Fae menstrual cycles are notoriously terrible to endure, but yours seem to be especially torturous. Mor normally helps you through your cycles, but when yours comes early and Mor is away, a certain Shadowsinger steps in to help.
never doubt
You thought the worst part of your week would be trekking through the grotesque bogs of the Dawn Court alongside a Shadowsinger that had royally pissed you off. If only. At least the worst situations can sometimes bring about the best revelations.
you're safe
After enduring weeks of torture in the Illyrian Steppes, you are left staring at the pieces of who you were before. You should be healing, but instead your anxiety and fear sink further in with every day that passes. You tell no one of your struggles, of your sleepless nights and lingering scars, until Azriel finds you alone in the library at an ungodly hour of night, and everything comes pouring out.
was it really a mistake?
Drinks at Cassian's birthday party land you in Azriel's arms, which then lands you in his bed. Your poor heart doesn't know what to think.
pure love
You were in love with Azriel. It was inevitable, really. Who could blame you for falling for the kind and gentle male? OR A series of moments that show your blooming love for Azriel, who was too busy cultivating his own love for you to notice.
thorns and toxins
Azriel knew something was off the moment you walked into the training room. You brushed him off, and ended up sending the poor male into a tailspin after you collapsed while sparring.
you make it better ~ part 2
Life as Nesta Archeron's friend had never been smooth-sailing, but you never would have thought it would land you in the fae lands, in a fae body, surrounded by unfamiliar...everything. You're struggling to adapt to your new life while dealing with the loss of your human one, but there is one fae male that makes it all just a little bit easier.
smothered flames ~ part 2
You were the Vanserras' best kept secret. That is, until you followed Eris to the Night Court, and you ended up finding more than you bargained for.
home
Leaving your family, leaving Azriel, for two whole months following Amarantha's reign of terror was harder than you anticipated. Azriel and you cling to each other upon your return.
lay your hand in mine
You never wanted to be a spy. You never wanted to work for the High Lord of Night. You never wanted to be trained by the male that faeries whispered horror stories about. Then again, those were just stories, and that very male might be your salvation.
thawed hearts
You had been a member of Rhys's court for decades, but no one knew where you really came from, or what your true heritage was. A trip to Illyria brings long-kept secrets to the light, and Azriel is there to help you in the aftermath.
love heals
Your first solo mission goes terribly wrong after you failed to heed Azriel's warnings. That doesn't stop him from saving you, and it certainly doesn't stop him from caring for you in the aftermath. You're convinced you don't deserve him, but that doesn't stop you from wanting him.
blush
You really like making Azriel blush.
lacy revelations
When Azriel visits your home for the first time, he stumbles across something you did not intend for him to find—though he certainly holds no complaints.
only love can hurt like this
You fell in love. That was a mistake.
because I care
Desperate to prove your worth to your overprotective friends, you turn to the one male who never seemed to care whether you soared or plummeted after your first mission goes terribly wrong. As it turns out, he cares very much.
find me in the afterglow
Cassian convinces Azriel to woo a Day Court princess.
downfall
You walked away after Azriel refused to accept your mating bond. When you finally return, you're left spinning after overhearing his cries to his brothers.
in my dreams
Azriel takes matters into his own hands when the leering males of Hewn City put you on edge. You never expected the night would lead to the two of you sharing a bed.
my infamy loves company ~ part 2
A creature like you was destined for solitude. A creature like you was destined to live out your long and wretched life alone. A creature like you could never have a mate.
a loving touch
Azriel had spent his entire life wishing for this—for you.
hold me tonight
As if life as the only human in Velaris was not terrible enough, you also had to endure the consequences of your mortal immune system. Azriel refuses to let you suffer alone.
Series
my heart has wings (complete)
You and Azriel long for the love your family members have found. That longing can easily turn into an isolating loneliness, so what if you rely on each other to numb that sickly feeling? What if your chance at love has been by your side for nearly a century?
bound by fear (complete)
You spent three decades suffering under the cruel thumb of your father. When you finally escaped, finally started to build your own life, the last thing you ever wanted was to find a mate.
it's nice to have a friend ~ part 2
Azriel was always meant to be yours. (childhood friends to lovers)
Blurbs
put this on
It's miserably hot out, and you made the mistake of trying to train. Your attempt to cool off leads to a bit of an awkward encounter with your friends, and a very jealous mate.
Hi, love your writing and was wondering when your requests will be open again. I have a great idea and I need my favorite writer to write it!!! ✨✨
hello!! thank you you’re so sweet 🥲 I probably won’t open requests at least until after I’m done with this series! it will just depend on how I’m feeling after that if I want to open requests but I’ve definitely thought about it. I love hearing everyone’s different ideas so much but I also feel bad when I don’t get to everyone’s requests 🙈
content warnings: apathetic parental figure, death of a parent, abuse from a guardian, implied domestic violence, canon-typical violence, menstrual cycle/blood, anxiety/fear, heavy emphasis on (and depiction of) maltreatment of females and misogyny in Illyrian culture, language, angst, more yearning
word count: 9.8k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“I need your help.”
Azriel froze, his wings flaring out before turning around to face you. “Hello to you, too.”
You smiled sheepishly, your heart beating hard against your ribs. “Sorry,” you said, slowly closing the distance between you. The faelights lining the hall glinted in his eyes, mirth shining in his irises. There were no real signs of annoyance, and that relieved you more than it should—more than you had any right to feel. “Hi.”
Azriel smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you said again, warmth creeping up your neck.
Azriel’s smile widened.
You cleared your throat, hating the way the tips of your ears burned under his gaze. “I need your help,” you said again.
Azriel’s smile faded, his expression sobering. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to go to Windhaven.”
Azriel went preternaturally still.
The words made your stomach twist, sharp claws scraping at the inside of your chest. Just thinking of going back there made your heart race and skin prickle. You had only been back a handful of times, only on occasions where it was absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, this was one of those times.
You could not go back alone.
No matter how necessary the trip, you would not step foot inside that camp without someone else with you.
Without Azriel.
“Why.” His voice was cold with little inflection, the question not really a question at all.
You rubbed at your upper arm, shifting under his gaze. “Do you remember my friend, Freya?”
Azriel furrowed his brows, a clear challenge in his gaze. “Your friend.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine, a girl a few years above me that I ate lunch with.” It was too pitiful to argue that she was your friend—at least, that you considered her one. Even if she barely spoke to you, even if the most communication you held with her was not until after you fled Windhaven, and it was really only a channel of necessity.
She was kind.
And she was a victim of the same toxicity and abuse that you were. The only difference was that you made friends in higher places, and you got out.
Azriel nodded slowly, and you weren’t sure if he remembered her or if he was telling you to continue. It didn’t really matter.
“They found her body in the woods last week.” The words were hollow as they fell from your lips. Clinical and unfeeling. You kept the guilt and pain and anger shoved deep inside, hidden from the surface where they could fester.
Azriel stepped closer, mere inches now between the toes of your boots. His scent wafted over you, and his shadows extended out to curl around your wrists. You didn’t deserve their comfort. It was not yours to take—the same thought had sent you spiraling mere weeks ago in the kitchen above you—but you needed it. You needed the comfort so desperately there was nothing else to do but take it.
“What happened?” Azriel asked.
You shook your head, chest aching as you replayed the conversation with Rhys. “No one is talking. No one reported it. The only reason—” Your voice cracked, and you inhaled sharply, willing your emotions away. “The only reason we know is because I asked Cassian to check on her. It had been too long since I heard from her, and I was worried.”
“You talked with her?” Azriel asked, surprise limning his voice.
You nodded, staring at the floor. “Sporadically. Her, and a few other girls I grew up with. It wasn’t—it’s not friendship—not really. I just, I wanted—” You rubbed a hand over your face, steeling the tremble that was taking hold. “I wanted them to have someone they could turn to if they needed help.” You shook your head. “A lot of good it did.”
Azriel grabbed you by your shoulders, his grip firm and sudden. “Y/N,” he said, forcing your gaze to meet his. “This was not your fault.”
Your nose burned and your eyes started to water. “It feels like it,” you whispered. “I left them there.”
Azriel shook his head. “You survived. You had to leave. Y/N—” he said again, his hand coming up to pull your gaze back to him. “You had no choice.”
You couldn’t stop the trembling of your lip, and Azriel didn’t hesitate to pull you into his chest, your face falling against the familiar leather covering his chest. A sob fell from your lips, and he squeezed you tighter, one arm wrapped beneath your wings while the other hand held your head against his chest. “We’ll find out what happened to her,” he murmured against the top of your head.
You cried.
You cried in the arms of the male you loved and you knew you could never have, but would always want, and who had always been there.
~ ~ ~
“They clipped Lara’s wings today.”
Azriel stopped in his tracks, the crunch of his boots on the snow dusted forest floor falling silent. His shadows flew outward, moving haphazardly all around the two of you, swirling with restless anger that had nowhere to go. He clenched his fist, and slowly they slithered back to pool beneath his wings.
“Is she okay?” he asked softly.
You shrugged, continuing your walk. “I don’t know how any of them survive it,” you said, voice desolate with the inevitable future in front of you. “But her father was angry. She hid two cycles from him,” you said, then swallowed hard. “He did it himself.”
As if losing flight was not torturous enough. As if you were not horrified enough at the prospect of the camp healer stealing your wings power from you, what Lara endured was a new source of terror.
Azriel reclaimed his place beside you, matching his pace to yours despite his height over you. “My mother is terrible,” you murmured. “Cruel at the worst of times, apathetic at best.” You stretched out your hand to let a tendril of shadow weave between your fingers. Your lips twitched, just barely. “But it is hard to hate her when I see what they have done. When I think about what my father must have been like. It is no doubt a mercy that he died when I was just a babe.”
Azriel was watching you when you finally turned to look at him. “It could be me next,” you rasped.
He started shaking his head, but you didn’t let him speak. “I am fourteen, Azriel.” You huffed a sad and pathetic laugh. “I take the herbs Lara gave me, but even those only got her to seventeen—sixteen, really.”
Azriel grabbed your arm, stopping you. “Rhys’s mother was never clipped.”
You scoffed, pulling your arm away. “She is the Lady of the Night Court. Her mate is the High Lord and he stopped them.” You shook your head. “My mother is a widowed laundress that the camp lords look at as a speck of dirt on their boots.”
This time it was you who reached for him, your hand wrapping around his forearm and squeezing tighter than you should. “I can’t lose my wings, Azriel,” you told him, your desperation and fear clear in your voice. “Flying is all I have.”
He nodded, his free hand coming up to grab your shoulder. “I won’t let them take them.”
~ ~ ~
Windhaven was as cold and drab as you remembered. You didn’t understand how Cassian could stomach coming back here all the time. The air was bitter enough to make your lungs burn, and the scowls of the males that watched your every move made your stomach roil.
You hated how much this place still affected you.
Azriel walked beside you, his wings flared wide and with all seven siphons gleaming in the scarce sunlight that pushed through the overcast skies. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was close enough to feel his warmth radiate against you. You willed your spine into a rod of steel, your back straight and head held high, wings wide enough that they occasionally brushed against Azriel’s.
That was a statement in and of itself.
Azriel briefly met your eyes before he pulled open the door to the only tavern in Windhaven, where you would inevitably find Devlon. Azriel gestured for you to enter first. You nodded once, then stepped over the threshold. The air was musty and thick with the scent of sweat and booze, and you suddenly missed the bitter cold of the Illyrian wind. The door swung shut with a loud thud, Azriel’s chest briefly brushing your shoulder as he stepped behind you.
Your eyes scanned the seedy room, ignoring the leers and sneers of the males scattered around worn and decrepit wooden tables. It did not take long to find Devlon hiding in the back, tucked inside a booth in the back corner, his closest men surrounding him.
It did not take long for him to find you.
His eyes widened for a moment before they narrowed into a scowl. He tossed some coins on the table, his hand of cards following as you made your way toward him. “Lord Devlon,” you barked, your voice loud and sharp in the muffled murmur of the tavern. Azriel stayed a mere half a pace behind you. You stopped in front of his table, your eyes never leaving his. “We need to have a talk.”
He scoffed, then reached for his glass of amber liquid. “It’s not bad enough I have to listen to the bastard of a guard dog Rhysand sends every month?”
You felt Azriel bristle behind you. You felt his flare of anger and unbridled rage flare deep inside your own chest. You smirked, your eyes sharp and lips curled back just enough that it might even be considered a snarl. You leaned closer, your hand resting on the disgustingly damp and sticky tabletop as you met his eyes. “Come with me.”
Then you pulled back, and you walked out the back entrance, leaving Devlon and his men to bumble around like idiots in front of Azriel. You didn’t wait to hear the open and slam of the door before walking toward the fighting ring at the center of the camp.
You didn’t fight the self-satisfied smile that bloomed on your face as you heard the sound of two sets of footsteps in the freshly fallen snow. You made a show of looking around, but you did your best not to look in the direction of anywhere that might stab you through the heart. When the footsteps settled, when you felt that familiar grounding presence at your side again, you finally turned around to face Devlon.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” you drawled, he and you knowing very well the camp looks the same as it did five centuries ago.
“Get on with it,” he snapped, flinging his hand out. “What could Rhysand possibly want now?”
Your face turned stony, all faux amusement dropping from your eyes. “Who murdered Freya?”
“Who?” he had the audacity to sneer.
“You know who,” you snarled, stepping close. “Unless you mean to tell me that you don’t even know who lives and dies in your own camp.”
His eyes flared with undiluted rage, his throat bobbing. He glanced at Azriel behind you, his lip curling in disgust. “She was found in the woods. Stupid bitch wandered away from camp, made herself lunch for some animal.”
A gentle phantom touch brushed the back of your neck, soothing the flare of anger that roared inside you.
“Who found her?” you made yourself ask, voice tight.
“Her husband.”
“And you believed him?”
“You question the integrity of one of my generals?”
The words squeezed the air from your lungs. “A general,” you repeated. “Your general’s wife died, and you forgot who she was?”
Devlon didn’t respond.
You tilted your head back, folding your hands behind your back. “Forgive me if I do not trust your judgement of character,” you sneered. “We will be staying a few days.” You turned to Azriel, whose eyes were cold daggers pointed directly at Devlon. “We will continue this in the morning. Early,” you added, looking him up and down with blatant disgust. “Sober.”
You turned on your heel, heading for the only place you ever once called home in this wretched camp.
~ ~ ~
“Where are you going?”
You turned toward the voice that had appeared beside you, their jovial warmth friendly and unthreatening. Cassian was grinning as he fell into step with you, his hair pulled back with a leather tie he had undoubtedly cut himself. Pieces were falling down and around his face, and he squinted briefly as he pushed one out of his eyes.
You huffed, stopping. “Come here.”
Cassian blinked owlishly, but stepped closer anyway. You twirled your finger. “Turn around, and crouch down.”
He did as you asked, and when your fingers undid the loose knot in his hair his shoulders started shaking with laughter. “You’re a mess,” you grumbled.
“At least I tried to tame it.”
You rolled your eyes. “You could just cut it.”
He lifted a hand to his chest, his cheeks stretching into a grin as you pulled all of his hair back. “You wound me.”
You wound the leather around his hair, tying it in a tight knot, then patted his shoulder. “There,” you said.
Cassian rose to his full height, pulling you into his side with a grin still plastered to his face. “Thank you.”
You shoved him away lightly, continuing on your path. Cassian didn’t leave. “Where are you going?” he asked again.
“Flying,” you huffed.
“With who?”
You cut him a glance. “You are such a busybody,” you mumbled. “I’m meeting Azriel.”
Cassian’s brows raised. “You two spend a lot of time together.”
Your glare was sharper this time. “He’s my friend.”
“I’m your friend,” Cassian countered. “Your first friend.”
You huffed a laugh. “I didn’t know stealing my cookies was your version of friendship.”
He bumped your shoulder. “I did that once. Then gave you two back the next day.”
You smiled softly, then shrugged. You both knew that you really became close friends through Azriel, but it didn’t matter how. You had Az, Cas, and Rhys now. You weren’t alone. That’s all that mattered. “Azriel is my favorite friend.”
“Okay,” he huffed. “That one hurt.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, your grin widening when you found him glaring.
“No, but seriously,” he said, stopping you again with a hand on your arm. “Is there something—”
“Y/N.”
Your head snapped toward the familiar quiet voice, your smile morphing into something softer. The center of your chest warmed when you saw him, your heart racing as he walked closer to you and Cassian. He glanced warily at Cassian, an uncharacteristic uncertainty settling on his face. “I didn’t know Cassian was coming with us.”
Before Cassian could open his fat mouth, you shook your head quickly. “He’s not.” You looked at Cassian, smiling and raising your eyebrows pointedly. “He was just leaving. Right, Cas?”
Cassian looked far from pleased from you evading his interrogation, but acquiesced nonetheless. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’ll see you at training tomorrow, Az.” He clapped you on the shoulder, firmer than necessary, his eyes flaring with mischief and a promise to resume this conversation later—not that there was anything to talk about. “Thanks for your help, sweetheart.”
Your eyes widened, your cheeks flaring with heat at his stupid pet name, and knowing exactly why he said it.
He grinned, leaving the two of you alone with a half-hearted wave.
You took a deep breath, calming the flush of your cheeks before facing Azriel again. He was still watching Cassian walk back toward the camp. His jaw twitched, and he jumped when you touched his arm.
You smiled softly again when he looked at you. “Ready?” you asked.
He nodded silently, falling into step beside you. The clearing you usually met at wasn’t far.
“Is there something going on with you and Cas?” Azriel asked quietly. His shoulders were tense and his wings were flared, and his shadows were moving around him restlessly.
“What?” you asked. “No! He was just being an ass.” You waved away the notion, grimacing slightly. “As usual.”
“Oh.” Some of the tension visibly fell away from Azriel, his shoulders falling a bit. A small smile pulled at his lips when he looked at you again. It started to grow, and mischief glinted in his eyes the longer he watched you.
“What?” you asked again, growing wary.
He shook his head, looking away for a moment. “Nothing.” He licked his lips, the smile still fighting to stay on his face. “Did I tell you I learned something new?”
“No,” you said slowly. “At training?”
“Not quite.”
His arms reached out to circle your waist, and he pulled your body flush against his, sending your heart into a frenzy. You met his eyes in bewilderment, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement, and suddenly the two of you were engulfed in darkness.
In shadows.
You clung to Azriel as your body fell through some otherworldly ether, his shadows cocooning the two of you in a cool swath of silk as you catapulted through space.
Then light blinded you, and you buried your face in his chest before you started to freefall. You screamed as you plummeted, and Azriel laughed as his wings spread out, catching the two of you in the air with a harsh jolt.
You pulled your head away from his chest, just barely meeting his eyes. “What the hell was that?” you yelled.
Azriel’s eyes were bright as he carried you through the sky, the drag of your own wings against the wind not seeming to bother him in the slightest. He shrugged, meeting your gaze with a relaxed smile. “Rhys called it winnowing, but he said it feels different from when he does it.”
You were smiling as you shook your head. “You’re an asshole.”
Azriel grinned, and giggled when he spun the two of you around, the wind whipping at your face. “Your face was priceless,” he laughed.
“You could hardly even see it,” you scoffed.
Azriel looked lighter than he had in a long time—maybe since you had known him. He looked beautiful. You hated the dagger of worry that stabbed at your chest. “Maybe don’t tell anyone else about this?” you said carefully.
Azriel’s eyes shuttered, his jaw clenching. He nodded, as if he had already decided the same thing. “They already think I’m different enough—a threat.”
You shook your head, pulling one of your hands free from their clutch on his leathers to cup his face. “This is amazing, Az,” you said, voice as gentle as you could make it in the wind around you.
“I had to tell you,” he said.
“I’m glad you did.”
~ ~ ~
Azriel followed behind you silently, his presence warm at your back as you walked past roaming males in the dark of the camp. Only once you enter Rhys’s house—his mother’s house—and the door shut behind the two of you, did Azriel speak.
“I did not know we would be staying.”
You turned around quickly, guilt unfurling rapidly in your chest. “Neither did I.” You swallowed hard, looking around at the achingly familiar furniture covered with only a faint layer of dust. Cassian must come here. “I’m sorry. You can leave. I should never have—”
“I am not leaving you here,” he said quickly, moving close.
“I can’t ask you to stay here, Azriel. It’s unfair. You don’t deserve—”
“I can handle Devlon, and I can handle sleeping on this rancid land.” His voice was smooth and steady, his eyes not leaving yours. “I’m not worried about me,” he said quietly. “I’m worried about you.”
You breathed in deep, the dust floating around you scratching at your throat. “I’ll be fine,” you said, nodding as if that would make it true. “I need to do this for Freya.”
Azriel nodded, his hand coming out to rub your upper arm. “We’re going to find who did this.” His jaw clenched, the muscle in the corner jumping. “We might already know who.”
You let out a hollow, exasperated laugh. “How is it still like this?” you asked. “How are these things still happening? How is Devlon, of all Illyrians, considered the most progressive camp lord?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, his hand gently coaxing you to fall against his chest, his arms circling around your waste. “I’ve long thought they’re past saving.”
“It’s not fair.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you wanted to burrow inside of him. You wanted to cling to him like dew, and never leave. You wanted him. All of him. Forever.
~ ~ ~
“Azriel,” you rasped, leaning over his bed. You reached for him, shaking his shoulders far less gently than you should to wake a sleeping Illyrian male. “Azriel,” you sobbed.
He shot up in bed, his shadows flaring out to wrap around you. Not to protect him—to soothe you. You only cried harder.
“What happened?” he hurried out, sleep slipping from the panicked syllables. “Y/N?” He reached for you, pulling you down onto his bed as he sat up. “Hey—hey, what happened? Are you hurt?”
“She’s dead,” you hiccuped. You collapsed against him, your head falling into his lap as you curled up on your side. “She’s dead. My mother—”
Azriel’s arms held you tight, his wings curling around the two of you, a heavy warmth that dulled the sharpest edges of the cold terror protruding from your chest. You faintly heard the opening of a door. You didn’t care.
“She was the general’s mistress,” you rasped. “She didn’t know I knew, but I did. He—he—” Another sob tore from your throat, agony rippling through you. “What do I do? Where do I go?”
Azriel held you tight, rocking you gently. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
You fell asleep wrapped in his arms, with your head in his lap and his wings covering your trembling body, and tears slowly drying on your cheeks in the dark of night.
~ ~ ~
The mattress in Cassian’s old room was cold and lumpy, a worn down sack of cotton that was falling apart at the seams. It had surely been replaced in the five centuries since you left here, but it was long past due for another.
You wiggled around, the sheets catching around your feet and causing a flare of irritation in your chest. Eventually you yanked them down over your chest, your arms falling at your sides with a huff. Moonlight streamed in through the single window, no drapes to block it from falling across your skin. Your heart was beating hard in your chest, a half-beat off rhythm as your mind struggled to find rest in this place that had left so many scars on your soul.
Cassian’s scent lingered in the air, on the old shirt you had found shoved inside his wardrobe. It was familiar, at least. It masked all of the other acrid scents that bombarded you the second you stepped foot inside this camp.
You were still left feeling hollow. You ached from the inside out, and every minute that passed without sleep pricked against your skin—a stark reminder that you would be in no shape to confront Devlon in a few mere hours if you spent the night lying awake in the closest place you had to a childhood home.
Even if you were never allowed to live there.
The house was silent, save for your frustrated sighs. A stillness that felt more suffocating than peaceful falling over you. You tried to listen for Azriel, for his heartbeat, his breaths—anything to distract your spiraling mind—but it was utterly silent.
You knew he was still here. You could feel his presence, even if he was lying in the room across the hall. You couldn’t explain it, but you had always been able to feel him when he was near.
A sixth sense that was beginning to feel more like a curse than a blessing. A taunt, rather than a glimmer of hope. He was not yours to keep track of. He was not yours to want.
And yet, you knew the only thing, the only person, that could calm your racing mind and rising anxieties, was him.
It was selfish to take from him what he should be giving to another. It was selfish to hate the female that would one day have him, that had done nothing wrong but be blessed with Azriel as her mate.
He just—he had always been yours, in some twisted, round about way. Ever since you were young and naive and just happy to have a friend, he was yours. And you were his.
It was futile to talk yourself out of going to him. The wooden floors were rough against the soles of your feet as you opened your door, hesitating for only a second as you looked down the empty hallway, then walked toward Azriel’s door.
You fist hovered in front of the door, your heart pounding as you chastised yourself for wanting him—for needing him. You didn’t just want Azriel, you needed him like you needed air. If there was ever any doubt that he was a lifeline to your heart, this impromptu trip to hell had incinerated it.
You knocked. It was just a soft rap on the door, quiet enough that he might not hear it—if he were anyone else.
“Come in,” his muffled voice called.
Something warmed in your chest knowing that at least you had not been lying awake alone. You opened the door slowly, an unusual shyness cloaking you as you met his eyes. He was under his covers, his back resting against the wall at the head of the bed.
His torso was bare.
Your eyes lingered on his chest, on the curve of his pectorals that border the ridges of his abdomen. You watched the movement of a shadow that flitted across his stomach, then hid behind his back. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. Your mouth was dry when you said, “I can’t sleep.”
His cheeks seem flushed in the glow of the candle beside his bed. “Me neither,” he murmured.
You shut the door behind you, your eyes not leaving his. “Can I stay here?” you asked quietly.
Azriel nodded, his lips turning up so softly it melted one of the many icy tendrils curled around your ribs. He shifted closer to the edge of the far too small bed to hold two Illyrians, patting the small space beside him.
Your shoulders relaxed, falling from where they had been pinned close to your ears without you noticing. It was then that you noticed your legs were bare, and nothing but Cassian’s thread bare shirt was covering your skin.
In theory, this was not a big deal.
You and Azriel had been friends for centuries. You had seen each other in various states of undress in the most vulnerable and inopportune times, had cared for each other in moments of distress—this should have been nothing.
It still felt different.
It felt raw and intimate in a way you had never experienced, and you again felt foolish and guilty.
This was wrong. You should leave. You should leave, and not take advantage of your kind and unsuspecting friend when you knew you were only feeding your poor and delusional heart with misplaced hope that would logically never bloom to fruition. However, only your mind had the luxury of logic, and it was doing a piss poor job at protecting your feeble heart from further ruin.
You moved toward his bed, pulling back the covers and nestling down into the edge of the pillow behind him. Your nose was level with his hip with barely an inch between you, and your wings were drooping over the side of the bed, but you were infinitely more comfortable in here, beside Azriel, than you had been alone across the hall.
Azriel leaned over toward the bedside table, blowing the candle out with a small puff of air, then sank down into the bed so he was face to face with you, your heads sharing the lone pillow at the head of his bed. His soft cedar scent wrapped around you, his warmth enveloping you like a second blanket, and your eyes grew tired embarrassingly quickly.
You took in the muted hazel of his eyes, the flecks that glinted in the moon beams cast around the room, and you thought he might have been doing the same, his eyes never wavering from yours. Goosebumps pebbled across your skin, and the smile that pulled at your lips was entirely involuntary, pure content and love consuming your weary and battered mind for the first time in months—the Illyrian hell hole outside these walls be damned.
“Goodnight,” Azriel murmured, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion.
You might have moved impossibly closer, you might have let your legs brush his and your arms graze against the warm skin of his chest—it was purely due to the lack of space, of course. Azriel smiled softly at you, and his arms wrapped around your body, pulling you tighter against his chest, forcing your head to rest directly against him.
You melted into him, of course. His arms had always been where you felt safest, even in the darkest and most trying times of your life. There was no fighting it.
Even if that terrible, fleeting stone of guilt ricocheted through your body. Even if it just barely grazed your heart, reminding you of the precarious edge you were standing on, an inevitably agonizing heart break waiting for you below.
Tonight you would ignore it just a little longer. Tonight you would hide from your shredded soul in the arms of the male you loved, and would pretend, for just a few hours, he loved you too.
~ ~ ~
“Augustus makes an attor seem friendly.”
Your words were meant to be joking. They were meant to just be a jeering jab at your horrible cousin who you had never properly met, had not known existed until Devlon thrust you into his care the day after your mother’s funeral. Instead they sounded hollow and aching, entirely too much truth weighing them down.
Azriel noticed.
“Has he done something?” he asked quietly, as if he was afraid too loud a cadence might summon the wretched male to this desolate clearing.
You blinked, staring blankly at the snow below you. You were tired of snow. You were tired of the cold. Sixteen years spent living in eternal winter, and you were prepared to commit an atrocity if it meant you never had to see these snow-covered mountains again.
“Nothing new.”
You felt the tension rippling off of Azriel. His siphons littering his chest and arms flared, his copious stores of power simmering over. “That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s not good enough.”
Your head snapped toward him, your lips pulling back in an instinctive snarl. “It’s all I can give you.”
Azriel blinked, otherwise unflinching against your anger. “You’re keeping things from me,” he said quietly.
It was the truth, and it hurt, no matter how gentle he laid it in front of you.
Your mother was unkind. You even thought her cruel, once. Now you lived with a male who knew the true definition of cruelty. A male so toxic he made your hair stand straight on your arms and a chill ran down your spine every time you stepped foot through the door. A male who yelled instead of spoke, whose anger was a baseline state for him.
He was a male that used violence more than words. Who left bruises in his wake. Who reminded you every day he hated you, and he hated his uncle that impregnated the whore that birthed you, and was stupid enough to get herself killed.
What of his father? you sometimes wanted to ask. Was he stupid too? How did he die?
Speaking those words would be sure to get you killed.
A hand wrapped around your arm, the sudden touch making you flinch, your entire body curving away out of pure instinct. Your body froze when you realized what you did, when you recognized the scarred hand that had immediately fell away from you.
Horror sluiced through you when you met Azriel’s wide, vicious eyes. He was trembling, his shadows stretching out farther than he usually let them these days, his wings twitching behind him. “Let me see your arm.”
“No.”
“Y/N,” he said, your name spoken so low and slowly it forced your mind to slow down. “Let me see.”
“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice cracking.
Azriel’s jaw clenched, a puff of air leaving his nose as his hand squeezed into a fist, then slowly uncurled. “Please,” he asked gently. “I only want to help.”
“You have to promise me you won’t do anything,” you pleaded. Azriel’s throat bobbed as you stared at him. “Promise me, Azriel.”
“I promise,” he whispered.
You nodded, sniffing once to push away the tears that were beginning to burn at the back of your throat. You shrugged out of your jacket, exposing your bare arms to the bitter cold, and revealing the mottled bruises in various colors decorating your skin.
Azriel’s breath hitched when he saw. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and you hated that you still flinched when he touched your arm. He froze, staring at your face. You could only nod.
He continued his inspection, his hands gently grazing over your skin, careful not to hurt you. A tear fell from the corner of your eye, and you quickly wiped it away. Then his fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, squeezing the fabric tight, and when you finally met his gaze, gave him the permission he was seeking, he lifted your shirt.
“Y/N,” he said, his voice broken as he took in the purple blooms across your ribs. His fingers lightly traced the ridges of your ribcage, pulling away only when you sucked in a sharp breath as he passed over a sensitive area. He lowered your shirt slowly, and you could feel him staring at you, even as you stared down at the snow. “He could have killed you,” he whispered.
“He threatened to this morning,” you admittedly quietly, pathetically. “That was a first.”
He helped you slide your coat back on, doing up the wing slats silently with careful fingers.
“You need to report him?”
You laughed mirthlessly. “To who? Devlon?” You shook your head. “I’ll be fine.” You stood up from the boulder the two of you had been perched upon, your boot slipping just a bit before you gained your composure. “I’ve survived a year with him. I can survive more.”
“Y/N—”
“I’ll see you later, Azriel.”
~ ~ ~
“My condolences for the passing of your wife.”
The male leaning against the wall of one of the buildings surrounding the square, watching the young males train, lazily dragged his gaze up to meet yours. His eyes flit to Azriel standing behind you, a flash of contempt shining in his irises before he seemed to force it away. He met your gaze again, his arms still crossed over his chest as he said flatly, “My wife is dead. Your condolences mean nothing.”
“I’m sure,” you answered, forcing sympathy into your tone. “I grew up with Freya,” you said, watching him carefully. “She was my friend.”
The male went rigid, indignation and rage roaring behind his eyes. “She never told me she was friends with one of the High Lord’s whores. Though, it’s unsurprising.”
Azriel stepped forward, but you blocked his path. “What happened to her?” you asked, ignoring his disrespect.
His eyes narrowed, and he finally stood up straight. “She ran off in the middle of the night after letting her delusions mislead her. Guess she wandered too far, made herself a meal.”
You had no idea what he meant by that, but you knew in your bones you were staring into the eyes of the male that ended Freya’s life. And he was a general of one of the most respected legions in the Illyrian army. Rhys would terminate him immediately, with or without concrete proof—he would come and dig through his mind if that was what it took, but you wanted to handle this yourself. You wanted to force them to admit to their atrocities for once, and force them to do something about it.
“It’s just hard to imagine,” you pondered, voice floaty and distant as you turned to look out at the woods in the distance. “Five centuries she’s lived here…” You shook your head. “Do you have any children?”
“No.”
You looked him up and down, making no effort to hide your analysis of him. You pursed your lips, your facade falling away, and your stony armour falling back into place. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
You turned away, but you only made it a few steps toward Devlon’s quarters before an ear splitting scream rang through the camp. You flinched, stumbling back into Azriel, who caught you with steady hands. “What the hell was that?” you asked breathlessly.
The scream rang out again, this time sobs following after. It did not take long to find the source, two males dragging a young girl by her arms to the center of the square, her knees dragging on the snow covered ground. The males fighting in the wing didn’t even look at her.
They threw her to the ground.
Then they grabbed her wings.
“Get off of her!” The words tore out of you, loud and guttural as you took off for the young female lying in the snow, her skin bruised and discolored in a way yours once had been at that very same age. “Get your fucking hands off of her!”
The two males snapped their heads toward you, and only then did the clang of swords die out. Everyone was watching now, even some females coming out of the buildings scattered around. They sneered at you, ready to fire back, then their eyes fell to the presence at your side, to the shadows forming a thick blanket of smoke at your feet. Only then did they let her go, leaving her lying in the cold.
You shoved one of them out of the way, making him stumble, and Azriel was between the two of you before the male could react. You crouched down, gently helping the girl up. Tears streaked her cheeks, her hair damp from the snow and plastered to the side of her face. She was shaking. “Come on,” you said, voice steady. “Come on.”
She sniffed once, her eyes meeting yours, then taking in your leathers, and the way your wings were stretched wide behind your back, the way they were meant to. She nodded, letting you help her up by her arm, but she did most of the work. She glared at the male beside her, watching the two of you with pure disdain.
Then she spat at his boots.
He barely made a move before you shoved her behind you, and you grinned at the male. “You will not touch her,” you ordered, voice low and threatening. Then, looking around at all the males, and females, staring at you, you yelled, “In case you all forgot, wing clipping is banned by the High Lord!”
You stepped closer to the male that she spat at, shoving one finger against his chest. “You will not touch her,” you hissed.
You cast one last glare at the male, then turned around toward the girl. She was on her cycle. Your stomach twisted, too many horrific memories pressing at the edges of your mind. “Where is your mother?” you asked quietly.
She glanced to the side, to where a female was standing in the doorway of a tailor shop. Her hands were curled into tight fists, and her eyes were wide with terror and fury. You nodded toward the woman. “Go.”
The girl did not hesitate, running to her mother who embraced her in her arms, an unusually blatant display of affection in an Illyrian camp. You hoped her mother did not have bruises to match her own, but it was likely.
“What the hell is going on?” a grating male voice bellowed over the square.
You rolled your eyes, turning away from the mother and daughter once they hurried inside their shop to find Devlon, his eyes ablaze.
No one spoke. The general you had spoken to moments ago was gone, unsurprisingly.
“You are all dismissed,” Azriel ordered, his voice cold and lethal.
No one moved.
Azriel swung his gaze around the camp, his wings flaring wide and siphons gleaming. “Go.”
Everyone scattered, a dull murmur filling the square as males gathered their belongings, heading anywhere away from here. Azriel stepped in front of you, his body practically vibrating with rage. “Devlon,” he growled. “Wing clipping is banned in all Illyrian camps.”
Devlon’s eyes narrowed. “It is,” he agreed, begrudgingly.
“And yet, Y/N just stopped two of your males from clipping a girl they had pinned in the snow.”
Devlon said nothing, but the ire burning in his eyes made your blood rush through your head, a dull thump pounding in your ears. You stepped closer to him, the snow crunching beneath your boots with every slow step that brought you inches away from Devlon. You met his eyes, uncaring that he was taller and broader than you. You were not the terrified girl he once threw to the wolves with the flick of his hand five centuries ago.
“I will find out exactly what happened to Freya,” you hissed, venom lacing every syllable. “And I will personally see that any male that so much as thinks—” You stabbed Devlon in the chest with your finger, his nostrils flaring at the disrespect. “—of touching another female’s wings is dealt with appropriately.”
You leaned back, heart pounding as you looked Devlon up and down, your body vibrating with centuries of pent up fury and resentment and hatred for this wretched place filled with wretched men. “You forget your place, Devlon,” you spat.
“You fucking low-life bitch, mewing and preening for—” His words died with an abrupt wheeze, dark tendrils of shadow whipping around his throat and forcing their way inside his mouth, one even curling out of his nose. You stumbled back a step from the shock, Azriel moving in front of you with predatory grace.
“I would be very careful with your words,” he murmured, his voice cold and lethal. Devlon’s face grew redder by the second, his eyes starting to bulge as Azriel leaned down to meet his eyes. “I am not my brothers. I will not hesitate to find a new camp lord.”
The shadows pulled back, tucking beneath Azriel’s wings or wrapping around your ankles. Devlon keeled over just as Azriel stepped back, gasping and wheezing with watery eyes.
The look on Azriel’s face was pure disdain. “We’re done here.”
~ ~ ~
Panic clawed at your spine, sharp and cloying pain chasing after you no matter how far you ran.
You were so foolish. You knew, deep down, that it was only a matter of time before nature inevitably turned on you. It didn’t matter how many herbs and serums you stuffed down your throat day after day. Your cycle was inevitable.
You should have been prepared. You should have thought about its arrival beyond the bone deep dread that flooded your body every time you saw another girl in the mess hall with freshly clipped wings and sallow eyes. You knew you were only delaying the inevitable, and now it was finally here.
Maybe if your mother were still alive you might have hid it. Maybe she would not have cared enough to drag you to a healer, her own disdain for this camp possibly protecting you from its wretched customs. Or maybe she would have dragged you to the healer out of spite.
There was no doubt what Augustus would do.
He wouldn’t even take you to a healer. He would likely slash your wings to shreds himself, going farther than just robbing you of their function. He loathed your mere existence. The only reason you were not dead was his delusional dream of becoming one of Devlon’s prized generals, and Devlon was the one that had dumped you in Augustus’s care.
You knew as soon as he returned from wherever he slinked away to, as soon as walked through that door, he would smell the blood, and it would be over for you.
So you ran.
As soon as the cloying metallic scent hit your nose a.nd the stabbing pain shot through your abdomen, you stuffed your bare feet in your boots and shoved your arms in your coat and you ran. You wore nothing but a thin night gown underneath your leather jacket, your bare calves exposed to the bitter air and sharp cold of the snow-covered forest.
You had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run to. Nothing to help you survive alone in the Illyrian steppes, but all you could think about was that you would not survive the night if you stayed in that house in the center of camp.
You just had to make it far enough away from camp that no one could find you. No one could smell you. You just had to keep moving, even if the tears running down your cheeks were frozen on your skin and your hands were numb. Even if you felt like you were being ripped apart from the inside out and felt an uncomfortable and foreign moisture spread between your thighs. Even if you worried that the farther you fled into the forest, Illyrian males would no longer be your only threat.
Somehow you reached the clearing that you and Azriel would meet in, less frequently now that you were older. The open land that once felt freeing now left you open and exposed, entirely vulnerable. You sniffed once, ignoring the tears that clung to your lashes and stuffing down the slimy terror sluicing through your veins, and you kept running.
You managed to cross the clearing, catapulting into the tree line on the other side, hissing as a branch scraped your cheek. You were so tired, so weak, and you were in so much pain. The ground seemed to shift abruptly before righting itself, the trees spinning as you put one foot in front of the other, desperate to make it out of here. Flying was not an option if you wanted to go undetected, but running was rapidly failing you.
Your ankle twisted with a chilling snap, your foot falling into a snow covered hole. You careened forward, unable to catch yourself before landing sharply on your arm, the snow doing very little to cushion your fall. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood as you stifled your scream, a sharp gasp leaving your lips as you pushed yourself to sit up and pulled your foot from the sunken in ground.
You were trembling, and your head was spinning as you fought to catch your breath. Terror stabbed your chest as a male materialized in front of you, his wings stretched wide behind him, the moonlight illuminating his silhouette.
You were going to die.
“Y/N.”
You shut your eyes, a pathetic whimper falling from your lips as you shook in the snow, waiting for the inevitable.
“Y/N, it’s me,” he said again, voice soft and familiar.
You forced your eyes open, Azriel’s scent wafting over you as he crouched beside you.
Terror still clung to your skin, your world spinning and reality crashing down around you. You started shaking your head, fresh tears falling from your eyes. “Please,” you rasped. “Please. Please.” Your voice broke around your sobs. “Please don’t—” You coughed, and you leaned forward as another sharp pain stabbed at your abdomen.
“Hey—hey,” Azriel said hurriedly. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Y/N, I would never.”
His words sloshed around inside your head, tumbling around and around as you tried to listen. You slumped forward suddenly, and his hands shot out to catch you, but you quickly flinched away.
“No. Y/N, hey.” His hands were still firm on your arms, his warmth radiating into your frozen skin. “You’re safe with me.” He looked you in the eyes, and his muted hazel irises in the dark of night stared back at you, warm and familiar, even if they were laced with panic. “Are you hurt? What—”
He suddenly went rigid, his nostrils flaring as he quickly scanned your body, and you got to watch the realization dawn on his face. A swell of mortification mixed with your fear, even if you were in agony and crumpled in pain on the cold wet ground.
You stared at him, your lip trembling ever so slightly. “Please don’t make me go back,” you whispered.
Azriel’s face fell. “Y/N—”
You were shaking your head again. “I can’t lose my wings.” You gasped for air, fighting the sobs pushing at your throat. “I can’t, Azriel. It’s the only thing I have. Please—”
“No one is going to touch your wings,” he swore, and for a half second, you wanted to believe him. “But you can’t stay here. I have to take you back—”
“No,” you cried, your hand weakly clutching the front of his leathers. “No. Please—”
Azriel’s gloved hands came up to cup your face gently, his warmth a balm to the stinging cold. “I’m going to take you back to my home. Rhysand’s mother won’t be home until morning, but she will help. While we wait, you can bathe, warm up, sleep. You will be safe there.”
You swallowed hard, your throat burning from your cries. “What about Rhysand and Cassian?”
His thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. “They will be there. Hey,” he said, coaxing your face back up to meet his when you looked away, “They would never hurt you. They’re your friends.”
You nodded slowly, your grip on his leathers going lax. Your fingers ached from the cold, and your joints were growing stiff.
“Okay?” he asked.
You nodded again.
“Good,” he murmured. He pulled his hands away, and he slid his leather gloves off. “Here,” he said, then took your hand in his now bare one, his skin hot against yours. He slid the glove over your hand, the material warm from him, and it was a relief so intense you nearly started crying again. He took your other hand in his, doing the same.
“There,” he hummed, then reached up to brush your hair away from your face. “I’m not leaving you,” he promised. “No one is touching your wings.”
You stared at him for a moment, taking in the fuzzy contours of his face that you knew like the back of your hand, even in the dark of night. You slowly fell back inside yourself, slowly came down from the terror and adrenaline that had pushed you through the Illyrian forests, away from Windhaven, and recognized the world around you.
You recognized the gentle stroke of shadows on your exposed calves. You recognized the cedar sent curling around you. You recognized the kernel of warmth in the center of you that came to life every time Azriel was near—even now, when you were panic-stricken and exhausted, it was still there.
You remembered that you trusted him, and you were safe. Maybe you should have ran to him, instead of away from Windhaven. Maybe you would have made things worse if someone had caught you. Maybe he would be angry that you had acted so rash, so foolish, when the sun rose over the horizon. There were a lot of uncertainties, many you would never have the answer to, but you did know Azriel would protect you, and he would never hurt you.
You forgot sometimes how quickly Illyria weathered boys into males, children into adults. Azriel was eighteen now, and while you could still see that eleven year old boy behind the mess hall with rosy cheeks and messy hair, he was entirely male now. He was formidable in every sense of the word. In the spring, he would complete the Blood Rite, likely alongside Rhys and Cass, and there was no question of if they would pass.
Everyone feared them. Everyone whispered about the Shadowsinger, but no one outwardly antagonized him—not anymore. If someone with too much gall challenged him, they learned their lesson quickly. Azriel was undoubtedly fearsome.
But not to you.
You never feared him.
You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him, and you tucked your head against his chest. His arms quickly circled your body, overly mindful of your wings, but his palm still rubbed soothing circles along your lower back. “Thank you,” you whispered. “I don’t know how you found me, or how you knew to look for me—” Azriel squeezed you a little tighter. “But thank you.”
Suddenly one of his arms was under your legs, and you whimpered as your ankle shifted, which he gently apologized for. Then he lifted you, and you were finally out of the freezing snow that had seeped through your clothes.
You let your head loll against his chest, grateful for the warmth his body radiated and the shield from the wind his shadows had slowly built around you. “Thank you,” you whispered again.
He pressed his lips to the top of your head, a gesture that was so sweet and fond and new that your heart flipped inside your chest, and you wanted to cry for an entirely different reason.
~ ~ ~
As soon as the door shut behind Azriel with a heavy thud, you whirled around to face him. “What the hell was that?”
Azriel blinked, stopping in the entry way. “You know Devlon is a piece of—”
“I’m not talking about Devlon, Azriel. I’m talking about you.”
“What?”
You shook your head, hands balling into fists at your sides. You felt suffocated, angry, and out of control. This house held too many memories. This entire camp was littered with knives sharpened by horrific memories that were ready to stab you at first glance. There would never be any forgetting, even after centuries had passed.
“I was handling Devlon,” you grit out.
“I know.” Azriel stepped closer. “I was there.”
“Then why did you—”
“He does not get to speak to you that way,” Azriel growled.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles!”
Azriel’s mouth opened and then snapped shut, as if he thought better of whatever he was about to say. “I am always going to protect you, Y/N,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before.
You swallowed hard, your nose burning as bile stung the back of your throat. “I don’t need you to.”
Azriel shook his head. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that. Don’t ask me not to—” He tilted his head back, and his shadows broke free from behind his back in shaky tendrils, a rare slip of restraint. “I have protected you since the day I met you,” he rasped. The words sounded strangled and desperate, and they knocked the air from your lungs. “I want to. I need to. Please do not ask me to stop.”
You wanted to spit something vitriolic back, just because you were hurting—for more than one reason—and he was standing directly in your line of fire.
Then you met his eyes, which were glossy in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, and his shadows were vibrating with barely restrained emotion. Your shoulders fell, and then you looked away.
“Let’s go home,” he said quietly.
You nodded, even if your chest was suddenly tight. “You should go.”
“No,” Azriel said, and you looked at him warily. “We are going home. I’m not leaving you here, and if either of us stay in this camp another damned minute we might actually murder someone.”
“But Freya—”
“Rhys will handle it.”
“It’s my responsibility, Azriel.”
“It’s your responsibility to take care of yourself,” he volleyed back. Then he said again, “Rhys will handle it.”
“But the wing clipping—”
“Will not be fixed overnight. Cassian will take care of it.”
You closed your eyes, an all-consuming sense of failure corroding away at your bones. What was the point? What was the point of any of this if you could not help these females? Over five centuries of fighting and arguing and defying and still, nothing had changed. It was not enough. You could never do enough—
“Stop,” Azriel growled, his hands suddenly on your shoulders. “Stop. This is not your burden to bear alone. It’s not yours at all. None of this is your fault.”
You started to protest, but he leaned down closer to meet your eyes. “But you care,” he said softly. “You care about the females in this camp, because you are good. You are kind and compassionate and good, Y/N. You have not failed them, I promise you. You saved that girl today, and we will help the rest of them. I promise you.”
It was too much.
You depended on him too much, because somehow his words had soothed your soul, muting the spiraling stream of toxicity in your mind. Somehow his touch grounded you, and reminded you who you were, and where you were, and who you were with.
You were never really mad at him.
You were angry at the universe, and Illyria, and the Mother, but never him. He had done nothing wrong.
You loved him so much you thought your bones might break from the weight of it.
Your heart might combust from the agony of knowing he belonged to another, because he was yours. He was always meant to be yours. You needed him.
You wanted to hug him.
You wanted to kiss him.
Maybe, this was still salvageable. Maybe Azriel felt this too. Maybe he would understand, and everything he had said about how happy he was to find his mate a few months ago was just the rambling of a drunken male. Maybe he was deflecting, and if you just kissed him—
Azriel stepped away.
His hands fell from your shoulders.
The permanent chill in the air seeped back into your skin.
content warnings: apathetic parental figure, death of a parent, abuse from a guardian, implied domestic violence, canon-typical violence, menstrual cycle/blood, anxiety/fear, heavy emphasis on (and depiction of) maltreatment of females and misogyny in Illyrian culture, language, angst, more yearning
word count: 9.8k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“I need your help.”
Azriel froze, his wings flaring out before turning around to face you. “Hello to you, too.”
You smiled sheepishly, your heart beating hard against your ribs. “Sorry,” you said, slowly closing the distance between you. The faelights lining the hall glinted in his eyes, mirth shining in his irises. There were no real signs of annoyance, and that relieved you more than it should—more than you had any right to feel. “Hi.”
Azriel smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you said again, warmth creeping up your neck.
Azriel’s smile widened.
You cleared your throat, hating the way the tips of your ears burned under his gaze. “I need your help,” you said again.
Azriel’s smile faded, his expression sobering. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to go to Windhaven.”
Azriel went preternaturally still.
The words made your stomach twist, sharp claws scraping at the inside of your chest. Just thinking of going back there made your heart race and skin prickle. You had only been back a handful of times, only on occasions where it was absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, this was one of those times.
You could not go back alone.
No matter how necessary the trip, you would not step foot inside that camp without someone else with you.
Without Azriel.
“Why.” His voice was cold with little inflection, the question not really a question at all.
You rubbed at your upper arm, shifting under his gaze. “Do you remember my friend, Freya?”
Azriel furrowed his brows, a clear challenge in his gaze. “Your friend.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine, a girl a few years above me that I ate lunch with.” It was too pitiful to argue that she was your friend—at least, that you considered her one. Even if she barely spoke to you, even if the most communication you held with her was not until after you fled Windhaven, and it was really only a channel of necessity.
She was kind.
And she was a victim of the same toxicity and abuse that you were. The only difference was that you made friends in higher places, and you got out.
Azriel nodded slowly, and you weren’t sure if he remembered her or if he was telling you to continue. It didn’t really matter.
“They found her body in the woods last week.” The words were hollow as they fell from your lips. Clinical and unfeeling. You kept the guilt and pain and anger shoved deep inside, hidden from the surface where they could fester.
Azriel stepped closer, mere inches now between the toes of your boots. His scent wafted over you, and his shadows extended out to curl around your wrists. You didn’t deserve their comfort. It was not yours to take—the same thought had sent you spiraling mere weeks ago in the kitchen above you—but you needed it. You needed the comfort so desperately there was nothing else to do but take it.
“What happened?” Azriel asked.
You shook your head, chest aching as you replayed the conversation with Rhys. “No one is talking. No one reported it. The only reason—” Your voice cracked, and you inhaled sharply, willing your emotions away. “The only reason we know is because I asked Cassian to check on her. It had been too long since I heard from her, and I was worried.”
“You talked with her?” Azriel asked, surprise limning his voice.
You nodded, staring at the floor. “Sporadically. Her, and a few other girls I grew up with. It wasn’t—it’s not friendship—not really. I just, I wanted—” You rubbed a hand over your face, steeling the tremble that was taking hold. “I wanted them to have someone they could turn to if they needed help.” You shook your head. “A lot of good it did.”
Azriel grabbed you by your shoulders, his grip firm and sudden. “Y/N,” he said, forcing your gaze to meet his. “This was not your fault.”
Your nose burned and your eyes started to water. “It feels like it,” you whispered. “I left them there.”
Azriel shook his head. “You survived. You had to leave. Y/N—” he said again, his hand coming up to pull your gaze back to him. “You had no choice.”
You couldn’t stop the trembling of your lip, and Azriel didn’t hesitate to pull you into his chest, your face falling against the familiar leather covering his chest. A sob fell from your lips, and he squeezed you tighter, one arm wrapped beneath your wings while the other hand held your head against his chest. “We’ll find out what happened to her,” he murmured against the top of your head.
You cried.
You cried in the arms of the male you loved and you knew you could never have, but would always want, and who had always been there.
~ ~ ~
“They clipped Lara’s wings today.”
Azriel stopped in his tracks, the crunch of his boots on the snow dusted forest floor falling silent. His shadows flew outward, moving haphazardly all around the two of you, swirling with restless anger that had nowhere to go. He clenched his fist, and slowly they slithered back to pool beneath his wings.
“Is she okay?” he asked softly.
You shrugged, continuing your walk. “I don’t know how any of them survive it,” you said, voice desolate with the inevitable future in front of you. “But her father was angry. She hid two cycles from him,” you said, then swallowed hard. “He did it himself.”
As if losing flight was not torturous enough. As if you were not horrified enough at the prospect of the camp healer stealing your wings power from you, what Lara endured was a new source of terror.
Azriel reclaimed his place beside you, matching his pace to yours despite his height over you. “My mother is terrible,” you murmured. “Cruel at the worst of times, apathetic at best.” You stretched out your hand to let a tendril of shadow weave between your fingers. Your lips twitched, just barely. “But it is hard to hate her when I see what they have done. When I think about what my father must have been like. It is no doubt a mercy that he died when I was just a babe.”
Azriel was watching you when you finally turned to look at him. “It could be me next,” you rasped.
He started shaking his head, but you didn’t let him speak. “I am fourteen, Azriel.” You huffed a sad and pathetic laugh. “I take the herbs Lara gave me, but even those only got her to seventeen—sixteen, really.”
Azriel grabbed your arm, stopping you. “Rhys’s mother was never clipped.”
You scoffed, pulling your arm away. “She is the Lady of the Night Court. Her mate is the High Lord and he stopped them.” You shook your head. “My mother is a widowed laundress that the camp lords look at as a speck of dirt on their boots.”
This time it was you who reached for him, your hand wrapping around his forearm and squeezing tighter than you should. “I can’t lose my wings, Azriel,” you told him, your desperation and fear clear in your voice. “Flying is all I have.”
He nodded, his free hand coming up to grab your shoulder. “I won’t let them take them.”
~ ~ ~
Windhaven was as cold and drab as you remembered. You didn’t understand how Cassian could stomach coming back here all the time. The air was bitter enough to make your lungs burn, and the scowls of the males that watched your every move made your stomach roil.
You hated how much this place still affected you.
Azriel walked beside you, his wings flared wide and with all seven siphons gleaming in the scarce sunlight that pushed through the overcast skies. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was close enough to feel his warmth radiate against you. You willed your spine into a rod of steel, your back straight and head held high, wings wide enough that they occasionally brushed against Azriel’s.
That was a statement in and of itself.
Azriel briefly met your eyes before he pulled open the door to the only tavern in Windhaven, where you would inevitably find Devlon. Azriel gestured for you to enter first. You nodded once, then stepped over the threshold. The air was musty and thick with the scent of sweat and booze, and you suddenly missed the bitter cold of the Illyrian wind. The door swung shut with a loud thud, Azriel’s chest briefly brushing your shoulder as he stepped behind you.
Your eyes scanned the seedy room, ignoring the leers and sneers of the males scattered around worn and decrepit wooden tables. It did not take long to find Devlon hiding in the back, tucked inside a booth in the back corner, his closest men surrounding him.
It did not take long for him to find you.
His eyes widened for a moment before they narrowed into a scowl. He tossed some coins on the table, his hand of cards following as you made your way toward him. “Lord Devlon,” you barked, your voice loud and sharp in the muffled murmur of the tavern. Azriel stayed a mere half a pace behind you. You stopped in front of his table, your eyes never leaving his. “We need to have a talk.”
He scoffed, then reached for his glass of amber liquid. “It’s not bad enough I have to listen to the bastard of a guard dog Rhysand sends every month?”
You felt Azriel bristle behind you. You felt his flare of anger and unbridled rage flare deep inside your own chest. You smirked, your eyes sharp and lips curled back just enough that it might even be considered a snarl. You leaned closer, your hand resting on the disgustingly damp and sticky tabletop as you met his eyes. “Come with me.”
Then you pulled back, and you walked out the back entrance, leaving Devlon and his men to bumble around like idiots in front of Azriel. You didn’t wait to hear the open and slam of the door before walking toward the fighting ring at the center of the camp.
You didn’t fight the self-satisfied smile that bloomed on your face as you heard the sound of two sets of footsteps in the freshly fallen snow. You made a show of looking around, but you did your best not to look in the direction of anywhere that might stab you through the heart. When the footsteps settled, when you felt that familiar grounding presence at your side again, you finally turned around to face Devlon.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” you drawled, he and you knowing very well the camp looks the same as it did five centuries ago.
“Get on with it,” he snapped, flinging his hand out. “What could Rhysand possibly want now?”
Your face turned stony, all faux amusement dropping from your eyes. “Who murdered Freya?”
“Who?” he had the audacity to sneer.
“You know who,” you snarled, stepping close. “Unless you mean to tell me that you don’t even know who lives and dies in your own camp.”
His eyes flared with undiluted rage, his throat bobbing. He glanced at Azriel behind you, his lip curling in disgust. “She was found in the woods. Stupid bitch wandered away from camp, made herself lunch for some animal.”
A gentle phantom touch brushed the back of your neck, soothing the flare of anger that roared inside you.
“Who found her?” you made yourself ask, voice tight.
“Her husband.”
“And you believed him?”
“You question the integrity of one of my generals?”
The words squeezed the air from your lungs. “A general,” you repeated. “Your general’s wife died, and you forgot who she was?”
Devlon didn’t respond.
You tilted your head back, folding your hands behind your back. “Forgive me if I do not trust your judgement of character,” you sneered. “We will be staying a few days.” You turned to Azriel, whose eyes were cold daggers pointed directly at Devlon. “We will continue this in the morning. Early,” you added, looking him up and down with blatant disgust. “Sober.”
You turned on your heel, heading for the only place you ever once called home in this wretched camp.
~ ~ ~
“Where are you going?”
You turned toward the voice that had appeared beside you, their jovial warmth friendly and unthreatening. Cassian was grinning as he fell into step with you, his hair pulled back with a leather tie he had undoubtedly cut himself. Pieces were falling down and around his face, and he squinted briefly as he pushed one out of his eyes.
You huffed, stopping. “Come here.”
Cassian blinked owlishly, but stepped closer anyway. You twirled your finger. “Turn around, and crouch down.”
He did as you asked, and when your fingers undid the loose knot in his hair his shoulders started shaking with laughter. “You’re a mess,” you grumbled.
“At least I tried to tame it.”
You rolled your eyes. “You could just cut it.”
He lifted a hand to his chest, his cheeks stretching into a grin as you pulled all of his hair back. “You wound me.”
You wound the leather around his hair, tying it in a tight knot, then patted his shoulder. “There,” you said.
Cassian rose to his full height, pulling you into his side with a grin still plastered to his face. “Thank you.”
You shoved him away lightly, continuing on your path. Cassian didn’t leave. “Where are you going?” he asked again.
“Flying,” you huffed.
“With who?”
You cut him a glance. “You are such a busybody,” you mumbled. “I’m meeting Azriel.”
Cassian’s brows raised. “You two spend a lot of time together.”
Your glare was sharper this time. “He’s my friend.”
“I’m your friend,” Cassian countered. “Your first friend.”
You huffed a laugh. “I didn’t know stealing my cookies was your version of friendship.”
He bumped your shoulder. “I did that once. Then gave you two back the next day.”
You smiled softly, then shrugged. You both knew that you really became close friends through Azriel, but it didn’t matter how. You had Az, Cas, and Rhys now. You weren’t alone. That’s all that mattered. “Azriel is my favorite friend.”
“Okay,” he huffed. “That one hurt.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, your grin widening when you found him glaring.
“No, but seriously,” he said, stopping you again with a hand on your arm. “Is there something—”
“Y/N.”
Your head snapped toward the familiar quiet voice, your smile morphing into something softer. The center of your chest warmed when you saw him, your heart racing as he walked closer to you and Cassian. He glanced warily at Cassian, an uncharacteristic uncertainty settling on his face. “I didn’t know Cassian was coming with us.”
Before Cassian could open his fat mouth, you shook your head quickly. “He’s not.” You looked at Cassian, smiling and raising your eyebrows pointedly. “He was just leaving. Right, Cas?”
Cassian looked far from pleased from you evading his interrogation, but acquiesced nonetheless. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’ll see you at training tomorrow, Az.” He clapped you on the shoulder, firmer than necessary, his eyes flaring with mischief and a promise to resume this conversation later—not that there was anything to talk about. “Thanks for your help, sweetheart.”
Your eyes widened, your cheeks flaring with heat at his stupid pet name, and knowing exactly why he said it.
He grinned, leaving the two of you alone with a half-hearted wave.
You took a deep breath, calming the flush of your cheeks before facing Azriel again. He was still watching Cassian walk back toward the camp. His jaw twitched, and he jumped when you touched his arm.
You smiled softly again when he looked at you. “Ready?” you asked.
He nodded silently, falling into step beside you. The clearing you usually met at wasn’t far.
“Is there something going on with you and Cas?” Azriel asked quietly. His shoulders were tense and his wings were flared, and his shadows were moving around him restlessly.
“What?” you asked. “No! He was just being an ass.” You waved away the notion, grimacing slightly. “As usual.”
“Oh.” Some of the tension visibly fell away from Azriel, his shoulders falling a bit. A small smile pulled at his lips when he looked at you again. It started to grow, and mischief glinted in his eyes the longer he watched you.
“What?” you asked again, growing wary.
He shook his head, looking away for a moment. “Nothing.” He licked his lips, the smile still fighting to stay on his face. “Did I tell you I learned something new?”
“No,” you said slowly. “At training?”
“Not quite.”
His arms reached out to circle your waist, and he pulled your body flush against his, sending your heart into a frenzy. You met his eyes in bewilderment, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement, and suddenly the two of you were engulfed in darkness.
In shadows.
You clung to Azriel as your body fell through some otherworldly ether, his shadows cocooning the two of you in a cool swath of silk as you catapulted through space.
Then light blinded you, and you buried your face in his chest before you started to freefall. You screamed as you plummeted, and Azriel laughed as his wings spread out, catching the two of you in the air with a harsh jolt.
You pulled your head away from his chest, just barely meeting his eyes. “What the hell was that?” you yelled.
Azriel’s eyes were bright as he carried you through the sky, the drag of your own wings against the wind not seeming to bother him in the slightest. He shrugged, meeting your gaze with a relaxed smile. “Rhys called it winnowing, but he said it feels different from when he does it.”
You were smiling as you shook your head. “You’re an asshole.”
Azriel grinned, and giggled when he spun the two of you around, the wind whipping at your face. “Your face was priceless,” he laughed.
“You could hardly even see it,” you scoffed.
Azriel looked lighter than he had in a long time—maybe since you had known him. He looked beautiful. You hated the dagger of worry that stabbed at your chest. “Maybe don’t tell anyone else about this?” you said carefully.
Azriel’s eyes shuttered, his jaw clenching. He nodded, as if he had already decided the same thing. “They already think I’m different enough—a threat.”
You shook your head, pulling one of your hands free from their clutch on his leathers to cup his face. “This is amazing, Az,” you said, voice as gentle as you could make it in the wind around you.
“I had to tell you,” he said.
“I’m glad you did.”
~ ~ ~
Azriel followed behind you silently, his presence warm at your back as you walked past roaming males in the dark of the camp. Only once you enter Rhys’s house—his mother’s house—and the door shut behind the two of you, did Azriel speak.
“I did not know we would be staying.”
You turned around quickly, guilt unfurling rapidly in your chest. “Neither did I.” You swallowed hard, looking around at the achingly familiar furniture covered with only a faint layer of dust. Cassian must come here. “I’m sorry. You can leave. I should never have—”
“I am not leaving you here,” he said quickly, moving close.
“I can’t ask you to stay here, Azriel. It’s unfair. You don’t deserve—”
“I can handle Devlon, and I can handle sleeping on this rancid land.” His voice was smooth and steady, his eyes not leaving yours. “I’m not worried about me,” he said quietly. “I’m worried about you.”
You breathed in deep, the dust floating around you scratching at your throat. “I’ll be fine,” you said, nodding as if that would make it true. “I need to do this for Freya.”
Azriel nodded, his hand coming out to rub your upper arm. “We’re going to find who did this.” His jaw clenched, the muscle in the corner jumping. “We might already know who.”
You let out a hollow, exasperated laugh. “How is it still like this?” you asked. “How are these things still happening? How is Devlon, of all Illyrians, considered the most progressive camp lord?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, his hand gently coaxing you to fall against his chest, his arms circling around your waste. “I’ve long thought they’re past saving.”
“It’s not fair.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you wanted to burrow inside of him. You wanted to cling to him like dew, and never leave. You wanted him. All of him. Forever.
~ ~ ~
“Azriel,” you rasped, leaning over his bed. You reached for him, shaking his shoulders far less gently than you should to wake a sleeping Illyrian male. “Azriel,” you sobbed.
He shot up in bed, his shadows flaring out to wrap around you. Not to protect him—to soothe you. You only cried harder.
“What happened?” he hurried out, sleep slipping from the panicked syllables. “Y/N?” He reached for you, pulling you down onto his bed as he sat up. “Hey—hey, what happened? Are you hurt?”
“She’s dead,” you hiccuped. You collapsed against him, your head falling into his lap as you curled up on your side. “She’s dead. My mother—”
Azriel’s arms held you tight, his wings curling around the two of you, a heavy warmth that dulled the sharpest edges of the cold terror protruding from your chest. You faintly heard the opening of a door. You didn’t care.
“She was the general’s mistress,” you rasped. “She didn’t know I knew, but I did. He—he—” Another sob tore from your throat, agony rippling through you. “What do I do? Where do I go?”
Azriel held you tight, rocking you gently. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
You fell asleep wrapped in his arms, with your head in his lap and his wings covering your trembling body, and tears slowly drying on your cheeks in the dark of night.
~ ~ ~
The mattress in Cassian’s old room was cold and lumpy, a worn down sack of cotton that was falling apart at the seams. It had surely been replaced in the five centuries since you left here, but it was long past due for another.
You wiggled around, the sheets catching around your feet and causing a flare of irritation in your chest. Eventually you yanked them down over your chest, your arms falling at your sides with a huff. Moonlight streamed in through the single window, no drapes to block it from falling across your skin. Your heart was beating hard in your chest, a half-beat off rhythm as your mind struggled to find rest in this place that had left so many scars on your soul.
Cassian’s scent lingered in the air, on the old shirt you had found shoved inside his wardrobe. It was familiar, at least. It masked all of the other acrid scents that bombarded you the second you stepped foot inside this camp.
You were still left feeling hollow. You ached from the inside out, and every minute that passed without sleep pricked against your skin—a stark reminder that you would be in no shape to confront Devlon in a few mere hours if you spent the night lying awake in the closest place you had to a childhood home.
Even if you were never allowed to live there.
The house was silent, save for your frustrated sighs. A stillness that felt more suffocating than peaceful falling over you. You tried to listen for Azriel, for his heartbeat, his breaths—anything to distract your spiraling mind—but it was utterly silent.
You knew he was still here. You could feel his presence, even if he was lying in the room across the hall. You couldn’t explain it, but you had always been able to feel him when he was near.
A sixth sense that was beginning to feel more like a curse than a blessing. A taunt, rather than a glimmer of hope. He was not yours to keep track of. He was not yours to want.
And yet, you knew the only thing, the only person, that could calm your racing mind and rising anxieties, was him.
It was selfish to take from him what he should be giving to another. It was selfish to hate the female that would one day have him, that had done nothing wrong but be blessed with Azriel as her mate.
He just—he had always been yours, in some twisted, round about way. Ever since you were young and naive and just happy to have a friend, he was yours. And you were his.
It was futile to talk yourself out of going to him. The wooden floors were rough against the soles of your feet as you opened your door, hesitating for only a second as you looked down the empty hallway, then walked toward Azriel’s door.
You fist hovered in front of the door, your heart pounding as you chastised yourself for wanting him—for needing him. You didn’t just want Azriel, you needed him like you needed air. If there was ever any doubt that he was a lifeline to your heart, this impromptu trip to hell had incinerated it.
You knocked. It was just a soft rap on the door, quiet enough that he might not hear it—if he were anyone else.
“Come in,” his muffled voice called.
Something warmed in your chest knowing that at least you had not been lying awake alone. You opened the door slowly, an unusual shyness cloaking you as you met his eyes. He was under his covers, his back resting against the wall at the head of the bed.
His torso was bare.
Your eyes lingered on his chest, on the curve of his pectorals that border the ridges of his abdomen. You watched the movement of a shadow that flitted across his stomach, then hid behind his back. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. Your mouth was dry when you said, “I can’t sleep.”
His cheeks seem flushed in the glow of the candle beside his bed. “Me neither,” he murmured.
You shut the door behind you, your eyes not leaving his. “Can I stay here?” you asked quietly.
Azriel nodded, his lips turning up so softly it melted one of the many icy tendrils curled around your ribs. He shifted closer to the edge of the far too small bed to hold two Illyrians, patting the small space beside him.
Your shoulders relaxed, falling from where they had been pinned close to your ears without you noticing. It was then that you noticed your legs were bare, and nothing but Cassian’s thread bare shirt was covering your skin.
In theory, this was not a big deal.
You and Azriel had been friends for centuries. You had seen each other in various states of undress in the most vulnerable and inopportune times, had cared for each other in moments of distress—this should have been nothing.
It still felt different.
It felt raw and intimate in a way you had never experienced, and you again felt foolish and guilty.
This was wrong. You should leave. You should leave, and not take advantage of your kind and unsuspecting friend when you knew you were only feeding your poor and delusional heart with misplaced hope that would logically never bloom to fruition. However, only your mind had the luxury of logic, and it was doing a piss poor job at protecting your feeble heart from further ruin.
You moved toward his bed, pulling back the covers and nestling down into the edge of the pillow behind him. Your nose was level with his hip with barely an inch between you, and your wings were drooping over the side of the bed, but you were infinitely more comfortable in here, beside Azriel, than you had been alone across the hall.
Azriel leaned over toward the bedside table, blowing the candle out with a small puff of air, then sank down into the bed so he was face to face with you, your heads sharing the lone pillow at the head of his bed. His soft cedar scent wrapped around you, his warmth enveloping you like a second blanket, and your eyes grew tired embarrassingly quickly.
You took in the muted hazel of his eyes, the flecks that glinted in the moon beams cast around the room, and you thought he might have been doing the same, his eyes never wavering from yours. Goosebumps pebbled across your skin, and the smile that pulled at your lips was entirely involuntary, pure content and love consuming your weary and battered mind for the first time in months—the Illyrian hell hole outside these walls be damned.
“Goodnight,” Azriel murmured, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion.
You might have moved impossibly closer, you might have let your legs brush his and your arms graze against the warm skin of his chest—it was purely due to the lack of space, of course. Azriel smiled softly at you, and his arms wrapped around your body, pulling you tighter against his chest, forcing your head to rest directly against him.
You melted into him, of course. His arms had always been where you felt safest, even in the darkest and most trying times of your life. There was no fighting it.
Even if that terrible, fleeting stone of guilt ricocheted through your body. Even if it just barely grazed your heart, reminding you of the precarious edge you were standing on, an inevitably agonizing heart break waiting for you below.
Tonight you would ignore it just a little longer. Tonight you would hide from your shredded soul in the arms of the male you loved, and would pretend, for just a few hours, he loved you too.
~ ~ ~
“Augustus makes an attor seem friendly.”
Your words were meant to be joking. They were meant to just be a jeering jab at your horrible cousin who you had never properly met, had not known existed until Devlon thrust you into his care the day after your mother’s funeral. Instead they sounded hollow and aching, entirely too much truth weighing them down.
Azriel noticed.
“Has he done something?” he asked quietly, as if he was afraid too loud a cadence might summon the wretched male to this desolate clearing.
You blinked, staring blankly at the snow below you. You were tired of snow. You were tired of the cold. Sixteen years spent living in eternal winter, and you were prepared to commit an atrocity if it meant you never had to see these snow-covered mountains again.
“Nothing new.”
You felt the tension rippling off of Azriel. His siphons littering his chest and arms flared, his copious stores of power simmering over. “That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s not good enough.”
Your head snapped toward him, your lips pulling back in an instinctive snarl. “It’s all I can give you.”
Azriel blinked, otherwise unflinching against your anger. “You’re keeping things from me,” he said quietly.
It was the truth, and it hurt, no matter how gentle he laid it in front of you.
Your mother was unkind. You even thought her cruel, once. Now you lived with a male who knew the true definition of cruelty. A male so toxic he made your hair stand straight on your arms and a chill ran down your spine every time you stepped foot through the door. A male who yelled instead of spoke, whose anger was a baseline state for him.
He was a male that used violence more than words. Who left bruises in his wake. Who reminded you every day he hated you, and he hated his uncle that impregnated the whore that birthed you, and was stupid enough to get herself killed.
What of his father? you sometimes wanted to ask. Was he stupid too? How did he die?
Speaking those words would be sure to get you killed.
A hand wrapped around your arm, the sudden touch making you flinch, your entire body curving away out of pure instinct. Your body froze when you realized what you did, when you recognized the scarred hand that had immediately fell away from you.
Horror sluiced through you when you met Azriel’s wide, vicious eyes. He was trembling, his shadows stretching out farther than he usually let them these days, his wings twitching behind him. “Let me see your arm.”
“No.”
“Y/N,” he said, your name spoken so low and slowly it forced your mind to slow down. “Let me see.”
“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice cracking.
Azriel’s jaw clenched, a puff of air leaving his nose as his hand squeezed into a fist, then slowly uncurled. “Please,” he asked gently. “I only want to help.”
“You have to promise me you won’t do anything,” you pleaded. Azriel’s throat bobbed as you stared at him. “Promise me, Azriel.”
“I promise,” he whispered.
You nodded, sniffing once to push away the tears that were beginning to burn at the back of your throat. You shrugged out of your jacket, exposing your bare arms to the bitter cold, and revealing the mottled bruises in various colors decorating your skin.
Azriel’s breath hitched when he saw. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and you hated that you still flinched when he touched your arm. He froze, staring at your face. You could only nod.
He continued his inspection, his hands gently grazing over your skin, careful not to hurt you. A tear fell from the corner of your eye, and you quickly wiped it away. Then his fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, squeezing the fabric tight, and when you finally met his gaze, gave him the permission he was seeking, he lifted your shirt.
“Y/N,” he said, his voice broken as he took in the purple blooms across your ribs. His fingers lightly traced the ridges of your ribcage, pulling away only when you sucked in a sharp breath as he passed over a sensitive area. He lowered your shirt slowly, and you could feel him staring at you, even as you stared down at the snow. “He could have killed you,” he whispered.
“He threatened to this morning,” you admittedly quietly, pathetically. “That was a first.”
He helped you slide your coat back on, doing up the wing slats silently with careful fingers.
“You need to report him?”
You laughed mirthlessly. “To who? Devlon?” You shook your head. “I’ll be fine.” You stood up from the boulder the two of you had been perched upon, your boot slipping just a bit before you gained your composure. “I’ve survived a year with him. I can survive more.”
“Y/N—”
“I’ll see you later, Azriel.”
~ ~ ~
“My condolences for the passing of your wife.”
The male leaning against the wall of one of the buildings surrounding the square, watching the young males train, lazily dragged his gaze up to meet yours. His eyes flit to Azriel standing behind you, a flash of contempt shining in his irises before he seemed to force it away. He met your gaze again, his arms still crossed over his chest as he said flatly, “My wife is dead. Your condolences mean nothing.”
“I’m sure,” you answered, forcing sympathy into your tone. “I grew up with Freya,” you said, watching him carefully. “She was my friend.”
The male went rigid, indignation and rage roaring behind his eyes. “She never told me she was friends with one of the High Lord’s whores. Though, it’s unsurprising.”
Azriel stepped forward, but you blocked his path. “What happened to her?” you asked, ignoring his disrespect.
His eyes narrowed, and he finally stood up straight. “She ran off in the middle of the night after letting her delusions mislead her. Guess she wandered too far, made herself a meal.”
You had no idea what he meant by that, but you knew in your bones you were staring into the eyes of the male that ended Freya’s life. And he was a general of one of the most respected legions in the Illyrian army. Rhys would terminate him immediately, with or without concrete proof—he would come and dig through his mind if that was what it took, but you wanted to handle this yourself. You wanted to force them to admit to their atrocities for once, and force them to do something about it.
“It’s just hard to imagine,” you pondered, voice floaty and distant as you turned to look out at the woods in the distance. “Five centuries she’s lived here…” You shook your head. “Do you have any children?”
“No.”
You looked him up and down, making no effort to hide your analysis of him. You pursed your lips, your facade falling away, and your stony armour falling back into place. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
You turned away, but you only made it a few steps toward Devlon’s quarters before an ear splitting scream rang through the camp. You flinched, stumbling back into Azriel, who caught you with steady hands. “What the hell was that?” you asked breathlessly.
The scream rang out again, this time sobs following after. It did not take long to find the source, two males dragging a young girl by her arms to the center of the square, her knees dragging on the snow covered ground. The males fighting in the wing didn’t even look at her.
They threw her to the ground.
Then they grabbed her wings.
“Get off of her!” The words tore out of you, loud and guttural as you took off for the young female lying in the snow, her skin bruised and discolored in a way yours once had been at that very same age. “Get your fucking hands off of her!”
The two males snapped their heads toward you, and only then did the clang of swords die out. Everyone was watching now, even some females coming out of the buildings scattered around. They sneered at you, ready to fire back, then their eyes fell to the presence at your side, to the shadows forming a thick blanket of smoke at your feet. Only then did they let her go, leaving her lying in the cold.
You shoved one of them out of the way, making him stumble, and Azriel was between the two of you before the male could react. You crouched down, gently helping the girl up. Tears streaked her cheeks, her hair damp from the snow and plastered to the side of her face. She was shaking. “Come on,” you said, voice steady. “Come on.”
She sniffed once, her eyes meeting yours, then taking in your leathers, and the way your wings were stretched wide behind your back, the way they were meant to. She nodded, letting you help her up by her arm, but she did most of the work. She glared at the male beside her, watching the two of you with pure disdain.
Then she spat at his boots.
He barely made a move before you shoved her behind you, and you grinned at the male. “You will not touch her,” you ordered, voice low and threatening. Then, looking around at all the males, and females, staring at you, you yelled, “In case you all forgot, wing clipping is banned by the High Lord!”
You stepped closer to the male that she spat at, shoving one finger against his chest. “You will not touch her,” you hissed.
You cast one last glare at the male, then turned around toward the girl. She was on her cycle. Your stomach twisted, too many horrific memories pressing at the edges of your mind. “Where is your mother?” you asked quietly.
She glanced to the side, to where a female was standing in the doorway of a tailor shop. Her hands were curled into tight fists, and her eyes were wide with terror and fury. You nodded toward the woman. “Go.”
The girl did not hesitate, running to her mother who embraced her in her arms, an unusually blatant display of affection in an Illyrian camp. You hoped her mother did not have bruises to match her own, but it was likely.
“What the hell is going on?” a grating male voice bellowed over the square.
You rolled your eyes, turning away from the mother and daughter once they hurried inside their shop to find Devlon, his eyes ablaze.
No one spoke. The general you had spoken to moments ago was gone, unsurprisingly.
“You are all dismissed,” Azriel ordered, his voice cold and lethal.
No one moved.
Azriel swung his gaze around the camp, his wings flaring wide and siphons gleaming. “Go.”
Everyone scattered, a dull murmur filling the square as males gathered their belongings, heading anywhere away from here. Azriel stepped in front of you, his body practically vibrating with rage. “Devlon,” he growled. “Wing clipping is banned in all Illyrian camps.”
Devlon’s eyes narrowed. “It is,” he agreed, begrudgingly.
“And yet, Y/N just stopped two of your males from clipping a girl they had pinned in the snow.”
Devlon said nothing, but the ire burning in his eyes made your blood rush through your head, a dull thump pounding in your ears. You stepped closer to him, the snow crunching beneath your boots with every slow step that brought you inches away from Devlon. You met his eyes, uncaring that he was taller and broader than you. You were not the terrified girl he once threw to the wolves with the flick of his hand five centuries ago.
“I will find out exactly what happened to Freya,” you hissed, venom lacing every syllable. “And I will personally see that any male that so much as thinks—” You stabbed Devlon in the chest with your finger, his nostrils flaring at the disrespect. “—of touching another female’s wings is dealt with appropriately.”
You leaned back, heart pounding as you looked Devlon up and down, your body vibrating with centuries of pent up fury and resentment and hatred for this wretched place filled with wretched men. “You forget your place, Devlon,” you spat.
“You fucking low-life bitch, mewing and preening for—” His words died with an abrupt wheeze, dark tendrils of shadow whipping around his throat and forcing their way inside his mouth, one even curling out of his nose. You stumbled back a step from the shock, Azriel moving in front of you with predatory grace.
“I would be very careful with your words,” he murmured, his voice cold and lethal. Devlon’s face grew redder by the second, his eyes starting to bulge as Azriel leaned down to meet his eyes. “I am not my brothers. I will not hesitate to find a new camp lord.”
The shadows pulled back, tucking beneath Azriel’s wings or wrapping around your ankles. Devlon keeled over just as Azriel stepped back, gasping and wheezing with watery eyes.
The look on Azriel’s face was pure disdain. “We’re done here.”
~ ~ ~
Panic clawed at your spine, sharp and cloying pain chasing after you no matter how far you ran.
You were so foolish. You knew, deep down, that it was only a matter of time before nature inevitably turned on you. It didn’t matter how many herbs and serums you stuffed down your throat day after day. Your cycle was inevitable.
You should have been prepared. You should have thought about its arrival beyond the bone deep dread that flooded your body every time you saw another girl in the mess hall with freshly clipped wings and sallow eyes. You knew you were only delaying the inevitable, and now it was finally here.
Maybe if your mother were still alive you might have hid it. Maybe she would not have cared enough to drag you to a healer, her own disdain for this camp possibly protecting you from its wretched customs. Or maybe she would have dragged you to the healer out of spite.
There was no doubt what Augustus would do.
He wouldn’t even take you to a healer. He would likely slash your wings to shreds himself, going farther than just robbing you of their function. He loathed your mere existence. The only reason you were not dead was his delusional dream of becoming one of Devlon’s prized generals, and Devlon was the one that had dumped you in Augustus’s care.
You knew as soon as he returned from wherever he slinked away to, as soon as walked through that door, he would smell the blood, and it would be over for you.
So you ran.
As soon as the cloying metallic scent hit your nose a.nd the stabbing pain shot through your abdomen, you stuffed your bare feet in your boots and shoved your arms in your coat and you ran. You wore nothing but a thin night gown underneath your leather jacket, your bare calves exposed to the bitter air and sharp cold of the snow-covered forest.
You had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run to. Nothing to help you survive alone in the Illyrian steppes, but all you could think about was that you would not survive the night if you stayed in that house in the center of camp.
You just had to make it far enough away from camp that no one could find you. No one could smell you. You just had to keep moving, even if the tears running down your cheeks were frozen on your skin and your hands were numb. Even if you felt like you were being ripped apart from the inside out and felt an uncomfortable and foreign moisture spread between your thighs. Even if you worried that the farther you fled into the forest, Illyrian males would no longer be your only threat.
Somehow you reached the clearing that you and Azriel would meet in, less frequently now that you were older. The open land that once felt freeing now left you open and exposed, entirely vulnerable. You sniffed once, ignoring the tears that clung to your lashes and stuffing down the slimy terror sluicing through your veins, and you kept running.
You managed to cross the clearing, catapulting into the tree line on the other side, hissing as a branch scraped your cheek. You were so tired, so weak, and you were in so much pain. The ground seemed to shift abruptly before righting itself, the trees spinning as you put one foot in front of the other, desperate to make it out of here. Flying was not an option if you wanted to go undetected, but running was rapidly failing you.
Your ankle twisted with a chilling snap, your foot falling into a snow covered hole. You careened forward, unable to catch yourself before landing sharply on your arm, the snow doing very little to cushion your fall. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood as you stifled your scream, a sharp gasp leaving your lips as you pushed yourself to sit up and pulled your foot from the sunken in ground.
You were trembling, and your head was spinning as you fought to catch your breath. Terror stabbed your chest as a male materialized in front of you, his wings stretched wide behind him, the moonlight illuminating his silhouette.
You were going to die.
“Y/N.”
You shut your eyes, a pathetic whimper falling from your lips as you shook in the snow, waiting for the inevitable.
“Y/N, it’s me,” he said again, voice soft and familiar.
You forced your eyes open, Azriel’s scent wafting over you as he crouched beside you.
Terror still clung to your skin, your world spinning and reality crashing down around you. You started shaking your head, fresh tears falling from your eyes. “Please,” you rasped. “Please. Please.” Your voice broke around your sobs. “Please don’t—” You coughed, and you leaned forward as another sharp pain stabbed at your abdomen.
“Hey—hey,” Azriel said hurriedly. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Y/N, I would never.”
His words sloshed around inside your head, tumbling around and around as you tried to listen. You slumped forward suddenly, and his hands shot out to catch you, but you quickly flinched away.
“No. Y/N, hey.” His hands were still firm on your arms, his warmth radiating into your frozen skin. “You’re safe with me.” He looked you in the eyes, and his muted hazel irises in the dark of night stared back at you, warm and familiar, even if they were laced with panic. “Are you hurt? What—”
He suddenly went rigid, his nostrils flaring as he quickly scanned your body, and you got to watch the realization dawn on his face. A swell of mortification mixed with your fear, even if you were in agony and crumpled in pain on the cold wet ground.
You stared at him, your lip trembling ever so slightly. “Please don’t make me go back,” you whispered.
Azriel’s face fell. “Y/N—”
You were shaking your head again. “I can’t lose my wings.” You gasped for air, fighting the sobs pushing at your throat. “I can’t, Azriel. It’s the only thing I have. Please—”
“No one is going to touch your wings,” he swore, and for a half second, you wanted to believe him. “But you can’t stay here. I have to take you back—”
“No,” you cried, your hand weakly clutching the front of his leathers. “No. Please—”
Azriel’s gloved hands came up to cup your face gently, his warmth a balm to the stinging cold. “I’m going to take you back to my home. Rhysand’s mother won’t be home until morning, but she will help. While we wait, you can bathe, warm up, sleep. You will be safe there.”
You swallowed hard, your throat burning from your cries. “What about Rhysand and Cassian?”
His thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. “They will be there. Hey,” he said, coaxing your face back up to meet his when you looked away, “They would never hurt you. They’re your friends.”
You nodded slowly, your grip on his leathers going lax. Your fingers ached from the cold, and your joints were growing stiff.
“Okay?” he asked.
You nodded again.
“Good,” he murmured. He pulled his hands away, and he slid his leather gloves off. “Here,” he said, then took your hand in his now bare one, his skin hot against yours. He slid the glove over your hand, the material warm from him, and it was a relief so intense you nearly started crying again. He took your other hand in his, doing the same.
“There,” he hummed, then reached up to brush your hair away from your face. “I’m not leaving you,” he promised. “No one is touching your wings.”
You stared at him for a moment, taking in the fuzzy contours of his face that you knew like the back of your hand, even in the dark of night. You slowly fell back inside yourself, slowly came down from the terror and adrenaline that had pushed you through the Illyrian forests, away from Windhaven, and recognized the world around you.
You recognized the gentle stroke of shadows on your exposed calves. You recognized the cedar sent curling around you. You recognized the kernel of warmth in the center of you that came to life every time Azriel was near—even now, when you were panic-stricken and exhausted, it was still there.
You remembered that you trusted him, and you were safe. Maybe you should have ran to him, instead of away from Windhaven. Maybe you would have made things worse if someone had caught you. Maybe he would be angry that you had acted so rash, so foolish, when the sun rose over the horizon. There were a lot of uncertainties, many you would never have the answer to, but you did know Azriel would protect you, and he would never hurt you.
You forgot sometimes how quickly Illyria weathered boys into males, children into adults. Azriel was eighteen now, and while you could still see that eleven year old boy behind the mess hall with rosy cheeks and messy hair, he was entirely male now. He was formidable in every sense of the word. In the spring, he would complete the Blood Rite, likely alongside Rhys and Cass, and there was no question of if they would pass.
Everyone feared them. Everyone whispered about the Shadowsinger, but no one outwardly antagonized him—not anymore. If someone with too much gall challenged him, they learned their lesson quickly. Azriel was undoubtedly fearsome.
But not to you.
You never feared him.
You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him, and you tucked your head against his chest. His arms quickly circled your body, overly mindful of your wings, but his palm still rubbed soothing circles along your lower back. “Thank you,” you whispered. “I don’t know how you found me, or how you knew to look for me—” Azriel squeezed you a little tighter. “But thank you.”
Suddenly one of his arms was under your legs, and you whimpered as your ankle shifted, which he gently apologized for. Then he lifted you, and you were finally out of the freezing snow that had seeped through your clothes.
You let your head loll against his chest, grateful for the warmth his body radiated and the shield from the wind his shadows had slowly built around you. “Thank you,” you whispered again.
He pressed his lips to the top of your head, a gesture that was so sweet and fond and new that your heart flipped inside your chest, and you wanted to cry for an entirely different reason.
~ ~ ~
As soon as the door shut behind Azriel with a heavy thud, you whirled around to face him. “What the hell was that?”
Azriel blinked, stopping in the entry way. “You know Devlon is a piece of—”
“I’m not talking about Devlon, Azriel. I’m talking about you.”
“What?”
You shook your head, hands balling into fists at your sides. You felt suffocated, angry, and out of control. This house held too many memories. This entire camp was littered with knives sharpened by horrific memories that were ready to stab you at first glance. There would never be any forgetting, even after centuries had passed.
“I was handling Devlon,” you grit out.
“I know.” Azriel stepped closer. “I was there.”
“Then why did you—”
“He does not get to speak to you that way,” Azriel growled.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles!”
Azriel’s mouth opened and then snapped shut, as if he thought better of whatever he was about to say. “I am always going to protect you, Y/N,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before.
You swallowed hard, your nose burning as bile stung the back of your throat. “I don’t need you to.”
Azriel shook his head. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that. Don’t ask me not to—” He tilted his head back, and his shadows broke free from behind his back in shaky tendrils, a rare slip of restraint. “I have protected you since the day I met you,” he rasped. The words sounded strangled and desperate, and they knocked the air from your lungs. “I want to. I need to. Please do not ask me to stop.”
You wanted to spit something vitriolic back, just because you were hurting—for more than one reason—and he was standing directly in your line of fire.
Then you met his eyes, which were glossy in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, and his shadows were vibrating with barely restrained emotion. Your shoulders fell, and then you looked away.
“Let’s go home,” he said quietly.
You nodded, even if your chest was suddenly tight. “You should go.”
“No,” Azriel said, and you looked at him warily. “We are going home. I’m not leaving you here, and if either of us stay in this camp another damned minute we might actually murder someone.”
“But Freya—”
“Rhys will handle it.”
“It’s my responsibility, Azriel.”
“It’s your responsibility to take care of yourself,” he volleyed back. Then he said again, “Rhys will handle it.”
“But the wing clipping—”
“Will not be fixed overnight. Cassian will take care of it.”
You closed your eyes, an all-consuming sense of failure corroding away at your bones. What was the point? What was the point of any of this if you could not help these females? Over five centuries of fighting and arguing and defying and still, nothing had changed. It was not enough. You could never do enough—
“Stop,” Azriel growled, his hands suddenly on your shoulders. “Stop. This is not your burden to bear alone. It’s not yours at all. None of this is your fault.”
You started to protest, but he leaned down closer to meet your eyes. “But you care,” he said softly. “You care about the females in this camp, because you are good. You are kind and compassionate and good, Y/N. You have not failed them, I promise you. You saved that girl today, and we will help the rest of them. I promise you.”
It was too much.
You depended on him too much, because somehow his words had soothed your soul, muting the spiraling stream of toxicity in your mind. Somehow his touch grounded you, and reminded you who you were, and where you were, and who you were with.
You were never really mad at him.
You were angry at the universe, and Illyria, and the Mother, but never him. He had done nothing wrong.
You loved him so much you thought your bones might break from the weight of it.
Your heart might combust from the agony of knowing he belonged to another, because he was yours. He was always meant to be yours. You needed him.
You wanted to hug him.
You wanted to kiss him.
Maybe, this was still salvageable. Maybe Azriel felt this too. Maybe he would understand, and everything he had said about how happy he was to find his mate a few months ago was just the rambling of a drunken male. Maybe he was deflecting, and if you just kissed him—
Azriel stepped away.
His hands fell from your shoulders.
The permanent chill in the air seeped back into your skin.
content warnings: apathetic parental figure, death of a parent, abuse from a guardian, implied domestic violence, canon-typical violence, menstrual cycle/blood, anxiety/fear, heavy emphasis on (and depiction of) maltreatment of females and misogyny in Illyrian culture, language, angst, more yearning
word count: 9.8k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“I need your help.”
Azriel froze, his wings flaring out before turning around to face you. “Hello to you, too.”
You smiled sheepishly, your heart beating hard against your ribs. “Sorry,” you said, slowly closing the distance between you. The faelights lining the hall glinted in his eyes, mirth shining in his irises. There were no real signs of annoyance, and that relieved you more than it should—more than you had any right to feel. “Hi.”
Azriel smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you said again, warmth creeping up your neck.
Azriel’s smile widened.
You cleared your throat, hating the way the tips of your ears burned under his gaze. “I need your help,” you said again.
Azriel’s smile faded, his expression sobering. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to go to Windhaven.”
Azriel went preternaturally still.
The words made your stomach twist, sharp claws scraping at the inside of your chest. Just thinking of going back there made your heart race and skin prickle. You had only been back a handful of times, only on occasions where it was absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, this was one of those times.
You could not go back alone.
No matter how necessary the trip, you would not step foot inside that camp without someone else with you.
Without Azriel.
“Why.” His voice was cold with little inflection, the question not really a question at all.
You rubbed at your upper arm, shifting under his gaze. “Do you remember my friend, Freya?”
Azriel furrowed his brows, a clear challenge in his gaze. “Your friend.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine, a girl a few years above me that I ate lunch with.” It was too pitiful to argue that she was your friend—at least, that you considered her one. Even if she barely spoke to you, even if the most communication you held with her was not until after you fled Windhaven, and it was really only a channel of necessity.
She was kind.
And she was a victim of the same toxicity and abuse that you were. The only difference was that you made friends in higher places, and you got out.
Azriel nodded slowly, and you weren’t sure if he remembered her or if he was telling you to continue. It didn’t really matter.
“They found her body in the woods last week.” The words were hollow as they fell from your lips. Clinical and unfeeling. You kept the guilt and pain and anger shoved deep inside, hidden from the surface where they could fester.
Azriel stepped closer, mere inches now between the toes of your boots. His scent wafted over you, and his shadows extended out to curl around your wrists. You didn’t deserve their comfort. It was not yours to take—the same thought had sent you spiraling mere weeks ago in the kitchen above you—but you needed it. You needed the comfort so desperately there was nothing else to do but take it.
“What happened?” Azriel asked.
You shook your head, chest aching as you replayed the conversation with Rhys. “No one is talking. No one reported it. The only reason—” Your voice cracked, and you inhaled sharply, willing your emotions away. “The only reason we know is because I asked Cassian to check on her. It had been too long since I heard from her, and I was worried.”
“You talked with her?” Azriel asked, surprise limning his voice.
You nodded, staring at the floor. “Sporadically. Her, and a few other girls I grew up with. It wasn’t—it’s not friendship—not really. I just, I wanted—” You rubbed a hand over your face, steeling the tremble that was taking hold. “I wanted them to have someone they could turn to if they needed help.” You shook your head. “A lot of good it did.”
Azriel grabbed you by your shoulders, his grip firm and sudden. “Y/N,” he said, forcing your gaze to meet his. “This was not your fault.”
Your nose burned and your eyes started to water. “It feels like it,” you whispered. “I left them there.”
Azriel shook his head. “You survived. You had to leave. Y/N—” he said again, his hand coming up to pull your gaze back to him. “You had no choice.”
You couldn’t stop the trembling of your lip, and Azriel didn’t hesitate to pull you into his chest, your face falling against the familiar leather covering his chest. A sob fell from your lips, and he squeezed you tighter, one arm wrapped beneath your wings while the other hand held your head against his chest. “We’ll find out what happened to her,” he murmured against the top of your head.
You cried.
You cried in the arms of the male you loved and you knew you could never have, but would always want, and who had always been there.
~ ~ ~
“They clipped Lara’s wings today.”
Azriel stopped in his tracks, the crunch of his boots on the snow dusted forest floor falling silent. His shadows flew outward, moving haphazardly all around the two of you, swirling with restless anger that had nowhere to go. He clenched his fist, and slowly they slithered back to pool beneath his wings.
“Is she okay?” he asked softly.
You shrugged, continuing your walk. “I don’t know how any of them survive it,” you said, voice desolate with the inevitable future in front of you. “But her father was angry. She hid two cycles from him,” you said, then swallowed hard. “He did it himself.”
As if losing flight was not torturous enough. As if you were not horrified enough at the prospect of the camp healer stealing your wings power from you, what Lara endured was a new source of terror.
Azriel reclaimed his place beside you, matching his pace to yours despite his height over you. “My mother is terrible,” you murmured. “Cruel at the worst of times, apathetic at best.” You stretched out your hand to let a tendril of shadow weave between your fingers. Your lips twitched, just barely. “But it is hard to hate her when I see what they have done. When I think about what my father must have been like. It is no doubt a mercy that he died when I was just a babe.”
Azriel was watching you when you finally turned to look at him. “It could be me next,” you rasped.
He started shaking his head, but you didn’t let him speak. “I am fourteen, Azriel.” You huffed a sad and pathetic laugh. “I take the herbs Lara gave me, but even those only got her to seventeen—sixteen, really.”
Azriel grabbed your arm, stopping you. “Rhys’s mother was never clipped.”
You scoffed, pulling your arm away. “She is the Lady of the Night Court. Her mate is the High Lord and he stopped them.” You shook your head. “My mother is a widowed laundress that the camp lords look at as a speck of dirt on their boots.”
This time it was you who reached for him, your hand wrapping around his forearm and squeezing tighter than you should. “I can’t lose my wings, Azriel,” you told him, your desperation and fear clear in your voice. “Flying is all I have.”
He nodded, his free hand coming up to grab your shoulder. “I won’t let them take them.”
~ ~ ~
Windhaven was as cold and drab as you remembered. You didn’t understand how Cassian could stomach coming back here all the time. The air was bitter enough to make your lungs burn, and the scowls of the males that watched your every move made your stomach roil.
You hated how much this place still affected you.
Azriel walked beside you, his wings flared wide and with all seven siphons gleaming in the scarce sunlight that pushed through the overcast skies. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was close enough to feel his warmth radiate against you. You willed your spine into a rod of steel, your back straight and head held high, wings wide enough that they occasionally brushed against Azriel’s.
That was a statement in and of itself.
Azriel briefly met your eyes before he pulled open the door to the only tavern in Windhaven, where you would inevitably find Devlon. Azriel gestured for you to enter first. You nodded once, then stepped over the threshold. The air was musty and thick with the scent of sweat and booze, and you suddenly missed the bitter cold of the Illyrian wind. The door swung shut with a loud thud, Azriel’s chest briefly brushing your shoulder as he stepped behind you.
Your eyes scanned the seedy room, ignoring the leers and sneers of the males scattered around worn and decrepit wooden tables. It did not take long to find Devlon hiding in the back, tucked inside a booth in the back corner, his closest men surrounding him.
It did not take long for him to find you.
His eyes widened for a moment before they narrowed into a scowl. He tossed some coins on the table, his hand of cards following as you made your way toward him. “Lord Devlon,” you barked, your voice loud and sharp in the muffled murmur of the tavern. Azriel stayed a mere half a pace behind you. You stopped in front of his table, your eyes never leaving his. “We need to have a talk.”
He scoffed, then reached for his glass of amber liquid. “It’s not bad enough I have to listen to the bastard of a guard dog Rhysand sends every month?”
You felt Azriel bristle behind you. You felt his flare of anger and unbridled rage flare deep inside your own chest. You smirked, your eyes sharp and lips curled back just enough that it might even be considered a snarl. You leaned closer, your hand resting on the disgustingly damp and sticky tabletop as you met his eyes. “Come with me.”
Then you pulled back, and you walked out the back entrance, leaving Devlon and his men to bumble around like idiots in front of Azriel. You didn’t wait to hear the open and slam of the door before walking toward the fighting ring at the center of the camp.
You didn’t fight the self-satisfied smile that bloomed on your face as you heard the sound of two sets of footsteps in the freshly fallen snow. You made a show of looking around, but you did your best not to look in the direction of anywhere that might stab you through the heart. When the footsteps settled, when you felt that familiar grounding presence at your side again, you finally turned around to face Devlon.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” you drawled, he and you knowing very well the camp looks the same as it did five centuries ago.
“Get on with it,” he snapped, flinging his hand out. “What could Rhysand possibly want now?”
Your face turned stony, all faux amusement dropping from your eyes. “Who murdered Freya?”
“Who?” he had the audacity to sneer.
“You know who,” you snarled, stepping close. “Unless you mean to tell me that you don’t even know who lives and dies in your own camp.”
His eyes flared with undiluted rage, his throat bobbing. He glanced at Azriel behind you, his lip curling in disgust. “She was found in the woods. Stupid bitch wandered away from camp, made herself lunch for some animal.”
A gentle phantom touch brushed the back of your neck, soothing the flare of anger that roared inside you.
“Who found her?” you made yourself ask, voice tight.
“Her husband.”
“And you believed him?”
“You question the integrity of one of my generals?”
The words squeezed the air from your lungs. “A general,” you repeated. “Your general’s wife died, and you forgot who she was?”
Devlon didn’t respond.
You tilted your head back, folding your hands behind your back. “Forgive me if I do not trust your judgement of character,” you sneered. “We will be staying a few days.” You turned to Azriel, whose eyes were cold daggers pointed directly at Devlon. “We will continue this in the morning. Early,” you added, looking him up and down with blatant disgust. “Sober.”
You turned on your heel, heading for the only place you ever once called home in this wretched camp.
~ ~ ~
“Where are you going?”
You turned toward the voice that had appeared beside you, their jovial warmth friendly and unthreatening. Cassian was grinning as he fell into step with you, his hair pulled back with a leather tie he had undoubtedly cut himself. Pieces were falling down and around his face, and he squinted briefly as he pushed one out of his eyes.
You huffed, stopping. “Come here.”
Cassian blinked owlishly, but stepped closer anyway. You twirled your finger. “Turn around, and crouch down.”
He did as you asked, and when your fingers undid the loose knot in his hair his shoulders started shaking with laughter. “You’re a mess,” you grumbled.
“At least I tried to tame it.”
You rolled your eyes. “You could just cut it.”
He lifted a hand to his chest, his cheeks stretching into a grin as you pulled all of his hair back. “You wound me.”
You wound the leather around his hair, tying it in a tight knot, then patted his shoulder. “There,” you said.
Cassian rose to his full height, pulling you into his side with a grin still plastered to his face. “Thank you.”
You shoved him away lightly, continuing on your path. Cassian didn’t leave. “Where are you going?” he asked again.
“Flying,” you huffed.
“With who?”
You cut him a glance. “You are such a busybody,” you mumbled. “I’m meeting Azriel.”
Cassian’s brows raised. “You two spend a lot of time together.”
Your glare was sharper this time. “He’s my friend.”
“I’m your friend,” Cassian countered. “Your first friend.”
You huffed a laugh. “I didn’t know stealing my cookies was your version of friendship.”
He bumped your shoulder. “I did that once. Then gave you two back the next day.”
You smiled softly, then shrugged. You both knew that you really became close friends through Azriel, but it didn’t matter how. You had Az, Cas, and Rhys now. You weren’t alone. That’s all that mattered. “Azriel is my favorite friend.”
“Okay,” he huffed. “That one hurt.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, your grin widening when you found him glaring.
“No, but seriously,” he said, stopping you again with a hand on your arm. “Is there something—”
“Y/N.”
Your head snapped toward the familiar quiet voice, your smile morphing into something softer. The center of your chest warmed when you saw him, your heart racing as he walked closer to you and Cassian. He glanced warily at Cassian, an uncharacteristic uncertainty settling on his face. “I didn’t know Cassian was coming with us.”
Before Cassian could open his fat mouth, you shook your head quickly. “He’s not.” You looked at Cassian, smiling and raising your eyebrows pointedly. “He was just leaving. Right, Cas?”
Cassian looked far from pleased from you evading his interrogation, but acquiesced nonetheless. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’ll see you at training tomorrow, Az.” He clapped you on the shoulder, firmer than necessary, his eyes flaring with mischief and a promise to resume this conversation later—not that there was anything to talk about. “Thanks for your help, sweetheart.”
Your eyes widened, your cheeks flaring with heat at his stupid pet name, and knowing exactly why he said it.
He grinned, leaving the two of you alone with a half-hearted wave.
You took a deep breath, calming the flush of your cheeks before facing Azriel again. He was still watching Cassian walk back toward the camp. His jaw twitched, and he jumped when you touched his arm.
You smiled softly again when he looked at you. “Ready?” you asked.
He nodded silently, falling into step beside you. The clearing you usually met at wasn’t far.
“Is there something going on with you and Cas?” Azriel asked quietly. His shoulders were tense and his wings were flared, and his shadows were moving around him restlessly.
“What?” you asked. “No! He was just being an ass.” You waved away the notion, grimacing slightly. “As usual.”
“Oh.” Some of the tension visibly fell away from Azriel, his shoulders falling a bit. A small smile pulled at his lips when he looked at you again. It started to grow, and mischief glinted in his eyes the longer he watched you.
“What?” you asked again, growing wary.
He shook his head, looking away for a moment. “Nothing.” He licked his lips, the smile still fighting to stay on his face. “Did I tell you I learned something new?”
“No,” you said slowly. “At training?”
“Not quite.”
His arms reached out to circle your waist, and he pulled your body flush against his, sending your heart into a frenzy. You met his eyes in bewilderment, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement, and suddenly the two of you were engulfed in darkness.
In shadows.
You clung to Azriel as your body fell through some otherworldly ether, his shadows cocooning the two of you in a cool swath of silk as you catapulted through space.
Then light blinded you, and you buried your face in his chest before you started to freefall. You screamed as you plummeted, and Azriel laughed as his wings spread out, catching the two of you in the air with a harsh jolt.
You pulled your head away from his chest, just barely meeting his eyes. “What the hell was that?” you yelled.
Azriel’s eyes were bright as he carried you through the sky, the drag of your own wings against the wind not seeming to bother him in the slightest. He shrugged, meeting your gaze with a relaxed smile. “Rhys called it winnowing, but he said it feels different from when he does it.”
You were smiling as you shook your head. “You’re an asshole.”
Azriel grinned, and giggled when he spun the two of you around, the wind whipping at your face. “Your face was priceless,” he laughed.
“You could hardly even see it,” you scoffed.
Azriel looked lighter than he had in a long time—maybe since you had known him. He looked beautiful. You hated the dagger of worry that stabbed at your chest. “Maybe don’t tell anyone else about this?” you said carefully.
Azriel’s eyes shuttered, his jaw clenching. He nodded, as if he had already decided the same thing. “They already think I’m different enough—a threat.”
You shook your head, pulling one of your hands free from their clutch on his leathers to cup his face. “This is amazing, Az,” you said, voice as gentle as you could make it in the wind around you.
“I had to tell you,” he said.
“I’m glad you did.”
~ ~ ~
Azriel followed behind you silently, his presence warm at your back as you walked past roaming males in the dark of the camp. Only once you enter Rhys’s house—his mother’s house—and the door shut behind the two of you, did Azriel speak.
“I did not know we would be staying.”
You turned around quickly, guilt unfurling rapidly in your chest. “Neither did I.” You swallowed hard, looking around at the achingly familiar furniture covered with only a faint layer of dust. Cassian must come here. “I’m sorry. You can leave. I should never have—”
“I am not leaving you here,” he said quickly, moving close.
“I can’t ask you to stay here, Azriel. It’s unfair. You don’t deserve—”
“I can handle Devlon, and I can handle sleeping on this rancid land.” His voice was smooth and steady, his eyes not leaving yours. “I’m not worried about me,” he said quietly. “I’m worried about you.”
You breathed in deep, the dust floating around you scratching at your throat. “I’ll be fine,” you said, nodding as if that would make it true. “I need to do this for Freya.”
Azriel nodded, his hand coming out to rub your upper arm. “We’re going to find who did this.” His jaw clenched, the muscle in the corner jumping. “We might already know who.”
You let out a hollow, exasperated laugh. “How is it still like this?” you asked. “How are these things still happening? How is Devlon, of all Illyrians, considered the most progressive camp lord?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, his hand gently coaxing you to fall against his chest, his arms circling around your waste. “I’ve long thought they’re past saving.”
“It’s not fair.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you wanted to burrow inside of him. You wanted to cling to him like dew, and never leave. You wanted him. All of him. Forever.
~ ~ ~
“Azriel,” you rasped, leaning over his bed. You reached for him, shaking his shoulders far less gently than you should to wake a sleeping Illyrian male. “Azriel,” you sobbed.
He shot up in bed, his shadows flaring out to wrap around you. Not to protect him—to soothe you. You only cried harder.
“What happened?” he hurried out, sleep slipping from the panicked syllables. “Y/N?” He reached for you, pulling you down onto his bed as he sat up. “Hey—hey, what happened? Are you hurt?”
“She’s dead,” you hiccuped. You collapsed against him, your head falling into his lap as you curled up on your side. “She’s dead. My mother—”
Azriel’s arms held you tight, his wings curling around the two of you, a heavy warmth that dulled the sharpest edges of the cold terror protruding from your chest. You faintly heard the opening of a door. You didn’t care.
“She was the general’s mistress,” you rasped. “She didn’t know I knew, but I did. He—he—” Another sob tore from your throat, agony rippling through you. “What do I do? Where do I go?”
Azriel held you tight, rocking you gently. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
You fell asleep wrapped in his arms, with your head in his lap and his wings covering your trembling body, and tears slowly drying on your cheeks in the dark of night.
~ ~ ~
The mattress in Cassian’s old room was cold and lumpy, a worn down sack of cotton that was falling apart at the seams. It had surely been replaced in the five centuries since you left here, but it was long past due for another.
You wiggled around, the sheets catching around your feet and causing a flare of irritation in your chest. Eventually you yanked them down over your chest, your arms falling at your sides with a huff. Moonlight streamed in through the single window, no drapes to block it from falling across your skin. Your heart was beating hard in your chest, a half-beat off rhythm as your mind struggled to find rest in this place that had left so many scars on your soul.
Cassian’s scent lingered in the air, on the old shirt you had found shoved inside his wardrobe. It was familiar, at least. It masked all of the other acrid scents that bombarded you the second you stepped foot inside this camp.
You were still left feeling hollow. You ached from the inside out, and every minute that passed without sleep pricked against your skin—a stark reminder that you would be in no shape to confront Devlon in a few mere hours if you spent the night lying awake in the closest place you had to a childhood home.
Even if you were never allowed to live there.
The house was silent, save for your frustrated sighs. A stillness that felt more suffocating than peaceful falling over you. You tried to listen for Azriel, for his heartbeat, his breaths—anything to distract your spiraling mind—but it was utterly silent.
You knew he was still here. You could feel his presence, even if he was lying in the room across the hall. You couldn’t explain it, but you had always been able to feel him when he was near.
A sixth sense that was beginning to feel more like a curse than a blessing. A taunt, rather than a glimmer of hope. He was not yours to keep track of. He was not yours to want.
And yet, you knew the only thing, the only person, that could calm your racing mind and rising anxieties, was him.
It was selfish to take from him what he should be giving to another. It was selfish to hate the female that would one day have him, that had done nothing wrong but be blessed with Azriel as her mate.
He just—he had always been yours, in some twisted, round about way. Ever since you were young and naive and just happy to have a friend, he was yours. And you were his.
It was futile to talk yourself out of going to him. The wooden floors were rough against the soles of your feet as you opened your door, hesitating for only a second as you looked down the empty hallway, then walked toward Azriel’s door.
You fist hovered in front of the door, your heart pounding as you chastised yourself for wanting him—for needing him. You didn’t just want Azriel, you needed him like you needed air. If there was ever any doubt that he was a lifeline to your heart, this impromptu trip to hell had incinerated it.
You knocked. It was just a soft rap on the door, quiet enough that he might not hear it—if he were anyone else.
“Come in,” his muffled voice called.
Something warmed in your chest knowing that at least you had not been lying awake alone. You opened the door slowly, an unusual shyness cloaking you as you met his eyes. He was under his covers, his back resting against the wall at the head of the bed.
His torso was bare.
Your eyes lingered on his chest, on the curve of his pectorals that border the ridges of his abdomen. You watched the movement of a shadow that flitted across his stomach, then hid behind his back. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. Your mouth was dry when you said, “I can’t sleep.”
His cheeks seem flushed in the glow of the candle beside his bed. “Me neither,” he murmured.
You shut the door behind you, your eyes not leaving his. “Can I stay here?” you asked quietly.
Azriel nodded, his lips turning up so softly it melted one of the many icy tendrils curled around your ribs. He shifted closer to the edge of the far too small bed to hold two Illyrians, patting the small space beside him.
Your shoulders relaxed, falling from where they had been pinned close to your ears without you noticing. It was then that you noticed your legs were bare, and nothing but Cassian’s thread bare shirt was covering your skin.
In theory, this was not a big deal.
You and Azriel had been friends for centuries. You had seen each other in various states of undress in the most vulnerable and inopportune times, had cared for each other in moments of distress—this should have been nothing.
It still felt different.
It felt raw and intimate in a way you had never experienced, and you again felt foolish and guilty.
This was wrong. You should leave. You should leave, and not take advantage of your kind and unsuspecting friend when you knew you were only feeding your poor and delusional heart with misplaced hope that would logically never bloom to fruition. However, only your mind had the luxury of logic, and it was doing a piss poor job at protecting your feeble heart from further ruin.
You moved toward his bed, pulling back the covers and nestling down into the edge of the pillow behind him. Your nose was level with his hip with barely an inch between you, and your wings were drooping over the side of the bed, but you were infinitely more comfortable in here, beside Azriel, than you had been alone across the hall.
Azriel leaned over toward the bedside table, blowing the candle out with a small puff of air, then sank down into the bed so he was face to face with you, your heads sharing the lone pillow at the head of his bed. His soft cedar scent wrapped around you, his warmth enveloping you like a second blanket, and your eyes grew tired embarrassingly quickly.
You took in the muted hazel of his eyes, the flecks that glinted in the moon beams cast around the room, and you thought he might have been doing the same, his eyes never wavering from yours. Goosebumps pebbled across your skin, and the smile that pulled at your lips was entirely involuntary, pure content and love consuming your weary and battered mind for the first time in months—the Illyrian hell hole outside these walls be damned.
“Goodnight,” Azriel murmured, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion.
You might have moved impossibly closer, you might have let your legs brush his and your arms graze against the warm skin of his chest—it was purely due to the lack of space, of course. Azriel smiled softly at you, and his arms wrapped around your body, pulling you tighter against his chest, forcing your head to rest directly against him.
You melted into him, of course. His arms had always been where you felt safest, even in the darkest and most trying times of your life. There was no fighting it.
Even if that terrible, fleeting stone of guilt ricocheted through your body. Even if it just barely grazed your heart, reminding you of the precarious edge you were standing on, an inevitably agonizing heart break waiting for you below.
Tonight you would ignore it just a little longer. Tonight you would hide from your shredded soul in the arms of the male you loved, and would pretend, for just a few hours, he loved you too.
~ ~ ~
“Augustus makes an attor seem friendly.”
Your words were meant to be joking. They were meant to just be a jeering jab at your horrible cousin who you had never properly met, had not known existed until Devlon thrust you into his care the day after your mother’s funeral. Instead they sounded hollow and aching, entirely too much truth weighing them down.
Azriel noticed.
“Has he done something?” he asked quietly, as if he was afraid too loud a cadence might summon the wretched male to this desolate clearing.
You blinked, staring blankly at the snow below you. You were tired of snow. You were tired of the cold. Sixteen years spent living in eternal winter, and you were prepared to commit an atrocity if it meant you never had to see these snow-covered mountains again.
“Nothing new.”
You felt the tension rippling off of Azriel. His siphons littering his chest and arms flared, his copious stores of power simmering over. “That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s not good enough.”
Your head snapped toward him, your lips pulling back in an instinctive snarl. “It’s all I can give you.”
Azriel blinked, otherwise unflinching against your anger. “You’re keeping things from me,” he said quietly.
It was the truth, and it hurt, no matter how gentle he laid it in front of you.
Your mother was unkind. You even thought her cruel, once. Now you lived with a male who knew the true definition of cruelty. A male so toxic he made your hair stand straight on your arms and a chill ran down your spine every time you stepped foot through the door. A male who yelled instead of spoke, whose anger was a baseline state for him.
He was a male that used violence more than words. Who left bruises in his wake. Who reminded you every day he hated you, and he hated his uncle that impregnated the whore that birthed you, and was stupid enough to get herself killed.
What of his father? you sometimes wanted to ask. Was he stupid too? How did he die?
Speaking those words would be sure to get you killed.
A hand wrapped around your arm, the sudden touch making you flinch, your entire body curving away out of pure instinct. Your body froze when you realized what you did, when you recognized the scarred hand that had immediately fell away from you.
Horror sluiced through you when you met Azriel’s wide, vicious eyes. He was trembling, his shadows stretching out farther than he usually let them these days, his wings twitching behind him. “Let me see your arm.”
“No.”
“Y/N,” he said, your name spoken so low and slowly it forced your mind to slow down. “Let me see.”
“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice cracking.
Azriel’s jaw clenched, a puff of air leaving his nose as his hand squeezed into a fist, then slowly uncurled. “Please,” he asked gently. “I only want to help.”
“You have to promise me you won’t do anything,” you pleaded. Azriel’s throat bobbed as you stared at him. “Promise me, Azriel.”
“I promise,” he whispered.
You nodded, sniffing once to push away the tears that were beginning to burn at the back of your throat. You shrugged out of your jacket, exposing your bare arms to the bitter cold, and revealing the mottled bruises in various colors decorating your skin.
Azriel’s breath hitched when he saw. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and you hated that you still flinched when he touched your arm. He froze, staring at your face. You could only nod.
He continued his inspection, his hands gently grazing over your skin, careful not to hurt you. A tear fell from the corner of your eye, and you quickly wiped it away. Then his fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, squeezing the fabric tight, and when you finally met his gaze, gave him the permission he was seeking, he lifted your shirt.
“Y/N,” he said, his voice broken as he took in the purple blooms across your ribs. His fingers lightly traced the ridges of your ribcage, pulling away only when you sucked in a sharp breath as he passed over a sensitive area. He lowered your shirt slowly, and you could feel him staring at you, even as you stared down at the snow. “He could have killed you,” he whispered.
“He threatened to this morning,” you admittedly quietly, pathetically. “That was a first.”
He helped you slide your coat back on, doing up the wing slats silently with careful fingers.
“You need to report him?”
You laughed mirthlessly. “To who? Devlon?” You shook your head. “I’ll be fine.” You stood up from the boulder the two of you had been perched upon, your boot slipping just a bit before you gained your composure. “I’ve survived a year with him. I can survive more.”
“Y/N—”
“I’ll see you later, Azriel.”
~ ~ ~
“My condolences for the passing of your wife.”
The male leaning against the wall of one of the buildings surrounding the square, watching the young males train, lazily dragged his gaze up to meet yours. His eyes flit to Azriel standing behind you, a flash of contempt shining in his irises before he seemed to force it away. He met your gaze again, his arms still crossed over his chest as he said flatly, “My wife is dead. Your condolences mean nothing.”
“I’m sure,” you answered, forcing sympathy into your tone. “I grew up with Freya,” you said, watching him carefully. “She was my friend.”
The male went rigid, indignation and rage roaring behind his eyes. “She never told me she was friends with one of the High Lord’s whores. Though, it’s unsurprising.”
Azriel stepped forward, but you blocked his path. “What happened to her?” you asked, ignoring his disrespect.
His eyes narrowed, and he finally stood up straight. “She ran off in the middle of the night after letting her delusions mislead her. Guess she wandered too far, made herself a meal.”
You had no idea what he meant by that, but you knew in your bones you were staring into the eyes of the male that ended Freya’s life. And he was a general of one of the most respected legions in the Illyrian army. Rhys would terminate him immediately, with or without concrete proof—he would come and dig through his mind if that was what it took, but you wanted to handle this yourself. You wanted to force them to admit to their atrocities for once, and force them to do something about it.
“It’s just hard to imagine,” you pondered, voice floaty and distant as you turned to look out at the woods in the distance. “Five centuries she’s lived here…” You shook your head. “Do you have any children?”
“No.”
You looked him up and down, making no effort to hide your analysis of him. You pursed your lips, your facade falling away, and your stony armour falling back into place. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
You turned away, but you only made it a few steps toward Devlon’s quarters before an ear splitting scream rang through the camp. You flinched, stumbling back into Azriel, who caught you with steady hands. “What the hell was that?” you asked breathlessly.
The scream rang out again, this time sobs following after. It did not take long to find the source, two males dragging a young girl by her arms to the center of the square, her knees dragging on the snow covered ground. The males fighting in the wing didn’t even look at her.
They threw her to the ground.
Then they grabbed her wings.
“Get off of her!” The words tore out of you, loud and guttural as you took off for the young female lying in the snow, her skin bruised and discolored in a way yours once had been at that very same age. “Get your fucking hands off of her!”
The two males snapped their heads toward you, and only then did the clang of swords die out. Everyone was watching now, even some females coming out of the buildings scattered around. They sneered at you, ready to fire back, then their eyes fell to the presence at your side, to the shadows forming a thick blanket of smoke at your feet. Only then did they let her go, leaving her lying in the cold.
You shoved one of them out of the way, making him stumble, and Azriel was between the two of you before the male could react. You crouched down, gently helping the girl up. Tears streaked her cheeks, her hair damp from the snow and plastered to the side of her face. She was shaking. “Come on,” you said, voice steady. “Come on.”
She sniffed once, her eyes meeting yours, then taking in your leathers, and the way your wings were stretched wide behind your back, the way they were meant to. She nodded, letting you help her up by her arm, but she did most of the work. She glared at the male beside her, watching the two of you with pure disdain.
Then she spat at his boots.
He barely made a move before you shoved her behind you, and you grinned at the male. “You will not touch her,” you ordered, voice low and threatening. Then, looking around at all the males, and females, staring at you, you yelled, “In case you all forgot, wing clipping is banned by the High Lord!”
You stepped closer to the male that she spat at, shoving one finger against his chest. “You will not touch her,” you hissed.
You cast one last glare at the male, then turned around toward the girl. She was on her cycle. Your stomach twisted, too many horrific memories pressing at the edges of your mind. “Where is your mother?” you asked quietly.
She glanced to the side, to where a female was standing in the doorway of a tailor shop. Her hands were curled into tight fists, and her eyes were wide with terror and fury. You nodded toward the woman. “Go.”
The girl did not hesitate, running to her mother who embraced her in her arms, an unusually blatant display of affection in an Illyrian camp. You hoped her mother did not have bruises to match her own, but it was likely.
“What the hell is going on?” a grating male voice bellowed over the square.
You rolled your eyes, turning away from the mother and daughter once they hurried inside their shop to find Devlon, his eyes ablaze.
No one spoke. The general you had spoken to moments ago was gone, unsurprisingly.
“You are all dismissed,” Azriel ordered, his voice cold and lethal.
No one moved.
Azriel swung his gaze around the camp, his wings flaring wide and siphons gleaming. “Go.”
Everyone scattered, a dull murmur filling the square as males gathered their belongings, heading anywhere away from here. Azriel stepped in front of you, his body practically vibrating with rage. “Devlon,” he growled. “Wing clipping is banned in all Illyrian camps.”
Devlon’s eyes narrowed. “It is,” he agreed, begrudgingly.
“And yet, Y/N just stopped two of your males from clipping a girl they had pinned in the snow.”
Devlon said nothing, but the ire burning in his eyes made your blood rush through your head, a dull thump pounding in your ears. You stepped closer to him, the snow crunching beneath your boots with every slow step that brought you inches away from Devlon. You met his eyes, uncaring that he was taller and broader than you. You were not the terrified girl he once threw to the wolves with the flick of his hand five centuries ago.
“I will find out exactly what happened to Freya,” you hissed, venom lacing every syllable. “And I will personally see that any male that so much as thinks—” You stabbed Devlon in the chest with your finger, his nostrils flaring at the disrespect. “—of touching another female’s wings is dealt with appropriately.”
You leaned back, heart pounding as you looked Devlon up and down, your body vibrating with centuries of pent up fury and resentment and hatred for this wretched place filled with wretched men. “You forget your place, Devlon,” you spat.
“You fucking low-life bitch, mewing and preening for—” His words died with an abrupt wheeze, dark tendrils of shadow whipping around his throat and forcing their way inside his mouth, one even curling out of his nose. You stumbled back a step from the shock, Azriel moving in front of you with predatory grace.
“I would be very careful with your words,” he murmured, his voice cold and lethal. Devlon’s face grew redder by the second, his eyes starting to bulge as Azriel leaned down to meet his eyes. “I am not my brothers. I will not hesitate to find a new camp lord.”
The shadows pulled back, tucking beneath Azriel’s wings or wrapping around your ankles. Devlon keeled over just as Azriel stepped back, gasping and wheezing with watery eyes.
The look on Azriel’s face was pure disdain. “We’re done here.”
~ ~ ~
Panic clawed at your spine, sharp and cloying pain chasing after you no matter how far you ran.
You were so foolish. You knew, deep down, that it was only a matter of time before nature inevitably turned on you. It didn’t matter how many herbs and serums you stuffed down your throat day after day. Your cycle was inevitable.
You should have been prepared. You should have thought about its arrival beyond the bone deep dread that flooded your body every time you saw another girl in the mess hall with freshly clipped wings and sallow eyes. You knew you were only delaying the inevitable, and now it was finally here.
Maybe if your mother were still alive you might have hid it. Maybe she would not have cared enough to drag you to a healer, her own disdain for this camp possibly protecting you from its wretched customs. Or maybe she would have dragged you to the healer out of spite.
There was no doubt what Augustus would do.
He wouldn’t even take you to a healer. He would likely slash your wings to shreds himself, going farther than just robbing you of their function. He loathed your mere existence. The only reason you were not dead was his delusional dream of becoming one of Devlon’s prized generals, and Devlon was the one that had dumped you in Augustus’s care.
You knew as soon as he returned from wherever he slinked away to, as soon as walked through that door, he would smell the blood, and it would be over for you.
So you ran.
As soon as the cloying metallic scent hit your nose a.nd the stabbing pain shot through your abdomen, you stuffed your bare feet in your boots and shoved your arms in your coat and you ran. You wore nothing but a thin night gown underneath your leather jacket, your bare calves exposed to the bitter air and sharp cold of the snow-covered forest.
You had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run to. Nothing to help you survive alone in the Illyrian steppes, but all you could think about was that you would not survive the night if you stayed in that house in the center of camp.
You just had to make it far enough away from camp that no one could find you. No one could smell you. You just had to keep moving, even if the tears running down your cheeks were frozen on your skin and your hands were numb. Even if you felt like you were being ripped apart from the inside out and felt an uncomfortable and foreign moisture spread between your thighs. Even if you worried that the farther you fled into the forest, Illyrian males would no longer be your only threat.
Somehow you reached the clearing that you and Azriel would meet in, less frequently now that you were older. The open land that once felt freeing now left you open and exposed, entirely vulnerable. You sniffed once, ignoring the tears that clung to your lashes and stuffing down the slimy terror sluicing through your veins, and you kept running.
You managed to cross the clearing, catapulting into the tree line on the other side, hissing as a branch scraped your cheek. You were so tired, so weak, and you were in so much pain. The ground seemed to shift abruptly before righting itself, the trees spinning as you put one foot in front of the other, desperate to make it out of here. Flying was not an option if you wanted to go undetected, but running was rapidly failing you.
Your ankle twisted with a chilling snap, your foot falling into a snow covered hole. You careened forward, unable to catch yourself before landing sharply on your arm, the snow doing very little to cushion your fall. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood as you stifled your scream, a sharp gasp leaving your lips as you pushed yourself to sit up and pulled your foot from the sunken in ground.
You were trembling, and your head was spinning as you fought to catch your breath. Terror stabbed your chest as a male materialized in front of you, his wings stretched wide behind him, the moonlight illuminating his silhouette.
You were going to die.
“Y/N.”
You shut your eyes, a pathetic whimper falling from your lips as you shook in the snow, waiting for the inevitable.
“Y/N, it’s me,” he said again, voice soft and familiar.
You forced your eyes open, Azriel’s scent wafting over you as he crouched beside you.
Terror still clung to your skin, your world spinning and reality crashing down around you. You started shaking your head, fresh tears falling from your eyes. “Please,” you rasped. “Please. Please.” Your voice broke around your sobs. “Please don’t—” You coughed, and you leaned forward as another sharp pain stabbed at your abdomen.
“Hey—hey,” Azriel said hurriedly. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Y/N, I would never.”
His words sloshed around inside your head, tumbling around and around as you tried to listen. You slumped forward suddenly, and his hands shot out to catch you, but you quickly flinched away.
“No. Y/N, hey.” His hands were still firm on your arms, his warmth radiating into your frozen skin. “You’re safe with me.” He looked you in the eyes, and his muted hazel irises in the dark of night stared back at you, warm and familiar, even if they were laced with panic. “Are you hurt? What—”
He suddenly went rigid, his nostrils flaring as he quickly scanned your body, and you got to watch the realization dawn on his face. A swell of mortification mixed with your fear, even if you were in agony and crumpled in pain on the cold wet ground.
You stared at him, your lip trembling ever so slightly. “Please don’t make me go back,” you whispered.
Azriel’s face fell. “Y/N—”
You were shaking your head again. “I can’t lose my wings.” You gasped for air, fighting the sobs pushing at your throat. “I can’t, Azriel. It’s the only thing I have. Please—”
“No one is going to touch your wings,” he swore, and for a half second, you wanted to believe him. “But you can’t stay here. I have to take you back—”
“No,” you cried, your hand weakly clutching the front of his leathers. “No. Please—”
Azriel’s gloved hands came up to cup your face gently, his warmth a balm to the stinging cold. “I’m going to take you back to my home. Rhysand’s mother won’t be home until morning, but she will help. While we wait, you can bathe, warm up, sleep. You will be safe there.”
You swallowed hard, your throat burning from your cries. “What about Rhysand and Cassian?”
His thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. “They will be there. Hey,” he said, coaxing your face back up to meet his when you looked away, “They would never hurt you. They’re your friends.”
You nodded slowly, your grip on his leathers going lax. Your fingers ached from the cold, and your joints were growing stiff.
“Okay?” he asked.
You nodded again.
“Good,” he murmured. He pulled his hands away, and he slid his leather gloves off. “Here,” he said, then took your hand in his now bare one, his skin hot against yours. He slid the glove over your hand, the material warm from him, and it was a relief so intense you nearly started crying again. He took your other hand in his, doing the same.
“There,” he hummed, then reached up to brush your hair away from your face. “I’m not leaving you,” he promised. “No one is touching your wings.”
You stared at him for a moment, taking in the fuzzy contours of his face that you knew like the back of your hand, even in the dark of night. You slowly fell back inside yourself, slowly came down from the terror and adrenaline that had pushed you through the Illyrian forests, away from Windhaven, and recognized the world around you.
You recognized the gentle stroke of shadows on your exposed calves. You recognized the cedar sent curling around you. You recognized the kernel of warmth in the center of you that came to life every time Azriel was near—even now, when you were panic-stricken and exhausted, it was still there.
You remembered that you trusted him, and you were safe. Maybe you should have ran to him, instead of away from Windhaven. Maybe you would have made things worse if someone had caught you. Maybe he would be angry that you had acted so rash, so foolish, when the sun rose over the horizon. There were a lot of uncertainties, many you would never have the answer to, but you did know Azriel would protect you, and he would never hurt you.
You forgot sometimes how quickly Illyria weathered boys into males, children into adults. Azriel was eighteen now, and while you could still see that eleven year old boy behind the mess hall with rosy cheeks and messy hair, he was entirely male now. He was formidable in every sense of the word. In the spring, he would complete the Blood Rite, likely alongside Rhys and Cass, and there was no question of if they would pass.
Everyone feared them. Everyone whispered about the Shadowsinger, but no one outwardly antagonized him—not anymore. If someone with too much gall challenged him, they learned their lesson quickly. Azriel was undoubtedly fearsome.
But not to you.
You never feared him.
You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him, and you tucked your head against his chest. His arms quickly circled your body, overly mindful of your wings, but his palm still rubbed soothing circles along your lower back. “Thank you,” you whispered. “I don’t know how you found me, or how you knew to look for me—” Azriel squeezed you a little tighter. “But thank you.”
Suddenly one of his arms was under your legs, and you whimpered as your ankle shifted, which he gently apologized for. Then he lifted you, and you were finally out of the freezing snow that had seeped through your clothes.
You let your head loll against his chest, grateful for the warmth his body radiated and the shield from the wind his shadows had slowly built around you. “Thank you,” you whispered again.
He pressed his lips to the top of your head, a gesture that was so sweet and fond and new that your heart flipped inside your chest, and you wanted to cry for an entirely different reason.
~ ~ ~
As soon as the door shut behind Azriel with a heavy thud, you whirled around to face him. “What the hell was that?”
Azriel blinked, stopping in the entry way. “You know Devlon is a piece of—”
“I’m not talking about Devlon, Azriel. I’m talking about you.”
“What?”
You shook your head, hands balling into fists at your sides. You felt suffocated, angry, and out of control. This house held too many memories. This entire camp was littered with knives sharpened by horrific memories that were ready to stab you at first glance. There would never be any forgetting, even after centuries had passed.
“I was handling Devlon,” you grit out.
“I know.” Azriel stepped closer. “I was there.”
“Then why did you—”
“He does not get to speak to you that way,” Azriel growled.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles!”
Azriel’s mouth opened and then snapped shut, as if he thought better of whatever he was about to say. “I am always going to protect you, Y/N,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before.
You swallowed hard, your nose burning as bile stung the back of your throat. “I don’t need you to.”
Azriel shook his head. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that. Don’t ask me not to—” He tilted his head back, and his shadows broke free from behind his back in shaky tendrils, a rare slip of restraint. “I have protected you since the day I met you,” he rasped. The words sounded strangled and desperate, and they knocked the air from your lungs. “I want to. I need to. Please do not ask me to stop.”
You wanted to spit something vitriolic back, just because you were hurting—for more than one reason—and he was standing directly in your line of fire.
Then you met his eyes, which were glossy in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, and his shadows were vibrating with barely restrained emotion. Your shoulders fell, and then you looked away.
“Let’s go home,” he said quietly.
You nodded, even if your chest was suddenly tight. “You should go.”
“No,” Azriel said, and you looked at him warily. “We are going home. I’m not leaving you here, and if either of us stay in this camp another damned minute we might actually murder someone.”
“But Freya—”
“Rhys will handle it.”
“It’s my responsibility, Azriel.”
“It’s your responsibility to take care of yourself,” he volleyed back. Then he said again, “Rhys will handle it.”
“But the wing clipping—”
“Will not be fixed overnight. Cassian will take care of it.”
You closed your eyes, an all-consuming sense of failure corroding away at your bones. What was the point? What was the point of any of this if you could not help these females? Over five centuries of fighting and arguing and defying and still, nothing had changed. It was not enough. You could never do enough—
“Stop,” Azriel growled, his hands suddenly on your shoulders. “Stop. This is not your burden to bear alone. It’s not yours at all. None of this is your fault.”
You started to protest, but he leaned down closer to meet your eyes. “But you care,” he said softly. “You care about the females in this camp, because you are good. You are kind and compassionate and good, Y/N. You have not failed them, I promise you. You saved that girl today, and we will help the rest of them. I promise you.”
It was too much.
You depended on him too much, because somehow his words had soothed your soul, muting the spiraling stream of toxicity in your mind. Somehow his touch grounded you, and reminded you who you were, and where you were, and who you were with.
You were never really mad at him.
You were angry at the universe, and Illyria, and the Mother, but never him. He had done nothing wrong.
You loved him so much you thought your bones might break from the weight of it.
Your heart might combust from the agony of knowing he belonged to another, because he was yours. He was always meant to be yours. You needed him.
You wanted to hug him.
You wanted to kiss him.
Maybe, this was still salvageable. Maybe Azriel felt this too. Maybe he would understand, and everything he had said about how happy he was to find his mate a few months ago was just the rambling of a drunken male. Maybe he was deflecting, and if you just kissed him—
Azriel stepped away.
His hands fell from your shoulders.
The permanent chill in the air seeped back into your skin.
Hiiiiii I know a while back you said you have school stuff going on so literally no pressure (bc congrats that’s so awesome!) but I was wondering if you have an idea of how many parts the new series will be?? I have such a hard time starting unfinished series bc I want to know everything lol 😂 but I also love your works so much and it’s a struggle to resist reading the new one until it’s all complete haha
hello!! first of all thank you so much for reading and for your kind words! I totally understand the conflict in starting an ongoing series so no worries about asking lol.
right now I have it (very roughly) plotted out to be 4-5 parts. it could of course end up longer if I get toward the end and feel like I have more to write, but I will say it will be 4 parts minimum! I have part 2 nearly done, but I still have to finish and edit it. my goal is to post every 1-2 weeks, but that’s also just a tentative timeline (especially because I always end up making parts longer than I anticipate lol)
content warnings: apathetic parental figure, heavy on the yearning, a possibly wobbly timeline, future parts will have updated content warnings
word count: 5.9k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“Do you have a mate?”
The clatter of silverware and gentle chatter around the table came to a halt, all eyes swinging between the overly brazen Day Court liaison and Azriel. A rapid flush was creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears, his hand slowly lowering the fork that had been half way to his mouth.
His lips parted slightly and he blinked slowly, staring at the female across from him who was toying with her crystal glass holding half a sip of dark wine. The question was wildly inappropriate from an official guest in the High Lord and Lady’s home, but not entirely unexpected—not to you, at least. You had kept a catalog of every sly look and sultry upturn of her lips she had cast Azriel’s way the entire evening.
Every prolonged glance she cast his way was another pinprick against your lungs, but you could not even fault her for it. Azriel was beautiful, alluring in a way that made every other male pale in comparison. She was beautiful too, with luscious dark hair that fell in tight spirals to her mid back, glittering gold paint accenting her dark complexion in all the right places, and eyes so sharp and bright that there was no question she belonged in Helion’s court. It only made the fire in your blood burn hotter.
Inexplicably, Azriel’s eyes darted to you. A fleeting glance loaded with emotions locked behind a stonewall. It was entirely confusing and infuriating. The male who had waxed poetic to you only months ago about finding his beautiful mate, the greatest gift the Mother could have bestowed upon him, even though she didn’t reciprocate it, was awfully silent now.
A childish, foolish part of you had always thought that Azriel might be the one—that he might one day be yours. That one day the Mother might finally lift the veil between you, that she might finally pull an invisible string between your souls taut and end your insufferable pining. It did not matter that you had lived centuries beside the male, that you had endured centuries of yearning for the boy you met as a mere child. It did not matter that every day that passed your soul grew a little more weary. There would always be a part of you that burned for Azriel.
It was pathetic.
It was inevitable.
You had accepted it decades ago, maybe even longer.
You were okay with loving him from a distance for eternity, as long as you had him. As long as there was still a possibility. A seed of hope to kindle your fantasies, to make them feel just a little real.
“Yes.”
The solid, quiet answer rang through the room, an arrow that ricocheted off the walls and the ceiling only to lodge directly in the center of your chest. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.
Rhys and Cassian were unsurprised by his answer, but their mates appeared to be suppressing their shock and confusion at the revelation. Mor looked…indifferent. Intrigued, maybe. You weren’t sure if she knew. You could not tell if her narrowed eyes gazing over the rim of her wine glass were from confusion, or disapproval—if she might know more than you.
Then her eyes cut from Azriel to you, her lips pursed in a way that made your skin prickle, and you really didn’t want to know what her thoughts were on whatever she believed was happening at this table.
The female—Soleil, was her name—hummed, her glass setting on the tablecloth with a soft thud. “Interesting,” she said, the word drawn out just enough to know she cared only for her own self-interest. Her brows raised a bit, glancing around the table pointedly as everyone else watched her with bated breath. “Where is she then?”
Azriel’s throat bobbed, and his grip tightened around his fork. And because you loved him, briefly, your heart ached for him.
Because you loved him, you noticed the nearly imperceptible twitch of his wings. You noticed the slight stagger in his breath as he looked away from Soleil. You noticed the way his body, adorned in dark leathers, blurred just a bit at the edges, and the how the planes of his face grew just a little more shadowed.
You almost stretched your leg out beneath the table, almost toed his boot with your own from where you sat across from him.
“The private lives of my court are of no concern to yours.” Rhys’s voice was sharp and finite, his words yanking you back to the present, forcing you to remember yourself.
Azriel’s shoulders relaxed, but his gaze was impassive as he looked from Soleil to his brother. Soleil’s lips were pursed, the shine of amusement in her eyes dulled.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Rhysand,” she answered, with far more gall than she should. “There are political advantages to be considered, potential alliances—”
“Azriel has a mate,” Rhys cut her off, his words scalding your chest as they slid down to your stomach. “He is spoken for—and even if he was not, the members of my court are not pawns for you to play with.”
Azriel has a mate.
He is spoken for.
A mate.
Simple facts that you had managed to leave as blurry half-truths revealed from booze loosened lips in a dark alley in Velaris for nearly two months in the back of your mind. Now they were real. Now everyone else knew too.
You stood up, your chair scraping along the hardwood floor. Everyone’s eyes cut to you, but the only ones you could focus on were the ones that left you feeling so raw and exposed you ached all over.
You could only hold his eyes for a brief moment, immediately looking down at your feet when you felt a tendril of shadow curl around your ankle. You could hardly breathe. “Excuse me,” you muttered, then fought for every ounce of dignity and composure you could muster as you walked out of the dining room, your pace quickening once you were in the hall.
You didn’t start running until you were out the front door and the moonlight hit your cheeks and outstretched wings, and even if you heard the door open and close behind you as you took off into the sky, you didn’t look back.
~ ~ ~
“Have you met the new boy?”
You blinked owlishly at your mother, your heart racing in your chest. “Who?”
She cast a glare over her shoulder, her peeling of the potatoes over the sink growing more aggressive. “The new boy in your cohort. They say he is a shadowsinger.”
There was no new boy in your cohort. There were no boys at all in your cohort, not since they separated the girls and boys after they turned ten—and you turned ten last month. Your mother knew this.
Instead of reminding her—correcting her—you asked, “What’s a shadowsinger?”
She huffed, the peeler and potato hitting the edge of the sink. “Do you know nothing?” she snapped.
Somehow, you always made her mad. You never said the right thing.
“Pay attention tomorrow,” She told you. You nodded when she looked at you again, but you avoided her eyes. “A shadow boy would be hard to miss.”
If there was a boy made of shadows, you imagined he would be hard to miss—even if you only saw the boys in the eating hall—but there was no “shadow boy”, and there were no new faces that stuck out as you made your way to your table.
The other girls at your table were all older, and none of them were particularly nice, but at least they had let you sit with them. It was better than sitting with the girls in your age group. These girls left you alone, and they always had stories to share.
The stories were generally trivial and petty. Sometimes they talked about boys. You tried not to listen too closely during those conversations.
“Have you seen him yet?” one of the girls, Freya, asked.
Across the table, Lara furrowed her brows. “Who?”
“The new boy,” Freya answered eagerly. “I’ve heard he’s cute.”
A third girl, one you had forgotten the name of, scrunched up her face. “He talks to shadows, Freya.”
Freya waved away the comment as if it was entirely inconsequential and not the strangest thing you had heard in your life—also, she said he talked to shadows, not that he was made of them.
Lara looked even more disturbed. “He’s also eleven.”
At that, Freya looked more discouraged. “I didn’t know that,” she groaned. “I don’t know why I listen to anything that comes out of Elsie’s mouth.”
Their conversation pivoted, moving on quickly from the new boy who allegedly talked to shadows. You looked around the dining hall again, no longer looking for someone made of shadow, but anyone that seemed unfamiliar.
You knew all these faces, though, whether you wanted to or not. There were only so many children in the camp, let alone ones that were eleven. Your eyes snagged on a boy that was in your age group across the hall, his hair wild and eyes fiery as he climbed up on the table, his voice carrying throughout the entire hall.
It sounded like the beginning of a challenge—Mother only knew what for. Cassian had always been wild and a little unpredictable. He was never mean to you like some of the other boys, though, so you tried to ignore his antics. Still—if you were new and at your dining table sat Cassian, you might hide away too.
So you stood up, pocketing your apple and tossing the rest of your lunch in the bin, the girls at your table not even batting an eye as you slipped outside the dining hall. Fresh snow was falling in big flakes from the sky, a fresh layer sticking to the stone path. You weren’t supposed to be outside, but you still had ten minutes until the end of lunch, and you wanted to find this boy.
Maybe it was foolish to seek out an Illyrian boy on your own—a boy that spoke to shadows, no less—but there was a coil inside your chest rapidly growing tighter the longer you thought about him. Every step you took along the wall of the mess hall pushed a little more air out of your lungs, and you needed to find him.
A black inky tendril darted in front of your face, just barely grazing your nose as you rounded the back corner of the building. You reared back, your feet slipping from beneath you on the freshly fallen snow. You had never been the most graceful child—an embarrassment, according to your mother—so it was no surprise when you fell down into the cold, wet snow instead of regaining your balance.
There would be no hiding where you had wandered off to during lunch now.
“I’m so sorry!”
Your head snapped up to find a wide-eyed boy standing over you. His hair was dark and unkempt, the strands so long it was starting to curl around his ears. His face was flushed a light shade of red, and his eyes were a bright hazel that shined with embarrassment. He held his hand out to you, his wings twitching behind him as he waited for you to take it.
You slipped your hand into his, the skin rough and jagged in a way that made your breath hitch—then the coil that was tight in the center of your chest sprung free, and you could finally take a full breath again. You stared at him as he pulled you to your feet, his skin warm despite standing in the dreadful cold. Your skin tingled, and your entire body felt shimmery—like fresh snow beneath rays of sunlight—yet you somehow felt overwhelmingly warm where your heart beat hard in your chest.
He was very tall. Taller than most of the boys in your year—maybe even taller than Cassian, who was the tallest of them all, and very proud of that fact. Standing in front of you, you barely rose past his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said again, his voice much softer. He let your hand drop, then tucked his hands behind his back.
Your eyes flit down to your cold and limp hand, thinking about the way his skin looked like it had been gnawed on by a beast in the forest. You almost made a comment, almost asked one of your many questions that your mother reprimanded you for time and time again—then you saw them. Dark yet translucent tendrils of…something, creeping out from behind his back, some slithering over his shoulder like a territorial pet.
Shadows.
They were shadows.
Your ogling must have been obvious, because the boy looked down at his shoulder, then back at you, somehow even more embarrassed. “They won’t hurt you,” he promised, his voice quiet and a little desperate.
It was strange. Strange for a boy to tell you he was not a threat, strange that he cared. Strange, because most of the boys in this camp seemed to relish in doing the exact opposite. Most of them saw your separation in year ten as a reminder of who was better, stronger, smarter—and it was certainly not the females.
“You’re the new boy,” you said, voice trembling a bit from the cold.
The boy blinked.
You wiped your hands on your pants, drying them of the melted snow before tucking them beneath your arms. “They say you talk to shadows.”
His face scrunched up at that, just a little, just enough to make your lips quirk up at the side. Then his shoulders fell. “I guess,” he muttered, then took a step back.
“That seems cool,” you hurried out, stepping a little too close to him, but he didn’t move away. You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly feeling dry. It was likely the cold. “I was looking for you, actually.”
He eyed you warily, and suddenly you felt like the strange one—which, maybe you were, in his defense. You stepped back, your chest aching as his warmth vanished. You reached into your coat, pulling out the apple you had smuggled outside. You thrust it toward him, the movement awkward and hasty. The boy just stared at it.
Your face suddenly felt warm.
You shook the apple in front of him. “For you.”
He glanced between your eyes and your outstretched hand, seconds stretching between you before he finally took the apple. “Thank you?”
“Y/N,” you offered, though you weren’t sure if he was really asking. You shrugged, taking another step back. “Maybe don’t skip lunch anymore,” you said. “The girls at my table have already noticed, at least.”
He held the apple with both hands, nearly covering it. He looked down, avoiding your gaze.
You bit your lip, knowing your time was running out and he probably wanted you to leave him be, and yet— “I know Cassian is loud—like, really loud.” The boy’s eyes snapped back to you. “But he’s sort of nice? In a weird way. He won’t do anything too bad.”
He frowned. “He stole my gloves.”
You winced. “He…does that.” You scrunched up your nose, gesturing to the hall. “He’s better than the rest of them.” The wind was starting to whip at the damp legs of your pants, and you were beginning to tremble. “I should go.” You waved, regretting it immediately, then turned around.
“Azriel,” he said.
You turned on your heel, eyes wide. “What?”
He blinked once, then said, “I’m Azriel.”
You grinned, your eyes crinkling up at the edges and your mouth stretched wide. “Bye, Azriel.”
~ ~ ~
“Are we going to talk about it?”
The thud of your fist against the leather bag was answer enough.
Nesta appeared at the other side of the bag, bracing it as it started to swing. You met her eyes briefly, her gaze cold and impatient. You hit the bag again, a huff falling from her as she replanted her feet. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why must you all be so dramatic?” You hit the bag again, this time the angle off, and pain raced through your hand. “Y/N,” she said, her voice firm. You glared at her, holding your hand against your chest. “Did you know?”
You considered playing coy, acting aloof, but it would only get you so far with Nesta. You started to unwrap the leather wound around your hands, admitting softly, “Yes.”
She blinked, her shock evident. “I thought—” She shook her head. “You left so suddenly.”
“A headache overcame me.” You inspected the redness of your knuckles, your joints aching as you flexed your hand. It had been over two hours since you came up here, the sun only just now creeping up over the horizon.
“A headache,” she deadpanned.
You shrugged, walking over to your pile of things on the floor. You sat down, dropping the leathers beside you as you drank from your water.
“And Azriel—did he help you with this headache?”
Your head snapped to her. “What?”
She rolled her eyes again. “He left dinner not even a minute after you, then never returned. Do you think us so dense—”
“Azriel did not follow me,” you told her, making your confusion clear in your tone. The sound of a door opening and closing behind you as you took to the sky echoed in your mind. “Why would he?”
Nesta, for once, was at a loss for words.
Why would he not check on his friend?
Why would he follow you home from dinner, a female who was not his mate?
It was a back and forth you could spin in circles for an eternity if you let her, and you had no energy for her interrogations.
Your breath caught in your throat as a dark tendril gently slid down your arm, curling around your wrist as you lowered your water. Nesta watched the shadow silently, the two of you holding your breath as Azriel walked through the doorway, then froze.
He glanced at Nesta, then his eyes fell on you. “Good morning,” he said softly, hesitantly. You needed to get out of here.
You waved the shadow away, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. “Good morning,” you said back, gathering your things in your arms before standing. “I was just leaving, so I’ll leave you be.”
Azriel blinked, but he didn’t say another word, even as you felt his gaze follow you all the way to the corridor, and you were finally free of his attention.
~ ~ ~
“Hi.”
Azriel flinched so violently that he stumbled back into the tree behind him, a dusting of snow falling down around him. His head whipped to you, where you were standing sheepishly at his side.
“Sorry,” you said, but still took a step forward. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Which was true, but you also had enough sense to realize that he was lost in his own world, given he was standing still in the middle of the forest alone.
His face was flushed as his bewildered eyes sharpened into a glare. He brushed the snow from his shoulders as he stood up straight, and his shadows wiggled around his feet as if they too had been startled. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.
You raised your brows, a bit of indignation crawling up your spine. He was the one loitering on the edge of your clearing. At least, you considered it yours. No one else had ever stumbled upon you here when you managed to slip away from your mother for the evening. “What are you doing here?” you threw back.
His face somehow turned redder. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
You looked him up and down, noticing the thick flying leathers that looked slightly too small for his body. The boys always got a new set of leathers when they turned ten, but never the girls.
Azriel must have been given a poorly sized spare when he arrived in camp.
You watched the shadows slinking up his body, blurring the edges of him into darkness, as if they might engulf him to save him from your prying gaze. You took another step closer, barely a foot between you now, and Azriel eyed you warily as you stuck your palm out.
A tendril of shadow immediately broke away from his side, skittering closer to you to wrap around your wrist and weave in between your fingers. You giggled at the cool and silken touch that was unlike anything you had ever felt. They were sort of cute.
“I’m sorry,” Azriel rasped, dragging your attention back to him. “I’m getting better at controlling them.” His shadows pulsed once, as if disgruntled by that, and Azriel grimaced. “They won’t hurt you.”
He had said the same thing the first time you met him, and again when you bumped into him once on your way home. “I know,” you said simply, rather than remind him of his past assurances.
You dropped your hand, content to let the shadow brush over your skin as it pleased. “I heard Cassian talking to Rhys a few days ago,” you said, curiosity seeping from your voice. You met Azriel’s eyes again, who already looked like he was dreading whatever might follow your sentence. “They said something about flying lessons?”
Azriel looked away, and the shadow around your hand darted back to him. “They’re teaching me,” he murmured.
“Teaching you?”
Azriel looked pained. “Yes.”
“What do you mean?”
He closed his eyes, tilting his head back.
“I don’t know how.”
“To fly?” you asked, incredulity clear in your voice.
Azriel nodded slowly, the movement forced and stiff.
“Oh.”
You had your suspicions that Rhys and Cassian were talking about Azriel. The three had formed an unexpected trio since Azriel arrived a few weeks ago, though you weren’t sure they were friends. Rhys and Cassian seemed to be antagonizing Azriel at every turn, yet they seemed to close ranks around him when others tested him.
You had also heard from some girls at lunch that Azriel was apparently living with them.
Azriel rubbed at his nose, and only then did you realize that his hands were covered by black leather gloves that looked nicer than the rest of his garments. “Cassian and Rhysand don’t know how to keep their mouths shut,” he grumbled.
You winced. “Are they good teachers?” you asked, trying and probably failing to hide your skepticism.
He gave you a dubious look. “No.”
You pursed your lips. “Well I could teach you.”
Azriel's face flushed red again, and he started shaking his head. “No—no. I don’t need anyone’s help—”
“I was coming out here to fly anyway,” you interrupted him. You shrugged when he finally met your eyes. “I always come here—or, there—” You pointed to the clearing through the trees where there was a small cliff you liked to jump from. Azriel turned to look. “To fly by myself. I wouldn’t mind a friend.”
Azriel’s head snapped toward you again. Your face warmed. “I would like that,” he said softly.
You smiled, then grabbed his hand, your chest feeling warm with excitement. “Let’s go.”
You dragged him through the trees at an awkwardly fast pace that was on the verge of becoming a run, and when you tripped over a branch sticking out of the snow, Azriel caught you before you could fall. The two of you giggled as he pulled you upright, and you kept moving toward the clearing.
The sun was bright once you were free from the canopy of the woods, a few rare beams breaking through the overcast sky and making the snow shimmer. You dragged Azriel up the hill that led to a cliff—if you could really call it that. It would certainly hurt if you fell, but you wouldn’t die. You thought.
You dropped Azriel’s hand as you neared the ledge, looking down at the snow covered ground. You turned to smile at him, but looked less than thrilled as he looked out over edge. “Please do not shove me off this ledge—”
“What?” you exclaimed. “Who said anything about shoving you off a cliff?”
He rolled his eyes. “Do you remember who my teachers are?”
You huffed. “Well we’re not doing that.” You reached for his hand again, pulling him closer so that he toed the edge with you. His muscles were tight with tension, so you gave his hand a squeeze as you smiled at him. “We’re going to jump.”
Azriel tried to jerk away, but you kept your grip firm on his hand. “How is that any different—”
You shook your joined hands. “I won’t let go, for one.”
He immediately shook his head. “I’m bigger than you. I’ll just pull you down and then we’ll both get hurt.”
“I’m stronger than I look,” you argued. “I can manage a soft landing for both of us just fine.” Maybe not soft, but you could cushion the fall if you had to probably. “But it doesn’t matter because you’re going to glide, not fall.”
His throat bobbed, but he didn’t argue. “How?”
“Spread your wings.” You did just that, your wings stretching out a little wider than necessary, but you wanted to make a point.
Azriel seemed to chew the inside of his cheek before nodding, then he took in a deep breath and stretched his wings wide behind him. His wings were larger than yours, a deeper shade of purple than your more rustic hue. They caught a ray of sunlight, and the delicate membrane shimmered. He squeezed your hand, and you had to think before you could remember what to say next.
“Good,” you said, and you leaned forward a bit, your wing brushing with his.
Azriel sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry—”
You waved him off, not minding at all if his wings brushed against yours. He was your friend. You trusted him. He wasn’t mean or loud or aggressive like the other boys in the camp. “It’s fine, Azriel.”
He nodded, and he didn’t let go of your hand.
“We’re going to jump, and we’re going to leave our wings out like this. They will catch the wind, if we fall forward a bit, and then we just glide. There is plenty of space. That’s it.”
“Okay,” he agreed, his voice slightly shaky. He nodded, then said again, “Okay, I can do that.”
You grinned, nodding excitedly. “Ready?” you asked, dragging him even closer to the edge, the toes of your boots hanging over.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Now!” you yelled, and the two of you jumped, and your bodies both instinctively leveled out with the ground, the wind whipping around your face as you grew closer to the Earth.
Then your body jerked, and the wind was pushing against the membrane of your wings, and you were soaring across the clearing.
Azriel laughed beside you, a smile stretching across his face as the two of you flew over the wide expanse of the mountain clearing. “This is amazing!” he yelled.
“I told you it would be fine!”
He squeezed your hand, closing his eyes as the wind washed over his face, and it was the most joy you had seen on his face since you found him behind the mess hall weeks ago.
Unfortunately, you were paying far too much attention to the boy beside you and not to your surroundings, and the rapidly nearing tree line in your peripheral made you jerk upright, stealing any of the momentum the two of you had found.
Azriel’s eyes flew open as you flapped your wings haphazardly, trying to right the two of you unsuccessfully, and then you were just trying to soften the inevitable fall. The two of you landed in a plume of snow, tumbling over one another with the force of your fall. You eventually came to a stop, Azriel’s body covering your own.
Your body ached, and you knew it would hurt tomorrow, but you seemed to be fine otherwise. Azriel’s shoulders were shaking, his face hidden from your view, and your stomach dropped. “Azriel, I’m so sorry. Cauldron, are you okay? I should—”
Azriel was laughing. He pushed himself up, still hovering over you as he finally met your eyes. He looked fine. He looked more than fine.
He rolled off of you, laying next to you in the snow as he gave into his uncontrollable laughter. You started laughing too, even if moments ago you were terrified he was hurt or that he might hate you now.
“That was amazing,” he said around his laughter. “Thank you.”
Your laughter slowed, small chuckles still escaping from your lips as you turned to meet his sparkling eyes. “What are friends for?”
~ ~ ~
“You’re avoiding me.”
The spoon in your hand clanked against your mug, some of the tea sloshing over the side. You took in a sharp breath, then reached for a towel to wipe it up.
“It’s the middle of the night, Azriel.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it.” He walked closer, his hip leaning against the counter only a few feet away from you. “Have I done something?” he asked, a bit quieter.
You finally looked at him, your hand still clutching the towel as you leaned on the counter. You hated the way your chest ached every time you saw him. Before, your heart had ached from feeling so overwhelmingly full—a tightness caused by feeling so much and with desperate hope to one day give it all to him. Now, your chest ached from an emptiness that had hollowed you out, your heart and soul dark and weathered and still soaked with love, but a love that now faced the agonizing reality of never being seen.
“No,” you said, quietly, after too many beats had passed. You looked down at the towel in your hand, clutching the fabric tight as you forced yourself to take just one full breath. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Azriel.”
Your breath caught in your throat when his hand grabbed yours resting on the counter, gently pulling the towel from your grasp. His thumb brushed over the back of your knuckles, the two of you staring at your hands on the counter. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.
His voice made your heart ache. The way he softened the syllables as if they might not pierce the fragile cloak of night around you. The way his questions were always gentle, genuine, and entirely sincere—spoken in tones that always made your defenses disintegrate.
“I haven’t been sleeping,” you answered quietly, finally daring to meet his eyes. You shrugged, as if that might knock the guilt of the half-truth off your shoulders. “I’m tired, that's all.”
Azriel’s grip on your hand tightened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because you have broken my heart. Because you have truly done nothing wrong and still I am left poorly gluing shredded pieces of myself back together that fall apart every time I’m near you.
“It’s nothing. Really, I’ll be fine.”
Azriel looks like he does not believe you. He doesn’t believe you, not a word that has come out of your mouth. You are admittedly a terrible liar—although you have mastered the art of evasion and half-truths over centuries of secret pining—and Azriel knows this. He knows you.
He’s also the Spymaster of the Night Court, of course.
He seems to take pity on you, for whatever reason. He blows a puff of air out of his nose as he looks away, slowly pulling his hand from yours to rest it on the counter. The inches between you now feel like an endless chasm.
“I am visiting my mother tomorrow,” he tells you quietly.
You frown. “Tomorrow?” you repeat. “Why didn’t you tell—”
Your words die in your throat when you meet his gaze, a pointed look staring back at you that makes a tendril of shame curl low in your stomach. You swallow hard, looking away. “She’ll enjoy that,” you say softly.
“Do you want to come with me?”
Your heart stutters. His eyes are wide and pleading, begging you for an answer you cannot fathom why he wants.
“I would like it if you came with me,” he adds softly. His shadows slowly slink out from behind him, curling around your ankles and moving up your calves.
Their touch is light and silken, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It’s meant to be a soothing touch, a comfort you had taken from them for centuries. You had never feared Azriel’s shadows, not even when they knocked you on your ass that first day you met.
Their familiar strokes now left your heart racing, a coil of panic unfurling in your chest as you thought of what he was asking, as you thought of all you stood to lose in a handful of time that was quickly slipping through your fingers.
He had found his mate.
Moments like these, intimate conversations in the dark between shared breaths, were now fleeting. Tendrils of shadows that had felt like an extra limb were no longer yours. You were a fixture in his life that was fading, your presence now blurry and confusing and ephemeral.
He was a pillar in your life that was cracking, bits and pieces crumbling as time pressed in. It was inevitable that the bond would snap for her. It was inevitable that Azriel would devote himself to his mate. It was only a matter of time.
You swallowed hard, acid burning the back of your throat. You reached clumsily for your tea, your fingers bumping harshly against the handle, sending more liquid sloshing over the sides. You cursed, grabbing for the towel again at the same time Azriel did.
His fingers covered yours, and you yanked your hand away within a second.
He blinked, a flash of hurt passing through his eyes for the briefest of moments.
You stepped back, eyes darting between the spilled tea, Azriel’s hand on the towel, and Azriel’s soft and confused eyes. You shook your head once, a motion you barely realized you were making before you choked out, “I can’t.”
You sucked in a sharp breath, batting away a shadow that had come up to stroke your cheek. “I can’t,” you said again.
“Y/N—”
Forcing yourself to meet his eyes, willing your voice not to tremble, you plastered on a forced and painful smile as you said, “I can’t go with you, I mean. I’m sorry.” You glanced once more at the spilled tea, slowly spreading across the granite countertop. “Send your mother my love.”
Azriel looked like he wanted to argue, to ask again, but you could not bear to hear another invitation. You could not bear to see misplaced disappointment on his face when you declined again.
So you walked away, your sock clad feet slipping once on the stone floor in your haste, Azriel’s arm shooting out to catch you. You sniffed once, your skin flushed and cheeks searing, moving out of his hold and disappearing down the dimly lit hallway.
Sleep evaded you the rest of the night, the image of spilled tea and drooping wings and glistening hazel irises haunting your every thought.
~ ~ ~
a/n: I will try to do a taglist for this series! let me know if you want to be added :)
Why not finish the ones you're already working on instead of starting another series?
hi! I don’t have any other ongoing series right now actually! I think I said awhile ago that I might do a check in for smothered flames, but life got in the way and I haven’t been able to come up with something that felt natural for them. the more I think about them, the more I feel like their story should be left alone.
everything else on my page is complete or written to be a standalone 🫶🏻 it’s been awhile since I wrote a genuine series, and not just two part fics, so I’m looking forward to this one!
content warnings: apathetic parental figure, heavy on the yearning, a possibly wobbly timeline, future parts will have updated content warnings
word count: 5.9k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“Do you have a mate?”
The clatter of silverware and gentle chatter around the table came to a halt, all eyes swinging between the overly brazen Day Court liaison and Azriel. A rapid flush was creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears, his hand slowly lowering the fork that had been half way to his mouth.
His lips parted slightly and he blinked slowly, staring at the female across from him who was toying with her crystal glass holding half a sip of dark wine. The question was wildly inappropriate from an official guest in the High Lord and Lady’s home, but not entirely unexpected—not to you, at least. You had kept a catalog of every sly look and sultry upturn of her lips she had cast Azriel’s way the entire evening.
Every prolonged glance she cast his way was another pinprick against your lungs, but you could not even fault her for it. Azriel was beautiful, alluring in a way that made every other male pale in comparison. She was beautiful too, with luscious dark hair that fell in tight spirals to her mid back, glittering gold paint accenting her dark complexion in all the right places, and eyes so sharp and bright that there was no question she belonged in Helion’s court. It only made the fire in your blood burn hotter.
Inexplicably, Azriel’s eyes darted to you. A fleeting glance loaded with emotions locked behind a stonewall. It was entirely confusing and infuriating. The male who had waxed poetic to you only months ago about finding his beautiful mate, the greatest gift the Mother could have bestowed upon him, even though she didn’t reciprocate it, was awfully silent now.
A childish, foolish part of you had always thought that Azriel might be the one—that he might one day be yours. That one day the Mother might finally lift the veil between you, that she might finally pull an invisible string between your souls taut and end your insufferable pining. It did not matter that you had lived centuries beside the male, that you had endured centuries of yearning for the boy you met as a mere child. It did not matter that every day that passed your soul grew a little more weary. There would always be a part of you that burned for Azriel.
It was pathetic.
It was inevitable.
You had accepted it decades ago, maybe even longer.
You were okay with loving him from a distance for eternity, as long as you had him. As long as there was still a possibility. A seed of hope to kindle your fantasies, to make them feel just a little real.
“Yes.”
The solid, quiet answer rang through the room, an arrow that ricocheted off the walls and the ceiling only to lodge directly in the center of your chest. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.
Rhys and Cassian were unsurprised by his answer, but their mates appeared to be suppressing their shock and confusion at the revelation. Mor looked…indifferent. Intrigued, maybe. You weren’t sure if she knew. You could not tell if her narrowed eyes gazing over the rim of her wine glass were from confusion, or disapproval—if she might know more than you.
Then her eyes cut from Azriel to you, her lips pursed in a way that made your skin prickle, and you really didn’t want to know what her thoughts were on whatever she believed was happening at this table.
The female—Soleil, was her name—hummed, her glass setting on the tablecloth with a soft thud. “Interesting,” she said, the word drawn out just enough to know she cared only for her own self-interest. Her brows raised a bit, glancing around the table pointedly as everyone else watched her with bated breath. “Where is she then?”
Azriel’s throat bobbed, and his grip tightened around his fork. And because you loved him, briefly, your heart ached for him.
Because you loved him, you noticed the nearly imperceptible twitch of his wings. You noticed the slight stagger in his breath as he looked away from Soleil. You noticed the way his body, adorned in dark leathers, blurred just a bit at the edges, and the how the planes of his face grew just a little more shadowed.
You almost stretched your leg out beneath the table, almost toed his boot with your own from where you sat across from him.
“The private lives of my court are of no concern to yours.” Rhys’s voice was sharp and finite, his words yanking you back to the present, forcing you to remember yourself.
Azriel’s shoulders relaxed, but his gaze was impassive as he looked from Soleil to his brother. Soleil’s lips were pursed, the shine of amusement in her eyes dulled.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Rhysand,” she answered, with far more gall than she should. “There are political advantages to be considered, potential alliances—”
“Azriel has a mate,” Rhys cut her off, his words scalding your chest as they slid down to your stomach. “He is spoken for—and even if he was not, the members of my court are not pawns for you to play with.”
Azriel has a mate.
He is spoken for.
A mate.
Simple facts that you had managed to leave as blurry half-truths revealed from booze loosened lips in a dark alley in Velaris for nearly two months in the back of your mind. Now they were real. Now everyone else knew too.
You stood up, your chair scraping along the hardwood floor. Everyone’s eyes cut to you, but the only ones you could focus on were the ones that left you feeling so raw and exposed you ached all over.
You could only hold his eyes for a brief moment, immediately looking down at your feet when you felt a tendril of shadow curl around your ankle. You could hardly breathe. “Excuse me,” you muttered, then fought for every ounce of dignity and composure you could muster as you walked out of the dining room, your pace quickening once you were in the hall.
You didn’t start running until you were out the front door and the moonlight hit your cheeks and outstretched wings, and even if you heard the door open and close behind you as you took off into the sky, you didn’t look back.
~ ~ ~
“Have you met the new boy?”
You blinked owlishly at your mother, your heart racing in your chest. “Who?”
She cast a glare over her shoulder, her peeling of the potatoes over the sink growing more aggressive. “The new boy in your cohort. They say he is a shadowsinger.”
There was no new boy in your cohort. There were no boys at all in your cohort, not since they separated the girls and boys after they turned ten—and you turned ten last month. Your mother knew this.
Instead of reminding her—correcting her—you asked, “What’s a shadowsinger?”
She huffed, the peeler and potato hitting the edge of the sink. “Do you know nothing?” she snapped.
Somehow, you always made her mad. You never said the right thing.
“Pay attention tomorrow,” She told you. You nodded when she looked at you again, but you avoided her eyes. “A shadow boy would be hard to miss.”
If there was a boy made of shadows, you imagined he would be hard to miss—even if you only saw the boys in the eating hall—but there was no “shadow boy”, and there were no new faces that stuck out as you made your way to your table.
The other girls at your table were all older, and none of them were particularly nice, but at least they had let you sit with them. It was better than sitting with the girls in your age group. These girls left you alone, and they always had stories to share.
The stories were generally trivial and petty. Sometimes they talked about boys. You tried not to listen too closely during those conversations.
“Have you seen him yet?” one of the girls, Freya, asked.
Across the table, Lara furrowed her brows. “Who?”
“The new boy,” Freya answered eagerly. “I’ve heard he’s cute.”
A third girl, one you had forgotten the name of, scrunched up her face. “He talks to shadows, Freya.”
Freya waved away the comment as if it was entirely inconsequential and not the strangest thing you had heard in your life—also, she said he talked to shadows, not that he was made of them.
Lara looked even more disturbed. “He’s also eleven.”
At that, Freya looked more discouraged. “I didn’t know that,” she groaned. “I don’t know why I listen to anything that comes out of Elsie’s mouth.”
Their conversation pivoted, moving on quickly from the new boy who allegedly talked to shadows. You looked around the dining hall again, no longer looking for someone made of shadow, but anyone that seemed unfamiliar.
You knew all these faces, though, whether you wanted to or not. There were only so many children in the camp, let alone ones that were eleven. Your eyes snagged on a boy that was in your age group across the hall, his hair wild and eyes fiery as he climbed up on the table, his voice carrying throughout the entire hall.
It sounded like the beginning of a challenge—Mother only knew what for. Cassian had always been wild and a little unpredictable. He was never mean to you like some of the other boys, though, so you tried to ignore his antics. Still—if you were new and at your dining table sat Cassian, you might hide away too.
So you stood up, pocketing your apple and tossing the rest of your lunch in the bin, the girls at your table not even batting an eye as you slipped outside the dining hall. Fresh snow was falling in big flakes from the sky, a fresh layer sticking to the stone path. You weren’t supposed to be outside, but you still had ten minutes until the end of lunch, and you wanted to find this boy.
Maybe it was foolish to seek out an Illyrian boy on your own—a boy that spoke to shadows, no less—but there was a coil inside your chest rapidly growing tighter the longer you thought about him. Every step you took along the wall of the mess hall pushed a little more air out of your lungs, and you needed to find him.
A black inky tendril darted in front of your face, just barely grazing your nose as you rounded the back corner of the building. You reared back, your feet slipping from beneath you on the freshly fallen snow. You had never been the most graceful child—an embarrassment, according to your mother—so it was no surprise when you fell down into the cold, wet snow instead of regaining your balance.
There would be no hiding where you had wandered off to during lunch now.
“I’m so sorry!”
Your head snapped up to find a wide-eyed boy standing over you. His hair was dark and unkempt, the strands so long it was starting to curl around his ears. His face was flushed a light shade of red, and his eyes were a bright hazel that shined with embarrassment. He held his hand out to you, his wings twitching behind him as he waited for you to take it.
You slipped your hand into his, the skin rough and jagged in a way that made your breath hitch—then the coil that was tight in the center of your chest sprung free, and you could finally take a full breath again. You stared at him as he pulled you to your feet, his skin warm despite standing in the dreadful cold. Your skin tingled, and your entire body felt shimmery—like fresh snow beneath rays of sunlight—yet you somehow felt overwhelmingly warm where your heart beat hard in your chest.
He was very tall. Taller than most of the boys in your year—maybe even taller than Cassian, who was the tallest of them all, and very proud of that fact. Standing in front of you, you barely rose past his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said again, his voice much softer. He let your hand drop, then tucked his hands behind his back.
Your eyes flit down to your cold and limp hand, thinking about the way his skin looked like it had been gnawed on by a beast in the forest. You almost made a comment, almost asked one of your many questions that your mother reprimanded you for time and time again—then you saw them. Dark yet translucent tendrils of…something, creeping out from behind his back, some slithering over his shoulder like a territorial pet.
Shadows.
They were shadows.
Your ogling must have been obvious, because the boy looked down at his shoulder, then back at you, somehow even more embarrassed. “They won’t hurt you,” he promised, his voice quiet and a little desperate.
It was strange. Strange for a boy to tell you he was not a threat, strange that he cared. Strange, because most of the boys in this camp seemed to relish in doing the exact opposite. Most of them saw your separation in year ten as a reminder of who was better, stronger, smarter—and it was certainly not the females.
“You’re the new boy,” you said, voice trembling a bit from the cold.
The boy blinked.
You wiped your hands on your pants, drying them of the melted snow before tucking them beneath your arms. “They say you talk to shadows.”
His face scrunched up at that, just a little, just enough to make your lips quirk up at the side. Then his shoulders fell. “I guess,” he muttered, then took a step back.
“That seems cool,” you hurried out, stepping a little too close to him, but he didn’t move away. You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly feeling dry. It was likely the cold. “I was looking for you, actually.”
He eyed you warily, and suddenly you felt like the strange one—which, maybe you were, in his defense. You stepped back, your chest aching as his warmth vanished. You reached into your coat, pulling out the apple you had smuggled outside. You thrust it toward him, the movement awkward and hasty. The boy just stared at it.
Your face suddenly felt warm.
You shook the apple in front of him. “For you.”
He glanced between your eyes and your outstretched hand, seconds stretching between you before he finally took the apple. “Thank you?”
“Y/N,” you offered, though you weren’t sure if he was really asking. You shrugged, taking another step back. “Maybe don’t skip lunch anymore,” you said. “The girls at my table have already noticed, at least.”
He held the apple with both hands, nearly covering it. He looked down, avoiding your gaze.
You bit your lip, knowing your time was running out and he probably wanted you to leave him be, and yet— “I know Cassian is loud—like, really loud.” The boy’s eyes snapped back to you. “But he’s sort of nice? In a weird way. He won’t do anything too bad.”
He frowned. “He stole my gloves.”
You winced. “He…does that.” You scrunched up your nose, gesturing to the hall. “He’s better than the rest of them.” The wind was starting to whip at the damp legs of your pants, and you were beginning to tremble. “I should go.” You waved, regretting it immediately, then turned around.
“Azriel,” he said.
You turned on your heel, eyes wide. “What?”
He blinked once, then said, “I’m Azriel.”
You grinned, your eyes crinkling up at the edges and your mouth stretched wide. “Bye, Azriel.”
~ ~ ~
“Are we going to talk about it?”
The thud of your fist against the leather bag was answer enough.
Nesta appeared at the other side of the bag, bracing it as it started to swing. You met her eyes briefly, her gaze cold and impatient. You hit the bag again, a huff falling from her as she replanted her feet. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why must you all be so dramatic?” You hit the bag again, this time the angle off, and pain raced through your hand. “Y/N,” she said, her voice firm. You glared at her, holding your hand against your chest. “Did you know?”
You considered playing coy, acting aloof, but it would only get you so far with Nesta. You started to unwrap the leather wound around your hands, admitting softly, “Yes.”
She blinked, her shock evident. “I thought—” She shook her head. “You left so suddenly.”
“A headache overcame me.” You inspected the redness of your knuckles, your joints aching as you flexed your hand. It had been over two hours since you came up here, the sun only just now creeping up over the horizon.
“A headache,” she deadpanned.
You shrugged, walking over to your pile of things on the floor. You sat down, dropping the leathers beside you as you drank from your water.
“And Azriel—did he help you with this headache?”
Your head snapped to her. “What?”
She rolled her eyes again. “He left dinner not even a minute after you, then never returned. Do you think us so dense—”
“Azriel did not follow me,” you told her, making your confusion clear in your tone. The sound of a door opening and closing behind you as you took to the sky echoed in your mind. “Why would he?”
Nesta, for once, was at a loss for words.
Why would he not check on his friend?
Why would he follow you home from dinner, a female who was not his mate?
It was a back and forth you could spin in circles for an eternity if you let her, and you had no energy for her interrogations.
Your breath caught in your throat as a dark tendril gently slid down your arm, curling around your wrist as you lowered your water. Nesta watched the shadow silently, the two of you holding your breath as Azriel walked through the doorway, then froze.
He glanced at Nesta, then his eyes fell on you. “Good morning,” he said softly, hesitantly. You needed to get out of here.
You waved the shadow away, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. “Good morning,” you said back, gathering your things in your arms before standing. “I was just leaving, so I’ll leave you be.”
Azriel blinked, but he didn’t say another word, even as you felt his gaze follow you all the way to the corridor, and you were finally free of his attention.
~ ~ ~
“Hi.”
Azriel flinched so violently that he stumbled back into the tree behind him, a dusting of snow falling down around him. His head whipped to you, where you were standing sheepishly at his side.
“Sorry,” you said, but still took a step forward. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Which was true, but you also had enough sense to realize that he was lost in his own world, given he was standing still in the middle of the forest alone.
His face was flushed as his bewildered eyes sharpened into a glare. He brushed the snow from his shoulders as he stood up straight, and his shadows wiggled around his feet as if they too had been startled. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.
You raised your brows, a bit of indignation crawling up your spine. He was the one loitering on the edge of your clearing. At least, you considered it yours. No one else had ever stumbled upon you here when you managed to slip away from your mother for the evening. “What are you doing here?” you threw back.
His face somehow turned redder. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
You looked him up and down, noticing the thick flying leathers that looked slightly too small for his body. The boys always got a new set of leathers when they turned ten, but never the girls.
Azriel must have been given a poorly sized spare when he arrived in camp.
You watched the shadows slinking up his body, blurring the edges of him into darkness, as if they might engulf him to save him from your prying gaze. You took another step closer, barely a foot between you now, and Azriel eyed you warily as you stuck your palm out.
A tendril of shadow immediately broke away from his side, skittering closer to you to wrap around your wrist and weave in between your fingers. You giggled at the cool and silken touch that was unlike anything you had ever felt. They were sort of cute.
“I’m sorry,” Azriel rasped, dragging your attention back to him. “I’m getting better at controlling them.” His shadows pulsed once, as if disgruntled by that, and Azriel grimaced. “They won’t hurt you.”
He had said the same thing the first time you met him, and again when you bumped into him once on your way home. “I know,” you said simply, rather than remind him of his past assurances.
You dropped your hand, content to let the shadow brush over your skin as it pleased. “I heard Cassian talking to Rhys a few days ago,” you said, curiosity seeping from your voice. You met Azriel’s eyes again, who already looked like he was dreading whatever might follow your sentence. “They said something about flying lessons?”
Azriel looked away, and the shadow around your hand darted back to him. “They’re teaching me,” he murmured.
“Teaching you?”
Azriel looked pained. “Yes.”
“What do you mean?”
He closed his eyes, tilting his head back.
“I don’t know how.”
“To fly?” you asked, incredulity clear in your voice.
Azriel nodded slowly, the movement forced and stiff.
“Oh.”
You had your suspicions that Rhys and Cassian were talking about Azriel. The three had formed an unexpected trio since Azriel arrived a few weeks ago, though you weren’t sure they were friends. Rhys and Cassian seemed to be antagonizing Azriel at every turn, yet they seemed to close ranks around him when others tested him.
You had also heard from some girls at lunch that Azriel was apparently living with them.
Azriel rubbed at his nose, and only then did you realize that his hands were covered by black leather gloves that looked nicer than the rest of his garments. “Cassian and Rhysand don’t know how to keep their mouths shut,” he grumbled.
You winced. “Are they good teachers?” you asked, trying and probably failing to hide your skepticism.
He gave you a dubious look. “No.”
You pursed your lips. “Well I could teach you.”
Azriel's face flushed red again, and he started shaking his head. “No—no. I don’t need anyone’s help—”
“I was coming out here to fly anyway,” you interrupted him. You shrugged when he finally met your eyes. “I always come here—or, there—” You pointed to the clearing through the trees where there was a small cliff you liked to jump from. Azriel turned to look. “To fly by myself. I wouldn’t mind a friend.”
Azriel’s head snapped toward you again. Your face warmed. “I would like that,” he said softly.
You smiled, then grabbed his hand, your chest feeling warm with excitement. “Let’s go.”
You dragged him through the trees at an awkwardly fast pace that was on the verge of becoming a run, and when you tripped over a branch sticking out of the snow, Azriel caught you before you could fall. The two of you giggled as he pulled you upright, and you kept moving toward the clearing.
The sun was bright once you were free from the canopy of the woods, a few rare beams breaking through the overcast sky and making the snow shimmer. You dragged Azriel up the hill that led to a cliff—if you could really call it that. It would certainly hurt if you fell, but you wouldn’t die. You thought.
You dropped Azriel’s hand as you neared the ledge, looking down at the snow covered ground. You turned to smile at him, but looked less than thrilled as he looked out over edge. “Please do not shove me off this ledge—”
“What?” you exclaimed. “Who said anything about shoving you off a cliff?”
He rolled his eyes. “Do you remember who my teachers are?”
You huffed. “Well we’re not doing that.” You reached for his hand again, pulling him closer so that he toed the edge with you. His muscles were tight with tension, so you gave his hand a squeeze as you smiled at him. “We’re going to jump.”
Azriel tried to jerk away, but you kept your grip firm on his hand. “How is that any different—”
You shook your joined hands. “I won’t let go, for one.”
He immediately shook his head. “I’m bigger than you. I’ll just pull you down and then we’ll both get hurt.”
“I’m stronger than I look,” you argued. “I can manage a soft landing for both of us just fine.” Maybe not soft, but you could cushion the fall if you had to probably. “But it doesn’t matter because you’re going to glide, not fall.”
His throat bobbed, but he didn’t argue. “How?”
“Spread your wings.” You did just that, your wings stretching out a little wider than necessary, but you wanted to make a point.
Azriel seemed to chew the inside of his cheek before nodding, then he took in a deep breath and stretched his wings wide behind him. His wings were larger than yours, a deeper shade of purple than your more rustic hue. They caught a ray of sunlight, and the delicate membrane shimmered. He squeezed your hand, and you had to think before you could remember what to say next.
“Good,” you said, and you leaned forward a bit, your wing brushing with his.
Azriel sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry—”
You waved him off, not minding at all if his wings brushed against yours. He was your friend. You trusted him. He wasn’t mean or loud or aggressive like the other boys in the camp. “It’s fine, Azriel.”
He nodded, and he didn’t let go of your hand.
“We’re going to jump, and we’re going to leave our wings out like this. They will catch the wind, if we fall forward a bit, and then we just glide. There is plenty of space. That’s it.”
“Okay,” he agreed, his voice slightly shaky. He nodded, then said again, “Okay, I can do that.”
You grinned, nodding excitedly. “Ready?” you asked, dragging him even closer to the edge, the toes of your boots hanging over.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Now!” you yelled, and the two of you jumped, and your bodies both instinctively leveled out with the ground, the wind whipping around your face as you grew closer to the Earth.
Then your body jerked, and the wind was pushing against the membrane of your wings, and you were soaring across the clearing.
Azriel laughed beside you, a smile stretching across his face as the two of you flew over the wide expanse of the mountain clearing. “This is amazing!” he yelled.
“I told you it would be fine!”
He squeezed your hand, closing his eyes as the wind washed over his face, and it was the most joy you had seen on his face since you found him behind the mess hall weeks ago.
Unfortunately, you were paying far too much attention to the boy beside you and not to your surroundings, and the rapidly nearing tree line in your peripheral made you jerk upright, stealing any of the momentum the two of you had found.
Azriel’s eyes flew open as you flapped your wings haphazardly, trying to right the two of you unsuccessfully, and then you were just trying to soften the inevitable fall. The two of you landed in a plume of snow, tumbling over one another with the force of your fall. You eventually came to a stop, Azriel’s body covering your own.
Your body ached, and you knew it would hurt tomorrow, but you seemed to be fine otherwise. Azriel’s shoulders were shaking, his face hidden from your view, and your stomach dropped. “Azriel, I’m so sorry. Cauldron, are you okay? I should—”
Azriel was laughing. He pushed himself up, still hovering over you as he finally met your eyes. He looked fine. He looked more than fine.
He rolled off of you, laying next to you in the snow as he gave into his uncontrollable laughter. You started laughing too, even if moments ago you were terrified he was hurt or that he might hate you now.
“That was amazing,” he said around his laughter. “Thank you.”
Your laughter slowed, small chuckles still escaping from your lips as you turned to meet his sparkling eyes. “What are friends for?”
~ ~ ~
“You’re avoiding me.”
The spoon in your hand clanked against your mug, some of the tea sloshing over the side. You took in a sharp breath, then reached for a towel to wipe it up.
“It’s the middle of the night, Azriel.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it.” He walked closer, his hip leaning against the counter only a few feet away from you. “Have I done something?” he asked, a bit quieter.
You finally looked at him, your hand still clutching the towel as you leaned on the counter. You hated the way your chest ached every time you saw him. Before, your heart had ached from feeling so overwhelmingly full—a tightness caused by feeling so much and with desperate hope to one day give it all to him. Now, your chest ached from an emptiness that had hollowed you out, your heart and soul dark and weathered and still soaked with love, but a love that now faced the agonizing reality of never being seen.
“No,” you said, quietly, after too many beats had passed. You looked down at the towel in your hand, clutching the fabric tight as you forced yourself to take just one full breath. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Azriel.”
Your breath caught in your throat when his hand grabbed yours resting on the counter, gently pulling the towel from your grasp. His thumb brushed over the back of your knuckles, the two of you staring at your hands on the counter. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.
His voice made your heart ache. The way he softened the syllables as if they might not pierce the fragile cloak of night around you. The way his questions were always gentle, genuine, and entirely sincere—spoken in tones that always made your defenses disintegrate.
“I haven’t been sleeping,” you answered quietly, finally daring to meet his eyes. You shrugged, as if that might knock the guilt of the half-truth off your shoulders. “I’m tired, that's all.”
Azriel’s grip on your hand tightened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because you have broken my heart. Because you have truly done nothing wrong and still I am left poorly gluing shredded pieces of myself back together that fall apart every time I’m near you.
“It’s nothing. Really, I’ll be fine.”
Azriel looks like he does not believe you. He doesn’t believe you, not a word that has come out of your mouth. You are admittedly a terrible liar—although you have mastered the art of evasion and half-truths over centuries of secret pining—and Azriel knows this. He knows you.
He’s also the Spymaster of the Night Court, of course.
He seems to take pity on you, for whatever reason. He blows a puff of air out of his nose as he looks away, slowly pulling his hand from yours to rest it on the counter. The inches between you now feel like an endless chasm.
“I am visiting my mother tomorrow,” he tells you quietly.
You frown. “Tomorrow?” you repeat. “Why didn’t you tell—”
Your words die in your throat when you meet his gaze, a pointed look staring back at you that makes a tendril of shame curl low in your stomach. You swallow hard, looking away. “She’ll enjoy that,” you say softly.
“Do you want to come with me?”
Your heart stutters. His eyes are wide and pleading, begging you for an answer you cannot fathom why he wants.
“I would like it if you came with me,” he adds softly. His shadows slowly slink out from behind him, curling around your ankles and moving up your calves.
Their touch is light and silken, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It’s meant to be a soothing touch, a comfort you had taken from them for centuries. You had never feared Azriel’s shadows, not even when they knocked you on your ass that first day you met.
Their familiar strokes now left your heart racing, a coil of panic unfurling in your chest as you thought of what he was asking, as you thought of all you stood to lose in a handful of time that was quickly slipping through your fingers.
He had found his mate.
Moments like these, intimate conversations in the dark between shared breaths, were now fleeting. Tendrils of shadows that had felt like an extra limb were no longer yours. You were a fixture in his life that was fading, your presence now blurry and confusing and ephemeral.
He was a pillar in your life that was cracking, bits and pieces crumbling as time pressed in. It was inevitable that the bond would snap for her. It was inevitable that Azriel would devote himself to his mate. It was only a matter of time.
You swallowed hard, acid burning the back of your throat. You reached clumsily for your tea, your fingers bumping harshly against the handle, sending more liquid sloshing over the sides. You cursed, grabbing for the towel again at the same time Azriel did.
His fingers covered yours, and you yanked your hand away within a second.
He blinked, a flash of hurt passing through his eyes for the briefest of moments.
You stepped back, eyes darting between the spilled tea, Azriel’s hand on the towel, and Azriel’s soft and confused eyes. You shook your head once, a motion you barely realized you were making before you choked out, “I can’t.”
You sucked in a sharp breath, batting away a shadow that had come up to stroke your cheek. “I can’t,” you said again.
“Y/N—”
Forcing yourself to meet his eyes, willing your voice not to tremble, you plastered on a forced and painful smile as you said, “I can’t go with you, I mean. I’m sorry.” You glanced once more at the spilled tea, slowly spreading across the granite countertop. “Send your mother my love.”
Azriel looked like he wanted to argue, to ask again, but you could not bear to hear another invitation. You could not bear to see misplaced disappointment on his face when you declined again.
So you walked away, your sock clad feet slipping once on the stone floor in your haste, Azriel’s arm shooting out to catch you. You sniffed once, your skin flushed and cheeks searing, moving out of his hold and disappearing down the dimly lit hallway.
Sleep evaded you the rest of the night, the image of spilled tea and drooping wings and glistening hazel irises haunting your every thought.
~ ~ ~
a/n: I will try to do a taglist for this series! let me know if you want to be added :)
I just wanted to say hi and that I hope you’re doing well! Your writing is such a masterpiece and I think I’ve read your fics at least a dozen times each ❤️❤️
hello!! thank you so much for reading and for your support! you’re so kind 🫶🏻🫶🏻
I am doing well!! I’m in the home stretch of finishing my thesis so I might be MIA for a little bit longer but I can’t wait to get back to writing more for Azriel. I have an idea for a new series that I’ve been working on in bits and pieces and I’m looking forward to spending more time with it 🤭
content warnings: vomiting, fear of death/mortality (?), loneliness, brief mention of past attempted sexual assault, reader needs a hug
word count: 4.0k
synopsis: As if life as the only human in Velaris was not terrible enough, you also had to endure the consequences of your mortal immune system. Azriel refuses to let you suffer alone.
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
There were many things you hated about being human.
Every day that passed in this entirely foreign and ethereal world seemed to chip away another brittle piece of your exterior, revealing another mundane flaw hiding beneath your skin. Another weakness.
You wished you had been tossed into that Cauldron.
It was a selfish thought, perhaps. One that used to claw at you with guilt every time it flit through your mind—every time you watched your sisters crawl deeper inside themselves as they grappled with all they had lost. As they mourned what the Cauldron stole from them.
Feyre was decidedly not a shell of herself, though, and she was fae. She was beautiful, strong, more sure of herself than you had ever seen her. She had a mate.
Mate.
They all had mates now.
They all had friends.
A purpose.
Bile rushed up your throat as you lurched for the toilet, the porcelain icy against your feverish skin. Your body heaved, violently expelling whatever illness had weasled through your measly defense system.
When the overwhelming wave of nausea finally abated, you slumped against the hard porcelain, only slightly cringing at where you had rested your head. At least it was your own bathing chamber.
In a magic house.
You huffed a half-delirious laugh, your ribs aching and throat burning as you slowly pushed away from the toilet. Your movements were sluggish, your limbs heavy and trembling as you fully lowered yourself onto the cold floor. Your cheek pressed against the chilled tile, eyes fluttering shut at the momentary relief. You curled in on yourself, exhaustion curling around you like smoke, and you begged it to take you away.
~ ~ ~
A gentle brush against your cheek made you twitch, your face twisting as you turned away from whatever had broken through your momentary reprieve. The touch still lingered, a featherlight caress that followed along your jaw up to your forehead, pressing gently against your sweat-damp skin. Their touch was cold and soothing—a harsh contrast to the bitter chill running up and down your spine.
You tilted your head up, chasing the touch you had turned away from seconds ago. Everything felt heavy. Hot. It was so hot.
“Y/N,” a deep voice murmured. Their tone was cool like their touch, a soothing balm over your inflamed mind cascading into hazy delirium.
You sucked in a breath, your face turning toward the voice. “Y/N,” they said again, this time a little louder, firmer.
You forced your eyes open, your lashes fluttering as light from the window made you wince. It took a moment for your vision to focus, for shapes and blurs to regain their sharp lines and definition—for you to recognize the massive figure kneeling beside you.
“Azriel?” you rasped. You swallowed hard, wincing at the burn in your throat and the acidic taste clinging to your mouth. “What are you doing here?”
There was a little crease between his brows as he looked at you, his gaze otherwise eerily still. “You’re burning up.”
You huffed a pitiful laugh that sounded more like a cough, your ribs flaring with pain. “I didn’t notice.” His palm was still pressed to your forehead, and you were still lying on the floor of your bathroom. Next to your toilet. The mortification that flooded you was almost hot enough to dull the chill nestled deep in your bones. “Did one of my sisters send you?”
Azriel scowled, the crease between his brows morphing into a deep furrow, his lips forming a flat line as his eyes flared with indignation. He pulled his hand away, leaving your flushed face entirely exposed to the stale air around you. You shivered, as if your body wanted to physically remind you that it was currently at war with itself. As if you had forgotten.
Azriel’s scowl disappeared as quickly as it had formed, even the crease between his brows smoothing out as he slipped a hand behind your back. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Let's get up.”
You let him guide you up, not that you really had to let him do anything. He was so large. Even kneeling on the floor with his wings pulled tight behind his back, he still dwarfed you. Everyone here looked like they could crush you with the toe of their shoe.
The change in position sent a rush through your head, your blood pulsing in your ears as your vision danced with spots. You grabbed the edge of the toilet as another violent wave of nausea roiled through you, heaving your body over the bowl just in time to expel whatever little remains lingered in your stomach.
Azriel didn’t leave. As much as you wished he did, as much as you wished you could fall through the floor and weather this alone, he stayed. He stayed with a steady hand on your back that rubbed up and down your spine, the thin fabric of your nightgown a weak barrier between your skin and his.
It was ugly, and disgusting, and you felt like a frail shell of yourself when the heaving finally ended and you sucked in shaky desperate breaths. Azriel brushed the errant strands of hair plastered to your skin away from your face, the tie you had sloppily pulled it back in failing at its job.
“How long have you been like this?” he asked, voice quiet and restrained, as if worried about breaking the fragile stillness that had fallen over you.
You opened your eyes, still sucking in breaths with more effort than you would have liked. You glanced at the window, the sun streaming through with bright beams. You shrugged, sort of, and answered weakly, “It was dark.”
Azriel murmured under his breath, his ministrations on your back faltering. “Why didn’t you call for someone?”
Your mouth was dry. Your throat hurt. Your head ached. You really weren’t in the mood to be chastised. “Who?” you bit out. “How? No one is here. Cassian is away. Nesta is away. You—”
“I would have come. I did come as soon as—” his words cut off, Azriel seeming to think better of whatever he was about to say. You slowly moved your head toward him, lifting your head from where it was cradled in your arm still resting on the toilet. He met your gaze, his eyes wild with emotions you didn’t have the energy to tease apart. “I gave you that pen and paper. Told you my shadows would deliver any message.”
You remembered. Remembered the pitiful safeguard your sisters had likely forced upon Azriel to give to you as a sad Solstice gift. “That’s for emergencies.”
“It’s for anything,” he argued, his voice rising a bit. He sighed, shaking his head as his hand came up to cup the nape of your neck, the touch sending goosebumps across your skin. “Are you done?” he asked, voice much softer.
You blinked at him, your mind swimming from the fever and pain and his touches and his voice and the way you just noticed his shadows licking softly at your bare feet. You grimaced as you glanced at the toilet, reaching to flush the contents away as you pushed yourself up. “For now,” you murmured.
Azriel didn’t move, barely gave you space to sit back on your heels. You felt a bit detached from your body, your limbs shaky and heart racing as you struggled to keep your mind tethered to your arms and legs that were meant to carry you through this wretched illness.
“Good,” Azriel said, his voice incredibly close to your ear. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
You shook your head, immediately protesting at the thought of walking to your bed just to inevitably have to hurdle yourself back in here soon. “Can’t.”
“I will get you a bowl,” he said, like a man that was used to plucking solutions out of thin air without being challenged.
Your bed would be nice. You were suddenly freezing after suffering through the wave of heat you had awoken to, and your ostentatious but undoubtedly soft mattress would inarguably be more comfortable than this hard bathroom floor. Your blankets, your sheets—
Your sheets. Embarrassment curled in the center of your chest, almost mistakable for another bout of nausea if you didn’t know better. Your sheets were uninhabitable after you had awoken from your sleep so suddenly, so violently, you didn’t have a chance to do more than throw the covers off your body before the nausea won over you. “My sheets are—”
“Clean.”
Your eyes snapped toward Azriel. “What?”
His lips curved slightly, into what might have been a smile if he was not kneeling beside you on your bathroom floor after watching you throw up in your toilet. You shivered again, a mixture of your self-disgust and the fever sending another chill through you.
His hands squeezed your arms. “Come on.”
You really didn’t want to stand up, but you did want your bed, and something told you Azriel wouldn’t leave until you got up off your bathroom floor. You nodded, head lolling a little too far forward as your vision swam and your ears buzzed.
“Okay?” Azriel asked softly.
You took a slow breath, willing the dizziness and fatigue away for just a few seconds. “Fine.”
Azriel had moved onto his feet at some point, but he was still crouched beside you as he watched you pitifully push yourself up using the toilet as leverage. Whatever blood and tension that had pooled in your head, making it feel heavy only moments ago, vanished once you stood.
You stumbled, reaching blindly for something to stabilize yourself with before two arms curled around you. “Okay,” Azriel huffed, then lifted you with startling ease. “That’s enough of that.”
He was still in his leathers, you realized, only once your cheek was pressed against the dark fabric across his chest. Where did he come from? How did he even know to look for you? Why did he care?
Your chest prickled with indignation as he carried you into your room, an undercurrent of anxiety running through your veins as you thought about just how vulnerable you were. Anyone could have found you in that bathroom. Sure, you were safe here, in this mountain you could never leave unless you asked someone. They said you were safe.
But you were still a human in the fae lands. You were a human in an enchanted house that was your only company for sometimes days on end, and you were weak and alone. You could never defend yourself if it came down to it. Let alone when you were sick and unconscious on your bathroom floor.
Azriel could have done anything he wanted. He could have—he could have touched you. He could have taken whatever he wanted from you, like the males in your village had once tried—had almost succeeded—and they were mere humans. Azriel was not only fae, he was a warrior, a spy, and he served alongside the most powerful high lord. He could—
He sat you gently on the bed, crouching in front of you as his hand came up to cradle your face with so much gentleness, his thumb hovering before wiping away a tear you didn’t know had fallen. “Hey,” he said, voice a gentle hum. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” His eyes ran over you, a little frantic. “Did I hurt you?”
Azriel would never. You knew that.
You knew that.
A sob forced its way through your lips. Azriel’s eyes went wide, and before you knew what you were doing, you were falling into him. Your forehead pressed against his leathers, your nose inhaling the faint cedar scent that lingered around him. His arms immediately wrapped around you, one of his hands cradling the back of your head as you cried into his chest.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured.
The name weaved in between your ribs and coiled around your heart, squeezing tight as another ugly sob broke free. You wanted this. You wanted him. You wanted a life with your sisters. You wanted a mate, a love, like they had—and you never would.
“Hey,” Azriel murmured, holding you tight against him as he came up to join you on the bed. He pulled you into his lap, holding you in a way no one ever had before. Even as a child, you couldn’t remember a time someone just held you. “Breathe, Y/N,” he soothed, the words soft and gentle. “Take a breath. You’re okay. It’s okay.”
“I’m scared,” you admitted through broken and shaky sobs. “I’m so scared.”
Azriel held you tighter. “You’re going to be fine,” he murmured. “Madja is coming. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
You shook your head, sniffing as exhaustion made your sobs die out, but tears continued rolling down your cheeks. “One day I won’t be,” you whispered, the soul crushing words burning your throat.
“What?” Azriel asked softly.
“I’m human, Azriel.” You sniffed, turning your face into his chest. “One day, I won’t be here, whether because of illness, or age, or a stupid accident, because I’m human. I’m weak, and I’m alone,” you choked on the word, trembling as anxiety and exhaustion and lingering nausea scraped their claws through your chest. “I don’t want to die,” you whimpered, shoulders shaking. “I don’t want to die while everyone I love gets to keep living. I don’t want to grow old without my sisters. I don’t—I can’t—”
“Okay,” Azriel murmured, rubbing his hand over your head. “Okay,” he said again, the word sounding fragile. “You’re not alone,” he finally said, the words a soft rasp against the top of your head.
You scoffed, starting to protest, but he cut you off. “You’re not.” He squeezed you tighter. “You’re not alone, Y/N.”
“They have mates,” you argued brokenly, “I will never have that.”
“That’s not true,” Azriel assured, the words sounding a little strangled—like they might mean as much to him as they would to you. “I promise, that’s not true.”
You wanted to argue. You wanted to get mad, to yell, to tell him he couldn’t possibly know that. You wanted to push him away, you wanted to hide from whatever feelings you felt toward the man—male—who currently held you in his lap. You wanted to protect yourself from another inevitable heartbreak.
But like you said, you were alone, and you so desperately wanted not to be. You were sick, and shaking, and the fever was still clouding your mind in a dense fog, even as your volatile emotions started to evaporate under the pressure of exhaustion.
“I’m tired,” you murmured weakly, head lolling against his chest.
“I know.” His hand rubbed up and down your arm, and you might have been falling into delirium when you thought he pressed his lips to the crown of your head. “Do you want to change?” he asked, softly.
You nodded, hating the thought of climbing into bed wearing the same gown you had spent hours lying in on the bathroom floor. It was also thin, and short sleeved, and you were freezing.
“Okay,” Azriel said, shifting you gently off his lap. You might have whined, or whimpered, your body aching from the movement and your heart throbbing at the loss of him. He ran a hand over your head as he left you leaning against the many pillows along your headboard. “You’re okay,” he soothed. “I’ll be right—” His breath caught, his eyes snapping toward the foot of your bed. He blinked, his shadows pulsing once, twice, and you thought his ears might have turned pink—it was hard to tell in the dim light of your room thanks to your closed drapes.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said instead, the words releasing some of the tension that had held your shoulders up to your ears. He reached toward the end of the bed, a navy sweater folded neatly at your feet. “Put this on,” he told you. “It will be warmer.”
You glanced at the sweater he had lain on your lap, the fabric absurdly soft and plush against the exposed skin of your thighs. It wasn’t yours.
And as much as you wanted to engulf yourself in Azriel’s sweater, to swaddle yourself in the lush fabric that would feel worlds better than the scratchy nightgown that was beginning to suffocate your skin—you didn’t want to move. You didn’t want him to see how your arms would undoubtedly shake, and you didn’t want to use every last ounce of your strength just to change out of a single article of clothing.
“I can help you?” Azriel asked, a gentle offer with only a hint of hesitation, his hazel irises dripping with sincerity and concern that made you flush all over despite the chills still crawling under your skin.
This was—it was too much. You couldn’t ask him to do this. He should leave. He had done more than enough for you already, more than enough just by caring enough to check on you, for whatever reason that had been. You weren’t his to take care of, and he wasn’t yours to want him to—even if you did, with every fiber of your being.
You were human.
And he—
He was—
He sat down on the bed, his wings draping gently behind him, one covering your lower leg. He didn’t seem to notice.
You dragged your gaze away from the sight of his wing against your skin, forcing your eyes to meet his. He smiled softly, his lips turning up so gently at the corners. “Let me help you,” he nearly begged. Your eyes started burning again, and he reached up to wipe away the moisture that quickly escaped from your waterline. “No more tears,” he murmured. “Not tonight.”
You nodded, taking in a shaky breath as you stared at the sweater still on your lap. Tan and scarred fingers picked it up, setting it beside you on the bed. “It will take seconds if I help,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have to,” you whispered.
His hand cupped your face, your eyes immediately meeting his again. “I want to,” he murmured. A shadow crawled up his wrist to stroke your cheek alongside his thumb. “If you let me.”
“Okay,” you whispered.
Azriel’s hands immediately went to the hem of your gown that was already rucked up embarrassingly close to your waist. Then he paused, his eyes meeting yours, waiting for one last confirmation.
Something in your chest fractured. A fissure branching out from your heart and all the way down to your soul, another hit with the startling reality that this could be your life. If things were different, you could have had this. Him.
You could pretend to have him tonight.
You nodded, and Azriel’s lips pulled into another tiny smile as his eyes stayed on yours, and he pulled the gown up and over your head with gentle ease.
The soft sweater went over your head in quick succession, Azriel guiding your arms through the sleeves as the fabric fell down your torso and pooled around you on the bed. Only then did he let his gaze wander below your shoulders. “Oh,” he murmured, “here.” Then he gently coaxed you forward, and the pads of his fingers brushed the skin of your back as he did up one of the slats in the back of the sweater.
Because it was his sweater. Meant for large, magnificent wings.
“There,” he said, satisfied, and then guided you to lie back into the pillows before standing up. He pulled the covers back, gently tugging them out from underneath your legs just to pull them back up to your chin as you scooted further down.
It had been a very long time since someone tucked you into bed.
Azriel brushed some stray hairs away from your face, and you didn’t even have the energy to care how you must look. He leaned down, his lips pressing to your forehead, and you were fairly certain you were not hallucinating this time—not when his kiss lingered, and he pulled away just to press a second quick peck a little closer to your hairline.
You watched him closely as he pulled away, watched how his shadows seemed to pour from his body and seep toward your bed, watched the way his wings twitched before he refolded them behind him. Watched the way his throat bobbed and his cheeks tinted the same shade of pink you thought his ears had earlier.
“You’re still pretty warm,” he murmured, the back of his knuckles tracing gently over your cheekbone, as if he couldn’t quite pull himself away.
When his touch finally fell away, and he took a half step back, panic squeezed the air from your lungs. “Azriel,” you rushed out, your panic poorly hidden in the rough and breathy words. “Please,” you said, swallowing once. “Please don’t leave.”
His face turned softer than you knew was possible, and you wanted to keep this version of Azriel to yourself for an eternity—even if your chest hurt at the reminder that his eternity would span centuries beyond yours. Tonight then. Tonight, maybe you could keep him, just until you were well enough to stand without crumbling to the floor.
“I’m not leaving,” he assured.
He kicked his boots off, soft thuds on your floor as they fell over. Then he started unbuckling sheaths and straps that held…who even knew what close to his body. “I’m not leaving,” he said again, before disappearing into your bathing chamber.
Your heart was racing. You glanced at the large bowl that had magically appeared on your nightstand, and you desperately hoped you wouldn’t need it. For the first time, you wondered if anyone else knew you were sick.
Probably not, unless Azriel told them somehow. You still didn’t understand how exactly they all communicated with each other.
You hoped no else knew, and that Azriel would stay.
He came out in a new set of clothes, his leathers traded for soft lounge pants and a plain t-shirt, his sock-covered feet carrying him back to you. You didn’t know where he got the clothes, just like you weren’t sure where his sweater you were wrapped in now came from, but you had learned to stop questioning every little thing since living here.
This time, he crawled onto the other side of the bed, his back leaning against the headboard as his wings flared out on either side of him. One of them grazed your cheek as he tried to extend it, then bumped the top of your head as he moved around. “I’m sorry,” Azriel murmured, almost embarrassed. “Do you want me to move?”
“No,” you answered a little too quickly. You shuffled closer to him, closing the distance between your bodies and making more room for him to rest his wing. “You’re warm.”
You had not meant to say that, not really, but Azriel seemed to preen from the possible half-compliment, if you could even call it that. Then his wing draped completely over you, a second cover that offered immediate warmth you were craving. The edge of his wing rested gently against your cheek, the membrane silken and smooth against your skin, and you wanted to touch it with the tips of your fingers—but you were not entirely lost to your illness, and still had some decorum, so you kept your hands tucked beneath the covers, and let yourself finally drift off into sleep as you breathed in the soothing scent of soap and cedar.
~ ~ ~
Later, when your room was darker and the sun no longer creeped out behind the edges of your curtains, you awoke with your head in Azriel’s lap, and his fingers gently drawing figures along your collarbone. His wing still covered you, an extra layer of protection from the outside world that you never wanted to leave.
Your head was spinning as you shifted around, sleep still clinging to the edges of your mind. Azriel’s fingers came up to lightly trace your jaw, the motion gentle and soothing in a way that had you melting back into him, allowing sleep to slowly creep back in.
Exhaustion reclaimed you, and you were dreaming again.
You must have been, when you murmured, “In another life, maybe you were mine.”
content warnings: vomiting, fear of death/mortality (?), loneliness, brief mention of past attempted sexual assault, reader needs a hug
word count: 4.0k
synopsis: As if life as the only human in Velaris was not terrible enough, you also had to endure the consequences of your mortal immune system. Azriel refuses to let you suffer alone.
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
There were many things you hated about being human.
Every day that passed in this entirely foreign and ethereal world seemed to chip away another brittle piece of your exterior, revealing another mundane flaw hiding beneath your skin. Another weakness.
You wished you had been tossed into that Cauldron.
It was a selfish thought, perhaps. One that used to claw at you with guilt every time it flit through your mind—every time you watched your sisters crawl deeper inside themselves as they grappled with all they had lost. As they mourned what the Cauldron stole from them.
Feyre was decidedly not a shell of herself, though, and she was fae. She was beautiful, strong, more sure of herself than you had ever seen her. She had a mate.
Mate.
They all had mates now.
They all had friends.
A purpose.
Bile rushed up your throat as you lurched for the toilet, the porcelain icy against your feverish skin. Your body heaved, violently expelling whatever illness had weasled through your measly defense system.
When the overwhelming wave of nausea finally abated, you slumped against the hard porcelain, only slightly cringing at where you had rested your head. At least it was your own bathing chamber.
In a magic house.
You huffed a half-delirious laugh, your ribs aching and throat burning as you slowly pushed away from the toilet. Your movements were sluggish, your limbs heavy and trembling as you fully lowered yourself onto the cold floor. Your cheek pressed against the chilled tile, eyes fluttering shut at the momentary relief. You curled in on yourself, exhaustion curling around you like smoke, and you begged it to take you away.
~ ~ ~
A gentle brush against your cheek made you twitch, your face twisting as you turned away from whatever had broken through your momentary reprieve. The touch still lingered, a featherlight caress that followed along your jaw up to your forehead, pressing gently against your sweat-damp skin. Their touch was cold and soothing—a harsh contrast to the bitter chill running up and down your spine.
You tilted your head up, chasing the touch you had turned away from seconds ago. Everything felt heavy. Hot. It was so hot.
“Y/N,” a deep voice murmured. Their tone was cool like their touch, a soothing balm over your inflamed mind cascading into hazy delirium.
You sucked in a breath, your face turning toward the voice. “Y/N,” they said again, this time a little louder, firmer.
You forced your eyes open, your lashes fluttering as light from the window made you wince. It took a moment for your vision to focus, for shapes and blurs to regain their sharp lines and definition—for you to recognize the massive figure kneeling beside you.
“Azriel?” you rasped. You swallowed hard, wincing at the burn in your throat and the acidic taste clinging to your mouth. “What are you doing here?”
There was a little crease between his brows as he looked at you, his gaze otherwise eerily still. “You’re burning up.”
You huffed a pitiful laugh that sounded more like a cough, your ribs flaring with pain. “I didn’t notice.” His palm was still pressed to your forehead, and you were still lying on the floor of your bathroom. Next to your toilet. The mortification that flooded you was almost hot enough to dull the chill nestled deep in your bones. “Did one of my sisters send you?”
Azriel scowled, the crease between his brows morphing into a deep furrow, his lips forming a flat line as his eyes flared with indignation. He pulled his hand away, leaving your flushed face entirely exposed to the stale air around you. You shivered, as if your body wanted to physically remind you that it was currently at war with itself. As if you had forgotten.
Azriel’s scowl disappeared as quickly as it had formed, even the crease between his brows smoothing out as he slipped a hand behind your back. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Let's get up.”
You let him guide you up, not that you really had to let him do anything. He was so large. Even kneeling on the floor with his wings pulled tight behind his back, he still dwarfed you. Everyone here looked like they could crush you with the toe of their shoe.
The change in position sent a rush through your head, your blood pulsing in your ears as your vision danced with spots. You grabbed the edge of the toilet as another violent wave of nausea roiled through you, heaving your body over the bowl just in time to expel whatever little remains lingered in your stomach.
Azriel didn’t leave. As much as you wished he did, as much as you wished you could fall through the floor and weather this alone, he stayed. He stayed with a steady hand on your back that rubbed up and down your spine, the thin fabric of your nightgown a weak barrier between your skin and his.
It was ugly, and disgusting, and you felt like a frail shell of yourself when the heaving finally ended and you sucked in shaky desperate breaths. Azriel brushed the errant strands of hair plastered to your skin away from your face, the tie you had sloppily pulled it back in failing at its job.
“How long have you been like this?” he asked, voice quiet and restrained, as if worried about breaking the fragile stillness that had fallen over you.
You opened your eyes, still sucking in breaths with more effort than you would have liked. You glanced at the window, the sun streaming through with bright beams. You shrugged, sort of, and answered weakly, “It was dark.”
Azriel murmured under his breath, his ministrations on your back faltering. “Why didn’t you call for someone?”
Your mouth was dry. Your throat hurt. Your head ached. You really weren’t in the mood to be chastised. “Who?” you bit out. “How? No one is here. Cassian is away. Nesta is away. You—”
“I would have come. I did come as soon as—” his words cut off, Azriel seeming to think better of whatever he was about to say. You slowly moved your head toward him, lifting your head from where it was cradled in your arm still resting on the toilet. He met your gaze, his eyes wild with emotions you didn’t have the energy to tease apart. “I gave you that pen and paper. Told you my shadows would deliver any message.”
You remembered. Remembered the pitiful safeguard your sisters had likely forced upon Azriel to give to you as a sad Solstice gift. “That’s for emergencies.”
“It’s for anything,” he argued, his voice rising a bit. He sighed, shaking his head as his hand came up to cup the nape of your neck, the touch sending goosebumps across your skin. “Are you done?” he asked, voice much softer.
You blinked at him, your mind swimming from the fever and pain and his touches and his voice and the way you just noticed his shadows licking softly at your bare feet. You grimaced as you glanced at the toilet, reaching to flush the contents away as you pushed yourself up. “For now,” you murmured.
Azriel didn’t move, barely gave you space to sit back on your heels. You felt a bit detached from your body, your limbs shaky and heart racing as you struggled to keep your mind tethered to your arms and legs that were meant to carry you through this wretched illness.
“Good,” Azriel said, his voice incredibly close to your ear. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
You shook your head, immediately protesting at the thought of walking to your bed just to inevitably have to hurdle yourself back in here soon. “Can’t.”
“I will get you a bowl,” he said, like a man that was used to plucking solutions out of thin air without being challenged.
Your bed would be nice. You were suddenly freezing after suffering through the wave of heat you had awoken to, and your ostentatious but undoubtedly soft mattress would inarguably be more comfortable than this hard bathroom floor. Your blankets, your sheets—
Your sheets. Embarrassment curled in the center of your chest, almost mistakable for another bout of nausea if you didn’t know better. Your sheets were uninhabitable after you had awoken from your sleep so suddenly, so violently, you didn’t have a chance to do more than throw the covers off your body before the nausea won over you. “My sheets are—”
“Clean.”
Your eyes snapped toward Azriel. “What?”
His lips curved slightly, into what might have been a smile if he was not kneeling beside you on your bathroom floor after watching you throw up in your toilet. You shivered again, a mixture of your self-disgust and the fever sending another chill through you.
His hands squeezed your arms. “Come on.”
You really didn’t want to stand up, but you did want your bed, and something told you Azriel wouldn’t leave until you got up off your bathroom floor. You nodded, head lolling a little too far forward as your vision swam and your ears buzzed.
“Okay?” Azriel asked softly.
You took a slow breath, willing the dizziness and fatigue away for just a few seconds. “Fine.”
Azriel had moved onto his feet at some point, but he was still crouched beside you as he watched you pitifully push yourself up using the toilet as leverage. Whatever blood and tension that had pooled in your head, making it feel heavy only moments ago, vanished once you stood.
You stumbled, reaching blindly for something to stabilize yourself with before two arms curled around you. “Okay,” Azriel huffed, then lifted you with startling ease. “That’s enough of that.”
He was still in his leathers, you realized, only once your cheek was pressed against the dark fabric across his chest. Where did he come from? How did he even know to look for you? Why did he care?
Your chest prickled with indignation as he carried you into your room, an undercurrent of anxiety running through your veins as you thought about just how vulnerable you were. Anyone could have found you in that bathroom. Sure, you were safe here, in this mountain you could never leave unless you asked someone. They said you were safe.
But you were still a human in the fae lands. You were a human in an enchanted house that was your only company for sometimes days on end, and you were weak and alone. You could never defend yourself if it came down to it. Let alone when you were sick and unconscious on your bathroom floor.
Azriel could have done anything he wanted. He could have—he could have touched you. He could have taken whatever he wanted from you, like the males in your village had once tried—had almost succeeded—and they were mere humans. Azriel was not only fae, he was a warrior, a spy, and he served alongside the most powerful high lord. He could—
He sat you gently on the bed, crouching in front of you as his hand came up to cradle your face with so much gentleness, his thumb hovering before wiping away a tear you didn’t know had fallen. “Hey,” he said, voice a gentle hum. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” His eyes ran over you, a little frantic. “Did I hurt you?”
Azriel would never. You knew that.
You knew that.
A sob forced its way through your lips. Azriel’s eyes went wide, and before you knew what you were doing, you were falling into him. Your forehead pressed against his leathers, your nose inhaling the faint cedar scent that lingered around him. His arms immediately wrapped around you, one of his hands cradling the back of your head as you cried into his chest.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured.
The name weaved in between your ribs and coiled around your heart, squeezing tight as another ugly sob broke free. You wanted this. You wanted him. You wanted a life with your sisters. You wanted a mate, a love, like they had—and you never would.
“Hey,” Azriel murmured, holding you tight against him as he came up to join you on the bed. He pulled you into his lap, holding you in a way no one ever had before. Even as a child, you couldn’t remember a time someone just held you. “Breathe, Y/N,” he soothed, the words soft and gentle. “Take a breath. You’re okay. It’s okay.”
“I’m scared,” you admitted through broken and shaky sobs. “I’m so scared.”
Azriel held you tighter. “You’re going to be fine,” he murmured. “Madja is coming. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
You shook your head, sniffing as exhaustion made your sobs die out, but tears continued rolling down your cheeks. “One day I won’t be,” you whispered, the soul crushing words burning your throat.
“What?” Azriel asked softly.
“I’m human, Azriel.” You sniffed, turning your face into his chest. “One day, I won’t be here, whether because of illness, or age, or a stupid accident, because I’m human. I’m weak, and I’m alone,” you choked on the word, trembling as anxiety and exhaustion and lingering nausea scraped their claws through your chest. “I don’t want to die,” you whimpered, shoulders shaking. “I don’t want to die while everyone I love gets to keep living. I don’t want to grow old without my sisters. I don’t—I can’t—”
“Okay,” Azriel murmured, rubbing his hand over your head. “Okay,” he said again, the word sounding fragile. “You’re not alone,” he finally said, the words a soft rasp against the top of your head.
You scoffed, starting to protest, but he cut you off. “You’re not.” He squeezed you tighter. “You’re not alone, Y/N.”
“They have mates,” you argued brokenly, “I will never have that.”
“That’s not true,” Azriel assured, the words sounding a little strangled—like they might mean as much to him as they would to you. “I promise, that’s not true.”
You wanted to argue. You wanted to get mad, to yell, to tell him he couldn’t possibly know that. You wanted to push him away, you wanted to hide from whatever feelings you felt toward the man—male—who currently held you in his lap. You wanted to protect yourself from another inevitable heartbreak.
But like you said, you were alone, and you so desperately wanted not to be. You were sick, and shaking, and the fever was still clouding your mind in a dense fog, even as your volatile emotions started to evaporate under the pressure of exhaustion.
“I’m tired,” you murmured weakly, head lolling against his chest.
“I know.” His hand rubbed up and down your arm, and you might have been falling into delirium when you thought he pressed his lips to the crown of your head. “Do you want to change?” he asked, softly.
You nodded, hating the thought of climbing into bed wearing the same gown you had spent hours lying in on the bathroom floor. It was also thin, and short sleeved, and you were freezing.
“Okay,” Azriel said, shifting you gently off his lap. You might have whined, or whimpered, your body aching from the movement and your heart throbbing at the loss of him. He ran a hand over your head as he left you leaning against the many pillows along your headboard. “You’re okay,” he soothed. “I’ll be right—” His breath caught, his eyes snapping toward the foot of your bed. He blinked, his shadows pulsing once, twice, and you thought his ears might have turned pink—it was hard to tell in the dim light of your room thanks to your closed drapes.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said instead, the words releasing some of the tension that had held your shoulders up to your ears. He reached toward the end of the bed, a navy sweater folded neatly at your feet. “Put this on,” he told you. “It will be warmer.”
You glanced at the sweater he had lain on your lap, the fabric absurdly soft and plush against the exposed skin of your thighs. It wasn’t yours.
And as much as you wanted to engulf yourself in Azriel’s sweater, to swaddle yourself in the lush fabric that would feel worlds better than the scratchy nightgown that was beginning to suffocate your skin—you didn’t want to move. You didn’t want him to see how your arms would undoubtedly shake, and you didn’t want to use every last ounce of your strength just to change out of a single article of clothing.
“I can help you?” Azriel asked, a gentle offer with only a hint of hesitation, his hazel irises dripping with sincerity and concern that made you flush all over despite the chills still crawling under your skin.
This was—it was too much. You couldn’t ask him to do this. He should leave. He had done more than enough for you already, more than enough just by caring enough to check on you, for whatever reason that had been. You weren’t his to take care of, and he wasn’t yours to want him to—even if you did, with every fiber of your being.
You were human.
And he—
He was—
He sat down on the bed, his wings draping gently behind him, one covering your lower leg. He didn’t seem to notice.
You dragged your gaze away from the sight of his wing against your skin, forcing your eyes to meet his. He smiled softly, his lips turning up so gently at the corners. “Let me help you,” he nearly begged. Your eyes started burning again, and he reached up to wipe away the moisture that quickly escaped from your waterline. “No more tears,” he murmured. “Not tonight.”
You nodded, taking in a shaky breath as you stared at the sweater still on your lap. Tan and scarred fingers picked it up, setting it beside you on the bed. “It will take seconds if I help,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have to,” you whispered.
His hand cupped your face, your eyes immediately meeting his again. “I want to,” he murmured. A shadow crawled up his wrist to stroke your cheek alongside his thumb. “If you let me.”
“Okay,” you whispered.
Azriel’s hands immediately went to the hem of your gown that was already rucked up embarrassingly close to your waist. Then he paused, his eyes meeting yours, waiting for one last confirmation.
Something in your chest fractured. A fissure branching out from your heart and all the way down to your soul, another hit with the startling reality that this could be your life. If things were different, you could have had this. Him.
You could pretend to have him tonight.
You nodded, and Azriel’s lips pulled into another tiny smile as his eyes stayed on yours, and he pulled the gown up and over your head with gentle ease.
The soft sweater went over your head in quick succession, Azriel guiding your arms through the sleeves as the fabric fell down your torso and pooled around you on the bed. Only then did he let his gaze wander below your shoulders. “Oh,” he murmured, “here.” Then he gently coaxed you forward, and the pads of his fingers brushed the skin of your back as he did up one of the slats in the back of the sweater.
Because it was his sweater. Meant for large, magnificent wings.
“There,” he said, satisfied, and then guided you to lie back into the pillows before standing up. He pulled the covers back, gently tugging them out from underneath your legs just to pull them back up to your chin as you scooted further down.
It had been a very long time since someone tucked you into bed.
Azriel brushed some stray hairs away from your face, and you didn’t even have the energy to care how you must look. He leaned down, his lips pressing to your forehead, and you were fairly certain you were not hallucinating this time—not when his kiss lingered, and he pulled away just to press a second quick peck a little closer to your hairline.
You watched him closely as he pulled away, watched how his shadows seemed to pour from his body and seep toward your bed, watched the way his wings twitched before he refolded them behind him. Watched the way his throat bobbed and his cheeks tinted the same shade of pink you thought his ears had earlier.
“You’re still pretty warm,” he murmured, the back of his knuckles tracing gently over your cheekbone, as if he couldn’t quite pull himself away.
When his touch finally fell away, and he took a half step back, panic squeezed the air from your lungs. “Azriel,” you rushed out, your panic poorly hidden in the rough and breathy words. “Please,” you said, swallowing once. “Please don’t leave.”
His face turned softer than you knew was possible, and you wanted to keep this version of Azriel to yourself for an eternity—even if your chest hurt at the reminder that his eternity would span centuries beyond yours. Tonight then. Tonight, maybe you could keep him, just until you were well enough to stand without crumbling to the floor.
“I’m not leaving,” he assured.
He kicked his boots off, soft thuds on your floor as they fell over. Then he started unbuckling sheaths and straps that held…who even knew what close to his body. “I’m not leaving,” he said again, before disappearing into your bathing chamber.
Your heart was racing. You glanced at the large bowl that had magically appeared on your nightstand, and you desperately hoped you wouldn’t need it. For the first time, you wondered if anyone else knew you were sick.
Probably not, unless Azriel told them somehow. You still didn’t understand how exactly they all communicated with each other.
You hoped no else knew, and that Azriel would stay.
He came out in a new set of clothes, his leathers traded for soft lounge pants and a plain t-shirt, his sock-covered feet carrying him back to you. You didn’t know where he got the clothes, just like you weren’t sure where his sweater you were wrapped in now came from, but you had learned to stop questioning every little thing since living here.
This time, he crawled onto the other side of the bed, his back leaning against the headboard as his wings flared out on either side of him. One of them grazed your cheek as he tried to extend it, then bumped the top of your head as he moved around. “I’m sorry,” Azriel murmured, almost embarrassed. “Do you want me to move?”
“No,” you answered a little too quickly. You shuffled closer to him, closing the distance between your bodies and making more room for him to rest his wing. “You’re warm.”
You had not meant to say that, not really, but Azriel seemed to preen from the possible half-compliment, if you could even call it that. Then his wing draped completely over you, a second cover that offered immediate warmth you were craving. The edge of his wing rested gently against your cheek, the membrane silken and smooth against your skin, and you wanted to touch it with the tips of your fingers—but you were not entirely lost to your illness, and still had some decorum, so you kept your hands tucked beneath the covers, and let yourself finally drift off into sleep as you breathed in the soothing scent of soap and cedar.
~ ~ ~
Later, when your room was darker and the sun no longer creeped out behind the edges of your curtains, you awoke with your head in Azriel’s lap, and his fingers gently drawing figures along your collarbone. His wing still covered you, an extra layer of protection from the outside world that you never wanted to leave.
Your head was spinning as you shifted around, sleep still clinging to the edges of your mind. Azriel’s fingers came up to lightly trace your jaw, the motion gentle and soothing in a way that had you melting back into him, allowing sleep to slowly creep back in.
Exhaustion reclaimed you, and you were dreaming again.
You must have been, when you murmured, “In another life, maybe you were mine.”
content warnings: vomiting, fear of death/mortality (?), loneliness, brief mention of past attempted sexual assault, reader needs a hug
word count: 4.0k
synopsis: As if life as the only human in Velaris was not terrible enough, you also had to endure the consequences of your mortal immune system. Azriel refuses to let you suffer alone.
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
There were many things you hated about being human.
Every day that passed in this entirely foreign and ethereal world seemed to chip away another brittle piece of your exterior, revealing another mundane flaw hiding beneath your skin. Another weakness.
You wished you had been tossed into that Cauldron.
It was a selfish thought, perhaps. One that used to claw at you with guilt every time it flit through your mind—every time you watched your sisters crawl deeper inside themselves as they grappled with all they had lost. As they mourned what the Cauldron stole from them.
Feyre was decidedly not a shell of herself, though, and she was fae. She was beautiful, strong, more sure of herself than you had ever seen her. She had a mate.
Mate.
They all had mates now.
They all had friends.
A purpose.
Bile rushed up your throat as you lurched for the toilet, the porcelain icy against your feverish skin. Your body heaved, violently expelling whatever illness had weasled through your measly defense system.
When the overwhelming wave of nausea finally abated, you slumped against the hard porcelain, only slightly cringing at where you had rested your head. At least it was your own bathing chamber.
In a magic house.
You huffed a half-delirious laugh, your ribs aching and throat burning as you slowly pushed away from the toilet. Your movements were sluggish, your limbs heavy and trembling as you fully lowered yourself onto the cold floor. Your cheek pressed against the chilled tile, eyes fluttering shut at the momentary relief. You curled in on yourself, exhaustion curling around you like smoke, and you begged it to take you away.
~ ~ ~
A gentle brush against your cheek made you twitch, your face twisting as you turned away from whatever had broken through your momentary reprieve. The touch still lingered, a featherlight caress that followed along your jaw up to your forehead, pressing gently against your sweat-damp skin. Their touch was cold and soothing—a harsh contrast to the bitter chill running up and down your spine.
You tilted your head up, chasing the touch you had turned away from seconds ago. Everything felt heavy. Hot. It was so hot.
“Y/N,” a deep voice murmured. Their tone was cool like their touch, a soothing balm over your inflamed mind cascading into hazy delirium.
You sucked in a breath, your face turning toward the voice. “Y/N,” they said again, this time a little louder, firmer.
You forced your eyes open, your lashes fluttering as light from the window made you wince. It took a moment for your vision to focus, for shapes and blurs to regain their sharp lines and definition—for you to recognize the massive figure kneeling beside you.
“Azriel?” you rasped. You swallowed hard, wincing at the burn in your throat and the acidic taste clinging to your mouth. “What are you doing here?”
There was a little crease between his brows as he looked at you, his gaze otherwise eerily still. “You’re burning up.”
You huffed a pitiful laugh that sounded more like a cough, your ribs flaring with pain. “I didn’t notice.” His palm was still pressed to your forehead, and you were still lying on the floor of your bathroom. Next to your toilet. The mortification that flooded you was almost hot enough to dull the chill nestled deep in your bones. “Did one of my sisters send you?”
Azriel scowled, the crease between his brows morphing into a deep furrow, his lips forming a flat line as his eyes flared with indignation. He pulled his hand away, leaving your flushed face entirely exposed to the stale air around you. You shivered, as if your body wanted to physically remind you that it was currently at war with itself. As if you had forgotten.
Azriel’s scowl disappeared as quickly as it had formed, even the crease between his brows smoothing out as he slipped a hand behind your back. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Let's get up.”
You let him guide you up, not that you really had to let him do anything. He was so large. Even kneeling on the floor with his wings pulled tight behind his back, he still dwarfed you. Everyone here looked like they could crush you with the toe of their shoe.
The change in position sent a rush through your head, your blood pulsing in your ears as your vision danced with spots. You grabbed the edge of the toilet as another violent wave of nausea roiled through you, heaving your body over the bowl just in time to expel whatever little remains lingered in your stomach.
Azriel didn’t leave. As much as you wished he did, as much as you wished you could fall through the floor and weather this alone, he stayed. He stayed with a steady hand on your back that rubbed up and down your spine, the thin fabric of your nightgown a weak barrier between your skin and his.
It was ugly, and disgusting, and you felt like a frail shell of yourself when the heaving finally ended and you sucked in shaky desperate breaths. Azriel brushed the errant strands of hair plastered to your skin away from your face, the tie you had sloppily pulled it back in failing at its job.
“How long have you been like this?” he asked, voice quiet and restrained, as if worried about breaking the fragile stillness that had fallen over you.
You opened your eyes, still sucking in breaths with more effort than you would have liked. You glanced at the window, the sun streaming through with bright beams. You shrugged, sort of, and answered weakly, “It was dark.”
Azriel murmured under his breath, his ministrations on your back faltering. “Why didn’t you call for someone?”
Your mouth was dry. Your throat hurt. Your head ached. You really weren’t in the mood to be chastised. “Who?” you bit out. “How? No one is here. Cassian is away. Nesta is away. You—”
“I would have come. I did come as soon as—” his words cut off, Azriel seeming to think better of whatever he was about to say. You slowly moved your head toward him, lifting your head from where it was cradled in your arm still resting on the toilet. He met your gaze, his eyes wild with emotions you didn’t have the energy to tease apart. “I gave you that pen and paper. Told you my shadows would deliver any message.”
You remembered. Remembered the pitiful safeguard your sisters had likely forced upon Azriel to give to you as a sad Solstice gift. “That’s for emergencies.”
“It’s for anything,” he argued, his voice rising a bit. He sighed, shaking his head as his hand came up to cup the nape of your neck, the touch sending goosebumps across your skin. “Are you done?” he asked, voice much softer.
You blinked at him, your mind swimming from the fever and pain and his touches and his voice and the way you just noticed his shadows licking softly at your bare feet. You grimaced as you glanced at the toilet, reaching to flush the contents away as you pushed yourself up. “For now,” you murmured.
Azriel didn’t move, barely gave you space to sit back on your heels. You felt a bit detached from your body, your limbs shaky and heart racing as you struggled to keep your mind tethered to your arms and legs that were meant to carry you through this wretched illness.
“Good,” Azriel said, his voice incredibly close to your ear. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
You shook your head, immediately protesting at the thought of walking to your bed just to inevitably have to hurdle yourself back in here soon. “Can’t.”
“I will get you a bowl,” he said, like a man that was used to plucking solutions out of thin air without being challenged.
Your bed would be nice. You were suddenly freezing after suffering through the wave of heat you had awoken to, and your ostentatious but undoubtedly soft mattress would inarguably be more comfortable than this hard bathroom floor. Your blankets, your sheets—
Your sheets. Embarrassment curled in the center of your chest, almost mistakable for another bout of nausea if you didn’t know better. Your sheets were uninhabitable after you had awoken from your sleep so suddenly, so violently, you didn’t have a chance to do more than throw the covers off your body before the nausea won over you. “My sheets are—”
“Clean.”
Your eyes snapped toward Azriel. “What?”
His lips curved slightly, into what might have been a smile if he was not kneeling beside you on your bathroom floor after watching you throw up in your toilet. You shivered again, a mixture of your self-disgust and the fever sending another chill through you.
His hands squeezed your arms. “Come on.”
You really didn’t want to stand up, but you did want your bed, and something told you Azriel wouldn’t leave until you got up off your bathroom floor. You nodded, head lolling a little too far forward as your vision swam and your ears buzzed.
“Okay?” Azriel asked softly.
You took a slow breath, willing the dizziness and fatigue away for just a few seconds. “Fine.”
Azriel had moved onto his feet at some point, but he was still crouched beside you as he watched you pitifully push yourself up using the toilet as leverage. Whatever blood and tension that had pooled in your head, making it feel heavy only moments ago, vanished once you stood.
You stumbled, reaching blindly for something to stabilize yourself with before two arms curled around you. “Okay,” Azriel huffed, then lifted you with startling ease. “That’s enough of that.”
He was still in his leathers, you realized, only once your cheek was pressed against the dark fabric across his chest. Where did he come from? How did he even know to look for you? Why did he care?
Your chest prickled with indignation as he carried you into your room, an undercurrent of anxiety running through your veins as you thought about just how vulnerable you were. Anyone could have found you in that bathroom. Sure, you were safe here, in this mountain you could never leave unless you asked someone. They said you were safe.
But you were still a human in the fae lands. You were a human in an enchanted house that was your only company for sometimes days on end, and you were weak and alone. You could never defend yourself if it came down to it. Let alone when you were sick and unconscious on your bathroom floor.
Azriel could have done anything he wanted. He could have—he could have touched you. He could have taken whatever he wanted from you, like the males in your village had once tried—had almost succeeded—and they were mere humans. Azriel was not only fae, he was a warrior, a spy, and he served alongside the most powerful high lord. He could—
He sat you gently on the bed, crouching in front of you as his hand came up to cradle your face with so much gentleness, his thumb hovering before wiping away a tear you didn’t know had fallen. “Hey,” he said, voice a gentle hum. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” His eyes ran over you, a little frantic. “Did I hurt you?”
Azriel would never. You knew that.
You knew that.
A sob forced its way through your lips. Azriel’s eyes went wide, and before you knew what you were doing, you were falling into him. Your forehead pressed against his leathers, your nose inhaling the faint cedar scent that lingered around him. His arms immediately wrapped around you, one of his hands cradling the back of your head as you cried into his chest.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured.
The name weaved in between your ribs and coiled around your heart, squeezing tight as another ugly sob broke free. You wanted this. You wanted him. You wanted a life with your sisters. You wanted a mate, a love, like they had—and you never would.
“Hey,” Azriel murmured, holding you tight against him as he came up to join you on the bed. He pulled you into his lap, holding you in a way no one ever had before. Even as a child, you couldn’t remember a time someone just held you. “Breathe, Y/N,” he soothed, the words soft and gentle. “Take a breath. You’re okay. It’s okay.”
“I’m scared,” you admitted through broken and shaky sobs. “I’m so scared.”
Azriel held you tighter. “You’re going to be fine,” he murmured. “Madja is coming. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
You shook your head, sniffing as exhaustion made your sobs die out, but tears continued rolling down your cheeks. “One day I won’t be,” you whispered, the soul crushing words burning your throat.
“What?” Azriel asked softly.
“I’m human, Azriel.” You sniffed, turning your face into his chest. “One day, I won’t be here, whether because of illness, or age, or a stupid accident, because I’m human. I’m weak, and I’m alone,” you choked on the word, trembling as anxiety and exhaustion and lingering nausea scraped their claws through your chest. “I don’t want to die,” you whimpered, shoulders shaking. “I don’t want to die while everyone I love gets to keep living. I don’t want to grow old without my sisters. I don’t—I can’t—”
“Okay,” Azriel murmured, rubbing his hand over your head. “Okay,” he said again, the word sounding fragile. “You’re not alone,” he finally said, the words a soft rasp against the top of your head.
You scoffed, starting to protest, but he cut you off. “You’re not.” He squeezed you tighter. “You’re not alone, Y/N.”
“They have mates,” you argued brokenly, “I will never have that.”
“That’s not true,” Azriel assured, the words sounding a little strangled—like they might mean as much to him as they would to you. “I promise, that’s not true.”
You wanted to argue. You wanted to get mad, to yell, to tell him he couldn’t possibly know that. You wanted to push him away, you wanted to hide from whatever feelings you felt toward the man—male—who currently held you in his lap. You wanted to protect yourself from another inevitable heartbreak.
But like you said, you were alone, and you so desperately wanted not to be. You were sick, and shaking, and the fever was still clouding your mind in a dense fog, even as your volatile emotions started to evaporate under the pressure of exhaustion.
“I’m tired,” you murmured weakly, head lolling against his chest.
“I know.” His hand rubbed up and down your arm, and you might have been falling into delirium when you thought he pressed his lips to the crown of your head. “Do you want to change?” he asked, softly.
You nodded, hating the thought of climbing into bed wearing the same gown you had spent hours lying in on the bathroom floor. It was also thin, and short sleeved, and you were freezing.
“Okay,” Azriel said, shifting you gently off his lap. You might have whined, or whimpered, your body aching from the movement and your heart throbbing at the loss of him. He ran a hand over your head as he left you leaning against the many pillows along your headboard. “You’re okay,” he soothed. “I’ll be right—” His breath caught, his eyes snapping toward the foot of your bed. He blinked, his shadows pulsing once, twice, and you thought his ears might have turned pink—it was hard to tell in the dim light of your room thanks to your closed drapes.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said instead, the words releasing some of the tension that had held your shoulders up to your ears. He reached toward the end of the bed, a navy sweater folded neatly at your feet. “Put this on,” he told you. “It will be warmer.”
You glanced at the sweater he had lain on your lap, the fabric absurdly soft and plush against the exposed skin of your thighs. It wasn’t yours.
And as much as you wanted to engulf yourself in Azriel’s sweater, to swaddle yourself in the lush fabric that would feel worlds better than the scratchy nightgown that was beginning to suffocate your skin—you didn’t want to move. You didn’t want him to see how your arms would undoubtedly shake, and you didn’t want to use every last ounce of your strength just to change out of a single article of clothing.
“I can help you?” Azriel asked, a gentle offer with only a hint of hesitation, his hazel irises dripping with sincerity and concern that made you flush all over despite the chills still crawling under your skin.
This was—it was too much. You couldn’t ask him to do this. He should leave. He had done more than enough for you already, more than enough just by caring enough to check on you, for whatever reason that had been. You weren’t his to take care of, and he wasn’t yours to want him to—even if you did, with every fiber of your being.
You were human.
And he—
He was—
He sat down on the bed, his wings draping gently behind him, one covering your lower leg. He didn’t seem to notice.
You dragged your gaze away from the sight of his wing against your skin, forcing your eyes to meet his. He smiled softly, his lips turning up so gently at the corners. “Let me help you,” he nearly begged. Your eyes started burning again, and he reached up to wipe away the moisture that quickly escaped from your waterline. “No more tears,” he murmured. “Not tonight.”
You nodded, taking in a shaky breath as you stared at the sweater still on your lap. Tan and scarred fingers picked it up, setting it beside you on the bed. “It will take seconds if I help,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have to,” you whispered.
His hand cupped your face, your eyes immediately meeting his again. “I want to,” he murmured. A shadow crawled up his wrist to stroke your cheek alongside his thumb. “If you let me.”
“Okay,” you whispered.
Azriel’s hands immediately went to the hem of your gown that was already rucked up embarrassingly close to your waist. Then he paused, his eyes meeting yours, waiting for one last confirmation.
Something in your chest fractured. A fissure branching out from your heart and all the way down to your soul, another hit with the startling reality that this could be your life. If things were different, you could have had this. Him.
You could pretend to have him tonight.
You nodded, and Azriel’s lips pulled into another tiny smile as his eyes stayed on yours, and he pulled the gown up and over your head with gentle ease.
The soft sweater went over your head in quick succession, Azriel guiding your arms through the sleeves as the fabric fell down your torso and pooled around you on the bed. Only then did he let his gaze wander below your shoulders. “Oh,” he murmured, “here.” Then he gently coaxed you forward, and the pads of his fingers brushed the skin of your back as he did up one of the slats in the back of the sweater.
Because it was his sweater. Meant for large, magnificent wings.
“There,” he said, satisfied, and then guided you to lie back into the pillows before standing up. He pulled the covers back, gently tugging them out from underneath your legs just to pull them back up to your chin as you scooted further down.
It had been a very long time since someone tucked you into bed.
Azriel brushed some stray hairs away from your face, and you didn’t even have the energy to care how you must look. He leaned down, his lips pressing to your forehead, and you were fairly certain you were not hallucinating this time—not when his kiss lingered, and he pulled away just to press a second quick peck a little closer to your hairline.
You watched him closely as he pulled away, watched how his shadows seemed to pour from his body and seep toward your bed, watched the way his wings twitched before he refolded them behind him. Watched the way his throat bobbed and his cheeks tinted the same shade of pink you thought his ears had earlier.
“You’re still pretty warm,” he murmured, the back of his knuckles tracing gently over your cheekbone, as if he couldn’t quite pull himself away.
When his touch finally fell away, and he took a half step back, panic squeezed the air from your lungs. “Azriel,” you rushed out, your panic poorly hidden in the rough and breathy words. “Please,” you said, swallowing once. “Please don’t leave.”
His face turned softer than you knew was possible, and you wanted to keep this version of Azriel to yourself for an eternity—even if your chest hurt at the reminder that his eternity would span centuries beyond yours. Tonight then. Tonight, maybe you could keep him, just until you were well enough to stand without crumbling to the floor.
“I’m not leaving,” he assured.
He kicked his boots off, soft thuds on your floor as they fell over. Then he started unbuckling sheaths and straps that held…who even knew what close to his body. “I’m not leaving,” he said again, before disappearing into your bathing chamber.
Your heart was racing. You glanced at the large bowl that had magically appeared on your nightstand, and you desperately hoped you wouldn’t need it. For the first time, you wondered if anyone else knew you were sick.
Probably not, unless Azriel told them somehow. You still didn’t understand how exactly they all communicated with each other.
You hoped no else knew, and that Azriel would stay.
He came out in a new set of clothes, his leathers traded for soft lounge pants and a plain t-shirt, his sock-covered feet carrying him back to you. You didn’t know where he got the clothes, just like you weren’t sure where his sweater you were wrapped in now came from, but you had learned to stop questioning every little thing since living here.
This time, he crawled onto the other side of the bed, his back leaning against the headboard as his wings flared out on either side of him. One of them grazed your cheek as he tried to extend it, then bumped the top of your head as he moved around. “I’m sorry,” Azriel murmured, almost embarrassed. “Do you want me to move?”
“No,” you answered a little too quickly. You shuffled closer to him, closing the distance between your bodies and making more room for him to rest his wing. “You’re warm.”
You had not meant to say that, not really, but Azriel seemed to preen from the possible half-compliment, if you could even call it that. Then his wing draped completely over you, a second cover that offered immediate warmth you were craving. The edge of his wing rested gently against your cheek, the membrane silken and smooth against your skin, and you wanted to touch it with the tips of your fingers—but you were not entirely lost to your illness, and still had some decorum, so you kept your hands tucked beneath the covers, and let yourself finally drift off into sleep as you breathed in the soothing scent of soap and cedar.
~ ~ ~
Later, when your room was darker and the sun no longer creeped out behind the edges of your curtains, you awoke with your head in Azriel’s lap, and his fingers gently drawing figures along your collarbone. His wing still covered you, an extra layer of protection from the outside world that you never wanted to leave.
Your head was spinning as you shifted around, sleep still clinging to the edges of your mind. Azriel’s fingers came up to lightly trace your jaw, the motion gentle and soothing in a way that had you melting back into him, allowing sleep to slowly creep back in.
Exhaustion reclaimed you, and you were dreaming again.
You must have been, when you murmured, “In another life, maybe you were mine.”
