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Mor x Elain
Speckled in Stardust
Azriel x Eris
How To Soften Teeth
A Fracture in the Glass
Watch From The Shadows While You Laugh In The Firelight
a/n: hello!! I’m so excited to share this with you! I believe I originally said I’d happily write for any sapphic ship, but then you requested Mor x Nesta and it’d never crossed my mind just how much potential was between them, so thank you for introducing me (It’s been eye-opening)! The idea ended up being longer than I’d anticipated so apologies this isn’t a one-shot—I hope you enjoy! 🩷
warnings: none
word count: 5.2k ~
Open curtains. Fogged glass.
Floorboards—dark floorboards. Rugs.
Towering wardrobes, side tables, wooden chests, twinkling lampshades and polished brass.
Nesta blinks. Eyelids hefting the weight of sleep.
The curtains are open—doubled. A heavier set of burnt orange linen inlaid with dark ginger cotton pushed aside while the second set are drawn, woven with such fine fibres Nesta’s bleary eyes had mistaken them for fog veiling the watery morning sunlight haloing pearly, puffed clouds. Sequins decorate the translucent hem, and golden, thread-thin tassels dangle mere inches from the floorboards. Clean floorboards. Pale brown and polished, topped with an orange, black, and white striped rug radiating outward in bold arrows of colour, interrupted only by two slitted splotches of viridian and emerald. Eyes, Nesta realises. Laying across the floor is a rug patterned after tiger stripes, the mammoth feline sprawled across a great sandstone boulder.
Details become stranger still—wallpaper painted with lush fauna: rich, verdant tropics, flashes of feathered colour glimpsed between illustrated leaves and mahogany wardrobes that practically line the opposing wall. Fleur-de-lis’s carved into dark wood, vines flourishing along the sides. Real vines cascading from gleaming pink, cream, and gold vases, leaves as lush and sprawling as the scenery behind them.
Decorating the bedside table to Nesta’s right is a lamp, the faelight dimmed by the twinkling canary yellow lampshade, bejewelled with clear glass beads in rings around its base. Beside the lamp is a silver comb and brush set, a brass hand mirror, card box of matches, three empty glasses, and one white mug dotted with thumbprint-sized spots of crimson, cobalt, chartreuse, and clementine. Its interior is glazed with a blushing pink enamel, and it’s been set atop a plate intended for holding jewellery—overflowing with twinkling rings and bangles, a golden watch laying coiled atop the wood beneath a tangle of lengthy, slim hairpins, pushed from their home. Whatever male she slept with the night before is clearly familiar with the detachment of one night stands, evidenced by the vacancy to her left. And the collection of his various lover’s jewellery.
Head aching, Nesta rises from the bed—four poster, canopied, well-cushioned—and instantly grapples for her brow. Blinding pain pounds behind her eyes, radiating out through her skull. Her teeth grind, the nerves binding her eyes to their sockets like needles stitching and stabbing.
Iron plummets down through her middle. Just how much did she drink last night?
The pain eases after a few minutes, enough to allow Nesta to sit upright. Her hair is silken between her fingers as she pushes it from her temples, the finer strands curled and stuck. Reaching blindly for the side table, Nesta plucks the silver comb, wasting little time in starting on her coronet. Eyes closed, she works from muscle memory, easing breaths in and out as locks of hair twist and twine until they’re woven away. She searches the jewellery plate for her discarded clips but—none.
Frustration tightens her chest. Lovers seem to prefer her hair unbound, long and fistable. Easy to tangle with should the inclination seize them. Usually all it takes is a well-placed glare to have their wishes silenced if desires are ill-aligned for the night, but too-much wine must have skewed her head. She settles for one of the longer, slimmer hair pins flowing from the jewellery platter.
Reluctantly, Nesta slips from the bone-deep warmth and out into the chill of the foreign bed chamber. Delicate hairs prickle along exposed forearms and calves, skin pinching as the cool settles over her. A cream negligee seems to wrap her body, soft and luxurious. Nesta rubs the fine fabric between her fingers absently, allowed all of a moment to admire the silken perfection before prickling pain again blazes behind her brows, nails slicing into her skin as she moves with all the coordination of a drunk. When was the last time she clipped her nails? They’ve grown far too long.
An unpleasant ache stitches itself to the corners of the triangle of her abdomen as Nesta sways from foot to foot, searching for last night’s clothes. Despite the clear signs of wealth sprawling the lavish bedroom, the male could do with a few lessons on how to properly bed a female. The soreness between her thighs is manageable but far from pleasant. Twinging and nagging, like splinters caught in the sole of one’s foot.
Snatching up a shimmering dressing gown and slipping her feet into a pair of crimson slippers, Nesta makes for the door. The handle is golden, engraved with swirling leaves, a keyhole to the right. It turns without issue, and Nesta eases the door ajar. She swallows. There’s no reason for nerves. She done this dozens of times. Hundreds. Admittedly it’s unusual to wake in a foreign home—her own is preferable, dingy as it is—but at worst she’ll weather a few sneers from servants before being well on her way.
Though instead of being met with a hallway, the door opens upon a broad wooden landing partially obscured by a multiplicity of lengthy rugs. A wooden balustrade runs along the far side of the landing, and beyond that, an atrium. Nesta stiffens, exploring the gargantuan chamber with her eyes before cautiously stepping to the railings, steadying herself upon their richly grained beams. It appears she’s somewhere on the third level, a tiled floor of blue, green, white and orange meeting the foot of the great bifurcated staircase, each new level turned back on itself before splitting into two separate cases leading to their respective sides…Nesta marvels. And far below, all that way down, the floor—a mosaic of azure, aquamarine, and turquoise tiles selected for the clear blue waters, the shimmering surface littered with misshapen ovals of olive and fern, pale pink and cream lilies sat at their centres. Below, fishes of eggshell-white and tangerine swim, meandering across the floor.
Nesta follows the staircases back up—each covered with matching stair-runners of deepest green—up, up, up to the skylight, the glass ceiling flooding the interior with rays of that watery, winter sunlight. A benison, given the bleakness of dreary, endless winter.
And still not a servant to be seen.
Nesta checks, but finds no hint of a glamour. No glimmer at the edges of her vision, no twisting distortion save for the brief vertigo, curtesy of the plummet beyond the banisters.
Frowning, Nesta strides to the far left of the landing, to the windows she hopes are high enough to offer ample view of Velaris. If she can spot the glittering Sidra, or the sharp steeple of the temple’s spire, or even the hill where the amphitheaters lie, she will be able to orient herself. Though, clothes will come first.
Condensation mists the lower quarter of the many window panes, though thin enough fae eyes can pierce the veil to see the view beyond—
Nothing.
Nothing lies beyond.
No stretching cityscape, neither emerald-tiled rooftops nor white-smoking chimneys. Not a single building to be seen.
Yellow-green grass stretches as far as the eye can see, bathed in a shallow layering of mist and fog, tendrils wrapped around the odd trees here and there that protrude from the ground like skeletal fingers. Droplets glitter across the expanse. It would have been beautiful had a wave of panic not driven its way up through her middle, seizing her sternum.
Jaw clamped, Nesta pivots from the glass, marching her way down the landing. Wardrobes had practically lined the far wall of that bedroom, the clothes inside are fair game if her own have disappeared. A fact Nesta now revisits drenched in caution.
Dresses require ample fitting beforehand, so Nesta plucks the first shirt and pair of trousers she finds, pilfering a belt from one of the drawers.
Shoes will be the real trouble. But she braved the Blood Rite in less, and came out on top. Though it’s an era past, those grounding breaths are second nature. Nesta steadies herself for a count of six, exhales for another.
This isn’t the war, this isn’t the Blood Rite, and this isn’t the Prison. Misfortune strikes in threes, and Nesta’s filled her quota.
Those events were outliers, she reminds herself. They are not the standard.
~~~~
Perspiration curls the flyaways at Nesta’s temples, heat radiating out from beneath her clothes despite the damp chill of the estate. The cork-screw pains pricking around her lower middle with every step have been no help either. What had been only a minor irritant this morning swiftly became a mildly lethal thorn in her side.
Though things may have changed for her, Nesta is still a far cry from the misshapen vessel of grief she’d been all those years ago. And yet.
And yet.
Level, upon level, upon level of blasted staircases.
Initially she’d deemed a pragmatic approach to be best: breakfast first. But there had been no scent of food to lead her to company, and in the thirty minutes she’d spend traipsing North along the Eastside of the manor’s interior (sunlight had been rising on her right first thing in the morning, offering orientation), and the following hours spent prowling the upper floors, Nesta had failed to locate a kitchen. Similar results were achieved upon hunting for a study in the hopes of locating some godsforsaken blueprints to the blasted labyrinth of a castle. Meanwhile the sun had continued its path overhead and was now well on its way to setting.
At some point Nesta had near-resorted to bellowing a greeting through the mockingly quiet hallways, but the mere act of gathering breath in her lungs had her skull swimming with aches, clutching for a banister. And now, hours later, Nesta is sweating, aching, and hungry.
There’d been infrequent stands scattered amongst the stretching hallways, more often than not holding narrow bouquets of fern and pine branches but occasionally offering golden shell-shaped tray of tiny peppermints. Nesta had grown desperate enough to snack on three upon discovery, stuffing another handful into a trouser pocket.
Sugar would only cause a crash, but it was preferable to no energy at all.
A distant, grief-addled memory drifts to the forefront of Nesta’s bleary mind. Being sat at a table, coerced into eating, forced into training. Cassian had taught her that, hadn’t he? That sugar would do her no good? Twice on her trip eastwards Nesta believed herself to have caught a flash of golden hair in the glass reflection. The first she’d dismissed as a trick of the light. The second she’d been similarly inclined—paranoia would get her nowhere. Though it’s been hours since, and the hairs along her nape and spine have yet to settle.
So the peppermints would have to do.
Returning to the atrium (another half an hour of walking), Nesta drops down at the first split of the bifurcated staircase, elevated enough to offer ample surveillance of the ground floor and surrounding level. She mentally tallies through her options. She’s followed the Eastside northwards, has searched as much as she safely can of the lower floors without risking disorientation… A glance upward to the glass dome informs her of night’s swift arrival. If she’s going to attempt an exploration of the outer grounds, it will have to wait until tomorrow.
Nesta blinks at the glass ceiling.
Turns her attention to the east-facing wall, filled with windows.
Every room had been the same—its one outer-facing wall covered with rectangles of glass, filling rooms with light. Whomever’s home Nesta’s found herself in…it’s a shot in the dark, but they seem to favour light-filled spaces. A desire for light, so natural and intuitive Nesta had paid it no mind, but for such an excess to be required… Indeed, the prospect of being within a room without windows…Nesta inhales for a count of six, exhales for another.
Perhaps heading in a direct line Westwards? Surely this house isn’t a solid block of rooms, if the abundance of windows is anything to go by.
With a final sigh, Nesta gets to her feet.
~~~~
At last a small success.
Heading West through the Atrium had led Nesta first to an adjacent hallway, then through what seemed to be a living space complete with three velvet sofas, grand pianoforte, two armchairs, two glass chandeliers, and a bleak fireplace that could use a flame to heat the blasted room. Upon each of the four walls hung paintings of various sizes. Eight along the southern wall, four upon the western and eastern walls. Only one was to the north—by far the largest of the collection—taking pride of place above the hearth.
Beyond had been a second hallway running parallel to the first, then at last—a storage room. Perhaps it had once also been a living space, but now served only as a forgotten pocket to relegated paraphernalia—shields and helmets, hats and armour, rolled rugs and tapestries. Nesta wove her way through the miscellanea, squeezing between a life-sized rocking horse (bedecked in a colourfully-plumed helmet, and embroidered scabbard), and the hollow back of a great canvas in pursuit of the almost-entirely-glass wall laying beyond.
Little light had filtered in through the windows. The sun was practically set.
But in spite of the grey brickwork, and the blue-black of shadows slanting across the courtyard, Nesta had made out the ripple of darkened waters.
An island lay surrounded by ponds, a single arched, wooden footbridge the only crossing. From the isolated grassland jutted a cylindrical building, its lower floor built from brick while its upper floor was constructed of criss-crossing wooden beams and white plaster, the few feet’s worth of overhang supported upon lichen-flecked stone pillars. Plaited willow branches dragged upon the water’s surface like leafy green ribbons, a line of fourteen planted along the northern and southern perimeters of the courtyard.
It had offered enough of an idea of the ground’s layout—and answer to why Nesta had such poor luck on her thirty-minute trek northward—that her shoulders sagged. Perhaps a scrap of humanity had been fretting over the prospect of being lost and trapped within the mysterious fae manor. But she was not within a children’s fairytale, and surely whatever male had bedded her last night would be soon returning for his supper.
He can serve her a meal himself—reparations for the needling pains between her legs.
Now, satisfied with her resolution (and resigned to an extra night spent in luxury), Nesta heads back the way she came, once more weaving between the rocking horse and canvas back, through the first hall and into that open chamber with the seventeen paintings, all of which depict some kind of sylvan landscape. The only exception being the painting mounted above the fireplace.
Nesta pauses. Gazing properly upon the other paintings, the largest is notable not only for its size and framing, but also the silver lake pooling beyond the woodland’s edge. The only picture containing a distant figure, bathing in the water.
Nesta meanders over. Close enough to read the bronze plaque carved into the framework that reads, Skogsrå. Presumably the title. Nesta reaches for a fourth peppermint, the toffee-brown paper done away with in her other pocket. Peering upon the smallish figure, Nesta comes to the conclusion it’s female. Long, water-black hair stuck to grey-white skin, the hips and buttocks too round and curved to belong to a male.
Nesta.
She eases in a breath for a count of six, exhaling for another. I remember being drenched. I remember the Cauldron’s waters, but this is not me.
The female has her back to the forrest, arms curved across her front, fingers dimpling the flesh of her biceps. Browning nails long overgrown. The kind of wild, untamed creature that would have terrified her as a girl. Not like the Kelpie, though. Maybe Feyre would have been able to articulate what exactly about the composition, the colour palette, removed malice from the painting.
Nesta.
She takes another deep breath. Maybe she does see a piece of herself there.
The thought releases itself from her mind, swept away.
Perhaps she can see a glimpse of what…
Nesta sighs, withdrawing from the painting. As usual, a day spent without deliberate occupation has left her with the type of boredom that only ever lures her inward. A downward spiral of thoughts that will not be resolved from mindless pondering alone. Some things she can’t solve. Can only hope her decision was the right one. Not good though. Never good, from Nesta Archeron.
“…Nesta?”
Nesta spins toward the voice, and something inside her trips.
For a second, even her soul freezes.
Stood in the doorway, one foot in the room, the hem of her navy dress still swaying, is—me.
Every hair along Nesta’s back and arms stands on end, tension so thorough her throat forcefully narrows.
Across the room, that— Nesta…the other one raises her palms. “It is you, isn’t it?” She says slowly, in Nesta’s own voice. So perfect it could have been in her head.
Nesta gasps a breath, forceful and heaving, and stumbles back a step. “Who are you?” Something’s stuck in her throat.
The other one takes a step forward. She can hear how loud her breathing is. “I-… It’s me. Mor.”
Nesta stills, eyes darting across her own face. The hair so familiar to her is in a singular plait, lips without balm, no socks concealing the gap between the dress’s hem and the beginning of boots. Something irreverent Mor would pay no mind to.
“Mor.” The name slips past her lips like she’s received a kick to the stomach. A scar upon Nesta’s tongue, bitter and bloody. Her head is swimming, throat a tenderised tube of flesh.
Wider-than-usual grey eyes peer back at her.
Nesta clears her throat—tries to. Her voice still comes out wrong. “Prove it.”
The grey eyes opposite give a slow, processing blink. A frown between Nesta’s brows, the more-curious twin to the expression her own face is making—whatever that looks like.
Nesta takes a step into the room, and something primal inside her trembles as the other one slowly draws nearer. A ball of yellow faelight comes to life above one of her hands, extending the other toward Nesta, offering something brassy. A hand mirror.
Nesta barely takes her eyes off the grey pair before her as she plucks the mirror from her own outstretched hand. She looks into it.
Wide brown eyes stare back at her. A full mouth Nesta had thought numb and foreign from drink is parted in horror, lustrous golden hair plaited in a coronet atop a face that does not match her own hairstyle. Nesta touches her face. Watches as trembling fingers do the same in her reflection, too-long nails poking at the tender sac of skin just beneath one dark, amber eye.
Nesta jolts, flinging the hand mirror to the floor. It clatters, ringing in her ears, skimming across the polished wood. Her breathing turns laboured, staring at her hands that are indeed not her own, backing away step after step like she can step out of her body and away—
“Nesta,” She whispers across from herself, “I don’t-”
Her own voice, Mor’s cadence. Palms she knows the location of every callous and scar reach towards Nesta, upward and tentative, and Nesta—Nesta runs. Flees past her own body that flinches to the side, through the hallway beyond, through the atrium and around the stairs, across the mosaic floor, past the double wooden doors and out into the open.
The cold winds her, and it’s night, and she should never be alone at night, away from help, away from everybody, unable to see even the faintest flicker of lights in the distance. Only forest. Only woodland, the black peeks of trees on the bleak horizon.
Fog obscures her feet from view, obscures the ground from view, but icy mud squelches and oozes into her slippers.
Only once she passes the third of those lone skeletal trees she’d seen from her bedroom windows that morning does Nesta dare stop to look over her shoulder. The estate is… Nesta doesn’t have the mind or wit about her to describe it.
Frost-filled air saws away at her windpipe as she heaves. Toes burning within the cold.
What is happening?
~~~~
Cold, damp, and defeated, Nesta returns to the manor.
She’d tried leaving. Had stubbornly set out, heading east through the thickening fog, but had gotten so turned around she’d ended up doubling back on herself. Nesta’s not sure if she has enough left in herself to believe it was the fog alone that had ultimately returned her to the manor.
The roaming mists cling to her muddied slippers. Mor’s slippers. Her slippers. She trudges dirt onto the mosaic tiles, then kicks her footwear away entirely. Not so uncivilised as to path earth across the spotless floors. Socks will do.
Nesta steeps in the warmth of the dry indoors. A small comfort, loathe as she is to admit it. Her arms cross, nails—Mor’s nails—digging into her skin. Mor’s skin. Mor’s body. Not her own.
Her magic remains her own, though. Nesta clings to that fact. Clings to that ember that’s been shielded from the storm.
Across the atrium’s lengthwise expanse, a door opens. It’s as much a shock as the first time, seeing her double stood in the doorway. That same panic, of seeing something that should not be possible to see. Should never be possible to see.
They stand in silence, the only noise the water dripping from Nesta’s sodden clothes. Mor’s clothes.
It had rained heavily while Nesta lingered beneath that deadened tree. Had begun turning to snow.
Mor angles her head, nodding over her shoulder before falling back into the manor. After four more droplets, Nesta follows wordlessly. Still trembling, not entirely from the cold.
Mor has left the doors open, and Nesta winds her way into the open living space she’s passed through twice before. The fire is lit. Flames fizzle and pop as they flicker, spreading heat through the house.
Mor adds another log, prodding with a poker. Then she sets it away, and settles in the oversized velvet armchair to the side of the hearth.
A neat stack of folded towels materialise on the blue sofa nearby. Nesta paths her way over.
Without asking, Nesta peels away the wet socks, leaving her feet bare. She unfolds a towel and spreads it across the velvet, before slumping down. The springs wheeze beneath her weight.
Adjacent in her rouge armchair, Mor is quiet. Whether adjusting at her own pace, or leaving space for Nesta…she doesn’t care at the moment. She pulls that lengthy, elegant pin free and begins unweaving her wet hair. Dark golden locks slide across Nesta’s face, turned stringy from rainfall. The hair is weighty, once it’s all let down. Longer than Nesta’s own. Smelling differently to her own.
She takes a smaller towel, and puts it over her shoulders.
The fire crackles, casting the painting above entirely in shadow, removing so much of the depth. So much of the detail. Barely more than thick lines of nobbled black atop an orange background, interrupted only by that tiny, female figure. Hair plastered to her damp skin.
A porcelain teacups floats over to Nesta, its rim and handle glazed with a thin stripe of gold.
“Spiced apple and cloves, with a teaspoon of lemon,” Mor murmurs. In Nesta’s voice. An inflection and cadence she would have never chosen for herself. Robbed of even her own voice.
Nesta plucks the teacup from the air, cupping it between her palms. Her nails clack together, and there’s no way to hold the mug without the awkward weight of these nails that are not her own, and…Nesta breathes in for a count of six. Exhales for another.
She is in a body that simultaneously is, and is not her own. Breathe.
Across from her is her body that is and no longer is her own. Breathe.
Her hair is heavier, her nails are sharper, and her voice has changed pitch. Breathe.
Nesta takes a sip of her drink. Can taste the cloves, can taste a hint of cinnamon underneath that, with traces of honey. The tea scalds her throat, but heats her stomach. A slow, concentrated unfurling of heat. Her toes curl upon the roughened fibres of the towel, curving her knees to her chest.
Nesta- Mor shifts in her armchair, the oranges of the firelight rending that navy dress near black. It’s fitting for her body. Nesta’s only ever struggled to find her place in the range of some yellow fabrics. But it’s so at odds with Mor. Bright, effervescent Mor. Now confined to… Nesta’s rarely considered herself drab, but within the context of being a vessel for her? Wrong. Misshapen. Mor’s eyes are brown, not grey.
“How are you feeling?” She asks, own mug cupped in her hands, smelling of jasmine. Orange, with darkened dots.
I’m… “Probably the same as you,” Nesta replies, eyeing the female warily. Mor tilts her head, plait shifting upon her shoulder. “You…believe I am who I say I am?”
Nesta glances to the spiced amber liquid, steam swirling from its surface. “When I woke, there was a silver brush and comb on the nightstand. You were given that exact set five solstices ago. I believe you.”
Surprise flashes behind her grey eyes, brows twitching in a way that’s completely unnatural to Nesta’s face. But Mor swallows, and nods silently, directing her gaze to the fireplace. “When I woke, I didn’t know where I was. Even after taking in the view, I couldn’t remember why I would be…there. Then I saw myself in the mirror of your wardrobe—when I went searching for clothes.” Mor looks to Nesta. “You didn’t realise anything was wrong until earlier?”
There’s enough assumption in the question to have Nesta furrowing her brows, levelling a withering glance at the female. “I was busy trying to find some food in this maze. Which is surprisingly void of mirrors.”
“You didn’t try calling out?”
Nesta purses her lips. “My head was hurting.”
Mor gives her a knowing look.
Nesta seethes internally, refusing to show how far that comment squirms under her skin. As if she’s fallen even a fraction of the height she once drifted from. “And you? How did you know to come here?”
Mor blinks, then looks casually into her mug, taking a sip. “I figured if I swapped places with you, my best bet would be to return to wherever I was last.” Nesta lifts a brow, demanding elaboration, but Mor’s pointedly not meeting her gaze. She grits her teeth. “And where, precisely, was that?”
“You know where we are,” Mor mutters towards the flames.
Nesta remains silent, keeping her gaze trained on the side Mor’s skull. Piercing enough she knows Mor feels it.
A muscle feathers in her jaw, watery light eyes dragging across the room to meet Nesta’s own. “You want to play this game, Nesta? Pretend none of that happened, and move on with your life?” Her pitch is low, but nowhere near soft enough to muffle the seething hiss in her voice. A venom Nesta herself has wielded many a time upon others. She’d never realised how like her mother she sounded.
Violence flickers in those grey eyes, and Mor angles her head. “We’re in the private estate not even Rhys knows about,” she bites out. “You know it by Athelwood.”
Memories warm, but Nesta says nothing, knowing the decision will have Mor seeing red. But the derision doesn’t come.
Instead her lips purse, expression resentful but unsurprised.
The cut slices deeper, Nesta will give her that.
She turns to her tea, cool enough to drink. “I take it you notified your family before leaving?” A low blow, but Nesta’s not in a mood for fair games.
Mor stiffens in her chair, and at first Nesta is pleased. Until her head lowers a degree. “I…was able to communicate with Rhys, but…” —again she shifts— “there was no one there. Every person in Velaris. Gone.” Mor glances into her mug, eyes growing distant. “I’ve never… I’ve never heard the city so quiet.”
Hairs prickle along Nesta’s nape as she listens. “Do servants normally roam here, too? I’ve not seen another soul.”
“No.” Mor shakes her head, then sends Nesta a single reprimanding glance. “No. This land is mine.”
“What did Rhys say?” Nesta asks. She’s not touching that look.
Mor sinks deeper into her chair, curling her legs up onto the rouge cushion. “He doesn’t know what’s going on. Everything’s fine, wherever they are.”
Nesta frowns. “Who is ‘they’?”
“My family,” Mor mutters. “Everyone else in Velaris.”
Fine. She’d set herself up for that one. But still… “Everything is…normal? Nothing’s changed for them?”
Mor stares into the fire. “Everything’s fine. We’ve just—” she shrugs. “Disappeared.”
Her voice is a touch fainter than before.
Not Nesta’s problem. “So we do what? Head back to Velaris? Sit around and hope they figure something out?”
“Maybe.”
A muscle ticks in Nesta’s brow. “Mor.”
Mor doesn’t look at her. Just stares persistently into the flames.
“Do they at least have any idea what…place we’ve been moved to? Why our bodies have been switched?”
Mor shrugs. “Maybe it’s the harp, deciding to play like all those other wicked relics we tried seal away.” Still, that reticent expression on her face. Nesta ignores her attempt at humour anyway. “Can’t be. Sentient or no, it still needs someone to pluck its strings, and I’m the only one who can access it.” She looks over to Mor, seemingly growing more and more content to settle into sleep right there in her armchair. “What else did Rhys say?”
“That was it.”
Nesta scoffs. “His cousin and third in command vanishes from Velaris and he’s nothing to say? Nothing from Feyre?” A scowl furrows Mor’s brows as she stirs, at last deigning to look Nesta’s way and take this seriously and-
Her eyes drift over Nesta’s shoulder, and Mor’s skin leeches of colour. Tea spills, and porcelain cracks on the floor.
Mor shivers, shaking her head. Slowly, so slowly inching back over the arm of her chair.
Nesta whips around, instantly on her feet, but the other side of the room is empty. Eight paintings facing her, pianoforte to one corner. Nesta’s lips purse, anger fluttering her pulse as she returns to face Mor who’s surely sat cosily in her chair, putting on that smug little smile.
Mor has backed off the armchair. On the floor half-hidden behind the seat.
Nesta blinks. “Mor?”
The female doesn’t respond, but Nesta can hear her mumbling—whispering.
Skeptical, Nesta approaches. As she draws nearer she can make out Mor’s stumbling speech. Over and over, a single word. No.
Shaking her head, gathered as small as she can make herself behind the arm chair. No, no, no…
Nesta again checks over her shoulder, but the room is clear. Nothing unusual or amiss.
Pursing her lips, Nesta leans forward, gently laying a hand atop the female’s trembling shoulder. “…Mor?”
She goes quiet. Still.
For a third time, Nesta scans the room.
She’s never heard Mor’s voice so meagre. So afraid.
Something uneasy sits in the pit of her stomach that night. Follows Nesta all the way up to the bedchamber she’d awoken in, Mor leaning heavily against her side, cold as a block of ice.
She doesn’t push for information, and Mor doesn’t offer a word.
surprise @velarisbynight !! i am your secret santa 😄❄️ 🎅
i hope you've enjoyed the fun little surprises along the way, i know i've had a blast being your santa!
thank you to the mods of the @acotargiftexchange for organizing this and making all of this possible!
(and an extra special thank you to @the-lonelybarricade for their incredible feedback and for just being amazing all around!)
link to read on ao3 ☺️
now, without further ado, may i present your gift! i hope you like it ❤️
Winter Winds and Espresso Swirls
Summary: Two moments between Mor and Emerie that change their lives forever.
Mor
Winter winds swirled snowflakes around the air, stirring up something akin to longing in Mor’s chest as she leaned over the balcony.
Her mind was wandering, like snow drifting along a bank in a storm. She rapped her fingernails on the banister, satisfied by the ping! her nails made along the metal. Her head was propped up by her other hand, curled into a fist under her chin. Gold bangles glittered in the frost, cascading down her arm, falling into the sleeve of her dress. Bright red and silky with a low plunging neckline, the gown clung to her curves like it was poured on her, and was her favorite for that exact reason.
Inside, she could hear raucous laughter, probably over a prank that Amren had managed to pull on Rhys. She smiled and shook her head, taking another sip of her drink. She loved her family. Loud, imperfect, yes, but wasn’t everyone's? They always came together and had each other’s backs, in their own way. The Solstice was always their favorite holiday. Celebrating both the Solstice and their High Lady, what more reason could there be to engage in festivities, gather everyone you love as close as possible, and enjoy every last minute in each other’s company? These things weren’t always a guarantee, they knew that better than anyone.
Mor usually is in the center of it all, topping off drinks, keeping the conversation flowing, and helping Amren choose her next victim, and she would return to her role soon enough. But right now, she needed to take a moment, get some air. There were more fae than usual this year in attendance, and it was starting to get too hot in there. Not that she was complaining. Mor loved being around people, the more the merrier, and finding new friends after all this time, after all they’ve been through is a gift in itself. But she found she was entirely too focused on a strong jawline and a low, musical laugh emitting from the corner of the room to really take in anything else that was happening around her.
The winter air felt good on her flushed cheeks, and she inhaled deeply at the smell of freshly fallen snow.
She took a long sip of her drink, something bubbly and teal that Elain had concocted up. It tasted of clouds and maple, an intriguing combination that Mor still hadn’t made up her mind if she liked or not. All she knew is she wanted to keep drinking it, wanted to float away on the bubbles into the night.
“May I join you?”
Mor turned around and saw that Emerie was standing in the doorway of the balcony.
Emerie was wearing a deep green gown with a high neck, her hair braided into a coronet over her head with a long braid draped over her shoulder, and held together by a white ribbon at the end, wings tucked tightly at her sides to fit in the doorway. The ribbon and her wings reminded her enemies to underestimate her at their own risk, but the smile she wore invited her friends to come closer.
She had two glasses of champagne in her hands, one was held out to Mor as an offering.
“Well, when you come bearing such a lovely gift, of course you may,” she said with a wink. She tossed back the rest of the drink she had in favor of the champagne that was being extended to her. When given the choice, Mor always chose champagne.
Emerie snorted and shook her head. “You would say something like that,” she said, eyes sparkling with mirth.
Emerie came to stand next to her. She handed her the glass and Mor’s fingers brushed against hers, accidentally or deliberately, Mor couldn’t quite tell. The heat she saw flash in Emerie’s gaze was mirrored in her own, of that she was certain.
Mor liked Emerie, maybe a little more than she was willing to admit to herself. She came around more often these days with Nesta and Gwyn, for book club nights or Valkyrie training, and Mor found herself drawn to her every time. Every time Emerie looked at her, every time she would speak, every time she would breathe, Mor found that she was drawn into her orbit, felt a magnetic pull.
The two of them sipped the champagne in comfortable silence. They were looking out at the expanse of the city, lights twinkling underneath the snow. It looked like something out of a dream.
“You’ve been staring at me all night,” Emerie said, breaking through the silence, a lilt of teasing to her voice.
Startled, Mor turned her head to look at her, eyebrows raised. “No, I haven’t!” Emerie just chuckled and took a sly sip of her drink. “If I had, I would’ve noticed how beautiful you look in the winter winds a lot sooner than just now.”
Emerie blinked at her slowly, lashes fluttering against her cheek, a shy look passing over her face. “Well, I have been staring at you all night, and I've noticed how beautiful you look in the winds the whole time.”
Mor lifted an eyebrow appreciatively. “Very smooth, Valkyrie,” she hummed, tipping her glass in her direction while a small chuckle escaped Emerie’s lips.
“I’m very observant,” she said dryly, a cheeky grin playing at the corner of her mouth.
“Oh yeah?” Mor said, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raising as she lifted her glass to her lips to hide her teasing smile. “And tell me, what are you observing now?”
Emerie took a moment to look at Mor, inhaling deeply before she spoke. “I just see…you,” she said, words so soft she could’ve whispered them, but Mor felt their impact like she had shouted them.
Mor felt herself slowly lean in, captivated by the endless depth to Emerie’s eyes. There was a sweeping of dark purple over her eyelids, shimmering in the starlight, and she had lined her eyes with dark charcoal, which only enhanced the richness of her dark brown eyes. Was it the champagne that was making her dizzy, or was it how beautiful Emerie looked?
Their arms brushed against each other on the balcony, and Mor could swear she felt sparks at the touch. Mor closed her eyes and inhaled, the scent of lavender and cotton meeting her nose, and Mor thought she had never smelt something quite so magnificent. Comforting, steady, secure. Just like the Valkyrie herself.
Suddenly, a powerful gust of wind hit them. Mor’s perfectly styled hair didn’t stand a chance, and her hair was blown into her face, making it stick up at all angles.
Emerie’s hand came to clasp over her mouth, eyes wide, shoulders shaking. It took a moment, but Mor realized Emerie was laughing. It was so infectious, Mor couldn’t help but laugh, too.
The two of them, in the snow, giggling under the moonlight. Nothing had ever felt so right.
“It’s okay,” Emerie said when she finally caught her breath. “You still look beautiful, even in these winter winds.” Her hand came up to smooth out some of Mor’s stray curls, soft hands gently working through a knot.
As soon as Emerie took her hands away and gave her a smile, satisfied at her work, Mor gasped.
Mor’s power was truth, and the truth was staring right at her.
Emerie was her mate. Mor could see it so clearly now, how did she miss it before? A silken, golden thread wrapping around her heart, reaching out to Emerie’s. The Valkyrie in front of her was illuminated in a soft golden light, and Mor felt like her heart was in her throat.
Mor brought up one hand to tuck an errant strand behind Emerie’s ear, fingers lightly trailing down the side of her face, her neck. Her entire vision was reduced to following the path her fingertips were making along Emerie’s skin, ruby red nails scratching lightly against her skin. It was like her whole being was poured into this gentle caress. Mor felt like her body was alive, like static was igniting along her skin, and she took a deep breath to settle herself, to focus on this moment in front of her.
Mor moved her hand to rest against Emerie’s cheek, and lightly brushed her thumb across her cheekbone. She chased the motion of her thumb with her lips, pressing softly against Emerie’s face. She held herself there, both of them breathing the same air for one breath, two breaths.
“Happy Solstice, Emerie,” she whispered.
“Happy Solstice, Mor.”
◆
Emerie
“Emerie, hey!”
The brunette turned her head, scanning through the tables of patrons until her gaze fell on the blonde she was meeting, waving at her brightly with a big smile on her face. Emerie’s heart skipped a beat as she returned the smile and made her way over to their seats.
After that Solstice, they didn’t see each other as much. Between Mor’s court duties and Emerie’s Valkyrie commitments, their paths didn’t cross as frequently as before. So when they ran into each other at the same coffee shop one day, unbeknownst to the other, they couldn’t believe their luck.
These lunchtime coffee dates weren’t anything planned, it just kind of…happened one day.
Emerie had been working in her shop, grappling with the most valiant fight of her life - the midday slump. No one had come in for hours, but still the shop remained open. It was hard to work in it day in and day out, dealing with the rude customers. Which she supposed was better than no customers at all, but did they have to be so hostile?
Things got worse after the Blood Rite, too. In between her clipped wings a target formed on her back, but Emerie still held her head high. She was a Valkyrie. It was going to take more than condescension to bring her down.
The shop was quiet today, only one customer coming in just after she had opened. A female who lived down the street from Emerie, looking for gloves that would keep her warm, but would still allow her to work outside. Emerie procured her a beautiful brown pair that were lightly lined with fur, a pair she used herself, and the smile of gratitude on the female’s face warmed something in Emerie’s heart. She liked being able to make a difference, no matter how small.
That interaction had happened so long ago now, it seemed. As the day went on, Emerie had swept the neglected corners of the shop, went through her inventory twice, and straightened the shelves three times. She had unbound and rebraided her hair, tossing it over her shoulder.
Dragging a hand over her eyes, she tried to will herself into becoming more awake, but it was no use. It was time to call upon a higher power.
Coffee. Very strong coffee.
Emerie made her way through the town, smiling at everyone who passed her by, despite the frigid reception they gave her in response. She made her way through the cold towards her favorite coffee shop. The coffee was always brewed to perfection, and they always had the best treats. Today she thought she would get a peach danish to go with her coffee, and the thought alone started to make her feel warmer.
She pulled the door open and sighed as the warm air from the shop hit her cheeks. The aroma of freshly roasted beans warmed her down to her toes.
She placed her order and took it over to her favorite chair in the corner - a blue velvet chair with a deep seat, perfect for curling up with a good book. Sellyn Drake had released a new novel, set in the Dawn Court about two lovers who weren’t allowed to be together but fought for each other anyway, and Emerie was anxious to see how the story would progress.
She was two chapters in, when suddenly -
“Emerie? Hey, I thought that was you!”
Emerie picked her head up from her book, brown eyes blinking into hazel ones.
Mor was standing in front of Emerie - her hair was cascading in blonde curls down her back, and she was wrapped in a bright red cloak, cheeks pink from the cold. The loveliest thing about her was the smile she was wearing, unabashed and aimed at Emerie.
A faint blush made its way to Emerie’s cheeks, throat going dry as she struggled to find words. “Oh, Mor! Hello! I didn’t know you came to this coffee shop, I haven’t seen you here before.”
Mor smiled and shook her head. “I don’t, really. I was just walking by when I saw you in here, and you looked so comfortable and warm that I had to come in.
“May I join you?” she said, repeating the same words Emerie had asked her that Solstice night.
Emerie thinks of that night often. The brush of Mor’s arm. The way she smelled of citrus - bright, fresh, a zest for life in all aspects, but also dash of cinnamon, an undercurrent of warmth in everything she does. The intoxicating scent drew Emerie in, and she thought she was dreaming when Mor’s lips brushed against her face. Brief in their contact but the impact was long lasting, as Emerie could still feel them against her cheek even now.
“Please,” Emerie said, enthusiastically gesturing to the chair next to hers. It was a rich maroon with a sunny yellow blanket tossed over the side of it, perfectly complementing Mor’s preferred color palette.
They chatted for a little bit, talking about what they’ve been doing since Solstice, how Emerie’s training was going, the adventures Mor had been on, then they fell into a quiet companionable silence. Mor reached into her bag and pulled out a book, and Emerie was surprised to see that it was a Sellyn Drake novel, too.
“I didn’t know you were a fan!” Emerie said excitedly. “That one is one of my favorites, too. The main character is so bubbly and warm, there’s no way anyone wouldn’t fall in love with them.”
Mor hummed in response. “I am really liking her love interest, though. She is so calm, so capable, so strong. It’s rare to find that these days.”
A heated beat passed between them, before they both ducked their heads away, nervously laughing to ease the tension. They had sat there and read together, occasionally reading out passages they liked or commenting on moments that were happening in the book, and then they finished their coffees and went on their respective ways.
Emerie had thought it a fluke, that day. A one off. A nice moment between them, but not to be repeated.
Her heart almost stopped in her chest when she walked into the shop the next day to see Mor already sitting in the maroon chair, completely enraptured by the book in her hands.
As soon as Emerie walked in, however, Mor’s attention was taken away from the book. She looked up at Emerie and smiled, giving her a soft wave, and it was then that Emerie knew this wasn’t going to be a one time thing. This was the start of something.
From then on, Emerie found herself looking forward to her midday breaks, heading into the coffee shop with a skip in her step. She brought Mor books she thought she would like, and brought her some that she knew she wouldn’t just to hear her talk about the plot holes in that animated way of hers. Mor was always waiting for her when she got there with a fresh cup of coffee. Strong, black, just the way she liked it.
She sat down next to Mor and the two of them began their daily ritual of exchanging gossip and book theories. Emerie held the cup in both hands, capturing the warmth of the mug in her palms, and Mor stared a little too long at her hands. Emerie felt her stomach do a flip when she saw Mor’s hands flex in her lap, before she brought her hands to encircle around her own mug.
A little while later, Emerie glanced at the clock and sighed, already pushing the limits of what might be an acceptable lunch break, regretting that she had to go back so soon. It was always too soon to leave Mor’s company.
As she shrugged on her coat, Mor went to do the same. A few weeks into this endeavor Mor had taken to walking Emerie back to her shop, lingering on the sidewalk and thinking of a new topic to talk about before Emerie really had to head back into her shop.
The two of them stepped out of the cafe, and Emerie went to turn to say something to Mor, when a cold drop of rain splattered on Emerie’s cheek. She was so surprised by it that her eyes went comically wide, and Mor couldn’t help but burst out laughing at her honest reaction.
“It’s raining!” Emerie said, shocked by the information. She reached out to grab Mor’s hand. “Come, let's stand under the awning!”
“No way!” Mor said, still laughing. “When do we get the chance to dance in the rain!” She stuck her arms out and spun around and around, giggling.
Emerie watched her from under the awning, captivated by how her hair looked as it spun around her. Mor finally stopped and looked at her, cheeks flushed with merriment, hair matting to her forehead, and she held her hand out with a grin.
Something soft made itself known in her chest. Sort of like an ember glowing, a tendril of hope reaching out to the female in front of her.
Mate.
Mor was Emerie’s mate.
Emerie nearly staggered under the weight of the realization, but more than anything wanted to reach out to the female in front of her and take her hand, spin her around and around in the rain, listen to her talk about anything and everything, for the rest of their lives.
“Emerie, you coming?” Mor asked, wiggling her fingers to entice her to come out with her.
Emerie’s chest felt so full she thought it might burst.
“Yeah,” she said with a smile, reaching her hand out and lacing her fingers with Mor’s.
‘She took a long sip of her drink, something bubbly and teal that Elain had concocted up. It tasted of clouds and maple’
I want to try this drink so badly </3 I detest how capitalism and consumerism have taken so much of the joy from Christmas but the benefit is the seasonal flavours coffee shops and cafes put on. I love a special festive drink :’)
‘Emerie was wearing a deep green gown with a high neck, her hair braided into a coronet over her head with a long braid draped over her shoulder, and held together by a white ribbon at the end,’
Deep Green you say? Hair in a coronet?
!!!!!!!! Ahh thank you !!!!!! (The white ribbon at the end? Such a lovely touch.)
‘Mor liked Emerie, maybe a little more than she was willing to admit to herself.’
A few ounces of denial are always healthy in the beginning. This made me so giddy to read haha
“If I had, I would’ve noticed how beautiful you look in the winter winds a lot sooner than just now.” “Well, I have been staring at you all night, and I've noticed how beautiful you look in the winds the whole time.”
I love the characterisation here! With Mor being flirtatious but it’s done jokingly enough she has plausible deniability, while Emerie counters with pure sincerity. It makes me so happy to read <3
‘There was a sweeping of dark purple over her eyelids, shimmering in the starlight’
Dark purple!! And she’s wearing a green dress!! And her hair is in a coronet!!!
I’m sending you emotional head pats <3
‘So when they ran into each other at the same coffee shop one day’
AND A COFFEE SHOP?!!
I’m spluttering and fumbling like a fool you’ve included so many details!! :’)
‘The coffee was always brewed to perfection, and they always had the best treats.’
I’m not exactly in a festive mood yet but mention of a Hot Beverage + Tasty Treat has summoned something within me 🩷
‘a blue velvet chair with a deep seat’ ‘It was a rich maroon with a sunny yellow blanket tossed over the side of it’
I can’t remember whether I mentioned this but I’m a sucker for velvet anything. Such beautiful rich colours! You’ve done such a great job on creating a Place to visualise! :’)
‘She brought Mor books she thought she would like, and brought her some that she knew she wouldn’t just to hear her talk about the plot holes in that animated way of hers.’
While I loved the moment Mor realised Emerie was her mate (the way you described the golden string? Thank you. It was so easy to picture and so beautiful), and vice versa when Mor wants to dance in the rain with Emerie, I think this is my favourite line. Knowing someone well enough to know their tastes/preferences? To be loved is to be seen, and all that, and then followed up with offering books Emerie knows Mor won’t like? Just to hear her talk? To spend a few more minutes in her company? I love this because you’re not explicitly stating that Emerie loves spending time with Mor, but it does the job perfectly
Definitely my favourite line! 🩷🩷
Thank you so much! I love these two so much <3 Mor being more on the bubbly side and Emerie being her kind, steadfast self is such an endearing dynamic and you’ve done them justice 🩷
Thank you for being such a sweet Santa! You really went above and beyond to make this event special <3
can you believe we are a week out from the big reveal?? time flies so fast - i am finished with your gift, and i am so so so excited for you to read it!
by the way, you should check out @velaris-secret-santa for a little treat 😉
hope your week is off to a good start!!
Hullo!
No, I cannot believe we’re now less than a week away. I’m scared and excited and very stressed but it’s all so fun? And isn’t that Christmas in a nutshell!
And you’ve already finished?? I’m so excited! My own gift is still under editing. I admire your time management Santa! I hope you’ve left enough room for you to enjoy your own celebrations too! <3
i wanted to give you a little extra special something one week before the big reveal, so please enjoy this little doodle i made of mor and emerie! i wanted to show them happy and in love 🥰
i am by no means whatsoever an artist hahaha but this was fun to do! hope you like it! ❤️
hello my wonderful giftee!! i hope you’ve had an amazing week ☺️
i wanted to ask you if you had any headcanons about mor and emerie! either as a pairing or as individuals. anything you’d like me to incorporate?
Hullo! My week has been good, thank you <3
I took a while to respond so I could give your question time to simmer in the back of my brain, so sorry about that delay. I’ve a couple of headcanons though (as in, things I think that I can’t remember if they’re canon or not, oops)
I like to think Emerie prefers having her hair in some kind of plait. At least out of her face. Maybe after meeting Nesta she started wearing her hair in a coronet for training and Mor was at first a bit huffy about it but gradually learned to love it (because it’s on Emerie, how could she not?)
If Emerie ever wore makeup (maybe trying out some of Mor’s cosmetics one evening) I think she’d like a dark purple. Unconventional, and certainly not what she’s been taught males find attractive, so I like to think it’s her doing things on her own terms.
I think they enjoy dancing together, but prefer to do so in private. I think dancing would be special to both of them, and intimate in some ways.
If it’s not too late to mention, I enjoy a good bit of description. I love reading about colours and fabrics and scents, knowing what clothes people are wearing, what a room looks like and mentioning any ornaments/paintings/trinkets casually laying around etc. I love that kind of thing <3
hello my wonderful giftee! i hope you’re feeling better and are having a great day today 😊
Hello! I'm doing okay again~
I've been managing to get some writing done here and there which is reassuring since it's been a while since I've had any ideas I've thought were worth writing about! <3
hi there my wonderful giftee!! it’s me, your secret santa ❄️ thank you for filling out the tropes form, it gave me good insight into your likes and dislikes!
i’m sorry i’ve been a little MIA, but i’ve been working on a little surprise for you!! you should go to @velaris-secret-santa to check out what i have planned for you 😄
hope you like it!
No worries Santa <3 I've been ill for the past week or so, so I wasn't online when you initially sent this in :') (I'm sorry for the delay in my response)
This is such a wonderful surprise to come back to! I'm practically speechless. Thank you so much this is such a kind and heartwarming gesture! I'm sorry I'm not also preparing a gift for you too, Santa. I want to be able to give you something in return, this is so nice :')
i have a couple of questions for you to help me know your tastes a little better:
what do you like most about mor and emerie individually, and what do you like about them as a ship?
what’s your preferred rating level?
are there any tropes you love! anything to stay away from?
any emorie fics you have read that you like and would recommend?
then finally, just any preferences at all of things to include or not include!! i wanna make something special that you’ll really love 😄
thank you!! ☃️☃️
Hello santa! Goodness, big questions!
what do you like most about mor and emerie individually, and what do you like about them as a ship?
Mor - she seems warm, and kind. I don't imagine it would be an effort to hold a conversation with her.
Emerie - she seems very grounded. I imagine she's not the type to jump to assumptions, but to note things down and quietly keep them in mind.
As a ship - in my mind they're a little more of an 'opposites attract' pairing, so they compliment one another well. My interpretation is that both lean towards extroversion but in different ways. I imagine Mor enjoys directing conversations and actively bringing people together via shared interests, while Emerie enjoys participating in conversation with a more observatory role? In large, potentially unfamiliar groups at least. In a smaller, safer settings I like to think Emerie is the more chatty of the two, if that makes sense. Mor feels comfortable in a familiar group so doesn't feel the urge as much to be in control, while Emerie derives a lot of joy in sharing discussions with friends and getting to bask in the experience of being met with equal levels of enthusiasm.
Though in my mind, because of the lives they've led/upbringings they've had each's idea of themselves is very solidified, which I think makes them incredibly resilient characters but can also get in the way of seeing around their own perspectives at times.
what’s your preferred rating level?
I don't really watch films but from what I can gather I think I sit at a PG violence-wise. I don't enjoy blood or gore at all.
In terms of sexuality, I'm probably closer to a 15? Unlike violence, my tolerance for sexuality varies depending on the context. Imagining that any flirtation/touching that happens will probably be within the context of a sapphic ship I think most things will be fine? I'd rather not read something that's pure smut (I'm not sure I really get it), but if there's a lead up, emotional connection, and safety, I don't imagine smut will be a problem if that's something that ends up fitting the story you settle on.
fanfic that touches on mental disorders, addiction, or that feature characters who have a propensity for harming themselves/exhibiting self-sabotaging tendencies doesn't tend to bother me too much (general statement). Though I've no interest in the kind of stories that include these themes for the sake of shock-value.
are there any tropes you love! anything to stay away from?
I don't really know any tropes by name other than enemies to lovers, one bed, and I think I've heard something about being kidnapped by the mafia? I don't think I really like them.
any emorie fics you have read that you like and would recommend?
None in this context.
then finally, just any preferences at all of things to include or not include!!
Please no 'they got married, had a bunch of kids and lived happily ever after' ending.
I like a bit of teasing between characters. Actions, behaviours, or comments that express fondness are some of my favourites.
I wasn’t very helpful with your question about tropes so I found a tierlist! I may have misunderstood some, but I think this is about where I stand in regards to Emorie! 🩷
I’d like to add some clarifications too:
S tier - canonverse is my default, and I love it for its safety which is why I put it there.
A tier - again, coffee shop au and/or fluff are very safe picks for me. You couldn’t go wrong with them 🩷
B tier - I’m more or less neutral towards these! If you’d like to mix some in that you like please go ahead!
C tier - these depend on how they’re written, which makes it complicated. I’m not 100% opposed, but I’m a little apprehensive of them!
D tier - please, I fear these and beg you with tears in my eyes to not include them :’)
i have a couple of questions for you to help me know your tastes a little better:
what do you like most about mor and emerie individually, and what do you like about them as a ship?
what’s your preferred rating level?
are there any tropes you love! anything to stay away from?
any emorie fics you have read that you like and would recommend?
then finally, just any preferences at all of things to include or not include!! i wanna make something special that you’ll really love 😄
thank you!! ☃️☃️
Hello santa! Goodness, big questions!
what do you like most about mor and emerie individually, and what do you like about them as a ship?
Mor - she seems warm, and kind. I don't imagine it would be an effort to hold a conversation with her.
Emerie - she seems very grounded. I imagine she's not the type to jump to assumptions, but to note things down and quietly keep them in mind.
As a ship - in my mind they're a little more of an 'opposites attract' pairing, so they compliment one another well. My interpretation is that both lean towards extroversion but in different ways. I imagine Mor enjoys directing conversations and actively bringing people together via shared interests, while Emerie enjoys participating in conversation with a more observatory role? In large, potentially unfamiliar groups at least. In a smaller, safer settings I like to think Emerie is the more chatty of the two, if that makes sense. Mor feels comfortable in a familiar group so doesn't feel the urge as much to be in control, while Emerie derives a lot of joy in sharing discussions with friends and getting to bask in the experience of being met with equal levels of enthusiasm.
Though in my mind, because of the lives they've led/upbringings they've had each's idea of themselves is very solidified, which I think makes them incredibly resilient characters but can also get in the way of seeing around their own perspectives at times.
what’s your preferred rating level?
I don't really watch films but from what I can gather I think I sit at a PG violence-wise. I don't enjoy blood or gore at all.
In terms of sexuality, I'm probably closer to a 15? Unlike violence, my tolerance for sexuality varies depending on the context. Imagining that any flirtation/touching that happens will probably be within the context of a sapphic ship I think most things will be fine? I'd rather not read something that's pure smut (I'm not sure I really get it), but if there's a lead up, emotional connection, and safety, I don't imagine smut will be a problem if that's something that ends up fitting the story you settle on.
fanfic that touches on mental disorders, addiction, or that feature characters who have a propensity for harming themselves/exhibiting self-sabotaging tendencies doesn't tend to bother me too much (general statement). Though I've no interest in the kind of stories that include these themes for the sake of shock-value.
are there any tropes you love! anything to stay away from?
I don't really know any tropes by name other than enemies to lovers, one bed, and I think I've heard something about being kidnapped by the mafia? I don't think I really like them.
any emorie fics you have read that you like and would recommend?
None in this context.
then finally, just any preferences at all of things to include or not include!!
Please no 'they got married, had a bunch of kids and lived happily ever after' ending.
I like a bit of teasing between characters. Actions, behaviours, or comments that express fondness are some of my favourites.
hello!!! i am your secret santa for the acotar gift exchange, and i am so thrilled to be writing for you!! i was told that you are interested in an emorie fic, and i must commend you for your excellent taste in ships 🙌
i can’t wait to get to know you throughout the course of the event!! 🥰
Hullo hullo! I am excited to meet you!
I’m experiencing an Emorie moment in my life, currently, and I’m equally thrilled and curious to find someone else who’s interested in this pairing!
I look forward to chattering with you in the future, and hopefully also getting to know your thoughts and feelings on this ship 🩷🩷
a/n: no story, mostly vibes because it’s such a lovely prompt. The mood boards for today have been so wonderful too! I can’t wait to read everything else for this week 🩷🩷
For Day 2 of @tamlinweek : Dark Spring
warnings: vaguely angsty
word count: 300~
~~~~
The full moon sends down pale shafts of silver-blue light, pure and bright as it filters between the clouds. Cascading like the waterfall hidden in the woodland west of the manor, babbling with starlight. A long forgotten gift, from a long forgotten alliance.
Following the reflection of moonlight on the brook’s surface, the High Lord of Spring glides through the tall grass lining the banks until he reaches the cave’s mouth that smells of river water and stale, stagnant rock. His limbs are heavy, oddly placed and misshapen. One of the many consequences of grief reeked upon magical beings, grief that riddles bone marrow and sinks into one’s skull. Grief so deep it manifests itself into the bearer.
Long gone are those ivory antlers, the once great horns turned porous and weak, crumbling to the forests’ floor.
It had been decades since he had lost his court, and yet it was only when his crown had been stolen by the lightest breeze—dust swept away over the horizon—that the lost had sliced from above.
A weight had been lifted; the price for his head being cleaved from his shoulders.
A hunch has formed from so long spent as monster rather than fae, his spine gnarled and twisted, nails protruding from each knuckle of his fingers instead of the ones at their tips. Lion teeth pierce out from the sunken skin of his cheeks, and his hair no longer spills down his shoulders in blond cascades.
He should be as wretched on his outside as he is on his insides.
The ancient High Lord crawls into the cave, both relieved by the dark and loathe to it.
How come the dark was given the penalty of perishing.
Why not him? Why is he the one left to roam such a vast, desolate land?
There’s nothing left to preserve. Nothing left to care for. Nothing left to fight over, nor protect.
He might be the last one alive, on this damned island.
warnings: mostly fluff, but some Sad Eris Backstory
word count: 1.2k ~
At times, even the sun is too much to bear. Scorching, even from afar.
Wind whispers through wild grass, stiff and dead, dancing in the breeze as the valley exhales.
On the opposing hillside, horses roam wild, grazing in their earthen nooks and bathing beneath stout, gnarled trees, their paddocks not far off. Water twinkles, babbling its way to the valley’s trough and sheep make their crossing in the shallowest part, treading rain-water into the opposing bank while pebbles are tossed and turned on the brook’s bed. Hayfields grow nearby, sprouting figures from their earth that are hoisted upon thick wooden stakes, tartan sleeves billowing, wind filling where straw cannot reach.
The hills in the Autumn southwest have always carried a certain safety to them—isolated from the rest of Prythian by the bracken-covered hilltops, a mixed weather system unlike anywhere else in the Court. Resting here, upon these lonely hills, the climate is pleasant. The hot draughts that flow from Summer into Autumn soothed by the dewy damp, scorching sunlight filtered through patchy shade and dappled by misty cloud cover. The heat is neither stifling nor lacking, and the balanced humidity keeps his throat from becoming parched.
Not to mention the scents.
The freshly whipped air that cools his skin like mint on his tongue—it’s the scent that catches in his mate’s hair. Long, fiery locks windswept and fresh, somehow at once carrying the crisp bite of the chilled brook, the scent of the open breeze, and the kind of dewy dampness that—rather than stagnating flavours—draws from nature’s creations, extracting only the purest scents to tangle and swirl in the wind.
A page turns.
Azriel’s attention shifts to the male sat besides him, upper body propped upon a checkered cushion, obnoxiously layered atop the quilted blanket.
It’s a sight to see; one he’ll never tire of.
Amber eyes don’t leave the page as narrow lips part, “Don’t even think about it.”
A short breath huffs from Azriel’s mouth, quirking up at the edges.
Stern eyes flick to his, sharp and unamused. The softness in his own features grows, fondness sprouting though his chest and he has to swallow it down. It’s been decades, and it still gets to him. The longing, and the knowledge that longing can now be remedied at any time.
Almost any time.
Eris’ eyes return to his book, but he leaves his attention behind. “I told you to bring your own.”
“I didn’t realise you would be so set on ignoring me,” Azriel replies, satisfied to see those narrow lips twitching at their corners, attempting to remain unruffled. “I’m not ignoring you,” his mate replies, “I’m doing what gives me most pleasure.” Azriel laughs, settling atop the blanket besides his mate, eyes sliding closed, “Is that not me?”
“You’re doing nothing.”
“I could be doing something.”
Irritation flashes through amber eyes, but they don’t remove themselves from the book.
It gives Azriel pause, gaze reopening to focus on his mate’s profile. Narrow brows and a locked jaw; a mouth filled with displeasure. Shadows that had previously be splayed across the blanket now begin to spool themselves tighter, quirking and circling around the two.
Azriel keeps still, attention tracing the cold cut of his mate’s features, harsh against the clouding skies. Time ticks by, but no more pages are turned, amber eyes repeatedly retracing sentences, then drifting to the upper corner of his page as thought takes over.
Azriel looks away, studying the fibres of the quilt. “What’s keeping you from sleeping?”
The question had started between them on account of the many sleepless nights he would experience. If Eris would awake and find him quiet, the silence would be broken with that very question. What’s keeping you from sleeping?
Soon enough memories had been welling in his throat and slipping from between the cage of his teeth.
What’s keeping you awake? What’s disturbing your rest? What’s bothering you?
I want to know.
Eris is silent, features tight. Then his chest rises, a heavy exhale misting the air as it breathes from his lips. “The first lover I had…when my father found him, he was executed, then strung up in the fields beneath my window. I was forbidden from leaving my room.”
Tension leaks across the bond—a distant tide restrained by a fishing net.
A hunger for violence burns delicately beneath Azriel’s skin, quietly aching to repay every perceived ounce of pain his mate has been dealt by his father. So many awful memories have been shared, and while centuries have passed for Eris, they are fresh wounds to Azriel. Fresh fury for the male now shredded and returned to the soil.
The sheep have finished their crossing, winding their way up narrow-trodden pathways to reach the hilltop in favour of flattened land to graze upon. At the hill’s peak the misty cloud cover has parted, shining watery warmth down upon thick, luscious bracken.
“Shall we settle elsewhere?” Azriel asks, remaining reclined though tension is needling his muscles. “They’re just scarecrows,” Eris mutters, at last turning a page. “My father is dead. He has nothing over me.”
It’s spoken as a statement, but Azriel’s chest tightens.
At last he can’t help himself, in part because it’s too much, but mostly because he wants to, and he can, around Eris. He sits up on the blanket, arm reaching across his mate’s torso, dipping his head to be within the hollow of Eris’ arms so their eyes can find one another. Azriel watches, unspeaking.
A breeze blows, and strands of copper hair float across the pale skin of Eris’ throat, snagging behind his ears and curving beneath his jaw. The wind dies down once again, fading to peace.
Azriel tilts his head, then presses their mouths together.
Lips slant, then still. A slight pressure and heat, but basking in the sensation. Treasuring and memorising every feel he can catalogue.
Eventually a hint of Eris’ tension thaws, arms relaxing over Azriel’s shoulders, the book forgotten as it slips between his wings. Long, dexterous fingers curve themselves against his back, and warmth begins to spread along his front. The narrow, rosey lips beneath his own shift, chin inclining in response as the kiss deepens.
Any words of reassurance Azriel can think of seem pointless in the face of what he’s trying to communicate. The impossibly vast realm contained within his body that’s entirely for the male beneath him—how to convey the depth of that conviction with only words at his disposal.
Further strain melts from Eris’ posture, body settling into the cushioning. Is there a possibility he might be able to sense that presence within Azriel’s own body? That he might understand that inexpressible space of tenderness because it resides within Eris, also?
He hadn’t considered the possibility of being felt for in that same way, and yet now it seems obvious.
Azriel hopes it’s true.
He pulls away, leaving enough room only to breathe.
Amber eyes slide open a few moments later, not quite entirely awake, and his chest again aches.
“I love you,” Azriel whispers, their lips already half-touching. “And I won’t leave you.”
It’s a painful conviction he can’t prove. One only time can verify.
One that, for now at least, day after day, Eris can only choose to believe.
We've reached the end of this fic!! Happy New Year @velarisbynight and to everyone who finds this. And thanks again @acotargiftexchange for being the reason why I got to write this 🩵
Synopsis: Winter Solstice is a magical time that is best celebrated with loved ones. It is a time of hope and renewal; often also of surprises. These are particularly true for Elain and Gwyn who, for three consecutive years, will experience how special Solstice can be.
Word count: 1.9k
Read the previous chapter here
Read on Ao3 here or below the cut
Twas the eve of Solstice, a year after their first kiss and two after they first met, when Gwyneth Berdara and Elain Archeron relaxed on the couch of a little apartment in Velaris. The one they had been sharing for the past three months, although the place had been Elain’s for five more months prior.
Being with Gwyn had made her realise more things about herself than she had expected. After so long of living under her sister’s and brother in law’s roof, Elain had wanted her own independence. Not only because she wanted to feel more like the grown female she was, but also because the privacy she often wanted with Gwyn was lacking when all she had to herself at the River House was her bedroom. It hadn’t taken much for Gwyn – after many comings and goings and overnight stays – to accept Elain’s proposal to move in with her once she had also decided to leave her previous place, or the library beneath the House of Wind in her case. And now they were building a nest of their own.
Both Elain and Gwyn loved their family dearly. But as their relationship had progressed this past year, they had both began to crave more alone time in a place that would feel more familiar to only them. They still loved their outings which had become even better when they had turned into dates once they were officially together. But being inside a house, doing mundane things and developing a routine together truly made them feel at home. A home that had transformed into the perfect mix of them, an extension of their bubble of joy and love.
Currently, the living room of their apartment in Velaris, like the rest of the little home, was a sight to behold, courtesy of a very fun decorating session a whole month before Solstice.
A big white tree decorated with coloured ornaments stood proud in a corner of the room, gift boxes meant for their friends and family using as decoration under it until they were gifted away. Leafy green garlands strung along the walls. Even Gwyn’s beloved floor to ceiling bookshelf on the other side of room was adorned with garlands and little trinkets in the theme of the season.
Twinkling yellow faelights illuminated the living area, the orange flame Gwyn had lit with her magic in the hearth and the golden ones of the ivory candles randomly placed adding even more light and coziness to the room.
There was also a gingerbread house made by Elain and decorated by both that was placed on a small table next to the tree. Despite the fact that Gwyn had baked with Elain countless times, it was still obvious which parts of it had been decorated by whom. Gwyn had very dexterous fingers that worked great for various tasks, but learning to properly ice biscuits was still a work in progress for her. But the joy and pride that lit up her face when she achieved decent results was worth more to Elain than any perfect icing.
Anyone who had visited them lately had commented on the decorations and scents that constantly enveloped the Little House – as they had so appropriately named it. Some days Winter woods, others sky gazing at Night, or even Autumn evening by the fire, the couple made good use of the scented candles and soaps Elain had begun collecting from her trips as emissary. And something Gwyn indulged her with whenever her research or missions across Prythian afforded her a few minutes of shopping.
Tonight’s ambience didn’t need any scented candle however. The room was already perfumed by their favourite scent; that of the both of them combined. Gwyn’s fresh and fruity natural scent and Elain ever-present floral one. The delicious mix had been rendered headier from their preceding activities. When they had been tangled in each other, exploring and adoring each other with lips, tongues and hands; whispering or moaning praises and promises.
The first time that they had come together like this had been both a revelation and a confirmation for Elain. It had felt like pure, unadulterated magic resulting only from their skin touching and the love that they had for each other. It still felt like this every time. And it left Elain amazed every time.
“What are you thinking about?” Gwyn asked, her head resting on Elain’s lap.
“I’m simply enjoying this,” she said, her fingers brushing through Gwyn’s unbound hair, admiring how beautifully the copper strands caught the light in the rooms.
Her eyes trailed down to the rest of her body that was stretched out on the comfortable couch. Gwyn’s silk nightgown was a perfect match to Elain’s save for the colour which was baby blue instead of periwinkle.
Elain smiled at the finger that Gwyn brushed down her cheek before moving it to tuck her hair behind her ear.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt more at peace,” Gwyn whispered.
Elain could do nothing else but agree. The world was still unpredictable and often unsafe. With both of them being active members of the Night Court’s inner circle, they saw and heard not just the good but also the terrible things that occurred in every courts and beyond. But this moment they shared, right here and now, as well as many others before that, was proof that life could be beautiful, if only one chose the right direction to look at.
This was peace and happiness. And Elain chose to go through life by the side of the only one who could make her feel this way.
“Do you think we will still be like this in a thousand years? When will be all wrinkly and grey hair and when our boobs are sagging to the ground?”
Elain laughed. She wasn’t even aware that the fae could get this old. She had seen a few glimpses of the future with Gwyn but none that went as far as what she was asking.
Gwyn put a finger on her chin and looked in the fire contemplatingly as she said, “I probably won’t be able to lift you up so you can reach the higher cabinets by then.”
“I’ll still use the step stool you gave me,” Elain told her, referring to the one Gwyn had given her in the very first week that Elain had moved in the Little House. She had even painted the steps a soft mint green to match the main colour of the kitchen.
“Yes but it’s more fun when I do it.”
Elain leaned down and kissed her. “I’m sure we’ll find other ways to have fun.”
There was never a boring day with them anyway. Some days were quieter and more serene than others, but it wasn’t boring. Those days were a necessity in between their hectic work life, family time or even when they went beyond the Night Court, not for their duties but for the sake of adventuring together.
Elain felt Gwyn’s hand around her neck, pulling her down to no doubt return her kiss with another. But she stopped as the clock struck midnight.
“Oh! It’s officially Solstice,” Gwyn exclaimed with as much excitement as a child.
She shot up from the couch and reached the tree in a speed that would make the wind envious. Elain followed her with a laugh.
As it had already been decided, they would each give one of the gifts they had gotten for the other and save the rest to be opened on Solstice dinner with the rest of their family the following evening.
Elain picked up a small box wrapped in a blue paper with a white ribbon. She followed Gwyn once again, the two of them sitting this time directly on the cream plush rug in front of the fireplace. She handed Gwyn her gift and took the box she was given, red with a green bow on it.
“You go first,” Elain exclaimed, having caught up with Gwyn’s excitement at the anticipation of seeing her reaction. She bit her lip, and impatiently waited as Gwyn slowly opened her gift.
Gwyn gasped, stunned by what was delicately placed inside the white box that she found underneath the wrapping. A pair of small dagger earrings, the silver gleaming, as did the smooth round bright blue gem at the pommel. Next to them were more tiny little gems in the same blue, one for each of the holes in her pointed ears.
“These are beautiful,” she whispered, her eyes getting teary. She looked up at Elain, her smile bright as she said, “I love them.”
Not just because they were now the most precious jewellery in her small collection – Gwyn could already imagine how fierce she would look with these on at her next visit to the Hewn City – but also because they had been gifted to her by the one she felt a bottomless love for.
“Don’t start crying or you’ll make cry too,” Elain said with a laugh that made her laugh too.
Gwyn had often wished that she could bottle that laugh to always keep it with her. Something that she could sprinkle in her days to instantly make them better. But now that they lived together, shared almost everything with each other, Elain’s laugh was but one of the things that Gwyn counted as blessings. Their lives were not devoid of bad days and their relationship not lacking in arguments. But there was so much that Gwyn was grateful for. Elain’s smile, her habits and little quirks, the hope and light that she brought to her life. And more than any piece of pretty jewellery, the gift that Elain herself represented as her best friend and her life partner.
Gwyn wiped away the single tear that these thoughts had caused to fall down her cheek.
“It’s your turn now,” she said, hoping that Elain would like her gift as much as she did hers. “I think you will have a use for my gift pretty soon,” she added with a wink.
Elain stared at her for a moment, before she ripped the paper apart. Gwyn’s doubts disappeared at the loud squeal that she let out upon opening the black box inside. Elain took the content out and brought it up with parted lips and wonder in her eyes.
It reminded Gwyn of her own amazement when she had first been shown the gold comb that she had custom made by the jeweller. Elain shifted the comb in her hands, admiring the delicate butterflies among the orchids that were coloured with tiny, clear and purple crystals that caught all the lights that shone on top and around them.
“This will go perfectly with my lavender dress tomorrow night.” She grinned .
Without any warning, Elain launched herself on top of Gwyn and tackled her to the ground.
“You are the best girlfriend I ever had,” she giggled in the crook of her neck.
Gwyn hugged her back and laughed. “I’m the only girlfriend you ever had, honey.”
Elain pulled away, grabbed her face with her gift still in hand and gave her a loud kiss on the mouth.
“And I want it to stay that way.” They both sat up, not bothering to adjust their nightgowns which had risen up and had slightly slid down their shoulders.
Gwyn also wanted it to always stay like this. Elain and Gwyn. Gwyn and Elain. Walking the journey through life together, one Solstice after another.
Thank you so much for being such a wonderful Secret Santa! I was kind of nervous to participate, both to write for someone and be written for, but you have honestly made this such a lovely experience! I love your idea of having three parts for a separate year of solstice so we get to see these two incline toward one another - it was so sweet seeing them come together, and spotting all the details you included in every part was so heartwarming and genuinely astonishing to see how attentive you've been <3
But oh my goodness the gifts! I want to talk about the gifts!!
Elain giving Gwyn those miniature dagger earrings with the blue jewel at the pommel and stud was such an adorable idea and so fitting for Gwyn. I remember you mentioning accessorises for her and conjuring the visual of Gwyn tying her hair back with twin daggers and I can totally see it! Plus the overall colour scheme makes my heart melt because I love colour representation in fics :')
And then Elain's present from Gwyn??? PERFECTION! Your descriptions were absolute magic, I could imagine each gift thanks to your detail, and again, I love gwyn having silver and Elain having gold like a sun and moon parallel because celestial imagery?? So stunningly beautiful! :')
Thank you so much for taking the time to write such an amazing story 🩷🩷 Every part has brought such a wide smile to my face and my heart is always fluttering at the end of each one - you've done such an incredible job too with managing to time this all! I don't know how you managed to organise it so well but I appreciate all the effort and thought you've clearly put in 🩷🩷
