geek

“Absolutely not.” 

You were taken aback by Katara’s ease to reject the Firelord. In the safety of your bed, blanket over your body with no real way to show anything of you, your anxiety still hiked. Here you were, just leaving your state of comatose, your body having not been off the bed in days. But, even you didn’t know how to feel with Zuko just a door away from you. 

“Katara,” Zuko’s voice lowers, as it's been since before your temporary absence. You could still never get used to it. “I was not asking you; I’m telling you that I need to see her.”

“And you will,” Katara replies, her words shaky against the door. She was not scared of Zuko– he was practically made of sugar. But she knew her friend was not completely all there. He was trapped in this cage, unable to reconnect with his sanity. “Just… not right now.” 

Zuko’s patience couldn’t wear thinner, “Katara, I do not want to yell. It is still early, and I do not want to wake her, but if I must–” 

“She’s awake,” Katara interjects. She was quickly met with silence, her hands pressing softly into the door. She knew her friend was practically at wits end with the relentless desire to see you, but even she knew better. You needed time, and even the Firelord must respect that. “But, she is not ready.” 

“Katara,” her name never sounded more sinister. He was not so much angry with her, but rather the fact that he knew he could not see you just yet. You have just woken, and you needed the space to continue your healing. But, his feelings also could not be waived away. 

“At this rate, you will not get to see her,” Katara stood her ground, “and you’ll wear my name out.” 

An unpleasant sigh sounded from behind the door, “y/n, I know you hear me.” That familiar, warm voice. The tone was distorted, given Zuko’s mood, but it was still him. He completely surpassed Katara’s words and any attempt to ease the tension. “Can I please come in?” 

It was truly hard to deny this man. After you’ve been dormant for a week, you couldn’t deny that you wanted to see him as well. It was mostly a feeling of debt, as he willingly changed law to fight for you. You owed him, and you knew that good and well. 

But even so, you were not prepared to actually meet eyes with the man. Your bed head was evidently felt, your body was still not completely in your control, and you were still extremely groggy. What right did you have to present yourself like this to the Firelord? 

“Zuko, she’s not ready at all,” Katara spoke softly, her empathy extending to her friend through the holes of the door. “I urge you to just wait a little longer…” 

He was stifling something, you could tell with the way his breath hitched. Even Katara was unsure what Zuko would do, considering how much she’s had him wait. And as forbearing as he could be, this was a unique case where his patience was not agreeable. 

“y/n, I’m here,” he says quietly against the door, addressing you directly. You see the door lean in a bit, pressing against the end of the doorframe. “I know you’ve just woken up, but I just… it’d be enough to just look at you. Or hear your voice… anything, please.” 

Katara looks back at you, reading your expression like it was a world wander. Just a door had been keeping you apart, and she was not sure if it would hold out for long. She had never quite seen her friend like this, and she lamented even delaying your meeting. But, she feared that you might get overwhelmed with feeling, and likely will go back to your comatose. 

But, giving Zuko such a reason might just be the end of him. 

“Zuko, I just think that–” Katara tries but you stop her. Your hand was raised, pausing her from letting out anything more. You clear your throat just a bit, hoping your voice will just let you have this moment. 

You hesitate, your face of a cherry before you speak, “g-give me a little time,” you say softly. “I… am not clothed as I intended to bathe… but should my Lord need to see me now, I will reveal myself to you.” Not your proudest moment, but what else could you do? 

Katara immediately placed her hand over her lips, suppressing all laughter boiling in her throat. With her other hand, she wiggled her thumbs up towards you. You had Zuko gagged, his only immediate response being an awkward cough. 

You gesture at the door to Katara, and she quickly catches on. She pretends to start trying to open it, in which Zuko leaned all his weight to keep the door shut, “n-no, that is not necessary–!” 

A mischievous smile was carved on your lips, albeit your flushed face, “but my Lord–” 

“Take your time,” Zuko urges, suddenly having a ‘change of heart.’ He quickly leans off the door, clearing his throat once more. “It’s enough… I will wait.” 

He was behaving like a pet, and you couldn’t help but pout for him. There was a sense of longing that you didn’t want to credit it as delusion. But with his words and behavior, you were certain there was something there. But for now, you could not give that thought any more power. 

Katara gave you one last thumbs up before whispering, “you’ve tamed the beast.” You silently giggle, the both of you humored by your quick thinking. She then walked up to you, the air returning back to its serious nature. “But, I hope you know that if you are not ready, you do not have to go out there and see him. You are allowed to take your time.” 

You nodded, “I know that.” You look into her eyes, and she could note the affection in her eyes. “But, I’d like to see him as well.” 

She smiles widely, understanding that this is where your true desires lie. She offers you both hands, “then let’s make it worth the wait, hm?” 

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Aang and Sokka were confident that Zuko might just lose his mind after all. 

He long dismissed the guards that were usually tasked outside your door. Aang knew he was extremely anxious, and did not want to further put his feelings on his men who did nothing wrong. And hilarious enough, this had been the best he saw him, considering he was able to hear your voice again. 

Aang joins him on the ground, the two seated on the cold floor of the Palace. Sokka joins, tossing his weapon to the side, his legs spread out and away from one another. They both look at each other hesitantly, noticing their friend had his eyes fixed on your door, as if the fear is that it would disappear. 

“Zuko, she’s awake,” Aang reminds him quietly, awkwardly scratching the back of his bare head. “You do not have to worry anymore. She is okay.” 

Sokka nudges him gently, careful not to mess with his posture, “you know my sister would never fail you.” 

Zuko lied. Your voice truly was not enough. His friend's words were not enough. He wanted to see you, to be in your presence, to share your air. It was an itch, something so foreign to his palette of feeling. 

His anxiety did not leave. Rather, it shifted its priority. His long, relentless nerves on your comatose state have gone, and now been replaced with actually seeing you after so many days. A week felt like an eternity, and he feels uncertain of how he will react around you now. 

What should he even say? One apology would be unacceptable to his standards, but he cannot spend days doing so either (despite his willingness to do so). How could he face you, knowing the trauma you have endured in his nation? Will he even be able to stand after getting one look at your face and those beautiful, deep eyes? 

He was a weak man, that much he knew. 

In the midst of their awkward silence, Toph had joined the space, strolling down the vacant corridor. Sokka was the first to fill it in, “you’re late to the party.” 

Toph smirks before joining them all on the ground. It was a weird, silent agreement that Zuko appreciated, though it was not on his mind to let out those thoughts. He felt her take her seat beside Sokka, purposely bending one of his elbows to disrupt his leaning posture. “I figured you’d all get here before me. I wanted no part in whatever went on last night.” 

Sokka remained on the floor, annoyed but not quite enough to say anything about it, “you sure have a lot of trust in the rest of us. What if something bad happened?” 

“The Avatar and the Firelord are here,” Toph hums simply, “what is there to fear?” 

“I was here too!” Sokka exclaims, sitting up again to contest his friend. 

“Really?” She questions curiously, squinting her eyes towards his direction. “I didn’t see you.” 

“You weren’t even there!” Sokka yells. 

Aang chuckles, earning a toothy grin from Toph. But he quickly prioritized and gave his glance back to Zuko. “y/n is awake now,” Aang informs Toph, with her nodding intently. “We are waiting for her to come out.” 

Toph stays silent before she looks towards Zuko’s direction, “you don’t seem excited.” 

Zuko breaks his gaze at your door and looks down at his lap. He begins to fiddle with his hands, his fingers swirling around one another. He was antsy, “it’s not that I am not excited… I just want to ask you all a favor without it seeming rude.” 

Sokka was the first to ease him, “we’re friends, Zuko. Remember that friends help other friends out– that’s kinda the whole point.” 

Aang nods, “we can’t take offense, especially considering how kindly you always treat us when we come to visit.” 

“And you have no idea how grateful I am for your arrival,” Zuko reiterates, his hands now holding each other. His grip tightens as his fingers weave together. “But, I fear that it might be overwhelming for her to meet you all right at this moment.” 

The three of them stayed silent. As much as they were anticipating finally meeting the source of Zuko’s angst, they couldn’t argue with his point. Especially Aang, who was, quite literally, the Avatar. “...fine,” Sokka accepted stubbornly, his arms crossed above his chest. “But, you have to let us meet her before we leave.” 

This alerted Zuko, turning over to Sokka with curious eyes, “when do you all plan to go?” 

Aang let out a sigh, “it won’t be for long, but we have to head down to the Southern Water Tribe to pick up some things for the wedding. I don’t imagine we’ll be gone longer than 5 days, or less so if Appa is incentivized again.” His words followed a glare towards Sokka, who put his hands up. 

“In my defense, we got here pretty quickly,” Sokka immediately inserted. “Plus, we need to pick up our father and Suki.” 

“Suki is down there?” Zuko questions. 

Sokka nods, “she’s been spending a lot of time with the tribe and learning the culture. I warned her about how chilly it was going to be, but my father prepared her with a parka.” 

“She’s better than me,” Toph inputs quickly, “it’s too cold, there’s no rocks, and I hate fish.”  She then leans over to reach Zuko’s knee and gives it a gentle pat. “Don’t be too excited, you might end up scaring her as well.” 

Zuko was confused at her words, but Aang didn’t want to burst his bubble. “You guys go ahead. I’m going to hang back and hide.” 

“And how come you get to stay?” Sokka’s words were dripping with envy, his pointed finger jabbing in the air. 

“Because,” Aang began, leaning in a bit, “I want to get my soon-to-be wife back.” His lips had a warm smile, and Zuko could tell that he was very excited to spend time with Katara again. He did feel bad to ask such a heavy favor from her, but what else should he have done? 

Sokka and Toph both roll their eyes before getting back on their feet. Sokka quickly swoops down to grab his sword as well. The two then yawn, reminding Zuko just how early it was. He was so, so lucky to have the friends he did, who also woke up at such an early time just to support him in whatever he needed. 

“I’ll get ready for breakfast,” Toph hums, walking slump while leaning against Sokka’s side. “Start standing up,” she warns Zuko, who always trusts her word and begins to rise to his feet. “I feel something by the door.” 

Sokka glances back curiously but Toph quickly holds his arm and begins to drag him away. “I just want a peek–!” 

Toph holds his forearm tightly, to Sokka’s dismay. She glances back at Zuko and Aang’s direction and gives them a smile, “good luck, the both of you!” 

With the two of them gone, a more serious air takes over. 

Aang quickly takes his place beside Zuko as the two stand before the door. A shaky, streaky sigh emits from Zuko’s lips, and he was suddenly insecure about his stance. Aang watches him shift in his place, unable to keep himself still. He quickly latches his hand onto Zuko’s forearm and stills him. 

“Hey,” Aang quietly coos, “you’ve been waiting for this. It’s going to be fine.” 

Zuko was practically trembling, Aang felt his shakiness in his own hand. “I just… I want to see her, but…” 

“But…?” Aang repeats, curious to his sudden opposition. 

“I fear she will be disappointed,” Zuko hums quietly, his eyes now everywhere else but the door he had been fixed on just moments ago. “I fear that perhaps… I am forcing her because I want to see her.” 

Aang brings his hand to his back and begins to pat it, “she wants to see you, too. She would not have responded to your request and spoken if she did not want to see you.” 

This sense of unease that always knew how to crawl back in had made itself known to Zuko once more. It was like an unrelenting disease, its volcanic behavior erupting and dormanting as it pleases. He couldn’t help but latch onto the one possibility (of multiple) that you might not be eager to see him. 

“...and if she does not?” Zuko asks, his voice so hush that it fears itself being too loud. 

Aang looks back at the door, smiling curtly, “then we try again later.” He then moves away from viewpoint and quickly knocks on the door. Zuko’s eyes burn into the Avatar, with Aang just offering a sly smile. 

“What are you doing?” Zuko whispers aggressively. 

“I’m the Avatar,” Aang informs him quietly, earning a scoff immediately after, “she might go unconscious again if she sees me.” Although Zuko appreciated his consideration, it made his anxiety just a smidge worse. 

Then, Katara sounded from behind the door, “coming!” 

Finally, all of Zuko’s nerves finally tipped, and poured out the overflowing cup of his emotions. He couldn’t delay anything– not that he wanted to. But his nerves were so apparent that he might as well be dressed in them. Aang saw it and could only hope that his presence nearby could soothe some of the load on his shoulders. 

But time was not on Zuko’s side. The door opens, and he almost instinctively shuts his eyes. But he kept them open, and met the warmth of his good friend. Katara’s expression was scheming, further confusing and worrying Zuko. “y/n told me to tell you that you can come in now,” Katara says softly. 

Immediately, Zuko stepped forward and embraced her. She could feel his tremble, and suddenly her eyes went stoic. “Thank you, Katara,” he rasped, his voice as quiet as the space in the corridor. She nods, slowly returning the embrace. 

“Anytime, Zuko,” she whispers back, giving him a tight squeeze before pulling away. She takes his hands into hers, and gives them a little squeeze as well. “Good luck,” she hums playfully, further amused by Zuko’s perplexed expression. 

She walks past him, looking back as he hesitantly enters, before shutting the door behind him. As she stands there, Aang quickly sneaks up behind her and scoops her up into his arms. The familiar arms and scent of honey swallowed her whole. Her eyes gazed down at those teal arrows, ending at her favorite, strong hands. 

“I missed you,” Aang whispers in her ear, his large frame eating hers in their shared shadow. “So, so much.” 

She wraps her arms around his forearms, feeling his hold on her tighten in the process. Katara giggles, her blue eyes warmly fixed their shadows. “Now you know how I feel whenever the world needs you,” she says jovially. “I missed you too, sky boy.” 

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The door shuts behind Zuko, and suddenly you both are in another dimension. 

Zuko waits at the door, his hands firmly pressed against it. Your eyes were locked to his long, unkempt hair. The charcoal dark strands poured down like a waterfall, with a few strays sticking out ornately. He was much taller than you remembered, though you could be making that up. But somehow… he just took up so much space in your room. 

Neither of you said a word, and that awkwardness that you were dreading began to take over. It seemed that getting ready truly could not prepare you for this, regardless of how much time you could have spent. 

But Zuko was the first to cut the tension with a dry cough. He clears his throat, his back still to you, “...hey.” 

“Hi,” you respond back, practically scripted. 

He sniffles, clearing his throat once more. He lets go of the door, allowing his hands to slide off slowly, removing his mental crutches in the process. “May I look at you?” He asks for permission, his voice so feeble and sweet. 

You smile warmly, “you may.” 

He finally turns to face you, and your smile quickly leaves. Not because you were not happy to see him, but you lamented to see his current face. Dark eyes, slightly sunken cheeks, and skin that you could only describe as moon-kissed. He was pale, and exhausted, almost as if it was him who was in comatose. 

“y/n,” he says your name with the utmost warmth. You noticed his lips were slightly chapped, but your name left his mouth so easily. 

He gets closer to you, where you lay on your bed. Though you had more control of your body, you could not quite stand on your own. So, Zuko takes it upon himself to be the one to close the distance between you two. But even so, he kept a considerable amount of space between you both, reluctant to go further. 

Those honey eyes could eat you with the way he stared you down. It was joy mixed with something you could not make out. But suddenly, Zuko felt like a leaf in your presence, so light that he could be whisked away by the wind with no means of return. He keeps his distance, reaching his hand out to you slowly. 

Without hesitation, you place your hand into his, taking lead in touching those familiar, rough callouses. But, they felt just a little rougher, your nails occasionally grazing it to feel the thin ridges of his skin. He couldn’t help but stay silent, not wanting to stop you from your venture on his hand. 

You would steal glances up at him, noticing the way he was so mesmerized by your touch. Each time you dedicated the tip of your index to each one of his mountain-like callouses, circling around them gently. His bottom lip hung just a bit, as if he turned off his mind to enjoy this tranquil moment with you. 

Unfortunately, you were the first to break it, “sorry… ‘m just very surprised…” 

“Hm?” He hummed quietly, his eyes darting at your face. You could feel his stare, but you kept away from looking at his eyes. You feared becoming flustered and not being able to speak at all. 

“That you’re real,” you say quietly, “and you’re here, in front of me.” 

Zuko chuckles, his lips curving into a wide smile. With a toothy grin, he responds, “how do you think I feel?” 

You look up at him, no longer fearing those dewy eyes. They looked so full, despite his exhaustion. He looked so much warmer, so relieved, and so much more at ease. Unbeknownst to you, all the uneasiness in his body completely left him. He noticed your hand flinch a bit, reading your eyes and your desire to do something else. 

Without another thought, Zuko uses his other hand to take hold of your hand. You were stunned, but you allowed him to lift it up and bring it to his face. Your fingers felt so soft and warm, so fitting on his face as he pressed them against his cheek. 

His face was flush, his pupils so dilated, and so fixed on you. His cheek was pushed up a bit in your hand, his scarred eye squinting a little more. You were hesitant, unsure if you should be touching your boss like this. But you had already been touching his hand with a sensuality that you should not have, considering your relationship. 

Zuko was just too good at letting you break boundaries like this. Your thumb begins to move, gently rubbing the space underneath his eye. At a first glance, you would not notice anything else besides that scar of his. But as you were here, in this moment with him, you noticed the different severity spots of his wound, the pale red and deep red working in tandem to showcase his trauma. 

But he was so sweet. You could not imagine anyone wanting to hurt such a kind, gentle man. In this moment, he was melting in your hold, his eyes fluttering close every few moments. Zuko was still tired, considering how early he came knocking at your door. But you could not find any note of regret on his face. 

“Come,” you wake him out of his trance, gesturing to the space on the bed beside you, “sit down and rest.” 

Zuko happily takes your offer, keeping your hand against his cheek with his own. He slowly takes a seat, careful not to sit on your or ruin your comfort. “Is this okay?” He asks quietly, his body tense once more. 

“It’s perfect,” you coo, pulling at your sheets and quilts to flatten them. You did not want any blanket bumps to bother him as he sat in your bed. 

He leaned towards you a bit more, craning his neck. He didn’t want to force you to lean in to keep your hand on his face, so he shuffled a bit closer to you as well. It was like having a pup, seeing Zuko so eagerly wanting to keep your touch on him. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he hums, opening his eyes to look into yours. His gaze practically burnt into you, straight through your sight and into your core. If he could, he’d have the right access to read you like a book. “I… I am so fucking sorry.” 

Your eyes widened, surprised at his profanity, “wh-what? Why do you apologize?” 

“I neglected your well-being when that should have been my only priority,” he spewed out so quickly. It was like these words had been long sitting on his tongue, eagerly waiting to be given to you. “I should have just sent Indra to rot in prison immediately, not challenge him to a duel that I banned for a reason.” 

You couldn't believe your ears. The very man who saved your life, preserved your dignity, and fought in your honor was apologizing to you for doing the very things. You slide your thumb down, pressing down at his lips with your diagonal digit. 

“Zuko, you saved me,” you insist quietly, softly denting his lips to keep him from potentially interrupting you. “My body was safe and taken care of. And I’ve caught up from all the years of lost slumber.” 

Zuko smiled at your sudden joke, snorting quietly, “this is no time to be silly– I’m serious.” His hot breath tickles under your thumb when he speaks. 

“I hear you,” you insisted, nodding at his words, “but there is nothing to forgive as there is nothing to apologize for. In fact,” you change the narrative, “I should be thanking you for being my hero.” 

Zuko shook his head, “you’ve thanked me enough when really, I should be thanking you.” 

“For what exactly?” You leer curiously at him. 

The Firelord smirks before rubbing his face into your hand a little more. “I’ll tell ya one of these days.” You feel your cheeks grow hot, watching as he practically melts his face into your hand. 

“H-hey, that tickles,” you hum, feeling the way his nose rubbed against your palm. “Zuko, you shouldn’t be– ah!” You gasped, realizing you had been just a bit too comfortable in your speech. “I mean, L-Lord Zuko…– ‘m so sorry for not addressing you properly…” 

Zuko raises his eyebrow, pulling away your hand from his face. But he keeps it held, not allowing you to retract yourself in embarrassment or shame. “y/n, correct me if I’m wrong, but I do believe our relationship has changed.” 

You stiffen, unsure how to take his words. Sure, you two were close, and did things that a typical lord/attendant duo should not be doing. But, it was platonic and innocent. At least, you thought so. “...but you are still the Firelord. I cannot disrespect you like this.” 

He quickly gives your hand a squeeze before lowering his head. He gestures to the top of it, noting the absence of his crown. “Can you truly address me like that without my crown?” He jokes. 

You initially giggle before your body goes cold. You rip your hand out of his hold and immediately begin to look around your bed. Zuko watches as you frantically pat around your sheets, pushing your body more than you should in search of something. The crown, the one he had entrusted you with prior to his Agni Kai. 

“y/n, what’s wrong?” He quickly asks, worried about your sudden movements and pale skin. 

“Your crown,” you let out with a huff, “I-I had it in my arms, b-but I know I passed out. Gods, did I drop it somewhere…?” You trail off and whisper to yourself, your eyes beginning to well up in tears. “I’ve lost it, didn’t I…?” 

Zuko watched as your tears did not give him the stage to waive your worry. They dragged down your red cheeks, your face suddenly hollow from your once fuller expression. It broke him to see you so broken, and how quick you were able to just break down. 

“y/n,” Zuko rasped, doing his best not to feel emotional from your own emotions. To think a woman like you would cry for something so insignificant like his crown. “You brought it back. It is here, in the Palace.” 

You stop your search, looking back at him. There was hopefulness developing in your tearful glance, and you desperately wiped your face with your forearms. “It-it’s here? It’s not l-lost?” You stammer. 

Zuko nods, chuckling a bit, “you need to remember just how impressive you are. Katara found you tightly hugging it.” You look away from him, recollecting yourself after your curt emotional burst. He tries to make you feel less shy and embarrassed, regardless how little fruit it bore, “thank you very much for bringing it back to me safely.” 

You roll your eyes, your hand subconsciously offering itself to Zuko once more. He takes it, turning it upside down so your palm is exposed to him. With his free hand, he takes hold of your hand, his thumb sliding onto your palm. “I wouldn't have brought it back safely without you, so the credit cannot be entirely mine…” 

His thumb rubs your palm, denting into your soft, supple flesh. “Even so, I could not give less of a damn about that crown. You’re here, back to me.” 

Your cheeks remained hot, unable to fathom Zuko’s sudden need to touch and his alluring words. “I had no plans to go elsewhere,” you whispered, watching wondrously at the way the Firelord touched your hand. He treated it as if it were gold, like he’s struck riches unseen by man. “This is my home… no matter what, all my roads lead back here.” 

He glances up at you, his hair practically covering your forearm. “Promise?” He asks cutely, his pinkly curling around your own. You giggle, tightening your own pinky around him. “Even if…” he begins quietly, his lighthearted tone vanishing, “...even if a lord were to court you?” 

You look into his honey eyes, and realize something. The very thing you could not pin point– you were almost a little too sure now of what it was. Because, the way he was staring at you, the way his voice was so pulling, and how desperate he was to know you were okay, was anything but platonic. 

Sure, a lord values their attendant(s), and it is their responsibility to keep them safe. But now, in this moment with Zuko, you were sure that he held an affection for you that surpassed its original chaste nature. And you didn’t want to be wrong, but your feelings could also no longer be repressed. 

“There is only one man who I’d let court me,” you say quietly, your words bold. You could feel your heart ready to rip out of your chest, your body going cold. Zuko noticed it, the way your hand was suddenly like ice. “And… he currently holds my hand.” 

Zuko could only stare at you, hanging onto your words. You couldn’t be sincere, you mustn’t be. As Katara said, you were not ready, and likely not completely all there. Maybe it was hysteria, or heightened emotional drive from your recently dormant state. But, he couldn’t help but clutch tightly to your words. 

But a response did not follow. You stood there, your confession in the air, dangling around his perfect head. Honey eyes were soft, but his touch on you halted. He did not let go either, sending you all sorts of mixed signals. 

“This is your home,” Zuko then says, his hand still holding yours. It’s suddenly cold as well, both hands cool and clammy from shared nerves. You could feel a disconnect, but you could not allow your emotions to keep fronting you. “I will not permit you to be courted, if being courted is not what you seek. You are welcome to stay here forever.” 

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“Oh, sweetheart,” the older woman says gently. “Try not to worry about that right now.”

You shake your head, breath hitching. “No, you don’t understand. He’s—fuck—he’s going to lose it.”

Because not even twenty minutes ago, you’d been driving just fine. Careful and hyper-aware, even, because it was Steve’s car. His stupid, perfect red BMW that he loved more than most people, the one he washed by hand and showed off whenever he got the chance to.

The road had been clear, that’s until a cat darted into your headlights, and your body reacted before your mind could, wrenching the wheel to avoid it—sending the car headfirst into the tree instead.

If it weren’t for the passing car that saw the whole thing, for the woman and her daughter pulling over without hesitation, you don’t know what you would’ve done.

Steve’s car, though, was completely fucked. And that thought keeps looping in your head, loud and relentless, drowning out everything else around you.

The woman —who’s name you learned to be Mrs. Dunne—sighs and gives your shoulder a careful squeeze before stepping away. “I’m going to call for help, all right? My daughter’s a nurse. She’ll look at you.”

She hurries across the road toward the phone box, sensible shoes crunching against gravel.

You’re still trying to slow your breathing when the car door opens again.

“I need a number,” she says gently, already leaning across the seat. “Who owns the car?”

Steve’s name sticks in your throat, except you can’t even pull the words out. You point instead. “Glove compartment.”

She finds it quickly — a worn little address book, containing numbers and details— and flips until she nods. “Got him.”

“Hey,” a voice says nearby. “I’m Vickie.”

You look up to find a girl. She can’t be much older than you, short hair pulled back, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder.

“Can I take a look at you?”

“I’m fine,” you say immediately, the lie automatic. Then your mouth trembles. “I mean—I’m not fine. But I don’t think I’m that injured.”

Vickie gives a small, understanding huff of a smile. “Okay,” she says gently. “Still gonna check you.”

She guides you toward the back seat of the car—which is much less damaged than the front, one hand hovering near your elbow like she’s afraid to startle you. The air smells like antiseptic and gasoline, sharp and overwhelming your senses.

“I swear I wasn’t speeding,” you blurt, words tumbling over each other. “The road was clear, and then there was a cat, it just ran out in front of me and I didn’t even think, I just—”

“Hey,” Vickie says softly, crouching in front of you. “Pause. Breathe first. Then talk, alright?”

You try. The breath stutters anyway.

“That’s okay,” she murmurs, already pulling gloves on. “We’ll take it slow.”

She tilts your chin carefully, eyes scanning your face. “You’ve got a split lip and a cut on your temple.” Her voice stays calm. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I feel sick,” you admit. “But I think that’s just because of… everything.”

“That makes sense.” She presses gauze gently to your forehead.

You hiss despite yourself, tears spilling hot and fast. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says quickly. “Glass scratches bleed a lot. It always looks worse than it is.”

“It is worse,” you choke. “Steve’s going to see this and he’s going to lose it. Oh, God—the car—”

She stills, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Steve’s your boyfriend?”

You nod, but it only makes the lump in your throat worse. The words spill out before you can stop them. “It’s his car. His brand new BMW—which he, by the way, saved up forever for it. He literally paid an insane amount of money for it and shows it off every chance he gets.”

A laugh slips out despite the fear and guilt coursing through you, and you hate it. “I’m dead. I’m actually so dead.”

Vickie gives a small, incredulous smile. “I don’t know your boyfriend, hon,” she says, smoothing the tape down with careful fingers, “but cars can be fixed. People can’t. I really don’t think he’s going to care about the car when he sees you like this.”

“He will,” you say immediately, shaking your head. “He’s gonna take one look at it and just—God. I shouldn’t have borrowed it. I shouldn’t have touched it at all. I should’ve just walked, I—fuck.”

“Well, my mom already called him,” Vickie says softly, not stopping her work. “And she called your friends too. He’s already on his way.”

Your chest tightens at that, panic blooming fresh and hot. “No. Oh my God.” You drag a hand under your nose, trying to breathe around the pressure. “You should go, both of you. You’ve done more than enough, and I really don’t want you here when he—when he sees it.”

The image won’t leave you alone: Steve’s face hardening, his furious rage leading him to probably— rightfully so— break up with you. Your stomach twists at the thought, nausea rolling up hard enough to make you swallow.

Vickie shakes her head before you’ve even finished. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

From across the road, her mom’s voice carries over, firm and unmistakable. “None of that, honey!”

Mrs. Dunne walks back toward you, arms folding like she means business. “We are not leaving you stranded and scared on the side of the road. Not for a second.” She softens just a touch as she looks at you. “We’ll stay right here until your boyfriend or one of your friends gets here. That’s that.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunne.” you smile warmly at her despite the worry churning in your guts.

Time stretches thin and horrible. Every passing car makes your heart jump. Your thoughts spiral tighter and tighter, replaying Steve handing you the keys earlier, the grin on his face, the way he’d said, Be careful, okay? like it was a joke, like nothing bad could ever happen to you—

A sharp screech of tires cuts through the air.

You flinch hard, breath catching painfully in your throat as a truck skids to a stop on the side of the road, door flying open before it’s even fully parked. Steve steps out, and the look on his face steals the air from your lungs completely.

You’ve never seen him look like that. Not angry, smug, or teasing.

Terrified.

His eyes scan the wrecked car, the tree, the road, wild and frantic, until they land on you. His face goes slack with shock and then he’s moving fast, running like the ground is on fire beneath his feet.

Vickie and her mom both straighten. “Well,” Mrs. Dunne says softly, already reaching for you. “That’ll be him.”

They each pull you into quick, careful hugs, murmuring reassurances you barely register.

Then they step back, giving you space, watching until Steve reaches the door and drops to his knees in front of you like his legs have given out.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Hey. Hey—look at me. Fuck—are you okay?”

The Dunnes’ car pulls away slowly, tires crunching over gravel, taillights glowing red before disappearing down the road. The quiet that follows is almost worse as you try to register Steve’s frantic words.

He keeps saying your name, softly at first, then a little louder, but it barely reaches you through the ringing in your ears.

“Hey. Hey—look at me, okay? Baby, c’mon.”

You can’t.

Your eyes stay glued to your shaking hands, to the dark flecks of blood dried beneath your nails. Your chest heaves in sharp, ugly bursts as the sobs finally tear loose, choking and uncontrollable.

“I’m sorry,” you manage, words tripping over each other. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to, I swear, it just happened so fast and I tried to stop and—and I know how much you love it and I shouldn’t have taken it and—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts through, “Hey. Stop.”

Your voice cracks completely. You hiccup on a breath as the words choke out, panic spiraling tighter.

“I know it was stupid,” you ramble, tears blurring everything. “I know it’s your car and it’s new and you worked so hard for it and I ruined it and I didn’t mean to, Steve, I swear it was an accident—”

“—look at me,” he says, low and steady.

Steve’s hands come up suddenly, firm and warm, cupping your face on both sides. His thumbs press just under your cheekbones, forcing your head up despite your instinct to pull away.

Your eyes flicker up at last, red and glassy, breath stuttering.

“Breathe, baby,” he says immediately, softer now. “Just breathe with me. In and out. Come on.”

You suck in a shaky breath.

“Good. Out. Yeah, that’s it. Again.”

You follow him, lungs burning as you inhale and exhale in uneven pulls, his thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes, grounding you.

“That’s it, good job,,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

Your body trembles again as he studies your face, eyes moving fast, cataloging every mark and every scrape.

“Now,” he says, voice firmer, sharper, like he’s trying to anchor you to reality. “Are you hurt?”

You swallow hard, your throat tight, and the words come out all wrong, tripping over themselves. “No—but your car, it’s—”

Steve’s jaw snaps tight, his hands gripping your face just tight enough to make your skin tingle.

“Did I ask about the goddamn car?” His voice cuts through the trembling air, sharp enough to make your heart drop.

You freeze, the panic climbing higher, and he leans closer, pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to pin you in place—but it’s not dominance, it’s urgency.

“I asked if you’re hurt,” he says again, softer but no less intense. “not the car.”

You look up at him, and it hits you as your stomach drops. The expression on his face, the tension coiled in his body, the raw, frantic light in his eyes—it isn’t anger. It’s terror. Pure, unfiltered, all-consuming fear of losing you. 

His hands tremble as they cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tracks of your tears, and for a second, you see the world mirrored in his eyes—a world where nothing matters but you, and every fierce, frantic care he holds is yours alone.

You shake your head slowly, trembling. “No,” you whisper, voice barely audible over your racing heartbeat. “M’not.”

He exhales hard through his nose, “Does your head hurt? Your temple?” he says gently now.

You sniff, shaking your head again. “No. It stings, but—there was an old woman and her daughter. They saw the accident. The daughter’s a nurse. She helped me.”

Steve nods. “I know. She called me.”

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into his chest suddenly. His arms wrap around you in a bone-crushing hug, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing you so tight to his chest it knocks the air from your lungs.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes into your hair. You cling to him, fingers twisting into his jacket as the last of the sobs shake out of you.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You hear me? Don’t scare me like that. I thought something much worse happened to you.”

In truth, the moment he’d gotten that phone call, his heart had dropped straight through the floor. He hadn’t thought about the car. Not even for a second. He’d pictured you bleeding, broken, or worse; not breathing.

He’d borrowed a truck, hands shaking so badly he could barely turn the key, every worst-case scenario slamming into him one after another.

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, forehead pressing briefly to yours. Then he kisses you, quick and desperate, like he needs to feel you over and over again.

You blink up at him, voice small. “So… you’re not mad about your car?”

His expression softens instantly, the tension melting out of his features. “Mad?” he echoes. “No. God, no.”

He shakes his head, a small, breathless laugh escaping him. “I don’t give a damn about the car. I can replace it, sweetheart—hell, I can buy another one tomorrow if I wanted.”

You laugh against his chest, still sniffling. “I don’t think you’re that rich, Steve.”

He snorts, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Oh, come on. I might not have a Scrooge McDuck vault full of coins, but I can definitely scrape together a replacement BMW. You? Not so lucky.”

You pull back a little, squinting at him through your tears. “Are you seriously laughing right now? I just totaled your baby!”

“I’m laughing at the ridiculousness of you panicking like this,” he says, voice shaking with relief and amusement. “You looked like someone had just told you the world was ending.” His hand slides to your cheek, thumb warm against your skin. “Besides. You’re my baby. Not that damn thing.”

Your throat tightens all over again, heart warming up at his sweet words.

“Now, come on,” he murmurs, shifting closer, careful as he helps you to your feet. “Let’s get you checked out at the hospital.”

You hesitate, glancing down at the gauze. “But Vickie already wrapped me up—”

“I know,” he says softly, squeezing your hand like he needs the contact as much as you do. “I just need to hear it from a doctor, alright? Humor me.”

You nod, letting him guide you toward the truck, his arm never leaving your back, like if he does you might disappear.

steve harrington masterlist

“Don’t,” you warned Zuko gently, your scowl earning an amused chuckle from the Firelord himself. You had just handed him a cup of freshly brewed tea, the steam making it clear just how hot it was. And there was Zuko, bringing the very cup to his lips moments after handing it to him. 

Zuko glanced up at you, the ends of his lips curling into a roguish smirk, “think I’m scared of a little heat?” He puts the cup down on his work desk, suddenly feeling playful, “should the Firelord fear hot tea?” 

You looked down at him, knowing he had been trying to annoy you. You accepted the challenge and gestured to the tea, “enjoy, Firelord Zuko.” 

He quickly takes hold of the cup again, per your annoyed motion. And as he takes a reticent sip, you see him quickly pull back and grimace. “Sai– what did you make this tea from? Magma?” He gently puts the cup down again before bringing his sleeve to his mouth. 

“What?” You feigned innocence, making your eyes orby while looking down at his despair. “Was your hot leaf juice too hot?” 

He rolled his eyes, patting his lips with the tips of his fingers, “you like messing with me?” Those browned honey eyes, encapsulated completely with warmth and allure. You were like a bee, unable to keep from such a saccharine sweet look. “You’re very brave, considering who you’re messin’ with,” his tone shifted, a sort of rasp that threatened to swallow you whole. 

You met his eyes, and suddenly felt stuck in his gaze. Warm skin brightened at your sight, his eyebrows lowered, his lips now flush from the heat of the tea. His hair, even after you doing it, had a few strands sticking out, sticking onto his forehead and cheekbones. There was something in his stare– a sort of longing that’s foreign to his usual gaze. 

“I miss you,” he says quietly, refusing to break contact. Taken aback by his words, you take a step behind, cheeks going completely hot. Your breathing stuttered even, earning another heart wrenching chuckle from him. 

“I– Lord Zuko, what are you talking about?” You fume, struggling to get your thoughts out. “You… we’ve been together all morning. I did your hair, remember? H-how would you even miss me?” 

Zuko only stares at you, melting you further. He stood up, and slowly walked up to you. The shadow made by his tall being swallowed you entirely, your nerves ascending like lava from a dormant volcano. His hands made their way to your shoulders, keeping you from being able to escape. 

He was so close. His body emanated that smell of mint that was impossible to dislike. Callouses rubbed against your supple skin, sending shivers all about your arms. The way his fingertips dented into you gently, not so much worried that you would pull away but rather repressing his own desire to do more. 

Then, he begins to pull you into him. It was slow yet sudden, your eyes wider, and brighter than the moon. Your cheek clashed against the softness of his linens, cushioning the broadness of his chest. You didn’t pull away, but you were as stiff as stone against his body. “H-hey– m-my Lord–!” 

Those calloused hands snaked to the back of your shoulders, fingertips easing their way towards the scapula of your back. Your heart rate hiked, but no longer just of anticipation. There was a sudden anxiety, as if he was inching closer to a secret you did not realize you were hiding. “Zuko, don’t–!” 

Fingertips reach your spine. It didn’t feel hot– it was hot. Your back burned with a familiar sear that only made you want to push him to the ground. But you do not move– because this is not Zuko. It can’t be. 

They dent into your dip, a blistering feeling unlike anything you’ve felt. All fibers of your being felt like they were set ablaze, the root being Zuko’s foreign touch. But it was not exciting– it was terrifying. Not so much the feeling, but the inability to pull away from him.

What is this?

“I’m sorry.” 

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He was gone, and you were gone, too. 

The Palace, the very place you’ve come to memorize like it was your home, had vanished. Everything had gone dark, and Zuko’s absence was felt, considering how cold you suddenly were. It was terrifying to be in pitch black darkness. There was nothing to hold onto, or to run back to. 

There is no sense of security or safety in isolation. It’s especially worse when you’ve become so used to others that being on your own was a different kind of fear. It felt as if, at any point, something could happen and completely petrify you, despite it being well intended. 

But what could you do? Your body felt non-existent. No voice to scream, no hands to reach out. Not that you could reach out to anything, considering the nothing you’ve been subjected to. Not even your mind could bring about an ember, considering your lack of limbs on top of your lack of ability. 

All you could think about was him. 

The way he was always so gentle with you. How he would wait for you oh so patiently during the final hours of night every day, just to welcome the first minutes of daylight with you. The way he sat so still when you did his hair, as if one move would completely leave him with a horrid do. And despite his bad acting, he could never truly conceal his anticipation when you prepared his cups of tea. 

Zuko was a gem, a man beyond worthy of his title. 

And now he was elsewhere, and you were nowhere. What were you to make of your situation? Perhaps you deserved it, considering your treacherous thoughts and feelings for the Firelord. And how could you want those things, when you have forced his hand on matters that did not need to be escalated. 

Perhaps Lady Minji had the right idea. 

To be rid of you, and allow Zuko to continue on as the mighty Firelord, the man who reformed the Fire Nation and helped bring about peace to the world. He should not be weighed down by a commoner, a woman whose hands were only good to brew tea and brush hair. 

Your head began to throb, with your heart beat making your head burst at every beat. You didn’t think much of it, if the feeling didn’t start spreading all over. Despite your nothing state, you felt hot– a sort of scalding hot, like the world was stripped of wind. It was making you feel choked– like air was seized from you. 

Why? 

What is this? 

Then, you finally felt it. Your eyelids twitched, wiggling desperately to be opened. Your head was still aching, more so with sound now entering your ears. You could… hear. These whispers, sounds of a creaking mattress entering your space. Despite these usually quiet things, they felt so loud for you. 

You didn’t know what to expect when your eyes forced itself into view. 

You were met with a blurred scene, unable to make out any of the smushed colors in front of you. But, you were certain you had been looking up at the ceiling, considering you felt your back firmly against something (assuming it was your own bed). Blinking felt like a task, as you did it continuously until your sight had cleared and defined your vision. 

But your head was too heavy to even move. You could only rely on your eyes, which burned when they flickered every which way. You searched around, trying to grasp a better understanding of your surroundings. The inability to move began to stress you out, but you accepted that you could only do so much. 

Then, the familiar clatter of porcelain. They shook stiffly on a metal tray, you knew the sounds too well. They only connected to your most precious memories, earning smiles through cups of carefully crafted tisane. But, it was strange. 

With the assumption that you were in your quarters, you should not be served tea. In fact, you are the server of tea usually. That only worsened your suspicions. 

You were not alone. 

You close your eyes once more, attempting to ignore the scorching pain of your head to focus on moving your body. At least muster any power and effort into sitting your head up was considered a win for you. Allowing yourself a few minutes of concentration, you once again open your eyes. 

It was a struggle, yes, but you managed to lift your aggravated head, barely a tilt but just enough. That’s when your sight met with a man. Your conscious, rational mind was still booting up, and you could only think about Lord Indra. You disregarded any details, and abandoned all explanations that could be. 

Against your head's health, a scream forced its way out of your mouth. Moments ago, you lacked existence. And now here you were, using the voice you thought you had lost in the mind you were trapped in, unbeknownst to you. 

Hands quickly touched your body, and you did not have a lick of energy to keep them off. You could only scream louder, your voice quickly going out in the process. Losing your own voice, you could only pause, and shut your eyes once again. Tears were quick to well up in your eyes, and drag down your temples, and crawl into the beginnings of your hair. 

Your sobbing was quiet, but you did not lose the space of sound. The mystery hands continue to try and soothe you, with a voice you could not pin point. 

“D-don’t… touchshh–!” You whimper out, frustrated in your own lack of power. Your face became completely flushed, your head feeling closer and closer to cracking. A dizziness seeped in, and you suddenly felt overwhelmed with exhaustion once more. “...me…” your word trailed off, disappearing as fast as your last breath before returning to your unconscious state. 

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Katara already knew what she needed to do. 

Before Zuko could even get his hands on the guard, Katara unveiled her water and used it to latch onto his forearm. But, she forgot how strong Zuko was, as his force practically forced her forward. “Zuko, hold on!” She yelled, exuding all her strength to keep Zuko from pouncing on his own guard. “Just wait a damn minute!” 

Something got into him, and it completely shut down his rationality. All he could see was red, and the beginning of regaining inner serenity was staring right at him, expression intoxicated in trepidation. 

“What happened to Sai?” Zuko hissed, his aggression-filled words pouring out his gritted teeth. His unkempt hair had suddenly reflected the very sight of his sister in her final acts of insanity. He slowly inched closer and closer, with Katara desperately trying to delay him. “What the fuck did you do to her?” 

“F-F-Firelord Z-Zu…ko…!” The guard stammered, his entire body trembling while remaining where he stood. He couldn’t dare run away from the Firelord, as he would likely worsen his predicament. 

Katara continued to struggle, holding her water like two ropes while trying her damndest to keep Zuko wrangled. Blue eyes burn into Lady Kira, who fearfully stood in the doorway of your quarters. Without hesitation, Katara yells at her, “what happened here?” 

Topaz eyes lock onto Lady Kira, and she freezes. She knew better than to not answer the question, considering her fellow courtier's life was at risk. Mustering her courage, she meets Zuko’s eyes and responds faintly, “he… was assisting me in bringing in tea… in case Lady Sai were to wake.” 

Zuko narrowed his eyes on her, still dissatisfied, “guards are not to enter the quarters of any Lady or women in the Palace.” 

Lady Kira quickly responded, “I-I was overzealous and thought I could carry both the tea set and a meal… I asked him to hold the door for me while I entered her quarters… a-and I didn’t know she woke up, s-so…” 

“The first person she saw was him,” Katara finished for her. She realized that Zuko had stilled, and brought her water back to her waterskin. “Lady Sai reacted from trauma… hence her screams.” 

Zuko felt the water from Katara’s bending touch his skin as it spread around the linens of his sleeves. His heaving chest was still frantic, his heart ready to unleash the inner monster he did not realize he had. All he could think about was keeping you safe, starting with the guard and whatever could come after. Even after getting caught up, Zuko did not want to see the guard in his presence. At least, at that moment. 

Guards ran down the corridor in response to the commotion. Zuko’s hand found its way to his forehead, his annoyance and agitation increasing. Emitting a deep sigh, Zuko looks through the space between his digits and eyes the frightened guard once more. Gesturing to him, he begins quietly, “you; leave.” 

The guard immediately accepts his dismissal. He bows so low that his head almost touches the ground, “Y-yes, my Lord!” He squeaks out, taking this out contently as a few of the other guards escort him away from your quarters. As he was being escorted, the rest of Zuko’s friends had finally caught up to the scene. 

Toph was first to get close, her body long feeling the tea tray falling. Her face pointed her towards your quarters, remembering the vibrating feeling of the metal clashing with the ground. “Is everyone okay?” She asks quietly, unable to catch the tension. 

Aang and Sokka were right behind her, taking in the scene as well. The men were able to put two and two together, quickly turning around to face away from your quarters. They, too, respected Zuko’s request for men not to enter women’s quarters. 

The only current exception was the room Aang and Katara shared, albeit she had not stepped a foot inside yet. 

Aang looks over at Katara and gestures to your quarters, “is she…?” He asks quietly, hoping not to disturb you. 

Before Katara could answer, Lady Kira quickly shook her head, “she… has gone once again.” 

Zuko’s excitement was buried back to the ground. He could feel a headache from hell setting in, unsure how much more he could take without seeing you, the you before all of this. But, he accepts this defeat, his eyes meeting with the floor. “Katara, if you can,” he asks her quietly, his hands balling into fists. Even Toph could hear how strong his grip was, as his clenching was so tight, his fingernails were digging into his palms. “Please.” 

Without another word, Katara quickly rushes into your quarters, carefully avoiding the broken porcelain that was now ornate in your room. Lady Kira quickly bowed at the gentlemen outside your quarters before rushing back in. She quickly became a utility, and began cleaning the mess from the fallen tray. 

With the door shut in his face, Zuko could only let out another deep sigh. 

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A few hours passed, and Katara was exhausted. 

That being the case, she could not find herself wanting to sleep. She sat at your bedside, long hair completely loose while rubbing your forehead with a drenched cloth. The water had been imbued with a healing water bending technique, its glow subtle in the darkness of the room. 

She felt awful for everything that had been happening. Zuko and you were suffering, and she could only truly prioritize one of you. Even if she could give Zuko priority, his head has been tormenting him without permitting anything beyond a scratch of ease. 

But, she was not a God. She could not heal you to full health on her own, despite her bending. She could not take you out of your conscious state, despite wanting to see you healthy and well. She could not take away the trauma of what happened, and what started her on this journey to assist you in your healing. 

She could only do her best in what she could do. 

But, as she gently dabbed your forehead, she noticed the small, subtle twitches from your eyes. The sides of your lips winced every few seconds, having her pull her touch away from you. She silently waited, watching you with the assistance of the nights shine. It seemed that even the moon was itching for your return to the conscious world. 

Katara snaked her hand into your own, mouthing silent prayers for you to react to her touch. And then it happened: you took hold of her fingers. A weak squeeze, a small sliver of hope. She waited patiently, giving you the space you needed to regain your consciousness. 

And just like that; you woke. 

It took you a few minutes, and you accepted that the stranger in your bedroom was a friend, not a foe. Katara carefully moved a few cushions and pillows behind your back, giving you the right support to sit up. You were reticent but accepted her help, as her strong forearm gave you the right grip to adjust your body. 

You mutter a quiet thank you as you get used to sitting up. Your head still felt heavy, but the headache that once threatened to split your skull was long gone. There was a chilling feeling on your forehead, but it was quickly replaced with a warm wetness. You look over to notice that it was this stranger, who was water bending a sort of special water on your head. 

Before you attempted to speak, Katara quickly answered your initial, mental questions, “I’m Katara.” She did not need to say anything more, for you also quickly learned that she was a water bender. A good one too, based on how calm your head felt.

You could only look at her, as if she was a Goddess, “you are so kind…” you barely let out, your voice still not quite there. “Thank you… so much…” You tried to offer your hand, but your body was uncooperative. “y/n,” you weakly let out, introducing yourself. She smiles warmly and nods. 

Even in the night so dim, you could appreciate the very lady before you. Mocha skin, smooth and supple from even just the look. Long, voluptuous hair that poured down her shoulders and contested the length of her torso. Blue eyes that held the many bodies of water that this planet could barely explain. She was the sort of enigma that, for the moment, you welcomed. 

“I know you have been sleeping, but try not to do too much,” Katara instructed, removing the water she had been using to ease your head. You lamented its absence, but you couldn’t deny how much better you felt. “I have some tea for you, if you’d lik–” 

“Yes,” you quickly whisper, your voice weak but your want high. “Spirits, yes.” You patiently waited, weakly reaching out to the teacup with trembling hands. 

She brings the cup close to your face, “you’re still too weak. I don’t want you to accidentally drop it on yourself, so let me help you…” 

It was embarrassing really. A stranger who seemed to have nursed you to health was now assisting you in drinking a cup of tea. Something you have been doing practically since the womb. And yet here you were, your body a tool while this kind woman, Katara, was assisting you in enjoying something as simple as drinking tea. The soothing warmth of the scalding water relieved some tension in your throat. 

She puts the cup down upon your satisfaction, and offers her forearms so you could sit up. You could tell she was strong, not just from her bending abilities but from how tough her forearms felt. After your adjustments, you were able to finally crane your neck, stretching out as much stiffness as possible. 

You began working on moving your arms, too. It wasn’t great seeing them, the way your skin had thinned and exposed the bones you’ve never seen so defined before. Even your fingers highlighted your knuckles and the very structure that helped your body move. It was disturbing, but what could be done? 

“I know it's quite late,” Katara began, before stifling a chuckle, “well, I guess early now. But, I brought you a meal if you are willing to try and eat some of it.” Your eyes flicker to the window, watching as the moon begins its slow descent to the other half of the world. “I do warn you; it’s cold.” 

You hesitated for a moment before curiosity took over, “what do you have?” You barely let out. 

And there you were, with Katara’s patience appearing boundless as she slowly fed you. It was a humble meal; rice with a slab of meat and peas. But, it did the job, and your stomach immediately growled with glee from the first bite. She did stop you from eating too much, considering you hadn’t eaten for a while. That’s when you realized something grave. 

“How long?” You asked Katara, curious as to the amount of time you were gone. Katara looked at you woefully, her eyes grimacing at the thought. 

“It’s been 7 days,” Katara responded quietly, her head nodding along her words. She gives you a small smile, “but, having your body rest so much made your wound heal very quickly.” 

That was when you realized the absence of pain that once resided behind you. It was like a sudden transformation. You forced your effort, your arms exerting themselves to reach your back and rub where your pain would be. And, there was nothing. At least, in terms of feeling. 

“I…” you began, your lip already ahead of your emotions as it quivered. The geyser of your feelings erupted, and you felt tears slide down your cheeks. You were brought back to that day, and then pulled right back to here, in this moment, in the safety of your room, being nursed by a kind bender. “I… I don’t… I didn’t mean for all this to…” 

“One thing at a time,” Katara interrupted you, handing you a dry cloth to wipe your face. You were grateful for her generosity, attempting to calm down so the tears could be obsolete. “Everything that happened to you was not your fault. That man is not a man; he’s a coward.” 

Your eyes dimmed, looking down at your hands. Before you had gone unconscious, you remember most of the Agni Kai that Zuko had long abolished. You recall Lord Indra attempting to be sly with the Firelord, being cheeky with movement to try and one-up him. It made your blood boil, despite its current feeble state. 

“Is he… um,” you ask timidly, unsure if you truly want to know the well being of Lord Indra. 

Katara nodded, “Indra has been imprisoned under the charges of treachery and assault of a Fire Nation Palace personnel.” You blinked a few times, looking up at her in surprise. Of course, you were happy to hear that he was not doing well, and in fact being punished for his crime. But, his list of crimes sounded like he won’t be seeing anything outside of his cell ever again. “His clan has been informed, and they are in deliberation to promote someone else to take his place.” 

You nodded, “I see.” 

Then, Katara placed her hand on yours, cupping them just a bit to attempt to ease your tremors. “As for Zuko…” she begins, earning a jump from you. She smiled amusingly, anticipating that you’d react in such a way from hearing his name. And you wanted to ask about him, but it seemed inappropriate, considering the nature of your relationship with him and the feelings you harbor for the very man. “He’s subjecting himself to his own sort of prison.”

You tilted your head to the side, confused at her words, “...what do you mean?” 

“It’s a long story,” Katara hums quietly. She begins to adjust in her seat, making herself a bit more comfortable. She takes one of your hands and gives it a light squeeze, “luckily we have the time, and I’ve been dying to tell you about the kind of man you’ve made him become.” 

The story made you feel just about everything. 

Sadness and anger mostly, but mainly frustrated at your body for giving out when Zuko needed the exact opposite. It broke your heart to hear how he’s been punishing himself, unable to control his feelings and lashing out unnecessarily. 

But these feelings also confused you. Why would he feel such things over you? It was understandable that Lord Indra had been a bad man, and did not deserve to represent the Fire Nation as a leader anymore. But, you were nothing above a commoner. Your life was not taken, either. You were just you. 

So why would he go so much out of his way…?

“To go such lengths,” Katara approaches the end of her update for you. She straightens her back, a yawn escaping her lips. After all, the woman had barely slept and spent the rest of her night catching you up with the ‘gossip.’ She looked up at you with a sweet smile, “it means that you’re someone very important, whether you like it or not.” 

“To him?” You squeak out before erupting in a coughing fit. Your voice was still struggling, but it was doing its best. 

“Who else?” Katara giggles, poking fun at your confusion. “Anyhow, that’s been the last few days. I’m sorry for such a lengthy story.” 

You shook your head, “no no, thank you for updating me on everything. It feels like I’ve been gone an eternity…” 

“Zuko feels the same way,” Katara hummed. It was weird. Well, rather it felt weird. It was like, through Katara, Zuko had been confessing to you. But, he wasn’t here, and all you were being told was how his heart had been crumbling from your lack of presence. Delusional, you quickly discredited yourself. “But, he’s been fine for the most part. We’ve been trying to keep him grounded, though I’m not sure if our efforts have been completely fruitful.” 

We? You were curious, but not curious enough to question it. Right now, at the moment, you want to get yourself back on your feet. You needed to. To get back to him, to what was normal. You tried to get off the bed on your own, the sudden exertion making your body quickly halt itself. Even Katara held your shoulders, stopping you from your actions. 

“What are you doing?” She immediately questioned, worry drenched her words. “You’ve just woken up.” 

“I need to help him get ready,” you say quietly, your mind already set on a mission. You needed to come back to him, to bring his mind back to sanity. You needed to fulfill your purpose there, and serve the Firelord like you had done before. 

Before she could continue to stop you, a soft knock hit the door. It was a hesitant knock, as if the door was delicate. Almost as if the knock itself did not want to be heard. 

“Katara,” a voice so familiar, you’ve heard it in your dreams. But it was manipulated in this reality, weaved in woe and something you could not pin point. “I can’t live like this anymore,” Zuko’s voice poured out desperately against the door, “I need to see her.” 

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Zuko was in a different world entirely at the dinner table. 

After finishing his assignments upon his uncle's instructions, he was surprised to find himself first in the dining room. It was unused most of the year, considering that Zuko did not have enough family or friends in the Fire Nation to utilize it. It was just his uncle and him, and his friends were busy in their own nations or traversing between the many in order to help the world. 

He sat at the very end, where he was ‘supposed’ to sit as the Firelord. It disgusted him enough to know he was sitting where his father used to sit during his dictatorial reign. He could almost feel the evil essence latching to his rear. But, he was no longer impacted by his fathers demented being. Especially considering the day he had. 

Firelord Zuko was busy traversing the third stage of grief: bargaining. 

Now that he was finally by himself, he had been fighting with his own head, with his very own thoughts. And all he could really think about was you, and what he let happen to you. To think that he, the Firelord, gave mercy out so easily just for it to bite him back in the end. For you to suffer without reason. 

Your face, your tears– everything about your being was killing him to his core. He saw all the light vanish, and what was left was the shadow of someone who was previously whole. In the moment when he found you, he was not able to shut down. The very sight of you balled on that stool in fear almost made him lose all feeling in his body. The only thing that kept him from that was needing to get you safe and Lord Indra punished. 

But not even winning Agni Kai could erase his guilt. If he just ignored your mercy for Lord Indra, this all could have been avoided. If he just fought him right then and there, Lord Indra would have been a person of the past. If he just let his guards take him away to get you to a doctor right away, perhaps you would not have passed out and in your current state of comatose. 

Alternatively, how could he dare ignore your ask? One of the many reasons why he respected you so much was because of your willingness to give mercy, despite it being given to those so undeserving. You begged for souls who were unmerited. Undeserving of even a drop of your sympathy. 

He was being punished for things he did not understand, feelings he can’t seem to unravel well. He just wanted to know that you were going to be okay. That you’ll just wake up any minute now, and that this nightmare would be over. He wanted to see you enter the throne room, kettle in hand, a smile on your lips and some smart banter leaving your lips. 

He just wanted you back– the whole you. 

It was wishful thinking, as the true fear lies in when you do actually wake up. What if you begin to blame him for what happened to you? Or redirect your pain towards him and never forgive him? A burning scar, a reminder of his shortcomings. A hideous mark coined by Zuko’s neglect. He was being subjected to torture of ‘should have’s and ‘what if’s. 

‘You could have stopped this.’

His fathers words have seemed to conjure from sitting in what used to be his seat. Zuko felt that dismissive feeling, as his father would ignore him. As if he wasn’t even there at all. He’s reminded of all the times he could not make his father proud or best his sister in anything. Back then, and right at this moment, he was nothing. 

‘You’re so weak…’

He was doing what was right… wasn’t he? He bested Lord Indra, demonstrating how capable he was as a Firelord. He fired Chamberlain Minji, disregarding her tenureship that could have been used as manipulation otherwise. He brought you back to safety, though not in the condition he would have liked for you. 

Zuko looks down at his hand, somehow seeing them as doubles. His own mind was exhausting him further, unable to really get a grip of himself. You were safe, being treated by the best person who could treat you. Is he still not good enough?

Then finally, someone enters the dining room. 

Zuko jumped, his heart immediately racing to see Katara appear. She had changed into some temporary robes offered at the Palace for visitors (which were mainly his best friends). Her long, beautiful hair was pinned up, and she looked just as tired. And he couldn’t blame her, considering the requests he asked of her in her first minutes here. 

“Before you ask, she’s fine,” Katara caught him at the jump, meandering around the long dining table to take a seat beside him. He quickly leaves his chair to pull out hers, earning a giggled ‘thank you.’ He returns to his seat, still a bit out of it but itching to hear whatever Katara has regarding your condition. “But, it may take a few days until she wakes up, so be patient.” 

Zuko couldn’t find any relief in her update, “how come she’s… like this?”

Katara shrugged, putting her hands on the table. She rubbed them carelessly, attempting to relieve the tension in them after water bending so much on your wound. “From what I saw, it seemed her body was working a little too hard to try and calm down her pain. But for me to really tell, I would need you to explain to me exactly what happened.” 

Zuko sighs, feeling that guilt runs up like an erupting volcano, “I owe you that much… but let's wait for the others to come, too. It’s a long story, and I’d rather not repeat it.”

Almost on cue, Aang and Sokka file it, the two looking completely wasted. Toph follows closely behind, who also took advantage of the comfortable robes provided to her. As the boys sat on one side, Toph joined Katara on the other. She leans her head on Katara’s shoulder and closes her eyes. 

“Good to see you again, Katara,” she hums somewhat sarcastically. “How did the surgery go?” 

Zuko, Aang, and Sokka immediately snap their necks to look towards Toph, who offers no other words. Katara rolls her eyes and chuckles, “don’t start. No surgery happened,” Katara confirmed. 

“Too soon?” Toph pipes, earning a groan from Sokka. He already noticed how frantic Zuko was, and didn’t want to see his friend still on the road of stress. 

Aang quickly stops the jovial space, and looks at Katara sternly, “how is she?” 

Katara nods, “she’s fine, just needs all the rest she can get. A few of her fellow ladies took over for me so I could eat.” 

“Do you plan to stay with her overnight?” Sokka asked curiously, surprised at her dedication. 

She nods, “should anything happen, I’d rather be the first to know.” 

Zuko quickly takes her hand into both of his, and slowly brings his forehead to the table. All his friends noticed this, and could only frown in sympathy. “Thank you, Katara,” Zuko says quietly, his raspy voice finally returning to him in a more calmer manner. “‘m sorry to ask such a huge favor from you.” 

Katara requests he sits up and waves him off, “I would never forgive myself if I just watched her and did nothing. Please don’t think like I am doing you a grand favor– I wanted to do this.” 

A moment of silence ensues. Zuko forgets that these are his very best friends. And not only are they his best friends, but he considers them to be the best humans in this very world. His entire world relied on them being part of it. Without them, he’d have nothing. 

“That said,” Sokka sounds, his eyes looking over curiously at Zuko. “...can we ask who she is? From the looks of everything, she seems kinda really important to you.” 

And so, that began the story telling of how Zuko and you met. Ladies in Waiting come into the dining room, appearing with much more energy while serving everyone their dinner. It seems since Chamberlain's dismissal, the weight of pressure was completely lifted from them. And little did Zuko know at the moment, but they had cared for their leader just a bit more. 

As Zuko explained everything, Aang couldn’t help but want to smile. He had been worried about his friend since his split with Mai, and all the pressure of being the Firelord began to consume him. Aang understood him, considering the hardships of being the Avatar while also still allowing him to indulge in his love with Katara. 

But Aang knew it was Katara or no one. He could not fumble this one, regardless of who he was. 

“So, to be clear,” Sokka begins, “y/n has been your attendant for 2 years?” Zuko nods, confirming his words. “And… nothing more?” 

“...no?” Zuko answered skeptically, squirting hard at Sokka and his words. Katara had to look away, unable to keep her smile back. Aang was on the same boat, but still wanted to be supportive to his friend, despite his previous gossip with Sokka. 

“What Sokka is trying to say is that you seem to care very much about your attendant,” Aang says quietly, saving Sokka in the process. “She must be extraordinary at her job.” 

Zuko finally caught on and looked away, “she’s part of the Palace… I’d do it for any of my Ladies in Waiting, considering how much they all do for me.” 

“And we’d believe you,” Toph begins quietly, “but you did not address her Lady this entire time we’ve been talking about her.” 

Zuko’s tongue was caught, and a hue of pink decorated his cheeks. He felt fortunate that Toph couldn’t see him, but she was as astute as any other person with sight. She smirked, knowing she caught him. “It’s… it’s not like that, I promise,” Zuko says quietly. Aang could tell he was bothered to say that sentence, but did not press him. “She’s been good to me, and I… feel awful for not having protected her. Especially from a Fire Nation lord.” 

“We may have stopped a big evil,” Katara begins, lifting a piece of broccoli with her chop sticks, “but there are still many evils in this world.” 

Aang let out a sigh, seconding her words, “considering all the missions we’ve been on lately, it feels like there’s too many of them out there.” 

Zuko was alarmed by this, and looked at the Avatar worriedly, “is there anything I can do? I know I’m no use with everything going on in the Fire Nation, but I have plenty of men I can send out if you need.” 

Sokka cockily crosses his arms across his chest, “don’t worry, we’ve been handling everything well. Nothing can best these muscles,” he unravels his arms to begin flexing his biceps. Zuko rolls his eyes, amused at Sokka’s ridiculousness. 

“You call those muscles?” Toph scoffs. She sits up, and begins flexing herself, bragging about the few centimeters she had over him. “You clearly must be blind, too, if you haven’t noticed these.” 

Finally, the tension broke, and Zuko let out a laugh. All his friends stared at him with doe eyes, relieved that he seemed to be more at ease. Even though everything was still fresh, it was nice to at least take him out of his head to have moments like this. Sokka retaliated, crediting her earth bending for the reason she was so bulked. They all share a laugh while enjoying their meal. 

Zuko then realized his uncle's absence, and quickly asked one of the Ladies in Waiting where he was. “He is having dinner in the kitchen, Firelord Zuko,” she informs him quietly. “He wanted to speak with some of the leading staff regarding the current changes in the team.” 

“Ah, right,” Zuko understood immediately, thanking her for the update. His friends looked at him curiously while their finished plates were being collected. “My uncle has assumed management of the Palace staff after I fired my Chamberlain.” 

Katara was the first to express distaste, “I’m shocked she remained for as long as she has here. I could not imagine sending my own staff– a fellow woman, to such a dangerous and disgusting man.” 

Zuko couldn’t believe it either. It still broke his heart, imagining the torment you endured because of Chamberlain's thoughtless decision. “I think I have been too soft with my staff, and safely assuming that they would always do the right thing. I didn’t realize the evils I had so close to me until now.” 

“Not your fault,” Toph hums, "establishing world peace is not on everyone's agenda.” 

“Even then, to do that to a woman over pride?” Sokka begins, still shocked at what he has witnessed and heard today. “That ego was far too fragile for him to be that cocky.” 

Aang was not a rumor monger and quickly put his hands down on the table, “but it’s over now, and Katara is taking good care of your attendant. In other news,” Aang looks over at Zuko, the atmosphere suddenly becomes serious once more, “you must be wondering why we are here.” 

Zuko nods, pushing away his feeling temporarily, “when I read your letter, I was confused at how little you wrote. I can only assume it's something very important…” 

Katara and Aang both place their hands on one of Zuko’s, smiling very excitedly. They glance at each other, before Katara gestures at Aang with her lips. The Avatar then turns to Zuko, clearing his throat before continuing, “Katara and I are getting married.” 

For just this moment, Zuko was the happiest he could be. Despite everything, he quickly rose to his feet and pulled in Aang for a hug. Aang felt the way Zuko held him, with pats on his back fueled with love and excitement for the both of them. Katara rose to her feet in preparation for a hug, but she did not expect to be pulled in so rapidly for the embrace. Zuko was more gentle with her, giving her a long and warm hug. 

His golden eyes were wide, pulling away to hold both of their hands once more, “I…– congratulations to you both!” He stutters, overjoyed by the news. It was expected, but still none the less welcome. “Have arrangements been made yet?” 

Katara nods, “this is actually the reason why we are here…” Zuko stares at them both, anticipating details. “Initially, we planned to have a traditional Water Tribe wedding, and regardless intended to come here to invite you personally.” 

Aang then takes over, “but, we knew that it would likely not be possible for you to come, and we need you there.” They then glance at one another before Aang continued, “so, we have decided to arrange for two weddings– and the first wedding will guarantee your presence.” 

Zuko quickly shifted into apologetic mode, “‘m sorry that I have so much trouble making time for you– all of you. I knew becoming Firelord would be difficult… but, I did not realize how much it took from my free time…” 

“It’s not your fault that your father was demented,” Toph says, rubbing the palms of her hands. She’s picked up the habit of touching her callouses from her friends, though it made much more sense to her considering she was an earth bender. “You were given a broken nation, so of course it makes sense that you have to stay here and fix it.” 

Sokka nods in agreement, “which is why they’ve decided to bring the wedding to you, here.” 

Golden eyes widen, and he looks over at the two lovebirds, “you… you want to host your first wedding here?” 

“How else were we going to get you to come?” Katara says in an obvious tone. She gave him the warmest smile, and for a second, he felt completely calm. “We came all this way to ask if we can host our wedding here.” 

Zuko didn’t hesitate, “pick anywhere, and I will make it happen.” 

Aang felt relief seeing life return back to Zuko, even if just for a moment. He knew the kind of stress he was under, considering the two of them were leaders. But, with what happened today, he wanted nothing more than for Zuko to indulge in good news. “Thank you for extending your nation to us, always. We were actually particularly interested in the nearby islands of Capital City, if that counts.” 

“Again, pick anywhere and you can consider it done,” Zuko insisted. “You guys are my friends, and the fact that you want me this much at your wedding– this is the least I could do.” 

“We would not all be here, now, together like this without you, Zuko,” Katara reminds him, resting her hand on his forearm. “We’re family, and our wedding would not be complete without you there.” 

Zuko nods, his heart filling up from his friend's words. There was nothing that could compare to this– these friends of his. Their souls were welcoming, their hearts pure and untampered. They were the few blessings Zuko could count on in this world, and he wouldn’t dare trade it for anything in this world. 

“Feel free to tour any of the islands,” Zuko hums simply, “you should already have, but I will send word out of your presence and remind them that you are permitted anywhere in the Fire Nation.” 

Aang and Katara nodded, their excitement very much plastered on their faces. Zuko knew this was bound to happen, but it did make him any less excited for the two. They had always made sense, and he knew that eventually, down the line, they would wed. 

“I’ll keep this in mind for my future wedding with Suki,” Sokka interrupts the moment with his own greedy inquiry. Toph kicked him under the table, earning a grunt and a glare from him. “What? I’m just seizing the opportunity!” 

Toph rolls her eyes before rising from her own seat, “yeah, yeah, you opportunist. Sorry to break the excitement, but I’m exhausted. If you need me, just stomp.” Katara grabs one of Toph’s hands, giving it a squeeze. She squeezes back before yawning and waving at everyone. “Have a good night.” 

With that, Toph was gone. Sokka followed suit too, considering he was double exhausted from the travel and getting a good training session with Aang prior. Aang had second his motion, bidding Zuko goodnight, and leaving Katara with a kiss on the forehead. It was then just them two, sitting quietly at the dining table. 

“So…” Zuko broke the silence, his eyes welled up in curiosity, “you will be sleeping in y/n’s room, correct?” 

She nods, “a few of the ladies here helped arrange a smaller bed to be brought into her quarters. So I’ll do a final check up on her before calling it a night.” 

Zuko nods, “if there is anything else you need, it is yours. We have all sorts of resources, and an in-palace apothecary and doctor.” For your health, a world of resources will be at Katara’s hands. 

Katara giggles, amused at Zuko’s serious nature. He’s loosened over the years, but he’s still that very stoic boy. “Don’t worry, I have everything I need,” Katara assured him. “She’s perfectly fine, and your other ladies are quite on top of her recovery, too.” 

“Is that right?” He says in a hush tone. “I’m glad. They treated y/n very well when she first arrived at the Palace. I imagine the sort of bonds they’ve developed in her 2 years here.” 

Katara nods. There was a sisterhood there that Katara admired, and it all made sense as to why Zuko had cared about you the way he did. He wouldn’t admit it– at least not now, but Katara caught a whiff of the emotional turmoil he was subjecting him to. She wasn’t going to tease him though, at least not yet. 

“But, she’s strong,” Katara says quietly. She brings her hands up, staring down at her palms. “Not everyone could stay so conscious for that long, considering the time between you finding her and her going unconscious.” 

“So…?” 

“Adrenaline,” she says simply. “I think she held out for so long because her body pushed out as much adrenaline as it could. But…” she smiles a little at the information that she has. “I think something pushed her will to fight, too.” 

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Zuko walks Katara back to your quarters. It was not necessary, as Katara knew her way around the Palace well. But, this was also a sneaky way to see, if maybe, you were finally awake. It was wishful thinking, but he didn’t want his hope to be kicked so soon without checking. 

The corridor was quite dim, with small torches dancing quietly in the stillness of the Palace. The rain calmed down, only offering little drops every now and then in its aftermath. And, with Chamberlain Minji relieved of her duties, the Palace somehow felt lighter. 

A plentiful of guards stood stern outside of your quarters, and only moved to bow when the two slowly approached. Katara placed her hand against the door, looking back to see Zuko already looking away. He had his back turned to her, waiting to hear the sound of the door click open, and shut. 

“Zuko, why are you looking away?” Katara asks curiously, working her hardest to conceal her amusement. “She is not inappropriately dressed or anything.” 

Zuko clears his throat, still unwilling to turn around, “...I do not think it is appropriate to look at her while she is not awake. It feels…  wrong.” Katara couldn’t swallow her giggle, entertained at his shy being. 

“You want to see her, do you not?” Katara asks. She watches Zuko remain still for a moment before his head nods. She sees his neck move forward, his body being more honest than his words. “I promise you that it is okay. She is a patient, and is accepting visitors.” 

Still reticent, he turns around and anxiously watches as Katara opens the door. He immediately shuts his eyes, but slowly opens them to reveal quite a scene. 

There you were, in the center of your bed, but turned over to your stomach. Your face was hidden by your hair, which was sprawled all about your pillow. You were covered by all sorts of soft blankets and smaller cushions, ensuring your comfort was optimal. And surrounding you on the large frame were several Ladies in Waiting, who were balled and coiled every which way to fit on the bed. They were cuddled right up against your entire outline, but he noticed they were careful not to be too pressed into you, ensuring you and your wound would recover safely and uninterrupted. 

And in that moment, he felt at pure ease. He could hear your light snores, your body twitching in moments that would go unnoticed to the untrained eye. And because you were covered up, he did not have to face your mark. At least, not for now. 

“She looks… relaxed,” Zuko comments, his voice practically breathless. He felt such a weight slide off his shoulders, being met with gratitude that you were well. “Is she…?” 

“Asleep,” Katara re-confirms for him, albeit seeing you with his own eyes. “Which reminds me– I have something for you.” 

She enters the room, leaving the door behind her ajar. He doesn’t dare peak through in pure respect for you and your privacy. He was already bold enough to go to your room before you were awake and invited him in, but he was not going to disrespect you and your quarters in your current state. 

A few seconds pass, and Katara comes out. In her hand; a small, golden crown. The one he entrusted you with before he had proceeded in his challenge against Lord Indra. “Here,” Katara says quietly, offering it to him. “She had it clutched in her arms. Quite tightly might I add… it took me a little to take it from her.” 

His eyes were fixed down at it, the physical symbol of his position as Firelord. It was silly, but he couldn’t help but notice something. “It’s still warm…” he let out somberly, his raspy voice cracking at his own brewing feelings. 

“I didn’t realize she was a fire bender until I had touched it,” Katara noted, rubbing at two of her fingers, “she unconsciously heated it, like she needed to continue protecting.”

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The moon long established itself in the sky, and even gave Zuko its pity. 

After he had bathed and dressed himself for slumber, he found himself sauntering towards the balcony. He practically collapsed on the ground, looking up at the moon. Its glow demanded attention as it adorned the entire world with its shine within the darkness of the night. It was bittersweet to be there, in the scene. 

It was just days ago that you had accompanied him here to wake the sun from its night-long slumber. You never noticed, but his favorite part was seeing the way the sun rose and kissed your face entirely. The orange rays of the strong star seemed to have woken you up too, as your eyes always widened from such a beautiful moment. 

“Goodmorning,” you would always coo, as if the sun could hear you. The smile on your face was second to none– you were just as beautiful as nature’s bidding. He was too familiar with the way your delicate fingers would tip tap against the cold, metal guardrail. 

Without him realizing it, he was crying again. 

He felt overwhelmed, the torment of his mind replaying the sight of your back. He looked down at his crown, the one you protected so earnestly. A fire bender who does not bend– heating it up so much that others burnt their fingers when giving it a touch. Giving shield to this useless crown, a crown that meant nothing if the user it sat on did not hold incredible power and will. 

Because of his neglect, his hunger for a lick back, you were missing out on days of your life. Life was short, and you had to spend a few of them unconscious, unknowing the ever changing world around you. You were missing out on seeing the sun, eating delicious food, and laughing at whatever was worth its humor. And the worst part was– it was still uncertain when you would wake up. 

On top of that, his bigger fear was ‘when’ becoming ‘if.’

And he… he was missing time with you. He was backed up on your delicious cups of tea, and lacking memories of your simple, daily lives. He was missing out on your smile, and the way you focused so much on doing his hair. His heart was shattered, overwhelmed at how much your absence impacted his mind and body. 

His hand grabbed at the collar of his robe, feeling a weight settle in his chest. It felt like a panic attack, but it wasn’t. He felt breathless, but his lungs were full of air. It was the push and pull of feeling like dying and being forced to live like this. 

His depression stage finally set in, and Zuko remained on that balcony, getting not one wink of sleep. 

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-

all you could feel was the harsh pulse of your own heartbeat coming from your neck. you wish the beating came from your carotid, but it came from the hand shaped burn that now covered the right side of your neck and the connecting point to your shoulder. the green crystals of the catacombs shine above you, but you can’t focus on them well enough to admire them. aang had just been thrown back by azula when she had shifted her gaze to you and katara. you had been fighting against her using your earth bending, but your senses were nowhere near as sensitive as toph’s. you couldn’t even feel when zuko came up behind you, gripping your shoulder to pull you back. he used that same hand to let out a burst of fire that seemed to shock even himself; you went crashing into one of the stone walls of the cave, then fell to the ground. 

your neck was raw. the skin covering it now charred and flaked, exposing the slick under layer of cells and blood. you’re able to peel your eyes open to see zuko. he is standing, watching. azula yells something towards him that you can't make out, it takes him a second to start running toward her, back to the fight with aang. you can faintly see katara fall after one of azula’s attacks. the last you remember was the entrance of the dai li surrounding katara as she tries to get back up. 

waking up on a fire nation ship was… terrifying to say the least. not to mention the thick layer of bandages that covered your neck and shoulder. you felt like you could barely move your head. sokka was the first person you saw when you woke after three days in a coma. “thank goodness, you’re alive.” he said, you tried to push yourself up on the cot you were laying on, but you were still weak. sokka helped push you up from your back as to not disturb the bandages. “katara tried to heal you, but she had to use the spirit water on aang.” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “is everyone okay?” you managed to ask, your voice raspy. “aang… hasn’t woken up yet.”

it took three more weeks for him to wake up, even longer for the plan on the day of the black sun to come together. the time in the fire nation passed too fast for your liking, and the feeling that the end was soon caused your anxiety to heighten as you stayed at the western air temple. the fight in the crystal catacomb gave you a sense of your own weakness, mortality. 

zuko’s arrival after being beaten by the fire nation only heightened those feelings. you hadn’t managed to bend properly with him still around, his presence only made your burn throb more. it was still firmly wrapped in cloth bandages, barely scarring over in the past month. when aang had asked you and toph your opinions on letting him stay with the group after he defeated the assassin tracking you, you only gave a nod after toph said she’d get back at him. even with apologies from him to both you and toph, you couldn’t help the feeling of fear that consumed you when he was firebending with aang. 

it’s only when zuko and aang returned from the firebending masters did your tension start to lessen. it had taken you a while to get back to feeling comfortable around fire, but something you couldn’t handle was the freezing nights at the western air temple, sucking up your fear was a necessity. something you didn’t expect to be comforted by, though, was the warmth of the tea that zuko had brewed every night. he’d sometimes tell stories of his uncle, or poorly thought out jokes. it helped. it made the fire feel more human. it made the skin on your neck and shoulder cool down. helping sokka bring back suki his father, then avenging katara’s mother with her made it difficult to ignore his changing. 

a few days before the arrival of sozin’s comet, you had spoken to him maybe a handful of times. it was a warm night at the fire lord’s beach house when he sat next to you at the shoreline. your scar didn’t throb. the rest of the team was sleeping inside, in a food coma as a result of watermelon juice and barbecued veggies. even with the heat of the island, you had your bandages on. 

“is your neck… healing well?” he asked without looking toward you. “uh, yeah. it just needs a few more weeks. i’m trying to keep it clean.” you responded. it was a complete lie. in full honesty, katara said you could stop wearing the bandage about a week prior. you wanted to keep the scar to yourself for now. the area was pulled taut as the fresh layer of new skin covered what once was a mass of char. you felt yourself sweat through the bandage a bit. he turns to look at you, his hand balled into a fist in the sand, “i can’t tell you how sorry i am.” his eyes shift to the bandage. 

he was never the best at apologies, but you could tell he was trying. you were never the best at comfort, but you could also try. “you were doing what you thought was right. we all make mistakes.” “doing that to someone is never right. i regretted it as soon as i touched you.” he leans his body away from you. “well, you just gotta make sure you don't do it again, i’ll beat your ass now that my bending’s gotten better.” that actually got a chuckle out of him. “if that ever happens, i hope you do.”

he spoke of how his father was planning on burning down the earth kingdom, your home, a day later. although you were separated from your family at a young age, the people in the earth kingdom and the fighters that trained you were the closest people you had in your life. training amped up tenfold. aang disappeared, you all found zuko’s uncle, the comet changed the sky into a deep orange, you were split up from the group and caught in a fight against azula with katara and zuko, and then, suddenly.

aang won. 

the fire lord could no longer bend. aang put out the fires at the edge of the earth kingdom and you reunited with the rest of the team. you stayed with toph at zuko’s coronation and to the celebration afterwards. the fire nation regalia laid thinly on your body, made for the heat. it was a high enough neck to cover what you wanted to be covered. everyone was in the traditional deep red for the celebration. 

“so, do we have to call you ‘my lord’ now?” sokka asked, leaning on zuko’s shoulder. “please, never call me that.” zuko seemed to cringe. “then what is your first plan of action, firelord zuko?” you asked, making toph cackle. zuko would have to get used to it at some point. “i’ve already set up meetings with the other nations to start rebuilding our relationships with them. i’m just hoping they’ll believe in me.” “they will,” aang says. 

-

ten years later proves that they did believe in him. the fire nation has majorly supported the other nations in their efforts to rebuild after the hundred years war. zuko has worked with royals as well as local communities to establish what is needed for their homelands as well as what is necessary for the construction of republic city. aang and katara have worked on peace treaties between all nations in connection with the new firelord. toph has set up a strong law enforcement team to protect against those that still may believe in what ozai once tried to enforce. sokka has become the new chieftain of the southern water tribe. 

you, over the past ten years, have made an effort to find your family. and you did. only katara knew of this venture, and that you located your grandmother using old earth kingdom records tied to your last name. you found an orphan with the same birthdate as you and tied it back to two deceased parents. you almost gave up until you found one last grandparent–your mothers mother. she lived in the mountains in solitude, away from any main city, but she said she would recognize you anywhere. 

you were shocked to receive the invitation to this fire nation event celebrating the ten year anniversary of the end of the war. first, you didn’t know if any of the original team knew your location. spending ten years trying to find your one last living relative did not give you a lot of free time to stay in contact with anyone, which you regretted deeply. second, you didn’t expect fire nation soldiers to knock on the door of your grandmother's small cabin in the early morning, nearly scaring the spirit out of her. 

one of the soldiers said your name as you opened the door, ready to use your bending to send them all the way back to the fire nation, but you pause at his next words, “we are delivering a letter from firelord zuko, we apologize for the early interruption, he asked for us to get this to you as soon as possible.” the soldier put the letter in your hands and gave you a stiff bow. both of them left swiftly, leaving you and your grandmother shocked. 

“the firelord, huh?” your grandmother looked at you with a naughty look in her eye. “spirits, please stop.” “haven’t you seen him lately, dear? handsome boy.” she said, smirking. “how have you even seen him? we don’t get any mail up here.” “you think i spend all of my time out in that garden? the city is a beautiful place to explore, even if i would despise living in it.” you decide to ignore the information that was just thrown at you to open the letter in your hands. there is a large chunk of cursive on the page written in red ink. it addresses you by name first, some of it is a little messy, but it looks like it took some time to write.

“i hope that the delivery of this letter did not startle you. you certainly did not make it easy to find your whereabouts over the years, but i felt it was important to share this event with you. katara was gracious enough to talk about your mission to find your loved ones after the end of my fathers rule. i admire you deeply for dedicating yourself to this for ten long years.

i am writing to invite you to the decennial celebration of the end of the war at the fire nation palace. i understand completely if you would rather spend time with your grandmother (this invite is extended to your grandmother as well), but i hope you do consider being in attendance. everyone from our original group will be in attendance and it would feel like something would be missing without you. 

please do not feel as if you are being forced to come. i understand that the whole ‘firelord’ title can make official invitations intimidating, but i would appreciate writing with you like this just as i would seeing you in person. 

i hope to see you there, 

zuko” 

“a special invite from the firelord himself.” your grandmother reads the letter over your shoulder, “and he only signed it as zuko! no ‘firelord,’ no ‘lord,’ oh, you have to go!” she claps. for an old woman, her energy is out of this world. “i don’t even know how i would get down there on time, i don’t even have anything to wear.” you said, putting the letter down. “we have enough money saved to call a carriage, and i’m an old woman who has lived by herself for twenty years, you think i can’t sew? i have many traditional dresses in my closet, i can tailor it any way you’d like, you would just have to choose one.” she opens her closet door to show her collection of traditional earth kingdom gowns. their vintage designs and traditional fabrics almost seemed to shimmer in the early morning sun. you just smiled and nodded toward her, she jumped with excitement. 

-

now, standing at the foot of the fire nation palace, it is almost like all of your original confidence has washed away from your body. the carriage dropped you off just minutes ago, and yet you still haven't moved an inch. 

your dress was perfectly tailored, a silk green and gold gown. it is low cut, and you have finally stopped wearing bandages around your neck and shoulders. the scar was a mix of reds and browns, but had healed with only a slight difference in texture to your unharmed skin, you still wore a shawl to fight against the cool evening breeze outside. your grandmother even put some light makeup on your face and gave you her precious gold jewelry to wear for the night. in the carriage, you felt beautiful. as you stare up at the palace, knowing that everyone from your past is in that building, it all feels too much. 

ten years was too long of a time to not see any of your friends, though. instead of remaining stuck in fear, you made your way up the staircase into the bustling palace. music surrounded you along with warm firelights lining the walls. the main foyer was crowded with aristocrats and citizens alike. the first person you make eye contact with is aang. 

his eyes widen as he says your name, the woman in front of him turns around to look at you too, katara. you smile at them as they rush toward you. “it’s really you, oh my god.” katara says, pulling you into a hug, aang comes in for one next. “i’m so sorry about being in the mountains for so long. i’ve been catching up on lost time with my grandmother.” you take in both of their appearances in shock. aang has somehow grown taller than both you and katara, and katara has grown into a gorgeous woman. you notice something different about her, particularly her necklace. instead of her mothers, there sits a blue crystal with a combination of air and water nation symbols. 

“is that what i think it is?” you ask, looking deeper at the necklace. aang’s face bursts with red at the recognition. “we thought nobody would notice!” katara says, “notice what?” another person cuts across the foyer, you instantly recognize the voice as sokka, toph is beside him as he comes up. she is already smirking, probably from overhearing the conversation. katara’s eyes widen, aang splutters for a second before yelling out your name, “she thought nobody would notice her, can you believe it?” sokka instantly looks shocked as he looks at you and then pulls you into a hug. “holy shit, we didn’t think you’d come!” he pulls back but still has his hands on your shoulders. “neither did i, to be honest.” you said back. “you finally came in! i heard you thank your carriage driver outside like twenty minutes ago.” toph hits your shoulder. “your senses can’t be that good.” katara furrows her eyebrows at toph, “it’s been ten years, my senses are only getting better and better.” 

conversation flows like it did ten years ago, like it did before the war. you realize how much you missed all of your friends. you loved your grandmother, but this little found family of yours was still by your side, even after a decade. 

the sounds of drums interrupt your conversation as guards come up to the top of the grand staircase. the drums stop as the main guard begins to speak. “please join us in welcoming firelord zuko.” the guard says. the foyer erupts into applause as zuko stands atop the staircase and gives a bow. 

he looks so different, his hair is long, near his waist at this point. he has grown much taller over the years, and he looks older. the weight of war cleanup and firelord duties has taken a toll on him. his eyes are slightly sunken in, but despite this, he looks happy. he looks good. 

he gives a greeting toward the crowd and invites everyone to keep celebrating before descending the staircase. aang rushes to greet him first, still pulling him into a bear hug despite both of them being far too large for it not to hurt anymore. sokka and toph make jokes about the introduction while katara laughs. despite the chaos, he looks at you. 

the shock on his face was astounding. he looks both happy and stunned at the same time, but he smiles at you nonetheless. “oh, yeah, we brought a surprise for you, dude.” sokka says, gesturing to you over his shoulder. you are pulled into another hug, this time from the firelord, who approached you at a shocking speed. despite his put-together facade, he really seems to act just like aang in terms of excitement. he pulls away from you, “i am so happy you came, did you bring your grandmother?” you laugh a bit but shake your head, “i tried getting her to come, she said parties aren't her thing.” 

even after ten years, they were all still here. you couldn’t believe you hadn’t followed up with anyone for that amount of time, you couldn’t believe how fast time had even passed after the end of the war. the night nearly flew by, and suddenly the room was getting stuffy with the amount of bodies that filled up the palace. you stepped out into the garden for some cool air, slipping the shawl off your shoulders and sitting on a small bench by the fountain. 

you heard him before you saw him, the thick fabric of the firelord robes made it hard to hide from anybody as it rubbed against itself. “what are you doing out here?” zuko asks from behind you, coming to sit next to you. “got a bit too hot. i havent properly partied in a decade, y’know?” you smiled back at him. “that is a fire nation issue, we tend to run hot.” he looks at you properly. 

he takes you in little by little, maybe you notice, maybe you don’t. from your hair, to the slope of your nose, to your lips, to your chin. 

to your neck. 

all fire lord zuko could focus his gaze on was your neck. the last time he had seen the dull red mark, it was covered in bandages. in the dark of the night it appeared more purpley. it was very faintly shaped like a jagged oval. like his hand. the previous smile that was on his face has disappeared as he looks away from you. you notice it. 

“why, um, why did you end up coming?” he asks, looking down at his hands that are now clasped together. he still isn't looking at you. “just wanted to see people that i cared for again.” he nods, “i think they really appreciate that. i mean, katara and aang haven’t stopped talking about you over the years. toph missed you so much-” “that includes you, zuko.” he closes his mouth and his eyes still shift on the grass covering the garden ground. 

“you don’t have to say that, you know? i know i’m the firelord but i’m not going to, like, force you to be friends with me. especially not after what i did.” he can’t look at your face, so he settles by looking at your hands that were resting on your thighs. 

“can i tell you something?” you ask, “anything,” he responds, so fast it almost shocks both of you. “for the longest time after… that fight, i was scared of fire. it didn’t matter how cold it was or how numb my fingers were, i was just too nervous to be around it. i was terrified.” he looks away from you again, but you continue. “i had made this connection in my head that you and fire were one, one being made to try and hurt my friends.” he nodded, you could barely even hear him breathe. “when you came to the western air temple saying you wanted to help aang with his fire bending, i felt myself really start panicking.” you had to remind yourself to breathe while talking to him.

“but then you started making us warm tea and staying up to kindle the fire, and even trying to keep appa warm even though he is covered in fur. i felt myself getting more and more comfortable with the presence of fire. maybe even sheltered by it.” that made zuko let out a breath. “i realized the connection i made between you, fire, and danger was unfair. we are just products of our environments, and during that fight, reacting with fire is what you were taught. somehow, during everything, you also taught me that fire isn’t always dangerous and uncontrolled, it’s also warmth and protection.” you finished. 

“you are being too nice for this situation right now.” zuko says looking back at you, from your eyes, to your neck, and back again. you sigh and look away this time, “i know that this is your first time seeing it, firelord, but it has been a part of me for ten years. i have taken all the time i have needed to heal and grow from the war and this is just a mark of the past. it means nothing about your future or our future.” 

“what i have heard from everyone is that you are a good firelord, a kind firelord, and i have a feeling that is a fact. you have grown into a great man and probably the best firelord your nation has known. your past doesn’t define you, zuko, especially when you have made such a change for the world.” 

judging by the sheen covering his eyes, you got through to him. he looks away to wipe his face with his robes, but turns to look at you in the eyes. he smiles, “will i have to ask you to stop calling me ‘firelord’ for the rest of my life?” you laugh, “oh, definitely.” “thank you for coming tonight. i’ll be honest, i couldn’t sleep with how anxious i was at the thought of seeing you again.” he said, there was a tint of pink coming up his neck to the bottom of his cheeks. 

one thing you weren't, after all these years, was a coward. “hm, do i make the firelord nervous?” his skin heated up. you couldn’t tell if it was from a blush or if it was a result of his bending. you leaned closer to him, “thank you for inviting me and, y’know, finding me.” he splutters a bit, “oh! it was nothing, yeah, no problem. easy, easy work. yeah.” you brought your lips to his cheek, giving him a soft peck that made him freeze. your lips felt warm from the heat of his skin as you pulled away. 

he was still looking at you, eyes widened, as he touched his cheek. he looks down at his hand before it makes its way to cup the side of your face, “can i?” he asks, you just nod. he pulls you into a kiss, soft and deep. his hand is warm as it shifts its way to the back of your head, pulling you closer. his other hand grips your waist. you hold onto the front of his robes as he separates your lips with his tongue, making you gasp. 

“zuko! did you find her- oh!” you hear sokka’s voice as a door slides open. you and zuko separate quickly, not looking at each other or sokka, standing in the doorway. “ten years and you couldn’t wait one more night? damn. well, i’ll leave ya to it.” sokka’s eyes light up mischievously as he shuts the door and enters back into the palace. 

“he is going to tell everyone in there.” you said finally looking back at zuko. he was already staring at you. he puts a hand on the back of your neck to pull you in again, this time kissing up the area of your scar. he brings his lips up your jaw to your cheek, and finally to your lips. 

“let him.”

-

Zuko knew better than to think he’d get a wink of rest that night. 

With the Avatar and his friends coming to visit, he was disturbed by the shuffling of feet at dawn. The staff moved at a faster tune, preparing the palace for their arrival as if it was the most important thing to do. And really, it was. Ladies in Waiting rushed into bedrooms, sweeping the floor, changing the sheets, and ensuring perfection was met. Guard leaders were instructing them on their future positioning, and instructing them to heighten their awareness. 

As for Zuko, he was struggling just to get out of bed. His body felt hot and heavy, like molten rocks were pressing down against his torso. But he gets up, albeit a few bone cracks here and there. He dragged his feet in his routine, getting showered and barely ready before waiting for your arrival. He was eager to see you, despite wanting to try and keep his distance from you. 

You were not the issue; it was him. In hindsight, he should have known that getting close to you was not a great decision. He would have killed Lord Indra if you asked him to, and that kind of power over him was extremely dangerous. So, throughout the night, he’s convinced himself that the best thing for the both of you was to dissolve the relationship you had developed. You are his attendant, and he was your leader. 

But as the minutes passed, your absence remained. You were never late, and he always admired that punctual drive of yours. But here he was, sat at the edge of his bed, eagerness being stabbed by your delay. Not that he’d admit he was anticipating seeing you. 

Then, a gentle knock was heard against his door. He quickly sits up, fixing his garments to close the sliver of chest and abs he was showing. “Come in,” he struggles out, his voice still hoarse from getting up. 

His glowing eyes quickly dim when it was not you entering his quarters, but another Lady in Waiting. She bows, “goodmorning, Firelord Zuko.” There it was, that monotone serving voice that he loathes. He understood it was part of their job, but that lip service has long annoyed him. 

“Goodmorning,” he hums, giving a curt nod. She quickly closes the door behind her, and looks over at his massive vanity, taking hold of a brush. “Oh, are you to…?” 

The Lady in Waiting nods shyly, her eyes not daring to meet his, “I will be taking Lady Sai’s place for today. So whenever you are ready, I will assist you in doing your hair.” She was nervous, as the brush shook in her hold. She was short, her attire perfectly ironed, and bun done so tightly, a strand does not dare to stick out. 

She was anxious. Zuko does not protest, and finds his way to the chair. He wasn’t happy, and it wasn’t just because of your absence. You knew best how to do his, well, everything. Zuko was a bit tender headed, and you brushed his hair so well, he doesn’t even notice when you finish sometimes. 

He sat there, arms crossed, teeth gritting as the attendant divided his hair into sections. She didn’t realize the way she would slide the hairpin a little too aggressively, dragging it against his scalp in the process. He winces, but doesn’t dare mood, as he didn’t want her to know he wasn’t comfortable. 

He was the damn Firelord– why would tenderheadedness be a fault of his? 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ 

After a torturous bun and a long morning, the two strolled over to the throne room in the afternoon, where a stack of scrolls eagerly waited for Zuko’s arrival. He slapped his hand against his face, his amber eyes burning at his tasks through the spaces of his fingers. Fuck me, he thought to himself. The Lady in Waiting behind him cowered, fearful of his mood. 

And she was not wrong to react in such a way. Zuko was in a terrible mood. Not enough to be cruel to her, but enough that he would sigh and groan every other minute. He opened scrolls so quickly, some of them ripped off of the wooden dowels. Even when signing with his quill, he would occasionally write a bit too aggressively, marking lines off the paper accidentally. 

And it wasn’t that he missed you or anything. 

But, when the kind Lady in Waiting prepared his tea, she trembled, similarly to you when you had first attended him. And when she prepared a cup of tea for him, the first sip he took was dreadful. It tasted of just hot water, no herbs, not even anything sweet. And she would stand so far, he’d have to raise his voice just a bit just to speak with her. 

It wasn’t her fault; you spoiled him too much. Your hands were already masters at your craft before you were hired to serve him. Your warmth put fire bending to shame, especially with how careful you were when tending to him. Everything about you; your scent, your touch, your smile. He was so used to you that being without you wasn’t satisfactory to him. 

“Lady,” he calls to her, getting a small jump from her. “Come here.” 

She rushes down the room, and halts at the bottom of the stairs that led to his throne. She bows, “yes, my Lord?” Her words were stammered out, her skin completely pale. He felt bad for making her anxious, but that’s just part of the job. 

“What is your name?” Zuko hums. He had no plans of breaking formalities with her, but he wanted to respect her and know who was attending him. 

She nods, “K-Kira, m’Lord.” Her name barely wanted to leave her tongue from the way it came out so hush. 

Zuko offers her a small smile, attempting to soothe her nerves, “it’s nice to meet you, Lady Kira. Thank you for serving me today.” 

“Th-the honor is all mine, always my Lord!” She squeaked out, offering him yet another bow. He puts down his quill into the jar of ink beside him, and allows the scroll on the desk to loosely close. 

He was direct in his words, “do you know why Lady Sai is not here attending to me?” He quickly follows his inquiry with, “do not take offense to this. I am used to her servicing me, as she is my direct and personal attendant. I need to know where she is, and why she is not here.” 

Kira looks down, her anxiety peaking. This made Zuko curious, as it seemed like asking if that was something she was dreading. It felt almost as if your whereabouts were to remain unknown to him. “She… has been assigned to work elsewhere by Lady Minji.” 

“Chamberlain Minji assigned my direct attendant to work on something else?” Zuko repeats her words, just clarifying that he heard her correctly. She feebly nods. “Can I ask what she is doing?” 

Kira’s eyes were dim, and he knew that there was something wrong. But, it did allure him to see one of the staff members attempt to keep something from him. It was rare, and his interest and need to know where you were only skyrocketed. She finds solace at her shoes, hoping he’d stop caring and let it go. 

But it was you they were talking about– he won’t let it go until he knows. 

“Lady Kira, is this something I’m not to know?” Zuko asks, lowering his voice so low that even a mouse could be heard if there was one. 

Kira’s eyes return to meet him, seeing his eyes completely engulfed in worry now. He had to know where you were, and what you were doing, and why you were not here, with him. “...I’m not to say, upon Lady Minji’s instructions,” Kira says quietly.

His eyes glimmer now with something a bit darker. There was an unease crawling on his skin, needing but also fearing the answer. “You do not need to concern yourself with consequence; I will not tell her who told me,” Zuko promises. 

Kira sees the honesty and desperation in those amber eyes. She also realizes it’s much more dangerous to deny the Firelord than it was to disobey the Chamberlain. “Lady Minji reassigned Lady Sai to attend to the visiting lords.” 

Zuko was taken aback from her words. The lords were completely taken care of by the other Ladies in Waiting, but only when they were within the Palace. From his knowledge, he was confident that the lords were spending the day in the Capital, obtaining resources to prepare for their trip back to their own villages. “But they are not in Palace grounds, correct?” 

Kira nods, “they are… um…” She shuffles in place, anxious to reveal their location. But they were already too deep in the conversation, and Zuko had no intention to let up. “They are at the pub down at the Capital.” 

“What?” Zuko scoffed. “Why?” 

“Sh-she was told she must make it up to Lord Indra; the reason, I am not sure of,” Kira replies. 

There was an anger building up in the Firelord, like a supervolcano ready to activate after a long dormancy. It was already enough that you were not present, but hearing that you were completely out of Palace grounds and in the same room as the same person who did you damage just the night before. 

He tried to contain himself, letting out an annoyed sigh. A discussion with Chamberlain was a given, though it was not something he was eager to do. He had trusted the palace management to her, and that trust was quickly being tested. He reopens the scroll on his desk, attempting to refocus on his work once more. 

She’s fine, he thought to himself, finding comfort in his naivety. Staff of the palace must be escorted into Capital City, regardless of the reason. Zuko put this in place to ensure their safety while not keeping them hostage in the palace. He never wanted the workers to feel as if their life is only within the walls of his home. 

He taps the tip of the quill to his tongue, “what time was she escorted to the bar?” 

Kira quickly clears her throat, “it was quite early, but no guards accompanied her. She went by herself.” The quill in his hand snapped, chips of wood broken to pieces and threatening to splinter him. 

Suddenly, he felt all air get removed from the room. There was something hitched at his throat, and there was a sort of anger he hadn’t felt in a very long time. The most it had ever come in recent time was yesterday, when you are assaulted. And even then, that was just a scratch of its true wrath. 

He puts away his work quickly, not another word leaving his lips. He had to control himself, at least for the time being. He knew he needed to confront Chamberlain, but that will be for after. His first task was to go to you. He stands straight, his robes flowing behind him, supplemented by the air from his sudden stride. 

Zuko walks up to Kira and leans down, his face inches before hers. She could feel herself go hot, her nerves forcing goosebumps all over her skin. “I need you to do me a favor, if you’re willing,” he says calmly. 

Kira nods, “anything for you, Firelord Zuko.” 

“I want you to leave this room quietly, and should anyone ask where you are going, say that I’ve instructed you to upkeep my room,” Zuko begins his instructions, having Kira jot it down mentally. “And I do want you to remain in my quarters, but before that, find my uncle and tell him I’m going into town.” 

Inform Master Iroh? She thinks curiously. Her eyes looked into his, and those amber eyes were now a dark honey. But, they held anything but sweetness in their coat, cloaked by something she could not begin to describe. 

She nods once more, “understood, Firelord Zuko. A-and Lady Minji?” 

“My word is above everyone else's here,” Zuko reaffirms, “should she dare go against my word, I’m not sure if she can take the entirety of the consequences that are imminent.” 

A glimmer of admiration twinkles in her eyes, despite her anxiety from seeing the Firelord begin to build on his intimidating aura. She nods, “I will do as I am told, Firelord Zuko. And… thank you very much…” her words trail off, as her eyes look down woefully. 

“Hm?” He tilts his head, confused by her gratitude. 

“None of us did anything,” she whispered, “Sai stood there and obeyed, did not dare question her instructions.” 

Zuko changes his demeanor, just for a moment, and gives her a gentle smile. “But I know you would have done something if you could’ve. I’ve made a grave mistake in allowing Minji to frighten you all as much as she does.” He straightens up again, feeling his veins begin to protrude from his neck. 

Appreciative of his words, Kira quickly bows, “I will do as I am told, Firelord Zuko. Please be safe, and bring her back to us.” 

Zuko felt his cheeks tint, a quiet hue of pink. It wasn’t so much that she caused it, but really her warm words. There was a sisterhood between the Ladies in Waiting, and he couldn’t help but admire the want to make sure each other were safe and sound. Even knowing that your placement is higher than the rest, you were able to create such bonds that transcends ranks. 

“Do not worry,” Zuko lulls, “Sai will come home.” 

Kira latches to his words, prayers swarming her mind for your safety and his calmness. As he begins to hurry towards the exit, Kira calls out to him, with another thing he should know. “Firelord Zuko!” She calls out, having him halt completely. He barely glances back at her, his eyes in view between the strands of his long, dark hair. “Lady Sai is in… very lascivious attire, upon Madam Minji’s instructions. You may not recognize her.” 

Any shred of warmth has long left Zuko, and an unfamiliar person takes over. A buzzing torments his head, almost like the rationale in his mind clocked out for the day. Zuko knew better than to revert back to this, but then again, he was not himself at this moment. He lets out a deep, deep sigh, “...thank you for letting me know.”

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The guards at the front of the palace were extremely surprised when they see Zuko open the front doors of the palace. 

He stood there, pure disgust on his face as the front guards bowed at their posts. He goes up to one of them, waiting for them to straighten up before meeting eyes with their leader. The guard’s gulp could be heard from oceans away, his being felt small in the presence of his leader. “F-Firelord Zuko,” the guard acknowledges him, his voice slightly strained from anxiety. 

“This morning, did you see Lady Sai leave the palace?” Zuko was not going to drag this. He needs information, and he needs it as soon as he requests it. 

The guard goes pale, “y-yes, Lady Sai left the palace grounds just a few hours ago. She was sent to town by Chamberlain Minji.” 

“Right, so my question is: why the fuck did you lot let her leave without escort?” The other guards jumped at his higher, aggressive tone. Zuko was not one to use explicit words, especially considering how much he has grown since he was younger. The once aggressive teenager had become this solemn man, hollow but still kind despite his circumstances that led him to this point. 

The guard’s eyes looked over to his fellow men, who could offer nothing of assistance or solace. Zuko’s intimidating shot all of them, and they were too petrified to even move. For just a brief moment, they felt the presence of Firelord Ozai. “M-my Lord, sh-she did not tell us to escort her into tow–” 

“I’ve let you all get too comfortable,” Zuko interrupts him, a growl in his voice that stunned the guard further. “You do not stray from protocol just because she did not request aid. You escort every lady that leaves this palace, and you bring her back here.”

“I-I… I apologize, My Firelord,” the guard stammers out, bowing so low that perhaps his head will meet the concrete and knock him out from this nightmare. “W-we did not realized that–” 

Before he could even finish, Zuko simply turned around and began rushing down the stairs of the palace. He was so annoyed, he couldn’t be bothered to listen to a half-ass excuse. There was a mental note in his head to do additional training for them, as this was unacceptable and below his standard. 

He was pissed. When he made it down into the city, everyone quickly dropped their daily tasks and immediately bowed. Adults and children alike, though some young ones who didn’t know did not follow suit. Not that Zuko cared, his mind was completely elsewhere. His posse of guards could barely keep up, as Zuko’s stride was at a pace they were not used to. 

He knew this bar well. The Fire Nation Bar was infamous, mainly because its clientele was male-only. He didn’t give a damn about other men’s vices. They could drink or smoke their lives away should they feel inclined to. So long as they did not cause harm to others in the process. 

But Zuko understood what alcohol does to someone. Their right mind goes to the gutter, replaced with the parts of their mind that they keep shut for a reason. 

To think you were in there boiled his blood. 

Without hesitance, he rips open the curtain that served as the door. The dimly illuminated tavern had now been struck by a sudden light of the day. Smoke quickly hurried from the bar, with many eyes suddenly going over to the entrance. Laughter slowly dissolved when realizing what guest arrived in their lounging space. 

“F-Firelord Zuko!” Many of them exclaimed, putting down their drinks to quickly bow. He was disgusted by the many men who attempted to bow, only they were either slumped in their chairs or had completely fallen to the ground in the process. 

But he did not care for them at this moment. Eyes scan the room, looking past the bartenders in order to spot the visiting lords. Even the foul stench of sweat and beer could not wane his search for you. Ambar eyes quickly locate Lord Indra, and something in Zuko finally snapped. 

He pushed past drunk men, shoving tables and stools out of his way, unable to care about causing damage. The visiting lords quickly realized the situation, their eyes wide and full of fear. Robes are quickly being closed, ties shakily being tightened and looped. A few cups fall to the ground, with a few waitresses contemplating to pick them up for the sake of their job, or leaving them to avoid being noticed by the Firelord himself. 

They choose the latter and remain still. 

One lord quickly tries his best to escalate the situation. He rises from his seat, clearly not as drunk as his fellow leaders, and offers Zuko a bow. "Good afternoon, Firelord Zuko,” he hums, the facade of confidence evident in his face and voice. “What a surprise to find you here.” 

“Move,” Zuko said simply. He did not have time for chit chat. In fact, why did he even give him a response? “I’ll move you myself if you prefer.”

The threat proved sufficient, and the lord sat back down, offering sympathetic eyes to Lord Indra. And speaking of, the other lords silently moved out of Zuko’s away, as Lord Indra could be found at the farthest end of the bar. A drink in his hand, his beard still unkempt, and a smirk as cocky as ever. 

And Zuko did not like it one bit.  

Lord Indra, still with a smile, looks up at Zuko, “Firelord Zuko!” He cheers as if he was excited to see him. “What pleasure do we owe for this visit?” 

“Where is she?” Zuko cuts to the chase. 

Lord Indra looks at him, astonished at Zuko’s anger. “My Lord, you surely cannot be serious.” He looks around the room, the other lords baffled at his confidence in speaking to the Firelord. “Over a mere servant? How do you expect to be followed with a spine so soft?”  

Zuko was tired. He looks over at one of the waitresses, “where is the Lady that was with these creatures?” 

The waitress, welled up in trepidation, looked into his eyes fearfully. She gestured to the backroom, which was only meant to be accessed by the workers of the bar. “She’s in there,” the waitress spoke quietly. 

Zuko looked back at his guards, “do not let anyone leave. I’ll be back.” 

He walks past Lord Indra, who freezes from his stride. He tried playing it cool, finishing his beer while looking over at his fellow lords with a lopsided smile. But when he realized how far the lords had moved from him, with spooked expressions, there was a sudden, unsettling feeling crawling up from his toes. 

He knew he was fucked, but he never expected for the Firelord to come out and retrieve you himself. He intended to simply put you in your place before he left, considering the ‘dishonor’ you brought to him. Could he be blamed? He tried to ease his mind. A servant embarrassing him, a lord, has no place anywhere.  

But even his thoughts could no longer coddle him. 

Zuko pushes the curtain away, being met with shelves loaded with ingredients, and dishes (both dirty and cleaned) all about the narrow hall. He looks left and right, before noticing many waitresses surrounding something. Or someone. 

Unease drags itself up his legs, his body feeling the same heaviness as he did this morning. But this time, it was as if something wanted to stop him from looking. From seeing you, but in a way he was dreading. The waitresses looked back and noticed him, quickly bowing before slowly moving out of his way. 

And to his horror, he found you, but it was clear he was too late. 

There you were, sat in a stool, facing away from him. You quietly hissed and whimpered, your arms holding each other so tightly that cuts ensued from the way you dented your fingers into your flesh. Your hair was completely liberated, but those beautiful locks seemed lifeless. 

Kira’s information regarding your change in attire rang true. Zuko’s eyes noticed the white silk dress, which only truly covered your rear and legs. But even that was a stretch, as the garment was completely backless. And that was where the true horror of Zuko’s nightmares was located. 

Clothed pieces of ice were being dabbed on your back, with the two waitresses keeping them pressed against your body while looking back at Zuko. They were frozen, waiting for any sort of words or command from him. But considering the stoicism present in his expression, they offer him a curt bow before removing the ice from your back. 

And there it was: a crooked lash, a blistering red and white burn, from the top left of your scapula, ending towards the lower right of your back. 

You glance back at Zuko, and he finally gets to see your face, despite how much it immediately broke him. Cheeks were flushed, and shiny with hot tears. You wanted to offer him a smile, but even your body could not lie. All you could muster was a quiet, “Zuko…” 

And that… that was enough for him. 

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Greeting new people usually comes with his gloved hands folded behind his back and a gentle nod, his wings are always tucked tight and elbows kept close to his sides so as not to brush elbows with anyone. Even his brothers—centuries spent in close proximity to one another—seem to know precisely when they can push it, and when they ought to steer clear. 

The closest thing she’s ever gotten to a hug from the male was the gentle brush of his shoulder against hers in thanks during a gift exchange last Solstice; she had known him for years at that point. 

Nesta—the nosey busybody—once asked Cassian how that (being Azriel’s aversion to touch) works when he used to come home smelling like a female in the mornings following a night at Rita’s. 

Rhysand and Cassian shared a knowing look before Cassian mumbled something about Az “running a tight ship” and then offered absolutely no follow up information (not for a lack of trying on Nesta’s part). 

So, it’s safe to say that none of them knew what to expect—how to react—when Azriel came home smelling like a bond and announcing—more like reluctantly admitting—that he met his mate. 

While Feyre and Nesta can hardly be considered having experienced a normal mating bond (whatever a normal mating bond may be), they’ve heard stories about perfect strangers meeting by chance in a market and embracing each other like…well…like two halves of a lost soul finally reuniting. 

But Feyre’s only seen Azriel hug his own brothers a handful of times over the years she’s been here, so she definitely couldn’t imagine Azriel wildly embracing his new mate on a whim in public. 

Needless to say, they were all on the edge of their seats, awarding Azriel with the privacy he needed, wanted, and deserved as he navigated his new mating bond while simultaneously itching to see how it might look. 

Tonight was finally their chance. 

“Does my hair look okay?” Cassian asks the room, running fingers through his wild locks in a show of insecurity rarely ever seen from the brute. 

“Why does it matter? It’s not like you’re meeting your mate for the first time,” Amren hums judgementally around the rim of her wine glass. 

Cassian narrows his eyes at the ancient being. “This is important, alright? I want to make a good first impression.”

Nesta snorts. “Well I wouldn’t worry then. You’ve never once made a good first impression.” 

“You guys are very mean,” Cassian huffs, giving up on the tugging of his hair. “I hope she’s nicer, maybe I’ll finally have a godsdamned friend in this house.”

“Hey,” Feyre laughs. “Come now.” 

Cassian softens. “Okay, fine; another friend besides Feyre.”

“Thank you,” she concedes. 

The room stills when boots sound on the terrace of the House of Wind, and it’s clearly an effort for the entire family not to stand simultaneously and rush the door to get a peak of you. 

The two of you appear in the doorway; Azriel’s wing extended behind your back like a gentle guide keeping you close to him. 

“This is my family,” Azriel explains softly, eyes travelling over the group of fae currently holding their breath. “Family, this is my mate.” 

Somehow, Azriel’s voice softens around the syllables of your name, making it sound like a note of a song or the gentle hum of a breeze. 

“Hello,” you greet quietly, nerves obvious though so is your excitement. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Rhysand welcomes first. “We’ve been wondering when Azriel might deign to share you with us.” 

“I…I feel like I should bow, but Azriel told me it was very important that I keep you humble,” you admit, knees clearly itching to bend when being greeted by the notorious High Lord of the Night Court. 

“Oh, thank the Mother,” Cassian sighs in theatrical relief. “I don’t think the rest of us will survive if his head gets any bigger.”

“My head is perfectly sized, thank you,” Rhysand huffs at his brother, softening his gaze when he turns back to you. “But there’s certainly no need to bow; we’re family.”

Your chest rises with relief and pride, and the corner of Azriel’s lips lift in time with it. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you all,” you state as your gaze drifts over the entire group, and Feyre can understand why Azriel seems to have a hard time peeling his gaze from you; you’re magnetic, your eyes so soft and so kind that you make every person feel like the most important person in the room just by looking at them. “I’ve heard so much about you all, it feels like I’ve already known you for centuries.”

Mor breaks first.

“Oh, I am so happy to meet you,” she all but squeals, racing towards you.

Feyre isn’t entirely sure what she expected to happen, but she certainly wasn’t expecting for you to step away from Azriel and meet Morrigan in the middle of the room in a tight embrace.

“You must be Morrigan,” you hum happily into her shoulder. 

“I’ll be whoever you want me to be, sweetheart,” Mor laughs, pulling away from you. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Alright, my turn,” Cassian announces, all but shoving Mor out of his way to bring you in for his own embrace, though his involves lifting you off of your feet and eliciting a surprised oof out of you. Azriel’s wings twitch in subtle agitation. 

“Cassian, I assume?” you giggle.

“You’d assume correct, beautiful. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Alright, out of the way, you big bat.” Feyre swats at Cassian’s arms to release you, only for you to be transferred into her own. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“Thank you for having me,” you murmur, quieter now, as though meeting her holds some extra weight.

She looks over at Azriel and his soft gaze confirms it: you were worried about meeting her. 

“The honour is really all mine,” Feyre assures you, pulling away only to hold you by your shoulders. 

She nods her head, really liking you for her brother-in-law. “As I’m sure you know, this is my husband Rhys. That there is my sister and Cassian’s mate, Nesta, and that’s Amren, Rhys’ second in command.” 

Azriel finally fully enters the room, moving to step up behind you as though a quiet anchor. Your shoulders subtly loosen at his proximity. 

“So, how has it been being mates with Azriel over here?” Cassian asks jovially, returning to his seat in the living room. 

“He’s perfect, really,” you tell them earnestly, smiling up at the Shadowsinger who’s turning a beautiful shade of pink. “I truly couldn’t have asked for better.” 

“Ah, so you’re a liar too,” Amren drawls with a roll of her eyes. 

Azriel looks like he’s trying not to do the same before gesturing for you to take a seat. “Ignore her.” 

“I hope she doesn’t lie to you anywhere else, brother,” Cassian continues, smiling when his quip is met with a lethal glare from said brother. “You know, like in the bedroom.” 

“Yes, thank you, Cassian,” Azriel deadpans.

“Oh, don’t worry Cassian, he’s perfect there too,” you respond quickly, surprising the room into silence as Azriel joins you on the—rather cozy—loveseat. “If you’d like some tips I’m sure I can convince him to let you watch.” 

Rhysand bursts into unrestrained laughter. 

“Mother above, where did you find this female?” Cassian sputters. 

The corner of Azriel’s lips turn up. “What? You think I warned her about Rhys and not you?” 

With this Azriel lifts his arm and places it along the sofa behind your head; Feyre holds her breath as you lean your head back on it.

Except Azriel doesn’t pull away. 

He doesn’t straighten, he doesn’t grit his teeth, he doesn’t make a quick excuse to get a drink. 

In fact, Azriel’s gloved hand drops from the back of the couch and onto your shoulder where he lovingly caresses the exposed skin near your collarbone. 

You turn at the touch, smiling up at him warmly which finds his shadows blooming with joy.

And then your hand lands on his knee. 

Feyre braces for impact again. 

It doesn’t come.

Well I’ll be damned, Rhysand drawls in Feyre’s mind. He’s a changed man. 

But Feyre’s not so convinced; she doesn’t think the softness of his eyes or the adoration in his smile or the dedication of his attention are necessarily new attributes, just largely unseen. 

I think she must just have a way of bringing it out in him, Feyre counters thoughtfully. 

“Who the fuck is this male and what have you done with Azriel?” Cassian hollers then, not nearly as subtle as the rest of his family. 

And who’s responsible for bringing that out of Cassian? Rhysand sighs silently. 

Mother only knows, Feyre sighs in return.

You glance at Henry. He’s watching you, patient, like he always is. Like he’s waiting for you to remember something important.

But now that you think about it, you haven’t seen anyone else in… how long? Weeks? Months? Years? You try to summon a face—any face—but they all blur.

Your voice comes out smaller than you expect. “When was the last time we had visitors?”

Henry smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Visitors? Well i think it must’ve been last month. When my parents came. Why?”

His parents? What are their names? Why don’t you know them?

“Right, i was just wondering. Maybe they could come around soon again? See the kids?”

Henry’s smile tightens, just slightly. “They’re very busy,” he says, voice smooth. “You know how they are.”

But you don’t. That’s the problem. You don’t know how they are. You can’t picture their faces, can’t summon a single memory of them. Not a birthday card. Not a phone call. Not even a name.

You nod anyway, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. “Right. Of course.”

Something inside you flinches. A warning bell, low and urgent. Don’t tell him. Don’t mention the memories. Don’t say Steve’s name. Don’t admit that you’re not sure which life is yours.

You force a small smile. “I think I’m still a little dazed from the fall,” you say, keeping your voice light. “I’m sorry.”

Henry’s expression softens, “Don’t be sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to brush your hand. “Next time, just ask me when you need to reach something. That’s what I’m here for.”

You nod again, but your skin prickles where he touched you. Familiar but unfamiliar at the same time.

He brushes your knuckles with his thumb. “You know I worry about you,” he says. “You’ve always been a little… fragile.”

That word lands like a stone in your stomach.

Fragile.

You’ve never been fragile. Not in those other memories. You remember being messy, loud, stubborn, alive. You remember yelling at Steve across a crowded parking lot, angry, seething. You’ve never fought with henry before. Still. here, you flinch.

You apologize for things you don’t remember doing. You hesitate before speaking, before moving, before asking. You act like you’re fragile now. So maybe you are. why would you believe those other memories over this life? This house? This man who brings you tea and calls you darling and tells you to rest?

Why would you believe those memories over this perfect man? Because it’s too perfect, something inside you says. Because in the memories you were angry and cried and everything was messy. you had friends. You had a job. You had a favorite diner and a chipped mug and a keychain Steve won you at a fair. You had a life that didn’t feel like it was being performed for you. Here, everything is soft and quiet and curated. The house is always clean. Henry is always calm. Everything feels like a dream, or a trance.

“I know” you tell him “but that’s why i have you, right?” You look up at him, eyes wide, hopeful—because some part of you wants this to be real. Needs it to be. Because if Henry loves you, if this life is real, then maybe the confusion doesn’t matter. Maybe you don’t need to dig. Maybe you can stay here, in the quiet, in the calm, in the version of your life where someone always brings you tea and tells you to rest.

Henry smiles, warm and reassuring. “Of course,” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ll always have me.”

And for a moment, you let yourself believe it. Let yourself lean into the comfort of his touch, the steadiness of his voice. You don’t want to know the truth. Not if it means losing this. Not if it means waking up to something colder, messier, lonelier.

But then you remembered something else something irritating and stubborn or rather someone else. The finally his name came to you again. Dustin. God that kid. He’d laugh in your face if he saw you sitting here, wrapped in a cardigan you don’t remember buying, sipping tea you didn’t ask for, nodding along like a porcelain doll. He’d call you out in a heartbeat. Probably with some ridiculous Star Wars metaphor and a mouthful of cereal. You almost smile. Almost.

Because Dustin wouldn’t like Henry. Not because Henry’s mean—he isn’t. He’s polite. Polished. Perfect. But Dustin doesn’t trust perfect. He trusts real. And Henry… Henry is curated.

You miss Dustin. You miss his chaos. His loyalty. The way he’d show up at your door with a busted walkie-talkie and a conspiracy theory and a bag of stale chips, like that was normal.

You blink hard, trying to hold onto the memory before it slips away again.

“I should rest.”

Henry nods, his smile gentle. “That’s a good idea.”

You return the smile—small, practiced—and rise from your chair. Your legs feel steady, but your mind wobbles like a table with one short leg. You turn toward the stairs, the carpet soft beneath your feet, the house too quiet behind you.

As you climb, you try to remember. Really remember. Before Henry. Before this house. Before the tea and the silence. You close your eyes and reach back.

A trailer park. Gravel crunching under your boots. The sun too bright. Steve yelling, “Wipe your feet!” at Dustin, who was already in his car.

But that wasn’t the last memory. That wasn’t the moment everything changed. That memory doesn’t explain how you got here.

You pause at the top of the stairs, hand on the banister.

There’s something after that.

A gap.

A flicker.

A moment you can’t quite touch.

Like a dream you almost remember but slips away the harder you chase it.

And then—

“You don’t get to give up, not here, not now, you hear me?”

The words crash into you like a wave. Not Henry’s voice. Steve’s. Raw, desperate, cracking at the edges. You remember the way he grabbed your shoulders, blood on his temple, eyes wild with fear and love and something that felt like goodbye.

The memory slams into place.

The demogorgons were ramming the door. You’d barricaded it with a dresser, a chair, your own body. Steve had cupped your cheeks, Still trying to convince you that you’d grow old together, that this wasn’t the end.

You remember the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. And then the door gave away. The demogorgon lunged, all teeth and shadow and rage. Steve shouted something—your name, maybe—but it was too late. He collapsed, unconscious, and you ran to him, dropped to your knees, tried to shake him awake, to scream him back to life.

You remember thinking, This is it. This is how I die.

But the beast didn’t kill you.

It grabbed you.

Its claws wrapped around your ankle like a vice, cold and sharp and wrong. You kicked, screamed, clawed at the floor as it dragged you backward, away from Steve, away from the light, into the dark. You remember the sound of your own voice breaking, the burn of its nails slicing into your skin, the way your fingers scraped uselessly against the floorboards.

And then—nothing.

No pain. No light. Just a sudden, suffocating silence.

Until you woke up here. In this house. With Henry.

You look down at your ankle now. The skin is smooth. No scars. No pain. No sign anything ever happened.

But you remember. You remember the terror. The blood. The fight.

And Steve.

Your knees nearly buckle beneath you.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You grip the banister like it’s the only thing tethering you to gravity. Your breath comes in shallow bursts, your mind racing faster than your body can keep up. If Steve is real—if that memory is real—then this life is a lie. A trap.

Vecna.

It has to be him. The dragging, the silence, the perfect house with no past. The way your memories were scrubbed clean and replaced with soft lighting and chamomile tea. This is his doing. A cage dressed up like a dream.

But then—Henry.

What is he? A puppet? someone Vecna controls? Or something worse—something that believes it loves you?

And why were the kids here? Why was Holly fucking wheeler in this goddamn place and not with her family?

And then—

The fox.

Your stomach drops.

The girl that watches you through the window. The red hair. The sharp eyes. Max.

Your Max.

The girl who used to steal your fries and pretend she didn’t care. The one who never said thank you but always showed up. The one who called you her emotional support adult with a smirk and a punch to the arm. The one who never let you lie to yourself.

How could you not have recognized her and why was she here? For so long?

Because you weren’t supposed to.

Because Vecna didn’t want you to.

You walked down the stairs you needed to know if Henry would say something if he was even real. You found him at the head of the table head tilted up looking at the ceiling all around the table were the kids all holding hands in the exact same position. You looked to henry who was also holding the hands off Josh and Debbie “henry? darling? what’s going on?” No reply

Panic surged through you. What was he doing to these kids?

You turned and bolted into the kitchen, flinging open drawers, searching for anything—anything—to break the spell. Your hand closed around a knife. You froze.

No. No, you couldn’t.

You shoved it aside and grabbed the cast iron frying pan instead. Heavy. Real. Solid.

You stormed back into the dining room, heart in your throat. “Fuck,” you muttered, and without another thought, you swung.

CRACK.

Henry’s head snapped sideways with the blow. His body slumped forward, hands slipping from the children’s.

The room shifted.

The kids gasped in unison, eyes snapping open like someone had flipped a switch. Holly was the first to move, stumbling back from the table, blinking rapidly.

“Y/N?” she breathed.

You dropped the pan. “Holy shit.”

Holly ran to you, throwing her arms around your waist. “You remember?”

“Yeah. Yes. Fuck. Sorry—don’t curse. Shit. He won’t be out for long. We have to go.”

Debbie stood, eyes narrowed. “One of the monsters took over Mrs. Whatsit.”

You scoffed, breathless. “I’m not a fucking monster, and I’m not fucking Mrs. Whatsit either.”

Josh blinked. “She’s cursing a lot.”

“Yeah, well,” you snapped, already moving toward the hallway, “I just woke up from a fake life and hit my dream husband with a skillet, so maybe give me a break Josh”

you heard Derek chuckle softly “i like her better like this”

“Shut up Derek!” The table echoed

“Guys, this isn’t Mrs. Whatsit!” a girl cried out, voice high and trembling. “Mrs. Whatsit wouldn’t be this mean!”

You spun on her, eyes blazing. “Mean?” you scoffed. “I just saved you.”

“From what?” another boy asked, his voice small but defiant.

You pointed a shaking finger toward the head of the table. “From him!”

As if on cue, Henry stirred. His fingers twitched. Then, slowly, he sat up, brushing a hand through his hair like he’d just woken from a nap, not been knocked unconscious.

“Darling,” he said, voice smooth as ever, “I thought you were resting.”

You stepped in front of Holly, shielding her with your body. “I was,” you said, forcing a brittle smile. “Imagine my surprise when I came downstairs for a glass of water and found you conducting a séance with a table full of hypnotized children.”

“You’re confused again, darling,” he said gently, like he was soothing a child after a nightmare. “You’ve been under so much stress. The fall—”

He reached for your hand, the same hand he used to cradle when he brought you tea, when he whispered that you were safe, that you didn’t need to remember.

But this time, you yanked it back like he’d burned you.

“The only reason I’m confused,” you snapped, voice rising, “is because you’ve been fucking with my head!”

Henry’s expression twitched—just for a second—but then he smoothed it over with that same infuriating calm. “You are happy here—”

“You don’t get to tell me that!” you shouted, the words ripping from your throat like glass.

A flicker of something darker—rage, maybe—flashed through his eyes. And then it was gone, replaced by a cold, patronizing smile.

“Children,” he said, voice syrupy and false, “Mrs. Whatsit is confused. She’s had quite the tumble, and I think she must be concussed. I’ll take her upstairs.”

Before you could react, his hand shot out and clamped around your wrist—tight, bruising. You gasped, tried to pull away. “Fuck you!” you spat, struggling, but his grip was iron.

He dragged you up the stairs, your feet stumbling to keep up, your free hand clawing at the banister, the wall, anything. The kids’ voices faded behind you, muffled by the pounding of your heart.

When he reached the bedroom, he flung the door open and shoved you inside. You stumbled, hit the floor hard, palms scraping against the wood. The door slammed shut behind you with a finality that made your stomach twist.

Henry stood over you, breathing hard. His face was no longer calm. It was alive with fury.

“Is this what you wanted, Y/N?” he hissed.

You froze.

He’d never said your name before.

Not once. Not in all the time you’d lived in this dream. It had always been darling, sweetheart, love. Never you.

“Answer me,” he snapped, voice sharp and cracking.

You pushed yourself up, hair falling into your face, your body trembling with adrenaline. “Does it look like I want any of this?”

He paced, hands clenched at his sides. “I saved you,” he growled. “You were living a miserable life. Working yourself to death for scraps. Your mother had just died. You were alone. You hated yourself.”

You stared at him, chest heaving. “But it was my life! And you don’t get to take that from me!”

He stopped. “You were drowning.”

“I was grieving,” you said. “I was trying. And you—you took that from me. You took me from me.”

“I gave you peace.”

“You gave me a lobotomy,” you snapped. “You erased my pain, yeah—but you erased everything else with it. My memories. My friends. My choices. You made me into someone you could control.”

Henry’s face twisted. “You don’t understand what I’ve done for you.”

You rose to your feet, every muscle in your body trembling, but your voice was steady. “No,” you said. “I do understand. You built a world where I’d never fight back. Where I’d be grateful to be kept. Where I’d forget who I was, what I’d lost, what I loved. But I remember now. I remember who I am. And I’m not yours.”

Before he could respond, a sudden force slammed into him like a freight train. His body lifted off the ground and hurtled backward, crashing through the bedroom door and tumbling down the stairs in a blur of limbs and rage.

You stood frozen for a beat, heart hammering, until a voice called out from the top of the stairs.

“Y/N?”

You turned, breath catching in your throat.

“El?”

She stood there, framed in the hallway light, blood trickling from her nose, eyes wide and fierce

“Holy shit,” you breathed. “Are you actually here?”

“Yes,” she said, already moving toward you.

“How?” you asked, stunned. “How did you—?”

She shook her head, grabbing your wrist. “I’ll explain later. We need to get out of here. Now.”

She didn’t wait for your answer. She yanked you forward, and together you sprinted down the stairs, your feet barely touching the steps.

Henry was already pushing himself up from the floor, blood at the corner of his mouth, eyes black with fury. “Where are they?” he growled, voice no longer human.

El didn’t flinch.

She stepped in front of you, her stance wide, her chin lifted, shielding you the way you’d shielded Holly not long ago. Her voice was calm, but it cut through the air like a blade.

“With Max,” she said. “Safe.”

You flinched as Henry raised a hand, and El was suddenly lifted into the air, her limbs rigid, her boots dangling inches above the floor. Her breath hitched, her jaw clenched.

“Where are they?” Henry repeated, his voice low and venomous.

“I told you,” El ground out, her voice strained with pain. “With Max. Far away from here.”

You stood frozen, heart hammering, watching the scene unfold like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

El’s eyes locked on Henry’s. “You can’t believe it, can you?” she said, her voice trembling but defiant. “That they’d ever see through your lies.”

Henry’s expression flickered.

“That’s why you take children,” El continued. “Because you think they’re easy to mold. Because you think they have weak minds.”

It took you a second to realize what she was doing. A distraction. A setup.

And then you saw it—a flicker of rainbow light, just at the edge of your vision, shimmering through the dining room like a mirage. You reached out, hesitantly, pinky extended.

It disappeared.

Shit.

You hadn’t realized El could do this. Or maybe it wasn’t just her. Henry rolled up his sleeve, and your breath caught in your throat. His hand twisted, skin splitting until it became something monstrous—long, blackened claws where fingers should be.

You gasped.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Henry said, his voice syrupy and cruel. “I’ll take this memory out of your mind later. And the others as well.”

He raised the claw, hovering it above El’s face.

And then—

El dropped.

Her body crumpled to the floor. Immediately henry walked over to the dining room A strange, curling mist hovered in the air for a heartbeat—then vanished. He barely had time to react before she flung him backward with a force that flung everything off the table and him on it.

“Now!” she shouted.

From the hallway, a girl burst into the room—short, sharp-eyed, her presence like a blade drawn in the dark. A knife gleamed in her hand as she leapt over the wreckage, landing above Henry’s crumpled form.

“Hello, brother,” she said, voice low and cold.

But before the blade could fall—

Henry vanished.

“Where did he go?” you asked, breathless, heart still pounding.

El didn’t answer. She just grabbed your hand, her grip firm and urgent. “We have to go,” she said, and then she was running—pulling you with her, out of the house, through the back door, and into the woods.

You stumbled after her, feet catching on roots and moss, until the house was gone behind you and the trees opened up into a clearing you’d never seen before.

That’s when it hit you.

You’d never made it this far.

Not once.

Not past the garden. Not past the white picket fence. Not past the illusion.

“Wait—” someone hissed just as you burst through the bushes, sunlight blinding after the darkness of the woods.

You stumbled into the clearing, breath ragged, and before you could even register where you were, arms wrapped around you tight.

“Y/N!” a voice gasped.

You blinked, and there she was—Max. Real. Solid. Her red hair glinting in the sun, her eyes wide with relief.

“Missed you,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion.

You let out a breathless laugh, hugging her back. “I missed you too.”

She pulled away just enough to look you over, then turned to El and the other girl beside her

“Did you find him?” Max asked.

The girl shook her head, her expression tight. “He just vanished.”

Max’s jaw clenched. “Then he’s back in the real world. He can come back. Will come back.”

“How far to the cave?” El asked.

“Not far,” Max said, already scanning the trees. “C’mon.”

You ran and ran, El’s hand locked tightly in yours, her grip the only thing anchoring you to the moment.

Then—dum dum.

A low, rhythmic thud echoed through the trees.

You skidded to a stop, chest heaving. “What’s that?” you asked, eyes darting through the trees.

El’s face was pale. “Hopper.”

You blinked “what?” Wasn’t hopper dead?

Max caught up, her brows furrowed. “Why is he signaling?”

El didn’t answer.

Max’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not a signal.”

And then, without warning, El’s hand dissolved in yours—her fingers turning to smoke, her body unraveling like mist in sunlight. You gasped, reaching for her, but she was already gone.

“No, no, no—El!”

The other girl (Kali, though you still didn’t know her name)

vanished next, her silhouette flickering like a dying flame before it, too, disappeared.

You were left standing in the clearing, stunned, surrounded by the kids, all of them looking to you now.

Max grabbed your shoulders, her eyes fierce. “Y/N, listen to me.”

“What—what just happened?” you stammered.

“Take them to the cave.”

“The cave?” you echoed, heart racing.

“Holly knows where. They’re safe in the cave,” and then max disappeared as well

The kids around you were unraveling fast—tears, shouting, frantic glances toward the trees like they expected the shadows to reach out and grab them next.

“Okay, okay. Guys, calm down!” you said, raising your voice over the chaos. “Guys—”

“The black thing took them!” a girl shrieked, her voice cracking.

“Shut the fuck up!” you snapped, sharper than you meant to be—but it worked. The clearing went still. The girl’s mouth clamped shut, eyes wide.

You took a breath, trying to steady your own panic. “Thank you. The plan hasn’t changed. We’re still going to the cave. That’s where we’re safe.”

You turned to Holly, who was pale but standing tall, her little fists clenched at her sides.

“Holly,” you said, gentler now. “Lead the way.”

She nodded quickly. “Yes. Okay. Follow me.”

Without another word, she turned and started toward the trees, her small figure cutting a path through the underbrush with surprising certainty.

—————-

Steve couldn’t believe how close he was to getting you back.

Every step he took across the jagged, otherworldly terrain sent a jolt through his legs, but he barely felt it. The sky above him was odd and the ground cracked but none of it mattered. Not the shifting shadows, not Mike bickering with Nancy about how she has two guns and he has none. All he could think about was you.

Your eyes, the way they crinkled when you laughed. The way your hair used to fall into your face when you were focused on something. The way your hand fit into his like it was made to be there. The way you used to look at him like he was something more than the guy who always messed up. the rocky world stretched out like a shattered mirror, fractured and endless. Somewhere here, was your body. Empty now a shell. But he’d get you back.

Then Will dropped to his knees, his breath catching in his throat like something had punched the air from his lungs. He clutched his chest, eyes wide, unfocused.

“Mrs. Byers!” Steve gasped, voice cracking.

Joyce was at his side in an instant, her hands on his shoulders. “Will!” she cried. “What’s going on? What do you see?”

The others crowded around—Mike, Lucas, Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, Dustin. Will’s voice was thin, distant. “Henry… he’s made it to the cave.”

Will’s eyes fluttered, his fingers twitching like he was trying to hold onto something slipping through him. “He’s found them. Holly. The kids. He’s there.”

A beat of silence.

Then Mike leaned in closer, desperate. “What about El? Kali? Max? Are they with them?”

Will shook his head slowly. “No. I don’t see them. But… I see Y/N.”

Steve’s heart stopped.

“She’s helping the kids out of the cave,” Will said, voice trembling. “But Henry—he’s close. He’s right there.”

Steve froze.

“Don’t hurt me,” you said, voice trembling as Henry loomed over you, his shadow stretching long across the cave wall.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your skin crawl, “I’d never.”

“Please,” you whispered, “leave them alone.”

He sighed, almost regretful. “Now you know I can’t.”

“Why not?” you asked, voice cracking. “They’re just kids.”

“That’s why,” he said, and there was something final in his voice. Something monstrous.

Your hand closed around the handle of the old teapot beside you You didn’t think. You just moved.

The teapot shattered against his head with a sickening crack.

“I fucking hate tea,” you spat, and ran.

“Go! Go! GO!” you screamed, sprinting after the kids.

Derek stumbled ahead of you, eyes wide. “She’s insane!”

“She’s a badass,” Holly corrected, grabbing his hand and pulling him forward.

You caught up to them, herding them toward the narrow tunnel that went under the ground Behind you, you heard Henry roar—more beast than man now.

“Move!” you shouted again, your voice echoing off the stone.

“She hit him,” Will said, a flicker of awe in his voice. “She hit him with a teapot. She’s okay. She’s running.”

Steve’s heart surged.

“She’s fighting,” Will added. “She’s still her.”

—————

Everything that happened until you woke up was a blur—fractured images and half-formed sounds, like a dream slipping through your fingers. You remembered Holly’s scream, the fire poker clutched in her tiny hands, the way she drove it into Henry’s side with more fury than fear. You remembered Derek pulling your arm and guiding you towards the light. You remember the red world and Holly telling you you need to think about what makes you happiest. You remember thinking about Steve, and Dustin and Robin and Nancy and Max and El.

You remembered running, stumbling, the cave walls pulsing like a heartbeat around you.

And through it all, you swore you could hear Will’s voice. Not in your ears, but in your mind—urgent, echoing, like a thread pulling you forward. She’s running. She’s fighting. She’s still her.

Then everything went black.

And now—

Now, something was being peeled from your face. you couldn’t tell what it was but you could taste something disgusting. You gasped, lungs aching like they’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Y/N?”

The voice cracked. Familiar. Raw.

You blinked, vision swimming, and then arms were around you—tight, trembling, real. You knew that scent. That warmth. That voice.

“Steve?” you rasped, barely above a whisper.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face streaked with dirt and tears, eyes wide and shining. “Oh my god,” he breathed. “Thank god. Thank god.”

You tried to sit up, but your limbs felt like lead. He caught you before you could fall, cradling you like something precious. “You’re okay,” he said, over and over, like he was trying to convince himself. “You’re okay. You’re here.”

You blinked again, and your eyes finally focused. What the hell was this place?

Steve pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. His hands trembled where they cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears you hadn’t realized were falling.

“You’re so strong, baby,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You’re so fucking strong. I thought I lost you. I thought—” His voice cracked, and he pulled you closer, like he could anchor himself in your heartbeat. “I love you so much.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and aching and overwhelmed. “You found me,” you breathed, the words barely holding together. “You really found me.”

He let out a soft, broken laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Of course I did,” he murmured. “You carry half of my heart with you. I couldn’t breathe without it.”

You let out a shaky chuckle, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Wow,” you said, voice still hoarse. “You’re so cheesy.”

Steve grinned through the tears, brushing your hair back gently. “Yeah, well, you almost died. I’m allowed to be dramatic.”

“Oh my god!”

Dustin’s voice cracked through the hum of the camp, and before you could even turn your head, he was already there—racing across the clearing like a blur of curls and panic.

“I thought he was crazy,” he gasped, dropping to his knees beside you. “But you’re alive. You’re actually alive.”

You barely had time to react before his arms were around your neck, squeezing tight. He smelled like dirt and sweat and the faintest trace of marshmallow cereal. You let out a soft, choked laugh as you hugged him back, your arms trembling from the effort.

“Dustin,” you whispered, burying your face in his shoulder. “You grew.”

“You died!” he shouted, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes wide and glassy. “You died, and then Steve went full-on feral and—“

“Oh I went feral?” Steve scoffed, throwing a hand in the air. “He’s been fighting everyone who said you died because of an earthquake. He nearly tackled a guy at the gas station for saying your name was on the memorial wall.”

Dustin didn’t even flinch. “He said she was a symbol of loss, Steve. What was I supposed to do? Agree?”

You choked on a laugh, still half-curled in Steve’s lap, your voice hoarse but warm. “God, I missed you guys.”

“Y/N!”

Robin’s voice cut through the chaos, and then she was there, practically launching herself at you. She wrapped her arms around you so tight you thought your ribs might crack, but you didn’t care. You clung to her like a lifeline.

“Does this mean I have to apologize to Steve,” she mumbled into your shoulder, “for thinking he was crazy when he said he was dreaming about you?”

You pulled back just enough to look at her, your brows raised, voice dry. “Of course not. Never apologize to a man. Ever. That’s feminism, Robin.”

She snorted, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. “God, I missed you.”

You smiled, still breathless, still aching, but the warmth in your chest was real. “I missed you too.”

Steve scoffed, trying for sarcasm but failing to hide the relief in his voice. “Okay, yeah, cool, just gonna ignore the part where you told Robin never to apologize to a man. Even me.”

You smirked. “Especially you.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Alright, feminist icon. You think you can walk? You haven’t used your limbs in what—eighteen months?”

“Yeah, I think so,” you said, bracing your hands against the ground and pushing yourself up.

You made it halfway.

Then your knees buckled, and you tumbled forward with all the grace of a newborn deer.

“Whoa—” Steve caught you before you hit the ground, his arms wrapping around you instinctively. “Guess not, huh?”

You groaned, forehead pressed to his chest. “I was so confident.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm in your ear. “Yeah, well, confidence is sexy. So is not concussing yourself.”

Before you could protest, he scooped you up in one smooth motion, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing. Bridal style. Classic Harrington.

“Seriously?” you muttered, your arms looping around his neck as he carried you like some overdramatic prince in a soap opera. “This is so dramatic.”

Steve grinned, not even pretending to be ashamed. “Never letting you go ever again.”

You chuckled, your fingers drifting up to the brim of the backwards hat on his head “I like this on you,” you said, voice soft but teasing.

He raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking up to where it now sat slightly crooked on your head. “Yeah? You planning on stealing it?”

He does. Gods, he does. 

You don’t knock.

You push the door open and walk in like you’ve owned this room your whole life, Azriel’s hand caught in yours.

Rhys is at his desk, sleeves rolled, ink smudged on his fingers, a half-written report forgotten under his hand. Feyre perches on the edge of the table, legs swinging, braid draped over one shoulder. Both of them look up sharply.

Azriel feels, rather than sees, the flare of relief at the sight of him upright and moving.

“Az—” Feyre starts.

“Don’t,” you say, before either of them can get another word out.

Four pairs of eyes snap to you.

You tug Azriel toward the couch by the fireplace and only let go of his hand when he sinks onto it. Then you plant yourself in front of Rhys’s desk, arms folded.

Cassian appears in the doorway a heartbeat later, the House clearly dragging him in by the scruff. Mor hovers behind him, eyes already narrowed as she tastes the storm hanging in the air. A silver gleam in a corner chair tells you Amren is here, too, watching.

“Y/n,” Rhys says cautiously. “Is something—”

“Yes,” you say. “Something is wrong.”

He closes his mouth.

You take one step closer to the desk.

“How many times,” you ask without preamble, “do you intend to send Azriel out alone until he doesn’t come back?”

Silence drops into the room like a stone.

Rhys blinks once. “That’s not a fair—”

“Isn’t it?” You cut him off, stepping closer. “You sent him out for months, Rhys. Alone. Again. And you’re already lining up more questions, more reports, more things you’ll need from him before he’s even washed the blood off.”

“He’s the Spymaster,” Rhys says, something sharp slipping into his tone. “You know as well as I do there are missions only he can—”

“Bullshit,” you snap.

Mor straightens from where she’s been leaning in the shadows, golden hair flashing.

“Y/n,” Feyre says carefully. “Maybe we should—”

“No,” you say, not taking your eyes off Rhys. “We’ve all been very polite about Azriel’s martyrdom for a very long time. We’ve wrapped it in nice words like duty and strength and necessary evil, and meanwhile he keeps crawling home in pieces and no one thinks to change the damned pattern.”

Rhys’s jaw locks.

“What exactly are you accusing me of?” he asks, very soft.

“Using him,” you reply. “Because it’s easy. Because he says yes. Because he’s survived everything you’ve asked so far and you’ve convinced yourself that means he can survive anything.”

He flinches—but only for a heartbeat. Then his chin lifts, temper flashing in his eyes.

“You think I don’t bleed for every risk he takes?” Rhys snaps. “You think I sit here and enjoy sending him into the worst of it? There are things only Az can do. Things only he is trained for. Someone has to go.”

“Yes,” you say. “Someone. Not always him.”

Cassian shifts in the doorway, wings rustling uneasily.

“That’s not fair either,” he rumbles. “We go too. Feyre, Nesta, Mor, Amren—all of us. It’s not like Rhys just—”

“Cassian,” you say without looking back. “Where do you sit when he goes up to the roof after missions?”

Cassian blinks.

“Y/N—”

“Answer the question,” you say.

Something in your voice—the thread of steel under the fury—makes him obey.

He glances at Azriel, then away.

“On the stairs,” he mutters. “Usually.”

“Why?” you ask.

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Because he likes the roof. Because he goes up there to think, and we… don’t want to crowd him. But we also… don’t want him alone, so… we stay close. Just in case.”

“Close,” you repeat. “But not with him.”

Rhys’s brows draw together. “Y/N, I don’t—”

“Did he ask you to stay away?” you cut in, pinning Cass again.

Cass’s mouth flattens. “He never asked us to come up,” he says. “You know what he’s like. If he wanted company, he would’ve—”

“Would he?” you demand, turning fully to face him now. “Would the male who has spent centuries swallowing every hard feeling and calling it discipline suddenly ask you to sit with him at his lowest?”

Cassian opens his mouth. Closes it again, throat working.

You look back at Rhys.

“To be clear,” you say, voice very calm, “for centuries, your brother has been walking up to the highest point of this House after you send him to do your dirtiest work, and instead of sitting with him, you hover just out of sight and call it respecting his boundaries.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

Rhys’s face goes blank in that dangerous, High Lord way.

“You’re putting a lot of weight on where we sit,” he says. “You weren’t here for those years. You don’t know what we—”

“I know what I saw tonight,” you cut in, temper rising. “And I know what Azriel told me about that night after the Illyrian raid. The one that went wrong. When they dragged him back half-dead and you both watched him bleed on your floor.”

Feyre goes very still on the desk’s edge.

Mor’s breath catches.

Rhys’s knuckles whiten on the parchment under his hand.

“We talked about that,” he says, too quick. “We all—”

“You talked around it,” you say. “You watched him come back with death written all over him and you stood in doorways and on stairs and let him sit on the edge by himself. And then you did it again. And again. And again. You planned for the risk, Rhys. You planned for the damage. You just never planned for how to keep him from breaking.”

Rhys’s nostrils flare.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” he grinds out. “We were at war. We are still at war, most days. I had to make choices. Hard ones. We all did. Az is the best at what he does. Sending anyone else on some of those missions would have been a death sentence.”

“You keep saying that like it makes it better,” you say, anger trembling now under your skin. “As if ‘he’s the best’ explains why you were willing to watch him walk out the door over and over with that look in your eyes like you’d already buried him.”

That lands.

Rhys actually flinches. His eyes flick, briefly, guiltily, to Azriel.

Az sits very still on the couch, hands folded, shoulders tight. His face is expressionless.

You look at him, then back at Rhys.

Rhys rises slowly.

His face is unnaturally still.

“Explain,” he says, quiet and lethal.

You let out a small, brittle laugh.

“I don’t think I’m the one who needs to explain anything,” you say. You gesture toward the couch without looking back. “Ask him.”

Azriel feels the world tilt under him.

He’d expected you to tear into them.

He hadn’t expected you to throw the spotlight this hard back onto him.

Rhys turns to him.

Violet eyes, intent and dark.

“Ask him,” you say, quieter. “Ask him what he sees when he looks at you before a suicide mission.”

Rhys hesitates.

The High Lord in him wants to refuse. To slam the walls down. To say this is melodramatic, unnecessary.

The brother in him is terrified.

He turns to Azriel.

“Az,” Rhys says, voice low. “Is that… what it feels like? When I send you? Like I’ve already—”

He breaks off.

Azriel looks down at his hands.

Old instinct whispers: make a joke. Deflect. Say, of course not, don’t be ridiculous.

Your hand lands on his shoulder, firm and warm.

Don’t, your touch says.

For once, he listens.

He makes himself meet Rhys’s eyes.

“It feels,” Azriel says slowly, “like you’ve… made peace with it.”

Rhys’s breath stutters.

Az swallows.

“Like you look at the board,” he goes on, voice quiet but steady, “and you put me on the worst square because you’ve already accepted that piece might not make it back. And that hurts less for you than moving… anyone else.”

Feyre sucks in a sharp breath.

Cassian’s face crumples.

Mor looks like someone punched the air out of her.

Rhys shakes his head, denial immediate. “That’s not— That was never— Az, I—”

“But it felt like that to him,” you say, cutting in gently this time, not unkind. “Intent matters. So does impact. You didn’t hold a blade to his throat, Rhys. But you watched him bleed and called it necessary. You let him believe his life weighed less than everyone else’s.”

Rhys drags a trembling hand through his hair.

“I thought…” he starts, then stops, swallowing hard. “I thought you preferred it,” he says at last, looking back at Azriel. “The edge. The dark. I thought pulling you closer to the center would feel like… clipping your wings. I kept you in the place where you were strongest. I told myself that was respect.”

Az huffs a laugh that isn’t really a laugh.

“Strongest,” he repeats. “Or most expendable?”

Rhys flinches again.

“I never thought you expendable,” he says, fierce now, some of the High Lord temper flaring. “I counted on you. I built entire strategies around the fact that you’d come back. That you always come back.”

“And if he didn’t?” you ask. “Did you ever picture that? Did you ever let yourself imagine the reality where he doesn’t walk through the door?”

Rhys’s mouth snaps shut.

The answer’s in his eyes.

Feyre sees it too. Her hand settles on his shoulder, anchoring.

“You did,” she says softly. “You just never said it.”

Rhys’s gaze flicks to her, stricken.

“You put him in the column,” you say softly. “The one in your head. The list of people who don’t get to grow old.”

Rhys clenches his jaw. 

“Someone had to go,” he says. “Az is the best. He volunteers. What would you have had me do? Send Cassian into the viper’s nest in his place? Send Mor, when their particular brand of cruelty—”

“Share it,” you snarl. “Train more people. Build better contingencies. Stop acting like the Night Court survives solely on the back of one male’s willingness to bleed.”

Your voice cracks again, grief cutting through the rage.

“You put him in that position,” you say. “Over and over.”

Rhys closes his eyes.

For a moment, he doesn’t speak.

When he opens them again, some of the edge has gone—not gone soft, exactly, but fractured. The cracks show.

“How long,” Rhys asks, voice low, “have you been going up there to the roof like that, Az?”

Az swallows.

The instinct to lie sparks bright and familiar. Decades of hiding his worst edges in the spaces where no one looks.

Your hand tightens on his shoulder.

Not hard.

Just there.

He holds Rhysand’s gaze.

“Since before the war,” Azriel says. “Since Hybern. Since the camps. Since that Illyrian raid where you sent me in alone and the charge blew too close.”

Feyre sucks in a breath.

“Az—” Rhys starts.

“He sits on the parapet,” you say, matter-of-fact, anger shimmering under every syllable. “Bloody. Broken. Considering whether stepping forward would be easier than stepping back. Cassian sits on the stairs. Neither of you say anything. You just… let it happen.”

Cass flinches like you’ve struck him.

“I didn’t know he was—” he starts.

“What?” you demand. “Depressed? Suicidal? Tired of being the one you all assume won’t come back? What did you think he was doing up there, Cassian? Admiring the view?”

Rhys has gone pale beneath his tan.

His hands brace on the edge of the desk.

“Az?” he says again, but his voice is stripped bare now.

Azriel shifts on the cushions.

His heart hammers.

He has survived torture. War. Centuries of being the blade at the edge of every terrible plan.

He has never felt more exposed than he does now, sitting in front of his family and admitting there was a version of himself who looked at the drop and thought, maybe.

He could lie.

You’re right.

If he can walk into camps with targets painted between his ribs, he can do this.

He draws a slow breath.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I considered it.”

Feyre’s hand flies to her mouth.

Mor’s eyes go bright and sharp.

Cassian makes a raw, choked sound.

Rhys closes his eyes. “Fuck,” he whispers. “I never wanted—”

“That’s not the point,” you say, voice shaking. “You accepted it. You let it shape how you used him. Every time there was a job that might kill someone, you looked at your board and picked the piece you’d already mourned in your head.”

Rhys’s hands curl on the desk.

The map beneath them crinkles.

“I have used all of you,” he starts, voice rough. “Because that’s what war demanded. Because I… didn’t see another way.”

A bitter laugh breaks out of him.

“And because it was convenient,” he adds, voice gone harsh. “Because Az volunteered. Because I could tell myself I was respecting his choices instead of asking why he was always the first to step forward.”

He looks at Azriel.

The raw regret in his eyes makes Az want to look away.

He doesn’t.

“And I thought,” Rhys continues, each word measured, “that if it ever got too bad, you’d tell me. That you’d say, no more. That you’d fight me the way Cass does when I suggest something suicidal. I thought your silence meant you were bearing it. Strong enough to bear it.”

“His silence was the warning,” you say quietly. “You just didn’t want to hear it.”

Rhys’s hands curl on the desk.

The map beneath them crinkles.

“I knew, even then,” he admits, voice cracking a little, “somewhere under all my bullshit. I saw you, brother. I sat outside your door while you pretended to sleep because I didn’t know how to knock. I stood in your shadows on battlefields because I didn’t know how to say, I’m sorry I’m sending you there. I’m sorry I need you to be this for us.”

His throat works.

“I put you in the column of ‘people who don’t get to grow old,’” he says.

Azriel’s breath catches.

“I know,” he says before he can stop himself.

Rhys flinches like he’s been struck.

Az huffs out a humorless breath. “You wore it on your face,” he says. “Every time you looked at the big picture. The future. I could see where I wasn’t.”

“You were supposed to be there,” Rhys says, desperation creeping into his voice. “I wanted you there. I just… didn’t know how to imagine it. Not when every plan, every emergency, every worst-case scenario had you at the center of the fix.”

He scrubs a hand over his face.

“That’s on me,” he says. “On us. On this Court. We’ve been calling your self-destruction strength so long we forgot there’s a difference.”

Cassian finally steps fully into the room, shoulders hunched, guilt carved into every line.

“I knew,” he says roughly. “I knew, too.”

All eyes swing to him.

He scrubs a hand over his face, jaw working.

“I saw it,” Cass says. “In your eyes, Rhys. In my own. Az would volunteer and there was always this… relief. Not because we wanted him to go. But because we didn’t want to. Because we knew he’d survive. Because we thought—if someone has to walk through hell, better the one who knows the path.”

He looks at Azriel then, anguish plain.

“I sat on those stairs,” he says. “And I told myself it was enough. That being close, being ready if he slipped, was enough. The truth is, I was a coward. I was afraid if I went onto that roof and looked him in the eye, I’d see how bad it really was. And I wouldn’t know how to fix it.”

“You weren’t the only coward,” Rhys says quietly.

Amren snorts softly from her chair.

“Congratulations,” she drawls. “You’ve all discovered you’re idiots. Shall we get to the part where we do something about it?”

Mor gives her a sharp look, but Amren only lifts one shoulder. “What?” she says. “The girl is right. You’ve let him carve himself to the bone for you and praised him for the sharpness.”

“I should’ve gone up there,” he says hoarsely.

Years of unspoken apology pour into the words.

“On the roof,” he adds when you arch a brow. “That night. Every night. I sat on the stairs because I was scared. Scared if I went closer I’d… make it real. That I’d see it in his eyes. That I’d say the wrong thing and push him over instead of pulling him back.” His hands flex uselessly at his sides. “I told myself just being nearby was enough.”

“It wasn’t,” you say gently.

He nods. “I know that now.” He looks at Az, eyes shining. “I’m sorry. I’m so godsdamned sorry, brother. You needed us to sit with you. And we let you sit alone because it was easier on us.”

Az swallows.

Some part of him scrambles for the old defense—it’s fine, I understand, don’t worry about it.

Your fingers dig a little deeper into his shoulder.

He lets it go.

“It wasn’t fine,” he says.

The words feel strange.

True.

“I know you loved me,” he goes on. “I never doubted that. But I also knew, every time I volunteered, that you were relieved. Not that it was me, specifically. Just that it wasn’t you. That it wasn’t Rhys. Or Feyre. Or Nesta, or Mor. That it was the male best suited to bleed and walk away.”

He blows out a breath.

“And I leaned into it,” he says. “Because it gave me a place. A purpose. Because if I was the blade, I didn’t have to ask what I was without it.”

You close your eyes briefly, grief passing over your face.

Your fury, which had been burning at a steady roar, flickers—not out, but into something more focused.

“You are all so good,” you say, quieter now, looking at each of them in turn. “So noble. So tortured. You’ll walk into fire for each other without thinking. You’ll die for each other. You’ll kill for each other. But this—” you gesture between Rhys’s desk and the couch “—this is what you’re terrible at. Looking at the ways you hurt each other by not dying. By living in patterns that make it easier to survive another war but harder to survive yourselves.”

You exhale.

“I’m not asking you to never send him on missions again,” you say. “We all know that’s ridiculous. He’s good at what he does. The Court needs him.” Your fingers tighten on Azriel’s shoulder. “I am asking you to stop planning for his death like it’s inevitable. To stop treating his willingness to throw himself under every blade as an inexhaustible resource.”

You fix Rhys with a steady stare.

“Stop standing on the metaphorical stairs,” you say. “If he walks toward an edge, go with him. Sit beside him. Ask what he needs instead of deciding he wants to be alone because that’s what you would want.”

“I am asking you,” you whisper, “to let him live long enough to figure out who he is when he’s not holding a blade for you.”

Rhys lets out an unsteady breath.

“I’ve been using him as my blade for so long,” he says, voice rough, “I forgot he was also my heart.”

Feyre’s hand tightens around his.

“He’s not the only one who doesn’t know who he is without the war,” Rhys admits softly. “Without the fight. I don’t know how,” and it sounds dragged out of him. “I don’t… know how to take him out of the center of every contingency plan. I don’t know how to look at a map and not put him where the worst of it is. That’s how my mind has been trained for decades.”

“Then retrain it,” you say simply. “You’re the most powerful High Lord in Prythian, Rhysand. You rewove the entire wall. You stared the Cauldron in the face and told it no. Don’t tell me you can’t change your habits when a life depends on it.”

His mouth twists.

“That’s different,” he says weakly.

“Is it?” you ask. “Those were big, showy sacrifices. This is quieter. More inconvenient. You’ll have to let other people be at risk. You’ll have to tolerate more uncertainty. You’ll have to live with the idea that Azriel is not your built-in fail-safe—he’s your brother. Your friend. My mate. You’ll have to trust that the Court will stand even if he’s not at the tip of every spear.”

Rhys looks at Az again.

And suddenly all the arguments, all the reflexive defenses, sound very thin in his own ears.

He sees—really sees—Azriel on the couch. The dark circles. The fine tremor in his hands that never quite goes away after missions. The way his shoulders are still half-braced, as if waiting for another blow.

He sees the boy on the roof, blood-soaked and alone.

He sees every time he chose not to cross those last few feet.

Something inside him quietly breaks.

The desk creaks under his hands as he pushes away from it.

Slowly, like he’s moving through water, Rhys steps around the desk and comes to stand in front of the couch.

For a heartbeat, Azriel thinks he’ll crack a joke—turn the whole thing into something lighter.

He doesn’t.

He drops to one knee.

Azriel actually flinches. “What are you doing?” he demands, horrified.

“Being an idiot on purpose,” Rhys says, breathless. “To make up for all the times I was an idiot accidentally.”

Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, kneels on the carpet in front of his brother and bows his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Two words. No titles. No excuses.

Just weight.

Azriel’s vision blurs.

“Rhys,” he says, warning and plea tangled together.

Rhys looks up.

“I am sorry,” he says again, voice thick, “that I let myself believe your pain was an acceptable price for this Court’s safety. That I told myself your willingness made it less of a crime to use it. That I assumed you’d tell me if the edges got too sharp, when I know better than anyone how hard it is to admit you’re breaking.”

He swallows.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, quieter, “that I looked at you and saw an endpoint instead of a future.”

“I don’t know how to fix it overnight,” Rhys goes on, voice cracking. “I don’t know how to stop the part of me that looks at a battle map and immediately puts you at the sharpest point. But I’m going to try. I’m going to build a world where you get to be more than my blade. Where ‘we need Azriel’ isn’t our first fallback.”

He lifts his gaze, eyes bright with tears.

“And next time you come back and go to the roof,” he says, “I will not let you go alone.”

Azriel’s chest hurts.

In the messy, useless way that means his heart is trying to grow around something new.

He doesn’t trust his voice.

He reaches out instead and sets his free hand on Rhys’s shoulder.

“I chose it,” he says finally. “Every time.”

“I know,” Rhys answers. “And we should’ve asked why.”

They stare at each other for a long, fraught moment.

Cassian clears his throat and steps closer, face crumpling. “Which means, for the record, you’re never getting rid of me again,” he says gruffly. “You want to brood on rooftops, you’re doing it with company.”

Az snorts. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It is,” Cassian says.

Feyre comes to stand behind Rhys, one hand dropping to his shoulder, the other reaching to squeeze Azriel’s upper arm.

“We lost you, in our heads, a long time ago,” she says softly. “We thought we’d made peace with it. We were wrong. I don’t want that world. I want this one. The one where you make terrible jokes under your breath at state dinners and steal cookies from the kitchen and glower when Nyx calls your shadows ‘fluffy.’”

“Fluffy is an insult,” Az mutters.

A shaky laugh ripples around the room.

The ugly knot in his chest loosens, just a little.

You lean down and press your lips to his temple.

“You hear that?” you whisper. “You’re stuck with us.”

He turns his head just enough that his nose bumps your cheek.

“Could do worse,” he says.

You smile.

Inside, the old script—the one where he is just the blade, just the piece you move because it hurts the least—shudders.

Cracks.

Starts, painfully, to change.

You lace your fingers through his, grounding him.

The House of Wind hums around you, listening.

And for the first time, the roof isn’t the only place that feels like the edge of something. The study does too.

But this edge is different.

On this one, when he looks down, there are hands holding him back.

__

Later, much later—after you drag him back to your room and bully him into actually lying down instead of pacing holes into the carpet—Azriel still can’t sleep.

You can, somehow.

Eventually.

You drift under with your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt like you don’t quite trust the world not to snatch him away if you let go. His shadows, traitorous things, are already half-asleep over both of you—curled around your ankle, your wrist, draped across the headboard like dark, drowsy cats.

Az stares at the ceiling.

Every bone in him hums with the echo of the study—your voice like a blade, Rhys on his knees, Cassian’s face when he said I thought sitting nearby was enough.

It feels… good. And awful. And raw. And bewildering.

He doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

He slides out of bed as carefully as he can, easing your hand free. Your fingers chase him even in sleep, closing on empty air. His chest twists.

“I’ll be right there,” he whispers, brushing his knuckles over your cheek.

You make a small sound; his shadows settle you, cradling your shoulders.

The House sighs around him when he steps into the hall, as if debating whether to let him wander.

It lets him.

Old habits, the House seems to decide, don’t vanish in one night either.

Azriel climbs.

The stairs to the roof are familiar; his body could walk them in the dark, blindfolded. The ghosts of a hundred other ascents press close—blood-sticky leathers, cracked ribs, silence packed so thick in his chest it felt like a second set of lungs.

He steps out onto the roof.

The air is cold and clean, the city scattered below in diamonds and riverlight.

That spot by the parapet is still there, but different now—a hairline crack through the stone, like the House itself flinched from the old geometry and refused to set it back exactly as it was.

He stands in front of it.

For a long moment, he just breathes. In. Out. No edge. No explicit intention. Just the ingrained itch of up, away, alone.

Footsteps sound behind him.

He doesn’t turn.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Cassian asks, a little out of breath. “Or are we just doing a nostalgia tour of all our worst coping mechanisms?”

Az huffs a quiet, unwilling laugh. “I didn’t think you’d follow,” he says.

“Yeah,” Cass says. “That was kind of the problem, wasn’t it?”

He comes to stand beside Az, close enough their shoulders almost touch.

No stairs between them this time. No polite distance.

Just stone. Wind. The weighted silence of two males who have survived too much together.

They stand like that for a while.

Cassian shoves his hands into his pockets. “The House told on you,” he says at last. “I was halfway to the kitchen and suddenly I’m on the stairs like it’s five hundred years ago. Figured that was a hint.”

Az arches a brow. “You listen to hints from a building now?”

“I listen when a sentient House throws me into a stairwell,” Cass says. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

The corner of Az’s mouth twitches.

“Mostly,” he amends.

“Watch it, Shadowsinger.”

Silence again. Softer, now.

Below, someone laughs in the city—a bright, distant sound. Music drifts faintly up from the Rainbow.

“I used to sit down there,” Cass says, nodding toward the stairwell opening behind them. “On the top step. Just… listening. Waiting to hear you move. To know you were still there.”

Az stares out over the city. “I know,” he says quietly.

Cass grimaces. “Of course you know.”

“You breathe like a dying bull when you climb,” Az says. “It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Cass snorts, half-offended, half-relieved.

“I should’ve come up,” he says, voice going hoarse. “We both know it. You didn’t need a guard dog on the stairs. You needed… someone next to you who wasn’t just your own head.”

Az doesn’t answer for a long moment.

“I wouldn’t have known what to do with you,” he admits finally. “Back then. If you’d come.”

Cass nods slowly. “Maybe not,” he says. “But that should’ve been my problem, not yours. I was scared if I saw how bad it was, I’d… say the wrong thing. Push instead of pull. So I stayed where it was comfortable and told myself it was for you.”

Az’s throat works.

“I was scared too,” he says. “If you’d come up, if you’d looked at me like that, I would’ve had to admit… it wasn’t fine. That I was thinking about what would happen if I stepped forward instead of back. Easier to keep it hypothetical when no one else is looking.”

Cassian blows out a breath.

“Hell of a pair we made,” he mutters. “You, nearly jumping. Me, nearly letting you.”

Az’s hands curl and uncurl on the parapet.

“I forgave you,” he says finally. “A long time ago. Before you even knew you needed it.”

Cassian blinks. “You did?”

Az shrugs. “You sat on the stairs,” he says. “That night. You stayed. You didn’t go to bed. You didn’t pretend you didn’t see it. It wasn’t enough. But it was something.”

Cassian’s throat tightens.

“I’m not cured,” he says. The word feels foreign, but right. “Rhys apologized. You apologized. Y/n yelled at everyone. I… still went straight to the roof.”

Cass shrugs one big shoulder. “Yeah,” he says. “You’ve had centuries of teaching your feet that this is where they go when it hurts. It’s gonna take a minute to… reroute the path.”

“You’re not mad?” Az asks, genuinely surprised.

Cassian barks out a quiet laugh. “Mad? Az, if you’d magically stopped needing the roof after one heartfelt conversation, then I’d be worried. This—” he gestures between them “—this is the point. You came up here. And I came up with you. That’s already different.”

Az looks at him, really looks.

There’s no accusation in Cassian’s gaze. No flinching. Just a steadiness Az isn’t used to accepting on his own behalf.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Az admits. “Any of it. Being… seen. Having people… change things because of me.”

“I know,” Cass says. “We don’t either. Rhys is gonna overcorrect so hard he’ll try to put you on desk duty for a decade. I’m going to annoy the shit out of you by hovering. Mor will probably start dragging you to parties ‘for balance.’ It’ll be messy.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Az says dryly.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” Cass says. “It’s meant to be honest.”

He sobers.

“But we’re going to try,” he adds. “Really try. Not just… say we care and then keep doing the same thing. And when we screw it up, you’re going to tell us. Not in that quiet ‘I don’t mind’ way. Actually tell us. Yell, if you have to.”

Az stares out at the lights again.

“You know we don’t expect you to die anymore,” he says quietly.

Az studies him. “…What changed?”

Cass thinks of you, standing in the study with your eyes ablaze. Of Rhys on his knees. Of Nesta’s sharp, quiet assessments. Of Nyx’s laugh. Of the way Azriel’s entire body reaches for you, even in sleep.

He thinks of the small crack in the parapet.

“You let us see you,” he says simply. “Really see you. Not the blade. The male holding it.”

Az looks away, something that might be shyness, might be hope, catching at the corner of his mouth.

“That was… mostly her,” he says.

Cass nods, easy. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Thank every god for that.”

They stay until the horizon blushes with the first hint of pink.

This time, when they leave the roof, they go together.

Not one on the stones and one on the stair.

Forced to remain in the Red Keep, you had been given your elder sister’s old rooms for your longer stay, the ones you had spent many evenings of your childhood, making plans for the future with Rhaenyra.

Now the afternoon had turned into night, darkness falling over the Keep, and your labors had not progressed. Several midwives were fussing over you and the Maester hovered over your shaking form, trying to keep your lord husband away.

“It is not custom, Lord Stark, that the father be present during the birth. You are welcome to wait in the corridor and we shall call upon you when the child is in hand,” the Maester informed him carefully, but still the solemn northern lord squared his shoulders.

“Customs be damned, I shall not abandon my wife while she suffers to bring my child into this world,” he replied, and the raised voices and tense tones only added to your distress.

“Air, air,” you cried out, pushing one of the midwives away from you. She looked upon you with pity, turning to your husband with a sad look on her face. “I need air!” you wailed, frantically pacing.

“What is happening?” Cregan hissed to her, struggling to keep his composure. Your labors with Rickon had been painful but hadn’t carried any of this urgency and he dreaded to think what this unexpected panic meant for you and the child.

“She is unsettled, unable to find her breath,” she replied, shaking her head in worry. “Perhaps some air would indeed help.”

“All the windows are open already,” the Maester placated.

“Can you walk?” Cregan inquired, offering you his arm which you took eagerly.

“Please,” you begged, clinging to his shirt, the linen bunching under your hands. He had discarded his thick doublet a while ago, his worry making his blood run hotter than usual.

He welcomed you into his arms and you grunted through your next contraction, furiously breathing in his familiar scent. “I want to go outside, to the Godswoods,” you whined into his neck.

“Let us walk, then,” Cregan replied, and the midwife came to take your other arm, supporting you. Another kneeled in front of you, slipping your bare feet into slippers.

“My Lord, she should be abed,” the Maester continued and this time Cregan couldn’t reign in his temper.

“Silence! If my wife needs to walk then she shall,” he admonished, and the old man could only obey.

Holding your swollen belly with one hand, the other clutching Cregan’s arm, you painstakingly walked to the Weirwood tree. Your pained panting resonated in the empty corridors, but you finally breathed in relief as the cold night air hit your face.

Cregan prayed to your Gods in the secrecy of his mind, unsure if they would be listening—please bring her peace and ease, he pleaded as you leaned your forehead against the white bark.

Your groans and whines broke your whispered prayers, and for a long while Cregan held you throughout each of the waves that stole your breath and seized your body. Pressing his lips to your hair and murmuring praises, he supported you with hands to your elbows, until you cried out suddenly, bending forward.

The midwife rushed to you, kneeling at your feet and pulling the lapels of your robe open; your shift was wet, tainted with pinkish fluids. “Her waters have burst,” she said with joy, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

“The babe is coming, I can feel it,” you laughed through the pain. An intense pressure came to your core, familiar and permeating. You had done this once before, delivering a son quickly after your waters had come and now you were confident you could do it again.

You slowly walked back to your rooms, feeling the babe make their descent into your hips with each step. Once again you refused to lay down and this time the Maester held his tongue, stepping out to leave you alone with the midwives and your lord husband.

Standing at the foot of the bed, you held onto the bedpost with all your might as the pressure grew until you heaved. You could vaguely feel your husband’s large hands rub soothing circles on your lower back, praising you softly as you panted and cried, and soon an urgent feeling overwhelmed you until you almost choked.

“Cregan!” you called, pulling urgently at your shift, your skin erupting with an unbearable heat.

He knelt in front of you, holding the fabric away as you groaned and pushed, your body yielding to the pain. Your core felt as though it was being cleaved in two, but the midwives’ joyous cries kept you going.

“Our babe is coming, my love, the head is out,” you heard Cregan gasp.

He watched, mesmerized, as a midwife caught the babe’s shoulders, and another took the fabric from his hands—together they encouraged him to reach between your legs. With a great cry you delivered a final push, and soon he was catching his child with his own calloused hands.

Those were the hands of a warrior, rough and dry, and now they were holding the first breath of his second child. Tears came to his eyes as you collapsed against the bed, aided by your lady, grateful sobs wracking your frame at the sight of your lord husband holding your crying babe.

His usually solemn face was trembling with emotion, utter joy and love painted over his noble features. “You have a son, my lady, my lord,” the older midwife said. “Healthy as can be.”

Cregan sat at your side as you laid down on the sheets, and he put the babe against your breast as the afterbirth came and the cord was cut. “You did admirably, my love,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into your hair.

You closed your eyes for a moment, surely exhausted, but to your husband’s dismay a maidservant entered your rooms.

Head lowered, she spoke in a meek voice. “It is custom, my Lord, that the babe is brought to the queen.”

Silence fell over you and your midwife sighed in regret. Surely the Maester had reported the impeding birth to Queen Alicent, robbing you of your peace. Without a word you pushed yourself from the bed, finding your feet with as much confidence as a newborn foal.

“Wife, you should remain abed,” Cregan admonished.

“Yes I should, but I would not stay in bed while my child is carried away,” you replied, clutching your son to your chest.

“Allow me to carry him, at the least,” he pleaded, and you allowed him to take him into his arms, cradling his small body to his chest. The baby fussed for a moment, but settled with a soothing hum from his father.

Your wobbled out of the room, pushing past the servant. Your sworn shield, Ser Erryk, called your name in surprise as you left the room, determined to match to the queen’s chambers with all your spite.

“Ser Erryk, please escort the princess,” came the order from Cregan, and the knight rushed to obey.

“This quarrel shall never end,” you complained to your husband as you were lead up the stairs, grateful that the late hour allowed you privacy from the prying eyes of the courtiers. “Her dislike for my sister does permeate everything.”

You remained silent save for uncomfortable grunts as you walked up the stairs, steadied by Ser Erryk’s strength. At your side, Cregan was carrying the drowsy babe, at which you smiled every time you paused for breath.

The Queen’s chambers were dimly lit as you entered, closely followed by your lord husband. He did not greet her, only nodded solemnly, which she did not comment on.

“Princess,” she said quietly, putting on a false smile. “Lord Stark. What a wonderful news in this cold evening.”

“Queen Alicent,” your husband replied coldly.

She approached, peering up at the bundle of linens. “A son,” he murmured, hiding his joy—he was a man of reserve, and did not wish to share his happiness with the queen.

“Little Rickon is surely elated to have a brother,” she replied.

“He will be when he learns of the news, we haven’t had the time to introduce him yet,” you said.

“Shouldn’t you be abed, Princess?” she suddenly gasped, as though she was only now realizing you were standing.

“Yes I should, your grace,” you replied curtly.

Cregan took in a sharp breath as Alicent pulled a lapel of the linens aside, and her face faltered slightly as she noticed the babe’s stark white hair. She had started her custom of seeing every babe born to noble ladies in the Keep after the birth of Prince Lucerys, curls as dark as his eyes.

Nature was strange indeed, and now that you had had a raven-haired child as well as one pale as snow, it did cast the shadow of doubt upon the queen's mind. “What is your son to be called, Lord Stark?” she asked, stepping away.

“We have not—” you started, but your husband’s answer stunned you into silence.

“Baelon.”

Tears rose to your eyes and you gasped audibly, reaching for your husband’s arm. You had often spoken of your departed brother, lamenting that you would only ever speak in this name with grief—you hadn’t dared suggesting it for your own children, as you thought a northern name would be preferred.

“Unusual name for a Stark,” the queen commented, and Cregan raised his chin in pride.

“A perfectly appropriate name for a child with dragon blood,” he replied. “Furthermore I thought it appropriate to pay homage to Queen Aemma, and to her departed son.”

Understanding dawned on Alicent’s face, but her gaze was looking over your husband’s shoulder. “A most kind gesture, Lord Stark,” said the king’s voice, and as your turned, you noticed your father standing in the doorway.

“Father,” you beamed, and Cregan was eager to hold the babe against the king’s chest as the frail man pressed a kiss to his pink brow.

“I am glad the name pleases you, your grace,” he said with warmth. “We shall take our leave. My wife needs to rest, and our son needs to nurse at her breast as soon as possible.”

“You shall nurse him?” Alicent gasped.

“It is custom in the north. Our children grow stronger for it,” Cregan answered and you leaned against his arm for support, looking at the queen.

Side by side, dragon princess and wolf lord, the two of you stood in silence and pride for a moment under the kind gaze of the king, and the colder one of the queen.

You used your husband as a crutch as you both walked out into the corridor, but you stopped at the stairs, pain making your head spin. “Thank you, husband,” you murmured gratefully, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“I meant it. Your ancestry is to be celebrated. Now allow me to carry you, wife, you have toiled enough,” your lord husband offered.

“I would not get blood all over you,” you replied, looking down at the stones where blood was pooling under your foot, having run down your leg.

“I carried my wounded brothers on the battlefield, I can carry my bleeding wife after she gave me a son,” Cregan replied, and you knew there was no use discussing the matter further.

He then gestured for your midwife to come forward, and she rushed to him. She took the babe from his arms carefully, and proceeded to walk down the steps, herself escorted by your sworn shield.

“My mother used to say the childbed was the battlefield of women,” you remembered as your husband pulled you up into his arms, the back of your knees resting in the crook of his elbow.

If you weren’t so exhausted you would have blushed at his strength and the effortless way with which he carried you. “She was a wise woman,” he commented as he brought you down, step step, with a care that made tears come to your eyes.

“I wish you had known her,” you sighed into his neck as he cradled you closer.

“Perhaps you shall speak her name in joy again…” he hinted, and you smiled.

“I am barely done with delivering a babe, that you would give me another?” you asked, and another grateful kiss was pressed to your brow.

“I am merely assuring you of my eagerness to fulfill my duties as your husband. If you ever desire a little daughter to call by your mother’s name, then I shall provide,” he vowed, and ahead of you in the bleak hallway of the Keep, your baby soon cooed in the arms of your trusted midwife.

Dividers by @arcielee

Requested.

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The name whispered amongst the Night Court fae, perhaps even across Prythian these days.

The she demon.

Bloodsucker.

All true, you supposed. What else would you call a creature that survived off the blood of the living? A female with fangs so sharp they sliced skin with the slightest nip?

You had tried to live amongst the fae. You technically were a fae—pointed ears and all—but they never saw you as one of them. You were a threat. A monster. A predator.

Above all, you were more powerful than them, and they hated you for it. It didn’t matter that you had never hurt a soul—you lived off the animal blood from a local butcher, much to your parents’ dismay. As if they had not been the architects of your grotesque nature.

Sometimes, as a child, you would starve yourself until the world started spinning and your limbs gave out. Until your nursemaid found you in a hall or the bath or your bed unresponsive, and forced her own blood to your lips.

She was the only one that never feared you.

She was a diamond amongst the roughly carved walls of Hewn City. A flower amongst the thorny and poisonous faeries that occupied it. Talia was likely the reason you survived in that underworld as long as you did—but not even Talia could save you when you wrapped that first tendril of shadow around the throat of another girl in your class.

It didn’t matter that she had held you by your hair, that she had kicked you to the ground so your tights tore on the rocks beneath you—you were the monster. You were supposed to be more powerful. She was threatened by you, and then you tried to kill her.

As if you knew you could control the shadows.

You would never forget the stunned silence that followed, and then the cacophony of frantic murmurs, everyone muttering the same word in fear: shadowsinger.

 Your time in Hewn City was limited after that. It was bad enough you could rip their throats out with your teeth (as if they could not do the same to you, should they really want to), but now you wielded the darkness against them as well. Your parents could not let such an abomination live in their home, in their city. So they gave you to Kier, and Kier sneered at the darkness that undulated around you, and then dropped you in the woods.

You were fifteen when your parents abandoned you. You wandered those forests for days before you decided you were still on Night Court territory. Only now there was soil beneath your feet instead of stone. Stars above your head instead of roughly hewn rocks. Clean air moving through your lungs in place of stale and stagnant air.

You were free.

You traveled the Night Court forests with no end in sight, walking through brush and trees for months on end, sleeping on the forest floor with only the stars and crickets as your company—and your shadows, you supposed. You missed Talia. You missed the comfort of a bed that smelled like you, even if it was in such a despicable place.

Then one day you heard a scream. A blood-curdling, terror-stricken scream that turned your stomach inside out, and you ran.

You ran faster than you ever knew was possible.

Some of your peers had the enhanced speed of High Fae, and sometimes you managed to keep pace with them, but this speed was entirely preternatural. One second you were standing beneath an ageing pine tree, and the next you were at a campsite, where a winged male held a female by her hair, a knife at her throat.

The mirth in his eyes when you screamed at him to let her go still played clearly in your head. The satisfaction you felt when that mirth soured into terror as you bared your fangs, your eyes undoubtedly turning bloodshot as you fell into the primal lust that always danced beneath your skin. The taste of his fear on your tongue was bitter and electrifying as you made him feel the way that poor girl felt—the way everyone your entire life had made you feel, just for existing.

The thud of his body on the leaf covered dirt still rang in your head, and the fear mixed with awe on the female’s face beside you still flashed through your mind.

She didn’t wait around to find out if she was next. You didn’t forget the twist in your stomach as you watched her run from you, and as you looked back down at the carnage you had created.

At the names and stories and rumors you had finally lived up to.

That was when you decided if they were going to hate you so much they cast you from society, you would give them something to hate. You would give them a reason to fear you.

You spent the next decade honing your abilities, fine-tuning your strength and speed, learning how to follow scent trails and listen for unnatural rustles of the leaves. You traipsed up and down the forests of the Night Court, sometimes even venturing so far as the Illyrian Steppes, where you learned there were plenty of abusive bastards ripe for the picking.

It was exhilarating. You held the power, and no one even knew who you were. No one had ever truly seen the face of Lamia, except for a few females you had saved along the way. You were certain the denizens of Hewn City remembered you, you were certain some of them had pieced together the loose threads between your time there and your life now, but no one knew for certain.

You liked it that way.

It was better that way.

You may not kill innocent males, but you had blood on your hands nonetheless. You had embraced the nature your younger self had recoiled from, and you knew if she saw you now she would be ashamed. You didn’t belong with the rest of civilization—so you kept to yourself, lurking amongst tree tops and playing vigilante, hopping between abandoned cabins you had claimed for yourself.

No one had seen your face—no one had heard your voice—in a decade and lived to tell the tale.

Of course, until he came along.

What were the odds that an abomination of nature like yourself would have a mate?

It was surely just another consequence of the dark magic your parents had toiled and tinkered with to create you—and yet, it felt a little too arrogant, even for you, to think someone as foolish as your parents could bend the Mother’s will. It also felt foolish to think an abomination like yourself would ever be gifted something as sacred as a mate.

And yet, there he was on the forest floor below, weaving between bushes and trees, undoubtedly searching for you—again.

~ ~ ~

“Lamia, I presume.”

The voice that spoke behind you was silk woven with shadows. A caress chilled by an onyx night, that left goosebumps in its wake.

It had been…so long since you had spoken to another person.

You couldn’t understand how he had crept up on you. 

You frantically grasped for your shadows, panic sluicing through you that they might have finally abandoned you too, only for them to curl around you gently. You swallowed hard, taking in a single steadying breath before turning to face the male.

An Illyrian.

His body was decorated in glowing cobalt gemstones, similar to ones you had seen on others when you spent time in their mountains. Their glow cast his face in sharp shadows, a sharp contrast to the dim forest, now that the sun had just sunk beneath the horizon.

“Lamia is a story,” you said slowly, your voice low and smooth. You spoke with a perfect lull, a refined grace and elegance that you had honed over the years to contrast so greatly with the monster inside you.

His chin dipped ever so slightly, his eyes raking down your body, pausing on their way up when he noticed the dark tendrils slithering around your arms. You smirked, your lips curving upward at his surprise—only for you to falter when you saw a perfect stoic mask on the male’s face.

Then another tendril of shadow slithered toward you, this one heavier, more opaque than your own, and your heart stuttered. Your shadows flitted behind you, peering over your shoulders as you hissed at the male, your fangs bared. “Keep your shadows on a leash.”

The male’s lips slowly morphed into a smirk—a self-satisfied, infuriating turn of his lips that made your own clamp shut.

You had just revealed exactly who you were to him.

He took a step closer to you, and then another, his boots crunching the dried leaves scattered across the forest floor. A gentle breeze coasted by you, and that was when you smelled it—he was bleeding.

Your eyes locked onto his thigh, the dark leathers hiding any obvious signs of injury, but you knew it was there. “You have a lot of nerve,” you crooned, taking your own step forward. “Wandering through my forests while blood paints your skin.”

Finally, a flash of surprise in his eyes—but still, there was no hint of fear from the male.

“Trust me,” he murmured, looking you up and down again. “It was not my intention.”

“No?”

“No.”

You hummed, stepping closer and closer to him, until the toes of your boots kicked against his. “Then why, pray tell, are you here?” You reached a hand up, dragging the tips of your fingers over the sharp line of his cheekbone. His skin was warm against your chilled skin, electricity crackling along your hand as your touch dragged against his cheek, crackling and snapping until your thumb reached the edge of his lip, and everything went still.

The electricity sizzling between you exploded, a force so strong it made the word tilt, and you briefly noticed the hand now on your waist, stabilizing you as the ground tried to crumble away. Until it stopped just as suddenly as it started, and you were left standing on solid ground that still felt like it had shifted a few degrees to the right.

And there was now a glowing thread curled around your core, reaching out—directly to the male in front of you. His eyes were wide as he watched you, his hand still rested gently on your hip, and your thumb still grazed his lower lip.

You dropped your hand, staggering backward. You shook your head, raking a shaky hand over your hair. “No,” you muttered to yourself. “This can’t be happening.”

“Lamia,” the male spoke, his voice rough and ragged, as if the shock of the moment had sucked the air from his lungs.

“That is not my name!” you snapped, your eyes burning and your fangs lengthening on instinct. Your shoulders heaved as you took in the male again, his Illyrian wings stretched wide behind him, his shadows slowly circling his feet in trepidation. Mother knows where yours had scampered off to.

Your heart pounded beneath your ribs, every beat reminding you of the golden thread now coiled next to it, a direct tether to this unfamiliar male now entwined with your very soul.

You had long ago come to the conclusion that you didn’t have a soul. You thought mates were a far fetched fairy tale whispered amongst naive children, a gift only those favored by the Mother would ever be granted. 

A mate certainly was not in the cards for you, of all the faeries in Prythian. You were not even a true faerie.

The male had not moved an inch, his wide and blinking eyes never leaving your form either. This had to be a mistake. This was not possible.

You shook your head again, taking another step away from him.

Your eyes met his one last time, and you said roughly, “You should leave.”

And then you were gone.

~ ~ ~

It took the male a month before he found you again. In a deserted cabin nestled in the snow-covered Illyrian Steppes of all places. You had thought it would be the last place he would look—which, given you managed to disappear for a month, maybe it was.

You ran as soon as you saw him, knocking him on his ass as you pushed past him on the fragile doorstep. You ran as fast as you could manage in the snow, weaving in and out of the pine trees decorating the mountain. 

Unfortunately for you, Illyria had just endured a long and unforgiving snow storm, locking you in your cabin for a week, and now a thick blanket of snow was left in its wake. It was impossible for you to run through the knee-high snow, so you resorted to skipping between tree tops, balancing precariously on snow-ladden tree limbs, praying they would support your additional weight in their already fragile state.

You didn’t hear him following you, but that didn’t mean anything. He had snuck up on you once, he could absolutely do it again. You were fast, but he could fly. He wielded shadows, and if they were anything like yours, they were likely whispering information in his ear at this very moment, trailing after your scent.

You landed hard on the next branch, your weight falling unevenly as you hit the wood, and your palm scraped against the rough bark as you tried to steady yourself. You took a deep breath when you regained your balance, but your heart stopped when you heard a creak beneath you.

The branch gave out beneath you before you could blink, and your body was sent toppling down to the forest floor. You reached for another branch, but the force of your fall only sent more branches and pine needles cascading down to the ground, until your body inevitably joined them in a plume of snow.

Your chest burned from the force of the impact, your entire body stiff. The snow burned against your face, sticking to your lashes and soaking through your clothes. The snow melted against your cheeks, leaving a wet sheen that froze as soon as you pushed yourself up and the wind whipped against you.

 “Well done.”

You closed your eyes in defeat, hanging your head for the briefest moment before pushing yourself to your feet. You glanced at him, eyes catching on his wings that were more purple in the sunlight. “I see why your people need wings to survive in these mountains.”

Something shuttered in his eyes. “I don’t live here.” His wings folded in behind his back, and he took a step in the thick snow with practiced precision. “And the Illyrians are not my people.”

He moved through the snow with infuriating grace, easily stepping around fallen branches, until he reached the crater your landing had created. His eyes met yours, his irises a sharp and glowy hazel that you never would have imagined from your first encounter.

A sharp pain in your ankle made you stumble, your breath faltering as the adrenaline faded and the pain from your fall crept in. The male’s hand came out to stabilize you, his glove covered fingers wrapping around your arm. His touch was just as electrifying and addictive as the first time you felt it.

His touch was dangerous.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, his voice soft. Not arrogant, like the question might have been from another male. It was genuine—almost concerned.

It was unsettling.

You looked him up and down, taking him in slowly, watching his shadows that weaved in and out of the folds of his wings. You wished you had any other answer than, “No.”

His face softened, and his hand slowly fell from your arm. “My name is Azriel.” Then, as if he had to taste the words before saying them, he finally said, “I work for the High Lord.”

You rocked back on your heels, his hand shooting out again to catch you, but this time you shoved his touch away. 

Oh gods.

You knew exactly who he was. How could you not have figured it out?

His existence was the very reason the fae around you casted you out when you wielded your first shadow.

He was the Shadowsinger of Prythian.

He was the Spymaster of the Night Court.

He was the only other shadowsinger you had heard of. How could you not have realized?

You wanted to run—but there was no where to go. He would catch you before you could make it to the trees.

It didn’t matter that this male was supposedly your mate. You had heard plenty of stories of soured mating bonds, corrupted by the hands of evil males that forced the females to accept the bond.

You would not be one of those females.

Over your dead body would you become a weapon for the High Lord’s spy to yield.

You were your own weapon, and no one was going to touch you.

You couldn’t run, but you were still faster than him, and you still had your fangs.

You moved in the small space before Azriel could react. You kicked his legs from beneath him, dropping him to his knees, then laced your fingers through his hair to drag his head back. His neck was bared to you, his pulse visible beneath his skin, pounding only slightly faster from the unexpected ambush.

You brought your mouth down to his skin, the tips of your fangs barely grazing his skin, but it was enough to make his breath hitch. One fang pricked his skin, a tiny droplet of blood rolling down the expanse of his neck, melding into the neckline of his leathers.

You had not meant to actually draw blood—not unless you had to—but it made your point all the same. You brought your mouth up to his ear, your lips briefly brushing the outer shell. “You’re going to let me leave,” you said, voice low and steady, despite feeling anything but. Your grip tightened on his hair, pulling his head back further. “Or else, I will kill you.” 

The sharp pain that lanced through your chest knocked the breath from your lungs.

You gave yourself a moment to compose yourself, dragging your teeth once more over his pulse. Then you murmured in his ear, “Do you understand?”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, and his chest heaved. Silence hung heavy between you, the sound of snow falling from heavy branches echoing around you. Then, finally, he gritted out, “Yes.”

You held onto him a second longer, inexplicable hesitation making your limbs heavy. You licked your lips, retracting your fangs. “Good,” you murmured.

Then you left him in the snow, speckled with your blood and his.

~ ~ ~

“I thought I told you I would kill you if I ever saw you again.”

Azriel turned around slowly, his wings flaring out. Once again he looked like death incarnate, his face barely illuminated by the light of the full moon. He took a step closer to the tree you were perched in, twigs snapping beneath his boots. “That’s not exactly how I remember it.”

You had migrated to the southern border of the Night Court, the opposite end of the damned court from where he found you last. You watched his eyes scan the forest floor, searching for you. You couldn’t help the upturn of your lips as he turned in a circle, his shadows fanning out around him.

Then he looked up, his eyes immediately locking on you. Your eyes narrowed, frustration muddling your brief amusement. He knew you were there all along.

You dropped down from the branch, landing silently in a crouch. You slowly rose up to face him, indignation and irritation warring with the undeniable relief you felt from seeing him again.

You dragged a finger down his throat, along the artery that pulsed with his blood. “How do you remember it then?”

His throat bobbed, but his voice was steady. “You said,” he spoke softly, “that you would kill me, if I didn’t let you go.”

You hummed, heart pounding against your chest as you remembered those words falling from your lips, as you remembered the agony that lanced through you when you threatened his life, and the guilt that washed over you at the smallest taste of his blood. “My fault for not being more specific.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice low.

Your eyes flicked to his, then quickly fell away. “What do you mean?” you asked quietly, demurely. “This is my home.”

“The forests of the Night Court are not fit to be a home,” he said softly.

You hated the pity in his voice. You pulled your hand away, letting it fall to your side as you took a step back. “Why are you here Azriel?”

His nostrils flared, and a few of his shadows darted out and away from him. He shook his head. “Don’t do that.”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Act coy. Play dumb. You know exactly why I’m here.”

Your blood turned cold. “I’m not a novelty for you to leave at the feet of your High Lord,” you snapped.

Azriel blinked. “That’s not—” He shook his head, his genuine shock unnerving you. “I’ve never thought that. I would never do that.”

Your mouth was dry, your tongue heavy and rough as you grappled for control of this situation that had been spiraling around you for months. “Then why are you here?” you asked again, tone pitching just a bit higher, your voice just a bit louder.

“Because you are my mate!” he exclaimed, taking the smallest step toward you.

My mate.

The words made you dizzy. You had not—

You had not acknowledged the thread between you for what it was since the moment it snapped into place. You had convinced yourself it wasn’t real—a paranoid delusion, a fool’s dream, a cruel trick by the Mother to punish you for taking lives she had made.

Azriel looked unmoored, despite the darkness dulling his sharpest edges. Your vision in the night was unusually sharp—and you had a feeling his was as well. He could see the barely restrained panic creeping beneath your skin just as well as you could see the frantic pulse of his blood beneath his neck and the clench of his jaw as he took a breath.

“You are my mate,” he said again, his voice softer this time, as if that softened the blow those words delivered to your chest. “I cannot just leave you.”

And why were those words more jarring than his declaration of your bond?

You shook your head, fighting back the unwanted tears burning the back of your throat. “It’s not real,” you rasped.

Azriel looked like you slapped him. “What?” he rasped.

You sniffed, taking a step back. “It’s not real,” you said again, voice trembling. “It—it can’t be. I—I’m not—” You shook your head, eyes darting around the forest as if you could disappear somewhere so as to not face this heartbreaking humiliation. 

“I’m an abomination,” you spat, anger washing over you. “I don’t get a mate.”

Azriel’s shoulders fell, and his eyes were impossibly soft. You had never met someone so genuine, so kind—not since Talia. You barely knew him, and yet he was showing you more grace than anyone else ever had before. 

The two of you were shrouded in the darkness of the night, each of you moving your own tendrils of that darkness in anticipation of the other's move. You were never scared of the dark. You were never unnerved by it like others seemed to be, so when your shadows first came to you it made sense—it made sense that darkness would come to you if you called, because it had always been there.

Now there was another faerie, who also held darkness at his fingertips, and he didn’t balk at your shadows. Your teeth had been pressed to his neck and he came back for you.

“That’s not true,” he swore, a promise that swirled through the night air and up into the stars. “What is your name?”

A plea. A desperate request to let him know the female in the story of Lamia. To know the name you had not spoken in ten years.

“Y/N.”

His lips twitched ever so slightly, and your stomach did a somersault. “Y/N,” Azriel said, and goosebumps pebbled up your arms. “I know I do not know you,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours as he took another step closer. “But I do know this bond between us is very real, and if I, of all fae, was deigned worthy of a mate by the Mother—” Another step closer, close enough that you could smell only the cedar and salt scent of him— “I promise, you are are more than worthy of a mate as well.”

You started shaking your head, your ears buzzing and head spinning. “You were born with your power—”

“Were you not as well?”

“I—” you searched for the words, an explanation, anything to make this make sense. “My parents messed with dark magic, while my mother was pregnant with me.” You swallowed hard, your mouth dry and an old yet familiar shame creeping up your neck. “They made me this way,” you whispered.

You didn’t know you were crying until Azriel brought his thumb to your cheek, wiping away the errant tear with the quickest brush of his thumb. “There is nothing wrong with you,” he promised, voice resolute.

“You don’t know me!” you argued. “You don’t know the things I’ve done, the blood that soaks my hands—my mouth!”

“I know exactly which scum of the earth your parents are,” he volleyed back. “I know you grew up in the Court of Nightmares, until Kier kicked you out per your parents request. I know the stories they spread about you. I know the stories of Lamia—and I know the truth woven between the pages of them.” 

He shifted his weight, his wings fluttering, and all the words in your brain seemed to have fallen to the ground. Azriel didn’t stop either.  “I came searching for you after an Illyrian female told me another female saved her and her daughter from an abhorrent male in the forest—that Lamia saved her. She spoke the name with reverence, not fear, and I knew then that my suspicions about your actions were true. You were protecting others. You’re not a monster, Y/N. You’re not an abomination.”

He hesitated, then he brought his hand to your mouth—and you noticed for the first time his hands were once again covered with leather like the rest of him. Earlier, when he touched your cheek, you had been so consumed by him it escaped your notice. He brought his thumb to your upper lip, so slowly, as if waiting for you to run or kick him or just bite his finger clean off. Then he lifted your lip, gently, as if admiring, rather than prodding or inspecting, revealing your fangs. You fought the urge to extend them, to show off just how long and sharp they really were.

Then he said, voice so gentle and sure, “A monster would have killed me.”

Your stomach soured. “I hurt you.”

His thumb fell away, and he laughed. “You insult me.”

“I drew blood,” you argued.

He waved a hand. “It was barely a pin prick.”

“What’s your point, Azriel?”

He immediately sobered. “My point,” he said slowly, “Is that I’m not going to let you push this away—I’m not going to let you deny yourself this bond, because you think you're undeserving. If you don’t want me, that’s fine—but I’ll be damned if we both lose this because of the acrid voices of Hewn City scum.”

You bit your lip, digesting his words, considering this impossible fate that had been dropped in your lap. “I’ve been alone my entire life,” you warned him.

“That’s not entirely true,” he said softly, nodding toward the shadows now winding around your wrists.

You watched the dark tendrils with a fondness, and your breath caught when you noticed one of your shadows venturing out to meet his, the two tendrils blending seamlessly together and circling both you and Azriel.

“We’ve both found company in the darkness before, when there was no one else but our solitude.” His voice was warm, and when you met his eyes, your heart thawed just a bit. “I think we’re both capable of finding it again, with each other.”

~ ~ ~

cauldron-born | part two • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @itsswritten

only in my dreams • azriel x reader

↳ by @really-fanny-longbottom (angst)

stranded • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @mcuamerica

exiled by fire • azriel x vanserra!reader

↳ by @acotar-writing

and i wouldn’t marry me, either | part two • azriel x reader

↳ by @bluetimeombre

farewell, my love • azriel x reader

↳ by @allhopesforlove

blessed mistakes • azriel x reader

↳ by @mellowmusings

despite the hatred, despite the love | part two | part three • azriel x reader

↳ by @lidiasloca

scattered vows | part two • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @azrielslightintheshadows

betrayal • azriel x oc

↳ by @liahaslosthermind

can’t bring myself to hate you • azriel x reader

↳ by @tadpolesonalgae

the spymaster’s secret • azriel x reader

↳ by @liahaslosthermind

silence | part two | part three • azriel x healer!reader

↳ by @azmageddon

sunlight in burgundy | part two • azriel x reader

↳ by @svearehnn

god’s game • azriel x oc

↳ by @toodelusionalforreality

ONE-SHOTS - BLURBS - HC’S

anything for you • azriel x reader

↳ by @kymawrites (hurt/comfort, fluff, bad periods)

not me • azriel x reader

↳ by @azsazz (smut, angst but fluff at the end)

at the sake of you • s&r officer!azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @websterss (angst, car accident, fluff)

a helping hand • azriel x reader

↳ by @inkedinshadows (angst, comfort)

he’s my mate • azriel x reader

↳ by @moosesarecute (angst, torture, fluff, comfort)

paper trail • azriel x reader

↳ by @acotarxreader (fluff, angst, comfort, tw: dv)

i only pray, don’t fall away from me • azriel x reader

↳ by @ceoofyearning (hurt/comfort, anxiety, nightmares)

centuries coming • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @parkerslatte (angst but happy ending)

dinner and dessert • azriel x pregnant!oc

↳ by @ninthcircleofprythian (smut)

drifting away • azriel x reader

↳ by @solbaby7 (angst, mental health issues)

“i think you are pretty attractive yourself” • azriel x reader

↳ by @narnianflame (fluff)

here without you • azriel x reader

↳ by @readychilledwine (angst)

until the last breath • azriel x reader

↳ by @inkedinshadows (angst, death)

i love hate you • azriel x reader

↳ by @mika-no-sekai-blog (angst, jealousy, fluff at the end)

the other woman • azriel x necromancer!reader

↳ by @tadpolesonalgae (angst, violence)

confession • azriel x reader

↳ by @harrystylesfan2686 (very fluffy)

is it love, or just the fear of loneliness? • azriel x reader

↳ by @lidiasloca (angst, doubts, fluff)

love in ink • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @itsswritten (angst, rejection, blood)

his shadows • azriel x reader

↳ by @cyripticchronicler (fluff, slight angst, a little possessive!azriel)

no damsels here • azriel x reader

↳ by @olive-main (fluff, pining)

in every universe • azriel x reader

↳ by @illyrianbitch (fluff)

by the candlelight • azriel x reader

↳ by @manicmanuscription (suggestive, pining)

flicker out • azriel x reader

↳ by @thelov3lybookworm (angst but happy ending)

healing • azriel x reader

↳ by @cyripticchronicler (angst, torture, comfort, tw: sa)

warm • azriel x reader

↳ by @redheadspark (fluff)

weight in gold • azriel x seraphim!reader

↳ by @yiiyiiwrites (hurt/comfort, angst)

frosted hearts • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @moonlitstoriess (angst, comfort, smut)

a raging storm • azriel x reader

↳ by @svearehnn (angst)

lay your hand in mine • azriel x reader

↳ by @kymawrites (violence, hurt/comfort, smut)

escaping • azriel x reader

• ───────────────── •

I want you to stay

'Til I'm in the grave

'Til I rot away, dead and buried

'Til I'm in the casket you carry

• ───────────────── •

A flick of golden brown hair caught your eye as Elain tossed her head back with her lilting laughter. So soft. So beautiful. So charming. You could hardly blame Azriel for being so enraptured by her. To him, she was probably the answer to all his questions, all his insecurities and doubt. To have someone like Elain look at him like that…Well, it seemed like it had healed something in him.

Unfortunately for you, it had done the opposite. It had completely destroyed you. Torn your heart into pieces. Opened new wounds and old wounds. It had shined a light on every single insecurity you felt. Because you had been praying for the day that Azriel would look at you the way he looked at her. But that day had never come and it never would.

You hadn’t been good enough for him. Hadn’t been beautiful enough to catch his attention like Mor and Elain had. Hadn’t been sweet enough to serve as a beacon of light for him. Hadn’t been soft enough to bring him comfort. 

You slipped out of the back door. No one even noticed your disappearance, all too happy in this new little family they had created with all three of the Archeron sisters. 

Tears lined your eyes as you hugged yourself, slowly walking along the Sidra towards your apartment. You had been naive to think you’d ever have a love like Feyre and Rhys or Nesta and Cassian. Azriel had been right that night you’d overheard him in the High Lord’s office.

The Cauldron had gotten it wrong. It had gotten it all so wrong.

Azriel was your mate. He was supposed to love and cherish you. Not her. But he had never looked your way once—not like that. You’d been best friends since the dawn of time, since you had entered each other’s lives. But that was all the companionship he could give you.

On nights like this, you almost wished you had told him about the mating bond when it had snapped for you. But you had hoped and prayed that he would come to love you for you and not for the mating bond. So you never spoke a word of it to anyone and maybe that had been your mistake.  

But you didn’t want a love that only existed because of the mating bond. You wanted a love that felt real and deep—with the mating bond only serving as the cherry on top. You didn’t regret not telling him. But you did regret sticking around to watch him fall in love with another girl. 

It didn’t help that Elain was the opposite of you. She was all sunshine and flowers, soft warm bread and honey. You were a creature of the night. You were the moon and its shadows, cryptic and grim. It was why you thought you and Azriel got along so well. You were made of all the same things. But he had always hated that about himself so really, it shouldn’t have been so surprising that he would look for someone who embodied the opposite. 

It hurt though, it hurt so much. 

You were his equal. You lived in the shadows as much as he did. Your soul was made from the same essence as his. You were birds of a feather. You were companions. He was the only one who understood you completely and you were the only one who saw him and loved him as he was—darkness and all. 

You were supposed to stick together through it all.

But…he hadn’t chosen you. 

You finally made it back to your apartment and hung up your coat before collapsing on your bed and letting the sobs ricochet through the utter silence of your home. 

Alone once again. 

As you always would be.

• ───────────────── •

Birds of a feather, we should stick together, I know

I said I'd never think I wasn't better alone

Can't change the weather, might not be forever

But if it's forever, it's even better

• ───────────────── •

All you had wanted to do today was get lost in your book and forget about your own life for a few hours. That was what you had planned, why you were even in the private library at the River House. But of course, the Mother decided to spite you once again.

Azriel sat on the armchair across from you, fiddling with Truth-teller as he ranted about Rhysand for the millionth time. He was still upset about your High Lord telling him to stay away from Elain, even though he had completely ignored those orders anyways. As far as you knew, Rhys hadn’t brought it up again. 

Your jaw was clenched as he brought up Lucien, laminating on how much Elain didn’t want him or the mating bond between them. You blinked away the tears that threatened to come. It almost felt like he was talking about the mating bond between the two of you—the one he still had no idea existed. 

Your heart was pounding in your chest, your stomach tossing and turning. You were so in love with the male sitting before you, so in love with your best friend. And here you were, listening to him talk about another girl the way you wished he’d talk about you. 

You cleared your throat when silence finally overtook the library, your eyes darting to the fireplace that was lacking any light—cold and dusty—the same way you felt inside. 

“Don’t you think…” you started, not looking at Azriel, not sure you wanted to say the words lingering in your throat. 

“Do I think what?” Azriel raised an eyebrow at you. 

You looked away again. 

“I don’t know,” you hesitated before continuing, “Don’t you think that Rhys might actually have a point?” 

You were still focused on the fireplace as you awaited his response with a bated breath. It was the first time you’d addressed his interest in Elain without being positive. But you just had to poke at it once—just once to make sure you were right in keeping the mating bond from him. 

“Oh Gods,” Azriel groaned. “Not you, too.”

“I’m just asking,” you said in your defense. “What if…what if in ten years Elain decides she does actually want to give Lucien a shot? The mating bond—”

“Is godsdamn stupid, is what it is,” Azriel scoffed. “She doesn’t want Lucien, Y/n. She wants me. We want each other. Is that such a bad thing?”

“No, I’m not saying that,” you grimaced, “But what if you find your mate? Would you…would you stay with Elain?” 

“Of course I would,” Azriel answered without missing a beat, digging that dagger into your heart a little more. “I don’t have a mate and even if I did, I would only ever feel sorry for her. For being cursed and shackled to me. At least Elain is choosing me. She is choosing me, Y/n. Over her own mate. If that isn’t love, then what is?” 

“I don’t know, Az.” You swallowed harshly, your throat closing up the further this conversation went on. You wanted to scream and sew your mouth shut at the same time. “Is that what this is? Are you truly in love with her?” 

This was it. The question you had been avoiding for months. And his answer would solidify everything. It would either put the nail in the coffin between the two of you or it would lighten the weight on your shoulders for just a minute—give you a modicum of hope to hang onto. 

“I am,” Azriel snapped, surprising you with his sudden ire. He rose from his seat, his eyes narrowing at you. “What is wrong with you? I thought you cared about me. I thought you were my friend, Y/n, and you’re acting just like Rhysand.” 

You shot up from your seat, eyes wide. “No, Az, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way, I just—”

“No, I get it,” Azriel scoffed, cutting you off. His eyes were ice cold. He had never looked at you like that before. It made your heart pause. “You just want me to continue being miserable. Because that’s always been why the two of us got along so well. Both lonely and so unhappy and now that I’m finally not, you want to drag me back down. Maybe one day someone will love you the way me and Elain love each other. But just because no one does right now, does not mean I have to give up my happiness to keep being miserable with you.” 

Tears welled up in your eyes, your lower lip wobbling. All you wanted was Azriel to be happy. It was another reason why you hadn’t said anything about the mating bond. Because he was happy with Elain and you didn’t want to throw a wrench into that. You hadn’t meant anything by asking him those questions—only wanted a bit of closure for yourself. 

Well, you had gotten closure, all right. Azriel would never choose you. He was right. You were miserable and lonely and heartbroken. Why would he choose you? But you hadn’t expected him to be so harsh. A simple yes would’ve done the same. Tears slipped down your cheeks and the anger from Azriel’s eyes was washed away.

But you didn’t stick around to hear his half-assed apology. You couldn’t. Not when your heart was being ripped apart in your chest, not as bile was rising in your hoarse throat. You dropped your book down on the coffee table before fleeing from the room, ignoring his calls of your name as you left.

• ───────────────── •

But you're so full of shit, 

Tell me it's a bit, 

Say you don't see it, your mind's polluted

Say you wanna quit, don't be stupid

• ───────────────── •

Months went by, all meshing together. You had avoided Azriel since that day in the library. It hurt but being around him hurt even more. It was all you could do to protect your already broken heart. He didn’t reach out to you either, instead all of his attention went to Elain. 

Elain who had finally told Lucien she would never accept their bond. 

And so Azriel and her had finally proclaimed their love to the whole family. A family you felt yourself slipping away from bit by bit. No one even seemed to notice. After all, it had always been you and Azriel hiding away in the shadows—content to observe and love from the corners of the room. 

But now it was just you in that corner, all alone. 

You stopped going to family dinners, stopped hanging around the River House, stopped going to training with the Valkyries. You began to disappear from their lives day by day. You couldn’t bring yourself to stay. Not when your mate was in love with someone else—not as they all started new chapters in their lives and left you behind. 

You had overstayed your welcome. No longer Azriel’s closest friend and confidant. No longer Cassian’s sparring buddy. No longer an extra ear for Rhys to run court decisions by. No longer Mor’s dancing partner or Amren’s pupil to bully. 

You became a shadow of yourself. Sleepless nights led to a lack of energy and focus. Constant tears led to being voiceless. You couldn’t even resort to alcohol because it made the steely barrier you had put up to block out the mating bond come tumbling down, flooding you with all of Azriel’s feelings. Happiness, joy, lust, desire, satiation. 

It was just a reminder that you weren’t the one giving him those things. 

But you couldn’t disappear the way you wanted to. Not when a new war started with Koschei. Despite months of not being around, Rhysand still sent you a notice to come to a meeting to discuss strategy and to inform everyone of new developments. 

You wanted to ignore the summons but the thought of Azriel going into battle again without you around to watch his back nearly sent you spiraling. So you made your way to the River House, eyes on the floor the whole time as you stepped inside and hung up your coat. 

You were about to go up the stairs to get to Rhys’s office when a hand on your shoulder stopped you. You spun around and your breath caught in your throat as you came face to face with Azriel. You took a shaky step away from him, your hand coming up to grip at your chest. The mating bond you had been trying to ignore shoved its way through your defenses—bombarding you with Azriel’s emotions once again. 

His hazel eyes were filled with a bit of guilt and remorse. “Y/n, I was wondering if you were going to show up today. I…I’ve been wanting to talk to you but you haven’t been around much.”

Your mouth opened and closed, no words coming out. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Azriel hesitated for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck before speaking, “I never got to apologize for the things I said to you. It's not an excuse, but Rhys had just laid into me again about Elain before I found you in the library and I took my anger out on you when you were just trying to be a good friend and I am truly sorry for what I said to you. I didn’t mean any of it.” 

“It’s okay,” you mumbled, looking away from him. His words had felt true that day. Besides, what he said to you might’ve been wrong but that didn’t take away from the fact that he was in love with someone else. Regardless of his apology, there was no way you could go back to being his friend. It hurt too much. 

Azriel seemed to be waiting for you to say anything else and his shoulders deflated a bit when he realized you weren’t going to. He gave you a weak smile before summoning something from his shadows. An envelope. He held it out for you to grab. You took it from him with a questioning look. 

“It’s an invitation,” Azriel explained. “Me and Elain are getting married. I wanted to deliver this to you in person. It would mean a lot to have you there, Y/n.” 

You stared at the envelope in your hand. 

Stared and stared and stared. 

Even throughout the whole meeting with the Inner Circle, all you could do was stare at that godsdamn envelope. Because inside of it was the last piece of your broken heart, smashed and weeping. Azriel was getting married…and not to you. To her. 

So when Rhys announced his plans of attack for Koschei and how he needed someone to act as bait for the Death God, you were the first to volunteer because you truly had nothing left to lose. 

• ───────────────── •

And I don't know what I'm crying for

I don't think I could love you more

Might not be long, but baby, I

Don't wanna say goodbye

• ───────────────── •

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit up front with the rest of us?” Feyre asked.

You looked up at her from your seat in the very back of the temple, shaking your head. You gave her a blank look. “No, it’s all right. I’m fine back here. You know I don’t like that attention of sitting near the High Lord and Lady.” 

Feyre gave you an understanding nod. “Okay, but you will sit with us at the reception. I’m not taking no for an answer.” 

You nodded to appease her, knowing you had no intentions of staying past the ceremony. You were only here for one reason—because Azriel had asked you to be here and you could never say no to him. So here you sat, your chest empty and your eyes sore from the tears you spilled last night. 

This wedding felt more like a funeral to you and in some ways, it was. You were saying goodbye to a future you could’ve had with your mate, giving up the final piece of yourself for his sake, and getting to watch him be happy and free, such a bittersweet feeling. All you had ever wished was that he could be happy with you but that was just a dream—that’s all it would ever be. 

Elain looked so beautiful in her wedding gown, as she always did. 

Azriel’s eyes lit up the moment she came through the doorway, striding down the aisle to him. He held out his hand for her, helping her up the steps to stand before him. They didn’t look away from each other for a single moment during the ceremony. He was so in love with her. So in love with her and not you…never you. 

The whole room was bursting with joy but not you. You were happy for him, of course. But you couldn’t help but feel that ache in your chest and everything that came with it. The hurt, the jealousy, the grief. 

Had he even really wanted you here or had it been a pity invite? It didn’t matter because he took no notice of anyone but Elain. So when the ceremony ended and everyone began to make their way to the reception, you slinked into the shadows and disappeared once again. 

• ───────────────── •

I'll love you 'til the day that I die

'Til the day that I die

'Til the light leaves my eyes

'Til the day that I die

• ───────────────── •

The battle was over. Koschei had been defeated. You had gone through with serving as the bait for this plan to work. It had cost so much to finally take him down. So many lives, so much power. And you. It had cost you everything. 

You were dying. Slowly.

But you knew this was the end for you.

Even if you could be saved, you didn’t want to be.

You wanted to let death embrace you in his cold arms.

You wanted to leave behind this life finally.

Everyone was still cheering and hugging with relief when you stumbled back into the war camp. You pressed a hand against the deep wound in your stomach, blood bubbling through the cracks in your fingers as you passed by everyone—no one taking notice of you or your severely injured state.

Not until you made it to the main tent where the rest of the Inner Circle had begun to celebrate the victory. 

It was Feyre who noticed you first, her gasp alerting the rest of them to your presence. But you were only looking at Azriel as you stumbled into the tent, barely making it past the threshold before you crumbled to the ground. You choked on the blood filling up your mouth, some of it trickling out of your lips. 

Azriel shouted your name, pushing Cassian out of his way to get to you. He knelt before you, eyes wide with panic as he grasped your shoulders. In the background, you could faintly hear Rhysand shouting for a healer but you knew it was too late for that. 

You weakly smiled up at Azriel. This is what you wanted. To just see him one last time. To let his face be the last thing you see before death came to take you. You reached a hand out, letting your fingertips brush against his jaw. 

It took you being gravely injured for the mating bond to finally snap in place for him. You knew the minute he realized. The mating bond hummed in your chest but its song was so quiet now…so, so quiet. 

It was slowly fraying as your life dimmed. 

“Mate,” Azriel choked out in a whisper, his hand resting on your cheek. His eyes were still full of panic. “You’re…You’re my mate.” 

You nodded, coughing again and more blood slipped out of your lips and down your chin. Azriel shouted frantically for a healer before focusing on you again, his eyes searching yours. “You knew?” 

You nodded again, your body sagging in his hold. He let out a panicked cry and pulled you into his lap. “How long? How long have you known?” 

“A while,” you managed to croak, your fingers raising to caress his jaw again. 

Azriel stared at you in horror as he shouted again for a healer. You could hear the pounding of feet and other panicked whispers but you tuned it all out. You just wanted to go peacefully. No screaming, no cries. Just you and Azriel for the last second of your life. 

“Why?” he cried out, wiping one of your tears away. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“You…were…happy,” you struggled to get out, your eyes closing with the effort. Azriel shook your body, tears filling up in his eyes.

“No, stay awake, Y/n, you have to stay awake,” Azriel pleaded with you. “The healer is almost here, okay. Just stay awake a little longer.” 

“I-It’s…okay,” you mumbled. “Want…want to go.” 

You coughed again, blood splatting your face. Azriel released a cry that nearly caused the ground to shake. “No, you can’t. You can’t go. You’re my mate, Y/n. You can’t do this to me!” 

“I’ll find…you…again,” you slurred out. “Maybe…maybe I’ll be…good enough….then.” 

You blinked once, your vision blurry but you could see Azriel’s beautiful face. Gods, he was so beautiful. He was screaming something but your hearing went along with your vision, slowly worsening until finally, your heart stopped beating in your chest. 

And with that, the pain was finally gone. 

• ───────────────── •

I knew you in another life

You had that same look in your eyes

I love you, don't act so surprised

• ───────────────── •

You always thought that Azriel trusted you, just as you did him. 

As your superior, Azriel often delegates tasks to you, having known each other for the better part of more than two centuries, you were one of the first spies to come under his command when Rhysand took over as High Lord. In your mind, you believed that Azriel was the closest thing you had to a best friend, often working long nights together on missions that required more than one person, which often led to deep conversations and a bond that you felt was irreplaceable. 

Perhaps that’s why eventually, you dedicated your life to your work. Never did you enjoy being around most people anyways, and the inner circle were friends who understood the burden of living as long as you did. You trusted them more than you did many in your own immortal life, and you had fallen into the thought that they trusted you just the same. 

So when you had gotten the call to get to the dungeons of the Hewn City you hadn’t suspected anything. Maybe you had been too distracted to hear the hard edge to Rhysand’s voice when he called on you, or too busy to notice that Azriel had not stopped by as usual to check on you for morning training each time you missed them. 

It was that trust that got you locked up and chained to the wall, begging what you had done wrong while Cassian just looked at you in distaste and Rhysand just looked…disappointed. 

Azriel had been the worse of all, anger and pain swirling in those hazel eyes as he pinned you with a hard stare that poured out his rage unto you, the weight almost too much for you to bear as you pleaded for him to hear you, to tell you what you could do to fix this. But they all had said nothing, all had chosen to do nothing as they left you hanging in that cell, tears raining onto the stone floor as you sobbed and cried after them. After the people you had thought were your family. 

When you awoke you blinked past the blur of your vision, confused at first when you only saw darkness around you, your eyes adjusting as you blinked away your exhaustion. That’s when the events of the previous day dawned on you. Oh. 

Looking around you saw that someone had left food on the floor near you, close enough you could reach out and grab the plate to bring it closer so you could eat it, but as you tested your own magic, trying to flex your fingers and make your own syphons glow, you winced as the chains burned into you and you realised what exactly they had contained you with: Iron. 

Cursing, you curled yourself against the floor, grateful that you could at least sit, though you suspected that gratitude would not last for long if you were going to be close to the floor, never being able stretch your wings or you legs ever again, not even being able to move your arms as far as you used to. 

This couldn’t have happened. You didn’t want to believe it. After your last mission in the Autumn court you had come home, had rested, and everything had seemed normal until now. Had something gone wrong? What did you do that was so terrible, they locked you up here without explanation? 

Taking a breath in, and out, you calmed yourself down, reminding yourself of your illyrian training that panicking in such a situation would do nothing. You would need to navigate this and figure this out if you wanted to get out alive, and if there was any luck, maybe you could prove your own innocence if you could come to find out what the three brothers thought you did. 

Trying to recall as much as you could in vivid detail, you only remembered trying to collect information from the meetings that Baron had, as Eris stated in his own letters, and had returned swiftly before you could get caught. After reporting your findings you had waited to hear back about what the next move would be for the night court, when this happened. 

Maybe something had been wrong with the information? But that wouldn’t warrant putting you in a cell. Maybe being lectured about checking your findings, but not this — an interrogation. You knew very well what occurred in these cells, had been here to talk to a few people and ‘coax’ information out of them. It never did take long for them to sing and you could slit their throats as you pleased. Only because you usually dealt with the worst of the prisoners. Azriel knew you would not be able to inflict pain on someone who may not have done much wrong other than knowing the wrong people. 

It was then that your train of thought was cut short and the cell door was pulled open, the metal bars screeching as they scratched against the stone floors, and you beheld Azriel as he stepped into the cell, no one following behind him. 

Eyeing the food you had not touched, he clicked his tongue, but did not say anything, choosing instead to slowly stride over to you, whipping out truth teller as he used the blade to lift your chin up to face him, the metal cool against you skin as fear started to bleed into your mind, panic starting anew. 

This was not the Azriel you had come to know — and to love — but the spymaster and torturer of the night court. This was the Azriel that played with pain better than any professional musician could play their instrument, allowing his victims to sing till their throats bled from pain and terror. 

“You’re going to tell me the exact extent of your betrayal,” The words were hard, commanding, no room for argument. Sweat beaded down your forehead as you began to realise that you would not be able to reason with the spymaster as you yourself had no idea what he was talking about. 

“Azriel, please, you know me,” You begged. 

“I thought I did,” The spymaster frowned. Shadows surged forward and gripped you, holding you tighter to the stone wall than any chains would be able to, “Guess not.” 

“Please, I have no idea what you’re talking about!” You cried, even as he dragged  truth teller down your body, the blade digging harder and harder into your skin the further it went. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you braced yourself for the pain, but nothing. And as you opened your eyes you were met with Azriel’s hollow stare. Releasing you, you sagged to the ground as Azriel stepped back, his shadows with him, the male was shaking his head, “I can’t.” 

“Please, believe me,” You tried again, but he just shook his head again. 

“I can’t,” He repeated. But this time it meant something different, and it caused your heart to shatter as he began to walk out of the room. 

“I’ll send someone else to oversee this. If you talk, Rhysand might consider a light sentence. And please, eat,” He murmured. His voice barely heard over the roaring in your ears as you watched the male you had grown to trust, who you had hoped trusted you, walk out, not even bothering to hear anything you had to say, lest it be a confession for something you had no idea of. 

The next two days were much worse. Though Azriel usually was the one to torture traitors — usually questioning them as he made them suffer for bringing even the possibility of harm to his family — he had not come. They had left you alone. Not a soul in or out except the sentient shadows that brought food and water, and had fled back into the darkness each time you refused. Let them believe you were a traitor. You would sooner die of starvation and dehydration than live out the rest of your life possibly in a cell — or at least until they decided they were done waiting for a confession and put you in the dirt. 

Maybe it was because they knew you would drive yourself insane better than any other living soul could. Because hearing nothing but the sound of water dripping distantly and your own hard breathing was beginning to make you lose your mind. 

Why had they not trusted you? Why had it been so easy to dismiss your loyalty? Your history? Why had it been so easy to blame you? 

A small part of you still didn’t believe it. Wanted more than anything to wake up from this like a horrible dream that you could seek out Azriel to comfort and calm you from after. 

“I promise,” you sobbed, “I promise I didn’t do anything.” There was nothing you could do, not even being able to move your arms far enough, move your body enough to wrap your arms around yourself, to comfort yourself in your loneliness. The darkness around you could have very well swallowed you whole. 

On the third day, Cassian marched into your cell, and a bowl of chilled icy water in his hands as he grabbed you by your hair and forced your face into it. You choked, screaming gurgled by the liquid as you could do nothing but open your mouth and try to struggle, to breathe to- 

He released you. 

“You drink, and you eat,” he hissed, “Don’t take the coward’s way out.” 

You could only respond with a sob as you nodded, shrinking back, flinching as he raised the bowl again to hold it closer to himself before leaving. Letting out another choked sob, shivering as the water dripped down your neck, your ruined clothes, you prayed to the Mother that when they killed you it would be quick. 

•—•

“She doesn’t seem guilty.” 

“You trained her yourself Az, you know that our spies are trained to lie, to put on mask after mask, we can’t trust anything,” Cassian grumbled, wiping his hands clean of the dirt and oils of her unwashed hair, before collapsing on a nearby wooden chair. Azriel frowned, turning to his High lord and brother to prompt him to speak of his own thoughts on the matter. 

Rhysand cast him a glance and sighed before his eyes fell back on the orb where a spell allowed them to see into the cell where they kept the ‘traitor’. 

“Maybe we’re missing something, Eris said that someone in our court tried to sell him information, and that information was only privy to her because of her most recent mission so the timing made it seem look she was the best suspect but-” Azriel tried, but was interrupted as Rhysand cleared his throat. 

“There is no one else.” 

Azriel deflated, wings sagging slightly as Rhysand’s tone was final. No room for arguments. In his mind, he still doubted, and he knew Rhys and Cassian did too. From the way his High Lord’s hair was disheveled with the bags under his eyes more prominent than ever, and with Cassian being more aggressive and hostile in the sparring rings, Azriel knew he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t believe that she of all people had tried to betray them. 

It was why Rhys hadn’t given the order for someone else to take over the task of torture that Azriel could not bring himself to do. 

And it was why Cassian had forced water down her throat — more forcefully than he should have — to keep her alive. 

They were all waiting. For a sign that they had been wrong, for even a trace of incoherency in the facts that they had collected so far. But nothing. And Azriel was growing tired of waiting for his spies to collect more information. 

Not being able to stomach the scene of her sobbing and crying, crying out to them — to him — he exited the room. He would fly down to every single informant, dig up every piece of information, and every home to find even a single piece of information that would even imply that she was guilty. 

But what if it was too late? The thought made Azriel pause at the open balcony before he could spread his wings to take flight. She could very well hate him, spit on his name and curse them all out for not believing in her, for trapping her in that wretched cell and allowing her to sit in her own fear despite being innocent. He wanted her to be, desperately wanted her to be innocent — for he could not forgive himself for falling in love with a woman who would betray his court. 

It was not too late. He could prove her innocence. He could get her out, and prove Rhysand and Cassian wrong. Eris may not have known who had sent him that letter with the offer, but he knew where to start. 

•—•

You knew time was passing. But now you had given up counting. Keeping track. Had it been a week? A month? You stopped registering the number of times you ate. Learning that if you drank and consumed the necessities given to you that you would be left well alone. You stopped counting the number of times you had been taken out of your cell to go to the bathroom, iron chains still hanging heavy on your body, your wings. 

Your wings, so sensitive, that were being dragged across the floor every time they moved you, having no strength to stand upright, and not being able to. You knew the cuts and scrapes on them were superficial, but it still pained you to not fly, to not have felt the wind against your face as you shot into the sky above the canopies, drinking in the sun as it set and rose. 

How long has it been? You did not know. 

Again, all you did was pray for freedom, in whatever form you would be offered it. 

And then you heard it. 

“Let me go! That bitch deserved it, I hope she was terrified when you killed her.” A maniacal laugh was let out. The worm who had framed her, was being dragged by Azriel across the floor, the shadow singer not particularly caring when the traitorous spy screamed each time his back scraped across the floor he was being dragged across. 

With Rhysand and Cassian in tow, the three males entered your cell, the culprit who had framed you being tossed on the floor before you, before your High Lord and the general. 

“Tell them,” his voice was low, holding back a growl as the male laughed again — laughed like he had no other care in this world. 

“She was a bitch. A female who was getting too haughty for her own good- getting to go on more missions or the ones she asks- she deserved to die, and I hope she-” 

You drowned out the sound of his rant. He didn’t see you yet, hadn’t seemed to pay attention to the space surrounding him, how shadows seemed to surge from the darkness, how Cassian and Rhys began to grow still. It was you, however, who finally interrupted him. “Who..are you?” Your voice was weak, raspy and foreign from lack of use. 

The male ripped his head around so quickly, you would have thought that his neck had broken. And as if he hadn’t been able to control himself, he snarled at you, barring his teeth only for a second before his head was slammed down by none other than Azriel. You strained your ears to be able to hear what Azriel whispered into his ear, being close enough that in a different context, their proximity could have been one of lovers. 

“You will be chained to the wall just like she, and cauldron help me,” Your chains, those wretched chains that had been clinging heavy to your body fell, allowing you to collapse fully to the ground, being caught by Cassian, “You will suffer. I will personally make you bleed for every minute, every hour she spent in this cell because of what you made us believe.” The male only trembled slightly, but his face remained pulled into a snarl.

Fool. 

With that, Azriel threw the male at the wall you had previously been strapped to, shadows scattering and enveloping him, and when they cleared the chains that previously gripped onto your body now had a new prisoner. 

You could still feel the cold phantom metal on your skin, the rust of the chains, the heaviness on your body. Against your better judgement, you let Cassian guide you out of the cell, the Hewn City, and let Rhysand bring you to Madja with his magic. Even as it took all of your remaining strength to not flinch when they each approached you. 

Though they hadn’t touched you in the days you had been in the cell, you still felt  fear. And you hated the weakness it showed you had. 

Later, it was revealed what Azriel had discovered. The male had snuck into your office, your home when you had been away for the autumn mission. Had gone through your personal archives to steal information that was known to only be privy to yourself. How he had gotten past your wards, how he had broken in, been in your personal space – your safe space.  You supposed it was just another thing that would make you sick for the next few months. Another thing you would be wary of as you recovered in your home. If you could even call it such. 

The male had taken the information, and had sent the letter that damned you to Eris Vanserra. How Azriel found out, you did not know. You did not wish to know. Why he had even bothered to  investigate further when to anyone else it seemed like a straight forward case – you did not wish to know either. 

It would have been foolish to hold out hope that Azriel had held any faith in you at all. The events that had just occurred proved that any supposed trust was just an illusion you had given yourself. 

That was what you told yourself as you dragged yourself from Madja’s beds. She had frowned at you, wanting to insist you stay to watch over your sanity, but without the physical injuries to keep you, she had no way of forcing you back into the beds where you had spent your first three hours out of the cell.

But you didn’t go home. Couldn’t- not yet.

Madja’s magic and tonics had regifted you the strength that had been drained from you in the past few days. 

So, you dragged yourself to a bank of the Sidra, to the forest at the edge of Velaris, and began allowing your rage to boil over. 

•—•

The wood trunks had splintered and bent beneath your fists. You kicked, punched, screamed. With time that passed, your strikes began to grow sloppy – a far cry from your training. But you did not care. You did not pay attention. You did not stop. 

You hadn’t even heard the beat of wings that came close. Hadn’t heard the footsteps that had come up behind you. Hadn’t even felt the darkness that curled to hug your arms, your fists, your body, as you just kept going. “The tree didn’t do anything wrong, you know?” It was one of the last voices you wanted to hear. You let out a choked sob as you gritted your teeth and slammed an open palm into the wood. 

“I’m sure you know plenty about hurting an innocent life, Rhysand.” 

“Ouch,” Your high lord only smiled softly, masking where the hurt had hit him, “But I suppose deserved.” 

You paused to pant, to rest, as you turned to your High Lord, eyes alight with fury.

“I didn’t do anything.” 

“I know.” 

“I was innocent.” 

“I know.” A nod of understanding. But he couldn’t, he did not understand what it was to be trapped in the dark for something he had not done, for something he had not chosen but- “I’m sorry.” 

The words broke you. The words you had been looking for but had been so afraid to ask for. So afraid to ask for a hint of guilt despite the fact that your fate had probably meant nothing to him but a simple duty he had to fulfil, a duty they had all fulfilled when they labelled you a traitor. 

“I’m sorry,” He repeated. But it wasn’t enough. It didn’t fix the broken trust, didn’t change the past, didn’t keep you out of that cell. 

You were still angry, still so angry, and every part of you wanted to scream at the injustice, wanted to go up to your High Lord and scream at him for it. However, when you drank in his regret, saw the guilt that stained his usually cocky expression, you paused. “I’m sorry, for my misjudgement, for my lack of trust in you. For your pain, I am sorry.” 

His voice was steady, as if grounding you to the earth, reminding you that you were still here. You had gone in expecting, praying for death – and you had made it out alive 

Looking away, you scoffed, not wanting to show your High Lord where his words had embedded into your soul, where it swept over the cracks that had webbed through your heart. They had not hurt you, but what would stop them next time? They had not touched you, but they had still treated you like a criminal, trapped you in chains and in a cell where you saw almost no light. 

But when you looked back at Rhysand, it was not violet eyes you had expected to meet, but soft, pleading hazel eyes.