#chat:: poppy && cassian

[anunlikelypear]

Poppy was grateful for her makeup job so she wouldn’t be recognized by anyone. Not that she knew a lot of people here? Though it was currently hard to tell with so many milling about. “Do you go to a lot of events like this?” she asked Cass, trying not to sound as nervous as she was. She felt like she should be out on the buffet table or something. She was insane for agreeing to this idea, but she did have to get out more. Someone hissed nearby and her hand immediately went to her purse. She groaned. “Don’t worry. I left my weapon at home,” she grumbled, which was per his request. 

@danceofsins​

[mrspettyferr]

Start of Time

Because we need more Elriel. So here is an Elain/Azriel drabble that was inspired from ACOWAR and the song, Start of Time by Gabrielle Aplin.

- - - 

When you walked into the room just then It's like the sun came out It's like the sun came out

And the day is clear My voice is just a whisper Louder than the screams you hear It's like the sun came out

- - - 

Elain Archeron stood before the mounds of dirt and grass as if it were a complicated riddle, twisting the iron ring on her finger idly. Her eyes slid to the tools and gloves Feyre had given her. She had thanked her sister, and told her she would venture into Velaris to choose the flowers she wished to plant.

She had barely made it two steps from the gates of the townhouse when she had gotten overwhelmed by the sounds and colors of the city before her. So she had ran into the townhouse, hurled past a confused Azriel and Cassian lounging in the sitting room, and ended up in her bedroom. She had decided to sit by the window, bathing in the sunlight, instead.

Elain wondered if the sounds would ever go away. She heard everything.

All the time.

Ever since becoming High Fae, her hearing had sharpened, but that was not nearly as concerning as the voices and visions. Sometimes it was hard to disconcert what was happening in her head and what was happening before her. And in a city as vibrant and bursting with life as Velaris…

Elain sighed and walked back into the town house. She found Azriel lounging on one of the sofa’s, a stack of papers sprawled on the table before him, his huge wings shining in the afternoon light. She felt her chest tighten, thinking of the scars that now permanentlylaced his wings. Scars he had endured to keep her alive.

He looked up at her then, as if sensing her attention. His beautiful face was so at odds with the darkness that swirled around him, yet Elain did not fear that darkness. If anything, it made her feel…calm. Safe.

“Is everything alright?” Azriel asked, his hazel eyes shifting into concern.

“Oh, yes. I was just…I was just going to find a book to read.”

“How is the garden coming along?”

“Fine,” Elain lied. She shrugged her delicate shoulders once. Twice. “Fine.”

His mouth twisted, as if sensing her lie, but he just said, “Good.”

She nodded and excused herself. She could have sworn she felt Azriel’s gaze on her as she crossed the sitting room and found the stairs. But when she glanced over her shoulder, his attention was once again on the papers before him.

- - - 

It had been two days since Elain had tried to go into the city. And today, she decided, she would go. She would tune out the voices and any visions—for they did not affect her all the time—and she would go. With Nesta still spending most of her time in her room, or with Amren, and Feyre’s duties as High Lady, and Cassian and Azriel in and out of the townhouse constantly with responsibilities of their own, and Mor running the Court of Nightmares…well, Elain would just have to rely on herself.

There was the matter of Lucien, but…

Lucien was spending most of his time traveling, establishing relations between courts. He was just as busy as the rest of them. Everyone here, Elain realized, had something to do. Some task, some important role. And Elain…had a garden.

And she could not even do that.

Her shoulders sagged. She had tried to hone in her visions—to control her seer abilities into something that was useful to her sister and Rhysand. But her visions were still inconsistent, random. Rhysand had said to be patient, that once her power had fully settled she might be able to control them, to wield them. But that had not happened yet, and it had been two months since the war with Hybern.

Elain pushed open the front gates and stepped onto the street. Laughter filled her ears, ringing like silver bells. She saw the children running, laughing as they pulled along colorful kites that danced in the wind. Music from a distant café boomed in her ears, echoing an upbeat tune. A female called to a male to bring back a loaf of bread for supper. Someone was crying. A light flashed brightly, as vibrant as the sun. Two people were arguing. There was singing, and more laughter, and conversations that Elain had no business hearing fluttered to her ears. She closed her eyes as it all crashed down on her and she turned, blindingly stumbling through the gate and—

Smacked right into a body that was as hard as a brick wall. Distantly she heard her name, felt someone grabbing her. It wasn’t until the grip on her wrists tightened and a commanding, unyielding voice said, “Elain, open your eyes,” that she finally did.

She blinked and blinked until those voices faded away, and all that was left was the brightness of Azriel’s hazel eyes as he stood before her.

“Elain,” he said again, this time more softly.

He was so tall and broad that she had to tilt her head back to properly look at him. Those familiar shadows swirled around his shoulders, snaking around his neck.

“Do you hear them, too?” She didn’t know why she whispered.

He didn’t ask who. He merely said, “Yes.”

“Does it ever go away?”

“No,” he offered gently. “But it does get…easier.”

“How?”

“Practice. Patience. Time. Your gift is a power. It cannot be controlled over night.”

She realized then that he was still holding her wrists. Her eyes flicked down, at the strong, scarred hands that held so much power. He immediately let go. “Where were you going?” he asked.

Elain gestured behind her vaguely with a hand. “To see if I could find...But then I heard the crying, and the laughing, and there was this bright, flashing light, and I’m not sure what was real and what wasn’t, and…” Her voice trailed off. She clamped her mouth shut. She was doing it again, the ramblings and musings.

But Azriel cut a glance at the bare garden and just nodded, as if what she had said made perfect sense.

His wings flared wide, and with a slight bow, he shot into the sky.

He returned several minutes later with a handful of bright, cobalt blue poppies. He handed them to her wordlessly and she had taken them, staring and staring at the soft petals.

It was only once he was inside that she realized they were the exact same shade of blue as the Siphons she had thought so beautiful.

- - - 

Elain planted the poppies, and when she was finished, the next day Azriel brought her a bundle of blood-red roses. And after that, sunshine yellow tulips. Then fluffy hydrangea’s.

And as Elain worked in her garden…it gave her focus. It helped tune out the visions and noises and sounds. It became a solace for her, a small beacon of quiet in the lively world around her. It had become a solace for the others, too.

Some days Cassian would come to ramble and rant, usually at Nesta’s expense. Elain would offer quiet words of encouragement as she worked, which usually led to Cassian huffing out an exasperated sigh and flinging himself into a chair in annoyance. And despair. Mor would sit at the wrought iron table with a glass of wine, chatting animatedly about everything from fashion to Rita’s to food to her horrible father. Amren would join her sometimes, too, and just stare out into the city. Feyre and Rhysand would ask how she was doing, compliment her work, and subtly ask about her abilities and give her updates on the relations between courts. Lucien, when he was here, would bring her dinner so she could continue to work into the long hours of the evening. 

And Azriel…Azriel visited the most often. He would sit on the chaise longue while she worked, silently looking over paperwork or reading a book. She’d catch the way he’d shift with the sun, wondering if he was bathing his wings in the warmth. She’d find herself staring at those scars when he wasn’t looking, and guilt clawed it’s way up her throat so fiercely that one day she actually choked out an apology and ran into the townhouse before he could even ask what for.

Elain groaned as she rose to her feet, wiping sweat from her forehead with her wrist. Dirt was caked under her nails and smothered across her arms. She was sure some was on her face, too. Her soft golden hair was pulled back, but after hours of tending to her garden it had nearly come loose, wispy curls falling in front of her face.

Somewhere along the planting and working, her ring had slipped off. She had searched frantically that first day, only to find that somehow, her hand felt a little lighter without it.

Elain stared at her work. She was no painter like Feyre, but…this was her art.

“Beautiful.”

She did not jump. Was not startled by the deep, velvety voice just over her shoulder. She did, however, turn, and beamed up at him. Perhaps it was the brightness of the sun, but Elain could have sworn Azriel’s shadows lit up as she faced him fully.

“Thank you,” she said. She brushed a loose curl behind her ear. “I was thinking of hanging some plants there,” she said, pointing to the back windows of the town house, “And maybe stacking more over here. Do you think Rhysand will mind? Maybe I should ask before I get too carried away.”

Azriel let out a low chuckle. “No, I don’t think he will mind. Which one’s are your favorite?”

“My favorite?”

He nodded, watching her intently.

Her grin widened. “That’s like asking you your favorite weapon.”

“Truth teller, obviously.”

She cut a glance to the blade at his hip—the blade she had shoved into the king’s throat. Where she had stepped out of shadow, a shadow she had not dared to ask Azriel about. Had she somehow summoned it? Had Azriel? Had it been the blade itself? That was a question for another day, another time.

Elain thought of the king again. Thought of the sound of that knife slicing through flesh. The sounds of the battle raging around her, Cassian groaning on the ground, Nesta begging, Feyre shouting and crying and—

“Elain?”

She blinked and looked up into Azriel’s concerned face. “Oh, sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry I mentioned it.” A shadow slid from his body and curled over the blade, concealing it from her.

But Elain simply reached through the shadow, and Azriel did not stop her as she pulled the blade free. “It saved my life,” she said quietly, twisting the knife in her hand, the sun gleaming off the shining steel. “It saved my sisters life. It saved…everyone.”

“No, you did, Elain,” Azriel amended gently. “You saved everyone.”

She shook her head and slid truth teller back into it’s place at his hip. “I’m no warrior.”

 - - - 

As weeks turned to months, Elain had completely transformed the town house. The garden at the back of the house was a sparling, vibrant collection of flowers and vines and potted plants. Elain had then tackled the front of the house, dotting the little lawn in the front with handsome shrubbery and potted flowers. She had Cassian attach a flower box under Nesta’s window, like the one she had placed under Feyre’s, so that her oldest sister may find some brightness in her long, dark days.

Elain wanted a special type of flower for her sisters. She just didn’t know which ones.

She was still mulling it over as she tended to the back garden, her gloved hands deep in the soil when Azriel landed on a phantom wind, a stack of papers tucked under his arm.

She wiped her forehead as he took his usual place on the chaise, wings flaring wide behind him. Shadows settled around him like a dark fog, and she watched him for several long moments as he sorted through his paperwork. If he noticed her staring—and he most definitely did—he did not comment.

Elain craned her head back to look at Nesta’s window. It looked unbearably lonely, the empty flower box.

Elain got to her feet, sliding off her gloves and tossing them onto the ground. She dusted off her hands, flecks of dirt coating her fingers. Azriel looked at her then, raising a brow in silent question.

Nervous, suddenly, she laced her fingers tightly together in front of her. She took a deep breath and said, “I was wondering if you might…if you might accompany me into the city. I thought I might, thought I’d find something for Nesta. For her window.”

Something shifted in Azriel’s too hard to read eyes. She looked at his paperwork, took in his leathers and Siphons and truth teller at his hip, and suddenly found her request absolutely ridiculous. He was the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court’s Spymaster. He had more important things to do than escort her around the city while she searched for flowers.

Elain began shaking her head, her cheeks flushing, wishing she had asked someone else instead. Mor. She should have asked Mor.

“If—” Elain began.

But Azriel cut her off as he said, “Yes. Yes, I can take you into the city.” He stood up then, gathering his paperwork.

“You don’t have to,” said Elain. “If you’re too busy—”

“I’m not.” He smiled at her gently, the same smile she remembered the first time she met him. A smile that rushed a calming over her. He tucked the paperwork under his arm and then held out his other arm when he stood closer to Elain. “Shall we?”

Her hands were dirty. She was dirty, her soft ivory gown filthy around the ankles. But Azriel didn’t seem to notice, or care, as he kept his arm out patiently. So she took it.

He led her through the house, passed off his paperwork to an exasperated looking Cassian, and led Elain out the townhouse. He only paused when they reached the front gates.

“Still time to turn around,” he said.

Elain was grateful for his playful tone as the bustling street and those on it became louder. But she held her head high, like she had seen Feyre do time and time again, like she had seen Nesta do. “No,” she said. She was ashamed at the nervous edge to her voice. “No, this time I won’t run away.”

Sensing her unease, he said, “We could winnow—right into the flower shop, if you like.”

She thought about that. But…

“Could we fly?” she whispered, hating the small sound of her voice. Because when she had flown, when he had carried her, she…she had not felt afraid. Of anything.

Azriel nodded and swept her into his arms in one fluid, smooth movement. He did it with such ease. She sometimes forgot exactly how strong he was—how strong she could be, too. If she ever tried.

Then he was off, his wings flapping against the warm breeze as they soared into the sky. Golden light spilled over the city in a bright cascade of color. Elain tightened her arms around Azriel’s neck as they flew closer to the heart of Velaris—in answer, he tightened his arms around her, too.

She blinked and saw it then—an image of a silver lake, a fire dancing in the wind—and heard someone screaming, screaming so loud she thought her ears might bleed, when she felt something soft and gentle brush against the shell of her ear.

Elain realized she had been so tense in Azriel’s arms that she must be nearly choking him, and she relaxed as the image faded away and the shadow at her ear eased her into a sense of calm. She peered up at Azriel in question, but his unrelenting focus was on the city ahead as they neared their destination.

Elain closed her eyes when he landed, not to brace for the impact—no, she didn’t even feel them land; he had done so that smoothly—but for the crowd that was sure to overwhelm her. Only, it did not come. Elain opened her eyes and blinked.

She stared at the bustling market square, vendor booths selling their wares and children playing by a large stone fountain. There was a roar of laughter from a nearby tavern, and one of the little café’s was filled with couples sharing a romantic dinner. It was so beautiful, so full of life—just like her garden. Color and beauty and life.

Elain didn’t know if it was the soft shadows that surrounded her, or the shadowsinger that held her, that helped tone down her senses. But when he set her down gently—always so gently—she looked up at him and smiled.

This time she did see the shadows lighten, and it was like the sun came out. And when he returned her smile, wider and broader than she had ever seen before, she thought her own shadows lightened, too.

So Elain took the arm Azriel offered as they explored Velaris. Now that she was here—finally here—she wanted to see it all. So he showed her. When she had hopped in excitement at the theater, and he had rolled his eyes, she had made him promise to take her, to prove to him that not all theater was “romantic nonsense,” as he’d said. And when they had passed three young kids who had stared at Azriel’s scarred hands—not out of hatred or disgust, but out of a curiosity that made the shadowsinger nearly fade into shadow—she had grabbed one of his hands and tugged him along.

He did not let go.

Neither did she.

When they finally left the flower shop, Elain had chosen bright, fiery hibiscus flowers for Nesta. She had found deep, nearly black calla lily’s for Feyre. And for herself, because she too wanted to have something beautiful to look at from her window, those cobalt blue poppies.