The Wing Masseuse

The Illyrian Camp

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

Azriel's mind ached from dealing with the camp lord, they were one of the worst supporters that females shouldn't be allowed to train. He leaned against a pole supporting the tent and glared at him, the male was lounging on a chair on the other side of the tent not giving a care in the world. "So," he began to speak again, hoping to have one last go at convincing the prick in front of him to give the females of this large camp a chance, "the females can be just as strong as your male warriors, and wouldn't you want them to be able to defend themselves?"

"The males are perfectly capable of protecting them, they just need to cook and clean, we don't need more warriors." Azriel tried to suppress a growl rising in his throat as he replied.

"The males," he said, putting emphasis on the word, "have no more right to training than the females." Azriel let a slight hiss into his words. "The High Lord himself is supporting this initiative, you would do well to listen to his orders."

"If the High Lord wants our continued support he will need to respect our ways," the camp lord retorted, "we do not need his new-fangled ideas of training females, who else is to welcome the males home from battle, with clean quarters and good food?"

"They can continue to do so, after training", Azriel was exasperated after hours of this back and forth, the camp lord was not even trying to compromise on the training. "If you refuse to obey our High Lord," his lips curled into a snarl at the last 2 words "then he will be forced to visit you himself." 

The camp lord merely snorted and told Azriel that if the High Lord wanted to discuss females training, as if the notion was ridiculous then the High Lord was welcome to visit his camp. The shadow singer stepped away from the place he was leaning and informed the camp lord that Rhysand would be visiting him soon, and left the tent, stepping out into the fresh air. He stepped into a clearing in the tents where no one was, one of the few areas in a busy Illyrian camp where there was peace. 

A headache started to thrum and he stretched his wings out, after hours having them tucked into his back standing in the tent there was an ache in them. He ran a scarred hand through his dark hair and let out a sigh. He prepared to shadow travel back to his apartment, glad that he had restocked his liquor cabinet the day before. He felt a slight touch on the edge of his wing, but in the cramped Illyrian camp he simply dismissed it was touching a tent flap and vanished into the shadows.

He snapped his wings shut as he arrived from the shadows in his cosy apartment in Velaris, and made a beeline for the oak liquor cabinet standing in the corner of the living room. Just as he reached for the varnished door he heard a slight, unmistakable ruffle of wings that were not his own, the spymaster spun around, hand flying to Truth-Teller hanging by his side to see an Illyrian female, standing shaking in the middle of the room.

With one flick of his eyes, he assessed who was now in his apartment, his shadows hissed in his ear. Who is she? What is it? How did she get here? How did you miss it? You've brought a stranger here?  Well he could answer some of those questions, the female had brown eyes with slivers of dark green through them, the same as her delicate wings which where the dark colour of all Illyrian wings, but with a definite hint of green. Her long hair was nearly black, and was matted and dirty, her clothes weren't much better. They were stained with mud and some splatters of blood and there were many tears in them, he doubted they helped her at all to stay warm in the freezing Night Court Mountains. His eyes snapped to hers as she spoke.

"Hello," her voice was quiet and she bowed slightly to him, he saw the tension throughout her body. Fear. However the shadow singer was tired, so he merely snarled "Why are you here?". The moment he saw someone in his apartment he knew that she had been the touch on his wing, to be traveled out of the camp, he didn't blame the female, he had seen the treatment of females there but he was too exhausted and his head was pounding too much to care. She flinched slightly at his harsh words and murmurs, words that may have been too quiet for anyone else but a shadow singer to hear. "My father still clips wings, and I have just started my first bleed. I love to fly and therefore I had to flee." Azriel's nostrils flared as he scented the air. Truth. She was speaking truth, he dismissed the thought from his brain. Why wouldn't she be telling the truth? He had seen the horrors of that camp. "And you trust me enough that you think I won't just return you to your father?" He regretted saying it as he felt her fear rise in her throat.