A Court of Light and Melody

Chapter 9 - Dust

"It is better to be unhappy with rejection of love than never love."

-Debasish Mridha

Song: To Build a Home - The Cinematic Orchestra

She had kissed him. She had kissed him.

It had felt right at the time. It had felt so, so right.

No. No, it hadn't. It was a moment of desperation. Of selfishness. Of a need to claim him for herself. That was decidedly not right.

But he had kissed her back. And then he'd kissed her again. And then he'd looked at her all night like she was... like she was perfect. Like she was perfect and not some monster. Like she didn't have a voice in her head that said Azriel was hers and that she must slaughter those that had harmed him. And why must she slaughter them?

Because Azriel was hers for the kill. Not theirs. His life belonged to the lightsinger in her.

Gwyn balled her fists at her sides as she continued down the dimly lit corridor towards the training ring. Tonight was her first private session with Azriel since Amren's dinner, three days ago... and she had some things to set straight.

First, that kissing him had not necessarily been a mistake, but it had been thoughtless.

Second, that in the spirit of full disclosure, there was a dark and greedy voice in her head that was out for blood - possibly Azriel's.

Third, that until the aforementioned voice was silenced or under control, Gwyn could not engage in any further intimacy with Azriel. Not when she didn't know just how much of a hold that voice had over her.

And bonus, she needed to know what past Azriel had with Morrigan.

There was a lot on their agenda tonight and perhaps the evening would end in snarls and tears, but Gwyn was not one to back down from a challenge. Nothing could break her. She would not become that sniveling mess she had been after Sangravah. Not after she had worked so hard to pick herself back up.

Gwyn had taken all the shattered pieces of herself and fit them back together over time until she was whole again. Some of those pieces didn't quite fit. Some of them were missing. But she was whole and whole she would stay.

Gwyn adjusted the gloves of her leathers and cracked her neck. That was enough self pity. She couldn't afford that tonight. Tonight, she must be bold and brave and unbreakable.

Arriving in the entryway to the training ring, she froze.

No matter how many times they trained, she would never grow accustomed to the way Azriel wielded his body like a weapon. A lethal and beautiful weapon.

He held a short-sword, whipping it through the air with such fluidity that she knew he practiced what he preached.

"The blade is an extension of your arm..."

And the way his body moved, the way he held that short-sword - or any weapon for that matter - it truly seemed like an extra limb and not an instrument of death. He was the instrument of death.

Azriel's wings flexed and his shoulder muscles rippled as he swung the blade over his head, bringing it down, then tossing it up and snatching it by the hilt leisurely.

Gwyn's cheeks were hot, her heart pounding faster than a hummingbird's wings. The way he spun the blade in his palm leisurely, rolling his neck as his shadows danced around him, sent muscles low in her belly curling. She swallowed the dryness in her throat, crossed her arms over her fluttering chest, and forced herself to enter the ring.