Naoise stood before a gathering of proud Illyrian soldiers, bearing the weight of their attention and their scorn tenfold. Blood painted the crevices of her worn armor against the shining, pristine condition of theirs. Crimson still painted the slope and pattern of her neck from a nick previously healed.
They were unmarked and unworn as of that day, save for the few who'd tousled with their deceased leader and lost. But that was going to change much sooner than they seemed to think.
Then a voice whispered in cool night mist, "It begins."
So, on his signal as they'd arranged it, Naoise turned and led the march into a battle none knew the true scale of.
None but her.
None but her mate and his family.
None but the beating heart of the Night Court, their inner circle, there to lay their lives down time and time again for the fae of their home. Laying her life down for those she'd forsaken for so long. A price long overdue.
In what seemed to be a matter of minutes, they faced an army. Two separate armies, to be precise. The northern and the southern. And leading each was someone she knew. A broad male at the helm of north painted in blood and scars, stony face sharp and unforgiving in its graveness. And at south stood a thin male with the same scars and the same disposition.
But his eyes were darker and brighter at the very same time, their glance to meet hers whispering of mist and stars. They faced each other all the same, armies at their backs and tension bubbling and brewing.
"Apologies in advance, dear Naoise."
The thin male surveyed her, the newfound leader of the western establishment, and every sinewy muscle tightened, wings flaring and disgust in the flash of fangs. "What is this?" he demanded.
"War, I believe," Naoise drawled, shoulders squaring and hands clasping behind her back.
"Not with the likes of you," he snarled.
The other leader barked a harsh laugh with the whispers of a familiar unease rising in her gut at the sound. "The western establishment has fallen before us!"
Naoise huffed. "Because I lead?"
The broad male sneered. "Any Illyrian male to fall at the hands of a female poses no threat to us. Nor do those she leads."
The air rumbled behind her. Naoise lifted a hand and glared over her shoulder. "Do not let them get to you already. Or we have already lost our lives."
Yet they did nothing but quiet down a fraction.
Naoise sighed heavily and turned back to the males feet away and the armies they would lead astray. Then something caught her eye. A tree, tall and ancient just beside the edge of the southern forces.
A tree wherein not even time could have erased the carvings deep within its bark. Harsh, inexperienced. The carving of swirls conjoining to tease at a proud figure, inlaid with moss. One done only in love.
Naoise felt it all over again, pain so deep and eternal.
Loss, like she was reaching into a void where none would dare take her hand and lead her home.
Because he was gone from everything. She'd taken a blade to that tree and tried to remember. Tried to immortalize the male that had died mere hours before. Naoise stood there 500 years ago, where a male stood in evil and intent just as much so.
Her memories grew from this land.
And they were trampling it all down to nothing.
Her powers surged and her siphons shone. Naoise stepped forward and her wings spread wide, a snarl rumbling in her chest and ripping into the air. Grief made her a monster and so a monster she would be.
YOU ARE READING
A Court of Fate and Failure | Azriel
Fanfiction"What do you know of shame?" "Oh, I know plenty." She fought in the first war, the one that took everything from her, just as it did everyone. 500 years later, she is still fighting in each and every moment. But the day she finds a cause to fight fo...
