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bookstantrash · 8 days

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A/N: okay so it’s been a good while since I’ve posted anything here on tumblr but the last year has been kinda insane as I’m nearing graduation, and my new internship is keeping me very busy.

I have two more one shots written and one half written, but after that I don’t know how long till I’m able to write again and post. Either way, I hope you enjoy this one shot!

But this love is brave and wild

Nesta had not intended to snoop through Cassian’s papers. He was — if she was honest with herself — the most organised out of them. Nesta Archeron being a messy person was something that had come as a surprise to Cassian and he teased her endlessly about it.

“I can find everything I need with no problem,” she had argued once when they were laying in bed, “therefore I am not messy. My organisation method is just different from yours General ‘I Colour Code My Folders’ Archeron”

“Whatever you say Nes,” Cassian had laughed, tightening his arms around her. Her mate, she had discovered, was an incorrigible cuddler “I still love you even if you don’t believe in the practicality of keeping things in one place”

She was always leaving books and hairpins all over the House, discarding her boots after training somewhere and forgetting to take them to their room, her notes about the Valkyries, military and Mind Stilling techniques forgotten and scattered in any surface available. The House was constantly gathering and leaving them on her desk, but it usually took her two to three days until she got the courage to sort and put them away properly. Cassian’s tidy and neatly arranged papers — sorted by importance and filled with carefully written notes — made his desk a stark contrast to her mountain of spread out ones in her side of the room they had transformed into their study room.

They had learned early on that they would never be capable of doing any actual work in their own room when their bed was only a few steps away.

Not that they had not fucked in each and every surface of the House, their study included. It just made the temptation of being all over each other slightly smaller.

Nesta had entered the study and was tidying her desk after the House had made the bathtub water cold and dumped on top of her towel the papers she had forgotten at the dining table.

“I was going to get them later,” Nesta had said, and in turn the military book Cassian had lent her had fallen on the little floating table she used when she wanted to read in the bathtub. She had been meaning to return it to him for over a week, the book forgotten amid her pile of romance books on her bedside table.

“Fine,” she had added, “I got the memo, I will put them in the study.”

So Nesta had gotten dressed in a bathrobe — she had every intention of going back to a bubble bath as a reward for tidying up her things — reordered her romance book stack, and set off for the study, grabbing any paper she had forgotten along the way. She was putting his book on the shelf when she noticed that Cassian had a few papers outside his drawer, something unusual to him.

“I better at least put the paperweight on top of them,” she thought to herself. She did not want to mess up her mate’s drawers and folders in her attempt to clean his desk.

Cassian had left in a hurry after lunch to Illyria — Emerie, Balthazar and him were trying to transform an old property into an orphanage and residence for those who had no place to go. For now the plans were to see how things would go in Windhaven, and then replicate the same in other camps. Apparently some problems had arisen concerning the renovations and he had left to sort things out. That explained why his space was uncharacteristically ‘messy’ for his standards.

Nesta lined his pens and was stacking the papers in a pile when one in particular caught her eye. Most of them were reports regarding Illyria or the Valkyries training plans, but the small piece of paper full of bullet points and notes scribbled in a hurry was neither.

“Is this a checklist of some sorts?” she mumbled to herself, reading it. If it was, Nesta could not make sense of it, for there were sometimes only a page number and an acronym in the same bullet point — “pg. 43, UTOT” — or phrases and even single words thrown around that made no sense — “ smell of rain”, “traditional dances”, “unicorns”, “pudding”, “peppermint”, “braids” and so on.

The list intrigued Nesta. Maybe Cassian was playing scattergories or some other game with Azriel or Gwyn again and had forgotten to throw it away. Nesta and Emerie had since long ago given up on playing with them — their competitive streak when combined was insufferable, and both girls had decided they would rather discuss their latest read than go through a discussion if “ice” could be considered a colour or not — but Cassian kept playing. According to him their bickering was amusing to watch despite the chances of him winning being rare.

Nesta wondered if Cassian had other lists somewhere, if together they could help her make sense of what they were exactly. She would have to ask him when he came back — which she hoped happened soon. It was almost time for dinner, and they always had their meals together. When they had an assignment that did not require them to stay more than a day away — Nesta had accepted the position of emissary, although she chose which places she wanted to go and with who she wanted to work with, not to say that it gave her a chance to travel for free — they always tried to come back in time to share meals together. And Cassian had also promised to bake a cake for her, nevermind they lived in a magical house who could do it itself.

So Nesta returned to her bubble bath, the hot water making her sigh with pleasure. A book appeared on her floating table moments later.

“Is this your way of saying ‘good job’ for organising my things?” she asked the House, which made a peppermint tea appear too.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile, and the faelight near the sink glowed brighter, as if it was saying ‘you’re welcome’.

Nesta ended up staying in the bath until her fingers resembled an old lady’s and she had finished her book. It was now late afternoon and no sight of Cassian. She debated starting another book, but she knew it would make her miss her mate even more. She always pictured him as the love interest in her novels.

“Pull yourself together,” Nesta said to herself “it has been less than a day. It is not like we have to be attached to each other all the time”

Truth to be told, Nesta had become rather clingy when it came to Cassian — not as much as him, she doubted there existed someone as affectionate and tender as her mate — but after their mate and wedding ceremony she found herself more comfortable expressing her feelings. She enjoyed having lazy days where she and Cassian would stay near the fireplace — either reading or just talking — or when Cassian would try and teach her how to cook — she now managed to not burn bread but that was it. He was always touching her — a hand on the small of her back, a brush of his hand against hers when he was passing her food, intertwining their legs when they were laying down, flicking her nose when she got annoyed at him… it seemed impossible for him to keep his hands to himself. And that did not bother Nesta at all. In fact, she loved it, and she had realised that she had denied herself of love and made herself so touch starved for so long that now that she could bask in it she was becoming greedy.

For her utter annoyance, Cassian did not return in time for dinner. Nesta ended up going to Feyre’s house to have dinner, and the sight of Nyx — who had just begun to walk — cheered her up a little, as did the chocolate cookies Elain had baked, although she could not help but think about the chocolate cake she had been promised.

Cassian ended up arriving at the House very late into the night, finding Nesta on their bed buried beneath furs, even with the fire lowly crackling in the hearth.

“Hello Nes,” Cassian greeted his mate the second he stepped inside their room, leaving a kiss on top of her head to not interrupt her reading.

“You are late,” was all she said, turning a page. She had ended up choosing one of his war texts to keep herself busy, but his scrawled notes on the margins of the pages did not help her longing.

“I am sorry sweetheart,” he kneeled on the floor beside their bed, taking her free hand on his and playing with her wedding band “Things at Windhaven took longer to resolve than I had intended and Emerie and Balthazar wanted to go over some new plans”

“What can I do to make you forgive me?” Cassian kissed her fingers, giving her his best puppy eyes.

“For starters you can take a bath,” Nesta wrinkled her nose at the dried mud on his boots “And dry your hair properly, I would rather not have you winning about feeling sick later”

“As you wish, Lady Death. Even if the idea of being bedridden and having you take care of me is very tempting” he said with a wink “I will leave you to your book in the meantime.”

Cassian came back less than ten minutes later, leathers gone in favour of soft cotton pants and no shirt, drying his hair with a towel.

“Bath taken and dirty boots have been put away,” he declared, placing the towel on a chair — the House vanishing it moments later — and grabbing a comb.

He sat beside Nesta on the bed, not having to say anything, only extending the brush in her direction. It had become natural to care for each other’s hair. Nesta still remembered the day she had asked her mate for help with the pins keeping her braid in place, Cassian almost falling in his rush to get to her. He had tenderly taken each one out, massaging her scalp later and carefully brushing her hair.

And the next time they had taken a bath together he had grabbed the shampoo to wash her hair before she could even move. Nesta had almost fallen asleep in the tub with the way he gently shampooed and rinsed her hair. Cassian had confessed to her one day that he had an unhealthy obsession with her hair.

“Oh I know,” she had said with a small secretive smile “I see how you look at me when I am braiding it”.

She also remembered the first time he had ever seen her with her hair down and had called it beautiful, making her blush furiously. And since he began taking care of it Nesta could swear that it had gotten stronger and shinier.

Considering how silky and shiny his hair was, it did not surprise her at all.

Nesta, it turned out, also had an unhealthy obsession with her mate’s hair.

She enjoyed washing and combing it, be it after a bath or after he had come back from a flight from somewhere. She enjoyed learning new braids to braid his hair, especially now that Emerie was teaching her traditional Illyrian hairstyles. She had gotten interested after she saw his hair for their wedding-mate ceremony.

“The Illyrans take great pride in their rituals,” Emerie had told her during the party after the ceremony “Back when we were constantly at war, many years ago during Enalius time, the wives of the warriors would braid tokens of good luck and protection for their husbands. Those with long hair also asked them to apply that pattern to their hairstyle, and we integrated in our culture the costume of different braid patterns depending on the occasion: wars, festivals and ceremonies such as burials and weddings”

“The hairstyle Cassian has now is the common braid style used at wedding ceremonies at Windhaven” Emerie had given her a soft smile “Cassian has no living female relatives, so he asked me to do it for him. I’ve never seen him sit so still for so long”

“Could you teach me?” Nesta had asked, feeling shy all of a sudden “I would like to learn them all so I can braid his hair… and our children’s when the time comes.”

“Of course,” her friend had said, and now whenever they had time Emerie would teach her.

Nesta slowly unknotted Cassian’s hair, and by the way he sighed she knew it would not take long for him to fall asleep.

“All done,” she declared, placing the comb near her book on the bedside table.

“Thank you, Nes” he said, slipping under the furs. He intertwined their legs, hugging her close to himself and burying his face on her neck.

Nesta sighed, instantly feeling warmer. Cassian was like a walking furnace, and even without a shirt he was way warmer than her.

“Am I forgiven now, xe nhia?” he asked, nuzzling her neck “I have bathed, dried my hair and am now fulfilling my duties as your personal Illyrian heater.”

“Perhaps.” she ran her fingers over his arm wrapped around her “You do own me a cake, which I was looking very forward to”

“What if I also made you pudding,” he began trailing kisses over her shoulder “would you like that xe r-endy?”

The terms of endearment in Illyrian made her feel so warm and giddy that Nesta almost let slide one word Cassian had said: pudding.

It was one of the words written on that piece of paper, and now she had the perfect opportunity to ask about it.

“Funny of you to ask me about pudding,” she began nonchalantly “I read something about it today”

“You did?” she could hear the surprise in his voice “Please tell me you were not attempting to cook, we all know how it went last time”

“I set fire to the kitchen one time and you never let it go,” she ruffed with annoyance “No, I did not attempt to cook. But I did find a rather interesting and confusing list with the word pudding on it.”

“What,” Cassian raised his head from her shoulder, and Nesta turned around on his arms to look at him.

“I was tidying up my things when I noticed your desk was uncharacteristically messy. I had only planned to put a paper weight on your papers to hold them down but I ended up reading your list,”

“I am sorry if I did not respect your privacy,” Nesta added in a rush, afraid Cassian might get angry “I did not mean to pry but my curiosity got the better of me and I ended up reading it.”

“I am not mad xe nhia,” Cassian said with a soft smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear “You are free to read any and all papers I have. I have nothing to hide, especially from my mate.”

“I am just embarrassed. That is all” he added, and she could see a faint blush dusting his light brown skin.

“Why would you be embarrassed?” she asked, furrowing her brows.

“Because,” he took a deep breath “that was one of the lists I made of topics I wanted to talk with you about. Ever since I met you back when you were human and I used to collect the queen’s letters from you, ever since then I would think of fake conversations and scenarios, building entire conversations inside my head so I could impress you with my comebacks.”

“So that time you stayed circling the house for ten minutes…” she inquired.

“I was compiling a list of chosen insults to throw your way, responses to an invented argument” he groaned, hiding his face on her shoulder “Like a complete fool.”

“You did this back when I was human?” Nesta asked, her love for her big kind hearted mate growing impossibly bigger.

“I never stopped, which might make me even a bigger fool than I was back then,” he admitted, face still hidden “Even after that, when you were Made and I used the excuse of exercising my wings to come and see you, and being together with you felt both so close yet so far given the circumstances”

“Cassian…”

“And even later, when we started living at the House and you were going through so much, trying to get better… I kept coming up with them. Topics I wanted to discuss with you, when we were together but not together. When it was just sex, and I was willing to take whatever you gave me because a little of your time, a little of you, was infinitely better than nothing at all.”

“Conversations we could have had, that I wanted us to have. Issues that I wanted to get your opinion on, if only I was not such a coward. It was always so difficult— I was so scared of ruining whatever I had managed to build with you, of losing you forever” he sighed, finally raising his head “I kept all of them. All of the lists. And I keep finding new things I want to talk with you about and since we got together it seems the list never stops growing. As if I am making up for the time lost, because now we do have that time”

Nesta did not know what to say in answer to that. Sometimes, when she had a bad day and felt like the old bitter and angry Nesta — the one who drowned her problems in alcohol and refused to let herself feel anything good at all — she had to remind herself that she was deserving of the love she had now. That she was deserving of her sisters — the old and the new ones — and of her friends and family.

That she was deserving of such a good male like Cassian. Her mate, her husband, her friend and her family.

“You can laugh if you want,” Cassian said, sounding a bit nervous about her reaction “Cauldron knows I must sound like a madman creating make believe arguments”

“Why would I laugh when my mate loves me so much that he cannot help but think of me literally every single moment?” Nesta arched an eyebrow, letting all of her love and adoration for him shine through their bond.

“What you just said is book love interest level, Cassian” she kissed him, burying her hands in his hair “I would be a fool to laugh.”

Nesta could see the relief in his eyes and she smiled. “You can ask me anything you want to know, anytime. Especially if it means you will cook more sweets for me, xe porang termireco”

Cassian groaned, rolling them so his weight pressed her down deliciously.

“You will be the death of me, Lady Death” he whispered, nipping at her ear.

“I thought you were tired from your flight” she breathed as he started kissing her neck.

“You know what you speaking Illyrian does to me,” he argued, “especially when you call me your handsome husband ”

And Nesta made sure to call him plenty of things in Illyrian in the next hours, both of them falling asleep only when the sun was rising.

•

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#nessian #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #cassian #acosf #a court of silver flames #post acosf #sarah j maas #sjmaas #sjm fanfic

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nightcourtseer · 3 months

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Pain Like This

Summary: Mor and Azriel finally talk. One year post ACOSF.

Read on A03

He had thought he had known agony. He thought he knew pain - thought that he had turned it on its side and around until he knew every part of what pain was, what pain could possibly be.

He had never known pain like this.

Orchestral music went on stories beneath him at the House of Wind. Winds and strings and the stories of their people, their freedom, drifted up to him as Azriel leaned his forearms on one of the house’s many balconies. Cool night air swept across his skin, tousling his air - as if it were an extension of his shadows which clung closer to him than they had done so in years.

He had discarded his fine black jacket at some point during the night, when things had all become a little too much and the close fit of the fabric had started to feel more like a noose than a luxury. It was tossed over the balcony next to an empty glass of champagne.

Typically he would turn to liquor to solve his problems - to turn the clock faster so that with each drink, the hand would spin faster and faster until the sun rose and he could wearily begin the next day.

But at the sight of her, just a glimpse of golden brown hair and an amethyst gown - in his arms, an emerald green jacket - Azriel’s stomach had churned. The scent of their bond drifted to him on a traitorous breeze and he had nearly emptied the contents of his stomach right there in the middle of the crowd.

Before her, he thought he had known the pain of heartbreak. But no, heartbreak was merciful, in comparison. Heartbreak was an arrow to the heart, a slash of a knife across the throat. Heartbreak was quick, its devastation brutal, but effective.

This was torture. And torture, Azriel knew well.

It had been over a year since that Solstice Night. And every day since, Azriel wondered at the fact that he hadn’t been driven completely mad.

He never slept, barely ate. He threw his body so brutally into training that there were times when Cassian had to physically drag him from the ring.

It was the worst kind of pain - useless, destructive pain that could never be resolved, never lessened. And he could not confide it in anyone, could not extend a shaking hand to help him, to please, help him through this.

He was alone. Just as he had always suspected he should be, had always been meant to be.

Maybe that was why the shadows had come to him - some pitiful offering by Death that until his soul was claimed by the Mother herself, the shadows would be his only constant companion.

The stars hadn’t even begun to make their journey across the sky before he had snuck away, his brothers too occupied with their mates to notice him fading away, trudging heavily up the stairs and through an empty bedroom, sliding open the glass door to step onto the balcony where he could watch the migration of souls alone.

He should have known that few moments of solitude on such a night would be too much to ask.

Azriel knew her scent as well as his own, even though her heels made no sound on the plush, expensive rug as she crossed the room to the balcony. The glass doors remained open, although she paused on the threshold.

He didn’t turn around to greet her. For as well as he knew her scent, so did he know the tells of her distress - the unique markers of her scent that hinted at what weighed heavily on her tongue. The belly-curling scent of red wine flooding the night air around them as she leaned against the doorframe to steady herself.

“Not now, Mor.”

There was no kindness in his voice. No warmth, that he usually reflected back to her.

“Az, please.”

He refused to turn. He refused to turn around and see the salty tears that his shadows whispered were gathering in her eyes.

“You’re drunk. We’re not having this conversation while you’re drunk.”

“I can’t wait any longer,” she pleaded. So unlike her, to plead for everything besides that they join her for a night of dancing, or another glass of wine. Nothing of importance - nothing that truly mattered.

She’s crying, the golden one is crying, his shadows whispered sorrowfully.

His head pounded, and more than ever he yearned for the bottle of powder on his nightstand.. Out of all nights that she would come to him, out of all of the nights that he had waited for her to speak, to finish the conversation that he had tried to start eons ago.

“Godsdamnit, Mor!” he whirled around to face her, and she recoiled as his eyes flashed. “You’ve waited 500 years to bring this up and you can’t wait one more fucking day?”

“Az-” Something in those stormy hazel eyes softened as she choked on a breath, the wine glass shaking in her hand. As if she held onto it like a raft, a physical way to ground herself as she forced herself to speak the truth they had buried for half a millennium.

“It can’t wait. Please.”

He didn’t give her an answer, but he didn’t give her any indication that he wasn’t listening either. He merely turned to return his gaze to the stars above. Faint lines of starlight still ghosted the dark night, as if white shadows had trailed the crossing spirits. Even the stars seemed to glow brighter that night, as if to put on their best show for the crowds toasting, cheering and dancing until the early hours of the morning.

Azriel remembered when it had once been the five of them down there. When it had just been him, Cass, Amren, Mor and Rhys - before the mountain. Before their world had broken apart for 50 years and they had barely held themselves together, not knowing if their brother, their High Lord, would ever return. They had gotten so drunk for so many nights that the years went quickly, even as the days dragged on.

How much had changed, since then.

Rhys held Nyx in the crowd below, pressing a soft kiss to his son’s head as Feyre came up behind him, holding a glass of champagne in one hand and tilting it up to Rhys’ lips. The smiles on their faces so wide as to rival the stars that had just fallen.

Cassian led Nesta through the throng of dancers, his waltz having vastly improved over the past year of gatherings and parties on her arm.

He didn’t dare look to see who else might still be on the dance floor.

“Azriel,” her voice broke on the first syllable of his name - like a snapped violin string, mournfully twisting the sound of what had once been a beautiful melody on her lips. One he had once longed to hear, over and over again.

“I’m sorry.”

Azriel waited with bated breath for her to continue. His shoulders curled in on themselves involuntarily, as if waiting for the sword of her golden tongue to thrust a blade into the back he had left exposed to her. When in reality, there was already a knife there that had been twisting and turning for centuries. Blood leaking and dripping behind him for as long as he could remember.

She didn’t continue, so he finished for her - his voice as cold and deep as it had been for the past year, since that Solstice Night when he had turned away from any glimmer of hope that he had seen reflected back in a wide pair of brown eyes looking up at him, fluttering closed in anticipation -

This was a bad time for her to come to him with this. He had no patient bone left in his body - every part of him felt battered, bruised, tender.

He had no kindness in his soul that night, and so he lashed out.

“I’m sorry for - what, Mor? I’m sorry for stringing you along for 500 years? For letting you trail after me like a godsdamned fool? For making Cassian feel like he had to sit between us at every dinner, every night at Rita’s, every possible opportunity where you might have been able to tell me how you felt?”

She let out a shuddering sob at the frigid anger in his voice. Anger that he had never once directed at her before, only threw out in her defense. And even then, it had frightened her. The depth of that anger, that chilled his very bones.

“It doesn’t even fucking matter anymore. Nothing does.”

Gods, he was so godsdamned tired. If only he could sleep, if only could he close his eyes without seeing her, without hearing her voice, without seeing the devastation in her eyes as he uttered those four words that repeated themselves over and over in an endless loop in his mind.

“It matters to me.” A bit of anger colored her tone, as she went on the defensive.

“It matters to me that we talk about this. And yes, I’m sorry for that - for everything. But don’t pretend you didn’t know. You’re too smart for that.”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair and not bothering to wince as it pulled at the roots. Physical pain meant nothing to him anymore.

“Of course I knew, how could I not? You practically shoved her in my face, and still you said nothing.”

His voice wavered, as he struggled not to shout. Because there was still a party going on below them, and even in his anger, his frustration, he didn’t want to reveal her secrets like that.

“Andromache,” Mor whispered, and he could scent another tear sliding done her perfectly blushed cheek. “Her name was Andromache.”

Her pain was bitter - more bitter than the red wine that stained her teeth, her red lips. Even after all of these years, it still felt fresh to her - that grief of losing her lover. One that Azriel had very much been aware of, but had never spoken of to anyone - not Mor, and certainly not his brothers.

“You knew I was in love with you, and yet you had the decency to carry on that affair right in front of me.”

He gritted the words through his teeth. And still, he did not turn to face her.

“I didn’t think you would be able to handle it - if I outright told you about her,” Mor’s voice persisted, even through her tears. She took another step closer to her, and his shadows clung together to his form. She stopped when she noticed this.

He had known, and he had let it carry on. For Azriel had foolishly hoped that at the end of it, when her heart was inevitably broken by a cruelly short human lifespan, that she might turn to him for comfort - to fill the hole that the human queen had left in her heart.

What a fool he had been. What a fool he still was.

“Liar,” he snarled, barely leashing himself as he snapped his head to the side, still avoiding the sight of her. A part of him was satisfied, when he felt her recoil.

His voice was a discordant tune to the uplifting melody lilting below. Their family a happy, peaceful thing lost in the crowd even as he and Mor lashed and wounded each other above, out of sight.

That was always had been, in the Court of Dreams. Anger and hurt and nightmares relegated to dark corners, to dark bedrooms, to warded houses. Carefully tucked away, tucked inside, turned inward - until there was nowhere left for it to go but out.

Azriel didn’t have any room left in his heart for it.

“You love me.” she corrected, “You haven’t been in love with me for centuries.”

Azriel was silent, anger and anguish and defeat radiating and intermingling as he struggled to vocalize the very words that he had struggled to voice for hundreds of years. In all of the ways he had imagined in this conversation to go, it was never like this.

“I’m not sure if I even know the difference anymore.”

“You do,” Mor asserted quietly, taking a step closer and abandoning her glass on the balcony. She put a hand on his arm, so slowly it was as if she was trying to comfort a wild animal.

And maybe that’s all he was, to her. Some beast that had been locked in a dark cage for the better part of his formative life. An Illyrian designed to kill or be killed - a winged devil stalking through the night. A torturer wringing blood in the coldest part of their world.

He was the opposite of anything she had ever wanted. She had crawled her way out of Hewn City with her own bloodied hands and would do anything in her power to keep from going back to that place. Back to what he clearly reminded her of - of darkness, and death, and torment.

That was why he had started to love her, after all. She was sunlight incarnate - from her easy smile to her quick humor to her golden hair - she was so, so easy to love. Too easy to cling to when his own darkness threatened to swallow him whole. If she was the sun, he was the moon chasing after her - night after night after night.

“Maybe you were in love with me, in the beginning,” Mor continued, her voice softer, gentler than it had been before.

Maybe she was just as tired as he was.

“But I know that you haven’t been for a long time. And now, with -”

“Don’t,” Azriel loosened a warning growl. “Don’t say her name.”

Mor let out a shaky sigh, and his shadows didn’t even have to alert him to the change of her scent - one from fear and anger to pity and sorrow.

“It’s different with her, and you know it.”

Azriel wondered when she had noticed. Maybe that strange, unworldly power inside of her had told her this truth long before even he himself had known.

He had been to the cabin, after Feyre had painted it. He had stopped and stared, marveling at a small drawing that clearly had been done by an unpracticed hand - three winged males beside three females with long, flowing hair. He had stood there, staring at that little drawing for far too long.

“And yet, it’s not different, Mor.”

Exhaustion swept over him - a sudden wave that weighted him down to that very spot so heavily he wondered if he would ever fly again. If he would ever be able to lift the wings that he too frequently let drag on the ground behind him, when no one was watching.

“The ending is the same.”

“You don’t know that.” Red-tipped nails dug into the sleeve of his dark shirt, insistence coloring her voice, steadying it as she clung to him.

But her light could not touch him this time. Shadows pressed closer to his form, shielding him. He did not want to feel hope. He did not want her to tell him that he would find another - he did not want her to tell him about Emerie, or second chances. He didn’t want to hear anything at all.

“Azriel-”

He stopped her, before she could say any of that. Before she could try to wash over his agony, before she could cradle him in her warmth and goodness and light.

“I can’t do this for another 500 years,” he admitted.

Maybe it was the defeat in his voice - or maybe some dark implication that he had hidden even from himself. That he could barely take another day of this agony, let alone another hundred years.

Mor broke apart in his arms, legs wobbling beneath her as she cried out, halfheartedly trying to contain her cry.

Frantically, Azriel pulled her in close. Maybe to keep her quiet, to keep their location unobserved from prying eyes. Or maybe because this felt like a goodbye, in more ways than one.

He let a scarred hand cradle the back of her head, pressing her close to him and letting the kohl around her eyes bleed into the black material of his shirt. Sharp, heaving sobs wracked her chest as her cries were muffled into his chest, right above his heart. He turned his head so that he could rest his cheek on the top of her head, and lifted his heavy wings to pull them around the pair, cocooning them.

“I’m sorry, Azriel, I’m so sorry, I never wanted to hurt you…” he could just make out her muffled words.

He held his friend, the female he had once hoped would be his lover. The female whom he had once hoped would choose him above all else.

Azriel closed his eyes. Let the wind kiss his dry cheeks, fill his stuttering lungs with air once more. Mor’s cries quieted, with time, until her shaking form stilled beneath his hands, her bare skin revealed by her strapless red dress still somehow warmer than his own.

“You have to tell her, Azriel,” Mor insisted, red-lined eyes still somehow beautiful, as she looked up at him. “Before it’s truly too late.”

“Let’s talk about this another night, Mor,” Azriel said softly, but firmly, as he tucked her back into his chest. As he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that this night had turned out entirely different. That it was not Mor, breaking off the final piece of her that he had struggled to hold onto for so long. That instead, golden brown hair clung to his expensive shirt - the shirt that he had bought with some misguided hope that she might look at him - that there might be some way that she would look at him again and smile, and take his hand for a dance.

Then maybe she would have led him up here, to the balcony of her old room in the House of Wind. The room that her scent still clung to, although faintly - honey and jasmine. He dreaded the day when the scent faded completely, when he would no longer be able to slip through the door in the middle of the night to look at the stars, imagining she was in his arms as they looked out onto their city together, their home.

No, not even during those years of pining after Mor, had he known pain like this.

#mor and azriel finally talk #angst #post acosf #elriel #emorie #azriel #elain x azriel #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger

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