Archive of Our Own ^beta

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Book 1

Chapter 1(Teeny Tiny Prologue): Breathing Underwater

Chapter 2: Home

Chapter 3: A Shift in the Air

Chapter Text

  Breathing underwater; I’ve done it once.

  I had to have been no older than ten. We went out often when I was young, always visiting the recreational centers around the corner, dragging cousins along because, that’s just what we did. We lived through our roots and held on like they were our only way out of hell. We held secrets we knew we couldn’t keep, passed on stories from ear to ear that we shouldn’t have heard, giggling because we were too young to understand.

  I miss being too young to understand.

  I miss waddling through the outside water-parks, being tripped, and breathing in blue. That one particular moment, when the water rushed to follow my inhale, replacing every bit of air in my system: I miss that. I’ve never been able to breathe as freely as I had in those five seconds. I miss—

  “You’re breathing.”

  But it’s suffocating.

  “You’ve never been able to feel as free as this. Never.”

  But the water parks? My family?

  “What water parks?”

  The one my mother used to take me to—

  “What’s a water park?”

  …What is a water park?

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re free. You are fulfilled. Rest.”

  It doesn’t matter anymore.

  So why do I feel so wrong?

Chapter Text

Rhysand held up a pink sweater, a frown spreading across his face as his High Lady struggled to catch her breath from their shared bed. Anyone would laugh at the image of the High Lord of the Night Court in a big and scratchy pink sweater.

“I think,” she rolled over to face him again, holding her stomach from where she laid on his side of the bed. “I think it suits you.” With a hand stifling her laughs, she went into another fit when he turned back to her, a perfectly arched brow raised.

“I think Mor needs a lesson on gift-giving,” he sighed as he inspected the gift more. He could make out tiny stars in random places, all a bright yellow that clashed with the pink and was rough on the eyes. Despite the headache he felt creeping up on him, he couldn’t help but smile.

“This, Feyre darling,” Rhysand shoved the sweater in the bottom of their wardrobe, no doubt planning to forget its existence. “Is why the phrase ‘It’s the thought that counts’ exists.” When he straightened, he took his time crossing the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. Feyre was originally wrapped in blankets, but her fit of laughter set the bed in disarray. Smooth skin not covered by the blankets or her slip was on display, and Rhysand was using his eyes to eat up every bit he could find.

But her face…Feyre’s face was the whole banquet. Golden-brown strands of long hair spread around her like a veil, leaving her looking positively messy. Under his stare, her skin seemed to brighten, and a small smile formed on her soft mouth.

“It’s true, though,” she said.

“That you’re positively delicious when you wake up in the morning?”

She rolled her eyes and brought her arms up, rubbing the side of her face and disturbing softly arched brows. The dark of her intricate tattoos contrasted the glow of her skin, and Rhysand found himself struggling to decide which he loved more. The battle soon came to an end, though. As he studied each swirl of shadow gracing Feyre’s forearms, one for her title, the other for the bond they will eternally share, he concluded that he couldn’t have either if she herself wasn’t there.

Feyre sat up in a slow manner, shifting over until she pressed herself against Rhysand’s side, which he happily made more accessible, wrapping a snug arm around her waist.

“The thought counts,” she murmured, tucking her head under his chin as his hand drew up the thin slip, massaging circles into the exposed skin.

“I know,” he said, staring off.

“Did you thank her?”

“Of course I did. What kind of High Lord wouldn’t thank his own cousin for such a generous—” an elbow dug into his stomach, and he found himself almost having to fold over. “Damn!”

“Your High Lady doesn’t appreciate the sarcasm.”

Rhysand barked out a laugh, sending Feyre back down into the sheets and towering over her with a grin that carried as much heat as it did love. Kisses started on her cheeks and made their way down the column of her neck, and she gave sighs that only urged him on.

“I sincerely thanked her,” a particularly harsh bite on her skin left Feyre drawing up her legs, and Rhysand wasted no time chasing her up the bed, using his knees to keep her spread. “She said it made her think of me.”

“That’s sweet of her,” she breathed out the words, struggling under his teeth and tongue.

“It was, but I don’t think she’d like to know that thought occurred to you while I’m busy trying to take you apart,” Feyre snickered at his words, on the verge of letting out a sound that would ensure her fate for the morning. “My High Lady, darling—”

A rapid knock sounded at the door, bringing down the temperature several degrees. They both groaned in annoyance and Feyre patted Rhysand’s back in defeat. “Will it be like this when we finally move into the river-house?”

“I hope not,” he drawled.

“We have a potentially, life-threatening problem!” The voice sliced through the last of the morning atmosphere.

Faces turned into frowns at the announcement, and clothes were already being rushed on.

***

The Sidra River looked best from the mountains. At least, for Azriel it did.

When you were further out from Velaris, further out from the hustle of the people, everything was quieter. You could hear the birds chirping their ancient songs and watch the clouds roll by, never in a rush to be anywhere. This was where Azriel found his peace.

The water’s sapphire hue slightly dulled due to the distance, but it was easier on the eyes from here. No matter where you were, the Sidra always maintained its beauty.

Azriel laid back against a convenient incline on the surface of a mountain, wings resting on the rock beneath him. He came here often after the war with Hybern ended, watching every corner of Velaris he could. The anxiety of danger never leaves him completely, not after watching his home go up in flames or watching his people bleed. Once you’ve seen carnage, it never leaves you.

But you could do everything possible to ensure it didn’t happen again.

“…home…” shadows whisper. They were barely audible these days; they never had a true reason to be loud anymore. Azriel sat up and listened, though. Shadows raised from his arms and flowed behind his ears like ink, repeating one singular word.

“…home…”

Home?

He glanced towards the direction of the townhouse of the inner court; there was nothing out of the ordinary he could see. Warmth filled his chest at the thought of a warm bed waiting for him, and the picture of Elain asking him to try another pastry she was working on. Expectant eyes would look into his, but he knew it wasn’t simply for him to tell her the pastry was delicious.

That’s when he frowned.

It’s ironic how the Cauldron blessed his brothers with two sisters, yet he couldn’t have the third. She was mated to a male she didn’t even want, and Azriel empathized with her. He knew how it felt to not have control over your fate, but he couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the Cauldron had made a mistake.

What if it was supposed to be him instead of Lucien?

“…go…home…” the shadows didn’t seem to empathize with him. They just wanted him to go home. Maybe Azriel just wanted to go home.

He pressed his hands against the rock behind him, pushing himself to his feet. With a stretch and rustle of his wings, he started on his way home.

Chapter Text

Landing at the door of the townhouse, shadows immediately started to whisper. While he couldn’t hear anything, Azriel could feel the disturbance in the air. It was instinctual. He considered letting the shadows crawl their way under the door, sneak and listen, but despite his title, he didn’t enjoy snooping on his high lord. So he did the sensible thing.

He knocked.

Once, twice…

The door swung open before he could even finish the third, and Rhysand met him with a frown. Shadows began to curl around Azriel’s arm. Instinct.

“Going somewhere?”

“We all are,” Rhysand grumbled, stalking from the entrance and flexing his wings before taking off in a powerful flap. Azriel watched his flight for a moment before turning to see Morrigan looking at him expectantly. She was dressed in that signature red dress that clung to every curve, and Azriel couldn’t help the desire that built within him. He choked it down with a mental fist, because that was the last thing he needed to feel. How many times had Mor rejected the feelings he didn’t even mean to let slip through? It was enough to know she was safe. It was enough to know she was thriving in her own skin, unmarked and unchained, unreachable from those who wished it to relive the atrocities she so bravely survived .

It was enough. Even if the burning in his chest said otherwise. He’s learned how to keep himself in control, because that was his purpose. Stay in control. Guard. Protect.

A flap from above caught his attention, and overhead, a smaller, but no less stronger, form flapped her wings in an effort to catch up with her mate. Azriel couldn’t help the smirk forming on his face. “She’s getting better with her speed,” he watched as Feyre reached Rhysand in no time, flying right above him and keeping pace. He decided to discard how Rhysand’s wings slowed their repetition, just a little. 

“She’s getting better at everything,” Mor said, walking over to Azriel. “We have to go, something is…wrong,” he watched as she pointed to the House of Wind, ignoring the decadent scent of her, how the red of her dress reminded him of every glass of wine she’d brought to her lips, her lipstick staining the glass.

“What’s wrong?” he bent down, scooping his arm under her knees and easing her into a bridal carry, flexing his wings as he prepared for flight. He didn’t like the way Mor’s voice lowered, like a memory haunted every syllable. 

And she hesitated in her answer, a thousand words running through that mind she wouldn’t let him adore, because they were friends, and nothing was wrong. Not between them.

Azriel’s wings arched above his head as he bent slightly at the knees, and he felt the gentle wave of Morrigan’s energy pouring over them both just before they came back down, propelling them both into the air at an angle that allowed them to gain on their Lord and Lady. The House of Wind was a bit foggy from here, but it stood as it was meant to, whispering stories of blood and sacrifices through its walls, of love and bonds.

It was only when they were in the air did Mor find her voice again, sitting straight in Azriel’s arms so she could look at Velaris’ people down below. And even though she couldn’t see the details, she saw smiles. Her face hardened as she turned back to Azriel, who was already staring at her with a longing she was far too familiar with. Suddenly, she didn’t want to be in his arms, didn’t want to hold his attention. She wanted to remind herself that all these feelings were stupid, because they were friends, and nothing was wrong.

“Something’s wrong with the cauldron.”

Those words were all it took to snap Azriel out of it. “I thought Miryam and her mate had it taken care of?”

“So did I.”