spymasterspriest

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 19

The Spymaster & The Priest A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

Consciousness weaves around Azriel like his shadows like to twine around the spymaster’s ankles, but he refuses to be tripped into wakefulness just yet. He pulls Gwyn further to his chest, her bare back pressed against him. Hiding his face in her neck he ignores the oncoming day. He’d much rather remain curled around the most gorgeous fae he’d ever known. 

Azriel wraps his arm more firmly against her waist, biceps flexing, and rubs his face against her neck, pressing kisses at her hairline. Gwyn’s breath hitches and she snuggles back against him before lapsing back into the rhythms of sleep.

Squinting at the clock above the door, he’s surprised at the time. Normally she’s up before he is, either to drag him out of bed or to wake him up so she could fuck him. It’s a novelty and so he watches her. Gwyn is sacked, completely asleep. Her eyelids flutter as she dreams. 

He watches her sleep for a bit until his neck complains of the awkward angle he’s holding and settles back against the pillows. He brushes his lips across her neck again and he smiles at the catch in her breathing. His morning erection pushing at the small of her back. 

As an experiment, he kisses her under the ear and smile as her breath stutters again. He slowly, so slowly, slides his free hand up to her stomach to cup her breast, rolling her nipple gently between his fingers as he continues to kiss her neck, and further along her shoulder. A shiver shudders through her body, ass pressing back against his cock. She doesn’t wake until he bites down on the muscle where her neck meets her shoulder. 

“Azzzzz,” she sighs, his name becoming incoherent when he bites her again, tugging at her nipples with his fingers. Her hips roll, delicious friction strumming up his cock. 

“Good morning,” he tells her, kissing up the back of her neck, loving her shiver and teases her other breast till she squirms. 

“It certainly is,” she says, voice sleep rough and breathy. 

When he bites her this time she moans loudly. Gwyn slides her arm back and around fingers digging into his ass. He groans and fucks against her. Bringing her hand between them, she grips his cock, stroking him and he pants against her neck. He shifts his hand down her body, sliding it between her thighs. She’s soaking wet for him and he coats his fingers, teasing her entrance before circle her clit. Her exhale is sharp and he pushes his thigh between hers, giving him better access to her pussy. Gwyn’s hand leaves his cock to grip his ass again, fingers flexing when he does something she really likes. Like now, when he pinched her clit between his fingers, running them along eitherside, she squeezes him so desperately it hurts. 

“Ah, Azriel,” she gasps and grinds against his fingers. 

Her thighs begin to tremble and his shadows whisper, his cue to slide his hand down, bury two fingers into her and fuck her with them, moving them in earnest. Azriel keeps the heel of his hand pressed against her swollen nub as he thrusts in and out of her. She writhes, rutting against him. Gwyn could easily break free of his hold, roll him onto his back and fuck him senseless, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t want to and that’s the point. She’s close, her breath coming shallow and quiet, every muscle taut and gloriously defined as she clenches around him. He keeps him fingers moving, curled deep inside her the way he knows she likes and it’s the spymaster’s turn to forget to breathe. The only sound in the room was the racing of their heartbeats and the frantic, wet sound of his fingers. 

The wave of her pleasure crests and Gwyn crashes down around him, crying out her pleasure as she moves her hips, fucking his hand. Azriel moves with her, keeping his fingers buried. His dick was hard and wet between the cheeks of her ass. When her movements slow, the frenzy of her orgasm waning, he shifts himself, bringing a hand to his cock so that he might slide into her. His hand moves back to her clit, rubbing gentle, light circles as he fucks her from behind. The sounds coming out of her are only a broken collection of words. Her legs spread wide, tossing one over the back of his giving him more room to work, arching her back to take him deeper. 

“I love the way you touch me,” she tells him, hand roaming up his side and down his thigh as far as she can reach before coming back to rest on his hip, fingers digging into his ass as she urges him deeper, faster, always wanting more. He shifts his hips, adjusting his angle, smirking when he knows he’s found the spot at her breathy exclamation. With each thrust he grinds his fingers against her clit, pressure growing, desiring to feel her come around his cock this time. 

“I love making you come, Gwyn,” he confesses against the back of her neck, hips working furiously as he drives his dick into her over and over. “I love giving you pleasure. I want you. I want to serve you. I want-“ Azriel’s voice breaks as he desperately tries to hold himself from spilling inside her, but she’s too close and her cunt clenches, pulls, muscles fluttering around him. If he could just hold out a bit more. “I’m yours, Gwyn,” he babbles, “Only yours. Do with me what you wish.” He was too caught up in the pleasure of her body to keep his deviant secrets beneath his tongue. 

Her fucks her hard and fast, her hand tightens on his hip hard enough to bruise and she freezes up, breath stopping right before she falls. Azriel doesn’t stop, would never stop unless she asked, and with one more hard thrust of his cock and sweep of his fingers she comes. Convulsing, wet, hot, silk around his cock, she keens wordlessly into the pillow and Azriel lets go, following her into oblivion with stuttering thrusts. He shudders, spilling himself into her heat, the inferno of his orgasm burned through him unchecked. The power of it licks all the way up his spine into his skull and he fucks her through it until he has nothing left. 

Azriel’s hand falls limply away as he collapses upon the bed, face nuzzled in her hair and cock still buried inside her to the hilt. Her hand rubs circles at his hipbone and she heaves a huge, contented sigh. She smells like sex and sunshine and he breathes it in, pressing against her, sticky and almost too hot, yet everything is perfect. 

“Hmmm,” she sings happily, breathing still catching up. “Good morning to you, too.” She cranes her neck around so she can look at him. “I think I’ll sleep in more often if you’re going to wake me up like that.”

“Just returning the favor,” he grumbles against her hair.

“Remind me to keep you my debt.”

Azriel laughs heartily, the bed shaking beneath them. She smiles, pressing a kiss to his jaw. 

“I recall several mornings waking up to find your hand wrapped around my cock, Gwyn. Turnabout is fair play.”

It’s her turn to laugh, the sound vibrating his chest. She turns, wrapping an arm around his shoulder before rolling onto her back, taking him with her and he ends up draped over her like a blanket. His head rests between her breasts. Her fingers spear through his hair, twirling his curls. His shadows, languid and lazy, curl around them.

How long they lay there, he isn’t sure. The sounds of the Hewn City are loud beyond the door and its far passed time for them to get started with the day. Yet, Azriel can’t bring himself to move away from her. Nature catches up with him, however, and he shoves off her gently, climbing out of bed. He can feel her eyes on him as he walks naked to the bathroom to relieve himself. 

When he returns she’s tossed the blankets over the bed and is stretched out luxuriously, still naked, lean muscles stretching beneath her rose, sun kissed skin, and Azriel finds himself thankful. 

“We need to get back to the war camps,” she tells him, propping herself up on one elbow. “We need to share what we’ve learned, figure out what to do. And we need to understand why this magic is so familiar to you.”

Azriel pauses, mind reeling. 

“Yes,” he says quietly, staring off. “It is familiar.” The shock of the realization has his gaze crashing into hers. “Wait,” he says “how did you know that’s what it felt like?” He hadn’t even known it himself till now, hadn’t known a way to describe it or put a name to it. 

“Spymaster,” she says with a grin pointing to her chest. “I can be rather intuitive.” She grins at him and rolls out of bed, heading to the bathroom.

“Do you think it’s another shadowsinger, who has the book?” He asks.

“Hard to say,” she answers from the other room. “You’re the only one I know of.”

It’s Gwyn’s turn to grow silent as her her own mind works through something. She’s wearing a frown, eyeing him, and he’s curious.

“Why was it, again, that the High Lord wanted me for this work?” Azriel asks quietly, afraid of the truth. Vivid turquoise eyes rise to meet his, worry and doubt storming in her watery depths. Gwyn doesn’t answer him this time. “So, you knew then, the last book - that’s it’s a shadowsinger who has it? It’s why it’s been impossible to find?”

“In fairness,” she answers quietly, “we aren’t sure about anything at all, except you.” Her expressions grows soft which only makes him frustrated. “I could have found the books without you, but that particular one… yes, we sought you out.”

“How did you know - what I am - I’ve always been careful not to…” he starts but the subtle shift in her body language and darkening of her eyes gives him the knowledge he needs. “Sangravah,” he confirms his suspicions in whisper. “Has this always been about more than just books?” She nods. It isn’t betrayal, but it hurts nonetheless that Gwyn has held information he wasn’t privy too. “What other secrets did you learn about me that day that I’m not aware of?”

The look of panic that flashes widely in her expression, just before she can reel it back, is all he needs. He gives her a sad smile. She wasn’t about to confess her secrets. What had he been expecting? Shadows crack and whip about him, pantomiming his emotions when his words and thoughts were guarded. 

“Az,” Gwyn says softly, kneeling atop of the bed not far from him. “I knew nothing about you - we, knew nothing about you until after Sangravah. We knew the book was being hidden by a magic we didn’t understand, a magic that I remembered from that day.”

Quick flashes of memory flicker in his mind’s eye. Winnowing into the room, filling it with shadow. The startled cries of Hybern’s men, one, their General, backing away from the figure atop a table, naked and bleeding. He righted his trousers, pointing between his men and the table with a jeering laugh. Blood on the floor. Dead priests and priestesses. Bright turquoise eyes watching him as he pulled the soldiers a part.

“You remember everything?” He asks her gently. Gwyn nods.

“Do you?”

The way she asks, so delicate, whispered any softer and it would be lost to the wind. Azriel frowns. What did she mean? Of course he remembers. He can still feel the way their bones snapped beneath his fingers. How easily their flesh yielded to his malice. The terror of their screams when he wrapped him in his darkness until only the white of their eyes were visible. 

“Of course,” he replies but her expression makes him wonder if he, in fact, did not.

It wasn’t a day he liked to think about. Remembering it all filled him with rage, demanding, uncontrollable - and it scared him. It’s clear she recalls everything, it’s there written across her eager face, all he has to do is ask, be curious, explore, and he would uncover more of his truths. Azriel hesitates to take that leap, wrapping his shadow around him he prefers keeping himself in the dark.

Gwyn says nothing more, giving him space. She pushes off the bed, grabbing clothing, and begins dressing for the days travel. His shadows whip about, eager to understand. Yet her posture is relaxed, not stiff with anger or frustration. She catches him watching her and gifts him with a small smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes. 

The trip back to the war camps is uneventful and uncharacteristically awkward. They used the eastern wind streams to carry them quickly, cutting their time in half. Both Nesta and Cassian are away when they arrive just after midday, so Azriel keeps Gwyn in bed the rest of the afternoon, eager to fill the silence with something other than his tumultuous thoughts. The tension between them making every touch, whisper, more intense.

By the next morning, Nesta and Cas had returned eager to hear what they’d learned. The General in a mood, concerned over what he’d already read from Nuala and Cerridwen’s report. He pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand.

“Are they undead,” he says flatly, without much emotion, and Azriel wonders how often Cassian has dealt with such monsters. Gwyn shakes her head. “You’re sure?” He and Nesta exchange glances. 

“Fairly sure,” Azriel answers, straightening his shoulders. “The only reason for doubt is because we know of no other shadowsingers. The evidence points in that direction regardless.” 

Cassian turns his inquiring golden gaze to Gwyn. They share some secret conversation. Nesta glances between them as if confirming her own silent assumptions. Cassian’s expression is one Azriel had never seen before, one he’d like to never see on the General’s face. The Lord of Bloodshed was nervous, perhaps even a little fearful. Gwyn turns her face toward Azriel, eyes sharp.

“Will you be able to recover the book?” Nesta asks, not rudely, spreading parchment out onto the table. They’d moved to the library after breakfast, taking up the largest table to discuss happenings.

“I should,” Azriel says, recognizing her worry and he doesn’t blame her. Shadowsingers were rare, powerful, hard to kill. If the fae sitting around the table weren’t concerned he’d think them fools. 

“You should?” Nesta and Cassian both shoot him a look at the tone of his answer and Az shrugs helplessly.

“I don’t know,” he says urgently, frustrated, shadows snapping. “I’ve never actually encountered another, or felt another’s presence before. We don’t even know for certain if it is a shadowsinger. The power just feels-“

“Familiar.” He and Gwyn finish. 

“How would a shadowsinger battle another shadowsinger?” Nesta asks curiously. 

“Pure skill,” Cassian says. “Whichever is better at knives.”

Nesta claps Azriel on the back and he looks at her just in time to catch her haughty wink. Without words telling of her faith in him and it warms his insides. 

“But how do we find the book?” Gwyn asks, bringing the conversation back around.

“Keep pushing,” Azriel replied. “The last time I was able to garner some details, nothing that resonated with me, but I wrote down some notes regardless.” He slides a few pages across the table to which Cassian retrieves, skimming the comments, a frown creasing his forehead. 

“A lake,” Cassian mumbles, shuffling the papers. “Is the book moving? Can you tell?”

“No, I don’t believe it’s moving.” Azriel watches and listens as they talk animatedly about the possible locations. A lake. Some trees. Mountains. It could be fucking anywhere. “Why is this book so different? Why is it so important?”

“It was said to be once owned by a very powerful sorcerer,” Cassian explains.

“It isn’t just a book,” Nesta follows, “we think it’s more… a madman’s rants or token of power, perhaps.”

Oh.

“I’ll keep trying to pinpoint a location,” Azriel claims. They needed his help and he suddenly felt like a failure. Nesta is watching him from across the table and gives him a fond smile. 

“Yes, keep searching,” Cassian agrees.

“Let’s focus on the details surrounding the book,” Gwyn suggests. “Perhaps that will yield more results. There can’t be that many lakes surrounded by mountains.” Cassian cocks an eyebrow at Gwyn who blinks at him sweetly. 

They decide to divide their attentions. Nesta and Cass stay behind to look over maps, narrowing down the possibilities of locations so that Azriel can focus his power more specifically. He and Gwyn leave the library in search of food. The dining hall is empty and the spymaster strides across it confidently, heading to the kitchens. 

“Can we come bother you?” she asks cheerfully, sticking her head through the kitchen doorway. 

The cook is a stocky Illyrian who introduces themselves as Alix. When they inquire about food, they’re told to check the storeroom for dry goods, as there was nothing currently fresh. Gwyn enters the storeroom, Azriel stays put, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He tries not to laugh as Gwyn awkwardly and hilariously sidling through the narrow spaces between shelves. He’d never seen her so ungraceful. They head back to the hall once she’d filled her arms with bread and cheese and jam. Azriel marvels at her impressive metabolism. 

“I could spend time outside of practice looking for the book,” he tells Gwyn as they sit down at a table. “It’s not difficult. It can be done.”

“Yes, I know,” Gwyn agrees. “I also know you’ll over extend yourself and I don’t want to pour you into bed every night.” She bumps her shoulder against his. “Someone has to look out for you.”

“I feel helpless,” he protests weakly, knowing as he says it that its foolish. Gwyn doesn’t answer, busy chewing on a bite of marbled rye and smeared cheese. 

“You’ve said it yourself,” she responds after a while, “you haven’t used your abilities prior to this and not to this extent. You have to work your way up, just like you did learning to wield a blade.”

Azriel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The world around him felt like it was shouting and he pulls his shadows in close, shutting it all out. Gwyn passes him a slice of bread smeared with his favorite jam. The frustration of not being able to locate the book precisely doesn’t help his mood, but he does find himself thinking of what he has done so far. 

“Stop beating yourself up, shadowsinger,” Gwyn says, making him wonder yet again if she can read his mind. “You are only one fae, Azriel. You are not expected to do everything. Let Nesta and Cass work. It’s what they’re here for, to help.”

“I think you might be giving them too much credit,” Az mumbles around his food, cheeks heating, shadows whispering. “What they’re doing right now is not helpful at all.”

“Gross,” Gwyn giggles, batting at his arm as he threatens to describe in detail just what the General and his mate were up to. “I can’t imagine what you’re world is like - knowing everything.”

“Not everything,” Azriel says sourly. Gwyn looks at him with those bright teal eyes, brushes his hair back from his forehead.

“You are here because you are meant to be,” she says. “The paths we’ve walked have brought us here. Don’t doubt it.”

It’s so straightforward and honest that Azriel can’t argue. He pulls her into a hug, burying his face into the crook of her neck and breathing her in for a long moment. Azriel still can’t believe this is his life, that he just gets to have this with her.

The next few days are exhausting. Despite the promises he made to Gwyn about not overextending himself searching for the book, he did just that. Yet the effort is worth it. By focusing on the surroundings of the book instead of the book itself he was able to discern and provide Cass and Nesta with more descriptions of the books location. They’d narrowed it down to a few spots but most were in territories outside the Night Court. Gwyn sent word to Nuala and Cerridwen to see what they could find out. 

“How are you?” Gwyn asks one afternoon, flopping down next to him where he’s seated upon her couch. 

Without opening his eyes he scooches closer until she’s pressed against his side. Azriel doesn’t answer at first, taking the time to actually sort and catalog the knot of his exhaustion. 

“I’m all right,” he says finally. “Drained. I should probably avoid magic today if I don’t want Cass carrying me back up here.” After a deep inhale and a shaky exhale Azriel covers his face with his hands and admits, “I hate being responsible for this, everyone is waiting to find this book and I can’t - I just wish - “ The words fail to come and he bites his lower lip hard enough to elicit the taste of copper. “It shouldn’t be me.”

“No,” Gwyn says so bluntly that he lifts his hand and squints at her. Her face is turned toward a ray of light coming from the window, eyes shut, the picture of contentment. She opens her eyes just a sliver, a peek of teal glinting in the light and continues, “It shouldn’t be you, Azriel, but it is. All you can do is your best, and that’s what you’re doing.” She shifts a little so she can weave her fingers through his. “Also, let’s be clear, you’re a kindhearted priest who would go beyond his best and probably die if I wasn’t here to stop you.”

“I feel like I should argue against that assessment,” Azriel says in a long suffering tone, “except I want a nap and I’m not even embarrassed to say that out loud.”

It’s quiet in the embassy. Gwyn’s apartment smells like the thyme, oregano, and rosemary he’d brought back from the temple gardens. The sunlight streaming through the window was warm and buttery and he’s so pleasantly relaxed in Gwyn’s presence that he nearly drops off to sleep before he knows it, startling to wakefulness when he feels the spymaster’s lips press against his cheek. 

“Sleep,” she whispers. “You have time before sparring.”

“Mmm,” Azriel groans in protest, squirming closer and trying to hide against her, pressing his face into her neck. “I’m far to sleepy to spar. Let me nap in peace, spymaster.”

“Shall I tuck you in, poor shadowsinger?”

Azriel doesn’t bother mentioning just how much he’d like that.

“Why must you be so mean to me?”

“Because you like it,” Gwyn says cheerfully, tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck and Azriel’s thoughts take a sensual turn. 

At his groan, she stands and reaches down to help him to his feet. It gives him a chance to make his brain start working again - on non-sexual things, mind you - and by the time he’s flat on their bed he’s mostly got his blushing under control. He’ll take that small victory. 

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 18

The Spymaster & The Priest A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

The sole survivor is a tall fae in her middle years who, more than anything, seems annoyed by the entire situation.

"I have things to do," she tells Azriel as she paces her room, arm bandaged and bound. "I can't do the things I need to do while my arm is all messed up, so yes, if you can kill those freaky bastards I'll tell you whatever you need to know."

"I like her," Gwyn says to the room at large, leaning against the door. It doesn't quiet make the injured fae smile, but it does soften the lines around her eyes. 

"I'd like to ask you some questions and then examine the wound if that's ok and Adam can remove the bandages?" Azriel lets his voice take on a soothing tone, tipping up at the end to make sure she understands its a request. She nods. "What's your name, my lady?" He asks and she blushes, eyeing him for a moment before heaving a sigh and plopping down upon her bed. His shadows dive out of sight when her gaze grows meticulous. 

"Heather," she says, scrubbing a free hand through her blond hair in an attempt to get it out of her face. "What do you need to know that the inquisitors from the Court of Nightmares didn't already ask?" Gwyn mumbles something behind him and Azriel's shadows... snicker? That was new. 

"I was hoping to get a clearer picture of the attackers," Azriel says, refusing to be distracted. "What did they look like? Fae?"

"Yes, though varied. Ragged, like they'd been living outside for some time. Males and females alike." Heather grimaces. "Most looked like you." Azriel conceals his shock as Gwyn shifts in the doorway. "Covered in shadow. Big, like you, wings so large they blocked out the moon. He killed my horse without a drop of sweat on him. It was a good horse, I'll have you know."

"Let's start there," Azriel says while scribbling down notes. 

They spend half an hour discussing the details of the attackers. Azriel created rough sketches in his notebook. While he was no artist, he understood form and light well enough. mWhen he shows Heather what he's illustrated she recoils.

"You got it right, smelly bastards." She wrinkles her nose. "Smelled like they crawled straight out of the swamps."

"You've been extremely helpful," Azriel tells her. "Tell me more about the smell."

"Sour, like a wet dog." Azriel nodded, spine straightening as some horrible memory tickled the back of his mind, unwinding itself. "They moved strange, too, like being yanked around by rope. And their eyes... dead eyes." She described things the best way she could.

"May I see your injury?"

She didn't answer, just held our her arm, offering it to him and Priest Adam wheels over a small table. Heather sets her arms upon the surface for support as the priest removes the sling and starts unwrapping the bandages. Azriel moves to the wash basin and cleans his hands.

He resists the urge to shudder as he steps close and leans in to look at the wound. It's not good. Ten days and the livid red gashes crisscrossing her flesh look fresh. Her shoulder is mangled. It's clear the attacker lacked a swords-person's finesse. They'd hacked away at her like a butcher to meat. 

"Did you say this had been healing for a week?" He asks the priest. "Why has it taken so long to heal?"

"Only magic has been able to close the wounds. Herbal remedies haven't helped. Even the magic is slow to take. It's... resistant. We don't know why. It has not healed in the time we would normally expect."

Azriel nods, frowning. 

"May I touch you?" He asks. 

Heather nods and he reaches for her arm. She grimaces at his touch though from pain or disgust he can't tell. Likely both. Azriel narrows his gaze, turning her arm this way and that. Tapping into shadow he reaches out, listening for anything familiar that might explain this. His mind whirls, recalling every book, every illustration he'd come across in his years within the library. 

Shadows pour from him to fill the room and Azriel releases a slow breath. He knows what this is. It's too familiar, this power that lingers on the fae's wounds like a poisonous echo. He pulls his shadows back, recalling the remnants of magic with them. 

This was the same magic that hid the grimoire. It's not the cool shadow touch he'd become accustom too, but the kind of cold that freezes you to the core - stinkingly painful and it robs him of breath. Finally, when he's able, he inhales deep and long before opening his eyes. 

Gwyn was at his side, concern marring her brow. The priest is staring, making the sign of the three and when he looks at Heather she's flexing her fingers impatiently, eager to remove his touch.

"Thank you, Heather," Azriel says with genuine gratitude, inclining his head.

When their back outside in the hallway, Gwyn tugs at his sleeve, pulling him by the shirt to an unoccupied alcove with a water pump nestled in it. 

"What," she whispers, "was that?"

"I would also like to know the answer to that question," he says, leaning against the wall and effectively blocking them out of sight. "The wound held magic, remnants, like a signature."

"There isn't a lot of magic that powerful." Gwyn taps a finger against her chin. "She described Illyrians, but her wounds... they looked like an animal gnawed at her, not a trained fighter."

"And Illyrians don't possess magic like that."

"I need to speak with Rhys and Cass," Gwyn says softly. "This is not just smugglers attacking traders. If the Court sent inquisitors over, why wasn't the information shared? Give me a moment." Her gaze grows soft, distant and unfocused. Azriel was about to ask if she needed something when her lids grew heavy, pupils blown wide.

Azriel was aware their High Lord possessed daemati powers but he'd never witnessed them in practice. Gwyn was communicating with Lord Rhysand merely by thought. It was a short conversation, her eyes refocusing and gaze finding his, expression guarded. 

"What is it like?"

"Uncomfortable," she admits.

"I'm not sure I'd like someone in my head," Azriel mutters. "Theres enough noise already."

"I have boundaries in place, but if I'm being honest," she tells him, "Rhys could pull whatever he wanted from my mind and I'd be helpless to stop him." At his horrified expression, she laughs gently. 

Dusk has fallen, or at least he assumed it had. The streets are quieter, markets were closed. The walk back to the safe house, time passing quickly. Azriel felt dizzy, vision blurring at times. He remains on his feet until they get inside. Leaning heavily against the frame, he pulls the door shut behind them.

“You over extended yourself today,” she says in way of a question. She pulls him by the hand to the bed so that he might lay down.

“Probably,” he says to the ceiling. Gwyn laughs softly and starts to unlace his boots.

“Have you ever used your shadows like that before?”

She sets his boots aside and begins working on his belt. Azriel frowns.

“The night I got stabbed,” he says and she laughs again, setting his belt and daggers aside to start unbuckling his leathers. “Or the time I almost got caught sneaking a pastry from the temple kitchens and stole the light from every lamp in Sangravah.” It takes a little tugging before he realizes she needs him to sit up, which he does, and she divests him of his molded leather breastplate, tunic, and undershirt. Gentle hands push him back and she unlaces his trousers.

“You ran yourself ragged trying to determine the cause of why her wounds weren’t healing, Az. You are most selfless person I’ve ever met.”

“She needed help,” he says, cheeks heating as she drags his trousers down his legs, working them over his feet and leaving him sprawled naked on the bed they shared. “I had to.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, climbing over him to cup his face between her hands and kissing his mouth.

The press of her leathers against his skin makes him shiver under her, blinking at her through the lamplight. Her turquoise eyes are so open, sincere that it almost hurts to look at her. Her thumb sweeps across his cheekbone, her gaze so intense he might drown in it.

He wants to beg her to stop looking at him like that, like he’s someone worth believing in because it makes him feel as if he deserves it. That he is someone of value. At least to her.

“Please,” he begs her, coming undone at the single word. Azriel shudders under her, all the way to his toes, knows she can feel it, feel what she’s doing to him.

“My sweet, good boy,” she whispers again, the praise rolls over him.

Gwyn kisses his mouth again, gently, then presses kisses across his brow, cheekbone, and along his jaw. She settles on her elbows, hovering just above him. Fully clothed she careful not to press her armor to hard against his skin, and arousal coils hot in his belly. His necklace gleams at her throat and his heart skips a beat. This is so close to his fantasies and he can’t stop staring at her.

“You are quite beautiful, you know,” she breathes against his ear, tracing the shell of his round ear with her lips before she kisses her way down his neck. “I don’t believe I would ever get tired of looking at you, Azriel.”

Her tongue darts out to taste his collarbone and he’s acutely aware of the blush upon his cheeks. She’s barely touched him. Her words drip over him like warm water, bypassing his brain and any arguments he might normally present going straight to his hardening cock. She keeps talking in between little kisses and licks, teeth nipping along his shoulders and chest.

“Not only are you beautiful, you are so kind, shadowsinger. I’ve never met someone who should be anything but kind and yet, you are.” She rolls her tongue across his nipple and he gasps her name, arching under her. “You hide yourself within your shadows, but when you forget to be afraid of showing yourself, it is breathtaking.”

Azriel squirms, blushing, unaccustomed to being showered with such praise. It’s too much, yet not enough. He wants her to stop and yet keep going. She continues, sliding her fingers into his hair to scratch at the base of his skull while kissing across his chest and teasing his nipples further, pulling them into her mouth and leaving him writhing and breathless and very, very hard.

“Gwyn,” he whispers, almost a whine, his hands clutching the blanket beneath him.

“Do you know what I like best, my good boy,” she asks, lifting her head to travel her lips back up his chest and neck. “You look at me like I’m not the most terrifying fae in this realm, and you touch me like you aren’t bothered by the things I’ve done. I’m not sure I deserve such a gift. I hope I’m worthy of it.”

Her words slip past his anxieties and burrow into his chest. She has never lied to him, and what she was saying now was nothing less than the truth. Azriel takes a deep unsteady breath.

“Gwyn, please.” He has no idea what he’s begging for, but what he gets is a slow, searing kiss, deep and hot as she claims his mouth so thoroughly that he stops thinking. There is only her lips and tongue and the smell of salty sea and warm sun.

Time loses meaning. He’s shivering, breathless, desperately aroused. This was the sweetest torture he’d ever endured and when she finally releases him he’s panting, hands fisted in the blanket.

“Stay here,” she whispers and then she’s gone, leaving him blinking up at the ceiling and dizzy with her.

When she returns he can hear her fumbling with something before she climbs back onto the bed. She straddles his thighs, the metal buckles of her pants pricking against his skin and he just as the moment to appreciate the sharp pain when she wraps an oiled hand around his cock. His hips jerk, but the weight of her across his legs keeps his hips immobile, leaving him at her mercy.

“I rather love having you like this, watching you, at my mercy” she says, leaning down to huff her words into his ear. She pumps her fist up and down along him. It’s far too slow and he desperately wants to thrust into her hand but doesn’t have the leverage. “But what I love most, shadowsinger, is knowing I’m the only one who gets to.”

Azriel wishes he could hid his burning face but Gwyn makes that impossible, taking his earlobe between her teeth and biting down hard enough to make him whine. He’s grabbing the quilt so hard his knuckles have gone white. His breaths short and shallow and Gwyn keeps pumping her hand so slowly he thinks he might die.

“The sounds you make when I touch you, Azriel, I could drink them down like water.” She pause her movements, sliding a thumb back and forth across the sensitive spot beneath the head of his cock and Azriel moans loudly, shakily and out of control. “Yes,” she encourages against his ear. “I want to hear you.” Gwyn runs her tongue along his lips and her hand moves again, faster, grip firmer. “The look on your face when you come,” she purrs and he moans again, every breath raw, “knowing I brought you pleasure. If I had my way, I’d keep you in my bed for days.”

He is completely under her control. The sound of her voice and the weight of their meaning drapes over him warm and smothering. He’s trembling he’s so close. His sounds have all but stopped and it’s because he’s not breathing.

“Gwyn,” he manages a strangled, broken cry and she presses closer, leather biting into his skin and her hand moving faster, bringing him to the edge.

“Come for me, Azriel, my good boy,” she demands, tightening her hand on him at her upstroke and it tips him over, her demand bypassing any control he has left, burning down his spine and straight into his cock and balls.

Azriel snaps his head back into the bed, crying out low and shattered, and Gwyn continues to move her hand as he comes hot and hard over her fingers and onto his stomach. The pleasure rolls through him, again and again, unstoppable as waves crashing into rock until he finally collapses, wrung out and useless. His body feels far away, distant, as he was knocked out of himself, the pleasure so intense it destroyed his ability to observe the outside world.

He feels her move off him and the soft sound of running water comes from the bathroom. She returns, gloriously nude, and pulls him up, walking him to the bathroom. They climb into the tub, she sit opposite of him, between his long legs. The soapy rag in her hand passes over him, down his chest and stomach and back up and over his shoulders to his wings.

He’s spent, sex-drunk and exhausted and this beautiful nymph was washing him. Azriel sighs and slumps further into the water, tipping his head back, watching her through hooded eyes. She smiles at him, her blue green eyes meeting his and he helplessly smiles back.

“Was that good for you, Azriel?” She asks him, rolling him slightly to the side so she can soap up his back.

Of course. Of fucking course he blushes, damn his ridiculous face.

Azriel nods.

“I like it when you praise me,” he says before its too late to take it back, whispered so quietly he’s afraid she might not hear it.

When she doesn’t immediately respond he starts to panic. She sets the rag aside and maneuvers him beneath the spigot, rinsing the soap from his skin with single minded intensity, and when he’s spotless she leans over and claims his mouth in a languid, all consuming, kiss.

“I meant every word,” she says against his mouth. “Every single word, Azriel.”

Before he can argue against it her mouth is back on his long enough for him to forget which parts he wanted to protest about, and when he’s happily limp under her she scrubs up and rinses herself before turning off the water. Azriel blinks the water from his eyes, watching her, the way the water beads on her skin.

Once their dry and teeth brushed, Azriel flops back upon the bed, settling in to watch Gwyn as she rubs oil into her skin and face, glowing in the single lamp light. He’s tired but as she climbs into bed beside him he reaches for her.

“You didn’t-“ he begins, tongue feeling slow and clumsy. He presses against her, fingers skimming down her stomach. She captures his hand with hers.

“Sleep, Az,” she tells him. He tries to protest but she silences him with a kiss.

Azriel wants to argue, he does, but she pulls the blankets up around him as he rolls to his stomach. Everything was soft and warm and all he could do is loudly exhale and drop off into unconsciousness.

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 17

The Spymaster & The Priest A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

Azriel feels cold stone under his hands and a familiar sense of dread. He pushes himself to his feet, somewhere dark and dank and smelling of cruelty. The sound of a distant song in a language he doesn't understand, the soothing melody curls around him, pressing into him, to the back of his skull.

When the darkness sang to you, what did you sing back?

The melody rises, growing louder, shaking the stones beneath his feet. A great wave of power rolls over him, making his small body hurt. Shadow stretches toward him, from every corner, every crevice. It crawls over his skin, a cold, breathy touch, pressing tight against him.

Death. Death had a hold of him.

He opens his mouth to greet to his fate.

And sings.

"Az," Gwyn's sweet voice calls to him. "You're safe."

His hands twist in the sheets, tangled against his sweating skin. It takes a terrifyingly long moment before he can fully wake, before he can understand her, sure that death had finally come for him.

Gasping, he smells sky and sea. The bed beneath him is soft and warm, not cold stone. There are no shadows, his tucked tightly away, only Gwyn's hand as she gently smoothes it down his chest.

"You're safe," she repeats, and he rolls, arms coming around her and pulling her into his embrace. Both their hearts race. "I have you, Az."

"It felt so real," he whispers into her neck, voice broken. Had he been screaming?

Gwyn holds him tighter still, pressing her lips to his forehead. Her touch grounds him, reminds him of where he is, with her in the waking world. Every breath he inhales and then exhales pushes the nightmare farther away, heart slowing its pace.

"It's just a dream," Gwyn tells him with the sage-like wisdom of one who has long suffered from their own nightmares. He relaxes under her touch, letting it push the rest of his fear away.

"Yes," he echoes. "Just a dream."

He wishes he could believe it, but the dread that lingered - it weighed upon his subconscious.

Azriel had thought, naively, that he and Gwyn would have some time to settle into the Hewn City. They'd been traveling for days. Senka, glamoured to resemble a chestnut gilding, was settled just outside the city entrance.

Right after breakfast, she takes him to a meeting with some of her contacts, or rather aptly: her spy network. They introduce themselves as Nuala and Cerridwen. Sisters, and wraiths by the look of it. And twins. A rarity amongst the fae. They're explaining the attacks to Gwyn and Azriel brings his focus back to the conversation at hand.

"They attack in the early evenings and night," Nuala explained, pointing to a few locations on the map rolled out on the table before them. They're set up in the back of a restaurant, in a private room that would allow them an alibi and privacy if anyone questioned their presence.

"Something about this is..." Cerridwen begins.

"Wrong," the sisters finish together.

"It's not a lot of information to go on," Gwyn muses.

"We have only one surviving witness account and even they struggle with providing any sense of clarity. We don't even have a description of the attackers," Cerridwen explains.

Gwyn looks every inch the spymaster, huffing a sigh and pushing some of the papers across the table. They contained eye witness accounts, sounds, sights, and Azriel picks them up. The twins regard him cooly, clearly curious at the shadows curling against his neck. He settles into a chair and reads through them as Gwyn and her spies discuss how to handle things moving forward.

The most common description is of puppet-like behavior, as if the attackers weren't actually in control of their own movements. Some even identified to have been moving on all fours, like an animal and not fae. Something itches in Azriel's mind, something he recalled from the library, dark magic that controlled the mind and whispered along the winds.

There was no theft reported with the attacks, just violence. The documented wounds were weapon inflicted, blades mostly. There was no information on how the wounds had healed or were treated and he wondered if a follow up would be valuable. He sets the papers back down in a neat stack and steeples his hands in front of his mouth, mind whirling.

"What do you think, Az?" Gwyn's voice breaks through his reverie and he looks up at her. The twins, mirrored expressions and tilted heads, wait for his response.

"Something about the attacks seems familiar, but I can't place it," he says with a frown. "When was the last attack?"

"Ten days ago," Nuala answers. "The survivor is still with the healers."

"Do you think I might be able to speak with them? We could learn more by understanding the wounds better."

Nuala and Cerridwen nod.

"It won't be hard to arrange." Cerridwen turns to Gwyn. "We've placed eyes along the roadways, but nothing has reported, even leading up to the most recent attack."

"I'll send word to the priests to expect you this afternoon. I understand you're working another mission?" Nuala inquired.

"Asset recovery," Gwyn answers.

"Then we shall be off to herald your arrival," Nuala confirms. "Good luck with the rest."

"Be careful," Gwyn said with a nod. "Dismissed."

The twins gather up their papers and maps, leaving Azriel and Gwyn alone. His mind still whirls, trying to work through the recognition he felt, the ghost of a memory at the back of his mind.

"Shall we find the books that are here?" He asks. "There is one in the library proper."

Gwyn nods and pulls him in for a kiss once he's standing. When she pulls away, he smiles down at her softly.

"What is it?" she asks with a grin of her own. Azriel shakes his head and leans down to kiss her once more. Her arms wrap around his waist and he tucks her into his side with the press of his wing. "Let's go find a book!" She cries out enthusiastically and Azriel's shadows jump into the air.

The Hewn City is, frankly, oddly laid out. Buildings were half carved out of; half built into the mountain. Paths and alleyways weave through the structures, some becoming bridges to connect outcroppings. There was even a market square just outside the safe house, large and expansive. Azriel couldn't help but feel claustrophobic. He wondered about those fae who'd been trapped beneath the mountain for fifty years and shudders at the thought.

The library exterior bulges from the mountainside, like a fist punching through granite. Impressive and brutal in its beauty. Azriel stretches his shadows wide, a single wisp forming behind his ear. It takes only a few moments, a few whispered words, to pin point the books location.

Inside priests wander the stacks, stoic and silent. Not a single one looks up at them. He shouldn't be surprised. He no longer wore his priestly robes or invocation stone, so they would not greet him as a brother. Their lack of a greeting was somehow foreign and welcome to him all at once.

The ceilings were so high that Azriel could take flight to the floors above. There was no natural light here. Fae light fluttered around, hovering between shelves. While some books were stored in built-in cases along the mountain's interior, other shelves were carved statues, reminiscent of teeth jutting up from the floor.

Recovering the tome is less eventful than when they'd cleaned Dida's shop. The library priests needed little convincing, familiar and discreet enough to know better than challenge the High Lord's spymaster.

"Well, that takes care of the holy book," she says, tapping the hard bound volume before handing it to Azriel to put away in his pack. "The poetry volume is," she takes a moment to consider her words, "in the pleasure district. We could find that one before we leave. The other, the place you marked on the map is not a friendly area. We'll likely find smugglers like with the other. Maybe we wait that one out for now."

Azriel's thoughts turn dark with the memory of their previous encounter with smugglers bringing with it screams and the smell of blood.

"I'd like to avoid getting stabbed again, that's for sure," he says with a grimace and Gwyn runs her fingers through his.

"Never again," she whispers, voice intense and deadly. "I'll kill anything that lays a hand on you."

That... that shouldn't turn him on, but it definitely does. The determination in Gwyn's voice rippling up and down his spine and Azriel wonders briefly if they should have had sex in the library before leaving. Mind in a pleasant place, they make their way back to the safe house. He prepares them a quick bite to eat while Gwyn checks for any messages from the twins.

"When was the last time you looked for the grimoire?" She asks gently.

Azriel grimaces. They'd identified the whereabouts of all the books save one. That one. The hateful, resentful book refused to leave his thoughts. All this time and it still evaded him.

"A while ago," he says reluctantly. "It's bad enough that I can't track it precisely. After we retrieve it, I swear I won't ever think of that thing again."

"A noble goal," Gwyn says with only a slight exaggeration of seriousness. "You'll have to shadow whisper any need for distraction. I will remove the grimoire from your thoughts with exceptional thoroughness."

She unrolls her maps across the table as she speaks, bending over much further than was probably necessary and arches her back. The view is almost excellent enough to make up for having to think about the book.

That's the point, his shadows remind him.

Azriel presses against his power, pushing out his shadows and concentrates on what they have to say about that fucking book. As with each time he'd previously tracked it, the book hides from him, his shadows slipping beyond it like water off oil. He grits his teeth, struggling on, listening further. I will find you; he tells the grimoire. You can't hide from me.

Pushing his shadows further, more power coalescing, whispers - so many. A dark magic tugs at him and Azriel snaps the connection closed. A distant shiver of evil dark and dread chases after him.

"Still hidden," he grumbles, but writes down any details of its location regardless.

Gwyn settles a hand at the back of his neck, rubbing out the tension at the bottom of his skull. He relaxes under her warm touch, letting it wash away the ill feeling of whatever magic kept that book hidden. The lingering cold in his guts is slower to dissipate.

"We'll get the ones we can and leave that one until last," she confirms. "We have a few hours before we hear back from the healers. Do you want to explore the markets? Or spar? Or..."

When Azriel opens his eyes, Gwyn is looking at him expectantly and he drags his thoughts away from the grimoire.

"Explore, I think," he says, drumming his fingers on the table. "Are there any foods you like here?" Azriel pulls his shadows back and approaches the table, looking across the map. Gwyn leans against him.

"They do have a very good custard bun," she says, watching as he leaned over to roll the map back up and tuck it into the safe beneath the floor. "And there are some pretty views of the mountains. Oh! The things they do with puff pastry here! I'll take you to a bakery!"

Gwyn grabs his hand, tugging him toward the door and Azriel lets her, not bothering to suppress his smile at her excitement. She continues to extol the virtues of the city to him as they walk, which there are not many.

They leave the market district, aiming for a cliffside plaza that was half in, half out of the mountain. It was the first he'd seen the open sky since arriving and he hadn't realized just how badly he'd craved it.

She buys him custard buns from a street cart, but Azriel doesn't eat his for some time, stepping out of the cliffside, sun warming his face. His wings itch with the desire for flight. The plants growing here were held in containers. They sit beneath a tree, shaded from the sunlight and eat their buns with shoulders pressed together. Despite the crowd, he finds the bravery to lean down and kiss her. Gwyn wraps an arm around his waist and leans against his shoulder.

It was wonderful spending time like this with Gwyn. Luxurious and indulgent. Azriel absorbs her warmth, wrapping it around him like a blanket, committing every detail to memory. Too soon Gwyn says they should head back and arrive a the safe house just as a messenger returns with word from Nuala and Cerridwen.

"The healers would be glad to let you speak to the survivor and welcome any assistance you can offer in ridding the city of this disturbance," the young fae says, handing them a folded sheet of parchment and pushing her hair out of her face exposing vivid blue eyes.

"Thank you. Please, let Nuala and Cerridwen we're headed there now." Gwyn smiles at the shorter female, who blushes and nods before turning to hurry away.

Azriel grabs a few things, mostly writing supplies, and meets Gwyn outside. She locks up and they head out. The quiet, lovely moment they'd shared earlier is shredded away under the weight of duty. He rolls his shoulders back, taking a deep breath. Time to work.

The hospital is huge, several stories high and at least as wide as the embassy was. The stone walls set back to make room for a carefully tended garden, artificially lit. As they pass through Az recognizes different herbs, most medicinal and carefully pruned. There were flowers that had uses from tinctures to blood detoxifiers and poisons. It's impressive and he wondered at whoever had designed it.

The interior of the hospital is grand, bright and airy - windows carved through the mountains. High walls allowed light to reflect. It smelled clean, herbal, a priest of every age walked between rooms, all wearing matching robes. It was a far cry from the cramped clinic in the Tower. He could even hear a choir in the distance, practicing for the evening service.

"We should announce ourselves to the Senior," Gwyn says, referring to a priest who held rank just below High Priest. "They'll be able to tell us where to go. It's also just polite."

Azriel lived to be polite, so he followed Gwyn. It's hard to resist the urge to peek into every room they pass. Priests carrying baskets of shimmering potions bustle up and down the hallways, leaving and entering rooms seemingly at random. They pass a ward meant to house those suffering from burn injuries. He wonders what his hands might have looked like it he'd been allowed treatment. Would it have taken less time to recover? Would the pain have been less? Would his mother have not worried about her son's ability to use his hands after?

The anger simmers deep in his guts, shadows whipping around. His thoughts grew ever darker. Would his mother be able to fly if she'd been treated in a place like this after being brutalized by her husband? There was nothing he could do about it now. Better to focus on what was at hand. Yet he couldn't stop thinking of Illyrian ignorance and needless cruelty.

A tall priest with midnight dark skin directs them to sit in a small waiting area outside the Senior's office. How many Illyrian women could have had their flight saved or restored if they could be treated here? Focus on who you can help, he reminded himself. Azriel's hands clenched into fists, unbidden, and he takes a deep breath, forcing control and calm as he sets his hands deliberately on his thighs.

Gwyn bumps her shoulder into his and he glances at her. She raises her eyebrows in question and he shakes his head, leaning into her and breathing through his nose.

"My mother and I suffered needlessly because we weren't given access to healing like this," he says quietly. "All Illyrians should have access to care like this, not just those fighting in the High Lord's wars."

"Make it so," she tells him, covering his hand with her own. "Rhys has tried for a long time to reform or encourage change. Progress is slow. They don't trust modern medicines and when Cass tried to have a hospital built like this near the embassy and barracks it was set aflame by dissenters." She squeezes his fingers and he takes a deep breath, tension sliding away. "Be the change you want to see in the world, Azriel."

Senior Clotho turns out to be a stout fae, far shorter than Gwyn, but with a kind of baring that made Azriel sit up straighter, neaten his clothes, and adopt an air of formality. They look at them from under a heavy hooded cloak that obscures most of their face. Their simple blue robes were no different than the other priests, a shiny silver pin of a night blooming flower the only evidence of their station. They pull a small notebook from their pocket and scribble something down before handing it to Gwyn.

"Welcome to the Hewn City," it says. "It is nice to see you again, spymaster."

"And you," Gwyn returns with a grin. The Senior turns their inquisitive gaze to him.

"Who is your friend?" They ask, scribbling the note to another sheet of paper. Azriel steps forward.

"I am Azriel, Senior Clotho," he greets, using not just his words but also his hands.

There were many priests who took vows of silence or had suffered during war times who were nonverbal. Like his mother. She's lost her tongue after the last time she'd raised her voice in defense against her husband. Azriel had used his own to defend her ever since.

"You know how to sign language," they return, hands flying. "Which temple are you from?" Senior Clotho users them into their office, pointing at the chairs. Gwyn sits, watching the two of them with a bemused expression.

"Sangravah, then Valeris," he answers.

He was rusty, not having used his hands for this purpose in a long time. In truth, he had often avoided it. It was annoying enough to deal with stares and awkward questions.

"Sangravah," the Senior muses, raising their head to Gwyn who only gives them a tight, polite smile.

They seem to have an entire conversation without speaking - intense eye contact and small head movements. Gwyn finally shakes her head, looking away and admonished. Azriel's shadows wrap protectively around her calf.

"We only have one survivor currently recuperating. Someone from the Court has already spoken with them, but I understand this is a different inquiry and your particular expertise might help in the investigation. Please, don't disturb my patients more than necessary and leave the Courts business out of the hospital and where it belongs."

"You have my word," Azriel responds in kind.

"Good," they answer. "The spymaster is not one to surround herself with fools, but my boundaries are not to be crossed." They pull open a drawer in their desk, takes out a small, fabric-wrapped rectangle and holds it out to Azriel who stands and leans over to take it. "I've heard rumor you've been looking for this," they say as Azriel unwraps it to find the book of poetry that Gwyn and he had identified as being in the city.

"How did you-" Azriel starts, jaw dropped. Gwyn just blinks.

"We've been tasked to find that book and return it to the High Lord," Gwyn confirms, as surprised as he feels.

"I suspected as much," the Senior signs. Gwyn doesn't appear to need translation and he wonders if she too knows how to sign language. "One of the priests found this being sold by less than reputable fae in the pleasure district, recognized it as something important, and brought it back here." They fix Gwyn with their attention. "I assume Rhys is paying you well?"

"I overcharge him wildly," Gwyn says with a proud toss of her mahogany hair. "It's nearly obscene, really."

"Good," Senior Clotho says, satisfied. She rings a bel on her desk and says, "Priest Adam will show you where to go. May the Mother be with you."

"And with you," Azriel replies automatically, inclining his head. The dark skinned fae from outside appears and nods at them before leading them away, down another hall. "What the hel," he whispers to Gwyn, re-wrapping the book and tucking it carefully away into his satchel. She grins up at him, amusement glinting in her teal eyes like light off gemstones, and shrugs.

"Clotho has a way with things I can't explain," Gwyn says fondly. "Honestly, they should be High Priest, if my opinion mattered in such things."

"You know them well, then?"

"They oversaw my healing after Sangravah. I honestly don't think I'd be here if they hadn't," she says quietly. "For that matter, I wouldn't be here without you, either."

"I'm sorry, Gwyn." She gives him another small smile, shaking her head. "You lost everything that day."

"Not everything," she says heavily. "That was what I had to learn, anyway. For a long time, I did nothing but scream and rage. If I'm being honest, I weas angry that I hadn't shared the fate of my sister. Clotho helped me find my voice again, and to that I am ever grateful."

"Then I'm thankful for them."

It pained him to know how she'd suffered, seemingly endlessly, after he'd left her in the hands of the healers.

"Don't carry my burdens for me, Az," Gwyn says softly, reaching up to rub away the frown that had taken up residence in his expression. "Do you know I used to sing in the evening services? Before I left?"

"I did not," Azriel answers. It wasn't surprising, she all but sang for her dinner every evening. While he'd never heard her sing in earnest, he suddenly recalled the haunting song from the night at the host springs forever ago.

"I never saw you there, shadowsinger," she teases. "I thought you sing."

"Yes," he says. "And I'm offended by your bias, not all priests sing."

"Sure," she laughs. "I'm just wondering when I will get to hear you sing." Azriel rubs the back of his heating neck.

"Of course."

"Hmph," she hums, a secret smile teasing at her mouth.

Further conversation stalls when Priest Adam slows to a halt outside of the ward door. With a nod he slips into the room to let the patient know they were here, leaving them alone in the hallway.

"Do you want me to go in with you?" Gwyn asks, leaning against the wall all casual comfort and easy lines. "I'm not sure how much help I'll be, I'm neither a healer nor an expert in magical creature things."

"You are very good at making people loose tongued and comfortable," Azriel reminds her, reaching into his pack for parchment and ink. "That is always useful, especially those traumatized by pain."

Gwyn nods, gaze distant, and he wonders briefly if she's uncomfortable going in. She's spent two years recovering in a clinic not much different than this one. Azriel watches her from the corner of his eye, concern making his shadows undulate erratically. For all her bravado, he was intimately aware of the terrors that clouded her eyes now and followed her so viciously into her dreams.

Priest Adam steps back into the hallway, gesturing them inside.

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 16

The Spymaster & The Priest A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

An absolutely luxurious stretch of bare skin, comforting in its warmth, pressed against him and Azriel happily presses back. Soft light from the window illuminates the room. There was an arm wrapped around his waist and a long leg slung over his.

Azriel’s eyes snap open. He’s naked. In bed. With Gwyn. Memories of the night before play out behind his eyes and he blushes hard. He considers burying himself under the bed linens, hiding away from the light. This was a first; waking up next to someone who wasn’t a priestly brother.

He rolls to his side, facing her. She’s sleep rumpled, eyes still closed, color high in her cheeks. Azriel considers her words before she’d fallen asleep, the weight of them. It filled him with joy to know she’d trusted him, that she’d found the courage. Affection strummed along his shadows as they twined joyfully in her hair and around the fingers resting against his skin.

“You know,” he murmurs softly, voice a mere rumble, and presses a kiss against her forehead. “I can tell when you’re awake.”

“You’re horrible,” she grumbles, pressing her face further into his chest and he smirks at the blush he glimpses upon her cheeks. “You could have allowed me five more minutes.”

Gently, he pushes the hair from her face, trailing a finger over her long, High Fae, ear. She pulls back at the touch, eyes meeting his before leaning in to press a kiss to his mouth. Azriel pulls her closer, skimming his fingers a longer her ribs and the underside of her breast. A snicker esscapes her, turning to laughter, as he continues to trace his fingers along her sensitive side.

“You’re ticklish,” he confirms. She laughs her denial, squirming away from him to no avail.

“I cannot believe you’re here,” she admits when her laughter subsides. “I thought I’d be pinning for eternity.”

“And now I feel foolish,” he grumbled, nuzzling her neck and making her giggle again. “We could have been doing this the entire time.”

“Well, that’s awfully arrogant,” she teases. “I’m not that easily won.”

Azriel levels her with a look that makes her laugh all the harder. She pulls him in for another kiss, slow and languid, sweet and dripping like the morning sun pooling on the floor of her bedroom. Her hands run over him, down his sides and she presses against him.

“I’d have done anything you asked, even that first night, if I hadn’t been so fearful of scaring you, of crossing some line,” he confesses. The aching chasm in his chest no longer felt ravenous, finally fed and sated, a glowing contentment humming there instead. “I didn’t realize how lonely I was before I met you,” he whispers quiet, sincere, afraid of the truth he owned, afraid of the immense feeling behind his words and where they might lead to. “Even crowded in a monastery, surrounded by others, I was miserably alone.”

Gwyn rolls onto her back, pulling him with her, over her, and he’s helpless but to follow her lead. Her grips tightens, that fearful flash re-entering her gaze for the barest of moments. Yet she doesn’t relent and he leans in to press kisses along her jaw.

“You could never scare me,” she says. “You’ve been so calm this whole time. I thought I was the only one a nervous, lustful wreck.”

“Constant masturbation,” Azriel blurts. Gwyn’s eyes grow large and scandalized, a grin spreading her mouth wide as she fights laughter. “You sleep very soundly, thank fuck, or I would have been caught with my hands down my trousers numerous times.”

If he were to be even more honest, being caught had been the driving force behind many of his fantasies. Azriel ducks his head, nipping at her lips, rocking his hips against her, needing the friction. She sighs, bringing a hand to his hair.

“It’s settled then,” she says breathlessly as he presses his lips to tattoo between her breasts. “We’re both fools.”

“Then, please allow me to make up for lost time,” he implores before licking across her nipple with a slow drag of his tongue.

Gwyn sighs, arching against him and he pulls the rosey bud with his teeth before sucking her into his mouth. Pushing up onto his elbow, he slides a hand down her stomach to curl between legs. She’s drenched. He gathers her wetness upon his fingers, smearing them across her nipples before licking them clean.

While he keeps his mouth at her breasts, his hand moves back down. Her legs fall further apart with a decadent sigh. He strokes her, fingers moving lazily around her clit, dropping only to tease her slit.

They’re slow, less desperate in the morning light. Azriel’s shadows drink down every sound she makes, running along her lips, dancing with her breath. Her hands wander up his shoulders and into his hair. She dances them along the outside of his wing. He hisses, head snapping up, as a sudden jolt of pleasurable pain spikes down his spine when she drags her nails across a certain spot.

“How did you-“ he started to ask, surprised and curious at her knowledge of Illyrian erogenous zones.

“I am very well read, shadowsinger,” she answered with a purr.

Azriel had a new and overly zealous appreciation for the written word. Her hands pull at him, desiring his mouth, but he gently knocks her away.

“Let me taste you,” he pleads.

“Yes,” she agrees, finding his hair again her fingernails prick his scalp.

Tracing his tongue through her folds he laps at her slit in long licks before circling her swollen nub. Shadows whisper, curling around his ear, feeding him her responses. She slings a calf over his shoulder, pressing him closer with her heel while pulling at his hair. Dark turquoise jewels stare down at him as he pushes a finger inside her.

“Good boy,” she sighs. She presses back against the bed, spine curving. Curling his finger inside her, he moves with her rocking hips. “Yes-Azriel-“ her voice breaks, turns ragged, the hand in his hair tightens.

Azriel matches her rhythm, finds an accompanied pace, orchestrating her pleasure as she reaches a crescendo. Panting, thighs trembling, his name is a prayer upon her lips, voice a cry out in praise. Gwyn snaps, legs growing tight around him. Using the hooked talons atop his wings he cups behind her knees and pulls her further apart, pressing her into the mattress. His tongue flicks across her in quick lashes.

She gasps, riding his face as she comes undone. Her inner muscles shudder and he strokes her through it with fingers and tongue. Chest heaving her eyes flutter closed. When her trembling subsides, Azriel kisses her thighs and pulls away. Gwyn reclines, unabashed and unbothered, flushed from head to toe. He wipes a hand across his mouth - fuck he did love the taste of her.

“Come here,” she beckons with a crooked smile, a song in her voice. He climbs over her as her hands drag down his chest. “Fuck me, Azriel.”

“Yes, Gwyn,” he breaths, pressing his face into her breasts, tasting, dragging his tongue along her peaks.

Azriel fists the base of his cock, sliding through her slick folds, wetting himself before slipping into her tight body. The beautiful friction as he thrust into her was enough to make him spill. He drew his hips back, thrusting again, and again, in long deep strokes. Gwyn’s hands touched him everywhere, weaving paths of pleasure along his wings before dropping to his chest to tease his nipples between her fingers. He groans as white hot light rolled up his spine.

The rapturous tempo building between them was one of his own making. He’s vaguely aware of her whisper, singing to him as he drives into her, fingers flexing where he holds her hips, wings still pressing her knees into the bed. Her hand darts between them, fingers wrapping around him as he moved. Azriel exhales a whine. She moves to rub her clit, fingers moving in time with him.

“What were you thinking about,” she gasps, eyes meeting his, “when you touched yourself?”

For a moment he has to consider all the options. There were embarrassingly too many. He wonders at the blush on her cheeks and grins down at her, hips circling, pressing deep.

“A dagger at my throat,” he confesses, sudden panic threating to seize him. What if she… but he couldn’t stop now. “Your scratch marks down my chest,” he gasped, words blurring together, “wearing only my necklace.” He makes a strangled sound, loud, and she clenches around him, her fingers stuttering.

There was no judgement or fear in her gaze, nothing but burning heat that threatened to consume him. Panting, he leans down to claim her mouth. He’s so close he can feel pleasure coiling at the base of his spine. She was so hot, so wet, she was going to burn him alive and drown him all at the same time.

Gwyn’s breath was irratic, coming in tiny gasps. He sets his teeth to her breast, rolling his tongue and sucking her roughly, feeling the moment she shatters around him, beneath him. He tries to hold out, to withstand her, but she feels far too good and he cries out her name as his orgasm rips through him. Azriel stutters, pulsing deep inside her until he has nothing left.

Carefully, he releases her knees, pulling his wings back and tight so that he could collapse beside her. In tandem, they let out a deep satisfied sigh. Gwyn’s fingers find his hair again, scratching at his scalp and Azriel shivers, his shadows purring against her.

“I kept pulling your hair, I’m sorry,” she says in a way that is entirely not sorry.

“I like the way you pull my hair, Gwyn” he says, sex-drunk and loose-tongued. She smiles, sweet and shy.

“Good, because I like doing it,” she admits sheepishly, curling her fingers to tug just a little. His cock twitch’s against his thigh. She curls up against him, kissing him till he felt dizzy. Releasing him she lay across his chest, looking out toward the window. She makes a mildly annoyed sound and Azriel raises his head so that he can peek at the window, squinting at the angle of sunlight.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“We’re going to miss breakfast,” Gwyn moans unpleasantly, sitting up.

They duck into the bathroom, the spymaster grumbling about needing an on-suite. Dressed in nothing but her silk robes, they scurry down the hallway. They wash quickly, Azriel suddenly all to aware of how ravenous he is. Though he considers skipping the day all together when Gwyn begins to run a soapy cloth over her breasts.

There was no time for further distraction. She tosses hm a towel once they’ve finished, and banishes him from the room so she can take care of other needs. By the time they rush from her apartment, dressed, hair combed, there are few fae left in the main hall.

Nesta occupies a table to herself, nursing a cup of tea and a book in hand. Azriel can feel her eyes on him as they assemble plates of whatever food is left over. She scrutinizes them as they cross the room to join her.

Sitting down, Gwyn tosses her friend a quick smile before tucking into her food with shameless abandon. Azriel, on the other hand, struggles to control the rising heat in his cheeks as Nesta’s silver eyes run over him before moving to Gwyn. She takes in Gwyn’s unusually rumpled state with a raised eyebrow before narrowing her eyes at him.

“So,” Lady Death teases out and Azriel barely hides his panic. “I suppose I don’t need to bribe Cassian to help me lock you two in a closet anymore.” He blinks at her. “Also thanks for getting it done before summer solstice. I’m going to be a rich lady.”

“Who bet for after solstice?” Gwyn asks, tearing off a chunk of bread.

“Cassian.”

“Figures,” Gwyn huffs.

“I told him I didn’t think your boy would hold out till then, but he insisted. The old softy.”

“I’m sorry,” Azriel interjects, “are you implying there were bets on when we’d-“

“Uh huh,” Nesta answers, her grin wicked and glinting.

“How were the results ever going to be known-“ he hisses, voice a whisper. Nesta waves a hand, cutting him off.

“First, I know precisely what a freshly-fucked Gwyn looks like. Second,” she suppresses a laugh, pointing at the two of them, “your both an absolute mess this morning. You’re hair looks like a bird nested in it and outside of practice you rarely have a curl out of place.” She opens her hands and gestures widely, palms up. “I’ve merely assembled the evidence you two have placed before me.”

Azriel attempts to work up a good response, something scathing perhaps, when Gwyn leans over a presses a kiss to his jaw, just below his ear. She pulls away enough that he can see her smile before returning to her breakfast. Nesta stares openly with an expression that could only be described as soppy. Raising an eyebrow at Lady Death, Azriel takes a dainty bite of his bread. She glares back at him but there is no heat behind it.

“Well,” she says, trying to achieve her usual measure of sarcasm, “your both gross. Keep it in your room.”

“I’m out making that promise,” Gwyn sing-songs and Nesta rolls her eyes, downs the rest of her tea and pushes back from the table.

“Alright, spymaster,” she tosses over her shoulder as she strides away. “I’m going to collect my money now.”

Gwyn makes an obscene gesture at her. Azriel shoves his plate away and lets out a long, slow, groan. Her warm hand rubs his shoulder. Maybe he could flee to his mother’s house for a few years while the members of the Night Court found something better to do with their time.

“Are they all going to be like this?” He asks.

“Not everyone,” Gwyn admits. “Nesta is going to be the worst, you had to know that. Cassian is a hugger, just make sure he doesn’t break your ribs.”

Azriel sighs. It was going to be a long day.

The next week goes by in a blur of preparations as the Court and Gwyn have decided the attacks outside the Hewn City needed attention, eyes on the ground as soon as possible. It left Azriel anxious over the remaining books, some still on the move and likely to be further lost or damaged before long.

Gwyn packs and repacks her bags. She spends an exhorting amount of time oiling and cleaning her knives, conferring with Cassian about possible contingency plans depending on what she finds. Azriel continues his work with the nearby temple, teaching herb and apothecaries techniques.

When he wasn’t doing that he was training with Nes or translating texts. He’d begun to spend a good amount of his evenings urgently trying to document his knowledge so that he might leave it with the war camps healers. It was busy, demanding use of time but satisfying, and it helped him avoid the humiliation of everyone knowing his and Gwyn’s business.

While the week was busy, somehow, they still found time for one another. A lot of time, to be exact. Gwyn proves to be an exacting teacher and Azriel her most eager student. She tells him where and how to touch her, her voice a siren’s command. He learned her triggers, what to avoid and what to ask permission for first. He committed her to memory, wringing out every last ounce of pleasure from her he could.

They had sex. A lot. Every morning he woke next to her, well-fucked and wrapped safely in his arms - it’s glorious. His usual anxieties unable to find purchase. He couldn’t keep the sloppy grin from his face, something Nesta constantly teased him about.

He wasn’t even really worried about their upcoming travels or the creatures they might end up facing. It felt as if he could do anything, overcome his own fears. This level of confidence was an unfamiliar sensation and he reveled in it.

Their departure comes too soon and Azriel loads saddlebags onto Senka as daw begins to streak the sky with lavenders and golds. The Pegasus prances in place, eager to be in the air. Azriel scratches its neck, running a hand along its muzzle. Senka nips at his shadows.

“Ready,” Gwyn asks from behind, silhouetted against the sunrise and so perfectly in her element she stuns him. Azriel nods, hart full, mouth dry, and helps her atop Senka.

They fly from the war camp, late spring mists swirling as they make their way to the Hewn City. The first day of travel, as always, is no fun. All the training he’d been doing, however, kept him limber, stronger, and Gwyn was more than enthusiastic to rub muscle liniment into his shoulders. He wears his smile openly, no longer bothered.

He spends time teaching her Illyrian, a language she knows a little but not in earnest. She could purchase a loaf of bread from a marketplace with ease, or as for a room at an inn. He wouldn’t be satisfied until she read the language but that would take time. They practice in the evenings before the fire, stars twinkling above.

One morning he wakes to find her already dressed, running through drills. Azriel rolls over, propping his head upon his hand and watches her. Sweat gleams on her brow, eyes dark and feral. She wears only her chest binding and pants, arms bare, something he noticed she didn’t do often. He wouldn’t ask her about the burns along her underside of her arms, or the ones on the inside of her thighs… it was her story to tell. He was only grateful she felt comfortable around him.

It hits him still that he has not fully opened up to her. Despite how much he enjoyed sharing his fantasies with her, describing them to her in such vivid detail while she came on his cock, it remained just that. Words. So, for now, he would just be happy to be with her.

That knowledge burned him. She was so open with him about her wants, her desires, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask for himself - to be tied down and taken.

Whenever he’d been with others it had always been transactional, a means to an end. Nothing personal, nothing lingered once he’d returned to the temples, often feeling as empty as he had before setting out. Perhaps he didn’t know how to ask her for it.

“Enjoying the show, shadowsinger?” She asks, pulling him from his thoughts. A teasing grin graces her face. She tosses her swords into the air, catching them.

“Always,” he says back, which was the truth even if there was a larger truth threatening to burst through his teeth, begging to be spoken aloud. He pushes it down, buries it, unwilling to face it.

Their route toward the Hewn City brought them out of the mountains, leaving the thick forests behind. The Sidra carves through the land, trade boats carrying heavy loads move swiftly along the currents. Azriel delights in the engineering of the boats and tells Gwyn as much. She recounts details of the great celestial mechanisms the High Lord keeps and promises to show him one day.

The places they choose to rest are more crowded, the roads filled with travelers and traders alike. The inns are better, used to serving higher end clientele and varying in comfort. In which, Azriel learns a new skill: fucking quietly. All his years spent in the temples and Tower, all his self control went out the window when he was in bed with Gwyn. His used his shadows to consume their noise, but that didn’t stop the headboard from crashing into the wall or the night they’d nearly toppled a dresser over.

He especially liked it when she would hold a hand over his mouth, sratching a little of the itch he continued to overpower. They’re together in every way that mattered, and he he knew he should be satisfied. He’s not, but he should be, and he reminds himself of that every day.

They reach the outskirts of the city - a city carved deep inside the mountains. Passing through the largest, most ornate gate he’s ever seen, Azriel is in awe of what’s before him. The city was not just inside the mountain but carved from it. Glittering limestone, veins of silver, it is opulent and the most terrifyingly beautiful city he’s ever seen.

“Welcome to the Court of Nightmares,” Gwyn murmurs ominously.

They don’t venture far. Their intent was not to infiltrate the court but gather intel on the attacks on the trade routes, and perhaps discover who was behind them.

Gwyn has a safe house within the city. They came through the gates wrapped in cloaks and using an alias. She wasn’t keen to draw attention. a visiting spymaster was never cause for fanfare, she’d explained.

“It’s not as nice as the embassy,” she mentions, opening the door to an apartment nestled in the market district. “At least it has a private bath, though,” she says with a smile.

It is indeed, not as nice as the apartment they shared in the war camps. There is none of Gwyn’s personal touches. The layout is similar, though, kitchen, living space, and a large bed tucked into one corner. A narrow doorway leads to the bathing chamber. Only a single window, by the door, emits the artificial light from the surrounding city. They drop their bags to the floor.

In an instant she’s before him, eyes dark, and tips his head down with a finger at his chin. She traces his lips with her thumb. Azriel shivers, loving it when she was feeling confident and playing the aggressor. She steps closer, a purr on her lips, their armor clinks.

Her hands slide into his hair, tugging a little as she lays claim to his mouth. He feels drunk when Gwyn pulls away.

“I want you, Azriel,” she breathes against his lips.

Her eyes are thoughtful and he worries she can see right through him, shining a light on all his dark corners. She pushes him back across the room, dropping her hands to his chest. Directing him to sit, she climbed into his lap to cradle his face with her hands.

“What is it that you want, shadowsinger?” She asks, her big turquoise eyes never leaving him. This was his chance…

“You,” he gulped, “You, Gwyn. Always you.”

It’s not a lie. It’s not. It wasn’t the whole truth either. He can see it in her face when she realizes he isn’t being truthful, so he leans in a kisses her to distraction, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her down with him upon the bed.

She is either fooled or she accepts it, because she rides his face till she comes twice before moving back to straddle his waist. Afterwards, Azriel curls up into a sweaty, sad ball and curses his own cowardice.

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 15

The Spymaster & The Priest A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

Azriel can hear her pacing footsteps through the door and he hesitates, forehead pressed against the cool wood. Gwyn was on the other side. He was rumpled, messy, still in yesterday’s clothes and utterly unprepared to see her again. He takes a deep breath and swings the door open wide.

Catching her mid-pace, one foot still hung in the air, her head turns to him. She’s dressed for the day; his pendant at her throat and hair neatly braided for practice. Eyes red rimmed, she looks like she’d slept terribly. Gwyn takes a step towards him, but jerks herself to a halt.

“You’re here,” he says stupidly, like its a surprise.

“Of course,” she answers quietly.

Azriel pulls the door shut behind him, leaning back against the frame, stretching his wings along the wall. She takes another aborted step toward him, trying to hide her nervousness by clutching her hands together. She wants to touch him, he realizes, but doubts wether or not she’d be welcome.

“Azriel,” she says, voice breaking at his name, “I’m sorry for the way I acted yesterday.”

It seems as if she wants to say more, like she’d rehearsed all night instead of sleeping. He pushes away from the door to stand before her. Raising a scarred hand, he dares, and traces the pendant with the tip of his finger. The metal is warm to the touch, heated by her skin and the knowledge of that makes his toes curl. Their gazes met, her turquoise eyes bright and unguarded.

“I wasn’t kind to you or myself yesterday. I’m sorry, Gwyn.”

Her arms wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. Azriel curls a hand behind her neck, pulling her back so that he could rest his forehead against hers. They breath one another in, his shadows knotting around them both for what feels like a blissful eternity.

“I brought back a book from Rhys’ library,” she whispers, his shadows darting out to play with her voice. “Okay, I stole it, but he doesn’t have to know that.” Azriel chuckles, bringing a smile to her face. “I need to see Cass this morning, but I wondered, since its in a language I don’t know very well - would you read it to me? After dinner?”

“Of course,” he tells her and her smile is blinding.

They head down for breakfast, his mind alarmingly calm despite the lack of sleep. Gwyn is less distant, stealing his mug of tea while he argues with Nesta that, no, he did not - in fact - grow fat and lazy since they’d been gone. Lady Death then proceeds to drive him through drills like a mad fae.

He wondered if he should ask for her advice about Gwyn. She’d offered after all. Another perspective would be invaluable, despite the horror of making himself emotionally available to anyone other than Gwyn. Nesta was her best friend and former lover. How would that conversation even go?

“Nes, I think I have feelings for your ex-lover, would it be out of the question if I asked her to tie me up while we fuck?”

Yeah, no thank you, he’d suffer indefinitely rather than endure that scenario.

Court business keeps Gwyn away most of the day. Whatever was occurring around the Hew City was troublesome and it was written across her face whenever he spotted her across the grounds. She was absent at evening meal, and so he took a seat next to Cassian.

“How did you know you cared for Nesta?” He asks, attempting to sound impartial and casual. Fortunately for him, the General didn’t bat an eye at the question or give him a smug look.

“Well,” Cass says, drawing out the word as he spreads cheese on his slice of bread. “I first met her in the human lands and she was terrifying then. But if I’m being honest, there was something between us even then, there always was. Maybe it was just the mate bond, maybe it was something else.”

Cassian shrugs. Azriel nods.

“It was rough, trying to make space for myself in her life,” Cassian admits. “I think she tried to make herself unredeemable, unremarkable, that even her mate wouldn’t want her.” He takes a bite of bread, going soft around the eyes. “I suppose its different for everyone. Rhys loved Feyre the moment he saw her. I can’t say I cared for Nes the same, but as she grew, opened herself up to those around her, let people in, I realized her love was fierce.”

“That’s it,” Azriel deadpan. Cassian’s head falls back and he laughs, shoulders shaking.

“I’ve always loved her, I think.” He takes another bite of his food. “But watching her become who she wanted to be, who she needed to be - that was something else entirely. I just - knew.”

“I see,” Azriel says casually, considering what he felt was useless information. Cassian claps him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him sideways.

“Anytime, priest,” he says. “Now, return the favor and tell me if I have crumbs in my beard.”

Azriel gestures to the entirety of the General’s face.

It was well into the evening when the spymaster returned. She eats a makeshift meal in her tiny kitchen while he reads stories from the book she’d brought back. They eventually stretch out onto the plush rugs spread across the floor, him on his elbows and her on her back, twilling her fingers through his shadows and laughing at the stories he read.

After what she described as a very unCourtly like yawn, Gwyn retires to the bathroom and Azriel moves to the couch. He sets the book upon a side table and stretches his arms across the back. The spymaster returns, freshly washed and smelling like the sun and sea.

He finds himself watching her, soaking up every nuance. Gwyn brushes her hair, singing a song under her breath that he somehow recognizes but can’t name. Azriel knew routines as well as his own. She’d brush her hair for no less than fifty strokes, pacing while she does it, back and forth across the floor while the material of night dress swirls around her legs.

When she’s done she’ll put away her brush and rub oil into her skin until she gleamed. Then she’d smile at him like the sunset and wish him good night before retreating into her bedroom.

He keeps his eyes on her, letting the sweet melody of her song melt all his turmoil away, unravel his worries. She turns back to the mirror affixed to the wall outside her room, light catching an old, silvery scar on her shoulder. He didn’t know the story behind each of her scars, but to mark a high fae meant the wound had been deep, possibly life threatening.

She was going to be heading away again, had heard Cassian mention it to his soldiers. The High Lord was growing more concerned. Gwyn would likely be in the thick of it, him right behind her.

We could lose her, his shadows murmur.

The insight was like ice water down his spine, thorns curling in his guts. It was so easy to see Gwyn as unbeatable, invulnerable, a goddess divine, but the scars on her skin told another story - one of flesh and blood and mortality. She knew the touch of a blade. She sweats and bleeds and could likely die just like any of them could.

Could he go back to his life before her? A little over two months he’s known her and she’s entangled herself with him so thoroughly that it was no longer a knot to tease out. Azriel understood then. He’d made his choice. A slow, warmth deep within him unspooled with a snap.

Pushing up from the sofa he stepped toward her, following the sound of her song as if being led by a ribbon of sound.

“Gwyn,” he manages.

There must be something in his tone that gives him away, betrays him, as she sets down her brush and looks at him with the the whole weight of her attention. He wets his lips, watching her eyes flick to his mouth and back up, her eye contact like a physical touch.

“Kiss me,” he begs.

She’s there in an instant, hands coming up to cradle his face. Not breaking his gaze for an instant, carefully crossing the line they’ve so carefully maintained. His hands are shaking as they fist the nightgown at her waist, pulling her closer.

“Please,” he says, voice nothing more than a strangled gasp.

She leans up to sweetly press her lips to his. While its the lightest brush, like a soft breeze, her lips petal soft, yet Azriel feels it like lightening hitting water, lighting him up from the inside in a way he’d never felt before. He wants to feel this forever. Gwyn pulls back, utter joy radiating from her gaze.

“Again,” he begs coarsely, “please.”

Azriel doesn’t feel in control, except to ask for what he wants. She reaches a hand to the back of his neck, pulling his head down so that she might kiss him longer, harder. His hands release the fabric of her own to slide further around her and up, pressing her against him.

They’re both panting when she pulls away, breaking their kiss, pressing his forehead against hers. She teases her fingers into his hair sending a shudder through him.

“Don’t stop,” he pleads fitting their mouths together, needy, desperate.

Gwyn opens her mouth, her tongue brushing against his. Azriel’s arms tighten, her body pressed solidly against his. She trembles and he swallows down her hum of approval. Pulling him a half step toward her bedroom, he slides a hand into her hair, unbound, soft as silk and she purrs at his touch.

“I should,” she starts, suddenly shy and he leans away so that he might take in her expression. “That is,” she mumbles, eyes not meeting his. Had he done something wrong? Had she changed her mind? “Az, I’ve never been with a male.” Her confession jolts him. “Well, that is to say, not by choice.”

Oh. Oh. He leans in to press a kiss just below her ear and he’s rewarded with a small intake of breath.

“Gwyn,” Azriel says in a rumbling tone, running a hand through her hair and down her back. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Mmm,” she hums.

He opens his mouth to say more but all that comes out is a breathy cry when Gwyn tugs his earlobe gently with her teeth. There is no time to recover as she kisses down his neck, sucking at his bobbing throat. When she reaches his shoulder she bites down on the tendon there and Azriel moans loudly. Gwyn smirks like a cat with a saucer of cream.

“Do you like my teeth on your skin, shadowsinger?” She asks, fisting his shirt and tugging. He twines her hair into his fist and pulls her head back, kissing her again, mouths wet and hot.

They stumble backward into her room. Kicking aside a small pile of books, he walks them until her legs hit the mattress.

“Can I,” he asks, tugging her nightgown up. “I want to see you.”

She kisses him again and pushes lightly against his chest, which is momentarily disappointing. As he takes a step back she pulls her nightgown up and off in a single, fluid motion. Where the garment ends up he has no idea, doesn’t care, because Gwyneth Berdara stood before him pale and moon-kissed, tattoos and scars, every inch laid bare.

“Az,” Gwyn says, smiling at him. “It’s rude to stare.”

“Well,” he manages somehow, unable to raise his gaze above her collarbones. “I do hate to be rude.”

How could he not thought? There was a tattoo across her rib cage, wrapping beneath her breasts to pull up into a point between them, the swirling design a work of art. She has another on the outside of her hip, Illyrian markings on her upper thighs. The long lean muscles of her legs and torso were tone, refined. Gwyn’s smile grows cocky and she crosses her arms over her chest, spine a sinuous curve. Her rosey nipples capture his attentions and he has no inkling of looking anywhere else.

“Enjoying the view, Azriel?”

Yes, that was his name.

“Always,” he breathes, tearing his gaze away from her magnificent breasts to linger at the dark curls between her thighs before traveling back up her body to her face. “That day in the garden you were the most beautiful fae I’d ever seen,” he confesses, hands flexing at his hips, shadows eagerly pressing forward. “I had no idea-“ Azriel gave up on words, moving forward so that he might cup her face between his hands. “I want you,” he continued, pressing kisses against her neck. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to figure this out.”

“You’re here now,” she tells him. “You’re worth the wait, Az.” The last is whispered against his lips just before she pulled him down for another kiss, claiming him with lips and tongue so thoroughly he’s dizzy. “That being said,” she mutters breathlessly, “if you don’t take off your clothes I’m going to assume you’re just teasing me.”

Azriel blinks at her, brain slow to process what she’s saying and then it clicks. With speed, and little finesse, he grabs the hem of his tunic and yanks it off. Forgetting to loosen the ties at the back, his wings are momentarily stuck and Gwyn helps him pull the fabric off, giggling sweetly. His pants are less troubling. In the shuffle she’s turned him so that his legs press back against the mattress. She pushes him with gentle pressure until he’s leaning back on his elbows.

He squirms a little under her gaze, unused to being looked at so thoroughly. a smile curls the corner of her mouth. He doesn’t bother fighting his blush. His cock lay heavy against his stomach and he feels himself twitch beneath her gaze.

“You are beautiful, Azriel,” she breathes, climbing over him, the tips of her fingers dancing up his sides. He opens his mouth to protest but she presses a finger against his lips. “No,” she says firmly. “I will not hear a word against you, not even from yourself.” Azriel nods, eyes wide as her face hovers above his. “Good boy.”

The slide of her bare skin as she lowered herself upon him is so delicious that he whines, turning into a moan when she presses kisses to his chest. Azriel gives in to her as she slides her mouth across his skin, pressing her lips and teeth against him. He touches her everywhere he can without interrupting her exploration, her touch too good, too blissful. She wraps a hand around his cock and his hips jerk.

Gwyn returns to kiss him, tongue sliding against his, hand stroking. Rolling to her side, he follows, deepening their kiss, dancing his tongue alongside hers, nibbling at her lips until she’s smiling.

“Touch me, Azriel.”

“Where?” He asks, running a hand down her side, seeking her instruction.

“Everywhere,” she demands, licking up his neck to kiss his jaw. Azriel skims his hand over her hip and the down the curve of her ass, fingers spreading and digging into her soft flesh. “Yes,” she hisses, pressing herself against him and he dips his head, pulling her nipple into his mouth. She gasps a swear, something he’s heard Nesta utter from time to time and grinds against him.

He angles himself above her and she turns onto her back, vulnerability lighting up her eyes. Azriel kisses her again, bringing a hand up to squeeze her breast, running a thumb across its peaked tip.

“Do that again,” she tells him, pulling his head back to her chest.

Gwyn’s back arches, offering him another taste of her sweet breasts and he does as asked and devours her. She whimpers, the fist around his cock tightening. He thrusts into her hand, an urgency taking over, fevered and raw.

He raises his head to crash his mouth into hers. Teeth bite into his bottom lip. Her arms wrap around him. The hand around his cock now gripping his ass, pulling him closer and Azriel fucks against her stomach.

Shadow coalesces, a mind of their own, dragging their icy touch across her skin, fluttering against her in soft vibration and they both gasp. Every minute response is cataloged, archived, greedily devoured as something to explore.

“Gwyn,” he moans, his shadows adding awareness on a level he’d never experienced. It was too much. “You feel so good,” he confesses, too pleasure drunk to feel shame in the way his shadow washed over them. “I’ve never-they’ve never-“ he fights with his mind to bring some semblance of structure to what he’s saying. He wasn’t sure he even could explain what was happening with his shadows.

Yet, Gwyn isn’t looking at him in fear. She doesn’t ask him to stop. Her cheeks are flushed scarlet and she’s looking at him as though he is the only being in her world that matters - which doesn’t calm his racing heart. Being like this, skin pressed against skin, the smooth heat of her body pressed against his - Azriel doesn’t desire control. His shadows undulate and move with his unspoken wishes, touching every inch of her.

“Don’t stop,” she commands, sensing his hesitation. “I want all of you, shadowsinger.”

“Promise,” he begs, his own vulnerabilities feeling heavy.

“Promise,” she confirms and its all the encouragement he needs.

Azriel slides his hand into her hair, cradling her head back and kisses her deep and slow, tongue working hers until she’s arching against him, shadow winding around her breasts. All of him, yes, he could do that. He kisses down her jaw, nipping at her ears, all while his dark umber traces her lips, drinking in her sounds.

She shivers beneath him. Trailing lips and fingers across her, he kisses her scars and traces her markings. Her skin is impossibly soft, the muscle beneath hard, and he finds he loves the dichotomy of her so much he can hardly breath. His eyes meet hers again as he cups her breasts in his hands, rolling her nipples between his fingers. Her curves are subtle, barely filling his hands. He nuzzles his face against her, pulling at her with his teeth and sucking her into his mouth.

He keeps his mouth on her breasts, cock twitching against her stomach. The smell of her arousal reaches him and he finds he no longer wants to keep her waiting. Pushing up and above her, he skims his hands down her ribs, lower across her abdomen. Shadow wraps around her ankles, climbing her thighs, spreading her deliciously before him. Gwyn’s teeth gnaw at her bottom lip, eyes heavy-lidded, watching him, needy. His long fingers spear through her curls and he can feel the wet of her pleasure as he dips between her folds.

“What do you need,” he begs, “tell me what you like.” Her answering smile is hot and full of greed.

“Your fingers,” she tells him, sea colored eyes burning, “put them inside me.”

He would cut off his own hand if she asked him like that. Her own hand circles her sex, spreading herself for him. Dipping his fingers, circling her weeping slit, he pushes two inside her. Azriel bites his lip to keep from groaning as she squeezes him. Her breath hitches, rough and uneven. Her hips move against him, in time with the rhythm of his fingers. She is so much hotter and tighter than his vivid imagination had ever allowed.

“Yes, Azriel,” she encourages. Her muscles tremble, clamping around his fingers with such force that it shocks the air from his lungs.

As as he wished he could replace his fingers with his cock, he waited, extending his patience. She was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen, lying beneath him, grinding against him, hips rounding and moving to the song that sang between them. His painful erection wasn’t important, an afterthought, as she was barely breathing. Gwyn’s eyes flutter, gaze bright.

Time slows. She gasps his name, back arching off the bed, thigh shaking, and Azriel keeps his hand moving, rubbing around her clit. Her inner walls spasm, tremble around his fingers, squeezing and releasing, sucking him deeper. Shuddering, she breathes his name again, hips working, riding his fingers through the waves of her pleasure as the orgasm crashes over her against and again.

Azriel leans in, kissing her hip, pulling his fingers free. She moans at the loss, eyes opening to meet his. He keeps her gaze, bringing dripping fingers to his mouth, sucking on her taste. Sea salt and honey. He shivers, cock twitching. She tastes divine.

Gwyn pulls him up, kissing him deeply, tracing the taste of herself upon his lips. Her hand grips his hair, tugging against his scalp. Azriel lowers himself onto her, pressing her into the mattress, sliding his rigid flesh through her folds.  But something changes in her expression, quick as lightening, a hesitation, a flash of dark memory that has his shadows spiking in alarm.

“What do you need,” he asks, pulling his weight off her.

“It’s fine,” she scrambles, tears pooling and he realizes she’s fighting a fight he cannot see. “I just - I’m-“

“Tell me what you need,” he whispers, tone low, giving her the space and time she needed.

“I need to be on top,” she confessed, voice hitching.

She wraps a leg over his hip and Azriel tucks his wings, rolling with her onto his back with sharp, efficient movements, like they were sparring and she intended to win. Azriel gladly gave in. She sat above him, knees grazing his hips, feet planted on either side. A spike of lust shivers through him and he reaches for her, shadow wrapping around her where he couldn’t reach.

Gwyn leans in, running her tongue along his collarbone before reaching up to nip his ear. Shifting her hips, her scorching, wet heat glides along his cock. Azriel strangles a gasp, hands moving to her thighs, clutching at her desperately as she grinds atop him till he shudders.

“Do you want to be inside me, Azriel?” She asks, long mahogany hair hanging around her face, tickling his chest. He writhed beneath her, sighing her name. “Do you want me to fuck you, shadowsinger?”

“Please, Gwyn,” he begs, just as she claimed he would.

He pushes his hips up to meet hers. Gwyn lifts away, which is terrible, but she reaches a hand between them and takes his cock, positioning him just so. His patience is infinite as she drags him against her slit so that she can ease him in. She’s so tight he’s worried he might hurt her, but she doesn’t pause, sliding down and down upon him until she rests flush against upon his pelvis.

It feels - she feels - fucking incredible. His shadows surround her, hold her, caress her, but he’s just as surrounded by her - her body, her smell, the way she feels. Azriel trembles beneath her.

“You are beautiful, Gwyneth,” he whispers.

She opens her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek and the corner of her mouth curls. A mischievous gleam shines in the depths of her gaze and whatever horrors of her past had been haunting her were gone. Rolling her hips in slow, languid movements, she grinds herself on him.

“Do you know how many times I’ve thought of having you like this?”

“Beneath you?” He asks wildly, sliding his hands up to her breasts, teasing the tips with his fingers. She laughs and he feels it in his cock.

“Yes, Azriel,” she agrees, pressing her mouth against his in a quick kiss. “Beneath me, inside me,” she sighs, raising her hips and dropping back down upon him. “You feel so good, shadowsinger.”

Azriel groans, arousal making his thoughts fuzzy. She lifts her hips again, up and back, the slow wet slide of her the most exquisite torture. His hips thrust up to meet hers as she presses down. She leans back, grabbing his hands and keeping them at her breasts.

Her hips roll faster and she shudders against him, inside and out. Teasing her nipples, he plucks at them with his fingers. Her back arches as she dances with earnest, keeping him deep inside her. Azriel can feel his own pleasure building, climbing. He snaps his hips up, making her cry out, and fuck - its so good. Dropping a hand, he rubs circles around her swollen nub. Gwyn’s muscles clench and he lets go a vivid Illyrian curse.

Gwyn tosses her head back, hair gleaming in the lamplight, skin glistening. Of all the visions he’d witnessed this evening, none of which he’d ever forget, this was by far the most stunning. Azriel watches, witnessing the moment the tension snaps inside her and she comes around his dick. She almost looks like she’s in pain. Her hips rock, that glorious rhythm faltering, stuttering. Once her orgasm wains, her pussy still trembling around him, she slumps forward pressing her forehead against his chest.

He slides his hands around her, running up and down her back, tickling along her spine. She shivers. Azriel adjusts, pulling his wings out from under him to wrap around them. Within his shadowed embrace she glows like starlight, swimming through his dark umbra. He’s still hard, still wanting, but his desire was only to satisfy her, to sacrifice himself upon her alter over and over if its what she demanded.

Though, as his luck would have it, just as he was content to be with her like this for the rest of his eternity she pushes up, rolling her shoulders back and fixing him wither a glittering turquoise stare. Pulling his wings open wide and pressing back into the mattress his breath catches at her sly, deadly expression. She pulls her hips up, nearly coming off him completely, and then slams herself back down, jolting him, forcing a gasp of pleasure from his lips.

She does it again and Azriel swears in three different languages, hands moving to grip the mattress beneath him as she keeps up a merciless pace. Her eyes are fixed upon his face and he’s thankful he doesn’t have the brainpower to care about her scrutiny, not while he was panting and thrusting up to keep up with her strokes.

Their song is fast and frenzied, bodies snapping together, Gwyn taking him deep. His shadows lick across her breasts and wrap around her neck - his pendent catches light. Her face is flushed, beautiful. Azriel tears his gaze away to watch where his cock, glistening with her pleasure, appears and disappears inside her over and over.

“Gwyn,” he moans - begs - his hands fisting the bed linens.

His legs tremble as he drives himself up to meet her downstroke. Breath short and shallow, he can feel his orgasm building, a hot white fire at the base of his spine, the warmth of her licking all over him and he wonders, in a sudden moment of clarity, if she was using her magic on him.

“Yes, good boy,” she moans sweetly. “Come for me, Azriel.”

She laces a hand at the back of his head, tugging, pulling his head back, skin prickling from her nails in his scalp. The sharp hit of pain and the sweet, merciless pleasure of her body as she slams down upon him knocks him over the edge and into oblivion.

Azriel cries out, fingers digging into the bed, pleasure ricocheting through him, muscles taut. His orgasm sends stars behind his eyes. Gwyn doesn’t stop moving, drawing out his pleasure and Azriel is helpless to tremble against her, jerking deep inside her, mind blessedly blank and wonderfully fuzzy.

He’s only vaguely aware of Gwyn pressing kisses against his slick chest. She lifts off him and a hiss escapes his teeth, over sensitive in the wake of a mind-numbing orgasm. She slides next to him, pressing close, and pulls blankets over them. Azriel hums happily, hearing her repeat the sound, a song all their own.

Pulling her against him, Azriel wraps his arms around her, head pillowed against his chest. With a deep sigh, Gwyn snuggles closer, wrapping an arm around his waist, relaxing against him. Joy rushes through him. His shadows twine in her hair, making her giggle and Azriel’s heart feels as if it will burst.

“Gwyn,” he says, “I don’t mean to be rude, but can you grab the lights? I’m not sure my legs will hold my weight at the moment.”

He squints in the lamplight. Her mouth twists into a wry smile and Gwyn twitches her fingers, snatching the light from the room. The look she gives him ensures he will be teased about this in the future. In this moment, however, he couldn’t care less. Closing his eyes, he breathes quietly in the blissful dark.

It’s some moments later he realizes she’s crying, hot tears dripping down his shoulder. Azriel holds her, cradling her against him and stroking a hand along her back.

“I was so scared,” she whispered, voice thick, face hidden and hiccuped a sob, “that what he did to me, what he took, that I would never find pleasure like this.” Azriel inhaled a long, shaky breath and Gwyn squeezes him harder. “I’m glad I was wrong.”

She lifts her face to his, eyes wet, reflecting the moonlight from beyond the window. Desperate to provide her comfort, Azriel leans in and kisses her till she sighs in contentment. They lay in the darkness for a perfect moment, happy and quiet. For what seems like the first time in Azriel’s life he feels no weight upon him, no worries about what came next. He drops another kiss into her hair, unable, or, rather, unwilling to erase the smile playing across his face.

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 14

The Spymaster & The Priest         A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

He’s pressed against her - more than when they’d been dancing. He barely swallows a whimper when her hip brushes against him. Desperately clutching for self control, he attempts to put some space between them but the door swings open and they’re pushed back into the corner more.

She might have gasped, it was hard to tell over the beating of his heart. Shifting again, he definitely catches her sharp inhale as her backside presses against his incredibly obvious erection. To his utter shock, she doesn’t move away. Desire roars through him and he lowers his head, pressing his face into her neck. Gripping either sides of her hips, he barely holds himself back from rutting against her like an animal.

Azriel doesn’t need light to see the blush upon her face, or the way her lids have grown heavy and eyes dark at the press of his hands, fisting the fabric of her gown to the point of ripping it. He doesn’t miss the way she rounds against him, pressing back.

A pair of fae stumble into the room. It’s hard to distinguish who is who, as they were wrapped so tightly around one another. They fumble backwards until they hit the desk, falling down upon it. A breathy gasp escapes one as the other rocks their body against them, running a thumb over the other’s mouth, smearing pigment.

“Put your hands on me,” a masculine growl demands followed by a hiss of inhaled breath.

The couple pants, shifts, lifting skirts and unhooking trousers. Azriel doesn’t see them doesn’t hear them, all consumed by her. He raises his head, finding her head leaning back against his chest, eyes on him, pupils blown wide. She exhales and he can feel the tremble of her breath.

Her mouth is so close he could almost taste her. His shadows moved in time with her rapid breaths. Azriel’s gaze trails down her body, catching the rise and fall of her chest, the way her breasts pushed against the fabric, her nipples taunt. The sounds around them grow louder, flesh meeting flesh, as the couple succumbs to their pleasures. Gwyn pushes up onto her toes, body sliding along his in a delicious press, and whispers in his ear.

“Let’s make our escape.”

Keeping his shadows tight around them, they sneak back through the door, the empassioned couple not aware of their presence. Quietly they flee back through the hallway and into the courtyard, Gwyn’s hand in his, neither breathing until they’re back out front, outside the estate, away from the party.

The night air provides a calming rush that he hadn’t known he needed, cooling his skin. Lightheaded with relief, and some embarrassment, he keeps his distance from the spymaster. He couldn’t face her, not when he was still aroused.

“You did well,” she says gently and he nearly jumps at the sound.

“Thank you, Gwyn,” he says to his feet.

He doesn’t look at her. He can’t. What does she think of him? A physical reaction was no indication of affection. The silence between them returns, heavy and awkward. Breathing deeply, he tries to find calm, but all he can smell is Gwyn and he can still feel her pressed against him.

They make their way back. It’s late and the embassy is mostly deserted except for the guards who nod at their arrival, paying no attention to the discomfort they both exude or the state of their dress. Azriel desperately wants to bolt upstairs and lock himself inside his room.

At the stairs he pauses, perhaps it was the etiquette training or just a deep desire to be polite, he offers his hand to Gwyn. She hesitates before taking it and he can feel her gaze on him. Her skin is on fire where she touches him and its too much.

He leads them up the stairs where Gwyn passes him to unlock the door to her apartment. They step inside, she shuts the door behind them. The lamps light and he’s momentarily distracted, wondering if its her doing. She takes a deeps breath, exhaling slowly.

“Are you alright?”

Azriel straightens his shoulders and nods.

“I’m fine,” he tells her, voice careful. “Thank you.”

He starts to take off his rings, placing them with precision atop her small breakfast table. The clink of each one as it hits the surface the only sound.

“Azriel,” she says quietly and the pull of her voice is undeniable. Turning, he finally raises his gaze to meet hers. She seems small, folding her arms across her middle, hiding herself. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t how I meant for things to go.” Azriel sags a little, inhaling deeply.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he answers her. “We have the book. The plan worked.”

He stops talking, not sure what else to say, not sure if he wants to talk about what happened between them. Pulling the cuffs from his ears, he sets those down next to the pile of rings.

“I’m just a little overwhelmed,” he surmised, “and exhausted.”

It wasn’t a lie exactly. It also wasn’t the truth, and it hurt to say it.

“Okay,” she says. He watches her from the corner of his eye. “You take the bathroom first. It’s going to take me hours to pull all these pins from my hair.”

There’s something about the way she says it that leaves it open, as if deliberate in its request. Ignoring it, ignoring her, he nods and gathers his things, leaving her alone. As he walks to the bathroom, shadows pluck out the light, leaving him surrounded in darkness.

With the door shut behind him, he triple checks the lock and lets out a shaky breath. It’s an effort of will not to rip out of his clothes because he can’t stand the way they feel against his skin any longer. The remaining jewelry he piles near the sink and places his shoes upon the shelf, precise, orderly, and calm. He leans over the rub, releasing the water, and steps inside.

Dropping to his knees, one hand grabbing the side of the tub. His free hand wraps around the base of his cock, squeezing roughly. Azriel bites into his lip. He can still smell her. The taste of blood illicitness across his tongue, teeth pressing into his lip so hard that it hurt. Gods, he wanted her, to hand over his pleasure and have her do whatever she desired of him.

How would she respond to his desires? Grab him by the collar, drag him against a desk as the couple at tonight’s dinner had. He would do anything for her if she just demanded it - just, please, take him -

Azriel moans, hand stroking his cock from base to tip. It takes, one, two tugs of his hand and his hips jerk forward, his orgasm ripping from him in a white-hot shudder. He keeps his fist pumping, stroking himself until he has nothing left, wrung out and physically spent. He drops his hand, flesh too sensitive, and the pleasure fades too quickly.

What the fuck was he going to do?

Azriel scrubs down both himself and the tub until no evidence remains, nothing to remind him of what had transpired that evening, nothing to remind him of the lust he had for Gwyn beyond the burning knowledge of his actions.

When he wakes the next morning, Gwyn isn’t there and the slant of light coming through the window tells him he’s slept longer than usual. Half worried that Gwyn had finally left him completely, he approaches the breakfast table to find a handwritten note.

“Court business, didn’t want you to miss breakfast.”

Her handwriting was careful but, as she’d claimed, dreadfully wobbly as if she’d struggled to write as well as she could for his sake. He eats the pastry absently, trying to figure out how to approach her.

Gwyn cares about him. Caring didn’t mean romantic affection. He cared for her as well, but he also wanted her. Painfully. She might want him too, but did she want him the way he wanted her? That was something he wasn’t sure about. His desires ran dark and he didn’t know if she would accept him. Not after what she’d been through, what trauma she likely carried.

The most glaring issue - Azriel had never been with anyone. He had no idea what was involved in a romantic relationship. All his partners had been purely sexual in nature and always paid. He didn’t know what it was to have a lover. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his kinks, he just had never cared to share himself with someone in that way that wasn’t anonymous and easy to walk away from.

Finishing his pastry and mug of tea, Azriel decides to head downstairs, mind still whirling and preoccupied as he meets Nesta for lessons.

“Excellent work today,” she says to him after hours of drills. “The quality of your movements has improved. Much more confident than when we first started. You’re still not following through with your swings as much as I’d like, but we’ll get there.”

“Ah,” Azriel says with a slight frown, adjusting his grip. “Of course, like this-“ and he sweeps his arm in another attempt. Nesta adjusts his stance slightly and nods in approval.

“I heard a certain couple got caught up in some mischief last night-“

“That wasn’t us,” Azriel chokes, humiliation fresh. This was not a conversation he wanted to have with Nesta. Her smile drops and she sobers.

“My apologies,” she says. “I must have misunderstood. Did everything go well, then?” She sounds remorseful, like she’d only meant to be encouraging.

“You didn’t fully misunderstand,” he corrected. “It just wasn’t us that provided the distraction.”

Nesta’s silver eyes watched him, thoughtful and kind. What she was measuring him up against he didn’t know and he was suddenly struck with the thought that she knew more than she was letting on.

“If you ever need,” she starts, waving her hands awkwardly in between them, “advice, or you want to, you know, talk… she’s… well… just come and see me.” Her hand reaches up to touch him lightly on the arm, giving a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you, Nesta.”

“I think you can just call me Nes, everyone else does,” she says with a smile. He nods, giving her a smile in return. When she goes to hug him this time, he doesn’t move away and gathers Lady Death into a friendly embrace.

The next few days pass with no sign of Gwyn. He’s told she was pulled into something important and had to return to Velaris. Nesta was in those meeting too, leaving him to find other ways to occupy himself. His trainings were now with Cassian.

He spends the rest of his time in the library trying to find answers to his internal struggles. He investigates a volume of romantic poetry which turns out to be too flowery and salacious to be of much use. Though it doesn’t stop him from reading them, cheeks burning at the more suggestive lines.

If he wasn’t in the library he was working with the healers and potionmaster to build stock. He makes some more of Gwyn’s monthly tonics, making enough for two months and trying but failing to not think about what their typical use was for and the suggestion behind it.

He delivers his work to the infirmary. They receive him like a hero, making him shy, as it was a simple task by his standards. A few ask for lessons on potion making and Azriel agrees to meet them at a later time. It sounded like a nice change of pace from combat training, heists, and almost dying… and a lot less confusing emotionally.

The only constant in his life at the moment was training with Cass in the evenings. The General didn’t ask questions, just demanded he beat the shit out of smaller Illyrians until he was tired out. Practice exhausted him in a way that made it easy to fall upon the bed at night without a single thought.

Yet no matter how he tried to distract himself, in the lulling moments of the day he found himself thinking back to the night of the dinner, of what happened between them, of Gwyn. She had apologized, barely spoken to him since. He missed her stealing his breakfast and ruffling his hair after practice. The gnawing, empty hunger behind his ribs angry with not being fed her warmth.

Had he misread her responses? Had he offended her with his? Was she as disgusted by his lack of self control as he was? He hadn’t asked for her permission when he’d touched her, grabbed her, pressed against her. It was haunting him, and the more time that passed he found he slept worst and couldn’t get it out of his head.

Was Gwyn suffering alongside him? Was she perfectly, frustratingly fine? That thought, somehow, made him feel worse.

It was early in the evening, after dinner, and Azriel was sitting at the table in Gwyn’s apartment, sorting herbs to dry when the door swings open. The spymaster walks through the threshold, smiling at him in a way that makes his heart hurt.

“Hey, you,” she greets.

“Hi, Gwyn,” he greets back.

“Finally home,” she says with a sigh. “I got out of those meetings as soon as I could. I miss being in my own space.”

The door clicks shut behind her and she crosses the room. The smell of wind and sun and rain fills his senses. Oh, how he’s missed her, he realizes as a shiver runs through him like water upon a dry earth, sliding into the barren spot in his chest. He listens as she unbuckles her blades and sets them aside.

“Are they interesting at least, your meetings,” he asks.

It was a boring question, but he was eager to hear her voice regardless of what she had to say.

“Somewhat,” she replies, going in and out of her room. “We’ve gotten reports of strange attacks along the roadways around the Hewn City. They’re getting more frequent, but we don’t know what’s causing them or who.” She passes him and his shadows reach after her. “You said there was a book out that way, so they’d like us to look into it.”

“Seems efficient,” Azriel mutters.

Gwyn spills herself across the couch, half buried in gem colored velvet cushions. He can feel her gaze on him and his skin prickles as he bundles another group of herbs, tying them with twine. The desire to look at her wars inside him, but he’s afraid of being seen. So, he doesn’t.

“Mmhmm,” she hums, a soft song as she stretches, her bare toes touching his knee lightly. “And you?” She asks, voice friendly, as if she hadn’t been warring with herself over the last few days. “Keeping busy?”

“Trying to,” he answers, tying another bundle of herbs with precise, slow movements. “Lessons with Nesta and Cass are going well. I visited the healers. They want me to show them some potion craft techniques.”

“That’s wonderful, Az! You’re sweet for offering.”

The words make him shiver. His name on her lips tended to do that, but today the feeling turned sour, twisting in his guts.

“I’m sorry I abandoned you these past few days,” Gwyn goes on. She does sound regretful, and the frustration and confusion of the past week bubbled up inside him as he slapped another pile of herbs down. “How can you just sit there and pretend things are normal between us?”

He swings his gaze to look at her, heart pounding. Her expression is unreadable, eyes large and guarded.

“Gwyn?”

She sits up, a frown creasing her brow.

“I told you I cared about you,” she half begs, half accuses. “And then after what happened at the party… you’ve been so distant.” He scrubs a hand over his face and takes a deep, calming breath. “Azriel, nothing has changed about the way I feel.”

Oh Mother, he’d known this was coming, had begged for it. Yet, now that she was here and confronting him he only wanted to run away.

“It’s just that I - I guess I assumed that you -“ she whispers and stops. “Have I done something wrong?”

This wasn’t right. His shadows writhe about, impatient, and Azriel attempts to get his heart rate under control.

“You haven’t,” he finally answers. “I have.”

“What?”

“I,” Azriel starts, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve convinced myself that I’m here as your peer, that we are friends - that pulling you into that corner was for the sake of the mission.” He witnesses the moment her walls come crashing down and hurt enters her gaze. “But I’m kidding myself if I thought I was being altruistic.”

Her expression is more than he can take. If he stopped now, could they still walk away friends?

“I made you hate yourself,” she almost sobs. “You were so uncomfortable, I didn’t think you wanted to touch me, that you just got caught up in the moment.”

“I don’t deserve to touch you, Gwyn.”

And there it was. The horrible truth of it. Gwyn blinks at him rapidly, fitting this new information into her view of the world and fighting back tears.

“Why would you ever think that?” She asked, tone growing frustrated.

“Why wouldn’t I?” He responds, voice ragged and needy. “After everything you’ve been through why would you want someone like me or anyone for that matter to touch you?”

“That isn’t fair.”

Azriel can’t breathe, can’t think, there’s only her. They watch one another, not able to look away. Shadows whip about his shoulders, pulling close all shadow from the corners of the room, nearly suffocating all light.

“It won’t happen again,” he says more to himself than her. “I won’t touch you again.”

“That’s not what I want,” she whispers the shock of her truth. “What are you really angry about, Az? What happened the other night? Or what didn’t happen?” She leans forward, tilting her head to the side. “Do you want me?”

Yes. He wants. He needs.

She leans in closer and he has to press back into his chair, their knees touching.

“Maybe I should just take what I want,” she considers, voice dropping in tone. “I could, couldn’t I.” Her hands glide from where they’d been resting on her knees to his, fingers spreading wide as she inches up his thighs. Her touch is light as she watches his face intently. “I bet,” she hums, the timbre of her song vibrating against his skin and his shadows tremble. “I could take my pleasure from you, Azriel and you would let me - take you until my name cries from your lips.”

She was right.

Yes, he wanted to say, please. Take me. Do what you want.

I’m yours.

But he couldn’t bring himself to say it, to admit to it, despite the evidence of his arousal that her hands were only a breath away from. He was fairly certain he could come just listening to her speak if she kept dancing her hands up along his legs.

“I won’t though,” she hisses, leaning in so far that her lips touch his ear and Azriel almost weeps at her denial. Her nails bite into the trousers covering his legs, pain warming across his thighs. “I won’t, because what I deserve,” she continues, crawling into his lap, legs on either side of him, “is to be chosen back. For you to choose me, with no hesitation and nothing holding you back.” Her hand moves to his hair, gripping his ebony curls in a tightly closed fist. “And if you decide that I am what you want,” she purrs and then bites his fucking jaw. The pinch of her teeth shoots straight to his cock and he shudders violently. “I’m going to make sure you beg for it.”

Before he can respond, before he can come back to reality, she’s up and striding out the door, shutting it loudly behind her. He’s alone, listening to her footsteps sounding down the hall. Painfully aroused and too emotionally numb to do anything but sit there wallowing in the aftermath.

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 13

The Spymaster & The Priest         A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

Over breakfast the next morning, Gwyn slaps Nesta’s hand away from her mug of tea without bothering to look. There was still an air of awkwardness between them and Azriel was thankful for Nesta’s lack of teasing on the matter.

“We know the warehouse was being run by smugglers who have been selling stolen and counterfeit goods,” Lady Death confirms. “Cass has worked out the details on a raid. With your information, it shouldn’t cause us any issues. I’m assuming you’ll want to interrogate them?”

Gwyn drums her fingers on the table, chewing thoughtfully on her breakfast as she considers Nesta’s words.

“Of course,” the spymaster confirmed. Azriel gulped his tea down trying not to think of what interrogating them implied. “Dida mentioned two books were sold to her, which did not include the book from the warehouse.”

“Yes,” Azriel agreed, sipping his tea. “We know of the other’s location. She sold the book before we got there.” He grabs the last pastry before Nesta can, who gives him a stabby, seething look.

“She sold it to the Lord of Ironcrest,” Gwyn followed up.

“Oh gods, that asshole?” Nesta groans, swiping one of Gwyn’s unguarded pastries. “Sorry, you’re never going to see that book again. First, he doesn’t like you or Rhys. Second, his estate is a fortress.”

“Such little faith,” Gwyn says cheerfully, unswayed by Nesta’s doubt. “He’s the kind of lord who spends lots of money, braggadocios-“

“Good word,” Nesta interjects.

“And paranoid. I think we’ll be fine,” Gwyn resolves, pouring more tea into Nesta’s mug.

“What’s the plan then?” Nesta replies.

“He’s hosting a gala,” Gwyn answers with a grin. “So we walk up to the front door and go in as guests.”

“A gala?” Azriel frowns. “Will there be other Illyrian lords there?”

“Yes, most likely,” Gwyn tells him. Their gazes meet, understanding growing between them. “I’ll get a guest list.”

His mother’s husband. Gwyn didn’t need to say it aloud. If his family was there, would they recognize him? It had been so long since he’d considered them at all. Azriel lets his thoughts wander and looks to the window, unsure how he felt about the matter. Anger, and violence - mostly.

“You’re going to look right at home at a fancy Illyrian dinner,” Nesta teases Gwyn. “There is no way he’s going to invite you. How will you overcome that?”

“Morrigan,” Gwyn offers with no further explanation. Nesta doesn’t seem to need one as she leans back in her chair with a speculative look.

“A diplomatic approach then,” Nesta says. “Yes, that might work.”

“I’ve already seen to it,” Gwyn continues, “Mor offered up her invitation and Emerie is helping with attire. I don’t want to risk their help beyond that.”

“Her invitation?” Azriel inquired. And did they mean The Morrigan? In the temples there wasn’t a priest who didn’t have a picture of her tucked away somewhere, or knew every one of her heroics during the war. Nesta and Gwyn turn to look at him with sharp smiles.

“She knows a lot of people and gets invited to just about everything,” Gwyn says. “Her ties to the Illyrian elite are purely diplomatic.”

“She has a way with them Cassian doesn’t,” Nesta murmurs.

They clear the dishes and gather their things before retreating upstairs to the library. Gwyn hums while she gathers up her notebooks, moving around the tables with sure steps. Nesta seems to have that affect on her and Azriel wonders, as he always does when he sees them together, about the strange feeling he gets. It wasn’t jealousy. Envy, perhaps?

As they make their way upstairs he wonders about the brothers he left behind in Velaris. Who had taken up his tasks? Had the weather been good to the kitchen gardens? Brother Cardic had once nearly keeled over and died when his cabbages had gone to rot due to early season rain one year.

“Here, take a look,” Gwyn says once they’d settled at the larger table in the center of the library stacks. She pushes a heavily gilded envelope to him, coming to stand at his shoulder to peer at the riot of penmanship.

“This is,” Azriel starts, opening the envelope with careful movements so as not to tear the delicate vellum.

“Hideous,” Gwyn offers.

“Ostentatious,” he adds.

“Overcompensating,” Nesta admits.

“And complicated,” he finishes, flipping over the invitation to inspect the quality of the paper.

It’s decent at best, thick enough for the ink to not bleed through, textured, but not archival quality. Azriel moves, brushing against Gwyn, as he walks to the window to examine the invitation in the spring sunlight.

Not just gilded, it was embossed with a family sigil. There was no watermark, to which Azriel was grateful. It did appear as if the vivid blue inks had lapis lazuli. It would be costly to replicate.

A tickling at the back of his neck alerts him that he’s being stared at. How long had he been squinting at this sheet of paper? Looking up he catches Gwyn and Nesta watching him with a bemused expressions, leaning against the table with arms crossed over their chests. He gulped.  

“What’s your verdict,” Gwyn asks. Azriel clears his throat. “Could you forge one just like it?”

“I can,” he admits. “But I will need to hang on to this invitation while I work.” The Valkyries nod in unison.

“He sure does know how to make himself useful,” Nesta says with a smirk.

“I’m quite pleased with him so far,” Gwyn responds in kind and Azriel lifts the invitation to peer at it more closely and hide his blush. “Why aren’t you and Cassian going? Were you not invit-“

“I’m honestly sad we weren’t,” Nesta cuts her off. “I so rarely get to see you dolled up, Gwyn, how could I pass up the chance to see you and your shadowsinger dancing with the biggest Illyrian babies these mountains have to offer?”

“Dancing,” Azriel interrupts. “Is that a requirement?”

“It is a gala,” Nesta explains as if it’s obvious, though her expression remains soft. “You’ll be noticed more for not participating.”

“Ah,” Azriel responds, swallowing. “We may have a problem then. I don’t know courtly dances.”

“I’ll teach you,” Gwyn and Nesta say at once, each a little too eager and Azriel takes a step back. They look at one another, eyebrows raising and glaring intently. He’s sure he’s witnessed some kind of warring dance.

“I will teach you,” Nesta says more firmly. “What are you doing for clothes?”

“We’ll figure something out,” Gwyn says. Nesta clutches her chest, saying a prayer and rolling her eyes.

“I’ll reach out to Emerie and see if she can help.”

“Has she returned from Velaris,” Gwyn asks excitedly.

“Not for a few days more,” Nesta confirms and the two smile at one another. “Regardless, you plan the details of your heist and I’ll plan the rest and you won’t complain about how Emerie dresses you.”

“I beg your pardon,” Gwyn gasps, offended. “I never complain about getting dressed up!”

“This is going to be fun,” Nesta muses more to herself than to either of them.  Lady Death’s gaze measure them both from head to toe. “How do you feel about blue, Az?”

“A good color. Works for the sea and sky most days,” he deadpans.

“We’ll need to shop for supplies,” Gwyn concludes.

“I’ll work with Emerie on fittings, you don’t have much time to make all this happen, but you’re in good hands at least,” Nesta says.  “As always,” Nesta drawled, standing. “Good luck.” She kisses Gwyn on the cheek, just shy of the corner of the spymaster’s mouth. Gwyn smiles. “I’m off with Cass to the war camps. I’ll catch up with you later.” She wraps an arm around Az’s shoulders before he has time to dodge the sudden affection.

“Nes-“ he sputters, batting her away as she attempts to pull him in for a hug. His shadows scramble, hiding against his wings. Laughing, she shashays away, out of the library, but not before tossing him a wink and obscene gesture over her shoulder.

They spend the remainder of the day in the printing district shops. Gwyn treats them to lunch after dragging him away from a specialty ink shop. Locating a gold leaf that would match the invitations tone was turning out to be more difficult. The gold of the Illyrian mountains tends to be more rosey, less green than what he’d brought with him from Velaris.

It’s almost evening when he staggers out of a parchment shop, his parcel heavy in his hands. Gwyn looks up from where she’s leaning against a neighboring wall, fingers clasped around his pendant at her collarbones. His shadows rise up to greet her to which she smiles broadly.

“Have everything?” She asks and he nods.

“Enough to get started,” he replies. Gwyn takes some of his parcels, lightening his burden. “Once I do some testing, I’ll be able to see if there’s anything else I might need.” He looks up at the sky, noting the position of the sun. “Thanks for waiting for me. I didn’t realize how long I was in there. You must have been bored.”

“Not at all,” Gwyn says. “It was fun watching you in your element.”

Those sea colored eyes gaze at him. You’re beautiful, he doesn’t say, keeping it beneath his tongue. He’s trapped there, in her gaze - kindness, affection, fondness and other things he wasn’t ready to unpack radiating from their depths.

“The rains are heading in,” she says suddenly, clearing her throat. “We should get back so we don’t get washed away.” Her practicality breaks the spell he’d been under and he nods.

“Seems wise,” he agrees.

The evening of the dinner arrived without the fanfare Azriel had been expecting. He’d been dancing with Nesta for most afternoons. She was as diligent and drilling as a dance instructor as she was at knife training. The spymaster had meticulously planned their alter egos, key to getting into the dinner without causing a panic. With the help of Nesta and Gwyn, Azriel could snap into Lord-mode at any moment.

Forging the invitation had been sinfully fun, and challenging. The Valkyries deeming it perfect. Still, he couldn’t shake his nerves. Had they forgotten any preparations? Would they be recognized? His biggest fear was that he would make a foolish mistake, make a choice that would end up getting him stabbed again or worse that Gwyn would decide to cut ties with him and send him back to the tower-

“Don’t borrow trouble.”

A warm hand lands heavily on his shoulder, giving him a rough squeeze. Azriel glanced at Cassian, who smiled at him gently. He was right. So long as he had Gwyn by his side they’d get through this together.

From the moment he’d gotten up this morning, they’d been separated into rooms. Scrubbed, primped, they’d been polished into the very image of Prythia nobility. There were many steps involved in readying for the dinner and it made sense why they’d gotten started so early.

Simultaneously luxurious and incredibly uncomfortable, a small army of attendants had surrounded him to trim his hair, buff his nails, and shape his brows. They’d dabbed a piney scented oil on his skin and tamed his hair into something other than a shock of blue-black curls.

After he’d been, in his opinion, aggressively styled, they were allowed a short break to eat only to have the attendants reappear to dress him in the garments Emerie had commissioned. There were jewelers too, rings, necklaces to replace his torque - all creative ways of placing his siphons upon him. Even the claws atop his wings were capped in gold, a drop of scarlet dangling like a drip of blood from each. Azriel had never worn such finery. At the end of it all a fae lord had stood before him in the mirror, dressed in navy and black silks embroidered with silver threads and trimmed in diamonds.

Gwyn emerges from another room, Nesta behind her. Azriel forgets to breath. He has seen the spymaster in many forms but never like this. It’s not better, just different. Softer and sharper all at once.

The silk of her gown clings to her body obscenely. The dark, evening sky blue makes her pale skin glow like starlight. Modest in cut though deeper than her normal garments, the neckline scoops. He makes a valiant effort to keep his eyes up. Her sleeves are long, matching silver embroidery along the cuffs. A dusting of something sparkles at her cheekbones and her hair is half up, half down, glittering with jeweled pins.

She twirls as she approaches, exposing the back, and Azriel nearly bites through his tongue. Where the neckline had been demure, the back cuts down all the way to her hips. Along her spine a silver column of jewelry with delicate silver chains keeps the fabric from pulling wide.

“What do you think?” She asks, delighted, swishing her skirts around and dropping into a curtsies. Cassian chuckles.

“You look amazing,” Azriel blurts before he can stop himself. Gwyn grins wide.

“As do you,” she replies, eyes roaming over him with an edge that makes him blush. “Do you want to know the best part?” She asks. He nods, unable to speak, throat dry. “I have three blades and a short sword beneath this thing.”

“Where?” Azriel demands, jaw dropping. He eyeballs her with suspicion.

“A secret,” she sing-songs, sliding a hand down the front of her dress, eyes darkening. “If you ask nicely and say please I might tell you.” Her accompanying wink lights a fire inside him and he struggles to keep his reaction hidden.

“If you’re ready,” Cassian says politely after a small cough. He’s looking between them warmly. Azriel composes himself and gives his arm to Gwyn.

“My Lady,” he says in his best lordly voice, inclining his head.

“My Lord,” she says back, making a perfect bow.

She sets her fingertips upon his arm and Azriel covers her hand with his own. Nesta circles them like a shark smelling blood in the water, eyes sharp and critical. Yet when she comes to a stop in front of them she looks satisfied.

“I think you’ll do,” she says, pleased with herself. “This is going to be delightful.”

“As you say,” Azriel mutters soberly.

“Good luck,” Cassian tells him with a wink and Azriel is suddenly worried there is more going on here than he realizes.

Without instruction, she steps toward him and his arms come up around her to winnow them closer to their destination. She smiles up at him as shadow dances up her sides. Azriel ignores their whispers, which are highly inappropriate.

The Lord of Ironcrest’s home is a sprawling estate. They lapse into silence, both emotionally preparing for the evening. Azriel takes a deep breath, shoulders expanding. The home grows more ostentatious sprawling winter gardens and deep fountains. Tucking her fingers into the crook of his arm, they march forward.

“We’ll get through this,” he murmurs more to himself but Gwyn’s fingers squeeze him.

“Together,” she echoes.

They have minutes till they’d be considered fashionably late, so he taps into his shadows sending them wide across the grounds, searching, exploring.

“It’s here,” he confirms. Gwyn nods.

“We stick to the plan. No one will suspect,” she tells him.

Azriel might have been the one to winnow them here but as he took a step forward into the courtyard he was no longer a priest of the three but a elite Illyrian Lord and visiting scholar from the southern camps. He turned to Gwyn and together they sweep into the evening air. Gliding into line with the other nobles, dressed in their spring finery awaiting entrance.

The forged invitation is tucked into Gwyn’s sleeve and Azriel resists the desire to pull it from her and double check for mistakes.

You’ve done your best, his shadows whisper.

He smirks. It was stellar work. Pretty damned perfect, actually. Pride washes over him and he allows it to sustain him into calm. As they reach the door, Gwyn hands over the gilded parchment as if their attendance should be obvious and she found this encounter tedious, a silly afterthought.

“Welcome,” the attendant at the door users them in with a low bow, “my Lady Lumiere and Lord Nocta.”

They make their entrance, only after they’ve gone a few steps beyond does Azriel release a held breath. They’d passed the first hurdle. He steels himself for the next, possibly the hardest part of their evening: socializing. With Illyrian nobility nonetheless.

A massive marble foyer leads directly into a similarly sized and ostentatious ballroom. Gwyn takes control of their direction and he shadows her as she steers away from the main dance floor. Azriel grabs a pair of flutes of glittering amber from a passing server and offers one to the spymaster.

She accepts, pressing against his side in guise of intimacy. Her glass clinks against his and they both take a drink.

“Let’s get a sense of things before we head into battle,” Gwyn says with mirth, throwing her head back and drinking down the remainder of her glass. “I can see food across the room.”

“Quality reconnaissance work you’re doing,” Azriel says, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He takes another sip from his glass.

“Did you know they make that with bubbles? I’ve always wondered how they manage it. I bet it’s expensive. Honestly, I don’t understand why else they’d be drinking it.”

“It does give that impression,” Azriel mumbled, glaring into his glass.

“We should circulate,” Gwyn says. “Once the dancing starts we could get something to eat.”

“Your priorities are intact, I see,” Azriel teases.

“Of course,” she says flatly. “I’m a fae of rather simple pleasures, I admit, and food is probably going to be the only thing enjoyable about this evening. So, I shall eat as much as this dress will allow.”

Azriel had no remark, fighting a battle with the grin upon his face. Glancing over the ballroom it reminded him of some of the contracts he taken on back in Velaris. Wealthy clients who demanded gold leaf and gemstone inks beyond good taste. The rooms florals had to have brought in from the souther lands, large and gaudy in color. Every yard of fabric in the room was embroidered with gold and silver thread to the point of being blinding.

Most of the attendees seemed to have better sense, their gowns and dress tunics making them almost dull by comparison. Musicians settle into their chairs, taking up the corner in the farthest reaches of the room. They would need to mingle long enough to not look suspicious when they made their way deeper into the house.

The orchestra strikes up, a song he’s not familiar with, and couples make their way to the main floor, whirling into motion. They stop at a table piled heavily with food. Bite sized, intricate offerings he doesn’t recognize, overflow from various plates. Peaches, dates, cheeses - all luxuries he was unfamiliar with. Not to mention most of it was out of season and Azriel wondered just how much the Lord of Ironcrest had paid for it all.

A young female across the table bites into an overly large berry, smiling at him. He smiles back. The grip on his arm tightens and Gwyn pulls him along the table. They munch, eyes darting here and there. The music eventually changes to something he knows and Gwyn looks up at him.

“We know this one,” she says. She’d confessed one afternoon after watching Nesta beat counts of eight into his head that she had a difficult time remembering the steps. “Come on, if we’re dancing we don’t have to talk to anyone.”

Valid.

It was one of the songs Nesta had drilled into him. As they made their way to the floor he realized he wasn’t nervous and pulls Gwyn into his arms setting a hand upon her waist. Okay, perhaps he was nervous, but it was for very different reasons. Nesta might have prepared him for dancing but there was nothing she could have done to prepare him for dancing with Gwyn.

The rest of the room fades away and its just the two of them, gliding across the floor, music distant. Her hair tickles his chin as she ducks beneath his arm to swing away. They crash back together like wave over rock, pressing them flush hips to chest. Azriel’s hand flexes against her back as he leads them into the next steps. She tips her head up and he finds himself lost in the watery depths of her gaze.

Gwyn doesn’t look away, just watches as he watches her. The hand on his shoulder slides further around, fingers tickling along the nap of his neck. He could feel her breathing, feel every twist and turn of her body as they wove and dipped. There was a hungry edge to her gaze that attempted (poorly) to hide from his own.

When the song ends, they remain. Gwyn presses against him, arms still wrapped around him. He can feel her rapid breathing against his torso. Her cheeks are flushed, teeth biting into her lip. The fingers at his nap trace along the collar of his tunic and he shudders, fingers gripping her tight.

Azriel has a dizzying hope that she will kiss him, claim him in front of all these fae and make him hers. He wanted it. Wanted her to assuage his fears - give himself over to her completely. He wanted her to take.

The band strikes up again, a song that was unfamiliar, and they move away. In an extreme act of will, he removes his hands from her.

“Let’s find the book,” Gwyn says, leaning to smell a large yellow blossom from a nearby bouquet.

It takes some time to triangulate the location of the book. They dance another song, this one fast, causing Gwyn to laugh as he spun her around the room and the book was momentarily forgotten. More guests had arrived, and they take the opportunity to slip into the gardens just beyond. The cool night air is welcome and Azriel reaches out for the book.

“This wing of the house,” he tells her, pointing his chin toward the direction of where they needed to head.

“Server entrances and passageways,” Gwyn suggests, eyeing a hidden door tucked into the side of the courtyard.

“Too busy,” Azriel warns, shadows alerting him to the activity beyond the door.

They go through the gardens instead. There was a crowd here too. A string quartet played artfully at the edge of a bubbling fountain. Fae light illuminated the pathways.

“There are more people here than we expected,” he confesses, worried they’d made a mistake.

“There are,” Gwyn agrees. “I’m sure at least one scandal will occur and give folks plenty of gossip. These parties always have far too much romantic lighting and dark corners to discourage such things.”

“Cauldron boil me,” Azriel groans.

The rustling from a nearby underbrush gives him pause and he glares at it with dire suspicion. Gwyn tugs him along, a warm smile gracing her face.

“At any rate,” she says, “we have an alibi if we get caught.”

“I’d prefer not to get caught.”

“This way,” Gwyn instructs, pulling them closer to an exterior wall.

There was no conveniently placed door to walk through. However, a partially opened window presented an opportunity. Gwyn pries it open further and they’re able to climb, careful of their garments, inside.

It looks like a sitting room, or parlor. Gwyn listens for a long time before moving in. Azriel allows his shadows to spill out before them, leading them to the book. This section of the estate is quiet and they slip through the hallways, finally reaching a door as his shadows dance.

“This is it,” he tells her.

“Lovely,” she answers.

It’s a study. A large, leather topped desk sat in the center of the room anchored by two large chairs. Shelves of books line the walls. It takes no time at all to find the volume they’re looking for. Its hardcover and stiff spine warm beneath his fingers. He pulls it from the shelf, thumbing through the pages before handing it to Gwyn with a nod. She tucks it inside her skirts and he’s boggled at how such magic worked.

They were just turning back to the door when Azriel froze. Gwyn freezes beside him. She hears it too, the voices and steps coming down the hall. Their eyes dart around the room, looking for a way out.

“Hide us,” Gwyn breaths, whirling on him, eyes flashing in the dark.

The voices grow louder. He yanks her to him, pulling into the corner behind the door. Gathering umber around them, covering them completely in dark, Azriel stops breathing. And waits.

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 12

The Spymaster & The Priest       A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

Azriel wakes slowly. Dawn edges its way through the covered window. Light was stubborn that way, intent on filling up space and making itself known. As he leaves his nightmares of cold stone and shadowed monsters lurking in dark corners - the softness of the bed beneath him comes into focus. It's enough to make him fight consciousness, attempting to dive back into cozy sleep.

He drifts for a while, barely aware. Minutes or hours could have passed before his awareness grew sharper. The inside of his mouth is so dry he regrets waking immediately. Eyes dry too, and with great effort he disentangles one hand from the blankets to rub at his face. Blinking, he squints up at the ceiling, a ceiling he recognizes. This is the room in Gwyn's apartment. How did he get here?

"Az."

Gwyn's face swims into view above him. He blinks at her.

"You're awake! Thank the Mother."

She looks unwell, worried. Her normally bright eyes are dark, tired. He opens his mouth to ask what's wrong but instead coughs. Oh shit. That hurts terribly. His abdomen is on fire and he curls up around the pain, trying to suppress further coughing. Wheezing miserably, his mind whirls, memory flooding back. He'd been stabbed.

"Careful, Azriel," Gwyn murmurs, running a hand up and down his back, between his wings, to soothe his cough. He realizes he's not wearing a shirt. Her fingers trail over his exposed shoulders. Something deep settles within him at the warm touch of her skin against his and for several long moments he just breathes. Back and forth, her touch moves across him. "Breathe, it'll pass. Just breathe."

Azriel does as her voice commands, concentrating on bringing air into his lungs, feeling the way it pulled at his chest and shoulders. They sit like that for some time, Azriel focused on breathing and Gwyn's whispered encouragements. The pain in his side subsides.

"Better?" She asks, to which he nods. "I'm going to help you sit up. Try to keep your muscles loose. It will pull more and hurt more if you engage your abdomen."

He nods again and Gwyn gently helps lift him to a sitting position. He uses the strength in his upper body to reduce overall movement. Her hands don't leave him, lingering at his shoulders and arms, gently touching him as if reassuring herself that he's real. Gazes colliding, she looks terrified, like she hasn't slept in days. He couldn't remember a time he'd ever seen her in such a state.

"Stay here," she says, as if he were capable of anything else, and rushes across the room to pour steaming liquid into an empty mug. She returns to sit next to him on the bed, hip to hip. "Drink," she commands.

It's a bit difficult to hold the mug on his own, so her hands cup his to help support. He drains the contents. Chicken broth, rich and fatty. Azriel realizes he's not just incredibly thirsty, but also starving. He finishes the mug in a series of gulps. Before he can ask for more, Gwyn is up and refilling. The second serving he drinks slower and with his own strength.

Gwyn doesn't leave his side, sitting next to him, hands absently twisting in her lap. When the mug is done, she replaces it with a clean one full of tea. the pain in his side has mostly dulled.

"I remember the fight," he starts, voice hoarse. He takes another sip of tea. "I remember winnowing out, but then I remember blood and nothing else."

She nods, pressing further into his uninjured side and soaks up the contact the same way he'd devoured the broth. It eases the gnawing hunger behind his ribs, quiets the noise that so often fills his mind.

"You blacked out," she confirms, voice soft, "and I winnowed us here." Well that explained why she looked so tired. Winnowing long distances was exhausting and took time to recover from. "A healer helped speed things up, but you lost a lot of blood. Only rest can help with that."

Azriel takes a long sip from his mug before holding it out to her. Gwyn takes it and sets it aside. He pulls down the blankets to look at the damage. A thick bandage runs from his hip bone up to the bottom of his ribs. He's too tired and shocked by the sight of it to worry about Gwyn seeing him undressed, though part of him makes a note to be humiliated by it at a later time, just because. He does note that he's wearing soft pants and to that he is thankful for the small mercy. He runs a hand over his side, gently, feeling out the wound beneath the bandage. It's mostly healed, a deep soreness aches, but otherwise it feels good.

"Can you help me take the bandage off?" He asks. "How was it treated?"

It's easier for him to detach from the moment, focusing on something tangible rather than internalizing that he could have died. No, it wasn't time to think on that just yet. His shadows coil and tighten.

"Washed, stitched, and coated with healing salve," Gwyn answers. "They kept you asleep with tonics for the first couple of days. You lost so much blood," she repeats.

Azriel leans forward, keeping himself up by pushing back against the headboard with his wings. Gwyn unwinds the strip of cloth wrapped around his middle, holding the bandage still. Her movements are quick. When its gone, he settles back onto the mattress again.

"Let's soak it off," Gwyn suggests.

He nods. while he healed faster than a mortal could, it didn't mean his wound hadn't scabbed over and was stuck against the bandage. The process still remained mostly the same, just amplified. Gwyn returns with a very wet cloth, handing it to him. Azriel pushes it up against he wound, picking up his mug and sipping the rest of the tea as he waits for the bandage to soften.

It's quiet in her little study. Azriel's eyes linger upon her collection of books, nothing fancy, a small collection of hardbacks that looked worn and loved. A faceted stone hangs in the window, catching the light that slipped through and throwing it back upon the walls in colorful rays. He wonders at why she hadn't insisted on his space - when the embassy was large and clearly had enough rooms. Everything felt strange, despite the quiet. Gwyn fidgeted, a rare physical manifestation of her nerves. She takes the cloth from him a few times to re-wet it.

Tugging the wet bandage away, Azriel is satisfied when it peels easily from his side, catching only once or twice on thick patches of dried blood. Gwyn takes the dirty clothes away, returning with a fresh one to wash around his wound with gentle, careful touches. Finally, Azriel can see the damage.

It's fine, he thinks, emotions far away. A long slash, starting at his hip, ran up and across his stomach. Gut wounds were dangerous, and yet here he was alive, a testament to the healers. He frowns, considering what he knew.

"How long was I out?" He asks Gwyn, voice a deep whisper.

"Three days," she managed evenly.

That explains a bit. He blinks. The scar a clean, bright pink scratch down his side.

"I owe the healers my thanks," he says.

"Of course," Gwyn agrees.

She'd gone across the room to fetch a kit. Placing it upon the bed side table, she pulls out a cleaning wash and healing ointment. Cracking the seals on both, she hands them to him. Were her hands shaking? Azriel looks up at her.

Gwyn, to put it simply, looks as if she were seeing ghost. Her eyes on the pale scar that stood out in such contrast to his darker skin tone. As she drops her hands back to her sides, he can see her fingers trembling. Azriel reaches for her, wrapping his fingers around hers and squeezing. She pulls away sharply and he barely has a moment to hide his shock.

"Are you hungry?" she asks.

Had he imagined it? Her voice was so steady...

"Yes," he answers in truth.

Gwyn brings him more broth and a large slice of bread with butter. He drains two mugs of broth before finishing the bread in a few bites. Half the loaf is eaten before he's sated. With that need taken care of, Azriel's other physical necessities become apparent. He swings his legs out of the bed as Gwyn puts the healers kit and meal stuffs away.

"Take it easy-" she says, placing down things before rushing over to support him.

His legs takes his weight, but he's thankful for her support as they leave her apartment, limping toward the bathroom. He perches at the edge of the tub while she collects him some clean clothes.

"If you need anything, just call out. I'll hear." Her blue-green eyes touch on every inch of him, lingering at the scar. "Promise," she demands and the word breaks his heart.

"I promise, Gwyn," he tells her, mouth dry and she nods, eyes fluttering and pulls the door shut leaving him alone.

It was too much. there was too much in her weighted stare, too much in the trembling of her hands. Azriel pushes it away, writes it all down in little notebooks to be stored away in a dark part of his mind. The same place he'd tuck away almost dying. The same place his own feelings lay rattling against the dark.

Azriel shimmies out of his trousers, tossing them aside before turning on the water. He climbs into the tub, sitting backwards so that he could lean his head under the cascade of the hot springs tap. Reaching for the scissors that Gwyn had left atop his clothes, he decides to remove the stitches. It didn't feel particularly great. Fresh blood trickles down his side. He washes, rinsing the water out now and again. Finally clean, he sprawls beneath the tap, luxuriating in the warmth.

What are you avoiding, shadowsinger, his shadows whisper along his neck.

Reluctantly he turns off the water. He couldn't lay there forever. Drying and dressing, he manages to leave the bathroom in relatively good shape. He returns to Gwyn's rooms, not bothering to knock as he entered. She'd changed the bed linens and remade up the room. Sitting at the edge of the bed, head bowed, hands tucked under her thighs, feet drumming against the floor, the spymaster looks up at as he enters.

"Better?" she asks with a small smile.

"Much," he says, and after a beat, "Are you ok, Gwyn?"

Something was very off, even his shadows seemed concerned, scattering about the room in search for answers. It was worrying him.

"I'm fine," she answers. "You should probably sit. I asked for a healer to come up and take another look at you."

Exhaustion weighs his wings down and he does as he's told. Climbing back into the clean bed, Gwyn watches as he settles back against the headboard, eyes sharp. He opens his mouth to ask again if she's alright, because it's clear to him that she is not, but her voice cuts him off.

"Azriel, if you ever do anything so foolish as take a blade meant for me ever again, I-" She's not looking at him, staring at the floor instead. "Don't ever do that again. Do you understand?"

He doesn't. Hadn't she said he'd fought well? Should he have let the smuggler run her through?

"I was only trying to help-"

"You nearly died," she cries out at him.

Azriel presses back against the pillows, taken aback. Not once had he ever heard her raise her voice to another, not even to those assholes in the barn so many nights ago. Hands fisted at her sides; Gwyn takes a deep breath.

"You lost so much blood, Az," she repeats, voice flat. She still won't look at him. "The healers did all they could. They stopped giving you tonics after the second night, but you still didn't wake up. I thought I was going to lose you."

"I'm sure you could find another priest," he attempts to tease her, but it's very clear in the way her head snaps up and eyes meet his that now was not the time for sarcasm.

"There is no other priest, Azriel," she snarls between her teeth, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. "I don't care about other priests, or the damn books." She gasps a sob and covers her face with shaking hands. "I don't want you to die! I care about you, you're life."

"Gwyn-"

"For three days, I thought you were going to die - this fae I've come to care about... Three days," she sobs and feels each of her words like a blow to the chest. "I can't go through that again. I can't."

Azriel reaches forward, tugging her down atop the bed until she's pressed against him, her arms wrap around him. Closing his eyes, he wraps himself around her too, pressing his cheek against the top of her head. Today has been a very strange day, he decides, rubbing circles against the spymaster's back. He watches the light move beyond the window, shadows shifting upon the walls. Having cried herself out, Gwyn pulls away from him. A viciously selfish impulse to keep her in his arms flares through him, his shadows chase after her.

"I'm sorry," she says, looking small. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"I could have made different choices," Azriel insists. "I'm sorry for what you've been put through."

Gwyn sniffs and without thinking of the boundaries he'd once set upon himself; he pulled her back into another embrace. She curls against him, pressing her forehead against his neck.

"I'm also sorry for making a mess all over your clean shirt," she says quietly, picking at the wet spots on his tunic. Azriel huffs a laugh, easing the tension from the room.

"I suppose crying all over my shirt makes us true friends," he says.

"Then you've fallen for my trap," she says, a quiet laugh pressing against his skin. "Now that you've let me snot all over your tunic, you'll never be rid of me."

He laughs again, louder this time, ready to add to her joke, but she sits up. Gwyn's gaze wanders his face, open and sincere and he's suddenly very afraid of what she might have to say next, what she hasn't said already. She looks frightened, admonished. Today has been too much already and whatever more she desired to confess he wasn't sure he could bare.

"You should rest," she says instead. Azriel nods.

"Okay," he answers.

She smiles at him and gets up. As she strides across the room, his shadows reach for her, spilling across the floor as she made her way to the door. Like the swirling ocean, his own confessions bubble to the surface, frothing and warring to be heard. Azriel, unable to stop himself, calls after her just as the door is clicking shut.

"Gwyn." She pauses, hair glowing in the light. His heart pounds in his chest, too fast, too loud. "Thank you," he says finally. His shadows deflate, as does whatever confessions he'd been about to make. She smiles at him, softer this time.

"Always," she says and shuts the door with a click.

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 11

The Spymaster & The Priest     A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

"I don't like this," Gwyn admits, peering through the drizzling rain at the warehouse. "There is too much activity."

She frowns and drums her fingers along the short sword strapped to her thigh. Across the way men carry crates in and out of open doors, loading items to and from wagons. If it had been day, this would all be normal. Yet it well into the night and the workers were moving quickly, quietly in the dark. Even Azriel could tell their actions were illicit.

"The book is still in the warehouse, as suspected," Azriel offers, concentrating on the dialog his shadows fed him. "Should we wait them out? They can't spend all night doing this."

They'd already been out here for hours, flitting from one shadowed corner to another until Azriel could get an accurate reading on which warehouse stored one of the stolen books. They were hiding behind a large pile of pallets leaning against another building, trying to stay dry as they scouted.

"Your instincts are good," Gwyn says absently, chewing at her bottom lip. "How close do we need to be for you to accurately pinpoint where the book is located inside the warehouse?"

They're crouched together, her shoulder leaning against his companionably, making him warm. They're in no danger of freezing, but the spring rains and evening mountain air made it chilly.

"If we get around the other side of the building I can pinpoint a general area, whether its on the ground floor or above," Azriel says. He leans out to peer at the warehouse. Gwyn touches his shoulder, pulling him back.

"Let's hold out for a bit longer and see if we can make moves," Gwyn says, settling back against the wall behind them. "I don't want to pick a fight with that many smugglers even in a fair fight. Based off what we've learned they're a pretty nasty group."

"Curious," Azriel starts, "what do you consider a fair fight?"

"Oh." His question catches her off guard. He watches as she calculates on her fingers and a thoughtful expression settles upon her face. "Ten or twelve," she finally answers. "A fair fight is more like six." She leans out, checking the progress of the smugglers and scowls into the rain before settling back.

"Good to know," Azriel mutters.

"How many do you count?"

"About twenty," he muses.

"Let's hope your right and they leave after loading these wagons."

They lapse back into silence for another long stretch, occasionally peeking out into the wet gloom. Finally a crate thumps onto the remaining wagon and the horses clop off into the distant dark. The warehouse doors swing shut, groaning loudly into the night. Rain is the only sound left.

"Thank the Mother," Gwyn groans, standing and shaking out long legs. "I can't feel my feet. I hate stakeouts." She leans down to help him up. Azriel hisses as the blood flows back into his lower extremities. The next few minutes they spend stretching and swearing.

"All right," he says. "with me."

Gwyn steps closer and Azriel pulls shadow around them. Together they rush across the open paths between warehouses, keeping close to the walls and dodging the light. The building windows are high up, impossible to look in unless one scaled the side of the building. A good thing, as unless someone leaned out to look into the night, they would remain unseen.

"Okay," Gwyn whispers. "Let's find the book."

She draws her sword and holds ready, eyes alert and moving, watching. Azriel takes a moment to calm his racing heart and pulls his shadows tighter, listening. He catches whispers, fixing in on the location, and he takes a deep breath.

"Let's circle," he whispers back.

They silently prowl back and forth along the warehouse wall until Azriel feels confident of the location. Huddling beneath a window, he pulls his wings around them, keeping the chill away.

"The book is on the other side of this wall," he confirms. "What's next?"

"We don't know how many are in inside," Gwyn warns, looking up. "Could you winnow inside without them noticing? Get a sense of what we're dealing with?" Azriel looks up at the window, swallows, and nods.

It is little effort to pull his shadows closer still, Gwyn's luminous eyes watching him, shrouded and hard to read. Several terrifying seconds later, he was inside the warehouse, just under the window.

"All right," he whispers to her through shadow. "Two fae are patrolling the stacks. Five up front near the door."

Azriel remains still, minutes passing as he memorizes the movements of the men inside. At the same time he searches for the book, shadow scattering through the warehouse. There it is! The book they were searching for was barely visible, wrapped in leather and buried inside a crate. Azriel takes a moment to be offended by the storage conditions. It was shameful.

"I've got eyes on the book," he sends her. "Coming out."

Back outside, leaning against the wall, Gwyn waits patiently. She pushes away when he solidifies before her.

"I can snatch the book before they notice," Azriel suggests.

"I don't know," she whispers, jaw ticking. "I don't like the idea of you going back inside alone."

"I can do this," he insists. "I used to sneak into the Tower kitchens after hours and no priest ever caught me." Gwyn's mouth twists but she doesn't fully smile. "I'll stay in shadow. They won't see me."

"You're sure you can avoid the patrol? Get back out safely?"

"I can winnow out once I have the book. The only risk is the lap above the crate where the book is stored. It could expose me if they look at the wrong moment," he confesses. The light wouldn't breech his shadows, but he would appear a dark blot against an otherwise normal warehouse.

"Hmm," the spymaster hums, thinking, worrying. Before long, Gwyn nods. "Then we combine forces. You winnow in and I'll make a distraction to get their attention away from you. Once you've got the book, shadow whisper and I'll make a run for it. Yes?"

"Yes," Azriel agrees.

Gwyn stares at him for a moment, concern frowning her brow.

"Be careful," she says, voice thick. "Don't take risks. Get out safe. Promise?"

"Promise, Gwyn," he whispers, gazing down at her.

In the long moment they watch one another, Azriel reflects at how very different his life was in this very moment. He'd never imagined his path would have led him here. The worry in Gwyn's expression makes him determined to train further, be better, be more. Shadows swirls around them, between them, and Azriel blinks from sight.

Back in the warehouse, Azriel expands his shadow's reach, watching specifically for the patrol. Outside, Gwyn moves back to the front of the warehouse. The patrol in question was on the other side of the warehouse. Good. Pressing himself between stacks, careful of his wings, Azriel darts toward where the book - a slip of ink in the murky light.

Shadows retreat slightly and he pauses, listening, before sliding closer. Sheltered from casual view, he reaches into the crate for the book. It's been stored out in the open, dusty and swollen with humidity. Otherwise it was in good condition. Just as Azriel was shoving the book into his pack, a pounding on the door makes him jump, grazing his wings on the light hanging above.

"Oye! Where are you, yeh bastard. You owe me money."

It's muffled, but he recognizes Gwyn's voice carrying through the closed door and into the warehouse. She kicks against the door , the knocking echoing throughout the space. Her words are slurred as she continues to call out, seemingly intoxicated.

Azriel makes his way back to where he'd winnowed in, ready to slip back outside, but the patrol now stands beneath the window in plain sight. He freezes, pulling his wings and shadows tight around him.

"Oye! Jasper!" Gwyn calls out, using the name Dida had identified as her book seller. "Where's my money! There's a crashing sound as one of the warehouse doors crashes into the interior wall. "Come out! Don't be a coward."

The patrol turn to look at one another. One steps close to where Azriel is wrapped in dark umber. He listens feverishly, pressing himself as far back as he can without movement drawing their eyes.

"How does she know Jasper?"

"Doesn't matter, she's going to draw attention to us," the other hisses. "Shut her up," he seems to call out to others.

"Get her inside," someone in the front growls. "Kill her and the problem is solved."

Azriel is trapped. If he winnows, they will notice the draw of power. If he doesn't get out soon, the smugglers were sure to pounce upon Gwyn and she would also be stuck to fight her way out.

Gwyn's voice rings out again, this time inside the warehouse. Fuck. The patrol turns toward the sound and Azriel uses their distraction to distance himself further, moving back into the crates. If he winnowed now, he'd be leaving her behind. She wasn't in danger. Not yet. A vicious grip tightens his chest. Keeping his wings close, he shifts carefully through the stacks of crates and makes his way toward her.

"Come in, lady," one of the smugglers calls out in false welcome. "We're waiting on Jasper to return before we start loading up the last of these crates. Had to take a piss, you see. He'll be right back."

"Don't come inside any further," Azriel pushes to her desperately. "They're going to attack you. Two have blades drawn." He doesn't wait for a sign of acknowledgement. He darts between more stacks. Up ahead he can see her in the doorframe.

"Don't play coy," she slurs at the smugglers. She takes a step inside and Azriel silently curses. Hidden in the shadow of the doorway, a figure takes a step out, putting him right behind her, pushing her further into the warehouse.

Quick as lightening, Gwyn turns, body twisting as if she were boneless. She fists the smugglers shirt and yanks him forward, throwing a foot back to catch her weight. He staggers, the others stumbling for their swords. The spymaster follows through her turn, feet on either side of the fallen smuggler, sword pressed to his throat.

"You're not being very nice," she confesses. "You have something in this warehouse that belongs to me. I won't be leaving without it."

They freeze. Azriel included. The rain could be heard pelting against the roof. His heart beats wildly in his chest. A Carynthian stood before them, a goddess of her own making.

"There are five up front, including the one beneath your blade," he whispers to her. "Three have drawn blades now, the other two at the ready. There are two patrol behind me in the stacks."

"There is no need for violence, spymaster," the bravest of them says, recognition a lightening shock between the smugglers. "Surely we can come to an agreement?" The others murmur, agreeing, and the spymaster's eyes flash bright in the swinging overhead lights. One of the smugglers step towards her and she snaps her sword up and into their direction, though her eyes haven't moved from the one speaking.

"Now, now," she scolds. "Steady, boys. I'd rather not have to slit your friends throat." Her gaze scans the room, catching here and there against the darkness. "Make me an offer."

Azriel takes advantage of her distraction to move closer, remaining hidden. He squeezes between another stack of crates to expose the scene unfolding. Gwyn in resplendent in the lamplight, tall and self assured. She's half surrounded, smugglers tense, their hands on their weapons. The door behind her remains open. He searches the shadows for the wandering patrol.

"Why don't you start by telling us what it is you think we have that belongs to you?"

"I'm here," Azriel projects. "The patrolmen are approaching from the back."

Her gaze sweeps quickly, landing directly on him for the barest of moments before swinging around, giving nothing away. Azriel tenses, ready to run to her side. Shadows hiss, movement catches his eye. The patrolmen weren't just approaching from behind, but they'd climbed atop the crates, crossbows drawn and aimed at Gwyn.

"Crossbows," Azriels cries out in warning. Pushing shadow far and wide he floods the warehouse in darkness.

The smugglers curse, a skittering of arrows going wide off target.

Chaos breaks loose.

The patrolmen became the least of Azriel's concerns. A smuggler approaches cautiously, eyes blinking against the dark, adjusting, knife aimed directly at him. He grabs their wrist, pulling him forward, and Azriel crashes his forehead into the shorter Illyrian's face. He trips him, pulling the smuggler to the ground, crushing his wings beneath him before Azriel delivered a quick, hard kick to the head with the heel of his boot.

It's objectively horrifying, Azriel realizes, blood splashing against his front. His emotions feel very far away somehow, and he watches the smuggler collapse, unconscious. Behind him Gwyn duels three at once, catching their swords with hers and easily knocking them back and to the side, dodging and attacking in what would look like a dance without the weapons. A line of blood along her cheek drips red down her jaw. Behind her another charges, weapon drawn.

Azriel winnows, grabbing the weapon and yanking it free of the smugglers grasp. He barrels into Azriel's middle, knocking him back a step. Flaring his wings wide, Azriel keeps upright. This smuggler was larger than the last but his technique was sloppy.

He grabs the male by the throat with a single hand, squeezing until the smuggler drops his blade. Azriel shoves him back, hooking a foot around his ankle, throwing the male off balance and onto his back. The patrol had joined the fight, crossbows dropped and swords drawn. The cut on Gwyn's cheek was already healed.

"Come to me," he sends her. Jewel toned eyes crash into his and she darts toward him, fast as light. He reaches out, yanking her to him, and gathers shadow. As he winnows them out of the warehouse, he throws out a dark umber to scatter and blind the smugglers further.

Outside they make a mad dash between warehouses. The smugglers spill into the empty street, swords drawn, looking frantically. They've reached a safe distance away before Gwyn stops, tucking them beneath a dark overhang.

"You're amazing," she rushes to tell him, wincing at a cramp in her side. "I'm sorry. I got impatient and went inside. I didn't want to leave you-"

"You were perfect, Gwyn," he argues. She beams at him, face smeared with blood.

Azriel returns her smile, stumbling back as her face blurs. Gwyn rushes forward, catching him before he can hit the ground. He grunts in pain, her arm around his midsection unbearable. Struggling to get to his feet, he braces against her, wings pushing against the ground to steady him. Azriel puts a hand against his side and hisses.

"Az," Gwyn worries. "Azriel, where are you hurt?"

He pulls his hand away, wet and hot. Is that his blood? Azriel blinks at the sticky blood on his fingers. Gwyn has gone pale, gaze growing wild. He pushes away from her, looking down at himself, wobbling a little. There's a whole in his leathers framed in a dark wet stain. Blood pours down his side, pooling at the ground beneath his feet.

"Fuck," Azriel says flatly.

Everything goes black.

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 10

The Spymaster & The Priest     A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

By the end of the week Azriel regrets all of his choices that led him up to agreeing to train with Lady Nesta. He's sore, so sore, all the time. Everywhere. The one thing that makes it tolerable is that he's kept busy and thus has little time to think of Gwyn. She's been pulled into meetings with the General on most days.

Cassian has proven to be a friendly influence. He often joined his mate in their trainings and Azriel often found himself in awe at where he was. The General showed him around the camps, where the best street foods could be found, and he tries to recall a time in which Azriel felt more at ease.

It was getting warmer, and he'd taken to wearing loose woven shirts, with the ties undone at the neck. Cassian had taken him to Emerie's original tailor’s shop and Azriel'd been proud to make purchases with his own coin.

At next dawn he wakes slowly, more leisurely than he would have allowed himself in the past. He rolls out of bed and dresses quickly, running hand through disobedient, morning curls. In their common space, Gwyn sits upon the couch, a book resting in her lap. The buttery, gold sunrise lightens her contented face.

"Hey, you," she greets quietly, looking up as he comes out of his room.

"Hi," he says back, taking pause to relish the moment.

Azriel stretches, twisting at his waist. Gwyn watches him, expressionless. He settles on the couch beside her, leaning back against the soft cushions.

"What's your day like," he asks, hoping for something though he's not sure what. He realizes he misses her, misses these quiet moments like they'd shared while traveling. His shadows vibrate in agreement.

"It's a rest day," she explains, shutting her book and leaning back against the couch, turning her face to his. Her shoulder presses against his. Azriel finds he has no desire to look away from her fathomless teal eyes. "I thought we could get back to the Mystery of the Missing Books," she says with dramatic flourish.

"Good title," he remarks. Gwyn smiles at him, brighter than the sun.

After breakfast they made their way to the library with a small entourage. Nesta, Cassian, and a few of his higher ranked advisors followed, wanting to see the "sweet-ass shadowsinger shit," as Nesta put it. It had been almost a month since he'd first begun tracking them.

"Ready with our notes?" He asks Gwyn, summoning his shadow with concentrated effort and intent.

"Ready," she confirms, waving a small notebook stuffed with vellum at him.

She settles beside him at the large table centered in the library's main room. The others stood around th the table, curious and attentive.

Azriel took a deep breath and focuses his will on the last known locations of the books on the list. His shadows darken, grow larger. Through them he connects to the world unseen by anyone else in this room. Shadow existed in all places, and nothing could hide from him.

As he recites what he hears, Gwyn takes notes. Cassian and Nesta roll out maps, marking the locations. The final book continues to fight him, hidden and spiteful. Azriel pushes, catching only bits of detail, nothing that would serve as evidentiary proof of its whereabouts.

"You can track anything like that?" Cassian asks, placing another marker upon the map.

"I can," Azriel replies.

"And you could listen for anything? Anyone?" The General continues.

"I-" Azriel starts.

"Enough," Gwyn interrupts with a wave of her hand. "Now get out so that we can plan." She ushers them from the library, leaving Azriel momentarily alone with the smell of books and wax. She shuts the door with a loud click and returns to him.

"Where should we start?" He asks. "We can put together enough of these clues to know where they are specifically. We could focus on the ones here."

The war camps were huge, split into two. He'd caught glimpses of their size from the sky, but seeing it laid out onto parchment made them seem all the bigger. Gwyn steps up next to him. His wings tuck in close so that she might stand close, her hip grazing his. She consults their notes, seemingly oblivious, purposefully aloof.

"The nearest one is located here," she points to the map, "which is the paper milling district. It's probably a book shop of some kind, which shouldn't be hard to find. There aren't many. One is in a suspiciously affluent area, so maybe someone's personal collection. The last... what you described sounded like a warehouse or storage facility. That one could be tricky. Let's get the one in the printing district first, it's an easy walk from here. You could tell me about the other books while we walk?"

She steps away and begins rolling the map and he keenly feels the loss of her warmth. He helps put the map away, scarred fingers brushing hers as they tie it with twine.

"Do they hurt?" She asks. Azriel shakes his head.

"During the dry seasons my skin gets tight," he says with a shake of his head. "Nothing I would call painful."

"How long did it take to heal?"

"Years," he admits without shame. "Learning to make a fist again, or to hold a quill for that matter, was... challenging." She regards him with a warm expression, thoughtful.

"You deserved better," she whispers. All he could do is nod.

"Let's go hunting," he says finally and the spymaster gives him a lazy smile.

They criss-cross the milling the district for a good portion of the afternoon, triangulating and following whispers of conversation that still clung to the shadows. Azriel's gaze falls upon a bookstore, the sign above the door reads "Dida's Rare Books". An orange cat sits in the window. He approaches slowly, thoughts honed. His shadows whisper along his neck and he lets out a sigh of relief.

"This is the one," he tells Gwyn, pulling back on his intent. Shadow settles around his shoulders lazily.

Together they enter the shop. A bell above the door chimes as they walk in and Azriel is simultaneously delighted and terrified by the interior. There are books everywhere; stacks upon the ground, piled into overstuffed shelves. More books that should be allowed in a single room.

Overall the shop was clean, just cluttered. Some of the higher shelves have an obvious layer of dust and the cataloging system, Azriel observes, started out with good intentions but got lost along the way. Another cat, this one white and grey, raises its heads from a pile of books against the wall and meows at him sleepily. He leans down to pat its head.

"Aha," Gwyn chimes, gesturing to a glass case at the back of the store.

Azriel abandons the cat, who peers up at him, affronted, batting at his shadows as he turns away. Just inside the case the book they're looking for leans alongside several volumes of folktales. Amongst the tooled leather covers, he spots more than a few familiar volumes. Including a rather salacious illuminated text on Illyrian sexual positions.

"That's the one," Azriel confirms as the curtain separating the shop from the back room parts, a stooping, elderly fae limps over, leaning heavily on a cane.

From first sight, Azriel can see that her wings are clipped, scarred so badly she couldn't fly. He wondered at her limp, thoughts of his mother coming to the forefront of his mind. Illyrians were well known for their mutilation practices and the subjugation of the feminine sex.

"Welcome," she greets, beaming at them, eyes sharp and clear, set deep in her wrinkled, brown face. "Straight to the rarest of my collection, I see. Good. I love a customer with good taste."

"Dida, I presume," Gwyn responds, giving an elegant half-bow to the owner. "I'm Gwyneth, this is my partner, Azriel. You have a lovely shop." At the sound of Gwyn's voice the orange cat from the window jumps upon the counter, shoving its head under Gwyn's hand and purrs loudly. She pets it, scratching between its ears. The shadows tucked between his wings bristle in annoyance.

"You're too kind," Dida says, settling onto a stool. "I've been having a bit of trouble keeping up with it all these days, but I still take pride in knowing I keep the best stock. What can I help you with?"

For his part, Azriel remains silent. At least, that's what he should be doing, right? What does one do when recovering stolen goods? Perhaps he should glare at Dida more.

"That one," Dida cries with excitement and leans across the counter. "Its a genuine illuminated text by the priests of the three. Older than the two of you I'd wager. Very nice work. In good shape. It's been in the shop for a few months. No one seems to appreciate it the way I do. You have an interest in magical creatures?"

"I do," Gwyn answers, leaning over to examine the cover. The orange cat rubs its face against the side of her head and she pats it companionably. Azriel's shadows are in full revolt. "You haven't had it very long, then? May I ask how you came to procure it?"

"You can ask," Dida says with a shrug, "but I don't have to tell you. This old Illyrian has to keep some of her secrets. I'm sure you understand. Especially when she wishes to maintain her reputation as the premiere rare books dealer." She winks at Azriel and he decides he likes her courage despite being a book thief. He glances at Gwyn, who has picked up the cat is rocking it like an infant.

"And if I told you that tome was stolen from a shipment meant for the university in Velaris, and we've been hired to recover it, what would you say?" Gwyn asks, cheerful and friendly, snuggling against the orange tabby. Azriel glances between the fae nervously. The old shopkeepers expression doesn't change but her gaze has grown sharper, and the tap of her cane more persistent.

"I might tell you," she begins to explain, "that one of my suppliers is a big liar who swore that he came about the book honestly, when their previous owner died. Claimed to pick it up in an estate sale, had the paperwork and everything."

"Likely forged," Gwyn suggests, still friendly, but Dida sighs. Loud enough to wake a black cat that was sleeping beneath the display case. It rolls over and closes its eyes.

"All right," Dida says, " I may have been fooled, but you understand I'm going to need proof of your story, too, Gwyneth. I don't just give rare, expensive books to every person who walks off the street with a tale of theft."

"Of course," Gwyn says, handing the orange cat to Azriel as she fishes something from her pocket. The cat looks up at him with big, bright round eyes. They blink at one another. "Ah, here's the paperwork." She spreads the letter atop the counter. Dida's face drains of color when she recognizes the wax seal and Night Court letterhead. "From our High Lord himself, requesting we recover the listed books. You'll see the bestiary is listed just there."

"You are the High Lord's spymaster," Dida surmises, the bladed edge of her stare melting into despair and horror. "I do have to ask, why this copy? Surely the High Lord can afford as many copies of this book as he needs." She sits back on her stool, hands crossed over her chest, dark eyes appraising Gwyn in a new light. Was the spymaster used to being underestimated?

"If I may," Azriel interjects, "the High Lord is only interested in original copies and this one, if my eyes aren't deceiving me, is a first edition. Evidenced by the quality and type of binding used. The yellowing of the glue, for instance, is likely due to the tree resin the priests would have used to bind a large volume like this so long ago. I bet if you opened it, the spine would crack as loudly as breaking bones."

The cat in his arms paws at his shadows. He smiles down at it.

"Hmm," Dida hums, eyeing him. She leans over and unlocks the display, reaching inside to pull the tome out and place it on the counter before them. She peers at the yellowing spine, one eyebrow raised. "I'll have you know that book didn't come to me cheap," she says, "and now I'm out the money and the book, whish isn't a smart way to run a business."

"How can we make it up to you?" Gwyn asks, pulling a length of cloth from her bag and wrapping it the book tightly before placing it into the satchel. "You were lied too, which is no fault of your own. We don't want to leave you in an unsavory situation." She steals the cat back from him, rubbing its face on her face. Azriel wasn't aware his shadows could seethe more. They were boiling.

"Well, Clementine likes you, and she's always a good judge of character," Dida admits. "You know your way around a book or two then?" She eyes Azriel.

"Years of experience," Azriel says with a small bow.

"You understand my cataloging system then?"

He studies the shelf next to him before nodding slowly, reaching out a hand to run a finger along the spines.

"Pretty standard, subject, author, rarity, yes?"

Azriel glances back at Dida, finding her grinning.

"You got it, tall one." She looks over at Gwyn. "With skin that pale and no visible grime on you, I'm assuming you know your way around water and soap?"

"I've been known to wage the occasional war with dirt," Gwyn deadpans and both Dida and Azriel snort.

"That's one way to put it. Alright," the shopkeep says, "you two put my place to rights and I'll consider it fair trade for the book. Sound fair? I've been having a hard time keeping up with things with my leg the way it is."

"More than fair," Gwyn says, carefully setting Clementine on the counter. "We appreciate your help." She whispers into its fluffy ear. Blinking, it looks up at her and meows. The shadows atop Azriel's shoulders fall back in despair.

"I'll get some cleaning supplies and put tea on, your book loving Illyrian can go ahead and get started," Dida says dismissively.

Azriel opens his mouth to dispute his status as Gwyn's anything, but Dida was already gone, so he closes it with a snap. Well, he had his orders, so he crosses to the nearest pile of books, crouches down, and begins sorting.

The work is absorbing. Cataloging books could be a tedious task, and Azriel realizes how much he's missed being surrounded by books since leaving the Tower. Gwyn pulls him away to eat lunch with Dida at some point. By the time Azriel slots the last volume onto an impeccably clean shelf, it's nearly nightfall and the lamps outside just being lit. He blinks, rubbing a hand down his face.

"I got a little lost in there, I think," he tells one of the cats. It blinks at him from where's its smushed itself on top of a shelf.

"That you did," says Dida from somewhere behind him, "but you were doing such good work we didn't want to interrupt you." We? Azriel looks over his shoulder to find a sheepish Gwyn sipping tea at the counter. "Excellent work, in fact. Any time you'd like to come back and help out an old Illyrian like me, you're welcome."

"I just might," Azriel admitted, reaching up to the pet the cat. "Thank you."

"You remind me of my grandson," Dida tells him, peering up at him. "He was always such a sweet, polite thing. I hope the spymaster takes good care of you."

"She does," he says automatically, the tips of his ears growing hot. Dida smiles at him before turning to limp back behind the counter.

"Spymaster," she says before disappearing through the curtain. "Your book lover is done, so you may leave now."

"I'm not-" Azriel begins to protest, but Gwyn pushes away from the counter with a grin.

"Great!" She cheers, carefully removing the calico she'd been cradling. "Thank you for the conversation, Dida. It was truly illuminating." She giggles at her poorly used pun and Azriel fights a smile.

"You're welcome, now get out so I can close up." Came the disembodied voice from the back of the store.

Azriel allows himself to be shooed out by the spymaster. They're halfway back to the embassy, walking at a lazy pace through the empty streets when Gwyn turns to him.

"You have your thinking face on," she says, breaking the silence. Her eyes catch the light from the streetlamp and hold its. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"I," Azriel starts, "that is, today went a little differently than I had anticipated. How things worked out, I mean."

"Were you thinking we'd kick in the door, grab the book and run with a burning building behind us?" she teases gently. Azriel ducks his head, admonished.

"Perhaps not exactly like that, but I certainly didn't think I was going to end up organizing a bookstore," he admits. "It was easier than I thought it would be, and less adventurous for sure." He tries to stifle a grin before continuing. "You do have a rather infamous reputation, and I don't mean for drinking tea with book thieves."

Gwyn laughs, head back, and he takes the sound and stores it deep.

"I can see your point," she admits, still laughing, face shining like gold one minute before slipping into shadow the next as they pass under the street lights. "If I stabbed everyone that got in my way, eventually, I'd be likely to run out of people to stab. And it wasn't Dida's fault she brought stolen goods. Not to mention we've made an ally." She raises a hand, a square of parchment between her fingers. "Whilst you were working, I was busy being charming and she let me know who sold her the book, who they work with, and who bought one of the other books we need." She flourishes a little bow and tucks the paper into his shirt  pocket.

"You're incredible," Azriel blurts and blushes. His mouth needed to stop doing that. And his cheeks.

"Thank you," Gwyn says. "While I'm already aware, it's still nice to hear it said out loud from time to time." She turns her face away, suddenly shy. "I, um," she attempts, pulling a small thin paper back book from her satchel. "I may have also taken the time to buy this." She passes it to him and Azriel peeks at the cover. It was a slightly battered book of old war poems. "You read that book you have over and over," she says, not meeting his gaze. "I thought maybe you'd enjoy something else. You could read them to me, if you wanted."

A complicated swell of emotion threatened to burst through Azriel's rib cage.

"I'd love to, Gwyn," he says, hoping that its dark enough that she can't see his face, can't read what it might be showing. He tucks the book away reverently. "That's one book found," he adds after a long stretch of silence. "I hope recovering the others goes as easily."

"You're gonna jinx it," Gwyn sing-songs at him, shadows ruffling. "Don't worry, I'm sure between the two of us we can handle just about anything. Now, let's hurry. There still might be dinner left."

Her pace quickens and Azriel follows. Six books left and then they'd be done. The realization strikes him like cold water to the face.

She's six books away from not needing him anymore.

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 9

The Spymaster & The Priest     A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

The first thing Azriel learns upon walking into Gwyn's home is that she loves color. Rich in jeweled tones and soft velvets, her space luxurious in its comforts. Everywhere he looks there's embroidered throws and pin cushion pillows littered across the floor or draped over a chair. It's one large room with a small fireplace and kitchen area off to the side. A bookshelf heavy with tomes leans against one wall, books spilling from it onto the floor. There are two sets of doors on the remaining wall and Azriel wonders where he'll be sleeping.

"Sorry, its so dusty in here," Gwyn complains, crossing the room and throwing her bags onto an oversized, pillowy couch. She goes to the window above the kitchen sink and throws it open, light spilling across the floor as if tumbling from an overturned glass.

"It's no bother, Gwyn," Azriel remarks.

Sure, the room smells of dust and he wonders at the last time she was here. Yet beneath it the undeniable scent of delicate florals and rich amber. The entire apartment smelled like her, looked like her, throws its colors and light back around her as if the space itself is excited to have her home. He sets his bags down on the floor.

"Oh," Gwyn shouts in excitement, "I'm sure you're wondering where you'll be sleeping." She strides over to one of the doors and throws it open. "Here you are!" She waves him over and Azriel smothers a smile.

It's a small room. One wall lined with built in bookshelves and like the others, their contents spills out of them, volumes of varying thickness and hardcovers. There's a window and small desk. Pushed against the far wall is a recently placed bed not much bigger than the one he'd slept in in the Tower.

"I know its small," she says to him, delight still heavy in her voice as she entered the room behind him.

It's clear she loves the space and as if plucked from a memory he could see her here, curled up at the desk, books open before her as she chews the top of her quill, ink staining her fingers, a steaming cup of tea on the desk. A smile upon her lips.

"It's perfect," he murmurs. "I can imagine you here."

Azriel finishes his assessment, turning his body and gaze back to Gwyn's. The spymaster is wearing a funny smile, eyes dark, and he realizes just how close their standing. The open door is just beyond her, blocking an easy escape.

You don't want to escape, his shadows surmise.

His heart races as she takes a step forward, more teeth in her smile than affection. Azriel steps back, wings pressing into the bookshelfs.

"You imagine me here, do you?" she purrs, leaning close enough thta her breath huffs against his lips. His spine prickles and his shadows dance with delight.

"I-" he tries, he really does, but she's standing even closer now and he's pressing further against the wall. She follows, not quite touching him, trapping him with the deep turquoise of her gaze. He can see the glimmer of the necklace against her collarbone, and some part of him wanted-

Her hand rose and brushed a curl of Azriel's hair back from his face. He shivered at her touch, the warmth of her radiating like flame. Gaze dropping to her lips, Gwyn's smile widens. Raging hunger rattles behind his ribs, awakened and demanding more.

"Well, enjoy yourself then," she says, voice low. "I'll leave you to it." Azriel barely chokes back a whimper when she pulls away. Gwyn tosses him a wink before she's out the door.

He remains leaning against the bookshelf, panting, and closes his eyes. Acutely aware of how achingly hard he is, he attempts to recover his composure, which Gwyn seems to so easily snatch away from him. Rushing to the door, he barely keeps from slamming it shut.

Setting his things down upon the bed, Azriel takes the routine of putting things away to pull in a few, long, deep breaths. She was teasing him, right? Distracting him to madness? His skin feels too tight, he pulls at his clothing. He can still feel his heartbeat thumping like an Illyrian war drum. He sits down with a sigh.

Attempting to remind himself of why he's here, of why he shouldn't give in to the thoughts now running amuck, he rakes a hand over his face. There's a wet spot on his trousers, his dick so hard it's leaking. Everything smells like her. Everywhere he looks he sees her.

Azriel, in a flurry of movement, releases the ties of his pants. The door wasn't locked, he reminded himself, pulling his aching cock from the constricting material. She could walk in here at any moment. She could probably hear him from the other room, yet it only added to the illicitness of his actions. It's good, so good, as he starts to stroke himself.

Closing his eyes, he tries his best to not think of her, attempting to recall any other face. But its her blue-green eyes watching him, her fingers he feels on his skin. Great Mother, he wants her to touch him like this, her hands not his. His strokes himself faster, firmer. He wanted her - wants her so badly - his body goes taunt.

"Gwyn, please," he hisses, teeth sinking into his lip to keep from crying out, words muffled.

His body trembled as he fell apart, finding release. Continuing to stroke himself, Azriel draws out his pleasure. When he becomes to sensitive, unable to take anymore and pleasure begins to seep into pain, he releases himself and slumps, shuddering. He floats there for a moment, awash with relief, mind fuzzy and warm.

Sounds of shuffling and large thump startle him to wakefulness. Shame rolls over him at the loss of his self control. He's pathetic to want such things with her. Azriel slowly uncurls and exhales shakily. Changing from his clothes, he cleans up, and redresses. There was an empty table next to the bed and he begins to put his things away. His more personal items he keeps hidden beneath his pillow.

When there was no longer any plausible reason for him to be shut inside the room, Azriel heads back into the main apartment. Its dark enough that she's lit lamps for a soft glow. Gwyn has also changed her clothing, no longer clad in leather and weapons. In a soft pair of leggings and oversized knit sweater, she looks comfortable and at home. There was a pile of bed linens atop her small dining table, and bright floral quilt.

"There you are," she says, so bright and cheerful that his guts twist in guilt. "I was able to find you some fresh bed things. I hope you like them. I wouldn't say yellow if your color, but the gold reminded me of your eyes so I think it'll suite." She motions to the stack of pillows. "I found these downstairs, let me know if you need more."

"Did you carry all that up here yourself?" he asks and Gwyn nods.

"They're just linens," she says it like its obvious. "It wasn't heavy." She raises her arms above her head and stretches, yawning. Azriel averts his eyes, not before catching the way her sweater pulled tight across her chest. "The bathroom is shared and at the end of the hall. No one else occupies the floor, for now, so it's almost always free. I think I'll go soak in the bath for a while and then sleep in my own bed for no less than five days." She groans a little and Azriel blushes.

"Sleep sounds divine," he admits with a yawn of his own. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

"Good night, Az," she says sweetly, moving to the door.

"Night, Gwyn," he replies.

Alone, he presses his hands to his face and takes a deep breath. He picks up the linens and quilt, which are far heavier than they look.

"Wasn't heavy my left eye," he mutters under his breath.

Azriel makes up the spare bed with fresh sheets and folds the heavy quilt across it. Dumping his dirty laundry into the corner by the door, he makes a mental note to clean them when he can. He uses the sink in the tiny kitchen, which seems to only house tea cups and dead house plants, to clean his hands and face before returning to his room, clicking the door shut behind him. Pulling back the covers, he slips in.

He would do better. He would be better. For her.

After breakfast the next morning, Gwyn allows Lady Nesta to bully her into going together to her their hair cut. Azriel remained behind, absentmindedly scrubbing his laundry in the bathroom after giving himself a wash. The Night Court's embassy had a good setup, things like aquifers and hot springs ran naturally from underneath the mountain, giving way to modern plumbing and convenience.

He's in the main hall when they return, the shorter of the pair commenting on the quality of Gwyn's hair cut. The spymaster whispers something to Nesta that even Azriel's shadows don't quite hear, and the eldest Archeron sister laughs. She leans forward to kiss Gwyn upon the cheek. They press their foreheads together for a long moment, comfortable and intimate.

Azriel's insides twist as he watches the two and he can't identify the feeling. He's still trying to figure it out when Nesta says something that makes Gwyn laugh and playfully pushes her away. Nesta dances out of the spymaster's reach and Azriel realizes he's been staring. He averts his eyes to the table in front of him.

They chat for a while longer, too far away for him to eavesdrop easily. Nesta touches Gwyn's arm lightly and heads toward him. Gwyn, without so much as looking at him, takes off in the opposite direction. Lady Death comes to a stop, leaving against the table, peering down at his folded laundry and open journals. She was all coiled power and black leather. Watching him inscrutably, Azriel refuses to give her an inch and continues documenting his and Gwyn's journey. He wouldn't rise to her bait and ignores her while dipping his quill into an ink well.

"She's got you doing her laundry then?" she asks evenly, pulling a knife from seemingly nowhere and using it clean her fingernails. Azriel peeps at the pile of clothing, noticing he had, in fact, washed some of the spymaster's things.

"Seems a small thing," he replies. Azriel continues to scrawl across the page, mind working at something like a seed stuck between ones teeth. "You and Gwyn are close." It's a statement more than a question and he's not sure why he's mentioned it. He couldn't stop thinking of the look on Gwyn's face when they'd pressed their foreheads together. Like they matched. It was making him feel strange.

"I've known her for some time, so yes, you could say that," Nesta answers. She slides her eyes sideways at him. "She allows you to use her name? So soon?"

"The first day," Azriel states matter of factly, sprinkling dust over the page to dry before turning to the next. Nesta whistles, low and impressed.

"Normally her contracts never get passed spymaster or my lady Valkyrie. What a lucky boy you are."

"I-" Azriel starts but falls silent as he realizes he's not sure how to respond. He sets down his quill, thinking, and tries again. "Are you and Gwyn, that is, are you-"

"Fucking?" Nesta finishes for him and Azriel chokes on air. "No, we aren't fucking. We used to, and it was great," she continued blithely, completely destroying him and any composure he had left. "It's been a long time since we were together, shadowsinger. Besides, I'm with that overgrown bat now." Nesta gestures over her shoulder where her mate was briefing a small group of young Illyrian soldiers.

"I wasn't trying to imply-"

"Weren't you?"

"It isn't my business," Azriel manages. "We're only working together."

"Will you return the Tower once her mission is done?" Nesta pins him with a sharp look. The question stabs him deep and Azriel reels with it.

"I haven't-" he says, mind whirling. What was he going to do? It was a valid question, one he hadn't thought of till now. "I suppose I could," he says eventualy. "The High Lord has offered me a job to continue working alongside her."

"Well, I'm sure you being a shadowsinger has nothing to do with your continued employment," she says, sounding supremely sarcastic.

There's a loud cheering from the courtyard outside, which thankfully puts an end to their conversation. Nesta grabs his sleeve and hauls him up, careful of his wings. She grins up at him.

"Come on," she commands. "You'll want to see this."

Outside a fair-sized crowd had formed, which Nesta cuts through like a blade, Azriel in tow, sliding between soldiers as if they weren't there. When they make it to the front of the group, Gwyn is there, the Lord of Bloodshed before her. They're taunting one another, stretching out their necks and shoulders. Nesta pulls him over to a stack of crates under a tree where she sits.

"What's going on?" Azriel asks as he settles next to her, leaning against the tree. There's a lot of catcalling and shouting from the crowd.

"Sparring," Nesta replies, crossing her legs. Her enjoyment was evident. "They have a standing bet that whenever they get together they see who will win a fight. Cauldron, I could use some wine." Azriel doesn't bother mentioning it was barely midday.

"What are the stakes?" he asks.

"Bragging rights," Nesta answers. "The rest of us have money riding on it. Emerie and Rhys send their bets by mail if they can't be here in person." Azriel recalls the shop owner he'd met his first day out. "Plus, to be fair, its just fun to watch."

The General turns and raises his sword into the air, yelling in Illyrian and the crowd screams. Gwyn stands across the courtyard, alive, afire, and Azriel shivers.

"What's their record?" he asks, leaning closer so Nesta could hear him over the crowd.

The two in question have stopped their hyping and face one another, weapons drawn, held at the ready, bodies taunt and poised for motion. There's a current of power in the air, pressing in, like lightening about to strike. Azriel can feel the current against his skin. The spectators go quiet.

"It's fifty-fifty," Nesta answers, looking back at him with a grin upon her face. "I swear our girl lets him win sometimes."

The General charges and steel meets steel, ringing out. Gwyn catches his sword with both of hers, sliding his to the side, letting his momentum carry his larger body past her, grinning all the while. He regroups and circles for a moment, lazily spinning the sword in one hand before tossing it to the other. Gwyn jerks her chin at him and they come crashing together.

Azriel becomes abruptly aware of just how much the spymaster had been holding back in their training. He'd thought she was going pretty hard on him, but watching her against the Night Court's General? He'd been very wrong. Nesta watches them as closely as he does. A hunger fills her gaze that scorches his cheeks, thoughts spinning.

Gwyn moves effortlessly, sometimes light on her feet, other times planting herself using her whole weight. The sword swings at her and she's simply not there when it should have hit her, glittering away like refracting light. The General adjusts his tactics; attack, retreat, regroup, attack, parry, attack. Through it all Gwyn grins, joyous and shining. Lord Cassian looks feral. Azriel can't look away.

The General presses in, managing to lock up both of Gwyn's blades, and after a swipe of his sword they're staggering apart. There's a long, shallow slash across Gwyn's bicep, painting her arm red and the crowd roars.

"First blood to Cassian!" Someone shouts.

Azriel startles at seeing her injured again. His hands fist at his sides and he fights the urge to go to her. Nesta looks back, observing the way his shadows whip and lash with a tilt of her head. Her eyebrows raise at him. Ignoring her, he keeps his gaze on the spymaster.

Taking in her wound, the spymaster examines herself only for a moment, speculative, then looks up at Cassian. She grins, licking down her canine. If Azriel hadn't been leaning against the tree, he was sure he'd have fallen over.

Another long minute of anticipation shimmers in the air. Gwyn charges this time, and the General is forced to fall back. Her blows rain down upon him, unstoppable, merciless, and Azriel can feel in his bones that the fight is hers. It takes a few more breaths before they're circling one another, attacking again. The General nicks her again but Gwyn continues to press in, catching his sword on hers and pushing, one foot locked behind his ankle. Graceful as a dancer, she brings up her other foot and kicks him solidly in the chest. She follows through, pulling his ankle forward with her foot, sending the General backwards, off balance, crashing to the ground. Before he can use his wings to flip back upon his feet, she's there with a blade at his throat.

"I yield," the Lord of Bloodshed bellows, "you asshole."

Whatever response she gives is lost in the cheering crowd, but they're both grinning. She takes her swords in one hand and offers the General her other, helping him to his feet. He crushes her into a hug and Gwyn laughs, patting his chest affectionately.

She turns to scan the crowd. The way her face lights up when she see him makes Azriel feel like he's holding the power of the sun in his hand. She rushes over, grinning foolishly, hair disheveled. He can't help himself and offers her a lopsided smile, sharing in her merriment.

"I was hoping you were here," she says, coming to a halt just before him. "Did you enjoy watching?" Nesta lets out a small cough.

This close he could see the sweat beading at her hairline. His eyes dart between the freckles scattered across her nose. He wants to press his lips to each one, so badly. He struggles to keep his thoughts under control.

"You were amazing," he concedes, biting his tongue before he can blurt out more. He tastes blood and looks down at her wounded arm. "You're still bleeding," he states, reaching for her. It wasn't a bad cut, likely to heal quickly.

"I'm fine," she says casually with a shrug.

"Yes, I'm aware," Azriel agrees. He runs his thumb over the already healed cut without breaking eye contact.

She smiles at him in that slow, private way he's come to crave. The warmth of her washes over him and his shadows settle. He can feel Nesta's intent gaze. He swallows, tearing his eyes away from Gwyn and adopts an expression of professional detachment. Yes, she'll be fine. Gwyn looks away to Nesta.

"Amazing as always," she tells the spymaster, eyeing Azriel speculatively.

The crowd of soldiers washes towards them, a wave of congratulations and questions lobbied at Gwyn. Again, Nesta grabs his sleeve and pulls him away, leading him from the throng and into a large, covered arena. The floor here is covered in padded mats and she releases his arm, stalking over to a rack of weapons.

"Fight me," she demands, cutting back to him and handing over a dull practice dagger.

"What?" Azriel blinks. This morning was getting stranger.

"I know she's taught you some things. If you're going to be traveling with her, then you need to know how to keep yourself alive, and keep her safe," the last part was said with a flash of her silver eyes. "She would blame herself if you ever got hurt, and I can't have that. So, fight me."

Azriel stretches out his wings and shoulders, glad he'd spent time this morning doing the stretches Gwyn had taught him. Eyeing Nesta he attempts to discern what he can. She was going to be fast, he could tell that already.

"You can choose not to fight me. Always your choice, shadowsinger. I'll just tell the spymaster how you were panting after her all during the fight like a mate in heat-"

Before her sentence finishes, Azriel charges. She catches him by the arm, he pushes against her, quick, and she stumbles back. His wing drops, swiping at her legs, knocking her down and back. Nesta rolls with it, coming to her feet and darting across the arena. She grins at him with murderous glee.

"They tell you how to move, yes?" she asks, bouncing on her feet with the grace of a boxer. "Your technique is shit, but your instincts are infallible. We can work on that."

"I train with Gwyn," he says, a little stung by her assessment. Nesta nods.

"I can tell. You have the basics down. She's an amazing athlete."

"I've noticed," Azriel agrees.

"But she isn't the best teacher," Nesta finishes. "She tries, and she's not bad at it, she just can't remember what its like to be a beginner."

Nesta drops into a fight stance and Azriel mirrors her as they begin to circle one another. It's nice to speak to someone other than his priestly brothers or Gwyn, even if its not a conversation he'd ever imagined possible.

"How much fighting am I going to need to do to recover some missing books?" he asks, darting in for an attack, mostly just to test her. She excels, dodging back and knocking his hand out of the way. Azriel backs off and regroups, looking for a better opening. His shadows whisper.

"Are you planning to go back to the temple then? Not that I would blame you, the High Lord is very demanding of her time."

The reality of the question hits him at the same time Nesta does and he realizes her distraction. He finds himself face pressed into the ground, knee in his back, the same technique that Gwyn had so painstakingly taught him to avoid when they'd first trained. He didn't want to go back to the Tower, he thought wildly.

"I didn't think so," Nesta says, observing him closely. "If you hurt her, I'll kill you."

"Do you think I intentionally would?" Azriel spits, confused and frustrated. How did Nesta manage to see right through him?

"Make your choices and stick to them, shadowsinger. If you're staying, it means we're training." She pushes forward with another attack and he's barely ready, shoving her to the side easily with a flex of his arm.

"Fine," he growls back. "But you'll keep your mouth shut about how I may or may not feel about Gwyn. Yes?"

"Deal," Nesta agrees with a wild grin, getting to her feet. "The two of you are so obvious you're blinded by it."

"Shut up," Azriel grumbles, shadows rumbling, and attacks her again.

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 8

The Spymaster & The Priest   A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

After a good day and half they find themselves in another small town. They ended up spending the night at a verysmall inn. He'd nearly ripped the sheets from the mattress when he thought he'd heard Gwyn say his name in her sleep. Despite his fatigue, he'd found it difficult to fall back to sleep.

The next morning they broke their fast on hard boiled eggs and roasted potatoes. It's a satisfying though simple meal that leaves Az's belly pleasantly full and thoughts nostalgic. Gwyn buys two loaves of bread for the last stretch of their trip.

"Do you have any siblings?" Gwyn asks, mouthful of freshly bakes loaf as they head to the stables.

"Two. the youngest of three. No sisters," Azriel admits flatly. "What's it like working for the Night Court?"

"Loud," she says immediately, though her eyes are kind and her smile fond. "Never a moments peace." She stares off into the distance. "I miss them. We write, of course, but its not the same as being with them. They've become my family. Hopefully we'll be done with this book business soon and I can get back for a proper visit."

Azriel triest to imagine it, a casually dressed Gwyn socializing with members of the High Court, mahogany locks gleaming, sword at her side despite her fancy way of dress. Unconditional love for all around her. He blinks a few times, unsure of what to say. There were a few brothers in the temples that he knew well enough to call friends - but family? He knew a mother's love, but not a family's.

"Shall we get some practice in while its still early?" She inquires in a way that's meant to confirm rather than suggest.

Not a bad idea. She'd been right to suggest it before as it loosened his muscles for travel. He squints at her. They'd reached the stables, the interior warm and softly lit. Senka snickered at them as they entered, black eyes gleaming. Azriel huffs.

The spymaster suggested insisted on switching up their routine. Gwyn is utterly boneless in the way she moves and Azriel wonders if its an inheritance of her nymph side. They move slowly through their stretches, Az improvises by including his wings, smothering a groan as the muscles bunch and pull, warming despite the cool morning.

When he opens his eyes next, breathing routine finished, Gwyn is watching him with a gentle expression. In her hands are a pair of daggers from her own collection. And what a collection it was. He'd caught her one of the nights before cleaning them. He'd counted around thirty-four. She waits for him to come out of his stretch, eyes lingering on his shadows, or his chest, he wasn't sure. Shadows, definitely the shadows. She hands him a dagger.

"Try to stab me," she says simply.

"Sorry?" He blurts.

Azriel wasn't surprised at the direction of her teaching. It was smart that he learned some forms of self-defense. After the altercation at Rita's he understood why Gwyn kept herself so armed. Ok, maybe the amount of daggers she kept was a tad facetious. The world could be a cruel place and he was better off being prepared for it. Azriel gulps as her eyebrows raise as if she'd made a perfectly reasonable request.

"I want you," she says slowly, voice low. His thoughts immediately go there. "To stab me with this. There are places we will be going that will be less than hospitable to our presence. I don't want you to get hurt, so, you're going to try and stab me and I'm going to disarm you, probably rather easily," she chided arrogantly and Azriel's shadows bristled at the challenge. "Then vice versa, yes?"

"Gwyn," Azriel starts.

"Nope, Az," she interrupts with a shake of her head, hair spilling down her shoulder. "It's important to know how to take care of yourself. These  aren't even sharp. The worst you could do is bruise me," she explains, easing his unspoken concerns. "If you can even get close enough, that is," she teases with a wicked grin. "Now, stab me."

Despite his many faults, Azriel was not a coward. Her challenge struck his spine straight and pulled his shoulders back, wings spreading across the stable. The light shrouded, the horses whinny. Gwyn's eyes spark with warmth as she watches him.

"Show off," she says with a smirk.

"This is a terrible idea," he admits. She lets out a laugh and shrugs, taking a step back and motioning him forward with her hand.

Wrapping his fist around the weapon, he drives at her with all of his weight with his wings propelling him forward. He could be fast too. She steps to the side, Gwyn's body turning. His momentum carries him beyond her. A hand comes up to his wrist, gripping, pulling, sending him around in a circle.

Azriel staggers. Gwyn maneuvers around his wings as nimble as a cat. Using her grip, she pulls him down, bringing him to his knees, far more gently than she would have if they'd really been fighting. She keeps him there, hovering off balance, wings shifting, wrist pinched between her fingers. Her grip presses against the tendon at his wrist and Azriel hisses, fingers spasming. The dagger drops to the ground.

"You're instincts are good," Gwyn tells him, helping him to his feet. "You really came at me with some power. I like it."

"Yeah, well, dinner in the Tower would get competitive from time to time," Azriel deadpans, massaging his wrist. Gwyn laughs.

"And here I misread priests for serene," she tsks, picking up his dagger and handing it back to him. "Ok, let's do that again, but come at me slowly this time. I'll break down the moves and then you can try them on me."

It's excruciating to his wrists and hands, but as the continue to practice the exertion has relaxed him in the most pleasurable way. For a majority of the time he's able to deflect her attacks, the repetition triggering muscle memory. It's barely midday when they break.

"I'd say we've had enough," she concludes after his last successful attempt. Out of breath he stares at her. She barely looks bothered. "I'll be back in a bit, I need the privy before we go."

She makes a face at him, one he's come to recognize as her 'undone by mortal failings and annoyed by it' look. He gives her a lopsided grin and watches as she strides back to the inn, skin gleaming, hair bright. His shadows peer at her from over his shoulder.

A colleague. She was only a colleague. He'd agreed to assist her. He was here to help make her job easier, nothing more. This is what the reminds himself of over and over as they prepare to leave. They take flight, finally ready for the days travels. Within no time the buildings and farmland fade out of view.

Gwyn, feeling playful, rolls Senka. Azriel follows greedily, keeping close, hovering just above her. Close enough to hear her laughter. The spymaster attempts to shake him off, diving deep before arching back into the clouds. Azriel doesn't let her go. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay, gliding beside her like this, movements in harmony. He wants so very much.

"That was a great effort you made today, Az, truly," she calls out encouragingly.

Azriel nods his head in thanks. If she knew how desperately he'd been attempting to control his arousal, he'd probably done better. He wonders if she was just as rivalrous in bed, a lover who would meet his passions. Azriel stares off into the horizon, blue sky vast and seemingly infinite. Gwyn, thankfully, can't see the blush upon his face.

"You did a number on me when you started to use your shadows to predict my movements," she admitted. "It's a good strategy, you should remember to use it more."

He returns his gaze to where she sits astride Senka. She's rolling her wrist, unware of his stare, pulling down her riding glove to examine it. Azriel dives so fast he nearly crashes into her back, causing Senka to whinny in warning.

"Gwyn, did I hurt you?" he asks, horrified at the site of dark bruising. She looks up at him and shrugs.

"A bit," she admits, raising her arm above her head so that he might get a better look. Azriel's stomach drops - dark purple bruising blooms across her palm and thumb.

"Oh," he mutters, heart racing. It looked bad. It was-

"Az," Gwyn says firmly, snapping his focus back to the moment, calming. Senka rises just enough that she can capture his chin within her fingers. "I will heal," she tells him. "It's all right."

"I need to fix this," he begs. His eyes meet hers. She doesn't appear angry but he knows from experience that means little.

"My sweet shadowsinger," she hums, voice carrying in the wind. "I am well. See for yourself." Her hand drops from his face but remains above her.

Azriel takes her wrist, warm against his cool skin. Tipping her hand this way and that, he examines her from wrist to fingertip. There were no injured bones and her range of motion was good. He draws her fingers into his and leans in to press his lips against her palm. Her hand feels so comically small in his. Gwyn angles her head at him, a sweet twist to her lips and shyness breaks through her confidence. Azriel reluctantly lets her hand go.

"It won't happen again," he promises. "Forgive me."

She doesn't say anything for a moment and they simply just stare at one another. A heavy shift in the air gives the moment gravity. Gwyn lowers her arm and head, eyes returning to the sky. Something deep inside him settles, like a ribbon coming unknotted. He remains above her, wings beating steadily.

"No more apologies," she says after a while. "You are mostly certainly going to hurt me again when we practice. And you are not going to feel sad or guilty about it, understood?"

"Yes, Gwyn," he answers with a wry smile. "I promise."

In a feat that he would later convince himself was pure Pegasus cunning, Senka bursts ahead and up, tucking its wings tight and passes above him upside-down. He swears he feels her lips against the top of his head. Out of the corner of his eye he watches her dart into the clouds below and he's helpless to follow.

The woods were thick here, giving way to a largest forest Azriel had ever seen. Pine trees as tall as buildings push up from the ground like green feathered spears. War camps carve into the landscape, the architecture of some of the outer buildings crude in comparison to Velaris. The Illyrian mountains were no longer distant. A road could be seen below, the trees cleared to give way to carts and travelers on foot. The fresh smell of tree sap and snow cling to the air. As the camp interiors come into focus, he could make out dirt and cobbled roads. Women with small children scurried about and his thoughts turned to his mother.

They descend in silence, Gwyn looking alert. He hadn't considered what it would feel like to return here. The Illyrians were brutal fae. His High Lord had been attempting for years to bring progressive change to the camps, and with the help of his general, they'd seem some successes.

As they touch down, Gwyn remains atop Senka. The Night Court's spymaster was making her entrance. She gave no recognition to the stares and whispers. A few males even had the gall to point and look annoyed at her presence.

There are numerous Illyrians, more than Azriel had expected. They must be in one of the larger camps. The mountains were so close they felt touchable, snow blowing from their peaks. He walks alongside Gwyn, aware of the looks he too is getting. It takes some resolve to not shroud himself in shadow, gather his wings, and escape. Yet, the spymaster's gaze upon has his face turning upward towards hers.

"Doing all right?" she asks quietly and he nods.

"It's a lot," he admits and she gives him a beautifully reassuring smile.

"We'll stay on the ground the rest of the way. It'll be a bit till we get to our destination. You're doing great." He feels lighter at her confidence, giving him the ease he needed to observe the city.

Every structure was made of similar materials. Some had mulitple floors, walls of white stucco and pine logs. Rooftop gardens sat atop each, a common Illyrian feature, green shrubs pushing up from pots, some heavy with red berries. It wasn't as claustrophobic as Velaris. This place was wide, accommodating for wings. And the people! He hadn't been around his own for so long he forgot what it felt like to be less out of place; where wings and dark skin were the norm and not something exotic.

Azriel tries not to stare as a group of females pass dressed in subdued clothes, layers wrapping their bodies. An elderly male tries to entice them into his shop, which seems to carries a multitude of spices. A shout calling for the sale of herbs, drawing his attention to a woman with a cart. Some of the herbs Azriel didn't recognize. He catches bits of conversation spoken in his native tongue and wonders at the last time he'd spoken it himself.

They pass a cluster of wooden stalls, each one smelling of roasted meats or baked sweets and Azriel's stomach growls. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. Another stall nearby sold shaved meat with flat bread.

The sky is turning a soft lavender by the time Gwyn leads them through the main part of camp. A large building that looks more like an estate hall than the other homes, looms large ahead. The Night Courts emblem was carved into the stucco facade. The embassy was imposing and tall. An arched passage way emerges, opening into a square. A small fountain bubbles, surrounded by more berry bushes.

Up ahead a young stable hand waits for Gwyn, a broad smile upon their face. They speak briefly and Azriel's surprised to hear the spymaster speak Illyrian. She hands Senka over, hefting her bag from its back. Azriel follows her close as she pushes through a pair of heavy wooden doors.

The foyer spits them into a large room full of long tables, chairs, and people who look as if they could kill Azriel in a matter of minutes. In their sleep. Accidentally, even. He pulls himself up tall, refusing to hide and observes the room.

"Gwyn!"

The roar sounds from across the room. An immense Illyrian pushes back from a table and charges the spymaster, arms wide. Azriel tenses, expecting confrontation. Instead, Gwyn drops her bags and shouts back.

"Cass!"

They crash into each other. The Night Court's General lifts her off her feet in a crushing embrace, laughter bursting from them both.

A warning trills through his shadows just moments as a tap bounces against his shoulder. Azriel turns. A fae stands before him all pale skin and cold, brilliant grey eyes. Her beauty was as harsh as her demeanor. She spreads her hands placatingly.

"You," she says in common, "look new, and they," she points to the pair squeezing one another to suffocation, "will be at this for a while. Why don't you join me at my table. I'll get you something to drink. Call me Nesta."

Nesta Archeron. Eldest of the Archeron sisters. Mated to the Lord of Bloodshed. It was Lady Death herself standing before him.

"Azriel," he greets, unwilling to drop her gaze. Like staring into a predator's eyes, he worried if he looked away she might strike.

"The shadowsinger," she affirms, considering him from head to toe. He's acutely aware of her praising gaze sweeping over him. She reaches out to tuck her hand in his arm, tugging him alongside her as they make their way to a table laden with food and different sized mugs. "So, where did Gwyn find you?"

"I'm assisting her with an assignment," he tells her honestly. He lowers himself onto the bench after she sits. A slender, graceful hand places a mug of water before him. Still staring, he blinks at her. She arches an expertly shaped eyebrow. "We're tracking down some ancient books," he clarifies with a gulp.

"Right," she drawls. "Well, I'll grab the two of you some food if there's any left. My mate's troops are light on manners and high on appetite. They also might stab you over a hot bath, so there's that." She eyes him again, lingering on his wings. His shadows shutter out of sight. "You seem big enough to handle yourself." Her eyes catch on something beyond his shoulder.

"Nesta!" Gwyn's utter delight rings across the hall. She pulls the stiff female into her arms. Death succumbs to the spymaster and the two wrap around one another in an affectionate hug. "How are you?"

"Oh, you know," the other says casually, "same as always. Incredibly well read and growing deadlier by the day." She kisses Gwyn on the cheeks and presses her forehead against the spymaster's. "You look more at peace then the last time I saw you," Nesta says quietly with a gentle smile. "You will have to tell me about your adventures now that you're back for a bit. What the fuck did you do to your face?" She pulls back and taps a small silver scar at Gwyn's brow.

"I need to get a haircut tomorrow," Gwyn distracts, returning Nesta's kisses. "Can we catch up later? I'd like to settle in for the night." She looks past her friend to Azriel, who raises his mug at her. "I see you found Azriel while your mate had me preoccupied. He's such a softy." Gwyn squeezes her friend one more time before stepping from Nesta's embrace.

"Yes, well, that softy is sleeping in a separate room tonight after keeping me awake all night," Nesta says with a roll of her eyes. At Gwyn's slow blink and Azriel's blush, she clarifies, "with all his snoring." She glares at him and Azriel catches a twitch of a smile on Gwyn's face. "If you ever tell anyone what I just said I will stab you," Nesta threatens.

"I don't know what you mean." Azriel looks away and takes a sip of water. He reaches for some bread.

"I like him," Nesta says with air of proclamation. "You should keep him." She looks to the spymaster.

"I intend to," Gwyn replies, an absolutely feral grin upon her face, all teeth and affection. Azriel's cheeks flame and he shoves the bread into his mouth. Nesta smiles at him, as sharp as a shark.

"Let me get you some food before its all gone," Nesta says more to herself than them. "I'll be right back," she says, touching Gwyn's arm before stalking off to the other side of the hall. Gwyn watches her with a fond expression before turning to smile at him.

"Oh," Gwyn shouts, looking at the food upon the table. "These are my favorite!" She shoves a single meat pastry into her mouth and chews happily.

"Hey," Azriel startles when she makes out the pastry he'd laid out for himself, cupping his hands around it protectively. She laughs behind her hand, muffled by her full mouth, and turns to greet someone at the far end of the table. In the presence of her friends, she was glowing. Happy. He'd never seen her so at ease. She was-

"She's fucking amazing, right?" Nesta says, setting down a plate full of more pastries and a mug of water. He'd been so distracted by Gwyn he hadn't heard her approach from the kitchens. "A bit unfair, don't you think?"

"I-yes," Azriel agrees, startled by the way she'd picked up on his inner thoughts.

"She looks at you like your hung from the moon, shadowsinger. She's not that hard to read." Azriel opens his mouth to protest the direction of their conversation, but she cuts him off with a wave of her hand. "Most of us look at her like that. It's fun to see it work in reverse." She winks at him companionably and Azriel decides he rather likes Lady Death. Like the spymaster, she is not at all what he expected. He gives her a smile and nod, eyes moving back to Gwyn.

"The food is excellent tonight," Gwyn announces. "It smells like they got rid of the guy who refused to season anything. Drove Cass crazy." She pushes a plate of food toward him, snatches his mug and drains the rest of the water before pouring more.

Azriel raises a brow at her, and an intense, silent argument stews between them over the appropriateness of stealing another's beverage. As it's a battle fought mostly in eyebrows, Azriel loses.

After they finish their meal, he and Gwyn say farewell and head upstairs. Gwyn lives on the fourth floor, on the same hall as what looks like a rather impressive library. Rummaging through her bag she pulls forth a pair of keys and unlocks a door at the far end of the hallway. She pushes it open and gestures for Azriel to enter.

"Home sweet home," she singsongs.

#gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #azriel shadowsinger #ao3fic #acosf fanfiction #role reversal au #azriel x gwyn

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 7

The Spymaster & The Priest A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

Azriel, for his part, is packed and ready to go. Standing in the center of the stable, still reeling from the touch of her fingers in his, the priest waited as Gwyn prepped Senka. His relatively small bundle slung over his shoulder, his life belongings buried inside. Even with his water skins, bedroll, and new clothing to account for, he had very little. He looked up to check at Gwyn's status, to see if she needed help, but she was no longer there.

The Night Court's spymaster was.

Her leather jacket was buckled back into place over her soft shirt, thin metal scales and molded leather covered her from neck to toes. Matching bracers decorated her forearms, traditional Ilyrian wear. Two swords anchored at her hips, a larger sword at her back, and multiple daggers strapped across her chest and thighs had her looking ready for war. A dark as night cloak draped lusciously across her shoulders, ebony fur lining the hoods edge. Gwyn is every inch the Valkyrie, strong and fierce. She radiated self assurance and quiet confidence.

She's wearing our necklace, his shadows dance.

Azriel's heart twists. He likes the way it lays against her armor. Not sure how to feel about the deeper reaction clenching at his chest, threatening to open wide, he glances away.

"Ready?" He asks her, attempting at distraction.

"Yes," she replies. Her Pegasus appears beside her and she reaches up to smooth a hand down its nose. "Are you ready to be back in the air, Senka?"

Outside of the stable the sun had was past noon, soon to fall behind the mountains and usher in a long night. The horizon is ablaze with orange and pink, despite the earlier rains. As the last of the spring shower caught the dying light, it appeared as if fire rained down from above them.

They fall silent, taking it in, the crunch of Senka's hooves rhythmic as they made their way to the outskirts of town. Azriel glances at Gwyn briefly, breath catching in his throat as pale skin seems to glow in the late afternoon sun, like some awakening star, her teal eyes bright. At the edge of the city proper Gwyn mounts Senka and gains speed. The Pegasus take the opportunity to stretch its considerable wings. Azriel is in awe of the sight before him. If he were a painter, like his High Lady, he would desire to paint the pair just as they were now.

"That is an impressive wingspan, Senka," Azriel mused, unable to hide his smile as Gwyn and the beast trot and preen.

"Jealous?" Gwyn asks haughtily, peeking over at him. He snaps out his wings in response - the sound like a crack of thunder, reverberating off the foothills.

"Hardly," he quips, tossing her a smirk before shooting into the air.

Gwyn's hearty laughter reached his ears just before the sight of her does. Senka was fast. Fucking fast. Having launched itself into the air just after him. They flew across farmland, small stone cottages here and there with strings of smoke climbing from their chimneys. the lazy curve of a river could be seen in the distance. He'd just gotten into the pace when Gwyn calls out high and sharp, his shadows trill at the sound, and Senka whooshes past him. Determined to keep up, he flanks them, internally screaming that she was flying far to fast and imminent death was surely upon them.

Yet, she didn't die. Instead, over the next few hours he experienced more delight amongst the clouds than he ever had prior. Senka and Gwyn were a single form in flight, her body following Senka moves, lithe and loose, like water flowing around rocks. Wind was an element that could be heard and felt by Illyrians and it was clear to him that Senka communed the same. It maneuvered its massive body through wind currents as elegantly as a bird.

They fly for hours, the few remaining of light. They'd passed a few quiet villages, mostly collections of farmhouses. It wasn't until the sun had slipped behind the mountains did Gwyn begin to descend. Landing in a clearing, the ground was covered in a light spring snow. As Azriel's feet touch ground, the last of the day is fading away quickly, plunging them into twilight. A soft glow emanates from his hand. Azriel had made sure to grab his summoning stone this morning, and used it now to shine enough light that they could see.

"Thank you for that," Gwyn says. "It'll make setting up camp a bit easier." She pulls a skin from her bag and cups it between her hands. "Here, have some," she offers.

Azriel takes it, tipping his head and drinking deeply. The mulled wine inside was warm, steaming rising into the air. He sputters, surprised, too which the spymaster grins roguishly.

"I know a few tricks myself," she says with delight, wiggling her fingers at him. "You do know I'll have to kill you if you tell anyone my secrets." Azriel takes another sip before passing it back.

"Does this mean you can heat up the food Rita sent along with us?" He asks, ignoring her threat of violence. Gwyn nods, taking the skin as he handed it back.

"I'll heat up the mushroom rolls. We can have a hot meal before we call it an evening."

The leftover pastries prove to be excellent, especially warmed. Azriel chose to say his prayers in silence, too hungry and tired to adhere to his routines. His wings droop, the tips grazing the snow beneath his feet. The muscles in his core and shoulders were aching from the long flight. He lets loose a grunt and stands to help dress down Gwyn's mount, biceps burning.

By the time Senka is groomed, blanketed, and settled with oats, Azriel's exhaustion is palpable. He shuffles away, picking up his bag.

"You going to be ok?" Gwyn asks, picking up her own things.

"Are you constantly in pain when you travel? Please tell me it gets better," he pleads as they make their way into a group of trees, the grass beneath them clear of snow and dry. A good place to lay down their bedrolls.

"The first few days are always the worst, even now," she says, huffing a laugh. "The first time I took Senka out for a long trip I ended up with blisters everywhere. Everywhere," she emphasizes. "You're body will adjust. It'll get used to it."

"That's of great comfort to my upper body," Azriel responds dryly, rolling his shoulders. "Thank you."

"Glad to help," Gwyn replied with a smile.

They make quick work of setting up their sleeping spots and finishing off dinner. It was quiet. Some would say too quiet, but for Azriel, he found peace laying beneath the huge pine, protected by its lower branches. Gwyn was unconscious in record time, conditioned to fall asleep quickly no matter her location. He focuses on her breathing, letting it lull him into sleep after her.

He wakes in a room of cold stone. It presses against his back, so cold that it burns the flesh beneath his thin shirt. There was something in the room with him, more frigid than his shadows. I've been waiting for you, it sings out to him. He can't see. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the dark presses in on him, suffocating. Fear scatters up his spine and claws at his mind. There was something in here with him. He could feel it. Why couldn't he see? Why couldn't he leave this place -

Azriel startles awake, heart pounding. Sunlight had barely started to break through the tree branches above. The smell of snow and pine bring him back to reality. Distant, muffled sounds of movement catch his attention. Sure that Gwyn would subdue any threat, Azriel turns his head, looking for the spymaster.

She was no longer curled up in her bedroll. In fact, she was dressing for the day. The lean muscles in her upper back bunches and stretches as she pulls her shirt over her head. Golden morning light caught against the lines of her body, illuminating her. Azriel watches the hem of the clothing as it slides down her back, the entirety of it exposed to his view. She wears the markings of the Night Court on her skin, a delicate array of tattoos across her back and down one shoulder. He watches as the garment falls further, covering the divots of her spine down to the curve of her hips.

Rolling over and away, the image of her pale flesh is burned into memory. He shouldn't have watched, he knew that. Azriel squeezed his eyes shut, desire and shame causing his stomach to churn.

You can't avoid her, his shadows whisper along his neck.

Yawning audibly, Azriel sits up slowly, blinking and rubbing his eyes. They were right, as usual, there was no sense in pretending he was still asleep.

"You're awake," Gwyn said, friendly and cheerful and completely ignorant of his violation of her privacy. Azriel felt sick. "I thought maybe we could do some exercises this morning. Get our blood flowing before we head out. Do you know how to use that dagger in your pack?"

Of course she knew about the blade. It hadn't been purposeful, keeping her in the dark about it, he'd just simply forgotten he'd brought it. Azriel didn't know how to use the thing. Perhaps she could teach him and he could finally put the thing to use.

Teaching, as it turned out, was Gwyn running him through drills to stretch out his sore muscles. The Valkyrie were more than just a sword arm. Their culture was deep, extensive in its practiced mindfulness like meditation and breathing exercises. They didn't believe in allowing the war to come home with them, so to speak. It contracted so starkly with Illyrian war culture. He wondered how she balanced it, all her trainings and contradictive teachings. She was a thorough and demanding. They break for food and water once he's satisfied her with his efforts.

After a second serving of breakfast, Gwyn saddles Senka. She'd been right to spend time warming up their muscles prior to leaving. Today's trip would be longer, further than yesterday.

The sun is fully up by the time they depart. Azriel quickly fell into a meditative state, as the beat of his own wings and push of air settled him. Gwyn looks relaxed sitting astride her Pegasus. Though, he's fully aware of just how concentrated an effort she's making to not look down. She catches his eye and a mischievous gleam shines in her gaze. Senka picks up speed, shooting off into the distance. He was sure he could hear the spymaster cackling as she flew by. A thrill, sharp and pleasurable shot through him.

On instinct, Azriel gathered his strength and momentum in his wings and powered after her. As the wind rushed past him, he couldn't help the grin upon his face. It had been too long since he'd last flown for the simple joy of it. Senka was a master of flight, banking close enough that Azriel could snatch Gwyn off the creatures back if he so desired.

They fly like this for some time, bobbing and weaving through the clouds and currents. A few times he narrowly escapes smacking into a flock of birds - this making Gwyn laugh so hard and so loud and for so long that tears streamed from her eyes, frozen on her cheeks like diamonds.

"Oh!" Gwyn exlaims, voice sharp and clear despite the flight. "Do you see that town over there?" Azriel looked in the direction she indicated. Flying above them, his wings spread above Senka's, his face just above hers. "So, this one time, Cass, Rhys and I were on our way back from-"

She regaled him with stories so foolish he laughed and laughed. It was difficult to believe that someone as slight as her coudl outdrink the General of Bloodshed and that the High Lord of the Night Court was a horrible cheat at card games.

That evening they find a small town to stop over in, to which Azriel is thankful. His body is sore in ways he'd never known possible and the thought of sleeping on the ground again wasn't pleasant. A bath would also be nice. The local inn was small, by comparison to Rita's, the interior plastered white, giving it a bright sensibility. Gwyn speaks to the owner, who glances between them suspiciously. Azriel turns his eyes away, keeping his shadows pointed on the conversation just in case. The spymaster, aware of his eavesdropping, gives him a smile. Money crosses hands and Gwyn acquires keys to their room.

He follows her further into the building, down a long hallway that's hidden behind heavy embroidered curtains. The air grows warmer and thick with herbal scent as they walk.

"Let's drop off our bags and go eat," she suggests with longing, the corner of his mouth hitching. "Then we can sauna and fall asleep."

"Perfect," Azriel replies, dragging himself over to one of the two beds in their room and dropping his things atop a brightly colored blanket. He knew what a sauna was, but he'd never experienced one. the heat would do wonders on his sore muscles.

There was no fireplace in the room, not that it was needed. The heat from the saunas provided a natural warmer. They were higher in the mountains now, were it never really got too hot despite the seasons.

Dinner was venison cooked in cream sauce. The meat pulled apart easy, served over fluffy, startched dumplings. It's delicious, as is the berry cider served with it. Azriel finds himself ordering seconds and wonders if Gwyn's appetites were rubbing off on him. Naturally, she's inhaled her portions with characteristic efficiency and nurses her drink slowly as she waits patiently for Azriel to finish.

"So," she says as he wipes his mouth clean. "Sauna?"

"Yes," Azriel replies with enthusiasm, pushing back his chair and standing. "I am quite looking forward to that."

The sauna, as it turns out, is an enclosed cavern beneath the inn. The steam so thick it was impossible to see beyond the length of his own arm. Gwyn wandered away to find  a spot for herself and Azriel followed suit. Being naked out in the open like this wasn't exactly new to him. Living in the Tower, privacy wasn't always easy to come by unless you searched it out. There were others nearby that his shadows picked up on but Azriel was being blissfully ignored.

Finding the deepest end of the pools, where the water came solidly up to his chest, he heaved a sigh of pleasure. Wings relaxed, he soaked in the mineral water, his shadows lazily dripping off him. Movement in the water catches his ear and Azriel turns his head just so, aiming his nearly golden gaze toward the source of the disruption.

"You are so tall," Gwyn muses, seeming to tip toe through the water toward him, her head and neck barely breaking the surface. "You just had to pick the deepest, darkest part of this cavern to soak in." Azriel huffs a laugh. "Do you mind?" She asks.

"Of course not," he replies, lying through his teeth. He was too relaxed by the waters warmth to be perturbed by her intrusion, though he swept his eyes to the ceiling the moment he heard her voice. The water was milky enough that it wasn't like either of them could see anything beyond what was exposed.

"Good. I'm fairly certain I smacked right into an old man's back," she explained and Azriel laughed loudly, head thrown back, sound bouncing off the cavern's ceiling. "It isn't funny, shadowsinger." A splash of water him in the back of the head and he only laughed harder. "I had to pull myself off him like a parasitic fish. I've never swam so fast in my life." She joins him in shared mirth.

They eventually lapse into silence, though with Gwyn that isn't very long. She had recently introduced him to her favorite game. She called it 'questions'. Highly creative, he'd teased her. The rules were simple; they took turns asking one another questions. It helped passed the time in their travels and Azriel would be lying if he didn't enjoy the game. He spends the first dozen questions of tonight's game fact checking against the rumors he'd heard about her from the other priests.

"No, I am not a disgraced priestess, whatever that means," Gwyn says in good humor. He couldn't see her face as they stood back to back, but could basically hear her grinning. "My sister and mother were both priestesses. Both served in Sangravah. I used to visit them often."

"Both?" Azriel asks, a bit surprised. He'd visited Sangravah often and didn't recall any relatives to the spymaster. "Where are they now?"

"That is technically two questions, shadowsinger," Gwyn admonishes. "My mother died when I was little. Fever. My sister... she, well," Gwyn paused, long enough to make him worry he'd asked the wrong type of question. He was just going to tell her not to answer when she spoke again. "That day in Sangravah Hybern's men took her head. I couldn't save her."

"I am sorry, Gwyn."

He hadn't known. How could he have? Had they killed her before he'd arrived? Just before he'd torn those fae away from Gwyn, ripping them apart with his bare hands. He'd never given over to his Illyrian nature, but the killing magic had flooded his veins and the world had ceased to exist beyond what happened in that room. There was very little he remembered beyond smell and sound.

"Why were you taken to the temples instead of the war camps?" She asked, steering the conversation into another direction.

"The Illyrians were frightened of me, of my shadows," he explained. "So, I was given to the temples instead. Probably for the best," he finished.

"You're the same age as Cass," Gwyn mused. "How different would it have been to be in the camps the same time as him and Rhys. Fate is a funny thing."

"Very," he replied. He'd often wondered at what purpose the Cauldron had in some of the paths presented to him. Azriel finds himself thinking of that day in the garden when he'd handed her the flower, or when she'd put his necklace round her neck. "Your turn, spymaster."

"Mmm," Gwyn hummed, dancing her hands along the top of the water. "Of all the magical creatures that have ever existed, real or imagined, which would you want to see the most?"

"I'm not sure this counts, but," he begins, "the library in the Tower has this illuminated text of wild birds that live in the summer lands. They're said to look like living gems, their colors are so vibrant. Their plumes are worth more than gold. I've always thought they would be beautiful to see."

"So, not dragons then?"

"Dragons could devour me," Azriel defends. "Besides, they're likely the only creature that could out fly me. Escape seems unlikely."

"Practical," Gwyn replies before laughing. "Senka will be insulted."

"If you are done laughing at my expense, I do believe its my turn again," he says, waiting for her laughter to subside. Once it does he realizes he misses it. "Is it true you're half nymph?" He glances over his shoulder and watches as she smiles at the water before her.

"No," she answers. "A quarter, actually. My grandmother was a River Nymph from the Autumn lands. I don't know my grandfather or father," this she says with a shrug. "What's your favorite illuminated text? If you say the Elder Beastiary, I'll never respect you again."

His laughter this time is deep and his face hurts a bit when he finally catches his breath. The EB, as it was called in book circles, was an extremely old text illustrated by what could only be described as sexually depraved priests. Nearly every illustrated creature had breasts or overly large genitalia.

"I once took a commission for a very wealthy client in Velaris," he tells her. "A collector of landscape paintings, she wanted me to illuminate the margins of her father's topography books." He grinned shyly at the memories of the silver topped mountains he'd inked into the edges. It had been less about artistry and more on the quality of ink being used. Gemstone infused inks, delicate golden leaf - it had been tasteful in its opulence. He'd been very proud of it.

"I would love to see your work sometime, Az," Gwyn tells him in that impossibly kind voice.

"How did you come to work with the Night Court?" He asks quickly, trying to avert the attention away from him.

"Oh, it seems like they're always recruiting," she jokes cheerfully. "I am," she paused, "good friends with Cassian's mate. We trained together, fought in Calenma, reformed the Valkyries. Needless to say I caught our High Lord's attention."

"You could have been a scholar, with your curiosity," he protests gently.

"I do have a great relationship with books," she teased. "I am rather fond of wartime poetry."

"Ah," Azriel surmises. "Who doesn't love a romantic, militaristic turn of phrase." They both snicker, shoulders rising and falling in shared humor.

"Where did you get the dagger?" she asks bluntly. "You don't wear it on you. I've been dying to find out."

"Well, we can't have you dying," he teased. He lets the moment stretch out, worrying his bottom lip. "I stole it," he admits softly, though he swears he shouts it given the way the sound echoes.

"Well," Gwyn drawls. "I would never have expected such behavior from a priest." She's trying valiantly to suppress her laughter and Azriel relaxes a little, smiling. "A prankster and a thief," she goads.

Despite the tension leaving the air, and Gwyn not pushing him further about the knife, they fall into a silent lull, both relaxing and tiring of the game. The drips and drops of the cavern creating a music all its own. Yawning deeply, Azriel covers his mouth. It had been so long since he'd felt so relaxed.

"I think I'll head up," he murmurs, just loud enough for her to hear.

"All right," she answers softly. "I'll rejoin you later."

As the water sloshed and moved against him, growing more and more shallow with each waded step, a beautiful melody lifts into the air. Haunting and beautiful, the song seems to wrap around him, tugging gently. Azriel fights the urge to turn back, though intrigued. Like a touch, he feels the melody against his skin, shadows dancing to its dark rhythm.

He feels it still as he mounts the stairs, pushing against his back. It follows him back into the room as he trudges upstairs. Azriel hears it in his dreams after it lulls him to sleep - falling face first onto the mattress. Darkness takes him. His nightmares don't follow.

#gwynriel #role reversal au #azriel x gwyn #azriel shadowsinger #Azriel #ao3fic #gwyneth berdara #gwyn berdara #acosf fanfiction #gwyn acotar

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 6

The Spymaster & The Priest A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

The next few days blurred by, not giving Azriel much time to ponder over the spymaster. She was gone most of the time, visiting different places around the city - to which she tells him absolutely nothing. Rita has been busy preparing and stocking elixirs and medicinals, keeping him busy.

By the end of their stay, he’s following Gwyn into the stables as she moves through the muddy streets. The spring rains hadn’t let up in the slightest. She strides through the inn’s stable doors. Very few creatures were stabled, but it’s obvious which belongs to her. Azriel slows, giving space.

An absolutely massive, ebony Pegasus whinnies at her approach. Azriel stares slack jawed. Gwyn rubs the beasts velvety nose, and coos - his shadows reaching out for her.

This Pegasus was magnificently muscled, light reflecting off its black coat like diamond. Tucked carefully at its side, downy, jet-black feathered wings made the mount look impossibly larger. Azriel wondered how she’d managed to get the High Lord of the Day Court to part ways with such a beautiful creature. Pegasus populations had nearly been wiped out during Amarantha’s rule. It was said the High Lord of the Day Court had attempted to breed them back with varying degrees of success.

“This is Senka,” Gwyn introduces, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Senka, this is Azriel. He’ll be flying with us.”

Flying.

A thrill shot up his spine. The giant beast raised its head to stare squarely at him. Its large round eyes were entirely black, flecked as if they held the universe in their depths. Senka’s sharp gaze spoke to its intellect and fierce devotion, scattered like stars in the night.

Gwyn insists on showing him the basics of Pegasus care. As the sun begins to lower, he’s learned to attach the saddle, rub the beast down, and what foods he likes best. The spymaster ducks back inside the inn to tell Rita goodbye and grab another sack of carrots for the trip. Senka would need frequent breaks.

Laughter and snickering trickle from the other side of the building. Two males take shelter under the doorway, escaping the dripping weather. Senka doesn’t seem bothered, but Azriel feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Tapping into his shadows, he extends his hearing, listening to their muted conversation.

”Do you think she’s a good fuck or would she slice your dick off after you’ve stuck it in her?”

Azriel’s blood freezes. The vulgarity is shocking. His hands fist at his sides.

“They say she doesn’t even like males.”

”Pft. Females like that are always grateful for it,” the first voice continues, slurring their words. “No one is seriously interested in a girl like that. Damaged goods. She’ll likely take what she can get.”

More laughter and a coughing whisper that Azriel nearly misses.

”I mean, it’s gotta be why she’s with that Illyrian, right? Who’d want a monster like that in their bed? Did you see the fuckers hands?”

”Let’s ask him.”

”Hey, bat boy, my friends and I were wondering-“ the bigger of the two steps further into the stables. Azriel’s shadows pull up and around his neck and ears, ready to strike. “Do you still have a dick left? You know, after fuckin her?”

It’s nothing like that, Azriel thinks, glancing over at Senka who’s watching him with those big glassy eyes. The fae laugh, cold and cruel and Azriel realizes he spoke aloud.

”Is the rest of you scarred like that?” Another continues. “Is that why she doesn’t fuck you then? Look at me when I’m talking, boy.”

Azriel’s vision begins to go black. Shadows snap and coalesce, a tornado of dark power. Without thinking, he winnows forward, grabbing the male’s wrist, twisting it back into a painful lock. The other looks up in shock, horror draining his face of color - gaze on Azriel’s shadows.

“I don’t think my friend likes your conversation.”

The spymaster steps up from behind him. He hadn’t heard her approach. Her voice was calm, pleasant even. Yet, Azriel was very aware of the threat behind it.

“I think you should rejoin your friends outside,” she continues, covering Azriel’s hand with her own. Fingers skimming along his, she encourages him without words to loosen his hold.

“Oh?” The male fae swaggered, tipping to the side, belligerent and drunk. “Gonna make me?”

Spine straightening, the spymaster stepped between them, shoulders back. At her full height she was taller than the drunk fool.

“Yes,” she replies with that deadly, pleasant voice. The man snorts, bravado running thick, and dismisses her with a wave of her hand.

“Who the fuck do you think you-“

Azriel doesn’t see the spymaster move. In one second the male is there and in the other he is just… not. She was dragging him back outside where his friends were waiting, pale hand at his neck. She smiles down at him, their eyes at the same level. It wasn’t a nice smile. It’s one a wolf might give a sheep before it devours it whole.

”You will not speak to me like some dog bitch,” The spymaster growls through her teeth. The male struggles in her hold, pulling a knife from his belt.

”Gwyn, knife,” Azriel calls, pulling shadow to winnow the short distance.

But the spymaster doesn’t need his help. Before he’s even gathered enough shadow to move, the spymaster pivots, grabbing the knife with her free hand. She twists the male onto his stomach, the bones in his shoulder grinding, and presses him into the dirt floor with her knee pressed against his back. The fae’s dagger clatters to the ground.

“You dare draw steel on me,” the spymaster says. “For what? A chance to continue asking about my sexual prowess?” She shakes her head, hair glinting in the lamp light. “Fucking, boys.”

”Can’t imagine why he thought it was any of his business,” Azriel added, venom lacing his tone. His shadows whipped violently.

“Right,” Gwyn agreed.

A stable hand rushes in, having heard the commotion. Rita, hot on their heels, rushes to where Gwyn holds the male to the ground.

”What should I do with him,” Gwyn asks her as casually as one might inquire about tea time.

“Let me see him,” Rita answered, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring down at the male. Gwyn removes her knee and pushes the fae onto his back with a hard kick.

“Oh, Mother save us,” Rita muttered. “Robin Bailey, yeh’ve been out trapping for the last six months and this is how yeh act the first night back? Isolation is no excuse for yeh shitty behavior.”

She motions for the stable hand to grab the drunkards arm, directing him further to deposit him outside. They watch as he gets thrown unceremoniously out of the stable and into the muddy street. Rita apologizes to them both, hugging Gwyn a final time before heading back to the inn.

“Gwyn,” Azriel drawls slowly once the stable is cleared. “Does that kind of thing happen often?”

”Are you asking about foolish fae picking fights or foolish fae speculating about me sexually?” So she had heard the whole thing. Gwyn meets his gaze evenly. There was no judgement or censure in her tone.

“Both.”

”To answer both then: often enough that it is never surprising, but not so often I worry over it.” She frowns a bit. “I mean, fae history is rich in female warriors. The Valkyries are renowned, even now. No matter where I go, though, some asshole needs to tell me their shitty opinion, or gets mad that I’m not interested in fucking his unwashed, unappealing ass.“ She blinks, covering her mouth and looking up at him aghast. “I’m sorry,” she says muffled behind her hand.

Azriel was rather stuck on the way she’d said fuck. One day he would withstand her presence without blushing.

Today was not that day.

”Not offended,” he corrects. “And you can handle yourself, clearly.”

”You’re not wrong, Az,” she says with a smile, dropping her hand. “Though I’m glad to have the company this time around. So, where are we headed? Were you able to track the first book?”

”Yes,” Azriel affirms.

He slips the paper from his sack that lists their targets. He hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. For reasons beyond his understanding, his shadows had been fascinated by Gwyn’s breathing, matching her pace with sleepy undulation. Azriel had been far to focused on the little noises she’d made.

Without the need of instruction, because they were that in tune, his shadows opened, spreading wide their dark umber across Prythia. Azriel was cautious not to overstretch himself, focusing his intent on the last location Gwyn had identified.

Last night he’d done some looking, his shadows identifying leads that would point them towards the first book on the list - an ancient, out of print bestiary of magical creatures. Many believed the book to be nothing but fantasy, but there were others who felt it documented creatures of Prythia that no longer existed or had been chartered off to other worlds.

The second book on the list, The Many Worlds, a text he knew well. It was a manuscript that was hard to forget. He’d copied it a few times - illuminated margins with graphic depictions of realm-crossing war, and terrible violence of ancient, uniting weapons - and hope of universal peace.

He was well aware of its rarity. Most copies had been destroyed. On the black markets it fetched an impossible amount, the rewards offered by the wealthiest, and morally questionable of the fae.

“Alright,” he says finally, pulling his focus back to Gwyn. “We’ll go book by book, starting at the top. I can give you a general location of each new lead based on the last known whereabouts. As we learn, the location should become more precise. I’ll take notes as we go.”

”Oh,” Gwyn says without a detectable level of hesitation. “Good. My handwriting is awful.” She blushes, eyes rushing to his as if she hadn’t meant to be so transparent.

It was the first time he’d pushed his shadows to such distances. The first time he’d attempted it, his focus had caught on everything, a jumble of noise and movement that had overwhelmed him. So, he’d mostly kept his practice to the temples and always on his mother.

“I can also confirm your suspicions were correct,” he tells her. “The Three: Harp, Cauldron, and Sword made it to the Court of Nightmares, just not the library.”

”Good to know,” Gwyn acknowledges with a frown. “I’d planned for us to tackle the hardest first, so, as you say, from the top. That means Illyria will be our first stop.” Azriel nods in agreement.

“The others,” he continues, “A Recount of the Great War, the Valkyrie’s Great War Tome - is also in Illyria. The remaining volumes are scattered in areas outside the Night Court, even as far as the human lands. There is one though,” Azriel mentions, tone dark, “that I cannot seem to…” He pauses, unsure how to describe it. “I can’t see it.”

In fact, when he’d pushed, it had felt like running straight into a stone wall, face first. Not only could he not see it, hear it, but it seemed to repel him away. He’d never felt anything like it. Never had it seemed possible there was a darkness greater than his own.

“I assume that doesn’t happen often,” Gwyn admits, tapping a finger against her bottom lip. “As I’m sure you are aware, these are not normal books we hunt. It does not surprise me that it might get tricky.”

”Is there anything in particular you need to tell me?” He asks her, still troubled over not having exact clarity on all the locations. “Would there be a reason to hide them, Gwyn?”

”Yes,” she admits with a tilt of her head. “Amaranths used Hyberns armies to destroy our ancient artifacts. These tomes could help us answer some recent occurrences,” to this she adds more, “so, in short, yes, there would be reason, especially if they knew the High Lord of the Night Court was seeking them in earnest. I will also say that we are likely not the only ones looking.”

”How long will it take to get to Illyria?” Azriel looks briefly at the sky.

“A few days, so that we don’t push Senka too hard. Nor you,” she added with a smile.

“We could make it in less time if I held you,” Azriel amended.

”Eager to have me in your arms again, shadowsinger?” Gwyn teases, her mouth twisting into a feral smile. Azriel swallowed loudly.

”I would never deny you,” he answered with a blush. “I don’t mean any offense.”

”None taken,” she says, a glow blossoming in her cheeks. “I’m sure you hate me for not asking permission to fly with you the other day.”

”I could never,” Azriel protests, pushing the list of books back into his sack along with his notebooks and pens.

“Ha!” Gwyn wags an admonishing finger at him before turning to Senak.

Cauldron, she was wonderful. Funny and kind in a way he’d never imagined. Shaking himself from her spell, realizing he was staring with what one might call a goofy smile upon his face, he acknowledged he was normally better about hiding his emotions - but the spymaster seemed to shatter all his preconceived notions even about himself.

“I have a hypothetical,” Gwyn says.

”Go on,” Azriel replies.

”If we were to get separated, could you find me?”

”Theoretically,” Azriel pondered. “I would need to listen, observe the location. Not sure that would help you if, say, you decided to poof into thin air.”

”Well,” she surmised with a well humored snort, “I don’t go poof - though Emerie has often accused me of being likely to self implode.” She stops herself, blushing again at her inability to over share in his presence. “Could you attune an item? If I kept it on me, would you be able to find me wherever I poof off to?”

”Yes,” Azriel agreed with another nod, fighting back a smile. “I would think that would be more accurate and efficient. Though if you lost the item, or it was taken from you, it wouldn’t help me at all.”

”Semantics,” Gwyn replied with a wave of her hand. “Do you have anything that might work for the sake of our experiment?”

Azriel gave it a considerable amount of thought. He did have one thing, but it was hardly appropriate for the task and he’d rather not think back on the why’s and how’s he’d ended up with it.

Just give it to her, shadows rumbled, vibrating against his skin. It will make her smile.

“I do have this one thing,” Azriel said sheepishly, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. Gwyn smiles with infinite patience. Huffing a sigh, the shadowsinger opened his bag and dug into his personal belongings, the ones he’d gathered from the Tower before they’d left.

For a brief moment, Azriel considered using any other item. The knife wasn’t one to give away, and she had plenty. He didn’t want to give her his favorite book as it had his inner thoughts written in the margins and she didn’t need to read all that. He’d rather not let go of his mother’s letters… He signed, grabbing the small trinket box and handing it to Gwyn in defeat.

She glances between the small parcel in his hands and his face. Azriel swallows, inexplicably nervous, and places the box in her waiting hands. Her skin is warm in the brief moment their fingers touch.

It seems so comical to be so nervous about something that had nothing to do with her. As Gwyn glances down from him to the box in her hands, Azriel can’t help but recall the reasons he had it in the first place.

A year ago or so, he couldn’t be precise, the High Lady’s sister had come to the tower to inquire about tonics for pain. Azriel had seen her from the library window, standing in the stark, bright sunlight as if the giant star wished to show off her beauty.

He’d thought about her often. What might she be like? What was her favorite book? How would she react if he pulled her into one of the Towers many hidden crevices and kissed her? Tasted her? Needless to say, he’d pleasured himself many a night to such fantasies but it had never been more than that. Fantasy.

Until he’d gone and done something foolish. On the last Winter Solstice he’d bought her a gift. He’d been picking up supplies for the library when it had caught his eye, hanging in a shop window, catching and throwing light.

And what did you think you would accomplish, giving a high fae, lady of the court, beloved by the Cauldron a thing like that - he’d once chided himself. Yet he’d fantasized proclaiming his love, giving her his gift as she fell gracefully into his arms. Her mate would have to be removed from the picture, of course, but of that Azriel was sure he’d have no troubles.

Fantasy, his shadows echoed.

Don’t I know that, Azriel mused internally. His nerves got the better of him and he found himself over explaining the entire thing to the curious spymaster.

“I bought it for a fae who once came to the Tower from time to time. Perhaps I misread things a bit. She refused it, left it behind after I’d tried-“

”Az.”

Gwyn’s firm voice cuts into his babble and he shuts his mouth with a snap. She’s opened the box and is holding the necklace up in front of her. Lamplight from the stables lanterns spark on the stained glass pendent, set in gold, the shape of a rose. It’s the same color that blossoms in her cheeks as she cups her hand around the delicate trinket. Her smile is small, private, as she tilts her had this way and that, watching as it catches the light. She looks up at him through long lashes and Azriel’s heart twists in his chest.

“It’s beautiful, Azriel. Are you sure I can have it?”

He swallows. It’s all he has to give and yet he’d give her gifts over and over to see that look on her face again. Azriel nods, watching, transfixed, as she clasps the chain around her neck, settling the pendant just below her collarbones. Her fingers trace its shape.

Azriel stares at the pendant and where it rests against her skin. She was wearing something of his and it was burning up his mind in ways he didn’t want to contemplate. Even his shadows seemed tense with anticipation.

“Oh,” Gwyn beams, pulling a piece of paper from the back pocket of her trousers. “I am supposed to offer you this, on behalf of the High Lord, yadda yadda, politics and all that.”

At first glance, it looks like a legal document and Azriel is immediately confused. As his gaze wanders over the paper, his printed name gives him pause. What was this? He squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, and then opens them to read over the finely written script a second time.

This couldn’t be right. Azriel looked at the spymaster and couldn’t think of what to say.

“What is this?” He barely manages to whisper.

“It’s your contract, Az,” Gwyn says simply. “You work with me, which means you work for our High Lord and Rhys is always gracious and generous.” She touches the necklace again and he can’t help but wonder at how easily he’d given it to her and for the most arbitrary reasons. He would do it again in a wings beat. “You may always remain a priest if you wish, your life is entirely yours. Now you just get paid a lot of money.”

”Why?” The word bursts forth before he can stop it.

“Well, you’re a shadowsinger, the obvious doesn’t need to be said,” she replies warmly. “But, also, you look at me like a fae and not a scary monster - and because you gave me flower even though you had no reason to.”

”Gwyn,” he says quietly and as steadily as he can muster, shadows dancing to catch her gaze. “I’m glad you chose me.”

Reaching forward, Gwyn squeezes her fingers around his. She smiles, and he’s once again blinded by the spymaster’s beauty - bright and warm as flame.

#gwynriel #ao3fic #gwyneth berdara #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x gwyn #role reversal au

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 5

The Spymaster & The Priest A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

Time passed, either minutes, hours, or an eternity - Azriel couldn’t tell which, when the spymasters awareness of their location becomes more astute. He could see the town she’d described up ahead, peeking over the horizon. As he began to ascend, the large shapes of livestock and ambiance of a place inhabited by people began taking shape.

Late spring rain had begun to pelt them in the last stretches of their journey. It hadn’t seemed to bother Gwyn, in fact he was sure at some point she’d fallen asleep.

The bright blur of the world resolved itself as the ground grew up at him. Buildings scattered into the horizons as far as he could see. Not a small town, then. Rain drips from the rooflines. Windows glow here and there, light catching the droplets like falling stars. Very few people milled about, dressed in dull clothing heavily waxed to keep them dry.

He’d never been here before, he realized. It was beautiful.

Azriel swallows the lump in his throat as a childish dream floods his mind; one of adventure and story like his books. Heart aching and war of guilt takes up inside at the idea of a whole wide world at his fingertips.

Gwyn stirs, flinching slightly when his fingers contract instinctually so she doesn’t fall. His shadows wilt. Azriel refuses to let it detour him. She would say so if his touch bothered her. Wouldn’t she? He has known her less than a full day and he already wants her to trust him so much it burns.

Feet touching lightly to the ground, Azriel’s massive wings kick up dirt, sending a wet cloud up and around them. Bringing up his wings, he shields himself and Gwyn from the mess, kneeling to set her feet on the ground. She groans and stretches her spine.

“Thank you, Az,” she says with a warm smile. He nods.

He pulls his wings back, air clear other than the rain. They walk through town toward what seems to be an inn, from what he can read on the weather battered sign. It’s nightfall, the sun setting as they passed through the emptying streets.

“Your mount?” Azriel inquires.

The Night Court’s spymaster was known to ride a winged Pegasus given to her by the High Lord of the Light Court as a gift. Said to be as black as night itself, with veins of sapphire running through its wings.

“A bit late for that, I think,” she says shyly. “I’m rather tired and I know you have to be beat.” He rolls his shoulders, the aching warmth of sore muscles he couldn’t deny. “We’ll stay the night at the inn. There should be some food left and then we can head to our room.”

Our room, his shadows prance up and down with sadistic glee.

Catching their movements and the look upon his face, she laughs cheerfully.

“I’m sure none of this is what you expected,” she says.

”It’s not that,” Azriel shakes his head, dark curls falling against his forehead. “I’ll be fine. A warm meal sounds perfect.”

They heft their bags in unison. Azriel follows behind, staying close, as Gwyn crosses the snowy yard to the inn. Inside the air is thick, hot, and loud. The rain has brought everyone indoors. He pulls the door shut behind them, entering a new world of spilled ale and fresh bread.

The main hall is large, and overly crowded, but otherwise not dissimilar from other inns he’s been too. A large fire crackles loudly in the double sided hearth at the center of the room.

Silence gathers around them like an impending storm. Dozens of eyes turn toward their direction, every patron in the inn deciding they were more interesting than their conversations. It’s too much, too many, and Azriel feels acutely exposed. His shadows have hidden from sight, tucking tight into his wings.

”Stop feckin’ staring,” A fae, who probably worked here, calls from across the room hefting a large jug onto the counter. “It’s not like ye haven’t seen the High Lord’s spymaster ‘afore.” This doesn’t sway the crowd. “Keep making my guests feel uncomfortable and I’m putting the good beer back down below!”

This does it. With low grumbles, the patrons turn away.

”Hello, Rita,” Gwyn greets loudly, voice strong and clear as it carries easily across the room. “How are you? How’s business?”

She makes her way over to where the other waits, long legs eating up the space. Azriel follows after her.

”Oh, I’m fine. Business is fine,” Rita says as she rounds the counter, wiping her hands upon her apron. “It’s good to see you.” The two hug one another tightly.

“It’s nice to see you too,” Gwyn returns, patting the shorter fae’s arm.

“Will you be needing your usual room?” Rita asks a bit skeptically, glancing at Azriel. “Do you want me to set up a bath?”

”No to both, I’m afraid,” Gwyn replies swiftly, resettling the bag on her shoulder. “I’m traveling with a partner. Could you put me in a double?”

”Of course,” Rita assures whipping her sharp gaze back to him. “Who are you?”

”I’m Azriel, a priest of the three. I’m assisting Gwyn on her assignment,” he says in return.

”Well, aren’t you a sweet one,” Rita responds with no sarcasm detected. “Well, the two of you look starved and haggard. Let me get you something hot.”

”We will take you up on that offer,” Gwyn thanks, “but we’ll take it in the room if its all the same?”

His shadows slip along his spine, a warning presses against his mind. Gwyn stands rigid beside him, hardly breathing. The hand at her side is gripped white. Raising his golden gaze, Azriel realizes that despite Rita’s warning, a majority of the hall remains starting, not at him, but her. Sudden barking laughter stabs through the air and she visibly flenches.

“Of course, spymaster.” Rita’s fishes in her pocket and pulls out a set of keys, tossing them into the air. “Top of the stairs, sixth from the left,” she says. “I’ll bring up two of tonight’s specials and some extra bread and ale. Sure about the bath?”

Azriel snatches the keys without hesitating.

“Three of the special, baths in the morning, I’d think,” he says. “Mulled wine rather than ale.”

”Of course!”

”Two of those, please,” Gwyn finishes for him. Her eyes meet his briefly before turning to the stairs.

He follows her up, flaring his wings just enough that they are less exposed. Azriel had no desire to linger in the room either, but Gwyn’s anxiety was palpable. The sixth door down the hallway was painted a flowery yellow and when Gwyn unlocked and pushed the door open it didn’t so much as emit a sound.

She practically bolts into the room and doesn’t stop until they’re both comfortably inside. The room is large, which he’s thankful for. His wings make it otherwise frustrating to be in small spaces. It was positively luxurious compared to his previous lodgings. Two chairs and a table sat before a humble fire place. There was a folding screen off to the side, a chest of drawers at the end of each bed and wash station beneath the sole window.

“I’ll take the bed nearest the door,” the spymaster says as she moves toward the fire, dropping her pack to the floor. This, he was fine with. It put him further from the fire.

“Worried, Gwyn?” He asks. He watched as she left the fireplace, picking up her pack and placing it on her claimed bed. He watches her hands as she unties the flaps.

“Oh, no,” Gwyn muses. “Rita would tear anyone apart before they even got to the stairs. Here.”

She holds out some of the extra clothing Emerie had provided him. Azriel crosses the room to take it from her. He takes a step back and sits atop his own bed. Exhaustion drapes across his shoulders like a heavy blanket.

“Are you alright,” he asks her, looking at the crackling fire beyond where she stands.

“The food will be here soon,” she says in way of answer. “I’ll feel better with a full belly.”

”Speaking of,” Azriel says, shadows alerting him to the footsteps and sound of rattling dishes coming up the hallway. He catches Gwyn’s gaze, her expression thoughtful.

“Do they always give you warning like that?” She asks. “Or do you have really good hearing?”

”Both,” he replies with a smirk.

Rising from the edge of the bed, Azriel goes to the door. Rita comes in with a tray overloaded with food and drink. Azriel takes as much as he can and sets it down upon the table, giving her thanks.

“How long will you be staying this time?” Rita asks.

”Only a night, hopefully. Two at most if we need to linger,” Gwyn answered. “Azriel will need time for some apothecaries work before we head out.”

”Oh?” Rita replies, eyebrows shooting up and eyes him. “Are you any good? I’d pay you well to stock up on some quality goods.”

”I’d be happy too, lady.”

”Such a sweetheart,” Rita says again. “Two nights then?”

”Two nights then,” Gwyn relinquishes with a smile tucked in to her cheek.

“Good!” Rita claps her hands. “I’ll go order you baths.”

Before Gwyn can protest or remind her otherwise, Rita swings the door open and exits in a flourish. The spymaster releases a good tempered sigh. Hadn’t they told her no baths? Rita seemed like the type that didn’t take no for an answer.

“Hungry?” Azriel asks, pulling a chair out from the table for Gwyn to sit.

“Starving,” she admits, plopping down, limbs loose and relaxed.

He sits across from her. The steam from the bowls and plate of bread wafts through the room and Azriel’s stomach grumbles loudly.

“Praise be to the three,” Gwyn declares and Azriel closes his eyes in prayer. “Let’s eat!”

He huffs a laugh, reopening his eyes. Gwyn is already digging her utensils into the meat pies.

“So,” she says between bites. “What else can your shadows do? That’s how you winnow, yes? Through them?”

Azriel swallows his food down and looks up to meet her gaze. Expectantly she waits, curiosity swirling in blue green depths.

“Yes, to both,” he offered, popping another bite of dinner into his mouth. “As for the rest, I’m not sure I should give you all my secrets so easily.”

”You assume you have any,” Gwyn teases. “Spymaster, remember.” She points to herself with a fork and Azriel chuckles.

“Fair,” he replies between bites. “So, then, Night Court’s greatest spy, what are my secrets?”

She finishes her bite slowly, regarding him with a measured look. Azriel chews thoughtfully, feeling brave for holding her gaze for so long, not entirely afraid of what she might know about him, but willing to except that its out of his hands and nothing he can take back now.

“You’re bastard born,” she begins, easing back into her chair. “Biological father unknown. We have that in common, it seems.” She gives him a small smile before going on. “There are no early records of you. It’s like you didn’t exist before you were given to the temples.”

It’s because he hadn’t. At least, no by common terms. His mother’s husband had kept him locked up, out of sight.

“We assume-“

”We?” Azriel inquires.

”Rhys and I,” Gwyn offers. She’s surprisingly open with him and questions begin bubbling at the back of his mind. “We assume you suffered some form of abuse at the hands of your mother’s husband, especially given your scars, and what we know of your mother.”

”And what do you know of my mother?” Azriel asked, the timber of his voice low, rumbling, and edged with ice - not quite a growl. His shadows swirl, not yet irritated, but worried.

“I mean no harm,” Gwyn reminded him. “We are just aware of her.”

”Then you understand my concerns,” he rushes. She nods, eyeing him and the shadows atop his shoulders, movements growing restless.

“You send her money from contracting work you do outside of your priestly responsibilities. You also send her send her the allowance given to you by the Night Court. You bought her a house-“

”Gwyn,” he warns, gaze darkening and threat lowering his tone further. While he had grown to like the spymaster in such a short time, he would never allow himself or her make his mother vulnerable.

“You asked,” she reminded him kindly. “Her location won’t be shared. It is your secret, shadowsinger.”

The whipping movements of his shadows is slow to dissipate. He had been so careful about the location of his mother’s home. He never sent correspondence from the same place twice. Even the boy Azriel paid to bring her food and mail was a closely guarded secret.

Gwyn clears her throat and continues.

“You know four languages fluently, and a least another dozen at basic level. You excel in translation, your penmanship and ability to copy manuscript is as impressive as your wingspan. When you aren’t doing tedious choirs required of you by your High Priest, you spend your time in the library, reading.” She pauses to take a sip of wine. “You prefer to be alone, despite being surrounded by priestly brothers. You’re also a bit of an insomniac.” She takes a breath. Azriel recalls every time she’d been at the Tower. Just how long had they been watching him? “I’m going to assume you have questions.”

”Why me?” It was out of his mouth before he could think better of it. “I may have command for language and pen and vellum, but I’m not the most qualified to help find those books.”

”And yet, you are,” she replies with a smile directed at his shadows. Ah. Now he understood.

“Because I’m a shadowsinger,” he affirms. Gwyn’s smile broadens and she nods. “And the High Lord is aware that I’m a shadowsinger.” She nods again. “And this will not be the only assignment I help you with, will it?”

”Now you have it,” she confirms.

“Am I to be a spy and torturer, then?” The harshness of his tone gives her pause. Whatever doors she’d opened before, closed, gaze darkening. He’d never seen those sea eyes look so cold. Here was the infamous spymaster and he’d been utterly fooled into thinking she was anything less. “I didn’t mean-“

”It’s all right,” she says flatly. “I am well aware of who and what I am,” she says with icy resolve. “The rest you assume correctly. You will assist me in whatever manner the High Lord wishes.”

He ponders the significance of this, dropping his gaze from hers so that he could continue eating, taking sips of his wine from time to time. Gwyn gives him the space, for which he’s thankful.

“Do you know how those are used?” She asks after a while. Meal finished, she leans back in her chair, legs stretched out long before her. Gwyn motions toward the syphons he has at his palms, fit into his gloves. He wears two more in bracers at his wrists, two at his biceps beneath his robes and the last in a choker at his neck. “You have as many as Cass,” she says thoughtfully, referring casually to the General.

“I do,” Azriel responds with a nod. “Illyrian magic isn’t exactly nuanced. Killing magic is killing magic.”

Gwyn says nothing, only regards him expressionless. He had no love for the Illyrians and wouldn’t hide that fact from her. They watch one another, each measuring, calculating, assuming. He wondered what she was thinking.

”Can you read my mind?” She asks and he startles, choking on his mouthful of wine. Could she read his?

”Huh,” he sputters. “No, Gwyn, I cannot.” She doesn’t seem convinced. “It’s more an awareness, a study of reactions. It’s hard to describe.”

”I get it,” she replies. “But no interest in being a spy, eh?” A delicately carved eyebrow rises, questioning him.

He blinks at her.

”Don’t look so worried,” she chides. “I have no intention of bringing you, or anyone for that matter, into the Night Court’s darker business. Knowing the ugly side of things doesn’t need to be everyone’s responsibility,” she says this part softly, under her breath, but he catches it nonetheless. Did she not like being the High Lord’s spymaster? It couldn’t be all Pegasi and rainbows.

“Can you do magic?” He asks, trying to bring her back around, missing her smile. His shadows all but gasp at the thought and Azriel fights rolling his eyes.

“Mhm,” she hums, intent on not explaining further.

”No desire to tell me more?” He pushes the words through shadow, intent sharp, and delivers his message right to her ear without moving his lips. Gwyn’s head snaps up, staring at him, startled.

”How did you do that?” She asks.

”Intent, pushing my will through shadow, intended for you.” Azriel explains as simply as he can.

“Clever,” she admits, relaxing again. “I imagine your intent could go beyond speech?”

Azriel nods.

”I can use them to hide, misdirect, entice,” he says. “All manner of things one would find within shadow.” He takes a long sip of wine.

“Well now you’re just showing off, Az.” She squints at him.

“You asked,” he deadpans, setting down his glass and returning to his pie. “I can also do this.” Gwyn’s eyes grow impossibly larger as Azriel’s intent directs his shadows to manifest, gather, and touch her lightly on the arm. She jumps at the contact.

”Did you just poke me?”

”I would have described it as a tap,” Azriel replies between bites, drumming his fingers along the table. “But, yes.”

Gwyn reaches for her wine, eyeing him with a frown before taking a long deep drink. He doesn’t have to read her mind to know how much it’s racing. She swallows and pins him with a sharp look.

”I have some control over flame, and summoning water,” she finally admits. “And maybe a few other things left to be determined. I haven’t quite figured them out myself.” Azriel watches her thoughtfully. “Have you never used your gifts as a priest?” She asks, to which he shakes his head. “Then how did you practice? How do you know to use them?”

”Pranks,” Azriel confirms.

“Pranks?” The corners of Gwyn’s mouth tilt up and his shadows dance victoriously. “Surely the priests of the Night Court are beyond such petty endeavors,” she teases.

“Priests, yes,” Azriel agrees, his own grin cocking to the side. “Twelve year old fae? Hardly.” He takes an other drink. “I grew up alongside a dozen others abandoned to the temples. I haven’t met an Elder yet who could manage that many fools. So yes, Gwyn, pranks.”

She’s grinning by the time he’d done explaining.

“Well, I’m grateful to know some things are universal,” she says thoughtfully, crossing her ankles. “I suppose we should head down to the baths, or Rita will march up here and drag us down by our ears.”

Yes, baths. Azriel had nearly managed to forget about that part.

Liar, shadows seethed.

“Tonight we shall bathe like High Ladies!” Gwyn exclaims with barely their enthusiasm. Her fatigue leaks into her voice. She sighs with contentment and stands. “We can leave those for Rita’s staff,” she says to him when he reaches for the empty dishes. “Bring anything you want to wash. We can dry it by the fire.”

Surely she wasn’t implying that they were bathing together? Together, together. Gwyn grabs her pack and heads to the door, looking at him over her shoulder.

“Coming?”

She doesn’t wait for him. Azriel grabs his own pack and makes to follow her. Gwyn locks their door behind them, muttering about Rita being the only other with a key, and heads down a small staircase at the end of the hallway.

The stairs give way to a long, wood paneled hallway that’s dimly lit. Sounds from the main room could be heard on the other side. Delicate, twinkling lights hand from the ceiling, lighting their way.

“Here we are,” she says happily.

Gwyn opens the last door at the end of the gall. Billows of steam rush from the open portal. Azriel’s heart begins to beat faster, so fast, he’s sure he’ll pass out momentarily. Perhaps it would be how he died - from the threat of bathing next to the spymaster. How. Awful.

Yet, there was no death to be found inside. Instead, four large stalls, two on each side of the room, with walls and doors that didn’t quite reach the roof. In the center of the room two wooden benches flanked a circular grill filled with glowing, heated rocks.

“Enjoy your bath, shadowsinger,” Gwyn says, a distant tease in her words. She withdraws into a stall, shutting the door behind her.

Azriel snaps back to conscious thought, his shadows snickering at him. Choosing the stall next to hers, Azriel closes the door and locks it. He begins to disrobe, starting with his boots. Using the bucket at the head of the tub, he fills it with water and goes about the task of wiping his shoes clean, and any dirt from his clothing.

He could hear Gwyn in the next stall, the shift of fabric rustling as she removed her clothing. Azriel steps to the tub, filled with steaming bath water, and dunks his entire head beneath the surface. It didn’t help. In fact, it was as if he were in there with her… droplets of water steaming against her skin, sliding down her back.

Cut it out, he tells his shadows and himself. He was traveling with her, working with her, yes, but that gave him no license to lust after the spymaster. He gets up only to step fully into the tub, which is far too small for his frame and not equipped for his wings. Azriel makes it work, cleaning himself furiously, attempting to make as much noise as possible so that he couldn’t hear Gwyn. Was she washing with the pine-rosemary soap he’d seen her stash away in her bag?

Azriel finishes washing quickly, using the soft towels atop a stool to pat himself dry. The stone floor is cold beneath his feet. He pulls on fresh socks and begins to dress.

“Are you ready, Az?” Gwyn calls suddenly from the otherside of his stall. She’s shifting before the door, creaking the floorboards.

“Yes,” he answers, opening the door as he picks up his things. He tries not to look directly at her.

Following her out of the bathing chamber, Azriel follows her back to their room. The journey is silent. She goes about hanging some wet underthings she’d washed. He takes the opportunity to crawl atop his bed, rolling onto his side so that he might look out the window.

He couldn’t deny the urges he felt. It’s not like it was the first time he’d felt this way about another - the burning desire to touch, taste, to own. Gwyn was not for him to want. Or to have. He was here to help her, to prove he had value beyond his priesthood.

And think about what she’s been through, he argues with himself. The last thing she needs is a horny Illyrian, drooling after her steps, touching her with his disgusting hands.

Azriel shuts his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the contradiction in his feelings and thoughts.

“Good night, Azriel,” Gwyn says to his back, voice kind and soft.

”Good night, Gwyn,” he replies, praying to the Mother for sleep.

#gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x gwyn #Azriel #gwyn berdara #ao3fic

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 4

The Spymaster & The Priest A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

Trigger Warning: Mentions of sexual assault

Once they’d eaten and finished their tea, Gwyn left him alone to change out of his robes and see to his needs. Amongst the pile of clothing Emerie had left for him were a few sturdy woolen tunics and thick knitted socks. Soft cotton shirts and pairs of leather trousers and linen underthings rounded out the rest of his new wardrobe. The colors were muted, shades of deep blues and blacks - the colors of the Night Court.

Pulling off his robes a layer at a time, Azriel dressed himself for this new role. There were pleats and panels cut into the clothing to accommodate his wings, the fabric perfectly cut. He yanks on the trousers, picking a pair of socks from the pile, these made of silvery white wool. He speeds through the rest.

As a priest he had wanted for nothing. While luxuries were not common, everything was provided and in good qualities. Azriel picks at the hem of his tunic, where a scattering of silver stars had been woven into the hem, as if the wool had been dipped into the night sky. He’d never had clothing so lovingly made.

“Are you dressed?” Gwyn asks from behind the thick curtains, her voice muffled. Azriel nods before realizing his error.

”Yes,” he says, “thank you.” She pushes through into the room, big blue eyes taking him in. She smiles.

“You look good,” she tells him. “The Night Court suits you.”

Azriel blushes, avoiding her gaze. Thankfully, she doesn’t continue with the platitudes, instead moving to the table and packing up the rest of the clothing and supplies into bags.

The window beyond lights upon her hair, turning the mahogany strands to molten fire. It reminds him of the depths of a blacksmith’s forge. She’s so beautiful, Azriel realizes all over again, struck by it as she stands across the room. She catches his gaze and smiles and time stops.

Gwyn tilts her head at him and he hopes that she can’t read his thoughts. One of his brother priests believed she possessed such a gift. His shadows undulated in pure delight at the thought.

“Ready?” Gwyn asks, breaking him from the spell he was under. She throws a bag across her shoulder.

”Yes,” he answers, reaching for the rest of the bread that remained upon the table. Gwyn snags it from his hand, fingers brushing his, and crams the corner into her mouth. He frowns at her, slightly put out.

“I am,” Gwyn says, slightly muffled around a mouthful. “One thing you will learn about me, Az, I am always hungry.”

”I don’t recall hearing that rumor,” he deadpans, disappointed at the loss of another bite.

She shoves the last of the bread into her mouth, chewing and swallowing before licking her thumb with careful precision. Azriel stares, utterly hypnotized. He’s vaguely aware that he’s hardly breathing. Gwyn’s eyes flick up to his, bright and amused.

The shop door beyond the curtains slams with a loud bang and Azriel jumps, startled, shadows bristling. He loosens a vivid Illyrian curse. Gwyn, thankfully, says nothing. He manages to pack the remainder of their purchased goods into another bag.

“What’s the plan for the rest of the day?” Azriel asks, slinging the bag over his shoulder, completely unsure of what stretched out before him, blank and absent of any kind of familiar routine. A blank sheet of vellum waiting to be filled.

“Shopping mostly,” Gwyn replied, picking up a mug of tea and draining it. Azriel grabs the kettle to pour her more. She nods her thanks. “Emerie is finishing up a heavy cloak. Then we’ll need potions, healing herbs, and the like.”

She reaches into her pocket of her pants and retrieves a square of paper. Extending it out toward him, Azriel takes the offering, unfolding the paper and nodding at the long list. The potion making implements on the list were likely enough, most distillations and salves didn’t require special equipment. He frowns.

”This looks expensive,” he says honestly.

“Perhaps,” Gwyn allowed. “It’s not my money we’re spending. I have negotiated a very generous advance from Rhys, so I like to think of it as him buying.”

Azriel has no response to that. He doesn’t presume to know how their relationship works, or the intimacy in which Gwyn says the High Lord’s name. If he wanted them on this mission, then it must be of importance.

“What should I be prepared for?” He asks. “Assuming you already know of my apothecarial skills?”

Gwyn smiles at him thoughtfully.

”Good question,” she says, not bothering to answer his second. “Basic healing never go amiss. It’s going to be cold in the mountains, so remedies for cough and things of that nature. You should stock up on anything that would make a good muscle liniment, and - oh! I have something for myself. Let me find it!” She walks away from him to the pack she’d been stuffing full, rifling through the contents.

“Muscle liniment?” Azriel asks curiously. “Are you in pain?”

”No,” Gwyn answered, glancing up at him. “But you will be.”

”Well, that’s ominous.”

”Yes! Here it is!” She exclaims, holding up another piece of parchment triumphantly into the air. “Are you familiar with this? I’d like to stock up on this as well.”

Azriel takes the parchment and scans the list of ingredients. Sage, oleander, mugwort - oh. Oh. He chokes a bit as he recognizes the recipe.

“Yes, I know the recipe,” he confirms, fighting back another blush. “Do you, uh, imagine you will have much use for this on our travels?”

”Eh?” Gwyn raises an eyebrow at him, frowning, before realization dawns. “Oh! Oh, oh, no, no, no, Azriel. Not as such.” To his sinful amusement, it is her turn to blush. “I take it regularly. It keeps my cycles away.” She frowns a bit, biting into her lip. “At least it’s supposed to. I don’t think I brew it correctly, I’ll admit-“

”Wait,” Azriel asks, holding the paper tight. “Is this the exact dosage you’ve been following?”

”Yes,” Gwyn replies with a nod. “That’s what was prescribed.”

Azriel stares at her in confusion and mounting horror.

“Were they unable to do basic mathematics? It’s positively dangerous,” he growls low, glaring down upon the parchment fisted in his scarred hand. “This,” he explains, “is formulated for a much larger fae. It’s no wonder it works inconsistently at best.”

”Az,” Gwyn says reassuringly, “there’s no harm done.”

”It’s medically irresponsible, Gwyn,” he insists. “If this were a sleeping drought, you would have died.” Azriel turns his face to the window, shadows snapping and peers into the street beyond. “Who gave this to you? Was it an apothecary here?” He takes a step toward the curtains, fully intending to find just what idiot had made such a basic fucking mistake.

“Azriel.”

Gwyn’s firm, honeyed tone stops him in his tracks. He stills, the restless frustration in him settling.

“I got it from an apothecary in another city, so please don’t go and yell at Victoria, who owns the apothecary here. I like her and she’s actually very good at what she does.” She smiles at him, slow and intimate. “Are you worried about me, shadowsinger?” She tilts her head, a cascade of silk falls down her shoulder.

”I,” he starts, “I mean…” Azriel fizzles out, blushing, Again. This was his life now, one big blush after another. “All right, just let me look over the rest of those recipes you have. Promise?” It was the first thing he’d asked of her. A promise.

“I promise, Az,” she says quickly. “Emerie said she would leave your cloak up front. We can grab it as we leave. She left a bit ago to pick up some shipments. She said to tell you goodbye. I’m sure we’ll catch up with her later. Shall we be off?”

With a few steps, she eats up the space between them. The top of her head just met the underside of his nose. He reaches out his hand to take the pack from her shoulder, too quickly, and she flinches back, faster than he can track. Her face darkens, briefly, and he drops his hand, fingers flexing at his side. Her reaction sends daggers into his gut.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Azriel watches her shrink in on herself in something like horror. She takes a slow breath and watches him with her big eyes. He didn’t like seeing her afraid, he decided.

“It’s alright, Az,” she explains. “I’m not used to, that is, it’s not you. I promise.”

”I don’t mean you any harm,” he says.

”I know that,” she clarifies.

Two years ago he’d walked into the temple in Sangravah. Two years ago he’d found her, bloodied, screaming, at the receiving end of the brutality of Hybern’s men. Azriel had slaughtered each and every one of them, ripping, tearing, drowning them in dark.

“I trust you,” she whispers, a vulnerability taking up space in her gaze as she watched. He held her gaze, never feeling as brave as he did now. “I trust you.” She repeats.

“I promise to be worthy of it, Gwyn.”

She smiles up at him.

”That day in the garden, when I gave you the flower,” he inquires. “Did you make a wish?”

”Mmhm,” she hums. Azriel chuckles, as she was clearly not going to tell him.

“Do you sing?” She asks in return.

“I am a shadowsinger,” he declares flatly. She grins, irreverent in her charms.

“Yes, but do you sing?”

”Yes, spymaster,” he finally answers, wearing a smile of his own. “I sing.”

”Hmph,” she says in way of answer, as if not impressed by him at all. “Let’s go then, shadowsinger.”

They leave the shop, heading to the House of the Wind. His fellow priests were walled up beneath it in the Tower. Strange, Azriel thought, seeing it from the outside. The windows were hidden by magic, protecting those inside. Many of the temples had been burned to the ground. Very few existed - barely a handful escaped Hybern’s search for the cauldron pieces.

He watched Gwyn as she wove through the city, slipping between merchants and gaggles of fae, Azriel had a hard time keeping up with her. His shadows predicted most of her movements. A flex of muscle, a turn of shoulder, and they tracked her the way a hungry cat might watch a mouse.

At the bottom of the thousand stairs that led up to the House of the Wind, Gwyn stopped and turned to face him.

“Can you winnow?” She asks.

”Yes,” he responds slowly.

”Good,” she throws over her shoulder after she’s turned back around. “Keep up.” She winnows, disappearing from sight.

Is she teasing us, his shadows wonder, percolating in the light. We’ll show her.

Azriel smirks, reaching through shadow, calling darkness to him, and located the spymaster.

Up, they whispered.

Folding space and time around him, Azriel’s shadows swirl, coalescing until he was nothing but a dark blur. There was no one atop the tower save the spymaster. She waited for him with an eager smile he felt wholly undeserving of.

“You can track, yes?” She asks, smile growing. “With your shadows?”

Azriel nods.

”Can you track the books on information alone?”

”What information,” he prods.

”As you know, I have leads,” she explains, “but if you can use your shadow to track - our time will be far more efficient.”

”I would need to know specifically where to start listening.”

Holding up a single finger, she fishes around the front pocket of her pack. With a quiet aha, she pulls yet another piece of folded vellum. He wonders just how many little folded pieces of paper she has tucked away.

Approaching him, she hands him the sheet. Written in impressive, masculine penmanship, it was a list of books, names, and last seen locations. He could work with this. The shadows atop his shoulder slid up his neck, peering down at the sheet as if to read the words themselves.

“Where do you want to start, spymaster?” He asks. She grins, eyes on his shadows.

“From the top,” she suggests to which he nods. “How do you communicate with them?” This was asked quietly.

“Intent,” he replies simply, not entirely the truth, but the only way he could think to explain in that moment.

“And when does the singing start?” She follows.

Azriel laughs. Her curiosity is amusing. Not even the other priests had the courage to ask him such details. They’d always avoided the subject. He might as well haven’t been a shadowsinger at all. He’d never been asked to use his abilities in service to the three. Staring into her eyes, he wanted to confess all of himself to her.

“Nice try,” he smirks down at her.

“Are you going to make me beg, Azriel?” She teases, gaze growing sharp. Fire burned his cheeks. Her smile grows and he finds himself responding in kind.

“We shall see, Gwyn,” he answers, voice low and with more confidence than he realized he was capable of. Warmth of a different kind melted into her blue depths. Before he could explore the look more, she turned her face away.

“Well,” she murmurs, stepping away before facing him again. “Let’s go.” She looks to his wings expectantly and they pull tight against his back.

Fly? With her? He curses to himself, sending a ripple through his shadows. Azriel foolishly hopes all this blushing isn’t visible due to his dark skin, but he decided it can no longer be a concern - as it was unstoppable in her presence.

“My lady,” he begins, “spymaster,” he amends.

“I know you don’t get much opportunity to stretch your wings, and it’s very forward of me to expect, but my mount is in another town over and far too distant to winnow. If holding me is unacceptable, let me know, we can figure something out.”

“How would we travel otherwise if it’s too far to winnow?” Azriel asked, internally shouting at his shadows as they danced with glee at the thought of having the spymaster in his arms. “The wind will chill, won’t you freeze?”

”I’m hard to kill.” She grins.

Azriel eyes her with a frown.

“If I’m being fully honest, carrying you is no problem, though with the distance stamina could be an issue.”

”We can take breaks as needed,” she admits with a well meaning laugh. The sound goes straight to his knees and Azriel worries he will tumble off the platform.

There was no avoiding the need to fly with her. Her gaze doesn’t stray from his as the wings at his back unfold. shadow stretches beyond him, reaching her, devouring, spilling across the platform a dark umber.

In the narrow hallways of the temples, Gwyn was right, he’d had little opportunity to fly and stretch his wings. Winnowing was faster, but he was Illyrian. Wind was in his veins. He took the time to fly whenever he could. He’d been denied it for so long as a child that he vowed he would never allow himself to be so culled again.

“Impressive, Az,” she confides, voice awed. His shortened name on her lips sounds intimate.

Azriel is no fool. He was quite aware of his stature, the expansive size of his wings, and the affect it had on either sexes. He’d never suffered from an absence of companionship when he’d craved, when his needs overwhelmed him. In dark contrast, his biological brothers had burned his flesh to make their jealousy and fears manifest. His physicality and magic elicited all sorts of responses.

Azriel finishes stretching out his wings, the sun warming the skin pulled tight across bone. Deadly claws glinting in the sun. He steps toward her and she reaches out a hand. Ignoring it, he leans in, eyes on hers. If he recognized any hesitation he would stop without question. He had no desire to ever startle her again.

One hand cupped behind her knees while he reached an arm behind her back to tuck a hand beneath her arm. Shadow stirred, moving against her calves and he wondered at their boldness. Her weight drops into his arms, heavier than he expected.

He couldn’t breathe. His heart beat so wildly he was sure she could hear it. The crushing realization that he hasn’t been this close to another fae in some time hits him at the same time her torso presses against his. Gwyn is so warm against his front and the smell of her assaults him in the most pleasant way; sun, and amber, and sea. Need flares sharply.

Somewhere very far away he can hear her muttering about rain, her arms coming around him. Azriel attempts to lean away, to provide a little bit of space between them not just for himself, but for her comfort.

“Are you alright?” She asks entirely too close to his ear. A tremor ripples through his wings. “Are you nervous? You don’t have to be. You’re not the first Illyrian I’ve flow with.”

Whatever warmth he’d felt washed away.

What Illyrians, his shadows demanded. Azriel gave a small cough.

Of course she had. The High Lord was half Illyrian and she’d trained with General Cassian. A jealous worming squirmed in his stomach. He felt a lot of warring things in that instant and it takes him a moment to realize she’s asked him a question.

“No, Gwyn,” he manages to articulate. “I am not nervous.” He smiles down at her, feeling as bold as his shadows. “You are not the first I’ve flown, and I’ve never had any complaints.”

Dark delight spears through him at the sight of her blush. She hums sweetly, the sound vibrated in his chest, sending a thrill through his shadows. Her heat burns him despite their clothing. Azriel pulls his wings back, body growing taunt. Gwyn’s grip tightens expectantly. In perfect Illyrian form, Azriel pulls his wings wide, catching the wind, bends at the knee just enough and lifts them into the sky.

Gwyn cries out at the speed in which they ascend, laughing. He pulls her flush against him, scarred fingers against her and he hoped she didn’t mind him touching her like this.

“Relax,” she purrs against his neck. “You’re going to be sore if you keep holding your muscles so taunt.”

As if to prove her point, she relaxes further into his embrace. His shoulders drop, and the grip he has on her lessens. With a deep exhale, the tension leaves his body life water swirling down a drain.

“Good boy,” she says, breath against his skin. “Now, can you do me a favor?”

Anything, his shadows bemoan.

“How far have we gone?”

Azriel looks down at her, reeling with a sudden epiphany. His smile is slow and teasing.

”Are you afraid of heights, spymaster?”

”Eh!” She cries out in shock at being seen. “I-“ she begins before stopping, her face glowing bright. “Fine, yes.”

He fights back a grin at finding her out. Glancing back he sees Velaris is nothing but a tiny smudge in swirling white along the horizon. He clears his throat.

“It’s barely visible, Gwyn,” he tells her.

She nods against his chest and hums. He rather likes how vocal she is. His brothers in the Tower were so quiet by comparison.

“Don’t you ride a Pegasus?” He asks.

”Shut up,” Gwyn snaps, her smirk giving her away. “Yes, I do. I don’t make it a habit of looking down, or anywhere beyond its mane, really.”

Azriel laughs, the sound carryed by the wind.

The whoosh and beat of his wings lulls them to a comfortable silence with their steady rhythm. Gwyn remains still, and his mind wanders to a dark place, remember the last time he’d held her like this. Was she recalling the same?

Azriel closes his eyes only for a moment, reciting a mantra to further calm his mind and heart. It’s almost effective in keeping him focused on the journey into town to retrieve Gwyn’s mount. Almost effective in distracting him from the subtle curves pressed against him and the smell of her hair.

Liar, his shadows hiss.

#gwynriel #ao3fic #acotar fanfiction #azriel x gwyn #gwyneth berdara #azriel shadowsinger #azriel #gwyn acotar #gwyn berdara #role reversal au

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 3

The Spymaster & The Priest A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

Azriel rose in a daze. He doesn’t remember leaving the High Priests office, or returning to his room. Yet, he finds himself there regardless, staring at the small bed he’d slept in for the past two years. All his worldly possessions sat atop a tiny shelf. He had so little.

Not bothering to look around, his shadows shift nervously about. Azriel grabs the letters from his mother, a small trinket box from the desk, his favorite book, and the old knife he’d kept hidden beneath his pillow. Wrapping a thread bare tunic around his belongings, he tucks his things into an oil cloth sack.

Everything packed, Azriel grabs his writing supplies from the top drawer of his desk, last. He only takes his most precious inks and quills. Scanning the room one more time, he picks up a change of robes and walks out the door.

His shadows dart about, thrilled at this new adventure. Azriel walks through the mostly empty halls, a dark spot in the dim light. He hadn’t spend that much time within the Tower but he had found peace within the library stacks. He would miss this.

She’s waiting for him out front as instructed. Taller than he’d assumed, her eyes at his chin, he still towered over her.

”You’re taller than I expected,” she confesses, mirroring his own thoughts. She smiles, her voice cheerful. The spymaster sounds utterly delighted to see him, as if they were old friends rather than perfect strangers. Her summer eyes rake over him head to toe, leaving him shattered in their wake and trying to breathe. “Do you have winter clothing?” she asks. “The nights still get rather cool, I’m afraid.”

”None that belong to me, my lady.”

”I see,” she says.

He wrings his bag between his scarred hands, drawing her attention.

”My apologies, lady.”

”Oh no, priest,” she responds, skating her head in frustration. “It isn’t your fault.” She bites her lower lip and stares over his shoulder at the shadows perched along his wings. “We can outfit you properly in town before leaving. I should have thought it before.” She settles into long strides, aiming for the Tower door. When he doesn’t immediately respond she tosses a concerned look over her shoulder. “Azriel?”

”I’m” he starts, taking a step to follow her. “I’m sorry, this is a lot.”

”And a bit upside down, I take it?” She guessed. “I supposed this is twice now I’ve come into your life and shaken it up.” She smiles at him and pushes open the door.

”I wouldn’t have put it like that,” he says, chasing after her. The spring air is humid, though a bite of Winter still lingers. His shoes tap lightly against the warming pavement.

“Still,” she responds. “I imagine this must be shocking for you. I wish I could have given you more notice.”

Azriel is vaguely aware of her the entire walk through Valeris. His shadows were tucked tightly away, overwhelmed by the sounds all around them. His wings itched to take flight, but the spymaster was not gifted with wings. She catches his gaze.

”I could winnow us if you prefer,” she offered. He shakes his head. “I’m sure flying would be faster.” They walked on. “Do you use your shadows to winnow?” Curiosity laces her tone.

”I can,” he confessed. “Though I haven’t needed the skill for much.”

”I’m sure it makes putting the books away in the library faster,” she teased.

Despite himself, Azriel smiled.

”You would be right, lady,” he answered. She returned his smile.

Aware of the stares they were getting, Azriel tucked his hands into his pockets. If the spymaster noticed his discomfort, she doesn’t admit to it, saying nothing of his sudden self consciousness. His mind is a jumble of sensations. Every nerve ending felt as though it was afire. The shadows attempting to shield him only went so far.

“Relax,” she said soft enough to be head just over the city noise. “I can tell you don’t like being stared at. I don’t either, honestly. This city, even at its most crowded still feels like the loneliest place in Prythia. The nights aren’t much better - worse really.”

She goes on, her voice weaving around him. The tension slowly leaves his body, despite the increasing presence of fae as they went deeper into the city in search of supplies. Azriel’s breath slows, his chest rising and falling in time with his languid steps.

”Honestly, I think they might be a bit in awe of you. There aren’t many known shadowsingers. I find it easier to just pretend I’m comfortable in a crowd, and I see no reason to be uncomfortable for longer than necessary. Therefore-“

She points up to a shop sign ahead. Azriel blinks his gaze away from her, thinking back to how little they knew one another and yet the familiarity in which she spoke to him was pleasant.

“So, you’re actually not a terrifying tortures, cursed by the Mother, possibly half-goddess, who’s drafted the High Lord’s enemies with the tip of her blade, eliciting their secrets?”

He hadn’t meant to blurt out the rumors that circled the Tower about her. She bursts into laughter, so loud, if it had been any quieter she’d have startled someone. She beams at him, eyes dancing with light.

”Is that what they say about me?”

“Among other things, my lad spymaster,” Azriel says with nod. Amusement glints in her blue-green depths.

”Oh? You will have to tell me these other rumors. I do love hearing stories about myself, especially the most ridiculous ones.”

Her obvious pleasure made emboldened him.

”Are they just rumors, lady?”

The spymaster’s grin turns positively wild, feral.

“Not all of them, priest.” She steps closer to him, the warmth of her body more than that of the spring sun. “I am, after all, Spymaster of the Night Court, Carynthian, and Valkyrie.” Her grin becomes toothy and his heart skips a beat, sending a jolt straight to his groin, snapping his spine straight. She huffs a laugh, a sound he feels more than hears.

Azriel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The shop before them is banked in tall windows, lined with heavy drapes. It’s the first store he’d visited in a long time, the exterior well maintained. The sound of opening and closing doors rang out around him. Fae shuffled around him, the ambiance of a place inhabited by happy citizens.

His heart aches at the terror and excitement of the new level of freedom before him. There is some guilt, too, in leaving his priestly brothers back in the Tower. This was his adventure. His story. It was the first time out of the Tower in two years, and the the world was utterly breathtaking.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he catches the spymaster’s eye.

”Ready?” She asks.

”Yes, lady,” he replies with a nod.

The main room of the shop is roughly the size of the High Priests office and as crowded as the streets outside.

“Spymaster! Back so soon?” A voice called from across the room, the fae hefting a large box of goods onto the purchase counter.

”Emerie,” the spymaster doesn’t yell, instead her voice rings out, clear as a bell being rung. “How are you?”

She starts across the room, her long legs eating up the distance. Azriel follows after her, staying close so that no one would pay him any attention.

“I am good,” Emerie says as she pushes through the crowd. The women scope one another up into a hug, spinning in a small circle. Azriel deftly dodges a foot.

”It’s nice to see you, too,” the spymaster answers with the same level of admiration.

“What are you doing back in the city so soon?” Emerie asks after another lingering embrace. She leans back so that she might look the spymaster in the face. “How long are you here for? Where are you staying? Does Rhys really have you on another assignment already?”

It’s new for Azriel to hear his High Lord spoken about so informally. A clear reminder that he was in the presence of two fae who were a part of the Night Courts inner circle. A trusted group who kept the territories safe. Before him were two warriors out of a storybook; Valkyrie, Carynthian - he was awestruck by them both.

“Not long I’m afraid,” the spymaster replies. “And yes, Rhys has been unforgiving in his need for information of late.”

”Hmph,” Emerie grunted. “I’m sure.” Direct, and fearless. Azriel liked her already. “What did you come in for then?” What are you in need of?”

”I need supplies for my partner,” she replies and without looking reaches  behind her and pulls Azriel forward.

“Is that so?”

Emerie’s sharp gaze whips to his. Yes, this woman is not just a simple shop owner. Her striking, Illyrian features gave her an intense beauty. The wings tucked at her back were heavily scarred, like his mothers, flightless and useless. Yet the sharp glean in her gaze hinted at an intellect that couldn’t be underestimated, and strength that couldn’t be denied.

“Who are you?” Emerie demands. “Why are you traveling with a partner?” Her second question has her swinging her dark eyes back to the spymaster.

“I’m Azriel. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he greets, bowing his head slightly. “I am assisting the Spymaster on her current mission.”

”Well, aren’t you sweet,” Emerie looked him up and down with a measuring gaze. “Is that all you have?” Her hand motions to his clothing and bags. He Nods, cheeks flushing. “I’ll get you something better.”

She turns to exit into the back of the store and Azriel realizes that now the eyes in the room have turned to him. Priests often left their temples, traveled, but less rarely were they shadowsingers. He rubs his hands together, catching the spymaster’s gaze.

”Let’s wait in the back,” she says to him. Her keen eyes missing no detail.

She follows the path Emerie took to the back, ignoring the looks she got. Pushing the heavy drapes to the side, they entered a second room. It’s easily six times the size of his quarters at the Tower. There are a few chairs scattered about. A large, circular platforms rises from the floor in the middle. Mirrors are gathered in different shapes and sizes, some positioned on the floor and others hung from the ceiling.

A wall of fabric rolls covered the back, colors he’d never seen before in shimmering silks and heavy muslins creating a jewel toned workspace for the designer. The pace felt intimate and positively luxurious. Azriel breathed a deep, settling sigh.

”Are you alright?”

Azriel looks to where the spymaster stands off to the side, just behind his shoulder.

“I’m afraid you haven’t had me at my best today, lady.”

”I’ve barely had you at all,” she says, a wry quirk to her mouth that makes his go dry. She divests him of his bag, fingers brushing against his. Pushing him down toward one of the chairs, thoughtfully cut out to accommodate wings. Without lingering, she turns away to examine the wall of speciality fabrics. Azriel lazily rubs his shoulder where he can still feel her warm touch.

Emerie joins them some time later, balancing several stacks of clothing on the palms of her hands, followed by a shorter Illyrian woman with her hair pulled back into a large pouf.

“Hello, Livia! You’ve gotten so tall!” The spymaster says in delight as the newcomer approaches. She gives them room, hanging back to allow them to place the supplies atop a table.

“You say that every time I see you,” the Illyrian you says sweetly in return. Livia is holding steaming mugs of tea which she place before the spymaster and Azriel. “Sir,” she says with a nod. Once the hot tea is delivered, she turns and hugs the spymaster tightly. “The tea was fresh an hour ago,” she says, eyes on Azriel, as if somehow it’s his fault. “I’ll have some fresh provisions made up for your packs. The goat cheese is excellent, but I recommend it with the cranberry jam.” Her gaze lingers on him for longer than he liked, shadows scurrying, wings tucking in close. Azriel pushes his hands into his pockets. “Don’t look so worried,  we’ll make sure you have everything you need.”

“My thanks, Livia, Lady Emerie,” he says this more to the floor than to them. He wasn’t hiding, definitely not hiding. The shadows that normally sat atop his shoulders like a murder of crows were instead pooled, gathered at his feet. “You’ve been more than generous. Your hospitality is most appreciated.”

”Come on, Livi, let’s leave them to it.” Emerie gives him a tiny thing of a smile before folding the spymaster into another hug. As the two leave the back room, Livi pulls the heavy curtains closed to separate them from the noises of the shop beyond.

“Emerie grows annd makes all her own food,” the spymaster says, crossing the room. She takes a sip from one of the mugs before peering at the tray of food that Livia had brought in. “Illyrians aren’t really known for their agriculture, but Emerie has a way of making beautiful things of the mundane.”

”Are you not eating?” He asks when she turns away, hot tea mug cupped between her hands.

“Once I get these damn leathers off,” she responds, beginning to unbuckle some of the straps at her midsection. The craftsmanship was exquisite, waxed, molded Illyrian leather that looked as if she’d been poured into it. “Don’t wait for me, go ahead. I swear they make these things without any thought to how much a body can change throughout the day.”

”Yes, lady,” Azriel says quietly, fresh shame sliding down his heated cheeks like melting snow. “Usually the High Priest blesses our meals, and only then do we eat.” He swallows, hunger rumbling in his guts at the sight and smells coming from the assortment of foods. She drags a chair over, tossing her leathers across the room where they land unceremoniously on the floor with a loud thump.

”Am I the High Priest, or are you, in this scenario?” She asks with a smile. His middle clenches with another type of hunger.

”That would be you, my lady,” he admits, relinquishing his control. She nods, biting into her lower lip and bowing her head. He mirrors her actions and closes his eyes.

”Oh Mother of harvest, home, and hearth, please bless this meal. May the Cauldron grant us strength and might.” She paused and whispered, “Was that alright? Do you think I should say more?”

Despite himself, a wry smile crooked the corner of his mouth.

”We usually end with a praise be to the Mother,” he whispered back.

”Thanks,” she quietly returned before announcing, “Praise be to the Mother. Let’s eat!”

Azriel opened his eyes and found the spymaster filling her mouth with a large spoonful of vegetable stew. The noise she makes as it hits her tongue is downright blasphemous. Quickly tearing his gaze away, he applied himself to his own bowl, ripping a piece of bread for himself.

As promised, the hot food was delicious in its simplicity. It reminded him of the meals he’d once shared with his mother - familiar and comforting. There were memories cooked into this food, and maybe if he ate enough he’d recall more of his own. Feeling strangely nostalgic, Azriel was half way through his meal when she spoke.

“Cheese? Jame?” She offered up, holding out a board laden with both. He nodded gratefully, accepting, immediately abandoning his strew to take a bite.

It was a delight to the senses, rich and creamy cheese with the tart sweetness of berry. Azriel startles himself with an audible groan of approval. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

“My thoughts exactly,” she told him, biting into her own cheese and jam slathered bread slice. “She’s a wonder at everything she does, really.”

”Have you know her long, lady?” Azriel asked, smearing more jam across bread with gusto. She shrugs, a slender should moving up and then down.

”A good while.” She swallows a long sip of her tea before setting it back down. “And you can stop calling me ‘lady’, Azriel. It’s a bit formal, and in all honestly, I’m not a lady.” She smiles gently so that he doesn’t panic and take it the wrong way.

”What shall I call you then?” He asks. “Before today I didn’t know much about you.”

Except for reading every bit of literature that mentioned her, his shadows deadpanned.

“Gwyneth Berdara,” she answers with a tilt of her head, long locks slipping down her shoulder. “My friends call me Gwyn.”

”Gwyn,” he echoed. Azriel blinks. Gwyn nods. “Like the sword Gwydion?” She shrugs her answer. “The weapon of holy light once blessed by the High Priest?” He continued biting at his lower lip, suppressing the urge to smile. Gwyn doesn’t hide her amusement, mouth tilting up and eyes shining.

“Oh yes,” she gestures to all of her. “The High Lord’s grand spymaster is the embodiment of the Holy Mother.”

They burst into laughter, Azriel’s eyes watering. Running out air, he shakes in silence, shadows dancing in their shared mirth. His joys lasts so long that the tension leaves his body completely and when he’s able to finally catch his breath he feels more relaxed than he has been since this whole ridiculous day started. He wipes the corner of his eyes, a chuckle still rumbling in his chest. Sitting back, he sips on his tea.

“I don’t mind my namesake,” she finally admits, setting down her spoon. She takes a chuck of bread and skims it around the bowl, soaking up anything left. “A blade as dark and beautiful as the night itself, they say she glows like a star.” She takes a bite and chews thoughtfully before tossing him a smirk. “Perhaps the name fits.”

”If you say so, la-“ Azriel stops himself and corrects, “Gwyn.” He returns her arrogant smile with a gentle one of his own. He liked the sound of her name when he spoke it, even if it felt uncomfortably familiar and his toes curled in his boots. Before he could think better of it, he tells her, “You may call me, Az, if you wish.” His heart skipping a beat as her smile grows. She felt like the summer sun when she grinned at him like that.

“Az,” she repeats with pleasure and the hair on his neck and arms stand straight up. Even his shadows snap to attention. “Azriel. A lovely name.” Her pronunciation is near perfect and he has no response for her, so he shoves another bite of bread into his mouth and ignores the warmth in his belly that has nothing to do with Emerie’s home cooked meal.

#gwynriel #ao3fic #ao3 fanfic #acotar fanfiction #azriel x gwyn #gwyneth berdara #azriel #gwyn acotar #gwyn acosf #gwyn berdara #azriel shadowsinger #role reversal au