A Song of Faithless Shadows

42. With the Others

Azriel

Frantic wasn't the word. It was too mild, too lively.

Oh, but neither was catatonic. There was something unresponsive to me certainly, but there was a single purpose in every step I took.

I needed to get into the sky.

My mind was going so dark with thought that it was blank. Blank and black were terribly similar sensations, and I couldn't discern one from the other. My hands were shaking, my shadows quivering. I can't be here. Not in this library, not in this panic. Gwyneth will hate me even more if I tarnish this place, so sacred to her. I've done enough.

The sky isn't merciful, the wind uneven and biting against my wings, rain pouring. I needed to think. I needed to get my head on straight. I needed-

Az, Rhys says into my mind, the words soft, void of edge.

Out.

Az, please. I can't imagine why he'd sound breathless in my own mind. His voice was usually much more even in the medium of thought. Please, tell me where you are. I can help. Just let me in.

You can't help, I snarl back because he can't. No one can. I can't even help myself.

It's unsalvageable.

Unsalvageable because I've hurt Gwyneth beyond repair. Unsalvageable because she hates me now, and I'm sure of it. Unsalvageable because I brought tears to her eyes with my own thoughtlessness. Unsalvageable because I waited too long to tell her how I feel. Unsalvageable because Gwyneth is my mate, a fact that only became blindingly certain when I ripped her heart right out of her chest with a stupid fucking necklace.

...

For however wary Tanvi is of my presence, my Mother is blissfully delighted to see me. She nearly knocks me over when I finally arise from my nap, freshly bathed, standing in the doorway with dry clothes that are just a touch too small for me. Her arms wrap around me, suffocating my windpipe.

I hold her back.

"Azriel! You're here!" She exclaims. I don't argue that I've been here for hours now. It makes no difference.

"Hi, Mom," I murmur, hunching over to hold her. Mother was always small for an Illyrian woman, and I had dwarfed her before my wings even finished growing. My father wasn't some great height either, so Mother always said I got my frame from the mountains, the trees, the moon, the stars, and all things high and mighty.

She pulls back, running her hand on the jagged edge of my jaw, tutting. "You really should shave."

"It's next on my list," I tell her, my voice sounding stripped and coarse.

Her smiles falls. "What's wrong?"

I'm not sure how she read the despair on my face, though it doesn't shock me that I'm fooling exactly no one. "Nothing." Again, fooling no one.

"Azzy, talk to me. Talk to anyone," she frowns. "Though I'm your best bet, given that I'll likely forget we ever had this conversation."

Despite myself, I smile. It was rare Mom possessed the awareness of her state to make such a joke. It must be one of her good days. "But you do remember Gwyneth though?"

"How could I forget her?" Mom smiles. "That hair? That voice?"

"Yeah." The word is hoarse, barely there.

Mom's face dips. "Oh, Az..." she reaches out for me, glancing at my scarred hands with such a profound sadness that my heart contracts.

"She's..." I can't even say it. My whole body is shaking. "She's my..."