tear the moment they moved to strike, but the sound got lost in the whistling of his ears; blood sang in him, roaring loud with unconcealed contempt.
It was hard for Azriel to limit the strength in his blows, still hung up on what Rhys had agreed to. Was she going to visit often? Had Rhys allowed her the privilege of a piece of land? And if it was so, why had Elain been involved?
She didn’t need to be, unless she’d formally requested.
Which was impossible. Elain’s pastimes these days varied from picking weeds, baking absurdly sweet treats, and losing herself in the pages of books.
She had no place in these types of diplomatic meetings, and neither did Nesta; Azriel assumed she was there only to keep Cass on his feet and out of her own curiosity.
If anything, at the very least Nesta still held that vague role of Emissary to the Human lands.
Elain, in that part, did not have a role.
Yet.
On paper, she was a Seer, sure, but her predictions were confusing and drained her out, so it became an unspoken agreement within the Inner Circle that there was no need to trigger her into having visions or pressure her into seeking a purpose. It could be unsafe for her, and they had enough to worry about.
One could easily understand why Azriel predicted tragedy in the wake of what had happened.
“I don’t trust her,” he said through gritted teeth, throwing a blow that Cassian blocked with ease.
“Noted.”
This time, it was Azriel’s turn to block a calculated punch that barely gave him time to think.
His fist trembled as he pushed back Cassian, whose grin widened.
“She brings only bad news.”
“No shit.”
An idea popped in his mind the very instant Cassian’s blow shoved him back a few steps, his shadows bristling impatiently around him, fomenting an extreme thought that slowly made itself more tangible.
One that would solve the problem at the root.
A smile crept up on his lips, mirthful in its insanity.
Cassian caught on to that quickly, though, unlike many times before, where he would have indulged in whatever Azriel’s brain was machinating and even helped, he looked worried.
Almost fearful.
“Az, you would not…”
“Oh. I would. In fact,…” with a swift movement, he pushed Cassian to the ground, his shadows already working a restraining hold on limbs that should have been ready to fight, but ended up freezing, out of panic.
“I think I’m going to do exactly that,” he announced, stepping over once he’d securely blocked his every movement.
His shadow loomed over in a way that had Cassian’s blood freeze over; it was so rare to see Azriel’s control slip, so rare he would let someone see through the carefully knit chainmail he’d built around himself, so much so even Cassian was often left to wonder what was going on inside that head of his.
Certainly, regicide was not what Cassian would have expected.
Nightly escapes had always been one of Rheia’s pastimes since she’d been a child, hiding away from her father when just her small footsteps would alert him.
Nightly escapes were easy, more so when help was provided. They just needed organization and swift thinking.
Luckily, Rhysand had provided a plan step by step, as well as his presence, to ensure things went as they should have.
Feyre had seen them out from one of the balconies, kissing her sister’s brow with unconcealed affection.
Rheia observed the scene from afar, huddled in a coat that was too big for her.
Dumas had insisted he did not need it, and Rheia had no doubt he was right.
With the amount of muscle he had, she figured he could stand in dire weather without needing to cover himself in layers upon layers for days if he put his mind to it.
Rheia, sadly, had not developed enough muscles to withstand snowy weather, and the stomach pouch she’d gained over the years was nothing if not a cute, soft addition.
Her breath came out in puffs in front of her, her hair almost ghastly white in the cold, dark night. A perfect ghost, ready to haunt the dreams of scared children.
The thought of going back only made her feel worse.
“Don’t get yourself in trouble,” the High Lady whispered against her sister’s forehead, as to which Elain huffed, her face taking in a soft blush.
“I’m not a child. And I’m older than you.”
“Details.”
Rheia found herself almost envying the exchange. The easy, well-intentioned worry that was so typical of families.
It made her miss her children immensely. Had she said the same thing to them, just six months earlier, when she’d sent them on their campaigns? Had they felt how hard it was for her to let them go, not knowing what awaited them?
Missives were so few and far between, lately. It was only feeding into her anxieties.
She should not have let them go. She should have found another way. She should have-
“Your Highness?” Feyre’s voice interrupted her spiraling. “A word?”
Rheia was not sure when the High Lady had crossed over to her, or why she looked at her with such unbridled curiosity.
Even in her letters, she’d exuded such vibrancy, like a new, polished gem.
And so young, too. Time would pan out in front of her like a carpet.
“Just Rheia, please. We’re past formalities.”
Dumas was about to say something, his mouth closing when Rheia gave him a sidelong glance.
“Then, Rheia,” the High Lady begun, the soft sound in her voice contradicting fiercely with her words, “I hope you know what’s going to happen, if hear wind of Elain being mistreated.”
Rheia’s smile was a reaction she didn’t cover.
A threat from a male was scary. But one from a female to another? It was a challenge.
Rheia liked it.
She liked it even more, considering who it came from, and what it implied.
It was the type of protectiveness that rivaled hers, that clashed against morals and sent sparks flying between them.
Dumas froze beside her, fully aware that if anything between these two broke, his intervention wouldn’t even matter.
When two forces like theirs clashed, it was impossible to stop the storm from engulfing everything in its wake.
Rheia found the thought dangerously enticing.
“I’ll keep her from unpleasantries, you can rest assured.”
That seemed to cut the tension, at least enough for Rheia to feel the warmth of her clothes, and not just the coldness of the night.
Dumas leaned closer as soon as Feyre was out of earshot, just as she fretted again towards her sister.
“You’re putting your hand in the mouth of a lion, my Queen.”
Rheia’s mouth morphed into a rare, amused smile.
“Isn’t that the fun of public relations?”
Dumas grunted something under his breath. “You make my work so very hard, my Queen.”
The force of momentum in that short wild lit her every nerve ending on fire. Bile rose in her throat, and every bone in her body felt as if it was doused in oil.
But it lasted just a moment before she was back out of the darkness, Morrigan’s arm pushing her up.
“Are you alright?”
No. No, she was not alright.
She’d been close to retching before winnowing was even a possibility, she was close to retching now, and she would likely empty her bowels the moment she reached home.
Yet, in front of someone who’d shown her a modicum of kindness and had taken the burden of carrying her when Rhysand already had his hands full with Dumas and Elain…she had to be fine, at least.
So, despite the throbbing in her abdomen and the trembling in her limbs that announced at least two days of hindrance, she nodded.
“I’m alright. Thank you.”
A moment later, at the top of the stairs, Rhysand appeared in a puff of sparkly particles, Elain hanging on his hip while an understandably ruffled Dumas hurried down the steps, positioning at Rheia’s right.
He loomed over her like a second shadow, looking up and down as if to assess any damage.
He looked like he almost wanted to pat around to check if any of her ribs had crooked during the winnowing.
Like she was that fragile.
She raised a fair eyebrow in question, a silent promise that if she needed to go off on him, she would.
Elain padded down swiftly beside Rhysand, holding on to a bag that was comically big, refusing to let the High Lord take on the task more out of stubborn pride than out of respect.
She was so lovely. So, so young it almost felt like theft towards her family, taking her away. Rheia knew she’d spoken extensively with her sisters about it, but going back to a place you can only remember as obscure and hostile, all in the name of growth…it spoke volumes of her courage.
Rheia could only learn from it.
“You should get in position,” Rhysand’s voice droned on in the short distance; he placed a comforting hand on Elain’s shoulder, as to which she straightened like a cat, and not in the good way.
An indefinite moment passed before he was leading her towards them, his face as somber as the night itself.
Rheia felt her hair raise at the back of her covered nape.
“Thank you for the hospitality,” she rasped, feeling very small when Dumas moved to help Elain with her belongings, leading her towards the transmigration circle.
Amethyst eyes doused in dark ink, and time stopped for a breath before Rheia was stepping over the perimeter of the circle, magic thrumming at the tip of her fingers, combing around the accelerated beat of her heart.
She kneeled, her palms turned to the ground as the carvings slowly took on a pinkish hue, and her mind dimmed, concentrating on the only place she felt safe in.
The only thing she could call hers.
He should have expected it.
He should have known that there was more to it than just a simple visit.
Rhys hated people dwelling in his spaces, even if he was polite enough to not say a thing about it. Azriel had observed him, he’d taken notice of every each and one of his habits and overtime he’d gone to lengths that some would find insubordinate, which he didn’t care about, ever.
Even more so when that insubordination showed him exactly how much Rhys had hidden from him.
Good. He wants a watchdog. I’ll show him one. A dog that knows his hands are dirty and takes joy in it.
With Truth-Teller tight in his hold, and his heart aching when he saw exactly what he expected, he let the shadows run strong before him, and he pummeled down like a blast of glass.
A/n: welp! this was quite a ride. Let me know if the formatting is weird; assembling this was quite a pain in the ass, but i'm glad it's finally out there.
Thank you for reading,
with love, Witch.
