Work Text:
That night Gwyn had woken with a start, shaken by her nightmares and by the flailing of her arms. Only when she had calmed her breathing from its panicked and random gasps to steady deep breaths did Gwyn feel the tear tracks staining her cheeks. Once she felt like her heart wasn’t going to jump right out of her chest, she pushed herself out of bed. Gwyn stumbled around her room numbly, searching for the chair where she had laid out all her Illyrian armor and leggings. She tightened the straps of her gear deftly, and creeped out of her dormitory. She tip-toed down the hall and past doorways that led to dormitories of her fellow priestesses.
She had to get out, had to escape the walls that were closing in on her and get to the rooftop of the House of Wind.
Her nightmares had been getting worse since the Blood Rite, the night when she had been kidnapped from her own bed and thrown into a deadly survival game with Nesta and Emerie. Now, Gwyn often woke up with a silent scream on the edge of her lips as she felt phantom hands locking her wrists down, her legs together, and squeezing the air from her throat. Immobilizing and suffocating her, every single night since the Blood Rite.
Gwyn had liked to believe that after months of living in the Library and training to become stronger with Azriel and Cassian, that she had mastered her fear and her nightmares. But the admission of new terrors had blasted open whatever door she had blockaded to her past and let all the horrible memories flow in. It wasn’t just the nightmares from being kidnapped, but flashes of the night in Sangravah kept haunting her.
Some nights as the phantom hands of her kidnappers slowly suffocated her, she would see Catrin being dragged into the kitchen by her long black hair, a knife at her throat. Catrin would look at Gwyn with pleading eyes, begging for Gwyn’s help. But Gwyn couldn’t move and couldn’t tear away from the horrible power that immobilized her. Catrin would shriek and cry and scream and Gwyn would watch.
When the soldier brought the sword down over Catrin’s neck, Catrin’s eyes shined bright with fear and her head hit the floor with a loud thud. Sometimes, if Gwyn hadn’t already awoken, screaming, Catrin’s head would say evil things. Why didn’t you save me Gwyn? You could have. I spent my life looking after you. How could you not help me when it mattered most?
Only when her evil taunts in the voice of some otherworldly torturer ended did Gwyn realize that she had never really been pinned down by anything. Just herself.
Frozen by fear. Helpless and useless.
A haunting dream indeed.
Gwyn shook off the memories and climbed the stairs to the roof. When she opened the door, a gentle gust of cold air swept towards her, ruffing her copper hair in its ponytail. She breathed in deeply, thankful more than ever, for the endless expanse of sky above her. The stars comforted her.
She was about to make her way towards the training ring when she heard the sound of someone’s fists meeting wood. And then she saw him. The Spymaster, with his back turned and his large bat-like wings half extended as he brought his fist back to his guard and sent his other fist under into the side of the wooden dummy which was already distinguishable in the aftermath of Azriel’s punches.
Azriel’s hair was plastered to his back and his shadows were moving in short almost violent movements, as if agitated.
Gwyn could practically feel the frustration seeping from his skin the way she could feel the ocean’s heartbeat when her feet touched the shores of the old beach she’d used to visit with her mother and Catrin. Gwyn stood there, debating whether to return to her dormitory and leave the shadowsinger alone. He looked like he was letting off his own steam and she could only guess that he wanted to be alone. Yet Gwy didn’t move, the thought of returning to her small dormitory unbearable. She knew that if she went back she would not be able to sleep for hours, and would simply lie there like a statue with her face towards the ceiling trying to block out her unwelcome thoughts.
However, before Gwyn could decide, Azriel’s fist halted mid punch. He stiffened and whirled around, his hand going to his sheathed knife and his shadows tensing. But Azriel froze when he saw the priestess. And so did his shadows.
It wasn’t until that very moment that she realized Azriel’s bare torso, his perfect toned abs on full display and dripping with sweat as he lowered his hand and panted slightly. His tanned skin glistened in the cool night under the stars. She couldn’t help the slight flush that crept onto her cheeks and prayed to the Mother that he thought it was from the cold.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just came up here to train. I didn’t think anyone would be here this late,” she started rambling. “I’ll leave,” Gwyn added quickly, beginning to turn away. “So sorry for interrupting you, goodnight!”
Gwyn made a hasty beeline for the door, but Azriel’s voice stopped her.
“You can stay.”
His voice was slightly rough, strained as if he hadn’t used it in a very long time. It sounded… weary and perhaps sad.
She turned slowly to look at the shadowsinger. “Oh it’s fine really, I can leave. I don’t mind. You were here first, Spymaster.”
“Please, stay. I… I don’t mind. I don’t own the ring. Besides I wouldn’t want you to lose your touch on those dagger throws on my account.”
Gwyn identified the touch of teasing in his tone, but she could still see the lingering sadness in his eyes. She hesitated. If she stayed, Azriel might leave because of her, and he looked like he needed to train just about as much as Gwyn felt like she needed to. Perhaps she should just go back to bed. But the thought of facing her past while staring at the swirling patterns on her ceiling felt like being pushed under water with weights tied to your feet.
“If you’re sure I won’t be an irritation,” Gwyn said.
“Not at all,” Azriel said quietly.
“Then I suppose I should work on those dagger throws,” she said with a smile spreading across her face. Azriel saw the challenge in her expression. His own little smirk slowly spread across his face.
“Very well, if you think you can beat me, of course.”
“Come now Shadowsinger, I think I can beat an old bat like you. You’re practically a grandpa.”
His eyebrows rose. “Are you suggesting I have wrinkles?”
“Tons! You’re practically a shriveled fig with your age!”
“Are you seriously comparing me to a shriveled fig?” Azriel asked.
“I am,” Gwyn said bluntly.
“Well then I would like to politely disagree, I don’t look a day over fifty,” he said primly.
“In your dreams, Shadowsinger.”
She swore she saw the ghost of a smile, a real smile, flit across his lips. But as soon as it was there, it was gone. His face was passive again in that reserved way of his like he was only partly there.
“Perhaps we should settle who is the better dagger thrower over a round,” Gwyn suggested, trying to break the tension that had overtaken him.
“Perhaps.”
***
It had been a near tie. The only reason Gwyn lost was because Azriel had messed her up on her last round by telling her there was a pegasus behind her. Unfortunately for her pegasi were the one thing she could never refuse, with the exception of a few things. (cough cough)
Gwyn wiped the few loose strands of copper hair stuck to her forehead away as Azriel bragged about his victory. They sat at the edge of the ring with water bottles, both taking big gulps. Gwyn grumbled a jumbled string of insults and jabs at Azriel who only grinned.
“You cheated,” she protested.
“There are no rules in dagger throwing, except not missing,” Azriel said, his shadows mischievously swarming and dancing around him.
“Cheater! You distracted me.”
“There will always be distractions in the field, Gwyn. You have to be wholly focused on your target no matter what is happening around you. No matter if there is a whole legion of golden coated pegasi descending from the sky,” he said gravely.
“Golden pegasi don’t exist…do they?”
“Is that really your only concern from what I just said?” Azriel said flatly, looking over at Gwyn as she put her water down and turned to face him.
“No. I heard ‘I need to stay focused, there will always be distractions in the field.’ However, the most important concern in that sentence was the legion of golden pegasi.”
The shadowsinger chuckled lightly. The sound made Gwyn’s heart swell, like her chest might explode. Azriel brought the water back to his lips, his fingers entwined with shadows who had been rather calm since he’d stopped beating up the wooden dummy.
As Gwyn admired him unconsciously, her eyes traveled to his hands. She had noticed them from the first time she’d met him, even in her… state. She remembered the ticklish feeling of his hands clearly from the brief time they’d touched her skin. She’d always wondered what had happened to get his hands like that, what sort of horrors he had faced to receive those, not just physically but what toll they took on his heart and soul. She’d had her fair share of scars, both physical and mental.
Azriel set his water down and glanced at her. His eyes followed hers quickly to his hands and he stiffened, shifting them so that they were slightly hidden. The action, the slight shame she somehow felt, made Gwyn’s chest feel heavy, like someone had tied a weight to her heart this time instead of her feet and dumped it in a river.
Before Gwyn could stop herself, she blurted, “I like your hands.”
He stilled and his shadows stopped. Slowly his eyes looked up to meet Gwyn’s teal ones. The look in those golden flecked eyes made her stomach jolt. They were so deep and full of pain. They looked like molten gold, and honey, with sprinkles of coffee grounds.
“...You like my hands?”
His voice sounded choked.
“I-yes. I like your hands.”
His face morphed from shock to incredulity.
“You like my hands?” he asked again, this time his voice harsh and almost comical.
She sat up straight and looked him dead in the eye.
“Yes, I like your hands.”
“Why? Why would you ever like my hands?”
Gwyn’s brows furrowed.
“Why would you like my hands? They’re… they are disgusting and scarred. ”
Scarred. Just like she was by the night in Sangravah.
“They are beautiful.”
Gwyn meant it.
Azriel looked like she had grown gills, though it wasn’t so unlikely with her water nymph heritage. “Beautiful?”
“Beauty isn’t about appearance, Shadowsinger. Beauty lies in the stories that create us. Stories help mold us into who we are, but they do not define us.”
She could have been giving this advice to both her and Azriel.
“I do not know what happened to your hands, but I do think that these hands,” she gently reached for his limp hand resting at his side. “These hands tell stories. They have saved and killed. Killed the people who hurt me, and these hands have saved me.”
“These hands, Gwyn, have tortured and hurt more than they have saved,” he ground out, his voice hard.
“And did the people you killed and tortured deserve it? Did they not do horrors to earn it? You may see yourself as a monster, but monsters aren’t capable of love. You are, Azriel.”
He seemed surprised by the use of his first name and perhaps too by the identification of his feelings. She was nearly certain he’d never told anyone that he felt like a monster, but Gwyn knew what it was like to feel as though you were the destroyer of all. Maybe not as well as Nesta or he, but she still knew.
Gwyn was afraid she’d overstepped but he did not steal his hand away from her. No he was staring at where her thumb rubbed his palm in wonder. Maybe awe. Suddenly Azriel spoke.
“My brothers.”
“What?” Gwyn looked up.
“My step-brothers. They were the ones to burn my hands.”
“They did this to you?” Gwyn asked, horrified.
“They wanted to see how fast Illyrian healing abilities were. They dumped gasoline on my hands and set them on fire when I was eight.”
“You did not deserve that.”
Gwyn didn’t say “that’s terrible” even if it was. They both knew it was terrible, and telling him so wouldn’t help him.
“Why didn’t anyone help you?”
“Someone did. My father’s soldiers found me screaming, but by then the damage had been done. It took nearly a year for me to be able to use them properly.”
Tears blurred her sight. Not pitying tears, no. She would never pity him. Angry and sad tears.
“I hope your step-brothers burn for eternity,” she said.
“They already are.”
“Good,” was all she said back. “And I still think your hands are beautiful.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, skeptically.
She laughed wetly. “Yes. I always know that I can feel safe when I feel your hands. That you will protect those that matter to you. To me your hands are comforting.”
“You never fail to amaze me,” he muttered more to himself than her.
“Yes, well I wouldn’t be Gwyneth Berdara would I?”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
Gwyn began to remove her hand from his when a lone shadow coiled its way around her wrist. She smiled at it.
“Hello.”
The shadow danced up her arm and back down again as if in greeting.
Azriel’s brows furrowed. “I’m sorry,” he apologized hastily. “They usually don’t…”
“I don’t mind, they are very friendly,” she chuckled.
He blinked. Then the corner of his eyes crinkled. “Yes I suppose they are.”
Gwyn watched the shadow run circles around her arm, grinning as it made swirls. She could feel Azriel’s eyes studying her. Finally he said, “I like your ears.”
She looked up. “You like… my ears?” she frowned.
He nodded sheepishly as if just realizing that he’d said that aloud. “They are slightly different from most fae. They’re sharp, but round at the base and slightly curled.”
“Ah yes that would be the nymph heritage.”
“You’re part nymph?” He raised an eyebrow.
“My grandmother was a water nymph, My sister, Catrin, had webbed fingers. I didn’t get those as you can see, but I have some more inconspicuous characteristics.”
“That would explain the flexibility,” he mused.
“Do you spend a lot of time studying Fae ears, Shadowsinger?”
He grinned. “As a Spymaster I always need to pay attention to the little details.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
“Oh shut up, shadowsinger.”
Azriel looked over at her and grinned, any sign of his earlier frustrations gone. Just like that all his worries had faded when he was with Gwyn. Forgotten by their easy and comforting banter.