The Raven and the Songbird

Chapter 14

 There were very few places as dark as the library at night. Or, Gwyn corrected herself, in the wee hours of the morning. But perhaps it was the heavy, stifling silence that made it seem darker – a quiet that seemed both unsettling and comforting. She had stopped questioning the paradox, content to let it just be. The pit had been home to Bryaxis and the House, and she didn't pretend to understand all the magicks at work there.

Maybe one day she would.

And those were the musings of a young fae female who had once again been chased from her bed by the phantom shrieks of terror of her friends, her family, her sister...

"Stop." Her whispered reprimand hung before her as she halted, clenching her fists. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing the soul-shattering memories away. Perhaps she should have donned her leathers and battered them out of her like she usually did. But the library had called to her, the blackness promising peace for her tormented heart. So she had tossed on her robes over the thin shift she'd worn to bed and sent her feet padding through the numerous shelves lining narrow aisles.

A flickering glow caught her eye, and she wondered who might have forgotten to douse a fire as she followed the light to the very sitting area she had shared with Azriel on many occasions. The fire was roaring, much to her surprise, and a tall, dark figure was leaning against the fireplace mantle.

"Oh," she squeaked, footsteps stuttering to a halt. The figure turned, revealing a tanned face and red-rimmed violet eyes, along with tousled blue-black hair. "H-High Lord?" He straightened, obviously surprised to be found, and Gwyn noted that his hair was the only disheveled part of him – his coat and trousers immaculate, as she had always seen him be. Her breath caught at the thought, wondering how positively woeful her own appearance must seem. She hadn't anticipated running into anybody, much less the esteemed sovereign of the Night Court.

"Gwyn," he greeted with a quirk of his lips. "How many times must I insist that you address me as Rhysand, or even Rhys." Her cheeks heated and the priestess knew she was blushing to the tips of her ears. She gave a rueful laugh.

"My apologies, High-... Rhysand." She scowled at herself, earning a chuckle from him. Pushing himself away from the mantle, he stepped toward one of the padded leather armchairs and gestured for her to sit.

"What brings you into the depths of the library at such an hour, then, Gwyn?" He asked. The High Lords voice was like velvet, soft and smooth, but the priestess knew that in an instant he could sharpen it into a deadly blade. But they were friendly, apparently familiar enough for her to call him by his name, and it was that notion that gave her the gumption to speak her mind.

"Likely the same kind of thing that brings you here, if I had to guess," she answered, fixing her eyes on the fire. Silence responded, and she reprimanded herself for being so forward. When she found the courage to look to Rhysand, she found his gaze stuck on her – expression soft, but curious. "I... I have trouble sleeping some nights. Many nights," she explained with a shrug. "Usually I train, but sometimes I feel the need for something... a bit quieter." The High Lord did not hide his emotions the way Azriel did, and when realization sharpened his gaze he released a shuddered breath.

"It seems we have that in common," he mused. "If dreams chase me awake, I usually find solace within my mate. We'll talk it through, calm down. But sometimes my heart and mind need something else." Their stares held, and Gwyn felt almost relieved. So few people in her new circle truly understood the trauma she had endured. But him...

"I'm sorry. For all that you had to endure, Rhysand. Truly," she offered quietly before turning back to face the flames. She could almost feel the air around them shift with the weight of his sigh.