The Symphony of Shadow

4: 'The Old, Dark Library'

A Z R I E L

Azriel walked through the unnerving silence of the library, alone.

Concealed by his darkened shadows, he was invisible to passers-by. Not that anyone currently was situated between the shelves of books at this hour. He was utterly solitary.

It was an unsettling feeling, ambling through Velaris' library at night, practically abandoned. The shelves loomed over him, and the paranoia that there was someone around the next shadowed corner never escaped his way of thinking, as the too-quiet silence echoed in his ears. His seven dimmed siphons acted as his only source of light, as he listened out for any possible noise, any possible threat.

He knew nothing was hidden in the darkness, waiting to eat him, but it had only been little over a year since Bryaxis had left the depths of the Library's pit, and the habitual instinct that put him on edge, still remained.

Azriel had come to the library from a round of sex, in the upper levels of a more exclusive whiskey bar. He'd been with one of his usual lovers -seeing as he hadn't picked up anyone new in a few years, and these days he couldn't be arsed with one night stands.

He kept his arrangements hidden away, and the best way to do that was with a time and a place.

His lovers were experienced, and open to his more... unholy, devious, superlative ways. Just the way he liked it, to take the edge off. No connections, no emotional intimacy, just pleasure.

He'd come to the library with the intention of leaving Gwyn's book with Clotho - the book which had given the Inner Circle the knowledge that Koschei's soul could potentially exist separately from his physical body, trapped in a random object, within an undisclosed mountain. Amren had scoured the text for anything else that could prove promising, but had deemed everything else useless.

He knew the probability Clotho would still be occupied at her desk at this hour was slim, but with his strenuous work load he hadn't had the time to go any earlier. Supposing Clotho wasn't there, Azriel planned to simply leave a note to inform the High Priestess whom the book belonged to.

His thoughts of Gwyn and her book, brought Azriel to think about Heron. One week had woefully passed since he had met Gwyn, which had resulted in the child becoming even more insufferable with his questions. Azriel undeniably pitied the rescued Illyrian's past, but now, all Heron ever discussed was his favourite red-headed priestess, driving Azriel near insane.

"Do you think she likes me?"

"Ask her."

"Do you think she finds me funny?"

"Ask her."

"Do you think she finds me handsome?"

"Ask her."

"Do you think she would kiss me?"

"No."

Azriel had practically snarled the no in response.

'Gwynie.' Was what Heron called her now, a name Gwyn had laughed at upon hearing, when she had officially met Heron after training for the first time last week.

And fuck. If it didn't irk Azriel entirely, though he supposed he had no real reason to feel so annoyed.

There he was, each day, discretely trying to keep a starstruck eight-year-old boy away from a beautiful priestess. Pathetic.

But Azriel felt this urge, deep down, to protect Gwyn. He was comparatively certain it involved the fact that they shared history: that he had almost saved her in Sangravah, that he had witnessed the aftermath of... that.