#fucking devlon

Absence Makes the Heart Grow fonder Restless

This is kind of a continuation from my TTYLTOYD two-shot.  Actually, all my shots can be associated (except the au) so I'm thinking of multichapting it...

Set: post ACOSF, post Nessian’s Wedding.

Words: 3306

Part 3: Absence Makes the Heart Grow Restless

Going to Windhaven wasn’t how Azriel planned to start his day, especially when he could still feel the lump on his back from the stake out in Miann. The royalty residing in the heart of Hybern would present no concern to Prythian any time soon, since the remaining spawn of the former king were too busy trying to size his throne. The power had manifest itself in the 4th son, a spoiled youth who thrusted too much on the royal adviser, which made the conspirational first born livid. A civil war was brewing, and Azriel could already feel the headache of constant reports to be made in a near future.

It didn't help that he had been feeling uneasy in the last couple of days, an eerie sensation he couldn’t point the origin making him anxious and tense. His boots crunched the piled-up snow, the shadows scurrying away from the early mid-morning rays that did nothing to warm the frozen hell camp. It was no secret that Azriel despised to waste his time dealing with Illyria, the duty usually falling under Cassian jurisdiction, yet here he was, having every aspect of his patience tested by the hardhead war lord.

His eyes roamed around, cataloging the young males practicing different routines all over the camp. Stretching, working with weapons, with shields, flying, running laps, sparing in cockpits, all exhaling puffed breaths under the duress of a typical morning session. The females, however, were sweating for very different reasons. They ran around the camp like servants, polishing boots, mending uniforms, sharpening blades, moving weapons, removing snow from the courses, dressed in raged clothes that were a far cry from the especial leather uniforms provided by Rhys. His fist curled, a dark shadow coating his hand and swallowing the incandescent cobalt stone that flicked.

“The girls are not training.”

Devlon’s attention was fixed on a sparring, screaming inputs to the males. “Lift your shield boy! Lift that fucking shield and rotate! Godsdam, up, up, UP! That’s only 120 pounds! You can’t lift that, you get the fuck out of my pit and let someone with balls train!” He didn’t move his attention from them, didn’t thought he needed to. “The girls have chores to complete.”

“The High Lord was clear.” Azriel said.

His eyes turned to Azriel with disdain.

“This is my camp, boy. Not his.”

“The females train, or no one trains.” Azriel declared, his lack of expression leading others to believe he didn’t have the slightest ounce of interest in the matter.

Devlon snickered, unimpressed with the conversation that happened every other week.

The half-breed lord loved to send his bastards to meddle in his camp. The boys were talented in the battle field, Devlon wouldn’t deny that, they trained in his camp after all, and the half-breed even found a way to become a High Lord, kudos for him. But this was Illyria, not a playground for bored High Fae. Here they have lineage and culture and traditions. Despite Rhysand’s lineage being tarnished, Devlon was one of the few lords who would allow half-breeds and bastards in his camp. His reason was simple,

They were males.

They were males with illyrian blood running in their veins, even if it was washed down. And Illyrian males were born to have their wings spread, a blade in one hand, a shield on the other and a shot at proving themselves as the Mother intended. Females were a different story. As the Mother created the males for thriving in the battlefield, she also created the females for housing and breeding. He had stopped the clipping and allowed them in the camp to appease the prissy prince, but training was unnecessary for them. Imagine having them sharing the field with the real warriors in a daily basis? Bullshit. They would only slow the males down, tempt them, steal their focus to not even amount to good warriors in the end. Having functional wings was privilege enough. Illyrians were and will always be an elite warrior race, therefore mixing them with meek females was stupidity, Devlon knew that. The girls were much more useful like this, tending to the camp chores for the males to achieve their full potential like tradition dictated.

Tradition existed for a reason.

Tradition is fail-proof, timeless, universal.

Noting the shadowsinger’s blank stare still fixed at him, Devlon spat on the ground, the chewed tabaco sinking in the snow in front of Azriel’s boots. The shadowsinger said nothing. He did not move or react to the insult. His shadows were a different story. The devilish things swarmed like a hive of angry bees – dispersing everywhere – syphons flaring to life with the challenge, a cobalt aura engulfing the camp in a spam of seconds.

“What are you doing, boy?!!” he exclaimed with anger, eyes bloodshot red as he beheld his camp. Devlon could barely keep up with the mayhem that came next.

The work-out sounds stopped, replaced by shrieks and gasping and crashing. The racing track froze completely before erupting, chunks of stone flying off the floor. Panic and chaos spreading like a wild fire. With a symphony of screams, dozens of illyrians were falling from the sky, grunting and cursing as they hit barracks, trees, each other. Others had their running and sparing interrupted by the loss of balance, falling face flat on the ground when Azriel bounded every male in the perimeter, straps of shadow trapping a hundred pair of wings. More shrieks followed by whoever held a weapon, for they were now covered with a blue-hot halo, blazing like a new forged blade, burning the hands attached to the handles. More males fell on their knees, burring their hands in snow to sooth the burnings. The ones closest to Azriel ran with terrified faces, which wasn’t sufficient to escape the shadow-binding on their feet and wings. The males began to pair up, trying to free their wings with no success.

The females, who were untouched by magic or binds, stopped their chores to come together, watching the scene with a mix of shock and amusement, their giggles growing into laughter the more the more the males struggled. Azriel watched them for a moment. Their innocent glee reminding him of someone. She flashed in his mind. Her lightly tanned skin, the freckles across her nose, her piercing brown eyes and the radiant smile that had no business being directed at him. He blinked the memory away.

“What are you laughing at, girl?” the war-lord snapped at tthem. “Don’t just stand there, help them to unbid their wings, your brats! Move, move! You!” he pointed at Azriel, “Release my warriors now, shadowsinger!”

“The females train or no one trains.” he repeated with boredom, face blank as a white sheet.

The war lord was still cursing fiercely when the spymaster left, ignoring his tantrum and shadow-walking to the outer shield protecting the cabin. Azriel wasn’t Cassian, he had no patience to deal with the traditions of this forsaken mountain, if Devlon wanted to train his precious warriors, he could come and beg for it. He pushed the snow of his shoulder with irritation, Feyre’s paintings following his every step as he made way to the office. The space was crowded with paperwork, endless piles of new information waiting to be sorted by him. What a headache.

Azriel pinched the bridge of his nose trying to focus his thoughts.Tired. He was too tired to deal with that. When was the last time he slept? A shadow drift to the fresh report appearing on top the never-ending pile. ‘Read it. Read it.’ Another crooned in his ear.

“Not now.” He answered out loud, freeing the curtains to cover the window. Azriel paused, glancing at the elastic tie escaping from the cuff of his uniform, the yellow color bright and painful amidst the black of everything else. The adornment had become attached to his wrist since he had found her one too many times with her unbound hair clinging to her sweat face, getting in the way of her vision, his hands ably pulling the rebel strands in a pony tail. Now the unused hair tie mocked the intimacy he was no longer allow to display.

Azriel slouched on a chair and closed his eyes, groaning. There he was again, thinking of her.

Thinking of Elain.

His mind cooking an absurd amount of risqué ideas, indulging in plotting shading escapades.

It had been a while since he last heard her voice outside the echoes of his mind. Three weeks, four days and twenty-four hours. Since Cassian’s mating celebration, if one was counting. Which he wasn’t. Gods, he missed her. He missed the soothing atmosphere that only Elain’s presence could bring to him. Recently, Azriel had become quite accustomed to replay the memories of her, drowning in regret, wishing he had done different, martyrizing himself with the weight of cowardice. That’s what he was. A coward. A coward who hide behind his brother’s order to avoid the mess he created.

Azriel uncovered many secrets in his lifetime, but there was one that didn't matter how hard he tried, he could not unravel, and that was his relationship with Elain, his fondness, his desire, his obsession for the girl who rooted herself in his darkened heart. If he had a soul, it would be hers too. Azriel could not pinpoint exactly how they became friends. Worse, he could not define when the friendship became something more intimate either. How he went from numb to his surroundings, to obsessing over a twenty-five years old and her view of the world. She was breathtaking, there was no denying that, but beauty wasn’t the feature who made Elain Archeron so irresistible.

There was a fire inside her. A flame that burn bright and strong enticing him with every flicker. Elain played the demure persona quite well for someone with such strong opinions of the world. “People don’t really listen to me,” she told him once. “They look at me, and that’s it, my value is defined. That’s the only sense I can stimulate, vision. Like a curse.” He could relate to it better than he would like. Shackled to his appearance, to the horrendous scars on his hands, to the ever-present shadows draped over his body.

When Azriel saw the worst of what life had to offer he decided to be worse, to become the night that once symbolized his terrors, to be feared instead of afraid. When Elain saw the worst of what life had to offer she took a harsh blow, but she came back. As the light in her eyes began to shine again, her kindness bloomed in full, her positivity was contagious, her smiles infectious. There was no sensation that could rival being in the receiving end of her smiles. Understanding the bravery of her kindness was like a punch to his gut, making him gag, expelling, little by little, the foulness collected along centuries, allowing clear air to make way into his lungs. Azriel had never felt proud of anyone as he felt of Elain, and one day he simple caught himself longing for her. Her burning presence, her bright voice, her sunny smiles. Before he even realized it, her mere presence began to mold him anew, changing his habits, brightening his days.

When he could join her for breakfast, after being away for days, she would inquire every little detail of the cities he been to, filling him in with what he lost while away, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her he knew what was happening in Velaris no matter where he were because he like to sip his coffee listening to the melody of her. “No” was not a word in his vocabulary when Elain shyly invited him for her usual walks along the Sidra, both quiet in companion silence enjoying the late night breeze, or her twice-a-week visits to the food market, where his hands would relieve hers from anything he judged heavy –which was anything she bought.

Azriel had lost count of how many times he shamelessly brought his reports to the town house, one eye on the words stretching in the paper, another in Elain humming while working in the garden, shadows escaping from him to lurk near her, shading her when they judged her floppy hats were not enough. And how many times had they not slipped away in shadows after a chaotic family dinner? Leaving their loud family behind to watch plays and recitals, attend a festival she had interest in knowing, her curious mind working furiously to ask him about fae customs, Azriel patiently explaining everything she desired to know, nights ending in cozy flights across the coast, dancing and drinking and laughter.

Being with Elain was easy, simple as breathing. Then things changed. In a slip of his tongue, Azriel flirted with her, and to his absolute delight and horror, Elain flirted back. And continued to do so. Her pink stained cheeks, the eyes that followed him everywhere, the subtle touches and brushes. Azriel knew why she was acting like that, cautious of the others noticing their interactions, careful of the gods-dammed bond that was always mention to her. The bond he didn’t give a fuck about. Their clandestine interactions grow bolder, his lust grow out of control, and it became impossible to be near her without barely stopping himself to worship every inch of her body. An spirit Elain seemed to appreciate.

Until he fucked it all up.

‘Master! Wake up!’

Azriel was brought from his reverie by an insistent shadow puling his eyelids, demanding his attention. Snarling, he tried to chase it away.  

‘Wake up, master. Read it, read it!’ It crooned in his ear.

A report materialized on his lap. With a sigh he surrendered, his eyes scanning the letter once, twice, before crunching the paper, his face finally exposing a feeling:

Anger.

“Fuck.”

.

.

.

Elain’s scent was scant, no longer bleeding out the walls and furniture, perfuming every corner of the house as it did once. The place was quiet, lifeless without her running around, indulging Nyx’s caprices while Feyre taught her classes. The River House was not as bright as it once was. At least, not for him. Azriel stood in the farther corner of the office, arms crossed, face blank, shadow vexing out and about, veiling his frame in such dark mist his brother could barely see his body.

"You cannot release them from duty, Rhysand."

Azriel gave his brother an icy stare.  Unbelievable. Did Rhys honestly believed he could control Azriel now because he was staying away from Elain? Control his spies? He wanted to laugh. The only reason he was following the idiotic command was his oath, his loyalty binding him to the High Lord’s command. Truth be told, the order alone was not strong enough to keep him from seeing Elain, the order could be interpreted in many ways, ways that allowed him to breach it. It was a simple game of literal meaning and loophole and telling Rhys to fuck himself. The only reason he had entertained his brother so far was because of Elain, he had hurt her deeply that night, broke her trust. Sometimes sleep would not come to him when the memory of her sad eyes did. Azriel didn’t know how to turn back, to fix his stupid mistake. He should had kissed her and to hell with it.

Rhys flicked an invisible fleck of dust from his shoulder. "I have no use for those who don't follow my orders."

"They are my spies. Not yours. Mine."

He almost laughed at the irony of the words so similar to the ones Devlon spat at him earlier. His brother glared at him.

"And you are my spymaster. Serving in my court."

Azriel was fuming. First his brother interfered in his relation with Elain, now he tried to fire the twins because they refused to spy on her, making Azriel realize that Rhys was really growing old, old and insane! Thinking too high of himself. Drunk on power.

Azriel followed a set of rules in his life, not fully trusting High Lords being one of them, way high on the list. The problem was he didn’t think his brother would be in the middle of the untrustworthy. His mistake. He should have known better than trust family.

"You're not sovereign.” Azriel scoffed. “I serve a High Lady. Shall I petition to her? Ask for an audience and deliver my worries in letterhead? Maybe just come to family dinner will do the trick."

"You think you're funny?"

"I think you are a dick." shadows coated his knuckles, sliding between his hands, squeezing. "They are allowed to refuse a mission that involves personal targets."

"Will you report in their place, then?”

“Fuck you!” The words were angry, harsh, siphons atop of his hands flared, the shelfs rattled. Rhys merely shrugged.

"I can forget this incident if you take their place. I need someone I can trust on this. Someone who cannot be bribed."

"Why would she bribe your measly roaches?"

"Not her. Someone more intimidating. Someone interest in keeping her business private."

"She has the right to her privacy."

"Not if she put my court in danger. She doesn't."

"Do you hear yourself?"

"I do. My problem is that you don't listen to me."

Azriel tried to keep calm, be reasonable, keep Rhys calm, away from the madness eating his brain. When did his brother turned into an asshole? Azriel took a deep breath, fighting to keep his shadows in check, feeling the fucking Shadowsinger clawing to be free and challenge his brother, wipe the idiotic fake smile from his face.

"All of this because she is moving out? Really, Ryshand?” His brother relaxed further on the chair, crossing his hands. "You only have one child, a male one. If you have so much fucking free time to be thinking bullshit, think about him, and leave Elain alone, let her live her life.”

Azriel whirled around, crunching the doorknob under his flaring palm, almost pulling the door out of the hinges. He would not shadow-walk away like a little boy throwing a tantrum. He would leave by the door and spit in Rhys’ doorsteps on the way out, like a grown male.

"What of you Az. Are you leaving her alone?"

He stopped.

"That's what you asked me to do, isn't it? No. You ordered me to do it."

"You think I don't know why she is moving out? Dare I say, for who."

"Elain is her own woman, her life doesn't revolve around anyone but herself."

"You expect me to believe that Elain moving out have nothing to do with you trying to sneak her out on Cassian’s mating party?"

Azriel huffed, shadows dispersing in the room. "The tales are true, then, is never late to learn something. I, for instance, am learning that having I child means your brain pass on to the next generation."

His brother sighed.

"Az,"

"Rhysand." He scorned. "Let her be. Let her live her life. Elain is not your nanny."

Rhys adjusted himself, shaken.

"I'm never said that."

"You didn't have too. Did you think she stayed in this house to nurse your child forever? She saw her sister die, she stayed behind for her, to nurse her back to health, to make sure Nyx was okay, watch his mother be back on her feet. She’s back."

"Are you her messenger now?"

"If Elain has a message for you, she will relay herself. In the meantime; Leave. Her. Alone. Or I will make you."

"Are you threatening me? My own brother?"