Seven Hundred & Sixty-One Days (Part 5)
Link to Part 4 here in case you need a refresher. It’s been a while between updates!
Azriel POV. 1.4k words.
Azriel bolted down the stairs of the River House, descending to the first floor, keen to make his exit. He needed to get out. Away from this manor, from Rhys’ orders, from the stifling feeling that had hounded him since. Away from her lingering scent that wafted around this home like an agonizingly intoxicating mist at dawn. It was only pushing him closer to madness, that scent.
Stalking across the grand entry hall and wrenching the door open roughly on its hinges, he halted abruptly when he came face to face with—
Lucien fucking Vanserra.
His jaw clenched, scar tissue pulling tight across his fists, now balled at his sides.
He’d almost bowled him over in his haste to leave. Lucien still held his fist up, intending to knock, when Azriel had wrenched the door open before him.
Azriel snarled, the sound emanating from deep within his chest. Like the beast lurking beneath his skin was begging to come out, clawing its way to the surface. Azriel’s lip curled in distaste before he sneered, “What.”
“Pleasant as always, I see, Spymaster,” Lucien drawled, his voice grating further on his fraying nerves.
“What do you want,” Az snapped. His mood was only curdling further. He didn’t think it was possible.
Lucien managed to look down his nose at him even though he stood a few inches shorter. He puffed out his chest, “I have business to attend to with Rhysand.” His own lip curled, showing more teeth than usual, before he continued. “And my mate.”
Azriel schooled his face into the cold mask he had perfected in his father’s cell. Only his voice gave away his ire, “Go and attend to it then,” he ground out, a soft menace in his voice now. “And get out of my way.”
Lucien stepped aside, out of the doorway, with a contemptuous little bow before Azriel pushed past him. He heard Lucien mutter something along the lines of Night Court males and a wonder he hadn’t been snapped up, before Az was stalking to the edge of the wards Rhys had placed around the manor and shooting up into the sky.
He made sure to unfurl his giant wings a little wider, flap them a little harder, rustling up a larger than necessary flurry of wind as he took off. Feyre would call it territorial male posturing, today he just knew it as don’t fucking test me.
Azriel was still burning, a river of molten lava still flowing around in his chest that he hadn’t yet managed to douse from his outburst in the study with Cassian. He shouldn’t have become so unhinged but… how had he let himself get this involved? He was in such deep and unending shit.
He groaned, flapping his wings harder, faster, the muscles and sinew flexing and contracting, and threw it all to the winds as he decided to fly and fly and fly until he had nothing left in him. He figured he’d have no alternative but to pass out from exhaustion later.
So Azriel flew. Across Velaris. Northward towards the Illyrian Steppes. He wouldn’t pay any war camps a visit, but it didn’t hurt if they were reminded from time to time that the Spymaster of the Night Court still held jurisdiction over them. Could drop in at any time. Remind them that the fear he incited across Prythian was warranted. He wouldn’t dare go into the camps today, in his mood it would surely end in disaster, but as he flew overhead, they would be reminded exactly who they answered to. That even if they didn’t respect him, or Cassian, it would heed them to remember who they served. He smiled savagely at the thought.
And so, he tore through the skies, worked at emptying his mind, pushing aside his icy rage, and let the song of the wind dictate his path. Let the currents of the chill breeze guide the wings he so scrupulously trusted to continue driving him further to his destination, wherever that may be.
Hours later, having thoroughly exhausted himself, he banked onto the balcony at the House of Wind, landing as softly as a withered autumn leaf falling to the ground. The sun had set long ago, the stars winking awake, and the House was utterly silent as he entered through the dining room. Trudging his way soundlessly to his room he started unbuckling the stays of his weapons— his dexterous fingers working from memory— before he’d reached his door, unstrapping the leather and steel from his body.
Dumping them unceremoniously in the corner, exhaustion took over as he flopped heavily onto his mattress. He could barely keep his eyes open. Thank fuck. At least flying for hours on end had done its job. Turning his face toward his nightstand he glimpsed the vial of headache powder and sucked in a harsh breath, when he heard a thump from down the hall.
Cassian’s room.
He stilled. Then, a small whimper— a whimper that was distinctly female.
Azriel held in his groan as he raked his scarred hand down his face in exasperation. He should have made a fucking noise. Of course, Cassian and Nesta were going at it. Grumbling to himself he tossed over on his bed and pulled a pillow over his head. A throaty growl echoed its way from down the hall. His teeth clenched.
Throwing the pillow across the room he grabbed Truth Teller from his pile of discarded weapons and trudged heavily down the hall, this time making a point to be as noisy as possible, and headed back out to the balcony. He’d sleep outside if he had to, but he could not deal with the sounds of Cassian and Nesta’s fucking. Not tonight. He just may snap.
He considered his options; he could train?
But…there wasn’t a muscle in his body that wasn’t thoroughly spent from his flight across the Night Court.
Very well.
His room at the manor, then… No. Elain would be there.
He groaned again, tilting his face up to the heavens, willing himself not to combust. Rosehall? He hadn’t visited in a while; he couldn’t very well show up in this state…
His eyes snapped open. The Town House. It had been left unoccupied for months now. Perfect. He stepped off the balcony, stretching his fatigued, aching wings once more, and glided toward the city lights, heading into Velaris proper. Toward a soft bed, in a quiet house.
A few minutes later he found himself seated in a large leather armchair in front of the black marble fireplace at the Town House, whiskey in hand. Having landed on the rooftop and entered via the spiral staircase he took a moment to close his eyes, his head thumping against the back of the armchair heavily.
The whiskey burned deliciously down his throat, and he found it calmed his ragged nerves. He breathed in heavily, noting the scents of the room around him, a distraction to still his racing mind; the old leather of dusty books, the faint musk of an unoccupied home, the smoky notes of his expensive whiskey, jasmine… and honey. He exhaled a long breath heavily through his nose, not again.
His mind was playing tricks on him. Of course, he scented Elain, her perfume was burned into his nostrils, his mind. Like a brand etched into his flesh, stamped permanently on his very soul. Of course, his mind was tormenting him, because he wasn’t tormented enough. Every fucking goddamn minute of every fucking goddamn day. His throat bobbed as his skin grew warm. He pushed out another breath and opened his eyes, seeking the soothing balm of the liquor, and raised the crystal tumbler to his lips when he froze—
His breath wrenched from his lungs so abruptly at the sight before him, it rendered him lightheaded.
Those big beautiful brown eyes, wide with surprise, were staring back at him. She had stopped dead in her tracks, having appeared soundlessly before him.
For standing at the bottom of the staircase, her hand clutching the rail of the bannister, was Elain. Dressed in nothing but a short ivory silk nightgown lined with delicate lace along the edge of its plunging neckline.
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