Beautiful Stranger was NOT what I was expecting, that broke my heart. I haven’t read something like that before but I’m so thankful you didn’t romanticise it 🩷
thank you so much and thank you for reading! i don’t believe things like that should be romanticised either so i’m glad it didn’t come across that way <3
— author’s note: hello hello this is my first fic on here so please be kind, im still finding my footing but if you guys have any requests please feel free to send them in :)) also I recommend listening to 'heart filled up' by paolo nutini while reading this!
— summary: when azriel can’t sleep, a walk through the sleeping city is usually his only respite. but he does not expect to find another lonesome soul that his calls to.
— warnings: mentions and use of mirthroot (weed), some swearing and mentions of low self esteem, depression and suicide. please do not read if those are triggering topics for you <3
main masterlist
Rest had never come easily to Azriel.
A foreign concept to his overactive mind, one that even five centuries of life had not eased. Missions, reports, intel and duties. There seemed no room for rest in his psyche, no matter how deeply his soul called for it.
Over the centuries, he’d tried the recommended. Herbal tea, sleeping tonics, training, sex, and when he was younger and did not feel the pressures of the world and his role, sometimes even drugs. To no avail. Nothing seemed to quench the insatiable exhaustion he carried. Not then, and certainly not now.
He’d laid awake for hours already; reading, polishing blades, masturbating. Yet his mind refused to tire, did not deign to relax, did not dare to cease racing.
A sigh, a huff, he kicked off the blankets. Shoved those toned legs into a pair of dark slacks, slipped a cotton shirt and sweater over his torso and stuffed his feet in a pair of shoes. This was not the Shadowsinger, not the Spymaster of the Night Court.
No.
This was just Azriel.
A male so tired and deprived, a walk was to be his very last resort. If the late winter chill did not jolt his mind into a need for sleep, he’d spend the rest of the moonlight pouring over mission details and reports. Much like he did most other restless evenings.
But he was desperate now, tonight. Like the moon called for him to take a stroll, to bask in the beauty of the city he loved. Perhaps to ground himself, perhaps to distract his mind from the turmoil and stress. Whatever it was that coaxed him out into the night, he listened. If not for curiosity, then for sanity.
The city was silent, sleeping. As he knew it would be. He left the townhouse in its quiet state, housing Mor and Elain who snored softly into the night. The cold chill of the air nipped at Azriel’s wings, but they did not shudder.
He allowed his feet to follow the cobblestone path, no destination in mind. The citizens remained sleeping in their warm beds, safety blanketing them at the knowledge of their spymaster protecting their city. What a heavy load he carried, what an important duty he promised.
Small glows and bursts of faelights lit the streets, golden hues against grey cobble and brick homes. Safety was one thing Velaris promised, one of Azriel’s many responsibilities. None of which he took lightly. None that he did not offer his everything to.
Somewhere along the way of his life, he forgot about himself, his own needs. Began to believe the bullshit those evil boys spewed when he was a child. It wasn’t something he did intentionally. But, well, he supposed if he had to choose between his life and another's, he would always put himself last.
To Azriel, his duty was his only purpose. He was his own worst enemy, he knew. Self-sabotaging since before he even knew what that meant. Rhysand saved him. Cassian, too. He owed his life to them, whether they thought so or not, he did. He’d lay his life at their feet before they could even argue otherwise.
It was toxic, he knew. At 500 years of age, still acting as though he was indebted to his brothers, to his High Lord. Gods, the fresh air was only making him cynical. He stopped short by the Sidra, a heavy exhale leaving his lips in a gust of frosted air. Perhaps he should’ve worn a coat, but the bite of the chill kept him steady, reminding him this was all real.
That he wasn’t fading. He was here. His city was safe. And his mind was so fucking tired.
He knew he should’ve turned back the moment the first yawn stretched past his throat. He truly contemplated it when it happened a second time. But when he diligently cast a quick once over the river, his eyes caught on a gentle female figure slumped on a bench across the stream.
That small ounce of sleepiness quickly evaded him, replaced with curiosity and the dutiful need to check why a young female was out alone at this time of the night. Azriel’s knees bent as he pushed his weight into the air in gentle flight, those large membranes flexing and stretching at his sides to carry his weight.
Flying never exhausted him, no. For Azriel, flying was what made him feel alive, what he loved that was just for him. He was only airborne for a few moments before he gently descended to the ground at the bottom of the hill. His wings ruffled, pulled tight behind his back.
He did not want to be the Shadow of Death, not here, not tonight. Not when a young Fae female sat just meters away, alone, cold. He approached the hill slowly, cautiously. And when he got close enough to see her, his breathing hitched.
She was beautiful. Ethereal in such a broken and pained way. She sat with her knees close to her chest, arms wrapped around them and from where he stood a short distance away, he could just make out the roll of mirthroot pinched between her fingers, red cherry burning in the moonlight.
He had a feeling she sensed him, but she did not acknowledge his presence. Instead, her empty eyes remained on the city below, on the silver moon that reflected on the Sidra’s stream. She guided the mirthroot to her lips and took a long drag, cheeks hollowing and Azriel could tell it wasn’t her first try.
Curiosity spiked him. Because while Azriel may not remember names, he never once forgot a face. But her, he couldn’t recall ever seeing a face like hers before. His head tilted slightly to the side, brows pinched in a way someone would only notice if they looked for it.
“You shouldn’t be out alone at this time of night.” The breeze carried his voice to her, soft and husky after not speaking for hours.
She didn’t offer him a response, still did not acknowledge him. Azriel remained still, his restless shadows itching to investigate, but he reigned them in. For a solid moment he considered whether his lack of sleep had begun to weave fabrications. Things that were not there.
But then she moved. Only slightly, just a tilt of her head in his direction, but she still did not look, didn’t dare take her eyes off of the Sidra. Azriel followed her line of sight, studying the light he could not find in her eyes. It made something ache in his ribcage. He stepped closer, loosened the hold on his wisps of darkness.
She took another drag, exhaled the smoke into the night. “Why not? I thought Velaris was the safest place in Prythian.”
Her voice, like velvet on velcro. Like waves crashing against rocks. Smooth yet rugged, soft and yet so raw. He swallowed thickly. “It is.” Because he made it safe.
She didn’t offer another reply, so Azriel stepped even closer, just inches from the female and the bench now. “What’s your name?” he called gently. And only now did he realise just how distracted he finally was from the crushing responsibilities he carried daily.
The female did not tell him her name. Instead, she scooted just slightly across the wooden bench, a silent invitation for another lonesome soul to join hers. The bench creaked slightly beneath his weight, his thigh a foot from hers. She still did not look at him, did not ask him questions most others would.
For some reason, it unsettled him. Had Azriel wanting to tell her things she never asked about.
“My name is Azriel,” he spoke into the darkness, and his shadows scattered across the hill, as though they were puppies playing on the grass.
He did not miss the way the female smiled softly at them, that her posture did not stiffen in his close proximity. He wondered if she knew who he was. What he was. Given, he didn’t wear his usual leathers or any of his siphons, but most knew his face, knew his name.
Most balked from it. Hid and cowered. She did not.
“You are not from Velaris,” he commented. She hummed, the most conversation so far. Offering him the pinched roll of mirthroot, she unbunched her knees from her chest and let out a huff. He inspected the joint, a lone shadow whispering three words only: safe, lonely, sad.
He took a pull, tried to ignore that unfamiliar ache again. He had felt sympathy before, for his hurt loved ones, for the broken and starved families throughout and after wars, for the young children in Illyria. Never under these circumstances, never late at night for a female he did not know the name of.
“It's my last night here anyway.” She spoke quietly, a finality in her tone that contrasted the ache of turmoil and uncertainty on her face.
“Where will you go?” he asked, if only to keep the conversation going; to busy his mind, and hers.
She seemed to pause at that, as though the question had caught her off-guard. Only for a moment, before she recovered with a slow blink and a sadness that ghosted her features. “I don't know. Wherever my soul takes me.”
Something felt wrong with her statement, something that both unnerved and intrigued Azriel. But he did not press, did not ask for more. He sensed her soul was similar to his—starved of love and touch and kindness. He took another pull then handed it back to the female.
Their fingers did not brush, but he felt the coldness of her skin all the same. Again, he did not comment on it. Instead, he offered something of himself.
“When I can’t sleep, I come for a walk. It’s comforting to have the space to think and breathe freely.”
“It’s lonely,” she corrected him without a breath after he spoke. “Sleep is not my problem,” she continued, “I wish it was.”
Silence fell upon them for a moment, and she stubbed out the mirthroot on the sole of her shoe before flicking it into the trashcan beside her.
“What’s your name?” Azriel asked her again.
And she finally looked at him. Broken eyes meeting tired ones. But beneath that sadness, pain and loneliness, she was devastatingly beautiful. It stole the breath from his lungs for a moment, he would not dare look away. Azriel feared those eyes would be ingrained in his mind for eternity. The ghosts that haunted them. The life that used to live there.
“Does it matter? We won’t see each other again. I’ll be gone by dawn.”
“I’d still like to know.”
She studied his face, his wings, his frame, eyed his shadows across the hill. He didn’t balk under her gaze. It wasn’t scrutiny, not assessing. She looked at him as if he would be the last person she’d ever lay her eyes on.
Her gaze remained on his shadows when she asked, “why?”
Swallowing around a thick lump, Azriel watched his shadows, too. “Because I don’t believe that beautiful souls should be forgotten.”
Had he been looking at her, he would’ve seen the tears that welled in her eyes, would’ve noticed how she held her breath to suffocate a sob or cry or scream.
“There is nothing beautiful about my soul.”
It was a whisper into the breeze, but he heard it. Felt it.
She stood then, hoisting her small purse over her shoulder. Right, she was leaving. He inspected her for a moment, her lack of belongings for someone who was leaving. Was that all she had? Where did she plan to go with such little to get her by?
And her clothes, she— “Wait!” Azriel spoke quickly, stopping the female’s steps with a gentle sense of urgency in his tone. She looked at him again, those shadows that were once playing on the grass now huddled across his broad shoulders.
The shadows swarmed his arms and torso for a brief moment, before they pulled away from him and slinked toward her through the air, as though gifting her something. With furrowed brows, she held out her palms, goosebumps prickling her cold skin.
They dropped Azriel’s sweater in her hands, she barely managed to keep it from dropping to the floor. Bundling it up in her arms, she looked at the fabric then back at the Illyrian before her. He held a sheepish expression on his face, a slight blush to his cheeks that wasn’t from the cold.
Gods, how long had it been since he’d blushed because of a female?
“So you don’t get too cold on your travels.”
He did not miss the tear that slipped down her cheek. Nor the haunting look that glassed over her eyes. Yes, those eyes were most certainly engrained in the Shadowsingers mind forevermore.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Azriel offered her a small nod with his words, and turned on his feet and descended the hill with a new wave of heaviness on his chest.
Something made him contemplate turning back, to press for answers, to demand her name. But he didn’t. He continued to walk the path home to the townhouse. His shadows whispered one thing in his ear.
Beautiful stranger.
And the wind carried their whispers to her.
Azriel dreamt of her that night, returned to the townhouse and found sleep swiftly. He dreamed of the female’s eyes, of the life he felt once lived in them.
He knew she would not be there the following night, but he visited that bench anyway, at least in hopes that the memory of her might soothe him to sleep once more. Ridiculous, really. But Azriel had a taste of peace and was desperate for rest again, he’d stoop that low if it promised a few hours.
The bench was empty of her, something small sat in her place, a piece of parchment beside it. His shadows inspected first, carrying her scent of honey and jasmine to him in the wind. He looked at the note first.
Thank you for your kindness, Azriel. May this help you in ways it helped me.
— The beautiful stranger
His heart thundered at the way she’d signed the note, at the knowledge she’d somehow heard what his shadows had whispered to him the night before. Azriel clocked his surroundings, not a soul in sight, not a scent out of place.
He let his eyes drift to what she’d left. A single earbud of some sort. It seemed to vibrate in his palm when he picked it up. And when he put it to his ear, he heard the gentle, lapping waves of water, heard birds chirping and leaves and branches rustling in the breeze.
It was enchanted with some sort of magic. Crafted to offer peace and relief. Something like that would surely cost a small fortune, an even heftier price for someone like her—with little belongings and no solid place to call home.
His heart clenched and he took the bud from his ear and stuffed it safely into his pocket with the note, praying silently to the Mother that his stranger was safe and happy wherever she ventured next.
Sleep found him quickly that night, with the waves and birds and leaves in his ears. He dreamt of her again, this time those eyes were lighter, and she was laughing, dancing in the sand on a beach somewhere far off the continent.
He continued to dream of her every night for the next week, sleep was no longer such a tiring chase. He was ready to tire early again, to drift peacefully with the moon and stars to wherever his soul took him, when Rhysand had called into his mind.
“There’s something else I need to speak with you about.” Rhysand began delicately as Azriel took the seat opposite him in his grand office.
“Do you know a young female by the name of Y/N?”
Azriel frowned at his brother, shaking his head just slightly, shadows lazing on his shoulders. “No, I've never heard of her. Why?”
Rhys looked at his brother with apprehension, a heaviness in his eyes that Azriel had not seen in many, many years. He sat forward in his seat, his once calm shadows now swirling in concern and worry.
“An hour ago, our patrol wardens found her body in the woods.”
Azriel did not like the soft tone Rhys took with him. They’d had conversations like this several times in the past, where Az was required to investigate the situation. Never once had his brother regarded him with such soft cautiousness because of it before.
This did not feel right. Azriel was worried.
“She was fae, only 78 years old. Madja believes she had ingested a significant amount of Belladonna, there was an empty vial beside her. It looks as though she passed about a week ago.”
Azriel raised a brow, unsure why he was being told of this. A suicide? What was there for Azriel to deal with? “Do you want me to speak with her family?”
“She has no family. Not in Velaris, at least.” Rhysand swallowed, sat forward and rested his clasped hands on the oak desk. “Azriel, she was covered in your scent, she was wearing your sweater.”
The beautiful stranger’s eyes blinded him and his mind. No, no longer a stranger. Her name, Y/N. Gods. His heart stopped beating, his shadows stilled at his shoulders. And then they encompassed him completely, and within a blink he was standing in the morgue of Velaris.
A cold table stood before him, a sheet over a body. Over her.
Azriel did not step closer, did not move the sheet from her an inch. He couldn’t. But he stared at the hair that draped off that table, of the familiar purse that leaned against the leg. And on the floor, just beside it, something had fallen.
The missing earbud to his. A comfort she sought out even in her final moments. Alone, afraid, forgotten.
No, not forgotten. Because Azriel would remember her.
He did not dream that night. Nor any night after. His once brief but beautiful dreams were now plagued with nightmares of her tearful eyes, broken and lonely and all hope lost.
What hope did he have for his soul, when one as beautiful as hers couldn’t be saved?
— author’s note: i guess the underlying message of this is that no matter what you think, you’ll always be remembered, your presence will always have made some form of positive impact on someone, no matter how little you think it may be. i hope you enjoyed it and if you have any feedback i would love to hear what you thought! <3
when azriel can’t sleep, a walk through the sleeping city is usually his only respite. but he does not expect to find another lonesome soul that his calls to. [ a ]
