Gwyn and Azriel discover their limitations while stuck in the temple waiting for help, some that may surprise them.
"Priestess?"
The priestess could barely think through the agony devouring her. The heat flaring with each gasping inhale. But, slowly extending beyond the pain, Gwyn determined her head rested upon something notably solid. Then soft caresses over her sweat and blood-drenched strands. An embrace of cedar and chilled night enveloped her.
"Priestess, please open your eyes."
When had she closed them?
She opened them, discovering Azriel gazing down at her, his greenish-brown eyes wet. Her beautiful male. The smooth planes of his bronzed face were harsh. Oh, no. Did he blame himself?
"It was my fault," Gwyn rasped out, grimacing as she hacked, the motion pulling at the gash in her side.
"What?" His shaking hand pressed harder against her wound.
"Before we left...I ... I told you if I got hurt." She hissed. "It was my fault."
Azriel tried his finest to act annoyed with her, but she could see the genuine worry in his eyes. The pain and the panic a brewing perfect storm. His shadows were probably swirling like a small cyclone...
But they weren't.
Gwyn tilted her head as much as she could, curious. The shadowsinger's eyes sharpened and narrowed. A muscle ticked in his cut jaw.
"One of these pricks is still alive. The shadows are keeping him bound. Though, with the faebane in my blood," He paused, listening. "They're faint."
A few of his dim comrades emerged over his right shoulder. They were fuzzy, like the last trace of drifting smoke. One dropped to stroke tenderly on her cheek and, Mother above, the frosty kiss of wind felt like the best thing ever.
Azriel concentrated on the one shadow above his ear and then turned his concern back to her.
"They stabbed you with a blade covered in some new variation of faebane, reducing both our healing abilities. Meaning, no winnowing. No contact. And no flying."
Gwyn finally checked for Az's injuries. One to his thigh. One to his wing.
Azriel held up his gauntlets containing the now barely flickering siphons.
Oh, no.
Her palm was sticky from applying pressure on her stab wound. They were so screwed. Stranded in the temple, depicted in her worst nightmares.
Without the High Fae and Illyrian abilities to heal?
"We need to stop the bleeding," Gwyn said.
"I know," he replied, hoarsely.
An idea snagged ahold, a guiding beacon from her past. "Next... two doors on the left... was a healing room." She halted with a groan as pain lanced through her. Azriel leaned forward, his lower lip quivering against her forehead as he kissed her. "We had humans on... occasion take shelter for a short time. Many of them." A hiss. "When they'd suffer injuries, they didn't want us to use the stones. They feared magic, I think. But... we assembled a bag holding bandages and things for mortals... might work…"
With a swift peck to her cheek, he smoothly lifted her head from his hard thigh, lowering her to the floor.
"I'm going to do a quick sweep. Then I'll look for the supplies, okay?" She nodded somewhat as he stood.
He shifted his regard to his shadows. "You two stay here and inform me if anything besides her moves in here." Azriel's shadows bobbed, weaving in response as he made his way to the door, his fingers snagging on the jamb, knuckles white.
Gwyn managed a pithy, somewhat encouraging grin, or at least as much as she could muster through the discomfort. "I'll be okay." At least she hoped as the blood thickened and curdled, her fingers sticking together.
Finding solace in her assurance, Azriel exited the room swiftly, the echoes of his boots, the only thing keeping her conscious as she awaited his return.
Azriel only wished he could kill each one of the fuckers all over repeatedly as he stumbled over corpses along the now-empty passage. He didn't give one shit about any of these pricks. Not who they were. Not if they had a family. Or friends. No. They went after her, so their lives were fucking forfeit. Same as those Hybern soldiers years ago.
Scanning the halls and empty rooms, he found they were currently alone. Thank the Cauldron. They were going to have to move eventually, seek refuge, but foremost was getting Gwyn ready to flee if necessary.
'Your leg too, Shadowsinger.'
Later. First was Gwyn. Her injury was... he shook his head. If he'd been fucking paying more attention to their surroundings instead of her, Azriel would have seen the asshole rise to his knees with the blade. But her smile had too enraptured him.
By her strength. She'd saved his ass.
Here.
He found the room.
Examining tables and chairs were strewn among littered paper as if ravaged by a violent, sweeping gale. Had the place been in this condition for three years? Or had this merely happened today as the men smashed through?
Above, Azriel eyed a grouping of cabinets attached to the right wall. Doors flew and banged open one by one as he hastily checked each one until the last. Several tawny leather pouches lined the upper shelf. Pulling one out and unwinding the thick leather strap, Azriel found what he required and scrambled back to his priestess.
His feet tripped up at the entry when he spied her prone on the floor. Gods. Her freckles were like sharp constellations against her wan skin. Pale. She was so fucking pale.
"Priestess," Azriel said as he trudged over bodies to get to her.
"Shadow…," Gwyn licked her cracked lower lip. "Singer." And yet she blessed him with a smile. That smile he had to see more and more often.
Grunting from the strain as he knelt, Azriel set the satchel onto the undusted stone alongside Gwyn, who struggled to sit up.
"No," he tenderly encouraged her down until her head settled upon the chalky stone. Unacceptable. Quickly, he shed his leather armor to his ebony tunic, balling up the jacket as a makeshift pillow. "I've got you, Gwyn. Just…" His eyes found her once creamy hand now a rich maroon. "Stay still, please."
She nodded as much as her body allowed. "There should be... needles and thread... alcohol…"
He opened the bag, finding all the supplies aforementioned. He took out the glass bottle filled halfway with a viscous amber.
His lips twitched despite himself. "Whiskey? I didn't think the priestesses imbibed."
Her smile faltered. "There's a lot you don't know then, Shadowsinger. This is for wound cleaning and pain relief. We used to pack pain tonics as well. Usually, they only last for about a month, and it's been a while..."
The temple had a visitor for three years.
The searing in Azriel's nerves had become more bearable. But, after he removed the curved needles and spool of thread, he detected something so much worse.
His hands seized up, blasting pain down the knuckles in his right hand until the tips of his fingers were numb.
No.
No.
Not now.
Not when he needed to control his useless hands to take care of his female.
"Okay," Gwyn said, her voice unsteady as she raised her hand. "I need help out of the leather."
Azriel set the tools back in the pouch, observing her trembling fingers undo each clasp. A task he could not perform, anyway. He helped pry her arms from the tight sleeves, leaving Gwyn in a thin cream shift on top. She laid her head back down on his coat with a grimace.
"Whiskey, please," she requested, holding out her hand.
He passed the drink to her, not sure if his fingers would allow him to unscrew the cap. Fucking waste.
Gwyn opened the bottle, biting back a wail as she poured over the wide gash, setting the open liquor next to her.
'The blade only pierced muscle and skin, Shadowsinger. Nothing vital.'
Thank the Mother. "The shadows said it's just muscles and skin."
"Well, then this should do." Grunting, she squeezed until the wound was slimmer. "Okay, I'm presuming you know how to sew, Azriel?"
Oh, fuck no. He couldn't do this—literally. Even if his hands provided for him to hold the needle, how could he force a needle into her flesh?
"I—I can't, Gwyn."
"Azriel…"
"I can't," he shivered with a sigh. "I can't do this for you."
Worthless. A burden.
Gwyn reached for the decanter and swigged, cringing as she gulped the liquor. "Okay, fine. Can you at least thread the needle?"
No. He couldn't. Not when Azriel had absolutely no sensation at his fingertips.
He just shook his head. "I wish I could, Gwyn. Cauldron knows I wish I could do this for you."
Her features were unreadable as she merely put out her hand in a silent demand for the items. He did as she bade and sat back.
'Tell her.'
And he watched her thread the needle. Tie a knot at one end of coarse ebony twine. Squeeze the wound with one hand.
"I…"
'Tell her. Tell her everything.'
"My fingers go numb."
Azriel forced his eyes shut, avoiding seeing her reaction. He couldn't stomach it. Her disgust at the dreaded Shadowsinger. Spymaster of the Night Court. The Angel of Death's near laughable weakness. "Sometimes it's the contrary and they... hurt. It's… from…" He opened and closed his fist, willing for feeling to return to his dominant hand.
"From what?" The question broke from a strained voice with the initial jab of the cord into her skin.
"I know you've noticed my hands."
Her trembling arm froze with the stretched string, tugging the first stitch through at his words. Yes, Gwyn had regarded his hands. Yes, she'd seen the mottled flesh. And yes, she'd noticed the way he would peer at them in revulsion, notably when they were against... her skin.
"I was burned as a child and—"
Oh, Mother above, as a child? Gwyn had assumed the scars were due to an act of war, but... a small boy? Her mind was a flurry of questions. Was the scalding an accident? Or was it done with malicious…
She was going to be sick. For who could do forcibly burn a youngling? Or anyone, for that matter?
"And the injury aggrieves me still."
Gwyn saw then the way the shadowsinger sealed his eyes as if he couldn't bear to see her reaction and it was... absolutely heartbreaking.
Did he truly believe she would see him differently? By how his entire body stiffened, his breathing hastened. By how his tiny wisps of shadows eased over him as if consoling that maimed little winged boy still. The young priestess recognized what he was about to disclose was important. Special. And Gwyn needed to hear.
"I can't fully extend some of my fingers. The skin is…" Azriel flexed his fist.
"Taut," she gritted out as she continued digging at herself with the needle, drawing through for the second stitch.
His voice was reedy as he continued. "Sometimes pain jumps up and down my fingers, the top of my hands. Other times, I can scarcely feel anything at my fingertips. Tiny things like." He exhaled, scouring a hand down his stern face.
"Needles," Gwyn finished for him as she pulled through number five. Realization struck her like lightning. "The thread?"
The shadowsinger kept his brutalized hand in front of his face and didn't respond, but he didn't need to. Gwyn knew part of his reaction that day months ago was because Az returned from the Hewn City, which Cassian had confirmed. But Azriel's genuine outburst, when he had yelled at her, had been when she'd sought to get him to make... the friendship bracelets. Bracelets fashioned by weaving three thin segments of… string.
Oh, gods.
Gwyn's ire wanted to urge, wanted to ask precisely what transpired. How his parents had let his injuries heal like… but she held her tongue. His mask was completely off, slashed to shreds, and the Azriel in front of her was struggling with vulnerability. The best thing the priestess could do was tend to herself so she could take care of the shadowsinger.
She glided the sharp point through her sensitive skin over and over. And over. And over, battling back rising bile with every new tug through her flesh. At some point, she felt a large hand rest on her leg, trying his best to silently comfort her, to stop her from shaking. Until Gwyn was left panting, her trembling hands finally tying off another knot at the other end.
With one more deep swig of whiskey, Gwyn requested a linen wrapping from the bag. Then she sat up as carefully as possible and dressed the wound.
Fully intact again, albeit bruised and punished, she turned her concern to Azriel. "Now, let me see your leg."
"I'm fine and I can—"
Azriel made to haul away, but Gwyn stayed with him with a touch. "I didn't ask how you are. Let me see your leg." He stubbornly remained where he sat, rifling through the bag between them for the gauzes. "Azriel... please."
He scooted closer, blanching as he bent his maimed leg at the knee to permit her better access. Ripping away some of the fabric, Gwyn took in the sight of his wound. The insufferable male had yanked out his arrow, inadvertently creating more damage in his panic to reach her side.
"You were hit with faebane and ash?" Azriel nodded, refusing to meet her gaze. "I'll need to stitch this as well. Then I'll take care of the arrow in your wing as best I can."
He remained soundless, but turned his head to her and agreed with a scant nod.
Lifting the jug of whiskey, she splashed some to clean the wound before handing it to Azriel.
"Take a drink and a deep breath."
As she threaded the needle again, knotting off the edge, noting how much smaller his wound was. Lucky bastard.
But her thoughts reached back years and years. To the halls they were now in and to her surprise... she didn't hear the clang of swords. Or peals of cruel males.
Instead, she heard the prayer. Children's glee as they tore through the halls, though undoubtedly scolded. And she pictured two small daughters; one with the complexion of moonlight with flowing ebony locks. The other flecked with freckles and hair the color of the sunset. Both with eyes matching the hue of the sea, seated around a roaring hearth, working on embroidery pieces with their mother relaxing in a chair close by, her golden eyes pensive, trained on the crackling embers.
"So what would you like, Shadowsinger?" Gwyn asked as she brought through the first stitch. "Sorry."
"It's alright, Priestess." He exhaled deeply. "Honestly, you don't need to do this—"
His shadows routed by his head and evidently told him otherwise because he relented.
"So, what would you like? I was well-known for my embroidery skills around here. I could sew in 'Gwyn was here' or perhaps a fancy symbol to match your tattoos when they scar."
She turned back to her work but stopped when Azriel shook; she peered up briefly to find not misery but a devastatingly crooked grin.
"What?!" He asked, unable to hold back his puzzlement and then an ouch.
Gwyn shrugged, mighty proud of her skill at distraction. "I don't know. Maybe delicate, dainty flowers would work best for the broody Shadowsinger."
He chuckled then, and she had to scold him to keep him steady, for which he apologized.
"Stay still as I stab you several more times." Gwyn lifted her face with a scowl. "And I will not lie. This feels good after what you did before we left today."
After the priestess finished her decidedly boring yet secure short lines of black, she squatted back on her haunches. Throbbing aches streaked through her at the movement as the exhaustion of the day set in. Sealed up or not, Gwyn needed to rest and the temple was not secure…
"Priestess?"
Grunting, she made to stand. "Shadowsinger, I need to remove the arrow from your wing if you can walk me through the best way..."
Azriel seized her hand as she walked by, bringing it to his mouth, pressing his lips to the first knuckles. Then the next. Then the top.
"Thank you."
Gwyn couldn't look away from the male. Her male; her heart galloping as if she'd ran from Velaris to Sangravah on her own two legs. Because there was a tug inside in the way he said thank you. As if buried within his gratitude were more than two words—but three. Three distinctly life-altering words.
The priestess fell asleep, or passed out, leaning against him not long after she'd removed the arrow from his wing.
He didn't want to leave her, but he had something to attend to.
'He's still here,' his shadows relayed, sounding as if they were underwater.
'I can't leave her.'
'You come and get the male, Shadowsinger, and we will cover her. Protect her. Warn you of impending danger. The male needs to pay for what he did to our priestess.'
That snagged his attention and had his blood boiling. If the male they'd recovered and bound had anything to do with hurting Gwyn? His hands balled into tense fists.
Fighting through the aches and fatigue, the lessened heat in his veins, Azriel rose with the priestess securely in his arms. Moving slowly and gritting through the pain, Azriel navigated the hallowed halls as Gwyn's soft breath evenly puffed against the crook of his neck. Proof that she was still alive, Azriel reminded himself. The vision of her body jerking and her falling would haunt him forever.
'She's alive, Shadowsinger.'
Yes, she was, and she had saved herself. As well as rescued him from the verge of death.
His Valkyrie.
When Azriel walked into the room, he found a frayed cot that used to be sleeping quarters. Most importantly, the room still had a functional door. With the utmost care, he laid Gwyn upon the worn mattress. After ensuring her comfort and stroking her hair back once, he twisted back to the few swaths of pursuing shadow.
'Show me then come back to her.'
The black mists led him down the hallways, near to the entrance, where his shadows sidled into a room.
'He tried to escape, Shadowsinger.'
'I have him,' Azriel assured. 'Go to Gwyn. Guard and lock the door.'
Sneering at the trembling male on the ground, the Shadowsinger dispersed some of his shadows to protect what was most precious to him. And his eyes stretched in shock—Azriel recognized him. One of several mercenaries he'd witnessed with Beron in Vallahan months before.
An injured male sat up with an oozing hand on his ribs. The victim of Gwyn's near-lethal aim. "The Shadowsinger and Spymaster of renown." He smirked, his teeth stained crimson. "What happened to the red-headed bitch?"
The bitch?
The bitch?!
Azriel didn't deign a response as he wrenched the male by the collar, gripping him until only the toe of his boots barely grazed the floor.
The male simply sneered. "The thing is… she reminds me of a girl I used to know a few years ago. Even looks like her a bit. Possibly the eyes."
What? Was he playing some game with him?
Diversions and little games were not in the cards for him. The Spymaster demanded answers. Needed retribution.
Umbrae and wind drowned whatever the male was going to say out as they winnowed into the void.
Screams of sheer panic had Gwyn bolting upright in bed.
Bed?
Gwyn would have thought she had dreamed the entire altercation and journey if not for the tension of the stitches. But no. She had come back to Sangravah, a place she had vowed never to step foot in again.
Now, she rested on an uncomfortable cot in the old dormitories, a room not unlike her and Catrin's. Only blackness and the moon shining through the small window, along with the sounds of crickets. Night had fallen. How long was she asleep? How had Gwyn even gotten to the bed?
Foggy memories of powerful arms lifting, cradling her so sweetly as she swayed, appeared in her head. A soft touch on her face.
Only finding a sparse cluster of shadows lingering by the door as a misty barricade, her skin felt itchy as dread filled her.
Where was Azriel?
Another guttural scream pierced through the darkness, drawing her up and out of bed. The shadows scrambled around the door as if to block her path.
"I know you know where Azriel is."
They stopped stirring and almost... turned to one another.
"Take me to him."
More high-pitched cries broke over the sonances of twilight.
If her male made those? Hurt or not, someone was going to pay dearly for laying a finger on him.
She placed her hand on her good hip, helping to balance herself as she held her ground. The dark little beasts didn't budge.
"I'm leaving with our without you. I'm assuming Azriel told you to stay with me?" They sagged slightly. "Well then, come on."
They parted for her as if she'd put her arm through a waterfall, and followed.
She... she recognized this annex. It was... Gwyn and Catrin's old room was just behind the third door on the right.
Even with the faraway screams, her feet were advancing, driving towards her old room as if summoned.
For something bothered her ever since Gwyn had those dreams of her sister before... before everything happened later that night. When she'd walked into their room before, all hell broke loose.
Catrin's eyes were wide as she scrambled to cover something on the ground, rising and spinning around to meet Gwyn. Her sister's hands were full of bags—full of their possessions.
"Catrin? What are you doing?"
Throwing her dark hair, her twin turned back to work, tossing items hastily into a couple of large cloth sacks.
"We need to leave," her beloved twin said.
"Need to leave," Gwyn choked out an amused laugh. "What are you talking about? We have a service in—"
Catrin shoved a heavy sack into Gwyn's chest, causing her to grunt and stumble backward. "No, Gwyn, we go now."
Her sister's vibrant teal eyes, the same as her own, reflected at her lined with silver.
What was Catrin doing on the floor when Gwyn had walked in? It was a strange action, eclipsed by the terrors thereafter. But, while Gwyn was here…
The door opened with a creak.
Three years. It had been three years, and yet the room was as if they'd never left. All their possessions, besides Gwyn's invoking stone, which she took with her, remained where they'd been set. The soldiers never forced it to their room, Gwyn thought, tears lining her eyes.
She could sense her—Catrin. Her sister was in this sacred space, her azure guitar in the corner, with several snapped strings. But she could hear Catrin strum as Gwyn accompanied her with her instrument; her voice.
Gwyn's eyes latched onto the loose stone. She could picture Catrin kneeling that night as she was doing so now. The shadows peeked over her shoulders and she pried up the wiggly shale, uncovering what they'd left behind. Catrin's illicit collection of books. Several fragments of paper with notes coded to each other in their special twin language. But there was something else. Something draped in cloth. When Gwyn reached in, she unrolled it and almost burst into tears.
A bluestone lay in her hand.
"Catrin's invoking stone," Gwyn whispered on a choked sob as droplets of tears fell upon the round gemstone.
Another scream withdrew her from her sorrow. Az might need help. She needed to go.
Pocketing the last remnant of her sister into her leathers, she rose to her feet, fighting off the discomfort and fatigue as she raced through the temple. Until her steps faltered, her heart clenched at what was coming up on her right.
Pulse beating as hard and fast as Azriel's wings in flight, Gwyn stared from the entryway into the gloomy kitchen. At the wooden table, where it all happened, standing where the shadowsinger once stood.
Shouldn't she be feeling something from seeing this?
Breaking down?
Shouting out obscenities?
Cursing the world?
Smashing things?
Become a blubbering mess?
But... no.
There was nothing but sorrow and remorse for the girl who had been there... and pride at what that girl had become despite all of it. Not allowing the horror she experienced to define her. Growing into a full-fledged Carynthian warrior who ran toward danger. Who protected her friends against all odds.
So, with one last look, Gwyn strode away from the past, snagged an errant dropped sword as she pursued the shadows into the night, hurrying toward the terrorized howls.
There's a lot of reveals in this chapter and more to come the next. I will say these two chapters are a big turning point in their relationship where it comes to trust and openness. But a dangerous situation would do just that. Hope you enjoyed it!
I already have half the next chapter done so it should be tomorrow.