SUMMARY: The Merrill showdown leaving everyone left with more questions than answers. Azriel tends to Gwyn after the ordeal and comes to a realization.
TW: Mention of blood and battle but it's not super graphic. Best just to warn, I guess.
Hope you enjoy it!
She didn't have a plan as she sensed Merrill's invisible force wane. Only rise and strike. Now, with her foe's attention fixed squarely on Nesta, Gwyn had to knock Merrill over before she could attack.
Two objectives, then. Disarm and drag Merrill's ass to the ground.
As Merrill squared off with Nesta, Gwyn's soaked body crashed into the priestess. The two bodies rolled over one another, tumbling together until they slammed into a far granite wall. Scrambling for an advance, Gwyn rose on her knees, straddling her disorienting opponent. A growl unleashed from within along with a punch that had the very stone quake beneath their feet.
Gwyn's head snapped back as Merrill countered, cheek thrumming from the impact. The blow went unchallenged as the young Valkyrie was thrown off, grounding a few feet away, to find Nesta standing above Merrill. A sword held above Merrill's black heart as Nesta's bootheel ground into the elder priestess's wrist until she lost hold of her weapon.
"Here," Nesta said, handing Gwyn the dagger she had pitched before being assailed into the pool.
"Thanks, Nesta," she returned, wiping blood on her leathers.
"Holy fuck. Is that a Valkyrie sword?" Nesta glared at Merrill. She motioned to Gwyn, then to the discarded sword, the gilding shining in the candlelight. "Take the sword, Gwyn. You disarmed her."
"Don't you fucking dare! That was my mother's!"
Nesta snorted. "And appears to be Gwyn's now. A Carynthian Valkyrie, I might add. So." Nesta undulated her shoulders and neck. "Should we make this insipid cunt talk, or wait for the Spymaster?" She bared her teeth, imparting a proper weight of dread. The near infamous Lady Death was the monarch of such matters.
Merrill's eyes were no longer murky, but the magnetic azure Gwyn had come acquainted to scowling at her in sheer distaste.
Gwyn bent, aiming the blade to Merrill's throat. "The other people you were speaking of from the Great War. Who were they? Where did they go?"
Snarling, the elder priestess spat blood in Gwyn's face. Nesta forced the point of the sword into the wound previously created by Gwyn's knife. The intention close enough to the heart, but not close enough to kill. Merrill's chest rose and fell rapidly in panic, her eyes darting. "We don't know and don't remember. Nobody does."
Gwyn's brows furrowed in confusion.
"Preposterous bullshit! Someone has to remember,'" Nesta barked out.
The young redheaded Valkyrie reeled her head, forging onward. "Who is she you've been conspiring with?"
Merrill hissed like the viper she was. "All the same endgame, you know. All the same. The High Fae that betrayed will fall. Only a matter of time."
Merrill shrieked as Nesta twisted the sharpened steel into the open injury an inch or two, with a smirk on her gorgeous face. Cauldron, one would assume she was the dreaded spymaster of the Night Court.
"I've been waiting to do this since I saw you treating Gwyn like complete shit during my library assignment, Merrill."
"You worthless bitch!" Merrill's snarls and shrieks reverberated through the open space.
"Nesta, do you need…" Roslin hailed from the entrance.
One second.
All it took was one second to turn, detecting two of their Valkyrie sisters in their leathers. Armed, bracing to do battle, but too set in worry to move. One second for Merrill to knock Nesta's sword away and kick both Gwyn and Nesta backward.
Weapons clattered as they all rose to their feet to fight their opposition in a flurry of swinging arms and kicking feet. The three of them each won their share of solid blows, true evidence Merrill had instruction, and Mother above, she could deliver a punch with force. But Gwyn would always be better. Faster at hand-to-hand. And she applied her swiftness. Her gods' given nymph speed, to bring the bitch down.
While Nesta tackled Merrill to the ground, Gwyn seized the gilded Valkyrie sword, charging forward. A pure animalist snarl broke from her as she neared. Nesta was now standing, clasping the struggling priestess's arms behind her back.
Blood seeped from Merrill's bronzed skin as Gwyn pressed the blade to her throat.
"I will ask you again before I call upon the Spymaster. Who. Is. She? " Gwyn panted, showing her teeth.
A film clouded over those eyes again, the sky-blue paling to the shade matching Merrill's silvery locks. Those cruel lips contorted into something insidious, deadly. A knowing secret behind the hideous smile.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" The sardonic chuckle skittered across Gwyn's bones. Merrill fought against Nesta's hold, lurching forward enough to mumble in a sing-song voice, "You'll find out soon enough... but I'm not telling. At least I will go upon my mother's sword."
Merrill's skull slammed back into Nesta's face so hard, the eldest Archeron fell back onto the saturated stone floor—and then Merrill rushed straight into Gwyn's sword. Blood sprayed onto Gwyn's startled face and leathers as Merrill impaled herself with a perverse grin. One that remained on her face as Merrill struck the floor and dragged in her last gasping breath.
They spread their wings to soften the hard landing as they dropped onto the roof of the House of Wind.
"The burst of power came from the center of Velaris," Rhysand said as he strolled around the training ring. "But it doesn't seem like it was only from here. There's someplace else too." He considered for a minute, his violet eyes vacant, discerning.
"Something to do with the House's power?" Cassian offered.
"Perhaps, but that hasn't happened before. Think Nesta could track the power?" Rhysand asked Cassian, who shrugged.
"Not sure. She's tried none of that shit since the day Nyx was born."
The day Cassian's mate had made a tremendous sacrifice to save three lives, for which all were eternally in her debt. In typical Nesta fashion, she was making damn sure everyone paid up. Not that he blamed her.
"Could Nesta have been trying to use her powers again?" Azriel asked, tracing his foot over the mats. Odd. Usually, Gwyn and Nesta rolled them… "Where is Nesta?"
Cassian smiled, shuffling backward toward the door leading to the interior of the House. "She should be inside being lazy and asking the House for lunch." As soon as they crossed the threshold, Cass hollered out, "Nes! I'm home. Hopefully, you're decent because we've got company and I don't want to have to bust skulls." Nor did Azriel ever want to wander in on anything such as the infamous table blowjob. Ever again.
Cassian's heavy footfalls sounded further along the long hall toward their marital bed. "Nes!" A knock. "I'm coming in." More footsteps up and down the corridor. The opening and shutting of various wooden doors.
Azriel and Rhysand paced the great room as his shadows tore through.
'The Lady Death is not here,' they reported back.
"Nesta isn't here." Cassian scrubbed his palm over his stubble. "Did she go to lunch with the girls?"
"She's not with Feyre," Rhysand said, obviously checking mind-to-mind with his mate. "And no one brought her to Emerie."
"She mentioned nothing to you after practice?" Azriel asked, an eyebrow raised.
"No, she and Gwyn were all chatty at the end, and then Gwyn literally skipped off to the library."
Knowing Gwyn's happiness this morning was so extreme that she was skipping all over the damn place caused Az's heart to do the same.
' You made her feel that way, Shadowsinger. You make our lovely priestess happy.'
But… "Gwyn's not supposed to work today." In fact, she had mentioned in passing she wished to grab dinner and wander the avenues of the Rainbow later.
Rhysand picked invisible lint off his sleeve. "You mentioned she's packed; maybe she made a final decision to move in." The High Lord's eyes crinkled at the edges as he smirked. "And I wonder what could have prompted such a bold decision."
'Brother, don't you say a thing and stay the fuck out of my—'
The creak of the heavy door leading up from the library severed his thoughts.
"Hey Nes, where the hell were you…" Cassian strode forward, clutching his beloved mate by the shoulders and examining her, then glancing over her head, asking, "Why the fuck are your hands bloody and Gwyn soaking wet?"
Nesta shoved her mate aside as Gwyn trudged not far behind, their swords dragging on the ground. The two huffed, groaning as they drove headway across the room, neither uttering a single word. Both girls were bloodied and beaten as if they'd survived another Blood Rite.
Azriel's shadows at once left him to go to Gwyn's side. They whirled around as she batted at them as one might to annoying insects.
"Tell your master I'm fine, you busybodies."
"You knew I could hear you, right?" Azriel replied dryly. Gwyn didn't deign a response, merely continuing into the room as two brothers gawked and sent questioning stares while Rhysand merely waited.
"You care about this couch, Nesta?" Gwyn asked, pointing to the furniture with her weapon.
The eldest Archeron shook her head. "Not fucking today, Berdara."
"Well, that's good because I was going to do this, anyway." With that, Gwyn toppled on her side with a grunt, her braid hanging over the edge of the couch like a blood-soaked rope. "So. Good."
Nesta joined lounge her on the adjoining navy settee, moaning as she sprawled on her back.
"Ice," Nesta bid, placing her hand out for a clothe bag full of it to drop into her open palm. "Thank you," she said before applying to her nose.
Then silence. A thick, weighty, unsettling silence.
A silence only so long with Cassian in the same room. "So, is anyone going to ask or am I going to be the one to find out what the flying fuck just happened?"
Gwyn's hand shot up from the couch. "Rhys, you can look into my head. I'm too tired to talk."
That made Azriel worry. Gwyn was never too tired for conversation. The shadowsinger learned that fact well during their late-night sparring sessions.
Rhys stuffed his hands in his pocket and strode forward a few steps. "Are you sure, Gwyn?"
A thumbs up signaled above the couch.
Rhysand's violet eyes zoned out momentarily before refocusing. His lips curled. "Merrill."
The situation wasn't comical. Not in the slightest bit. But her emotions were stretched too thin, and she cracked. Peeping over to Nesta, who was lying face-first on the love seat, her exquisite cheek squished against the cushion, sword dangling from her fingertips. Gwyn couldn't help herself.
Their males were frenzied, shouting questions as Rhysand showed them what had arisen through Gwyn's eyes. Merrill's reappearance. The subsequent battle. And she recognized the part where she nearly drowned because Azriel's chin jutted out and his hands fisted so tense, his knuckles blanched.
But at least the girls wouldn't have to describe verbally. Not there was nothing to be repentant for. They held their ground and did what they had to. Merrill's death was something neither she nor Nesta would have predicted. Though Gwyn regretted the outcome nevertheless.
"If you all are going over what the Valkyries did wrong for a lesson," Nesta murmured against a headrest. "You can go kindly fuck yourselves."
A loud cackle burst from Gwyn. And suddenly she couldn't stop. No, it was the neurotic kind, where you laughed and shook for so long your chest ached as you gasped for breath. Usually accompanied by unstoppable hiccups. Which, of course, with Gwyn's luck today, would assuredly arrive. Lucky for her, Nesta was right behind her.
Their hysterics brought reticence and then cautious strides. Azriel's powerful leathered thighs came into Gwyn's vision before he sat on the low table before her.
"Gwyn," he said, his manner restraint. When his fingertips skimmed her delicate cheekbones, she flinched. His hand wandered to the back of her head, undoubtedly finding the raised knot she'd discovered herself before going into the pool. Then his rough, large palm came back to cradle her cheek. On a heavy sigh, his thumb thoughtfully traced over her split lower lip, those greenish-brown eyes never wavering.
"I've had worse," she said between guffaws, hoping to lighten the mood, but Azriel's mask held firm. He was in full spymaster mode. As his sight perused over her frame, falling on her hands.
"Nesta, may I see what you saw?" Gwyn heard the High Lord ask, cordial with a robust measure of care.
The way Azriel's pupils fixated before her eyes startled Gwyn as he received Nesta's viewpoint in his own mind. Thus began an inquiry of questions from the three males as Nesta and Gwyn took turns responding.
The shadowsinger's forehead creased and tilted in concern as he stared at her. "You almost drowned."
"She looked dead from where I was standing," Nesta growled at Cassian, who helped her up while kissing her cheek. "She didn't look like she was breathing and her eyes were open."
Gwyn lifted and sank a shoulder casually. "Nymph heritage for the win once again." Everyone gaped at her like she was a walking, talking fish out of water. "Apparently my pliant body was not the only thing gifted from my mother."
"What about the glowing?" Nesta asked.
Gwyn's nose wrinkled as she sought to think back to a point she could remember glowing. She shook her head. "I don't shine, though."
"Yes, you do," Azriel and Nesta answered at the same moment, exchanging a glance.
"When she sings, right?" Azriel asked Nesta, who nodded in reply.
"Exactly, Azriel. She does when she sings sometimes."
"But you've only seen me sing one time, Az," Gwyn snorted.
"And you shone like a star. I saw the glow when you sang at the service. So did my shadows." He paused as inky darkness gathered by his ears. "Actually, we saw you when you were humming our first night at the park watching the Aurora as well."
Her eyes expanded and fluttered in dismay. His shadows saw her… Glow?
"But I'm sure my mother didn't… "
With her pedigree, there was a full bushel of unknown heritage tucked away she'd yet to unravel. Her mother had been completely mum on the identity of Catrin and Gwyn's father. Frankly, Gwyn was now well convinced the temple had ordered her mother to act in the Great Rite. And consent wasn't really consenting under intoxicating magic while imbibing on wine.
This magic did not differ from any other immoral or illegal potion that might induce one to relax. Gods, Gwyn wouldn't be surprised if her mother didn't indeed remember who she slept with. The bitter thoughts stuck to Gwyn's skin like the wet leather that presently imprisoned her.
But… did her father glow? Her grandfather? Grandmother?
Her head and heart ached. She'd pack those up for later. Right now, all Gwyn desired was a nap and an opportunity to tidy up.
"Could you breathe underwater?" Cassian inquired, "Like, do you have gills now or some shit, nymphie?"
Gwyn wheezed as Azriel helped her to a seated position. "None that I know of were visible. But there have been… lore concerning nymphs breathing from… unlikely places…"
"Such as?" Cassian crossed his arms over his broad shoulders. Places she was certainly not going to mention in front of everyone.
"Crack open a book and find out, Cassian," Gwyn smirked as Nesta snickered.
"Are we done?" Azriel asked, his tone clipped. "I can write the report and have one for you by tomorrow, Rhys."
"What of the bitch's carcass?" Cassian asked, and Gwyn's cringe was not well hidden from the keen gaze of the Spymaster.
"The Priestesses are handling the arrangements," Rhysand said, possibly after conferring with Clotho.
Azriel stood, offering Gwyn his hand, which she accepted without question and quietly led her down the hall.
Azriel knew Gwyn was going to say something when they'd stopped in front of his door instead of hers. Especially after what had occurred between them on his settee last night.
Three. Two. "Shadowsinger, I'm sleepy and I—"
Cauldron, did Gwyn truly think he wanted to do that right now?
Sex was the absolute last thing on his mind, especially when he could feel the blood crusted on her palm. And after receiving what she'd been through her eyes… fuck.
"Come in," he gently urged her, and she agreed with a solemn groan.
Slowly, he edged her to his bathing chamber and then over to the marble washbasin. Standing behind her, Azriel reached onto the metal shelf beside the mirror and plucked the leather pouch, removing the items inside one by one.
The House set the sink faucet to warm without him even having to prompt. Warm; not scalding, as he would normally set after the gore of others covered his own hands. The House always had Gwyn's best interests at heart. Because of this, it surprised Azriel when House didn't lock his ass away in his room whenever Gwyn was present.
'Maybe we are not the only ones who see you two as charming.'
Not bloody likely.
Gwyn's loose strands swept against his cheek as she turned to peer up at him. Their eyes met instead in the mirror above the sink, those sea-foam eyes flat. Shock, he registered from far too much experience.
Once she comprehended what he was readying to do, Gwyn said, "Azriel, I can do this…"
"I know you can. But… just let me do this? Please?" He let out a shuddering exhale.
How many years had he done this for himself? Hidden in his shadows, shrouded in his indignation and the enduring agony of his heinous deeds in the bowels of the Hewn City. Never once had Azriel appealed for someone to take care of him afterward. Never crossed his fucking mind. Never found himself deserving of such comfort.
Never understood how much he needed that—until the young redheaded Valkyrie had taken such great care of him by the shore of her lake by Sangravah.
Her eyes sank to the black veined countertop, and the things he'd set out in a tidy row. Holding her hands in his, he wet the soap he found worked best for this task. Not the mildest, nor the greatest smelling to a female, he imagined, reminding him of soot and timbers. But the soap was the very finest to get the grisly job done.
Once the soap lathered, foaming gray, he worked over her palms before rounding to the palmar side. He was painstakingly careful with her pale skin, more so than himself. Ordinarily, his own attempts to eradicate the ichor from his hands resulted in raw, reddened skin. But with Gwyn, he scrubbed with gentleness. Reverent in each sweep of his fingernail scrape. Working the suds until they foamed darkened pink, running them under the tepid water to rinse away the evidence of what she had…
Azriel shook his head, snapping up the nail brush. An unnecessary step for some, perhaps, but he always did for himself. The image of that line of sanguine under his nails made his gut twist with regret. They were hushed as Azriel scrubbed at the delicate skin around the nails and her cuticles, but she leaned her back against his chest in thanks.
"You saw what happened?" Her voice a little more than a breath.
He set the brush down before kissing her right temple, syrupy with sweat and blood.
"I did."
Gwyn inhaled hard, shuddering. "I was going to keep her alive for you." She hoisted her gaze to the mirror, finding him again. This time, her eyes were watery. "I really was, and she… ran herself right into it."
"I know. I know, sweetheart. And godsdammit, I hate that you feel this way… But it wasn't your fault. Do not make room for an ounce of guilt in your good heart. She tried to kill you, Gwyn. You resisted like a godsdamn warrior and survived. That is all that matters."
"But there are so many things unanswered. Who is this person she's working with? What is this speech regarding these other forgotten people?" He could practically feel the panic swelling in his chest as she clasped her now immaculately clean hand to her blood-spattered throat.
"Let the spymaster figure that out. For now, you did your job. Both you and Nesta fought as soldiers. Come."
"You've done enough, Shadowsinger. I should go."
"Um, House?" Gods, he always felt fucking stupid to be talking to thin air. "Could you start the bath?" No response. Azriel pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's for Gwyn ." A small waterfall thundered behind them from the tub faucet, followed by a dropped wicker basket of distinct floral scented oils and glass bottles containing various salts.
The laugh that burst out of Gwyn was nothing shy of ethereal music. "One day, you will have to tell me what you did to gain such ire from a house."
Azriel grunted. "Perhaps." He spun her in his arms, planting a tender kiss on her forehead, lips lingering as his fingers trailed down the graphite scalloped leather plating on her arms. "I'll leave you to your bath. I'd recommend using clear salt. The one that smells of mint and orange. It'll ease your sore muscles."
"Alright. Thank you." A slight giggle from her softened the uneasiness from him. "At least I know if I fall asleep in the tub now, I won't drown," Gwyn quipped, and his shadows swirled around them in equal delight. Though he knew damn well, his shadows were going to forsake him and allocate their time indeed, making sure Gwyneth didn't slide under the bathwater.
"Let's not tempt fate and do that. And who's being ridiculous now, my little nymph." He tapped her nose.
"Still you, Shadowsinger."
With one last soft press of his lips to her cheek and a bow, he made his leave to his bedroom, sitting at his desk, close enough to intervene.
The sloshing of water followed the noises of shucking clothes and groans. He couldn't help it, making him a rare sort of bastard. Fuck. The image of his Gwyneth wholly naked in his bath…
A possessive groan resounded through his rib cage. Fuck. He really was a bastard.
"Azriel."
He bolted up so quick the chair toppled. Azriel entered the bathing chamber without knocking—and without checking in with his shadows. Surely they would have notified him if she were in crisis. But no, instead he barged in like a maniac. Standing at the threshold, watching her wrap loose, clean auburn strands around her fingers.
He swallowed hard at her damp, soft shoulders.
"Az?" She swiveled to see him over her shoulder, droplets of water adhering to those long, black lashes.
"I'm here."
"I can see that. Can I ask you something? You can say no but…"
He could never say no to her. Ever. "Go on."
"I don't want to be alone. Would you… would you join me… in here?"
His weak knees forced him to clutch the doorjamb with his hand. Fuck. Clearly, this was some sort of hallucination. When he saw that somber face, the teal orbs brimming with tears, he had as good a shot of stopping his answer as stopping a falling star. Impossible.
"Yes."
He drifted toward the bath, disposing of his leathers, leaving on his undershorts…
"You can remove those too if you wish," she said, small but bold.
His pulse sped up. "I want you to be comfortable."
Gwyn offered a modest grin, a delicate wash of pink blooming over her freckles. "I've seen you now. Well, most of you. Enough to bathe with one another, I would think. But, whatever you wish, I am merely stating don't keep those on for my account." She turned back around, her gaze trained elsewhere, the water swishing in waves as she scooted up to afford him room.
Fingers trembling, he shimmied off his undershorts. Standing in a room completely naked while Gwyn was bare in the tub—and his reaction was immediate. Fuck him.
"Gwyn, just to warn you, maybe I shouldn't..." He cleared his throat, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
"What?" As she glanced over her shoulder, he hastily covered his erection, heat rising to his cheeks. Her grin was puckish yet even. "Oh, that's fine."
That's fine? His shadows hummed and buzzed with gales of laughter.
Azriel shrugged, peering up at her from under heavy lids. "Sorry. I can't help my bodily reactions to your nakedness."
"Understandable. Frankly, I'd be more perturbed if you didn't at this point our relationship," she answered rationally. And yes, it made sense but, he couldn't help feel apologetic.
"As long as you don't mind," he said, his gulp audible.
Gwyn nodded, the water spraying up as she patted the spot behind. Azriel couldn't help it. He moved as if tugged, drawn in, as he plunged his body into the warm water. A delighted hiss escaped him as he submerged to his chest, his wings draping over the back edge onto the floor. The shadowsinger settled his hands on the sides, fingers caressing the white enamel edge.
Gradually, cautiously, Gwyn scooted back, silky legs grazing against his until her lower back was pressing his cock against his stomach. Her slick shoulder blades crowded against his bare chest. Her head relaxed back into the crook of his neck.
"You would think after what I've just been through, water would be the last thing I'd want to be in, but this is nice." A pregnant pause. "Azriel, could you hold me?"
Without another word, Az folded his arms around her and bore her close, resting his cheek against the top of her head. And he held her in the quiet and found peace in it. In her.
Euphoria danced over his ruined skin when she interlaced their fingers as her eyes drifted shut.
Shit. But what if Gwyn wakes up like that horrific morning? What if she wakes up not identifying who's behind…
'She knows who is holding her. That's why she took your hands. So she knows it's you, Shadowsinger.'
And Gwyn did indeed fall asleep soundly in his arms.
Lust receded like the tide into something more meaningful. More powerful. Two friends who wished to care for each other, walk through the darkness for the other. Two admirers who desired one another. Two hearts thumping in time.
'Two hearts that sing the same song.'
A bond to protect with every single fucking breath Azriel had in his lungs until there was none to offer.
Fuck it. Despite not finding himself worthy of Gwyn's affection, Azriel was that much of a bastard to keep this for however long they were together. Until she inevitably one day came to her senses. But until then…
As she slept, knowing she would not hear his declaration, Az stroked her damp hair and confided in the barest whisper, "I've fallen for you too, Gwyn."
Okay, so this was another chapter that, like Gwyn this chapter, I struggled to unpack all my warring thoughts. The next couple of chapters definitely lean more on the light, playful, fun side of things. It'll be a nice break and a nice way to shake things up.