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The Court of Nightmares trembled before its High Lord, newly returned, a wicked cruelty shining in his eyes, a deep anger beating in his heart.
Azriel was happy to be a weapon, a tool, to carry out whatever punishments Rhysand wished. He was glad for the violence, for the tiny bits of justice he managed to carve from flesh.
And he was glad for the audience, for the fear on their faces as Rhysand watched from his throne. There was enjoyment on the High Lord’s face, but Azriel could tell it was part of the mask. Underneath it, he just looked tired, so very tired.
…
Azriel was quiet, letting Mor and Rhysand lead the conversation wherever they wished without much interruption. He said little at all as the night passed, waiting until Rhys stood to get a second round of drinks.
“He’s not sleeping, you know,” he said, his head aimed towards Mor but his eyes angled off to the side, watching Rhys at the bar. “Or at least, not sleeping well.”
“Got that from your shadows or the shadows under his eyes?” Mor quipped.
He gave her a long look. “I’m concerned, Mor.”
“You heard the same story I did.” She shrugged. “Would you be okay if you were him?”
“I’m not expecting him to be okay. I just…”
She frowned. “Have you been sleeping?”
He raised a brow. “You heard the same story I did.”
She hesitated just a moment too long, schooling her features into a light smile as Rhysand returned, sliding into his seat. Her eyes remained on Azriel a moment longer before they adopted the smile that the rest of her face had.
…
By the third hour, there was enough blood on the floor to wet Azriel’s shoes straight through, but he didn’t mind that.
The blood was nothing to him, but it brought fear to the court, to each and every sorry bastard that dared to betray their High Lord. And it only got worse with every moment, giving them more fear with every drop of blood that spilled.
But eventually, Rhysand leaned forward, his enjoyment faded to boredom. “Well, this is a mess, isn’t it?”
Azriel didn’t react, even as the fae before him cried beneath his knife, but after a moment, the blood vanished from the floor.
He didn’t know what the point was, especially as more blood began to stain the floor only a moment later, but then he glanced back, a quick study of his High Lord’s face.
He was afraid too.
…
Azriel moved to Cassian first, though he watched Rhysand in amusement as he laid back on the ground.
“It’s not my fault he’s out of shape,” Cassian said, though when he glanced back at Rhysand, there was worry in his eyes.
“Sure you’re not just taking some anger out?”
Cassian looked about to joke back, then his face grew serious and his voice dropped. “He’s pulling his punches. I told him not to and he just waved me off.”
“Is something wrong?” Azriel shook his head. “Stupid question.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “He just looked afraid.”
“Of you?”
“No,” he said, “more like afraid of hurting me. Which is stupid anyways, but…”
They both looked towards him, still lying on the ground.
“Give it time,” Azriel said. “Just a little time.”
…
The Court of Nightmares scattered the moment they were allowed to and Azriel watched them run. He felt Cassian appear at his side more than he saw him, but he didn’t turn to look.
“You okay?” Cassian muttered, the words barely audible even from inches away.
Azriel tipped his head forward just slightly, in the smallest facsimile of a nod.
He tilted his head toward Rhysand, every inch the fierce general, but the question in his eyes was still obvious.
Is he?
…
“Don’t ask me stupid questions,” Amren scowled.
“No need to be so cranky,” Cassian said.
“We’re just worried,” Azriel said, before she could make whatever threat she had been close to making.
“Rhysand will talk to us when he’s ready,” she said.
“And you haven’t asked him what’s wrong?” He asked.
“There’s a lot wrong,” she said, shaking her head. “But if you’re so curious, ask him yourself.”
“Maybe I will,” Cassian said.
But Azriel stayed quiet, met Amren’s eyes, and nodded. “When he’s ready.”
…
Azriel waited until they were back in Velaris before he spoke, almost surprised at the sound of his own voice.
“Are you okay?” He asked, a hand on Rhysand’s arm.
“Of course,” Rhysand lied, the shadow vanishing from his face as he attempted genuineness, “Why wouldn’t I be? Are you?”
He looked at his friend, his High Lord, and suddenly it seemed as if he had never come home at all.
“Yes,” Azriel lied. “I’m just fine.”