Chapter Seven
They were unsuccessful. Even before the words were spoken, everyone in the room knew their task had failed.
Lucien had fallen asleep hours before in a spare room upstairs, but Elain and Naya remained wide-awake, waiting into the stretching hours of the night for the three of them to return.
They were on their third cup of tea when Mor and Azriel entered, Rhysand nowhere to be found. Azriel, other than that his wings hung slightly lower and his shoulders seemed to be carrying more weight than usual, showed no signs of emotion or exhaustion.
Mor, on the other hand, could have lit the rooms' candles with the flames behind her eyes. She was cursing as she entered, sporting a busted lip that she dabbed at angrily with a bloody cloth.
"What happened?" Elain was on her feet and at her side in a moment.
"The son of a bitch." Mor kicked at the empty air.
Elain turned pleading eyes to Azriel, reaching out and gripping his hand so he would look at her. She jerked away immediately, lifting her own to examine the sticky substance that had come away from his fingers.
"Blood?" she asked in horror, collected Mor's face in her grasp, red tainting pale skin. "Tell us what happened."
Naya walked forward to hear. Up close, she could see the blood wasn't only on his hands. Splatters streaked across his chest and speckled up his neck, hidden mostly by the shadow of his jaw.
Mor's knuckles were bruised, colored purple and blue and cracked down the middle. A blade was missing from the holster on her thigh.
"Just some assholes who had too much to say." Mor growled, pushing away and going straight for the whiskey on the cart in the corner. She poured herself a generous serving and lifted the crystal bottle in a toast.
"They said no." Naya stated the obvious, not needing Azriel's nod for confirmation. "They're coming."
"Dear, old dad." Mor gulped down the contents of her glass in a single swallow and poured herself another. "Can't get enough of torturing me it seems."
"When?"
Mor's angry laughter filled the room. "A few days probably. Long enough to make the journey."
She waved her hands theatrically, barely missing the top of Elain's now, kneeling form. She drank her second shot and smiled bitterly over Elain's head.
"Kicked some asses though, huh, Az? Least we got that."
For the first time, there was a shift in him. Naya could only guess at all the pent-up frustration and disappointment he felt, and it was like watching him deflate. The wings he usually kept held high and proud, lowered further, the ends bending and sliding across the cold, stone floor. The shields he held up constantly fell, and his guarded expression was replaced instead by a look that would haunt her in its tiredness and self-loathing.
Purposefully forgetting their disagreement, even if just for the time-being, Naya approached him and gathered up his bloody hand, pretending not to be surprised that he let her.
"We'll be back." Naya pulled him along behind her towards the kitchens.
His booted feet made no noise as they walked, his breathing undetectable. If it wasn't for the muted hiss of his wings dragging behind him and the grip she had on his hand, she could have easily convinced herself he wasn't really there.
She led them to the sink and turned on the tap, testing the temperature before revolving back to Azriel.
"Are you hurt?"
He lifted his hands, still interlocked with hers, and examined them as if seeing the mess for the first time. He shook his head solemnly.
He looked as if he could be startled at any moment. This chilling, scarred colossal of a male, looked like he could be startled.
She slowed her movements as she slid her fingers over the back of his hand to the leather bindings.
"I don't want to ruin these." She explained softly as she pulled first one and then the other off. She gently placed the gloves and their weighty, cobalt siphons on the countertop.
He didn't say a word as she guided their linked hands under the warm stream of water and began scrubbing them clean. Torrents of red circled the drains.
"I don't know what happened tonight, can't understand what it is you and your family have lost, but I'm sorry for it."
Her fingers played over his, the pads gently caressing his scars as she swept down his palms, made circles over his knuckles.
He studied her closely, his hazel eyes tracking each movement.
"Velaris." He said so quietly she had to strain to hear over the running water. "The Court of Dreams."
She had never heard of it until after the war. No one who didn't live there had. She had never fathomed she would get to see it one day, even if only glancing at it through her window or staring down at the bright, beautiful city lights from the rooftop.
The muted sound of music and bustling chorus of voices greeted her ears from her balcony each night, even at their distance placed high atop the mountain and she recalled wishing she could join them down in the streets, if only through a different circumstance.
"Is it truly gone?"
His head fell back. "Velaris was the only place we had," He let his eyes slide closed. "Through every war, every battle, every moment of pain we've had to suffer through together or apart."
He paused, and she wondered if his thoughts strayed to when Rhysand was trapped under The Mountain, a time when even the camps were left in fear and uncertainty.
"We could always come home to this place where the stars listened."
With a weighted sigh, he pulled his hands free and dried them on the rag she offered. "It's not gone. Velaris will stand long after all of us are dead and buried, but I fear what it will become, how well we will be able to protect it once Keir and his disciples taint the streets."
Without asking, she took the rag from him and wet the corner.
"It sounds lovely." She ran the damp cloth up his neck, circling under his jaw and grazing over his bobbing Adam's apple as he swallowed in a gulp. "If I could, I'd love to see it before anything changes. You could show me these dreams."
He stilled her hand with his, waiting patiently for her avoiding gaze to find his own.
She expected to meet ridicule, or maybe even anger at her outrageous and overstepping request, but instead, when she found the courage to look up, he greeted her with an open and kind expression.
"What about your back? You should be focusing on healing."
In that moment, it didn't seem so important.
"If I get tired," he raised a brow and she chuckled. "Okay, when I get tired, I promise we can come back right away."
Long silence stretched on between them as he deliberated. Finally, he offered her a sad, soft smile.
"Then I would love to show you my city."
OOO
Elain made her wait another day, claiming they had all had too much excitement and it would do Naya nothing but good to have the extra time to stay in bed and build strength for her little, upcoming adventure.
Lucien had given them a bewildered look when she and Azriel announced their plans the next morning so they may extend the invite to the others. Everyone present, save him and Amren, had accepted.
Mor was in a far better mood, soured only momentarily when Lucien had brought up the trip to the Hewn City. It lifted quickly enough again after she threw a plate full of food at his head when he refused to stop talking.
"I vote dinner and then dancing." Mor was circling her hair into a tight bun at the top of her head, leaving a generous amount underneath to flow freely down her back.
She wore her signature red in a skin-clad style dress that left a bit of flesh around her middle and a slit of her thigh exposed. Elain had pointed out she was bound to get cold, but Mor insisted dancing would warm her right back up.
Elain was the opposite, though both were very feminine, in that she was covered from head to toe. Even her boots, of which no one would be able to see under her floor-length lavender dress, rose to her knees. A white scarf was wrapped securely under her chin.
"I don't like the snow." She had offered as way of explanation when Naya had eyed the layer after layer she had donned.
Mor had rolled her eyes. "Or to show skin."
Elain swatted her arm playfully.
After the three of them were dressed, Naya, herself, in the jacket she had worn to the camps and a pair of loose-fitted dark pants, met up with Azriel on the rooftop. Rhysand and Feyre would be waiting for them at the base of the mountain.
"Last chance, fox." Mor called to Lucien who was occupying himself with a glass of whiskey in one of the many metal chairs in the rooftop courtyard.
He lifted his drink towards Azriel. "And decide between walking down a thousand stairs and cuddling up into the arms of that handsome male?" he shook his head dramatically. "The choice would be too difficult. Might as well sit this one out."
It was Elain who snorted before she walked towards Azriel and threw her arms around his neck. Effortlessly, he lifted her below the knees and, cradling her tightly, soared into the air and shot down the side of the mountain to deposit her with the others.
When he returned to do the same for Mor, Azriel didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. They stumbled over her shoulders and then to her elbows, never staying too long in one place. Mor didn't offer much assistance, focused too much on looking anywhere but at him. Eventually, they settled for the same position he had carried Elain in, and Naya watched them disappear over the railing.
"Wouldn't want to get in the middle of that relationship." Lucien whistled lowly.
Naya's stomach dropped, but she kept her back turned to him and kept her tone casual as she asked. "They're together?"
"No." the scrap of his metal chair sounded against the stone as he pushed away from his seat. "But from what I understand, it's only because she's not interested in the shadow singer."
Naya refused to be intimidated as his footsteps rang closer. She straightened her spine, and no matter how much her head wanted to turn to watch him advance, she kept her chin forward.
"They seem very close." She found herself saying, and then scolded herself internally for her lack of restraint. She knew his intent. He wasn't even trying to hide it, but his bait was too strong and she found herself reaching.
"Centuries of each other's company will do that." he stopped beside her.
Her gaze flickered to his profile, to his one russet-colored eye that looked out into the night, down at the city full of bustling people. The corner of his mouth raised.
"Lots of history there."
She faced him fully, giving into his game. "Why are you telling me this?"
He shrugged nonchalantly. "You seem to be getting comfortable with the spy. Thought you'd like to know all you can."
"Yeah?" she challenged hotly. "And what makes you-?"
Her words were cut off by Azriel's boots hitting the stone. The whip of his wings blew her hair back from her reddening face, and Naya tried not to think about what he had flown into, what he would make of her haughty and angry stance, of Lucien's infuriating smirk.
She didn't bother telling Lucien goodbye as she marched to Azriel and allowed him to lift her carefully into his arms, ignoring his searching gaze purposefully.
"Enjoy your night." Lucien called out as Azriel tucked her in closely to his chest.
She fought the urge to flip him off.
Even as she watched his retreating form disappear through the door, Naya couldn't rid herself of her furrowed brows or the hard line her lips had settled into.
"Did something happen?" Azriel paused, not immediately lifting them into the skies to give her an opportunity to speak. His hands squeezed below her knees gently.
She shook her head. "Just Lucien thinking he knows something he doesn't."
"An unfortunate common occurrence." She glanced up to find him smiling in a tease, and she couldn't help but let it, if only slightly, chip away at her soured mood.
"Still, if you'd like to talk about it..." he trailed off.
"No." she shook her head. "I just want to enjoy tonight."
He nodded in understanding, but when he stretched his wings wide, the span of them taking great amounts of room to fold out, it struck her fully what was about to happen and she forgot all about Lucien and his stupid games. She tightened her hold around his neck and let her head fall back, the ends of her hair brushing against the ground as she stared up into the sky in anticipation.
His wings were black against black, the sky an abundant expanse of star flecked canvas. She looked up to see him watching her intently and offered him a brilliant grin.
"I get to fly again." She called into night, and he met her smile for smile.
He bent his legs to take off, and in a great ascend, shot them into the air.
"Then let's make it count."