Trial of the Valkyrie

Drunken Confessional

**Please enjoy this wonderful respite after all the crap I've put you through**

Chapter Ten - Drunken Confessional

Song: Castle Leoch - Bear McCreary

"She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars."

― Neil Gaiman in Stardust

A    Z    R    I    E    L

The more Azriel talked about Death on the Midnight Caravan and his suspicions of the female archivist, the more uneasy Gwyn seemed to get – although he couldn't determine why. That said, Gwyn loved her books dearly. He'd probably said something she interpreted as critical about her much admired Agnes Christell. He ended their conversation on the topic in a series of compliments towards the work and Gwyn's spirits seemed to lift, if only a little; then they continued through the streets.

They were sparsely populated with daybreak traffic. Citizens buying and selling wares – making their way to work. Children hopping in puddles from last night's rain and shrill giggles bouncing off the cobblestones.

"Thank you, by the way," Azriel began, nudging her with his shoulder. "For so delicately delivering the news of my outburst to Rhysand. I... I wasn't looking forward to explaining that."

"Don't thank me," Gwyn said lightly.

"All the same, I–" Azriel's breathing hitched as he felt Gwyn's fingers intertwine with his.

Her hand stiffened in his grasp and when he met her eyes, her smile was sheepish. "I'm sorry. Too much?"

"N-no, I–I-" He was lost for words – their stride becoming somewhat stilted.

They'd linked arms. They'd embraced. He'd kissed her cheek and she'd pressed her lips to his brow. And somehow, all of those actions paled in comparison to this simple gesture. To the feeling of her fingers laced with his. His shadows sang a delicious harmony at the contact and inwardly, Azriel reeled.

Why? Why? Why? He asked himself.

And before his shadows could respond, the answer came to him. Because things are different now. Because you want her.

His mouth was dry, a muscle in his jaw ticking. Azriel cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak. "I was just taken off-guard is all," he said. The shadowsinger searched the furthest reaches of his mind for an excuse, but found he didn't have to look far. He lifted up his free hand for her, the sleeves of the tunic he wore rolled down just enough to expose the two bracelets she'd made him and the glove of mottled flesh that crept from his wrist to his fingertips. "I'm not accustomed to anyone... to anyone touching them," he admitted, letting the hand fall limply to his side.

It wasn't a lie. He truly wasn't used to such contact. A few females had held his hand over the centuries – their brows would knit together in confusion at the uneven texture. He remembered one girl had involuntarily sneered and then instantly apologized. Azriel had quickly made her forget any guilt by burying his fingers inside her. Before his mind could apply the situation to his present company, Azriel changed the subject. "How have you–"

Or attempted to...

"Why not?" Gwyn interrupted.

Azriel arched a dark brow. "Because they're not exactly what one would call pleasant to look at."