May 30
Elriel Month Day 30th: SHELTER
🌸🪻Elain Azriel and peonies at Dusk🪻🌸
@elriel-month
seen from Canada
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seen from Malaysia
seen from Azerbaijan
seen from Croatia
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Croatia
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from United States
Elriel Month Day 30th: SHELTER
🌸🪻Elain Azriel and peonies at Dusk🪻🌸
@elriel-month
🌹✨ For the prompt "Belonging" for @azrielappreciationweek – This piece beautifully captures the quiet strength of Azriel's mother, who endured so much just to see her son for one precious hour a week. She suffered through his father’s cruelty, never breaking, all for those fleeting moments of connection. To a young Azriel, those visits must have been the warmest memories of his life—the only moments he truly felt seen, protected, and loved.
For Azriel, belonging wasn’t about a place; it was the presence of the one person who loved him unconditionally. She was his light, and her courage gave him hope in the darkest of times. 🌹🖤
⊱❊⊰
⤞ Art by @jennastokesart
⤞ Commissioned by me
⤞ Please do not repost without permission
⊱❊⊰
Lunch date 🫐🌙
HOW MANY STONES?
Ship: Elriel / ACOTAR
Summary: Azriel still struggles with touch months into loving Elain. But when tragedy strikes again and Elain is dead-set on pushing him away, he breaks. Basically a glorious Azriel “fuck it” moment on a very foggy island cliff that is their spot.
Warnings: Trauma, suicide/self-harm talk, mentions of sex, extreme angst, vulnerability, danger of falling
Word Count: 7.3K
Author’s Note: Started as an excerpt, ended up writing a whole chapter on Mr. Darcy’s hand flex. (Yes. Azriel does that thing.) Happy reading!
✦ MASTERLIST | MOODBOARD
Heavy mist had swallowed the island whole—the place that Azriel, begrudgingly, called home.
It was something he hadn’t accounted for when he’d winnowed them here in search of some desperate, long-overdue solitude. An oversight.
The ocean was only a rumor below them, a muffled roar against jagged rock behind the curtain of clouds, but he knew too well the truth of its drop—this cliff was the highest of them all. The mega beast of Lunara.
None of the wandering travelers and adventure folk bothered to trudge up here, for it was forbidden to indulge in any kind of seaside plunges from this altitude. Making it private enough to be his spot.
Their spot.
“But what of—of—” Elain’s unbecoming stutter cut through the pressing haze. Her arms wrapped around her nimble frame to master herself, breath pluming faintly in the early autumn smog.
And Azriel’s wings couldn’t help but bristle. Restless. As though wanting to shield her from both the low hanging fog and the words between them.
“What of—Mor?” She managed at last.
What of Mor.
Always what of Mor.
An elephant in every room he seemed to walk in lately.
Azriel had just thought he’d left those rooms behind long ago. So how was he entering them all over again?
“Not you too.” A bitter chuckle escaped him. His fraying control that always wore thin around her. “Especially not you.”
As if his words were spears, the doe-eyed female went rigid, and resisted the urge to flinch.
“Go ahead, then. Tell me.” He demanded dimly. “Tell me that I deserve it. Tell me it was written.”
Tell me to accept the bond.
The implication hung clear in the air.
A scarred hand loomed down his face. Heavy and exhausted. “Tell me what they have all told me.”
How could she possibly divulge this truth—another cruel fate emptied on their doorstep with such casual candor when her insides were still mourning him? Always mourning him. One crisis at a time.
“After everything they threw at us—after everything we have overcome—”
Azriel’s chest burnt bright with anguish, so distraught and besides himself, for wanting to scream at the fates. At anyone. If only he could scream. If only it meant they would hear him on time.
He settled on glaring at the patch of grass, gaze burning holes through it. Just days ago, they’d lain here—stars above, Elain going on about putting a portrait of them over his fireplace, and him laughing, agreeing. In this exact spot. And now this very ground was quicksand. Eager to sink them.
Then, her small, broken whisper—
“Five centuries, Azriel.”
No, he decided.
Real agony was, perhaps, this.
Her breaking up on his name.
Not Az.
Not love.
But Azriel.
And he had never despised his name more than in this moment.
“You have long yearned her affection. For years.” She said.
It was an effort to not fall apart.
To pretend she wasn’t breaking them both.
“And now she . . . ” Elain stumbled, damning the tremor in her voice. The pressure behind her eyes. “She is your . . . ”
Her fingernails clicked against each other, helplessly. A nervous habit.
She couldn’t say it. She wouldn’t say it. The word was a curse.
Tick. Tack. Her nails went again.
He clocked it. And he knew it wasn’t just grief. No, there was an underlying rot festering beneath it all. Because she only picked her fingers while hiding herself. Suppressing herself.
Which was exactly why he felt the urge to poke the wound before she buried it deep within her; aggravate her enough into confessing what really bothered her. It usually worked.
“My what, Elain?” Soft. It was so soft. But it held an edge.
“My mate?” Almost taunting. Teasing. Needling at her seams.
“Or the next excuse you conjure up to push me away?”
Azriel wondered how he’d ended up here, cajoling someone else away from swallowing his own cauldron-damning medicine that he’d dished out for years. The feast of self-sabotage. The sad art of keeping others at bay.
And it was bitter.
So incredibly bitter.
“Don’t.” She croaked. The sweat on her forehead—telling. The island breeze had little effect on it.
Azriel tilted his head, a Spymaster’s move. “You fear.”
She wanted to shrink under his watchful gaze.
“I fear for you. There’s a difference. At your chance with misery.”
And you think you would be misery for me?
He wanted to ask. He wanted to do so much more, and although the usually composed male was on the cusp of dramatic impatience—such big feat to truly get him here—he would dance. He would tip-toe. He would follow her lead, her willingness to give. Like he always did.
“And you reckon I know nothing of my own, hmm?” He feigned calm.
A growl threatened to unleash from Elain’s throat. She closed her eyes for a second. Let the distant sea waves lap over her distress. Wave by wave. Tide by tide. Let them wash the worst of it away.
And once she was ready, once she was ready to face his quiet indignation, she opened her eyes and dared a glance straight into his dark hazel ones, already staring back with intention.
“Shall I toggle that truth switch in my head for a bit, Shadowsinger?”
Azriel had only ever seen her nostrils flare out once in frustration once. It was endearing.
Even in anger, she was endearing.
“Toggle it. Give it to me straight.” He levelled, steely-eyed, appreciating the ritual they’d found in the wee hours of their conversations, now more than anything.
“How many stones?” She muttered, her gaze following the curve of his wings as they melted into the blanket of white. The mist was pressing in, thick and alive. She could barely see mere feet in front of herself.
The rocks at her feet would have to do.
“Five.”
Five?
“Feeling brave?” She quipped an eyebrow.
Fuck.
He could not express what a pure shot of adrenaline it was when sassy Elain came out to play. When the conversational toggle would allow her to shift into someone more honest and less accommodating. A version free of expectations and flakey politeness and diplomacy. And for him to be a little less stoic. A little more Azriel. For however many stone-throws they’d decide on—usually two.
It was their little ritual. Not that they had needed to use it much in the past year, honesty an effortless flow between them.
Until recently. Until—now.
“I have a mind for your candor today, my lady.” The Shadowmaster challenged right back. His lips threatened to curve at the edges. He smothered the urge.
The pair worked to collect five flat pebbles in companionable silence. Despite the tension. Despite their row.
It’d always been that way. Even when they would fight, they could still be around each other. There was understanding even in clash. Harmony even in descent.
“Go full force.” Azriel said quietly. “Don’t hold back.”
A few months ago, that would have rattled him to the core. Five truths. Full force. There was comfort in knowing there was little he was afraid of with Elain.
“Mother, you better count on it.” She murmured back, that sassy ire a little subdued but still very much present.
She toyed with the first shingle.
Maybe walking the Void had made her fearless. Maybe it was not any different than stepping into her mental mists. For her feet carried her into the dense fog, utterly blinded but calm. As if guided by memory. By instinct.
One step.
Five steps.
Ten paces.
On her eleventh and final step, Azriel’s shadows fanned out, unfurling like the tendrils of ink they were. They curled around her waist gently. Protectively. Willing her to desist, their master observing from a safer distance.
Shadows, of course. Never hands.
“That is far enough.” Soft but demanding.
“I know where to stop.” She bit back with no real bark, kinder than intended, not wanting to scare the little mischiefs away.
Just because they were fighting, she would not be cruel to them. Elain resisted a weak smile as one brave whorl of night tickled up her arm. Traced the wide expanse of her neck.
And the worst part?
Azriel could feel it all.
Inherently being connected to his Shadows through touch and sound proved incredibly tempting when it came to Elain. He could feel every dip, every mole of her skin. The rustle of her hair. And he had never been more envious of them. His own Shadows.
That sneaky little thing snagged at her collarbone. Knew exactly what it was up to.
The Spymaster glowered at it. It hid in her hair.
“I know you do.” He explained gently. “I would rather not take my chances.”
Elain muttered a string of curses beneath her breath, something about an overprotective bat, a liberty she only allowed herself around him or in solitude.
Bright golden light poured out of her hands, her magic imbuing the rocklets with a luminous glow, and it would glow enough to last the next ten minutes.
Azriel cleared his throat and withdrew his shadow wraiths, wiping the awe off his face out of habit. Like he did everytime he watched her channel her magic in public, and realized there was no need. Not here.
Not with her.
“One.”
That was her only warning before she drew her arm back in the most un-ladylike manner possible, and chucked the first one into obscurity.
“You are scared of Mor. Of her rejection.”
The honest speculation left her lips in a hurried declaration before the rock could hit the water, and it did shortly, resounding echoes in its wake.
It wasn’t a question per se but he had avoided enough versions of it from his brothers over the years to heed the conquest in them. A cutting one. One he was never sure how to answer without betraying his deepest insecurities.
“It has less to do with her. And—” He cut himself off. Each word was timider than the last, acquiescing more information about this part of his life than he’d ever allowed himself to reveal. “Next stone, please.”
The female furrowed her eyebrows. “That does little to answer the question.”
The Shadowsinger knew Elain would not judge. Far from it. But he felt his primitive walls trickle back up anyway. It was instinct. It was habit. It was too hard a subject and he wondered if he had overestimated his ability to dispense his secrets at full throttle.
A sigh fluttered out of her. At his silence. “You deflect, you fetch the stone. I believe you know that rule very well.”
He did indeed. Had dived off this very ridge on countless occasions to retrieve the gleaming beacon, choosing the plunge over the risk of opening up. And although flying was a real pain in the ass once wet, it had been easier that way. Until easier had become talking to Elain.
Right here. In this spot. She had stolen more than just his secrets.
“In this weather?” He raised a brow, stalling.
“If that is what it takes.” Elain shrugged.
Lie. The lady lies. His Shadows hissed.
Azriel only replied with a slight roll of his eyes, one that made him look younger. Boyish. Carefree. Such a normal gesture. But her traitorous heart leapt anyway.
She’d bet a treasury on the fact that the Inner Circle would throw a fit if they saw his face so expressive while airing out confessions without much thought or premise. A rare sight indeed.
Only here, would he let himself show. Only here would he be completely Azriel.
And she wondered how much longer could she afford this version of him; had the right to. After all, this was just a stolen moment.
Az swayed a little on his feet, letting his instinct guide his movements as he felt his mask slip off gradually. As he let the Spymaster dissolve into Azriel, the boy in the cellar. Brick by brick. Consciously. Willingly.
“Fine.” He sighed, perching on a giant rock. “Maybe I was. Maybe it was safer that way.”
Elain soaked in his brave moment of verity. She knew better than to interrupt him.
“Mor.” He tested the name on his tongue.
It felt . . .
Ordinary. Bland.
“Mor was a punishment.” He rasped, sounding raw. As if his thoughts scraped on their way out, fighting to stay in. He dared not spare a glance at Elain, see the pain reflect in her eyes.
“She was a dream I could never . . . ” Words betrayed him again. Azriel shook his head, letting Elain draw obvious conclusions out of them. Obvious to him. What he thought was obvious to her based on their past conversations.
But Elain’s head was shrouded in regret. Doubt. Pain. For him and Mor. For herself. For what could have been, and still can be. It snagged on the words she was a dream like a chant, like a sucker punch to her gut. But she held.
Just a little bit more.
“And there are conversations I would like to have with her now,” Azriel continued, “but none interest me in digging through the past.”
“What kind of conversations?” Elain found herself digging her grave.
He gave her a pointed look. “That’s another stone, love.”
She frowned, ignoring the scarlet blush that was now crawling up her neck. Love. There were other terms of affection that got her skin burning brighter but even the plainest ones from him left her body betraying her. So very easy.
She wordlessly threw a pebble over the cliff.
“What kind of conversations, Azriel?”
Splash.
“About rejecting the bond.” He shrugged in a matter-of-factly way, finally easing into it.
And maybe he didn’t see her jaw drop.
And maybe it was all an elaborate pretense.
So she dared her objection loud and clear—
“You cannot.”
Not for me, were the words she didn’t need to say.
Azriel’s eyes flashed. “Why not?”
Because I am not enough.
Because I cannot compare.
Because I cannot mourn you again.
Because—
The voices came in unbidden.
She swallowed and looked away.
The Shadowsinger’s eyes darkened, reading her silence for the turmoil it was. He felt his control slip faster now that he had his guard lowered, at the hypocrisy—the familiarity of it all.
He chose not to call her out on it. And instead roused, “So you can use Truth-teller to cut off yours but I do not have the liberty to choose for mine? To do the same?”
Ruse. This was all a ruse until he could get her to admit her real troubles hidden religiously under a layer of self-deprecating altruism. He knew her too well at this point.
“Funny.” He scoffed.
Elain wished she could refute him with a simple I am worried you shall go insane anecdote but he had seen it firsthand; had handed over Truth-teller of his own accord as she’d imbued it with her light and cut out her bond with Lucien.
No one had resorted to insanity.
Another stone.
“Three.” Elain started quietly, way too quietly, “I fear you may be doing it out of wrong reasons.”
Splash. The pebble hit.
“Define wrong to me.” His jaw clenched.
She drew a breath and took another swing. The fourth one.
“I am afraid that you have been so reluctant to talk to her, talk about her for so long that you would—”
Reach for me only because she will not.
Because it is easy.
She could’ve finished the sentence but she didn’t.
The rock landed on the waterbed with a distinct plop. Drowning. Symbolic to what she felt at present.
Jurian's’ words drew front and center in her head.
Five centuries worth of infatuation, the resurrected General had once drawled, that is five human incarnations. It doesn’t just go away, you know?
Elain knew better than to trust the male’s word but she knew a thing or two about human lifetimes. And what five hundred years actually meant.
She hated that Jurian had been the one to tell her.
She hated that she could not refute it.
She hated that there was some logic to it.
“Finish the sentence.” Az ground out. He sensed the direction of it, and the knowing only tightened the knot inside him.
“That is another stone, love.” She snapped, repeating his words from before.
Elain couldn’t be more thankful to the stupid rules of this stupid ritual at present.
That tick in his jaw intensified, eyes never leaving her. “I think you and I are past our ritual at this point. Finish the sentence, Elain.”
Pressure mounted again as she stared at him. As he stared back.
There was too much intensity—history between them. Too much left unsaid despite the truths. The confessions. It weighed heavy on her heart. And so, she didn’t care to speak or explain. Because he was right.
They were beyond this dance of pretending.
Elain let the fifth stone fall dull against the moss.
She let it go.
And opted to turn away, her feet meandering a couple steps further into the mist of their own accord. Away from this palpable tension for a moment. To the unseeming ridge-line, the sounds of the shore, seeking a reprieve.
Her gaze caught onto a barely noticeable glint in the far right corner below, shimmering through the milky depths.
Her stones.
Their light cut fog.
Her light.
Curiosity moved her closer.
“What are you doing?” The Shadowsinger’s distant call.
One. Two.
She counted ignoring him. He could wait a second.
Three stones.
Where was the fourth?
Another step.
“Elain.”
The gravel hissed beneath her feet, heel scaping the edge as it scattered into nothingness.
The cliffs edge.
Realization set in and it was natural instinct to pull back. But before she could do anything, think anything else—
Shadows exploded around her.
His growl was next.
“Stop.” A pure command.
The voice of the Spymaster of the Night Court.
Startled, she whipped around, wide-eyed. The ink locked in tight, dragging her slightly closer to him but not enough to touch—never enough to touch. They made it impossible to move.
Azriel’s heart thundered.
Gods, did it thunder.
He didn’t care she hadn’t fallen through—his body had reacted as though she had. His legs had moved on instinct. Absolute panic had set in, his wings flaring wide, ready to leap after her. He looked haunted.
“Do you even know what you—” He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, reaching for the last shred of his control. He would not rage. Not at her.
His fingers flexed uselessly by his side. Clenching and unclenching. Warring with the instinct to shake her, pull her into him.
Elain tracked it. Tongue-tied.
“You could have taken the fall.” Azriel forced tightly once he had gathered his bearings.
Cliff diving was a popular sport on his island; had introduced it to Elain sometime before the end of War. A good way to relieve stress. And although reluctant at first, she had been taken by the adrenaline of it. The way it made her feel free of all her obligations and worldly troubles.
Sometimes, it helped her wind down. And other times—pranks. On countless occasions now, she had teased him. Pranked him by jumping off one of the lower ranks on the Western ridges mid conversation, laughing. Knew it would loosen him up to let his guard down in the cocoon of their privacy.
But here, in this near impenetrable wall of smog, if he had lost her. If he had not been able to reach her. If—
“If this was a prank—” His throat constricted.
Elain blinked out of her stupor and registered the dread in his tone. The utter panic.
“The stones. They . . . ” She sputtered. It seemed astronomically stupid now. “I—just needed a minute to myself.”
Azriel’s skin was ashen. She noticed the beads of sweat lining his neck. The set of his jaw.
Elain couldn’t help but soften.
“I am well aware this cliff is off limits.” She added gently.
He looked at her like he wanted to touch her. Damn his insecurities. Damn the voices in his head. She wished he would too. Truly. Knew if she extended her hand out to him, he would cling to it. Snuggle her into his chest and not let go.
But if there was no offer, if there was no permission, there was no reaching out unless she was in immediate danger. Not even in his sleep. There had never been a morning when he had woken up wrapped up in her and not apologized.
“I am sorry, Az.” She coaxed. Soft.
The endearment bloomed on his skin like a faint scarlet letter. He averted his eyes finally, and exhaled, letting his wings fold and shadows uncoil. Swift and graceful.
“Perhaps, we can take this conversation to Rosehall.” His voice was hoarse. Rough. A distant hollow of the anger he had dulled.
Eye contact was lost to him as he kneaded his forehead adorably. Perhaps, another headache. Her fingers itched to fix it like they always did but she sealed the urge and settled for acknowledging his earnestness.
Elain opened her mouth to agree. But then—
Azriel’s hand flexed again. One of his most obvious tells.
Open. Close. Open. Close.
He made no move to touch her, of course.
Instead, he clasped them behind his back.
It irked her. Immensely.
“Will you resist touch forever?” The words tumbled out of her, softly. With reckless abandon. Colour bloomed on the back of her neck, at the way he snapped his head to hers. This was a subject she knew not to address, an unspoken agreement. But here she was, addressing it anyway. Benevolence was beyond her at the moment.
“Your fingers—they are tensing again.” She appended quickly.
Azriel felt at a loss, so he ended up saying, “I want you to move away from the edge.”
His deflection stung.
Deep down, Elain knew it was years worth of self-hatred. Of thinking he ruins and not caresses. Time and again, she had tried to remedy it, helped him overcome it. It was an ongoing exercise. And usually, she was a deep well of patience for him. The epitome of a gentle, waiting spirit.
Today, she was exhausted.
Today, what she deemed honour, was just fodder for the niggling voice inside her head. For she was fighting her demons too. At full volume.
So she found herself challenging him—
“Move me yourself. Without your Shadows.”
“I . . . ” The Shadowmaster's face slacked a bit. The female never failed to surprise him. “Then, may I?”
“No.” Elain declared. “Don't look for my permission. Do it because you want to. Because you feel like it.”
A pained expression housed his visage as he appeared more torn than ever. “You know I—cannot.”
“You cannot or will not?” Her mouth pursed, flooding with immediate regret. For not being considerate. For pushing his limits. But it was too late and too childish a remark to take back.
Silence prevailed.
And she wondered if someone else was indeed the mender.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough—
Feeling defeated, Elain sighed and walked past him toward the same rock he’d perched a moment ago, and resorted to pace there.
Azriel released a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“It could be better with a mate.”
The suggestion rushed out unannounced. Almost as if it held power to swallow her alive if barred any longer.
He tensed. “Not this again.”
“Maybe the key is to—”
“You don’t know that.” Az shut the thought down, shadows anxious behind him.
“Well, you don’t either.” She snapped back.
“This has nothing to do with a mate. Everything that I do—” Raw emotion made him falter. “Everything that I hold ends up—”
“Breaking?” Her laugh was wet. Unsteady.
They have had to have this conversation one too many times.
“And yet the only one that ends up breaking is you, Az.”
It was utterly tragic. Two quiet individuals with grave self-worth issues trying to get each other to see their true value.
Enough. It had been enough.
“Give the bond a chance, Azriel.” There was no debate there. “Maybe she can do what I—”
“No.” There was no debate there either.
“After all those years of pining, it cannot just—”
“No.”
His unflinching resolve was an echo across the expanse. Firm and resolute.
She let out a long exhale. “This is exhausting.”
The Spymaster’s jaw could cut stone, grinding. She could tell he was hanging by a thread, trying to tame the sleeping beast beneath his skin when he barked, “To that I will gladly concur.”
The constant hammering in her head intensified.
It was too much. It was too real.
Elain was losing fight and she knew it.
“The Cauldron heard you.” She tried again. A plea this time. Desperate.
“It chose her. For you. Please, I beg you to think about the—”
That’s it.
The thread snapped.
“The Cauldron does not LIVE inside my chest.”
Azriel’s icy wrath came full force, blazing hot, finally at his wits end. And he could do nothing to stop it.
“It does not FEEL what I feel, does it?”
Elain felt her mouth part in awe. At the jagged emotion on his face. So unfiltered. So raw.
“I do. I feel. And—”
It felt good. To burn. To rage so openly.
“It. Is. Not. Her.”
Each syllable was a deliberate punch through his teeth. Harsh. Determined.
It is you. It is you. It is you.
He would have said it too but Elain read his determination for condemnation and hissed right back—
“And if you think I am letting you give up on the dream that you let go of, then you are mistaken.”
Azriel froze, stunned.
Is that what she thought?
Elain had prided herself in doing the right thing all her life. The polite thing. The kinder thing. There was never a debate about it in her head. It was for the greater good, the conditioned voice would say. The voice of reason.
But right now, right this second, she wanted to shut it all out and see what happened. It was an impossible impasse—choose to be just and lose the one. Choose to be selfish and damn his life.
So she forced herself to say, “Me? I am no one.”
Azriel flinched.
She was not no one.
She was everything.
“But if you let her go right now, you will wonder what if you had not. What if you had fought for her when it mattered. Heeded your miracle.”
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.
Emotion was thick in the air.
“And one day you will wake up—and regret it.”
There was immediate fight in his eyes, and hers was barely hanging, glistening with unshed tears. She continued, now just a shade softer.
“You will regret me.”
There it was.
There it was.
Azriel felt his heart shatter in his chest at her confession. As if he was looking in a mirror and she was his reflection.
“Because I . . . ” Her voice broke. “There is no reality in which I can compete or survive that.”
A tear fell. And then another.
“So, please.”
Walk away. Stay. Walk away. Stay.
Elain looked down to camouflage it all. The juxtaposition of her thoughts. The vulnerability on her face. Praying the angle would cover it. Praying he wouldn’t notice at all.
But he did.
Of course he did.
Her crumbling facade. The droop of her shoulders. The curl of her toes.
It was second nature to him at this point. A habit. Reading the language of her.
He didn’t need a bond to do any of it. She was woven into him like the wind in his descent. Like the very vermillion of his veins. And it had been that way since the moment she’d chosen kindness and nothing else the first day he’d met her.
She’d white-knuckled a fork out of fear and still held up a decent conversation to settle the room. How easy it’d been for her to slither in, make everything fade away. Not just a dead-end affection but his comfort zone too. His restraint. His beliefs.
And since that day, it was impossible for his attention to not snag on her. To not try to figure her out. The story of the sister who’d left his High Lady fending for herself but wasn’t afraid to assume accountability. To let her sincerity shine through and mean it.
Was it admirable? Was it deceit?
The question kept him company through his sleepless nights.
And for the longest time, he pretended he didn’t already know the answer.
So, he’d observed her. He’d told himself that was all there was to it. Duty. He was fulfilling a duty. The Shadowsinger’s usual knack—watching for threats. Studying the newer subjects. Linger in hallways to eavesdrop on her conversations but end up losing focus when her quiet laughter bloomed. And overtime . . .
That laugh.
It had grown into a wind chime, like the one hanging on his window. It’d play on repeat before bed, and sleep would miraculously grace him for an hour or two.
Her frown had become a personal offence. To his shadows, more so.
And her tears meant War.
War.
And witnessing those traitors trail down her cheeks was nothing less than a war cry.
It was then that he decided he would spill blood to put the light back in her eyes. It was then that he vowed he would fight for her. Fight himself. And there would be no remorse. No self-deprecation. Only cruel satisfaction.
The thing in his chest pounded. Hard.
The realization had struck a cord.
And—
“Fuck this.” Azriel’s centuries worth of restraint unraveled. Hard.
In one swift stride, he was in front of Elain, standing toe-to-toe, shadows curling low around his boots.
“Petal.”
Hope bloomed in her chest, at the way he said his—her favourite endearment out loud, always like something revered and sacred. But she refused to look at him, eyes feigning interest at the Cobalt of his siphons on his knees. The back of his fisted hands.
“You are right.” He breathed.
And that hope?
Guttered out.
It drove a knife through her spine.
She braced herself.
“If I let her go . . . ” A beat. “I will wonder. I always do.”
But no amount of steeling could have stopped her from flinching. It’d be a lie if she said that didn’t kill her inside.
“I will wonder what if I had fought for her beyond my self-worth. Beyond what I believe is in my league.”
In through your nose. Out through your mouth.
“She is my miracle from the Heavens. Verily so.”
Hearing him say those words—she knew. She knew there would be no coming back from him. Not this time.
But she had done this to herself, and it was time to pay.
“And indeed, I shall rue the day she lets me go because I could not try.” The timbre of his voice was heavy and soft at the same time. It was lulling and tearing in union. Like two seas evidently at strife with each other.
How could he have such power?
Why did he have such power?
“So, I will try.” He declared, the finality of it enough to convey he had made up his mind. And there was no changing it.
In answer, her body turned away, defeat flooding her with a force she never knew could rattle her soul, shake her with silent sorrow. She was the very face of despair in the moment. True devastation.
And she shook as his footsteps carried him away.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Each step, debilitating.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Further and further out.
With every beat.
She didn’t hear him return though, the taps in her direction. Didn’t hear anything but the drums in her ears. The woe in her chest. The crack in her knees as they finally gave out.
But they never hit the ground.
No.
Something had wrapped around her middle—arms.
Azriel’s arms.
His—arms?
Two fat tears landed on his forearm as she beheld its impossible presence holding strong and steady across her waist, a guttural sob escaping her finally. Loud and unrestrained.
And so, the dam broke.
Her chest heaved as emotions ransacked her bare. Grief. Anger. Love.
And he only tightened his hold, only draped his wings around them. A cocoon of safety. She felt him nuzzle in her neck reluctantly, testing as though rushing it would make her one and the same as the mist around them. As if he had the power to mist her.
He did.
Though not by touch. Never by touch.
And Azriel was touching her.
Of his own will.
The realization made her shudder harder.
Her let her cry until she had no more left. Until her sorrow was nothing more than a whisper of hiccups echoing off the walls of his membrane.
And once it had reduced to light sniffles, the Shadowmaster turned her in his embrace, his eyes snagging on her face—nose red and blotchy. Face exhausted. Hair sticking to her forehead. Lips chapped like waves on the ocean, frozen in time.
Yet still, she was utterly Elain.
Utterly breathtaking.
His left hand came up to her face. Trembling. It hovered there, as if fighting every last nerve in his body telling him to retract. To atleast leave her face unsullied.
But he dismissed that voice.
Let it scream.
Let it scream unworthy as he landed her sweat-ridden forehead in the most feather light touches, swiping it free of hair.
Let it scream unworthy as he gently erased the abandoned trails of wetness, shaking, his thumb tracing against the apple of her cheeks.
Because that voice had put tears in her eyes.
And he would not belong to it anymore.
“I need you to look at me.” He croaked.
Elain kept her eyes downcast.
“Please.” He said, “Look at me.”
She heeded his evident desperation, and that made her meet his gaze gradually, feeling exposed. His Shadows had mysteriously disappeared. Not one was in sight.
“Everything you said was true. Because—”
Az swallowed.
“My miracle is you. You, Elain. Not Mor.”
A simple confession. But it threatened to tilt her world upside down again. And it would have if he wasn’t holding her still.
In the shade of his wings, golden light beamed bright as Azriel uncurled his other hand between them, materializing a stone—the fifth stone she had abandoned on the grass.
The stone she had let go.
How ironic that it had come tumbling back to her.
She could cry again.
Azriel took her hand with heartbreaking gentleness, and said, “Here.” He pressed the artifact onto her palm. “Ask me what Mor is again.”
Elain gaped, gaze flickering between the glimmering beacon of life and him.
Suddenly his hand was in hers, fitting perfectly because he was holding it. The wings unsheathed, inviting back the rest of the world as he tugged her into the mist.
And she let him.
Az stopped a few feet short of the edge, his Shadows guiding him. “Use it, Elain. Ask me.”
Speech betrayed her. She opened and closed her mouth several times. Azriel noted her struggle, so he did the honours on her behalf. He threw the rock with full force.
Elain began, stuttering, “But—I—your dream—”
“She was a dream that was never attainable, Petal.” He asserted with easy certainty. “Because it was built on survival. Not love. Not like you are.”
The rocklet sank with a distinct plop.
And it was her who was inundated with hope. How cruel hope, back again to wring her helpless.
“She was an idea that kept me afloat. A punishment I would rather take over the absolute one.”
The words fell carelessly from his lips, yet they stole the air from hers.
“And it is utterly foolish, but it was the only way I could distract myself from my miserable thoughts.” He continued.
“Az.” She rasped, breathless.
“I may not have deserved the good things in life, but—hope is a liberty even to the drowning. And if I had meddled with it, then,” he stumbled, “I had nothing.”
Nothing.
She felt her heart shatter all over again. Everything seemed to click into place. Piece by piece. Like puzzle blocks.
“And while she was hope, you showed me—” Raw emotion wound up his ribs and he let it surface. This was his safe space. There was no need to bury it. The fawn-eyed female squeezed his hand. A quiet assurance to go on. “You showed me I could be hope. I could be soft. I could be more than just a survivor.”
As taxing as rehashing his deepest wounds out loud was, her hand in his was a lifeline. And he wondered why he had not taken it years ago, denying himself this Mother-sent boon.
Elain’s eyes welled up again, glowing with warmth and awe. Awe for this male who had fought all his life to come so far—had achieved something near impossible by his feat.
“You are, Az.” She said gently, “You are so much more.”
“Gods, for five hundred years I—” He laughed. A watery laugh. “I wondered if decorating my room was even worth it. You asked why I slept with no furniture—just a pillow and nothing else? Because I had no hope for tomorrow. For the future. It was bare minimum at best, and I had no reason to need more.”
His eyes burned blurry, and her fingers slide up his chest involuntarily. Towards the thing in his chest.
“Elain, you walked in and put pictures on my fucking walls. Pictures, my love.” His voice cracked. Distinctly. Uncharacteristically. “No one has ever done that.”
“And I will continue to put more,” she admitted at last, surrendering to his heartbeat. “If—if you will still have me.”
He shook his head, appearing overcome.
“Don’t you see? You live—burn right here. Only you.” Azriel covered her hand on his heart and squeezed it. “And believe me—I have tried. Tried blowing you out. Extinguishing you inside out. But it won’t die, Elain. You don’t die in me.”
A tear went into free fall. A rare, precious tear.
She caught it.
“So you will not ask, and you will not apologize.”
Another tear fell. Elain leaned in to kiss it away.
“But I will. And I am sorry, Elain. That it took me so long to—that my inability to touch made you think I don’t—”
“We will not apologize, Az.” She interrupted him softly. “We will not mourn each other either.”
He nodded back, wordless, pressure heavy behind his ribs, pulling her close by the waist. His fingers drummed there inquisitively, as if getting used to having free will. As if they’d found their one true home again.
“Never again.” He choked, the promise of forever etched intricately into his intonation.
“Nor will we ever stop fighting.” Elain vowed, whispering at last.
To live. To reach for one another, was the vow.
Azriel understood the words left unsaid. Let it echo in him, rewrite all of his turmoil as he let his fingers slip into her hair—an answer—and leaned in slowly, allowing her eyes to see the endless well of devotion in his. There was not a shadow of doubt. Just love. Just reverence shining in them, glittering down his cheeks.
Elain smiled.
And fuck—he blacked out. His head dipped without his permission, closing the gap between them, his lips crashing with hers in a bruising kiss. Just because he could.
And it was unlike any other kiss they have had.
Elain melted into him instantly, and her mouth met his in sacrilegious harmony, her toes rising to meet him halfway. The world seemed to narrow to the teasing dance of their lips, the warmth of their breaths. She fisted his shirt like he would stop. Disappear. Tell her it was too much.
But a groan fell from Azriel’s throat as he only tilted his head to devour her deeper. Closer. He needed her closer but it was not enough. His wings closed in from behind on cue, pushing her flush against his chest. A new move. He felt Elain gasp before it was swallowed by his mouth.
He was not holding back. Not anymore. Not when he had denied himself a lifetime of this oasis unrestrained.
Elain made a delicious sound as he pulled on her bottom lip, setting ablaze her most sinful desires on command. It was unlike any kiss she’d experienced with Azriel. Full force. Bare. Untamed. Hands everywhere, desperate to twine their souls in one. And there was no rigidity in his grip, no uncertainty when he mapped every inch of her spine. Like it was his skin. Like he was not afraid anymore.
The female rewarded him by deepening the kiss, stepping between his legs and boldly slipping her tongue in his mouth. Her tiny hands found their rightful place in his hair, gripping his curls for purchase. He responded in like, tongues warring for dominance.
Every stroke. Every curl. It was breath to his lungs. A spark right down to his core. She pressed her hips flat against his. Gently. And there it was—the evidence of his want. Need. A rough, aching noise loosened from her. And when her arousal drifted up to him, heady and so very tempting, Azriel growled. Low and animalistic.
“Fuck.”
He pulled away, breathless, resting his forehead against hers like she was his alter and his God. Elain heaved in kind, chapped lips replaced with swollen ones, fingers tightening almost subconsciously on him. In his hair. And a pained sound tore from his throat again.
“If you keep doing that, I will . . . ”
There were no thoughts, he noticed. None. For the first time ever, nobody was screaming get away from her. No crowd chanting unworthy. Just pure calm. Utter stillness. And although he knew they would come back later, he savored this tiny win. The first in five centuries.
The first of many more to come, he realized. All because of her.
“If you keep at it, I am afraid I will take you right here.”
Elain would have blushed if she wasn’t already red as she settled her hands on his shoulders demurely.
The thought was utterly exciting. Them. Naked. Here out in the open. Shrouded in fog. His hands fisting her hair, her moans echoing off the cliff, hands and knees desperate to find purchase in the grass, her breasts jolting as he drove into her from—
“Wipe that look off your face.” His eyes had darkened, a pool of near black. “Or I promise you I will do it.”
Elain bit her lip, feeling shy. “I would not be opposed to it. But . . . ”
The Shadowsinger bared his teeth, daring her.
“We need to talk.” She murmured, pressing a soothing kiss onto his palm. The beautiful vines on his hands. “About—everything. And whatever is next.”
The logic of it took a while to register as Azriel grappled with want, unable to not touch her now that he had. Her waist. Her face. Her neck. He was everywhere, and it felt right. She felt right.
“Do you have to be somewhere, today?” She found herself asking quietly, toying with a loose thread on his sleeve.
“No.” He uttered, voice rough. “I am all yours for the week.”
“All mine.” She whispered.
He, at last, swallowed his desire, softening at the seams at the look on her face. The look of wonder and disbelief. The feeling was hauntingly mutual.
Azriel ended up rasping, “Rosehall, then?”
And right then, there was something in her eyes—something he’d seen before. Hope. She looked at him like he was hope. Her salvation.
Elain nodded, smiling. “Take me home, Az.”
So in what words, could he tell her that she was his reason to look beyond hope—at transcendence?
Author’s Note:
People lose themselves for others, but rare are the few who are willing to find themselves for others. Rarer are the ones who continue finding themselves when others stop existing.
Also, love a good juxtaposition of I cannot be hope because I take and break lives AND you look at me like I’m hope so I believed you. Deliciously scrumptious.
On a side note, this whole oneshot is me exploring the concept of what happens if AZ was the one with a mating bond and not the other way around. Would he choose his mate? His lover? What would be his thought process? What would Elain tell him to do? How would she feel?
Anyway. Thank you for reading!
You are in the salt of my tears; the very vermillion in my veins.
— How do I take you out? By @tragiclore
Do not look at me like I am Hope. I might as well lower the knives I’ve held against all throats, including mine.
— Despair’s Death by @tragiclore
I couldn’t touch you without ruining you. So I didn’t touch you at all.
— Mindy Nettifee, All I Had To Say For Myself
“Would you die for me?” “Yes.” “That’s too easy. Would you live for me?” “Yes.” “Careful. Do not say this oath thoughtlessly.”
— Joker & Harley Quinn, Suicide Squad (2016)
Island of Lunara/Rosehall looks like this.
What I listened to while writing
✦ MASTERLIST
why go to the spring court when you can just go to rosehall
elain’s drawer of roses 🤝 her being compared to a rose 🤝 her father carving a rose figurine for her & it being half hidden in shadows next to a statuette of the Mother 🤝 Azriel’s estate (where his mom likely lives) literally being named Rosehall 🤝 the rose necklace
that is all.
I wonder if Rosehall is not necessarily an estate, or a family home, but could be a hospital/institution that Azriel’s mother is currently living in. At this point, we do not have much information on his mother, but I wonder if something had happened that had ruined her mind—potentially from the abuse she may have suffered at the hand of Azriel’s father—and she had been placed somewhere for treatment. Azriel has a very negative perspective on Illyria, so I do not see him making frequent trips to the camps to visit his mom and Rhysand is aware of Rosehall (possibly on its true nature of use, as well)
I also wonder if Rosehall could be a similar concept to the House of Wind library, but for Illyrian women? There are many theories that I have, but with Azriel being such a momma’s boy, I wonder why he would not have his mom in Velaris, or why he would not be staying with her at Rosehall—it seems as if the place is not too far away from Velaris given how he could travel there and be back in time for the snowball fight.
I'm so curious about Azriel's mother. And I'm convinced that she was the one who gave him Truth-Teller, which's why it's so precious to him. My theory is that she was a descendant of the Dusk Court too.
There are so many questions waiting to be answered when Azriel finally opens up to Elain and shares his past. I can't stop thinking about their visit to Rosehall together. ⚘️