“You have the ability to talk to animals,” the spymaster walked around the chair they were tied to as they talked, “which makes you either very valuable to us, or very dangerous in the hands of our enemies. So it’s really very simple, would you like to be an asset we protect or a threat we eliminate?”
“I’m not going to be either,” the young captive pleaded. “You don’t understand, my gift isn’t useful to anyone. I can literally only talk to animals, I can’t control them. I mean you have the power to talk to people but that doesn’t mean they’ll do everything you want, right?”
In an instant there was a knife against their throat. “Oh no dear, people always end up doing whatever I want.” He pressed harder with the knife, and the first few drops of blood started to flow. “It’s just a matter of how much pain they endure first,” he whispered.
It’s Feral Bastard Friday! Party down with the Spymaster and Thirteen this weekend with my Whovian stuff at http://modernwizard.itch.io!
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Summary: Um….I don’t want to give any thing away, so I’m not writing a summary for this one.
Warnings:None.
Word Count: 6,342
Notes: Well, I said it once but I’ll say it again: TYSM for 1,000 followers! I love every second of this blog. This one is dedicated to each and every single one of you!
P.S. This is my FAVORITE fic I’ve written so far. It is immaculate. I surprised even myself :)
_________________________________________
Your body falls lax against the chair. The iron chains won’t budge as you give up trying to tear your arms free, sweat dripping down your neck into the collar of your torn shirt. The metal bites at your raw wrists: stinging, bloody, and mangled from trying to pry them off.
Their startling iciness had been part of the reason that kept you awake since you had been captured. And since there were no windows, you were unsure of just how long you’d been in there. From the utter exhaustion you felt, it had to be more than a few days.
Every time you wanted to sleep, you were jolted awake by that feeling you had become accustomed to during your time here: claws scraping against your mental shields like nails on a chalkboard, shaking you to your very core.
But you would not yield, no matter what.
Chest heaving with effort, you squint around the cell again although you’re sure you’ve looked for every possible escape, for anything that could give you leverage against your Night Court captors.
Nothing. Not a damn thing in this room that looks as if it is carved out of a mountain. You had no idea where you were, a blindfold having been tied around your eyes after a fairly equal fight, only hours after you crossed into Night Court territory.
They were quick, sending out a winged male to come capture you, an easy smile on his face when he saw you, thinking you posed no threat.
He’d clearly been wrong.
You’d been able to keep up with him, his red stones blazing bright in the night, that and the shining moon the only light. You hadn’t even had to tap into your own powers; he was so unskilled in comparison. You were so occupied blocking and countering his every move that you didn’t even notice the shadows of midnight slithering around until you were bound by blue magic.
Eyes covered and cradled to a strong chest you struggled the best you could, smirking to yourself, but tied tightly with that power rendered you useless and you swore you were up in the air, the wind whipping across your skin.
They had restrained you to a hard chair, not one whisper uttered between any of you. You refused to speak, refused to let anything into your mind. You had created such an intricate puzzle inside of there in the time you had been alive it was utterly impossible to break through your walls.
As soon as they had left you had ripped the blindfold off, the only thing you could manage to do, your wrists catching on the harsh metal, drinking in the sight of the room you were being kept in.
There wasn’t much to look at.
You had had just enough food and water to keep you alive, your stomach trying to eat itself and your throat was like a desert, tongue uncomfortably dry and heavy in your mouth. Your first form of torture.
It had been so long but so short, losing all track of time. You didn’t know if they had fed you in hours or days, when your last sip of water was. But you kept quiet and kept your mind well guarded, it would not be so easy to break you.
Examining the metal cuffs you bore, you recognized the wards carved into its shiny surface, chuckling to yourself as you read them.
Silly males.
You knew they were coming, could feel their power rumbling through the mountain like a storm, and there they were. Door opening and darkness rolling in like dark clouds, the room nearly black as you squint against it. The air is thick and damp, stifling.
It’s as if the darkness is coming from him, seeping through his pores as he enters the room, standing with wings, leathery, membranous things tucked menacingly behind him, the clawed edges arching over his head like a halo of terror. The only light comes from his blue siphons, causing his face to appear sharper, meaner.
A true angel of death.
Loud, thunderous laughter rolls in next, booming against the walls, causing you to flinch in your seat at the sound. Another of his kind, a menacing smile pulling at his mouth. He’s just as handsome as the first, muscles taut with centuries of practice. Noticing the red stones glowing in the dark room you recognize him, the one you had fought against in the woods. And you would have won, if not for the male next to him.
You would smirk if your lips weren’t cracked and bleeding, dry beyond belief. He looked exactly like the sort of male that would cry for a millennia if he were to be bested by a female in battle.
Perhaps that is why the other warrior had stepped in.
Finally, lightning embodied follows, his violet eyes nearly glowing in the dark. You can feel the power radiating off of him as he stalks casually in the door, curiously scenting your blood mixed with the tang of metal.
You can easily tell that he is the one in charge, that sly smile on his lips, silver-tongued as he says his first words to you.
“Speak.” His tone is every bit as arrogant and authoritative as he looks, standing tall and playing with the cusp of his shirt, unbuttoning the sleeves to roll them in perfect folds to his elbows, his strong tattooed forearms flexing in the light from the warriors’ siphons, the red and blue mixing to create an ominous purple the color of his eyes.
“Fuck you.”
He releases an amused puff of air. “My apologies,” he purrs, “I should have been more clear. Who are you and what are you doing on my lands?”
The two winged warriors flank you on either side – their presence noted and ignored – but your eyes stay locked on the male in charge. You keep your mouth shut, jaw set as he circles you like a predator would its prey. His dark gaze claws up and down your body, taking you all in.
“My name does not need to be learned by you,” your voice is a rasp, the threat catching in your dry throat.
“I don’t believe I gave you the option to refuse,” he responds, giving a shallow nod to the cobalt-stoned warrior. Immediately he moves in closer and you watch the ease of the male as his hand moves to his holster, plucking out his blade in one swift motion and pressing the tip of it into the vein in your throat.
It’s as if the weapon awakens in his hand, a horridly sweet song filling your ears, something you never thought you would hear again. You make to look at the weapon as best you can, carefully avoiding nicking your neck, and your breath catches. It has a stone set in the hilt, the runes engraved are the ones you’ve been searching for, and the smell hasn’t been washed away from the blood, oil, and whatever other substances have covered it throughout its time since you had last seen it.
“Where did you get that sword?” You hiss, thrashing in your seat as the three males still, sharing a look. His grip tightens around the blade though he draws it away slightly as if you’ll grab for it with your teeth. The swords song falters, screeching like you’re already too far away from its glinting metal.
“Give it back. It does not belong to you,” you fight against the restraints, standing from your seat and following the knife’s path as far as you can, body leaning towards it, arms secured to the chair behind your back. The shadowmaster yields a step backwards in surprise.
The three winged males watch curiously as you yank on the restraints, full of adrenaline like when they had first brought you in. None of them hear anything other than your frantic anger as Azriel sheaths the weapon back in its rightful spot, snug against his thigh, your wild eyes following its every movement. The shadowsingers hand stays wrapped around it’s hilt protectively.
“And how would you know that it isn’t his?” Cassian dares to question first.
“Does it sing?” you cock your head to the side tauntingly as you fall back into your seat, eyebrows raised in defiance. The song is muffled now that it’s away and you can focus better on the conversation, knowing that you’ve just shown your hand to these males: that you know something about this knife that they don’t seem to understand.
The shadowsinger reveals nothing, only answering your question.
“It is mine. For I was there when it was forged. It sings to me, a beautifully horrible tune,” you tell them, eyes cast to the blade tucked away once more, like just thinking about it will remove the warrior’s grip and send the knife flying back to your hand where it belongs.
“What the hell are you?” he breathes, staring at you with wide eyes as your iris’ flash black as night, darkness swirling in your gaze when Azriel thumbs over the stone settled in the butt of the knife.
“I am something far worse than any of your nightmares could conjure,” you glare up at them all in turn, a slight smirk curled on your lips as a new feeling enters the room, darker and more dangerous than the High Lords, a void of darkness with no beginning and no end, shifting the world on its axis.
With half a thought it was gone and the males felt like they could breathe again. It was a darkness so cold Azriel could see his own breath when he released a surprised exhale.
__________
Cassian asks the question that they’re all thinking. “Do you think the wards will hold?”
“They’ll hold,” Rhysand replies, too quickly to be true, a pause in his step to glare at his brother before he continues his anxious strides, pacing the length of his desk with his hands clenched tightly together behind his back.
Azriel watches the city out the window, waiting for the skies to darken and crackle with the buzz of their prisoners’ powers.
His hand hasn’t left the hilt of his beloved blade since they’d left you in the cell with no other parting remarks, warding the door four times over after leaving the room. No one could get in, not even Rhysand alone, the three of them needed to be there together to unlock the wards and release you.
He could understand the draw Truth-Teller felt, wanting to yield to you like the blade strapped to his thigh, a beautiful, powerful, commanding female. He itched beneath the surface of his skin, something thrumming through his blood, like your power had cursed him…or awakened something within him. He pushed the thought from his mind, turning his attention to the other Illyrians.
This was a kind of power none of them had ever encountered before, as if you were the cauldron incarnate, fueled only by wreaking havoc wherever you went.
But why did you need Truth-Teller?
The tea sits untouched on the desk, his hands too shaky to even pour himself a glass after what he’d just witnessed. He didn’t think he’d be able to hold the delicate cup without spilling.
“You keep that knife away from her, Az,” Rhys demands, and for a moment he wonders if this is the only thing his High Lord could think of, “And that’s an order.”
__________
He couldn’t ignore the draw.
Azriel’s entire body itched with the need to go to the Hewn City where you were being held, not only to see if you had broken free from the heavy wards trapping you, but there was something else…a raw and indescribable feeling, like there was that untamed beast prowling beneath his skin, thrashing to get out. It roared within him and would not be silenced, no matter how hard he tried. His shoulders tense with unease.
He’d never felt like this before. It was like he was trapped again, when he was young, even though he reminded himself he wasn’t there. Would never be back there again.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling.
It almost…interestedhim.
Was he feeling your exact emotions? Were you still trying to get yourself undone from the cuffs biting into your wrists? He had smelled your blood, a tang unlike any fae he’d encountered before. That power was boiling deep within him, excited and angry, ready to take on whatever stood in his way.
You had awakened this within him, somehow.
And how did you know of Truth-Teller? And does the blade truly sing to you?
There were so many unanswered questions swimming through his mind that he did not dare lie in his bed. It was futile at this point, instead the shadowsinger threw open his balcony doors, inhaling a deep breath of the crisp Velaris air, not quite settling him the way your power had.
He looks down at his beloved knife, tracing the symbols carved into the handle, the metal gleaming brightly in the faelight. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way your eyes flashed complete onyx, what he felt was his first breath of fresh air as your power swam through the room, a comforting, familiar hand caressing him.
It terrified him.
But even if he felt the pull to seek you out and get more information, no matter how badly he wanted to do it, he couldn’t. Not with the wards he and his brothers had put on the cell. It would take all three of them together to unlock the spell Rhys had cast, using their combined powers to secure the cell further.
Or could he?
His shadows swirled and purred in his ears, do it. It was not their usual voice, no, it was a wicked whisper of the wind from deep beneath the Hewn City, under the red rocks of the mountain, the raunchy streets of the sub-court below.
Yours.
I know you hear me, spymaster, your voice crowed. You feel it, don’t you? Your potential?
How were you doing this? He shuddered at your words, or because the beast he kept well locked down reacted to your soothing voice, calming for a moment as you spoke, and then when you stopped, it roared to be let out, to meet its old friend.
He needed to get away. Far, far, far away from you before it was too late.
__________
“This isn’t right. Az should be here,” Cassian says as he perches himself on the sofa in front of his brother’s desk, a full cup of bitter drink in his hand, the strongest they have.
“He might be part of the problem,” Rhys sighs, hating to admit it aloud. He had seen the way his spymaster looked at you with such intrigue. Could feel his brother’s own power awakening within him, as he was the only other one in the room familiar with it, having had a taste of Azriel’s true powers buried beneath his skin. He saw the way his shadows skittered with excitement, twining with the invisible power that was your own coiled through the room.
It rivaled his own.
“I’m afraid of what they could become together,” Rhys shudders from his spot by the window, his own glass clenched tightly in a white-knuckled grip. He had watched Azriel flee the House of Wind hours ago, and it hadn’t sat right with him, only furthering his suspicion that he could hardly control himself. He turned slightly to glance over his shoulder with sad eyes to Cassian, abnormally silent as he took a long sip of the amber liquor in his cup.
And the brute had not been naive to it all in the cell. He had his own feelings regarding the situation, some that aligned with the thoughts of his brother. “We could use a weapon like that,” he responds eventually, his glass drained and standing from his seat to pour another, “Someone or someone’s to stop wars before they can even start.”
And Rhys wished that were true. He knows together you and the shadowsinger would have the ability to stop battles before a casualty was made, but he’s not sure of your intentions. With his court or his brother.
“You felt her power,” the hair rises on his arms at the thought of your miniscule display of your abilities. Had his father still been alive you’d be the greatest weapon in his arsenal and he would have forced you to help make him High Lord of all of the courts, and used for breeding his powerful heirs. Rhys shudders at the thought. “That is the darkest magic that I’ve ever seen. And if they teamed up…” he braces himself against his desk, eyes shining with fear, not a star in sight, “I don’t think we’d be able to stop them.”
__________
He needed to see you.
Azriel hadn’t slept in days, tossed and turned all night. Truth-Teller never farther than arms length from him as he tried to calm his mind, that thing slithering beneath his skin. His mind reeled no matter how many mind-stilling techniques he tried, no matter how far he winnowed or flew, even to complete exhaustion, he could not rest.
Was this how you were feeling? Those uncomfortable chains wrapped around your wrists, the icy metal keeping you awake? Or was it Rhys trying to tear his way into your mind? Or the pull from the knife he kept close to his side, its haunted singing still ringing in your ears?
Your whispers only aided his lack of sleep, keeping him company with promises of newfound power and strength, something that his own shadows couldn’t keep at bay.
And it wasn’t swaying him, perhaps, more like your words were driving him crazier the longer they went on with the less amount of sleep he got.
He had devised a plan to convince his brothers to take him to you, long and thought out. Azriel knew that they were weary of him, had an inkling as to what he was feeling, as meals were tense and battle plans were scarcely spoken of.
Luckily, he didn’t have to put his plan into action. Rhys and Cassian had mentioned briefly over the breakfast he barely touched that the three of them would be giving you a visit, to see if you wanted to talk more.
Azriel didn’t care about the plotting looks in their eyes, for he was finally going to get some answers of his own out of you.
__________
Choking down his meal hadn’t been easy, but with the promise of seeing you he managed.
The closer the Illyrians strode, the less constricted he felt in the confines of his own skin. His chest didn’t feel as tight and his grip on Truth-Teller relaxed, a complete opposite reaction to his brothers, who were tense as ever, shooting each other weary glances.
The three of them removed the wards and the door swung open, the darkness of your powers wafting out into the hallway, a welcome feeling for the shadowsinger as he rolled his shoulders, stretching out his wings.
He dared not speak as your gaze caught his for only a moment before settling on the knife holstered to his side. You seemed to sag with relief at the sight.
Rhysand had tried to get him to leave it above, but it wasn’t something he agreed with, countering his brother’s argument with the idea that if they brought it, you’d be more trusting in them, hopefully answering their questions.
You looked worse than the last time. It would have been obvious that you hadn’t been sleeping or eating well either, even if they hadn’t been the ones who instructed the guards to only give you what was survivable.
But your power remained as strong as ever, a comfort to the shadowsingers as his own – albeit mostly hidden within him – was soothing to you.
You watched the High Lord of the Night Court kneel to your height, drawing your attention from the weapon already singing to you, ready to use his commanding voice.
“Answer our questions and you will get a full meal.”
You scoff. You had gone much longer with much less, and you’d spit at his feet if you could, instead, letting more of your power leak out, a warning not to offend you again.
“Your little display of power does not bother me,” Rhys muses, that irritating smirk appearing on his face as he stands to his full height, brushing out the wrinkles in his trousers, “Especially since you are still tethered to a simple house chair.”
“If I am still chained,” you counter, purring up at the high lord, “It is not because of your doing.”
A loaded admission from you, your eyes feline as his spine straightens. If it isn’t his powers keeping you where you were then what could it be?
It’s as if they all realize it at once, two pairs of eyes looking at their brother, who has stayed too silent and still. His cobalt siphons flare in defense, his grip once again white-knuckled on his weapon as you release a dry chuckle.
__________
“She deserves to be under the prison.”
The shadowsinger stills at his brother’s words and it’s all he can do not to growl in protest. His shadows thicken, curling tighter around himself as his eyes meet the shining violet of his High Lord, the threat in his tone as clear as the starless night in his eyes.
His natural response shocked even himself, as Rhys watched his spymaster’s stoic hazel eyes flicker with hatred, a shadow slinking up to his ear with a whisper of something that couldn’t be heard.
Azriel didn’t react, holding the gaze of his brother as your message was delivered, a murmur in his ear, a silky invitation, Come to me, shadowsinger, and I shall show you what you truly are.
Even Cassian tensed, stepping slightly in front of Rhys, as if Az was the enemy, ready to protect his High Lord. It shook something within the shadowsinger. Not once in his entire existence had he seen his brothers look at him like this, untrusting and ready to stop him by any means necessary.
It hurt, he could admit that to himself.
“She could help us.”
“Help us how, Azriel?” Rhysand explodes, his power rumbling through the house, rattling the paintings on the walls. The window panes shake, a half-full teacup spills over the edge of his desk, the ruddy liquid seeping into the floorboards. “You’ve seen her, heard her speak, threaten my court, and you think she’s willing to help us? Do not be so blind, brother.”
Azriel stiffens at the clear distrust in his High Lord’s eyes. His brothers had always trusted him, and had always given him room to speak. Disagreeing was rare for the three Illyrians, and it was shaken off easily (or after a long brawl) had they not agreed. He can feel his shadows winding around his hands, hiding his curled fists. A quick glance at Cassian – who is avoiding his eyes – is enough.
He wasn’t trying to defend you, no, it seemed as though your powers were enough to level all of the Night Court if you wished. Azriel had simply meant that if they could get you to trust them, it might play well in their favor. Maybe you could teach him about the simmering power locked inside of him, ready to be unleashed.
He would show them that you were not what your powers demonstrated.
And Rhys can see it in the shadowsingers raging hazel eyes, the urge to prove him wrong. He regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth. He’d never spoken to Azriel like that, either one of them, and Cassian now looked torn, wanting to hear the blue siphoned brother out, but sticking by his High Lord’s side, as he vowed to do.
“Az,” Rhys starts, like he’s trying to calm a wild animal, his voice a soothing mask of silky dusk that only ruffles his brother further. He needs to disarm the Illyrian in front of him and ward the knife before things could really go south. But the spymaster’s mind is made up, “Give me the knife.”
Now.
His shadows swirl around him, a tornado of darkness that carries him to you, to the cells of the Hewn City. As soon as he appears, heavy magic in the air secures the wards you’d been preparing, chained or not. He strides quickly to the prison you are in, the mountain thrumming with Rhysand’s power, raging against your own.
Azriel can’t stop himself, too overwhelmed with betrayal from his brothers and the intrigue of the female behind the door, what his abilities could become.
The magic surrounding your cell doors is beyond something he’d ever conjured himself, remembering that utter drain he felt as he and his brothers locked you inside. He placed his hands against the thick invisible wards, his mind spinning, trying to figure out how he’d be able to set you free.
What do I do?
You release the beast.
His heart races as he thinks of what he’s about to do. He’s already betrayed his High Lord, worse yet, his brothers, by coming down here to help you escape. He’s never felt so selfish, the curiosity of your promises getting the best of him, your cool caress of smooth darkness, a lullaby in his ear.
Shutting his eyes he takes a shaky breath, and when he opens them he is already changed. Azriel stares down at the siphons on the back of each of his hands, gleaming with contained power. Seven of them he has, and not all of them can tame the thing prowling beneath his skin.
Why do you think they gave you those stones? You question mockingly, sensing his hesitation. Because they are afraid of what you are.
The two stones clang to the floor, each one a kiss goodbye. To Rhys, to Cassian. Another, from his left shoulder, the Night Court, the right, the Hewn City. Each one he rips away from his armor feels like a breath of fresh air. He can feel his powers surging already, and he wonders why they had made him contain these wonderful gifts with the blue gems.
Rhys’ own abilities are cracking through your wards, not quickly enough for it to matter, as Azriel only has one siphon left to rid himself of, the one placed in the center of his chest.
The last kiss goodbye of the stone is for you, his scarred fingers ripping the jewel harshly from its home, a war cry as it clangs to the ground with the rest of them.
It’s like the world stills but he does not notice as he is surging with newfound power, confused and amazed and scared. His eyes are wild as he looks between the cobalt gems laying dark on the dusty ground. He could pick them back up if he wanted, put them back on, help Rhys undo the wards you’ve created to keep them out.
But the pull in his chest from the other side of the door is too great. He has to see what could come from this.
Azriel places his hands on the door once more, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He aims the energy coursing through his veins and it shoots from his hands. The doors burst open like a paper split in two, splintering and revealing you sitting in your chair, a wicked grin on your lips.
“Welcome, shadowsinger,” you greet, and his eyes gleam with excitement, his own smile razor sharp as he steps in fully, stopping in front of you. Looking up at him, standing taller, more confident, his shadows perched behind him, better controlled by the unleashed power. He is every bit of death incarnate, a truly beautiful male getting on his knees in front of you.
You could get used to this.
“How do you feel?”
Your voice is softer than he anticipated from the venomous tones he’d heard since you’d been captured. This, a seemingly genuine question. He gazes at you for a long moment, eyebrows furrowed. He can feel Rhys’ power, Cassian’s, Feyre’s, and Amren’s too, as they all try to undo your strong spell.
And you look breathtaking to him, as if you have nothing but all of the time in the world, bloodied wrists and chapped lips, four powerful beings using their magic against yours is easy for you to handle. And he truly sees what he can become with a little help from you.
“Show me what this is,” he nearly begs, staring down at his marred hands, dark mist like black flame sprouting from his fingertips.
You hush him, “The knife,” you tell him softly, “Use it to release me.”
He nods numbly, removing the knife slowly from its holster at his side. The gleaming blade sings once more, crying to be in your possession.
Truth-Teller feels all wrong in his hands, like his newly released power didn’t match the one coursing through the weapon. For the first time, he doesn’t want the knife anywhere near him.
Azriel grits his teeth as he works, tempted to surrender the blade to you immediately, let you get yourself out. But he bears the strange feeling, his hands moving like he’s done this exact thing before, helping you out of the chains.
He recognizes the runes carved into the cuffs though he hadn’t when they’d first locked you up.
“It is an ancient magic,” was all Amren had said, “impossible to get off.”
But here they were, the metal melting like ice against the sharp edge of his knife. He watched in the most fascinated way, your smile growing wider and wider the closer you got to your freedom.
You were sure he was going to be a tough one to crack, but when you had seen him for the first time, haunted eyes and trapping his true self deep within, you knew it would be easy to convince the shadowsinger to join you.
You hiss at your free wrists, dried blood coating them and sore from your constant tearing.
In spite of that you are free, he’s freed you, and you can’t help but grin, holding out your hand to him in a silent offer.
Azriel looks at it for a moment, then into your entrapping eyes, shining with welcome, a soft smile on your pretty pink lips.
He swears he can hear the screams of his family on the other side of the wards, feel Rhysand in his head, like he’s running full speed and throwing all of his strength behind his shoulder as he tries to break through the barriers of his mind.
If he does this, there is really no going back.
His fingers slide between yours, his ragged skin soft and tentative. He releases a quiet breath, everything about this feels as it should – better even – like he’s finally found home as his grip tightens on yours. You give his hand a gentle squeeze and a nod of your head, reassuring him that he’s doing the right thing.
__________
Winnowing felt different with you. For Azriel, it had always been his shadows carrying him, slipping through the realms of time on a twilight cast breeze. But this…he could feel your power in his own heart, and moving across lands with you was like riding on a wave of midnight.
“Where are we?” he breathes into the pitch darkness.
“Somewhere between worlds,” you respond, voice echoing off of what he doesn’t know, he can’t see a thing no matter how hard he squints. His hand clutches yours tighter as you begin to walk, stumbling behind you. “Somewhere safe.”
“Safe?” he questions, his stomach coiling with unease as he follows you blindly, his free hand clutching Truth-Teller tightly, its stone not even shining a tiniest amount of light.
He can’t even see his shadows, feel them slide against his skin and his heart stammers, wondering if they are lost.
But not once does the thought that you could be betraying him, taking him somewhere to kill him, cross his mind. He trusts you. Fully and completely.
“We won’t be here long,” you murmur in the darkness. You can feel his presence behind you, towering over you, running a gentle thumb across his scarred skin. It feels like you are caressing his bones, his soul, and it causes the shadowsinger to shudder, his wings flaring out, a release of pent up magic.
He doesn’t speak again, your touch grounding and confident as you stalk through this new realm.
Azriel doesn’t know how long the two of you have been walking for but his power has seemed to level slightly, and the void of black is making him too relaxed. He hasn’t slept in days, and he shuts his eyes, feeling like he could fall into sleep in the next step.
Until he hears it.
His hazel eyes shoot open, zeroing in on the first source of light since you’d arrived. It’s not far off now, the glowing pool of white that grows brighter and brighter the nearer you get.
But it’s the sound that has him picking up his pace slightly, tugging you further until the both of you are in a flat out run, his wings itching for him to take flight.
It’s a glorious harmony, a sweet song, one he hasn’t heard in a long long time, calling him home.
And it’s too dim for him to see the dark light spilling from Truth-Teller, still held in a tight grip by his side.
He looks to you as the both of you halt in front of the glowing pool of clear blue waters. Peering into the pond, his eyes catch on what is giving the liquid its glow.
He cannot believe it, sucking in a sharp breath and looking at you with wide eyes. You can only beam at him, as he seems to finally be putting the pieces he can back together.
“What is that?” he whispers in awe.
“Why do you think you feel so connected to it? To the blade in your hand and the one at the bottom of the pool.” You ask, ignoring his question, his hazel eyes never leaving yours. “It is because you and I are made of it.”
He tries to catch you as you let yourself fall backwards into the pool, his fingers unable to grasp onto the fabric of your shirt. He’s frozen to his spot as he watches you through the clear pond, diving deeper and deeper to retrieve the weapon lying on the floor of the water for safety.
You’ve done this before, when you had created this place for yourself, to keep the weapon safe. You couldn’t stand the tune of its singing, like a grating voice, a constant from where it was strapped across your back.
You understood that the fae you were traveling to were aware of the weapon, about its counterpart kept by the spymaster. If you were to bring the twin sword with you, you’re sure it wouldn’t have been pretty.
Wrapping your hand around the sword’s heavy hilt, you push up from the bottom of the pool, shooting straight upwards. When you break the surface Azriel’s hand wraps around your arm, hauling you out of the water.
And you release his hand as he kneels in front of you once more, head bowed as he holds Truth–Teller up to you, resting in both of his palms. You grin widely, the blade’s own voice harmonizes with the weapon in your hand, crowing a sultry melody.
Together at last.
“You remember it, don’t you?” you ask softly, and his head turns up to look at you. He’s gorgeous in the white light emitting from the sword, all sharp angles and bright eyes. The black glow from the blade in his own hands casting perfect shadows across his face.
And he doesn’t remember it, but he stands as you offer him the sword calling out to him. His gaze flicks from the hilt of the saber to yours, swallowing harshly like he can’t quite believe what is real. In your hands, the twin to his own knife–
“Gwydion?”
“Soul–Stealer,” you confirm the weapon’s nickname with a nod.
His hand lands on the handle of the ancient sword at the same time yours touches Truth–Tellers and it’s as if time goes completely still. His eyes glow hot white and yours surge with black as the power of the weapons and yourselves all become one once more.
The magic rushing between all of you, conduits for the cauldron itself, doesn’t hurt in the slightest. It’s the easiest he’s ever breathed, most relaxed he’d ever been, beaming at you with the widest grin he’s ever smiled.
He feels good.
He twirls the sword around once, a familiar weight in his scarred hand.
And all this time when he had been feeling like something had been missing from him his entire life, but he wouldn’t dare speak a word to his family, who would think him crazy for such a thing. But the darkness shifted, filled when they had brought you in, and now, with this weapon in his hand, shining brightly and chirping a serene melody, he realizes that it is you, and always has been.
Your voice is that of his blades, and his low chorus singing true from Truth-Teller, the void is full.
He looks to you, eyes brimming with unshed tears, a wobbly smile on his face, waiting for you to continue.
And all you can do is give him a look of understanding, a real smile, and a playful tug on that bond as you speak, “Different bodies, different lives, but we were together.”
Summary: You want to get Az something special for Starfall so you enlist the help of Cassian (heavy Cass x reader friendship).
Warnings:None
Word Count: 3,157
_________________________________________
“Hey Cass, can I talk to you for a second?”
“You can do anything you want for any number of seconds,” the warlord gives you a devious smirk and you smack him on the arm, face going hot as you notice Azriel watching your encounter with his brother. The shadowsingers face in unreadable as usual, but you’ve known him long enough – have paid maybe toomuch attention to the warrior – to know his tells.
His brows give a nearly unnoticeable twitch and by the way that eyes glint and narrow just slightly, you know he’s heard Cassian’s comment.
“Shut up,” you mutter, ushering him away from the intense gaze of the spymaster. You consider yourself lucky that Cassian doesn’t make another snide remark as he follows you from the room, because you know for a fact that there are at least three different things he could have said to make this situation look worse.
You take a sip of your drink, shuddering at the bitter alcohol that there’s too much of. You grimace into your glass before deciding to set it atop of the fireplace. You’ll never let Mor mix you another cocktail again.
“Hey now,” Cassian tuts, reaching for the cup you’ve just set down, “Don’t be wasteful (Y/N).” You roll your eyes as the Illyrian tips the liquid back, taking it down in a few swallows. He splutters on the last of the liquid and you glare, wiping a few droplets from your cheek. “What the fuck is this? Pure gasoline?”
“Don’t ask,” you wave your hand, looking near the door to see if the shadowsinger is nearby. “Mor just handed it to me.”
“Well I think she’s actually trying to kill you (Y/N),” he smacks his lips together with a frown, abandoning the glass on the hearth once more, “I’d stay away from her if I were you.”
“Anyway,” you respond impatiently. Azriel could walk into the room at any moment. Hell, he could already be in here, hiding in his shadows like the sneaky and nosy male he is. “I wanted to ask you for some help.”
“Oh,” he grins his vexing smile, and you already are regretting this, “This should be good.”
“I want to get Az something for Starfall,” you mumble, keeping your attention on the siphon in the middle of his chest instead of his face. You hope to the mother that the red glow coming from the stone masks the crimson color of your cheeks.
“As you should,” the warlord hums, “You should also get me something for Starfall.”
“Cassian,” you groan, crossing your arms over your fluttering stomach. “I mean, not in a friend kind of way…”
You had liked Az for as long as you could remember. You’d always found the shadowsinger incredibly beautiful, but were much too nervous to do anything other than try and gain his trust, be someone that he could see as a good friend, or family once you were invited to join the Inner Circle.
It took time and a lot of patience for you to become as close as a friend as he was with other members and you’d always had a sweet spot for him, hoping that someday you wouldn’t be too nervous to put your feelings out in the ether.
But you were. You didn’t want to fuck anything up with him. Your relationship was amazing how it is, and if he didn’t want the same things that you wanted, it would be catastrophic to your soul to not have him as a friend any longer.
“I knew it,” Cassian nearly bellows and you scramble, clawing at his arms and looking over your shoulder frantically for any sign of life, pleading for him to be quiet. “I knew you were into Az. Rhys owes me thirty gold marks.”
“Would you please–wait, you two were betting on this?”
“Ow,would you stop that?” he bats your hands away from him where you’re trying to grab at his arms. “We are actually betting on if Az is into you, but it has yet to be confirmed, obviously.”
“Obviously,” you echo, mind reeling at his words. If he and Rhys are betting on you and Az’s feelings for one another, then there must be something that they’re picking up on in regards to his side of your relationship. Or that you are being way too obvious with your feelings.
“Oh my Gods,” you breathe. Your head is spinning and you grab onto the stone surrounding the hearth, bracing yourself as you struggle for a breath.
“Woah, (Y/N), are you okay?” Cassian asks and you can hear the worried edge to his voice as he places a hand on your shoulder. You try to speak but end up gasping like a fish. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute?”
He leads you to one of the soft sofas, hands out and ready to catch you should your wobbly legs give out from under you. Your stomach is in knots. What if Azriel has known how you felt about him this entire time and has chosen not to say anything because he doesn’t want to let you down?
“Does he know?” you wheeze, taking the glass he’s filled from the pitcher that appeared on the small table in front of the couch you are resting on. You hold it tightly in your hands for a moment, letting the cool glass shock you into a better mindspace, taking a long breath before raising the cup to your lips.
“No, not that I know of,” Cassian perches next to you, an apologetic look in his eyes to which you respond with a small smile.
“Okay,” you can breathe easier now. Everything is fine, he doesn’t know a thing, you haven’t wrecked anything yet.
“About that present,” he starts, drawing you from your thoughts once more, “I hear that male lingerie is really coming into style–”
“I actually had something in mind already Cass,” you muse, hiding an entertained smile behind the rim of your cup as you take another drink, “I just need help acquiring it, if you would be so kind.”
His eyes light up at your words, “Oh! Well why didn’t you say something before?”
You roll your eyes fondly and nudge him with your elbow. The Illyrian slings his arm around your shoulder playfully, pretending to mess up your hair with a fist. You can’t help but laugh with him, trying to shove your way out of his arms.
“Alright, alright, in all seriousness,” you start, and he lets you pull away. His grin falters as he glances over your shoulder and you whip your head around to see Azriel standing in the doorway.
He appears aloof, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, face as stoic as ever. But both you and Cassian can tell by the look in his hazel eyes, how his wings are tucked in too tightly behind him, and his shadows are still, as if frozen in the air, holding their breath, waiting for you and the male on the sofa beside you to move in closer, that he’s not too happy.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asks coolly. He’s not fooling anyone.
“Nope,” Cassian responds, popping the ‘p,’ “(Y/N) was just telling me how bad the drink Mor gave her was and asked me to finish it off so Mor doesn’t feel bad. Isn’t that sweet of her?”
Azriel’s eyes flick to the glass atop the hearth then back to the two of you quickly. He’ll leave you alone for now, but he makes it known that he knows his brother is not telling the truth with a twitch of his eyebrows.
He pushes off of the wall, calling over his shoulder as he walks away, “Dinner is ready.”
Cassian releases a deep exhale, sagging into the couch. His head rolls lazily to look at you, “That was a close one.”
“What do you mean a close one?” you exclaim quietly, pushing yourself to your feet, “He clearly knows that you were lying and we’re up to something.”
“Yeah,” the warlord offers you his arm, which you take with a nod in thanks, “But he doesn’t know what we are up to.”
You shake your head, a soft tug pulling at your mouth that you have to bite back.
“Actually, I don’t even know what we’re up to either,” Cassian remarks with furrowed brows.
This time you can’t hold in your laugh.
__________
“Cassian, you and (Y/N) will be heading to the Day Court to check in with Helion and confirm that his armies are prepared for battle.”
You bite your smile back, eyes glittering in thanks to the High Lord across the large table, map sprawled across the middle. You had spoken with Cassian and Rhys while Azriel had been out scouting and this was the plan that the three of you had come up with to retrieve the shadowsinger’s gift from the Day Court.
Speaking of, the Illyrian watches, his shadows skittering around him, halting at Rhys’ words. One whispers in his ear the look you give his High Lord, then the soft knowing smile you give Cassian. He bristles, fists clenching at his sides.
You and Cassian in the Day Court…alone? He was thoroughly confused. He could have sworn that you were at least interested in being something a little more than friends with him, but with the way you and his brother were acting the other night, sitting close to each other on the couch, having a laugh, you leaning slightly into him before he was noticed, and now, with the shared looks and nervous demeanor, you must have been trying to get closer to Cassian this entire time.
He was a fool, he thought to himself, for chasing after you when so clearly it was his brother that you wanted. Always his brothers.
Picking up on his set jaw and shadowed eyes, you furrow your brows, shooting him a silent question. He avoids eye contact with you, staring down at the map on the table instead, rolling his jaw back and forth.
If he is bristling because he knew that the High Lord of the Day Court was going to flirt with you or because it was dangerous and unnecessary to go directly before a war you didn’t know. But you wanted to learn of what was going on in the quietest brother’s mind, wanted to reassure him that the situation wasn’t as he may be reading it as.
“Try not to get banned from this court too, brother,” Rhys comments with his signature smirk, before dismissing the meeting.
Azriel doesn’t wait, his shadows swirling around him like a wildfire of darkness, winnowing away from you as you round the table near him. You curse under your breath, turning to the Illyrians behind you helplessly.
They share twin faces of sympathy, and it’s all you can do not to go hunting for the shadowsinger. Instead you give Cassian a firm nod, ready to head to the Day Court in search of Azriel’s Starfall gift.
__________
You’ve been anxious all night. Not even the nearly empty glass of spirits in your hand aids in calming you down.
The Day Court had been a hit. Helion had been more than happy to help you with your idea for Az’s gift, after he’d made you blush with a few raunchy remmarks. You’d turned him down politely, cheeks burning red as Cassian laughed whole-heartedly at the both of you before telling Helion of your crush on the shadowsinger.
Your gift to him was all wrapped up and ready to be opened, sitting on top of his pile of presents, commanding all of your attention. You couldn’t wait, but a part of you also wanted to snatch it up and hide it, feeling the pressure of giving it to him in front of the rest of the Inner Circle.
And Azriel was naturally a quiet male, but this was another type of silence.
You wring your hands together as he unwraps the present, the last one of the pile though it had been stacked on the top. He flips through the booklet, tabs upon tabs of little papers, enchanted and shimmering with golden light.
You look to Cassian nervously, twisting your hands in your lap. What if he doesn’t like it? The warlord nods his head eagerly, supportively, and you stutter your response.
“They’re ah–” his hazel eyes lift to yours, watching you intently, “It’s for your books. You stick a piece between the pages and it wards the novels from damage like fire or you know…” you trail off, waving a hand dismissively.
Your words strike his heart. Safe from fire, the one thing he detested the most. His beloved novels lining the walls of his room would now be safe from any sort of danger they could face.
“There must be hundreds,” his voice is a whisper of awe, heart fluttering in his chest as he looks back down at the gift he’s cradling in his hands. The rest of the Inner Circle watches, quieting down from their conversations as they feel the shift in the atmosphere, eyes soft as they watch the two of you interact.
You blush, sheepishly retorting, “I know how much you like books.”
And you do. You know he has more novels than you could even count, having to guess the number to tell Helion. Ancient books to new ones, romance novels he knew you and the females loved well hidden in a secret spot by the spymaster himself.
This…this is possibly the best gift he could ever have gotten from someone and his words get stuck as he tries to reply, throat thick with emotion.
His brothers can tell, prompting you all back into conversation, and you look at him for a long second, tracing the cover of the gift with gentle fingers until Mor goads you into opening your own gifts.
Each present you hold near and dear to your heart. Your friends–family know you better than anyone, and you’re impressed with their gift giving skills. Even Cassian – whom you had heard usually gifted lingerie – had gotten you something thoughtful, a particular set of graphite pencils you had been unable to find for months.
There isn’t one from Azriel. But you aren’t upset that he hasn’t gotten you anything, just being near him is enough. The shadowsinger had loosened up since he’d winnowed abruptly from the meeting the other day, drinking and even making a few sly comments with the rest of you, a gorgeous smirk adorning the face you couldn’t seem to keep your eyes off of.
But Azriel is a sneaky male.
“(Y/N),” he stops you on your way to your room after bidding everyone goodnight, just stepping onto the landing of the second floor, plush carpet cozy beneath your feet.
“Hey, Az,” you greet him with a smile, your stomach fluttering at the sound of his voice.
“I uh, got this for you,” and if it weren’t so dark you might think that he’s blushing. But by the way his shadows are peeking from over the crests of his wings and hiding his hands behind his back after he passes you the velvet box you can tell that he’s nervous.
He holds his breath as you carefully pull the ribbon open, the silky string flutters to the ground as you flip open the top.
And while you studied the blade he studied you. Delicate fingers tracing the intricate swirls carved into the handle, looking so much like those shadows that spiral around him, brushing across the hilt with your thumb like he wants to do with the pretty pink lip you have tucked between your teeth.
He exhales sharply as you look up at him with those big, gorgeous eyes, glittering like the weapon in the dim faelight. He’d always prided himself in figuring people out, but he can’t discern the look on your face as you stare up at him.
“A knife?” you question, and his heart stills for a moment as he thinks you don’t like it, but the upturned corner of your mouth and mirth in your voice tell him otherwise, “Are you flirting with me Azriel?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs bashfully, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this before, but you are enjoying every second of this new Azriel, all tender and timid. “Why don’t you look at the other side and find out?”
“Oh?” you raise an eyebrow, pulling the knife out and flipping it over. On this side of the blade, right near the hilt, there’s a collection of stars carved into the metal. “Az, what’s this?”
“That’s what the stars looked like on the night I first met you,” he admits, twisting his hands together. The longer you stare at it the quicker his heart races and the more he wants to winnow away, but instead he can’t control the words tumbling from his mouth in a quiet admission, “I talk to the stars about you.”
Your mouth parts but the words get stuck in your throat. Your heart is bursting in your chest from the utter thoughtfulness of the male before you and your eyes well with tears at his confession. All this time you had thought your feelings were one-sided, that he never would see you as something more than another member of the Inner Circle, and you had no idea he was thinking the same about you.
It’s all you can do, look up at him with your mouth still parted, like the declaration will spill from your lips one way or another, eyes sparkling up at the tender-hearted male before you, his hazel eyes wide and watching.
He has been the spymaster of the Night Court for many years, but he can’t seem to figure you out.
And it’s nice, the element of surprise on your side as you clutch the box tighter in your hand so it doesn’t slip out when you push up onto your toes, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a desperate kiss, pouring into it all of the times you’d thought of him.
The things he would do to you, for you, as his hands wind around your waist, the permission to touch you has his hands shaking, his mind in overdrive. Never would he have thought he’d ever have this – you, get to taste you on his tongue, hear the melody of the noises spilling from your mouth as his tongue and hands explore you.
He cannot wait until he can be pressed bare against you, chest to chest, hearts beating as one.
Azriel thanks the mother when you pull away, lips swollen and eyes lustful, as you take his hand and lead him to your room.
It’s Feral Bastard Friday! Party down with the Spymaster and Thirteen this weekend with my Whovian stuff at http://modernwizard.itch.io!
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