#shadowsung

No suggested pronouns

it’s like nuala and cerridwen but god so much worse.

In the dark, my soul said I am your soul. No one can see me; only you — only you can see me.

your hands are scarred from murder, and yet i trust them completely.

        he  couldn’t  quite  recount  when  the  moment  had  gotten  away  from  him;  it  may  have  been  the  second  that  he’d  seated  his  weight  leisurely  on  the  edge  of  the  desk  of  the  broad  study,  eyeline  falling  just  low  enough  for  the  warrior’s  broad  shoulders  to  close  in  on  lucien’s  vigilant  guard  and  crack  one  of  his  impotent  walls  in  one  smooth  step.  it  could  have  been  the  proximity  of  the  gloved  hand  that  braced  the  dark  wood  trim  next  to  lucien’s  hip—fucking  cauldron,  it  could  have  been  the  fact  that  these  weekly  check-ins  between  himself  and  the  shadowsinger,  isolated  for  however  long  they  needed  from  the  only  world  either  of  them  had  ever  known,  always  left  the  fox  with  this  frenzied,  empty  feeling  as  though  something  had  been  left  unfinished.  what  he  did  know  was  that  it  wasn’t  the  first  time  that  they  had  gotten  this  close,  had  dared  to  test  their  unspoken  boundaries,  and  this...was  not,  after  all,  too  close  for  comfort.  that  was  the  problem.  “that’s  interesting,”  he  started  after  he  paused  just  a  heartbeat  too  long  to  not  make  his  hyperawareness  of  the  thin  gap  between  them  evident.  his  voice  dropped  and,  however  desperately  it  wanted  to  reach  toward  something  that  looked  a  lot  like  submission,  gripped  onto  something  bold  and  newfound—a  sense  of  command  he’d  never  enacted  until  snap  reactions  in  recent  political  jests,  and  now...now.  “i  don’t  remember  agreeing  to  take  orders  from  you.”  he  didn’t  push  away  so  much  as  an  inch  as  an  arm  lifted  between  them  to  idly  adjust  the  cuff  of  his  own  sleeve.  the  movement  dragged  a  knuckle  along  one  of  the  scales  of  azriel's  armor;  it  wasn’t  an  experimental  touch,  but  he  wouldn’t  turn  away  whatever  results  yielded  without  at  least  a  taste  either.  “that’s  how  you  feel  important,  no?”  it  wasn’t  a  question.  an  assertion,  and,  lucien  supposed,  it  was  technically  an  accusation.  he  had  no  more  proof  than  the  tight,  lonely  air  that  remained  in  the  wake  of  dark-haired  warrior's  every  silent  exit,  a  coldness  that  was  not  unfamiliar  to  the  exiled  heir.  a  near-whisper,  “is  that  how  you  feel  powerful?  if  i  were  to  get  on  my  knees,  right  now,”  only  a  fleeting  pause  for  his  mismatched  gaze  to  dare  a  glance  down  to  azriel’s  mouth,  “and  say—whatever  it  is  you  need  to  hear...is  that  what’s  going  to  carry  you  through  the  next  week,  knowing  that  the  authority  i  grant  you  here  is  the  all  you’ll  have  until  you  return  again?”  free  of  the  confines  of  your  court  and  the  decisions  they  waiver  without  second  opinions.  free  of  all  of  the  courts,  he  could  have  continued.  for  all  the  venom  on  his  tongue,  it  was  more  than  just  a  lewd  taunt  to  the  adversary,  the  temporary  ally;  but  an  offer.

 you can break my soul, take my life away, beat me, hurt me, kill me. but for the love of god, don't touch him.

the rebelling illyrian camps were the first to whisper of his time under the mountain, that his brother's had heard. whatever bodies weren't turned into red mist, now laying at their feet. he had no desire to reminisce, even if he knew this weren't the last they would hear of it. not when they had so many bands to still deal with. yet he doesn't hesitate, features void of any expression, gaze set on the massacre. " yes. there was no other way. "

Why is he so tall? My neck’s going to hurt just from trying to make eye contact with him. I wonder if it’s true what they say about wing size...