#elriel inspired

Cassian had always been a brute when it came to meals, but Azriel had never cared before. Had never minded. But today wasn’t just any day.

Today, Elain had spent hours in the kitchen, preparing this dinner with the twins, just as she had prepared countless others before it. And no one ever seemed to notice. No one ever seemed to appreciate the work she did, the way she quietly held this family together with warm meals, soft words, and the simple grace of her presence.

She was always overlooked.

Not by him. Never by him.

So when Cassian reached for his food while Elain was still freshening up, while she wasn’t even in the room to take her place at the table, something in him snapped. "Wait," he had said, his voice sharp and edged with something dangerous.

Cassian had blinked, genuinely confused, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. "Wait for what? The gravy?"

Azriel’s fingers curled around the edge of the table, his voice quieter, but no less commanding. "Wait until everyone is seated before eating."

A few beats of silence. Then Cassian scoffed, shaking his head. "Since when are you a stickler for manners, Az?"

Azriel didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He just held Cassian’s gaze, unyielding. The others gawked at him—Amren arched a brow, Mor glanced between them, even Rhys seemed mildly amused.

He didn’t care. Because Elain would not be treated as a servant. Not today. Not ever.

And then—there she was.

Walking back into the room, her dress the softest shade of rose, the pink of her cheeks and lips mirroring the warmth of it. She had braided her hair back, little tendrils slipping loose around her face, catching the faelight like spun gold.

His chest tightened. He had spent the last few hours pacing, wondering if she would be alright, if she would recover from what Nesta had done. And here she was, holding herself together, smiling softly as she took in the scene.

He forced himself to breathe.

Don’t look at her like that. Don’t let them see.

No one had ever asked that before. Not Rhys. Not Cassian. Not even Madja. Not in all his centuries of service, of silence, of slipping between shadows like a blade in the dark. Everyone accepted what he was, the shadow singer, the one who always knew more than he said. But they had never asked what it felt like.

But Elain had.

And not just in passing, not as some idle curiosity to flatter him. She had looked at him like she understood. Like she saw it too—that strange, intangible tether between them. The way something ancient lived in his shadows. The way something ancient might live in her, too.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her words. About the way she said soul, like it was a real, living thing. As if the earth whispered to her the way darkness hummed to him.

Azriel’s jaw clenched as he glanced sideways at her, still tucked against his arm. She was speaking now, softly, about the couple who owned the greenhouse and how they’d served fresh lemon cake and spiced tea. She smiled as she spoke, her cheeks still rosy from the heat inside. But he could feel her heartbeat. The fluttering rhythm of it where her hand rested on his arm. He could feel her there, just as he felt the shadows curled around his legs.

And maybe that was what unsettled him the most. He had spent five centuries perfecting the art of silence. His shadows obeyed no one but him. They didn’t flinch at pain, didn’t soften for beauty. Except her.

Around Elain, they quieted. Around her, they listened.

She said she could feel the story in the soil. Could sense it not in words, but in essence. He knew exactly what she meant. The shadows didn’t speak in the way others imagined—they moved through him. A shimmer of intent. A pang of warning. A whisper of need.

He’d never spoken of it. Never dared. Because to explain it would mean opening a door inside himself that had long since been locked and bolted. And Azriel had spent a lifetime guarding these rooms. But she had slipped through the cracks, hadn't she?

With her dirt-streaked apron and garden-covered notebooks and that soft, aching voice that held a strength no one ever noticed. She had asked the one question he didn’t know how to answer.

Azriel glanced at her again, and for a flicker of a moment, let himself imagine it. Not just the feel of her hand on his arm, but the quiet understanding in her gaze. Her presence, not like a balm, but a mirroring. A recognition.

It terrified him.

Because if she truly saw him—truly understood what lived inside him—what would she think then? People saw his silence and called it strength. Saw his precision and called it loyalty. But none of them looked closely enough to see the truth.

That he was still the boy in the cell. The boy with fire-scoured hands, skin blistered by his own blood. The boy who had been told, again and again, that he was nothing but a mistake. That even his gifts—his shadows, his silence—were wrong. Dangerous. Unnatural. The nights he woke up choking on the scent of burning flesh. The sound of Cassian and Rhys screaming his name across a battlefield. The quiet fear that if he ever allowed himself to truly need someone—he would destroy them, too.

What would Elain think if she saw that?

Elain… she wasn’t made for the darkness.

She was gardens and soft hands. Moonlight and blooming things. Her world was soil and growth and light.

He had never wanted to pull someone into his shadows. Had spent years keeping his distance for that very reason. But lately—he hadn’t been able to help it.

Because when she looked at him like that, when she spoke to him in that quiet, curious voice, as if he were more than just what he did… something inside him ached.

And it terrified him. The thought of her seeing the full depth of what he carried. The weight. The ruin. The still-bleeding grief that no number of years could wash away.

Elain just was. Present. Steady. Unafraid.

And maybe that was what made it so dangerous.

Because Azriel didn’t want to hide from her. Didn’t want to be unreadable and distant. He wanted to sit beside her in a greenhouse and talk about the way shadows felt when they brushed his skin. He wanted to let her touch his wings and not flinch. Wanted to be seen—not the mask, not the legend, not the weapon.

Just him.

Azriel.

Nesta’s door was slightly ajar.

Elain hesitated for a moment, fingers brushing the edge of the wood. They hadn’t spoken much since the war. Nesta had withdrawn so deeply into herself that even Elain, with all her softness, wasn’t sure how to reach her.

But tonight felt different. Slowly, Elain pushed the door open and stepped inside. Nesta was curled up on her bed, a book resting on her lap, though her eyes didn’t seem to focus on the words.

Without a word, Elain crossed the room and climbed into the bed beside her, pulling the blanket over her lap like they had done as children on stormy nights. Nesta stiffened for a moment, then let out a long, quiet breath.

“What are you doing?” Nesta murmured, her voice flat but lacking its usual bite.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Elain whispered. “And you never come to dinner anymore.”

Nesta’s jaw tightened. “There’s nothing to say at dinner.”

Elain didn’t press. They sat in silence for a while, the quiet stretching between them. Elain stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the war and the things left unsaid. Nesta’s shoulder was rigid beside her. But she didn’t move away.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. It was Elain who broke the silence. “Feyre loves Rhys so much.” Her voice was quiet, almost distant.

Nesta let out a breath through her nose. “She does.”

“It’s... overwhelming, isn’t it? The way they love each other.”

Nesta’s gaze drifted toward the window. “I suppose.”

Elain hesitated. She didn’t want to press, didn’t want to prod that fragile space between them, but the words slipped out. “Is that how you feel about Cassian?”

Nesta’s head snapped toward her, eyes sharp. Elain’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. Nesta didn’t answer. The silence stretched, thick and tense, before Nesta finally muttered, “Don’t deflect.”

Elain blinked. “Lucien,” Nesta said flatly. “Your mate.” The word hit like a stone in Elain’s chest. Her lips parted, but no words came out. Nesta’s stare didn’t waver. Elain looked away, her fingers twisting in the blanket.

“I…” she started, but the words dissolved. Her silence was louder than any answer. Nesta’s expression shifted—less sharp now, more thoughtful.

“You don’t have to want him,” she said quietly.

Elain swallowed hard. “It’s supposed to be a gift.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Feyre said it was rare. Beautiful. That she felt it before she even knew. That pull. But I don’t—” Her throat tightened. “I don’t feel that. Not for him.”

Nesta didn’t say anything. Elain laughed softly, but it was hollow. “You probably don’t think anyone is good enough for me.”

Nesta’s tone was steel. “Because they aren’t.” Elain shook her head, but Nesta kept going. “They weren’t enough for you. Not Graysen. Not Lucien. Not anyone.”

“Then I’ll be alone forever.” Nesta was quiet for a moment, staring ahead. “There’s one I would approve of,” she said finally.

Elain’s breath caught. “…Who?”

Nesta met her eyes.

“Azriel.”

Feyre, for all her artistic talents, had tangled herself in a mess of garlands, her face scrunched in frustration. Cassian was attempting to hang pine boughs over the archway, but half of them had already fallen, leaving a trail of greenery on the floor.

Azriel sighed. A catastrophe.

He hadn’t planned to help—he wasn’t particularly interested in decorating—but it was a convenient distraction. Something to keep his hands busy. Something to keep him from walking into that kitchen. But as he gathered the pine boughs, as he carefully arranged the garland so it wouldn’t slip, he let himself dream.

Just for a moment.

That instead of cleaning up Cassian and Feyre’s mess, he was decorating with Elain. In their home.

That her laughter—soft, melodic—was filling the room as she struggled to reach the higher spots, her long gown swishing around her legs. His shadows would be content, lulling around the edges, a few twirling curiously around her as they always did, drawn to her warmth.

The candlelight would catch in her hair, painting it gold, casting a glow over her rose-colored dress, the one that made her look like something out of a dream. He could see it so clearly, like a vision woven by the gods themselves.

She would be standing on tiptoe, her fingers delicately tying ribbons of holly above the fireplace. A strand of ivy would slip loose, tumbling down, and she’d huff in frustration, muttering something under her breath. And he…

Close enough to feel the heat of her back against his chest, to let the scent of jasmine wrap around him like a binding spell. His hands would rise, steadying her waist as she reached for the garland again, the thin fabric of her dress doing nothing to shield him from the shape of her beneath it. She would glance over her shoulder, that soft, knowing smile playing on her lips, the kind that undid him completely. The one that said she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

His hand would lift, almost without thought, to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers lingering at the delicate curve of her jaw. Her breath would catch, her eyes widening just slightly as he traced his thumb along her cheek, committing the feel of her to memory.

He would lean in, slowly, carefully, as if she might disappear at the slightest touch. And he would kiss her. A slow press of lips. The way a starving man might savor the first taste of something he had convinced himself he could never have.

She would sigh into him, her fingers clutching at the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer, as if she wanted this—wanted him—just as much as he had always wanted her. As if, just for a moment, he was something more than a shadow-drenched soldier, more than a weapon sharpened for war.

As if he was hers. He wanted to kiss her forehead in the mornings, wanted to press his fingers into the soil beside hers in the garden. Wanted her tucked against him at night, her warmth seeping into all the places he thought would always stay cold.

Azriel swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the pine boughs in his hands. His heart was pounding, his breath uneven.

Cauldron save him.

Read The Rest on AO3

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“I was thinking of making pecan pie for dessert tomorrow,” Elain had mused the a few nights before, her voice soft as she kneaded dough in the kitchen. “I just need to gather some from the trees a few streets over. The owners said I could take as many as I needed.”

Azriel had said nothing at first, only leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the way her delicate hands worked the dough with practiced ease. Hands made for growing things. For creating things. She had not asked for his help.

But the next morning, he had been waiting for her by the front door, already dressed, shadows curling lazily at his shoulders.

She had blinked up at him in surprise. “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I know,” he had said simply. And Cauldron help him, he had been utterly unprepared for the way the morning light gilded her in gold as they walked. It was still early, Velaris barely waking as they made their way through the quieter streets. The crisp scent of winter lingered in the air, woven with the scent of Elain’s jasmine and honey, and the faintest trace of spiced apples from the bakeries beginning their morning work.

He didn’t speak much. Didn’t trust himself to.

She had looked ethereal in the soft morning light, her long hair draped over one shoulder, strands escaping in loose curls. She had worn a simple wool dress, her warm gloves pulled snugly over her hands, her coat wrapped around her, and every now and then, as the cold nipped at her nose, she would rub at it absently, her face scrunching in a way that he should not have found endearing.

Azriel had to force himself to look away.

The autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves and fresh bread from the nearby bakeries, mixing with the faint traces of cedar and night-chilled wind that clung to Azriel.

“That went much better than I expected!” Elain said, smiling up at him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Even Azriel looked more at ease than he usually did, the hard edges of his face softened, the ever-present tension in his shoulders eased, if only slightly.

“I’m not surprised,” he said, glancing down at her with something close to admiration. “You have a way of making everyone comfortable. It is truly a gift, Elain.”

She let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Oh, goodness, it’s certainly not a gift. I’ve just always been able to read people, I suppose. Nesta used to comment on it at balls—how I could diffuse any situation with just a smile.” She shook her head slightly, her fingers grazing along the embroidered edge of her cloak. “But really, it’s just knowing how people want to be listened to. Understood. Heard.” A small, wistful pause. “Nesta tends to do the ‘talk now, apologize later’ method.”

Azriel huffed a quiet chuckle, but the sadness that laced her words wasn’t lost on him. He knew that sadness. And as if he could sense the ache in her heart, he said gently, “She will come around. She just needs this space to herself.”

Elain nodded, swallowing against the lump that had formed in her throat. “I know,” she murmured. “It’s still… It’s still so hard.”

“Sophie seemed to like you as well.”

“Oh yes, she was so kind, wasn’t she? And her mate…” Elain looked up at him, studying his face, the golden flecks in his hazel eyes stirring like disturbed embers. “You saved her mate’s life.”

Azriel’s gaze flicked ahead, his jaw tightening slightly. His shadows curled just the slightest bit at his shoulders, whispering in hushed tones only he could hear.

“I’m glad Devora and her sisters could make a home here,” was all he offered.

Elain could see it—the way he brushed aside the praise as if it were nothing, as if it hadn’t mattered. As if he weren’t carrying the weight of so many lives saved, and just as many lost. She wanted to ask more, to hear how it happened, but she knew him well enough to know that he rarely wanted to talk about himself. About what he had done.

So she didn’t press.

Instead, she slowed to a stop, tugging on his hand until he turned to face her. Azriel blinked, his brows furrowing slightly in question. Elain hesitated only for a moment before she reached for him, her fingers slipping over his scarred hand, holding it between her own. Warmth. Roughness. A contrast of silk and stone.

“You are a good male, Azriel,” she said softly. “I know many more owe their lives to you.”

His expression barely shifted, but she saw it, the flicker of discomfort in his eyes, the way he started to shake his head, the way his fingers twitched as if to pull away.

But she held firm.

“I mean it,” she pressed, squeezing his hand. “I know you hate the attention, and I know you hate praise. But I need you to hear this.”

She tilted her head up to meet his gaze fully, unwavering. “You are kind. You are good. And you are worthy of being told that.”

Azriel went still. Completely still. His breath hitched, the softest inhale, as if he had never heard those words before. Or perhaps, had never allowed himself to believe them. Elain felt her own throat tighten, her heart clenching painfully at the look in his eyes—like something was cracking, something was unraveling, something long-buried was struggling to surface.

“You are more than a Spymaster,” she whispered. “More than a Shadow singer. More than an Illyrian.” His fingers curled slightly around hers, an instinctive movement, though he didn’t seem aware he had done it.

“Please,” she said, voice barely above a breath. “Never believe otherwise.”

The wind stirred around them, but Elain only felt warmth. Azriel’s grip on her hand tightened, just barely. He said nothing, but his throat bobbed with the words he couldn’t seem to find. And he didn’t look away.

That was enough.

She gave his hand one last gentle squeeze before releasing it, though his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary. A quiet understanding passed between them, something unspoken but felt.

Elain offered him a soft smile, the kind that said I see you. And as they resumed their walk, she didn’t press him to respond. She didn’t need to.

Some things didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be heard.

What confused her most wasn’t just the quiet companionship or the warmth of his presence. It was the comfort. She wasn’t supposed to feel this way. 

She was supposed to still be mourning Graysen. The life she had lost. The wedding that never happened. The man who had looked at her with such love once—only for it to curdle into disgust. For months, she had carried that grief like a second skin. Had clung to it, as if letting it go would mean she had never truly loved him. And yet, day by day, the memories of Graysen became softer, blurred at the edges like a painting left too long in the sun. The ache of his absence, once so sharp, had dulled into something distant.

And somehow, it was Azriel’s presence that filled the spaces in between.

She didn’t understand it.

Didn’t understand why she kept thinking of him, why his voice had become as familiar to her as the rustling of the wind through her garden. Why the steady rhythm of his movements—the way he poured her tea, the way he sat just close enough but never too close—felt like something constant.

She told herself it was because he was kind. Because he was safe.

But safe wasn’t the right word. Safe didn’t make her chest tighten when he looked at her like that. Safe didn’t make her hands tremble slightly when they brushed his in passing. Safe didn’t make her dream of warm hands skimming over her skin, of whispered words in the dark, of hazel eyes watching her like she was something worth guarding.

So she kept quiet. Kept her feelings folded into herself like the petals of a flower waiting for the right season to bloom.

They spent the early hours in companionable silence, the kind that didn’t demand anything from her. He would sit next to, his shadows gone (albeit the one that nestled between her neck and her long hair), and tell her about the places he’d been. Not the dangerous parts. Not the blood and the shadows and the whispered names spoken in fear.

No, he told her of the beauty. The small things. The details that most people overlooked but that Azriel, ever observant, had noticed. Small things, unimportant details, but they fascinated her. Stories of distant lands, of flowers that bloomed in strange, vibrant colors, of cities that gleamed like jewels. She would listen, asking endless questions about the world beyond Velaris, the world she had always dreamed of seeing.

Once, she confessed as much to him. “I always thought I’d travel someday,” she said softly, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. “I thought my father would take me. That we’d go to the continent, or to see the great gardens of Adriata.”

Azriel’s hazel eyes softened as he watched her. “You still can,” he said, his voice low but certain. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, the sound delicate but genuine. “Nesta would never allow it. She’d act like I was too fragile to move.”

Azriel’s lips twitched into the faintest smile, his shadows curling faintly at his boots. “I will handle Nesta,” he replied simply.

She snorted at that, a sound so unexpected it startled even her. The idea of anyone taming Nesta was absurd—but something about the way he said it, so calm and matter-of-fact, made her believe he could. She knew Cassian had tried. She had seen the way he looked at Nesta, the fire in his eyes that matched the sharp edges of her sister’s own. The feelings between them were undeniable, even if Nesta refused to accept them, even if she pushed him away at every turn. But Azriel’s calm was a different kind of strength. Where Cassian was fire meeting fire, Azriel was the quiet, steady hand that could ground even the fiercest storm.

I knew it when you looked my way That I'd be begging you to stay I couldn't say it to myself I felt it burning in the way I held on when you moved away I couldn't say it to myself I couldn't say it Why couldn't I say it?

And every evening, every time I keep replaying in my mind And wondering if you do the same And if it makes you lose your breath And if it makes you just forget That all of it's a bit insane

I cannot fall in love with you I cannot feel this way so soon I cannot be this way with you I cannot fall in love with you