Hands On

Brush

Gwyn never used to shy from physical contact. She and her sister Catrin would exchange small touches all day long. A small squeeze on the shoulder, tucking a stray piece of hair back into place, a brush on the arm as they passed in the halls of the temple. They even used to share a cot when they were small and would often fall asleep holding hands. After Catrin's death, there had been no one. No one to hug, no one to rub her back, no one to hold her when she cried or after a nightmare.

And there had been nightmares. After Sangravah how could there not have been nightmares. Some nights Gwyn would awake in a cold sweat remembering the feel of hands holding her down, grabbing at her, exposing her. In the early days following her attack, Gwyn would be sick after her nightmares. If anyone had tried to touch her then, she wouldn't have been able to stand it. The thought of someone touching her made her skin crawl. In her darker moments, she felt glad to be alone so that she did not have to reject the comfort she was certain Catrin would have attempted to offer.

Even as she worked to heal from her trauma, Gwyn had not opened herself to any physical contact. Then she began learning how to use her body. But even during training, she still shied away from touching Nesta and Emerie unless absolutely necessary. The requirements of hand-to-hand combat aside, Gwyn never touched anyone else outside the training ring. She lifted herself from the dirt without reaching for an outstretched hand. She avoided the stray brush of a hand between exercises.

At some point, Azriel must have observed her reluctance. She could sense it now as they danced around it during training. Azriel was trying to demonstrate and describe the proper technique without touching Gwyn. And she was not able to recreate it from listening and watching him alone. Gwyn saw his mask slip slightly; his expression betraying his frustration for the smallest of moments. She sighed, frustrated as well. No doubt he could easily show her the proper way with a quick correction, but he would need to toucher her to move her hand into the correct position.

"It's alright," Gwyn said through gritter teeth. Her frustration winning out at last. "Go ahead."

Azriel's eyes flick up to her face, inspecting her eyes for confirmation. "Are you certain?"

Gwyn nods. She just wants this moment over with as quickly as possible.

Azriel steps closer to her side. Gwyn flinches at his initial approach but wills herself to relax. She hopes that he didn't notice. Then Azriel is reaching out his hand. Gwyn tracks it as closes the distance between them. His siphon atop the gauntlet on his wrist glints in the sunlight. Scars trail from the back of his hand and down his fingers. Gwyn never really considered Azriel's hands before. She wonders how he got those scars and if they pain him.

Azriel lays his hand over hers. There is barely any contact, almost as if his hand is hovering over hers rather than touching. He turns her wrist gently and nudges her thumb to adjust her grip on the dagger's hilt. Although it is just a whisper of touch, Gwyn feels as if she has been struck by lightning. She can feel the charge travel from where his fingers touch her skin to her whole body. An involuntary gasp escapes her lips. Gwyn has never felt anything like this before.

Azriel suddenly drops his hand and backs away. His wings tuck in tight against him, as if he is trying to take up the least amount of space he can. "Sorry," he says quickly. "I know my hands are-"

"No!" Gwyn cuts him off. Her voice rings out louder and more insistent than she intended. "I mean, no, it wasn't you," she says more gently. "No one has touched me so gently like that in so long. I had forgotten what it feels like."

Azriel nods like he understands. A flicker of pain crosses his face. Gwyn wonders if he meant to expose that to her, so she drops her gaze to the dagger in her hands. She slowly turns the dagger over; inspecting every inch of it while she considers what to say next. Azriel knows what happened that night at Sangravah. He was there. It was his hands wrapping her a cloak; his hands holding her when she could not support herself. But neither of them has ever acknowledged what happened. It hangs over them; an unspoken mutual secret.