Chapter Text
P R E L U D E
This is the love story of an orphaned priestess and a heartbroken spymaster. It is not for the poets or the scribes, but rather, for the dreamers. For those who look at the stars from the bars of a cell or the stained glass of a temple, and wish.
P A R T I
“You should be with someone who’s crazy about you, Jess.”
“That’d be really nice if it was coming from someone who hadn’t just punched me in the face.”
– Nick and Jess in Elizabeth Meriwether’s “New Girl” ep. 6 s. 2, directed by Jesse Peretz
“You’re not staying?” Nesta asked.
Azriel averted his gaze, straightening his bracers. For whatever reason, answering her question felt like he was confessing a secret. “No, I promised Berdara I’d give her a private lesson in dagger handling.”
To his relief, both Nesta and Cassian were both too preoccupied with the decrepit mortal village he’d winnowed them to to notice his unease. Why admitting such an arbitrary detail felt so disconcerting was beyond Azriel. He was Gwyn’s trainer after all. Trainers met with trainees one on one to help them further their skills all the time.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” Azriel said mildly.
He didn’t linger, allowing his shadows to swathe him in darkness and winnow him away.
Between one blink and the next, the shadows dissipated and Azriel found himself in open air outside the House of Wind. He spread his wings and banked forward, allowing the wind to carry him towards the opening that led to the training ring. Swooping downward, preparing to land, he saw Gwyneth Berdara already within.
As soon as his boots made contact with the ground, Azriel snapped his wings in, jogging to a stop when he realized the priestess was leisurely twirling a blade far too long and far too heavy for her.
His brows pulled together as he started across the ring towards her.
She was smiling at him, blissfully unaware that she was one wrong movement from seriously injuring herself.
Closing the distance between them, Azriel held out his palm, “Give me that.”
At the flat tone in his voice, Gwyn surrendered the dagger with a bemused expression. “My apologies, Shadowsinger.”
Azriel sent the weapon floating back to the weapon’s rack on a tendril of shadow, then reached into the bin of wooden sparring daggers, removing two. He handed one to Gwyn with a serious look. “Not only was that entirely the wrong size, but you could’ve put out your eye.”
Just saying the words gave him heart palpitations. Gwyneth Berdara had been through enough without carelessly blinding herself, or gods forbid, giving herself a nasty scar.
Gwyn’s expression was playfully grave. “Well, thank you for saving my best feature. I’d hate to lose it.”
While Azriel agreed that Gwyn’s eyes were certainly beautiful, he didn’t believe them to be her best feature. Her best feature, in his opinion at least, were her freckles. They dotted her skin like constellations in the night sky, reminding him vaguely of the stars he used to glimpse between the bars of his cell. They’d always given him hope during the dark days of his childhood. Much like Gwyneth Berdara. Because if Azriel had ruthlessly slaughtered four of Hybern’s soldiers and it had saved the life of someone so good, maybe there was hope for his soul after all.
He’d never say it aloud, but saving Gwyneth Berdara may have been the best thing he’d ever done.
“Alright,” Gwyn said, interrupting his thoughts, “where do we begin?”
“Are you stretched?”
“A half-nymph is always stretched.”
Azriel permitted himself a snort, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Then we’ll begin with footwork.”
Over the next hour, Azriel discovered that Gwyneth Berdara had a natural talent for the dagger.
Every correction he gave, she applied with impressive accuracy. It was immensely gratifying as an instructor to see her improve so vastly in such a short amount of time. It was even more gratifying still to see the priestess become so formidable given what she’d been through.
But he wouldn’t dwell on that. Gwyn was more than the trauma that had first introduced them.
Instead, Azriel dwelled on the long lines of her body. The dip of her waist and the swell of her hip. The way her chest heaved with exertion, the sweat rolling down her freckled cheek and touching the corner of her pink mouth. She was a vision, reminding him of the Valkyries of old. They too moved with exhilarating grace and precision.
Then there was the way she smiled whenever she succeeded.
“Well done,” Azriel said as she perfectly executed the upward thrust he’d taught her.
Gwyn beamed at him, lowering the wooden dagger. “I did it? Really?”
He couldn’t help the way his lips curved up at the corners. “Really.”
She raised her hands in triumph. “Yes!” she laughed.
Cassian and Nesta await you… the shadows reminded him, sounding a bit reluctant.
Azriel found himself mirroring their lack of enthusiasm to end the lesson. He’d enjoyed this time with Gwyn, and the hour had gone by quickly.
“I have to retrieve Nesta and Cassian,” Azriel said apologetically.
Lowering her arms from the sky, Gwyn smiled, bowing her head to him gratefully. “Well, I appreciate you taking the time to train me. I like the dagger.”
She extended her free hand to him.
Then, in a gesture that surprised him, Azriel shook it without hesitation. He allowed Gwyn to clasp her elegant fingers with his rough ones. Her slightly calloused flesh had touched his mutilated skin and she held his gaze all the while, still wearing that grateful smile.
And when he released her hand, he felt suddenly vacant.
He started to leave then, half turning and preparing to ascend beyond the House’s wards so he could fetch Nesta and Cassian.
But he stopped.
He turned back to face Gwyn who was depositing the two sparring daggers back in their bin.
“Berdara?” he said.
She straightened, brows raised unassumingly.
“Would you like to meet here tomorrow at the same time?”
He held his breath.
Why was he holding his breath?
Before he could answer the question, Gwyn replied brightly, “Yes. It’s actually my day off.”
Azriel felt his heart beat once. Twice. Gwyn’s smile became amused.
He gave her a nod, then made his exit before he could embarrass himself further. Although, he couldn’t bring himself to regret a moment of it.
Because tomorrow, they were going to meet for dagger training again.
Ten Private Dagger Lessons Later
It had been two months since Gwyn and Azriel began their lessons. Eight weeks, one cut ribbon and a new sparring partner later and Azriel was well and truly intrigued by Gwyneth Berdara.
He liked that she laughed when he knocked her on her ass. He liked the growl of frustration she’d make when she couldn’t outmaneuver him. He liked her jokes and her teasing. But most of all, he liked not being alone at night when his demons came calling. They’d started off with afternoon training sessions but their appointments were consistently canceled due to Merrill inexplicably adjusting Gwyn’s schedule. Azriel’s work as both a chaperone, trainer and spymaster frequently interfered with their plans as well.
Eventually, they’d taken to repeating their meeting in the training ring in the dead of night, just like on Winter Solstice. Sleep didn’t come easily to either of them, as it were.
It took one cut ribbon and an anonymous necklace, but Azriel finally gained the courage to pry at Gwyn just as she had pried at him.
“What made you choose to train, Gwyn?” Azriel asked, polishing the metal sparring weapons they’d used today.
Gwyn looked up from the impressive stretch she was doing on the mat, both legs spread before her as she tugged on the toes of her boots with each hand. “Valkyrie Training? Because I saw the sign up list and it felt like something Catrin would do,” she answered with a smile. “Doing things in her spirit… It’s how I make sure she stays close to me even in death.”
It took Azriel a moment to gather himself. The cheerful demeanor with which she so easily bared her soul was disarming. Especially so because his shadows didn’t detect a hint of sorrow behind her words. Azriel could see in her eyes that talking about Catrin and her reasons for training only brought her joy. While he was certain she still mourned her twin, there was nothing but happiness when she spoke of her being the cause behind her choosing to train.
But that hadn’t been Azriel’s question. Not exactly. “I’m certain she would be proud of you,” he began, not wanting to disregard such a vulnerable admission. When Gwyn bowed her head in agreement, he continued, “But I meant specifically the—the dagger handling training with me.”
“Ah,” Gwyn said, sitting up and bracing her palms on the mat behind her, expression thoughtful. “Well, I chose the dagger because it’s easy to conceal, very portable. I chose you for training because I’m aware of your notorious reputation with a dagger. I figured you’d be the best teacher.”
Azriel’s brows lowered, his heart skipped a beat. He polished the weapon in his scarred hands more vigorously to hide his trembling. “I’d be interested to learn how you became aware of my reputation with a dagger. Spymasters aren’t supposed to have reputations—“
“I hate to break it to you, Shadowsinger, but you’re in books,” Gwyn grinned.
Azriel blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
The priestess pressed her lips together, as though fighting off a smile. Azriel’s shadows gave a phantom chirp of amusement only he could hear.
Quiet, he told them.
“You’re the youngest spymaster in Night Court history, and served two High Lords consecutively. Of course it’s been documented,” Gwyn explained breezily. “It’s very brief, mind you, as historians understand the importance of keeping your identity a secret.”
“Which books?” Azriel asked.
She must’ve heard the conviction in his voice because her expression became stern. “Don’t even think of trying to get rid of them, Azriel. There are only two, to my knowledge, and they both say the exact same thing.” Gwyn cleared her throat, eyes drifting to the night sky above them, “ The High Lord made extensive changes to his father’s court in nearly every area, save for one. Rhysand kept his sire’s appointed spymaster, whose reputation to extract information with a dagger is renowned.” She raised her palms innocently, “That’s basically what both of them say. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Azriel felt his stomach pitch. He placed the dagger he’d been polishing back on the weapon’s rack with a little more force than necessary, then lowered himself to sit on the mat across from Gwyn. He made himself busy massaging his dagger-hand, stimulating the damaged nerves.
“You’re upset,” Gwyn said.
It wasn’t a question.
Azriel’s jaw flexed. He was. And he was letting it show. Something he never did. Now he was practically pouting.
And before he knew it, he was speaking. “I wish history did not recall that I worked for Rhysand’s father. He was a cruel man and made me do equally cruel things in his stead. I continue to do cruel things for Rhysand, but at least for my brother, there is justice in it. The deeds I carried out for his father were nothing more than petty displays of power and intimidation, and the shame of them weighs heavy on me.” His eyes drifted from his scarred hands to Gwyn, leveling her with a softer look, “And I preferred when you were not aware.”
Gwyn’s face was unreadable, but free of judgment. She only said, “I see.”
Those two little words frayed what remained of his self preservation, the willingness in them smashing his carefully constructed barriers to bits. “I did not choose to work for Rhysand’s father. He demanded it of me to separate the three of us. Cassian and Rhys served on different battlefields, slaughtering who knows how many people. They say they’ve stopped counting.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “But when you kill people so singularly over centuries, you don’t forget. I haven’t lost count.”
Silence hung between. For one heartbeat. Two.
Then Gwyn folded her legs to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. “Well, you should.”
Azriel’s brows raised to his hairline. “I should lose count?”
“Certainly,” Gwyn said emphatically. “What good is it doing you to bear the weight of those deaths?”
“It keeps me accountable,” Azriel replied.
“No, it keeps you miserable .” She gave him a reproachful look. “Do you honestly believe that if you didn’t beat yourself up over the work you do that you’d feel no guilt?” Gwyn didn’t wait for him to answer, clearly confident in her opinion. “No, you’d have to be an absolute monster to only feel guilt over death if you kept a detailed list of your sins over the centuries. And don’t deny it. I’m a researcher and I know you have a physical list. You’d have to to accurately recall a career spanning five centuries.”
“How do you know I’m not?” Azriel asked absently, hands now planted on the floor beside his hips.
Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Hm?”
“How do you know I’m not… a monster?”
He waited for her to act as though she hadn’t heard him. To spare him the pity. He’d confessed his concern that he was a monster to Elain once — a single time — and she had understandably changed the subject to a beautiful bush of hydrangeas they’d walked past. He didn’t blame her, she was probably trying to spare him the vulnerability. But instead it had felt she was avoiding confirming his worst fear. That he was a monster.
“Oh, Azriel,” Gwyn said softly.
Azriel’s breath hitched. She’d used his name. Not ‘shadowsinger’ but ‘Azriel .’
But more than that… her words held so much compassion. Her expression was sympathetic. Gwyneth Berdara was not backing down from his demons. She was facing them.
Unlike Elain.
Do not compare her to Elain, the shadows said ardently.
In truth, he wasn’t sure why he was comparing them. They were both so different. Besides, his affair with Elain was romantic and Gwyn was just a friend.
A friend who made him laugh.
Who banished his demons.
Who trusted him to help her vanquish her own.
“Azriel,” Gwyn began, “a monster would not have agreed to train me. A monster wouldn’t knock me on my ass to help me better myself. A monster wouldn’t help me bandage my right hand because I’m useless with my left.”
“We’re going to work on that,” he murmured with a grimace.
He had told her they’d make her ambidextrous after she’d landed poorly on her dominant hand. She’d replied by saying that it would be useful when she got cramps from transcribing for hours and then some other rubbish about the many uses of being ambidextrous that he’d been too busy focusing on doing a good job of bandaging her wrist to fully comprehend.
Gwyn unfolded her legs and hopped to her feet. She stared down at Azriel, hands braced on her hips. “Go and get that damned guilt list, then meet me in the private library in an hour.”
Azriel opened his mouth to protest, but she was already striding towards the exit.
“It will be nearly dawn by then!”
She called over her shoulder. “Then don’t keep me waiting, Shadowsinger!”
Thirty minutes later, Azriel entered the private library of the House of Wind. In his hands, he held a yellowing folder containing a thick stack of parchment.
He cleared his throat upon entry, making his presence known to Gwyn.
She stood from where she had been kneeling by the fireplace, feeding wood into the flames. In the thirty minutes they’d been apart, she’d rinsed off the scent of sweat and changed into her priestess robes. Azriel didn’t care for the way the billowing fabric hid the strength she’d worked to build in her body.
He walked around the overstuffed sofa and armchairs surrounding the fireplace, coming to stand before her.
Gwyn’s teal eyes flicked to the folder in his hands. “That’s awfully thick, Shadowsinger.”
“Like you said,” he exhaled, “five centuries of a career.”
Gwyn gestured to the roaring hearth. “And we’re going to turn it to ash.”
When Azriel looked at the flames his hands tingled. He felt his throat bob when he looked back at Gwyn. She was smart enough to identify his scars. She knew they were from burns, even if she didn’t know the cause.
“ We are going to turn it to ash,” she repeated, holding out her hands. “So if you’ll hand it over, I promise not to peek, this list is going to become kindling.”
“I can… I can do it…” he trailed off.
“Of course you can. But you’re not religious, and so you don’t know the prayer for the dead I’m going to say while they burn.”
“How do you know I’m not religious?” Azriel countered.
Gwyn smirked. “Stop stalling.”
Azriel chuckled wetly, pressure building in his eyes, then surrendered the folder to Gwyn.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now go sit on the couch.”
Azriel dipped his head and obeyed her command, tucking in his wings and lowering himself to sit on the sofa. He watched intently as she knelt before the fire, then set the folder on the marble floor, opening it and beginning to remove sheathes of parchment.
Then she began to speak in the Old Language.
For what felt like hours, Azriel watched her place those cursed names of the lives he had extinguished in the fire. Watched the papers curl and crumple until they became ash. Again and again, Gwyn repeated the words until at last, the fire was blazing and the stack was gone.
Still kneeling and watching the flames, Gwyn finally spoke to him. “The prayer roughly translates to: Mother of spirits and flesh, who giveth life and death, and birthed the world: now, O Mother, grant rest to the soul of this departed child. In a place of light, of green pastures, a land of renewal where pain, sorrow and anguish have fled away.” She turned her head and looked at Azriel. “I will write it for you and anytime you claim a life, say it when you are able, and you will have done all you can for the soul you took.”
Azriel nodded at her, afraid to speak should his voice break. Something inside of him had cleaved as she explained the prayer. Explained that the lives he’d taken were at rest.
He may not have been religious, but he’d lived long enough to know there was peace in ritual. Even if you didn’t entirely believe it.
She dusted off her hands, then joined him on the sofa, sitting sideways so she faced him slightly. “Look at me,” she said.
Azriel obeyed, his vision blurring. He blinked back the tears as quickly as he could.
Gwyn held out her hands. “Take my hands.”
Just like at their first private lesson, Azriel didn’t hesitate to place his scarred hands in hers.
She held his fingers and closed her eyes. “You don’t have to close your eyes too, but I’m going to bless you.”
He didn’t shut his eyes. Instead he watched Gwyn carefully as she began to speak in a somber voice. “With these words, I purify your body, your mind and your soul. I wash your hands and your face, as a priestess to the Mother, so you approach relief from your grief. Haernítomia .” She opened her eyes, smiling at him. “There. Now the souls are at peace and their deaths are pardoned by a servant of the Mother.”
And even though Azriel didn’t fully believe in the Mother, knowing Gwyneth Berdara had gone to such lengths to ensure he no longer felt like a monster did wonders for his soul.
An hour passed. Dawn began to stream in through the windows when the fire finally began to simmer.
Gwyn had her legs curled up beside her, Azriel lounged back, careful not to poke her with his wings.
“I appreciate you doing all of this for a non-believing heathen such as myself,” Azriel said, giving her a sidelong smile.
Gwyn snorted, propping her elbow on the back of the couch and shifting to face him. “What if I told you that I’m not entirely convinced myself?”
He arched a brow. “A priestess is not entirely assured in the existence of the Mother?”
“After what I’ve been through?” she balked. “No, I’m not convinced.”
Azriel turned his attention back to the flames. “I would be skeptical of an all loving Mother and Cauldron too if I’d experienced what you’d been through,” he admitted tentatively.
Gwyn hummed in agreement. “What I’ve been through, what Catrin went through, what my mother and grandmother went through.” What Gwyn said next was entirely unexpected. “Then there’s the nature of my… my mating bond.”
Azriel’s head snapped in her direction, all drowsiness fleeing him. “Your what ?”
He wasn’t sure why he was having such an extreme reaction to this news. He didn’t know why he felt nauseated by it. He didn’t understand the roiling in his stomach and the fevered curiosity to learn more.
Gwyn’s gaze was trained on the flames, as though seeing something beyond them. “I don’t like to talk about it. Only Clotho knows,” she said in a voice barely more than a whisper.
Azriel chose his next words carefully, inclining his head so he could deliver them delicately. “What is the nature of your mating bond?”
If she denied him, he would not pry. But he prayed she didn’t. Gods help him, he wanted to know. For whatever reason, he needed to know.
Gwyn sighed, twisting her hands in her lap. “Our meeting was ill-fated…”
His brows pulled together as the shadowsinger considered the information. How had their meeting been ill-fated? To Azriel’s knowledge, the last time Gwyn had encountered the outside world was during…
Gods above…
“Did you… You met him that night? In Sangravah.”
Gwyn’s throat slid, but she gave a single nod.
Azriel felt his stomach churn again, his breath stolen from him. His lips parted in horror. “Gwyn, was he– Was he in the number that tried to– One of the ones that I—”
She whirled on him, eyes wide. “Oh, no! Gods, no!”
Azriel sighed with relief, pressing a hand to the chest of his tunic.
“No, no,” she said, grabbing his shoulder in a comforting gesture. She averted her gaze, no longer meeting his eyes, no doubt picturing her mate as a rueful smile played on her lips. “He was among the rescue party that Rhysand sent.”
Azriel tried to go through the list of Velaris soldiers that had accompanied him and Morrigan to Sangravah that evening, but it was a blur. All things considered, he’d only seen Gwyn briefly that night before handing her over to Morrigan in his cloak. Had she encountered her mate after Mor had left him and before she had winnowed Gwyn to the House?
“Do you wish for help finding him? I know all in Rhysand’s number and if you give me his–”
“No,” Gwyn said, finally meeting his eyes again. “No, I know who he is. I know where he is.”
Understanding dawned on Azriel. “But the bond has not snapped for him. He does not know.”
“He does not know,” Gwyn confirmed, once more turning her face from Azriel. “But tonight is not about my feelings. Let us return to yours. How do you feel after–”
“To hells with my feelings. We’ve dwelled on them until sunrise,” Azriel said, waving an errant hand. “Berdara, allow me to help you as you helped me. I can get word to your mate that you are here. I can arrange a meeting–”
“I do not wish for him to be aware until I am ready,” she answered.
He took her hands in his, just as she had when blessing him. That brought her attention back to him.
“Let me help you be ready for him, Gwyn,” Azriel implored. His cheeks bloomed with heat as he realized that part of that help may be something he should refrain from assisting her with, “At least in a–a friendly aspect. I don’t presume–”
Gwyn laughed, tossing her head back. Azriel’s eyes rounded at the delight in the sound.
She squeezed his hands. “As far as intimacy goes, I require no assistance. If you must know the um… reading material Nesta and Emerie have supplied me with has helped immensely.” She bent her head to whisper, “If it’s not too bold, Shadowsinger, these books have made sex actually sound appealing again.”
Unbidden, Azriel felt his lips pull into a smile at the scandalous nature with which Gwyn relayed such tame news. Smut had made her comfortable with intimacy, and had reinstated the romance of it. That was nothing so bold.
But he kept his thoughts to himself, instead listening as she had for him.
Gwyn sighed serenely, releasing his hands and folding her own primly in her lap. “But you are already helping me, Shadowsinger. Now don’t get me wrong, I train for the reasons I said: because it keeps Catrin close and grants me the power to protect myself.” Then, quieter, “But I push myself because I wish to be my best for him when the time is right.”
He heard the unspoken words.
When she was no longer scared to leave the House.
When she could find him in Velaris and pursue this further.
Azriel was already helping her, she had said, and he would continue to do so. Because if anyone deserved a mate, it was Gwyneth Berdara. Gwyneth Berdara with her quiet curiosity, loud love, and melodic courage.
“That time will come, Berdara,” Azriel said, looking straight ahead and saying the words even as his heart clenched for some unknown reason. “And when it does, he will know he is the luckiest male in Prythian for the Cauldron to have deemed him worthy of you.”
Then, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, Gwyneth Berdara’s head fell on his shoulder. She said nothing more.
Moments later, her breathing grew even and Azriel realized she was sound asleep.
He thought briefly of extricating himself and using his shadows to help her lie on her side undisturbed. Covering her with a blanket and leaving her to rest.
But in the end, Azriel did not move. He remained on the sofa, with Gwyn sleeping on his shoulder, his shadows nuzzling her affectionately. After all, it was likely that when her mate became aware of her, Azriel would not have this chance again.
Already he mourned the loss, but the sadness subsided quickly at the warmth simmering in his chest.
For once, Azriel chose to linger there in the comforting glow rather than swathing himself in shadow.