Chapter 2 - Strangers in a Library
Chapter 2 - Strangers in a Library
-Gwyn-
Stretching up onto her tiptoes to reach the shelf, Gwyn pushed the book into its rightful place between the others using her fingertips. Though she was taller than most Fae females, she still had trouble reaching the higher places on the bookshelves. She didn't want to fetch the stepstool from Merrill's office; she had no desire to enter that space right now. She was feeling too excited, thinking about all she had to look forward to in the next couple of days: Her girls’ night with Nesta and Emerie tomorrow, followed by Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony the day after. Seeing Merrill right now would just spoil her good mood.
She was looking forward to Nesta and Cassian's nuptials; those two were disgustingly in love with one another, which didn’t always happen in a mating bond. The fact that it had for the two of them made Gwyn’s heart sing. Her eager anticipation for the upcoming ceremony wasn’t only because she wanted to partake in celebrating two of her closest friends, but also because it was another reason for her to leave the Library for an entire day.
She’d been searching for more reasons escape her work as Merrill’s research assistant, the older priestess’ callous remarks towards Gwyn becoming more frequent since returning from the Blood Rite nearly two months prior.
She knew that if she brought the issue up with Clotho, she wouldn’t hesitate to reassign Gwyn to assist another priestess. It didn’t feel right to resort to that, though, since it wasn’t just Merrill that Gwyn had grown intolerant of; it was living in the Library altogether. She'd begun to toy with the idea of moving out, though she needed a plan before she did that.
There was a time, of course, that she had truly needed the sanctuary that this place offered her—what it offered all of the priestesses there. She’d gone through some pretty dark times after Sangravah, and she had found comfort in being there amongst those with similar traumatic pasts.
But things had changed since she won the Blood Rite and returned home to Velaris.
The nightmares of Sangravah no longer invaded her sleep regularly. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had one, but she remembered that it had been less gruesome than the ones that had haunted her right after she’d first come to live at the Library. It wasn’t the dishes being swept off the dining table and crashing to the floor so the soldiers could bend her over it, nor the blood-soaked onyx hair and lifeless eyes of her sister’s head on the floor, nor the searing pain of that General thrusting himself into her from behind. No…the last time she dreamed of Sangravah, it was of being carried out of that kitchen, clutched against a strong chest, a faint blue light glowing in her periphery, while a deep otherworldly voice murmured in her ear, “They’re gone, little Priestess. We have you now. We will take care of you.”
She no longer felt the walls of the Library were protecting her—now they were stifling her, keeping her from growing. She was a flower bulb planted in a pot of soil and placed inside a shed—unable to thrive as she would in a garden under the sunlight.
She didn’t feel the same sense of belonging amongst the other priestesses either—she still considered many of them her friends, but even the ones that had begun training with the Valkyries still struggled with the traumas of their past in ways that she no longer did. Gwyn didn’t consider herself better than any of them—not at all. It was as though she and the other priestesses in the Library had all been gathered under a blanket, one that they all needed to keep warm in the frigid air around them; but now, she was too warm, while the others were still comfortably cozy under the layer. There was no shame in still needing the blanket—she just didn’t belong under it anymore.
She still approached the outside world with a healthy dose of respect and guardedness, but she was not as afraid to venture outside the Library or the House of Wind any longer. She’d gone to visit Emerie at her shop in Windhaven a few times, gone shopping with Nesta, Emerie and Mor, and even attended one of the High Lady’s art classes. Her Valkyrie training, though, was still the primary reason she left the walls of the Library.
Especially the extra, private sessions she had at night with the Shadowsinger.
That first Winter Solstice night that Azriel had found her practicing alone was the beginning of her journey outside the darkness that hovered around her since Sangravah. That was the night that Azriel had helped her with her technique so that she could cut the ribbon.
No one had known it, but she had nicked a corner off of that ribbon after he’d left her that night. She had reveled in that miniscule victory over the next few days; it was that minor accomplishment that had given her the nerve to confront Azriel that day she found him in the Library about why he hadn’t looked for her after Sangravah. She hadn’t realized before she nicked that ribbon that it was a resolution that she desperately needed. She’d finally told him the truth about her first few months after leaving Sangravah—how she nearly gave in to the depression, the guilt, the darkness. But once she’d seen him in the training ring, she couldn’t go through with it.
Shortly after that discussion with Azriel, she was the first to fully cut the ribbon. That was the day that she silently swore to herself that she would one day leave the Library for good.
And so, her journey out of the darkness continued.
Beginning on that Solstice night with Azriel, she kept going up to the training pit, at first because her nightmares of Sangravah chased her from sleep nearly every night. Azriel, too, seemed to be a perpetual insomniac, joining her most nights in the ring while the rest of the House slept below them.
The only time she had not faithfully come to the pit at night was when she spent that week in the wilderness of Ilyria, fighting for her and her sisters’ lives. On the nights that he didn’t show up, it was often due to being away on a mission as the Night Court Spymaster. There must have been nights when sleep found him, however, since there had been several times when he didn’t show, even though Gwyn knew he was home. Though, on those nights, whatever the reason for his absence was, she swore she could still…sense him. Sometimes she felt his eyes on her from the darkened corners of the rooftop or from above as he roamed the skies. Only when she looked closely in the shadows or in the sky, she saw nothing.
Their private time together in the training ring had always varied. Sometimes they would just train alongside each other, working on completely separate skills—him on hand-to-hand techniques while she worked on throwing daggers at a target, for instance. Sometimes they sparred together. Other times he would slip into his instructor mode, and she became his student.
Since she'd emerged victorious from the Blood Rite, however, it wasn’t the inability to sleep that drove her towards that training pit late at night. It was him—Azriel.
Because their one-on-one training nighttime sessions had changed, too, since she came home.
Now, they spent no more than perhaps half an hour, at most, on actual technique work. The remainder of their time was spent deep in conversation together that would last long into the night. The topics varied; sometimes they talked about the Blood Rite—his experience and hers, since they were both Carynthians—or Nesta’s temper coupled with Cassian’s goofy nature, or how big Nyx was getting, or Rhys’ habit of flicking off invisible lint from his clothing. She told him about all the trouble Catrin got them into growing up. He talked about the mischief that he, Cassian and Rhysand got up to as young Ilyrians. She learned that his mother was still alive and lived in a small village at the westernmost edge of Ilyria, and he visited her as often as he could. She told him how she wished she knew more about her lineage, and who in the Autumn Court she was related to. He still hadn’t told her about his hands, though she hadn’t asked either. She worried if she did, that it would cause him to shut down, to stop engaging in these conversations with her, or to stop coming to meet her at night in the pit; and she’d come to need this time with him. She also had not told him exactly how Catrin had died that day in Sangravah—she was fairly certain he had no idea that her twin was one of the decapitated bodies in that kitchen when he'd come.
She had also begun to interact with his shadows during these meetups. She spoke to them like they were their own sentient entities, which, he explained, they were, in a way. They were an extension of him but also could act independent of him if he wished them to. He seemed hesitant at first when she’d asked if she could touch one, but the shadow seemed to vibrate with excitement at her request, so he agreed. The shadow had shot forward, making both of them jump a little, but then it had enthusiastically flown all around her, barely grazing her body as it zipped to and fro, tickling her and making her laugh with its gleeful antics. Azriel’s eyes had been warm pools of gold as he watched his shadow play with her braid, coil around her forearm, and float between her fingers. After that, his shadows seemed to always want to be close to her, though Azriel tried to keep them confined to his immediate space, much to their disappointment.
This had become their routine; a little work on skills followed by hours of talking. Since the beginning of these late-night meetups, she had always felt a happy flutter in her stomach when he arrived at the training pit to work with her, but now…now, it was the hours spent talking with him that she truly looked forward to. To cherish.
The more she got to see little glimpses of who he truly was outside of being the Spymaster of the Night Court, the more he invaded her thoughts outside of training. It was his loyalty to his friends and family, his instincts to fiercely protect those that needed it, and his gentle nature that she loved most about him.
She found that he was more relaxed when it was just the two of them, whereas when others were around, he camouflaged himself with that air of indifference; though sometimes she would catch his eyes watching her, a hint of mirth lighting up his golden irises. With her alone though—that’s when it seemed like she was talking to the real Azriel.
She had also learned that he had dimples, and it was a personal goal of hers each time they were together to get them to make an appearance. Therefore, she was always trying to make him smile or laugh.
Gods, his laugh. The rich bass of it was something she wished that she could bottle up and keep with her all the time; it too, was a rarity, and she treasured each delighted rumble that rolled from his lips.
The time that Gwyn spent alone with Azriel, in addition to seeing those around her in committed relationships, had caused a stirring of some kind within her. After all, it wasn't only Nesta that had found someone to share her life with; Emerie, too, had been seeing someone in the Night Court, and both Gwyn and Nesta speculated that it was the beautiful Morrigan. They didn’t press Emerie for details, though, knowing she would tell them when she was ready. Gwyn wondered if the secret relationship would become apparent to everyone at the ceremony.
But these stirrings made Gwyn want to....meet a male? Be courted? She wasn’t sure. What she did know was that they were gradually getting stronger.
She'd certainly felt the urge to be…intimate with herself more frequently as of late.
Sometimes, when she took a bath, her hand would drift between her legs, her fingers finding that little bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. Her other hand would drift up to squeeze her breast as she rubbed small circles over her clit.
The first time she tried pleasuring herself was the first time she tried pleasuring herself, ever in her life, and she had quickly realized it was more complicated than she’d thought. Nesta and Emerie made it sound like it was simple—just rub it and boom!—climax. But when the pleasure didn’t build, she started to worry there was something wrong with her—like maybe what happened to her in Sangravah had broken her.
Unbidden, her brain suddenly had summoned an image: Hazel eyes, messy black hair, golden skin, great membranous wings, and tattoos sprawled across a muscled chest, wrapping around strong arms, and trailing up a broad neck. That was when the delicious ache started pooling in her lower belly and the pleasure in her clit finally began to build. Only when those beautiful eyes, the gold overpowering the jade in the irises, were staring back at her, and the deep timbre of his voice was whispering praises into her ear, was she able to find her release. She had to bite her bottom lip to keep from crying out.
Alright, she told herself after the first time, I need to think of a male when I do this. So, she had tried to conjure up some random, handsome male face when she slipped into the warm water of the bathtub. To her dismay—or delight, she wasn’t certain—the face she built in her fantasy never kept the features she had given it once she slowly started working that bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. Green eyes would change to hazel, arched ears became round, tattoos slowly formed on previously blank skin, brown locks darkened to sable, and bare backs sprouted great membranous wings.
She tried to tell herself it was only because Azriel was the only male that she saw regularly and most often. Then, she tried dismissing it as just a silly crush, nothing more and nothing substantial. When he arrived at the training pit at night, however, her breath would hitch as soon as she caught the first glimpse of his handsome face, and her stomach would do this little flip thing when he greeted her in that deep baritone voice.
It was everything: The way she looked forward to spending time with him, just being in his orbit and talking with him; how his face was the only one she could conjure when she pleasured herself; and how her body reacted to his presence, that told her this was more than a fleeting infatuation. What to call it though, she still didn’t know.
Gwyn had just finished shelving the last tome from her cart while humming a soft melody, when she heard gentle footsteps behind her. She turned to find a lovely Fae female, with soft honey-brown curls and big doe eyes. She was a charming and delicate kind of beauty, with soft angles and refined elegance.
“Oh! I’m sorry, I think I got turned around,” she said, voice soft like rose petals. “I was looking for the section with books on the different courts.”
Gwyn smiled. “You’re close. It’s just down that aisle there.” She pointed to the right of the female down an aisle brightly lit with floating faelights. “The first half of the bookcase—the one closest to you—are mostly on the solar courts. The second half features books that mostly deal with the seasonal courts. Is there a specific court you want to read about?”
“The Autumn Court,” the female replied, tucking an errant curl behind her arched ear. “At least to start." She began to wring her hands in front of her waist. "Do you know if there’s anything specifically about the current High Lord of Autumn’s sons?”
Gwyn thought for a moment. “I think so. Look for a book with an orange cover called The Flames of Prythian: A History of the Autumn Court and its Nobility. If I remember correctly, there’s a decent amount dedicated to Beron Vanserra and his seven sons.”
The female nodded. “Thank you, Miss…?”
“Gwyn. No title. Just Gwyn.”
The lovely female’s brown eyes widened. “You’re…Gwyn? Gwyn Bernard?”
Gwyn’s brows rose. “Berdara,” she corrected. “And yes, I am. Have we met?”
“No, we haven’t. Not officially, that is, but I've heard your name mentioned. I’m Elain Archeron, Nesta’s younger and Feyre’s older sister.”
“Oh! Of course, Elain! Nesta speaks about you often.”
Elain arched one eyebrow, her expression looking doubtful. “Does she?”
“Yes! She told me all about your garden at the River House. I’m looking forward to seeing it at her and Cassian’s mating ceremony. She says you have quite a talent for growing things.”
Elain blushed. “Yes, well…I suppose everyone has something they are suited best for.”
Gwyn saw it then—Elain’s sudden discomfort at discussing her older sister. She felt the urge to quell some of Elain's uneasiness, so she tried went for humor. “I suppose it’s ironic—Lady Death boasting about your ability to help things flourish.”
Elain didn't laugh, but instead forced a wan smile. “Yes, I suppose so.” Her shoulders slumped slightly. “I just…well, Nesta has never really shown an interest in my garden. I guess now that it will be the backdrop for her ceremony, she finally has a reason to care about it.” Those last words held a hint of bitterness.
Gwyn regarded Elain with curiosity. Though she knew that Nesta’s relationship with Elain was strained, she’d thought they’d reconciled after the Blood Rite…after they’d almost lost their youngest sister, the High Lady, during the birth of her son. Perhaps there were still some things between them that had yet to be smoothed out.
She remembered then what else Nesta had told her about Elain. “Are you looking for something about Lucien Vanserra?”
Elain blanched. “I…I wasn’t aware that it was common knowledge outside the Inner Circle that he's my mate.”
Nesta hadn’t sworn Gwyn to secrecy or anything, but she suddenly felt like perhaps she had just unintentionally betrayed Nesta’s confidence. Gwyn tried to play it off. “We don’t really have much to do here when we aren’t working or at services. You know how it can be with so many females in one place, wagging tongues and all.” She waved a hand to gesture to the Library in general. "I don't even remember who told me." She hoped the lie was believable.
Elain didn’t look particularly convinced, but she gave a curt nod.
“Besides,” Gwyn fumbled on, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere while not being too obvious. “I, uh, have a special interest in Autumn. My grandfather was supposedly a High Fae from that court.”
Elain frowned. “Really? You look…well you don’t look like others that I’ve seen from the Autumn Court, other than your hair of course.”
“My grandmother was a nymph from the rivers in the Spring Court. My eyes are attributed to her, along with my slightly more pliant bones. My twin sister even had webbed fingers.”
The lovely Archeron sister glanced down at Gwyn’s hands, as if to confirm that Gwyn did not have webbed fingers. She got the distinct impression that if she did, Elain would be repulsed by them.
“We weren’t identical twins. She had webbed fingers, as well as black hair and moon-white skin. Plus, she had a much wilder temperament than I.”
“She…had?” She had clearly picked up on Gwyn’s use of the past-tense.
Gwyn’s heart staggered a little. “Yes. She…she passed away.” She reached up to touch the glass rose charm on her necklace, a habit she developed since receiving the anonymous gift last Winter Solstice. She thought she saw a flicker of ire in Elain’s eyes as her gaze followed the movement of Gwyn’s fidgeting fingers. However, Gwyn blinked, and the only thing she saw in the female’s eyes was pity.
Strange, she thought. Must have imagined it.
“I’m so sorry, Gwyn. Even though we’ve had our differences, I can’t imagine losing one of my sisters.”
Gwyn nodded her thanks, suddenly ready to end the conversation before she lost her composure and frightened this skittish female by sobbing uncontrollably or spilling all the horrid details of Catrin’s death. “Is there anything else I can help you find, Elain?”
Elain gave a sad smile. “No, Gwyn, you’ve been a big help. Thank you.”
“Of course. My shift is just about over, but if you do need help with anything else, just ask any of the priestesses. They’d be glad to assist you.” Gwyn went to make her way around the lovely female, eager to retire for the evening. She flashed Elain with a parting smile. “I guess I’ll see you at the ceremony.”
Before she could leave the space though, Elain’s lovely, lilting voice stopped her.
“That’s a lovely necklace, Gwyn. Where did you get it?”