Untitled

He'd brought it up so softly, when he'd asked. Said there was someone he wanted you to meet— someone who'd asked to meet you. There'd been something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes, something that made your chest feel too tight.

Everything in you screamed no. The mere idea unsettled you in a way so little does—made panic claw up your throat. But Azriel is your friend, and your friend had looked at you with such softness, such hope, that you heard yourself saying yes before you could think better of it.

He sensed it, though. The way you'd gone stiff. The unease probably written all over your face. You've never been good at hiding your expression.

"We don't have to," he'd said quickly. "If you're not comfortable, we don't—"

"It's fine." The words came out clipped. Defensive. You'd felt yourself closing off, going somewhere cold and passive. "Let's just get it over with, right?"

"Right," he'd said, as hurt washed through his features. Disappointment. It was gone seconds later, smoothed behind that careful mask of his.

You wanted to take it back, but you didn't know how.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The trip is a blur because you spend it entirely in your head.

Azriel had offered you options—flying together, winnowing, him carrying you. You'd chosen winnowing even though it makes you nauseous, even though the disorientation is worse than the alternative.

You can't fly. Won't.

Azriel knows. He has to know, in that way he knows most things about you without asking. But he hasn't pushed. Hasn't probed about your wings or your heritage or any of the ugliness you keep locked away. Months into your friendship, and you're both still dancing around some wounds you don't talk about.

You're grateful for it, really. Pregnancy hormones would crack you wide open. You're not ready for that.

So you winnow, and the world goes sideways, and you spend the entire journey spiraling.

What if you say something wrong? What if she takes one look at you and sees exactly what you are—someone fundamentally unequipped for this, someone her son is stuck with? What if she doesn't like you? Worse—what if you don't like her?

After all, you've never quite liked mothers. The same way your mother never quite liked you. 

If this goes poorly, your friendship with Azriel shatters. You'll be doing this alone. You'll—

The door to the beautiful home opens, and everything stops.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

She's beautiful.

You don't get time to catalog details—the shape of her face, the color of her hair—because the second she sees Azriel, her entire expression breaks open.

You watch her take him in like he's the only thing in the world worth seeing.

"My sweet boy."

She pulls him down into her arms and he melts. There's no other word for it. The Shadowsinger, the Spymaster, the male who moves through the world like a weapon—he melts like a child coming home.

Something cracks in your chest.

You watch his wings curve around her instinctively, protective and seeking protection at once. Watch her hands run over his shoulders like she's checking for injuries she knows she'll find. Watch her kiss both his cheeks and cradle his face between her palms.

"Too thin," she murmurs, and you can just barely hear it. "You're too thin, my love."

"Mother—"

"And your shadows are restless, which means you're far too stressed—"

"Mother—"

"And you look exhausted. When did you last take a full night's rest?"

"Mother, please—"

She releases him, laughing softly, and her eyes find you.

She has Azriel's eyes.

No, that's not right. He has her eyes. Hazel and bright and alive, gleaming with something that looks dangerously close to joy.

You straighten on instinct. Shoulders back. Chin up. Wings tucked tight enough it almost starts to hurt. The posture of someone who's spent their entire life waiting to be found lacking.

There's a shift in her expression.

"None of that," she says, already moving toward you. "Please, sweetheart. None of that. You're not here to be inspected."

Your wings loosen slightly at the term of endearment. You don't remember telling them to.

You glance at Azriel—quick, assessing, looking for guidance you're not sure you'll find—and he's already watching you. His expression is soft in a way that makes you want to look away. Unguarded in a way you've never seen.

His mother stops in front of you.

Close. She's so close you can see the gold threaded through her eyes, the smile lines carved deep around her mouth. Evidence of laughter. Of happiness. Things you wouldn't have expected to find.

"Oh, look at you," she breathes.

Her hands reach for yours before you can prepare yourself, and her grip is strong. Her hands are scarred— just like yours. You wait for her to look closer and see all the ways you're wrong. All the ways you'll disappoint her.

Impossibly, her face simply softens further.

Ink appears at your shoulder, your newly named loyal tendril of shadow, brushing against your shirt as it drifts toward her.

"Come inside," she says, and she's already gently tugging you toward the door. "I've made far too much food—I always make too much when I'm nervous—"

"You're nervous?"

The words escape before you can stop them.

She laughs. It's bright and startled and real. "Terrified. My son brings home the mother of my grandchild and I'm supposed to be calm? Absolutely not."

Grandchild.

The word ricochets through your skull. Another connection forming in this family tree you've been trying to map in your head. Azriel and his mother. Your baby's grandmother.

Azriel's side of the tree sprawls wide—the entire Inner Circle, branches everywhere you look. Your side is mostly empty space. Just one name: Balthazar. And even he exists in the margins, undefined, complicated, a relationship that had changed fundamentally.

Your throat goes tight.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The inside of her home makes something in you ache.

Books piled on every available surface. Herbs hanging from the rafters, dried and fragrant. A basket of yarn beside a leather chair that's been worn soft by years of use. The table is covered with food—bread and cheese and fruit and what looks like berry pie—and there's a fire crackling in the hearth, filling the space with warmth.

It smells like rosemary and woodsmoke and something else. Something you don't have a word for because you've never experienced it before.

Home, maybe. If you knew what that meant.

It's the same feeling you get walking into the River House, sitting down for dinner with the Inner Circle. Except this is different. More. Azriel's body language suggests he thinks so too—he's looser here, softer, like he can finally breathe.

Your childhood residence in Karasith had been pristine by camp standards. Pristine in the way a blade is pristine—functional, cold, sharp-edged. Your parents weren't sentimental people. Hard to be sentimental when there's no love to be sentimental about. It was simply a place to sleep and train and prepare for the next day. A roof over your head.

Never a home.

You'd learned to move through it like a ghost. Leaving no trace. Taking up no space.

Even now, your apartment in Velaris barely has signs of life. Nothing that really says you live there beyond the bare necessities— and recently: gifted books, and baskets that were once filled with Elain's delicacies.

You're still standing in the entryway, and now your hands are fidgeting— pulling at your sleeves, smoothing down the fabric. You force them still, but then you're shifting your weight instead, and gods, when did you become this person?

When you risk a glance at Azriel, he's watching you. There's amusement in his expression. Fondness, too. He's seeing something new and finding it endearing rather than pathetic.

It irritates you, just slightly. That he gets to witness this. That he's discovering this part of you—raw and anxious and completely out of your depth—while you're discovering this part of him. The doting son who melts into his mother's loving arms.

You're learning each other backwards. How grossly poetic, you think.

His mother is already talking, moving through the space with familiarity, and you find yourself following. Nodding along as she asks questions—about your journey, about how you're feeling, whether the nausea has improved, and if she can give you any recommendations for herbal aids.

She's asking about you, you realize, fondly. Not solely the babe you carry, or the situation her son has found himself in. You.

There's a version of you still standing by the door, though. You feel her, even as Azriel answers his mother's questions.

She's too scared to enter. Too desperate to be seen. She's waiting and holding her breath, expecting the worst.

But Azriel's mother is smiling at you like you're already family, and her hands are scarred like yours, and she's talking to you like you matter. You feel that ghost at the door start to soften.

Azriel watches you with an unbearably kind expression. He's seeing you vulnerable in a way you've never let yourself be. Not even Balthazar has seen this: a version of you, stripped of your mother's contempt.

Both you and Azriel are witnessing each other transform.

His mother says something that makes him laugh—really laugh—and you feel your mouth twitch. Almost a smile. Your hands are finally still.

The girl by the door takes one step forward, and welcomes the warmth of a home.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Dinner goes well.

Better than well, actually. You enjoy the food more than you have in months, and you find yourself wondering if something made with a mother's love simply tastes better. If care can be an ingredient.

Azriel cleans up afterward, waving off your attempt to help. He kisses his mother's temple before disappearing into the kitchen, and she leans closer to you, asking more questions. About you, about Velaris, about things you don't know how to answer because no one's ever asked before.

It's embarrassing, how hollow some parts of you are.

You'd never realized it until now. So much time spent in survival mode—in a constant state of proving, fighting, winning—that there was so little time to discover anything else about yourself. In those rare moments of peace, those brief pockets where you could have grown into something more, you'd stayed small anyway.

Balthazar knew things about you, of course. A version of you that hadn't seen the public eye until Azriel. But even with him, you'd never flourished the way he did. The way others in Karasith did, despite everything.

You'd had the opportunity. You just—couldn't. Too afraid that if you became a full person with visible interests and preferences, it would hurt worse when you proved, once again, that even whole you weren't enough to keep. Easier to stay a base model. Easier to blame the hollowness on circumstance than admit you'd carved it out yourself as protection.

The living room is bathed in amber light now, the sun bleeding lower through wide windows that frame the forest beyond. Azriel left to help with something around the property—firewood, maybe, or repairs his mother mentioned needing—and she'd told you to make yourself comfortable while she brewed tea. Something to help with digestion, she'd said with a knowing smile.

The house fills with a new scent. Bergamot, maybe. Or sage. Balthazar would know—he'd cataloged every plant in Karasith by the time he was twelve, could identify them by scent alone. You'd never inherited skills like that. Too busy learning which parts of your body could take a hit. Where to place your feet in snow so you wouldn't slip during a fight.

You stand in the middle of the beautiful space, playing with the fabric at your stomach, twisting it between your fingers. Usually you'd look around—you're good at that, cataloging details, figuring people out through their possessions. But this feels different. More private. You don't want to seem like you're snooping, even though part of you desperately wants to understand her through the objects she's kept, the life she's built in this quiet place.

You're on your best behavior. Or trying to be. Less defensive now, at least, which is shameful to even count as progress.

Your eyes catch on things anyway. A stack of letters on the mantle, tied with kitchen twine. Pressed flowers in a simple frame. A carved wooden bird on the windowsill, worn smooth by years of handling. You drift toward the mantle without deciding to, drawn to those letters like a moth to a flame. You trace the edges with careful fingers, and your assigned tendril of shadow follows— Ink winding around the bundle with the familiarity of recognition.

You recognize the handwriting from all those notes and gift baskets left on your doorstep at the beginning of this—back when you were still convinced it was an elaborate performance of duty rather than genuine care. The memory tugs at something in your chest.

"They're Azriel's."

You jump hard enough that your shoulder twinges, yanking your hand back. Heat floods your face—caught like a child with her hand in something forbidden.

"I'm sorry," you say quickly. "I didn't mean to—"

His mother smiles, offering you a beautiful ceramic mug, steam curling gently from its contents. "Nothing to apologize for. I'd be curious too."

She approaches the mantle and sets down her own mug. Picks up the bundle of letters with both hands, reverent, and her whole face softens.

"Does he write a lot?" You ask.

"I think he gets bored on missions." Her laugh is soft, affectionate. "All that waiting around for someone who's never been particularly patient. Pushes him to write to his boring old mother."

There's humor in it, self-deprecating in that gentle way, but no actual hatred underneath. No self-contempt. You're so used to way Illyrian women refer to themselves with venom threaded through every word. But she says it like a joke. She knows Azriel writes because he wants to. Love has patched something in her. Mended the parts that Illyria tends to break.

Your chest constricts as you try to imagine it: Azriel, sitting still, thinking of his family as he waits.

His title of Spymaster is something you haven't thought much about, which feels like a failure now. You know the broad strokes, can imagine the rest, but you've never asked for details. Never thought about what it actually means—the waiting, the stillness required of someone whose mind never seems to stop. It's almost funny. Contradictory. A male who lives in constant motion forced into perfect patience.

All these versions of him you're discovering because you now share something so intimate. Your child.

"It must be hard," you say quietly. "Being away from him so often."

"It is." Something heavy crosses her face—guilt threaded through with old pain. "But circumstances taught me how to be apart from him. I'm grateful he makes the effort to visit as often as he does."

Her tone has gone somewhere else. You wonder if she has ghosts too. Versions of herself standing nearby, whispering about failures she can't undo. She hurts, centuries later, about what happened to him. What she couldn't prevent.

The stories you've heard. The details Azriel has slowly, carefully shared.

You'd done research in those early days after discovering you were pregnant. Snooped, if you're being honest. Asked around, listened to gossip, pieced together a picture of who Azriel was beyond the careful mask he shows you. What he survived. What was done to him.

What you might be getting yourself into.

"He really loves you," you say, and it comes out quieter than you intended.

She looks at you with those beautiful, soulful eyes, and says simply: "I love him."

So plain. So certain. It's the most obvious thing in the world.

She unties the twine and shuffles through the letters, then pulls one free and extends it toward you. You hesitate, brow furrowing. She just extends it further.

"This is one of my favorites."

Her words give you permission, somehow. You take it gently, setting your mug on the mantle as you unfold it. Azriel's writing is beautiful—long, heavy-handed script. Your eyes rake over how much he's written without taking in the words themselves. The image of his hands conjures in your mind. The small flexing he does sometimes, like they still ache.

A fighter in Karasith once got burned stumbling drunk near a fire pit. The skin on his leg had flayed, mobility destroyed for months. To have this kind of control with Azriel's hands—after what was done to them, after the deliberate cruelty—must have taken more than time and dedication.

It must have been agony to relearn.

Your eyes catch on the bottom of the page, where a small sketch sits. A bird perched in a tree, delicate and detailed. You run your fingers along it. The image of him rearranges itself in your mind. Another piece of the puzzle. The picture coming more into focus.

"The sketches are always my favorite part," she says.

"I didn't know he could draw."

She hums—the same exact cadence Azriel uses when he's thinking.

There's something achingly tender about it. Him, wherever he is on whatever mission, thinking of her. Taking the time.

"He'll tell you he can't, but he always has. Little details he notices that no one else sees." Her voice drops, goes soft. "I used to imagine he'd be an artist. In another life. If things had been different."

You're learning your friend through his mother's eyes. Watching these threads weave themselves somewhere deep in your bones. The love between them is more than you thought possible. To love a parent like this—openly, without resentment festering underneath. You'd seen glimpses with Nyx and Feyre and Rhysand, but seeing it in someone with centuries of life, someone who's had time for that love to sour and hasn't let it—it's different.

You'd always assumed parent-child relationships followed the same trajectory. That they curdled into disappointment when your parent inevitably failed you, when they proved themselves fallible and broken and not enough.

It gives you something dangerous. Hope. That maybe you're not cursed to repeat cycles. That even if you fail spectacularly, if you're just as mean and complicated as you are now, maybe Azriel will be enough. Maybe his capacity for gentleness will balance whatever sharpness you can't file down.

Your eyes drift back to the letter, catching on the final paragraph where his writing gets messier. Rushed or emotional, you can't tell which.

I've been thinking about what you told me. About how being alone and being lonely are different. You're right. As you always are, of course. I'm okay with being alone. But I think I'm starting to be lonely too, mother.

I miss you. I'll come visit soon.

Your nose burns. You blink hard against the pressure building behind your eyes and fold the letter carefully, hands steadier than you feel.

You extend it back with a tight smile, guilt threading through you. Words meant for her alone, and you've read them like they were yours to take. But when she accepts it, her smile is warm. Understanding. Like you haven't transgressed at all.

She returns the letter to its place and reties the twine with careful fingers. You use the moment to really look at her. Study her the way you wanted to when she first opened the door, before you got distracted watching her transform into a mother holding her son.

She's so beautiful.

And so undeniably Illyrian.

She has the same posture as you, the same height. The same ferocity when she talks. Her wings are lighter than Azriel's in both color and membrane thickness. Not as narrow as yours—Karasith bred the slimmest wings in all of Illyria—but close.

And they're damaged. You can see the scars, the places where the membrane didn't heal quite right. Each one has a story, you're sure. Hideous and cruel ones, the kind Illyria specializes in.

Yet she stands here looking so fondly at this stack of letters, this tangible proof of how loved she is by someone the rest of the world fears.

The realization hits you with frightening clarity: She is what you want to be.

Not just a mother capable of this kind of love, of making someone as unsociable and sharp as you feel at ease. But proof. Living proof that you can survive what Illyria does to you and stay soft anyway. That you can be strong without being cruel. That being Illyrian doesn't have to mean what your mother made it mean.

Everything you wanted your mother to be stands before you now. She survived and stayed kind. Raised a son who writes letters with birds drawn in the margins.

You can feel ghosts gathering in your chest. All those versions of yourself, assembling.

"Azriel tells me you're from Karasith," she says, as if she can sense where your mind has drifted.

Your chest locks. You pick up your mug again just to give your hands something to do. "I am."

"That's quite a distance. Do you miss it?"

Do you?

The training rings and the cold and Balthazar's rare smiles. The older women who'd sit in the morning sun with their wings spread, talking and laughing while their daughters braided each other's hair. Your mother walking past all of it without stopping, without looking, without ever seeing you standing there wanting so desperately to be included.

You're eight years old with a missing tooth, watching those women and writing letters to your mother in your head. I'm sorry. I'll be better. I want to be just like you. You'd rewrite them endlessly, trying to find the combination of words that might make her look at you the way those other mothers looked at their daughters.

Then you'd stopped. Started baring your teeth at the males instead, making yourself into something too dangerous to dismiss. If you couldn't be loved, you'd be useful. You'd be too sharp to throw away.

Balthazar had been the first one who didn't just snarl back. Who saw an ally instead of a threat.

"Yes," you say finally, and it surprises you that it's true. "Sometimes. I miss—there were these women. They'd sit outside in the mornings. Laughing. Their daughters would sit with them and—"

You wanted that so badly it felt like hunger. Wanted your mother to sit with them. Wanted her to make space for you beside her. Wanted her to braid your hair or touch your wings or just look at you.

You think about the mountains. The way the snow caught light. The particular quality of silence that only existed in that canyon. My heart aches for you, Karasith. For all that you could be.

"There's a lot of beauty back home," you finish quietly. "If you know where to look."

Azriel's mother nods like she understands. Maybe she does. Maybe being Illyrian comes with that—the ability to hold love and resentment for the same place simultaneously. To carry home in your chest like a wound that never fully heals.

She smiles, picks up her mug, and places her free hand on your bicep.

"Come," she says, and your memories drift back where they belong—some lonely corner in your mind. "Let's sit. I'll tell you all of Azriel's embarrassing stories before he comes back and stops me."

You follow her, and as you sink into the couch beside her, you think about all those versions of yourself you've been dragging through the world.

Maybe they weren't broken. Maybe they weren't too much or too loud or too wrong. Maybe they were just eight and desperate for attention. Twelve and learning to protect herself. Seventeen and lonely.

Maybe you can bury them gently in Karasith, where they belong. Mourn them properly.

Azriel's mother starts talking, laughter in her voice, and you find yourself smiling. Actually smiling.

The ghost at the door is next to you now. You can see her— wide eyed and curious, watching Azriel's mother with something like wonder. Something like love.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

AUTHORS NOTE: this part was actually so special to me. i wrote a lot of it after talking to my own momma about her life. honestverse reader u are so dear and special to me. i hope you guys love her just as much and that this chapter gets you a lil excited for the beautiful growth ahead of reader AND az

btw... im taking any suggestions for azriels mommas name, bc she ill be coming up more!! hehe

as always, thank you for reading xx your comments are always my fav <3 i’d love to know if you have any favorite parts 🫣

IMPORTANT: i won't be doing any more taglists! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted! taglists age me 1000 years babies im so sorry i cannot do em anymore

permanent tag list (shall remain for now!) 🫶🏻

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @yesiamthatwierd @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

@feyretopia @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli  @mrsjna

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@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

“My boy,” she breathed.

Azriel’s throat tightened. “Hi, Mama.”

She moved forward, taking his face in her hands. She didn’t flinch when his scarred hands came up to cover hers. He’d stopped expecting that flinch years ago, but it still shocked him when it didn’t come. “You didn’t say you were coming.”

“Needed to see you,” he murmured.

Her brow furrowed. Despite the years they missed out on together, she could always read him like a book. “Something happened.”

He only nodded.

She stepped aside to let him in. The scent of roasting lamb and wild herbs hit him immediately. The estate was warm and alive, a fire burning brightly in the hearth behind the screen. Jars of pickled vegetables littered the shelves in the kitchen and dried herbs hung from the ceiling. Bolts of cloth were stacked in corners. Half-finished dresses hung from racks scattered around the room. And the cats who had followed them inside perched on the couch, coffee table, and windowsills as they watched him with flicking tails.

His mother pointed toward the couch in front of the hearth. “Sit. You’re pale.”

“I can’t be pale, Mama. I’m Illyrian,” he replied with a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t argue with your mother Azriel Donnall,” she scolded.

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, chuckling softly.

Azriel unbuttoned his jacket and sat on the couch in front of the fire, resting his arms on his knees. One of the cats, a cream-colored puff ball of a thing, leaped into his lap without invitation. He began to stroke her head with his hand.

Eve returned to the kitchen, where she stirred something in a tall iron pot. “Did you eat?”

“No ma’am.”

“Good thing I make enough to feed an army, then,” she said in a light, sing-song voice.

He watched her in silence for a while, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders as the smell of garlic and spice filled the room. He hadn’t realized how tightly wound he’d been until he stepped into this place. Into her quiet, protected world.

“Rhys gave me an order,” he said eventually.

She turned her head but kept stirring. “What kind?”

He twisted his scarred hands in his lap despite the cat nudging them with her head, begging for more pets. “To stay away from someone I care about.”

Her stirring slowed.

“I kissed her,” he continued. “And he said to stay away from her.”

His mother said nothing for a long moment, then tilted her head as she asked, “Did she want you?”

“Yes.”

“And did you hurt her?”

“No.”

“Then he has no right,” she said, her face scrunching up in anger. It wasn’t a face Azriel saw very often. For many years he didn’t think his mother was capable of such emotion. Thought it was too deeply associated with his father, Fergus, for her to allow herself to feel such a thing—much less express it.

But one night he came barreling in through the door after a half-ass job of stitching himself up in his Velaris apartment—empty save for the few supplies and furniture items needed in emergencies like those—that she’d properly scolded him for the first time in his five hundred and sixty years of life. Her brows and nose had scrunched like they were now and her face had turned red as a tomato as she lectured him on taking proper care of himself. And on not letting Rhys overwork him, but they both knew that wouldn’t change, not unless another Shadowsinger appeared.

Her ranting had quickly ended when he had whispered that he just wanted his mother. She’d cooed at him and taken his hand, leading him to the dining room where she redid his stitches, fed him, and then sent him off to bed.

Nights like that didn’t happen often, the guilt Azriel felt too strong in normal circumstances for him to allow her to coddle him in such a way. The tables have turned now, and it was his turn to take care of her. But when he was vulnerable like that night, and tonight, he allowed her to be the mother she never got to be without fuss. To make sure he was fed, to kiss his boo-boos, and check on him throughout the night—though she didn’t know he knew about that part.

Azriel exhaled shakily. “He’s trying to protect his family.”

“And who protects you, Azriel?” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Who protects my boy?”

“I don’t need protection, Mama. I am a grown male, with multiple methods of defending myself.” He sighed. “She has a mate. She doesn’t want him but…he wants her. And Rhys is worried about the consequences that may follow should he choose to fight for her.”

His mother huffed indignantly. “While I may understand where he’s coming from in a diplomatic sense, a mating bond is not law. Especially if it hasn’t been consummated.” She raised a singular brow at him in question, and after he gave a brief nod, she continued. “That’s what I thought. Mother only knows what decides who is mated to who, and we’ve seen firsthand how incompatible some mates can be.”

Azriel scrubbed at his face, both in frustration and in an effort to remove the cat fur that was starting to tickle his nose.

“I know, Mama. But trying to tell Rhys that is like talking to a brick wall. His mating bond is something straight out of a fairytale. They’re perfect for each other. He’s so high on the happy hormones he can’t think straight.”

“Well,” his mother sighed, “just give it time for now. Maybe he will eventually see the error of his ways—however, that is doubtful. But maybe something will change between the two of them. Whether that be breaking the bond or…”

Azriel nodded solemnly.

“Dinners ready,” she called, thankfully changing the subject.

At the table were dishes containing fluffy rice, roasted lamb with garlic and figs, and warm flatbread brushed with butter and herbs. She sat beside him at the dining table, handing him his napkin and silverware like he was still her child and not one of the most feared males on the continent.

“Eat,” she murmured. “And then you’ll sleep.”

He did. He ate every bite. He helped her clean up after despite her swatting him with a dish towel, and when she nudged him toward the spare room that had been turned into his, he relented. He was asleep within minutes, curled beneath a patchwork quilt that smelled like lilac and woodsmoke.

Azriel woke to the sound of birdsong and soft humming. When he stepped out into the living room, he could see his mother was already in the garden through the living room window. She had a woven basket looped over one arm and a small trowel in the other, a few of the cats following her every move.

The goats roamed nearby, grazing on the grass and wildflowers. The chickens were still in their coop, but he could hear the roosters waking up to start their day—and everyone else’s within a five mile radius.

He stepped off the front porch steps, rolling up his sleeves. “What can I do?”

Eve handed him the basket. “Pick the ripe potatoes. And the mint. The rest we can leave another day.”

He did as asked, enjoying the silence between them. There was no need to talk. Not here. She moved between rows of herbs and vegetables with ease, nimble despite the wings that hung like broken branches behind her.

“They don’t hurt anymore,” she said suddenly.

“What?”

“My wings. I thought they always would. But they stopped.” She straightened, wiping dirt on her pants. “They still feel wrong, but they don’t ache constantly, only when it’s really cold.”

Azriel swallowed. “I’m glad.”

She looked at him, long and steady. “You were only two when they took you to the dungeons. And then when you were eleven you were sent to the camps and I thought I’d never see you again,” her voice cracked at the end.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”

“And decades later when you brought me here, I didn’t know how to be your mother anymore.”

“You learned,” he assured her, smiling ruefully.

A tear slipped down her cheek and he sent a shadow to wipe it away.

They resumed harvesting in silence, the spring breeze ruffling their hair. And Azriel, not for the first time, wondered what it would be like to stay here. He usually only stayed for a few days at a time, always having to rush off to his duties as Spymaster. Maybe in another world, he got to live with his mother. Got to be raised by her. Instead, he had to keep her hidden away like a princess in a tower for her comfort and safety.

His father and stepbrothers were, unfortunately, still alive. He’d like to think the beating he and his brothers gave them would deter them from ever trying to hurt his mother again, but he could never be too careful. Not with her.

Fergus, Uilleam, and làcob had been a type of cruel he still hasn’t come across again in his centuries of being the Night Court torturer. Even his stepmother, Dara, had been a piece of work. And though he and his brothers did not lay a hand on her, her screams of fear after witnessing what he had done to her husband and children that day told him she got the message.

So he keeps as much of his mother’s whereabouts a secret as possible, and that includes not visiting often or staying too long in case he is trailed. He doesn’t even tell his brothers much about her. They know she exists, and they know he visits her, but that is the extent of their knowledge. And he will keep it that way—until the rivers run dry, the moon turns blue, and Hel freezes over—because the more people who knew, the more danger she was in.

By mid-morning, the sun had warmed the earth and Eve had opened the front windows to let in the breeze. Azriel helped her move a display table outside, setting it up beneath the shade of a birch tree.

“Today’s trade day?” he asked.

Eve nodded. “Yes. The girls are coming.”

The “girls” were a loose collection of females from nearby hills and hidden cottages. Survivors, all of them. Some bore the scars of escaping their abusive husbands or families, others just had that hollow look in their eyes that he had seen too often in his mother. But here, at Rosehall, they were vibrant. Whole. Eve had given them that.

They arrived at noon with jars of honey, wool, bundles of soap, and bolts of cloth. They greeted Azriel with smiles and nods, some whispering behind their hands. It took some of them decades to become comfortable around him, but they learned to trust him as Eve’s son and not fear him as the Shadowsinger.

He watched as the females traded goods and gossip, tried on new cloaks, and stitched hems right there in the grass. One brought Eve a fruit cake, another a bottle of berry wine. The females smiled and laughed with each other, Azriel’s mother shining the brightest of them all.

Azriel smiled more that day than he had in months. Seeing his mother like this, in her element, in company that loved and appreciated her almost as much as he did, warmed his cold, dead heart.

When the sun dipped low, and the females gathered their things, Eve hugged each one like a sister. Then she returned to the house, her eyes alight.

“You’re staying for dinner,” she told him, bracing her hands on the archway to the kitchen.

Azriel turned from where he was adjusting the logs in the fire. “I wasn’t planning to leave yet.”

“Good.”

She made a stew with lentils, root vegetables, and chicken with a side of bread. They ate on the porch, listening to the goats and chickens wandering around the property. Several cats were draped over the railing or sprawled out on the wooden planks soaking up the last rays of the sun.

After dinner, she sat beside him on the porch swing with a needle and thread, repairing one of his tunics.

“You don’t have to—”

“Hush. Let me do this. I never got to patch your clothes when you were small,” she said with a small smile, but there was emotion swimming in her eyes, and a hint of pleading.

So he let her.

And when she brushed his hair back with gentle fingers, the way she used to when he was too bruised to move, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let himself lean into his mother’s touch. Savor it. His eyes closed on their own accord and a soft sigh escaped his lips.

That night, Azriel stood beneath the stars, looking out at the moonlit mountain. Eve joined him, wrapping a blanket around her thin shoulders.

“Are you going to stay angry at Rhys forever?” she asked as she stood next to him.

He crossed his arms over his chest, his shadows swirling around him. “No. But I needed space.”

“And will you go to her? This girl?”

He was silent.

Eve stepped closer. “You were never a mistake, Azriel. Not even in that house. You were the only thing that saved me.”

His throat burned. “I just want to be enough for someone.”

“Oh, my sweet boy,” she said, her voice thick with sadness. “You are. You were always enough. They were just too blind to see it.”

She pulled him close then, one clipped wing curling around him. “You are my heart, Azriel. My brave, beautiful boy.”

Your hair was styled in a low bun at the nape of your neck—classy and delicate, but not too formal. You didn't want to come off as too concerned with appearances. For that same reason, you had kept your makeup minimal and natural.

Maybe that was it. Maybe you should have done more. It wasn’t too late, you could still—

“Y/N.”

Azriel came up behind you, his arms sliding around your waist as he pressed a kiss to your neck. “There's no need to be so nervous, my love.”

Your eyes met in the mirror, but, unlike every other time, his soft smile did little to calm you.

“I just don't want to make a bad first impression,” you murmured. You tasted blood on your tongue and realized you were chewing on your inner cheek again. You stopped immediately.

“And you won't.” His hands came to rest on your hips as you both looked at the reflection. “Look at you. You're gorgeous, Y/N.”

You were beautiful—you could admit that much. But you didn't feel perfect, and that's what you were aiming for.

Turning around to face Azriel, you placed your hands on his broad chest, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath your palms. He had also dressed up nicely, and you knew he had done it for you, to help you feel more at ease. He didn't have to, after all. It was his mother you were about to have lunch with. He didn't have to impress anyone.

“I don't want to disappoint her.” You looked into the depths of those beautiful hazel eyes. “She's your mom.”

“And you're my mate, who's also pregnant with my child,” he answered, his hands now resting on your belly. “You have nothing to worry about. She's going to love you. Trust me.”

Hearing the certainty in his voice, you finally relaxed. You closed your eyes and rested your forehead against his, breathing in his familiar scent.

Despite having been mated for a few years—and all the decades of friendship first and being in love later—you had never met Rosalind. Every time he visited her, after Winter Solstice and for both their birthdays, you never accompanied him. He had never asked you to, and you had never pushed him about it. You knew how he felt about his mother, how he wanted to keep her sheltered from a cruel world that had already taken so much from her.

She's a kind soul, he always said. You didn't doubt it.

That's why you had been so surprised when he had come home after his last visit and told you he would like you to meet his mother.

And here you were now.

Azriel kissed your forehead before pulling back. “You're ready to go, baby?”

You nodded, turning to take one last look in the mirror. And that's when you realized what was missing.

“Wait! Hold on…” You opened the top drawer of the dresser and rummaged through it until you found what you were looking for. “Aha!” you exclaimed triumphantly, holding a little necklace between your fingers.

The jewelry itself wasn't anything special—a thin chain with a small star-shaped pendant—but it held a symbolic meaning: it was one of the first gifts you had ever received from Azriel, back when you were nothing more than friends, and every time you wore it, things went well. It might be just superstition, but it quickly became your good luck charm. That's why it was reserved for special occasions such as this one.

“Your lucky necklace?” Azriel took it as you offered it and stepped behind you to put it around your neck. “I thought we were meeting my mother, not going on some kind of adventure.”

You whirled, worried that your nervousness was starting to annoy him. Instead you found him with an amused smile on his lips, looking down at you with a softness that made your heart flutter.

“Y/N, my love.” He cupped your cheeks, his voice low and gentle. “All that matters to me is that you're comfortable. We can reschedule, if you want.”

You shook your head and a small smile appeared on your face. “No,” you said firmly. “I want to meet her. I'm just a bit nervous.”

When he arched a brow, you chuckled. “Okay, maybe more than a bit.”

Azriel leaned in to brush a kiss across your lips. “I know. But I can already tell you she's going to adore you. Trust me. Everyone does.”

Your smile grew, and with one last look at your reflection, you finally stepped back. “Alright. I just need to grab the pastries and we can go.”

~~~~~~

Azriel winnowed you to the outskirts of a little village. Though the street was quiet, peppered only by a few houses, you could hear children laughing and screaming playfully in the distance.

The manor in front of you—Rosehall, Azriel had called it—was smaller than anticipated, with colorful flowers in every window.

You smiled at the sight and let Azriel guide you to the red-painted door.

When he didn't knock, you looked up at him and found his eyes already on you.

“What?” you asked, brows furrowed.

“You're doing it again.” His hand came up to cup your face. “Stop biting your cheek, love. It'll bleed.”

“I didn't even realize I was— sorry.” With a sigh, you cleared your mind of the nervousness that was starting to rise again. Then you gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

Azriel nodded, and his hand fell away from your cheek to knock on the red wood. It took only a few seconds for the door to open, revealing a smiling Illyrian female.

Her hair was the same black as her son's, just like her hazel eyes—both common Illyrians traits. But you knew Azriel's face well enough to notice they shared the shape of the nose, the curve of the mouth, the slightly upward tilt of the eyes. He wasn't the spitting image of her, but no one could have mistaken them for anything other than mother and son.

“Oh, my boy! It's so nice to see you again so soon!” Rosalind hugged her son, who could embrace her with only one arm, the other one holding the wicker basket with home-baked pastries.

“Hi, mom,” he replied, his tone as soft as the one he usually reserved for you. She smiled as he leaned down to place a kiss on the crown of her head. She was several inches shorter than him, just like you.

Rosalind then turned to face you, and a second later her arms were around you. “It's such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

You were so stunned by the sudden display of affection that it took you a moment to return the gesture, and another one to find the words. “The pleasure is all mine.”

When you pulled back, Rosalind’s smile was even brighter than before, and it was enough to make you forget any semblance of anxiety.

“Come in. Come, dears,” she said, stepping aside. “Come inside. Let me take a good look at you, Y/N.”

Azriel placed a gentle hand on your lower back to set you walking, and as you passed by his mother, you caught a glimpse of the wings Rosalind kept tucked behind her back. Twin long scars ran down both of them—clipped. A wave of horror coiled in your gut, and you had to swallow to keep your composure.

“Are you alright?” Azriel whispered close to your ear. Ever the observant mate.

You gave him a nod, then quickly took the basket from him just to have something else to occupy your mind. When his mother closed the door and guided you to the sitting room, you offered it to her with a smile. “I made these for you, since it was your birthday last week. It's pastries.”

Rosalind took it, lifting the lid to peek at what was inside. Her eyes gleamed as she looked up again, a bright smile on her lips. “You're too sweet, darling. You didn't have to. Thank you.”

Despite having just met her, you could already see why Azriel always said she was a kind soul. If Rosalind had been your mother, you would want to protect her from such a world too.

The Illyrian female handed the basket to her son, instructing him to take it to the kitchen and if he could please start setting the table. Azriel brushed a kiss to your hair, then disappeared down the hallway.

His mother turned to you again.

“Oh, Azriel said you were beautiful, but…” Her hands hovered over your baby bump, but she didn't touch it. “You're glowing, Y/N.”

You smiled back at her. “Thank you. Az never told me much about you… I'm glad I finally met you.”

Rosalind shook her head. “Of course he didn't,” she said with a soft laugh. “He thinks even talking about me will put me in danger.”

You couldn't help but chuckle with her. You were very aware of Azriel's overprotectiveness. It had only grown since you got pregnant.

“It's because he loves you,” you offered gently.

“Oh, I never doubted that.” Rosalind gestured for you to sit on the plush couch, then followed to settle beside you.

The sitting room was large and inviting, with sand-colored rugs layered across the wooden floor and shelves filled with old books and trinkets. Only a few paintings hung on the wall, and your gaze lingered on them as you leaned back against the deep red cushions of the couch.

“But I think he loves you more.”

You turned to look at Rosalind, opening your mouth to protest that she couldn't compare the two things. But she leaned in as if to reveal a secret, a smile playing on her lips.

“He always talks about you,” she murmured.

Your lips curled. “He does?”

Rosalind nodded. “Oh, yes. He can go on for hours about you.”

Your eyes darted to the hallway, at the end of which you'd caught a glimpse of the dining room as Azriel had walked away to follow his mother's instructions. Now you could hear the faint rustle of dishes being arranged on the table.

“He'd done it since he met you, you know,” his mother went on. “The first time he told me about you, he said you were the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. And that you were so nice and sweet, he hoped you'd fall in love with him one day.”

Your smile grew. Azriel, usually so reserved and quiet, had been talking to his mother about you since the beginning. That shouldn't have surprised you—you'd always been close, after all—but the things he'd told her… You never thought he'd so open about it from the very start, even with his own mother. Maybe you'd just assumed that since he didn't talk to you about her, he wouldn't talk to her about you.

As if on cue, Azriel appeared in the doorway. “The table's ready,” he announced.bhh

His eyes darted between you and his mother, and he arched a brow when twin complicit smiles bloomed on your faces.

Rosalind rose to her feet, wings shifting awkwardly behind her. “Well, I should go check on the food,” she announced. “It's probably ready, or it’ll be soon. So you can start getting comfortable at the table.”

On her way out, she placed a hand on Azriel's arm. “Thank you, dear,” she said with a smile before continuing down the hallway.

Azriel watched her go, then turned to you with a questioning look in his hazel eyes. “Did I miss something?”

Walking up to him, you tried to suppress your smile but failed. Biting your lip was the only way. “Did you really spend hours telling your mom about me?”

He stilled, and you noticed the tips of his ears turning a faint shade of red. For a moment, he didn't meet your eyes.

“She told you about that, I see.”

Mother above, he was adorable when he got flustered.

“She did,” you grinned, leaving the room with him following close behind. You glanced at him over your shoulder. “She also said you hoped I'd fall in love with you from the very beginning.”

Azriel's ears were now completely flushed. But his lips quirked up at the corners as he said, “Of course I did. You were perfect.”

You reached the dining room—smaller than the sitting room, yet just as cozy. Cushioned chairs suited for Illyrians surrounded the table, and sunlight poured in through a large window.

But before you could turn to face Azriel and answer, his arms were already around you, pulling you back against his chest.

“I was perfect?” you repeated as you turned your head back to smile at him.

“Mhm,” he hummed, brushing his lips against yours. “You always have been.”

His broad hands slid down to rest on your small bump.

“And now you're even more perfect,” he murmured.

You finally turned around in his arms and looped yours around his neck. “That's also thanks to you, you know,” you replied with a smile.

His hands found your hips and he pulled you flush against him. "Some days I have to remind myself that,” he admitted quietly. “That there’s a wonderful new life inside of you. And I helped create it.”

He didn’t have to say more. You knew why he needed the reminder—that someone like him could create something so beautiful. After everything he had been through and he had done, he had convinced himself he would never be good enough to create such a miracle. And now he was being proven wrong.

“You did,” you replied, nails gently scratching the nape of his neck. “And this wonderful life will become a wonderful baby. Our baby. And you will be a wonderful father.”

His eyes locked with yours, and slowly, another smile appeared on his face. “Our baby,” he repeated.

Then leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss—a silent thanks you, a testament to the love you shared. And even after you broke apart, the feel of his lips on yours lingered like the last warmth of the sun before it sets.

The delicious smell of roasted lamb pervaded the room, and followed by the quiet rustle of dishes and pans that announced Rosalind's entrance.

She glanced at the two of you still standing there, a warm smile curving her lips as she placed the serving plate in the center of the table, where Azriel had left space for it.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you took a small step back from him.

Even after your chat with Rosalind, being caught kissing her son felt oddly awkward. You weren't quite sure why—you were mated to him and pregnant with his child, after all. And Rosalind didn’t even seem bothered by it.

She gestured toward the table and the chairs. “Come sit, dears,” she encouraged. “We don’t want it to get cold, now do we?”

Azriel placed a hand on your lower back and gently guided you to a chair, pulling it out for you. As you sat, he leaned down to murmur in your ear, “Your cheek, my love.”

He was already moving to sit next to you before you even glanced at him.

You offered him a grateful smile, then helped Rosalind serve the food, realizing only then what she had cooked.

Roasted lamb. Baked potatoes. The same blend of herbs you always used—flavors that bloomed across your tongue at the first bite.

“This is delicious,” you said, smiling. “And it's one of my favorites, too.” With a look toward Azriel, you added, “What a nice coincidence.”

“Yes,” he replied, far too casually. “A lucky coincidence.”

His mother chuckled and you playfully rolled your eyes at him.

“I wanted to make a good impression,” Rosalind explained. “It's not every day I get to meet my son's mate.”

At least you weren't the only one who'd been worried about first impressions.

You turned back to her with a smile. “It's not every day I get to my mate's mother,” you replied. You nodded toward the basket of pastries you'd made, now waiting on the sideboard, ready for dessert. “I asked him too, for the pastries. I wanted to get you a real present, but.. I've never been very good with gifts.”

Azriel had told you not to worry, that you could show up empty-handed and his mom wouldn't mind. But it hadn't felt like enough, yet you always struggled to find the right gift for your friends, so how were you supposed to pick one for your mate’s mother? So you'd asked him what she liked best and baked it yourself.

Rosalind slowly set her fork down and reached across the table to take your hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Don't worry, dear. I have everything I need here.” Her smile was soft, reassuring. “And you've already given me the greatest gift I could ask for.”

At your confused frown, she gave your hand another squeeze. “You make my son happy,” she explained. “It's all I ever wanted.”

Your heart swelled at her words. “Don't worry,” you assured her. “That's all I want too.”

Your gaze drifted to Azriel. His eyes were already on you, love shining in their hazel depths. Beneath the table, his hand came to rest on your knee.

“I told you both you’d like each other,” he said softly, glancing between you and his mother. “You were both nervous for nothing.”

Picking up your fork again, you replied, “That's because you never introduced us before, Az.”

He looked like he was about to protest, but then he sighed instead. “Yes, that's fair,” he conceded. “Maybe I should have.”

“Oh, it's alright,” Rosalind chimed in. “We're all here now and that's what matters.”

You nodded, and while you and Azriel returned to your delicious meal, Rosalind fell silent, a thoughtful expression replacing the smile she often wore.

After a moment, she spoke again.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, looking first at her son, then at you. “A favor, if it’s not too much trouble.”

You nodded without hesitation. “Yes, of course.”

Azriel looked curious now, though he remained silent. Maybe he hadn’t expected her to ask anything, either.

Rosalind hesitated for a second before continuing. “When the baby arrives… could you visit me more often?” She paused, then quickly added, “Or maybe I could visit you? But I’d like to be a part of the baby's life and watch them grow.”

You blinked, stunned by the suddenness of the request. Of course you wanted her to be involved, to know her grandchild and be part of this growing family.

But the emotion behind her words caught you off guard, stealing whatever answer you might’ve given.

Before you could find your voice, Rosalind turned to Azriel.

A new vulnerability shone her eyes—his eyes. A mix of sadness and tenderness in equal parts, as though she were remembering something from their past.

“I didn't get to be the mother you needed when it mattered most,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. Still, she went on. “So let me try to make it up by being the grandmother your child deserves.”

All you could do was watch, your heart straining, as Azriel’s throat bobbed once.

“You were—” He stopped, shook his head, then tried again. “You are the best mother I could ask for, mom.”

They shared a heartfelt smile, and for a moment, you felt like an intruder on a private, sacred moment.

“Of course we can visit more often,” he said gently. “Or you can finally come to Velaris, if you'd prefer. Rhys and Cassian would be happy to see you again.”

Rosalind's eyes lit up, her smile blooming bright. A mother, happy to reunite with her son's world. With his chosen family, and the new life he was building.

You watched her, and wondered—would you wear that same expression when your baby arrived? That same fierce, unwavering love that would never make your child doubt they were wanted and adored.

You hoped you did.

You knew you would.

Azriel already had that look. He'd had it since the moment you told him you were pregnant.

“I'd love to see them again,” Rosalind said. “It's been too many centuries. And maybe…” She chuckled softly, “it's about time I visited Velaris.”

A flicker of uncertainty sparkled in Azriel's eyes, as if he still wasn't sure his mother should be exposed to the potential dangers of the world, even in a city as safe as Velaris. But it was there and gone in a heartbeat, so fast you might have missed it if you didn't know him so well.

Rosalind didn't seem to notice, though, and the conversation flowed easily from there. She asked you many questions—about your childhood, your passions, your job—eager to know you as you were, and not just through Azriel's stories.

You got to know her just as well, and during the few hours you spent together, a connection began to take shape. Quiet and natural, it settled between you like it had always been meant to grow there. You wondered why you’d even been nervous in the first place.

Maybe it was because of your lucky necklace.

When you and Azriel finally left, just before dinner, Rosalind made you promise to return the following week—and to start planning her visit to Velaris.

*lovely divider by @slytherin-pen

A soft chuckle makes its way to your ears, despite the layers of blankets you are burrowed beneath, the blankets not offering you the comfort you so desperately crave.

“You’ll be remembered for even in death, your flare for the dramatics never faltered.”

You push your face from the blankets, allowing your face to be seen. You scowl towards your mate, his smirk making you want to push him from the window. You take in the sight of him - he had changed into more relaxed clothes since you saw him last. Gone is his formal jacket, a deep red velvet with golden leaf embroidery. The garment would make anyone look like court royalty, but on Eris it made him look positively radiant, as if the fires of Autumn truly originated from him, as if the apple orchards and the crops found their nutrients from him. You loved when he wore it, your fingers tracing the fine embroidery along the lapel as you would straddle his lap, grinding softly-

You groaned, the idea of moving so much making you nauseous and slightly dizzy.

Now he wore a loose, billowy shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, casual brown trousers covering his toned legs. If it were any other day, you’d devour him. Any other day, you’d pull him directly into bed, pushing his clothes off of him, neither of you leaving bed until you slipped his shirt on to grab the two of you some pastries.

Instead, the sight of him made you slightly annoyed - he seemed fine as he set down a tray on the table next to you. He was fine this morning when he rose, having to tend to some things before returning. You were dying, and he was perfectly fine. You groaned, shifting to sit up on your elbows. “What’s this?”

“I believe those of us who leave our beds call it ‘food’.”

His smirk disappears at the pillow that hits his feet. He sends you a withering glare that just makes you scoff. “That could have hit the tray of coffee I made for you.”

You perked up at the sound of coffee - you were sure the warm liquid would at least distract your insides. Or at least provide you some comfort.

You’d take anything at this point.

“Did you make the coffee? Or did you just prepare the tray?”

“What difference does it make? Coffee is coffee.”

“Well, if Jora made it, then I aimed perfectly for your feet.”

“What if it was my coffee?”

“Then I would have aimed for the tray.”

He gives you a withering stare, his fingers halting their movements. “Now that’s no way to treat your mate who lovingly made you coffee.”

You squint your eyes, “if it’s my mate that’s making the coffee, it’s more of an assassination attempt than love.”

“You wound me, my love.” Despite your grievances, he continues preparing your cup exactly as you like it.

“Is the wound fatal?”

“Perhaps.”

“I shall pay my respects at your funeral, then. With my next husband.”

His eyebrow quirks as he rests the cup on your side table before he rounds the bed, peeling back the layers of blankets on top of you. He crawls in behind you, his body heat causing you to melt.

“Next husband?”

“I will get lonely. Besides, the hounds need a male’s touch. They’ll grow soft under me.”

“And who is this next husband? Is he capable of this?”

Before you can ask what ‘this’ is, he slides his arm around your waist, his palm lying flat over your lower abdomen, his fingers spreading across your skin. Your skin began heating under his touch, and you moaned at the relief he provided you.

“If he’s not, he’s not worth it. Perhaps one of your brothers will be capable. Lu, maybe?”

Eris growled at the teasing, your friendship with Lucien a constant sore spot for him amidst his rekindling relationship with his youngest brother. He hated to admit it, but he seethed with jealousy watching you interact with Lucien, the way your conversation would flow easily.

A life of regrets and Lucien takes several of the top five spots.

“Lucien would make a terrible husband. You’d never see him - he spends all day brushing his hair.”

“I like a well-groomed male.”

“The noises his eye makes would keep you up all night.”

“I think you’re getting us confused. The whirring would soothe me to sleep.”

He buries his face into your neck, mumbling, “you are not marrying Lucien.”

“Alastor, perhaps?”

You clutched onto Eris’s arm, the heat providing you some relief. You nuzzle your head into his bicep, and he blows out a hot breath, “if I die, and you are unable to continue alone, marry outside of my family, leave my brothers out of your marriage pool.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off.

“Not Azriel.”

You huff, “well if I can’t have a Vanserra or Azriel, I’ll stay alone forever.”

“I prefer that alternative.”

“I will rule Autumn alone. Just as Beron would have liked.”

You spin in his arms, pushing his shoulder down so he’d lay on his back. You crawl on top of him, laying so every inch of you is touching him in some way. Not an inch of space exists between your bodies. You poke his ribs, urging him to start heating up. He ignores you, so you start tugging on the bond between you two.

“Patience is a virtue, don’t they teach that in the war camps they call villages?”

“I’m dying, I think the Mother can forgive my lack of virtues.”

He huffs, but starts warming his skin to better provide comfort. You groan, laying in silence with him for several moments, the heat a comfort to the constant pain.

A few moments later you roll, your back laying across his chest.

“Ah,” you sigh, the pain in your lower back lessening at his touch.

“You’re spinning like game over a campfire.”

He rests his hands on your lower abdomen, the warmth making the stabbing pain into a dull ache.

You sigh at the contact, practically melting at how he soothes your muscles.

“I want to go bathe but that requires movement and leaving this bed.”

Eris laughs into your hair, but you hear the water running in the bathroom. You groan just thinking about how soothing the water would feel on your joints. You breathed out slowly through your nose, preparing yourself for the trek across the room.

You rolled off of Eris, and before you could get off the bed, Eris moved from behind to in front of you, his feet landing softly on the floor.

“Care for a ride?”

You nod, and his arms sweep you up.

“I think this is my preferred method of travel.”

“Perhaps this is how you will tour Autumn, hm? I shall carry you throughout the lands.”

You laugh as he sets you down, helping you remove your clothes. He must be warming the air somehow, because you don’t feel the chill of the air when your clothes are completely off. He helps you into the water, which you melt into immediately. You close your eyes, laying back in the tub, the porcelain a nice surface to lean against.

You’ve completely forgotten about Eris’ presence until you feel him nudge your shoulders forward, his lean body slipping behind you into the tub. His legs stretch besides yours, and you lean your head back to rest on his shoulder.

“There’s no way my next husband will be as helpful as you are.”

He breathes out through his nose, “I fear you can only marry down from here. A pity, truly.”

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