#that he could save a horse and ride an Illyrian

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Breathe me in

requested: Can you please write a story where Azriel saves reader from drowning. +I added a little mission and reader being a badass.

warning: drowning, blood, injuries.

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As you made your way through the never-ending wall of rain, you started to wonder why all of you insisted that it was a great idea to continue the mission Rhys had given you today. The high lord warned you about the potential storm, and even if he didn't, you only needed to give the sky a look to know that it was bad news. But you went on with it, and now that your clothes were fully drenched, you wondered why you agreed after all.

Cassian was way ahead with Nesta. Even if the rule was to keep the Illyrian wings glamoured at all times, the general still had his wing stretched over his mate. Somewhat protecting her from the wind and shower. Azriel offered the same thing to you, but you refused it instantly. Even if it was silly. You liked him too much, and sitting so close to him felt too intimate, even if his body warmth would keep your teeth from clacking against each other. Sometimes you wondered if there was a possibility that he liked you too. You have known him for some time now. The girls constantly told you that you were just oblivious to the signs, but all of his gestures always seemed friendly, never like something more. You pulled yourself out of your head the moment your horse came to a halt.

 "What's wrong, boy?", you asked softly, even if you could name at least five things that were wrong at this particular moment. You rubbed the mount's neck, trying to see ahead. Your heart sank a little when your eyes didn't land on the shadow of Nesta and Cass in front of you or Azriel, who at all times kept to your left. "Guys!", you shouted worryingly, yet your voice died down. Washed away by the sound of rain. "Azriel", your heart started to beat faster with every passing second, "If you are just messing with me, it's not funny."

Yet you knew they wouldn't do that. Especially not now. But you needed to give yourself something. Anything before you lost yourself to the panic. You gently nudged the horse to move forward again. The shield of water only seemed to increase, completely blocking your view of what was around you. You tried to scream out for your friends again, but it got you nowhere. Only resulting in more and more frustration. You were about to scream for Azriel once again when someone launched full force into your side, sending you out of the saddle and onto the dirty ground.

Your head hit the surface, making your vision blur for a moment. Just enough to see your horse disappearing into the distance, startled by the attack. Attack. You tried to turn your head to the side, seeing a group of what you assumed to be males standing over you. One of them kneeled closer to you. Even from under the hood, you could see his smug face. Unfortunately for him, you didn't love when people looked at you like that, so you quickly inched your leg up, and kicked it right at his face.

That would have given you the upper hand to escape, but you only got a couple of feet from them, before multiple sets of hands snatched you once again, followed by the blade to your neck, "You pull any more stunts and I'll gut you from the inside out." You squirmed in their hold anyway. You were not going to go down without a fight. But your attempts got cut short when someone launched another blow to the back of your head, and everything went black.

Azriel was both: worried and slightly pissed when you refused to ride with him. Firstly, he didn't want you to get sick. And your "I'm a big girl" attitude was getting on his nerves slightly, especially when your health was involved. And secondly, he selfishly wanted to hold you close to him. Have a reason to do so. He just wanted to feel his warmth surrounding you. To know at any given moment you were safe. This rain clouded his senses as well. He felt more distressed and uneasy, so trying to ensure that all of you were safe was a task in itself.

The shadow singer turned his head your way. He tried to limit those glances at you because he knew that every one of them was edging you closer and closer to snapping at him for being too overprotective. But when his eyes didn't fall on your frame, his heart nearly stopped. Azriel turns his head to look behind him, hoping that you had just fallen behind the group, but no. No sign of you. The spymaster shouted for Cassian to stop. Riding back a little as he called your name frantically, "Where the fuck are you?", he mutters under his breath. "Let's go further back, maybe she got separated," but then the darker shadow inches closer, and Azriel pulls out his truth-teller. It was a horse. And Azriel almost wanted to let out a breath of relief until he saw an empty saddle. His shadows swirling around it. All the color drained from his face as the spymaster turned to the general, "She got attacked. They've got her."

You're thankful that they at least dragged you to what you believed was their camp. That sheltered you from the rain, and even if your wet clothes didn't fully let your body warm up, it was better than nothing. Your hands were chained in front of you, alongside your legs. With the right amount of motivation, you could probably escape but this was the male you were sent after. 

"Pretty poor look for the thief lord if you'd ask me", you snarled as the male, who you assumed was in the lead of this group, stepped into the room. A few of his men inched closer, but he brushed them away. "My apologies that it doesn't meet your standards, my lady," he says as he reaches for your face, but you move your face out of his reach, "I'd rather entertain rats than you."

The thief lord grits his teeth as he falls to the chair directly opposite you. "You're full of yourself. What makes you feel like I won't just chop you to pieces?", you let out a bitter laugh before gazing right at him. "Ever heard of a shadow singer? The spymaster of the night court?", you drag your words out like a melody. The male's face pales slightly. Of course, he had. Was there a soul on this earth that didn't know of his cruel ways? "Well, I know that if something happens to me here, he will drain your body dry, and enjoy every second of it." Now it's his turn to laugh, yet you can feel the fear lingering deep down.

"I know you've been tracking me down," "Oh, look, you are aware of some things," you tease back, but that earns you a slap on your face, even if it's not the hardest of punches. The rings with rubies and other stones make quite a mark on your face. "Listen to me, you little bitch; you answer my questions now, and I have many." Taking a fistful of your hair, he lifts your head, and you can feel the blood running down your cheek. "Let's start with what your high lord wants with me", "You're wasting your questions. Cause you already know the answer, and if you don't, you are an absolute fool", another slap, and this time it's your neck his fingers move to. 

"Where are the others who came with you?" His voice was firm, but you couldn't help yourself from grinning. "Dancing on your grave." The male lets out a frustrated growl before turning away from you. At this moment, you knew one thing and one thing only. You needed to drag this out as long as you possibly could. To give Azriel enough time to find you because he was going to find you. He always did. Even if the world was falling to pieces, he would find you. "Bring her to the shore," the lord barked out after making up his mind. A shiver ran down your back, "We're going to use some of the older methods."

The rain outside had lessened, yet the drops fell colder somehow. At the sound of the water running, it hits you. This explains the enormous fog. There's a huge river here. Two of the thieves have a firm grip on you as they push down on your knees. The sharp rocks and pebbles cut into your skin. "How do you feel about a little dive?", the lord asks you, smirking sheepishly. "All in if you join me," you bite back, but the male just points a finger, and your face is under the icy water in the blink of an eye. Considering that that came as a surprise, you barely got any air, causing you to trash in the holds of the two males as you tried to lift your head.

When they finally do, you are gasping for air, feeling as if you were on fire. The stinging in your head from the icy cold water causes your head to pump. "Now you get the rules. If you answer incorrectly, you will go down under. The more I don't like your answer, the longer you will be in the water," he says, yet now all you care about is that you are out in the open, which gives your friends an easier opportunity to find you. "So, what does Rhys know about the rubies?", the thief lord brushes some of the wet hair away from your face, but with one crooked smile, you spit right at his face, "Suck your own dick", you bark out and you know what's coming next.  Yet it's not even a slight bit less shocking. The feeling of someone firmly pressing your face in the running water. The tide of the water made it hard to keep any oxygen in your lungs since the water seemed to pour into your nose. Then you're dragged back out, gagging up the water in your system.

"I'm giving you one last chance to redeem yourself, pretty face," his fingers tangle in between your hair as he turns you his way. "What does he know?", "That you don't have them," the thief lord's face shifts. Confusion is all over it. "Sorry, I'll make it more understandable for your dumb brain. You left them alone in the camp without supervision and came here to have fun with me," rage fills his eyes as he orders his men to return to the camp, "You will pay for this, cunt." His pushing you under feels different, and you can tell that he is not messing around. Your face is practically hitting the bottom rocks as he keeps your head in the water. However, his other hand comes to your neck, and he presses so hard that you can't help but open your mouth as you let all the air out of your lungs, letting the water pour in. You start to thrash around as the fear of actually dying runs through your brain. Ultimate panic sets in, and all of your logic senses turn off.

Nesta had the rubies as she darted away from the camp, and Azriel takes to the skies alongside Cassian. The plan wasn't like this, but the moment they stormed the camp and found your handprint on the box, they knew exactly what it was and that you had left a clue for them, knowing full well that they were going to find you. The feeling in Azriel's chest was telling him that something was seriously wrong, and when his shadows came screaming at him about the water, he went into full madness mode. The sight of your head under the water and the thief lord holding you down practically made him want to roar. Cassian was the first to throw a dagger that pierced through the male's right arm. He let go of you partially, but your head stayed under. The moment he sees the two males, he drags your body up before holding you in front of himself and using you as a shield.

You let out a tiny gasp but then slumped in his arms. Azriel was seeing red, but pulling out weapons now was dangerous. "You make a move, and I'll drop her into the river", the thief lord threatened. "You've lost Albert; hand her over, and you might walk out of this alive," Cassian said in a warning tone. He was well aware that Azriel was in a primal male form now. Primal mate form. Knowing very well that the bond had snapped for Azriel a while back, his brother just kept it a secret, knowing that he was as stupid as you and had convinced himself that you felt nothing for him in return.

"What is my gain? I walk out of this alive, and Hybern will kill me for the rubies", the lord steps closer to the edge, "She's your girl isn't she?", the male nods his head towards Azriel. The spymaster's jaw nearly splits in half. "She promised me a slow death from you if she gets hurt", "I will make you regret that you were born", Azriel snarls through gritted teeth, but the lord only laughs, turning his face to you. He shakes your body a little, pushing two things down your throat, and you almost immediately choke out the water that's been in your lugs, saying, "Here you are; you were missing all the fun." Albert presses his face into your neck as you still gulp down the air. Eyes falling on Azriel, and he's practically falling to his knees at how small and pale you look. But at least you're breathing. That's all he needs to know now.

"I'm sad I didn't have more time with her; I'm sure she'd be capable of a lot," the male kisses your neck, and this time Azriel tosses the dagger right between his eyes, but it misses the lord. The male spins you out of his arms and into the freezing river as the tide takes you down the river lane.

The sensation of water dragging you down makes your skin burn. You tried to pull yourself out, but every little breath you managed to take in was met with yet another wave crashing down on you. But you crawl your way back up; you need to. For Azriel, you need to tell him. You can't die without letting him know. You manage to keep your hands above the water as another wave moves over your hand, and that's when you feel it. Warm fingers are wrapped around your wrist, and then you're out of the water and up in the air. Azriel had caught on to you while soaring over the river. "Hang tight," he whispers as his other hand clasped over your second wrist. You could almost cry at the feeling of him being there as he lowers you to the grass.

You got the rest of the water out of your system, and before you can even get a breath in, Azriel's arms are around your body as he presses you closer to him. You can hear his heart beating under your ear. It's racing so fast. So fast that this can't be healthy. You pull away from him slightly, "I knew you would come", the spymaster shakes his head. Eyes falling over the cuts on your cheek. "I thought I lost you. Multiple times," "You saved me, Az."

The spymaster notices your shaking frame and carefully lets go of you before ripping his jacket open and wrapping it over you, pulling you close to him once again. Your ice-cold skin melted into his warmth. "You get yourself sick," you mumble, causing Azriel to snort, "I will get sick? You've been under that water all this time, and you're worried about me being sick?"

With a couple of breaths, Azriel scoops you up into his arms before he moves to go back to Cassian. "I would have never forgiven myself if you were to die," the spymaster says, looking ahead of himself, "But you would find another best friend to replace me with." You rasp out, your throat feeling achy already. Azriel tightens his grip on your body. "I would send out a whole army to find you because, without you, I don't have a purpose in this life," he whispers under his breath, and your icy fingers cup his cheek slightly. "I had a feeling, just wanted to make sure. Why do you think I threatened that fuck with you?". Azriel lets out a breathy chuckle, resting his head over yours for a moment. He's hoping his body heat will be enough to keep you warm till you all get to safety. "Remind me to tell you that I'm really in love with you if I make it," you mumbled softly, your eyes starting to feel heavy. "Oh, you will make it. I will make sure that you do."

[vulpes-fennec]

Once Upon a Dream 🧵 (Ch. 2)

Summary: This time, the girl saves the prince. For Feysand month 2022’s Fairy Tale AU.

Read: Ch. 1 | AO3

Sent away to train at Windhaven at the tender age of nine, Rhysand hadn’t felt like a proper crown prince of the Night Kingdom in years. But riding through the Velaris streets in an elaborate procession and waving to his future subjects…now that was a princely activity. 

Rhysand visited Velaris and his parents, King Cormac and Queen Orla, at least once a month. When he was younger, Rhysand used to complain about being stuck in Windhaven, about how he had to eat basic gruel and sleep on hard mats after bruising days. “Shouldn’t I be spending time learning how to be a ruler? Visiting other heirs and contributing to our alliances?” he had grumbled. 

“A King and Queen must serve their people,” his father had told him. “Being in the fresh air, growing strong and working with others is far more valuable than being cooped up indoors with books all day.” 

But his parents agreed to switch out some training sessions with royal academics and lessons to harness his daemati powers. No other warriors—save for Cassian and Azriel—knew he was the crown prince. Lord Devon knew, though, only so he could make allowances for Rhysand’s ever-changing schedule.

Which was a good thing, because it gave Rhysand plenty of time to spend with Feyre. If his parents found it strange that Rhysand had stopped pestering to leave Windhaven, they didn’t mention it. 

Rhysand’s delicate nose detected the residual scent of burnt material. “Was there a fire recently?” he asked his cousin, Morrigan. Morrigan, astride a magnificent white horse, gave him a secretive look. 

“They were burning all the spinning wheels in the city yesterday,” she whispered to him. 

Rhysand frowned. “Isn’t that what they use to make thread? Yarn?” His mother was a seamstress before she became Queen, but she seemed to have stopped her hobby once he was born. 

Morrigan shrugged. “Yes. They claimed that the spinning wheels were all cursed.” Interesting. Rhysand didn’t think his parents were that superstitious, but he did not inquire further. 

Rhysand settled in his room after the welcome parade, getting ready for his dinner banquet. He gazed out his window at the glittering city below. Velaris was a far cry from Feyre’s small village, but she would love the artists’ quarter. The Rainbow of Velaris. She would love visiting the markets and cafes, too. Velaris could be their home. 

Rhysand changed into a fitted black suit with silver thread accents for dinner. He took care to place Feyre’s painting in his inside pocket, right over his heart. Where she belonged.

Feyre was his lovely little secret. She understood him better than anyone else, even Cassian and Azriel. Her voice was like a familiar hymn, her face more beautiful than the night sky. And, she felt more like home than Velaris. 

Rhysand didn’t keep many secrets from Feyre, but the one secret (or category of secrets) he refused to divulge was his identity as crown prince. Feyre seeing him beat other Illyrian trainees to a pulp? No problem. Feyre seeing him with a silver crown on his head? Hell no. 

Every time Rhysand strategized breaking out of the friend zone or fantasized about Feyre saying yes to his marriage proposal, he ran into that damn dead end: he would have to tell her he was the prince. Reveal that he lived a double life from the Rhys she knew. 

The clock was ticking. How much longer did they have together? Rhysand’s parents had grown increasingly persistent about him getting married, or finding his mate. As if that was ever possible. Mates were rare and his parents’ bond was one in a million. 

Whenever Rhysand thought about his future as King, his mind also wandered towards Feyre’s future as…an artist? His Queen? Or…some other man’s wife? If Feyre chose to love another, Rhysand couldn’t—wouldn’t—do anything to stop her. He would simply have to be satisfied with the “friendship” they had.

A chilled draft seeping into his room made Rhysand shiver. “What the hell,” he grumbled, “why isn’t the hearth lit?” After spending several minutes rifling through the drawers, Rhysand came to the conclusion that there weren’t any matches in the room. 

Not a problem, he thought. Illyrian training had taught him how to survive in the woods with the barest of supplies. Using a handheld mirror, Rhysand focused the rays of the sun on a roll of parchment paper until it flickered into golden flame. He shoved the roll under the wooden logs in the hearth, feeling satisfied when flames leapt to life in the fireplace. 

Rhysand savored the warmth of the fire. Within a seconds, the small flames leapt into a fiery inferno. Rhysand’s jaw dropped. Several wooden logs couldn’t possibly sustain such a large blaze. 

And a pair of cruel, brown eyes stared at him.

Rhysand leapt to his feet, an Illyrian blade in hand. But his body suddenly seized up and stiffened, as if he had no control over it. His sword clattered to the ground as a malicious chuckle resonated through the air. 

“The daemati princeling gets a taste of his own medicine,” a cruel voice gloated. 

Who the hell was that? 

Rhysand’s blood ran cold as his limbs moved fluidly against his will. Was this what it was like to be on the receiving end of his mental manipulations? He reached for scraps of his power, something, anything to blast the spell binding his mind. 

More laughter echoed. “All the power in the world is no match for a blood curse, princeling,” the voice chided. 

Gods, Rhysand thought horrified as he moved closer and closer to the flame, I’m about to be burned alive! But to his surprise, the fire parted like a flaming curtain, and the flames brushing Rhysand’s skin were like tickling feathers. A portal had been created in his fireplace.

The flames vanished into a cold stone wall once he stepped across the threshold. Outside the large window was a sea of orange, reds, and yellows—the eternal foliage of the Autumn. And a curious contraption—no, a spinning wheel—stood in the center of the tower, with a tall, brown-haired man next to it. 

Rhysand recognized the same cruel brown eyes from the flame. 

“I believe we haven’t met before,” the man said, giving Rhysand a mocking bow. A circlet of golden leaves sat atop his head. “My name is Beron Vanserra. King of Autumn.” 

King Beron. Rhysand had heard many horrific stories about the Night Kingdom’s toughest adversary. And he was alone, bound, vulnerable, and royally fucked. 

Rhysand thrashed internally, refusing to give up. But no amount of physical strength, no amount of mental power could free him. Beron clasped his hands behind his back, watching gleefully as the prince moved closer to the spinning wheel. 

The spindle. Rhysand’s finger was headed directly for the spindle’s metal tip. No, no, no, he panicked as the tip of his finger neared the needle.  

A prick of pain lanced his index finger. With the release of the binding spell, Rhysand staggered backwards, staring at the crimson blooming from his finger in horror. 

“You, you bastard,” he tried to say, but his words were slurred, eyelids were growing heavier by the second. Rhysand lunged towards Beron, feet swaying like a drunken sailor. 

Stay awake, stay awake, Rhysand urged himself. But it was futile. Sleep sounded wonderful right now. Slipping into dreamland seemed just as irresistible. And as a darkness darker than night itself washed over him, Rhysand’s final thought was of Feyre’s shining face.

***🧵***🧵***🧵***🧵***🧵***🧵***🧵***🧵***🧵***🧵***🧵***

Read: Ch. 3

Notes: Yeah so Rhys is going to be OOC in this fic sorry about that...anyways let's keep the spotlight on FEYRE

[flowerflamestars]

Starlight: Chapter 2

Lucien Vanserra was on fire. No, he was fire. Lucien was the flame of the forest and bleeding red of the Hunters moon. He was the goddamn fire, not the pain, and he was going to burn the High Priestess of Spring to fucking bone if she didn’t stop touching him. It was an effort, to open his eyes. Inathe wasn’t even pretending to be looking over the freshly accumulated whip marks that rended muscle and skin down his back. Stroking his uninjured shoulder, the tips of her polished nails lingering, catching on the thin fabric of Lucien’s ruined shirt. Lucien was going to cut off her fucking hands.

Read the rest HERE

@greerlunna @ribhinnog @clolikescloquetas @sunsummoner  @empress-ofbloodshed @mireillemystique  @superspiritfestival @skychild29 @rhyswhitethorn @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @city-of-fae

[nikethestatue]

Magic Is Hard

Elain Archeron Week, Day I (Powers)

“You got it, girl?”

“I got it.”

...

These words and promises clang heavily through Elain Archeron’s head, when she arrived at the House of Wind. 

Standing in front of the formidable rock formation, she sighed. 

“Nesta said that you needed a ride up.”

Azriel’s deep, smooth, gravelly voice startled her and she yipped in surprise.Turning around, she was faced with the beautiful male in front of her, who was dressed casually, in a dark grey tunic that opened up generously on his chest, allowing for a glimpse of his smooth, well-muscled chest, and in plain dark trousers. He was also barefoot. Seeing him like that seemed strangely intimate. His black hair was ruffled and fell on his forehead in inky waves, and he looked like he just rolled out of bed. Elain had never seen him in such an adorable disarray.

No. Not adorable.

She pursed her lips and stepped back.

“I don’t need anything,” she snapped immediately. “Where is Cassian?”

“Good morning to you too,” he raised his dark brow in amusement. “He is out.”

“Fine. I’ll walk!” she decided.

“You’ll walk 10,000 steps? At seven in the morning? Also, why the ungodly hour?”

“Yes, I shall walk,” she made a beeline toward the doors, heart hammering in her chest over her own stupid bravado and the haphazardly dressed Azriel. Whom, she had to remind herself, she hated. Fine, deeply disliked. And bore no feelings towards whatsoever. 

“Elain,”

“I’ll winnow!” she interrupted him. 

“You don’t know how to winnow,” he reminded her coolly. “Also, you can’t winnow inside.”

“Then I guess I shall walk.”

“Stop horsing around, woman,” he muttered through clenched teeth and took a long step towards her. ”Let’s go!”

“Don’t tell me what to do! You are so rude!” she hissed. 

Without further ado, he suddenly half-lunged at her and scooped her into his arms, shooting up immediately. Elain shrieked in fear, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his chest--which smelled so nice of cedar--as her body acclimated to the swift ascent. 

“How dare you?!” she cried out at last, looking up at him, and noticing a satisfied smirk on his stupidly handsome face, seeing how she was clutching so tightly at him. She released his shirt and he shrugged, his powerful wings flopping soundlessly, saying, “I wasn’t going to stand there and bandy civilities with you for an hour. I was asked to deliver you, and I am delivering you.”

She knew that Azriel was displeased with her, though everything was his fault, so she wasn’t sure if he had the right to be angry. However, she’s been avoiding him for months, refusing to be in the same space with him as much as possible. Essentially, her life consisted of dodging males–her mate, and this…well, she wasn't sure what he was exactly. Maybe some type of a brother-in-law or something.

They’d landed on the terrace and he almost dropped her, releasing her so quickly, she stumbled and almost fell, but his strong brown arm shot forward and caught her elbow just in time. 

“You almost dropped me!”

“I wouldn't have dropped you,” he shrugged. “And if I did, I'd bother to save you before you fell and splattered.”

She was shaking her, muttering angrily under her breath, as she burst through the doors and saw Nesta.

Nesta gave both of them an assessing look and grunted, “Well, that went well”. 

“Next time, if Cass isn’t here, don’t send him!” Elain exclaimed, walking past her sister and into the very large, opulent, and mostly unused kitchen. 

“Well, sorry,” Nesta crossed her arms on her chest, “I don’t have Illyrians on tap to come and fetch you whenever you want them to. When there is a perfectly good one here.”

Elain rolled her eyes, and wished that Nesta (and Cassian) stopped playing matchmaking games, hoping that she and Azriel would come together. That ship had sailed on Solstice night.

How hard could object manipulation even be?

Hard. Apparently incredibly hard, and messy. 

This was the task that Amren handed to Elain as homework. When Feyre heard, she cheerily announced that Rhys had also had her train on the same thing, early on. 

Well, goody for her. 

Elain bit her lip, cursing under her breath, using the baddest words that she knew. Terrible words! But she was alone, so that was fine. The kitchen was usually unoccupied, because Nesta didn’t cook, the House provided them all with food, and all the fine appliances and the sparkling countertops remained mostly untouched. Sometimes Cassian cooked, and she assumed Azriel made himself something,

No. No thinking about Azriel.

She turned around, wiping her hands over her apron. Her THIRD apron today. The kitchen was quiet, and there was an emptiness about it, which saddened her a bit. In the corner, the shadows were deep, making her shiver. She didn’t love the House, always reminded that this was the first place where she was housed after she was Made. She felt that the kitchen should be the heart and the hearth of any house, with fires burning, sauce simmering gently on the stovetop, bread baking in the oven, the scent of spices and herbs and yeast wafting in the air. This place was soulless. 

That’s why she picked it for her experiments. Once Amren told her what she expected from her, Elain didn’t sleep, pondering what she could manipulate successfully. Until it dawned on her–she could bake. She could bake, because she did it well, and it was fairly simple and didn’t involve shaped objects. So she thought further, and decided on the simplest recipe that he could think of–sour cream muffins. They were ridiculously easy to throw together, with only four ingredients–sour cream, flour, sugar and a little leavening. She could do it.

She could not do it.

She didn’t account for scooping, for mixing, for delivering the scooped ingredients into the bowl, and currently, she was groaning in frustration, tears stinging her eyes. The House dutifully replenished the ingredients that she kept losing–two cups of flour had ended up on the floor, one on the counter, and finally, the fourth actually made it into the bowl. Now, just as she watched a jar of sour cream sailing through the air happily, it wobbled and ended up on the floor, the thick globs of sour cream exploding everywhere. It was on her feet, her face, all over her apron, in her hair, on the cupboards.

“Motherfucker!” she screamed in rage and frustration, stomping her feet. “Cauldron boil you, you cock sucking dick poop stupid…” she ran out of words, as she panted. She could’ve sworn that at that moment, she heard a stifled laugh, so she whipped around and glanced around suspiciously. She knew that Nesta was with her friends, probably exercising or whatever it was that they did, and she was pretty sure that Azriel had left. 

Whispering, “Stupid House,” she untied her third apron, and tried to get the cream out of her braid, as she asked, “please clean it up.”

The mess remained. 

“Umm, House. Can you please clean this up?” she requested again, feeling ridiculous, talking out loud like this.

Nothing.

“Alright, I am sorry. I lost my temper. You aren’t stupid, it’s not what I meant,”

Another jar of sour cream appeared, but the mess remained untouched.

“Umm, thank you?” she sighed. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up.”

After an hour of this ridiculousness, and her crappy attempts at mastering the simplest of magic, she decided that she had no skills and no ability, and was not magically inclined. Wiping her tears with her fist, she begged the Mother and the Cauldron and the Princes of Hel to make the spoon swirl and mix, but it just stood upright in the thick batter.

Elain sat on the stool and burst into tears. She was pathetic, she knew it, but this was a monumental failure. She couldn't do anything right, she was stupid and without any talents.

Strong hands squeezed her shoulders from behind and Azriel cooed in her ear, “shhh, it’s alright.”

“It’s not,” she sobbed in her hands, shaking, “I am terrible. I can’t do anything right,”

“That’s not true,” he insisted, stroking her hair gently. “It’s hard, in the beginning,”

“This is not the beginning! I’ve been Fae for years!”

“Two years,” he reminded her, and then she felt his lips press to the top of her head.

She stilled, her breath catching in her chest, her heart fluttering like a moth. She was the moth, and he was the flame. And neither one could stay away. 

“Feyre kept slamming into trees,” he said with a chuckle. “When I was training her how to fly.”

“What?” she turned to look at him. He looked the same as in the morning, so maybe he hadn’t left anywhere and was in the house the entire time. For some reason, it brought a blush to her cheeks. She was with Azriel, alone in the house, and she was screaming profanities like a crazy person the whole morning. “Wasn’t she hurt?”

“Absolutely. But we have to fall before we can fly.”

He looked at her and then said, “You can do it, Elain.”

She nodded and stilled, when he suddenly reached out and cupped her cheek and wiped her tears with his thumb. 

“I have full faith in my girl,” he murmured tenderly and then dissolved into shadows.

His girl? She wasn’t his girl…

Flushed and rattled, she took a deep breath, still feeling his touch on her face. His hands felt delicious on her skin. That was the word–delicious. 

She turned to the bowl on the counter and eyed it like an opponent. Concentrating and clearing her mind as much as possible, though that damn delicious scarred hand definitely lingered, Elain directed her energies to the spoon. And then let out an excited whoop when she spoon moved and swirled. 

It took her sixteen hours to make seven muffins–one was lost in the process–and by the time she was done, it was pitch black outside. Naturally Cassian has been offering unhelpful advice for the past four hours, though he was also cheering her on and playing the General, as if he was rallying his troops, with his little encouraging slogans and fist pumps. He was sweet, her Cassian. 

“Look at you, petal!” he cried out when she pulled out the muffins from the oven. 

The bakes were squat and lopsided, like little stumps, but that would have to do. 

“They are so ugly,” she lamented.

Cass put his arm around her and pulled her in for a side hug.

“Who cares? Amren can’t eat anyway!”

…

The next day, Amren gave the muffins an assessing look and declared, “They look terrible, but it was a good effort. We’ll make something of you yet, girl.”

…

The muffin basket sat on the table, untouched.

Azriel tiptoed into the kitchen and looked around, just in case. Then he grabbed the basket and took it to his bedroom.

[unhealthyfanobsession]

Master Post of things I wanted to post while reading ACOSF- mostly humour/ crack lol (Spoilers... Duh...)

First, general opinion: I liked the book generally. I knew it would be very Feysand friendly and I was prepared for that. Not my first choice but I get it. I really had to take a few hours off with the whole hiking scene. That really fucked with me to see Cassian so pissed and militant despite already knowing where Nesta was coming from and how betrayed she felt (ESPECIALLY once I learned that he had guessed they were mates already). I know that self loathing was a major theme but I do think it was laid on a little too thick for too long. I also think there was so much Nessian interaction when things were angsty and then when they were happy I was just WAITING for that full chapter of soft happiness and I feel like a lot of that got lost to Nesta’s relationship with her sister. Above everything though I gotta say that it BREAKS MY HEART that Cassian never actUlly says I love you to Nesta at any point in the book. I know it’s meant to be that he’s always loved her and it’s his actions that show it etc etc but it’s still kind of a blow for him to never say it... never even outright think it in his own perspective (go back and look the closest he gets is saying he’s acting like a lovesick puppy. We only get to see Cassian loving Nesta from her perspective as she realizes it which I get and is beautiful but maybe ONE DECLERATION THANKS). Anyway, I am hoping that opportunity arises in future books. Although.... I don’t think I will read the future books. Maybe I will, but honestly this was just SO MUCH. Like... I think there was too much in the book. Each of these quests could have been its own book and I was happy to keep going because I’m obsessed with Nesta, but I just don’t think I’d be interested enough in the other characters to read something so convoluted again (like I’m sorry the blood rite started with basically 100 pages left that is WILD). It was also so clear that so much of this book was setup for future books and that’s fine but it was kinda messy just being honest. ANYWAY onto more specific thoughts/ jokes:

Chapter 2:

Cassian: I just hope that Nesta knows we are doing this for her benefit, because we care.

Feyre: I don’t care this shit ends now. I’m burning your apartment to the ground.

Also Cassian: *Let’s Nesta fall down a flight of stairs*; *calls Nesta pathetic every day*; *tells Nesta everyone hates her*; *walks around slamming doors all pissy as if he’s the one being held captive*

Chapter 11:

Nesta:Rhysand is an asshole

Me:

Cassian: well everyone fucking hates you

Me:

The way that Cassian thinks about Russet Potato is just straight up not healthy. Like I get looking up to a sibling or whatever but I’m starting to think that Rhys is Cassian’s one true love. Cassian being THAT blind to every one of Rhysand’s flaws is a character flaw of his own. Even Feyre isn’t THAT blind.

Chapter 11 Pt 2:

Nesta from day one: I’m not training in that camp. I hate that camp. I’m not training there. Fuck that camp

Cassian: this is because you hate me, isn’t it?

Me:

Like I’m sorry did we really need Feyre to show up to help him crack that code???

Chapter 10 (and beyond):

My OTP? Nesta and the House of Wind.

It’s a solid enemies to lovers story (chapter 6 she says even the house hates her then later it’s her only friend and ally. Great love story.)

It reveals its heart to her before Cassian does

It knows what she needs

Gave her water on the steps instead of watching her fall down them

Pushes Nesta gently by keeping the fire so Cassian can see that she is afraid and haunted instead of empty and broken. Encourages her to go to dinner with people by barring the library but doesn’t FORCE her to go. The house does not judge her.

Spoils her and is silly with her while she has her sleepover.

Takes an active interest in something important to her and shares one of her hobbies

Side note- this book even has me pissed at the IC about how they treated a damn house!! Like how dare they say no one likes going there! How dare they be so rude to my new #1 favorite book character??? The house just wants to give you cake and books and run you a bath. Perfect partner IMO.

Chapter 17:

Me when Cassian does the bare fucking minimum and tells Rhys to calm the fuck down and stop threatening to kill Nesta:

Chapter 21:

When Rhys said that Nesta always has a choice here I said, out loud, “that’s fucking rich rice ball”. My dog looked up. That’s all.

Chapter 21 (and beyond) pt 2:

Prythian: mating bonds are very rare

Archeron sisters: survey says that was a lie

Prythian: fae fertility is very difficult. Conceiving can take decades

Archeron sisters: survey says that too was a lie

Prythian: No High Fae can survive the birth of an Illyrian winged baby

Archeron sisters: once again, the survey is not on your side here

Chapter 42:

Rhys: this is a bad idea

Cassian: that should be written on the Night Court’s crest

Me, wine glass raised to mouth, scoff more bitter than necessary: yeah it Fucken should”

Chapter 42 pt 2:

Yknow I was genuinely shocked by one thing in ACOSF. I was shocked that Rhysand and I agree on something.

He absolutely fucking shouldn’t be High King.

The mere SUGGESTION that Nesta’s power and fight and trauma and depression and war and entire FUCKING STORY has all been so that Rice cake and French fry can be a high king and queen literally set my blood BOILING at exactly the point in the book that I was starting to VIBE

Side note- Can we please just Fucken stop with the stars blinking in and out of existence in Rhys’ eyes. Like calm down. Rice pilaf has purple night eyes we get it. Just like... simmer please.

Chapter 46:

I GET that it shouldn’t have come out like that and that Nesta’s reasons weren’t right, but get ABSOLUTELY FUCKED RHYSAND for thinking that it is your right to HIDE THE DANGERS OF LABOUR FROM A WOMAN WHO DOES NOT KNOW YOUR SPECIES!!! This had me truly wildin and I think it was a disservice to Feyre’s character too that she didnt lose it more.

Chapter 55 (and earlier):

Cassian: *bows to death as Nesta emerges from the black depths on a throne to rule her undead armies*

Cassian: *watches bleeding as Nesta plucks the harp and wields her Made sword of death to murder Lanthys and claim the ability to stop time itself*

Nesta: So, now I go after the crown

Cassian:

Chapter 57 (and earlier):

Kelpie: You shall be my bride before you are my meal

Helion: *rides enchanted horse up to shoot his second shot with Nesta*

Lanthys: Tries to seduce Nesta into being his Queen even as he attempts to kill her

Eris: I’ll give you anything in exchange for Nesta as my bride

Cassian watching every male being in the universe trying to get with his mate:

Chapter 60:

Emerie: we’re not entering the blood rite, are we?

Cassian: Only if you want to

Brialynn:

Chapter 80:

Nesta: *Saves Cassian’s life in the war*

Rhys: I still hate you and will never forgive you for what you did in not hunting as a child.

Nesta: saves Feyre and Nyx

Rhys: I bow before no one and nothing but my crown and now I shall fall to my knees before you oh mighty saviour queen of all

Side note- can someone please compile a list of all the things that Nesta Archeron had done/retrieved/gone through for the Nigh Court because that shit is astronomical at this point and I really need everyone to start sipping their Respect Nesta Archeron Juice RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!!

Anyway I’m emotionally wrecked but shoutout to anyone who made it this far into my ramblings!

[mardereads19]

Elriel Month 🌸🦇

Day 3:

Azriel followed the carriage silently, winnowing from tree to tree, his shadows informing him Elain was in position and ready. He didn’t feel comfortable in letting her do this, but he also trusted her to do her part well. She was more than capable, more than prepared. He had trained her, after all.

Well, he hadn’t been the only one. Elain had revealed to him that she had been training in secret for a while with Nuala and Cerridwen. They’d done a good job. He made a mental note to give them a bonus come Calanmai.

Also to reprimand them for keeping secrets while being his spies.

The sun had already set and there was no moon tonight, giving Azriel the perfect cover from the males Elain had to distract and dupe into giving away what they knew.

“If these males are being controlled by Koschei, will it even make sense to kidnap them?” Feyre had asked on their meeting in Rhys’s study this afternoon. Azriel had been quietly observing and listening to the plans his High Lord had been piecing together. “At least, when Briallyn had control over Eris’s males—”

“And me,” Cassian had supplied from where he stood next to his mate, his arms crossed over his chest and face contemplative. Az had noted the way Nesta’s jaw clenched and her eyes shined silver for a second. The need to kill. The drive to eradicate the threat against her mate. Az had looked away.

Feyre had nodded. She’d looked tired, an expression that’d been mirrored in Rhys. The baby kept us awake all night. He wouldn’t stop crying, Rhys had told him earlier, but there had been light in his eyes, a quiet happiness even as he’d yawned.

Az had not seen his brother yawn in a while.

“And Cassian,” Feyre had added, a spark of anger in her eyes, “they would not talk.”

Az had agreed, “When we brought them to the Hewn City, they hadn’t given anything away.”

There’d been a silence for a moment. They had all, save for Nesta, witnessed Azriel’s administrations to the males of Autumn. No torture had gotten them to open their mouths, to reveal who had sent them after the mask. Feyre had pointed out how wrong it was to do that to them when they were not themselves.

Nesta had sat up straighter in her chair in the study before saying, “But what if they are being partially controlled?”

Rhys had raised his eyebrows.

Nesta had stood, Cassian reaching for her hand. Nesta let their fingers intertwine. It had brought a small pang of envy into Az’s heart. He’d pushed it away. “Bellius,” she said with disgust, “that male from the Blood Rite. He constantly mocked us, tried to rile us up. Sometimes I wonder if he gave too much away.”

Rhys had frowned. “Perhaps he wasn’t being controlled. He was only in on the plan.”

“He was being controlled,” Nesta insisted. Her gaze had been unfocused, as if lost in the memories. Cassian’s wings shifted. “He had that glassy look in his eyes that were on the Autumn Court males. I noticed it from the first time I met him. I thought he had been drunk at first.” She had blinked and, as if remembering where she was, had turned to Cass. He had pulled her closer to him, his eyes reassuring her.

Amren’s lips had twisted upwards in what might have been a smile before she turned to Rhys. “So there is a possibility that Koschei only partially controls these Fae, especially if they are far away from where he is located now. His grasp on them through his power may be less strong, perhaps allowing them the freedom to speak, like that male from the Blood Rite. What would you plan now?”

“I’m still not sure about this,” Feyre had contributed. “The Crown may not work the same way Koschei’s powers could. He could still have full influence over them.”

“Koschei is a death god,” Rhys had said, “I don’t think his power excels in controlling others more than it does in killing them. The crown’s whole purpose is to control living beings and, if it has that limit, then I’m willing to bet Koschei does, too.”

“I wouldn’t place a bet on a thought, Rhys.” It had been clear Feyre was worried. Her fingers had kept tapping on the table. Az wondered if it came as a result of being a mother, that worrying. That caring for the well-being of others. “If we brought them here, could you guarantee they’ll break?”

“I don’t think Azriel could get them to sing for us.” Rhys inhaled. His eyes roamed the map of the continent, focusing on the coast of the human territory. “If Bellius spoke to rile Nesta and her friends up, then only their own arrogant boasting will get them to talk. They have to feel like they are giving the information out of their own free will. That they’d be gaining something by it, even if it’s admiration or applause.”

Azriel had tilted his head, analyzing what Rhys was implying. “There is no one in this room that can convince those men to speak.” Feyre and Rhys were recognizable to all the Fae. Cassian and Az were Illyrian, which would raise suspicions. There was no reason for an Illyrian be on the mortal lands of the continent. And Amren and Nesta had as much chance of charming those Fae as Bryaxis had of calming people.

Mor would have been their best choice, but she was on the Fae side of the continent, too far away to reach in time for tonight.

Rhys had met Az’s gaze. There was a shine on them that often told Azriel that Rhys had an idea. Something in his gut had told him he wouldn’t like it. “No. No one in this room can do it. But I know who.”

“Stop your games and just spill it, boy. I don’t have time for this.” Amren had said, narrowing her eyes at Rhys.

Cassian had rolled his eyes, “What could possibly be more vital than this right now?”

“I have a date with Varian to taste different types of meat and I’m starving. If I stay here any longer, I might eat yours.”

Cassian had barked a laugh. “I wanna see you try, tiny ancient one.”

Azriel had kept his focus on Rhys. Waiting. Fear making his heart beat faster. He knew what was coming.

Finally, Rhys had asked, “How has Elain’s training gone?”

And now, Azriel was following the carriage to where she would be waiting for the Fae. Where she would pretend to be a victim of a robbery. A female riding a wagon on her own in the lonely road when a thief took advantage of the solitude to steal the resources she was on her way to sell in the market and make a coin. Az was to stay in the shadows. He was only allowed to be here in the case the Fae males wanted to take another type of advantage out of her.

Azriel fisted his hands. He had half a mind to destroy the males now and claim a freak accident had killed them rather than find out what they’d intend with her.

He stopped a second, telling his breathing to calm, waiting for his rage to subside. He couldn’t make decisions when his mind was violent, he needed a clear head.

He kept moving only because the carriage did, but he still wanted to spill blood.

A noise caught his attention. There, just beyond the curve of the road, was Elain kneeling on the floor crying as she held a few pieces of the wagon’s wood. Azriel fought the impulse to winnow to her, to console her, to hold her. Tell her everything was alright. That he was with her and no one would hurt her.

She’s pretending. Her cries aren’t real. She knows I’m here.

But it was difficult. His wings twitched, his shadows scattered towards her, but still hid from view. They were ready to strike at his command. Anyone who got near her.

Stand down, he said to them.

The carriage had gotten close enough to to see Elain on the road, see the mess of the wagon, and notice the horse that led it missing.

“Ho!” The rider called to his own horses while pulling on the reins. They stopped next to the wagon’s destruction. Pieces of wood lay around it and Elain. Rhys had taken care of that.

“Cover your face,” he had told Elain before sending a wave of his power to the empty wagon. Elain had covered her face, but noticed it hadn’t been necessary. Azriel had secured a dome of his own power around her. Wood struck a blue wall and jumped off harmlessly. Rhys had narrowed his eyes at him, “Disperse the wood, Azriel. Otherwise it will be weird indeed that the wood landed all around except for that clear demarcation of a dome.”

Azriel looked down. Right, there was a clear difference between where his power had encircled Elain and where it hadn’t.

She had sucked on her lower lip to hide her smile. Azriel felt hot in the face, but he didn’t care that he had made a foolish mistake to protect her. She met his gaze and he saw a promise there that he tucked away before his scent gave away the direction his mind had gone off to.

Elain turned to Rhys, her pale pink dress looking white in the dusk light. Rhys had estimated the Fae would take this road and would be here in half an hour. It was an isolated enough road, one Fae loved to use to stay hidden inside the mortal lands. It was surrounded by forest on both sides, the smell of pine was strong here, but it was a scent Azriel liked. The wagon was brought here by both males in their winnowing.

“Was it really necessary to destroy the wagon like that? Wouldn’t it have sufficed to simply break a wheel?” Elain had asked, crossing her arms over her chest. Rhys studied the mess in the road, his brow furrowed in thought. “A thief would have no need to go to all that trouble.”

“Perhaps not,” he had answered throwing her a wink, “but it just contributes to your woeful story. Make sure to cry extra loud.”

Elain had shaken with laughter and Azriel had taken a step closer to her impulsively. He wanted to lay a hand on her waist, to feel her laugh reverberate through him.

Now, he watched her shake in sobs instead. One of the males from inside the carriage stepped down and walked closer to her. He was dressed in cheap armor, dirty from use, and his brown hair was tied at his nape. The male surveyed the wagon, the destruction and lack of a horse, and finally glanced at Elain. His eyes roamed her body, but Azriel couldn’t tell if the glassy look in his eyes were from the control the male was under or for a different drive.

Azriel felt that hunger for violence stir inside him and fought with everything he could to keep still.

Stand down, Azriel repeated to the shadows when he noticed how they were risking exposure by getting closer to Elain. Hesitantly, they skittered back into the dark.

“What happened here, dear?” The male asked, though his voice didn’t drip kindness.

Elain put on a good show, sobbing and wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her simple dress. She had to look the part of a Fae in hiding, so the dress was akin to the human clothes this area donned, her hair was arranged over her ears, and the glow of her High Fae beauty had been glamoured to an acceptable degree.

“Good, Sir.” She stood and curtsied. “I was riding on the way to the market—” a sob “—when a thief came by.” Tears flowed down Elain’s cheeks so effortlessly Azriel wondered if she was hurt. Did she twist her ankle again while he was away? Perhaps with one of the wood planks he himself had dispersed.

Not real tears, one of his shadows assured him.

He didn’t relax.

“When were you attacked?”

“This afternoon.” She sniffed. “I’ve been here hours, seeing as how hidden this road is. I have no way of getting home.” Elain covered her face in her hands. “I live too far away, and I have an injury in my right leg that makes walking for long periods unbearable.” She wiped away her tears. “I stayed here hoping someone might come around and help me get to a place where I could sleep the night and hopefully rent a horse during the week.”

“Did the thief not take your coin?” The male sounded skeptical.

She nodded, “They did, of course, but I could work for a few days and make the money. I just need a ride.” Elain fidgeted with her dress, successfully looking devastated and scared.

The male gazed back at the carriage and the others, considering his options. Azriel held his breath as the male regarded Elain once more. His face revealed he felt superior, a male who knew he had control of the situation. Exactly what they needed him to think. He also looked like he wanted to impress this lovely female he happened to rescue.

He inclined his head to the side, a smile spreading over his face. “Alright, sweet face. We can take you.”

After a few teary grateful expressions from Elain, the male opened the door of the carriage for her with all the satisfaction of a savior. She climbed the first step, pretending a limp, and as she did so, she glanced over her shoulder.

To the male, she was looking back to the destroyed wagon and up to the trees in sadness. But her gaze met Azriel’s. She had know exactly where he was. He hoped she could read in his eyes what he wanted to tell her.

You’re not alone. I’m right behind you. You’re doing great, lovely fawn. You’re doing great.

Her head dipped in the smallest of nods and then she was inside and the male was closing the door behind him.

Azriel clenched his jaw.

Now the real work begun.

[the-lonelybarricade]

A Court of Faded Dreams: Chapter 3

Chapter title: One-Eyed Among the Blind

Fic summary:  In her grief after Rhys sacrifices himself to restore the Cauldron, Feyre accidentally sends herself back in time. Back in her human body, in her early days in the Spring Court, Feyre must be careful how she alters the timeline as she tries to save Rhys and Prythian from Under the Mountain.

Read on AO3  ⟡  Masterlist

Feyre stood stiffly on her horse as the leeching cold lurched by, the mare rigid beneath her. The Bogge whispered past, and despite her past encounters with the dark creature, Feyre still repressed a shudder as it whispered. 

I will grind your bones between my claws; I will drink your marrow; I will feast on your flesh. I am what you fear; I am what you dread… Look at me. Look at me.

Feyre stared straight ahead, ignoring its taunts. The Bogge grew more insistent, more desperate, but Feyre clenched her jaw and kept her chin up, her eyes dead focused ahead of her, imagining herself staring into deep, violet eyes. Eyes that held the starry night sky inside of them. 

And despite the creeping, demanding presence beside her, she felt her body relax, just slightly. She imagined a sultry, velvety voice whispering in her ear Feyre, darling…

And then the Bogge was gone as quickly as it came. And where those endless violet eyes had been she felt a devouring emptiness. But Rhys had kept her safe again, even if he wasn’t physically present. 

“What was that?” Feyre asked, only because she knew it was the natural thing for a mortal woman to ask. 

Lucien’s face was pale, but he was watching her intently, his mechanical eye flitting between her face and her grip on the reins. She’d already loosened it, had already sat back on the horse.

“You don’t want to know,” he said dismissively, and Feyre expected that to be the end of the conversation, but he paused. “I’m impressed, though,” he added as an afterthought, something like respect flicking through his eye. “You held your own remarkably well.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment and what felt like a sort of mutual understanding fell between them as Feyre nodded her thanks for the compliment. 

They kept riding, conversation falling short as Feyre kept thinking back to Rhys and those breathtaking, violet eyes. 

“So you’re a courtier and an emissary,” Feyre said at last and Lucien started a bit. “Yet, you carry a sword and you’re on border patrol. Are you a warrior?”

It was a pointed question. Feyre wanted to get stronger in time for when she’d have to go back Under the Mountain. Which meant she needed training. And weak as she’d become in her human form, she knew her Illyrian techniques would certainly stand out if she trained by herself. It would be impossible for a starving human woman with no previous experience to become so advanced so quickly. No, for pretense’s sake she needed a trainer, so as not to make Tamlin and Lucien suspicious. 

“Not as good as Tam, but I know how to handle my weapons,” Lucien said in answer, patting the hilt of his sword. “Would you like me to teach you how to wield a blade, or do you already know how, oh mighty mortal huntress? If you took down Andras, you probably don’t need to learn anything. Only where to aim, right?” 

Feyre tipped her chin up, ignoring the jeer. “I don’t know how to use a sword,” she said, a lie, “but I wouldn’t mind learning, if your offer is genuine.”

Lucien looked a bit taken aback. He hadn’t expected anything so forthcoming from Feyre, but she could hardly blame him. She’d been standoffish and aloof her first several days at the Spring Court, but it had to go differently this time. And she had to get a weapon so she could go after the Suriel. 

“I’ll run it by Tam,” Lucien said after a long moment’s consideration. Feyre offered him a genuine smile at that, which seemed to startle Lucien even more. They didn’t say anything for the rest of the ride.

⟡⟡⟡

Feyre, of course, had forgotten that it was terribly unlikely Tamlin would ever let her train with Lucien. The biggest reason being that he was currently on a mission to win her heart and felt irritatingly threatened by the personal time she’d spent with Lucien. 

When Lucien and Feyre strode into the dining room together that evening, Tamlin had stared them both down on the spot, his claws out and circling the goblet in his hand. Feyre tried not to roll her eyes at the territorial look he gave Lucien, who looked pale. 

“We went on a hunt,” he explained. 

“I heard,” Tamlin said, glancing between them as they took their seats. “Did you have fun?”

Feyre suppressed a groan at Lucien’s silence, the red haired male giving her an urging look. She supposed he was trying to make it up to Tamlin by encouraging them to interact. 

She snapped her eyes to her ex lover and gave him a slow smile, “You could say that.” It came out as a purr, and was unnecessarily taunting. Feyre knew she shouldn’t, especially as Lucien’s face grew pale from the implication. But the look on Tamlin’s face was just too delectable. 

“Did you catch anything?” came his clipped reply. 

“No,” Lucien said with a pointed cough, once again urging Feyre to say more. But Feyre didn’t want to play these territorial games with Tamlin. She pursed her lips, trying to decide what game she did want to play. She needed to know more before she could decide, needed to confirm her suspicions before she properly formed a plan. And most of all, she needed to know Rhys was alive. That this wasn’t some strange fever dream.

Tamlin gave Feyre a cold, hard look, before digging into his food, not offering another word. This time, with his attention away, she did roll her eyes. Which Lucien observed, to his dismay. 

“Tam,” he said quietly, catching Tamlin’s feral green eyes as he looked up. “The Bogge was in the forest today.” 

Tamlin nearly snapped his fork in half with the pressure he applied, the melt bending like rubber. “You ran into it?”

“It moved past but came close. It must have snuck through the border—”

And then Tamlin’s claws rushed out, well and truly obliterating the fork as he rose to his feet. Feyre winced against the brutality of the movement, an exploded study flashing behind her eyes. Without magic to protect her, an outburst from Tamlin could actually kill her. 

“Where in the forest?” he demanded through lengthened canines. Lucien’s answer had him striding out the room, walking out with hardly a glance back towards Feyre, who was surprised by the gentleness with which he shut the door behind him. Feyre already knew where he was going, and as Lucien loosed a breath and sunk into his seat, she spared him having to explain what would be redundant information. 

Leaving Lucien lost in thought, Feyre decided to turn her attention back to her meal before she promptly excused herself for the night. And though Tamlin was out fighting the Bogge and in another world, she wouldn’t let herself have a sleepless night waiting for his return. Instead, Feyre went to bed and found sleep easily, dreaming of amethyst eyes and the night sky.

⟡⟡⟡

The next three days went by in a blur. Tamlin busied himself hunting down the Bogge, and apparently a Puca had been spotted in the court as well. Feyre mused about the night she’d fallen for the Puca’s deception, happy to have bypassed that unsavory memory this time around. 

She didn’t see much of Tamlin in those days. And while he hunted for the errant fae, Feyre had taken it upon herself to join Lucien in his daily patrols. He was apprehensive in the wake of the Bogge—so much so that Feyre didn’t dare bring up the Suriel. Tamlin’s temper was too volatile for Lucien to agree. They needed time to simmer down before Lucien would consider throwing her at the mercy of another dangerous creature. There was no mention of his offer to train her, either. The one time she’d dared bring it up, he had dismissively told her he hadn’t had a chance to talk to Tamlin about it. If Tamlin didn’t agree, she’d have to find a way to train in secret. Perhaps she could even train in her room, once everyone had gone to bed.

 That’s what she was musing about late one night, having waited long after the manor had gone quiet and the servants had gone to bed. She didn’t have a sword to practice with, so she snuck out of her room to find a broom she could use instead. 

Feyre had just procured one from a servant’s pantry when she stepped into the main hall, headed back towards her room. She froze in her tracks when she nearly ran directly into Tamlin, still in beast form and limping towards the table near the long hall. 

Tamlin seemed surprised to see her as well, or perhaps surprised to find her holding a broom, and shifted quickly so that he stood before her in tattered, bloodied clothing. 

“Were you able to kill it?” she asked, though she knew the answer. 

“Yes,” he responded in a dull voice. 

Feyre remembered this original night decently well. She’d helped bandage up his injuries after being caught mapping out the manor for her escape. She felt a bit trapped in her role, not sure whether to extend her help and encourage their budding romance. She didn’t want to. Her heart hurt to even think about flirting with him. But she was nervous to think if it might affect her chances of saving Rhys down the road.

“You’re hurt,” she said finally, almost reluctantly. “Let me help you.” 

Though many of his injuries had already healed, evident from the smooth skin underneath the tears in his clothes, his arm was still bleeding,a trail of red droplets following his movements on the tiled floor. 

“Why do you have a broom,” he asked at last, his curiosity seemingly getting the better of him. 

Feyre regarded the broom carefully, mulling over what story to tell him. She glanced back up to his muted green stare and offered the smallest smile, “Would you believe me if I told you I’d trekked dirt into my room and wanted to clean it up?”

Despite the stoic look on his face, Feyre wondered if she detected the slightest hint of amusement when he responded, “I’d wonder what you were doing that would trek dirt into your room at this hour.” 

She gestured pointedly to the trail of blood and mud that had followed him in from the garden doors, “Looks like you’re no better than me on that account. At least dirt is easier to clean than blood.”

Tamlin’s empty gaze followed Feyre’s gesture towards the carnage and blinked, as if noticing his messy tracks for the first time. Feyre supposed it was easy to become oblivious to such things when you had a hoard of servants catering to your every whim, or when you could simply snap your fingers and magic the mess away.  

When Tamlin said nothing, Feyre broke the silence again. “Let’s go clean up your hand,” she said, more insistent this time. She set the broom against the table and offered her arm for Tamlin, nodding her head towards the infirmary. After a moment’s consideration, Tamlin ignored her arm but began limping that direction, Feyre trailing after him. 

Tamlin slumped against the edge of the worktable they found there, gripping his injured wrist. He turned his watchful eye to Feyre as she sorted through supplies then quickly went to work cleaning the blood from his arm. He didn’t say anything for a long while, a silence which Feyre was more than happy to entertain. Touching him like this again felt too intimate for her liking and the silence at least helped it seem more professional. 

“How did you know where the infirmary is?” he said at last, nearly making Feyre jump as she bound his hand. 

“What?”

Tamlin frowned, “You nodded this direction as if you knew the infirmary was already here.” 

Feyre played it off with a smile and a half shrug, “Because I did. I came across it earlier when I was looking for a broom.” 

Tamlin seemed content enough with the excuse, or perhaps because Feyre brought up something even more curious. He regarded her with those cool golden-green eyes, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Will you actually tell me why you needed a broom in the middle of the night?” 

Feyre secured the bandage in place and stepped away with a sigh. “I’m afraid you’d take it away from me if you knew,” she told him honestly. Tamlin quirked an eyebrow as if to say try me. Swallowing down her memories of a Tamlin furious with the idea of her training, Feyre plowed ahead. “I was going to use it to train myself to fight. Break it in two and use the pieces as fighting sticks. Not,” she added, “to attack anyone in the manor. Just to get stronger. I was going to do it when everyone was asleep.” 

She shrugged noncommittally, as if her indifference would somehow help convince him. 

Tamlin looked surprised—whether by her honesty or her determination to train, she couldn’t tell. He stared at her intently for a long moment, and Feyre raised her chin, meeting his gaze full on. Let him see the determination in her eyes, let him know she was not the weak and feeble human he thought her to be. 

“I’m going to take the broom away from you,” he said finally, causing Feyre to balk in outrage. He looked amused by her response, “but only because I’ll let you train properly. With me. In the mornings, if you wish.”

Feyre contemplated this for a moment, trying to guage things from Tamlin’s perspective. However he actually felt about her training, he was seeing a way to insert himself into her interests. An opportunity for them to grow closer so that they might break the curse. She would happily take advantage of that, even if the idea of getting closer to Tamlin felt like a heavy stone in her stomach. 

“I’d like that very much,” she said earnestly, sticking her hand forward to solidify the deal. 

Tamlin looked amused as he accepted her hand and shook it firmly. 

“You’re not what I expected—for a human,” he said, releasing her from his grip. 

Feyre didn’t respond. She offered him a nod of farewell before showing herself out and returning to her room, happy to have gotten Tamlin to agree.

⟡⟡⟡

The next morning, Feyre hurriedly dressed in the riding clothes provided for her, the closest thing to training clothes she had available. As she stalked quickly downstairs and through the hall, she couldn’t help but notice the clean-washed marble tiles. No sign of their encounter the night before. She sought Tamlin out in the dining room, but Feyre overheard their tense voices as she approached and slowed, standing just behind the open door. 

“I just want to know what you think you’re doing,” Lucien said viscously. 

“What are you doing?” came Tamlin’s snappy reply. Feyre could glimpse the two of them standing face-to-tace, Tamlin’s claws out in his non-bandaged hand. 

“Me? By the Cauldron, Tam—there isn’t much time, and you’re just sulking and glowering. You’re not even trying to fake it anymore.”

Feyre remembered overhearing this conversation once before. But the reality of it struck her this time. They were talking about her. About the curse and Tamlin’s half-hearted attempts at flirting. 

“It was a mistake from the start. I can’t stomach it, not after what my father did to their kind, to their lands. I won’t follow in his footsteps—won’t be that sort of person. So back off.” 

“Back off? Back off while you seal our fates and ruin everything? I stayed with you out of hope, not to watch you stumble. For someone with a heart of stone, yours is certainly soft these days.” Feyre almost smiled at the line that would come to save their lives. “The Bogge was on our lands—the Bogge, Tamlin! The barriers between courts have vanished, and even our woods are teeming with filth like the puca. Are you just going to start living out there, slaughtering every bit of vermin that slinks in?”

“Watch your mouth,” Tamlin snarled, and Lucien stepped toward him. 

Not needing to gather information like she had to before, Feyre didn’t really have the patience to stand there and listen to the males argue and huff their chests. She had to focus on training and trapping the Suriel. Nothing else mattered, certainly not Tamlin’s attempts to court her. So Feyre pressed her fingers against the door and pretended to stumble, just slightly. And the two males froze, whirling toward the door. 

Feyre did her best to look bashful at being caught eavesdropping. Lucien was staring with widened eyes; Tamlin just looked irate. 

“Uhm, is now an okay time for training?” Feyre stumbled awkwardly, offering the males a shy smile, “You said in the morning, but didn’t specify when…” 

Lucien turned his attention back to Tamlin, surprised. Evidently Tamlin had not told the male about their encounter the night before, or his promise to train her. 

Tamlin shot his friend a contained look of disdain, his shoulders tight. “I’m ready when you are, just say the word,” he said accommodatingly, though his posture was anything but. 

Lucien excused himself without another word, offering a friendly pat on Feyre’s shoulder as he went. And then she and Tamlin were alone together, and the male looked far more uncomfortable by the prospect than she did. 

He stood there, waiting. Feyre nodded towards the door with a timid smile. 

“Shall we?” 

⟡⟡⟡

Tamlin led Feyre out the door, towards what she assumed to be the training grounds for his sentires. She’d rarely had the chance to see it when she was living at the manor, since Tamlin had so detested the idea of her training. He seemed worked up, still, from his conversation with Lucien, the ire rolling off of him like steam. 

They came to a stop in the middle of a training ring and her eyes went to the bandages on his arm. Suddenly, she felt stupid for having asked him to train. 

“How’s your hand?” she asked.

He flexed the bandaged hand, studying the white bindings. “I didn’t thank you.” 

“You don’t need to,” she insisted. “But will you be alright to train?”

Tamlin regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, his golden-green eyes glinting in the morning sun. “The Bogge’s bite was crafted to slow the healing of High Fae long enough to kill us. You have my gratitude. And we won’t be sparring today, I’ll be just fine.” 

He walked off the ring, sauntering towards the weapons racks and dutifully returned with fighting sticks gripped in his uninjured hand, which he offered her. 

Feyre inclined her head in thanks as she accepted them, ignoring the eager spark in her chest that was thrilled by the prospect of training once more. 

“How did you learn to bind wounds like this? I can still use the hand, even with the wrappings.” 

Tamlin was staring at her again, and Feyre shifted under the weight of his gaze. She kept her chin up. “Trial and error. I had to be able to pull a bowstring the next day.”

He seemed thoughtful for a long moment, and Feyre resisted the urge to snap at him to start training instead of talking. This was part of his game, getting to know her. 

“Has anyone ever taken care of you?” he asked quietly. 

Once again, those bright violet eyes flashed behind her mind’s eye. She swallowed as she thought of what it was to be loved so completely, to belong to a court and a family willing to lay down their lives for her. 

“No,” she said thickly, the word feeling like a dirty lie in her mouth even though it was true in this strange, current timeline. And unable to bear anymore emotional gut punches, she cast Tamlin pleading eyes as she gestured to the fighting sticks in her hands. “So are you going to at least train me while you ascertain my life’s story?” 

Tamlin’s brows rose beneath the mask, but he quickly provided her with gruff instructions. Personal matters aside, he was a decent instructor. He didn’t hold a candle to Cassian, of course, but he was precise in his directions and constructive in his critiques. Tamlin would never be known for his patience, but he offered her more than she anticipated. 

It was difficult adjusting for her human strength and senses, especially after her extensive time spent training in a fae body. Everything felt so much slower and took much more effort, but she had been a human far longer than she had been a fae and eventually the old mechanics of moving around in her mortal body came back to her. 

The sun had long peaked and crested in the sky by the time they were finished. Feyre’s muscles ached from disuse and sweat gleaned on her skin, but it had felt good to train. Her body already felt stronger after almost a week’s worth of steady meals and horse riding. 

“I’ll admit, I’m impressed,” Tamlin said across the ring as he returned the fighting sticks. “This seems to come very naturally to you. I suppose hunting and fighting aren’t so different as they seem.” 

Feyre knew her hunting had nothing to do with the ease in which she’d slid into training and she wondered if Tamlin suspected it, too, but he said nothing else as they made their way to dinner together.

⟡⟡⟡  

After dinner, Feyre wanted nothing more than to collapse in a heap on her bed and tend to her sore and aching muscles. But she couldn’t stand another moment not having her suspicions confirmed. Not knowing if Rhysand was… if he was okay. And she needed answers so that she could form her plan. Further, she needed weapons in case the naga showed up, and a powerful fae who might come to her rescue if things go horribly wrong and Tamlin can’t get there in time.

So instead of seeking the comfort of her plush room, she wove down hall after hall until she found herself in a wing of the manor, far away from hers. She trekked straight to Lucien’s bedroom and knocked twice on the white painted doors. 

“Come in, human.” 

Feyre opened the door, smiling gently at the Autumn court colors that decorated the room. This small piece of his home he allowed himself. He sat at a worktable covered in weapons, wearing only a white shirt and trousers. 

“I didn’t see you around today,” she said as she shut the door and leaned against it. Indeed, he had made himself scarce after his argument with Tamlin. He hadn’t been to dinner. 

“I’m glad to hear your human heart has warmed to me,” he said with a wicked smile that didn’t meet his eyes. He offered no explanation for where he’d been, not that Feyre was owed one. “At least I’m not on the top of your killing list.” 

Feyre gave him a long look. 

“Well, you managed to overhear my spat with Tam this morning. I suppose I have you to thank for my relatively peaceful evening. Training went well, did it?” Feyre glowered at him, earning a small laugh from the male. “Thankfully for me, there’s been a disturbance out in the western forest, and my poor friend had to go deal with it in the only way that he can. I’m surprised you didn’t run into him on the stairs.” 

“What sort of disturbance?” 

Lucien shrugged, but the movement was tense. “The usual sort: unwanted, nasty creatures raising hell.”

Feyre hid her Machiavellian smile. She knew she’d need to wait for Tamlin to be away before she could track the Suriel, but it looked like the Cauldron was on her side after all. 

“I’m surprised you’d be so forthcoming,” Feyre said casually. “But it’s too bad you’re not like the Suriel, spouting any information I want if I’m clever enough to snare you.”

Lucien blinked at her. Then his mouth twisted to the side. “I suppose you won’t tell me what you want to know.”

“You have your secrets, and I have mine,” Feyre said, an ounce of whimsy in her voice. “But if you were the Suriel, how, exactly, would I catch you?”

Feyre waited on bated breath while Lucien took his time to consider. 

Then, like she knew he would, he seemed to settle whatever qualms he had been debating in his head. “I’d probably have a weakness for groves of young birch trees in the western woods, and freshly slaughtered chickens, and would probably be so greedy that I wouldn’t notice the double-loop snare rigged around the grove to pin my legs in place.” 

Feyre offered him a smile that was practically feline, and she wondered if he could recognize her mate in it. Indeed, Lucien looked startled by the wicked smile, but said nothing of it. 

“If I were insane and stupid enough to go after a Suriel, I’d also take a bow and quiver, and maybe a knife just like this one.” He sheathed the knife he’d cleaned and set it down at the edge of the table—an offering. “And I’d be prepared to run like hell when I freed it—to the nearest running water, which they hate crossing.”

Ferye’s grin only widened. She was so close… so much closer to finding out what she needed. To rescuing her mate. “And I assume, since you seem like a sane male, you’ll be here, safe and sound?”

“I’ll be conveniently hunting on the grounds, and with my superior hearing, I might be feeling generous enough to listen if someone screams from the western woods. But it’s a good thing I had no role in telling you to go out today, since Tam would eviscerate anyone who told you how to trap a Suriel; and it’s a good thing I had planned to hunt anyway, because if anyone caught me helping you, there would be trouble of a whole other hell awaiting us. I hope your secrets are worth it.”

Lucien had a casual grin on his face, but there was an edge to it. 

“It’s a good thing that while you have superior hearing, I possess superior abilities to keep my mouth shut,” Feyre said with a playful wink. Lucien snorted as she took the knife and turned to hunt down a bow. 

“I’m starting to like you—for a murdering human.” 

taglist: let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 

@ cretaceous-therapod

[bloodycassian]

Cassian x fem Valkyrie reader. Reader is ambushed fighting the Queens on the Final Battle for the continent. Cassian tries to help save the Valkyries.

intense battle, blood violence warning.

Women clad in armor and swords strapped at their sides marched. A unified front against the largest force the Queens ever summoned. The enemy lines reformed after the initial attack, a hopeful attempt at recovery on their part. The Valkyrie force was the final blow needed to wipe them out entirely.  Cassian cheered for his mate from the field behind, watching with a heart full of blooming pride. You began cutting through that crowd. Those that could fly in the Valkyries didn't. They watched each other's backs, pairing and switching off like clockwork. You led the front with Nesta, spearheading the hoard of ground forces that remained.  The Queens' army was enormous when the battle had begun, now as their numbers dwindled. Some even peeled off from the main group, fleeing as they saw the Valkyries take down group after group. The white ribbons on their heads flickered in the wind, their dance like fighting was mesmerising. Cassian's heart sang watching the blades shimmer in the late evening sun.  Then the castle horns began blaring. Loud enough to disrupt both forces on that field. The Queens' forces erupted in a celebratory cheer loud enough to be heard from where Cassian stood at the front lines. Nausea twisted his gut. The horns stopped. Rhys was shouting orders to reform the lines. Cassian was utterly frozen as those castle gates opened. Horses first, with riders and enormous wolves at their sides. Then the foot soldiers poured out, filling that battlefield. Like a black and silver wave they circled the group of Valkyries in only a few moments. Cassians legs shook. The breath left his body. "We fight for our brothers and sisters on this land. We fight for those who wish to live freely, without consequence for who they are!" Rhysand gave a rallying speech. "We fight, we fear no death!" Rhys finished. As the final black figures rose out of that tunnel, Cassian was off. Flying high and fast trying to reach you. He didnt think of the backup he left behind or the fact his siphons were completely drained. He still had his sword, he could still fight. He would not let you die alone. You screamed orders over that blaring horn, Nesta breaking off to give direct orders to the few Illyrian Valkyries. Darkness poured from that castle gate. Like a dark pit had opened to a world of monsters. You knew when a battle turned. This was one of those times. The footsoilers circled the group, closing off the pathway you had forged in.  The Illyrians took off, carrying two wounded of your force. Those that could fight regrouped, forming a tight circle, shields and swords. The horn paused long enough to hear the metal clanking of the armor all the attor and foot soldiers wore. To taste the dust the riders kicked up on the barren field. You could hear the wolves snarling somewhere in that crowd. The gremlins and goblins that laughed with their daggers at the ready. You showed no fear. You knew Cassian was watching, and your heart sang for him. This fight was for him. for all of Velaris' soldiers that stood behind you. the court of nightmares, the friends that were rallying their forces in that crowd with Cassian and beyond.  The horn rang out a final time and a shudder wracked the earth. True darkness stepped out of that gate. Riding an enormous white horse that stood three hands taller than the rest. To support that massive, pallid hooded figure on top. That black sword that resembled Truth Teller so much, like it's twin. But this one had a glow of red to it. A siphon lay at the hilt.  "Run. We need to run." Nesta's voice was quiet beside you, quiet yet strong in the face of death itself.  The pale rider lifted the lost sword and the entire army quieted. A dull hum filled the air, then a cracking wet sound as a red beam shot through his own forces straight at the group of Valkyries.  You screamed in defiance, your shield raised. Death raced for you, in so many different forms. You waited for the searing pain of that sword's light, but there was only a dull thud. The crowd quieted then erupted into a roar. You peeked around your shield, waiting for that death blow to hit you. Laying on the ground between your circle of valkyries and the advancing forces lay a limp Illyrian body. Glowing with red light. You could have been screaming, The feeling of anything but primal rage was lost from you. You grabbed Nesta by the shield arm and yanked her forward with you to cover Cassian. The beasts hissed and made strange growling sounds.  You heard the circle tightening behind you, covering up for the gap you and Nesta had left. Cassian's body was hot, his armor on an arm was melted off. but his siphon... gods it looked like it had been blasted through his hand. It was embedded there, as if it burned its way halfway through his skin. The movements were purely instinct as your mind seemed to pull away from your body. You checked his pulse. The biggest relief in the word washed over you. He was alive, for now. The opposing army was awaiting their orders to finish off the last of your group. You could tell they were impatient as their teeth clacked together, howls ringing out at the apparent loss of a winged force.  You looked to Nesta with wide eyes, and felt your heart plummet at the sight of dirt streaked tears falling down her cheeks. She glanced back to the Valkyries, who were keeping the beasts at bay with spears and occasional slices of swords. They chanted together, a war cry from the original Valkyries. You felt the tears falling now.  Cassian groaned beneath you, muttering something you couldn't hear.  "It's alright, Cas. We'll be home soon." You choked out, not taking your eyes off the metal clad boots. You could hear the roar of the crowd cheering on that death rider. Could pinpoint exactly where he was on the battlefield. The victory cries from a force that knew they would win. "Rhys is on the way, Az too." You promised, the dull rumble of footsteps from the hill where they regrouped was far off though. You knew you had little time before the predators around you would strike. If you were lucky the women would be able to fend them off long enough for Rhys to winnow them away.  "No.." You made out from his words. His eyes cracked open weakly. Blood streaked his cheekbone where he had skidded on the dirt. "Where..." The tears hit you full force and you held back a sob. You knew he would insist on dying in battle, but would insist on Rhys saving you from such an end. "They're coming." You nodded to him, brushing the hair from his face. Nesta snarled and swung that mighty sword at a goblin that dared to strike. The crowd receded slightly.  "Where is that fucker?" Cassian bit out, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. He propped himself up on an elbow, and the army had a collective gasp. You noticed it then. All of Cassian's siphons glowed with a light you'd never seen. A blood red that was bright as the smoke shrouded sun. Even the one embedded in his hand. "Where is he?" His eyes burned into you. He sat up, and Nesta caught him with her leg before he could waver. She held him up, her eyes never leaving the army. They stared at Cassian as if he were a new god to behold.  He grunted at the new position but smiled, looking at his seared hand. His eyes were dull though, as if he was on the verge of sleep. He smiled at you though and he placed that beautiful hand adorned with his power into yours.  He flexed his fingers around yours for only a second before placing your hand on his wrist and had you support his arm. Red tendrils of light danced around his fingers like snakes. "Give it to him. Courtesy of the Valkyries." He winked at you, his eyes still tired. Voice still gravely.  You knew what he meant. You knew what this would risk. You stammered for some kind of rebuttal but he only shook his head, a warning. And encouragement. You looked to your sisters behind you, they were actively fighting now as they pushed inward. Nesta was roaring, holding her position behind Cassian. Her shield was splintering against the forces that berated her. Another Valkyrie stepped up to help her. Rhy's forces were only halfway across the enormous battlefield. You knew there was no time for goodbyes.  So you took his arm, listened for that crowd hailing their prince of death, and took a long shuddering breath. "I love you." You closed your eyes at the growing light that surrounded Cassian's hand. "Until the end of all worlds." He said softly, just to you as the dull hum of his siphon turned to a roar, then a crackling sound that made you wince in pain.  A ripple of power like lighting struck through the crowd. And you were falling to the ground with Cassian after the blast, covering him. You would die together, if he liked it or not. "To the end." you muttered, hoping he could hear you.

[moiraineswife]

Fic Title: "Before We Lost Him" + "When We Were Left For Dead" + "Gone Before The Tide" + "Left With The Breeze" + "My Heart On A Platter (For You)"

“Before We Lost Him”- my originality is in the negative figures (I am just Preparing myself okay) so here is the sixteenth ‘Azriel dies’ idea: something sad and emotional, possibly his funeral but more likely the aftermath of that. Cassian, Mor and Rhys pass around a bottle of something strong and remember Az, comforting each other as best they can. Probably a few more little drabble type add-ons of them trying to live without Az in their midst - events that should have had them there, moments of them comforting one another and helping each other through the hardest days. 

 "When We Were Left For Dead"- okay the prompting here is to do something massively angsty (dude you’re really going all out to kill me here aren’t you?) but I actually want to do….well something less bad than I could have done I get points for that. Cassian and Nesta on a training exercise together in the Illyrian mountains but they end up trapped by a cave in. Nesta panics a little at the confinement and Cassian keeps her calm and looks after her. Full of…every trope I can possibly think including the timeless and essential ‘we should probably cuddle for warmth’ followed up with emotional confessions and conversations - Nesta about her Making, Cassian and his wings, the coming war, family, promises, the usual suspects. Lots of angst, drama feelings and tbh probably at the very least a steamy make out because this is nessian and I can’t control them. 

 "Gone Before The Tide"- More sad Landras because I can’t stop myself. Every year on the anniversary of Andras’s death, while the rest of Prythian celebrates the Cursebreaker and the beginning of the end of Amaranatha’s reign, Lucien takes it upon himself to honour the person that no-one seems to think of but who was just as brave as Feyre, and just as worthy of recognition. He saddles his horse and rides quietly into the woods around Spring until he finds the spot- Andras’s favourite place in the court and now the place where Lucien marked his death with a grave. Andras’s body isn’t there- no-one else wanted to cross the wall to retrieve him afterwards and Lucien couldn’t bring himself to do so, given the condition he was in…but he still likes to think he can be close to him here, can talk to him, remember him. 

One year, curious, Elain follows him and is shocked by what she finds - this brave male who changed everything and, in a lot of ways, brought them together too. She cautiously approaches Lucien and uses her magic to make something for him to offer Andras. Then she sits with him and lets him remember- not Andras’s death or the events that followed, but his life, the parts no-one ever seems to remark upon or consider- as though everything he did, everything he was, was simply a run up to that final act- his death, as though that was the most important thing. Elain understands that it’s not and she encourages Lucien to talk about him, to remember the good as well as the bad. This in itself becomes a tradition and every year she visits Andras with Lucien and learns more about the fae- the fae that her sister killed and so saved their world. 

 "Left With The Breeze"-  During the war, Lucien, refusing to talk to Feyre about her sister, refusing to acknowledge the bond openly at all, but unable to deny its existence, closets himself away in his room and writes letters to a girl he barely knows. He’s held her in his arms for bare minutes. Whispered three words to her. Looked into her eyes only when they were glazed with shock and terror hatred for him and his kind…yet he can’t get her out of his head. Something within him connects them, and he can’t escape it, might as well try to tear out his own heart with his bare hands than sever that bond between them. 

For the sake of his sanity, when he can’t whisper to her hoarsely in dreams, never sure what’s sent; let alone what might be received, he writes letters he never intends to send. He pours out his heart, his soul into them, tells her things he’s never told anyone before, things he’s barely even let himself hear, he puts down on paper for her. He tells her his greatest secrets, the darkest tragedies of his life, his fears, his pains, his scars, every black thing he’s ever done or had done to him.

 Slowly, gradually, over time, as though he’s bled over these papers and the mere thought of her presence on the pages has drawn the poison from him he starts telling her different things. He talks about the things he loves- little things, things of no real importance to anyone, his favourite colour, his favourite food, a scent he likes because it reminds him of home (the good parts of home), his favourite place in the Spring Court, the things he likes.

 At first they’re the things he displays most openly- training, his prowess as a warrior, horses, riding, hunts…but slowly he starts to examine the parts of himself that have been shut off from the light so long he was sure they had completely decayed and died. He tells her about the charcoal sketches he had done decades ago- all but forgotten until Feyre arrived at the court and requested paints. He tells her about the plays he had loved watching performed on festival night every year at the Autumn Court. And music. He tells her all about music. 

Months pass in this way as the war rages and yet, Lucien manages to find a quiet space, a scrap of paper, a pen that works enough to make some sense when he tries to write down his thoughts. He never sends the letters but can’t bear to destroy them either so he tucks them away, keeps them safe. 

once the war is over the Courts come together in neutral territory to discuss the future of Prythian. With them comes Elain. They manage to find a little time to talk and, summoning courage he didn’t know he still possessed from somewhere deep within, Lucien invites her to visit him at Spring. Clearly startled at first by the offer Elain then smiles and said she’d be very glad to accept. 

 During the afternoon of her visit, after Elain confessing that she  they head out for a ride into the Spring Court lands and, after a long moment’s hesitation to steel herself, Elain asks about the letters. 

Lucien is startled by the question, he had never told anyone about their existence and rarely thinks about them anymore. After the war, after meeting Elain, he had stopped writing them. She flushes and tells him that she always knew when he was writing them, she places an unconscious hand over her heart when she admits she could feel it. She got curious about it, she knew he was writing them for her so…Her blush darkens but she admits that she started writing him letters too. She never sent them, never planned to, but they helped. 

Lucien is stunned into silence for a long time. Eventually they return to the manor and Elain hands him a small envelope containing the first letter she wrote. In turn he gives her the first one she wrote. Over time while they’re still separated by the political turmoil in the wake of the war and their own insecurity, they send one another the letters they wrote and slowly begin to get to know one another through them. 

 "My Heart On A Platter (For You)“- Nessian arranged marriage AU (with a bit of feyrhys flung in for good measure). Nesta’s family are impoverished and on the brink of bankruptcy. In order to save their house from destruction, their father arranges a marriage for her with Cassian, a young bastard son of little repute struggling to settle into his newfound status having been promoted to lordship after accepting the title of commander of his liegelord Rhysand’s armies. Nesta flat out refuses the match, stating that she is not a sack of grain to be sold to whomever wishes to purchase her. 

In desperation her father writes to Cassian and invites him to their estates to visit. Cassian arrives and brings his lord and their inner circle with them. Nesta and Cassian initially clash over every subject, to her father’s dismay and she becomes even more insistent on not following through with the marriage. The two manage to find some unexpected common ground but Nesta is still deeply wary of allowing herself to belong to this stranger and continues to stubbornly refuse to union.

 However while visiting alongside Cassian, Feyre catches the eye of Rhysand and their following engagement and marriage saves their house and means that Nesta no longer has to follow through with the proposed marriage to the commander. 

As her sister and their house celebrates their recent good luck Nesta wrestles with her conflicted mixed feelings of relief and an odd tug of disappointment when she realises that the handsome commander with the soft heart will return to his lands with the newly married lord and lady and she’s unlikely to see him again. On the eve of their departure, Cassian visits Nesta and the tensions between them finally boil over. Realising this is their last chance, Nesta kisses him and the two of them fall into bed with one another. 

The following morning Nesta bids Cassian farewell with her typical cool, collected manner, betraying nothing  of the night they spent together. Less than a week later however, she’s written to her younger sister informing her that she intends to visit her shortly. Feyre, not at all fooled by this, placidly passes the note along to Cassian to let him know of the storm that’s about to break over him. She’s never seen anyone smile as broadly as Cassian does reading Nesta’s letter.