Why Live One Life When I Can Live A Thousand?

“We’ve got to get him out of there!”

Mor clenched her fists, nails cutting into her palms. “Azriel, you know its too dangerous-”

“Like hell I care.” He flung his arm out, sending an ornate vase across the room as it shattered into the far wall. Bits of plaster and porcelain crumbled into the carpet below. Mor winced. “He’s stuck there because of us, because of Velaris itself and it would be an insult to everything we stand for if we just left him there with that bitch.”

Their heads snapped to the door as it opened, revealing a weary Cassian, and Amren trailing close behind him. She picked at her nails and glared at no one in particular. “What’s the plan? Do we even have one or are we going to stew here like a bunch of good for nothing-”

“You know we can’t do shit, Amren. Don’t make it worse.” Cassian snapped, throwing himself onto a nearby armchair. Mor sat beside him gingerly, careful to avoid his sagging wings and clasped her hands in the folds of her crimson dress. She turned to face Azriel, who was barely visible with shadows like ink in water swirling around him.

“Azriel, Amren, we have to face this. There’s nothing-” Her voice came out a strangled sob, “Nothing that we can do except from protect Velaris. It’s what Rhys would have wanted.”

“Stop talking about him like he’s dead!” Azriel cut back. “We can get him out of there. She’s not invincible, we just need to put our heads together and think.” He continued pacing the length of the room, wings snapped shut. He squeezed his eyes closed like he used to in those days after the incident, and slowly flexed his scarred hands. He prayed that when he opened his eyes, things would be different, and that he’d find Rhys sitting opposite him, laughing like he always did. But when he opened his eyes, black spots danced in his vision, and there was only Mor, Cassian, and Amren in the room.

“Azriel.” Cassian said, “If there were something we could do, we would have already thought of it. It’s been two months, and we’re no closer to solving this.”

“We haven’t been looking hard enough. Maybe there’s a crevice we haven’t checked, or-”

“I sent legions, you sent spies, Amren herself found nothing. Do you not realise that Under the Mountain is impenetrable to us, no matter what we do!” Cassian’s voice rose steadily as he got up from the armchair with clenched fists. He’d have to make Azriel see sense, or he’d end up where Rhys was now.

Azriel simply stilled, his expression turning colder than the glowing cobalt of his siphons. “We promised we’d take care of each other. We promised that no matter what, we’d let nothing hold us back from protecting each other if we needed help. Is Amarantha-”

“Say her name once more and I’ll make you regret it, Shadowsinger,” Amren growled. She was uncharacteristically quiet, and although her face was twisted into a feral snarl, there was no masking her fear.

Azriel paid her no heed. “Is she all it takes to make you forget what we said to each other after the Rite? I didn’t think you were this much of a coward, Cassian.”

“Don’t go there, Azriel. I don’t want to hurt you, but say that again and I’ll make that bitch look like a fairy tale.”

“I’m only saying what-”

“You’re not only one that’s scared, Azriel! I’m terrified for Rhys, Mor is, Amren is. But we can’t do the impossible. We have to stay here and guard Velaris, or everything he’s going through now will be in vain.”

“You mean stay here? Until a mortal falls in love with that coward who calls himself High Lord of Spring?” Amren shook her head incredulously, “I won’t do it.”

“Then what will you do? Challenge the Attor yourself?” Mor snapped.

Amren’s nostrils flared as she ground out, “If I have to rip the heart from that rutting beast, so be it. If I die, so be it. This court can’t be left without its High Lord, and if anything happens to Rhysand, I’ll-”

“We want to kill as much as you do, Amren. Turning on each other now will do nothing but hinder us.” Cassian wiped his eyes furiously as he felt the tears welling up. He turned to Azriel beseechingly. “Azriel, if you try to go Under the Mountain, you will die. Rhys is only alive because of what he has to do-”

Azriel didn’t hear the last part of Cassian’s sentence as he stormed out of the room, slamming the door hard enough to crumble the plaster on the roof. He leaned against the wall, wings and shoulders sagging as he pressed his hands to his chest to keep back the tears he felt coming. He couldn’t break down now, he had to think-

A hardened voice interrupted his thoughts. “As much as I hate to admit it, they might be right. There’s no way of getting in.”

He straightened and rolled his shoulders back, “We haven’t looked hard enough, Amren.”

She stood in front of him and folded her arms. Despite the fact that she barely reached his shoulders, he felt that other power roll off her like waves. His shadows skittered away from her, as if afraid of her presence. “Do you have a way of getting in, then?”

He opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. His shadows couldn’t go near, none of his spies had found anything. As much as he’d trained them, they couldn’t slip past the guards undetected. Amarantha’s wards were too strong.

“Not even your shadows?” Amren inquired.

“No. The wards-”

“Are too strong, yes. Helion isn’t here to help us, but is there no way to surpass them?”

Azriel shook his head, “Even if we did manage to get in, Amarantha would know. We’d need someone with a wraith’s invisibility to be able to-” He stopped. An idea hit him so suddenly that he mentally cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. The shadows that had started to merge back into his skin leapt up, swarming around him.

Percy literally wanted to choke the life out of Akhlys, to the point where Annabeth was unsettled.

Yet she still loves him, and treats and respects him the same as she did before Tartarus.

“I’m sorry it had to be this way”

“I don’t want this. I know you don’t either.”

“What’s wrong?” “Everything.”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

“I’m not.” “You’re not what?” “I’m not leaving until this is sorted out.”

“I shouldn’t have killed you.” “I know. And yet, here we are”

- Could we take a moment to think about Nesta having a healthy relationship with alcohol in the future? Like being able to out-drink the toughest Illyrians and still laugh with them?

-Could we take a moment to think about Tamlin re-establishing bonds with the High Lords of Prythian? Like actually rebuilding his court, making new friends, reconciling with Lucien and just moving on from the hellhole that was his life?

-Could we take a moment to appreciate Lucien and the struggles he’s gone through? And imagine him finding a place that he genuinely belongs?

- Could we take a moment to imagine Cassian finally helping the Illyrian females achieve equality in the camps? How he’d look at them and finally feel gratified, that no one would ever be treated with the brutality that him and his mother were treated with?

- Yes, she’s a minor character, but can we just imagine for a moment Vassa and the Lord in the lake? How she’ll break free of him? IF she’ll break free of him? Getting revenge on the queens that shackled her to him?

- Jurian trying to rebuild the mortal lands? Jurian atoning for his own mistakes? Jurian and Tamlin making friends, anyone??

[Part 3]

Summary: The story of Lyria Whitethorn, daughter of Queen Aelin Ashryver Galathynius and King Rowan Whitethorn, and Tristan Havilliard, son of Queen Manon Blackbeak-Crochan and King Dorian Havilliard

A/N: And, after an eternity of procrastinating, I’ve finally updated!! I’ve also managed to draft out the plots of future parts but because of exams I don’t think I can update soon. -_- Sorry!! But, anyways, enjoy!!

-

Although they were close, Tristan and Lyria both had responsibilities they needed to attend to.

In separate kingdoms.

Tristan was well versed in court politics and magic, taught by his father, and trained in discipline of body and mind by Manon.

And, even though Manon and Dorian lived apart, Tristan never felt like they didn’t care for him.

Especially after the incident.

He’d alternate between Adarlan and the Wastes, but resided mainly in Adarlan. After all, he was to rule it one day.

Not that that had always been the case. What had seemed like a lifetime ago- only five years- there’d been another heir to the Adarlanian crown. His older sister.

Astrian.

But those memories were best left undisturbed. Tristan had long learned to lock the darkest parts of his life in the back of his mind; dredging them up left him paralysed.

Dorian had taught Tristan that the best way to know his people was to live alongside them. And so it wasn’t rare for him to dress himself in commoner clothes and mingle amongst them.

And as much as King Dorian II tried to vanquish the cruelties of the Adarlanian underworld, it was still rife in the streets.

Gangs, brothels, opium dens, they still fed off the innocent young who were cast out too soon. He’d learnt that from Lady Lysandra’s story.

She often frequented the brothels, with huge sums of money to buy the girls’ freedom and offer them homes in Caraverre. Tristan was awed by her tale, being cast out simply for having magic, chafing under Madame Clarisse’s ‘tutelage’, shackled to Arobynn Hamel.

Only to end up slitting his throat and fighting her way alongside Queen Aelin.

Tristan tried to follow her example- helping whoever he could and beating the life out of the lowlifes exploiting those weaker than them in dark alleyways.

He was beginning to draw attention to himself from those who he didn’t particularly want it from, which only spurred him to get stronger.

It was during one of these exploits that he found himself in a run-down tavern, seated in the corner with a tankard of cheap ale on the stained table in front of him.

The court may be a haven of whispered rumours, but the best tales came from places like these. And, although tavern brawls were common, some of the things he heard here made it worth it.

Tonight was like any other. Sailors and wretches were hunched over tables, with Tristan keeping a sharp ear out for anything that would interest him. The bartender- Adrian-  flashed him a quick smile before returning to his work. He was an old friend of Lord Ren’s, and welcomed Tristan whenever he frequented.

Picking at his nails with his dagger, Tristan soon grew bored. There was nothing worth hearing today, apart from which noble was engaged to whom, so he drained his ale and got up to leave.

Just then, a hooded figure brushed past Tristan, his fingers glancing against his for a moment.

Leaving a small sheaf of paper in his palm.

The figure raised his head slightly and put a finger to his lips, before taking the seat that Tristan had occupied moments ago, crossing one leg over the other. He saw a flash of grey eyes before the figure flicked his wrist, motioning for Tristan to leave.

What was that?

Tristan sauntered out of the tavern and hid in a gap between it and the adjointed building. His power sparked at his fingers, tendrils of ice forming around his hands. If this person meant trouble, he’d give it to them willingly.

The sheaf of paper was still in his hand, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the street. This could be an ambush, and he’d had enough of those to last a lifetime.

“If I wanted to hurt you, young prince, I would have done it already.”

As Tristan whipped his head up, the hooded figure jumped from the shaky scaffolding that barely held the tavern together and landed neatly beside him.

He took no chances. In a heartbeat, the razor-tipped icicles formed out of thin air and hung, suspended mere millimetres away from the figure’s throat. “What do you want?”

“Relax, Tristan. I’m a friend.” He slowly put his arms up in front of him and drew back his hood, revealing a tanned face flecked with thin scars, unruly black hair, and a lazy smile. He looked to be about 30, and the ease which he carried himself with told him to be a thief of sorts. Or at the very least, trained enough to climb buildings.

Tristan, unimpressed, raised an eyebrow but didn’t move the shards away from the man’s throat. And said nothing.

The man simply sighed and rolled his eyes, and fast as an asp, hooked his leg around the back of Tristan’s knees and threw him to the ground. He dodged the ice shards as they were flung towards where he’d been standing moments ago, as he braced a knee on the floor and pinned Tristan’s hands behind his back.

With a sudden shink, Tristan’s iron nails sliced upwards into the man’s skin. He jumped back and swore, giving Tristan enough time to scramble to his feet. He stood with his back to the crack in the wall, and although he could run, he refused to. If this man was intent on harming him, who knows what he could do to others.

“Nice to see that the prince has some bite.” Although there were several deep slices in his palms and wrist, all leaking blood, and despite the fact that he was backed into the alley wall, he seemed completely at ease.

“Well, for someone who calls me his friend, you seem to have a strange way of introducing yourself.”

“Maybe so.” The man took a handful of gauze out of his pocket and leisurely wrapped his wounds. Tristan stalked closer to him, iron nails now fully unsheathed. “But have you read my note yet?”

The note? That sheaf of paper- he must have dropped it, because the man finished wrapping his hands and produced the note from another pocket, and held it out for Tristan to take.

Tristan, without shrinking his iron nails, took the paper from the him. He smirked, grey eyes twinkling with mischief or ill intent. Tristan decided not to analyse.  

“I’m confident that you’ll find the information interesting, for personal reasons. Royals often frequent places like that,” He cocked his head to the side, in the direction of the tavern, “For gossip. And you don’t strike me as the type to care about who marries who.”

“How-”

“I’ve been watching you.”

Tristan edged closer to the man, who didn’t retreat. “I don’t care who you are, but if you’re planning something-”

Smirking, he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fear not, Your Highness. I am but a messenger.”

“A messenger who can climb buildings and fight as well as an assassin?”

“I have a complicated past.” He folded his arms. “And a lot of enemies. At least that’s something we have in common.”

Tristan opened his mouth to retort, but the man suddenly leapt and caught the dipping edge of the rusted pipe, swinging himself upwards and somersaulting onto the scaffolding.

With a roguish wink and a salute, he called out. “The name’s Nox, by the way. If you need me again, you’ll know where to find me.”

And with that, he vanished.

Leaving Tristan in the alleyway, nails drawn. And feeling incredibly stupid.

With a huff, he straightened and checked himself. There was a bruise blooming already on his shoulder, so he froze the skin around it.

His iron nails shrank back into his skin, and he unrolled the sheaf of paper. The writing was small and sloped, and the ink had bled as if water had soaked into the paper, despite it being dry.

“Tell the Queen of Terrasen to protect her youngest. Power and sway are much coveted, and those who seek it attack the weakest link in the chains of royalty.”

Wait….

Marion?

She was being targeted? For sway over Terrasen?

For a moment, he wasn’t in the dingy alley next to the tavern. He was back where he was five years ago, watching Astrian’s back from his hiding spot and she snarled at the dark shapes in front of her.

Memories of the incident flashed back to him, unbidden, as Tristan braced his hand on the wall. He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, willing his breathing to stay even and the thoughts to vanish. He couldn’t break down here, not when he might be seen.

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes and he pressed his palms into his face, gasps shuddering out of him.

Marion was being targeted. He needed to tell Queen Aelin.

He didn’t stop to think that it might have been a false alarm, or a ruse to weaken Terrasen. Even if that were the case, it wouldn’t do any harm to guard her, just in case.

And if the chances were that Nox had been telling the truth, then there was no way he’d let Marion be hurt like that.

Disclaimer: Contains spoilers for The Cruel Prince and The Wicked King

[An ACOTAR fanfiction]

Summary: All Lucien wants, is to fix the problems that burden him, namely the unexpected mating bond that tethers him to Elain. But the grievances of his past won’t leave him so easily. 

Other parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

A/N: FINAL PART!! I am a little tempted to extend this now because I’ve got some other cool ideas, but I’ll leave it at this for now. 

Tags: @aster-ria @hauntedbasketballbonkkid @queen-of-wings-and-fire

…

“I had that love! I had it but because of my own rutting weakness, it’s gone. Jes- She was my everything, and I was waiting and waiting for the mating bond to snap into place, but it never did. But guess what? We didn’t care because we actually loved each other, and didn’t need a Cauldron-damned bond to tell us we were perfect for each other. It didn’t matter to me that she was lesser fae, because she didn’t care that I was the son of the High Lord. She treated me as if I were anyone else, and not like I was the dirt under her feet. She- I-” He gasped and choked back the screams that rose unbidden from his chest, until he felt them like talons scraping against throat. He lurched forward, and despite his attempts to calm his breathing, he shook violently.

And, to his horror, he couldn’t stop.

“Don’t think for a fucking second that I want your love and approval. The reason I wanted to talk to you all these months had nothing to do with me wanting you. Elain, I had the love I wanted. Jesminda was perfect in every way, but they took her from me. They held me down and made me watch as Beron cut her throat-” Images of the Autumn court palace flashed briefly in his vision. Blood pooling around a girl with pointed ears and lesser fae markings, her throat spilled out beside her. His brothers, their nails digging into his tunic as he howled his throat raw.   

“They took the one thing that made my life worthwhile. My father hated me, my brothers wanted to kill me, and my mother was too weak to stand up to anyone. The court was a festering pit, and the one person I had to turn to was Tamlin, but even he managed to hurt me.” The gradual crescendo of his voice filled the room, and Elain, bewildered, had a hand clamped across her mouth. Her lovely features were stricken. Nesta’s gaze stayed hard, but she kept shifting her eyes away from Lucien. For some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Far from guilt, not pity, but…

“Lucien, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.” Elain whispered into the looming silence.

But Lucien simply gritted his teeth and continued. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t want anyone’s pity, and the reason I’m telling you all this is so you understand, my life is already hell. I couldn’t care less about who you are, but I need you to know that the mating bond is as inconvenient to you as it is to me. I want to find a way to break it without going insane and trying to hurt you, because I already have too many regrets. You don’t want me, fine, but acting high and mighty because you seem to think that I’m chasing you hurts. Not that I expect you to give a damn about my emotions, but understand that what you do and feel have repercussions on me. And just because you’re my mate, it doesn’t mean I’ll excuse everything you do.

“And even if my life was somehow perfect and you landed me as your mate, you’d still be in the wrong. No one deserves to be scorned by the person who’s supposed to care about them, Elain, even if that person wants nothing to do with them.” With a pointed look at her, Lucien exhaled. He still wanted to cry, so badly, and the rage he’d felt earlier had slowly started to dissipate. Adrenaline seeped out of him, as quickly as it had appeared. His voice shook.

“I- I guess that’s all I have to say. I’ll look for a way to break the bond, but please don’t reject it yet, not until we know we’ve tried everything.”

Elain and Nesta didn’t say a word as he turned to leave. But Feyre was standing against the door, one hand braced on the wall.

“Why?” She asked.

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Feyre looked genuinely wounded, as if she wanted to help him. Lucien said nothing as he walked out the door, pushing stray auburn hairs away from his face. Although he was on the verge of tears, he willed himself to keep it together, at least until he got out of the Night Court.

Before he could winnow, he caught a glimpse of Azriel leaning against the wall not too far away from where he was standing. His shadows were rampant around him, surging like ink in water and scattering along his tanned skin. He gave Lucien a peculiar glance, as if he were seeing him for the first time, and disappeared into the black.    

Someone- Feyre- called his name just as Lucien winnowed outside of the manor house. He didn’t want to face anyone, not with his eyes pricking and his hands shaking as they were.