A Court of Fate and Failure | Azriel

10: War and Want

Naoise lowered herself to sit on the edge, the pristine sheets wrinkling under her weight. Nearby on the bed, a fae male of autumn skin and hair of flowing water, thin and angular unlike any high Fae nor mortal, snored soundlessly. Calm, pumped in to lull him into a silent sleep, emanated from him so potently she wondered if anyone else would be able to feel it as she did. She gently lifted a lock of his long hair in between her thumb and forefinger, feeling how it was as rough as bark, despite appearances.

"They never got to meet you," she murmured.

He stirred briefly, and she hesitated to send another wave of calm his way.

"Then again, neither have I. Shall we?"

So she let him wake in one of the many rooms in the House of Wind. On an unfamiliar bed. Surrounded by crimson. Beside a bloodthirsty Illyrian.

But it was sure to be fun. At the very least.

The first sign that he was truly coming to was the way his breathing picked up. Without the constant calm she pumped through, the rot began to run its course again. It was like a painkiller, temporary and altogether ineffective in the actual healing or curing of an ailment. Then, even as it picked up, eyelashes like shards of water fluttered against orange patches on his cheek. 

When his eyes opened, the first thing he saw was reflected in his dark, beady eyes. Her face; stony, frigid and dark. It was a strange experience, seeing a part of her she felt often but had rarely before seen for herself. It brought delight in the depths of her stomach. Especially when he jolted up and attempted to scramble away with a sharp, whistling shriek. 

Noise stopped any such attempts with a firm hand grasping around his wrist. With how tight she held him to keep the fae by her side, it was almost painful, the way his sharp bones dug into her palm. The male continued to fight and her wings flared with a particularly violent tug. 

He had no hope in sight for any mercy, least not from her. There was still little chance of her ever having forgotten the pungent fear that woke her from a rare night's rest. Nor the anger that sent her to their door. 

A kind of anger that was more dangerous than most everything in their backwards, violent world.

"Look at you," she murmured. His eyes flew even wider at the darkness that lay so audibly she could almost feel it bathing the room in her voice. "I have questions. First; your name."

She was not, in fact, asking. And Naoise made certain he knew she would rip it from him one way or another.

He gulped, seeming to find reason amidst fear when he stopped struggling. "Mox," he hissed.

Mox yelped when she pulled him even closer and let go of his wrist, only for a shimmering rope of gold to wind around him. He was trapped by her side. Naoise tucked her wings in close and let her hands support her from behind. It was almost casual. And she found it exhilarating.

"Why did you find it necessary to beat them, Mox?"

Judging by how he stiffened and she felt the rot creep deeper into the core of his soul, whatever answer he had to offer would not please her. However, that in itself certainly did. After all, attempted intruders had begun to get the memo and bloodshed became a rare occurrence. Having an excuse, a reason... to say she'd become desperate may have been an under exaggeration.

Mox fell into a whimpering silence.

"I'm waiting."

"I..." He couldn't seem to get anything else out.

Naoise cocked her brow in interest. It seemed fear had a way of making one see reason. She would keep that in mind.

"Shall I guess? I may even decide upon one I like."