Chapter Text
Late morning light peeked through the clouds above the training ring, the ring of steel against steel having long since chased away the birds in the trees. Gwyn struggled against April’s advance, wrist and arm growing more and more pained with each strike. With their formal mating ceremony over, Cassian and Nesta were enjoying some time away, leaving only the priestess and the shadow-singer to train alone. Emerie’s shop had been invested into by Feyre, as a means of trying to bridge the gaps between Velaris and Illyria with the transfer of more direct goods. As such, she had grown exceptionally busy, already looking to hire an additional hand just to give herself a break.
Azriel’s siphon caught the light as he blocked Gwyn’s next blow, unhurried in his movement. “I was wondering if you forgot that you could attack.” Gwyn huffed a strand of crimson hair out of her eyes, narrowing them at his claim. “You’re focusing too much on defense.”
“Trust me, if there was an opening, I’d have taken it by now,” she replied, panting.
“There’s been several openings, Gwyn.” Azriel raised a hand, calling for a pause before moving towards her. Gently, he moved their blades into a soft lock, then inclined his head. “Lean your blade down towards my side, at the thigh.” Gwyn did so, narrowing her eyes and watching as the sword’s edge pressed to the snow, the flat of the blade against his leg. “You’re probably thinking that your sword is locked, and you can’t attack, but if you pull back while pressing against both the guard and me,” Gwyn did as he instructed, and watched a thin line draw across the plane of his leg’s leather armor, “You can cut me right there with a bit of force. There’s an artery there that’ll spew blood if you hit it right.” Azriel stepped back, leaning on his sword. “You don’t need to always arc a swing to deal a good blow.” Gwyn nodded, but then her eyes fled down to the ground, Azriel cocking his head to the side. “I didn’t want to say anything, in case you didn’t want to talk about it, but…is something bothering you?”
“I…don’t feel like a Carynthian,” she replied, voice low. Azriel’s brows knotted in confusion. “I didn’t touch the obelisk myself.” She scoffed. “I wasn’t even conscious for the last bit of it. Emerie carried me up.” Azriel tensed, hating the slight disgust with which she spoke of herself. “Nesta’s my friend, but…a part of me hates her for what she did, even if she was defending me.” Gwyn’s hand pressed to her own armor, to one of the many scars she received during the Rite. She was bleeding, scared, hysterical, and she knew that if she stayed, she would have put her friends in danger and maybe even gotten them killed.
But still, she would have had a choice, and Nesta took it from her.
“You are every bit as Carynthian as I am, Gwyn.” The claim sparked her teal gaze back up to him, solemn resolve hardening his jaw. “And the reason why, is because you, Nesta, and Emerie learned what the Blood Rite is actually about. The easiest way to survive and make it up the mountain…is teamwork, and learning that is infinitely more valuable than touching the obelisk at the end.” A slight smile formed on his face, “If your friends can carry you through that, they can carry you through anything, and vice versa.” At the quiet pride Azriel held in his gaze, Gwyn felt warmth coil in her chest, her hand raising to slide into the neck of the shirt under her armor.
“Thank you,” she said, lips tugging at a smile of her own as she slipped her hand out, revealing a necklace with a shimmering rose resting her fingers. Azriel stilled, swallowing as she kept on, “For both, I guess.” Mind instinctively searching for all manner of excuse, of justification, Azriel immediately locked it down. He wasn’t one to sputter in the face of being caught, nor was he a stranger to the shame he felt creeping up his neck.
“I’m sorry,” he said, stoic and cold as his wings tucked in, “I…I should’ve returned it.”
Gwyn gave a pondering hum, “Yes, I suppose that would have been the moral thing to do.” She spun it in her hands, before letting it rest on her collarbone. “It’s still beautiful, and while the priestesses taught me to question gifts from strangers,” she rose a playful brow, “I knew it was you.” Azriel’s brow furrowed, and she continued on. “I love Cassian, but he really does have a big mouth sometimes. I heard him talking about your friend Mor dragging him and you out for shopping. Said you had good taste.” Her lips pursed, “Frankly, you could have done worse, like throw it into the Sidra?” Azriel’s mouth opened to defend his brother, but then it closed right back up at the thought of it. When he heard what he had done, he wanted to smack Cassian in the mouth, unable to even imagine doing something like that to Mor…or Elain.
Azriel shook the thought of her of his mind. “Nesta told you about that, huh?” Gwyn nodded.
“I know they’re mates, but honestly, sometimes I really wonder why they are together. They get so...”
“Fiery?” Gwyn shrugged, Azriel chuckling as he shook his head, “You’re not the only one who wonders.” Azriel thought to Cassian’s gift to Mor on that same night, a set of lingerie that, in truth, made him burn inside at the sight of it. But then again, he had done something just as thoughtless. If Elain saw he had given the gift to another female, or if Gwyn hadn’t been as understanding as she apparently was, he would have been in quite a predicament. His back straightened, eyes meeting Gwyn’s, “You’re not upset?” Gwyn didn’t answer right away, fingers twisting the sword resting in front of her.
“Yes, it would’ve been nice to have been the first thought,” she admitted, “But…I don’t think much about what males do to court females, outside of books. It’s not at the forefront of my mind.” A pause fell between them, “The one you originally gave it to—she rejected you?”
Azriel’s mouth curved, unsure how much detail he wanted to give, so he opted for a simple answer. “Extenuating circumstances. Night Court politics.” Gwyn chuffed at that, one of the sounds he had come to very much adore.
“Well, Nesta and Emerie’s books have given me an appreciation for a scandalous romance.” It was Azriel’s turn to laugh, low but genuine.
“That’s an apt description, I suppose.” Relief flooded him at Gwyn’s smile, appreciating how she could be so understanding of his…frankly, foolish behavior. When it faded, turning into a contemplative frown, he tilted his head to her.
“Can I try something?” she asked, his brows raising.
“Another new technique?” Thoughts of her last attempts to experiment struck him, Gwyn attempting to flip into a sword slash that ended with her flat on her back. She shook her head.
“No. Just…do you trust me?” The question struck Azriel like a bell, his answer immediate as he let the blade slip into the earth. Arms at his sides, he gave a single, sure nod—as if she could hold his very life in her hands. She stepped toward him cautiously.
“Just stand there. Don’t move.” Azriel’s scarred hands laced together to his back, wings and shadows tucking in tight as she approached. Studying every detail of her face, from the freckles to softness of her lips, to the almond shapes of her eyes as they closed. She was inches away now, and his eyes narrowed until her mouth pursed ever so slightly. Wait. Oh Mother above she was—
The kiss—light as a feather—sent fire rolling through his body. There was only the slightest pressure behind it, no exploratory curves of the tongue or soft moans that would make his body rigid. It was gentle, curious, and over in a second as she backed away from him, opening her eyes. Azriel’s hands remained tucked back, despite wanting to reach for her and keep that wonderful sensation going. But she asked him to stay put, so he did, letting her step away before releasing a breath.
“I just…wanted to see what it felt like.” Azriel blinked at her words, his shadows more curious that he was.
“You…you never?” Her shaking her head cut him off, and a numbing anger grew inside of his chest like a block of ice. She had never even been kissed, and Hybern battered down her door at Sangravah, violated and tormented her. Like him with fire, if she ever hoped to try and experience physical intimacy, she would risk the memories returning.
Of the general.
Of seeing her sister’s headless body slumped to the side.
Azriel’s teeth clenched behind his lips. He felt disgusting for even daring to compare her suffering to his. His hands burned, but they were still usable tools for the Night Court’s dark deeds. His mother was still alive, whereas Gwyn had no one.
“I’m sorry Gwyn,” he said, schooling his voice from a growl to a whisper. “For all of it. For everything that happened.” His gaze met hers, eyes like gold darkened by cinders. “If I could, I would make them pay for it over and over.” He wanted to say more, how gutting and cleaving the general’s head from his shoulders was a kindness, compared to what it was he deserved. He just needed to get him away from her, but if he had to do it again, he would cut his heels and break his hands—make it so he couldn’t run or fight.
Then…he’d show him exactly why both Rhys and Rhys’ father kept him around. He’d flay and ruin him, until there were no more truths for Truthteller to find. Only screams. Only punishment.
He wanted to say it, but she didn’t need to hear it—didn’t need to be reminded of that day more than she already might have been.
She didn’t need to see the creature inside of him. The beast he labored to keep quiet, to keep sleeping as it stewed in ruin. In hatred.
“That’s why I asked.” Gwyn’s words dragged him out of the dark, gaze softening immediately.
“Why?” he asked.
“You’d never hurt me.” Her reply was simple, but full of assuredness, of pure trust. “But you’d hurt those who deserve it, in order to protect those who can’t fight for themselves.” Gwyn rose up the sword, looking at her own eyes through the blade’s reflection, “That’s one of the reasons I came to learn—to protect myself and others. Because,” her eyes reached his, as bold as the ocean in a storm, “I’ll bite and rip and scratch and kill, to never let others make me feel like that again.”
Azriel could only nod, out of mutual respect and understanding. Gwyn bore her own beast, and it had been wounded greatly. But it remained strong and resolute, tending to its wounds and readying itself to face whatever else would come for it.
And she believed she wasn’t worthy to be called Carynthian.
Azriel watched as she reached behind her neck, unclasping the necklace and pressing it into his palm. “Let it not be said that Gwyn Berdara is not gracious,” she joked, smile dissolving the tension. “Try again. Return it, and find something you think I’d like.” Azriel glanced at the charm, then let his hand curl over hers to take it.
“Mission accepted,” he replied, moving to pull away before she held him back, and Azriel watched as Gwyn pressed her lips to the skin of his deformed knuckle. She remained there longer than she had for the kiss, thumb brushing over his own as she released him.
Their eyes staring at one another, the silence between them was anything but empty, and in a moment of sheer rarity, Azriel felt his shadows finally settle.