Chapter Text
To the Dreamers who dream, and the Darkness that answers.
“And I seem to have such strength in me now,
that I think I could stand anything, any suffering,
only to be able to say and to repeat to myself every moment,
'I exist.’
In the thousands of agonies -
I exist.
…I see the sun,
and if I don’t see the sun,
I know it’s there.
And there’s a whole life in that,
in knowing that the sun is there.”
-Dostoyevsky
Chapter 1 Azriel
Azriel
Azriel flew high over Ramiel, the savage rocky mountain jutting above the icy deep evergreen forests of Illyria. The screams of dying warriors and roaring beasts below echoed in his ears.
The Illyrian Blood Rite had begun.
Azriel dove into the dark forest.
He had work to do.
✳✳✳
Perched high in a tree amongst thick evergreen boughs and shrouded in midnight shadow, Azriel studied a muscled Illyrian male on the ground below.
Already splattered in red blood and black ichor, the male’s face was twisted in a cruel smile as he sharpened a thick stick into a spear against a boulder.
The crooked lighting burn scars across the male’s forearms had betrayed his identity as the male who had whipped half his war camp into a frenzy only the week before, demanding deaths of Nesta Archeron, Gwyneth Berdera, and even a fellow Illyrian Emerie. Though their participation in the rite the year before had been against their will, he’d demanded they die for daring to defile it by winning and reaching the mountain. The scars on his arms were courtesy of Nesta when she and Cassian had put a stop to the riot, forcing the male to grovel before them and submit. Cassian had spared the male’s life, a testimony to his good heart where Illyrian filth was concerned.
Azriel knew the male’s kind. Rather than view mercy as kindness, he’d seen it as weakness. He’d wait, and plot, and strike out in revenge - just like so many others in the centuries past when Rhysand had extended mercy to them. If given the chance, this male would not hesitate to kill Cassian for what he considered the shame of being left alive and humiliated.
Azriel slid to the ground behind the male, silent as death.
The male’s neck snapped under Azriel’s powerful grip before he could scream.
Azriel would not give him that chance.
Before the body hit the ground, Azriel was already gone, transported on the coiling black shadows to his next target.
There were far too many tonight.
Interference with the rite wasn’t allowed. Rhysand would never have considered it, neither would Cassian - they considered it sacred. Azriel had no such qualms where Illyrians were concerned.
The savage yearly Blood Rite, a bloodbath where Illyrian males competed and fought and settled grudges without consequence had proved to be the perfect place to wipe out rising insurgents as they threatened the tenuous bonds of the warrior people who Rhysand called upon to defend the Night Court and the rest of Prythian in times of war.
Azriel knew it made him a monster, but being willing to sacrifice his soul killing the threats in cold blood for the good of his family had been something he’d always been a little too good at. It would have broken his brother’s hearts if they’d known what it cost his soul to kill like this. But he was glad to pay whatever price he needed to for their safety. They were all he had left.
Besides, what Rhysand didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. At least it hadn’t for the last three hundred years Azriel had used to snuff out more evil warriors than he cared to count, relying heavily on intelligence from his most trusted spy. Up three years ago anyway, when he’d lost her. His spy, his friend, his everything.
Between the rite and the war on the continent brewing, Azriel’s spy network was stretched to its limit without her, just like his heart.
He missed her so damn much.
✳✳✳
Azriel stood in the shower at the townhouse, his hand rested against the slick stone wall and head bowed as water that fell like rain from the ceiling ran in a streaming torrent over him, washing away layer after layer of caked blood from his hands and body.
The invention, dreamed up and constructed by Lucien and his friend Nuan of the Dawn court, was a godsdamned miracle.
A small smile played across his lips when he remembered the look of amazement and joy on the faces of Elain and Nesta when Lucien had showed it to them. Both had a horror of deep water after being shoved into the icy terror of the Cauldron that had taken their humanity and made them fae. But Lucien, in his quest to win his mate’s heart, had loved her to the point of invention, a turning point in their relationship.
The warm cleansing rain of the shower was a pleasure like few others Azriel had experienced in his long life.
Today the water ran icy cold and Azriel did not warm it.
Dawn was only an hour off by the time Azriel lay in his bed, his hair still damp, staring at the ceiling. Sleep never came easily, and especially not this week.
He looked up at the dark wooden ceiling. His room was far up in the top of the townhouse, simple wood floor, a bookshelf, a desk, and a decent sized bed. And a large wardrobe, but it mostly contained weapons. Actually, most of his room was full of weapons. He’d stashed them in the desk, under the mattress, and when he’d run out of room, he’d even taken to pulling up the floorboards and panels of the walls to hide more inside, until Rhysand caught him one day and scolded him for tearing up the house. He’d returned only a few hours later, a massive grin plastered on his face as he and Cassian had hauled that enormous wardrobe into his room. When he’d realized it was basically a spelled armoire, the inside big enough to hold enough blades to arm a dozen warriors, he’d never been more thrilled.
Azriel’s smile of the memory faded as he slowly opened and closed his hands at his sides from where he lay on his bed, trying to still himself. Though his body was clean against the crisp sheets, Azriel could feel the warm blood on his hands. He always felt it. If his family knew what he’d done, what else he was truly capable of, he didn’t think would ever look him in the eye again.
He was interrupted by his dark thoughts by the shadow that coiled up on his shoulder, alerting him to someone coming down the hallway toward his room, a click of heavy boots. He sighed, closing his eyes, feigning sleep.
Cassian, his Illyrian brother, slammed his door open, the blades hung on the wall behind it rattling as his voice boomed, “Come on Az, rise and shine!”
The broad-shouldered warrior standing at the threshold was dressed in full black scaled armor, red siphons glowing lightly on his shoulders, wings slightly flared out, eyes glittering with mischief.
Azriel glared at him.
“Get out.” Azriel sent a shadow to push the door closed on his brother’s face.
“Come on Az,” Cassian said, but Azriel turned the lock on him.
It was far too damn early for this kind of shit, and Cassian wouldn’t expect him to be awake and in a mood to rise for another hour. Pretending he liked to sleep in had been his way of trying to keep them from knowing how truly little he slept, but he had a sneaking feeling Rhysand had figured it out a many years ago, as he often found out things Azriel didn’t want him to know. But as usual, he’d said nothing about it.
Azriel heard a long drawn out sigh from Cassian through the wooden door. His voice came through anyway, lightly muffled, “Elain says she knows where Bryaxis is. Nesta and I are going. Thought you’d want to know, or come with us maybe-”
Cassian hadn’t finished the words before Azriel yanked open the door, dressed in his Illyrian fighting leathers, blue siphons gleaming, dagger at his side and sword at his back as he strode through the door and past Cassian.
“Too bad Elain can’t help me find my dagger you lost instead of just horrible monsters.” Azriel said, rolling his shoulders and stretching out his shoulders as he walked down the hallway.
“We’ve caught more in the last three months than the last three hundred years thanks to her,” Cassian said lightly, catching up to him, shoving open the door wide for them to walk into the clear morning air.
Cassian and Azriel both spread their wings, poised to leap into the skies.
“Then you can be the one to thank her if we survive this,” Azriel said to him dryly.
They leaped into the skies, and Azriel winnowed them through the dark shadows. He’d thank not just Elain, but the Cauldron, the Mother, and every single god he’d ever heard of if they survived the horrifying creature of shadow and death they now so foolishly hunted.