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luxurypropertyuae · 1 year
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Sidra 1 Villas Vs Sidra 3 Villas: A Quick Guide
Dubai Hills Estate has been a popular choice for city dwellers. The gated community is easily accessible due to its proximity to Al Barsha South and its location alongside the Al Khail Road expressway. One of the greatest places in Dubai for renting and purchasing luxury houses in Dubai, Sidra 1 Dubai Hills Estate is among their most notable living communities. However, with the massive success of the project, today it has three phases, i.e. Sidra 1,2 and 3. All three sub-communities feature modern upscale living. If you are planning to rent a villa in one of these, here’s a quick guide for Sidra Villas of Dubai Hills Estate.
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About Sidra 1 Villas
Sidra 1 Dubai Hills Estate is a gated neighbourhood within Dubai Hills Estate that is located adjacent to Umm Suqeim Street in the southwest of the district (D63). The project had completed by May 2019, and the handover is ongoing. 
The notable facilities include bicycle paths, a championship golf course, community pools, landscaped pathways, parks and open spaces, play areas, schools, and a shopping mall available to the larger Dubai Hills Estate neighbourhood and Sidra 1. 
Driving from Sidra 1 to Dubai Mall, Palm Jumeirah, Burj Al Arab, and The Walk JBR will take you approximately 29 minutes, 34 minutes, 32 minutes, and 38 minutes, respectively.
Numerous schools are located close to Sidra 3, including GEMS International School Al Khail and GEMS Wellington Academy, both of which are 1.7 and 1.8 kilometres away.
A variety of three, four, and five-bedroom villas, with sizes ranging from 3,102 to 4,283 square feet, are included in the project.
About Sidra 3 Villas
The family-friendly Sidra Villas development has many amenities planned for its residents. Sidra 3 Dubai Hills Estate is a gated neighbourhood within Dubai Hills Estate that is located adjacent to Al Khail Road in the development centre (E44). This project was finished in 2020 and is available for possession.
Talking about its proximity to major parts of the city, the new Al Maktoum International Airport is around a 43-minute drive from Dubai International Airport (DXB), which is about a 35-minute journey. Driving from Sidra 3 to Dubai Mall, Palm Jumeirah, Burj Al Arab, and The Walk JBR will take you, on average, 18 minutes, 18 minutes, 16 minutes, and 21 minutes, respectively.
A championship golf course, community pools, landscaped pathways, parks and open spaces, play areas, schools, and a shopping mall are among the attractions shared by Sidra 3 and the larger Dubai Hills Estate neighbourhood.
Safa Community School and Kings’ School Al Barsha are two of the many schools close to Sidra 1.
The three- to five-bedroom villas are 3,102 to 4,283 square feet.
Whether you are planning to rent a villa in Sidra 1 or Sidra 3 Dubai Hills Estate, only a trusted broker can get you the most reliable prices. If you have also decided to try the high-end contemporary lifestyle at lavish Sidra villas, talk to a property expert at Luxury Property
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Sunkissed
Pairing: Azriel x Reader
Summary: The inner circle goes on holiday and Azzie is just allllll over his girl <3
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Warnings: None
Notes: Thank you so much for all the love on my last story!
Image Credit: Pinterest
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“It’s my pleasure,” Helion smirked, addressing the crowd with his words yet focusing his eyes on her. His brown skin reflected golden in the sun, the white cloth of his draped garment seeming to glow with it.
“Ever the generous host you are, Helion,” She played along for fun, the nature– and limits– of their flirty yet friendly relationship barely a secret.
“I wouldn’t dare displease you,” Helion purred. “You shouldn’t want for anything here. Just say the words, darling, and I’ll personally take care of it.”
Azriel was not the jealous type. He knew the effect he had on her, even all this time, and knew even better the effect she still had on him. It was like no time had passed since they’d been newly mated. His skin flushed as he recalled that initial period, how love-drunk he’d been, truly sated for the first time in his life by her burning affection, having his fill of her taste, and touch, and beautiful mind yet never getting enough of it at the same time.
He was a fool when it came to her, his brothers knew it, she knew it, and Azriel himself would not deny it either.
Yet his skin tightened over his bones and his shirt collar constricted the base of his thick neck ever so slightly as he walked behind her, watching Helion’s eyes trace her form, catching at her collarbones. The thought of him, another male, trying to provide for her, meet her every need, giving her anything… Azriel’s blood boiled. That was his place. He watched as his mate laughed dismissively, unobservant of Helion’s intense gaze.
She was beautiful, charming, and witty. No one could deny it. Rhys did not make her his foreign advisor for no reason. Azriel was quite used to people staring and trying to win her affections, but usually it never bothered him. Because at the end of the day, it was his ears that heard her thoughts and secrets, his eyes that watched her take on the world with grace and strength, and it was his bed they shared every night. He felt secure in their bond and she only had eyes for him, despite the entire world trying to court her at any given moment.
Mor and Feyre shared an amused, knowing glance at each other, studying the three as Rhys took over the conversation.
Helion led the group to his private lake just behind his palace. He was gracious in allowing the Inner Circle to have their summer holiday at his place in the Day Court, granting them access to his entire estate and anything on it for as long as they wished. “There are no such things as debts or favors when it comes to friends,” he said when he offered the location to Rhys in the first place.
The lake was downright gorgeous. Velaris was beautiful, but the Sidra could not compare to the Day Court’s waters even on its best day, a truth Azriel had kept to himself and Cassian had no problem voicing to Rhys. Its turquoise waters stretched for miles and miles, the sandy floor, algae, and tiny native fish visible through the watery looking glass. The palace sat behind them, watching protectively over its best-kept secret, and a vast expanse of green mountains rose on either side, their jagged edges softened by the lush native trees and vegetation. They curved around the lake the same way the gold of a crown hugs its jewel, enclosing it tightly in its earthy palm. Flowers trailed from the balcony down to the beach, the mud and sand padding the rock where the water met the earth. Blankets and a large wicker picnic basket lay ready on the beach.
Mor grabbed her and Feyre in her either of hands and dragged them down to the beach in a giddy, childish run. Azriel’s guiding, protective hand that had been poised at the small of her back suddenly felt cold at the fingertips as she was whisked away, her warm skin no longer close enough to soothe his skin like a balm.
He watched as she shed her clothes, throwing them haphazardly across the blankets. She laughed as Mor threw her dress over the picnic basket and picked out the gold pins in her hair, one by one, letting them land where they wanted to.
Azriel’s cheeks burned and his heart hammered with desire as he watched her shimmy out of her clothing, exposing her soft skin to the touch of the sun. The two-piece swimming slip adorned her curves so perfectly, like the garment was in love with its wearer. He’d picked it out for her. Her hair caught the breeze like something out of a novel and he swore he could smell her soap on the breeze even from all the way over where he was. Everytime he looked at her he felt like he was taking her in for the first time all over again. Part of him almost wanted to turn away with how difficult he suddenly found it to breathe, but he reminded himself with giddy disbelief, she’s mine.
“Easy,” Cassian muttered with a smirk, scenting him.
Azriel cleared his throat and Rhys sent him a boyish smile while continuing his conversation with Helion. Nesta and Amren joined the girls getting ready to get into the water while Elain and Varian settled on the blankets, books in each of their laps.
Mor was the first in the water, squealing at the sensation of it, cold at first, but warming to a luxurious temperature almost immediately. She laced her fingers with Feyre’s and they immediately followed Mor, throwing their heads back and laughing.
She savored the feel of the water against her skin, letting herself melt into its grasp and flow, letting it spread her hair behind her back and thread its liquid fingers through her strands. She submerged herself, gliding through the water until she was further out than anyone else. She’d waited for this holiday even before she knew they were going. She adored swimming, but there weren’t too many spots to do so in Velaris. In the water like this, enveloped in the lapping, balmy embrace of its ripples, she was at peace. Squealing, she beckoned the rest of the girls towards her, waving to Azriel from where he stood smiling like an idiot at her on the beach. He was shirtless now, and her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.
Azriel thought the sun complemented her skin, but in her eyes, it downright worshiped his. A glow even brighter than Helion’s overly-dramatic gold crown beamed from every inch of his body, tan and beautiful, broad and strong. She needed him in the water now.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a splash of water to her face. She gasped and laughed at the unexpected sensation, Mor and Feyre giggling like schoolgirls at their mischief.
Cassian, Rhys, and Azriel settled back into the blankets, supporting themselves with elbows that dug divots in the sand.
“Did you ever imagine this life for us?” Cassian asked his brothers as each of them watched their mates in the water.
They rarely got a holiday, and it was even more rare that they allowed themselves to take one if they had the time. Of course, it was Rhys that encouraged this outing in the first place. When Azriel and Amren refused, he required it, as their High Lord, to take the holiday with everyone else.
That wasn’t what convinced Azriel, though. It was his mate's excited chatter about the prospect of the holiday at Helion’s lake with all of their friends, getting to spend time with each other outside of Velaris, visiting another court without the prospect of war hovering over them, being able to swim for the first time in so long. She could hardly wait to feel the water on her skin, to feel the sun on her face, and to spend time with Azriel, experience a new place together. He couldn’t say no as he sat back on their bed and watched her try on her new swimming slips for him, as she packed their bags so early in advance because she could hardly wait.
No, Azriel would not take this vacation because of Rhys’ orders as High Lord of the Night Court, but because it made his soulmate so unbelievably happy. That was all the reason he needed.
Azriel shook his head. “I never would have expected it to be this good. Every day feels like I’m waking up in a dream when she’s next to me.”
His brothers could not even ridicule him for his uncharacteristic sappiness. None of them expected to have mates, let alone be so loved by them, when they were just three boys in a war camp deep in the Illyrian mountains. They did not dare to imagine anything about their future for fear of never seeing it. An rough-and-ready lordling and two bastards. What odds.
Life wasn’t always perfect– there would always be Hybern and their human sympathizers, and probably a hundred other things, to worry about. But with their loves in their lives and talks of starting families, they supposed it was as close to perfect as the Cauldron would allow.
The women spent some time in the water, swimming, splashing, lounging, and talking with their mates watching them as they talked amongst themselves. When they decided to get out to eat, Feyre challenged them all to a race.
“You’re going to regret that.”
Feyre raised her brows at Azriel’s mate, her closest friend out of them all, with mischief in her eyes. “Just because you’ve bested me in two other races doesn’t mean you’ll have this one too.”
“I think it does,” she smirked devilishly.
Feyre broke into a swim for the shore to the dismay of the other women. Amidst shouts of protest at Feyre’s unfair start, everyone else began their dash to the shore.
She sliced through the water like a knife through butter, already ahead of Mor, Nesta, and Amren, the latter of which refused to participate. Surpassing Feyre like a born nymph, she barely had to try as her body fell into the familiar motion of cutting through the soft waves of the lake until she felt the water shallow beneath her belly and she was able to stand.
The water swished at her ankles as her feet touched land once again, running up the beach. At the sight of Azriel waiting a little ways down with her towel in his hand, she all but forgot about the race. She ran toward him, blushing at his gaze. He immediately rolled the towel open and wrapped it around her as she ran into him, securing the towel with strong arms that wrapped around her body and swayed her gently with the momentum of her sprint. His strong presence was enough to halt her and she savored the feeling of his body at her back, his warmth seeping through he towel and caressing her water-frozen skin.
She was breathing deeply now, chest rising and falling under his arm. Azriel reveled in the thrum of her heart under his hold, willing it to ease.
Azriel nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck and she giggled, ticklish and giddy at his proximity.
“Did you see the race, Az? I wooon,” she sang, reaching an arm out of the towel to hold his face behind her. She leaned back against his chest, craning her neck up to meet his eyes, eyes that were absolutely drunk on watching her high. She was naturally competitive, much like he was during his snowball fights with his brothers. Watching her in her element filled him with pride to an extent she would never fully know.
“I did, I’m so proud of you, honey,” he smiled, sliding one of his arms up until it was slung across her chest, connecting his lips with hers. She tasted like the water, sweet and fresh. Azriel couldn’t help himself as he grabbed her waist. It was like drinking from a fountain with an eternal thirst he couldn’t quench. More, more, more. He didn’t care who was around.
She pulled away, flustered. “You sure don’t mind putting on a show,” she turned around fully in his arms so that she was facing him now. The towel had fallen slightly, now hung loosely around the crooks of her elbows. Her wet hair fell in waves around her face and to him, she looked like a goddess of the water. He was barely religious, the furthest thing from it really, but he’d devote himself to her for nothing in return.
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After the food had been brought out, the Inner Circle enjoyed the lunchtime feast of bread, wine, fruit, and meats. After everyone had eaten their fill, namely Cassian who was half passed out on his back, they lounged on the beach. Nesta nestled into Cassian’s broad side with her book, speaking to Elain quietly. Amren and Varian had rattled off somewhere right after they were done eating– insatiable those two were. Mor was laying on her back, facing the sun, catching a tan.
“I’m so happy we did this,” Feyre said softly, addressing the group. “It feels like lately our joy has come from short-lived bursts of happiness or quiet. I can’t tell you all what it means to me that we can have this time without preparing for the worst.”
Rhys rubbed a soothing thumb over her shoulder. Everyone raised their glasses to that.
Azriel leaned back into the sand, one arm folded under his head and the other extended as his mate rested her head on the inside of his bicep. Tired from swimming and full from their meal, she curled into his side, draping a leg across his.
“I’m so happy to be here with you,” She murmured into the side of his chest, peppering kisses there on his warm, tan skin. Azriel brought his arm around her, pulling her closer and resting a hand over her hip, enjoying the heat of her sun-kissed skin beneath it.
He rested his mouth at the top of his forehead as she drifted in and out of sleep. He was like her sleeping drug. Whenever they sat back together to watch a movie, read their books, or on nights in with their friends for some wine and card games, she could hardly stay awake beside him.
His heart swelled. She felt so comfortable around him that her guards collapsed to dust in his presence. She gave herself fully to him, to his care, and he wasn’t sure if he could hold her any tighter at that moment.
Helion came out to check on his guests. “Like a litter of babes, the lot of you,” He chuckled as he took in his friends, exhausted and full, lazing about his private beach. His eyes floated over to her, to her dozing form beside her mate, beautiful and soft. Peaceful. Azriel was aware of his gaze– he always was aware of anyone perceiving his mate. He only opened his book and continued skimming his fingers on her hips above the waistband of her swimsuit. She was blissfully unaware, half awake, half dreaming, lulled into a world of dreams and darkness by the steadiness of Azriel’s breath and light touch.
After the group of friends were well rested, everyone made their way into the water again. Cassian, Rhys, and Azriel raced out to the middle of the lake, Azriel the obvious winner and it wasn’t even close. Cassian batted a wave of water over Az with his wing in tantrum and Rhys only laughed until his stomach throbbed. They played chicken, Nesta on Cassian’s shoulders and she on Azriel’s. Mor wanted to pretend-play mermaids and they dragged the males in on their fun. They begrudgingly played along, yet were silently more than happy to oblige them. Nesta placed a crown of algae on Cassian’s head and he fully committed to his part as King of the Plankton. They floated on their backs, swam in circles, and splashed waves at each other.
Climbing the jagged, rocky cliffs on either side of the lake, they jumped off of their ledges into the water below, in flips and turns, nosedives and backflips. The setting sun cooled the water, a pink and purple sky above their heads melting into an inky blue that lined the horizon.
A perfect day.
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Everyone grew tired again. From the beach music began to play. Light and upbeat, but beautiful and soft– distinctly Day Court.
Azriel gently grabbed her hand, leading her behind one of the cliffs they had jumped off of. It was the largest cliff jutting out of the lake and provided complete privacy when they were on the other side of it.
“I’ve been waiting to get you alone all day,” Azriel said, removing a hand from under the surface of the water and moving a lock of her hair behind her shoulder. He took in her tanned skin and sun-blushed shoulders and cheeks.
“All you had to do was ask,” She replied, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.
Azriel’s self control snapped like a rubber band and he pushed his body through the water against her, pinning her to the rock behind them. His hand cradled the back of her head against the jagged cuts of the cliff. He needed more, but he paced himself, letting himself savor the feel of her skin under the water. Azriel ran his hand up and down the side of her stomach, his fingertips trailing the skin as he moved. Her skin pebbled in the wake of his touch, sending a shiver down her spine. Even in his frenzy he took his time. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer as he slanted his lips over hers, water sloshing between their bodies in whatever space was left.
She sighed into his mouth and it drove him crazy. Pressing her chest to his, she needed to be as close as could, within his very being if it was possible.
“If I could just crawl into your skin and live inside your heart I would,” She told him one drunken night when she’d gotten so trashed with Nesta and Mor that he needed to fly her back home rather than walk like they always did after a night out. Azriel never forgot those words, and everytime they kissed or hugged he was reminded of them with an intensity that made his chest squeeze.
“Az,” She whispered into his mouth. His hands lowered from her waist to her hips, thumbs skimming the waistband of her bottoms again.
She couldn’t get enough of him. No matter how much time passed, he drove her absolutely mad. They’d only stopped for air once they absolutely could not breathe anymore, and even then, Azriel didn’t pull too far away, needing to feel her breath on him.
“What has gotten into you today?” She laughed lightly, though definitely not complaining. It was not like him to be so risky, to be so passionate when they weren’t completely alone.
“I just love you,” was all he said.
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Night fell over the Day Court slowly but surely. The day had gone on forever. By the time it was dark enough, some of Helion’s housekeepers started a bonfire and replenished the beach with more food and wine.
She laid down on the blankets again with Azriel beside her, propped up on his elbow and leaning on his side so he was looking directly down at her. Their legs were intertwined and they laughed and spoke softly, a bit away from the rest of the group.
Azriel’s free hand rested on the plane of her soft belly, listening more than he spoke. Of course he was a man of few words, but around her, he enjoyed letting her speak. It was one of his favorite things, learning more and more about the way her brilliant mind worked with the things she said.
With her thoughts, ideas, and opinions, he thought she was incredibly intelligent– the smartest person he knew. He learned so much from her eloquent tongue, adoration filling him from head to toe when she went on her tangents.
The first time she even went on one of her rants in front of him, even before the bond had snapped into place, she was flustered and apologized to Azriel. At the time, she didn’t know Azriel liked her back and dread filled her veins at the idea that she possibly scared him away for good. But he simply shook his head and encouraged her, asking questions and helping her carry the conversation when he felt it start to falter with her hesitation.
They rejoined their friends at some point– he couldn’t remember when, or how long they’d been lost in each other. When she said she wanted to go sit with everyone else for a bit, he agreed. He’d always follow her wherever she led, no questions asked. Back up the beach, up to their room, to the ends of the earth, even.
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theladyofbloodshed · 10 months
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Chapter 4 - i have returned
Despite their best efforts searching every crevice of Velaris, there was no sign of Nesta. Her usual haunts when she was once an outcast of the ruling dynasty were emptied out; old acquaintances claimed to have no knowledge even when threated with a daemati rummaging through their minds. Those with wings had scoured further afield though they doubted Nesta could have travelled that far on foot – especially after descending ten thousand rotten steps from her prison. Contacts in the Day Court were contacted to be on the alert in case she somehow made it across the border. In their desperation, even the foothills of the Illyrian mountains had been searched even though it seemed highly unlikely that Nesta would willingly approach Illyria when they despised her for reaching their sacred mountain.
With flushed faces, they gathered on the lawn in front of the high lord and lady’s river estate. All had seemingly come to an end of their search at the same time. It wasn’t panic that clawed at their expressions, Lucien realised, but irritation. Nesta had ruined a peaceful summer day. That was what she did. Their prisoner had escaped from her cage and the jailors were left to hunt for her.
Feyre bounced a squawking baby on her hip. ‘She’ll probably come back by nightfall.’
‘Has anybody considered the possibility that Nesta has been taken?’ Lucien did not think it likely; given how dismal her life was, he would not blame her for fleeing. However, it struck him as odd that none of them thought this could be a possibility.
The high lord shook his head. ‘The wards around Velaris are too strong. We would know if anybody had penetrated it.’
Too strong, but not strong enough to fend off Hybern’s twin ravens and the Attor, Lucien thought. Their arrogance would wound them one day. It already had.
Elain plucked her nephew from Feyre’s arms in an attempt to soothe the hot, uncomfortable babe. It no longer pained Lucien when he was ignored, as though the skin had been cut, scabbed, and healed harder. A beauty, yes, but her purpose in life seemed to revolve around hiding behind wings or skirts and tending to gardens. The bond might have blinded him initially, but they had little common ground. His sense of humour would have her running for the hills whilst her elder sister had glowed from laughter by his side at the beach.
Lucien fought hard to press down the sudden thought that had struck him.
Only Cassian and Azriel vowed to continue searching for Nesta so Lucien took the opportunity to say his goodbyes then make a quick escape.
He winnowed the distance to the opulent harbour of Velaris. It seemed so obvious now. Once Nesta had cantered down the stairs, her eyes would have fallen across the Sidra that led to the sea. It had been a challenge to pull her away from it. Of course the sea would call to her. With the thought in his head, Lucien felt more and more certain that Nesta would have followed this path. At the sea, however, where would she go? With no money, she’d have to barter and bargain. Nesta was too recognisable as an Archeron, so she’d need a captain who either cared little for stowaways or did not fear the wrath of the general of the Night Court.
‘I need to inspect the ledgers of ships that departed in the last day. By order of the high lord,’ added Lucien.
The affronted dock worker grumbled about always paying taxes on time, but retrieved the documentation all the same. Lucien’s eyes scanned the lines of sloping text, ruling out some vessels immediately. He doubted Nesta would have travelled out on fishing barges where they’d remain at sea before returning to Velaris. Trusting his gut, Lucien whittled it down to four ships.
‘Which captains might be persuaded to allow an infamous stowaway on board without fear of consequence?’
The dock worker frowned. ‘We run a reputable harbour.’
Lucien took in a long breath through his nose then dropped a handful of coins into an outstretched palm. A grubby finger pointed to two names. One of those ships was departing towards Hybern and the other to the Dawn Court. Nesta was clever, but a creature of habit; he had noticed the way Nesta always retreated to the same chair, preferred the same cup, same drink. He doubted she’d ever go to Hybern. It was unknown and might bring bad memories to the surface. The Dawn Court was recent. She’d had a chance to explore. Hedging his bets, Lucien winnowed to the Dawn Court.  
***
Agony. Pure agony. Why had she done it?
Groaning, Nesta dragged her body across the room and up onto the bed. She lay with her face pressed against the soft pillows.
Taking in shallow breaths, Nesta pinched the bridge of her nose because that seemed to be the best way to stop the room from swaying. Maybe one day, she’d tell her children about her daring escape from Velaris and remember it with wonder. Now, all Nesta could think about was the terrible sea sickness that decided it was her companion when she had no other. A life at sea was ruled out. She never wanted to journey on a boat again. Ever.
As soon as the boat departed the harbour and made for open water, her stomach had churned. At first, Nesta put it down to the nervous energy flooding her veins then, when it didn’t shift, the crew assured her she’d get her sea legs before the journey was done. The hammock that had been offered to her for the night only made it worse. In the end, Nesta had clung to a rail in the hold with a white-knuckled grip throughout the night.
When the captain brought her on deck to show her Dawn’s beautiful harbour, she’d vomited over the grab rail and had needed him to cling to the back of her dress to keep her from flopping over the edge. He didn’t care. In his possession was a knife belonging to the lord of bloodshed; it would fetch a handsome price. Nesta didn’t think it would benefit her if she told him that Cassian had as many knives as some people had socks and wasn’t likely to have handled it in the last century.
On the dusty, sand-covered streets of the Dawn Court, Nesta’s sea-sicknesses had not left. Even when she managed to stagger towards the same lodging that she’d visited with Lucien, her sickness was overstaying its welcome. That wasn’t the worst thing. Her legs had finally remembered that she had conquered ten thousand steps so she was paying for it.
A knock sounded at the door.
A low, rattling groan seeped out from her. There was no chance that she could turn or move quickly. The landlady had promised to bring fresh towels for her.
‘Come in.’
Nesta didn’t bother looking up. It seemed too brave of a thing to do. Any slight movements of her head sent the room spinning.
Soft footsteps shuffled over the tiled floor then stopped.
‘If it’s the towels, they can be put anywhere. Thank you.’
A weight pressed down on the mattress near her hip. She forced open her eyes. A sheet of red hair spilt down a male’s back. Lucien turned and gave her a wry grin. ‘Are you hungover from a handful of drinks?’
‘Oh, don’t mention alcohol as well.’
Her face burrowed back into the pillow, trying to steady the world. Everything span. Her stomach heaved with every breath in.
A hesitant hand settled on the side of her head then brushed against it.
‘I take it you came here of your own free will?’
‘Down ten thousand stairs and chartered a ship,’ she said, voice muffled by the pillow.
Lucien gave a little laugh. ‘A swashbuckling adventure.’
Gingerly, Nesta shifted onto a hip so she lay on one side. Her eyes squinted at Lucien. ‘And I’m paying for it with sea sicknesses and muscle soreness. My backside is killing me.’
Another easy laugh from the male. ‘Ginger can help with the sickness. I’ll find some for you. As for the muscles, I can recommend a hot bath or a massage.’
‘Sounds like a perfect evening.’
Only when the words came out, did Nesta realise the connotations behind it. A sudden heat flushed her cheeks. ‘Not that I am expecting you to massage me. Not at all.’
The male wasn’t bashful. His lips curled into a grin. ‘I think we’d cause a scandal, Nesta.’
‘You were talking about making yourself useful and finding ginger.’
 Lucien stood and sketched a bow. ‘Who am I, if not useful Lucien Vanserra?’
With his knowledge of the court, it did not take Lucien long to return to Nesta brandishing a good-sized root which he sliced thinly into a tea for her. Carefully, his hands scooped beneath her armpits to help shimmy her upright on the bed.
‘How’s your backside?’
‘Terrible.’
Lucien poured them both a cup of ginger and lemon tea as fat wedges of evening sun poured through the open windows. They cast him in gold and Nesta thought she had never seen anybody look more fae than him. There was a cruel sort of beauty about him usually – all sharp lines and curling lips – but that evening, he seemed kissed by the sun itself. It softened his features, made them glow. Even the red ribbon of his hair looked touched by fire. She had to shake her head to remove those thoughts.
‘If it’s any consolation, Nesta, the fae do heal quickly. You’ll probably be in pain for only another day.’
‘Only.’
Without invitation, Lucien took the space beside her on the bed. Nesta doubted anybody else would dare encroach upon her space that way without fear of retribution, but Lucien still maintained a slight gap between them.
‘They are looking for you.’
Nesta dipped her chin. Her eyes roved over the painted, white walls of the room. She still hadn’t decided what to do yet. The only thought that had been roaring in her mind was to get out of the House of Wind while she still had the nerve to do it.
‘All of them?’
Lucien huffed a laugh. ‘Initially. Just the two Illyrians now.’
Something in his voice gave Nesta pause. She pressed a finger against her lip, mulling over his words. ‘They’re angry with me, aren’t they?’
‘Sometimes worry can seem like anger,’ he said.
‘Don’t lie, Lucien.’
‘Fine. They’re irritated they spent a day searching for you.’
As she expected. Nesta almost wished they hadn’t been looking for her. Her lips puckered together. ‘I left Cassian a note.’
That seemed to be news to Lucien because he raised his brows in slight surprise.
‘It said I needed time away to think about what matters to me.’
Lucien gave an understanding squeeze of her limp fingers on the mattress. There was a strange familiarity growing between them that had not existed a week ago. She thought of the few people who had ever tried to get to know her; they saw her as a labyrinth – unconquerable and trying. Lucien had simply asked for directions and found the way.
He tipped the remainder of his tea back, not minding the heat although her own was still steaming.
‘Autumn Court,’ he explained. ‘Fire in our blood.’
‘What does that mean?’
When Lucien turned to speak, Nesta was acutely aware of how close they were. Her lips parted as she catalogued the extent of the scarring on his face. It ran from his brow to jaw, disfiguring the left side of his face. Despite it, Nesta could not imagine Lucien without the golden eye or the wound. Part of her understood Elain’s discomfort which was not solely due to the bond. Their whole lives, Elain had been promised by their wicked mother that Elain, with her soft beauty, would marry for love. That love was supposed to be a handsome man who’d sweep her off her feet and she’d never have to toil a day in her life. Lucien was handsome, but for some, the scar would be a barrier.
‘Which disturbs you more – the scar or the eye?’
Nesta’s brow pinched at the accusation. ‘Neither.’ Her thumb pressed against the knotted tissue on his cheek bone. ‘Does it still pain you?’
He didn’t flinch from her rotten touch, only nodded. ‘A little. The skin is thin. Cold weather mostly.’
‘It’s minor in comparison,’ she said, ‘but this is my worst one. I caught it once and, even after all of these years, it still sent a shock through me.’
Nesta held her hand towards Lucien so he could inspect the scar running down her left thumb towards her wrist.
‘I hadn’t noticed it before.’
‘I like to wear long sleeves to bury my hand in them.’
Lucien’s finger trailed down the length of it. ‘Do you at least have a funny story to accompany it?’
She saw a little girl with a bloodied hand reaching for her mother who turned away dispassionately. A mother who had already endured it but did nothing to stop her daughter experiencing the same.
‘About as joyful as your own.’
‘Ah.’
For a while, they remained in a steady silence while Nesta drank the rest of her tea. Her eyes closed. It had been about a day since she had left Velaris and she still felt no guilt or regret. What was worse, was that Nesta hadn’t missed any of them, not even Cassian. He was supposed to be her forever, but that thought was a source of dread. Forever trailing behind him. Forever as his trophy to trot out when he saw fit. There could be no Cassian without the others either. She should have known that a mating bond to him meant a shackle to the others.
A sudden coldness slipped over her left hand.
She had not realised that Lucien had kept his hand cradling hers like a pearl until its absence was felt. He flexed his fingers as though the absence burnt him.
It shouldn’t have been so companiable at Lucien’s side. He was little more than a stranger, but he didn’t seem as though he was trying to impress her or prove anything. He was content with her as she was. Which was fine. As she was mated and he was her sister’s mate. Of course, it would make sense for them to be cordial. Of course.
Nesta shifted a couple of inches so she was closer to the edge of the bed.
‘How did you find me?’
Her own mate certainly couldn’t.
Lucien explained how he had remembered her fondness for the sea so his feet led him there, how he’d managed to deduce that she’d bargain her way there – with no bank account to call her own – and would likely head somewhere familiar. In a world of the unfamiliar, she had few options. Still, it was impressive that Lucien – Lucien – could achieve such a feat after spending such a minimal amount of time in her company. Another reminder of how abominable her relationship with her mate was.
‘Am I so predictable?’
Lucien smiled. The last rays of sun crawled up the wall, showering him in a final burst of light. ‘I bet you ate the cake after swearing you didn’t want it.’
She couldn’t fight the urge to roll her eyes. ‘Fine. Yes. On stair number four thousand, three hundred and eighty-seven, most likely.’
Amidst his laughter, Lucien nudged her with his elbow in the ribs. ‘I knew it.’
‘I wished I had some plates to smash last night too. That might have stopped me from crying. Again.’
The amusement dried up quickly. His fingers moved towards her then recoiled back against his thigh, fighting an urge to comfort her.
‘I don’t want to cause alarm, but you were likely spotted staggering down the street. If not you, then perhaps me. Dawn is cordial with Night. If you don’t want to be found, this might not be the safest place.’
Nesta nodded. ‘I will go back to Velaris soon, probably. But, I can’t yet. I just want some time to myself.’
The only snags in her plan were that she had no form of income and knew nobody. Lucien understood her worries at the same moment she did.
‘I have money. Not an endless chasm like Rhysand, but enough.’
‘You don’t need to do that,’ Nesta murmured.
‘It’s not about need. I want to. I want to help you.’
‘If they find out you’ve helped me…’
‘You are not a prisoner, apparently. I am a friend. I am still in their employment. Surely, it’s better I know where you are than nobody,’ he said with a wink.
Before Nesta could stop herself, she blurted, ‘I wish Elain realised how good you are.’
A blush stole across her cheeks, but – for some reason she could not explain – she offered Lucien a soft smile.
Despite the tight expression, Lucien clambered off the bed and extended a hand. ‘Where to, my lady?’
***
I wish Elain realised how good you are.
But it hadn’t been Lucien’s mate who had occupied every second that he sat beside her sister. Elain had not even been a thought in his mind. It had been the trampled, defeated female who Lucien could only think of. The easy way they could talk all of a sudden. The tender way she had brushed a finger against his scar. He wanted to help her. Wanted to see her grow. It was only when she smiled, so rare and so bewitching, did Lucien know what it meant to feel the sun on his skin. He wanted Nesta to shine again, would crawl to see it. If Nesta was not the sun, he would live forever in darkness.
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thesistersarcheron · 1 year
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Pairing: Elriel Rating: E Tags: Canon Divergence - ACOMAF, Accidental Courtship, Secret Marriage, Human/Fae Relationship, Smut, Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending Word Count: 6.2k Summary: After learning of her younger sister's fate Under the Mountain, Elain Archeron struggled to envision her future as the lady of the Nolan estate. Sometimes, when she woke in the night and the iron band of her engagement ring was cold as ice on her finger, she knew only dread. She had no such trouble with the fearsome Fae male who made a habit of checking on her every day. It might have been some trick, a faerie enchantment or thrall, but falling in love with him was the easiest thing she ever did.
Part seven of my @acotargiftexchange present for @ultadverb. Read the prologue and the first five chapters on AO3!
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“When I was a little girl, I used to imagine my wedding day in shades of pink and white.”
Azriel’s shadows—always lighter around Elain, always calmer and quieter—perked up, and he watched as she idly twirled the stem of a tulip between her fingers. The bud was fuller than those from the mortal fields, the white petals bleeding into a soft shade of pink and then, at the delicate, ruffled edges of each, vibrant crimson. 
He’d bought the clipping off a cart for a copper when the shadow beneath Elain’s hood whispered in his ear that she was admiring the blooms. When he’d checked, her lips were parted in quiet awe, a hand fisted over her heart.
The cart, which had been hawking flowers on the same corner of the Palace of Hoof and Leaf for hundreds of years, was one Azriel rarely noticed anymore; its riot of color blended into the nurseries and green grocers behind it, and the vendor was a small, mousy faerie who relied more on the business his regular customers generated than shoving his wares into the faces of unsuspecting passersby.
But the tulips wreathing his cart were bright, vibrant things in the early morning sunshine, and even Azriel, who had no more experience with tulips than kissing Elain in a field of them, had to admit that the variations in color were peculiar. The devastating smile she’d turned on him from beneath the hood of her robes had been more than worth the tiny sum.
Her foot tapped his beneath the delicate iron table where they sat now, one of a small mass of them perched on the northern bank of the Sidra, and the small, tentative touch reverberated up his leg and through his body. 
He had been sitting in comfortable silence with her, monitoring the early-morning crowd shuffle through the street while she sipped the rich hot chocolate he’d bought her from his favorite cafe in Velaris.  He chose their table at the edge of the flock, backed up to the wide retaining wall that bordered the river, where the crowd thinned and eavesdropping would be near impossible. 
Though, watching the shoppers, he found that few heads turned toward them anyway; after fifty years trapped under Rhys’s shields together, the people of Velaris were so accustomed to his presence that even his wings and shadows were no longer a novelty to most.
Every so often, the shadows he’d sent out at dawn returned with a missive from an informant or quiet confirmation that all was well in the Night Court. The ones tailing the eldest Archeron reported that Nesta was still stewing, monitoring the front door of the massive chateau Elain called home, but had smirked with cold delight when she declined an invitation for her sisters to join Graysen for lunch at the Nolan estate. 
And regardless of what news they reported, each one was still shot through with ecstatic echoes of Elain’s quiet I love you from the night before.
But now his eyes and ears and the silent, watchful shadows were fixed solely on her.
“There was a picture in a storybook I used to own… A princess and a prince, married under an arch of baby’s breath and peonies. Outdoors, of course, amongst the flowers.” A fingertip stroked one of the tulip’s velvety petals. “I loved it so much I kept the book beneath my pillow for years. Even after… After everything with Father, I dreamt of that page. All those blooms again against a clear blue sky… It was such a lovely image.” 
Lovely as it may have been, her tone was as grim as Azriel felt at the thought of her wedded to another.
“It would suit you,” was all he managed to say. Her mouth curved in a small, insincere smile.
“Thank you,” she said as the smile melted. “But my wedding is to be yellow and brown. Lord Nolan’s colors.”
Azriel’s brows rose. “Not Graysen’s?”
Elain’s fingers curled at the sound of his name. “No.”
He knew he should probably speak, say something to soothe her, but she beat him to it.
“It won’t even be outside.” Her breath hitched, and his chest squeezed. Her throat bobbed, and she shook her head, blue silk slipping over golden curls. She laid the tulip down with heartbreaking care before fisting her hands together. “It will be held in the great hall of the keep.”
Still, he could not think of anything to say—anything reasonable, at the very least—so he kept silent.
She loved him.
Him. 
Not Graysen. Not any longer.
But still she was planning her wedding. Still, vicious jealousy sliced at him as the shadows on the table beneath his hands darkened and warped, the few lingering at his shoulders hissing meanly about her fiance. There was outrage there, too, at the thought of her being the least bit unhappy on her wedding day. 
“Did you ever imagine yours? When you were a boy?” she asked weakly, tipping her head up until he saw the pert silhouette of her nose as she gazed at him from beneath the hood.
Any lingering warmth in him vanished, replaced by frost. “No. In Illyria, bastards don’t have the right to marry. At least, they didn’t when I was...”
He trailed off. When he was what? A youngling? He had never felt like one. Had never heard his half-brothers laughing and running and teasing one another as—he now knew—normal younglings did through the cracks beneath his door and thought of himself as the same in any way. 
The first time he’d felt young at all had been those first, flightless weeks in Windhaven, when the hardened warriors loomed tall and strong and terrifying over him, and he was painfully aware of the useless wings hanging off his back.
Elain let out a quiet, sympathetic sound, her shoulders hunching toward him over the table. “Then what did you dream of?”
The shadow beneath her hood was in a frenzy, darkening the line between her brows, and Azriel didn’t have the heart to tell her that he’d rarely dreamed as a boy. That the mere concept of dreaming of anything but his mother’s face and the chipped stone bench where he sat with her every week and the cold walls of his cell was foreign to him until he’d become friends with an idealistic little lordling and the braggart bastard with delusions of grandeur that Rhys’s mother had already taken in years before Azriel joined the camp.
But he knew what she was asking, what she needed to hear to soften the blow of his childhood, and he was being honest when he said, “The garden.”
“Oh?” The tension in her limbs softened. “Really?”
“Hm. It was more a patch of weeds than anything,” he said quietly, lifting his cup to his lips to take a small sip, to distract from the urge to keep them shut, to frown. She loved him, he reminded himself. She loved him. She loved him, and she deserved to hear such things from him. “Hardy things that can only survive in the rocky soil and cold that far north, but I got to go out for an hour each day. I relished that time.”
“Just an hour?”
“Just an hour. Sometimes less.” 
Oftentimes less. He remembered waiting by the door for days on end on more than one occasion, never knowing if the guards who’d been assigned to him were sent on weeks-long patrols of his sire’s territory elsewhere. Once, one had qualified for the Blood Rite—and hadn’t come back. It must have been weeks before his replacement realized his small charge was meant to go outside; the last of the frost had fully melted the next time he’d been taken to that patch of dirt, and his mother had wept when he’d appeared, peppering his filthy face with kisses until the moment the guards dragged him away again.
“Azriel?” She cut through the mire of his thoughts. It was colored with sympathy, with understanding. “What is it?”
He told her. He kept his voice hushed, so low that she strained to hear him… but he couldn’t bring himself to speak any louder. He doubted he could.
But he wanted—needed—to share that memory with her.
She was pale by the time he finished, the small flush that had risen to her cheeks during their walk through Velaris disappearing entirely. The shadow over her eyes told him that she was staring at him, long and considering, before she bowed her head. She picked up her tulip again, lifting it to her nose to take a shaking breath. 
And then she whispered, “I don’t want to marry him.”
The words floated to Azriel on a breeze sweetened by her flower. By her scent. 
His shadows went silent in response, and the flickering, ever-present darkness in his periphery stilled. Every lithe tendril went taut, listening intently.
She sniffled. “I can’t.”
The relief that swept through Azriel was immediate and all-consuming.
“Oh?”
Oh?  
Oh?!
Such a stupid, restrained fucking question to ask when his wings were suddenly heavy on his back, every muscle in his body taut. The heavy memories of his youth melted away, and he was overcome with the desire to sweep her into his arms and fly.  
Territorial male bullshit. That’s what Feyre or Mor might call that urge, complete with an eyeroll and a smirk. It was wrong, so wrong, to let himself care strongly enough for the human woman—the engaged human woman—in front of him to feel it.
He didn’t care.
“He and his father are so ruled by fear and hatred. I can’t—” Elain sighed and swallowed hard. “I can’t imagine being the same way. Committing myself to that. My family.”
She shrugged, as if that were that, and suddenly Azriel didn’t care what his friends might say, either. All he needed to know was where he and Elain would go, which field of flowers or pretty vista she wanted to see next, how they would spend the rest of their precious little time together.
He would go anywhere, do anything, as long as he got to keep talking to her, keep teasing her, keep touching and tasting her until she shattered for him, keep watching that wide, wonderstruck smile whenever he showed her something new.
As long as he got to keep her, this precious, perfect woman who loved him.
She loved him.
She loved him.
His Elain.
Perhaps a male like him had no business loving a woman like Elain Archeron, but he didn’t care.
He couldn’t care. He wouldn’t even try.
Now, the darkness hovering around the tips of his wings dipped down to his ears and sang, I don’t want to marry him. I can’t. I don’t want to marry him. I can’t.
Her foot tapped his again, and he could read the silent Well? in it.
So he took a long drag of his coffee as he considered his response, and let it coat his tongue. The filthy look Elain had given him when he’d offered her a taste when they’d first sat down and she’d cringed away from the unsweetened, tastebud-singeing bitterness made him want to grin. He’d chosen the drink to ground himself, so he didn’t do something foolish with her, something that might justify the legends of changeling children and faerie stealing away with pretty human girls that he knew she still gave some small weight to.
(The next time Azriel accompanied Rhys to a meeting with the High Lords, he just might risk a swing at Tamlin for cementing that fear in the back of Elain’s mind. He had no doubt that piece of shit was the reason she accepted Graysen’s proposal, the reason a walled estate and armory of ash arrows had first appealed to her.)
All the while, his heart pounded so hard it was sure to bruise against his sternum, and he took a moment to focus on it, to force himself into some easy, steady semblance of calm.
Her foot started jumping beneath the table, and he captured her ankle between both of his to still it.
He took another sip, staring at the bottom half of her face where it was visible beneath the hood of her robes. Her frown was as pretty as the rest of her, and it took every ounce of strength he could muster not to lean across the table and kiss it away in front of the whole of Velaris.
So instead he stood, giving into that all-consuming urge to spirit her away somewhere private, somewhere safe once more, and offered her an arm. “Come with me.”
Elain didn’t hesitate for a second. She rose from her seat, and the trust written into every line of her body nearly made Azriel stumble.
Instead of taking his arm, she laid her hand atop his. His pulse caught and dragged dangerously as her frown softened and her fingers, cool and soothing, stroked a vicious knot of scars atop one of his knuckles just like she had the tulip’s petals.
The world went still as she hummed and breathed a word to herself, so quiet the shadows had to amplify it for him.
“Beautiful.”
It was all he could do to keep himself together long enough to usher her far enough away from the tables to spread his wings. He wasted no time sweeping her off of her feet, trying to keep the movement polite and professional in case anyone was watching, but the warm, soft weight of her, the sweetness of her jasmine and honey layered with his own scent, and the fingers she curled into the strap of his scabbard threatened to undo him.
One strong wingbeat later, they were in the sky over the city. Elain made a happy sound despite herself, asking him to point out the small, whitewashed safehouse where he’d winnowed her last night in the distance, and Azriel’s stomach twisted with longing.
Would this be the only time he got to show her Velaris like this? He didn’t want it to be, nor did the ugly, possessive beast in his mind that was quite suddenly taken over by a quiet, dangerous calm.
So he flew ever upward, letting Elain look her fill. He flew over the riot of color that made up the Rainbow and wound a path along the glittering ribbon of the Sidra. The gilded domes and spires of the theater district made her gasp with delight, and when he guided her attention to the green roof of Rhys’s townhouse, she asked him to pass over it twice, as if assessing whether it was an appropriate home for her little sister.
When she nodded in approval, he smiled back and catching a breeze that took them higher and higher.
He waited until they were level with the House of Wind and her smile, though small, brightened her expression once more before he said, “I don’t want you to marry him, either.”
Her arms tightened around him. Her hood had fallen back during their flight, revealing wide doe-brown eyes and the small O of her mouth. 
Then, she seemed to shake it off, frowning again as she averted her gaze to stare at the wide balconies and training ring below them. “You can’t just say—”
A thread of anxious anticipation wound itself around his heart, tangling with his veins, but he ignored it. 
“Can’t I? You did,” Azriel said sharply, a tiny slip of composure that only she might witness, and banked so quickly that his wings joints ached. Elain held on tightly, burying her face in his shoulder as a balcony rose up to meet them.
“That’s different,” she mumbled into his collar after a long pause.
“Is it?” He landed smoothly on the widest of the balconies, but did not let go of her. “Did you expect me to tell you that you have some obligation to go through with a marriage that would make you miserable?”
“I…” She craned her neck, avoiding his gaze and baring her face toward the open sky above them, as if she were trying to scry for answers in the swirl of the clouds.
“What?”
She shook her head.
But Azriel wouldn’t allow that, couldn’t bear her silence. Not now. 
He rustled the strain of their landing out of his still-outstretched wings. Almost instinctively, he curved them around himself, around her. 
“What is it?”
“I just…” Her voice was smaller, and Azriel became very conscious of every strand of golden-brown hair brushing the membrane of his right wing. “He asked me to marry him, and I said yes. He loves me, and he’s expecting—” She choked on her words, naked guilt on her face. “He loves me.”
Like adding fuel to a flame, those words seared Azriel’s already raw nerves.
Agony. This was agony he knew well. Agony that, over the long course of his life, he’d endured, witnessed, inflicted—
His grip on Elain shifted, his hands suddenly hot and aching, and she took the opportunity to slip out of his arms. She landed on silent tiptoe, her hands braced on his chest even as she took a step back. 
A step away.
He caught her before she could leave the cocoon of his wings. 
A little voice—perhaps a shadow, or perhaps something more selfish, more intrinsic to his being—chanted, Don't let her go. Don't let her go. Don’t let her go.
Her hips were plush beneath her skirts, the softness of them safe and soothing under his ruined hands. He pulled her in, kept her close, and dipped his head to meet hers.
“I love you.”
It was the first time he’d said the words aloud. Last night, he had merely pressed his lips to Elain’s forehead as she burrowed closer into his chest, stunned into speechlessness. Those quiet words had unlocked something inside him, like bolts and tumblers clicking into place, and he knew that only Elain held the key to roll them back. Even then, perhaps the gears in his heart had seized in that moment; perhaps she had soldered them together with those words, freezing them in place where they were the moment she first told him she loved him.
No response had risen to his lips then, trapped beneath the worry haunting him as Elain trembled and sighed in his arms, still overstimulated and hurting. She hadn’t pressed him to share the sentiment, hadn’t indicated that she expected anything in return. She’d only slipped one cold, flawless hand beneath his tunic to clutch his waist without a barrier between them and pushed her icy nose against the hollow of his throat.
But the confession had kept him up all night, holding her close and trying to convey the way he felt without words.
Elain had been awake too, though the panic attack she’d had before he found her rendered her silent and shaky for hours afterward. In hindsight, he wondered if it wasn’t anxiety and Nesta’s prodding, but her nerves that kept her up fretting through the night as she tried to complete her thoughts. To admit the thing that was making her try to pull away from him now.
I don’t want to marry him. I can’t.
When they had risen before the sun, she had simply blinked her eyes open, brushed the hair out of them, and thanked him with a kiss before asking him to show her the city. He’d kissed back with such fervor and relief that she had giggled against his lips, climbing into his lap for a too-short moment before crawling out of bed.
So they’d set out, the matter of being in love seemingly settled, and he had walked her around Velaris—still bustling, even in the darkest hour before dawn—before buying her the tulip and settling at the cafe for breakfast. He’d brought her to Velaris thanks to that desperate instinct to get her somewhere safe when he’d found her curled in her bed and wracked with pain, and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
No, not now, as the words slipped from him easily, and her sweet, disbelieving laugh made the last of his shadows skitter away. The sudden burst of sunlight streaming through his wings gilded Elain’s long, loose curls. 
Her hands rose, and she buried her face in her palms. “I love you, too.” 
Azriel lifted one hand, pushing back the curtain of her hair. He skimmed over her neck to her nape, cupping the base of her head in his palm and savoring the velvet-soft touch of her skin as he always did, awed by the way she leaned into his touch as he tilted her head upward. 
“And you no longer love him.”
Elain sighed, and he watched her press her fingertips into her eyes. “No.”
“So don’t marry him, Elain.”
Another sigh. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” He knew. Of course he knew, but he needed to hear her say it aloud. She needed to hear it herself, he suspected.
“I…” Again, she seemed at a loss for words, and Azriel tried to shove down the buoyant sense of triumph trying to rise up beneath his breast. Her head tilted, a golden-brown curl slipping over her ear and tangling in the casing of the Siphon on his hand. She swallowed, her shoulders slumping. “We already paid for everything. The modiste is supposed to have my dress ready by the end of the week.”
“I’ll pay you just as much not to wear it,” Azriel shot back, unbothered by the obvious evasion. 
Hell, he’d pay double, triple. He hardly touched the small fortune Rhys deposited in his vault every month; he’d use it to buy every scrap of white fabric in the mortal realm if that’s what it took to keep her out of that wedding dress.
Elain’s nose wrinkled, and she let out a quiet growl of frustration. He had to tighten his mouth to keep from smiling. 
Forget the dress. If she wanted to make him dig for information, then he would. That was his specialty, after all. 
He thumbed the nape of her neck, bending his head to graze the tip of his nose down the column of her throat.
This would be the gentlest interrogation in his long, bloodied history of them. 
She took a sharp breath, and then her hands were fisted at her sides, as if she were trying to beat back the instinct to grasp at him.
“Tell me, Elain,” he said against her pulse in a bedroom murmur.
When he pulled back, frustration and guilt were at war in her expression. 
“What about Nesta? What happens to us if I end this engagement? We’ll be ruined.”
Azriel sank his fingers deeper into her hair, setting a languid pace as he scratched his nails along her scalp. “Will you? I was under the impression you were rather well-off for two unmarried young women.”
“Socially,” she gritted out, her eyelids fluttering with pleasure. His heart began to race again, and he willed his face into a solemn mask. “Socially, we will be ruined.”
“Is that so?”
“It i-is.” She whimpered as he tugged gently at her roots. “We’ll be pariahs. Outcasts.”
“But that’s not what bothers you, is it?” he asked. “Nesta couldn’t care less about her social standing. She spends most of her nights locked away in that study. And you spend yours with me now.” 
Her eyes closed and her head fell backward, the full weight of it resting in Azriel’s palm. He cradled it tenderly, savoring the trust in that small gesture.
“What do you want? If you don’t want to marry him, but you can’t imagine breaking it off, then what are you going to do?”
He caught a glimpse of white teeth as she bit into her full bottom lip. The corners of her clenched-shut eyes shimmered with wetness, and he held her closer as it beaded beneath one before slipping down her cheek.
He kissed the tear away, licking the salt off his lips, and then kissed her damp cheek again. 
“Say it, love.”
“It’s impossible,” she moaned, and he nearly swept her off of the balcony and into the sky again as that minuscule, perfect crack in her armor appeared when she opened her eyes again to gaze at him from beneath her lashes—and at the soul-wrenching longing within them.
It was an emotion he recognized all too well.
Instead, he released her hip with his other hand, wrapping that arm around her waist and pulling her into him until the thrum of her pulse resounded against his chest. Until he felt every beat of her heart as if it were his own. 
“Then I’ll tell you what I want, shall I?” The words spilled out of him unbidden, but he didn’t try to stop them.
He had spent five hundred years denying himself the simple pleasure of loving a female and being loved by her in return—had foolishly, blindly hedged his bets and lost. Had held his tongue, rather than face rejection. Had chosen comfort and safety over honesty.
Perhaps that was what Mor had needed from him. Perhaps he had needed to hold onto the hope that someday, if he persisted, she would return his affections.
But Elain was mortal. Already, the clock was working against him, and he could feel every precious second tick by just as surely as Elain’s heartbeat. There was no time to waste on yearning from afar. There would be no epic, centuries-long tale of romance. 
And he had not allowed himself to love this woman just to lose once again another arrogant, scheming lordling. To let her throw up her walls and lock herself away. 
He would not waste five more centuries agonizing over what could be and what might have been when what little time he had with her was so precious and so finite.
He couldn’t.
And because he was Fae, and he was wicked, he did have wicked ways to get everything he wanted, just as he’d once told Elain. 
He just needed her to agree. He needed her to admit that she wanted the same thing he did.
“I want you, Elain.” 
He wanted her to be his. 
His to protect. 
His to cherish. 
His to love. 
A whispering shadow guided his to one of the fists she still clenched at her side, to the thumb rubbing her raw third finger.
And he wanted that, too.
“That’s all.” The words were like a cord tied to his wrist, tugging him forward, into a future he barely dared to dream of. He swallowed around the stone lodged in his throat and said, “I’m not good or decent. I have no title to give you. But you deserve to marry someone you love.” 
Elain gasped, and finally, the anguish faded from her expression. The sound imprinted itself on his memory.
He watched as her eyes opened again. Raw, fearful hope shone in them when she lifted a hand to wrap it around his arm, squeezing hard. It was the only thing keeping him anchored. 
“I can’t offer you a simple life.” He lowered his forehead to hers until all he knew was the warmth of her gaze and the jasmine-and-honey sweetness of her scent. “I’m the bastard-born son of a cruel male. In every court but my own, I am the nightmare—the monster—used to keep disobedient children in line.” His head was rushing, and for the first time in centuries, his training failed him as his entire world narrowed to the woman in his arms. “And I earned that reputation fairly, Elain.”
“Azriel,” she breathed, trembling like a fawn in his arms.
He freed the hand from her hair and held it between them, and she—
She followed the line of his arm, clasping that hand in her own.
“My hands were ruined when I was a boy,” he told her. His voice had been reduced to a broken murmur; if he’d been in his right mind, he might have been mortified by the loss of control, by the horrified What? she whispered as another tear followed the path of the first. “But the stain of what I do for my court and the people I love… that runs deeper than the surface.”
“Azriel, please.”
He shook his head. “I’m no storybook prince.”
No, he had been the dishonorable knave to sweep her off her feet and ravish her just under her betrothed’s nose, hadn’t he? He had no control where she was concerned. It took every bit of his rational mind to keep his cock in his pants each night, to show her the pleasure her Graysen was too naive to give. 
He didn't know what he'd done to be worthy of her affection or, indeed, if he would ever be worthy of it. But he would try, gods damn him. He would wake up every morning and try to be deserving of her, to push down the fear that she was flower he might smother with his shadows and love her with abandon.
The tip of her nose was pink, and her chest heaved as a sob shredded its way out of her throat.
“A life with me will not be easy, but I will do everything in my power to make you happy because I love you. I love you.” 
And last night, the first night he’d dared to lay beside her in a bed as he should have done all along, she’d fit perfectly in his arms, beneath his wing, and everything had slotted into place as he held her.
As much as he wanted her, he wanted to be hers. He wanted to be the face she sought out in a crowd. For his name to be the one she whispered, moaned, and screamed into the dark. For his hand to be the one she reached for when she was happy or scared or lost. To be the first she sought out when the first buds of spring bloomed in her garden, or when her latest loaf of bread fell flat, or when she needed someone to help her break off an engagement she no longer wanted.
He pressed his lips to the back of her pale, unblemished palm.
“Don’t marry him,” he begged. “Marry me.”
Elain froze.
The silence stretched.
And then she said, “No.” 
“Elain—”
The light in her eyes guttered. “No. No, because you’re right. You’re no prince. You’re not a good, decent man.”
Was the balcony tilting? Was the stone beneath his feet crumbling? 
Blindly, he drew her off of the balcony and into the cool embrace of the House.
Her voice was small when she said, “You’re Fae. And I’m human.”
"So?”
“So?!” Elain tried to push away again. When she didn’t shove at him in earnest—when she didn’t try to drop his hand—he tightened the arm around her waist. “What about the wall?”
“No border can keep a male from his bride. Not even the wall.” It was a technicality that Rhys rip him a new one for invoking when a war over his own stolen bride was imminent, if the reports coming out of the Spring Court were true, but Azriel still couldn’t find it in himself to care. “Even the Cauldron couldn’t keep us apart if we swore the right oaths to one another.”
“What about your High Lord? What will he have to say about a human living in his court?”
“Your new brother-in-law, you mean?” The shadows tittered, and Azriel had never been so grateful for the little beasts. For the secrets they whispered about the lengths to which Rhys would go to keep a smile on his new mate’s lips. “Your happiness means everything to Feyre, and Feyre’s happiness means everything to him. He wouldn’t dare.”
Elain cast a considering glance over her shoulder, the cloud of old guilt that passed through it revealing that she knew just how hard Feyre might fight for her.
When she glanced back at Azriel, it was gone, replaced by the cool practicality of a young woman who’d negotiated a marriage contract before.
“I’m human,” she sniffed next. “I’ll only live another thirty years. Fifty if I’m lucky.”
“Five years, fifty years, eighty,” he swore, “I want them with you, Elain.”
“In forty, I’ll be a wrinkled crone.”
Azriel couldn’t help it—he laughed, dragging her deeper into the belly of the House. 
Into his home.
“Human or fae, sixty is young, my love.” 
Elain flushed, but her grip on his hand tightened as she followed him, ushered closer by the wings still shrouding her from the world. She leaned in, and the challenge etched in the purse of her lips was so beautiful that Azriel did not have the heart to tell her that he rarely lost contests of will. 
“And when I’m eighty? When I can’t get out of bed on my own, and I need help eating and bathing?”
“Then I will carry you and feed you and bathe you.” 
She scoffed.
Azriel tried not to take offense. “I am five hundred and forty years old. I like to think that has instilled some appreciation for the passage of time. For aging. You humans look on our immortality with envy, sometimes pity, but whether or not most Fae will admit it, we envy you. Always growing, always changing, always rushing to build a legacy before your time is up. Maybe some human men might find it burdensome to have wives who grow old at the same rate they do.” He couldn’t resist the dig. “My only regret is that I can’t do that with you. But I would be honored to live alongside you while you make your mark, instead.”
Elain averted her gaze again, chewing on her lip. She glanced at him once, then twice. The third time, he caught her chin with their joined hands, lifting her face until she met his eyes.
“Ask it.”
“What will happen when I’m gone?”
He shrugged. “There’s a war coming. Who’s to say that you will die first?”
She reared back, her eyes going glassy. Her lip wobbled, but she shot back:
“That’s not an answer.” 
His chest tightened, and he held her hand to it, pressing the back of her palm against sternum and the Siphon glimmering with premature grief above it. Its light cast her face in cold, sickly blue, and he shoved down his power until she was once again pink-cheeked and flush with life.
He held her close and skimmed a kiss over the top of her head.
“When you are gone, I will mourn my beloved wife.”
It would be his undoing. That much he already knew before the shadows darkened and reached for him when they sensed the needling pain of loss radiating out of him.
Already, he could see the years stretching before them—sitting with her in the garden, teasing her over tea, sorting through his reports at a kitchen bench as she kneaded dough, wringing pleasure from her every night until she begged him for a reprieve. Family dinners with Rhys and Feyre, Cassian and Amren and Mor. Winning Nesta over, however long it took, because they both loved Elain fiercely, both wanted nothing but happiness for her.
And one day—too soon—when those years came to an end…
Elain started to shake, and he guided her to one of the low, plush chairs scattered throughout the House just seconds before her knees gave way. She fell into it, and he fell to his knees before her.
“I would be your wife… Not your mate,” she protested weakly. “I’m not your mate.”
“No,” he agreed easily. “You’re not.”
It didn’t matter. Mates or not, he knew they were meant for this. For each other. He was meant to share his life with her, and perhaps he always had been. That much was written in the marrow of his bones, tattooed into the membrane of his wings, carved into the chambers of his heart—the basest, most integral parts of his being.
“It doesn’t matter what some sainted cooking pot decides my fate should be,” he told her. “You are my love, and I choose you. I want you.”
Finally, she smiled, and he reached up to hold her beautiful, beaming face in his ruined hands. 
“Marry me, Elain. Please.”
His shadows were frantic now, tearing at his leathers.
And a gasp that wasn’t Elain’s tore apart the weighted silence.
Azriel’s attention speared across the room to the source of that noise, and he looked up.
Directly into Mor’s wide-eyed stare as she hissed, “What have you done?”
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“No,” Feyre and Rhys said at the same time, in the same breath. Azriel’s eyes shuttered. “I wasn’t asking for permission.”
ACOSF, Chapter 41
Too many razor-sharp thoughts sliced him any time he grew still long enough for them to strike. Too many wants and needs left his skin overheated and pulling taut across his bones. So he only slept when his body gave out, and even then only for a few hours.
ACOSF, bonus chapter
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shallyne · 6 months
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Day 3:
It was a cold spring morning, Velaris was just waking up as Rhys walked alongside the southeastern bend of the Sidra. He took in the sprawling estates that were turnes into homes, the boathouses and the Sidra glittering like a sapphire right beyond it, reflecting the rising sun. These houses were built long before Rhysand was born and he grew uo there, attending parties and feasta, lazing in the lawn and cheering the boat races. He had marveled at those houses, imagining himself here someday, wirh a family of his own. Now these bright memories where tainted by darkness, as the people he attended this parties with him didn't exist anymore. A wound so fresh, his throat became unbearably tight. Once a joyful teenager with a family and now a High Lord who lost them all. He blinked the tears away turned to Mor, who seemed deep in thought herself.
"I must admit, I invited you on a walk to ask you somethingxdearest cousin." Rhys broke the silence.
Mor's lips tugged up and her brown eyes slid to Rhys, "I'm not lecturing Cassian avout how to behave at the summer court, that's similar to talking to a wall."
Rhys snorted, "He already knows." he told Mor. It was true, his brother had asked him if Rhys didn't have any trust in him but knowing him, Rhys had to set some rules and although he looked bored, he listened. "That's not what I wanted to talk about."
"Oh?"
Rhys stopped, turning towards his cousin. Mor did the same, fixing her coat. Her nose was red from the cold. He sighed, "I just–" he shook his head. "Things are changing bow that...that I'm High Lord. I want to change things but...I can't do it without my Inner Circle. I need people I can trust, always and...Mor, would you like to become my third in command?"
She raised an eyebrow in surprise and Rhys's heart started to hammer in his chest as the silence between them grew. Until a wide smile broke over Mor's face and she threw her arms around him. Rhys chuckled, wrapping his arms around Mor as she said "I'd love to, Rhys! If the pay is right, of course."
"Of course." Rhys replied, "We can talk about this back at the townhouse."
Mor leaned back, still grinning. "Who's your second?"
"Amren." he told her.
"How did that go?"
"How you would expect it."
Rhys stepped into his office at the house of wind. It still faintly smelled like his father and much fainter, metallic tang mixed with the scent of whiskey. He shook the thoughts away of the evening when he got the news and retrieved a small box from a drawer at the desk. The wooden door clicked shut behind him as Amren followed and he turned around, extending the box. She took it wordlessly and peeked inside, her eyes trailing the gold amulet of pearl and cloudy blue stone. Then she snapped the box close ans narrowed her eyes at Rhys.
"What do you want boy?" she asked and as Rhys opened his mouth, "And don't talk around the topic. I don't have the time for a speech."
Rhys took a deep breath and did as she told him, asking bluntly, "Would you like to become my second in command?"
Amren's unearthly silver eyws met hid as she became quiet, thinking about what Rhys offered her. Then she shrugged, "Sure, why not?" she gripped the jewelry box with the amulet, "It's going to take more than an amulety though."
Rhys smiled at her. Her expression stayed blank but her eyes were unusually bright.
Mor cackled, linking her arm with Rhys's, "Of course." she shook her head in amusement. "What about Azriel? Will he become your spymaster?"
"Yep, he offered that himself after yesterday." Rhys told Mor, leading her back towards his newly purchased townhouse.
"And Cassian?" she asked. Rhys looked down at his cousin and smiled.
--
Cassian
"It's time!" Cassian sing-songed as he entered the dining room of the House of Wind. Azriel and Mor looked at him in question, Amren ignoring him altogether as she sipped the red liquid from her glass. "Rhys is going to ask me to become general and commander of the night court armies today! I just know it!"
Mor sighed and went back to her breakfast as Azriel crossed his muscular arms. "Why are you so sure about that?"
Cassian flopped down on a chair, opposite of Amren, "Because he has asked all of you already. It's my turn. This is am unspoken agreement between brothers."
Cassian grabbed a muffin when Mor snorted, "An unspoken agreement? So in other words, Rhys knows nothing and you came to conclusions."
"You wouldn't understand, Mor," Cassian said, not letting her rile him up. She opened her mouth to counter something, mischief dancing in her eyes, when Rhys strolled through the doors. "Just you wait." he whispered to her. "Good morning, Rhysie!"
Rhys rolled his eyes at the nickname but bid them all a good morning. "Cassian, I need to talk to you."
"Oh?" Cassian asked, feigning ignorance when Mor, Az and Amren wordlessly left the room. Amren muttering something about delusions but Cassian couldn't answer before the doors clicked shut behind them.
Rhys looked as confused as Cassian feot about their sudden departure, but faintly shook his head and fixed his gaze on Cassian. "I need to ask something of you," Rhys told him, sliding his hands in his pockets. A sign he was nervous. Good, because he was nervous when he asked Mor about becoming his third in command.
"Would you–"
"Yes!"
"Pick up something at the Hewn City for me?" Rhys's eyebrows shot up at Cassian's enthusiasm. Cauldron, he should have waited until Rhys was finished. "Really? I haven't expected you to agree so quickly."
Cassian shook his head, hoping Rhys couldn't see through his lie, wouldn't see his disappointment, "Nope, absolutely no problem. I just–" he stood up and walked towards the doors. "I'll just get ready. To pick this, whatever it is, uo. For you."
He opened the doors of the dining room and was greeted by Mor, who excitedly threw confetti at him and yelled "Surprise!", as a banner rolled down from the ceiling. Cassian saw the faint smile on Azriel's mouth before his eyes turned upwards and he read the words on the banner. Cassian, would you do me the honor and become the general of the night court's armies?
An unfamiliar sound escaped Cassian, akin to a squeal, as he whirled around and threw his arms around his brother who chuckled in response. "Yes, Rhysie! A thousand times yes!" he said exasperatedly, picking Rhys up from the ground in excitement. "I told you!" he threw towards Mor.
"Cassian, I obviously knew about this!" she snapped, pointing up to the banner.
Rhysand
Rhysand watched his newly appointed Inner Circle bickering after he got them all to sit down at the big table again. Cassian was the last to ask and his reaction was worth it. Now his Inner Circle was complete. He rubbed his chest, a weird feeling overcoming him that it wasn't complete. Not yet. But Rhys pushed the feeling away, sure that it was due to the loss of his mother and sister.
@officialrhysandweek
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feyres-divorce-lawyer · 7 months
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The Lady Feyre Avalon of Velaris, an Archeron once more.
Left widowed by her husband, Lord Rhysand Avalon, whose death remains enshrouded in mystery. Her son and heir to the late Lord Rhysand, sets to inherit his father’s enormous wealth, including the well-coveted River Estate, famous for its magnificent view of the Sidra. The boy is still a child, however, which leaves his mother in charge of his fortune until he comes of age.
for @ae-neon cuz she provided the link
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vulpes-fennec · 1 year
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Happy Day 3 of @sjmromanceweek!!!
Pairings mentioned: Nessian, Gwynlain, Rowaelin
I’m going to leave all the “Dear Suriel” parts a mystery to the readers hehe. You can read the regular text below the cut!
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Dearest reader, if you did not have the pleasure of attending Nesta Archeron and Cassian’s mating ceremony last week, I feel sorry for you. But Suriel, I thought you were dead? Rest assured that death is merely the gateway from one realm to the next. 
Under the flower-bedecked temple by the flowing Sidra, Nesta and Cassian exchanged tender vows and offered each other sweet cake. Cynical readers may question the purpose of such extravagance. Is such formality necessary when two people already love each other, when they have already accepted their mating bond? This author posits a different question: why live, if we cannot find causes for celebration? 
But sending well wishes to the happy couple was not my sole reason for attending the mating ceremony. As we all know, there is nothing this author loves more than a scandal. It has become common knowledge that a singular stained glass necklace was offered to Elain Archeron, and then Gwyneth (Gwyn) Berdara last Winter Solstice by an errant Azriel Shadowsinger. I can only hope Mr. Shadowsinger’s future partner does not have the love language of gift-giving! 
Society, like a snarling, salivating hound, has hungered for an explosive resolution to this whole debacle. With both ladies attending the ceremony, has the other shoe finally dropped? 
Not in the way you may presume. For the gentle Kingslayer and the cheerful Valkyrie were spotted giving each other shy glances while walking down the aisle. After the luncheon, Gwyn sidled up to Elain with an innocent request to dance. As the rest of the party grew raucous over copious cups of wine, Elain gave Gwyn a tour of the peaceful River House garden, demurely clasping the priestess’s hand midway.  
Surprised, reader, by this budding romance? Not I. Miss Archeron spoke true of not wanting a male, and perhaps Miss Berdara will find solace in feminine intimacy as she ventures out of the library. 
Thanks to the revocation of Cassian’s Summer Court ban, the happy couple is currently soaking up the sun in a stunning overwater bungalow. Let us pray that the Illyrian general does not destroy yet another Summer Court dwelling with his…honeymoon activities. 
One can only assume that Nesta and Cassian had their hands full, as they did not pay a visit to the Adriata’s annual Turtle Days Festival. A shame! This author is particularly fond of turtles, for they are some of the longest lived creatures in the sea. Wise, yes, but also prone to chit chat like me. After all, life can get incredibly dull without gossip… 
There is nothing like the warm sun and ocean breeze to put one in the mood for love. Summer Court’s most eligible bachelor, Tarquin, was spotted with a pretty female at his side the entire time! 
As schoolgirls tearfully take down the posters of their handsome High Lord, several of them wrestle with the silver lining: perhaps one day, they may have a shot with him. For it appears he does not limit himself to the court ladies when it comes to relationships! Tarquin guided his companion down the art gallery, listened attentively to her input while judging the seafood bisque contest, and tore up the dance floor with quadrille after quadrille. The two looked positively over the moon as they stole away to a secluded beach for an evening swim in the warm summer sea. 
Enjoy the honeymoon phase, young lovers! This mystery lady is certainly a lucky one, for the high lord of summer is working hard to ensure all fae are elevated to equal status in his court. For workaholics everywhere, this is a sign: perhaps finding love is the quickest way to make you all take a break.
Across the worlds, Her Majesty Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius (a mouthful of a name!) and Prince Rowan Whitethorn have retreated to the royal summer estate on a much-delayed honeymoon.
While much of the estate has fallen into disrepair over the years, the remaining locals did their best to fend off looters and even buried the late prince and princess in the estate gardens. 
Queen Aelin is renowned for her love of luxury, but one can imagine that peace and quiet are of higher priority on her honeymoon. The opportunity to retreat from the hubbub of court should not be taken for granted, and I fully expect the couple to make the most of their privacy. 
Perhaps revisiting this once-beloved home and forging new memories is the final piece of healing needed for the young queen. This author does affirm Prince Rhoe and Princess Evalin were contentedly watching over the newlyweds from their garden bench. That is, before that pesky dog Fleetfoot decided to charge at me, snapping at my robes! All right, all right. This author will leave the happy family be. 
Dear Suriel, I am thinking of proposing to my girlfriend. Marriages, engagements, most of all love…these are foreign to us Ironteeth witches. So I have been doing my research: I’ll need to procure a diamond ring, take her to an upscale dining establishment, plan a fun sedentary activity for afterwards, say a sappy speech, and get down on one knee. But I am worried she will decline because this may be a long-distance marriage (we have duties to our respective queendoms). Respectfully, Abraxos’s Mom. 
Dear Abraxos’s Mom, I am honored you consider me the expert in marriage proposals. I commend your commitment to researching an unknown area, but I am sure your darling would find more meaning in a personalized proposal over an expensive (and sometimes gaudy) one. I suggest finding a ring that will, most importantly, fit. I also recommend focusing on her favorite dishes, rather than expensive fine-dining. Speeches are not a must before the fateful words “will you marry me,” but if the moment calls for it, opt for genuine words over spouting poetry. Wishing you luck!  
Win a free honeymoon trip to Terrasen National Forest! A three-night stay at the Peregrine Resort, complete with deer park, Kingsflame meadows, Staghorn mountains aerial tramway, spa, and fine dining vouchers for two! 
Erilea residents only. Submit your wedding invitation and the story of how you met your partner to Terrasen Parks Service before Beltane Eve.
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willowwere · 1 month
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Whispers of Springtime - Chapter 1
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Spring has become a fallen Court. Monsters roam the forests, greedy Lords vie for control of the land, and magic everywhere is dying. Refugees are flooding the other Courts, Night most of all. One day, Elain Archeron is kidnapped from Velaris and wakes in Spring. She is the last prayer of a desperate people- if she can find the missing Tamlin and make him fall in love with her by Calanmai, there is a chance to reverse the decay and save the Court. If she fails, Elain will die along with Spring itself.
This story holds all canon up through ACOWAR, with the alteration of Tamlin being Elain's mate.
Archive of Our Own
Chapter 1
Elain
Lights glittered upon the Sidra, the waves twinkling with every color of the rainbow. 
I walked alone, as had become my custom these past few months. A placid smile painted upon my face, nodding politely to the wanderers who crossed my path. Every step measured, every turn part of a careful pattern.
A carefree pattern.
This was my routine. Night after night, week after week, month after month. The same walk along the Sidra at night. The same faces, familiar in passing, and the same rainbows dancing in the waters. 
It was beautiful, I could appreciate that. Velaris was a jewel. There was not a single Court I’d seen that was not lovely in its own way, but there were so many scars. So much loss and destruction in Prythian that it made my heart ache. But Velaris was… relatively untouched. 
Not completely, of course. During the War, Hybern had attacked Velaris and left her with her own scars, but even those had been made lovely. The artists healed the city, and the loss had not been as catastrophic as other areas.
I closed my eyes a moment and tried to remember the Archeron estate as it was. The white marble walls, the towering vines that climbed towards the sky. The stained glass shining in the setting sun…
But all I could see anymore was the destruction that was left after Hybern’s men dragged me from my bed and slaughtered the staff. The ruined husk that was now a fae camp in the human lands.
The human lands.
My heart ached for it. 
Fae eyes muted the colors in that simpler place, and their tongues could not taste the sweetness of human foods. Their noses could only smell the worst smells of life, not the gentle and beautiful ones. 
So, to cover for their own disability, the fae acted like they were so much better than us humans. Like their lands were so superior, while we mortals scraped by in filth and squalor.
Yes, I’d been hungry. Yes, I’d been weak. Yes, as a lady my value was in the heirs I would one day grant my husband… But I still missed that world. Still ached for it. 
Rhysand once told us that he would find a way to make us human again. To undo the damage that was done. But that was so long ago. After the war, he seemed to cling to Feyre for a sense of normalcy. To reassure himself they’d survived.
I waited patiently. I could afford to be patient. Grayson made it clear in the war that I was nothing to him now. A monster. I’d loved him so much, been willing to give him so much… I wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d be waiting for me, that he’d ever love me again. But somehow his face still appeared whenever I thought about returning to the human lands, cured of the fae blood.
I dreamed of what it would be like, going back to the world I belonged to. I couldn’t return to our village, but maybe I could go to the city where no one knew my face. A proper young lady with a mysterious background. 
I’m not sure when I realized Rhysand wasn’t looking for a cure.
I just know that… one day, the longing for home turned into a growing ache in my chest. It changed from a guiding light to a devouring flame, with my spirit as the fuel it consumed.
Walking the streets of Velaris, I tried to see the beauty in it all. But all I could imagine were the human cities and how they must sparkle twice as bright. I didn’t feel fae, didn’t count myself as one of them. I had neither place nor purpose here, because my place and purpose lay far to the south. A world away in the vastness of Prythian.
But if Feyre or Rhysand or Nes or one of the others guessed how I felt, what would they feel? Disappointment? Pity?
So I walked my familiar walk, smiled my familiar smile. 
Over the months, a fog slowly formed around me. It was slight at first, so very slight that I put it aside as nothing more than a moment of idle forgetfulness. A spot of disinterest I was simply too tired to process. But the fog grew thicker over my mind.
Days began to blur. I forgot if I’d watered a plant. Forgot where I’d set my trowel. If I’d eaten lunch, or only thought about eating it. 
By the time I realized I was lost in it, I couldn’t remember how to care.
All I could think about was the life I’d live once I returned to the human lands. Other things became distractions, irrelevant in the broader scope. I did not need to make friends, we’d be parting soon. I didn’t need to buy new clothing, it wouldn’t fit quite right when I was human anyways.
Bit by bit, I disconnected from the world around me, hiding myself behind a mask of warmth and cheeriness for my sisters. Taking my walks, tending my gardens, showing no signs of how lost I really was.
Truth be told, in the moments when I was most honest with myself, I knew things would never go back to the way they were. I knew I could not be un-Made. It only made me sink further and further into myself. Hope and despair. Despair and hope. Hybern’s men had murdered me that horrible day. My spirit was dead. My life was gone… Only my heart refused to acknowledge it.
Refugees clogged the streets closer to the wharf. People of Spring, displaced by the decay that had taken hold. Fleeing north, desperate for safety and protection. Many Courts abandoned them, accusing them of supporting Hybern during the war, of causing crimes, of any and all inconvenience to their lives.
Not caring that these people had lost everything, and through no fault of their own. The males who caused this were either dead or warm in their beds. Lords whose status was untouched throughout it all. Even though their people suffered.
I hated walking by the refugees. Hated hearing the terrors that chased them from their homes as monsters overran Spring. Horrors no person should ever know, that no child should ever see. I felt hopeless when I looked at them, and so I selfishly tried to avoid seeing it. I worked the same charities as Feyre, gave time and money to their efforts, but it felt hollow.
They lost everything, but their eyes still burned with hope for the future. By comparison, I lost nothing, and gained everything… what right did I have to be unhappy? My pain was nothing compared to theirs, and yet it consumed me.
An invisible fist closed around my lungs, trapping the air. 
I turned towards home.
What right did I have to dream of returning to the human world? Of a manor and a comfortable life? What right did I have to complain when so many suffered so much more?
My pain wasn’t worthy of being called pain. So I told myself I was worthless for feeling it. 
“Elain?” my throat closed when I heard Mor’s voice. 
I forced myself to look up at the female I’d nearly crashed into.
Concern lit Mor’s eyes as she reached out to me, steadying me with a hand, “Are you alright? What happened?” the female looked over my shoulder, trying to see if someone were pursuing me.
Fear filled my mouth with a sour tang. I didn’t want Mor’s pity, or worse, for her to find out what was wrong. To have to hear another soothing lecture about how I should accept my fate in Prythian. My throat closed up. 
“It’s alright,” Mor looked around again, this time at the fae around us who were starting to take notice of me.
She guided me towards darkness, a nearby alley without any foot traffic. Mor pulled me into the darkness and raised a glamour to extend the side of the building, isolating us. A sharp, musty scent filled the air.
“I’m fine,” I finally found the words through the muddy waters of my mind. It was another side effect of the fog- sometimes words were… hard. Harder to find than they should be. I could think, I could understand, but making the words myself felt like some impossible task.
“You aren’t,” Mor tightened her grip on my arm. “Did someone hurt you? Was someone chasing you?”
“No, I-” I didn’t know the words. Just the sense of wrongness. That the refugees suffering was my fault somehow, or that I should do more to help them. The sickness that pooled in my stomach whenever I saw them, the self-loathing it raised, what words could convey it? What could explain the selfishness of the feeling? “I- fine. It- I- it’s f-fine.” I ground the words out as I felt them falling from my mind.
I couldn’t say any more than that. I couldn’t grasp the words to pull them together. 
“Okay,” Mor said. “Calm down, just breathe.”
I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe properly. I couldn’t even process that I should acknowledge her words in some way. I knew I should, but I was numb to the thought. After too long, I forced a nod.
“What are you doing out here? Are you alone?”
I always go on a walk at this time, and always this path. We’ve seen each other many times. 
I wanted to say that, to feign calm and find a way to explain my fear and silence, but the words wouldn’t travel to my mouth, and the more I tried to think them, the more I found only vague sensations in their place.
Instead, I just said, “Alone.”
“No one else is with you?”
“Alone.”
“When do they expect you back?”
“I’m not… a child,” I managed to form the sentence. “You know-”
It took me too long to realize what had happened. To realize what was still happening. 
When Mor raised the glamour, the smell was sharp and musty at the same time.
But I’d known Mor long enough to know her scent was more citrus-like. Similar to Feyre and Rhysand’s.
This was… like the cedar chips that people in our village had lined horse stables with, when straw was too hard to come by. Damp with rot, and pungent. It was as far from Mor’s scent as it could be.
And I’d just told her I was alone and without expectation of a set return.
I took a hard look at Mor. She wore neither the Illyrian training leathers she favored lately, nor the loose pants and short top of the Night Court. Her lilac gown was out of place in autumnal Velaris, the sleeves too short for the slight chill of the air, the fabric light and nearly sheer. 
It also seemed… worn. Old and ill-kept. Wrinkled. 
I knew I was in trouble, but my heart felt nothing. I felt nothing. A dream, but one where you know you are in a dream and cannot come to real harm- that was what it felt like. 
Running towards the street might have saved me. Calling out, screaming, throwing a shoe- there were options. There were so many options.
But I froze, just long enough for not-Mor’s eyes to fill with fear of her own and for her to reach out and snatch at my arm with black-tipped fingers. Her grip was bone-crushing as she took something out of her pocket and threw it hard at the ground.
Something shattered, the world heaved, and I was ripped away from everything I knew.
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vidalinav · 2 years
Note
PLEASE WRITE HUMAN NESTA
For context: Don't think too much about the actual canon information. I didn't want to go back and re-read. So pretend everyone gets prepared early in acomaf because you know obvious conclusions of an incoming war.
Also, I wrote this in past tense which means my writing is weird. If I write more, I'll probs change this all to present tense which will drastically change the language of this fic.
~
It didn’t take long for Nesta to get on his nerves, which was unsurprising but even Cassian could admit it shouldn’t have been that soon. She’d refused to fly with him and he’d nearly thrown up his hands. 
Nesta hadn’t argued with them all day which should have tipped him off. She’d been quiet... and there was no part of the Nesta Archeron he knew as they waited in the shadows for Graysen’s people to arrive. Arrive and leave with her sister in tow.
Elain would be married by a priestess who came to the estate in the afternoon. A quick ceremony to appease society, and then off she’d go. With a wedding trousseau and stealthy goodbye. She would not be coming to the Night Court with them, and Cassian wondered how Feyre even convinced Nesta to come. There was no way she’d leave her sister. 
But he supposed it was easier to leave than to be left behind and Nesta--blooming in a light peach gown to match the flowers her sister had set around the house--was surely going to be left behind. 
Cassian, though he wouldn’t admit it, was relieved when he’d heard she’d come. He didn’t know what he’d do if he knew she was still here, where the queens and their trouble could come barging in at any moment. Hybern’s soldiers could come marching down and who would stand between her and death knocking on her doorstep? Secretly, Cassian had already made a plan to spend his free time here. Even if he’d have to hide in the trees. He’d get Azriel to take him after he did his rounds and none would be the wiser.  
Thankfully, Feyre had told him that Nesta had agreed to come. Elain would stay. She didn’t want to leave her life behind, and Cassian respected that decision as long as she was safe. A dark castle with high walls and enough ash weapons to kill a court was safe enough. 
He was relieved--almost elated at the thought of Nesta seeing Velaris. Giddiness welled in the pit of stomach at the thought of her viewing the open skyline and the sea. He’d show her the restaurants and the stars, the Sidra and all the art. Cassian hadn’t known her for long, but he’d find out what she’d like. 
He was practically vibrating with the excitement, unable to stop himself from shuffling. 
That is until Azriel had offered his arm and Nesta had shaken her head in a firm no. She didn’t want to winnow. Whatever fae magic that was, she’d said, crossing her fingers as if that might ward off whatever tainted curse might be left. 
Flying then? No. 
“Nesta, so help me. If you don’t decide soon, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and you can decide in the air if you prefer flying or not.” 
“Throw me over your shoulder, and I’ll vomit all over your wings.” Nesta said the words with enough ire that he wondered if she’d force herself to do it, just to prove her point. No, there would be no hands on the eldest Archeron.
Not unless she begged. 
But begging wasn’t something he should have been thinking of, when he was anywhere near this woman. Her scorn only seemed to light a flame in him that he wanted her to fan. She was so gods-damned delectable when she was glaring at him, her chin raised high. That soft bottom lip swollen from where she'd bitten it all day.
His brother gave him an exasperated sigh... 
Cassian knew it must have been from his scent.  
~
@arinbelle
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forbidden-sunlight · 1 year
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My dear friends and fellow mutuals,
It warms my heart to see all of you grow in this community as writers, and the kindness you have shown me when I first arrived here. With the year drawing to a close, I invite you all to a small party at my estate. To laugh, to reflect, and share our goals for the future, whichever comes first. You are welcomed to bring one guest with you to this gathering.
Please check mark down below if you are able to attend or unable to attend, and how you would be like to be addressed upon arrival with your guest, i.e. as a empress/emperor, duchess, lady, countess, baroness, etc. I look forward to seeing you.
Yours truly,
Duchess McAllister of the Moonstone Moors
[PS - Your ‘guest’ may be your favorite manhwa character. The theme is royaltycore.]
@staradorned
@lady-navier0357
@d10nsaint
@sidra-29
@that-one-pretty-bitch
@rouecentric
@impeakcharacterdesign
@mysticmeena
@yandere-city
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flowercoffeebb · 11 months
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New BEANS from our new partner roaster HEADLANDS COFFEE @headlandscoffee .
新しくルワンダがラインナップしました✋
ーーーーー
◼︎ RWANDA Sovu WS - Natural
FLAVOR NOTE: Honey, Mango, Bubble gum, Roasted green tea, Syrupy mouthfeel
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VARIETY: Red bourbon 画像内誤表記🙏
PROCESS: Natural
AREA: Huye District
PRODUCER: Maraba Cooperative
ALTITUDE: 1700 - 2200 m
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 Sovu Washing Station(WS)は 2005年より Maraba協同組合が運営する施設のひとつです。現在はフェアトレード認定を受け、それに加えてCAFE PRACTICE, UTZ 両方の認定取得に向けて取り組んでおり、420の小規模農家からコーヒーチェリーを集めて精製しています。Sovuは彼らの素晴らしいコーヒー生産を象徴する施設であり、アフリカ大陸で初めてルワンダが Cup of Excellenceの開催国となった2008年以来 その国内品評会でも 5度 入賞しています(2008, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2015)。
 農園は、Huye山の緑丘の高地に位置し、豊かで肥沃な火山性土壌の恩恵を受けています。毎年2度の雨季と乾季に恵まれ、涼しく安定した気温で、それらがコーヒー栽培に有利な環境を作り出しています。
 ルワンダで 優勢な品種であるBourbon。弾けるような柑橘感を思わせますが、こちらのロットはNatural精製で処理されており 果肉の甘みを吸収して 少しラウンドで厚みがプラスされた味わいです。
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< Side story >
 ネイティブのKinyarwanda語で、Marabaは「Abahuzamugambi Ba Kawa」と呼ばれ 『Together we work the coffee』と訳されます。1994年に起こった内戦と恐ろしい大量虐殺をきっかけに2001年に設立されました。 その名前の通り、農家の "弛まぬ仕事" と "ロースターや輸入業者との長期的な関係" により成功してきている代表的な事例であり、コーヒー産業を通して Maraba協同組合は メンバー農家へ 財務管理ワークショップ、学費や医療サービス、農��トレーニング、手頃な価格の農具、有機農薬、肥料などのサポート行うことを可能にしています。
(HEADLANDS COFFEE)
➖➖➖➖➖
☕️ Single Origin Coffee Line-up
[Single O]
 S) <20th Anniv. Blend> FESTIVAlL OF TWENTY
 T) TANZANIA Shiwanda Estate
[Headlands Coffee]
 T) RWANDA Sovu CWS - Natural
 T) ECUADOR Maputo and Hakuna Matata - Typica
[Coffee County]
 T) RWANDA Ruli CWS - Lot 1005 ←残りわずか
 T) HONDURAS Finca Don Juan
 N) COLOMBIA Finca Juan Martin - Sidra ←残りわずか
[Sommarlek Coffee]
 次回入荷を楽しみにしていてください
Categories
 T) The Specialty ...Terroir
 C) Conceptual ...Sorting, Technology transfer
 N) New Wave ...Innovative approach
 S)) Special ...Winning lot, Top specialty
➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖
FLOWER COFFEE / BREW BAR
 Weekday 10:00 - 18:00
 Weekend/ Holiday 9:00 - 17:00
 店舗休: 5月: 10, 17, 24, 31日
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 ※ 警戒レベル3以上の悪天が見込まれる場合には予報に沿って営業スケジュールを調整します(なるべく早く店頭張り紙、SNS、Googleにて情報発信します)
ーーーーーーーーーー
神奈川県茅ヶ崎市東海岸北1-7-23 雄三通り
 🚃 JR茅ヶ崎駅 歩8分
 🚲 駐輪可 3台まで
 🚗 駐停車不可(近隣駐車場をご利用ください、参考: 三井リパーク ¥200-/h)
 🦠 周囲に配慮あるご利用をお願いいたします
ーーー
#thanxalways #newbeans #headlandscoffee #rwanda #sovuws #marabacooperative #bourbon #natural
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#specialtycoffee #singleorigin #coffee#singleo #coffeecounty #sommarlekcoffeeroaster #hario #takahiro #mahlkonig #ditting #lamarzocco #pesado #origami #kinto #flowercoffeebb #everydaybeautiful #shonan #chigasaki #yuzostreet
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tastatast · 1 year
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Disfrutar
Quan dic que una visita al Disfrutar m’aporta mesos de reflexió i motivació per aprendre és veritat. De fet, aquesta és una crònica que vaig començar el dia després de l'àpat, el 28 de gener del 2023, i que he acabat de publicar el 19 d’octubre, deixant-la reposar durant molts mesos per assimilar tot el contingut dels plats.
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Tot i que sigui un text relativament inacabat perquè trobo interminable la divagació que em genera aquest restaurant, vull intentar reflectir alguns dels pensaments que em van sorgir durant l’àpat i a posterior.
També, intento no repetir informació que ja he dit en anteriors visites.
Aquí podeu veure els altres àpats que he fet al Disfrutar.
A continuació, la crònica de la nostra visita del gener del 2023.
En aquest àpat, vam triar el menú de novetats i hi vam menjar el següent.
Per a començar, seguien portant gel hidroalcohòlic per les mans, servit des d’un cargol.
ELS PLATS
3 Aigües de benvinguda: una de lulo (o naranjilla), una de maracuyà i una de cafè.
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El món de les aigües sempre ha tingut un paper important a elBulli, exercint, moltes vegades, funcions equiparables a les d’un fons. Ja siguin com aquella primera aigua de mel o ja siguin concentrats de fruites, de fruits secs, de marisc, d’anxova (l’ara tant coneguda collatura di acciughe) quan intentaven fer aquella anxova líquida… o per aprofitar les aigües sobrants d’altres elaboracions com aquella aigua de fetge d’ànec o l’acuafaba, l’aigua de la cocció dels llegums tant útil per a gelificar en fred, a més, sent un gelificant natural. 
Tot això està molt bé però aquestes en concret em van semblar tres aigües artificioses, mancades de naturalitat i tendint al gust edulcorant. A més, és curiós que no apareguin al recordatori, potser ells mateixos no les consideren gaire?
Són a base d’aigua Sant Aniol sense gas, ells les carbonaten amb gas exogen (amb el sifó de carbonatació?) i els hi afegeixen sucre i aromes, diuen, naturals.
Dry Martini. 
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Es tracta d’un Dry Martini deconstruït: la part líquida servida en una pipeta; i, l’oliva, una esferificació amb la gelatina (la capa externa) dura, l'esferificació "reposada". Un còctel de benvinguda que em va transportar a aquell any de les xeringues d’elBulli, quan es qüestionaven la manera de servir el menjar, i que em fa pensar en aquells primers còctels que es menjaven. Tot i així, gustativament, prefereixo la versió tradicional del còctel: des de la pipeta no es pot fer un bon glop i gaudeixo més tant amb l’esferificació original de l’oliva com amb una oliva tradicional. 
Sidra casolana fumada al moment.
Un suc de poma al que li afegeixen gel sec (CO2 en estat sòlid) i que, quan s'evapora (o més ben dit, se sublimar), expulsa tot el seu propi CO2 impregnant-lo al suc de poma i convertint-lo en una sidra; per tant, el gel està carbonatant el suc de poma. Una manera artificial d’aportar el carbònic que, en el procés d’elaboració tradicional de les sidres, s’aconsegueix a través de la fermentació alcohòlica i malolàctica de manera natural o afegint llevats. 
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Per molt que no m’agradi el resultat, em quedo amb el mètode i amb el procés. Si ho entenc com un joc, ho trobo divertit. No deixa de ser una altra tècnica per a carbonatar begudes (les aigües de benvinguda no estan carbonatades així sinó injectant-les-hi gas carbònic exogen). Creativitat en el procés d’elaboració d’un producte. El coneixement com a eina creativa.
A continuació, quan ja tenim el suc de poma carbonatat (la falsa sidra, sidra falsa o sidra artificial, que difícil que és designar a la cuina!), el fumen amb encenalls de roure i al moment, amb un bufador, un instant i prou, entenc que simulant el curt pas per bóta que poden tenir algunes sidres. La serveixen a la copa Riedel de whisky. Una altra beguda bastant dolça (com les aigües de benvinguda) que no acabo de gaudir i que entenc que no té gens d’alcohol. En aquest sentit, també és una manera d'oferir una sidra sense alcohol.
Un inici molt líquid, fred i dolç, 5 begudes fins que no arriba el primer sòlid, que també anava acompanyat d’un còctel.
Coca sense farina amb tòfona negra i burrata.
Un plat deliciós que ja havia menjat. Una coca feta amb obulato. Un pa molt fràgil, trencadís i volàtil amb aquesta textura hiper aèria tant bulliniania. Deliciós. 
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El Disfrutar és això:
Tècnica: coca sense farina feta amb obulato.
Producte: tuber melanosporum madura, excel·lentment laminada i amb prou temperatura per gaudir-ne plenament.
Màgia, noves textures, gust, plaer, emoció… 
I molt més.
Vodka / Tòfona.
Un altre còctel. En aquest cas, fet amb el vodka que infusionen ells mateixos. Un còctel que serveixen per a maridar amb la coca amb tòfona i que ens va espatllar el bon gust que teníem del menjar, sobretot per l’excés d’alcohol. Trobo que també pot acompanyar perfectament tant el pa xinès com la torrada amb bombolles sòlides de mantega fumada i caviar que vénen a continuació.
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Pa xinès farcit de caviar beluga i crema agra.
Un altre plat deliciós però que tampoc era una novetat. De fet, és un dels plats més icònics del Drisfrutar. Es tracta d’una massa que no ha fermentat. S’elabora fent una massa de farina, aigua, sal i mel que introdueixen a dins un sifó (el d'escumes) en fred i que després fregeixen. Es podria arribar a semblar a un bunyol. El cas és que sembla mentida que sigui una massa que no hagi fermentat perquè el resultat és ben similar. Deconstruir per a reconstruir. Creativitat en el procés d'elaboració d'una elaboració. Textura cremosa i freda a l’interior i calent per fora. 
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Torrada amb bombolles sòlides de mantega fumada i caviar.
Es tracta d’una torrada amb unes bombolles sòlides de mantega fumada airejada, és a dir, una mantega fumada que clarifiquen, posen a una màquina de fer bombolles (el Foam Kit), les agafen amb molt de compte i les congelen. També, a sobre la torrada, caviar. La lupa és per poder veure la textura d’aprop. Es menja primer la mantega i s’acaba amb el caviar.
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M’encanta notar les bombolles de la mantega a la llengua i m’encanta aquest airejat de congelador però que arriba atemperat a taula i que tarda més a desfer-se que l’airejat de julivert que serveixen sense congelador, més volàtil i més insubstancial. Com ho dominen tot, les sensacions tàctils, les textures, la tècnica, el servei, les temperatures… tot! 
Al Disfrutar respecten la tradició sense defugir de la modernitat i buscant l’emoció. I aquest plat ho exemplifica. Tot i que és un altre plat que havíem menjat (recordem que estem fent el menú de novetats), són un parell de mossegades memorables. Un plat que em fa pensar en com han avançat en el món de les escumes: amb el sifó de soda, el sifó de gas; en fred, en calent; amb clara d’ou, amb gelatina, amb greix, amb fècula; de textura espessa, fluïda, líquida, liofilitzada, hiper aèria; a temperatura ambient, congelades, fregides, fetes al forn, al microones; instantànies, reposades...
Aquests dos últims plats, tot i no estar servits com una seqüència, els recordo com si ho fossin. Una seqüència d’associacions gustatives: caviar/greix (caviar/crema agra i caviar mantega), làctic/fumat (crema agra/mantega fumada), greix oliós/greix làctic (l'oli del bunyol fregit i mantega) que, a la vegada és greix vegetal/greix animal; i associacions de textura: cruixent dur com la torrada/cruixent tou com el pa xinès.
Dos plats amb el binomi caviar/greix, que associem pràcticament de manera involuntària, sobretot amb un greix de mantega com és el cas del segon plat, més que un greix oliós com en el cas del primer, amb el “pa” fregit. I dos plats que, a més a més, presenten amb dues masses de textures ben diferents. Per una banda, amb una torrada cruixent i, per l’altra, amb una massa més tova que recorda un bunyol o un xurro però que també té un punt cruixent pel fregit. El toc agre del primer i el fumat del segon els aporten encara més profunditat.
Dos plats molt Disfrutar, que, a més, tenen una altra marca de la casa, com són aquests gustos fàcilment reconeixibles però revolucionaris en la forma i en els que el gust és l’objectiu principal.
En David Gil i Julià i les seves conserves.
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En David ens mostra i explica una sèrie d’elaboracions que fan i que després trobarem a diferents plats del menú. És tal la complexitat de cada elaboració que trobo molt encertat fer totes les explicacions sense el plat a taula, per poder escoltar amb atenció i que no es refredi o es desfagi el plat.
3 Ametlles.
Ametlla amb closca verda que confiten en aigua i sucre i que posen 3 hores a l’Ocoo a la funció ou negre. Tenia una textura esponjosa i li sortia un líquid, s’havia de menjar sencera.
Ametlla blanquejada amb aigua bullint, per treure l’amargor i l’astringència.
Ametlla tècnica o Ametlla turca. Una ametlla verda (amb la closca), amb aigua, a temperatura ambient durant 1 mes. Canvien l’aigua, la punxen i es formen els foradets i, finalment, la conserven amb ratafia un mínim de 3 mesos més.
Rovellons amb oli d’oliva.
Flor de saüc. 
Quan la flor de saüc té més pol·len, la guarden amb vinagre de vi blanc (un vinagre menys “dolç” que el d’arròs, que segueix sent bastant neutre i que, a més, és més nostre, més mediterrani) durant 1 mes com a mínim i en fan aquest gelat. 
Pebrot del Padró.
El cor del pebrot del Padró, amb totes les llavors: blanquejat i en vinagre.
La part verda del pebrot del Padró: de la que en fan un miso de pebrot del Padró.
Safata amb arròs Basmati i el seu koji + Pot de conserva amb el shio-koji (koji amb aigua amb sal) d’aquest Basmati per a marinar el colomí. 
L’arròs Basmati és el que va millor perquè és la varietat que dóna més enzims i deixa més peptidasses (abans conegudes com a proteasses, són enzims que trenquen els enllaços peptídic de les proteïnes). Ells compren les espores de koji (en pols) a Kenshô (Delta de l’Ebre) i fan el seu koji. En aquell moment, en compraven 2: Aspergillus oryzae (més àcid) i Aspergillus awamori (més umami).
Soja de còdium.
SEGUIM AMB ELS PLATS DEL MENÚ
Ametlla, ametlló i ametllat.
Un plat que ja havia menjat el juliol del 2021.
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4 Elaboracions fetes amb ametlles (en l’ordre que s’han de menjar):
Ametlla amb closca verda que confiten en aigua i sucre i que posen 3 hores a l’Ocoo a la funció ou negre. Servida a la safata de bambú amb una branca d’olivera. Té una textura esponjosa i li surt un líquid, s’ha de menjar sencera.
Ametlla torrada. Es trenca amb la pedra. Està tèbia.
Ametlla crua. Es trenca amb la pedra.
Almendruco. Una mena d’almendrado, un tribut al polvoró d’ametlles fet amb oli d’ametlles. Servit a la safata de bambú amb una branca d’olivera. És tova, es desfà a la boca i a dins hi ha una ametlla crua dura; pensava que tindria més aquell gust de sianur (com si algú l’hagués provat mai…) que tant poc m’agradava (fins al punt de fer-me esgarrifances) i que vada vegada tolero més.
Una seqüència i una declinació d’un producte tant mediterrani i bullinià com l’ametlla. Un plat educatiu que presenta des d’un gest tan quotidià com el de trencar les ametlles, passant per una adaptació d’un almendrado, i fins a una ametlla confitada i cuinada amb una màquina d’avantguarda. Ancestral i contemporani. No acabo d’entendre l’ordre de menjar-les.
Empedrat de lluç i ametlles.
A mig camí entre una adaptació/revisió i una deconstrucció d’una recepta tradicional com és l’empedrat. Un plat que ja havia menjat el juliol del 2021 però que vaig trobar molt més ben executat, fins i tot la presentació tenia més bon aspecte. De fet, és preciós.
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En primer lloc, substitueixen el bacallà per un lluç en salmorra (en salmorra per simular la textura del bacallà) i també substitueixen els llegums per ametlles, unes ametlles cuinades per tal que tinguin textura de llegum (ametlles a l’Ocoo però a una funció que no recordo, no era la funció ou negre). Increïble la textura d'aquestes ametlles!
En segon lloc, hi posen un tomàquet confitat (semblava escaldat i pelat i recomanen que sigui l’última mossegada), uns daus de gelatina d'aigua de tomàquet (una gelatina molt tova, es desfeia a la boca fent molt poca pressió), una esferificació dura d'oliva negra, una esferificació tova d'oliva verda (que bona!), el cor, amb totes les llavors, del pebrot del Padró (en lloc de servir la part verda del pebrot, de la que en fan un miso), blanquejat i en vinagre, boníssim.
El que no sé és de què era la salsa vermella del fons del plat ni l'emulsió escumosa que anava per sobre del lluç.
Finalment, en una copeta, l'aigua de la cocció de les mongetes del ganxet. El deliciós gust de mongeta del ganxet i la seva textura densa i voluminosa. Una de les textures bullinianes que aconseguim a la cuina casolana. A la casa que couen llegums, és clar.
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Un mar i muntanya més de la casa, un plat ben reconeixible en comparació amb l’original. Complex, entretingut d'anar menjant i molt disfrutable.
Fulla de bolets cruixent.
Un plat que ja havia menjat el juliol de 2021, quan servien la fulla de ceps amb un altre cruixent fet amb un suc de fulles de pi en tempura però sense oli, amb la tècnica de l'arròs glutinós al microones.
En aquest cas, a partir d’un consomé de bolets al que li afegeixen un espessant (midó d’arròs glutinós, el del sushi) fan una massa que posen en un motlle amb forma de fulla, la posen al microones, sufla i queda cruixent. Quantes elaboracions que arriben a fer amb el microones! Per sobre, una mantega infusionada amb ceps, com una mena de beurre noisette.
Estèticament, bell i delicat. Tant la intensitat olfactiva i gustativa, que transporta a la tardor i el sotabosc, com la textura cruixent, contrasten amb el gust i les textures més toves anteriors de l’empedrat. Com dominen la posició de cada plat dins el menú!
A la vegada, serveixen el plat: escabetx de vinagre de bolets, conserva casolana de shitake i rovellons, i ostra.
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Per aconseguir la salsa escabetxada que tenim a la base del plat, primer de tot, fan una salsa/vinagre/escabetx a base d’un consomé de bolets, un vinagre mare de poma (el més neutre possible) i una part d’alcohol (vínic), que tenen a dins del Foam Kit que ens ensenyen des del guéridon. Expliquen que, si aquesta barreja la deixessin 3 o 4 mesos, es transformaria en vinagre per sí sola però que ells posen aquesta barreja a la Foam Kit (de fer pompes de peixeres, d’aportar oxigen a les peixeres) per accelerar el procés i obtenir el vinagre al cap de 2 setmanes. De fet, aquesta Foam kit que ensenyen és per mostrar la idea al comensal, en realitat ho fan en una màquina més gran i més potent. No deixa de ser una mena de bâtonnage constant per accelerar l’oxidació. Després, emulsionen aquesta salsa/vinagre/escabetx amb oli d’oliva per aconseguir la salsa escabetxada que tenim a la base del plat, sota l’ostra. Recomanen començar per les fulles de Ficoide glacial (l’herba gelada) i per la pinya verda de pi confitada.
*Les bombolles sòlides també les fan amb la Foam però, en aquell cas, com que el que volen és agafar les bombolles i no pas oxidar el líquid, hi afegeixen lecitina de soja i mantega perquè siguin més denses, s’airegi més el líquid, pugi més i fagi més bombolles. També el posen a més potència perquè fagi bombolles més grosses. A més, en el cas de les bombolles sòlides, després les agafen amb una cullera i les congelen. Potser un dia menjarem bombolles sòlides d’un escabetx de bolets; o no, potser el vinagre té algun element que fa que sigui incompatible (si més no, de moment). 
Un mar i muntanya amb una senyora ostra, un maridatge exquisit per a aquest bivalve. Cremós, suau, fi, càlid, amable, la textura carnosa de l’ostra, la dels bolets, la pinya més dura... cada producte té el seu crec-crec. Boníssim. El gust marí (o iodat, o salí, jo què sé com s’ha de dir!) combinat amb el gust de sotabosc em va fer pensar en els mar i muntanya de l’Uliassi però aquest punt de vinagre tant suau, que hi és perquè aporta profunditat al gust però que no hi és perquè no emmascara cap producte, va ser fenomenal. A més, molt més fàcil de menjar des d’un plat que des de la closca de l’ostra, a part que se’n pot servir més quantitat.
Encara em quedava vodka infusionat amb tòfona i vaig pensar que també quedava prou bé, tant amb la fulla de bolets com amb l’escabetx de bolets i l’ostra. I trobo que tampoc va ser un mal impàs per a continuar amb la sopa de ceba.
Sopa de ceba amb pa airejat de ceba, Comté i rovell d’ou curat.
Per una banda, el pa airejat de ceba. A primer cop d’ull, podria semblar un pa airejat de ceba elaborat amb la tècnica de la bombolla sòlida o mantega airejada que van presentar el 2021 com a novetat, quan el van servir tot sol amb la lupa (avui l’acabem de menjar però amb la torrada i el caviar). Aparentment, semblava una molla de pa, una escuma sòlida i congelada, tot i que començava a desfer-se. Però resulta que aquest pa airejat de ceba no el fan amb la tècnica de les bombolles sòlides, sinó a partir d’una nata infusionada amb ceba que envasen en una Gastrobag i a la que li treuen l’aire amb una màquina de fer el buit, la d’empaquetar (TekVac?). Just abans que explotin les bombolles, aturen la màquina i conegelen la nata. No deixa de ser curiós que, una màquina que elimina l’oxigen, l’aire (fa el buit), ells l’utilitzin per afegir oxigen (per airejar).
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En resum, la diferència ja es veu a nivell visual, aquest sent molt més dens i menys fràgil. En boca, la textura de les bombolles també es nota però no tant com en la mantega airejada, aquest pa airejat és més cremós; i, pel que fa al gust, tot i que tots dos tinguin una part greixosa, en aquest cas el greix era nata infusionada en ceba enlloc de mantega fumada. Boníssim. Dues “escumes sòlides i fredes” amb subtileses ben diferents. Més ben dit, es podria dia que la mantega airejada (més lleugera, delicada i translúcida) ve a ser un “aire sòlid i fred” i, en canvi, el pa airejat (més dens) ve a ser una “escuma sòlida i freda”. Em pregunto si les roques i les esponges que serveixen per postres i petits fours les elaboren afegint aire o traient aire; em semblen una mena de “pa airejat” però més reposat perquè s’endureixi més. 
Sigui com sigui, m’agradaria que servissin un plat amb alguns dels diferents tipus de “bombolles sòlides fredes” perquè els mortals poguéssim notar les diferents textures, una mena de seqüència amb resultats tàctils similars però aconseguits amb mètodes/processos/tècniques diferents. També es podria servir com una declinació, un d’aquells plats educatius i minimalistes en els que només hi intervé un únic producte presentat, per exemple, en diferents fases de maduresa o en diferents tipus de cocció com la gamba crua, escaldada, al vapor o saltejada.
Per altra banda, al plat també hi havia 2 esferificacions toves de formatge Comté i 2 trossos de rovell d’ou curat, curat amb sucre durant 3 dies i, després, 3 dies més al congelador (en aquest cas, el congelador també pot servir per cuinar).
Finalment, a taula, serveixen, des d’una cremera/salsera, una sopa de ceba calenta per sobre de tots els altres ingredients. L’únic element del plat que no està deconstruït. Una sopa ben líquida i filtrada, d’un color marró ben fosc i ben gustosa, que desfà el pa de ceba congelat, de tal manera que es genera un fred-calent (suau, n’han servit de més extrems com el d’aquell foie en pols del 1999, crec) d’aquells que tant m’agraden. 
El pa està congelat i la sopa calenta, per tant, el pa es comença a desfer ràpidament i recomanen començar a menjar pel pa. Sensació freda, de bombolles, cremosa… com que, per agafar el pa, també agafes una mica de sopa calenta, es genera el fred-calent. L’esferificació de Comté rebenta, cuirassa gelatinosa, interior líquid, salabror, intensitat, gust de formatge. El rovell d’ou curat, cremós però més pastós. Sopa de ceba líquida, fina, sense cap entrebanc granulós, sembla un fons. Tot és deliciós, tant menjat per separat com ben barrejat, fonent totes les elaboracions.
Una deconstrucció d’una recepta tant casolana, tradiconal i clàssica com la d’una sopa de ceba portada a la seva filosofia de cuina. El resultat és ben reconeixible, gustos coneguts però on els ingredients estan cuinats, emplatats i servits d’una manera diferent, amb formes, textures i temperatures que surten de l’ordinari.
Un plat per parlar-ne durant hores. I per repetir-ne!
Gnocchi platejats de carxofa, carxofa cruixent, pèsols llàgrima del Maresme i salsa de chirlas (escopinyes rossellona o Chamelea gallina) al Palo Cortado.
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Recomanen menjar els cruixents de carxofa a la meitat del plat. Un altre binomi recurrent a la cuina del Disfrutar: la carxofa/greix (que havíem menjat amb pernil i que és com més associem) la van presentar, aquesta vegada, amb dos greixos: un de midó de pasta (amb un greix amb sensació de “dulcedumbre” que té aquest fals nyoqui que és, en realitat, una esferificació més o menys ovalada) i un amb un greix gelatinós de la salsa de chirlas, que podria recordar el greix d’un pil-pil. Intensitat i gust; textura cruixent dels pèsols i les xips de carxofa, sensació explosiva de l’esferificació de carxofa i un suquet líquid i gelatinós de la salsa d’escopinyes. Deliciós!
Sepietes amb multi-esfèric de pèsols a la catalana.
Un multi-esfèric de pèsols fet amb pèsols i pernil ibèric. Unes sepietes marcades a la planxa. Caviar d’oli d’oliva Arbequina. Una salseta verda feta amb botifarra negra, Oporto i anís.
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La tradició culinària més propera, l’autòcton com a estil. Una vegada més, un plat que recorre a la memòria. Un plat de producte, de temporada i que torna a combinar gustos coneguts amb tècniques d’avantguarda com aquests dos tipus d’esferificacions (el més antic Caviaroli i l’evolucionada multi-esferificació). Un altre magnífic mar i muntanya. Una vegada més, intensitat i gust.
Spaghetti de julivert amb angules del Delta de l’Ebre, pèsols llàgrima del Maresme i salsa d’angules.
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Espaguetis de julivert fets utilitzant la tècnica de l’esferificació amb l’alginat, juntament amb una xeringa que ràpidament injecten i es formen els espaguetis. Tècniques combinades entre elles (esferificació feta espaguetis), producte, estacionalitat, “mar i muntanya”, gust, suculència, tradició…
Efecte òptic: corall d’amarant amb garoines i maionesa de còdium.
No s’hi val mirar per sobre, es tracta d’estudiar el plat, la vaixella. Veus les algues que hi ha darrera el vidre però no les tens a davant, les pots tocar per sobre però no te les pots menjar. En canvi, a davant tens el cruixent amb les garotes que sí que pots mirar, tocar i menjar. És com tenir la decoració del plat, veure-la però no tenir-la pròpiament al plat on se serveix la part que menges. Una reflexió sobre les guarnicions i la manera de servir el menjar, una idea molt bulliniana que porten anys desenvolupant. 
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El cruixent de la garoina està fet amb amarant, fet com crispetes, es fa una massa/pasta/puré, es fregeix i després s’hi afegeix el colorant verd.
Vaig trobar una mica desproporcionada la part cruixent amb les garoines, m’hagués agradat trobar més gust de garoina i menys de “pa fregit”.
Margarita de còdium.
Un còctel servit en una closca d’ostra.
Umeboshi de gerds amb ravioli cruixent d’algues.
Un plat que apareix al recordatori però que no tinc constància d’haver menjat.
La por: gamba a la catalana.
Serveixen un plat buit. A continuació, porten una capsa de la que en surt fum de gel sec i la deixen al centre de la taula.
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Introdueixo la mà, toco alguna cosa llafiscosa. M’oloro la mà, semblen algues. Torno a introduir la mà i toco alguna cosa més dura, l’agafo, és una senyora gamba vermella! 
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Cuina figurativa (el producte és perfectament reconeixible), tècnica (lleugerament escaldada) i d’estil minimalista (tot i que hi ha un acompanyament que no es menja, la gamba ve ben despullada). Fins aquí tot és normal, és habitual. Però servida a la bulliniana, qüestionant-se el servei, en aquest cas servint la gamba d’una manera diferent en la que els sentiments i les emocions com la por o la incertesa són el punt de partida per a crear.
La gallina dels ous d’or: ou ferrat de crustacis.
Primer et deixen un plat fons simulant un niu, amb palla i amb 5 ous (amb codi de barres) i un sisè ou pintat de color d’or al centre. 
A continuació, serveixen el plat que menjarem; recomanen trencar el rovell d’or i combinar tots els ingredients; i diuen que després explicaran el plat. Però, tal com passa moltes vegades, al final no ens el van explicar. Potser tampoc calia. Un dia parlarem de la relativa importància d’explicar un plat i de què i com s’expliquen (o es canten) els plats que mengem als diferents restaurants. 
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La clara estava molt ben fregida, amb les puntes ben torradetes i amb camarones per sobre, com si es tractés d’una tortilla de camarones de clara d’ou ferrat. El rovell era una esferificació d’una salsa vermella que semblava de shrirasha i per fora era d’or.  Potser el rovell (que no serveixen) de l’ou ferrat és el que utilitzen per a la sopa de ceba, el que curen amb sucre al congelador durant 3 dies. La cua de gamba estava tallada en 3 trossos. També hi havia una fulla de coriandre i una pols verda que recordava algun cítric com la citronel·la. 
Un ou ferrat deconstruït que fa un joc de paraules amb la “truita” de camarones. I, a la vegada, una manera diferent d’acompanyar un ou ferrat, sent habituals les patates fregides, el pernil, la papada, els bolets, el puré de patates, la llagosta, la tuber melanosporum i la tuben magnatum, etc. Un plat que em va fer pensar en alguna recepta tradicional tailandesa, una mena de Pad Thai deconstruït? De fet, el “gust Tailàndia” és un habitual de la casa: penso en la “gamba thai” o en aquell “suquet tailandès de llagostí amb fideus de moniato”.
Per últim, trobo preciosa la idea de representar aquesta faula d’Isop en un plat. Això sí, esperem que l’Eduard i l’Oriol no matin la gallina i poguem seguir gaudint dels ous d’or i de la felicitat i abundància que ens aporten.
Macarrons amb bolognesa de llebre, tòfona negra i escuma d’Idiazábal.
Uns macarrons de gelatina fets a base d’un brou d’ossos de pernil ibèric que gelifiquen amb Kappa (el gelificant fet a base del carragenato o carragenina de les algues vermelles). Els recordava lleugers però plens de sabor però els vaig trobar insípids; s’han de servir atemperats/freds perquè sinó es fondria la gelatina amb la que estan fets. Són els mateixos macarrons que els seus, ja clàssics, a la carbonara. Els veig com una evolució de les tallarines fetes amb agar-agar d’elBulli.
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De llebre n’hi havia poquíssima quantitat, al fons del plat, tallada a dauets ben petits.
Tuber melanosporum molt ben laminada, mereix menció especial el bon tracte que sempre fan de la tòfona negra, sobretot pel que fa al punt de maduresa, el gruix del laminat i la temperatura tèbia de servei, no la cuinen però la serveixen a sobre o a prop d’altres ingredients calents perquè desprengui la seva fragrant aroma. 
L’escuma d’Idiazábal, feta amb sifó calent (tebi), atempera i dóna calidesa a tot el plat, tant amable, gustós i amorós.
Colomí macerat/marinat amb shio-koji i acompanyat amb spaghetti de kombu, ametlles i raïm.
Un colomí ben diferent a nivell gustatiu, un colomí marí, com si es tractés d’aquests ànecs i aus amb un gust salí com el d’en Gilles Goujon; i diferent també a nivell de combinacions de sabors, acompanyat amb alga kombu.
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Per a fer aquest colomí, colen el líquid que tenen a la conserva de koji amb aigua amb sal per a macerar el colomí durant 24 hores i el cuinen, primer a baixa temperatura i després marcant-lo a la planxa. L’acompanyen amb una salsa d’alga kombu amb la que el napen (gust umami) i amb uns espaguetis d’alga kombu sense cuinar, escalfats amb l’escalfor del colomí que tenen a sobre i la salsa de kombu. A la part superior esquerra, una ametlla tendra; a la part inferior dreta: un tros de raïm; tots dos, amb una emulsió blanca per sobre que és una crema de llet d’ametlles. Els puntets del costat eren d’una salsa d’amazake que em va recordar l’horxata, molt bona! Recomanen que l’última mossegada sigui la del raïm. 
Boníssim. Tinc ben pocs records de plats de carn bullinians. De fet, el colomí és de les poques carns que recordo haver menjat al Disfrutar. Aquesta versió amb kombu és deliciosa, igual que aquell pit de colomí a l’estil mexicà com si fos una cochinita pibil o aquell aperitiu de filet mignon de colomí que semblava una anxova, tots dos del juliol del 2019.
POSTRES:
Vi desalcoholitzat amb la GiroVap (una mena de destil·lador, extractor, clarificador i reductor de sobretaula, que treballa al buit i amb control de temperatura i de pressió).
Ja ens ho havien presentat a la nostra última visita i seguim sense trobar-li la gràcia o el moment per a prendre aquesta beguda durant el menú.
Nou suflada - Cor de nou - Roquefort i fruita de la passió - Amilopectina.
Sota aquest anunciat, serveixen dues elaboracions.
Boles suflades fetes amb anous i amb amilopectina de patata i cuinades al forn.
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Una bola cruixent, sense gluten, feta a base de fer una massa (d’anou i amilopectina) que introdueixen a un sifó per a obtenir una massa que posen al forn. Com que es tracta d’una bola buida per dins, amb l’ajuda d’un sifó, la farceixen amb una escuma freda de fruita de la passió, a través dels foradets que té el delicat cruixent.
Crema de iogurt amb Roquefort, fruita de la passió, praliné d’anous i les 3 anous que tenen en conserva que han presentat anteriorment.
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L’anou tendra i crua: una anou blanquejada amb aigua bullint, per treure l’amargor i l’astringència.
L’anou que encara té la closca verda més exterior: una anou confitada amb ratafia.
L’anou tècnica o anou turca: una anou verda que conserven amb la segona closca, amb aigua i sucre, a temperatura ambient, durant 1 mes. Després canvien l’aigua, la punxen amb unes agulles perquè es formin els foradets (seguint una tècnia de Turquia) i s’estovi des de dins. Finalment, la conserven amb ratafia un mínim de 3 mesos més.
Explosió floral.
A la part superior del plat, un parfait (o una mousse) de mel amb una reducció de mandarina feta amb la GiroVap.
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Al centre del plat, una pols que obtenen a partir d’un vinagre gelat fet amb la flor de saüc en conserva al que li afegeixen nitrogen líquid i converteixen en pols amb un morter. És curiós el poc que es notava l’olor i el gust de l’àcid acètic del vinagre.
Recordem que, tal com en David Gil ens ha explicat i descric més amunt, quan la flor de saüc té més pol·len, la guarden amb vinagre de vi blanc (un vinagre menys “dolç” que el d’arròs, que segueix sent bastant neutre i que, a més, és més nostre, més mediterrani) durant 1 mes com a mínim i en fan aquest gelat. 
També hi havia Peta Zetas de mango i fruita de la passió i pètals de flors.
Recomanen no combinar el parfait de mel amb la resta del plat i menjar-ho alternant les dues parts.
Es podria tractar d’una deconstrucció d’un clàssic mel i mató? La textura del mató i el seu gust suau, aconseguits a través de la mousse i la pols; la viscositat de la mel, a la reducció de mandarina; i la part aromàtica d’una mel de flors, als pètals.
Amanida Waldorf.
A la base, una gelatina de poma verda; per sobre, un granissat d’api, un granissat de poma verda, un sorbet (o un gelat?) de mostassa a l’antiga i anous caramelitzades a l’estil cantonès (és a dir, com si estessin garrapinyades ràpidament per tal que el sucre no caramelitzi i no quedi tant dur, sense Maillard). Diria que no hi havia l’enciam representat i que la maionesa de la recepta original podria ser el gelat de mostassa. En aquest cas, sí, recomanen barrejar bé totes les elaboracions del plat; i així és, una vegada desfàs el gel dels dos granissats i ho barreges tot, és molt bo.
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Un plat de la cuina salada, adaptada al món dolç a través d’una deconstrucció, amb diferents textures, temperatures, proporcions i formes que l’original. Dic “adaptada al món dolç” perquè la serveixen per postres (o a la part final de l’àpat) però, realment, tenia ben poc sucre; i és que es queden amb la part més refrescant d’aquesta clàssica amanida americana que podríem dir que és de les més conegudes a nivell mundial. Gustos coneguts però amb una forma diferent. 
Poma negra amb un gelat de beurre noisette i pasta de full sense farina.
Per una banda, parteixen una poma Golden, la pelen, li treuen el cor i les llavors i l’envasen al buit per eliminar l’oxigen, ja que la poma és una fruita que s’oxida amb facilitat.
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Per altra banda, han fabricat uns “armaris calents”: han comprat unes neveres, les han buidat i les han desendollat per tal de posar-hi mantes tèrmiques connectades a un termostat per a poder controlar la temperatura. 
En aquests “armaris calents”, hi han tingut aquesta poma durant 60 dies a 60ºC i envasada al buit. Com que la poma té aigua i sucres, per molt que estigui envasada al buit i en absència d’oxigen, també es va oxidant però a través de l’oxigen de la seva pròpia aigua i dels seus propis sucres, que es van concentrant i caramel·litzant. Una mena d’oxidació sense oxigen, al buit. Una mena de caramel·lització o de Maillard mantenint la frescor i l’acidesa.
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El que no acabo d’entendre és per què ho fan amb la manta elèctrica i al buit enlloc de fer-ho amb la Rooner (sous-vide) que també cuina a baixa temperatura i al buit. Potser resultaria molt car o impossible mantenir l’Ocoo o la Rooner engegades durant 2 mesos? Potser l’Ocoo té massa pressió i desferia massa la poma? Deu funcionar amb la coliflor perquè és més dura i té menys aigua però no amb la poma. Estic segura que ells ho saben però el meu desconeixement em fa pensar que de vegades són com en Doraemon, que tenia diferents aparells màgics per a fer el mateix però de diferent manera (la porta màgica i el casquet volador o la injecció per a transportar objectes, per exemple). El cas és que és una idea molt bulliniana, el fet de fixar-se i estudiar el mètode, més que no pas el resultat.
A taula, ens van mostrar 4 pomes (amb les bosses del buit canviades per a presentar-ho net): 
Una de fresca.
Una al cap de 14 dies: ja era tova i més marronosa.
Una al cap de 29 dies: bastant més reduïda, més fosca, ja havia deixat anar líquid.
Una al cap de 60 dies: de color negra, havia perdut el buit i tenia menys líquid que la de 29 dies, és la que serveixen a les postres. 
És apassionant veure com “només” a través del temps i la temperatura aconseguim resultats molt complexes. I és fantàstic que primer fagin totes les explicacions i després portin el plat.
En resum, a l’esquerra del plat hi tenim la poma negra, una Golden (pelada i sense el cor) 60 dies al buit i a 60ºC amb la manta elèctrica; a sota seu hi ha una mica de la seva pròpia aigua que ha desprès durant aquests 60 dies i també semblava que hi hagués un oli una mica de beurre noisette, sinó quedaria un pèl massa amarga; a la dreta, un gelat de mantega avellana; al mig, connectant la poma negra amb el gelat de mantega, una nata muntada amb vainilla de Madagascar, una mena de crème chantilly de vainilla; i, per sobre, uns trossos de pasta de full sense farina, la que fan amb l’obulato al microones.
Es podria dir que és una deconstrucció d’un plat, en aquest cas d’unes postres clàssiques com la tarte tatin: la poma caramel·litzada amb sucre i mantega, la pasta fullada de la tartaleta (sí senyor, la pasta que més m’agrada per a la tatin clàssica, molt més que la sablé o la brisée) i el gelat de vainilla que de vegades l’acompanya. I que, a la vegada, aquestes postres deconstruïdes incorporen sub-deconstruccions o elaboracions que per sí soles també són una deconstrucció com:
La deconstrucció d’un producte com la poma, que canvien de color, gust i textura, perdent-ne la part més refrescant i tornant-la més dolça però mantenint-ne l’acidesa màlica tant característica d’aquesta fruita.
La deconstrucció d’una salsa clàssica com la beurre noisette, una salsa calenta que presenten freda en forma de gelat i amb una densitat i textura diferents a la de l’original.
La deconstrucció d’una elaboració com la massa de pasta de full: sent una pasta de full sense farina i, per tant, sense gluten.
També es podria dir que és una evolució de la tarte tatin i, a la vegada, una tatin evolucionada, caramel·litzada a l’extrem i, fins i tot, envellida, per les notes que pren la poma de 60 dies a 60ºC. Possiblement, la caramel·lització més llarga que hagi menjat mai.
Unes postres que també mostren la creativitat que també tenen utilitzant màquines, aparells i electrodomèstics que habitualment tenen altres usos, que no s’acostumen a utilitzar per a cuinar, com utilitzar una manta elèctrica.
Tot i així, no sé fins a quin punt deu ser gaire sostenible i ecològic tenir una màquina endollada 2 mesos.  
PETITS FOURS:
Cotó de sucre fet amb cacau i menta.
Bombó líquid de xocolata i fruita de la passió.
A sobre el pètal de rosa (a mode de cullera), esfèric de saüc i Saint-Germain (un licor de flors de saüc).
Fulla d’alfàbrega i xocolata blanca.
Marshmallow de fruita de la passió amb gerds.
Chupa-chups de physalis i merenga.
Les boletes vermelles eren uns conglomerats de gerds, galeta i xocolata amb llet.
Roca de ceps, mantega de ceps, xocolata blanca i pinyons, d’un gust deliciós, menys salat, ideal per a finalitzar l’àpat.
VINS BEGUTS:
Chinuri 2015 de Pheasant’s Tears (Kartli, Geòrgia). Som uns assidus d’aquest celler i podem afirmar que cada collita mostra una expressió diferent, sent aquest 2015 un vi que tendeix a les aromes més allunyades de les maceracions pel·liculars, sent un vi impropi de Pheasant’s Tears. Un vi blanc de Chinuri sense pena ni glòria i que podria ser de qualsevol punt del món. Quina llàstima.
Côte Pelée Mondeuse Selection 2013 de Jean-Yves-Péron (Savoie). Un vi negre de Mondeuse que recorda més a una Gamay de Pacalet o una Trousseau d’Overnoy que pròpiament a la que es podria considerar la cosina de la Syrah. Eteri i subtil però d’un perfil aromàtic i gustatiu madur, amb recorregut en ampolla.
Reserve Extra Brut de Jaques Lassaigne (Champagne). Per a finalitzar el menú, vam fer una copa d’aquest refrescant escumós. Ens encanta acabar l’àpat amb la frescor, efervescència i intensitat d’un bon Champagne. 
El Disfrutar és un restaurant de llarg termini, per la seva cuina però també per un equip de sala que fa goig, amb en Vicente Lara, l’Èric Batet, en Raúl Cuenca, en Rodrigo Briseño, les breus aparicions d’en David Gil… i és que es fa palès la importància que li han donat sempre a la idea d’equip, de família i de qualitat humana.
Tot i que m’agradi acabar amb unes conclusions finals de l’àpat, la proposta i la complexitat del Disfrutar fan que ja vagi fent molts comentaris al llarg del menú.
En aquesta ocasió, he volgut fer un exercici d’aprofundiment però, a la vegada, en sóc autocrítica i sóc plenament conscient que a un restaurant s’hi va a gaudir i no a analitzar; però és precisament el fet d’aprofundir i analitzar el que m’ha permès gaudir encara més d’aquest àpat que he reviscut desenes de vegades a posteriori. I és també aquest anàlisi i estudi el que m’ha fet prendre consciència de la impregnació bulliniana que hi ha arreu, de la magnitud de la trascendència de la seva cuina i de la quantitat de tècniques que ja tenen 20 o 30 anys i que encara no he assimilat.
Al Disfrutar fan una cuina que necessita molt d’entrenament, anàlisi, reflexió, temps, estudi, aprenentatge, recorregut, bagatge, perspectiva històrica… Són els mestres de vàries generacions de cuiners i de clients i seguir els seus progressos és seguir l’avantguarda culinària.
Article translated in English
Artículo traducido en castellano
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realestatemoses · 1 year
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How To Become A Landowner In Bosnia In 3 Easy Steps
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Bosnia and Herzegovina is home to several UNESCO World Heritage Sites, including the Old Bridge Area of the Old City of Mostar, the Mehmed Paša Sokolović Bridge in Višegrad, and the Stećci Medieval Tombstones Graveyards.
The capital city of Bosnia and Herzegovina is Sarajevo, which is also the largest city in the country. It is known for its rich history, beautiful architecture, and stunning natural surroundings.
Bosnia and Herzegovina has a rich cultural heritage, with traditional music, dance, and art forms that are unique to the region. The country is also known for its delicious cuisine, which is influenced by Turkish, Austrian, and Mediterranean flavors.
The country has a stunning natural landscape, with rugged mountains, sparkling rivers, and pristine forests. Some of the most popular outdoor activities include hiking, skiing, and rafting.
What makes Bosnia a prime real estate investment opportunity?
Bosnia and Herzegovina is becoming an increasingly popular destination for real estate investment for several reasons:
i. Low property prices: Property prices in Bosnia and Herzegovina are significantly lower than in many other European countries, making it an attractive option for investors looking for a high return on investment.
ii. Favorable tax laws: The country has a flat tax rate of 10% on personal and corporate income, which makes it an attractive destination for foreign investors looking to maximize their profits.
iii. Strategic location: Bosnia and Herzegovina is located at the crossroads of Europe and Asia, with access to major transportation routes. This makes it an ideal location for businesses looking to expand their operations.
iv. Growing tourism industry: Bosnia and Herzegovina is becoming an increasingly popular tourist destination, with a rich cultural heritage, beautiful natural scenery, and affordable prices. This is driving demand for hotels, rental properties, and other types of accommodation.
v. Political stability: Since the end of the Bosnian War in 1995, the country has been relatively stable, with a democratic government and a growing economy.
vi. Access to EU markets: Bosnia and Herzegovina is currently a candidate for membership in the European Union, which could potentially open up access to new markets and investment opportunities.
Overall, Bosnia and Herzegovina offers a unique combination of affordable property prices, favorable tax laws, and a strategic location at the crossroads of Europe and Asia, making it an attractive destination for real estate investment.
Become A Landowner In Bosnia In 3 Easy Steps
Under Bosnia law, a piece of property needs to be either owned by a native or a company. At Sidra, you get to take advantage of the optimal weather, rich culture & affordable high standards of living. While we handle the ownership procedures for you in 3 easy steps;
i. Opening of a Company- Sidra will take on the responsibility of opening any company(ies) needed.
ii. Assigning a Legal Advisor to take care of all the legal paperwork.
iii. Renewal fees of company(ies) will be free of charge for 5 years.
How Sidra lets you key into Real Estate Investment opportunities in Bosnia
Sidra is an exclusive gated community developed by DarGlobal offering the utmost luxury and tranquillity for you and your family. With premium services and world-class amenities, nestled in the heart of Bosnia, equipped with private residential plots with a stunning 540,000 SQM landscape.
As a member of this community, you will enjoy premium services and world-class amenities, so you can transcend ordinary living.
Sidra is strategically located to a wide range of attractions
•Skakavac Waterfall. At 98 metres it is one of the tallest waterfalls.
•Bijambare National Park is known for its five cave complex, two water flows with lakes, chasms and rocky massif, making it ideal for nature excursions & visits.
•Ajdinovici Sports & Recreational Centre. A recreational centre offering lodging and a variety of sports activities to enjoy.
With a travel time of:
-40 minutes from Sarajevo International Airport
-35 minutes to Sarajevo
-10 minutes from the main highway
-10 minutes to Nišići
Sidra is the only masterplan in the heart of Europe that serves you outstanding benefits
1. Benefit from a Fully-Serviced Masterplan. Sidra is pre-equipped with main gates with Security cameras, Guard rooms, Asphalted roads, Sidewalks, Street Lighting, and Road landscapes.
2. Benefit from Pre-Acquired Permits. When you purchase a plot at Sidra you can have peace of mind knowing every plot instantly comes with the right permit. Residential permits are granted for Villas while Commercial permits are granted for retail strip, spa, & hotel and other amenities.
3. Benefit from Plots With A Connected Grid Network. The plots are:
i. Pre-sorted
ii. Ranging from 350SQM to 6500SQM
iii. Connected to a water network
iv. Connected to the electric power grid
v. Telecom provisions
To book your plot contact RealEstate_Moses via:
WhatsApp- +234 906 576 8187
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kenresearchcompany · 1 year
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Qatar Facility Management Market Outlook to 2026F: Ken Research
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Qatar Facility Management Market is expected to generate ~$950 Mn by 2026F, owing to increasing infrastructural growth and technology: Ken Research
Rapid real estate development in terms of smart city development, new infrastructure developments, and focus on tourism and hospitality promotion are the supporting factor for commercial facility management services revenue.
Residential units would be a major booming segment to focus on due to the rising younger population, ex-pats, and government-sponsored affordable housing programs to the poor population.
The next 5 years would witness the entry of many new companies in the industry especially real estate developers and international players with more advanced technology assisted service delivery.
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Technological Advancement: Technologies such as IOT, Artificial intelligence, building information modeling (BIM), cloud computing, biometric systems and motion detection are being implemented at service locations. Focus on indoor thermal comfort by improving air movement mechanisms in air conditioned and naturally ventilated buildings, which leads to increased productivity at workplaces.
Sustainability: There has been an increase in the awareness for green buildings and environmental services resulting from strong support from the regulatory bodies.
Keeping in mind environmental issues, comfort and rising labor costs, assets are gradually becoming “smart”, enabling various components to interact with each other, in order to achieve the desired output.
Qatar Vision 2030: In addition to transport projects, the government aims to rapidly expand tourism, education, and real estate, facility management market would experience considerable growth. Some of the major construction projects underway in this regard are Sheraton Park, Western Green Spine in Doha, Sidra Medical Research Centre, and Education City.
FIFA 2022: The country will host the 2022 FIFA World Cup, which is another key factor propelling construction and infrastructure development activities in Qatar. Personnel requirements for housekeeping, cleaning and other soft services are expected to increase with a greater number of people visiting the country for the event.
Analysts at Ken Research in their latest publication “Qatar Facility Management Market Outlook to 2026F– Driven by Rising End-Users Awareness, Improving Technology and Government’s Strong Initiatives regarding Infrastructure” by Ken Research observed that Facility Management Market Outlook in Qatar is a growing market owing to increasing trend towards adopting sustainable practices. The rising Facility Management consciousness among the population and business owners, along with increasing infrastructural growth and technology, expansion of their operation, implementation of favourable government rules & regulations is expected to contribute to the market growth over the forecast period.  The market is expected to grow at a 10.7% CAGR during 2021-2026F owing to increasing infrastructural growth and technology adoption.
Key Segments Covered
Qatar Facility Management:
By Types of Services:
Hard Services
Soft services
By Hard Services:
Electromechanical Services (including HVAC)
Operations and Maintenance Services
Fire Safety and Security Systems
By Soft Services:
Housekeeping (including Cleaning)
Security
Landscaping
Others
By Integrated Facility Services, Bundled Services and Single Services:
Bundled services
Single services
Integrated facility management (IFM)
By End User Sectors:
Commercial (Includes Offices, retail, infrastructural)
Industrial
Residential
By Personnel:
In-House Personnel
Outsourced Personnel
Request for Sample Report @ https://www.kenresearch.com/sample-report.php?Frmdetails=NTk2MDE4
Key Target Audience
Real Estate Companies
Hospitality Sector
Individual Facility Users
Business Owners
Government
Facility Management Associations
Time Period Captured in the Report:
Historical Year: 2016-2021
Base Year: 2021
Forecast Period: 2022– 2026F
Companies Covered:
Emco Qatar
Facilities Management & Maintenance Company, L.L.C.
Mosanada Facilities Management Services
ENGIE Cofely Mannai
Al Asmakh Facilities Management
Key Topics Covered in the Report
Qatar Real Estate Market Overview, 2021
Qatar Facility Management Market Ecosystem
Business Cycle and Genesis of Qatar Facility Management Market
Value Chain of Qatar Facility Management Market
Business Acquisition Process in Qatar Facility Management Market
Market Sizing Analysis of Qatar Facility Management Market, 2016-2021
Key Market Segmentations, 2021 (By Types of Services, By Single, Bundle and Integrated Services 2026F, By Types of Soft Services, By Types of Hard Services, By End-Users Sector and by Personnel Type Services)
SWOT Analysis of Qatar Facility Management Market
Key Growth Drivers in Facility Management Market in Qatar
Trends and Developments in Qatar Facility Management Market
Major Challenges Faced by the Qatar Facility Management Market
Qatar Facility Management Market Major Technological Trends, 2021
Competition Scenario in Qatar Facility Management Market
Cross Comparison of Major Players in Qatar Facility Management Market
Future Outlook of Qatar Facility Management Market, 2021-2026F
Future Outlook of Market Segmentations, 2026F (By Types of Services, By Single, Bundle and Integrated Services 2026F, By Types of Soft Services, By Types of Hard Services, By End-Users Sector and by Personnel Type Services)
Analyst Recommendations
For more information on the research report, refer to below link:
Qatar Facility Management Market Outlook to 2026F- Driven by Rising End-Users Awareness, Improving Technology and Government’s Strong Initiatives regarding Infrastructure
Related Reports
Chile Facility Management Market Outlook to 2023 – By Soft Services (Housekeeping, Security, Landscaping and Others); By Hard Services (Electromechanical Services, Operations and Maintenance Services, Fire Safety and Security Systems); By Integrated Services; and By End User Sectors (Industrial and Public Infrastructure, Retail and Commercial, Hospitality and Residential
Vietnam Facility Management Market Outlook to 2023 - By Single, Bundled and Integrated Services; By Soft Services (Housekeeping, Security, Landscaping and Others) and Hard Services (Electromechanical Services, Operations and Maintenance Services, Fire Safety and Security Systems), By End User Sectors (Commercial, Industrial, Hospitality, Residential, Infrastructure and Others)
Egypt Facility Management Market Outlook to 2023- By Soft Services (Housekeeping, Security, Landscaping and Others); Hard Services (Electromechanical and Operational Maintenance, Fire Safety and Security Systems and Civil Maintenance) and By End User Sectors (Industrial, Commercial, Residential and Others)
Contact Us: Ken Research Ankur Gupta, Head Marketing & Communications [email protected] +91-9015378249
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michaelevans1 · 1 year
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Dubai Hills Townhouse
Dubai Hills Townhouse is the first of its sort multi-reason Emaar improvement situated at the Mohammed Bin Rashid City. This dynamite property is home to wonderfully organized areas and an enormous 18-opening title fairway.
This improvement will include stunning perspectives on the Dubai horizon, rich green gardens and stops, various all around constructed walkways, and enormous open outside spaces to help a functioning lifestyle. Golf lovers celebrate on the grounds that at Dubai Hills Estate, you can play a round of golf at any of our grand courses and wind down and unwind at our leader golf clubhouse.
Other sporting exercises incorporate children play regions, schools, centers and medical clinics and lodgings.
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Dubai Hills Estate has something for everybody: Golf Place Villas for the golf enthusiasts; Sidra and Club Villas for families keen on 3 and 4 room manors and The Parkway for families intrigued by 6 and 7 room estates; Dubai Hills Grove for those inspired by contemporary style extravagance manors; And The Collective for those on a careful spending plan to give some examples.
From a wide scope of lofts, to condos to extravagance estates, this expert improvement vows to not frustrate. Dubai Hills Townhouse is about comfort meeting extravagance living. Purchasers can be have confidence that their interest in this advancement will profoundly compensate.
This restrictive local area won't just provide its occupants with a home of their fantasies yet they will be based on nature, comfort, and extravagance.
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