BETWEEN THE PAGES
Title: Gwynriel Oneshot - "Between The Pages"
Rating: T
Genre: Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship
Words: 4.5K
Summary: Azriel finds Gwyn reading in the House of Wind's library late at night. What begins as unexpected company turns into witty banter, vulnerable confessions, and the quiet beginning of something neither of them quite has words for yet.
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The House of Wind existed in a state of perpetual contradiction—ancient yet alive, stone yet breathing, silent yet somehow always listening. Azriel had lived within its walls for centuries, and still, he found himself discovering new facets of its peculiar sentience. Tonight, as he wandered its corridors with no particular destination in mind, the House seemed almost smug in the way it guided him, torches flaring to light his path down one specific hallway and dimming along others, as if it had opinions about where he should go.
He'd returned from Velaris proper with intelligence reports tucked securely in his shadows—nothing urgent, nothing that couldn't wait until morning when Rhys wasn't occupied with the nightly ritual of coaxing an increasingly energetic Nyx into sleep. Cassian had cornered him briefly in the entrance hall, going on about some new training technique he wanted to implement with the Valkyries, but Nesta had appeared like a wraith, grabbed her mate by the leathers, and hauled him away with a look that promised he wouldn't be seen until well past breakfast. The smile on Cassian's face had been absolutely obscene.
So Azriel found himself alone, or as alone as one could be when perpetually accompanied by whispering shadows, and the House had decided—with all the subtle manipulation of a meddling grandmother—to lead him toward the private library on the main level.
Not the archives. Not the sprawling underground sanctuary of the priestesses with its endless rows of books and hushed reverence. This was Nesta's personal collection, a smaller, more intimate space she'd claimed shortly after moving into the House permanently. She'd spent months organizing it, expanding it, turning it into something between a library and a living room. Azriel had helped her move furniture more than once, much to Cassian's loudly voiced protests that he was perfectly capable of carrying chairs, Nesta, he had wings for Cauldron's sake.
The door stood ajar, warm light spilling across the threshold like an invitation. Or a trap. With the House, one could never quite tell.
Azriel paused, his shadows swirling around him in lazy, curious spirals. They'd been strange lately—more independent, more interested in things beyond their usual purview of secrets and information. Right now, they were practically pulling him forward, insistent as children tugging at a parent's sleeve.
He peered around the doorframe and felt something in his chest shift inexplicably.
Gwyn Berdara sat curled in the oversized leather armchair nearest the fireplace—the one Nesta claimed was specifically designed for optimal reading posture—with her legs tucked beneath her in a way that looked impossibly comfortable and would probably leave Azriel with cramped limbs for a week if he attempted it. She'd shed her priestess robes for soft, fitted pants in a deep teal and an oversized sweater that slipped off one shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles that dusted her skin like stars. Her copper hair, unbound and catching the firelight, cascaded over her shoulders and down her back in waves that looked like molten metal, like something a smith might forge in the heart of a flame.
She was completely absorbed in her book, her teal eyes—bright and clear as a mountain lake—tracking across the pages with the speed of someone who read voraciously and often. Her lips moved occasionally, forming silent words, and her expressions shifted with whatever she was reading: eyebrows drawing together in concentration, eyes widening in surprise, lips curving into a small, private smile that made something warm unfurl in Azriel's chest.
His shadows surged forward before he could stop them, the traitorous wisps of darkness flowing into the room like they had every right to be there. Several of them swirled around the bookshelves, examining titles with what seemed like genuine interest, while others drifted directly toward Gwyn, drawn like moths to a flame.
She looked up suddenly, and Azriel found himself pinned by her gaze. For half a heartbeat, he saw it—the flash of instinctive wariness, the tension that tightened her shoulders, the way her fingers gripped the book a fraction harder. But then recognition flooded her features, and she relaxed, her body language shifting from defensive to merely surprised. He watched her make the conscious choice to ease the tension from her spine, to breathe, to be present rather than lost in memory.
She'd been working on that, he knew. All of them had noticed—Cassian, Nesta, even Emerie. The way Gwyn was slowly, determinedly reclaiming her sense of safety, expanding the boundaries of her world one careful step at a time. It was like watching someone learn to walk again after a devastating injury, except the injuries were invisible and the walking was metaphorical and the courage it took was staggering.
"Well," Gwyn said, her voice carrying that distinctive note of wry amusement that always surprised him with its sharpness, "if I'd known the library came with a shadowsinger subscription, I would have started reading here weeks ago."
Azriel felt his lips twitch despite himself. "I didn't mean to intrude."
"Didn't you?" She raised one copper eyebrow, nodding toward his shadows, which were now investigating the bookshelf behind her with what could only be described as enthusiasm. "Because your shadows seem to have made themselves quite at home. That one is currently reading the spine of a romance novel, and I'm fairly certain it's judging Nesta's taste."
He looked. She was right. One of his shadows had indeed wrapped itself around a book with an exceptionally lurid cover featuring a shirtless male with implausible muscles and a female in a dress that defied the laws of physics. The shadow seemed to be... quivering. With laughter, if shadows could laugh.
"I apologize for their behavior," Azriel said, fighting back a smile. "They have no manners."
"Neither do you, apparently. Lurking in doorways, sending your shadows to spy on innocent readers." But her eyes were bright with humor, not accusation, and something in his chest eased. Gwyn had a way of doing that—of treating him like a person rather than the Night Court's spymaster, of meeting his darkness with light instead of fear.
"I wasn't lurking," he said, stepping fully into the room now. The House, satisfied with its matchmaking, closed the door behind him with a soft, definitive click. Subtle. "I was... observing."
"Oh, is that what we're calling it?" Gwyn set her book aside—keeping one finger between the pages to mark her place, he noticed—and shifted in her chair to face him more fully. "And here I thought the technical term was 'brooding dramatically in doorways like a tragic figure from a penny dreadful.'"
"That's... oddly specific."
"Cassian's words, not mine," she said, but the grin that curved her lips was pure mischief. "Although he may have also used the phrase 'skulking like a beautiful vampire who's just discovered his one true love has been reincarnated as a Victorian orphan.'"
Azriel stared at her. "Cassian said 'beautiful'?"
"I may be paraphrasing." Gwyn's eyes sparkled. "The exact quote was 'creepy bastard,' but I thought I'd be diplomatic."
A surprised laugh burst out of him—short, rough, genuine. When was the last time someone had made him laugh like that? His shadows swirled with what felt like approval, several of them drifting closer to Gwyn as if to investigate what had caused such a reaction in their master.
She watched them approach with curiosity rather than fear, tilting her head in that way she had when she was analyzing something, cataloging it, fitting it into the vast mental library she seemed to maintain. "Do they always do that?" she asked. "React to things. To emotions."
"React to what, specifically?" He moved closer, gesturing toward the chair opposite hers—the twin to the one she occupied, positioned at an angle that allowed for conversation without feeling confrontational. "May I?"
"It's not my library." But she nodded, and he noticed she didn't tense as he settled into the chair, angling his wings carefully so they draped over the back and sides. He'd positioned himself so there was plenty of space between them, so she had a clear path to the door, so she never felt trapped. He didn't think about it consciously anymore; it had become instinct around Gwyn. Around all the priestesses, really, but especially her.
"They're reacting to you," Azriel said, watching as one particularly bold shadow wound itself around her ankle. "That one seems to like you."
Gwyn looked down at the shadow, her expression fascinated. "Are they separate from you? Do they have their own... thoughts? Opinions?"
"Yes and no." He considered how to explain something he'd never fully understood himself. "They're part of me, but also apart from me. We're connected—I can control them, direct them, see what they see—but they have their own... preferences. Inclinations."
"Like the book spine judging."
"Exactly like that." One of his shadows was now actively pulling books slightly forward, examining covers, before pushing them back. It paused on a slim volume of poetry, lingering. "They like secrets. Information. Darkness, obviously."
"And music?" Gwyn's voice was quieter now, more tentative. "I've noticed them during training sometimes. When I'm humming."
Azriel's attention sharpened. He'd noticed that too—the way his shadows seemed to sway when Gwyn sang under her breath during stretches, the way they lingered near her even when he'd sent them off to scout the training ring. He'd told himself it meant nothing. Shadows were curious about many things.
But he'd never seen them act quite like this with anyone else.
"They like music," he confirmed. "It's rare for them to encounter it directly. Most people fear them too much to sing in their presence."
Gwyn's chin lifted slightly, a spark of something fierce entering her eyes. "I'm not most people."
"No," Azriel agreed softly, holding her gaze. "You're not."
Something passed between them in that moment—a current of understanding, of recognition. Two people who'd been broken in different ways, who'd been remade by violence and had to find themselves again in the aftermath. Two people who knew what it meant to be afraid of your own mind, your own memories, the way your body could betray you with terror at the most innocuous trigger.
Gwyn broke the moment first, looking away, and Azriel felt the loss of her gaze like a physical thing. "I'm reading about the original Valkyries," she said, gesturing to the book in her lap. "The ones from the First Wars. This is a firsthand account by one of them—Tanwyn."
"Military history?" Azriel raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't have expected that to warrant the smile I saw when I arrived."
"That's because you're assuming it's dry tactical analysis." Gwyn opened the book, her fingers gentle on the aged pages. "But Tanwyn writes about everything. Not just battles and strategies, but the sisterhood. The bonds between them. There's this section—" She flipped forward several pages, clearly knowing exactly where to find what she wanted. "Here. Listen to this."
She began to read aloud, and Azriel felt his shadows go still, listening.
"'Before the Battle of Black Stone, young Celene was nearly sick with fear. She had trained, had earned her leathers and her blades, but this was her first true test, and she knew many of us would not return from the field. I found her at dawn, alone, her hands shaking so badly she could barely grip her sword. I gathered the others, and we surrounded her—not to coddle or comfort with false promises, but to remind her of what she carried. "You are not alone," we told her. "You carry our strength in your veins, our courage in your heart, our voices in your lungs. We have trained you, bled with you, laughed and wept and raged with you. You are a Valkyrie, and we are your sisters. So if you cannot find your courage, use ours until you do."'"
Gwyn's voice had softened as she read, becoming something almost reverent. When she looked up, her eyes were bright with emotion. "They sang her courage. That's what Tanwyn says. They stood in a circle around Celene and sang until she stopped shaking, until she could feel it in her bones. And she survived the battle. Saved three other Valkyries before it was done."
"Nesta and Emerie," Azriel said quietly, understanding. "They did that for you."
"They do it every day," Gwyn whispered. "Every time I think I can't face the training ring, can't push past the fear, can't be what I need to be—they're there. Singing me courage until I find my own." She swallowed hard. "I'm not the same person who came to the library two years ago. I'm not even the same person who started training a year ago. They've helped me remember that I can be remade. That survival isn't enough. That I deserve to live, not just exist."
The rawness in her voice made something ache in Azriel's chest. He knew that feeling—the desperate gratitude for the people who'd pulled you from darkness, who'd refused to let you drown. Rhys and Cassian had done that for him. Had given him purpose when he'd been nothing but rage and pain and self-destruction.
"You're one of the strongest people I know," he said, the words rough but sincere. "And I've known a lot of warriors, Gwyn."
She blinked at him, surprise evident in every line of her face. "You barely know me."
"Don't I?" Azriel leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees, his scarred hands loose between them. "I know you walked into that training ring when everything in you must have been screaming to run. I know you trained until your hands bled and never complained. I know you cut the ribbon when no one else could. I know you survived the Blood Rite—survived Hybern's creatures and brutal terrain and near-freezing temperatures—and you didn't let Nesta or Emerie sacrifice themselves for you. You fought." He held her gaze, willing her to understand. "I know you're sitting here now, alone with me in a room, and while I can see it costs you something, you're doing it anyway. That's not nothing, Gwyn. That's everything."
Her throat worked as she swallowed, and he saw the sheen of tears in her eyes before she blinked them away furiously. "It's still hard sometimes," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Being alone with males I don't know well. There are days when I can barely manage it, when every instinct is screaming at me to run, to hide, to go back to the library where it's safe."
"But you're here tonight," Azriel said gently. "That counts."
"You're easier than most," Gwyn said, and there was something vulnerable in the admission. "I don't know why. Maybe because you don't expect anything from me. You're not watching to see if I'll break, and you're not trying to fix me. You're not treating me like I'm made of glass or like I'm some charity case to be pitied." She took a shaky breath. "You just... see me. And you wait. You're patient in a way that feels like respect rather than pity."
"You're not broken," Azriel said firmly. "You were hurt. There's a difference."
"Some days I believe that." A small, sad smile curved her lips. "Today is one of those days. Today is an easier day."
They fell into silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that felt like understanding, like two people who'd survived different hells recognizing that sometimes words weren't necessary. The fire crackled softly, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Azriel's shadows continued their exploration of the room, but several of them had settled near Gwyn, hovering close without touching, as if standing guard.
"Can I ask you something?" Gwyn said after a long moment.
"Always."
"What do you do when it gets too loud?" She gestured vaguely at her head. "When your own mind is the thing you can't escape, and the memories won't stop, and everything feels like too much?"
It was a perceptive question, and Azriel recognized it for what it was—not idle curiosity, but someone reaching for a lifeline, for strategies that might work, for proof that survival was possible. He'd asked similar questions of Rhys once, decades ago, when the nightmares had been unbearable and he'd been convinced he'd never be anything but the broken, brutalized boy his half-brothers had made him.
"I fly," he said quietly. "As high and as far as I can. Until my muscles burn and my wings ache and the wind is screaming past me so fast I can't hear anything else. Until the only thing I can focus on is the physical sensation of flight, the awareness of my body in space, the knowledge that I'm in control of where I go and how fast and when I stop." He met her eyes. "It quiets everything else. The memories, the rage, the fear. For a little while, there's only sky and wind and the knowledge that I'm free."
Gwyn nodded slowly, understanding in her expression. "I can't fly."
"No," he agreed. "But you have music. And swimming—I've heard you've been going to the pools beneath the library."
Her eyes widened slightly. "How did you—"
"I hear things." At her look, he added, "Nesta mentioned it. She's proud of you."
A blush crept across Gwyn's cheeks, and Azriel found himself mesmerized by the way it bloomed over her freckles like dawn breaking over a star-scattered sky. "I go late at night, when no one else is there," she said softly. "The water... it helps. It's the one place where I don't feel trapped in my own skin. Where my body feels like mine again."
"Then that's your flight," Azriel said. "The thing that reminds you that you're in control. That you're more than what happened to you."
"Yes." The word was barely a breath, but it carried the weight of revelation, of someone putting language to a feeling they'd struggled to articulate. "Exactly that."
His shadows drifted closer to her, drawn by the emotion in her voice, and this time, slowly—so slowly Azriel barely breathed, not wanting to startle her or make her feel pressured—Gwyn extended her hand. Palm up. An offering. An invitation.
One shadow, bolder than the rest, wound gently around her fingers. She inhaled sharply, but she didn't pull away, her eyes wide with wonder as the shadow moved across her palm like cool silk, like water, like living night given form.
"It doesn't hurt," she murmured, flexing her fingers experimentally. The shadow swirled between them, curious and almost... playful. "I thought it might. That it would feel wrong, or invasive, or—"
"They would never hurt you," Azriel said, and he meant it with a ferocity that surprised him. "They can kill, yes. They can spy and steal and suffocate. But they would never harm someone I—" He stopped himself. Someone I what? Cared about? Respected? Wanted to protect?
Gwyn looked up at him, her teal eyes searching his face. "Someone you what?"
"Someone they've decided they like," he finished, which was true even if it wasn't what he'd been about to say.
"Do they like many people?" Her voice was light, teasing, but there was genuine curiosity beneath it.
"No." He watched as another shadow joined the first, both of them now swirling around her hand and wrist like living jewelry. "They tolerate my family. They're fond of Rhys and Cassian. But this—" He gestured at the shadows, which were now practically purring. "This is different."
"Different how?"
"I don't know," Azriel admitted. "They've never acted like this with anyone. Like they're... drawn to you. Like they want to be near you just for the sake of being near you, not because I've directed them or because they're seeking information."
Gwyn smiled, her whole face transforming with it, and Azriel felt something in his chest crack open. "Hello there," she said softly to the shadows. "It's nice to properly meet you."
The shadows swirled in response, and Azriel could swear he felt their pleasure, their contentment at her acceptance. One of them wound up her forearm, gentle as a caress, before settling around her wrist like a bracelet.
"They really do like you," he said, somewhat dazed by the entire interaction.
"The feeling is entirely mutual." Gwyn wiggled her fingers, watching the shadows dance. "I've always thought they were beautiful. Like living night. Like darkness given purpose and form."
"Most people call them monsters."
"Most people are idiots." She said it so matter-of-factly that Azriel laughed again, that same surprised burst of genuine amusement. "They're a part of you, Azriel. Why would I fear them?"
"Because people fear me."
"I don't." She met his eyes, and there was steel in her gaze, certainty and strength. "I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid of your shadows. I'm not afraid of your past or your scars or the darkness you carry. I've got enough darkness of my own to recognize that it doesn't make you a monster. It makes you a survivor."
The words hit him like a blow, like a benediction, like a truth he'd been waiting centuries to hear. "Gwyn—"
"I should let you get back to your brooding," she said quickly, as if suddenly aware of how much she'd revealed, how vulnerable she'd made herself. But she was smiling, taking the edge off the deflection. "Or observing. Or whatever it is you do when you lurk in doorways."
"I wasn't lurking," Azriel protested, but there was no heat in it.
"Of course not." She picked up her book again, the shadows reluctantly releasing her hand to return to him. "You were engaging in thoughtful contemplation while staring moodily into the middle distance. Completely different."
"You've been spending too much time with Cassian."
"Impossible. No amount of time with Cassian is too much time." But her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Though I will admit his tendency to comment on your dramatic tendencies has become rather infectious."
Azriel found himself smiling—really smiling, not the half-curve of lips he usually offered but something genuine and warm. "I'm never going to live that down, am I?"
"Not even a little bit." Gwyn tilted her head, considering him. "You could stay, if you want. We could read in comfortable silence like proper book people. Unless you have somewhere else to be? Someone else to brood at from doorways?"
The invitation was casual, but he heard the hope beneath it, the tentative offer of companionship. And Azriel found he wanted nothing more than to accept. "I don't have anywhere else to be," he said quietly.
"Good." Gwyn smiled, soft and genuine. "There's a whole shelf of books about the Illyrian legions over there if you want something to read. Fair warning though—they're significantly less interesting than Valkyrie memoirs. Lots of tactical formations and shield walls, significantly less sisterhood and singing."
"Sounds absolutely thrilling," Azriel said dryly, but he was already moving toward the shelves. His shadows had already identified four titles that might be worth his time, including one about the first War Camps that he'd been avoiding for centuries because it hit far too close to home.
Maybe tonight he was ready for it. Maybe sitting here, in this warm room with Gwyn's quiet presence as an anchor, he could face those particular demons.
He selected the book and returned to his chair, settling in with his wings draped comfortably. As he opened to the first page, he caught Gwyn watching him, an expression on her face he couldn't quite decipher—soft and considering and maybe a little bit pleased.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing." She smiled. "Just... thank you."
"For what?"
"For staying. For talking to me like I'm a person instead of a broken thing. For letting your shadows play with me." Her smile turned almost shy. "For understanding."
Azriel felt something warm unfurl in his chest, something that had been locked away for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like. "Thank you for the same," he said quietly.
They settled into their reading, the comfortable silence broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of turning pages. Azriel's shadows continued their lazy patrol of the room, but several of them kept returning to Gwyn, swirling near her like satellites drawn to a star. She never flinched, never tensed. She just smiled at them and went back to her book, occasionally making small pleased sounds at whatever she was reading.
Time passed in that strange, liquid way it did when you were utterly absorbed—minutes or hours, impossible to tell. At some point, Gwyn started humming under her breath, some melody Azriel didn't recognize but found himself entranced by. His shadows swayed to the rhythm, and he felt himself relaxing more fully than he had in months, maybe years.
This was nice. This was more than nice. This was a revelation—that he could sit in a room with someone who wasn't family, who knew what he was and what he'd done, and simply exist. No expectations, no pressure, no fear. Just two people reading books by a fire while shadows danced and the House of Wind looked on with what could only be described as smug satisfaction.
"Azriel?" Gwyn's voice broke through his thoughts.
"Mm?"
"Next time you lurk in doorways—"
"I don't lurk—"
"—you should just come in. You're always welcome." She met his eyes, and there was no teasing in her expression now, only sincerity. "I like having you here."
Something cracked open in his chest, something that had been locked and guarded for five centuries. "I like being here," he admitted.
Her smile was radiant, bright enough to rival the sun. "Good. Then it's settled. This can be our spot. For when the shadows get too loud and we need somewhere to just... be."
"I'd like that," Azriel said softly.
"Me too." Gwyn returned to her book, but he caught the pleased curve of her lips, the way her shoulders had relaxed even further, the way she seemed to glow with contentment.
And Azriel, for the first time in longer than he could remember, felt something that might have been happiness. Pure, simple, uncomplicated happiness. The kind that came from connection, from understanding, from the tentative unfurling of trust between two people who'd learned the hard way that such things were precious and rare.
Outside, night had fully claimed Velaris, stars emerging in glittering profusion across the sky. But inside this room, lit by fire and companionship and the gentle presence of shadows that had found someone new to adore, something equally bright was taking root.
Not romance. Not yet. Maybe not ever, though Azriel found himself hoping otherwise.
But friendship. Understanding. The beginning of something that felt like it might, someday, be extraordinary.
And for tonight—for this perfect, crystalline moment of peace—that was more than enough.
It was everything.
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A/N: AO3 invite hasn't arrived yet so I'm posting here! Hope you enjoy xx
