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“No. Absolutely not.”
The spymaster stood, arms crossed and spine straight, tendrils of shadow simmering around him. He cut an intimidating figure, height and muscle only compounded by the looming presence of his large wings. All of Prythian was said to quake in his presence.
And yet here he stood, at odds with the small priestess - she was tall for fae, but he still towered over half a head above her - with hair that shone like copper in the fae light, his frustration rising with her skeptical eyebrows.
“I don’t recall asking for your permission, Shadowsinger.”
Cauldron, this female. So fucking stubborn, with the biggest, most beautiful teal eyes that burned like fire as she mirrored his stance.
“It’s a bad idea, Gwyn. We have no idea who she is or where she came from. Or what she’s capable of,” he argued, the blood pumping through his head promising a headache.
“All the better, then, Az. If she doesn’t stay with me, then it will be with some other priestess. I would be in no more danger than anyone else. I don’t understand why you’re so concerned.” The Valkyrie’s tone softened, but the shadowsinger bristled with a flare of his wings. As if she were just another priestess, just another trainee, and not… whatever she was to him. He’d avoided the thought for a long while, perhaps since that frozen Solstice night in the training ring. Perhaps even before that. The week of the Blood Rite had been torture, nearly unbearable, but he’d be damned if he let anyone else see it. So, instead of potentially letting those dangerous emotions out into the charged air between them, he clamped down harder, gritting his teeth, and let the seasoned strategist and trainer take the lead.
“I’m concerned for your safety - for everyone’s safety. Forgive me if I would rather you not be smothered in your sleep at night by a stranger from another world,” he growled. His shadows twisted and danced around him, sharing his agitation, but he could also feel them pulling and nudging. As if they wanted him to be closer to the priestess-turned-warrior. They had been increasingly bold in her presence, and his thoughts about that were tucked deep down with the rest of those complicated notions of affection and care.
And godsdamn if she didn’t just roll her eyes at him. “You trained me, Azriel. I survived the Illyrian Blood Rite.” A muscle in his jaw ticked, noting that she only gave herself credit for surviving. It was something he’d noticed immediately - that she never said she’d won the damn thing. It bothered him. But so did her stubborn recklessness and her apparent lack of even the slightest sense of self preservation.
“Yes you did, Gwyneth, but you wouldn’t have been dropped into that hellscape at all if those bastards hadn’t been able to attack you while you slept.” He regretted the words as soon as he’d spoken them, wanted to reel them in and stuff them back down his throat. Shame burned at him as she visibly flinched, teal pools darkening with memories and ghosts. Her gaze fell to the floor, huffing a strained laugh and shrugging her shoulders.
“I suppose it’s a good thing, then, that you also taught me the value of keeping a dagger under my pillow.” Azriel’s breath caught at the tightness in her words, the way her cheeks had reddened with chagrin. Gods, he was a fucking monster, to pick something so traumatizing to lord over her, to prove his point. As if it wasn’t something she likely re-lived over and over and over again, another nightmare to add to the many sleepless nights. Her melody floated to him on a haunting lilt, “Can’t sleep without it.” He remembered that night, her breath dancing with his shadows in the dark. The amusement in her shrewd gaze and the way she’d scoffed at him. And now the scene was deafening in it’s ugliness, that her joke had become a lifeline. That he had all but forced her to make that confession.
The spymaster lowered his arms and his mask, cool detachment falling into devastation as he took a step forward. “Gwyn…” Her head jerked, eyes shining with defiance and more wetness than his heart could take. “I’m sorry, Gwyn. I didn’t… I shouldn’t have…” Fuck, he was bad at this. He sighed again, running a hand through his disheveled tresses. He knew that what he’d said was inexcusable, but he hoped his honesty would at least keep her from hating him forever. He wouldn’t be able to cope with that. “I care about what happens to you, Gwyn. I know you are very capable of defending yourself. You have proven that. But that doesn’t mean that you should have to. I shouldn’t have said what I did. It wasn’t fair, and it came from a place of frustration. I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to maintain eye contact, the heavy chains of guilt weighing his head and shoulders down. But her expression softened, and the smallest smile tilted the corner of her mouth. It was her turn to move, striding forward and grasping one of his hands between both of hers. She brought it up in front of her chin, studying it, letting her fingers trace the bumps and valleys, whorls of ruined flesh - an outward reflection of his brokenness within. Not once did she balk or retreat in the silence. She didn’t know the story, had told him once that she didn’t need to know if he wasn’t comfortable with sharing. Something compelled him to do it now, but it wasn’t the right time. But when she spoke her next words, something inside of him realized that, while she may not have known the specifics of the torment at the hands of his brothers, she knew enough.
“Azriel. I understand your concern, and I don’t begrudge your words. But that is neither here nor there.” The priestess squeezed his fingers gently, lowering their hands, but not letting go. He might have fallen backwards when she lifted her lashes, the depth of emotion roiling in her nymph eyes nearly shattering him. “Bryce Quinlan is afraid and alone, in a strange place where we speak a language she cannot understand. The people she loves are being hurt, maybe killed, and she does not know if she will ever be able to reach them or help them. I have felt that loneliness, the guilt and shame, the helplessness. And, dangerous as it may be, I cannot let her suffer that alone. I will not. We have to help her, Azriel.”
As the shadowsinger stared into that depthless gaze, everything else disappeared - flickering fae light and floating shadows a distant song around them. Gwyneth Berdara was so giving, so selfless and brave it made him want to strangle her at times. A light like that - a soul like hers - needed to be protected at all costs. She was a beacon that may well shine peace upon this ugly world, and it both awed and terrified him. That she was so trusting of him, so willing to face his harshness with understanding and forgiveness… It wasn’t something he deserved. He deserved none of her warmth or care, but that didn’t stop him from wrapping his free arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his chest. Regardless of his own worth, she deserved every comfort and kindness that he could oblige her.
“We will, Gwyn,” he whispered into her hair. “We will.”