Masterlist | Minors, for the sake of my conscience, do not interact | CLOSED
Slowly transitioning this blog into an archive of writing references and advice
Each day a drabble or snippets of chapters will be posted in line with one specific emotion. They explore the past, present, and future of the characters from my fic Godâs Game. Characters featured will be mostly Azriel and Ayla, and occasionally Morrigan and Rhysand (as of now). You donât need to catch up with the main story in order to read these, but some of my OCs will be mentioned and familiarity with them helps.
Based on Moody March prompt list by @/squidlykitten. Since itâs August already, gave a new name to this challenge.
Iâve reordered some themes in the original prompt list as the chapters flow better when read in succession and form a cohesive narrative, but these can be read in any order. Some themes felt repetitive (Loneliness vs Lonely) or the chapters carried more than one emotion (Joyful and Playful) and so they will be published as one.
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Azrielâs relationship with Ayla as perceived by the others.
Character: Morrigan
Warnings: None
Note: We do not pray at the altar of canon around here. It doesn't exist for me. I write whatever comes to me and whatever makes the characters interesting.
Read it on AO3
Az walked down the winding path to the corner Elain had furnished into a seating area, for afternoon teas and breaks between herâŚgardeningâŚchores. Right after him trotted Ayla like a lost pup, except she was less lost and more ecstatic. As soon as his glass of wine landed on the table, she plopped down beside him on the lounge Elain had chosen fervently for her sanctum for the mornings Nyx grew restless, which he did, often.
Mor wouldnât confess it, but sometimes, she wished the boy grew up faster so her nights were peaceful again and everything went back to the way they were. More nights like this, sharing wine and laughter, together. Not everyone felt this way, though.
After dinner, Az split from them without so much as a word, and soon after, like through a secret sense between the two, Ayla rushed down the stairs and followed him. Once again, she refused to sit the meal with them but hung onto Az the moment he was finished.
With the view of the city, the Sidra, and the mountains in the north alike, the garden was the perfect spot to enjoy a Summer evening like this, but the rest had to remain inside the mansion so those two had their privacy. Everyone went to awful lengths to welcome her into the family, yet it was never enough for her.
Mor fanned herself while taking a sip of her wine. Its chill travelling down her throat offered a very short relief.
Cass said, much to her delight, âCan we at least leave the doors open? Itâs not like weâre spying on them.â He turned to the couple savouring the upwind from the river; Aylaâs hair dancing gloriously around them and settling over Az, who was indifferent to it. âBesides, itâd be a miracle if they remembered weâre still here.â
Az was facing the city, facing away from them, but under the dim moonlight, Mor saw enough.
A leg crossed under him and the other stretched out; he took up most of the seat as if he were alone and didnât care for company. Yet, Ayla eased his arms loose and snuggled against him. Az reached for his glass again, hardly sparing a glance at the female wrapped around him like a vine.
He sipped on his drink slowly while Ayla talked and talked and talked away. They were too far for their conversation to travel inside, and the breeze did its part to obscure it, but the chirp in her voice was clear. Words quaking with laughter as her eyes were only on him, and all Az did was watch her.
No one in the room spoke a word, as if they were afraid the slightest sound was a crime against the pair.
A scoff slipped free from Mor's lips when Ayla reached for a kiss and Az jerked his head back. âWhy are we allowing this?â
Rhys hadnât looked at them, looked at how Ayla forced herself upon their friend; still the excuse was already on his lips. âSheâs his mate.â
Unbelievable.
âSheâs desperate,â said Mor flatly and pointed between him and Cass. âYou two have mates. Even Nesta doesnât throw herself at Cass like that.â
âYou must know all about throwing oneself at men,â mumbled Nesta into her glass of water. She wasnât trusted with drinks sometimes, especially on days she offered to care for Nyx.
âMales,â corrected Feyre, the word slipping out on instinct. Exhaustion coloured her face.
A year passed and no matter her efforts, her sisters resisted their new lives in such futile, baseless manner, as if calling males âmenâ and females âwomenâ preserved their morality.
It wasnât an insult to Feyre alone. The worst of this humiliation was that they reaped everything their family and their world offered without so much as a gratitude. How long were they supposed to be considerate of them when they only cared about themselves? First the sisters, now Ayla.
The glass in Morâs hand began to crack. âWhat does that mean?â
Nesta only held her stare without uttering a word. They had almost developed a friendship briefly after she saved Feyreâs life, but it crumbled as soon as the mating ceremony sealed her and Cass forever. As Mor expected, it had spurred her again since her place in this family was sealed, too. She was no longer just Feyreâs older sister. She was Cassâs mate now.
Why did Feyre have to invite her, too? Mor had ignored her all night. Until now.
A laugh broke the silence pressing down on them. It was as light and fleeting as the breeze.
Mor turned to the other thief. Ayla looped her arms around Azâs shoulders and inched closer. She didnât try to kiss him again, but she rested her chin on his chest, testing her limits.
Az wasnât one to wear his emotions on his face. The vacant stare and distant demeanour werenât unlikely of him, yet Mor had seen him with Ayla beforeâthey all had. There wasnât the usual hint of a smile at the corner of his lips when he feigned nonchalance or the quick glances to see if he still held her interest.
Shadows hovered around himâboth of themâand it was the only sign that he wasnât repulsed by her.
Something was odd. Mor couldnât tell what it was, but she felt it. Maybe Az was waking up to reality; maybe the fog was clearing enough for him to see through her antics as well.
âHe does look a bit beside himself,â said Feyre, and Mor almost rejoiced. Finally someone who saw it, too.
âThatâs his face,â laughed Cass, startling the pair outside. Once he calmed, he added, âBut damn, could he at least smile for his female?â
Mor swallowed the quick remark on her tongue. Though no one paid her mind, she had spoken too much. When it came to Az, anything she said and did was always misunderstood. She chanced a glance at Elain for good measure and found her quiet and looking the other way, proving it was right to hold her words.
Through this, Rhys was awfully quiet. His eyes were fixed on the couple as much as the othersâ. However, he hadnât once competed with the spectacle outside, flaunting his love in kind to the world.
When Cassâs bond to Nesta became evident, Rhys had shared Morâs fears. He couldnât confide in Feyre when it came to Nesta, she was her sister after all. He had plenty to lament about, and for days, he attempted every way to salvage their predicament without othersâ notice.
Rhys was the only one to realise what they stood to lose, and so he anticipated every resistance and crafted the perfect means to keep their family together. Not that heâd admit to it, not even to Mor, but she understood him as well as he understood her.
And now, he was silent. Almost like he had given up.
Like she had been waiting for Morâs attention, the moment she looked back at them, Ayla pecked the tip of Azâs nose, and he narrowed his eyes.
There! Mor knew his tells better than anyone.
âHe looks like heâs content,â said Elain timidly, as if she was afraid to be heard.
âHe looks like he needs saving.â
Az didnât understand real love or what it cost in this world. He had been in love with Mor for centuries to have learnt the dangers of it elsewhere, and he couldnât see what Ayla was doing to him. She had him on a leashâthe mating bond was nothing but thatâand dredged him farther from those who cared for him and who he cared for to keep him all to herself. Mor had let her hurt Az once; she wouldnât allow it again. She owed this to her friend.
She almost stomped outside, let everyone believe whatever they wanted, when Az leaned down and kissed Ayla. On the lips.
There was no softness in his open eyes. He bent low and met her in the middle as she reached for him. Over and over again, he left light kisses before he pulled away for good.
Mor slumped in her chair, heart frozen in her chest. She wanted to look away, but she couldnât.
Az brought his hand to Aylaâs face. Tucking her hair behind her ear, he traced the curve of her jaw. He murmured at her, lips barely moving and eyes unwavering, and Ayla rewarded him with a smile, wide and all teeth, and pressed further against him, determined to meld their bodies together. A few more shared words and she had Az rolling his eyes.
And there it was, his smile. Charming and boyish, the one he always failed to resist whenever he felt bashful around Mor, except it was unrestrained and his eyes were unburdened now.
With a hand at the back of her head, Az captured her lips and words. He wound his arm around her waist and imprisoned her against him. He had refrained from touching her until then only to put on this display.
The silk dresses Ayla so abhorred when she first arrived, she wore them freely now after learning Az had picked them himself for her comfort. Or fantasy. Mor wagered it was the latter. If it were out of concern, he wouldâve sought her help. But when it came to Ayla, every decision was his. His and his alone.
This was wrong. Az was so lost that he couldnât see how he was being ripped away from friendships forged over centuries. He was one to baulk away from sharing his heart, yet here he was moments away from taking Ayla in front of everyone. This wasnât their Az, couldnât be.
A throat cleared around them. Mor turned to look at the faces, some with smirks, most reddened. Was it Elain?
No, it was Nesta. She was the first to rise as well, a triumphant smile on her lips. She refused to look at Mor, but she taunted with that one smile, that she was right about Az, her friend.
Cass whistled at them like the barbarian he was and followed after his mate. Rhys and Feyre sobered from their daze, and they didnât care to hide the lust in their eyes. Feyre was supposed to take her side, instead, all she had to say was âAs long as they keep this away from Nyxâ.
One by one, they left. Elain, the last, with her cheeks coloured as dark as the wine she carried with her.
After the doors clicked shut across floors, somewhere deep in her mind came the familiar caress.
Let him have this, Rhysâs voice rattled in her head, and then, it was gone, too.
In their world, true match was rare, and there was a reason for it. Immortality was a meandering path, and most grew numb to most desires as centuries passed. Mating was one of themâwaiting aeons for a love with no promise to find them in the right time hardly made a good bargain.
This divine love was a fable crafted for those who had never known true suffering as she had. Hewn City was no place for such tales; if anything, it was a horror. The one comfort in embracing her truth had been that she was forever free of this. Bound to a male for eternity was a fate worse than death, and blessed be her heart for being incapable of loving one.
It shouldâve bothered her, but it didnât. There had been times she wondered if her fatherâs cursed dreams would manifest and she would find herself mated to a male. But Az was there, always there, to reassure her no one could get close to her. For a long time, his loneliness was a consolation to hers.
Despite his hopes and prayers, there was a reason, she believed, why Az hadnât found his mate sooner. He wouldâve refused it, called it a trickery to disarm him. His loyalty to this family ran that deep, and Mor was convinced that loyalty would keep her company even if the others moved on, that loyalty substituted for love.
And now, as Mor sat alone in the room, staring at him and his mate in love, Az didnât look at her once.
Set in Future. Ayla reflecting on her relationship with Azriel (and the IC, I guess)
Character: Ayla
Warnings: None
Note: We do not pray at the altar of canon around here. It doesn't exist for me. I write whatever comes to me and whatever makes the characters interesting.
Read it on AO3
The magic weaving through the mansion was revolting, flecked with the powers of the High Lord himself, it was hard to ignore its presence. It wasnât often Ayla stepped out of this chamber, though Azriel encouraged her, as did his family. She knew he meant well; it was the others she wasnât certain of.
Breeze from the open windows cooled the marbled floors. Everyone except Azriel offered to close themâthe wraiths, Nesta, Elainâwhenever they reckoned to visit her, as though her simple wish was strange.
Her bare feet made no sound as Ayla stepped into the corridor. Darkness bathed the floor, except for the harsh pane of light streaked across the landing at the end of the stairway. Her shadow moved along the wall, faint hollows where eyes would be, in rhythm with her careful steps.
There was an eerie quiet in the house devoid of the usual whispers or chaffings. The dining table to her left was cleared and empty, as was the hallway to her right that led to the closed chambers and study Ayla hadnât been shown yet.
As soon as she descended into the foyer, a thrill coursed through her veins, her heart thrashing in her chest. Her feet strangely tingled, felt more alive and eager to move than they had in the past months. She could finally breathe, but she dared not bask in the relief for long.
The solitude caught her unaware, and she stood gaping at the gleaming dark wood with the stars and moons carved on it. She was used to the softened call of her name as fingers wrapped around her arm and whisked her back upstairs, her body waiting for that moment to arrive before this hope took root in her.
Fire crackled behind her for no one breaking her out of the trance, and she rushed to the doors. Her hands touched the handles made of solid gold, and she closed her eyes.
Azriel.
Ayla was told she was free to leave. She was free to move. Was she?
She was welcomed here. This was her home, too, now. Was it?
Would Azriel fathom her reasons? Would they seek her if she eloped in the middle of the night?
The magic flowing through the wards reached back, singing her skin. Her fingers tightened on the bars and bones snapped with pain. Tears stung her eyes, yet a laughter welled up in her chest. When her voice threatened to spill, Ayla pressed her lips together, gritting her teeth.
Joy bloomed in her chest, a warmth spreading and seeping into every crack inside her and still reaching for more. Laced with amusement and a sort of wonder, it stretched within so as to claim her. Her every instinct to run was smothered as the desire to give in to the unbearable lightness taking hold of her.
Then she heard it. Inside her mind. A babeâs laughter.
Ayla retreated a few steps, shoving her hands behind her back as though that hid her act of transgression. Up the stairs she ran without a glance to ensure she was still alone. All the while, incoherent babbles and taunting giggles haunted her.
Ayla was a fool. A hasty, reckless fool. To have believed they left her alone. If Nyx was here, so were the others.
As soon as her head sank into the feather pillow, she pinched her eyes shut. Minutes passed, every one marked with a long, deep breath, and there still were no footfalls closing in.
When her heart finally settled, the door creaked softly. She curled further into herself, tucking her knees close to her chest. She wasnât certain which of the wraiths it was this time, who they served, and whose commands they fulfilled.
Everywhere she went, one of them followed unless Azrielâs friends accepted that charge themselves, but always under the pretence of companionship, and Ayla wouldâve offered them grace had they been adept at faking an interest.
Around her, conversations changed, voices hushed, and silences lingered. Shadows defied laws of nature. Eyes were too wary to match their smiles. Curiosity was a little too intrusive to be harmless. Tales and quips were a little too intimate to be inoffensive.
Ayla had known they werenât meant to be as soon as she realised who Azriel was. Yet, she dallied with fate, played the part of a naive, love-stricken damsel who cared not of anything but the moment in her grasp. She didnât belong here, with Azriel, with his family. They believed it, too, for their actions spoke for them.
Her own disapproved of Azriel, but they never questioned her; Raya and Orvin were always aware of their place. Ayla hadnât needed to answer to anyone before. What was hers was hers alone.
Azrielâs family were a different breed. In the name of brotherhood, they brandished each otherâs past to earn a place in his present. Everyone fought for a claim on him. And it wouldnât be long before Azriel succumbed to his loyaltyâto his friends, to his High Lord; it didnât matter.
His presence washed over her before he even closed the door.
Time stretched in these moments of biding what was to come. Ayla felt his eyes on her. If he moved, she didnât hear him. One with darkness itself, Azriel was capable of evading her senses when he truly wanted. Right then, he did. But he often forgot he was hers as much as she was his. And nothing that belonged to her escaped her.
The mattress dipped behind her and Azriel waited some more before he pressed his bare chest to her back. A slow caress of his knuckles along her face. He had always been certain with his touches, but that night had emboldened him more.
Azriel kissed her behind the ear. âI know youâre awake.â
His breaths warmed her neck, and Ayla remained still.
Another kiss landed on her shoulder. His hand travelled along her arm and landed atop hers. Azriel weaved their fingers together, slotted perfectly together in all their callouses and scars, and when he closed his palm over hers, she couldnât return his touch.
Another chapter set in future. Ayla is just going through emotions.
Character: Ayla
Warnings: Mentions of Death.
Note: We do not pray at the altar of canon around here. It doesn't exist for me. I write whatever comes to me and whatever makes the characters interesting.
Read it on AO3
Crystals as big as her palm glistened as they made their descent from the sky, each with a chime of its own that swelled and harmonised together into one ethereal symphony. Cloying was the joy radiating throughout the lands, and Ayla turned her back on the couple torn between rejoicing the news of their unborn babe and mourning the death at their feet.
A trembling âWinter is forever gratefulâ rang out after her, getting lost in the rising winds. She didnât deserve it, nor did she have use for it. They were yet to honour her requests, and only time would attest if their gratitude held true or if they were but hollow words.
Her feet carried her as fast as they could, and she was still not far enough. Their whispered prayers and declarations of love to each other chased her like ghosts. Her blood sang with rage, horror, sorrow, and she knew not which demanded her surrendering first. Her fists tightened on the pommel of the swords at her hips.
As soon as Ayla let the tears spill, and they froze against her skin. How cruel, Mother wouldnât allow her even that release, and yet, was it not fair?
A gust of air swept up the fallen snow and sent it in swirls; it started slow, a gentle breeze, and picked up momentum, round and round it went, until it formed a barricade around them. It stretched and grew as far as she could see, a thin, pellucid shield that concealed every sound, every evidence of life within.
âSecure this land until my people arrive.â
And they had obliged. The first token of their gratitude.
As Ayla took another step, the veil of frost and air shimmered through her. Its chill pierced her heart, ripping the breath out of her lungs. She was plunged into the cold and expelled so quick, her blood froze, sinew hardened, and bones ached. She looked over her shoulder for the first time since she began her walk. The sharp breath she drew burned her insides.
There was no couple behind her.
There were no scrawny limbs of slumbering trees reaching for her.
There was no lake, its surface sealing over the countless hands and feet.
Only an unending expanse of white from horizon to horizon.
Heart pounding in her chest, Ayla turned in every direction. Nothing stood as proof for what she had witnessed.
Had she dreamt it? She wished she had.
She had been on the search for them for a long time, and this was her closure. The sensible part of her impelled her to cross the barrier again, to see them again; instead, she trudged on her path.
The nameless faces flitted through her mind one by one, begging to be remembered.
Bloated, blue-veined, and skin sloughing off the flesh. Dark patches where blood gathered and froze. And eyes, stolen. Carved out of every head crudely.
Ayla had seen this before, but never these many.
What did they hope to achieve with these killings? Who could do such a thing? End so many lives and preserve them in their last moments of agony.
A beast preyed out of hunger or fear; this death so heartless was no work of a beast. But it was a monster on a hunt, driven by something far worse than vengeance or malice.
This was a sport.
To seek the Others, to torture them, to deny them the right to return to the lands, this was a crime against Motherâs will. And they did it without remorse, as though their lives were worth nothing.
How did no one stop them? Where were the High Lords and their laws? What use of their titles and powers if they failed to protect their own?
Ayla gritted her teeth. She waded through the vastness of snow that was knee-deep and soft, and yielded under her feet. The long route around the towns on the borders was considered the deadliest, for the winter was a patient, silent predator that didnât discriminate between its prey. Then why didnât it stop them? Why didnât it take those monsters as it did their sacrifices?
Where was Mother when these lives needed her? Did she feel their pain and close her eyes? Did she hear their screams and deem them unfortunate?
She blessed them, and in doing so, she condemned them to a life of suffering. She abandoned them the moment they were born in a world made for the blind and the ignorant. She cursed them with the burden of truths whilst leaving them powerless against the frauds.
This world didnât deserve the Others, and She didnât deserve to be their mother.
The winds picked up pace, and a shard of ice grazed Aylaâs cheek. Blood broke her skin, its sting worse than the frostburn.
Now you hear me.
A laugh threatened to claw out of her, but the cold seized her throat. It was the reminder she perhaps needed.
Anger warmed her blood and kept it rushing through her veins. Who was she to blame Mother when she was no better?
A storm brewed in the distance, its howls growing louder and nearer. Finally, someone willing to weep for the dead.
Perhaps, none of them once belonged here, but the lands hadnât known prejudice. Death was death to them; it mattered not where one came from.
Ayla shivered and shuddered through the hail. The cloak Eris draped over her could only offer little warmth against the High Lordâs caution. Or was it the landâs wrath at her intrusion? Was it for her indignation towards its chosen and his wife, for accusing them of a crime that wasnât theirs? She couldnât tell anymore, but she knew she deserved it.
The cold slowed her blood, her fury, and in its wake was the knowing of what she had done. She had strayed so far to resort to empty threats and trickery. She was as vain as the High Lords, with their lies and broken vows.
Her eyes stung with fresh rage. What would mother think of her now? Surely, the hearsay must have reached her. Ayla was dead to the rest, but not to her, not to them. They would recognise her in every tale and in every terror.
As the pellets hit her scalp, gathered in the hood of her cloak and weighed her down, Ayla refused to take shelter. She didnât deserve a respite. Sheâd had plenty of it while her own were slaughtered.
What had she done? What was she to do anymore?
She hoped that Eris had honoured his word as well. The dead needed to be put to rest. She didnât doubt the High Lord when he promised them a farewell, but it wasnât right; they werenât his to mourn.
For decades, they had lingered lost and forgotten, and they deserved everything they were denied in life, they deserved to be honoured by their kind.
And they would do it without her. Ayla would betray them one final time.
Who was to punish her for the disrespect anyway? Who would stop her?
Her leg buckled under her as she crossed the threshold between the courts. A wispy fence where the magic of the two lands fought, merged, and collapsed into one. Sun shone down on her, its light blinding her for a moment. The tears lining her eyes slipped free. Her lips parted on their own, greedy as her, and drew in the crisp air. Before she could succumb to the fall, she was pulled against a wall of warmth by firm arms.
The world was filled with colours again, the air iridescent with a red hue and sonorous with birdsongs. She didnât belong here. A traitor like her had nowhere to belong, for death clung to her, and no matter what she did, it would never wash off.
Another chapter set in future. Ayla is just going through emotions.
Character: Ayla
Warnings: Mentions of Death.
Note: We do not pray at the altar of canon around here. It doesn't exist for me. I write whatever comes to me and whatever makes the characters interesting.
Read it on AO3
Crystals as big as her palm glistened as they made their descent from the sky, each with a chime of its own that swelled and harmonised together into one ethereal symphony. Cloying was the joy radiating throughout the lands, and Ayla turned her back on the couple torn between rejoicing the news of their unborn babe and mourning the death at their feet.
A trembling âWinter is forever gratefulâ rang out after her, getting lost in the rising winds. She didnât deserve it, nor did she have use for it. They were yet to honour her requests, and only time would attest if their gratitude held true or if they were but hollow words.
Her feet carried her as fast as they could, and she was still not far enough. Their whispered prayers and declarations of love to each other chased her like ghosts. Her blood sang with rage, horror, sorrow, and she knew not which demanded her surrendering first. Her fists tightened on the pommel of the swords at her hips.
As soon as Ayla let the tears spill, and they froze against her skin. How cruel, Mother wouldnât allow her even that release, and yet, was it not fair?
A gust of air swept up the fallen snow and sent it in swirls; it started slow, a gentle breeze, and picked up momentum, round and round it went, until it formed a barricade around them. It stretched and grew as far as she could see, a thin, pellucid shield that concealed every sound, every evidence of life within.
âSecure this land until my people arrive.â
And they had obliged. The first token of their gratitude.
As Ayla took another step, the veil of frost and air shimmered through her. Its chill pierced her heart, ripping the breath out of her lungs. She was plunged into the cold and expelled so quick, her blood froze, sinew hardened, and bones ached. She looked over her shoulder for the first time since she began her walk. The sharp breath she drew burned her insides.
There was no couple behind her.
There were no scrawny limbs of slumbering trees reaching for her.
There was no lake, its surface sealing over the countless hands and feet.
Only an unending expanse of white from horizon to horizon.
Heart pounding in her chest, Ayla turned in every direction. Nothing stood as proof for what she had witnessed.
Had she dreamt it? She wished she had.
She had been on the search for them for a long time, and this was her closure. The sensible part of her impelled her to cross the barrier again, to see them again; instead, she trudged on her path.
The nameless faces flitted through her mind one by one, begging to be remembered.
Bloated, blue-veined, and skin sloughing off the flesh. Dark patches where blood gathered and froze. And eyes, stolen. Carved out of every head crudely.
Ayla had seen this before, but never these many.
What did they hope to achieve with these killings? Who could do such a thing? End so many lives and preserve them in their last moments of agony.
A beast preyed out of hunger or fear; this death so heartless was no work of a beast. But it was a monster on a hunt, driven by something far worse than vengeance or malice.
This was a sport.
To seek the Others, to torture them, to deny them the right to return to the lands, this was a crime against Motherâs will. And they did it without remorse, as though their lives were worth nothing.
How did no one stop them? Where were the High Lords and their laws? What use of their titles and powers if they failed to protect their own?
Ayla gritted her teeth. She waded through the vastness of snow that was knee-deep and soft, and yielded under her feet. The long route around the towns on the borders was considered the deadliest, for the winter was a patient, silent predator that didnât discriminate between its prey. Then why didnât it stop them? Why didnât it take those monsters as it did their sacrifices?
Where was Mother when these lives needed her? Did she feel their pain and close her eyes? Did she hear their screams and deem them unfortunate?
She blessed them, and in doing so, she condemned them to a life of suffering. She abandoned them the moment they were born in a world made for the blind and the ignorant. She cursed them with the burden of truths whilst leaving them powerless against the frauds.
This world didnât deserve the Others, and She didnât deserve to be their mother.
The winds picked up pace, and a shard of ice grazed Aylaâs cheek. Blood broke her skin, its sting worse than the frostburn.
Now you hear me.
A laugh threatened to claw out of her, but the cold seized her throat. It was the reminder she perhaps needed.
Anger warmed her blood and kept it rushing through her veins. Who was she to blame Mother when she was no better?
A storm brewed in the distance, its howls growing louder and nearer. Finally, someone willing to weep for the dead.
Perhaps, none of them once belonged here, but the lands hadnât known prejudice. Death was death to them; it mattered not where one came from.
Ayla shivered and shuddered through the hail. The cloak Eris draped over her could only offer little warmth against the High Lordâs caution. Or was it the landâs wrath at her intrusion? Was it for her indignation towards its chosen and his wife, for accusing them of a crime that wasnât theirs? She couldnât tell anymore, but she knew she deserved it.
The cold slowed her blood, her fury, and in its wake was the knowing of what she had done. She had strayed so far to resort to empty threats and trickery. She was as vain as the High Lords, with their lies and broken vows.
Her eyes stung with fresh rage. What would mother think of her now? Surely, the hearsay must have reached her. Ayla was dead to the rest, but not to her, not to them. They would recognise her in every tale and in every terror.
As the pellets hit her scalp, gathered in the hood of her cloak and weighed her down, Ayla refused to take shelter. She didnât deserve a respite. Sheâd had plenty of it while her own were slaughtered.
What had she done? What was she to do anymore?
She hoped that Eris had honoured his word as well. The dead needed to be put to rest. She didnât doubt the High Lord when he promised them a farewell, but it wasnât right; they werenât his to mourn.
For decades, they had lingered lost and forgotten, and they deserved everything they were denied in life, they deserved to be honoured by their kind.
And they would do it without her. Ayla would betray them one final time.
Who was to punish her for the disrespect anyway? Who would stop her?
Her leg buckled under her as she crossed the threshold between the courts. A wispy fence where the magic of the two lands fought, merged, and collapsed into one. Sun shone down on her, its light blinding her for a moment. The tears lining her eyes slipped free. Her lips parted on their own, greedy as her, and drew in the crisp air. Before she could succumb to the fall, she was pulled against a wall of warmth by firm arms.
The world was filled with colours again, the air iridescent with a red hue and sonorous with birdsongs. She didnât belong here. A traitor like her had nowhere to belong, for death clung to her, and no matter what she did, it would never wash off.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Hard to write a blurb for this because this happens way in the future and is basically a spoiler. Anyway, Ayla goes home to find a gift waiting for her and so on.
Character: Ayla
Warnings: Blood. Death.
Note: We do not pray at the altar of canon around here. It doesn't exist for me. I write whatever comes to me and whatever makes the characters interesting.
Read it on AO3
No one stopped as Ayla pushed past them. Denizens, spoiled with comforts and sheltered from worldly misfortunes all their lives, filled the streets, consumed in their own worlds to care about one drenched in blood amongst them.
The orb of light above the door swayed gently, calmly, as if it were any other night with a promise of peace. Her grip faltered on the doorknob, blood wet and thick on her skin, warming the polished metal. The scent of rot and earth wafted from inside, so rich and heady that tears stung her eyes.
As soon as she entered, locks on the door snapped into place, their minute cricks and clanks pronounced for every moment she stood frozen. The blood in the airâon her and what awaited insideâtriggered the ancient wards; the safe haven in works at long last as intended.
It was a different world inside. The splendour and serenity of the city that never suffered refused to touch this doomed place. There was a silence in the air, a heavy and stifling silence that was loyal only to death. Her chest ached with the strain of each breath, and her limbs trembled as she finally made it to the other side.
Ayla expected a horde of corpses on the floor, perhaps of her patrons, and amidst them, Raya and Uri.
Tables and chairs were pushed haphazardly across the room, a ring of emptiness in the middle, and there it was. The gift.
A stream of light from above illuminated it and it alone in the darkness like a masterpiece demanding the attention of its audience.
Ayla couldnât look away. Soft squelches accompanied her steps, warmth seeping into her bare feet. Her legs buckled under her, and she fell to her knees with a gasp, yet the ruckus failed to earn a notice.
Claws clicked and clicked as though they were still knitting as the mind stooped to an instinctual meditation to evade the pain. Blood the colour of tar leaked from wounds unseen and pooled around her. Dark eyes oscillated with the lantern, like a moth fluttering to a flame.
âEtanna,â called Ayla. At the sound of her voice, a brief clarity returned to those beady eyes, and the hag looked at her.
When she towered above the rest, thin-lipped and narrow, her mouth hid perfectly under the shadow of her beak, and the enormity of her body drew oneâs gaze away from the true abominationâher face. And she thrived on their fear.
Fear trumps loathing, she used to say.
Etanna was wrong. Fear fuelled loathing, but Ayla never righted her. Set in their ways and slave to their own false beliefs, some were incapable of change.
âI didnât let anyone pass,â said Etanna, her voice whispery thin and more foreign than her booming one. Plumes of feathers scattered around, soaking in her blood, stood proof of her victory.
âWhere is Raya? Where is Uri?â Ayla took her hand in hers, and the claws curled over her flesh in an instant, but their grasp remained weak. Etanna had always refrained from touching her in the years of their knowing. âThey will heal you.â
Her promise was futile. Granted who had bestowed these wounds upon her, there was no healing.
Etanna shook her head, croaking with pain. âTis my time. I earned this.â Blood coating her teeth paled against the wicked, proud grin splitting her face. But her arrogance was a front for the desperation in her eyes. âTwas my destiny. Iâve paid my dues.â
The crook she was, Ayla smiled. âYes, you are free now.â
Born a monster, a half-breed, Etanna had no possession of magic. She was as insignificant as the mortal blood that ran in her veins, except her body lasted a few centuries. And years wasted away among those who claimed to serve a divine purpose melted any sensibility left in her. Born in the land of the Half-Breed Lord and in his era of reign was a sign of the plans Mother had devised for her.
Thus, she awaited her turn, awaited her grand enlightening. When her husband died, she waited for the tragedy to open the doorway to her powers. When her son left, tired of her obsession with mysticism and witchcraft, she waited for the loneliness to turn into a weapon.
Day after day she survived the humiliation in hopes of being more than a lonely, abandoned hag.
âWe areââ Ayla took a breath. âI shall remember your kindness. Your deed will be honoured.â
âTwas my destiny, too. Always.â Etanna sighed, closing her eyes. The smile on her lips softened with content. âNow. Run.â
The claws curled tighter for a moment, piercing her skin, and they went slack. And finally, her breath stopped.
Chest heaving, Ayla stared at the second corpse of the day. Two of her people dead in her arms. Killed by her choices, by her arrogance.
Her dress, the pale silks Azriel had gifted her, turned dark with dried, rotting blood. She closed her eyes to erase the dread of the moment when she would meet him again. If she did.
Etannaâs warning lingered in her mind, but Ayla couldnât leave. She had yet to find the babe before the others.
The safest place in Velaris. Youâll find him there.
The door to the staircase was ajar; faint footprints stopped right before it. Holding her breath, Ayla followed the trail.
The stockroom was dark, and so was the stairway, as dark as the images forming in her mind, another immobile body waiting for her. The blue in his eyes turned grey, his little form devoid of life.
She had no choice but to accept the deaths of the others, but this was beyond redemption, beyond a sin.
Bracing against the wall, Ayla steadied herself. She attempted to hone her senses for traces of hope, yet all she heard was her own breath, and all she scented was blood, more than one, and she couldnât tell them apart anymore. The visions in her head were too loud.
Ayla gritted her teeth, stopping the whimper before it escaped her. She inflicted this fate upon them. She didnât deserve to shed tears for them; she didnât deserve that comfort. She willed herself to move. Etannaâs demise couldnât be in vain.
Her home welcomed her with silence. No signs of intrusion, as Etanna had promised.
Except for him.
Cheek pressed on the mattress, knees tucked under him, and wings closed over his back like a dark drape that barely covered his form, Nyx lay unmoving.
There was a chill in the air, terrifyingly similar to that of death. Fear tightened its grip on her, taking control of her limbs. Helpless, Ayla stared at the babe from afar, but when his back rose and fell with a slight tremor of his wings, she choked on a sob.
She stumbled to him, eager to take him far from this darkness. As she reached for him, she froze. Her arms. The stains on her arms, they forced some sense into her.
This is no time for this, her mind reasoned, yet Ayla went to the bath chamber and scraped the deaths off her. When she returned, Nyx was still asleep. Under his little fist was a note carefully placed.
She sat beside him and watched his breaths move through his body again. The sight was a blessing after all she had witnessed that night.
As she bundled him in a blanket, Raya barged in, gasping and wide-eyed. âWho did this?â
Nyx was bothered by none of their theatrics. He sighed deeply in the warmth, his lashes fluttering as he cooed in his slumber. His mind attempted to latch onto hers, and for once, Ayla denied him. After the events of the night, she didnât trust herself to preserve his innocence.
Raya started again, words cracking with dread and disbelief, âHow did heââ Ayla pressed a finger to her lips, and she lowered her voice. âExplain right now.â
Ayla unclasped the chain around her neck, the one Azriel adored on her, and fastened it on Nyx. The pendant gave a subtle glow, marking a halo on his bronzed skin, and dimmed to its usual lustre.
Raya drew a sharp breath. âYou did not.â Gripping the base of her throat, she stepped closer. âPlease, whatâs happening?â
Nyx rustled within the swaddle and protested the confinement he wasnât used to. When Ayla brushed a knuckle along his cheek, he quietened.
âVelaris isnât safe anymore.â She turned to the female she had sworn to protect. âYou ought to leave. Uri, too.â
The glint of resolution flickered in Rayaâs eyes, alliances forged and failsafe conceived over the decades coming to her with those words. With a bow of her head, she asked, âWhat about you?â
Ayla took the note. A pristine white leaf that shimmered in the moonlight. Embossed on it in gold was an eye between two single-edged swords.
Hard to write a blurb for this because this happens way in the future and is basically a spoiler. Anyway, Ayla goes home to find a gift waiting for her and so on.
Character: Ayla
Warnings: Blood. Death.
Note: We do not pray at the altar of canon around here. It doesn't exist for me. I write whatever comes to me and whatever makes the characters interesting.
Read it on AO3
No one stopped as Ayla pushed past them. Denizens, spoiled with comforts and sheltered from worldly misfortunes all their lives, filled the streets, consumed in their own worlds to care about one drenched in blood amongst them.
The orb of light above the door swayed gently, calmly, as if it were any other night with a promise of peace. Her grip faltered on the doorknob, blood wet and thick on her skin, warming the polished metal. The scent of rot and earth wafted from inside, so rich and heady that tears stung her eyes.
As soon as she entered, locks on the door snapped into place, their minute cricks and clanks pronounced for every moment she stood frozen. The blood in the airâon her and what awaited insideâtriggered the ancient wards; the safe haven in works at long last as intended.
It was a different world inside. The splendour and serenity of the city that never suffered refused to touch this doomed place. There was a silence in the air, a heavy and stifling silence that was loyal only to death. Her chest ached with the strain of each breath, and her limbs trembled as she finally made it to the other side.
Ayla expected a horde of corpses on the floor, perhaps of her patrons, and amidst them, Raya and Uri.
Tables and chairs were pushed haphazardly across the room, a ring of emptiness in the middle, and there it was. The gift.
A stream of light from above illuminated it and it alone in the darkness like a masterpiece demanding the attention of its audience.
Ayla couldnât look away. Soft squelches accompanied her steps, warmth seeping into her bare feet. Her legs buckled under her, and she fell to her knees with a gasp, yet the ruckus failed to earn a notice.
Claws clicked and clicked as though they were still knitting as the mind stooped to an instinctual meditation to evade the pain. Blood the colour of tar leaked from wounds unseen and pooled around her. Dark eyes oscillated with the lantern, like a moth fluttering to a flame.
âEtanna,â called Ayla. At the sound of her voice, a brief clarity returned to those beady eyes, and the hag looked at her.
When she towered above the rest, thin-lipped and narrow, her mouth hid perfectly under the shadow of her beak, and the enormity of her body drew oneâs gaze away from the true abominationâher face. And she thrived on their fear.
Fear trumps loathing, she used to say.
Etanna was wrong. Fear fuelled loathing, but Ayla never righted her. Set in their ways and slave to their own false beliefs, some were incapable of change.
âI didnât let anyone pass,â said Etanna, her voice whispery thin and more foreign than her booming one. Plumes of feathers scattered around, soaking in her blood, stood proof of her victory.
âWhere is Raya? Where is Uri?â Ayla took her hand in hers, and the claws curled over her flesh in an instant, but their grasp remained weak. Etanna had always refrained from touching her in the years of their knowing. âThey will heal you.â
Her promise was futile. Granted who had bestowed these wounds upon her, there was no healing.
Etanna shook her head, croaking with pain. âTis my time. I earned this.â Blood coating her teeth paled against the wicked, proud grin splitting her face. But her arrogance was a front for the desperation in her eyes. âTwas my destiny. Iâve paid my dues.â
The crook she was, Ayla smiled. âYes, you are free now.â
Born a monster, a half-breed, Etanna had no possession of magic. She was as insignificant as the mortal blood that ran in her veins, except her body lasted a few centuries. And years wasted away among those who claimed to serve a divine purpose melted any sensibility left in her. Born in the land of the Half-Breed Lord and in his era of reign was a sign of the plans Mother had devised for her.
Thus, she awaited her turn, awaited her grand enlightening. When her husband died, she waited for the tragedy to open the doorway to her powers. When her son left, tired of her obsession with mysticism and witchcraft, she waited for the loneliness to turn into a weapon.
Day after day she survived the humiliation in hopes of being more than a lonely, abandoned hag.
âWe areââ Ayla took a breath. âI shall remember your kindness. Your deed will be honoured.â
âTwas my destiny, too. Always.â Etanna sighed, closing her eyes. The smile on her lips softened with content. âNow. Run.â
The claws curled tighter for a moment, piercing her skin, and they went slack. And finally, her breath stopped.
Chest heaving, Ayla stared at the second corpse of the day. Two of her people dead in her arms. Killed by her choices, by her arrogance.
Her dress, the pale silks Azriel had gifted her, turned dark with dried, rotting blood. She closed her eyes to erase the dread of the moment when she would meet him again. If she did.
Etannaâs warning lingered in her mind, but Ayla couldnât leave. She had yet to find the babe before the others.
The safest place in Velaris. Youâll find him there.
The door to the staircase was ajar; faint footprints stopped right before it. Holding her breath, Ayla followed the trail.
The stockroom was dark, and so was the stairway, as dark as the images forming in her mind, another immobile body waiting for her. The blue in his eyes turned grey, his little form devoid of life.
She had no choice but to accept the deaths of the others, but this was beyond redemption, beyond a sin.
Bracing against the wall, Ayla steadied herself. She attempted to hone her senses for traces of hope, yet all she heard was her own breath, and all she scented was blood, more than one, and she couldnât tell them apart anymore. The visions in her head were too loud.
Ayla gritted her teeth, stopping the whimper before it escaped her. She inflicted this fate upon them. She didnât deserve to shed tears for them; she didnât deserve that comfort. She willed herself to move. Etannaâs demise couldnât be in vain.
Her home welcomed her with silence. No signs of intrusion, as Etanna had promised.
Except for him.
Cheek pressed on the mattress, knees tucked under him, and wings closed over his back like a dark drape that barely covered his form, Nyx lay unmoving.
There was a chill in the air, terrifyingly similar to that of death. Fear tightened its grip on her, taking control of her limbs. Helpless, Ayla stared at the babe from afar, but when his back rose and fell with a slight tremor of his wings, she choked on a sob.
She stumbled to him, eager to take him far from this darkness. As she reached for him, she froze. Her arms. The stains on her arms, they forced some sense into her.
This is no time for this, her mind reasoned, yet Ayla went to the bath chamber and scraped the deaths off her. When she returned, Nyx was still asleep. Under his little fist was a note carefully placed.
She sat beside him and watched his breaths move through his body again. The sight was a blessing after all she had witnessed that night.
As she bundled him in a blanket, Raya barged in, gasping and wide-eyed. âWho did this?â
Nyx was bothered by none of their theatrics. He sighed deeply in the warmth, his lashes fluttering as he cooed in his slumber. His mind attempted to latch onto hers, and for once, Ayla denied him. After the events of the night, she didnât trust herself to preserve his innocence.
Raya started again, words cracking with dread and disbelief, âHow did heââ Ayla pressed a finger to her lips, and she lowered her voice. âExplain right now.â
Ayla unclasped the chain around her neck, the one Azriel adored on her, and fastened it on Nyx. The pendant gave a subtle glow, marking a halo on his bronzed skin, and dimmed to its usual lustre.
Raya drew a sharp breath. âYou did not.â Gripping the base of her throat, she stepped closer. âPlease, whatâs happening?â
Nyx rustled within the swaddle and protested the confinement he wasnât used to. When Ayla brushed a knuckle along his cheek, he quietened.
âVelaris isnât safe anymore.â She turned to the female she had sworn to protect. âYou ought to leave. Uri, too.â
The glint of resolution flickered in Rayaâs eyes, alliances forged and failsafe conceived over the decades coming to her with those words. With a bow of her head, she asked, âWhat about you?â
Ayla took the note. A pristine white leaf that shimmered in the moonlight. Embossed on it in gold was an eye between two single-edged swords.
Oh sweet Powers that Be: I so look forward to the day this bullshit finally becomes impossible (or utterly unaffordable for its proponents, when the price of AI tokens suddenly shoots up)... for the sake of myself and thousands of other actual, (loving the attempted term of opprobrium) "brain-only" writers. đ
Over at Reddit:
...The replies will amuse you: evenly divided between the "How To Keep Cheating" crowd, and the other, better souls coming in on the "Wow, You Might Actually Have To Learn How To Write Now" side. (Also, though the thread has been locked, lots of the comments from people who don't like AI still remain.)
This is a bridge for when he finds the letter (from Keir) Rhysand hid from him. This is better read with the chapter Azriel of the main story.
Character: Azriel
Warnings: None
Note: We do not pray at the altar of canon around here. It doesn't exist for me. I write whatever comes to me and whatever makes the characters interesting.
Read it on AO3
Mor stayed with them for only a week. Although Azriel never spoke to her, Rhys and Cass did, competing to be the one who drew the most laughs out of her. The trill of her voice echoed throughout the house from morning until past midnight.
Beneath the polite words and mannered decorum of a High Fae, her innocence was misleading.
On the first night, Mor snuck out into the training grounds to feel the cold rain beating on her skin.
On the third, she stole two skins of mead Rhysâs mother had apprehended from them weeks ago when the three lost their spars and returned home with broken noses and ribs.
On the sixth, the night before her departure, she slept with Cass.
Azriel was the one to find themâheard them, to be precise.
Confused and alarmed at first, he stopped at the door, legs freezing under him at the groans and screams filtering through the stone walls. Light went out around him, and his nerves took him back to the cell. When each cry softened into a moan, it dawned on him.
Closing the door behind him gently, Azriel left.
He didnât know where Rhys or his mother were, and he had no intention of returning soon. He spent the rest of the night wandering the woods, following the moonlight spilling through the canopy.
Thoughts swarmed his mind, yet he hardly grasped one. His heart thrashed in his chest like a bird stuck in a cage, rattling its wings against the bars. His hands were restless, clenching and unclenching around nothing, and his feet refused to stop.
So he went on and on.
The pain caught him by surprise, as did the anger.
What a fool he was to believe he shared something with this girl. That Mor could understand his existence better than his brothers. That her stolen glances meant anything.
Perhaps, he wouldâve accepted his misery if he werenât the one to find her bruised and bloody on the Autumn border. Not Rhys. Not Cass. It was Azriel who broke the rules of two courts, ignoring the order from his High Lord to bring her back home, wherever she wished it to be. If he werenât the one to remove the nail driven into her, if he werenât the one to hear her wails ring through the woods.
As he held her face in his blood-soaked hands, he couldnât stop himself. But Mor winnowed away, leaving him behind as though she hadnât needed him at all. She let him see her broken, only to get up and leave as soon as he said those words.
For the next five hundred years, Mor turned her back on him again and again.
But those secretive smiles returned once in a while when they were alone. Her eyes lit up as she brushed against him. On the nights of dancing at Ritaâs, she pressed against him and whispered into his ear, drunk and almost purring, that she wanted to go home.
Mor held his heart in the palm of her hands.
Azriel didnât have anywhere else to be. So he stayed. Despite the betrayal, the rage, and the ache.
It was enough for a while. This insidious game where his heart was but a pawn for her whims, yet there was a safety in this uncertainty. A cold shelter protecting him from the sting of a heartbreak. Where nothing progressed, and nothing was ruined either. It was his purgatory.
When the sisters arrived, one by one, their lives changed. Solitude, once so desired, turned into a burden. Everything became a glaring reminder of what he longed for and was being denied.
Then there she was.
Everything Azriel had and hadnât dreamt of. Everything Mor wasn't.
Her kindness knew no limits, yet it left him aching to earn every ounce she offered. Heart so pure and tender, but it hardened at her will. Eyes that saw everything, even into the soul of someone as dark as him. Everything she was, she was brazenly unapologetic. Every moment lived per her wishes without shame, without pretence. She bared her desires without a care for him.
Mor had once said, sitting on the stoop of the camp house and staring at the bright sky, âIf I had wings, Iâd never stop reaching for the sun.â
Thatâs how Azriel felt now. Every thread of his being drawn to Ayla. To be the only recipient of her warmth. To be the only one she shone on.
But she was also capable of burning him.
As she took one male after another to punish him, Azriel was reduced to a grudging witness to her cruelty. He was numb to her antics, on most days, but fear was a fierce, loyal companion who refused to leave his side.
What if she preferred one of them over himâa torturer, a killer?
Born bathed in blood, he never got out of it. Everywhere he went, the stench of blood surrounded him.
Azriel couldnât stop her games. Wouldnât stop her games.
He would stay in the darkness where he belonged, and be content with the knowing she was there, in his sights, only an armâs length away. Ayla never turned away from him. She never hid from him. Her eyes never filled with guilt and pity in his presence, because she never looked at him.
This was safer; the serenity of her existing in her world and him watching her from afar, undisturbed by the truth she could deny. As long as Azriel stayed away, he could have her like this.
But fate was not on his side. The letter changed everything.
Fear finally showed its true face, a sinister, vile thing that wrenched his heart until his breath strained.
Ayla was all he thought of, he could think of. Reason didnât exist anymore, and where once it resided was a haunting ground for her voice, her smiles.
Azriel was nothing more than a creature of dread and despair, driven by the only urge to see her. To ensure she was safe. She was still where he needed her. In his grasp.
And thatâs how he found himself at her door, pounding on the wood in the middle of the night.
This is a bridge for when he finds the letter (from Keir) Rhysand hid from him. This is better read with the chapter Azriel of the main story.
Character: Azriel
Warnings: None
Note: We do not pray at the altar of canon around here. It doesn't exist for me. I write whatever comes to me and whatever makes the characters interesting.
Read it on AO3
Mor stayed with them for only a week. Although Azriel never spoke to her, Rhys and Cass did, competing to be the one who drew the most laughs out of her. The trill of her voice echoed throughout the house from morning until past midnight.
Beneath the polite words and mannered decorum of a High Fae, her innocence was misleading.
On the first night, Mor snuck out into the training grounds to feel the cold rain beating on her skin.
On the third, she stole two skins of mead Rhysâs mother had apprehended from them weeks ago when the three lost their spars and returned home with broken noses and ribs.
On the sixth, the night before her departure, she slept with Cass.
Azriel was the one to find themâheard them, to be precise.
Confused and alarmed at first, he stopped at the door, legs freezing under him at the groans and screams filtering through the stone walls. Light went out around him, and his nerves took him back to the cell. When each cry softened into a moan, it dawned on him.
Closing the door behind him gently, Azriel left.
He didnât know where Rhys or his mother were, and he had no intention of returning soon. He spent the rest of the night wandering the woods, following the moonlight spilling through the canopy.
Thoughts swarmed his mind, yet he hardly grasped one. His heart thrashed in his chest like a bird stuck in a cage, rattling its wings against the bars. His hands were restless, clenching and unclenching around nothing, and his feet refused to stop.
So he went on and on.
The pain caught him by surprise, as did the anger.
What a fool he was to believe he shared something with this girl. That Mor could understand his existence better than his brothers. That her stolen glances meant anything.
Perhaps, he wouldâve accepted his misery if he werenât the one to find her bruised and bloody on the Autumn border. Not Rhys. Not Cass. It was Azriel who broke the rules of two courts, ignoring the order from his High Lord to bring her back home, wherever she wished it to be. If he werenât the one to remove the nail driven into her, if he werenât the one to hear her wails ring through the woods.
As he held her face in his blood-soaked hands, he couldnât stop himself. But Mor winnowed away, leaving him behind as though she hadnât needed him at all. She let him see her broken, only to get up and leave as soon as he said those words.
For the next five hundred years, Mor turned her back on him again and again.
But those secretive smiles returned once in a while when they were alone. Her eyes lit up as she brushed against him. On the nights of dancing at Ritaâs, she pressed against him and whispered into his ear, drunk and almost purring, that she wanted to go home.
Mor held his heart in the palm of her hands.
Azriel didnât have anywhere else to be. So he stayed. Despite the betrayal, the rage, and the ache.
It was enough for a while. This insidious game where his heart was but a pawn for her whims, yet there was a safety in this uncertainty. A cold shelter protecting him from the sting of a heartbreak. Where nothing progressed, and nothing was ruined either. It was his purgatory.
When the sisters arrived, one by one, their lives changed. Solitude, once so desired, turned into a burden. Everything became a glaring reminder of what he longed for and was being denied.
Then there she was.
Everything Azriel had and hadnât dreamt of. Everything Mor wasn't.
Her kindness knew no limits, yet it left him aching to earn every ounce she offered. Heart so pure and tender, but it hardened at her will. Eyes that saw everything, even into the soul of someone as dark as him. Everything she was, she was brazenly unapologetic. Every moment lived per her wishes without shame, without pretence. She bared her desires without a care for him.
Mor had once said, sitting on the stoop of the camp house and staring at the bright sky, âIf I had wings, Iâd never stop reaching for the sun.â
Thatâs how Azriel felt now. Every thread of his being drawn to Ayla. To be the only recipient of her warmth. To be the only one she shone on.
But she was also capable of burning him.
As she took one male after another to punish him, Azriel was reduced to a grudging witness to her cruelty. He was numb to her antics, on most days, but fear was a fierce, loyal companion who refused to leave his side.
What if she preferred one of them over himâa torturer, a killer?
Born bathed in blood, he never got out of it. Everywhere he went, the stench of blood surrounded him.
Azriel couldnât stop her games. Wouldnât stop her games.
He would stay in the darkness where he belonged, and be content with the knowing she was there, in his sights, only an armâs length away. Ayla never turned away from him. She never hid from him. Her eyes never filled with guilt and pity in his presence, because she never looked at him.
This was safer; the serenity of her existing in her world and him watching her from afar, undisturbed by the truth she could deny. As long as Azriel stayed away, he could have her like this.
But fate was not on his side. The letter changed everything.
Fear finally showed its true face, a sinister, vile thing that wrenched his heart until his breath strained.
Ayla was all he thought of, he could think of. Reason didnât exist anymore, and where once it resided was a haunting ground for her voice, her smiles.
Azriel was nothing more than a creature of dread and despair, driven by the only urge to see her. To ensure she was safe. She was still where he needed her. In his grasp.
And thatâs how he found himself at her door, pounding on the wood in the middle of the night.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Character: Azriel
Warnings: None
Note: We do not pray at the altar of canon around here. It doesn't exist for me. I write whatever comes to me and whatever makes the characters interesting.
Read it on AO3
It was an unspoken rule among the fourâNever speak of the incident.
And so, they never spoke of these changes, either.
Like when Cass avoided his gaze whenever Mor was around and lingered behind a moment too long for a chance alone with her. Or when Rhys returned from his fatherâs study with a bruise on his face and a crushed envelope in his fist quite too often. Or when Mor reached for the wine more than the others, a glass between her slender fingers any time of the day.
She looked different, too. Red silks replaced dark velvets, her pale skin on display in ways that she once called outrageous, hair brushed fine in place of intricate braids, and soft pink lips now painted bloody.
Sometimes it was hard to remember, hard to believe, as she was quick to tease and quicker to laugh like on those nights in the camp.
Any caution around Azriel was shed. She wasnât afraid to speak to him anymore, looking him in the eye as she did. She sat beside him at dinners, lured him into conversations, and smiled at him. She sought him wherever he was in the House and waited on him in silence while Azriel parsed through reports for his High Lord.
Her warmth was contagious, enough to fool them once in a while of the pain she tried to hide. But Azriel recognised a charade when he saw one.
Mor wasnât the innocent girl anymore who was enchanted by the beauty in the mundane. Her insatiable wonder for the world flickered out the day she was dragged back to Hewn City by her father.
There were no more demands for adventures. Open declarations of her dreams died on her tongue as soon as they began. Her laughs became more frequent and soulless, brown eyes clouding when she ran out of words, as though she needed to dictate the moments between them, shape their perception before their pity twisted it into something else. The desperation to forge a new truth for herself and erase the one her father nailed into her fought inside her hopelessly.
And this only drew Azriel closer. He wasnât new to this battle. Constantly grappling for the right words to say, nodding and smiling at the right moments to avoid any scrutiny, pretending and pretending always to prove he was not as broken as they wanted him to be.
Mor finally understood what it was to be him. She recovered over the years, but the scars remained, and they always would.
An emptiness where the spirit was meant to be, something one didnât care for until then and its absence an eternal reminder of what was stolen. A dirty imprint that couldnât be washed off, couldnât be concealed. It was part of him.
And now, it was part of her, too.
She was as hollow as him. Insides carved out, and she was left with this husk made of deceptive warmth and insincere smiles.
A beautiful husk.
Decorated in vivid colours and gold and gems as though it compensated for what she had no more.
Mor struggled to meet his eyes still. No longer out of fear or disgust of what tainted him, but of guilt, her denial of the possibility of them, for she knew Azriel would always see through her mask.
Character: Azriel
Warnings: None
Note: We do not pray at the altar of canon around here. It doesn't exist for me. I write whatever comes to me and whatever makes the characters interesting.
Read it on AO3
It was an unspoken rule among the fourâNever speak of the incident.
And so, they never spoke of these changes, either.
Like when Cass avoided his gaze whenever Mor was around and lingered behind a moment too long for a chance alone with her. Or when Rhys returned from his fatherâs study with a bruise on his face and a crushed envelope in his fist quite too often. Or when Mor reached for the wine more than the others, a glass between her slender fingers any time of the day.
She looked different, too. Red silks replaced dark velvets, her pale skin on display in ways that she once called outrageous, hair brushed fine in place of intricate braids, and soft pink lips now painted bloody.
Sometimes it was hard to remember, hard to believe, as she was quick to tease and quicker to laugh like on those nights in the camp.
Any caution around Azriel was shed. She wasnât afraid to speak to him anymore, looking him in the eye as she did. She sat beside him at dinners, lured him into conversations, and smiled at him. She sought him wherever he was in the House and waited on him in silence while Azriel parsed through reports for his High Lord.
Her warmth was contagious, enough to fool them once in a while of the pain she tried to hide. But Azriel recognised a charade when he saw one.
Mor wasnât the innocent girl anymore who was enchanted by the beauty in the mundane. Her insatiable wonder for the world flickered out the day she was dragged back to Hewn City by her father.
There were no more demands for adventures. Open declarations of her dreams died on her tongue as soon as they began. Her laughs became more frequent and soulless, brown eyes clouding when she ran out of words, as though she needed to dictate the moments between them, shape their perception before their pity twisted it into something else. The desperation to forge a new truth for herself and erase the one her father nailed into her fought inside her hopelessly.
And this only drew Azriel closer. He wasnât new to this battle. Constantly grappling for the right words to say, nodding and smiling at the right moments to avoid any scrutiny, pretending and pretending always to prove he was not as broken as they wanted him to be.
Mor finally understood what it was to be him. She recovered over the years, but the scars remained, and they always would.
An emptiness where the spirit was meant to be, something one didnât care for until then and its absence an eternal reminder of what was stolen. A dirty imprint that couldnât be washed off, couldnât be concealed. It was part of him.
And now, it was part of her, too.
She was as hollow as him. Insides carved out, and she was left with this husk made of deceptive warmth and insincere smiles.
A beautiful husk.
Decorated in vivid colours and gold and gems as though it compensated for what she had no more.
Mor struggled to meet his eyes still. No longer out of fear or disgust of what tainted him, but of guilt, her denial of the possibility of them, for she knew Azriel would always see through her mask.
Azriel meets Morrigan for the first time and his impression on her.
Character: Azriel
Warnings: None
Note: Fucking annoying to type âRhysâs motherâ over and over again, I could name her but Azriel wouldnât use her name anyway under any circumstances and now Iâm stuck writing like SJM.
Dividers in this series by @diviniyae.
Read it on AO3
She was the most beautiful female Azriel had ever seen in his life.
All the years in the Illyrian camp, Rhysâs mother never entertained a guest, except for her daughter, who visited them only twice before she turned thirteen. The harsh wilderness and the scattered military camps hardly made an ideal place for retreat.
So when she arrived, escorted by two High Fae guards who refused to cross the muddy yard in front of the house and vanished as soon as Rhys stepped out, everyone was too stunned to speak.
Morrigan was different back then, remembered Azriel.
From neck to feet, she was covered in layers and layers of silk and velvet, her dress so dark that her skin shone as fair as snow, and her hair a thick cord of threaded gold. Her lips were a soft pink, the colour fading the longer she stood at the door, and tears lined her eyes as lashes battled against the cold.
Rhysâs mother didnât get a chance to come to terms with the visitor at her doorstep, and Morrigan was already moving towards her, shoulders tensing at the sight of the wings, but that didnât deter her. Teeth chattering through her tight smile, she threw her arms around her aunt like they had been acquainted for such intimacy. Azriel knew they werenât. Neither Rhysâs mother nor sister were welcomed in the underground city. They werenât worthy for those High Fae, for their own family.
Morrigan was unlike anything Azriel had seen before. Prim and poised in every move, in every smile, in every look. Of all the places in the world, Illyria was the one where she didnâtâwouldnât belong.
In its grim severity, males fought and wasted for glory, pressured to break and break until every drop of resistance and hope was squeezed out of them, and females left to wither waiting on their males, whilst Morrigan was the very spark of spirit these camps sought and snuffed out.
Rhysâs mother had left them alone no longer than a few hours, and Morrigan prattled on as if she had known them all her life.
âYou can call me Mor,â she insisted to Cass, who flustered and sputtered, tripping over his words. Even he couldnât keep pace with her.
Mor never spoke to Azriel, but he often caught her curious peeks. Eyes seemed to dart between him and his shadows, and, whenever they found his scars, she turned away and started a conversation with Cass, as if to fill her memories with anything other than them.
Sometimes, she stared too long at him, lips parting, and Azriel thought of excuses to politely decline her attempt at nicety, but he never found use for them. Her face would soften before she hurried out of the room.
As they stood outside in the cold and chopped wood for the fireplaceâwhich they didnât need but Rhysâs mother made them do nonethelessâMor idled by the window. Shadows would hiss in disapproval and slink out of her sight, and when Azriel turned her way, she would disappear, too.
One thing remained unchanged about her through the centuries. Her desperation for adventures, to be free and one with the wild.
Her petiteness and sheltered past had fooled the three, meanwhile, Mor brimmed with ardour and endless requests all day long. She wanted to explore the forests. She wanted to see a stream and stroll along it, to watch it fall over a cliff. She wanted to remember the scent of pine mixed with snow and fresh air. She wanted to see sunlight glimmer off the peaks of Ramiel, their sacred mountain. She wanted to bask in the light of sun and moon, charting their journeys across the sky.
The night Rhys went searching for her, she stood in the middle of a training pit, under the open starry sky.
âThe moon is real,â whispered Mor. Eyes shining with tears, she laughed, the sound echoing far and long that Rhys hissed under his breath, looking around for unwanted company. âEverything is real here!â
Cass stood speechless, not knowing what to say except that they had better return before Rhysâs mother woke up and found them gone.
Maybe it was then Azriel felt it first.
Her hungry eyes fascinated by this new world, her obsession and eagerness to learn everything before this freedom was snatched away, before she realised this was but a dream and she was trapped somewhere, at someoneâs mercy forever. It brought forth the longing Azriel had buried long ago.
The wishes of a child he once held dear, fooling himself with bold promises of breaking those iron doors and wandering the world, escaping to places hadnât been discovered yet so to never be found again.
By the time he was let out of captivity, they were forgotten, just like Azriel had forgotten that he could still dream.
As he saw this girl live hers, the very ones that had lightened his days and kept his soul alive, his heart began to thaw.
Azriel meets Morrigan for the first time and his impression on her.
Character: Azriel
Warnings: None
Note: Fucking annoying to type âRhysâs motherâ over and over again, I could name her but Azriel wouldnât use her name anyway under any circumstances and now Iâm stuck writing like SJM.
Dividers in this series by @diviniyae.
Read it on AO3
She was the most beautiful female Azriel had ever seen in his life.
All the years in the Illyrian camp, Rhysâs mother never entertained a guest, except for her daughter, who visited them only twice before she turned thirteen. The harsh wilderness and the scattered military camps hardly made an ideal place for retreat.
So when she arrived, escorted by two High Fae guards who refused to cross the muddy yard in front of the house and vanished as soon as Rhys stepped out, everyone was too stunned to speak.
Morrigan was different back then, remembered Azriel.
From neck to feet, she was covered in layers and layers of silk and velvet, her dress so dark that her skin shone as fair as snow, and her hair a thick cord of threaded gold. Her lips were a soft pink, the colour fading the longer she stood at the door, and tears lined her eyes as lashes battled against the cold.
Rhysâs mother didnât get a chance to come to terms with the visitor at her doorstep, and Morrigan was already moving towards her, shoulders tensing at the sight of the wings, but that didnât deter her. Teeth chattering through her tight smile, she threw her arms around her aunt like they had been acquainted for such intimacy. Azriel knew they werenât. Neither Rhysâs mother nor sister were welcomed in the underground city. They werenât worthy for those High Fae, for their own family.
Morrigan was unlike anything Azriel had seen before. Prim and poised in every move, in every smile, in every look. Of all the places in the world, Illyria was the one where she didnâtâwouldnât belong.
In its grim severity, males fought and wasted for glory, pressured to break and break until every drop of resistance and hope was squeezed out of them, and females left to wither waiting on their males, whilst Morrigan was the very spark of spirit these camps sought and snuffed out.
Rhysâs mother had left them alone no longer than a few hours, and Morrigan prattled on as if she had known them all her life.
âYou can call me Mor,â she insisted to Cass, who flustered and sputtered, tripping over his words. Even he couldnât keep pace with her.
Mor never spoke to Azriel, but he often caught her curious peeks. Eyes seemed to dart between him and his shadows, and, whenever they found his scars, she turned away and started a conversation with Cass, as if to fill her memories with anything other than them.
Sometimes, she stared too long at him, lips parting, and Azriel thought of excuses to politely decline her attempt at nicety, but he never found use for them. Her face would soften before she hurried out of the room.
As they stood outside in the cold and chopped wood for the fireplaceâwhich they didnât need but Rhysâs mother made them do nonethelessâMor idled by the window. Shadows would hiss in disapproval and slink out of her sight, and when Azriel turned her way, she would disappear, too.
One thing remained unchanged about her through the centuries. Her desperation for adventures, to be free and one with the wild.
Her petiteness and sheltered past had fooled the three, meanwhile, Mor brimmed with ardour and endless requests all day long. She wanted to explore the forests. She wanted to see a stream and stroll along it, to watch it fall over a cliff. She wanted to remember the scent of pine mixed with snow and fresh air. She wanted to see sunlight glimmer off the peaks of Ramiel, their sacred mountain. She wanted to bask in the light of sun and moon, charting their journeys across the sky.
The night Rhys went searching for her, she stood in the middle of a training pit, under the open starry sky.
âThe moon is real,â whispered Mor. Eyes shining with tears, she laughed, the sound echoing far and long that Rhys hissed under his breath, looking around for unwanted company. âEverything is real here!â
Cass stood speechless, not knowing what to say except that they had better return before Rhysâs mother woke up and found them gone.
Maybe it was then Azriel felt it first.
Her hungry eyes fascinated by this new world, her obsession and eagerness to learn everything before this freedom was snatched away, before she realised this was but a dream and she was trapped somewhere, at someoneâs mercy forever. It brought forth the longing Azriel had buried long ago.
The wishes of a child he once held dear, fooling himself with bold promises of breaking those iron doors and wandering the world, escaping to places hadnât been discovered yet so to never be found again.
By the time he was let out of captivity, they were forgotten, just like Azriel had forgotten that he could still dream.
As he saw this girl live hers, the very ones that had lightened his days and kept his soul alive, his heart began to thaw.
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Spent-his-childhood-in-a-dark-cell-with-no-windows Azriel meeting Born-and-raised-in-an-underground-city-and-never-once-seen-the-outside-world Morrigan and falling in love instantly because she could be the only other person he's met to understand what it was like only to be reduced to an incel in canon who obsesses over every woman he meets
Each day a drabble or snippets of chapters will be posted in line with one specific emotion. They explore the past, present, and future of the characters from my fic Godâs Game. Characters featured will be mostly Azriel and Ayla, and occasionally Morrigan and Rhysand (as of now). You donât need to catch up with the main story in order to read these, but some of my OCs will be mentioned and familiarity with them helps.
Based on Moody March prompt list by @/squidlykitten. Since itâs August already, gave a new name to this challenge.
Iâve reordered some themes in the original prompt list as the chapters flow better when read in succession and form a cohesive narrative, but these can be read in any order. Some themes felt repetitive (Loneliness vs Lonely) or the chapters carried more than one emotion (Joyful and Playful) and so they will be published as one.
Aug 1. Loving
Aug 2. Exposed
Aug 3. Courageous
Aug 4. Horrified
Aug 5. Apathetic
Aug 6. Remorse
Aug 7. Disillusioned
Aug 8. Loneliness
Aug 9. Content
Aug 10. Hostile
Aug 11. Tired
Aug 12. Curious
Aug 13. Rushed
Aug 14. Hopeful
Aug 15. Regret
Aug 16. Lonely
Aug 17. Joyful
Aug 18. Nostalgia
Aug 19. Enraged
Aug 20. Disconnected
Aug 21. Playful
Aug 22. Liberated
Aug 23. Affectionate
Aug 24. Guilty
Aug 25. Faithful
Aug 26. Resigned
Aug 27. Irritated
Aug 28. Anxious
Aug 29. Belonging
Aug 30. Paranoid
Aug 31. Determined
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