#the gates to the hewn city

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Practice On Me — Finale — Azriel x Reader

Summary: The grand Illyrian ball is here. Reader is more than ready to return to Windhaven and Azriel, but daddy Fin throws a huge spanner in the works. Life as they know it is about to change.

Note — I’ve tried to tag everyone who’s asked but there are some people that it simply won’t let me tag 🥲

Word Count: 10.6k (oop, sorry 😅)

Warnings: There’s a looot to unpack here. Depictions of violence and gore. Some light smut. 18+!

This place is cold and unforgiving.

The air in your lungs is constricted before you’ve even stepped through the giant gates. They call it the Hewn City due to its entirety being hewn from cold, hard rock.

But you get the feeling these walls are more than that. You can feel the horror in the cracks, the loneliness that screams behind its surface.

You don’t know how Mor has survived so long here. You’re already itching to get out.

A warm hand splays across your back, and you turn to face Fin. It’s not the first time he drinks you in so hungrily, but you could be forgiven for thinking so, by the way his eyes heat all over again. He glances quickly at your lips, and in this empty meeting room that he’s stolen you away to, you’re not at all sure that he isn’t bold enough to act on that hunger.

“Focus, High Lord.” You murmur, brushing the lapel of his tailored jacket. “You’ve an audience waiting for you.”

Somewhat of an infantile groan leaves him — one you’re not sure he’d share with many others. He dips down and allows his forehead to drop against your shoulder, slowly breathing in your scent.

“And if I said fuck the audience,” he murmurs, “and decided to stay here to dip under this gown and ravish you? What then?”

“Then I wager your subjects would be mighty displeased that you brought them here for nothing.”

“I could make you moan,” his nose nudges your neck, “loud enough to give them a show.”

“Later.” You promise falsely, and the lie is sour on your tongue. You step back and straighten yourself out. “You have a duty to attend to.”

The way his eyes sweep you tells you that you are the only duty he wishes to attend to. But he relents with a sigh and inclines his head.

“I do.” He admits. “And I will have to play my role out there. I’ll be mostly unavailable for the duration of this ball, so…I want you to go and have fun. Just don’t stray too far. I’ve organised the evening’s entertainment with you in mind, and I want you by my side when you see it.”

For a beat, you can only blink at him. You’re…touched, that he would do that for you. And your mind immediately starts swirling with possibilities of what that entertainment might be. Perhaps a show of professional dancers or a theatrical performance.

You study him, attempting to glean information merely from the expression on that granite-hewn face. “It’s Starfall.” You remind him. “Is that not the evening’s entertainment?”

He merely smiles. “I’ll send for you when it’s time.” He leans down, coasting his lips over one cheek and then the other. “Enjoy yourself.”

Without another word, he turns. Rolls his shoulders and slips into his High Lord roll. But before he can take a step towards the door, you're grabbing his hand.

“Fin—” You blurt, and he stops. You swallow as you stare up at him. “Just…please don’t let Tathaln Baralas ruin the camps.”

His gaze searches your face. You can’t get a read on his expression.

But then the corners of his lips curve up, and he’s squeezing your hand.

“I won’t let Tathaln become a problem.” He says, and then repeats, “enjoy yourself.”

The way he prises his hand from yours has an air of finality that stops you from pushing any further. You want to ask — beg, if you have to — for his reassurance. But he strides to the door, sleek black shoes clipping against the marble floor.

And left alone, you think you may have done all you possibly can do. That the rest is out of your hands.

So you attempt to shake off your relentless anxiety, and you go to find your friends.

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Weaving through the mammoth structure and the sea of Illyrians that fill it, you’ve already witnessed three fights and two couples damn near fucking in nothing more hidden than the alcoves carved into the walls. Pretty tame for your people, but alas, the night is young.

There are so many pairs of wings. There is such a thick air of arrogance and ego and brutishness. You’re not quite sure where you fit in here, but before you can find a refreshment that will dull that feeling, strong arms are wrapping around your waist and yanking you backwards.

You scream, and no one around you bats an eyelash. You thrash and buck, but the attempt is met with—

Deep, smooth laughter that you know so, so well.

You relax in the offender’s hold immediately, and their arms loosen enough for you to twist in them.

You glare up at Cassian and send a punch to his bicep. “Asshole.”

“Ow!” He chokes on another laugh, and then he’s grinning brilliantly, white teeth gleaming in the fae light. “Hello, Sweetpea. I’ve missed you.”

Fuck, you’ve missed him too. And that’s all it takes for you to throw your arms around him and squeeze.

He smells like Cass. That rugged scent of his that is such a comfort. And the way he hugs you back, firm yet gentle, warm and loving and present, tells you that any previous anger he had towards you is a thing of the past.

“Windhaven is fucking boring without you.” He pulls back, holding you at arms length — and blinks. “Holy gods, look at you.”

“Look at you.” Your eyes rove over him, from his tailored, maroon-coloured suit to his brushed, slicked-back hair. His wings are squeaky clean and flared proudly. He’s stunning. Breathtaking.

He cracks another Cassian grin. “Who knew we could brush up so well, hey, Sweetpea? You’re absolutely gorgeous. I’ll be the envy of all these Illyrian males, knowing I fucked you—”

“Cassian.” You land another hit to his bicep. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’ve actually been sent to collect you. A certain someone is waiting for you on a patio. I’ll give you a clue — he, too, has fucked you—”

With a roll of your eyes, albeit a fond one, you’re breezing past him with a feeling of…need. To see Azriel. To have him ground you in a place and circumstance of such unfamiliarity. You need that comfort.

Cass follows promptly, slinging an arm around your shoulder — not just because he’s missed you, but because the leering eyes of hundreds of Illyrian males follow your every step. Those gazes seem to drink in your dress bead by little bead. They’re hungry for sex and for violence.

“Out here.” Your friend steers you down a hallway, untouched by not only guests, but also the horrific brilliance of the rest of this place. This is an area that most aren’t supposed to see, with chipped concrete floors and peeling walls. It’s so cold, so ugly and uninviting, that you can’t imagine why Azriel would summon you here, of all places.

But then a door appears at the end of the winding hall, open just enough for a sliver of moonlight to touch the threshold. The fresh air has goosebumps spreading over your skin.

“He wanted some private time with you. Rhys and I said we’d keep watch.” Cass studies you and huffs a deep, dramatic sigh. “I’m trying really hard not to feel left out right now.”

“I’m sure you don’t really want to be the third wheel—”

“Sure I do. I’ve told Az that he wouldn’t even know I’m there, but no, he wants you all to himself. Selfish bastard.” He reaches out, pulling the door open wider for you. And then he calls, “I hope you heard that, fucker!”

Strong footsteps emerge from argent moonlight, and Azriel’s voice is a lilting shiver across your skin. “You know I heard it, you idiot.” He says. “You…”

His words trail off as he takes you in, and suddenly you don’t know what to do with your hands, your face, with any part of you.

His stare holds the weight of a very ancient love, so much older than the both of you. It somehow translates that you had his heart in a previous life, when you were different people entirely, and you’ll still have it in the next, when your souls begin anew.

He swallows, loud enough that you all hear it. And his voice is husky as he says, “There are no words worthy of you.”

And you’re hit with a strange urge to cry. Mostly because you feel exactly the same way about him.

He is…exquisite. He’s slicked his hair back, and that alone is a huge thing for him — to openly show each and every curve and line of his face, with no strands to hide behind. The curtain of his thick, dark lashes only accentuates the honey of his eyes and the gold of his skin.

And the suit he’s donned for the evening — that same maroon colour that Cass is wearing. You wonder if Rhys, wherever he is, is wearing the same. Whether the trio look as breathtaking together as you expect them to.

“No words.” Az repeats, shaking his head. “The Mother herself must have sent you to me.”

Cassian smirks and rests an elbow atop of your head, regardless of your perfected hair. “I said the same.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “No, you didn’t.”

“Well, I said something similar.”

“It wasn’t even close to that.”

“Be grateful of my winning charm—”

“Cassian.” Az cuts him off. “Why don’t you go and find Rhys?”

Cass lets out an infantile whine. “But he’s having private time with Zakai.”

“And I’d like to have some private time with Y/N, so. Run along.”

Your friend offers a great, dramatic huff that makes you grin, but he removes his arm from your head and turns.

“This whole coupling up thing is boring!” He calls, retreating down the hall.

And then it’s just you and Azriel.

Your love. Your heart.

You turn back to him with a coy smile, reaching up to fix your hair.

“Let me.” Az murmurs, and he steps closer, his fingers sinking into the strands of your hair. Up close, you drink him down even more, greedy and insatiable. You want to know every expression, every thought.

“There are no words worthy of you, either.” You whisper, and his eyes drop down from your hair to meet yours. “You’re a vision, Az.”

He studies you for a moment. And though his hands leave the strands, they lower only to cup your face. His thumb strokes your cheek.

“What I am,” he murmurs, “is yours.”

Your eyes shutter, and you drop your forehead against his. Every last bit of trouble and turmoil you’ve experienced has been worth it to hear those words. You want them to mark your skin.

You push up onto the tips of your toes, slanting your mouth over Azriel’s. He wastes no time in sliding his hands to your waist and hauling you close to him.

You kiss him like doing so here isn’t risky. Like you have the freedom to kiss him whenever and however you both want, and there are no outer forces getting in the way. You long for the day when that will be the case. When you can love, and love proudly.

Perhaps that luxury isn’t too far out of reach.

Az seems to think so, too, as he pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours once more, and he says, breathlessly, “Things are going to change — after tonight. I can feel it.”

You study him, searching for deeper meaning. And as though they can sense your anxiety, his shadows snake around your ankles in a soothing caress. “A good change, I hope.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. Me and you. I’m yours.”

You peck him once, twice. “And I am yours.”

Those words alone are enough to make heat blaze in his eyes. With adoration making way for passion, lust, he allows his gaze to rake over you, and he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip.

“So fucking gorgeous.” His voice is guttural. “If we didn’t have to attend this ball right now, I would—”

The door flies open behind you, and Az looks more than ready to throttle Cassian as he prances back into sight and announces, “Found Rhys!”

“And we brought booze.” Rhys swiftly follows with a smirk. “Raided personally, by me, from my asshole father’s stash.”

Sure enough, his suit matches the other two. And seeing the three of them together like that, looking so beautiful, so proper, so…matured—

A lump forms in your throat that you force down. You furiously blink away the tears that sting your eyes.

Because it hits you, just then, how much you’ve missed this — the four of you, just being together, like old times. You were always such a strong unit, always driven by your love for one another, and the dysfunctional, unconventional, beautiful family you became. It’s been a long while since you looked upon these three males without burdening thoughts always remaining a step away. You miss the ease. You miss the love.

But here it is, right in front of you, just like it always will be. And in that moment, nothing else matters but your little unit. Just you, Azriel, Cassian and Rhysand.

As you shake out of your thoughts, you realise Rhys is staring at you just as intensely. Strong emotion swims in his eyes.

“…What?” You ask, smoothing your hands over your dress.

“You just…look incredible.” He smiles softly. “Every single star that soars above our heads tonight will have nothing on you.”

Just as you think you’re about to get choked up all over again, Cassian smirks and declares, “I said the same.”

You scowl, reaching out to swat him. “No, you did not. Just accept you’re bad at compliments and move on.”

“I’m a master at compliments, thank you very much.”

Az slides an arm around your waist and quirks an eyebrow. “You took Sacha for a drink and complimented her by saying you look like you bathed. You’re hardly a poet, Cass.”

It’s Cassian’s turn to scowl then. “Well, what I may lack in poetry, I make up for in the bedroom. As Y/N clearly knows.”

A snarl rips from Azriel’s throat. “Watch yourself.”

Rhys rolls his eyes and smacks Cassian upside the head. “Don’t wind him up, dickhead.”

“Who are you calling dickhead?”

“I’m calling you dickhead, dickhead.”

The bickering becomes background noise as you prise the bottle from Rhys’s hand and take a generous swig — none of which he even notices, as he and Cass continue taking swipes at each other.

And as the liquid burns your throat, you meet Azriel’s gaze. Both of you grin. He takes the bottle from you.

In that moment, all you feel is happiness. Beautiful familiarity. Rhys and Cassian tearing chunks out of each other while you and Azriel watch and laugh from the sidelines. It makes your heart feel heavy with such warmth that it may just burst.

You do not need lavishness or luxury. Your life is nothing special, but you do not want for anything.

Just this. Only this.

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“Who knew so many Illyrians could dance?”

Rhysand’s steps are swift and flawless. It’s situations like these — ones of strict propriety and, dare you say, class — that you’re reminded he’s only half-Illyrian. The other males around you may be trying their hand at dancing, but Rhys flows through each number with barely a thought.

You smile up at him, secure in his hold. A dance floor full of Illyrians is a temperamental and, quite frankly, stupid idea. Anyone who gets too close to another’s wings is asking for a punch. Or five.

But so far, it’s been surprisingly uneventful. And you might even begin to relax and enjoy yourself — if not for the images you keep glimpsing in your periphery.

Every now and then, a flash of bright red will pass you by as Kaeda is spun from one set of burly arms to another. Her dress is the same shade as her hair. It’s alarming. Makes you think of blood.

And even more alarming, perhaps, is the pair of eyes that follow you from the dais. Fin spares only cursory glances to the rest of his guests, from where he sits on his throne in pensive silence, but his eyes linger heavily on you. Hungry, flaming eyes that follow your every move. And standing at his side — Tathaln Baralas.

The Lord of Fenlaros is even bigger than you remember. In a tailored suit, he looks…all wrong. That kind of finery will never work with him. He’s rugged, and cold, and something tells you that while Fenlaros is considerably more civilised than the majority of Illyrian camps, Tathaln Baralas feels most at home with the bare necessities. Luxury is nothing but a fly buzzing in his ear.

But he will tolerate that fly, you know — can tell, precisely from the way his dark, frightening eyes watch the room with more intensity than any single person should harbour. And that intensity is directed solely at one person. Azriel.

Tathaln watches the shadowsinger as though he’s weighing up whether he can kidnap him from this event and force him to Fenlaros. It makes your stomach turn.

“You seem on edge tonight.” Rhys’s deep gaze studies you. His hand presses firmer against the small of your back. “I won’t let anything happen to you, don’t worry.”

You’re not sure if he’s referring to his father, or to Kaeda, or to her father. Or even just to the evening in general. But you squeeze his hand, all the same.

“You’re the best.” You tell him. “And you should be dancing with Zakai.”

His eyes glimmer with his signature charm. “Oh, I will. But I always intended to save the first dance for my best girl.”

The sentiment is so…Rhysand, so comforting, that you almost — almost — start to think that everything will be alright.

But he spins you under his arm, and it’s like being spun straight back into reality. Because as you turn, that gaze from up on the dais meets yours again.

And this time, it’s not just hungry — but possessive.

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You dance and dance until your feet feel like they might fall off. Although, you’re not sure how much of that can be attributed to Cassian stepping on them throughout his uncoordinated prancing.

But the more the night wears on, the more your stomach churns with deep, unrelenting anxiety. You feel sick. Like a shadow of doom is looming over your shoulder and waiting to pull you into its thrall. By the time Cassian hands you over to Azriel, you’re not entirely sure that you won’t be sick.

Az studies your face with clear concern on his own — concern that doesn’t make his steps falter. He’s a natural dancer, taught and honed by Roza. Almost as good as Rhys. He moves as swift as flying, but his expression doesn’t hold the same ease.

“What is it?” He asks, and his thumb sweeps a stroke over your hip. “You don’t look well.”

So badly, you want to lean into his touch. But…not now — not with Fin watching. You dare a quick glance at the dais, and sure enough, his eyes stalk you. They follow everywhere Azriel touches your body. Strangely, the hunger in them intensifies. The hickory shade of them has darkened until it’s almost a stark black. He licks his lips and watches Azriel’s fingers caress you through your dress.

“I’m just…ready for this night to be over. You know all this luxury isn’t my thing.”

His hands press firmer against your skin. “I must say, as much as I’m loving this dress, I’m equally excited to rip it off—”

“May I?”

Two seconds. You look away for two seconds, and Fin is suddenly off the dais and behind you. The guests around you all watch with curious eyes.

Azriel pauses, his lingering touch letting you know just how reluctant he is to let you go.

But ultimately, he is wise. And ultimately, he concedes.

“Of course, High Lord.” He inclines his head. “She’s your special guest, after all.”

“Yes.” Fin’s eyes don’t stray from you. “She is.”

You know it’s deliberate — the way he makes sure everyone is watching as he scoops you into his arms with a small lift off the ground. And then he begins dancing, and everyone else resumes.

As you follow his steps, you allow yourself the chance to look at him. Look at him, and wonder if he’ll hate you after all this is over. You…you don’t want him to hate you. That complicates things, but gods above, it’s true.

He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, and you may as well be the only two people in the room as he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear, “When you look at me like that, Y/N, it makes me think I’m not such a bad male as most would think.”

“You’re not.” You respond almost immediately, and you mean it. “I think it’d surprise you to know how highly you’re regarded. Everyone in this room who is looking upon you—”

You yelp as he suddenly dips you, his lips at your ear.

“Everyone in this room,” he says, “is looking at you. And rightfully so. You’re a masterpiece — my masterpiece.”

The compliment — the possessiveness — all seems extreme. But then, you think everything about Fin might be a bit extreme. He doesn’t do anything by halves. The blush that dusts your cheeks seems to please him.

“You like it, don’t you?” His voice is like gravel. “That not a single male in here can take their eyes off you. You are the envy of every female. Stripped of wings, but not of raw, natural beauty.”

He straightens you out before you can reply, and your head spins — with the sudden movement, and with the whiplash of the comment. It both pleases you and reminds you how exposed your back is — the trauma that everyone can see.

“Charming as ever.” You swallow, hope the smile on your face is convincing. “I don’t quite know what to say.”

“Words are not necessary — not tonight.” The song you’re dancing to fades to an end, and he steadies you gently on your feet. His gaze sweeps you again, and he remarks, “The stars will begin their journeys soon.”

In the strange headiness of the evening, you almost forgot that this is, essentially, two events wrapped up in one. Starfall, and Fin’s lavish ball. Perhaps seeing those stars will bring you some semblance of peace — make you feel less lost than you do right now, as they travel somewhere unbeknownst to you, and perhaps unbeknownst to themselves, also.

“Will you be joining us outside to watch them?” You ask.

A strange smile curves his lips. “Indeed I will. It’s a magnificent sight to behold.” He steps back, bowing to press a kiss to the backs of your fingers. And then he straightens up. Retreats.

“However,” he says, “I do believe the entertainment I’ve arranged for you may just outshine those stars this year.”

He saunters away, back to his dais. And as he lowers himself into his throne, he meets your gaze.

That same old thirst in them is unquenchable.

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The males are treating the stardust like it’s the snow that so often coats your respective camps.

The first specks of it showering down on you were surprising, beautiful. But in true Illyrian fashion, what started as a cordial gathering to observe the soaring, luminous beings, has been reduced to little more than a drunken bust up.

You don’t know which camp launched the first clump of glimmering dust at another, but that was all it took for chaos to break out. The fray jostles you away from your friends until you can no longer feel Azriel pressed to your side or hear Cassian’s constant chattering. Try as you might to locate them, it’s impossible to see past giant, burly males with alarming wingspans. It’s a sea of dark hair and tan skin.

You push and push your way through, looking for a small exit through the gathered bodies. Your gown is trampled on, and you’re shoved this way and that, taking a few handfuls of stardust to your face and neck and arms. The feel of it is a cold contrast against your hot skin.

Just as you spot an opening to squeeze through, a male is careening into you and taking you down with him. It stuns you so much that you forget to brace yourself for impact. You’re about to tear your skin open against the sharp ground—

But huge, warm hands from behind catch you beneath your arms and keep you upright. Set you on your feet.

You turn, smacking straight into a broad expanse of chest. And a little higher up — long hair and wicked eyes. A taunting grin. Too-sharp teeth.

Tathaln Baralas seems to command the area around him so much that the fighting moves away from you both. A fact that makes him so incredibly smug.

“You’re welcome.” He sounds as rough and rugged as the mountain rock.

You clear your throat and incline your head in reluctant thanks. You’re not too keen on the idea of lingering for a chat with him.

But before you can so much as turn, his hand is fastening around your wrist. It’s not a tight grip, and yet it’s a warning — that it could become tighter if you tried to move.

“I’d like to go and find my friends—”

“I’ve been wracking my brain trying to work out why the High Lord is so taken by you.” He angles his head, and his eyes travel down, a smirk toying with his lips. “Besides a magnificent pair of tits, of course.”

Gritting your teeth, you attempt to rip your arm away. “You do him a disservice by thinking him so shallow—”

“Does Rhysand know you’re fucking his father?”

“You’re mistaken, my lord, and I’ll thank you to let go of me.”

“My daughter’s warning was clearly of no use. Perhaps I’ll be able to drive the message in harder. Whatever you’re planning—”

“There you are.” Out of seemingly nowhere, Rhysand’s voice saves the day. “I’ve been looking for you.”

The most minuscule, tiny beat passes — but Tathaln Baralas is no damn fool. With such blatant reluctance, he lets go of your wrist and takes a step back.

Rhys presses himself against your side, slinging an arm around your shoulders. He stares at Tathaln as he says, “My father wants everybody rounded up. It’s time for the entertainment he has planned.”

It’s a cloaked order, and you can see how much the Lord of Fenlaros wants to grit his teeth against it. But again — no damn fool.

“I’ll help gather everyone up.” He relents, and then he turns and pushes through fighting males as though they’re not there.

Rhys turns to you, concerned eyes taking you in. “Are you alright?”

“I will be.” You respond vaguely, linking your arm with his. “When this is all over, I will be.”

Little does he know, it’s not only the ball that you’re referring to.

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Like petulant children, the bustling males don’t want to go back under the mountain for the remainder of the ball. They want to stay outside and frolic in the fallen stardust and maybe fight or fuck in it, too.

But somehow, Fin commands their return. And the silence with which they now all stare up at the dais has you wondering if there’s anybody he can’t get to obey him.

Roza, probably. The thought brings a smile to your face.

Gods, you’d love to be with Roza right now, Spending quiet, quality time together. Blocking out the world in its entirety. You’re glad, so heavily pregnant as she is, that she’s not here tonight — but still, you can’t help wishing she was—

A loud clap sounds through the room, jolting you from your thoughts. You force your eyes into focus once more, and though you’re buried a few rows back, Fin finds your gaze immediately. He smiles.

“I wanted to thank each and every one of you for coming here tonight.” He addresses the room. “I understand that Illyrians have a way of life that you like to keep loyal to, and that integrating with other camps is not normally a done thing. I appreciate you keeping your minds open and straying from your traditions to honour this event.”

The crowd stirs and murmurs, and every person packed within it must be wondering why Tathaln Baralas is the only camp lord up on that dais with the High Lord while the others all congregate on the floor, common as muck. They are not privy to the things that you are. You have a horrible feeling that that is all about to change.

“While there have been a few…hiccups, this evening, I have mostly been impressed by how well you were able to interact.” Fin goes on. “That is exactly what this little experiment was intended for. Because that’s what this ball was — an experiment. I address each and every Illyrian when I say this: change is coming.”

No.

Your stomach bottoms out. Hands turn clammy in an instant.

Surely…surely he hasn’t just ignored everything you’ve said. Surely this hasn’t all been for nothing.

“You may recognise the male behind me.” He’s not looking at you now. His eyes skim the room, but they don’t stray in your direction. “Tathaln Baralas — Lord of the Fenlaros camp.”

At that, a small burst of cheers breaks out from one section of the room. Fenlarions, you can only assume. You’re too panicked to care.

Tathaln takes a step forward, not quite in line with Fin, but almost. He seems to be fighting back a smirk. And as you feel another heavy set of eyes on you, you look to your left — to a few steps down, where Kaeda stands. She eyes you with what must be triumph in her eyes, and she doesn’t bother to hide her smirk.

This…this has all gone very, very wrong. You’ve fucked up — failed. Perhaps even doomed the lives of countless people. Fin may have poured sweet sentiments into your ear and boosted your confidence, but you so clearly weren’t enough. Weren’t enough to appeal yourself to him, and weren’t enough to save Illyria as you know it.

You’re not at all certain that you aren’t going to faint. Whatever is about to be said or done, you don’t want to be here for it. You want to gather up Azriel and Cassian and Rhys and get the fuck out of there, far away from this, from him. You look frantically around for them, but you’ve lost them again. Can’t even glimpse the backs of their heads.

“A short while ago, the Lord of Fenlaros came to me with a suggestion. A proposition.” Fin slides his hands into his pockets; a strangely arrogant gesture that tells you just how at ease he is. “But before I tell you all about that, I would like to speak to you about somebody else. Another one of your own who I have recently had the delight of spending my time with. Getting to know.”

It takes a delayed moment for you to realise he’s staring at you once more.

Staring firmly, unflinchingly at you.

He extends a hand in your direction, and everybody — every single fucking person around you — turns to get a look, also.

“Sweet Y/N,” He cocks his head. Smiles. “Would you join me up here, please?”

You falter on the spot, forgetting entirely how to move. Every pair of eyes…the attention…it’s all too much. Everyone is looking at you. Everyone can see you, your scars.

“Y/N.” Fin repeats. “This is for you, after all.”

Someone shoves you in the back, and snickers titter around you, the sounds swimming from one ear to the other. On shaking legs, you slip between bodies. Bodies with faces attached that won’t stop looking at you, staring at you, wondering why you, of all people, have caught the High Lord’s attention. A lowly Illyrian female without any wings.

Numb from head to toe, you climb up onto the dais. Fin takes your trembling hand. Pulls you to his side.

Only then do you find Azriel, Cassian and Rhys in the crowd. All staring up at you with alarmed, horrified expressions. They can sense something very terrible is about to go down, too.

“For all of you who haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her — this is Y/N.” Fin speaks loudly, clearly, his tone clipped. “She hails from the Windhaven camp. She is Illyrian in her own right. She has a brain wise beyond her twenty years, and a heart of solid gold. She cares for Illyrians — for all of you. Cares for your futures.” A very, very potent pause. His expression changes — darkens. He purses his lips. “But you all do not care for her, do you?”

Silence. Nobody knows where this is going. There’s a slight movement in the crowd, and out of the corner of your eye, you see your friends pushing closer to the front.

“You cannot claim to care about her — about your own females — when you are willing to do this.”

So quickly, Fin’s hands are gripping your arms, and he’s wrenching you around on the spot. Forcing your back to them. Forcing them to swallow down the sight of your ruined back.

But your scars poking through the sheer fabric is not enough for him, it would seem. Those hands of his, gentle at times and dangerous at others, skate over your shoulders. Stop at the top of your back, where you hate so profoundly to be touched.

And he rips the fabric open like he’s cleaving air.

The cold air hits your exposed back, and surprised murmurs ripple through the room. Each and every one of them will have seen clipped wings before — but not this. Not the brutal hacking you were subjected to.

On instinct, you’re fighting against Fin, trying to turn, trying to hide. He holds you steady.

“Her own father did this to her.” He announces. “As so many of you intend to do to your own daughters, no doubt. Look at her. Look at how she suffered, and believe me when I say, again, change is coming.”

“Father.” Rhysand’s voice reaches you from behind, severe, outraged. “Stop this.”

It surprises you that Fin immediately turns you back around. But you are under no illusion that he’s listened to his son’s plea. He simply isn’t finished.

There is not one part of you that isn’t shaking. You stare firmly at your feet, refusing to meet any of the gazes pinned on you. Some may be pitying. Most will be delighted.

“I understand that Y/N may not appreciate what I just did. And rightfully so.” With a theatrical wave of his hand, the rip at the back of your dress is mended. But the damage is already done. “She has a right to those feelings. A thing I believe you Illyrian males do not understand. That your females feel. That they can rightfully be hurt, and they can rightfully want to be avenged. Y/N?”

You know he’s addressing you, asking you to look at him. But you can’t move. You can’t…can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop feeling like you want to throw up.

“Y/N.” He repeats, softer this time. “Look at me please.”

You pause.

And then you do.

You turn, and you look at him with an expression that will never promise forgiveness.

To his credit, he studies your face. It’s like he’s searching for an answer as to whether his little stunt was irredeemable. His eyes swallow your expression, and a moment passes between you. One that doesn’t include everybody else in this room.

You imagine you look hateful. You imagine you are sneering, and clenching your jaw, and allowing him to see that you will not stand for such disrespect from anybody, including him.

And he…he looks upon you like he wants the rest of the room to disappear. Like he wants nothing more than to steal you into his arms and spirit you away, far away from this.

You take a small step back.

“I got you a gift.” He says, too quietly. Extends a hand again.

You feel yourself shaking your head. You cannot speak. But this does not deter him. He retracts his hand and murmurs to somebody — somebody you can’t see around the roaring in your head — “The box, please.”

As blurred movement stirs in front of you, you angle yourself towards the crowd — towards your friends. You search their terrified faces without seeing them, and you know that they are just as powerless as you are. Even Rhysand. That throwing themselves in the mix may just make the situation worse.

And you don’t even know what the situation is. All you know is that your heart is thudding and your ears are screaming. All you know is that you feel…betrayed…by Fin making a spectacle of you like this. That your body and mind are having such violent reactions because your vulnerabilities, insecurities, may just be the evening’s entertainment that you’re supposed to somehow enjoy—

“Y/N.”

Your eyes snap back to the High Lord, and a tear escapes the corner of it. You pretend it doesn’t exist, even if Fin’s gaze tracks it and softens.

“For you.” He holds a box out to you.

For a moment, you weigh up the likelihood that you could just dart off the stage and make a run for it. Find somewhere to hide and cry. But as your hands extend outwards without you telling them to, you know it’s no use. You’re seeing this through, however reluctantly.

Your trembles are violent as you take the box into your hands — and almost drop it. It’s heavier than you’re expecting. Fin smiles.

Every single person in that room watches you slide the lid off the box.

Every single person in that room watches you peer inside — and drop it. Stagger back.

“What the fuck is this?” You choke. “What have you done?!”

There are murmurs, people angling to get a look, as Fin casually strolls over to that box. As he reaches in.

As he lifts your father’s severed head by his hair and holds it up like it’s a fucking show and tell. And grins at it.

Steeled Illyrian warriors who have been bred for violence scatter back, curses and noises rolling off their tongues.

“Allow this to be a lesson to each and every one of you.” Fin speaks loudly, entirely unperturbed by the head dangling from his fingertips. “That while your camps are overseen by your camp lords, I am still your High Lord, and I am always watching, and listening, and waiting to act, if necessary. This male wronged somebody I care for. The only fitting punishment was this.”

Without a care, he drops your father’s head back into the box and kicks it away. You stumble back, back, toppling off the dais. Somebody catches you.

“I am your High Lord.” Fin repeats, seemingly unaware of the panic roiling in his audience. “I do not take kindly to being used or manipulated. I do not take kindly to somebody presuming to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do with my court. And Illyria is part of my court — no matter how much you try to distance yourselves. You are under my jurisdiction. What happens to you is my call to make.”

For a split second, you can only hear certain words; used, manipulated, presuming to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. You think he’s addressing solely you, but he isn’t.

People are moving around you. Arms wrap around you. It takes a moment for you to register that it’s Azriel. That he’s tucking you between himself and Cassian and Rhys. They’re shielding you.

Fin is now pacing the dais, hands behind his back. “The Lord of Fenlaros spent months concocting –and perfecting — a self-serving scheme that he then presented to me, as though he has the authority to do so.” He stops, turning to Tathaln — a very pale Tathaln. “And while I agree there would be some benefits to what you proposed, your methods have pissed me off. And I don’t like being pissed off.”

Tathaln squares his massive shoulders. Steps forward. “I—”

“What gives you the right to delegate your daughter and sons to rival camps to do your bidding, without bringing your case to me first? I should have been your first port of call. I should have decided how this plan of yours should play out. Yet you schemed behind my back and tried to build power and gain favour in case I disagreed to your plan. So you could then build a cause against me.”

“My Lord, I assure you, that is not—”

“Yes — your Lord.” He reiterates.

And then quick as a flash, he’s drawing a sword.

Quick as a flash, it slices through the air and hacks Tathaln Baralas’s head clean off his neck.

It drops to the dais with a wet-sounding thwack. The rest of his body crumples to the floor.

You can’t breathe, or think, or hear. Can only stare at Tathaln’s open, glazed eyes, peering off into nothing. There are gasps and curses and panic. Hands claw at you. You can’t move.

And then a high-pitched, wailing scream rents the air, like nothing else you’ve ever heard. So loud, it snaps you out of your shock.

You turn, despite the hands that hold you firm and still. Through tear-blurred eyes, you glimpse Kaeda on her knees. Her beautiful face is screwed with despair. She stares at her father’s head, and she wails.

“Change is, indeed, upon us.” Fin says calmly, as though a river of blood is not pooling at his feet. “But it will be dealt by my hands, and my hands only.” He sheathes his blade once more. “This ball is over. You can all leave.”

Sliding his hands into his pockets, he strolls off the dais, tracking blood with each step. He disappears through a door without looking back.

And then chaos is erupting. Kaeda is still screaming. People are scrambling to book it out of there. You turn back to Tathaln’s head. Turn to your father’s, still in that box. You think you might be sick—

“Y/N.” Hands grasp your face tightly. Azriel is staring into your eyes, pleading with you to stare back. “We need to get out of here, okay? We’re getting out of here.”

You open your mouth, and a strangled noise escapes you. “I…I can’t…move.”

“You can. You can. Come.” His arms band around you. And though he holds you strong, you can feel that he’s shaken, too. “We’re leaving before the High Lord comes back. I’m getting you out of here. Hold onto me.”

You have no choice other than to comply. But your grip is as weak as you are. You can’t stop yourself fucking shaking.

You don’t hear the words that Azriel speaks to Cassian and Rhys. All you can hear is Kaeda’s screaming. All you can do is stare over Azriel’s shoulder at your father’s lifeless face. That face didn’t once look upon you with love in twenty years. Now, it certainly never will.

You keep on looking until Azriel spirits you both out of there, and the coppery tang of blood follows you all the way back to Windhaven.

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“Please try to drink some of that.”

Azriel perches before you, his eyes fixed upon the steaming cup between your hands. You can’t remember how long ago he handed it to you, or how long ago you made it back to Roza’s cottage, or how long ago you watched Fin cleave Tathaln’s head from his body.

The fire is roaring, and more than one blanket is draped around you, but you can’t get any warmth to seep into your bones. You shiver from head to toe.

“It’ll warm you up.” Az reaches out, pressing a hand to your cheek. “I added a drop of whiskey to take the edge off.”

“I need more than a drop.” Cassian’s voice comes from behind the sofa, where he’s been pacing pretty much since he entered. “What the fuck was that? Your father is insane, Rhys.”

Rhys hasn’t breathed a word — that you’re aware of, anyway. Just sat in the armchair and stared into space. 

But his eyes shutter now, and he murmurs, “I know.”

“Absolutely insane.” Cass repeats. The pacing continues, up and down and up and down. “I didn’t realise you’d gotten so close to him, Y/N.”

As if you need reminding.

Fin had made it clear that in some fucked up way, everything he did tonight was for you. He’d slaughtered two people for you. You’d wanted to stop Tathaln, but not like that…never like that.

A tear rolls down your cheek, and you hear Azriel utter a quiet warning to Cass. Cass stops his pacing.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He says, softer. “I just…didn’t realise there was so much going on while you were in Velaris.”

“I was trying to help.” You whisper. “I didn’t mean for…I didn’t mean—”

“None of what happened tonight was your fault.” Azriel moves to your side. He pulls you close against him, arms soothingly wrapping around you. “Don’t you dare start thinking that. The High Lord does what he wants.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. What if he’s coming for me next? I was scheming, too.”

Az growls quietly. “He can try. He won’t get close.”

“My father doesn’t want you dead.” Rhys rests his head back against the chair. He doesn’t open his eyes, and you’re wondering if he’s replaying the picture of bloodshed as much as you are. “If he did, he would have killed you there and then, alongside Kaeda’s father and…yours.”

Cassian spits on the ground. “And may your father never know a shred of peace.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, allowing yourself to slump fully against Az’s body, be supported by it. You’re not sure you can hold yourself up right now.

And it’s not that you disagree with Cass’s statement…you’re just not sure what to feel right now.

You hated your father. Despised him. But—

But that kill was supposed to be yours.

Fin had taken that from you in some fucked up display of…of affection, you supposed. Maybe even of ownership.

“He may not want me dead,” you whisper, “but I don’t think he’s finished with me. He’s surely not going to let me come back to Windhaven as if nothing happened. And what of Roza and the babe? Are they safe with him?”

Rhys gives a slow, meditative shake of his head. He’s exhausted. You’re all exhausted. The smell of blood clings to you. “I checked in with her. Despite what he did, they’re always safe with him. As for everything else…I don’t know what he intends.”

“Change is coming.” Finally, Cassian sits down. “That’s what he said. Over and over again.”

You don’t want change. Not the kind that Fin is probably thinking. You don’t want extravagance or luxury. You just want…this.

This little cottage. Your friends. Your love. Your simple, quiet life.

It feels like it hangs in the balance more than ever.

Eyes open, you’re staring at everything you may just lose. But the second you squeeze them shut, you see such thick, alarming red. Hear the thwack of Tathaln’s head falling. Hear the carnal scream that rips from Kaeda’s throat.

Your heartbeat picks up, and tears prick in your eyes — but Azriel’s arms tighten around you.

“Easy.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head. “I’m right here. All three of us are.”

You know he can’t possibly be as calm as he’s making out. But he’s doing it for you — staying strong for you.

“You should try to sleep, my love.” He murmurs into your hair. “We all should.”

You focus on his warmth, his scent, but the tears keep coming. “I’m not sure I can.”

“Try.” He kisses you again. “For me.”

All you can manage is a relenting nod. And that’s all it takes for him to slide down and pull you with him. He holds you so tightly, as though he’s terrified of letting go. He bundles you against him, wraps a blanket around you both. It can’t be comfortable for him, his wings, but he lays there like it is.

A soft snoring from the armchair tells you that Rhys has already succumbed to exhaustion. You bunch your fingers in the front of Az’s shirt and force your eyes to close, even despite the horrors that await you behind them.

But after a while, you’re aware of the sound of Cassian traipsing to the kitchen. Reaching for the bottle of whiskey that sits mostly drained on the side.

And you realise that in Azriel’s arms, you’d started to drift off, too.

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You wake with a gasping start.

It’s pitch black in the room, besides the dying embers of the fire. Their muted orange glow illuminates the space enough for you to glimpse Rhys, still fast asleep in the chair. Cassian is sprawled out and dozing on the floor.

Any one of you could have stowed away upstairs in the privacy of a bedroom, but…you need each other right now. Each other’s comfort.

You don’t know what the time is; the middle of the night, judging by how dark it is. But there’s a lot of noise and foot traffic that’s carried past the house. You assume it must be Illyrians who have attempted to drown the night’s events in alcohol and are now skulking home.

You try to block it all out. Roll over. But as arms tighten around you and pull you flush against a warm body, you glance up to find Azriel awake, already staring at you.

You stare back.

That’s all you do for a while. Just…stare. Drink each other in. He is so beautiful. So brilliant. Your friend, lover and so much more.

“Hi.” He eventually whispers.

You scan his face. Murmur back, “Hi.”

“You should be sleeping.”

“So should you.”

A small shake of his head. Strands of hair fall from where they were earlier slicked back. The grandeur of the ball seems like eons ago, now.

“I can’t.” He says. “I’m worried about you.”

It’s rare…for him to lay vulnerable thoughts and feelings out like that. You study him again. And you want to reassure him, tell him you’re doing okay — but you’re not. Not right now. And don’t you owe him honesty in return?

“I’m scared.” You admit. Keeping your voice hushed doesn’t stop it from cracking.

Azriel leans down, dropping his forehead against yours. His hand rests at the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles.

After a moment, he asks, “What went on in Velaris?”

You don’t know what to say. It was so easy, in the City of Starlight, to pretend to be someone else. Someone that Fin would desire and eventually trust. So easy to follow a plan unflinchingly.

But back in the frozen grips of Windhaven, you do not feel like that person. You do not know her.

“You said you were scheming.” Az presses. “What went on?”

“I told you…I was trying to convince Fin to reject Tathaln’s idea—”

“Convince him how?”

You swallow. Because you hate the truth. Back in the ordinariness of your Illyrian environment, your behaviour seems so, so bad.

“Did he touch you,” Az breathes.

“No.” You immediately shake your head. “I made him want me. I made him want me so badly that he would trust me and listen to me. I never wanted him to kill for me. And I never wanted him. Every single second I spent there, I just wanted to come back to you—”

His lips fold over yours, and he breathes deep and slow. You waste no time in kissing him back. That kiss is truth, and it’s love.

“Only you, Az.” You whisper as you pull away. “I’ve only ever wanted you.”

But he’s not done with you. His mouth is on yours again, and he promises into it, “I’ve only ever wanted you, too.”

Not merely wanted, but needed. And you need each other now. It doesn’t matter at all that you’re not alone in the room — that Cass and Rhys are sleeping mere footsteps away.

Your hands are on each other, grasping at each other, and your bodies come together. It’s unhurried and quiet. Azriel’s eyes don’t leave yours once, from the second he slides into you and you both gasp onto each other’s mouths.

Every slow thrust is one of love. Every one of them is a promise.

“Whatever happens,” he pants quietly, pleasure straining his voice, “whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

“Together.” You vow. A tear escapes the corner of your eye, and Azriel leans in to kiss it away.

He holds you as both your climax and his build together. He holds you as you bury into his shoulder to stop you from crying out. He holds you as you clench around his cock and he spills every last drop into you.

And he holds you as you catch your breaths and press your foreheads together, exhaustion beckoning you once more. He’s held you through so much, and he’ll continue to do so to whatever end.

Only when your eyelids are threatening to close does he brush his mouth against yours once more. And he says again, “We’ll face it together.”

There’s a stirring behind you. Cassian rolls over. Croaks out, “Can you quit fucking?”

And then he snores and he’s back to sleep, the fire warming his wings.

You and Az stare at each other and pause. And despite it all — everything that’s happened tonight — you both break into laughter. It vibrates through his chest and into you, the feeling pleasant, reassuring.

He kisses your forehead, a smile still ghosting his lips.

It stays there as he drifts to sleep.

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“What the fuck is that?”

Your groggy eyes wrench open and squint at the weak daylight that filters through the cottage. Both Rhys and Cass have bolted upright. Az, too, is jerked awake.

A thumping lands on the front door, urgent, panicked. Anxiety floods your gut.

“I’m coming, fucking hell.” Rhysand clambers to his feet. He’s dishevelled and uncoordinated as he clambers to the door and rips it open.

“Rhys,” Zakai pants from the other side. “What the fuck is your father playing at?”

“What—”

It’s then that the sound hits you all. The sound of authoritative voices calling out. Of people shouting — arguing — back.

Rhys follows Zakai out of the door. You, Azriel and Cassian share a glance before the three of you are also following.

And what you find outside is…chaos.

The sight of Illyrians fighting is nothing new, but males are being ripped from their houses. Children and wives watch, tears staining their cheeks. Paper and clothes and belongings litter the ground as if they’ve been stolen and discarded. The sky is shadowed by the temporary night of soaring Illyrians

Your wide eyes swivel to a roof a few cottages down — where a male stands upon its tiles, his voice bellowing out. He’s leather-clad and puffed up by his own importance — one of Devlon’s cronies, you think.

He seems unperturbed by the pushback on the ground — the gathering, angered males, as he addresses anyone and everyone around him.

“If I call your name, you’re coming with me! You pack the bare necessities — we leave for Steelshore in thirty minutes!” He announces. “Rahu Sepheron, Venia Char, Falkon Galos, Telarion Krin—”

“He’s lost his damn mind.” Rhys grits his teeth, shaking his head.

“He’s actually doing it.” Ice shoots through your veins, nothing to do with the brisk spring morning. “The High Lord is actually splitting everyone up.”

“Zakai Athalar—”

“Fuck this.” Rhys grabs Zakai’s hand, turning to you, Az, Cassian. “Everyone get back inside. None of us are doing anything or going anywhere until I’ve spoken to my father.”

You don’t hesitate to turn on your feet and pull Azriel with you. You want nothing more than to hole yourself up inside the cottage and pretend that none of this is happening. That anxiety and panic isn’t turning your stomach—

But the second you step foot inside, you’re halting in the doorway so suddenly that Cassian smacks into you from behind.

Fin sits at the table, cleaning his nails with a dagger.

He drinks in the sight of you greedily. Glances down at yours and Azriel’s joined hands. Smiles.

“Do you want to tell me what the fuck you’re playing at?” Rhys pushes past you, storming over. “What the hell is all this?”

“This?” Fin sits back. “This, Rhysand, is the reality of war.”

His son grits his teeth. Clenches his fists. “What.”

“War is upon us. Days, weeks, months away. People will have to fight and people will have to die. It is my duty as High Lord to take necessary action to ensure we come out victorious. If I have to sever some relationships for that outcome, then so be it.”

Cassian barrels forward, nothing but anger given flesh. “And what is this supposed necessary action? Tearing families apart?”

Even he, with his quick temper and loose tongue, would never normally address the High Lord in such a way. But Cassian cares. He’s passionate about what’s right.

And what Fin is doing is not right.

But Fin vaguely smiles and picks an invisible piece of dirt from his jacket. “If need be, Cassian, yes.” He says. “I’m delegating Illyrians where they will serve me best in this war. That includes your cosy little unit here.”

“If we are truly at war,” Azriel says quietly, dangerously, “now is not the time to play games.”

“Who’s playing games, shadowsinger?” Fin shrugs. “Not me.”

You don’t think it’s accidental, the way the High Lord’s eyes slide to you in that moment. You look away, refuse to hold his gaze. You could swear he chuckles quietly as he stands up and tucks his chair in.

“So here’s how it’s going to be.” He rests his forearms atop of the chair. “Rhysand — you will be commanding a legion in Camp Theriel.” He glances — barely — at Zakai. “I do believe your lover has already received a summons to leave for Camp Steelshore, so he should probably run along, lest he gets left behind.”

“Father—”

“Cassian.” He interrupts. “You will remain here, in Windhaven — as a common foot soldier in this war.”

“A foot soldier?” Cass spits. “That’s beneath my rank and you know it. You’re only doing this because you’re threatened by Az, Rhys and I being together. How powerful we are. Everyone knows that.”

Fin simply tsks. “Watch yourself, foot soldier. You don’t want to slip further down the ranks, now, do you—”

“Fin.” Finally, you find your voice. You step forward, despite Azriel trying to yank you back. You stare pleadingly at the High Lord.

He turns to you. His eyes sweep your face. His expression seems to go somewhat…quiet.

You had begun to respect this male in some roundabout way. You don’t think you’d ever have fully trusted him, but…there was an understanding, for a time. An allegiance of sorts.

You’d seen a side to him that so few did. And though it’s nowhere to be seen now…you have to believe that it’s still under there somewhere. You have to.

“Please don’t do this.” You whisper, your eyes filling with tears. “Please. This is our home. Our family.”

At the first sight of a tear rolling down your face, Fin swallows — hard. He clenches his fists at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach out and wipe it away.

It seems like so, so long that he stares at you. So long that he seems to be fighting something internally.

So long that a small glimmer of hope ignites in you that perhaps he cares enough to listen.

But then his eyes are shuttering, and he’s looking away. He says, stiffly, “We all have to make sacrifices in war.”

“Fin—”

“Rhysand will go to Camp Theriel. Cassian will stay here.” His eyes open again. He looks from you, to Azriel, back to you. “You and the shadowsinger are coming to Velaris with me.”

“What?!”

“You’d better say your goodbyes.” He squares his shoulders, not looking at you at all, now. “It’ll be a very, very long time before you all see each other again. If you see each other again.”

You open your mouth — to say what, you don’t know.

But Fin disappears before your eyes, leaving you — your family — alone.

What sounds far, far away is Cassian’s outraged ranting. Rhysand cursing his father. Zakai trying to talk to him, calm him down.

You and Azriel are the only two who don’t say a thing. Just stand there in silence.

Because you know you can curse all you like. You can shout and throw things and damn Fin to a miserable existence. It may bring you some temporary reprieve.

But it will not change a thing.

Fin is your High Lord. His mind is made up. This is just the next round in his game.

Your family is being cleaved apart. You stand in that cottage where you all slept in each other’s company — not realising it might be the last time, ever.

Your head roars and your tears keep on coming. But you can do nothing but stare at Azriel. He stares at you, too.

You and the shadowsinger are coming to Velaris with me.

It makes you sick to your stomach. Probably makes Azriel sick to his stomach, also.

But your locked, silent, crestfallen gazes communicate one sacred promise to each other.

Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.

Authors note: Oooooof how are we all feeling? Good? Bad? Sad? Mad? Tempted to commit arson?

I just wanted to say thank you so much for coming on this journey with me. What started out as a fun little smut piece turned into a whole story I didn’t even know I had in me, but I’ve enjoyed every bit of it — especially hearing from all of you. Your likes, reblogs, comments and asks have meant the world to me through this. Thank you so much for the wonderful responses 🫶🏻

For anyone who didn’t see my answer to an ask regarding this last part — I understand it might not be the ending everyone wanted or expected, but I felt there was still so much potential in the story that I wanted to leave it open to — perhaps — write a sequel at some point. I have so many ideas, and I’m totally willing to talk about it and answer any questions about it you have any!

Thank you, again, for all the support, darlings. And I truly hope you enjoyed Practice On Me. 💕

pom tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-a-girlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @katherinearcheron @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd @coralseacourt @towhateverend87 @sspookz @bird-on-the-wire33 @morrie-rose @megwan @catscanteleport @sevikas-whore @thickthighs-sadeyes @hihelloitsbooktimeppl

#azriel #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel shadowsinger x reader #shadowsinger x reader #azriel acotar #azriel x you #azriel fic #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fandom #acotar x reader #acotar writing #acotar fanfic #acotar headcanon #acotar smut #acotar series #azriel fanfiction #azriel smut #azriel fanfic #reader insert #illyrians #rhysand #cassian

[historiaxvanserra]

These Violent Delights | Chapter Two

Summary: A High Lords meeting goes awry and you find yourself thrust into the foxes den.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader (brief mentions of Azriel x reader)

Word Count: 6.4k

Chapter 1 of These Violent Delights on my Masterlist

The Hewn City’s state rooms are ugly, you think as you stalk the emissary of the Night Court through the winding, narrow corridors of Hewn City. The palatial chambers had been carved into the dark stone of the mountain by the Gods of old; and the high, domed ceilings are held in place by onyx pillars decorated with twisted carvings of beasts and fornicating demi-gods that line the Gothic archways.

Lurid, ill-fated omens, you think. 

Harbingers of your undoing. 

The emissary appointed with escorting you is adorned in ceremonial robes; a fine damask tunic in a deep indigo silk that is almost iridescent in the artificial light. You fall into step with him as he approaches a set of gilded iron gates. Two armored sentries fall into rank as you cross the threshold of the council chambers and you offer a courteous nod to the sentry as he meets your eye.

The antechamber of The Moonstone Palace is plunged in a suffocating blue-darkness with only the silvers of silver faelight, like artificial stars, to light the faces of the High Lords. The atmosphere is oppressive and the smell of hemlock and moonflowers stain the stagnant air. For a few moments, while you’re lost in thought, the world is silent and still. Feigning peace. But there is no peace. Not here, where the eyes of every High Lord in Prythian are upon you. 

Hewn City is a dark mirage. A metropolis of hedonistic desire and vulgar frivolity

It is here in the dark that you find yourself adrift; lost somewhere to the sea of time. You abandon yourself to the tide of memory. The happy recollections of your childhood; to the thought of home. Someplace far from here, where the sunlight touches your skin and the smell of salt from the coast becomes tangled in your unbound hair. Somewhere, in the recesses of your mind, where you know your mothers love and your fathers face is something more than a mere memory. 

It occurs to you that this is a home that never existed.

Home had always been burning; the acrid smell of woodsmoke beckons you like a funeral pyre and your salt-cracked lips chafe and bleed in the wake of blistering winds from the violent sea. And that’s the thing about mothers, you and she exist as some wretched mirror or one another; as hatred and guilt. 

You’ve been thinking of your mother a lot as of late; something in your dreams, the echoing of a coming storm. A fine line between love and hate. It is something strange and prophetic that makes your skin crawl uncomfortably from your body.

In a flurry of movement against the black you are brought back to the present as you take your place amongst the ranks of the Inner Circle. 

The silhouettes of the other High Lords, that had been flickering wildly against the dark stone of the mountain, cease to move. Cease to be, as shadows envelop the room, melting into the darkness as Rhysand glides into the room his violet eyes glinting in the dark. His eyes shine with a cold violence that draws you from thought and the visions of a home long forgotten turn to ashes in your trembling hands. He’s dressed all in black and violet, his tan skin looks pallid in the low light. By his side Feyre’s skin looks as though it is wreathed in starlight against the backdrop of the twilight-- you catch the scent of chamomile and moondust in the air. 

It smells like Nyx you think, smiling lightly to yourself at the thought of your nephew.

A tremor of dark power ripples through the air and you feel the shift in the atmosphere when shield after shield locks into place around each High Lord and his retinue of courtiers. The shield that Rhysand had already placed around the Inner Circle; made stronger in response. Night magic glitters in the air like stardust and you swear you can taste it on your tongue. That same cold rage and an essence of icy violence fortifies you against the hostility in the room and you school your expression to remain neutral when you seek out a pair of strange amber eyes in the crowd. 

A gentle warmth burns though your chest and your eyes scan the crowd. 

Eris Vanserra moves like a predator; resolute and obstinate. Amber eyes burn like fire glow in the dim light and each of his long strides are punctuated by the echo of boot clad feet on the marble. In this light, his face is almost ethereal. Unearthly even. Set in a painfully neutral expression as he slinks through the halls of the city below the mountains of Velaris. Eris Vanserra burns bright against the other Lords of Pryhtian; his copper hair, like burnished gold in the dim lights, and his eyes. Those fucking eyes. Haunting and evocative as he meets your gaze with a feline smirk. 

It is a wicked, false thing, that glitters with malice.

  He watches you with a wrathful sort of reverence. He is so very lovely, even in the pallid light. Even as his father and brothers flank his sides like a pack of hungry foxes; hungry and baying for blood.  

You watch him carefully as Eris takes his seat at the foot of the large black table, he’s careful to make a show of the way he languidly reclines in his chair, rolling his shoulders back and angling his hips in such a way that the whole room is displayed to him at once.

It’s almost voyeuristic in nature.

That summons a storm within you; a violent, lonely, sort of thing, that washes over him with the force of a raging tempest down the scarcely accepted bond and his eyes, glittering and amber in the dying light, finding yours again. For a moment, Eris Vanserra sees himself through your eyes; for the first time in centuries he doesn’t hate the man staring back at him. 

By his side Eris’ mother’s skin looks as though it is wreathed in fireglow against the backdrop of the twilight-- you catch her dark glassy eyes and she smiles softly at you. There is a deep sorrow there, in the depths of The Lady of Autumn's eyes, that feel kindred to you. 

A  shared pain, perhaps.

Turning as Rhysand and Feyre push further into the darkness of the antechamber, you are drawn from thought once more.

The rest of The Night Court look like some savage celestial army as they enter on a night-kissed breeze. Cassian and Nesta look like warriors hardened by war and ruin, all dressed in black and faces coloured with cold caution. They’re followed by the Shadowsinger, who is shrouded in dark wisps of shadow and his skin glows golden against the dark. His face is set in an unreadable expression, though, when your eyes meet a flash of recognition flashes in those hazel eyes.

Rhysand stops dead in his tracks when he regards the High Lord of Autumn.

Beron Vanserra; cruel and tyrannical, keens when he notes the flash of surprise in Rhysand’s violet gaze. His eyes simmer with a dim fire as his eyes land on you. Beron’s teeth are like crow-picked bones as he offers you a feral smile. 

“We weren’t expecting you, Beron.” Feyre’s voice is distant and cold as she speaks to the High Lord and his sons. 

Rhysand rises to his feet from his throne, waving his hand to the attendants, “Fetch the High Lord and his Lady a seat.”

The attendant presents Beron with a chair and he settles between Helion and the Lady of Autumn, neither Helion nor the lady seem to acknowledge each other but you can feel the shift in their demeanors as Beron’s ire sparks in his eyes. He doesn’t even spare The Lady of Autumn a glance before he moves on to inspecting his fellow High Lords. 

You pay Beron no heed and instead your eyes find the Lady of Autumn as she settles into her seat beside her husband and eldest son. The Lady of Autumn is like one of Feyre’s paintings; arresting and darkly beautiful. Her romantic eyes are shaded in the colors of sunset; a warm amber that looks almost golden in the low light and her dark auburn hair glitters in the dying fireglow and her eyes-- so rich that you get lost in their glassy depths. Those haunting eyes. They’re Eris’ eyes you realize as they meet yours. Though she doesn’t linger long she gives you a soft smile before returning her gaze to her long slender fingers that twitch in her lap. They’re adorned with many gold rings and crystals that she wears like armor to fortify her against the hostile atmosphere. 

You see something of yourself in her you think, looking down to your own attire. An opulent and finely boned corset, cinched so tight, that even breathing feels like a luxury and the heavy black damask that covers you in swathes of pleated fabric acts as barrier between yourself and the many eyes in the room that trail over you without care or warning. 

“Nor was I expecting to be here,” Beron drawls, “But alas, it seems we have business to discuss.” Beron’s fire rages dangerously against the black. Torrid and angry, his face unflinching and cruel as he turns his gaze upon Rhysand. Something treacherous passes between the two High Lords at that moment and something in your chest begins to stir like a storm inside of you.

A warning of a coming storm.

“Rumor claims that your allegiances are elsewhere, these days.” It is your voice that counters and Beron croons. The High Lord of Autumn assesses you keenly, his gaze shifting-- from the darkness of your eyes-- down. To the sulk of your lips. Further still to the exposed slope of your shoulders and coming to rest on your chest, where the swell of your breasts spills over the corseted bodice of your gown. His eyes darken luridly as his eyes meet yours again. Beron Vanserra scrutinizes every minute detail of your dark armor; every errant hair, every nervous twitch of your jaw, every flutter of your dark lashes.

It’s disarming the smile that spreads across his handsome face and his eyes shine with a maniacal sort of joy that sparks a wave of fury that runs through you like water-- and you swear you can feel Eris’ own fiery rage in answer. 

“And what would you know of my allegiances, girl?” The false smile he offered is soon replaced with a deep loathing in Beron’s eyes that practically burns through you. 

In a way, it feels strangely comforting to feel his ire. 

To feel anything at all that isn’t paralyzing dread or hirearth for a home to which you will never return. 

Helion waves a scar-flecked hand in front of him, “Let’s just get on with it, shall we?” 

The High Lord of Day glows with the radiance of the golden sun and he looks at you with such a strange mixture of boredom and curiosity that almost seems like reverence. He doesn’t dare look at The Autumn Lady in her seat though you notice the careful glances she makes towards him in those spaces between the seconds when no one is paying much heed.

“I know you met with rhe Prince of Rask.” you say and all the idle chatter in the room dies at once. “And he’s working with the Koschei, isn’t he?” 

Beron opens his mouth and you brace yourself for the torrid flames of his wrath. You see the violent delight dance across Beron’s eyes and Rhysand just holds his stare. Hold it with a face like icy death. And beneath the surface you see untempered wrath as it ripples beneath his carefully curated mask. A sharp pain in your chest has you seeking out Eris at his father’s side. His face is the picture of cataclysmic rage; writhing and burning in those eyes. 

To anyone else Eris Vanserra is the image of infernal rage. A righteous son to a wronged father. But to you-- all his fear comes home to you. 

A warning fire. 

“Never mind, we can discuss the happy news of your heir’s birth another time,” Beron smiles again at Rhysand and Feyre. It is Feyre who regards him with a snarling fury at the mention of the son she had almost died to bring into the world. 

She would give her life again if only to protect him from the clutches of a tyrant like Beron. Of that you were certain. 

“I believe we have business to discuss?” Beron questions again when no one responds to his taunt. 

All the eyes in the room turn to you when you loose a laugh, “I didn’t realize we were in the business of discussing plans with our enemies.” 

Eris Vanserra looks as though he might just vault over the table and silence you himself. His eyes smoulder in the dark and the scathing look he sends your way is enough to make you weak in the knees. 

“Make no mistake girl,” Beron muses, his eyes sparking with feral delight, “I am not your enemy,” 

“You are advised to keep it that way.”

In that moment you are bereft of every thought and sound in your mind as the room stills. 

Rhysand and Feyre falter and look between you and The High Lord of Autumn-- and his heir.

Your mate. 

Eris himself remains poised, his fingers wrapped around the arm of the chair, the wood straining under his cruel grip until his knuckles turn as pale as the sea foam that swirls atop the Sidra. 

It is the Shadowsinger who rises from his seat in response, “Threaten her again, old man-- I dare you.” Azriel’s voice wraps round you like cold death and you can’t help but stare impassively as he places his body between yours and Beron. The flicker of flame is smothered by Azriel’s darkness. 

Beron sits in his chair without so much as a word. Though you see the taunt in his eyes as he looks at you again. Azriel’s imposing figure still stands over you, a scarred hand that strokes languid circles into the skin of your shoulder. The bond in your chest hums violently. 

“Call off your dog, Rhysand.” Eris’ voice is dangerously low as he eyes Azriel. 

Rhys shrugs, smiling faintly “Very well,” he muses. 

Azriel takes his seat beside you, though his scarred fingers remain fixed on the arm of your chair. 

“Tell me, Azriel?” Eris laughs coldly, his voice devoid of any humor and he opens his mouth to speak, “Does it pain you knowing that both of your brothers have been given a sister as a mate?”

“And yet the Mother still deems you unworthy of a Mate -- desitined to pity fuck the spare sister.” Eris muses with a lilt of his voice when he realizes he has the upperhand. 

A twinge of heat in your chest from the bond makes your scowl deepen. 

Azriel blinks at first, his face twisting in rage before rising to his feet once more, barrelling over the table with an inhuman growl. Azriel grips Eris by the lapels of his emerald tunic. Coming together in flashes of flame and smoke as they struggle against one another. Eris swings a leg over Azriel’s thigh bringing them both tumbling to the floor, while the other High Lords watch on with varying degrees of amusement and frustration on their faces. 

Your face heats under the scrutiny. Unable to move or speak-- your stormy facade rendered useless as the tears begin to well in your eyes. 

You are a storm-- but in the face of their wrath there is naught you can do but watch and abide.

Rhysands commanding voice cuts through Azriel’s cursing and Eris’ insults. The room falls silent as the males pull away from one another. Azriel’s nose is bloodied and his hair falls around his face in messy strands. Eris’ lip is split, spilling crimson along the column of his throat. You trace the line of scarlet as the droplets stain the neckline of his white shirt. You can hear his heartbeat as it flutters wildly. His eyes meet yours and a look of resignation and shame crosses them for a moment; obscuring the perfect amber of his gaze. 

Azriel wipes his blood on his leathers; wears it like armor as he turns to Eris “Something to remember me by.” 

Azriel spits the words like venom at Eris whose face radiates with a dark and fiery wrath.

Feyre looks between the two males and then to you; her face softens then as she regards you. Your hands shaking wildly, and a heartbeat like an echoing war drum, the bond in your chest singing a mournful song as it rages inside you. 

You look utterly devastated. 

She’s not used to seeing that kind of defeat on the face of her elder sister; the sister who had weathered so much, always headstrong and ardent, who had suffered every injustice with a straight face-- she hadn’t quite prepared herself for the type of sorrow that realization would bring with it. 

Taking in the scene unfolding before you-- the descent into violence and the blood that pools like rubies at Eris Vanserra’s feet you loose a shaky breath. “Enough--enough” You wave your hands between Azriel and Eris. 

The males both take a tentative step away from one another and further from you. 

“Who shares my bed is of little concern, I assure you, My Lord,” You insist firstly, setting your shoulders straight and facing them now with all the stormy determination you can feign in that moment, “from what I’ve heard you yourself have quite curious bedfellows.” 

Beron sneers and scoffs from his seat at the foot of the table at the insult. A lie, at that. If anyone does share Eris Vanserra’s bed they are a mystery to you. 

“Preferring the company of hounds  - or so I am told.” Azriel adds.

And in truth you and Azriel haven’t so much as locked eyes since that night in Hewn City. After the mating bond between you and Eris had made its home in your chest you hadn’t been able to think about anyone or anything else. 

Just him. And those amber eyes.

“We are here because once more someone is threatening the tenuous peace we have established here,” Helion nods his head thoughtfully and Thesan, who had remained silent throughout the whole ordeal looks at you with genuine encouragement and utters his agreement. Kallias and Vivianne remain silent and imposing on the other side of the table.

“It is our duty-- our privilege-- to ensure Prythian and its people are not ravaged by war again.” You look to Kallias then, unimpressed by the needless violence that had passed but somehow enamored by your words.

“Hyburn took so much from us-- from all of us.” You say, gesturing around the table and the High Lord’s faces are all shaded in sympathy and regret for all they had lost, “and Amarantha made slaves of you all.”

You cast a glance to your sister; who had fought and died for these great men and their courts. And to Rhysand who had subjected himself to being her plaything. Something like grief flashes in those violet eyes that sparks a storm in you. 

“I will not be a slave again,” You vow and you notice then how all the High Lords seem rapt withal as you speak to them, and the storm inside you rages on, “to anyone.”

The tensions around the table seem to dissipate when Helion raises a chalice and smirks fondly at you and it seems that they see you as more than a bed warmer to a dark God or the mate of some High Lord’s heir. Talons scrape menacingly along your mental shields and Rhysand’s dark presence makes itself known to you. Bed warmer? Darling you are a storm-- everyone here knows it. 

A force to be reckoned with.

The rest of the meeting seems to come to pass as intended, laborious hours of negotiating and political games as you come to terms with each High Lord in turn. By the time the moon hangs in the sky like cut quartz, almost all of the High Lords have already departed, leaving only The High Lord of Spring and The Autumn Court’s entourage. 

“Where did you find this one, Rhysand?” Tamlin asks, his tone measured and light. 

Rhysand looks between Feyre and you smiling lightly, the corners of his mouth twitching as he opens his mouth to speak.

“I heard they found her in a Hyburn cell, after the war was over.” It is Beron Vanserra’s voice that cuts in, “what was left of her anyway.”

“Perhaps we should be asking where your loyalties lie?” It’s the middle Vanserra brother that speaks. His russet curls glow warm in the dim lights and his stare is cruel and malignant as he hones in on you. 

“Hyburn whore” It’s whispered, accusatory, on an inhale of breath. 

They way it is uttered with an air of repulsion and venom reminds you of those stories told in human villages; of woods women named ‘witch’ by those who do not understand. 

People fear what they do not understand. 

It seems that Fae are no different than mere mortals in that respect. 

“You’d be wise to bite your tongue, brother.” Eris’s voice is a cold echo as all thought and sound eddies out of your mind. Flashes of black and gold as the visions come back to you; those days spent cowering in the darkness of your cell, your feral anger directed at any man who came too close-- all biting fury, canines and claws, and the screams they tore from your like the howling wind over a violent sea.

A fury spreads through you, taking root in the dark caverns of your chest, slowing your heartbeat to a dull aching thud as you lose yourself to it; give yourself over to the tempest of emotion that courses through you. You try to fight it as the first ebbs of that dangerous storm embrace you. Lest you surrender yourself to the tempest; let it open you up and pour out into the world in floods of ravaging power. 

It brings forth a storm the likes of which the world has never seen; a thing of ugly rage.

You were born angry, your mother had told you once.

But rage is a learned thing. Your rage. It had been your mother’s first, before that it had her mothers, and her mother before her. 

It is an inherited curse; a wicked and wretched thing.

It is a storm enough to drown in. 

A howling wind whips around you and for a moment you are standing at a great precipice. From the cliff’s edge, peering down at a violent sea as it coils and breaks against the jagged cliff face of some distant shore, where the world looks as though it is dappled in fireglow, the smell of woodsmoke and bonfires wafts from inland. The sea-soaked wind is so palpable that you taste its salt-kiss on your lips with the ardent fervor of the most savage lover. 

There is something sacred in salt, you think.

For a moment you consider what it would feel like; to plummet into the watery abyss. How the sunlight would look as it fractures and splinters on the water's violent surface. 

How it might cascade into the murky green depths. A secret held between you and the sea.

“My Lady,” It is Eris’ voice, practically feral and dripping with an aching desperation as he all but vaults around the corner of the dark wood table, parting his brothers with a rehearsed type of brutality as he claws his way to you. His commanding aura draws you closer to him and his pale hand offers a strong and comforting weight on your arm as he takes your trembling palm in his rough hold.

“You’re bleeding,” Eris says, cupping your palm into a fist with his own, applying light pressure to the wound while he assesses it. Turning it over in his tentative grasp. Through your lashes you take a moment to assess him as he towers over you. He’s tall and much broader than you remember but he moves with an inhuman grace. His nose is long and straight and his jaw strong and regal. His amber eyes linger dangerously over the hand cupped in his own. You hadn’t even realized you had stood up. Nor had you registered the blood you had drawn from your own palms until you see the crescent moons, indented in the tender flesh, like a taunt as they stain Eris’ fingertips scarlet as he presses the fabric of his handkerchief to your grazed hand. 

“It’s nothing, My Lord,” You say softly, your voice low and you feel his eyes burning into yours; it is a slow, searing ache that almost feels like a kiss. A fragile thing, full of reverence and a strange tenderness. A vein of hurt throbs through you, quickly soothed by the press of his palm to yours. 

Eris Vanserra holds a power over you; commands you in a way that should feel unpleasant. The knowledge that you would give yourself over to him if only he asked. 

“It is only a little blood.” The words live and die on tongue, they fizzle out just as soon as they are uttered before he is calling for Rhysand -- his voice is swallowed by the din and your heartbeat echoes like a wardrum in your ears and the sound of the violet sea breaks against you and you feel your body go lax. 

You wait for the dull ache as your body meets the cool marble of the floor only it never comes; instead your weight is suspended in the embrace of Eris Vanserra’s arms, you vaguely hear your name from his lips before the world turns to darkness. 

You feel like lull of his heartbeat as he brings you closer against his chest. 

The smell of cedar and smoked bergamot follows you into the abyss. 

The room seems to come back to you like the tide; swiftly and cruelly as it materializes before you. It comes back in flashes of the dark; the oppressive pillars of dark marble that hold the domed, onyx ceiling in place, the silver fae lights like pallid stars and the visage of contorting demons and chimera’s like half formed ghosts. 

“What happened?” You ask looking around the darkened council chambers; once filled with the idle chatter of courtiers and High Lord’s and their entourage now only the Inner Circle is gathered in the darkness contained between these walls. 

And Eris. 

He burns golden against the black. 

“Well one thing is for certain,” It is Morrigan who stands over you, her shoes shine like rubies in the low light, “You know how to make a scene.” Her voice is light and jovial, laced with concern. 

“You fainted,” Feyre says plainly as she sinks to her knees before you. It is then you feel Eris’ solid frame as he radiates warmth behind you, where you are propped against his chest. Your body feels foreign and unlike your own as you move, transferring your weight from his arms and into the arms of Feyre who helps you stand on uncertain feet. 

“I’m sorry,” You say earnestly to both Rhysand and Feyre and turning to Eris again to mutter your thanks. He looks displeased at that. The distance between your body in his, the unfamiliarity you regard him with as if you hadn’t just allowed yourself to revel in the feel of his arms wrapped securely around you. “I’m sorry.”

“You should return to your father, My Lord.” You laugh humorlessly, using the hand that isn’t wrapped tightly around the lip of the chair to smooth a hand down the pleats of your gown reflexively.

A knock, resounding and resolute echoes through the chamber and the Inner Circle seem to bristle at the intrusion. Through the blanket of the dark a figure emerges; Keir stands tall with an air of arrogance about him as he steps into the antechamber. His hair is dark and graying and his face, though handsome, has begun to show signs of age. His eyes glitter menacingly as he finds you amongst the inner circle. 

“My apologies for the intrusion, High Lord.” Keir says, his voice full of dark promise as a second figure steps from the shadow, “but it appears there is a rather urgent matter that has come to our attention.”

The rooms seems steeped in solemn silence as Beron Vanserra reveals himself through the din; dressed in fine merlot robes and embroidered with gold threads and leaves. He looks like Autumn personified. All fire and wrath as he stalks into the room. 

“It appears you have been keeping secrets from me, Rhysand.” Rhys takes a step forward approaching Beron with little regard for the fury that burns behind his hazel eyes. The High Lord of Night laughs cruelly as Beron advances further into the room, seeking out his son, who reaches for you almost without thinking. His fingers flex around your forearm and push you further into Feyre as he steps in front of you both subtly. 

Beron looks suspiciously between the three of you. 

Beron smiles.

It is not a thing of fondness or affection-- It is dark and laden with malevolence. A whisper of amusement lights in his golden irises and Eris feels like a boy again; alone and afraid as the shadows of his fathers wrath descend upon him.

“You knew,” The High Lord of Autumn charges forward, tearing through Azriel and Cassian, as he raves. His voice is dangerously low and full of malice as he advances towards Eris. His eyes blaze against the dark as he casts his wicked gaze upon his eldest son.

“You knew,” He repeats frantically, “That whore is your mate, and you lied to me.”

Accusatory.

Without thought or care, Eris lunges forward and takes one long stride so that his body shields yours from Beron’s grasp as his fire burns vengeful and angry as it bands around Eris’s arms. The putrid smell of burned flesh brings bile rising in your throat and you feel Rhysand’s shields fortify around you and the rest of the Inner Circle in response. 

You wait for someone to do something, but as is the nature of these things Rhysand is not permitted to interfere in the affairs of other courts. And whether he likes it or not, Eris is subject to his High Lord and father. 

And as it stands he is a traitor to both. 

Eris falls to his knees before you and you feel the bond die in your chest; his scream is something akin to dying. It sears through you, burning like fire until you feel like a phoenix rising from its own ashes as your body moves of its own volition. 

“Stop, stop!” You plead with Beron advancing a pace towards him as you pull away from Feyre’s secure hold. Not even Cassian dares hold you back when you claw your way from the safety of his arms, “Please, he didn’t know.” 

Beron pays you no heed as his wrath brings Eris to his knees. 

“Please.” you beg, your voice aching and angry as you address the High Lord, ignoring the warnings of Azriel and Cassian, “He didn’t know.” 

“W-we hid it from him.” Your lie desperately, your voice though strained comes out in violent waves of anger as Beron continues to inflict his fire upon Eris.

Your mate.

In a desperate bid to spare him you beg once more. 

“Please, whatever you want, you can have it, I swear it.” And all the fire ceases.

Eris heaves a heavy breath and he collapses in a swath of burnished gold and emerald, strewn lazily against the marble. You sink to your knees beside him, his hands, though shaking, are firm against you as they grasp at the many layers of your skirts as he hoists himself up. Even on his knees he towers over you. His hair drapes like spidersilk over one side of his sculpted face as he peers down at you with dark amber eyes. Despite all the eyes in the room Eris brings a tentative hand to cup your cheek and all his remorse and grief flood down the bond that runs golden and brilliant from your body to his; as if to say no use hiding now, little fox. 

Eris rises to his feet before his father who looks on with a mixture of feral delight and complete apathy as Eris’ pain subsides. 

Keir retreats into the shadows and with him the air shifts; the room, once shaded in the smell of hemlock and moonflowers, is tainted with something more. Something darker. Earthy. 

The smell of wildflowers; smoke-kissed juniper and foxglove, all undercut with the smell of salt and iron. 

It occurs to you then that it is the smell of your mating bond. 

Beron loses a dark laugh and approaches you slowly, like a predator circles its prey. Deliberate and calculating as he takes your chin in his bony fingers and commands you to look at him. His eyes are much darker than Eris’, so dark that they almost look black in this light and even in his age you admire their depths, haunting and arresting. Beron cuts an intimidating figure, you think as he flashes you a smile that is all Eris. 

You sometimes forget how alike father and son are; though Eris is undoubtedly more striking; with his strange amber eyes and baring a broader physique than his father, with strong arms and shoulders and that beautiful copper hair which he had inherited from his mother. 

“Anything I want?” Beron muses deathly quiet as he brings you closer to him, so close that the heat of his breath against your face causes chills to rise along the skin of your arms and neck.

“Anything, that is within my power to give.” You clarify, unwilling to be tricked into a more heinous bargain than you had prepared yourself for. Feyre protests loudly, calling your name, begging you to see reason though her pleas are useless against the thunder of your heart in your chest; like the sound of a storm rolling in from the sea. 

Rhysand holds his wife by her forearms as she attempts to fight her way to your side. 

A bargain offered of your own volition cannot be undone or unmade. 

All that’s left to do is come to terms. 

Beron smiles again, a saccharine smile that turns your stomach as his free hand cups your hip harshly, his brows rise in question and you realize how he’s looking right through you to his son who stands defeated behind you.

“And if I want you?” You swallow hard as his hand on your hip tightens to a bruising grip.

The High Lord of Night protests and a dark ripple of power separates you and Beron, you stumble backwards until you’re pressed up against the dark wood table as it cuts into the backs of your thighs. Beron laughs playfully and raises his hands in mock surrender to Rhysand. Keir smiles with a sense of sick satisfaction as Beron nods for Eris to join him. 

Eris joins his father on the side of the room and Beron inspects him in carefully; scrutinizes every furrow of his brow or the tick of his jaw as charred flesh gives way to pale unblemished skin. 

Beron claps a hand over his son's shoulder and offers his half-hearted explanation. 

Filling his ear with poison. 

“Your mate has deceived you, my son; she is yours by right,” Beron preens like an over-satisfied cat, offering a wave of his hand as he gestures to you, “Is she not?” 

Eris swallows thickly and through the bond you can feel his wrath as it burns silent and deadly through you. His fire burns ferocious and wild. Dark and untamed. It ignites a similar storm in the pit of your stomach as Eris regards you with feigned malice much to the appeasement of his father.

His gaze, once soft and vulnerable, is cold and predatory as he takes his time to trail over the swell of your chest and the curve of your hips like a hungry animal. 

“She is,” His voice is sharp-edged as he nods impassively to his father, the glimpses of his true self now little more than a trick in the light as he adorns his facade like a suit or armor to spare him his father’s fire. 

“You mean to claim her?” Eris questions pointedly. Eris’ eyes move around the room with a careful, almost pensive, precision.

He can’t pretend that he doesn’t want it. Some primal, territorial part of him wants it more than anything. It’s animalistic and carnal. 

Wholly perverse. 

He wants you, terribly; he aches for you in a way that he has never ached for anything.

And you want him.

But not like this. 

Not as a pretty pawn to bring him to heel. 

“She will do well in Autumn,” Beron says in lieu of an answer. 

Rhysand and Feyre stand firm against the hostility in the room even as Beron approaches them once more. “An alliance between our two most ancient and noble courts,” Beron says in a celebratory manner, his arms outstretched in a show of arrogance, “made strong by the oaths that you will swear to my son and my court.”

“Very well, High Lord.” You acquiesce and Beron smiles as his words hit their mark

You swear that Eris could burn the city to ash then and something in him cools then under your watchful gaze; it burns blue under the surface and you can see it tempering to a cold unmoving stare cast in his father’s direction.

It’s grotesque, the anger that runs hot in his veins that sears its kiss into the place where your body and his are joined. 

You seethe. A raging tempest that comes off of you in violent waves of temper that threaten to swallow the room whole. And Beron Vanserra with it. It is almost enough to bring you to your knees before him as your skin burns under his rising fury.

Your eyes meet the strange amber eyes of Eris Vanserra at his father’s side and you think then, that you will happily suffer his fire if burning always feels so profound.

#acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #eris x reader #eris vanserra #eris x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #pro eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris fic #eris headcanons #eris vandaddy

[merymoonbeam]

Light and Dark

Cc3 spoilers. You have been warned. 🫡

My obsession with this connection started when I saw @silverlinedeyes post about the six-pointed star in hosab and I added how I thought it resembled the TT scene elriel has.

We have the six pointed star in hosab and ithan-Hypaxia explained it like this.

Ithan angled his head. “A six-pointed star,” he said. Like the one Bryce had made between the Gates this spring, with the seventh candle at its center. “It’s a symbol of balance,” she explained, moving away a foot, but keeping the dagger at her side. Her crown of cloudberries seemed to glow with an inner light. “Two intersecting triangles. Male and female, dark and light, above and below … and the power that lies in the place where they meet.”

And we have the Elriel TT scene.

Elain looked up at Azriel, their eyes meeting, his hand still lingering on the hilt of the blade. I saw the painting in my mind: the lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before Death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. Light and dark, the space between their bodies a blend of the two. The only bridge of connection … that knife.

So as you can see by the same color highlighted parts. It matches quiet well. But we are gonna focus on the green highlighted part now.

As you can see ithan thinks that it resembled a six-pointed star when bryce made the drop with the Heart Gate.

Hypaxia said, “Look at the Gates.” The quartz Gates across the city began to glow. Red, then orange, then gold, then white. Firstlight erupted from them. Lines of it speared out in every direction. The lights flowed down the ley lines between the Gates, connecting them along the main avenues. It formed a perfect, six-pointed star. The lines of light began to spread. Curving around the city walls. Cutting off the demons now aiming for the lands beyond. Light met light met light met light. Until the city was ringed with it. Until every street was glowing. And Bryce was still making the Drop. It was joy and life and death and pain and song and silence.

The important part is here that it was the Heart Gate. The center of the crescent city. Map:

One of seven in this city, all carved from enormous blocks of quartz hewn from the Laconian Mountains to the north, the Old Square Gate was often called the Heart Gate, thanks to its location in the dead center of Lunathion, with the other six Gates located equidistant from it, each one opening onto a road out of the walled city.

So it is the...heart. you know what is described as heart in acotar? RAMIEL.

Ramiel. The sacred mountain. The heart of not only Illyria, but the entirety of the Night Court.

A little elain quote:

“When I sleep,” she murmured, “I can hear your heart beating through the stone.” She angled her head, as if the city view held some answer. “Can you hear mine?”

And in my wild hunt post I theorized that Ramiel felt like the gates in a way. Because I think sarah took inspo from the Lia Fail stone from myths. It is one of the four treasures of Tuantha De Danaan. I went into more detail in my wild hunt post I link so Im not gonna add everything here again.

So Lia Fail.

The Lia Fáil was thought to be magical: when the rightful High King of Ireland put his feet on it, the stone was said to roar in joy. The stone is also credited with the power to rejuvenate the king and also to endow him with a long reign.

And we know that ramiel stone heals.

“Who healed you?” Nesta pulled back to survey them. “How are you even here?” “The stone,” Emerie explained, features soft with wonder. “It healed every wound on us the moment it brought us out of the Rite. We arrived here, of all places.”“I think it knew where we were needed most,” Gwyn said quietly, and Nesta smiled.

And we know that with firstlight you can heal. Does the ramiel stone consist firstlight and it works in a gate like way? It literally teleported them? How can it do that?

In hosab we have this:

“Your power came from the Gate—with a shit-ton of firstlight mixed in. So your magic—beyond the light, I mean— needs to be powered up. It relies on firstlight, or any other form of energy it can get. You’re literally a Gate: you can take in power and offer it. But it seems the similarity ends there. The Gates can store power indefinitely, while yours clearly peters out after a while.”

So a gate can take power and offer it and it can store indefinitely. If we take the ramiel as a first light storage of daglan with the ramiel stone it is working like a gate would?? Because in hofas the daglan under prison said they hid many things...under mountains as well.

Vesperus backed up a half step, hissing at the gleaming weapon. “We hid pockets of our power throughout the lands, in case the vermin should cause … problems. It seems our wisdom did not fail us.” “There are no such places,” Azriel countered coldly. “Are there not?” Vesperus grinned broadly, showing all of her too-white teeth. “Have you looked beneath every sacred mountain? At their very roots? The magic draws all sorts of creatures. I can sense them even now, slithering about, gnawing on the magic. My magic. They’re as much vermin as the rest of you.”

We have another light and dark scene with important sword and dagger. The dagger that was in the elriel scene—TT and Gwydion.

They are white and dark light—Alpha and Omega.(I have a post about this)

The male drew it, and Bryce flinched.

Flinched, but—“What the fuck?” The knife could have been the twin of the Starsword: black hilted and bladed. It was its twin. The Starsword began to hum within its sheath, glittering white light leaking from where leather met the dark hilt. The dagger— The male dropped the dagger to the plush carpet. All of them retreated as it flared with dark light, as if in answer. Alpha and Omega. “Gwydion,” the dark-haired female whispered, indicating the Starsword.

And whats important is that with her power bryce can unite them to open a portal to nowhere.

Polaris’s eyes widened as Bryce plunged the blades into her chest. And as those blades thrust through skin and bone, the star in Bryce’s own chest flared out to meet them. It collided with the blades, and both sword and knife blazed bright, as if white-hot. The light extended up through Bryce’s hands, her arms, her body, turning her incandescent— Into a star. A sun.

What's important is that as bryce collects Theia's power that was parted into three parts she starts to realize it is taking a touch of darkness...

Bryce rolled her eyes, but for a heartbeat, Hunt wondered if Thanatos was right: Bryce had explained how the prism in the Autumn King’s office had revealed her light to now be laced with darkness, as if it had become the fading light of day, of twilight—

And we go to that scene...

With a prayer to Cthona, she sent twin beams of light arcing around the prisms, shooting straight into them.Twin bursts of that light flared from either prism, gunning for each other. Bands of light falling into darkness, her power stripped to its most elemental, basic form. They shot for each other, and where they met, light and darkness and darkness and light slamming into each other—Bryce stepped into the explosion in the heart of it. Stepped into her power.It lit her up from the inside, lit up her very blood. Her hair drifted above her head, pens and papers and other office detritus flowing upward with it. Such light and darkness—the power lay in the meeting of the two of them. She understood it now, how the darkness shaped the light.

And the purple highlighted part...it is exactly the same as the six pointed star.

Ithan angled his head. “A six-pointed star,” he said. Like the one Bryce had made between the Gates this spring, with the seventh candle at its center. “It’s a symbol of balance,” she explained, moving away a foot, but keeping the dagger at her side. Her crown of cloudberries seemed to glow with an inner light. “Two intersecting triangles. Male and female, dark and light, above and below … and the power that lies in the place where they meet.”

And if we go by the elriel scene...

Elain looked up at Azriel, their eyes meeting, his hand still lingering on the hilt of the blade. I saw the painting in my mind: the lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before Death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. Light and dark, the space between their bodies a blend of the two. The only bridge of connection … that knife.

Can you see the connection?

Also that elemental part in bryce's scene. we learn about that in acosf.

Cassian forced himself to sit perfectly still as Rhys dragged a hand through his black hair. “Once, the High Fae were more elemental, more given to reading the stars and crafting masterpieces of art and jewelry and weaponry. Their gifts were rawer, more connected to nature, and they could imbue objects with that power.”

And we know how theia and her line can use the TT and Starsword bc she helped them make them.

Theia extended her hands toward the water, the offered blades. And on phantom wings, sword and dagger soared for her. Summoned to her hands.Starlight flared from Theia as she snatched the sword and knife out of the air, the blades glowing with their own starlight. My mother returned that day with only Pelias and my father’s blades. As she had helped Make them, they answered to the call in her blood. To her very power.

So maybe Azriel and Elain have some kind of elemental magic as well?

Also the stone on top of ramiel...sings.

But when he’d touched the onyx monolith, when he’d felt that ancient force sing into his blood in the heartbeat before it had whisked him back to the safety of Devlon’s camp … It had been worth it. To feel that. With a solemn bow of his head toward Ramiel and the living stone atop it, Cassian caught another swift wind and soared southward.(acofas)

TT and Gwydion also sing.

“Let’s go,” Azriel said, and released her hand. Because the sword and dagger weren’t merely tugging now. They were singing, and all she had to do was reach out for them—

What's more interesting is @icedflames made a post about Fragarach and about the connection between gwydion and tt which came true in cc2 as we learned they were connected.

You have to stand on top of Lia Fail stone with Fragarach.

In Irish mythology, Fragarach (or Freagarthach), known as "The Whisperer", "The Answerer", or "The Retaliator", was the sword of Nuada, the first high king. The sword was forged by the gods and was meant to be wielded only by those who posed above the stone of destiny (the Lia Fail) which roared and the sword whispered in response.

So do we need to take Gwydion and TT to Ramiel? To that Stone? We need Elriel to do it bc all of them are "light and dark"? What will happen if they are all there?

Also dont forget about book of breathings prophecy.

Life and death and rebirth

Sun and moon and dark

Rot and bloom and bones

Hello, sweet thing. Hello, lady of night, princess of decay. Hello, fanged beast and trembling fawn. Love me, touch me, sing me.

Also Fionn dipped the Gwydion to Cauldron.

Another shift of memory, and Fionn pulled a long blade from the Cauldron, dripping water. A black blade, whose dark metal absorbed any trace of light around it. Bryce’s knees weakened. The Starsword. Two other figures stood there, veiled in the thick snow, but Bryce hardly got a chance to wonder about them before Silene’s narration began anew.

And Cauldron sits upon Ramiel.

“The Cauldron,” Nesta said hours later, pointing to yet another carving on the wall. It indeed showed a giant cauldron, perched atop what seemed to be a barren mountain peak with three stars above it. Azriel halted, angling his head. “That’s Ramiel.” At Bryce’s questioning look, he explained, “A mountain sacred to the Illyrians.”

So we are going to ramiel with gwydion and tt? 🫡

#elriel #ramiel #gwydion and truth teller #light and dark #cc3 spoilers #I will add more to this if I find anything more usefull but as of now my brain is done and I cant add more to it #hofas

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 70

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 70: The Beast Beneath the Boards

AO3 - Masterlist

As the litter drew to a stop, a final moment of connection passed between Daenera and Helaena. With a gentle pressure on Daenera’s hand, Helaena leaned closer, her voice a soft whisper, “Beware the beast beneath the boards… And beware the one that resides by the heart.”

The silence of the litter was interrupted by the sounds from the outside–a shuffle of feet, a divisive click, and then the door swung wide open, casting a flood of morning light into the previously dim interior. Aemond’s silhouette framed the doorway, his gesture a silent beckoning for them to exit. Daenera returned the pressure of Helaena’s hand in a silent show of solidarity before letting go. Helaena gracefully accepted Aemond’s assistance, gathering her skirts in one hand as she descended from the carriage. 

Upon her descent, Aemond shifted his focus to Daenera, his expression tightening ever so slightly, mirroring the anticipation of a challenge as she deliberately lingered within the confines of the litter, her demeanor defiant. 

With a purposeful extension of his hand, Aemond gesture towed the line between an offer and a command, a test of his patience thinly veiled. 

Daenera held Aemond’s gaze with a defiant scowl, her displeasure manifesting in the slight furrow of her brow and the tight press of her lips. After a moment marked by the silent battle of wills, she released a pointed sigh, an audible surrender to his demand and with a deliberate motion, she gathered the folds of her dress and made her way through the litter, despite her reluctance. 

This time, she takes his hand, allowing him to momentarily assist her down the steps of the litter. Once her feet were on the ground, she withdrew her hand, as if the brief contact was more than she could bear. Her hand prickled with the warmth of his, and she felt her heart twist within her chest. 

Daenera lifted her gaze to the imposing structure of the Dragonpit, perched majestically on the steep slopes of Rhaenys Hill. The terrain surrounding them was rugged, mirroring the craggy cliffs that formed the foundation of the Red Keep. Carved into this stony landscape, a stairway ascended directly toward the Dragonpit. Unlike the grand staircase that stretched from the Dragonpit’s main gates and all the way down to the foot of the hill to streets below–broad, imposing, and designed to accommodate the comings and goings of large crowds–this path was more modest in scale. It was only a fifth the length of its grander counterpart, yet it still presented a lengthy and steep ascent, beginning from a point more than halfway up the hillside. 

This stairway wound its way up from a road that hugged the contours of the hill, a road reserved for their use alone, away from the eyes of the city’s populace. The road itself was a flat, rocky ribbon that snaked through the landscape, culminating in a leveled area at the base of the stairs. This served as a threshold between the road and the climb, a starting point for the final approach to the Dragonpit above. 

At the cliffside, an entrance had been hewn directly from the stone, framed by ornate columns. The entrance led into the cavernous depths of bowls of the Dragonpit, where the dragons were. The long, wide, entrance was dimly lit by the flickering light from sparse braziers, their glow too weak to chase away the shadows that lurked within. The mere sight of it sent a familiar shiver down her spine.

From this depths of the Dragonpit a distinct scent wafted through the air–a combination of smoke and the unmistakable presence of dragons. 

The area around them buzzed with activity as banners snapped in the wind, and horses neighed, their restlessness a mirror to the anticipation of the assembled crowd. The procession had now fully gathered, with notable figures making their appearances from the ornately decorated litters. 

Queen Alicent emerged with the grace befitting her status, accompanied by Aegon, who bore a blank expression as he was flanked by the Kingsguard, their white cloaks fluttering in the wind. And from another wagon, Otto Hightower emerged, followed by the members of the council.

Weariness tinted Daenera’s sigh as she cast a disparaging glance at the daunting staircase before her, her steps reluctantly quickened by Aemond’s guiding hand at the small of her back. 

“Why couldn’t they have extended the road to reach the top?” She lamented, her voice carrying the annoyance of a long-standing grievance. 

The hint of a smile that played on Aemond’s lips did not escape her notice–a silent acknowledgement of the numerous times she had voiced this complaint in their younger years. Back then, their visits to the Dragonpit were marked by this same ritual: A litter ride followed by the inevitable climb.

Daenera had never been shy about expressing her displeasure, questioning the necessity of the arduous ascent each time. Her frustration was not merely about the physical exertion but stemmed from a deeper sense of exclusion. Without a dragon of her own to bond with, she was relegated to the role of an observer, watching from the sidelines as her brother’s and uncle formed connections with their dragons. 

While she had come to terms with the reality of never having a dragon to call her own, Aemond had harbored a bitterness towards this face. His resentment had driven him to search the depths of the Dragonpit on more than one occasion, hopeful of discovering an unclaimed dragon lingering in its shadows. Unlike him, Daenera had never ventured into the deeper recesses of the pit. 

The procession embarked on the strenuous journey upwards, each step taking them closer to the Dragonpit. As they finally reached the summit, their path led them through one of the lesser-known side entrances, a discreet gateway into the ancient edifice. The dimly lit corridors that greeted them were nestled within the outer walls of the structure, snaking around its perimeter in a labyrinthine embrace. Shadows clung to the corners, and the air was thick with anticipation. 

As they stepped into the vast arena, the cacophony of gathered voices enveloped them, merging into a singular, resonant drone. The upper levels was already teeming with spectators; the upper tiers were densely populated, and a steady stream of people continued to fill arena grounds. The expansive dome above transitioned seamlessly from the open blue sky to an ornate ceiling, where gold murals unfurled the stories of Aegon’s Conquest. These grand depictions, ambitious in their scope and detail, seemed to fade into the shadows under the weak illumination that fought valiantly but in vain against the pervasive darkness of the Dragonpit.

The structure’s inherent gloom was punctuated only by the light that managed to seep through the grand doorway, left open to accommodate the influx of spectators. 

In this dimly lit space, Daenera was led to a dias, an elevated platform that rose distinctly from the rena floor, safeguarded by a line of gold cloaks. Positioned at the heart of the Dragonpit, this dias was bathed in light, pouring in from the window above the second door that remained closed. 

Daenera’s expression darkened into a scowl as she took in the sight of the banner that served as the backdrop of the dias, its fabric boasting the emblem of the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The gleaming gold of the dragon contrasted starkly against the banner’s black fabric, a symbol of power and legacy that loomed over the gathering. 

Her scowl deepened as her gaze settled on the throne positioned prominently in front of the banner, elevated slightly upon another dias. This wasn’t just any seat; it was an exquisitely carved wooden throne, its craftsmanship detailed and grand, accentuated by the tall back and the curves that seemed to frame the seat itself. The throne was a piece of history, the very throne Jaehaerys had occupied during the Great Council held at Harrenhal, when the heir to the throne had been named; making Viserys I Targaryen his successor. 

Daenera’s voice was barely a whisper, tinged with outrage as she sneered at Aemond, “This is a fucking mummer’s farce.”

“It may well be,” Aemond hummed, “but it won’t make a difference what you think.”

As the procession made its way onto the dias, they were elevated above the throngs of the commoners who jolsted for a view. The event seemed to have stirred the entire city into a frenzy of anticipation, drawing spectators from all corners of the city to witness what was happening. 

Daenera found herself standing between Helaena, who sought comfort in the small gesture of entwining their fingers, and Aemond, who stood with his hands folded behind his back. 

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena murmured lowly, clutching Daenera’s hand tightly. “And beware the one that resides by the heart.”

The air was punctuated by shouts of reverence from the crowd, “Gods bless you, Princess Daenera!” one voice ran out above the rest, igniting a chorus of similar accolades. Helaena, too, received her share of adulation, her name called out with affection by the smallfolk. 

Yet, the smiles they offered in return, the warmth did not quite reach their eyes. Their expressions were masks, worn to fulfill the expectations of their roles, even as their minds were perhaps miles away from the grandiosity and the clamor that enveloped them. The moment was a poignant reflection of the duality of their existence–revered and isolated, adored yet distant. 

Within Daenera, a tumult of emotions raged. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs, betraying the calm exterior she maintained. A hollow sensation gnawed at her stomach, dread seeming like a voracious beast that ate at her as her gaze swept over the crowd. 

The crowd surged forward, a living entity in itself, its members merging into a sea of indistinguishable faces that resembled a shapeless flow, much like a mudslide in its relentless advance.  

“People of King’s Landing,” Otto Hightower’s voice cleaved through the ambient noise of the gathering, sharp and commanding, arresting the attention of all present. “Today is the saddest of days…”

At his words, Helaena’s hold on Daenera’s hand intensified, her gaze dropping to the ground as a somber expression carved itself deeply into her features. Daenera, feeling the tremor of emotion from Helaena, subtly shifted closer. Their clasped hands became a mutual source of solace, a silent exchange of support amidst the unfolding scene. 

“Our beloved King Viserys the Peaceful is dead,” Otto declared, allowing the gravity of his announcement to permeate the crowd. A pause followed, during which the weight of his words seemed to slowly descend upon the assembly, eliciting a ripple of stunned murmurs. 

“But it is also the most joyous of days, for as his spirit left us,” he continued, his voice rising high above all else. “He whispered his final wish: that his firstborn son, Aegon… should succeed him!”

Her heart pointed fiercely, a symphony of indignation that surged and swelled within Daenera. She pressed her jaw together, the tension manifesting in the tight set of her mouth as she ground her teeth in silent frustration. Drawing in a deep, deliberate breath, she steeled herself against what was to come, and the theft that was being done in broad daylight, before the realm to witness. 

Her gaze darted towards Alicent, laden with a desperate, silent plea for intervention–hoping, in spite of herself, that Alicent might reverse her decision of having her son crowned, that she might alter the course they were on. Yet, as she searched Alicent’s expression for any sign of hesitation, any hint of change, Daenera was met with the stark realization that there would be no such reprieve. The hope that had flickered so briefly in her heart disintegrated, leaving her to confront the truth that this outcome, this path, had been decided upon years ago, and Alicent wouldn’t change it. After all, why should she? She had set it in motion years ago, when she had married Viserys. 

The crowd’s initial stirrings were tinged with shock and confusion, gradually swelling into a louder chorus. Voices merged into an indistinct resonance of uncertainty and bewilderment, echoing the collective sentiments of those gathered as they absorbed the news. 

Yet, as the gravity of Otto Hightower’s announcement settled, these murmurs evolved into a tentative, apprehensive applause. The assembly, caught between the somber acknowledgement of a king’s death, and the announcement of the rise of another, found themselves unsure what to do. Applauding was the only recourse left to them, perhaps more of a reflex of decorum than joy.

A formation of City Watchmen cleaved through the throng, their march a rhythmic display that drew all eyes. Their cloaks, a cascade of golden hues, flowed behind them, parting the sea of common folk with decisive authority. Woven into this golden procession, the Red Keep’s guards added strokes of crimson, their cloaks melding with the gold.

Orders and shouts pierced through the air, until the Lord Commander of the City Watch halted the procession with a command, “Halt! Turn!”

As the procession came to a standstill, the sharp call of horns sliced through the air, heralding the approach of the new heir apparent. In a synchronized spectacle, the guards and City Watchmen unsheathed their swords, lifting them to craft an archway of shining steel. Through this gleaming path, Aegon advanced, his passage marked by the sequential lowering of swords.

Otto Hightower’s voice cut through the hush that had befallen the assembly, imbuing the moment with grandeur and solemnity. 

“It is your great good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this,” he proclaimed, his voice traveling through the filled space, seeming as final as the fall of each sword. “...A new day for our city, a new day for our realm. A new King… to lead us!”

Daenera observed his approach, her attention fixed on the unmistakable look of surrender that clouded his features, as he glanced up at the dias before falling on the first step. He seemed to think himself a lamb being led to slaughter rather than a man being crowned king. He didn’t even want it–and still they would crown him.

Ascending the steps to the dias, Aegon’s demeanor bore the weight of resignation. Shadows haunted his visage, betraying a night's fitful rest, while the hint of unshed tears shimmered in his gaze as he looked towards his mother, his eyes seeming to burn. 

Alicent tenderly cradled her son’s face in her hands, drawing him closer to press a soft kiss upon his forehead. 

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena whispered, her gaze steadfastly averted from the scene of her husband’s consecration by the High Septon. Her hold briefly tightened. “And beware the one that resides by the heart.”

“He’s crying,” Daenera remarked, clenching her jaw tightly, her eyes burning with a mix of anger and unshed tears. As Otto Hightower cast a significant glance towards Aegon, the prince appeared to wilt under the intensity of his gaze, his posture yielding as he knelt before them. Traces of tears, now beginning to dry, streaked his face–the appearance of which seemed to mark his own apprehension of being crowned. 

“He doesn’t even want it,” Daenera muttered sharply to Aemond, who was a fixture by her side, seemingly unaffected by her observation. Yet, she could sense her words infiltrating his stoic exterior, unsettling him beneath his armor of indifference. 

The High Septon’s voice resonated through the hushed assembly as he anointed Aegon’s forehead with holy oil, each stroke invoking the gods. 

“May the Warrior give him courage,” he intoned, his movements deliberate as he marked Aegon’s brow. With every invocation to the god, another line adorned the prince’s skin. “May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need…”

Daenera’s eyes clenched shut in an effort to contain the tumult within her. A bitter counter-prayer formed in her mind, her thoughts twisting the High Setpon’s blessings into curses. Let the Warrior expose your cowardice. May the Smith take your strength and forge you shackles. And May the Father judge you and deliver his justice.

“May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light the way to his wisdom,” the High Septon concluded, notability omitting the blessings of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Stranger from his liturgy. 

Yet, in the silence of her heart, Daenera bestowed these omissions with her own silent pleas. May the Crone’s light unveil his misdeeds. May the Maiden shield the innocent girls from his cruelty. May the Mother withhold her compassion and so him no mercy. And may the Stranger usher him swiftly from this world.

As the ceremony proceeded, Ser Criston Cole received the crown from the High Septon, elevating it before the onlookers as though declaring its might in its own right. His voice boomed, “Behold, the Crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations,” a proclamation that carried an inherent reverence as it evoked the image of the Conqueror. 

Daenera opened her eyes, and with a voice laced with a cruel edge, she murmured to Aemond, “It could have been you.”

A fleeting glance from Aemond, brief yet loaded with unspoken tension, confirmed to her that her words had struck a chord, twisting into the fabric of his pride and ambition.

Ser Criston placed the crown upon Aegon’s head, sealing his fate, followed closely by a proclamation that resounded through the assembly, “Let the Seven bear witness, Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne,” echoing off the ancient walls, its reverberating haunting the cavernous space. 

Aegon’s gaze wandered, touching upon Ser Criston Cole, his mother, Helaena, and then Daenera, who stood unyielding, her refusal to bow a silent challenge until Aemond’s insistent tug compelled her compliance. Aemond’s hand lingered on the nape of Daenera’s neck for a moment more, the warmth of his touch searing into her skin, stirring a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. Then, he released his hold, allowing her to rise again. Yet, even in acquiescence, her eyes seared with defiance, unwillingly to fully concede to Aegon’s new authority.

The High Septon’s voice boomed, punctuating the ceremony with a finality that filled the hushed space, “All hail His Grace, Aegon, Second of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and the Protector of the Realm!”

As Aegon turned to face his subjects, Daenera’s gaze swept over the sea of faces that bore witness to his ascension, each pair of eyes reflecting a multitude of emotions. Beside Daenera, Helaena’s grip tightened.

A ripple of murmurs traversed the crowd, as the smallfolk exchanged wary glances, their eyes lifting to the dias with a palpable sense of anxious expectation. They seemed to assess the newly crowned king, who returned their gazes, a mirror of their own apprehension, as if he too was gauging the reception of his subjects. Both the king and his subjects seemed to hold their breath, caught in a moment of mutual uncertainty, each waiting for the other to signal their acceptance or dissent. 

“Aegon the King!” Ser Criston Cole’s voice rang out once more, the underlying threat in his tone unmistakable as the peal of bells began to resonate, signaling the dawn of a new rule.

Tentative applause arose. What started as a hesitant clap from a solitary pair of hands soon burgeoned into a unified cascade of applause, swelling into a resonant ovation as cheers emerged and well wishes were shouted at the king.

In this moment adoration and acclaim, Aegon stepped forward seemingly with a new sense of purpose. With a deliberate and theatrical gesture, he unsheathed Blackfyre, raising it high above his head as he stood as a figure of triumph, absorbing the adulation of the crowd. 

Tears, born of indignation and helplessness, threatened to breach her eyes, and she fought them back with a hard swallow, struggling to maintain her composure as the crowd accepted the new king. 

With a bitter swallow, Daenera had to reconcile with this acceptance. The coronation of Aegon as king was executed with meticulous precision. They had deliberately adorned him with the iconic crown and sword of Aegon the Conqueror, and draped him in symbols of Targaryen might, prominently featuring the three-headed golden dragon across his attire and the surrounding banners. This display was not mere pageantry but a strategic act designed to lend credit to Aegon’s image as the legitimate successor of the Conqueror’s legacy. The orchestration aimed to solidify his claim to the Iron Throne in the public’s heart also served to cast doubt on anyone who meant to oppose him. 

And yet, amid the orchestrated celebration, a dissenting voice cut through the atmosphere, boldly proclaiming, “Long live Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Rightful Queen!” This unexpected declaration momentarily disrupted the ceremony’s carefully curated narrative. 

Otto Hightower and Ser Criston Cole reacted immediately, signaling for guards to locate and silence the bold supporter of Rhaenyra. Gold cloaks cleaved through the masses in search for the owner of the voice, but it was little more than finding a needle in a haystack. 

Despite the overwhelming applause that filled the air for Aegon, scattered shouts of support for Thaenyra intermittently broke through, each one a beacon of resistance against the narrative the Hightowers imposed. For Daenera these isolated yet resilient shouts in support of her mother were not just acts of defiance but rays of hope, suggesting that the fight for the true succession to the throne was far from over. 

Alicent approached her son, whispering words of counsel or encouragement into his ear before gracefully retreating. With a final, sweeping glance at the crowd, whose cheers and applause filled the air, Aegon sheathed Blackfyre. He then took a step back, turning to ascend the step to Jaehaerys’s throne, where he seated himself. 

The crowd’s uproar gradually subsided, attention shifting as Otto Hightower positioned himself with commanding presence. A gleam of triumph sparked in his eyes as he surveyed the assembly, preparing to speak. 

When his voice rang out, it was clear and authoritative, resonating through the hush. “Let it be known across the realm, that the King, Aegon, is the one true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Otto Hightower paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “With his crowning, any who oppose his rule are to be deemed traitors to the realm.”

Daenera gritted her teeth, swallowing the poison that was this farce. If anyone were traitors to the realm it was them. 

“Though others may assert a claim to the throne, it must be recognized that Aegon Targaryen, as the late King Viserys firstborn son and chosen heir, holds the undeniable right to rule.” Otto Hightower’s words boomed out over the crowd, seeming to gain traction as a low murmur erupted. “No one holds more of a claim to the throne than the trueborn son of Viserys Targaryen.”

Otto’s proclamation was delivered with unwavering conviction, designed to extinguish any lingering doubts about the rightful heir to the throne. His words not only sought to undermine Rhaenyra’s claim to rule but also diminish Jace’s standing, by emphasizing Aegon’s legitimacy.

 He may well have just called them bastards, Daenera thought, clenching her jaw tightly as her gaze bore into Otto Hightower with a silent plea for godly intervention – a lightning bolt sent from the sky to strike him from this world or, at the very least, ignite his thinning hair into flames.  

“In our presence today, on this historic day, we have the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, Daenera Velaryon,” Otto Hightower announced, turning the attention towards Daenera. The sudden shift caused her heart to beat faster as countless eyes scrutinized her. Feeling the weight of their gaze, she instinctively straightened her spine and lifted her chin, a gesture of defiance and pride. 

“It brings me great honor to declare the betrothal of King Aegon’s brother, Aemond Targaryen, to Daenera Velaryon!”

In that moment, Daenera wished for the ground beneath them to open and engulf the assembly, to escape the overwhelming pressure and the piercing gaze of the crowd. However, no such escape came. Instead, the announcement was met with a wave of applause and cheers, the crowd extending their joyous congratulations for the future union, while tears threatened to blur her vision. 

As Daenera was subtly nudged forward by Aemond’s hand on the small of her back, they progressed to the forefront of the dias, leaving Helaena’s comforting grasp. A chilling emptiness took over where warmth once resided, and she clenched her hands in the folds of her skirts. She knew the expectation that lay before her: to bend in fealty, to acknowledge Aegon as her King by kissing his ring. Yet, she stood unyielding, her gaze piercing through him with an intensity that matched his smug satisfaction. 

Daenera’s thoughts drifted back to the words exchanged with Helaena, her voice resonating with a foreboding echo in her mind. ‘I fear what happens when he’s got a taste for it… the power…’ 

Now, witnessing the fervor in his gaze, it was clear he had indeed acquired a taste for it – a beast fed by the adulation and undeserved love of his subjects. There was a dangerous glint to his eyes, one that filled her with dread as it trailed over her face, drinking in her defiance. 

Aemond, stepping ahead, paid his respects first, his lips briefly meeting the ring on Aegon’s finger, followed by a respectful bow. His hand then returned to Daenera, creeping up her back to rest authoritatively over her shoulder, compelling her into submission. 

Reluctantly, Daenera lowered herself, her knees bending as she inclined her head, her eyes defiantly locked onto Aegon through her lashes, silently challenging his authority. Aegon seemed to revel in her submission and had her remain in a deep bow for longer than necessary until, finally, he signified she could stand once more. Upon straightening, Aegon’s gesture was clear and commanding, extending his hand for her to kiss his ring. 

The heat of humiliation flushed her cheeks, acutely aware of the multitude of spectators. Among them, a few gazes were so intense, they seemed to burrow under her skin, igniting a fire of indignation within her very soul. 

Daenera clenched her jaw tight, lowering herself in a reluctant gesture to kiss Aegon’s ring. Yet, her lips paused just shy of the cold metal, floating merely a breath away – a subtle act of defiance. 

Aegon leaned in, his voice laced with smug satisfaction. “It suits you being on your knees.”

“This is the only way you’ll ever see me on my knees,” Daenera bit back. 

Straightening up, Daenera felt Aemond’s guiding hand on her back, ushering her back to their designated places. They stepped aside as a line of nobles advanced towards the dias, each one bending a knee in homage to the king and whispering their oaths of fealty.

“Ser Tyland of House Lannister, the Master of Ships and the newly appointed Master of Coin,” Ser Criston Cole’s voice rang out, introducing Ser Tyland Lannister as he stepped forward. Dropping to one knee in a gesture of submission, Tyland not only pledged his personal allegiance but also signified the backing of his powerful house. 

“I, Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships and Master of Coin, hereby pledge House Lannister’s loyalty to the King, Aegon Targaryen,” Tyland proclaimed with solemn fervor. “I pledge my fealty to him and shall defend him against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

Tyland Lannister rose from his kneeling position, the chain signifying his office shimmering upon his shoulders under the gleaming light. With a measured step forward, he leaned into press his lips to the king’s ring in a final act of fealty before gracefully receding. 

Given the haste with which Aegon’s coronation had been arranged, many nobles had not received an invitation in time – or at all, given the secrecy of the ordeal – resulting in a noticeably smaller procession of lords and ladies presenting their homage. 

Daenera silently labeled them traitors, yet she restrained her tongue, internalizing her scorn as the ceremony unfolded. The brevity of the event, not stretched by the presence of lords and ladies who might have flocked to the city for the grand affair that was a coronation under different circumstances, only served to emphasize the Hightowers’ hasty grab for power. 

“Lord Jasper of House Wylde and House Rain, the Master of Laws,” Ser Criston Cole continued. 

Taking Ser Tyland’s place before the king, Lord Jasper knelt, as he too declared his allegiance to Aegon’s reign. “I, Jasper Wylde, Lord of House Wylde and Lord of House Rain, Master of Law, promise to be faithful to the King, Aegon Targaryen. I pledge my fealty to him and shall defend him against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

With a solemn grace, Lord Wylde grasped the King’s hand, his lips briefly pressing against the ring in a gesture of his fealty. Upon standing, he offered a respectful and courteous bow towards both the Queen Mother, the Queen and the Hand of the King, a silent acknowledgement of their roles. Then, with a steady stride, he resumed his place alongside Tyland Lannister. 

“Lord Larys Strong of House Strong, the Lord Confessor and Master of Whispers, and the Lord of Harrenhal,” was announced next. The hall watched as Lord Larys Strong approached, his movement marked by the distinct drag of his clubbed foot against the wood flooring of the dias, his cane nowhere in sight. 

Daenera leaned slightly towards Aemond, her curiosity getting the better of her as she whispered, “I wonder what has become of his cane.”

Without turning his gaze from the spectacle, Aemond’s response was terse, though soft, “I broke it.”

Her eyebrows knitted together in surprise, and she turned sharply to look at him, her gaze searching his face for the meaning of it. She found him looking back at her, a slight, self-satisfied tilt to his lips. 

“You broke it…” She echoed, disbelief mingling with a dawning understanding.

“Yes,” Aemond confirmed with a dismissive shrug, his casual demeanor belying the significance of his actions. Though he offered no explicit explanation, the implication was clear in the brief flicker of his gaze over her face–a silent, protective retribution, a gesture meant for her. The retaliation of this unsaid stirred something within her.  

Daenera’s heart raced, a tumultuous flutter within her chest as she forced her gaze away from Aemond, redirecting her attention to the ongoing ceremony. Her cheeks flushed with warmth that betrayed her inner turmoil, her heartbeat a relentless drum echoing within her. A bitter sensation twisted around her heart and she blinked back her tears. 

Lord Larys Strong made a valiant attempt to kneel without any assistance, stubbornly waving off any offers of help. His knee met the wooden floor of the dias with a thud that promised a bruise. 

And with a clear voice, despite the physical effort it took to maintain his dignity, Larys declared, “I Lord Larys Strong of House Strong, Lord Confessor and Master of Whispers, and Lord of Harrenhal, promise to be faithful to the King. I hereby pledge my fealty to him and shall defend him against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

The act of descending to kneel had been far easier than the prospect of rising again. 

Larys moved his leg into position, taking a deep breath before struggling to his feet. Ser Criston Cole stepped in to assist him, helping the Lord Confessor to his feet before he shuffled forward, bending down to kiss the ring of the King before moving over the dias to the rest of the council. 

Following him, a procession of lords and ladies took their turn before the King, each swearing their loyalty to Aegon. Whether they were the head of their house or represented by a proxy–a brother or a son–the pledge of fealty was made, binding them to their new king. 

As the formalities of the pledge of allegiance concluded, the coronation neared its end. Aegon moved once more to the forefront of the dias, his arms thrown wide open, reveling in the adoration showered upon him by the crowd. 

Shortly thereafter, Otto Hightower and Ser Criston Cole led the way, guiding Aegon from the dias. The Queen Mother and the Queen gracefully took their leave. Aemond and Daenera followed, descending the steps of the dias to find solace in the quietude of the empty hall. 

Together, they traversed the winding passageway of the Dragonpit, retracing the path they had taken upon their arrival. The group moved with a sense of purpose, the dimly lit corridor echoing with the soft sounds of their footsteps. And finally, they emerged, stepping out into the brightness of day, the sunlight momentarily blinding. 

Daenera briefly closed her eyes, lifting her face towards the heavens to let the sunlight bathe her skin, seeking a brief respite to soften the stiffness that had settled along her spine. The warmth was a small comfort, a fleeting escape from the weight of the day. As she felt a reassuring hand at the small of her back, her eyelids fluttered open in response to Aemond’s silent cue to join the others in their descent. 

From this position, high upon Rhaenys Hill, the Red Keep seemed to loom in the distance, its formidable towers stretching skyward. Daenera’s heart constricted at the sight, knowing what reaching that destination meant – an imminent return to the confines of the walls and the isolation it brought. 

With careful hands gathering her skirts, Daenera began her cautious descent down the carved steps. 

“You did well,” Aemond’s voice was soft beside her, his presence a steady assurance as they moved down the uneven staircase, his hand likely there to offer support or prevent a misstep.

Daenera bristled at the comment. “I am not a child; don’t patronize me.”

“I wasn’t suggesting–”

“Yet you insinuate that I’m seeking approval for merely keeping my composure,” Daenera countered, her pent-up frustration from the day’s events spilling over. “Believe me, if I wasn’t forced to be there under the threat of my men's lives, I would have disputed this farce and declared you all to be the traitors you’ve made yourself to be.”

Aemond’s sigh, heavy with exasperation, only fueled Daenera’s anger. She sent him a piercing glare, her eyes alight with silent fury, before shifting her gaze. It moved back to the trail before them, settling on the white cloaks of the Kingsguard, swaying with each step they took. Beyond this imposing barrier of gleaming armor and sheathed swords were the newly crowned King. In a fleeting moment, the impulse surged within Daenera to dash forward, to weave through the two sentinels of the Kingsguard and seize Aegon by the neck. She imagined hurling him down the steep steps or over the edge of the hill, to an untimely but deserved demise. The vivid fantasy of retribution momentarily clouded her judgment, a desperate grasp for justice through her own hands. 

Daenera’s breath hitched, a sudden slip on one of the uneven steps causing her heart to leap into her throat. In an instant, Aemond’s presence became her anchor; one hand firmly grasped her arm, while his other swiftly extended across her chest, steadying ehr fall. He halted their progress, his expression marked by a subtle frown, eye intently scanning her face as if searching for something. 

With a silent nod of gratitude, Daenera regained her composure, signaling she was unharmed. They resumed their descent, his hand returning to the small of her back. The light pressure offered a strange sort of comfort. 

“It’s hard to decide which is more appalling,” Daenera muttered lowly, “the act of usurping my mother or the fact you did so to place the crown upon the head of the one who least desired it. If only he had refused it or fled…”

“He did,” Aemond answered, drawing Daenera’s gaze back to him, her expression perplexed as she searched his face. “He didn’t make it very far.”

“He attempted to flee?” 

“I brought him back.”

“You… brought him back…” Daenera repeated, each word dripping with a mixture of incredulity and realization.

Aemond had the opportunity to let his brother vanish into obscurity, a chance to don the crown himself rather than bestow it upon his brother. Yet, forsaking this path and the allure of the power it promised, he had chosen duty over ambition, ensuring his brother’s return. 

“You should have let him go,” Daenera remarked. 

The muscles along Aemond’s jaw tightened, a visible testament to the weight of her assertion as it landed on his shoulders. After a tense pause, he opened his mouth, his voice filled with a firm resolve. “You know why I couldn’t.”

Indeed, Daenera understood the gravity of Aemond’s choice, understood the intricate web of loyalty and duty that bound him–she understood him, and she knew why he had brought him back. The legitimacy of the Hightower’s claim to the throne was intrinsically linked to Aegon’s ascension. It was a claim rooted in the precedence of him as Viserys’ firstborn son, the clear and unchallenged heir by virtue of the cock between his legs. In the eyes of tradition and the law, Aegon’s gender positioned him as the natural successor, his cock’s very existence assuring his right to rule. He was a son and Rhaenyra was a daughter. 

Aegon’s potential disappearance presented a dilemma of succession, a void that threatened to unravel the fabric of their claim. In such an instance, Aemond stood but a shadow behind the prospect of Aegon’s own son, a contingency plan activated only by the absolute absence of the elder brother–assured only if he were definitely dead. And even then, in the face of Aegon’s hypothetical death, questions lingered: Would the crown then pass to Aemond, or would the realm fall into the hands of Aegon’s son, however young. 

In the absence of Aegon, the succession’s focus would inevitably shift towards Rhaenyra, whose claim to the Iron Throne had been solidified years earlier through her father’s explicit and public endorsement. The realm’s nobility would find themselves at a crossroads, forced to choose between Rhaenyra, whose path to the throne was paved by her father’s will, and a young boy who would not wield real power for years to come. This boy, bereft of the ability to govern due to age, would merely serve as a figurehead, leaving the realm under the stewardship of someone like Otto Hightower during a regency. 

Daenera’s understanding of Aemond’s actions did not alleviate the turmoil of her emotions. She grasped the strategic necessity behind his choice–the preservation of his family’s claim to power. Yet, this insight did not mitigate her resentment or the sense of betrayal that gnawed at her.

As Daenera reached the foot of the stairs, her gaze met Aegons, a fleeting smirk twisted the corner of his mouth–a smirk laced with malice and self satisfaction. A foreboding sense of dread settled in her stomach. She harbored no illusions about the man Aegon was destined to become–a tyrant in the making.

“You made a choice, and now we have to suffer the consequences of that.” 

Aemond guided her towards the waiting litter, where guards stood at the ready, holding the reins of the restless horses. The banners fluttered fiercely in the wind, signaling a blend of grandeur and urgency as the horses pawed at the ground, eager to move. As they approached the litter, Helaena ascended the first step, pausing to cast a glance back. 

“Beware the beast…” she uttered, her voice laden with an ominous tone. “It is here.”

With those foreboding words hanging in the air, Helaena disappeared into the sheltered interior of the litter. 

A thunderous roar, bone-chilling in its ferocity, tore through the gathering, seeming to pierce the hearts of all assembled with its sheer power. This sound was followed by a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated through the air, a sound so profound it felt as though it reverberated within the very chest of every onlooker. Every gaze abruptly shifted towards the dark maw of the cavernous entrance to the tunnels beneath Rhaenys Hill, where a stirring shadow and a billowing cloud of dust heralded the emerging terror. 

Daenera felt an unsettling chill run down her spine, the fine hairs at the nape of her neck rising in alarm. She felt an urgent pull on her arm, as Aemond swiftly drew her behind him, positioning himself protectively in front of her. The tense silence that followed was broken by the sound of swords being unsheathed, a clear response to the menacing growl resonating from within the depths of the shadows. 

From the darkness of the cave’s entrance, two deep red eyes pierced the gloom, their glow ominous and foreboding. The beast’s heavy footsteps vibrated through the ground, its massive form barely discernible as it advanced towards the light, shrouded in a cloak of dust and shadow. 

“Protect the King!” Otto Hightower’s command cut through the tension, prompting the Kingsguard to swiftly encircle Aegon and Alicent, who had protectively pushed her son behind her, readying themselves against the looming threat that had stirred from its captivity beneath the Dragonpit. 

Daenera’s heart pounded fiercely within her chest, a tempest of fear and anticipation thundering within her. Her gaze narrowed, seeking to penetrate the darkness to find the source of the fearsome roar that had cloaked the area in dread. From the depths of swirling dust and deep shadow, a figure emerged as if conjured by the chaos itself–Meleys, the Red Queen, with Rhaenys, her formidable rider, on her back.

The striking blood-red figure of Meleys broke through the veil of darkness, her roars echoing, a primal call that resonated with all who heard it. Sunlight danced upon her crimson scales, highlighting the regal horns that crowned her head as she stepped forth from the cave’s maw. With every movement, her claws dug into the earth, kicking up plumes of dust. Meleys stretched her massive form, a snarl revealing her formidable teeth, while her flame-like eyes locked onto the crowd with a fierce, unyielding gaze. 

Rhaenys’ gaze found Daenera amidst the tumult, her expression just as fierce and unyielding as her dragon’s. “Release my granddaughter!”

A spark of hope ignited within Daenera, and she surged forward, only for Aemond’s arm to ensnare her waist, pulling her back against him with a vice-like hold. She struggled against his hold, beating back at him as she demanded her release. 

“Let me go!” Daenera spat, clawing at his arm, attempting and failing to twist free. “Release me!” 

She writhed in his embrace, making another desperate attempt to escape, trying to force her way out. Yet Aemond’s grip only tightened, his voice close to her ear, laced with a sneer yet tinged with desperation, “Stop! Please. Stop fighting!”

There was a raw, broken plea in his use of ‘please,’ a plea that resonated deep within her, tugging at her heartstrings in a way that was almost painful to acknowledge. But the turmoil within her was too overwhelming, her thoughts a whirlwind of recent grievances–the humiliations endured, the imprisonment, the loss of those she loved, and the cruel usurpation of her mother’s rightful claim. All these thoughts clashed violently within her, fueling her struggle against Aemond’s constraining embrace. 

With a menacing growl, Meleys advanced, her formidable teeth exposed in a terrifying snarl. Daenera’s eyes locked onto Alicent then, the creator of her family’s suffering, shielding her son Aegon, the usurper king who robbed her mother of her rightful throne. Her eyes traveled to Otto Hightower, the one who orchestrated it all to satiate his own ambition, and Ser Criston Cole, the man who killed Joyce, alongside Lord Larys Strong, the one who humiliated her and lured her into captivity–and the rest of the council that allowed it all.

And then there was Aemond, his breath whispering across her skin, his arms ensnaring her in a protective yet confining embrace, the man who seemed prepared to do anything to possess her–who would see her as both his wife and his hostage.

In this moment, surrounded by the creators of her misery, Daenera found herself whispering a command born of desperation, “Drakarys.”

The word, barely more than a murmur, was nonetheless caught by those nearest, drawing their shocked and fearful stares towards her. She made another frantic attempt to escape Aemond’s hold, her fingers clawing at him with wild desperation. 

Having to endure and watch the usurpation of her mother’s throne and the theft of her rightful crown had filled Daenera with unbridled fury – akin to a storm raging beneath the calm surface of the sea. The egregious act of being compelled into submission, to degrade herself by bending the knee, bowing her head, and kissing the ring of the usurper as a sign of loyalty, only served to fuel this tempest within her. She was reduced to a mere pawn in their game, a puppet manipulated by strings, dancing to the tune of their desires. Every fiber of her being had screamed in protest, yearning to dispute this charade, to shout out that this was an abomination. She had wanted to expose them for what they truly were: thieves and traitors. 

Caught in a whirlwind of emotion, torn between madness and the culmination of years of torment and degradation, Daenera found herself compelled by forces she couldn’t fully understand. With a renewed sense of defiance, she raised her voice once more, this time with a vigor that surprised even herself. “Drakarys, Meleys!”

Aemond’s grip remained unyielding, his arm like a vice around her waist, his other hand securely holding her wrist to thwart any attacks. Daenera struggles grew more intense, tears brimming her eyes. 

“Drakarys, Rhaenys!” She cried out, her voice breaking with the intensity of her plea. She imported an end to this farce, for fire to consume them all, to cleanse everything in its wrath. Yet, Meleys and Rhaenys did not heed her call. As Daenera fought against the constraints of Aemond’s embrace, she could feel the rapid pounding of his heart against her back, his breath hot on her neck, his lips barely  brushing her ear, drawing her even closer to his hold. He murmured another plea for her to stop, desperate and demanding all the same. 

An arrow whizzed through the air, narrowly missing Rhaenys before burying itself in the earth. Rhaenys’ gaze shifted swiftly towards the line of archers perched high on the hillside, arrows poised for a second volley. Meleys expressed her disdain with a snort, her massive feet stamping the ground in frustration. Her tail lashed out, striking the rocky terrain with a force that served as a clear warning. Yet another arrow cut through the air, this time grazing Meleys’ scales, failing to penetrate the dragon’s armored hide. 

A heavy sense of despair settled over Daenera as Rhaenys locked eyes with her once more. It was a silent exchange, one that confirmed Daenera’s fears; there would be no escape today, and Rhaenys couldn’t linger no longer in this peril. With a resigned nod, Daenera acknowledged the inevitable. 

Meleys advanced with deliberate steps towards the semicircle of Kingsguard surrounding the King and Queen Mother. With a deafening shriek that seemed to vibrate through their very bones, Meleys unleashed a roar so powerful it sent several horses into a panicked frenzy. The echo of the roar caused a few guards to lose their footing, tumbling to the ground with a startled crash as their mounts scattered in terror. 

As Meleys propelled herself skyward with a mighty flap of her wings, a tempest of dust and debris swirled around them. The force of each wingbeat sent gusts that buffeted those below, stinging Daenera’s skin with sand and grit. In a protective gesture, Aemond hunched over her, using his body to shield against the maelstrom. Meleys, now airborne, stretched her wings to the fullest, casting a large shadow over the grounds. With one final, thunderous roar, she ascended higher, her form shrinking against the backdrop of the city as she made her way towards the distant horizon–towards Dragonstone. 

A profound silence enveloped the plateau in the wake of Meleys’ departure, a quiet so intense it rivaled the dragon’s roar in its impact. The air hung heavy with dust, settling slowly as reality began to seep back into the stunned assembly. 

Aemond eased his grip on Daenera but stayed close, his hand lightly resting on the small of her back. Daenera, still grappling with the whirlwind of emotions and the  surreal turn of events, felt her mind clouded, her thoughts a tangled mess. It was in this moment of vulnerability that she felt a stinging slap across her face, a sharp, unexpected pain that broke through her stupor. The force of the blow left a burning trail on her cheek. The tears that had brimmed her eyes seemed to be struck loose, running down her cheeks, as her eyes found Alicent. 

Otto Hightower’s voice, steeped in authority, cut through the tense air. “Alicent, restrain yourself.”

Daenera, her gaze defiant yet wounded, met Alicent’s eyes. The Queen Mother, her face wrought in seething anger, raised her hand for a second strike. Yet, before her hand could descend, Aemond interposed himself, his grasp firm around his mother’s wrist, effectively halting her motion. 

Shielded behind a barrier of soft, supple leather, Daenera’s vision was limited to the broad expanse of his back. The defined curvature of his shoulders and the visible tension in his muscles captured her attention as he intervened, placing himself between his mother’s wrath and her. 

In that fleeting moment, time seemed to suspend, stretching the moment between heartbeats as the realization dawned upon her: he had defied his own mother to shield her. Her heart constricted, skipping a beat in a moment of acute stillness, as her eyes lifted, her fingers unconsciously tightening on the fabric of his doublet as though to center herself. Amidst this pause, a fragile seed of hope emerged within her – a sentiment profound and dangerous, a truth she could not admit to herself. 

“That is sufficient, Mother,” Aemond declared, “You’ve made your point.”

The moment between heartbeats passed, and the world came into view again. Daenera inched out from behind him to see Alicent glaring at her son in outrage, yet beneath it, there was a subtle hint of betrayal woven through her expression, perhaps even a strand of loss. With a sharp twist, she freed her wrist, her movement accompanied with an angry sneer as her eyes landed on Daenera again. “Would you have us all burn?!”

Daenera met Alicent’s gaze, her eyes now cold as the depths of winter, wipping her tears away. “I would.”

“Even yourself?” Alicent pressed, her voice laced with the weight of the morning’s events, the near brush with death still palpable. “Even Helaena?”

Daenera’s response was a silent one, her resolve firm as she met Alicent’s narrowed gaze without flinching. The determination etched in her eyes was a clear declaration of her stance–she was prepared to face the consequences, to embrace the fire if necessary, for the retribution. She was even prepared to face the fires of the seven hells and eternal damnation, knowing that they would join her there while Helaena would find peace in the heavens. It was a sacrifice. 

Alicent turned her eyes upon her father. “Rhaenys will surely bring word to Rhaenyra.”

And Otto, in turn, took command of the situation, turning his discerning eyes upon Ser Criston Cole. “Ensure the King and the Queen are safely seen to the Keep and gather our forces. We do not know how Rhaenyra will respond.”

“I won’t be made to cower in the Keep,” Aegon interjected, fixing the crown on his head, his hand falling to the hilt of Blackfyre. “I shall take Sunfyre to the skies.”

Alicent protested, her concern manifesting in a gentle, yet futile attempt to dissuade her son from such ideas. “You cannot seriously consider pursuing them–your responsibilities as King–”

“That is right,” Aegon firmly interrupted her. “I am King now, am I not? And as a King I mean to show the city and the realm that we, too, have dragons.”

Otto Hightower scrutinized Aegon with a keen, measuring gaze, taking a moment to assess the young king’s determination. Eventually, he nodded in agreement, signaling his endorsement. “Proceed, then. Fly over the city, let our dragons be seen as protectors, and show the people their one true ruler.”

Ser Criston Cole interjected with a note of urgency, “It’s imperative we escort everyone else back to the Keep immediately. With the realm now aware of the late king’s passing and the ensuing shift in the line of succession, we must ensure the city’s safety. The City Watch should be mobilized to maintain order.”

“Moreover, we must identify whomever responsible for the negligence that permitted Rhaenys’s escape,” Otto Hightower said, his voice taking on a sharper edge. His gaze shifted accusatorily towards Alicent, suggesting that he found her culpable.  

Alicent, seeming to feel the weight of her father’s critical eye, exhaled sharply in indignation. She collected the folds of her gown with a swift, dignified motion and ascended into the litter, deliberately distancing herself from the unfolding discourse. And as she moved past Daenera, her gaze locked onto her with a chilling intensity. Her eyes, dark and unforgiving, bore into Daenera, conveying a silent but unmistakable threat of punishment. The fleeting exchange, though wordless, was laden with a promise of consequences for the upheaval that had ensued. 

Daenera, somewhat detached from the core of the discussion, was brushing off her attire, deciding not to engage, though she felt their eyes prickle against her skin. 

“Ensure the princess is securely confined within her chambers. Afterwards, take to the skies with Vhagar. We must be vigilant and ready for any threat,” Otto directed. 

Acknowledging with a curt nod, Aemond accepted the Lord Hand’s command. 

The scene shifted as Otto made his way to the litter, joining the Queen and Queen Mother. They settled into the confined space, preparing for departure.

The scene was a tumultuous blend of urgency and confusion. Guards were everywhere, hastily trying to regain control over the spooked horses, while one of the litters sat crippled, its wheel shattered against a rock in the chaos that erupted when the horses bolted, sending it crashing and leaving the wooden wheel splintered. Amidst the chaos left in the wake of Meleys appearance, some horses had fled in terror. Now a contingent of Gold Cloaks was being dispatched to retrieve them, their cloaks billowing behind them as they set off on foot. The remaining horses, calmer now, were commandeered by the Kingsguard, as the council members took refuge in the second litter, all of them eager to escape the scene and find solace within the study walls of the Red Keep. 

Daenera’s resistance was palpable as she found herself being nudged towards the litter. She spun around to confront him, their eyes locking as she grabbed his arm insistently, biting out, “Do not force me to ride in a litter with your mother!”

Aemond’s jaw clenched visibly, a sign of agitation, before he finally relented. With a heavy sigh, he shut the litter door, sealing his mother inside, and away from Daenera. His actions spoke volumes, acknowledging, albeit grudgingly. He instead guided her towards his horse, the steed stamping the ground impatiently. 

As she attempted to mount, firm hands clasped her waist, offering unsolicited support. Daenera couldn’t help but retort with a sharp, “I don’t need your help.”

Aemond exhaled a short breath, seemingly frustrated, as he secured his own position on the horse, sliding behind her with practiced ease. His arms encircled her, taking control of the reins, as his presence enveloped her in a tangible warmth. Daenera felt the slight brush of his hair against her shoulder, eliciting a prickle of gooseflesh throughout her body. 

“Maintain close ranks!” Ser Criston Cole’s voice cut through the air, his figure advancing before the procession, setting the pace for their return. 

With a nudge, Aemond urged the horse onward, aligning with the measured pace of the procession. A distant, ominous rumble echoed from the depths of the Dragonpit, a lingering whisper of the dragons within. They embarked down the meandering path that circled the hill, gradually making their descent towards the city below.

As they delved deeper into the heart of King’s Landing, the city unfolded around them, a vibrant tapestry of activity and curiosity. The presence of the City Watch ensured a semblance of order, yet the throngs of people couldn’t help but cluster along the streets, craning their necks for a glimpse of the royal procession. Voices rose in a cacophony of sentiment–some cheering for King Aegon, others mourning for the demise of the late King.

In the midst of this clamor, Aemond’s voice found its way to Daenera, a whisper of quiet intensity close to her ear, his presence unyielding as stone. “Have you utterly abandoned reason?”

Daenera clenched her jaw, suppressing a retort, her attention momentarily diverted by a disturbance at the periphery of her vision. A bystander’s voice pierced the air with a bold proclamation, “Hail Queen Rhaenyra!” The words barely had time to echo through the crowd before a Gold Cloak swiftly intervened, silencing the supporter with a decisive threat, grabbing him by the scuff and hurling him to the ground. 

“Are you really so desperate to see us all dead that you’re willing to burn alongside with us?” Aemond asked, his voice bordering on a sneer, laden with disbelief and exasperation. 

Daenera’s retort was just as fierce. “I would gladly face the fire if it meant preventing you and yours from usurping what rightfully belongs to my mother.”

“How admirably noble,” Aemond sneered, the venom in his voice palpable in the bitter edge of his taunt. “Is this the length you would go to to avoid marrying me?”

“This isn’t about the marriage,” Daenera shot back, her voice sharp with anger. Her nails dug into the leather of the saddle, picking at it restlessly. “This is about betrayal, it is about the usurpation–about the years of torment and degradation at the hand of your family. It’s about the insults and the treachery.”

A scoff escaped Aemond, and Daenera could feel him shaking his head in exasperation–undoubtedly unable to see her point and unwilling to try. In that moment, Daenera had embraced the concept of sacrifice, accepting the notion of burning alongside her adversaries as a means to rectify the injustices they had perpetrated. It was her way of preemptively ending the war that loomed on the horizon. There was a certain poetic justice, she thought, in the imagery of them all being consumed by the same flames, united in destruction as they had never been in life. 

“So, is it death you seek?” Aemond asked, his tone mocking yet tinged with an undercurrent of seriousness, as they continued their ride through the bustling streets, surrounded on the life of a city on the brink of change. 

“No.” Daenera shook her head gently, her fingers brushing the corner of her eye as she contended with the onset of a headache that seemed to encircle her skull. A sigh of exhaustion escaped her lips as she instinctively leaned back into Aemond, craving the warmth that his presence offered against the sudden cold that had started to infiltrate her body. Her head reclined, settling comfortably against his shoulder as she gazed upwards, losing herself in the vastness of the azure sky above them. 

“Then perhaps, refrain from pursuing it with such fervor,” Aemond’s voice, less harsh now, whispered close to her ear. In the quiet that followed, Daenera sensed a shift in him; his resentment seemed to dissipate, his posture relaxed as their bodies belted together in a moment of unexpected tranquility. 

And for just a moment, Daenera allowed herself to pretend that everything was as it were before – that she was within the embrace of her lover and not her captor, that death weren’t traversing the halls of the Red Keep, that her mother’s throne were unchallenged, and that she was not drowning in a sea of despair, struggling not to lose herself and her sanity. If she merely shut her eyes, she could sustain this facade a little longer. 

“Where were you?” Daenera’s voice was a soft murmur, her eyelids heavy as she spoke. Exhaustion clung to her as sleep had been elusive in recent days. “That morning – you weren’t there when I woke.”

Their conversation hung suspended in the air, the procession’s slow pace allowing the city’s ambient noises to envelop them–a blend of distant conversations and sporadic outbursts. The sun, now fully ascendant, bathed the day in warmth, exacerbating the city’s inherent odors. Yet, to Daenera, the openness under the sky offered a breath of freedom far removed from the oppressive atmosphere of her recent confines. 

Aemond’s reply came after a moment, his tone matching hers in quietude, laced with underlying weariness. “I couldn’t sleep… I went in search of… something…”

Her curiosity piqued, Daenera opened her eyes to the expanse of the sky above, observing a group of birds as they danced freely across the blue canvas. “I suppose it was good you weren’t there. Had you been present, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“I would have stopped you.” 

A subtle grin touched her lips, a playful spark finding its way into her eyes. “Fenrick would have been forced to hold you back, binding you to the bed, perhaps even rendering you unconscious–he would have enjoyed that.”

“I would have overpowered him,” Aemond retorted with confidence, a current of amusement in his tone.  

Her grin widened. “Attempt as you might, but with you bare and unarmed, I doubt your cock would serve as an effective weapon.”

A soft hum escaped Aemond, not quite conceding but not arguing either. Daenera sensed a light amusement in him, a gentle lift at the corners of his mouth betraying his usually impassive demeanor. He shifted the reins to one hand, skillfully guiding the horse with gentle nudges, while his other hand found a place on her abdomen–the touch warm and comforting.

“Did you find it? The thing you went looking for?” Daenera’s voice softened, curiosity weaving through her tone. 

A shadow draped over them then, accompanied with a thunderous roar. Sunfyre soared above, his scales a spectacle of shimmering gold under the light, wings unfurling like sails of silk, the soft color of rose petals. Despite his beauty, the dragon remained just that, a dragon–with sharp teeth and claws, and a breath of fire. 

“In the end, yes,” Aemond murmured back, his voice a deep, stirring hum that sent a shiver through her. Her eyes closed again.

In this momentary escape, Daenera allowed herself to pretend that everything was as it once was – a world familiar and untainted. She could delude herself into believing that the rapid beat of her heart wasn’t for a man she was supposed to despise, for someone she wished she could loathe as effortlessly as she once had. She could imagine that he wasn’t one of the makers of her suffering, that his hands weren’t stained with the blood of those she held dear, that he wasn’t holding a dagger to her, ready to inflict wounds as easily as Ser Criston’s blade had upon Joyce. 

She could indulge in this illusion. She could wrap herself in this fabricated comfort. She could just… 

And then the return to the Red Keep brought her back to the grim reality, where Lord Caswell still remained, a lifeless figure suspended in the air.

Did I change a whole lot? Yeah and let me tell you why! While Rhaenys bursting through the floor was visually satisfying and a like 'go girl' moment, it didn't make sense narratively or for her character. She basically committed an act of terrorism killing dozens of people and it would be seen as an act of instigating the war. I don't know why she thought she'd get away with it, fly off to DS to warn Rhaenyra and then back to Driftmark as though the Greens wouldn't have taken it as her declaring for Rhaenyra. Even if she didn't declare for Rhaenyra, she killed a bunch of people and Greens would have no choice but to apprehend her, because… murder, terrorism. So, I changed it. This way she didn't kill anyone and she can fly to DS warn Rhaenyra and then go off if that's what she want--we know what happens. But here you can say; But Zeciex, Daenera could have gone with her! Do you really think Aemond would have let her go? Rhaenys was on borrowed time and as she says 'she won't be the one to start this war'-- she wouldn't kill the Greens and an anointed king, that too would be a death sentence. One that Daenera was willing to pay. Yes, for a moment, with all she's been through the last few days, she may have lost it a bit. She was willing to sacrifice herself to see an end to it all--to the usurpation and threats, to set things right. Does she want to die? No. But let her be dramatic, she's got a lot going on. Also, Aemond is doing what he can too, within the confines of his duty. Don't blame him too much for forcing her to kneel to Aegon, it's as much an act of duty as it is him ensuring that by behind the knee she doesn't risk herself even more. And Ya'll are lucky I decided to end this on a high note and not include the next scene; which will be next chapter; Daenera visits the tower of the hand and has a conversation with Otto that is…. suffocating. Oh, and she also have a talk with Larys. It will be a very dialogue heavy chapter with little action happening, and it will be the final chapter for a while as we travel to Dragonstone to see what's happening there.

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #a vow of blood #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen x reader

[naganye]

@sashaofravenlock

It was the middle of summer but it certainly didn't seem like it. The capital of Yovain perched on top of a mountain, half of it hewn out of the mountain. How it had ever been built was a marvel in and off itself, but as Sasha's party drew closer towards the city and passed under the huge gatehouse, it became more obvious. Parts of the wall- and buildings inside the city- had been replaced with solid ice, and if one were to peer through it they would see that part of the mortar used to build the wall was included bones.

The party would need to climb even higher to reach the citadel. It was so tall it was nearly above the clouds, but not quite. The gates were open though the portcullis behind them were not. It opened with magic. There was a woman there to greet them, standing alone among the training soldiers. It seemed that Sasha's husband to be hadn't come down to greet her- yet.

#sashaofravenlock

[ofduskanddreams]

Pierce The Clouds

for @elucienweekofficial day 2: magic

A/N: I say this is "from the vault" because it's based on part of an old (no longer public) fic that I plan to rewrite if I ever have the time. I wasn't planning on posting anything today, but I couldn't get this idea out of my head so here we are :)

READ ON AO3 | RATED: E | CANON-TYPICAL VIOLENCE | 8.3k WORDS

When Lucien encounters trouble in the mortal lands, the bond draws Elain's shuttered power to the surface. Everyone knows that getting between a Fae and their injured mate is a death wish, but no one, not even Elain, knows just how far her magic is willing to go.

Lucien

He winnowed directly from the entrance of the Hewn City into his apartment in Velaris. He kicked off his shoes and fell back onto his bed, ignoring the slight cloud of dust that puffed up from the duvet on impact. 

Two minutes, he told himself. Two minutes to close his eyes and soak in the blissful silence.

Lucien didn’t want to think about that meeting, it all made him too uneasy. Eris had mentioned nothing about a plan to kill Beron, he’d simply thanked Rhys again for hosting him for Winter Solstice again and made a snide comment about how unfortunate it was that Cassian—“that Illyrian brute” as Eris called him—didn’t let him within twenty feet of Nesta this year. 

Rhys, looking as bored as ever, had signed his approval on a trade agreement between the Nightmares and Eris’s territory in Autumn: ore for agricultural products. Lucien and Rhys spoke mind-to-mind about how it was suspiciously mutually beneficial, but on paper, he could make no objections.

Dealing with Eris always left him unsettled, and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Growing up with his brothers, it was second nature to expect every good deed to have an equally bad counterpart. But with Eris, the shoe hadn’t dropped. Yet. That was the most unnerving thing, what would be the cost of centuries of Eris’s so-called generosity towards him?

With a groan, Lucien forced himself to get up and change. He grabbed the second bag in the line of pre-packed leather duffels lining the wall near the door. It was a system he had developed while working as Tamlin’s emissary. A bag of necessities and appropriate clothing for each of Prythian’s courts, spelled with simple enchantments to keep everything fresh and wrinkle-free. The bag in his hand, for the human lands, was newer than the others yet still worn and marked by a small white leather tag.

Rhys had suggested that Lucien take Eris’s news that all was quiet with Beron and Koschei to Vassa sooner rather than later. The knowing look in Rhys’s eyes made it clear he was offering Lucien an out from family dinner should he want it. 

With a wave of his hand, Lucien put out the fire in his fireplace and winnowed to the woods outside the wards he’d placed on Vassa’s manor. The near evening light lacked any sparkle as it filtered through the dull green canopy above him. He was grateful to Rhys; he didn’t want to think about trying to face Elain right now, unsettled as he was. It was hard enough to play that politely distanced courtier for her on a good day. 

Lucien was a patient male, he prided himself on his self-control but even he had his limits. Elain wasn’t happy. He felt it through their dulled bond, and his instincts screamed at him to do something about it but he couldn’t. Being around her made it even more obvious and equally more difficult to ignore. Elain acted like she was happy, and was probably unaware that he knew her true feelings. It wasn’t his place to say anything so he’d been distancing himself. It seemed to be what she wanted.

Lucien walked through the manor’s gates and immediately came face-to-face with a flustered Jurian.

Jurian braced a hand on his shoulder as he caught his breath. “Impeccable…timing,” Jurian wheezed.

Lucien’s metal eye whirred in its socket, examining. The wards were fine. Nothing was on fire. There were no screams or clashing blades ringing through the air.

“What’s wrong?” he asked Jurian.

“I was just about to send for you,” Jurian began, leading him towards the manor doors. “A few minutes ago, I had a runner come saying that there was a fight on the border. Apparently some of Nolan’s men got into it with a unit of your Prythian Guard.”

“Fuck,” Lucien exhaled, dread simmering in his veins. “Any injuries? Casualties?”

Jurian shook his head as they entered the manor hall. “The poor kid only said one injury before passing out on my office floor.”

“We don’t know if they were human or Fae?” Lucien inquired, dropping his bag and taking out the spare dagger he kept there. He sheathed it next to the short sword he always carried on his right hip.

“No,” Jurian sighed. “Since it could be either, I think it’s best if we both go.”

Lucien nodded in grim agreement.

It took them half an hour’s hard riding to reach the second garrison of the Prythian Guard. The Guard had been one of Lucien’s better ideas, endorsed by Rhys to address Tamlin’s non-existent border security. It was a peacekeeping force made up of Fae representing every court to monitor the border where the wall once stood.

It would have been easy for Lucien to winnow himself and Jurian, but riding in alongside the former human general sent a better message in this situation that and outcomes, could easily escalate into a greater conflict. Riding was also a thrill Lucien had enjoyed for as long as he could remember. He didn’t understand why most High Fae avoided it.

The sun was setting when Lucien dismounted at the wooden gate and nodded to Jurian. He would continue on to Nolan’s outpost and figure out what he could. With both sides of the story, maybe the two of them could piece together what actually happened.

The guard standing watch—Winter Court if his fair hair, skin, and frosty eyes were a sign—opened the gate for Lucien with a deferential nod.

“They’re all in the main hall,” he said, taking the reins from Lucien.

As he crossed the dirt courtyard, Lucien tried his best not to jump to morbid conclusions. The likelihood of this sparking another human-fae war was slim. If he was being honest, he’d poured so much of himself into maintaining peace since the war with Hybern ended that any breach of it felt like a personal attack. He was glad that his magic was still drained from all the winnowing he’d done in the last day and a half. If it hadn’t been, sparks would fly from his fingertips.

The sight that met Lucien in the chamber was far from encouraging. The assembled grave-faced guards stepped aside in a wave of pewter gray to reveal a male laying on a table. For a sickening heartbeat the male’s golden hair looked like Tamlin’s, but as Lucien stepped closer, he saw gray hairs mingled with gold and speckled with blood.

Lucien had to grip the table to keep from falling to his knees, because the male taking wet, ragged breaths was Valin.

“Lucien,” a voice addressed him. 

Lucien looked up from the table to find Bron, one of Tamlin’s former sentries standing beside him, the crest of a commander on his gray uniform.

“What happened?” Lucien seethed behind gritted teeth.

“Valin had his unit on their regular patrol when they came across a bunch of Nolan’s men, drunk. They were aggressive, trying to cross the border and hoping for revenge from the sound of it. The unit followed protocol and was working to disarm the group with minimal injury when Valin took a scatter-ash arrow to the chest. Under Valin’s orders, they didn’t retaliate and half of them escorted Nolan’s men back to their outpost while the rest brough Valin here.”

“I should have known the prospect of ordering people around would have drawn Valin out of retirement.” Lucien and Bron exchanged sad smiles. Valin was Andras’s older brother, had been the captain of Tamlin’s sentries since his father had ruled Spring. He retired a few decades after Lucien arrived in the court, to start a family when he found his mate. But they’d stayed friends, Lucien had visited often and written when he couldn’t.

“Talia should be here soon, I sent a winnower to her as soon as I saw him,” Bron spoke quietly.

“He won’t make it?”

Bron closed his eyes and shook his head. “Scatter-ash, it’s Nolan’s latest invention. The arrow heads and lower shafts are made of ash chips somehow melded together so they break into pieces if the arrow hits bone or is removed.”

Lucien’s elbows hit the table as he rested his head in his hands. The sound of running footsteps made him snap upright, just in time to see Talia burst through the doors. She froze, nostrils flaring as she scented her mate’s blood.

“Everybody back to your posts,” Lucien ordered softly, and the room cleared save for himself, Talia and Bron.

In the blink of an eye, Talia was standing beside her mate clutching his hand to her chest. Her translucent wings shivered as tears fell silently down her face.

The room was quiet, save for Valin’s jagged breaths that were slowing by the minute. Lucien and Bron stood together in mute vigil for their fallen friend and mentor as the sun sank beneath the horizon, coloring the room a somber shadow-blue. Lucien would never forget the moment Valin’s heart stopped and his soul crossed the Veil. Talia froze before she began shaking. Then she fell to her knees, hands clasped over her heart and screamed.

That scream of unearthly sorrow and rage and grief hit Lucien like a serrated blade to the gut. He saw Bron stagger as well under the weight of Talia’s pain as half of her soul was ripped out and cast to the void. Lucien had only read about what could happen following the death of one’s mate. He couldn’t stop himself from picturing Elain on that table, dead. The thought of that golden light in his chest winking out threatened the stability of Lucien’s knees.

The wail turned to a choked-off sob. He wished he could go to her, but there was no comfort he could give that would ease the force of her grief. Eventually the sobbing stopped and Talia slowly turned to them.

“Who?” she growled, rage blazing in her eyes.

“Talia, an off-duty human guard shot him,” Lucien spoke carefully with his hands outstretched, palms up in a gesture of peace. “I will meet with Lord Nolan in the morning and demand he turn over the man responsible. His judgment will be yours to give.”

Lucien looked to the side at Bron who gave an imperceptible nod before he stepped forward slowly. 

Bron approached her as one might a spooked horse. All Fae knew there were few things as dangerous as a mate seeking retribution—instinct could spark a bloodlust in the most peaceful of souls. Once Lucien felt relatively sure that Talia would allow Bron to help her prepare her mate’s body for the pyre without killing him, he slipped out of the room and down a narrow hall to the guest officer’s quarters. 

He wasn’t able to shake the smothering, bone-rending sadness he felt. He couldn’t bear the thought of what Talia must be going through; couldn’t stop his mind from reliving the night Jesminda’s life was stolen by his folly.

Lucien collapsed onto the small bed in the dark, cold room. He couldn’t staunch that gut-wrenching grief he’d buried so deep. He closed his eyes but immediately saw the light leaving Jes’s walnut eyes. When he heard the wet slice of a blade meeting bone, of her head hitting the stone, Lucien’s eyes flew open. He was drowning in grief too long ignored.

He jolted when there was a sharp tug behind his ribs, hard enough that his breath hitched.

Then there was a bright warmth blooming. 

Lucien sat up, but no—he hadn’t accidentally started a fire. It happened rarely, when the nightmares were at their worst and he would wake to the acrid scent of burning fabrics.

An image of small hands buried in a white mane flying flashed in front of his mind's eye.

And then he was a youngling hiding in the kitchens while his mother baked apple crumble and he stole as many bites as he could.

Lucien lay back and let his head hit the pillow as he was surrounded by the colors of autumn, shrouded in a blanket of sunset and he felt peace.

It was Elain; he realized with no small amount of wonder. Elain must have sensed him. 

All the hollow sadness was suddenly filled with a nervous amount of hope dashed with embarrassment. He was careful to keep his emotions to himself, had never slipped up like this before. Cauldron, she must have felt everything. The hope was a soft glow, Elain had never touched their bond before.

Jurian met him at the Garrison at dawn. From what he heard at Nolan’s outpost, it was exactly as Bron described. Nolan’s men claimed the fault lay with the Fae, but Jurian believed the guard had done everything by the parameters of the treaty.

Jurian agreed with Lucien’s plan to deliver Valin’s assailant to Talia. Then again, Jurian was one of the few humans with firsthand experience of what mates were capable of when truly motivated.

Lucien didn’t waste time setting out for the Nolan’s manor, assured that Jurian would inform Vassa of everything that had occurred. His magic was still somewhat drained so Lucien opted to ride again.

Recalling the memory from the previous night, Lucien smiled to himself. If Elain enjoyed riding, maybe he could ask her to accompany him some time. 

Lucien dismounted when the manor’s gates were in sight, leaving the horse to graze on dew-dampened grass. He’d only come to Nolan’s manor on foot before, better to lessen the chances of aggravating anyone. The guards posted on the gate were two Lucien didn’t recognize. He stopped some twenty paces back, their loaded crossbows trained on him. 

“Stay right where you are, Fae filth,” the shorter of the two guards called out. “Your kind isn’t welcome here.”

Lucien held both of his hands up, showing that he would make no move for his weapon.

“My name is Lucien Vanserra. I am an emissary, I mean no harm.” He choked on his family name but that was how the humans did it and he was here for the sake of peace. “I’ve been here several times before,” Lucien took a careful step forward. His gaze flicked between the short one and the one whose eyes were wide with fear. “Your commander knows me, he can verify my identity.”

“How do we know this isn’t just some magic trick?” the short one sneered.

Lucien took a calming breath, “I am here under the terms of the treaty between our peoples, that includes not using glamours to deceive you.” He took another careful step forward.

Only to be knocked back by a blinding pain near his heart. His ears rang, but he could hear the cadence of conversation. 

“You idiot. Set the lord’s hounds on him, leave no evidence.”

Then there was a riot of barking. For half a second Lucien found himself back in Eris’s kennels, the hounds greeting him. But these were not those hounds. 

Lucien felt several sets of teeth sink into his limbs. He couldn’t just stay here and die. That wasn’t right. It would hurt her. Elain. 

Elain, the name clanged through him. 

He needed a chance with Elain, with his mate.

Lucien reached deeply for whatever threads of dwindling magic he could grab and threw himself into the darkness, thinking of the first place that sprang into his mind. 

He didn’t remember how he crawled up the steps and through the off-kilter door, but his eyes opened to stare down at the familiar black-and-white checkered marble floors. His eyes closed at the sound of talons clicking against the cracked stone that shifted to familiar footsteps as every thought eddied out of his head and the world bled black.

Tamlin

He scented Lucien long before he saw the male. Tamlin cursed the spark of hope that warmed him at the thought that Lucien might give him another chance. But then he neared the manor and scented Lucien's blood and red stained his vision. He ran.

There was too much blood—the wounds weren’t closing. Cauldron, were those bite marks? Tamlin’s heart was beating too quickly, his hands crimson-slicked as he gently turned Lucien onto his back to reveal the splintered shaft of an ash arrow embedded not a finger’s width from his heart. Tamlin quickly dragged a talon across his ankle; it stung and bled a drop before closing—not a nightmare then.

Fuck.

Tamlin forced himself to breathe. To think. He would lose no one else. There were no healers here anymore. No one was here. So he had to go where healers were. Where there were people who were better for Lucien than he was.

Never again, he told himself. I won’t lose him again.

Tamlin summoned the strength he often tried to forget and, with enough force that the ground rumbled, he spoke from his mind, projecting it far north.

Rhysand. I’m bringing Lucien to you. I mean no harm. He’s dying, he needs a Healer.

Tamlin gathered Lucien into his arms and winnowed. Lucien was the only thing he had left to lose.

Time seemed to slow as the darkness pressed upon him. The first rule of winnowing is to have a clear picture of your destination. Lucien had told him about Velaris before Tamlin had banned him from his court in anger. Centuries before that, lifetimes ago really, the heir of Night and the son of Spring had gotten drunk together. The memory of Rhys’s description was faded but better than nothing, so Tamlin held that image close. 

Another image flashed before him, star-tinged—from Rhysand. A wrought-iron fence before the small yard of a home on a quiet street. 

Then he was there, shoving aside that gate and bounding up the steps. The door opened for him and Tamlin barely noted the towering Illyrian wings he brushed past as he moved to lay Lucien down on the table. A gray-haired female stepped towards Lucien’s prone form and Tamlin bit back a snarl, at the same time the High Lord of Night’s hand came down on his shoulder.

Madja’s our best healer, she’ll do all she can, Rhysand spoke into his mind.

“It's a new kind of ash arrow. It breaks into shards when disturbed,” Tamlin explained, his long unused voice rasping. “He winnowed from the mortal lands to my manor with that much ash in him. I would have said it’s not possible, but he did it.” 

Madja nodded to him and turned back to Lucien. “Sons of fire don’t burn out easily, this one still has a chance.”

Tamlin sagged with relief, then quickly straightened his spine. He’d already let these males see too much of him.

“Here,” Cassian grunted and shoved a glass of whiskey into Tamlin’s faintly trembling hands.

The reality of his situation came into sharp focus as the instinctive drive to protect his closest friend faded. He was in the Night Court. He didn’t exactly ask to come. They had every valid reason to hate him, especially Rhys and Feyre. Cauldron, they were the same reasons he hated himself. He could see Rhysand and Cassian exchanging a look that meant they were mind-speaking. Cassian… Rhysand’s General.

The gears turned. He was a High Lord who winnowed uninvited into another court’s territory. An action any laws of Prythian could construe as an act of war that. Tamlin swallowed the rest of his drink painfully. 

There was only one way to guarantee this didn’t turn that direction. 

So, Tamlin set down his glass and crossed the room to where Rhys stood. Pride be damned, he had already lost everything at this point. Tamlin took a deep breath and placed his right fist over his heart, speaking the ancient words: “I, Tamlin, High Lord of Spring, thank you for offering me aid in my time of need. As payment for this debt I will grant you, Rhysand, High Lord of Night, a boon. Please accept my gratitude.”

Faint clinks made by ash splinters landing in a metal basin punctuated the silence. Tamlin kept his eyes downcast at the red patterned rug until Rhysand held out a tattooed hand.

Tamlin clasped it with his own. 

“I accept,” Rhysand responded, his expression guarded.

A shockwave of magic radiated through Velaris as the bargain inked itself across the High Lords’ wrists, setting the glasses rattling.

Then, the door to the townhouse swung open with such force that the little window in it shattered. 

Elain Archeron burst into the room. Her half-feral eyes stopped on Lucien, then flitted to Tamlin as he stood and turned towards her. Her brown eyes turned to silver as she took in the blood staining Tamlin’s clothes. 

Her rage was an aura shimmering at the edges of her. She winnowed across the room in a blink, appearing in front of Tamlin and slamming him back into the wall. Her forearm pushed into his throat. She growled, each word dripping with the promise of blood: “What. Happened. To. My. Mate.”

Elain

This wasn’t right. Elain looked around at the bare-boned trees shivering dark against a faded sky.

She was in Velaris. She was staring at a rosebush. There were clippers in her hand.

But when Elain looked down, there were no clippers, and the air was colder and dulled. It took a moment for recognition to set in—she recognized these woods, that far-off stone wall with its grotesque iron gate.

She shouldn’t be here. 

Couldn’t be. 

That was Lord Nolan’s manor, but she was in Velaris. Feyre and Nyx and Cerridwen were playing on the other side of the gardens. She was listening to them moments ago.

But this world was silent.

She realized it was a vision when her feet began moving against her will.

Suddenly, she stood before the gates staring at two guards in Graysen’s father’s colors. But the vision shattered, cracking and falling like the shards of a mirror. 

And then Elain was curled up on the grass of her garden with a searing white pain in her chest. Feyre was screaming.

The world was shaking—no, that was her, shaking. Being shook.

“...lain. Elain, please open your eyes,” Feyre’s voice pleaded.

Elain slowly obeyed, squinting and blinking and trying to adjust to the brightness of the sun above her. It was hard to do anything with the memory of that pain echoing across her skin.

“I…” Elain’s voice cracked, her mind still reeling. “I had a vision, I’m fine,” she said weakly as she let Feyre help her sit up.

Elain realized her mistake when she saw how wide Feyre’s eyes had grown. 

“You had… a vision?” Feyre parsed out the words on her tongue, piecing together her elder sister’s lies of the past year and a half. “Elain,” Feyre said with an equal amount of shame and reproach. She took a deep breath, then said more gently, “Let’s get you inside, okay?” 

Was this the moment when the world crashed down around her feet? This lie, her secret, no doubt already reaching the minds of the inner circle via Rhys. Because this changed everything. That was part of the reason Elain had hidden it.

Elain nodded and let Feyre tug her to her feet.

She wasn’t dumb, though it made life easier when people thought she was. While the others thought she only read books on flowers or the romances Nesta pawned off on her, Elain had done her research. She knew Clotho had a personal weakness for lemon tarts and that the female was happy to offer her the sanctuary of the Library beneath the House of the Wind regardless of the unseemly times of day she showed up. 

Elain knew how rare Seers were. She knew how they were coveted by High Lords and Kings, wooed and worshiped until they were locked up or literally chained to a wall in one case. It was a terrible power, she’d never understood….

Why, in those frozen depths of the Cauldron, when the Mother had examined her soul and somehow found her ‘worthy,’ had she cursed Elain with this ‘gift’ that often drove its bearers to madness? 

Yes, the Mother’s gift included many other things Elain didn’t understand, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to be a Seer, didn’t want to live with the constant threat of her mind being violated by the past or future. She didn’t want to deal with the burden of trying to unravel all those damned riddles her sight enjoyed laying at her feet.

Swallowing her anxiety down, Elain let Feyre lead her into the house and press a cup of tea into her hands. But that pain was still throbbing—enough to make her feel lightheaded. Elain couldn’t shake off the small voice screaming “something is wrong.” 

And then it clicked into place. Lucien. She’d been sensing him through the bond more recently. That must have been his pain. Which meant something had gone terribly wrong… Nolan’s manor. That vision had been of Lucien, or at least what had happened to him.

“Elain, what can I do?” Feyre’s question broke the clamor of her thoughts.

Mate. Protect him. Save him. That inner voice commanded with so much dominance Elain almost leapt off of the settee despite herself.

She couldn’t deny what she saw, what she was feeling. But something stopped her from voicing all of it to her sister. 

“I… I think I would like to lie down for a while, if that’s alright,” she answered Feyre in that soft small voice everyone thought was her only one.

Elain lost herself in thought while she allowed Feyre to lead her up to her room. She didn’t understand this thing writhing within her, this bond. Lucien was a stranger. Yet, even as a stranger Elain didn’t wish that kind of pain on anyone—she wanted to help, to soothe, to heal. Those had always been her core intentions. Even before she nearly drowned in the Cauldron and somehow emerged with the gifts of the Mother that made those instincts stronger. 

She hadn’t realized it until that fateful day, nearly a year ago when Nesta had sacrificed her magic to save Nyx, Feyre and Rhys. That was when that shimmering well of power sparked. While Nesta had laid herself across Feyre’s ashen form, Elain had dived into that inner abyss—had begged the Mother to let Nesta stay, to see that Nesta’s heart wasn’t owned by the Cauldron’s icy void, that Nesta was just trying to protect everyone, that Nesta deserved to live.  

Thankfully, the Mother had listened. Elain had mentioned nothing about that day. She scarcely dared think about it. Nesta would have died if the Mother hadn’t intervened. It was only the second time Elain had ever let that power fill her veins, to sever the Cauldron’s grip of Nesta’s soul—to keep it from killing her. The first had been during the war when she’d somehow winnowed and found her hand clenched tight around Truth-Teller, buried in the King of Hybern’s neck. 

Feyre drew the curtains shut while Elain sat on the edge of her bed. 

 Please leave, Elain hoped as Feyre turned towards her in the dim faelight.

“Do you want to be alone?” her sister asked.

“I think I’ll sleep for a while.” Elain pasted on an encouraging smile.

Save him. Save him. Don’t let it fade. The voice chanted.

As soon as the door shut behind Feyre, Elain moved: out to the balcony, down the trellis of ivy. She knew the way with her eyes closed. She’d spent many sleepless nights watching the Sidra drift by or scanning dusty tomes for answers that didn’t exist.

Elain’s slippered feet hit the frostbitten earth, the voice growing louder. She was tired of fighting it so, for the third time, Elain gave up. She let that shimmering light rise to the surface, allowed that voice to guide her steps. When she reached inside for that golden ribbon she knew would lead her to Lucien, she fell to her knees in the dead grass. 

No.

There wasn’t a ribbon. There were only ragged threads. Elain focused her hearing, no matter where he went she could hear it. His heartbeat was there, but it was too slow.

No.

Save him. Save him. Protect. Defend.

Elain let that unknown power force her shaking legs to stand. She could question all of this when she knew Lucien was safe. She’d already broken character, let Feyre see the truth. Pretense was irrelevant now. It was the least she could do after all, for the male whom had saved her countless times without knowing it.

She took a step forward, letting that power fill her vision as darkness pressed in on all sides and then she was standing outside of the townhouse. She’d winnowed again, somehow. Elain would worry about that another time. 

The air smelled strange. She could scent Lucien, closely mingled with another of stale flowers and rain and… blood. Icy dread sluiced through her veins at the realization it was Lucien’s blood. All Elain saw was red and light. She felt a pulse of magic, heard a faint shatter of glass.

Mate. Save him. Protect him.

There was Madja, staring blankly at her, bent over Lucien’s body—he was unconscious and covered in drying blood.

“Mate. Protect,” was the last thing Elain remembered hearing before her power consumed her completely.

Elain woke to the sound of hushed voices. She was lying on a hard surface.

“Was knocking her out really necessary?” Nesta quietly snarled.

“I didn’t ‘knock her out,’ I put her to sleep,” Rhys’s voice was calm yet equally hushed. “She wasn’t herself, Nesta. I didn’t want her to hurt anyone or hurt herself.”

“I thought she didn’t have magic anymore,” Cassian said.

“Well, I knew something was still there,” Amren sounded smug.

Elain cracked an eye open, just enough to get a blurry image of the scene. Feyre was slowly shaking her head, looking at the floor. They were still in the townhouse. Her head felt like someone had split her skull with a hammer and chisel.

“I found her unconscious in the garden this afternoon. I couldn’t get into her mind but when she woke up, she said she’d had a vision. I don’t know if it’s happened before, or if she’s aware of this power,” Feyre murmured.

“How long will she be asleep?” Nesta asked, concerned.

“She’s already awake,” a deep voice like honey rumbled from directly behind her, though it sounded strained.

Elain bolted upright, scrambled off the table and nearly head-butted the wall as the room swayed beneath her feet. Her fingertips dug into the molded oak paneling but then Nesta’s hands gripped her shoulders and steadied her. One of those hands moved to her cheek as Nesta turned her face to examine it. Elain shook off Nesta’s hand and turned back to look at the wide dining table where Lucien lay, his hair a sanguine red against a blue pillow.

She took a shaky step toward him before she stopped herself, ignoring that voice demanding she run to him and make sure he’s okay.

“Lucien,” she breathed. Her throat felt raw, like she had been screaming. She swallowed, painfully. “Are… are you going to be alright?”

“Right as rain, Lady,” he said with a smirk that twisted into a grimace as he coughed

Liar.

“He’ll be perfectly healed in a few days,” Madja explained from a chair by the fire. “He’s lucky he got here when he did, a few more minutes and some of those splinters would have reached his heart.”

“How do you feel, Elain?” Nesta asked softly, holding Elain’s elbow.

“I’m fine Nesta.” Elain’s words were clipped. She hated this feeling, that dark gap in her memory. 

Lucien coughed again, “She’s about thirty seconds from passing out if her heartbeat—cough—doesn’t slow and she has one of the worst burnout headaches I’ve ever felt.” His voice grew progressively quieter as he spoke. 

Elain rapidly snapped up her mental shields, but the exertion made her stumble.

Nesta gently shoved her down into an overstuffed armchair and forced a cup of water into her hand, gray eyes gleaming like daggers as she demanded Elain to drink.

Madja shuffled over and placed a wrinkled hand on Elain’s shoulder, the pounding in her head subsided but didn’t disappear. 

Feyre sat down on the ottoman in front of her chair. “Elain, can you tell me what happened? Do you remember?” 

Elain looked around the room. Lucien was now half sitting, propped up on a bunch of pillows. Nesta stood behind her chair, Cassian close to her side. Amren perched on an arm of the sofa where Rhys and Madja sat, behind Feyre. Azriel stood near the arched opening to the dining room, his shadows blending into the darkness behind him. What did she remember? What did she want to remember?

Elain knew she should handle this carefully, that she could play it right and keep things mostly the way they were before. But her head was so foggy, everything about her felt sluggish. What she remembered after she left her room were flashes, nothing coherent. Elain remembered the pain on Feyre’s face in the garden, when she’d suspected Elain had been lying.

Pain. She was in pain. Lucien was in pain. There was too much of it. Elain was tired. So very, very tired of pain. Elain took a deep breath and spoke.

“Earlier, I had a… vision.” She tucked her hand beneath her thighs to stop herself from wringing her fingers. “I saw the gates of Lord Nolan’s manor.” She forced her gaze to meet Lucien’s, “I felt those guards shoot you.”

Her eyes closed as her voice cracked. She couldn’t look at him without that voice chanting all the things she should do to those guards. Elain took a deep breath, “I felt your pain, that’s how I knew it was you. I feel nothing in my visions.” Unless they are about you, she finished in her head.

“I remember Feyre taking me up to my room. I remember leaving as soon as she left. I… I just couldn’t let anyone be in that kind of pain when I knew there was something I could do to help. When I tried to find you the bond—it was fading. I panicked, I could sense you were close to death.” Elain swiped an errant tear from her cheek. She shouldn’t be crying over a stranger. 

“That thing, that voice panicked and I could feel a sort of light, a power inside me and it wanted to get out. I could barely think straight so I let it—it felt like my best chance to find him. After that, it's just fragments. I remember standing outside of the townhouse. I remember it smelled wrong, like rain and dying flowers and Lucien’s blood.”

Elain noticed Feyre’s nostrils flare, then her whole body went rigid and her face paled. She stiffly nodded for Elain to continue but her eyes glazed over slightly.

“That’s really all I can remember.” Elain looked to the dancing flames behind the grate.

The silence in the room was broken when Rhys spoke a name, “Mor?”

Morrigan winced as she stepped out of Azriel’s shadows. “That's all she remembers,” she said Rhys.

Fuck. They used Mor? Was their distrust in her truly so immense? It hurt, more than Elain expected it would. Not that she could really blame them. Lucien looked shocked, but it seemed the others were aware. Mor, at least, had the decency to look apologetic.

Feyre moved off of the ottoman to sit on Rhys’s lap. Her color was better, whatever they’d spoken about mind-to-mind had worked. Rhys cleared his throat, “Well, let me show you all what I remember.”

Elain was grateful she was sitting down or she might have fainted as Rhys’s experience of events played through everyone’s minds, stopping on an image of her pinning Tamlin against the wall by his throat. 

“Fascinating,” Amren mused. She cocked her head, those unholy steel eyes flitting between Elain and Nesta, analyzing them as if they were one of her many puzzles. 

Elain’s mind was still trying to catch up with everything Rhys had revealed when she felt a sharp spike of self-loathing. She looked over to Lucien who wore a haunted expression.

“Stop that!” Elain hissed at him. 

Lucien’s russet and gold gaze turned sharply on her and Elain clapped a hand over her mouth, felt her eyes widen.

“Sorry I just… none of this was your fault Lucien,” she stammered, warmth rising to her cheeks.

“No, that’s not… never mind. You’re right,” his words were stilted. 

Elain noticed the others glancing between them, their faces betraying an odd mix of confusion and amusement. 

Before she had time to respond, Nesta snickered “You—you really…. Honestly, I’m jealous.”

Elain was confused. 

Nesta sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “Just—the next time you nail Tamlin’s balls to the wall—wait for me.”

Feyre snorted softly. 

Slowly, Elain turned to Rhys. “I…. Oh Gods… I attacked a High Lord… did I start a war?”

She held no sympathy for Tamlin, but Prythian was still recovering from the last war.

Rhys shook his head with a gentle smile. He asked Lucien, “Are you feeling well enough to head to the River House?”

Lucien nodded once.

“Right then, we will continue this discussion after we’ve all had something to eat,” Rhys concluded.

Cassian mumbled “about damn time,” as he and Nesta made their way outside.

Amren held her hand out expectantly to Azriel who rolled his eyes before winnowing away with the tiny ancient one in tow.

Rhys slung and arm around Lucien’s broad shoulders as he helped him stand. Elain was momentarily stunned because Lucien was taller than Rhys when she saw them side by side. No, that was a dumb thing to realize and why now…. Elain blinked a few times to clear her head.

Feyre and Mor were looking at her, waiting. Elain looked back at Lucien and Rhys, the latter now looking at her in silent question. 

She slowly rose to her feet, pleasantly surprised to find her legs steady. Elain took a step towards Feyre but the disquiet in her gut increased and she hesitated. 

“I’ll go with Lucien and Rhys,” she found herself saying. The nervous energy settled a bit more with each step towards them.

She didn’t even attempt to decipher the meaning in Rhys’s knowing gaze. Elain took his arm, and they winnowed to the lawn of the River House. Cassian was waiting for them by the door, taking over as Lucien’s support and disappearing into the house. Elain made to follow them but Rhys gently stopped her. 

“What?” Elain cocked her head at the High Lord of Night. For that definitely was not the expression of her smartass brother-in-law.

“I will allow you into this house if you swear to do no harm to my mate, my son, or any other members of my inner circle or guests of my household.” Rhys’s voice was the deep cold of a midwinter’s night.

Elain took a step back, eyes stinging. Did Rhys really think she would hurt her sisters, hurt Nyx?

His expression softened slightly, “The vow is a formality, Elain. I don’t think you would intentionally harm anyone but you… you weren’t yourself this morning. It will give you peace of mind as well, a guarantee that no one you care about would get hurt if you lost control again.”

That would be true, she supposed.

A part of her bristled at the ultimatum, that Rhys—the champion of choices—didn’t give her one. Another part of her was grateful, she didn’t trust herself. Hadn’t since she’d come out of the Cauldron. She’d buried her powers so deep because they scared her—that potential loss of control was absolutely terrifying. 

“I swear to do no harm to my sisters, my nephew, or any members of the inner circle or guests of your household,” Elain repeated as she held out her hand. 

Elain didn’t realize she was freezing until Rhys’s hand wrapped around hers, the warmth and the zing of magic pulsing through the air gave her goosebumps. She looked at their clasped hands and saw a tiny star tattooed on the inside of her right wrist. It was… cute.

Elain paid little attention to anything during dinner. Thankfully, everyone seemed happy to carry on their conversations without her. She wasn’t surprised, they normally were. She downed her first glass of wine and spent an hour picking at her food. Elain was grateful to be sitting next to Mor. In quiet solidarity, Mor kept pace with Elain. When the meal ended the two of them had finished a bottle.

She followed the others through to the sitting room, every sense softer—and she was delightfully warm. The events of the day felt less world-shattering. Elain’s mind was still drifting when Rhys called for everyone’s attention. Only then did the room come into focus. Amren, Feyre, and Nesta were giving her odd looks. She glanced down to see if she’d accidentally spilled wine on her dress only to meet Lucien’s russet-gold stare, not a foot below her.

Elain wished the floors would open up and swallow her. Apparently while her mind had wandered, her feet had carried her to stand halfway behind the chair where Lucien sat near the fire.

Good. He is still healing, watch over him, the voice said. 

Elain almost jumped at the sound, it hadn't spoken in hours.

To move away now, after everyone else had settled would be even more awkward, so Elain stayed. 

It’s just the bond. Just my instincts — it means nothing. They all know that, she talked herself down before she could feel too flustered.

“Alright Amren,” Rhys said coolly, holding his palm out in an invitation to speak.

Elain’s heart jumped into her throat. She felt like a child again, waiting for her mother’s tongue-lashing.

Would they ship her away like Nesta, or worse? At least Nesta hadn’t tricked everyone. She’d lied, but the lies were obvious. Elain had manipulated her family’s goodwill against them, for her own selfish comfort. She knew her powers could make a profound difference in the world… if she could bear to face them. 

She wasn’t like her sisters. She wasn’t a warrior; she didn’t want to lead people; she didn’t even want to be here half of the time. Elain missed being human, she missed the life Hybern and the Cauldron had stolen from her. She didn’t want this power in her veins so she’d done her best to ignore its existence.

Amren looked at Elain, her bobbed hair swaying as her head again tilted to the side, assessing. “This isn’t the first time. Is it, girl?”

“No,” Elain hated how meek her voice sounded.

“Well?” Amren motioned for her to elaborate. 

Elain took a deep breath that did nothing to steady her so she gripped the back of the chair, low enough that no one could see how weak she was. Feyre had no trouble commanding a room of faeries who hated her, but Elain was not her sister.

“I… um.” Elain stuttered.

Lucien shifted in front of her, crossing his arms and her breath hitched when she felt warm fingers brush against hers. The contact grounded her.

She swallowed and spoke. “The first time was during the war. I was pacing in camp when I saw Nesta’s blast. Felt it. I could sense something beneath my skin, like I was burning from the inside.” 

“I knew something bad was happening, could feel it in my bones. And then I heard a voice, your voice.” Elain looked at her little sister. “You begged me to save them.”

“I begged the Cauldron to save them,” Feyre explained. “How did you hear that?”

“The Cauldron and its power answer to ultimately to her, at least in this world. She knew you needed help,” Elain replied.

“Her?” Feyre asked.

“This world?” Rhys spoke at the same moment as his mate.

Elain blushed, she definitely said too much.

“Don’t get distracted, girl,” Amren chided.

Elain nodded and continued, “Well, I don’t know what I did. I just… let go. Let the light burn. And the next thing I can remember is my hand covered in blood holding Truth-Teller’s hilt in that King’s neck. I don’t know how I got there. I panicked when I realized what was happening—what I did. And well, Nesta took over then.”

Lucien’s fingers twitched against hers, the slight touch doing more to comfort her than was logical.

“The second time was different, internal. It was when Nyx was born,” Elain explained. Everyone in the room sat up a little straighter at that. 

“What I saw,” Cassian blurted out, “that was you? You stopped the Cauldron from taking all of Nesta’s power.”

“Not exactly me, but yes. I… well, it’s hard to explain since I don’t really understand it.” Elain paused, she really didn’t know if this would make any sense. 

“Just tell us as best as you can,” Lucien spoke for the first time since they’d gathered. 

“Well Nesta, remember the terms of your bargain? I’d seen what would happen, only I didn’t realize what the vision meant until you first said ‘I give it all back.’ The vision was a phrase: one life for three, moonlit death, what a bargain.” 

Elain saw Cassian stiffen as the meaning of the words hit him, he drew his wing closer around Nesta.

“Nesta, when you told the Cauldron you would ‘give it all back,’ you bargained away your life. I couldn’t let that happen so I reached out—reached down maybe, into the power. It’s kind of like a well right, so I dove to the bottom—to the heart, the source.”

“The source?” Amren prompted skeptically. 

“The Mother,” Elain replied.

Amren’s gray eyes went wide. 

“The Mother,” Elain continued, her voice more confident now, “is the only thing who can truly influence the Cauldron. She gave the Cauldron purpose when she created this world, the Cauldron loves her because of it.”

“What does the Mother have to do with Nesta’s bargain? How do you have a connection to her?” Feyre asked.

“Well,” Elain swallowed, trying to ignore terror brought on by the memories of that day in Hybern. She hadn’t realized her eyes had squeezed shut until another faint brush of Lucien’s fingers made her open them.

“When I went into the Cauldron,” Elain stared into the fire, “I was drifting for a long time until the Mother’s hand took hold of me. She said something about being pure of heart and told me the Cauldron would bless me with great gifts. And that she would always walk beside me.

“When I met her again, trying to save Nesta’s life from that bargain, I offered her anything she wanted as long as she made the Cauldron alter your bargain to let you live, to let you all live. She made me vow I would never seek to rid myself of my powers. I don’t know how much you all know about Seers, but it’s usually a cursed gift. They lose their sanity or become slaves and prisoners, often both. The Mother knew I didn’t want that. She knew it would be harder to keep the gifts than trade them for you. And well, here we are.”

The typically loud group of Fae were silent.  

“If you don’t believe me, that bargain is inked in gold on my spine,” Elain shrugged, trying to lighten the mood, her gaze still fixed on the fire. She could have sworn she saw a forest in the flames, a fox running between the trees. Then again, she’d had a lot of wine.

This world was bizarre, magic didn’t follow logic or reason. Compared to some stories she’d heard from this group—this might not even be the strangest. She felt light. Freer than she had felt for many years.

“Elain—” Nesta’s cracking voice drew Elain’s gaze. “You saved me. Twice. You saved Cassian’s life, too.”

“Considering how many times you’ve saved me over the years, Nesta, it was the least I could do to pay you back.”

Elain took a deep breath and addressed the room, breaking contact with Lucien and stepping away from the chair. “I’m sorry for keeping this all to myself. What I’ve told you all tonight is just a fraction. I was terrified—am terrified by all of this. It was too overwhelming, so I shut it all out. I know it was selfish. I’m sorry that I lied to you all, that I abused your kindness to shield myself from having to deal with any of it.”

Elain kept her eyes on the floor, waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure.

Nesta’s arms wrapped around her, squeezing. Feyre’s arms wound around both of them a second later. Warm tears tracked down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry I made you feel you couldn’t talk to me about any of this,” Feyre mumbled into Elain’s shoulder. “I hate that you’ve been dealing with this by yourself.”

“If anyone was selfish, it was me,” Nesta sniffed. “You were right that time at the River House. I was too consumed by my shit to realize you were going through it too, that you needed someone just as much as I did.”

Elain pulled away when it got hard to breathe, wiping the tears from her eyes and grinning at her sisters. Rhys cleared his throat. Elain saw Cassian wipe away a few tears of his own. She didn’t know why but she turned back toward Lucien.

He was smiling at her, his russet eye held a mix of wonder and pride. It was like Elain had spent the last three years under the clouds. Finally explaining part of what had been haunting her had revealed scraps of blue sky, but that one look from Lucien banished the rest. Like that smile was the sweetest ray of sunlight to ever shine. And maybe it would be okay.

tagging: @ablogofbipanic @damedechance @octobers-veryown @panicatthenightcourt @moonpatroclus @vulpes-fennec @krem-does-stuff @areyoudreaminof @spell-cleavers @fieldofdaisiies @foundress0fnothing @kingofsummer93

#elucienweek2023 #elucien #elucien fanfiction #elucien fanfic #pro elucien #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #elain x lucien #lucien x elain

[offtorivendell]

I really hope we learn that it's not the colour black sucking the life out of Elain because "she doesn't belong in the Night Court," but that life is power and the Hewn City has a gate or a rift or a portal hidden in its catacombs, or somewhere nearby, and that is what was leeching - siphoning - the life/magic from Elain in an effort to open.

Also that she, along with her two besties, Nuala and Cerridwen, intentionally dressed herself down to blend in to the crowd.

To become nobody of consequence.

Nothing at all.

Void.

#pro elain #elain archeron #acotar #elain archeron theory #elain's powers #the void #acotar cc tog crossover theory

[tarninausta]

From Ost-in-Edhil, the city of the Elves, the highroad ran to the west gate of Khazad-dûm, for a friendship arose between Dwarves and Elves, such as has never elsewhere been, to the enrichment of both those peoples.

-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, “Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age”

@secondageweek day 7: freeform; THE FRIENDSHIP OF THE DWARVES OF KHAZAD-DUM AND THE GWAITH-I-MIRDAIN

[ID: A picspam consisting of 12 images, mainly green, gold, and black.

1: A golden collar set with jewels and pearls / 2: A gate hewn into stone / 3: Stars / 4: Text reading “Dwarves of Khazad-dum” / 5: Yellow cushions / 6: Green fabric with golden leaf embroidery / 7: Holly leaves /  8: A golden headpiece /  9: Text reading “Gwaith-i.Mirdain” / 10: Green gems / 11: A person wearing a high green collar / 12: Someone taking a golden necklace out of a cushioned box / End ID]

#secondageweek #tolkienedit #silmedit #oneringnet #tolkiensource #usertilions #usercharithra #usersansa #usersari #userlyndeth #southfarthing #userhaleths #the silmarillion #silm #tolkien #khazad #gwaith i mirdain #the second age #🌟 edits #with id

[ebaeschnbliah]

Before the travellers lay a wide ravine, with great rocky sides to which clung, upon shelves and in narrow crevices, a few thrawn trees. The channel grew narrower and the River swifter. Now they were speeding along with little hope of stopping or turning, whatever they might meet ahead. Over them was a lane of pale-blue sky, around them the dark overshadowed River, and before them black, shutting out the sun, the hills of Emyn Muil, in which no opening could be seen.

Frodo peering forward saw in the distance two great rocks approaching: like great pinnacles or pillars of stone they seemed. Tall and sheer and ominous they stood upon either side of the stream. A narrow gap appeared between them, and the River swept the boats towards it.

`Behold the Argonath, the Pillars of the Kings!' ...

... cried Aragorn. `We shall pass them soon. Keep the boats in line, and as far apart as you can! Hold the middle of the stream! '

As Frodo was borne towards them the great pillars rose like towers to meet him. Giants they seemed to him, vast grey figures silent but threatening. Then he saw that they were indeed shaped and fashioned: the craft and power of old had wrought upon them, and still they preserved through the suns and rains of forgotten years the mighty likenesses in which they had been hewn. Upon great pedestals founded in the deep waters stood two great kings of stone: still with blurred eyes and crannied brows they frowned upon the North. 

The left hand of each was raised palm outwards in gesture of warning; in each right hand there was an axe; upon each head there was a crumbling helm and crown. Great power and majesty they still wore, the silent wardens of a long-vanished kingdom. Awe and fear fell upon Frodo, and he cowered down, shutting his eyes and not daring to look up as the boat drew near. Even Boromir bowed his head as the boats whirled by. frail and fleeting as little leaves, under the enduring shadow of the sentinels of Númenor. So they passed into the dark chasm of the Gates.

Sheer rose the dreadful cliffs to unguessed heights on either side. Far off was the dim sky. The black waters roared and echoed, and a wind screamed over them. Frodo crouching over his knees heard Sam in front muttering and groaning: `What a place! What a horrible place! Just let me get out of this boat, and I'll never wet my toes in a puddle again, let alone a river! '

`Fear not! ' said a strange voice behind him. Frodo turned and saw Strider, and yet not Strider; for the weatherworn Ranger was no longer there. In the stern sat Aragorn son of Arathorn, proud and erect, guiding the boat with skilful strokes; his hood was cast back, and his dark hair was blowing in the wind, a light was in his eyes: a king returning from exile to his own land.

'Fear not! ' he said. `Long have I desired to look upon the likenesses of Isildur and Anárion, my sires of old. Under their shadow Elessar, the Elfstone son of Arathorn of the House of Valandil Isildur's son heir of Elendil, has nought to dread! '

Then the light of his eyes faded, and he spoke to himself: `Would that Gandalf were here! How my heart yearns for Minas Anor and the walls of my own city! But whither now shall I go?'

The chasm was long and dark, and filled with the noise of wind and rushing water and echoing stone. It bent somewhat towards the west so that at first all was dark ahead; but soon Frodo saw a tall gap of light before him, ever growing. Swiftly it drew near, and suddenly the boats shot through, out into a wide clear light.

The sun, already long fallen from the noon, was shining in a windy sky. The pent waters spread out into a long oval lake, pale Nen Hithoel, fenced by steep grey hills whose sides were clad with trees, but their heads were bare, cold-gleaming in the sunlight. At the far southern end rose three peaks. The midmost stood somewhat forward from the others and sundered from them, an island in the waters, about which the flowing River flung pale shimmering arms. Distant but deep there came up on the wind a roaring sound like the roll of thunder heard far away.

`Behold Tol Brandir!' said Aragorn, pointing south to the tall peak. 'Upon the left stands Amon Lhaw, and upon the right is Amon Hen the Hills of Hearing and of Sight. In the days of the great kings there were high seats upon them, and watch was kept there. But it is said that no foot of man or beast has ever been set upon Tol Brandir. Ere the shade of night falls we shall come to them. I hear the endless voice of Rauros calling.'

JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, The Great River

#the lord of the rings #the fellowship of the ring #the great river #jrr tolkien #anduin #argonath #isildur #anárion #nen hithoel #amon lhaw #amon hen #tol brandir #falls of rauros #aragorn #boromir #legolas #gimli #frodo #sam #merry #pippin #movie pics #peter jackson

[lavenderdreams22]

A Court of Dawn & Dusk - Azriel x Reader (part 5)

Summary: Y/N goes with the inner circle to Hewn City to greet Amarantha. Azriel gets jealous when Y/N tries to bond with a male that isn't him.

A/N: Hello ☺️ This part gave me some trouble (took way longer to write than I expected), so hopefully you guys like it! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list!

Warnings: cursing, suggestive themes, quickly edited.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

*****

Mor and I walked side by side, our steps having long since fallen in time with each other as we made our way to the castle at the heart of Hewn City. I knew that if I looked at her, her expression would match mine, as well: cold and calculating. 

“Remember.” She muttered, her voice so low that I had to strain my ears to catch her words. “You are going to see a side of Rhys, a side of everyone, tonight that you haven’t before. Don’t take anything to heart.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I muttered back, straightening my spine.

I touched the dagger I had strapped to my thigh under my dress, the press of metal comforting as we continued to move through the city. An Illyrian blade… One that Azriel had gifted to me when he had come to watch Cassian and I train the first week that I had been in the Night Court. He had taken one look at the Peregryn blade of gold and silver and pulled it out of my grasp, replacing it with one of his own.

The memory threatened to bring a smile to my face, so I gritted my teeth. It was so annoying that even when we weren’t speaking, he still managed to bring me some sort of comfort or happiness. It was even more annoying that these memories were resurfacing when I was meant to be working.  

When the castle finally came into view, I cursed under my breath. It seemed to loom over the city, beckoning passersby to come closer so that it could reach out a clawed hand and drag them to the underworld.

“Ready?” Mor asked as we neared the gates.

The gates creaked open, and I suppressed a shutter. Gods, that was creepy.

“As I’ll ever be.” I muttered.

*****

Inside the throne room was just as beautiful and terrifying as the rest of the city. Some around me seemed to murmur with anticipation and nerves as we waited for Rhysand’s grand entrance, and some continued to talk and laugh as if there was absolutely nothing to fear. 

I risked a glance at Mor, but she was glowering at a male across the room from us. When he caught her gaze, he gave her a malicious grin and a condescending wave before turning his attention back to the male that stood in front of him.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“My father.” Her glower didn’t relent as she continued to stare at him.

I grimaced, but as I opened my mouth to try to comfort her, the rumbling started. 

“Here we go.” Mor grabbed my arm and moved us closer to the throne.

I held my breath as we took our spots. The rumbling grew louder, closer. Rhysand must have loosened the leash he kept on his magic, displaying it for the people who now trembled and scrambled to their places. The smell of terror seemed to fill the entire room.

I had always known that Rhys was powerful, knew that he was capable of terrible things, but I supposed I had underestimated how terrifying and dangerous he truly was. A mistake that few in this room had made, from the looks of it. These people had seen him at his most dangerous, his most cruel, and they were utterly terrified.

The rumbling grew closer still, and the tension in the room could be sliced with a blade. When the doors were thrown open, cracking against the wall with a loud bang, silence fell.

I nearly gasped at the sight of Cassian and Azriel as they strode through the doors.

Azriel had always had an air of violence and mystery surrounding him. It wasn’t unusual for his face to be cold, or for him to seem to be on the brink of hostility. His shadows swirled around him, whispering as he stalked to the throne. His eyes flicked to mine for a moment, but, unlike earlier at the townhouse, nothing but cold disinterest swirled there. 

With my breath caught in my throat, my gaze darted to Cassian. He, always the opposite side of the same coin as Azriel, surprised me with how cold and detached he looked. All traces of his usual light demeanor, the humor he carried with him… completely gone.

I felt a surge of power from Azriel as I gazed at Cassian, and a few people shrunk back in fear as he passed us. His shadows reached out to me, caressing my face and neck. Azriel’s face hardened, his body going stiff, as he pulled them back, forcing them to obey. 

Mor chuckled, the sound barely audible. I snapped my attention to her, but she was eyeing the Shadowsinger with newfound interest as he and Cassian took their places at the foot of the throne. 

I tabled my questions for later, turning my attention back to the entrance. A few heartbeats passed before Rhysand walked through the door, his darkness filling the space like fog.

His face was cold and detached, just like his brothers, but where they had been serious and almost angry, Rhysand was was smirking. With his hands in his pockets and a crown that seemed to be made of pure midnight sitting perfectly on his head, he made his way to the throne. When he passed Mor and I, he shot us a wink. A few females behind us seemed to sigh as he passed, and I but my tongue to keep from laughing.  

Cruel, dark and absolutely beautiful… Every murmur, every whisper, every thought seemed to echo that sentiment as he took his place on the throne. His darkness seemed to settle before reeling back to him as he crossed one leg over the other. This… this was the high lord of the Night a court. This was the male that scary stories had been based on, the male that everyone outside of Velaris knew him as.

He watched us all for a moment, his nostrils flared as he breathed in the terror and awe and even a bit of arousal that seemed to fill the room. He basked in it, seemed to relish it, for a moment.

“Bow.” His voice rang out, and every person in the room dropped to their knees, their heads lowered to the floor. 

Rhysand left us like that for a few moments, enjoying the obedience. I noticed, as I knelt there, that the floor was polished so well that my own reflection stared back up at me. Everything here seemed so… clean…

“Rise.” Rhysand’s voice rang out again, and everyone seemed to move as one. “We have a special guest tonight. Amarantha, emissary to Hybern. Make her feel as welcome as you would any other stranger.”

The statement felt vaguely like a threat, and I gulped as he grinned. 

Amarantha turned, letting her gaze shift over the throngs of people, offering them a smile that she had to force. No one returned it. When her gaze finally locked with mine, I felt my skin prickle under her scrutiny as she examined me, her eyes raking over me before shifting her gaze to Mor, who sucked in a breath beside me. 

“Now that the formalities are out of the way, the festivities may begin.” He raised a hand, and servants filed into the room, piling the tables to the back with enough food and faerie wine to sustain a small army. 

“Finally.” Mor, whose eyes were still locked on Amarantha, said as she leaned closer to my ear. “I need alcohol if I’m going to survive tonight.” 

With a heaved sigh, she dropped her gaze and made her way to the tables. I giggled as I followed behind her. Wine did sound… Nice.

As we crossed the room, I got a distinct sense of a pair of eyes on me. I only hoped that it wasn’t Azriel or Amarantha.

People were already lining up at the table to get themselves drinks. Mor pushed past them all, offering no apologies as she went. No one seemed brave enough to stop her, anyway. 

She grabbed two wine glasses before turning back to me, and passing me one with a smile plastered on her face. 

“Want to go stand over there and talk about people?” Mor asked, gesturing over to one of the many pillars that lined the room that no one had occupied yet. “At least until we get a few drinks in and can actually start enjoying ourselves?”

“Sure.” I linked my arm with hers. “Let's do it.”

*****

Mor had disappeared. Completely and utterly vanished. One second she had been next to me, mocking one of the many members of the Hewn City court, and the next, she was gone. I turned in place for a moment, searching for her, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. 

“Are you alright?” An unfamiliar male voice asked.

I met his eyes over my shoulder and offered him a smile.

“Yeah. My friend…” I turned to face him fully, his hand dropping to his side. “She was right here a second ago.” 

“Do you want help looking for her?” He asked, already peering into the crowd behind me.

He was handsome. His shiny blond hair and kind, blue eyes were striking, inviting.

The symbol of Hybern was emblazoned on the front of his jacket, and I felt surprise surge through my body at the sight of it. 

“No, that’s alright. She probably got whisked away by some male.” I shrugged, shooting one last glance over my shoulder.

“Well, in that case… Would you like to dance with me?” He extended his hand.

I set my drink down on a nearby table before taking his hand. “I would love to.”

He led me out to the dance floor, other couples already taking their places as the music shifted into something faster. 

“I’ve had my eye on you since you walked into the room tonight.” He said, a blush springing to his cheeks.

“Is that so?” I asked, lifting my eyebrows.

“Yes, so have many other males.” He nodded, matter-of-factly, before adding, “I’m just glad I got here first.”

“I’m glad you did, too.” I looked around conspiratorially. “Some of the males here give me the creeps.”

“Glad to hear I’m not one of them.” His blush deepened.

I made a show of looking him over before I continued. He spun me, and when he pulled back, he pulled me flush against the front of him by my waist.

“I’m glad you’re not one of them, either.” I said, winking.

“What’s your name?” He asked.

“Y/N.” I replied, batting my eyes at him. 

“Beautiful name for a beautiful female.” 

I laughed, my head thrown back. “That was so cheesy.”

He only shrugged, grinning, as he spun me away from him again and pulled me back in effortlessly, as if he spent all of his free time dancing. For all I knew, I supposed, that might be exactly how he spent his time. I realized as we continued to spin that I really wanted to find out. 

“What’s your name?” I asked, the smile on my face starting to make my cheeks hurt.

Before he could answer me, we came to an abrupt halt, Azriel’s hands on the male's shoulders. The look on his face was deadly, and the male paled as he let go of me and stepped back, his hands raised in surrender. 

“Get lost.” Azriel growled.

“Sorry, I didn’t know she was spoken for.” The Hybern male said, his eyes wide.

Azriel only growled in response, the sound reverberating around the three of us. I hated the fact that a blush rose to my cheeks at the sound.

The male scurried off into the crowd, disappearing from view.

“What the fuck, Azriel?” I asked as he pulled me to his chest and resumed the dance that he had interrupted. “You shouldn’t have done that. I was having fun.”

“He was touching you… Making you uncomfortable.” Azriel said, shrugging as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

“I was not uncomfortable.” I said. “You could have sent Cassian over if you thought it necessary to intervene.” 

He snorted at that, twirling me faster to keep up with the rest of those dancing around us. I wasn’t sure how he had gotten so good at dancing, either, but I refused to let myself ask as he leaned closer to me. 

“I didn’t want him touching you, either.” He said through clenched teeth.

I gaped at him for a moment, letting his words sink in. 

“You don’t get to decide who does and doesn’t touch me.” I seethed. He opened his mouth to protest, but I silenced him, digging my nails into his shoulder. “If I want to let that male take me into another room and have his way with me, I will. And there is nothing… NOTHING that you can say or do to change that.”

He tensed for a moment as my words seemed to hit their mark, but after a moment, he relaxed and smirked at me, pulling me closer to him. 

“And what if I wanted to take you into the other room?” He asked, his voice low. “What if I don’t want any other male touching you?”

“If you wanted to be the only male touching me, Azriel… All you had to do was say so.” I batted my eyelashes at him, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth.

He tracked the movement, his body once again going rigid even as we continued to spin and dance. 

When the music came to an end, changing to something slow, Azriel grabbed my hand, making his way towards the doors that we had all entered through at the beginning of the night. His breathing was uneven and I rolled my eyes and pulled out of his grip.

“If this is what you wanted, you shouldn’t have run from me.” I cocked my head to the side as he slowly turned to look at me, his anger and panic barely contained. “If you were going to chase after me like this, you should have stayed.”

He blinked at me, his shadows becoming frantic as they swirled around him. Their whispers seemed to get louder as I stepped further away from him. 

“I can’t chase you here.” He said, taking a step closer to me.

“I never asked you to.” I replied with a shrug. “Now, if you don’t mind… I have a dance to finish with the male you so rudely dismissed. Have a good rest of your night, Az.” 

I stepped past him, laying a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t acknowledge me as I disappeared into the crowd.

*****

Gods, Azriel had fucked up. He had fucked up so badly that he wasn’t sure how he was ever going to come back from it. 

He watched her as she mingled with several males, the one that he had pulled off of her making her smile as he brought her yet another glass of wine. She threw her head back laughing at something he said, and the sound floated to Azriel over the music. He decided he loved the sound of her laugh more than any music he had ever heard, and he didn't care how cliche it was.

Gods, he had fucked everything up.

“If you don’t stop glaring like that, you’re going to scare him away.” Cassian murmured from his place beside Azriel. 

Azriel frowned at that, letting his attention move across the room, taking in other party go-ers. Rhys had long-since joined the festivities, him and a red-haired woman engaged in a tense conversation. His shadows informed him that that was Amarantha. Rhys leaned against a pillar, shooting her a smirk that had her bristling. 

He made a mental note to himself to keep an eye on her before he let his attention go back to Y/N and her many suitors. 

“Good.” Was all Azriel said.

“Don’t you have a job to do?” Cassian snapped. “Or something better to do than try to ruin her night?”

Azriel turned his gaze to Cassian then, sizing him up. Surprise flashed across Cassian’s face at the animosity, but was quickly replaced by the usual cool indifference they all carried here. 

“Does it not bother you?” Azriel asked, cocking his head. “You two are… close.” 

“So?” Cassian demanded quietly. “She can talk to whoever she wants.”

“You like her, right?” Azriel asked. “You’re probably the only male in this room that she would listen to right now. Maybe you should try to get her alone for a bit, talk to her… Or what ever it is the two of you get up to when you’re alone.”

“Who said we get up to anything?” Cassian asked, confused.

Azriel knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he stared his brother down, his anger finally bubbling over.

“No one had to say anything. It’s fairly obvious.”

Cassian bared his teeth. “You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

Azriel only shrugged, returning to staring at Y/N. 

“She needed you. You weren’t there. You left her.” Cassian snarled. “So, she turned to Mor and me. You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. I have no romantic interest in her. Whatsoever.”

Azriel only shook his head, resisting all of the other words he knew he could use to get under Cassian’s skin. He knew exactly what he could say to really rile him up, but now was not the time, this was not the place. They would have this out some other night, when they both had time for a real fight. 

Right now, he was right. Azriel did have a job to do. One he was failing at, even after all of the pep talks that he had given himself before he had left home. He needed to find an in, find an excuse to talk to Amarantha, get information from her. His shadows could do the rest. 

He was still concocting a plan, thinking of ways to weasel his way into a conversation, when he watched Amarantha say goodbye to Rhysand and make her way directly for Y/N.

Azriel was moving in an instant, leaving his post for the second time in one night. As he passed one of the servers, he pulled two wine glasses from the tray. At his approach, the other males that surrounded her dispersed into the crowd. He really had a habit of chasing people away.

He pushed the self hatred aside, and focused his attention on her.

She eyed him warily, reaching out to accept the drink he offered her just as Amarantha made it to them.

“You’re quite popular.” Amarantha said, grinning.

Y/N turned to look at her, blinking for a moment in surprise before composing herself.

“I suppose it’s the dress. Males are all the same.” She rolled her eyes, extending a hand. “Y/N.”

Amarantha took her hand, shaking it. “Amarantha.”

“Nice to meet you.” Y/N turned to him, then, uncertainty clouding her eyes as she gestured to him. “This is Azriel.”

“Azriel… I’ve heard of you.” Amarantha grinned, eyeing him with the kind of interest that set his skin crawling. “The infamous Shadowsinger.” 

Y/N, seeming to catch on to his discomfort, grinned, looping her arm through his. He started, staring down at her. She was gazing up at him with love-struck eyes, willing him to play along. He wondered just how much faerie wine she’d had. A glance at the table behind her said little to none as each glass that had been given to her, sat there, still completely full. 

“Isn’t he handsome?” She gushed, stroking a hand down his arm.

“Indeed.” was Amarantha’s only response, but her interest seemed to dim as Y/N gazed at him.

“What can we do for you?” She asked, her voice still sickly sweet as she clung to him.

“I wanted to say hello and to introduce myself.” She gave Y/N a once over. “I was also curious what someone from the Dawn Court was doing in a place like this.”

Azriel covered her hand with his own. “She’s here with me.”

“I can see that.” Amarantha once again looked him over and he had to reign in his impulse to snarl at her. “Though, she does seem to be getting plenty of attention from other males tonight.” 

“Careful, he’s very territorial. I made him promise to be on his best behavior tonight.” Y/N said with a smile. Azriel snorted.

“How… sweet.” Amaranta returned the smile. 

“What brings you to the Night Court?” Y/N asked, resting her head on Azriel’s shoulder.

“I’m here on business.” She said, swirling the contents of her own glass. “We’re looking to open trade between Hybern and Prynthian.”

“So I’ve heard.” Y/N said, offering her the fakest smile that Azriel had ever seen. “Why now?” 

“Enough time has passed, we thought it would be a good time to try to make amends.”

Y/N only hummed in response, nodding her head as if she understood completely.

“I actually spoke with your father recently…” Amarantha continued. “Do you know which direction he’s leaning? I’m supposed to have a report for the King by the end of the week, but all the High Lords are so secretive.”

“My father?”

“High Lord Thesan.” Amarantha nodded.

Y/N tensed beside Azriel, and he had to fight not to do the same. How this woman had known Thesan even had a child was concerning. Rhysand hadn’t even known, and they lived on the same continent. He needed to find out what else she knew.

“How’d you know he was my father?” Y/N asked, blinking her eyes in confusion.

“The two of you share quite the resemblance.” Amarantha smirked. “Sorry, I didn’t think it was a secret.”

“It’s not.” She replied, but her tone was hard. Azriel squeezed her hand to offer some semblance of comfort. She squeezed his arm in response.

“So?” Amarantha continued. “Any clue how they’re leaning?”

“Not sure, but I’m positive they’ll give you an answer soon enough.” Y/N shrugged. “I’m not privy to that kind of information.”

“Even if you’re on the arm of someone in Rhysand’s immediate circle?” Amarantha cocked her head to the side. “Curious.”

“Who I choose to share my bed with doesn’t come with any other perks, I’m afraid.”

“How… unsatisfying.” Amarantha hummed, eyeing them both before shaking her head.

Azriel bristled at that. He couldn’t help the thoughts that ran across his mind… of her sharing his bed. The idea of her being unsatisfied… He had to shake his head to clear his thoughts.

“I’m more than satisfied, I assure you.” Another squeeze to his arm.

“And you have no inkling as to which direction the High Lords are leaning?” She asked. “What about you, Azriel?”

She was desperate enough to push the question, desperate enough not to care if they were being overheard. Azriel noted that in his mind.

“The unfortunate thing about Fae,” Y/N said. “They tend to remember things for a very long time. I suppose that’s one of the issues with our incredibly long life-span.”

Amarantha only nodded, taking a swig of her drink. Azriel glanced at Rhysand, and even though he looked to be invested in whatever conversation he was having, Azriel knew that he also had one ear listening to this one, as well.

*****

“Thank you for not leaving me alone with her.” Y/N said, releasing his arm and taking a few steps away from him.

“Of course.”

“And… Sorry… about the touching.” She cleared her throat and wrapped her arms around herself.

He stayed silent, but he wanted to reach out and pull her back into his arms, tell her that everything was okay… that she had nothing to apologize for. He just couldn’t bring himself to say the words… to move.

He turned his attention, instead, to himself, trying to ignore the tingling that lingered at her touch. She watched him for a moment as he stared down at himself before bidding him goodbye and winding into the crown. She would most likely seek out the male from earlier again, and it wasn’t something that he wanted to see. Azriel loosened a sigh before returning to his own spot at the foot of the empty throne. 

Cassian watched him from the corner of his eye, his anger still overflowing.

“Sorry.” Azriel mumbled. “For snapping at you.”

“You need to talk to her.” Cassian replied after a moment of charged silence.

Azriel didn’t need to look at him to know that he was rolling his eyes.

“I know.”

*****

The next morning, I poured the boiling water into my cup to make some tea, the rest of the inner circle crowded around the island in the kitchen. 

Amren had a book open in front of her, and with a glance over it, I realized it was a history book of some sort. When she caught me staring, she closed it, keeping her place with her finger, so that I could read the title. ‘Hybern: A Complete History’. I only nodded, as she passed me her own mug to fill. I did so quietly before returning the kettle to the stovetop. 

“Let’s get started so we can figure out what our next move is.” Rhysand said, leaning against the counter.

A moment of silence as everyone seemed to mull over the events of last night. 

“She wasn’t genuine.” Azriel stated, his voice still gravelly from sleep. The sound sent a shiver down my spine. “My shadows told me she was inquiring about Rhysand’s usual whereabouts.”

“Why the hell would she need to know where he spends his time?” Mor asked. 

“Did anyone give her any answers?” Cassian added. 

“There’s absolutely no way any of them are that stupid, boy.” Amren rolled her eyes.

“Y/N.” Rhysand said, “When she came to you, what did she say?”

“She knew that I was from the Dawn Court, and who my father was.” I replied. “She questioned me about what I was doing in Hewn City, and then she asked me several questions about whether you and Thesan were leaning in her favor or not.”

“Azriel, I need you to do a bit of scouting. Figure out why she’s inquiring about the High Lords.” Rhysand said, his eyes locked on the counter, but far away. As if he was mulling something over.

Azriel only nodded, seemingly communicating with Rhys through their minds for a moment before Rhys let out a distracted chuckle, shooting him an incredulous look. Azriel only shrugged.

“Cassian, can you and Mor go back to the Court of Nightmares and question some of the party go-ers?” Rhysand continued, “maybe try talking to Keir, see if his people heard anything. Don’t give anything away, though. He doesn’t know we don’t trust her, and he doesn’t need to know.”

“On it.” Mor said with a bit of a sigh, turning to Cassian as she pulled her hair back into a long ponytail. “Give me a minute to change, and then we can go.”

Cassian nodded, before taking off in the general direction of his own bedroom, seemingly to do the same. 

“Amren, do some more research on Hybern. We need as much of an upper hand as we can get. Anything even remotely relevant, I want to know about.” She nodded, leaving her half drank tea on the counter, and making her own way out of the townhouse. 

I stood there, watching the room clear out, leaving Azriel, myself and Rhysand. 

“What should I do?” I asked.

“You’re coming with me.” Azriel said, his face blank. “Go put on some leathers.” 

“What? But… I… I’ll only slow you down.” I struggled to form words. “You… you never need help scouting any other time, you certainly do not need my help now.” 

“We’re going to follow them, but we also need to stop in the Dawn Court to speak to Thesan.” Azriel stated, “Doesn’t make much sense for me to come all the way back here to get you, does it?” 

I stared at him for a moment, trying to tramp down my annoyance at his tone. One glance at Rhysand made it clear that there would be no sweet talking my way out of this, no arguing. The decision was final.

“Alright, meet me at my apartment when you’re ready to go.” I turned and walked out of the townhouse, into the brisk Velaris air. It took me the entire walk home to calm my racing heart.

*****

taglist: @mis-lil-red @brekkershadowsinger

#azriel x you #azriel angst #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel #acotar #acowar #acomaf #acotar fanfiction

[bright-side20]

Dusk Court/Night Court

I have a theory but I'm not quite sure

Could Mor's family be involved in prisonning people of the Dusk court?

“This place,” he said, “was made before High Lords existed. Before Prythian was Prythian. Some of the inmates remember those days. Remember a time when it was Mor’s family, not mine, that ruled the North.”

“There was a time when the Night Court was a Court of Nightmares and was ruled from the Hewn City."

=We know that Mor's family rulled before Rhys's family,and knows when the prison was made.

“The hounds looked like the beasts in the Hewn City,” Nesta said quietly. They all looked at her. She admitted, “Lanthys showed me a vision. Of … what he and I might be. Together. We ruled in a palace, king and queen with the Trove, and at our feet sat those hounds. They looked like the scaled beasts carved into the Hewn City’s pillars.”

Even Rhys had no answer to that.

=Could this imply that Mor's family has a history of slaying those beasts, carving them into the pillars of the Hewn City to commemorate their victory? Therefore, they might be descendants of Fionn, and that's why Keir thinks he's more worthy of ruling the Night Court. However, even though Fionn was married to Theai, her blood might not have crossed with the people of the Hewn City.

Also, Amren was imprisoned before Fionn's fall :

"she arrived during those years before Fionn and Gwydion rose, and went into the Prison during the Age of Legends—They feared Amren, believing her one of their enemies, and threw her into the Prison. When she emerged again, she’d missed Fionn’s fall and the loss of Gwydion, and found the High Lords ruling.”

=That implies the Dusk Court was turned into a prison possibly by Fionn, before Theia killed him and initiated the crossing.

_I think that perhaps when Fionn made the prison, the Dusk Court people were given a place in the Night Court, close to Rhys's family and maybe Azriel's. This could be how they shared blood with them, possibly through Theia's unknown daughters. After Theia and Pelias took revenge and initiated the crossing with Helena and people from different courts, someone from Fionn's people (from the Hewn City) decided to punish the remaining Dusk Court people through the harp. Perhaps they made them believe they could use it to open a gate between worlds, but instead, it pushed them into the stone, where they were imprisoned.

“ I think someone very wicked used this last.” She stared into the darkness above. “I think they used it to … to trap their enemies and their enemies’ children into the stone itself.” Was that what had been happening to her just now? The Harp had been pushing her into the rock, fusing her soul with it?

Mor and Rhys are a distant cousin:

"Mor is my cousin in the loosest definition,” he said. She grinned at him, devouring slices of tomato and pale cheese. “But we were raised together. She’s my only surviving family.”

So if they're related only through Fionn it would make sense.

_In general whether it's a Fionn's relative who prisoned the dusk cout people or not, I think the court of nightmares is involved and I guess the spy mission could be there.

In relation to Elain :

The dread troves were remembered after the sisters were made. Obviously, it's not a coincidence; it's the time of the Dusk Court to come into play, and who can do this mission other than a Cauldron-blessed ? Elain is the Cauldron of Rebirth, and she's the one to bring them back to life.

#acotar theory #acotar thoughts #rhys acotar #elain archeron #pro elain #pro elriel #azriel acotar #sarahjmaas #sjm #dusk court #night court #morrigan #a court of thorns and roses

[gsirvitor]

40k question, how big is the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra? In tts they said its covers most of Eurasia.

Must…not…call…Big E….A…Hypocr-*get beheaded by Gulliman*

The outer palace occupies the continent of Asia.

The Inner Palace is hewn from the Himalayas, and is probably the most densely populated, and certainly the most heavily fortified, hive city in the Imperium.

It is in this inner palace that the Administratums billions of adepts work, and the Senate Imperialis, seat of the highlords of terra, is located.

The Sanctum Imperialis, including the Eternity gate with its standing force of 10'000 Custodes and 2 titan legions, is a region within the inner palace housing the source of the Astronomicon and the Golden Throne.

Place is big, and Big E is a major hypocrite.

To emphasize this I want to bring your attention to this;

A fan animation of an actual story in 40k, highlighting Big E's blatant hypocrisy, and a hint that this hypocrisy would spell his own doom.

[dreamersinthedaylightinspo]

Lucien still knocked on the gates of Rosehall when he arrived, though they swung open with no effort the moment his fist connected.

"Tam? Are you at home?"

The empty foyer was cracked rather significantly from the last bursts of Tamlin's magic. Lucien had still never figured out what, exactly, Rhysand had said to him on that Solstice night - so recent and yet also so long ago. Whatever it was must have been awful indeed, because Tamlin had been utterly inconsolable - impossible to communicate with, his magic running rampant, lashing out in bursts of knife-like wind and cracks of thunder - and the next time Lucien had returned, Tamlin had shifted into his beast and was, as it stood, not capable of changing back.

He found that golden beast in what used to be the dining room - Tamlin no longer fit in his old bedroom and had made do with this. Sheets and cushions gathered from the house were clustered into a giant nest. Curtains had been dragged from the windows, dust motes sparkling in the pale morning sun. The bones of a deer, picked clean, were piled in a corner, waiting to be put out with the day's trash. Lucien sniffed.

"You ought to wash your sheets."

Tamlin grumbled, "You try doing the laundry with paws like these."

Lucien felt that Tamlin was still able to change back into his male body. Or, that he would change back, someday.

"How are you feeling?"

Tamlin's tail swished. "The same as ever. I haven't developed fleas yet so there is at least some good news. I have a busy day ahead. Does our glorious high king have a message for me?"

"When are you going to stop being bitter about that?" asked Lucien.

"When are you going to stop answering questions you don't want to answer with questions about me?"

Lucien grimaced. Most people took for granted how smart Tamlin was. Including himself, he was loathe to admit. "About that, actually. Do you remember my contact in the Hewn City?"

Tamlin's golden head tilted. "Vaguely. Was she not lost Under the Mountain?"

"Amazingly, no. She's maintained her cover all this time."

Tamlin rumbled. "Has she said something to you?"

"She managed to give me the message personally. The last time she did that -"

"I know," Tamlin barked. His lips pulled back from his teeth, hackles raised at the memory. "Lucien, please."

"I know. I'm sorry - but she says that Keir and Eris may be moving against Rhysand."

A snort of laughter. "Good. At long last."

"Tamlin."

Tamlin sighed heavily. "Oh alright, alright. But I'm allowed to gloat after we resolve this."

"You are not," said Lucien, firmly.

"The High Lord can do as he pleases," Tamlin replied. "And I would very much like to gloat about saving the life of that bastard twice over."

Rhysand would not enjoy that. There was likely no part of this that Rhysand would enjoy, Lucien thought grimly.

"Tell your contact that she should maintain her cover as long as possible," said Tamlin. "I'll send a bird to her. She should send copies of your reports to me directly as well. Whatever it is, we'll resolve it quickly enough."

Lucien nodded, and then said, "At least wash your paws before you enter. You're tracking in mud again."

"Yes, because as we all know, I have nothing better to do than brush my luxurious coat out for hours in front of a lake. Be serious, Lucien. A bit of dirt is a small price to pay."

"Just so long as you don't ask me to sweep again," said Lucien.

"Pity your mother never taught us any of her household spells," Tamlin sighed. "Send her my love, won't you?"

"Always, Tam."

Of course, he could not stay. He never could anymore. Lucien patted Tamlin's furred cheek before turning and striding back out of the manor.

There was work to do.

#my fic writing #tamlin #lucien vanserra #calling this one the Boys are Back in Town Fic #snippet #acotar fanfiction #the spring court

[wingedblooms]

the quiet dreamer

“You should come with me,” Elain went on. “Nesta won’t go, because she says she doesn’t want to risk the sea crossing, but you and I … Oh, we’d have fun, wouldn’t we?” I glanced sidelong at her. My sister was beaming, content—prettier than I’d ever seen her, even in her simple muslin gardening dress. Her cheeks were flushed beneath her large, floppy hat. “I think—I think I’d like to see the continent,” I said. And it was true, I realized. There was so much of the world that I hadn’t seen, hadn’t ever thought about visiting. Hadn’t ever been able to dream of visiting. [ACOTAR]

I gazed again at that sad, dark house—the place that had been a prison. Elain had said she missed it, and I wondered what she saw when she looked at the cottage. If she beheld not a prison but a shelter—a shelter from a world that had possessed so little good, but she tried to find it anyway, even if it had seemed foolish and useless to me. She had looked at that cottage with hope; I had looked at it with nothing but hatred. And I knew which one of us had been stronger. [ACOTAR]

“And what is this court?” I asked, gesturing to them. The most important question. It was Cassian, eyes clear and bright as his Siphon, who said, “The Court of Dreams.” [ACOMAF]

“There was a time when the Night Court was a Court of Nightmares and was ruled from the Hewn City. Long ago. But an ancient High Lord had a different vision, and rather than allowing the world to see his territory vulnerable at a time of change, he sealed the borders and staged a coup, eliminating the worst of the courtiers and predators, building Velaris for the dreamers, establishing trade and peace.” [ACOMAF]

The Court of Dreams. I had belonged to a court of dreams. And dreamers. [ACOMAF]

She said, “I can hear the sea. Even at night. Even in my dreams. The crashing sea—and the screams of a bird made of fire.” [ACOWAR]

Azriel stepped forward. “But you heard something else.” Elain seemed about to nod, but only backed away. “I think I was dreaming,” she murmured. “I think I’m always dreaming these days.” [ACOWAR]

Seer. The word clanged through me. She’d known. She’d warned Nesta about the Ravens. And in the chaos of the attack, that little realization had slipped from me. Slipped from me as reality and dream slipped and entwined for Elain. Seer. [ACOWAR]

Hybern had hidden the majority of its force somewhere. Our scouts could not find it. Azriel could not find it. And Elain … She could not see that mighty army, she’d said. In her dreams awake and asleep. [ACOWAR]

And even though Elain could not see the Hybern host … It was worth a try. Her tent was dim, and quiet—the sounds of slaughter far away, dreamlike. She was awake, staring blankly at the canvas ceiling. [ACOWAR]

She had no mental shields, no barriers. The gates to her mind … Solid iron, covered in vines of flowers—or it would have been. The blossoms were all sealed, sleeping buds tucked into tangles of leaves and thorns. [ACOWAR]

If Elain’s mental gates were those of a sleeping garden, Nesta’s … They belonged to an ancient fortress, sharp and brutal. The sort I imagined they once impaled people upon. [ACOWAR]

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

“The Cauldron,” I breathed. “The Cauldron was fading away—going somewhere—” Nesta was already moving, sprinting for where we’d heard that voice. Luring Elain out. I knew how it had done it. I’d dreamed of it. [ACOWAR]

But Rhys stared at all of us, somehow assembled here in the sun-drenched open grasses without being given the order. Our family—our court. The Court of Dreams. […] Rhys pushed his shoulders back, elegantly folding his wings behind him. “I believe everything happens for a reason. Whether it is decided by the Mother, or the Cauldron, or some sort of tapestry of Fate, I don’t know. I don’t really care. But I am grateful for it, whatever it is. Grateful that it brought you all into my life. […] And then he said to my sisters, “We have not known each other for long. But I have to believe that you were brought here, into our family, for a reason, too. And maybe today we’ll find out why.” [ACOWAR]

Elain nodded, smiling up at me, and it was tentative joy—and life that shone in her eyes. A promise of the future, gleaming and sweet. [ACOWAR]

To the stars who listen, Feyre. I brushed a hand over his cheek to wipe away the last of his tears, his skin warm and soft, and we turned down the street that would lead us home. Toward our future—and all that waited within it. To the dreams that are answered, Rhys. [ACOFAS]

Elain, to my surprise, held Amren’s gaze. Amren said after a moment, “Are you asking out of curiosity for my past, or your own future?” [ACOFAS]

But Elain, it seemed, was as sleepless as me, especially after my stinging talk with Nesta that even the wine I’d returned home to drink couldn’t dull, and she wanted to see if I was game for a walk about the city, providing me with the perfect excuse to head out for more shopping. [ACOFAS]

Elain is pleasant to look at, her mother had once mused while Nesta sat beside her dressing table, a servant silently brushing her mother’s gold-brown hair, but she has no ambition. She does not dream beyond her garden and pretty clothes. [ACOSF]

Yet the terror still gripped Nesta, waking and asleep: the memory of how it had felt in those moments after hearing the Cauldron’s seductive call and realizing it had been for Elain, not for her or Feyre. How it had felt to find Elain’s tent empty, to see that blue cloak discarded. [ACOSF]

The House’s only answer was to slide the still-open drapes shut. By the time they’d finished swaying, she was again asleep. Elain had been stolen. By Hybern. By the Cauldron, which had seen Nesta watching it and watched her in turn. Had noted her scrying with bones and stones and made her regret it. […] Elain would surely be tormented, ripped apart body and soul. […] Dream, she told it. Dream and memory. Go away. [ACOSF]

Her sister’s delicate scent of jasmine and honey lingered in the red-stoned hall like a promise of spring, a sparkling river that she followed to the open doors of the chamber. Elain stood at the wall of windows, clad in a lilac gown whose close-fitting bodice showed how well her sister had filled out since those initial days in the Night Court. Gone were the sharp angles, replaced by softness and elegant curves. [ACOSF]

Sleep, they seemed to whisper in his ear. Sleep. I wish I could, he answered silently. But sleep so rarely found him these days. […] But even the silence weighed too heavily, and though the shadows kept him company, as they always had, as they always would, he found himself leaving the room. Entering the foyer. Soft steps padded from under the stair archway, and there she was. The Faelights gilded Elain’s unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. She halted, her breath catching in her throat. [ACOSF bonus]

She found Feyre and Elain waiting halfway down the hill, Nyx now dozing peacefully in Elain’s arms. Her sisters beamed, beckoning her to join. [ACOSF]

is a promise of the future.

@elainarcheronweek

#elain archeron #the quiet dreamer #seer elain #a promise of the future #elainarcheronweek

[acourtofthought]

Inspired by a conversation with @acourtdelaluna (I love chatting ACOTAR with this girl ❤️) -

Sure. The Night Court could be Elain's permanent home by the end of the series. Even now she could strongly believe it's where she's happiest.

Funny thing about that though......

There are three options here.

Elain truly feels happy in the Night Court and knows it's where she belongs.

Elain has convinced herself she's happy in the Night Court and she's refusing to admit otherwise, not allowing herself to consider anything else.

Elain knows she's not truly satisfied in the Night but she's not ready to delve deep into those emotions because the alternatives are too scary for her to deal with and she doesn't want to disappoint her sister so she's trying to fake it until she makes it.

You know why those are all crossed out? Because none of the possibilities matter. It doesn't matter if what Elain spoke in the Hewn City is the whole truth or some variation of the truth because Feyre, with her whole heart, believed Spring Court and Tamlin were her home in ACOTAR. She was willing to die for Tamlin and was desperate to help it's people rebuild after UTM. But that didn't matter in the long run because he wasn't her destiny and was instead a stepping stone towards Feyre ending up with Rhys as High Lady of the Night Court. She was never meant to end up with Tamlin and there are multiple hints of that sprinkled throughout ACOTAR:

the crackling flames I’d painted around Nesta’s, and the night sky—whorls of yellow stars standing in for white—around mine.

Standing before me was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

stay with the High Lord, and live to see everything righted.”

Up and up, building to a palace in the sky, a hall of alabaster and moonstone, where all that was lovely and kind and fantastic dwelled in peace. I wept—wept to be so close to that palace, wept from the need to be there. Everything I wanted was there—the one I loved was there—

Even as Feyre chose Tamlin, the author was hinting that Feyre's current choice wasn't going to matter but we didn't really know anything was foreshadowing Feysand until we got to book 2. At that point we were able to look back and confirm that those hints were leading to something.

If what Feyre wanted or what Feyre believed was never allowed to change, if we had to respect Feyre's wishes, than she should have ended up with Tamlin since she called Spring Court her home. She (like Elain) was willing to do whatever was necessary for the Spring Court (even sacrificing her life). Her love for Tamlin was canon.... until it wasn't.

Just because Elain claims the Night Court is her home now, doesn't mean the following lines can't possibly be hinting at another future for her:

the brutal, beautiful armor so at odds with the lovely garden. And my sister sitting within it.

“What can I get you, Elain?” Only with Elain did she use that voice. But Elain shook her head once more. “Sunshine.”

The only bridge of connection … that knife.

The gates to her mind … Solid iron, covered in vines of flowers—or it would have been. The blossoms were all sealed, sleeping buds tucked into tangles of leaves and thorns.

Nesta and I climbed inside one of the supply caravan’s covered wagons to change into Illyrian fighting leathers. Elain … She’d taken one look at us in the swaying grasses outside that wagon, the legs and assets on display, and turned crimson. Viviane stepped in, offering a Winter Court fashion that was far less scandalous: leather pants, but paired with a thigh-length blue surcoat, white fur trimming the collar. In the heat, it’d be miserable, but Elain was thankful enough that she didn’t complain.

“She gave it back,” I amended, failing to block out the image of the black blade piercing through the King of Hybern’s throat. But Elain had given it back—had pressed it into Azriel’s hands after the battle, just as he had pressed it into hers before. And then walked away without looking back.

But Elain … The Spring Court had been made for someone like her.

Nesta would have told Elain to visit this place.

But that was all the western edge of it. Beyond that, the continent was vast. And to the south, another continent sprawled. Would she have gone?

And he knew the cruelty of the Hewn City troubled her.

but wearing black, no matter how much she claimed to be part of this court … It sucked the life from her.

As Elucien's, we don't have to respect Elain's "current choice" (which we can't even confirm to be what she truly wants until her POV and the end of her story) because SJM has shown us that even as a character makes one choice, she as the author could be laying the groundwork for a different future. SJM is basically the metaphorical parent to these three sisters, who are metaphorical teenagers convinced they know what's best at that point in their lives and no one can tell them otherwise. But sometimes those initial choices aren't the best choices, they're not choices being made with a clear head or they're not really choices at all but something they're trying to convince themselves of. But as the story unfolds, SJM is the guiding hand that, along with their growth and development, leads them to the future they were always meant to have.

#elucien #pro elucien #anti e/riel #elain archeron

[caenith]

Then among the greater casts there fell another hail, less ruinous but more horrible. All about the streets and lanes behind the Gate it tumbled down, small round shot that did not burn. But when men ran to learn what it might be, they cried aloud or wept. For the enemy was flinging into the City all the heads of those who had fallen fighting at Osgiliath, or on the Rammas, or in the fields. They were grim to look on; for though some were crushed and shapeless, and some had been cruelly hewn, yet many had features that could be told, and it seemed that they had died in pain; and all were branded with the foul token of the Lidless Eye. But marred and dishonoured as they were, it often chanced that thus a man would see again the face of someone that he had known, who had walked proudly once in arms, or tilled the fields, or ridden in upon a holiday from the green vales in the hills.

I am... not fine.

#tolkien #lotr #lotr newsletter #HORROR STORY LET'S GOOOOO