whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)
a/n: here she is... chappie four <3 thank u for ur patience and 1000 kudos to the anon that made a plot suggestion that i had already written lmao-- as always let me know what u think! things are heating up....
word count: just under 4k
synopsis: You return to regular training for the first time in a month. Azriel asks a favor from Rhys and finds you in a less than stellar condition when he returns to camp
CHAPTER FOUR :: FRIENDS
Velaris is a sight for sore eyes.
After nearly a month of endless white scenery, of the blinding glint of the sun against snow, paired with endless pine, the sight of a city is a reprieve in itself.
And because it’s Velaris — because it’s home — something else settles within Azriel.
A hackle that always stays on high alert finally lies down. The constant agitation of his shadows falls into a calming hush. He breathes easier.
He's back with his family and can be here to keep them safe if need be. He's back to the closest semblance of comfort he's ever known.
Where do you find comfort?
Azriel blinks a little, taken aback at the abruptness of the thought.
The lone shelter in the mountains, spaced out from the circle of buildings, every bit representing your isolation from the people of the camp — that was your home.
Where you resided and took solace from the world in, the place you felt safest. But... it's no place of comfort. It's a crutch. A necessary support. Somehow, Azriel has no doubt that if you could survive out in the snow, burrowed amidst the elements, you would, if only to have one less thing to maintain.
You've never even seen a city before, he thinks. All you know is the mountains.
Suddenly, eyes cast across the breathtaking beauty of Velaris, the hum of the Sidra carving its way through his beloved home, the buzz of people on the streets, Azriel recalls the very time he lay eyes on it himself.
It never stops being breathtaking. That much is true, but then again, there was no comparison to the first time.
The warm feeling that had grown in his chest. The way something he hadn't known ever existed within him had unfurled, like a flower blooming in the sun. Something Azriel now knows to be hope.
He hadn't known a place this beautiful could exist.
Wouldn't have been able to dream it up when all he had known for so, so long was darkness and shadow.
Even in the time after the cage, all there was to see was the white of winter and the cold bite of the harsh mountains. He learned how blood looked melting into the snow, how to sleep with one eye open, and all the different shades of cruelty.
Azriel remembers being unable to comprehend the sight, the stumble in his heart at the indisputable proof before him. That despite what had been drilled into him by his father, his brothers, by every Illyrian warrior who punched down on bastards, there was a place where peace reigned above all.
People who lived in harmony. Where Art and music are considered a treasure alongside other skills, each equally important. And Azriel belonged there, as much as any of them.
It had been one thing to walk through the city, to marvel at every cobblestone, at the trims lining each and every window, to have people regard him with such a polite and casual manner — not a second glance at his wings or his hands.
It had been something else entirely to fly over it as night fell.
Mountain ridges illuminated by his most constant friend, the rising moon, watching the moonlight spill over the dark red rock of the mountain and paint it ever softer. Sweet ocean air and the very perfume of the city intertwined within the current as he soared above it, mighty wings beating.
Azriel could remember that first day and night in Velaris vividly, like an unforgettable dream. How easy it had been to fall in love with it, to let its arms unfurl and to allow himself to make a home within them.
Looking out across it now, as Faelights begin to twinkle and blink to life as the night creeps in, all Azriel can think of is how much he wants that for you.
To bring you here. To have both of you fly above the city and wander down the streets aimlessly, to show you that there were places far kinder in this world than all you had known before.
He yearns for you to have the same dawning realisation he did—that so much more existed outside of those gods forsaken mountains.
Azriel knows you're a very guarded male. You have more than enough reasons to be. He's already pushed a thousand boundaries you have and each time you let him into your sanctuary in the mountains is a sign of enormous trust.
Maybe for that reason, Azriel wants to be the first to extend that kindness to you.
A twinge in his chest sings a different, golden answer.
Azriel ignores it and steals one more look out at his home, swallowing down how all logic seems to be pointing to the same thing, time and time again.
He finds the High Lord in his study, papers stacked high on his desk that have only grown higher in Azriel's absence. His dark hair is tousled in a way that means he's been running his hand through it too much.
Azriel lifts the shadows from beneath his feet as he enters, letting the other hear the sound of his soft footsteps. Rhys looks up at the new arrival. Despite his tired appearance, it does nothing to dim the grin that overtakes his lips at the sight of his brother.
"My, my, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"
Azriel grins back, stepping forward Rhys pushes back from his desk and stands. His usual wings have been hidden away through his magic and Azriel notices their absence when he pulls him into a brief hug. Rhys lingers close, his violet eyes raking over his friend.
"Not bad to see you either."
"You flatter me." Rhys purrs, his voice all buttery and smooth. "You've got new eyebags. Overworking yourself as usual, are we Az?"
"I presume you make such lovely comments about Feyre too?"
"And risk her wrath?" Rhys smiles, eyes glittering at the mention of his mate. "Never."
Azriel rolls his eyes, letting his obvious endearment at his brother's happiness show. They truly are a perfect pair.
He crosses his arms across his broad chest tightly, if only to hide the fleeting flicker of wanting the spools tight in his chest. A ribbon of envy, woven between his ribs.
If Rhys notices, he doesn't comment. Instead, he says, "Usually, you're itching to escape the mountains but not this time I see."
He pauses, eyeing up the Shadowsinger to see what response it'll give. Azriel yields no comment back. Expecting this, Rhys smiles.
"Either way, you'll be happy to hear that Cassian has returned from his time off and is ready to resume his usual duties."
Azriel stills at the words.
He knew that Cassian would at one point return to his usual positions and that Azriel himself, would return to his spymaster post. But it's come sooner than expected. Perhaps, time with you has been passing far quicker than Azriel thought.
"I found the cause of the rumours."
"Yes, I assumed you had," Rhys says, wandering back around the deck to slump into his chair. He leans one arm against the armrest, his knuckles against his temple.
"I also assumed that you spent all that time dealing with it. Much of a problem?"
Azriel considers his words carefully. The trust he's managed to garner with you is fragile, though he knows his friend would not severe it or interfere if he asked.
Another part of him knows it's unusual behavior of him, to offer his skills so willingly to a stranger. But, well, you're not exactly a stranger anymore.
"There's a male.” Azriel begins, choosing his words carefully. “A bastard, the one causing all the stir-ups. He feeds the other bastards when he can. It's what had Lord Mylind kicking a fuss."
Rhys curses lightly at the realisation of just which camp they are dealing with.
"He's learning to make healing tonics," Azriel continues, noting how Rhys' head straightens up a fraction. Interested. "In hopes of slipping them to freshly clipped females. To see if it can reverse the damage."
Rhys sits back in his chair completely, his hand brushing over his mouth in deep contemplation. For a moment, he says nothing.
"I suppose I don't need to ask if there's been any female training then."
Azriel feels himself glower instinctively, his wings hiking up an inch higher without meaning to. He thinks of Lord Mylind and the conversation he had on the first day in their camp. The sheer display of male arrogance, snarling, and threatening violence outright.
"No.”
Rhys curses again, his eyes crushing closed. He seems to filter through a pained reaction, his face contorting until it lands on a tired resignation.
“The camp of Exordor made very good on a bargain struck during a very hard time.” Rhys grits the words out.
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes at the mention of the deal that had turned sour. A cold ripple of night shudders through the room.
No amount of soldiers supplied during the war had been worth the suffering that camp Exodor alone produced— or continues to produce if the whispers that came out of there held an inkling of truth.
It’s a rotten place, tucked deep in the mountains, and some of the worst brutes Rhys has ever had the displeasure of meeting were born in the bowels of that place.
“It doesn’t lift for another 50 years." Rhys sighs, his voice wavering with a hint of shame. "I can’t touch them without slaughtering them all— innocent or not.”
Azriel didn’t say anything for a moment. This information is not new. He watches as Rhys digests his silence, leaning back in his chair as the wheels spin in his head, dizzyingly fast.
For the second time, Rhys' brows jump.
“You’re helping him.”
Not a question.
Azriel nods.
"You don't want Cassian to take back over."
"No," Azriel murmurs. "Not yet. The male is... He's guarded. Isolated. It has taken time to earn his trust. I believe in what he wants to do and I believe he has what it takes to achieve it.”
He thinks of the quiet evenings within your shelter, your patience as you taught Azriel what you could — how you took every piece of information from him on the chin, not one complaint of ever tiring. He thinks of the heaving in his chest, the tug on his heart.
"I ask that you let me see this out." Azriel finishes, his shoulders rolling back as he stands tall. Let Rhys understand how this had become more than just a mission to him; it’s a personal calling, one he must answer, one that he needs to see out to the end.
Rhys surveys him intensely, unblinking for a moment. Then something devious crosses his face, catching in a smile.
"That's not the only thing you want to ask me, is it?"
Azriel looks to the ground, suddenly bashful. This would be entirely too revealing of the closeness he felt, to ask this, to offer this. He asks anyway.
"I wish, with your permission, to take Heartstriker." Azriel's voice rumbles lowly. He forces his eyes back up, meeting Rhys' strong gaze. "To gift to him."
Something dips into Rhys' smile, threatening a smirk and for that reason alone, Azriel feels his ears tinge hotly. His face remains calm, however, giving nothing away.
"Heartstriker? As a gift?" Rhys repeats, with a sly smile. "Pray tell Brother, when's the wedding? Since when have you ever been known for gift giving, let alone something as dear to you, such as a sword? I might just have to meet this bastard."
Azriel’s ears only get hotter, betraying him. He prays it doesn't show on his face, though he's sure the increased swirlings of his shadows give him away. And Rhys’ infallible ability to read his flustering each and every time.
"Is that permission?"
Rhys, seemingly realising he won't be getting any juicy details, quits tormenting his brother with a flourish of his hand. He leans back in his chair relaxed, a softness creeping into his expression.
"It's been yours to take all these years, Az." Rhys finally lands on. "You did earn it, after all."
—
The shelter looks bigger without him here.
Betrayingly, it’s the first thought you have when the door swings open, letting you into your nest of safety. You heave in a breath that rattles loudly and it gets swept up in the foul whistle of the Mother's Kiss.
On your side, your blood-soaked hand clutches your abdomen tightly. Pain spiderwebs up your body, fraying every nerve with a burning agony.
Every step feels loud and clumsy.
You cough as softly as you can, yet still feel the warmth of blood on your lips. The familiar metallic tang overwhelms your mouth.
You must be dripping blood behind you, dragging a slushy mess of crimson snow in on your boots. Fuck, what are you doing again? Your head throbs. They must've knocked your head hard this time if you're losing focus this quickly.
The Mother's Kiss howls fiercely, a reminder of the cruelty outside your little haven.
Right. You remember you need to close the door— and you shove the deadbolt closed along with it. If your ribs were aching a little less, you would reach up and do up the second deadbolt too, at the top of the door. You try to anyway.
Your arm gets mid-way up before you freeze, pain lashing every nerve in your midriff, enough to make you wince loudly. The bindings on your chest aren't helping. For a moment, dark spots dance before vision as you quickly tuck your arm back down, moving too quick.
Fuck. Fuck. One deadbolt will have to do.
It feels as if the whole world lurches when you take your next step, blurring like thick taffy for a split second. You stumble towards your bed and realise as you sink onto your knees on the edge of it, you need to dress your wounds.
Another bloody cough. Has your nose stopped bleeding yet? It's impossible to tell between each and every other ache.
What were you doing again?
Without meaning to, you begin to slump over, nearly lying down in your bed.
Dressings! That's right, you need to make sure the wound on your side isn't still bleeding, need to make sure it's clean when it finally begins to clot, need to...
Need to... what did you need to do?
That's right— you need to sleep.
Your head crumples against the pillow like a dead-weight as you collapse against it, exhausted. As your consciousness wanes, you cough again, a splatter of red spraying your pillow.
Not good, you think absentmindedly. Eyes slipping shut, you miss the familiar figure out the window, approaching through the storm.
—
You're wincing before you even realise you're awake.
Crackling. Logs spitting out little snaps fill the air, the quiet roar of a hearty fire; the first things you hear when you come too, far too slowly for your own liking. Your left ears hum loudly in discomfort— no doubt a result of one of the harsh hooks you had caught in the face earlier today.
Next, you smell something... clean?
Your tongue comes out gingerly, licking your cracked lips and you realise quite suddenly, there's an absence of blood on them. The thought slams into you at the same time you realise; you hadn't been able to stay awake for long enough to even light a fire.
Panic reaches through your ribs and grips your heart, tight, and you sit up without thinking.
Pain follows you closely like a lazy afterthought that slams into you, soaking into your body meanly and making you regret moving so fast. Your head swims heavily, throbbing dully.
A pained noise threatens to leave your lips and you force it down. Then force your head up, eyes blinking rapidly, trying to assess the threat, trying to do something.
Panic squeezes your heart painfully again when your hazy vision clears just enough to reveal the shape of a body before you— your blood chilling in your veins as you realise there's somebody else in here with you.
The whimper you held back before slips out before you can help it, your body squirming backward without thought. Your breaths comes out in sharp pants, bursts of pain accompanying each one, and right as you hit the wall, your vision focuses.
Your lungs empty in relief.
It's Azriel before you, on his knees, his scarred hands are held out in front of him.
They aren't touching you, just hovering, his palms up to indicate he means no harm. His wings are tucked back, hunched down to be smaller than usual, and all around him, his shadows whirl about animatedly.
There's an expression on his face you've never seen before.
"—on't move," He's saying, his low voice finally registering in your ringing ears. His hazel eyes are fixed on your face, darting about quickly. "You'll re-open your wounds."
He's talking about your wounds but for some gods forsaken reason, all you can think is how surprised you are that he came back.
The thought loops endlessly, like a holy mantra —he came back, he came back, he came back— and you realise that you were both terrified and also sure that he wouldn't be coming back at all.
That somehow, somewhere along his trip back to his home, he would have realised you weren't anything worth coming back for.
"Azriel?" You wheeze.
Just to check—you have to check.
Maybe he's a mirage. He certainly would be the kindest mirage you can think of.
You think you see something soften on his face, his wings dropping an inch lower behind him. His hands are still held out before you, still waiting. He's endlessly patient. His shadows seem to slow a bit, less frenzied.
"Yeah," He murmurs gently in response. His hazel eyes burn as they take in the sight of you again. "They got you pretty messed up. huh?”
You're sitting on your bed still, you realise. Blinking slow, you take an inhale, trying to put together how he got here— your eyes fly to the door. It's locked, this time with both deadbolts secured.
Azriel follows your gaze, turning his head slightly. "They're a good precaution. Don't be dissuaded that the spymaster of this court managed to get past them."
You wheeze again, some delirious laugh that gets cut off when pain splinters through your side. You groan lowly, unable to hold it in and your hand creeps slowly to paw at your side.
Faintly, you can feel the scrape of bandages on your skin, covering the wound, and sigh in relief. It makes your diaphragm sink down, the bindings around your chest shifting and that sends a frantic bolt of alarm through you once more.
“You—” The word scratches out your throat and you cough weakly. Every instinct starts to light back up, hackles rising— there has never been someone else around when you're too weak to defend yourself. It takes a moment with eyes closed and measured breaths to lean into your trust. You trust him, you know you do.
“You... patched me up?”
The question comes out wary and pointed despite your efforts. Though that might just be the gravel in your throat from having your face beaten in.
You don’t know how to covertly ask if he saw— if, that when he pushed your bloody shirt up to nurse the slash in your side, he noticed the gauze around your ribs.
It's an alien and terrifying thought, Azriel finding out. A worry deep in the marrow of your bones warbles in response, a thousand hairs standing up on end at the possibility.
How a revelation of that magnitude could sever the first trust you've had in years.
How it could lose... the first friend you've ever truly had.
A string of nausea tugs in your throat, bile threatening, and you have to swallow it down with the crippling fear that's been thrust into your system.
This is how it goes. The intrinsic balance of the world —to be gifted closeness and friendship, is to submit to the possibility of losing it.
Back against the wall, it settles into you very starkly, a thought sharp and clear; you do not want to lose him in any way.
Some part of you thinks he must see you as some kind of starving mutt, growing far too attached to the first hand that feeds it. But looking at him now, his shadowed face and kind expression, the depth of his eyes... you're convinced he sees something more to you.
And you want him to, desperately.
In a way you can't comprehend, can't begin to understand— how can you be so tied to someone you've known for so little? How can it hurt so much to be parted from him when you're barely friends? When he doesn't even know who you truly are.
Perhaps, you think, this is what all friends are like. You wouldn't know, you haven't had any before.
Azriel nods mutely, a strand of his dark hair falling over his forehead. He seems to be considering his words carefully and you take the moment to steal a few deep breaths.
When he speaks, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard. "I understand that might be... crossing a line. But—" A waver in his voice. "— but I could smell the blood from out in the storm."
There's something left unsaid in his sentence, his tone clipped. Whatever it is, you're far too tired to discern it. Your body, overwhelmed with tension, abruptly loosens as the perceived threat of danger seeps away. It drains you, a sudden wave of tiredness cresting upon you— because you know, undoubtedly, you're safe now.
Not quite meaning to but unable to stop yourself, you sink down and fall limply against your bed. Your wing curls over you defensively, a blanket and shield all in one.
Azriel's hands finally lower, resting gently atop his thick thighs. His shadows dim their chaotic activity, almost lazy with how they whirl about his neck and shoulders. You wonder absentmindedly what they feel like against his skin.
Looking back at his face, you find his eyes haven't broken their watchful gaze on you— intense enough to stir up an unfamiliar warmth within your chest. You avoid it and his eyes, your tired eyes catch sight of something behind him.
"You brought...?" You can't quite finish your sentence, a vicious shiver wracking your frame, making you curl up closer. Tiredness chases it, the threat of sleep looming closer and closer.
Your eyes close without meaning. In the darkness, Azriel's voice swims before you, muted and far away.
"You have to get better before I can give it to you." His voice has dropped to a whisper. It makes your lips twitch in an attempt of a smile. It's funny, hearing a legendary Illyrian warrior like him whispering.
"Okay," You might say back— though you're not sure if it sounds like a word at all.
