Falling Asleep

#74

You’re worth more than a million stars,

And the heavens couldn’t compare,

To the light you cast upon my soul,

Illuminating it after centuries spent in darkness.

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Missed Chances and Stolen Glances

Part 1 | Part 3 | AO3 | ACOTAR Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

A/N: I’m sorry this chapter focuses on Azriel actually learning Spanish. The end does have a slightly more simpy Az though, and the next chapter won’t have tutoring in it. This is going to be a (sort of?) slow-burn, so we need them to get through some tutoring before they get freaky. Also, this is how my brain understands verb conjugations in Spanish. I didn’t Google this information. I’m a B2 level speaker (which is why I made Azriel bad at Spanish on purpose.) If I did make any mistakes, please leave a comment!

Word Count: 2789

“It’s a taste test

Of what I hate less

Can you die of anxiousness?

I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here”

~ Next Semester, Twenty One Pilots

“Okay, so what’re you doing in Spanish now?” Fuck him if he knew. “I don’t really know, if I’m being honest.”

“Just anything that comes to mind. Grammar, vocabulary, what’s your main theme for the next couple of weeks?” He racked his brain, trying to come up with any semblance of an idea, but consistently came up short. There had to be something he remembered learning about. Gwyn waited patiently for him all the while.

“I’ll text a friend. I’m sure he knows what we’re doing.” He probably doesn’t. It was a last-ditch attempt, yes, but could you blame him? Quickly pulling up his phone to text Rhys, Azriel saw that he was coincidentally online. 

Azriel: hey

Azriel: what r we doing in spanish

Rhys: why do you think i know?

Rhys: i’ve been skipping class for like a month

Azriel: welp guess i have to talk to cass

Rhys: lmao good luck

Azriel: fym good luck? 

Azriel: is he in a pissy mood or smth

Azriel: omfg its a girl isnt it

Deciding to ask them about it later, he turned to Gwyn and sighed. “Nope. He doesn’t know what we’re doing either.”

“Well do you know what your test is going to be about?” she asked, unbothered. “Past tense…something,” he said, narrowing his eyes as he had a eureka moment. Knowing his luck, that was about as far as the extent of his memory stretched. “Probably.”

“Well, that’s a good start. Ms. Williams say anything about verb conjugations?”

“Verb- oh yeah. Yeah, she did. Um, something about three verb types, and endings or whatever. And accents.” Azriel was rambling and he knew it.

Spanish always made him nervous, only because he felt like he was constantly out of his element. He’d spent a considerable amount of time agonising over the subject; more time than he cared to admit. To make things worse (as if they weren’t bad enough already) Gwyn made him nervous. She was a native speaker, after all. She wouldn’t expect him to know a ton of Spanish (why else was he asking her for tutoring?) but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d judge him for whatever unknown reason.

“Right. We’ll start off with the basics.” She cut off his inner monologue, which clearly wanted to sabotage him. In her notebook, she drew a table, seven rows down and three across. 

“There are three types of verbs, correct. Do you remember which ones?” He shook his head, and thankfully, she took it at face value and didn’t push further. “There’s ones that end in ‘-ar’, ‘-er’, and ‘-ir’. They’re called ‘-ar’, ‘-er’, and ‘-ir’ verbs respectively. Any verb that ends in these three forms is called the infinitive. It can be adapted to fit the context.” In the first row, she wrote the three verb names. “You’re following so far?”

“Yep.” She didn’t continue, setting her hands on the table, and he realised with a jolt that she wanted him to be writing things down. Three verb endings called the infinitive. Got it. 

Once he’d jotted it down hastily in his notebook, she continued. “Good. Now, depending on the verb ending, you have to adapt, or conjugate the verb. Conjugating is just a fancy way to change the end of the verb to fit the tense and person.” It had been ten fucking minutes, and his mind was already spinning. “I-I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?” His voice came out far softer and much more insecure than he would have liked. She nodded, not the least bit unphased, and explained again, “Think about it this way. In English, we have the verb ‘to choose’, correct? That’s the infinitive. By changing the ending and adding a little s at the end, say if I write ‘she chooses’, then that changes the meaning entirely. I can’t very well say ‘she, to choose’, now can I?”

Somehow, that made sense so he nodded, urging her to continue. “Depending on the tense, so past, present, future, whatever, and depending on the person, for example you, me, or them, means that we have to conjugate the verb differently.”

“That seems complicated for no reason.” She smiled, and said, “We do the same thing in English, though. ‘I go, you went, she will go’; they’re all different forms of the same verb but relating to different people and a different tense.”

His mind whirled. “I…didn’t realise English was this complicated. I just sort of knew, you know?” She nodded, jotting something down. “Don’t feel bad for not knowing. Most people that learn a language don’t learn it with all this grammar, and definitely none of these strict rules. We pick it up as we go along, and our parents and siblings correct us when we make a mistake. That’s what helps us develop that feeling of knowing when something looks or sounds wrong. We know how it’s supposed to look like; intrinsically, it’s how we’ve been taught. Our brains just can’t figure out why.”

Frankly, he couldn’t care less about how people learned languages. All he needed was a passing grade in Spanish, not a discourse on the particulars of the best pedagogical approaches to learning.

At Azriel’s lack of reply, a silence fell, which somehow seemed to be heavier than the hesitant hello’s they’d shared not more than fifteen minutes ago. Gwyn stared down at her notebook, and he could see her desperately trying not to fidget. “I’m sorry for the rambling,” she chuckled awkwardly. “I don’t usually lecture people like that. I promise the rest of our session won’t be like this.”

“It’s fine,” he shortly. It wasn’t fine. He was tired, and he wanted to go home. He cursed his stupid brain for coming up with an idea so spectacularly stupid, and his father even more, because he was forced to follow through with it.

He’d realised a couple of days after the party that he couldn’t possibly hold off with the tutoring for any longer. He’d texted her, asking her if she was free on a Wednesday evening, but she’d replied saying it wasn’t possible. I have chess club from five to six-thirty. Besides, I end school at half-past four. He’d suggested Monday, but it turned out that wasn’t possible either since she had debate. Tuesdays and Thursdays were impossible since he had training which lasted for a minimum of two hours, and he’d rather break a limb than spend his weekend on fucking Spanish. 

And so they had ended up at the school library on a Friday evening, the rain pouring buckets and thunder flashing in the distance. If he stayed here another moment, he was going to fall asleep. 

“So,” she began again, clearly trying to get rid of the tension in the air. “Have you got that down?”

“Yep,” he said, brow furrowing slightly as he took down all the important points she’d said. Conjugation: verb changes depending on:

who you’re talking to/about

what tense you’re in

“So you said that Ms. Williams is quizzing you on the past tense?”

“Yeah.”

“Has she mentioned anything about which verbs you’re currently conjugating, say, irregulars?”

“Just verbs overall, she said. I mean we haven’t done much, really. I think we only started this a week or so ago. We’ve only had two lessons.” Two glorious hours of naptime was what he’d actually gotten from her lessons, but Gwyn didn’t need to know that. 

“Alright. Did she say which past tense?” Azriel narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, which one?”

“Well, there’s two main ones. Did she say indefinido or imperfecto?”

“The-um the first one,” he answered. “Does it matter though?” 

“Yes. If you learn a different tense, you won’t say whatever it is you’ll be trying to say. Besides, one’s easier than the other.”

“Oh thank god.”

“You sound far too happy,” she replied with a hint of glee in her voice. “I certainly wouldn’t be. This is the harder one.” Azriel merely put his head into his hands and groaned. “It’s not that bad,” she said. “Yes, it is,” he mumbled back, and he thought he saw a hint of a smile on her face before it vanished. 

“Well, it certainly won’t get better if you sit around complaining. Come on, we need to get through this sometime today.” He only nodded, his head slumping onto the table as he supported it with an elbow. 

“Okay. Well, you see this table I’ve drawn? Everything under the ‘-ar’ column is going to have the conjugation for ‘-ar’ verbs. In pretérito indefinido, or indefinite preterite as it’s called in English, the -er and -ir verbs have the same conjugation. Lucky you,” she finished. “You’ll only have to learn two.” 

Azriel wasn’t feeling extremely lucky at the moment, but for once he decided to shut up. She was right; they really needed to get some work done, otherwise he’d have wasted a perfectly good Friday night on nothing. 

“Now, there are six people we conjugate for in Spanish. Me, you, we, and them. He, she and a you with respect is one person, and you-plural, or I suppose you can call it ‘you guys’, is another. We don’t have these in English, so it’s fine if it takes some time to get used to. You with respect, or usted, as we in Spanish, can be used to refer to an older, distant relative, or someone you don’t know very well. You-plural, or vosotros, is really useful because you can figure out how many people I’m speaking to just by looking at the verb.”

As she spoke, Azriel made to write everything down. Even if he wasn’t going to use these notes later, (or use them to a minimal extent), he would at least try in these sessions. 

“We organise them this way.” Referring to the table she’d drawn, she wrote yo, tú, él/ella/usted, nosotros/as, vosotros/as, and ustedes in the left column. “Me, you, he or she or you with respect is one, us, you-plural, and them,” she pointed out, gesturing to each person she’d written. 

“Let’s take the verb hablar - to talk. What type of verb is this?”

“‘-Ar,’” he replied. He knew that much. “Right. If I wanted the yo conjugation for it in the past tense, that would mean I wanted the verb ‘to talk’ as ‘I talked’.”

“Correct,” he said slowly, still trying to process and take notes at the same time. Thankfully, she waited until he’d finished writing to continue. “To conjugate a verb, we take off the ‘-ar’ part, which leaves us with the stem. Think of it like taking leaves off a plant and leaving a stem that you can do a bunch of stuff with.”

Useless analogies. Was she ever going to get to the point? “The stem we’re left with is ‘habl-’. To make it ‘I spoke’, we add an e with an accent at the end. That makes it yo hablé.”

“So…so take off the ‘-ar’, and put an e at the end?” He tried. He’d probably forget as soon as he got home. 

“Not just any e,” she corrected. “It has to have an accent.”

“It can’t make that much of a difference, can it?” She was either being really particular because she was a perfectionist, or she wanted to be a pain in his ass. He wouldn’t put it past her to do the latter. It was what he would have done if he’d had to begrudgingly tutor a student two years older than him. 

“If you write hable instead of hablé, it means that you want to speak with someone instead of just being ‘I spoke’.”

“So the accent’s that important, then?”

“It helps distinguish between two words that look the same. To pronounce it, all you have to do is stress the syllable that the accent is on. So saying ‘ha-BLÉ’ instead of ‘HA-ble’ like you would on the first one.”

He tried saying the words out loud, albeit shyly, and relief flooded through him at her nod of confirmation.

“So what’s after hablé?” They’d only gone through one form right now, and it wasn’t long before their hour was up.

“The next ending is ‘-aste’, for ‘you spoke’. So you’d take away the ‘-ar’, and have the stem left, which is…?” She trailed off, raising an eyebrow at him. “Habl-?” he asked tentatively, and she smiled. “Yup.”

“So it would be hablaste?”

“Very good. Can you try conjugating the rest of the verb with the forms I give you?”

“Sure.”

“The next forms are -ó, -amos, -asteis, and -aron. Good luck.” Azriel balked. “Where are you going?” She merely shrugged, already making to walk away, and said over her shoulder, “My friend told me there’s a book here that I really want. I’m going to go check if the librarian has it.”

Her footsteps disappeared down the aisle, and Azriel heaved a deep breath as he ran a hand through his hair. Might as well get to work. The sooner he finished this, the better. 

✦ ✦ ✦

“Why the fuck does Spanish have two past tenses? One wasn’t enough?” he muttered to himself not two minutes later. He’d almost finished the verb hablar, but…

“They’re sort of useful when you put them together.”

“Fuck!” He hissed. He’d banged his knee on the table as he tried to whirl around at the voice he’d heard. It turned out it was just Gwyn. 

Rubbing at it and muttering a few more curses, he realised his mistake. She’s Spanish, you idiot. You can’t insult her language like that. He might not have given two shits about Spanish, but even he drew the line at disrespecting people. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I-”

Instead, she only laughed openly, clutching a book between her hands and said between chuckles, “Don’t worry I think it’s stupid too. You don’t need to apologise. Trust me, if you want to vent to me about how dumb the language is, you can talk to me. My mum forced me to become absolutely fluent when I was younger, so I know how you feel.” He tilted his head in confusion. “Hold on. Didn’t you say that children don’t learn their language with all these explanations about conjugations? How come you’re so good at this stuff?”

“Well, like I said, my mum was really adamant that I knew everything there was to know about the language. That included the grammar. I mean, I haven’t been over it in a while but I still remember a decent portion of it. The stuff I’ve forgotten is mostly really advanced, things to do with essay writing and all the other complicated tenses that show up later, and that make me want to strangle someone.

“Yeah, Spanish gets complicated the more you learn. It’s like everything else, I suppose. Never mind that though, how did you manage to conjugate it?” She leaned over his shoulder to look at his notebook, and the scent of water lilies and something that reminded him of the ocean invaded his nostrils. Was that the same perfume she was wearing at the party? He couldn’t remember. His mind had gone hazy, and he tried his best to snap out of it. 

Her hair fell over her shoulder, the copper strands tickling his neck as he fought to keep his breathing even. It seemed that she was oblivious to his suffering however, as she stayed there for a moment longer, then withdrew. “It looks good. Let’s get started on the ‘-er’ and ‘-ir’ verbs. How about…” she pursed her lips as she tried to come up with one. “Comer.” To eat. “We’ll do it like we just did. I’ll give you the endings, you write them down in the table I made for you, and you conjugate the verb.” Azriel nodded, pen in hand and ready to take notes. “-í, -iste, -ió, -imos, -isteis, and -ieron.”

She took a seat, and began scrolling on her phone. “Aren’t you supposed to be tutoring me?” he asked with a scowl. “I have been tutoring you. For…over an hour, actually. I deserve a break.”

“And I don’t? This is unfair.”

“You’re the one who needs help with their Spanish. Not me. I’ve already done this more times than I care to count. You could wake me up in the middle of the night and I’d spit these conjugations out because they’re engraved in my brain. You still need to practice.” Rolling his eyes, he complied. 

Part 4

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#11

The sky lay awash in hues of deep crimson, as if it too mourned Raena's absence, and had bled alongside her in the war that had shattered and remade their world.

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#39

Your love is like fire and my heart like wax; melting under your every touch until I am nothing but a ruined mess, fighting for my throne as I have fought for you.

I know you will burn me and hurt in every way imaginable, and yet I cannot stay away. I know I cannot have you, yet my heart yearns for your smile, your laugh, but mostly for those depthless eyes that I get lost in every time my heart cannot stand it any longer, and I am forced to steal glances at you. 

You are my love, yet also my undoing. And you have no idea.

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#41

Your worst nightmare, she said with a feral grin. In that moment he could have sworn that something unearthly flashed in her storm grey eyes, something he knew he'd never want to see. Something so terrifying and brutal that it could create and destroy worlds. A power far beyond his, or anyone else's, comprehension.

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Letters of Desperation - Gwynriel

Part 1 - Azriel | Part 4 - Gwyneth | AO3 | ACOTAR Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

Word Count: 427

My sweetest Azriel,

How my heart shattered as I read your letter. Even as I write to you now, my love, my heart longs for you, cries out your name. My tears have long since stained my pillow, and the bed feels so impossibly empty without you. Devoid of emotion, numb, as the white linen covers stare up at me, a mockery of you (I do not know if I am describing the sheets or myself). I have clutched my bedsheets with an iron grip so firm and unrelenting I am afraid there will be imprints of my agony immortalised in the fabric.

Every second that passes I am reminded how impossibly far away you from me are. The distance gnaws at my heart, consistent and painful, creating a void so deep in me no one and nothing will be able to fill. No one but you. The true torment is that no one will ever know how much I long for you, save for these letters, only if these letters are found by another lover long after we have left this world. It seems unfair that I must keep this pain to myself, unable to verbalise it unless you are near. When you are near, all seems to be right with the world, with me. Despite being mated for such a short amount of time, it seems unfair that you must still fulfill your duties for this Court. 

Surely you have given enough? Surely you deserve to rest?

Azriel, I know you. What I do not know is if you have chosen these missions on purpose because you feel as if you do not deserve me, or my love. Or perhaps the High Lord has assigned you these. It is your job, after all. I know it takes a heavy toll on you, my love. I know how it plagues your mind like a black, infecting disease that eats away at your psyche, every moment of every day.

But know that you do not have to shoulder this burden alone. We are mates; each other’s halves, in body and in spirit. We are equals. Allow me the honour of sharing your sorrows, allow me to carry your burdens. What, then, would our marriage vows mean otherwise?

You will never be broken or jagged or insufficient to me, Azriel. 

Allow yourself the grace to ask me for help. Allow yourself to lean on me. That is all I ask. You have shouldered far too much for far too long. Now, it is my turn. 

Unconditionally yours,

Gwyneth

Part 5 - Azriel

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

A Court of Shadows & Healing

Part 1 | Part 9 | AO3 | ACOTAR Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

Word Count: 1622

Azriel woke, panting, his hazel eyes blown wide open. Sweat ran down his body, having soaked through his nightclothes and dampening the pristine sheets.

And yet everything seemed to be in order. The hills and fields gleamed as the moon illuminated the lands beyond, the stars an eternal witness to the everlasting beauty of the continent. 

Pulling the covers back, he stood on shaky legs and ran a hand down his face. Adira. He had to find Adira- tell her what had happened. A part of his mind told him he didn’t need Adira, that she wasn’t his mother for Cauldron’s sake. He’d dealt with nightmares like these for a long time. He didn’t need to be coddled. And yet he was sure it was something Adira would want to know about. She’d cared for him until now, and he was certain that involved his mental wellbeing too. After all, how was she to teach a student who woke with such horrifying nightmares that would make any sensible person practically heave their guts up?

Navigating the mansion at night seemed to prove far more challenging than he’d initially expected. All the hallways looked the same, with the same wallpaper, identically carved doors, and perpetually spotless flooring, and it wasn’t long before he realized he’d rounded what looked to be the same corner at least twice. 

He was lost. Truly and utterly lost in this labyrinth of a house, and he had no idea how to get back to his room, much less find Adira. Perhaps wandering the house at godforsaken hours wasn’t the best idea. He could tell her about his nightmare tomorrow during his lesson. 

Just as he made a left that he thought would get him back to where he started, he heard two familiar voices. Pressing his back to the wall to avoid being illuminated by the light overhead, he recognized one of the voices as Adira. The other sounded familiar, though she spoke just as smoothly. 

- “doesn’t know, and I don’t know what to do.” All thoughts of telling Adira about his nightmare eddied from his mind, a newfound focus on the conservation just a few steps away from him. 

“Obviously. Have you considered actually telling him?” This voice was colder, and yet smooth. Polished, as if they’d grown up around nobility, or at least adopted their ways of speech. She. It was a she, he noticed, the way her voice seemed to flow around Adira’s in the otherwise empty room.

“I did. He panicked. He fainted, for Cauldron’s sake. I won’t speak a word of it until I know for certain he’ll be okay with hearing it.”

Him. Who was this person they were speaking about? Did he, whoever he was, know?

“He fainted?” the voice scoffed. “Well then, that just proves he’s-”

“Do not,” warned Adira. “Finish that sentence.”

“Honestly, Adira. You’ve got to stop being so emotional. You’re treating him like your own-”

“Enough,” she bit out.”I’ve heard enough. If you cannot hold your tongue and show a lick of respect when it comes to him, then get out.”  Azriel had never heard her voice sound like that before, and even from outside the lounge he felt goosebumps rack his body at her tone. He felt sorry for whoever was sitting in that room, though he supposed the female must be used to that tone of voice if she sat there, unbothered.

Azriel didn’t want to get in the way of whomever Adira was livid at. He had no intention of being caught in the crossfire should she lash out at him, too. It had happened enough times at Windhaven for him to know that it was better to stay away from whoever was pissed and wait it out. Turning around, he managed to take a few paces, when he heard Adira call out, “I know you’re there, Azriel.”

His eyes widened, and he froze mid-step. Shit. She wasn’t supposed to know that he was listening in. Mentally, he prepared himself for whatever punishment was sure to follow. Adira didn’t seem like the type to whip him raw, and yet she radiated power. She might even get someone else to do it for her, seeing as how she practically bathed in riches. No, Adira wouldn’t want to get her hands dirty on something like this. 

Swallowing his fear, he inched forward into Adira’s lair.

“Perfect timing. Come, sit with us,” she said, waving him over, either not caring or not willing to bring up the fact that he had been eavesdropping on them a moment before. “Caoimhe was just about to leave, though I suppose it’s good she hasn’t.” Caoimhe sat across from Adira with her legs crossed, wearing what looked to be expensively made trousers and a sweater that practically screamed royalty. The jewellery she had chosen to accentuate her High Fae features didn’t go unnoticed by him either, and Azriel thought recognized her from a few days ago, when he’d seen her and another female training. 

Azriel didn’t miss the sharp look Adira gave her apprentice, as he stood there and admired the female who had been insulting him. Caoimhe looked as if she couldn’t care less, simply rolling her eyes. Their hierarchy must be completely different to that of Illyria, if the female could roll her eyes at Adira without having a limb chopped off.

“Now then, darling Caoimhe, do tell Azriel what you were saying before.” He didn’t miss the smile or the edge in her voice, both of which held none of the warmth she had shown him before. No, this facade was pure intimidation, and didn’t reach her eyes one bit.

Caoimhe shrugged, looking directly at his teacher. Without missing a beat, she said, “I was just saying that if the boy can’t handle his own shit, what’s he to do when Adira’s not around?” Not waiting for a response to her rhetorical question, she continued, “I supppose he’ll hide in that little den of his and piss his pants at the prospect of leaving his sanctuary, all coddled and perfect.”

The words found their mark as Azriel fought to hold back tears. He was used to profanities being hurled at him in Windhaven nearly every other day, and yet this one hurt. He’d thought he was in a safe space where he would be respected, and it was in that moment his hopes that had been so carefully crafted out of glass came shattering onto the ground.

Thankfully, Adira decided to cut in at that exact moment. “He’s just over a decade old, Caoimhe, cut him some slack.” Ignoring her completely, Caoimhe turned to Azriel.

“Are you mute? Cauldron, she’d told me you were pathetic, but it turns out you’re just a coward.” Not waiting for a response, she threw back the rest of whatever it was she’d been drinking, and strode out, the sound of her heels a hammer to his heart. 

As soon as she was out of earshot, Adira turned to Azriel, concern limning her eyes. She lay gentle hands on his shoulder, and whispered, “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that. What she said-” He pushed her arms away roughly. Thankfully, Adira didn’t try to hug him again, and simply sat there, worry written all over her face. But Azriel couldn’t deal with her now. He couldn’t deal with anyone now. He was going to be sick. 

“Take me home,” he said, his voice cold and foreign, even to himself. “Adira, take me home. Now.”

“Look, I know-” “No, you don’t,” he practically snarled, whipping his head towards her. “You don’t. I thought I’d be safe her, that I wouldn’t have to deal with people like that. You told me this was a safe space, Adira. You promised.” His voice broke on the last word, and the dam inside his heart broke completely. As the tears he’d been trying so desperately to hold back began to flow freely down his cheeks, he hissed, “I don’t ever want to come back here. And if you try to make me, I swear by the Mother I’ll rip you and your entire damned palace apart.”

For the first time, he saw Adira look…sad. He didn’t care though, not in that moment. Not as the trust he’d built up so carefully had come crashing down. All he cared about was going home to his brothers.

She didn’t object further though, as she took his hand, more tenderly than she’d ever done, and whisked him home.

He’d had no desire to go back to the continent since the incident with Caoimhe. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had, if he was honest to himself those nights when sleep evaded him, but the thought seeing the vile female again made his stomach roil with nausea and anxiety, and all desire was magically quenched.

He missed the beauty of those lands; that much he could admit. The city, the ocean. The piano. His piano. His heart ached, if only for the peace that the citizens of Qardala seemed to take for granted.

It normally hurt too much to even think about the continent now, and he avoided remembering as much as he could lest he burst into tears. He’d been training more than ever, and he could sense Cassian’s and Rhys’ unspoken worry for him growing day by day as he pummeled whichever sorry ass Devlon paired him up with into the dirt. Mother help the idiots that crossed his path. Was it healthy, what he was doing? No. Was he still going to do it? Yes. It was better than allowing his emotions to catch up with him and leaving himself vulnerable in the den of wolves that was Illyria. 

So he continued. The days bled into weeks, until thoughts of Adira and the continent no longer plagued his every waking moment, and breathing became easier. 

She had not tried to contact him. He had not wanted her to.

Part 10

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#154

I write and I write until the words pour out of me in great swathes, swarming and circling me like a feral, rabid pack of wolves ready to pounce, morphing into my worst nightmares. It is my own fault for giving them life, for entertaining these thoughts. It is my own fault for allowing these thoughts to even take root. I should have banished them from my mind long ago, ripped them and cast them away as I have been cast aside, but perhaps the masochist in me cannot help but want pain. It hungers for it the way a lion hungers for a carcass, for flesh clawed off from the body of a barely-dead animal, except that this flesh is rotting and maggot-filled, yet still I cannot seem to help but crave it.

This self-torment has been all that I know, all I have ever been allowed to know, and then all I have ever allowed myself to know. I do not know how to survive without the pain. What exists in me other than this ache? What am I without agony? Certainly not a person, certainly no soul nor a body. I simply…am. Empty. If this is liberating or condemning, I do not know. I have not yet decided. I do not know if I ever will. I will spend the rest of my existence (for it certainly cannot be called a life) pondering over this, and continue being indecisive.

And yet, this sadism in me refuses to leave. It takes root in me as a plague would, festering and eating away at the parts of myself I was most proud of, until I am nothing but a gallery of failures, each resplendent in their sickening glory and hung up crudely with nails and thorns on the walls, each disgusting masterpiece dripping blood in a steady, near-comforting rhythm. Until I am naught but a museum of all my shortcomings; where I am trapped and forced to listen to the voices ramble about my inadequacies, until my mind devours itself; consumes itself with so much vigour and passion I cannot help but wonder, once again, how this carnal desire would look like if it was directed at anything or anyone else other than myself.

Still, I choose, I willingly choose to make this difficult living even more difficult for myself, perhaps because I feel as if my past sins override my right to live my life as I want to, therefore I must make myself smaller and more palatable, easier to digest and break. I choose to make it more difficult, because I believe I deserve this punishment, that if I repent now, I will have brought my suffering to fruition at last so that I will not have to agonise over it in hell.

For that is surely where the likes of me will end up. I have given up hope that there is a fighting chance for me; I have resigned myself to this fate and accepted it with such heartbreaking finality, such clarity that the possibility of there being anything else now refuses to even cross my mind. I have decided that I should not get even the privilege of a happy thought, simply because I am me, that I have had the misfortune to be born as myself. I can think of no greater tragedy than this, than to exist as myself. That is my punishment for being myself, to don so many masks and have a hundred different personas that I forget who I am, that I learn to mimic and copy but never create, that I learn to observe and make note, but never speak that which resides in me and fights to break free.

It is comforting as much as it is suffocating, and I will persist this way, all stubborn anger and unsavoury thorns until my mind likens this asphyxiation to solace, likens this excruciating agony to peace. It is the only way I shall be able to get through whatever this life has become, whatever I have made it out to be.

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Crimson

AO3 | Nesta Week 2025 Masterpost |

@nestaarcheronweek

Prompt: Day Four - Lover (Nesta has had many opportunities for love across Prythain — who do you ship her with? Cassian? Emerie? Eris? Gwyn? Azriel? Cresseida? Any and all ships are welcome!)

A/N: I decided to title this contrapuntal poem "Crimson because the word fits Autumn, blood, and love all in one!

Word Count: 118

A/N: Tumblr wouldn't let me insert a table, so I had to upload a picture instead

#56

Writing and words are all that keep me going. I cry and bleed and yell and scream through my words, each one cutting me as sharp as a blade. 

If I cannot live the life I wanted to, then I shall live it through the sorrows and joys of words. Words and books and poems and characters for all those feelings that were never felt. 

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