#cheers lads

[peramore-adastra]

sirius and regulus were never allowed to have pets growing up, just owls necessary for sending letters and they were in no way treated like pets.

regulus grows up and somehow ends up taking in every single stray cat he comes across that is willing to come near him. his beautiful apartment, perfectly designed down to the throw pillows, is also filled to the brim with cat toys, beds, trees, ledges on the wall for them to climb on, you name it, he has it. he doesn't know how it started, it just did. and now he has 8 cats. he is constantly doing research on the best food, the best treats, the best toys, he refuses to buy anything that he hasn't researched first. he took in a pregnant mother and when the kittens were born, crying as they came into the world, he cried with them because it's so easy to forget that the world can full of kindness and good intentions, that the world is not just pain and suffering. as he looks at the mum caring for her kittens, as they cry and are rewarded by soothing touches, he remembers again.

sirius has two dogs. they're bonded so it was hard to find people to adopt both of them, but when he saw them, it was love at first sight. the two dogs remind him of him and james, inseparable and goofy. they're scruffy and a little wonky looking, but he thinks they are the two most beautiful amazing little creatures to ever walk the earth. he buys them shoes so when they go for walks in the city they won't accidentally step on anything dangerous. in the winter they have little sweaters that james' mum knitted for them. he spoils them fucking rotten and then some because he knows what it's like to not feel loved and no one deserves that- let alone the two dogs that are always excited to be with him even when he is the absolute worst company to be around, who make him smile and laugh when he's forgotten how.

[thefangirlofhp]

leaning on everlasting arms [1]

in which the world seems to have a problem with Elain Archeron insisting on remaining by Azriel’s side. 

(world slows ‘till there’s nothing left)

Winnowing directly in front of the front door was not what Elain had in mind; usually she prefers to arrive at the edge of their property, just a little before the protective enchantments where the trek to the estate would allow her those few minutes of a quiet reprieve as she walks towards her home, effectively shedding the weary layers accumulated over her skin. There’s something about the routine of normalcy that is more effective than remedies, healing powers and prophylactic nature. Each step is a greeting to the earth that surrounds her home, each moment spent is one for reflection and appreciation that reels her back into her head, helps in that transition from work to home.

But she has to smile faintly to herself at the doorknob, as she grabs it and pushes it in with enough arm power whilst conceding to herself how thoroughly rattled she must be, if she cannot wait to be buried beneath the very air inside. 

The door creaks shut behind her, and Elain faces the grand empty entryway with a sigh that seems to originate from her very soul. Her back thuds against the door for a second before she pushes herself off it, letting her satchel slide of her shoulder and land with a quitting thud.

I’m home, she half-heartedly announces, regarding the empty doorway with a disappointed pinch in her chest. 

Granted, it’s not her usual time of arrival, but the hour’s not so late so as to excuse this bare home welcome. With a frown tugging her lips, she toes out of her heeled shoes and crosses the threshold on relieved feet sinking into the plush carpet. But she barely makes it two steps up the stairs before a familiar sight comes rushing along the railing to greet her. It tugs a smile from her lips as the shadows cord their delighted way around her extended arm and up towards her face and neck. 

Hello, I missed you as well! 

They’re ticklish and teasing in their soft brushes along her neck, enough to tug a grin out from her. She wonders sometimes what they sound like. 

Where is he? 

Loyal subjects so easily betray their master as they unanimously point towards the rest of the winding stairs immediately. Chuckling, Elain hurries along the steps eagerly, her skirt swishing about her legs before she hitches it up and eagerly looks ahead of her—

Only to be greeted at the landing with a bear hug that squeezes the life, exhaustion and dust of travel right out of her. It startles a laugh out of her, if only because she’s surprised by how much she only now realises that she needs it, but she is not so insensible as to resist melting in those arms. That warmth. 

“I was waiting outside!” Azriel is laughing, a sound that is welcome and cherished, one of his arms wound tight around her waist, the other across her shoulder blades and both equally tight in their embrace. Elain presses her face against him. “Did you winnow directly in?”

She melts into his shoulder, her hands rising to cup his own shoulder blades and the base of the wings that wrap all around her, covering her like a shade, or blanket. Ever reaching. A single nod, where her eyes flutter shut and a shaking exhale escapes her lips. She’s missed this more than she cares to admit, following this particularly interesting week. 

No matter. It all melts away when her husband holds her against him, always a pillar of strength she can always, always, afford to lean on. Elain breathes in his scent, and the minute her mind acclimates itself to it, it’s like she has lost sense of her own sense. She doesn’t find the strength in her knees to keep her standing, so she melts against his chest. His arms further tighten around her, shift a little to hold her up against him more reliably and if Elain can have nothing else but this, then she will be quite content for the rest of her life.

“How are you?” His voice very nearly coos in its adoration. He presses his cheek to her head and breathes her scent in. She in turn notices the whiffs about him; he has changed his clothes, even used that cologne she gifted him last solstice that smells like him, and washed up. The house is spotless from what she can see and smell, so the staff must have been in here earlier today. 

She’d snuggle closer into him if possible. It isn’t. The locket dutifully worn around his neck makes its presence known as it presses into Elain’s chest. She isn’t quite sure anymore where she begins and he ends. She’s long since discarded any care for that. His body’s become her own home after all this time, and her his. 

“I drew you a bath,” he murmurs, moving one hand to drag it gently over her head and along her hair. “And dinner’s still hot. Rhodri’s sleeping over with Nyx.”

She is not in a hurry to escape his hold. And Rhys agreed to that? 

Azriel smiles widely at the sound of her once more. It is sickeningly vocal in his voice. “Didn’t have much of a choice. All three babies were ecstatic. He couldn’t be their villain.”

Three? 

“Feyre’s never had a sleepover before,” he quips and Elain softly chuckles. 

I missed you.

Azriel positively sinks into her at this admission, some pride and satisfaction nearly oozing out of him at being so cherished in one’s life this dearly. All he does is bow into her, sways them side to side gently and hums, delighted. 

“Will you tell me all about it?” 

Elain finally finds it in herself to draw back, and meet his hazel, gorgeous green-golden eyes. Nothing’s changed since she last saw him, but the more she looks and examines his face, the more some aching sorrow in her grows at having been so long apart. 

Later, she decides, making note of his eyes and the fact he’s utterly focused on her. I don’t feel like talking. 

A gentle smile touches his lips, and he cups the side of her face. “That’s all-right,” he touches their foreheads and just smiles. It’s a handsome accessory to his face, so frequent nowadays that she’s forgotten what he looks like without it, that there are smile wrinkles around his eyes now. The loveliest of marks, Elain fondly touches a finger to one and smiles, herself. 

Azriel doesn’t press her to share her mind, as he doesn’t press her for anything at all. He is quite content sitting with her in silence, to exist around her without much words exchanged while Elain begins to acknowledge her built-up exhaustion. A few shadows linger around, if only to play and excitedly swirl around the kitchen while they eat. 

How was your week? 

Azriel looks up from his steak, and meets her eyes. Gives a little shrug of the shoulders. “A little busy.” 

She chews around her meat. What did you do? 

Azriel’s fingers push through his hair, attracting Elain’s attention to its length and due haircut before he rests his chin in his palm. “Rhodri, ah, didn’t have a good time at school. I’ve let him take the week off. Mother and Father couldn’t look after him, so…”

She stills. Did something happen? 

Azriel shakes his head. “Not really. He was just frustrated, something stupid about a game with his classmates. His teacher said it was a misunderstanding but it got to him. One look at him and I realized he needed time to calm down. Figured school could wait, that it’s not worth fraying his nerves over.”

Elain nods, her mind drifting towards her side-project that’s consumed the majority of her time during her studies at Day. She focuses on him again. What did Rhys want? 

Azriel’s eyes remain on his plate, and his smile softening in intensity and presence, until it is nothing more than a forgotten attempt at masking. “Ah.”

Has he asked you to resume your role again? 

His lips turn, faintly. “Am I that obvious?” 

I’d be concerned if you weren’t to me, Elain smiles. I’m the one supposed to intimately know you. 

Azriel smiles back. “Can we forget about that, for now?”

Elain smiles, if a little stiffly, and nods. She too can drop a subject for later.

 (no other arms would do)

The issue was that she has started to dream again.

It’s been so long since her mind has been breached by her own exhaustion and magic, and she cannot help but resent its comeback a little. If only because she is always loath to wake Azriel up with her, and she always ends up doing it when they happen, regardless of her intentions.

“You’re all-right,” he delivers their usual nightly script in his hoarse voice as he pulls himself up and towards her, struggling to find purchase in the lush mattress and pillows with his wings and the twisted sheets she’s gone and entangled around themselves. He is reaching for her just as she is leaning towards him, mindlessly going through their usual routine as Elain’s vision begins to clears up from its cloudy haze and she is reacquainted with her own head once more. “It’s ok. I’ve got you. It’s been a minute since you’ve had them, huh?”

She’d apologize if she had the strength, or if she is confident he’d handle further disturbing his sleeping-now-crudely awakened shadows. From past experiences, they are a menace when disturbed, but when it is the dead of night and it is only them, her and Azriel, bare as they get without magic and shadows and songs, it feels easy to breathe. To find her feet once more.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, half-asleep, as they rescind to the twisted sheets situation with awkwardly bent and lying bodies. Still the fact Elain’s got her head on him is the only thing she requires. She exhales, hot and sharp, and catches her breath. She blinks repeatedly, trying to find her sight once more.

It is always an unnerving deal to lose her sight when she is awake, but she’s made her peace with it, so long she’s got her head on Azriel.

“Take your time,” he reminds, smoothing his fingers over her elbow. “Water?”

She shakes her head. Tightens her clutch on whatever part of him she’s holding.

“The fae, again?” Azriel somberly asks.

She nods.

“It’s going to be okay.”

She believes him.

(my hands couldn’t keep you safe)

In the morning when she wakes up, to sunlight streaming through her bedroom windows and a breeze dancing with her curtains, and her son curled up in her arms, Elain is absent mindedly immediately smiling.

He’s much like Azriel in the sense that the pair of them curl up like a cat before a fireplace when they are asleep next to someone they love. Elain’s hobby is to keep adding to her list all the eccentric places she finds Azriel asleep in, and recently Rhodri has been trying to get away with doing something similar, in his attempts to sleep anywhere but in his own bed.

She tickles her fingers along his cheek, because she knows he is trying to make it seem like he’s asleep but the boy is a terrible liar. His breathing is too regular and purposeful, and his lashes keep tickling her skin.

I know you’re awake, she brushes her thumb along his jaw and feels him smile.

He looks up, bedsheets rustling and his hair standing up in all sorts of directions, with a wide sheepish grin on his face. Elain finds herself smiling as she blinks the morning bleariness out of her eyes, and presses a good morning kiss to his forehead.

“Go’oh moarhhing,” he says, proud and off-tune, and charming enough to make Elain beam.

Good morning, she mouths back. She has many, many miles to go still in her learning of his Illyrian dialect, but so far the pair of them have crossed some bridges in order to meet one-another half-way. Simple greetings and nouns that get them by around one another, and they have Azriel to step in for the more complicated matters. It leaves a nice touch to their relationship, because Elain doesn’t have to be the strict lecturing parent if she cannot go on a tangent in the first place, and Azriel frets over the boy enough for the pair of them so she’s seen as the more easy-going, fun one.

Did you have fun with Nyx? She asks, in Illyrian and Rhodri eagerly nods.

She looks around her, noting Azriel’s absence, and his night-clothes tossed on her vanity chair as he always does.

Is Azriel…Did he bring you?

Again, Rhodri nods, sitting up and yawning widely. He’s grown so fast and so much, Elain’s heart spasms at the fact sadly and she finds herself surging after him to wrap her arms around him tightly before he can grow up too big to fit in her hold anymore.

Dressed and washed for the day, she comes downstairs for breakfast feeling a little better than she had last night. Glad that she hadn’t breached whatever was on her mind last night when she is sure the outcome would have been unfavorable, she twists her wedding band around her finger while approaching the table and the food laid out on it. Rhodri points towards the fields outside when she meets his eyes questioningly, and it is clear then where Azriel has wandered off to while she took her time coming down.

She opens the backdoor, and steps out into the fresh air.

He’s crouched in the grass, his arms wrapped around his shoulders as he stares at the steadily standing sapling with its small green leaves swishing in the breeze. Elain gathers her skirts to go after him when he perks up and looks over.

“Morning,” he bids, voice softer than it is prone to be without the feelings layering it. He stands up, stretching his wings and folding them back in once more. “How’re you feeling now?”

She nods, gives him a smile for his troubles, and glances at the little sapling planted in honor of the life that failed to take place in her womb. Elain had figured back then if it couldn’t find purchase enough in her, then at least giving it a place to dig roots in with a tree was better than nothing. Azriel only comes here when there’s a song playing in his head, a tune that Elain doesn’t like him listening to alone.

So she holds out her hand and threads their fingers together when he accepts it.

Are you all-right?

He nods. Glances at the tree growing up in the way nothing they could ever conceive would. “Yeah. Just—Just a little sore, today, you know?”

Damn her if she doesn’t feel tender in her own soul as well, the way that warrants gentle hands and kind words.

Does it have to do with what Rhys asked of you?

Azriel meets her eyes, his mouth twitching. “Yeah, I suppose,” he replies lowly, the sores too chafed and sensitive to stand lying. “Why are you bruised?”

She chuckles. The Order; they want me to take my rightful place amongst them.

His eyes squint a little as they flicker between hers. “Your precious Order likes to peacock around this continent like they’re a sophisticated elite of superior purebreds elevated above the superfluous and lousy workings of everyone else, but in the end they’re exactly like every other system on this earth.”

Elain smiles wryly as she follows him back inside, hands still clasped.

“It’s primitive, do they realize that?” he makes her take a seat while grabbing a slice of toast. “Basing the system of their hierarchy on pure strength alone.”

It’s lovely to hear you berate the way the witches operate just because they want me to lead them. Every day you flatter me more.

Azriel grins, filling up her plate with her favorite foods. “Don’t pretend you don’t hate it,” he knowingly says. “If you didn’t, you’d be skipping your way all to the top.”

I hate that I must shoulder a responsibility I have yet to understand the scope of its burden, she shoots, biting into a bright red strawberry that immediately softens all her tense muscles and locked up jaw. She indulges in the rich savory taste coating her tongue in all its fresh sweetness. Mhm, these have come in nicely.

“I remembered to water them every day,” he says proudly, pushing Rhodri’s plate towards him. In Illyrian, Elain manages to figure out him telling the boy to eat his fruits before turning back to her. “They still hounding you about it?”

All week, she scoffed. Oh and there’s a new song they’re preaching, as well. About my marital status, they want me to remedy that in order to achieve my full potential.

It does exactly what she anticipated it doing. Azriel’s smile slides off, and his tone sobers as he abandons his interest in breakfast.

“I see,” he slowly remarks, reaching for his coffee. “But you are married.”

Not according to magic.

Azriel slowly tenses, working food from between his teeth as he regards her, and she wonders if his intelligence is a curse or a gift. It surely saves her from having to find all the words.

“You’ve been told to remedy your partner,” he points out tightly.

Elain nods. She’s heard nothing all week-long but objections and whines and pleas from her fellow witches, from her own teachers. “You could have picked anyone but the shadowsinger,” is the general bemoaning. “Anyone but him.”

He is quiet for long.

“I suppose the witches have someone suitable in mind?” he adds quietly, his eyes lidded and coded. “Your mate, by chance?”

Your intelligence is one of the things I love so much about you. Elain blinks back at him.

Why this week, one might wonder?

The simple headache: Lucien has finally plucked up the courage and strength to give Day its lost-heir, and meet Helion with his mother in tow. It has been the event of the entire week, the court celebrating day and night by order of one rejoicing Helion unable to adequately function beneath the weight of all that happiness and reconciliation. Elain was pleased to once again make the acquaintance of Lucien who has become a sort of friendly face in a sea of strangers that Elain would be glad to talk to in a mixer. Yet during those parties, Elain had felt the weight of the entire court’s eyes on her, and him, simply edging them on. Waiting with sheer baited breath for the dramatic conclusion to a climax that has enthralled so many souls.

“She’s married,” Elain overheard a conversation, one that was repeated time and time again in different tones and words. “I hear she’s raising a child, as well.”

“To the Night Court spymaster,” was the sneering reply, the abashed and disgusted opinion. “A shadowsinger. She shall definitely drop that farce of a relationship soon and find her rightful place.”

Elain has come to loath the term: rightful place.

Azriel? Say something?

He leans back in his seat, regarding her with hooded eyes and an impassive face. His lips part as he breathes in and says: “You pledged yourself to me for all eternity. You’re mine, and I can’t pretend like it doesn’t enrage me when others say otherwise. By what right do they see me as the lesser option?”

People don’t see us that way, she replies, twirling her fork between her knuckles.

“Fuck people,” he states, as he had that night once upon several years ago when he tipped the axis of her world and asked her to choose him. “Fuck the world. You’re mine; it’s a done deal. No-one’s giving you to anyone else, ‘cause I won’t let them, yeah? I’ll do whatever it takes to drive that message home.”

I’m not going anywhere, she gently reassures him.

“Then why are you thinking about it?”

It silences her. Not that there is some truth to the sentence, that Elain is seriously contemplating somehow exchanging her current life for another, but by merit of the shine in his eyes he quickly blinks away from Rhodri’s watchful gaze and the cracked syllables of his tone privy to her ears only.

I-I’m not, she answers, steeling herself against the hurt in his voice that is not allowed to reflect on his poker face. I only told you about it to share my mind, and what happened.

Azriel looks down into his cup of coffee. Does he somehow think that Elain would ever give this up for anything in the universe?

Here is a small truth about her: although she is nestled in the friendships of people who will sacrifice their livelihoods and lives for the greater good, for the common dream, are willing to give up and suffer so that others do not, Elain is not that person. To sacrifice means to give up something precious, and if Elain is willing to part with it no matter how much it hurts, then it is not precious to her. Sacrifice meant things like giving up Azriel, these mornings having breakfast together in the kitchen with the sun shining and exchanging conversation and teasings, giving up this life that Elain has never thought she could ever have.

Elain could never give those up.

“It does not feel good,” he confesses softly. “Being reminded of all the reasons we cannot exist together. Sometimes I think about everything you’re sacrificing and giving up, and it gets hard to breathe under all that weight.”

Again, with the sacrifice.

I don’t regret my decisions. They’re not yours to be responsible for.

His lips twitch. “I know that. But when I’m reminded of everything you ought to be, the people you’re meant to be with, I feel a crushing responsibility to live up to it. I feel that I must make it worth it, for you. Everything you’ve given up.”

Azriel glances out the large windows at the gardens outside, where he’d been a moment ago, and Elain’s heart sinks in her chest. She doesn’t pretend that this is a wound that has not existed since she accepted Azriel’s proposal, and it is still raw a little to bear.

Although she had agreed to Azriel’s one condition on getting married, the pregnancy was still an accident that neither of them meant to happen. Though Elain had been overjoyed at the start, it was Azriel who grieved from the very moment because he had the foresight Elain was too blinded by joy to use.

It wasn’t even a babe; when Elain miscarried, it was only a slough of tissues and blood—a lot of blood—and in the midst of it, a peculiarly shaped blob that would have become a body. Madja had taken one look at it, at the horrific way it was malformed and the word monster was left unspoken but hanging in the air. Elain had still loved it, and grieved for it and buried it outside in the gardens while her heart learned to carry the weight of this particular wound.

Azriel, naturally, took no joy in being right. They could never reproduce, by merit of their adverse powers that are usually passed on to the child. It seemed the shadowsinger curse and the witch’s magic were not able to adequately co-exist in the child, had ended up killing it.

There was simply no place in Prythian, or the world, that could adequately host this assault on nature.

That’s not fair to you, she pipes up. I don’t hold you responsible, and I’m sorry if you do. But what is love if not something we constantly use to better ourselves? I’m not sorry you’re constantly trying to be a better person, but I am sorry it plagues you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, looking down at his plate. “I know.”

Would…What would you say to coming with me to Day and attending a formal function to quash any thoughts?

He looks up. “Aren’t you meant to do that?”

She pauses as the implication of her words sinks in.

Oh, no I apologize. I don’t want you to assume I accept people’s opinion, or that I entertain them. I am very vocal about my marriage. I only meant it would help cement the permanence of our relationship in my colleagues’ regards.

“You’ve never been vocal about anything in your life,” he quirks a brow and she makes a face back for his joke. “Elain, be honest with me about something.”

Her heart slows down.

He leans forward on his elbows. “When we got together, we spent weeks working out all the implications of it and being aware of the aftermath. So far, it is nothing we have not expected.”

She bops her head, breakfast forgotten.

His eyes flicker between hers curiously and her heart perks up at the spark in his gaze. She should have known better than to fly under the radar of his intelligence.

“There’s something new at play we hadn’t anticipated. Isn’t there?”

It feels like the entire morning comes to halt, and though his words are gentle they have the effect of buzzing in her ears as if he’d bellowed them. Elain’s fingers tighten over her fork and knife and his eyes flicker briefly to the action before returning to her eyes.

It’s just a thing. She says pathetically. The witches have been telling me. H-Helion warned me about it a while ago. It’s why everyone’s fretting over everything that is their business and not.

Azriel pauses, eyes sharp and alert.

Golden witches aren’t in the habit of living long, she says to the plate of barely-touched food. It’s an opinion. Well, a paranoia really, because witches like me are extremely rare in the order by merit of… the lack of longevity. And they’re not willing to let it happen, in my case.

Azriel, to his credit, doesn’t say anything.

Rhodri decides that moment to pipe up. Tapping his spoon against his plate and pointing to the plate of lemon tarts. Elain averts her eyes from her husband to quickly help him to a serving and other pastries. Rhodri gives her a charming beam before tucking in without a care in the world.

When she looks back at Azriel, he is paler than he was a few seconds before. His heart is violently thundering in his chest and shadows are a thick swarm around him before he waves them away sharply.

“Why.”

No-one knows why, Elain tells the fruit bowl with a shrug. There are opinions that the magical load is too much of a burden. That we take more than we are meant to, and it exhausts our life. It’s—it’s why I’m pushed to entertain Lucien as a mate, there’s an opinion that sharing the load would be…beneficial.

“An opinion?” Azriel rushes out, breathless.

I’m not particularly convinced because other witches before me were documented to have mates and it didn’t change anything. Hypatia was un-mated, and as you know, a legend. But she died by treason, not her magic. So it’s a flimsy reasoning, and I didn’t want to tell you because of that.

“How long have you known?”

She meets his eyes, finally. I’ve been warned from the start to put a leash on it, or it’d turn against me. It’s why Helion was pressed to offer me an education and a chance to control it. But the mates thing—it was only seriously proposed this week.

See, times like this, it’s one of the reasons she has tumbled and fallen and rolled down a mountain slope in love with him. Azriel does not panic, doesn’t lose his head as she feared and has seen her sisters’ mate do. All he does is stare, and stare, and stare long and hard at her quietly for so long. Elain could imagine his mind a collection of cogs and metals furiously turning and working themselves into a dysfunction.

“And there’s no way to stop it?”

It… she searches for the words. It’s not much of an inevitable demise, Azriel. Just a pattern noticed amongst witches like me.

“Of dying, by some tragedy or their own magic turning against them,” he clarifies. “Right?”

Well, when put that way.

I suppose. But—But it could be millennia from now.

“Or a couple of years.”

She purses her lips. Nods.

He blows out a long breath between his lips and reclines back in his chair. “What is the problem, exactly?”

I keep telling you, it’s—

“Elain, just entertain me.”

Well I don’t know, do I? If I did for sure, we’d have the answers by now.

“But there’s a general hypothesis, isn’t there?” he folds his hands behind his head. “Otherwise the witches wouldn’t be pushing you to Lucien as a solution.”

I think the idea is that the magic grows in you the more you practice. And inevitably you cannot handle it anymore and it turns on you. The idea of a mate is to split that burden, but it’s useless in my opinion because by that reasoning it will also overpower the mate.

His eyes flicker. “That’s not a mate bond. You’re looking for carranam.”

The word feels heavy on her ears. She’d never heard of it before.

I don’t understand.

“The premise of sharing powers,” Azriel clarifies as he leans forward, his wings shifting behind him as he sweeps aside breadcrumbs off the table. “Mates don’t do that.”

…Oh?

“Yeah,” he nods, examining her face closely. “I thought the witches would know the difference.”

Well…either way it’s not a solution.

“Sounds to me you need a siphon.”

She blinks. If the answer were so easy, surely the witches would have long guessed it by now. If it is such a problem of existence for an entire subspecies of witches, surely the answer cannot be so simple.

It’s not a matter of summoning the magic, she slowly says, confused. But an abundance. I think.

He nods.

Can you somehow store magic in it?

“I don’t know about storage, but it’s the nature of siphons to drain. You can siphon your magic through it consistently, without having to use it.”

Elain blinks. That easy?

Would it be able to stand a witch’s magic?

He chuckles. “Sweetheart, it channels Illyrian power. Power meant purely for destruction and havoc. They don’t fracture. The average blood-shedding agent of terror we call a warrior needs only one and it adequately serves him. I think you’ll do just fine.”

Somehow Elain gets caught up once more in the realization.

And you use—no, need seven constantly.

Azriel quietly stares back at her. Arms folded on the table as he leans forward, in a simple sleeveless black shirt hugging his torso, the locket hanging from his neck, black fitting pants and arm-guards bearing two cobalt siphons and he looks so normal, sat in the sunlight with breakfast before him and a child next to him and smelling like Elain’s lavender bar of soap that he must have used again this morning, freshly cleaned hair swept back to the sides. Sometimes, most of the times, Elain forgets. That with her lives one of the world’s most renown terrors, one of the most powerful people in history.

And Elain has him watering strawberry bushes. Brewing chamomile tea on rainy days. Folding laundry.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you constantly forgetting that,” he points out. “I’ve never been anything else to anyone, and that you’ve never seen me that way…”

Elain blinks, and remembers herself and what they were discussing.

So would a siphon do the trick?

He raises his hands. “I wouldn’t know. You and your witches should be able to say so.”

If it’s so simple, why hasn’t it been used before?

Azriel stares. “You want the Illyrians to export their siphons to the world? They’d rather export their own decapitated heads than expose their secrets. Here, try using one of mine.”

She hesitates in accepting the siphon delivered into his palm from a dutiful shadow.

What if I break it?

He smiles softly. “That’ll be a first. They’re not breakable.”

Elain cocks her head. What happens if you channel all your power using only one?

Azriel wryly grins. “All-right, they’d break. For now, try using it and see if it helps.”

To accept the cobalt blue gemstone somehow feels to Elain like they’ve exchanged wedding bands on their fingers once more, or something equally significant. Elain cradles the stone in her palms as if it is the most precious thing she can hold, despite being told she cannot break it, but still she is gentle. It’s more of a personal statement, that a possession of Azriel’s must be treated with respect on principle.

Would I be able to have my own?

“I don’t know,” Azriel says softly. “They’re handed out to warriors. Illyrians, most importantly.”

I’m married to one, am raising one, and daughter-by-law to two, no, three. And one half-Illyrian. Am I not Illyrian enough?

His lips tug into a smile she loves to see. “When you put it that way, it sounds so simple.”

Could I try?

“You needn’t ask me for permission, I wouldn’t mind giving you all seven of mine. But I’ll take you to see one, if you’re serious and it helps.”

It’s something about the way he says the words, how his lips twist around them, that makes Elain snag onto something tucked between the consonants.

She smiles. Thank you.

He hums, folding his hands behind his neck while watching her. He glances at Rhodri and his face twitches before he taps the table and sharply points to the boy’s leftover eggs with a warning glare. Elain has to hide a smile. Sometimes the language of parenting needed no words to be heard, nor was it restricted by languages and meanings. It was touchingly universal.

“I’ll take you up on the invitation to Day, though,” he muses and snags her attention back once more. “There’s a few things I want to find out.”

Elain leans forward. Will you attend some functions with me, please?

His brows twitch as he fails to hide an amusement off his face. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Elain knows exactly what he means. Her eyebrows further curve. Oh please, please, Azriel? It would mean a lot to me. It’s so easier to shut up gossipers and opinionated people by simply shoving it in their faces rather than go blue in the face explaining.

“I wouldn’t know what to do.”

Oh it’s simple. You just exist there, dance a few with me if they’re warranted, do your brooding and scary male act and quite simply get the message across that no-one is to mess with you or us.

His face softens and his eyes roll away. Elain feels that she has snagged whatever that something was, hidden deep inside him ever since she got home last night.

“I don’t want to do that.”

The words are spoken so simply, softly as well yet they knock the breath from Elain’s chest.

Before her mind can spiral, she forces herself to understand.

Why?

He is looking out the kitchen windows, his expression open and vulnerable and Elain doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to seeing him expose himself to her this way. Safe enough to do so.

“I…” he begins slowly, working through his thoughts and determining his words at his own pace. “Rhys asked me to take up my previous post.”

So. Bullseye.

And?

“I don’t want to do that, either,” Azriel murmurs. “I think I’ve hung up my armor for good. I don’t want nor need all seven siphons. I don’t want to be a nightmare anymore.”

He glances at her, stunned as she is, before adding: “Nor do I want to scare people into respecting me.”

Elain doesn’t have the words.

He clears his throat. “I’ve gotten used to being the way you see me. It’s a nice thing to be—I don’t hate myself for it. I don’t want to hate myself again. It’s a bitter taste.”

In a sense, Elain falls even more.

 (my compass, my transport)

Elain’s apartment is quaint and tidy. No-where near the estate they live in, yet it fulfills her purposes adequately. Azriel is somehow too large for it, but fits right in as he always has.

She wakes up early as she always does, feeling beads of sweat rolling down her forehead and sticking her hair to her head. Still, she finds herself asleep on his shoulder, even though he is too warm a body for her coping skills, and just as sticky.

Conjuring a cooling spell does just the trick, and the little smile curling his lips in answer startles her.

“Well called,” he mutters, mostly asleep, and curling into her as if she isn’t gasping for air. Truly, the whole engulf-your-loved-one-in-your-sleep phenomenon is impractical and claustrophobic but damn Elain if it doesn’t make her feel safer, in the otherworldly sense, and a little smug.

To her surprise, Azriel spends his time actually browsing the libraries in Day instead of the attractions. Somehow she is a little disappointed that he shadows her in the library for educational purposes, and not some as fun distraction. Elain works on her project while he flips through ancient texts and tomes, and consults scholars.

In the evenings, Elain takes him to the functions she’s obliged to attend. Dinner parties and mixers and actual parties thrown in Lucien’s honor still. Whenever he is placed in the vicinity of a witch, it is like squaring down a cat and dog, but it’s to Elain’s surprise that Azriel charms every soul he meets and their mother.

It’s not that she doesn’t know he is a painfully polite person—it’s one of the things about him Elain loves the most. How civil he is, and levelheaded in situations. But some part of her realizes that she’s never really seen him around strangers, in the sense of people not from Velaris which by now all feel like an extension of family. He is formal and polite, respectful and charming, and Elain realizes it’s one of his sharply honed skills for espionage. After-all, one did get more flies with honey than vinegar.

And soon, he is naught but the talk of anyone who knows Elain and is in on the gossip. Even the witches end up somewhat tolerating him, if not liking him.

But still, it does not stop them pushing the Marry-Your-Chosen-Mate agenda.

After escaping one strenuous discussion of the matter, Elain seeks refuge by the refreshments table of the party, gasping for air as she downs one glass after the other.

“Hey, who’s gotten you sweating like a traitor at court?”

She whirls around, finds herself face to face with an amused-looking Lucien.

Madeline. She’s very close to driving me off a cliff.

“Hmm,” he nods, brows jumping. “To be honest, she’s been hounding me as well.”

Oh no.

“I know,” he crosses his arms over his chest. “I figured if people saw us talking, it’d shut them up for a while. It’s hard to have a whole court meddle in your affairs, I think I am becoming nostalgic for the times I was mostly ignored and neglected my entire life.”

Elain gives him a fleeting grin. How are you finding it?

Lucien shrugs, but there is a smile on his face. “I like it, really. And seeing Mother happy makes it tenfold easier.”

She really did seem to blossom here.

Lucien glances at her. “Surprisingly enough, so has your husband.”

Oh, he’s just showing off his manners. Deep down, he can’t wait to go home. To be honest, neither can I.

“What’s he here for, exactly?”

I caught him with Girona heads-buried-in-tomes and making notes like they’re about to be tested, so I didn’t bother prying. He’s finding answers.

“What for?” Lucien nicks some of the finger sandwiches plated behind them.

The question of the longevity of my survival, how to make sure my own magic doesn’t betray me, things like that.

“Excuse me?”

Mmhm. He’s starting to have nightmares I’m going to drop dead any day now.

Lucien stares. “What’s—I had no idea.”

Apparently golden witches don’t survive long and so Azriel and the entire Order is trying to amend that. They’ve got a whole plan which includes pushing me to take my place as the Grand Witch Supreme, accepting you as a mate, and a whole lot of hoops to jump through.

“What?”

Don’t worry, I shot down our bond from the start. It’s not an option, so you needn’t worry about having to make some grand heroic sacrifice to save my life.

He stares. “So that’s why I’ve been hounded. I would be somehow helping alleviate your demise, in a way?”

No, at least not by merit of being my mate. Azriel says it’s a feature of carranam, which happens to be extremely rare, so we needn’t worry about that either. The witches didn’t know that, surprisingly. Oooh…or did they?

Elain sighs through her nose, watching the socializing fae make conversation until she catches Azriel speaking with Helion.

Her husband does clean up nicely, if she gets to say so. Physically and temperament-wise, as well. Everything about him is relaxed and conversational, easy going and sociable. This is the same male who hides in the storage cupboard under the stairs during family dinners when Cassian has had too much to drink.

“Well if you need my help, I’ll be glad to offer it,” Lucien bids her a goodbye before walking off, just as Azriel finishes his conversation with the High Lord of Day and comes find her.

“There you are.”

Here I am.

His arm cords around her waist as he presses his lips to her temple.

Elain leans into him, the reliable weight of him, sturdy and always there. She is of half a mind to fall asleep against him right now and then, confident in his arm to keep her up. The past weeks have been nothing short of exhausting, and she has the urge to scrub it out of her very skin.  

Have you found your magical solution?

Azriel brushes his lips against her temple again. “We’ll see.”

___

tags: @tswaney17 @julesherondalex @mis-lil-red @gorl-power @thesirenwashere  @stars-falling @trying-to-read @dreamerforever-5  @hail-doodles @eloeloeheheh @i-am-lost-in-my-world @abraxos-is-toothless  @queen-of-glass @elrielllll @negativenesta @b00kworm @harmonyindark245 @ducksmurf135   @empress-ofbloodshed-writing @sleeping-and-books @thewayshedreamed @agem10 @superspiritfestival @maybekindasortaace @maastrash @courtofjurdan @ireallyshouldsleeprn @gracie-rosee @bookstaninthesoul @elriel4life @fawnandshadows​ @123moiaussi @impossiblescissorspeachpaper

[heraldofcrow]

Some Headcanons For Queen Annalise

I can’t just sit here and complain about the lack of Annalise content without doing something about it myself, so here are some ideas for Annalise’s character, pulled straight from the depths of my Tumblr drafts and cleaned up at last.

—

Character and Family Origins

Annalise was a very different individual as a child. I based it off of the cut content version of her character in Bloodborne, where she was voiced by the Doll’s actress and was portrayed as a very frightened, docile girl. Certainly not the cynical and poised queen we meet in-game. Anna was a very sweet, whimsical, and idealistic child, even a little ways until her teens. She smiled often and romanticized her royal position with the day-dreaming eyes of youth. Her people adored her lilting, light-hearted and laughter-fueled demeanor. She was the delight and heart of her kingdom.

Annalise as an adult was a different story. The circumstances and events of her life, as well as her mother’s vile influence turned her into a very cunning, merciless, and bitter woman around the time she was crowned queen. The Healing Church only knew this version of Annalise and condemned her as an evil witch-queen of blood. In truth, this outer semblance of cruelty and ruthlessness was Annalise’s armor. She used her reputation and mythology to frighten and manipulate her enemies and political allies, as was necessary to prevent any sign of weakness within her kingdom from being unveiled. Whether this dangerous queen was truly so callous and cold behind closed doors was a mystery to most. It’s safe to assume that her inner, vulnerable child was mostly dead, but perhaps to some she dared reveal it.

Annalise had one younger brother who became her captain of the royal guard for many years. The two were quite close, but as Annalise grew older, their relationship became somewhat complicated as the brother began to realize the ways in which his sister used him as a pawn in her game, but with the intent of compensating for it with lavish treatment and public displays of honor for his name. He was less her equal as an adult, and she treated him as such out of necessity. He rarely expressed any resistance, but his secret mix of resentment and admiration for his sister prevented them from remaining as close as they were in childhood.

Annalise’s parents were polar opposites. Her mother was the former queen of Cainhurst, and her father was the Queen’s Consort. There was no love between these two people, but Annalise’s father adored the only daughter born of his spiteful marriage. He was a foolish, naive man with nothing more than a desire to enjoy his life and dote on Annalise, who cherished him in return. However, Annalise mother was a narcissistic and abusive figure who wanted her daughter to become a weapon for the kingdom and to carry on the immortal line of Vilebloods. This woman detested her consort and the way he treated Annalise, as she believed it was “weakening” the girl and ruining her chance at becoming a competent queen. The conflict ended when Annalise’s father was sent into exile by the queen for a sin he did not commit. He never returned, and presumably because of a premature death. It was after this event that Annalise began to change for the worse.

From the moment she was born, Annalise had been arranged to marry the heir of the royal family executioners, Logarius. The desire was for Annalise to wed someone with strong and pure Pthumerian heritage in order to further strengthen the Cainhurst bloodline. Logarius himself had been a child when the decision was made, but it was only a few years later that he betrayed Cainhurst in his teens and began to plot against them. Afterwards, when Annalise became of age, many suitors and potential matches for the soon-to-be queen were lined up and offered for marriage. Annalise rejected many of them for a long while, as she refused to fall into a loveless marriage as her mother had, but eventually she did take a maternal cousin as her consort for the sake of security. It was a marriage meant for the public eye. Her plan was to have the Child of Blood, but to present it as a natural birth to her kingdom, so that her enemies would not know she had succeeded in bearing a god’s child, which would elevate the chances of an attack from the Church. Yet the long-term rivalry between Annalise and Logarius, her unabashed hatred for him and his twisted obsession with her, was what sent this plan awry and led to deadly conflict.

On the subject of birth, Annalise herself initially detested the idea, and did not want children. The expectation was forced on her from a young age, and after many failed attempts to provide an immortal heir by her mother’s demand, she began to resist the “duty” all together. The former queen even had a portrait made of a red-clad, golden-haired child in her arms—the ideal Vileblood heir and daughter of Annalise. This obsession sickened Annalise and nearly drove her mad. However, after many years of consuming blood-dregs and working towards bearing the god-child of blood, and after losing that very child in the Cainhurst massacre, Annalise secretly wished to have at least one natural-born heir that she could truly love and care for without the intent of weaponizing or using to further the kingdom’s bloodline. A child brought about by genuine love, not gods or consorts. Very few knew of this longing desire in the girl that was only ever treated as a producer of immortal heirs for her people, and Annalise herself often wondered if the desire itself stemmed from spite for this image and her mother’s expectations.

Overall, it was thought that only one of Annalise’s children survived, and the rumor was that it was the notorious golden-haired woman of the evening, Arianna, who stood out among Yharnamites thanks to her strange appearance and garb. Her origin and date of birth were shrouded in mystery, and it was never truly known if she was indeed the daughter of the lost Vileblood queen. It was well-known, however, that Annalise’s other children, including her first child of blood, did not survive. The second blood-child that she seemingly wishes for in-game is also a mystery, and none will ever know if she succeeded in bearing it.

Annalise as a queen was respected and adored by her subjects, even if greatly feared as well. Many knew her to be dangerously intelligent and unpredictable, willing to mercilessly snuff out any sign of rebellion within her kingdom, but also generous and benevolent towards her people. The Church only ever saw a blood-lusting siren that fed her fawning worshippers with the lifeblood of innocents and forced them to bring her dregs, but this was only the mythos Annalise had allowed to blossom and spread. Her philosophy was to embrace every weakness and flaw so that none could use them against her or manipulate her. There could be no indecisiveness or wavering, no hesitance or uncertainty. Annalise trusted very few individuals, even those closest to her, and considered herself alone in the world. She had to be an isolated, feared, and demonic figure in order to protect herself and her people. It was the only way they could survive. It was the way of the Vilebloods, and had they remained loyal to each other, their grievous fate may have been prevented.

—

Personality and Random Headcanons

Annalise adored roses as a child, and tended to her courtyard gardens full of the flowers as she was growing up. Her father spent much of his time in these gardens, and taught his daughter how to cultivate them. However, when she was older, she abandoned her love of roses, and sought to surround herself with Higan Flowers (Red Spider Lilies/Corpse Flowers), or as they are known in the world of Bloodborne, Coldblood Blooms. The deathly, blood-soaked blossoms were more suited to her grim life, and the looming threat of massacre. The memories associated with roses were too bittersweet and innocent.

Annalise and Lady Maria were good friends in their youth, as well as Maria’s younger brother—the future Crow of Cainhurst. They all loved to spend time in the old library, stargaze, and explore the courtyard gardens together. These three were some of the few children that enjoyed brief peace in their early lives before everything changed. Annalise was bitter for many years over Maria’s departure, wishing that the latter had not cut off her people entirely.

Annalise was taught piano, and could play quite elaborate pieces when she wished. She found the instrument to be a therapeutic escape from her daily trials, and was often found pouring much of her energy into composition.

Annalise wore a necklace with a glistening red heart enclosed with silver and diamonds for many years that many believed to be a precious ruby that she would promise to her chosen consort. In truth, the heart was nothing more than a concealed bit of resin that had been given to her by a childhood companion, and merely symbolized Annalise’s longing for her own lost innocence. She wore it as a reminder of the true heart she had buried. Few knew of this clandestine meaning.

Annalise was briefly taught how to wield a rapier and how to handle an Evelyn pistol by her aunt. She could engage in fencing with relative ease, and was fond of the pistol, but she often doubted her own skill and tended to avoid any sort of serious combat. She instead preferred to command her knights and guards with strategic intent. Yet if one were to challenge her directly, they may have been surprised by her hidden abilities.

Annalise had a very private nickname (Anya) that had been used primarily by her father. She was fond of the name, but did not tend to share it with anyone unless they were quite close to her. The sentiment attached to it was too prevalent.

Annalise loved to hold grand masquerades and dances for her people, particularly within the Cainhurst moon-dome, an old ballroom within the castle that had a retractable roof for stargazing. On full moon nights, Annalise would gather the nobles for festivities and open up the ceiling to allow the moonlight to flood in. She was fond of waltzing and drinking with her people during these nights.

Annalise loved chess and spent many hours playing against her brother or even her knights. She found that is was a way to sharpen her strategical thought-process and hone her wits.

As queen, Annalise used archaic speech and the royal “we” to adress her subjects. It was a way of distancing herself from them, holding to tradition, and keeping her outward appearance as a cold, enigmatic authority figure from another time. In private, she abandoned this practice.

Annalise’s favorite color was blue, which she had worn throughout most of her childhood. She felt that it symbolized youth and innocence. As an adult, she rarely wore the color and preferred red, grey, black, and gold, all of which felt stronger and more powerful.

Annalise loved nightingales, ravens, and finches. She fostered and cared for many within the security of her gardens. She often enjoyed training her ravens to deliver messages in the manner of the old kingdom.

Annalise hated winter in Cainhurst, even though it was the dominant season. She grew used to it, but the gentle peace of spring and its rainswept nights was when she was happiest.

—

That’s all for now, and though I do have more ideas, I figured this was a decent summary of how I see this character. She is alluring for me, because I sense that she is very morally grey and complex, but with a gentler side. Yes, she can be cruel, merciless, unhinged, even slightly mad, but she was just a child once, and a kind one at that. She did what she had to in order to survive. I love her for it 🥀

[jmkho]

ME TAKING NOTES FOR A FIC FROM THAT TIKTOK

[alongtidesoflight]

.

[mqlaren]

🇩🇪 danke🇩🇪

[soundsliketeenspirits]

life hack: warm lime whiteclaw and cold apple juice somehow round out to being? gingerale?

[shortgremlinman]

cheers

[youregonnabeokkid]

me today leaving the office early to pop into tesco and leaving with nutella, diet coke and smirnoff vodka

[bardicfrustration]

do i A) change the plot even though this is the story i want to write? B) change the character and smush them into the plot like wet playdough ? or C) just dont do it with these characters. I have other characters...? Or. D) invent a character and fix.....WAIT IM A FUCKING GENIUS OKAY BYE

[justisco]

this gonna be a repeat of the final when it was just tbo and prayer then?

[spekeparott]

Aight lads i'm headed into The Worst Year, where i anticipate 0 free time and lots of stress, so i'm logging off probably until october 2024. i might log back on sporadically but overall 🫡🫡 to you until its all over.

[thefangirlofhp]

leaning on everlasting arms [3]

(where nothing grows)

Elain didn’t mean to smack the bowl on the counter, but when she does, the reverberating crash it makes without breaking sounds musical to her ears. Ear-grating, unpleasant, off-pitch and shrieking. Something in her chest stutters before completely freezing, like it’s holding its breath, and her heart rate has accelerated, uncomfortably aware of the palpitations beating against her ribcage.

Her hands shake, with a soreness in her elbows that comes from being too tense, and her shoulders quiver.

Stopping everything she is doing, Elain tries to labor her breath. Grasps the counter’s edges as she bows her head, and recalls Azriel’s soft instructions from memory in the times when the air doesn’t seem to reach her lungs. Clear her mind, listen to her surroundings, count whatever she can and feel whatever her fingers can detect.

But her heart is in a race her mind doesn’t want to join.

Calming down means acknowledging the swirling mess of thoughts in her head, the ones she is trying to avoid and stick her fingers in her ears by wrestling whatever dough she can manage to put together. She is not in the temperament for something gentle or delicate, nor is she in the mood for careful attention to detail and sophisticated steps that had previously delighted her to follow. Her arms ache to roll something difficult into creation.

The quieter she gets her thoughts to be, the louder her emotions roar.

And they are angry, bitter venom.

She’s glad Rhodri is practicing the piano in the music room, and that Meridia is in her cottage outside in the lands. Orion is at his job. Rosehall is a calm fortress to the storm she is weathering inside her. Which is perfectly fine with her.

Her blood gushes so ferociously that she feels dizzy.

She’d have fetched her violin and screeched out something unpleasant to hear, if only she felt a little more in control of her spiraling emotions. It’s somewhat a delicate affair that requires as much mental coherence as putting together a well-formed speech or letter, to try play something—not even something well-put. Elain imagines herself grabbing the bow and stringing it roughly along the tuned strings in a way that would evoke some visceral pain in her, but even that needs a relative of mental cohesion. The kind of cohesion she is far from, at the moment.

Elain breathes in through her nose, slowly, and decides that the dough is the best thing for her rampant emotions. It needn’t even taste good, she doesn’t even have to bake it. So she reaches for the eggs in the basket, and when she carefully taps it against the rim of the bowl, it explodes into a mess of yolk and shells in her hand. Elain grits her teeth, stares at the eggshells, her nostrils flaring and her eyes prickling.

Her other hand’s gripping the bowl and she watches her knuckles whiten, protrude against the skin of her hand, feeling herself shaking entirely before an ear-grating symphony precedes the ceramic scattering all over the counter.

She’s gritting her teeth so hard, pain blooms in her mouth. She feels nauseous.

It subsequently erupts from her; a formless and nameless rage that grabs glass cups and plates off the counter and hurls them at the wall. The way it splits apart is a theatrical performance that leaves her breathless. She breaks the wooden spatulas on her knee, flings the pieces against the floor with too much tension in her arms that she cannot even extend them properly. Teacups and pots from tea earlier. On the floor, against the walls, the counter. Elain slams her fists against the large kitchen table repeatedly, plummets them over and over into the wood, her teeth nearly shattering in her clench, wood splintering and fracturing and glass piercing her fists as a visceral scream builds in her throat.

With every broken piece, every punch, it feels like she’s drained a vast unnamable feeling from her chest. Like she’s split open her palms and watched poison drain from her vessels.

Drinking cups are made into a thousand dancing pieces skittering away from her on the floor. Grabs a mixing bowl and throws it against the wall before her with none of the grace that is embedded in her. Her heart surges with the action she’s always imagined herself doing, but never actually got herself to do. She needs to break, to destroy, and feel powerful over something, anything, to not feel so small and helpless anymore like she’s a cornered beast. This anger is awkward, powerful, and relentless.

Later, Elain will further work through her feelings and break them down into neat little bite-sized calamities for her mind to compartmentalize, but right now she is preoccupied with feeling them—admittedly against her will.

It is not fucking fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fucking fair. She only has to blame herself, what did she expect?

But still it enrages her. Elain did not fucking choose to fall in love with the most beautiful person on the planet, did not choose to be Made into a witch that stands against everything he has been forced into being. What else did the world expect, what other natural conclusion could anyone fucking come to from putting her in the same vicinity as him? There was nothing easier; nothing more natural than the way his eyes would hold hers and how the world then fades away into nothingness.

She wants to scream.

She clenches her fists together as she bows over, tucking her knees to her chest and her shins to her thighs as she crouches in a ball on that floor. Everything in her shakes. She grits her teeth.

I’ll give up magic, she decides with an adrenaline-infused rush. I’ll give it all up. I’ll be human in all but body.

Azriel already slips powdered faebane in his drinks twice a day since the day he asked her to marry him, passing it off as a remedy for his chronic headaches. Not much to harm, just enough to neutralize himself. Elain knows this for a fact, because (aside from confronting him about it) the night before he left to hunt down Koschei’s Death, he didn’t take any and it was one of the worse nights she’s ever had.

Orion was much less pleased about it than anyone wanted. He wasn’t meant to find out, but he had, and the way he looked at Azriel cracked something in Elain’s heart. Pity, something sad, and a little disappointed. She wondered if he somehow saw her husband as less for it, by merit of the reflexive Illyrian classification of everything around them; if there was some begrudging respect allocated for being powerful as Azriel was.

Elain can do the same. It’s not fair that he must be the one to lock up his siphons and armor and shadows, just so they can have a headache-free day and night’s peace of mind.

But the bemoaning of her colleagues echoes in her ears. Too much effort to go against nature, she’d be berated. Not that he’s worth it. The witches needed her as much as she needed them and Elain needed the high she gets from scratching her brain.

Elain’s set on a path that includes mighty plans in store for her; she’s not been learning about all spells under the sun and learning to craft her own for nothing. Helion’s reassured her about a place for her at Day’s court that involves working with the court’s genius architects and city planners. And damn Elain if she doesn’t long for the day when she can look at some structure she’s helped build.

It’s not fair, because Elain has a brilliant mind. Because she is bursting at the seams with new ideas and solutions, oftentimes wakes up from her sleep to scribble nonsense in the closest paper or notebook she can find before her sleep can catch up with her.

It’s not fair, because all memories Elain has of such instances are tied with a drowsy chuckle following her frantic run, of rustling wings and two heavily muscled arms looping around her waist tugging her back to bed. Or their cording around her torso when she’s dropped whatever she was doing, and a heavy head resting on her shoulder while she furiously scribbles, pointing out spelling mistakes or inquiring about something illegible that she won’t recognize upon reading back later that she will be furious with herself for.

Her being a witch is tied with being Azriel’s Elain and there’s nothing she can do.

Wake up! One of her friends, Cora, at the College once shouted at her. It’s devastating, I know! But what’s more important to you? Achieving your potential or rotting away as some backwards shadowsinger Illyrian’s wife?! You can’t have everything, but you can always find someone else and if you don’t—then tough luck, you don’t need a male!

Cora was right, of course, or marginally so at the least. But Cora was also miserable, and cold, and struggled everyday with putting one-foot in front of the other because Cora had no-one; no family, no lover, friends held at arm’s length at best because she’d gotten it in her head it was an either/or situation. When it needn’t be. Why must it?

A soundless sob bursts from her lips. Because she likes being a witch, and she likes belonging to Azriel. What would her colleagues know of being so sure about one person like they’ve never been sure about anyone else? She and Azriel have their moments, of course, their spats and differences, but no-one has ever reached out and engulfed her whole as she is in their arms: weeping, struggling, laughing or singing.

Elain wouldn’t give him up even if she could.

But again, it comes back to the initial equation, the source of her grief: Azriel having to push himself into the depths of something that would wipe his soul bare, again and lay it to the wolves. For her.

He’d said that when Rhys announced them lawfully wedded in the eyes of the court before nearly all of Velaris’s citizens something in him had permanently changed. The way Vizoritch mentioned his wife choosing him over her mate had. That he looked at the world differently, found the colors brighter, and that when he looked into the mirror, the face of someone happier and gentler looked back. Someone he could bring himself to love, because she had.

She thought she understood it, but when he whispered “For you” that night, she felt the change in her that he’d spoken of—especially after bearing witness to how much everything now meant to him. When she stood before the mirror, Elain gazed into the eyes of someone that must absolutely be worth all this and it was as if this change Azriel shared the existence of was now something of a physical feature she could see starkly clear. Reminding her, forever, how changed she is by something as old as time, something tangible but made into something very much real, in a way that the Cauldron itself hadn’t touched her.

The scream in her throat scratches her walls. She cannot bear for him to give it up, because it puts her in equal amounts agony merely imagining his day but marginally slighted.

Her eyes slide shut as she threads her bleeding fingers in the hair at her temples and remains crouched there. Barely breathing, too angry and frustrated and maybe slightly hating herself. And maybe, if she is honest, resenting Azriel a little for loving her so deeply.

Despising herself for being loved is a thorn she has yet to pull out from her side. One Azriel doesn’t know of, and would never understand.

She looks up when she hears footsteps, to find Orion standing in the kitchen doorway with a strange look on his face. Elain jumps to her feet, her face warm and incredibly embarrassed all of a sudden at the carnage around her. She frantically waves her arms, once, and watches the kitchen promptly right itself, the splinters and shards in her hands extracting themselves to find their rightful places once more. She slowly lowers her arms watching it happen, her mouth dry, as she realizes how much she’s grown used to it, and come to rely on her magic daily.

She turns to Orion, her face red, and about to apologize when he gives a noncommittal shrug and walks in. “Diana’s set this place ablaze about a dozen times,” he waves a hand as he makes his way towards the pantry. “Eventually we decided to give her the cottage for her moods.”

Elain brushes her hair behind her ear, patting down the knees of her pants to busy her hands with something. I’m sorry. Can I get you something?

“I’m a grown male,” he replies, looking through the food in the cupboard. “Besides, Diana’s cooking tonight, I’m not risking it.”

Elain faintly smiles. No-one cooks quite like her mother-by-law. Azriel has a talent that he sometimes indulges, but he often goes too heavy on the spices, and is a little liberal in choosing them whenever he decides on letting his mind wander and cook something new.

How was work? She asks.

He hums, settling on an apple and a sandwich. “Why are you on a rampage?”

She blinks. Nothing.

Orion glances at her as he gathers his ingredients, still in his plain button-down and slacks, and doesn’t so much say a single thing. His attention then focuses on the bread, on the vegetables he washes, and the slices he cuts and nothing. Assembles his food, sits down at the table, and eats like he hadn’t walked into a war zone just minutes ago.

“Mhm!” Elain jumps when he slaps his forehead, putting down his food. “Forgot the tomato—can you--?”

She’s already washing one and slicing it up in neat slices before quickly passing it on.

He carefully adds the tomatoes, and resumes eating.

Elain stands there, waiting. Then figures, he’s not going to pry; Orion isn’t the type to ask twice no matter how upset a person seems. So she rubs her arms and makes to leave the kitchen.

“Azriel back, yet?” he asks around a bite.

She whirls around.

No, she drops in a seat at the table and tells herself it’s not a knowing expression in Orion’s eyes when she does. I don’t know when he will be. I couldn’t See anything.

“He’ll be fine,” Orion remarks lightly. “Boy can look after himself.”

But it’s been so long, Elain rushes. He’s been drunk on faebane everyday for the past ten years and he hasn’t so much as bothered with his siphons and powers in the meantime, not to mention the last mission he went on ended up with him losing autonomy over his body and mind and he only uses Truth-Teller as a prop for stories, wouldn’t let me go with him, or take Cassian or one of the twins and he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep for months!

Orion holds her gaze the entire time, steadily chewing on jerky. “And whose fault is that?”

Her heart sinks. I truly didn’t want him on faebane, nor have I asked. I swear, I begged him to stop it. He wouldn’t listen.

Orion shrugs. “On his head so be it.”

What if something terrible happens to him?! She cries out, her nails scratching the wood of the table anxiously. I shouldn’t have let him go.

“Let him?” Orion repeats, raising a brow.

I should have tied him to the house, she nods, feeling breathless. Made him see sense.

Orion scoffs. “Perhaps you should have,” he agrees. “But you wouldn’t have.”

She looks down. No she wouldn’t have. No matter how much she didn’t want him doing something, she couldn’t take it farther than simply begging him not to. Most of the times her pleading eyes did the job adequately, she needn’t bother with words, but times like this she is helpless but to sit and wait for either her to be right in her worries and concerns, or incredibly wrong.

“He wants to,” Orion reminds her. “And the boy’s old enough to understand his limits. He wouldn’t set himself up for failure. If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s that he wants to succeed. He’ll be all-right.”

It’s never not a peculiar thing to hear Orion talk about Azriel like he is a child, and it often gets under Azriel’s skin but Elain imagines the male has earned the rights.

What if something happens to him?

“We’ll patch him up,” Orion says. “And send him out again.”

She finds herself twisting her hands together. I don’t think I can stand watching him go again.

Orion’s face softens. “Elain, when you’re shaped the way he is, it’s impossible to shake off the instincts. I’d take Azriel’s chances, completely drunk on faebane and unarmed, against anything out there that can face him. We train our young to survive with nothing from the moment they can walk, they cannot forget that.”

Azriel wasn’t, she reminds him. Trained from the start.

He levels her with a dark stare. “No,” he agrees. “He’s been in the arms of something far worse.”

They’d yet to adequately realize, it isn’t anything out there that can face him they should fear. But what is in here, what he sleeps next to every night, that proves to be more dangerous than anything he can try vanquish.

She cannot help but sigh, stare down at the table while some of her worries fade, until her eyes prickle.

“What is it?” Orion asks, his rough tone softening in the slightest.

Her mouth trembles before she presses it tight together. Her tears slowly slide down her bowed cheeks. Drip down her jaw. She sniffs. Her hands shake as she uses them to wipe her tears.

Do you ever regret leaving your life behind?

Orion stares at her. “No.”

Why—Why must it be you who makes the sacrifice?

“After all Diana’s been through, did you expect me to ask more of her?” he tilts his head and Elain’s heart feels heavier. “I needed to give her a reason to take a chance on me. I had to prove I was serious. Do you think Diana asked me to? She pleaded the opposite. I wanted otherwise. And here we are, and I don’t hold her responsible.”

She buries her face in her hands. I don’t want him to be the one giving up what he loves. He’s lost enough. I can’t—

“And you haven’t?”

Elain looks up. Compared to him?

“Compared to no one,” Orion insists sternly. “Azriel’s a grown male, and he’s besotted with you to the point of ingesting poison day and night. The boy’s hopeless, but don’t take his choice from him.”

It doesn’t make her feel better.

“You’ve both been through enough,” Orion brushes his hands clean. “Do you not think he wants to prove himself worthy of everything you’ve given up?”

Elain scoffs, digs her fingers in her hair. What the hell have I given up, Orion? I’m nestled in my family, my community, my friends. I haven’t lost anything for his sake. On the contrary, I’ve disgustingly flourished.

“Haven’t you given up having children of your own?”

She hates how instantly her eyes prickle. Elain quickly blinks them away. If—when Azriel comes back, she’s going to confess just how hallow this loss struck her chest, and let him soothe that hurt by whatever means he can. She can already imagine his soft voice, his everything covering the entirety of her like a blanket. Her eyes prickle. He’ll feel guilty for it, and so will she for being honest about this hurt and reminding him of it, but it will not matter.

He’s given it up as well.

“Azriel wouldn’t dare risk passing on the shadowsinger curse,” Orion says, kindly. “He’s made his peace with that a long while ago. It’s you who gave it up for him. And your mate. And the chance to be Lady of Day. He respects that, and wants to return the favor, but who is even keeping score? These matters aren’t meant to be tracked. If you love someone, Elain, you make it work by any means necessary.”  

She slumps in her seat, holding his gaze half-heartedly with the wobbling sheen of tears blocking her vision.

I know, she says and it is the truth. None of this is something she hadn’t anticipated. Perhaps what is throwing her senses in disarray is this new altercation further complicating things, increasing her worry for Azriel who would go to the ends of the earth for her sake.

Briefly, she wishes that she hadn’t told him about her situation in the first place, but quickly realizes he’d never have forgiven her, especially if matters had gone too far along for an intervention to be possible.

Elain’s hands sit limp before her, and she realizes that everything in her is sore, and hurting.

I know, she repeats tearfully. It just hurts, is all.

Orion heaves a sigh as he stands up, dusting himself clean and wiping his hands on the nearest hand towel before approaching her quietly and tugging her up by the elbow with a murmured “C’mere.”

Her shoulders tremble as she sinks into him, and his arms cover her like a shelter as he very much drowns her with his giant frame. Elain presses herself into his embrace, shaking, and remembers her father. How similar have their hugs been, or their warmth. Her heart is in her throat. She’d have wept if she could.

“It’s going to be all-right.”

(stay warm)

Elain runs herself a hot bath, soaks the warmth up in her skin and lets it force her muscles to relax. Meridia’s taken charge of Rhodri all day, and Elain had been made to face her feelings as a result, with nothing to distract herself with. The hot bath after dinner nearly knocks her to sleep, but the one thing keeping her eyes open is the promise of putting on some of Azriel’s clothes that have remained here and going to sleep in his old bed, in his old room.

She’s drying herself off when a shout from downstairs shatters the quiet in the washroom. Elain barely remembers to tie her towel around her frame before she bolts outside into the hall.

“What happened?!” she hears Meridia demand, and it’s the only thing she hears, or needs to hear, that makes her fly down the stairs with bare wet feet slapping against the estate floors and a towel that’s barely tucked in place. Orion bellows at Rhodri to go into the next room, despite the boy’s deafness.

The sight of her husband leaning entirely on Orion and Meridia for support, held up only by his arms around their shoulders while he visibly shakes, would have made her scream if she could. All she sees is the blood on Orion’s hands, the tight expression on Meridia’s face and the thin sheen of fading cobalt light somewhere on Azriel’s legs before she cries out his name, with everything in her.

AZRIEL!

A tortured shout escapes him, makes him clap his hands around his head and fall to his knees while his wings wildly writhe and jerk. All seven siphons glow faintly, his shadows swarming so thickly around him and around the locket around his neck.

Horrified, she runs to him, dropping to her knees next to him as she reels every strength and effort she has into shutting up whatever powers she has, into stuffing them deep, deep, deep inside her somewhere where they won’t threaten and disturb his shadows, or him.

She reaches for his shoulders as they heave.

“I’m okay,” he chants, breathless, over and over, while his teeth chatter together and agony is the only word capable of adequately describing him. “I’m okay. Nothing’s wrong. J-Just cold.”

“Can you stand?” Orion asks, trying to approach through the wild sea-like swarm of shadows. Elain repeatedly taps Azriel’s shoulder for attention, until he looks up still clenching his temples with strained red eyes. His eyebrows waver as he takes her in.

“I’m okay, sweetheart” he tells her. “It’s all-right.”

“Come on, you’re scaring the kid,” Orion urges.

Elain and Azriel look over, where their son is standing in the doorway leading to the salon, mostly hiding but for the part of his wing and the side of his face sneaking a peek.

“It’s all-right,” Azriel tells him over her shoulder, releasing his head to clasp her bare shoulder and arms. “Elain, t-tell him.”

She shakes her head, lips tightly pressed together, and shrugs his hands to her shoulders while she takes his arms and helps him stand.

“Ah fuck—!” he grunts, nearly buckling before his parents swoop in and help keep him upright. “I think I broke them.”

“Unless you want me to carry you, princess—“

“Give me a fucking second,” Azriel snaps, pushing them away, but keeping his arm around Elain’s shoulders as she braces her hands on his torso and back.

“What happened?” Orion asks after Azriel makes it to the salon and collapses on a sofa. Elain kneels next to him on the floor, her hands plastered to any part of him.

“N-N-Nothing,” Azriel manages through chattering teeth.

“It’s hot as Hell’s circles, why the Hell are you cold?”

“F-Forget it,” Azriel breathes in, opening his eyes and turning to look at Elain. His gaze softens. “I’m okay. Honestly.”

“Broken bones excluded,” his mother interrupts, rushing in with blankets and a serving of herbal tea she gives off to Orion. “Do you want me to mend them?”

Elain cannot bring herself to look at Azriel’s outstretched legs, the protruding lumps through the leathers and boots that Elain’s terrified mean they’ve snapped cleanly off at the shaft. Elain nods, please, while Azriel shakes his head.

“No, I—AH FUCK!”

“Keep still, or the second won’t snap back so neat,” Orion barks, and Elain throws herself at Azriel to stop him from seeing, framing his face and making him look at her, and not the male setting his bones back. She cups his face, while his face convulses with the second sickening snap.

“MOTHER-FUCKER—“ he howls, throwing his head back.

“Drink this,” Meridia says without waiting for answer before she pours it down Azriel’s throat. Her son nearly chokes, not knowing where to take it from; his father cutting off his boots or his mother pouring who-knew-what in him, or his tearful wife who’s gone completely quiet.

Elain cannot bear to take her hands off him, or leave his side, while they drape blankets over him and start a fire in the fireplace that no-one can stand. Orion gets him to sit up, and Meridia presses some hot concoction in his hands that she tells him to drink. Someone drapes a jacket around her shoulders, and it makes Azriel tug her to come sit next to him under the blankets.

“Sorry,” he mutters very tiredly into her neck while Elain herself shakes—not from a lack of heat, though she feels a chill settled in her very insides. “Sorry to scare you like that.”

Elain shakes her head, her lips shaking.

“What happened?” Meridia asks, sitting down after they’ve cleaned up, and Azriel’s calmed down for the convulsions to have died down into faint tremors.

He shakes his head. “Ran into some curses and beasts,” he says quietly. “Been a fucking nightmare.”  

“What broke them?”

“This happened outside,” Azriel raises his head, blinking weakly at them. Elain’s sunken into his side, beneath the arm slung over her shoulders. “I was flying and—I don’t know what happened, all of a sudden I couldn’t fly on. Tried to break my fall but it didn’t work.”

“Curses?”

“Mhm,” he drops his head against Elain’s head. “Nothing happened to me. Your locket works, sweetheart.”

She tries to find comfort in the way he squeezes her, or to be glad that it’d protected him in some way, but all she wants to do is sob.

“And?” Meridia presses. “Did you—Did you find it?”

Elain was so caught up in him that she forgot why he was out there in the first place. She looks up, and watches him shortly nod—once.

Her heart drops.

In some way, she wishes he hadn’t.

It feels so real, all of a sudden.

“How?” Orion asks, mouth open and shock is smacked on his face. “It took you a week’s search?”

Azriel shivers. He curls into Elain. “What’s it matter?”

A hesitant persistent knocking on the wall snaps their attention to Rhodri, standing there looking so small and lost, watching Azriel with a stricken look.

A rapid slew of Illyrian phrases Elain doesn’t catch fall from his stiff lips, as he stretches out an arm towards him, gesturing he come close that the boy answers hesitantly.

Azriel’s voice softens as he pulls Rhodri in his lap, running his hand over his hair and back. Elain’s too tired to focus on the words, but they’re comforting in nature. Rhodri curls into Azriel, folding in his wings tightly, and fisting his shirt while holding her similarly spooked gaze as they lean against Azriel.

“How are you?” Azriel murmurs against her temple. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was only tired, all this happened here. I promise.”

“The faebane hadn’t fucked you up?” Orion asks tightly.

Azriel ignores the question.

Elain looks up, waiting for an answer. Crooks up her eyebrow.

It is safe to say that no-one present in the room is supportive of his poison-ingestion, but he��s got the stubbornness of all the mules on this earth.

“No,” Azriel breathes. “It was difficult the first few hours, but that’s about it.”

“You’re not going to be having any of it soon, son,” Orion stands. “If you’re pressed for it, your wife takes it. Other than that—a single dose, and I don’t know you anymore.”

“Really wasn’t looking for your opinion.”

“I wasn’t asking,” growls Orion. “Take any more of it, and I disown you.”

Azriel lets loose an exhausted breath, but doesn’t push it further. His parents offer to help move him to his old room, but he insists that in a few hours he’ll be fine again.

“Hey,” he takes her face in his hands as soon as they retire to their room, and take Rhodri with them. “Sweetheart, are you mad at me?”

She shakes her head.

“Talk to me. What is it?”

Elain tries to hide in his neck, but he keeps her gaze on him.

“Talk to me,” he breathes, and she doesn’t want this to end. Doesn’t want this feeling that everything is okay now to go away. “I missed you.”

She missed him too.

“What’s the matter?”

The matter? How can she describe it, that she feels like everything has gone wrong, and she’s about to lose him?

I—

She quickly shuts up when his face violently flinches, and he throws his head back.

“Ah fuck,” he rapidly blinks at the high-ceiling. “Sorry, I’m a little tense. But what were you--?”

She rapidly shakes her head.

“It’s all-right.”

It doesn’t matter, she thinks. There’s nothing she can say now that he doesn’t know already.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

She nods, eagerly, and scampers off him. Tucking her towel back in place and pulling the jacket around her closer while he eases his legs off the couch carefully.

“You look beautiful,” he smiles, and it is only logical for her to roll her eyes at his timing, as if damp hair resembling a drowned rat and a wet towel are indeed the pinnacle of attraction. She keeps a hand clasping the jacket close while slinging his arm around her shoulders and getting him to lean his weight on her.

“I’m sorry,” he grunts as they make their way up the stairs slowly. Elain would have told him to sleep where he was, but knows it is pointless. “Orion’s right. I can’t take faebane now.”

You idiot, she’d say, or some variation of it and he’d understand.

She helps him change and wash up, before putting him to bed. He watches her slip on his shirt from beneath the weight of the heavy blankets, and braid her hair. Elain slips out from the room under the guise of going to the adjacent washroom, and sends a brief prayer of thanks for Orion who’d left a vial of blue powder hidden next to her hair products.

“Elain?!” she hears Azriel shout from the room, when she dumps it in a drink of water and downs it in three quick gulps. “ELAIN!”

She runs back to the room, where he’s trying to get up from bed, and he pins her in place with a furious glare.

“What the Hell?!” he yells, and she raises her brows in answer while crossing her arms. “Don’t—why did you—How much did you take?! How much?!”

She approaches him, nudges him back into bed before climbing in after him.

“I can’t feel you,” he utters, voice thick and panicking. “I can’t feel you. Why did you do that? I can’t feel you anymore.”

Because he needed the rest, and needed his shadows to be at peace enough to let him do so. Because he can’t ever, with her magic around to make him constantly feel on edge. And because he’s a right ass who deserves to know what it feels like in turn.

___

Tags: @tswaney17​ @julesherondalex​ @mis-lil-red​ @gorl-power​ @thesirenwashere​  @stars-falling​ @trying-to-read​ @dreamerforever-5​  @hail-doodles @eloeloeheheh​ @i-am-lost-in-my-world​ @abraxos-is-toothless​  @queen-of-glass​ @elrielllll​ @negativenesta​ @b00kworm​ @harmonyindark245​ @ducksmurf135​   @empress-ofbloodshed-writing​ @sleeping-and-books​ @thewayshedreamed​ @agem10 @superspiritfestival​ @maybekindasortaace​ @maastrash​ @courtofjurdan​ @ireallyshouldsleeprn​ @gracie-rosee​ @bookstaninthesoul​ @elriel4life​ @fawnandshadows​ @123moiaussi​ @impossiblescissorspeachpaper​ @casuallivi​ 

[gregory-meowse-md]

Omg meow 😍😍

[marshmellonew]

good morning! 🌸🍊

[incoherentbabblings]

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