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casuallivi · 2 years ago

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it’s a beautiful thing, being able to be someone's safety zone.

For Elriel Month 2023. Prompt 5: Darkness Lets the Light Shine @elriel-month

Set: the events vary from post ACOMAF to post ACOWAR.

Faint feminine crying ignites his conscious back to life.

The pain is excruciating. Everything hurts, every muscle and tendon in his body burning as if he had been bathed in corrosive acid, his magic struggling to purge the poison and power from the king of Hybern. A swarm of angry shadows stop anyone from approaching. The healers gather in a corner, not knowing what to do.

“Help! Help!... Father!... Nesta!... Help me!”

In his mind, Azriel is sure he’s moving, broken ribs and cracked bones protesting as he fights to sit up, determined to aid her.

“No! Stop, stop it! Please, stop.”

In reality he doesn't move, can't move, prone in a stretcher, the only proof to his distress being the frenetic movement happening behind his closed eyelids, the smallest tightening of his knuckles in the former white sheets now smeared with blood. His blood.

She’s crying now. Choked whimpers evolving to full on sobbing. It's agony, this suffering, piercing his ears so loudly not even his shadows’ whispers can cut through her pleas. Her pain. His pain. He doesn't know what hurts more. Can't tell the difference anymore. Pleas for help merge with a strangled scream, then everything goes silent. His breath catches. His heart stops.

What happened?

Where is she?

The room trembles, chunks of stone dropping from the walls. Screams come from the medical bay now, healers running out of the way from his shadows, darkness engulfing everything. Azriel can't calm them down; they mistake the agony as his own. He urges his shadows to go to her, but they refuse to leave him, high on alert, too worried about their master, set on protecting him now that he lays vulnerable.

It feels wrong, this silence. Unnatural.

Help, he remembers. He can help.

He’s a Shadowsinger, a spymaster, a powerful Illyrian warrior turned Carynthian from effort born from blood, sweat and tear. His brother’s blood as well.

Go, he pleads. Go, now. It’s no use.

He can't help. He wants to. He can't.

Seconds. His moments of lucidity last for seconds.

Azriel passes out again.

~~~

In and out of conscious he goes.

Distorted images flash behind his eyelids. His father’s cell. His hateful siblings’ cruel laugh. The earth-shattering shriek from his mother. Fire blazes and burns and scars. He doesn’t cry. He never cries.

The shadows are his only friends, his everlasting companions. Illyrian cockpits are always covered with fallen children, bruised and broken –but not beyond repair, at least not until the rite. In his High Lord’s office, bookshelves are overturned in a raging fit, paranoid about his child growing night-kissed power. Screams of terror fill the dungeons nestled deep down the Court of Nightmares, a predatory smile stretched in his face, the blood of others dripping down his mask.

Wherever he goes, havoc follows. Destruction. Despair. Not a single face is welcoming at the sight of him unless he’s disguised. His brother fears him sometimes. He understands him, truly. Most nights he fears himself. Scared that, even for a millisecond, he might come to lose control of the darkness brewing in his soul. Might let free the shadow-being that can shapeshift into him; the being that lives for ruination and mayhem.

What is time, if not the meaning you attach to the memories you make?

Memories are his own personal Hel.

Azriel would rather forget them all.

~~~

A dark shape comes closer, withered bony hands probing and prying

Tension radiates from his head to his toes.

‘Madja.’

His quiet sight of sigh of relief is missed by the female.

‘Healer.’

The weary low whisper of his shadows are a balm to his ears.

If can hear them again, he's getting better.

Azriel will heal.

He'll survive.

~~~

Her silence is deafening.

He can’t take it no longer.

Azriel pries one eye open.

Brightness is blinding.

Closed it is.

His voice is rough from disuse, painful to push out.

"You wail like an old lady.”

It’s the wrong thing to do; announce he is conscious, able to speak, to an over emotional Cassian. His brother takes his jab as an invite, jumping on top of him, nearing crushing his half-healed body in a bear hug. Coughing hurts. Cassian helps him to sit up.

Exhaustion is hard to combat.

~~~

Once awake he leaves the healing bay under hard protest from the elderly female. His shadows know where to go even if he doesn't. It's not hard to find her. He does let himself be seen by others.

She lays in bed all day.

He can see Nesta constantly tries do feed her, but for the looks of it, her efforts are not fruitful.

Her light is dimmed, hollowed, wrong. There's no smile to rival the sun now. Silent tears fall down her face, their scent filling the bedroom with salt. It’s a horrible sensation to feel powerless again after so long. For a moment he’s nothing but a boy, alone in the dark. Azriel hates it. He needs the sun to live.

‘There’s no one here,’ his shadows sing. ‘Far away. Gone.’

The statement leaves him puzzled. She is right in front of him, yet they speak as if she left the place, only traces of her sadness lingering behind.

Rhysand doesn't voice his intent, but Azriel knows all the same. The shadows are quick to inform his brother wants to meddle in her mind, nudge her out of bed, oblige her to eat. Azriel’s hand flies to his chest by pure instinct, fingers curling over his shirt.

“Don't."

"This little girl has not eaten a single morsel since she got here."

He knows. But they have all been there before. Struggling with the harsh reality of life. All immortals do.

"Give her time."

“How do you expect me to explain to Feyre her sister died from starvation? She will eat.” Not his brother anymore, not now.

The male in front of him is every inch of a High Lord, the imperative tone leaving no place to question whether this is a request or an order. Azriel doesn’t care. He stands taller. Wings flaring behind his back.

“She will. When she’s ready.” He doesn’t want his brother in her mind. Wandering, prying, exerting influence.

Azriel knows Rhysand well; knows his habit of acting “in favor” of the ones he cares for. A beautiful disguise to cover his own selfish agenda. To protect them, he says, to protect you. Azriel knows better. Knows the seeds he can plant in one’s mind, knows the gates are left wide open for him to return whenever he seems fit, do whatever he judges necessary.

“Let her be.”

“I do not understand you.” Cunning violet eyes set on the shadows gathering over him. “Is this girl a problem to my court? Is that why you are set on killing her?”

Hazel eyes gleam with violence. No one’s dying on his watch. Not her. Never her. Still, the mention of death sends his siphons flaring to life, a cobalt haze engulfing the corridor, Rhysand’s own night power rises in alert, his wings snapping into existence, expanded to their full length. Azriel's are bigger, they both know it. Smirking, Rhysand myst his away, feigning not to notice he came up short.

“Calm down.” His High Lord demands. “What is wrong with you?”

Illyrian pride, Azriel feels no pleasure in recognizing, burns in veins as he tucks his wings.

“Nothing.” He wouldn’t understand. None of them do. “Nothing at all.”

Azriel turns back to her bedroom door, warding her with the most reliable weapon he has; his shadowsinger magic. Ancient, powerful, inconspicuous. He trusts no one. Never has. Is how he survived for so long.

Azriel watches his brother’s every move, makes sure he’s not crossing lines meant to be respected.

Rhysand stays out of Elain’s head.

As long as Azriel stays near to guard her.

~~~

Elain finds her way to the library.

The windows are closed, heavy rain tapping against the glass where her palm is pressed, forehead glued to the surface, peering down at the fat dark clouds, the city far underneath. She's finer, brittle. Shadows slithering into the room, hiding between the crevices of the hardwood floor, mingling with the shades cast by the faelights.

‘She’s back."

"She’s here.’

The message is delivery to his ears alone, yet, Elain moves as soon as they speak, head snapping to her left. Toward the shadow who ventured closer to her, curling under the armchair leg.

“I want to go home.”

A heavy weight settles on his chest. How could he tell her that there was no home left to return to? Now that she was made into High Fae, there would be no warm welcoming for her in the human lands ever again.

Her lips tremble. “You don’t know that.”

Her forehead returns to the cold glass. “He is waiting for me.”

Is not wishfulness he hears when she speaks. Is assurance. Unbreakable trust. Blind faith. Elain is sure her fiancé is worried about her. Waiting for her to return. Azriel clasps his hands behind his back to hide the shaking.

The scent of the older Archeron burns his nostrils as she barrels in the library, gasping at the sight of her sister; out of bed, bathed, dressed in fresh cloths. Speaking. Nesta has not heard Elain’s voice in weeks.

“You are up.” She marvels. “How are you feeling?”

Azriel can hear the quake in her voice. He knows she’d never cry in front of one of them. Nesta’s tears are reserved for the privacy of her own room, in the dead of night, when she thinks all of them have gone to bed.

“I want to go home.” Elain repeats, not looking at them. “I want to go home.”

It’s too much for him to bear.

Azriel leaves the House of Wind.

He doesn’t fly far, doesn’t land anywhere.

It’s not long before he’s back. Alert and vigilant.

Azriel has many eyes and ears spread along the realm, fae eager to please him and prove their value, even if through the menial task of watching a female who spent most of her days in a catatonic state.

Azriel doesn't delegate.

None of them are trust worthy.

None of them are good enough.

None of them is sharper than the spymaster.

~~~

Her lower lip is trapped between her teeth, face lost in concentration. With a sigh, Elain pushes the board game away from her.

“I give up.” She looks over her shoulder, eyes fixed on the empty sofa. “I cannot figure how to play this.”

One blink and Azriel materializes from the shadows, elbow perched on the arm rest, chin in hand.

“It’s a game for two.”

Elain stands, rounding the table to pull the other chair with a flourishing gesture. A silent invitation. It never occurred to Azriel how difficult it is to hide a smile. He doesn’t have the habit of doing so.

His steps are calm and assured, Azriel going to the opposite side of the table, pulling her chair. Elain quirks one brow up, nodding at the chair she has classified as his. He never sits with his back to the doors or windows, so the chair whose back remain to the stone wall are, by default, his.

“I believe I was sitting you.”

“Ladies first.” A human custom. One to be mocked, and frowned upon, by those brought up by a race where females are downgraded. He's made sure to learn them all.

There's no price to the glow in her eyes.

He pushes her chair back in.

Azriel wears no armor today –haven’t for a couple of days now. His gloves come off like a second nature, carelessly shoved in the pocket of his pants, a single siphon dangling in a chain under his black shirt, shifted into a necklace. At least one has to remain. It's safer this way.

Elain interlace her fingers beneath her chin, watching him settle each piece in its correspondent place, long scarred fingers organizing the thirty-two ivory miniatures with careful precision. Dragon and horse-rider are put side by side, but all the goblins stay in the front, like a protective wall. Elain cocks her head to the side, the pattern turning recognizable.

“Is it… fae chess?”

She sounds “fae” like a curse. A forbidden word that should not be said by well-bread ladies. The sharpness of her mind is always a thing of wonder for him.

“Similar.”

“Are you good at it?” Elan asks softly, as if she’s afraid of disrupting his concentration, or being responsible for him misplacing a knight.

“I'm adequate.”

“You are good at it.” She declares.

Her innate confidence in him has his wings jerking behind his back, a quick sharp flare he's even quicker to tame. Shadows skitter in delight. What’s wrong with you. Behave.

"I haven't play it in roughly a hundred years."

"A hundred years!” A small laugh escapes her. “So dramatic."

“Am I?”

Elain lifts her eyes from the board, ready to shower him with reasons for judging him so, when they catch on his wings. Two large membranous appendages shaped like the ones of a bat, thick veins running under the leathery skin which expand and contract, before comfortably fitting between the slits in the chair.

Wings.

Because he is not human.

Neither is she.

The room spins, walls closing in on her. The gurgling of water is deafening, black dots edging her vision, ghost hands tugging her legs. Oh no. Azriel’s lips are moving, but she can’t hear a word he’s saying. She can’t hear anything but that heinous cackling laugh, mocking her, the same way it did when she drowned. Elain hyperventilates.

Her hands fly over the boardgame, meeting his halfway, colorful ivory pieces falling down with a loud thump. She grabs onto him, short nails digging on the bump curves of his scars. His scars are real. Azriel is real. He’s not speaking anymore, just breathing, deeply, the painful squeeze of her hand instigating her to follow. She does.

Azriel is aware Elain is remembering she’s no longer human, knows unwanted memories are striking her the same way they do to him in the dead of night. He knew she was about to be triggered the moment her gaze locked in his wings, eyes widening together with the quickening in her breath, confusing swiping her features. They are more infrequent now, her panic attacks, but every once in a while, he witnesses them. Feels her despair as if it was his own, even if he’s not around to help her ride the wave.

It’s a painfully long process to help her calm down. Time matters not to him. Azriel has only Elain in his mind.

Slowly – so, so, slowly – Elain feels the walls retroceding to their original place, the ceiling high and above, not even close from crushing her skull. Her suffering sigh of relief breaks the tense silence, vexed shadows quieting at the feet of their master but refusing to vanish, the everlasting eyeless watch following her with keen attention.

One of his hands start to leave hers.

"Don't let me go!" Elain yelps helplessly.

"I won't." The hand doesn't go far, cradling her face, his thumb swiping the solitary tear running down her cheek. "I won’t."

He stays with her.

Azriel stays with Elain and does not let go.

~~~

“You are letting me win.” Elain sulks. "Stop that."

Azriel finds her complain endearing, but then again, many things she does can be classified that way.

"I'm teaching you. Enjoy while it last."

"You have the power to destroy me."

“Where’s the fun in that?” Elain moves her remaining dragon to eminent extermination. He holds her hand before the piece can touch the board – losing the right be moved– guiding her to place it two squares below the one she aimed for. "I can teach you better tactics," he wiggles his brows, "war strategies."

“No, thank you. I want to bargain.”

Hazel eyes find her so fast Elain feels a little dizzy. He tends to do that to her, steal her breath.

"Bargains are more than an agreement between the fae." He begins carefully.

"I know." Elain says calmly.

"They cannot be broken."

"I know."

"We'll be bound by magic."

"I'm aware."

"And you still want to bargain?"

"Yes."

"With me?"

"Yes."

"Over a match you'll certainly loose?"

"I will not lose." Elain scoff with confidence. Azriel places a hand in front of his mouth. She slaps it away. "Do not laugh, I will not lose."

He shouldn't do it. Azriel knows he should not do it.

"Name it."

He never had a chance. Azriel is a slave to competition.

“We’ll have another match. If I win, I want you to teach me how to winnow.”

“We don’t need a bargain for that. I can teach you regardless.”

“No,” Elain shakes her head, declining politely. “I want to earn it. I win, you teach me. And if you win,”

“When I win,” he corrects her, relaxing on his chair. Elain rolls her eyes.

“If you win,” she begins again with annoyance. “I’ll grant you a wish.”

“The conditions?”

“None.” She states with a little shrug. Azriel sits properly, the devil in him giving her his full attention. “I’ll grant you a wish of your choosing. Any wish.”

“Any wish?” He asks, not believing his ears.

“Any wish.” She confirms.

The Shadowsinger rattles his cage, anticipation filling him with energy.

“You should really stipulate more rules.”

“I don’t need to.”

“It’s dangerous to make such a loose bargain.”

“I trust you.”

Well, fuck him.

Elain shouldn’t trust him so easily. Elain shouldn't trust him at all. At this point, Azriel has nothing but bad intent in mind. He tries to scold his features. Is impossible. His lazy smile soon turns into a grin from ear to ear, eyes going wholly black. Azriel rolls his shoulders in a dramatic maneuver, feigning to stretch his muscles, before extending a hand towards Elain.

“My lady.”

“My lord.” Her smirk is supposed to be threatening. She could not be cuter if she tried. “May the best one win.”

“That one happened to be me.”

They shake on it. Magic instantly zaps between them, rising up his arm. Their hairs stood up a little. They move at the same time, Azriel returning her curls back in place as Elain flattens his. They smile at each other.

“Best be ready to lose.” She sings excitedly, smoothing his ears after she's done with his hair. Contouring the round shape of it. “I have a secret up my sleeve.”

She doesn’t.

Azriel wins

~~~

It isn’t until much later that he realizes she lost on purpose.

Because Azriel learns from Cerridwen that Elain has known how to winnow since Fall.

~~~

The pungent stench of burnt food brings her back to reality, where she stands frozen in the middle of the kitchen, dark smoke rising from the oven. Elain knows is useless, but she still rushes to save her pie. In her hurry, she forgets to put the gloves, burning her hands in the hot pan, which she hastily drops in the counter.

“Shit!” the hushed curse is inevitable.

People curse so much in this household, is beginning to rub on her.

Elain holds her injured hand to her chest, breathing heavily as the images of her vision flash one last time before her eyes, the details fogged, hazy. What was it that she saw? It has vanished now, she cannot remember.

On her peripheral view, Elain can see a body emerging from thin air, a silver fork shining in a scarred hand as he nicks a piece of the pie.

“Wait!” She gasps.

Her warning comes too late. He’s eating it already.

Elain covers her mouth in horror, watching him chew a generous piece of the burned pastry, eyes trained on the movement off his strong jaw, the elegant bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows the lumpy mix. Her mouth feels dry.

She licks her lips, feeling unsettled for an entirely different reason. “I don’t think that’s edible…”

“Uncooked and burned at the same time,” Azriel comments, staking the fork in the middle of the pie. “That’s some skills you have there.”

“Just spit it out.” She asks with shame, looking around the messy kitchen, mentally moping about all the cleaning she has to do before remaking the desert.

He’s behind the counter now, the beautiful cobalt stone on top of his fingerless gauntlet flickering quietly as he asked for her hand, the pale skin of her palm turned to a raw pink. She hisses as he touches the edges, their eyes meeting briefly.

‘Does it hurt much?’ His say.

‘I’ll live.’ Hers answer.

Azriel turns the faucet on, briefly testing the temperature.

The back of her hand rests on his open palm as cold water cools the wound. They stand close, the hard muscles of his torso pressed to her side, brushing against her with every rise and fall of his chest.

“It’s superficial,” he tranquilizes her, “give it an hour and you’ll be good as new.”

An hour. A wound that before would have peeled her skin, blistered and swollen, before probably leaving a scar would now heal within the hour. A shiver runs down her spine.

Azriel notices her tension right away; the scrunch of her nose, the downward tug of her lips, the twitch of the fingers on his hand. He makes not comment, doesn’t chastise or console her either, letting her process her emotions at her own time and pace. He knows Elain struggles with her new body, but it is not his place to comment when he cannot stand his own Illyrian features from time to time –the facial structure that resembles his father.

Her eyes fall closed, ears twitching at the array of sounds. His controlled breathing, rhythmic heartbeat, nose buried in her hair, the subtle inhale of her scent, his lips pressing ever so slightly on the top of her head. Elain is getting used to dampening her super hearing, but sometimes... Sometimes she let her abilities unchecked.

The faucet is turned off.

Elain opens her eyes, silently watching as he calls a shadow, a small metallic container appearing on his previously empty hand. Azriel unscrews the lid, applying a generous coat of a greenish ointment on her skin, soothing the burn. A moan of relief escape from her lips. He smiles.

“You are quite vocal.” Azriel comments.

“You make me feel good.” She sighs contently.

Azriel pauses, and so does Elain, gauging his reaction. It’s a genuine confession, not one stirred from the act of care he’s demonstrating right now, but one born from the combination of all the ones done before that.

“Azriel."

He doesn't trust his voice to answer.

"Mmh?"

"You make me feel good.” Elain repeats. Feelings she’s been trying to tame bleed out from her heart. Pouring like a torrent.

He drowns in it.

Gladly.

One kiss to her palm, then he is pressing it to his heart.

“You make me feel good too, sweetheart."

And she does.

Azriel feels like he has it now.

Light.

Not to purge the darkness.