Azrielâs thoughts and state of mind during his BC interactions with Elain and Gwyn
This is my interpretation of Azrielâs internal thoughts throughout his interactions with Elain and Gwyn in the bonus chapter. Iâm removing the actual dialogue except where itâs needed, so everything here is what the narrator is telling us is going on in Azrielâs mind follows by my own personal thoughts.
Iâve excluded the confrontation with Rhys because this is ship-specific and because Iâm still mad at Rhys for how he spoke to Azriel when he should know better than anybody how Azriel struggles with self-loathing and poor self-esteem.
It is clear, to me, the difference in his mental and emotional state between the two interactions. Breaking it down this way solidified my take on Elriel even more (this shit is harder than titanium) and made me scratch my head as to how GAs quote, interpret, and use the BC as their bible.
Elain
Azriel is sitting in the River House, alone, after everybody has gone to bed. He thinks to himself that he needs to get some sleep too. Then down comes Elain, the faelights gilding her unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn.
After they exchange presents, Elain asked Azriel to put the necklace on her.
His head went quiet. Heâs never not thinking, he canât sleep at night from all the intrusive thoughts he has and probably his head is never quiet from the shadows always having something to tell him.
He knew it was wrong to let his scarred fingers touch her immaculate skin. Because he feels unworthy of her.
His fingers lingered at her nape. He is savoring the moment. Finally touching her with intention.
It had never gone this far. Never blatant, unrestricted touching. Theyâve touched before, the occasional brush of their fingers, but thatâs it.
Wrong, it was so wrong but he didnât care. Unworthiness showing again. He thinks that heâs not good enough for her.
He needed to know what the skin of her neck, her lips, her breasts, her sex tasted like. If this isnât evidence of how down bad he is for Elain, I donât know what will convince you.
He needed her coming on his tongue. So head over heels for her.
He prayed she didnât understand the shift in his scent as his cock strained in his pants.
He had only allowed himself those thoughts in the dead on night.
It took all of his restraint to not put his own teeth where Elain bit her lip.
Elain said she should leave and he agreed while caressing the side of her throat. Continuing with the blatant unrestricted touching he had never allowed himself before.
His eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head at the scent of her arousal.
Heâd beg on his knees for a taste of her.
She steps so close to him, so trusting and hopeful, she has no idea of the things heâs done that have sullied his hands far beyond his scars.
Heâs done such horrible things that he thinks itâs a sacrilege to touch her skin, to taint her with his presence.
But he could have this one moment. This one taste and that would be it. He would probably be happy for the rest of his life with just this one experience with Elain. Talk about poor self-esteem, he deserves more than he allows himself to have.
Elain says yes and he slides his hands up into her hair to angle her head just the way he wants it. He nearly groans with relief and he lowers his head toward hers.
Then Rhys has to show up and ruin it.
The entire interaction is full of restraint and longing and passion and need. It is hot and it clearly shows how Azriel feels about Elain.
Gwyn
Azriel is sitting outside the River House. In the cold, until he feels nothing, is nothing at all. Keep this in mind.
Heads to the HoW thinking he was right in avoiding Elain by not staying at the River House because of how he gave into his feelings which led to the disaster with Rhys.
He aimed for the training pit but found it occupied.
Points out his shadows didnât warn him. Probably because he is still distressed at the whole situation with Elain and Rhys.
It was too late to turn around and not make it seem like he was avoiding Gwyn. Heâs not that big of a dick, so he resigns himself to land in the training ring.
He lies when he says heâs getting something he forgot.
The lie is smooth and cool, like his face.
For a heartbeat, their gazes meet and he has to block out the bloody memory of when he first met Gwyn at Sangravah.
But then points out how much better sheâs doing now. But still, thatâs the memory of her that comes to mind when he first sees her?
She says happy solstice and he snorts and asks if sheâs kicking him out.
Lies again saying he forgot something and adds that he canât sleep without his favorite dagger.
She makes fun of him by saying daggers are a comfort to every growing child. He doesnât share with her that he sleeps with many daggers.
When she asks about the party and he answers with âfineâ, he realizes itâs not an acceptable answer and blurts out âit was niceâ and realizes that answer is not much better. Awkward conversation but an attempt at being polite because he respects her and doesnât want to seem rude.
She has to ask three times if he sings because heâs a Shadowsinger before he finally answers âyesâ.
He doesnât want to elaborate or explain or demonstrate his signing so as sheâs opening her mouth to most likely ask another personal question he deflects and tells her to try cutting the ribbon again. Heâs avoiding sharing personal information about himself and redirects her attention toward something he is comfortable sharing which is advice on her stance and movements, warrior training stuff, nothing personal.
Heâs grateful for the impromptu lesson because going into trainer mode is a safe place and itâs getting him out of his funk.
He demonstrates what Gwyn is doing wrong instead of just physically adjusting her wrist, he avoids touching her. Although you can argue this is his respect for female agency and not his aversion to touch despite him getting all handsy with Elain just an hour ago because he is clearly into Elain.
He watches her execute the corrected movement several times and she thanks him.
He dips his head in a sketch of a bow before he leaves. Realizing the restlessness of the River House events have settled in him. Most likely thanks to the impromptu lesson.
He leaves after telling her not to stay out too late because itâs cold. As in the cold and the lesson helped settle the restlessness he felt after the River House events. Like how being in the cold makes him feel nothing, be nothing at all.
Itâs obvious that the two interactions are completely different. One is heavy with emotion and passion, the other is cold and detached. One is a surrender to wants and needs, the other is an attempt to remain detached and return to normalcy.
But have you read the Bonus Chapter?? His Shadows sing for her!!!
Iâm so tired of this GA argument. It is taken out of context so much and it is so frustrating to see how it has evolved into a in indomitable monster that has fueled a crackship and turned it into cult.
Here is my take on the four key pieces of Azrielâs bonus chapter that GAs have latched onto like a leech feasting on fresh blood.
Weâll start when Azriel lands at the training ring after the fight with Rhys, then move onto the supposed âthe shadows sing for Gwynâ part, and end with spark in his chest and the reaction of Azrielâs though of Gwyn smiling at receiving the necklace.
At the end, Iâll throw in what we know about lightsingers in here too because of how I believe it relates and justifies how and why Azriel is feeling and thinking these things without realizing it.
âHow was the party?â Her breath curled in front of her mouth and one of his shadows darted out to dance with it before twirling back to him. Like it heard some silent music.â
âLike it heardâ A reaction (dancing with the breath) when hearing something.
âLike it heardâ A change in body (or shadow) language or attention due to a suspected noise (dancing with the breath.)
You could almost say itâs a playful shadow that heard something cool and wanted to check it out but then went back to its master when the breath dissipated. One single shadow reacting to a breath. I fail to see the romanticism here.
âAzriel entered the warmth of the stairwell, and as he descended, he could have sworn a faint, beautiful singing followed him. Could have sworn his shadows sang in answer. â
âCould have swornâ is most often used to express surprise or confusion when reality contradicts your memory.
âCould have swornâ also means you were completely certain about a past memory or belief, even though it turns out you were wrong or mistaken.
Here, Azriel and his shadows are not entirely sure whatâs going on when he thinks he hears something and his shadows supposedly respond. Confusion, uncertainty, possibly luring? I think this passage gives a really good hint to the lightsinger theory and it is not so much a romantic moment since Azriel isnât even sure whatâs going on because of the use of the phrase âcould have sworn,â not only once, but twice within the same passage.
âSomething sparked in Azrielâs chest, but he only nodded his thanks and left. He could picture it, though, as he ascended the stairs back to the House proper. How Gwynâs teal eyes might light upon seeing the necklace. For whatever reasonâŚHe could see it.â
"Something sparked in his chest" means a sudden, unexpected emotion was ignited. It describes a sudden surge of physical or emotional feeling. Depending on the context of the story, it generally represents one of the following reactions: romantic or magical connection, sudden inspiration or resolve, a wake-up call of passion, a surge of emotion.
While GAs use this as confirmation that the spark is the mating bond, I think the subsequent actions littered throughout SF debunk this theory because Azriel does not display mate behavior.
These actions include (there could be more but these are the ones that came to mind):
His stone-faced attitude that Nesta noticed after Solstice when he was training the Valkyries while Cassian was in Illyria; no smiles to be seen.
The ribbon cutting took place approx 5 days after Solstice and the Blood Rite Qualifier roughly two weeks after that. And while we got the âYouâre the new ribbonâ comment from Nesta, I donât find that particularly flirty or romantic because the ribbon was a challenge they had to defeat in order to become Valkyries. Azriel being a challenge to defeat does not sound romantic. Proving Azriel wrong for saying they wouldnât be able to pass the obstacle course is a reasonable assumption to him becoming the new ribbon.
His tepid reaction compared to Cassianâs at the Valkyries being kidnapped and entered in the Blood Rite and him caring more about Eris being taken by Briallyn.
If Gwyn was Azrielâs mate and he knew it, he would have given zero fucks that nobody is allowed to interfere in the BR, he does not care for Illyria or Illyrian traditions, he had previously offered to go into the BR and kill the troublesome Illyrian that was inciting unrest within the camps, but Cassian said no because of the rules/traditions, but even Rhys was considering because who would ever know or find out.
His lack of concern after Gwyn returned from the Blood Rite and instead of checking in on her well-being to make sure she was not traumatized because mates, right? He instead detailed to the Valkyries all the things they did wrong and all the ways they messed up during the rite like a coach or trainer would do in order to help you improve.
Where is the mating bond spark GAs are so insistent about? It just doesnât exist and the text supports this.
Going back to the bold and underlined part of the passage above before I get too carried away, âFor whatever reasonâ means that something happened, but the exact cause or motive is unknown, unclear, or unimportant.
Again, Azriel is not sure of why he is seeing something. Why is he seeing Gwynâs smile? The use of âfor whatever reasonâ here is another great hint for the lightsinger theory and not so much a romantic moment in my opinion.
Azriel doesnât know why he thinks of Gwynâs smile and/or he dismisses it as unimportant because itâs unclear why he pictured her smile to begin with. Could it be because he is being lured by a lightsinger? Again, not really spelling out romantic thoughts with this particular wording.
Cassian describes lightsingers as lovely, ethereal creatures that lure lost prey by taking on friendly faces. Once the victim is in their arms, their true, monstrous faces are revealed, and they drown their prey in the bog just for sport.
A lure is something that attracts, entices, or tempts with the promise of a reward, pleasure, or gain.
As a verb: Lure means to persuade or draw someone into a specific place or action, often by offering something they want or leading them into a trap.
Who is lost and at their lowest point after Solstice? Azriel. Heâs been told to stay away from Elain, forbidden from pursuing the female he is clearly developing feelings for, his feelings of unworthiness have been revalidated, heâs been reduced to a sorry sap who has to pay for sex, and was essentially told his happiness doesnât matter. All this by his âbrotherâ who is supposed to know him and love him. Of course heâs at his lowest.
Who else was lured by Gwyn when they were at their lowest? Nesta. She was in the beginning phases of her recovery after hitting rock bottom so sheâs still in a rough place. During the evening service, she was lured by Gwynâs actual physical singing, her magic reacting so strongly that she unwittingly scried for the trove.
Azriel drops off the necklace during the evening service, as evidenced by the clock peals that signal the service the same way it was detailed when Nesta arrived at the evening service and was lured by Gwynâs singing.
One more to add to the list that I hadnât thought of before until now. The text tells us Azriel intended to return the necklace to the shop at the Palace of Threads and Jewels. Instead, he âfound himselfâ in the library in front of Clotho as the clock chimed seven.
âFinding oneselfâ somewhere in this situation can mean one of two things: An accidental arrival which implies he didn't consciously plan to go there. He wandered aimlessly due to stress or grief and suddenly realized he was standing in front of Clotho. Or he was drawn by subconscious need meaning that he didn't actively make a decision to enter, but his mind or some alluring magic guided him there because he was is emotionally lost and is seeking safety or an escape from his intrusive thoughts.
Azriel might not have heard the actual singing, just like he didnât hear it at the training ring on Solstice night, but his shadows must be sensitive enough that they are reacting to Gwynâs lightsinger magic without physically hearing it and as a result he is having these âlike it heardâ, âcould have swornâ, âfor whatever reasonâ, âhe found himselfâ moments he canât really pinpoint or explain. He is being lured.
So, does that mean Gwyn is an evil lightsinger? I donât think so. Gwyn is an important part of Nestaâs story and her found family. I highly doubt SJM will take that away from Nesta. I do think that lightsingers might be suffering from a mischaracterization like the Suriel though.
The Suriel was touted as this scary monstrous creature that was bound by magic to answer your question should you be able to snare it. But then Feyre befriended it and we found out it was a dreamer that wanted the world to be a better place.
I think lightsingers, if the hints are pointing in this direction and SJM builds upon it, will have a similar development where we find out they arenât evil after all. My thought is that they will be reclassified as a powerful, healing force, capable of guiding lost, hurting souls to safety when they are too blinded by their own grief to find the way themselves.
I also think Gwyn might have no idea she is a lightsinger to begin with and sheâs just out here swinging her magic around affecting people without her knowledge. Because what happened to both Nesta and Azriel after they were lured? They got something they needed in return. Nesta found the trove item (canât remember which one) and her healing started improving so much more after befriending Gwyn and later Emerie at her side. And Azriel felt better after regifting the necklaceâŚWhich is a whole other subject for a post because, really? Regifting? Come on, Az! The point was that he felt better, content at the thought of making somebody else happy even if he isnât able to be happy. Whether it was Gwyn or whomever Clotho decided to give the necklace to. We all know how heâs all about self-sacrificing for the good of the court and those he loves.
Anyway, that was quite the tangent on lightsingers and it took off and away from the main topic of this post.
Going back to Azriel and Gwyn, all the key interactions GAs appoint to the supposed mate behavior from Azriel and his Shadows is surrounded by phrasing that makes the romantic certainty of those interactions questionable. I personally do not find them romantic in the least and there is evidence in the actual book (ACOSF in this case) that provides enough doubt for those interactions to be labeled as romantic or mate behavior.
Cassian had known Azriel long enough to understand that silence was never just silence with him. Most people saw the Shadowsinger and thought of him being cold, unreadable and detached from the world around him. They mistook restraint for indifference and quietness for peace. But Cassian had stood beside Azriel for five centuries and he had learnt every shade of his brotherâs silence as intimately as he knew the sound of his own heartbeat.
There was the brittle silence Azriel carried after interrogations, when his shadows clung too tightly to his shoulders and his siphons seemed dimmer somehow. The exhausted silence after weeks spent gathering intelligence in enemy courts, where he would return to Velaris looking carved out and hollow from the inside out. Finally, there was the dangerous silence, when his face went still and emotionless in a way that always made Cassian uneasy.
Those were the nights Azriel disappeared into the training ring until dawn, beating himself bloody against practice dummies as though violence might purge whatever horrors he carried home with him. Cassian had witnessed enough over the centuries to piece together fragments of what Azriel endured during those missions. The things he saw, the things he was forced to do and the cruelty he willingly walked into so others would never have to. Azriel, however, never really spoke of any of it.
He would come back to the House of Wind long after midnight with shadows wrapped around him like living armor, his shoulders tense beneath dark leathers. Heâd pause at the doorway like he wasnât entirely certain he belonged there anymore before quietly slipping inside and finally retreat. Either to the training rink, into his room or into the darkness.
Cassian remembered countless nights waking to the sound of boots pacing overhead because Azriel couldnât sleep. A restlessness clung to him as permanently as his shadows did, even though he was exhausted beyond imagination.
The worst part, the part that haunted Cassian most, was how normal it had all become. Everyone, including himself, had accepted it. Accepted that Azriel carried pain like a second skin and that parts of him would always remain locked away in places none of them could reach.
Cassian still couldnât pinpoint exactly when the change had begun but Elain had slipped through Azrielâs barriers with little to no resistance. It had happened gradually, in ways so small at first that they were almost impossible to notice.
When Elain was present, Azriel lingered longer after dinner instead of vanishing immediately. His shadows drifted lazily through rooms rather than curling tightly around him in warning. The occasional soft expression crossing his face when Elain spoke, so fleeting Cassian initially thought he imagined it.
The smiling was a fun and new discovery. Not the small polite smirk Azriel occasionally offered during Inner Circle meetings, nor the dry amusement he reserved for Cassian and Rhys. No, this was something entirely different. It was softer, warmer and genuine which transformed his entire face when he did it. For some apparent reason, it only happened when a certain middle Archeron sister was nearby.
The two of them had become almost impossible to separate whenever they managed to steal moments alone together. Quiet conversations in hidden corners or shared glances across crowded rooms that spoke more than words ever could. Azrielâs shadows always drifted toward Elain instinctively, weaving through her hair or curling around her wrists with clear affection.
One evening, after dinner Cassian went searching for Azriel with every intention of dragging him into the training ring for a late sparring session. The House of Wind was unusually quiet as he made his way down the corridor. As he approached Azrielâs room, Cassian noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Azriel never left doors open.
Curious, Cassian nudged it open and stopped at the threshold. Warm amber light bathed the room softly, illuminating the large bed tucked beside the windows. Elain lay propped against the headboard, a book resting forgotten in her lap as though sheâd stopped reading long ago.
Azriel was curled tightly against her side, half sprawled atop. One arm was wrapped firmly around her waist, holding her close even in sleep, while his face rested against her chest and he looked utterly peaceful. There was no tension which pulled at his features and no strain that lingered around his eyes. Even his shadows drifted through the room in slow, lazy currents rather than sharp restless movements.
Elain glanced up then, sensing him instantly and her expression softened into a smile so full of quiet affection that Cassianâs chest tightened unexpectedly.
Around her fingers, Azrielâs shadows danced playfully. Cassian watched in silence as one curled around her wrist while another slipped through strands of her hair. Elain laughed under her breath and gently tried to catch one between her fingertips, only for it to dart away teasingly before returning again.
âHey,â Cassian said quietly, unwilling to disturb the fragile peace filling the room.
Elainâs smile widened. âHello.â
At the sound of his voice, several shadows immediately stilled. Their playful drifting sharpened into alertness, dark wisps coiled protectively closer around the sleeping male in the bed.
Some, however, remained tangled affectionately around Elainâs hands.
Cassian tilted his head toward Azriel, lowering his voice instinctively. âIs he actually asleep?â
Elain lifted one hand from the shadows and slid her fingers gently through Azrielâs dark hair, smoothing it away from his forehead. âYes,â she whispered softly, âHeâs finally resting.â
Cassian nodded slowly, unable to tear his gaze away from his brotherâs relaxed face. âHe needs it,â he murmured. âMore than anyone.â
Elainâs expression turned sad for only a heartbeat, as though she understood far more about Azrielâs burdens than he had ever spoken aloud. When Cassian took a step closer into the room, the shadows reacted instantly.
They lashed outward with sharp hisses, dark tendrils snapping between him and the bed like striking serpents. A wall of shadows rose protectively around Azriel and Elain, warning clear enough that even Cassian barked a startled laugh.
âAlright,â he whispered, raising his hands in surrender. âMessage received.â
As though sensing the disturbance even through sleep, Azriel shifted with a faint frown and instinctively tightened his hold around Elainâs waist. He pulled her closer against him and buried his face deeper into the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent and then relaxing again.
Finally, one massive wing unfurled and curved possessively around Elain, shielding her almost entirely beneath dark membrane and shadows until only the sound of her soft laughter escaped from underneath.
Elain peeked out from beneath the wing, her cheeks pink with amusement. âSorry,â she mouthed silently. Cassian shook his head, warmth blooming through him so fiercely it almost hurt. As though after centuries of loneliness, violence and nightmares, Azriel had finally found somewhere safe and trusting to rest.
Cassian backed quietly toward the door, unwilling to disturb them another second. âGoodnight,â he said gently. Elain smiled at him from beneath the shelter of Azrielâs wing. âGoodnight, Cassian.â
He closed the door softly behind him and stood there for a long moment in the quiet hallway. Then Cassian smiled to himself and continued down the corridor with something warm and steady settling deep in his chest at seeing his brother at peace.
Theres something about this line that rips my heart to shreds.
Just thinking about who Azriel is. Everything hes suffered through. His history with feeling unworthy and then finally going for what he wants to immediately lose it and feeling like nothing afterwards. How he tries to hide how he feels so often. How he finally tried to confide in Rhys to be immediately shut down. How no one ever tries to be his shoulder to lean on assuming he strong, unyielding and would come to them if he needed to.
Both Az and Elain are written for the reader who can relate to feeling like this the most.
I must have read too much fanfic lately because this poured out of me at 5 a.m. while sobbing uncontrollably... Iâm begging SJM to put me out of my misery and give them a happy ending.
This is a "mash up" of a few posts that I've done on Az: here, here, and here in my current obsession with finding out what the actual F is going on with his story...
⢠Injured and sidelined, Azriel still matches Rhys blast for blast during the war and strains equally alongside the most powerful High Lord alive atop the hill
⢠His shield is the first line of defense across the entire field ...ahead of Rhys's, ahead of every siphon-made shield
⢠That shield, notably isn't siphon-made, raising the question of what his power actually is
⢠Azriel's power echoes Rhysands. "Echo" implies the same thing, but Az is "diminished," ie, injured. Is SJM quietly telling us full-strength Azriel is Rhysand-tier?
⢠He rallies a broken army alone, while not fully healed, without complaint. Something Cassian wasn't even willing to do...
⢠Illyrians and Hewn City residents are specifically terrified of Azriel in a way they are not of Rhys or Cassian. These are two fae who are also renowned for their power and authority by every official measure, right? So why is SJM singling Azriel out? Is it intentional or something else?
⢠That fear is instinctive and distinct, suggesting they sense something in him that has no name yet, or is it just the dagger at his side?
⢠His shadows, like "Prince" Cormac's and his title as "Shadowsinger"... SJM has never fully explained
⢠He appears partially immune to his High Lord's authority
⢠Beron, an ancient High Lord, cannot stop him; Neither can Rhys. Rhys himself admits he fears Azriel's rage, can match him, and knows him best..
⢠Truth-Teller, a magical ancient blade, he carries, and even is given to Elain, that lands the killing blow that ends the war...
⢠And then there is simply how SJM writes him -wings so wide they touch either side of a cavern, a force like a stone wall, power described as undiluted like one-hundred-proof liquor, shadows that hover and watch like living things
⢠He speaks in a voice like shadows given sound, moves with unhurried calculating precision, circles with predatory intent, and his gaze carries the promise of unending pain and through all of it, not one ounce of fear on his beautiful face
⢠Silent, scarred, reverent about the Mother and the origin of life, capable of low and dirty swearing and cold fury in the same breath
He needed to know what the skin of her neck tasted like. What those perfect lips tasted like. Her breasts. Her sex. He needed her coming on his tongueâ
Key points that set Azriel up as more than just Rhysandâs Spymaster:
Potential Successor?!: In ACOSF, during Feyreâs pregnancy crisis, one might ask "who would inherit the Night Court if both Feyre and Rhys were lost?" Since the High Lord mantle chooses strength rather than strict lineage, Azriel becomes a natural candidate....right?
Noble Lineage: Though illegitimate, he is the son of an Illyrian lord, raised with formal manners despite his low-born mother.
Political Acumen: As Spymaster, Azriel is highly intelligent, educated, and familiar with Prythian politics, sometimes perceiving dangers and motives even Rhys misses.
Strategic Power: He is a seasoned general, tactician, and warrior, deeply respected in Illyrian culture, with the ability to remain level-headed in conflict. Plus, as I've written about before, Az Can match Rhysand's strength on the battle field??? whaaaaat..
Qualification vs. Destiny: While these qualities make him a strong leader on paper, Crescent City introduces evidence suggesting there is more than mere skill at work, perhaps bloodline and destiny.
âď¸more below the cut âď¸
Shadows, Starborn, and the Dusk Court
Azrielâs Shadowsinger powers are a mystery in ACOTAR. Feyre muses in ACOFAS Ch. 7:
âShadows different from anything my powers summoned, spoke to. Born in a lightless, airless prison meant to break him. Instead, he had learned its language. ⌠Even the rich lore of that warrior-people ⌠did not have an explanation for where the shadowsinger gifts came from.â
Rhysâs shadows arenât the same...Azrielâs are alive.
Crescent City clarifies this when Bryce compares Azrielâs shadows to Ruhnâs and Cormacâs (direct heirs of the Dusk line.) Theyâre not neat, controlled Night Court shadows; theyâre wild, ancient, Dusk-born.
And the pattern matters: in CC, the only ones who have shadows that behave similarly to our Shadowsinger are male heirs of the Dusk Court. Cormac can vanish into shadow, travel through them, even wield them as weapons. Ruhnâs shadows whisper like Azrielâs.
So if Shadowsinging is bloodline magic, Azrielâs gifts suddenly make sense.
Sileneâs Heirs
Silene, the Starborn queen who wed the High Lord of Night, left a carefully worded message for her descendants:
âTo leave this account for one whose blood will summon it, child of my child, heir of my heir. To youâI leave my story, your story.â
Most assume Bryce triggered the hologram because of her Starborn blood. But Bryce isnât Sileneâs heir. She descends from Sileneâs sister, Helena. I think that exact phrasing (âchild of my child, heir of my heirâ) suggests a separate heir survived.
Only three people were present when the hologram played: Bryce, Nesta, and Azriel. Nesta could count by virtue of being Cauldron-Made (plus the Bone Carver situation-I wont deep dive that now-but maybe something else going on with the sisters.....), but the stronger case points to Azriel â the hidden Dusk heir?!
Azrielâs Commands â Hidden Authority
Hereâs where it gets wild. Across the series, Azriel issues orders that everyone obeys...High Lords included.
ACOWAR Ch. 44: âBe careful how you speak about my High Lady.â
Even Tamlin falters, dropping his fury when Azriel steps in.
ACOFAS Ch. 12: âWait until everyone is seated before eating.â
Cassian, of all people, immediately obeys and everyone at the table reacts like theyâve felt the authority in Azrielâs voice.
Compare this to Lucien, whose occasional flashes of command signal his inheritance from Helion. Rhys himself tells Feyre in ACOMAF Ch. 7 that heir-powers manifest subtly before the mantle passes. Azriel has been doing this all along, but the narrative downplays it (calling it Shadowsinger intimidation or dry humor) when in fact it reads like compulsion.
Meanwhile, when Rhys commands Azriel, he doesnât always obey. He resists binding magic at the High Lordsâ meeting (ACOWAR Ch. 45), digs his knee into Eris' gut despite Rhysâs order, and only listens to Feyre. Thatâs not typical subject-to-High-Lord behavior. Thatâs another ruler in waiting.
Gwydion, the Starsword, and the High King
The case grows when you bring Gwydion into play. In ACOSF Ch. 42, Amren recounts:
âThe last one Made, the great blade Gwydion, vanished ⌠It had belonged to a true Fae High King in Prythian ⌠Until he was betrayed ⌠Never again to see another High Kingâonly High Lords.â
But Gwydion isnât gone. Bryce returns it. And Azriel is the one holding it alongside Truth-Teller, two halves of the Starborn blades, as if the weapons themselves recognize him.
Amren even warns Rhys directly:
âThe Cauldronâs benevolence will be extended to you only for so long before it is offered to another.â
Rhys refuses the High King mantle. That âotherâ could very well be Azriel.
Suppression, Stunting, and Secrets
Azrielâs childhood suddenly takes on new weight. His father locked him away, burning his hands, keeping him hidden. What if it wasnât just cruelty? What if it was suppression or an attempt to bury a dangerous bloodline?
And yet, despite it all, his shadows flourished. Rhysâs father pulls him close as Spymaster, maybe because he suspects, maybe because he fears.
Either way, the truth was never spoken. But the signs are all there.
âď¸âď¸âď¸The Theoryâď¸âď¸âď¸
Azriel isnât just a loyal Spymaster or a brooding warrior. Heâs the unacknowledged heir of the Dusk Court, descended from Sileneâs Starborn line. His Shadowsinger gifts, his quiet compulsion, his connection to the Starsword....they all point toward it.
And with Gwydion returned to Prythian, the stage is set for the Cauldron to offer its benevolence not to Rhys, who refuses it, but to Azriel: the hidden High Lord of Dusk, and perhaps the High King of all Prythian.
Disliking a character, certain âshipsâ, the whole book, and even the author is ok. Whatâs not ok is bashing people for liking what they like. Or basing their intelligence on their opinion on a Fictional story. Itâs a fictional story. It is art. It is subjective. Fandoms are supposed to be fun and escapist.
The author wrote the book and has made her intentions of certain characters and plots clear. If you donât like it thatâs understandable. Yes she doesnât have the clearest writing and isnât exactly Edgar Allen Poe, Emily Bronte, Mark Twain, and Stephen King. But to dedicate your social media accounts to constantly bash the majority of the characters is too much. Itâs negative energy youâre putting on yourself. Why are you reading the book when you dislike everyone except one or two characters?
Summary: Azriel & Elain find a moment alone, burning in their quiet ache, but itâs a haunting repeat of that Solstice night, and six months are enough time to change people.
Warnings: Fluff, angst, tension, panic attacks, allusions to sex, mentions of human remains/ashes
Word Count: 10.6K
Authorâs Note: *lantern in hand, waving you over* Put your cloaks on, weâre going to the fields of yearning! Letâs see how many parallels you can find from the books and the shot itself (Was gonna write smut for this but I kinda burnt myself out yikes) Anyway. Cheers!
⌠MASTERLIST | MOODBOARD
Theyâd done it.
Azriel and Elain had finally snuck out of the unnamed prison that was the Diplomat Guest Estate.
In the dead of the night.
It didnât matter that they were on an indefinite Winnow-lock in the country. Neither did it occur if the disappearance of two Night Court officials could draw suspicion, essentially risk blowing their aliases as undercover spies.
For it was their last day in Vallahan.
And the Spymaster of all had suggested they do this out of nowhere.
âForgive me we couldnât find time during the day.â
Azriel, for whatever reason, rubbed the column of his neck, his neutral mask blurred past an alarming degree.
âNoâno.â Elain stumbled, stunned.
She never thought sheâd get to see it.
Not in this lifetime atleast.
âThis . . . this is . . . â
The fields her father had once gushed about.
The fields heâd promised to take her to one day.
âGorgeous.â
She felt a bright smile slide into place.
Too many emotions lapped at her throat. Her chest.
âSimply gorgeous.â
Gentle breeze meandered through the white and navy haze of bloom, this midsummer night a moonless affair. In compensation, stars twinkled everywhere, in the sky and field alike.
Like diamonds on velvet.
The tulip fields.
Holding back a tender smile, the Spymaster put his lantern down, the one theyâd stolen from a shed nearby, and produced a sachet from inside his cloak. Looked like jute, no bigger than his fist.
Something inside jingled sweetly.
Following the pleasant sound, Elain peered up at the Shadowsingerâs earnest facade.
âI was wondering what was tinkling all the way here.â
Gentle curiosity.
How did we not get caught with the shrill of it?
A ghost of a curl dipped onto his cherub lips. âIâd put a sound shield around us.â
Elain offered a mindless nod, not at all surprised he had read the question on her features.
âMight it be anotherââ
âBefore you vex yourââ
They said at the same time.
Nervous energy filled the air, crackling around them, hounding their scents. Elain could tell, could now recognize the difference in them.
The pair quietly chuckled together.
So in sync.
Always in sync.
Something tender invited itself. Lingered like a hopeless forest spirit who never called, never beckoned, but waited in its quiet ache, its presence a phantom embrace of familiarity. It sat beside, legs dangling, leaving plenty of space for a traveller to come sit.
Stars danced in his hazel gaze as he insisted she go first, ever the gentleman.
Elainâs throat bobbed, palms suddenly clammy with anticipation.
Do not wipe them on your cloak.
Do not. Wipe them.
âIs that for me?â She managed, not daring to ask more. Last time had been disaster enough.
Azriel read the apprehension before it pinched her lips. His wings tucked in infinitely tighter.
âIâ yes,â He hesitated. âItâs, uh . . . â
Second-guessing was a corset she fastened on the daily. The spymaster though . . . something was amiss.
And because hesitation and Azriel did not belong in one sentence together, Elain sought him some mercy, delicately plucking the bag off his fingers to investigate herself, knowing it wouldnât do her any favours if she pushed him any further.
He let go willingly.
Out came two beautiful and identical chain-like ornaments with tiny hooks and hollow bells that seemed to birth these soft, ephemeral melodies, attached to a spine of silver. All of itâdazzling silver.
It sounded peaceful. Serene.
Familiar?
âAn anklet pair,â Azriel explained quickly, his shadows swarming like sharks protecting its prey. âIâm aware fae do not care for natal anniversaries but consider this an early present for yours.â
It wasnât Solstice, and her blessed day of birth wasnât for one more month, and there was a gift.
Another jewelry.
Craftsmanship so intricate, so unlike anything sheâd seen, Elain couldnât muster an ounce of anxiety, no thoughts exceptâ
âBrilliant.â
The breathless praise left of its own accord.
âWhere did you find them?â
âThey are part of the traditional Scythian culture,â Azriel provided, voice raw and heavy with an emotion she couldnât place.
When had he gone toâ
âDuring my time there earlier this year,â he meant the time heâd taken leave from work out of nowhere, the first time in his life, and disappeared for twenty three days and seven hours straight without telling anyone of his whereabouts, âI was most opportune to explore some of their markets. Their culture.
âHumans are,â a duck of his chin to bury the grimace that fell just a smidge short of mirth, âa curious breed.â
âScythia as in,â She took a breathless pause. âThe human lands here?â
His eyes flickered in thoughtful applause, surprised sheâd remembered her maps from the mission brief.
Gently, he inclined his head.
âPrecisely. I kept noticing this particular design,â A timid nod to the culprit in her hands, âSo I . . . â
Azriel had been on the Continent.
Continental human lands.
Which is why I couldnât track him.
The weeks sheâd driven herself insane, waiting, worrying for his life whilst still holding onto the dregs of her already wavering grudge against him, against herself, however passive it may have been. For calling her a mistake, and her making one.
âYou?â She whispered, despite the ache suffocating her throat.
No one knew. No one could coax that information out of him, but here he was.
Telling her.
âI . . . studied the culture.â
Silence.
Utter, pin drop, silence.
âEspecially the sounds. There were several to choose from. Some sharp, some gentle. Deeper too if you willed it. Depending on the size of the hollow metal, that is.â The male continued his ramblings, colour blooming high on his golden-brown skin.
Silence again.
âTheyâre stereotyped to be protective charms, beloved enough to have several workshops teaching how to weave them with the sound one likes.â
Protective charms.
How ironic.
Would it protect their . . . friendship, if that is what she could call their fragile truce this time, whatever theyâd been weaving wordlessly over treacherous nuances these past few months? Would it allow them to be more?
To just be.
Elain didnât know what to say. Think.
âSo I,â Azriel dipped his head again, âlearned how to make them.â
Fabric of timeâruptured.
Sound eddied.
âWhat?â came out of her mouth, foolishly.
That scarlet flush and his shadows were battling to swallow his face whole by this point.
Which one would win:
Embarrassment or fear?
And yetâ
âIâI made them.â
Elain blinked.
Once. Twice.
Three simple words.
An innocuous stutter.
It didnât make sense.
âYou made them?â She repeated, slow and incredulous.
As if saying it syllable by syllable would make it a word, a sentence, and not the paradox that was him.
âYes,â He said quietly.
Despite her wariness, the decaying coffin sheâd buried her feelings in, warmth crept in. Noâit barged in. Dug through. Blew out the cover.
âWhat does it . . . â Elainâs mouth staggered like her heart in the moment.
It seemed extravagant effort for a mere human tradition that was a month away. Elain knew it in the marrow of her bones it must have taken weeks to craft. To have spent time with humans itself.
Azriel opened his mouth, but she cut in, âThis is what youâd been doing away for those twenty three days, werenât you?â
Pieces clicked in place.
âNâYes. Partly.â He tensed. âPlease donât ask me more.â
He didnât want to lie.
Fine.
âWhat about the anklets?â
Lines appeared on his forehead. âI wanted it to be a specific sound. Something you would appreciate, perhaps an ode to your human heriââ
âNo, I meant,â She breathed, âWhat does it mean?â
Is it another obligation?
Empty promise?
Error?
Chaos blunted around Azriel.
His eyes softened in equal measure.
They both knew there was a deeper cause.
âIt means whatever you want it to.â He simply admitted.
No reluctance.
Only truth. Only choice.
âBut they are for you.â Azriel confirmed, âAnd Iâm not taking them back.â
Not this time.
He didnât need to say it. Not when determination stared back at her, flashing with a steadiness and finality that wasnât there a moment ago. Wasnât there half a year prior.
Elain looked away, and swallowed. Hard.
Here she was, thinking about never accepting a gift from the Shadowsinger, months at end, while he had to go and shatter that notion by simply making the necklace look significantly paler in comparison.
This male was killing her.
Because Azriel hadnât just troubled himself to encompass her essence in sound, no.
Heâd handcrafted these anklets from scratch. Spent weeks on them. Studied an entire culture to get it right.
Human culture.
A legacy she would always hold dear, for there was mortal blood warming her veins. And a heart full of human hope. Foolish, foolish hope.
No one had ever put such effort.
Never in boring, old Elain.
But he said, âElain.â
Like grief and prayer and poetry alike.
Mother give me strength.
In a measly attempt to hold herself back, her fists curled in from breaking all semblance of remaining boundaries between them, ones theyâd been gently poking and prodding for a while now.
In, in, in went her nails, digging hard.
Azriel clocked it. For whatever reason, that seemed to unsettle him even more.
Elain hadnât known she was clenching her jaw until the Shadowsinger pleaded, soft like the very ache that stayed, pulsed,
âPlease. Say something.â
The self-doubt in his tone squeezed the thing in her chest. Tightness evaporated from her muscles.
âI . . . am overcome.â
She watched his throat bob, watched him nod like he wasnât the one faebane tipped arrow that could completely uproot her being.
âGood overcome.â
Mother only knows why that clarification was necessary, like she wasnât already a fool for putting herself in his line of fire again.
Emotion warped her existence, regardless.
There was nothing to say beyond, âThank you.â
You will not cry.
You will not cry.
So she cracked a solemn smile instead. âI shall . . . I will see to it that it is treasured.â
Forevermore, she wanted to add.
But even fools ran out of bravery.
Something unreadable flashed through his eyesâtoo many emotions, too many thoughts she couldnât read todayâbefore relief flooded front and centre. Azriel let his shoulders sag a little, allowed his mirth to reluctantly bloom.
âWould you like to . . . â The sentence dwindled like her confidence that hadnât been the same since that night.
The male appeared thoughtful, as if reminiscing the exact set of words sheâd bestowed, demanded of him.
Azriel smiled.
âWould I like to put it on you?â
Right on the mark.
A slow nod.
That smile voltage upped into a hint of a grin, and he said, quiet as night, âYes. Always yes.â
How the roles had reversed.
Similar crossroads but utterly different paths.
This time less secrets stood in their way.
This time there were no misunderstandings.
No Rhys.
Yet . . . a tender, fragile sort of reticence remained that wasnât there last time. Almost as if rushing it could break the spell, a chance none of them were willing to take.
Elain flushed while handing him the anklets and the jute sachet, deliberately brushing her pinky alongside his knuckles.
Azriel shifted closer on instinct.
It was a dance they knew well.
Were well-versed in.
Thisâgravity.
And hopefully, they wouldnât step on each otherâs toes this time.
Elain outstretched her left foot, lifting her skirts, milky white skin ready for his taking. Claiming. One might call it scandalous but proprietary had always hindered itself for him.
Tucking away the sachet in his armour, he kneeled down on one knee slowly, eyes transfixed by her brown doe-shaped ones.
What a sight he was.
The master torturer, the executioner of the Night Court. Myth and terror alike, kneeling for her. Ageless death on his knees before the curious fawn.
Then, a gravelled whisperâ
âMay I?â
Like she was Holy and touching her feet would cleanse the blood right off his hands. Like, for once in his life, he wanted to reach.
He wanted.
Who would tell him those very hands had unknowingly pulled her out of abysmal grief many a times?
Who would tell him she wanted right back?
Urging her foot forward, she whispered, âPleaseâ, unaware of the thread that was being woven there. A destiny shifting.
Reluctant in its pursuit, his deliberate gaze slid down her figure.
She had layers of clothing on, butâ
Nose. Mouth. Neck.
It burned everywhere he looked.
Chest. Navel. Hips.
It sizzled everywhere he stopped.
A shaky breath unburdened his chest as he soaked in the expanse of her exposed skin, the gentle descent of her bone. His thumb involuntarily stroked the hump of her ankle. One phantom touch, barely even there. Fleeting.
And instantlyâ
Lightning up her spine.
Shock so evident, a corner of his mouth tugged upward.
Azriel tenderly rounded the neck of her foot. Cool metal slid in its place. Itâs rightful place. The weight of it was grounding yet freeing.
Those dainty bells tinkled through the silence, sound hauntingly identical to the pint-sized garden wind chime sheâd hung on his windowsill a few weeks ago.
Elain couldnât understand music like her sisters, but she loved that wind chime. Loved listening to it while gardening. It brought her a sense of peace, a momentary reprieve from her thoughts that no living being could facilitate.
And sheâd given it to him, a device offered in good faith to help him sleep. Ward off unwanted thoughts. Anchor him when he couldnât.
âThis sounds like . . . â
Disbelief seemed to be the theme this evening.
Elain shook her head. âNo, it must be aââ
âMistake?â
Azriel cut in, tender yet heartbreaking, without looking at her. Like he truly understood the weight of the pain heâd made her carry. One heâd carried himself.
âLove,â his whispered endearment was nothing short of a small tragedy, âwe both know Iâve long forsaken that word in all its entirety.â
A beat of silence.
And another.
âSo, the . . . wind chime,â she whispered back.
Azriel let out a low hum.
âThe wind chime.â
Such casual words. Casually cruel.
But his hands shook.
And Elain didnât dare speak anymore, for the coffin was open, and her feelings were desperate to flee, just as casually as heâd said wind chime.
He took his time getting that clasp though, not that she minded it in the least.
The subtle brush of his fingertips.
Bumps and ridges of charred skin.
Those featherlight scrapes of his nails.
It felt exquisite.
Touching and feeling and admiring.
He did the same to her other foot.
It mustâve been eons when Azriel murmured, voice gentle as twilight, âThere.â
When had her hands leaned down to support herself on his shoulders?
How long had he been staring at her with those eyes?
Oxygen seemed scarce all of a sudden.
Elain moved to retrieve her involuntary decisions from his body.
How dare you, hands.
But they didnât move.
How could they?
One moment her fingers lay flat on his clothed frame unwarranted, and the other . . . Azrielâs hands were atop hers, encasing them. Stopping her.
Bare skin. Blatant touching.
Him initiating a touch.
Canât. Breathe.
Slow, like torture written by poets at a wake, Azriel Shadowsinger stood to his full height, towering over her. The Seer craned her neck, a delicious stretch, their hands still on his shoulders.
This wasnât in the script last time.
It wasnât in any scripts written by him.
Slowly, surely, his thumb caressed her knuckles. One smooth swipe.
And unlike the reverence on her ankles, this one was deliberate, molten lava. It travelled straight to her core, injecting a fresh dose of adrenaline in her veins.
âWhat are we doing?â Whispering seemed paramount for some reason.
Sunset glow of the lantern shifted the dunes on his face. Made her want to graze her knuckles down his jaw. Made him look leaner, sharper. Crueler.
But his eyes.
His unguarded sand-coloured eyes, windows to his soul, sang stories of worship. Want. Need. Fireworks of green and blue and orange seemed to explode in there.
It was like peeking into a mirror.
Azriel leaned down, and her jaw slacked in answer. The action drew the attention of his burning gaze, momentarily flickering to her lips and back.
One taste would all it take.
One temptingâ
Thump. Thump.
Her heart throbbed.
That mole on his left ear.
Shine of his lush pink lips.
Slender nose.
Elain wasnât sure where to look.
Because space disappeared, the closer and closer he inched.
And so did her rationale.
Thump. Thump.
His warm breath fanned her face, like she was his very patience and relief.
Right there, he halted centimetres away from coming home.
Yes, take me, she wanted to say.
Take everything, she wished to scream.
Right there, he lingered, eyes seeking acquiescence, testing her limits.
Tempting her to bridge the gap.
If he waited one more secondâ
âJump,â He whispered.
Wait.
What?
âI want to test if the clasps hold,â Azriel gave her a slow, knowing grin, âJump.â
Tease.
He was teasing her.
Teetering on the verge of jumping him, Elain found her paper thin restraint and blinked profusely, jolting out of her stupor.
The scents of their arousals intermingled, both of theirs, yet deep red marred the apple of her cheeks, and he just grinned.
Who was this stranger?
âOh, erm,â She inhaled sharply, tightening her hold on his shoulders, âRight.â
Letting his hands fall to his sides, he suppressed an amused sound, and straightened up. âUse my shoulders to push yourself up as hard as you can.â
Azriel knew exactly what he was doing.
Still, Elain did what he asked, face flaming hot the entire time. The soft cacophony of her new accessories echoed through the valley.
She squeaked, âYour handiwork seems to hold, Shadowsinger,â afraid that if she said Azriel out loud, perhaps, heâd know sheâd been chanting his name instead of breathing.
He should not be privy to all her secrets, now, should he?
Inviting more distance between them, Elain faced the field, summoning composure. Not once did she spare him a glance.
âBut anklets are counterproductive to spying, wouldnât you say?â
Cool, calm, collected.
Breathe.
âYouâve gotten way too good at sneaking around, Iâm afraid,â He deadpanned, coming to stand at her back, the heat of him searing.
But he did not touch her again.
âIs that so?â
He hummed. âCanât have you startling me left and right.â
âPlease, that was one time.â
âTell that to the sharpening stone you made me chip.â
A soft, graceful, helpless laugh clawed up her throat.
âSo?â The intonation was thrown over her shoulder. âThis is the bell Iâm supposed to wear as your cattle now?â
âYou think so little of me.â He wasnât wounded at all.
âAnd youâre deflecting.â
âNot as my cattle, no,â He acquiesced, the rumble of his quiet chuckle a delight against her ear, âBut perhaps as myââ
Azriel caught himself.
A slip of tongue.
Elain inclined her head, just a little.
âYes?â
That one word held so much hope, it was pathetic.
âCat.â He cleared his throat and with it, the truth. âA cat.â
Facing ahead once again, Elain tried not to reveal her slight disappointment when she softly mused, âShame. I identify as an owl.â
A quiet laugh.
Do you know I pocket your laughs like you pocket rare sounds?
She shouldâve said it.
Your laugh is my wind chime. My anklet.
It wouldâve been so easy to say it.
âWhat I meant was,â Azriel tried again, âyou can wear them when youâre home, and not working.â
âIf it was meant to be a punishment, you could have just said so.â
âItâs not.â
âIt is when us and ânot workingâ arenât synonymous.â
She heard him shake his head, probably smiling at her dry humour. Perhaps, conversation had dulled his curtain of nerves from before.
âArenât you going to run?â Az asked all of a sudden.
Elain stilled.
âThrough . . . the field?â
Sheâd rather take a lap of that field than give into this ungovernable urge to lean back into his arms. Risk temptation again.
And should she just lean backâ
âYour words, your call.â He added coolly, presuming her silence for reluctance, a double edged sword of reminder and choice. Always a choice with him.
But she heard that innocuous nudge in his tone.
One that beckoned come and play.
Come and seek what you want.
A memory resurfaced, of herself many moons ago, an Elain who dreamt of flower beds and prairies. Wind and meadows.
Freedom.
âHave you seen those grey horses in the fields? With the long mane? They run unlike any creature Iâve witnessed.â Sheâd once mused. A wine induced rambling. Or maybe itâd been what she liked to call the Zee Effect.
âWind gypsies?â Hazel eyes had never looked sharper.
She remembered fidgeting.
Feeling utterly naked under his gaze.
âI would like to be one. I meanânot be one. But, run like one. If I had a field. Run and run and run for miles with my hair down. Let go of everything and everyone and just . . . â
At that very horrible moment, itâd struck her how those were the very first words sheâd deigned him in months.
Not a no, thank you or a detached hello.
But real words.
Still. The male finished her sentence like he hadnât broken her heart that one Solstice night, like he finished her sentences all the time.
â . . . just exist?â
Dumbfounded, sheâd nodded. Nodded like a petulant child who forgot how to hold a grudge dwindled by the lure of some irresistible sweets.
And irresistible sweets, he was.
Blinking away the recollection, Elain sighed.
âHere I hoped youâd forgotten that.â
In an equally low murmur, he granted her a truth, probably grateful he didnât have to look her in the eye while saying it. âYou could take my memory and I would still remember everything you say.â
Her pulse skipped.
Mustâve skipped a several beats if she was suddenly feeling unmoored.
âWell then, keepâ keep pretending it never happened.â
Coy. Play it coy.
He shrugged. âI cannot.â
Translationânot anymore.
No more pretending.
Just waiting for courage.
The crickets chirped in the background.
âBut I can close my eyes if youâre shy.â Az cajoled with a tenderness not many received.
Despite his comical tone, she knew, without a doubt, he would. He would close his eyes if need be. A big feat for an assassin spy since the male slept with one eye open.
âWe travelled all the way here.â
âSneaked out, you mean.â Elain dared to spare him a glance at last.
âYes, and weâre not leaving without fulfilling all its purposes.â
A wry gasp escaped her. âThis is why you were keen to come, werenât you? Watch me run like a horse.â
âCatching on early.â He joked, blatantly lying.
They both knew he was here because sheâd asked. Made that meekânow near-impossibleârequest two weeks ago before the mission.
Near-impossible because Vallahan officials had been running them ragged with demands and parties and curfews and winnow-locks. There were eyes and ears everywhere, suspicion just a footstep away, and nearly no time to sightsee. Especially during the day.
But none of that mattered.
For this male had made it happen. Heâd brought her here. No questions asked. Not even a little why.
Elain fought the urge to palm the vial sheâd hid in her cloak, a secret thatâd burned there for years, and embraced the new wave of gratitude that washed over her.
For Azriel.
âIâm closing my eyes in ten, nine, eight . . . â
Gods.
Her heart ached just staring at him, the colouring under his eyes, the stress lines on his temples. What it mustâve cost him to bring her to this haven. To make those anklets.
She wondered if he ever got tired of not thinking about himself.
âYou go first.â Elain blurted.
Fulfilling all its purposes he said?
This was hers.
Help him off the leash.
She may not need much anymore, she realized, having found some of it inside, but perhaps, he did.
Release.
âYou want . . . me to run?â
She could hear his hackles hit his hairline, much less see, but his shadows disappeared completely.
âThe . . . the field has bright insects in them.â
What in the name of Mother was that excuse?
She wasnât scared of insects at all.
You garden for a living, an inside voice chastised.
But to her benefit, Azriel threw his head back and laughed. Laughed. That rare kind of crackle, one that flashed the whites of his teeth, those notorious craters digging up his cheeks. Loud, hearty, wild.
Somehow, he made it look graceful.
âLantern flies,â He bit his lip, âThey donât bite.â
âWhat about a snake?â
âSo you want me to get bit?â
âThe word is inspect. Inspect the field.â The more she spoke, the more ridiculous it sounded.
Why canât I lie when itâs with him.
âDeceptive. I knew you wanted to get rid of me for Solstice.â
âThat isnâtâ I donâtââ
And just because he could, Azriel laughed again, virtually free of any unnecessary weights. âRelax. I jest.â
She tilted her head. Pointed a finger. And said âYouââ only to collapse into a fit of low chuckles.
He was contagious.
Dangerous.
Something soft passed between them, a familiar sort of charge. Unspoken words exchanged. No outward communication necessary.
Azriel grinned, and unbuttoned his cloak, divesting it off his shoulders, letting it pool at his feet.
Another weightâgone.
Elain sketched a slight brow.
A demure shrug was his only response.
So she removed hers, mirroring him.
âAnd if my natural predators attack me,â That rare dimple made him look centuries younger, âwhat will you do?â
âA lady never interrupts a feast.â Her mouth twitched.
Azriel walked backwards to the field without taking his eyes off her, hands behind his back, a portrait of lazy, gentlemanly charm.
âApologies, forgot my manners for a bit.â
Elain bit her lip. âIâm right behind you.â
Heâs really doing this.
The male turned around and muttered, âHope a lady never breaks promises too.â
And just like that, the Spymaster that wore guilt like perfume, and paranoia a ribbon around his throat, constantly clocking and analyzing and waiting for Deathâ
That Spymaster eased up.
Instead, this stranger awoke.
This male who took off into the navy vastness.
Arms bracing.
Wind combing through locks.
Fireflies rising in his wake.
All because she said so.
Perhaps, heâd been awake this entire time, far longer than her notice. Crawling underneath. Bidding in time against a penance he someday decided not to pay.
Perhaps, heâd been awake, and the Seer had simply been blind.
So, Elain looked, and looked, and looked, frozen in space, skirts flowing.
If the tulips were gorgeous, and the ankletsâbrilliant, there was no word for this. Perhaps, gorgeousness and brilliance couldnât even begin to define otherworldliness.
And this was a vision worthy of inking its permanence behind her eyelids, for all of eternity. Elain knew, then and there, sheâd come back to sit in this memory, spend hours meandering, admiring the glimpses of a boy that shouldâve been. That is.
Who is this stranger?
A shadow gushed.
Azriel looked back once.
Just once.
Probably making sure she was still there, safe. Force of habit. And even though there was an ocean full of words left unsaid, hurdles to crack, choices to makeâthat one look was enough for now, she decided.
Who is he, who is he, who is he
Utterly weightless, yet the proof of his devotion anchoring her feet all the same, Elain couldnât help but whisper,
â . . . mine.â
He just didnât know it yet.
Azriel heard shuffling behind him, the gentle shrill of her anklets going cham, cham, cham against the grass bed.
Every beat of her footsteps accompanied by the low hum of his shadows.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Over and over again.
Were they his secrets or hers?
There was no time to thinkâ
âBlimey! WHOâS THERE?!â
The land guard.
Great.
Heâd spied one sleeping on his way here, and sent his shadows to knock him out for extra measure.
Didnât think heâd wake up so soon.
Weight crashed into his back, steering him off the narrow raised path, and sent them tumbling sideways into a bed of tulipsâElain toppling over him.
Pressing into his groin.
âElaiââ Something covered his mouth. âmmph.â
âShhhh,â she hissed softly.
Only then he registered her hand on his mouth, scent of honeyed jasmine invading his senses. So potent that Azriel forgot how to breathe.
âSomeone knows.â
Her hand. His mouth.
Scent. Crotch.
Fuck.
But he grunted, âmmphm.â
Blue light of his siphons careened off her face, shifting the humour there from funny to devastating. âThis is all your fault.â
Azriel raised his temples just a pinch. âmph-fhmph?â
âI think your anklets gave us away.â
âmhp-anphleph. Rymph.â
Never in a million years could he have thought heâd be having a full blown conversation muffled in a ditch.
But here he was, savouring the weight of her bones. The feel of her heartbeat.
Not planning an escape route like he always did.
Not even trying to disengage himself from her.
What in the Cauldron is wrong with you?
The answer evaporated into thin air when she sobered up, wheezed, âHe came out of nowhere.â
On cue, the land guard bellowed, âWHO ARE YE? SHOW YEâSELVES!â
It was obvious he hadnât recognized them yet. One look and Elain seemed to gather the same.
Faint yellow glow. Dull, lagging thuds. A rough lilt.
By that alone, Azriel could tell he was a middle aged Vallaharian with a limp in his gait. Heâd picked up their forgotten lantern for luminance. Probably a sickle for a weapon based on what his shadows had tallied on the grounds earlier.
âHeâs coming closer.â Her eyes were saucers. âWe canât winnow. If you stand, heâll notice your wings. If I move, heâll hear the anklets. Oh dear gods. And if you knock him outâyour shadows. Chances are heâll know.â
There was no time to process the pride that flared in his chest, at how quickly she analyzed the circumstances despite having only weeks of training.
âElaymââ
âWhy did we think this was a good idea?â They were all but whispering at this point. âI shouldnât have asked you to bring me herââ
Cauldron knows what overcame him, but that panic, that sheer look of uncertainty on her face?
He decided that was an abomination.
It did not belong there. Ever.
So Azriel did the first thing that came to mind, the only thing really, andâ
Kissed the inside of her palm.
One gentle peck. Delivered with a world full of reverence and reassurance.
Mind-numbing quietude greeted him.
Brave? Yes.
Foolish? One-hundred percent.
But she settled, crumbling into his chest like a set of brittle bones falling apart. As did his thoughts, one by one, before nothing remained but dust. Ruin.
Youâre not worthy of her.
Dust.
Stain. What a stain.
Dust.
She will never feel for a corpse.
Dust.
He was ruined, Azriel realized.
Realized it wasnât even a real kiss, but the holiness of their locked gazes, the heat of his lips a furnace against her skin. Brown and hazel drowning in the depths of a nameless acheâa nameless God theyâd both long submitted toâ
Cauldron boil me alive.
The guard. The stars. The crushed tulips at their backs.
Everything seemed a world away.
Azriel lingered longer than he deserved, feeling her heartbeat race against the shape of his mouth. His soul. Each tremor a delicious jolt straight down to his crotch. He was pretty sure she could hear him too, sense him quaver.
Feel him stand at painful attention by her thigh.
Remove her hand, something raged.
He didnât.
Do it.
Lift your fingers.
Pull her hand down.
He couldnât.
The last of his courage had been bravely expended on the audacity it took to trap her hands against his shoulders earlier. Willingly.
Azriel wished if he could rent another body, be someone else who didnât have to fight an internal war everytime he truly vied something.
If only he could just remove her hand andâ
One, two, three seconds he stayed. Nine, ten, eleven hours he took to recede. To calm himself. A near impossible task.
But then arose the monster from his ashes, like it always did when he initiated contact.
When Azriel took without asking.
It caught up to him, lashing every vile insult at the boy who only ever begged for sunshine.
Azriel let Elain go, just as tenderly as heâd come.
Colour crept up both their necks, hot and intense. Logic was next as Azriel slowly lowered her hand, wishing it was to crush his mouth against hers. Prayed he didnât sound as shaken as he felt.
âSound shield.â
Why did she always forget about the sound shield?
âJust put it on. My shadows will cover us. All we have to do is stay hidden until he leaves.â
Overflowing in contingency plans was literally his job title.
Understanding dawned upon her. Elain reluctantly retracted her arm, body falling to his side, still in a dwam of what just happened.
She wasnât touching him anymore.
Air breached his lungs at last.
So thenâ
What was this bitterness?
âI . . . â
Elain failed at words.
Do you know something?
A drawer opened in his mind.
So many coffers to empty.
I once forgot an entire intelligence report.
Five hundred, six hundred, he counted.
I once flew into a wall.
So many things, shoved in here.
Azriel lowered his eyes.
Because you looked at me.
Maybe one day.
When heâd have chased all his monsters away.
When this bosom wouldnât just be a tomb.
When Iâm a better male for her.
When. Not if.
âThere was no point in bringing the lantern, but,â Elain said, catching her breath, âI managed to grab our cloaks.â
Azriel felt himself tense. âIâm sorry I left it thereââ
âThatâs two times already today.â Her eyes danced, âYou do know what happens on the third, right?â
How could he forget.
Loser had to take a day off.
And none of them had ever lost.
âDonât apologize. It was my idea, the running bet,â Elain assured quietly, âIâm sorry for pushing you.â
âCOME OUT THIEF!â The voice of the wandering guard.
They ignored him.
The Shadowsinger had stopped blinking a while ago, out of fear of missing the disgust on her face. Judgement for making mistakes. Anything.
None came.
In the world of information, heâd been conditioned to consider kindness two faced, and compassion a myth. It used to bother him for a while, that no judgment ever came from her.
How could you have left evidence behind?
What an irony that, no matter what, criticism always came from within.
Careless. Worthless. Useless.
Number of names.
A brand of less.
He was tired.
So, so tired.
The shadows around them thickened, his face vanishing in and out of absolute blackness. And in that blacknessâ
Her anklets rang.
Azriel blinked.
Like an arrow cutting through fog, it reached him. Scythia. The pandit. His teachings. Twenty three days of silence. Of sitting with himself and his thoughts.
He remembered the wind chime. That anchoring sound thatâd pulled him out of countless nightmares and panic episodes.
He focused on that sound.
The knowledge that nothing could kill him in this body. Not when his heart was cuffed around her ankles.
The knowledge that the kind female whoâd gifted him this rare, ephemeral reckoning was right here.
Still here. Despite his mistakes, his issues.
So he fought himself, fought everything that he was and made to be, as heâd been doing unconsciously since the day he saw her white-knuckling that fork, and breathed,
âYou didnât.â
His voice was a shallow gasp but Elain heard it. Stared like she wasnât expecting an acknowledgment at all. Of course, she wasnât. Azriel had made a fortune over hedging.
âYou didnât push me.â
The female opened her mouth and shut it several times, reading between the lines.
âI KNOW I SAW YE!â
The cries of the guard. The squeak of his lantern.
It reverberated so close, Azriel froze.
What a nuisance.
The vallaharian seemed to pass right by them.
And utterly failed to notice their forms, just like Az had predicted, curtesy of the cocoon of shadows pulsing around them, cobalt light of his siphons their sole company in the dark.
Not that they needed to worry. Light couldnât penetrate his shadows both ways.
âHad I imagined it?â The male seemed to mutter.
Elainâs eyes widened.
As if to say heâs talking to himself.
â . . . pissed before goinâ to bed.â He continued, âShouldnât have woken at this hour. Probably pulling insanity . . . â
Blue gleamed off her pupils as the female beside him choked on a barely contained laugh.
He woke up to urinate?
She mouthed despite the sound shield.
Her energy infectious, the gravity of her so strong, Azriel couldnât help the sound that almost forsake him. A low snicker, he realized.
Could anybody tell heâd been spiralling just sixty seconds ago? That he wasnât dissolving into a petty brood over some silly mistakes or things out of his control?
How? You knocked him out, that minuscule dimple in her forehead implied.
If it wasnât for this odd predicament, Azriel knew she wouldâve rolled all over the ground, then apologized to the tulips for going berserk on them.
Mustâve been a big one, he mouthed back, irresistible to her pull.
Shoulders shaking, she slapped a hand over her mouth.
Finally, the valley guard sauntered away, back in the direction of his hut. And as soon as he was a good distance out,
Elain burst into tears.
And it was the sound of her joy that stringed him along. To crinkle his eyes, his leash, and . . . smile.
She laughed, and he just looked at her, this soft, goofy happiness finding home on his face. Like a vagabond finding shelter. All he could do was relish in the sound.
Her laughter was the most valuable sound of all.
It existed, so he did.
And if somehow he made it exist?
You make my failures look like wins.
âThat was . . . â Elain wiped her lashes.
Feeling a rare wave of contentment hit, Azriel chuckled, âThat was.â
âUnbelievable.â Elain snickered softly, so unladylike. Free. But she knew she was safe here from judgement. As was he. âPerhaps, now I might look at these ankle bracelets and remember the time a minder broke out of unconsciousness to pee.â
âAh,â Azriel clicked his tongue, âMy anklets that gave us away, if Iâm not mistaken?â
She elbowed his rib lightly, grinning. âTheyâre mine now.â
His blood warmed.
Shadows dissipated.
I wish I was yours too.
The thought came unbidden.
Azriel hadnât planned to give them to her today, hadnât planned at all, the anklets, but that awe on her face was so blinding, so utterly overwhelming, that he forgot everything but her and the vow heâd been carrying around for months at end.
So today, heâd given a piece of kindness back. Along with the rest of his battered self.
It was surrender.
She just didnât know it yet.
Lying side by side, they looked at each other, fire flies, siphons, and stars providing minimal light, but enough.
Enough to see the smile that stripped them bare.
He couldnât wait for the day to tell her what it meant for a maleâa man to give a woman of his choosing, anklets. What it means in the culture they descend from.
But today, seeing her wear them, was more than anything heâd ever hoped for.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
A steady, reassuring beat.
Perhaps, they were his secrets, although calling her his felt like a crime in and of itself. Like a beggar asking for more than his fill.
Or may it be that mine was the sound of his new sacred heartbeat? An extraordinary proof of his rite of initiation.
âYouâre going to apologize to the tulips now, arenât you?â
He found himself murmuring into the night, lips twitching.
âOh my . . . â
A hand went up to her mouth.
âOh my gods.â
Looking around, Elain stood up, dusting her skirts.
âI . . . completely crushed the tulips!â
Azriel lay flat over some of them, chuckling quietly to himself.
âDonât shake your head!â She shrieked, keeping her lilt soft on purpose. âStand upâyouâre crushing them too!â
Before Azriel knew what was happening, Elain took his hand, and pulled. Pulled him up, body malleable to her whims. Like she owned him. Like she had a right to him.
She did.
With or without those anklets, she did.
The female fussed over the flowers, apologizing and cooing like he knew she would, completely unaware of what was conspiring.
That her hand was still in his.
His mouth went dry.
Please donât let go.
Bare skin on skin felt sublime.
He rarely ever got to enjoy such a liberty without his thoughts plaguing him.
But with her?
Blank.
His mind was utterly blank.
The third time today.
Every single time.
Just as swiftly as itâd come, his wishful thinking let him down, and Elain released his scarred fingers, crouching down to fix the bent plants.
Azriel stared at his hand long after.
Flexed it so many times he lost count.
Didnât know how long heâd zoned out on it, for Elain was suddenly waving in front of him.
âWe should leave.â
Azriel snapped out. âYou want to head back?â
She nodded. âBefore anymore unwelcome guests surprise us. Or someone sounds the alarm back at the guest house.â
TranslationâI didnât realize how big of a risk we were taking.
âBut we didnât fulfill any of our purposes.â A wrinkle appeared on his forehead. âYou didnât even get to run through the field.â
Lie.
Two of his biggest ones had been checked off his list. He just needed her toâ
âHow do you think I got to you?â
âThat does not count,â His frown deepened, squinting against the breeze.
Stay, he wanted to say.
âYour hair wasnât unbound.â
Stay with me.
Sweet laughter flowed out of her.
âYou really wish to see me channel my inner stallion, donât you?â
âI wish for you to stop worrying.â Stay with me. âWhat do I always say? Worry onceââ
âSuffer twice. I know.â
One mischievous current blew out a strand of her hair.
Azriel subdued the urge to tuck it behind her ear. And for once, once said what he was actually thinking.
âStop worrying, and stay.â
Just a few more hours.
He could only hope his subtle glance at the bundle in her arms, the bundle of their cloaks, was just that. Subtle.
Elain opened her mouth in light protest. âIf they find out weâre goneââ
âThen,â Azriel cut in gently, âTheyâll find a parchment informing we had an emergency, and had to leave for home.â
It was last day of their mission anyway.
The treaty had been signed. All political obligations, fulfilled.
âWhat about winnowing? We canât winnow out of Vallahan if weâre not on their palace grounds.â
Stubborn, clever female.
âWe can fly.â Azriel simply offered a smile. âWeâll fly to the border and winnow from there. Iâve already gleaned how far it is.â
For her, his patience was perpetual. Bottomless.
Heâd solve all puzzles, acknowledge any questions, if she was his answer. His parentheses.
âYouâve . . . â
A beat of silence.
And another.
âYouâve thought of everything.â She surmised quietly, finally recognizing they couldnât go back, no matter what.
The royal guard was most likely already aware of their absence, and Azriel had made sure they not bring any belongings to begin with, knowing everything would be readily available at the guest houseâcurtesy of Morâs intel.
There was nothing on their person except the anklets, the weapons andâ
Hazel gaze flickered to the cloaks once again. Lingered this time.
Elain shivered.
Shadowsinger moved before he could think, gently tugging on one of the identical fabrics from her hold. Feeling her gaze burn the side of his face, he willed steel into his fingers, and draped the cloth around her with ease.
âHow long have you been planning this?â A quiet inquisition.
She let him button up her cloak in silence.
Pull up her hood.
âThis is why you insisted we bring no luggage.â
Elain was coming to all the right conclusions.
My clever, clever flower.
Still avoiding her eye, he mumbled, âMor helped. With the information.â
Sudden incredulous laughter shook her.
âI see.â
He met her eyes.
Softness gleamed there.
âIf we stay,â She announced, âweâll need another lantern.â
Azriel released an innocuous breath.
âI can fly us to the other side of the valley.â
For miles and miles . . . nothing but tulips.
That was what her father had claimed, a long time ago. Climate so right, they could bloom even in the ripe month of June.
âYou were wrong.â
Elain whispered onto the wind, standing right in the middle of said bloom half an hour later.
âEverywhere I look . . . â
Breathing in the warm petrichor mixed with the scent of night-chilled mist and cedar, she inclined her head towards the sky.
âThere is only you.â
The horizons melted into a sea of glitter, making it look like the flowers were taking off to heaven.
She hoped theyâd reach him.
Can you see me too?
As if in answer, a gentle breeze ruffled through the wisps of her golden-brown hair.
Elain smiled.
âWe made it, Father.â Her voice was coarse. âYou took me to the tulip fields, just like you had promised.â
Or rather that sheâd brought him with her, in a small glass vial full of his ashes. Ashes sheâd collected in the wee hours after the War with Hybern.
All three sisters had agreed to scatter his cremated remains in Velaris. Build an epitome there. But Elain couldnât help feel like she owed him that promise, even if it wasnât hers to fulfill. Selfishly have one last moment alone with him.
And this was it.
This was where the final piece of him could rest. Forever amongst the flowers. Somewhere familiar.
Reaching into her left cloak pocket, she tried for the tube.
Empty.
How odd.
Frantic, she pushed into the other sleeve. But instead, caught onto aânote. Nothing but a note. Only then she realized, this wasnât her cloak.
It was Azrielâs.
No wonder it smelled like him.
Which means the Spymaster was currently doing a parameter check of the grounds wearing hers.
Cauldron.
Squinting into the abyss, her eyes searched for his lean shadow. She could only pray he didnât check the pockets, for lying was out of question, if earlier tonight was any indication. And itâd be embarrassing to explain why sheâd been walking around with someoneâs remains, let alone for two years straight.
âAzriel?â
Soft.
So soft.
Not because she shouldnât be shouting, but because it was his name.
No answer.
Perhaps, he hadnât left a listening shadow behind.
Elain redirected her attention to the note in her hands, crouched down by the freshly stolen lantern to examine it better.
A tiny piece of worn out paper folded into fours.
It looked old.
Atleast a couple years old.
Could it be the Continentâs map? Directions?
Curiosity peaked her interest. One of the most basic rules of espionage was to never carry any personal effects on your person that could identify you or your purpose, incase of an arrest.
Not that Azriel would ever break it. He wasnât the Spymaster of the Night Court for no reason. Based on that deduction alone, the note had to be something of no significance or not easily decipherable.
Despite knowing she shouldnât, Elain opened it.
Neat handwriting winked back at her.
Sheâd recognize it anywhereâAzrielâs font.
It seemed like . . .
A list.
Tulip fields. Reasons to go.
Azriel had made a list.
Reasons to go.
Tulip fields.
Elain hiccuped.
Reasons to go.
Tulip. Fields.
With each deliberate read, her pulse sped.
Dated in August, an array of handwriting styles and colours littered the page, suggesting the notes had been jolted down at different points in time, in different moods since she knew Azâs font often changed with how stressed he was. Cursive for relaxed. Spaced out for tensed.
Drums rang in her ears.
There. Two dots beside the heading.
As if heâd stopped to ponder.
Sheâll smile. Anklets.
World narrowed on the first, and shattered on the latter, when Elain noticed that strike through, as if heâd second guessed himself too much to warrant that question mark not enough.
Himself not enough.
In the right corner there was a word scratched out, something that didnât make sense.
Nothing made sense.
Azriel had made a list.
The more she took in, the more specific it got. References to conversations sheâd had today. Weeks ago.
Give her a field to run.
Arenât you going to run?
Make sure her hair is down.
Your hair wasnât unbound.
It mustâve been an earthquake shaking her. Her coffin full of feelings which lay wide open now. For one of them, one desperate clusterâ
Fled.
For here rested too many recollections.
Too many secrets.
Too muchâ
Fatherâs ashes.
Her heart just . . . stopped.
Thump, thump, nothing.
Where was air?
What was air?
Ashes. Ashes. Ashes.
Frantic eyes snagged on this impossible piece of information, over and over again, until her vision blurred. What a kindness. Tears always blur truths when they get too overwhelming. Too obvious to ignore. Too much.
How?
No matter how much her brain processed, heart bled, it only ever came to one conclusion:
Azriel knew.
He had to have known all along.
Had to have seen her on that battlefield. Utterly alone in the night, cleaving her heart out and then tucking it in with her own bloody hands.
Because that was the only way heâd have known since Elain had neither bothered to ever disclose this secret, nor had she made it obvious. The remains were packed in a vial that couldâve easily passed as a headache powder, for mothers sake.
Suddenly, it made sense. Him pushing to sneak out here last minute, take a risk, plan everything perfectly.
Her knees gave out.
Elain kneeled forward, falling out of her crouch. Utterly defeated by a piece of paper, four reasons, and one wish.
One wish to take her to the fields.
Simply because heâd known what it meant to her.
Because Azriel had made a list.
She couldnât take it anymore. Her restraint had taken too many blows, four blows too many, and that coffin just . . . collapsed.
Sheâll smile. Sheâll smile. Sheâll smile.
Every single feeling sheâd ever buried for him, for this male who had planned and waited and longedâ
It took to open skies.
If her calculations were correct, heâd carried this hopeless reminder of what couldnât be for years. It had changed pockets and homes.
Right alongside her.
What a tragedy to not have had courage sooner. To not have known she was never alone. Never judged.
Justâseen. Desperately.
So desperately that someone would make a list of all the dreams they wanted to fulfill for her.
So desperately that they would ask for nothing in return.
Footsteps echoed behind her.
Azriel.
He was letting her know of his presence, well aware the master of stealth didnât need sound unless he wanted to showcase it.
âI heard you,â A twig snapped as he stepped closer, âI left a shadow behind to . . . Elain?â
The Seer gathered herself, piece by piece.
Blinked the tears away.
Folding the note, she surreptitiously slid it back into the cloak, as if her hands werenât her own. Her mouth wasnât her own, when she said,
âStop.â
He stilled at her command. Instantly. No questions asked.
Taking in a steadying breath, Elain stood and faced her demons. This wandering spirit thatâd been plaguing them, waiting in its quiet ache.
It was time to acknowledge it.
It was time to sit with it.
âStop right there,â She breathed.
The Shadowsinger was still a good distance away, but she saw him blink. Once. Though he did not move, taking her word for law.
âSay I take your memory,â came out of her mouth, completely and utterly out of nowhere.
âElain?â
She could hear the frown in his voice.
He must think her succumbing to insanity. Or perhaps another vision.
She wasnât.
For once in her life, Elain Archeron was wide awake.
âNo, I am just . . . â
The female sighed, deeply exhausted by the strain it took to keep fighting her emotions, the words she needed to say.
âYou said if I take your memory, you would still remember everything I say.â
Here she thought he had been bluffing. Joking.
Blinking again, Azriel slowly repeated, âAnd if you,ââhe was too far for her to pinpoint his emotionsââtake my memory?â
Good. She needed to get this out.
Without the Zee Effect.
âHow will you remember?â Counter question.
Silence.
And this silence had teeth.
A several pauses later, she heard him swallow and softly mumble, âYou know.â
Elain nodded, mindless in her pursuit, âYou wrote it down.â
Kept stupidly nodding and nodding to herself.
âYou wrote it down that night I spoke to you the first time.â
The first time after Solstice, dissolving weeks of silence.
âYou wrote it down in Scythia.â
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Angrier and angrier each time.
âYou wrote it down after the War.â
Azrielâs lips parted.
Opened and closed, visibly stunned.
At how fast sheâd figured all of it out.
âIâI heard Feyre talking about it onceââ
âFor some cauldron damning reason, Azriel,â Elain clenched her fists by her sides, âyou wrote it down years ago, and that is how youâll remember.â
âI can explain,â The outline of his chest rose and fell.
Was that helplessness?
Desperation?
âIt makes me wonder if you write down everything I say.â
At that, Azriel seemed to comb through his hair, a nervous tick.
âEvery insignificant detail I hope you forget. Hope itâs aâ a mistake again.â
âNothing isâ fuck,â He broke off to mutter something under his breath, appearing to oscillate between wanting to close the distance between them and scrambling for words.
The Spymaster. Scrambling for words.
âThis just felt more personal. Real.â Despite his tight gravelly baritone, Elain heard him crystal clear. âI needed it to be real. No matter . . . â
Azriel shook his head.
It couldnât get anymore realer than this.
âNothing is insignificant. Not with you. I . . . I remember everything regardless.â
Her head was spinning.
âWhy.â
âYou donât . . . donât want me to say it.â Utterly soft. Heartachingly soft. But more than a scream could ever convey.
âTry.â
The female wished she was a couple steps closer, so she could read his face. Wished she could pinpoint that turmoil for what she hoped it was on his beautifully devastating face.
âBecause,â He tried, and failed.
She waited.
âBecause . . . â His voice cracked this time.
But it was Elain that broke.
Because. Because. Becauseâ
âRight,â came out of her.
âElain, Iââ
âNo, Az. I want you to listen now.â
Because she had heard everything.
In his stutter.
In his silence.
In the isoteric language that was Azriel.
Some things were too mighty for words.
âI am going to walk towards you.â
I am going to make a choice.
Courage was a novelty in her veins, a buzzing euphoria, and she was going to use it, propriety be damned.
Fate be damned.
âBut know that once I will . . . â
He remained silent, shadows weaving anxiously through his hair and torso.
â . . . once I take that step . . . â
Her throat bobbed.
There was no room for fear anymore.
âWe cannot go back.â
Silence lingered.
But in that silence was freedom.
Not running. Not screaming. Not drowning in a bathtub.
This was freedom.
âDo you want me to stay here?â
âElain.â
âYes or no, Az.â
Her fingers shook.
Elain was sure her soul wasnât in her bosom. It was hanging somewhere overhead, helplessly flailing to get back. Zip her mouth. Her oxymoronic self.
But no more.
She was exhausted of fighting the best things in life.
For a second she thought heâd never answer. Or worse: laugh in her face. Shut her down. Something out of her nightmares. And maybe it was one because he said,
âForgive me, Iâmââ
Courage?
Cracked.
And as though one crack was not enough, he drove the point home with an,
âIâmâapologizing.â
No.
Perhaps, sheâd missed something again.
Perhaps, the truth was too ugly, even for the tears this time. For none came.
Not again. Not againâ
âThat makes three apologies.â
Maybe it was her imagination but it came out a tight gasp, as if heâd be struggling to rip the words off from the roof of his mouth. Fighting the very existence of who he was and wasnât yet.
âToday.â
Elain blinked.
Today, he said.
What does that mean?
âWhat Iâve been trying to say and am miserably failing to convey is,â Azriel inhaled sharply, âI donât deserve you, not yet. But I am more selfish than you think, and this isâ is me taking a day off.â
Was this real?
âYouâre . . . taking a day off.â
Out of all the miracles in the day, this seemed too far fetched.
He took a step forward. âYes.â
She suddenly remembered their silly game.
Three apologies means taking a day off.
âThat means . . . â
Wanting him to confirm out loud, Elain held her breath.
And he breathed for her, âIt means, when you take that step, donât walk.â
Another step, and he said, eyes flashing from several feet away like he knew exactly what he was asking for,
âRun.â
Weight receded from her shoulders, her lungs, in an instant relief and she sagged, biting the back of her hands. Like a dam inundating every aspect of her, a burning stab began to gather behind her eyes.
Tears. Finally.
Elain knew her knees would give out again if she didnât act quick.
So she pulled that clip from her hair, letting her curls cascade down her back, making waves in their wake, and declared,
âCheck this one off your list.â
And just like that, Elain threwâthrew that clip over her head, lifted her frocks higher, and ran.
She ran towards him.
Cham. Cham. Cham.
Her anklets sang.
All she heard was yes, yes, yes.
Azriel jogged the other half of the stretch, shadows disappearing.
And as soon as they met in the middle, those nameless Gods beheld in awe, for her hands were on his face, and she was pulling his face down to hers, pausing a second to read the decision in his hooded eyes, the one that screamed kiss me now or I wonât survive, before plunging in head firstâ
No more waiting.
Mouths slotted, hot and desperate, flat against each other.
Azriel let out a slow groan, eyes falling shut. It rippled deliciously down her spine, twining well with the feeling of his reluctant fingers caressing her waist with reverence.
Sensing his hesitance, Elain blindly brought his arms around her, telling him it was okay to touch.
That sheâd waited forever to melt into his skin.
That she was his to take.
Right here. Right now. Right all the time.
Letting loose on the instincts thatâd been going wild since the second sheâd said yes or no, Azriel splayed his fingers there, on her back, making a home and memorizing the feel of her, before gently pulling her close. Impossibly close.
Elain breathed through her nose, sharp and shaky. Felt her joy trail down her cheeks.
His wings came second, snapping shut around the pair, trapping them flush against each other. That cold thumb brushing featherlight swipes at the nape of his neck, the feel of her pebbled breasts against his armourâ
Divine.
Slow and sensual, Elain finally moved her lips, his burning heat swallowing her whole, following her lead. She nipped at his upper lip, patiently jutting it out, dragging the kiss to map the feel of him.
Gods.
Such. Soft. Lips.
Azriel returned her fervour in like, sinking into her pillowy warmth like heâd ached to do so for months. Those gradual, exploratory nips and bites of his teeth arousing a quiet gasp so unlike her, she was practically gaping into his mouth, drowning in a pool of inferno she was sure had pooled down there, ruining her undergarments.
From a slow kiss.
A disobeying hand buried in her curls as he suddenly deepened the kiss, claiming her for himself. Her arousal drifted up, hot and sweet and honeyed, intermingling with his own, this musky scent of jasmine and cedar, for the millionth time today. And here was relief.
Here was home.
With more weight in his moves, Azriel gently nudged her mouth using his tongue, seeking permission, which Elain gladly granted by parting her lips wider. That slow glide of his tongueâsinful heaven. Sucking and teasing and exploring.
Tenderly stepping between her legs, he fused her clothed, molten core to his.
Oh. My.
Red, hot pleasure spiked up her torso, the glaring shape of his cock hard and straining against his leathers. Her heat. Bunching her little hands on the fabric of his armour, the female suppressed a helpless moan.
The Shadowsinger pulled back, just an inch.
Mourning the loss of his mouth, an elixir really, Elain heaved, her chest rising and falling in sync with his. Doe eyes peered up into his blown out ones, frantically trying to find a shadow of discomfort on her face.
He wouldnât spy one.
Never in her eyes.
Never from this gentle male.
âWhyâd you stop?â She whispered, bashfully.
âI . . . found an abandoned shed . . . nearby.â
Breathless. How utterly winded did he sound.
Who is this stranger?
âI want to take you somewhere you donât . . . have to swallow those sounds.â Azriel mumbled, his shaky thumb tracing the outline of her bottom lip, and then the abandoned trails of glitter down her face. âWe need a place to sleep anyway.â
That was his way of telling her they didnât have to do anything she wasnât comfortable with.
Mine. This male is mine.
High on newfound levity, her fingers intertwined behind his neck, standing on her tippy toes to press a chaste kiss at the corner of his mouth. And then one directly onto his cherry red lips.
Just because she could.
âThen I guess,â Elain mused, feigning coyness, âI apologize in advance if there wonât be any sleeping tonighââ
âGods yes,â His voice was a near groan.
She beamed, leaning in to whisper against his ear, âThat makes three apologies for me as well,â then shifted out to add, âjust so youâre aware.â
His arms tightened around her, not wanting to ever let go.
Sly female.
âBut since I said it after you did,â her eyes danced, âyou lost our game.â
Azriel opened his mouth, realizing how he would only ever admit these words aloud with her, for her, to whisper, âI lost.â
Azriel cracked an easy smile, one of his very firsts.
âI lost to you, indeed.â
On a separate note in Azrielâs collection:
Authorâs Note:
In my culture, especially where Iâm from, when men give women anklets, and clasp it around their feet using their own hands, itâs considered the highest order of reverence, intimacy and yearning, since touching someoneâs feet in Hinduism means theyâre holy. You consider them holy. It means âI have so much respect for you, I see God in you.â This exchange generally happens between husband/wife (although a father/daughter pair is not uncommon). Some folks reckon this to be the most romantic proposal of marriage as well. So instead of the dude going down on his knee with a ring, heâs going down to clasp those anklets (payal, we call them) around his belovedâs feet.
This oneshot is basically a giant, impromptu, unspoken (typical Az) proposal from Azriel except that he never popped the question and Elain doesnât even know it was one. But they could FEEL something shift. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if Elain actually found out đ
Anyway. I really took 2 months to write this and then just kinda said wtf imma just post it. LOL. So if there are errors, please forgive me. As always, thank you for reading! Hereâs some fairy dust â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨â¨
Haari main, haari main tere saamne
(I lost, I surrender myself to you)
â The Rish, Shilpa Rao, Barbaad
âThese bulbs,â Elain said, pointing with a gloved hand to a cluster of purple-and-white flowers, âcame all the way from the tulip fields of the continent. Father promised that next spring heâll take me to see them. He claims that for mile after mile, thereâs nothing but these flowers.â
â SJM, ACOTAR, Ch. 29.
âElain had always wanted to visit the continent to study the tulips and other famed flowers, but her imagination had stretched no further.â
â SJM, ACOSF, Ch. 25.
Never wanna go when you're near
Never feeling low with you, my dear
Wanna let it fall, no room for fear
I wanna let you know, I see you clear
â MARO, Vishal Mishra, Bekhabar (song for the chapter)
Elainâs anklets look like this (picture inspiration)
MY TAGLIST: @thatonefreakyelriel @lentejita25 @mandirox89 @jasminecedarnightchilledmist @chamoymangos @greenbananas @elazrielain @britishwings @chewbaccalovesbooks1319 @zelaiburgos @chronicallydisassociated @beachbum1974 @elriellover @bookofchoice @ohsaintjoan @freepandahugs @elrielobsessed @cosmicsparksolitude @peanutbutter4444 @simplysimple-blep (Wanna be on my list? Drop your # here)
Elainâs (particular kind of) choice | âShe was her own person, capable of making her own choicesâ
âJust because Lucien was her mate didnât mean he had a claim on her time. Her affection. She was her own person, capable of making her own choices. Assessing her own needs.â
I have nearly finished another re-read of the whole series and just want to jot down some of my thoughts on Elainâs arc before her story resolves.
I have dedicated this space to Elriel, but really I am here for the story-telling and the emotional arcs of Acotar. Elainâs in particular just happen to occupy a special place in my heart. And ever since I listened to the CHD interview, I got really inspired again to revisit the Archeron sisters' arcs, because it was quite uplifting to hear Sarah speak about female empowerment and to be reminded of how she cares about how her stories relate to womenâs struggles, even if we all can have different views on her execution. She spoke of writing female rage, because she was tired of women needing to be so nice all the time. She spoke of the importance of female friendships, beyond romantic love. It got me thinking again of the Archeron sisters, and how each sister tells a story of female empowerment.
Naturally, I think of Elainâs, whoâs arc is yet to be resolved.
I joined the fandom very late into my reading experience. I started reading ACOTAR in 2018, and didnât join the fandom until late 2024 because I legit live under a very nice rock. It appears to me, as somewhat of an outsider (and I donât mean to impose), that when the fandomâs collective mind thinks of Elain, we often think of Elainâs arc as being âabout choiceâ, and I certainly agree. That has been my impression since my first read. But sometimes, I think the discourse around Elainâs arc stays at too narrow a scope, much like the in-universe narrative others impose upon Elain is narrow in scope (âShall I tend to my little garden forever?â). In reality, the true scope of her arc (just like Feyreâs and Nestaâs) is not just personally but societally transformative.
I suppose you could say, that by looking at Elainâs choice through a narrow lens (âthis man or that man?â), we hug the trees but miss the beauty of the full forest. So, hereâs a post not focused on the trees, but on admiring the forest of Elainâs arc.
(this is not a commentary on shipping. It is just meant to reflect on my experience of Acotar as a story. I am speaking of the internal logic of the story. It is therefore not a commentary on womenâs choices in general, but a commentary on this particular characterâs particular choice in this particular story created by an author, and which kind of choice makes sense for her arc as it relates to female empowerment)
Here is my take on âElainâs choiceâ (as it pertains to romance specifically) and why her simply âmaking a choiceâ is not the thing that satisfies her arc. That individual choice in and of itself, insulated from the wider context of Prythian society, is not the level at which Elainâs arc operates. Neither did Feyreâs. Neither did Nestaâs. Their arcs arenât trees but forests.
What do I mean?
If Elainâs arc was simply about her making a choice of her own volition, that arc is satisfied by any choice. Choosing the bond would satisfy such an arc, by nature of being a choice. And yet, I would say that choice does not satisfy her arc whatsoever, and is even antithetical to a progressive arc.
Elainâs arc operates at the societal level and the personal level. As did Feyreâs. As did Nestaâs. Each Archeron sister enters the same system - Prythian - and each confronts a particular domain of constraints put on women within that system.
In very simplified terms, at a societal level, Feyre faced political exclusion. âWomen canât leadâ until she showed Prythian they can. Nesta faced a kind of physical exclusion. Nesta has a lot of fight in her, but she met a society that said âwomen canât fightâ. Illyrians clip the wings of their women, and none were allowed into the Blood Rite until Nesta, with her friends, showed them women can. Elainâs entry into the system collides with constraints on womenâs bodily autonomy and agency in the most intimate of choices. Three domains, three societal and personal arcs. In this way, I see each sisterâs story as a norm-breaking arc that targets different domains of oppression inside a patriarchal system. Each operate at both a personally and a societally transformative level.
How has Sarah resolved these arcs thus far? She uses the Archeron sisters to fundamentally transform Prythian society for the better. The Archerons do not enter into this patriarchal system and then reconcile with its oppressive aspects. They enter into it and force the system to transform.
Feyre didnât learn to accept that women canât lead. She became the first High Lady. Nesta didnât learn to accept that women are better suited for roles other than fighting. She didn't learn to put out her fire. She entered the Blood Rite against all odds and forced a patriarchal system to acknowledge that women can fight, and especially that an Illyrian woman (Emerie) can win even with her wings clipped. Similarly, we can expect Elain wonât learn to accept that a deity and regressive traditions know better than herself what she wants and who she should love.
This is, to me, the structural pattern of the Archeron sisterâs arcs and this is the level at which they operate and are resolved. All of them encounter norms that are presented as natural and inevitable (sounds familiar? As a woman, I find this highly relatable).
All of them break these norms.
Put Elain fully into that pattern.
If Elain is written to choose the unwatned bond, for the first time in the series, the narrative would suddenly say that the oppression of women was correct. This time, the constraints put on women actually stand. There would be a thematic shift in direction here, and towards what? That women deserve rights and agency sometimes, but when it comes to bodily autonomy and the most intimate of choices, the gods apparently did know best. Tradition knows best.
That would be totally disharmonious with all the previous arcs Sarah has ever written. No women comes into their power through that story. Women reconcile with oppressive norms in that story.
So, given all of this, Elainâs choice cannot be understood in a thin, technical sense, as in âElain picked something, therefore agencyâ. It is the wrong level of analysis, because her arc operates in the personal and the societal/political. Her choice has to be understood through this lens. Because, just like with Feyre and Nesta, the resolution of Elainâs arc is about what Elainâs choice means for the world Sarah is constructing through this story. It is way, way bigger than âthis man or that man?â.
And at this level, Elain choosing the bond is simply inert. It is passive. it is just stasis, even regressive, because it achieves nothing that constitutes progress or transformation. It would resolve the tension around the unwatned mating bonds (that we have known of since the start of the series) by affirming the status quo, the existing order. Prythian is the same as it has always been, for all the women victimised by an unwanted bond. Absolutely nothing has structurally changed as it relates to the poorly picked mating bonds and the violent and oppressive practices associated with it.
âMany mated pairs will try to make it work, believing the Cauldron selected them for a reason. Only years later will they realize that perhaps the pairing was not ideal in spirit.â
This kind of choice, is not the kind of choice that satisfactorily resolves Elainâs arc. It does nothing at all for the women of Prythian.
On the other handâŚ
Choosing against it, choosing love outside the bond, rejecting and even breaking the forced bond (and, perhaps, through this choice creating a wanted one with her true love?) achieves something narratively important. Because by going against the religious, social, political, and traditional expectations, it fundamentally redefines authority in Prythian. It elevates women themselves as the legitimate authority over what happens to their bodies and lives, and over knowing whatâs best for oneself. The individual womanâs will is put above the gods, traditions, alliances, family.
That kind of choice liberates all the women of Prythian.
This is why Elainâs arc is not about a choice but about that choice. Because this is a story. And thereâs a moral to a story. The moral of this story shines through in an arc which necessitates the choice that challenges the status quo and changes the expectations put on women from one of submission to one of agency.
Notice how I didnât even mention the two guys in question. That is because this arc isnât male-centred but female-centred.
There are two men. Elain could choose either and would have made a choice. But there is something that makes these choices meaningfully different. And it goes way beyond the men. It is the structural implications of each choice. And it is both the personal and the societal implications of that choice that determines which is the one that satisfactorily resolves her arc. Here, I focused on the societal implications, but they perfectly align with the personal (and I can go on endlessly about how I adore the how beautifully Azriel and Elain have been written into each others arc on a personal level).
To round off, it is, to me, simply totally reductive to the story Sarah has written to say Elainâs story is about her making a choice. Elainâs story (as it pertains to the romance part of it) is not about choosing this man or that man, Lucien or Azriel. It is about a particular kind of choice. Which is the choice that has transformative implications for Prythian. Much like Feyre and Nestaâs actions had transformative implications for Prythian. There is one character that has been written as the representation of that particular kind of choice, but the arc is not about him. It is about the implications of that choice and what it does for female empowerment within Prythian society.
Azriel may have been the one to ask, "What if the Cauldron was wrong?" out loud, but Elain's actions have been screaming, "it was wrong" since that bond was forced upon her. How many women will have felt the same, only to submit to the bond to their own detriment? This is the oppressive part of Prythian society Elain's choice will transform.
This is Elainâs forest, and Azriel is lucky to be in it.
