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azsazz · 2 years

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Truth-Teller and Soul-Stealer

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Um....I don’t want to give any thing away, so I’m not writing a summary for this one.

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 6,342

Notes: Well, I said it once but I’ll say it again: TYSM for 1,000 followers! I love every second of this blog. This one is dedicated to each and every single one of you!

P.S. This is my FAVORITE fic I’ve written so far. It is immaculate. I surprised even myself :)

_________________________________________

Your body falls lax against the chair. The iron chains won’t budge as you give up trying to tear your arms free, sweat dripping down your neck into the collar of your torn shirt. The metal bites at your raw wrists: stinging, bloody, and mangled from trying to pry them off.

Their startling iciness had been part of the reason that kept you awake since you had been captured. And since there were no windows, you were unsure of just how long you’d been in there. From the utter exhaustion you felt, it had to be more than a few days.

Every time you wanted to sleep, you were jolted awake by that feeling you had become accustomed to during your time here: claws scraping against your mental shields like nails on a chalkboard, shaking you to your very core.

But you would not yield, no matter what.

Chest heaving with effort, you squint around the cell again although you’re sure you’ve looked for every possible escape, for anything that could give you leverage against your Night Court captors.

Nothing. Not a damn thing in this room that looks as if it is carved out of a mountain. You had no idea where you were, a blindfold having been tied around your eyes after a fairly equal fight, only hours after you crossed into Night Court territory.

They were quick, sending out a winged male to come capture you, an easy smile on his face when he saw you, thinking you posed no threat.

He’d clearly been wrong.

You’d been able to keep up with him, his red stones blazing bright in the night, that and the shining moon the only light. You hadn’t even had to tap into your own powers; he was so unskilled in comparison. You were so occupied blocking and countering his every move that you didn’t even notice the shadows of midnight slithering around until you were bound by blue magic.

Eyes covered and cradled to a strong chest you struggled the best you could, smirking to yourself, but tied tightly with that power rendered you useless and you swore you were up in the air, the wind whipping across your skin.

They had restrained you to a hard chair, not one whisper uttered between any of you. You refused to speak, refused to let anything into your mind. You had created such an intricate puzzle inside of there in the time you had been alive it was utterly impossible to break through your walls.

As soon as they had left you had ripped the blindfold off, the only thing you could manage to do, your wrists catching on the harsh metal, drinking in the sight of the room you were being kept in.

There wasn’t much to look at.

You had had just enough food and water to keep you alive, your stomach trying to eat itself and your throat was like a desert, tongue uncomfortably dry and heavy in your mouth. Your first form of torture.

It had been so long but so short, losing all track of time. You didn’t know if they had fed you in hours or days, when your last sip of water was. But you kept quiet and kept your mind well guarded, it would not be so easy to break you.

Examining the metal cuffs you bore, you recognized the wards carved into its shiny surface, chuckling to yourself as you read them.

Silly males.

You knew they were coming, could feel their power rumbling through the mountain like a storm, and there they were. Door opening and darkness rolling in like dark clouds, the room nearly black as you squint against it. The air is thick and damp, stifling.

It’s as if the darkness is coming from him, seeping through his pores as he enters the room, standing with wings, leathery, membranous things tucked menacingly behind him, the clawed edges arching over his head like a halo of terror. The only light comes from his blue siphons, causing his face to appear sharper, meaner.

A true angel of death.

Loud, thunderous laughter rolls in next, booming against the walls, causing you to flinch in your seat at the sound. Another of his kind, a menacing smile pulling at his mouth. He’s just as handsome as the first, muscles taut with centuries of practice. Noticing the red stones glowing in the dark room you recognize him, the one you had fought against in the woods. And you would have won, if not for the male next to him.

You would smirk if your lips weren’t cracked and bleeding, dry beyond belief. He looked exactly like the sort of male that would cry for a millennia if he were to be bested by a female in battle.

Perhaps that is why the other warrior had stepped in.

Finally, lightning embodied follows, his violet eyes nearly glowing in the dark. You can feel the power radiating off of him as he stalks casually in the door, curiously scenting your blood mixed with the tang of metal.

You can easily tell that he is the one in charge, that sly smile on his lips, silver-tongued as he says his first words to you.

“Speak.” His tone is every bit as arrogant and authoritative as he looks, standing tall and playing with the cusp of his shirt, unbuttoning the sleeves to roll them in perfect folds to his elbows, his strong tattooed forearms flexing in the light from the warriors’ siphons, the red and blue mixing to create an ominous purple the color of his eyes.

“Fuck you.”

He releases an amused puff of air. “My apologies,” he purrs, “I should have been more clear. Who are you and what are you doing on my lands?”

The two winged warriors flank you on either side – their presence noted and ignored – but your eyes stay locked on the male in charge. You keep your mouth shut, jaw set as he circles you like a predator would its prey. His dark gaze claws up and down your body, taking you all in.

“My name does not need to be learned by you,” your voice is a rasp, the threat catching in your dry throat.

“I don’t believe I gave you the option to refuse,” he responds, giving a shallow nod to the cobalt-stoned warrior. Immediately he moves in closer and you watch the ease of the male as his hand moves to his holster, plucking out his blade in one swift motion and pressing the tip of it into the vein in your throat.

It’s as if the weapon awakens in his hand, a horridly sweet song filling your ears, something you never thought you would hear again. You make to look at the weapon as best you can, carefully avoiding nicking your neck, and your breath catches. It has a stone set in the hilt, the runes engraved are the ones you’ve been searching for, and the smell hasn’t been washed away from the blood, oil, and whatever other substances have covered it throughout its time since you had last seen it.

“Where did you get that sword?” You hiss, thrashing in your seat as the three males still, sharing a look. His grip tightens around the blade though he draws it away slightly as if you’ll grab for it with your teeth. The swords song falters, screeching like you’re already too far away from its glinting metal.

“Give it back. It does not belong to you,” you fight against the restraints, standing from your seat and following the knife's path as far as you can, body leaning towards it, arms secured to the chair behind your back. The shadowmaster yields a step backwards in surprise.

The three winged males watch curiously as you yank on the restraints, full of adrenaline like when they had first brought you in. None of them hear anything other than your frantic anger as Azriel sheaths the weapon back in its rightful spot, snug against his thigh, your wild eyes following its every movement. The shadowsingers hand stays wrapped around it’s hilt protectively.

“And how would you know that it isn’t his?” Cassian dares to question first.

“Does it sing?” you cock your head to the side tauntingly as you fall back into your seat, eyebrows raised in defiance. The song is muffled now that it’s away and you can focus better on the conversation, knowing that you’ve just shown your hand to these males: that you know something about this knife that they don't seem to understand.

The shadowsinger reveals nothing, only answering your question.

“It is mine. For I was there when it was forged. It sings to me, a beautifully horrible tune,” you tell them, eyes cast to the blade tucked away once more, like just thinking about it will remove the warrior's grip and send the knife flying back to your hand where it belongs.

“What the hell are you?” he breathes, staring at you with wide eyes as your iris’ flash black as night, darkness swirling in your gaze when Azriel thumbs over the stone settled in the butt of the knife.

“I am something far worse than any of your nightmares could conjure,” you glare up at them all in turn, a slight smirk curled on your lips as a new feeling enters the room, darker and more dangerous than the High Lords, a void of darkness with no beginning and no end, shifting the world on its axis.

With half a thought it was gone and the males felt like they could breathe again. It was a darkness so cold Azriel could see his own breath when he released a surprised exhale.

__________

Cassian asks the question that they’re all thinking. “Do you think the wards will hold?”

“They’ll hold,” Rhysand replies, too quickly to be true, a pause in his step to glare at his brother before he continues his anxious strides, pacing the length of his desk with his hands clenched tightly together behind his back.

Azriel watches the city out the window, waiting for the skies to darken and crackle with the buzz of their prisoners' powers.

His hand hasn’t left the hilt of his beloved blade since they’d left you in the cell with no other parting remarks, warding the door four times over after leaving the room. No one could get in, not even Rhysand alone, the three of them needed to be there together to unlock the wards and release you.

He could understand the draw Truth-Teller felt, wanting to yield to you like the blade strapped to his thigh, a beautiful, powerful, commanding female. He itched beneath the surface of his skin, something thrumming through his blood, like your power had cursed him…or awakened something within him. He pushed the thought from his mind, turning his attention to the other Illyrians.

This was a kind of power none of them had ever encountered before, as if you were the cauldron incarnate, fueled only by wreaking havoc wherever you went.

But why did you need Truth-Teller?

The tea sits untouched on the desk, his hands too shaky to even pour himself a glass after what he’d just witnessed. He didn’t think he’d be able to hold the delicate cup without spilling.

“You keep that knife away from her, Az,” Rhys demands, and for a moment he wonders if this is the only thing his High Lord could think of, “And that’s an order.”

__________

He couldn’t ignore the draw.

Azriel’s entire body itched with the need to go to the Hewn City where you were being held, not only to see if you had broken free from the heavy wards trapping you, but there was something else…a raw and indescribable feeling, like there was that untamed beast prowling beneath his skin, thrashing to get out. It roared within him and would not be silenced, no matter how hard he tried. His shoulders tense with unease.

He’d never felt like this before. It was like he was trapped again, when he was young, even though he reminded himself he wasn’t there. Would never be back there again.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling.

It almost…interested him.

Was he feeling your exact emotions? Were you still trying to get yourself undone from the cuffs biting into your wrists? He had smelled your blood, a tang unlike any fae he’d encountered before. That power was boiling deep within him, excited and angry, ready to take on whatever stood in his way.

You had awakened this within him, somehow.

And how did you know of Truth-Teller? And does the blade truly sing to you?

There were so many unanswered questions swimming through his mind that he did not dare lie in his bed. It was futile at this point, instead the shadowsinger threw open his balcony doors, inhaling a deep breath of the crisp Velaris air, not quite settling him the way your power had.

He looks down at his beloved knife, tracing the symbols carved into the handle, the metal gleaming brightly in the faelight. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way your eyes flashed complete onyx, what he felt was his first breath of fresh air as your power swam through the room, a comforting, familiar hand caressing him.

It terrified him.

But even if he felt the pull to seek you out and get more information, no matter how badly he wanted to do it, he couldn’t. Not with the wards he and his brothers had put on the cell. It would take all three of them together to unlock the spell Rhys had cast, using their combined powers to secure the cell further.

Or could he?

His shadows swirled and purred in his ears, do it. It was not their usual voice, no, it was a wicked whisper of the wind from deep beneath the Hewn City, under the red rocks of the mountain, the raunchy streets of the sub-court below.

Yours.

I know you hear me, spymaster, your voice crowed. You feel it, don’t you? Your potential?

How were you doing this? He shuddered at your words, or because the beast he kept well locked down reacted to your soothing voice, calming for a moment as you spoke, and then when you stopped, it roared to be let out, to meet its old friend.

He needed to get away. Far, far, far away from you before it was too late.

__________

“This isn’t right. Az should be here,” Cassian says as he perches himself on the sofa in front of his brother’s desk, a full cup of bitter drink in his hand, the strongest they have.

“He might be part of the problem,” Rhys sighs, hating to admit it aloud. He had seen the way his spymaster looked at you with such intrigue. Could feel his brother's own power awakening within him, as he was the only other one in the room familiar with it, having had a taste of Azriel’s true powers buried beneath his skin. He saw the way his shadows skittered with excitement, twining with the invisible power that was your own coiled through the room.

It rivaled his own.

“I’m afraid of what they could become together,” Rhys shudders from his spot by the window, his own glass clenched tightly in a white-knuckled grip. He had watched Azriel flee the House of Wind hours ago, and it hadn’t sat right with him, only furthering his suspicion that he could hardly control himself. He turned slightly to glance over his shoulder with sad eyes to Cassian, abnormally silent as he took a long sip of the amber liquor in his cup.

And the brute had not been naive to it all in the cell. He had his own feelings regarding the situation, some that aligned with the thoughts of his brother. “We could use a weapon like that,” he responds eventually, his glass drained and standing from his seat to pour another, “Someone or someone’s to stop wars before they can even start.”

And Rhys wished that were true. He knows together you and the shadowsinger would have the ability to stop battles before a casualty was made, but he’s not sure of your intentions. With his court or his brother.

“You felt her power,” the hair rises on his arms at the thought of your miniscule display of your abilities. Had his father still been alive you’d be the greatest weapon in his arsenal and he would have forced you to help make him High Lord of all of the courts, and used for breeding his powerful heirs. Rhys shudders at the thought. “That is the darkest magic that I’ve ever seen. And if they teamed up...” he braces himself against his desk, eyes shining with fear, not a star in sight, “I don’t think we’d be able to stop them.”

__________

He needed to see you.

Azriel hadn’t slept in days, tossed and turned all night. Truth-Teller never farther than arms length from him as he tried to calm his mind, that thing slithering beneath his skin. His mind reeled no matter how many mind-stilling techniques he tried, no matter how far he winnowed or flew, even to complete exhaustion, he could not rest.

Was this how you were feeling? Those uncomfortable chains wrapped around your wrists, the icy metal keeping you awake? Or was it Rhys trying to tear his way into your mind? Or the pull from the knife he kept close to his side, its haunted singing still ringing in your ears?

Your whispers only aided his lack of sleep, keeping him company with promises of newfound power and strength, something that his own shadows couldn’t keep at bay.

And it wasn’t swaying him, perhaps, more like your words were driving him crazier the longer they went on with the less amount of sleep he got.

He had devised a plan to convince his brothers to take him to you, long and thought out. Azriel knew that they were weary of him, had an inkling as to what he was feeling, as meals were tense and battle plans were scarcely spoken of.

Luckily, he didn’t have to put his plan into action. Rhys and Cassian had mentioned briefly over the breakfast he barely touched that the three of them would be giving you a visit, to see if you wanted to talk more.

Azriel didn’t care about the plotting looks in their eyes, for he was finally going to get some answers of his own out of you.

__________

Choking down his meal hadn’t been easy, but with the promise of seeing you he managed.

The closer the Illyrians strode, the less constricted he felt in the confines of his own skin. His chest didn’t feel as tight and his grip on Truth-Teller relaxed, a complete opposite reaction to his brothers, who were tense as ever, shooting each other weary glances.

The three of them removed the wards and the door swung open, the darkness of your powers wafting out into the hallway, a welcome feeling for the shadowsinger as he rolled his shoulders, stretching out his wings.

He dared not speak as your gaze caught his for only a moment before settling on the knife holstered to his side. You seemed to sag with relief at the sight.

Rhysand had tried to get him to leave it above, but it wasn’t something he agreed with, countering his brother’s argument with the idea that if they brought it, you’d be more trusting in them, hopefully answering their questions.

You looked worse than the last time. It would have been obvious that you hadn’t been sleeping or eating well either, even if they hadn’t been the ones who instructed the guards to only give you what was survivable.

But your power remained as strong as ever, a comfort to the shadowsingers as his own – albeit mostly hidden within him – was soothing to you.

You watched the High Lord of the Night Court kneel to your height, drawing your attention from the weapon already singing to you, ready to use his commanding voice.

“Answer our questions and you will get a full meal.”

You scoff. You had gone much longer with much less, and you’d spit at his feet if you could, instead, letting more of your power leak out, a warning not to offend you again.

“Your little display of power does not bother me,” Rhys muses, that irritating smirk appearing on his face as he stands to his full height, brushing out the wrinkles in his trousers, “Especially since you are still tethered to a simple house chair.”

“If I am still chained,” you counter, purring up at the high lord, “It is not because of your doing.”

A loaded admission from you, your eyes feline as his spine straightens. If it isn’t his powers keeping you where you were then what could it be?

It’s as if they all realize it at once, two pairs of eyes looking at their brother, who has stayed too silent and still. His cobalt siphons flare in defense, his grip once again white-knuckled on his weapon as you release a dry chuckle.

__________

“She deserves to be under the prison.”

The shadowsinger stills at his brother's words and it’s all he can do not to growl in protest. His shadows thicken, curling tighter around himself as his eyes meet the shining violet of his High Lord, the threat in his tone as clear as the starless night in his eyes.

His natural response shocked even himself, as Rhys watched his spymaster's stoic hazel eyes flicker with hatred, a shadow slinking up to his ear with a whisper of something that couldn’t be heard.

Azriel didn’t react, holding the gaze of his brother as your message was delivered, a murmur in his ear, a silky invitation, Come to me, shadowsinger, and I shall show you what you truly are.

Even Cassian tensed, stepping slightly in front of Rhys, as if Az was the enemy, ready to protect his High Lord. It shook something within the shadowsinger. Not once in his entire existence had he seen his brothers look at him like this, untrusting and ready to stop him by any means necessary.

It hurt, he could admit that to himself.

“She could help us.”

“Help us how, Azriel?” Rhysand explodes, his power rumbling through the house, rattling the paintings on the walls. The window panes shake, a half-full teacup spills over the edge of his desk, the ruddy liquid seeping into the floorboards. “You’ve seen her, heard her speak, threaten my court, and you think she’s willing to help us? Do not be so blind, brother.”

Azriel stiffens at the clear distrust in his High Lord’s eyes. His brothers had always trusted him, and had always given him room to speak. Disagreeing was rare for the three Illyrians, and it was shaken off easily (or after a long brawl) had they not agreed. He can feel his shadows winding around his hands, hiding his curled fists. A quick glance at Cassian – who is avoiding his eyes – is enough.

He wasn’t trying to defend you, no, it seemed as though your powers were enough to level all of the Night Court if you wished. Azriel had simply meant that if they could get you to trust them, it might play well in their favor. Maybe you could teach him about the simmering power locked inside of him, ready to be unleashed.

He would show them that you were not what your powers demonstrated.

And Rhys can see it in the shadowsingers raging hazel eyes, the urge to prove him wrong. He regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth. He’d never spoken to Azriel like that, either one of them, and Cassian now looked torn, wanting to hear the blue siphoned brother out, but sticking by his High Lord’s side, as he vowed to do.

“Az,” Rhys starts, like he’s trying to calm a wild animal, his voice a soothing mask of silky dusk that only ruffles his brother further. He needs to disarm the Illyrian in front of him and ward the knife before things could really go south. But the spymaster's mind is made up, “Give me the knife.”

Now.

His shadows swirl around him, a tornado of darkness that carries him to you, to the cells of the Hewn City. As soon as he appears, heavy magic in the air secures the wards you’d been preparing, chained or not. He strides quickly to the prison you are in, the mountain thrumming with Rhysand’s power, raging against your own.

Azriel can’t stop himself, too overwhelmed with betrayal from his brothers and the intrigue of the female behind the door, what his abilities could become.

The magic surrounding your cell doors is beyond something he’d ever conjured himself, remembering that utter drain he felt as he and his brothers locked you inside. He placed his hands against the thick invisible wards, his mind spinning, trying to figure out how he’d be able to set you free.

What do I do?

You release the beast.

His heart races as he thinks of what he’s about to do. He’s already betrayed his High Lord, worse yet, his brothers, by coming down here to help you escape. He’s never felt so selfish, the curiosity of your promises getting the best of him, your cool caress of smooth darkness, a lullaby in his ear.

Shutting his eyes he takes a shaky breath, and when he opens them he is already changed. Azriel stares down at the siphons on the back of each of his hands, gleaming with contained power. Seven of them he has, and not all of them can tame the thing prowling beneath his skin.

Why do you think they gave you those stones? You question mockingly, sensing his hesitation. Because they are afraid of what you are.

The two stones clang to the floor, each one a kiss goodbye. To Rhys, to Cassian. Another, from his left shoulder, the Night Court, the right, the Hewn City. Each one he rips away from his armor feels like a breath of fresh air. He can feel his powers surging already, and he wonders why they had made him contain these wonderful gifts with the blue gems.

Rhys’ own abilities are cracking through your wards, not quickly enough for it to matter, as Azriel only has one siphon left to rid himself of, the one placed in the center of his chest.

The last kiss goodbye of the stone is for you, his scarred fingers ripping the jewel harshly from its home, a war cry as it clangs to the ground with the rest of them.

It’s like the world stills but he does not notice as he is surging with newfound power, confused and amazed and scared. His eyes are wild as he looks between the cobalt gems laying dark on the dusty ground. He could pick them back up if he wanted, put them back on, help Rhys undo the wards you’ve created to keep them out.

But the pull in his chest from the other side of the door is too great. He has to see what could come from this.

Azriel places his hands on the door once more, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He aims the energy coursing through his veins and it shoots from his hands. The doors burst open like a paper split in two, splintering and revealing you sitting in your chair, a wicked grin on your lips.

“Welcome, shadowsinger,” you greet, and his eyes gleam with excitement, his own smile razor sharp as he steps in fully, stopping in front of you. Looking up at him, standing taller, more confident, his shadows perched behind him, better controlled by the unleashed power. He is every bit of death incarnate, a truly beautiful male getting on his knees in front of you.

You could get used to this.

“How do you feel?”

Your voice is softer than he anticipated from the venomous tones he’d heard since you’d been captured. This, a seemingly genuine question. He gazes at you for a long moment, eyebrows furrowed. He can feel Rhys’ power, Cassian’s, Feyre’s, and Amren’s too, as they all try to undo your strong spell.

And you look breathtaking to him, as if you have nothing but all of the time in the world, bloodied wrists and chapped lips, four powerful beings using their magic against yours is easy for you to handle. And he truly sees what he can become with a little help from you.

“Show me what this is,” he nearly begs, staring down at his marred hands, dark mist like black flame sprouting from his fingertips.

You hush him, “The knife,” you tell him softly, “Use it to release me.”

He nods numbly, removing the knife slowly from its holster at his side. The gleaming blade sings once more, crying to be in your possession.

Truth-Teller feels all wrong in his hands, like his newly released power didn’t match the one coursing through the weapon. For the first time, he doesn’t want the knife anywhere near him.

Azriel grits his teeth as he works, tempted to surrender the blade to you immediately, let you get yourself out. But he bears the strange feeling, his hands moving like he’s done this exact thing before, helping you out of the chains.

He recognizes the runes carved into the cuffs though he hadn’t when they’d first locked you up.

“It is an ancient magic,” was all Amren had said, “impossible to get off.”

But here they were, the metal melting like ice against the sharp edge of his knife. He watched in the most fascinated way, your smile growing wider and wider the closer you got to your freedom.

You were sure he was going to be a tough one to crack, but when you had seen him for the first time, haunted eyes and trapping his true self deep within, you knew it would be easy to convince the shadowsinger to join you.

You hiss at your free wrists, dried blood coating them and sore from your constant tearing.

In spite of that you are free, he’s freed you, and you can’t help but grin, holding out your hand to him in a silent offer.

Azriel looks at it for a moment, then into your entrapping eyes, shining with welcome, a soft smile on your pretty pink lips.

He swears he can hear the screams of his family on the other side of the wards, feel Rhysand in his head, like he’s running full speed and throwing all of his strength behind his shoulder as he tries to break through the barriers of his mind.

If he does this, there is really no going back.

His fingers slide between yours, his ragged skin soft and tentative. He releases a quiet breath, everything about this feels as it should – better even – like he’s finally found home as his grip tightens on yours. You give his hand a gentle squeeze and a nod of your head, reassuring him that he’s doing the right thing.

__________

Winnowing felt different with you. For Azriel, it had always been his shadows carrying him, slipping through the realms of time on a twilight cast breeze. But this…he could feel your power in his own heart, and moving across lands with you was like riding on a wave of midnight.

“Where are we?” he breathes into the pitch darkness.

“Somewhere between worlds,” you respond, voice echoing off of what he doesn’t know, he can’t see a thing no matter how hard he squints. His hand clutches yours tighter as you begin to walk, stumbling behind you. “Somewhere safe.”

“Safe?” he questions, his stomach coiling with unease as he follows you blindly, his free hand clutching Truth-Teller tightly, its stone not even shining a tiniest amount of light.

He can’t even see his shadows, feel them slide against his skin and his heart stammers, wondering if they are lost.

But not once does the thought that you could be betraying him, taking him somewhere to kill him, cross his mind. He trusts you. Fully and completely.

“We won’t be here long,” you murmur in the darkness. You can feel his presence behind you, towering over you, running a gentle thumb across his scarred skin. It feels like you are caressing his bones, his soul, and it causes the shadowsinger to shudder, his wings flaring out, a release of pent up magic.

He doesn’t speak again, your touch grounding and confident as you stalk through this new realm.

Azriel doesn’t know how long the two of you have been walking for but his power has seemed to level slightly, and the void of black is making him too relaxed. He hasn’t slept in days, and he shuts his eyes, feeling like he could fall into sleep in the next step.

Until he hears it.

His hazel eyes shoot open, zeroing in on the first source of light since you’d arrived. It’s not far off now, the glowing pool of white that grows brighter and brighter the nearer you get.

But it’s the sound that has him picking up his pace slightly, tugging you further until the both of you are in a flat out run, his wings itching for him to take flight.

It’s a glorious harmony, a sweet song, one he hasn’t heard in a long long time, calling him home.

And it’s too dim for him to see the dark light spilling from Truth-Teller, still held in a tight grip by his side.

He looks to you as the both of you halt in front of the glowing pool of clear blue waters. Peering into the pond, his eyes catch on what is giving the liquid its glow.

He cannot believe it, sucking in a sharp breath and looking at you with wide eyes. You can only beam at him, as he seems to finally be putting the pieces he can back together.

“What is that?” he whispers in awe.

“Why do you think you feel so connected to it? To the blade in your hand and the one at the bottom of the pool.” You ask, ignoring his question, his hazel eyes never leaving yours. “It is because you and I are made of it.”

He tries to catch you as you let yourself fall backwards into the pool, his fingers unable to grasp onto the fabric of your shirt. He’s frozen to his spot as he watches you through the clear pond, diving deeper and deeper to retrieve the weapon lying on the floor of the water for safety.

You’ve done this before, when you had created this place for yourself, to keep the weapon safe. You couldn’t stand the tune of its singing, like a grating voice, a constant from where it was strapped across your back.

You understood that the fae you were traveling to were aware of the weapon, about its counterpart kept by the spymaster. If you were to bring the twin sword with you, you’re sure it wouldn’t have been pretty.

Wrapping your hand around the sword's heavy hilt, you push up from the bottom of the pool, shooting straight upwards. When you break the surface Azriel’s hand wraps around your arm, hauling you out of the water.

And you release his hand as he kneels in front of you once more, head bowed as he holds Truth–Teller up to you, resting in both of his palms. You grin widely, the blade's own voice harmonizes with the weapon in your hand, crowing a sultry melody.

Together at last.

“You remember it, don’t you?” you ask softly, and his head turns up to look at you. He’s gorgeous in the white light emitting from the sword, all sharp angles and bright eyes. The black glow from the blade in his own hands casting perfect shadows across his face.

And he doesn’t remember it, but he stands as you offer him the sword calling out to him. His gaze flicks from the hilt of the saber to yours, swallowing harshly like he can’t quite believe what is real. In your hands, the twin to his own knife–

“Gwydion?”

“Soul–Stealer,” you confirm the weapon's nickname with a nod.

His hand lands on the handle of the ancient sword at the same time yours touches Truth–Tellers and it’s as if time goes completely still. His eyes glow hot white and yours surge with black as the power of the weapons and yourselves all become one once more.

The magic rushing between all of you, conduits for the cauldron itself, doesn’t hurt in the slightest. It’s the easiest he’s ever breathed, most relaxed he’d ever been, beaming at you with the widest grin he’s ever smiled.

He feels good.

He twirls the sword around once, a familiar weight in his scarred hand.

And all this time when he had been feeling like something had been missing from him his entire life, but he wouldn’t dare speak a word to his family, who would think him crazy for such a thing. But the darkness shifted, filled when they had brought you in, and now, with this weapon in his hand, shining brightly and chirping a serene melody, he realizes that it is you, and always has been.

Your voice is that of his blades, and his low chorus singing true from Truth-Teller, the void is full.

He looks to you, eyes brimming with unshed tears, a wobbly smile on his face, waiting for you to continue.

And all you can do is give him a look of understanding, a real smile, and a playful tug on that bond as you speak, “Different bodies, different lives, but we were together.”

#Azriel #az #azriel/reader #azriel x reader #acotar #acomar #acowar #acomaf #shadowsinger #spymaster #azsazz #truth-teller #cassian #rhysand

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