Writing Made Anonymous

“You pushed too hard,” Mor finally said softly, looking at Amren.

“Maybe,” the tiny woman allowed. “But she needed that.”

“You could have waited.”

“For the girl to collapse? You all know she was heading that way. She needs to learn that being ill does not make her weak. She believes she cannot be loved if she is weak. That will harm her more than she realizes,” Amren finished. No one missed the slight softness in her voice.

And no one except for Rhys noticed Azriel slipping from the room into the shadows.

=============

A knock sounded at the door, soft but sure. You debated ignoring it, but that would only make everything worse.

“Come in,” you called, wincing at the roughness in your voice. You stared at the flames dancing, the heat radiating from the fireplace matching the heat radiating off of your body.

Nearly silent footsteps moved towards you after the door shut. You couldn’t tell if you hated that you knew immediately who they belonged to.

“Hi,” you murmured, not looking at the male who sat carefully into the chair next to yours.

“Hi.”

You sighed. “Is everyone upset with me?”

Azriel could not hide the devastation that crossed his face quickly enough, not that you’d even looked in his direction yet.

“No,” he answered simply, though he could hardly speak past the heartbreak in his chest. Of course that’s what you were worried about, that your family was upset with you for having walked away while cornered and uncomfortable.

You glanced at him through the corner of your eyes. “Really?”

“Really.”

You let out a breath, closing your eyes as if that would shield you from what had just happened downstairs.

“What Amren said was true,” you murmured softly. Az merely tilted his head, giving you the space to continue should you wish. You sniffled, hating how quiet the room was, knowing Azriel could hear it clearly.

“I don’t hate… this,” you gestured toward your face loosely.

“The cold?” He asked for clarification. Even that had your cheeks heating.

You gave a swift nod.

“It would be okay if you did,” Az said softly. “Colds are rather… annoying.”

Your lips twitched at that, followed by a slight scowl. Azriel had come to know that look quite well over the past few days, it was usually followed by-

“T’sxch!”

“Bless you.”

“Thank you.”

“Sounded like it hurt.”

“I’m fine,” you responded quickly, waving him off. Both of you knew it wasn’t true.

Silence descended, though the fire crackling was a welcome noise. It usually soothed you. You could feel each time the male you cared for glanced your way, each time adding to the fevered blush at your cheeks.

Something crossed your mind.

“How long?”

Azriel tilted his head, hazel eyes meeting yours. They seemed to soften.

“Since dinner two nights ago.”

Your brows raised of their own accord. You thought you had done a fairly good job of hiding your added fatigue, the slight scratching of your throat. As if he could tell what you were thinking, he shifted slightly more in your direction.

“No one else noticed. You hid it well, Y/N. But, noticing things, gathering secrets is my job.”

“You do notice everything,” you agreed with a humorless laugh.

“I notice you.”

Your heart fluttered like it always did when he said something about you.

“I know you want to hide it, I just don’t know why.” He spoke so softly, so gently, tears pricked your eyes. “Because you are beyond capable. I saw you in the training ring with Cassian yesterday and you made him miss a step. You helped Feyre with her art. Worked with Rhys over a negotiation that has taken two years to even get close to finalized. You did all of that with a cold. You are capable and you are sick, the two are not mutually exclusive.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding, a cough escaping from it.

Azriel was still for a moment before getting up and pouring a steaming cup of tea from the pot one of the half-wraiths must have placed. He did not say anything. He simply placed the mug on the table near you. He did not push, he never did with you. He simply allowed you to choose whether to accept the help he offered.

“I didn’t know you were one for speeches.”

“This deserved one,” he shrugged.

You reached for the mug and took a sip. What looked like relief flickered across his face.

“Mor was raised in the Hewn city, though in a slightly different area. She was raised with nobility, I was not. They had more… luxuries. I know you know much of what happens there already.”

He hummed. “Tell me.”

“No,” you responded softly. “Not yet. But I hate…not having control over… this.” You again gestured toward your face loosely. “I can’t choose what others see, what mask I can put on. It’s chosen for me. I don’t like that.”

“I can’t imagine anyone would,” Azriel agreed.

Silence descended once again, interrupted by flames licking the air and the sound of your mug hitting the table.

“You are not weak, Y/N.”

“I know,” you answered too quickly.

“You don’t,” he corrected gently.

“I do.. logically,” you responded. He nodded.

“Thank you, Az,” you eventually murmured, voice rough from more than just the cold. You looked up at him, meeting his gaze. You hoped your expression conveyed what you felt.

Something tugged at your chest, causing your brows to furrow. It pulsed, pulling a sharp gasp from you.

“Y/N?” Azriel asked, already tensing as if to fight whatever was causing you to feel this way.

The world suddenly shattered, light erupting, though nothing changed at all in the room. Everything disappeared except for the sensation in your chest, your soul. Something ancient lit your skin like electricity and then it was gone, leaving a trace of a rope pulling you towards something. You tugged on it experimentally, gasping once more when it led nearby, to the male in the chair next to you.

Mate. Mate. Mate. It seemed to chant.

You breathed heavily, eyes tracing over him in a new light. He seemed… different. You could feel every breath of his, every heartbeat, every tense of his muscles. Fleeting emotions seemed to throw themselves at you- shock, concern, protectiveness, care, fear. You couldn’t even begin to process them.

“Az,” you breathed.

“You’re my mate,” he whispered in awe. Mate. The word sent pure warmth through you, and you could tell he could feel it.

“Mate,” you repeated softly, smiling widely, before irritation took over. You felt a ripple of concern and sympathy flicker between your new bond before you sneezed softly.

“Bless you.”

“Thanks,” you half-groaned. Of all the times to find your mate, this had to be one of the worst.

“I’ve been waiting five hundred years for this,” he admitted.

“To bless me?”

“Apparently,” he chuckled, before growing serious. “For someone to love.”

“I’m sorry it happened like this.”

“Do not.”

”What?”

“Apologize.”

“But I’m…” you began.

“You are beautiful. And perfect. And my mate.” He said it with such a finality you found yourself believing it. He stood, coming over towards you. He stooped, gently pressed a kiss to your forehead, and then carefully, ever so carefully, he took his fingers and tilted your jaw up until you were looking at him. He gave you every opportunity to stop him, taking his time before his lips brushed against yours.

==============================================

@celestialgilb

His deep voice was enough to make your heart beat faster. You’d had a crush on the shadow singer for as long as you could remember. Well, you’d only been in Velaris for about a year, but it had become home quickly.

You nodded. “I’m fine.”

You had watched him so closely for nearly a year that you could see the subtle scrunch in his brows, as though he didn’t believe you. You blushed further under his scrutiny. You hadn’t caught a cold since moving to Velaris- your new found family had practically seen you sneeze only a handful of times- and you weren’t well-versed in showing vulnerability, growing up in the court of nightmares and all.

And it really felt like the start of a cold.

Conversation continued, wine glasses were refilled, and Cassian had just spewed his wine across the table at whatever joke Azriel had made when your breath caught again. Everyone in the room was annoyingly observant, and eyes flickered in your direction. They all politely looked away, though you knew even as conversation restarted that everyone was paying attention to you.

“Huh.. h’tschioo! H’tsch!”

“Bless, darling,” Rhys drawled.

“Cauldron, sweetheart. Bless you,” Mor murmured.

“Bless,” Amren and Cassian muttered at the same time.

“Bless you,” Azriel nearly whispered.

“Thank you,” you replied, clearing your throat a touch.

“You okay?” Feyre asked. You nodded, picking up your wine glass.

Conversation restarted, though eyes occasionally glanced your way. You were just hoping no one noticed you were catching a cold.

Once the last plate was cleared, Cassian stood and made his way to the living room, claiming he was going to get the cards out and a bottle of ‘Rhys’s finest.’ Feyre followed, rolling her eyes and grabbing some fresh glasses. Rhys and Azriel weren’t quite ready to leave yet, finishing their drinks and discussing a possible threat from the south. Amren had already disappeared to find a new book from the library.

“Come on,” you begged Mor, “it has literally the prettiest things ever.”

“We’ve been there three times this week,” Mor huffed, standing and unceremoniously pushing her chair back. “I’m all for shopping but even I’m tired of that place.”

You whined, standing as well. “But this time they got…. H’htssh. H’tsxd!” You stifled the rather harsh sneezes against your shoulder, swaying ever so slightly. Mor immediately steadied you, her brows raised delicately.

“Bless you, Y/N.” She emphasized the words, as if to make them stick harder.

Azriel and Rhysand offered their own blessings, each one adding to the faint tinge of pink at your cheeks.

You muttered your thanks and followed your blonde friend to the living room, her eyes watching you a bit closer. You settled onto one of the couches, leaning against the armrest and pulling a blanket onto your lap. Conversation resumed with Mor and eventually everyone else settled down. Amren had chosen the spot next to you on the couch, Mor sitting at your feet, Cassian sprawled on the ground in front of the fireplace, Feyre and Rhysand in armchairs near the fire, and Azriel choosing to remain standing near the edge of the room.

“Okay,” Cassian clapped. “The rules of the game are simple and are as follows-“

”We already know the rules. We play this weekly,” Rhys interrupted.

“And yet somehow, the rules are never followed,” Amren added, without looking up from her book. You sniffled, not noticing the way Amren’s eyes did shift your direction at that.

“Let’s just play,” Mor whined at your feet, her back leaning to press against your legs. You briefly ran your fingers through her hair, the gesture beyond comfortable for you. You loved your new family more than anything. You knew they loved you just as much, you just weren’t as comfortable with the idea of that love being shown. You were too scared to be loved.

Which is probably why Azriel and you had tip toed around… whatever it was the two of you had. And while you typically loved spending these evenings teasing him and maybe even flirting, tonight was definitely not the night for it. You could barely go two seconds without the annoying itch settling into your sinuses, taking all of your attention to hold it at bay. Unfortunately, that only worked up to a point, and by then, the itch had amplified so much that it seemed like you were incapable of sneezing just once… or even twice for that matter.

Your breath hitched again. You knew it was quiet, but Amren most definitely felt it given that she was seated next to you, her arm lightly brushing yours.

You buried your face into the crook of your elbow and let out four quick sneezes, barely half a breath in between. It left you utterly exhausted and out of breath.

“Bless,” Amren muttered, quirking a single brow at you. She was the first.

The rest chimed in. It was impossible to ignore Mor’s gaze, her eyes lit with concern. She opened her mouth to say something, and then seemingly thought better of it, turning back around. She squeezed your ankle lightly once she was settled. You blushed, more than aware that your… outbursts were unable to be ignored.

The game continued on, though you weren’t quite sure how much longer you’d last without one of your family saying something. Amren most definitely knew you were sick, if her slight roll of the eyes after you attempted to silence yet another sneeze into oblivion was any indication.

Thankfully, Cassian roaring with laughter took the room by storm and saved you from feeling more exposed. You settled further back against the couch, pulling at the blanket without disturbing Mor. You accidentally pushed against Amren, apologizing softly. She hummed thoughtfully, though the sound brought you slight comfort as much as it spiked your nerves.

Your eyes got heavier the more comfortable you became. Your sniffles became a bit more pronounced, congestion harder to ignore. Five relatively peaceful minutes went by, the lull of the conversation pushing you toward sleep.

“You have a cold.” Amren snapped her book shut.

That jolted you right up, your back ramrod straight against the couch, blanket falling. The room went quiet, Mor turning so that her side rested up against your legs as she raised a brow at the female sitting next to you.

“Amren,” Rhysand drawled, though there was a warning in his tone.

“Rhysand,” Amren threw right back. “The girl is sick and afraid she’ll look weak in front of her family. So though everyone with a hint of eyesight can detect she is ill, she thinks she’s fooling someone.”

“I don’t-“ you began to protest. The female held up a finger.

“Rather, she hopes she’s fooling someone.”

You couldn’t disagree with any part of what she said. It was all perfectly true. Your already pink cheeks flushed.

“Sweetheart, is this true?” Mor asked softly. You refused to meet her gaze. You found a thread on the blanket very interesting. In fact, you wish the world would swallow you whole right about now.

“This is not the Court of Nightmares,” Rhys said quietly. His words felt like a punch to the gut.

But he was right. It wasn’t. The horrid place you were raised left no room for weakness. People typically thought of love, sadness, grief, or happiness, maybe even injuries. No one ever thought of sickness. How one cough or sneeze had people looking for a way to extort you, how being unable to control your body made others scoff. Any form of sickness was an opportunity for powers to rise, people to die, or for changes in social standing.

That form of trauma was proving very difficult to ignore.

The room became entirely too much, all at once. You needed out. Immediately.