Work Text:
Amarantha’s Reign - Year 5
The House of Wind
Cassian - General - Member of Rhysand’s Inner Circle
Bored.
So. So. Bored.
Five years since the wards went up. Five years since his brother was tricked, trapped in stone.
After five years, Cassian has run out of things to do.
He used to be angry, frustrated, sad–now all he is, is bored.
A frustrated growl rips from his lips as he collapses on the couch.
“Cassian, I swear if you say it one more–”
“I'm BORED.”
Mor buries her face in the pillow she's been holding, and screams.
“Az,” her words muffled by the silk pillow now molded to her face, “help me out here.”
Cassian lights up as he looks at the Shadowsinger who stands in the corner, shadows wrapped tightly around his body.
Azriel looks at Cass, his face betraying nothing.
“No.”
Cassian throws his head back with a whimper. Just as Mor relaxes, Cassian leaps to his feet.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. He thinks.
“It’s time.” His voice no longer that of a needy, bored Illyrian–but of a general. Preparing for war.
Mor tenses, head slowly turning towards Cassian. “Time for what?”
Cass isn’t listening though, his mind is made up. Without a word, he turns on his heels and makes his way to the balcony. As he launches into the air, he hears Az chuckle.
“This will be interesting.”
The Shadowsinger's words fade into the distance as wind screams in his ear.
Cassian’s siphons glow as he summons his armor, the intricate scales and plates clamping with reassuring familiarity over his body.
He works to steady his breathing, chanting the phrase he and his brothers share before battle–a prayer, a promise.
You do not fear. You do not falter. You do not yield. You do not fear. You do not falter. You do not yield. You do not fear. You do not falter. You do not yield. You do not fear. You do not falter. You do not yield.
He can do this.
Angling towards the Sidra River, he locks onto his target. The wooden balcony shakes under the force of the impact as he lands. A sharp voice cursing inside sends a shiver down his spine.
Steeling himself, he raises his hand to knock on the unassuming door, prepared to disturb the monster dwelling within.
She beats him to it, the door nearly ripped off its hinges revealing the tiny but terrifying figure.
“You have five seconds to give me a reason why I shouldn’t skin you and use your wings as a throw blanket, boy.”
Hand still raised, Cassian freezes. All prior confidence gone, now replaced by regret, and fear.
“Four.”
Mother help him. Why did he come here? Did he have a death wish?
“Three.”
Death may be an interesting experience at least. Mor would likely mourn him. Azriel may even frown.
“Two.”
He should have gone to Rita’s. Counted every step to the House of Wind. Organized his sock drawer for the 489th time. Anything but this.
“On–”
“I’M BORED.”
Amren’s silver eyes flash, the creature locked inside her small form flashing him a warning.
“Say again?” she whispers.
Cassian struggles to find any moisture remaining in his mouth, he finds nothing but sand.
“I’m… bored?”
Amren simply stares. The pure otherworldly energy rolling off her reminds him why Rhysand named her his Second in Command.
Shit.
After what feels like hours, her mouth curls into a sharp smile, her eyes gleaming with a delight that terrifies him.
“Well,” she draws out the word, “we can’t have that now can we, boy? Why don’t you step in. Make yourself at home. I’m sure I have a game we can play… somewhere.”
He tries, and fails, to smile back. Instead he ends up giving her some kind of half smile, half grimace as he begins to back up.
She moves forward, matching step for step.
Cassian’s voice shakes as he lets out a shaky laugh. “You know, never mind. I see you’re busy. I’ll, uh, leave you to it.”
“Oh no no, boy. I can always make time for my favorite Illyrian moron.”
“Gosh, would you look at the time?”
His back hits the railing.
Cauldron, this was a mistake. A stupid. Stupid mistake.
“What?” He shouts into the wind. “Oh yes I’ll be right there!”
Amren’s eyes sharpen. Cassian has never been much of an actor.
“Sorry, Amren. Mor is calling me, very important business, can’t wait.” He turns and launches himself into the sky faster, flying faster than he ever has. He doesn’t slow until Amren becomes a small speck on the ground.
He crashes onto the balcony of the House of Wind with a deafening crack, chest heavy as he tries not to vomit.
Oh crap, I’m going to pass out. Cass thinks as the world grows darker. When he opens his eyes he finds himself face to face with worn leather boots. He follows the legs up and up before landing on Azriel’s stoic face. The slightest smirk giving him away.
“Not. A. Word.” Cassian hisses, though his voice is shaking too violently to hold much bite.
“How’d it go?”
He’s never wanted to punch his brother’s snide face more than this moment. “Great.” Sarcasm coat his words, forced out through burning lungs. “We’re getting tea later.”
“Really? That’s not what I hear.” Cassian’s face whips to the side just in time to watch a small shadow leave his own and wind its way up Azriel's form, before wrapping itself around his ear.
Light burns his eyes as Azriel walks away, taking his shade with him. A heat of a different kind floods Cassian’s face, embarrassment and anger swirling together.
He finds Mor in the library, a Sellyn Drake novel clutched in her hand as she bites her lip. She’s so engrossed she doesn’t react to Cassian’s pounding footsteps as he stomps into the room. It’s not until he grabs the book and lifts it out of her reach that she acknowledges his presence with a snarl.
“Give it back, Cassian.” She growls. “Now.”
“Please,” he scoffs. “You think you’re the most frightening thing I’ve faced today?” She yelps in protest as he tosses the book to the side of the room.
“There are more important things than your little kissy book at stake.”
“This better be good, Cassian.”
“I know how to cure my boredom."
She raises one perfect eyebrow. Now he has her attention.
“What would that be?”
The world holds its breath as a grin spreads across his face. “One word.”
“Revenge.”
Azriel - Shadowsinger - Member of Rhysand’s Inner Circle
Az waits until he’s made it back to his room before he lets the smile crack along his face, muscles burning from the rare expression.
His shadows had given him a front row seat to the confrontation between the General of their army and the tiny creature known as Amren. He was particularly amused when they told him how Amren giggled after he flew away, or at least qualifies as a giggle for her.
He’s loath to admit it, but he does understand where Cassian is coming from.
As much as he loves Velaris, there’s only so much to do. He’s never been a fan of crowds; he only goes to Rita’s to stop his friends' insistent badgering. The people of Velaris may be used to Illyrians, but his Shadows still draw more attention than he’d like.
He’s not self-conscious, but watching his friends happily interact with their Court, while those same Fae stare and hurry their children away–stings. He’d rather be out there, gathering information, sleeping under the stars, feeling free.
Feeling useful.
Instead he can only use his skills to spy on his family. He tries not to, but sometimes his shadows decide to do so for him, whispering secrets incessantly in his ear.
After so many centuries of their companionship, he’s come to accept that while they may often obey him, they do so by choice; often telling him things he doesn’t care about.
Or things he cares too much about.
Of course, sometimes he can’t help himself, like this morning when the scheming look on Cassian’s face was just begging to be followed.
"He schemes more."
"Plans more."
I don’t care. Leave him be for the rest of the day.
"Are you sure? We can tell you."
No.
"They whisper together, they speak of–"
I SAID NO. Will you obey for once and leave me in peace?
.
.
.
"Fine.
The Shadows pull back, they don’t leave him, but instead hide beneath his wings.
Azriel rolls his eyes.
It seems that Mor is with Cassian. As long as he’s not the one who has to entertain his whiny brother, he doesn’t care what they do.
He decides to stretch his wings, it wouldn’t hurt to sharpen his skills. A blade is useless when dull.
Azriel steps off the ledge of his bedroom window. He keeps his wings tucked in and lets himself enjoy the freeing rush as he freefalls through the air. Only when the figures on the street below him become more than just spots of color does he snaps his wings open. The leathery membrane strains against the pressure–trapping the wind beneath him as he falls into a comfortable glide.
With nothing better to do, he takes his time.
He twists and turns in the air, wings opening and closing in powerful bursts. For him, it's practice, aerial movements necessary for battle.
To the Fae below, it's beautiful. Their Shadowsinger, their dark, powerful protector, dancing among the clouds.
Azriel doesn’t notice as parents kneel beside their children and point to the Illyrian with a smile.
He doesn’t hear as they explain who he is, the deeds he’s done.
He doesn’t know they call him a hero.
But the Shadows do. They consider telling him, but remember the anger in his voice as he spoke to them. No. They will stay quiet. Just as their master wishes. For now.
Blissfully unaware, Azriel angles himself towards a darkened part of the city, quietly slipping into the shadows as soon as his feet touch the ground.
Even without his shadows, the Night Court’s Spymaster is nearly invisible in the dark alleyway. He knows better than to rely on his Shadows entirely, the day may come when he can’t. No one in his spy network has the same abilities he does. He’s no hypocrite, his skill has to surpass whatever he demands from those who work for him.
Over the years he’s taken time to learn how to disappear without his Shadows. It took decades to get there, but once he was able to follow Amren without her knowledge, he was finally satisfied with his skills.
So, he watches.
.
.
A few hours later, Azriel decides he’s gathered enough useless information for the day.
He used to spend his days learning of enemy movements, possible coups, or assassination plots. Today he’s learned that the baker is cheating on his wife with the tailor’s daughter, the young clerk at the general store shoves pieces of candy when the owner isn’t looking, and that the old woman at the end of the street has been secretly dosing her husband's tea with… stimulants to aid in certain activities.
A thrilling day.
Azriel makes his way back to his room, relishing the ache in his wings as he climbs high into the sky.
He gets himself something to drink and changes into his other set of armor. The ones he’s wearing are more suitable for spying, but he’ll need something more sturdy to train in. It wouldn’t do to train in soft leathers when he’ll have to wear something heavier, more restricting, in actual battle.
Tightening the final strap, he begins to make his way to the training ring on the roof.
He makes it half-way up before he hears hushed voices above him.
There’s a small thrill at the thought of an actual opponent rather than a training dummy. He doesn’t make it another step before a Shadow shoots down the stairs, coming from the direction of the voices.
The other Shadows rush out from their hiding place, jumping frantically around his body as the newcomer whispers things only they can hear. Azriel forces his jaw to unlock as the annoyance he already has towards them doubles at being left out of the loop.
Speak. He orders.
"Trouble. Town House."
Immediately Az begins to rush forward, prepared to launch himself from the training ring, only to be stopped by an unmovable mass of Shadows.
"Down. Through the bedroom. It’s faster. Hurry!"
He doesn’t hesitate to heed their word. His feet don’t graze the stone stairs as he flies down them like a blur and shoots out his bedroom window with Truthteller in hand. The blade’s edge flashes in the sunlight like a beacon as the Town House rapidly grows large.
When it comes to protecting his family, the threat doesn’t stand a chance.
Cassian
“Shh…” He catches Mor’s hand and freezes.
After a moment she tries to free her arm, but his grip is like iron wrapped around her wrist.
“What?” She hisses.
“I thought I heard something…” He looks at her now and nearly jumps at the glare in her eyes, releasing her wrist like it burned him.
Cassian awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry.” His crooked smile has Mor rolling her eyes, exactly as he’d hoped.
“Well let’s hurry then. Hand me the funnel.”
“Yes Ma’am.” Cassian stands at attention. He hands her the funnel he’d smuggled from the kitchen with one hand, and salutes with the other.
She snatches the tool and scoffs. “You know, I’m starting to understand Amren more and more these days.”
The thought of two Amrens sends a shiver up Cassian’s spine. “Don’t even joke about that, Mor. I’m already going to have nightmares for a month. I thought I was a goner.” He watches her from the corner of his eye, waiting for her response. “You know, I was planning on leaving you my stone collection.”
Morrigan’s hands still for a second as she shakes her head. “I still don’t know why you insist on collecting those stupid rocks.”
His hand flies to his chest. “Stupid rocks? They aren’t just stupid rocks, they’re perfect, miracles of nature. Perfection in a hard… rocky… ball.” He waves his hands wildly, his whispered screams not enough to convey how appalled he is.
He doesn't understand how she can be so blind.
They’re perfect, small enough to sit in the palm of his hand, impossibly smooth; the perfect tool.
He uses them to help train his grip. Crucial for wielding a sword.
Or adhering them to his armor, opposite his siphons. To… even them out. Balance is very important for a warrior.
They’re also not bad to just touch. The one in his pocket is nearly worn through, his thumb rubbing over the surface for years has left a large indent. It's soothing.
And staying calm is the difference between life and death on the battlefield.
What they are NOT is “just rocks” as Mor suggests, or the “perfect paperweight” Az declared after using one to weigh down his reports.
Bastard. He’ll get what’s coming to him.
Cassian struggles to collect himself, turning his attention back to Mor. “Have I ever told you you’re a genius?” She huffs a laugh as she empties the last bag into the top of the training dummy. He can take no credit for the prank, as much as he wishes he could. Mor must be as bored as he is by how quickly she agreed to help him. She hands him the bag and starts to sew up the top.
He was a little worried at how quickly she came up with the plan. And the fact she already had three bags of the supplies hidden away in her closet.
That’s a problem for another day. He can’t hold it in any longer, the anticipation is too much.
“Yes!” Cass shouts in a hushed voice as Mor puts the finishing touches on their work, throwing his hands in the air.
They both watch as a handful of glitter left in the bag he’s holding flies out through the gap, spreading like a thin blanket over the training ring.
Cassian stands frozen, staring at the glittery mess. Mor slowly walks to the side of the ring, picks up a neatly folded towel, and shoves her face into it before letting out a scream.
“Oops.” The General tries to make himself small as Morrigan directs her anger on him.
She shoves a finger in his face, but freezes before she can unleash herself.
“Oh crap.”
Cassian turns to see what she’s looking at.
Three dark Shadows break off from the shade of the weapons rack and float along the floor towards the scene of the crime. The sparkling glitter is impossible to ignore.
It practically screams “Look at me! Look at me!”
And the Shadows are certainly looking.
Cassian steps forwards, his hands held out in a show of peace. “Hey there. It’s not what it looks like. Actually I have no idea what it looks like. Don’t know what that even is. Weird huh? Doesn’t look like anything important though. No need to tell ol’ Azzy about it… right?”
The Shadows freeze, as if watching him. It always feels like they’re watching. He tries to pretend they don’t bother him, but honestly, they freak him out a bit. More than a bit.
Without warning they turn and surge towards the glitter on the ground.
Cassian groans in defeat and covers his face in his hands.
“The whole day–wasted.” He whines, “and now Az is going to beat me up, on top of everything else?”
He continues to moan, until the gentle weight of a hand lands on his shoulder.
“Cassian, look.” Mor whispers in his ear, her voice alight with shock and barely veiled relief. “I think they’re helping us.”
Cass peaks through his fingers, afraid to have his heart broken should Mor be lying. But she wasn’t. The Shadows spread out and cover the sparkling floor. When they clear, nothing is left behind but clean, dull stone.
He claps his hand in delight.
“Oh, you beautiful creepy things! I knew we could count on you! Never doubted you for a second. Always knew yo–”
The Shadows that were silently dancing at his praise rush forwards and wrap around each of their torso’s, dragging them back behind the stacks of leather mats.
One crawls up Cassian and wraps around his mouth, not tight enough to cause pain, but enough to silence any noise that could, and would, come out of him.
He makes a sound of indignation, which doubles as he notices Mor’s mouth is uncovered, the smirk on her face clear as day.
A muffled rant rises in his chest but is snuffed out by the sound of armored feet crashing onto the stone floor just feet from where they were just standing.
Very angry armored feet.
Azriel
Trouble, they said.
Hurry, they said.
And for what?
The danger of Nuala and Cerridwen baking a cake? The possible destruction of the Court caused by a few leaves that have snuck through an open window?
What the Hells was that? His Shadows have been wrong before. A detail here and there, falling for decoys on the rare occasion, but this is ridiculous.
You did this on purpose.
"Never, Master. A mistake. Humble apologies."
Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.
"We would never be sarcastic to you, Master. We live to serve."
One day Azriel will figure out how to punch his Shadows, but until that day this training dummy will have to do.
He begins with his bare fists.
Head. Torso. Gut. Uppercut. Lead hook. Jab.
He fuels each strike with his frustration. The rough burn of each hit brings satisfaction. The dummy feels harder today, more solid. It feels good.
Next, he moves on to swords. For now, he chooses a training sword, its edges dulled to allow strikes without major damage.
He swings his sword at the stuffed doll for an hour before finally deciding to finish for the day. His rage nearly abated.
A tug on his shirt stops him before he can reach the stairs.
What? He snaps at the Shadows latched onto his armor.
They rush back to the dummy, wrapping themselves around it and begin to dance.
Taunting him.
His rage returns like a tidal wave.
In a heartbeat he stands in front of the swirling mass of black. Truthteller held in a white-knuckle grip.
“Fine.” The growl shatters its way out of his throat; at the same time his blade enters the dummy’s neck. The strike is so quick the grains of sand inside don’t have time to seep through the opening before his blade lodges into its gut.
He rips the blade up, slicing the canvas up in half, before thrusting out from the top.
A moment of satisfaction is all he’s given before several pounds of multi-colored glitter burst through the wound he’s created. He tries to shield himself, but there’s no protection from this opponent.
Especially when his own Shadows are swarming, catching the glitter from the air and shoving it deep into the cracks and crevices in his armor.
Traitors.
They only vibrate in laughter in response before sliding away from him and towards the leather mats stacked in the corner. The ones with two familiar faces peeking out from behind. The faces now morphed into uncontrollable laughter, joined by his Shadows jumping between them.
Enough. His face twists into silent rage. The promise of pain. Of retribution.
He is no longer the Shadowsinger, the Spymaster, the quiet friend. No. He is darkness Fae run from in fear. The monster parents warn their children of when they misbehave. The face that leaves prisoners trembling in their cells.
He is the nightmare that keeps the Devil awake at night. He is… being laughed at.
Cassian looks to be choking on his own joy, one finger pointed at Azriel’s face while barely holding himself up, clinging to the mats beside him like a lifeline. Morrigan lies on her back, hands wrap around her stomach, laughing through the tears falling from her eyes.
Azriel catches his reflection in the shield beside them. His face is absolutely covered in glitter, his skin peeking through just where he’d creased his forehead while glowering at the two idiots wheezing on the floor. He looks like an angry rainbow.
His only solace is knowing the red dusting over his cheeks is hidden by layers of glitter.
He’s had enough. He turns and snaps his wings open.
Bursts of shimmering glitter fly through the air, launched from where the Shadows had filled the pockets of membrane between the joints.
The laughter behind him doubles in volume.
Azriel's head falls. A wise warrior knows to accept defeat. With a sigh he pumps his wings, rising from the roof and turns towards the woods. He knows of a secluded river where he can attempt to shed the layer of sparkles he wears.
He glances back to see Cassian spinning around the training ring, arms stretched wide, cheering some nonsense about it raining.
The Shadowsinger's teeth grind together, countered by the devious smile stretching over his face.
Oh yes. A wise warrior knows when to accept defeat; but a Spymaster knows one lost battle does not mean you’ve lost the war.
In the city below, the Night Court looks up in awe, a beautiful rainbow racing across the sky.