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adreamof-spring · 7 months

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Forced to suffer through Devlon's brutal training regimen at the Illyrian war camps, Rhysand and Cassian have learned to hate one another. But through the pain, perhaps they've also found a kindred spirit.

Written for Rhysandweek2023. Prompt: Illyrian Warrior. Warnings: bullying, corporal punishment of minors, mentions of racism @officialrhysandweek

Rhysand’s arms and wings ached with a fury he’d never felt before.

He stood amongst the line of other Illyrian teens, all grouped from the ages of thirteen to fifteen. They held stones high above their heads, arms trembling from the weight of it. Their wings were spread wide at the command of the Illyrian soldiers that ambled between them. The men shouted and barked their orders, and when they saw a wing dip low, or drag against the muddy ground, they’d crack a wooden switch against their backs leaving a red-hot line in their wake.

This, the general Devlon had said, was how you raise boys to be men; how you hew strength from weakness.

Rhysand, along with the other twenty-some-odd teenagers, stood in a single-file line, body tense. Sweat had matted Rhys’s raven-black hair against his face. He grit his teeth and looked up to see the trembling of is arms as he held the stone above his head.

“Wings up!” Devlon barked. Rhys heard the crack of a switch against flesh, and the sharp yelp of a boy further down the line.

Rhysand flexed the muscles along his back, pulling his wings up incrementally. He’d already suffered four lashes, more than most the other boys.

The sun crested along the mountain peaks, dipping low towards the valley. A wash of orange and purple spread across the evening sky. It felt like they’d been at this for hours now, arms and wings burning with effort despite the frigid chill of the evening air.

No sooner did his wing slump to the ground than he felt the biting sting of the switch against his back. With a hiss, Rhysand righted himself, nearly losing his grip on the rock. Humiliation and anger heated his cheeks. That was the fifth lash, more than any other boy had taken. He had been the weakest, and the thought alone was enough to make his stomach roil with indignation.

“Enough for tonight,” Devlon groused, his beady eyes flashing with distaste as he looked upon those he trained.

One by one, the boys dropped their stones with a huff. Rhys tumbled the rock out of his hands and flexed his fingers as he felt the rush of blood surge back down his arms.

“Runt,” was all Rhys heard before two rough hands had shoved him out of the way.

Rhys stumbled but caught himself, whipping to face the other boy with a growl. Anger flared in his chest, a vicious, rabid thing that had only been exacerbated by the cruel environment of the war camp. He’d always had a biting temper. His mother said he’d gotten it from his father, though it was a remark he’d fiercely resented.

Rhysand shoved the boy back, his hands still numb and tingling from the lack of blood-flow. The boy, Cassian, was older than him by a year, and considerably larger, as if honed by the wilderness itself.

Cassian narrowed his hazel eyes, fingers twitching. “Watch it.”

The two been fast rivals and enemies upon meeting, with Cassian having taken a particular joy in targeting Rhys. ‘Momma’s boy’ was the usual caustic quip that wagged off Cassian’s tongue. Rhys hated the boy and the cut of his tone. Just another resentment for him to mark against his heart in the coldness of the Illyrian mountains.

Rhys was so exhausted from training that he could feel his wings sagging again. He knew he wouldn’t win a fight against Cassian—he rarely ever did even when he was fresh in the sparring pit.

Yet Rhys threw a fist at him anyway.

Where Cassian was strong, Rhys was fast and had the advantage of speed. His fist connected painfully with the boy’s cheek. Cassian grunted, and in the space of a breath he shot out towards Rhys, tackling him into the ground.

They were a tangle of limbs and wings, rolling in the mud and throwing fist after fist.

The others around them whooped and hollered, egging them on with hands pumping through the air. Cassian pinned Rhys to the ground, and with devastating effectiveness he swung his forehead into Rhysand’s nose to deliver a brutal headbutt.

Blood sprayed, and Rhys could feel his nose crunch under the force of the hit. Wet, hot tears sprung from his eyes as he tried to hold back the howl of pain. It came out as a pitiful whimper instead. He heard the laughter of those watching and knew this would paint another target on his back.

‘Men don’t cry,’ Devlon had said to them with a disgusted, heavy sneer on their first day. But tears streamed from Rhysand’s eyes anyway, and he felt the humiliation and shame of it like the twist of a knife.

“Pull the little bastard boy off him, will you?” Devlon said to one of the Illyrian men.

Cassian and Rhys were pulled apart by large, calloused hands. Both boys were bleeding, a fact that brought Rhysand some small swell of pride.

“You,” Devlon’s lips thinned as he addressed Cassian, who glared up at him in return. “You’re a bastard-born ingrate, and this is why even your mother can’t stomach the sight of you.”

Though Cassian didn’t so much as flinch, Rhys felt a flicker of emotion surge from the boy. A deep, bone-weary heartache and hurt that flashed briefly at the mention of Cassian’s mother and his illegitimate status. Quick as he could, Cassian buried that pain behind blustering, venomous thoughts. Rhys sucked in a breath and quickly pulled himself back out of Cassian’s mind, feeling somewhat guilty for having accidentally slid along the edge of the boy’s consciousness. Though hardly a bastard, Rhys understood his outrage, and something like sympathy blossomed between the anger and resentment nestled in his chest.

Devlon continued his scathing verbal onslaught. “You fight when I tell you to fight. You don’t do a gods-damned thing I don’t order you to do. Is that clear?”

Rhys could see the struggle on Cassian’s face as he bit back whatever angry retort he’d been holding in. Devlon turned to Rhys next, and all thoughts of Cassian dissipated at the pure contempt that his steely gaze fixed him with.

“Our little lordling has a temper, does he?”

Rhys swallowed but didn’t speak.

Devlon stalked towards him slowly, evaluating Rhysand with that cold, cutting gaze. Loathing. Disgust. It was as if his very existence had offended him. For a boy of only fourteen, Rhysand could read the emotions that swirled in Devlon’s eyes as if he had been screaming them into his ear.

The general leaned down, face merely inches from Rhysand’s own, and spoke low. “You’re pathetic. Barely even Illyrian. It’s by the grace of your father,” he spit the word out like it was poison, “that I even allow you within my camp, you half-breed scum.”

‘Half-breed.’

Rhysand was seven the first time he’d heard that word whispered in the halls of his father’s court. It was murmured on the tongues of passersby, quick and quiet. He hadn’t known what it meant, but he could see the flash of disapproval in their eyes, the way they quickly averted their gaze and carried on. It had confused him—left him him with a nettling sensation, like the prick of a thorn in the pit of his stomach. Something was wrong, he knew.

The word sat heavy in his chest, tightening around his insides like a coil. He would look at his reflection in the mirror sometimes, wondering what it was that everyone else saw—what it was that he couldn’t see. He’d asked his mother what it meant once. Her eyes had welled with tears and her wings had sagged. She held him, cradled him to herself and silently wept. Though he couldn’t put it to words, he knew then that he was wrong.

“The next time I see you cry, I’ll pin you up by your wings. Now get out of my sight, both of you.”

With a shove, Rhysand and Cassian were let go. Rhys’s face was swollen from the fight with Cassian, but he barely felt the pain of it. There was a hollowness in his chest, a weight in his heart that beat to the tune of half-breed, half-breed.

Beneath a thick line of lashes, Rhys looked to Cassian and caught his stare, and for half a heartbeat he saw recognition there. A flurry of pain and anger looked back at him, swirling in hazel eyes, but those emotions weren’t directed at him. They knew—they both knew that there was an injustice to their station, an injustice for something that neither one could change. No more could Cassian and Rhys pluck the color from their eyes than could they change those immutable parts of themselves that the rest of the world seemed to hate.

Blood was blood, and they were what they would always be.

But for the first time since Rhysand had arrived at Windhaven, he felt seen. And perhaps...perhaps Cassian did, too.

Rhys turned his back to the other boy and took the slow, ambling trail back to the house he slept in. ‘House he slept in’ because he refused to call it his home, no matter how long he’d been here.

His mother sat at the table, her hands gripping needle and thread as she idly stitched. Her eyes immediately cut to the crusted blood beneath his nose. Wordlessly she rose, chair scraping against the wooden floor as she grabbed a rag and dipped it in water.

Rhys held up his hand to wave her away, but she only pursed her lips and moved closer. “I’m fine, I can do it,” he sighed and held his hand out to take the rag.

Hand on her hip, she pressed the rag into his hand and watched him flinch in pain while he dabbed at his tender nose. “Rhys,” she said expectantly.

Rhys hissed, pain lancing through the center of his face, but avoided her silent question. She always knew when something was wrong beyond the scrapes and bruises. He loved it for it, well and truly loved her, but he didn’t want to talk about it. Not here. Not with her. Not with how her eyes teared and her face crumpled with the knowledge that others hated him for what he couldn’t change.

“What’s the matter?” she tried once more.

“Nothing.”

Silence again. A stand-off they’d had many times before.

Finally she relented, turning back to the needle and thread that she busied herself with.

He felt a pang of guilt but pushed it down.

It was for the best. -----------------------

Each day the mountains grew colder, winter moving into the valleys with its icy grip. The peaks turned white with snow, and there was a blistering cold that seeped into one’s bones even when sat next to the heat of a blazing fire.

Rhys couldn’t help but watch how Cassian would drift to the edge of the war camp after training, towards the line of tall, sentinel trees. He knew Cassian had staked a small tent around the outskirts, but he’d never thought to follow him out and see it with his own eyes.

He hated Cassian and yet...he still felt a twinge of sympathy when he looked upon the thin, drab cloth of the tent and the dismal little fire that crackled outside.

Rhysand paced from a distance, caught between two minds. Should he offer help? Leave him? Would Cassian even want his help? But Rhys kept coming back to the moment he’d slipped into Cassian’s mind. It haunted him, plagued him with a curiosity and some strange sense of similarity. He wanted to be seen again—wanted someone to meet his eyes with understanding.

Rhys curled his wings closer as a cold gust of wind cut through his leathers and bit into his flesh. With a final, aggravated sigh Rhys trudged towards the tent and whipped through the entrance.

Cassian was no more than a lump on the ground with pelts and furs stacked atop him. Cassian’s gaze snapped to the intruder but he didn’t move, perhaps too frozen to the ground to peel himself away.

“Come on,” Rhysand said to the boy.

Cassian glared at him from beneath the fur blankets, nothing but the sliver of skin around his eyes visible. His teeth chattered from the biting wind and cold that pierced the tent.

“I said come on,” Rhys said a little more insistently this time. He nudged the boy with his boot but held his gaze, as if to prove that he wasn’t moving an inch until Cassian did as he was told.

Wordlessly, Cassian rose but kept himself bundled in fur. They slipped out of the meager tent and into the howling, snow-crusted night. Wind whipped at their faces, scuttling their hair haphazardly around their heads. Rhys led them to the small stone building he shared with his mother.

The wooden door groaned as Rhys pushed it open, the two of them spilling into the warmth of the space as quickly as their legs would carry them.

Rhysand’s mother turned to greet him, but paused as she saw Cassian swathed like a bairn. She lifted a brow, her eyes cutting to her son in question. “Are we taking in strays now?”

“He doesn’t have anywhere else,” Rhys responded and looked away, unable to meet the question in her gaze. He knew his father would consider this a weakness of character—one of Rhysand’s many flaws. His mother sighed and turned back to the pot of food to give it a stir.

“Sit,” she ordered. Rhysand slumped into the seat at the table and rubbed his hands together for warmth, but Cassian remained frozen in the doorway. “Both of you,” she added pointedly.

He did as he was told.

After a few silent minutes, Rhysand’s mother placed two steaming bowls of stew in front of them. Rhys eagerly reached for the bowl, but stopped short as his mother slapped the ladle on the table with a thwack. “No more misbehaving from either of you. If one of you decides to be an ass, then neither of you will eat. Got it?” His mother held the both of them in a hard stare, eyebrows cleaved into a frown.

Rhys muttered a lackluster agreement, and Cassian nodded.

They dug into their meal, Cassian shoveling the food down his mouth with the eagerness of a man who hadn't eaten in a week.

As the two finished, Rhys’s mother looked to Cassian. “There’s a tub and hot water. Get yourself clean and then into bed,” she motioned to one of the sleeping cots off to the side. Cassian balked, mouth hanging agape. Her face softened at that look, at the sheer disbelief and awe on his face. “The bed is yours for as long as you need.”

Rhysand watched Cassian pick his mouth up off the table and make a beeline for the washing room. When Cassian was out of sight, she leaned forward and planted a kiss on the crown of Rhysand’s head and gave his hair a gentle ruffle. He tried swatting her away, but a smile quirked his lips despite himself.

“Goodnight, Rhys,” she said with some affection before heading for the door.

Cassian had been quick to bathe. He stepped out of the washroom in his full leathers and eyed the cot, noting the clean pair of pajamas laid out for him.

“They’re for you. You can’t sleep in your leathers.”

Cassian shot Rhys a wary look. Kindness and charity were not common in the war camps, and Rhys knew he’d had to fight for every scrap of cloth he owned. But finally Cassian relented and stripped the leathers off in favor of the woolen pajamas. Cassian sat on the edge of the bed across the room from Rhysand.

Slowly, Rhys began, trying not to fumble his words, “What Devlon said…” He didn’t need to specify what it was that Devlon had said—Cassian would know. The term ‘bastard’ always hung in the air like a wet cloud.

Cassian froze, every inch of his body going rigid. Rhys could see the shift in Cassian’s demeanor, the boy on edge and ready to fight with a single misstep.

But Rhys pushed the words out, he needed to get them off his chest. “Forget what he said. You might be a bastard but...you hit harder than all the rest of them.” He scrunched his nose and pinched the bridge of it, remembering the absolute brutality of the other boy’s fists. Rhys inwardly cringed at the inelegance of his words, but he hoped his meaning had been conveyed: ‘I see you.’

Cassian’s eyes went wide with shock. If anyone had ever given him solace for his status, it must have been few and far between. “I—“ Cassian started but stopped, his mouth opening and closing a couple times. With a quick and awkward shuffle, Cassian laid himself down in the cot and turned to face the wall, giving Rhysand no more than the view of his back.

Silence spread in the low light of the room.

Quietly, Cassian spoke. “You’re...you’re just as much an Illyrian as everyone else here, Rhys.”

The words folded into the cracks of Rhysand’s soul with an aching intensity. He hadn’t realized how much he’d longed to hear those words. His mother had always been the voice of reassurance in the past, though it was never the same when the comfort was coming from those whose love was unconditional.

Rhys stared at Cassian’s back as if he could see right through him.

“I still hate you,” Cassian stammered, unable to let the moment become too soft. “But...thank you.”

A small smile curled Rhysand’s mouth. “I hate you, too.”

#acotar #rhysand #pro rhysand #cassian #rhysandweek2023 #@officialrhysandweek #prompt: Illyrian Warrior #rhysand fanfiction #look at our babies grow

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casuallivi · 2 years

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Azriel Week 2022. Day 5. Ships (elriel)

Prelude: The Whims of Fate, The Wills of Fae

This fic can also be read as a prelude to The Things You Like, The Ones You Don't. The opening act was polished with the help of this gem ;) Hope you guys enjoy the ride, you can let me know your thoughts anytime ;)

Summary: His life is harsh, his job is strenuous, his responsibilities are endless. His relief is one and only.

Warnings: explicit language, violence. Set during ACOFAS.

Word Count: 3853

Velaris. Two months after Solstice.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The slow rhythmic drip of water brought Leon back to conscious. He wheezed, the coppery stench in the air making he realize it wasn’t water that dripped. Blood. Blood dripped down his nose, splattering on the cold stone. His former chains were discharged a couple feet from his mangled body, for Leon was slowly dying on the unfamiliar floor. His lungs expanded, trying to collect air, and Leon moaned painfully, the shattered ribs radiating pain all over his torso with every little amount of air that he managed to pull in. He tried to move, but all he could do was wheeze a painful breath. Everything hurt. He couldn’t feel one of his arms.

His face was a mess, his cheekbones sunk into the muscles, his nose a pulp of blood, his eyes so swelled, it took him a moment to manage to see through the blood coagulating in his eyeballs, the glimpse of white bone poking thought his left arm sucking another painful whimper out of him, his loose teeth flooding his mouth with blood. Leon didn’t even have enough strength left to spit it. He gagged on it, a silent pray for the gods dying between his useless unmovable lips. Mother, spare your child. Cauldron, have mercy on your son. They would not hear him. The subterrain cells buried deep down the confines of Hewn Mountain was not a place the gods could reach. No. Only the scum earned that privilege.

The events of the day blurred in his feeble mind. It seemed like a life time ago when Leon was captured within the borders of Night Court after making his trade in Day. Getting caught wasn’t an ideal situation, but Leon was your usual thief. He was a master of his craft, and escape was an art he had perfected along the centuries. He went as far as escaping from the infamous Illyrian general during the last war, avoiding the military draft as the rest of the losers in his village.

The Mother knew Leon was a big male, meant for a big destiny. Dying as a nobody, in the middle of a war that had nothing to do with him, was not in his plans. So what if they had him in hold for now? He would escape anyways. Leon was a tall male, but he wasn’t a burly tug who couldn’t go by unnoticed, solving his problems with his fist. His body was slender with finely build muscles, his brown eyes and black hair granting him the perfect common features to be dismissed in a crowd without a second glance, the adversities on the way being solved with the help of his cunning intellect. That, and the bit of coercive magic he was born with.

Blink once, he slashed the pocket of coins from your breeches. Blink twice, he was gone among the mass of bodies. Despite the fact he could steal without attracting attention, Leon had no desire to remain as a measly pocket picker. He built a fame for himself, accepted jobs not even the sliest of thieves would dare to attempt, he even robbed from the vaults of the High Lord of Spring. In time, his fame rendered him a few apprentices, they formed a little group, which later on grow into a massive band of thieves, tricksters, traders, messengers, mercenaries and killers. Whatever you needed, the Hel Raising Faes could got you, and Leon was their leader. The master of all crafts.

He remembered laughing earlier that evening, dumbfounded at the insult of being put in regular iron chains, the same material one would use to bound a lesser fae. How dare these assholes think such a primitive holder would keep him down? They would need magic-restrictive chains to hold a high rank male like him, even then Leon would not be going down without a fight. As every good thief, Leon took notice of all the details while being dragged down the dungeon. He counted two exits placed on opposite end of the corridor, ten holding cells displayed on each side of his block, all of them awfully silent as if there wasn't a single prisoner behind those doors. Which couldn't be true since Leon could hear them breathing, even catching a pair of golden eyes caged by an open hatch.

The Illyrian guard in charge of him pushed Leon through an open door. He bid his time, looking around the badly lit cell, taking in the four dark damp stone walls covered slick mold. Despite having heard the guards talking about his interrogation, Leon noted the lack of structure and torturing devices in the room. No hooks on the wall or the ceiling to hang a prisoner, no metal table displaying sadistic gear, no roaring fire with metal spikes to burn him. In fact, the only things in the cell were Leon, the guard, and two simple chairs. He scorned at them.

The guard shoved him down the wood chair and left. Leon watched him close the metal door, judging the quadrangular hatch big enough to stick a head. Fucking idiots. If you could stick a head, the rest of the body goes with ease. He waited for the familiar sound of a key turning, a lock being put in place. He heard nothing but the steps of his jailor getting farther.

Inching forward on his chair, Leon noticed two things. 1) The chair wasn't fixed on the stone floor, but simply put there, as one would place a piece of run-down furniture in a tavern; 2) He wasn't bound to the meek chair, his arms were only wrapped around the back, his wrists trapped together. With a furious snarl he snatched the chains, kicking the chair with rage, the thing coming apart as it collapsed against the back wall. Leon spit on it. How dare them threat him as if he was just a common thief caught in Night soil. He was the fucking leader of Hel Raising Faes, for fucks sakes, he–

"I see you renounced your privilege of sitting." Leon whirled back to see the other chair was no longer empty, a male sat there. He squinted at him. The cell was dark, but he should have been able to see his features from this distance, yet, he could see nothing except for the vague shape of a male, as if darkness itself molded around him. “Pity.”

Leon’s upper lip peeling over his teeth, a warning growl directed at the unknow male.

“Who the fuck you supposed to be? The headsmale?” he laughed at his own joke.

The male didn’t respond. Instead, he reached inside his jacket to pull out an object Leon knew well. The solid gold brass knuckles, with sharp spikes on the edges, glinted in his hands, the letters HRF, with flames burning behind it, inscripted on the side were carved by him.

"That's mine," he growled in warning.

"Is it?" The male twirled the brass. "I see you are a talker, then,” he threw the brass up and caught it in the air. “Tsk. That’s no fun.”

“I’m not a fucking talker.” Leon rebuked offended, puffing his chest.

He knew what this male was doing, trying to rill him up, scare him with the possibility of torture. Leon wasn’t stupid, they need him lucid and willing if they wanted to find the human whores, they would not lay a finger on him. “I’m not saying shit.”

“I’m counting on it,” the other sneered darkly.

The male inched forward, darkness bending and molding to revel a big pair of wings unfurling on his back, talons scratching the ceiling in their wake, denouncing him as another Illyrian, but not any Illyrian. A glow of blue flickered at the height of his chest, Leon’s eyes growing wild. Shit, fuck, shit. It wasn’t darkness he was willing, it were shadows. Shit!

A drop of cold sweat ran down his face watching the Shadowsinger’s face emerging in front of him, his eyes promising anything but mercy, holding Leon’s gaze as he slid his gold brass knuckles over his bronzed scarred fingers. Leon did not even had time to take a step back before he moved, his massive frame blurring as his fist collapsed with Leon’s jaw so strongly, he felt the bone disjointing. His mouth sagged open as he watched his jailor in shock. A rattling noise shook the cavernous cell, Leon emitting a strangled sound as a swarm of shadow began to descend from the walls, infiltrating from under the door cracks, the open hatch. Suddenly, the air staled, all light consumed from the cell while darkness embraced his piercing screams.

Outside the room, prisoners recoiled within their cells listening to Leon shouts for mercy, each one of them remembering what it meant to receive a personal visit from the Shadowsinger. He’d play with his pray. Put them in weak chains, feeding their wet dreams about an easy escape, let them bluff and puff your chest thinking they could outsmart Night Court’s intelligence. Sometimes he even let them wander around the labyrinth of dark corridors under the mountain. In the end there was no escaping this place, there was only him; The Shadowsinger. His cursed frame emerging from the dark, his devious shadow-hounds doing his bidding, his centuries of experience feeding from fae souls

Leon cried louder.

A prisoner shuddered.

No.

It was never a good thing to be a newcomer received by the Shadowsinger.

Azriel was morose and silent as he touched the town house door handle, waiting spelled-door recognized him. He’d been tracking every step of that insufferable band of thieves for months, his intelligence network working to eliminate every wicked branch of it. Tonight, he had finally come face to face with the slave traders, their leader slipping through Night border, in a messy attempt to escape, as he planned. Azriel left his spies taking care of the arrests, dedicating his time to locate the human victims hidden.

It wasn’t unusual for Children of the Blessed to fall into fae traps, their love for the race leading them to believe in promises that would never be fulfilled, happy ever after in the arms of a prince or princess. Learning their weakness, and counting on the easier access to the Human Lands without the barrier of the wall, the despicable leader of HRF created a network to smuggle humans. He’d lure the believers with pretty vows, bounding them into a life of misery and slavery. Only after he found the remaining humans, freed them and place in a proper shelter, did he return for Leon. If he closed his eyes, Azriel could still see them. Smell them. Dozens of humans kept in deplorable conditions, pressed together in a small pension room, malnourished children crying in their own filth, hopelessness and hunger bleeding from their gazes.

To be filthy, hungry and locked in a cell. Azriel knew what it was like, knew the mark it leaves on you. Maybe that’s why he chose to spend an especial evening with Leon, or maybe he was just a bigger of a monster as him. A monster who fed from pain. Azriel ran a hand throw his hair and crossed the foyer, doing his best to forget the memories trying to resurface, his shadows crooning for to sleep as they usually did. Sleeeeep. Sleeeeep. He would do just that once he reached the spared room on the second floor. He and Cassian stayed mostly in the house of wind now that the sister moved down here, but tonight Azriel was too tired to fly all the way back to there, his wings heavy and his muscles strained from days of flying nonstop –and if he was lucky, he could get a glimpse of Elain during breakfast. Yes, shadow-walking here had been a good choice. He was still thinking about he when he felt her.

Elain.

He usually felt her before he saw her. The scent of jasmine assaulting him quicker than Cassian’s jab during a sparring. It was unmistakably hers. Not the suave aroma one could scent the flower, but a deep lingering fragrance only carried by her, pleasant sugary notes of honey blending with it, the delicious mix arousing a variety of emotions within. Azriel found her sitting on top of the stairs with the faelights off. The dark did nothing to hide her from him, tho. That’s how he saw Elain was wearing pants, pajama pants, but pants nonetheless. His stiffness gave place to verve as he climbed the stairs, watching her. She was covered in a fluff grey wool pajama, hugging her knees, her feet guarded by a pair of polka dotted socks, her cheek pressed to the wall, honey colored tresses partially veiling sleepy doe eyes that blinked in and out of conscious. How could a female look so delicious and so adorable at same time?

Azriel chuckled quietly attracting her attention. Elain blinked at the sight of him, the softest of breaths escaping her parted lips, her head almost hitting the rail in her hurry to sit straight. She scanned him from head to toe, wild brown eyes cataloging every piece of him. He reached her in no time, retuning the small smile she gave him, extended his silent shield towards her, keeping their voices from the rest of the house. “You are up late.”

“So are you.”

The way she looked up to him was so innocent, her intentions so clear and honest, Azriel found himself reaching for her hand, Elain accepting his without a second of hesitation. For a moment he forgot how deeply covered in blood they’ve been moments ago, how truthfully he had to scrub himself to feel clean. When he remembered, he felt no urge to push back and hide his hands as he so often did in the pass. No, Azriel held her tighter, making sure she was real and not just a product of his sleep deprived imagination.

As if she felt his need for reassurance, Elain squeezed him back. She was real. She was here. Had she known he would come? Was she waiting for him? His mind spun with questions, yet he asked none of them, patiently waiting for her to finish cleaning her bottom.

“Come. Let me walk you.” a stupid request to make, since her room was a couple of steps away, and he had to pass by it to get into the guest one. He just wanted to touch her all the way there. He could make twelve steps last for an eternity if he put his mind to it.

Except Elain didn’t share the sentiment.

“No,” she replied simply. Azriel tensed, his hand hanged loose, horrific confusion bathing his face as he tried to withdraw his fingers, which were laced with her. Elain held back. “Because I will walk you.”

Azriel placed his free hand on his chest, his tension dissolving in a nervous laugh. He almost cursed. Almost. “0x1, Archeron.”

Elain gave him a shit eating grin, the mischief in her brown orbs lightening the space between them. Her contagious joy emanated to him, so obvious he could feel it blooming in his own chest, happy and bright as her smiles. The rich sensation spread further along his body as they walk the short walk to the end of the hall, their feet almost dragging on the carpet, his shadows disappearing on his trail, leaving him and his sweet flower alone –save for the rest of their family, sleeping in their respective bedrooms, not that Azriel cared for any of them at the moment.

Once they reached the bedroom, Elain was the one to open the door in a single swipe, letting him pry to what was inside. To his utter surprise, the room was tidy despite the fact that it been a while since anyone slept in it. The window was ajar, letting the moonlight in, the floor was shiny, the bed had clean sheets, a suave fragrance perfuming the air. His eyes darted to the bedside table, noting the two items on top of it. A small crystal vase replete with tiny blue flowers, and mug of tea, steam rising above the rim. Still warm. Azriel eyed the flowers again. His throat bobbed. He had spent enough hours in Elain’s company as she piped about flowers and theirs meaning, to recognize those particular cobalt blossoms. Forget-me-nots.

This was not the view of a barely visited guest bedroom, this was the view of a room ready for use. A room for someone who was expected. Wanted. Elain was watching him carefully, waiting for him to say something. When he didn’t, she spoke for him.

“I wasn’t sure,” she wetted her lips, feeling nervous for the first time tonight, her tone getting serious. “I just…I had this feeling,”

“That I needed to crash here?” he lifted a brow playfully, trying to lighten the crease in hers.

Elain shook her head, determinate to not let him downplay the urgency of her gut feeling.

“That you needed to rest.” Words came and die in the tip of his tongue.

Elain hadn’t been able to sleep properly tonight. She tossed and turned in bed the whole time, strange shapeless creatures chasing smoke and mirrors. She felt tired to the bone. She got up after a while, deciding a warm drink might help her to slumber. Instead of going down, to the kitchen, her feet guided her to the side, the empty bedroom calling to her. Angst heaved in her chest when she pushed the door open. The place felt abandon. Her heart ache looking at it. There was no way one could have a pleasant rest inside. This would not do.

A sudden necessity to warm the place assaulted her, and before she knew it, Elain was spreading the windows wide open, letting the night breeze sweep the cold creeping in the corners. She replaced the dusty brown bedding with one of her freshly-washed ones, a cozy cream-colored combination that smelled like roses and felt like clouds. She even brewed passionflower, pouring the soothing tea in an especial mug created to keep the temperature perfect for hours. Once she was done, Elain sat on the top of the stairs and waited. Deep down she knew who she was doing this for, knew who she was waiting.

Azriel eyed Elain. Back on the house of wind, the headache powder was placed on his nightstand with the reverence of a trophy. Whenever he slept there, Azriel would glance at vial in the wee hours of night, memories of her flooding his mind as they constantly did. Now here she was, presenting him a cozy room that smelled like home. Once again, she rendered him vulnerable without warning. One word from her being enough to disarm him. This type of vulnerability could be exploited by his enemies, could cost his life and countless others in a battlefield. Yet, he didn’t feel the need to pretend not being shaken, nor the need to hide behind his shadows. Being unraveled by Elain Archeron was unlike anything he had ever experienced. From her, he had no need to hide the cracks of his armor, from her, he had no wish to shield his mind and never let her pry to his insecurities.

For the first time in many centuries of being a spymaster, Azriel felt something other than anger at the possibility of being exposed. He felt relief. Behind his back, his wings sagged in exhaustion, imperceptible for untrained eyes, but another Illyrian would notice from a good yard. Being seen by Elain lighten his shoulders in a level that could not be describe by words, her gentleness sent his barriers careening down, her particular way of displaying affection ignited something deep inside of him.

They stood there for a minute. An hour. A day. Time was irrelevant. Each one of them was rooted to the spot by their own thoughts. Azriel should have stayed quiet. He should have thanked her and bid her goodnight. Elain already did more than he would ever deserve allowing him to bathe in the same warmth she presented to others, indulging in every spec of liberty he took with her. It should be enough. It would never be enough. Although he suspected the answer, he couldn’t help it, he had to know, he needed to know. Needed to hear her say it.

"Would you be here if you knew where I came from?” his voice was raw, vulnerable. Anxiety coming through. “Would you be here if you knew what I done tonight?”

“Yes.” Sometimes a single word can change everything. Sometimes a single word can full your courage in a way a warrior speech, in the peril of battle, would not be able to. “You want to tell me?” The soft squeeze in his hand was comforting weight, a symbol companionship, a prove of confidence.

“Not tonight.”

“Okay.”

Her unquestionable trust swelled on his chest. She made it look easy. To accept who he was, to understand the lengths he had to go, the damage he had to cause. He looked down at their hands, Elain following his gaze, gently running her thumb against his skin. His mangled skin coated in scars, and blood, and gore, and death. Would he taint her if he held for too long? Or would she infect him with her radiant self?

She pulled him in the direction of the inviting bed. “Rest,” she said again.

Rest. His shadows crooned like parrots, her voice mimicked with perfection. Rest. Rest. Rest.

Reluctantly, Elain let go of him, slowly, as if she would rather stand there all night than leave. Giving him one last sunny smile, she closed the door behind herself.

And that was it.

The point of no return.

The whole curse of his life changed by a four-letter word.

From that day on their clandestine flirting evolved. A dangerous dance that could not be stopped by the presence of other fae in the vicinity. Lingering touches that electrified his skin, sparkling chocolate eyes that never seemed to stray, feet touching under the table, pinkies hooked behind their backs, playful winks and beautiful shy smiles, the permanent scent of jasmine that always seemed to linger on his clothes, denouncing how much he spent seeking after her. From that day on he considered himself hers.

And mother had mercy on the land, because Azriel would measure no efforts to see a smile bloom in Elain’s lips, no consequence could stop him from trying to give her the sun if she asked for it. No matter that he didn’t considered himself good enough for her, that the Cauldron knew that as well and gave her to another, that fate would always try to bring her and her mate together. None of it matter. If he ever had the honor of receiving her heart, Azriel would guard it as his most prized possession, for Elain’s affection was something he could no longer live without.

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