Severed and Forged

P A R T T H R E E

 The howling mountain wind all but vanished as Azriel shut the cabin door behind them.

Gwyn took a moment to glance around the house and gather an idea of the layout. Azriel certainly wasn't up to a tour.

"Where's the bedroom?" Gwyn muttered as her eyes scanned the warmly lit kitchen and the murals, decorating the walls — no doubt handiwork of the High Lady.

When Azriel didn't answer, she turned to find him leaning on his arm against one of the cabinets — eyes distant.

Steeling herself, Gwyn strode over to Azriel, squaring her shoulders and meeting his vacant stare. "I want to help. But you're going to have let me. That means being alright with me bossing you around a bit."

His smile was a hopeless thing. "Since when has permission ever prevented you from bossing me around, Berdara?"

Brows furrowed, Gwyn crossed her arms over her chest. "There's no need for a brave face here." Her eyes trailed down his bare torso and she tried not to let them linger too long on his chiseled abdomen. "It's only me."

Azriel blinked and she watched the words spill out of him. "My mate."

She could tell it was one of the many thoughts dancing around his mind. One of the many worries swirling about like a blizzard, nearly blinding him. Truthfully, she did want to speak with him about it. She did want to tell him about how long she'd known and how her feelings had changed. But now was not the time.

Gwyn sighed and lifted a hand, gingerly cupping his upper arm, fingers itching to squeeze the firm muscle beneath. "Go lie down. I'll run you a bath and wake you when it's ready."

A muscle in his jaw ticked and she could see his eyes flicker as though debating what to say next. He didn't like this, or perhaps he just wasn't used to it, being taken care of. "The bathroom is... It's in the back."

Gwyn gave him a wry smile. "I'll manage, Shadowsinger." Then she left him.

~oOo~

Azriel slept for what could've been minutes or hours. Gwyn had woken him, gently jostling his shoulder, and telling him a warm bath was ready. He didn't protest. Despite his lack of familiarity with being cared for, something about Gwyn helping him felt good. Like it could be allowed. Like it was right.

Drying off was strange. He had no wings to maneuver the towel around and the large mirror on the wall seemed far too big for him.

Gwyn had left a pair of trousers and tunic for him on the sink, along with one of the straight razors that Rhys stashed in the cupboard. Strangely enough, only one use for the blade came to mind. To shave. Odd considering that just this morning he'd wanted to rip out his heart with his bare hands and be no more.

But now, looking at the thin layer of scruff covering his jaw and the hair that had begun to coil at the nape of his neck, all he considered doing was giving himself a trim. The task seemed somehow daunting. The mere consideration of shaving on par with a long sparring session. He decided against it and dressed, all the while trying to ignore the urge to maneuver his wings through the flaps in the back. Instead he left them buttoned shut.

He cringed away from his reflection again, accepting angrily that he had yet to look at his body for more than a glance since the operation.

When he opened the bathroom door, a mouthwatering smell of butter and spices overcame him. On dead feet he followed the scent to the kitchen where Gwyneth Berdara was setting the dining room table with a pot of boiling stew so heavy he saw her teeter a bit before settling it in the center.