HEIR OF FIRE.

𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐇𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐓  — independent portrayal aelin ashryver galathynius of sjm’s throne of glass, lit on fire by artemis.   [ 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙳 ]  /  [ 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙾 ]  /  [ 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚂 ]   

@moonsymbols​ asked :  ❝  you smile, and your face is like the sun.  ❞  — song of achilles meme / accepting. 

WORDS THAT MAKE HER SMILE GROW FURTHER ; rare that she offers such an expression, and to one she’s so unfamiliar with, but there’s something almost endearing about the woman who rests by her side. Ship that bears a destination of her own home has been atop the seas for little more than a week since leaving Prythian, well en route to her own home country. Still, conversation is the first time she’s seen her since then ; and arms lean against the railing of the ship as she peeks to her right, shoulders raised in a gentle shrug that stirs golden braid to fall down her shoulders.

“Glad to be going home, I suppose.”

Gentle murmur, and Aelin offers her a tilt of the head, surveying her. Not easy, to face a new home ( though she’s biased in her own love for the greenery that accompanies her palace ) ; she respects her choice to follow.

   a  breath  of  a  laugh  escapes,  void  of  any  joy,  and  nyx  tilts  his  head.  watches  her  stillness  beneath  his  grasp,  how  she  refuses  to  portray  even  an  OUNCE  of  pain,  despite  the  wounds  she’s  now  obtained.  bruises  and  gashes  that  would  likely  take  time  to  heal,  emotional  scars  that  would  linger  for  far  longer.  a  part  of  him  wishes  to  close  his  eyes,  wanting  to  refuse  koschei  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  their  spar  through  nyx’s  stare.  doesn’t  want  the  warlock  to  gaze  at  his  aunt  a  second  longer,  to  learn  any  more  about  her  than  he  already  has.  but  he,  lost  in  the  crown’s  influence,  can  only  continue  to  hover  aelin’s  body  above  the  ground. 

         ‘      APOLOGIES.  next  time  i’ll  send  your  nephew’s  box  in  a  basket  of  fruit  as  a  message.     ’  her  grip  is  warm,  hotter  than  average  against  the  skin  of  his  wrist.  fiery  power  awaiting  permission,  ready  to  escape  and  defend. to  demolish  him  where  he  stands.  and  that’s  exactly  what  koschei  is  counting  on.  ‘     oh,  i  am  well  aware  of  your  unique  abilities.  which  makes  you  the  perfect  target  —–  and  opponent.     ’  another  tear,  a  harsh  squeeze  to  her  throat  before  nyx  feels  his  fingers  drop  their  grasp  on  her  neck,  hand  reaching  for  a  dagger.  ‘     and  what  makes  having  you  kill  your  own  nephew  as  he  tries  to  kill  you  all  the  more  entertaining.     ’  expression  one  of  horror  and  desperation,  the  illyrian  lunges  forward,  swiping  his  blade  towards  aelin.  forgive  me,  aunt  aelin.  please  forgive  me,  and  please  try  to  stop  me.

“There won’t be a next time.”

IT LEAVES HER LIPS BEFORE SHE THINKS TWICE ; gaze burning hotter with every passing moment, even as his grasp pushes her closer into the stone wall behind her, the fabric of her gown tearing lightly up her back where the scrape of the brick catches. She doesn’t act – not yet – has been trained to take pain, but trained to coax intent from her target’s ; and so his intent spills thoughtlessly, the motivation behind using her beloved nephew as a vessel for his violence. If his hope is that she might end his life, or die in the process, then she’s determined to deny him on both fronts ; stall him, until incapacitation becomes an option.

“And I don’t need to kill him to stop you.”

The glint of the blade catches the light in the room, and even as it drives towards flesh – warmth of blood gushes down the front of her gown even as she catches the dagger with bare hand, slicing into palm and fingertips alike to stop before the point hits the heavy rise and fall of her chest. Pain flares, but letting go of her throat had been a mistake ; head snaps forward to bring against his nose ( truly hoping her nephew can forgive her for a broken nose later ) and uses the momentum to drive the dagger backwards, the hilt driving into his chest harshly enough to wind him, but piercing no flesh whilst the blade was held in her own grasp. Petite frame twists out from underneath his, barely seeming to flinch even as crimson pools from the wounds he’s offered her so far, but years of assassin’s training, of training by the side of the cadre, have honed her well – she doesn’t reach for a weapon as she brushes the blood from her lip with the back of her opposite hand, watching him with a quirk of her brow as she steps back, now gaining the advantage by keeping him back to wall.

This is a discussion hes put off long enough, and perhaps, she isn’t the one to approach first. But he feels as if, she will understand. He has remained unmarried, he has remained without an heir. But less concerning than his family line, is the fact that he has at least realized - he isn’t aging. At first it was a joke, at first it was a suspicion. But when Chaol’s son is nearly the age Dorian took the throne, and when his best friend has more than a sprinkling of gray… he knows now, at last - with youth still evident and unfaded.

It is not an easy topic to broach, a quick grin and pleasant hum to disguise the ah yes so I’m not aging and I don’t want my people to have an immortal king. But he felt aelin might be better to broach at first than chaol, so to her he went. Directed by rowan on where to find her, he walks with frost in his wake to the memorial. The memory of those lost. Dorian always feels a twinge of guilt, that he does not mourn his father well. But the man who was worth mourning had long been suffocated by the thing within him that was darkness. And he could not forget the cruel laughter and smirk from his father as he’d tried to piece together Sorcha that day before the valg took him.

He is quiet when he finds her, takes a seat beside her, a soft shoulder bump. ‘ I find I am in need of counsel. And I believe you will tell me if I am mad or not. In fact, I insist on that. On swear it on the memory of fleetfoot and I shall pour out my madness for it to be judged. ‘ 

SHE’S SUSPECTED THIS FOR A WHILE, NOW ; has seen him enough times for the musings to begin, isn’t surprised in the slightest to hear he is making his journey here for a visit. Still, she is as happy to see him as she has ever been ; chambers prepared, and almost the first to greet him when he slips from the mount of his stallion, all but throwing herself into his arms before bustling him through the doors to the palace of Orynth, once a battle site they’d both remembered all too well ; now home.

He doesn’t approach her to talk until the second day of his visit – finding her seated on one of the benches carved into the gardens, silent in thought. A quick smile offered as his shoulder bumps her own, scooting over enough to allow him a seat ; and as her gaze raises to lock on his own, it occurs to her how far they’ve both come since the day she was forced on her knees before him in the rags of a year’s worth of slavery, filthy and broken and ready for death in every way she thought she might ever be. How far they’ve come.

there is the fragile and terrible truth . they were always thrives and assassins. even that great hope they had of running away. it was just stolen. borrowed time. they were the death of their own dreams as they planned for this one last job. this one last thing to get themselves set for freedom. and while neither spoke of its end, they were both aware how it might. in blood and death and being parted. but that was always the cost of hope. everything.

and somehow he’d known it from the day arobynn brought her in, she was going to be the death of him. but the thing that also made it all worth living. and so there’s a teasing hum as he leans to elbow gently at her ribs.

’ we’ll be on our own time soon. no more master to tell us what and how to live our lives. just you wait – all that time. a while lifetime of it - just laid out before us. you’ll get sick of me I imagine. but I’ll be stuck on you like I’ve always been. ’

teasing, but truthful. he leaned to brush a kiss to her temple. ’ one more job celaena, one more night – and then everything we want is ours. one more solitary night when hoping feels like the hardest thing on earth. and then – we’ll be free. ’ his voice has dropped to a whisper for the last part. half hiding the emotion of his words. he’d never dared imagine freedom, not until he realized - she was the only thing he craved more.

HE SOFTENS HER IN A WAY SHE’S NEVER THOUGHT POSSIBLE ; the two of them resting side by side on the roof of her apartment building, watching the city before them. Where the breeze might be cool, he feels warm against the familiar hug of her dark clothing, cloak abandoned but her frame leaning into what comfort he offered – as though they had all the time left in the world, two assassins trained and primed like predators, but every part of them as much prey as a lamb to the slaughter.

Soft smile curls her lips as his elbow nudges her ribs, and her head turns to glance in his general direction – Celaena would follow him anywhere, but has such trepidation about this last job, the burning feeling that they should get out while they can, pay their debts and leave the guild for their fortunes elsewhere. But she’s never been able to say no to him, and as his lips brush her temple, her eyes close – and she leans into the contact as though she never wants it to break, her breathing softening as her hand catches his to squeeze.

    BLOOD,  bright  and  crimson,  flows  from  the  queen’s  lip,  her  skull,  and  nyx’s  heart  cracks  within  his  chest.  to  know  he  is  the  one  to  cause  such  damage,  hurting  someone  who  is  not  merely  friend  but  family  to  him.  from  childhood,  the  title  of  aunt  is  one  he’d  gladly  given  her.  never  thinking  twice  about  their  bond.  she’s  welcomed  him  into  her  home,  offered  her  support  and  guidance  when  he’s  needed  it  most;  out  of  many,  aelin  is  one  he  trusts  highly.  but  love  does  not  matter.  loyalty,  reverence,  warmth;  all  are  mere  whispers  of  shadow  beneath  the  cold  hand  of  koschei’s  crown.  the  night  court  heir  is  no  longer  himself,  but  a  vessel  for  another’s  doing.  a  soldier  to  perform  the  dirty  work.

           ‘     aelin  galathynius;  queen  of  terrasen.  he  thought  you’d  be  harder  to  subdue.     ’  words  that  are  not  his  own  burn  his  tongue,  the  tone  of  desperation  a  stark  contrast  from  his  speech.  let  me  go!  nyx  screams  into  the  void.  i  don’t  want  to  do  this!  but  only  darkness  and  commands  meet  his  pleas.  fingers  wrapped  around  her  throat,  his  free  hand  punches  into  her  gut.  a  movement  that  has  one  of  her  guards,  already  on  high  alert,  defying  orders  to  defend  his  leader.  only  to  be  met  with  a  swift  end,  nyx’s  daemati  abilities  melting  the  male’s  mind  before  he’s  even  reached  for  a  sword.  a  THUD,  his  body  hitting  the  ground,  and  nyx’s  grip  tightens.  wide,  blue  hues  staring  into  his  aunt’s,  a  single  tear  staining  his  cheek,  though  his  muscles  make  no  move  to  stop.  ‘     i’m  here  to  deliver  a  message:  KOSCHEI  sends  his  regards.     ’

IF SHE’S IN PAIN, SHE DOES NOT SHOW IT ; the strike to her gut falling roughly, even as fingertips tighten on her throat with bruising force, and though her petite frame doubles slightly against his grasp to cough out at the impact of a fist, more blood rushing down her chin, there’s not the barest flicker of it on her face. Instead her gaze is roaming his to search for a crack beneath the mask, something to suggest exactly where the sweet boy she’d coddled all through childhood was. Words confirm that which she already knows ; this isn’t him, he’s not in control. Still, she hears the sickening crumpling of a body to the ground – and stare breaks to see a fallen frame, shaking her head to warn the others not to attempt the same, should they fall next.

Koschei.

It’s not a name she knows – but she very quickly adds it to a list in her mind.

And anyone who makes the list does not stay there for long until she crosses them off.

      the  soft  BUMP  of  their  noses  has  any  doubts  dissipating  from  the  child’s  mind,  a  soft  smile  returning  once  more  to  his  features  as  he  lets  his  head  rest  against  aelin’s  shoulder.  ‘     i  didn’t  mean  to  leave  without  telling  them.  i  just…forgot?     ’  admittedly,  the  boy  could’ve  left  a  note  or  simply  asked  his  parents  before  deciding  to  winnow  to  another  kingdom  entirely.  considering  the  amount  of  enemies  the  night  court  has,  foes  that  nyx  has  inherited,  his  sudden  disappearance  does  not  go  unnoticed.  who  knows  what  kinds  of  devastating  scenarios  ran  through  his  family’s  minds  before  they  figured  out  the  truth.  the  guilt  is  a  pang  in  his  chest,  though  his  aunt’s  embrace  soothes  his  worries,  her  arms  having  always  been  a  comfort  for  him.  ever  since  he  was  a  baby,  nestled  against  aelin’s  chest,  sleeping  peacefully  knowing  in  his  aunt’s  arms,  he  would  always  be  safe.    

             i  visited  aunt  aelin.  sorry  for  not  telling  you  first.  i’ll  be  home  soon,  i  promise!  once  the  message  is  sent  through  his  mental  bonds,  and  nyx  receives  relieved  responses  from  his  parents,  he  relaxes.  ‘     they’re  okay  with  it!     ’  which  is  good,  since  nyx  intends  on  staying  for  as  long  as  he’s  welcome.  ‘     i  really  missed  you,  aunt  aelin.     ’  resting  against  her  shoulder,  his  grin  falters,  arms  wrapping  around  her  middle  in  a  tight  hug.  ‘     i  wish  you  lived  in  velaris.  or  close  enough  that  you  could  kick  illyrian  butt.     ’  since  the  young  illyrian  boys  nyx  has  slowly  started  training  with  haven’t  been  the  most  welcoming,  to  say  the  least.  though  with  aelin  around,  he  doubts  anyone  would  so  much  as  look  at  him  in  a  rude  way.

 HE SMILES AND SHE CALMS ; babe now soothed as he breaks into that little smile once more, and such a small little nuzzle of his head resting against her shoulder. Laughing lightly at his words, a hand raises to brush against his back soothingly, targeting the little bit of flesh that peeks beneath his small wings, and hushing him softly. Maternal instincts have never come easy to her ; but with one so sweet, it’s impossible to offer anything but the most pure affection his way, bouncing him slightly against her lap even as he tucks himself beneath her chin, his arms clinging to her with a strength that makes her own features light in return, cradling him close now ( especially with the reassurance he has finally informed his parents exactly where he’d vanished to, all too well aware his mother would have been out of her mind with worry ). Humming lightly, now that there’s no one but the two of them left in the rooms, Aelin pulls back to tease lightly.

        ❝ Dunno, seems pretty safe and sound t'me for a place to stick two people who might as well kill each other.  Nobody’s gonna lose any valuable real estate if we die right now, y'know? ❞  Though the tone of his voice is light, and his gestures follow as much, Vax'ildan is far from perfectly relaxed.  Upon this apparent assignment from the Clasp, a duel of wits between their own guild and another, Vax had been none too happy to be volunteered:  not only because he was beginning to chafe under this amount of control, even if it brought money, but because it felt a bit this side of too much being a pony, out for a show.  Or bait.  Increasingly, alone in the ramshackle building chosen for the start of their hunt, his thoughts had turned to bait.

        Nevertheless, he does what he may to assuage himself  —  spinning familiar daggers this way and that in his palms, between fingers, idling with Simon for a few moments before the pale snake slinks back into an inert belt around his waist.  Dark hair long and  (temporarily, it’s getting to the point now where even braiding the sides doesn’t do much)  pulled back, his keen half-elven gaze looks over the other catch of the day:  a young woman, perhaps a few years younger, with sharp features and blonde hair braided back, bright eyes flashing with a dark humor that he snorts at.

        ❝ If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t pick it either, ❞  Vax muses, looking up at what he suspects may be a leaky ceiling under worse weather.  Still, he can’t help but glance at the other, unhooded now and seemingly as ready in her own right as he is.  (PERCEPTION CHECK: 16.)  Mother of Sarenrae, she’s armed to the teeth.  ❝ So.  Assuming we’re not going to go all ‘turf war’ right off the tilt, we’re working together on this.  How d'you feel about team sports? ❞

IT’S A SCOFF THAT TAINTS HER FEATURES ; nose scrunched slightly at the survey of the filth around them, dust and darkness and it’s evident that whatever they’ve been offered to sleep on will offer nothing in the way of comfort. Her materialistic self is almost offended that this is the best they can be offered, given each preaches the title of the best their respective guild has to offer – particular given her own Master is all too aware of what a vain creature she can be, attuned to comforts abound. Still, it’s his words that seem to catch her thoughts – and a brow quirks in the closest thing he’s likely seen to amusement on her features, almost an unwritten dare written in the wicked little grin she offers him.

“Good to see we’re being honest with each other.”

Gaze flickers to the figure where he’s seated, and almost idly does her gaze flicker over features to memorise them at a single look ; long dark hair, almost as long as her own, that same ethereal look that implies he’s not all the way human even before she spots the point to his ears. Though she can’t see his weapons, she’s no doubt they’re on him – her own are more ostentatiously displayed, cloak drawn aside for the glint of steel of each blade strapped to her, the suit with the inbuilt daggers clinging to her like a second skin.

  DAGGER  RESTING  AGAINST  THIGH,  clad  in  illyrian  leathers,  the  night  court  heir  stares  unwavering  at  his  target.  muscles  moving  of  their  own  accord,  another  step  forward,  another.  closer  and  closer  to  her.  even  as  some  small,  secluded  part  of  his  mind  screams  for  his  limbs  to  stop,  essence  throwing  itself  against  mental  shields,  desperate  to  claw  them  away.  but  nyx  archeron  is  not  in  control;  beneath  the  binding  influence  of  the  crown,  he  is  a  pawn  for  koschei’s  bidding.  kidnapped,  forced  to  follow  him,  his  master’s  instructions  ring  clear:  kill  aelin  galathynius,  or  die  trying.  kill  anyone  who  gets  in  your  way. 

       koschei  does  not  stray  far,  needing  proximity  to  continue  forcing  the  prince  to  his  commands.  hiding  himself  beneath  armor  of  magic  barriers,  he  remains  untouchable.  watching  as  nyx  strides  towards  his  unexpecting  aunt.  she  looks  joyous  to  see  him,  even  opens  her  arms  in  greeting.  which  makes  nyx’s  heart  all  but  SHATTER  in  his  chest  when  he  sees  his  own  hands  strike  her,  knocking  her  body  to  the  ground.  only  to  grab  her  by  the  neck  and  slam  her  against  the  wall,  hard  enough  to  make  the  stone  walls  crack  as  terror  and  heartbreak  shines  in  his  eyes.  stop  him,  aelin.  make  him  stop. 

HE GETS CLOSER THAN ANY OTHER MIGHT ; trust undoubted, as her arms raise in greeting to the male who has become more family than stranger, regardless of blood void between them. There’s something different in his gaze when it raises to her own – something familiar, from a lifetime ago so it seems, but eyes that stare at her not entirely in control ( not the sweet boy she’s known from the cradle ) and almost in denial does her chest ache before his hand blurs in movement, striking so roughly that far smaller frame crumples at the contact. Pain flares, blurs her vision, but Aelin has had worse ; and so as crimson seeps down her split bottom lip, cheek rouged from the contact of his fist, she doesn’t flinch away as hand grasps her throat.

Crack.

She’s sure at least in part that the sound is the split of her own flesh, feels the warmth of blood tainting golden hair copper as her gaze locks onto his, feet not touching the ground. In a second, she might disarm him – fire that burns to be unleashed in defence, and a lifetime’s worth of fighting men far stronger, far more well trained than even him, stirring beneath the surface. Something unhinged shines in his hues, as though he’s pleading for her to make it stop, knows that she can. Guards surge forward, and it’s only the rise of a hand that stops them in place, the Queen of Terrasen rasping against a grip that strains her ability to breathe.

“Don’t make me do this. Don’t make me hurt you.”