#also where’s the mighty rhys

[thelov3lybookworm]

Hi! Omg I loved reading your Rhys x reader secret pregnancy fic! May I please request a Lucien x reader where he’s been cursed to stay in the form of an actual fox and the then reader comes along to break his curse? Thank you!!

Cursed

Summary: The mother liked being cruel to Lucien. First she had him lose his eye, and now his body.

•○●⛦●○•

Tw: mention of being a child of forced intimate relation, other than that, I'm not sure there is more, so let me know if i need to add anything.

A/n: my love, my heart, my baby anon. come here so i can sing you to sleep and cuddle with you because holyyyy shit i love this idea aaaahhhhh. (i am ready to be your tumblr wifey)

also, the beginning is basically our Y/n trauma/info dumping

anyways, enjoy!

(I had fun talking to you about this @artists-ally)

•○🌑○•

A twig snapped behind Y/n, and she rolled her eyes in frustration.

After wondering for a moment if she should ignore the animal, she decided to turn to look.

There, next to a mighty tree, crouched the fox. Abnormally large, fluffier than a normal fox, it had been following Y/n around for the better part of the week.

The moment Y/n met the fox's mismatched eyes, it tensed, as if ready to bolt. But then, after a moment, it relaxed, again staring at Y/n curiously.

The problem wasn't the fact that it was a fox. No, there were plenty of foxes in the forest near Y/n's home. But those foxes didn't follow her around or sit outside her door at all hours.

This one did all of that.

She wouldn't have been much bothered if it had been a normal fox following her around. But this one had a weird aura about it, like it was not an ordinary fox.

The fox suddenly moved, slowly prowling towards Y/n. She watched it, its body moving and navigating through the roots and fallen branches graciously, as if it were an elegant lady in the royal court.

Y/n shook her head, turning away and continuing on her journey to the cluster of trees deep into the forest to collect some fruit for herself.

The fox fell in step beside her.

She did her best to ignore the animal, though its unnatural aura kept her glancing at it.

Unfortunately, it also had her distracted, and she almost didn't pull up the hood of her cloak when a mortal man walked into view, carrying a bunch of firewood on his back.

But thank the forgotten gods, the man was too busy grumbling to himself to notice the pointed tips of her ears before she covered them.

Being a half fae was hard when living among mortals.

She could get killed if anyone found out about her heritage, and that was the only real reason she had for living on the outskirts of the small town, right next to where the forest started and away from the mortals.

And honestly, she cursed whoever the bastard was that had raped her mother and sired her for the inconvenience.

But she couldn't go down that path of thought, because if she did, she would just end up on the same thought that had her staying up at night and bawling her eyes out.

She was lonely.

It had nothing to do with the solitude of her house. No. It was because she was a half fae, and while other girls her age would mingle with other young men or whoever caught their fancy, she could not do so for fear of being killed.

She also had no family, her mother having died when Y/n was still young. Y/n had no siblings or relatives who could have taken her in, and so, she had learned to take care of herself.

She had also early on learned that the world didn't take kindly to people that were even remotely different from their perception of normal.

Especially beings who had a reputation to torture innocent souls for fun.

Y/n could not blame mortals for hating fae, as she herself hated them, though for completely different reasons.

It was not the best experience when you were scorned by the people you were a part of.

Hated by mortals for being a product of human-fae union, and hated by fae for being a half breed.

She sighed, shooing those thoughts away as she reached the cluster of trees she had been on the journey to, and set down her basket for a moment, stretching.

The fox settled down under an apple tree, and simply stared at Y/n as she went about plucking different fruits and berries and piling them in her basket.

Once she was done, she turned to glance at the fox, who sat unnaturally still.

She thought for a moment, then picked out a juicy apple from her basket. "You want one?"

The fox kept staring at her, and Y/n felt silly for trying to communicate with a fox. She huffed, putting the apple back in her basket and beginning to make the journey back to her little cottage.

•○🌑○•

"Do you think it will storm?"

The fox cocked its head, staring up at the sky before making a small noise, which Y/n took as affirmation.

"I think so too."

While a month ago Y/n would have laughed at herself for talking to -trying to talk to- an animal, now it had become normal. The darn fox never left her side nowadays, and Y/n had grown fond of him, letting him into her house and keeping him fed and warm. She had even named him Rusty.

Rusty glanced at Y/n before it settled down, laying his head on her lap, snuggling into the soft and fluffy material of her thick leggings.

A small smile made its way onto Y/n's face, and her hand lifted of its own accord, burying itself into the fur on the top of his head.

Y/n still remembered how she had felt uncomfortable around the fox because of the unnatural aura it gave off, but she had gotten used to it. Now, it was a companion who Y/n simply adored.

A long moment passed, and Y/n was not entirely sure it wasn't hours, but the sky darkened just a fraction.

Y/n glanced up in confusion, because she was sure it had been brighter just a moment before. Suddenly, the warmth in her lap vanished, and Y/n's head snapped down, her brows furrowed.

Rusty was no longer next to Y/n. He was across the clearing, and Y/n could not fathom how he had crossed the vast area so quickly. Her suspicions about him grew, and she realized his body was beginning to shake.

Y/n quickly rolled to her feet, her eyes growing wide when he began spasming, a tortured whine escaping him. She could do nothing but stare as his paws dug into the soft ground, pain filled sounds continuing to rip from him.

The moment Y/n stepped forward, hoping to do something to help Rusty, his head snapped up, a low growl he emitted leaving her frozen in place. And his eyes...

They were glowing.

Unnatural, completely otherworldly brightness radiated from him, his aura becoming ten times different from what it had been.

Y/n watched, her blood chilling, as he continued to struggle until the smell of something burnt reach Y/n.

Everything stilled after that, and Rusty collapsed, breaths heaving out of him.

And, the place where his paws had been, was nothing but burnt remains of the leaves fallen from the trees

Y/n studied the fox until he had gained enough strength to stand again, and his eyes stared back at Y/n.

She swallowed as the fox prowled closer. "You are not a real fox, are you?"

Rusty swung his head from side to side, his eyes boring into Y/n.

She nodded, wondering why she was even surprised. "Are you fae?"

His head dipped.

Y/n dragged her palms down her face, trying not to lose her shit.

"Why are you here? What do you want from me?"

He cocked his head, as if questioning her how he was supposed to answer.

She released a frustrated breath, going through all the reasons why a shapeshifter would follow her around.

She could only find one reasonable reason.

"Have you... have you been cursed?"

The fox dipped his head slowly, and Y/n took a step back, horrified.

"And you are here because you... what? Want me to break you free?"

The fox whined, taking a step forward.

"No." She stepped back again, continuing until her back hit a tree. "Fuck. No. I will not be used and discarded by you too. I will not..."

The sadness in the fox's -Rusty's -eyes nearly brought Y/n to her knees, but the fox simply dipped its head again after a moment, turning and prowling away from the clearing and, in turn, Y/n.

She watched him go, his shoulders curved inwards, looking defeated.

And, despite her instincts telling her to go behind him, she turned away too, walking in the opposite direction, towards her small hut.

•○🌑○•

The windows shook, their sound a little too loud in the small home, and Y/n's fingers curled tighter on the book, the pages crinkling under her fingers.

Thunder cracked somewhere, and Y/n flinched, squeezing her eyes shut. With a sigh, she put her book away, tugging her blanket closer for warmth. She turned to look out the window, where it was completely dark, not one tree visible.

And, despite her attempts at trying to ignore her worries about Rusty, she could not help but wonder where he was.

Was he somewhere in the forest, getting soaked by the rain, shivering?

Was he wandering around hopelessly, hoping someone took pity on him?

Y/n shook her head, telling herself she did not care.

But of course, she did.

Since the moment she had turned away from his retreating form, she had not been able to think about anything but him.

Y/n had never had anyone that particularly cared about her, so having even a damned fox use her for his own gain cut something deep in her heart.

But then a thought occurred to her, and all her feelings of betrayal were forgotten.

What if it is a child?

Or what if it is just like me, never had anyone who cared?

What if he gets incinerated in the storm by lightning?

Oh fuck it.

The second to last thought was what snapped Y/n's restraint, and she grabbed her cloak, lit a lantern, and set off to find her Rusty.

•○🌑○•

The rain made it even harder to see in the night, but Y/n soldiered on, determined to rescue the damsel in distress. Though the damsel was a male and could probably not be in distress.

He could have found a cave to snooze in, and Y/n was setting herself up to be sick for nothing.

Her heart didn't seem to care for that judging by the way it was screeching in her ears.

A flash of light caught Y/n's eyes, and she stilled, lifting her lantern higher, hoping she had finally found the sneaky bastard.

It was just a piece of glass, and Y/n cursed whoever had thrown it here.

After a long time of searching, Y/n spied a gap in the trees, knowing it led to a small cliff. Her instincts told her to follow the trail, and she decided trusting her heart was the better option than trusting her brain.

She had decided to ignore her heart in that clearing, and now she was stuck in a storm.

Lightning brightened the world for a moment, and Y/n lifted her hand to shield herself as she reached the cliff.

Unfortunately, Rusty was not there as well.

Frustrated, Y/n sighed, turning away from the drop.

And then she paused, her eyes landing on a bush.

Under which lay Rusty, shivering and curled in on himself.

Guilt spread through Y/n, and she stepped closer with caution.

His eyes flew open, his teeth bared as he searched around for a predator.

His eyes widened when he realised it was Y/n who stood in front of him now, and he ducked his head, as if ashamed.

Y/n walked forward, and watched as his shoulders curved inwards, trying to make himself small.

She crouched, extending her hands towards him, and he stared at it for a moment, then at Y/n before taking a tentative step closer, gaining more confidence when her hand remained unwavering. He stopped a few with his face a few inches away from her hand, and she reached out to pet his nose.

"Come," she whispered, "let's go home."

He stared at her for a moment longer, and Y/n felt like there were tears in his eyes, but she couldn't be sure because it could very well be rain water.

Navigating the forest to return home was much easier and faster than it had been searching for Rusty, and Y/n was glad about that, as she could think of nothing but changing into warm clothes and getting warmed in front of her fireplace now that she had finally found Rusty. Also, she had to wash Rusty and feed him. It had been long since he had left and Y/n doubted that he had eaten anything.

As soon as Y/n stepped foot inside her home, she shucked off her cloak, setting down her lantern and turning to find that Rusty still hadn't crossed the threshold.

"Come on in, Rusty."

She beckoned to him, and he trotted in, shaking his head to get rid of the water.

"Let's get you into a warm bath first."

Y/n hurried into the bathing room and turned on the faucets, letting the tub fill with warm water. Feeling eyes on her, she glanced back to see Rusty sitting patiently by the door, like a gentleman. Y/n smiled.

"Get in." She told him when the water had filled to the point she knew he liked. "I will go and get changed, and you get yourself cleaned up until then. We can have food after."

At the last part, his head snapped up, his eyes wide. But then he jumped into the tub, and Y/n was left to wonder why he seemed so shocked.

•○🌑○•

Y/n wrapped the tiny towel around Rusty, giggling at how funny he looked before she placed the red coloured bowl in front of Rusty, his favourite.

She stared at him as he began eating, and stared, and stared.

The air changed the moment he took his first bite, growing thicker and heavier with every moment that passed.

Confused, Y/n glanced behind her, and when she turned back to rusty, she let out a small scream.

In the place that Rusty had been occupying, sat a man... naked.

Y/n had never climbed to her feet so quick in her whole life as she did then, covering her eyes. But then she peeked out from between her fingers, seeing him blushing furiously while trying to cover up his private parts with the tiny towel. It was barely enough to cover up his chest, so he had to hold it with both hands like a curtain in front of his hips.

"Who the hell are you?" Y/n screeched.

She noticed now that he had hair like liquid flame, his eyes were mismatched, and he was... fae.

Realisation washed through Y/n.

"You- You're Rusty."

He grimaced. "Yeah, though I am a little concerned with that name. Can we please not use that? Like, Rusty? Really?"

Y/n let her hands fall to her side, settling on her hips. "You bastard, you should be grateful I let you stay and gave you a name. Imagine how weird it would have been in if I called you fox."

"Yeah, I think that would have been better than Rusty."

Y/n scoffed. After a moment, she spoke again, struggling hard to keep her gaze on his. She deserved a fucking medal for it.

"So... what was your curse? And who had so much free time to put one on you?"

A hint of a smile appeared on his face. "Don't you think this is kind of inappropriate to talk about while I'm naked?"

Y/n rolled her eyes as she moved past him, walking into her bedroom. "You never had a problem before when you pranced about, wooing all the female foxes."

She was now sure he was grinning when he replied. "Yeah well, they didn't wear any clothes either. If you were to strip..."

Y/n whipped around from where she was rummaging in her closet for something to gape at him. He grinned, leaning against the doorframe, his hands folded against his chest.

That meant-

Y/n turned away from him just as fast as she had turned to him, and no matter how much she denied it, the image of him... it would be forever embedded in her mind.

"Asshole." She mumbled under her breath, her hand landing on a piece of clothing she was unfamiliar with.

It was a pant she had stolen years ago, and later realised it had been too big for her. It would have to do.

Without turning, Y/n threw the pants over her shoulder, and by the lack of sound, knew Rusty had caught it.

It was a few moment before he hummed, letting her know he was done, and Y/n turned, her mouth going dry at all the muscle displayed.

She hadn't had the time to appreciate what she saw before, as she was trying not to make a fool of herself by staring at his privates, but now that he was covered from the waist down, she could not help but stare at what she could see.

"Like what you see?"

Y/n's eyes flashed up, colour staining her cheeks as she huffed.

"Of course not. You are still Rusty for me, and I'd never think of someone called Rusty as anything I like."

He scoffed. "Please, my name is Lucien. I'd appreciate it if you stop referring to me as Rusty."

She lifted her chin defiantly. "No."

He sighed. "Very well, my lady. If that is what you wish for. After all, you broke my curse, I can't really order you around anymore."

"Yes, about that curse. Care to elaborate now that you are appropriate?"

He nodded, a seriousness coming over him. He followed her as she led him back out, settling down in front of the fireplace as she boiled some water for tea.

Once the tea was ready, Y/n passed one cup to Rusty- Lucien- and studied him, watching as he fumbled a little with the cup before he got a good grip on it.

"Let's start from the beginning." She nodded her head for him to continue. "Do you remember the most recent war that happened?"

She nodded. The destruction had been immense, according to what she had heard through rumours, but she lived far enough away from the wall that no harm reached her.

"There was a continent called Hybern. One of my closest friends was pretending to aid Hybern so he could gather intel about the kingdom's and the king's inner workings so he could help Prythian when the inevitable war came. Soldiers from Hybern had stolen the cauldron from its resting place in Prythian, and they knew that it could make anyone young and immortal."

"What is the cauldron?"

Lucien glanced at Y/n with raised brows, but explained to her what the cauldron was, who the mother was, and all the things that probably didn't matter to the story just because she didn't know about them.

A power like that? People would kill for it. Y/n thought.

"My friend's past lover, who had been mated to another high lord, arrived in Hybern, and realised her sisters had been kidnapped. The king ordered the sisters to be put into the cauldron. One of them turned out to be my... mate."

The jealousy that ripped through Y/n was unmatched from anything she had ever felt. And for what? The mention of someone she did not even know? Ridiculous.

"The older one, she apparently took something from the cauldron, in turn making the cauldron take away the youth from the human queen put in after her. The queen was furious, and she allied with a powerful death sorcerer."

"He found out about my... relationship with one of the sisters, and before we killed him, put a curse on me, because I was standing the closest to him. He turned me into a fox, and I could only be turned back if someone who loathed fae gave me shelter and food, even after knowing I was fae."

"Powerful death sorcerer, and all he could think of for his last breath was to turn you into a fox." Y/n muttered under her breath.

A breathy laugh escaped Lucien, which then full on turned into howls of laughter.

"So, what, your mate could not help?"

"She probably could have, given she couldn't bear being near me, but she wouldn't have. Me being a fox gave her freedom to pursue whomever she wished."

Y/n sighed. "Is everyone from the other side of the wall dumb?"

He shook his head, staring into the embers of the fire, though a smile remained on his mouth. Y/n glanced out the window, realising the sun was starting to rise.

"We should probably get some sleep."

Lucien followed her gaze to out the window, and he nodded.

"I will take the couch, you should sleep on your bed."

"Nonsense. You have been invading my space for the past month like your life depends on it. It won't be a big deal if you sleep next to me."

"Sleep next to you, not with you?"

"You know what? You can sleep on the porch."

He laughed, standing and pulling Y/n to her feet.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to her cheek.

"Thank you."

Y/n blushed, shaking her head.

"I will leave as soon as I can."

Hurt pierced Y/n's heart like a bolt from hell. "Why?"

His brows furrowed. "Why? I have taken enough advantage of you. I don't want to impose."

She shook her head again. "I like when you impose."

He smiled.

"If you say so."

•○🌑○•

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#acotar #lucien x reader #acotar fanfic #mating bond #a court of thorns and roses #lucien fluff #acotar fandom #acotar series #fluff #lucien fic #sarah j maas #acotar headcanon #acotar writing #acotar fluff #acotar x reader #reader insert #lucien vanserra #lucien acotar #pro lucien vanserra #lucien #Lucien fanfic #lucien vandaddy #pro lucien

[emilystheories]

Maeve is Theia, the original Starborn Queen.

This theory contains spoilers for ACOTAR, Crescent City, and Throne of Glass!

As discovered in CC2, Ruhn and Rhys look identical. If they are not reincarnations of each other (still a plausible theory), then they must share a common ancestor. As most people have already deduced, logically, this must be Queen Theia; the first Starborn Queen, and ruler of the Dusk Court.

It then begs the question; "well, who actually was Queen Theia?"

I truly believe that there is only one candidate for this; Maeve, from the Throne of Glass (TOG) world. Here is a summation of the evidence for this:

Maeve, Ruhn and Rhys are the only 3 characters who have the "violet" or "violet blue" eyes. (Some argue that this is irrelevant as Maeve could change her form, but so could Erawan, and his gold eyes were passed onto Manon).

They all have the same "raven black hair."

Maeve, Ruhn and Rhys have the same darkness/shadow power.

They also all have the rare mind-speaking (or "daemati") power; an ability we first saw originate in Maeve and the other Valg Royalty.

Even Ruhn's name is (seemingly) derived from the Ruhnn mountains; the place in TOG where Maeve kept her handmaidens (and I suspect where Maeve walked between worlds).

Rhys is Lord of the Night Court; Ruhn is Agent Night; and Maeve is Queen of the Night.

With this many uncanny similarities between all three people, it makes the most sense that Ruhn and Rhys descended from Maeve, and that ultimately, Maeve is Queen Theia.

Queen of Glass.

I first suspected that Maeve may be Queen Theia when reading the Original Throne of Glass book, 'Queen of Glass,' that SJM published on a fan fiction website when she was younger.

This is how Maeve was originally described; does it not sound like a Starborn Queen (and also... exactly like Rhys)?

See also:

And:

Even the iconic way that Rhys's eyes are described (as having stars inside of them), is akin to how Maeve's eyes were originally described:

Additionally, in this original version of TOG, Maeve was engaged to Athril (which is similar to the events of the published TOG). However, Athril was said to be the first Fae to ever exist, and the greatest warrior in history.

When the Valg broke into their world, Athril forged Goldryn (and 3 other weapons). It was a death sword that was capable of slaying the Valg, and emitted a bright "white light." Sound familiar?

Athril then fought on the the peak of a mountain "archway," in an attempt to stop the Valg from entering his world. Although he was successful in destroying the Valg, he was killed - right on the mountaintop. After that, the cities were formed and a period of peace ensued.

This sounds EXACTLY like the story of Fionn that Rhys detailed in ACOSF (the mighty "fae warrior" who used Gwydion to overthrow the Daglan), AS WELL as Enalius (the first Illyrian who fought an "unknown enemy" on the top of Ramiel, and died there).

What's more, is that after Athril died, Maeve closed the gates and all rips between all worlds.

This is EXACTLY what Queen Theia did.

Proof in the published version.

Although 'Queen of Glass' is not officially canon, it gives us important clues regarding SJM's line of thinking.

However, there is still evidence in the actual TOG that points to Maeve as being Queen Theia. Most prominently, Maeve states that in her "original world," she came from a "small territory" where she was made Queen.

This sounds just like Theia and the Dusk Court.

It is also explicitly stated that this "small territory" that Maeve ruled was a place where powers were not given, but "simply born" (as if... starBORN?)

Further, Erawan also suggested that Yrene's power (which is almost 100% certainly the Starborn power) existed in his home world. Interestingly, he refers to wielders of this power as "death maidens," which sounds an awful lot like Nesta's power (and perhaps explains why she has the Starborn tattoo...)

Maeve in mythology.

In some strains of Celtic mythology (which appears to greatly influence the ACOTAR world), Queen Maeve was seen as the chief and deity of the Tuatha dé Danaan. Is it then any coincidence that Ruhn's (and possibly Rhys's) last name is Danaan?

In the same mythology, Maeve had 7 sons.

Just like the 7 High Lords.

Or the 7 Princes of Hel.

Or the 7 Asteri.

Maeve's power.

A pitfall of this theory is that Maeve's power (as far as we saw in TOG) did not manifest as light. But, are we sure we know the whole story of the Starborn? It is mentioned multiple times in CC2 that Bryce has not fully understood what her power is capable of. Similarly, Rigelus seems to hint that Bryce can walk between worlds simply because she is Starborn, and Maeve was a world-walker.

And perhaps more curiously, most people in the Starborn lineage (ie. the Avallen people) actually have shadow/darkness powers - just like Maeve did.

Aidas.

For this theory to be correct, it also suggests that Maeve was involved with Aidas.

Yet, as per another theory I have posted, I have already theorised that the Princes of Hel are actually the Valg.

Aidas is also a play on the name "Hades," and Hades is another name for Orcus - Maeve's original husband. This checks out.

Prythian.

As Theia and the Starborn likely originated from Prythian, there must also be evidence of Maeve's existence there.

It is then not surprising that many have already theorised that Maeve (and subsequently Queen Theia) is "the Mother" in the ACOTAR world.

Maeve is the only character we have seen with the ability to manipulate fate (and assign 'mating bonds' to people); just as the Mother does. Even in Celtic mythology, Maeve is another name for Mother.

Then, by extension, the Valg (or Princes of Hel) must also have existed in Prythian for this theory to be true. Interestingly, in the Crescent City audiobooks, all of the Princes of Hel have distinct British accents.

Is it then a mere coincidence that Prythian is in the shape of Britain, and similarly, Prythian is an ancient name for Britain?

(Map courtesy of Cassiopeia Reads).

Further:

Thanatos (a Prince of Hel) is also seen in the Hewn City.

The 7 layers of the library are reminiscent of the 7 layers of Hel (with many musing as to whether the 'cat like' presence is Aidas).

And, when Bryce says she is going to Hel, she lands in Prythian.

Timeline.

Alternatively, for Maeve to have been Queen Theia, she must have also existed 15,000 years ago. This suggests that Throne of Glass is a story that takes place in the PAST.

Linking with this idea, I theorise that the ACOTAR and TOG characters actually shared the same world (with the TOG characters existing many thousands of years ago). In fact, the notion of ACOTAR and TOG characters sharing the same world is something that Rigelus straight up suggests is true:

It also links in with Merrill's theory about the universe; that different worlds share the same space, but are separated by TIME.

This would explain why Rhys suggested that the old fae, 15,000 years ago, were more "elemental," and would imbue their swords with their magic.

Just as Aelin and the TOG fae did.

It would also explain why the Night Court and Terrasen (both in the North) are so similar.

Velaris is also exactly how Rowan described the future city that Aelin would rebuild.

What's more, is that Velaris smells like "lemon verbena," which is Aelin's scent.

This may all seem impossible if you believe the timelines to be concurrent - but, what if they're not?

What if, when Aelin fell through worlds, she fell forward in time? The Harp even mused that when it was last played, it transported the user through "TIME and space," and through the "eons."

ACOTAR last names.

If this is all true, perhaps it offers an explanation as to why the last names of most ACOTAR characters have been hidden. That the big reveal is that they all descend from TOG characters.

For example, the Winter Court would descend from the Whitethorns; with their wind/ice power, and signature white/silver hair.

The Spring Court (and Tamlin's lineage) would descend from Lysandra (with her shapeshifting abilities), and Aedion.

I mean, the resemblance is rather uncanny.

Even the Dawn Court, the place of healing, with their parallels to Yrene and Silba's descendants (even their book being called Tower of DAWN...).

Ultimately, the connections and possibilities are endless.

Yet, no matter what, I theorise that the person at the centre of everything, across all worlds, is Maeve.

Or, otherwise known as Queen Theia.

#sjm crossover #sjm multiverse #sjm theory #sjm spoilers #acotar theory #acotar #throne of glass #crescent city #crescent city theory #rhys acotar #ruhn danaan #aelin galathynius #nesta archeron

[impossiblescissorspeachpaper]

The Heart of a Wanderer V

Emissary

Read the previous part here

A/N: Just a baby update this time but the next chapter is shaping up to be a little chonkier (for my standards, anyway). Also, the next chapter is Azriel's POV 👀

1.8k words.

“This must be Beron’s work.”

“How can you be so sure? Eris-”

“You let your hatred of Eris blind you to the obvious, brother.”

“And you let your foolish naivety of his perceived alliance blind you to his true colours.”

The two Illyrian’s glowered at each other from opposite ends of the long table, the chamber thrust into a state of weighted, stubborn silence. Elain’s eyes darted back and forth between Rhys’ quiet confidence, his face not revealing a glimmer of emotion as he lounged in his ornate chair lazily, and Azriel’s icy rage, glimmering harshly just below the surface of his skin but always stalwartly kept in check.

He never let himself lose control of his feelings, never let anyone see what lay beneath his handsome features, but for Azriel’s standards, he was currently downright livid. He remained still as a statue, his fingertips resting on the cool surface of that obsidian table, his torso hunched over slightly, his mighty wings half unfurled and tense as they quivered at his back.

“This is Beron’s work,” Rhys repeated, each word punctuated by a pointed pause.

Azriel clicked his tongue in dismay and straightened, his wings snapping in tightly with the sudden movement.

“Maybe so, but it still poses the question; why has Eris not told you of it? He is General of his father’s armies, is he not? I’m sure we would have heard if he had been demoted. Elain saw the hounds attacking, they are Eris’ hounds. Do not attempt to tell me he has no knowledge of his father’s movements when his armies were witnessed to be involved,” Azriel countered coolly.

Rhys considered him for a moment, his mind thinking over all the possibilities before Azriel’s harsh voice rang out in the chamber again.

“My attention has been cast over the sea for too long, I failed to see the uprising happening in our own backyard,” the Shadowsinger ground out, a note of self-hatred lining his words.

Elain wanted to reach out to him, let him know it wasn’t his fault. She wanted to comfort him; she knew Azriel would be taking the knowledge of this information as a failure on his part for not finding it out sooner. But she refrained from moving to him, fisting the hand that itched to reach for him in the skirts of her gown instead.

“I requested you dispatch yourself on the Continent, Azriel. This is in no way your fault.”

The Continent. So that’s where Azriel had been the last week, and most likely not his first reconnaissance mission there either, by the sounds of it. Elain wondered what he was doing there, whom he had been watching and spying on. Were they still keeping tabs on Kochei throughout his silence? Elain internally chastised herself.  She had been gone for so long, she should have asked Rhys and Feyre on more details about this upon her return, about what the latest murmurings were from that entire mess.

“It is my duty as Spymaster of the Night Court to know the movements of our enemies.”

“Eris is not our enemy,” Rhys countered.

“That, perhaps, is still up for debate,” Azriel responded stubbornly, “but Beron is.”

Rhys hummed in agreeance, conceding that point to his brother.

“I’ll call upon Eris to meet with us at once. Get to the bottom of this issue,” Rhys uttered, before turning to her and concluding, “Thank you, Elain, for this information.”

It sounded like a dismissal. Elain was confused. They had been squabbling about Eris and Beron when there was clearly a more pressing issue at hand.

She watched Rhys as he stood from his chair, her eyes wide and glued to her sister’s mate. “Should we not warn the inhabitants of the Spring Court?” she blurted. “Even if their High Lord remains incapacitated. There are innocent fairies in those lands.”

Elain thought of all the kind folk she had met on her travels, all the citizens of each territory, blindly being swept up in the greedy schemes of those more powerful than them. Elain’s eyes darted between Rhysand and Azriel, both remaining unnervingly still after she had spoken.

Rhys hesitated, having the consciousness of mind to look marginally remorseful. Azriel looked upon her with something akin to sympathy. Her brow furrowed. Elain had written to Rhys about this, months ago. They people of Spring were scared, concerned. He knew.

“Elain… before we discuss this with Eris, we cannot make any moves that may show our hand. If we warn Tamlin and the Spring Court of this possibility, it can fracture our delicate ties with Autumn. Eris may see this as a slight and we need him on our side,” Rhysand placated, explaining the situation to her carefully, his eyes willing her to understand.

Elain’s ears rang, a cold sensation slithering down into the pit of her stomach. Her heart thundered against her ribcage; he couldn’t be serious... All that destruction! All that blood! Beron would take that territory by force, she knew it, she had seen it.

“You truly do not intend to help all those innocent people? They have done nothing wrong!” Her voice came out high, panicked, but strong.

“Sometimes, Rhysand, it is worth risking those tenuous treaties. Particularly when those you believe you are… allied with, act in a manner that may tell you they perhaps wish not to be,” Azriel said somewhat pointedly.

Again, Elain’s eyes were left to volley back and forth as the Illyrians stared daggers at one another. There was clearly some tension between the two, which seemed to have stemmed from a time prior to this meeting. Azriel was concerned with the contents of her vision, she knew it troubled him, but there seemed to be something else they were disagreeing on…

She wondered what that could be about, before she got tired of their male posturing. Elain pierced Rhysand with a look, ensuring her voice rang out confidently, ricocheting strongly off the dark stone walls. “There are many faeries in those parts that have nothing to do with any alliances or political games. You will just let them die in the crossfire? And if he succeeds, what is there to then stop Beron from going further? Taking Spring and in turn marching his armies into human lands.”

Rhys peeled his violet eyes away from his brother, Azriel standing still as a statue at her side, having not taken his icy glare off his High Lord. Lesser males would have crumpled under the weight of that stare. Rhysand, however, withstood it, matching his brother’s cold mask with his own.

“We are stretched thin as it is, Elain. We cannot call armies into the Spring court at the moment. Not with everything else happening across Illyria and the Continent,” Rhys countered, though she could hear the strain behind his even voice. He didn’t like that decision, but…he saw that he had little choice otherwise. He was pulled taught between his territory and his duty, and what was right; for the greater good. The curse of a High Lord.

“So, call for help, you have friends Rhysand. You always forget you do. You have true allies and comrades across Prythian, call for guidance, call for another opinion, but I have been given this information for a reason. And I’m sure this vision was shown to me as a warning, for us to act, not to sit on our behinds and let it come to fruition!”

Azriel’s earlier words regarding her power rang clear in her mind, and from the corner of her eye she could see a glimmer of pride in his expression as he witnessed her plight. It made something inside of her glow with pride for herself. She was fighting. She was doing something right.

Rhys’ gaze raked over her again, like it had when they were standing in Azriel’s bathroom, when he had regarded her with intrigue after winnowing such a long distance, searching her face for something she knew not. He tilted his head in consideration, his violet eyes flickering before he responded to her heated argument.

“You’re right, Elain. I grew so used to being the feared High Lord of Night for so many centuries, I forget that I have exposed what lies beneath the mask. I will reach out to Helion, but it will have to wait a few days due to some pressing meet- “

“No!” Elain cut in desperately. All those innocent faeries! They could not wait to act on this, she couldn’t know for sure how soon this attack could take place, but she knew it wouldn’t be far off. “I can go.”

“Go?” Rhysand questioned; his handsome face twisted into a look of surprise.

“To Helion. I can go to the Day Court and speak to him. We came to…know each other better when I was visiting in his court months ago. I know he will graciously welcome me back.”

Azriel regarded her with suspicious eyes, one brow hitched on his forehead at her words. She glanced toward him before looking away quickly. She needn’t share with them about the intricate details of her travels abroad. But she was certain Helion would welcome her to his palace again. Even though it would be business this time, rather than pleasure.

“I can go with her,” Azriel cut in, before his High Lord could object to her offer. She nodded her head in thanks, grateful that Azriel had her back, believed in her cause. Rhys’ piercing eyes darted to his brother.

“Very well, Elain. Go to Helion, tell him of what you’ve seen. Ask him his advice for what moves he would make next. But please ensure his discretion. I do not trust this information in anyone else’s hands. At least not until I have had a chance to confront Eris.”

Elain breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she regaled.

Rhys merely inclined his head. “I should thank you. Emissary to the Night Court has proven to be a difficult position to keep filled. Perhaps I had been overlooking the most suitable person for the job this entire time.”

Elain startled slightly at the words of praise coming from her brother-in-law. That he saw her capable, trusted her with such an important mission.

“I will represent your Court with utmost respect, Rhysand,” she answered, her head held high.

“I have no doubt you will,” Rhys replied with a small smile. “You should head home. Leave tomorrow after you have prepared. You’ll both need rest.”

Rhys eyed Azriel pointedly, the Shadowsinger nodding his head curtly in response to whatever silent order the High Lord had surely given him. Sweeping his hazel gaze across the cold chamber once more Azriel silently extended a scarred hand toward her. Elain clasped his fingers in hers as he once again allowed his shadows to engulf them, winnowing them both home.

*******

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#elriel fanfic #t writes #elriel #elain archeron #azriel #acotar #elriel fic #the heart of a wanderer #THOAW #acotar fanfiction #elain x azriel

[bunnymallowo]

The books Cassian x reader

Prompt: nobody in the I.C has seen y/n all day and they send Cass to figure out what’s wrong

a/n: I’m not totally sure where it’s going to go or how long it’s going to be, I’m just using this to procrastinate from life and escape loneliness. Also cause I just need some fluff rn

—————————————————————————

“just a few more minutes…” I said to myself, drinking the rest of my coffee (or other energy drink) before setting the cup down. I hadn’t looked at the clock in hours, to focused on the book I had started. Feyre had suggested this book series to me, and without thinking, I bought the books and started reading them. Usually I'm not one for cliche fairytale stories, for they tend to be predictable. ‘I mean if the guy is going to get the girl anyway, what’s the point of reading it?’ I had been saying to myself as I was walking to the library to find the book.

Surprisingly, I found myself engrossed in the book, following along word by word. I slowly started to imagine I was the main character in the book. The one waiting to be saved by a handsome masked stranger. And the true loves kiss. Oh how I yearned to find my true love. But, much to my dismay, the one I longed for, I fear is too far out of reach.

but maybe he wasn’t as far as I thought.

As I read, I tried to think of different people, who would fit as the hero or the savior in my story. In my head I flicked through images of the people I knew, going through one by one until my mind landed on "Cassian!" I exclaimed softly, a light blush dusting my cheeks and nose. Of course I liked him, who wouldn't, but he was one of my closest companions, and my sparing partner. So I could NEVER say anything about her feelings, lest I drive him away. No matter now much I just wanted him to hold me close.... I shook the thought of the male from my head, and dove back into the book I was reading.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~MEANWHILE DOWNSTAIRS~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The group was sitting in the living room, all talking together when Cassian walked in.

"Have you guys seen y/n anywhere?" Cas was looking around, so see if she had made an appearance and joined the rest of the group. Seeing that she clearly had not, Cassian sighed, and went to sit on the bench in the window. He stayed silent, listening to the drifting conversations between his friends. Feyre was talking something about clothes or jewelry that Cass couldn't care less about. Rhys and Az were talking about much more interesting fighting. One of his favorite things was sparing, especially with his friends. Not that he would ever admit it. He sat there, thinking about fighting and sparing, different technique and maneuvers, before he was interrupted.

"Cassian... CASSIAN!" he was being shaken violently by Azriel, who did NOT look amused.

"What?!" he slapped Az's hands away, shaking his head and standing up.

"Rhys is talking to you" Az pointed to the high lord who was trying not to laugh.

"All I was going to ask was for you to check on y/n" Rhys replied, Feyre stood, stretching " Nobody's heard or seen her all day, Go make sure she's okay" Feyre pointed to the doorway to the stairs. Cass rolled his eyes "Why don't you go check yourself?" He replied defensively, crossing his arms.

"Because I don't want to." Feyre replied, retaking her seat in Rhys' lap. Cass huffed in defeat, walking off towards the stairs. Feyre let out a satisfied huff, smiling contently as he walked away. "Go check on her yourself next time.." he grumbled, walking up the stairs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~BACK UPSTAIRS~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cassian walked calmly down the hallway, admiring the art placed on the walls, as he made his way to my room. He knocked softly on the door "Y/n?...." He said softly. After only getting a mumble in response, he knocked a bit louder " y/n, if you don't answer, i'm coming in. "

Too engrossed in my book to care, I shrugged it off, not saying anything, but became mighty startled when the door to my room flew open. "ek!" I shrieked when the light from the hallway came flooding into my room, lighting up the mostly dim corridor. Cassian walked in, to inspect the situation.

"Y/n.." He walked towards the bed. me, who was wrapped in a blanket, set the book down, looking up at him "yes?"

"when was the last time you saw the light of day?" he joked, laughing softly at how clearly tired she looked.

"What do you mean? I was outside a little bit ago-.." I cocked my head to the side, confused. "Y/n, nobody's seen you since last night.. its almost lunchtime.."

I threw the blanket off of me, jumping up, startled "what?!" I tried standing up, but ended up tripping over the blanket. A pair of arms wrapped around me, keeping me from falling.I grasped tightly onto him with one arm. "Careful, don't want you getting hurt." he muttered softly, leaning closer to me, to where our noses were almost touching. I tried to calm my breathing, as well as the heat spreading around my face and ears. I tried to speak, but it mostly came out at jumbled stutters.

Cassian chucked softly "shh, you're tired, you need to rest" I huffed softly 'no, I need you to kiss me' I thought to myself, for a moment worried I may have said it out loud. Though my breathing was soft and light, my heart was pounding in my chest, and I was sure Cassian could hear it. If I were to move, even an inch, our lips would touch. maybe I had fallen asleep reading and I was just dreaming, but this seemed so real.

Maybe the lack of sleep had made me delirious, but before I realized what was happening I had my lips pressed against his, and my free hand entangled in his hair. He seemed startled, arms tensing around me, but nonetheless, didn't pull away. I stayed like that for a few seconds before pulling away. "Ah!- ..sorry.." I muttered, going to pull away, but I was held there, I wasn't sure if it was Cassian holding me there, or something inside my head telling me to stay.

Cass, not saying anything, gently set me down on the bed, brushing the hair from my face "don't apologize.." He said softly, gently lifting my head to looking at him " You did nothing wrong" I'm not sure why, but hearing him say hat made my heart swell. I smiled softly, leaning slightly into his hand, shutting my eyes. "You need to get some rest... because i'm betting you didn't get any last night.." he stated, looking towards the small pile of books. I hummed softly, neither in agreement nor disagreement. He chucked softly, lightly tapping my shoulders. "at least lay down first" He smiled, amused. I groaned softly, shifting to a laying position. After putting a blanket over me and turning off the lights, Cass went to head for the door.

"Wait...stay.." I said softly, reaching a hand out towards him, "please.." I muttered quietly. Cassian froze, standing still for a moment, before sighing softly and shutting the door before walking back to the bed and sitting hesitantly on the edge of it. "okay... just until you fall asleep.." He sighed softly, laying down next to me, and wrapping his arms around me. For once I felt comfortable.

Safe.

Happy.

Not long after my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep. Soon after, by mistake Cassian fell asleep too.

~~~~~~~~~~maybe like an hour ish time skip~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Should we check on them?" Feyre asked the group, looking around.

"Maybe.." Az shrugged and Rhys nodded in agreement. Mor shook her head, making an excuse as to why she couldn't go, so the other three went to check. Softly knocking on the door before opening it, Feyre poked her head in, followed by Azriel, that Rhysand. What they was was something they'd NEVERlet go. At least not Rhys and Az. They saw y/n, sleeping peacefully wrapped in Cassians arms. They didn't wake them, deciding to leave the teasing for later

A/N: I wasn't totally sure how to end this, and it seems a bit awkward, but it'll do i guess. I didn't mean to make it so long, but it is, and I had like 4 cups of tea while writing this. HOPEFULLY the next one will be a lot shorter (for those who like shorter oneshots)

A/N 2: I'm glad the way this went, and it was actually A LOT longer than I expected it to be. If ya'll want anything specifically written about (like if you have a prompt idea) feel free to ask me, cause as of now i'm kinda just writing whatever the hamsters in my brain come up with. OH! and lmk if you guys want any x male reader stories, cause i've realized most of them have been geared towards female readers.

#cassian x reader #cassian fluff #acotar #i need therapy #i want someone to love me #its literally 3 am #running on coffee and depression #literally writing while sick #i have a cold #I legit feel so lonely #someone love me pls #a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #this was amazing #idk how to tag this #random tags #Why can I write more on here than in actual papers

[thesistersarcheron]

Elain's "ridiculous" plainness in black at the Solstice ball was deliberate.

The Inner Circle's strategy for the ball hinges on Nesta being the most intriguing and valuable asset the Night Court has to offer. She's seducing Eris into continuing their alliance after his confidence is shaken, in Rhys's own words. This seduction includes leveraging her looks to capture his attention.

Mor confirms this when she gets involved in preparing Nesta:

[While tutoring Nesta in Hewn City waltzes, Mor] asked Nesta suddenly, “What are you wearing to the ball, anyway? Eris... He’s all about appearances. You have to wear the right thing."

Then, upon entering the ball, it's noted again by Cassian that the entire royal family's appearance upon entering the throne room was planned:

Both sisters wore black. Both walked behind Rhys and Feyre, a silent indicator that they were a part of the royal family. Had mighty powers of their own. They’d planned it that way, wanting Eris to see for himself how valuable Nesta was.

However, Nesta herself notes in Chapter 19 that Elain is the prettiest sister:

When human, Elain had easily been the prettiest of the three of them, and when she’d been turned High Fae, that beauty had been amplified... Elain had gone from lovely to devastatingly beautiful.

So something has to be done about that.

And it is. At the ball, Elain is suddenly the plainest sister who is notably, visibly an outsider of the court:

Elain in black was ridiculous. Yes, she was beautiful, but the color of her long-sleeved, modest gown leeched the brightness from her face. It wore her, rather than the other way around. And he knew the cruelty of the Hewn City troubled her. But she hadn’t hesitated to come. When Feyre had offered to let her remain home, Elain had squared her shoulders and declared that she was a part of this court—and would do whatever was needed. So Elain had let her golden-brown hair down tonight, and pinned it back with twin combs of pearl. He’d never once... found Elain to be plain, but wearing black, no matter how much she claimed to be part of this court … It sucked the life from her.

To contrast Elain’s outfit with Nesta’s:

Nesta in Night Court black threatened to bring him to his knees. She’d braided her hair over her head in her usual style, but atop it, a delicate tiara of glinting black stone rested... Each spike was topped with a tiny sapphire... And the dress … Silver thread embroidered the skintight velvet bodice, the straps so narrow they might as well have been nothing against her moon-white skin. The neckline plunged nearly to her navel, where the silver thread gathered to hold a small sapphire... The full skirts brushed the dark floor, rustling in the rippling silence. Nesta’s chin remained high, accentuating her long, lovely neck. Her red-painted lips cocked in a feline smirk as her kohl-lined eyes took in the room watching her every breath. Nesta seemed to glow with the attention.

Nesta is specifically dressed in Night Court black, which may very well be a deeper, richer shade, given that it’s important enough to distinguish it from Elain’s simple black. Eris is also specifically wearing "Night Court black," not just black; what a coincidence that they should match on the very night they are meant to be subjects of the Inner Circle's matchmaking, since Eris is very concerned about appearances, no? It's almost like the Inner Circle knows a spy in regular contact with Eris who might also know what he plans to wear to the ball.

Not only that, but Nesta is also in a tiara to mark her as a valued member of the royal family, her dress is cut to reveal her body and embroidered with precious thread and stones to reflect the light off of the black and onto her, she’s in a familiar hairstyle that prevents her hair from casting additional shadows and suits her, and she wears makeup—which isn’t even noted for Elain—to accent her features.

Now, let’s also look at Feyre:

Feyre… The room gasped… She wore a dress of sparkling black panels, much like the one she’d first worn here—and it did nothing to hide her swelling belly. No, it showed off her pregnant womb, gleaming in the candlelight. Rhys’s face was a portrait of smug, male pride. He’d let everyone here smell it, further confirming that she was with child. Feyre might as well have been a goddess of old, crowned and glowing, her belly swollen with life. Her serene face was lovely, and her full red lips parted in a smile at Rhys.

Note the parallels between Nesta and Feyre: revealing dresses with sparkling detail, tiaras, makeup to accentuate their features, a glow. Nesta is a dressed as a High Lady—one Eris might want to charm. We often also assume that Feyre and Rhys, who have the power to make objects glow or to obscure them in darkness, aren’t magically influencing this moment as well. Rhys, the drama king who winnowed into Feyre's wedding with thunder and darkness.

Feyre and Nesta are the focus of the night. They planned it this way, because these two sisters each have a message to send.

And much like royals in the real world, everything they wear is deliberately chosen to send their desired message, as confirmed by Mor, Rhys, and Feyre here and in every passage of them getting dressed to visit the Court of Nightmares or important diplomatic meetings in previous books. Leveraging one's beauty and talents (or lack thereof) is also a strategy Nesta was taught at her mother's knee, which we learn of during her flashbacks in ACOSF.

So Elain looking "ridiculous," "plain," and lifeless in black is not an indicator of anything but the Inner Circle's skill for planning a very basic royal sleight-of-hand trick.

And all this without once assuming Cassian's natural attraction to Nesta or his knowledge (or, again, lack thereof) of fashion also influences his perspective of whether or not Elain is desirable or not.

#elain archeron #feyre archeron #nesta archeron #pro elain #pro feyre #pro nesta #a court of thorns and roses #a court of silver flames #mor #rhysand #elain #feyre #nesta #and you know what? #elriel #I like royal fashion theory so ofc I'm applying it to the best royal family

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 54)

A very long wait for this next chapter, but it's here! And it's long! Big love to @noirshadow who listened to me moan about depression ruining my ability to write, how I might have to stop writing this fic, how I can't write Nessian anymore. BUT here we are and @noirshadow not only didn't kill me for my whining, but she also beta'd this fic for me so I could bring you a chapter before the new year :)

If anyone is still reading this fic, thank you for your patience! And drop in and say hello below so I know I'm not posting to tumbleweed, haha.

And for anybody who celebrates this time of year, I hope it's been a merry one <3

PS If, like me, you haven't read this fic recently, I'd recommend rereading chapter 53 as a refresher - I had to do it, too *face palm*

Chapter 54 Cassian

“And the Seer of the Sage was certain of Kallon’s intention?” 

Beside him, Nesta didn’t bristle at Rhys’ line of questioning, she merely raised her chin, commanding the space. If Cassian wasn’t so tense he would have been brimming with pride, but instead he remained seated on the U-shaped couch back in Windhaven and tucked in his wings a little tighter.

From where she stood behind him, Nesta’s hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder. The gesture was like a language in itself, albeit a voiceless one. 

Cassian tried to relax, to loosen his shoulders and let out a slow, measured breath. 

It didn’t help.

It had been like this since he and Nesta had planned their next steps in the forest. With the threat of the Blood Rite looming over them, there was no dispute that it was imperative that they move quickly. The information Nesta had learnt beneath the Lake needed to be shared. Their family and friends needed to know about Kallon and Cassian—about Cassian’s mother—so they could stop the death of more females and the bonding of a Enalius’ sword to someone truly terrible.

And whilst common sense and years of formulating strategy told Cassian that the truth needed out, his whole chest ached at the thought of parting with information that felt sacred to him.

When Nesta had unfolded Cassian’s history before him, an uncomfortable mixture or emotions had coursed through Cassian: adrenaline and wonder - and an intense sadness that had both brought him to tears and made him angry at his mother’s fate. He longed for the time to truly process it all, for it all to truly sink in. And whilst Cassian was no fool—whilst the general inside of him couldn’t help but barrage him with the hard facts—it felt as if the choice was being ripped from him

Despite Cassian’s best efforts, the Rebellion was strengthening day-by-day amongst the savager clans. And just last week, Azriel’s spies had reported that Kallon’s Killing Power in the sparring ring continued to grow.

That in itself was of great concern. If the Prince managed to bond the sword to him at the top of Ramiel, there was no telling what power Kallon could wield against the Night Court. With the supposed support of Enalius behind him combined with the swelling anger of his Illyrian supporters, Kallon might finally be able to take that mighty, arrogant step forward and invoke a civil war. 

So, even though there was so much swilling around inside of Cassian’s head and inside of his gut, Cassian had done what any general would do. He’d opened his mind, reached out into the ether for his brother and called for an informal council back in Windhaven. And then, despite the elusive and ever-moving tangle of emotions, Cassian winnowed himself, Nesta and Sala back to the camp he’d grown up in.

They’d landed clumsily, stumbling and righting themselves atop the main dirt path that ran through the camp.

Illyrians whisked past them, giving them a wide birth when they realised exactly who they intended to mow over. It took Cassian a few seconds for his instincts to reestablish themselves, and then he was tugging Nesta off of the road and out of harm’s way.

Windhaven looked as it always did, both beautiful and harsh. The usual clash of steel rang around them, partnered with the clang of cast iron pots over campfires and the beating of wings. On both sides, past the war tents and the scarce wooden houses, were the walls of the craggy mountains. They staggered upwards, past the needles of the pine trees until they met the sky. 

To their right, against the rare clear blue, the tombstone rock that marked the old widows camp was a harsh foreboding of grey.

Cassian wondered how the weather dared to be so cheerful when he felt like the world had been ripped out from beneath his feet. 

“I’m not used to winnowing,” Cassian apologised, his words hoarse against the dryness in his throat. His head felt light-headed, as if he’d left some of the weight of it behind.

Nesta didn’t lift her eyes to him. Instead, she straightened, the column of her spine climbing, her shoulder rounding back until she was set in her usual formidable posture. Then, she tracked her gaze around the camp, cataloguing every movement despite the bright sunshine threatening to blind her vision.  

“We’re here,” Nesta replied simply. Her voice also sounded diaphanous, but whilst Cassian felt as if a part of him was still in the forest, he knew that Nesta was caught somewhere in the future. 

It had been that way since she’d arrived back from the Lake. There was a determination that had set inside of her, a clear direction in which she was resolutely headed.

But whilst Cassian could sense the drive inside of her, outwardly Nesta merely lifted a hand to create a makeshift canopy across her brow, blocking out the sunlight. “Go on ahead, Sala,” she commanded. “Let Mas know we’re coming.”

The manticore didn’t need telling twice. Sala vaulted into movement, the fire from her tail blazing silver, a disappearing beacon that Nesta and Cassian didn’t hesitate to track. 

They set a punishing pace. Clouds of steam billowed in front of them. The morning frost had long since thawed from the hardened earth and mud slicked and squelched at their boots. But finally the bungalow took shape against the mud and the rocks.

Home. They were home. And it looked so perfectly picturesque that Cassian’s throat burned. Because everything that was happening threatened to destroy it. His life, finally right, stacked as precariously as a house of cards. One breath of wind, one wrong turn, and it could all collapse in on itself.

That, Cassian supposed, was the problem with happiness. Ever fragile and transient. Slivers of time, fragments of moments, rather than something permanent and steady.

Cassian hadn’t realised he’d come to a standstill until Nesta said his name. “Look,” she said, but there was something imploring about the way she ordered him, as if she knew the direction of his thoughts and wanted to divert him from the truth of it.

And, because Cassian needed to be distracted, he looked.

Mas stood on the stone step at the front door. Her wings were held proudly behind her back, her thick, dark hair ruffled by the wind. Her grin was toothy and wide, her expression pleased. And at her feet, clinging to her legs, was Roksana. 

“Sinta,” Mas said in greeting as they climbed the few steps that staggered to the door. She clapped Cassian’s face between with her palms and peered into his face in a way that made his chest tighten, as if someone was fisting his heart. Hazel eyes skated over him and what Mas read in his expression had her recoiling slightly. Cassian could have sworn a light winked out in the depths of her irises. 

He knew he must look a state. Whilst his body had healed from his fall from the sky, he was still covered in mud and pine needles and only the Old Gods knew what else.  

For a few heartbeats, Mas just studied him. The concern on her face was indisputable, but in the end, all she said was the blatant truth. “You are tired.”

For a second—just a second—Cassian allowed his eyes to close. He leant into Mas’ touch. She had been his mother in so many ways, had loved him irrevocably, filling the empty space in his heart that longed to have someone care for him in the way mothers did. “Just a little,” he admitted, even if it was a lie. Now he’d had a moment to stop, his exhaustion was so weighted his limbs felt like lead. 

Understanding deepened in Mas’ expression. She stepped back slightly, giving him space. Her head tilted slightly to the side. She glanced sideways at Nesta and then back to him. “You have had bad news?”

“Some,” Cassian admitted, because he couldn’t begin to explain, not even to her. Not even to his brothers. 

But Mas didn’t push him to explain. She only patted his forearm before she rested a hand on Nesta’s arm. “Come inside and sit by the fire, both of you. Roksana and I will bring you chai.” 

Now, Cassian sat with a drained mug cupped in his hands that Roksana had masterfully skimmed over the floor to hand it to him - the obvious skill a credit to Lorrian’s regular flying lessons — and waited for Nesta to reply to his brother. 

“My trip beneath the Lake was enlightening,” Nesta told Rhys in that way that was so Nesta—so artfully worded. “From what I’ve learnt, it’s clear that Kallon has been planning this long before he called to vote the suspension of the Rite. Ramiel has always been his back up plan, when all else failed.”

Nesta paused, her fingers closing around Cassian’s shoulder, asking his permission. So far, Nesta had purposely evaded Rhys’s assumption that she had met with the Seer of the Sage below the Lake of Souls. But now there was no avoiding it, the truth had to come out, and Nesta knew that Cassian couldn’t look his family in the eyes and tell them about his mother. 

Cassian did not turn his head. He didn’t nod or say anything. But something unravelled slightly in his chest, the barest of movements, like gears slipping before they locked back into place. 

Nesta took a measured breath. 

“There’s more,” she announced to the room. 

Cassian felt the peak in interest, the weight of everyone’s attention but he fixated his gaze on the threads of the carpet, on the individual fibres and didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

And then Nesta told them.

She explained how she’d not met the Seer of the Sage, but the real Maya—the twin and mother who had fled to Spearhead pregnant in the face of a Prophecy. The twin who had raised her youngling away from prying eyes, hoping that he could be better than other Illyrian males. 

When Nesta’s voice fell away, a stung silence followed.  

“So, Maya is not Maya,” Feyre said, eventually. Cassian imagined her eyes darting to him, but he remained hunched over on the couch, his elbows propped up on his knees.

The words fell into the quiet, sinking like a stone plummeting through water. 

It took Cassian too long to understand that they were respectfully waiting to see if he might speak. 

Cassian clasped his hands together, watching the way the tendons at his knuckles strained, the blood squeezed out until they were bone white. His siphons caught the light from the movement, the log burner blazing in the gems’ reflection, creating the illusion of a wet well of blood.

His lips flattened, the muscle in his cheek ticked before it disappeared completely. Cassian knew he was taking too long to answer, but he felt as if he were mute. “No,” he said eventually, his tongue thick, his speech slow even though he’d only spoken one word.

And that was all he said. His throat clogged up again, his ability to speak locked away, the key tucked into some secret pocket inside of himself that even Cassian wasn’t aware of.  

He hadn’t known he’d be like this—so silent. His body had decided for him, his slowly processing mind shutting everything down. Perhaps it was trauma of some kind, a delayed reaction that had everything in him grinding to a halt. His past had been cracked open and laid bare for everyone to pick at and Cassian wanted to hoard the truth of his mother, of his lineage, as fiercely as Amren guarded her jewellery.

Cassian had still not reconciled that the female living in his countryside cottage on the outskirts of Velaris was not just someone they had rescued from Ironcrest. She was his aunt, his mother’s twin, and her real name was not Maya, but Lyanne. 

As if sensing the knot of his thoughts, Roksana crawled across the carpet from where she’d been sitting close to Lorrian and Frawley and came to sit at his feet. 

“Lyanne was protecting her sister,” Nesta announced in wake of Cassian’s silence. “She can’t be blamed for keeping the oath to her twin.”

“Of course not,” Rhys cut in smoothly and Cassian felt his brothers violet eyes searing into his skin, felt the lightest touch of a claw raking down his mental shields. “I would do the same for my brothers—for anyone I consider to be family.” 

Cassian knew that was true. He, himself, would do the same for Azriel and Rhys. For Mor and Amren. For Feyre—for any members of his family—without a second thought. 

And Lyanne had sacrificed so much to ensure that everyone believed her twin to be dead. She had faked her own death and taken on the identity of her sister so convincingly that nobody suspected that she was not Maya. She had watched the male she had loved grieve for her even though she’d been right in front of him all along. And it was Marsh’s grief which had been the greatest distraction of all. It had stopped him looking too closely, had stopped him from realising that the wife he’d loved had not been unfaithful and burnt to death but had been living alongside him masked as someone else.

It was that mask which had acted as a constant reminder to Marsh of the wife he had lost. To Marsh, Maya had become an object of hate. She was the wrong twin: his brother’s widow had lived and she was the spitting image of the wife Marsh believed he had lost.

But he’d bedded her anyway. And in all that time, he’d never grasped that the wool had been pulled over his eyes. 

It made Cassian question how deeply Marsh’s love had really run.

If Nesta had an identical twin, Cassian could never mistake the two. He knew Nesta, down to his bones. Down to the cavern within himself where even now, her name still whispered like a secret that only he and Nesta understood. Nesta, Nesta, Nesta—

As if his innermost thoughts called to her, Nesta’s fingers fastened even tighter on Cassian’s shoulder.

“It makes sense.” Azriel’s voice cut through the sigh of Nesta’s name. As always, the Shadowsinger’s voice was chilling—not awful but the soft caress of midnight clouds passing over stars, the coolness of shadows seeping into your skin, dew on the grass sinking through your boots. “We’ve been wondering why Kallon hasn’t been acting, why no more females have been sacrificed in his attempt to bond the blade. Illyrian magic is amplified over the Rite.”

Cassian knew Azriel had directed the conversation purposefully, shifting the focus away from Cassian’s family history. His mother.

He and Rhys knew better than anyone that Cassian had mourned his mother. Since the moment he’d been torn from her and thrown into the Windhaven camp, Cassian had grieved for a female that memory had finally eaten away at, until she was nothing but the barest of fragments.

“It’s a sacred time,” Rhys admitted slowly—carefully. Cassian could still feel Rhys’ gaze on him, but he didn’t look up. Instead, he rested a scarred hand on the tangle of Roksana’s wind-tossed hair. The youngling didn’t shrug him off, she only nestled closer until she was tucked in the valley between his legs, her wings resting against the sofa. 

“And Ramiel can only be accessed tomorrow?” Feyre interjected. “If Kallon wanted to attempt to bond the blade by dark magic, then he’d have the best luck there?”

“It was Maya’s belief that the immense power found on Ramiel could be used to amplify the magic Kallon would need to bond the sword to him,” Nesta confirmed. “And Cassian and I have discussed it at length. Everything adds up. We believe that Kallon visited the Seer of the Sage to try and confirm his belief that he could bond the blade at Ramiel. And whilst we don’t know what the Seer of the Sage told him, we know for a fact that the Blood Rite isn’t just a time for Illyrians to gain status, it’s the anniversary of the thirty-third day of the battle against Vanth. Oya and Enalius defeated Vanth atop Ramiel’s summit and if the sword originally belonged to Enalius, where better to sacrifice the females than—”

“—atop Gods-blessed ground,” Rhys finished, the cadence of his words slow and stretched out as the realisation hit him. “And Kallon has sole access to it.”

There was a breath of silence, short and fleeting, and then Rhys was interrupting it with an abruptness that mimicked the change in his entire countenance. No longer was he their brother, he was the High Lord of the Night Court ready to defend his territory and brimming with power. 

It made Cassian look up.

“How successful will Kallon be if he attempts to use dark magic, complete the sacrifice and bond himself to the sword?”

Rhys’s gaze had pinned itself on the pale witch sitting in the corner of the couch, a blanket draped over her knees. 

As petite as she was, Frawley’s very existence had a way of commanding a room. It was like a tug at the periphery of your senses, like prey sensing something other.

Frawley didn’t so much as move but Cassian felt her authoritative presence expand into the room, until she was larger than life, even whilst she sat small in frame in the corner of the couch.

It was a while until the witch spoke up, her voice scratchy and beat up in a way that told Cassian that she hadn’t yet recovered from her trip to the Lake with Nesta. It gave Frawley’s voice an eerie, prophetic quality.

“Dark magic exists to attempt the unnatural, Rhysand, you know that.” Frawley laid out her palms, as if there was a story unfolding in the centre of them. The rest of her body was so still it was almost as if she had been frozen in place. Only her lips moved and whilst her eyes remained directed at Rhys, they blazed with focus, one burning hot, the other cold. 

“In the past,” Frawley began, “dark magic has been used to bend original intention and force the intended direction of power against its will. And sometimes it has worked, whilst other times it has caused great devastation in its failure. Dark magic is rarely ever permanent.” Now Frawley’s frosty blue eye snapped in Cassian’s direction, to the female standing guard at his shoulder. “As I’ve taught Nesta, magic feeds off sacrifice and eventually, it will get hungry.”

The static quality to Frawley disintegrated as she leant forward, her focus back on Rhys. “So, Kallon might be successful in bonding the blade to him but it will only be for a time. And when the blade begins to fade again, when its magic starts to flicker like a dying star, what will he sacrifice then? How will he maintain his facade?”

Nesta’s voice cut in without hesitation. “A sacrifice will become a ritual.”

“Yes,” Frawley agreed, her voice dropping out of its rasp to something hushed and undulating. A teacher praising their student, not in a condescending way, but in the way of two people being on the same wavelength. The witch and the Made.

For a short time, Nesta and Frawley looked at one another, but then Frawley’s hazel eye slid to Cassian. It felt like a touch, like something burning, and Cassian knew that Frawley would dare to tread where noone else would. “Yet whilst that is a problem in itself, we also need to consider that Kallon might want to keep the sword bonded to him not only for the sake of status and the support of the Rebellion, but due to his increased strength.” Frawley’s brown eye swivelled to Azriel, whilst the blue remained on Cassian. “You noted at Ironcrest that the Princeling’s power had grown to earn him a fourth siphon in the training ring—weeks after he’d acquired the sword—did you not, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel’s cold hazel eyes barely moved yet somehow they met Frawley’s. “I have it from multiple sources.”

And, as Frawley knew it would, it was the new direction of conversation which instinctively loosened the noose around Cassian’s throat, the one trapping his speech. Because just like Rhys had slipped from brother to High Lord, when it came to a question of power - of strength on the battlefield - Cassian couldn’t help but fall into his role of general of the Night Court’s armies.

Cassian’s voice was terse. “Kallon comes from a lord’s bloodline. His Killing Power is still reaching maturity. The growth in his power could be entirely unconnected to the sword, especially given that the blade disappears when he tries to wield it.”

“But what if it’s a byproduct of both?” Feyre asked quietly, tentatively treading down the path they all knew they needed to head down. 

Unsurprisingly, Rhys agreed. “That’s a good question, Feyre darling.” 

Rhys leant casually against the mantlepiece but Cassian was not fooled by the illusion of calm. Cassian knew that despite his best efforts, Rhys had read Cassian’s body language down to a tee. And whilst Rhys knew how close Cassian was to snapping, he still asked, “Remind me, brother. How many training siphons were you using at the age of twenty-four?” 

A growl coalesced in Cassian’s throat. Six. He’d had six siphons at the age of twenty-four and Rhys damn well knew that. “Don’t ask questions you know the answer to,” he replied shortly.

Seemingly unfazed, Rhys merely shrugged. “If Maya is your mother, then you and Kallon share the same blood. If, like you, his genetics have provided him with a large amount of Killing Power and Enalius’s sword grants him even more, he could potentially harness magic that makes him the most powerful full-blooded Illyrian in history.”

“If you combine a Prince’s status with an impressive amount of Killing Power and a fully-bonded sword, you’ll have a hard time convincing the Illyrians that Kallon isn’t God-given flesh,” Azriel added. And if Cassian hadn’t been bristling at how blasé everyone was being with his heritage, he would have been surprised to detect something dark in his brother’s voice, as pitch as the shadows curling around his ears. 

“And that there is both the key and the danger,” Frawley announced, lifting a finger before Cassian could even open his mouth to interject. The witch settled back into the cushions, as if their understanding meant that she could now rest. “Cassian and Kallon share the same blood. They are cousins. It is possible that the reason that the sword showed itself to Kallon is because the sword recognised the bloodline.”

“But,” Frawley continued with an abrupt finger, ignoring the way Cassian had finally straightened up, his expression black, “I’d wager that Kallon’s blood isn’t quite right. It’s not the blood the prophecy foresaw, so the blade disappears when he tries to use it.”

Feyre straightened up from where she was sitting across from Cassian, her palms pressed together between her knees. “If the blood isn’t quite right, how will Kallon successfully bond it to him?”

Frawley observed Feyre unflinchingly. “Dark magic twists and turns the intention of normal magic. That shared blood connection could be the very thing that allows Kallon to bend the sword to his will.”

Then, her eye swivelled to Nesta before she even spoke. “Maya thought that the sword might be using Kallon as an avenue.”

Cassian stopped feeling affronted about the way everyone was talking about him with a suddenness that was jarring. His heart had given an awful, adrenaline-fuelled thump.

“Smart female,” Frawley remarked with a dip of her chin.

“So you think she’s right?”

“Do you?”

Cassian didn’t need to look at Nesta to know that she was raising her chin. “I think that Kallon was never the intended end recipient of the sword.”

Rhys nodded. “I think we all hope that to be the case.”

Quiet hung around them for a pause, suspended like stars in a night sky. And Cassian couldn’t bear the pregnancy of it. He knew where the conversation was leading, what everyone around him had likely come to the conclusion of given his heritage. 

Even he and Nesta hadn’t touched upon it. But just as he opened his mouth to say something,  anything to break the awful suspense-filled silence, Nesta was speaking again. “Even so, Maya warned me that prophecy is not guaranteed truth, but an alignment in the stars that can rearrange themselves into a new orbit at any time. Allegiances can change.”

Feyre was following along, her chin bobbing, her eyes knowing and… old, somehow. It was something Cassian hadn’t seen in Feyre for a long while, but when he did, it was usually at times like this — when they all came together to discuss politics and enemies.“If that’s true, then we have to consider the possibility that the sacrifice might result in the sword acknowledging Kallon as its master?”

For a few breaths, Feyre’s question hung above them like a canopy of stars.

Slowly, all eyes turned to Frawley.

“It’s possible,” Frawley contemplated slowly. She lay out her palms again but the gesture was not unsure. Instead, it was as if the lines and creases on her palms were a map of constellations. A foretelling of what was to come. 

When Frawley looked up, both irises were glowing. And Cassian knew from the moment that her eyes hooked on his what the witch was going to say and that he wasn’t going to like it. “Kallon is not the only one who has the bloodline.”

The heat of everyone else’s attention was scorching, but Cassian didn’t back down from Frawley’s challenge. Even if under the surface he was thrashing like an animal caught in a trap.

Star-born. They thought he was star-born. 

The statement was so direct and so blunt that it would have pierced like an arrow if Cassian hadn’t mustered every ounce of warrior training into deflecting it. 

Cassian imagined Frawley’s words skittering off of him, the metal of the arrow head crumpling rather than piercing as Frawley leant forward and asked, “When you were in Ironcrest, did you touch the blade?”

Internally, deep down inside the impenetrable fort Cassian had built for himself, he bristled. But outwardly he didn’t allow himself to so much as blink. Even his wings remained motionless and expressionless, tucked in tight. 

Nesta’s hands tightened on his shoulder, just a fraction, and the movement felt as if she’d taken the brunt of the attack for him. 

Cassian fought the instinct to clench his jaw. “You know I didn’t.”

“But you felt its aura, didn’t you?” Frawley probed. 

“It would have been hard not to,” Cassian replied curtly, because it was true. 

“Your siphons winked,” Lorrian remarked. He’d remained quiet until now, his mouth set in a grim line, but now he spoke up, voicing what Cassian had already admitted to himself but had not spoken aloud. “And the gem at your chest. It lit up like a beating heart. I didn’t think think much of it at the time, I assumed it was because you have more siphons than the lot of us, but perhaps the sword was calling to you.”

Cassian thought of that moment. Everyone had felt the power of the sword in that room. They’d all known, undoubtedly, that it had been Enalius’. Nobody had disputed it, even before Frawley had confirmed what they all knew. 

He forced his voice to come out calm and steady. He knew where this conversation was leading and he wished they’d all just say it, speak their conclusion out loud so they could put a damn plan in place. “The sword called to all of us. Power thrummed off of it in waves. It was indisputable."

That, at least, was true. At the time, Cassian’s blood had howled, battering against his skin as it tried to beat its way out of him.

But had Cassian truly felt the sword’s power more keenly than the others? He’d not thought anything of it at the time. Lorrian had described the sensation as odd, but to Cassian it had felt like a rush of adrenaline, a calling. It had felt, Cassian realised, the exact same way as when he’d first met Nesta. As if something had turned over inside of him, flipping to the other side of a coin. 

His skin had itched for hours afterwards. His magic had moved inside of him like a restless tide, his power desperate to surge, on edge and ready to expel itself in a way that Cassian knew would have been relentless.

Cassian had attributed that to his proximity to Nesta, to the stress of their situation as they walked the precarious tightrope during their time in Ironcrest. They’d shared a room that night. They’d exchanged heated and angry words. They’d argued about Mor, about the war. About the bond between them, even though they hadn’t addressed it directly.

And all of that seemed so long ago. So much had passed since then. A bond had been accepted. 

And it had been broken. 

“My mother,” Cassian announced slowly, “told Nesta what we already know. The prophecy is a prediction, not a clear glimpse at destiny. We can’t fly headfirst into a plan that relies on me being—“

“—Starborn?” Frawley finished.

The word made Cassian’s stomach knot. And it almost bordered on humorous that Cassian had spent his entire life searching for answers about his mother, about where he came from, only to discover that he was linked to an ancestry that he despised. 

For years, Cassian had searched Illyria. He’d destroyed Spearhead camp and the males who were complicit in his mother’s death looking for answers. But now he was confronted with the truth of his past, he found that it was not how he’d imagined. 

All Cassian had ever wanted growing up were people that he could call his own and who would accept him for him. People who would recognise his worth not for the siphons on his hands, chest, knees and arms, but for who he was inside.

It turned out that Cassian had living cousins, an aunt, maybe even a father. He’d spent the first half of his life abandoned and so lonely it had ached inside of him, weaving into his blood until it became a part of his identity as a bastard. He’d never been able to shake off that feeling.

It was only Nesta who had eased that ache, like a palm smoothing over a brow. When her arms were banded around his neck, her nose in his hair, nothing else seemed to matter.

A sword would do nothing for Cassian. He had long learned that his race’s begrudging acceptance of him was due to the Killing Power in his veins and his ability on the battlefield. And it had never made it easier to bear the sneers and the derisive comments. Because at the crux of it, Cassian would always be one thing to them: a bastard.

Yet, Cassian knew that his mother had taken a great risk when she had fled from Ironcrest. But she had done it because if the prophecy had turned out to be true then the child growing inside of her was destined to be star-born. And Cassian’s mother had wanted her child to grow up fighting for what was right. If her child was destined for the sword, she wanted it to be wielded by someone good.

But Cassian couldn’t help but wish that there didn’t need to be a sword at all. 

“We are going to stop Kallon,” Cassian announced, grim resolution in his voice as he redirected the conversation where it needed to be—to the issue at hand. “Before he even gets to the top of Ramiel, we’re going to stop him. We are going to confiscate the damn sword and then we’re going to decide what to do with it. Wield impenetrable wards around it, just like we’ve done for the Cauldron.”

“And what if you have to intercept it?” Frawley pushed. 

“I am a warrior,” Cassian replied tersely. His jaw felt tight, his wings were tucked in so tightly his muscles ached with the effort of restraint. “I will always do my duty.”

“Do you know how it works?” Nesta asked from behind him. “If someone worthy was to touch the sword, would it immediately bond to them?”

Frawley’s head tilted to the side, her hair moving with the gesture. “If legend is to be believed, then yes. For the true intended recipient, there will be no need for dark magic. But we must also consider that the sword may be broken.”

“Broken?”

“The gem is missing on the guard,” Frawley reminded them. “Enalius might have wielded the blade to defeat Vanth, but it was Oya who forged the sword from her own blood and bone. Without that gem, we must consider that the reason that sword might not be bonding to Kallon isn’t because he’s not worthy, but because the sword is damaged.”

“And from her chest she drew a blade / Bloodied steel and amplified rage / Bone of a prison,

the scarlet of sacrifice / A sword to banish immoral greed,” Nesta whispered. “Heroicis.”

“Yes,” Frawley confirmed sinisterly. “Roksana, can you fetch us the book?”

Thrilled to be useful, Roksana scooted over to the shelves and then made in Frawley’s direction, the brown leather-bound book too big her small hands. But Frawley shook her head. “Give it to Cassian, please Roksana. It’s his, after all.”

The leather was soft and supple as it always was—worn from hours and hours of perusal. 

His mother had touched this book, Cassian thought, as he stared at the cover. He’d known that all along, but to have a piece of her now, after Nesta had so recently met with her, had a lump forming in his throat. 

He opened the front cover, his eyes trying not to fall upon her writing inscribed on the inside of it, even though he knew the words by heart—warrior heart, never forget that you are loved—and turned to the drawing that he’d stared at countless times. He knew it like the back of his hand. When he couldn’t read, this is what he’d stared at. This line drawing with the arced blade and the curved pommel which he knew to be bone, not just because of the Heroicis’ stanza, but because he’d seen it in real life. 

“The gem was definitely missing from the sword in Ironcrest,” Cassian confirmed. He held the book up and tapped at the drawing so everyone could see it. “The handle was cracked, too.”

“Expected from centuries of existence,” Frawley replied matter-of-factly.

“But does Kallon know the jewel is missing?” Nesta asked. “And is the sword not bonding to him because the jewel is missing or because he’s not the intended wielder?”

“If we don’t stop the sacrifice we’ll find out,” Frawley said gravely.

Cassian’s jaw tensed as his brain worked overtime and came to the conclusion that he was sure Frawley had already drawn. “Blood. You think the females’ blood might restore the jewel, just as Oya used her blood and bone to create the sword.”

“What I think,” Frawley replied sternly, “is that dark magic might have the capability of manipulating the girls’ blood so the blade accepts it as a substitute of Oya’s.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Nesta said shortly. She looked to Azriel. “What do your shadows whisper to you? Have your spies tracked Kallon’s movements?”

“We believe that he remains at Ironcrest.”

Cassian knew what that meant. “What you mean is that nobody has seen him leave,” he said grimly.

Because Kallon could winnow - any Illyrian could the day before the Rite. 

Azriel remained still as always, his expression unreadable. But his shadows coiled around his ears. “Yes.”

Lorrian’s eyes darkened. “How many people have you got watching him at his residence?”

“Enough,” Azriel replied. “But he could winnow from within his rooms. My spies are excellent, but they can’t follow him there.”

Cassian heard the urgent bite in Nesta’s tone. “He could winnow himself to the base of Ramiel and your spies could be none the wiser for hours.”

Longer than that, Cassian thought. But he didn’t see the point in highlighting the obvious. 

“So, what do we do?” Feyre said. 

“We need warriors patrolling the skies and on the ground around Ramiel,” Cassian said brusquely.“Kallon can’t winnow directly to the summit until tomorrow. If we can pin down his location now then we can catch him before he has the opportunity to act.”

“I can look to deploy some Windhaven warriors that I believe we can trust,” Cassian continued, falling back into the role of general. Already his mind was sifting through the male faces that he ordered about during training, remembering which males stood out from the crowd. Loyal males that he knew didn’t follow the Rebellion and would have his back in battle. 

“How many?” Lorrian asked. “Mallory, Andreas and Protheus stand out from the aerial unit,” Lorrian said. “They’re quiet flyers, excellent at keeping out of sight, but I don’t know where their loyalties lie.”

“We can’t take risks,” Rhys said. “If any of those males are loyal to Kallon then we risk everything—”

“The widows will fight.”

Everyone turned.

Mas stood in the left-hand archway that led to the kitchen, a dishtowel in her hands. She was only looking at Cassian, as if to her, there was noone else. “We are not much, but we are loyal. And we will fight for you.”

***

The soapy water in the sink was so hot it was scalding, but the scream of Cassian’s nerve endings felt like a balm somehow - a silent expression of something that he could not express outwardly but wanted his body to scream all the same.

“That is not your job.”

A voice came from behind him. A familiar one. A motherly one. It held the sort of understanding that came from someone who knew him very well. From someone who saw it as their duty to analyse someone in the way that only family could. When they knew his every tick, the thoughts running through his head, without even glimpsing his face.

Mas drew up beside him, a tea towel in hand. “And by the looks of it, it’s not one that you’re good at either."

She ushered him aside to the draining board, until he had switched places with her and her hands were submerged in the suds. Silently, she handed him the cloth and he took it, because whilst he might lead the Night Court’s armies, he’d handed over the duties of the bungalow to her.

“You are angry with me,” Mas observed after a silence that stretched out taut and thin. She handed him one of the mugs the colour of Nesta’s eyes and Cassian took it, stuffing it with the cloth and twisting the fabric to dry the inside.

He did not look at her. “I’m concerned for your safety.”

The clink of porcelain promptly stopped and Cassian knew that if he cut his gaze to the housekeeper he’d not find Mas glaring at him, just simply watching him.

It took him too many heartbeats to summon the courage, but when he did turn his head to meet her eyes, she was waiting for him. Her expression was one of steady earnest, burnished with silent understanding.

But she did not back down. Instead, she gripped the top of his hand. Her skin was chapped and rough, forever weathered from her years as a laundress, but her grip was strong. Insistent. Her voice soft. “This is what the training has been for, has it not? We are learning to protect ourselves, to stand up when a threat rises against us. We might not be much, but we will fight for you.”

With slow deliberation, Cassian set down the mug onto the draining board. Then he closed his palm over the top of hers and let the barricades he’d constructed fall away so she could see his true expression.

All the worry. For her. For Nesta. For all of the Illyrians who would be harmed as a result of Kallon—his cousin.

When Cassian spoke, he heard the crack in his voice, the roughness around the edges before he exposed the soft and vulnerable middle. “You are much,” Cassian told her with quiet vehemence, “but nothing prepares you for using the sword. For battle. You saw Nesta. She’s the strongest fae I’ve ever met and Hybern haunts her even now.”

A shadow passed over Mas’s irises, but she straightened, an invisible hand of courage supporting her. And Cassian supposed he’d nurtured that hand. Since the moment he’d met her, he’d wanted to teach Mas to defend herself so she could walk with confidence. And now here she was, small yet tall before him.

“You forget I have seen battle fatigue, sinta,” Mas told him. “I have seen battlegrounds—I’ve been a part of them.” 

The skin around Cassian’s mouth tightened, bracketing his mouth like a grim smile. Because Mas was wrong on that count. He would never forget the day of the kerit attacks. He would never forget Mas’s body on the ground, her blood. He would never forget Nesta kneeling beside her, wreathed in the purest of light as she knitted the torn flesh back together. As she healed long brutalised wings. 

“Nesta saved me,” Mas continued, her voice resolutely soft in its purpose but determined all the same. “She brought me back for another life and I intend to fight for that life. For you. For Nesta. For everyone who has ever suffered under our own people. For a better life.”

Her words fell away and into more silence. Mas retracted her hands and reached back into the suds, her fingers slipping against cutlery which clattered against the sink. Eventually, she drew out a teaspoon and began to methodically clean it before she extended it out to him without glancing away from her task. 

Cassian found that he was relieved. To look at Mas now would mean to memorise every inch of her face, terrified that he’d not have the chance to study it again. He’d already begun to do it with Nesta without meaning to, his mind whispering its own cruel prophecy. 

“You saved me, too,” Mas continued into the grim yet resigned silence Cassian had woven himself into. “When we met, I was beaten down. I was so small and insubstantial, the wind could have just tossed me away. Do you remember?”

Now, Cassian forced himself to look at her. He felt his brow collapse in on itself, his eyes felt as if they might melt with the emotion—with the memory. “Of course I do,” he rasped through the chokehold in his throat. 

Because of course he did.

It had been a particularly icy day in November that Cassian had flown to Empyr’s monthly market. He’d braved the trip in frozen temperatures to order some specialised steel with a travelling Illyrian blacksmith and afterwards, he’d stopped at one of the many stalls to buy some food before he hit the skies back to Windhaven.

Cassian had been leaning against his chosen food stall polishing off a pastry when he’d noticed a small female in the long queue. Her clothes were clean but, like most Illyrians, they’d seen better days. Yet, it had been the black eye that had snagged Cassian’s attention. Hunched over and hobbling, Cassian guessed that the female was suffering from cracked ribs that had yet to heal properly. 

And from the look of her cracked and bleeding hands? Laundress. Definitely a laundress.

As it always did when Cassian forced himself to truly look at the Illyrian females around him, Cassian’s heart panged, as if someone had plucked a sad and melancholy string inside of him. The female had looked so small—not just in height, but in presence. She was a ghost, wraithlike, folding herself up, allowing the males to go ahead of her, head bent, timid and forgettable.

By most Illyrian standards, she was the perfect female.

It had taken her a while to make some headway in the line. And the entire time, Cassian had watched her, unsure why he was so transfixed by her progress—until it happened. 

Throughout Cassian’s life, he had learnt that good things happened because you brought them about yourself. Through blood, sweat and tears. Through fighting tooth and nail to survive and then to thrive. But sometimes, on a rare occasion, Cassian believed in destiny. He believed people could step right out in front of you, people who would change your life because the Gods had destined it so, if only you’d seize the reigns. 

Cassian had sensed it when Rhys had found him in his draughty and battered tent in the middle of the night. He’d felt it the moment he’d lain eyes on Azriel, even if he and Rhys had made it as hard as possible for the Shadowsinger at first. Later, he would believe it of himself and Nesta. From the very moment he’d set eyes on her in the human realm, he’d felt that flutter in his gut, some magnetism pulling them together. 

And Cassian had felt it then in Empyr as he watched a female that he’d later learn went by the name of Masak give her meagre coin away just so a little girl could eat. 

The little girl had snatched up the pastry as if she couldn’t believe what was happening to her. And then, fearful that it was too good to be true, had taken off, half-flying half-running across the frozen ground, across the bridges, until she disappeared into the woodland and was gone. 

Mas had watched the girl disappear with a look that was both heartbroken and rueful. But before she could turn away from the line, Cassian had found himself moving. 

A heavy, deliberate clunk had sounded as Cassian placed two small coins on the wooden counter. “Four more pastries, please.”

The Illyrian male behind the counter froze. Cassian had watched him sneer down at the youngling, ready to snap at her to scarper. And when he’d not been able to emit his anger, Cassian had known it was coming for the Illyrian female next in line. 

But Cassian’s face was known all over Illyria. Even if he hadn’t been sporting his siphons that adorned the backs of his hands, his knees, his shoulders, his chest… the Illyrian community knew the face of the General of the Night Court’s armies.

“And some chai,” Cassian added firmly, as he remembered how the female had eyed the cauldron bubbling gently away behind the counter. “Two cups.”

The male’s lips drew back for a second, as if he couldn’t stamp out the instinct to show his disgust at the female before him, before his expression was wrangled under control. “Anything else, General?”

“Not from you,” Cassian rebuffed coldly, the instruction in his voice the sort he used on the battlefield rather than with friends. Then, he’d turned to Mas. 

When his eyes had met hers, she had taken a small step back. Then another. 

When he held up the pastries and the cup of chai, she actually flinched. Stepped even farther away from him, jostling accidentally into some a male who sneered in disgust—as if she was dirty.

And in that moment, Cassian chose to do what he did best. He read his opponent.

The female before him knew who he was. Knew the control he had in Illyria. She was a low-born female who had been brought into the world to serve the male species. She would not dare disobey him and he… wanted to speak to her. Needed to.

The tug in his gut instructed him to.

So, he kept his voice deep and commanding. “Come with me.”

For a moment, he thought he’d read Mas wrong. That she might bolt. Her eyes darted around her but when she remained on the spot, when she fleetingly dared to meet his eyes, Cassian knew that her hunger was great enough that it won over her fear of him. And he could scent the latter on her, the tang of it so sharp, it could cut. It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t use the weapon on him—none of the males who came to Empyr would use their weapons out of respect for the sacred site—every Illyrian female was raised to fear the fist just as much as the edge of a blade. 

Cassian had walked over bridges with water running steadfast beneath him. The air at Empyr was always heavy with the tantalising scent of food, the finest sort of mist, and the slap and roar of cascading water against rock. 

When he reached a wide clearing in the woodland that closed around the lip of the valley, Cassian stopped. 

There, he set down the food and drinks on a rock and took a few steps back. His senses told him that Mas had kept to the trees that hugged the open space, but he gestured to the pastries anyway. 

“Please,” he said. “Eat. Drink.”

Mas remained silent. She didn’t move, but her eyes darted to the food before they snapped back to him. The bruise around her eye socket was still black and purple—fresh, rather than old. A fae body should have healed her by now. And if she wasn’t healing? She hadn’t eaten for a long while.

So, Cassian told her straight. “Those injuries won’t heal if you don’t eat.” Pine needles crunched under his weight as he sat down on the cool earth and began to eat one of the pastries he’d kept in hand.

Slowly, he ate. Slowly, he drank his chai. 

Patiently, he waited. 

Eventually, Mas crept over to the food. Snatched at a pastry before she backed away to the trees again, far away from him. As if the pines would grant her safety. 

Finally, she ate. Small bites at first. Then huge ones, as if she hadn’t had a meal in days. In moments, the pastry was gone. 

Slowly, so as not to startle her, Cassian stood. Entreatingly, he held out a cup of chai to her. He did not dare her to look her in the eye. It was an olive branch—a sign of respect, a choice not to dominate and Cassian was certain Mas had never been granted that courtesy in her entire life. 

In fact, Cassian looked purposefully at his leather boots as he placed the cup on the ground between them, before he backed away. 

The winter wind ribboned around the clearing and Cassian scented roasted chestnuts and wood shavings beneath the dirt and grime of a fae body, heard the crunch of pine needles break as Mas chose to take the cup.

He felt her eyes on him the entire time she drank.

When she finished, Cassian gestured to the remaining pastries as he took another bite of his own. “Don’t let them waste.”

She didn’t.

When Mas was done, Cassian had formulated a plan. He knew what he was going to do and how he was going to go about it.

Gaze still averted, Cassian took a drag from his cup. The chai was too sweet and already lukewarm thanks to the punishing Illyrian weather, but he swallowed before he asked, “Where are you from?”

Mas stiffened, her fear spiking sharp. Yet, when she didn’t turn on her heel Cassian lifted his eyes.

It struck him that she was a small female by Illyrian standards, her dark hair thick yet cropped short, the ends hastily and unevenly cut in a way that made Cassian suspect it had, until very recently, been long. But it was her hazel eyes that haunted Cassian. They were dark in the only way someone’s irises could be when they’d witnessed too much.

When their eyes connected, Cassian found that there was something steadfast in Mas’ expression. It was not hope, more of bleak resolution. A female who had no choice but to run away from everything she’d known. 

Mas’s voice was scratchy, as if she hadn’t used it for days. Broken, as she spoke the dire truth Cassian had suspected, “I can’t go back.”

“I don’t imagine you should,” Cassian commented with a forced lightness that didn’t quite hit home. There was a grave quality frosting his voice that Cassian hadn’t managed to thaw out. And to be honest, he hadn’t wanted to. The way females were treated in Illyria? It was a crime. “I certainly won’t be taking you,” he added.

Mas’s lips parted. The bottom one was still red and swollen, but she managed to jam her mouth shut without a hitch of breath. It told Cassian that she was not unfamiliar with pain. 

A few beats passed before she spoke again. 

“Spearhead,” she admitted in a whisper. And Cassian knew that the fault in his voice had convinced her that he would not take her back there, because she affirmed more loudly, “That’s where I’ve come from.”

Just the mention of the camp had Cassian’s expression tightening. Yet, he made a show of brushing his hands together, ridding himself of the wayward flakes of pastry as he nodded slowly, processing the information. 

Then, he looked up at her. The bruises and scrapes were starting to heal, her body no doubt able to begin repairing itself now it had the energy to do so, but her wings—her clipped and brutalised wings—remained mangled. “And how did you get here?”

Clearly having noticed Cassian’s gaze, Mas tucked her wings in tight, away from view. “I paid someone to fly me.”

Cassian nodded again. The gesture seemed stupid and meaningless, but it gave him something to do. He knew better than anyone that paying someone to bite their tongue didn’t mean anything in Illyria. And the males at Spearhead? They gave Ironcrest a good run for their money when it came to cruelty. “And now? Where do you plan to travel to next?”

Mas didn’t say anything, but he could see behind her eyes that her thoughts had began to stampede. Cassian might have extended a kindness to her so far, but if she betrayed her next location—if she even had the money to move on—he could track her. He could report to whoever was looking for her where she planned to fly to. 

But, even so, Cassian could tell Mas had more pressing issues. If she had decided to leave her camp, she was running from something—or Cassian would guess, someone. And Illyrian males did not take the possession of their females lightly. They would hunt for eternity for something they believed to be theirs.

So, to go on the run? Mas either had no choice or she was formidably brave. 

And Cassian respected bravery, both on the battlefield and off of it.

“I’d hazard a guess that you’re out of funds,” Cassian commented, nodding to the empty wrappers and cups. “I’m in need of a housekeeper back in Windhaven. I travel often for work and I need someone to take care of the day-to-day running of the home: overseeing laundry, cooking, cleaning, tending to the fires. I can offer free accommodation and a good wage, but more importantly, I can offer you safety.”

For a long while, Mas remained in shocked silence. Her hazel eyes—which over time would shape into something soft and motherly when she looked at him—had been wary and confused.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because you had barely any coin to your name but you gave your last pennies to a little girl who could not afford to eat,” Cassian told her. “Because this,” he gestured to her black eye and took a step closer to her, “is everything that is wrong with Illyria and you do not deserve it. Because you look like someone who has been beaten down and needs a new start. I can give that to you.”

“I might have deserved it.”

The words were so unexpected that Cassian wanted to blink. But he just stared her down, telling her with every second that passed that he didn’t believe her. Even if Mas had hurt someone, it was most likely in defence. If she’d made someone bleed, if she’d lashed out, Cassian was sure whoever who had received it had deserved it.

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not true though, is it?”

“No,” Mas admitted after a moment. She had grown brave enough to study him a little and he knew she was attempting to read him, to catalogue his face. It seemed to be something instinctual that she’d been tamping down—a warrior instinct suppressed from birth but clawing to get out. “Don’t you want to know what I’m running from?”

Cassian lifted a shoulder. “Not if you don’t want to tell me.” He didn’t really need her to. He could hazard a pretty accurate guess: her husband. Not mate—a mate would never harm the one they were bonded with.

“You’ll be safe in my residence,” Cassian told her. “If you work for me, I can promise you protection. And I can absolutely promise that I’ll never lay a finger on you. What do you say—”

A hand fell on Cassian’s shoulder. The sensation jolted him back to his place in the kitchen and away from the past.

Beside him, Mas was shooting him a knowing look. Her face was so different from when they’d first met. It was clean and free of bruises. Her eyes rippled as if she’d too just come out of the memory of that winter day. 

“I’d lost all hope when we met,” Mas reminded him, even though it wasn’t needed. Cassian had just relived it, after all. “I had no faith in anyone around me. But you saw me, bruised and dirty, and you bought me food anyway. You offered me an honest job, the chance to live a different life. And I took a leap of faith and decided to trust you—”

“Because you were out of options,” Cassian interrupted in reminder. 

He handed her the towel he’d been using and offered it to her so she could dry her hands.

But Mas ignored it, focussed instead on their conversation. She tapped a wet finger over his heart and leant towards him. “Not because I was out of options. Because you were different from the other males. And in time, as I came to trust you, I learnt that you were simply kind and good.” Mas punctuated her next words with a pointed tap against his chest. “You. Saved. Me. And I will never forget that. I don’t want to.”

A thick hand seemed to clutch at Cassian’s throat. Suddenly, it was hard to speak, but somehow he managed. “It was my pleasure.”

Mas dried her hands on the towel before she patted his cheek to show she understood. But she wasn’t done. “You freed me from my husband, a life of abuse, sinta. And now I owe you. Let me do this. Let me fight for you.”

The words unravelled something bound tight within Cassian, unfurling faster and faster until his emotions were unbound and swimming.

“What I did is not something you are meant to repay,” he started, but he had to stop to swallow. To gather himself, to speak the truth that needed to get out. Because he knew that Mas had heard them talking earlier—about his past and his ancestry. Knew she finally understood. And he needed her to know. Wanted her to, despite the fact that his voice dropped into something both hushed and cracked—exposed. “But if that’s what you’re worried about. You already have. You’re the mother I never had.”

Mas smiled sadly. Her eyes had grown soft and shining. In that moment, they looked like butter melting in sunlight. It was a vast contrast to her eyes when they’d first met. Lost and scared. Now, there was nothing but truth reflected in her irises. Something simple and uncomplicated and true. “And you are my son, stella,” Mas said simply, as if it was obvious. “And Nesta, my daughter. I like to think that we have given each other family.”

Cassian had to blink to stop the burning in his eyes. When he looked to Mas again, he saw that a tear of her own was rolling down her face. He caught it. As always, the skin of Mas’ face was soft and thin with age, but so lovely. “Does this mean you’ll finally move into this outhouse when it’s all over?”

Mas’s expression shifting into something earnest. “I like to stay with the other widows, the orphans. But when this is all over, when we’ve beaten Kallon, we will build houses in the camps together. We’ll give other females a home—anyone who wants a roof over their heads. How about that?”

One corner of Cassian’s mouth ticked. His heart was so warm and so painful. Like it was bleeding. 

But he just said, “That sounds like a deal.”

Mas straightened. “So you’ll let us come? Whoever wants to?”

“We’ll need to be selective,” Cassian told her. “Only the most competent and only if they want to come. I trust your judgement, but know that we’ll brief them in an hour and that they can’t breathe a word about it to anyone.”

Mas dipped her chin to let him know that she understood. “They won’t, not when it comes to you,” she told him. Then, she gave him a toothy grin. Ruffled her wings with mock-pride. “And not when it comes to me.”

Cassian couldn’t help it. He conceded a laugh. 

***

Nesta found Cassian in their bedroom. He’d left on the pretense of readying himself for battle, but really his intention had been to stand by the window and watch Mas leave. The housekeeper’s wings were held high and proud behind her and she held Roksana’s small hand in hers as they walked in the direction of the widows’ camp. 

The youngling fluttered alongside, fluctuating between walking, hopping and skating over the mud.

If Cassian could paint, this would be the image that he’d choose to brush against canvas. An endearing portrait of two seemingly happy figures retreating into the distance—a distance which meant that they were out of reach and safe. Unharmed.

The sensation of Nesta’s fingers sliding through Cassian’s snagged at the periphery of his attention. As always, his body sung at the proximity of her and he let that feeling vibrate through him until their fingers were interlocked.

“You agreed?” 

Nesta’s voice was muffled by the scales of his leathers. She’d pressed her chin into his bicep as she looked up at him. Affection was something that Cassian had been yearning for without realising it, but now Nesta was leaning into him, the warmth of her soaking into him, Cassian sensed the desire for it etched deep into his bones. It was like an unbearable ache, a building pressure that layered upon itself. And Nesta pressing against him, holding him to her? It made that pressure deflate a little.

If Nesta’s hair wasn’t woven back tightly for battle, Cassian would have threaded his free hand through her hair in thanks. Instead, he pushed back the sigh that coalesced in his throat. “They’re not as battle ready as the males.”

“They won’t be for a long time,” Nesta supplied simply. “Someone once told me it takes years to become a warrior. That it’s constantly a work in progress.”

“And you listened?”

Nesta’s snort was a wave of air, but she didn’t admonish him. She just clutched at his arm a little tighter, the silent gesture his admonishment. “I did.”

Usually, Cassian would have smirked—anything to rile her. But now, in their shared bedroom, Cassian couldn’t summon it. Not when he knew what they were about to walk into. “It’s going to be dangerous.”

Nesta straightened at his words and the scent of her, the jasmine and vanilla, finally tugged his focus away from Mas’ retreating back to the female beside him. 

Nesta had changed out of her everyday leathers and into the ones Rhys had gifted her. The smoky silver scales rippled in an exact replica of the flames at her fingertips, but Cassian couldn’t marvel at the magic of it, not when the female in question was pinning him down with her formidable eyes. “Isn’t battle always dangerous?”

“It is,” Cassian agreed lowly. “But I’m already worried about your wellbeing. And now Mas? The other females?” He swallowed, and his words caught in the clog at his throat. “There’s so much at stake—”

“You are not responsible for our lives, Cassian.”

Cassian’s voice became sharp without his command. “I am always responsible for those that step onto a battlefield for the Night Court, whatever shape that might take.”

“You are forgetting,” Nesta told him calmly, unperturbed by his whipped reply, “that those who step onto the battlefield do so out of their free will. Tonight, when we make our way to Ramiel, none of us will be coerced. But we are all driven by the same motive: to stop Kallon gaining power and starting a Civil War. The females are taking a stand because they have been oppressed for too long. They are finally standing up for themselves, showing their allegiance despite the fact that they could suffer the consequences. And I am doing the same. You can only respect that. You can’t take responsibility, Cassian, it’s not your right.”

There was no response to that, so Cassian just stood still, fighting the temptation to rub his tired eyes. 

Together, they had a rough plan in place but they didn’t know how it would all go. And if Cassian had learnt anything in his long years as a warrior, it was that no battle was a sure thing. There was no guarantee that everyone entering the battle would emerge breathing and whole. The battlefield was swathed in the promise of glory, but when you were in the thick of it, when you were knee deep in guts and shit and blood, it was nothing but horrifying.

And whilst they might not be entering a true battlefield, none of them expected to emerge from their conflict with Kallon unharmed.

None of them were that deluded. It wasn’t a pessimism, just a hard truth. A possibility. 

Cassian turned his body fully to face Nesta, his hand slipping from hers only for both of them to find purchase on her arms. 

“Don’t say it,” Nesta interrupted him, reading the grim look in his eyes. 

It took everything in Cassian to arch an eyebrow. To play. “Some might accuse you of being superstitious, sweetheart.”

Nesta let out a huffed breath. “Why tempt fate?”

“You are my fate,” Cassian told her quietly. He tracked her face, cataloguing it all—his Nesta. Again, that thought hit him: he wanted Nesta to be his wife. He wanted them to be joined in that way. She’d given him everything when she’d accepted the mating bond, and now he wanted to give her something human, something that she had always thought had been in her future. 

If she wanted it, that was.

Nesta’s hand tightened on his just as her mouth flattened. The movement was so brief Cassian would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching her so closely.

“And you’re mine,” she assured him slowly, and even though her face was near unreadable, Cassian felt the spark of embers in his chest as they glowed. Knew that she was telling him the truth.

For a brief instance, Nesta observed him. And Cassian let her, unstacking every guard he held around himself, as tight as a burning ring of flames until there was nothing left behind but ash and the heart of him.

What Nesta saw pulled a faint smile onto her face, but it was too brief and it was not wielded out of happiness. It was too sad. And when Nesta confirmed it by drawing his knuckles to her mouth and pressing her lips there, he knew that every worry he had for how tomorrow would play out… it festered inside of Nesta, too.

They both had a feeling. An ominous sense of something dark and lurking. 

Cassian watched Nesta drop his hand and turned towards the door. 

But when she reached the entryway, she paused. Her slim fingers wrapped around the frame and held on tight. 

Seconds passed as Nesta hesitated. Then, without turning to face him, she told him, “Ask me when we’re on the other side.”

The ensuing pause ate up her words, until nothing but a ringing silence hovered between them.

If they were in different circumstances, Cassian would have closed the distance between them and wrapped her hair around his palm. He would have looked down at her, revelling in the way her chin would tilt stubbornly up to meet him, that regal air wreathed around her like its very own crown.

But instead, Cassian just stared steadily at Nesta, waiting for her to turn. But she didn’t.

Cassian fought the temptation to curl his hands shut in a bid to distract the quickening tempo of his heartbeat. His siphons pulsed in anticipation. A whisper of something wound through him. A sighed name. “And what will I be asking, Nesta?”

He couldn’t see her but he knew Nesta had raised an eyebrow, the execution as perfect as the arch of it.

Her fingers tightened around the door frame, but still she did not turn. “Ask me when it’s over. And I’ll say yes.”

And it was in that pause, as her words stretched out between them, that the screaming started. 

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Mythology, Folklore and Behind the Scenes Fact File

Welcome to the fact file for Foolish Fire, a place where you can find more information on the background of the inspirations behind my Secret Santa gift for the amazing @popjunkie42-blog 💖

All of the inspiration I have taken from myths and folktales have been adapted to the story I am trying to tell, but where I have made creative adjustments, I will try to point out the changes below.

Erebus Forest In Greek mythology, Erebus is the personification of darkness. Some Ancient Greek authors also use Erebus to describe the particular form of gloom found in the Underworld. The concept of Erebus is most famously mentioned in Homer's Iliad, in which Erebus is the physical location that Hercules must venture into to collect the three-headed dog Cerberus. This mythology inspired the name of the forest in Foolish Fire due to the importance of how dark this particular forest gets and the impact this has within this story.

Will-o'-the-wisps These little creatures are tricky beings found in numerous forms in various European folktales. Traditionally known for mimicking the flickering light of a lantern, will-o'-the-wisps use their light to deceive weary travellers into getting lost.

Within this story, I decided to make it so that the will-o'-the-wisps are utilised by other creatures in the forest to capture prey and have a particular ability to cause a dreamlike trance in their victims. The title for this fic comes from the Latin translation for Will-o’-the-Wisp (ignis fatuus), which directly translates to foolish fire in English.

Belisama Lake The lake Feyre finds herself wading into during Foolish Fire is called Belisama Lake, a name inspired by the Celtic Goddess of lakes and fire, whose name, it has been reported, translates to ‘Most Mighty One’. During the Roman period, the river currently known as Ribble River, which runs through the North of England, was referred to as the Belisama in honour of the Goddess.

The Monster in the Lake The creature Feyre encounters in the waters of the Erebus forest was inspired by a mixture of one very famous creature from Scottish folklore, and an aquatic beast from approximately 240 million years ago.

The Loch Ness Monster The concept of creatures lurking beneath the surface in large bodies of water was not new in 1933 when the Loch Ness Monster was first brought to light on a global scale, however, Nessie is perhaps the most famous of all mythological lake monsters. Nestled in the Scottish Highlands, Loch Ness attracts vast numbers of tourists every year, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famed creature who is said to reside there.

The Nothosaurus Whilst the inspiration to add an underwater challenge to Foolish Fire came from the legend of Loch Ness, the real-life inspiration for the creature itself comes from a long extinct semi-oceanic reptile, who at 14 metres in length, dominated waters in the Triassic Period. The Nothosaurus was a carnivorous animal with needle-like teeth and a thick tail that acted as a paddle to steer it through the water.

The Empusa This shape-shifting female, with one copper leg (and sometimes a donkey’s leg, too), is commanded by Hecate in Greek mythology and uses her abilities to seduce and feed on young men. For this reason, she was compared to a vampire in the ‘Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology’ by William Smith (1849).

In Foolish Fire, the Empusa roams the woodlands of Pythian and is one of the most wanted creatures by all seven High Lords for the numerous violent deaths she causes yearly.

The Waterfall The waterfall Rhys and Feyre stumble upon in chapter three is inspired by Plitvice Lakes National Park and the stunning waterfalls that are found there.

The glowing element of the waterfall is inspired by the natural beauty of bioluminescent waters like those found in many locations such as New Zealand, Cambodia and the Maldives.

The Red Shoes The Red Shoes is a Danish fairytale, written by Hans Christian Anderson in the mid-1800's. It has been adapted numerous times, perhaps most famously in 1948 in a film adaptation by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. The tale also inspired singer-songwriter Kate Bush's seventh studio album of the same name.

The Cyclops Over the years there were many interpretations of cyclops in Greek mythology, famously however, three talented cyclopes named Arges, Steropes, and Brontes, help to craft Zeus's thunderbolt. With their distinct single eye in the centre of their heads, cyclopes are incredibly recognisable characters, even in the modern age.

Cerberus Hades three-headed dog Cerberus is the famed creature who guards the gates to the Underworld. His three heads and serpents tails makes him an incredibly terrifying creature in Greek mythology, but in Foolish Fire a baby Cerberus is the sweetest of all little pups and makes the perfect addition to Feyre and Rhysand's perfect little family.

Click here to find to the series masterlist

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #mythology and folklore

[gaypiratebrainrot]

zemph147′s OFMD fic masterpost

this is a collection w/ director’s notes of all my ofmd fic, to be updated as i write more! in chronological order of publication.

You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real) Details: E, Stede/Ed, 5.7k Notes: i wrote this in the first few weeks after i finished s1 when i just desperately needed to write them having sex. grabbed the first ten fandom tropes i saw and wrote this fluffy reunion porn without plot. link

Ink Details: E, Stede/Ed, 11k Notes: this is the one where ed ejaculates squid ink. very soft and silly and romantic. probably my favorite fan fic i’ve ever written. now with an absolutely amazing and delightful podfic by @knotwerk! link   podfic link

Does The Body Good Details: E, Stede/Ed, 21k Notes: my touch-starved, fucking-while-pining magnum opus. perhaps best known for “just the tip,” but i laugh every time at luxury face cream. a popular masturbation companion. the podfic is incredible. link   podfic link

Water Flowing Underground Details: E, Stede/Ed, Rhys/Taika, 22k Notes: the scandalous rpf meta that might also be the best thing i’ve ever written? mind the warnings but also readers have debated the rpf-ness, the dubiousness of the consent, and the unhappiness of the ending, so YMMV. gets you thinking and asking questions and also the porn is hot. people are scared to read this one, but i think almost everyone who felt unsure and read it anyway is glad they did. link

Futt Slug Details: E, Stede/Ed, 8k Notes: my canon-verse contribution to the Extended Butt Plug Universe, where stede uses a remote-controlled vibrating butt plug somewhere out in public and ed accidentally finds the remote. since this is canon-verse, my butt plug is magical and there is no remote, but ed still unwittingly controls the vibrations. featuring Jemaine Clement as Bob the sea fairy. link

Famine and Feast Details: E, Stede/Ed, background crew orgy, 19k Notes: a modern restaurant AU with a magic realism twist. this one is mostly about the food porn, and then porn involving food, but it’s a lot about feelings too. link

Screwdriver Details: E, Stede/Ed, 6k Notes: based on a memetic Grindr interaction where a guy sourced a screwdriver instead of a hookup during a plumbing emergency, which just screamed stede bonnet to me. really just an excuse to use all my favorite standby gentlebeard porn tropes: himbo stede’s first time with a man, ed desperate to ride his giant dick, etc. etc.. also has an incredibly delightful podfic! link    podfic link

Choose Your Own Adventure: Reunion! Details: E, Stede/Ed, 49k, 15 authors Notes: a truly fantastic collaborative project, where each writer wrote a couple of scenes for different branches of a choose your own adventure story--behind the scenes, an incredible logistical feat! i wrote two chapters and contributed to the secret chapter (very much worth finding), and i highly recommend poking around in here for a lot of creative, unhinged fun. link

Through the Back Door Details: E, Stede/Mary, Stede/Ed, Ed/Mary, Ed/Stede/Mary, Mary/OFC, Stede/Mary/OFC, Stede/OFC, Ed/Stede/Mary/OFC, 26k Notes: lmao the ship list on this thing. this is not a WFU sequel, but a nearby universe, a fan fic of epersonae’s for the benefit of all the broken hearts, which is a fan fic of WFU. this came about from a combination of wanting to write missing sex scenes from FTBOATBH and from musing about what stede meant in WFU when he said “I’m familiar enough,” about putting lube up ed’s bum. link

Stranger on a Beach Details: E, Stede/Ed, Ed/Jack, Stede/Hornberry, Ed/Jack/Izzy, 46k Notes: i just wanted to write a bunch of porn and accidentally almost nanowrimo’d myself. there’s definitely a lot of porn. it also grew a plot and is very silly and romantic, but still mostly porn by volume. and also there is existential dry humping in a cave. link

Does the Body Good 2: Does the Body Even Gooder Details: E, Stede/Ed, 27k Notes: ok the notes above for SoaB say a lot of porn, and while it probably does out-porn this one just due to total word count, i’m pretty sure dtbg2 features the longest continuous sex scene i’ve ever written. i feel as if i’ve accomplished some kind of epic porn feat. it’s also got romance and jokes, and the second chapter is sort of modeled on an acid trip. and the wonderful FlammableHeart is back for the podfic! link     podfic link

#ofmd #ofmd fic #for my pinned post

[wingedblooms]

i dream of seer Elain, eyes cloudy and lips budding with the secrets of the Cauldron.

a voice that was male and female, young and old, haunting and alluring

humming a silent melody as she wanders across the solar system, her garden. stars and wind and darkness in full bloom.

a song and an invitation, its siren song

promising hope and healing as vines twine tightly in death’s sweet embrace. her power a thing of secret, lovely beauty.

•

the seer’s song

i am super excited to see Elain’s sight [oracular, mystic, and more] at work. i suspect it functions like the Cauldron itself, especially the siren song it uses to find and influence others through dreams. in CC, the oracle lures Hunt and her voice slithers [like the Cauldron’s power] when she is using her sight. as i have said before, sight and song often twine together in Norse mythology. völva [witches, seers, wise women] used song to see and influence Wyrd [fate]. since we know Sarah draws from this mythology, it would be fitting for Elain’s gift to include both sight and song, which might also explain why she and Azriel are intertwined. it also doesn’t hurt that this floral dress, titled silent melody, used to be on Sarah’s ACOTAR Pinterest board. because we are mind twins, @offtorivendell has theorized about her sight as Singing. she also wondered if the first part of the scene below is from Elain’s dreams [Feyre’s mind drawn into her sister’s while she slept through her daemati powers], surfacing in brief flashes of light and color that include the mighty Cauldron’s illusion.

•

My dreams were a tangled garden, thorns snagging on me as I stumbled through them. I dreamed of the Suriel, bleeding out and smiling. I dreamed of the Weaver’s open mouth ripping into Ianthe while she still screamed. I dreamed of Lord Graysen—so mortal and young—standing at the edge of the camp, beckoning to Elain. Telling her he’d come for her. To come home with him. That he’d found a way to undo what had been done to her—to make her human again.

I dreamed of that Cauldron in the King of Hybern’s war-tent, so dark and slumbering … Awakening as Nesta and I stood there, invisible and unseen.

How it had watched back. Known us.

I could feel it watching me, even then. In my dreams. Feel it extend an ancient, black tendril toward me—

I jolted awake.

[…]

Amren’s bare feet were splattered in mud and grass. “It came here—its power. I can feel it—slithering around. Looking.”

“The Cauldron,” Varian said, brows narrowing. “But—it’s aware?”

“We pried too deep,” Amren said. “Battle aside, it knows where we are as much as we now know its location.”

Nesta raised a hand. “Listen.”

And I heard it then. It was a song and invitation, a cluster of notes sung by a voice that was male and female, young and old, haunting and alluring and—

“I can’t hear anything,” Rhys said.

“You were not Made,” Amren snapped. But we were. The three of us …

Again, the Cauldron sang its siren song.

My very bones recoiled. “What does it want?”

I felt it pulling away—felt it sliding off into the night.

Azriel stepped out of a shadow. “What is that,” he hissed.

My brows rose. “You hear it?”

A shake of the head. “No—but the shadows, the wind…They recoil.”

The Cauldron sang again. Distant—withdrawing.

“I think it’s leaving,” I whispered. Cassian stumbled and staggered for us a moment later, a hand braced on his chest, Mor on his heels. She did not so much as look at me, nor I her, as Rhys told them. Standing together in the dead of night—

The Cauldron sang one final note—then went silent.

The presence, the weight … vanished.

Amren loosed a sigh. “Hybern knows where we are by now. The Cauldron likely wanted to have a look for itself. After we taunted it.”

I rubbed at my face. “Let’s pray that’s the last we see of it.”

Varian angled his head. “So you three … because you were Made, you can hear it? Sense it?”

“It would appear so,” Amren said, looking inclined to tug him back to wherever they’d been, to finish what they’d no doubt still been in the middle of doing.

But Azriel asked softly, “What about Elain?”

•

what about Elain? can she find and influence others in her murky realm where dream and reality entwine? does she ensnare them with a promise of spring the future, sparkling with light and color amidst mist and shadow? a vision of hope shining in the tapestry of void.

seer, wise woman, weaver of fate.

#seer elain #elain archeron #the voice of the cauldron #the seer’s song #silent melody #blooming stars and wind and darkness #secret lovely beauty #elain archeron week 2022 #seer wise woman weaver of fate #elain’s powers

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Carynthian

For @nessianweek day 7 (but could also be a late day 6). So, ever since hearing about that SJM interview, with the original plan for the Rite in ACOSF, I’ve not been able to stop thinking about Cassian watching Nesta through a mirror. And thus, this fic was born— one where Eris isn’t captured, and one where Nesta climbs the mountain with her sisters and becomes carynthian the way she should have in canon. It’s almost 5k of pure angst but it’s okay, because there will be a part 2 at some point soon, full of nothing but fluff and a soft, fussing Cassian. Yknow, just to make up for all the heartache. (Also on AO3) (*update* - chapter 2 is here)

**********

Cassian had been wounded countless times in his long life. Acquired more scars than he could count, found himself on the wrong side of a keen blade more times than he cared to admit. Yet no injury, no wound, could compare to the pain of landing in Windhaven and finding Nesta gone.

Not just gone— taken. All three of them, his mate and his friends, plundered and left alone, thrust unwillingly into the Blood Rite.

It was a dagger between his ribs, a knife in the heart, and he couldn’t stand in Emerie’s house a second longer. The scent of their fear lingered, sticking to the back of his throat. Bitter and acrid, it was too much to bear, and he couldn’t breathe in there, couldn’t look at the bed that still smelled like Nesta, the blood on the floor that said she’d not gone without a fight. 

He tore through Emerie’s front door but didn’t feel the cold as he sank to his knees. His strength and his restraint departed, and he plunged his hands into the snow, clenching his fists to the point of pain. He was nothing but a maelstrom of blind, molten rage, undercut with a fear so incapacitating he could barely breathe, barely move.

He had to— Needed to— Couldn’t just—

Gasping, Cassian sought the other end of the bond bridging his soul and Nesta’s. He grasped at it, clawed with invisible hands, cast around for the other end of that tether. Desperate, frantic, he tried, but it slipped through his fingers as he fell forwards onto his hands. Cut off, she was cut off from him and he couldn’t reach her and—

A sob cleaved his chest, burning in his throat as he muttered her name over and over and over— Nesta, Nesta, Nesta. A lament, bleeding and raw.

Mother and Gods above, his last words to her had been ones of anger— and now his mate was in the killing fields, and it was enough to make him descend into primal, terrible, panic as his tormented hands tried to find purchase in the snow. Scrambled for something to hold onto.

There was nothing.

He was the most powerful Illyrian in centuries. Enalius reborn. A warrior god, blessed beyond measure with power— but what fucking good was any of that now?

What good were seven siphons and a mighty reputation when he couldn’t reach the woman he loved, couldn’t save her? “You know the laws,” Rhys had said, but fuck the laws. Fuck everything, because—

Because he’d never even had the chance to tell her he loved her. Never found the right moment, and oh, how he regretted it now. She was gone, so far away, and all he could do was pray, beg any deity that would listen as he kneeled broken in the snow.

“Come back to me,” he whispered to the wind. A broken plea, a desperate entreaty. “Come home to me, Nes.”

***

The clock ticked. A metronome of grief, it ticked over, seventy-two hours turning to seventy-three. Three days slipped into four and suddenly, Cassian had gone four entire days without her. He’d counted each minute, each second, and with every single one that passed, the knife twisted deeper, delved further into his heart.

Azriel had found him in the snow. Said something about going home, but that was ridiculous, because home lay to the north, with Nesta, wherever she was. Az had brought them back to the House of Wind, but this wasn’t home. Not without her, not anymore. Without her he was lost. Rudderless and trying to navigate a tempest sea— and all he could do was wait. Wait, and pace, and wait.

Azriel sat in a chair by the fireplace now, watching as shadows darted in and out in their search for information. Cassian wasn’t entirely sure why they even bothered— they couldn’t cross into the forests around the slopes of Ramiel, so all they delivered was news of the camp lords readying to meet those that finished the Rite when the seven days were done.

Not a whisper about Nesta or Emerie or Gwyn, and Cassian had almost broken a window when they’d first brought back news of Devlon instead of the Valkyries. Who gave a fuck what the lords were doing, when it was Nesta and Emerie and Gwyn who mattered now? Who fucking cared what preparations they were making, when Nesta could have lain unbreathing since that very first day?

That thought had him spiralling. Picturing his mate— his beautiful, fierce mate lying lifeless in the snow— A strangled, feral, sound left him, one of anguish, and Cassian slammed a fist onto the nearest table, shattering the silence and splintering the polished surface. It cracked from edge to edge, breaking open and it was fitting, really. Cassian felt himself splitting open with every second that passed, every night he spent sleepless.

“I can’t do this,” he croaked. The most he’d spoken in hours. If Az was surprised by the outburst, then he kept his face carefully blank. “What is she’s—”

Dead, but he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t say it out loud. What if she’s dead.

Azriel shook his head, blue siphons blazing. “You’d know, Cass.” Smoothly, he rose to his feet and crossed the floor in three strides. A scarred hand rested over Cassian’s fractured heart as he said, “You’d feel it.”

“Would I?” Cassian asked hoarsely, voice cracking. The bond was silent, so deathly quiet that it was like screaming into a void every time he tried to tug on it, to find the end that was connected to her. He tried— every few minutes, he tried, but there’d been nothing, not a whisper echoing down that bridge. 

“Yes,” Az nodded, eyes softening, sharing his concern. He hadn’t left him alone for days— had been there as Cassian paced, refusing to sleep or eat. The House was worried too, kept delivering fresh tea and building up the fire. When the sun set, it gave them whiskey. It was fussing— but the pile of books the girls had left abandoned days ago remained untouched. The House refused to move them, and Cassian didn’t touch them either, as if they were both of them hoping that, at any minute, their Valkyries would be back, picking up where they left off.

I miss them too, Cassian wanted to whisper to the lights that flared every now and then in the sconces. The House’s way of asking if there was any news, he supposed. 

He was looking at those books - thinking of the way Nesta’s brow furrowed in concentration when she read, the way she’d bite her lip slightly, blush, when she was reading smut and didn’t want him to know - when one shadow scurried across the floor. Hurried up its master’s arm and made Azriel blink once, twice. Cassian’s heart lurched— What did the shadows say, oh gods above, what had they found—

It could have been no more than ten seconds— no more than that, as Azriel listened to his shadows and Cassian waited, panic rushing through him as his knees almost gave way. No more than ten seconds, but it felt like an eternity— as if time had slowed, halted. Eventually, Azriel dismissed the shadow with a flick of his wrist and offered Cassian a wan smile.

“I know how you can check on her.”

***

A magic mirror. A magic mirror. Kept in the Hewn City along with the Veritas orb and the ouroboros mirror— he’d been a fool not to remember it sooner, but the thing had been hidden in the Court of Nightmares for so long that it had all but passed out of memory. That is, until Azriel’s shadows had remembered, and Az had departed instantly, returning within the hour bearing a velvet-wrapped parcel and a wary expression.

“Ready?” Az asked, throat bobbing as he swallowed. Even the spymaster was nervous, and Cassian's throat went dry, terrified of what awaited them within that mirror.

“No,” he admitted, but nodded regardless as Azriel set the mirror on the low table before the sofa, propped it up against Nesta’s books. 

The world seemed to still, to hold its breath, as Azriel drew the fabric away from the surface of that mirror and first… First Cassian saw only himself. Saw a male gone mad with terror, haunted by words he’d left unspoken. He saw Az too, saw the concern in his own shadowed eyes echoed in the spymaster’s anxious gaze.

And then— He saw Nesta. 

He saw Nesta.

For the first time in days, he saw her, and he felt hollow— felt like he’d been cut right down to the quick, because he’d not expected seeing her to hurt this much. She was running, Gwyn and Emerie by her side, each of them wearing leathers at least three sizes too big. They were breathing, alive, and running— running for a valley and a rope bridge strung across a gulf. They had found one another, just as he and Az and Rhys had, but any gladness he felt was dwarfed, swallowed entirely as he noted the smear of blood on Nesta’s cheek. Her hands, bruised and cut.

“She’s hurt,” he murmured mournfully. His soul keened as he took her in, alive and breathing yes, but hurt, and it was fucking killing him, as if her injuries pained him too. Every instinct he had screamed at him to get her, find her, wrap her in his arms and hold her so tightly— but she was so far away. Out of his reach, and all he could do was watch, hands outstretched towards the mirage of her.

“She’s alive,” Az reminded him carefully. “They all are.”

More than alive— they were fighting, barrelling towards the bridge, so close to the foot of Ramiel. They’d made it far— in four days they were further along than he and Az had been in their own Rite, and if Cassian hadn’t still been so fucking terrified, he’d have taken a moment to cheer, to kiss the surface of that mirror, because they were racing towards that mountain.

They had almost reached that swinging bridge when Az swore.

“What the fuck is that,” he asked sharply, leaning forward as shadows skittered along the edge of the mirror. Cassian wasn’t listening, didn’t care, watching only Nesta’s feet as she ran, dodging rocks and uneven ground. “Cass,” Az pressed. “At Emerie’s hip. What the fuck is that? It looks like—”

Cassian followed his brother’s gaze and saw— the hilt of a dagger.

The world tilted, and even though Cassian was already sat down, he felt weak, needed to lie down as the breath left his lungs in a violent gasp. Unmistakably, there was a weapon sheathed at Emerie’s hip. At Nesta’s too, and Gwyn’s. Someone had put weapons in the Rite, and whilst he was glad the Valkyries were armed with proper steel, he felt hollow, bottomed out as he realised that full-grown Illyrian warriors weren’t attacking his mate with makeshift weapons— no, they had real blades. Real steel. He jumped to his feet when he saw arrows.

With trembling hands, he tapped his siphons, bringing out his armour. Enough— he’d seen enough. “No more,” he said, voice shaking with barely contained fury. Barely contained dread. “If the Illyrians want to hunt me down and execute me, just let them fucking try. I’m getting them back, if it’s the last thing I do—”

“Cass,” Azriel interjected, rising to his feet too.

“There are fucking weapons in there, and I won’t sit here and wait Az, not when this this is rigged against them—” He swatted at the shadows twined around the door handle like a lock, considering just kicking the whole thing down, because he had to get to her, couldn’t watch one more arrow miss her by a hairsbreadth— 

Wouldn’t just sit there and wait for his mate to die—

“Cass,” Az repeated, sharply this time. Loudly. “Look.”

The bridge was gone. 

Stretching across that chasm was nothing, and on the other side stood all three Valkyries. Blood streamed down Gwyn’s leg, and Cassian’s heart stuttered as they used a stolen shirt to bind Gwyn’s leg, to stop the flow of blood, but— their pursuers were on the other side of the cliff. 

“The lords won’t stop it,” Az muttered darkly. “You know that. Even if it’s been interfered with, they’re too proud to admit it, and too stubborn to pull out now.” He shook his head as Cassian’s stomach sank, as his fingers fell away from the door handle. 

“I can’t do nothing, I can’t just—“

“What’s your plan then, General? Storm in there, pull them out and then— what? You’d have to slaughter every commander, every camp lord. Leave Illyria in ashes.”

Cassian’s siphons burned. “You expect me to sit here and watch them die? Watch Nesta die?”

Az shook his head. “They can do this,” he said quietly, turning his gaze back to the mirror, where the Valkyries had rested for only long enough to bind Gwyn’s leg. Swallowing, Az blinked as they grew closer to the mountain with each step. “They remind me of us.”

“Yeah,” Cassian breathed, barely taking his eyes off Nesta long enough to blink. He drew in a stuttered breath, damn near trembling as he returned to the sofa. He reached out, drifting his fingers over the smooth, glassy surface, longing to feel her skin beneath his hands instead.

As night dawned and darkness deepened, Cassian remained by that mirror. Didn’t sleep, didn’t move. Until the sun came up, Cassian kept his vigil.

***

Nothing in the world could have prepared him for the sight of Nesta at the base of Ramiel. The mountain, all but hallowed ground, and the stars above— the closest thing to relics Illyrians had, the nearest thing to religion. Artkos, Oristes and Carynth glinted overhead, sacred, but as Nesta looked up to the summit, light glancing off her jaw… Relics and religion meant nothing, paling next to her.

Oristian.

They were Oristian by right now, and if Cassian weren’t so overcome with terror, if his eyes weren’t burning from so many hours without sleep, then he’d have wept with pride. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe they could do this— wasn’t that he doubted them, or lacked faith. It was that he knew what awaited them up that mountain, wanted to spare them the pain of climbing its slopes. 

It was that his every breath was dogged with a terrible, gnawing panic that something could go wrong, and now that there were real weapons in the Rite…

How could he be expected to sleep, knowing that?

As he watched, Nesta pointed to a path leading south. Gwyn shook her head, but Emerie pointed to the blood soaking through the shirt they’d used as tourniquet on the priestess’ leg. The path led away from Ramiel— they could take it, wait out the remaining few days and be brought home safe as soon as the Rite was over. Go south, Cassian urged, nodding as Nesta pointed to the path again. Please— 

Please come home to me.

He didn’t need to look at Azriel to know he was thinking of the same thing— remembering their own climb up that mountainside. Their agony, their blood mingling in the snow as exhaustion threatened to consume them. Three paths up, and though only one was known as the Breaking, there was no way of making it up that mountain unscathed. No path that didn’t leave you gasping, aching, bleeding, broken in a hundred different ways.

Don’t. He wished they could hear him, wished his words would reach. Don’t— you’ve done enough. Proven enough. 

But Gwyn was pointing adamantly up at the mountain, tears shining in her teal eyes. She spoke at length, and then Emerie was crying, too. When Nesta’s own tears began to fall, Cassian cursed every inch of distance between them, hating that he could do nothing to ease her pain. His own grief deepened with every tear she shed, and when, as one, they spurned the path to the south and began the ascent as sisters… Cassian bowed his head. In reverence, but in despair, too.

“Carynthian,” Az breathed, and a shiver crawled down Cassian’s spine. Though he was premature giving them the title Carynthian, there was no doubt in the spymaster’s face. No doubt at all. They’d make it to the top, touch that stone.

Carynthian.

His Nes— His Valkyrie, his Carynthian. 

And to think, he’d never told her he loved her. Never, even though it was the most fundamental truth. She always had been his equal and now— Gods, now there was no denying it. Nesta was the other half of him, and if the Illyrians weren’t terrified of her before, then they’d tremble now. They’d fall to their knees as she passed, and if they didn’t, he’d take out their kneecaps and force them to.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered to himself, eyes drifting closed as she began the ascent up the mountain that had damn near killed him, once.

Please, he prayed. Please let her survive this. 

***

It was all he could think for hours. All he could murmur, whisper like a mantra. Please, please, please. As he watched the Valkyries take each step, as they stopped to catch their breath, to let Gwyn rest— please. As the House stopped building up the fire, stopped refilling the teapot as if it, too, was waiting with bated breath— please. 

The summit was so close, just another few hours and they’d make it, they’d be home, and Cassian dared to hope for the first time in days, because it was just there, just a little bit further and—

Nesta stopped. The world came to a halt as she stopped dead, swayed— and fell. Fell right back down to the Pass of Enalius, and Cassian couldn’t breathe, not as he saw each rock that grazed her skin, felt each blow. Even Azriel hissed, a sharp breath sucked in between gritted teeth, and Cassian’s siphons were pulsing, raging, as he watched, helpless, as all those yards gained were yielded, and the summit seemed further than ever.

The nightmare didn’t end, only deepened as Emerie’s lips parted and Cassian read the words he couldn’t hear. They’re coming— as Nesta took up a blade. As the lips he’d kissed swollen just days ago uttered the one word that made his blood run cold. No.

Azriel inhaled sharply as Gwyn protested. As Nesta hit the pressure point Cassian had taught her and the priestess went out cold. Emerie pleaded. Begged. And Nesta gripped her sword tighter.

“No,” Cassian echoed, hands grasping at the mirror, clawing at the surface. The bevelled edges sliced open his finger, and his blood hit the glass as Gwyn’s lingered in the snow. He watched as Nesta used her sword, drew a line— just as Enalius had, all that time ago. The world blurred at the edges, and all he could focus on was her, gripping that shield and clutching her sword. She hadn’t known that Enalius had drawn a line, too. Didn’t know that part of the tale. 

In his bones, Cassian knew that he was watching his mate make her last stand. He’d promised her time— on that battlefield, he’d promised that they’d have time, and they’d been given so fucking little. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t right, that this was the way it ended, that this was how their story finished. 

He might have been screaming— might have been shouting, but his ears were ringing and his vision tunnelled as the first of her attackers rounded the corner and came into view— too many, there were too many of them and she was so vastly outnumbered that the odds were stacked against her. His tears were thick and fast, grief consuming him. Subsuming every facet of his being, a tidal wave of it, too terrible to bear, as he repeated the same word over and over again: Please.

***

The dead were scattered around her, and Cassian’s heart pounded. He didn’t mourn the loss of any of them. Didn’t grieve, because Nesta was still standing, and only one of them remained— but she was exhausted. He could see it in her face, in the set of her shoulders, and gods above, Cassian had been a warrior long enough to know when the fight was almost gone. Knew what it looked like when there was nothing left.

The snow fell heavily, the wind raged, as if even the elements were furious, didn’t want to see her meet her end this way.  Cassian raged too, barely feeling Azriel’s hand gripping his shoulder, not hearing the words the shadowsinger muttered by his ear. 

The nameless warrior lunged, and with one swift hit, knocked Nesta’s shield aside.

Her gaze followed, turning to see where it landed, and Cassian roared, almost upending the table as he shot to his feet. No, no no no— he knew what would happen the moment she turned her head, let her attention drift. The bastard knocked her sword away too, and Cassian could only watch, screaming, as his blade swung for her. She ducked— took a hit to the arm instead, and Cassian couldn’t breathe— couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t tear his eyes away.

I love you, he thought, but he might have said it out loud. Might have screamed it as the blade nicked her cheek. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Az swore as Nesta was knocked to her back. Her nose was bleeding. Her mouth, too. Crimson, stark against the snow and the ice. The warrior - who wouldn’t live long even if he survived the Rite - tossed aside his weapons as Nesta struggled to her hands and knees. More blood spilled, but she was a fighter— always had been.

His Nesta— his brave warrior heart, always.

“Can you read his lips?” Cassian asked numbly, a cold, ice cold fury running through his veins as he beheld the face of the Illyrian swinging for his mate. 

Azriel huffed a bitter, vengeful laugh. “He thinks she can’t take him in hand-to-hand combat.”

A vicious, cruel, smirk tugged at Cassian’s lips as, darkly, he answered, “He’s never fucking met her.”

“No,” Az agreed. “I hope she fells him with one good punch. I hope his skull caves in.”

Murderous, Cassian agreed. Nesta opened her mouth, and as Cassian leaned forward, he didn’t need Az to read her lips this time. Cassian could do it himself, as if he could hear her.

My mate taught me.

With trembling hands, Cassian reached out to brush the surface of the mirror again.

My mate taught me.

My mate.

***

“Don’t tuck your thumb,” he’d told her, oh, so long ago now.“You’ll break your fingers if you hit like that.” He watched her now— throwing punches just as he’d taught her.

That’s it, he murmured as she landed a punch that Cassian was certain broke the bastard’s nose. That’s it, just like that. Blood sprayed, but it wasn’t hers, and even though he’d seen battles turn in a blink, seen fortune’s wheel spin too many times to celebrate a victory before it was won— Cassian let himself hope, for one beautiful moment.

Only one— because in the span of a breath, in a single, stuttering, heartbeat, Nesta was on her knees, and this time she wasn’t rising— She crawled through the arch, breaking the line she’d drawn, and she didn’t realise, didn’t see, as the bastard behind her pulled a dagger from his boot, stepped forward, the blade glinting—  Cassian’s breath stuttered, and he didn’t have time to cry out, couldn’t so much as blink, before the Illyrian was lunging, and Nesta hadn't realised, was still on the ground, and— The world was spinning as he descended madly into terror, down and down and down as he saw her eyes, the blue and grey he’d die for— Saw her realise, far too late, saw the flicker of fear as the blade neared her throat and—

His eyes snapped closed, his world crumbling to dust.

A single, solitary tear slid down his cheek. I love you, he thought. I should have told you. Should have spent all these months saying it, proving it, because I love you Nes, and I don’t know how to live without you, how to breathe without you—

“Cass,” Az whispered.

No. He couldn’t— couldn’t see her lying bleeding in the snow. Couldn’t open his eyes.

“Cass,” Az repeated, shaking his arm. “She’s alright, Cass, look.”

Alright?

Slowly, he looked. The dagger the Illyrian had pulled from his boot was buried in his own neck, Nesta panting as she rested against the rocks. He didn’t try to hold back his sobs, then. Cared for nothing as he saw her, breathing, looking up to the top of the mountain, where there had been no flash of light. Emerie and Gwyn hadn’t left, had waited, and now there was nothing between his mate and her sisters.

Nothing to stop them coming home.

***

There would be no welcome party in Windhaven or Ironcrest or any other Illyrian camp for the Valkyries. Instead, Cassian barrelled down the hall towards the library, the House throwing open the doors before him, dizzy with relief and thanking every star in the sky, every deity he could name, that it was over. Done.

After days of agony… He saw them. Saw her, and though he engulfed all three of them in a hug that could have broken bones, it was her scent he was inhaling. Her neck he buried his face in. 

“Nes,” he said against her skin, pulling all three of them more firmly against him. They were filthy and tired, but healed and alive, and even Azriel stepped forward, swallowing thickly as Emerie mumbled something against Cassian’s shoulder, her words muffled. Gwyn huffed a laugh, and— home, home, they’re home. 

The lights flickered, even the House desperate to welcome its favourite residents, and as Gwyn and Emerie freed themselves from his grasp, Cassian was left only with a familiar touch against his cheek, familiar fingers drawing through his hair. 

Nesta.

His fingertips drifted across her jaw, down her neck and across her collarbone, palms skating down the side of her arms as he felt every inch of her. He cradled her face, overwhelmed and awed, breath catching as he felt her skin beneath his at last, and then, he was kneeling—

Falling to his knees before her, head bowed, in awe and pride and supplication. She had so many titles now— Lady Death, Valkyrie… Carynthian. She was everything, his entire world wrapped up in a bundle of sarcasm and sharp words, and when she curled her fingers under his chin, urged him to look at her, Cassian took her hand, weaved their fingers together and gripped it so tightly there wasn’t a force in the world that could pull them apart.

Not again.

“I love you,” he rasped. “I didn’t say it before— I never said it, and I should have—”

Nesta shook her head. Dropped to her knees too, taking his face between her palms, and when she whispered “Cass”, Cassian wrapped his arms around her, hauling her to his chest, so close that every part of her was pressed against every part of him. The blood from her leathers seeped through his shirt, right down to his skin, but her arms were around his neck, clinging to him, and nothing else mattered, nothing. He felt her tears warm on his neck, the sobs that cut her throat, and he held her as she fell to pieces.

He fell to pieces too, shattered entirely as they came apart together on the floor. 

Distantly, Az murmured to Gwyn and Emerie. Something about finding them bedrooms and something to eat. Cassian heard their steps as they walked away, but neither he nor Nesta moved, unable to part, unwilling to let go.

“I love you,” he said again, making up for lost time. Pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, he shuddered as he thought of how close he’d come to losing her. He didn’t have words for anything else. In an hour or so, he was certain he’d be falling over himself to tell her how proud of her he was, how awed and how lucky— but now, as his world began to knit itself back together, all he could manage was I love you, over and over again as she sobbed in his arms.

#nessian #nessian fic #oh so much angst

[acourtofthought]

The part regarding Elain's vision, was a theory ahappyhermit had. The parts involving Mor are my own.

The Golden Queens Death -

Her body was bent, her back arched on the impact, as if she were in the throes of passion. Her golden hair had been shorn to the skull. Her golden eyes had been plucked out.

Elain's Vision -

“Everyone thinks she’s dead.” Elain kept walking. “But she’s not. Only—different. Changed. As I was.”

“I can hear her—crying.”

The golden queen, to everyone's knowledge, was murdered. However, her eyes and hair were taken beforehand and during the time when the King was still in possession of the Cauldron (which he used to bring Jurian back from just an eyeball).

A lot of people (myself included) were under the impression that Elain was referring to Vassa when she said, "everyone thinks she's dead" but later Jurian tells us "The entire world believes she’s been sick these past months.”

If her vision was in reference to Vassa than Elain saying "everyone thinks she's dead" doesn't line up with Jurian who says everyone in the world thinks she's ill.

So ahappyhermit theorized that maybe the golden queen was actually the one brought back to life and turned into something like a lion shifter considering Elain says "changed like I was" and there are a hints that Elain may be an owl shifter (something I've actually theorized for quite awhile).

It got me thinking that maybe the golden queen might be a possible love interest for Mor. I'd love seeing a Mor / Emerie pairing too but so far we've only been given Emerie commenting on Mor's beauty as a possible hint for those two. Plus I've sometimes wondered if Mor will end up outside of the Night Court. With Cassian and Rhys Mated and Az soon to be paired off with someone, the dynamic is different. And maybe Mor would be happiest setting off on a path of her own choosing.

Now, onto Mor and the golden queen:

“It was Nephelle and her lover—now her wife, I suppose—who made me dare to try..

That they lived in a place, with a people who thought nothing of it

“Her name was Andromache. And she was … so beautiful. And kind. And I loved her … so much.”

“She bore five children. And died an old woman, safe in her bed. And I saw her spirit again—in that golden queen. Her descendant.”

Mor and the golden queens interactions:

Her riotously curly hair was as golden as Mor’s, her eyes of purest amber. Even her brown, freckled skin seemed dusted with gold. Her body was supple where she’d probably learned men found it distracting, lithe where it showed grace. A lion in human flesh.

Mor stalked toward us, her crimson gown floating on a phantom wind. The golden queen sized her up with each step, each breath. A threat—for beauty and power and dominance. Mor bowed at my side. “It has been a long time since I met with a mortal queen.”

The younger one’s lips twitched again, amber eyes alight—a lion incarnate. She purred to me,

The golden queen remained standing for a moment longer, her shining, curly head angling slightly. Her red lips twitched upward as she claimed the seat beside her companion.

The golden one toyed with a ruby ring on her finger.

Mor cleared her throat. The golden one, as if Mor had barked, started and dropped an ornate lace handkerchief on the ground. She leaned to pick it up, cheeks a bit red.

And the descriptors often used about Mor:

Mor opened an eye, then slowly sat forward, hair falling around her like a rippling golden river.

smiling to himself at the sight of her: head tipped toward the sun, unbound hair gleaming and rippling around her like liquid gold

She twisted her mass of golden hair over a shoulder

“What a mighty queen you are,” he breathed.

"Golden" and "Queen" for Mor while the golden queen is noted as wearing red lipstick and a ruby ring (which is red). Red which is Mor's favored dress color.

This line also makes me wonder if she's somehow found information regarding the golden queen and has been searching for her. Or found her but is unable to free her.

She’d been away frequently lately, and each time she returned, a shadow he couldn’t place dimmed her eyes.

And what if at one point in the Novella, the golden queen turned lion was watching her:

But Mor scented nothing, saw nothing. The tendril of power she speared toward the woods revealed only the usual birds and small beasts. A hart drinking from a hole in an iced-over stream. Nothing, except— There, between a snarl of thorns. A patch of darkness. It did not move, did not seem to do anything but linger. And watch. Familiar and yet foreign. Something in her power whispered not to touch it, not to go near it. Even from this distance. Mor obeyed. But she still watched that darkness in the thorns, as if a shadow had fallen asleep amongst them. Not like Azriel’s shadows, twining and whispering. Something different. Something that stared back, watching her in turn.

I'd always thought it was Bryaxis but that wouldn't be "familiar yet foreign".

Maybe it's nothing but it definitely had my mind spinning!

#mor acotar #acotar theory #morrigan acotar #golden queen

[goddesspharo]

14, 30

[writing ask meme]

14. Write and share the first sentence of a new fic. Just that.

In space, no one can hear you scream, but that has never stopped anyone before.

30. Describe a fic that almost happened, but then it didn't.

Top Gun Maverick baseball AU. This requires a bit of backstory or it doesn't but I'm giving it to you anyway! There are many people who think baseball is boring (plebes!), but I love it because it's like the only sport where it ain't over 'til it's over. You could theoretically be down ten runs with one out left and still go on to win the game. It's the sports equivalent of the beauty of life - infinite opportunities for redemption and glory, the ever-present chance to be better and do better if you try hard enough, the idea that you can change your trajectory if it isn't working for you (obviously all easier said than done, but it's also easier to talk about a grand slam than to actually do it).

All of that is to say that baseball is GREAT but it can also break your heart. A few months ago, I saw this screen cap of Rhys Hoskins (in the background) and Bryce Harper (foreground) after it was announced that Hoskins got traded from the Phillies because Harper was going to be their go-to 1B and suddenly all I wanted to do was write that TGM AU where Bradley Bradshaw suffers a season-ending injury that catapults Jake Seresin into the spotlight when he has to switch positions and is GREAT at it and the complicated emotions involved in Bradley trying to figure out who he is when the thing that defined his entire life is taken away from him for reasons beyond his control and he is left to be a spectator while someone does Rooster's thing better than him! The heartbreak and fragility of professional sports! (75% of the reason I watch sports is to be heartbroken - FACTS. SUMMER OLYMPICS LFG. I AM READY TO CRY.) Trying to navigate a found family when he feels like he no longer has a place in it! The inherent jealousy that comes with no longer being the fan favorite! His GM boning his nemesis! (Will I ever write TGM fic where Phoenix isn't a boss bitch? Never, sorry to say.)

But I didn't write it because it would basically be the not PG version of Rookie of the Year meets Gordon Bombay's ennui in the first Mighty Ducks movie meets everyone being a prick in Any Given Sunday meets Jason Street on Friday Night Lights. But more importantly, it would require me to have a lot more knowledge about the mechanics of baseball than I care to google. But just know that in my heart, it would've been great.

(There was a google doc though. I did name it YEEHAW BASEBALL. But then everything my fingers typed out in said google doc was about mobsters.)

#ask me things #top gun

[a-court-of-moonlight-and-ire]

Greetings everyone! So uhm. its been a while since my last liveblog post. there have been some circumstances that made me really not wanna read, but now they have passed and I have risen from the ashes like a glorious phoenix and I can resume my divine mission of complaining about this mediocre-at-best book series to an audience of as many as 60 people if you can believe it. Also we're back to the style of post where I just jot down all my thoughts bullet-point style because my life is in shambles

Anyway, last time we had a chapter where literally nothing happened except for Lucien showing up at the very end, so lets see what he does in this chapter 47

I still cant believe its been only two months since Feyre started permanently living at the night court and forgiving Rhysand for torturing her, its taken me longer to forgive people at my school who mildly annoyed me. Also wait, Feyre was UTM for three months, shes spent more time consecutively being tortured by Rhysand than consecutively having a good time with him wth

Feyre stop fuckin jacking the bat boys off challenge (impossible!!)

Ive seen this part where Feyre talks about the bat boys being so much stronger than Lucien in english where shes like "Lucien may have trained to be a warrior, but Cassian, Azriel and Rhys were Warriors" like oh fuck, we gotta get out of here!! those guys are Proper Nouns!! But in the german version, this line is just "Lucien may have trained to become a warrior, but Cassian, Azriel and Rhysand were warriors" because nouns are always capitalized in german and not just when theyre Super Epic and Cool so you cant do that thing that english books do with proper nouns, and Idk i think thats pretty interesting

Something about Feyre being all like "theyre hunting me, its like Im their prey" really pisses me off, I think its because it could be cool and thematically relevant but instead its just kindof nothing

Speaking of which, Lucien coming ip to her and saying "We've been hunting for you" is so forced, it reminds me of how Tamlin would say these weird objectifying things to Feyre alllll the way at the start of ACOMAF even though hes never said shit like that before, except this is way worse because who on earth would say it like that?? hello?? If you were looking for someone who went missing, you'd say like, we've been searching for you or we've been looking for you, not we've been hunting for you thats just insane

HUH?? which high lord gave her the ability to slow down time??? Thats so overpowered and I dont remember anyone ever talking about it

Oh, of course they cant just be afraid of Feyre, they have to be afraid of Rhysand who just showed up

Did this motherfucker really take the time to change his outfit just make his dramatic entrance just a little more dramatic? Honestly, if it was any other guy I would think thats so iconic, but because its Rhysand just wearing his fucking black tunic again I just want him to explode

"Has your mother, the Lady of the Autumn Court, not taught you that you should listen to a lady?" why he have to say that Lucien's mom is the Lady of the Autumn Court thats so awkward. Also yeah, it sounds more awkward translated from german to english because they use both 'Lady' and 'Dame' (which is german for lady) in the same sentence, but its still just a very bad line

This is actually kind of interesting because Im guessing Lucien called Rhys a dirty son of a bitch in the original and then he growled because its like, oh Lucien insulted his lovely mother that he loves soooo much, but its been translated here as 'Hurensohn' (lit. 'whore's son') so it gains this additional layer where Lucien is not just insulting his mom also using a word that's like a trigger for him which makes it much more impactful imo. good job, Ms. Ernst

The fact that Feyre is getting on Lucien's case for siding with Gamlin over her is mighty ironic when you consider whats gonna happen in acosf, but also Lucien right now and the IC in acosf are making the same choice of listening to their close friend of several centuries over his gf that theyve known for like a year. Like, yeah, obviously its super shitty in both cases but I do get why they did it. And thats not even factoring in the political power Tamlin and Rhys have over their friends, like, it really doesnt matter if you "dont enforce rank" because youre the super special ones who were literally chosen by god to rule, you have an inherent authority over the people around you

This is all so frustrating because I do sympathize with Feyre for feeling abandoned by Lucien because that is essentially what he did, but I really dont like how hes portrayed as being unambigiously in the wrong for caring more about politics or himself than Feyre when its like, first of all, politics impact sooooo many people of course making sure that the SC at leats looks stable from the outside is more important than Feyre's mental health, and second of all, Feyre also pretty much only cares about herself. Which is her right btw, she has been very traumatized, she should be prioritizing herself for a while now, i just dont like the way the narrative frames this whole thing

Honestly, Feyre's kinda slaying rn. Her with her big spooky bat wings being all like "when youve been trapped in the darkness for so long it becomes your best friend" is kinda cool, idc

Okay, nevermind, she slayed for exactly one line and then she was nearly choking on Tamlin's name "because of what Rhysand did to him" girlie that was centuries ago why are you making this about him when he was being abusive two months ago* *i dont think he was actually being abuse but thats the framing of the narrative so im just going with it

I would usually properly translate this line but my brain isnt up to it at the moment, but its onpage 528 and I think you'll know which one I mean if you look at it, but I dont really understand Feyre being like "if I had stayed at the spring court and just given myself over to my own misery, I wouldve learned to take pleasure in other people's pain" Is it trying to justify Feyre being needlessly cruel by implying that it was inevitable and that her UTM trauma would've made her become like this no matter what? First of all, you cant say that for sure though and second of all, wowweweee Sarah Janett Maas knows soooooo much about mental health, she should become a psychiatrist, no degree necessary

"You are dead. You and your entire damned court." ohhhhhh so THATS why they call him death incarnate. Someone bring him back to life so no one ever calls him that again

??? Feyre was talking about how weird she felt about her lack of feeling when she was speaking to Lucien just now, but she was thinking about feeling guilty for desjring Rhysand?? what. Am i just being stupid rn or are those things no in any way related

man this chapter was exhausting

#anti acotar #anti acomaf #flames and darkness liveblog

[climbthemountain2020]

Hope of Spring - Chapter 14

Also on Ao3!

Find Chapter 13 here :)

Penny was a disheveled disaster when she woke up in the morning after only two hours of sleep, but she still absolutely sprang out of bed to send the parchment to Tamlin before the sun was even peaking over the mountains.

Hi, it’s me. I miss you. She scrawled across the sheet.

It disappeared in a wisp of smoke, and Penny waited with anticipation. She decided she might as well get dressed while she waited, but then she all but tripped over her own pants as she heard a curl of paper hit the desk in the room, trying to get back to it. She grasped the paper in her hands like a woman starved.

Hello, love. The manor is absolutely empty, as is my heart, while you’re gone. I miss you terribly.

She sat back onto the bed, giggling and blushing while she took the quill to write her response.

Has my mighty High Lord been turned to a poet in my absence? She grinned as she sent it off. Gods, she felt like a teenager again, kicking her feet wildly on her bed at the prospect of talking to someone she was interested in. How could he have such an effect on her?

You’d be amazed what poetry I could recite to you. The response came almost immediately.

I’d like to be amazed at what additional acts your mouth might perform. She sent it off before she could change her mind, cheeks already blazing despite the activities they’d spent the last week pursuing in their bed.

My, my. Penny Briggs, you rake. Come home to me and let me show you all the different ways I can recite poetry and where.

Penny’s blush deepened to a million shades of scarlet and held the parchment to her chest, forcing herself to take a deep breath.

Your offer is too good to refuse, my Lord. I will be home tonight–we’ve got some additional training today, but I can’t wait to be back with you. I love you. She sent it off and went to pull the rest of her clothing on, tying her hair back into a low braid and using the leather strap she’d stolen from Tamlin’s dresser to tie it off. She liked having a piece of him with her, regardless of where she was.

I love you too. Knock ‘em dead. She sighed, smiling like an idiot, and went downstairs to see who else was awake for breakfast

________________________

Feyre walked Penny out to the back yard near the Sidra to get past the wards of the River House.

“I let Rhys know we would be back soon to see what we can do with Elain’s power. This shouldn’t take too long–a quick detour!” She had that sly grin on her face again that Penny was quickly coming to associate with her and her mate. Feyre had a large bag slung over her back along with a bow and stash of arrows. She handed Penny a dagger. “You won’t need this, but just in case. We’ll be in the woods.”

“Wait, what–” She didn’t get the words out before Feyre grabbed her and winnowed. They landed roughly in a deep forest, moss and trees and lichen as far as she could see. Feyre was already setting out a blanket she’d brought, tossing two fluffy cloaks and a freshly headless chicken in a burlap sack onto it. Understanding dawned on Penny as Feyre stepped away, hands on her hips, appraising her set up.

“Are you summoning a suriel?” Before Feyre could answer her, a shiver crept up Penny’s spine. A voice that seemed to echo through the woods from no traceable direction spoke with the voices of countless others.

“Feyre Archeron.” The voices whispered. “We are always happy to assist.” A cloaked figure drifted from the trees to the waiting blanket and reached to thumb over the cloaks Feyre had left. Feyre threw herself down casually onto a nearby log as if this were the most normal, casual conversation she’d ever had, while Penny stood, gaping.

“I am seeking help for my good friend, Penny.” She gestured to Penny, who was practically vibrating at the scene unfolding just feet in front of her.

“Your friend is not of this world.” The suriel turned its depthless eyes on Penny. “Penelope Briggs. A traveler, indeed. A friend of the Cursebreaker is a friend of ours. What do you wish to know?” The suriel unclipped their current cloak and swung a new one upon their shoulders, as if they were simply old friends catching up over tea. Penny sent an unsure look to Feyre, who in turn gave her a reassuring nod as if to say go on then.

“My world. Uhm. My home. What happened? What sent me here?” Though the suriel’s face could not reflect emotion, Penny felt more than saw the sorrow in their eyes.

“The home you knew is gone. Your soul, departed. It was diverted here. Into this form in our world,” She gestured softly at Penny.

“Gone? What do you mean gone? The world itself?”

“On the night of your great fall, Penny Briggs, a candle caught fire to your home while you slept. You were dreaming of adventure–dreaming of Prythian. Once your mortal body ceased to be, your soul diverted here, believing it to be a sanctuary. There is no home for you to return to,” the suriel’s curious voice whispered gently.

Penny thought she’d be more surprised, upset even, to find she had died. This wasn’t all some dream. She’d died there in her bed, dreaming of taking baby steps forward in a life that left her unfulfilled and sad. She was more relieved than anything. This was real–this was real now. She didn’t have to worry about finding a way back, or grapple with the lack of drive she felt to do so.

“Am I immortal?”

The suriel began snacking on the chicken, causing Feyre to smile broadly. “What do you feel?”

Penny considered. “Powerful. Beyond measure.”

“You are correct. If you wish to know of your lifespan, my advice is that you should stay with your High Lord,” they shot a pointed look at Feyre. “The one you’re already with, to be clear.” Feyre cackled. “I imagine the two of you have many centuries left together.”

Penny was filled with a joy beyond measure. Tamlin. Her mate. Her love. They would have that time together.

“Thank you. You have no idea what this means. Thank you.” Her voice was bogged down with rough emotion. Nodding at them both, the suriel made to leave with their cloaks and what remained of the chicken.

“Wait!” Penny shouted, as they turned to go. “What cloaks are your favorite? Just in case we see you again. Do you like fur or something lighter? Color preferences?”

The suriel let out a sound that Penny thought might have been a laugh. “You are going to leave this world a better place than you found it, Penny Briggs. Black, preferably, any material. Soft.” Penny nodded. “Until next time, High Lady.”

Penny looked back, expecting the suriel’s eyes to be on Feyre, but they were solely focused on her as a smiling Feyre winnowed them away.

________________________

Feyre and Penny returned to the River House in the late morning, finding everyone awake and discussing plans in the library. Rhys thought they might attempt to pass Elain’s power to Penny, then they could all settle in and have lunch, as Elain’s visions were not always frequent or timeable. Penny figured she might have some time to digest what she’d been told by the suriel, and perhaps she could even begin on Rhys’ list of questions.

She went upstairs to get her things together so they’d be ready to go when they finished up. The parchment on her desk lay empty from earlier, so she scribbled on it quickly:

About to begin practicing with Elain. I miss you so much. I’ll be home soon.

Penny changed back into her favorite leather pants, soft green tunic, and leather corset top. She braided her hair back into another plait with Tamlin’s leather, then nodded to herself in the mirror. She finished packing, went to splash some water on her face, then re-laced her boots, hoisting her bag over her shoulders to leave down in the foyer. The parchment hadn’t come back, but she assumed that at midday, he was probably out on border patrol so they wouldn’t need to worry about it when she returned this afternoon. She smiled–she felt silly for missing him so much after just a day away, but she was ready to throw herself into his arms when she arrived home.

Penny came back down to the dining area and set her bag by the door. Elain was already there with a plate full of food, and clasped Penny’s hand to bring her to sit with her. Things with Elain were easy–Penny felt like she was conversing with an old friend. Elain was kind and easy to like. She smelled like pears and lilacs and honey, and a bit of Lucien, too. The way he doted on her was amazing to watch, the two of them so impossibly in love with each other that it radiated through the room. Lucien always had a hand on Elain, and vice versa. She knew that this mating bond had taken time and patience, but it seemed to have paid off. She hoped her patience would one day do the same.

“I can’t stop eating, I swear. I’ve always sort of just picked through the day, but now I could put the baker out of business.” She turned to Lucien, eyes suddenly large. “Oh, speaking of, could we go to the baker later today? Maybe we could get some of those chocolate eclairs with the dollops of cream with the cinnamon?” Lucien just chuckled, but nodded warmly at her, running a hand down her cheek.

“Of course, love. We can go after lunch.” Elain smiled and leaned her head against Lucien’s shoulder. Penny’s heart clenched violently at the sight and she was almost physically overcome by the need to be with Tamlin. She wasn’t sure what was happening to her today that had her feeling the need to be back by Tamlin’s side so fervently. Was this just the mating bond chafing at her distance? She visualized the golden ribbon, swirling in the mists as usual, but it seemed to whisper go to him, be with him, go to him, be with him. She had read that the mating bonds were demanding, but this felt more urgent than just missing him. As soon as she had the vision, she was ready to be back home.

Suddenly, the room went quiet. Penny’s eyes whipped up to Elain’s, which had gone milky white. She gasped, but before she could get a word out, she was sucked back into a vacuum of dark space. For a moment, it felt like she was floating, but then she slammed into what looked like a live battle. Penny whirled around, immediately on alert as swords clanged violently around her and the screams of the wounded pierced her ears. Her breathing was labored as she spun wildly trying to figure out where she was and what had happened. Had she accidentally winnowed somewhere dangerous? She had never winnowed before–she wasn’t even sure how to.

She turned as a bird of flame flew through the sky above her, scattering embers on the wind behind her as she gave out a great cry. Vassa. She understood now–this was a vision. Vassa’s light illuminated the bloodstained snow on the banks of a lake as darkness flew out of a small, onyx box. At the last moment, Penny understood the box was in her hands, and then she catapulted back into her body into the River House. She gasped a deep breath into lungs that felt heavy as people gathered around her and Elain, who was clearly coming back more peacefully than she had.

“It’s okay, Penny. The first few transitions are rough.” Elain put her hand on Penny’s as she panted.

Rhys wanted to see into both their minds and compare the visions as they came back down, so he began with Elain. Penny was still thinking back, noting that onyx box she’d seen in detail. The shadows that burst out of it were nothing like Rhys or Azriel’s shadows.

When he was finished with Elain, he looked in to see Penny’s vision, allowing her to view it start to finish one more time. Someone shoved a glass of water into Penny’s hand and she sipped it, shaking violently, trying to steady her pounding heart.

“They’re different visions,” he spoke, casting them in sequence into the minds of everyone in the room. Elain’s vision had been one of Autumn Court soldiers marching over fallen leaves, then trampling on flowers, breaking the stems and leaving them smashed and dirty in their wake. Everyone seemed shocked, and Penny immediately began to worry that Elain’s vision meant an attack on Spring.

“We’ll have additional forces on standby ready to go into Spring if need be,” Feyre said. “I’ll go ahead and send the missives now to be on alert.” She got up to go to the study.

“This is good, though, right? Two visions means twice the Seer power?” Everyone nodded. “Now we just see how long it lasts outside of contact, and if it can sustain the distance.”

Elain took Penny’s hand again and nodded. “It is good. You did wonderfully, and you will be tired now. I was exhausted after a vision for a while once they started. Until I got used to it, at least. Let’s take a few minutes to breathe, and once we bring you back to Spring, you’re under strict instructions to rest.”

Rhys spoke up. “Yes, good plan. Elain and I can winnow you back to Spring together so she’s the last person you touch.” He turned to Elain. “Will that be okay for you? Just a quick winnow and back?” She nodded, and led Penny to the dining room.

Before she could approach the table, though, that vacuum pulled her back and the glass she was holding shattered on the floor. All eyes were on her as she came to with hysteria gripping her.

“We have to leave now.” She gasped out. “Tamlin is in trouble. They’ve breached Spring.”

#a court of thorns and roses #acotar #tamlin #tamlin x oc #elucien #tamlin oc #feysand #gwynriel #tamdemption #tamlins hea #hope of spring

[monstermince]

hello! it's your tw3 exchange gifter! i've been brainstorming ideas for a while and have settled on your prompt of song fics, which means that i have a few questions for you!

a) are there any specific songs you'd like to see fics based on?

b) are there any particular characters or ships you'd like to see featured, or any specific episodes or big finish audios?

c) this one's just for fun: what's your favorite spooky aspect about halloween/october, if any?

happy october!!!

Hiiiiii, I am so excited to see your questions!! I was hoping the song fic would be the one chosen <333 THANK YOU FOR EMBARKING ON THIS ENDEAVOUR 😭 a) I'm sorry that I don't have specific songs oeioewoewoi. I like all genres, and I enjoy both songfics that recreate a song that has a plot as well as the fics that use a song's vibes rather than any specific subject matter. I love both equally. But any songs/playlists that have been shared in the server were all ones I vibed with, if that helps narrow it down a liiittle bit. b) I would LOVE to see Jack/John/Ianto or some permutation of that, but anything with a focus on those three and/or Gwen and Rhys would be lovely. I don't have any particular requests for episode or audio features, but if it helps for the vibes/dynamics, my favourite BF audios are the Captain John boxset, The Last Beacon, Cascade.rip.tor, Jack's boxest Crush (I loved the existential crisis of the train driver) and Mighty & Despair. c) My fave spooking thing is the romanticisation of cemeteries, like the vibes of a cemetery in the dead of night with mist rising between the gravestones, the large crypts with imposing statues, and supernatural forces gathering there. Also ghosts and vampires 😂

Thank you! I hope this helps, feel free to follow up. So excited to see where you take this <3

[strangecreationchaos]

i feel it's better to write things down!

first i am an acotar fan ,in short i love all the books from acotar to acosf! and i love all the archeron sisters so i always get into this conflict between feyre stan and nesta stan, nesta stan and ic. and sometimes its overwhelming.

first fact is till acosf nesta is the grumpy one , elain is the silent one and feyre is the caring one. everytime people come up with " feyre didn't care about nesta and lock her in the house"! the fact is it is not!

in acofas feyre and elain both tried to talk to nesta. cassian was going after her again and again and you know how nesta responded to them. i love nesta but i won't cover for her nature. she hide her true feelings behind her hurtful tongue. and the fact is she refused to move on from her trauma. she refused to talk to anyone even elain the only person who was close to her. she hurt cassian's feelings again and again because she wants to push him away. where everyone able to see nesta's trauma as she aggressively expressing it other are also suffering from the same trauma! elain and feyre also lost their father! amren lost herself to become a normal high fae! rhys lost half of his army! and they all are finding ways to cope with their depression. it wasn't only nesta. but they also tried to help her. amren tried to talk to her, elain tried , cassian tried yet nesta was not moving out of her own grief!

do you think there was any alternative way to help nesta rather than shoving her in a house with cassian and forcing her to train? what is it? to leave velaris! and who would have protected her ? was it to give her a house to live her own! she was having a house how much that helped ? it was never about the embarassment or the money she was wasting ! it was the way she was wasting herself away! did u expect feyre to just let nesta be in that setuation ? to let her suffer and destroy herself? she wasn't drinking to enjoy and live her life to fullest! she was not fucking random guys to enjoy it ! she was doing it to feel numb! waa that right for her?

feyre said that nesta was embarrassing her, amren said that nesta was wasting money and elain said nesta doesn't want to do anything with them! but the thing is they also have their own traumas and they reflected it in their anger for! feyre wasn't giving a fuck about her embarrassment! it was her anger to nesta's behaviour! amren that woman doesn't give a fuck to the expenditure of money, its was her anger that nesta even pushed her away, the first ever friend nesta made in the ic and so as amren! elain didn't left nesta's side because she give up on her ! rather she realised feyre can deal with the setuation better than her. and the author give the narration like that! giving nesta the anger in response to her angry behaviours.

and do nesta really wanted to live her life loke that? was she really enjoying it! if she was forced she should never had accepted the training in any condition! rather she decided to learn. and not only that she also decided to motivate others to learn as well. if it wasn't right for nesta then she should have left, why she helped them finding the dead troves? for money? why she apologized to amren on solistice! and if amren hated her why amren accepted her apology ? if she really hated feyre? why she sacrificed her mighty power on saving them? she could have rule over the night court after their death! did she did that! no.. because it was love that she wanted. she wanted to be loved!

after she saved feyre's life rhys showered her with money! jwellery..he can't stop buying gifts for her! yet nesta didn't ask him for a new house! or a new position or a different life! she asked for a lavish mating ceremony! if the ic was that bad for her why she didn't left it? because for nesta the ic was her people, it was her family! and she accepted their love for her! she wasn't pushing cassian away because he burnt villages so he deserves her hatred! she was pushing him away because she was scared that she lose him if he stay with her! it was fear that separated her from her family and she conquer that fear! and nobody hates her in the inner circle. and yes elain also has her trauma and she has not moved on from it yet! but all the hurtful words nesta said to her provoked her to speak for herself !

and comparing feyre with tamlin is the most ridiculous statement i ever heard. tamlin locked feyre because he thought he can protect her, when all feyre wanted was to fight for herself!she was a warrior, a survivor and she wanted to be strong but tamlin didn't allow her to learn how to fight, how to make herself strong! he avoided her feelings her trauma whereas feyre give nesta two choice either to train or leave. but she let her train and that with cassian, the man nesta loved and feyre knew if anyone can understand nesta then it was cassian! she give her a fighting chance! like the chance rhysand gave her once! she let cassian train nesta like rhys trained her , like cassian azriel rhys all of them trained her, and it was what nesta wanted to, she never wanted to feel weak and she never became weak again! she learn and fight for herself and fight for cassian and saved his life so as his sister's life. she resend herself for never being able to di anything for her loved ones but by the end of the book she did saved them. and she did win over her trauma.

#pro nesta #pro feyre #pro archeron sisters #nesta supremacy #feyre cursebreaker #acotar #acotar series #acosf #post acosf #pro nessian #nesta archeron #feyre archeron