jollyinmadness

[jollyinmadness]

𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐒𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

A Soft Place to Land PT 2 Azriel x Preschool Teacher!OC, [Eventual] Inner Circle x OC (platonic), [Eventual] Nyx x Teacher!OC (platonic)

Summary: A silent gift. A painted thank-you. Azriel and Liora begin to see each other.

Warnings: skin irritation, bleeding hands, passive-aggressive coworkers, minor body image insecurity, chronic condition (sensitive skin/compulsive hand washing) A/N: The puffy paint incident™ is inspired by real life events from last week. The annoying coworker is also inspired by real life events from last week.

She knew the puffy paint would be messy, but Liora hadn’t expected it to be this bad. 

The binding solution she added to the paint and shaving cream had made the concoction far too sticky. It was all over the table, all over her clothes as well as her students’, and in their hair. 

She took an exacerbated breath and looked at the skylight as she sent a prayer to the Mother-

How did they manage to land some on the ceiling?

Fortunately, it washed off with water. Even though she got dirty looks from some of the parents at pick up when their kids’ clothes and hair were damp, she knew sending them home dirty would have just caused an even bigger problem. 

She had done the project a few times in the past years and it had never gone like this. Liora couldn’t wrap her head around what could have changed.

Still trying to wipe down the sticky table, she decided to check the ingredients she used. 

The shaving cream and binding solution were… expired. She rolled her eyes as she tossed them in the trash. She never kept expired supplies, both because she was anxious about any bad reactions the kids could get from it, and because she was a germaphobe that gagged at the thought of expired goods. But there was one person who didn’t have the same reservations…

Miss Iulia was the extracurricular teacher. She came in shortly after Liora sent the last kid home with their parents to set up for whatever program she was running in the afternoon, but always found the time to offer unsolicited advice or passive aggressive comments about ‘what she would do instead’ or ‘how Miss Ama’s techniques clearly showed how little she has worked with children’. 

Of all of the children’s teachers in Velaris, Liora was the youngest by far. The one closest in age was still 300 years older than her. While her 371 years weren’t something to balk at, even by the seemingly immortal fae standards, Liora had proven time and time again that age didn’t correlate with ability or talent. Even the most entitled of parents could never admit she was anything less than incredible with their kids. Shit- her class was one of the most requested in the city, often meaning she had to deny far more children then she would have liked because of the demand. 

Miss Iulia, on the other hand, didn’t work as a full time teacher because she couldn’t. She had in the past, but she never got along with the parents and often couldn’t work with other teachers because of her inability to collaborate or compromise. 

If it wasn’t so annoying, Liora would find humor in the fact that this woman was expected to teach children to share and communicate when she couldn’t do either of those things herself. 

Hence why she only worked in the afternoon programs, a job none of the other teachers wanted.

When Miss Iulia came into her classroom, the room was spotless. It had been two hours since the last student was picked up, and Liora spent every second scrubbing the classroom. 

Unfortunately, she hadn’t gotten the time to clean up herself. 

“My goodness, I thought you would have been out of here by now, you always seem so eager to leave after your class is done.” the older woman commented. “Seems like the craft today was a little too much for you to handle, no?” she asked, looking Liora up and down with a disapproving look. 

“The puffy paint didn’t go well, unfortunately.” the younger female forced out a laugh, knowing any returned snarkiness wouldn’t do her any favors. 

“I have done the project hundreds of times over the years, I’ve never had a problem.”

Liora felt her eye twitch, “Some of the ingredients were expired. Which usually wouldn’t cause too much of a problem, but I hadn’t know they were ahead of time, so I wasn’t able to add something to counteract the effects.” If Miss Iulia hadn’t used up the rest of my personal supplies without asking, and instead replaced them with expired ones thinking I wouldn’t notice, then I wouldn’t be stuck here looking a mess and getting passive aggressive comments thrown at me.

“Well, at least the classroom is in one piece. Even if it’s teacher isn’t.”

Liora wasn’t one for violence, but she really wanted to throttle the female in front of her. 

Deciding it was better to not dignify her comments with a response, Liora went to the sink to wash her hands once more. 

Turning on the faucet, she hissed when cool water hit her hands. Looking down, she was unsurprised to see them extremely irritated and bleeding. Knowing it was better to just get it over with, Liora grabbed the soap and started scrubbing her hands, holding her breath to keep in her pained moans. 

All her life, Liora had an obsession with cleanliness, unable to stomach the thought of germs and bacteria. Which, considering the fact she worked with young children, was laughable. Because of her “quirk” as her brother teasingly put it, she would wash her hands incessantly and clean everything till it was spotless, which again, as a preschool teacher, meant she spent a lot of time cleaning. 

Another fact about Liora, she had extremely sensitive skin. She couldn’t use most soaps, lotions, creams, shampoos, cleaners, etc, without immediately irritating whatever part of her skin it came into contact with. While she had been able to find body washes, shampoos, conditioners, and soaps that wouldn’t hurt her, none of them were good enough, in her opinion, for the kind of disinfection she needed to have for her classroom. 

So during the multitude of times she washed her hands each school day, she had to just shake off the burning sensation and hope they would become numb, which they eventually did. 

At the end of each day, her dry, cracked, and irritated skin on her hands would often start to bleed.

After the first few days the children stopped asking about them, happy with the answer she supplied: “Miss Ama’s hands don’t like getting washed, but because it is very important to wash your hands, Miss Ama must do it anyway, even if they throw a tantrum after”. The children always laughed after, and anytime they saw her hands become red, her students would kindly reprimand them and ‘remind her hands of the importance of washing up’, even if the toddlers still fought her when it was their turn to do so. 

Those simple interactions with her students made her feel safe and comfortable with something that had been such an insecurity for her her entire life. While she still hid her hands when parents came to pick up, and she often wore gloves if she thought she could get away with it, in her classroom, she didn’t need to worry about what others would think. And that was such a blessing. 

As she continued to grit her teeth as she scrubbed her hands raw, Liora missed the wisp of shadow curling around her ankles, watching.

Azriel didn’t usually have his Shadows check on her. They would head down as he flew over, usually just to hear what the children were saying because despite being creatures who preferred the darkness and to remain unseen, his Shadows felt the children’s infectious joy just as much as he had.

It was still early afternoon, but he knew the preschoolers would have been picked up already, so he hadn’t expected the glimpse he got of their teacher as she looked down, working on… something. Without a word, his Shadows went to investigate. It wasn’t unusual for her to remain in the classroom hours after her students, but Azriel got an uneasy feeling as he watched her do whatever it was that garnered all her attention, she didn’t even notice him fly overhead. 

Azriel continued on his way as the Shadows whispered what they observed. 

Water.

Pain.

A wince.

The scent of iron.

Bleeding.

His jaw tightened as he came to a halt, flying idly as he turned around.

He would just check quickly, then he’d be on his way.

She wouldn’t even notice.

She hadn’t cried out. Hadn’t stopped her scrubbing. Just kept moving, her hands raw and bleeding. The Spymaster observed her posture, tight with exhaustion. Her hair was pulled into an updo, clearly for practicality rather than style. Before he could warn them away, Azriel saw one of his Shadows curl around her ankle as a small offering of comfort. She didn’t even notice. 

As he noticed another female in the room, Azriel turned back the way he came, deciding he had more important things to do than a patrol he could simply send his Shadows on.

Liora was exhausted when she got home. She had intended to leave right after Miss Iulia got there, but her reputation as a pushover had gotten her stuck helping the nasty woman set up for her program, causing Liora to return home an hour later.

While the remnants of the puffy paint disaster had all been washed away, there was no fixing its damage on her hands, at least not tonight. 

After showering and putting on her pajamas, Liora looked down at her hands and sighed. They had become numb to the pain hours ago, but the itchiness was really starting to bother her. 

As she looked at the package she had gotten delivered for an art project she wanted to start, then back at her hands, she shook her head and put the box in her home office.  I’ll try and come up with some other craft to do tomorrow, she thought as she went to grab the salve she had become all too familiar with. After applying ample amounts to her hands, she put on her gloves and went to lay down in bed, praying tomorrow would be better.

Liora felt renewed optimism as she walked on the forest trail that led to her classroom. There was just… something in the air that had set her expectations for the day high. 

She quickly checked the mailbox outside her door, letting out an excited squeak that would have had her blushing with embarrassment if she hadn’t known for certain she was alone. She picked up the stack of children’s books she had special ordered from various courts, hoping to teach the children about what lived beyond the borders of the Night Court, especially since many of the children had family who emigrated from those places. 

As she unlocked the door, she thought of all the activities they could do in the new unit she wanted to start after the two week break the children get for Winter Solstice. They wouldn’t have time to start with the break starting the following day, but the ideas that tumbled into her mind made trying to figure out what to do that day even more difficult. 

They have made cards for family, baked goods and read books on the holiday. We’ve sung songs and played holiday games, Liora thought, coming to a blank when trying to decide what could be done in the few hours she had them today. 

Her thoughts came to a halt as she noticed a wrapped bundle on her desk. She looked around in concern, knowing it wasn’t there before she left and Miss Iulia certainly wasn’t leaving her gifts. 

The ribbon was a familiar cobalt blue, a leather cord tying the cloth bundle together, and a note had been tucked underneath the package. 

Safe to use. No scent. No sting.  You shouldn’t have to bleed to feel clean.

Underneath was a list, filled with many ingredients she recognized as safe for her sensitivity. Some of them though, she was unfamiliar with.

The handwriting on the note and on the list were different, clearly two people had compiled it. She didn’t recognize either of them, though the ingredient list had sloppy handwriting she often expected from healers. She would always tease her brother about how illegible his penmanship would be if she hadn’t had experience working with fae of all ages who were just learning to read and write. 

As she looked back at the ribbon and cord, her heart skipped a beat, though she wasn’t sure why. It was like her heart knew something her mind wouldn’t let her think. 

She quickly opened the package and took the two medium sized vials to the sink. After touching the books that had just been delivered, she probably should have washed her hands anyway, even if she was mostly just eager to test out the products.

The water felt cool, the salve she put on last night having helped heal a lot of the irritation and dryness she had. She hesitated only a moment before picking up the bottle labeled Soap, already preparing herself for the familiar sting.

But it never came. 

As she scrubbed, she didn’t feel the pain from the suds lathering her hands. Her hands didn’t even get irritated until she started to scrubb harder, not believing the sight in front of her. 

Once the sting she knew very well started to appear, she turned off the water, staring in wonder as her hands slowly returned from the redness to their natural tone. 

When they finally dried, she grabbed the lotion. Though she usually waited to put anything on her hands if she knew she would just have to wash it off when she went to scrubb again, she couldn’t stop herself from pouring the mixture on. 

Liora gasped at the sensation she felt. Like drinking cold water after having a mint, the coolness on her hands was… refreshing. 

She looked down at them once more. Her hands still bore the scars from a life of irritation, she knew that most would remain forever, but they felt like new. 

The happiest of tears slipped from her eyes as she went back to the bundle, hoping she had missed a tag that shared her saviors’ name. 

While her mind hadn’t put two and two together the way her heart had, she sent a prayer to the Mother to thank whomever had done such a thing.

It was almost their scheduled time for crafts, and Liora still had no idea what to do. She set up the paint, grabbed sheets of paper and paintbrushes. She could just let them freepaint, but she wanted to do something meaningful with them.

As they sat at their tables, eating snack, Ovidia came up to her, holding out her snack pouch the three year old couldn’t seem to open. 

“Miss Ama,” the girl asked, looking down with a cheeky smile, “do you think the Shadow man will come say bye before we leave?”

Liora smiled, handing the now opened pouch back as she noticed the blush forming on the young girl’s face, a feeling the preschool teacher knew all too well when thinking of him. 

“I don’t think so, Ovi. He is probably preparing for the holiday with his family. But I’m sure he will be back after break.” Despite her words, Liora prayed he would come visit. 

Just once to hold her over before the two week break. 

Ovidia grabbed her snack, looking a little upset at her teacher’s words, “My brother said he’s scary, but-BUT I like the way he flies.” Ovidia said, enthusiasm returning. “He seems nice.” She admitted quietly.

Liora smiled, before a thought struck her. Gasping in shock, she tried to reign in her emotions when she saw she startled the girl in front of her, quickly apologizing before asking her to sit back at her table and eat her food. 

Quickly, Liora pulled the ribbon and the cord out of her dress pocket. For some reason, she had wanted to keep it close to her, she had even found her hand’s unconsciously dipping into her pocket to hold them, finding comfort in their smooth touch. As she looked at them again, the dark leather and the cobalt blue, she found the familiarity in the combination, smiling as she thought of her- the Shadowsinger. While it could have been a coincidence, it probably was, Liora let herself live in this fantasy, if only for a moment. As she played with the ribbon and cord absentmindedly, she looked back at the art supplies, and found inspiration at last.

Madja had been concerned when she heard the Spymaster had needed her urgently. 

That concern grew to confusion and mild annoyance as she looked him up and down and saw that he was in fact unharmed. 

“Someone else better be dying to warrant almost giving me a heart attack.” The healer mumbled, though Azriel could see the relief in her eyes at the realization that he was in fact fine. 

He explained the situation to her, and while Madja was a healer, she wasn’t the best suited for what the Shadowsinger wanted. After being referred to an apothecary run by someone Madja reassured him she trusted and knew would be able to help in even more than she could, Azriel ended up with two items wrapped in a cloth for the female who had unconsciously made space for herself in his mind. 

Azriel hadn’t even realized that she had wormed her way into his thoughts. They hadn’t interacted beyond a quick wave… or wink on the days he was feeling confident. He had no right to think about her as much as he did. But just like the compulsion he got that sent him flying over her classroom on that fateful day two years ago, he realized he didn’t have much control over himself when it came to her. 

He didn’t leave his name, hadn’t wanted to overstep his boundaries or scare her. He knew what reputation preceded him, even if she seemed to be welcoming when he flew over her classroom. 

He let the Shadows take the present to her classroom. While he could have shadow-walked into the space, he could feel the wards around the area. It would have taken little to no effort for him to get through them, but that kind of magic could be finicky, and the last thing Azriel wanted was to accidentally break the wards that were put in place for the safety of children just because he was experiencing some strange feelings towards their teacher.

Days later, Azriel found himself flying the familiar path he had taken a few times a week for two years. 

The Spymaster knew the classroom would be empty, it was Solstice afterall, but he wasn’t there for his usual reasons. 

He loved his family, he truly did, but the past few years have made spending time with them much harder. 

They hadn’t meant to make him feel unwelcome, but watching them all start to create their new lives and families without him had hurt far more than he would ever say. He was happy for them. He loved seeing them experience joy that had been taken away so many times, and Azriel would instantly sacrifice himself just so they could continue feeling that joy. But he could only take so much.

He woke up that morning feeling a bit more prickly than usual, which made breakfast with the Inner Circle harder to stomach, especially as the constant teasing and jokes just pushed him closer to the edge. So there he was, flying the very route he often took when he needed a moment to himself. 

The same route that just so happened to take him over the classroom. 

So despite knowing no one was there, Azriel still looked down through the skylight to get a glimpse of the room. He paused in the air the moment he saw it.

Multiple pieces of paper covered the glass on the ceiling. He couldn’t make out the blurs of color from up so high, but as he grew closer he saw that most of the paintings seemed to be… of him.

Or at least, a figure with black blobs for wings and covered in dots of blue- these were painted by small children after all. 

In the middle though, Azriel could read out the neat and beautiful cursive; he had no doubt about who wrote it.

“Happy Solstice, Shadowsinger. May you get all the toys you wanted” 

Signed, Miss Ama and her students

Azriel chuckled as he read the note. Clearly, the toy sentiment was from the students themselves. As he looked at all of the paintings, some with just him and others with smaller figures, most likely self portraits, accompanying him, Azriel felt a spark of pure, unadulterated joy at the art. 

He took one more look at each painting, trying to commit them to memory because he couldn’t take them home, and flew back the way he came, ready to face the holiday with his family once more.

Taglist: @lemon-sage17, @slut4acotar, @casiiopea2, @queenoffeysand,

[jollyinmadness]

𝐀 𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝|| Series Masterlist

Azriel x Preschool Teacher!OC, Inner Circle x OC (platonic), Nyx x Teacher!OC (platonic)

Summary: Azriel spent his days spying on fae and his nights torturing information out of enemies. He had fought in battles and wars, and could usually be found with his hands covered in scars and blood. Liora Amabilia, know to most as Miss Ama, spent her days wrangling a gaggle of preschool children and her nights setting up various crafts and preparing magic experiments. She had fought entitled parents and rude assistants, and could usually be found with her hands covered in paint or blood from her cracked and dry hands caused by incessant handwashing. Was it a cruel joke or a blessing from the Mother that these two would be connected together by such sacred bond?

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬:

1. 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬

A preschool teacher. A passing shadowsinger. Connecting one wave at a time.

2. 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐒𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

A secret gift. A painted thank-you. Azriel and Liora begin to see each other.

A/N: This is my loveletter as a preschool teacher who adores fantasy (and a certain Shadowsinger). I can't wait for you all to read and I hope you enjoy!

[jollyinmadness]

Toxic yuri my beloved

Look if they're not both monsterously powerful, eldritch women, I don't want it. Amnesta for the win.

Their dynamic has so much potential. They are on each others level, they're the only ones. They're Other. They're difficult and strange and unfamiliar, even to those who know and love them best. They should make out sloppy style

[jollyinmadness]

Something Precious

Azriel x Reader

word count: 2.1k content: [ nun crazy just reader having mega insecure thoughts lol ] summary: Azriel has always been steady, unwavering—but the way you look at him makes something shift. Small moments, fleeting words, a tension neither of you acknowledge… until it’s impossible for him to ignore. author's note: IM BACK BABEYY!!!!! this ones a bit short but i thought it'd be a good one to help get myself writing again. i really like how it turned out, just a nice, sweet lil fic nothin crazy :) also not beta'd bc i just needed to get something out NEOW. hope this is to your liking anon thank u for the req!! <3 ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its golden glow casting shifting patterns across the walls of the House of Wind. The night outside was crisp and quiet, Velaris resting under a blanket of stars, but here, in this small cocoon of warmth and firelight, everything felt still. 

Azriel lay stretched out on the couch, wings spilling over the cushions in an easy sprawl. His shadows had retreated for the night, content to flicker lazily at the edges of the room, leaving nothing between you but firelight and the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. 

You lay draped across his chest, your weight a comfortable, grounding thing. His heartbeat thudded beneath your cheek, slow and sure, and the warmth of his skin seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt. One of his hands rested at the small of your back, tracing lazy circles under your sweater, while the other curled lightly around the nape of your neck, fingertips brushing idly over your skin. 

You sighed, nuzzling deeper against him, letting the scent of cedar and night-chilled wind wrap around you like a second blanket. Your fingers trailed absentmindedly over his ribs, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, and when you finally lifted your gaze to meet his, your heart did that ridiculous little stutter it always did. 

Because Azriel was looking at you like that again—like you were something precious. Something worth holding onto. 

The firelight flickered in his hazel eyes, turning them molten, but there was something softer underneath. Something quiet and steady, tucked between the affection in his gaze and the slight curve of his mouth. You weren’t sure you’d ever get used to it. 

You exhaled, barely above a whisper, as if afraid you might shatter the fragile silence. “I can’t believe you’re here with me.”

It wasn’t meant to be a confession. Just a passing thought, one that had been lingering in the back of your mind since the moment you started whatever this was—since the moment you realized someone like him could want someone like you. 

But Azriel stilled beneath you. It was subtle, just a flicker of tension in his fingertips, a pause in the slow drag of his hand against your back. Gone in an instant. 

You wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been laying on his chest, if you hadn’t felt the way his heartbeat faltered for just a second before steadying again. You didn’t call attention to it, just as Az hadn’t. Hadn’t asked what you meant. 

Instead, he shifted slightly, adjusting his wings so they wrapped around you both, pulling you deeper into the warmth of his body. His fingers resumed their slow, absentminded tracing, his thumb sweeping over the back of your neck in a way that made you shiver. 

“Where else would I be?” he murmured. 

You huffed a soft laugh, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. Anywhere. Everywhere. Someone like you doesn’t end up with someone like me.

But you didn’t say that. Just let yourself sink into his warmth, let yourself savor the way his arms tightened around you, as if holding you closer would make you understand. 

Because Azriel didn’t know—not yet. But he was starting to notice. 

And he didn’t like it. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Dinner at the River House was always an event. Not a formal one by any means—the kind where the table was too small for all the elbows knocking together where laughter wove itself between the clinking of glasses and the scrape of silverware. Where the air smelled of roasted lamb and rosemary, of spiced wine and honeyed bread, warmth curling through the candlelit room like an embrace.

Nesta and Cassian had somehow gotten into a debate over who was worse at flirting—Rhysand or Azriel—which had quickly turned into a full-blown conversation about all their past entanglements. 

“You’re all fools,” Amren said simply, swirling the deep red in her glass. “None of you were half as charming as you thought you were.”

Cassian scoffed. “I was charming.”

Nesta didn’t even look up as she speared a piece of meat. “Debatable.”

Across the table, Mor snickered. “He was charming, in the way a golden retriever puppy is charming.”

Azriel smirked into his wine glass. Cassian pointed at him accusingly. “You don’t get to laugh. You spent centuries avoiding love like the Mother herself would smite you for it.”

“That’s because he’s got high standards,” Mor shot back. “Honestly, I’m just surprised Az’s even dating.”

Feyre hummed, shifting Nyx higher against her shoulder as he dozed, his tiny fingers curled into the fabric of her sweater. “Dating? I’m surprised he’s managed to keep someone around long enough to–”

“Feyre.” His voice was soft, but the weight behind it was enough to cut her off. His expression was still easy, his lips curling at the edges, but there was something there—something firm, something protective. 

Your stomach twisted. 

The words weren’t meant to hurt. You knew that. They were lighthearted, Feyre smiling at her brother-in-law, the way siblings poked fun without malice. And Azriel had cut her off before she could finish—before she could say something that might have struck deeper.

But it was already unraveling in your head.

High standards. 

Avoiding love.

Managed to keep someone around long enough.

Because is that all this is? A fling? Something temporary? Another short-lived thing in a string of them? 

Your grip tightened subtly around your glass, the air suddenly too warm, your pulse thrumming a little too fast. And before you could stop yourself, before you could sit with the spiraling thoughts for even a second longer, you laughed. Too loud. Too sharp. A sound that cut through the warmth of the room rather than settling into it. 

“Yeah, just wait until he realizes how much of a pain I am.”

Silence, just for a beat. 

Azriel’s head snapped toward you, sharp enough that you felt it before you saw it—the weight of his gaze landing on you, the furrow in his brows, the shift in the air between you. But you didn’t look. Couldn’t. 

Rhysand chuckled, breaking the brief pause, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. You’re practically a saint for dealing with him.”

Cassian smirked, lifting his glass. “Agreed.”

Laughter rippled through the table again, and just like that, the moment passed—folded itself into the fabric of the conversation, buried beneath the easy back and forth, the scraping of plates, the pouring of wine. 

Azriel let it go. Again. 

But it lingered.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Azriel eventually pushed past that uneasy feeling. It wasn’t a big deal—not really. He figured you probably hadn’t even meant anything by it. But something about it rubbed him the wrong way, settled uneasily in his chest, and he couldn’t explain why. 

But then it happened again. 

And again. 

Little things, small enough that they would have slipped through the cracks if he hadn’t been paying attention. The way you waved off his compliments, dodging them with a laugh like they were jokes rather than truths. The way your smile sometimes faltered, like you’d caught yourself enjoying the moment a little too much. The way your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve when he touched you, like you were steadying yourself. 

And then there was the way you looked at him—that was what unsettled him the most. 

Because he was used to being looked at in a thousand different ways—calculating, cautious, reverent, fearful. People looked at him and saw a legend, a warning, a weapon. He’d spent a lifetime standing on the outskirts of things, watching them unfold from the shadows, knowing that no matter how close he got, he would always be separate.

But you looked at him like he was something untouchable. 

Like you didn’t quite believe he was real. 

Like you were waiting for the moment he’d come to his senses and walk away. 

And Azriel—who had spent years mastering the art of patience, of knowing when to hold back—found himself growing more and more frustrated. 

Not at you, gods, never at you. 

But at the way you’d convinced yourself that you were less. 

That he was something more. 

It all came to a head one evening in the training ring. 

You weren’t training, just sitting on one of the benches, legs tucked beneath you, book resting open in your lap. You liked being here with him, and he liked having you here, even if neither of you’d ever said it out loud. He could feel your eyes on him as he moved through his drills, the steady weight of your attention like a tether pulling him back to earth. 

When he finally finished, muscles burning, wings flexing as he rolled his shoulders, he walked over to you. You grinned up at him, eyes warm despite the sharp winter air, and handed him a cup of water without a word.

Az took a long drink before murmuring, “You staring at me again?”

You scoffed, though the way your mouth twitched told him you were fighting a smile. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He smirked, resting a hand on the bench’s backrest beside you, bracing himself as he leaned down. “Too late.”

You made a face, but the slight pink creeping up your neck gave you away. He kissed you softly, just a brush of lips, tasting warmth and wind and something undeniably you.

And then you said it.

“I still don’t know what you see in me.”

You said it casually. Offhanded. Like it wasn’t a confession. Like it wasn’t the worst thing you could’ve said.

Azriel  went still.

The words settled like a stone in his chest, heavy and suffocating. And suddenly, every little moment from the past few weeks clicked into place—the deflected compliments, the hesitations, the way you looked at him like you were waiting for him to wake up and realize you weren't enough.

The frustration that had been simmering in the back of his mind finally snapped.

His voice was quiet, but firm. “Don’t do that.”

You blinked, tilting your head slightly. “Do what?”

“That.” He straightened, looking down at you, jaw tight. “Talk about yourself like that.”

You shifted, clearly thrown off by the sudden change in his tone. “Az, I was just—”

“I mean it.” His wings flared slightly, a flicker of restrained emotion. “You say things like that all the time. Like you don’t think you belong here. Like I’m some…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Some gift the Mother decided to bestow on you.”

You opened your mouth, but he wasn’t finished.

“You don’t think I notice, but I do,” he said, voice softer now, rough around the edges. “I can see it in the way you dodge compliments, the way you downplay yourself like you’re the lucky one—as if I’m not the one who should be grateful every damn day that you want to be with me.”

You swallowed hard, looking away. “That’s not—”

“Look at me.”

You did.

And when your eyes met, something inside Az ached.

Because you really didn’t see it.

Didn’t see what he saw every time he looked at you—the quiet strength, the unwavering kindness, the way you fit so effortlessly into the parts of him that had always felt empty.

Didn’t see how, before you, he had spent centuries standing on the outside looking in, wondering if he would ever have anything or anyone just for himself.

Didn’t see how you were already everything.

Azriel exhaled, slow and steady, forcing himself to find the words. “You are not some… temporary thing I decided to entertain myself with.” He took your hand, curling your fingers between his own. “You’re not lucky to have me.” He squeezed, firm but gentle. “I’m lucky to have you.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. You looked like you wanted to argue, to tell him he had it backwards, but there was something raw in his expression—something that made you hesitate.

Az lifted your joined hands and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of yours, his lips brushing your skin as he whispered, “Stop acting like you’re less than.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy with everything unsaid.

Finally, you exhaled shakily and leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like I am.”

Az closed his eyes, letting himself breathe you in. And then he whispered, “Then let me remind you.”

And he would.

As many times as it took.

[jollyinmadness]

Starborn, Fireheart & Lady Death - CC, TOG & ACOTAR

Artist: renata_watsonn

[jollyinmadness]

[jollyinmadness]

“Azriel needs a delicate flower.”

BRUH HE IS THE DELICATE FLOWER. What the fuck are you on about??

[jollyinmadness]

I have no outline tho, just vibes

[jollyinmadness]

when you listen to a song and it gives you inspiration to daydream an answer to the plot hole in the story building inside your head

[jollyinmadness]

hello beloveds ☺️

[jollyinmadness]

a feel like the new generation of fanfic readers NEED to understand that clicking on a fic (interaction) does nothing. ao3 has no algorithm. your private discord discussions of fic do not reach the authors. if you do not actively engage with writers they will stop posting. this isn’t social media this is community.

[jollyinmadness]

Reading my own fanfiction is basically just a rollercoaster of emotional whiplash.

20% of the time: “Hold on. I wrote this? This is fire. This is emotionally devastating in the best way. This scene is dripping with tension. I’m a literary perfectionist. Someone give me a book deal.”

80% of the time: “Straight to jail. Immediate prison. Why is everyone’s breath hitching?. I used the word ‘gaze’ three times in one paragraph like I was possessed. Did I think 'his eyes darkened' was profound? Why is everyone clenching their jaws? Why is someone whispering 'their name like a prayer' again?? No one talks like this. What is this dialogue. Why are there so many weird metaphors and em-dashes…”

[jollyinmadness]

[jollyinmadness]

Reblog to give prev the power to write their fanfiction

[jollyinmadness]

writing is so funny because i could write nonstop for 9hrs and then hit a block where im like "how do i transition between this moment and the next?" and then i just dont touch it for 6 months

[jollyinmadness]

Me when my fav fanfic writer posts another banger

[jollyinmadness]

Of Canopies and Twines: Chapter 3, Rhus typhina | Azriel x OFC

Pairing: Azriel x Original Female Character

Word Count: 8.6k

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of animal death and carcass decay.

Summary:

When an unknown curse starts spreading through the Night Court's lands, the Inner Circle is forced to seek help in the wisdom of Day's vast libraries. Among the dusty tomes, they are met with a mysterious female who wields magic that may yet be the key to their problem.

Kira, one of the few surviving Purifiers, will have to leave her reclusiveness on the shores of the Continent and learn what her ancestor's vow really means.

Azriel will be forced to reconcile his follies, step out from his shadows and push against his shortcoming with nothing but the scarred skin of his hands.

After years of lucky breaks, will the Inner Circle succeed one last time? Or will their fate rest in the hands of an outsider who has more to lose than gain in helping them?

Then again, the Cauldron is forever being stirred by the Mother and no one escapes the yarn on the embroidery of their lives.

Previous chapter |✶| Masterlist |✶| Next chapter

Azriel found no victory this year in the hills of the Illyrian Mountains.

He stood off to the side and watched his two brothers laugh. Rhysand was on the ground, his black hair wet and freezing into little icicles with Cassian above him, breaking a snowball in his hand. He had a boot on Rhys’s chest and his free fist in the air. He was declaring his victory to all willing to hear, boasting about the complete defeat of his brothers and upholding the promise he had made just the other night. 

On a different day, Azriel would have run up to Cassian from behind, tackling him and shoving his face into the fresh snow. On a different day, he would have yelled at him for being too loud and for starting an avalanche with that booming voice of his. Perhaps on a different day, he would have been the one with his boot on Rhysand’s chest. But alas, sometimes plans didn’t go as they had been made and Azriel was left standing alone, soaked and numbingly cold. 

Truth be told, he had felt off-kilter the moment he arose from his bed. As he had washed his face and applied an ointment to his freshest bruises, the lid wouldn’t close all the way and it made him unimaginably furious. Mayhap a touch sad too. When he had been tugging on his warmest leathers, one of the straps caught onto the talon of his wing, eliciting a painful hiss. And then he had been flying to the River House, being the last one to arrive only to see both his brothers talking animatedly. 

Even as Rhysand turned to him with a wide smile, Azriel had expected an off-handed comment or a sour look but nothing came. Rhys had come up to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and asking him to disprove Cassian’s retelling of this one brawl they had centuries ago. 

His balance hadn’t returned even as they flew, their only companions the harsh wind and the rising sun in the east. Cassian had been throwing taunts left and right, maneuvering in the sky and riling up his opponents. The only reaction he had gotten from Azriel was a goodhearted shake of the head—no one could ever deny the General his charm, not even the shadowsinger. But jesting was not on the table when his mood had been as sour as this.

When they had landed, it was as clear as the day ahead to Azriel that he wouldn’t be winning the snow ball battle this time around. The sun had cast the little patch of woods at the base of the cabin in harsh lines and the snow was crumpling in his hands. The new gloves he had chosen ruined any ball he had made. If it was because he was too in his head due to Rhysand’s treatment of him or some unforeseen change in the snow consistency, he didn’t care enough to investigate. 

Azriel had just taken the hits on his chin, doing his best to not catch any strays and trying to appear as though he was doing his best. Cocky or not, Cassian had still won. 

“We gave him a run for his gold, didn’t we, Az?” came Rhysand’s voice, dragging Azriel from his staring. 

His High Lord had an easy smile on his face but he could see the underlying emotion in those violet eyes as they settled on him. His shadows stirred, whispering words that if a male less kind than Rhysand had caught wind of them, Azriel would lay on the ground with his head a few feet away.

“You were right to brag, Cass,” was all he responded with.

Cassian laughed with his whole chest, removing his boot and helping Rhysand to his feet. As they brushed the snow from their shoulders, Azriel gained enough courage to step closer, wiping his nose. 

Rhysand turned to the shadowsinger, opening his mouth to say something but he was interrupted by a rather loud screech of a child. Panicked, he had immediately forgotten what he was about to say and looked up the hill. 

His mate was showing their son the tall snow covering their surroundings and the babe must have been so delighted that he had screamed at the top of his lungs. He was covered up to his chin and Feyre had done her best to keep him warm with layers upon layers. There was a single trail of footprints leading to them from the cabin, where the rest of their family had finally arrived. No apparent danger there. 

While elated surprise painted Feyre’s face at the sound, Azriel could only see the relief on Rhysand’s. 

As he looked at his son, he smiled. Before neither of his brothers could say anything, Rhysand started walking up the hill and through the fresh snow. He called out to Nyx, making the babe turn his head to find the source of his father’s voice. Feyre pointed to him, too, a small smile on her face. 

Both Cassian and Azriel watched on as he lifted Nyx up into the air, twirling him around. The General was taking in the interaction with something akin to longing hidden behind his hazel eyes. Most likely, he wasn’t aware that a small smile had grown where a grin used to be. Cauldron knew how much he adored children.

Azriel nudged him with his elbows, his palms hidden under his armpits to regain some warmth. “Any plans for your own, Cass?”

Cassian let out a mirth, giving him a dubious look. “Don’t even start. I want Nesta all to myself for as long as I can.”

“I hear that. Every night in the House of Wind, actually.” 

The comment must have come out more biting than Azriel intended because Cassian turned his back to the cabin, devoting his whole attention to him. Azriel muffled his sigh into the scarf around his neck. 

“One day,” Cassian prodded the middle of Azriel’s chest with a finger softly, “you will find yours and all the rest of us will be making these comments. Just you wait.”

This time, Azriel didn’t hold back his loud sigh. He ruffled his wings, stirring the settled shadows there with his movements. 

When he got no witty response from him, Cassian laid a hand on his shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

He met Cassian’s inquisitive stare with a frown, searching his brother’s face for a clue. Wondering if Rhysand had told him anything at the crack of dawn during those moments when Azriel wasn’t present. But he found nothing of the sorts in his hazel eyes. Honesty was something Cassian had worn on his sleeve since he was an Illyrian grunt.

He knew Cass would never meet his worries and anxieties with misplaced anger or exorbitant gentleness. An ear is all he had ever lent to him. Perhaps a moment of relief from expectations too. Despite remembering this—Azriel hesitated. 

Cassian noticed the way his eyes strayed behind him and above his wings. At that, he turned to follow the direction of Azriel’s gaze. 

He didn’t wish to say the words, the recounting of yesterday’s events because it felt like dangling their brotherhood above a precarious ravine of choosing sides. Although Cassian would have remained impartial and only worked toward smoothing over this wrinkle, it was far too obvious who was right in this matter. 

Both their eyes followed the High Lord helping their High Lady to her feet. Cassian sighed, deducting correctly what the source of the tension between his friends was. 

“Do you think me selfish?” Azriel asked him, voice lower and quieter than usual. He surprised himself with the question. Cassian appeared as though he was replaying what he said in his head as well, piecing together the vowels and consonants until they made intelligible words. 

When he finally understood what Azriel was asking, he deflated. “Did Rhys say that?”

He looked sideways at Cassian. “No.” At least not out loud.

After a pensive moment of silence, he responded, “Lonely maybe but not selfish.” 

Azriel could only nod.

The General would never say things just for the sake of comforting him, yet the words felt like a honeyed lie to lift his spirits. It was the morning after the Winter Solstice, the members of their family were waiting up at the cabin, preparing family breakfast and surely expecting three jovial Illyrians walking in at any moment. Perhaps Cassian was just adding oil to a fire of delusion, as Rhys had called it. 

“Come, brother,” Az told him, pushing Cassian up the hill and to the cabin. “Nesta’s already waiting for you.”

Cassian looked like he wanted to press the issue further but he wouldn’t be allowed to, not if Azriel had any say in it. He had already felt exposed and flayed, his scarred hands shaking in the thick gloves. He decided it was enough brooding and sulking for such a joyful occasion. 

The two Illyrian brothers walked up the hill together, entering behind Rhys. Inside, just as his shadows had notified him, Nesta had already been standing above a pot, hangover Mor at her side giving instructions on making stew. The younger female turned to face the door where Cassian was ruffling off the snow on his wings. 

“You won?” she asked plainly. In an answer, she got a wide grin and a swaggering male walking up to her. 

He leaned down, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Not the only thing I’ve won,” he had whispered, though loud enough for everyone in the cramped cabin to hear.

Mor swiveled on her heel, offering Cassian a cocked brow. “You took bets? And didn’t involve me?”

From the table in the corner, Rhys sniggered. “Mor, I don’t think this is a bet you want to be involved in.”

The only answer she got from the mated couple was Nesta’s shrug and a wicked grin on Cassian’s face. 

Mor groaned, taking the ladle from Nesta’s hand. “Next year, we’re placing bets.”

Rhysand made a sound of disagreement, rocking Nyx in his arms. “Last time we did, you almost ran my coffers dry.”

She waved him away, turning to the stove. A column of steam was rising from the large pot as Mor stirred it, sending the delicious smell through the cabin. “Do not blame me for your mishandling of gold.”

Before long, Cassian dived into his reenactment of today’s battle and Azriel only threw his gloves on the growing pile of garments by the door. While Rhysand corrected him on numerous accounts, Azriel chose to seat himself on the furthest chair from the fire, despite his fingernails gaining a purple shade. With so many people inside the main room, warmth seeped into the space easily, laughter and conversation filling in the rest.

Stew and bread were handed out and over the lip of his bowl, Azriel took in the chipping paint on the walls where Feyre’s creations rested. Their eyes painted in great detail, blending into the creamy color with a skill only a master painter could achieve, he found his own hazel pair staring right at him. As if seeing right through him and judging him for all he had done. He had to look away. 

His shadows had reported to him that no one else but them was in the cabin and the hand squeezing his stomach softened, letting him eat the delicious stew. For some reason, he had hoped Elain would join them and he promptly scolded himself for it. There was a need to see whether she would stare at him with disgust or anger or something worse, like indifference. He doesn’t think he could take any of those things. 

As if knowing where his thoughts strayed, his eyes met with Rhysand’s above the table. There was no smile on his face, only the mask of a High Lord willing to go great lengths to keep his Court safe meant for only Azriel to see. 

He understood his reasoning, half wished he could sit down with Rhysand and explain himself. The other part of him wanted to forget it had ever happened. Which is what he thought Rhysand was doing—dealing out a command as his superior but slipping back into the role of his brother, leaving Court matters away from today. 

But it seemed as though Rhysand had not chosen to ignore yesterday, because as he stared him down, Azriel felt the trench between them widening. Groaning with the line now drawn in the sand. 

— ✾ —

Their time at the cabin was spent with more talking than Azriel wanted to partake in. Mor, at some point, had stood up to leave, mentioning her planned visit to the Library with the young priestess. She gave everyone a kiss on the cheek and when she reached Azriel, he felt everyone’s eyes on him. One particular stare more searing than the others. 

When Mor pulled back and ruffled his hair, he gave her a strained smile, ushering her out with a hand on her hip. She wrapped a coat around herself and was out the next second. No blush marred his cheeks, much to everyone’s surprise.

His shadows didn’t need to tell him that Feyre turned to Rhysand or that Cassian minded his third serving of the stew with more interest than necessary. He was aware of it more than he was aware of Nesta’s stare on him. It seemed they always shared an understanding, not needing words or useless touches to reach it. 

Still, the air grew so thick he stood to his feet and muttered something about leaving, too. Spymaster duties and all, gifts be damned.

Feyre reached out a hand to stop him as he walked by. Her hand had slipped down from his forearm until it rested in his scarred palm and he fought the urge to remove it. 

“Let’s leave together. Wait for us?” she asked so politely and kindly that Azriel could do naught but stare. When she had offered him a small smile, he swallowed his excuses and nodded to his High Lady. 

The dirty dishes were cleaned with a swoop of night-kissed power and their coats, scarves and gloves on in a matter of moments. When they stepped out into the sunny winter day together, the sun was nearing its peak.

It was the boys’ custom to fly back and so Feyre intertwined her arm with Nesta’s while she rocked Nyx on her hip. They offered the three males waves before stepping past the wards and disappearing in a cloud of smoke. 

Azriel was the first to take to the skies. He heard the booming of two other sets of Illyrian wings behind him and his brothers appeared at either side of him within seconds. 

“I received a letter from the Frostpoint camp yesterday,” yelled Rhysand over the wind. 

Azriel perked up at the mention of the small camp in the northern territory of the Night Court, secluded and belonging to one of the obedient ones. Azriel hadn’t heard of any troubles from that part of Court for decades. 

From his right, Cassian maneuvered as close as he could. “What was it about?” 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. Azriel’s shadows danced along his moving shoulders, muttering questions and pleas into their master’s ear. “But Lord Gavin had asked me to come at my earliest convenience.”

This time, Azriel called out through the gust of wind, squinting against the sun’s piercing light, “You want us to join you?” 

He only got a nod in response. Cassian rounded them, moving now by Rhysand’s left. “It’s too far to fly,” he bellowed, nodding to the ground.

Azriel met Rhysand’s eyes, dipping his chin down too. “Take Cassian. I’ll meet you there.”

As he surveyed the ground and sent one of his shadows to hide in Cassian’s wings, he racked his brain for the location of this camp. It was small, perhaps a tenth of the Windhaven’s size but their War Lord was kind. It had been one of the few camps that had not rebelled in any way against the new laws set in place all those centuries ago. He had only ever been once and it was to settle a claim about the succession of the rule and left soon after, wondering what kind of a male he would have been if he had grown up there instead of his father’s cell. 

Picturing the small outpost, nursed at the foot of the mountain in the northernmost point of Prythian’s mainland, he let his shadows engulf him. For a moment, he was nothing but a cloud of smoke, moving through the space between the folds of reality. He crossed the distance in one swift beat of his wings, appearing a mile out and above the encampment. 

His shadows’ tethers tugged him to a snow covered meadow that would never bloom this far north. There, stark above the snow in their leathers walked his brothers and he winnowed behind them. 

Tents were perched among the few buildings of the camp and there were numerous people bustling about. This camp didn’t seem fazed by yesterday’s festivities they were allowed to have. There was already a training going on, ten or something males sparring and warming up. A few females stood around, taking in the process but not participating. 

Azriel recognized Lord Gavin even from far away. He was old and a little frail but he had been chosen by the people in this camp to be their lord and commander. He wore a thick cloak that surely did a better job at keeping him warm than his own leathers as he corrected his soldiers’ stances. 

What drew Azriel’s stare though was the wings on his back. They were perhaps the biggest he had ever seen, the title unrivaled to this day. Due to his age, the membrane had holes in some places and it was a rare sight to see a warrior grow this old. He must have fought in the war alongside of his brothers, if not their fathers and their fathers before them. He wondered how he survived this long in such conditions.

He was in the middle of talking to an Illyrian girl, pointing to the sparring duel happening in the ring in front of them. 

“When you see your opponent lift their arms like that and exhale deeply, it would not be wise to block,” he spoke, voice cracking in certain places as the female nodded along. The wings on her back were unclipped. “They are putting their whole strength into the blow.”

“But his stomach is exposed?” she asked, a little unsure as the two males in the ring bumped wings. 

Lord Gavin chuckled gleefully, patting the girl’s shoulder. “Very well! We’ll have you training in no time.”

The female’s face lit up as she smiled at Gavin, turning her head to look over her shoulder. Her eyes widened as she took in the three unknown males stalking over to them. Azriel was sure they were a sight to behold—Rhysand with his poise of a high born, swaggering Cassian with his siphons at full display and Azriel, swarmed in shadows. She tugged on Gavin’s cape, making him turn with a question ready at his lips. 

As he followed her line of sight, his eyes widened and he ushered the young girl away. Azriel’s shadows carried Gavin’s whisper of ‘Go help your mother’ to him. 

“Lord Gavin,” greeted him Rhysand before stopping a few feet away. He had transformed his back to be free of his own wings, letting the two males flank either of his side. “I’ve got your letter. It sounded urgent.”

Lord Gavin bowed and curtsied the best his old body would allow. From beneath his cloak, he procured a cane. “High Lord.”

Rhysand nodded at him. “What was it you wished to speak to me about?”

“My lord” Gavin started and motioned for them to follow. “Let us retreat into my home. This is not a matter to be discussed out in the open.”

As he waddled with his cane in front of them, Azriel looked around at the camp, seeing the glances the warriors and females alike offered them. Most were afraid, already averting their eyes when the shadowsinger turned. Others, largely the younger ones, looked curious to see visitors in this secluded camp. It must not have been often that they received anyone as esteemed as a High Lord. 

While walking the worn paths through the camp, Gavin called out to two other males who followed them without complaint, leaving their tasks behind. They were young grunts, most likely not over thirty years old. 

As they reached Gavin’s humble home, Cassian observed, “There are little houses here.”

“Yes, well,” he responded, shoving the door open and kicking the snow off his boots on the doorframe. “Most folk like tents more than brick and mortar. Creatures of habit, we are.”

“Why do you live in a house?” the General asked and Azriel knew it wasn’t just making conversation. He was genuinely curious to learn the answer. 

The six males entered one by one, shrugging of their coats and following the smiling war lord. “I’m old,” he stated plainly, shrugging. “My joints don’t enjoy the cold as much anymore.”

For a moment, Azriel wondered if this urgent meeting had been called to settle yet another claim of succession. Though as they entered a modest sitting room, the two young males closed the door behind them, drew the curtains and squished all that speculation. None of the present took a seat, not even the age stricken lord. 

“You boys have not told anyone?” came Gavin’s voice from the fireplace, where he was poking the logs to awaken in the flames. 

“No, sir,” they responded in unison. They stood shoulder to shoulder and it was then that Azriel took in their faces only to realize they were brothers, if not twins. Their short hair and soft features were not a rare sight to behold in an Illyrian camp, but their likeness was. A couple was considered lucky to have one child, let alone two at the same time. 

Gavin nodded. “Good.”

Rhysand stuffed his hands into his pockets, leveling the war lord with a demanding glare. Azriel could only see the back of his head, him and Cassian flanking the only entrance to the room. “What have they not told anyone about?”

As Gavin returned the poker to its place and twisted around, there was deep worry resting among the lines of his face. His age had not been kind to him. He gave the boys one single look before meeting his High Lord’s eyes. “They were patrolling the area around the Widow’s Veil,” the northernmost mountain peak, “when they stumbled upon something I have never seen the likes of.”

Rhysand didn’t speak, his silence urging the lord to continue. 

Gavin motioned to the two young males. “I’ll let the boys explain.”

“As Lord Gavin said,” started the one on the left, Bentram, swallowing, “we were patrolling the foot of the mountain when we saw it.”

“Saw what.” It was more of a demand than a question coming from Cassian, though his tone was not angry, just laced with impatience. 

Caelum, the one on the right met Azriel’s stare and didn’t look away. “It was a tree, m’lord,” he spoke to Rhysand, as if begging to be believed. “It was dead.”

Something like disbelief and confusion appeared on Rhysand’s face as he worked his jaw. “You called on me for a dead tree?”

“It was not just a dead tree,” muttered Bertram, his accent thick. “It did catch our attention from the air, but that’s not it.”

Gavin lifted his hand, allowing the boys to fall silent once again. “They retrieved me once they finished their rounds and brought me over to see it.”

“A dead tree?” asked Cassian. Azriel furrowed his brows, listening to the constant murmurs of his shadows and learning that there was a crowd now gathering by the training ring, all whispering about the High Lord visiting and it not being good news. There were no mentions of this dead tree among the gathered though, confirming the two brothers to be tight-lipped. 

“Not just that,” confirmed Gavin. “It’s easy to spot a piece of land where snow couldn’t reach, though it is rare this far north. There’s usually feet upon feet of it as far as the eye can see. But what my two boys saw is a patch so void of life that it melted the snow and turned the soil black.”

Cassian cocked his head to the side. “Somebody set a fire there?”

Bertram shook his head. “We thought so, too. But there was no ash. It was just black and lifeless, scattered with dead animals.”

Rhysand’s fidgeting stopped and he finally looked to Caelum with a renowned interest. “What do you mean, dead animals?”

Caelum looked shaken as he recalled it. “We saw a doe walk into it and it just… keeled over. The fur had peeled from its skin in seconds. The flesh, the muscle. It was gone. We could see nothing but a skeleton remain from where we were.”

Bertram took a step forward, as if shielding his brother from their watchful gazes. “We brought Lord Gavin over and tossed a hawk with bound legs in there, right by the doe. We aren’t lying.”

“They really aren’t,” said Gavin, sighing and walking over to the chair in the corner of the room. He ruffled his wings while taking a seat and they draped over the lowered back and across the floor boards. The spot on the wood was lighter and worn, as if this place by the fireplace was his favorite. “I thought it was a trick of the light, so we repeated the attempt. This time, with something bigger. Like an elk.” He avoided their gazes and something foreign sprouted in his hazel eyes, framed by snow white brows. “It earned us the same outcome.”

If he listened close enough, he could feel the collective screech of their thoughts halting as Rhys clawed a finger on the walls of his mind. Asking this time, instead of swooping right in. 

Is he telling the truth? came Rhys’s voice in his head, the sensation of his mind in his so unlike yesterday. Beneath his cloak, Azriel’s hand rested on Truth-Teller this entire time, though it remained cold through out the conversation. 

He is.

Azriel saw the resolve in Rhysand’s eyes stutter. Fuck.

“Take us there,” demanded Cassian, meeting Azriel’s stare from the other side of the doorway. He nodded to him, letting him know he heard the telepathic conversation thanks to Rhys. 

Bertram nodded, straightening his back at the General’s command. “It’s about an hour flight away from here, sir.”

“Gather your things, we’ll meet back here and you will fly ahead of us.” Cassian stepped away from the door, joining his hands behind his back and puffing out his chest. He looked monstrously giant next to the two boys. “Don’t stop or tell anyone where you’re headed. Understood?”

They nodded, a perfect image of two soldiers. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good. Scatter now.”

The two brothers departed without as much as a word, leaving the four males alone in the sitting room. The lord looked shaken, eyes unfocused as they looked to nothing in particular. “I will not go with you,” he told them. “I cannot fly as much these days anymore and if something were to happen, I need the strength to carry the children.”

Rhysand walked over to the lord, taking perch on the closest wooden chair to his. Another one was on the other side of the fireplace, though neither Cassian or Azriel made a move for it. 

“Do you believe it will come to that?” he asked him, forcing the lord to meet his violet eyes. 

“I hope not, my lord, though I cannot tell in my old age.” As if remembering the others present in the room, he met Azriel’s stare. “Don’t worry. Succession is secured. Once I pass, the command will carry over to my nephew. You need not come over this time around.” Azriel nodded. Gavin offered a small smile, leaning on his cane with his bent back. “Any day now.” 

“You’ve still got some fight in you,” muttered Azriel and Gavin looked delighted to hear it. 

“Well, if you say it, Shadowsinger, then it must be true.”

Again, that odd wondering of what his life could have looked like gnawed on his gut. Rhysand let a hand rest on Gavin’s shoulder, squeezing and standing up. When he passed by the door, he leaned to Azriel meeting his gaze with some hardness that hadn’t been there with the War Lord. 

“Keep an ear out for anyone mentioning what we were just told,” he told him, earning an expected dip of Azriel’s chin in return. As if he weren’t doing that already.

He looked above Rhysand’s shoulder and out of the curtain-covered window where the twins’ faces passed by. “They’re here.”

— ✾ —

The journey to the Widow’s Veil was as arduous as Azriel expected. 

His leathers fared rather well against the northern winds and despite not keeping him warm, they saved his extremities from falling off within the hour-long flight. 

He stayed a few paces behind his brothers who kept asking the twins questions. Cassian mostly stuck to topics that retained some warmth, asking whether they were actual twins and how was their training going. He had questioned the lead in the camp with an undercurrent of assuring their loyalty remained with the High Lord unlike in other camps where mutiny was brewing.

On the other hand, Rhysand asked quick questions about this phenomenon, the exact time when they first saw it and when the last watch had gone by there. 

It was Bertram that answered the last question, “We don’t go this far inland often, m’lord. We fly by the coast each evening and morning and it’s done by us young’uns. It was luck that we ran into it.” His accent was stronger now that he yelled, syllables of some words so mutilated that it took a while for Azriel to catch up with what Bertram was saying. 

“And why did you go through here this time?” he spoke for the first time, causing all four males to turn and glance at Azriel with varying degrees of surprise. 

Caelum paled slightly even against the harsh wind beating his face red and the look Bertram shot his brother didn’t escape the spymaster. It seemed that Rhysand and Cassian were not oblivious to it either. 

“Speak,” he prompted him. 

Bertram thinned his lips and so Caelum was the one to take the reins. “A male and a pregnant female went missing, m’lords.” He turned his face forward, denying the shadowsinger a view to the changes in his expression. His wings tucked in a little tighter and he lead them lower to the ground. 

“How long ago?” questioned again the General. 

“A week.”

“Lord Gavin knows of it,” butted in Bertram. “He was the one sending us on more frequent patrols, changing our routes. Ask him and he’ll tell you all he knows.”

Rhysand shared a look with his brothers and a ripple of displeasure curses through the air. Azriel could not decide whether it was from the bone-chilling weather or Rhysand’s grasp on his power slipping. His patience, it seemed, has grown far thinner than Azriel first anticipated.

Silence befell them as the gentler of the twins led them through never ending hills and meadows covered with white. The Widow’s Veil peak had emerged here and there between the breaks of clouds and with each appearance they grew closer. The fog this far north seemed to thicken and at once, they entered a particularly dense one that caused even Azriel to sharpen up.

“How much further?” came Rhysand’s voice. 

“Just around the bend.”

And as they tilted their wings to the left, going against a particular wind current there was nothing but thick fog beneath their feet. Azriel was sure they couldn’t be still that far up after dropping several dozens of feet but he chose to trust the two males who looked at home within the white gloom.

Bertram yelled out a warning and Azriel’s knees bent to prepare for the landing. The snow beneath his boot-clad feet dipped and dipped until it reached halfway up his calves and until he could not burrow any deeper. The shadows there melted against the pockets of air between snowflakes, going lower. When they emerged again, murmurs of the ground being still six feet beneath him twisted his gut. 

In front of him, both his brothers looked unsure of the ground and even more skeptical of the low visibility. With a huff, Rhysand lifted his hand and sent the fog scattering on a breeze. It revealed a few trees standing tall against the snowy cover but sparse with their needles. A few cones dangled here and there but it would have to be enough for the twins to find their bearings. 

The two grunts glanced at their High Lord with a semblance of fear and reverence, as if witnessing a god at work. He had yet to see any Siphons on them and wondered how many they needed to concentrate the Mother’s gift of magic. If they even needed any.

Bertram shoved his brother lightly, bringing him out if his stupor. “This way,” he stuttered out, hooking his thumb above his shoulder and fixing the sack across his chest.

Again in that dreaded silence, as if going to their own damnation, they walked—no, trudged. Periodically, Rhysand waved his hand for the fog to disperse and clear the way ahead. 

With one last sweep of the High Lord’s power, a tree came into a view, looming high above. Bertram stopped abruptly, capturing his brother’s shoulder and stopping him. 

“This is it, m’lord,” whispered Caelum but it felt too loud even against the wind. They finally beheld what Lord Gavin warned them of. 

Azriel and his brothers could only pick up their jaws from the white powder as they beheld the giant of a tree and the crater of the melted snow created around it. 

His shadows were correct to assume the depth of the snow. From the tips of his boots, a moderate slope led down to a dark grass that appeared almost burned. It was unlike the soil usually hidden under the cover of winter. That kind was yellow, thin and looked like grassy meadows after a drought. But this… 

Lord Gavin was right to claim it unlike anything he had seen in his long life. 

There was no sign of life there. The grass stems couldn’t even be called rotten as they spread around in an even circle. Azriel scouted that the patch may be fifty feet in radius and held his shadows on a tight leash. Though they appeared to be still, it was only him that could sense the wandering across his leathers and skin. Those pesky creatures wished to see and feel the phenomenon on their own but judging from what Lord Gavin had said and what he was seeing, he wouldn’t risk them getting too close.

“Cauldron.”

He heard the curse from his right and glanced at Cassian. He was not trying to hide his revulsion at the bones littering the expanse. There was the elk and deer and some foxes covering the space in between. Even their bones had turned an ugly grayish color, missing the brown tint they usually have. Azriel had seen enough bones in his lifetime to know that this was not what they ought to look like. 

Azriel’s gaze wandered further in, passing by more and more corpses, all animal. Stood perfectly in the middle was a pine so thick that it would take two grown males to encircle it with their arms. The bark was chipping in some places and branches littered the ground. No needles or pinecones decorated them, seemingly dispersed into dust with the harsh wind. It made the tree appear barren, like those you would stumble upon in deserts and not in the middle of a mountain range. 

The color of it all was like a bad omen. 

Blackest of blacks, as if meant to reflect the Night Court’s signature shade and made to draw attention in this snowy mountain range. Azriel’s mind whirred with possibilities as to what this could be and none of them were good. Mother, most of them didn’t even make sense. 

Rhysand burst into his mind, Get Amren. Quickly.

With the command, Azriel was wind and shadow, hurtling towards Velaris.

— ✾ —

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” was the first question Rhysand asked after Amren had taken a good look. 

With her height, the snow reached up to her knees and tickled the red fur cloak she wrapped around her form when Azriel knocked at her door. She had given Varian a rouge-stained kiss on his cheek, looking downright pissed at having to be out in the cold. But she had placed her hand in the crook of his arm, allowing him to take her away. 

Her dark hair swayed in the wind coming down in waves from the sea and Widow’s Veil alike. No one could ever read Amren’s expression, not even his shadows, as she flitted her eyes from one pile of remains to another. Not a frown or a blink came from her while she simply stood in place like an immovable statue. 

She just hummed a non-committal noise, moving at last to walk down the mild slope. Catching herself from slipping more unceremoniously than one would expect from Amren, she stopped near where the withered ground started. 

Azriel looked around, seeing Cassian’s face pinch with how close she got to it, something like worry creasing his brows. Rhysand himself craned his neck to glance at his second as he crossed his arms. Bertram and Caelum were nowhere to be seen and his shadows told him they returned to Frostpoint and awaited further instruction from their High Lord. They had to leave shortly after Azriel if not even their scent remained in the air.

After Amren stood up, she returned Rhysand’s expectant gaze, letting out a simple, “No.”

Rhysand deflated. “Do you think it’s a witch’s doing?”

“No.” He nodded along, as if not even surprised by her curt answer. “There are no wards or marks around it, so it must be natural.”

“There’s nothing natural about this.”

“No, there isn’t. I will look for things but I doubt we will find anything useful. This is…” she clicked her tongue, “peculiar.”

“Peculiar is not the word I would use, Amren,” piped up Cassian, moving from his place when Amren lifted her manicured hand. “Dangerous more like.”

“Perhaps we have angered the gods. Toying with death and escaping it not once but five times.” Amren looked right at Rhysand while speaking the last part of her response. And thankfully, Rhysand had his wits about him because he did not react.

“Don’t speak things like that into existence,” murmured Cassian, pulling her up with his hands around hers. Amren ignored the jab and once at the top, returned her gray eyes to the tree in the middle.

Rhysand sighed, first of the many signs that he was unsettled by this. “The boys have left us this.” 

He lifted the sack Caelum carried and the animal within it thrashed. Azriel watched as he took the hare out by its hind legs. His shadows murmured that the rabbit’s heart was beating out of its chest, and that it must have sniffed death looming about in the air. 

Before anyone could say anything, Rhysand tossed it, landing the bucking rabbit within the bounds of the area.

For a moment, it seemed as though the rabbit was all right as it rolled from its back and onto its hind feet. But while its muscles strained in its legs, the little black eyes had grown wide and its mouth opened in a silent screech. Azriel watched on as the little animal dropped to its side again, twitching and gasping for breath. Just when he thought the suffering was over, the brown fur on its back had begun deteriorating at a rate he had never once seen before. Holes and patches of baldness appeared, turned into rot, falling off completely and leaving only skin. 

Next came the flesh and the muscle, dripping from the ivory bone as if they were oil. That mutilated texture seeped into the ground with no sound, not even a sizzle and… disappeared. Nothing remained but the toothpick skeleton, empty skull and the black soil beneath it. It was as though the earth had swallowed all aspects of life like it was its birthright.

Amren watched with a passive face while Cassian let out a string of curses making up for the silence of the others. Azriel didn’t know what to think—the explanation they were offered back at Frostpoint could not make up for the experience of seeing it with his own eyes. Most of all, his mind couldn’t fully comprehend what it had just witnessed. His shadows, it seemed, were even more perturbed than him, growing more and more restless with each beat of Azriel’s heart.

Cauldron, he should have at least tried to sleep last night. Perhaps this day would have felt less like a fever dream and more like a threat it really was. From who, Azriel didn’t dare guess. 

“Has it grown?” asked Amren with a flat tone, not moving her eyes from the fresh corpse. 

This time, Azriel cleared his throat and pointed eastward and to a stone pointing out of a thin layer of snow further away from there. His shadows had picked it up while he was waiting for Amren to answer, probably deciding that a stick would simply just dust away. He had placed it there while his brothers explained just what was going on. “Not as far as we can tell but we will know once it does.”

Following after his finger, a single dip of her chin was all he got in response. 

“What about the camp?” Cassian crossed his arms, rubbing some warmth into them. “Can we trust those boys to not talk?”

Azriel met his brother’s eyes. “Gavin trusts Bertram and Caelum enough and my shadows said that no one else knew or spoke of it.”

“Speak and know are two very separate things, Az,” came Rhysand’s hushed response and though the High Lord wouldn’t meet his eyes, Azriel looked to him in challenge either way. “If we move them further south or merge them with the nearest camp, I think there would be a lot of questions from the people. Maybe outrage too.”

“Those brutes can keep their questions, you don’t owe them any answers,” seethed Amren, finally frowning as a gust of wind almost sent her tumbling backwards. Cassian reeled in his glare before Rhysand responded with his own and Azriel, well, he found himself agreeing with Amren for once. 

Rhysand flashed his teeth but only slightly, as the ancient female seemed to be on edge more than the High Lord. “Not when there are several camps with a growing negative sentiment towards us.” 

She sneered in Rhysand’s direction, baring her own veneers. “Towards you, you mean.”

His anger was doused within the moment, a reflection of things that had nothing to do with Illyria flashing in his violet eyes. He sighed, letting his hands drop down his sides. “Amren, please.”

Her scoff was carried by the air as she walked towards Azriel. “Let’s talk somewhere my fingers won’t fall off.”

There were no protests from anyone to the suggestion as Cassian shuffled to Rhysand. 

They appeared at the front of the River House in a matter of moments, and though the air was still frigid, it felt almost warm compared to the temperature in Illyrian Mountains. His fingers flexed in his fleece-lined gloves and the phantom pain still there. 

Amren said nothing to Azriel, stepping from his arm and making her way to the warmth of the mansion. Through the slit of the open door, he could see Feyre and Mor already waiting there, asking Amren questions and being redirected to the two males appearing in the walkway. 

Rhysand was the first to step around the frozen Azriel, meeting his mate in the doorway and settling a gentle kiss on her stern face. He thinks that she never more resembled Nesta than when she was cross. 

“You all right, brother?” asked Cassian, clapping his arm on Azriel’s shoulder and searching his eyes.

“With what we just saw?” he retorted. “I don’t think anyone would be.”

Cassian nodded along, gazing out to the house and dragging him along. “Trouble does not know holidays.”

— ✾ —

The library adjacent to Rhysand’s study was in quite the disarray. 

Amren had floated numerous books down from the mezzanine and some of them materialized out of thin air, probably transported from her own personal collection. She was tight lipped ever since they retreated into the warmth of the study, her face not conceding a sliver of her thoughts as she flipped languidly through the pages. 

An image of tranquility in the middle of a storm that was the rest of the Inner Circle. 

Mor had asked Rhysand to show him the image at least five times now and each time, her face turned into disbelief and then a mixture of fear and anger. The Night Court and her family did not deserve bad news on such a day as this one, especially after all that they’ve been put through. Dropping her hand from his, she stalked to the edge of the room, leaning against the bookshelves next to Cass.

Something about Amren’s comment, about messing with death itself worried Azriel’s conscience. He didn’t want to admit to her being right—that they must have angered the Mother in one way or another but he couldn’t see any other explanation. There wasn’t one bone of religious devotion in his body but if a deity grew pissed enough to retaliate, perhaps they should start praying for her clemency.

Feyre had chosen to take the seat across Amren and flip through pages of her own, being eerily silent. Rhysand, with a hand on the back of her chair kept stealing glances at his mate. 

“We can go to Drakon and Miryam, see if they know anything,” Mor offered, worrying her lip.

Nesta was tapping out a rhythm with her foot that only she recognized when she stopped, saying, “Is it that much of a mess?”

“You didn’t see it, Nes,” muttered Cassian. Truly, she hadn’t asked Rhysand to show her the image. She simply stood by as both Feyre and Mor’s eyes glazed over under Rhysand’s psychic talons. “Dry patches can appear further south, but not ones like that. Nothing can melt a layer of snow that’s six feet thick and kill anything that lands on it.”

With a sneer of disapproval at the image presented to her Nesta returned to tapping her foot. “What if it’s Koschei, playing with us? He’s a sorcerer bound to a lake, he would do anything to be free, even play with a foreign court.”

A layer of ice settled over Rhysand’s face as he glanced to Nesta. It was Amren, though, who spoke up from where she was hunched over her book. “He’s a death god, not a sorcerer. And it was not magic, there were no wards or spells.”

“Can you even see those things?”

The model of their world kept turning in the middle of the room, and Azriel could see from his position the carved shape of Prythian and the artificial sun throwing its beams across the solar system. His eyes focused on that northernmost part of the island, right where that corroded soil was.

“We know someone who can,” supplied Feyre, cocking her brow and meeting Mor’s eyes. “Helion could help, with his libraries and powers.”

“Feyre Darling, I don’t think we should drag other courts into this if there’s no need yet.” 

“He’s our ally,” she countered, straightening in her seat to get a better look at Rhysand. His hair was a mess with how many times he had ran his hands through it. “He’s the spell-cleaver. If there’s one person we should turn our sights towards, it’s him or even Thesan. And besides, he’s our only neighboring court. If the places were switched, you would want to know.”

His expression softened. The ring-clad hand twitched in its place on her chair, as if wanting to reach out but thinking better of it. “I would also understand the need to keep it to himself. There are people who would exploit—”

The rest of the Inner Circle averted their eyes from their High Lord and High Lady as they began leading a silent conversation that was not meant to be witnessed by anyone else. Azriel turned his head too, his shadows swirling around his ear. Cassian cleared his throat once Feyre sighed and leaned back into her chair.

“For now,” started Rhysand and gripped the back of Feyre’s chair tighter and tighter until the wood groaned under his fists. “For now, we wait. We will search our libraries first, see if it does spread and we won’t allow this information to leave the court or this room. We will go to Drakon or Helion as a last resort. As of now, this is a confidential Court matter and I expect utmost discretion of you all.”

Cassian huffed. “What about the Frostpoint camp?”

At that, he turned his gaze to his spymaster, who was swarmed within his shadows in the corner of the room and closest to the exit. “Azriel, make your presence known in the camp. Let the boys and Gavin know that if they speak a word of it, they won’t keep their tongues. Keep an eye on the disappearances they mentioned.”

“I can go instead—” started Cassian but he was promptly interrupted by his High Lord. 

Rhysand kept his eyes firmly on Azriel. The intent in them seemed misplaced, he couldn’t help but think. “No, it’s time he grows thicker skin when it comes to Illyria. You’ve been hiding from your homeland for too long, brother.”

To anyone else, it might have seemed like a playful jab but to Azriel, this was a splinter burrowed deep beneath his skin agitating him since boyhood. Both him and Rhys knew it. He wanted to take Cassian up on his offer but if biting his tongue was an artform, Azriel had long since mastered it. A dip of a chin was answer enough.

“You should try, girl,” stated Amren, her head not lifting from where it was burrowed in the book. “With the powers from Day and Dawn, perhaps we wouldn’t need to even contact them.”

Feyre leaned back in her seat, a comfortable looking chair not meant for winged individuals but rather those who wanted to curl up and read all day almost melted under her demanding posture. Feyre made it look like a throne, with both her hands on the armrests and her legs crossed at the knee.

She looked deep in thought, as if trying to find that drop of spell-cleaving magic within her. One seventh of those seeds that brought her back to life, the tips of her fingers twinkled gold and the healer’s gift mixed with that of Day.

Her face turned solemn as she pondered it more. “I can only heal people with my blood,” she told Amren, meeting the ancient one’s gray gaze above the table. “But if you think it’s worth a try then we will do so.”

“Tomorrow then.”

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@tele86

A/N:

phew, that was fun!

i'm a bit rusty on the lore (might need to reread the series this summer, fr), but i do believe that feyre could only heal people with the use of her blood - the way she healed rhysand in the cave in ACOMAF. well, if any of you know the lore better than me and know that this is false, please, don't be afraid to point it out down below!

i know that not many people are reading this work on here, so if you wanna say hi, then pop into the comments and i'll make sure to respond to you all! i'm always glad to know that someone is still here and reading it.

on a more somber note, summer has started and my aimlessness has proven to be very discouraging. but i hope to get back into the groove of things and deliver you a story worth reading.

until later.

toodles!

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