As I'm finished writing and now just in the editing stage of the final chapters of She'll Wait No Longer, I have begun work on its prologue: What None Saw. This will be a dual-POV mostly canon-compliant multi-chapter Elriel fic leading up to ACOSF Solstice. I wanted to explore interactions with them that we didn't get to see in the first four books, and I've been having so much fun writing it. It's unfortunately not smutty, but a whole lot of mutual pining, angst, and fluff. We're talking a WHOLE lot of soooooooft Azriel and blushing Elain. Preview below ;)
🎨: padawan.carol, commissioned by stephdaydreams
“Another question?” Azriel asked her, as if he could sense that void still pulling on her. Elain nodded again.
Azriel considered for a few moments.
“What did you dream of becoming, when you were a child?”
Elain blinked. She gazed down into her tea again.
“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “When my mother was still alive, she expected me to marry and unburden the family of my care, I suppose. Or perhaps bring them further fortune. I was only ever encouraged to think, act, and look like a highborn lady. I played the pianoforte, I learned to read and write with my tutors, and I attended society events. I was never told I could be anything other than a wife and mother.”
A pang of guilt swept through Elain at the thought that Feyre did not get that chance to learn to read and write, and that she and Nesta had done nothing to teach her.
Azriel only watched her, impassive, so she continued.
“When we lost our fortune, I had no time to dream. I became quite skilled with sewing, as we could not often afford new clothes and ours always needed repairs. I gardened seldomly, only when I could afford seeds and had the time to. I helped keep our cottage in working repair and cooked in my father’s stead, because he was injured. The only thing I ever allowed myself to dream about was falling in love and marrying. Partially because it was something I desired, but also because it was a way out.”
Elain had never admitted any of this to another before, and she didn’t know why she did now.
But Azriel just listened, so quietly and thoughtfully, and the words falling from her felt like…a relief. A grounding. He listened to her without judgment or concern, only honest curiosity.
“What did you dream of becoming as a boy?” She asked him.
Azriel kept his cool, collected mask on his face, even as Elain swore she saw something flicker through his eyes.
“I had no dreams as a child.”
Shame flooded Elain at what an insensitive question it was. Azriel had just told her he was locked in a dungeon for eleven years. Of course he wasn't thinking about becoming a warrior or a courtier or an artist. He was just trying to survive.
Azriel must have seen the guilt on her face because he considered.
“I suppose I dreamed of freedom.”
Elain let out a breath.
“As did I,” she answered.
Their gazes locked and they simply stared at each other for long moments.
“What is your favorite dessert?” Azriel asked her. Elain felt the smallest semblance of a smile tug at her mouth.
“Do you enjoy sweet things, Azriel?” She asked him, surprised once again by his question. She couldn't imagine the warrior eating a slice of chocolate cake or lemon tart.
Azriel grinned a bit, too. “I do enjoy sweet things, Elain,” he answered, holding her gaze with intensity.
And despite everything, despite her doomed engagement and the unfolding war and her stolen life and her daunting mating bond, Elain felt a blush kiss her cheeks.
She looked down, feeling bashful.
“Strawberry shortcake,” she told him.
Azriel grinned a bit broader at that.
“Strawberry shortcake,” he repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “I have never had that.”
“Really?” Elain asked. “Is it not eaten here?”
Azriel shook his head. “No, I have never heard of it.” After a few seconds he added, “Perhaps I can try it one day with you.”
Elain fought a blush once more.
“And you?” She asked, curious now.
Azriel leaned back, considering.
“Honey biscuits.”
And despite herself yet again, Elain swallowed a laugh. Azriel raised a brow at her reaction, which made a true giggle escape her lips.
“I'm sorry,” Elain laughed.
Azriel's mouth twitched at her amusement. “What is it?” He asked her.
“It’s just,” she chuckled. “Honey biscuits are rather a…a youngling snack, are they not? A snack for a hungry toddler stomping his feet?”
Azriel chuckled a bit himself then, smiling truly. Shadows flitted around his head as if in response to his laughter.
"Yes," he answered, leaning back and crossing his arms. "I suppose they are."
Elain giggled once more. She imagined Azriel munching on honey biscuits in a secret Spymaster lair and laughed harder still.
"But can you deny their perfection?" Azriel asked her with an amused smile.
"No," Elain answered, shaking her head with a smile. "No, I cannot."
Azriel's smile seemed to falter as he gazed at Elain's face.
"That's the first time I've heard your laugh," he noted.
a/n: can't be a proper slow-burn without some yearning, right? sorry lovelies, we gotta go through Angst Road to get to Smut and Fluff Blvd. all i have to say is please go vote! and of course, rest in peace liam payne (rip my eternal hope that we'd see the boys together again at some point)
Minors, do not interact.
part eleven
masterlist
"But she once fell through the street
Down a manhole in that bad way
The underground drip
Was just like her scuba days
Days
Daze"
Interpol, Stella was a diver and she was always down
He goes four nights without seeing her.
Three days and four nights of prowling the entrance to the library, of having his shadows slither down to investigate and report on her progress. Three days of not seeing her, and although Cassian tried to console him with the reminder that he’s gone longer without seeing her when he goes on long missions, his brother is well aware that it isn’t the same and with a single look from Azriel, pointed and unfaltering, he doesn’t try to bring it up to him again.
All the waiting and the worrying and the asking, the begging for the smallest crumbs of information from any priestess that came into his path (that of which was usually Gwyn, who blessedly went directly to him to report on Eowyn’s wellbeing), was torture for him.
And Azriel knew torture. Knew it quite literally like the back of his marred grotesque hands.
He doesn’t sleep that night, the first night. Didn’t sleep much the other three but that first night, after the priestesses kicked him out and he was ‘persuaded’ to leave the library altogether with Rhys’s logical reasoning and Cassian’s… physical cajoling, he allowed them to move him only as far as the entrance to the library leading up to the House of Wind and then he stayed there, alone and in silence, awake the entire night.
His shadows, finding it easier to sneak through, didn't even confirm with him before going down to look after her at their own accord before he could even think about sending them out to do it, and they stayed by her side to relate to him everything that happened to her.
That is, until he considered that what he was doing was an invasion of her privacy, so he retracted them much to their (and admittedly his) chagrin and he remained there, fretting and pacing, murmuring to his shadows and to himself. He found he could not sit longer than two and a half minutes without feeling frantic energy build within him, and sleep came to no avail. Throughout that time, he finally took Cassian’s invitation to stay at the House of Wind, if only to wash and get his meals, in the rare occasion he remembered to eat.
The second day went by much the same but he had the entirety of the day to consider not only the turn of events in the apothecary and what the herbalist revealed, but particularly her words as she was having her episodes. While still herself, she told him not to pay any heed to her words yet how was he supposed to forget her pained cries?
Her voice echoed through his mind.
“B-but I did! I swear it ada*, I did! I mended every single one of your— no no, ada, please!”
The things the shadows managed to capture while still inside only got worse in nature. The first words she had spoken in his ear, however, those words spoken in another language echoed through his mind day and night. The frustration at not knowing what they meant was driving him half insane. On the third day, after hearing from Gwyn that she was doing much better, now seeming much more lucid— he had admittedly sniffed derisively at that but made no further comment— he took to the skies and paid a quick visit to his brother.
Without any hemming and hawing he went straight to the point. “I need you to translate something.”
Rhys was quick with it, immediately breaching past Azriel’s lowered mental walls to dig his talons to peer inside. Azriel freely offered him the memory, not lingering on the details he wanted to keep only to himself, like the feel of her soft supple body in his arms, and the way she’d dug her face in his neck and inhaled, consequently bringing her so close to his face that he could do nothing but freely bask in her scent himself.
Clearly guessing where Azriel’s train of thought inevitably trailed off to, Rhys didn’t linger long inside Azriel’s head but didn’t offer the answer with the immediacy Azriel was seeking.
“Well?” He pressed in a manner that was more natural to Cassian.
“It’s a very ancient tongue. One I thought to be extinct long ago,” Rhys answered at last. “I’ll need to ask Amren.”
“There’s no time,” Azriel hissed, running a hand through his hair, “she won’t be here until next week.”
“Amren arrives today,” Rhys raised an eyebrow, his own violet eyes scanning Azriel in concern. “Have you slept at all, brother?”
Azriel dismissed him. “There’s no time,” he repeated under his breath. With shadows furling faster around him, he turned to leave.
“I’ll let you know what I learn,” is the last thing he heard from the High Lord before he stepped into his shadows back to the House of Wind’s entrance to the library.
By the fourth day, his shadows— disobedient things that they were— reported back that Eowyn’s seizing visions were becoming few and far between and she was now resting, reading and conversing with Clotho and Gwyn. After he’d made sure that Eowyn was faring better, he accepted Nesta's insistence for him to have dinner with her and Cassian, only to have Gwyn herself step into the kitchen as they ate.
He startled when the young priestess stepped in, however, heart in his throat at the thought of something happening to Eowyn in the ten minutes he’d been away. “Is everything-“
“Oh I’m sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she blushed shyly and the way she carried herself spoke of curious trepidation, not the concerned urgency he feared. She did, however, seem rather tired and he found he was endlessly grateful to her for caring for Eowyn in a way he couldn’t do. In a way Clotho hadn’t allowed him to.
(It sent a sharp shooting pain through his chest to consider that it was Eowyn herself who hadn't wanted him there; that she didn’t trust him to stay at her side after the long months of spending almost every day together, of having gotten to know each other so intimately. It was easier to blame Clotho for not allowing him to stay. The alternative left him with a feeling that was too raw and ugly to consider at the moment.)
“You’re not,” Nesta said mildly, if a touch concerned herself. “Everything okay with Eowyn?”
“Oh yes, she’s doing much better,” Gwyn assured them quickly, “she’s been reading dreadfully boring old texts all day about minerals or rocks or something, so you know that means she’s pretty much back to normal.”
Cassian and Nesta immediately invited her to sit and eat with them, which she did after a brief moment of hesitation. “I mostly just came up to let you guys know the good news and deliver a message from Eowyn saying that she’ll join us tomorrow morning, but she won’t be able to stay for training with Azriel,” she gave Azriel a quick pout as if to emphasize her point. He chuckled lightly at the sight, feeling a heavy weight lift off his shoulders at the certainty of seeing Eowyn the following morning. The pang of disappointment that shot through him at not being able to see her during their session together was immediately quelled by the reminder that she still had to take it easy and recuperate after such a dreadful episode– which inevitably led to the reassuring thought of spending that time with her anywhere else for the day, taking care of her if she allowed him to. “For some time.”
It took him a second to understand.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Gwyn swallowed nervously, “we were talking about training and how she’s doing much better now. Remember Cassian? When you mentioned last session how she can start training with Em and Nesta and I? And well, she-“ she continued to ramble, speaking quickly, “well she thinks that since she’s pretty much caught up now, she doesn’t have to stay after and train with you anymore.”
“She doesn’t get to decide when she’s caught up,” he hissed through his teeth, incredulously, still trying to wrap his mind around her words. He narrowed his eyes, unbelieving, “and why doesn’t she tell me this herself?”
“Well she said she would, but thought it would be a good idea if I just… told you, while you're here,” she blushed again, looking up at him through her lashes. “She… well, she insisted she doesn’t need to train as much anymore.”
He pursed his lips in annoyance, but tried not to let it show as he considered Gwyn’s words, still reeling. He zoned out for the remainder of his quick dinner, too lost in his head as he considered Gwyn’s announcement, spoken with such nonchalance that he couldn’t bring himself to accept it.
Still, the more he considered that, the more he considered the way Eowyn had so viciously attacked the herbalist and the more he thought about that, the more he thought about the herbalist’s revelation.
She said that Eowyn was a witch, and had Eowyn tried to deny it at all? Now that he thought about it, he realized she hadn’t, but she hadn’t confirmed it either. Had she lied right to his face when she talked about her abilities?
He felt his mind begin to clear now that the concern for her wellbeing was wearing off. He considered everything that had happened since he came back from his mission to find her stomping through the streets of Velaris, seeming angry and unlike herself. He hated himself for not having considered telling Rhysand about the herbalist’s accusation.
Witches were extinct. Those that were rumored to survive the Great Witch Purge, lived in the far reaches of the Middle, where they practiced all sorts of dark magic and were rumored to hate all faeries, but were known to consume their blood to be able to access their magic.
Witches were typically considered evil beings by all species, but most importantly, they were known to be extremely powerful.
Rhysand, however, was never the type to believe the stereotypes applied to different creatures, an Illyrian and Shadowsinger like himself included, and knew better than to believe the necessary facade of dark infamy and notoriety in order to survive in this world as a powerful creature, lest they be hunted down to be enslaved and used for barbaric acts.
To have a witch under one’s control would be just as dangerous, if not more, as having access to the Cauldron itself.
Rhys had never expelled nor hunted a witch himself, but it wasn’t in his nature to outright mistreat or deny a being that could be a possible ally, as well as an equal.
For only the briefest of instances– born out of centuries worth of friendship, of fraternal familiarity, acceptance, and love for his brother– he considered telling Rhysand about the accusation made against her.
But he wouldn’t tell his brother about Eowyn, he realized grimly. Both ashamed at himself for withholding possibly valuable and integral information that could strengthen their Court and the general citizens of all of Prythian; and ashamed by even considering betraying Eowyn’s trust before he could even have the opportunity to speak to her about it first.
If he slept at all that night, it was sparse and filled with dark and tortuous nightmares of his family hating him. The thought of Eowyn hating him left a sinking empty void in the center of his being that stole all sleep and breath away from him altogether.
When he woke up hours before the break of dawn, having dreamt of her briefly, an entire audience of hers, laughing at him as he opened up and shared with her a part of himself that he didn’t think worthy of sharing with anyone else, his guilt and grief turned into simmering anger.
So when he saw her the next morning, wearing a covering that revealed only her eyes, he approached her and asked, “how are you feeling?”
“Much better,” her voice was calm and neutral, lacking both the usual teasing lilt and the anger and desperation of the last time they’d spoken. “Thank you for bringing me back to the library. And for asking for me while I was indisposed.”
The way her voice came out emotionless, formal, and cold while her eyes looked just as dark and beautiful as ever— even rested, for once— pissed him off even more.
“Good,” he snapped and turned away from her, refusing to watch as she walked over to her usual spot and decided, at that moment, to not look at her at all for the rest of the session. Still, he was always aware of her presence and as his shadows reminded him, they had not promised to look away from her, so he knew, even without looking at her, that she trained in unfaltering unison with the rest of the priestesses.
Two things happened during that session. First was the feel of Rhys talons in his head as his research finally paid off; then came Eowyn’s impressive but entirely unsurprising achievement, for she was a natural warrior and she had made great success in the months they had trained together.
Failing to remember his resolution to not look at her, he watched her in complete open awe– as expressive and adoringly as a stoic and unemotional male like him could show.
In an effortless and perfect stance, she stood before the pole with a familiar light-consuming obsidian dagger held in an offensive hold above her head, hips and feet positioned perfectly, knees bent at just the right angle.
At the end of that morning session, the morning after she’d had someone else tell him she didn’t need him any more, Eowyn cut the ribbon.
While he was indescribably proud of her achievement, the act was like a slap in the face.
As if the Cauldron or Fate or the Mother herself were sharing a laugh at his expense, her action only reinforced the words Rhys had translated in his mind earlier in the day: I will never cede.
—
After training, as all the Valkyries filed out of the training ring and back into the library– Eowyn among the last few who happily celebrated her successful cut– he called out her name.
She pretended she didn’t hear him.
His irritation was only fuelled by Cassian’s knowing look and understanding pat to the shoulder before taking off into the skies to offer Azriel some privacy.
As soon as his brother took off, he tried to call Eowyn’s name again but despite it catching the attention of a few priestesses, Gwyn among them, who quickly turned to Eowyn and nudged her, Eowyn did not stop.
He hadn’t taken her for a coward. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Beyond annoyed at that point, Azriel sent off a few shadows to cinch around her waist and stop her from going further, even pulling her back a little.
The surprise in her eyes was brief before her face fell back into cool neutrality. The sight of it pissed him off so much, he finally understood his family’s frustration at him when he schooled his features back into place.
She waved at the others to continue without her and then turned to him, her gaze blazé and unlike her.
“Didn’t Gwyn tell you?”
“Tell me what exactly,” he bit, wanting to hear it from her.
“I won’t be able to stay and train with you after our group sessions anymore.”
It was a simple statement of fact, and the way in which she said it, so nonchalantly and unbothered, had his cool anger boiling in his veins, fueled by the hurt in his chest.
“Why?”
She looked away then, but not for long. She observed him quietly for a moment, seeming to be thinking of how to form her words. “I just… don’t think I need it anymore,” he saw it coming yet it still struck him- this time in the pit of his stomach, “the main reason why I accepted the extra training was to wear off some of the excess energy I felt, but I’m doing better now, now that it’s all over,” she waved her hand casually, as if her being so ill and delirious for days was a normal occurrence.
“You’ll have questions, I imagine,” she tilted her head and he felt how she watched him, taking him in. He wondered if she smelt or felt the anger rolling off of him, if she knew of the growing desire and necessity for her. She didn’t let him reply to her, merely shook her head, “it’s not a good time right now-“
“Don’t you dare-“
“I have a lot of work to catch up on,” she interrupted him. She looked to the stairs and sighed before turning back to him. “Are you free tonight? For dinner?”
His heart leaped to his throat, “yes.”
She nodded, “Nesta and Gwyn, they… they have a dinner planned tonight. You’re welcome to join.”
He deflated slightly at that, disappointed it wouldn’t be just them. Another thought struck him, however, for how would she eat if her face was covered?
With a kindled excitement he managed to control, he nodded to her, releasing his shadows from her waist to let her go. “I’ll see you tonight.”
*ada is elvish for father in tolkien’s lotr’s lore. all credit goes to him. he is, of course, a great inspiration of mine
Azriel woke to the sharp, searing pain of his body refusing to cooperate. The air was still, heavy with the lingering scent of blood and healing salves. He blinked against the dim light, his vision swimming as he tried to make sense of where he was.
A room. Not the battlefield, not the house of wind. But he couldn’t place it. The townhome, maybe.
Pain shot through his side as he attempted to sit up, forcing him to collapse back onto the bed with a groan. His throat felt dry, his mind sluggish, but fragments of memory began clawing their way back.
Elain.
Nesta.
Were they still at the House of Wind? Were they safe?
Flashes of the battle—of her—surged forward. Elain’s wide, terror-stricken eyes, her small body wrenched from safety, dragged toward the Cauldron’s gaping maw. And he hadn’t been fast enough. Hadn’t been strong enough.
The sound of Nesta’s screams, raw and unrelenting, as if she could shatter the world with her rage. The chaos had been deafening: Cassians screams, Morrigan’s grip unyielding as she hauled him back, blood soaking everything around him. His own blood, pooling on the ground as he failed—failed—to stop it.
Pain radiated outward from every fracture, every torn muscle, every wing shred. It was a familiar pain, but this time it felt different—heavier. Not just in his body, but in his mind, his chest, his very soul.
Failure.
It coiled in him, dark and suffocating. He should have torn apart every soldier, every monster between them. Shadows had been useless, slipping through fingers that were too slow, too weak. He was the Night Court’s Spymaster. A killer. A weapon honed over centuries. But what use was any of it if he couldn’t protect them when it mattered most?
A low, guttural noise escaped him—half groan, half growl—as he shifted, trying to force his body up. The pain flared white-hot, and he slumped back onto the mattress.
A soft voice broke through his haze. “Don’t try to move. I’ll get Madja.”
Azriel turned his head, each movement a labor, to find a woman hovering nearby. He didn’t recognize her. But beyond her, sprawled on a separate bed, was Cassian. His brother’s wings were outstretched, covered in bandages that glistened faintly with ointments. He lay on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow, his breathing deep but steady.
“Where is Rhys?” Azriel croaked, his voice rough, unused. His fists clenched in the sheets. The scars on his hands ached with the pressure, but it anchored him. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't lie in this bed while the people he loved were out there—while she was out there.
The woman moved closer, already halfway out the door. “I just notified him that you’re awake. He’ll be here shortly.”
Azriel’s gaze lingered on Cassian. “Is he—”
“He will heal,” she said quickly, her tone soothing but firm. “We’ve kept him asleep to help the process along. His injuries were... extensive. But Madja says he’ll recover fully.”
She began explaining Cassian’s wounds—but Azriel’s mind drifted, the words barely registering. Instead, it clawed back to the last time he had seen Elain, standing in that garden, her delicate hands brushing over the blooms with care. That soft, faraway look in her eyes, as if the wind whispered secrets only she could hear. She had been so... untouched by this world of war and blood. Before... all of this.
The image of her, terrified and drenched, being pulled from the Cauldron tore through him. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus on the present.
Mate.
The word reverberated in Azriel’s mind, a single syllable that cracked through him like a blade striking stone. Lucien had yelled it—declared it, even—as if the Cauldron’s cruel games had given him a right to it. To her.
Elain.
Azriel’s heart had stopped at the sound. Mate. No. It couldn’t be true. There was no way Elain—gentle, radiant Elain—could be bound to Lucien.
Not when he had felt the pull.
Azriel clenched his fists, his body thrumming with tension even now as the memory surged forward. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, there had been something—a thread, a whisper—tying him to her. Not just her beauty, though it was unparalleled. It was the way she moved, spoke, smiled. The quiet hum beneath his skin whenever she was near. The way his shadows would slink toward her, curling like smoke, choosing her. How his every instinct sharpened when she was in the room, the air shifting, as though the universe tilted on its axis in her presence. It was the way her very presence seemed to fill the spaces he hadn’t known were empty.
Lucien couldn’t feel that. Not the way he did.
And yet, the Cauldron had declared otherwise.
The anger that swelled in him wasn’t the calm, cold fury he wielded so well. This was different. This was rage. The thought of her, trembling and vulnerable, being claimed by a bond she didn’t understand—or want? It was enough to send his shadows writhing, his blood pounding in his ears.
He would figure out this mate bullshit later.
Right now, there were more immediate threats. His brother was injured, his High Lady in danger. And Elain...
Nothing else mattered. Not Lucien. Not the Cauldron’s declaration.
Things are getting very angsty and very intense up in the world of my keyboard 😬😬 Our collective husband is really going through it.
@azrielappreciationweek
“Take a breather, brother. Calm the fuck down and we’ll let you out.”
After a few seconds he said, in a gentler voice, “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything about her.”
Azriel slumped on the floor for a few quiet seconds. But when he looked down at his bloodied hands, Elain’s screams echoed in his ears. Rhysand’s words floated back to him and wrath like he had never known tore through his body once more.
Before he knew what he was doing he had ripped a shelf from the wall and smashed it into smitherines on the stone floor.
No one knew Elain, no one cared about what she chose, what she desired.
He picked up glass jars and threw them with all his strength at the far wall, where they exploded into crystals and dust with the force of the collision.
No one respected her, no one looked past her gentle voice and caring demeanor to understand what lay beneath.
Another shelf came down and Azriel splintered it into shards with his bare hands while he roared in anger.
His rage consumed him.
No one saw the power and grace, the strength and determination, that Elain wielded so quietly.
Azriel smashed a ceramic pot against the heavy door, letting the pieces crumble to his feet.
