13 ON THE SHORE OF FOREVER

—THE female's hands rest upon her chest, on the ribs that protect her diaphragm and lungs. Through them, she can feel her erratic heartbeat. Through them, she can feel...something stitching itself back together.

She thinks about stopping it, cutting those golden cords as they desperately form and weave together into tight and almost indestructible coils. It's habit, to shear at them like loose ties until they're too scarred to heal themselves. It's habit to pull away from the comfort of their existence, from the comfort of what could be. But, unconsciously, there must be a part of her—a part of her far stronger than the rest—that resists. Selfishly, it yanks control out from underfoot, leaving her stranded and helpless to cease the mending process.

It scares her more than she is willing to admit that she cannot stop the healing bond. It scares her into horrified silence.

She does not fear the heartbeat on the other end of this tether; there is nothing but love and happiness there. Instead, she fears the loss of restraint.

The time Under the Mountain has made her weak. Weak to primal urges, to temptations—carnal and destructive.

There is a warm and familiar swell in her chest, yes, but there also brews a violent darkness driven by monstrous desires.

She fears it more than anything.

—WALLS. Always, he is hindered by walls of impenetrable rock.

As a young faeling, entrapped in the darkness and alone; forever silent, except for those precious few blinks where his mother was wrapped around him or when his brothers found themselves in want of a victim to torment. As a teenager, coerced into strict obligations for the High Lord. Locked down in that dungeon, learning to be the torturer when he was born to be the tortured. As a growing male, blocked on all sides by soldiers in the bloody war. No escape from their wrath nor his own. Cornered in his festering bloodlust.

When those walls crumbled down in their surrender, he thought it over. He thought himself free at last.

And then he found a cage of his own making. He found himself locked in chains, in binds, in servitude to fate. To her.

He was a thrall to her very being.

But instead of searching for his way out, he only dug himself further in his captivation. He tunneled holes, buried deep into the world sustained wholly in her name. A willing hostage to all she was, all she is.

However, he should have known that things were never promised—especially not happiness and comfort. Especially not to him.

Walls, he found, could do far worse than confine.

All too suddenly, he found himself locked out of her intimate world; impenetrable fences on every side, barring him access to what he once considered sanctuary—what he once thought was forever. Her domain became unreachable, surrounded by treacherous mountains and canyons. And he was stranded on the outside, desperately awaiting the day he might dare to traverse them when—or if—ever she beckons. So, there he sits, always toeing the edge of those cliffs, staring down the limitless peak as if it might crumble at his will.

He remains just on the other side of that forever, grasping those frayed threads of eternity that bind them.

It's in these early hours that his patient will is at its strongest. In the first moments of purple wisps that paint the sky on the horizon. The color bleeds its way into the dark midnight, hiding every star from view until all that's left is soft lavender. It's in these initial minutes where he can see her eyes once more.

He hardly blinks, afraid to miss even a second before it is hit by the deep pinks and oranges of sunrise. Perhaps the sight of pure sunlight and warmth is beautiful, but never as beautiful as the same purple she holds in her irises.

At the cusp of the new day's twilight, Azriel takes his first easy breath in fifty years. Something stifling has released; the knot around his chest loosening, the sky opening up after years of darkness. And it might have alarmed him if he didn't know exactly what it meant. If he didn't feel that heavenly tug in his chest.

He lurches from a precarious perch on top of one of the many Velaris watchtowers, catching an updraft of morning chill beneath his wings. For once, he feels weightless, free. The crushing pressure he's been burdened with lifts from his shoulders like the sun lifts off the horizon.

At once, he sends shadows out into the world, finally allowed past the reinforced wards around the City of Starlight. Whispers of hope fill his ears almost immediately, a flood of unfamiliar voices: 'The Mountain has fallen. The Witch is dead.'

Azriel breathes. He breathes—and it's finally painless.

They're coming home.

            She is coming home.

The sight of approaching daylight disappears as he winnows further into Velaris.

The House of Wind glints against the mountainside. He can't even remember the last time he took a step inside, hating its emptiness and silence. Hating the bittersweet memories embedded in its walls. To his knowledge, Cassian and Morrigan have kept their distance, as well, choosing instead to stay at the town house whenever necessary. Amren dared not even leave her apartments, isolating herself away—much like the rest of them.

But they would be there. The House of Wind, they'd be there.

He did not send out his shadows to check, something within just telling him they would be.

He touched down on the balcony, thoughts pulsing with his heart. Three steps—two if he stretched—and they would be in his sights. She would be in his sights.

He can feel her, underneath his skin, living in his bones. When was the last time he could feel that distinct pull—that draw—of her essence? Far too long ago, far longer than just these last few decades of absence.

He can breathe. He can breathe, and he can feel her.

And it finally feels like he's living.

He does not move.

...Because it also just feels like a dream.

He does not have many dreams; they are nearly always just nightmares wrapped in silk or covered in rose-scented smoke. He'll wake up and realize this is just a wishful concoction of his own design, fueled by days of exhaustion. He'll wake up and go back to choking on every breath. He'll wake up from one nightmare just to find that reality is no better.

A body lands at his side, heavier, sturdier. Sure-footed. His brother.

With his presence, Azriel dares to hope.

They do not say anything, merely stare into the shadowed room, the eastern sun backlighting mountain. Azriel has never truly feared the shadows, they are a part of him. But he fears what he might find in the darkness that lies ahead of them.

"Don't give in," Cassian mutters, craning his neck to give it a few pops. His hair is in disarray, jaw far more unkempt than he usually likes it. "Whatever kind of damned doe-eyed look they give us, don't you dare give in. We give them a sliver of forgiveness, and they'll take the whole lot in one go."

Azriel thinks Cassian is just coaching himself into imminent failure. They are mad, far angrier than they've ever been, maybe. But there is nothing to forgive.

But he'll follow his brother's lead, let him talk their ears off. Azriel only needs to see them. See her.

Seeing her has always been enough.

They approach the threshold together, filing in one by one before finding each other's sides again. Azriel's eyes adjust to the harsh change in lighting, but he refuses to blink. He cannot miss the first look. He cannot miss another second.

And there she is, his wash of starlight. His gaze catches on nothing but her in this vast room. He could stand anywhere in this world and his line of sight would end on her, always. He'd find her in the dark, in the abyss of nothingness with no compass but his own heart.

She stands, her back leaning against a bookshelf across the room. Though he does not wish to look anywhere but in her eyes, the eyes whose color is far more mesmerizing than any sky, he cannot help the glance to her hands. They are gripping a shelf by her hips, fingers clenching around the dark wood to stop them from shaking.

A shadow slinks off his fingertips, racing across the floorboards to her. It crawls up the side of her leg, skimming but not touching. Her eyes, attached to his, flicker once to the tendril now trailing across her knuckles. She does not release.

Her gaze turns to Rhysand—the familiarity of the action pulls painfully at his chest.

Where Azriel will always find her, she will always find Rhysand.

The High Lord is within his peripherals, sitting at the dining table with a glass of amber liquid situated in front of him. He is relaxed, one leg held up on the other casually. But he's stiff and silent. He's different.

And so is she.

Cassian speaks up first, his voice charged like thunder. "Ah, whiskey for breakfast. I see we're breaking into the special reserves."

He watches as the male moves to stand near Morrigan, the female seated at her own end of the table to nurse her own scotch. Her cheeks are flushed, a faint pink lining to her eyelids from recent tears.

"I'd almost expected it to be gone," Rhysand conversed evenly, though very clipped.

"You should have a little more faith in us, Rhys." And the line is clearly drawn.

Rhysand's eyes fall away for only a moment, hearing the double meaning. "I have complete faith in you. My Inner Circle is constructed around such trust. It is my faith in you that allowed me to leave Velaris in your capable hands while I was away."

"While you were away?" Azriel intones slowly, darkly. He wants to scoff.

"Don't make it sound like some Summer vacation in the country," Cassian breathes in disbelief.

A muscle feathers in Rhysand's jaw. "I promise it was anything but," he growls. "I also promise you that it was necessary. We had too much to lose, and Amarantha had everything to gain. It is because we took this calculated risk that Velaris still stands, that the Courts still stand. You know I would pull you into any fight; I would have you all by my side in everything...but not this. This was not something I would wish on anyone."

Something vicious flares within him.

"But Kazimyrah was an exception." Every bitter emotion falls from his lips in those five words.

It's not fair of him to bring this up—he's exhausted this topic far beyond its limits in the past, and it's done nothing but encourage heartbreak every time. Yet, still, he cannot help himself.

"I would have stopped at nothing to get in there, should he have gone alone." Her voice has always been low and rich, smooth against his ears. But there is a certain insipient darkness to it, now. It's unrecognizable, foreign. He resists a chilling shiver. "Even if it had killed me, I would have fought to get to him. Staying behind would have been its own cruel torture."

Azriel remembers every conversation that has ended in much the same way, with her choosing him.

He says nothing else. This is his losing battle; it always has been.

"Kazi...was the exception," Rhysand says through hesitant teeth. Always, he is unsure how to traverse the tense topic. "Submitting any more of you to the witch would have killed me. Already, I am not sure a part of me hasn't died down in that mountain. I will not say that I am sorry, because I am not, nor will I ever be. I would do it over and again to keep you and Velaris safe."

"Gods above, we don't want you to apologize!" Cassian throws his arms out, wings stiffening at his back. "We just want you to understand what it was like to have you up and disappear with no word for five decades. We swore to protect you, just as Kazi once did. And maybe our loyalty will never live up to the Mother's Blessing that she has, but it matters to us. Didn't we deserve the truth? Didn't we deserve a single goodbye other than a fucking note with our 'updated responsibilities?' You say we have your trust, but where was it that night?"

Rhysand listens. He does nothing but listen as Cassian tears him apart.

"And what would have happened should you have died down there? We wouldn't have known until it was too late. There's no heir, no one to take your place. Keir would have taken over and what would Velaris be then?"

"Yours. Velaris would have been yours to take care of," Rhysand says quietly. "I made some decisions that night, hard ones. But, again, I would make them twice over to protect everyone. Can you honestly tell me that you would have settled for anything other than storming the mountain should I have disclosed such information to you?"

Cassian blinks, but he does not say anything.

"We look after each other, as a family. But it is my job to protect this court, and you are a part of my court. If I thought that there was any other way to keep Amarantha away from the city without succumbing to her every whim, I would have done it. There is nothing I wouldn't do, Cassian, nothing I wouldn't give or sacrifice, to keep my people—my family—safe."

Azriel does not miss the way Morrigan blinks away another series of silver tears. He needs to know what happened beneath that mountain. But it is not the time nor place to push for those memories.

"We know that," Morrigan musters through a gentle sniffle. "We really do. We just wish it didn't have to play out that way. We'd rather all perish with you than see you sacrifice yourself again. All this," she waves around the room as a general gesture to the City of Starlight and beyond, "means nothing without you, Rhys."

The High Lord has no answer or rebuttal to that, and it doesn't deserve one.

"Well," Cassian breathes deeply, looking around the room as if he might conjure up another argument but falls short, "I've waited 49 years for this whiskey. I'm not going to let you drink it all."

He kicks a chair out from the table and settles himself down into it comfortably, wings finally relaxing. The conversation is not over, but maybe for the day—or at least for the morning—it can wait.

Azriel does not sit down among the three at the table, no matter how tempting the idea of aged scotch is, no matter how much he wishes to just bask in the presence of his brother returned. But he cannot ignore the tight feeling in his chest; no better can he ignore the whole reason for it.

He turns away from the dining room to walk out onto the balcony, knowing—hoping—she will follow. Whatever she chooses, he will have answers to his questions.

The outdoor path to the training pad is constructed from rock, overlooking the side of the mountain and Velaris below. He traces the horizon line, wishing for twilight to return. He's found a home in the time before sunrise, he's found comfort in its colors.

He waits, centered on the flat roof, his eyes closed. Whispers drift by his ears, some soft, some harsh, some quiet, some loud. And then, finally, a tremble runs down the tether in his ribs.

'She is here,' the whispers escalate, a crescendo of her name beginning. 'Kazimyrah. Kazimyrah. Kazimyrah.'

He feels her.

Her presence fills the empty gaps in his soul where she once resided.

He feels whole.

She steps closer, closer to him than she has been in five decades.

She is close, far too close.

She is a danger to him and his hardened exterior. Thinking about her tends to give him an unwanted hitch in his lungs and twinge in his chest. But thinking about her is all he seems capable of doing; and in those rare moments where he isn't consumed in intoxicating thoughts, there is a throbbing ache in his bones.

There are excuses he can offer Rhysand, for his distraction during meetings. There are excuses he can even offer himself, but Azriel is a purveyor of truths. Lies—even harmless ones—give him bouts of stinging nausea. So he is honest with his brother, honest in a way he regrets instantly when Rhysand mercilessly takes to his snickered teasing.

Kazimyrah's elbow slams into his chest, causing the annoying thrills in his lungs to flare up. He takes a cautious step away from her readied fists but realizes too late that one of her feet is wrapped around his ankle. The stumble back is mortifying, and he has to spin around so he doesn't accidentally scrape his wings against the ground.

He can hear her heavy breathing, heavier than his own. She is working hard—harder than he is in his troubled state. And she must notice.

"You're holding back."

Not intentionally.

She is annoyed, understandably. He, too, dislikes opponents who do not take training sessions seriously. "I can go find Cassian if you're not up for it today," she says with a short huff.

A burst of awkward pain rockets through his stomach. "No. No. I am just...thinking."

The truth is such a limiting burden when trying to hide something.

"Well," she grumbles, "think about it later, please."

And when she brushes back the long tendrils of hair that escaped her leather band, he cannot help but think about it. Cannot help but think about the sheen of sweat on her forehead, the rise and fall of her shoulders, the reddened flush on her neck and collarbones. Cannot help but think about what other situations might inspire such exertion from her—

"Mn," he hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing to her impossible request.

He'll think things, it's inevitable.

Especially when he somehow gets her onto her back.

He thinks about the strong thighs he has trapped between his knees. He thinks about her rapid puffs of breath brushing against his cheeks. He thinks about the flexing arms he has pinned to the mat. He thinks a lot of savory things in this position.

But most of all he thinks about the pastel color of her eyes, and the dark eyelashes that rest against her sun-tanned skin. He thinks about the faint sunspots above her eyebrows. He thinks about the supple pout of her bottom lip. He thinks about the delicateness of her features and the fierce strength that lies hidden beneath.

It's only a second's worth of staring down into the depths of her eyes, but it feels like a year has passed by the time he releases her. He can no longer pretend not to have been brought to his knees by her blows, and he can no longer avoid the sentiments that his heart forced him to feel.

His eyes finally open, and every detail of her that he saw in the dining room is thrown into painful clarity up close. Every harsh line looks like a crack on her sallow skin, every dark shade like a fresh bruise. She looks ill. But he knows all too well what she looks like in real sickness, and this is not that. All those dark circles and harsh lines are a sign of something much deeper.

Far more difficult to heal.

"Last night," he utters through the still morning. Her ears twitch as he speaks just for her. Just for her and the advancing sun. "Last night, you spoke to the shadows."

"Yes," she whispers after a moment.

His hand comes up to splay across his lower ribs. "Will you repeat it? What you said?"

"Did you not hear it?" she asks, and her eyes look away from him.

Even now, alone, she looks for something else—someone else.

"I did...but I've heard words like that before," he says, willing her to meet his gaze again. "Their propense for sincerity has always been a tad...uncertain."

He watches her eyelids flicker in a concealed flinch. She finally lifts her head back toward him, finding his awaiting stare. She meets it, for once unyieldingly. And then she is walking further towards him.

Closer and closer.

And the closer she gets, the harder it is for him to resist losing himself to the river of time.

One hand stretches out lowly between them, like she might grab onto his hip. There is a moment of hesitation on her part where he is allowed to just observe—so close after so long. Distance and time away from her has only shown him what he cannot—will not live without.

He stands his ground, feeling her fingers touch the scabbard at his side, and she pulls Truth-Teller from its sheath.

He blinks, eyeing the knife as she nicks the fleshy part of her palm at the base of her thumb. Her blood beads up along the superficial scratch and she smears it along the silver blade. Quietly, she turns the hilt to him so he can hold the other end.

His fingers slowly wrap around the leather, feeling the small stream of magic touch his skin. He waits, breath baited.

"Some nights," she begins, different words flowing from her mouth than what she uttered the day before, "I do not sleep, consumed, instead, with thoughts of a day I can love you in every way."

Truth.

"My feelings for you overwhelm me."

Truth.

"Every corner of my heart loves you, and it tears apart my insides..."

Truth.

"Because I cannot act on it in the way I wish. Because I am afraid the one chance I had to be with you completely has come and gone."

Fucking truth.

He is cracked open.

It's everything he's been longing to hear for so long.

And it's also everything that breaks his tarnished heart.

He is angry. Not with her—never with her—but with everything he can't control.

For only now realizing how deeply she truly feels, now, after so long apart. After so long waiting.

She releases the blade, but his hand remains frozen in the air as he speaks. She was honest with him, and so he will be honest with her. "I want to have you. I want to have you in the way you have me...And don't tell me it can only be in the next life, in the next world. I want to have you in this one, this life. I want you to be completely mine because I am wholly and utterly yours. Kazimyrah, this world may be the only one for us, so don't tell me you'll wait for me in the next world when I have been waiting for you in this one."

"But the oath—"

"Forget about the oath for just a moment, and think about what you want," he pleads. "If it's an oath you want from me, Kazimyrah, I can give you all of the oaths in the world."

With Truth-Teller in hand, he kneels at her feet before holding the knife by its blade and placing its hilt against his forehead. He can see her hand reach out to stop him from continuing, but his shadows wrap around her wrist and draw it away.

He needs to say this.

If this is what it will take to have her listen, to have her see, then he will do it.

"I swear on the Mother, the Cauldron, all the gods of old, and by the cursed blade in which I hold that I give you my fealty and pledge you my loyalty and devotion. I swear to you on everything I am and will be, and I dedicate to you all that I have, and I promise you that I will stand right by your side, forever and always, until the darkness comes. If you'll have me, Kazimyrah, I want to be everything for you. I want to be everything for you because you have always been everything for me."

He lifts his head from his weapon.

"I will forever wait for you, for when you're ready. All I need is for you to be willing to try."

She doesn't look away. She doesn't look away, and that is his answer. It is the only answer he ever needs.

Because even as a tear races down her cheek in her silence, she doesn't look away.

NOTES ;

AND HERE IS OUR FIRST AZRIEL
POV. I JUST FELT LIKE WE SHOULD
GET INTO HIS HEAD FOR THIS.
I KNOW FOR ABSOLUTE CERTAIN
THAT HE IS OOC ACCORDING THE WAY
SJM WRITES HIM, BUT I LIKE THIS
BETTER SO. TECHNICALLY, IT CAN BE
CANON BECAUSE HIS UPBRINGING
WOULD BE DIFFERENT WITH KAZI
THERE. LIKE HE'S CARED FOR HER
FOR A VERY LONG TIME [AS SEEN IN
THE FLASHBACK (HE'S ABOUT 50 YO
HERE)] SO HE JUST KNOWS WHAT LOVE
IS AND HAS EXPERIENCED SOME LOVE
IN RETURN, MAKING HIM SAPPY AND
LESS VULGAR

SO I KNOW A LOT OF PEOPLE WERE
EXPECTING THIS HUGE THING FOR
THE IC REUNION, BUT I DON'T THINK
ANYTHING I COULD HAVE WRITTEN
WOULD LIVE UP TO EXPECTATIONS.
SO I SORT OF COPPED OUT WITH
MORRIGAN AND CASSIAN BEING ANGRY.
I JUST THINK EMOTIONS WERE A
LITTLE HIGH FOR THEM ALL. AND I
PROMISE THEY ALL HUGGED IT OUT
AND CRIED ALL OVER EACH OTHER.
THERE WILL BE FUTURE DISCUSSIONS
OVER WHAT HAPPENED UNDER THE
MOUNTAIN, BUT I DIDN'T WANT TO
UNLOAD IT ALL NOW. WE JUST REALLY
NEEDED AN AZRIEL/KAZI CONVERSATION.

AS FOR THAT...I THINK IT'S PRETTY CLEAR
WHERE HE STANDS IN THE SCHEME OF
THINGS. KAZI IS HARDER TO READ. SHE
LOVE HIM, OF COURSE, WE KNEW THAT,
BUT SHE'S STILL UNSURE. WE'LL
GET HER THOUGHTS AGAIN SOON, BUT
FOR NOW THERE IS NOTHING DEFINITIVE.
WHICH IS FINE BECAUSE SHE HAS JUST
GONE THROUGH FIFTY YEARS OF TORTURE
PRETTY MUCH. BUT AZRIEL, THE SWEET-
HEART IS GOING TO WAIT FOR HER SOME
MORE, ESPECIALLY NOW THAT HE KNOWS
SHE STILL LOVES HIM.

(ALSO I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TRUTH-TELLER
WORKS SO I JUST MADE UP SOME STUFF
TO FIT MY STORY)

Y'ALL SHOULD LET ME KNOW IF THERE
ARE SPECIFIC THINGS YOU WANT TO SEE.
IT CAN BE FLASHBACKS OR PRESENT TIME
THINGS. I HAVE A LOT OF IDEAS, BUT I'M
UP FOR SUGGESTIONS