part one of the pre-series angst monster is finally here! the second and third parts should follow quite soon, I have them written they just need to be tidied up a little. In the meantime enjoy the angst. (and let me know if you like it? this has been a while in the making) bless @blackbeak for letting me babble about this (a lot) during the writing process.
Title: Dedication Part 1: Shadow Song
Pre-series, Azriel’s POV. The story of Azriel’s rescue of Mor after the Incident.
Teaser: It had probably happened some time in the night then. In that court of festering demons and monsters that was aptly named for the horrors it bred. But that was not so long. She was strong. She was so strong. She could still be alive. He could still find her. He would still find her. He pushes down on that feeling too until it is as small and insignificant as the pain that had rattled him for all those years.
When Azriel steps into the room his brother had summoned him
to not even knowing the whisperings of his shadows could have prepared him for
what he found within.
Cassian slumps in a chair, nearly doubled over on himself. His
wings droop pathetically until they drag on the floor. His face is buried in
his hands as though he can’t bear to look at any of them. And he sits still and
Cassian was never silent and never still. He favoured
action, always. Where others may be content to sit and plan and plot and
analyse and debate he never was. He considered that to be a waste of time. The
more dire and precarious a situation the more he wanted to act immediately. He
trusted his gut and he acted on his instincts and did whatever he thought was
right. Thoughts of the consequences came later. Usually when he was faced with
them and had to think his way out of trouble. And that was if they ever came at
And Rhys. Rhys who had called him here and taken charge –
always taking a charge, a leader without a crown – looks lost. Rhys whose power
could already level a city with a thought and grows every day looks powerless.
Rhys is paler than Azriel has ever seen him in all their years together. It
looks as though he’s been trapped underground and away from sunlight for
decades. And he’s shaking. His brother is shaking.
The shadows that sing secrets to him have no answer for him
now and so he speaks. He is the one that breaks the silence between the three
of them. Him. A warning to the world
that something is very, very wrong.
“What happened?” he asks quietly.
Rhys only grips the back of the chair he’s bracing himself
over, his knuckles turning white and the wood groaning at the pressure. He
opens his mouth several times but words seem to fail him and he eventually
lapses into hopeless silence, shaking his head.
It’s Cassian who finally manages to tell him.
“Morrigan,” he groans without raising his head. His voice is
a hoarse rasp and he refuses to look at either Azriel or Rhys as he answers.
That one word, her
name, said in that way makes Azriel’s heart slam to a stop within the cage
of his ribs. His body locks up and he snaps his eyes to Rhys, mutely appealing
for a fuller explanation that he knows Cassian is unable to give right now.
Rhysand clears his throat and looks up at Az, his violet
eyes shadowed and heavy. “Mor’s family learned….Learned about what she did
with Cassian.” He still grinds out that mistake in such a way that Azriel knows
it will cause a rift between his brothers for some time to come.
Beneath his broad, rough hands he knows his brother’s face is
still faintly bruised. Relics of Rhys’ fists and the beating he’d given him
when he found out what they’d done. He’d been seeing straight through to this
moment. This is what had caused that rage. What exactly ‘this’ is Azriel still
doesn’t know. But from the way his brothers have reacted…
His stomach churns horribly in fear for her.
“Eris refused the marriage,” Rhys says, his usually smooth,
steady voice little more than a brittle whisper. “They punished her for it.
There were enough sickened layers in that last word that he
didn’t want to press for further details. Not right now. Rhys is still
trembling – with rage or fear or grief – he can’t be sure. And Cassian looks as
though he might be sick at any moment.
As he should Az
thinks viciously. Fool, fool, fool, fool.
He pushes those thoughts away. It wasn’t Cassian’s fault, not truly. His
brother had meant no harm, even if so much harm had been done by it. And this
was punishment enough.
“When?” Azriel hears himself ask.
The horror he would think of later. The pain and the fear
could wait until then too. For now he stuffs them roughly into that box in his
head. The one in which he has hidden so much of his childhood in order to stop
it destroying him. The one he had gotten very good at closing and keeping
closed in the last few years.
He knew they thought him cold and empty and flat but he did
not know how else to be. If he let himself feel a little he would feel it all
and it would have killed him years ago. In that darkness in which he had lived
and sunk into so deeply – until the darkness began to whisper its secrets to
him- he’d had no choice. Shut down or die.
Rhys seems a little startled by the question and at the
cool, calm way Azriel had asked it. “I don’t know,” he admits, his violet eyes
shifting as they meet his own hazel. “My father only deigned to tell me about
it an hour ago.”
It had probably happened some time in the night then. In
that court of festering demons and monsters that was aptly named for the horrors
it bred. But that was not so long. She was strong. She was so strong. She could
still be alive. He could still find her. He would
still find her. He pushes down on that feeling too until it is as small and
insignificant as the pain that had rattled him for all those years.
“Where is she?” he murmurs quietly.
The shadows around
him swirl and twist like agitated serpents, flying from his body, spearing out
in all directions, all asking the same question. He does not give them orders.
He does not tell them what to do or where to go. They respond to his will, his wants,
his needs, even if he doesn’t always know what they are. They have a kind of
life and intelligence of their own and he had trained them long ago to obey. They
found him the secrets that he needed to know without him having to tell them
what he needed exactly or where to find them.
The answer is whispered in his ears a heartbeat before Rhys
says hollowly, “The Autumn Court.”
In a mess, neither has to add. A mess that her family no
longer wishes to acknowledge. A mess that is now Eris’ to deal with. They have thrown
her away, used and useless to them. They have thrown her away as she no longer
has value to them, no longer has meaning, no longer even rates as a person any
longer. Like an animal. Impossible to break to their will so it had been
destroyed instead. Like a patch of rot, cut away before it tarnished the house
it belonged to. Like a bastard boy shoved into a black pit to suffer for the
crime of being born lest he live to stain his step-mother’s pride.
But he had survived. And so would she.
Azriel’s Siphons burn blue, like the reflection of a
shooting star blazing on the surface of a lake. Rhys and Cassian’s ragged
shouts of protest both come too late to stop him. He channels his power inwards,
pressing it into his body, forcing it to become small, to become as
insubstantial as his shadows, as smoke caught in a breeze. And then he
It wasn’t winnowing, he had been told. Winnowing was like
walking while magic reeled the desired destination in close. This was
different. This was dangerous. The power that burned in his blood was not named
the killing power for no reason. It was unstable and difficult to hone and
control, even with the Siphons that glittered about his body. It was a force to
be reckoned with. It was a force of nature and it had been created, as he had
been, to destroy. One did not attempt to saddle a hurricane. But this is what
he does now. For her.
For this girl. This burst of sunshine made flesh. This bright
spark made of warm smiles such as he had never known, and easy laughter that
echoed in his bones longer after she had gone. This girl with the power in her
blood that burns and roars and calls to his. This girl with the rich velvet
eyes he could spend a lifetime drowning in and still breathe thanks to the way
she said his name. This girl his heart had dedicated itself to the moment their
eyes had met across that war camp.
This girl who has been brutalized by her family – the way he
had been. This girl who has been hurt and crippled and broken by the ones who should
have treated her with gentle love and tender compassion. He had never known
that. And likely never would. But he could try to find some – for her. To spare
her from this. To save her; as he wished for so long that someone would have
saved him. For her. For her he will do this. For her he would do anything.
What is this? I have no clue. It’s a Pirate AU that I wrote a while ago and never posted because I didn’t like how it came. yet, here I am, posting it. I just felt like posting before I post my other 4k AU.
Word Count: 2185
Lucy couldn’t deny it, even if she wished, that her father’s soldiers were persistent if anything. She had already lost track of how long she’d been running by now, but her pursuers seemed to have set their minds to capturing her; it had surely been more than hours since she’d left the town and entered this forest, but the men were still on her tail.
That, however, did not mean she would give herself up—far from that. She would keep running and fighting until the very last breath in her lungs was exhausted. She would not desist after going so far—not after she’d finally escaped the wretched mansion of her father.
The place that had once been a paradise of merry times now jailing her as a prison. The windows and doors no longer a gateways to the adventurous world, the servants no longer friendly and kind, and, the worst of all, her mother no longer alive.
Shaking her head to rid it of sorrowful thoughts, Lucy gasped as she saw light ahead and beyond brambles and trees. The sun might shine brightly in the sky and easily peer past the canopies of leaves above her, but she could easily recognize civilization from afar.
She knew it was a port or a town near the sea; Hargeon if she was correct, and the sound of sails and bells proved her right. The smell salt and water soon hitting her nostrils and urging her to sigh in contentment.
Not yet, she told herself. She couldn’t let herself be appeased yet; her father’s scumbags still chased after her. She would have to do better if she wished to lose them.
With a groan, she sped up her pace, golden hair and navy blue skirt whipping about her as she ran. Her clothing and hair were not corresponding to one of a lady such as her, aiding her in concealing her identity whenever she might reach the town.
Most citizens would dream of being royalty or having noble blood pulsing in their veins, but Lucy wished nothing more than to have been born in a lower class—in an adventurous class. Not the boring and constricting class she had been birthed into.
The sounds of voices and bustling of people then became hearable, and Lucy knew she had reached the town. She swiftly ducked behind a few barrels she saw and patiently waited for the soldiers to run past her.
Once they did, she let out a breath of relief, her gaze traveling to the skies as she finally breathed the smell of the seven oceans. A serene smile overtook her face; Her mother had always told her the tales of those courageous enough to set out into the unknown lands littering the globe as they traversed the sea.
Lucy wished to be one of those. As her auburn orbs were locked into the endless, suave velvets of the skies, she reminisced; she remembered herself as a child, gazing out the window and imagining herself sailing among clouds and stars alike.
And now, she could finally do it - Take a ship and vanish from this forsaken land her father lived upon.
Almost six months to the day after her inevitable breakup with Jacques, Constance decides to finally make a change. A bigger change. She’s going to travel and see the world. All of it. She’s got the money, she’s got the ambition. She’s going to enjoy herself.
And she does.
She meets Porthos inside a crowded Portuguese cafe (where she’s failing to string enough of the local language together to even catch the barista’s attention, much less order a simple cafe au lait). He hails the barista long enough to ordertwo galãoes, handing one to her with a smile and encouraging nod. He introduces himself in a French dialect that can only be native, and they spend the morning talking over empty cups.
She’s happier than she’d like to admit when she runs into him again on her train ride to the Mediterranean coast. He tells her about his absentee father who died and left him “to put it lightly: filthy rich.” She tells him about all the money she saved, all the maps she memorized, and all the ways that she does not have the next week planned beyond enjoy life. (She says nothing about the former fiance who never encouraged her dreams.)
By the time they make it to Greece, Constance finally realizes they are traveling together. She admits as much to Porthos, and he just laughs, grabs her hand, then asks her to lead the way.
(At one point, they circle back to Paris, and Constance meets the people Porthos has spent long train and boat rides telling stories about. They’re his family.
Rating: T, future M Relationship: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Minor or Background Relationship(s) Additional Tags: Alternative Universe - Canon Divergence, Grounder!Bellamy, Grounder!Octavia, Courtship, Rituals, Misunderstandings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Romance, Drama, Arranged Marriage Excerpt:
“You’re wearing it.” He sounded confused; the furrow between his eyebrows only added to that.
Clarke tugged on the two hanging cords from the bracelet and the beads clicked together. “You gave it to me.”
“You didn’t seem too keen on accepting it in the first place.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t recognize you at first and you were fast to leave.”
He smiled crookedly and Clarke’s gaze was drawn to his full chapped lips, to the small mess of freckles under his eyes and on the bridge of
his nose, the length of his lashes and the pleasant shade of his deep
brown eyes. All of a sudden she was aware of the fact that he was
actually attractive and she nearly shivered under his intense scrutiny.
“I suppose I looked differently covered in blood in Mount Weather.”
Flashes of naked skin, a bloody syringe in one hand, hair matted in
red, a wild look in dark eyes, ink spirals twisting and turning and
begging to be chased with fingers.
Clarke blinked and chased the image away for now, storing it for future inquiry.
4,000 followers?! That’s honestly wild!! I never thought in a million years so many people (and bots) would appreciate my historical shitposting! I want to thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart, you all are so cool and I can’t say enough how amazing i think you all are. But, without further ado, here is my follow forever: