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casuallivi · 2 years

Text

Meditation

Elain Week March 2023. Day 7. Free Day. @elainweekofficial

A sweet kiss to my our brilliant friend @nikethestatue who gives us the best nicknames. Here I am, stealing your lore again 🎵 forgive me, love you 😊😚❤️

The house felt oddly silent when there wasn’t a single loud-foul-mouth family member in it, the stillness balancing itself in the possibility of being disturbed at any minute, once one of them passed through the threshold. Her bet was on Cass, who had dinner with them nearly every night.

Elain’s love for her family cannot be measure in any metric system known for man or fae, but she won’t deny the peace and quiet is a soothing balm to her tired mind. The sounds never leave her. The creaking of worms digging the earth, the gentle unfurling of rose petals, beating wings cutting the air, water springing from between tiny rock, a cry of freedom, the quick legs of a panther chasing it’s prey, galloping horses marching into the battlefield, piercing screams of faceless men bathed in blood, waves breaking against the hull of a ship, the incessant cry of helpless females stolen from bed. Honeyed promises that demand compromise, complacency, obedience.

“Give in to me.”

Dread bristled the hairs her arm, lungs compressed, expelling everything there is inside, refusing to let her fill them back. She's trapped. No. She's drowning. Horror claws its way into her heart as water pools beneath her, soaking her gown, rising above her empty chest, threating to swallow her whole. A thousand ghost hands tug at her, dragging her down. Drowning her again.

“Breath.” The strong command doesn’t come from her daydreams, the male lying beside her wrapping her cold hand in his warm one, his patchwork of bumpy scars falling in line with the sunk gashes in her palm, fingers lacing with hers. “Breath.”

She’s desperate now, has lost any semblance of control, gasping for the air that won’t come.

“Water. Water is –”

“Not real.” The slice of her words is so sharp one might think he used Truth-Teller, leaving no place for second-guessing. The midnight voice, honed to conduct legions to glory, being spent in the mundane act of calming her down. A blasphemy of some sort, she’s sure.

Elain is lightheaded, body itching, changing, glowing. She had to lose her eyes in order to see the worlds with clarity, ancient power soaking her bones, the Seer woving itself within the fabrics of her soul, singing praises to the being that can finally contain her without shattering into million pieces. “Free,” it chants delirious, “I am free.” Elain isn’t. Elain is shackled. She’s back there, back at that nauseating day. Drowning. Dying. Dead.

Gentleness gives place to a bone-shattering grip that demands her attention. Air rushing back to her lungs in the shape of a painful whimper, desperate wheezes rattling her core. Tears stream past her dark lashes. “You are not there.” Stable words, confidant words, the constant swipe of a thumb moving back and forth over her clammy skin. “You are safe. You are with me. I got you.”

I got you.

Breath.

In and out.

He got her.

Breath. In and out. Just breath.

Elain tames the white glow escaping the translucent skin of her eyelids, the tremor in her hands, pushing the lump that clogs her throat all the way down.

A voice in the back of her mind calls her useless for failing the simple task he presented to her, tells her she should be ashamed to waste precious time so kindly offered to her. Elain holds him tighter. The voice can go to hell.

“Good.” Her cheeks heat at the praise she doesn’t deserve. “Very good.”

“I was terrible.” She contradicts. “You can tell me the truth. I won’t break if you yell at me.” Despite her words, Elain is in the verge of crying, overwhelmed with emotion. Stupid tears. She wished someone would shut her lacrimal canal forever.

“I don’t yell.” True. Azriel was probably born with the ability to make himself heard without uttering a single word, the strong essence of a leader brewing in his soul. “You think I could yell at you?” is a teasing question, an attempt to lighten the mood, but she can sense the faint hints of apprehension as he waits for her answer.

Elain knows he cares for her opinion, he has told her so. Sometimes she wonders if it's simply the family ties that bound them together, or if he has an inkling to the feeling blooming out of control from the depths of her heart, wonders if him, by some miracle, has been cultivating similar boldness in himself.

“Nah, you'd be too scared of me never letting you taste my cooking again.”

Her surroundings are perfectly clear once more. No throne room, no boiling cauldron, no evil gazes, just the townhouse living room. Couch, armchairs and center table have been pushed out of the way, creating a hollow space in the middle of the room, wood burning quietly on the hearth, Azriel and Elain laid side by side on top of the fuzzy cream rug, the only point of contact consisting in the now tightly woven hands resting between their bodies. Her other hand rests above her stomach, feeling the undulations caused by every breath, Elain trying to keep herself anchored to the present and not a slave to her cumbersome visions.

After long days of strenuous research, walking through multiple shops in search of way to grant her peace of mind, Elain came across a certain shadowsinger who stole her materials in the blink of an eye. The stack of book that had seemed like a mountain in her arms now looking like a tiny pile in his.

“Dream walking no more, how to control your sleeping body. The cognitive ability to transcend space and time...” He enunciated the tittles without looking at the books, being his usual meddlesome self. Of course he had seen it, nothing escaped the spymaster. "What are you doing?"

"Tests."

“Anything I can help you with?”

Yes.

“No need.”

“Are you sure? I am very good at keeping unwanted dreams at bay.”

“You don’t count.”

“Why not?”

“Because you accomplish that by not sleeping.”

The corner of his lip turned upwards. “Touché.”

Elain was nervous. Scared she’d take a wrong step in her journey to control her visions, and ending up losing them all together. She didn’t want to get rid of her seer abilities because of how useful they had been so far, but she wanted to tame them. She needed to. Time flow different in her head, visions stretching for days without end, seasons passing in front of eyes, vigilant months of agony that turned into years, Elain blinking back to reality to learn mere seconds had gone by, her glazed eyes the only indication that her mind had been far away.

When she voiced her concerns to Azriel, he said she needed to find an anchor to the present, introduced her to meditation as a way to stabilize her mind here and now. He told her, she should not feel pressure to unravel every vision as they came to her, comparing her hazed slumber to his unending reports. “Every information can be important for a specific cause, yes. But that doesn’t mean I have to read them all the same time. You control you vision Elain, not the contrary, remember that. Learn to choose what you see. When you see it.”

“What can I use as an anchor?”

“Anything you want.”

“Hold me.” Elain doesn’t know who is more surprised by the request, she or Azriel. She clears her throat. “Will you hold me if it gets too much? Will you bring me back?”

There's not an ounce of hesitation in his answers. “Always.”

His determination reminds her of a turbulent escape from behind enemy lines, the fear of eminent death, her resolve to at least help him to get out. Ready to let go of his neck if it meant he could fly out of there without the extra weight. Azriel had to live, no matter the cost. She needed him to.

Their sessions began with a quota of formality that never lasted till the end. Azriel was a firm teacher, yes, but he was also gentle and patient, smiling at her attempts to slack off, amused with a few small complaints. He even joked and laughed at her expenses. Physical Touch proved to be an anchor that worked nine times out of ten. Except that this anchor didn’t please her very much.

Their goal was to have him touch her as little as possible, because that would mean she was gaining control over the powers. Elain trained alone every chance she got, trying bother him the minimal possible, but it was hard to progress without someone to bring her back. Elain was growing frustrated from the constant failing.

“I don’t know if this is the right choice.” she confessed apprehensively.

Azriel’s hand laxed in hers

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No! No, I fine with you, believe me. I trust you with my eyes closed,” she wiggled her brows, “quite literally. I just… I don’t want to keep depending on other. I want to be stronger.” Elain didn’t mind Azriel touching her, but Azriel wasn’t by her side all day long, no one was. All it took for Touching to be an unreliable crutch was she being alone. “I want to be strong like my sisters.”

“You are.” His proud tone didn’t escape her. “Let’s try something else. When the next wave comes, don’t wait for my touch,” he instructed. Elain relaxed her limbs, breathing deeply, his woody scent tickling her nose, calming her anxiety. “Think about the place you are, describe it in your mind. Furniture, shapes, color, smells, if there are people describe them too. Recall their clothes, conversation, mannerism. All that is information to keep you anchored, accurate as touching, without having you at the mercy of others. Sounds better?”

She nodded eagerly.

“Give it a try.”

“Yes, master.

Their carefully constructed bubble of concentration is popped in the blast of a canon. Wide-eyes mirror each other as their heads snap to the side. Shock, surprise, confusion. Different emotions cloud the air.

“What?”

"What?"

Elain keen ears capture the smirk in his tone, making her painfully conscient of the word she used, a word Nuala and Cerridwen say so much she picked up by habit, a word she only used as a joke when her friends were around.

“Say that again.”

His amusement fades as quick as it came. There’s a change in the air, subtle, or maybe she’s the one who is still learning how to identify it. Is this what they call a scent-change? Night-chilled mist mingles with something thicker, spicier, darker. There’s a dryness to her mouth there was not there before, the picked-up pace of a heart beat sounding almost indecent in strong gallops at her ear. Is it hers or his? Gods, she hopes is not hers.

Elain disentangle herself from him, sitting straight as an arrow, tense, smoothing her hair in a nervous habit. Azriel props himself on his elbow, watching her.

“The girls–” she stammers, not able to look at him. “The girls call you – I hear all the time, so – you know – you trained them, and now you train me –”

“You think this is training?” All color drains from Azriel’s face. His anxiety confusing her.

“Yes...?” Now he’s laughing at her, his leathery wing hitting her back, bumping her forward as he spams on the rug. “I don’t understand, you offered to train me,”

“I offered to help you. We spend time together anyway, improving some skills while at it doesn’t hurt.”

“I thought these were training sessions,” Elain mumbled, feeling self-conscious. “You helped me stretch and everything.”

“You said you neck was stiff from pruning the buds.” He quipped, attentive hands finding her shoulders, gently settling her back down, “you can’t be my apprentice, flower.”

Flower.

The endearment skittered across her skin like one of his curious shadows. It wasn’t the first time he used it, but Elain thanked the mother for being on the floor, because her knees were set on giving up every time he did.

“There are lines to be kept in a mentorship. Lines I do not wish to trace with you.” For a moment there it feels like he’s on top of her. “If I made you feel like a trainee up to this point, let’s get that cleared out of the way, shall we? I can be your master any time, but you are not my trainee. Bear that in mind.”

Elain clutches the rug, eyes rooming over his wings, looming wings that expanded under her attention, spreading proudly to their full extent. They take over the room, drooping things she can’t see or care about, shadowing everything beneath him including her. His hands are on either side of her head now, not a fleek of green in his darken gaze, zeroing on her.

Burning cedar invades her lungs, or maybe she’s the one burning up, imaging what it would feel like if he closed the distance and kissed her. Her face flushes. With a shaky breath, Elain gathers her flitting courage and ask,

“If I’m not a trainee, what am I?”

His wings snap back shut, Azriel settling on the floor, a tamed beast retracting into its cave. His answer is short, simple, declaring the five letters word capable of compassing all the feelings he couldn't find words to describe.

“Elain.”

It probably was.

Because she had a six letters word worthy of the same feature.

“Are you ready?”

“I am.”

“Good. Close your eyes.”

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