A.N.: You're not ready…
A House of Flame and Flower
15
Shadow-Singer
Leathery membranes gleaming in the faelight, Azriel's wings fluttered and snapped in place tight along his back. And though he held himself with the quiet dignity Nesta had come to associate with him, she could not help but notice that the shadows that always wrapped themselves so ominously around him were nowhere to be seen, as if the light of the kitchen, or perhaps their proximity to her, had caused them to flee. Tension roiled off him despite the appearance of calm in his posture and Nesta noticed Azriel's hands. Not because of the scarring – she was accustomed to those, after sharing so many bland meals sat opposite him – but because of the silver gleam against his scarred olive skin. That was new.
Frowning gently, Azriel swept his beautiful hazel eyes over her. "You sensed my presence."
"For days now," Nesta said coolly. "You were being rather obvious about it, almost as if you wished to be caught."
Azriel frowned. "It is rare to meet someone whose gaze can penetrate the darkness…"
Nesta scoffed irritably. "I don't know why you bothered to stalk me; you know Tamlin is not here. Stop wasting time and get on with it."
"Get on with what?" Azriel blinked.
"This is either an assassination or a kidnapping with the intent to murder me away from Tamlin's lands," Nesta said impatiently. Azriel balked. He had the grace to blush – a whisper of warmth lovingly caressed his high cheekbones, as if it rarely got the opportunity and relished it. Something flickered in Azriel's eyes and for a moment she thought it was anger. Then she realised it was hurt.
Azriel murmured, "I did not come here to execute you."
"Rhysand doesn't send his best assassin to do a diplomat's work," Nesta said. "So that leaves kidnapping me away from the lands where I have been given sanctuary." Azriel, always still, seemed to freeze.
"You begged Tamlin for sanctuary?"
"Tamlin would never force anyone to beg for help when they are clearly in need of it," Nesta hissed softly, bristling at the thought of Feyre delirious from pain and fever, forced to accept her own enslavement as payment for the ritual humiliation Rhysand had offered as aid. "Besides, I had no knowledge of sanctuary. Apparently those closest to me kept me ignorant of the fact that I could seek protection from other High Lords if I found myself in imminent danger."
Azriel winced.
Nesta watched him carefully. Azriel had always treated her courteously. Whether it was authentic was another thing but she appreciated that he had always treated her with respect and far more dignity than any of the others. The fact that they had rarely interacted was not lost on her; she remained more neutral toward him than any of the others purely out of the absence of condemning memories.
"I did not come here with any intent to inflict harm, Nesta," Azriel said softly, his tone almost regretful.
"You'll forgive me for not taking your word for it," Nesta said. "Not when I know who holds your leash."
She found it odd that Azriel did not insist that no-one held him on any leash. She found it curious that he did not instinctively defend Rhysand. Cassian would have. He also would have remarked that she could do with being put on a leash – one he'd happily put on her.
Her voice softer, Nesta said, "I am too tired to play word-games. Why are you here?"
"Rhysand ordered me to hunt you down," Azriel said, and Nesta scoffed angrily. She knew it! Azriel continued, "I refused. If he wishes to have you dragged back to the Night Court, he can do it himself… I did promise Feyre that I would ensure your safety."
"My safety was of no concern to anyone until I fled the Night Court," Nesta said. "More likely than not they are worried I'll betray their secrets."
"It is your prerogative to do so," Azriel said quietly. "You are not beholden to the laws of the Night Court or loyalty to those who disappointed you."
"Disappointed me? That is a very mild way of putting it," Nesta said coldly.
"We failed you," Azriel said quietly. "All those months, you were asking for help. We ignored you."
"No. I have a firm grasp on how to handle my basic needs being ignored," Nesta said sharply. She had put herself last for far too many years; her sisters never noticed that she was suffering. Perhaps because it was all they knew. "You blamed me."
"And I am ashamed," Azriel said, his voice rich and regretful.
"That does nothing for me."
"I know," Azriel said quietly. "But I am ashamed nonetheless. Now you are free to live as you choose."
"Yes, I am," Nesta said firmly, "though you are the only person in the Night Court who believes that."
"What has occurred between you and Rhysand has…illuminated the worst of us," Azriel said. Nesta scoffed, rolling her eyes.
"It was always laid bare for all to see," she countered. "I am just the only person who refused to blind myself to it." Azriel nodded thoughtfully as if he agreed.
"And I would be wilfully blind not to acknowledge that you… You look healthy, Nesta," Azriel said gently. His hazel eyes drifted from her shining, coiled hair to the tips of her scuffed boots poking out under the hem of her kirtle. "You seem…content."
"Because I am," Nesta said plainly. She gazed at Azriel. "Astounding the effect an environment can have on you when it is not toxic." He seemed to stifle a shiver and gazed back at her as if he was seeing into her soul, as if he was seeing her for the first time.
He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I promised Feyre I would find you to ensure you are safe. She will be glad to hear you are happy."
"She won't. She won't believe it – purely because of the implication that I am happy in Tamlin's proximity," Nesta said. "I do not wish for you to tell her where I am."
"But she needs to know – "
"No. She wants to know," Nesta said, frowning scornfully. "You all treat her as her old nannies did; coddling and indulging to prevent tantrums. She has no right to my life… She forfeited that privilege. I am not asking you to withhold information from her to punish her. I do not wish to cause her pain. I simply have no desire to create problems where there are none. And they will not rest when they learn I am here with Tamlin; they will think I chose him as a blatant insult directed at them. Truth be told, I do not think of them at all. My power brought me here. And I will not have Tamlin suffer for his kindness to me."
"Eventually they will learn that you are here," Azriel said.
"It isn't about them," Nesta said lightly. She shrugged her shoulders. "I am here and I am healing, a little every day."
"They will be glad to know that."
"You and I both know that's not true."
Azriel cleared his throat delicately. "I meant…Feyre and Elain will be relieved to know."
"I doubt my sisters have given me much thought since I left," Nesta said shrewdly, and Azriel winced shamefacedly, confirming her suspicions. She smiled bitterly. "Do not worry, Azriel, I am neither shocked nor hurt: I know my sisters better than they know themselves. They have other people to take care of them now, people who provide all they believe they have always deserved, every whim and desire indulged."
"Feyre knows how much you did for them," Azriel said. Her eyes stinging, Nesta scoffed and smiled.
"There's no need to lie to soothe stung feelings," she said softly and he gave her a desperate, frustrated look that almost convinced her he was being earnest. "I know how little they thought of me though I did everything for them. Perhaps that's why they have so little respect for me. I never taught them to appreciate what we had or the work I did to ensure we kept it. My sisters being ungrateful is my own fault… The worst of their natures highlights how I failed them." She blinked and shook her head. "Who needs that guilt?"
Despite himself, humour seemed to flicker in Azriel's hazel eyes.
"You did not fail them, Nesta," he said quietly, "but they have disgraced you."
She paused, uncertain how to respond. Frowning, she glanced at Azriel and he sighed as if he realised she was second-guessing his words. Was this how he intended to get her back in Rhysand's clutches? By manipulating the fractured bond with her sisters?
Azriel sighed and stepped back. "I do believe they have dishonoured you, Nesta. I just hope that they realise it before they can regret it too bitterly. I… I know that your relationship had taken a step toward something…something healthy and respectful, before Feyre ventured Under the Mountain." Nesta scowled and Azriel sighed. "Feyre told me. She told me… I believe your departure forced her to evaluate a lot of things differently." Nesta scoffed.
"Rather too late for that," she said waspishly, ignoring the sting in her heart.
Azriel gazed at her sorrowfully. "Because of our interference, you have not only lost out on the opportunity to develop your relationship with Feyre but you have also lost Elain."
"Elain will always choose Elain," Nesta said stubbornly. "I shall not apologise for choosing myself over her for once."
"You would have done anything for her."
"And she would have let me," Nesta said. She gazed back at Azriel and told him fervently, "I have nothing more to give them. Only this life, which I am as reluctant to relinquish as the other they cost me."
Azriel visibly flinched. She watched him carefully. "Thank you for acknowledging the damage you caused when you interfered with our relationships. You, who interfered least, who treated all of us with such kindness."
"I know what it is to live in relentless terror," Azriel said, and Nesta swallowed at the look in his eyes; it was haunted. Horrifying. "I regret that the bond you had begun to build with Feyre before she went Under the Mountain was shattered by our presence when she reappeared in your lives."
Nesta stared at him. Shamefacedly, he acknowledged, "I could scent your terror and distrust the moment Feyre summoned us into the house. Your confusion and dread were tangible. And Feyre used us to intimidate you into getting what she wanted."
"She wielded you as she would a sword," Nesta said, her voice heartbroken even to her own ears. She despised how easily Feyre used and discarded people and never thought of them again. She never dwelled on the cost. Hoarsely, Nesta said, "She was growing up. She was starting to see… I know she considered me harsh as she grew up. I am harsh. I'm also demanding, stubborn, self-sufficient and always right. Because I've had to be; we could never afford me to be anything else. I would rather face that ugly truth than run from it… And the truth is, the woman Feyre could have been if we had been allowed to nurture that bond is lost forever. The bond we might have had as sisters, as a family, is broken."
"By its very nature, the suggestion that something is broken also implies that it can be mended," Azriel said, a soft smile lingering on his lips.
"Not when it suits others to ensure it never heals," Nesta said darkly. Azriel sighed heavily.
"It was not right, demanding what we did of you," Azriel said grimly. "I can only apologise for my part in it."
"You have nothing to apologise for," Nesta said softly, her shoulders drooping somewhat. Of all of that wretched circle of toxically co-dependent fiends, she despised and distrusted Azriel the least. "You have always treated me with compassion."
Azriel sighed and Nesta glanced at him as silence settled between them. The marmalade bubbled away and the delicious aroma of roasted garlic, rosemary and pumpkin oozed thickly throughout the kitchen, wrapping itself around her like a comforting blanket. She noticed Azriel's eyes flicking around the kitchen, resting on the hob cluttered with saucepans, the pots and pans washing themselves, the paintings on the table and the vase of flowers she had been accumulating from Antares.
Pointing a finger delicately at Azriel's hands, she asked curiously, "Is that what happens when a magical oath is fulfilled?"
Azriel started, his eyes widening. "What?"
"Your hands," she said, realising just how much he hated having attention drawn to them as he clenched his fists and seemed to resist the impulse to shove them in his pockets. "Those silver marks are new."
Azriel froze. His jaw dropped as he stared at her. Stunned, he breathed, "You can see them?"
"Of course I can, they're bright as moonlight," Nesta frowned.
Almost to himself, Azriel whispered, "I thought I was losing my mind. They're real…" He stared down at his hands. Tendrils of silver writhed from under his cuffs, coiling themselves around his wrists and gleaming against the tanned, scarred skin of the backs of his hands.
"Azriel?" Nesta prompted delicately. He seemed to be wholly absorbed by the markings on his hands. After a long moment, Azriel raised his eyes to her face. He looked exhausted and bewildered.
"Nesta, I wish you to take my hands," he said with subtle urgency. "Use your power to investigate the marks." As he stepped toward her, his hands outstretched, palms up, Nesta stepped back, around the end of the table.
"I do not know my power," she hedged, eyeing his hands and the bulk of his broad shoulders. He was slender and graceful, an agile predator. And but for those wings and the blue siphons glimmering on his armour, he was by far the least physically threatening of his brothers. In the absence of his shadows he seemed…young, Nesta thought. Young, tired and overwhelmed.
She knew all too well what it felt to be in his shoes. He hadn't outright asked for her help but it was implied. That was all people like them were capable of – hinting that they were out of their depth but too proud, too defensive, to admit it outright. She stepped closer with less reluctance than she had felt before.
"Magic is intuitive; it knows what you want," Azriel told her. She remembered Tamlin saying similar to her. "You will not hurt me unless you wish to."
Sadly, she said, "I never did."
"You never trusted that we felt the same," Azriel acknowledged.
"I know they didn't," Nesta said softly and shame flickered in those exquisite hazel eyes. Up close, she could see the gold shining in them, the rich moss-green amidst the rich, decadent chocolate-brown. Those eyes did not match his reputation, she found herself thinking. "They revealed who they truly are, that is all."
"Please, Nesta," he murmured, stepping closer until she could feel his breath against her face, the chill of the skies drifting from his flying leathers, crowded by his suddenly immense size but feeling no fear of him, not when his eyes glowed with yearning mingled with something close to terror. He whispered, "Touch my scars."
She bit her lip but reached out, hesitantly brushing her fingertips against the silver of his skin. Against her fingertips, his skin was silky soft in places but puckered and calloused in others. The silver overlaid the scars like a tattoo. Azriel went very still as she pressed her fingertips more firmly against his skin, as if trying to anchor herself. She closed her eyes, focusing only on the feel of his skin, the silver tattoos. Pinpricks of something sparkled against her fingertips just under her skin, as if even subconsciously her body was responding to something in the markings.
Azriel's voice was faraway when she heard it, too focused on the feeling in her fingers. "Reach out with your power," he said softly.
The tattoos…the silver markings that looked uncannily like those horrendous brands Rhysand had inflicted on Feyre. She focused on the pinpricks of magic glittering at her fingertips where her skin met Azriel's, met the silver tattoos. She inhaled slowly and coaxed her magic to rise, flooding through her, from the tip of her fingers first.
She gasped when she felt it, the tugging inside her mind as a memory that was not hers unfurled, drenched with pettiness, bitter jealousy and dread – and hope, yearning, confusion, betrayal. Distinct emotions belonging to two different personalities, so powerful her teeth ached.
"What do you see?" The voice whispered from far away and Nesta watched on.
"The woods…the Steppes… I can see two young men, barely out of adolescence," she murmured. She gazed on, heartbroken by the yearning on a young Azriel's face as he turned to another olive-skinned youth, this one violet-eyed. "You… It is just you and Rhysand; Cassian is nowhere to be seen. Hail is pummelling the undergrowth; you've taken shelter inside a hollowed-out tree to avoid the worst of it…because your wings are still vulnerable from lack of…from lack of use." She watched Azriel hide a grimace as he brushed his hands over the delicate membrane where hailstones had already struck before they could alight. "You're building strength in your wings with every year but they are not toughened against the weather yet. You feel the sting of every hailstone on your wings like an ash dart. Rhysand is speaking…"
Her lips parted as she watched, listening to Rhysand's voice, horrified and disgusted by how reasonable he sounded even as he manipulated Azriel, playing on his insecurities, his fears.
"I know what he said," the voice said, stronger than before. Grim. "I can remember, now."
Nesta grimaced and withdrew from the memory. Was it Azriel's own memory? Had she slipped into Azriel's mind, as Rhysand and Feyre could? Or…or was it her own memory, previously untapped? The Cauldron had shown her much – the very fabric of the world; all it was an all it could ever be. She gazed down at Azriel's hands, her thumbs stroking the silver skin under her grasp.
"These were oaths," she whispered, horrified. "Azriel, what's happened?" She blinked as Azriel stepped back: his wings flared to steady him, gleaming in the faelight. She stared at Azriel, stunned, and realised, "I am the wrong person to tell; I should not have asked."
"Nesta…" She notice his hand shaking as he gripped the edge of the table. He stared at her and though his Fae blood ensured he looked as if he was still in his late-twenties, he suddenly looked old. Haggard and upset. With slowly dawning horror that shifted into resolve, Azriel gazed at her. It was a long time before he said softly, "You are possibly the only person in the world I can trust absolutely."
"I wouldn't say – "
"You refused to be taken in by it." He wheezed as if winded by a sudden blow.
"By what?"
"By the Inner Circle. You saw us for what we are and refused to make excuses or indulge us," Azriel moaned. "You held up a mirror and showed us for what we truly are…"
"And for that I deserved to be murdered?" Nesta muttered, half to herself.
"You've frightened someone," Azriel said, and Nesta stared at him.
"You can say his name," she said. "My very existence threatens Rhysand."
"Yes. He has always sought to destroy what he could not control. Even as a boy he could not stomach the threat I posed to him," Azriel said, and when Nesta frowned bemusedly Azriel nodded and elaborated, "Rhysand and I were fathered by the same male. The blood of the High Lord of the Night Court flows through my veins as it does his." Nesta's eyebrows rose. Azriel blinked furiously and frowned distractedly. He whispered to himself, "How had I forgotten that?"
She stared, open-mouthed.
"Have a seat," she said gently, stunned when he allowed her to guide him to a chair. She set about putting the kettle on but thought better of it: she reached instead for the cocktail-shaker. She added Cognac, tawny port, a dash of bitters, sugar and a whole egg and shook them together, serving Azriel's drink with a grate of nutmeg on the silky, frothing top. It was her favourite after-dinner cocktail though she preferred hers warmed slightly. It was rich and silky and slightly spicy and took the edge off the chill in the air, warming from the inside out. Azriel sipped his drink as Nesta prepared one for herself.
Almost distractedly, Azriel started to speak. His voice was quiet and contemplative, his expression full of emotion overwhelmed by misery. "For centuries, my mother was Lord Drago's consort and companion. When she fell pregnant with me, my mother's father kidnapped her from the skies as she flew above the Hewn City and imprisoned her in his castle in the Steppes, casting her out the moment she had birthed me. She made her way back to Lord Drago but my grandfather kept me imprisoned as leverage over my father." He sighed heavily and sipped his drink. "When he came to the Steppes seeking to secure my freedom, my father caught the scent of his mate. After he had fathered trueborn heirs on her, my grandfather believed he had lost all leverage and cast me out as he had my mother… He placed no value in my mother and even less in her bastard child but he was a fool… We mattered more than anything." Nesta watched Azriel gulp, his eyes widening with devastation. "My father acknowledged Rhysand's mother to honour their mating bond but did not love her; he ensured her freedom and gave her children at her request but he was devoted to my mother as his greatest love."
"How did Rhysand feel about that?" Nesta asked quietly.
"He didn't know about either of us until I appeared to be trained. Then rumours spread, as they are wont to. The memory you saw…" Azriel trailed off, his elegant fingers tracing the stem of his coupe glass. "I have only recently been able to remember it… As we grew so did our powers. Mine was the only force in the Night Court able to rival Rhysand's power. Rhysand made me swear an oath never to let the truth be known about my paternity. He claimed it was to protect us both from anyone who would use us against each other for political gain, to displace whichever son inherited the throne and seat the other on it… We vowed that we would never take up arms against each other, though thinking of the wording now I know the oath was intended to ensure I never took up arms against Rhysand." His lush lips pressed together to hide him grinding his fangs. "He had me swear that I would never use so much power that anyone might make the connection between us – between me and Drago. It was the only way he could satisfy himself that I was not a threat to his inheritance when we both exhibited…untold power."
Azriel lowered his gaze to the twin siphons glimmering on the backs of his hands. Their eerie light made his silver tattoos shimmer.
"I do not remember seeing you with the markings of any oaths," Nesta said gently.
"Some…magic veiled them. Even the memory of them was hidden from me, as it still is from others," Azriel said heavily. "Rhysand did not wish anyone to learn of the vows and be curious what they were… The markings appeared first as you see them, silvered. The vows were broken."
Nesta frowned. "How?"
"He died," Azriel said bluntly. Rhysand died, Nesta realised. He had died, however briefly. But it had apparently been long enough. "My oaths were nullified with his death… But ever since, I have…I have been plagued with memories… I did not know whether they were my own or if it was some facet of my shadow-walking that I had not yet tapped into… Now I know the truth: Rhysand has held my memories captive for centuries. And with them, he held all knowledge of the extent of my powers… I didn't even know what I was missing until I felt myself complete. My power rivals his. Perhaps it is even stronger."
Azriel lowered his gaze and stared at his hands. At the silver tattoos, yes, but also the scars they did little to conceal.
"Azriel?" she said gently.
"My uncles burned them…" His voice was faraway, gazing unseeingly at his scars. "I got out. I thought I would be safe. I got away from them… And my brother locked me away." He flinched and gulped. Nesta saw his eyes widen, panic and betrayal warring in them. His voice was harsh, choked with emotion as he said, "Everything that I am. Everything I had it in me to be. So he could feel good about himself… They have been laughing behind my back for centuries…he made me love him and pretended he never did anything wrong. He let her – "
"Her?"
"Morrigan. He let her amuse herself with me for centuries…" He grimaced as if in pain. He whispered, "I let her amuse herself for centuries."
"Why?"
"Because I was not taught that abuse is not love until it was nearly too late," Azriel said. "That's why Father kept me so close during the War; he was trying to undo the damage. But he never knew about the oaths Rhysand forced me to swear. No-one did. Not even I could remember them but they have guided my decisions all my life. These…siphons…" He gazed at the siphons glowing icy-blue on the backs of his hands and Nesta watched his eyes harden with resolve, more vicious and chilling than she had ever seen him. His voice was eerily gentle when he said, "He made me less than I am. He forced me to lock myself away."
"You're free from them now, Azriel," she reminded him, trying to catch his eye. She didn't like that look in his eyes. "You're free."
"I am not. I am still beholden to my oaths," Azriel said shortly. "I cannot let anyone know that I am aware of the truth. Nesta, I… I believe something is happening."
"What?"
"I don't know," Azriel said, a muscle in his jaw ticking. "I have no evidence, nothing tangible, only –"
"Instinct," she said, and Azriel nodded.
"You felt it too or you would not have distrusted us so fiercely," he said and Nesta knew she could not deny it.
"It felt rotten. Being in the townhouse with all of you gathered together, it…" She sighed and rubbed her face. "I felt as if I was being choked by the taste of decay."
That is where I scented it… Galit's scent – or something like it, she thought. She knew she had smelled it in the Night Court but could not pinpoint where. But where else had she felt such rage and distrust but in Rhysand's House of Wind, where his wretched Inner Circle descended en-masse?
Azriel tilted his head as a whisper of shadow curled around his ear. His eyes lanced to her and pinned her in place. "What else, Nesta?"
Nesta frowned suspiciously. "What did the shadows whisper to you?"
"They advised I ask about a scent," he said slowly, frowning at her. She cleared her throat.
"In Fioren-Daara I caught a scent," she admitted. "I had a visceral reaction to it – pure rage and distrust. When I caught up with the Fae, her scent was slightly different to what I remembered but close enough that I mistook her for someone else. I just do not know who the scent belongs to. But I… I know I scented it the House of Wind."
Azriel bristled. His hazel eyes sharpened with intent and resolve and Nesta could see his mind working, the spymaster assessing and weighing the reliability of the information, picking through the catalogues of information he kept only in his own mind for security's sake. He was thinking, narrowing down the possibilities.
"You are sure? The House of Wind?"
"I cannot be sure," Nesta said honestly. "I am certain I know the scent from Velaris but more than that I could not say."
She expected Azriel's posture to relax but his frown just deepened. "This scent… Do you smell it now?"
"There are many scents in this room," Nesta hedged. Azriel arched an eyebrow challengingly; she raised her chin slightly in response.
"I came from Velaris," he said quietly. "If you can find traces of the scent on me I can pinpoint where I came in contact with the person it belongs to."
"Very well," Nesta frowned. "I will try." She had been working with Tamlin on honing her senses. Her observational skills were developing slowly; they had yet to move on to her honing her sense of smell. It was too powerful; smell triggered memories in a way none of her other senses did. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, letting the scents of the room wash over her. The freshly-baked bread and spices from the pantry, the pollen in the air and the enticing scent of roasting garlic, the pasta dough and the cool tang of fresh cheese in the larder – she ignored them all. Bracing herself against his forearms, Nesta stepped closer, inhaling deeply, and fought not to recoil as the scents clinging to Azriel assaulted her nose. The stench of a bustling city, thousands of different scents each fighting to overpower each other. She had had no idea they could pick up so many scents throughout the day – but perhaps because she was focused so intently on scent, everything was magnified. Otherwise she would have scented him from the shadows – more than that, those he stalked as spymaster would have been alerted to his presence. She frowned and inhaled deeply again, this time willing the stench of the city to drift away, leaving the tang of petrichor that was Azriel's natural scent. It teased her nose – fresh and sharp and strangely filling her with relief. She sniffed delicately, frowning, and was about to give up when she exhaled impatiently – There!
She gripped his forearms and sniffed sharply, rising on her tiptoes. Opening her eyes, she squinted in confusion at him. His hazel eyes glowed as they gazed back at her, his expression unreadable.
"You found it."
"The scent isn't on you," she said softly, bewildered. "It's in you."
"What?" Azriel balked, his wings flaring as if thrown off-balance. Nesta leaned in and nuzzled his bare throat, inhaling. It was animalistic; she was not even the least bit abashed by it. Because there it was, that infuriating scent. Not on Azriel but a whisper deep beneath the scent of petrichor that was unique to him in all the world. She didn't realise Azriel had clutched a shaking hand at her waist as his heart skittered in his chest, tension coiling through him at her nearness as the delicate tip of her nose traced the curve of his throat, his jaw, nuzzling and scenting. A whisper, nothing more, but she caught it, drew it into herself, until she knew she would never be able to forget it.
"What is it?" he wheezed as if pained and Nesta blinked. She gazed up into his hazel eyes, startled by their nearness. "What do you smell?"
Carefully, she stepped away. She cleared her throat and took a moment to organise her thoughts as Azriel watched her carefully. The tension in his body did not fade.
"Have you ever smelled someone dying of cancer?" she asked quietly. It was the closest thing she could compare it to. Azriel frowned at her bemusedly.
"I… During the Slaves' War, I fought beside humans. Some of them, they were… They were the walking dead," Azriel said quietly. "They put themselves on the front-lines knowing they were already dying from sickness."
"Do you remember what they smelled like?" she asked, and, slowly, Azriel nodded.
"Sweet rot that nauseated," he said quietly, and Nesta nodded glumly. She swallowed.
"That is what I smell."
"I feel fine," he said, blinking furiously.
"You could be a carrier, immune to the symptoms yourself," Nesta suggested dubiously, "but someone passed it to you?"
Azriel blinked furiously. "There have been no outbreaks of sickness in Velaris for decades."
Nesta frowned. The fact that she had such a visceral reaction to it – pure rage and distrust – told her this was something more. "Instinct tells me this is no disease. Are there such things as magical parasites?"
"I – yes," Azriel said, staring at her. "Certain fungi release toxic spores; many Fae species are venomous or poisonous as a defence-mechanism…" He sighed heavily. "In the past, High Fae have been known to poison each other with parasites that sap away a person's magic. Assassinations in slow-motion."
"But you said your magic is growing," Nesta observed. Azriel frowned.
"Whatever it is, it must be investigated," he said heavily. Nesta winced; he noticed. His voice gentle, he asked, "What is it?"
"Don't tell anyone," she said. "You said you believe something is happening in the Night Court but you have no evidence… This is your evidence."
"If only we knew what it was evidence of," Azriel said grimly.
"Isn't it your job to discover that?" Nesta asked. Azriel gave her a sad smile.
"Indeed it is," he said softly. He frowned and glanced at her. "Does Tamlin know about this…this scent?"
"I mentioned it," she said. Azriel nodded.
After a long moment, Azriel asked, "Would you tell him about my visit?"
"You wish me to tell him you've been here?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.
For a long time, Azriel didn't answer, just frowned thoughtfully at her. Then he said, "If our instincts are correct, something is happening in the Night Court. And if I am affected it is likely the rest of Rhysand's Inner Circle is, too… We may yet need an ally wholly unconnected to us. It would be wise to place someone in a position to be able to observe us, or those close to us."
"I thought spies were your forte," Nesta said, and Azriel nodded.
"If they could get to me,I cannot trust that my spies within the Night Court are not also affected by whatever this is," Azriel said. He frowned. "When you tell Lord Tamlin of this, mention Visenna."
"Who?"
Azriel glanced at Nesta. "A noblewoman here in the Spring Court. She has an arsenal of several unique skills she has weaponised, not least the fact that she has trained herself to be immune to all manner of venoms and poisons."
"It can't be a weapon if everyone knows about it," Nesta said. Azriel smiled grimly. "No-one knows about it?"
"I know only because I trained her," he said softly. Nesta raised her eyebrows, curious. She was reminded then that Azriel was over five hundred years old. His life remained shrouded in mystery – as he seemed to prefer. And she understood that the less people knew about his life, the fewer his vulnerabilities. Seeming to understand her expression, Azriel smiled grimly. "My role in the Night Court has taken me to all corners of the world. I have met many Fae. Some I have learned from, others I tutored in my turn."
"You must have a very complicated life," Nesta said quietly.
"It really is very simple," Azriel said. "I am given a target; everyone else is either an asset or an obstacle to reaching that target."
"When you put it that way…"
"It takes all of the emotion out of it…and the ethics," Azriel said quietly. He sighed heavily. "We do our duty. Good or bad, we must do our duty."
"There's a line that separates duty from blind obedience," Nesta said quietly. She had reached hers and refused to cross it. She refused to compromise her beliefs and betray her people because Feyre demanded she trust strangers. The soldiers of Scythia had believed they were doing their duty to their righteous king by waging war on the rest of the world and conquer it in order to liberate it. "Which side of that line are you on, Azriel?"
Azriel told her wistfully, "In truth, I long ago lost sight of it."
Nesta sighed and rubbed her face, reaching for her cocktail. In the calm and the quiet, Azriel gazed out across the table at Nesta's annotated paintings. Softly, he said, "These are wonderful."
"Thank you," Nesta said, sipping her drink.
"I often wondered where Feyre learned her skills with paint," Azriel said thoughtfully. "She told me you were like a miser with paints when it came to her."
"I gave her the primary colours; it forced her to learn colour theory," Nesta said. "Feyre is not teachable but if she wants something badly enough, she will figure it out on her own." Azriel frowned sadly at her. "What?"
"You raised them," he said quietly.
"Someone had to," she said sharply, "though they'll deny I did anything at all."
"I believe Feyre is starting to realise just how much you gave," Azriel said cautiously and Nesta scoffed, shaking her head.
"What brought her to that epiphany?" she asked. Azriel's dark eyebrows drew together.
"When she realised that Rhysand was eager to execute you, Feyre was truly shocked. I think she believes his ill-feeling toward you is based on the miscommunication that you sat by throughout your years of poverty and sent Feyre out to hunt to provide for you all."
"Miscommunication?" Nesta enunciated. She laughed derisively and Azriel winced. "Feyre outright told you all that she was a poor little victim forced out into the wilds by her spoiled, vicious sisters… She never had any respect for the traditionally feminine tasks involved in maintaining our home; she believed strength is a purely masculine trait associated with being able to wield weapons. But then again, she had no respect for me; anything I did would always derive scorn from her." She sniffed, pinched her eyes and exhaled shakily. "So don't tell me it was miscommunication; Feyre was blatant in painting herself as righteous and superior, a martyr to her wicked family who took advantage of her goodness. She was a spoiled child and an insufferable teenager!"
"She may yet become wiser," Azriel said quietly.
"Not while she is surrounded by sycophants who indulge her at every opportunity," Nesta said shortly, pinching her eyes again. "Not while Rhysand fears me as a threat."
"Feyre has her own mind."
"No. She lost that privilege when she struck her first bargain with him," Nesta said sadly. "She is his now. He can do what he wants with her."
"Nesta…"
"He intended to murder me and she made excuses for him," Nesta said fiercely. "We may have fought like vicious bitches but in the end we would have died for each other. When it came to our family, we would have faced any enemy together. But she chose him. I don't know whether that choice was guided by him or whether she made it alone; either way I know the hold he has over her is too strong to let her go against him. Even for the sister that raised her… I may not have been able to give her what she wanted but I always made sure Feyre had what she needed to become who she is. He'll be the ruin of her. And she will never even realise it."
"He would not manipulate her that way."
"Because he would not manipulate you that way?" Nesta asked coolly, her eyes dipping to the silver tattoos on his hands. Azriel glared but she did not flinch away. She said, "There is nothing he will not do to get what he wants. But what is it he wants?"
Azriel sighed, deflating slightly. "I do not know. He does not discuss his plans…not with me, not with anyone. Since Amren lost – She would have been the only one he told. But since the War…"
"She has become irrelevant. Small wonder she was so vicious toward me. She lost everything and believes I gained it," Nesta sniffed. Azriel gazed sorrowfully at her.
"You're too wise, Nesta," he said quietly. "I forget how young you are."
"I am only young in terms of the Fae. In human terms I have already lived a third of my expected lifetime, similar to you," Nesta said. She sighed tiredly, "I have lived many lives already."
"Now you embrace another," Azriel said, frowning thoughtfully at the paintings. He sighed. "I have watched you for days; you are thriving here."
"Well, there's no threat of the life being choked from me here," Nesta said blithely. Azriel's shoulders drooped. She sighed. "You never did tell me what prompted Feyre's epiphany about my role in our home."
Azriel went still. He grimaced. Slowly, he raised his eyes to hers. "You left."
Nesta scoffed. "And that had such profound impact on her?"
"Yes." She shook her head disbelievingly. "It is true. And since she lost the child, she has been – "
"What?"
Azriel went very still. He sighed heavily and told Nesta, "Feyre miscarried."
She blinked and stared at him. After a moment she exhaled in a rush. "Oh." After a long time, she asked, "How is she?"
"Well, I think," Azriel said thoughtfully. "Physically she has recovered. Emotionally…Feyre has taken the opportunity to use this time for self-reflection."
"How so?"
"With his threats to your life, Feyre is re-evaluating her relationship with Rhysand," Azriel said. Nesta resisted the urge to scoff. As much as he'll allow her to, she thought. "She is not prepared to bring a child into the world while things are so fractious between them."
Nesta stared at Azriel. "Good for her."
"Yes," he agreed quietly. He glanced at Nesta and frowned. "I have taken too much of your time this evening."
Abruptly, he stood up. "I…hope it will not be an imposition to ask that I may…visit in future."
"It would be no imposition," Nesta said quietly, frowning. She left it unsaid that the manner of his visits, and whether he brought others along with him, would determine how pleasant those visits were. She wondered about his sudden shift in mood.
"Then I will bid you good evening," he said, bowing courteously to her.
"Good evening," Nesta murmured, bemused. Just like that, Azriel melted into the shadows. She felt his presence fade into nothingness rather than the abrupt not-there-ness she always felt when Tamlin winnowed away. Azriel's magic was different. As subtle and intangible as shadows.
Son of the High Lord of Night, it was no wonder he walked in perpetual darkness.
She heaved a heavy sigh and pinched her eyes, suddenly tired in his absence. Feyre miscarried.
She knew she should have felt worse but in truth all she felt was relief for Feyre. To become a mother when she had yet to fully grasp being her own person, her own place in this world and how to navigate her power?
Babies…
Feyre had so vehemently scorned the idea of settling down to a life decorating palaces and producing offspring for Tamlin – how Rhysand had sneered at Feyre for entertaining the idea. After the war, Feyre had claimed she wanted years with Rhysand before settling down. Yet how quickly had she changed her mind when Rhysand intimated that he wanted children? Nesta did not trust it. Did not trust him.
It is her life, she scolded herself. You must leave her to live to regret her decisions.
She had walked away. Fled from Feyre's husband. A male set to murder her out of fear of the threat he had created of her in his own mind. If Feyre chose to stay with him after that…
Of course she will, Nesta scoffed to herself. He strips her of her freedoms and she holds her hands out for more diamonds.
It was a hateful thing to think and she flinched, her fingers trembling as she reached a hand to cover her eyes. Then lowered them to cover her trembling lip. Feyre had lost her baby. And she wasn't there…
They wouldn't let you near even if you were in Velaris, she reminded herself. And was it not for the best, that some innocent child was not brought into the world with parents at odds with each other? Were they at odds, though? Azriel had only said that Feyre was using her time as she healed to evaluate her relationship with Rhysand.
To Nesta, that did not sound as if Feyre was considering leaving Rhysand over his threats to Nesta's life. It sounded as if she needed more time – and a few more tiaras – to forgive him and move on, accepting Nesta's absence as a necessary consequence of Rhysand's insecurities.
Lowering her hand, her ears twitched as she heard the soft rustling of feathers. Her awareness prickled and she glanced at the mudroom door. The shadows had truly crept in now and they were natural, illuminated only by the light of a tremendous blood moon hanging huge and low in the sky. The light gleamed off the feathered wings of a small creature hiding on the threshold.
Agitated black eyes glinted in the moonlight as they darted at her face then around the kitchen. She heard his soft, quick breaths as he cowered in the shadows, and something else – the struggling thump of hearts too tiny to be his. Nesta kept very still, too afraid to move, too afraid to startle him and send him scurrying back to the stables when he had faced untold terrors to come inside.
From his scent she knew who this was, and a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Her heart swooped, thumping in her chest once, powerfully, as if to remind her it was still there, still strong, and would not be broken by Feyre's tragic news, no matter how much it hurt.
With agonising slowness, Antares entered into the warm golden glow of the faelights. He looked…painfully young, Nesta realised. Far younger than she had envisioned. Those hooded black eyes were enormous in his pale face, surrounded by billows of wild charcoal-black waves. His lips were blue from cold. He was small and she dreaded to think how malnourished he had been before if this was how slender he was after months of her feeding him. Small and skinny and tragically young. His clothes were finely made but simple and not nearly warm enough for the winter and she noticed his feet, bare and red from the icy ground. He cowered under her gaze, flinching as if she had brandished a whip, but he hesitantly stepped forward, closer to the table. He had his hands clasped over his belly and Nesta noticed first that his fingers were long and tipped with claws that curved lethally, the skin of his hands rather scaly. Over his shoulders curved two elegant wings covered in patchy, fluffy down.
Keeping her voice low, she murmured, "Hello Antares."
Reluctantly, the little Garudaie boy glanced at her. As he did so, his chest rose and fell sharply, and Nesta could feel his apprehension – his terror – in the air, crackling and nauseating. She wondered if it was possible that he could sense her, too, and focused on conveying warmth and welcome to him. She didn't know if it worked but gradually he relaxed just enough to step forward one more time and to offer his cupped hands toward her.
She peered closer without rising from her seat, not wishing to startle him. Twitching and grunting in his hands were two kittens – one black and one ginger. By the look of them, they were newborn; their eyes were still shut, their ears folded, their fur as patchy as the down on Antares' wings.
"Where did you find them?" Nesta asked gently.
Antares glanced at her, not meeting her eye. Softly panting, he whispered, "The stables."
"Where's their mother?" she asked.
"Dead." His lip quivered, eyes gleaming with emotion. If the kittens had been born in the stables, he had likely considered their mother a companion. He was shivering as much as the newborn kittens.
"Well, we'd best keep them warm if we're to save them," Nesta said. "And fed." She had reared many kittens before; they were hard work but worth it. Not just financially, though the villagers used to pay her for the kittens she raised, as pets and to hunt vermin. She liked to see them thrive under her care; she relished the bond that formed between them. Seeing such tiny creatures go from being utterly helpless to curious, playful and independent was immensely satisfying.
If Antares was petrified of entering the palace, of her, he faced his fears to save the kittens' lives. She thought it showed his truest nature. Nesta had but to say they needed warmth and he tucked himself before the oven, not even flinching when she approached with warmed towels to wrap the kittens in. When she sat close beside him on the floor to show him how to nurse the kittens using a dropper, he didn't recoil from her but peered in curiously, reaching out eagerly to take the ginger kitten in its swaddling and feed it himself while she took the black kitten.
Antares was curled up by the oven, dozing, in the early hours of the morning when Nesta awoke, awareness stroking her skin like a caress. She gazed around and in the dimness of the kitchen, she smiled blearily at Tamlin. Sat perched on a chair nearby, he had his elbows on his knees, leaned over and watching them both silently. He glanced from Nesta to Antares and beamed.
A.N.: My little bird-baby! You know, if this wasn't an eventual Neslin fic, it would've been intriguing to go the Nestriel route. The tension… As it is, I want to develop their friendship. Because Azriel was genuinely the only person who was ever unconditionally kind to Nesta.