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The sun was high above as Rhys’s brows knitted together in concern, an almost unnoticeable rush of several emotions flickering on his face. Azriel stood before him, the only of his brothers to now wear his Illyrian armor in preparation for the visit to The Court of Nightmares in a few hours.
Azriel had drawn the longer of two sticks when they had decided who was going to be attending this evening—the shorter stick would indicate who would watch over the elder Archeron sisters instead of going to Hewn City. Though Azriel had known why it was important for him to be present there tonight, he had quietly thought the other task not worthy of Cassian’s tantrum when they’d pulled the sticks out of Rhys’s hand.
“Fuck,” Cassian had said flatly, his shoulders sagging, as if he knew what might be in store on an evening with the group now staying at the House of Wind—or one of its inhabitants in particular. “Best two out of three?”
Rhys had just rolled his eyes and asked him to continue with his thought about what the Bone Carver had requested in exchange for his help in the war: the Ouroboros. The three of them had already heard—or, rather, seen, at the courtesy of Rhys’s projection into their minds—Cassian’s account of his visit to the Prison with Feyre. The situation, it seemed, was getting more and more complicated as they approached the meeting with the other High Lords twelve days ahead.
The others would understand soon enough indeed just how complicated. Azriel’s visit the day prior to the Autumn Court had made his skin crawl for hours after he had returned, reminding him of what the true costs of this war were going to be—what they had always been—with their impending alliance with Eris. The memory of that crisp, russet and emerald wood yesterday flashed in his eyes for a moment, as it sometimes did when he remembered why he hated the crunch of maroon colored leaves beneath his boots and the smells of apples falling to a forest floor.
Rhys’s voice brought him back to the warm, golden sunshine of Velaris as the look of concern ebbed on his face. “We’re taking the sisters and Lucien to the Town House.”
Cassian glanced between them, still sulking. “Which one of you is taking Lucien?”
The brothers were in the air before Rhys could roll his eyes again.
Feyre said she’s in the library, Rhys said into Azriel’s mind as they landed atop one of the balconies. Remember her state, brother.
Azriel had only nodded, knowing Rhysand was referring to how the middle Archeron sister had spent the last few weeks in the sun-drenched library at the House of Wind—in silence, her warm brown eyes fixed on the distance outside the windows leading to the ocean. He had been up to the House only a handful of times in those weeks, but each time had sent his shadows swirling ‘round those large windows, testing the wards locking them in place. The locks yielded no movement each time. The most recent visit found Azriel taking a few silent moments to return some of the strewn books to their places on the shelves, he remembered, as he now noticed a copy of a book titled The Evening Garden in the same location he had placed it on the bay window on his last visit.
The inhabitant of the seat at that window now seemed to be angled toward it, as she continued to look out toward the glittering water in the distance. He gently cleared his throat, making his voice little more than a soft hum. “Elain?”
She did not stir. Sitting alone, she was a portrait of soft grace as her pale pink gown flowed to the floor next to her legs curled up on the cushion. Azriel took a few cautious steps toward her, his wings tight behind him and his shadows quiet in the glow of the room. “I’m here to assist you down to the Town House. May I—May I get you a shawl?”
She was so pale—so translucent that the sun was likely burning her cheeks as she kept staring out. Certainly no longer the lady who had clutched a fork in fear at the prospect of sitting next to Cassian at the Archeron Estate a few months ago. No longer was she the sun-kissed doe who had pushed against the innate terror that quickened her human heartbeat while facing those who she had been taught to fear—different Fae than had taken her sister away a year ago, but still Fae all the same.
No—the life in those soft eyes had been dulled when she was forced into the Cauldron at the palace in Hybern. Azriel had been all but dead in those moments that she was pushed into the depths of of darkness within the Cauldron, but he had somehow known that something had changed when she did. He didn’t know if perhaps it was because he had understood that the Archeron sisters were three of a kind—three examples of the exceptions in Fae history. Or, perhaps, if it was because his shadows had been trying to communicate that things were going very, very wrong in the aftermath of the elder sisters being Made.
Different, they had whispered to him, bleeding out on the floor. Those eyes are different, aren’t they?
Looking at her now, he thought of how much a tragedy it would be to never see that girl again; the one who had prepared the finest tea available for the mortal queens, so courteous to those who had never deserved her kind heart.
She at last turned to him, a look of solemness surrounding those warm eyes. “Does the sun burn your wings when you fly?”
He blinked. Slowly, he took another step toward her, clasping his hands behind his back as he said, “Not quite. There is a pigment that lays within the membrane that absorbs the sun’s rays to protect them from such a burn. Your skin, with less of that pigment, needs protection from those rays.”
It was as if she had looked straight through him at those wings upon his back, and he suddenly felt them shudder a bit at her gaze. She looked again into his eyes, nodding once toward him and holding out her arms in such a way that would imply she might have desired something like a hug, under different circumstances.
Azriel approached her fully then, kneeling before the bay window as he let her wrap her arms around his neck, smoothing her dress so that his right arm cupped her knees and his left settled just above her waist. He ensured her dress covered her fully before lifting her in one swift motion, leaving the copy of The Evening Garden sitting on the window as he carried her from the room.
It was a short flight down from the House of Wind—Elain hadn’t so much as looked away from Azriel’s chest as he very smoothly landed on the steps leading up to the Town House. He stepped along the sun-warmed stones as her hold around his neck loosened, causing his grip to firm as he walked toward the house.
“If I may,” Azriel said, indicating he would carry her through the door, “the foyer carpet is much cleaner than the path.”
“My skirts used to drag through soil all the time,” she replied, a ghost of a memory on her otherwise empty expression.
He merely nodded. Feyre appeared behind them, her face a half-concealed picture of guilt and concern. Azriel turned back toward Elain before him on the carpet. Her hair, golden brown and falling around her shoulders, was windswept in such a way that reminded him of how falling cherry blossom petals swirled in the air before touching the ground. He smiled at the thought.
“Would you like me to show you the garden?” He asked, thinking she might like to have some soil on her otherwise pristine dress.
She looked back at Azriel’s face then, and for a moment he swore her irises had brightened in color at the mention of such a tour. She nodded once, and Azriel offered her an arm and she laid a hand on it, her flawless skin touching just next to where his scars began below his Siphon.
“Beautiful,” she breathed, as her thumb brushed ever so slightly on that arm, so soft it would not be caught by any other’s eye. Azriel did not look away from her face as he led her toward the door, the others gathering behind them in the foyer.
Elain sat at one of the garden tables, glancing at some marigold flowers in the shade of an oak tree. She stared and stared at them as Azriel returned with a tray holding a steaming tea pot and two cups with saucers. On the lounge nearby, he’d placed a stack of reports from his contacts in the Autumn Court—a cluster of information he did not look forward to organizing.
As he poured a cup for her, he felt the silence in the absence of his shadows around him—it was like they had taken a break for just a moment to bask in the glow of the warmth around them. Above them, Rhysand and Feyre’s bedroom window seemed to rustle with movement as a faint smile tugged at Azriel’s lips. It’s certainly a better place to keep an eye on her from than the House, he thought loudly, knowing that Rhys would be listening as Feyre watched her sister.
I don’t think she’s been outside in a month, Rhys returned to his mind. Feyre...thanks you, for her company.
Elain glanced at the tea, then up to him. Picking up the saucer, she hooked a pointer finger through the handle of the little cup and nodded at him in silent gratitude—or, what he assumed was gratitude.
She looked back to the marigolds. “Begonias would be more suited to the shade there.”
Azriel glanced up from the spot he’d returned to on the lounge. Her eyebrows knitted only half a centimeter as she continued, “Marigolds thrive in the sun. Begonias need a bit of shade to grow.”
The faint smile that reached his eyes was warm as Azriel couldn’t help but think he was sure now about her brown irises brightening for the garden. His shadows, a whisper somewhere in the distance, peered at Elain in the sun. A bit of shade indeed, young fawn.
A bit of shade indeed.