The Raven and the Songbird

Chapter 20

"Merrill, please ."

If Azriel were one to roll his eyes, or show any hint of emotion, he would. His calm countenance was always in place - practiced, perfected, unbreakable. For most, at least.

But for the owner of that pleading, exasperated voice his facade had cracked. Wide open, a gaping crater that had once been overflowing with self-loathing, guilt, and malice - slowly churning into calm waters of peace, amusement, contentment.

Love.

Gwyn made him feel loved. And while he wasn't sure when that declaration would pass his lips, it seemed a likely eventuality. As long as she would allow him to stay by her side, he would remain.

The shadowsinger slowed his steps a few paces from the open office door, ears still keen on the conversation. He didn't want to interrupt - knew that the Valkyrie could fight her own battles - but he also knew that Merrill was a difficult beast who knew just where to aim her sharp words so they would cut the deepest.

"Merrill, I've already stayed almost three hours late. I'm nearly an hour late for dinner -"

"Then what is even the point of going, now, Gwyneth? Surely your band of pretenders can do without your foolishness for an evening?"

Azriel gritted his teeth as he leaned himself against the wall. How dare she say such things. Pretenders? Three females who had survived - conquered - the Illyrian Blood Rite. Who pushed their bodies and minds every day, and had grown so much. They were nothing close to pretenders. They were strong and brave, warriors just as much as the Illyrians in Cassian's regiments. His shadows flitted around him, agitated, but he kept a far enough distance that they remained with him.

"She can handle this." He reassured them, and himself. But he couldn't help that twinge of concern blooming in his gut. His restraint was carefully built, honed and maintained. But it would crumble in an instant if Gwyn showed the briefest hint of distress.

"We are not pretenders, but they're not who I'm meeting..." her voice trailed away with a sigh.

"Is that so?" Merrill's crooning put Azriel on edge. She would almost sound sweet. Friendly. But he knew better. "A male, then? Sweet Gwyneth, did you finally decide to put down the knives, then, and attempt to be a real female?"

Shadows billowed from him in the corridor as he struggled to contain a snarl. He pushed himself from the wall, prepared to give the elder priestess a piece of his mind.

Gwyn's voice was soft, but steady. "I like that I can fight, Merrill. There is nothing wrong - nothing unfeminine - about being strong. Even the High Lady knows how to fight." The shadowsinger's lip twitched upward, a small outward reaction that was woefully inadequate to express the pride coursing through his veins.

That's my songbird .

"Training has grounded me, helped me find my confidence and courage, and I know that should I face someone who wants to repeat the traumas I've experienced, I won't be helpless to stop it." She paused, likely considering her next words. "You should join us someday, Merrill. I... I think you might surprise yourself."

Cauldron, she was incredible. He never would have dignified that insult with such a caring response. She was far too good and lovely for this war-torn, dark world. She was a beacon of light that had somehow calmed his ravaged soul. It called to him, and he marched into the office, finally giving in to his shadows' pull.

"Gwyn," he murmured, her gaze snapping over her shoulder. The corner of his mouth ticked up as he smugly observed the flicker of surprise in Merrill's eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Azriel," the copper-haired priestess breathed, daring a glance up to catch his eye. He let his grin widen to reassure her as he stepped up behind her, placing a hand on her hip.