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separatist-apologist · 11 months

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Lying In Between The Memories

You could call it paradise but it looks just like hell to me

Summary: Following the blood rite, Gwyneth Berdara can't shake the memories of a life long-gone.

The shadowsinger can't seem to move on after five centuries of loving the same woman.

Together, they'll have to carve a new path forward.

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

[ongoing TW for Sexual Assault]

Somewhere between lunch with the High Lord and Azriel and Nesta returning from the Illyrian Mountains, Gwyn found herself standing in front of Merril, trying to explain her upcoming absence.

“The timing of this is terrible, Gwyneth,” Merril said with a heavy, displeased sigh. “Surely there is someone more competent?”

Surely, she wanted to say though Gwyn didn’t dare. “The High Lord requested me specifically,” she replied, forcing herself to remain polite and neutral.

“I suppose I could write him and say—”

“I’m going,” Gwyn interrupted, drawing Merril’s attention. The older priestess looked up from the papers strewn over her desk, eyes alight with surprise. Gwyn had never spoken to her with anything but respect but this was too edged with her frustration to be mistaken as kindness. Gwyn didn’t know how to untangle the messy web of feelings knotted in her chest. Only that every time someone tried to stop her, defiance tumbled out of her unbidden. No one thought she was capable of anything.

Except, she supposed, her very close circle of friends. Cassian had recommended her to Rhysand, hadn’t he? And surely Nesta supported it—or would, when Gwyn had a chance to tell her. Emerie, too, even if she thought it was a bad idea. But Azriel and Merril stood like a wall before her, disapproving and skeptical.

“I’ll find someone who can pick up where I left off,” Gwyn added hastily. She would have to return eventually, and it would be nice to have her post back when she finished. Merril, despite her flaws (of which there were many), was one of the best researchers in the Night Court. Securing a position with her had been a testament to Gwyn’s skill. She wanted her own office one day, where she might research the things that fascinated her while an apprentice worked beneath her.

“Don’t bother,” Merril said, narrowing her twilight eyes. “Leave, if that’s what you wish. But don’t think you’ll be returning to me, Gwyneth.”

Gwyn froze. “What?”

It was so deeply unfair. Merril reclined in her chair, snow white hair draped over the blue of her robes. A feline smile spread over her truly beautiful face though to Gwyn right then, there had never been anyone uglier. She could be so cruel.

“You heard me. You can stay and keep your position, or you can run off on your little adventure and fight the other priestesses for a new position when you return.”

“But I earned this,” Gwyn protested, anger rising hotly in her throat. “And the High Lord asked me!”

“Asked,” Merril agreed. “Not demanded. You’re choosing to leave, and there are consequences to your actions.”

Gwyn swallowed the lump in her throat to keep herself from screaming, her resentment dragging her under like a furious riptide.

“Fine,” she whispered, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Not sadness—but anger, bruising her already fragile pride. She’d come back to Velaris worse than when she’d left, but maybe the High Priestess would recognize the work she’d done in Montessere and reward her for it anyway. And if she didn’t, well…

Well Gwyn would have to figure it out. She wasn’t going to be bullied into staying, even if deep, deep down Gwyn wasn’t sure she even wanted to go. The more people like Merril and Azriel betrayed how little faith in her they had, the more she felt the need to prove them wrong.

“Gwyneth—!”

Gwyn stormed out, slamming the door loudly in her wake. It was childish and she knew it, but for just a second, releasing a burst of anger felt good. And then it felt bad again, which was what made the whole thing childish and stupid. Gwyn’s anger was more than just Merril or Azriel—it was vast and unyielding, a yawning cavern that had swallowed her whole long, long ago. There was no climbing the smooth, stone walls of that prison. There was only acclimating to the dark.

And, on occasion, slamming doors and acting petulant.

Gwyn ignored Clotho at the desk, watching with those too-knowing eyes of hers. If she stopped, Clotho would reprimand her in that silent, soft way of hers and Gwyn would go back to Merril’s office and apologize. Gods, but Gwyn knew she should. She ought to grovel and plead and beg, which might appease Merril enough to hold her spot.

But she couldn’t. Not after the scene she’d made. Maybe tomorrow, Gwyn reasoned, knowing full well she’d have a different reason why she shouldn’t. She was too young to be a lead researcher and she knew it.

And still she hoped.

With nothing else to do, and no training, Gwyn made her way up hoping Nesta had returned so she could at least get some idea of what Rhysand might actually want from her. Up Gwyn went, nose wrinkling when the scent of sex and Nesta and Cassian’s mating bond hit her full force. It had been a while since they’d smelled so potent.

It had been a year, she realized. Nesta and Cassian were celebrating. Gwyn had completely forgotten. She started to turn and slip back out but Cassian strolled down the hall, lacing up a pair of dark pants with a smile on his face. Gwyn’s eyes immediately fell to the floor when she saw his tangled hair and his lack of shirt. She’d grown up hearing stories about how territorial mates were, and though she didn’t think Nesta would ever believe she was after Cassian, better to not give her a reason, either.

“Hey Gwyn. Nes is in the study if you’re looking for her.”

Gwyn offered him a bland smile. “Thanks.”

“I heard you took Rhys up on Montessere,” he added, drawing her attention back to his face. Cassian was just easy to like. Despite his size and the way he looked like he could kill her with just two of his fingers, Gwyn only ever felt safe around him. Even without a shirt, even reeking of arousal and her best friend.

“Yeah,” she replied lamely, unsure what to even say.

“Azriel can be a hard bastard,” Cassian told her not for the first time, though there was affection lacing his words. “But there’s no one better to have around when things go sideways. And don’t tell him I said this, but I know Rhys and I will sleep better knowing someone has his back.”

“I doubt he wants or needs someone at his back,” Gwyn replied, shifting uncomfortably. Azriel would likely chew them both out for the audacity to think so.

“Well of course he doesn’t. None of us do. That doesn’t make us right. Just keep an eye on him, yeah? For me?”

“Sure,” she agreed, certain Azriel would put a knife to her throat if he ever caught her trying to keep an eye on him. He was the spymaster and she was still just a student. She could watch him while he ate, she supposed, and whenever he decided to show his scowling, disapproving face.

Cassian didn’t stop her from leaving without so much as a goodbye, though she felt his eyes trailing her down the hall. Gwyn took the steps two at a time, knees creaking by the time she reached the top. It felt good, and settled some of the anger pumping just beneath her skin.

Nesta was serene in the study, remolded to better suit her tastes. Gwyn had to admit that the warm black and green made the space feel small and inviting despite the thrown open curtains that brought in the limited autumn light.

Nesta was curled in a squashy chair far from Cassian’s desk, book in hand. Her neatly braided hair had half unwound, framing her bright blue eyes and kiss stained lips.

My best friend. Gwyn couldn’t believe, even now, that Emerie and Nesta had chosen her. She still couldn’t believe it. Smiling, she offered Nesta a compliment. “You look good.”

“I feel good,” Nesta replied, stretching her legs like a cat. “I needed that.”

“Oh yeah?” Gwyn teased, walking to the heavy white rug that covered the majority of the floor. Cassian had turned the room into a smaller version of the library, building the shelves in the walls himself, complete with a hanging ladder Nesta could climb to reach all the way to the ceiling. All Nesta’s favorite books were housed here, arranged alphabetically by her, Gwyn, and Emerie over a particularly fun weekend.

A crimson blush stained Nesta’s cheeks. “Oh, stop. It feels like we’re never alone.”

“Maybe you should find a cozier place,” Gwyn suggested, well aware Nesta loved the house. Nesta grimaced, eyes fixed on Gwyn. With her book set against the little side table, she crossed her arms over the amethyst dress she wore and asked, “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“It seems you already know,” Gwyn replied. “I barely know myself given I just sent the High Lord a letter last night and he hasn’t even responded.”

“The bats are busy bodies,” Nesta said affectionately. “Cassian knew before we left this morning and has not stopped talking about it. I’m surprised, though, given you’ve been dodging me and Em lately.”

Shame pooled low in Gwyn’s stomach. Nesta was far less polite than Emerie was, and those eyes demanded a truthful explanation. The problem was Gwyn–she couldn’t tell Nesta the truth because Nesta, in true Nesta fashion, would move heaven and earth to try and make things right.

And though people still whispered Lady Death whenever Nesta was around, even Nesta could not bring back Catrin.

She couldn’t erase the memories from Gwyn’s mind, nor could her cursebreaking sister. Nesta had defeated her demons—but Gwyn had not. And maybe she never would, either. Not everyone could be Nesta Archeron. Nesta was strong and sometimes, when Gwyn was honest with herself, she didn’t think she possessed that same easy strength.

So Gwyn decided to lie. “Things are bad with Merril. She’s…” Gods, but this was true, wasn’t it? And her emotions certainly felt real as she forced herself to say, “She’s taking a new apprentice.”

Nesta’s eyes went wide with sympathy before narrowing into anger. Silver flame, the little piece still left from the Cauldron, erupted in her gaze. “I’ll go—”

“No!” Gwyn interrupted, hands thrown out in front of her. “No, I…”

Nesta waited, leaning forward until her elbows rested on her knees. “I need to figure it out,” Gwyn finally said lamely. If Nesta went barrelling down the stairs demanding answers and special treatment, no one would work with Gwyn ever again. They’d think she was trying to use the High Lord’s family against them, and Rhysand was supposed to be outside the bounds of the library. He housed them, he paid them, and certainly benefited from their research, but he had no authority within those walls. To let an Archeron try and upend that would cause nothing but trouble.

“Let me help,” Nesta implored.

“I’ll be leaving soon. Merril was never going to hold my spot,” Gwyn heard herself say with forced cheer. “I’ll worry about it when I get back.”

Nesta didn’t seem convinced, though. Gwyn needed to change the subject before Nesta devised a plan that would see Gwyn reprimanded in a painful, public way. There was only so much humiliation she could endure at Merril’s hands, and knowing she’d have to grovel was certainly enough. Grovelling and apologizing was too much.

“I actually was hoping you could help me with something.”

Nesta’s brows shot skyward. “Oh?”

Shaking out her hands, Gwyn said, “I ah…I thought you would take me into Velaris?”

Nesta clapped with delight, face illuminated with a smile. Gone was her irritation with Merril, forgotten when she realized Gwyn was asking to go out. Nesta, who preferred to be inside most nights, had prodded a couple times.

Come to Rita’s with me.

I know a really cute bookstore!

What if we got tea in the city today?

And always, Gwyn said no, no, no. But she needed to practice somewhere safe and Velaris wasn’t that much different than the library. It was still under the High Lord’s protection and Gwyn trusted Rhysand. She trusted Nesta, too…and she mostly trusted herself. She could do this. She could prove Merril wrong about her.

Azriel, too.

And maybe, in the process, she could prove herself wrong, too.

AZRIEL:

“Gwyn is going,” Rhys said the moment Azriel stepped into his study.

“Hello to you, too,” Azriel grumbled, dropping onto the leather loveseat without an ounce of grace. Squashing his wings against the back cushions irked him, though not enough to sit back up and rearrange himself. Rhys arched a brow.

“No point suffering on my account,” he said in a droll voice. Grumbling only to himself, Azriel did adjust his wings, letting them flare around him so he could still recline, legs draped over the arm of the sofa. His shadows trailed over his chest, content to relax in the safety of Rhys’s home. There would be no whispered words here, no warning about the world though Azriel’s ears seemed to ring all the same.

“Rhys, you know this is a bad idea.”

“Do I? She completed the blood rite, same as us,” Rhys replied, sitting back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him.

“Emerie carried her up the mountain,” Azriel reminded him, hating himself for saying it. Rhys’s eyes flashed.

“As you did for me.”

“That was different,” Azriel protested, though in truth he knew it wasn’t. Nesta had told Cassian everything and in turn, Cassian had told both Rhys and Azriel. Gwyn’s injury was the result of heroism so undeniable that it made him a bastard to use it against her—to discredit her hard-won victory just so he could go alone.

“What’s your actual problem with the priestess? Cass told me you’d been training her privately. What happened?”

Azriel couldn’t look at Rhys. “I don’t know,” he said tersely. “She quit asking.”

Rhys sighed. “She’s in the city with Nesta and Emerie tonight.”

That was news to Azriel. Turning his head, one hand supporting his neck, he asked, “Where?”

Rhys shrugged. “I didn’t push. I figure it’s probably a good idea to give Nesta space while we work out this new…truce…between us. And I wasn’t invited. Cass told me.”

“Is Cassian invited?” Azriel asked, wondering why it hurt his feelings that he wasn’t. Of course Cassian would be invited. He was mated to Nesta and planning a wedding. Of course she’d want him there. Emerie and Gwyn trusted Cassian like they trusted each other—he simply wasn’t a threat.

And though he’d tried, they never quite had the same easiness with him that they did with Cassian. Azriel couldn’t understand why.

“Az–”

“Don’t,” Azriel interrupted, slamming his mental walls shut. Rhys had heard his racing thoughts, his face utterly devoid of emotion. That was for the best, Azriel decided. “I don’t think she’s ready for this.”

“Then I’ll call Vanserra up,” Rhys replied, the utterly smug bastard. “Because you’re not doing this alone.”

“Mor did—”

“And look what fucking happened!” Rhys snarled, rising from his chair. “They treated her like trash, took advantage of her kind nature and—”

“And what?” Azriel demanded, sitting up to look at Rhys. “And what, Rhys?”

Rhys drummed his fingers against his desk. “And Mor knows when to cut her losses and walk away. You do not. Consider Gwyn my insurance that you’ll return to me in one piece, more or less.”

“You’ve never had a problem with my methods before.”

“If we can figure out how to dispatch Beron, we could have real peace for the first time in centuries,” Rhys breathed, holding Azriel’s gaze. “Don’t you want to see it?”

No.

“Of course,” he lied. Azriel had always just assumed he would be dead before the wars ended. Had banked on it, really. He’d never planned out a future, hadn’t spent the money Rhys paid him, had never taken steps to create a comfortable life. “Gwyn shouldn’t be used as an insurance policy.” Rhys shrugged his shoulders. “I have different hopes for her.”

“She deserves to be left alone, not used like a bargaining chip,” Azriel all but whispered as he tried—and failed—to push the memory of meeting her for the first time out of his mind. It wasn’t so much that it was Gwyn, though seeing her that first day had been jarring. It was the scene itself that was branded on his consciousness.

The scent of smoke and steel, of blood and arousal all mingled in the air like a dense, choking fog. He’d been with Mor, prepared to kill soldiers or defend priestess, depending on when they arrived. Other temples had been ransacked before, burned to the ground and bodies little more than charred ash.

But this…this. Azriel had just assumed Hybern’s men wouldn’t bother with defenseless priestesses beyond slaughtering them. There were some lines even Azriel wouldn’t cross and harming those who were defenseless and those who were devoted to peace were certainly one of them. Mor had come in first, her face so pale Azriel hadn’t thought of anything but her when they stepped through the archway of the temple. The two of them paused, taking stock of the utter devastation around them. Azriel had been on enough battlefields to recognize them on scent alone, though never in a place so serene.

He’d stepped in a pool of viscous blood. A headless body lay strewn just inside, scattered among pages torn from books and priceless objects shattered in pursuit of that missing cauldron piece. Doors had been ripped from their hinges, leaving him and Mor to wordlessly agree they’d each take a hall for anyone still lingering. Azriel could hear the lull of male laughter, could hear the thudding heart of someone very clearly frightened. Azriel withdrew his sword, throat tight, as he stepped into the kitchen. Another headless priestess lay against the swirling tile, while a third was pinned to a butcher's block, her dress torn and pulled up over her hips, her face turned so he couldn’t see her eyes. Alive, though, she was alive—

“Azriel!” Rhys snarled, pulling Azriel from the memory. He could still hear his roar of fury, could still taste the blood as he cut them down without question, without caring what they might know. He’d destroyed a high ranking Hybernian General in his rage and even now couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

And he’d brought Gwyn to Mor, who’d taken her straight to the library. It was wrong to use her this way. She’d earned peace, however that looked for her. In whatever form, even if he disagreed with it. One of them should have an easy life, freed of the things that haunted them.

“Call Vanserra,” he said, striding to the door. “Leave her out of this.”

“She’s going,” Rhys said, voice whisper soft behind him. “She wants to go.”

“She doesn’t know what she wants,” Azriel snapped, gripping the wood frame so hard it groaned beneath his fingers.

“I don’t think you’re the judge of that. I need Lucien here, besides. If his father is stirring up discord, Lucien is the only person who knows the Forest House inside and out.”

“What about Eris?”

“I don’t trust Eris to act in Prythian’s best interests—or mine—if it interferes with his own goals.”

“But you trust Lucien?” Azriel demanded. Rhys’s smile was feline, then. It was the slick smile of the High Lord, not of his friend.

“I trust that Lucien wants to see Elain and wouldn’t lie to me and jeopardize that.”

Azriel blinked. “You’d keep her from him?”

Rhys shrugged. “I’d do a lot of things to keep my family safe.”

Azriel ignored the stab of guilt he felt. They all knew how far Rhys would go to protect them. He’d abandon his morals and any semblance of dignity, too. And though Azriel felt little kinship with the seventh son to the Autumn High Lord, he did feel the smallest bit of pain when he imagined how it would feel to be bound to another male’s whims because they had your mate.

Azriel sighed, scrubbing his face with his hand. “What do I need to know about Montessere?”

“Since you and Mor are on such good terms again, why not ask her?”

There was a question in Rhys’s voice—what happened between you two? It was one Azriel couldn’t answer without selling her out. And though Mor would never love him the way he’d hoped she might, he still couldn’t betray her. Azriel couldn’t just turn off all those centuries worth of wanting her. He felt protective of that secret and protective of her.

He likely always would.

Azriel found Mor in Velaris, sitting in the Palace of Bone and Salt with a goblet of wine in hand. If Rhys had warned her he was coming or she’d merely somehow known, Azriel didn’t ask. Truthfully, he was distracted by the sound of tinkling laughter a couple tables down. As they always did, his shadows skittered away at the sight of bright, sunlit Mor, though one seemed to linger, attention directed at that pretty, easy laughter.

There, sitting in a pink shaft of waning daylight, was Gwyn, Emerie, and Nesta. No sight of Cassian, which did little to ease the building ache in his chet. He wanted to be there, basking in their easy smiles and drinking, too. He’d never seen the three of them so laid back, so carefree. Typically he saw them in their training leathers, weapons in hands and they studied to lead a unit of Illyrian females.

Mor snapped her fingers for his attention. “Do you want to ask to join them?” she asked with an infectious smile. “I’m sure they’d agree.”

“I came to talk to you,” he said, angling his chair so he could watch them better without being so obvious about it. Azriel wondered if this was Gwyn and Emeries first time in Velaris and if they were enjoying themselves. He could have given them a tour if they’d asked.

But they hadn’t, and he wasn’t going to intrude. Their friendship reminded him of himself, Rhysand, and Cassian. Had they once looked so young and happy, too? Now, Azriel thought they seemed exhausted, worn down by decades of fighting, of trying to keep armies from battering their doorstep.

Maybe Rhys was right. Maybe peace was achievable. And though he’d never admit it, Azriel yearned for that future. It was worth fighting for, at any rate.

“You know,” Mor’s voice was laced with amusement, “talking to me does require…you know…talking.”

“Sorry,” he said, giving her his undivided attention. Mor was stunning, with her rosy cheeks and her sparkling ochre eyes. She’d woven her blonde hair off her truly perfect face, though wispy tendrils brushed against the tanned skin of her forehead. Azriel was working to reimagine her place in his life, working to shift the love he felt into something more familiar and platonic.

But it ached, all the same. “Rhys said you could give me the rundown on Montessere.”

Mor wrinkled her nose. “I heard you and Gwyn were going. I wish you luck, truly, because I don’t think I’d go back even if Rhys begged.”

“It was that bad?”

She shook her head. “Worse. Their King, Gareth, is more concerned with Vallahan and Rask to truly care about us, though they watch. Both Vallahan and Rask wish to expand their borders and I’m certain Rask is thinking the same. Scythia is the obvious mark, and given how unstable it is…”

“Isn’t that Lucien’s job?” Azriel asked, thinking of the reports Vanserra had been giving him over the last three years.

Mor blew out a breath. “I think Lucien’s job is just keeping an eye on the humans. Vassa isn’t living in Scythia, either—she’s hiding here in the mortal lands waiting on Koschei, is she not?”

Azriel only shrugged.

“Regardless. They aren’t your friend, Azriel.”

“Because friendship was my number one priority,” Azriel replied dryly. Mor arched a delicate brow, nodding toward the Valkyries.

“Does she know that?”

“Better to keep her out of the politics,” Azriel replied smoothly. “She’s on a different sort of fact finding mission.”

“I never managed to find out if Beron was in contact with anyone on the continent. He was working with the human queens—the stupid fool—but the Fae on the continent aren’t stupid. They’re old, too, Az.”

“We’re old,” he reminded her. Mor’s smile didn’t meet her eyes.

“They’re older. And unlike us, they’ve avoided war for the last thousand years simply by doing nothing. It would be convenient to let us fight another on their behalf and wait to see how it plays out. If Beron is making a move—or Koschei—I don’t think they’d help unless their shores were directly threatened. And if we were all wiped out…”

“They could pick us off like caracases and start a colony.”

“Exactly,” she agreed, lifting her goblet to her lips. “Find out what you can, Az, but be on your guard. Gareth might be distracted but his son isn’t.”

Azriel’s attention focused on Mor and the reminder of Rhys had said—that Montessere’s court had run Mor out. Had a male done that? “Son?”

“Kai.” She spat the name like the filthiest of curses. “He’s spoiled and arrogant and bored, but that doesn’t mean isn’t sharp either. If you have to watch anyone, I would pick him.”

“Did he hurt you?”

Mor laughed, tipping her head back like he’d uttered the funniest joke. Azriel didn’t know what to make of that, though from the corner of his eye, he caught Emerie turn her head to look.

“No, he didn’t hurt me,” Mor said, her words so at odds with the bright smile on her face. “But I am well trained.”

Azriel glanced toward Gwyn, the warning clear. “Noted,” he murmured. “Anything else?”

“Treat it like Autumn Court,” she said, angling her head as she traced the column of her throat with an absent finger. “Our objectives were different. You aren’t going to make friends and they wouldn’t trust you even if you said you were.”

“Do I not look friendly?” Azriel asked. Mor smiled.

“No Az. You don’t look friendly at all. That’s what we like about you.”

Azriel couldn’t smother his smile. He hated that he liked that compliment.

But the whole night, all Azriel heard was Mor’s words. We like you.

We like you.

#gwynriel #we could have had sas but who am i to argue with the will of the people #i personally think chapter 4 is the most interesting one coming up #so we're closer to it than before yay!#the slow burn is burning

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