it's nice to have a friend (2)
pairing: Azriel x Reader
content warnings: apathetic parental figure, death of a parent, abuse from a guardian, implied domestic violence, canon-typical violence, menstrual cycle/blood, anxiety/fear, heavy emphasis on (and depiction of) maltreatment of females and misogyny in Illyrian culture, language, angst, more yearning
word count: 9.8k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“I need your help.”
Azriel froze, his wings flaring out before turning around to face you. “Hello to you, too.”
You smiled sheepishly, your heart beating hard against your ribs. “Sorry,” you said, slowly closing the distance between you. The faelights lining the hall glinted in his eyes, mirth shining in his irises. There were no real signs of annoyance, and that relieved you more than it should—more than you had any right to feel. “Hi.”
Azriel smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you said again, warmth creeping up your neck.
Azriel’s smile widened.
You cleared your throat, hating the way the tips of your ears burned under his gaze. “I need your help,” you said again.
Azriel’s smile faded, his expression sobering. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to go to Windhaven.”
Azriel went preternaturally still.
The words made your stomach twist, sharp claws scraping at the inside of your chest. Just thinking of going back there made your heart race and skin prickle. You had only been back a handful of times, only on occasions where it was absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, this was one of those times.
You could not go back alone.
No matter how necessary the trip, you would not step foot inside that camp without someone else with you.
Without Azriel.
“Why.” His voice was cold with little inflection, the question not really a question at all.
You rubbed at your upper arm, shifting under his gaze. “Do you remember my friend, Freya?”
Azriel furrowed his brows, a clear challenge in his gaze. “Your friend.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine, a girl a few years above me that I ate lunch with.” It was too pitiful to argue that she was your friend—at least, that you considered her one. Even if she barely spoke to you, even if the most communication you held with her was not until after you fled Windhaven, and it was really only a channel of necessity.
She was kind.
And she was a victim of the same toxicity and abuse that you were. The only difference was that you made friends in higher places, and you got out.
Azriel nodded slowly, and you weren’t sure if he remembered her or if he was telling you to continue. It didn’t really matter.
“They found her body in the woods last week.” The words were hollow as they fell from your lips. Clinical and unfeeling. You kept the guilt and pain and anger shoved deep inside, hidden from the surface where they could fester.
Azriel stepped closer, mere inches now between the toes of your boots. His scent wafted over you, and his shadows extended out to curl around your wrists. You didn’t deserve their comfort. It was not yours to take—the same thought had sent you spiraling mere weeks ago in the kitchen above you—but you needed it. You needed the comfort so desperately there was nothing else to do but take it.
“What happened?” Azriel asked.
You shook your head, chest aching as you replayed the conversation with Rhys. “No one is talking. No one reported it. The only reason—” Your voice cracked, and you inhaled sharply, willing your emotions away. “The only reason we know is because I asked Cassian to check on her. It had been too long since I heard from her, and I was worried.”
“You talked with her?” Azriel asked, surprise limning his voice.
You nodded, staring at the floor. “Sporadically. Her, and a few other girls I grew up with. It wasn’t—it’s not friendship—not really. I just, I wanted—” You rubbed a hand over your face, steeling the tremble that was taking hold. “I wanted them to have someone they could turn to if they needed help.” You shook your head. “A lot of good it did.”
Azriel grabbed you by your shoulders, his grip firm and sudden. “Y/N,” he said, forcing your gaze to meet his. “This was not your fault.”
Your nose burned and your eyes started to water. “It feels like it,” you whispered. “I left them there.”
Azriel shook his head. “You survived. You had to leave. Y/N—” he said again, his hand coming up to pull your gaze back to him. “You had no choice.”
You couldn’t stop the trembling of your lip, and Azriel didn’t hesitate to pull you into his chest, your face falling against the familiar leather covering his chest. A sob fell from your lips, and he squeezed you tighter, one arm wrapped beneath your wings while the other hand held your head against his chest. “We’ll find out what happened to her,” he murmured against the top of your head.
You cried.
You cried in the arms of the male you loved and you knew you could never have, but would always want, and who had always been there.
~ ~ ~
“They clipped Lara’s wings today.”
Azriel stopped in his tracks, the crunch of his boots on the snow dusted forest floor falling silent. His shadows flew outward, moving haphazardly all around the two of you, swirling with restless anger that had nowhere to go. He clenched his fist, and slowly they slithered back to pool beneath his wings.
“Is she okay?” he asked softly.
You shrugged, continuing your walk. “I don’t know how any of them survive it,” you said, voice desolate with the inevitable future in front of you. “But her father was angry. She hid two cycles from him,” you said, then swallowed hard. “He did it himself.”
As if losing flight was not torturous enough. As if you were not horrified enough at the prospect of the camp healer stealing your wings power from you, what Lara endured was a new source of terror.
Azriel reclaimed his place beside you, matching his pace to yours despite his height over you. “My mother is terrible,” you murmured. “Cruel at the worst of times, apathetic at best.” You stretched out your hand to let a tendril of shadow weave between your fingers. Your lips twitched, just barely. “But it is hard to hate her when I see what they have done. When I think about what my father must have been like. It is no doubt a mercy that he died when I was just a babe.”
Azriel was watching you when you finally turned to look at him. “It could be me next,” you rasped.
He started shaking his head, but you didn’t let him speak. “I am fourteen, Azriel.” You huffed a sad and pathetic laugh. “I take the herbs Lara gave me, but even those only got her to seventeen—sixteen, really.”
Azriel grabbed your arm, stopping you. “Rhys’s mother was never clipped.”
You scoffed, pulling your arm away. “She is the Lady of the Night Court. Her mate is the High Lord and he stopped them.” You shook your head. “My mother is a widowed laundress that the camp lords look at as a speck of dirt on their boots.”
This time it was you who reached for him, your hand wrapping around his forearm and squeezing tighter than you should. “I can’t lose my wings, Azriel,” you told him, your desperation and fear clear in your voice. “Flying is all I have.”
He nodded, his free hand coming up to grab your shoulder. “I won’t let them take them.”
~ ~ ~
Windhaven was as cold and drab as you remembered. You didn’t understand how Cassian could stomach coming back here all the time. The air was bitter enough to make your lungs burn, and the scowls of the males that watched your every move made your stomach roil.
You hated how much this place still affected you.
Azriel walked beside you, his wings flared wide and with all seven siphons gleaming in the scarce sunlight that pushed through the overcast skies. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was close enough to feel his warmth radiate against you. You willed your spine into a rod of steel, your back straight and head held high, wings wide enough that they occasionally brushed against Azriel’s.
That was a statement in and of itself.
Azriel briefly met your eyes before he pulled open the door to the only tavern in Windhaven, where you would inevitably find Devlon. Azriel gestured for you to enter first. You nodded once, then stepped over the threshold. The air was musty and thick with the scent of sweat and booze, and you suddenly missed the bitter cold of the Illyrian wind. The door swung shut with a loud thud, Azriel’s chest briefly brushing your shoulder as he stepped behind you.
Your eyes scanned the seedy room, ignoring the leers and sneers of the males scattered around worn and decrepit wooden tables. It did not take long to find Devlon hiding in the back, tucked inside a booth in the back corner, his closest men surrounding him.
It did not take long for him to find you.
His eyes widened for a moment before they narrowed into a scowl. He tossed some coins on the table, his hand of cards following as you made your way toward him. “Lord Devlon,” you barked, your voice loud and sharp in the muffled murmur of the tavern. Azriel stayed a mere half a pace behind you. You stopped in front of his table, your eyes never leaving his. “We need to have a talk.”
He scoffed, then reached for his glass of amber liquid. “It’s not bad enough I have to listen to the bastard of a guard dog Rhysand sends every month?”
You felt Azriel bristle behind you. You felt his flare of anger and unbridled rage flare deep inside your own chest. You smirked, your eyes sharp and lips curled back just enough that it might even be considered a snarl. You leaned closer, your hand resting on the disgustingly damp and sticky tabletop as you met his eyes. “Come with me.”
Then you pulled back, and you walked out the back entrance, leaving Devlon and his men to bumble around like idiots in front of Azriel. You didn’t wait to hear the open and slam of the door before walking toward the fighting ring at the center of the camp.
You didn’t fight the self-satisfied smile that bloomed on your face as you heard the sound of two sets of footsteps in the freshly fallen snow. You made a show of looking around, but you did your best not to look in the direction of anywhere that might stab you through the heart. When the footsteps settled, when you felt that familiar grounding presence at your side again, you finally turned around to face Devlon.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” you drawled, he and you knowing very well the camp looks the same as it did five centuries ago.
“Get on with it,” he snapped, flinging his hand out. “What could Rhysand possibly want now?”
Your face turned stony, all faux amusement dropping from your eyes. “Who murdered Freya?”
“Who?” he had the audacity to sneer.
“You know who,” you snarled, stepping close. “Unless you mean to tell me that you don’t even know who lives and dies in your own camp.”
His eyes flared with undiluted rage, his throat bobbing. He glanced at Azriel behind you, his lip curling in disgust. “She was found in the woods. Stupid bitch wandered away from camp, made herself lunch for some animal.”
A gentle phantom touch brushed the back of your neck, soothing the flare of anger that roared inside you.
“Who found her?” you made yourself ask, voice tight.
“Her husband.”
“And you believed him?”
“You question the integrity of one of my generals?”
The words squeezed the air from your lungs. “A general,” you repeated. “Your general’s wife died, and you forgot who she was?”
Devlon didn’t respond.
You tilted your head back, folding your hands behind your back. “Forgive me if I do not trust your judgement of character,” you sneered. “We will be staying a few days.” You turned to Azriel, whose eyes were cold daggers pointed directly at Devlon. “We will continue this in the morning. Early,” you added, looking him up and down with blatant disgust. “Sober.”
You turned on your heel, heading for the only place you ever once called home in this wretched camp.
~ ~ ~
“Where are you going?”
You turned toward the voice that had appeared beside you, their jovial warmth friendly and unthreatening. Cassian was grinning as he fell into step with you, his hair pulled back with a leather tie he had undoubtedly cut himself. Pieces were falling down and around his face, and he squinted briefly as he pushed one out of his eyes.
You huffed, stopping. “Come here.”
Cassian blinked owlishly, but stepped closer anyway. You twirled your finger. “Turn around, and crouch down.”
He did as you asked, and when your fingers undid the loose knot in his hair his shoulders started shaking with laughter. “You’re a mess,” you grumbled.
“At least I tried to tame it.”
You rolled your eyes. “You could just cut it.”
He lifted a hand to his chest, his cheeks stretching into a grin as you pulled all of his hair back. “You wound me.”
You wound the leather around his hair, tying it in a tight knot, then patted his shoulder. “There,” you said.
Cassian rose to his full height, pulling you into his side with a grin still plastered to his face. “Thank you.”
You shoved him away lightly, continuing on your path. Cassian didn’t leave. “Where are you going?” he asked again.
“Flying,” you huffed.
“With who?”
You cut him a glance. “You are such a busybody,” you mumbled. “I’m meeting Azriel.”
Cassian’s brows raised. “You two spend a lot of time together.”
Your glare was sharper this time. “He’s my friend.”
“I’m your friend,” Cassian countered. “Your first friend.”
You huffed a laugh. “I didn’t know stealing my cookies was your version of friendship.”
He bumped your shoulder. “I did that once. Then gave you two back the next day.”
You smiled softly, then shrugged. You both knew that you really became close friends through Azriel, but it didn’t matter how. You had Az, Cas, and Rhys now. You weren’t alone. That’s all that mattered. “Azriel is my favorite friend.”
“Okay,” he huffed. “That one hurt.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, your grin widening when you found him glaring.
“No, but seriously,” he said, stopping you again with a hand on your arm. “Is there something—”
“Y/N.”
Your head snapped toward the familiar quiet voice, your smile morphing into something softer. The center of your chest warmed when you saw him, your heart racing as he walked closer to you and Cassian. He glanced warily at Cassian, an uncharacteristic uncertainty settling on his face. “I didn’t know Cassian was coming with us.”
Before Cassian could open his fat mouth, you shook your head quickly. “He’s not.” You looked at Cassian, smiling and raising your eyebrows pointedly. “He was just leaving. Right, Cas?”
Cassian looked far from pleased from you evading his interrogation, but acquiesced nonetheless. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’ll see you at training tomorrow, Az.” He clapped you on the shoulder, firmer than necessary, his eyes flaring with mischief and a promise to resume this conversation later—not that there was anything to talk about. “Thanks for your help, sweetheart.”
Your eyes widened, your cheeks flaring with heat at his stupid pet name, and knowing exactly why he said it.
He grinned, leaving the two of you alone with a half-hearted wave.
You took a deep breath, calming the flush of your cheeks before facing Azriel again. He was still watching Cassian walk back toward the camp. His jaw twitched, and he jumped when you touched his arm.
You smiled softly again when he looked at you. “Ready?” you asked.
He nodded silently, falling into step beside you. The clearing you usually met at wasn’t far.
“Is there something going on with you and Cas?” Azriel asked quietly. His shoulders were tense and his wings were flared, and his shadows were moving around him restlessly.
“What?” you asked. “No! He was just being an ass.” You waved away the notion, grimacing slightly. “As usual.”
“Oh.” Some of the tension visibly fell away from Azriel, his shoulders falling a bit. A small smile pulled at his lips when he looked at you again. It started to grow, and mischief glinted in his eyes the longer he watched you.
“What?” you asked again, growing wary.
He shook his head, looking away for a moment. “Nothing.” He licked his lips, the smile still fighting to stay on his face. “Did I tell you I learned something new?”
“No,” you said slowly. “At training?”
“Not quite.”
His arms reached out to circle your waist, and he pulled your body flush against his, sending your heart into a frenzy. You met his eyes in bewilderment, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement, and suddenly the two of you were engulfed in darkness.
In shadows.
You clung to Azriel as your body fell through some otherworldly ether, his shadows cocooning the two of you in a cool swath of silk as you catapulted through space.
Then light blinded you, and you buried your face in his chest before you started to freefall. You screamed as you plummeted, and Azriel laughed as his wings spread out, catching the two of you in the air with a harsh jolt.
You pulled your head away from his chest, just barely meeting his eyes. “What the hell was that?” you yelled.
Azriel’s eyes were bright as he carried you through the sky, the drag of your own wings against the wind not seeming to bother him in the slightest. He shrugged, meeting your gaze with a relaxed smile. “Rhys called it winnowing, but he said it feels different from when he does it.”
You were smiling as you shook your head. “You’re an asshole.”
Azriel grinned, and giggled when he spun the two of you around, the wind whipping at your face. “Your face was priceless,” he laughed.
“You could hardly even see it,” you scoffed.
Azriel looked lighter than he had in a long time—maybe since you had known him. He looked beautiful. You hated the dagger of worry that stabbed at your chest. “Maybe don’t tell anyone else about this?” you said carefully.
Azriel’s eyes shuttered, his jaw clenching. He nodded, as if he had already decided the same thing. “They already think I’m different enough—a threat.”
You shook your head, pulling one of your hands free from their clutch on his leathers to cup his face. “This is amazing, Az,” you said, voice as gentle as you could make it in the wind around you.
“I had to tell you,” he said.
“I’m glad you did.”
~ ~ ~
Azriel followed behind you silently, his presence warm at your back as you walked past roaming males in the dark of the camp. Only once you enter Rhys’s house—his mother’s house—and the door shut behind the two of you, did Azriel speak.
“I did not know we would be staying.”
You turned around quickly, guilt unfurling rapidly in your chest. “Neither did I.” You swallowed hard, looking around at the achingly familiar furniture covered with only a faint layer of dust. Cassian must come here. “I’m sorry. You can leave. I should never have—”
“I am not leaving you here,” he said quickly, moving close.
“I can’t ask you to stay here, Azriel. It’s unfair. You don’t deserve—”
“I can handle Devlon, and I can handle sleeping on this rancid land.” His voice was smooth and steady, his eyes not leaving yours. “I’m not worried about me,” he said quietly. “I’m worried about you.”
You breathed in deep, the dust floating around you scratching at your throat. “I’ll be fine,” you said, nodding as if that would make it true. “I need to do this for Freya.”
Azriel nodded, his hand coming out to rub your upper arm. “We’re going to find who did this.” His jaw clenched, the muscle in the corner jumping. “We might already know who.”
You let out a hollow, exasperated laugh. “How is it still like this?” you asked. “How are these things still happening? How is Devlon, of all Illyrians, considered the most progressive camp lord?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, his hand gently coaxing you to fall against his chest, his arms circling around your waste. “I’ve long thought they’re past saving.”
“It’s not fair.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you wanted to burrow inside of him. You wanted to cling to him like dew, and never leave. You wanted him. All of him. Forever.
~ ~ ~
“Azriel,” you rasped, leaning over his bed. You reached for him, shaking his shoulders far less gently than you should to wake a sleeping Illyrian male. “Azriel,” you sobbed.
He shot up in bed, his shadows flaring out to wrap around you. Not to protect him—to soothe you. You only cried harder.
“What happened?” he hurried out, sleep slipping from the panicked syllables. “Y/N?” He reached for you, pulling you down onto his bed as he sat up. “Hey—hey, what happened? Are you hurt?”
“She’s dead,” you hiccuped. You collapsed against him, your head falling into his lap as you curled up on your side. “She’s dead. My mother—”
Azriel’s arms held you tight, his wings curling around the two of you, a heavy warmth that dulled the sharpest edges of the cold terror protruding from your chest. You faintly heard the opening of a door. You didn’t care.
“She was the general’s mistress,” you rasped. “She didn’t know I knew, but I did. He—he—” Another sob tore from your throat, agony rippling through you. “What do I do? Where do I go?”
Azriel held you tight, rocking you gently. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
You fell asleep wrapped in his arms, with your head in his lap and his wings covering your trembling body, and tears slowly drying on your cheeks in the dark of night.
~ ~ ~
The mattress in Cassian’s old room was cold and lumpy, a worn down sack of cotton that was falling apart at the seams. It had surely been replaced in the five centuries since you left here, but it was long past due for another.
You wiggled around, the sheets catching around your feet and causing a flare of irritation in your chest. Eventually you yanked them down over your chest, your arms falling at your sides with a huff. Moonlight streamed in through the single window, no drapes to block it from falling across your skin. Your heart was beating hard in your chest, a half-beat off rhythm as your mind struggled to find rest in this place that had left so many scars on your soul.
Cassian’s scent lingered in the air, on the old shirt you had found shoved inside his wardrobe. It was familiar, at least. It masked all of the other acrid scents that bombarded you the second you stepped foot inside this camp.
You were still left feeling hollow. You ached from the inside out, and every minute that passed without sleep pricked against your skin—a stark reminder that you would be in no shape to confront Devlon in a few mere hours if you spent the night lying awake in the closest place you had to a childhood home.
Even if you were never allowed to live there.
The house was silent, save for your frustrated sighs. A stillness that felt more suffocating than peaceful falling over you. You tried to listen for Azriel, for his heartbeat, his breaths—anything to distract your spiraling mind—but it was utterly silent.
You knew he was still here. You could feel his presence, even if he was lying in the room across the hall. You couldn’t explain it, but you had always been able to feel him when he was near.
A sixth sense that was beginning to feel more like a curse than a blessing. A taunt, rather than a glimmer of hope. He was not yours to keep track of. He was not yours to want.
And yet, you knew the only thing, the only person, that could calm your racing mind and rising anxieties, was him.
It was selfish to take from him what he should be giving to another. It was selfish to hate the female that would one day have him, that had done nothing wrong but be blessed with Azriel as her mate.
He just—he had always been yours, in some twisted, round about way. Ever since you were young and naive and just happy to have a friend, he was yours. And you were his.
It was futile to talk yourself out of going to him. The wooden floors were rough against the soles of your feet as you opened your door, hesitating for only a second as you looked down the empty hallway, then walked toward Azriel’s door.
You fist hovered in front of the door, your heart pounding as you chastised yourself for wanting him—for needing him. You didn’t just want Azriel, you needed him like you needed air. If there was ever any doubt that he was a lifeline to your heart, this impromptu trip to hell had incinerated it.
You knocked. It was just a soft rap on the door, quiet enough that he might not hear it—if he were anyone else.
“Come in,” his muffled voice called.
Something warmed in your chest knowing that at least you had not been lying awake alone. You opened the door slowly, an unusual shyness cloaking you as you met his eyes. He was under his covers, his back resting against the wall at the head of the bed.
His torso was bare.
Your eyes lingered on his chest, on the curve of his pectorals that border the ridges of his abdomen. You watched the movement of a shadow that flitted across his stomach, then hid behind his back. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. Your mouth was dry when you said, “I can’t sleep.”
His cheeks seem flushed in the glow of the candle beside his bed. “Me neither,” he murmured.
You shut the door behind you, your eyes not leaving his. “Can I stay here?” you asked quietly.
Azriel nodded, his lips turning up so softly it melted one of the many icy tendrils curled around your ribs. He shifted closer to the edge of the far too small bed to hold two Illyrians, patting the small space beside him.
Your shoulders relaxed, falling from where they had been pinned close to your ears without you noticing. It was then that you noticed your legs were bare, and nothing but Cassian’s thread bare shirt was covering your skin.
In theory, this was not a big deal.
You and Azriel had been friends for centuries. You had seen each other in various states of undress in the most vulnerable and inopportune times, had cared for each other in moments of distress—this should have been nothing.
It still felt different.
It felt raw and intimate in a way you had never experienced, and you again felt foolish and guilty.
This was wrong. You should leave. You should leave, and not take advantage of your kind and unsuspecting friend when you knew you were only feeding your poor and delusional heart with misplaced hope that would logically never bloom to fruition. However, only your mind had the luxury of logic, and it was doing a piss poor job at protecting your feeble heart from further ruin.
You moved toward his bed, pulling back the covers and nestling down into the edge of the pillow behind him. Your nose was level with his hip with barely an inch between you, and your wings were drooping over the side of the bed, but you were infinitely more comfortable in here, beside Azriel, than you had been alone across the hall.
Azriel leaned over toward the bedside table, blowing the candle out with a small puff of air, then sank down into the bed so he was face to face with you, your heads sharing the lone pillow at the head of his bed. His soft cedar scent wrapped around you, his warmth enveloping you like a second blanket, and your eyes grew tired embarrassingly quickly.
You took in the muted hazel of his eyes, the flecks that glinted in the moon beams cast around the room, and you thought he might have been doing the same, his eyes never wavering from yours. Goosebumps pebbled across your skin, and the smile that pulled at your lips was entirely involuntary, pure content and love consuming your weary and battered mind for the first time in months—the Illyrian hell hole outside these walls be damned.
“Goodnight,” Azriel murmured, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion.
You might have moved impossibly closer, you might have let your legs brush his and your arms graze against the warm skin of his chest—it was purely due to the lack of space, of course. Azriel smiled softly at you, and his arms wrapped around your body, pulling you tighter against his chest, forcing your head to rest directly against him.
You melted into him, of course. His arms had always been where you felt safest, even in the darkest and most trying times of your life. There was no fighting it.
Even if that terrible, fleeting stone of guilt ricocheted through your body. Even if it just barely grazed your heart, reminding you of the precarious edge you were standing on, an inevitably agonizing heart break waiting for you below.
Tonight you would ignore it just a little longer. Tonight you would hide from your shredded soul in the arms of the male you loved, and would pretend, for just a few hours, he loved you too.
~ ~ ~
“Augustus makes an attor seem friendly.”
Your words were meant to be joking. They were meant to just be a jeering jab at your horrible cousin who you had never properly met, had not known existed until Devlon thrust you into his care the day after your mother’s funeral. Instead they sounded hollow and aching, entirely too much truth weighing them down.
Azriel noticed.
“Has he done something?” he asked quietly, as if he was afraid too loud a cadence might summon the wretched male to this desolate clearing.
You blinked, staring blankly at the snow below you. You were tired of snow. You were tired of the cold. Sixteen years spent living in eternal winter, and you were prepared to commit an atrocity if it meant you never had to see these snow-covered mountains again.
“Nothing new.”
You felt the tension rippling off of Azriel. His siphons littering his chest and arms flared, his copious stores of power simmering over. “That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s not good enough.”
Your head snapped toward him, your lips pulling back in an instinctive snarl. “It’s all I can give you.”
Azriel blinked, otherwise unflinching against your anger. “You’re keeping things from me,” he said quietly.
It was the truth, and it hurt, no matter how gentle he laid it in front of you.
Your mother was unkind. You even thought her cruel, once. Now you lived with a male who knew the true definition of cruelty. A male so toxic he made your hair stand straight on your arms and a chill ran down your spine every time you stepped foot through the door. A male who yelled instead of spoke, whose anger was a baseline state for him.
He was a male that used violence more than words. Who left bruises in his wake. Who reminded you every day he hated you, and he hated his uncle that impregnated the whore that birthed you, and was stupid enough to get herself killed.
What of his father? you sometimes wanted to ask. Was he stupid too? How did he die?
Speaking those words would be sure to get you killed.
A hand wrapped around your arm, the sudden touch making you flinch, your entire body curving away out of pure instinct. Your body froze when you realized what you did, when you recognized the scarred hand that had immediately fell away from you.
Horror sluiced through you when you met Azriel’s wide, vicious eyes. He was trembling, his shadows stretching out farther than he usually let them these days, his wings twitching behind him. “Let me see your arm.”
“No.”
“Y/N,” he said, your name spoken so low and slowly it forced your mind to slow down. “Let me see.”
“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice cracking.
Azriel’s jaw clenched, a puff of air leaving his nose as his hand squeezed into a fist, then slowly uncurled. “Please,” he asked gently. “I only want to help.”
“You have to promise me you won’t do anything,” you pleaded. Azriel’s throat bobbed as you stared at him. “Promise me, Azriel.”
“I promise,” he whispered.
You nodded, sniffing once to push away the tears that were beginning to burn at the back of your throat. You shrugged out of your jacket, exposing your bare arms to the bitter cold, and revealing the mottled bruises in various colors decorating your skin.
Azriel’s breath hitched when he saw. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and you hated that you still flinched when he touched your arm. He froze, staring at your face. You could only nod.
He continued his inspection, his hands gently grazing over your skin, careful not to hurt you. A tear fell from the corner of your eye, and you quickly wiped it away. Then his fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, squeezing the fabric tight, and when you finally met his gaze, gave him the permission he was seeking, he lifted your shirt.
“Y/N,” he said, his voice broken as he took in the purple blooms across your ribs. His fingers lightly traced the ridges of your ribcage, pulling away only when you sucked in a sharp breath as he passed over a sensitive area. He lowered your shirt slowly, and you could feel him staring at you, even as you stared down at the snow. “He could have killed you,” he whispered.
“He threatened to this morning,” you admittedly quietly, pathetically. “That was a first.”
He helped you slide your coat back on, doing up the wing slats silently with careful fingers.
“You need to report him?”
You laughed mirthlessly. “To who? Devlon?” You shook your head. “I’ll be fine.” You stood up from the boulder the two of you had been perched upon, your boot slipping just a bit before you gained your composure. “I’ve survived a year with him. I can survive more.”
“Y/N—”
“I’ll see you later, Azriel.”
~ ~ ~
“My condolences for the passing of your wife.”
The male leaning against the wall of one of the buildings surrounding the square, watching the young males train, lazily dragged his gaze up to meet yours. His eyes flit to Azriel standing behind you, a flash of contempt shining in his irises before he seemed to force it away. He met your gaze again, his arms still crossed over his chest as he said flatly, “My wife is dead. Your condolences mean nothing.”
“I’m sure,” you answered, forcing sympathy into your tone. “I grew up with Freya,” you said, watching him carefully. “She was my friend.”
The male went rigid, indignation and rage roaring behind his eyes. “She never told me she was friends with one of the High Lord’s whores. Though, it’s unsurprising.”
Azriel stepped forward, but you blocked his path. “What happened to her?” you asked, ignoring his disrespect.
His eyes narrowed, and he finally stood up straight. “She ran off in the middle of the night after letting her delusions mislead her. Guess she wandered too far, made herself a meal.”
You had no idea what he meant by that, but you knew in your bones you were staring into the eyes of the male that ended Freya’s life. And he was a general of one of the most respected legions in the Illyrian army. Rhys would terminate him immediately, with or without concrete proof—he would come and dig through his mind if that was what it took, but you wanted to handle this yourself. You wanted to force them to admit to their atrocities for once, and force them to do something about it.
“It’s just hard to imagine,” you pondered, voice floaty and distant as you turned to look out at the woods in the distance. “Five centuries she’s lived here…” You shook your head. “Do you have any children?”
“No.”
You looked him up and down, making no effort to hide your analysis of him. You pursed your lips, your facade falling away, and your stony armour falling back into place. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
You turned away, but you only made it a few steps toward Devlon’s quarters before an ear splitting scream rang through the camp. You flinched, stumbling back into Azriel, who caught you with steady hands. “What the hell was that?” you asked breathlessly.
The scream rang out again, this time sobs following after. It did not take long to find the source, two males dragging a young girl by her arms to the center of the square, her knees dragging on the snow covered ground. The males fighting in the wing didn’t even look at her.
They threw her to the ground.
Then they grabbed her wings.
“Get off of her!” The words tore out of you, loud and guttural as you took off for the young female lying in the snow, her skin bruised and discolored in a way yours once had been at that very same age. “Get your fucking hands off of her!”
The two males snapped their heads toward you, and only then did the clang of swords die out. Everyone was watching now, even some females coming out of the buildings scattered around. They sneered at you, ready to fire back, then their eyes fell to the presence at your side, to the shadows forming a thick blanket of smoke at your feet. Only then did they let her go, leaving her lying in the cold.
You shoved one of them out of the way, making him stumble, and Azriel was between the two of you before the male could react. You crouched down, gently helping the girl up. Tears streaked her cheeks, her hair damp from the snow and plastered to the side of her face. She was shaking. “Come on,” you said, voice steady. “Come on.”
She sniffed once, her eyes meeting yours, then taking in your leathers, and the way your wings were stretched wide behind your back, the way they were meant to. She nodded, letting you help her up by her arm, but she did most of the work. She glared at the male beside her, watching the two of you with pure disdain.
Then she spat at his boots.
He barely made a move before you shoved her behind you, and you grinned at the male. “You will not touch her,” you ordered, voice low and threatening. Then, looking around at all the males, and females, staring at you, you yelled, “In case you all forgot, wing clipping is banned by the High Lord!”
You stepped closer to the male that she spat at, shoving one finger against his chest. “You will not touch her,” you hissed.
You cast one last glare at the male, then turned around toward the girl. She was on her cycle. Your stomach twisted, too many horrific memories pressing at the edges of your mind. “Where is your mother?” you asked quietly.
She glanced to the side, to where a female was standing in the doorway of a tailor shop. Her hands were curled into tight fists, and her eyes were wide with terror and fury. You nodded toward the woman. “Go.”
The girl did not hesitate, running to her mother who embraced her in her arms, an unusually blatant display of affection in an Illyrian camp. You hoped her mother did not have bruises to match her own, but it was likely.
“What the hell is going on?” a grating male voice bellowed over the square.
You rolled your eyes, turning away from the mother and daughter once they hurried inside their shop to find Devlon, his eyes ablaze.
No one spoke. The general you had spoken to moments ago was gone, unsurprisingly.
“You are all dismissed,” Azriel ordered, his voice cold and lethal.
No one moved.
Azriel swung his gaze around the camp, his wings flaring wide and siphons gleaming. “Go.”
Everyone scattered, a dull murmur filling the square as males gathered their belongings, heading anywhere away from here. Azriel stepped in front of you, his body practically vibrating with rage. “Devlon,” he growled. “Wing clipping is banned in all Illyrian camps.”
Devlon’s eyes narrowed. “It is,” he agreed, begrudgingly.
“And yet, Y/N just stopped two of your males from clipping a girl they had pinned in the snow.”
Devlon said nothing, but the ire burning in his eyes made your blood rush through your head, a dull thump pounding in your ears. You stepped closer to him, the snow crunching beneath your boots with every slow step that brought you inches away from Devlon. You met his eyes, uncaring that he was taller and broader than you. You were not the terrified girl he once threw to the wolves with the flick of his hand five centuries ago.
“I will find out exactly what happened to Freya,” you hissed, venom lacing every syllable. “And I will personally see that any male that so much as thinks—” You stabbed Devlon in the chest with your finger, his nostrils flaring at the disrespect. “—of touching another female’s wings is dealt with appropriately.”
You leaned back, heart pounding as you looked Devlon up and down, your body vibrating with centuries of pent up fury and resentment and hatred for this wretched place filled with wretched men. “You forget your place, Devlon,” you spat.
“You fucking low-life bitch, mewing and preening for—” His words died with an abrupt wheeze, dark tendrils of shadow whipping around his throat and forcing their way inside his mouth, one even curling out of his nose. You stumbled back a step from the shock, Azriel moving in front of you with predatory grace.
“I would be very careful with your words,” he murmured, his voice cold and lethal. Devlon’s face grew redder by the second, his eyes starting to bulge as Azriel leaned down to meet his eyes. “I am not my brothers. I will not hesitate to find a new camp lord.”
The shadows pulled back, tucking beneath Azriel’s wings or wrapping around your ankles. Devlon keeled over just as Azriel stepped back, gasping and wheezing with watery eyes.
The look on Azriel’s face was pure disdain. “We’re done here.”
~ ~ ~
Panic clawed at your spine, sharp and cloying pain chasing after you no matter how far you ran.
You were so foolish. You knew, deep down, that it was only a matter of time before nature inevitably turned on you. It didn’t matter how many herbs and serums you stuffed down your throat day after day. Your cycle was inevitable.
You should have been prepared. You should have thought about its arrival beyond the bone deep dread that flooded your body every time you saw another girl in the mess hall with freshly clipped wings and sallow eyes. You knew you were only delaying the inevitable, and now it was finally here.
Maybe if your mother were still alive you might have hid it. Maybe she would not have cared enough to drag you to a healer, her own disdain for this camp possibly protecting you from its wretched customs. Or maybe she would have dragged you to the healer out of spite.
There was no doubt what Augustus would do.
He wouldn’t even take you to a healer. He would likely slash your wings to shreds himself, going farther than just robbing you of their function. He loathed your mere existence. The only reason you were not dead was his delusional dream of becoming one of Devlon’s prized generals, and Devlon was the one that had dumped you in Augustus’s care.
You knew as soon as he returned from wherever he slinked away to, as soon as walked through that door, he would smell the blood, and it would be over for you.
So you ran.
As soon as the cloying metallic scent hit your nose a.nd the stabbing pain shot through your abdomen, you stuffed your bare feet in your boots and shoved your arms in your coat and you ran. You wore nothing but a thin night gown underneath your leather jacket, your bare calves exposed to the bitter air and sharp cold of the snow-covered forest.
You had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run to. Nothing to help you survive alone in the Illyrian steppes, but all you could think about was that you would not survive the night if you stayed in that house in the center of camp.
You just had to make it far enough away from camp that no one could find you. No one could smell you. You just had to keep moving, even if the tears running down your cheeks were frozen on your skin and your hands were numb. Even if you felt like you were being ripped apart from the inside out and felt an uncomfortable and foreign moisture spread between your thighs. Even if you worried that the farther you fled into the forest, Illyrian males would no longer be your only threat.
Somehow you reached the clearing that you and Azriel would meet in, less frequently now that you were older. The open land that once felt freeing now left you open and exposed, entirely vulnerable. You sniffed once, ignoring the tears that clung to your lashes and stuffing down the slimy terror sluicing through your veins, and you kept running.
You managed to cross the clearing, catapulting into the tree line on the other side, hissing as a branch scraped your cheek. You were so tired, so weak, and you were in so much pain. The ground seemed to shift abruptly before righting itself, the trees spinning as you put one foot in front of the other, desperate to make it out of here. Flying was not an option if you wanted to go undetected, but running was rapidly failing you.
Your ankle twisted with a chilling snap, your foot falling into a snow covered hole. You careened forward, unable to catch yourself before landing sharply on your arm, the snow doing very little to cushion your fall. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood as you stifled your scream, a sharp gasp leaving your lips as you pushed yourself to sit up and pulled your foot from the sunken in ground.
You were trembling, and your head was spinning as you fought to catch your breath. Terror stabbed your chest as a male materialized in front of you, his wings stretched wide behind him, the moonlight illuminating his silhouette.
You were going to die.
“Y/N.”
You shut your eyes, a pathetic whimper falling from your lips as you shook in the snow, waiting for the inevitable.
“Y/N, it’s me,” he said again, voice soft and familiar.
You forced your eyes open, Azriel’s scent wafting over you as he crouched beside you.
Terror still clung to your skin, your world spinning and reality crashing down around you. You started shaking your head, fresh tears falling from your eyes. “Please,” you rasped. “Please. Please.” Your voice broke around your sobs. “Please don’t—” You coughed, and you leaned forward as another sharp pain stabbed at your abdomen.
“Hey—hey,” Azriel said hurriedly. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Y/N, I would never.”
His words sloshed around inside your head, tumbling around and around as you tried to listen. You slumped forward suddenly, and his hands shot out to catch you, but you quickly flinched away.
“No. Y/N, hey.” His hands were still firm on your arms, his warmth radiating into your frozen skin. “You’re safe with me.” He looked you in the eyes, and his muted hazel irises in the dark of night stared back at you, warm and familiar, even if they were laced with panic. “Are you hurt? What—”
He suddenly went rigid, his nostrils flaring as he quickly scanned your body, and you got to watch the realization dawn on his face. A swell of mortification mixed with your fear, even if you were in agony and crumpled in pain on the cold wet ground.
You stared at him, your lip trembling ever so slightly. “Please don’t make me go back,” you whispered.
Azriel’s face fell. “Y/N—”
You were shaking your head again. “I can’t lose my wings.” You gasped for air, fighting the sobs pushing at your throat. “I can’t, Azriel. It’s the only thing I have. Please—”
“No one is going to touch your wings,” he swore, and for a half second, you wanted to believe him. “But you can’t stay here. I have to take you back—”
“No,” you cried, your hand weakly clutching the front of his leathers. “No. Please—”
Azriel’s gloved hands came up to cup your face gently, his warmth a balm to the stinging cold. “I’m going to take you back to my home. Rhysand’s mother won’t be home until morning, but she will help. While we wait, you can bathe, warm up, sleep. You will be safe there.”
You swallowed hard, your throat burning from your cries. “What about Rhysand and Cassian?”
His thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. “They will be there. Hey,” he said, coaxing your face back up to meet his when you looked away, “They would never hurt you. They’re your friends.”
You nodded slowly, your grip on his leathers going lax. Your fingers ached from the cold, and your joints were growing stiff.
“Okay?” he asked.
You nodded again.
“Good,” he murmured. He pulled his hands away, and he slid his leather gloves off. “Here,” he said, then took your hand in his now bare one, his skin hot against yours. He slid the glove over your hand, the material warm from him, and it was a relief so intense you nearly started crying again. He took your other hand in his, doing the same.
“There,” he hummed, then reached up to brush your hair away from your face. “I’m not leaving you,” he promised. “No one is touching your wings.”
You stared at him for a moment, taking in the fuzzy contours of his face that you knew like the back of your hand, even in the dark of night. You slowly fell back inside yourself, slowly came down from the terror and adrenaline that had pushed you through the Illyrian forests, away from Windhaven, and recognized the world around you.
You recognized the gentle stroke of shadows on your exposed calves. You recognized the cedar sent curling around you. You recognized the kernel of warmth in the center of you that came to life every time Azriel was near—even now, when you were panic-stricken and exhausted, it was still there.
You remembered that you trusted him, and you were safe. Maybe you should have ran to him, instead of away from Windhaven. Maybe you would have made things worse if someone had caught you. Maybe he would be angry that you had acted so rash, so foolish, when the sun rose over the horizon. There were a lot of uncertainties, many you would never have the answer to, but you did know Azriel would protect you, and he would never hurt you.
You forgot sometimes how quickly Illyria weathered boys into males, children into adults. Azriel was eighteen now, and while you could still see that eleven year old boy behind the mess hall with rosy cheeks and messy hair, he was entirely male now. He was formidable in every sense of the word. In the spring, he would complete the Blood Rite, likely alongside Rhys and Cass, and there was no question of if they would pass.
Everyone feared them. Everyone whispered about the Shadowsinger, but no one outwardly antagonized him—not anymore. If someone with too much gall challenged him, they learned their lesson quickly. Azriel was undoubtedly fearsome.
But not to you.
You never feared him.
You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him, and you tucked your head against his chest. His arms quickly circled your body, overly mindful of your wings, but his palm still rubbed soothing circles along your lower back. “Thank you,” you whispered. “I don’t know how you found me, or how you knew to look for me—” Azriel squeezed you a little tighter. “But thank you.”
Suddenly one of his arms was under your legs, and you whimpered as your ankle shifted, which he gently apologized for. Then he lifted you, and you were finally out of the freezing snow that had seeped through your clothes.
You let your head loll against his chest, grateful for the warmth his body radiated and the shield from the wind his shadows had slowly built around you. “Thank you,” you whispered again.
He pressed his lips to the top of your head, a gesture that was so sweet and fond and new that your heart flipped inside your chest, and you wanted to cry for an entirely different reason.
~ ~ ~
As soon as the door shut behind Azriel with a heavy thud, you whirled around to face him. “What the hell was that?”
Azriel blinked, stopping in the entry way. “You know Devlon is a piece of—”
“I’m not talking about Devlon, Azriel. I’m talking about you.”
“What?”
You shook your head, hands balling into fists at your sides. You felt suffocated, angry, and out of control. This house held too many memories. This entire camp was littered with knives sharpened by horrific memories that were ready to stab you at first glance. There would never be any forgetting, even after centuries had passed.
“I was handling Devlon,” you grit out.
“I know.” Azriel stepped closer. “I was there.”
“Then why did you—”
“He does not get to speak to you that way,” Azriel growled.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles!”
Azriel’s mouth opened and then snapped shut, as if he thought better of whatever he was about to say. “I am always going to protect you, Y/N,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before.
You swallowed hard, your nose burning as bile stung the back of your throat. “I don’t need you to.”
Azriel shook his head. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that. Don’t ask me not to—” He tilted his head back, and his shadows broke free from behind his back in shaky tendrils, a rare slip of restraint. “I have protected you since the day I met you,” he rasped. The words sounded strangled and desperate, and they knocked the air from your lungs. “I want to. I need to. Please do not ask me to stop.”
You wanted to spit something vitriolic back, just because you were hurting—for more than one reason—and he was standing directly in your line of fire.
Then you met his eyes, which were glossy in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, and his shadows were vibrating with barely restrained emotion. Your shoulders fell, and then you looked away.
“Let’s go home,” he said quietly.
You nodded, even if your chest was suddenly tight. “You should go.”
“No,” Azriel said, and you looked at him warily. “We are going home. I’m not leaving you here, and if either of us stay in this camp another damned minute we might actually murder someone.”
“But Freya—”
“Rhys will handle it.”
“It’s my responsibility, Azriel.”
“It’s your responsibility to take care of yourself,” he volleyed back. Then he said again, “Rhys will handle it.”
“But the wing clipping—”
“Will not be fixed overnight. Cassian will take care of it.”
You closed your eyes, an all-consuming sense of failure corroding away at your bones. What was the point? What was the point of any of this if you could not help these females? Over five centuries of fighting and arguing and defying and still, nothing had changed. It was not enough. You could never do enough—
“Stop,” Azriel growled, his hands suddenly on your shoulders. “Stop. This is not your burden to bear alone. It’s not yours at all. None of this is your fault.”
You started to protest, but he leaned down closer to meet your eyes. “But you care,” he said softly. “You care about the females in this camp, because you are good. You are kind and compassionate and good, Y/N. You have not failed them, I promise you. You saved that girl today, and we will help the rest of them. I promise you.”
It was too much.
You depended on him too much, because somehow his words had soothed your soul, muting the spiraling stream of toxicity in your mind. Somehow his touch grounded you, and reminded you who you were, and where you were, and who you were with.
You were never really mad at him.
You were angry at the universe, and Illyria, and the Mother, but never him. He had done nothing wrong.
You loved him so much you thought your bones might break from the weight of it.
Your heart might combust from the agony of knowing he belonged to another, because he was yours. He was always meant to be yours. You needed him.
You wanted to hug him.
You wanted to kiss him.
Maybe, this was still salvageable. Maybe Azriel felt this too. Maybe he would understand, and everything he had said about how happy he was to find his mate a few months ago was just the rambling of a drunken male. Maybe he was deflecting, and if you just kissed him—
Azriel stepped away.
His hands fell from your shoulders.
The permanent chill in the air seeped back into your skin.
He said again, “Let’s go home.”
~ ~ ~
part 3
~ ~ ~
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so sorry if I missed anyone (or accidentally tagged someone that didn't want to be). let me know and I will fix it/add you for the next part! :)
