#darker shadows

ok so

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): A Court of Thorns and Roses Series/Azriel

Rating: PG-11/T-

Original Idea: Nothing in particular. Finished the first 4 books. Dunno if I can stand Nesta long enough to read ACOSF, so I wrote this with no information from ACOSF. Have fun.

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) Whaaaaa...? I break my ongoing hiatus for this? Yep. I did. I hope a few more one-shots join this one, but I am making no promises. This one just came to me for about an hour so surprise! Happy August.

^^^^^ 

“Darker Shadows”

Azriel said nothing as he slipped through the door to our apartment, quiet and soft as the shadows surrounding him. I watched from the sitting room adjacent to the foyer. He must have known I was there—the shadows must have informed him—but he didn’t so much as look at me. Just rested his forehead on the door and sighed.

“Long day?” I asked.

He blinked his eyes open and turned. “Incredibly,” he replied.

I patted the sofa next to me, indicating he come sit.

Azriel’s shadows seemed to grow more numerous around him as he crossed to me. I realized why as his leathers thumped to the floor in his wake, leaving him in a light undershirt and undershorts.

No matter how long we lived together, he was always so modest.

Part of me wondered if it was more insecurity than modesty; but I would never invade his privacy that much to ask. He’d tell me when he was comfortable.

He hit the sofa cushion next to me hard. His wings barely missed getting caught behind him. Ever the precise, too. One arm and one wing wrapped over my shoulders. He was warm, even if his underclothes were cold from his sweat. I snuggled into his side. We both stared at the fire for a while.

“Did you eat up at the House?” I asked.

The shadows shrouding him retreated a little, going back to their usual shades. He glanced at me with those sharp hazel eyes before returning his gaze to the fire. “Yes. Rhys and Feyre were hosting a dinner for the Palace governors. A private celebration of rebuilding the city so quickly before the grand, public celebration in three days.”

I snorted. “Bet they loved that,” I said sarcastically. Among the family, it was well-known that Rhys and Feyre both hated formal parties and dinners with a fiery passion.

A glimmer of amusement joined the reflection of the flames in Azriel’s eyes. “Oh, they slipped out an hour in. I heard them in the library… having fun amongst the stacks. I left them to it and didn’t interrupt.”

I couldn’t stop the laughter that burst from my throat, but clamped it down hard to not disturb the neighbors.

Azriel held me tighter. “Would have been more enjoyable if you were there,” he said. His voice was soft, almost as though he didn’t actually want to admit it.

Reaching up, I cupped the side of his face. “Sorry I couldn’t go. I’d have liked to have been there.” I gestured to my wrapped leg. “I just don’t think I could handle a party today. If Rhysand had decided to host it three days from now with the rest of the celebrations, I would have been able to make it.” I made a face. “Sorry I missed it.”

“It’s alright. I understand.”

I reached around his wing to the end table, picking up my glass and handing it to him. He downed the rest and handed it back to me. I chuckled and set the glass on the coffee table instead.

After shuddering at the freezing chill of the water from my glass, Azriel turned to me. “How’s the pain?”

I shrugged. “Better than it was,” I said.

“At least you’re healing quickly.”

“Mmhmm.”

“How did you spend your night?”

I waved a vague hand to the small pile of books on the coffee table. “Just decided to read a little.”

“A little?” Azriel quoted. “You read five novels in four hours.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t finish them all. When I got bored I’d switch between them.”

“None of them holding your attention?”

“Not like they used to. Not since—”

The War with Hybern. Azriel knew. We all broke in some way over the course of it. I hadn’t had the attention span I used to since.

Azriel smiled at me. “Bathe, then bed?”

“Sounds great,” I replied.

He scooped me into his lap and stood up. I yelped at the sensation. My bad leg dangled looser than my good leg. My yelp earned me a twitched smile from my spymaster.

He carried me into the bathing room and sat me on the edge of the tub before turning it on. As it began to warm up and fill, he helped me unwrap my splint and undress. I returned the favor as best I could.

We bathed quickly and then got in our sleep clothes after drying off. After carrying me to bed, Azriel poked the point of my ear. “Goodnight,” he said softly.

I smiled, never able to contain my affection. “Sleep well,” I replied.

He doused the faelights and climbed under the covers.

We snuggled against each other. One of his wings draped over the both of us, keeping us warmer than the covers could. That warmth, his scent… it helped lull me to sleep. I could fall fast asleep on stone if Azriel was beside me.

—

Azriel watched his own scarred hand brush her nightshirt away from the skin of her back, revealing two sharp scars and an elaborate tattoo. Another rare Illyrian/High Fae hybrid, she’d been born with wings. Unlike Rhys, who could summon and desummon his wings at will, hers had been permanent.

Until her High Fae mother ordered her wings removed when she was still a child. Barely more than a toddler.

Azriel hadn’t met her until Rhys disappeared Under the Mountain. She’d been fifty-seven-years-old at the time. He’d seen her in the Rainbow, in one of the pottery studios, on a hot summer day. Her clothing revealed her back. The deep, disgustingly neat scars that made it clear how her wings had been taken from her, and the deep blue-black ink covering most of the exposed skin. She’d told him once she got it to both hide and show off the scars. When he’d asked why, she’d simply replied, “I’m stronger than the people who tried to hurt me.”

She hadn’t told him it was her mother—who’d wanted her to be a normal High Fae—for another decade.

He hadn’t been in love with her at the time. But during those fifty years everyone was stuck in Velaris, they became good friends. Azriel found her company much more peaceful than the other members of the Inner Circle. He loved them all—his family—but there was no harm, or shame, in being around someone who was quiet.

Then, a human girl broke Tamlin’s curse and Amarantha was dead. The High Lords and the members of their courts were released from Under the Mountain. And Rhys came home. And Azriel was both busier and freer than ever to spend time with his new friend.

He’d been so quietly pining for Morrigan for so long that, at first, he hadn’t realized the subject of his affections had changed.

During that final battle, when Prythian’s forces were spread so thin and even every reinforcement that came didn’t seem to make a dent… she’d taken a hit. A bad slash across the lower back.

And Azriel had seen red. His powers had already been mostly used up, his Siphons dim, and his wings badly injured.

But he’d gone to rescue her anyway.

His wings had screamed at him the entire flight back to a healer’s tent and then back to the battle. But during those moments, as she bled in his arms, he knew his feelings had transcended just friendship. “If we get out of this alive,” he’d said, “I’d like to treat you to dinner.”

She’d hummed, her side vibrating against his torso. “Mmm… dinner sounds nice. Afterwards, I can buy dessert.”

“We’ll see,” Azriel had said, smiling.

After they’d both healed and returned to Velaris, they’d done just that.

They’d been together ever since.

Azriel smiled at the memories.

—

“You’re staring,” I said quietly. His staring and touching had woken me.

“You’re incredible,” Azriel replied. “Have I told you that?”

“Today? No. This week? Many times.”

A soft chuckle. “So long as you know it.”

I rolled over so I was facing him. With his wing bent over both of us, I felt like I was in a sheet fort.

His eyes harbored a small glint in the half-light. I stared at him. “What is it?” His question was gentle.

I shrugged, feeling my scars pulling on my skin. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you,” he said.

“Charmer,” I teased.

That earned me a chuckle. Though his smile dropped after a moment. “Does it bother you?” He asked.

“What?”

“That you can’t fly?”

My humor disappeared. The phantom wings I still felt sometimes shivered in the back of my mind. “Sort of,” I replied. “I’d only barely taught myself how when Mother forced me to get them removed. It’s hard to miss what I didn’t really know. But I remember the wind over my scalp. My entire body fighting desperately to keep me aloft. I loved it. But now… now I get to fly with you and remember what it felt like. It’s not quite the same, but it’s enough for me.”

Azriel kissed my forehead. “Sorry I woke you,” he said.

    “Do you truly believe that this is a wise course of action?” From Wynne’s tone of voice, it was clear that she did not think it was. “Blindly following Erlina’s whims into the hands of Rendon Howe? She may be leading you into danger,” Wynne objected as Inara began to ready herself for the journey to the Arl of Denerim’s Estate, where Queen Anora was allegedly being held against her will by the traitorous Arl Howe. “At the very least, you should not be going yourself. Send Leliana, or Zevran – they are better equipped for this type of work. And perhaps Alistair could encourage Eamon to—“

    “I’ll be fine,” Inara refused, tucking her Andraste amulet inside of her clothing. She was in no mood to think of Alistair, or sitting still. She was, however, in the mood to break into places, break things, and probably punch several people. “Erlina has no reason to lie to us about this.” After a pause, and a heated glare from Wynne, she reconsidered. “Okay, so she has some reason to lie about this. But even if it’s a trap and they trap and kill me, precious Alistair will still be here and ready to become King.”

    “We will, however, will be without one of the only two Grey Wardens at our disposal to end the Blight,” Wynne pointed out, brow furrowed. “And you will be dead.”

    Time passed slowly as Inara and Alistair sat back against the fence outside town, waiting for the Sister to return with the key to the qunari warrior’s cage. Morrigan disappeared into a thick near the wall of the Imperial Highway – going off to look for herbs, or so she claimed. It seemed to matter little; nothing happened, aside from the slow and steady roll of caravans heading out of the city and up onto the Highway.

    “Do you think we have a chance?” Alistair asked her as they sat, slowly stroking the snoring mabari hound as he laid with his feet in the air in the dirt beside him. “To get to Arl Eamon, to gather this army? Do you really think it’s possible?”

    “I don’t know,” Inara answered honestly, frowning a bit as she mulled it over in her head. “But I know it’s the only chance at anything we do have. All we can do is try. I guess.”

    Alistair was royalty.

    Inara’s head hurt. Her lips were dry, chapped and cracked from the repeated run of her tongue across them as she struggled to think clearly. Her fingers throbbed as they massaged against her temples, trying to soothe the pounding from beneath even as they ached in kind, tired from gripping the hilt of her sword, of her dagger, raw from pounding in tent stakes and buckling and unbuckling armor. Her body ached from the weight of her armor, the exhaustion of the trip, the wearing of leather against soft skin. Her mind was reeling, full to bursting with a reality that scarcely made any sort of sense.

    A month ago, she would have been sleeping at this time of day, curled up in the hay and scraps of cloth of the corner of her little rented room. She would have woken up when the sun crept through the cracks in the walls, gone out and worked all day for men who did not know what hunger of anything but the flesh even meant to make just enough money to keep her clothed and alive and just too little to make the hunger go away. She would have been suffering with a smile, dying slowly, surrounded by vibrance and nobility.

     Their pairing off for watch was simple enough; Corith and Hamet were enamored with each other, the young elven boy drilling the old man for stories of war and travel and the courting of fine ladies. Not that Corith kept his stories only to Hamet’s ears – Inara learned rather quickly in their journey that he had been born and raised Chaisnd, ‘til he was a young man and just not-clever enough to wander into the world of men. In a village south of Lothering he had been falsely accused of theft and thrown in prison.

     He had been absolutely certain, he said, that he was going to die there, caged up like a mangy dog who could only speak and understand half the words hurled at him like stones. But a week and some days after he had been locked up, some Ash Warriors had passed on through, and taken him up with them. His arrest record, his clothing, everything that he owned or proved he had been alive before that moment was burned up, and he said he was born again through that death. He served them through the Blight, he said solemnly. He was there at Ostagar. And in the fires that stole his brothers from him, he said, he was reborn again.

     He left the Ash Warriors and became a wanderer, a guide for any who dared venture into the Wilds. Just him and his hound Ragsvar, the only company he needed in the world. Fereldens feared him, he said, and the Wilders revered him. “And there was no better way to be.”

     Alistair and Hamet listened to this tale like star-struck pups; Malta and Lemet feigned disinterest, but never quite turned themselves away.

     “I thought that elves weren’t allowed to carry weapons in Ferelden,” Corith had shown up that morning with hardened leather boots for Hamet, expressing a genuine interest in the two that he had not shown the day before. They’d gone to the pub together the night before, Malta told Alistair sometime later. Team bonding, or something of the sort. Inara got the feeling that she had not joined in so much as observed. 

     “We will not be in Ferelden,” Lemet pointed out, not seeming quite as fond of the big, burly “shem” as her brother did. She looked at him with thinly veiled disdain on her face, watched him like a mangy dog she wanted to shoo away from getting too close. The fact that her brother stared up at him with stars in his eyes and a dopey, almost love-struck grin upon his face seemed a thorn in her side; Inara hoped it would not cause problems later.

     “Have you no plans to go back?” If her distrust and dislike bothered him, Corith did not show it, his large cheeks red and plump as his eyes glittered with the reflection of his smile. “The reward waits back in Lothering.”

     “We will take it and take ship,” Lemet responded coldly.

     “We’ve heard that elves can do well in Antiva,” Hamet chimed in, his voice sweet and far warmer than his sister’s. “We can take a ship there with the reward from this alone. Then we can find a place—“

     “These people do not need to know our business,” Lemet interrupted with a glare. Hemet’s smile faded; he spent the rest of the walk ‘til lunch staring at the ground. Corith did not opt to test her temper, either.

     They ate simple. Malta and Inara gathered berries from around the clearing where they sat to eat in the sun, Corith picking more than a fair share of apples from a little grove of trees along their path there. Corith seemed pleased with the path that Inara had plotted, said it was good hunting and fishing land save for the very end. The plan, then, seemed to be to gather what they could for meals while gathering was good, and save their more hearty supplies for later. Just as well, Inara figured. No need to break out the Grey Warden packaging on the tack and dried fruits before it was necessary, after all.

     “So how do you two know each other?” Malta asked Alistair to break the silence that settled between them and the elves after lunch, her eyes sweeping Inara from head to toe as she stood several paces ahead of them, speaking over directions and trail signs with Corith.

     “We were in the army together,” he answered faithfully, his eyes drawn by the question to the back of the woman that he so adored. Lies did not come quite so easily to him as Inara, this was true. But this was one that he had rehearsed more than well enough. “Served together during the Blight. She saved my life.”

     “You lovers?” Her directness caught him off guard; he must have looked goofy, the way that his cheeks and throat lit up with color. She smirked. “Thought so,” she said, her face radiating smugness. “You’re not the irritating sort, are you? Lovey dovey, always touching?”

     “What? No, we’re not—“

     “Yes we are,” Alistair jumped at Inara’s sudden presence there beside him, found himself flustered by her words. “He’s a terrible sap, hangs all over me. Trips over himself for every compliment. But we keep the thick mush in the tents, don’t worry.”

     They both laughed, and Alistair tripped some weak objection while his cheeks burned red. Inara kissed his cheek, and Malta rolled her eyes while shaking her head softly, like a mother amused by two young children.

     “Long as I don’t have to watch the two of you stick your tongues down each other’s throats,” Malta shrugged.