#and maybe proximity to salt would dampen his powers

[hey-that-hurt]

Someone (probably Charles) tells Beetlejuice to “be quiet.” Normally he’d just find someone else to reverse the order, but before he can he gets hurt or ends up in some sort of perilous situation and is unable to call for help.

[hlizr50]

The Raven and the Songbird

Chapter 1

Read on AO3

The warmth of the sun wasn’t unwelcome. Azriel was the angel of death, wreathed in tendrils of darkness and mystery, but the summer sun was a balm to him. The light glittering off the stone of the training ring – the need to shield his eyes from the brightness – was a reminder that the Hewn City wasn’t his home, not his life. The light was a breath that whispered of life and potential.

He crossed his arms as he observed Cassian – brother in all senses of the word, save by birth. The sheen of sweat shimmered on his bare back as he paced around the ring observing the trainees, offering corrections verbally. And if that didn’t fix the errors he would ask permission to show them, to physically move their bodies to make the adjustment. That simple question was the reason so many more of the priestesses had chosen to join them in recent months.

Azriel scowled.

It was fucking disgusting that something so simple as consent was considered such a grand gesture. But it was a courtesy that hadn’t been granted to many of the females here.

It hadn’t been granted to her.

Gwyn.

His shadows danced over his shoulders at the mere thought of her. He needed to get that under control.

He had let his gaze slide to the priestess – the Valkyrie – too many times already. She glowed in the sunlight, even without the perspiration now dampening her face. It had reddened with her effort, but also from the many days they’d spent baking in the summer heat. The color suited her.

No matter how hard he tried, especially in the past two weeks, his attention always turned to her. She moved with such grace, her long legs strong and swift. The leathers fit her differently than they had a year ago – her body had changed. Lean cords of muscle had developed where nothing had been before. She had never been frail – he would ever use a word like that to describe her – but now she was…

Cauldron.

The Spymaster shook his head, willing his writhing shadows not to follow the dangerous path of his musings. He should not desire her. He didn’t deserve that bright spark that had begun to illuminate the male underneath the death and terror. He didn’t deserve her for the simple fact that death and terror and nightmares were what he was. But there was also the unspoken thing between them. The thing he’d done. The reason for the tension these past days and the reason he kept all of his leathers on under the blazing summer sun, relishing in the distraction of his discomfort.

Her eyes still haunted him.

The hurt that had dimmed Gwyn’s bright ocean gaze had nearly brought him to his knees.

Azriel hadn’t been party to the conversation, and he didn’t know how it had come about that Gwyn and Elain were both in the library, in the House, at the same time, in close enough proximity for Elain to notice the delicate necklace that hung from the priestess’ long, regal neck.

All of the satisfaction he had felt whenever he saw that gold chain tucked under her leathers or when she idly twisted the pendant in her fingers when she was reading… it disappeared when she had stormed through the dining room, desperate for the door, stopping short when she saw him there. His heart had cracked when he looked up at her.

Those beautiful eyes of hers, wide and glossy, swimming with hurt and anger. And embarrassment, further painted by her flushed cheeks, neck, further down. And still she had held that flower in her fingers, as if she couldn’t bear to let it go.

He didn’t get the time to register what must have happened. She scurried out the door, leaving a lingering breeze that smelled of water lilies and the salt of her tears.

The report he’d been reviewing slipped from his fingers and he made to go after her.

“Don’t you dare.”

It had been a long while since Azriel had felt intimidated, but Nesta’s voice had sounded to him much like he imagined his did when he was deep in the caverns of the Hewn City, pulling information from unwilling sources.

Cold. Measured.

Deadly.

Nesta’s eyes had all but glowed silver with her ire, even with her reduced power.

“What exactly were you trying to accomplish by giving Gwyn that necklace, Azriel?”

All he had done was stare back at her, unable to find his voice.

“Did you think she wouldn’t find out? Did you think about how it would make her feel when she did? That the treasure she hasn’t taken off for half a year wasn’t meant for her? That she was the afterthought when you couldn’t pursue the one you truly wanted?”

Nesta’s sharp words had opened a crater inside of him. That hadn’t been his intention, not in the slightest.

“That wasn’t my aim at all,” he had murmured. “I… would never want to do that.”

“Well that’s what happened, intentions be damned. Cauldron, Az, I know you didn’t want to hurt her. How could you be so fucking stupid?”

Nesta had left him then.

And he hadn’t spoken to Gwyn since that day, either.

But he still spied that thin gold chain around her neck.

Teal eyes snagged his gaze for a fleeting moment and a grin lifted her pink cheeks. Azriel only nodded and forced his attention elsewhere.

He had been avoiding her. It shamed him to admit it, shamed him even more to see her smile at him just like she had before. He had avoided her at night, as well. If he heard her in the training ring on those nights when darkness chased them both out of their beds he would retreat back into the house and go elsewhere. After all, he had other places he could go to work out some pain and aggression. He would not force Gwyn to relinquish the one safe space she had away from the Library.

He missed her, missed those nights where they understood each other without speaking, but bantered anyway. He missed sparring to the point of exhaustion so they could both find the rest they so desperately needed. He missed the nights where they didn’t train at all… when Gwyn just needed to breathe in the air and settle her mind and let the moonlit breeze dry her tears. Those nights she allowed him to just exist with her, silently support her. She’d trusted him enough to be there in those moments, to let him see beyond the vivacious young priestess with the irreverent humor and easy smile. She’d trusted him enough to let him see his darkness mirrored in her own.

He couldn’t imagine she would trust him with that now.

“Alright, ladies, that’s all for today.” Cassian’s voice broke him out of his reverie. “Take time to stretch and cool down. And hydrate. You’ve all been doing a lot of work out in this heat.” The training ring descended into female chatter and the sounds of clattering weapons being put away as the trainees were dismissed. Azriel saw the glint in his brother’s eyes and steeled himself as the general stalked up to him.

“You know, when I asked you to help with the Valkyries last year the expectation was that you actually train them, not do everything within your power to avoid a certain red-headed priestess.”

“I don’t know what –“

“Are you really going to try to lie to me, brother?” Cassian interrupted his automatic denial. “I can smell the tension on you. And you haven’t corrected anything she’s done in two weeks.”

“Maybe she doesn’t need it,” the shadowsinger ground out.

“Maybe she doesn’t, but that never stopped you before.” The Illyrian general gave him a wry smile and a wink. Azriel stared back at him, unamused at the insinuation – and the truth of it. His friend pursed his lips, the playful gleam in his eyes replaced with a softness that others wouldn’t match with the muscled male, the definition of a warrior. “You should just talk to her, Az. She’s not going to run away.”

“She should.”

“Az –“

“You didn’t see the look in her eyes that day, Cassian.” His voice was bitter and shredded as he returned his attention to Gwyn. Her smile gleamed as she laughed with Nesta and Emerie, copper locks riding the breeze. He felt Cassian’s broad hand fall on his shoulder.

“Brother.” Azriel turned back to him. “I may not have. But I know you, and I know Gwyn. So do you. She cares about her friends, and you are counted among them, at the very least.”

The Spymaster took a deep breath. Perhaps his brother was right.

“Nesta is worried about her,” Cassian murmured. “Says she’s happy but something is off. I can’t really tell, but I know better than to doubt her intuition.” The hand on Azriel’s shoulder squeezed once, then the general left him alone with his thoughts.

What could he say? How could he explain what he’d been thinking when he gave Clotho that necklace and asked her to give it to Gwyn? He had just wanted to make her smile without overwhelming her with his attention. Had she really never taken it off? And why was she still wearing it now?

Had he truly made her feel like an afterthought? Something second best? That guilt made his lungs burn as if he’d inhaled acid.

His thoughts were muddled as he surveyed the emptied training space. He could stand to work out the tension that had built over the training session, so he stepped in the direction of the small basket with long ribbons of material. The least he could do was wrap his hands before punching the padded wooden post into oblivion. At least he had that much sense.

His shadows whirled around him as the painfully familiar voice pierced the midday heat.

“So, are you ever going to speak to me again?”

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