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duskandstarlight · 1 year

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Embers & Light (Chapter 54)

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

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

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

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

Chapter 54 Cassian

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

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

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

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

It didn’t help.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nesta took a measured breath.

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

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

And then Nesta told them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It made Cassian look up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you think she’s right?”

“Do you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slowly, all eyes turned to Frawley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it had been broken.

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

“—Starborn?” Frawley finished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Broken?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We believe that he remains at Ironcrest.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, what do we do?” Feyre said.

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

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

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

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

“The widows will fight.”

Everyone turned.

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

***

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

“That is not your job.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because of course he did.

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

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

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

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

By most Illyrian standards, she was the perfect female.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tug in his gut instructed him to.

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” he said. “Eat. Drink.”

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

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

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

Patiently, he waited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few beats passed before she spoke again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you helping me?”

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

“I might have deserved it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

“You agreed?”

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

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

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

“And you listened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If she wanted it, that was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tags (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @arinbelle @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @lovelynesta @melphss @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @fanboy7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @lavendergoomsltd @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @amelie775 @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints @wishfulimaginings @trash-for-nessian @my-fan-side @sophilightwood @valkyriesupremacy @vidalinav @onceupona-chaos @inardour @thesunremembersyourface @teagoddess99

#nessian #nessianfic #acotar fanfic #nesta archeron #cassian #embersandlightfic #duskandstarlightwrites #nesta

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lavend-ler · 1 year

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u r like me... one of maybe ten ppl on the planet that like my queen yvette. we're smart.

we are SO smart, thank u for this message, dear anon, u have The Taste 🙏

Yvette is such an interesting character for me but it just makes me sad whenever I think abt her cause the canon shut her off for literally no reason. she's there since the beginning, she should be an active figure, she's literally Rhys' best friend. yet all the bad writing decisions make her seem like a bad guy when,, she's rly not. she's just defending herself in the heartless Hyperion landscape. not to mention, she admits that she only took the deal when she knew that they wouldn't do anything to Rhys. she was just desperate, worried for her friends

but the narrative treats her horribly. not only the option not to shock her is hard to get in the first playthrough (which yields in her apologizing btw soooo) but also u have to make 3 SEPARATE CHOICES to actually save her from death. again, comparing to Vaughn who also double crosses u for (no reason) and game rly wants u to trust him. anyways, it's not abt him, I just love making choices that guarantee Yvette at the end of the game, it makes me smile

I don't wanna leave on a sour note so here are my Yvette hcs:

I usually can't decide where I want her to be the most post epilogue tbh. I see her either being with Helios Hellions, being their strategist (and not dying), helping the people. or I see her on a space journey across planets (with Sasha), learning abt new places and enjoying her time when her life finally belongs to her

tbh? in other scenario she deserves to rule Hyperion. with Blake by her side. just sayin

I hc her as a lesbian and my two ships for her are with Sasha (travelling, learning to let loose and exploring) and with Angel (they take over Hyperion together and work through feeling crushed by others, while learning to be each other)

the orange shirt is just her work uniform. on her own she prefers to wear cold colors, like that purple she has for her character text

she doesn't go anywhere without her glasses

going off of her lunch theming and all, I think she is very into different cuisines and has a refined palette. during her travels she makes sure to taste the local cuisine

she and Rhys are the best gossip buddies and they love to go clubbing together during the weekends

her favorite flowers are roses and she would love to have a rose garden (her splash card has roses!)

she also deserves to be a nerd! I think she's very into Bunkers & Badasses and with her strategic sense, she always maxes out the best stats for her characters

#ask #borderlands #yvette the lunch leech #I love u Yvette I wish u had so much more in canon #thank u for this msg anon <3

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jakowskis · 15 days

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Day 7 - Do you have any all-time favorite scenes? You can bring up multiple - an objectively good scene, a silly scene that makes you smile, a sad scene that makes you cry, maybe a scene that just sort of stuck with you… your choice!

i have a bunch ok i tried to put em in categories. under the cut bc i think torchwood's entered spin territory by now and i still cant seem to shut up about it. pls help

scenes that rot my brain

when they mutiny against jack in the s1 finale. that whole bit, from gwen with rhys’ body in the autopsy bay to owen shooting jack to when they trigger the emergency protocol and open the rift. ill never get over how it first felt to watch that whole scene for the first time, it drove me insane. it still drives me insane. ive watched it 300 times it's sooo 😩 MY scene. g-d.

well, that’s my scene, and so are all the owen & ianto scenes in s1ep12. those two make me feral. ive gushed about theose scenes before, so ill spare u this time. my otp 4eva. and also owen having a villainous breakdown wahahaha. my fucked up little guy of all time

the scene where owen’s patching gwen up in countrycide drives me nuts. it’s such a clever seduction scene + it’s so intimate. i love it. (i also enjoy the two separate scenes where she chokes him fdhskjfdsf. countrycide tree scene makes me BLUSH and nothing makes me blush fsdkjfdshfkjdshfjkd. i am very very bi <3)

owen begging diane to stay in out of time... don’t touch me. every time i think of that whole scene i wanna cry. i have never seen such sad eyes in my life. (see my tags here for more of my thoughts on this topic fkjsdfhs.) burn pay my fucking hospital bills

that moment between jack and owen at the end of combat... “for a few seconds i felt totally at peace... and then you blunder in. do you always know best, jack? is that what you believe?” “i want you back at work tomorrow.” that scene has always driven me crazy. there’s a few scenes in the show where jack’s monstrous and the others yell at him over it, but that one hits the hardest. owen just seems to actually cut through him in that moment, and it kills me.

the scene at the conference table in s2ep5. i’m not the biggest fan of that ep, i talked abt it more the other day, but that scene drives me bonkers, for a number of reasons… the insight into the characters (owens mommy issues!!! tosh n ianto’s need for purpose!!! gwen loves rhys AND jack!!!), for sure, but especially the way jack’s relationship with all of them is presented. ill talk about it a lot more when i discuss his character, but jack… reminds me of a cult leader, in a lot of ways, and it’s most prominent in that scene especially. the show doesn’t realize it’s framing him like that, and the fandom doesn’t seem to pick up on it either. but i do, and i think it’s fascinating.

gwen drugging rhys in combat. it just kind of blew my mind when i first saw it - there's a moment with every character where i went “oh wtf theyre fucked up. ok im obsessed now” (owen's was ghost machine, ianto's was actually ‘pray they survive’ in meat, jack & tosh never had one for me which is probs why they dont rot my brain quite as much fhdskjf) - that was gwen's. also important to note burn gorman agrees w me bc on the commentary of this ep during this scene he was clapping n laughing n probably kickin his feet HFDKSJFHDSJKFDSK he gets me

all of fragments tbh esp owens portion but specifically ianto crying when he walks away from jack at the end of his segment, and owen crying when he's talking to the doctor + him n jack walking thru the cemetery. aaaa.

(yes those were almost all owen scenes. im the deranged owen guy rmr.)

scenes that make me smile

the very first scene in the hub in the pilot :) it just feels a little bit magical in an industrial, bleak, kitchen-sink sort of way, which is what i love sm abt tw, the way it occasionally strikes that balance. the way stepping into a big base in a sewer manages to still feel magical… that’s special.

in episode 2 when theyre having lunch + in episode 4 when theyre at the bar, when they’re all gathered around and laughing. ohh i wish we got more of that

every time gwen n owen are dumbass giggling besties, or teasing each other… twice in s2ep10, and in ep 7, and then when theyre fooling around at the beginning of s2ep2. i love themmmm those two are my idiots they make me smile

jack & john’s fight in kkbb heheh

owen n martha gorillaz scene in reset. wahoo! shicka shicka shicka shicka feel good

bernies apt in ghost machine ep :) i just like the way they go through his shit, steal a bunch of it, n then leave, it always makes me giggle. “so call the cops” JACK.

scenes that stuck with me / made an impact

john and his son in out of time. that was rlly rlly emotional.

also jack helping him off himself. g-d that episode was heart wrenching.

“captain my captain” in tkks, suzie on the ground covered in blood… things i think about. “it’s all your fault, jack." ahhhh

in ghost machine, when gwen holds the device and sees herself crying and covered in blood, and afterwards she’s all dazed and she looks at owen and he stares back and he looks dangerous. i loveee that scene. will never get over s1 owen. he’s a ticking time bomb and when he explodes he nearly destroys the world. character of all time to me. i love that he redeems himself in the end but ohhhhh sometimes i think of a world where he becomes a proper antagonist. he rlly walks the precipice

g-d and the scene where he had the knife held to ed morgan, when i first watched it i didn’t know what he was gonna do and it was so tense.

when lisa was first revealed in cyberwoman and mogwai played…. transcendent. the outfit was silly right off the bat but the vibe + reveal was cool enough i was rlly excited. i love the concepts in that episode i wish they took it more seriously. no metal bikini + no pteradacyl fight and we could’ve had it all. but also. would it be torchwood without metal bikini + pteradacyl fight.

“it made me happy” scene in countrycide. a lot of people seem to find that ep upsetting, i wasn’t really affected by the subject matter, but That got me. chilling. you go into torchwood expecting evil aliens, so the episodes about evil humans really hit.

the resurrection scene in s2ep7. i’m getting tired so im not gonna babble as much but agh. i wanna eventually do an analysis on owen & jack’s dynamic - i’ll talk about it there.

also, it’s a little moment but in the same episode, when gwen calls rhys crying… it reminds me of that bit in succession, during connor’s wedding, when tom calls greg, which is one of my favorite moments in that episode too. taking the time in the middle of a tragedy to step aside and privately call a loved one for support, bc u need a minute to break down when uve been doing ur best to stay strong. i think torchwood is bad at handling grief and letting their characters experience it, so it’s a nice little moment that actually lets her grieve. that, and the glove clearly triggers her, so she got double whammied with the death of a friend + the reminder of the time she nearly died. again, in a show that doesn’t typically frame moments of weakness and pain very sympathetically, it’s refreshing.

idk why, but in ep7, when it goes back and forth between owen figuring out the murders + tosh crying to mary while she looks unsympathetically down at her… it’s just a well-filmed, cool scene, and i enjoy it. thrills me, heh. also owen adhd icon

aditd... maggie’s wedding… we’d been married less than an hour. scenes that got me. i think of maggie a lot. i think of that scene a lot. i think ‘the woman on the roof’ is my most listened to torchwood ost track, fff. it’s very special to me. that song reminds me of a thomas newman score.

tosh n owen’s deaths. of course. both of owens deaths actually, the second one is more impactful but the way nobody held him when he first died bc they were all in shock haunts me ;-;

#tdot #txt #I AM TRYING SO HARD TO NOT DO THESE SO LATE BUT. ARHGHGHHGHGH #me when i give myself a fun lil fandom challenge n it tURNS OUT TO BE CHALLENGING #ARGH!!!#but. here. take it

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sayosdreams · 11 months

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you know, if I had to write a new acotar baby fic, I’d do it in a way where u get to see the kids grow up and be a disappointment to their parents

“A disappointment?!”

Yeah. Kids are never what u imagine they’ll be. They don’t fulfill your expectations. They’re not a mini- you. They have their own personalities and like/dislike, their own dreams and moral codes and priorities.

I want the bat boys to have sons who hate war and fighting.

I want feysand to have a quiet nerd child who hates going to parties or doing physical activities or painting. “Why can’t I stay in?” They ask, and feysand is worried bc why is their child so quiet and antisocial?? They only seem to have a couple close friends and never go to parties. Rhys keeps telling them to exercise, Feyre keeps saying she’ll support them no matter what they choose to do (in a “u can be an artist!” Way) but their child isn’t interested in that. They love theories and history and academics. Their eyes light up when learning fun facts and uncovering archaic knowledge and the satisfaction of solving a complex math problem with astronomical applications.

I want a elriel to have a righteous social activist child who thinks that their mom is a pushover and cannot stomach the fact that their father not only betrays ppl’s trust and privacy by spying, but also tortures people (not saying that I support elriel but if they end up together). “How could you do that to people, having gone through it yourself?” they ask, staring down at Azriel’s hands which are littered with scars — hands that have endured and inflicted so much pain. They can’t bare to look at their father anymore. It’s like their child’s world shatters when they understand who their parents rly are, and a rift grows. (PS I don’t think Elain is ‘just a pushover’ but this is for this characterization)

I want one of their kids (Nessian / Elriel / Feysand) to go into modeling or pole dancing and their parents don’t get it. They’re like “oh we worked so hard so you could do whatever u wanted, why are u selling your body like this” but it’s what their kid wants to do and the kids is just pissed that their parents are ashamed. “Some people are forced to sell their bodies, why won’t u appreciate that u don’t have to?” Their parents ask. But freedom to choose your life means more that living out what your parents want. It means doing what you like. And for the kid, modeling / pole dancing is an art form. They love expressing themselves through their body. It helps their self confidence and it’s just something they’ve always loved.

I want one of the kids say that their dream job is something typically associated w work maids do in acotar (cooking / cleaning / clothes-making) and their parents again don’t get. Why would you want to collect trash? Why would you want to make cook for other people unless you have to? Why would you want to be at someone else’s beck and call? But it’s because the kid loves community, loves helping, loves the act itself. And again, their parents belittle their dream without realizing it bc they don’t get it.

I want one of the kids to decide that they aren’t ever having children. I want one of the kids to declare that they’re leaving the Night Court (and maybe Prythian?) as soon as they’re able to bc they hate it. I want the kids to challenge Rhys’ (and the IC’s) morality and authority to rule, and the choices they’ve made. I want them to be gay and trans and aro/ace. I want them to lead lives their parents don’t understand.

Because that’s what kids are, really.

#acotar #random 2 am thoughts

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strangecreationchaos · 2 years

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some explanations i get from antis who hates acotar and don't ship elriel because

they are scared of the twist sarah brings in her stories like they always gives me the example of tamlin and feyre, chaol and aelin.. to express how sarah is going to twist the tale ! which simply tells some of them haven't yet moved on from the feylin and chaolena ending! but the fact is you don't have to ship a new ship just becoz you are scared of the past experiences you can simply accept the changes.. it's not like sarah has ever twisted her whole story in a single page! she always let them build the relationship first. rowan elain took a whole book to build their relationship! and it took another book to confess and finally accept eachother! feysand happened on a single book and all their build up was connected with the first book! it was the under the mountain plot where rhys was helping feyre in every possible way was the plot that clearly said they are going to be a thing in future!

elain and azriel will be boring together! wait! now tell me which exact characters of sarah j maas were boring? yrene was boring? elide was boring? yrene got a full book for herself where she did everything with her power saved the world kill the king! and even saved chaol! was that boring? wait do u really think that elain is just going to tend to her garden if she get a whole book for herself? a seer! who already showed a glimpse of her power in all previous books! even held a dagger to kill the king ! are you expecting her to be the soft and silent flower girl making bread and building garden for herself in a whole book! why both nesta and rhysand said that she is finally being interesting?? if the author have to write the same tale about her why she said elain is getting interesting? why she took nesta's power! and make elain the last and only choice to deal with the rest of the queens and koschai? and the trove! what is the meaning of making her the villian when she with her mighty powers gifted by the Cauldron can help the highlords to win the war!

did sarah ever come up with a bad plot? which one is it? do u remember dorian? his lover was beheaded infront him ,a demon was living inside his body yet sarah made him the good guy! he again found love ! why would she make elain evil ? what is the meaning of ignoring canon ship with four books of story build up?

yeah everyone can have their own ship and can choose whom they wants to follow! its simple ! as it is . you can praise your gwynriel ship or elucien ship and enjoy your fandom within your people! but what is the meaning of mocking another ship day and night! and demeaning an author's characters whose book you are reading for so many years! why would you do that? she is putting her years of efforts in writing her books! and now people are mocking even the main characters!

what is the meaning of mocking and hating feysand? if you don't even like the main characters why you even read the book? if you you only ship nesta then why are you ignoring her character development in the whole series? did nesta ended up alone at the end ? why calling inner circle toxic? when nesta at the end of the day becomes a part of it?

what is the meaning of comparing azriel with tamlin to say he is wrong for elain while you are shipping him with gwyn? wasn't he will be wrong for gwyn as well?

what is the meaning of calling azriel and elain toxic for showing attraction for eachother and shipping gwyn and azriel who using her for distraction!

if elucien is a thing! why you don't have the answer to what lucien did to understand his own mate?

why there is a bunch of people have to defend elain's character when the author haven't said a single bit of evil thing about her in the book?.why azriel is being compared with tamlin while azriel did so much for his people that tamlin could never have done !

why you guys are hating every single character and yet reading the book?

#acotar #acotar series #acotar fandom #sarah j maas #pro elain #pro azriel #pro elriel #acosf #acomaf #acowar #acofas #sjm books #sjm ships #anti gw*nriel #anti el*cien

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acourtofantumbra · 2 years

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Pulling at the Thread of the Day Court and the Dawn Court Pt. 2 - ACOSF Bonus Chapter + Witch Mirrors

☆ All SJM spoilers: ACOTAR, CC, and TOG ☆

This is a part two of what could be the longest, most unnecessary theory spiral that will cover the entirety of the SJM multiverse. If you haven't read that first, I'd recommend reading that before you begin. I laid out some beefy concepts and while not everything here directly relates to them... a good chunk of it does. However, it's your life and I support whatever choice you make. *smooch*

A warning… I will be quickly covering the cursed bonus chapter (which I enjoy and, in part, started me on this unhinged SJM theory path). That being said, it’s not where I spend the majority of my time. But if it upsets you, I completely understand, and encourage you to just skip this entirely *A word about my interest in ship sparring (read: none at all) and how I’m just having some fun while attempting to be patient for the next morsel of SJM content from the source herself.*

I always add books and page numbers (and try to add any other relevant citations) to the visuals/sources I use, so check those out if you need some extra info!

Color Key: spoilers, notes from me 2 u, important, important + links, mentioned later in the post, mentioned in another post of mine or in a future post

So in part one, I point out two moments that struck me and started this whole dang spiral... and part two is not the end... god I wish it was...

Quick recap: we covered Lucien and his friend Nuan at the Dawn Court who he says has some of the exact same powers Feyre has, which they both know to be Helion's Day Court magic. Which struck me as odd on many levels. Also, the connection to other faerie realms like Xian and the allusions to what seems like the Southern Continent from TOG.

Ok, but there were actually three things that led me to ramble on tumblr about book theories I have spent way too much time researching.

On my journey to figure out the Dawn Court's Master Tinkerer's —Nuan's — power, that Lucien discovers is the same as the Day Court power Feyre uses to break Hybern's wards, I drove straight into the rascal we've come to know as Helion. I <3 him.

Helion Parallel Scene & Plot King

We've spent time with a smattering of the High Lords, but we know some better than others. As of ACOWAR and ACOSF, Helion is starting to emerge as the third High Lord we "know" the best. In part because he's Rhys and the Night Court's strongest ally as a High Lord of one of the Solar Courts. But Helion also just keeps conveniently popping up in every developing plot line and many of the plot lines that were carefully set up and seemingly abandoned(?). Some examples...

He's incredibly powerful with curse breaking, ward breaking, [insert mysteriously powerful ability here that we don't know yet here], and, described as Rhys' opposite (but different than Tamlin), has a winged beast form that is sunlight embodied... and kind of seems like a griffin maybe? So add that to ever growing list of winged boys throughout the multiverse which is potentially a very important clue

He's Lucien's biological father

He had a long love affair with the Lady of Autumn and that history seems... incomplete and not fully out of the picture

He's got pegasi and no one else has pegasi, but they can't seem to breed anymore

He's got the most libraries (warning: a post on libraries is coming)

According to Rhys there's "trouble at home" for Helion in ACOSF

He's one of the brightest boys in all the land (though Thesan is the brightest) just when we're getting into multiverse Starborn lore

He has the strongest negative reaction to the Dread Trove and can barely stand to be in their presence

Incredibly curious about Nesta... always

I could keep going tbh... and frankly... I want to

I plan on doing a full Helion deep dive, but got distracted by something else first.

So once I started digging into our first full encounter with both Helion and Nuan, a quick thought from Feyre had me screeching to halt. Because... well... its similarities to a certain controversial bonus chapter was... striking to say the least.

So this is Feyre drinking in Helion as the High Lords meet at the Dawn Court to discuss the impending war with Hybern. She's seen him briefly before, but she was a little busy dying.

For some reason she can't stop thinking about her dad and a necklace he brought home from his travels as a merchant. As I've previously said, whenever Sarah includes "couldn't explain why" or "it sort of seemed like this was happening," etc... it's an important detail. Not the most subtle of tools, but hey it's what works for her. And obviously it works because we have all skimmed over moments like these and have been like, "oh my god there it was!"

So in addition to being kind of hungry(?), she "couldn't quite explain why, but" she's picturing "that ancient necklace," she's also associating Helion with a suspiciously familiar land... but one that's notably not one of the seven courts. To me it most resembles a place not located in the world of ACOTAR. It reminds me of the Southern Continent in TOG, which would explain a lot about the connections we have (in this one meeting alone) to alchemists, healing fae powers, magical objects, and more.

Hey Feyre, any clue if your nameless father was was traveling by boat or interdimensional portal?

Ok, now let's compare with Azriel's bonus chapter from ACOSF (yes, I'm bracing myself)... before we do I just want to note: I'm aware a lapis lazuli pendant vs a rose window style stained glass situation isn't the same thing... but... ok just look:

So we've got golden necklaces with a pendant that both Feyre and Azriel think are ooh so sparkly and colorful and secretly beautifully crafted when you look close.

They're also both flooded with pictures, Feyre sees the necklace memory when she's in Helion's presence and Azriel has a vision of Gwyn receiving the necklace when Clotho (oh, I'm gonna be dedicating some time to her one day) mentions it, and they both don't know why. In fact, they find it odd that these visuals came to them. But the memory vs vision distinction is worth noting.

Do I find it very interesting that Helion and Gwyn (tho one could argue Clotho and let's throw in Father Archeron too) inspire these visions of what I will soon explain are almost universal mystical objects? SURE DO.

I also CANNOT find the the interview, but Sarah was asking her friend/interviewer what she thought of the Azriel bonus chapter and alluded to some crucial easter eggs being sprinkled in there. So naturally, when these scenes reminded me of each other I took notice.

A Detour to Witch Mirrors

So let's talk about these pendants! We get a good amount of jewels and jewelry talk in ACOTAR (Amren loves 'em and Rhys has a room like a void full of 'em above the library), but these are fairly unique moments, which is why the comparison came to mind to begin with.

I will get into TOG necklaces and will just note that we obviously have a very important necklace in CC as well — Bryce's Archesian Amulet. I think her amulet is also part of this conversation, but I just wont get into it here.

Rose windows

Ok, so I have seen most folks are assuming that the "rose fashion of stained glass" has been interpreted by most folks as an actual rose, like the flower. A very Beauty and the Beast-like rendering. That's not how I interpreted the the pendant when I saw "rose" preceding "stained glass." Do I know for sure which interpretation is correct? Obviously, no. But when the word rose is applied to types of stained glass design, what is being described is not a traditional flower, but the mandala-style design more commonly associated with gothic cathedrals. Yes, there are pendants (and many other glass objects) that take on this design and it has a rich history, which connects to a lot of SJM set up throughout the multiverse... so I'm going to continue forward assuming my interpretation is correct. And I'll remain fully open to being 200% wrong in the future.

Ok, rose windows: often associated with gothic architecture and cathedrals, their design has spiritual, mystical, significance due to its sacred geometry. Rose windows "transformed the cathedral into an actual “living vessel of the soul”, an embodiment of the “temple within” in which the human and divine can could merge into one." Additionally, rose windows are mandalas (middle photo above): one of the most ancient and universal symbols known to man. They mean many things to many traditions, but often aid in meditation, spiritual journeys, trance states, and mystic arts (this is an incredibly condensed reading of a deeply complex and wide reaching symbol). "The mandala represents man’s relationship with the cosmos, often a symbol of balance between entities."

Back to rose windows, the mystery and mastery of how pure, saturated colors could be technically achieved, rendered in glass as sacred geometry, "led to speculation that alchemy and alchemists may have been involved in its creation." To alchemists, [the rose glass was] “the flower of those who have wisdom, of the perfected soul, and the soul striving toward perfection.” So not too far off from that magnum opus mission aka the philosopher's stone? -> remember how I said I did a whole post talking about alchemy and would probably keep talking about it? It's not too late to dive into the deep end with me and just accept that I'm dealt all the way in on alchemy here.

Lapis lazuli

A "symbol of royalty and honor, gods and power, spirit and vision. It is a universal symbol of wisdom and truth." Tbh this stone could have it's own post with the number of meanings it's been assigned... but it's "one of the oldest spiritual stones known to man; used by healers, priests, and royalty..." and is believed to be a "powerful stone for thinking and spirituality, and it has a very high vibration," allowing it to "increase self-knowledge and awareness of one’s own thoughts and can help you to trust your inner wisdom." It also enhances psychic and intuitive abilities, and connects the spiritual realm with the physical. Some traditions believed a god's spirit was contained within the stone. Lapis lazuli also has connections to alchemy's mythological magnum opus known as the philosopher's stone "lapis philosophorum." (one day i might be brave enough to dive into the philosopher's stone... we'll see)

So what does any of this mandala, rose window, lapis, and alchemy stuff have to do with a fun fantasy book series or really... anything? Well, know that I'm unhinged. But, ok, the two necklaces and their symbolisms aren't the same per se, but have more things in common than they do differences. And I find their differences interesting because we return to the connection between lapis lazuli and Feyre's memory; and rose glass and Azriel's vision. Lapis is related to self-knowledge and intuition, while rose glass has been connected to fate within the cosmos and transformation of the soul.

So maybe the necklace Feyre saw doesn't sound like a perfect visual match to the necklace Azriel buys... there was another very important necklace described as ancient, gold, and lapis colored. The Eye of Elena from Throne of Glass (the third picture in the trio above). Looks pretty mandala-like doesn't it?

In the beginning of TOG, Queen Elena gives Aelin an amulet of great power — that she and others wear consistently throughout the series — from whatever world or realm she portaled in from. Dorian identifies it as the lost, legendary Eye of Elena. Eyes again relate back to my alchemy conversation and the Gate of Truth — interesting that they find a recreation of the Eye of Elena alter at the God of Truth's altar/temple. But Manon is the one to point out that this name for the pendant/amulet is incorrect... because the eye is actually a witch mirror.

Here are a collection of excerpts, which will be kind of confusing if you haven't read TOG, but I'll quickly break them down below and hopefully get to witch mirrors on their own one day.

In TOG we have encountered a bunch of witch mirrors, but their scope is still kind of mysterious. So Sarah we really need you to finally release The World of Throne of Glass, plz and ty.

We know from Maeve that there are "mirrors to spy, to travel, to kill." Below are essentially all of the known mirror powers thus far... and that's starting to all sound pretty familiar isn't it?

In TOG, we have power mirrors like Witch towers that amplify magic like the yielding ability (*sobs*) to cause incredible destruction. We also have more traditional mirror-looking witch mirrors. Like the traveling mirror Aelin and Manon enter to access Elena's memories of the Lock (and her failed attempt at containing Erawan/her series-long grift).

Most importantly, Manon corrects Aelin regarding the Eye of Elena and says it's a witch symbol called The Eye of the Goddess — and references the three-faced goddess we encounter in every world with the Mother, Maiden, and the Crone. We later discover the TOG Sun Goddess Mala had a Cochran witch help her put her "very essence" into a "small witch mirror disguised as a blue stone" meant to forge a Lock and contain a Valg King.

Also Manon alludes to there being... more than just the one Eye of the Goddess perhaps?

The Eye of the Goddess contains Mala's power just as Lapis Lazuli was believed to do. Plus, we enter the "rare silvers whose forging demands something vital from the maker" territory that... once again... screams alchemy. When Elena's wastes is one usage it doesn't just crap out like an old battery. Time and time again it protects Aelin & co. and provides a direct path to the TOG gods... like when Deanna possesses Aelin and is remarkably destructive... and one could argue a little unhelpful.

Witch Mirrors In Conclusion...

Am I confident I know exactly why the Feyre-Helion ACOMAF and Azriel-Clotho-Gwyn ACOSF scenes read the same? No. Do I think we have some witch mirrors in ACOTAR? I really do. And that's not even including the whole Bog of Oorid conversation...

We know when Bryce lands in Prythian we, now more than ever, need ways to communicate or travel to other worlds. In Throne of Glass it becomes clear that witch mirrors are at least one effective and proven way to do this. I think Sarah would have baked in some tools that have been sitting in plain sight to help us be able to do that.

Do I think we haven't even seen the tip of the iceberg re: witches in ACOTAR/all the worlds? For sure. (and it's a convo for another time because I need to fully read up on witch mirrors and witches y'all). But I think it's very possible a certain singing priestess now owns a potentially world speaking or walking necklace/witch mirror - the same objects Dorian asks Maeve about in KOA. The kind that might make themselves known as something different by projecting images, whether they're memories or visions.

I am really just scratching the surface here, but this is all the spiraling I had budgeted for today.

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rise-deepseamonster · 2 years

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Why do you hate acotar so much??? It was a pretty good series...

Sure the last two books weren't really good but the original triology was great

Ah I've been waiting for someone to give an opening question to my inevitably long discourse on this topic.

Here we go.

Firstly, the plot.

Too many holes, too many unnecessary things put together in trying to give “romantic” circumstances for the characters. Besides, if more than one character gets resurrected per series, u know the author is trying to overdo the sentimentality thing and its gets kinda tiring. Like cmon, give Death some sanctity.

Next, a lot of the terrible things that the main characters do are being portrayed as good deeds. I love it when the characters make terrible choices and regret them or feel ashamed and want to take them back or something etc etc but blatantly doing something terrible and not really giving it a second thought and showing it under good light as though people really deserve that kind of thing... I love badass girls but they’re only badass when they do things that are actually badass in defence of things that are either morally correct or enabling the public and basically heroism is badass, not just doing something cunning and petty for the sake of revenge or because you can’t think of a better way to do things. (Im talking about trying to hoodwink Tarquin by “seducing” him and trashing Spring Court for petty revenge and not thinking of the bigger things like war and the people and Rhys condoning it and not thinking it bad at all. Is it really love if you’re going to be blind to all of one’s mistakes? I think its obsession)

Also whats with the constant seduction technique shown by all the women? Really? Is there no other way to practice deceit than with lust? This is the sign of an unimaginative narrative. It’s stupid and it is blatant objectification and also plain boring. Not to mention, cringe-y. Not only do they practice this seduction method for getting what they want from allies and enemies, they use it as a “distraction” and a “show” for their own people in the Court of Nightmares. I can’t even begin with how sick it is to even think of portraying one self as rulers of a place and just... is it just me or does no one see something wrong with all the sexualization of women in this book? Is it just normally accepted now to have sex left and right as though sex is the bedrock of a relationship?

Which is what I’d like to come to next. All the relationships in this book are built on lust and sexual tension with literally no other element. From the very beginning whether it be Nessian or Feysand, both are just pining over each other sexually. Maybe thats just me being demi or a prude or whatever but really? Is that what people want for themselves these days? What people idolize as a perfect relationship?

Next, Lucien. He’s is basically the nicest character in the entire series and he’s ill-treated by everyone always and when he goes on to find friends in another circle Feyre looks at him as though its a betrayal. The Inner Circle is a friend group which is basically just 3 lusty bachelors, their girlfriends, their sisters and Amren, who joined mainly because she saw the power offered by that court and the vision of a better world there. (Maybe if she had met Tarquin and maybe if Summer Court had been closer to the Prison maybe she’d be there)

Next, the relationship between Feyre and her sisters. We were robbed of a true healing between them. The author made it look as though Nesta was merely healing from her trauma of her mother dying. Oh so there was nothing else to heal? Years of resentment between the sisters on both sides? You save a baby and miraculously all is ok? That is not how feelings work. Thats not how relationships work especially with sisters who had a mother who showed favoritism. Trust me when I say there is always a scar left behind for that and it can only be healed when you actually work through it together, not go on a sex binge with your sister’s brother-in-law. (seriously there is no other chemistry from Nesta’s side though; even Cassian looks at her at first cuz shes pretty...ugh im just frustrated with all of these lusty relationships with insubstantial chemistry). There is also a prevailing sentiment where people are defending Nesta’s actions towards Feyre during their years of poverty as a result of her trauma. Just so everyone is clear, trauma is not an excuse to do terrible things like letting one’s sister go off on her own to defend the family from starvation all the while putting her down. So yes, Nesta was traumatized but no way in hell is that an excuse. Elain is also at extreme fault. And their father. Seriously what kind of a family lets the youngest daughter go out to feed them and treats her like shit when she comes back? That isnt just trauma thats just complacency and superiority born of supreme arrogance and indifference. There is no way in hell you actually care about your sister in ANYWAY one should care about their sister if you’re going to let her hunt for food AND do everything else around the house all while you insult her and sit and listen as your other sister insults her. And all that was offered as an apology was “Yes we are both equally at fault”. Pathetic. I would’ve been ok if there had actually been a proper healing arc. Hell I would’ve been ok if Nesta never reconciled and went to live off on her own and lived happily ever after. But what I cannot accept is this half-baked shit as though healing from her trauma is making things up to her sister. I might sound cruel in this but girl, trauma is UR problem, not ur sisters’, she deserves a fucking apology at the fucking least.

Lastly, the ending feels like a hastily made, over-ingredient-ified porrige-cross-stew. Literally, she just went like oh look I got this terrible monster I met, oh guess what I got this terrible monster too. Without even damning consequences. No consequence at all, these old as hell creatures just came and did your bidding? For releasing them from their prisons and asking them nicely? The entire book, you’re going on about how the world is cruel and terrible and suddenly all the big bad monsters are actually puppy dogs without a price? Feels incomplete to say the least and unsatisfying.

The other things are very minimal representation (also Mor bores me. 500 years is a damn long time to keep somebody constantly pining. She doesn’t have to come out. She just has to let him down. But then again, Azriel has to have gotten a hint over the past 500 years. He’s a fucking spymaster. I mean just think about it. You pine over a girl and the girl knows you like them and she has been constantly ignoring it for 500yrs and I think at one point it goes from persistence to entitlement. Remember when Mor says he gets confused now and then over the fact that she sleeps with men and women? Does that mean he thinks theres a chance for him just because she sleeps with men? Even if she did, she has rejected you for 500yrs! It’s time to let it the fuck go.)

I’m sure I can think of more reasons but honestly the more I think of this series the more I feel this savage instinct to deck someone. I think the main thing that aggravates me is that I honestly feel its a good start but it has been supremely messed up in the writing and the character representation. Like bad plot? Just drop the book. But good start to the story, you like it and then suddenly all the characters act so damn weird and sick and artificial and the plot goes off the rails. Thats like constantly picking a scab and trying to see all the places it unsettles. Terrible for the mind. So I hope that whoever reads this series next actually thinks about what kind of content they’re letting live rent free in their mind. If you’re still with me, thank you for reading my rant till the end!

#btw thank you for the ask #loved ranting #long post #acotar rank #anti acotar #anti feysand #anti nessian #feysand #nessian #sjm #acotar #asks #rants

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highfaelucien · 3 years

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Unpopular take of the day: Feyre should not have had a baby for at least another few centuries. Minimum.

She's barely 22. She's spent her entire life being a parent to her father and sisters. Then she ends up having to save Prythian. Then the world.

The first chance she gets to actually focus on herself and her own happiness and sj/m gives her a fucking baby??

She's immortal. Her son is immortal. She will never not be a parent now. When her son is 500 she'll be 522, which is barely any difference at all.

She should have been allowed to just fucking BE. And it's not like this was an accident when there are contraceptive options.

I know Rhys is older, but if he was getting broody he could just pipe the fuck down. I just feel sad for her, honestly. She deserves better than this.

And don't even get me started on the fact she nearly fucking died. And captain feminism himself NEVER EVEN FUCKING TOLD HER HOW DANGEROUS IT WAS TO LET HER CHOOSE HOW TO DEAL WITH IT!?

#feyre archeron #rhysand #anti sjm #acotar series #wtf was she thinking #i mean i know what she was thinking but good god #text post tag #rhys: u will always have a choice #except when i think u will make the wrong one #rhys could have been a feminist icon but unfortunately sjm exists

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anyoneseenadam · 3 years

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Healing

pairing: Azriel x reader (acotar)

warnings: TW - sexual assault, rape, objectification and implications of abuse, smut, consensual sex, azriel is a sweetie and rhys is a good bestie

a/n: first of all PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS!!! i’m really proud of this fic but I don’t want to trigger or upset anyone, that being said it isn’t too graphic but still. Anyway I hope u enjoy, this took me three days lmao <333

based on: this and this

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You had your first less than savoury encounter with men when you had barely turned nine. Your body still hadn’t finished forming, but you were growing, and your body was gaining some semblance of shape as you did. It wasn’t much – just a whistle from across the street – but for a second your heart seized up with fear, and in the next you almost felt giddy. A man thought you were beautiful.

You felt like a princess that day – felt the way you had when the boy from your class had kissed your cheek, still too young to process the intentions behind that single whistle. But you didn’t care – someone wanted you.

When you got your first period at twelve – even more changed. Your body felt new, and you didn’t feel comfortable in the changes. Your old clothes didn’t fit and now your mother forced you into tighter corsets for those long, long dinners you had to attend. Your parents were respected Fae in the Hewn City – nobles who liked to drink and smoke and throw extravagant balls. And with your new body you could no longer simply hide in the corner or climb through secret passages with your friends – muddying your dresses.

Now you had to smile when men hugged you slightly too long, laugh when they commented on how much you had grown up, sit pretty and pristine with an old mans hand loitering to close to your rear for hours as you watched your parents drink away their troubles.

By the time you were fifteen you were used to the constant attention, your beauty not uncommon where you lived but still doted on often. Unaware of their desire for your youth, your naivety. The women never offering a helping hand but instead glaring down high skewed noses as their husbands slurred into your ears – still in shock that a pretty, young thing like you was all alone at this party.

When you were sixteen you decided to change that – kissing an alright looking boy at a party and telling him exactly what he wanted to hear so he would kiss you back. He stayed when you didn’t protest as he pulled you to the bathroom and pushed you to your knees. And for this small request, the greasy hands on your body at balls and dinners or any other social gathering halved – now only the truly self-righteous felt they could touch you still.

The only problem was you truly did love the boy you had chosen. He had faults yes, but he was kind – he brought you flowers and kissed your cheek. But he also spoke over you, forced you into silence and took what he wanted. And he always wanted the same thing.

If anything it was his father’s fault. The military commander never leaving room for debate when he argues with his wife – and sons only become what they see in their fathers.

Your father had left with a younger woman a few months after your fourteenth birthday, and you hadn’t seen him since – only heard stories of him galivanting around the autumn court from your classmates. You could see the distaste your mum held you in as she realised she would have to stick around to look after you, not yet old enough to be married. Then Amarantha had taken hold of the country and that possibility had been thrown out the window anyway.

Weirdly enough not that much changed in your life when she took power, the only major difference was that now you had to block out screams before going to sleep and even they had become like white noise. You still drank with your friends on Friday nights, went out with your boyfriend on Saturdays and slept the pain away on Sundays. Your weekdays consisted of school, dinners, balls and whatever more your mother could throw together to appease the high queen.

That and the high lord of the night court had started making appearances at the events your mother threw. He was a cruel man standing so proudly at the queen’s side – but you saw something flickering in his eyes whenever people spoke, complimenting his power and rule. You saw what you felt as you laughed at compliments and lingering touches – you saw pain, but more importantly you saw anger. And right now you could use anger.

During one ball you watched him leave, taking an odd route – not the one that would help him escape the loud music but instead a long winding corridor leading to a series of smaller rooms. Without thought you peeled away from your company, muttering excuses and went after him – grabbing a bottle of wine as you did.

You found him reclining in an empty room and knocked on the door gently. He cracked open an eye – slow like a cat – and beckoned you in. You moved to perch next to him, leaning back with a straight back and letting your head loll slightly as you took a swig of the dark red wine, before passing him the bottle.

“You looked like you could use a drink,” you smiled, eyes focused on his sharp jaw as he held the bottle to his mouth with a laugh.

“One way of putting it,” he smiled. The two of you sat in silence for several minutes as you took in his beauty, his looks plus mannerisms all made him seem like a wild cat - a panther trapped underground.

“Why are you here?” he finally asked, and you raised a hand to trace that sharp jaw. But instead of devouring you as any lesser man would’ve, he brushed your hand away and held it tightly in his larger one. “That’s not gonna happen, you’re what sixteen?”

“Almost seventeen,” you said, cheekily. He laughed but shook his head, squeezing your hand before releasing it.

“You’re still a child,” he said matter-of-factly, and you scoffed, stealing your wine back to drink again.

“Yeah well that’s usually a selling point,” your voice was sad, but you didn’t dare let your eyes stray from his – refusing to show fear, “And you’re so nice to me, I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

He laughed as you pouted, “You practice this in the mirror or something?”

“Usually works in three seconds,” you confess, and he whistles under his breath, “Men are rather easy to manipulate when they’ve been trying to get into your skirts since your first bleed.”

“And you wonder why I’m not about to take advantage of you,” he laughed, and you smiled – a real smile, or real enough. “Plus I don’t think your little boyfriend would be pleased.”

“Eh, he’s never pleased - I don’t think this could make him worse.” Rhysand took the wine back and frowned.

“Does he hurt you?” his voice was sincere but the laugh you let out was not.

“Don’t all men,” he swore, and you laughed again, “Yet you foil my plan to make you fall in love with me and whisk me away to the moon.”

He laughed, but his eyes darkened with deep sadness you were sure you would never understand, “I think we both no that even I could not do that, but I might be able to crush your fly.”

“Little boyfriend? Fly? You really don’t like him do you?” you laughed, head lighter already.

“I don’t like any man who thinks they can hurt women,” he said, frowning when he realised through your passing back and forth there was no wine left.

“Shit that took us like five minutes,” you complained, and he laughed, waving his hand lightly as several more bottles appeared before you – you grinned as you grabbed another.

“So any friends with weaker moral backbones that I could marry?” you asked with a laugh, and he smiled at you.

“I’m sure I could find someone,” he leaned back again. You smiled – finally happy that one night might pass in the company of a decent man.

Soon, you’d find it would be more than one night, a close friendship quickly blossoming between you and the high lord. All your friends were convinced you were sleeping together but true to his word he didn’t touch you, and by the time you surpassed the age of eighteen you didn’t want him to. But that didn’t stop other men.

After a particularly bad argument with your boyfriend that had left you with a handprint on your left cheek you had broken up with him – sending away his apologies and flowers, smart enough to see he didn’t hold the mental capacity to change.

Plus you were beautiful and young, you could certainly do better. And you soon did – rich men who liked to buy you jewellery, and fine clothes, men who enjoyed literature and art and spending time with you.

And at the start of each relationship, for a few blissful seconds you would believe in their pure intentions. But then a hand would drift from your lower back to your ass, or the gentle kiss that followed a necklace would shift from your mouth to your breasts. Not one of them wanted to wait until you were comfortable, so you made yourself comfortable.

You pictured pretty, strong men were holding you down and making you feel something, slipping your own hand between your legs and they penetrated you to try and replicate what you were sure a lover’s touch must feel like. And as always – after the first time- they stopped asking for permission, you were their toy, so you no longer had choice over that part of yourself.

But through nice guys and bad boys, for fifty years you had Rhysand who was a friend – who treated you with respect and finally let you talk, let you breathe.

In the end he was the one who found you, in the backroom of a party – drunk and undressed. You were weeping, curled in a ball with your attackers’ seed dripping out of you, bruises decorating your bare skin. When he turned you over with his comforting hands he found your nose dripping red and the vibrant lipstick you wore smudged.

He helped you sit up and redress, took you home and stood outside the bathroom while you scrubbed yourself clean in scalding water – still unsteady on your feet. You changed into a nightgown silently and neither of you said a word when you crawled into bed next to each other, crying in your best friends’ arms as he tried to console you.

When you woke up, he was gone with just a scribbled message about Amarantha and the name of a healer he trusted. But you just placed it back down, turning onto your back and staring at the ceiling as hot tears ran into your hairline.

You barely ate anything for the days following your assault – fighting with your mother more when you rarely saw her and subsequently breaking it off with your current boyfriend. You had thrown his hands off you when he tried to touch you and the screaming match that followed ended your relationship.

Your bond with Rhysand grew only closer however as you spent nights drinking in candlelight, talking about anything and everything until you were sure he knew every inch of your soul and you his.

“You know what I’m going to do as soon as she’s gone,” you whispered one night as you stared at the twinkling lights you had hung on your bedroom roof to imitate stars.

“What?” Rhys had asked, never letting his eyes leave the ‘stars’ which he had laughed at and then proceeded to rearrange to make them more accurate. To which you threw a pillow at his head.

“Find a hill, or a pier, or a large pit or anything and scream into it until my throat bleeds.” You said and he laughed, the bed beneath you rumbling.

“Consider me on board.” He joked as you sat up to perch at your vanity – smudging the sharp eyeliner you wore with a small brush and applying some red lipstick.

“Wanna go out?” you asked him, and he sat up to with a small, sad smile.

“Can’t.” you understood his implication and frowned.

“I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t gutted me yet,” you tried to lighten the mood, but his face darkened slightly when he joked back.

“Oh she wants to, I’m telling her any information you give me about citizens, so she doesn’t.” He said, ruffling your hair as he stood to leave.

“That’s fair, I’ll keep an ear out,” you smiled, squeezing his hand gently before he left.

Things changed when Feyre Archeron appeared, you saw the way your friend watched her and realised you might be competing for his attention soon, but you were happy for him. Until he brought her to that first party – drugged and barely dressed. You felt the bile rise in your throat as you pushed down memories of yourself in such a similar position, and while you knew he would never hurt her – he was still a man. And you were foolish to believe for all those years that he was a man who would realise this was wrong.

Making polite excuses you left the party, picking up the tails of your dress as you all but raced home – ditching the dress and closing the blinds tightly as you made yourself food in your underwear. The sick feeling in your throat spreading through your chest and stomach as you ate, abandoning your meal halfway for a book and large sweater. And when he knocked on your door that night, desperate to tell you all about her – all about the human girl who he was sure could be his mate, you pretended to be asleep.

You barely spoke to him the whole time she was there, unable to look him in the eyes when she was so clearly out of it – and the feeling only grew when the next morning she would have all eyes on her. You understood that feeling. You instead spent parties flirting with Tarquin, the young high lord who was only a few years your senior or warding off marriage invitations with laughs and carefully placed words.

Rhys would sometimes catch your eyes – furrowing his eyebrows at you when you avoided his gaze, the sick feeling never really leaving. But it wasn’t until you watched Tamlin slay Amarantha with a smile that he tried to speak to you again. Feyre was Fae and leaving with her betrothed and Rhysand had just confirmed they were mates – and never had he needed his best friend quiet like he did now.

You were sitting when he found you, head in your palms and blood dusting the skirts of your dress. You had been sitting near Amarantha when it happened. You looked up when he neared, smiling sadly as he sat next to you.

“Want to go home?” he asked you quietly and you scoffed, standing, and moving to leave quickly. He followed after you, grabbing your arm as you wrenched it out of his grip with more ferocity than he had ever seen from you.

“Don’t touch me,” he held his hands up, backing away to give you space as you got your breathing under control.

“What did I do?” he asked – smart enough to not presume anything.

“How could you think it was okay, after what happened?” your voice was quiet again, and so sad.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he implored, stepping slightly closer again. You raised your eyes to meet his and he understood, the darkness you carried in your eyes shining through – the memories that resurfaced in those dark moments. “I’m sorry, let me explain please.”

You let him hold your arm softly as he winnowed the two of you to your house where you sat down heavy and tired.

“I did it because she needed out of that cell, but I saw what they did to you and you’re a fae woman, she’s… she was human. So it meant that no one else would touch her.” He tried to explain, “And she wouldn’t want to remember.”

“That’s a horrible thing to do Rhys.” You stated and he hung his head low, “How in anyway was that helping her, to get her out you could’ve snuck her here or just take her to a ball and let her dress normally.”

“I’m sorry, I just knew this would’ve been the safest option,” he grabbed your hand again and squeezed it like he did all those years ago, “It’s over, we can go home.”

“I am home,” you laughed bitterly, gesturing to your house.

“No, you’re coming out of this city – we’re putting it behind us.” He stood and held out a hand.

“I know you’re trying to be dramatic and all, but I have to pack – and think.” You said and he laughed.

“Take your time,” he said, sitting back to wait for you, “And I know it might take you a while to forgive me, but I’ll wait.”

You had left soon after, as he revealed his city to you. Winnowing to a house where two beautiful women stood at the door, strong winged men appearing next to them almost instantly – all sharing the same tear-eyed look. Well, all asides from a short, dark-haired woman who simply smiled.

The men you presumed were Azriel and Cassian barrelled towards Rhysand, attacking him in the most violent hug you had ever witnessed. Mor followed soon after and Amren simply offered him a curt nod, to which he bowed slightly with a cheeky smile.

Cassian turned to look at you and everyone followed suit, you straightened up – not wanting to cower under their gazes.

“And this, this is (y/n).” Rhysand said, placing a hand on your elbow, “She’s the only reason I survived under the mountain.”

You smiled at him, annoyed still – but you still held so much love for him in your heart. You looked away when Cassian approached and wrapped you in a tight hug, lifting you off the ground slightly.

When he released you he looked you dead in the eye, “I am forever in your service.”

“Cassian let go of the poor girl,” Mor exclaimed behind him, and you giggled, looking to Rhys for support.

“Forgot to tell you he’s a hugger,” he shrugged, and you shoved his shoulder.

“Oh did you!” you laughed.

“Gotta get used to it, you’re part of the team now,” Cassian slung an arm around your shoulder as he guided you inside, “which means lots of hugs and long talks about emotions.”

“Don’t steal my best friend Cassian,” Rhys jabbed at his brother as you all moved to sit inside around a long table.

“He already had I’m afraid, can’t reverse love like ours,” you joined in, patting Cassian’s hand as he punched the air in victory, Rhysand feigning pain as he dramatically collapsed into his chair – a hand over his heart.

When you were finally seated you caught Azriel’s gaze, his eyes locked on you – having watched you interact with his family for less than five minutes and already completely enamoured. You smiled softly when you caught his gaze and he grinned at you, no words passing.

Later that evening – after too many drinks, you found yourself alone on a balcony you found, drinking in the fresh air greedily after all those years underground. You didn’t realise he was there until he was next to you – silent on his feet, his shadows a cool chill passing over your shoulders.

You tilted your head to look at him, in awe of his beauty. Not even Rhysand had awed you as much as this man was, his beauty unparalleled by anyone you had met before. He turned his gaze down to you as well, fighting the urge to reach out and touch you as he watched you move with such elegant curiosity.

“We haven’t had the pleasure of being formally introduced,” you smiled, lifting your hand delicately, “I’m (y/n).”

He met your hand halfway, lifting it to his mouth with perfectly poised and trained grace. “Azriel,” his voice was deep, gruff – and sent chills through you quickly. But when he moved your hand from his mouth you held on, the sparks flowing through you telling you all you needed to know. He similarly made no move to let go.

“Are we? I don’t really know how any of this works,” you laughed nervously but he smiled so warmly and tugged you slightly closer to him with the hand you were still clutching.

“You’re my mate princess,” he said, voice rough from disuse. You smiled widely, eyes forming tears as your gaze never strayed from him – finally getting one person who would truly love you, not your body – but you. He tugged your hand gently and you followed him inside, smiling and love drunk.

“We should probably go to the house of wind,” his voice was quiet as you furrowed your eyebrows at him.

“Me and Cassian have to share a room here, the bed are singles.” You smiled and laughed – irrevocably happy.

“Yeah maybe not,” you said, and he held your hand softly as he walked you to the front door, passed his past out friends, Rhys cracking an eye open when you walked past him, and you turned when he tugged your skirt gently.

You okay? He asked in your mind, and you smiled at him.

I’m perfect, why? You replied as he closed his eyes again, clearly too tired to hold them open - Azriel moving to retrieve your coats.

Just don’t feel pressured into doing anything you’re not ready for, Azriel is understanding he won’t get angry. A sort of cold feeling settled on your shoulders when you realised why Azriel wanted that extra privacy.

Shit forgot I had to do that you joked but Rhysand felt the stress growing, however before he could reply Azriel was by your side again and you were waving him goodbye, your smile tight lipped.

Honestly, you trusted Rhysand when he said that Azriel would understand – but so far you had yet to meet a man who truly respected the boundaries you set, a man who would truly wait. Azriel met your eyes in silent questions before scooping you into his arms, flying high above the house as you squealed in his arms, clinging tightly to his neck, and shutting your eyes tightly as you soared above the vibrant city.

He felt you tense as you neared the house, swooping lower in order to land on the large balcony attached to his room. He placed you on shaky legs gently and looked down to smile at you again – heart so full of love and peace.

Not only was his brother returned to him in one piece, but along beside him came you. His mate. His mate.

You caught his gaze and gave him a tight-lipped smile, terrified for history to repeat itself. You wanted to talk to him and know him – you didn’t want him to learn to love your body instead of you. And you were truly afraid to be touched again, you hadn’t been with a man since you were raped – fear stopping you before they could get close and walls slamming up if they tried.

“Are you okay?” Azriel’s voice was dripping with concern – genuine concern, and the way he said it made tears well up in your eyes. His own instantly widened as he sensed the sadness and fear rolling of you in waves, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as you sobbed into his chest. “Oh sweetheart we don’t have to do anything, c’mon lets go sit down.”

He guided you through the glass doors and sat you down gently on the bed, holding you gently and coaxing you through your breakdown. Once your breathing had calmed slightly and you had pulled out of his embrace, wiping your tears harshly with the butt of your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered quietly, terrified to anger your mate when you’ve only just found him.

“It’s okay darling, what’s wrong – did I do something? You’re not terrified of heights are you?” he asked, and you laughed softly, a smile growing on his face as his worries eased slightly.

“No, that was fun,” he grabbed your hand in his scarred ones and you gripped it tightly.

“Then what was it?” you looked into those beautiful, worried eyes and let out an exhale – bottom lip quivering.

“I just don’t think I can – I can’t do that tonight.” You whispered the words lowly, afraid of his reaction as you clung like a child to his hand.

“Hey, that’s okay – we don’t have to do anything until you’re ready,” he smiled, worries easing. You still wanted to be with him, just not in that way yet – and he could wait. He would wait a million years if you asked.

“Even if I’m not ready for a while?” You asked, and he held your face in his hands gently – looking into your tear-filled, defeated eyes.

“I would wait forever and then some – I have already waited so long to meet you, I’m sure I can last longer, especially if you’re next to me.” Your smile was so sad when you met his eyes.

“I’ve been told that before,” Azriel just pulled you closer to him with a cheeky grin.

“And were any of them your mate?”

“No,” you smiled at him again and he thought his heart was going to combust.

“Well then, I love to prove people wrong.” You buried your head into his chest as his arms came around you once more, “Would you like to sleep here, or would you like your own room?”

“Here is fine, I like the way you make me feel,” you said quietly, tugging on the bond experimentally. Azriel just smiled and tugged back.

“That works for me, I’ll get you a change of clothes.” He moved to stand but you stopped him – tugging on the dress shirt he wore.

“I want this,” you grinned cheekily up at him, and he laughed, but undid the buttons and pulled it off anyway – turning around to let you change in peace. When he turned back around you were looking up at him with wide eyes – looking impossibly cute in his shirt.

“It has holes in the back,” you complained, and he laughed, sitting down to tug off his trousers before sliding under the covers as you scrambled to lay in his arms.

“Well I do have wings,” he cemented his point by letting one drape over your shoulders as you sighed in content.

“Really, I hadn’t noticed,” you deadpanned quietly, burrowed deep under his arms and the covers. His chest rumbled with the silent laugh as he pressed a kiss into your hairline.

The next morning he awoke to you laying on his chest, tracing the scars on the backs of his hands with a delicately pointed finger. He stared in wonder, and you must have felt his gaze because you turned your head to meet his eyes, face still puffy from sleep. As you whispered to him that morning, your chin resting on his chest as you gazed up at him until he rose to get your morning drinks. Barely daring to leave for more than a few seconds. And when he returned he was so glad he did – welcoming the sight of you curled up under his sheets with a shy smile and tired eyes.

“Do we have to do anything today?” you asked as you sipped your drink slowly, Azriel’s’ arm tight and secure around your waist.

“Nope,” he said, delighted at the prospect, “I just want to be with you and my family.”

“Sounds heavenly.”

True to his word, for the next few weeks that past, you and Azriel didn’t progress past slow, occasional kisses and lingering touches. But before either of those he was always searching your eyes – asking permission. And you truly fell in love with him during those weeks.

He was caring and consistent – never promising anything he couldn’t bring. And he cared for you, he cared for you past your body and looks. He wanted to be with you for an eternity.

One night, while you lay together, speaking lowly and listening to the rain fall outside your room – a glass door cracked open, you decided you were ready. You pressed closer to him, your lips meeting his own in a kiss more passionate than you had previously shared.

He followed your lead with just as much passion, but when you crawled into his lap he pulled away slightly.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to rush you,” he asked quietly, hands coming to rest on your hips.

“I’m sure, I love you and I want to be with you.” You told him sincerely, “But I haven’t been with anyone in a few years so I’m a little out of practice.”

You giggled nervously but he furrowed his eyebrows, “But you told me about your boyfriends?”

“Yeah but I – stopped dating about five years ago.” You tried to explain quickly, old nerves being brought up, but Azriel pulled you closer and as always his touch calmed you.

“Can I ask why?” he watched you drop your head a little as you breathed slowly – determined to not let your fear rise, you would probably end up telling him anyway so you might as well get it over with.

“I was raped.” You stated and his grip on your hips tightened slightly as he swore.

“Darling, I’m so sorry,” he started but you stopped him with a sharp glaze.

“You don’t need to apologise, it happened and it’s over now.” He could practically feel you pull away, so he loosened his grip on your hips and instead brought his arms up to hold you against his chest.

“Who did it?” he asked, voice dark and dangerous. You muttered a name lowly – under your breath – and he pocketed in the darkest corners of his mind for later. His shadows itching to tear the man apart.

“Look (y/n), if you’re ready I am more than happy to oblige but I need to know you’re really ready, I will wait as long as you need.” You pulled away from his chest and kissed him gently.

“I’m ready, I trust you,” he smiled up at you from where you perched on his lap and you giggled and he flipped you over, laying between your legs with a feral grin.

He made you cum three times with his mouth and those beautiful, beautiful hands alone – more than you had ever experienced with a man and he hadn’t even received any pleasure yet. Except from the pleasure of watching his perfect mate fall apart on his sheets, over and over.

And when he lay over you, your legs pushed up and wrapped around his waist, and his forearms on either side of your head – he would later swear he had never felt more complete.

“I’m here with you remember, will be the whole time.” He assured you, voice soft as he lined himself up and you smiled.

“I love you so much,” you whispered, and he pushed in slowly, filling every part of you and pushing against every spot you didn’t know you had. You swore under your breath when he bottomed out, the slight pain quickly being reduced to please as he dropped his head into the crook of your neck.

“Fuck baby, you feel so good,” you felt shivers run through your body at his gruff voice and smiled, moaning when he began to move.

He pulled his head from where it hid in your neck and watched as you closed your eyes – head thrown back with a smile – and his hips bucked, desperately trying to control himself as he watched you arch your back.

“Shit Az, you’re so big,” you moaned loudly, unaware of the trance you had pulled your mate into.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered with a harsh thrust, a hand coming to stroke down your face as you opened your eyes to meet his, “So perfect.”

You felt as if your heart was going to burst from the love that filled it as you reached up to kiss him softly – conveying every word, every thought, through that kiss. When you pulled away you were nearing your end, the sensations building in you without the need of a fantasy or your own hand.

You moaned his name, gripping his shoulders tightly as one hand instinctively moved to stroke down his wing. He shuddered above you with a loud groan – his thrusts speeding up as he to neared release, yours hips surely bruising from the force of his own.

“C’mon baby, need to feel you, need to know you’re mine.” His words ignited something in your stomach, and you clung tighter to him, kissing his sharp jaw as you smiled.

“I’m yours Azriel, now and forever.” Your gentle words pushed him over the edge and his skilful fingers dipping between your thighs brought you down with him. The two of you crying out at the sensations you shared as a growing need to never let him go consumed you.

He collapsed on top of you soon after and he intertwined your fingers with his own as your breathing evened out. He slipped out of you, and you smiled up at him as he sat up, rolling off your body and laying to the side while you came to rest your head on his firm chest. He brought his spare hand upwards – twirling strands of your hair slightly as you rested in silence. After a few minutes, you clambered into his lap and kissed him firmly as he pulled you impossibly close.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his lips, and he felt his heart swell with gratitude to the world for giving him an angel that would willingly hold his hand and guide him out of the darkness.

“I am so in love with you,” he whispered back, and you giggled, a hand moving slowly to stroke him as you felt him harden beneath you again.

“Hmm, is that so?” you whispered.

Azriel, who had started pressing light kisses into your neck, nipped you gently, making you squeal, “What were you saying darling?”

“That I am also deeply, and unequivocally in love with you.” You replied and he rolled his eyes.

“Just putting me to shame with your big words.” He muttered and you giggled – crawling down his body.

“I’m sure I could make it up to you.”

#acofas #acotar #azriel #acomaf #azriel x reader #acowar #acofs #acosf

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