#their expression... the gestures.. aaaaaaa

The formal engagement dinner was held in one of the Day Court’s lesser palaces, its golden spires catching the last light of sunset like spears. Helion had offered the venue as a gesture of neutrality—though everyone in the room knew where his loyalties leaned. Still, it was distant enough from Prythian’s eyes to serve its purpose. 

Neutral. As if anything in this room could be. 

You sat beside Eris Vanserra at the long obsidian table, a wine glass balanced delicately between your fingers. Eris’ fingers tapped the stem of his own glass in rhythm with the orchestra playing at the far end of the hall. Every movement he made was a performance: the amused tilt of his head, the lazy spread of his fingers on the table, the pointed glances he cast toward the Night Court’s High Lord. 

Rhysand sat across from you, dressed in midnight and stars, his expression unreadable. Feyre sat to his right, offering you a nod that felt too soft, too pitying. 

Cassian’s glare could have cleaved the table in two. Morrigan looked ready to break something lest she break herself. Azriel—

Azriel stood at the wall, half-shadow, half-sentry, his attention fixed anywhere but on you. His siphons glinted cold blue, and when Eris placed a hand on the back of your chair, Azriel’s eyes flicked over like a dagger drawn mid-step. 

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. 

“This is a rare thing,” Eris murmured near your ear. “A bridge forged from ash and bone.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t look at him. You sipped your wine instead, letting its sharpness anchor you. It tasted like Autumn: rich, biting, with the threat of fire. 

The political maneuvering was endless. Courtiers from both courts circled like hawks, each conversation another layer of performance. The betrothal was sold as a diplomatic triumph, a union to symbolize cooperation between once-hostile courts. But everyone knew what it really was: leverage. You were leverage.

You should be used to playing a role, Rhysand’s voice murmured in your mind, smooth and quiet as silk, when you stood to excuse yourself. 

You didn’t stop walking. Funny. Some people think I prefer masks.

His reply was a soft, almost regretful hum against your thoughts. But he let you go. 

The hallway beyond the dining chamber was cold, narrow, carved from the bones of the mountain itself. Your footsteps echoed. And then stopped. 

You weren’t alone. 

“That color doesn’t suit you.”

Azriel’s voice was a blade in the dark. He leaned against the wall near the archway, arms crossed. His shadows flickered like restless smoke. 

You met his gaze. “It’s tradition.”

“So is throwing yourself on the sword. Doesn’t make it noble.”

You turned away as he pushed off the wall. “Why?”

The question dropped between you like a gauntlet. You kept walking. 

He caught your arm.

His hand was calloused, scarred—burns trailing up like old ghosts. You stared at him. He didn’t let go. 

“You’re good at this,” he said. Voice low, rough. “I’ll give you that.”

You didn’t pull away. “And you’re good at pretending you didn’t help make me this way.”

His wings folded close, tense and coiled steel. “You don’t get to pin this on me.”

“Don’t I?”

“You didn’t even know who I was.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Wish I had. Would’ve saved me a hell of a lot of trouble.”

The silence stretched. 

Then, softly, you told him:

“I didn’t ask you to take me there.”

He let go of your arm. Your skin burned where his fingers had been. 

“You didn’t have to, you knew I would. You were banking on it.” He turned back toward the dining hall. 

The sound of distant music bled faintly through the stone. 

You straightened your spine, took in a breath of fresh air, and walked back into the fire. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You hadn’t always belonged to Eris Vanserra.

Once—long before the wine-dark gown, before politics turned your spine to steel and your face to glass—you had belonged to no one. Hunted, half-starved, you’d clawed your way through frostbitten hills and timeworn protections until you reached the Night Court. 

Azriel found you there. 

Not in a meadow or a clearing, not wrapped in moonlight like some storybook waif. You were curled between the roots of an old spruce tree, blood smeared down your arm, one boot missing, breathing shallow. Your lips were cracked from the cold. You flinched from the light glinting off of his siphons. 

He watched you for a long moment, unreadable. Shadows coiled around him like wary dogs, uncertain whether to snarl or protect. 

He should have left you. 

You were nothing. No scent he recognized. No Court colors. No identifying insignia, not even in the lining of your tattered cloak. Just the ragged, wild-eyed tremble of someone who had fled through hell and hadn’t yet realized they’d made it out. 

He crouched beside you, unreadable. 

Your eyes fluttered open. Glanced at the midnight sky. Then at him. And you whispered, hoarse and cracked:

“Please… Please, don’t take me back. I can’t go back. They’ll find me.”

Azriel said nothing. 

“Please.”

You reached for him. Your fingers barely touched his leathers before falling away, but it was enough. 

He didn’t know who they were. But your terror wasn’t fake. And he’d seen enough in his life to recognize when someone had been hunted. 

So instead of doing the sensible thing and alerting Rhysand, instead of dragging you to the River House, he took you somewhere else. 

To the only place no sunlight touched. 

The Hewn City was not merciful, but then again, neither were you. 

Once your wounds healed—slowly, under Azriel’s careful regulation and disapproval—you didn’t waste time asking why he’d helped you.

You didn’t ask when he would send you back. Only if.

The others living underneath that godsforsaken mountain watched you with thinly veiled hunger. Curiosity. Disdain.

But they didn’t touch you. Because the shadowsinger had brought you.

He visited irregularly, always from the shadows. Spoke in clipped sentences. Never stayed long.

But you remembered the first time you asked him a question:

“Who do they think I am?”

He didn’t answer. Not really.

“They think what you let them.”

And you—feral thing that you were—learned to adapt, to survive, to become something they wouldn’t dare touch. You sharpened your tongue, practiced stillness. Learned the power in saying nothing at all. 

You danced with courtiers and whispered truths like poison into the right ears. You clawed your way into the inner circle—not a power, not a threat, but a presence. One Keir allowed to linger in the background of his court. You played the game. 

And Azriel—he watched it happen over the years. His visits grew colder. Shorter. 

Eventually, you spoke.

Eventually, you smiled. Not kindly. Not ever.

You never told him what you were running from. But you told him what you remembered. You told him how pain nests in bone. How fear rewires the mind. How cruelty speaks in lullabies and lessons and leashes.

And he listened.

Azriel, who said almost nothing and felt far too much, who watched the world like it owed him blood—he listened to you.

Maybe that’s when it started.

Maybe that’s when everything went wrong.

Because what bloomed in that darkness wasn’t love. It was need. Mutual. Messy. Ugly.

The way he stared too long when you called him by name. The way you touched his shoulder when he turned to go. The way you both let silence stretch, like it could hold something sacred. You never kissed, never undressed, never asked. But the knowing was there.

Just not the kind that offered answers. Whether you were a loose end or a long play. A liability or a choice he still regretted making. And you never asked Azriel why he’d left you there. Maybe it was mercy. Maybe it was a mistake. 

When the supply caravans came—laden with wine and medicinal tinctures—you learned when to disappear. 

Ten minutes at most. Ten minutes in the trees before your absence became suspicious.

Your contact never told you who they worked for. You didn’t ask. You only knew what they wanted: names, movements, conversations. Details of the Night Court’s power. Of Rhysand’s visits. Of Keir’s ambitions. 

You only needed ten minutes. 

But you took eleven. 

By the time you returned, heart still hammering from the sprint through wet leaves and root-tangled earth, the caravan wagons were already groaning back through the canyon mouth, the mountain and wards closing behind them with a sound like bones grinding beneath the earth.

You froze just beyond the treeline, caked in soil and sweat, your lungs clawing for air. Too far to be seen—but close enough to know you’d been shut out. 

The Hewn City would take your absence as treason. Keir would make a spectacle of your punishment and subsequent execution. And there was no one left to cover for you. Not after what you’d just done. 

So you ran. 

Not south, not toward the border—the patrols were tighter there. You knew that from the meetings you’d sat in on. You went deeper. 

Past the wild rivers and night-blooming groves, past the reach of mapped terrain. You ran until your boots bled, until the cold sank into your marrow and every cracked branch sounded like pursuit. 

You slept in tree hollows and between boulders. You drank from puddles that tasted like rot. 

And when the shadows came, you thought they were phantoms of your own exhaustion. 

Until they weren’t. 

You woke the next morning to the smell of smoke—low and bitter, like burnt pine—and the press of a blade at your throat.

He didn’t speak, not at first.

Just knelt in front of you in the snow, his wings half-furled, the morning mist clinging to him like armor.

Azriel.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t beg.

You only looked at him and said, hoarse and raw, “It’s too late.”

Something flickered in his face—recognition, maybe. Or fury. But the knife withdrew.

You wouldn’t learn until much later that Rhysand had spoken to him in that way only he can. That Rhysand had ordered him not to touch you. That the information you’d shared had quickly gotten people killed. 

Azriel’s eyes bore into yours, and he said, low and quiet, “Get up.”

You didn’t argue.

Didn’t flinch when his shadows slithered closer, cold and damp against your skin. You only rose—slow, unsteady—and followed him in silence through the forest, their chill coiling tight around your limbs like shackles half-formed from smoke. 

The journey back took less than an hour. You’d wandered in a panic, looped in circles, maybe. Or maybe he’d known exactly where to find you all along.

The mountain loomed, silent and cavernous, its sealed threshold parting at his approach. 

You didn’t expect a warm welcome, but you also didn’t expect that.

No words. No accusations. Not even from Morrigan, who looked at you like she’d seen a ghost and then walked away.

Rhysand only looked at you once, cool and unreadable, before nodding to two guards.

“Solitary,” he said. “She doesn’t speak to anyone.”

Azriel stepped forward, grip on you tight as ever. “She killed—”

“That’s an order.”

A pause. Heavy, cutting. Azriel didn’t look at you, but the air around him felt as dark as the blade he hadn’t put down since he found you.

They locked you in the farthest cell in the lower wards. No torchlight. No contact. You weren’t even questioned.

Time frayed. Days unspooled into weeks, into months—into something that stopped mattering. 

They gave you food, barely. No one spoke. No one came—until Rhysand had. 

Not until the bruises healed. Not until your nails grew back, after splitting down to the quick. Not until your voice recovered from the croak it became through night after night spent screaming. Not until that croak became one from disuse. 

Then he appeared one night, without warning. No guards. Just him and that damned velvet darkness curling behind his shoulders. 

“Interesting,” he said, surveying your wrecked form. “I expected you to break.”

You didn’t answer. What would’ve been the point?

He stood outside the bars, hands folded behind his back like this was a court meeting, not a prison cell. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said lightly. “You’re going to tell me what you know. I’m not asking for everything. Just enough. And in return… you get out.”

Still, you said nothing.

You knew how this worked. 

“A room. Food. Warm clothes. And your life.” A smile, thin and sharp. “For now.”

Your voice was raw when you spoke. 

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“Don’t you?” Rhysand disappeared into the curling darkness, which slithered through bars of your cell. Slowly, he reappeared in front of you, crouched down on a knee. “I kept my spymaster from breaking your legs. Worse, likely, considering that your choices that night cost the lives of some good males.”

You laughed—a rasping, broken sound you hadn’t made in quite some time. “He wouldn’t.”

Rhysand only looked at you. 

And that’s when you realized that, yes, he absolutely would have. 

You’d stolen something from him. From all of them. 

“You’ll work for me,” Rhysand said. “Not openly. Not as part of the court. But I’ll call on you when I need eyes where mine can’t go.”

His gaze raked over you, assessing. 

“You’re good at slipping between cracks. I need someone no one will recognize. You’re already halfway gone.”

“And if I say no?”

Rhysand’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Then Azriel gets what he’s been waiting for these last eight years.”

Rhysand was true to his word. 

He found you a cabin tucked so deep in the mountains you sometimes wondered if even he could find it again. It sat nestled among wind-bent pines and snow-worn strone, far from any road or trail. There was no village nearby. No neighbors. Just the howl of wind across slate and the hush of drifting snow. 

You kept to yourself. Hunted, grew what little you could. Rhysand sent care packages every week—always enough food, always quietly extravagant in the details. Wine from Velaris. Salted meats. Books, when you dared to read again. New boots when your old ones began to tear. 

It should’ve felt like exile. But after the lower wards, the sounds of nature were a mercy. The solitude, once sharp and echoing, dulled into stillness. Predictable. Painless. Better than stone walls and screaming. Better than the dark. And in time, it became something close to peace. 

You didn’t speak aloud for months. Didn’t hear your name for longer. 

It was years before you were called on again. 

Not often. Not publicly. 

A coded letter. A knock at your door. A job that looked nothing like a job. Just names. Observations. A slip of information overheard in the right alley. Those were the only times you ventured into the city, Velaris, he’d called it. 

Azriel didn’t come to see you. Didn’t speak to you at the odd meeting you attended. But you felt him watching—when Rhysand spoke your name in strategy sessions, when your intel proved true, when the court called the job finished and Azriel still tracked the trail for weeks after. 

The resentment simmered. Not just for what you’d done, but for the fact that Rhysand had chosen you again. 

Rhysand trusted you with the cracks Azriel couldn’t squeeze through, though his shadows were entirely capable. 

And Azriel—Azriel—who bled and killed and fought for the court, had to listen to his brother say:

“She gets results.”

He didn’t speak to you, but once—months after your first assignment ended, after you’d ghosted through the Palace of Bone and Salt and returned with names Rhysand hadn’t even asked for—Azriel passed you in the hall.

His voice was quiet. 

“You think this makes you loyal?”

You didn’t look at him. And you didn’t answer. 

Because even now—especially now—you still don’t know what he wants from you. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The hall hummed with low conversation, the scrape of fine dresses and sharp-edged laughter weaving between sips of wine and clinking glasses. You settled back into your seat, eyes trained on the flickering candlelight, the firelight playing across the obsidian surface of the table.

Eris’ smile was slow, sharp, predatory as he caught your slight hesitation before you sat. He leaned close, voice dripping with poison and amusement.

“So, you returned,” he said, eyes flicking toward Azriel, who remained unmoving at the wall. “I was beginning to worry that another of Rhysand’s Illyrian brutes had soiled my bride-to-be yet again.” His gaze landed deliberately on Morrigan across the table, who met it with a single, elegant middle finger—graceful somehow. 

The room’s atmosphere crackled, but no one dared speak the unspoken tension aloud.

“I must admit, I’m surprised,” Eris continued, voice quieter but no less venomous. “The Night Court’s High Lord, lending you to the Autumn Court’s cause.”

Cassian’s jaw clenched, Morrigan’s fingers curled, Feyre’s eyes flickered with unease. Even Rhysand’s mask of calm showed the faintest tightness.

Eris’ smile curved cruelly. “But I’m confident you’ll adapt. The Autumn Court has its own ways of… refining wild things. Turning them into something more palatable. With enough time, even embers learn to behave.”

You caught Rhysand’s gaze across the table then—a cold, steady lock of eyes that spoke volumes in silence. No words, no commands, just the faintest warning wrapped in concern: Hold steady.

You met his eyes and held them.

Cassian’s glare shifted to Eris, then back to you, his silent fury almost tangible. Morrigan’s hand tightened on her glass, her voice cool when she finally spoke. “Funny—males always think that. Right before they learn the hard way.”

Feyre’s nod was subtle but firm. “She’s not a pawn to be moved.”

Eris’ smirk faltered for a heartbeat, but he recovered quickly. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

The music swelled, a haunting melody threading through the tension as the night stretched onward. The players in this deadly game were all here, watching, waiting.

And you were no longer invisible.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Back at the River House the next day, the afternoon light shone through the tall windows of his office. The heavy curtains had been drawn back, but the chill in the air hadn’t lessened. Your head still buzzed from last night’s poisoned words and veiled threats, but the game had only just begun.

Rhysand stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the sun’s beams reflect off the Sidra. When he finally turned to face you, his expression was firm but tinged with something like frustration. 

“They’re insistent,” he said quietly. “No flights. No winnowing. You have to walk the entire way to Autumn. It’s their condition. Their way of testing you—or breaking you.”

You didn’t say anything. You’d expected nothing less.

He gestured toward the door, and before you could ask, Azriel stepped through. His presence was a silent storm, all tightly coiled muscles and simmering resentment.

“I’m sending him with you,” Rhysand said, voice low but steady. “Azriel will escort you. Keep you safe—or keep you in line.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Azriel’s eyes met yours—sharp, cold. 

Rhysand looked back at you, just for a moment. 

“Did you neglect to tell your hound you were sending him out?”

The insult earned you a look. “It wouldn’t have happened otherwise.”

That much was true. You had to bite back a laugh at Azriel’s reaction. 

“This isn’t how any of us wanted this to go,” he continued. “But it’s how it has to be.”

You held his gaze, unflinching. 

“You leave in two weeks,” he finished.

And you did. 

When he knocked on your cabin door the morning of the trek, you were already dressed, a worn pack slung over your shoulder, supplies carefully arranged inside. Azriel stood beside him, silent and still as ever, shadows coiling faintly as his boots like restless hounds. He didn’t speak, didn’t so much as glance your way. Just waited. The moment you stepped out and took his arm, Rhysand’s magic curled around the three of you like a shadowed cloak as the world blurred and twisted beneath your feet. In a blink, the moss-soft earth and pine-thick air of your cabin vanished—replaced by a quiet stretch of open land where the sky hung in a swirl of eternal dusk, smeared with the last blues of night and the first golds of day. 

You landed silently, boots pressing into damp, moss-softened earth. Azriel’s shadow flickered beside you, his wings half-furled, muscles taut and ready. The only sounds were the distant call of night-birds and the whisper of the wind threading through ancient trees.

Rhysand exhaled softly, the sky casting lavender shadows across his face. “This is where I leave you,” he said, not without gentleness. “There are wards along the path—through Day, at least—ones keyed to Az’s magic. They’ll know you. They’ll protect you.”

You glanced between them. “And after that?”

Rhysand’s mouth quirked. “Then you’re on your own.”

You tilted your head. “Comforting.”

For a moment, none of you moved. Then Rhysand stepped forward, adjusted the strap of your pack on your shoulder with a care that surprised you. “Try not to insult anyone too important.”

“I’ll do my best,” you said dryly. 

Azriel’s eyes locked on yours, sharp as ever. There was no warmth in them—only duty, and something like disdain.

The pop of Rhysand’s departure left a vacuum behind. The silence he’d abandoned was heavy, taut as a wire. You stood still for a moment, letting it settle—letting the full weight of what lay ahead press against your ribs.

Azriel adjusted the strap of his leathers. Already turning south. Already done with this.

You followed. Of course you did.

For the first mile, there was only the sound of boots over grass, the hush of wind combing through heavy, green-drenched branches. The sun filtered in patches—honeyed and slanting, more glow than heat. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at you, didn’t so much as glance to make sure you were keeping up.

So you tried, after another stretch of silence. Tried to breach the tension, if only to feel less like a prisoner being marched to the gallows.

“You miss them yet?” you asked lightly. “Your shadows.” Only one seemed to brave the sun today, creeping along behind him like it wasn’t sure it belonged here.. 

He didn’t slow. “No.”

“They miss you.”

“They’ll survive.”

You bit your lip, eyes narrowing. “Right. Because you’re known for your warm and chatty companionship.”

He stopped.

Just—stopped, so abruptly that you nearly collided into him.

Azriel turned, and when his eyes met yours, they were razor-edged. “I’m not here to entertain you.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” you shot back, heat licking your voice now. “Forgive me for trying to make this a little less miserable for the both of us.”

“I don’t care if you’re miserable.” His voice was low, steady. “I’m walking you to the Autumn Court. That’s it. That’s all.”

You stared at him. At the steel in his posture, the flatness in his tone. The calculation in every breath.

“Fine. Got it.”

He turned away again, already moving.

“And if the Mother loves me,” he said without looking back, “Eris will kill you before we make it to his gates so I don’t have to.”

It shouldn’t have surprised you—but the cruelty of it landed like a blade you’d half expected and still failed to dodge. 

You made it twenty miles that day, and your boots started to betray you. The pain had crept in slowly, like rot in damp wood, until every step throbbed with heat and raw friction. Azriel hadn’t looked back once. Not when you stumbled. Not when you bit back a wince. Not when you trailed behind, your pride dragging like a second shadow. 

By the time the sun dipped low, painting one of the many white-stoned Day Court cities in amber and rose, you’d stopped feeling your legs entirely. Just numbness and grit and the slow, cold curl of resentment in your chest. 

Azriel said nothing as he strode through the open gate. He didn’t ask for your opinion when he slipped the innkeeper a silver mark or when he took the single brass key and climbed the stairs ahead of you.

You expected him to disappear into the room and slam the door behind him, leaving you to find your own bed of hay and splinters. But instead, he opened the door. Waited. Let you step inside first.

It was a modest room, clean and plain, with sun-washed curtains and a washbasin in the corner. And one bed. Just one.

You stared at it. Then at him.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t frown. Just crossed his arms and said flatly, “I’ll go back and ask. You sleep there.” He nodded to the bed, then glanced toward the door like he already wanted to be through it. “Alone.”

“Oh, thank the Cauldron,” you muttered. “For a second, I thought you might make me sleep on the floor out of spite.”

Azriel didn’t blink. “Tempting.” Then he turned and left.

No slam. No hiss of shadows. Just the quiet click of the door.

You dug through your pack in silence, unwrapping a strip of dried meat and forcing down a few mouthfuls. It tasted like ash. Like the inside of your cheek, bitten raw

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Absolutely not.”

“Azriel, come on–”

“Don’t–”

“It makes sense and you know it.”

“The hell I do!”

“We’d be halfway through Dawn by now!” you snapped, gesturing at the empty horizon like the open fields could argue for you. “We’ve been walking for four hours, my feet are shredded, and we’re wasting time because you’ve got some sort of martyr complex about actually walking the whole fucking way.”

His jaw clenched so tightly you heard the grind of his molars. 

“It would get me out of your hair faster.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do,” you bit out, stepping closer, bracing. “If we keep this pace, I’ll make it to Autumn in pieces. Only one of us is a trained soldier here, and it obviously isn’t me. So unless you want to hand me over half-dead, grow up and fly us.”

Azriel’s wings twitched behind him. A warning. His shadows snapped tighter around his shoulders, jittering like they weren’t sure if they should’ve joined him today. 

You waited, chest heaving, sweat stinging your eyes as you stared him down.

Finally, he exhaled. It was a sound scraped from stone.

“Put your bag across your front,” he said, voice low and deadly calm. “Strap it tight.”

You did, fingers fumbling with the buckle, half-expecting him to change his mind. When you looked up again, his face was unreadable. Detached. Like this wasn’t happening to him.

He stepped toward you.

Then, without a word, he scooped you into his arms—fast, efficient, like hoisting a sack of grain. His hands were careful, impersonal. One under your knees, the other braced around your back, calloused fingers and scarred skin brushing your clothes like even that contact cost him. He avoided your skin like it might burn him.

You felt the tension in him, coiled and precise. Every muscle held in check. Like carrying you required more restraint than violence ever had.

“Don’t move,” he said tightly.

You didn’t dare.

And then the world dropped out from under you.

Air roared in your ears, whipping past in cold, sharp streams as Azriel launched into the sky. His wings beat with ruthless efficiency, each stroke sending you higher, faster, away from the dirt and blistered miles.

It was silent—except for the wind. Too loud for talking. Too much movement, too many things to hold onto. You didn’t dare wrap your arms around him, so you gripped the strap of your bag instead, knuckles bone-white as you pressed back against the unyielding wall of his chest.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t glance down, didn’t speak.

You weren’t sure what hurt more: the cold or the quiet.

The view was stunning. It was always stunning—the Day Court’s golden sprawl stretching out beneath you like scattered coins, gilded trees and glinting rooftops, rivers catching the sun and throwing it back tenfold. You might’ve said something about it. Once. A lifetime ago.

You kept your eyes on the horizon, not his arms, not the steady rhythm of his breathing or the strength beneath you. Pretending it was nothing. That this was nothing. That you weren’t half-curled against someone who hated you, who had no obligation to carry your weight. 

And still he had. 

You hadn’t seen him come out of any room at the inn, hadn’t heard him come back in, hadn’t heard a word. Had he slept outside? In silence with shadows for company?

You told yourself you didn’t care. 

You told yourself a lot of things these days. 

Still, after the first hour—when your pulse had steadied and your heart had stopped mistaking his proximity for threat—you tried.

“Your shadows are probably jealous,” you said, tilting your head toward his shoulder. “They’re missing all the fun.”

It wasn’t a great joke. You hadn’t really meant it to be. Just something to fill the air between you, something that might loosen the steel in his spine.

It didn’t.

Azriel’s jaw ticked. His eyes remained locked on the horizon.

“They’ll survive.”

You swallowed the next line. Let it dissolve on your tongue.

Right. 

You didn’t say another word for the rest of the flight. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“We’re stopping?”

Azriel didn’t respond right away. He landed hard, wings flaring wide to keep from toppling as he set you down on your feet.

“We’re walking from here.”

“Why?” You adjusted your bag, breath catching as you turned in a slow circle, realizing: the terrain ahead was…wrong. The trees grew in twisting patterns, roots curling over one another like veins. The sky was still blue, but the light felt off—too gold, too late, like sunset bled in where it didn't belong. And silent. Too silent.

He exhaled through his nose, gaze sweeping the horizon. “This is The Middle. It doesn’t answer to any court. Not even Rhys.”

“So?”

“So, there are wards. Old ones. Things that twist magic, turn wings to lead if it feels like, scramble your senses if you fly too high. Winnowing’s out of the question, too. You could end up inside a tree.”

A beat passed. Then, quieter: “We fly over it, we die in it. We walk.”

“That seems excessive.”

“The Middle doesn’t care what seems excessive.” He finally looked at you then, eyes shadow-slick and unreadable. “It isn’t a forest. It’s a graveyard that hasn’t made up its mind yet.” 

You swallowed. “And we’re walking into that?”

“Unless you want to turn around.”

You held his gaze for a beat longer than you usually could. “No.”

He nodded once. “Then stay close. No firelight. No loud voices. No touching anything that doesn’t want to be touched.”

“Sounds like traveling with you.”

Azriel didn’t smile. But his shoulders loosened by a hair’s breadth.

The ground was damp beneath your boots. Not muddy, not wet—just… damp. Like the earth hadn’t dried in centuries, like the land breathed out mist and rot and kept it curled close to the ground.

The Middle didn’t look like much. Not yet. A thick belt of trees, mountains, a breeze that didn’t match the direction of the clouds. But you could feel it in your chest, like a second pulse that didn’t belong to you. A watcher. An echo. A something.

You adjusted your bag straps quietly.

Azriel walked ahead, wings tucked tight, blades visible but quiet at his sides. His steps were nearly soundless. The only real noise came from your own boots snapping thin twigs, crushing brittle pine needles.

The trees grew stranger as you went. Bark in shades you didn’t have names for. A vine that shimmered like glass. A rock shaped exactly like a skull, and not old.

Azriel murmured, almost like he couldn’t stop himself, “Middle doesn’t care what side you’re on. Doesn’t care about courts or bloodlines. You enter, you play by its rules. Or it eats you.”

You swallowed, forcing your voice low. “You’ve been through it before?”

He nodded once.

“Alone?”

A pause. Then: “That was the first mistake.”

You didn’t ask for the rest. You wouldn’t get it anyway.

The quiet stretched again. But it wasn’t awkward now. Not quite. Just careful. Measured, like even your thoughts ought to walk in single file.

Eventually, you said—more breath than sound—

“You always like this when you travel with people?”

Azriel didn’t stop walking. “I don’t usually travel with people.”

You snorted, barely. “Lucky me.”

But he did glance at you then. Brief, unreadable.

“You’re not dead yet,” he said.

You smiled, but you didn’t feel smug about it.

A wind passed through the trees, colder than it should’ve been.

Azriel slowed slightly, motioning for you to walk closer to his side.

“Stay where I can grab you,” he muttered.

You didn’t have to be told twice.

And for a moment, just one, you thought you heard something breathing beneath the roots.

You shook it off.

It was probably just—

A rustle to your left.

You stilled.

Azriel kept walking.

Then—snap. A crunch, low to the ground. Fast.

You turned your head—

—and screamed.

It launched out of the underbrush like a dart—small, fast, furred but wrong, too many teeth in the wrong places. You stumbled back just as it leapt for your throat—

Steel caught it mid-air.

Azriel’s blade punched straight through its gut, pinning it to the moss-covered tree behind you with a sickening thud.

It gave one final spasm before going still.

You were breathing hard. Chest heaving. Hands half-raised in disbelief.

Azriel didn’t look at you.

He just withdrew the blade, and the thing’s corpse hit the ground with a wet, final thunk. He shook off the blood, and wiped it on a cloth from his belt. “Don’t scream,” he said evenly.

Your voice came out shaky. “It had teeth.”

“Everything here has teeth.”

You exhaled, still rattled, and brushed yourself off. You’d fallen back after your stumble. There were pine needles stuck to your pants, a smudge of dirt on your sleeve, something on your hand. Sticky. Unidentified. Fantastic. 

And just as you stood, Azriel reached over—without ceremony, without pause—and plucked two curled leaves from your hair.

His fingers were quick, impersonal. Like swiping lint from a jacket.

Then he turned and kept walking.

“Stay close,” he said again.

Not unkind. Not sharp. Just… matter-of-fact.

You caught up with him, still glancing back at the gnarled corpse slumped against the bark.

“What was that?” you asked, trying to sound more annoyed than embarrassed. You weren’t sure it worked.

Azriel didn’t glance your way. “Spinecrawler.”

You blinked. “Spinecrawler?”

“They like damp places. Dead things. Roots. Small birds, if they’re lucky.”

“That thing went for my throat.”

Now he looked at you—just a flick of his eyes, unreadable.

“They’re territorial,” he said. “But mostly harmless. They bluff a lot.”

You stared at him, still catching your breath. “You’re saying that was a bluff.”

Azriel’s mouth quirked.

“I’ve seen people take a dagger to the ribs without making that much noise,” he said mildly.

You bristled. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

His eyes returned to the path ahead, voice dry. “Clearly.”

You let out a breath—half a huff, half a laugh. “Asshole.”

But your voice wasn’t sharp, and for the first time in days, you weren’t just tired. 

He didn’t smile, but the silence that followed the next few minutes felt easier.

Quieter, in a different way.

You were about to ask how much farther when Azriel’s head snapped up.

He stilled—completely. Like a statue dropped mid-stride.

You stopped, too, one foot half-raised. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Shadows curled off him like smoke.

“Run.”

The word was low. Sharp. Laced with command.

But you didn’t have time to obey.

A crimson-cloaked figure burst from the trees ahead—no warning, no sound. Just motion and steel and the glint of an Autumn crest burned into battered armor.

He lunged for you. Azriel was already moving. 

Steel met steel with a clash that rattled your bones. Azriel intercepted the blow mid-swing, blade sparking off blade. He shoved the attacker back with brutal force—but more were coming. 

Dozens.

Had Eris really…?

They stepped out from the trees like ghosts—nobles and guards and hardened veterans, their armor weathered, their eyes painted red. 

“They knew,” Azriel murmured, voice taut with fury. “They planned this.”

He reached for your arm. “We’re getting out—”

But two charged from behind before he could finish. You ducked instinctively—barely in time. Azriel whirled, one blade striking true, the other arm flung wide. 

Light burst forth from his palm.

It wasn’t a beam so much as a line of obliteration. 

The Autumn male behind you never screamed. The blast tore straight through him, then through the tree beyond—splintering bark, igniting rot, reducing it all to a searing smear of flame. 

Your ears rang, the males that had been closing in on you both faltered. 

Azriel didn’t hesitate. “Stay down!” he snapped, already stepping over the body to meet the next two. 

You scrambled behind a tree—useless, stupid, too slow. 

He was everywhere at once. Blades flashing, siphons flaring. A line of blue-white power burned a semicircle into the earth. One attacker caught in it crumpled with a smoking hole punched through his chest. 

You’d never seen anyone fight like this… Without restraint. 

There was something brutal about him like this—elemental.

Every movement was exact. Each strike landed with purpose, never wasted.

And the way his shadows moved with him—rising like a storm, lashing out where he could not reach fast enough—it was like watching a god descend.

Not just a warrior.

Not just a male.

Something more.

You didn’t realize you’d been staring until your eyes flicked to the next soldier—another Autumn male, burnt red cloak trailing, sword glinting. And another. And another.

Why?

You blinked hard.

Why was this happening?

You had helped Autumn. Years ago. You’d betrayed the Night Court for them. Risked your life to smuggle out intel to one of Eris’ contacts—given him the chance he needed. So why now? Why send soldiers after you like an enemy? Why—

A war cry split the air.

You spun just in time to see a male charging straight for you.

Eyes wild. Mouth twisted in rage.

His blade was raised and ready.

“For Beron!” he screamed.

… Beron?

You barely had time to gasp.

“Az—!”

The name tore from your throat as you stumbled back.

You couldn’t take your eyes off the male, couldn’t even think.

You flinched. Squeezed your eyes shut. Braced for pain. For steel.

But it didn’t come.

Instead—an arm wrapped tight around you, hauling you back.

And then the world split.

Not in light. Not in color.

In shadow.

You felt it like cold water crashing through your lungs, like being dropped into an abyss with no bottom.

But something was wrong.

This wasn’t how it had felt before. This was ripping.

Like being caught.

The grip on your waist vanished.

You landed hard—slammed into wet ground that stank of rot. And everything went dark.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He felt it the moment she slipped. 

One heartbeat she was pressed to his side—warm, solid, if a bit shaky.

The next, she was gone. 

Yanked sideways by the wards’ interference—by something other. 

“NO—”

The snarl ripped from his chest as he twisted, shadows shrieking out of him in all directions. 

But he couldn’t find her. Couldn’t feel her. 

The trees screamed with light. His siphons flared uncontrolled.

Strong hands grabbed his arm—he threw them to the ground without looking.

Where was she?

Where was she?

Azriel hit the ground hard.

Shoulder-first. Mud splashed, cold and reeking of rot and old blood. The impact jarred up his spine, but he was already moving—already pushing to his feet, scanning.

No sound. No scent.

No (y/n).

His shadows whipped out like hounds, searching. Useless.

He turned in a slow circle.

Trees—twisted and wrong, their bark slick like bone marrow.

His jaw clenched. He inhaled once—deep, steadying. Then again, sharper. Shallower.

“… (Y/n),” he said. Low. Controlled. As if quiet might anchor reality. Might make her answer.

Nothing.

He started walking.

Then striding.

Then running.

Shadow after shadow shot out like flares—searching, reporting back with nothing but silence.

He winnowed once. Twice. The magic resisted like thick oil. The third time, he nearly retched. But still—he moved. Kept moving. Branches tore at his wings. His leathers. His face.

He called out again—louder this time, but still composed. Still hoping.

“(Y/N)!”

Still no answer.

His pace broke. He stopped. Listened.

Then louder—harder—because she should’ve answered by now.

“(Y/N)!”

Still nothing.

His breath was ragged now.

He turned in place again. Something in him—the part that always found people, that always knew—was blank.

“(Y/N)!”

The cry cracked out of him like thunder.

It echoed. Nothing answered.

“Fuck!”

His fist shot toward the nearest tree, stopping inches short. He ground his teeth, the bark rough against his skin. Restraint tasted like fire, but he held back. And started running again.

Before he knew it, the sun was low, skimming orange against the horizon, bleeding rust through the trees. 

He’d looped the same stretch of forest three times. Four. He didn’t know anymore.

The woods in the Middle didn’t repeat themselves, not truly, but they liked to pretend they did. Trees where they hadn’t been. Paths where there were none. Tracks gone the moment he turned his back.

Still no trace.

No sound. No voice.

Just trees. Just silence.

His jaw clenched hard enough to crack.

He was supposed to find people.

Even when no one else could. Especially then.

So where the fuck was she?

His heart slammed harder with every step. It had been hours. Too long.

Too quiet.

The shadows whispering around him had gone feral.

They knew something was wrong. They hissed through the trees like blades, fanned wide and searching, searching—coming up empty.

And now, despite himself, despite everything—

He was planning how he’d say it.

What he’d tell Rhys.

“I lost her.”

“I lost her, I—fuck, I don’t know how—”

“No, it wasn’t on purpose, I swear it wasn’t—”

Because Rhysand would ask. 

And he couldn’t answer.

He didn’t have an answer.

Just the rising certainty that something had taken her.

That she was gone.

That it was his fault.

His chest constricted. The air burned in his lungs.

She’d called him a hound. She wasn’t wrong.

But even hounds couldn’t track ghosts.

And gods, that’s what it felt like.

Like she was gone. Not just missing—gone.

No… Not dead. He would’ve known.

Wouldn’t he?

His pace stuttered. His vision blurred.

He turned in place again, dragging a hand through his hair, panting.

Nothing.

Still—nothing.

And then—

A flash of red.

Caught on a thorn, barely fluttering in the still air.

He went utterly still.

His shadows surged ahead like an extension of his panic—rippling down the path.

Blood.

Not much. Just a few dried flecks, but it was her.

He knew it was her.

And something inside him snapped.

“(Y/N)!”

He surged forward, feet pounding against the leaf-strewn earth. The forest seemed to close in around him, thorns clawing at his skin, roots threatening to trip him, but he refused to slow. Every instinct screamed that she was near.

“(Y/N)! FUCKING SAY SOMETHING! PLEASE!”

Nothing.

He nearly tore the forest apart.

Branches slapped across his face, brambles tore at his leathers, but he didn’t feel any of it. He sprinted now, wild and unthinking, shadows streaming ahead like black fire.

Then—

Then he saw her.

Crushed low in the underbrush. Barely there. Half-buried in leaves, tangled in thorns.

Still.

Too still.

A sound tore from his chest—raw, ragged, animal—and he was on his knees before he knew he’d fallen.

She was pale—so pale. Not dead. Not dead. Please, not dead.

He pressed his fingers to her neck.

Not dead.

He touched her shoulder—shaking, adrenaline surging—then dragged her against his heaving chest, like that might steady him.

His hands fisted in her torn shirt, arms wrapped so tightly around her body it could’ve broken them both.

And then he buried his face in her hair.

Not a word.

Not a breath.

Just that.

He inhaled like he’d been drowning. Like her scent might drag him to shore.

His mouth found her temple. His nose pressed to her scalp. His grip didn’t ease.

Not even when she stirred with a weak sound—a wince, a gasp, a breath that might’ve been his name.

Still, he said nothing.

He just held on.

And she—

She didn’t push him away.

She cried.

“I didn’t… I didn’t want to die alone, Azriel,” she whispered, voice thin and frayed. 

“You’re not going to die,” he said, voice rough—not detached, not controlled, but strained. Like the truth of it had to shove its way past the fear choking him. 

Her fingers twitched near his chest.

“Didn’t…” A sob cracked through her. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“Shh…” He cradled her closer. “Shh, you’re okay. It’s okay. I’m here.”

His shadows curled protectively around them both, as if even they couldn’t stand the thought of losing her.

And though the forest still loomed—dark, ancient, watching—Azriel only held her tighter.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You awoke to warmth you didn’t feel. 

A thick quilt weighed down on your chest. Another was tucked tight around your legs. The mattress beneath you felt too soft to be real, and still—

Still, you were cold. 

Your body ached. Your skin felt like it didn’t quite fit right. Your mouth tasted like blood and dirt and something older. You didn’t want to think about it. 

You turned your head very slowly, every joint protesting. A dim room came into view—four walls, a low-burning hearth, a wooden chair—

Azriel. 

Slumped in it like a male who hadn’t meant to fall asleep, one wing draped awkwardly over the side, the other crammed too tight between the chair and the wall. His arms were folded across his chest, shadows curled lazily around his boots. His head tilted just enough to bare the sharp line of his throat.

He looked… peaceful.

Not serene. Not soft. But stripped of something.

That cold, impenetrable sternness he wore like armor was gone in sleep, carved away by exhaustion.

He looked—

Gods, he looked almost boyish.

You let your eyes wander. The scarred hands. The long legs splayed out in a graceless sprawl. The rise and fall of his chest. And his eyes—

They were open. 

Piercing. Alert. Fixed on you. 

You flinched so hard you nearly knocked one of the blankets off the bed. 

Azriel didn’t move.

His eyes stayed on you, unreadable in the firelight, and for a long moment the silence pressed in—so thick it felt like it might snap in two.

You swallowed against the dryness in your throat.

“Where… are we?”

His voice was low, rough with sleep or something heavier. “Healing center. Small one. Winter Court.”

Winter.

You blinked, tried to sit up—and failed. Your body gave a single trembling protest before settling back into the mattress.

He leaned forward slightly, just enough that the firelight brushed the edge of his face. “You passed out. I carried you out of the Middle during the night.” A pause. “You were freezing. As soon as we hit the border, I flew.”

You stared at him. His hands, resting on his knees. The faint soot-stain along the side of his jaw.

“I had to fly low,” he murmured. “You were so cold. Shaking in your sleep.”

Another pause.

“Had to cross the mountain range.”

Your brows pulled together. “You—flew over a mountain range in Winter? Are you alright?”

His mouth twisted slightly. Not a smile. Something tired.

“I found this town on the other side. Got lucky—they have a healer. She’s the one who patched you up.”

He didn’t add how long he must’ve flown. Or how hard it must’ve been, carrying your weight, flying in the cold, his wings nearly giving out.

But it was there. In his voice. In the look he gave you.

In the way his wings still hadn’t settled.

You didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to hold the weight of what he’d done.

“You flew over a mountain range,” you repeated softly. As if saying it again might make it make sense. Might ground you in the warmth of this unfamiliar bed, these too-many blankets, his unreadable stare.

Azriel only inclined his head. As if it had been nothing. And maybe for an Illyrian it was. As if he hadn't been pressing your frostbitten skin to his chest for miles of snowy sky.

You looked at him, really looked at him.

There was a tightness around his eyes he hadn’t had before. The circles beneath them were bruised-dark. His leathers were still streaked with dirt, his hands scraped, one of them bandaged at the knuckles.

“You saved my life,” you said. Voice raw. Disbelieving.

That made him shift. His eyes dropped to the floor. “Don’t make it sound like that.”

“But it was like that,” you whispered. “You—”

Your throat closed.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” he said quietly, firmly. Still not looking at you. “I have somewhere to get you, in case you forgot.”

Something clenched in your chest. You stared at him—at the shadows writhing slowly along his shoulders, at the set of his jaw, at the tattered edge of your cloak still half-draped on the chair.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” you admitted, because it was the only thing that felt true.

His eyes lifted to yours again, piercing and unreadable.

“You don’t have to.”

But you did.

Somewhere inside, a door had opened. Quietly, without ceremony.

And you didn’t think it would ever fully close again.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next two days were rough, a combination of flying and walking so Azriel could rest. His wings were stiff in the cold. He insisted he was fine, you insisted he shouldn’t risk tearing them. 

But you spoke all the way, as if words could hold off the chill burrowing into your bones.

The Autumn Court finally came into view when it was nearing sundown. 

The next two days were hard going.

A grueling rhythm of flying and walking, flying and walking—Azriel pushing himself until the cold stiffened his wings too much to continue, until you could see the strain in his shoulders no matter how tightly he gritted his jaw.

He claimed he was fine.

You called bullshit.

Neither of you backed down, but he let you walk beside him a little longer each time before taking to the skies again.

You kept talking. About nothing and everything. Filling the silence with rambling observations, old stories, things you weren’t sure you’d ever told anyone. Just to keep your teeth from chattering. Just to keep him present with you.

By the time the golden trees of the Autumn Court came into view, the sun was a red smear against the horizon.

You were both dragging your feet.

Azriel scanned the treeline, eyes narrowed like he was hunting ghosts. “We’re too close to the border to get a restful night’s sleep,” he muttered. “Let’s find shelter further in before it gets dark.”

The forest thickened as you moved, trees clawing overhead, the air still sharp. It wasn’t long before Azriel veered off the path entirely, leading you through thickets and brush until the terrain sloped into a narrow ravine. Half-hidden by vines and moss, there it was: a shallow cave dug into the ridge.

It wasn’t much. But it was dry. And hidden.

He checked it first, of course. Shadows sweeping the interior like a second pair of hands, silent and fast.

When he gave the all-clear, you staggered inside, teeth chattering, and sank to the ground like your legs had given up.

Azriel followed, wings hunched awkwardly to fit beneath the low stone ceiling.

“I’ll take first watch.”

But you didn’t want to sleep.

So you sat up and pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, legs stretched out in front of you, boots still caked in half-frozen mud.

Azriel settled across from you with a soft grunt, his back to the wall, one knee bent loosely. The mouth of the cave framed the forest beyond in deepening indigo. The wind outside hissed low through the trees.

You glanced over at him. “You think the cave’s full of spiders?”

His mouth twitched. “Probably.”

“Good. I was worried this was going too well.”

That earned a real smile. Brief, but warm.

For a while, there was only the rustle of wind and the distant creak of branches bowing under snow. His shadows slipped along the cave walls, slow and drowsy, curling like smoke around his shoulders.

“You ever camp out like this?” you asked eventually. “No fire. No tent. Just barely not freezing to death.”

He tipped his head back against the cool stone, throat bared, a quiet, gruff sound slipping past his lips—half sigh, half groan. “There was a stretch in the Steppes, centuries ago. I was tracking a defector. Went eleven nights without fire or light. Didn’t sleep more than ten minutes at a time.”

You winced. “Was it worth it?”

Azriel’s eyes met yours, steady. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. Just tired. Heavy.

You shifted closer to the wall and tugged the blanket tighter. “I don’t know how you don’t fall asleep standing up.”

“I might,” he said. “You’ll know because I’ll fall on you.”

You huffed a laugh, your breath fogging in front of you.

He went quiet again. But this time it felt different. The stillness stretched—not companionable now, but thoughtful.

You didn’t look at him when he spoke again.

“Are you really okay with this?”

Your heart stuttered. “With what?”

He didn’t clarify. Just gave you a look that made it clear he didn’t need to.

You looked out at the woods beyond. “I don’t really have a choice.”

“You do.”

“Not one that matters.”

A pause. 

“Just say the word,” Azriel said, voice low, “I’ll take you back if that’s what you want. Right now. I’ll fly you straight to Velaris and we won’t look back.”

You blinked.

He held your gaze, steady and calm, like he wasn’t offering to burn his court’s entire future down for you. Like it was nothing.

“Even if it’s at the altar,” he said. “Even if it’s the last second. I’ll take you out of there.”

You stared at him.

Then scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

“You can’t just—” You looked away, exhaling hard. “You don’t get to say that like it’s simple. Like I could just walk away and that would fix anything.”

“It would get you out,” he said quietly.

“It would start a war, Azriel.”

Azriel didn’t respond. His shadows were still.

You pressed your hands to your face, fingers digging into your temples. “You think I haven’t thought about that? About running? About saying no? What do you think I was thinking about every hour of those two weeks—after the dinner, before we left?”

“I didn’t say it would be easy.”

“No,” you dragged your hands down. “You just said you’d throw me over your shoulder mid-vow and fly me off into the fucking sunset.”

His expression didn’t waver. “If that’s what you wanted, yes.”

A laugh broke out of you—sharp and bitter. “You think you’re doing me a kindness, but it’s cruel. Don’t—don’t offer me choices I can’t afford to take.”

His jaw shifted. But he said nothing.

You looked away again, blinking hard at the cave wall. “I don’t need saving,” you muttered. “I need this to work.”

A beat of silence passed. His voice was even softer when he spoke.

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because you couldn’t trust your voice not to break.

You just stood, stiff and silent, and crossed to the far side of the cave. Curled yourself up in the thin blanket you’d managed to cram into your bag, tugging it over your shoulders like it could shield you from more than just the cold.

Azriel watched you settle, his eyes shadowed.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he said again—firmer this time, like he needed you to hear it differently. Believe it.

Still, you said nothing.

“We can figure something out.”

That did it.

You sat up, fast. “No, we can’t.”

Azriel blinked, taken aback by the snap in your voice.

You weren’t looking at him, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the stone just past his boots. “There’s nothing to figure out. This is the plan. It’s happening.”

“You don’t sound like someone who’s at peace with that.”

“I don’t need to be at peace with it,” you bit out. “I just need to get through it.”

His brow furrowed, a slow crease forming between his eyes. “Why are you—?”

“I’m not anything,” you cut in, too quickly.

He fell silent, watching you now with quiet caution, like he was re-evaluating everything he thought he understood about your choices.

You shifted back under the blanket, turned toward the cave wall to put an end to the conversation.

Azriel didn’t speak again.

But you could feel it—his eyes still on you. The weight of what he wasn’t saying pressing into your spine like a question you didn’t want to answer.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

-> part 2

Harry sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Well, this is quite the welcome committee.”

“We made you breakfast!” Theo announced proudly, gesturing toward the tray still balanced in your hands. “Mummy helped, but we did most of it.”

Harry chuckled. “That so? Did you two make sure it wasn’t just extra syrup?”

Lily gasped, feigning offense. “No! We made pancakes all fancy. You have to eat it all.”

She carefully placed a handmade birthday crown on his head, adorned with colorful stickers and a glittery ‘31’ in the center. “And you have to wear this all day,” she added with a very serious nod.

Harry laughed, adjusting the crown slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

As he reached for a bite of his pancake, Theo held up a forkful and grinned. “Nope! We get to feed you first.”

You laughed as Harry playfully groaned. “Ah, so that’s the deal? I just sit here and get spoiled?”

Lily nodded, already scooping up another bite for him. “Yup! It’s the rule.”

Breakfast in bed was filled with laughter and syrupy fingers. The kids eagerly took turns feeding him, their giggles filling the room, while you sat beside him, sipping your tea. You watched him carefully, taking in the quiet joy in his expression.

“You okay, birthday boy?” you asked softly, nudging his thigh with your own.

Harry turned to you, a teasing glint in his eye. “M’being pampered, got my favorite people in the world around me, and I’ve been force-fed pancakes—what’s not to love?”

You raised a brow. “Force-fed?”

Lily gasped, feigning offense. “Daddy, we made those for you!”

Harry chuckled, holding up his hands in surrender. “And they were the best pancakes I’ve ever had, promise.”

Theo giggled. “Even better than Mum’s?”

Harry hesitated dramatically, looking between you and Theo before sighing. “Don’t make me answer that, mate. I still need to sleep in this bed tonight.”

You rolled your eyes, but the sight of his dimples softened you instantly. “Smart man.”

After breakfast, the day unfolded exactly as Harry would have wanted, filled with his favorite activities and the people he loved most.

The first adventure took them to the beach, where the sun glistened off the gentle waves, and the salty breeze tousled their hair. Theo, always a burst of energy, ran ahead, leaving tiny footprints in the damp sand before the waves erased them.

“Daddy, look how fast I can run!” he called over his shoulder before sprinting toward the water, only to yelp and scamper back when the foamy tide licked at his ankles.

Harry chuckled, adjusting the birthday crown still perched on his head. “Not fast enough to outrun the ocean, mate.”

Lily, ever the meticulous collector, was crouched down nearby, carefully selecting seashells. She held up a small, smooth one, its pinkish hue catching the light. “This one’s perfect,” she murmured, before tucking it into the pocket of her dress.

Harry walked beside you, his fingers occasionally brushing against yours. You glanced up at him, noting the way he gazed at the horizon—thoughtful, almost distant. You nudged him gently. “You okay?”

He turned to you with a soft smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

You wanted to ask what was on his mind, but before you could, Theo ran back, dragging Harry toward a tide pool where tiny fish darted beneath the surface. You let the moment slip away, telling yourself there would be time later.

By the time they returned home, the afternoon had warmed considerably. The backyard transformed into an impromptu soccer field, with two overturned garden chairs serving as goalposts.

“Alright, birthday boy,” you teased, tossing Harry a soccer ball. “Let’s see if you still have it.”

Theo, already buzzing with excitement, bounced on his toes. “I’m gonna win this time, Daddy!”

Harry smirked, rolling his shoulders. “We’ll see about that, little man.”

The game was a whirlwind of laughter and determination. Theo had grown quicker, and his footwork had improved, but Harry still had the advantage of skill. He weaved past Theo, kicking the ball toward the goal.

“Noooo!” Theo shouted dramatically, diving to stop it, but the ball rolled past him, bumping against the chair leg.

Harry threw his arms up. “And that’s how it’s done!”

Theo flopped onto his back in the grass. “That’s not fair! You’re too big!”

Lily, sitting cross-legged nearby, shook her head. “You’ll have to train harder, Theo.”

Theo groaned but quickly sat up, determination sparking in his eyes. “Next time, Daddy. Next time, I’ll win.”

After soccer, everyone was covered in grass stains and sweat, so you all retreated indoors, for a bath. The kids requested that Harry washed them, wanting to bond with their dad a little more on his birthday, and who’s he to say no to that? After the bath everyone went straight to the kitchen, where Lily had declared herself head chef.

“Okay,” she announced, tying her apron. “We are making the best chocolate cake ever.”

Theo raised his hand. “Can I lick the spoon?”

Lily sighed. “Only if you actually help.”

Harry chuckled, washing his hands. “What’s my job, Chef Lily?”

She tapped her chin in thought before handing him a whisk. “You mix, but don’t overdo it! We want the cake fluffy.”

With everyone assigned a role, the kitchen soon became a delightful mess. Flour dusted the countertops (and somehow Theo’s nose), chocolate smudged fingers, and laughter filled the air.

When it came time to pour the batter into the pan, Harry carefully smoothed the top, though the uneven distribution almost guaranteed a lopsided result.

“It’s not about how it looks,” Lily said wisely. “It’s about how it tastes.”

After the cake was safely in the oven, Theo tugged at Harry’s sleeve. “Daddy, can we play one more round of soccer while it bakes?”

Harry hesitated, rubbing his neck. “Maybe later, buddy.”

Theo frowned. “But it’s your birthday. You love soccer.”

“I do,” Harry said softly, ruffling Theo’s hair. “I just need a little break.”

The quiet moment didn’t go unnoticed. You exchanged a glance with Lily, who, despite her young age, seemed to sense it too.

Dinner was next—every dish carefully chosen to make Harry’s birthday meal special. The scent of garlic filled the air as you stirred the pasta sauce, the rich aroma blending with the freshly baked bread cooling on the counter.

Harry stood beside you, sipping a glass of wine, watching as you worked. “You know, you spoil me,” he murmured.

You smirked. “That’s the point, birthday boy.”

The meal was a feast. Pasta twirled around forks, laughter bounced between conversations, and the tiramisu at the end was met with eager, chocolate-covered smiles.

Then came the cake—imperfectly shaped, slightly uneven, but undeniably made with love. Candles flickered, their glow reflecting in Harry’s thoughtful eyes.

“Make a wish, Daddy!” Theo urged.

Harry hesitated for just a second before closing his eyes and exhaling, sending the flames dancing away.

Cheers erupted, and as slices were passed around, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Harry was happy—there was no doubt about that—but his smiles, though present, didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a quiet hesitance to his laughter, a weight behind his usually bright gaze. After the kids went upstairs to play before bed, you thought it was the perfect time to ask him before it started to eat you alive.

“Alright,” you said softly, settling beside him, tucking your legs under you, feeling the warmth of the couch seep into your bones. You glanced at Harry, his posture tense, his gaze unfocused. “What’s going on?”

He sighed, a long, drawn-out breath that seemed to carry the weight of the world. He ran a hand through his curls, the dark strands falling messily around his face, but there was no playful energy behind the movement. It was a motion you’d seen him do a thousand times, but now it felt heavy, like he was trying to push away something too big to ignore.

“Finished the album,” he murmured, his voice almost flat, like it was an announcement he was struggling to fully accept.

Your heart leaped, a surge of pride filling your chest. “Harry, that’s amazing!” The words felt like they should be the end of a conversation, the punctuation at the end of a happy story. But the air between you both still felt thick, unspoken words hanging just beyond reach.

He nodded, but his eyes never met yours. Instead, he looked down at his hands, those same hands that had made magic in the studio, that had written lyrics that touched the deepest parts of people’s hearts. But now, they looked tired. “It means the next part is coming. The interviews, the promo, the tour…” His voice wavered, breaking ever so slightly as if just saying it made it real. “I’ll be away a lot, more than I am away now.”

The excitement that had been bubbling in your chest froze, replaced by a quiet realization. “Oh.”

His shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand over his face in frustration, like he was trying to rub away the feeling that had settled there. “It’s the first time I’ll be gone for so long since the twins were born.It kills me to go to long meeting or writing sessions how can I bear to be without them or you for months? I—I don’t know if I’m ready for that.” He glanced at you, and for the first time, you saw the vulnerability in his eyes, raw and unguarded. “Knowing you won’t be there either makes it even harder.”

Your heart ached for him. You knew this day would come—the day when the album would be finished, the day when he’d have to step into the spotlight again, but the reality of it hit hard. You reached for his hand, the familiar warmth of his skin grounding you, and intertwined your fingers. You squeezed gently, offering him all the comfort you could muster in that moment. “Harry, we’re always with you. No matter where you are. You could be halfway across the world, and we’d still be right here.”

You lifted his hand and placed it over your chest, where your heartbeat thrummed steady and sure beneath the palm of his hand. “The kids will miss you, yeah, but they’ll also see their dad doing what he loves. You’re showing them that dreams are worth chasing, that it’s okay to follow your passion, even when it’s hard. You’re showing them what courage looks like.”

He exhaled shakily, nodding, but the sadness still lingered in his eyes. “But what if they feel like I’m leaving them?” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper, like the fear was too big to hold in.

You smiled gently, the curve of your lips soft, but with an undeniable certainty. “They won’t. Because they know you always come back. And no matter how far you go, you’ll always find your way back to us.” You nudged him playfully, a small glint of mischief in your eyes, trying to lighten the heavy mood. “Besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and we all know you love a dramatic reunion.”

He gave a small chuckle, but it was like the weight on his shoulders had lightened just a little. He shook his head, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“But I’m right.” You kissed the corner of his mouth, a soft press of your lips that spoke volumes. “And we’ll be cheering you on every step of the way. You’re not alone in this.”

Before he could respond, a light patter of tiny feet interrupted the moment, drawing both of your attention. The soft click of the door opening made you look up, and there stood Lily, clutching a piece of paper in her hands, her wide eyes sparkling with excitement. “Daddy, I almost forgot! Your last present.”

Harry’s brows lifted in surprise, his lips parting in an unspoken question as Lily climbed onto his lap, settling herself with a quiet, determined air. She handed him the drawing with both hands, her little face so proud of her creation. It was a colorful portrait of their family, but something about it felt different from the usual drawings she’d given him. “Daddy” was written inside of her chest, as though enclosed within her heart, surrounded by bright, crayon hues, as if she was keeping him close no matter the distance.

Harry’s breath hitched, and his eyes stung with the kind of emotion that hit you right in the chest. His throat bobbed as he stared at the drawing, blinking rapidly as if to ward off the lump that had formed there. He looked down at his daughter, trying to steady himself, but the love in his gaze was so fierce it took your breath away. It was like she knew her father was going trough a tough time and needed a reminder.

“What’s this, darling?” His voice was thick, strained with the emotion he couldn’t seem to hold back.

Lily beamed, the innocence and purity in her smile lighting up the room. “Well, You go away sometimes daddy and work, but it doesn’t matter because you’re always in here.” She tapped her own chest, and your heart swelled as she looked up at him with all the love in the world. “You are always with me, wherever I go. I love you all the time, no matter where you are.”

Harry’s arms wrapped tightly around her, and he buried his face in her curls, pressing his lips to the top of her head, his hands shaking slightly as he held her. He whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “I love you so much, my little love.”

“ I love you more daddy,” she whispered slightly, like she understood how important this moment for him was, even though she would probably forget it in a few years, it was engraved in Harry’s mind. “ I am happy that you are born.”

You felt a sharp breath catch in your own throat, your eyes welling with tears as you watched the tender, raw moment unfold before you. It was as if time had stopped, the only sound in the room the steady rhythm of their breathing, the warmth of their bond. It was a quiet reminder that love, no matter the miles, would always find a way to endure.

He held her just a little longer, his heart grounding itself in the softness of her presence, as if trying to memorize the feel of her before the world pulled him away. The weight on his shoulders, just moments before so heavy, seemed a little lighter now, a little more manageable. The tenderness in his eyes as he pulled back to look at you spoke volumes. There was no perfect answer, no flawless solution, but for this moment, at least, he was at peace.

“Alright monkey, it’s time for bed.”

As the night drew to a close, and you both lay in bed, the soft hum of the house around you, you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He let out a soft sigh, a sound of both exhaustion and relief. “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured into the quiet, his voice full of tenderness.

You smirked, the warmth of his skin beneath your lips so familiar, so comforting. “I usually am.”

A soft laugh escaped him, but this time it felt real, a sound full of ease. The kind of laughter that held both love and acceptance, the kind that made the weight of the world feel just a little bit lighter.

Bell felt her blood boil as soon as she lay eyes on him. A disgusting, pitiful, awful man. Her rage licked up her spinal cord, hands tightening over the assault rifle in her arms. 

The man lay in his own ichor, smudged all over the tile and his clothes, hands drenched in the stuff from pitiful attempts to stop the bleeding. She ought to put him out of his misery right here. Pump his guts full of lead and watch as rigor mortis made him twitch. She ought to bash his skull in with the butt of her gun. Smash those stupid aviators and leave scars in his eyes to match hers. 

The American wheezed out a raspy chuckle, letting his head loll to look at Bell. “Glad to see you still care... Mind giving me a light?” Adler gestured with his chin to the lighter that lay just out of his reach. 

Bell stopped a moment, standing in the middle of the room. She smirked underneath her mask. Sure. Why not. Humor the dying man. She stepped closer, kneeling to give Adler his last wish. The thought of whether or not he deserved such an escape from his bad decisions crossed her mind only to be interrupted by a metallic shing! and a defiant grunt. 

The blade of the dagger glinted in the sun as she easily caught his wrist. Adler struggled. Audibly. It made a twinge of joy twist Bell’s gut. Adler, the man who she’d though untouchable, who shined in her “memories” as a savior. A man who her entire life had seemed to revolve around. What an egotistical piece of shit. Bell pushed back against him, slowly but surely forcing her captor back down to the blood smeared floor. She marveled at just how easy it was, now that all the strength was leaving his body. Did it feel like his limbs were filling with lead? Was his head starting to get fuzzy? Could he still feel the tips of his fingers? A small part of Bell died at the fact she would never know. 

There was a wild sort of spark in her eyes, ones that were usually so far away. Somehow, in this moment, they were both. As she slowly won the battle of strength against Adler, forcing him further and further into submission, she wondered if he felt like the prey he’d become. The sounds of his struggle only served to fuel that wild excitement in her stomach, watching the horror slowly slide into his expression. Bell stretched her neck out just a little, to peer beyond his sunglasses to see if there was that glint of fear in his eyes. Even just a flicker and she’d be satisfied for the rest of her days. 

Bell shifted herself on her knees, over Adler’s body. She could feel the pressure of the sharpened tip up against his shirt, his skin, his lungs. It was thrilling, to finally have some kind of power over him. Her breaths came in gasping lungfuls, that untamed, wild look in her eyes grew like an uncontrolled fire, pupils dilating from adrenaline and the pure euphoria of the moment. All it would take was the slightest bit of pressure. Just a push and it would all be over. 

She felt Adler’s hand clap over her shoulder, a last plea for mercy. Her mind flashed to all the times he had done the same in the past. In the safehouse, in Berlin, Vietnam. Usually only when he needed her attention, but occasionally, it would be accompanied by praise. Crumbs of affection to keep her obediently kneeling at his side, waiting for him to spare another. Like a fucking dog. His blood smeared down the shoulder pad beneath her coat as he used the fumes of adrenaline to tighten his grip and push her away from him, and it was all for naught. In the next instant, she lodged the blade into his chest. Making sure to hit deep. 

The way he gargled and choked on his own blood made Bell’s stomach clench, nausea and adrenaline tearing through her like flames. Watching his face go slack made her blood run cold, hearing his arm hit the ground with a heavy, dull thunk made her head spin. Blood roared in her ears like thunder, she couldn’t focus. Oh, god, she killed him. 

Bell was reeling, panting for air through the sturdy cloth of her balaclava. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe, the world around her was fuzzy and crumbling away until it was just her and the body. 

Adler, no, no, no, no- 

Carefully, Bell reached up to set a hand on the side of the American’s face, barely missing the way his blood began pooling on the tile. What had she done? Tears bubbled up in her eyes and she couldn’t stop them from falling. Adler couldn’t be dead, he just couldn’t! The knife she had put in his gut had to have been fake, it had to! Sure, he deserved it after everything he’d done, but… 

He deserved this. Oh, the wrongs he had made. With her, with Perseus, with the world. Bell drew her hand back from his face and let it hang at her side. Today the west would fall, and his body would mark the start. Today the world had been rid of a cancer, of a thorn in its heel. No one would have to go through what she had ever again, she’d personally make sure of it. Her palms suddenly itched for the handle of his knife. Maybe she would keep it as a souvenir, or a good luck charm. Bury it somewhere deep in her closet, never to find but to know it’s there. Yeah, that sounded good. 

Bell used both hands to slip the blade from the new gash in Adler’s body, carefully, like something about this was ceremonial. She held it at her own chest level for a moment, letting silent tears spill. Russell Adler was gone. For real. His heart would never beat again. His lungs would never fill with the acidic tang of cigarette smoke again. His hands would never rest on the back of Bell’s neck again. His lips would never mutter another “We’ve got a job to do…” 

The phrase so easily crossed Bell’s mind. Too easily. Somewhere, faintly, she heard her namesake. Ringing in the back of her head, the resonance rising to a crescendo until her brain was full of buzzing. It made her angry. Her face had hardened, and brow furrowed as she raised her arms higher. The arrogance. We’ve got a job to do, as if there was ever a “we” in the first place. She’d been kidnapped, experimented on, brainwashed, lied to at every turn, and somehow those missions were her responsibility. She’d show him responsibility. Are you watching, Adler? From your throne in hell? I’ll fucking show you responsibility! 

With a sob, more akin to a grieving howl, Bell plunged the dagger downwards, straight back into Adler’s lifeless corpse. What little blood was left in his body spattered upwards and onto her clothing and mask. There was a strange sort of satisfaction that came with the hollow beating her fists made against his ribs, the ease in which the metal slid into him. It fulfilled a sickening corner of her mind; one she wasn’t even sure was hers. She only knew she wanted to do it again. And again. And again. And again. 

Bell couldn’t stop crying, heaving sobs and angry growls took turns escaping from her chest. Adler was gone. He was gone and it was all her fault. It was over. 

Again and again, she drove the knife deep into his ribs, chipping away at bone and hacking off hunks of flesh. This one was for pushing her to the border of death strapped to a chair in that lab, that one was for dragging her out to the Lubyanka building, those two were for sticking a needle into her eye. Bell couldn’t tell if the sound of screaming was coming from her or somewhere outside. All she could focus on was the feeling of Adler’s corpse coming apart under her hands. Stab after stab after stab, it was all the girl could bring herself to do. Adler was dead and it was all Bell’s fault. She raised her arms for another blow and wailed, coming down without the same force that she had before. The dagger slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor, joining the blood of its previous owner. 

Bell didn’t sit back up this time, leaning forward over the mushy cavity she had carved from him, bloodied hands splayed out on his shoulders and putting her forehead just between his collarbones. Adler was gone. There was a gaping hole in her chest now, like she was the one being gutted rather than him. Even after everything he did, he was still a part of her. In his own, artificial way. He’d poured himself into her memories, cemented himself as a staple in her life. Without a hand to hold its leash, what was a dog to do? Even just a few hours ago, when he had interrogated her after injecting her brain with whatever was in those orange vials, the way he had held her head so still. As if he were cradling it gently. Bell already craved that warmth again. Her soul screamed for the steadying hands on the sides of her head, and Adler’s voice telling her to think, Bell, try to remember. 

She couldn’t do it anymore, her head was full of static and memories she wasn’t sure were hers. A jungle, a helicopter crash, a jeep on an airstrip, a door, a red door, a red door. Bell’s head was on backwards and it hurt to open her eyes. She wanted to drown herself in the lingering scent of his expensive cigarettes and let him sink his disgusting, calloused fingers back into her brain and make sense of things. Her collar had been taken off and she’d been shooed out the back door to be a stray. His name slipped from her lips between breathless sobs, Adler, Adler, no, Adler, please- 

 Once she was sure his heart had stopped beating, again, Bell sat up to stare down at the carnage, the mess she had made. Her emotions had warred with each other so much that she no longer felt anything. Today had been exhausting and all she wanted was to curl up in her cot. Hell, maybe even a real bed. 

As she stared down at the remnants of her mentor, splayed out on the floor and soaked in blood, a hand slid onto her shoulder. Warm and strong, ungloved. It squeezed just enough to ease some of the tension in her bowstring tight muscle. Bell couldn’t help but lean into it, just slightly. A new sort of silence blanketed the room, one that accompanied change. The kind that made rocks form in your gut at the prospect of just how different everything would be after you took your next breath. Bell hardly felt it through the thick clothing and just how far she’d disappeared into her head, but there was a thumb gently rubbing back and forth against her shoulder blade. Though her comrades voice was muffled by the gas mask, his words couldn’t have cut clearer. 

ohhhhh god fantine's death scene hit me like a truck. that was the first moment i cried at and oh god i cried really hard. i had forgotten that it was to the tune of on my own. awuagh

after little cosette sang "she says...cosette, i love you very much..." i distinctly heard someone in the audience GASP and go "ohhhhh...."

madame thenardier was GREAT, she sang every line like she was rolling her eyes. also she made some. Gestures with a baguette during master of the house

beautiful little moment: after jvj gave cosette the doll she gasped, kind of backed away from him in shock, and then paused and ran towards him and hugged him, and then there was a noticeable moment where he sort of didn't know what to do for a second and then hugged her back and scooped her up to carry her away. waugh

look down paris 1832!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAA

i didn't realize until just now that it works so well to have gavroche be singing what's basically the intro to "okay so here's what's happening now. this is paris and it sucks," because gavroche is the character introduced at the start of the 1832 book!!! the gamin expresses paris!! i love that!!!! also gavroche was excellent. adore that boy

marius was such a dork <3

eponine fully Threw his book across the stage and he was like "haha i love the way you..... tease. Hm"

the paris sets were so cool!!!! they were like. whole apartment building sets and actors would pop out of windows and stuff!!! very neat

one of the women had a "vive lamarque" sign hanging out her window lmao. rip

grantaire kept hugging people/flopping on them

enjolras was Very Blond and Very Enjolras-y. when grantaire tried to flop on him he pushed him away and then they made Intense Eye Contact about it

gavroche delivered "general lamarque is dead" surprisingly solemnly and quietly, and there was a moment of silence that i thought really brought in the gravity of the moment well

also he got up on a table to say it and afterwards enjolras patted him on the shoulder (which he did a lot) and then picked him up and lifted him off the table :)

DO YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING <3 AAAAAAAAAAA

grantaire kept pulling gavroche back from joining with the rest of the revolutionaries :(

marius actually CLIMBED OVER THE GATES to cosette's house, i was very impressed

ONE DAY MOOOOOORE was sooo good

the thenadiers peered out of one of the really tall windows and had a little periscope (??) to look at the revolutionaries with

the barricade was very striking, if lacking in Symbolic Coffin. very pointy looking though

my dad said "is that javert??" a few minutes after javert appeared at the barricade and his reaction to the reveal was EXCELLENT

gavroche flipped off javert LMAO

little fall of rain was very good but the thing that hurt me the most was that towards the very end gavroche came on stage, saw what was happening, stepped towards her, and was pulled back a bit by grantaire. and then after she died gavroche went forward and picked up her hat and gave it to marius, and then walked away, and when grantaire reached out towards him he just kind of walked past. it was a really really good bit of like. subtle characterization and plot and just AAAAAA

"is your life just one more LIE" in drink with me was very directly addressed to enjolras, who then had another moment of Very Intense Eye Contact with grantaire. then they stormed off to opposite sides of the barricade and gavroche, who was sort of standing between them looking worried, looked back and forth a few times and then went over to grantaire and hugged him :((

the barricaders in general were so good

jvj hit an INSANELY high note at the end of bring him home

THEY DID SOMEHTING VERY CRUEL AND FUCKED UP and had gavroche's song of little people be interrupted by a gunshot and a gasp from the barricade, and THEN he started singing AGAIN, and everyone seemed relieved, and he came back up over the barricade and THEN. GUNSHOT. and. enjolras caught him and held him and then like. passed him down the barricade to grantaire??? in this incredibly lit and really like. again. like it looked like a painting . i am rapidly losing coherency. it hurt so bad man

the one thing i am sad about (WELL. IM SAD ABOUT A LOT. BUT I MEAN SPECIFICALLY ABOUT THE ADAPTATION FROM BOOK TO MUSICAL) is that grantaire and enjolras didn't die holding hands :((

at least they got one more moment of Very Intense Eye Contact in (after gavroche's death...)

oh GOD enjolras in the cart hurt so bad. WITH THE FLAG. i really thought he was evoking some famous painting but i could be wrong

javert knelt down over gavroche's body, shook his head, crossed himself, gently tapped gavroche, and then stood up and pointed at him so the cart guy would take him away

enjolras had like. one hand dangling out of the cart when it came in, but as it was leaving the stage the other hand dropped which was a FANTASTIC acting moment . also damn those actors were great at pretending to be dead

javert's suicide was BRILLIANTLY staged, somehow the actor really made it look like falling while standing up the whole time (possibly being raised somewhat? unsure)

he was also the only character who's death was not shown in illuminating light . which. damn.

turning turning hit me unexpectedly hard. ooooof

and then empty chairs at empty tables was. well. i dont think i need to say more. the lights were a fantastic choice

i think i started crying at "it is the story of those who always loved you" but honestly the entire last song was really blurry. IT OPENED WITH JEAN VALJEAN LIGHTING THE CANDLESTICKS. THE CANDLESTIIIIIICKS

THE BISHOP CAME OUT AND HUGGED JEAN VALJEAN. AUGH

also gavroche was standing between enjolras and grantaire when they first came out which i have to think was intentional

Looking back on it now, though, it had been two years since they’d gone their separate ways.  It wasn’t as though they could send letters easily: Byleth could write, sure, but mercenaries never stayed still, so it was hard to get a letter into the right hands.  How were they doing?  What were they doing?  And how long was he going to worry about it before he got his damn paperwork done--

“Jeralt!  Sir!  Guess who’s back?”

His head came up so fast it made his neck ache.  Abandoning his work, he shouldered his way out of his tent, pushing through the gathering crowd of mercenaries at the heart of their camp…

…and there they were.  Their hair had grown out a little, and their clothes had clearly been worn and tattered and patched in places, but he’d recognize his kid anywhere.  And when they caught sight of him, there was an unmistakable smile on their face. 

“Good to see you again,” he chuckled, striding forward and pulling them into a tight embrace -- one they returned easily, holding on tight for so long he started wondering if they planned on letting go.  They did, eventually…and then there was a part of him that wished they hadn't yet.  "Took you long enough -- I was starting to wonder if you we ever coming back," he said, gesturing for the rest of the band to get back to work.  And once they were mostly alone, he softened, giving their shoulder a brief, telling squeeze.  [Did you do everything you needed to?] he signed.

Byleth nodded…and turned, gesturing for a stranger to join them.  Jeralt hadn't even noticed him by the tents ringing their central gathering point until he moved, leaning into a sturdy walking stick tucked under one arm as he walked.  He looked young -- not a child, but still younger than Byleth, if only by a couple years -- with tan skin, green eyes, dark hair left mostly loose except for a short braid on one side of his face…

Jeralt looked between his kid and the man they'd brought with them.  [Who's this?] he asked. 

Byleth looked to the stranger.  "Khalid," he replied, signing it while he spoke.  

"Khalid," Jeralt repeated.  It sounded foreign, though he'd be damned if he could place where it came from; he'd never traveled outside Fódlan.  "Nice to meet you.  Name's Jeralt."

"Byleth's dad, right?" he ventured.  "They told me on the way," he added when the mercenary shot a questioning look toward his kid. 

Jeralt made a vague noise in response, crossing his arms as he looked the man over again.  "Anybody ever tell you that you look like the guy heading the Leicester Alliance?"

Khalid didn't flinch.  "Funny coincidence," he said flatly. 

Jeralt looked back at his kid, who gave him no clues whatsoever.  Honestly, that shouldn’t have surprised him.  Sighing, he scratched the back of his head, planting his other hand briefly on his hip.  “Well, whatever the case, this probably isn’t the best place for you.  You can take some time to rest up, but then Byleth should get you to wherever you’re going--”

[Faerghus,] they signed. 

“Faerghus?” Khalid repeated.   

Jeralt felt his eyebrows go up.  [Bad idea.  The Empire and the Kingdom are going at it right now.]

[We should all go.]

He sighed, knowing that his kid got their stubbornness from him but digging his heels in all the same.  [We’ve already got a job, the Empire contracted us for work out here.]

[The battle’s already done.  The contract should be up.]

[They’ve already extended the term once, they’re likely to do it again.]

[Have you written it up yet?]

Jeralt twitched.  [I was in the middle of it when you got here.]

[Then you’re not bound.  We can go north.]

Khalid waved to get their attention.  [I thought the plan was to head into Leicester territory.  That’s where I need to be.]

Jeralt sighed, pressing a hand to his face and hooking his free hand into his sword belt.  “That’s probably a worse idea than Byleth’s.”

[Your contract here was to fight the Alliance,] they signed once he cracked his fingers to look at them.

“They turned tail and ran, which seemed strange since they managed to push us back in the first fight.  Things are pretty chaotic up there, though, judging from the word coming south.”

[The Empire’s not taking advantage of it,] Byleth pressed, [which would have been the smart tactic if they planned on making a move against Leicester.  If they’re dragging their feet, work’s going to be more reliable on the west side of Fódlan.]

He’d taught that kid too well. 

Lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender, he shook his head.  “Fine.  You win.  I’ll report to Count Bergliez, tell him we’re heading out -- if he tries to make a fuss I’ll give him a line about needing to bulk up our forces after the last couple fights.  Happy?”

Byleth nodded, looking about as smug as he’d ever seen them.  “Get some rest for now.  I’ll pass the word around and get camp squared away so we can head out early.  Hope you don’t mind sharing a tent.”

Khalid shook his head.  “Doesn’t bother me,” he replied.  “If you don’t mind my asking -- what is the word coming out of Leicester these days?  You said they turned tail mid-battle…”

“Almyra brought another invasion force to the Locket,” Jeralt said.

“Another?” he repeated. 

The mercenary captain nodded.  “Second one in two years.  Same guy leading the charge both times, as I understand it.  Shahid, or some such.  He shouldn’t be a problem anymore, though -- from what I heard, the guy in charge of the Alliance killed him this time around.”

Khalid went very still.  Come to think of it, this kid’s name sounded a lot like that Almyran’s…

Byleth reached out, laying their hand on the young man’s shoulder, and Jeralt turned back toward his tent.  A touch like that was about the closest thing to intimacy Byleth ever showed; the least he could do was give them some privacy. 

***

Byleth had never owned much, aside from their clothes, armor, and weapons; their few other possessions they’d left behind when they set off on their mission.  Coming into the tent they’d always shared with their father, they were surprised to see those few items in their usual places alongside the empty space waiting for their bedroll…and something warm fluttered in their chest, seeing the proof of how long he’d waited, and how sure’d been of their return.  

Claude -- Khalid, they reminded themselves, intent on following his lead in this -- joined them while they spread two sets of blankets across the ground.  It would be a bit tight, sleeping three to the tent, but manageable…

He drew a breath, slightly unsteady, and Byleth looked up to find him staring down, past them and the bedrolls and into some distant place they could not guess at.  [When you found me,] he signed, the movement unable to hide the tremor in his hands, [you said Fódlan needed me.  This is what you meant, isn’t it.]

[In part,] they agreed. 

[There’s more?] he asked.

They nodded, and he sank awkwardly down to sit on the blankts, his bad leg stretched stiffly out before him as he pressed his face into his hands.  “Of course there is,” he chuckled, the sound hoarse and devoid of any warmth.  [What else?] he asked, lifting his head again to watch for their reply. 

Byleth shook their head.  [You don’t know?] he pressed.  [Or you won’t say?]

[I only know it will get worse,] they replied. 

[And that’s why we’re going to Faerghus?]

[I don’t know if it will be any better there,] they admitted, [but you should be safer there than you would be here or in Leicester.]

Khalid made a quiet, thoughtful noise, folding his hands before him.  “I’ll take your word for it.”

They nodded, reaching out to touch his shoulder again before rising to their feet.  [Get some rest.  I’m going to help around camp, and find something to eat on the way back.]