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Chapter Text

It was five after seven, and Azriel was late. He hadn’t been to a family dinner since Nyx was born, but Rhys had all but threatened him to show up, using Feyre as an excuse.

Feyre missed him. Nyx barely even knew him.

Azriel had tried his best to stay as far away as possible from the River House, and he had almost succeeded. Had succeeded in that he did not allow his shadows to enter the premises, did not inquire after its inhabitants. Did not step foot on the perfectly manicured lawn, or in the lush courtyard.

But his dreams betrayed him. In his dreams, he went to the River House. To her.

He barely slept anymore. She followed him, even into his dreams. Whether she found him in the garden, or in the family room, or in his bed, she was always there.

Holy gods, how he wanted her. How he missed her even more.

And so when Rhys he insisted he come to his first family dinner in months, even though he warned Azriel that Lucien would be in attendance, Azriel could not resist.

All of those sleepless nights had weakened his resolve, and dark bruises lined his undereyes like shadows. His Illyrian skin was as pale as it had been when he was locked away in that godsforsaken keep.

The sun reminded him too much of her.

He spent too long getting ready to fly to the River House. Took his time donning a crisp white shirt, and clean black trousers. Attempted to fix his hair, which had been the least of his worries.

If only he could see Elain one more time. Then he would be satisfied. If he could see that she was happier without him, then he could leave her in peace. Even if he would never find it himself.

Azriel’s hands shook as he buttoned his onyx jacket. He felt strung out, exhausted. There were times when he could have sworn he heard her calling for him, calling his name. But when he tried to go to her, to answer her, he would jolt awake and find he had drifted off at the dinner table, or in the bath after training, or even mid-conversation with Cassian, or Nesta.

They would give him a worried look, but never pried.

He felt as if he was going mad.

Azriel ran his hair once more through his hair, not bothering to look in the mirror. He knew he looked horrible, sickly, even. But there was nothing to be done about it now, he was already late.

The stars above Velaris shone as brightly as ever as Azriel took to the skies from the balcony off his room at the House of Wind, and flew in the direction his heart led.

……..

As soon as he landed in the garden, Azriel knew he had made a mistake.

Faelights illuminated the whole house in gold, bright light shining warmly from within as his family crossed in front of the windows - Mor holding Nyx to her chest as he played with her long braid, Nesta perched atop Cassian’s lap in one of the winged back chairs, Rhys huddled in a corner, back to the garden as he talked to Lucien, while Feyre entertained Varian and Amren, who stood with her arms crossed while holding an exorbitantly large glass of dark red wine.

He didn’t see her, but knew where she would be. Carrying dishes to and from the kitchen to the dining table, steam wafting off rosemary potatoes and roast chicken and fresh rolls and steamed vegetables. Dessert in the oven, ready to be served after the main course had been devoured. She would be wearing a linen apron that the twins had gifted her last Solstice, with her name embroidered in a dusky pink at its hem.

Her face would be flushed from the warmth of the oven, but eyes alight as she took care of her family, as she fed them and made them happy and felt wanted, useful.

Azriel knew it all. Had lovingly taken care to learn it all as he had watched her, had talked with her.

The garden was just beginning to thaw, he noticed as he made his way to the kitchen door. Soon small green buds would appear in the plots currently covered with reused burlap sacks, coinciding with the celebration of Nynsar.

Her scent almost stopped him in his tracks, as he reached for the door handle. Honey and jasmine wafted to him on a spring breeze, and his shadows seemed to sigh in answer. His wings shook with anticipation, aching to spread from some carnal instinct, the desire to hold her and intercept anyone who may interrupt.

But he may never sleep again, if he did not know she was alright, happy. That was what he convinced himself at least, as he continued. That is was a purely selfish desire for a good night’s rest that prompted him to enter a space where he knew she would be.

And as always, his instincts had not failed him.

Elain was reaching for a pan from inside the oven when he stepped silently through the door, reining his shadows back as they instinctively lurched for her.

She was luminescent in that golden faelight, as they reflected off the sheen of her silken braid, her unblemished skin. The embroidered apron covered a simple gown, so light blue it was almost white.

Azriel couldn’t breathe, couldn’t take another step. He felt his eyes widen, his shadows swirling, uncontrolled, as he watched her silently, waiting for her to notice him. Allowing himself that selfish, undisturbed moment - where it was just the two of them in that warm kitchen, peaceful in a way that he would never deserve.

“Azriel!” Elain sucked in a surprised breath as she said his name, and he fought the urge to close his eyes, to freeze time on those three syllables. If he had the harp, if he could command it as Nesta had those months ago, he would choose that moment to wield it, so that he could hear his name on her lips over and over again, a song he would never tire of hearing.

But too soon, time resumed.

“Shit,” Elain cursed, shaking her hand as she dropped the hot pan with a clatter. The noise in the other room quieted and Feyre called out for her sister.

“Elain?”

“Fine!” Elain hastily replied, yelling back through the closed door, before looking up at Azriel. Her beautiful face now twisted with pain as she straightened, still shaking her hand, fingertips an angry red from where she had grabbed the hot dish.

Azriel couldn’t help himself, and took a small step forward. Willed himself to speak, to say anything. To not be silent for once in his godsdamned life.

“Elain, I’m so sorry. Can I help?”

He reached out a hand, his siphon already pulsing, aching to heal her perfect skin, her gentle hands.

Elain pulled away, cradling her injured fingers to her chest.

It had been less than a minute, and Azriel was already ruining everything.

“No, thank you,” she muttered, her eyes shifting away, to look in any direction but towards him.

His heart fell into his stomach. He had done this. He had ruined them.

“Elain, about Solstice, I’m so —“

He kept his voice low, but couldn’t stop the urgency from entering his tone as he took another small step forward, willing her not to back away. Flicking a glance toward the closed door to the dining room, where her mate stood. Where Rhysand stood.

“No, Azriel,” Elain stopped him, her voice breaking as she stood her ground but did not look him in the eye.

“I understand. I understand perfectly clear, that it was a mistake. And what a fool I was.”

She took a shuddering breath.

“How stupid I was to think that I would be good enough for you…”

The remainder of Azriel’s heart shattered, at her words. At the very inkling of the idea that SHE was not good enough for HIM, when it was very much the other way around.

As she turned, Azriel watched the reflection of a tear slide down her flushed cheek.

Fuck Rhys. Fuck the Cauldron, and fuck the mating bond.

He would not stay silent for another 500 years.

“Elain, I…” Elain needed to know the truth. She needed to understand how much of a coward he had been. Needed to understand that at the very least, even if it was too late, that he loved her.

Because Rhys was right. He knew he didn’t deserve her. After weeks of lying awake, staring at the capsule of powder next to his bed, the earplugs, a pile of handwritten notes, he knew the truth as well as he knew the pattern of scars on the back of his hands, and the language of shadows.

He could not give her children, could not give her the gift of seeing her beautiful eyes and smile on the face of a child. He could not give her a title, or power.

But he could love her. He could love her for the rest of his life.

“Elain, I…”

His mouth turned dry, his tongue heavy as if his throat had been stuffed with cotton. As hard as he tried to continue, to explain his behavior at Solstice and why he had left her as heartbroken as he had been at the bottom of the landing, he could not speak.

It was like his nightmares, the ones where he screamed and screamed for help as the flesh on his hands burned, smoldering red in the darkness, but no one came. No one heard him.

“Azriel,” Rhys’ dark voice rumbled a thunderous warning from the open door to the dining room. And although he had never experienced it himself, Azriel knew what was happening. Had seen his High Lord wield this power against their enemies, time and time again.

He had taken away Azriel’s ability to speak.

Elain’s eyes widened in confusion as Azriel felt his throat closing, a suffocation that pressed on his windpipe and allowed no sound to escape. His hand went to his throat, out of pure instinct.

She whipped her head toward Rhys in horror. Their family remained in the dining room, visible briefly behind the swinging door before it closed behind Rhys.

The world shrunk to that one room, to the three very powerful beings that stood inside it.

As Rhys glowered at Azriel, Azriel struggling to breathe beyond the hand of power that clutched his throat, he felt a light extinguish inside of his mind. A carefully guarded candle that he had held close to his heart, ever since the day that the sun had been taken from him, since his mother had been separated from him. A small kernel of hope that had burned even in the darkness, even as the hand protected it became mangled and ruined, a small boy’s hand hovered over that flame through 500 years of war and pain and killing and heartache.

All it took was a kernel of his brother’s power, directed at him, to extinguish it. To devastate any hope of love and happiness that he had found in the dreams that haunted him at night, taunting him as he laid alone in the House of Wind.

The only thing left was darkness.

Azriel felt the past few months began to spill out of him, even as his words could not. He had neglected not only his body, but his power as he had tried and failed to drain himself physically, beating himself bloody in the training ring as he tried to force his body to need rest, to sleep.

A delicate crack, like the sound of a wine glass breaking, filled the silent kitchen.

Three pairs of eyes flashed to the fissure splitting the cobalt siphon on top of his left hand in two, dark blue light leaking ominously from its core.

Rhys violet eyes turned dark, while he threw up a shield of pure, dark night in front of doorway. On the other side which held Feyre, and Mor holding Nyx.

The faelights of the kitchen dampered as a cold breath blew through the room. Any warmth disappeared into its sweeping voice. Even Death stood nearby, watching over the boy who had once spoken to it in the dark, prayed to it, dared to bargain with it.

Darkness and night and stars triumphant swirled around Rhys, his eyes black as he threw up shield after shield around Azriel. To protect the others in the house.

This was it.

Azriel felt his shadows swarming around him, lashing out at the dark cage like vipers. Elain watched in horror, and even as she turned to scream at Rhysand, the noise of their power drowned out her voice.

All he could hear was the tinkling glass - another spider crack appearing in his supposedly unbreakable siphons.

He allowed himself one last look at her, barely visible through the chaos of Rhys’ power.

And then he disappeared.

……………….

He went to the first place that he could think of. An abandoned training area, at the base of the mountain outside of Velaris, where he had taken to disappearing to in order to train. It was no longer safe for him to practice and let off steam so close to where the Valkyries trained.

He stepped out of a shadow mid air, and allowed himself to plummet. Barely feeling his stomach dropped as he fell, wings flaring out of instinct, his own body betraying his mind, desperate to save himself from hitting the ground at full force.

Azriel landed on his knees, and the world split beneath him.

Blue light exploded from his cracked siphon, and the remains of the glass imploded, shattering on the ground at his feet, some falling in the fissure that the impact of his body, his unrestrained power, had created in the earth.

Azriel screamed.

He yelled and screamed until he felt like nothing more than an animal, clutching his head in his hands as he bent over, still on his knees, roaring at the pain that had finally filled him past the point of containment.

Shadows flared around him, a deadly storm of cold and darkness. A sheet of ice spread out before him, freezing the thawed spring ground.

A thin line of warm blood fell from his nose.

His power had overtaken him. The carefully maintained facade that he had kept for hundreds of years, cracked and shattered. Heartache and betrayal plunged a dagger more deadly than Truthteller over and over into his chest.

“Azriel,” a voice called to him, through the chaos. Barely breaking through the torrent of shadows whirling around him.

Death watched as Cassian took a step toward Azriel. Warm red power melting the ice beneath his boots. His formal jacket long gone. No armor covered his chest.

He only held up a hand, his wedding band a beacon of gold in the night.

“Az,” Cassian called again, this time softer.

Azriel was still screaming. Years and years of cold rage pouring forth from his lungs as he finally, finally let it all out.

The way they had treated his mother. His hands, ruined, a physical reminder forever more of the pain he would wrend on others, the blood he would spill. His loneliness. The way he had wanted to die, days after day, in the dark of that keep. Mor. Finding Mor. War and war after war and blood so deep it could fill an ocean. Losing Rhys. Getting Rhys back, only to lose him again. Losing Cassian.

Elain. Elain, Elain, Elain. His light.

Cassian did not fear his brother, as he appraoched him. Did not flinch away from the bite of the shadows or the watchful eye of Death, as he went to Azriel.

The spymaster of the Night Court was bent over, his arms wrapped himself as his roars turned to cries of pain, anguish so deep that it was almost inhuman.

Cassian fell to his knees, and held his brother.

His own face twisted in pain as Azriel sobbed in his arms, power still writhing beneath Cassian’s hold, trying to escape the shadowsinger as he fell apart.

Cassian held him through it all.

“I’m here, brother,” was all he said, his deep voice warming the frigid night. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Over and over again, until Azriel’s wracking sobs slowed, his siphons dulling as the power filling drained through the remaining cobalt orbs.

Cassian held his brother through it all.

Chapter Text

Elain was still screaming at Rhys after Azriel faded into shadow in front of them.

“Stop, stop, STOP!”

After the shadowsinger disappeared, the whirling night filling the room quieted. Moonless sky faded to once again reveal a more domestic scene - a cooling stovetop, the wooden kitchen table, a toppled barstool.

Elain lurched forward as the suffocating, raw power that had held the three of them in place dissipated.

Rhys stood still as she stumbled to him, did not flinch away as she beat the High Lord’s chest with her fists, over and over again. Ignoring the still healing burns on her fingertips as the dug into her palms, leaving crescent moons in her skin.

“Why would you do that?” Elain gasped, horrified. “What was he trying to say? What was he trying to tell me, Rhys?”

Rhys remained silent as the swinging door behind them burst open, with such force that it left a crack in the drywall behind it.

“What happened?” Feyre demanded first, rushing in. Followed closely by Lucien, Nesta and Cassian. Mor would have already winnowed away, at the first sign of trouble. As the second in command had been ordered to do by her High Lady and Lord, joined by their third. Protecting the chain of command, as Rhys’ and Feyre’s life bargain still burned in their blood.

Rhys remained silent even as Elain looked up at him, half wild as she begged him to speak, to defend his actions.

Black anger began to clear from violet eyes, as a crippling regret swept in to replace it.

Before anyone could stop her, Elain pulled back an arm and struck Rhys across his face.

He did not move, merely looked at her with that devastated, glazed expression as his mind churned, trying to understand what had just happened.

What he had just done.

“Elain,” Nesta gritted through clenched teeth as she pulled her sister back and away from the High Lord. The eldest Archeron threw her murderous glare his way, as if daring him to retaliate, to strike back.

Rhys’ shoulders only lowered, his expression unchanged even as the red mark on his right cheek began to fade, healed almost immediately.

Feyre stepped between her sisters and mate. Reaching her tattooed hand to put her palm on the mark, placing her other on his chest. As if even something inside of her warred, between her husband and sister. Two instincts at odd, the question of who to protect, who to shield.

The middle Archeron was still screaming, even as the rest of them had fallen silent.

“What did you do Rhys? What was he trying to say?”

Her voice was already beginning to rasp, at the strain of it.

Ladies didn’t yell, or scream, or shout.

Lucien hovered nearby, hands folded behind his back as he resisted the urge to push his way through Nesta to his mate. The pull on his chest agonizing as Elain’s pain tore him apart from the inside out, an open wound festering and stinging, immune to fae healing.

His golden eye whirred as it flicked back and forth from Rhys to Elain.

Lucien took a sharp breath, noting who else had inhabited the room before the rest of them had entered. Russet eye darkening as he noted the shadowsinger’s scent.

Rhys’ eyes met Lucien’s, barely a glance, but Elain went quiet when she saw it. Brown, doe eyes wide as she saw everything. Knew, everything.

From within Nesta’s strong arms pulled tight around her, Elain threw an accusing stare at Rhysand.

“You warned him away, on Solstice,” Elain whispered, her words a scream in and of themselves as she addressed him. No question in her voice, only realization. Only a biting, unsavory, ugly truth.

“You silenced him. That’s why he’s stayed away.”

No one spoke. Elain’s chest heaved, at the effort of speaking up, when it was so, so much easier to just remain quiet, to do as she was told, to keep the peace.

“How could you?” Her voice broke as she wrenched free of Nesta’s arms, which fell uselessly to her side. Cassian came up behind his wife, placing a warm, silent hand on the small of her back.

“He is your brother, Rhysand. You are everything to him.”

The High Lord remained silent, still as a moonless night, but his expression crumbled, as Elain’s words struck more true than Azriel’s fabled knife.

Even Feyre could not protect her mate from the plunging blade of Elain’s question.

Nesta reached for Elain once more, but Elain backed away.

“Don’t touch me,” she snarled. “No one touch me.”

Throwing open the garden door, she left the kitchen, and the devastation in her wake. As it slammed behind her, the room once again fell silent.

“I’m going,” Cassian swore darkly, to no one in particular.

He paused only to press a kiss to the side of Nesta’s head, giving her simple gold wedding band a reassuring twist before letting go of her hand and leaving through the garden door. Taking off into the skies with one beat of the powerful wings at his back.

Lucien spoke, voice dark as he addressed Rhys.

“What would you have me do, Rhys?” His smooth voice was flat as he leveled calmly at Rhys. “Would you have me force her into this bond? Marry me, come to my bed, lay still as I fucked her even while she yearned for another male’s touch?”

Rhys cringed beneath Feyre’s hands, still placed on his cheek and his chest. Her own heart aching even as she remained silent, did not defend what she could not, what she had been unaware of until that night.

“Would you think so low of me, Rhys? After what I’ve seen my own mother endure for centuries?”

Lucien shook his head in bewilderment.

“I’m going to talk to Elain.”

He left through the garden door as well.

Only Feyre, Rhys and Nesta remained.

Nesta’s fists flexed at her side, as if she was resisting the urge to strike the High Lord herself. Any tentative truce or trust between them shattered.

“He was barely hanging on Rhys. He was barely there. You haven’t seen him lately…” Nesta shook her head, eyes alight. “He’s not been sleeping, eating. Just wandering the halls like a ghost.”

She stared Rhysand down, challenging him to respond, to speak up, to finally defend the havoc he had caused.

A slow tear crept down his face, disappearing beneath Feyre’s warm hand still pressing into his cheek.

“What have I done?” He whispered brokenly.

Chapter Text

Cassian’s voice was a light in the dark. A steady, low call through the night, speaking to Rhys as if he was sat next to him instead of gods knows where.

His brothers’ voices were so familiar to him in his mind that Rhys often had to take great pains to purposefully tune them out. Centuries ago, they were all he could focus on, all he could call for in his mind when they had been separated across Prythian. He had fallen asleep, each night, straining his powers to stretch to where they were, to find them where they were and ensure they were okay, that they were still alive.

And then, when they had been reunited, he hadn’t been willing to let them go.

He had held their voices close to his head and heart so that he would never again fear that he would hear them for the last time, and forget what they had sounded like.

Cassian’s voice had always grounded him. A voice of reason, between his two most stubborn brothers. A mediator in the worst of times, a warm embrace in the best of them.

He called to Rhys now. In a voice that was as warm and familiar to Rhys as his mate’s.

“Come, Rhys. Or this will only get worse, if you two bury it.”

Cassian had always been the best at communicating, the most honest of the three of them. Sure; Rhys could spin pretty lies and charm male and females alike. But Azriel often had no use for words at all. And so it was Cassian they relied on, for truth, for honesty.

Rhysand knew Cassian was right. And so he pressed a grateful kiss to Feyre’s forehead, gave her a small nod as her own eyes held tears that mirrored the ones shining in his own.

And then Rhys went.

……..

He found them in a long forgotten training arena, one he had not set eyes on in perhaps centuries. A long fissure separated the hard ground through the center, the pavement rippled and crumbled around its epicenter.

Azriel stood at its edge, back turned to Rhys and shoulders hunched, his dress shirt untucked and suspenders hanging around his waist.

Cassian stood between the two brothers, mouth set in a grim line as Rhys appeared.

To his surprise, Azriel spoke first. Voice barely audible as it was carried off to the night in front of him, welcomed into the hush of the forest surrounding them.

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

Rhys took a long breath, willing the chaos of his mind to settle, to tune out the inner voices of his brothers so he could focus on what he was saying to them, aloud.

“I’m sorry, Azriel. I didn’t know the… depth of what you felt for each other.”

Azriel remained silent. Cassian a silent mediator between them, his arms crossed and expression neutral.

Rhys took another breath, and went on.

“I will never forgive myself, for what I did. It will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

And that was true. What he had done to Azriel, the dark, ugly power he had wielded against his brother would replace some of the worst of his nightmares, ones that had been occupied by his father, then Amarantha, losing Feyre and Nyx…

He would now add this to their rotating horror that had him screaming into the night. Often, silently, so that he would not wake his mate, would not wake the miracle sleeping in the bassinet beside them. A starless night waiting to swallow the sound before it could leave his throat.

Azriel finally turned, as undone and unwell as the first days that he had met Rhys and Cassian, tucked under the wing of Rhys’ mother.

“Haunted, Rhys?”

He stormed closer, and Rhys noted the cold rage that had iced over his brother’s hazel eyes. Noted the tear tracks that streaked through his dusty cheeks.

“You have no idea, how your decisions, once that you’ve made for me, have haunted me. Have kept ME awake, for months.”

As painful as it was, to meet the crippling anguish in Azriel’s eyes that surely mirrored his own, Rhys did not look away. Did not do his brother the disservice of cringing away from his pain, pain that Rhys himself had clearly afflicted him with.

They were a breath apart, eye level as Azriel’s chest heaved, as he spat his truth in Rhys’ face. Closer to boiling over than Rhys’ had ever seen him, almost as unhinged as when he had brought more back to them, that nail in her womb.

He knew it was coming, could feel it electrify the air even before Azriel lifted his fist. But still, Rhys did not raise a hand or his power to defend himself as Azriel landed a closed punch on the side of his face, sending him staggering back, but still standing.

Cassian was the only one of the three who didn’t despise hand to hand combat. Azriel and Rhys relied too heavily on their powers, pure killing force or the element of surprise, to favor the style of fighting.

Azriel, in particular, hated it. Hated the intimacy, the closeness, the emotion that was inevitable when you were skin to skin, face to face, with an opponent. There was no sense of control that came with coming from behind, no orchestration or stealth or organization that slipping in with the shadows held.

And he had not slept for months. Had barely eaten, for months. So although his body had been dragged night after night to the training ring, while Rhys had strategized and led a war and fathered a son, they were still evenly matched. Two mirrored reflections of different circumstance and birthright, but two sides of the same coin.

Azriel struck again, landing another hit against Rhys’ chest, so squarely that the breath flew like a bird from his lungs.

“Fight. Back,” Azriel growled, his midnight voice raw as his eyes grew wild, pushing against Rhys again and again, until Rhys finally held up his hands to block a hit.

And then it truly began. Cassian only watched on as his brothers fought. Fists and dirt and blood flying as Rhys finally defended himself, Azriel launching hit after hit until they both landed in the dirt, chests heaving like they were once again youth, badgering a silent Azriel until he finally exploded.

It had been the only way to get him to break, in those days. To hit and beat him into submission to finally speak with them, to break out of that shell that he had come to them in.

Azriel was roaring as his fist connected with Rhys’ so hard that the momentum landed them both on the ground, Rhys on his back and Azriel pushing him further into the rubble beneath. Their dress clothes ripped and ruined by the scratch of the paved arena, lips bruised and bloodied, raven locks mussed and messy. The sound of their bodies hitting the ground like a rumble of thunder, inexplicably coming from the base of the mountain.

Two godlike men, too alike and too evenly matched.

Azriel held Rhys by the shoulders, pressing his back further into the rock below as Rhys winced, trying to catch his breath. Willing his dark power to yield to him, to not strike out of self defense against his will.

Cassian watched warily from the side.

His face was only inches from Rhys, his dark amber eyes glazed with rage as Azriel spoke, heart pounding as he held his High Lord beneath him. More powerful than he had ever felt, but less controlled than ever.

The air grew still around them, no sound except for a spring breeze carrying music from the city on its back, a familiar tune of their home, their people.

Azriel was so, so tired. And that weariness finally caught up to him, as he forced Rhys to the ground. The past few months, a nightmare that he hadn’t seemed to be able to awaken from, culminating in that very moment. So surreal, it felt like another male entirely was speaking through him as he screamed and spit in Rhys’ face, voice breaking as he looked into the violet eyes of his dearest friend for over five centuries.

“I am your brother, NOT YOUR SOLDIER.”

Rhysand could see how tired Azriel was. Could feel the fight begin to leave his body, even as he raged just inches from Rhys. He could have easily thrown him off, caught him off guard in that moment. Reestablished his rightful place as High Lord, put Azriel back in line as a subordinate.

Cassian made to head their way, ready to finally step between them.

But there was no need.

Rhys grabbed the back of Azriel’s head, fingers sinking into the mess of the windblown, tangled waves the same color as his own. Took his other hand and wrapped it around the shadowsinger’s shoulders.

And pulled him close.

Azriel’s head fell into the crook of Rhys’ neck as he collapsed against his chest, and Rhys could feel the spymaster’s shoulders began to shake beneath his grasp. He only pulled the shadowsinger tighter.

“I love you, brother,” he whispered in Azriel’s ear. And did not expect a response back. He knew how words troubled Azriel, how his actions had always spoken louder, even in their youth.

“I love you, and I am sorry.”

Cassian came closer, as Rhys held Azriel tight and did not let go. Sitting next to them on the ground, and placing a large, warm hand on the heaving back of their brother.

A bond deeper than blood could ever run, between them.

Chapter Text

Faelights flickered throughout the willow above her head. Gilding her unbound hair in a halo of gold as she looked up to the stars, as if she could find some answer that she sought within them. Sitting primly on the iron bench, ankles properly crossed beneath the rumpled dress and stained apron she still wore.

Lucien said nothing as he crossed the garden path to sit next to her. The movement rustling the hanging branches just brushing the top of his head.

Elain did not turn to look at him, or indicate that she would acknowledge his presence. He didn’t mind. He had learned, over time, that she often needed the time to collect her thoughts. Had observed her interactions with the spymaster, even if it had made his very blood boil to do so.

Azriel had never pushed her to speak, to open up to him. Rather he waited patiently, sat next to her in the garden or by the fire, perfectly fine to let her thoughts mull.

Lucien did not have a patient bone in his body. He could barely stand it in fact, when Elain had refused to speak, to tell him what was wrong.

Jesminda had never been that way. From the very moment she had set eyes on Lucien, she had teased him. Had spilled every thought that had entered her mind immediately like a pouring jar, flowing from her head and then out of her lips like a song. Lucien had watched her, in awe, as she spoke, hung on every word with bated breath as she opened her mind to him, flinging its doors wide open and ushering him in with a wide smile.

Lucien’s heart clenched, as it always did when he thought of her.

Jesminda…

A sharp inahle broke the silence of the empty garden, as Elain turned to look at him. Clutching a small, flour-dusted hand to her chest as she looked at him, brows furrowed.

“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?”

Lucien was not surprised that she knew. He had figured that Feyre would tell her sister about his past, at some point or another in his absence. It hadn’t mattered too much at the time to him, as his focus had been directed on other matters.

But sitting now in the presence of his mate, Lucien felt as naked as he had ever felt in her presence.

“Yes,” he said carefully, willing his chest not to tighten once more as he spoke her name. “Jesminda.”

He tried not to cringe at what felt like a betrayal to her memory, to her spirit, wherever it now resided outside of his fire heart. Speaking with the woman who the Caudron itself had deemed to be a better choice for Lucien than her, the woman he would never forget for as long as he lived.

A pink blush spread across the tops of Elain’s cheeks and nose.

“I’m sorry, it wasn’t my place to know.”

She ducked her head, shamed by the knowledge that she had most likely not even asked for.

“You apologize too much, Elain,” Lucien admitted as he turned to face her more fully, puling up one of his knees to rest on the bench seat.

He could feel her shock reverberate through the bond. The most blunt and straightforward he had ever been with her.

“Do you ever say ‘no,’ Elain?” Lucien prodded, tilting his head to the side so that he could watch her more fully, his unbound autumn strands falling across his shoulders.

Elain opened her mouth to respond, but stammered through her response.

“No, I… I mean… yes, of course.”

The pretty pink blush turned scarlet as it deepened across her features, her brown eyes wide as her gaze flickered between Lucien’s own and her shoes.

“Elain, I’m going to tell you something. I have spent too much of my life mediating between others wants and needs, placating any ruffled feathers or hurt feelings, following my duty, every instruction to a tee.”

Elain turned to look at him, captivated by his words, her fidgeting stilled at the gravity in his tone.

Even as the thought of another plagued his mind, the sight of her open, beautiful face still caused the bond to tug sharply on the rib in his chest. Some innate, conniving thing urging him to claim, to bed, to wed the female sitting across from him. Even as nothing else bridged the gap between them, besides the words he spoke as much for her as for himself.

“But if you do not stand up, if you do not say no for yourself, no one else will. Until it is too late.”

Another pang in his chest. Always too late.

The garden grew silent once more around the pair. The chaos of the night having quieted, although he could feel a lingering pair of eyes glaring down at them from the second story window.

“You always have a choice, Elain. And I’m sorry, that the rest of us have never made that clear to you.”

He paused, weighing how much he should tell her. But maybe it was the mating bond, or something else, but Lucien felt the need to go on.

“I have seen others fall victim to this, Elain. Too many of our parents, my own mother, even, miserable for centuries because they did what they were supposed to do.”

His voice grew fierce, as he felt a spark in his blood, a flicker of flame that reminded him of the vibrant, all-consuming fire of love that had once captivated him.

A reminder of the woman, the bird of fire, who waited for him on the other side of the fallen wall. A chance not yet taken, a new path not crossed, until this had been resolved.

“Neither of us deserve unhappiness, Elain. But it seems as if we ourselves have been the ones wringing that fate upon us.”

Elain’s eyes softened, as she listened to him. Not interrupting, no violent change in her expression. A quiet, observant listener that reminded him so much of any past conversation with the shadowsinger.

“We deserve happiness, Elain. If we will allow ourselves that.”

Finally, Elain nodded slowly. The slow breath that she released forming a warm cloud of air in the chilled night between them.

Lucien felt lighter, with each second that passed. Although that tug in his rib still pulled, it was weaker than it had ever been before. He hoped the same held true for Elain, as well. For the first time since she had emerged from the cauldron, he felt no desire to pull back, to strengthen that golden cord.

He could live with it. With this.

Lucien looked at Elain, truly looked at her, and saw her eyes had begun to fill with tears as they gave themselves permission, for the first time, to say “no.”

“Thank you, Lucien,” she spoke in a quiet voice, lovely as ever though it prompted nothing to flame inside of him. “I’m sorry that things are not different between us. And I’m sorry, for what you’ve lost.”

Lucien could not resist, as his head felt clearer than it had ever been in her presence. His heart no longer a stone, but weightless.

“What did I just finish telling you?” He chided, raising an eyebrow and letting his mouth twist into a feline smirk.

Elain could not help but laugh at the look on his face, biting her lip as she tried to resist, even as a tear fell down her face.

Lucien dared to brush it away with him thumb, a friendly comfort to a female that he hoped would someday truly be able to call him a friend.

“Maybe in another life, Elain Archeron. But not this one.”

Letting his hand fall back to his side, he uncrossed his leg and stood, stretching and then offering her a hand.

She looked up at him, question in her eyes as she blinked just once before taking it.

“I think there’s someone else who may wish to speak with you,” he explained as he escorted her inside on his arm.

“And I don’t think you should waste any more time.”

Chapter Text

Elain’s stomach clenched when she saw him sitting there in the dimmed parlor of the River House. Dark blood dried underneath his nose, dress clothes dusty and torn. Fading bruises joining the shadows already pressed beneath his heavy hazel eyes.

Cassian stood behind him, a silent sentry watching over the group. His mouth set in a grim line as he warily eyed Lucien lead Elain into the drawing room.

Elain didn’t miss the hand he had placed on Azriel’s shoulder give an almost imperceptible squeeze.

“General,” Lucien nodded his head to Cassian.

Elain started at the use of the formal title - a sign of respect. Because for all of the times their group had spent sprawled drunk in the living room of that very house for holidays, she had forgotten that these males had known each other for hundreds of years. And that hundreds of years of history existed between their courts, their families, of which she was not fully aware.

Cassian said nothing but gave a slow nod back, his hand drifting to his side as Azriel stood.

Elain knew, as he stood, what he carried. Saw it in the curve of his shoulders, in the heaviness of his eyes that had once shone for her in every brilliant shade of emerald and green that she had ever seen in her garden.

Elain’s cheeks flamed. At the trouble she had seemed to have caused. At the exhibit of poor diplomacy that had shaken them all to the core.

For she had nearly torn them all apart…

Lucien gave her hand a careful caress. His unmarred fingers ghosting hers and then releasing them as softly as a goodbye whispered on a western wind.

As if he could sense her spiraling, questioning if she was worth of all of this.

When he spoke, it was not the hesitant fae male who had barely been able to speak to her those first few months.

It was the emissary of the Spring Court. Of the Night Court. The sly fox who had outsmarted the best of them, who had befriended her sister. Who had been loyal to as many as he could before he had been forced to choose. Who had befriended Elain.

The male who had set his mate free, and her him in turn. An ultimate act of equality - to let each other go, to be happy on another path.

“Elain and I have decided that we both deserve to be happy.”

Elain watched any remaining light gutter in the shadowsinger’s eyes. Acceptance filling them more slowly, as he turned to break his gaze that had never left her since she had walked into the room.

She was going to scream. She wanted to shake him. She wanted to lift his chin and kiss him and push him back into that chair and hold his face and make him fight for her.

And as if Lucien could sense this too, even as he prepared to leave her for a final time as a mate, only to reunite in the future as a dear friend, he met Cassian’s eyes and tilted his head to the door out to the garden.

“Be happy,” Lucien murmured, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his dimpled cheek, his golden eye softly reflecting the dimmed faelights of the room.

It wasn’t clear who he was addressing, but Elain knew. Knew that his message was not meant for her alone.

More than those two words, she heard the message they carried underneath.

Take care of her.

Be true.

You knew she was worthy from the start.

Because Azriel had already proven himself, in Lucien’s eyes. He had risked his life for her. Been willing to sacrifice his own happiness for hers, when he thought himself unworthy of her.

If Lucien was to trust the other half of himself to anyone, it was to him. And maybe that message was for himself too, as the Fox went home to free the Firebird.

Elain felt a single tear fall down her cheek as she mouthed, “Thank you.”

And with that, Lucien was gone, slipping out once more into the starry night, his shoulders a little bit taller than he had stood before.

Elain didn’t even notice Cassian follow him out, only having eyes for the remaining male who stood before her.

Azriel stood silent, his face nearly unreadable as he watched her.

“You didn’t want to leave me there last Solstice,” Elain murmured cautiously, a question buried in the statement as she took a small step forward.

Azriel’s voice was raw and deep as he answered simply, “I did not.”

His eyes locked on hers, an unmovable force even as his body looked so broken. A shattered siphon’s shell still embedded on his hand.

“You did not think it was a mistake.”

A flash crossed those hazel eyes.

“I would never.”

Another small step forward on bare, silent feet.

“You love me. Even through all of this, you love me.”

Elain halted, her breath caught in her throat. Terror clutching her heart in a cruel grip at this last statement.

“Yes,” he whispered, his throat hoarse, raw with unspoken, buried emotion.

But it wasn’t enough for her. She wanted him to scream it, she wanted to feel his voice reverberate in her chest, shaking that stubborn tie loose from her rib.

She took three steps forward. Two in anger, one in heartbroken, pleading desperation.

Azriel looked down at her, scarred hands shaking as if they threatened to betray his very mind and reach for her to pull her close.

“Is this too much for you? Will you deny the Cauldron itself so that we can be together?”

Time stood still as the words floated to him as if they were underwater. “Because I’ve made my choice.”

She couldn’t breathe - the words left her tongue along with all of the air in her lungs. Her heartbeat a metronome to which the world slowed its turn.

Choice. Hers, and his.

Time rushed forward.

“I’m all in.”

She felt the words as much as she heard them, the movement of his lips sounding each syllable out against hers. The air he exhaled cool and sweet as they shared a breath held so delicately between them.

“I’m with you, Elain. Always and forevermore.”

That was all she needed. That was all she had ever really wanted; all she would ever require.

She no longer needed air. She no longer needed the sun or the moon or the earth beneath her feet.

All she needed was him.

She needed him sharing her very breath, his skin covering every each of hers. She needed his eyes on her and her hand in his.

This was no need like she had ever experienced. Every feeling of want and desire and ache for him that she had ever had paled in comparison to this - this feeling of him within her reach.

“Azriel.”

His name tumbling from her lips held the whole world in three syllables. And he felt it, surging forward to catch it mid-air, lips meeting hers as if he too felt as if he was dying, falling apart from the inside out.

What she could not offer him was the other half of the string tied around her rib. But perhaps what she could offer was more than that - the knowledge that without any doubt, or fears of collusion, that he was her choice, every single day.

Day after day, he would be her choice. Freely, and not without sacrifice - but entirely hers.

And that was all he had ever wanted as well, truly.

Darkness swirled around them, shadows humming in excitement as the cool air graced their skin.

When Elain opened her eyes again, breaking apart for a torturous moment for a lungful of air, they were in a bedroom at the townhouse. The one overlooking the garden that he had shown her. Where their story had truly began, a blooming rose - a triumphant, beautiful thing, even with its thorns.

Azriel lowered her on to the bed, arms carefully caging her as he brought his lips to the exposed skin of her collarbone, and then up to the striking curve of her jaw.

Elain’s hands shook as she went after each button of his dress shirt, fingers traitorously quivering as she fumbled to slip them through the frustratingly small holes.

Azriel lips were still lighting a fire along the column of her neck, and she whimpered, actually whimpered at how badly she needed him - at suddenly how drastically empty she felt without him.

In desperation, she grasped the two halves of the garment and tore, the buttons flying off somewhere and disappearing into the pattern of the ornate carpet beneath them.

Azriel let out a low growl at her show of desperation, and sated his own by sinking his teeth around her pulse beating wildly beneath his ministrations. His teeth close to breaking the pale, creamy skin which would surely leave an intimate bruise.

It was untamed and savage and free as Elain had ever felt. No proprieties held a place between them in that bedroom - raw need replacing decorum. Elain realized with some level of shock that she would crawl for him if she needed to - she would bring a thousand kings to their knees to keep his lips on her.

Forevermore, he had told her. She wrapped her mind around those words and held them close to her heart.

Azriel began to kiss a path down between her breasts, hands grasping and kneading as he sunk lower - their largeness covering an obscene amount of her waist and hips. Elain felt possessed as she arched into his touch, each squeeze of those scarred hands a brief relief to the heat swirling in her lower belly. Short gasps escaped from her lips as she watched him, his eyes locked on hers from a dark, hooded gaze. Hazel eyes almost black in the dark room.

As he knelt at the side of the bed, his hands twisted in the hem of her dress.

His eyes half-wild, only one question held in them as he waited.

“Yes,” she choked out, her need near suffocating as her thighs shook under the fabric he clutched.

A piece of him broke, as he slid the dress past her thighs, her small but heavy breasts, her collarbone. Until nothing remained between them as he kneeled before her.

There was no hesitation as she opened her knees, offering him the most intimate part of her.

Azriel did not hesitate either.

He tasted her as if salvation for his very soul were buried within her. And Elain offered it all to him.

When she looked down, he was watching her. Those hazel eyes alight as he clutched at her thighs.

At the sight of those eyes, of him, Elain fell apart, her whole body arching as he worked her through it.

Everything she gave him, he took. Her shame, her regret, her peace and her violence. All that she had done, and even worse, all that she had failed to do.

And when he came back over her, now no fabric remaining between them at all, Elain was on fire all over again. Azriel kissed her and she tasted herself on his lips, his tongue.

His body was heavy over hers, wings flaring and retracting as his body pressed hers into the soft quilt. No shadows obscured his olive skin, the intricate tattoos wrapping around his neck and all the way down his back, breaking only where his wings emerged free from his spine.

At the first press of him, Elain stilled. No concern about the size of him, so willing was she to break for him.

He was relief and pain and ecstasy and agony, all twisting together incomprehensibly and indistinguishably as his shadows.

Elain welcomed it all. Clawed for it, her fingernails leaving red tracks down his tattooed back as he moved over and in her.

His body moved as fluidly as a melody, pushing deeper as she welcomed him in, even through the stretch. She needed every single part of him - she refused to leave a piece of him cast aside or wanting.

She wanted to break him - needed to see him break apart. Only so that she could watch him rebuild, and be there to lovingly hand him the pieces.

Elain had never felt so full, so complete, as to the moment when he was fully inside of her. Connected in every sense of the word - mind, body and soul. By choice, by love.

He would have no use for that string tied to her rib - not when she offered him everything else. She would let him fill the space between the bones, behind her heart, in the milliseconds between each beat.

Azriel’s eyes were wild as he looked at her. As full of emotion as she had ever seen.

He murmured something in Illyrian as he watched her, brown eyes wide and trusting and awed.

My gods have answered me.

As he withdrew almost to the hilt and then sank back in slowly, Elain felt the edge of the cliff beneath them. And she felt Azriel’s arms wrapped so closely around her bare skin, as securely and reassuringly as if he was about to launch them into flight.

And she trusted him, that even as they fell, he would not let her go.

They shared a final breath, lips barely touching as their bodes came as close as they possibly could. Mirror reflections in desperate, blown hazel and brown irises.

Two lives, two bodies, two souls. Intertwined forevermore.

Two scarred ebony wings unfurled brilliantly to their full length, stretching the expanse of the room.

Elain fell, and he fell alongside her. Her body writhed beneath him as he held her steady, a fallen angel and his shining light, leading each other through the darkness.

Even as she eventually stilled, she did not let him go. Her fingertips pressed into the skin just above his wings, a rivulet of sweat sliding between her breasts as she struggled to breathe.

He kissed her through it. Sharing the breath from his own lungs as his lips quivered, murmuring - words tangled and alternating between the language of the high fae and traditional Illyrian.

She couldn’t believe that he was hers.

Lifting a hand to brush a piece of fallen hair from in front of his eyes to behind the curve of his ear, she swore to the Mother that never again would this male know the pain that he had felt just hours before. Never again would the male in her arms reach his breaking point.