@literacae / for elide !

   ❛  𝐖𝐄  𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐍'𝐓  𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄  𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄  𝐈𝐓  𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐅𝐀𝐑  𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓  𝐘𝐎𝐔.  ❜   a  softness  resides  within  her  words,  a   rare  occurrence  in  days  of  looming  war.   ❛  the  trek  to  the  north?  surviving  with  lorcan?  ❜ there’s  a  sly  grin  upon  her  features  at  the  mention  of  fae-male.  despite  her  own  feelings,  she  knows  the  bond  they  share.  ❛  you  fought  to  find  us,  to  come  home.  you’re  stronger  than  you  give  yourself  credit  for.  ❜  there  would  forever  be  a  gratitude  to  not  only  elide,  but  her  mother.  they  had  both  rescued  her  in  their  own  rights.   ❛ having  you  there  after  what  happened  —  thank  you.  ❜

          𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐓.     Everything  that  she  had  endured  had  brought  her  to  this  moment.     The  death  of  her  parents,     the  loss  of  her  land,     being  held  captive  while  believing  she’d  been  forgotten,     the  terror  of  Morath,     befriending  witches,     being  sold  to  the  Valg.     But  she  had  survived.     Elide  was  free  and  in  the  company  of  her  Queen  whom  she  had  begun  to  believe  had  died  those  many  years  before.     A  woman  who  had  felt  the  same  loss  and  overcome  it  all  in  her  own  way.     They  were  survivors.

@literacae· : starter for chaol !

    ❛ 𝐈  𝐒𝐄𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐖𝐀𝐘  𝐘𝐎𝐔  𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊  𝐀𝐓  𝐌𝐄.  ❜    a  tremble  in  her  voice,  there  turquoise-gold  eyes  upon  him,  unwavering  as  fists  clench  at  her  side.   ❛ am  i  a  monster  to  you?  because  i  found  a  way  to  survive?  ❜  there’s  a  bite  in  the  assassin's  words,  that  cold  exterior  perfected  as  though  everything  she  reads  on  him  doesn’t  hurt  her.   ❛  i’ve  made  my  choices.  i  live  with  them  every  damned  day.  i  don’t  need  to  be  reminded  of  them  every  time  you  lay  eyes  upon  me.    ❜  with  that  a  turn  of  the  heels  and  she’s  storming  from  the  training  room.  cloak  is  wrapped  tighter  around  her  sleek  frame,   as  though  the  captain’s  gaze  can  see  right  through  her,  to  what  secrets  rest  beneath.

          𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓;     where  he  thrived  on  order,     she  reveled  in  chaos.     Celaena  was  a  murderer,     paid  for  the  lives  she  stole  and  she  didn’t  seem  to  mind.     No,     the  assassin  seemed  utterly  unbothered  by  the  countless  lives  she’d  taken   ---   carrying  herself  with  an  unwavering  swagger  that  kept  him  aware  of  the  danger  that  lurked  within  the  young  woman  before  him.     So  Chaol  did  little  to  hide  his  distrust  or  the  judgement  that  was  likely  plastered  all  over  every  inch  of  his  face  whenever  he  was  forced  to  be  around  her.     But  for  a  fraction  of  a  second,     as  she  storms  out  of  the  training  room,     there  is  a  distant  spark  of  regret  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach.     Chaol  gives  her  a  few  seconds,     the  muscles  in  his  jaw  tensing  before  he  turns  to  walk  out  after  her.

        she stills at his words before resuming, easing away whatever ache lay between his shoulder blades.          ❛     it is alive &&. it isn’t.     ❜   she admits, refusing to answer his question outright. better to leave him without worry.          ❛     more an echo of whatever had struck you. we’ll work around it.     ❜   yrene declares firmly yet somewhat comfortingly ; she will not fail her test … and as of now , she will not fail the adarlanian lord either. no one, she decides, deserves to fall to such a fate, to succumb to the magic of cruel, forgotten gods and their vile magic. 

        yet she cannot forget the cold and darkness as it had bit into her, colder than the gap between stars, devoid of light, SMOTHERING her as if it had meant to suffocate her until she had released the damper on her power and let it flare as a warning. until it had shrunk back and she had recoiled. may silba help them all.

       she is no longer afraid, that much is certain, but … wary. unsure. her head nearly spins at the thought of the sheer amount of research she’d have to conduct tonight, the books she’d have to lug up to her room to pore over when the night was at it’s darkest and she would have to retire.           ❛     what was it , lord westfall ?     ❜    she repeats firmly, fingers digging in as if to emphasize her question.

          𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐌.     Living  or  not,     he  wanted  nothing  to  do  with  it.     Valg.     Even  if  it  was  a  lingering  shadow,     there  was  a  piece  of  them  lurking  within  himself.     He  can  no  longer  fight  off  the  flashes  of  the  day  the  glass  castle  shattered.     Chaol  is  forced  to  relive  seeing  his  friends  faces  on  the  posts  he  walked  past,     knowing  the  torture  they’d  had  to  endure  before  they  were  brought  to  their  deaths.     His  stomach  churns  and  even  the  calming  oils  and  the  relaxing  movements  of  her  hands  can’t  draw  him  out.     He  remembers  the  pain,     the  sound  of  his  scream  and  how  when  he  came  to   ---   he’d  believed  he  had  died.     He  should  have  died.

        not only a man who is unused to seeking help but one who might even despise it.         ❛     I have never healed an injury of this …     ❜   she trails off for a fleeting moment, reforging the light that she possesses before coaxing it into a mold, tendrils that are meant to be tentative in their probing lest they summon something that isn’t entirely of this world.          ❛     I have never healed anything inflicted by magic, Lord Westfall. so I make no promises, no guarantees.     ❜   the healer from southern fenharrow does not fault him for the tone that now accompanies his words, not when the scars are visible when he speaks ; not only a physical wound but a mental one as well. she would do well to remember that despite his service to the BUTCHER that had slaughtered her people, he had been promised to another royal, the heir himself, &&. that she was to help him in that as well. to accompany him on the path that recovery would require.

          slender yet calloused hands are set atop his sunkissed skin before she casts her magic out like a net and delves into the darkness yet again. and when she recoils again, this time on the verge of stumbling to the nearest pot and retching, she rasps.          ❛     let me fetch the oils.      ❜   she rises, near wobbling with those first initial steps, heading towards the satchel that she had left atop a desk carved of wood that she cannot place. once back she allows a limited amount of the liquid to pool in her palms before rubbing her hands together. once. twice. then she begins on his nape ; and leans forward at the same time, so that prying ears may not hear. if he is as prudent as she suspects, he’ll catch on that the walls have ears.           ❛     that magic is not of this world.      ❜   she admits before digging her thumbs into his skin.            ❛     so you will tell me what it is.     ❜   

          𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.     He  was  no  Lord,     he  lacked  honor.     Oathbreaker.     Liar.     Coward.     He  deserved  this.     He  deserved  to  live  his  life  within  the  confines  of  that  chair  that  he  hated,     to  never  be  able  to  stomach  looking  into  the  eyes  of  guards,     of  soldiers   ---   all  better  men  than  himself,     to  never  be  able  to  stand  with  his  head  held  high.     Further  and  further  he  sunk  into  the  shadows  of  himself,     losing  grasp  of  the  life  around  him  until  the  pain  of  her  searching  causes  the  shadows  to  shutter  in  around  themselves.

          There  is  no  disappointment  on  his  features,     no  waves  of     crippling  shock     found  rushing  through  his  veins  because  he  knew  that  coming  here  might  prove  him  to  be  right.     Chaol  draws  in  another  sharp  breath,     shifting  his  upper  body  as  she  lifts  herself  away  from  him.     If  it  weren’t  for  Nesryn,     for  Dorian  and  all  those  who  counted  on  him   ---   he  would  have  sent  her  away,     would  have  screamed  that  this  was  nothing  but  a  lost  cause,     that  he  was  nothing  but  a  lost  cause.     But  instead  he  sat  quietly,     tensing  slightly  as  her  careful  hands  found  the  places  on  his  back  that  had  knotted  the  most.