THE QUEEN OF SORROWS
XII
SUMMARY: Back in Velaris, Azriel questions everything.
CW: Angst; Suggestive content;
TW: allusions to SA;
WC: 6.6k
a/n: Happy new year! so how do we like the new graphics folks! i am so glad to be back, and to open this arc of the story. i have so much to say about azriel as a character that i don't think 10 fics could suffice for the level of fixation i have. that aside, i think it's clear that from here on out we'll be having a lot of things to explore. i won't be able to update often, but updates will be longer, and packed. full disclosure, i doubt the Veritas can be used as a sort of drone, but honestly I don't care. It has been used to reveal Velaris and i've decided it can act like a webcam. deal with it.
as always, forgive any typo.
i hope you enjoy this chapter,
have fun reading,
xo xo witch
"He wants to be tender and merciful. That sounds overly valorous.
Sounds like penance. And his hands?
His hands keep turning into birds and flying away from him."
R.S Unfinished Duet
The wood creaked faintly under the weight of his boot.
He stood in front of the window with tense shoulders, wings drawn in a shield behind his back. Darkness slithered in his shadow, anxious skittering sounds that reverberated.
The first clap of thunder was loud, then the lightning. Azriel wasn’t cold; the blood in his veins burned with a very different kind of ire.
He forced his head to relax, the press of a migraine subtly making itself known.
He closed his eyes and focused on the objects around him: the half-empty inkpot sitting at the edge of the desk; Nyx’s wooden toy propped on the library shelf; the pot of indoor flowers that needed to be watered…
It was so useless.
Azriel flexed his hands at his sides, curled his fingers inward in two powerless fists.
“You’ll burn a nerve if you keep thinking so hard, brother,” Rhysand’s voice didn’t have the soothing effect he sought to evoke.
Now, it sounded like the cawing of a bird of prey.
Azriel gyrated on his heels, the cumbersome state of his head allowing him the movement out of spite.
Rhysand stood there, casually opening the drawers on the desk, not awarding Azriel with his gaze. Months and months of absence, Azriel had foolishly thought Rhys would give him something. Not grace, no.
He knew his brother enough to understand he’d receive admonishment for his actions, that no amount of explanation would make the High Lord lenient, even towards his trusted Spymaster.
But he also knew that, although desperate, his reaction had just
been a consequence of pent-up feelings.
Even without Rheia, he would have defied orders without thinking twice, because that was the extent of what he would allow himself to do in order to hurt Rhysand.
He’d never dare to attack him personally, but he could diminish his power over him easily.
He moved slowly into the room, just until he was close enough to feel the power emanating from his High Lord; the stress coming in waves from his brother.
“Can I be made aware of what in the Mother’s ever loving fuck is happening?”
Rhys slammed his hands down, hard. The inkpot toppled over, shattering on the ground with a cacophonous sound.
He breathed in, out. Deep eyes dark and frustrated.
Azriel already knew everything, of course. Mor hadn’t spared details, and he’d been able to hear back from his on-site agents. He knew, but he wanted to hear it from Rhysand, as in months of mental conversations, he’d been careful to mention anything about Tamlin.
He stared from his brother to the glass shards drowning in expensive black ink and crossed his arms.
Rhysand deflated, took a big breath.
His chin lifted, exhaustion visible in the lines of his elegant face, gone paler.
“Tamlin is in a deep slumber and has been…for the better part of the year, we believe.”
Azriel’s eyes narrowed.
“Who is we?” he asked.
Rhysand’s gaze flitted over the desk casually, down to the untouched, still sealed letter Azriel had left for him the day he'd returned. The High Lord hadn't even touched it.
“Us. All the courts…minus Beron, as he’s elsewhere and Eris prefers keeping it this on the low. We agreed it was for the better.”
Azriel’s mouth curled downwards; the darkness around him bristled in indignant rage, the kind he never let himself feel.
“And you didn’t think I should have known?” he breathed, so dangerously calm.
“I’m supposed to know everything that happens here—”
Rhys snorted, focusing on the documents arrayed in front or his eyes.
His mouth curled in a sneer.
“You’re also supposed to be my Spymaster, though you didn’t seem very sad about your impromptu holiday, were you?”
Azriel tensed, closing his eyes as he tried to not let that thrill take control of him.
He moved closer, until he was so close he could feel the rumble of power.
“You understand how this looks, Rhys? If she discovered this, she’d assume this was all done on purpose.”
Which, considering how he hadn't been called back, would not be so far from the truth…they’d known, and they'd decided he was more useful as a pawn on their board, whether willing or not, than beside them, trying to find an answer.
Rhys scoffed, his eyes focused idly on inky letters.
“Like I’d waste my brains on such a useless operation. I don’t need to supplant agents to keep a disgraced female in her lane, she can do that perfectly herself.”
Azriel sighed, not sure what to do with that.
“She’s at war, Rhysand,” he pressed.
“And?”
There was a moment in which Azriel debated just punching him, a moment in which, stupidly, he wanted the satisfaction of giving him hell for the dismissiveness he was showing him. But he held himself back, if not for his good, for Rheia's.
“What’s the plan?” he gritted out.
The High Lord raised his deep eyes from the paper with the beginning of an exasperated smile.
“Plan?” he almost laughed. “We don’t have a plan. We can’t send soldiers, I need them stationed here, not dying in another land.”
Azriel shook his head; he moved his hand up, down.
“Then send me there. Let me go back,” he insisted.
And Rhys just looked at him. Stared, like he'd grown another head. Here he was, laying down options, for once not standing in silence and this was what he was being offered in exchange, scorn and belittling.
“Oh, no, no, no. I’m not allowing you to go anywhere, much less at war, brother. Not when I don’t know if you’ll be back. I won’t gamble your life for hers. It’s not worth it.”
But to him it was. Her life was worth tenfold. And he knew if he told him that, he'd never hear the end of it.
“That’s your own opinion,” he muttered.
“It’s not an opinion, Azriel, it’s an order. You will stay with Mor here in the Townhouse so you can get back on track and get your shit together, and I will not be hearing otherwise.”
The silence hit with a finality Azriel was not satisfied with. But he could not fight it, not when it was interwoven with royal decree.
He bent his head in surrender, mouth moving faintly, but surely.
“Have the decency to read that fucking letter, then. It's the least you can do.”
The High Lord hummed.
“I will get to it when I get to it. You're dismissed.”
Azriel's eyes criss crossed over what might have been the hundredth report he'd read that day.
Shadows kept pushing the paper away from him, stubborn and resolute in their decision he needed to take a break.
And maybe they were right. Maybe his eyes were too dry already, and maybe he was even hungry and tired.
But he wasn't about to be left alone with the sting of Rhysand's disrespect.
He raised his palm up, called his shadows to him, and closed his fist.
There was a hiss of magic, and then he realized he couldn't stand to look at that fucking jumble of words anymore.
He let the stack rest on the desk, and buried his face in his hands to rub his migraine.
The peace was very short lived.
Mor cracked the door open with a bump of her hip, the tray she was carrying wafting the familiar smell of calming tea.
He didn't even bother trying to kick her out, for he knew it would be a losing battle.
“You can't stay here all day. You need to come out for food, at least,” she admonished him.
He pushed the chair back and got up, stretching his back as he made his way over, taking the tray from her to lay it down in the sitting area.
“Not hungry,” he lied through his teeth.
“Liar. Your stomach is growling.”
She was already plating him something off that overloaded sandwich dish.
“It's not,” he said, yet accepted the plate all the same.
She chuffed, ignoring his brooding to pour scalding tea in mugs.
“It's too. Please sit. I even made you food. Do you know just how lucky you are?”
Amidst the sound of liquid sloshing and a fire burning somewhere, Azriel bit into food for the first time that day and it tasted good until it didn't.
Mor placed the mug in front of him, peering him with eyes that always saw too much for their own good. Something he'd always found too exposing.
“You…sent your shadows away?” she questioned, tiptoeing around what she really wanted to ask.
“Momentarily. I needed some silence.”
She nodded, perfectly manicured hands curling around the mug for comfort. “I see.”
When had they become so awkward with each other? Azriel couldn't pinpoint the exact moment in time, but he feared he knew the reason all too well.
“Mor. What is it? You don't come here with tea and food just to chat.”
Mor looked like she wanted to deny that for a moment, but ultimately realized there was no use hiding what was boiling in her pot.
“Cauldron, Az. I'm worried,” she said.
“About me?”
What was there to worry about? He was home just like Rhys wanted. Elain was fine…mostly. He was miserable, alright, but he was alive. That had to count for something.
"I feel like you're angry at me,” she specified, and when Azriel locked eyes with her, it was a long stare they shared.
"I'm not angry at you,” his eyes fell on the tray, where dainty little bitesized sugarcubes sat in a cup. He picked up two.
"But you are angry at someone,” she pointed out the obvious.
He stirred the sugar in his tea, calm. Resigned.
"Rhys mainly. Maybe I'm pissed at Cassian too."
Mor fisted with the fabric of her robe, red tinted lips bent in a scowl.
"We...I didn't want my name on a letter to Hybern, Az. You understand that, right?"
He did. Truly, it made sense she wouldn't want that. Logically, he too would have never wanted his name on a letter directed to Hybern before last year…but it didn't excuse the lack of communication.
"If you were so keen on me knowing, you could have contacted one of my agents.”
Mor searched for his eyes. He didn't allow her that connection.
“They say you didn't reply to them either. I couldn't risk information leaking with you and Elain there."
Azriel took a small sip, letting the taste of sweet tea sit with him, warming up his soreness. Then he spoke again.
"So you preferred ignoring the issue altogether. Smart."
She stiffened.
"Hey. You wouldn't...you feel bad about leaving?"
He did. He felt bad about leaving, felt bad about how cowardly he'd acted but most of all he felt bad he could not even right his wrongs.
"I feel bad about a lot of stuff lately, but yes. Leaving feels like avoiding responsibility."
Silence settled for a moment. Mor let the steam from her mug billow around her face, her tone low.
"You don't have anything to be responsible for...or do you?" she prodded.
"Did you know Rhys agreed to her conditions without the military provisions?" he asked instead.
She looked like he'd told her the sky was blue.
"Yeah? I mean...we bargained for natural resources and minerals. Involving ourselves within reason seemed the only logical decision.”
The ceramic felt extremely fragile in his hands at that moment. He drank again, then placed it down as he stood up, pushing his hands in his pockets.
"Mhm."
Mor didn't follow after him, watching him like he'd just told her he was off to battle.
"What are you thinking?"
He breathed through his nose.
"I'm thinking I don't give a shit about ink on paper where living beings are concerned."
"Az,” she warned him, for he didn't even know what.
Rhys had ordered him to stay still, and there was no way he could disobey that direction easily, so what was she scared of?
"Don't worry. If I have to be difficult, I will not be difficult with you,” he put his hands forward, and she looked at him with an expression softened by anguish.
"Would it kill you to open up to me?"
"I don't want to talk about it.”
"But you do!” She stood up, rolled on her feet until she was in front of him, all up in his space. “Is it about the Queen? Are you worried she'll think less of you? What's her opinion to you?"
If somebody else brought Rheia up with him in that same manner again, he wasn't sure he was going to behave.
"What Rheia has to say about me is not the point. It's principle, Mor."
"Did you...did you just call her by name?"
"We're on friendly terms."
Shock dawned on her face, and maybe a little bit of embarrassment for having taken the fact for granted.
"Oh. I..."
He didn't let her finish, curled a hand around her shoulder and walked her to the door.
"Now, if you're done, I have some letters to send and reports to fill. Thank you for the food. I'll see you tomorrow.”
When he locked the door, he recalled his shadows.
The flame swivels dangerously in the darkness.
The hand that holds the candle is trembling, unsure what direction to take. There's a strange smell in the air tonight, she thinks.
Azriel is not himself. He feels lighter, like an unsuspecting bystander to whatever it is he is witnessing.
He -or rather, she- feels the cold from the naked soles of her feet, the light threading of her woolen nightgown nothing when met with harsh cold and humidity.
But she doesn't stop. Even when the wax trickling down prickles her skin, she walks on.
A door slams somewhere in the castle, heavy metal signaling one of the gates has been barred...or thrown open.
She paces faster, passing darkened corridors.
Azriel can't believe the cold seeping through hasn't affected her. , it's endurance the likes of which he is familiar with.
She walks and walks and walks to the point it feels like going in circles, with no clear destination.
Expect there is a destination, and it pans in front of her ominously. Candles flicker all around, at the same time. They light up a long alcove that stinks of sulfur. Her heart is beating strongly, too many beats in a moment for her to be calm. When she reaches the center of the room, the candle lights her reflection in the well.
Rheia's eyes widen at the glinting at the bottom.
“You need to put your heart into it.”
It had come without really thinking about it, the realization he and Cassian were similar to the point they weren't anymore.
To Azriel, it hadn't come as a surprise that Mor had sought his brother out, for that fatal slight.
He'd always been too timid to show her that kind of interest, had always felt pitied on by the attention of others, not because he disliked them, but because he didn't fit.
Cassian did. He'd always been called brute and aggressive, and that had somehow cemented his reputation. It had formed his identity.
If a fight broke out in Wind Haven, most of the time it was because of him. They'd spent their whole formative years together, and Azriel could count on one hand how many times he was the one to start conflicts.
And even then, most of it was between him, Cassian and Rhys.
It would start as a little scuffle, Rhysand would try and mediate, then Cassian decided he didn't want peace. He wanted to punch someone and Rhys’ face was within range.
They'd learned to tone it down only when Rhysand's mother intervened. Growing up they'd learned they were strong together, better.
Together, they set alarm bells going.
He didn't know what changed. He knew things had never been the same since Rhys had been taken Under the Mountain, but even that didn't change this dramatically.
Rhys was a father and husband, on top of being High Lord. Cassian had a mate and kept the cloak of General close.
Azriel felt so close to them, yet so far. He was the same he'd always been, and that was the problem.
He knew since before finding Mor in that pitiful condition nothing would be the same between them, that he'd always be divided from her by a force that wasn't his to surpass.
Perhaps he'd always known that and had chosen he didn't want to listen to logic.
The frustration wasn't any less burning.
Telling her ‘I love you’ hadn't been capricious in hindsight. ‘Look at me, I am here’ had been hidden in that sentence, buried together with a need to be known he was unable to ignore.
Hope had been shriveling in his chest until it fully deteriorated.
Meeting Elain had been a reprieve, although as they stood now, maybe it hadn't been as optimal.
He'd felt he needed to protect her…which, to an extent, he still did. He feared he always would.
When they'd been dunked into the Cauldron, Azriel had felt guilty. All the Inner Circle had, because in all their best laid plans, they'd forgotten a fundamental truth: they needed to be guarded.
And he took it to heart.
They'd become close, and had danced the edge between friendship and romance like it wouldn't scorch them.
Something had rekindled in his heart…only for Rhysand to later smother that inkling and outright threaten him.
He knew it wasn't out of respect for Lucien, who had little to say about it. It was because Rhysand cared more about maintaining a fragile peace than listening to Azriel and to what he wanted.
He stared into Cassian's face when he came to a conclusion, the hand pinning him down on the ground of the training ring firm and heavy against his chest.
He hadn't slept well these past days, and it showed in the imprecision and sloppyness he'd been sporting all throughout the week.
Cassian had been gentle, even avoidant, but even he had his limits.
“C’mon, Az,” he chided, the tone less warm than he anticipated. “You can get away easily. Remember? Use that pretty noggin you got. Don't piss me off.”
To Azriel, he looked already pissed off. But he didn't mention that.
Instead, he focused on Cassian's balance, on how to shake him off.
He'd always had a bigger frame, more weight to play on. Azriel was not going to have it good without factoring that in.
He timed his kick, and felt a little less miserable when Cassian slid off him to limp back.
The shower was needed. Maybe not deserved, but he couldn't really find himself tolerable with that scent of sweat and dirt over him.
Cassian lingered on the bench with a cloth, rubbing his wet face.
They stared at each other for a moment before the General scooted, making space for him.
“You good?” he asked.
Azriel hummed, the droplets falling onto his face slowly.
Cassian sighed, leaning back with a certain look in his eyes when he side eyed him.
“Listen…I know you're not in a good place right now, but I need you to snap out of it, Az. We're teaching these girls how to fight and defend themselves, not to look like fools.”
Azriel's head pounded. He knew that, hell if he knew. He felt horrible about how little effort he was putting into it, and frankly a little humiliated, but there wasn't much he could do.
“I'm trying,” he acknowledged, tone dry and flat.
“And clearly that's working wonders for you, no?”
Azriel sighed again, perhaps for the umpteenth time that day.
He buried his face in his hands, rubbing wet skin like it would be enough to shake that fatigue off him.
Like it could make him any less a powerless coward.
“I don't know what to do, Cas,” he confessed, voice low and gritty.
“Rest, maybe?” the General suggested. Azriel went still like a statue.
Noticing that, Cassian pulled his hands away from his face, in the very same way he always did when his brother was spiraling.
“You look like shit. You can't concentrate on anything, and you know how dangerous that is when we're handling fighting stances. One fall and you could suffocate someone,” that evoked a little burst of irritation in Azriel, but he couldn't deny the truth behind his words. It was reckless insisting on something that could result in more damage than he could stand as it was.
He scoffed, gave Cassian a little bump with his elbow. “It is very annoying when you are the reasonable one between us.”
His brother perked up instantly, replying to that bump with a fist on his side, mellow but efficient. “Is that a smile I see?”
“Oh, fuck off.”
Fae were a pain in the ass and no one could ever change Adhara’s mind.
The one laying on the floor of the cave was no different. She rolled him to find his arm unpleasantly bloody.
Her scowl turned into a concerned frown.
“Weren't you supposed to be a top agent?” she asked, kneeling beside him as she pulled his arm for inspection, the cut too precise to be an accident.
Blood had pooled around him, the scent warm and permeating the enclosed space.
Adhara knew they were after him. She could scent the stench of the intruders that had by now settled in comfortable tents, and hear the muffled sound of marching soldiers not too far from now.
She curled her slim fingers over his jaw, half open eyes tired when they met hers.
His fist held something.
When she saw the little vial of blood, her head tilted.
Then he broke it, and the hit of magic was enough to bounce her back.
She's awake again. It's late.
It's always late, when she roams. Maybe it's the way the moonlight filters through the windows, but Rheia knows something is different tonight.
Her husband is off doing something —hopefully, fucking someone who isn't her— that required him to bring with him most of the staff.
It's just her and a few dwelling residents in the castle. The thought should comfort her, but things seldom do nowadays.
For one he is here. He always is, but tonight it's different. Tonight, Sylpha is asleep, filled with slumber root that he slid in her tea to calm her down. She won't wake up.
Not until it's too late.
Rheia does not feel any more alert than usual. She is used to things she doesn't like, and he knows.
His brother, too.
She suspects her husband might know all too well how coveted she is.
Caden has been circling where he shouldn't for a while. He is known to be handsy, and he is the King's brother, so little will be done to stop him.
He does not stop. Rheia knows he finds the fact he won't be ever reprimanded hilarious.
She is only the latest of his interests…but she will be the last.
It doesn't matter that she needs to play the good wife.
When her husband is off, she is allowed to indulge in certain hobbies. She did not get married to a male, she got married to a role.
He comes to her head on, unnaturally bright eyes tracking her like she's game.
He believes himself to be the fox in this game they play, but he isn't a fox.
He doesn't have grace. He doesn't have the cunning.
He likes playing with his food, and that is exactly his final demise.
When he grabs her, his breath is warm against her face. He looks feral, like he's just learned a new little trick.
She forces a smile. Outside of this vision, Azriel knows it's a lie. But to the Prince, it's enough encouragement.
He buries his face in her skin, runs jeweled fingers in her hair.
“Let's kill him,” he says, like it's the most natural sentence to whisper to his would-be-lover.
“Let's kill him and then fuck in front of his ghost,” he grits.
It's disgusting.
Rheia hates it. Hates him.
Truth be told, she hates that her body screams for murder. She loathes what they are forcing her to become, how her mind is bending to the idea that violence must be the answer.
Instead she asks, “And your wife?”
His smile is sinister; Rheia knows deep down this is the same response her husband would have.
They are cut from the same wood, a rotten, maggot filled branch. They are so similar, yet…Uthyr is somehow the better fit.
He is, to her detriment, violent with a purpose. Caden considers it an alternative to foreplay.
Vile hands roam down her body, greedy, touching what should be sacred to her and her alone; he taints her, grabs what is soft like he is owed a piece of her.
“Sylpha won't mind. She has her own lovers. You do too, now.”
His arrogance makes her smile, for it is the mark of a fool too confident to understand he is not speaking to a mindless doll.
It is good that he thinks of her as a puppet.
The kiss that follows is the breaking point.
Her claws bite into her skin, and when she pushes him against the wall, he's hard against her.
It's disgusting, again.
But it will not be for long.
He stares at her like he is seeing her anew.
Her name is drowned out in a gasp when she smashes the back of his head against the stonewall, hard.
She does it again, before he can do anything. Before he understands what is happening.
She does it again and again and again until she hears a crack.
Then her hands feel a pulse that is still too alive for her liking.
Next thing she knows, she's reducing him to ribbons of flesh, blood on her clothes and on the wall.
It's horrible. It's vile.
It feels good.
His body falls on the floor without any sound, and she's red all-over.
But she looks at her reflection in the window, she feels good.
Better.
It's over.
The sun shone brightly on the Rainbow that morning.
It seemed the weather had no intention of respecting Azriel's gloomy mood and neither did the little prince. Nyx tugged on his hand again, small fingers squeezing around nothing.
“I asked you if you wanted the carrier, you said no. At least stand by your choices, young lord,” he said, the admonishment null when he picked the boy up, tucking him securely to his side.
The princeling batted his hands over his arm repeatedly, humming a tune Azriel was unfamiliar with.
“We go to mama,” he said, serious and commanding.
The similarity with his father in moments like these scared Azriel a little. He was already developing shadows of Rhysand's countenance, and he didn't know whether that was a good or bad thing.
A few bystanders greeted the princeling with small bows, giving Azriel what he supposed was a smile of circumstance.
It turned out Cassian had been right, much to his annoyance. Not being constantly surrounded by work had helped him breath more easily, and some tension eased off.
But only some. His dreams were disturbed, and he was in no way going to Rhys with his problems, when things were like this.
So, in his infinite patience, and maybe fueled a little by his bitterness, he took babysitting duties from Mor.
He'd pick up Nyx from daycare, bring him to Rhys for a while, and then bring him back home with Elain and his mother.
The situation was understandably more than a simple lover's spat. There was a gravity to what had happened that went beyond mere arguments and he knew it all stemmed from Rhysand's hollow belief he could solve everything before it became a problem.
Truth was that he couldn't, and sometimes even he needed to be contradicted. He needed someone that pushed back but he hadn't expected his wife to be the one to do it.
Feyre had asked him to bring Nyx to the art studio, and Azriel complied. If his brother wouldn't look him in the eyes, at least he could take some comfort in the familiarity Feyre exuded.
The studio was…moderately filled.
It was always a little cramped when Azriel visited, though he never took it as a bad sign. It meant that his High Lady was showing up for the people, and that his friend was sharing something she loved with people who could appreciate it. It was working for her, and he could see why.
Nyx climbed off him to run towards the center of the room, where Feyre’s easel stood.
The High Lady wrapped her son up in a squeeze, paint-splattered overalls leaving Azriel no doubt she'd been busy.
Little heads turned from their tasks, some followed by their parents while others simply ignored him.
He wanted to sink in himself and implode. Azriel was not fond of crowds or attention or the feeling of his skin breaking under pressure.
He could wear a mask at diplomatic gatherings, make himself into the scary Shadowsinger everyone could be scared of, but his whole world would crumble when he tried and failed living his city, his people.
Velaris was wonderful, but he knew it would never feel wholly his.
The backroom was a little comfort to him.
Feyre seated Nyx down with a small wooden toy and when she turned to Azriel, she motioned for him to take the couch.
“Thank you for coming. It's been a while,” she said, and he detected the note of weariness in her voice.
“It's no problem, Fey,” he said, but he didn't take to sitting.
Instead, he fidgeted with his hands, uncharacteristically nervous.
“Actually, I was thinking I…wanted to take you up on that offer you made me.”
The way her eyes lit up made Azriel debate if this was really a good idea.
Then he witnessed the lines of her face extend in delight.
“That's…oh, that's wonderful! I'll get you an easel ready. You want charcoal? Of course you do. Maybe even oil crayons would do…”
He interrupted her rambling with a small sound of disbelief.
Here he was, worrying over how she was faring, offering even the hook for conversation and instead she decided he needed to get his hands dirty.
“You're acting like I'm some artistic prodigy. I'm not that good,” he pressed, though there was little chance of deterring her.
“But you are! You are that good, and you should definitely take it more seriously.”
He didn't know what he was doing…which could be said about a lot of things he'd done in his life.
But this felt a good kind of not knowing. This was learning.
The charcoal felt fragile in his hands, drawing out a silhouette from the darkness.
For a while, it was just him, the canvas, and the sound of oil crayon mixing together on tense paper.
Shadows picked up colors to offer him, and he sat back in his stool as he came back to the world around him.
It was a vague portrait, a blend of moonlight and soft hues that stood out against the dark background. Azriel's hand, dirty with dark smudges of black, trembled in his lap as recognition struck him.
It took everything in his body to not flinch when Feyre appeared at his side, peering at the canvas, then at him, then back again at it with wonder, curiosity…guilt.
“See? I told you you had it in you,” she teased him.
Azriel wished he could say something back, but all words seemed stuck in his throat.
He'd always been too good at watching. Observing.
He was so good at it, he could probably trace an infinite number of faces of people he'd tracked in his life and they'd be a spat copy of what he saw.
He was that good, that prone to remember.
He could hold a grudge like a knife.
He had held a grudge like a knife.
But this…as he stared at the mellow, blurred face before him, at the vividly colored eyes that almost stared back at him, he realized he couldn't do it anymore.
That there was little to be done to cut the cord that had formed.
Freedom. A bird leaving a cage, finally, soaring high in the sky above the sea.
The song of the siren. The taste of lemonade with a splash of mint during a torrid summer day.
These are things Rheia is thinking about, as they burn her.
Minute, horribly mundane things she misses.
She realizes she has never seen herself smile, that she has never truly felt her face cramp from laughter.
She never will.
Because they are killing her.
Her head is pounding painfully. Somebody has stabbed her shoulder and the wound is boiling with poison. She's tied to a pole, with her clothes half destroyed and they are burning her at the stake.
The flames are going to eat her.
She is going to die. She is dying without ever having felt a true Winter.
They are burning her at the stake, and they are chanting in victory.
"Burn the bitch," they bellow, in unified disarray. "Burn the bitch Queen!"
Green fire runs up the dry leaves, and for a moment, time slows.
Everything stops, then resumes tenfold.
Smoke chokes her. Her eyes sting with unshed tears.
An animal, somewhere, makes a disgustingly disconnected noise, and her ears stop working the same moment her rope is loosened.
She thinks to her children, to the little body buried deep, somewhere only she knows. She thinks of all the children she still wanted, how much she loves the image of a family that does not know what the sound of an angry father is.
She mourns that there is so much she has to suffer before she can finally rest.
Warm hands come to touch her face, the sting of witch-magic coursing through her heated body.
Fight, a female voice urges. Do not die. Fire is not your destiny. Ash is not your end.
But I'm so tired…
The world still needs you. Your brother needs you.
And like that, she breathes.
The knocking came at an unthinkable hour. It rattled the whole room, and Mor had to take a moment to realize it wasn't an earthquake, but rather the urgent blows of a fist against wood.
She rose up without any grace, wrapping her robe around herself as she padded in her darkened room.
She slipped against old clothes scattered around until she could tear the door open.
“Did someone die!?” she asked, but what she was met with was not the sureness of death, rather a Shadowsinger that looked like he'd just ran a marathon to get there, when his room was just down the hall.
Azriel's eyes glinted with a ferocity she wasn't familiar with, his heartbeat so loud it thundered in her ears.
“I need you to use the Veritas,” came out of his lips with finality.
At first, Mor wasn’t even angry at the request, the entitlement interwoven with it. She was much more affected by the fact he’d woken her up like a lieutenant waking up cadets.
She rubbed her face, leaning on the wall for support.
“Have you actually lost your mind? It's fucking four in the morning, Azriel.”
He didn’t seem deterred, insisting, “I will get it for you.”
Then, it finally registered to her what he’d just requested and that alone was enough to jolt her upright.
Azriel was already walking the hall with purpose, no doubt building an escape route in his mind.
Mor ran to him with bare feet, speaking through big intakes of air, trying –failing– to convey she couldn’t help him with that.
“What— I can't just— Rhys will kill me!”
He stopped, and steadied her with a look she knew too well.
“He won't. I'll get it for you. They won't even know it's gone.”
The orb sat in her palms, unmoving.
Mor, hidden in her cloak, felt its power call to her, seeking her out in recognition.
Azriel was just in front of her, anxious just as she had been.
The room —an office in the Moonstone Palace— was caught in a dim light, dawn was breaking just as Morrigan uttered to the Veritas, “Show me the Queen of Hybern.”
At first, nothing had happened, and she could touch the stress emanating from her friend like it was a tangible object.
But something did begin. The Veritas glowed with a cold gleam; it was warming up in her hands as an image started becoming clear.
It projected clearly in front of them.
A galleon gone rusted, sloshed here and there by a dark stormy sea. Rain clashed down, pouring incessantly.
Under that cold downpour, Rheia stood there, holding on to the railing with firm hands. Her face showed readiness, her eyes fixed on something only she could see. Hair stuck to her face, but she didn’t move.
Someone in armor nudged her, and they exchanged a soft nod of understanding.
The Veritas trapped that vision for itself, leaving them in the dim light of a room that did not matter anymore. It did not matter, because as things were now, everything the High Lord of the Night Court had believed would happen, didn’t, and his second felt a sharp feeling of discouragement dwell in her.
Morrigan dared a look at the Shadowsinger, and had to think if she’d ever seen him that distraught. She’d miscalculated how rational Azriel was, how he would have given them a better alternative to what had so clearly been done with ill-placed superbity. How disappointed he could be with what they’d deemed necessary.
“We are knee deep in shit,” she broke the silence, as he whipped his head towards her with a hard look. Shadows enlarged around him, breathing in parallel with his.
“What did you even think would happen?” he asked, and it became clear to her she couldn’t hide behind their intentions much longer.
“What did you do, Mor?”
Cat out of the bag. Might as well…
Morrigan held onto the Veritas like it could shield her from the inevitable damage.
“We…uhm, we might have…fabricated a letter. In Tamlin’s handwriting. Signature…and allat,” Mor was feeling hot in the face from shame as words tumbled awkwardly from her mouth.
This was a diplomatic disaster, she knew. But Rhys had assured her! He’d promised her, there would be no troubles. No consequences that they weren’t prepared for.
Azriel was surprisingly still, with a calm that was so like him. One that was dangerous if not for others, then for himself.
“Whose idea was it?” he asked.
Mor stared down at the Veritas, her bout of embarrassment only heightening. She swallowed, and met the barred look of his eyes.
“Rhys said he’d done it before.”
Azriel was getting more disappointed each moment that passed.
Narrowed eyed, he said hoarsely, “And you just…let him do it again?”
“He isn’t easy to dissuade, you know that.”
A mirthless laugh echoed in the close space, an accusation brewing behind the surface.
“You didn’t even try.”
That hurt a little more coming from him.
They didn’t speak, the atmosphere hot with disillusion, sticky like honey.
Azriel found a chair, sat down. He deflated, darkened the corner of that vacant room, and Mor could only stare at the small, powerful surface of the Veritas as it replayed that foreboding image again and again.
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