otp: what do stars do


“Gee, Mister. You must know Wedge Antilles really well. What’s your name?” “Luke Skywalker, at your service!” — Star Wars: X-Wing Rogue Squadron Special

A Finite Eternity - A Mor/Azriel fic

Title: A Finite Eternity

Summary: Set immediately after the events of ACOMAF. Azriel recovers with Mor at his bedside - when her nightmares cause her to scream in terror he wakes to comfort and soothe her but it’s a short-lived solace before danger calls again. 

Link: AO3

The thud of wood impacting flesh and the shatter of splintering bone haunt her.

Her own scream howls through her dreams in a rising crescendo until it reaches a pitch that finally wakes her and casts her into the cool, welcoming blackness of Azriel’s bedchamber where she’s taken up residence as he heals and the slow, steady rhythm of his deep breathing soothes her the way the quiet, softly sung lullabies used to when she was a child.

But tonight it doesn’t come. The familiar planes of Azriel’s sick room don’t wrap around her as she jerks awake. She doesn’t wake at all. Instead she drowns in darkness; forsaken and alone as the symphony of her screams engulf her and pin her down, the weight of the world’s agony crushing her chest and making it impossible to rise, to breathe, to save him.

The pain that lances through her is his pain; the physical agony of the wound cleaving her chest in two, bursting through her heart like vicious forked lightning separating two halves of the world, like the spirits shooting across the sky on Starfall, taking him from her, his soul now among them, nothing but a faint glimmer against an ocean of night.

She screams again. Screams for someone, anyone, to hear, to save her, to save him. Screams until it’s the only sound left in the world. Screams until there’s no blood  Screams until her throat is raw and her lungs are burning as though they’ve poured oil into them and set her alight.

But no-one comes to her in that darkness and she burns, burns like the blood that splatters her skin, the blood that pours from his broken chest, the blood that oozes between her fingers as she fails to stop it.

And in the dark there’s nothing but the scent of blood and death and ruin.

So she burns. Burns until there’s nothing and no-one left in that darkness; burns until she’s destroyed the world for grief and spite; burns until there’s only her and the realisation that she’ll be ash and dust and emptiness soon, unable to feel, to hate, to hurt anymore.

But a hand reaches for her. A hand that closes around her wrist and pulls her back from the brink, reels her in and calms her and brings her back to that quiet, shadowed bed chamber. His touch is cold, as it always is, cooling her burning rage, his skin always contrasting the feverish heat that sears through her flesh; the only one of them who could ever truly handle her at her worst.

Her chest is heaving, she can’t get enough air into her lungs, doesn’t think there’s enough air left in the room, in the world to let her breathe properly. Icy sweat coats her body like a second skin that she longs to claw off. Bile stings the back of her throat and the nightmares still shreds at her nerves, urging her to run and run and run and not stop until she’s in a place they’ve never heard of Hybern or ash or poison or horror.

But the look in his eyes – awake and alert and fixed on her soothes her as nothing else possibly could and she lets herself sink in to them. They  contain that same, anchoring calm she’s always found in them as they pierce her now, tethering to her him, willing her back to herself, back to him, back to this reality, grounding her and settling her and pulling her back in, containing that untameable power that howls for release.

“Azriel,” she whispers, her voice a hoarse rasp as tears sting her eyes and she slides out of her chair and onto the bed beside him, close enough to feel those steady, reassuring breaths she prays never falter again.

His hand is still wrapped around her wrist, a tether to him, to what’s real, his thumb softly strokes her arm and he says, his voice as flat and calm as she mountain lakes they used to visit together, “It was a dream, Mor,” the tenderness in his voice as he says her name makes her move in a little closer to him, seeking more of that, seeking to reassure herself completely that she hasn’t lost it yet, that the world hasn’t lost the coarse softness that is his alone, “It was a dream. It wasn’t real.”

Slowly, hands shaking slightly, she covers his hand with her own, “Except it was real, Az,” she says, struggling not to let her voice break on his name but it does anyway.

Her other hand hovers over the still healing wound in his chest and the tears she had sworn she was done shedding for him fall silently from her eyes once more. A rough hand reaches up and wipes them away with heartbreaking tenderness. Her fingers clench and unclench on his chest like a heartbeat and fresh tears wet his scar-mottled skin.

“It was real,” she can feel it, the ragged wound, the new scar it will leave on his already violence stained body.

It will be a constant reminder of that fear. That fear she thought she had long since left behind her that had reared up like a vicious serpent and coiled itself around her chest again at the thought of losing him; at the thought of watching herself lose him and doing nothing about it. Helpless as she’d been at seventeen; something she swore she’d never be again, never. But there, watching him bleed out, that arrow in him, so dangerously close to his heart, spreading poison through him…She would have done anything. She would have torn apart the fabric of the world with her bare hands and drained the marrow from its bones without a flicker of thought if that had been what it took to save him.

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