Summary: Gwyn stumbles upon Azriel getting answers. Put on your boots. We are wading through heavy angst.
TW: For some violence and gore.
The shadowsinger had been lucky. There had been an ash tree in these woods, one in which he used the sticks as makeshift body skewers. Between the torture and the madness ensured by his shadows practically suffocating him until allowing him to breathe anew, the male sang with a godsdamn sparrow. And the Spymaster got the answers, Azriel more than he'd bargained for.
Yes, the foe was stupid enough to do the bidding of the Autumn Court. Though he was wise enough not to implicate the High Lord. No, he didn't know Merrill nor heard of her.
The prick was laughing as blood and saliva spewed through clenched teeth. "The red-head was a priestess here, right?" He stopped, tilting his head. "I thought she looked familiar. Did you know before I worked solo, I was a soldier?"
As Azriel vibrated with rage, he flipped a jagged piece of wood he had been sharpening in his hand. Without warning, the shadowsinger drove the branch through into the male's side. He screamed out, his body now spiked to the tree at five points.
"I never met her before... but I was well acquainted with her sister ."
Azriel became motionless, as did his shadows. He had never had the privilege to meet Catrin Berdara. He'd been too late that fateful day. But he knew enough from Gwyn that her twin was adventurous. Artistic and loving. Trustworthy—perhaps, as he was understanding, to a fault.
"I wasn't at Sangravah that night, you know. But... Catrin," the enemy licked his lips, dragging sanguine obscenely around his mouth and to his chin. "All I needed for Catrin to talk was a tender word and a passionate glance."
As the Spymaster's glare hardened, he scowled. "What are you talking about?"
The prisoner leaned forward as much as the spikes would allow, grunting. "How do you think I knew to tell Hybern to strike here? We were looking for these items as well—for the King."
The feet of the Cauldron, Az knew—but what the fuck else? The Spymaster considered and challenged, bearing Truth-Teller to the male's throat.
"Why should I answer?" His captive choked around the pressure on his windpipe. "You're just going to kill me, anyway."
"Because," Azriel crooned, passing the sharp edge just enough to draw blood. "I could make your death take much longer or this could all be over like—" The shadowsinger snapped his fingers, mentally picturing the prick's neck snapping at the sound, head flopping to one side. "Your choice. Or I could bring the shadows back and…"
They teemed at the ready, dark soldiers at his command; for Azriel to sing the grave song that would assuredly drive the man to slit his own throat as slowly as the shadowsinger allowed.
That got the idiotic man's attention. "They sent us to locate the Cauldron feet... the Dread Trove…. and the Seer Stone. Hybern was searching for anything to win the war!"
Seer Stone? The Spymaster had never heard of before. But since they had the other items, didn't take a genius to figure out what they'd most likely been in pursuit of this day. Azriel picked up another semi-sharp stick carrying the makeshift weapon.
"Of course you know we got the feet. But, Catrin, that delightful, crafty minx. She must have told someone or known something was awry after our last fling at the tavern. A real pity they killed her."
Did Catrin know? Had she warned the priestesses, and they weren't quick enough to hide the Cauldron foot?
The soon-to-be-dead mercenary clicked his tongue. "Despite Catrin Berdara's grotesque webbed hands, she was genuine pleasure in bed and gave a superb hand job. Though I wager the other Berdara is even bet—"
Azriel could listen no more, and slammed the unsharpened end of the stick through the male's throat, impaling the bark, leaving the man to die slowly, gurgling for breath.
Did Gwyn notice her sister meeting up with the soldier?
Was Beron trying to take hold of the Seer Stone? If so, why?
All the circling shadows suddenly vanished behind him, and his spine went straight. As if an invisible string unwound a top, he twisted to confront the inescapable. The inevitable. Because this was always going to end this way once she understood the true him.
Azriel pivoted, feeling the blood drip from his hand, discoloring the grass crimson. And what he saw in teal eyes was all he needed to see.
The back-lit moonlight appeared as if Gwyn glowed, like when she sang. Utterly breathtaking. Pure as freshly fallen snow on the Steepes. But with eyes as vast as the full moon behind her, body shuddering so much, her sword clanged to the ground.
Gwyn raised her hand to cover her mouth. "Oh, gods…"
The sparse shadows had drawn her through the night straight to him, to a scene she couldn't be sure was real. But as the other the shadows assimilated to her side, parting to expose what was happening, being said, she realized this wasn't a dream. Or a nightmare.
Azriel bound one of their assaulters to a tree. No, not bound. Bolted. Fastened. With what appeared to be... ash branches. One still gripped in Azriel's fist. He casually flipped the stick as if it was not for interrogation. But was merely a piece in a ...game.
He suddenly lunged forward and plunged into the man's side with a grin on his face. A smile not his usual, though this one was equally devastating for a wholly different reason. His full lips contorted in violence and retribution. Sadistic.
'The Spymaster,' she picked up on the faint breeze.
The Spymaster was right—this was a facet of Azriel she'd never beheld. The one he concealed from everyone. This is the one that flourished in the Court of Nightmares.
Silently, her hand barely holding onto the sword in her hand, she listened and watched. As the Spymaster interrogated. Mocked. As he menaced. Azriel held Truth-Teller to the man's throat, forcing in just enough to draw a single line of crimson against ruddy flesh.
For a split second, the young priestess was almost sorry for the male. A mouse in front of a cat toying with his supper. Because that was exactly what this felt like; the outcome was inevitable.
But then the male mentioned Catrin.
He was the soldier who'd known Catrin…
Oh, holy Mother above…
And what he'd said about Catrin? Herself?
He deserved to die, Gwyn told herself. But not like that. Not choking on his blood as the Spymaster watched and did nothing.
And now Gwyn was face-to-face with him. Not Azriel. She'd seen his many masks over these months, the detached ones to deflect, but this face?
She blinked back hot tears.
He raised his arms and sketched a bow, challenging. "So, now you've seen everything, Priestess."
'He's doing this on purpose, priestess.'
On purpose?
Yet another masquerade?
Gwyn straightened, forcing herself to stop trembling at his glacial stare. "So I have."
"You've seen what I've done. What I can do. And." The Spymaster took a stride toward her. "You're scared."
"I am scared. I rushed out here expecting you were in danger. Dare I say regardless of…" A thick burbling came from the fading man behind a smirking Azriel. "The circumstances, I'm glad to find you unharmed." Gwyn didn't choose to say well, because well the shadowsinger certainly was not.
"Now you see who I am, Gwyneth." The priestess recoiled at the way he said her name; the same as when they were together.
"This isn't the real you."
Another step closer to her. Then she to him.
Azriel raised a mocking brow. "It's not?"
"No. There is no one way to be. We are all capable of doing horrible things for the people we want to protect."
He barked a derisive laugh, driving a blood-soaked hand through his dark hair. "Oh, come on. You think you are capable of something like that?"
Oh, that was it. Gwyn saw now. How they stood on the side of Sevenda's that night and he'd been waiting for her to walk off. Expecting this.
'The shadowsinger thinks he is unworthy of you. He is horrified you've caught him like this, priestess.'
Moving as swift as her legs carried her, Gwyn marched until they were mere inches apart.
"If you don't think for one fucking second that I haven't dreamed of cutting off that Hybern commander's male organ and feeding it to him, then you are out of your mind!"
Azriel blinked for a minute through the mask and blinked some more. She'd shocked him back.
'Keep going.'
"I heard what he said," Gwyn jerked her chin toward the infamous tree, "In regards to Catrin. About me. If he was connected to her death in any form, he's a dead man."
"I only wish I could have done that and taken my time with every single fucking one that touched you that night," Azriel growled, his tone sounding utterly primal. "Slice each one slowly until they begged me to end them."
"And I don't blame you." Gwyn lifted her palm to cup his cheek, which he stopped, snatching her wrist in his grip. "But I also recall you killing them fast to save me… So you could clothe me in your cloak at my most vulnerable."
Azriel released her hand, backing off. Shaking his head, he made to step around her.
"We are a sum of our parts, Azriel. A sum of our experiences. Not just our worst."
He started shuffling away, and something in her heart was tugging her to pursue.
"Azriel, I've seen you capable of terrible suffering. But also of great mercy. You are not only…"
The shadowsinger spun on her so fast, Gwyn tripped back, his teeth bared, hands tugging at his hair as thunder rolled in the distance.
"That is who I am! Who, I am deep down! I enjoy doing that, Gwyn!" Azriel pointed to the tree for emphasis before stalking toward her. "I enjoy getting the answers."
"For your court, your friends you—"
"This is why the Cauldron forsakes me of everything because I am damned! "
Her heart broke for him as Gwyn watched him, eyes glistening, feuding between fury and sorrow. Did he truly despise himself this much?
"Az, that's not…"
"They turned me into this!"
They? When her eyes slid to his bloodied, quaking fists, the recognition hit. Mother above, his scars were purposeful, weren't they? They'd abused him as a young boy…
Tortured...
Gwyn pulled herself from the spiral of remorse for the man in front of her.
'Fight for him,' the wind whispered. 'Your hearts sing the same song.'
"Regardless, that is not merely who you are, Azriel! Your trauma does not define you. You taught me that."
"And what if I am, huh?! What if I want to go live in the Hewn City? Would you willingly journey into Hell with me? Lay next to me in bed, let me hold you, knowing what I am truly capable of?!"
"If any of this was more than sheer self-loathing bullshit, you'd already be living in the Court of Nightmares! Instead, it takes days for you to wash off what you do there! I know you suffer. You feel everything, see everything, perhaps too much."
Gwyn's throat nearly closed at the emotions she was holding back, holding herself together.
"I am a monster. They call me the Angel of Death for a reason, Berdara. And," the shadowsinger paused, his chuckle deep and mirthless. Pained. "At least now you've seen me."
"You can tell yourself that if you wish, but you are not a monster. If that were true, I wouldn't have fallen for you in the first place!" And that was the truth. Because Gwyn had fallen in love with him and still falling slowly. But... she had.
The way Azriel lurched reminded her of when she was stabbed earlier as he pitched back, breath sawing out of him. His smoky hazel eyes were large and disbelieving as he rocked his head. Then he reeled on his heels and ran.
"Azriel!"
Her voice.
But he continued, seeking to elude her, even stumbling with his injuries. Azriel couldn't let her see him like this.
"If that were true, I wouldn't have fallen for you in the first place!"
His chest tangled into a knot too tight to unravel. Too difficult to breathe around.
Blood on his hands... blood on his conscience. He'd enjoyed every second torturing that male, leaving him to die and rot like filth.
"Azriel!"
The ominous shadows within seethed in his head, reminding him anew. A waste of breath. A burden. Worthless.
"If that were true, I wouldn't have fallen for you in the first place!"
No.
No, that's not fucking true. The young priestess was mistaken. She was naïve; he told himself.
Gwyn had to be completely out of her fucking mind to say those words after what she'd witnessed; his worst nightmare come to life. He was entirely undeserving of those words. Unworthy to even lay have lain tainted hands upon her perfection.
He ruined everything. And he'd become too disillusioned over centuries to believe in miracles. Azriel was cursed. By the Mother. By the Cauldron. By the gods themselves.
'Shadowsinger, your heart sings the same song.'
Fuck the same song. And right now? It punctured his heart worse than any knife. Twisting and twisting. Until there was no holding back a strained, choking gasp.
This wasn't fucking fair.
"Az! Stop! Please! "
He did not stop. Azriel kept limping and rushing into the night until darkness overwhelmed him.
There was no choice. She had to follow him as if her boots were tugged over the dropped leaves and pine needles upon the dry soil.
"Az! Stop! Please! "
He did no such thing. No, Azriel acted as if he was ignoring her, or simply didn't hear her pleas as he faltered between the looming trees. Where was Azriel heading? Were the shadows leading him somewhere?
In a last-ditch effort before she fell, Gwyn cried out, "Stop him, please!"
His shadows shot and swarmed ahead, granting her a chance to catch up.
With much effort, Gwyn ran, gnashing her teeth at the toll on her body, fighting against collapse. Until she could reach him. She had to reach him. With an outstretched hand, Gwyn snagged the sleeve of Azriel's black tunic and whirled him around.
And what she saw made her heart stop. She'd seen this before—him so devoid of everything. The night at Sevenda's. The day after, he'd come back from the Court of Nightmares. But this was even worse. He…
"Azriel," Gwyn murmured, her voice weak.
His eyes. Those hazel eyes stared at her yet were unseeing, as if he saw straight through.
"Azriel." She went to stroke his cheek, and he pulled away, his face distorted in a snarl.
Gwyn stayed and didn't flinch. She realized what he was doing, what he wanted her to see. The monster he thought he was. But she would prove him otherwise.
She gently gripped his tunic once more and led him further into the woods. To the same secret spot, her mother had snuck herself and Catrin for swims years ago.
When they'd finally reached the water's edge, Gwyn went to her knees and tugged him with her, the sodden sand soaking their leathers. And she brought his hands to the water and washed them, scrubbing off the blood. Into each indent and crease of skin. From under his fingernails.
Gwyn quietly dipped his fingers into the shallows of the sacred pool, turning pink, and rinsed off the grisly signs of whatever he'd done as Azriel remained borderline catatonic. The entire time, she watched Azriel trying to suppress his objection to what she was doing, shivering. Pouring a few droplets over his siphons, she wiped them off the gore and proceeded on, as he could not face her gaze.
"I feel like I shouldn't have to repeat this, but do you remember that night outside of Sevenda's? Our promise," the priestess whispered. "When you shatter? I'm here for you. I've got you, Azriel." Gwyn brought his hand to her lips, kissing the knuckles as he had in the temple. Azriel cringed and seeing his reaction tore her up inside.
The water dripped from both their fingertips, falling to the water in heavy plops that sounded as loud as drumbeats after that revelation.
"This lake," Gwyn began as she continued to clean his hands. Then his face. "My mother used to take Catrin and me to swim." She paused, a smile tipping up at the edges of her lips. Her thumb wiped away the drops under Azriel's eye and his cheek.
"We weren't allowed, you see. Ill behavior not befitting a priestess but, my mother wouldn't be contained. She had a spark in her, a wildness. I... I think Catrin took after her more than me. Though," Gwyn snorted. "My mother called Catrin her Dewdrop, and I was her Wildfire. I always thought the names should have been flipped, but it must have been the hair."
A flood gate of wonderful memories opened as she tidied him by the lakeside, regaling him with her past. Stories on her mother. Then how Catrin took care of both of them after their mother's death when they were ten years old. How the tradition of the friendship bracelets got started. Anything and everything to evoke a response from the despondent, empty male seated in the silty bank in front of her.
Gwyn stroked his palms, groaning as she stood, bringing him to his feet. The night lit up with bursts of lightning and the roar of thunder. The storm was moving in. "It's too far to make get to the temple before..." The skies opened up. Gywn snatched his wrist and lugged him with her as the torrent cascaded down upon them. "Come! I know a dry place we can rest!"
So the priestess guided the shadowsinger to a spot no one else besides Catrin and herself was aware of. But for Azriel, only for him, would she expose their small hidden world.
Azriel didn't know what to say as she'd scrubbed his sullied hands. No one—no one had ever physically washed the blood off his hands. He'd always had to purge himself, deal with the aftermath of the kill. But this female?
Paying no mind to the fat raindrops soaking him, his shadows moved between, misty darkness swirling like black ribbons between and over their joined hands as they trudged along until Cauldron knew where Gwyn was leading him. But he would follow her anywhere.
Through the woods, until there was a cliffside with a waterfall. She helped him tiptoe on the lichen-covered rocks with his gimp leg and shoved back a barrier of hanging vine. To his amazement, there was an opening leading to a cavern?
With the biggest smile on her face, Gwyn advanced to drag him along until it dead-ended. In the blackness, he heard her stumble and curse until there was a muffled click and a, "Oh, thank the Cauldron this still works," as dusky faelight lit the area from a little lantern.
Gwyn turned toward a small fire pit, working two sticks together until white smoke appeared and the wood kindled the smoke, rising into a slight opening high above in the cave.
She turned to him, concern etched in her brows. Though Azriel couldn't help as his eyes ventured lower, trying to ignore the way the wet white linen stuck to her pale skin.
She bade him move nearer to the fire to dry their clothes as they sat back against the damp rock facade.
There was so much to see in the small space. Funny little caricatures on the walls. Piles and piles of old, tattered books. And there was no way not to imagine Gwyn practicing singing in the soaring space. With the acoustics, her voice would be a transcendental experience.
Gwyn scooted closer, careful of his aching thigh until their shoulders brushed.
Pain flared in his hand again and Az flexed open and closed until—until Gwyn reached over and took his hand in her own.
He made to pull away, and yet she held on and peered into his eyes.
"Please," was all Gwyn said.
She kneaded his hand, massaging each finger. Each knuckle. Different points in his palm. Opening and closing his hand, as if she knew exactly what to do for him. And in some strange way, this seemed more intimate than anything they'd ever done before.
His eyes edged with silver and her immense kindness. At her stubbornness, for not letting him sink into himself.
For not turning away when he was at his worst.
For not giving up on him.
Something wrapped tight, coiling around his heart suddenly, and he understood what it was—it was her.
Concentrating on the task, Gwyn hummed an ancient melody, and the song beguiled him. Compelled. He said in a deep, yet too small of a voice for the Shadowsinger, "When I was eight, my step-brothers poured oil on my hands and lit them on fire when they wanted to find out how fast I would heal."
She hesitated at his revelation before slowly applying pressure to his thumb in limited, even circles. He closed his eyes at the feeling.
Azriel wondered how far he wanted to wander into the mire that was his shitty childhood, but—Gwyn had divulged damn near everything about herself, hadn't she?
He held back a moan as Gwyn worked harder into the center of his palm. And he told her everything he could handle, the words slipping out in seamless secrets. On being thrown into the isolation of the family keep, only being allowed sunlight and fresh air an hour a day. Only permitted his true mother an hour a week, though he wasn't ready to go into detail regarding her yet. Didn't even want to think about her. Wasn't strong enough for that tonight.
All the while, Gwyn worked, singing in hushed, lulled tones to accompany the pattering rain. He knew what she must be feeling. After all, Gwyn felt with her whole heart. Her inherent goodness. But she also knew, like herself, Az didn't want pity.
He swallowed thickly. Gwyn propped her head on his shoulder." I didn't know how to fly and...at my age, that was an awful thing at the camp. Rhys and Cass taught me how to fly, eventually. But between that and the shadowsinging." Azriel was always an outcast.
Gwyn rubbed along his wrist and then switched hands. Azriel did not pull away this time, oddly enjoying her pampering.
"Did you live with Rhysand and Cassian at the camp? Is that why they are your brothers?"
He nodded before leaning his head atop hers. "Yes. Rhys's mother took me and Cassian in. She—she knew my mother." And was the parent he wished for. "And Rhys's sister was…"
Ah, and you broke that too, the malevolent voice creeping inside said. You ruined her, and if you speak those words again, you will wreck the priestess.
"Sister was…?" Gwyn asked.
'Shadowsinger, go on.'
He pictured Isra in his mind then, flowing onyx waves and enormous eyes like two brilliant, flawless amethyst. They'd been so damn young, mere teens. He'd been foolish and careless with his heart. Issie was too concerned about what would befall his relationship with Rhysand if they were discovered, falling apart before it even really began.
She was the first and only girl he had ever uttered those words to. Right before...
"She died. They died."
And that's all Azriel would say on the matter as he pushed Issie back into the murky, bitter depths of his soul where she still lived.
His eyes were bobbing under the peacefulness of Gwyn's touch, anchoring him back to the present. To the girl still with him. Who, despite everything, wanted him.
Because she didn't take any of his shit or let him wallow in his own.
Because Gwyn should have left him where she found him in the woods.
Because the priestess should have returned to the temple and waited on her own.
'But she didn't, Shadowsinger. The Priestess is here with you now.'
He didn't know if he could ever say those three words again. If his heart could accept such risk. But there was one thing he would tell the priestess. A secret the shadowsinger shared with only one other person.
"Azriel," he whispered hoarsely, his body and mind spent as he rubbed his cheek against her soft hair. "In ancient Illyrian, Gerona means Azriel."
Hey, at least it's not a cliffhanger. :shrug: I promise more fluff and romance next chapter.