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#queen archeron post
lady-winter-sunrise · 1 month
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Hello everyone, starting the year 2024 with another commission 💕
This beautiful art has been in my dreams for a long time and I am immensely grateful to @anamenezes_art (Instagram) for making exactly as I imagined.
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I thought of this scene as if it were Nesta and Cassian's first morning after the Mating Ceremony at the River House. Feyre woke up and was passing by Nesta and Cassian's room and saw through the crack in the door that Nyx had crawled into the middle of their bed. This art gives me love, affection and family, which was everything I felt at the end of ACOSF.
I still have lots of ideas and I hope you like them!!
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duskandcobalt · 4 months
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Strawberry Kisses
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While searching the River House for her sisters, Nesta accidentally stumbles upon Elain sharing an intimate moment in the garden with a certain Spymaster.
Please note, that while this is technically a bonus chapter to my series, Echoes in the Hallway, it can be read as a stand alone one-shot xx
No warnings, pure fluff. 1.4k words.
ENJOY XX
Read on AO3
The skirts of Nesta’s pale blue gown, one of many gifted to her from Rhysand, fluttered around her ankles as she traipsed through the bright hallways of the River House, poking her head in and out of various rooms in search of her sisters and nephew. They hadn’t been in either of the libraries, the nursery was empty. Even the kitchen, usually the epicenter of bustling activity, had been suspiciously quiet when she’d breezed past it earlier before making her way upstairs. 
Cassian was away on a business trip with Rhysand for the past few days and Nesta had been left to her own devices for just a little too long.  She’d done fine on her own for the first day and a half but she’d slowly been losing her mind without her mate’s company ever since, even if she loathed to admit it. It’s why she’d practically begged Azriel to drop her off in town this morning, hoping that the promise of bookstores, patisseries, and maybe even a leisurely stroll along the glittering Sidra would be enough to ease her gloomy mood. 
It worked for a couple hours but even then she had still felt the need to seek the company of her sisters. Something that had once been rare, but had slowly become a recurring urge ever since she’d found some semblance of inner peace.
Nesta huffed, cursing under her breath as she bounded down the stairs and back into the kitchen to take another peek around. She spotted a covered dish sitting to the left of the kitchen window. She lifted the plate off the top to find a tempting lemon tart, two small slices already missing. Abandoning the search for her siblings, Nesta took a fork from the cupboard and plated herself a slice, humming happily at the delicious tang of the lemon curd that she guessed Elain had made either this morning or the night before. She was halfway through her third bite when a bit of movement outside of the kitchen window caught her eye.
Nesta had always thought that Elain looked like Spring, like the very essence of life, itself - but never more so than when she was in her garden, surrounded by various plants and flowers. She wore a plain linen dress, the butter yellow fabric pooled around her, reflecting the sunshine in a way that set her face and bare arms aglow. Her long hair was unbound, the length of it falling in soft waves down her back. Elain had tied a sage coloured scarf around the crown of her head to keep the golden strands from getting into her eyes as she knelt in front of a flourishing patch of berries, one that she’d been lovingly tending to ever since the weather had started to warm a couple months ago. 
Nesta was just about to turn to make her way outside to say hello to her sister as well as enquire about the whereabouts of Feyre and Nyx but she stopped, eyebrows furrowing, when she realised that Elain wasn’t out in the garden by herself. 
Azriel came into view, his tall frame clad in the same black leathers he’d been wearing this morning when he’d dropped off Nesta in town. He’d told her he was headed Under the Mountain for the day yet here he was - more relaxed than she’d ever seen him - those enormous wings of his were flared out wide, the sunlight beautifully filtering through the delicate membrane as he approached Elain with a dozing Nyx cradled carefully against his chest.
Nesta watched, lips parted in disbelief, as he knelt down next to her sister. The Shadowsinger, usually so reserved and sullen, had a soft smile on his lips. His shadows were nowhere to be seen and there was a certain look in his eyes as he spoke to Elain that Nesta recognised but couldn’t quite comprehend.
She couldn’t hear the words they exchanged due to the wards Rhys had placed on every inch of this house but the manner in which Azriel conversed so freely and the carefree way Elain laughed in response to whatever he had said, was enough to pique her interest. 
She continued to stand frozen in place, afraid the slightest movement would alert them to her presence, as Elain picked out a strawberry from the wicker basket she’d been collecting them in. She quickly wiped the berry off on her skirt, ensuring any lingering dirt fell away before she lifted the fruit to her lips. Nesta’s attention shifted to Azriel’s face as Elain bit into the bright red strawberry. The expression she found there should’ve been enough to make her look away but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. 
Instead, her eyes stayed glued to the scene in front of her. Her gaze followed Elain’s hand as she reached out and extended that same strawberry to Azriel. She watched as he wrapped his lips around the fruit, directly over where Elain’s own lips had just been. His hazel eyes remained on Elain’s face through it all. Elain raised up on her knees when Azriel pulled back, watching the movement of his throat as he swallowed. She inched closer to him, one small hand landing on his shoulder for balance while the other came to rest on his chest. 
Nesta’s breath caught in her chest when Elain, with no hesitation whatsoever, gently pressed her lips to Azriel’s. 
The kiss they shared was chaste, as if they were being mindful of the babe between their bodies. Still, Nesta found herself blushing at the intimacy of it. The way their lips brushed together in a series of pretty, innocent kisses. The sweet way Elain held his face, her thumb stroking along his strong jaw. The firm grasp of Azriel’s free hand low on the swell of her hip, the linen of her dress scrunched up under his long fingers.
There was an ease, a natural familiarity between them that made it clear that this wasn’t anything new. It was immediately evident to Nesta, just from this singular moment, that this kiss wasn’t the first that they’d exchanged. It wasn’t even one of the first few. She’d go as far as to say that they’d done far more than simply kiss, if the comfort with which they touched each other was anything to go by. 
She’d picked up on some form of tension between them once. Last Solstice. She and Elain had passed by Azriel and they’d exchanged a certain look that made Nesta think that perhaps there was something between them. She’d let it go, had convinced herself that she’d imagined it because the two of them had seemingly stopped spending any sort of time together after that night. 
But now, seeing them here - together - it was clear that Nesta hadn’t imagined the yearning and desire in those shared glances. She felt a little thrill of self satisfaction zip up the length of her spine at the knowledge that she’d been right all along. 
She continued to shamelessly watch until Elain finally pulled away from him, a coy smile on her lips and a pretty blush on her cheeks that matched the Shadowsinger’s own pleased expression. Elain bent down to peer at Nyx - still asleep against Azriel’s chest, completely oblivious to the secret relationship that his Aunt and Uncle were cultivating that only he had witnessed. 
Until now.  
Nesta finally turned away from the window, unable to keep the smile from her face as she quickly and quietly made her way out of the house, miraculously undetected by the two lovers. 
She couldn’t stop thinking about it - about how much sense it made. How much sense they made. Azriel, who she was well aware believed he wasn’t deserving of love, and Elain, who loved so easily that it was like second nature to her. They were two sides of the same coin - sun and moon, day and night - perfectly balanced, the perfect complement to each other. 
Nesta knew why they’d kept this quiet, why those secret looks had transpired into this secret relationship. Elain’s situation would certainly complicate things even if Nesta firmly believed her sister shouldn’t have to comply with some predetermined destiny that she seemingly wanted no part of. 
Regardless, Nesta would keep this to herself until they chose to come forward, if they ever chose to come forward. She wouldn’t mention it to anyone. Not to Feyre. Not to Azriel or Elain. Not even to Cassian. Much like what she’d seen on Solstice, she knew that this was their secret to tell. Never hers.
🍓🍓🍓🍓
Thank you for reading! If you're interested, you can find the rest of my writing in my masterlist xx
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c-e-d-dreamer · 10 months
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Falling For Your Fools Gold
Rating: Explicit
Words: 63,479 (15 chapters)
Status: Complete
Nesta steps closer and squints toward the horizon, trying to determine what exactly the whole crew seems set on looking at. It’s then that she sees it, the ship. But not just any ship. A ship with sails as black as night.
Read it on AO3
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wolfnesta · 1 year
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Lazy ass Nesta 🤭
If telling yourself that helps you sleep at night 😂
You aren’t changing the minds that Nesta- Queen of queens, Valkyrie reborn, Human Emissary, savager of the Cauldron, Mother Blessed, God slayer, Death Trove wielder, Maker of the New Trove- isnt lazy 😂 and this was all during her depression era lord knows what she could do now 👑
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acourtofwips · 11 months
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all you’ll ever need to understand of nesta is right here.
“then she learned precisely how mercilessly it might be ripped away. what the cost of hope and joy and love truly was. she never wanted to face it again. never wanted to endure what she’d felt in that forest clearing,”
the moment nesta allowed herself to start feeling, the moment she dared to reach out every single thing was almost ripped from her grasp. her sisters directly in danger and hunted like deer. her father dead. her mate nearly killed right in front of her.
the power to stop it most likely inside her, and yet she could do nothing.
dude like freaking IMAGINE. imagine coming back from that ? you can’t, you just cannot.
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highqueenss · 1 year
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Merry Christmas from their family to yours!! 🎄
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art cr: diielliee on ig ✨
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gopeachllama · 2 years
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ever since i read acosf, i've had this scene in my head that i can't get out. It happens right after the fallout with nesta and feyre. Feyre is furious and she won't speak to rhys. He's at the end of his rope. the one thing he was counting on, being able to tell feyre on his own terms - preferably with a solution - was taken from him. He's spiralling quickly, catastrophically. And feyre won't even look at him. With the final semblance of a coherent thought, rhys goes to elain. He's completely distraught by the time he find the middle archeron sister. And he drops to his knee at her feet, hands roughly fisting her skirt as he cries into the fabric. he ask her - begs her - to look, to See.
"Tell me that you can See her, that you can See them. Tell me that they will be okay. Please. Please."
Elain, obviously, can't. though she tries. but she can't conjour visions at will, let alone specific one. She doesn't know that much about her gifts, she's too untrained. And understanding what her visions are telling her like wading through muddy waters. After that day, rhys doesn't ask elain again, but she tries, every single night. And between the screams she hears coming from the mountains, the ivy she feels twining around her legs, all she Sees is black.
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foxybananaaaz · 1 year
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TFR Chapter Six, Update.
So, I am getting into the swing of writing again, and while I have the update ready, it IS currently @sjmromanceweek .. and while no, I have not posted for the romance week yet, this is because I am working on a two part Elucien Fic, as opposed to a tiny fic a day, to make a larger multi ship fic puzzle.
So, I have plans where it will follow the prompts, worry not. But I will be posting the two parts on random, unexpected days throughout the rest of their week this week.
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But! BUT!
Will I make it angsty and heartbreaking and sad? Or will it be a happy ending?
I guess you'll have to wait and see.
Keep an eye out.
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Point of the post.
TFR is not the main focus at this moment.
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suckerpunchfemale · 2 years
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100 posts on Nesta's Supremacy. I'm not even mad.
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nestaarcheronweek · 1 month
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♕ Announcing Nesta Archeron Appreciation Week 2024 ♕
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Join us in celebrating Nesta Archeron from April 21 through April 27, 2024!
Welcome to Nesta Week 2024! Feel free to participate in any way you can, from headcanons, fanart, moodboards, fics, drabbles…. no matter how big or small, anything celebrating Nesta is welcome!
Please tag @nestaarcheronweek and use the tag #NestaWeek2024 so we can see all your lovely posts!
This year’s prompts are as follows:
Day One: Queen of Queens ♕ Nesta has accumulated many titles, but one of our favorites is Queen of Queens! How do you see her living up to this title?
Day Two: Metamorphosis ♕ Nesta has undergone many changes during the series — physical, mental, and emotional, just to name a few! How do you see some of the changes she’s gone through?
Day Three: Self-Care ♕ Nesta has experienced a lot of hardships during the series, making it all the more important for those moments of self-care. How do you see her taking care of herself?
Day Four: Lover ♕ Nesta has had many opportunities for love across Prythain — who do you ship her with? Cassian? Emerie? Eris? Gwyn? Azriel? Cresseida? Any and all ships are welcome!
Day Five: Wolf ♕ “So Nesta had become a wolf. Armed herself with invisible teeth and claws, and learned to strike faster, deeper, more lethally.” How do you see Nesta using her teeth and claws?
Day Six: Birthday Girl ♕ While Nesta doesn’t have a specified birthday in canon, that doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate our favorite character turning a year older! How do you think Nesta and the people who love her would celebrate her special day?
Day Seven: Free Day ♕ Any topic of your choosing!
A huge shoutout to @dustjacketmusings, @c-e-d-dreamer, @talkfantasytome, @kale-theteaqueen, @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk, @melphss, @podemechamardek, and many others for helping to organize this event!
Please contact @moodymelanist with any questions. We can’t wait to see what you all create!
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azulyrae · 10 months
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❛ —— 𝐈 : The Pawn.
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his life had been but a recurrent and miserable passing of time; plagued by the constant questioning regarding his value; the nagging behind the point of his meaningless existence and the place he occupied in the reality in which he was inserted. azriel had not lived; rather survived, doomed to loneliness despite the amount of friends he had made. one could not be overjoyed with such a fate; one could not see the point to insist on the stubbornness of life, if one could not share it with a partner.
after five centuries, azriel had felt the bond snap inside his heart; a dagger that tore the flash of the muscle; whose blade twisted and spilled his blood. for once, his agony was but self-inflicted; the pain, a consequence of the emotional absence of [name] archeron, his lightning bolt. azriel had been a lonesome wanderer, grasping to an abstract concept and companion that had finally found him mid-travel. and after quiet ponder and the insistence of his mate’s sisters, the shadowsinger decided to steal her from the tortuous path of self-sacrifice, and led the queen and king of their chess game to quite an experimental and potentially catastrophic game.
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the first chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.
check the original post to be aware of the trigger warnings.
azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.
word-count: 10K.
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“I long for you; I who usually longs without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.”
― Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena
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The leisure room’s stillness brought the male comfort. His thoughts, once a swirl of revolt, were reduced to mere pondering. The sound of his pacing, incessant during the first half-hour of his arrival, ceased with the time spent in silence. Azriel sat on his most favored elbow-chair: made of charcoal-colored leather; with enough width to accommodate his wings; the one further from the hearth; and had not left since then. The hollow pair of his eyes were fixed on the peeling brown-paint of the walls near the shelves — even if they did not perceive a thing.
When he had reached the familiar space of the House of Wind, Azriel scurried to the least frequented room and enclosed himself inside. By then, the sun held itself with pride in the middle of the day sky, burning and fierce, while a warm whiff entered sporadically through the opened doors of the balcony and the wind swayed the linen curtains. The Shadowsinger poured himself a generous amount of aged scotch with ice and proceeded to lose himself in mute and almost betrayed speculation.
The male didn’t need, nor did he ask, for the eventual reports of his shadows regarding the time passage. Azriel could deduce the lingering of his presence according to the light’s position. Although he had drowned the first dose of whiskey inside a luminous room, by the time his twentieth one doused his sore throat, the full-moon shone, its bright light a rival to the countless stars in Velaris’ night sky.
The House lit the hearth at least three hours prior, and Azriel commanded it to extinguish the flames. It wasn’t the first time, and the Spymaster doubted it’d be the last too, in which he wasted precious periods of his day staring into the meaningless and oppressive void; seconds and minutes and hours converging into a single unity until Azriel could no longer discern, nor notice, their passage. Pale and ethereal, the weak moonrays entered the ambient — that grew more frigid as dusk arrived — and the peeled pattern of the old tint could scarcely be seen in comparison to the daytime’s. But Azriel would’ve been able to point each furniture with precision, or move without hesitation, for he knew every centimeter that constituted the House of Wind’s extension. More than all, the Spymaster could’ve reached a particular point of the leisure room even if he was tied and blinded.
His sight burnt figurative holes in the untouched chess board, still secured inside the store’s package, despite the fact that it had been gifted to her months before, during the Winter Solstice. It rested under a pile of unwrapped presents, each thoroughly thought and given by a member of the Inner Circle. His High-Lady, Mor and Elain had spent weeks trying to convince her to join them for the Winter Solstice, their promises of amusing and private festivities not fazing her in the slightest. So, before their departure, Azriel had told Clotho to leave their gifts somewhere in the library where she would see them, for not a soul managed to learn where she had ventured to. When he returned and found the damned pile, Azriel felt a sudden wave of rage trespass his very being. Because the Spymaster lacked Cassian’s patience, such an offense was not ignored.
Azriel was left both enchanted and wary once his eyes fell upon her figure for the first time. Prythian was close to war against Hybern then, and they were in dire need of allies. In order to contact the Mortal Queens, Feyre had resorted to her sisters, and though she’d granted them an overview of their personalities and shared past, the female was particularly vague regarding the older one. The Spymaster was half-expecting fidgeting and condescending women, quite uninteresting and avoidant. However, she held none of those said characteristics.
With briefness, she had informed Feyre of the occurrences the sister had missed after her return to the Fae Lands. Their father sailed to where she theorized to be the farthest west, and with the man gone, her, the oldest — [Name] — was in charge of their coin, the employees, and their mansion’s maintenance. Feyre once confessed that was it not for one of her sister’s sacrifices, she would never have survived a single winter to wield a bow. The fact alone granted the said woman great respect amongst them all, though her identity was only confirmed when Azriel and his brothers faced that force of nature.
Feyre had advised — rather threatened them — to maintain a certain and specific distance. The three were given no further details, yet, were all glad to adhere to her orders. Still, with her clear avoidance regarding the topic and the deep sorrow in her eyes whenever she covered her older sister’s brief character, Azriel had managed, to a certain extent at least, to connect the pieces of the puzzle. And with what he presumed to be a precise knowledge, the Spymaster expected a strong, yet secluded woman; one who’d offer her home out of consideration for Feyre without engaging with their troubles any further.
How wrong he was.
When the soon-to-be High-Lady informed the three sisters of their need, Nesta’s discontentment came in brisk and sharp words, while Elain remained silent and, in fact, quite nervous over the prospect of a discussion. But all [Name] had asked her sister was whether she’d need anything more. As if offering Feyre her home was no bother; as if she was willing to offer her entire being, if it meant granting the youngest sister a solace of her own.
She led them to the private office upstairs, and Azriel absorbed the small glimpse of her ferocious spirit, overwhelmed by her scent and presence in every centimeter of the room. A shelf took over an entire wall; there were countless maps of the Mortal Lands plastered on a mural, most with colorful arrows traced with either red or blue paint, as if to showcase hot and warm currents; and an enormous table placed on the center, with pages whose scriptures varied from long, handwritten notes to numbers and formulas Azriel himself couldn’t understand, despite the five centuries he’d lived. The chessboard was the last thing he saw. It was placed in a corner, a melancholic sight to a male as himself, who adored the strategies and competition the game’s matches granted him. [Name] had no opponent; no friend she could invite to play against.
The Spymaster had then noticed the clear loneliness of the Archeron sisters. He could still remember Feyre’s haunted and paranoid figure, resorting to self-isolation for she was not taught to accept the offering hand of potential allies. The parallels were absurd as [Name] fished a silver-necklace from her dress’ collar, using the small key hanging from it to open one of the many drawers from the center table. And from the inside, the mortal pulled a detailed plant of the mansion’s entire extension. She was distant, her words were sharp and matter-of-fact. Yet, the older sister was analytical and prone to listen, quick to action and unafraid to voice her opinions. Despite their five centuries of experience, [Name] somehow managed to catch on to a concept or idea the brothers oversaw, and didn’t hesitate to point clear errors on their strategies, nor was she embarrassed to acknowledge possible improvements regarding her schemes. And once Azriel noticed the manner with which Feyre’s eyes shone with pride and admiration; how close they held one another when the female was to return to Velaris; he knew [Name] had, unbeknownst to her, passed some of her coping skills to the younger sister.
During the first reunion with the mortal queens, they were all left with a sour instinct and anticipation. Yet, [Name] was the single one immediately sure of their betrayal, as if, somehow, the female grasped onto aspects of their stances and personalities the others overlooked. It was her certainty that drove Rhysand to order Azriel to return regularly to the Archeron mansion until their next scheduled reunion. While his High-Lord was off to the Summer Court, the Spymaster was inside that same private office, studying more recent mansion-plants that [Name], somehow, convinced the architects to let her borrow, as Nesta watched them like a hawk with an untouched novel in her hands.
As expected, [Name] was indeed detached and blunt; disdainful, even, when annoyed. The surprise of it all, whatsoever, came with the fact that she was also hotheaded. [Name] seemed to him as a powerful fortress. Her words coated in sarcasm, voiced with little forethought or regret; her ruthless honesty and logic. She was not warm, nor was she raised to. Instead, [Name] was reliable. The tree that never bent; the castle built on a mountain rock, impenetrable and magnificent. One would not imagine that under such coldness hid a chaotic thunderstorm. A well-phrased insult and he could almost catch a glimpse of her lightning; an arrogant grin to prove her wrong and he could see a twitch in her plain features. Azriel, surprisingly, noted that he quite enjoyed the act of annoying the oldest and provoking a reaction. Even better, for his own personal and secretive satisfaction, the male also proved to be great at it. 
But once those banters were put aside, one would notice that [Name] wasn’t cruel nor prideful, and whenever Nesta grew tired of their technicalities, with Elain assuming the chaperone’s position instead, Azriel managed to strike less task-driven conversations.
He learned that [Name] first engaged in chess matches at the ripe age of seven, when, bored to no end, she saw their old mansion’s chief of cuisine play by himself. The man taught her well, and what he could not answer, she searched for in books. The mortal was dutiful to her studies, quick-witted and with keen observation skills that, combined to her well-chosen words, left every single one of her father’s late investors at her disposal, regardless of her young age. And when they weren’t lost in provocations and meaningless competitions related to who could come up with the most logical and efficient strategies to the possible outcomes of their encounter with the Mortal Queens, Azriel enjoyed sharing stories of Prythian with [Name], covering the continent’s territories, and listening to her theories. His favorite part of the whole interaction was noticing how the woman’s eyes would shine with anticipation, her imagination running wild at his words. He noticed then, her endless fierceness; how her core shook with thunder and catastrophe. There was more than the simple desire to learn more of the world; there was rage for what she would never see, resentment for her mortal limitations, and grief for the one she could’ve been.
Although he didn’t quite consider her a friend, Azriel wasn’t blind to their similarities either. The eldest of their respective families; the ones assigned to the ugliest, most dutiful aspects of their homes; the paranoid and distant personalities that granted both of them a fearsome first impression. He had no doubt she would’ve made whatever sacrifice, gone whichever length necessary, to free her sisters from related burdens. And — she had once said — if the trail ahead required her to taint her hands red, [Name] would comply, wash them after the process was done, and repeat the cycle for as long as it was needed.
Azriel had spent his almost half-six centuries of miserable existence yearning for a twin-flame; one that would be more pure and moral, empathetic and sweet, less prone to brutal logic and violence. The Spymaster once believed that if Morrigan, the female of pure altruism and resplendent strength, was to bless him with reciprocal love, she would purify the darkness within him; adore him until he learned to see himself through her perspective. Yet, during those comfortable conversations, Azriel couldn’t contradict the inherent truth of the fantastical feeling of being thoroughly understood. Although he remained sick and twisted, a vile creature built on hatred and violence and revenge, the male found that [Name], with her bottled rage and strength; her obstination to understand various concepts; to surround herself in theories and studies and schemes; to gather private informations from possible threats just in case; was a more comforting companion than a pure, immaculate female could ever be.
Azriel had no expectations, whatsoever, to match the mortal’s good heart. He caught a glimpse of her paperwork once, and noted that she was investing part of the re-gained family’s coin in business in less fortunate regions to increase the employment tax. Feyre had also told them that her sister learned not one, but three different languages in a decade, to communicate better with the foreign investors, and to aid the illegal immigrants that worked for their family at the seaport. And though it didn’t seem possible that [Name] could understand and match his struggles, during the quietest moments of dawn, Azriel liked to pretend otherwise.
Duties, however, were a constant call, and the Shadowsinger was assigned to spy on the Mortal Queens, rather than to return to the Archeron’s household. The bitterness on his tongue lingered through it all, both from the unforeseen difficult character of his mission, and from the sudden thought of Cassian visiting the mansion by himself. However, whatever infatuation Azriel labored for her, grew cold during the aftermath of Hybern’s mischievous plan.
[Name] was the first. She was chained, and struggled in her fight as the males threw her inside the Cauldron. The sight of her desperation was overbearing. He had wanted to slash those who held her in half; needed to protect her from the rising waters of her past. His sudden response to her screams was what granted him a week-worth of time spent on a sickbed, for the single movement to reach her had been enough for the poison to spread. Hybern was astute enough to catch on to the female’s importance to her sisters; he knew that, by destroying her fighting spirit, the other three would soon follow. However, the Cauldron expelled her after no more than half a minute, as if whatever happened between their brief encounter, whatever it saw in her, was too disturbing; vile; dangerous. It didn’t wait for Hybern’s soldiers to grab the borders and turn it, throwing the female on the ground in the process. 
No, the Cauldron moved on its own, the pitch-black water stinking of surprise and desperation when the artifice fell and the female arose, reborn. Hybern himself had been shocked and afraid. For the months that ensued, Azriel wondered if his poisoned mind had deceived his sight, for he had met the sister’s eyes then, and stared into the thin pupils of a dragon; he wondered whether the poison was to blame for the devastating tug on his heart, the brief light that sliced through the darkness of his core and shook his very being with its power.
However, when he next saw her, [Name] was a High-Fae — taller, her movements more fluid, and a stance that was both terrifying and compelling. Yet, it was the sheer strength and promise of violence that undid him. The eyes that met his own were determined and hostile, challenging and commanding, as if [Name] noted her enforced physique and decided not to hesitate if the time urged her to use them. She was desirable and breath-taking as a mortal, with hypnotizing complexions, too; a woman aware of her attributes and influence and unafraid to use them as she saw fit. But being a High-Fae made her more lethal, a fantastic and splendid female granted with the means necessary to pursue her goals, to back up the violence hidden under the sarcastic retorts.
Azriel’s knees nearly buckled. He wasted precious centuries pitying himself, for he had been assigned the burden of aggression. His hands were scarred and eternally tainted with blood, vile things that were the living proof of his fate. However, [Name] embraced the future the Mother drew; she’d be the serpent and the bite and the venom; she’d be the tortuous pain that preceded death. And if that meant protecting herself and those she cared for, the guilt would be non-existent. Nothing but twenty-five, and the female made peace with the demons that had been plaguing him for five centuries. 
She had a pile of books clutched against her chest, and maps that depicted what seemed to be the detailed territory of every Court and Faerie Realm of Prythian, rolled up and secured between her biceps and forearm. His shadows began to hum a soft and low ballad, dancing around their bodies. The Spymaster waited for [Name] to recoil, yet, she stared at the dark-tendrils of smoke with slight curiosity and the gleam of something else. Her eyes moved between his shadows, in a manner he learned to be those of her scheming. The hall in which the Spymaster stumbled upon [Name]’s renewed powerful figure seemed to diminish as he, enchanted, stepped closer. However, the curiosity that pooled in her eyes a second prior turned into hard-steel, a sense of despise and deception covering the grateful stare. Azriel noted the silver-blue color of the dragon’s eyes; the thin pupils of a violent storm retributing his entranced glance. His steps ceased; his shadows recoiled; and Azriel managed, a tad too late, to mask the hurt from his features.
The male wasn’t sure of what he had done wrong. Nevertheless, despite his initial surprise, and after a more attentive glance, he managed to find the hidden signs under the fearsome veil of those hard-expressions and astute irises. [Name] was in a disheveled state, with purple bags under the tired eyes and a mark between her eyebrows, of what he presumed to be left by constant worry. Azriel found himself wordless, sent into a foreign state of near-fidgeting. Ever since he’d left the burdens of a green-boy behind, Azriel had ceased to be nervous around females. He was desirable, confident, and managed to seduce them just fine, with no need for a repertoire filled with poems and romance quotes. But with [Name], it was as though the green-boy had returned, now laughing at his matured silence and nervousness. He yearned for the previous camaraderie, but had no clue of which phrases to use in order to reach it.
His hesitation wasn’t well-received. The female’s grip on her books grew tighter, and a sudden, powerful scent filled the air as she said: “If there’s nothing you wish to tell me, clear the way.”
He remained glued into place. Even if the Spymaster attempted to move left and grant her a free passage, his body had turned into nothing but a wayward bag of aching bones. For Azriel had words unsaid, his muscles were stiff and unnatural. He closed his fists in frustration, aware that his eyes were a pool of hatred. Not even his shadows ought to move, paralyzed in the scarce space between him and the female.
“You’re looking like crap,” he lied, for [Name] hadn’t demanded him to be true in his statement, only to speak up.
[Name] didn’t flinch nor showcased hurt, as if she’d found the real aspect of his thoughts somewhere within his cloaked expression. He wouldn’t confess his desire to hold what he presumed to be quite a heavy pile of books; to help her find whatever information she was searching for; to offer the distraction of a long and well-pondered chess match. Yet, her eyes flickered with acceptance and sorrow, the fate of a self-imposed loneliness one thought to be worthy of.
“I don’t need your help,” [Name] said. Grasping onto the late thoughts of lending an aiding hand seemed as though trying to capture water with a closed fist. Whenever the male found himself close enough to the instinctive wish to help, it slipped through his fingers as a volatile liquid. Despite his best efforts, Azriel caught himself fighting against the sudden lack of free-will, for, once again, nor his mind or body were his own. “You won’t offer to help me, either. I’m perfectly capable of managing on my own.”
“Of course you are,” he agreed in a haze, his words sounding slurred and disconnected.
The Spymaster hated himself for being susceptible to that treacherous manipulation; hated her for wielding it, too, and displaying all but a small remorse in the process of stealing his freedom. He connected the lines then; from the venomous scent of power to the abrupt fear of the Cauldron when it had expelled her. A hypnotizing voice, one that managed to control even his intangible companions. He wondered where the limitations of such power were placed, while fearing there were none. The previous concern related to whether or not he should propose to carry her books seemed small and meaningless in comparison to the inescapable authority he was trapped under. He, instead, began to fear for his entire Court, for there was nothing besides, perhaps, her sisters, capable of stopping [Name] from stealing Velaris from under their noses.
“I have no intentions to cause harm,” she said, waving his worries as though they were a nagging fruit-fly. Opposite from the female’s previous statements, this one didn’t feel as a demand of her part. The well-justified suspicions remained rooted in his mind, instead of slipping through his consciousness before he could even process the thought. 
However, what scared him the most was the fact that [Name]’s mental-powers surpassed those of a daemati. The Shadowsinger never once left his mind-barrier unattended; it had been a wall of revested, pitch-black steel, ever since he learned of the existence of those able to read his thoughts. He was sure they were intact, and yet, she slipped inside as if it meant nothing.
“Meaning you draw the line at generalized battles, but find it acceptable to read one’s mind without their verbal permission,” Azriel retorted. The male crossed his arms against his chest, the anger overpowering the modest shine that accompanied the beating of his heart. The Spymaster looked down on her, resorting to the glance he used to terrify his opponents and prisoners. He had noticed a tad too late that his stance mirrored his father’s, and both disgust and regret enclosed his once arrogant and spiteful stance.
But rather than recoiling, [Name] raised her chin, the eyes of the dragon returning with a barely-contained rage that matched his own. “I was thrown inside a Cauldron without granting them permission to do so; I was Made and kept hostage inside a Fae-house I’m not allowed to leave. My youngest sister is gone, and I wield powers that are directly connected to emotions I’ve spent my entire life repressing. I can’t control whose minds I can read. This place is cacophony of thoughts and fears, and I would’ve given the entirety of my lost riches to be mortal again; to not hear the suicidal and terrified intents of my sisters.”
Azriel felt a sense of shame creeping up his spine. Even if his anger of her commands for him to remain distant, and ignoring his every nerve rebelling against doing so, had lingered, the Spymaster found quite a soft-spot upon hearing her point of view. She seemed pained and confused, a lashing animal that adorned herself with claws and fangs, scales and poison, because she failed to envision a different perspective. The sudden reminder of Feyre’s tendency to self-isolate and self-sacrifice, and from who she’d taken said characteristics, went as a brisk breeze, refreshing his consciousness for too little: since the acknowledgement of [Name]’s pain meant he’d want nothing but to reach for her and help, and the female had denied him that right.
He had never resented her more, doubted he ever would. The pressure, placed upon his jaw because of the effort to struggle against those commands, was quick to bring an ache. The Spymaster had no doubt that soon, the too quiet hall would be filled with the sound of the crack of his bones.
“I can manage by myself, I don’t need nobody,” she repeated, the slight mark reappearing between her eyebrows as her expression shifted into one of obstinate confusion. 
Despite the order, Azriel’s insistence prevailed; his words were near to spill, that fucking, stupid offering to carry her books, but the scent of her hypnotizing power managed to inebriate his senses at last. 
“I. Don’t. Need. Nobody. It’s my tragedy alone to endure.”
The resistance must’ve faded from his features, for the female’s eyes returned to their normal appearance, and she passed through him. Their shoulders touched — Azriel’s bare muscles brushing against her clothed skin — and a terrible shiver went through her. The female gritted her teeth, searching for that armor of nonchalance and uninterest. 
“I don’t need nobody,” she said, his back facing her own. “But Elain does. She’s lost, and I’m sure you owe me no favors, but my sister treated you well during our scheming afternoons, and isn’t the one to blame for my character.” 
He hadn’t felt compelled to reach for Elain, enough an indicator that [Name] was but giving him the right to choose for himself whether he wished — or not — to keep an eye on said sister. As it seemed, [Name] didn’t care to wield her voice if the consequences fell upon her shoulders alone, but refused to drag others into her labyrinth of thunderous hatred. Azriel didn’t answer, and his shadows were in a mingled commotion of confusion as their desire to check on the female was countered by her own command to be left alone.
Rhysand had then approached from where he, for sure, observed their interaction. The male was quite conflicted, noticing the rebellious instinct Azriel couldn’t conceive. Instead of flying to the balcony, to then winnow to the River House, they decided it was less bothersome to dialogue inside the nearest, more private room of the House of Wind: that being the leisure room. His brother updated him of the most recent occurrences — those he’d lost during the week under an induced sleep — and Azriel himself was left puzzled at the end of Rhys’ report.
[Name]’s commanding powers bloomed after Feyre’s departure to the Spring Court. Upon failing to find the youngest sister, she invaded the private reunion of the Inner Circle — Rhysand, Morrigan and Amren, the three conscious at the time — and demanded to be informed of Feyre’s position, leaving them all aghast with their willingness to answer. Azriel observed, through the mental glimpses Rhys offered, the internal fight of his brother’s brain, and how she had, too, crushed his desire to uphold that particular information. A High-Fae whose mind was closed to the daemati, wielding a tongue that could put even a High-Lord to his knees. She suddenly was a threat twice as dangerous and unapologetic, willing to use her power whenever underestimated, and Azriel’s wariness increased with the fact.
However, [Name] hadn’t needed to repeat her orders until then. Her powers had been enough to intoxicate the minds of two of the most powerful Fae alive, and an ancient creature, at the same time. With that in mind, both were left to wonder why Azriel, out of all people, showed such resilience against her commands, and though the possible answer seemed obvious, the Spymaster refused to nurture such hope, especially since he wasn’t sure where his trust was placed with the Archeron sister. 
Azriel maintained his distance. He, indeed, began to check on Elain. At first, the male did it as both a taunt and a peace offering. Yet, despite his efforts to grasp [Name]’s attention, she had enclosed herself inside the House of Wind’s library, the books she borrowed being supervised by Clotho. And with all honesty, Elain was rather a comforting companion, her silence matching his own. The female indeed was in need of someone; someone who had no expectations, nor judged her mad for her incoherent mumbling. She grew to be a friend, one that had catched on Azriel’s ragged breath when he laid his eyes on [Name] for the first time in days; who had then begun to state the burdens of her sister and how, although used to loneliness and with her heart buried deep within, she was desperate to see the day where her duties would no longer be overpowering, while also terrified with the idea of leisure. Azriel understood her better then, and was given the confirmation of their similarities once again. Yet, that meant nothing, for the female continued to avoid them all. 
Her situation improved in the slightest when Feyre returned, and their shared conversation later-on influenced his High-Lady to encourage [Name] to accept Morrigan’s help. The females spent the next months vanishing during most mornings, whereas [Name] was nowhere to be seen later on, deciding to spend the remnants of her day lost within her studies inside the library.
Morrigan, who was Azriel’s loyal friend — and once, the biggest love he knew — understood his anguish. And though she seemed to empathize with [Name]’s motivations as well, the female made sure to keep him attuned on both [Name]’s physical and mental evolution. She kept most things to herself, of course. And considering the amount of time the two spent together, it was half-expected for [Name] to be a modest swordswoman; though she did improve, it became clear that they were discussing other things, too.
When the War was declared, [Name] abandoned her months of quiet isolation in the library or private training sessions with Mor to help them strategize and scheme. Azriel glimpsed the storm underneath the long period of sorrow and concern; fell victim to the same banters and competition and even went as far as to share a deep and meaningful conversation outside the Archeron’s sisters tent. At the time, Elain had just been rescued, and although the three of them slept inside, [Name] refused to do the same, choosing to guard them instead.
Azriel’s tongue felt heavy and useless on the morrow, when he attempted, once again, to offer his help. The male thought of a dozen synonyms and different speech forms to bypass her command, but they were all in vain. And even if she learned to control the mind-reading aspect of her powers, Azriel’s efforts must’ve been crystal clear, for she rose from the ground, her steps crushing the autumn dried leaves, and repeated: “I don’t need nobody.”
He grew tired and revolted then. It was easier to obey her desires when one had given up on contourning them. The last battle came, and Azriel’s mind was set, for he refused to keep walking around those walls’ borders, to venture on the female’s stubborn need to retract herself and put on a veil of feigned detachment. The Spymaster would no longer care, no longer offer help. And it was only when the dragon emerged from the battlefield — dark scales with blue and silver undertones — that he’d noticed those weren’t his desires, but the consequences of her command inside his mind. Though he was once resolute, a second later, the male wished for nothing but to claim the skies with the magnificent flying serpent. Considering the quickness with which his mind changed, Azriel grew both scared and amazed at the extension of her will. It was the first time he’d experienced what Rhysand and the others must’ve felt during her first morning at the House of Wind; the first confirmation that her imposition worked differently on him, as if he was made to pass through the venom curtain and sit close to the female behind it, granting her the companionship she didn’t deem herself worthy of.
At the time, the sight of the dragon was magnificent: the shadow of a flying serpent, covering the sunlight; the strong scent of ozone that hang in the air as the creature flew to the open sea, where Hybern’s fleet was seen in the horizon; the open jaw — one the size of a grown Illyrian warrior — that breathed not fire, but lightning. [Name]’s rage had resulted in the screams of a thousand soldiers, their pained cacophony reverberating as the water — the best conduit for electricity, he’d soon learn — helped murder whoever intended to plunge against them through the sea. Yet, the sight of the Fae’s eyes after such occurrences wasn’t at all welcoming. She was broken; shallow; tired. Even if he could still catch a glimpse of the brilliant and breath-taking dark scales under the common flesh, there was something amiss. Not guilt, but perchance, a sense of adamant worry and disorientation, as though she had no idea what to do next.
Azriel waited until the Inner Circle returned to Velaris. The Archeron sisters were granted the offer to find a home of their choosing, and although Elain agreed to live with Feyre, Nesta found herself a decrepit apartment in one of the poorest districts, while [Name] had insisted on staying in the House of Wind. It made sense. Between the three Made females, [Name] was the one that did not need to face the ten thousand steps whenever she wished to leave; she could shift into whatever winged-animal she saw fit, and fly to whichever path she meant to take. Although Morrigan and Feyre were quite harsh with both him and Cassian, warning of the consequences were they to invade her personal space, Azriel was glad — and hopeful, even — that she decided to linger for more than just the desire to resume her constant visits to the library, or the wish to part ways from her sisters. The future was promising without the war and the perspective of peace, and he’d have enough space to return to that old camaraderie. 
Or so he thought.
The female gave him a single glance and repeated those four fucking words. Their first dialogue was built on sarcasm and bad manners, both mistrusting one another and wishing to test their motivations and boundaries. Of course the bond would sing the loudest then. Not when the dragon emerged or when [Name] was Made; not during their heartfelt conversation outside the tent; but when he was mad with anger at her obstination, wishing to grab her shoulders and shake her to her senses. Still, a malicious sense of victory, one his entire family would disapprove of, glowed with the unprecedented truth. [Name] enjoyed being several steps ahead but could not have predicted their mating bond in a thousand years. She wasn’t aware that with the unilateral snap, her commanding powers lost considerable strength against his mind. 
So, when [Name] said she didn’t need his help, Azriel had answered: “Of course you don’t.”
Ever since then, in between the not-at-all accidental stumbles on different routes of the House, he made sure to pretend. Pretend to be at her words’ mercy; pretend to be affected by her commands. All in the while decreasing their late distance with poisonous phrases and acts of his own, that [Name] was quick to retort. However, he didn’t expect her latest one to be so vile and spiteful; never would’ve thought his mate would be so cruel.
Nuala and Cerridwen’s report was but a kneaded ball of paper, falling victim to the Shadowsinger’s unmatched anger. He stared at the pile of unwrapped gifts. Feyre had given her older and most admired sister a personalized chess board: the pieces had the texture of a dragon’s scale, and each group-piece was represented by a thoroughly designed flying serpent; the board was made of enhanced glass, and the structure underneath was a pitch-black pattern of the lightning of a violent storm crashing against the stones of a dozen mountains. Rhysand chose a long leather coat, its shoulder pads with silvery-blue spikes as those she had on her dragon back. Elain gave her a beautiful vase of colorful dragon-flowers, one he knew [Name] began tending to. Amren picked a silver necklace, the pendant with — according to her words — a blue kyanite, the rough stone carved as if to resemble a dragon head. Cassian bought three books, one being his most favored about battle strategies, and the other two — personal recommendations from Clotho, who said she was searching for the subject, and couldn’t find nothing close to it in the library — of The Story of Prythian’s Currency: Volume I & II. Whereas Morrigan was more subtle. The female said she’d give a gift related to her past experiences, one it wasn’t made to be seen by their curious eyes.
Each of the previous gifts stood in the unwrapped pile, but Azriel’s was nowhere to be seen.
He spent months trying to come up with something. It’d be the first Winter Solstice with his mate; the first gift he’d give her. Since his memories were no longer lost in a haze, the male was brought back to their first true conversations months prior. [Name] told him she had learned how to properly wield daggers and throwing knives, for someone had taught her, and she trained tirelessly ever since. Morrigan complimented that aspect, too, commenting that [Name] had quick-feet, with an agility that was made for close combat. So Azriel gave his mate two sai daggers. The butt-end was of dragons’ heads, designed in a way as not to hinder her moments; the grip was made of cool and weightless leather, with an undertone of dark blue, and one silver-colored bolt of lightning on both sides of the material; there was a stone in the middle of the wing-base — the shade, the same blue of his Siphons — and the steel from both the wing-base and wings had the pattern of scales. The shaft had a thin scripture written in the runic-language of Ancient-Fae — a courtesy of Amren, who, he was sure, felt the bond between them — that said: “The bolt that cuts through darkness, the light that breaks the night.”
Azriel placed an order to the smith for a set of throwing knives too, and this time, instead of choosing a dragon, Azriel went for two swallows taking flight and staring at one another, placed at each side of the guard. However, he prided himself more in the pair of personalized sai daggers. The Spymaster knew the Inner Circle would pick the dragon alone, for they didn’t know that at each dawn, [Name] shifted into a white and blue swallow, small and silent, and ventured through the night skies, returning on the morrow under the same form. What better metaphor for such a fast, small animal, if not throwing daggers? Regardless, he found her choice odd. Why would one prefer to be a swallow, instead of an eagle, or even a dragon? He came to the conclusion that perhaps [Name] and her unspeakable past did not wish to be perceived; after a lifetime of being placed on top of a pedestal, attracting both admiration and lust from those who stared from underneath, it seemed as though she was glad to be a merely invisible bird, rather than a devastating creature. He respected that, but nevertheless, [Name] didn’t seem to have enjoyed the gift.
When Azriel searched for the sai daggers and knives, he wasn’t sure what would’ve hurt more. The prospect of finding them yet wrapped, or in the same state as the rest of those on the pile. He never once thought they wouldn’t be there at all. The Spymaster left clear and severe orders to his shadows, and despite his companions’ wishes, they weren’t allowed to search the House of Wind — especially [Name]’s room — for the gift. Hope was an unreliable feeling, and nurturing it was a direct step into disappointment. Rage and resentment, however, came easier. Azriel was sure that his shadows had disobeyed him, and were desperate to share their information. Yet, he didn’t welcome it. Instead, the male fell straight into the rabbit hole of his duties, making it all the easier to ignore his mate. Summarizing it all, said decision was what brought him to that current dismal state, and guided him to the emptiness of the leisure room. 
Not two weeks had passed since the Winter Solstice, and Azriel was already assigned to infiltrate Montesere’s barriers. Considering the land’s history of allegiance with Hybern, and the infertile political situation between the Courts after the Wall between Fae and Mortal Lands fell, his brother and High-Lady’s concern regarding Montesere’s silence was well-based. At first, the Shadowsinger thought it’d be an effortless task. Yet, during his first attempt, he was met with a barrier that countered each and every power he had at his disposal.
The male had faced such a bothersome obstacle before. The Mortal Queens once wielded a similar protection; one that had avoided his net of spies and his own shadows for months. Azriel still remembered the consequences of his failure; the fatal mission that had him laying on the floor with poison in his veins; that left Cassian with ruined wings and pain written all over his near-unconscious expressions; the yet-human Archeron sisters being thrown, one by one, inside the Cauldron. The fatality that led [Name] to her current state, one he failed to foresee and prevent.
There was a small knock on the ebony door. A crevice — all but large enough for the head of a winged-Illyrian warrior to pass through — presented Azriel with the sight of his brother, his ever-present grin appearing as soon as he laid eyes on the Spymaster at the elbow-chair. Azriel’s previous thoughts were put on hold, his surprise apparent, and his shadows moved around him, their whispered words sounding hurt and worried: “We warned you, we warned you.” But the male, once again, didn’t hear a single thing.
Those occurrences weren’t rare, nor something he was unfamiliar with. Azriel found himself frequently tangled within them, as if his thoughts were a labyrinth with deviant entrances and constant, creative traps, he never seemed to dodge. The worries and self-loathing gave way to a frozen and profound lake; the water was corrupted, viscous, carrying a darkness Azriel himself wasn’t used to. Avoiding those traps felt as though walking with heavy boots on the thin ice that covered such a lake. He was bound to fail — to fall, — and once Azriel was captured by it, he scarcely attempted to swim, to leave; no light could reach him there, no sound or positiveness, it was a place not even his shadows dared to enter. The Spymaster wasted hours inside it, and only managed to leave it once an external presence pulled him from the putrid waters of his thoughts.
As Cassian had done, entering the leisure room and choosing the elbow-chair in front of his own. His brother glimpsed at the near-to-be empty scotch bottle, an eyebrow raising in the process. The male seemed to believe Azriel had more than enough, for he grabbed it from the center-table and gave it a gulp directly from the bottleneck.
“Are you kidding me?” The Spymaster complained, his voice a mixture of both frustration and anger towards his brother. Azriel wouldn’t dare to pour himself more after that, finding it unhygienic; all in the while, Cassian was quite aware of his brother’s antics, and drank it on purpose.
“Don’t be all selfish, Az,” the male mocked him, drinking another mouthful of the scotch. Azriel rolled his eyes, placing his empty cup on the center-table with unnecessary strength. “You’re done for the night, at least.”
“I’m not even drunk,” he argued. Cassian — the bastard — shrugged.
“That’s because you have a high alcohol tolerance,” his brother’s eyes narrowed. He placed the bottle on the ground, near his feet, and sat with a straightened back. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Azriel, in fact, didn’t. His scarred left hand clutched the kneaded report, the sound of paper ringing through his ears. That stupid piece of scribbling what was led him to that position in the first place. The Spymaster flew to the house his High-Lord and Lady shared, filled with a modest amount of shame. The twins had been surveilling Montesere’s magical barriers for almost an entire month, searching for a pattern, hoping to catch on to an immigrant or some poor other bastard attempting to leave. Azriel held that strategy to no hope, aware of the fact that it was doomed to failure. Yet, facing the predicted truth gave him a sour tongue.
Once he told the dreaded information, a reunion was summoned. However, with Cassian at Windhaven and Morrigan returning from Valahan, Azriel had a few hours ahead of him to wait for the reminiscent members of the Inner Circle, and decided to accompany Elain in the kitchen. The female, for sure, must’ve been feeling quite lonely since the twins’ departure to Montesere, and Azriel didn’t mind talking to her either. Elain, after all, was a terrific and attentive friend, with observant eyes and the willingness to listen. The Spymaster thought her thoroughly underestimated during most times, and made sure to let her know that he was, too, willing to train her if she ever thought needed.
Although he expected not much from the conversation at hand, Elain had trapped him a few minutes in. At first, the female repeated the familiar questions he’d been mostly glad to answer. However, at some point, Elain moved to place the trail of dough inside the oven, and her voice had reverberated from where she knelt.
“How is she?”
Azriel knew who she was referring to. Considering the male’s seen proximity with the oldest Archeron sister, and the fact that she barely left the House of Wind, Elain had but few choices besides the one to ask for his words regarding her sister’s state. During the past months, however, Azriel made sure to avoid [Name], and had no answer besides the honest truth no one wished to hear: she remained the same. 
The entire Inner Circle grew worried. During the first stages of the War, [Name] spent hours inside the library, hovering over a pile of books, studying every subject regarding Prythian’s history and territory; memorizing each drawn line of the borders; trying to predict their enemies’ movements, and coming up with retaliations to those, too. She also had a peaceful relationship with the priestesses, and after [Name]’s self-isolation, Clotho was instructed by both Feyre and Rhys to send a weekly report regarding the female’s behavior. It wasn’t ideal, but his High-Lady’s heart rest assured that her sister was, at least, within physical reach.
Those weekly-informations were scarcely enough. [Name]’s dragon form, and how she had saved them all to some extent during the last battle, couldn’t be forgotten nor ignored. Of course, the female’s acts to protect her sisters during poverty — and before that, even — weren’t overlooked by Rhysand, either. His brother had the bigger sense of gratitude between them all, and weren’t for Feyre and Elain, Azriel would state that he was the most eager to help [Name] somehow.
Despite Azriel’s attempt to change the subject, stating that he hasn’t been to the House much and that Cassian was a much better option to inform her, the female didn’t allow him to run. Elain insisted that [Name]’s self-isolation tendencies came from the fact that she, after the War, had no perspective. The female was taught to be of use to her sisters; to provide for them, no matter the cost; to be the anchor in which the three youngest ones could rely on during hardships. However, Velaris had changed that need for the better. And Elain was sure that, despite the fact that [Name] was glad the younger pair found solace and comfort and didn’t need her to sacrifice herself any longer, she was also lost and alone. Without her duties and the position of command that she was placed on at a very young age, [Name] was left to deal with the memories and consequences of her life’s decisions all by herself.
Azriel had lost it then. He’d been attempting to reach for his mate for months, and all she did in response was demand him to leave her alone, going as far as to use her hypnotizing voice to achieve such an end. And once he voiced his discontentment and the fact that self-isolation was [Name]’s choice, their first discussion ensued. Elain, shockingly, had snapped at him. Though she remained quiet on behalf of [Name]’s past, the female’s words were forceful and precise. She covered her sister’s relationship with both their parents and how she chose to be there for the three of them, while denying them to do the same for her; Elain pointed most of [Name]’s personality, and during it all, Azriel’s retorts grew short, since the male was again reminded of how much he related to his mate in levels he dared not confess. 
His silence wasn’t wasted either. Elain argued that [Name] needed to be of use, to feel that she was protecting her sisters somehow, in order to accept her healing process. Azriel feared that the female found out their mating bond then, but no sooner that doubt was discarded and he regained his calmness, Elain’s next phrase threw that out the window. 
“You should train [Name] to be a spy and assign her to Montesere.”
Azriel’s mind went blank. His rage was nearly blinding. He didn’t care how Elain had learned of his struggles regarding Montesere’s barriers, for all he saw was [Name] — his mate — under a complicated position, thrown into a territory they had no intel of, somewhere no one could reach.
“No.”
He refused to wear a more active and demanding voice with the members of his family. Azriel hated the possible wariness it could cause, for the sound of itself was enough to make their prisoners wet themselves in terror. But Elain didn’t falter. She gritted her teeth, meeting his gaze, her eyes a shade of silver, and continued to defend her sister.
“[Name] speaks four languages and is learning the Ancient Fae speech by herself. She has a commanding voice that worked in a room filled with High-Lords, can shift into different mortal-shells, a lightning dragon and smaller animals and beasts, too. She’s smart, light on her steps, and has enough physical training to face stronger opponents,” Elain closed her eyes for a second, as if trying to avoid the memory of a particular vision. 
Azriel was reminded of the Seer’s words when she still lived in the House of Wind, staring at the window with no emotion plastered on her face: ‘The scaled-beast of myths that flies through the airway, destined to rescue those lost in dismay. The bolt that cuts through the darkness, the light that breaks the night.’
“All she needs,” continued Elain, the familiar brown back into her eyes, “is guidance.”
Because [Name] was meant for so much more, was so much more, than the astute, self-sacrificing and scarred oldest sister. Because regardless of Azriel’s unwillingness to train her, his mate’s destiny was calling to her; growing closer to her calves with each passing day. And with, or without the Spymaster’s interference, she’d have to face it.
Azriel sighed, the prospect of it all bringing a sudden headache that made him crease his forehead. “I’ll ask Rhys—”
“Rhys agrees,” his brother said, entering the kitchen. Azriel turned, half-betrayed by his shadows, who didn’t warn him of his arrival, and half-shocked with himself, for it had been a long time since he’d been so invested in an argument, he failed to hear a third person’s approach. “Do you agree, Feyre darling?”
His High-Lady entered the kitchen, striving for Elain’s freshly-baked biscuits. She shared a knowing, yet proud, look with her sister, and hummed her approval, giving Azriel an apologetic smile. Cassian, Amren and Mor entered soon after, and the Spymaster learned that their argument was, in fact, heard by all of them. Nevertheless, once the [Name] topic was cleared, the reunion began. After it was clear their kitchen wasn’t big nor comfortable to accommodate the entire family, they all moved to the living-room — Rhys didn’t want his office to be filled with biscuit’s crumbs — and covered other worrying subjects, such as the Mortal Queens’ sudden silence; Mor’s first week at Valaham; Lucien’s eventual reports about Jurian and Vassa; Nesta’s condition, and the twins’ report. Azriel was but a shell of himself during it all, his mind drifting to Montesere and [Name]’s training, the inevitable destiny that awaited.
Once the gathering was over, Azriel barely bid his goodbyes before winnowing the closest he could to the House of Wind. Rhys’ voice entered his mind as soon as he landed, his question the same as the one Cassian had made: “Do you want to talk about it?”
His brother would understand the dilemma the best. Rhysand had stayed an entire month without news regarding Feyre’s well-being when the female acted as a spy inside the Spring Court. Azriel wished to ask him how he had managed it; how could it be possible, or at least bearable, to wait in Velaris as his mate was risking her life somewhere he couldn’t reach. But their situation was different. Rhysand could’ve winnowed to the Spring Court to assist Feyre if the female was in need; Azriel had his wrists tied against one another, aware that if [Name] managed to enter Montesere’s barriers, he’d have no news, no way of learning whether she was safe.
So, he gave Cassian the same answer he gave Rhysand: “I’m fine, there’s no need to worry.”
And as the latter, Cass respected the boundary drawn between them, didn’t question any further. Instead, he stared with curiosity as Azriel rose from the elbow-chair.
“Where are you going?”
“To give [Name] the great news.”
“It’s four in the morning.”
“She’s awake.”
Azriel didn’t care enough to continue that game of pretense, one where he didn’t voice his certainties regarding the female’s state in order to maintain their mate bond in utter secrecy. Considering Cassian’s lack of reaction — besides the clear amusement — the Spymaster was sure most of the Inner Circle’s members already had their suspicions.
“Good luck!” Cassian taunted as Azriel left the leisure room. The male’s hands grew sweaty with anticipation, and he rubbed them against the cloth of his trousers.
[Name]’s decision to continue living in the House of Wind came with an inevitable change of rooms. He had to walk up one extra floor, for the female chose the bedchamber placed on the hallway above the one he and Cassian shared, and his shadows began to move with a mischievous lack of control once they noticed the Spymaster’s intentions.
Azriel knocked on the door, announcing his presence through the shadows that peered inside. Not a second later, he heard [Name]’s frantic steps, and she, as expected, didn’t seem as though awakened from slumber. Her eyes were suspicious, and the female was dressed in traveling clothes. She didn’t care to state otherwise, nor to hide her provisions and backpack placed on the corner of her room.
“It’s a little late for a visit,” [Name] stated, although not surprised. Instead, the female seemed to analyze him, trying to find out why he was there in the first place.
“It’s a little late for tracking,” he mocked. If she was anyone else, Azriel would’ve supported his shoulder-weight on the door, a foot pushing against the crevice, inviting himself in. But [Name] left him wary of his words and acts; with a sense of unknown anticipation. Azriel felt, once again, as though a green-boy unaware of a female’s tastes. [Name] placed him on a chess board, and Azriel was left under the impression that she needed but a single misstep of his to steal his king.
“It was a spontaneous decision,” his mate answered, unresponsive as his shadows reacted to her voice-tone and began to flutter closer, like small and innocent butterflies.
“So was mine.”
“Bold statement coming from someone who’s been ignoring me for months,” she bit. Azriel didn’t allow his surprise to rise to his features. Both managed, after all, to wear a veil of nonchalance despite the implications behind their words.
“Bold judgment coming from someone who commanded me to do so.”
“You never seemed to listen,” [Name] answered, waving her hand.
“Were you sad that I did, for once?”
Her stance changed, if only for a mere second, but he caught on it. Mother be damned, he tucked that information closer to his heart than he should have. 
“What are you doing here?”
“Your sisters are worried.”
[Name] accessed him, aware of the low blow; the mouse-trap he placed on the board. She ignored it. “They’re welcome to visit me anytime.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What are you doing here?” [Name] repeated, and Azriel was caught by surprise. Her commanding voice was, at least once, only triggered if she used an imperative phrase. The Spymaster never saw her use it as a question, which meant that she had been training somehow, it was only left for him to find out in whom.
Azriel was physically close enough to the point where pretending to be affected by her demand was useless. She would’ve noticed the absence of haziness coating his eyes; the overall alert state of his body. The male moved his pawn, the information he kept a secret for so long, finally clear for her to see. “There’s something we need your help with.”
Her eyes grew wide, a slight shift in her scent that indicated neither fear or anger, but excitement. Azriel felt a sudden tremble that went through his entire body. The fact that [Name] now knew would change every single damned thing between them for the better. The Spymaster could already anticipate the fierceness of their future competitions, her obstinate glance and taunting grin, the quick-pacing of his heart. Mother be damned, he already yearned for the sight.
“You’re immune,” she pointed out with slight wonder, clearing the path for him to enter the room.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough.”
“This isn’t an answer,” [Name] bit, her tone assuming one of annoyance and anger. He forgot how good he was at bringing that side of her to the surface. Never again, Azriel decided. Never again would he be departed from her long enough to forget of their banters.
“It’s the one you’ll get,” he insisted, kneeling near her backpack. “Where were you planning to go?”
His mate grew quiet, as if pondering her next movement and the consequences it would cause. She seemed to decide whatsoever, judging the odds favorable. “The Mortal Lands.”
Azriel’s back stiffened. He had no doubt that the adaptation was rough, but he didn’t suspect, not even once, that she could’ve been missing her late home. The male rose from the ground and away from that pack, as if the object was forsaken — wrong, — turning to stare at her instead.
“Why?”
“I have unfinished business,” [Name] ignored his disheveled state, staring at him as though he — and his entire social-circle, for that matter, — were stupid for thinking she had left nothing behind after twenty-five years of living in the Mortal Lands. “Something that, coming to think of, I could use your help with.”
Azriel gave her a stare most would cower from. She returned with one most would lose their confidence against. The male envisioned that damned board, memorized the position of his pieces, and made his move. “I presume your sisters weren’t informed of your plans.”
“Obviously.”
“So why,” he taunted, moving closer while still leaving enough space between them, “would I cross my High-Lady’s wish, and help with whatever it is you came up with?”
[Name] crossed her arms against her chest, reading in between the lines of his expression and coming to terms with his words. “It will be faster with your winnowing, but this isn’t what you wish to hear, is it? You want to strike a deal.”
He grinned, victorious, as her eyes trailed to the paintings on his forearms and exposed shoulders. His knight was so close to her king, he could almost hear the check-mate coming from his lips, even if that was all but a metaphorical game on a metaphorical board. 
“You’ll help me get to the Mortal Lands, then what? What am I supposed to do?”
“Train with me outside Velaris. You’ll be the Court’s spy, and once judged ready, I’ll assign you to a mission in Montesere.”
[Name]’s eyes narrowed, as if seeing the plastered map of Prythian on her mind. Azriel had no doubt the female had studied the land’s expanse and history, had no doubt she wasn’t clueless, at least not entirely, as to why the Night Court needed someone inside the magical barriers. There was a gleam there, and her lips curved with the same malice she wielded during their strategizing, when she saw something he didn’t; when she was sure he wouldn’t be able to counter her movements. Azriel shuddered then, not with fear but with expectation. It had been ages since the last time his mate showed enough patience and will to strike, to enter a mental competition. That game of theirs, filled with taunts and strategies and low-blows, was exciting; the type of conjunction between a sense of immaculate victory and determination upon defeat one could only find when their competitiveness was perfectly matched. 
One [Name] forgot she enjoyed until Azriel invited her to play again.
“As I see it, I’ll do as I’m told and then be given a reward,” she said, moving left to her murals. [Name]’s room was a bigger version of her late office, with books and maps and annotations plastered wherever the eyes could reach. His mate grabbed a white powder from the inside of a drawer, its scent sleep-inducing, and Azriel was left aghast at her abilities; her potential. “That doesn’t seem fair, especially considering that you might need me, but I don’t need you. Not crucially, at least.”
“Put me to sleep, and once I’m awake, I’ll inform the entire Inner Circle of your intentions,” the male answered matter-of-factly, because there was not a chance she thought that plan would lead somewhere.
“Then, what? You’ll follow my trail, because I could command everyone else to turn a blind eye? Where would that lead us, if not the Mortal Lands?”
“I’d find your trail before you even managed to reach the Day Court,” Azriel answered, his words filled with well-based arrogance. [Name] inserted two fingers inside the small, glass-made pot, and smudged her digits with the white powder. The female grew closer, and his shadows danced around her neck and waist; her thighs and arms; all of the places Azriel himself yearned to touch, but didn’t dare to.
“I don’t think you’re understanding your position. A dragon might be easy to find but what of a beetle? A serpent? What is a sparrow-hawk in the Autumn Court, if not a single bird between many others?” [Name] discarded the powder, and repressed a smile at whatever his shadows had whispered. “I’ll vanish and tend to my business, and you’ll have my sisters’ wrath and a lot of frustration to take care of.”
Somehow, a knight drew closer to his king too. Azriel’s smile was bitter, sleep no longer hazing his senses, as he glimpsed the situation, noticing the inevitable siege that had formed around his pawns. “I would’ve managed nevertheless, but this isn’t what you wish to hear, is it? You want to strike a deal.”
He purred those words — her words, — and [Name]’s grin widened, voicing the phrase that would grant her a plain upperground. “I’m sure my sisters came with the training aspect, so I’ll follow along, if only for their sake. We’ll train outside Velaris, and once I’m judged prepared, you’ll winnow me to the Mortal Lands.”
“And Montesere?”
“I’ll go there after we see to my business, not a heartbeat before.”
The feigned training would grant coverage to their departure to the Mortal Lands. Azriel wouldn’t need to report his dismissal to either Rhysand nor Feyre, and [Name] would leave the House of Wind, as it was expected. Their small venture would prepare the Spymaster for the idea of leaving his mate, by herself, near Montesere’s barriers; perhaps he’d even find another possibility until then. He offered her an opened hand, the sign of his agreement. 
“That’s a deal,” said the Spymaster. [Name] touched his palm with her own, seeming to anticipate a shudder that didn’t come. Azriel’s shadows tangled itselves in between their hands and stretched arms, accompanying the route of their tattoos, shielding the male’s gaze from his terrible burnt scars.
“That’s a deal,” she repeated. He felt as those words drove the magic to his back; traced the mark that seemed to form the letter S, from the bottom of his waist to his right shoulder. A dragon, his shadows had informed, surrounded with the illustration of scars left by a lightning strike.
Somehow, Azriel knew her back had been marked, too. And his first chess match against his mate had ended in a draw.
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general notes: i am deeply thankful for all of the support this story has been given since the very first time i have posted about it. the entire thing is wrapped up in my mind, and i am so excited to see your further reactions to [name], that became such a beloved writing of mine. regardless, thank you once again! i hope you have enjoyed this bible of a first chapter. xoxo <3
taglist [comment to be added]: @nyotamalfoy @rachelnicolee
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lady-winter-sunrise · 1 month
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There's a strike for Nessian authors on Ao3 and no one told me? This is a misery!!! A hellish shortage, it feels like I'm in the desert. I'm in withdrawal!!!
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selesera · 2 months
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I’ve got nothing to believe unless you’re choosing me
hello! I go by Sel here and I am sharing my first piece of writing with you, tumblr. I want to dedicate this to @the-lonelybarricade because she is the kindest person online and she immediately saw my other post saying I was proud of myself for writing this and said she -sobs- wanted to read it 🥹
This is a short drabble that came out a little sad and angsty but I am a diehard elucien so have hope dear reader! This was inspired by You're losing me by my queen and saviour tswizzie. I'm so sorry in advance for any typos!
__________________________
Lady Elain, 
I write this in the hopes that you will agree to speak with me upon my next visit to Velaris.
It is important and urgent.
Cordially,
Lucien
Elain smoothed out the folded lines of his letter again. Her fingers lightly brushed the letters of his elegant penmanship, terrified of blurring the ink and erasing the way he had written her name. She knew what his “important and urgent” topic was. He was tired of being shackled to her. She could feel his exhaustion, his self hatred, his desperation. Not through the bond, no. She kept her side of that golden string firmly closed. No…she could see his dreams. 
She saw night after night how he confronted her, told her she had to choose. Begging her to choose him. To love him. Or to free him.
Some nights, he would dream that she accepted him and the dream would devolve into a flurry of kisses, wandering fingers, moans and sighs of pleasure. 
Other nights, he would dream she rejected the bond. In those dreams she would stare at her own face, hardened by indifference and disdain. Watch herself coldly stand by as he wept at her feet. Scream at herself to comfort the man - male - that loved her.
She wished she could say those were the worst dreams but she had had the misfortune of seeing his other dreams too. His nightmares. Beron beheading a beautiful fae named Jesminda, wearing an expression on his cruel face much too similar to her own. Hot spikes descending on him. Standing firm against the whips against his back. Screaming as blood red nails dragged down his face. 
The truth was that Elain didn’t know how she felt about being able to see his dreams. On one hand, she felt lucky that she could see the pieces of his history that influenced who he was but that he did not let define him, even as her heart broke at the horrors that he had endured. On the other hand… if she was being honest with herself… it made her angry. 
How dare he make her care about his future? How dare he make her want to soothe and heal every jagged wound to his heart? She was independent. She was not his keeper. She was not the plaything of the cauldron. She would make her own life or die trying! 
At least that’s what she kept telling herself she would do. 
Truthfully, she was scared. How could she be independent in her baby sister’s house? Enjoying all the luxuries that her money bought? She loved Feyre. So much. Had finally created a true relationship with her sister but she still felt stifled. Bored. She couldn’t help thinking that a little distance might do them some good...
One of these days she was going to be able to control her traitorous thoughts… one of these days in her interminably long life.
This is why she hated thinking about him. He always made her question everything about herself, about her life.
Elain looked down again at the letter in her hands. The time had come to respond.
Two pathways emerged in front of her. The first, a path where she chose to stay in her quiet life and let her fear win. The second where fear was still present but sunshine and wildflowers lined the path and a love like no other awaited her.
She put her pen to her paper.
Lucien, 
Please accept my regrets. I will be unavailable during your next trip to Velaris. 
I will endeavour to make myself available on your next visit.
Elain Archeron
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readychilledwine · 5 months
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Azriel Week Masterlist
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Super excited to be taking part in @azrielappreciationweek! I cannot wait to see what everyone else has come up with (especially you talented fanart people). Here's my masterlist of fics and drabbles for everyone's favorite bat boy with the biggest wingspan
Day 1. The Family You Make
Wingspans and Whiskey - Azriel may have been late for bonding night with Rhysand and Cassian, but he has a very valid reason for it. (Based on my personal head canon that the bat boys are gossip queens)
Day 2. Spymaster
Paradise Lost Part 2 - Cat and Mouse prequel - After being hired to take out The Night Court's dangerous spymaster, y/n finds herself trapped between a rock and hard place. - Azriel x reader
Day 3. Knife in the Dark
The Fall of Icarus - Waking up alone in a dark cell was not part of your mission plans, only you're not alone. Azriel x Reader - Dark fic (possibly light ending. I'll decide soon. Maybe.)
Day 4. Domestic Life
Daycation - Having a day off together was rare, and Azriel knew he had to make the most of it by taking Lyria to his favorite place. His mother's. -Azriel x Lyria Vanserra (based on my own hope that Azriel is a mommy's boy who loves spending all of his free time with her baking.)
Day 5. The Ravishing Type
Love Notes - He lied when he said never resorted to poetry. You knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt as you read the letter on your desk. Azriel x Reader
Day 6. The Past and Future
Threefold - After years of trying and unanswered wishes, you and Azriel find yourself blessed with more than you had ever imagined - daddy!Azriel x reader - requested
Day 7. Free Day
✨️double post day✨️
Bound by Fate pt 4 - Kaylee Archeron x Azriel - fair warning this part is angst angst angst
Lose You to Love Me - Azriel x Rhysand's Sister! Reader - you had wanted him for years, loved him for centuries, and waited for him to notice you and see you. But all books have to close, even if we don't like the ending. (Smut and angst)
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wolfnesta · 1 year
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Defending Nesta doesn’t mean we’re excusing her it’s just us simply VALIDATING HER EMOTIONS the way the saint sanctum IC could never and therefore all her her haters could never too and boy do I shake with happiness when I see all these other people care for Nesta and how much the love for her in the fandom is growing to see that instead of choosing to naively blindly trust the lay out the creator chose to take with Feyre’s pov. Ive seen people in real life be worse than Nesta for even less reasons than she had so it really makes no difference when some people act like hating Nesta puts them on some kind of moral high horse.
To all the people that relate to Nesta your responses to trauma the anger and the defensiveness it’s relatable and even normal. It doesn’t make you an awful human with no chance of forgiveness much like this narrative provides. Work on your demons and learn how to be a bigger person than you were yesterday that’s all it takes you don’t require some kind of punishment hike nor a forced stay at some rehab center.
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kopfkino-o · 5 months
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Pro Vassien Super Post
One of my favorite potential ships within the ACOTAR world is Vassa x Lucien. The bird of fire and the lord of flame. The cursed queen and the spell cleaver. Soo I decided to put together some thoughts based on what we've read in the text so far! It’s a little unorganized, so bare with me.
This is obviously a pro-vassien post, so if that's not your cup of tea then this might not be for you! And as always, these are just my own opinions and interpretations.
Ready? Let's go!
The Cursed Queen and the Spell Cleaver’s Son
In ACOWAR, we are introduced to Queen Vassa, the human queen who has been cursed by the sorcerer Koschei.
“But yes—queen by night, firebird by day.” He [Lucien] blew out a breath. “Nasty curse.” — ACOWAR
In this same book, we also learn that Lucien is in fact the son of daddy Helion, High Lord of the Day Court, and the Spell Cleaver. Famed for his ability to “cleave” or break magical wards, spells, and enchantments. A gift we saw Helion use first hand when he broke the spelled chains of Elain following her rescue from the Hybern camp.
And, interesting enough, a gift we might have seen Lucien himself unknowingly utilize in ACOMAF when at Hybern.
“There was a flare of light, and a scrape, then Lucien was stalking towards Elain, freed of his restraints.” - ACOMAF
Interesting that we met a cursed queen in the same book we also learn Lucien is the son of the Spell-Cleaver. And what’s even more interesting, is it seems SJM retconned some details in how Vassa was found.
In ACOWAR, Lucien tells it was Papa Archeron who found Vassa, and that he joined up with them after she was freed. However, in ACOSF we are told Lucien was, in fact, there and played an active part in finding Vassa. Here’s what the books say:
“Lucien.” I breathed. “Who?” Drakon’s brows narrow. “Oh, the male with the eye. No. He met up with them later on—told them where to go.” - ACOWAR
“He [Koschei] is still at the lake,” Lucien said carefully. Lucien had been there, Cassian recalled. Had gone with Nesta’s father to the lake where Vassa was held captive.” - ACOSF
Interesting, right? Why retcon this little detail? To me, it it seems like SJM wanted to give Lucien the knowledge of where Koschei’s lake is because, as we know, it’s only a matter of time before Vassa is called back. And is it not interesting that Lucien, the Spell Cleaver’s son, is one of the only characters who knows where his lake is? If not the only one. Seems like future set up to me.
Because, it makes sense, wouldn’t it that Lucien would be the one to return to Koschei’s lake to break Vassa’s spell and set her free. He, after all, might be the only one with magic capable of such a feat.
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The Lord of Fire and the Bird of Flame
One thing that I think is very telling, especially in regards to Lucien and Vassa, is the way Feyre (our queen, our mother, our primary POV character, and arguably the “main character” of the series) observes these two. There’s a few instances I’d like to highlight. Starting with the infamous:
“A lord of a fire and a bird of flame. I wondered if they’d found each other yet.” — Feyre herself, ACOWAR
Here we see Feyre assign them what reads a hell of a lot like a couple name. She’s grouping them together and calling attention to them being a pair. And they do fit pretty well together, no? A son of autumn [see: fire] and day [see: spell-cleaving] and a bird of flame. The fox and firebird. The emissary, son and friend of many courts, and the human queen.
This isn’t the only instance Feyre calls attention to these two in the story. One of the most interesting instances for me is her observation of Lucien and Vassa on Solstice.
Lucien, surprisingly, was chuckling, his shoulders loose and his head angled while he listened [to Vassa]." - ACOWAR
Why was this surprising to Feyre? Perhaps because she’s seeing her friend back to his usual, carefree, easy going self while in the presence of Vassa? Regardless of what this scene means, I think it’s telling that it was Feyre, the story’s primary POV, who noticed this interaction and commented on it within her internal monologue. It’s almost as if SJM—through Feyre’s eyes—is leading the readers to pick up on… something.
The Sly Fox and the Fierce, Untamed Queen
It's time to talk about Jesminda. The woman Lucien loved. The woman he thought might be his mate. And the woman he lost.
According to Lucien, Jesminda was:
"Jesminda had been all laughter and mischief, too wild and free to be contained by the country life that she’d been born into. She had teased him, taunted him—seduced him so thoroughly that he hadn’t wanted anything but her. She’d seen him not as a High Lord’s seventh son, but as a male. Had loved him without question, without hesitation. She had chosen him." - ACOWAR
I think this passage is incredibly important when we look at the dynamic between Vassien and E/lucien. We see, through Lucien's own POV, that it was pretty important to him that Jesminda saw him for who we was. Chose him because of who we was. Loved him and accepted him without question. As compared to Lucien's mate, I do think this is an interesting comparison. Especially when Lucien himself thinks...
"Elain had been … thrown at him." - ACOWAR
Now this isn't a post about Elain and Lucien, so I won't go into it, but I do feel it was important to highlight the differences between the way Lucien views Elain and the way he viewed his relationship with Jesminda. I also think the aspect of choice is something very, very important. Both in Elain and Lucien's respective, and shared, journeys, but this is something I'll touch on in a later post.
But what does this have to do with Vassa? Let's consider what we know about the mortal queen and her personality.
"Only a few years older than me, but... young-feeling. Coltish. Fierce and untamed, despite her curse." - Feyre upon meeting Vassa, ACOWAR
And:
“Not for long—not if Vassa has anything to do with it.” “You sound like an acolyte.” Lucien blushed, “She’s got a foul temper and a fouler mouth.” - ACOFAS (? - I don't have my book on me, so this might be taken from the wrong book)
I think when we look at the way Vassa and Jesminda are described we can see there are several similarities between these two females. Jesminda was wild and free, filled with mischief. Vassa is fierce and untamed with a foul mouth and fouler temper. To me, these two women seem like they're the same "type" and based on the way we see Lucien reacting to Vassa... I suspect our fox boy might have a thing for fiery, foul-mouthed, fierce ladies.
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Lucien, the Blushing Acolyte
So this section is a bit... untamed. But I wanted to consolidate all of the little moments I've picked up on... something existing between Vassa and Lucien.
“He’s keeping everything running. I think he’d have been crowned king by now if it wasn’t for Vassa.” A twitch of the lips, a spark in that russet eye. “She’s doing well enough. Savoring every second of her temporary freedom.” - ACOFAS
Indeed, Vassa still remained inside, chatting with Lucien animatedly. I supposed that if she only had until dawn before turning back into that firebird, she wanted to make every minute count. Lucien, surprisingly, was chuckling, his shoulders loose and his head angled while he listened. - ACOWAR
“The human queens are still out there,” I said. Maybe I’d hunt them down. “Not for long—not if Vassa has anything to do with it.” “You sound like an acolyte.” Lucien blushed, glancing at Elain. - ACOWAR
Both Jurian and Lucien stared at her [Vassa], the former’s face utterly unreadable, and the latter’s pained. - ACOSF
So... what does this all mean? Obviously its up for interpretation, but to me, these scenes show me a few things:
1) Lucien is comfortable around Vassa. So much so that he willingly lives with her and Jurian in the mortal lands away from his mate. That he's found friendship and acceptance with her, as well as Jurian, in their Band of Exiles.
Sidebar: I find it VERY strange that Lucien is able to live this way, especially when we know that mates are driven to always be around one another and pained to be a part. Yet... Lucien seems just fine living far, far away from Elain and Velaris.
2) His curse pains her. Ironic that the spell-cleavers son is pained over the curse the mortal queen is suffering? Sounds more like foreshadowing to me.
3) There’s something there. Could it be friendship? Sure. But... when considering the "type" Lucien seems to have, the way he seems lighter, more himself, feels to me like clever foreshadowing.
4) The obvious, stark contrast of Lucien's character when he is around Elain and when he is around Vassa. Around the former, he seems pained, uncomfortable, dejected, down on himself, lacking that usual snarky humor we know and love him for. Around Vassa? He appears at ease, shoulders loose and laughing easily, a spark back in his russet eye.
My (Maybe Not So) Unhinged Wish
So… what do I make of all this? Well, I think we will be seeing an epic love story play out between Lucien and Vassa. One where they choose one another. One where Lucien, who used to hold a prejudice against humans, falls for a human queen. A story where Lucien discovers his parentage to free the woman he loves.
And, my hope, is that by coming together Lucien and Vassa will be able to bridge the gap between humans and the Fae.
Queen Vassa and King Lucien Vanserra anyone?
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