Chapter Text
It was a disaster.
Everything was a disaster.
The mission was a disaster. Elain’s inability to exercise her magic was a disaster. Azriel getting shot was a disaster. The two of them was a disaster.
Certainly not what Elain had expected when she offered to travel to the Human Lands, meet with Vassa and Jurian, and even endure an uncomfortable meeting with Lucien, if he was to be around. To her surprise, Rhysand agreed to send her, and she was pleased. She was pleased because it was going to be the first time she was going to be traveling on her own, on an official mission to the Human Lands, and as emissary of the Night Court. She was given a task, and she was going to accomplish it.
However, ‘alone’ quickly turned into ‘travel with an escort’. And the escort was none other than Azriel. The last person she wished to spend any time with, especially this close, and for the duration of her trip that was going to be at least a few days long. She was planning on three, maybe four days, but once she heard that he would be accompanying her, she figured that two days would have to do. If she didn’t spend too much time with him directly, if he lurked in the shadows as he was so want to do, if they didn’t need to communicate more than absolutely necessary, then maybe she could handle it. Maybe, she thought, as she packed her travel bag and Cerridwen arranged for dresses to be placed in waterproof bags and neatly folded in a flat carry-on, Azriel would stay true to himself and just not talk at all. He was excellent at that. Simply wonderful at leaving her standing there, anticipating his kiss and then telling her that she was a mistake.
“Does it have to be Azriel?” Elain asked Feyre, who was brushing her beautiful chestnut hair in front of a mirror.
“Who do you want it to be?” Feyre asked, confusion written on her face. “I thought you liked Azriel? What’s wrong?”
Elain shrugged, slipping a mask of indifference and calm on her face. Unlike Nesta, who never hid the disappointment or disdain that was written on her face, Elain preferred not to be so easily read by anyone.
“No, he is perfectly fine,” she assured Feyre smoothly. “I just thought that he had other business elsewhere. I did not want to pull him away from his duties…serving as a bodyguard.”
“He isn’t a bodyguard to you, Elain,” Feyre argued, rising from the couchette, her stomach round and prominent under the green velvet robe. “He’ll have other assignments that he would complete while you are in discussions with Vassa. It’s a good opportunity to kill a few birds with one stone.”
Elain only nodded.
Feyre scrutinized her further and then proceeded to explain,
“You know that Cassian can’t winnow. And I think that it would be prudent to have someone with you who is able to do that,”
“I thought it was difficult to winnow outside of Prythian,”
“Difficult, but not impossible. Rhys and Azriel are capable, should the need arise.”
Feyre came closer and took Elain’s hand in hers. “Thank you for doing this,” she said softly.
“Of course, it’s my pleasure.”
“You don’t have to, you know…”
“I am a member of this court, and I will do whatever is asked of me,” Elain retorted simply.
“Does he make you uncomfortable?”
“No, not at all,” Elain lied smoothly. “He is always a polite gentleman.”
“Gentlemale,” corrected her Feyre with a wink.
Elain gave an impatient little eye roll and walked away, offering a strained smile.
Things were…tolerable.
They’d met in the foyer of the River Estate and stood in tense silence, waiting for Rhysand. Elain, dressed in along hooded jacket, with a thick, plush cashmere scarf around her neck. Azriel only inclined his head in greeting and remained still, dressed in a warmer version of his usual uniform.
“You’ll winnow to the border,” Rhys rattled on, as he handed Azriel a folder with documents, “and then Azriel will fly you to Vassa’s estate. He will be on different assignments while there, and here are the specifics of what I’d like accomplished while you are there,” he handed her another folder. Spoken like a true High Lord. Everyone had a use and were expected to do their part.
Azriel extended his big, scarred hand to her and she took it. It used to be that she loved those hands—she still did—and she wouldn’t have minded kissing them, wouldn’t have minded caressing them with her own, having them touch her body, those long, strong fingers on her lips, on her face. Yes, she would’ve loved all those things. But she was a mistake.
She’d never winnowed with Azriel before—or rather, shadow walked, since his winnowing was different from that of Feyre’s or Rhys’s. It was cool and dark between the shadows, the pockets of time and space opening up almost in slow motion, and Elain clutched his hand tighter, afraid to let go, terrified that he’d lose her and she’d wander in this darkness forever. But Azriel held firm, his hand gripping hers, holding her close to him, as they emerged from the shadows and he caught her in his arms. One, two…and his wings unfurled to their magnificent size, (something that Elain always marveled at) and then, they were airborne. He caught a stream of air, which propelled them forward and then adjusted, finding a smooth rhythm. If Elain had to admit, there was something vaguely sexual about flight. The steady beat of the wings, the slight push and pull of his body against hers, the hold of his arms over her back and knees. She’s only had sex once, with Graysen, and it was satisfactory enough, though nothing to be amazed at. She thought that perhaps, she’d be amazed, one day, by Azriel. Well, that wasn’t in the cards now.
“You are bleeding!” Elain struggled against Azriel’s broad chest, wiggling in his arms and he grunted his displeasure,
Unlike his usual manner, he ordered through gritted teeth, “Stop moving,”
“Set us down!” she commanded.
The snow was coming down hard, affecting everything, including visibility and his laboured movements.
Things went well enough at Vassa’s, and Elain was relieved not to have met with Lucien, who was at Spring Court. Lucien never liked winter, having had little experience with it, and when the opportunity presented itself, he escaped to Spring. Not that Elain could blame him. Shivering in Azriel’s arms, her coat providing little warmth, even bundled up in a thick scarf—thanks to Cerridwen’s wise thinking—and a big fur hat, Elain was miserable. Though probably not as miserable as Azriel.
They were shot at right as they left Vassa’s territory behind and moved towards the vast forest that used to separate Human Lands from Prythian. Now that the Wall was gone, the forest still remained, serving as a demarcation line between the two realms.
The two of them were cordial throughout their three-day stay, appearing together at dinners and for breakfast, though they kept their interactions minimal and Elain attempted to spend most of her time with Vassa or in her rooms. Azriel did not seek her out and did not speak with her unless it was necessary.
The plan was the same as before—to fly to the border and then winnow back to the Night Court. And everything was going according to plan, minus the relentless snow that was falling in heaps around them, enrobing the world in unnatural stillness and quiet. So it was a shock when Azriel’s shadows suddenly went wild around them and then, to Elain’s horror, he buckled. A violent tremor went through his body and only by some miracle did he manage to hold on to her, gripping her painfully around the waist, pulling her instinctively against himself. Then…free fall.
She was too terrified to even scream.
And for those endless seconds when they tumbled down, down, down, only one thought crossed Elain’s mind. We didn’t have time.
They didn’t have time. To be. To be together. To love.
It was all somehow taken away from them—by the Cauldron, by their histories, by Rhysand. All that they wanted, everything that they secretly desired and hoped for was snatched away. And now, as she clutched at him in her desperation, Elain didn’t think of herself. Even as the treetops loomed beneath them, resembling spiers and spears, she didn’t think of her own death, of the pain that was surely coming once her spine was severed by a tree trunk. No. She thought of Azriel and how he never found his happiness. For whatever reason, the fate was cruel and unkind to him, and he never tasted the sweetness of love or affection, never got the chance to love another, and be loved in return.
She thought that perhaps, maybe, it was alright…Because at least, they’d die together. And his would be the last face she’d see. And that didn’t seem like the worst way to go.
She wrapped her arms around his neck as he fought to stay afloat, and tucked her face into his shoulder, breathing rapidly, breathing him in. The scent of him—the cedar and chilled air—always brought her comfort. The most familiar scent of all, for it was the one that she first learned and recognized once she became Fae. She could see that he was shot, probably with an arrow, though whatever it was, it went right though his wing, which now howled with a gaping tear in the membrane. Wind pushed right through it, tearing the wound even further, while another jolt rocked him, and Azriel cried out quietly.
“Oh Mother, oh Mother,” Elain couldn’t help herself, wailing in terror, hoping that the wounds weren’t mortal. “Set us down!” she begged, “Set us down. You need help,”
“Where the fuck are we setting down?” he grunted, almost angrily. His breathing came in heavy pants.
“You can’t fly!” she cried. “We need to patch you wing…where are you shot?”
“In the ass.”
“What?”
“Yeah. In the ass.”
Well, she guessed that it was better than some other parts of his body.
He winced, almost moaning.
As amusing as the ass wound was, Elain realized that it was not a laughing matter, and that he needed to get her off himself as soon as possible and have his injuries looked after.
Beneath them, nothing but a sea of trees. A dense forest, shrouded in snow. Light was diminishing minute by minute and both Elain and Azriel knew that they needed to make some decisions before the sun set.
She was thinking feverishly and then snapped her fingers, “Where are we?’
His brow furrowed and he reminded her dryly, “By the forest.”
“Thanks,” she rolled her eyes. “I gathered…How well do you know it?”
Crossly, he protested, “Elain, respectfully, I am not playing twenty questions with you now.”
She pursed her lips and even as her anger and annoyance rose inside of her, she pushed them down and said, her tone cool, but even, “You can keep your natural Fae rudeness to yourself. There is a reason why I am asking,”
He flushed, and muttered, “I am sorry.”
“I don’t care.”
Goodness, she was sounding like Nesta. It seemed that he thought the same, because even in his pain, he smirked.
She finally explained, “Gray…Graysen. My former fiancé Graysen,”
“I know who he is,” Azriel reminded her, annoyance lacing his voice, which she chose to ignore.
“He and his father Lord Nolan have a hunting cabin in the forest. It’s not terribly deep inside the forest, so I was thinking that if we are in the vicinity, we can stop there.”
Azriel glanced down at her and nodded, once.
‘It was north of their estate. North-east. I’d recognize it,” she said, “if we are closer to the ground. I’ve been there a couple of times.”
Darkness fell rapidly, long, deep shadows spreading out from the forest.
Both Elain’s and Azriel’s teeth were chattering from the cold.
He retracted the warming shield, in order to conserve energy and now cold wind whipped around them, as drifting snow iced their cheeks and all bits of exposed skin. They did not speak, as he descended lower and lower, but Elain threw half of her scarf around his neck, wrapping it around him, trying to keep him warm. Thankfully he was wearing gloves.
“There!” she pointed down, “by that meadow! Once we cross it, set us down and we’ll have to walk to the cabin.”
“We’ll have to walk through the forest,” Azriel noted, rather stupidly.
“Yes,” she said patiently. “You can’t exactly fly in the forest.”
He hummed, and did not answer, though he listened and followed her direction.
By the time they crossed the meadow, it was almost dark.
Azriel banked and came to a halt just before slamming into a tree, his usual agility and grace completely destroyed by exhaustion and blood loss.
She caught him by the waist, and wrapped her arm around him, supporting him on his feet. His wings drooped limply and he attempted to lift them off the ground, but without success.
“Wait, wait,” he groaned, trying to catch his breath. “I…”
Elain cupped his cheek in her hand, her mitten covered in ice, and said, “We need to walk. Please, Azriel. I know you are hurt, but it’s not very far. If you don’t move, you’ll lose more strength.”
It was the first time she called him Azriel.
He glanced at her and took in the fear and worry that simmered in her chocolate-brown eyes. Her expression was pleading, full of concern, and he knew that it wasn’t for herself.
“The wings,” he grunted.
She scrambled and lifted the ends of the wings off the forest floor, grumbling under their weight, while still supporting him. “Come on,” she murmured softly, her tone gentler and kinder than before. Actually, a nicer tone than she employed for the past 2 months with him. “Come on.”
They trudged together, knee-deep in snow. Azriel allowed himself to wrap his arm around her shoulders, supporting himself on her, knowing that he was so terribly heavy, as she kept sinking into the snow the more he pressed his weight down on her. But his strength was waning rapidly and there was no alternative. He had to rely on her. She was quiet, steady, and did not complain or show any displeasure. Once in a while, she threw concerned looks at him, checking on the state of him.
The pain in his ass was intense, and he didn’t even want to think about what’s going to happen once they reach that blasted cabin and how’s he going to deal with it. Not to mention his wing. The wing throbbed and ached and hurt, but the fact that she was carrying part of it wasn’t exactly helping his overall state.
If they didn’t reach the cabin within the next 10-15 minutes, he was going to start worrying about hypothermia. Yet Elain went on, step by step, her arm wrapped tightly around him.
“Elain,” he began, but she shooshed him and said, ‘no talking’.
Then, in a few moments, she pointed ahead and said, ‘there it is!’.
To call it a cabin was generous. It was a little tiny hut. This fact that only filled Azriel with further dread, because it would be a tight fit there for the two of them.
‘Oh, it’s locked!’ she cried out in frustration, while she pushed at the door with her shoulder and frantically pulled on the handle. Azriel was too exhausted to even say anything, so he touched the knob and the door creaked open.
“You can do this?” she gasped.
“Spymaster,” he reminded her, and they entered the cold, dark space.
“Stay,” she commanded, as she bustled about and then there was a spark of light, the smell of smoke and in the next moment, she lit a candle, and then another, until finally, she found a lantern.
Azriel looked around and sighed.
There was a fireplace at least, in front of which Elain was currently crouching, stacking sticks and flint inside the hearth.
“I can,” he began, but she waved him off.
“Do you seriously think that I can’t light a fire?” she bristled.
“I didn’t mean,”
“None of you mean anything. It just comes out that way. Condescending. Who do you think cooked and cleaned when we lived in our less-than-glamourous hovel? You think the Little Folk came around and magically peeled the potatoes, boiled the water, ploughed the snow and dusted the floors?”
“Elain,” he felt himself blush, and became flustered, as he tried to explain, but she only shrugged indifferently, as she finally lit a small flame in the fireplace.
“Elain, Elain, Elain…I know,” she muttered, as she tore off her hat and tossed it on a wooden chair. “Stupid little Elain, the flower grower,”
He cut, “I never thought of you as stupid,”
“Well, congratulations!” she rose to her full height and unbuttoned her sodden coat. “You are the only one. Anyone ever thought that I liked flowers because they brought some beauty into my life? Cheap beauty? Anyone ever thought that between the snarling Nesta and the sullen Feyre always at each other’s throats I needed a tiny place to escape? That my little garden with its few flower bushes was just that escape? I couldn’t travel, I couldn’t even go to the fair, because it cost three coppers to get in…I couldn’t get new clothes, and a few ribbons for my hair was the only thing that I could get for my birthday? Yes, Azriel, stupid little Elain can chop wood and start a fire, and even rustle up something to eat for you…”
She came up to him, standing taller than she’d ever stood before and then, with noticeable aggression, she began unbuttoning and unlacing all the stays and clasps on his jacket. He stood still, shamefaced, silent. Blood slowly dripped down his thigh and seeped into the trousers.
“I don’t know how to undo these,” she admitted at last, once the jacket was off and she was faced with the slats on the back of his shirt.
“Just untie them and pull down,” he instructed. She did, and then said, “you can remove the shirt yourself. I’ll be right back…”
Before he could protest, she wrapped her scarf around her and stepped out of the cabin. She returned quickly, blowing on her frozen, red hands and set a bucket full of snow on the floor.
“Why are you still wearing your shirt?” she snapped at him, as she hung the bucket over the fire.
He sighed and asked quietly,
“Elain, can we talk?”
“We are talking, Azriel,” she reminded him, and then squatted in front of him.
He pressed himself into the wall and hissed, “What are you doing?”
“Helping you remove your boots, obviously,” she explained, and took his leg, pulling off the tall boot, utterly unbothered by her position or the task at hand.
“I am sorry,” he murmured, his voice quivering, broken.
“About what?” she wondered, “getting shot in the ass?”
“Everything,” he admitted.
She pulled one boot off and then started on the other.
“Too late, Azriel. I am sorry, but it’s too late,” she murmured, shaking her head sadly.
“But why?”
“Because I was a mistake,” she reminded him, and angrily tugged on the other boot, almost ripping it off his foot and making him stumble.
He reached for her, his scarred hand almost touching her head, but she pulled away and said, “No. Once we are back in Velaris, I am done. I am done with all of you. With Lucien. With you. I am done.”
Tears filled those beautiful dark eyes and she wiped them stubbornly, with a closed fist, like a child, and Azriel’s heart broke. It broke with her and for himself, and for all the mistakes that he’d made with her. He should’ve stood up to Rhys back at Solstice and told him to bud out, but he took an oath of loyalty and he was bound by it. And now,
And now Elain’s tears ran down her cheeks, and she wiped them off and he was forced to watch them streak down her lovely, flushed face. Made himself watch her tears, because he had caused them.
“Please don’t,” he pleaded.
She rose yet again and said,
“What? Don’t what? Give up on the poor lonesome shadowsinger?”
“That’s not fair,”
“Life is not fair, Azriel. Of all people, you should know that. Please go and lie down on the bed. I need to pull an arrow out of your behind.”
Frankly, Azriel forgot about the arrow which was embedded in his flesh. He even forgot about his wing. He didn’t notice hot blood which still trickled down his leg. Because his pain meant nothing when Elain was clearly aching, when he had caused her so much sorrow.
“It’s alright, I can,”
“What? You’ll pull an arrow out of your own ass?” she hissed impatiently. “Don’t be ridiculous. And don’t try my patience. I am tired and I am hungry and I want to be done with you so I can rest.”
Slowly, he made his way to the narrow bed, which obviously was never meant to house a huge Illyrian warrior or his wings. Obligingly, he lay down on his stomach knowing better than to argue with her. He’d have to explain. But later. He’d have to explain himself and all the whys and tell her how he felt about her. He would have to tell her that no bond in existence was more powerful than what he felt for her. No pull was stronger than his adoration of her.
The cabin finally began to warm up and Elain lit more candles, while she rummaged in the drawers and finally found some cloths and a knife.
“What’s the knife for?” he asked.
“Scared?” she played with the blade, weighing it in her palm.
“If you are going to end me, then end me with Truth-Teller at least,” he proposed.
She came to the bed and sat on the edge, telling him, “I have no desire to explain to Rhys why you are dead. So you live to see another day. I need to cut through your trousers.”
Azriel had imagined himself without pants in front of Elain Archeron before, more than once, was not in the way it was happening right now. Him tearing at her clothes and her impatiently ridding him off his trousers while locked in an embrace of passion and desire was more of how he thought it would happen. Not her slicing into his pants, then pulling them down to his thighs and finally, to his utter horror and embarrassment, sliding his underpants down as well.
And then he heard a ‘hmm’.
A judgmental sort of hum.
“Gods. What?” he groaned, burying his face in his arms.
“Nothing,” she said lightly.
Hmm. Again.
“If it’s nothing, then why are you making these noises?”
She lay her soft small palm on his buttock and he jerked, thrusting his hips into the mattress.
“You have a nice behind,” she then said evenly. Like they were discussing boiled beets. “It’s very…muscular.”
He chose not to respond.
After a pause, she said, “This may hurt.”
“It will definitely hurt,” he corrected.
Then he felt her hand close on the arrow, right at the entrance to the wound and her other hand pressed into his ass, as she gripped and then yanked, slowly, but firmly, her touch assured.
“Fuck, fuck,” he winced and moaned into the pillow, feeling the arrowhead travel upwards and widening the wound.
“Almost there,” Elain cooed softly, and then, with one tug, the arrow was removed.
He grunted and huffed with pain and relief, while she continued working on the injury, steadily wiping the blood with the wet cloth and then, after warning him, she pressed a whiskey-soaked rag into the wound. It stung and hurt, but after that, Elain placed her hands over his butt and stayed still.
“The healing touch is true then?” he wondered, feeling the pain ease and disappear slowly, but surely.
“So they say. I am not sure,” she admitted, “does it feel better?”
“Remarkably so!”
“Good.”
They stayed quiet for a while, her soft palms soothing his pain, resting on his behind, and he felt both stupid and self-conscious and mortified that this was what she was forced to do for him.
At last, he dared to pull his face out of his arms and looked around.
Behind the two windows, snow swirled and fell steadily, forming little mounds atop the sills. The fire crackled and crunched amidst the dry logs, and the cold and the damp of the cabin dissipated at last.
“Rest,” Elain said at last.
“I,”
“You will rest,” she wanted no argument. “We are completely snowed in. Until your wing heals, we won’t be able to leave here, because I am not stomping out of this forest again on my own two feet.”
“Thank you, Elain,” he said softly.
Something changed in her demeanor and she looked down at him. Was it pity in her eyes? Or just simple, tender care? Affection even?
He hoped it wasn’t pity.
Her knuckles brushed over the apple of his cheek and she said, “You are welcome. Rest. I will try to find something to eat. It might just be a jar of pickles.”
“Everything you make is good, Elain.”
He was feeling sleepy and warm, especially when she covered him with a blanket.
She smiled at that.
“You know, there is only one bed,” he pointed out the obvious.
“So I’ve noticed,” she muttered. “So I’ve noticed…”
To Be Continued…