Let You Down |Azriel|

.01.

July 2023: I'm going to start editing this in hopes that it cures my writer's block.

The thick, iron chains that adorned my neck and wrists made it difficult to carry this platter around in an elegant manner. When I served in the pub, I could easily carry two of the large circles piled high with various ales and food. Those were better days, though. It is cool in this horrid hell scape, which is to be expected with the lack of sunlight. The only source of heat in this gods forsaken... castle are small, red and black candles that decorate tattered golden candelabras jutting out from the stone wall. At least I am no stranger to the cold.

The Winter Court was freezing at all times of the year. Of course it was, the magic made it that way. At least there was snow to decorate the ground and lampposts. I cringe as the iron around my neck cuts deeper into my shoulder with each dip of the platter. Greedy hands reaching out at any form of alcohol served. Almost all of the flutes are snatched up in an uneven pattern which forces me to spread my fingers as wide as they will reach to prevent the thing from crashing to the ground. I try to prevent anything that will grab the attention of Amarantha, the last thing I need is too be tortured more.

One flute remains on the center of the tray and my eyes scan the crowd to see who might be empty handed. Rhysand. I spot him from across the room and watch as he leans against a stone column, the chill of death etched across his face. My feet carry me his way, seemingly lighter than before. Oddly, he is the only person to have ever shown me a sliver of kindness. It was a rocky start when he was first brought to Amarantha's side. His eyes raged a violent storm of mixed emotions. He never let it show upon his face, though.

I curtesy as I extend the platter in his direction. He takes the drink, entirely indifferent. His eyes, however, show the slightest bit of gratitude even though he never takes them away from the Fae standing before him. I bow my head before silently retreating toward the doors of this chamber. My mind is plagued with images as I make my way toward the kitchen. Every few years I would commit such a terrible offense which would warrant me seeing more of him, and Amarantha, than I would care. I mentally shake those thoughts away and pull my dress so that it does not catch on the damaged wood on the way out of the room.

I will never be able to understand why Amarantha took me from my home. Her guards robbed me from my tiny village outside of the capital of the Winter Court. I won't say that I feel as if I belonged there. Supposedly born of two Winter Court natives, my tan skin was oddly different than that of the pale tone of my parents and siblings. That being said, other than appearance, I am utterly unremarkable.

I had finished working the short shift in the town's tavern. These days I enjoyed walking in the nearby forest for some peace and quiet while the sun was still above the horizon. For some reason, stretching my legs and releasing tension was my downfall. Her guards grabbed me just as I had passed through the first layer of pine. Down Under the Mountain is where my walk had ended.

Whatever factor my appearance had held that day is long gone. Amarantha will not let me waste away completely. She forces me to bathe by hand of fellow servants. I am emaciated, though. My cheekbones are far too prominent, my cheeks sunken, hair brittle, nails even more so. Bruises cover nearly every inch of my body. The list of flaws continues forever. The only thing that makes me look apart from Death himself is the deep violet dress that cascades down my figure, flowing out at the waist to give the appearance of someone being fed. She must want people to see most of the damage. It is considered a high form of punishment to be one of her servants. I may have even been a threat to onlookers.

The kitchen is even colder than the throne room which doesn't seem possible considering the large fire ablaze before me. Fire, gods do I miss the warmth of fire. It is as if I can feel no warmth here. As if reaching into the flames is a useless attempt to conjure heat. The bitch had made that my punishment once. I was always attempting an escape when I first arrived. Once, I had gotten as far as into the surrounding forest before her horrific monster, the Attor, had discovered me. It dragged me on the ground by my hair until it was able to throw me at her feet.

She had looked as if she was going to spit on me. I wish that had been the only punishment. She conjured a fire in the middle of the throne room and my initial thought of it's purpose was to taunt me for what she had taken from me when she bound me with these chains. That would have been much too easy. She had the Attor drag me to the flame and it pushed my hands into the core. There was no heat. No warmth, nor comfort. Fire had never effected me before, but this time my skin was burned and searing pain traveled through the nerves. Before then, I was unaware of how loudly I could scream. The wounds took months to heal as these chains have suppressed that part of my magic as well. I will get my revenge one of these days, even if it takes another century to do so.