#Gwyn Berdara reference

[acourtofquestions]

Nesta: We need more help. Maybe I should call my friends.

Rhysand: … Your what?

Nesta: My friends.

Feyre: Is she saying “friends”?

Elain: I think she’s being sarcastic.

Azriel: No, no, no, this is delirium, she cracked from being awake all night trudging up and down the stairs.

Cassian: Hey, Nesta! All of your friends are in this room… unless you see anyone else? *whispers* —it better not be another “mating gift MONSTER”—

Amren: You lie! I am no one’s friend.

Nesta: I have other friends! You asked me to make new friends, I made new friends! It was a task. I complete tasks.

Cassian: Hi, my name is task! Can you complete—

Everyone: NO!

[tsunami-of-tears]

Gwyneth Berdara x 1989

And time can heal, but this won't

A/N: I COMPLETELY forgot to queue this one for Gwyn week 😭 @gwynweekofficial I also drew this before my Elain / Pen artwork, so my skills have vastly improved already 🫶🏻

✧ Please do not repost or use with AI ✧

[loudcollectorthing]

My Gwynriel heart 🩵💙

obsessed with baby ivy + baby catrin (will you ever draw catrin with azriel and gwyn 🥺)

Oh like this?

It’s still a WIP but yeah 👁️👅👁️

[sserrafeim]

I need everyone who doesn’t like Gwynnie and yet refers to her as “Gwyn” to step back right now. That’s Miss Gwyneth Berdara, the first Valkyrie reborn and the only non-Illyrian Carynthian, and you will address her as such.

[freyjas-musings]

Hi! I sent in an ask a while ago on how I think Gwyn might be a descendant of Oleanna, and came up with the headcanon of Oleanna visiting Gwyn in her dreams like Elena did with Aelin!

To me, Gwyn and Azriel have religious imagery/symbolism. I know that you have a theory on Gwyn & Azriel being the reincarnations of Oleanna & Enyalius (which is also interesting to me), so I just wanted to share some things that I discovered after doing some research!

This post https://www.tumblr.com/mystical-blaise/663854476621479936/berdara-meaning stood out to me.

The name Gwyn mean fair, white, blessed, and holy. The name Gwyneth means happiness.

Gwynedd means white, fair, blessed, pure.

Apparently Gwyneth also refers to Virgin. Her full name can translate to bleeding virgin.

The name Gwenivere is derived from the Welsh words gwen and hwyfar, which mean “white or fair” and “ghost or phantom” respectively. The name therefore means “white ghost” or “white phantom”.

In Malay, Berdarah means bleeding, bloodied, bled, bloody. Berdara in Malay is also virgin.

Sangrava (Sangravah) means used to bleed in Portuguese.

@yazthebookish posted on her Instagram story how it’s interesting that Gwyn wanted to name her sword Silver Majesty and the sword Gwydion kind of ties in both and it could maybe be an easter egg. “Silver: it’s dark blade emits what was described as a holy, savior’s light and that also connects Gwyn’s holy status as a priestess and the light emits when singing. Majesty: it belonged to a High King whose name is also the Irish equivalent to Gwyn (= Fionn). Gwydion: in Celtic mythology is a trickster/magician from the Kingdom of Gwynedd, which the name Gwyneth is derived from.”

Gwynriel’s have come up with theories about Gwyn and Gwydion after ACOSF, and how she might wield the sword. I’ve also seen theories on how she might be the one to find Narben.

In Medieval Christian theology places seraphim in the highest choir of the angelic hierarchy. They are the caretakers of God's throne, continuously singing "holy, holy, holy".

In the Book of Isaiah (Isaiah 6:1-8) used the term to describe six-winged beings that fly around the Throne of God crying “holy, holy, holy”.

In the Bible in Luke 2:13-21 it says: “Suddenly a great army of heaven’s angels appeared with the angel, singing praises to God: ‘Glory to God in the highest heaven, and peace on earth to those with whom he is pleased!’”

I wonder, have some people ever stopped to think that maybe the reason why Gwyn glows when she’s singing is because it’s something holy and pure, not because she’s “evil”? Even if Gwyn does turn out to be a lightsinger, SJM will not make her a villain, and it would make her an equal to Azriel (she already is). It would be another parallel between her and Azriel, which they already have multiple parallels.

The name Azriel means God is my help.

In Islamic and Christian traditions, Azrael is the name of the angel of death, one of the four archangels; the angel of death who separates souls from their bodies. Apparently he proved to be the only angel brave enough to go down to Earth and face the hordes of Iblīs, the devil, in order to bring God the materials needed to make man. Fun fact: Azrael’s attributes are wings and a cloak. (Azriel wrapped Gwyn in his cloak when saving her.)

Ramiel means thunder of God. We know that Ramiel is important, it is Illyria’s sacred mountain, it is regarded as the holy mountain of the Night Court. Where the warriors are when the Blood Rite ends sorts them into one of the three echelons of warrior, name after their holy stars. One of the seven archangels listed in the Book of Enoch, Ramiel is considered to be the angel of hope, guiding faithful souls to heaven and watching over those who will be resurrected. Throughout the New Testament, Jesus is associated with mountains. Mountains are mentioned more than 500 times in the Bible. The Garden of Eden was believed to have been on a mountain. Mountains have a logical religious symbolism for Jewish and Christian cultures since they are “closer to God” who dwells in the heavens (as in the sky). As a result, God often reveals himself on a mountaintop in the text. In the Old Testament, the mountains of Sinai and Zion are most significant.

The name Oleanna means light. Didn’t Oleanna, a high priestess, create Gwydion and gave it its powers when she dipped it into the Cauldron?

In Greek mythology Enyalius is generally the son of Ares by Enyo. Enyalius is often seen as the God of soldiers and warriors from Ares cult.

All of this just seemed really interesting to me. SJM minored in religious studies, so it’s possible she is well aware of some of this or has done some research. There is a lot of religious symbolism and imagery when it comes to Gwyn. No one is “stealing” the religious aesthetic from E/riel’s. Gwyn and Azriel as characters themselves have religious imagery. Gwynriel as a ship has religious symbolism. It wouldn’t surprise me if SJM played into this and I really hope she does. The saint and the sinner. I’ve thought for a while now about making edits of Gwyn and Gwynriel that are religious themed, but I’m scared of E/riel’s saying that I’m stealing their aesthetic, since they’ve accused Gwynriel’s of stealing the light and dark aesthetic. But Gwynriel does actually have a light and dark aesthetic, and E/riel’s use the Hades & Persephone thing despite it being Feysand’s.

Hi Anon,

Everything you have written is interesting and I would love to take my time and explore every single point you made ...

Its all very interesting and I could see Oleanna and Gwyn having a connection similar Enalius and Az ....

Illyrians were made and the leathery wings indicate they were an experiments with creatures from the hel realm ....Now cut to Gwyn who was conceived by a priestess on the holy night of the great rite... it will almost be poetic if Az wields a weapon made from dark power and Gwyn ends up weilding a weapon made from holy power the warrior mates who are also Carynthians.

So Gwyn and Az have the whole holy unholy aesthetic going for them .... saint and the sinner .... carynthian warriors ... and yes Light and dark too.

Light and dark is such a common aesthetic.... it is also a Feysand aesthetic, Ruhn Lidia aesthetic ✨️... you cant gatekeep such a generic aesthetic.

Their book my friend will win hearts and be an absolute masterpiece .

I am very curious as to what Gwyns power is .... being Azriel's mate it would need to be something equally unique and powerful and yes I do believe her power will be something Holy ... she already has the invoking stone that she channels the mother's power from but even apart from that I believe her glow could be something holy ✨️

[separatist-apologist]

Take Me Back To The Night We Met

Summary: Gwyneth Berdara wants nothing more than to return home and exact revenge on the courtiers who hurt her and killed her sister. Exiled to a distant temple, Gwyn finds herself at the mercy of a mysterious stranger offering to escort her home on orders from her eldest brother and king of the realm.

Unraveling the secrets of the strange soldier will prove more deadly than Gwyn could ever have imagined, setting into motion events that began nearly five hundred years before.

Happy @gwynrielweeksofficial!

TW for mentions of past sexual assault

Read on Ao3 | Chapter 1

Gwyn found herself seated before Merrill while Clotho stood just behind. It was another gloomy day, threatening rain which made the study seem darker by comparison. Merrill had books stacked so high they created walls within the four walls of her office and everything was claustrophobic. Gwyn knew she wasn’t supposed to fidget—both princesses and priestesses were expected to have a perfectly rigid spine. 

Merrill was dragging this meeting out, watching Gwyn with that haughty suspicion she was all too familiar with. Eris could have picked her for a wife, Gwyn thought privately. They shared so much in common already. Gwyn could only imagine who he’d selected, certain it was some nightmare from the south looking to enhance her fathers power while tormenting the court.

Gwyn was going to beg her brother to let her take up residence at the sea palace. She’d put on her bravest, sunniest face, dance and smile and laugh, and then at the end of the festivities, swear she barely thought of Catrin at all and could she please spend a few months looking at the sea?

Maybe he’d be too busy trying to put babies in his new wife to care what she did. Gwyn very much doubted her other brothers had strong opinions on where she was or what she did. But she’d make sure they saw her, too. Smiling–happy. Alive, which was more than Catrin could say. 

It wouldn’t matter if either of those things were lies. 

As if they could tell the difference.

“Gwyneth,” Merril began, eyes focused wholly on Gwyn. The priestess was a beautiful woman—young, too, for someone so revered. It annoyed Gwyn that Merrill referred to her as Gwyneth—even Eris didn’t bother. Neither had their father, who had always called her princess in that mocking, sneering way of his. 

Gwyn could have demanded Merrill address her properly. Could have made the priestess bow so low her nose scraped the stone floor beneath them. It was tempting and yet wrong all at the same time. Gwyn settled for fidgeting, holding Merrill’s gaze and daring her to say something about it. 

“Your brother has released you from your service here,” Merrill continued, eyes narrowing. “You will leave with the knight tomorrow. We’ve packed you a few provisions but I wanted to discuss the books in your bedroom.”

Gwyn forced herself to maintain eye contact. “What books?”

Clotho offered up a wordless sigh, her fingers slowly moving through the air. Gwyn had never dared to ask what had happened to Clotho or why she didn’t speak. If it was natural or self-imposed, Gwyn couldn’t say. She wouldn’t have cared had it not been for those fingers of hers. They’d been purposefully broken by someone and it didn’t look as if they’d ever properly healed.

Merrill drummed her own fingers against the desk, clearly annoyed and unable to do much but wait.

Don’t leave as angry as you came in, Gwyn. 

“Who says I’m angry?” Gwyn replied, adopting her sweetest voice. Clotho leveled a stare, not needing a word to call Gwyn a liar. 

“Bring the books back before you go,” Merrill added snappishly. “They are not for you or the palace.”

“Everything in Ellesmere belongs to the king,” Gwyn replied, though this wasn’t a battle she wanted to fight. She knew she’d bring them back and Merrill must have, too, because she reclined back in her chair, a queen holding court before her subjects. Gwyn bristled but rose to her feet and inclined her head, making a mockery of the whole thing.

At least she could have the last word. 

There was no chance Merrill didn’t write Eris ahead of time and give him her perspective of Gwyn’s time at the temple. Eris would be so irritated with her. What, she wondered, would his knight tell her brother, too? If she was difficult and unladylike, would that be held against her? If she had a nightmare, if she couldn’t keep a smile plastered to her face? 

Gwyn made her way out to the vegetable garden, ignoring several hens pecking at the soil so she could plop onto a wooden bench. Only there, beneath that moody, gray sky, did she dare vocalize some of her frustration with a long, quiet scream. 

No one ever came out here. It was reasonable to assume she was alone. But there he was, appearing seemingly out of the mist with a cocked head and curious eyes. “Heard the good news, did you?”

Gwyn toward the heavens. What have I done to displease you? “I still have a day before I’m remanded into your company,” she replied, unable to even pretend she was excited. 

The soldier—Azriel—sat beside her, though he kept a respectable distance between them. “You’re the only person willing to speak to me.”

“The priestesses aren’t keen on men,” Gwyn replied, glancing over at him. He was too beautiful to be trustworthy, besides. It set her on edge, too—made her nervous though she was a princess and he was practically no one at all. Why should he make her nervous? He was injured if his limp was any indication and the cut across his throat was stark in comparison to the golden brown of skin. Gwyn would have bet his ribs were all taped up still and if she needed to, she could just outrun him. 

Though he’d given her no reason to distrust him, Gwyn felt she had to be careful. 

“I’ve noticed,” he replied, settling back to look up at the sky. “Your head priestess has refused my offers to sleep outside.”

“I don’t think that would help,” Gwyn admitted, a new thought coming to her. “Will it be just you and me on the road?”

He cut a glance in her direction. “Yes.”

Two options presented themselves, each offering a different, potent form of anxiety. Gwyn could refuse to spend another minute in this man's presence and stay at the convent, no longer her brother's ward but as an actual priestess. She’d have to give up the title that had protected her and the station she’d always intended to fall back on. There would be no Sea Palace, no visiting Catrin’s grave, no more of her brothers or the life she’d once known.

And she’d likely lose her position in the library. That seemed the most offensive to Gwyn.

But if she went with him, she risked violence. He was a stranger with a pretty face and Gwyn didn’t trust men. Even low born men felt they were owed something from women. Alone, on the road…who could stop him if he decided to take more than she was offering? 

He didn’t seem interested in her internal warring, or at the very least, didn’t recognize what was happening. Having delivered the news, Azriel rose to his feet and began making his way further from the temple, unleashed and allowed. He didn’t look back, nor did he return to her long after the fog had consumed him. 

What would Catrin do, she wondered? 

Catrin would go home. She’d get out of this nightmare even if she had to claw her way out, and if Azriel was the only way to do it, Catrin was grit her teeth and figure it out. Gwyn could still boss him around, she reasoned. Could force him to stay on main roads, to rent rooms in taverns, to travel only during daylight. Gwyn had never quite managed the haughty, imperious nature of her siblings but perhaps she could try. 

Maybe she could channel a little of Eris’s attitude just this once if it meant freedom. 

At least, that’s what Gwyn told herself. Still, she barely slept that night, tossing and turning as she played out a million terrible scenarios and how she might react. Eris wouldn’t send someone cruel, would he? 

No, not intentionally—but Eris also wouldn’t concern himself with whether Gwyn felt safe so much as he would concern himself with who could get her home the quickest. Clearly it was this man who, despite provoking the ire of some unknown assailant, had all but crawled to the temple and was apparently ready to go a mere day later. 

Gwyn doubted Eris paid enough for that kind of loyalty. And still she packed up her things with a faint buzzing of excitement. She was leaving. Gods, but Gwyn would never have to see this place again, this prison dressed up as a religious institution. And the gods willing, she’d be home in a matter of days without any intention or returning.

Surely Eris could hand over the estate by the sea and allow her to have her own household. Gwyn would have to work on appearing chasetend, of course—like she’d learned some grand lesson and was now ready to be a member of their household. 

It was the happiest she’d been since Catrin died. The entire mood of the temple was upbeat, something that barely wounded her. They were all excited to see her go, forgetting that once she was no longer there, they’d have to pick a new target for their ire. Absently, Gwyn wondered which of them it would be. Who would become the new scapegoat for everyone's dissatisfaction? Would they realize the problem had never been with her?

Doubtful. 

The only person Gwyn felt compelled to truly say goodbye to was Clotho. She didn’t hate Clotho so much as she hated that Clotho upheld the rules her brother had obviously set in place. Standing before her in the library, a bag slung over her shoulder, Gwyn heard herself saying, “I’m sorry I was so difficult.” Clotho’s fingers were quick with a response. You were never difficult, Gwyneth. I hope you find healing, wherever you go.

Gwyn choked down the urge to cry, nodding her head and keeping her face impassive. “I appreciate that.”

There was nothing else. Azriel was waiting outside by the barn with leads to two horses looped around a gloved hand. Merril led Gwyn out, snapping out her displeasure over Azriel’s presence and how Gwyn had made a mess of her routine, her research—everything. It was only when they were nearly to the courtyard that Merril offered Gwyn any kindness at all.

“For you,” she said, pulling a small, pale blue box from beneath her cloak. “Don’t let him know you have it.” Gwyn looked up at the woman who could have been her mentor with surprise. There, nestled among soft velvet, lay a silver hilted dagger that curved in a wickedly lethal point. A flash of recognition passed between the two of them, gone so fast Gwyn blinked and nearly missed it. But there it was—two souls who, on some level, knew what kind of danger might be waiting for Gwyn.

And despite Merril’s dislike of her, she was seemingly unwilling to let Gwyn risk it all again without some kind of aid. Gwyn took it, unsure where she could even hide it and decided on her bag for the moment until she found something better. It would slice right through her pockets which, while an amusing image, was not the kind of stealth she was aiming for. 

“Thank you,” Gwyn murmured but Merril had already turned, her job clearly done. That was all Gwyn was ever going to get and so, with a breath to keep herself from hurtling a bunch of unfair, hurtful accusations at the retreating priestesses back, Gwyn turned for the world outside.

It was another moody, miserable day made moodier still by Azriel’s flat expression. Gone were his casual, comfortable clothes, replaced by thick, black armored leather that looked frankly uncomfortable. Two lethal blades were curved behind his shoulders and a dagger was strapped to his thigh.

Where was his red cape, she wondered? That was the mark of all of Eris’s men, the red cape with the golden clasp marking the sunlight insignia of their family. Gwyn marched up to him intending to demand to know but Azriel cut her off. “No one can know we’re traveling, princess.”

Ass.

“Why not?” she demanded, yanking the reins of the one of the midnight black horses from his hands. Azriel let her, his eyes hot against her back. 

“There is one of me and one of you,” was his level, near cold response. “I’d rather not find out what the King will do if I let his sister die on the road.”

“I doubt he’d care at all,” Gwyn said without thinking, the words slipping bitterly from her lips. Azriel glanced up at her, seated now in the well-oiled saddle, a question lingering in his gaze.

Wisely, he kept it to himself and instead swung a powerful leg over his own horse, the movement effortlessly graceful and strangely fluid. Hardly a common soldier, then, though not an elite warrior, either. He was something else, something she didn’t have any knowledge of.

That was likely for the best, all things considered.

“We’ll travel until nightfall,” Azriel began, digging his heels into the flank of his beast. Her own followed of its own accord, as though it had been given some silent command. Gwyn knew how to ride a horse—had been taught as a girl, like all good royals. She didn’t need his help.

“I won’t be sleeping outside,” Gwyn told him in the snottiest voice she could manage. Eris would be proud—she sounded just like him.

“I’m well aware,” Azriel replied without humor. “You’ll be locked in a tavern room. And before you get any ideas, princess, I will be just outside.”

“What ideas—”

“I’m told you run away. Often,” he added, those hazel eyes focused straight ahead. 

Eris was such a cheat. Of course he’d warn this man, likely with veiled threats of what would happen if Gwyn slipped his grasp. The thought of trying occurred to her, though something in the set of his shoulders told her it was better not to try his patience. Clotho had never truly been angry with Gwyn. Impatient, frustrated, even irritated, yes. But truly angry? Never.

She had the feeling this man might raise his voice. Might yell. And he’d learn, if he did, that all her talk was merely bravado and beneath she crumpled easily. There was no Catrin to create a wall, to shield Gwyn from the tempers of the world while Gwyn sniffed, eyes welling with tears.

Even as a grown woman, anger so often provoked the sobbing reaction. 

“Well. I’m trying to leave this place, not return to it,” Gwyn told him, some of that haughtiness gone. She had a good plan, one that seemed achievable and promised relief. Get home. Fake enough contrition that Eris stopped thinking about her, which was almost the same as his concern. And then, once he was in a good mood—perhaps the night before his wedding, when he was likely to be a little drunk and too focused on himself to think of his wayward siblings—ask for the Seaside Palace. Maybe, she reasoned, she could ask to just go for a while and acclimate herself back into royal life.

And once she was gone and no longer causing mischief, Eris would let her stay if only to have one less person to worry about. 

“You want to return to the palace?” Azriel inquired, as though this was difficult to believe.

Gwyn twisted in her saddle, looking over her shoulder at the temple atop the hill, fading quickly in the creeping fog, its spindled fingers forever reaching for the sky without ever quite reaching. How was anyone supposed to feel human in a place dedicated to the gods? 

“It’s my home,” she said softly, turning her eyes toward the paved road ahead, curving over lush, green hills that promised freedom. In truth, the palace had long stopped being her home and yet that was where Catrin’s ghost still lived, where half of Gwyn’s heart was buried. Perhaps she could fill the aching yawn stretching in her chest, could finally have some closure.

It was tempting, right then, to ask Azriel about court life. Some sick urge wanted to know who still lingered in those ornate marble halls. She never wanted to hear the names spoken and yet thought of them so often, wondering how their lives had gone, that Gwyn was constantly at war with herself. There was no outcome that would bring her peace because no matter what happened to them, Catrin was still dead and Gwyn was still alone.

Though, she supposed being allowed to kill them would be a close second. 

Azriel asked her no more questions, settling into a comfortable pace. On occasion he stopped to let the horses graze and rest, but for the most part they rode in silence. It left Gwyn with too much time to think, and thinking very quickly turned to ruminating. She knew she couldn’t change the past and yet…if only she’d told Eris sooner. If only she’d kept what happened to herself. Catrin might still be alive and Gwyn wouldn’t feel so angry and hollow. 

They’d been more than just sisters. Gwyn and Catrin had shared a womb, a body, a soul. Tilting her face skyward, Gwyn would have given anything to tell Catrin how sorry she was. And when a cool breeze fluttered against her overheated cheeks, Gwyn thought it was Catrin’s hand reassuring her everything was alright.

She tried to find contentment with that. 

Azriel had promised her a room, and he managed to deliver. After what felt like miles of nothing, a dilapidated village appeared just as the sun began to dip, casting even weaker light over the gloomy world. Gwyn pulled her cloak a little tighter against her shoulders as they made their way through high, iron gates covered in curling ivy. The homes were made of stone and wood, the windows chipped and covered with boards to keep out the rainy chill.

It unnerved Gwyn how no one moved around. It wasn’t that late and yet had there not been flickering candle light behind some of the filth covered glass, she would have thought the entire village was inhabited by ghosts. The tavern Azriel promised had a rotted wooden sign banging about in the wind, unreadable from the elements.

Someone came out to meet them, taking the reins from Azriel wordlessly in exchange for a couple coins pressed into a weathered palm. Gwyn said nothing, keeping her hood over her head to obscure the auburn hair that would mark her as a Vanserra. Hers was darker than her brothers—more cinnamon and gold than true coppery red—and still something about it made people pause. 

Azriel nodded for her to go inside, pulling the handle to a swinging door so she could duck beneath his arm.

“Say nothing,” he murmured, his lips barely moving. For once, Gwyn was inclined to do as she was told. Keeping herself close, Gwyn followed him over creaking wood boards toward a chipped and warped desk where an exhausted looking matron stood, her eyes fixed on the pair of them. 

She’d been told not to speak, and so she didn’t. While Azriel asked for one room, his voice low and intimate, Gwyn took the opportunity to survey their lodgings for the evening. The tavern was just that—a tavern first, room for rent second. Exhausted bodies were hunched over tarnished cups and worn bowls of food, steam curling around wan faces. Gwyn was tempted and nervous all at once.

It was a room filled with unfamiliar people, the majority of which were men. Azriel spared her the agonizing, gloved fingers reaching for her elbow to tug her in the opposite direction toward narrow, spiraling stairs.

“I’m hungry,” she whispered.

Behind them, the door opened and two men stepped into the room. Like Gwyn, their faces were obscured by rather fine looking cloaks and yet she knew without seeing them at all that they didn’t belong. Azriel’s eyes slid over their frames without recognition, turning back to her as the two large, powerfully built men made their way toward the tavern.

“I’ll bring you something to eat,” he replied, level as always. “In your room.”

“Fine,” she hissed, though relief pierced her irritation. “I want a lot of it.”

He only shrugged, as though it didn’t bother him one way or the other. How much gold had Eris given him, she wondered? Enough to keep her fed, which was a relief. Food was a good substitute for feeling at time, and Gwyn was tired of how raw she felt. She’d eat, she’d bathe, and she’d go to bed.

After all. She was one day closer to home.

[bats2102]

ACOTAR x Brigerton Cross Over Part. 2

(Gwynriel ed.)

✨ 🩵🦇💙

I just couldn't help myself. This scene just gave me such gywn x azriel vibes (Queen Charlotte Episode 6, Netflix Time stamp: 07:00). It was too fun.

So if you take this transcript with the sound bite/clip (YT below)…

Gwyn: You seem more yourself. You look better. Do you... Do you feel better?  Azriel(Az): You should not have come. Gwyn: I was most happy to come shadowsinger. Az: No. Gwyn: I am so sorry. I should have come sooner. Do not fear. I shall remain by your side...  Az: No. Berdara. Listen to my words. You should not have come. I do not want you here. Gwyn: Azriel. Az: Go back to the library or the house of wind, please.  Do you hear me? I said, "Go back to the library."  That is where you live. That is where you belong. Go.  I do not want you. I want never to see you. Leave.  (Shouts) Get out! I order you! (B/c she is under his command as spymaster or sm?? Lol) Gwyn: No. No, Az. Az: Gwyn! Gwyn: You cannot force me away. I will not go.  Az: I command it! Go!  Gwyn: I will stay! I command it.  Az: Please, Gwyn. Please go.  Gwyn: No. Az: Berdara, you're not listening to me.  Gwyn: I am. I have heard that you wish I had not come.  That you want me to go. That you do not want to see me. Az: Berdara   Gwyn: What I have not heard is that you do not love me.

Gwyn: I have been suffering and alone and believing I am a failure as a spy and as your "friend" because you stay from me as though I am a disease.  And then today, it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps there is another reason. A better reason.  Perhaps you stay away from me because you care for me.  Perhaps you stay away because you love me.  Do you love me?  Az: I'm trying to protect you.  Gwyn: Do you love me?  Az: I... I cannot. We cannot... This conversation is... I can't do this. I never deserved this. This bond.  Gwyn: Do you love me?  Az: Gwyn. Please, stop!  Gwyn: Is it because you do not believe that I could love you?  I do. I love you, Azriel. I love you so much that I will do as you wish.  If you do not love me, all you have to say is that you do not love me, and I will go.  I will go back to the library. And we can live our separate lives, and I will live with this bond alone, and I will make do and fill my days and survive.  All on my own. I will do that. But first, you have to say that you do not love me.  You have to tell me that I am utterly alone in this world.  Az: I am a madman. ( scoffs ) I am a danger (literal torturer). In my mind, there is darkness that creeps in. The shadows and stars collide. I do not know where I am.  Gwyn: Do you love me?  Az: You do not wish a life with me for yourself. No one wishes that.  Gwyn: Azriel! I will stand with you between the shadows and the stars. I will tell you where you are.  Do you love me?  Az: I love you! From the mo... (Gwyn sighs) From the moment you left for your first mission with Nesta... I have loved you desperately.  I cannot breathe when you are not near.  I love you, Gwyn.  My heart calls your name. (Azriel sobbing quietly) (+kiss) ( softly ) I wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know.  This... madness, has been my secret my entire life. This darkness is... is my burden.  You bring the light.  Gwyn: Azriel. It is you and me. We can do this. Together.  (Tugs on bond+kiss)

..... and that's what you missed on Glee...

( Again not the whole scene but you get the idea)

I am having way too much fun with this.

Who let me have this much fun (CodyKo reference)

🤭💙✨🦇✨🩵

[broodybatboy]

Gwyneth Berdara: Headcanons

@gwynweek2022 Day 2: Favorite Character Traits

Warrior, scholar, & total sweetheart

Imagine Gwyn knocking Azriel out during a fierce hand-to-hand spar. Total lights out, can’t move, flat on his ass, loud *thud* type of knockout. Everyone suddenly stops training and stares at her.

The priestesses are jaw dropped. Cassian is in awe. Nesta mutters a “holy shit” and Emerie a “wow”

Azriel, too stunned, just lays on the floor for a little bit longer looking up at her with so much pride

Gwyn mortified and suddenly full of panic because oh my god she just hurt the the Shadowsinger.

Azriel suddenly laughing. A sweet joyous sound. He picks himself up, looks at Gwyn with such admiration and slowly reaches for her fist and lifts it above her triumphantly.

Gwyneth Berdara, ladies and gentleman.

After long and tedious nights in the library, Gwyn finishes her scholarly research on the Valkyries, Merril finishes the book, and Gwyn gets to add to special acknowledgments.

Gwyn writes a tender, simple thank you to Nesta, Emerie, Cassian and Azriel. The ones who made this possible for her. The ones who helped show her true power. The ones who didn’t let her break. The ones who made her strong.

There’s a celebration dinner. She gives a little speech. Shows off the book. And acts like it’s not a big deal.

Cassian loudly and obnoxiously makes sure that is in fact a major deal. He practically tackles her. Nesta and Emerie are emotional and squeeze her in big hugs. Once recovered, Gwyn goes and hugs Azriel. He pretends it isn’t warm and lovely. He ignores that they fit perfectly together. When she whispers “Thank you. Especially you.” Azriel pretends that he can still breath. And everytime he looks at her, Azriel pretends that his heart isn’t slamming in his chest.

Gwyn at 7am and at midnight with the brightest smile and a voice that can light up the day

She’s slow to anger, but once someone crosses or underestimates her, hell truly hath no fury

Analytical -- a good decision is one that’s made after thinking it over properly (and sending herself into a panic overthinking it)

Ambitious and just a teeny bit extremely aggressive

“She’s perfect. I love her”- Me, Nesta Archeron, Emerie, Azriel, you, & literally everyone

Practical, patient, and uses her head

A quick learner and is good! at! everything! examples:

Game night? The undefeated Monopoly champion - sends Cass to jail 5x's and makes Azriel sexually frustrated

Knitting? Here's a matching scarf, hat, and gloves with a hand-embroidered "A" surrounded with blue stars

Making dinner? Here's a gourmet burger with a toasted taleggio cheese crisp, mango chutney, black truffle aioli on a brioche bun.

She loves the smell of fresh parchment and leather

An old soul who knows old loves songs & ancient poems

A deep sense of curiosity for anything and everything around her

Gwyn asking the real questions:

So, what is the optimal dagger length? What are the merits of a friends-to-lovers romance versus an enemies-to-lovers in a maintaining a healthy relationship? Do bigger wingspans truly mean bigger...? Why is the Night Court divided into three sociopolitical factions? How are the Illyrians racially and economically oppressed? Do you sing? So, what actually is Mor’s truth power? What hair potions does Cassian use? What are the imperialist downfalls of a High King monarchy? But really though, do you sing?

The singing and wingspan questions are of particular interest. She has her theories. It’s best to be thorough and conduct extensive analysis

Nesta & Azriel have the BIGGEST weakness for her. Once she gives them the puppy dogs eyes they are goners.

Nesta: She’s my best friend.

Azriel: *aggressively shows off wrist with friendship bracelet*

Nesta: She’s my wife.

Azriel: *dramatically waves arms at the mating bond*

If Gwyn asked them to jump off a cliff they would do it twice.

The Favorite™ (sorry Cassian)

She is the giggliest, cutest, happiest drunk

She becomes a trailblazer, unafraid and marching forward to the wide road ahead.

Despite all the pain she has endured, Gwyn keeps on burning bright. She is beautiful, brilliant, and believes in the good around her.

[yazthebookish]

[moononastring]

👀👀👀👀👀

[daevastanner]

we can meet again

(gwynriel)

The writing style of this fic was inspired by @khajoors

A lot of this fic was inspired by EOS and KOA

Read on ao3

That’s her. His beautiful, bold, fearless mate.

And Azriel has never been more enraged, more livid, more terrified in the entire five hundred years he’s been alive. His heart hammers against his ribs as he watches Gwyn struggle against the men who grip her arms behind her back. His eyes water as he feels the bond between them go taut with fear. A roar threatens to tear through his lips when he sees their general strike her across the face.

He will kill them. Every last one of them for laying a hand on his mate. Even now with both his brothers holding him back, Azriel surges forward with a snarl. His neck is burning and he can’t breathe and the terror he sees in her eyes, the blood he sees spill from the gash on her cheek, it makes him bellow her name. Again and again until he’s gasping for air between cries.

He tries to rip free of his brothers yet again. That’s his mate. That’s his wife. That’s his songbird. His love and hope and joy. The reason he no longer works late. The reason he is glad for losing sleep. The reason he smiles and laughs and carries on despite the weight of the sins on his soul.

“Azriel, we can’t let you go,” Cassian grunts as the Shadowsinger tries to tear free yet again. “If we let you go she’s dead. He’ll pull that dagger and gut her, brother.”

At simply the grim words Azriel sobs. The general does have a dagger in his free hand, the hand that isn’t striking his mate across the face.

“Cassian is right, Azriel,” Rhysand groans, hauling him farther down the battlefield. “We’ve got to let them take her. We’ll get her back.”

He thinks he’s protesting. He thinks he’s telling his brothers to go to hell. But really he is screaming unintelligibly. Trying to pull free even though deep down he knows that he shouldn’t. That Rhysand speaks the truth. The best chance they have at saving her is attempting a rescue when she’s not at the tip of a blade.

And still he screams:

“Gwyn!”

But she doesn’t look at him. She cries out in pain as the general rams his fist between her ribs.

“Gwyn!” he chokes.

And for a split second, across the field of bodies and fires and wreckage, his mate meets his eyes. Gwyn’s normally bright gaze is bleary and lost. Her teeth are coated in the blood that pours from her nose. She’s weeping, her chest wracking as she stops fighting her captors.

And that bond between them goes tighter than ever before. He feels the fear in her yank at the tether, fear that is nearly as strong as that night in Sangravah from all those years ago.

He decides that he doesn’t care what his brothers think. He doesn’t care which plan promises the best chance of bringing her back safely. Because he can’t let them take her and he can’t bear her terror.

He pulls free of Cassian’s grip and reaches for Truth-Teller. “I’ll kill you!” he snarls.

And by the gods and the Mother and the thunder that rumbles above, he means it.

But he forgets that the male holding his right side is a High Lord. Is the most powerful High Lord to ever exist.

And he’s winnowed away, shrouded in darkness, falling through a void.

And Gwyn.

Gwyn is gone.

And now Azriel is in the river house study. Cassian is still gripping his right arm while Rhysand holds his left.

All hope abandons him. His legs give out.

Azriel crashes to his knees on the rug with a roar of pain so sorrowful that Rhysand and Cassian know it will haunt them till their end days.

It is the cry of a male who has failed. The cry of a male who has lost all he cares for. The cry of a male who has been broken.

“I’ll kill you both,” Azriel grounds out. “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you.”

But there is no conviction in his voice now. Only pure anguish as he hugs his sides and weeps. Tears fall onto the rug in a steady stream. He wheezes and gasps and sobs till his tongue is heavy and his mouth is dry. Till his eyes sting and he sinks down even lower. Defeated. Empty. Lost.

Cassian and Rhysand have not left his side. They haven’t touched him. Two phantoms that watch him with sympathy and patience.

No, Azriel’s shadows weep. No, singer. Our mate… Our mate…

Azriel inhales a shuddering breath. We will save her. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. I’m going to kill every last one of Koschei’s men.

And though he doesn’t say it aloud, though his shadows are the only ones who hear what is on his mind, his brothers already know his rage. Already know his fury. For they are both familiar with this ache. With this panic. With this agony.

Azriel tries to regain his breath, but he cannot comprehend the gnawing in his soul. When Elain had been abducted he’d felt a sharp sting of panic that shook his bones.

But with Gwyn gone, his mate, he’s utterly distraught. He is a corpse. He is no more.

“Az,” Rhysand says gently. “We will get her back. We will save her. I swear it.”

Azriel turns his head towards his brother, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “I know.”

Azriel has scolded everyone in his family at least once for their impatience. Patience has always come easily to him. It’s integral in his work and he excels at it. Patience is a part of him. It’s one of the only things he values about himself. One of the only things that he believes makes him worthy of affection.

But he has no patience today. Nor does he the following day or even the next week. Because Gwyn is still gone and they still have no plan on how to extract her. The only thing keeping him from cleaving in two is the bond between them that he can still feel simmering. It’s not glowing or pounding or humming with strength. But it isn’t weak or feeble. It’s steady.

But none of that matters because he can feel her terror. He can feel her pain. He can feel her fighting her fear and refusing to be broken.

One day, as they stand over a table covered in maps and pawns and battle plans, Azriel doubles over.

He stumbles back from the table, an arm wrapped around his middle as the breath is pulled from his lungs. There is a fire in his chest that is burning a hole through him. His shadows writhe. He can feel her screaming. He can feel her fighting. He can feel her agony. And it sends him staggering backwards, bracing a hand on the armchair behind him to continue standing upright.

Nesta rushes to his side in an instant, her eyes lined with silver. She understands.

Rhysand is next to cross over to his brother. His brother who is choking, whose forehead is creased in torment as he feels his mate’s suffering. As his soul and his mind threaten to shatter with grief and hopelessness.

No one has ever seen the shadowsinger so vulnerable or exposed. It’s a sight they will never forget.

Rhysand places a steadying hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Breathe, Azriel.”

He can’t. He can’t as for the briefest of seconds, a vision sweeps through him. A vision of Gwyn bound to a chair and a man striking her across the face. There are tear-tracks down her cheeks. Her cheeks that are so dirty that he can’t make out her freckles.

A sob wracks his chest.

“Do you know how many people have tried to count my freckles, Shadowsinger?” she’d said, propping herself up on her elbow in their bed.

Azriel smirked. “Challenge accepted.”

The memory alone sends the tears flooding down Azriel’s face. He exhales a shuddering breath as he feels a pang in his chest, one that makes him grip Rhysand’s forearm so tightly that his knuckles pale.

Azriel is distantly aware of Rhys reassuring him, but he turns away and buries his face in the crook of Nesta’s shoulder. Lady Death embraces him and he feels her own tears saturate his hair. The loss of Gwyn, even though temporary, leaves a gaping hole in the hearts of all those she has touched.

That night, Azriel does not return to the Berdara Cottage. He hasn’t been back since they returned to Velaris. He knows the absence of his mate will be too much.

None of her clothes haphazardly tossed in the hamper. None of her tea cups, with dregs and honey pooled at the bottom strewn about the house. None of the books in their library removed from the shelves. Her side of their bed cold and empty.

Instead he stays in his guest room in the river house. Every night he's reflexively settled into the right hand side of the mattress. His side. The absence of her body next to his is haunting, but it would be more painful to take up the entirety of the bed and accept her fate. Accept that his mate had been taken. Stolen. Abducted.

Azriel folds his hands over his stomach, staring up at the ceiling with a vacant expression. He tries to clear his mind. He tries to sleep. He tries to tune out his mourning shadows.

But all he can think about is the bond. If he is able to sleep, what if he wakes and it’s gone? What if during the night, she takes her last breath? What if when the sun rises, he finds himself screaming like Feyre when she’d lost Rhys? Like Rhysand when he’d lost Feyre? He’d lived without the bond for centuries, but after only a decade he can’t bear the thought of losing it. He flinches just imagining it vanishing.

And then the faint and steady humming of the bond stops and Azriel’s breath is stolen.

But mere seconds later… there’s a firm tug. Then another. Another. Another. And finally a tremendous yank and the bond is buzzing stronger than it has in the past week. His shadows become cautiously optimistic. And Azriel closes his eyes, bringing a hand to the spot over his chest where he feels his mate surviving, fighting, refusing to be broken.

That’s his Gwyn. That’s his mate.

His hand clutches the fabric of his tunic and as a promise and a prayer he says: “I will find you.”

They have a plan. Or something close to one. As close as they can get after almost two weeks of Gwyn being held captive.

Every day Rhysand checks the status of the mating bond. Azriel, a scarred hand on his chest, confirms its existence with only a nod.

Azriel will infiltrate Koschei’s base with Cassian when the midnight watches are transitioning guards. Rhysand doesn’t say it aloud but Azriel knows that he’s sending Cassian because he’s the only one remotely capable of keeping Azriel in check. The only one who stands a chance at holding Azriel back. At making sure he doesn’t do anything foolish or brash.

Two words no one had ever associated with Azriel until he’d fallen head over heels for Gwyneth Berdara.

As Azriel sharpens Truth-Teller just hours before the mission, he feels Cassian’s eyes on him. He feels his brother’s gaze that is both pitying and pleading. But he keeps his expression blank, he listens to his shadows hum and maintains an even breathing pattern in time with the whetstone he runs up and down the length of Truth-Teller.

“It’s a pretty dress, Berdara. You’re sure you want me to cut it off?”

“I won’t ask again, Shadowsinger…”

He winces against the pain of the memory, channeling the emotional turmoil into rage. A rage that will fuel him. A rage that should their plan go awry, will help him to cut down anyone who stands in his path. Anyone who stands between him and his mate. Just as he had in Sangravah. Just as he had before he knew his mate’s name.

The moon is fat in the sky. It’s time to leave. It’s time to go get his mate.

Still sharpening Truth-Teller, Azriel is interrupted by Cassian who places a steadying hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It’s time.”

The whetstone comes to a halt, Azriel stills and shuts his eyes. He focuses on the thrumming of the bond. He remembers that tug of defiance he had felt. He remembers her screams. He remembers the blood. He inhales those memories. And then he exhales them, clearing his mind of the agony and heartache. Leaving behind only those traces of rage. The feral fury of the shadowsinger. The wrath of a male whose mate has been taken from him.

Make them suffer, Singer, his shadows hiss.

And Azriel assures them: Beyond their most savage nightmares.

Koschei’s home base is well-guarded but by no means impenetrable. And Azriel and Cassian don’t like that one bit.

But Azriel isn’t going to pass up the opportunity to save Gwyn no matter how likely it is that their fair odds are a trap. He’s not going to pass up this rescue because it’s “too easy” to save her. He’s going to go into the fray and take back his mate, regardless of whether it gets him killed or captured.

Despite Cassian’s protests.

“Az, we have to be smart about this.”

Azriel’s head whips in his brother’s direction, the shadows shrouding him in the treetops seemingly mirroring the action. “If it were Nesta, nothing would stop you.”

Cassian’s lips part to counter Azriel’s argument… but the shadowsinger isn’t wrong. And Azriel can see it in Cassian’s eyes as they shift downcast. He absolutely would. As would Rhysand. As would Feyre. As would Lucien. As would Nesta. Every last one of them would plunge headfirst into danger to save their mate.

Especially Gwyn.

The patrols begin their shift change and Azriel moves into position. Him to the east, Cassian to the west. Prisoners are held in the tent stationed against the base of the mountain. The tent farthest away from the meager houses that are occupied by soldiers. The tent closest to the hollow in the cliffside which serves as Koschei’s quarters.

It always seems, Azriel muses, that monsters, no matter how strong, hide so very well. Fortifying themselves with not only fear, but with walls and rocks and mountains.

If he can manage it, Azriel will bring that cliffside crashing down. He’ll bury Koschei in stone for what he’s done. And his shadows will rejoice and he will smile.

The guards change places and Azriel makes his move, heart hammering against his chest, thudding against that spark deep inside of him. The one that tethers him to Gwyn.

Can she feel me, Azriel wonders as he slips past the war tent, his form swathed by his shadows. Does she know that I am coming? Does she know that I haven’t abandoned—

But he isn’t able to finish the thought…

Because as he arrives before the prisoner tent, a female comes tearing through the canvas flaps. In the moonlight her tangled hair is molten metal. The pale, bruised legs beneath her tarnished sheath are pumping frantically. She shakes her freckled wrists free of the irons clasping them and runs as quick as daylight chasing away night.

There are tears streaking her dirty cheeks. There is dried blood on her chin. There is something both frantic and wild in her teal eyes as she races towards him. At first it reminds him of a hawk’s prey trying to outrun their death. But as she nears him he recognizes it for what it truly is.

Defiance.

The sight of his mate and the unrestrained tug of the bond between their souls makes him stagger. Gwyn is screaming something at him as she closes the distance between them. Azriel’s shadows are screaming too.

Two men exit the prisoner tent behind her. One is clearly missing an eye, the other falls to his knees clutching at his throat - blood pours through his fingers.

An unhinged part of Azriel wants to laugh at the damage his mate has done. At the carnage she has unleashed. He should’ve known that all she would require of him was a hasty exit. Not a total rescue. She hasn’t needed saving in quite some time after all.

Down! Azriel’s shadows shout.

“Get down!” Gwyn cries.

But how can he do anything but reach for her hand? But spread his wings and beckon her to his side—

Pain lances through Azriel’s right wing. Then through his shoulder. Then through his leg. The pain confuses him. An interruption to his reuniting with his mate. It’s actually a little irritating… But when Gwyn screams in protest and Azriel is forced down onto all fours, he finally surrenders to the searing pain shooting through his thigh. The aching in his arm. The white-hot burning in his wing.

He lifts his head to see his mate kneeling before him. Behind her Cassian slams down to the earth from the sky.

She cradles his head in her hands and the bond between them trembles. Azriel wants to comfort her. To tell her that he will heal soon. That after he pulls the arrow from his leg and his shoulder it will be but moments until he’s in fighting shape.

But he doesn’t get a word in before she crushes her lips to his, pulling him by his hair for a bruising kiss. Beneath the stench of blood he can just make out her scent of willows and water lilies, mingled with just a hint of cedar. One of her hands slides to his shoulder—

And there’s a snap and the sting of pain in his shoulder. He grunts against her mouth, shutting his eyes tight against the wave of discomfort. Then another snap and a similar pain in his leg. His lips part from hers and he hisses a curse through his teeth.

Gwyn presses a rough kiss to his sweaty forehead, pulls Truth-Teller from his thigh sheath, then shoves him to lie down on the earth.

Unable to rise against the increasing fatigue that is afflicting both his body and his shadows, Azriel looks up.

In the dim glow of the moon and the warm light of the campfires, Cassian and his mate fight back to back, slaughtering the soldiers that stumble from their tents, their eyes still heavy with sleep before they fall into a fatal slumber. He opens his mouth, ready to tell them that it’s time to leave. That they need to go. That they should leave him because Koschei can’t be far behind. This has all been too easy and there is surely a reason for that…

But no words come out and instead he is violently hauled to his feet, his arms wrenched behind his back and the cool metal of iron encircling his wrists.

Gwyn kicks back a soldier and slices open his throat… then meets Azriel’s gaze - horrified. He recognizes the expression and through the haze of pain he also recognizes that he is being captured. It is Gwyn’s turn to watch helplessly.

Cassian hurls a soldier aside then follows Gwyn’s line of sight to Azriel. His jaw tightens and Azriel tries to will his brother to do what must be done. To get Gwyn out of here. To leave him. He’s been trained for this. He can handle torture. It’s nothing so new.

Sure enough, Cassian’s arms sweep for Gwyn’s waist. He’ll pull her away kicking and screaming, Azriel can already tell by the fury on her face that she won’t go without a fight. But Cassian can manage.

Azriel knows that in allowing himself to be captured he’s falling right into the trap that had been laid. But he also knows it will buy Cassian and Gwyn time to escape. So he surrenders. He doesn’t fight back.

Cassian’s arms hook around Gwyn’s waist, his wings extend to prepare for take off.

And Azriel hears his mate screaming at the men who hold him in outrage. Angry tears spill from her eyes as she thrashes in Cassian’s arms. Azriel is reminded of an animal caught in a trap, fighting fate, fighting for their life.

“I’ll kill you!” she roars, Truth-Teller still in her grip. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

Azriel tries to send a buzz of comfort down the bond. Something to reassure her. Something to tell her that this is fine. That he’s withstood torture before. That gods-willing, when they make their next move on Koschei he will be alive and waiting. When they save him they save him. But right now, she is being rescued and he feels the happiest he’s been in weeks. Even as he growls against the pain. Even as his left wing snaps. Even as someone yanks him back by his hair.

A sob of relief works its way up Azriel’s throat. His mate is safe. All is well. The world can resume spinning. Because even if he’s trapped with Koschei for the next century. For the next age, Gwyn is alive. He won’t wake up to the absence of the bond.

Fly, my Gwyn, Azriel says inwardly as he tears his head free of his captor’s grip. Live.

End of pt 1

[rhysand-vs-fenrys]

ACOTAR Fashion: Gwyneth Berdara; Library Priestess, Carynthian Valkyrie

[goddess-in-heaven-and-hell]

Hand in Hand, Heart to Heart Pt. III - Gwynriel One-Shot

We are back with the direct continuation of the last part! This kind of introduces Gwyn to the more dominant side of Azriel, but it’s still tame. I hope you like it, I had a lot of fun writing it :) 

word count: 3.9k

warnings: swearing, mention of SA/trauma; smut: oral (m and f receiving), fingering, cum play (?), dom/sub dynamics

Previously: 

They sat like that for a while, Azriel’s hands idly stroking up and down Gwyn’s back. It was a testament to the intensity of the night that she took an embarrassing amount of time to notice the hardness that pressed into her side.

Shame flooded Gwyn like never before. There she was, blissfully relaxed from two orgasms, a back massage and gentle rubs, while her exhausted Shadowsinger suffered in silence.

“Az, would you like me to take care of you now?”, she asked, pressing a light kiss to his cheek with the question. The thought of pleasuring him made her equal parts nervous and excited.

“Mh?”, Azriel seemed to need a second to figure out what she was referring to. “Oh, no need. I’m going to calm down in a minute.”

Gwyn was just about to take the way-out he offered, when her eyes fell back to the room he had prepared. The candles still flickering away, the roses perched on the bedside table, the deepest love she ever had cradling her safely in his lap.

An unusual sense of peace settled over her as she whispered, with a smile playing on her lips, “It don’t want you to calm down.”

Azriel’s mind fought itself out of the haze it was previously in at Gwyn’s words. He couldn’t have possibly understood her right. And yet, when he looked at her, the small smile spread across her lips and the sincerity in her eyes made him wonder if she actually meant it.

“Gwyn, I swear to the Mother, you don’t need to ‘repay’ me for anything. This was more fun for me than it was for you.”

Gwyn just laughed, her hand finding the side of his face and cradling it. “Sure it was, Shadowsinger. I forgot my name at some point, and didn’t even care that I did.”

She leaned in to kiss him tenderly, lingering just a little too much for it to be innocent.

“I want to make you feel good. You deserve nothing less.”, she whispered against his lips. That little admission, paired with the fact that he was absolutely exhausted and desperate to feel more of Gwyn on him, made his resolve crumble. He had been planning to keep her off him for as long as possible, hopefully showing her that her pleasure came before his and that she doesn’t owe him shit. But the female in his arms was temptation personified. Just one little flicker of his eyes towards her lips made his cock twitch in his pants.

His silence didn’t go unnoticed by Gwyn, though. Her browed furrowed slightly as she took him in, mistaking his hesitation for something different. “I know I’m no expert or anything. But maybe you can show me how to do it right? I’ll try my best.”

Azriel nodded, then kissing tiny little pecks all over her face. Gwyn giggled when he reached the ticklish spot underneath her ear, which obviously made him linger there just a second longer. Gwyn’s laugh could heal him from all misery and pain, he thought, before scooping her up in his arms and standing up.

“Just promise me one thing, Berdara.”, he said, setting his priestess on the ground, “Promise me you’ll stop the second you get uncomfortable, or the second it starts hurting. It doesn’t matter how far gone I am. Just tap my thighs when you want this to stop.”

Gwyn looked at him with wide eyes. “I promise… but what could possibly start hurting?”

Azriel barely suppressed a groan. He really was the first person she’d ever give head to. He never thought he’d have an innocence kink, but that idea quickly went out of the window. His body was on the verge of bursting.

“Your jaw, most likely. Maybe your knees.”, he took a step towards her again, physically unable to be separate from her. His hands went into her hair, down her sides, grabbing onto every inch he could find. “But it’s also likely that I’ll last only about a minute, maybe less.”

His cock had some time to calm down after letting Gwyn ride his face, but the stubborn Illyrian side of him didn’t forget how he felt before. How desperate he was for her. How desperate he wanted to just sink into her.

“Should I let you do it in your own time? Or do you want me to tell you what to do?”, he asked, absolutely afraid of the answer. He needed her to take the second option just as badly as he needed air, way too far gone in his head to simply take what she offered him.

“Oh gods. You better tell me.”

Thank the Mother.

That might have been his last rational thought before he was kissing her again, pressing every inch of his body against hers, his blood rushing through him harder and faster than before battle. He couldn’t remember the last time he desired somebody so much. And he sincerely hoped Gwyn would tell him to stop whenever she wanted it, because he sure a hell wasn’t able to stop himself anymore.

The priestess was overwhelmed for just a second before she reciprocated Azriel’s eagerness, moving her lips and tongue against his. Well, eagerness was still too tame a word for what was happening right now. Weirdly enough, it didn’t scare her. And Azriel was a male with more than enough potential to scare people into obedience.

But it was her Azriel. And that made all the difference for her. Her core started to catch up to the situation too, even though Gwyn thought she was completely done for the night. Leave it to the Shadowsinger to drag her previously dormant sexuality out of hiding.

“Sit down, love.”, he rasped, then already moving away from her into the bathroom. Gwyn sat down on the bed, a spark of pleasure shooting up her spine when her legs rubbed together. How on earth did Azriel keep it together all this time while he just focused on her?

The Shadowsinger was back in seconds, holding a hair tie in his hands. Without much preamble, he gathered Gwyn’s hair in his hands and tied it up into a ponytail. Multiple books had told her it was better to have your hair out of your face when you gave head, and Gwyn flushed with the thought of what she was about to do. She eyed the considerable bulge in his pants, wingspan and all. Her core throbbed even more. She hoped Azriel was as good a teacher in bed as he was in training.

“You know you’d be able to see more without the pants.”, he said, smirking like the devil he was. Gwyn flushed even more, embarrassed to be caught in her staring. Then she sat up on her knees on the edge of the bed and started to untie his trousers. While she worked on the laces with only slightly trembling fingers, she leaned forwards to kiss the soft skin on his stomach.

Azriel shuddered, but didn’t tell her to stop. So she got a little more adventurous. She licked the dips in-between the bulging muscle, kissing every scar that littered the expanse of his abs. His skin was simultaneously soft and textured, so warm and hard it made her clench her thighs together. But she had a different mission.

Grabbing onto the seam of his now opened pants, she began dragging them down his legs, having to lift them away from him slightly to free his erection. She stopped for a second when it came into view, a bit shocked, but she quickly recovered and helped him step out of his trousers completely.

She wished to have had Azriel’s confidence when he saw her naked for the first time. It probably came with being alive for so long, having had so many partners. Or it was simply the fact that he was perfection. Azriel let her take him in like it was the most normal thing in the world, a cocky smirk on his lips. She knew he was about to make a comment, too, but held himself back to let her adjust to this situation.

After a while, Azriel held onto her hand, slowly pulling it towards his lower stomach. He pressed it down flat. “No need to be shy, love. There is nothing you could do that’d be wrong.”

She let her hand slide down his abs, his pelvis, right to the base of his cock. Her fingers grazed their way up his length, familiarizing themselves with the veins and texture. Then, she took him completely in her hand, squeezing just a bit. Azriel exhaled sharply, bringing his own scarred hand around hers and squeezing harder. “Like that.”, was all he said.

She was sure it must have hurt him, but one glance up at his face told her otherwise. His eyes were so heavy they almost looked closed, mouth slightly open. It was so incredibly hot, she needed him to make that face every day now.

A little trickle of white liquid right at the tip of him caught her attention. She’d read that some males produce pre-cum when they are really aroused. A flash of pride surged through Gwyn, making her more confident. She swirled her thumb across his head, smearing the pre-cum and making some of it leak down his length. Never in her life would she have thought that the idea of licking it off him would have her breath being caught in anticipation, but here she was. She let the intrusive thought win.

Her tongue connected with his cock timidly at first, licking a strip up towards the tip and collecting the streak of pre-cum on its way. It tasted salty, but not entirely unpleasant. And Azriel’s reaction made her lick another stripe up, this time lingering at the tip and licking right across the source of the liquid. Her hand remained in a fist around the base of his cock, squeezing from time to time just like he taught her.

She was certain it was an Illyrian curse that escaped him when she repeated the motion again, this time with more pressure and purpose. His hand tangled at the base of her ponytail, forcing her just a bit closer to him. His other found the side of the bedpost, holding on for dear life.

Then he suddenly pulled her back, disconnecting her lips from him. Just one look into his eyes and she knew she was in for it now. Her toes curled underneath her at his face. The hand he previously held onto the bedpost with now replaced her own hand on his cock. He gave himself one pump, making more precum spill out. It was a sight to behold, how is hands moved on his cock. Gwyn found herself to be jealous really quickly.

That jealously stopped when he leaned his hip towards her. “Stay still, open your mouth just a bit.”

Azriel seemed gone beyond the point of affectionate words. With his hand, he guided the tip of his cock to Gwyn’s parted lips, gliding it over first her upper, then her bottom lip. He painted her with his pre-cum, rubbing it all over her mouth until she was sure she must have been glistening with it. Gwyn noticed herself leaking at this point, but she needed to stay still for him.

When he was done, he took her in, chest heaving. “You’re so pretty, Gwyn. So fucking pretty.”

Gwyn practically glowed.  “Now take the tip into that pretty mouth of yours.”, his command came out husky, and Gwyn immediately opened for him, letting him slide in the first few inches. “That’s it. Now start sucking. No teeth.”

The priestess closed her mouth around him, starting to suckle lightly. She seemed to be doing something right because Azriel’s head fell back in pleasure, the grip on her hair tightening. Gwyn moved her head forward and back, sucking and licking with all the concentration she could still muster. She hoped she took enough of him, since a considerable bit of length was not taken care of. But her mouth was full to the brim, and the second she got cocky, her gag reflex brought her back to reality. There was no way she’d be able to take him completely, and the thought annoyed her to no compare.

Azriel, unsufferable as he is, started to laugh. “Getting greedy now, love?”

Gwyn glowered at him from underneath her lashes, and she stopped being careful with her teeth just a little. She sincerely hoped she didn’t hurt him, and she hoped he took her sassiness lightly. Azriel just burst out another laugh. “I’m glad you didn’t lose your fight.”

Then, both his hands came down to cup her face, holding her very tightly. His voice made a complete 180 – from playful to downright dangerous – all the laughter gone in the blink of an eye. “You’ll need all of it now for that little stunt with your teeth.”

And just like that, he pushed his hips forward. Gwyn gagged around his cock, trying to get her throat to relax at the intrusion. She could feel his eyes on her, making sure she was fine with it, even in the throes of dominance. And she was. If she stood from the bed, there’d surely be a giant wet spot.

Her eyes started watering as he thrust himself into her ready mouth, still trying to suck and lick any piece of skin. After just a few seconds, his rhythm changed. His hips seemed to buck into her uncontrollably, and he got more shallow with each thrust.

“I’m gonna cum, love. Where?”, he ground out, leaving her enough room in her mouth to answer. She didn’t mind where, truly. At this point he could paint every inch of her with his cum and she’d thank him. “Wherever.”

Azriel groaned, one hand finding the expanse of her neck and gripping her. First very lightly, then when she didn’t object, with more pressure. With just a few more thrusts into her mouth, his hand still around the base of his cock, he pulled out. At the same time, he pushed Gwyn back by the throat, exposing her chest to him. The priestess felt spurts of warm cum explode over the skin of her breasts, her eyes trained on Azriel’s face.

She wouldn’t have looked away from him even if she could. His wings flared out to the side, nearly knocking over a few candles in the process. He came with a shout that was nearly unintelligible, but might have spelled her name, his Shadows in frantic movement. He was so beautiful Gwyn could have wept. And the pride she felt when seeing him this unraveled couldn’t be compared to anything.

She smiled at him while some tears still escaped her eyes, watching him calm himself.

When his eyes finally opened and fell to her form, he cursed. The hand that was still squeezing her neck pulled away like he burnt it, and he fell to his knees before her.

“Fuck Gwyn, I’m so sorry.”, his lips already moved on her neck, kissing and caressing in apology.

“Az.”, he looked up in her face, and Gwyn hoped he could see the sincerity in her eyes as she said, “I loved every second of that. Including your hand around my throat.”

Azriel looked sceptic, eyeing her neck and chest somewhat regretfully. She hated it. There was no way she’d let him think that he went too far with her. So she grabbed his hand again, this time leading him in-between her legs.

“Feel for yourself if you don’t believe me.”, she whispered, pecking his lips as his fingers connected to her core. Gwyn wasn’t prepared to feel this elated when he slid down, towards her entrance and nearly slipped in from the ungodly amount of wetness leaking out.

Azriel’s gaze shifted from serious, to shocked, to calculating. He purposefully continued to move up and down her slit, making Gwyn tremble with need. “That’s interesting.”

He studied her with so much calm it made Gwyn furious. Her hips bucked against his hand, trying to get a resemblance of friction. She didn’t know there was a ‘too wet’ when having sex, but after his initial touch she barely felt anything. He was too damn gentle.

She flew forward, connecting their chest and their lips together and catching his hand between her legs. Too late she realized that she was still full of cum. Gwyn pushed him back just as quickly as she pulled him in, but it was too late. His chest was now glistening too. Her face of shock must have said enough on that matter.

But to her surprise, Azriel pulled her back in, reconnecting their chests. “You think I’m afraid of my own cum?”, he asked, a smirk playing on his lips. “If it’s good enough for you to allow me to come on you, then it’s certainly good enough for me.”

The kiss they shared while melting into each other was the complete opposite of what happened only moments before. Azriel kissed her with a tenderness that made her heart skip, showing her exactly how dear she was to him. She loved him so much it hurt. And she told him as much.

Azriel took her in when they parted, slowly travelling down her face, her chest and landing on her throbbing core. “You said you’re done for the night. Did you change your mind?”

Gwyn’s eyes widened in shock and eagerness. “What happens if I did?” She wasn’t sure if she could take him inside her just yet, despite her courage tonight.

“Whatever you want, love.”, Azriel replied, eyes still zeroed in on the spot where she’d like to feel him. She didn’t even need to think.

“Can I feel your tongue again, please?”, she whispered.

Azriel started to nod. “Would be a shame to let all that go to waste.”

Then, the grabbed both her feet and lifted them, letting her upper body fall back on the bed. He brought them together in one hand, pressing her knees into her chest to expose her core to him. “Hold on to your legs.”, he said, and she slid her arms around the backs of her thighs.

When Azriel’s mouth fell onto her for a second time that night, she cried out from the pleasure. He cleaned all her wetness thoroughly, lapping at her like she leaked some kind of miracle liquid. The pressure was perfect again, making her feel all the things she wanted to feel. His tongue slipped into her opening, stiffening to fuck into her in shallow thrusts while his thumb found her clit again. It didn’t take long after to make her come again.

As they lay in bed later that evening, after Azriel cleaned her and himself up and had a bit of dinner, she began to understand why Nesta and Cassian couldn’t keep their hands from one another. If it even felt a fraction as good as how Azriel made her feel, she forgave them for every time the were late, reeking of sex.

Azriel held her naked body close to his, legs tangled and arms wrapped around her upper body. She was glad he showed her a different side of himself today. Gwyn always had the feeling, that he was holding something back. Maybe not in their day-to-day life, but when it came to intimacy, definitely.

“Are you usually like this when you sleep with someone?”, she asked into the comforting darkness of the room.

Azriel’s lips moved against her neck when he answered. “The rough and dominant part? Yes. The lovey-dovey kissing in-between? No.”

“So, the lovey-dovey bit is a Gwyn thing?”

“Definitely a Gwyn thing.”

Gwyn grinned to herself. Having to acknowledge how many partners Azriel had before her wasn’t an easy thing for the mind, but that admission glazed over her spike of jealously like honey.

“You really liked it, didn’t you?”, he asked after another moment of silence, sounding a little more awake than before.

The priestess flushed just a little. She really did like it, even though she never thought she would. Was it sick? To experience what she had and then liking it when Azriel completely commanded her?

“I did like it.”, she admitted to him, cuddling into his chest more closely, “Do you think that’s weird?”

Azriel’s hand came up to her waist, rubbing up and down soothingly. “Because of what happened to you? No. Love, you are most likely born with your sexual preferences. It’s not something that people can influence.”

Gwyn mumbled her agreement, but that little, annoying feeling of uncertainty was still there.

“Also, the person you’re experiencing it with plays a big part. You’d let me dominate you because you trust me completely.” A gentle kiss to her shoulder. Then he exhaled against her skin, sending little shivers down her back. “You know my past. You know I was locked up for the better part of my childhood. It made me hate being restrained in any way, be it a locked room or bindings of some sort. Yet, if you’d ever want to tie me up in a sexual way, I’d happily let you. I’d probably enjoy it. Because it’s with you.”

She remembered the moment Azriel confided in her like it happened only an hour ago. His memories had burned themselves into her mind, letting her shoulder some of his baggage. She had cried the whole night for the little boy in the cellar. And she cried for the man he became, and how his past still haunted him some time, even after 500 years. If Azriel could find pleasure in the roots of his own trauma, then she probably wasn’t as brainwashed as she thought.

“Thank you.”

Instead of answering, Azriel’s arms around her tightened, pulling her back against him even more. When she was half rolled under him, his lips found her cheek, temple, hair, jaw and neck in the most un-Azriel like kisses she ever felt. She loved him for his support, be it silent or outspoken.

His kisses stilled after Gwyn was sure he touched ever cell of her. “Let’s go to sleep, mh?”

Azriel had been half-asleep for the last hour while getting Gwyn cleaned up and ready for bed. But he could easily function off little sleep. The most important thing was that his priestess got the after-care she deserved. It was fate that Gwyn seemed to be into the same things as he was, intimacy wise. And he felt honored that she figured that out with his help. Even though he was still unconvinced that she’d like the more extreme dominance he usually went with.

The Shadowsinger started drifting off to sleep easily, Gwyn’s breath his lullaby. Until-

“So, you’d let me tie you up?”

Azriel let out a sound that was as much groan as it was a laugh. He should have never given her the idea. Of course, she wouldn’t let that go.

“Maybe.”, he grumbled.

“But you just said you would-“

“Gwyn! Let’s stick to the way things are working now.”

“Fine, liar.”, she mumbled, “But you’d look so pretty in handcuffs.”

“Oh for the Mother’s sake Gwyneth.”, Azriel couldn’t hold back the laugh now, tired of faking annoyance with her. She’d be the death of him at some point. And as she started giggling too, he could no longer ignore the persistent urge that wanted him to throw himself at her feet.

tag list: @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship  @climb-the-mountian 

[freyjas-musings]

Looks like I have picked my hill to die on, but after this post I will go back to predominantly posting art related content.

This though felt important to be shared with my Gwynriel Family.

My friends kindly provided me with more glowing/shimmering/radiance related references all of which were exclusively used only for mated couples.

Here is a collection of most of them :

Cassian and Nesta ACOSF

Feyre and Rhys ACOMAF

Hunt and Bryce and not just the Bonus 😅

Chapter 53 🙂

Also , Bonus because it does matter

Rowan and Aelin - Heir of Fire chapter 35. By the way at that point Rowan didn't consider Aelin a friend either 😅 but.....

Azriel and Gwyneth Berdara

So, all of the above references indicate to MATES. SJM is a fated mates writer and that's one of the reasons we love her writing .

If someone thinks , Azriel who has waited 500 years for a mate would reject a bond with Gwyn who is his equal a carynthian and easily one of SJMs best written characters also, a fan favourite only to be with Elain with who he hasn't planned much beyond the fantasies he pleasured himself to ..... then I guess there is nothing we can do to avoid the heart break thats coming their way .

No, I am not interested in nonsensical counter arguments pulled out of people's asses. Feel free to block me if my content bothers you .

[houseofhurricane]

to a nightingale: chapter one

Summary: Gwyn Berdara, an up-and-coming reporter at the House of Wind, is given an assignment most journalists would kill for: exclusive access to the Bat Boys as they tour to promote their new album. The only problem? She's met Azriel before, on the worst night of her life. Though he saved her then, he knows too many of her secrets. Gwyn knows she should keep her distance, but there's an undeniable spark between them that threatens to set fire to the life she's carefully constructed. And maybe, deep down, that's exactly what she wants.

Chapter Word Count: 4,255

Warnings: This chapter contains references to past assault. In addition, this fic contains gun violence and mature consensual sexual situations.

Art: @carol-pisarro

All chapters are available on Archive of Our Own and Wattpad. All previous chapters are linked here.

“I want you to write a full-length feature on the Bat Boys,” Clotho says, and Gwyn tries not to let her jaw drop.

The Bat Boys have been rock stars for over a decade, essentially a thousand years on the music scene. She’s worked as a staff writer at the House of Wind for two years now, mostly covering local bands and visiting authors. Her subjects are always women, thanks to Clotho, editor-in-chief and founder of The House of Wind, who knows and keeps Gwyn’s secrets. And she’s proud of her work, the stories she tells and the piercing questions she asks, the way she’s grown more and more courageous, but covering a band that famously stores their Grammys in their respective guest bathrooms because they’ve won so many is about seventeen steps up the career ladder that Gwyn carefully constructed for herself a few years back, when she was remaking her life from the ashes.

“I’m flattered,” she says, finally, flicking her notepad open. “But are you sure I’m the right one for this assignment?”

“They requested you specifically.” Clotho’s voice is gentle. “You’d spend a month on the road with them, and there will be an interview tomorrow, before the album release. It’ll all be exclusive. They haven’t even asked to review any of your articles before we publish, so you can write whatever you want. Whatever you see, as long as it’s on the record. They’ve never given anyone this kind of access before. My next call is to IT to make sure our servers don’t crash from the web traffic.”

“It’s just--” She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to stay in the present moment. One of those tricks her therapist taught her.

“No men are safe, but these three are damn close.” It means something, when Clotho says it. She was a legend in music journalism, working for a major magazine and writing the majority of their cover stories, the one who could always find the hook. She’d been the one to launch the Bat Boys with a feature, back when an article could work that kind of magic. But the only thing most people remember about Clotho these days is the scandal she’d created when she’d sued her magazine for the harassment and abuse they’d subjected her to for the decade she’d been their brightest light. She’d won the suit, an astronomical amount. According to the rumors, the trauma had left her mute for a year. And then, three years back, she’d founded the House of Wind, a digital magazine for women and nonbinary writers to cover the world on their own terms.

Gwyn had been working at a coffee shop and covering shows on her blog when Clotho had found her. An exclusive feature, in fact what sounds like a series of articles with total access, would transform her career. And Clotho trusts them.

“You really think I can do this?” she asks, one last prevarication.

“You’re ready, Gwyneth,” Clotho says, using the name that Gwyn has buried for the last three years. The name of the girl who believed the world would offer her everything she wanted. At the House of Wind, Clotho’s the only one who knows it.

“Then I’ll do it.” And maybe she’s being foolish, maybe she’s learned nothing in the past three years, but Gwyn still finds herself grinning. Because she already suspects that no matter what happens, this assignment is going to change her life.

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When she was sixteen, Gwyn had a poster of the Bat Boys on the wall of her room, another on the inside of her locker. There were other, more popular bands, but she’d loved their music from their debut. She loved the way each of them had a unique sound, from their voices to the style of the songs each one wrote, even the way they approached their instruments. Rhys, the lead guitarist, who knows exactly when to move between acoustic and electric, when a song needed to be warm as caramel and when it needed to explode like the center of a thunderstorm. Cassian, the drummer who never hesitates to experiment beyond the drumset, giving their songs these textured layers that have evolved, sometimes radically, over every year of the band’s existence. And Azriel, nicknamed the Shadowsinger from that very first album, for the resonance of his voice and his incredible ability on the bass, as if a jazz legend had been reborn inside a rockstar.

It was Azriel’s hazel eyes that her high school self had always sought, when she gave little performances in her bedroom, before she went to the local shows and open mics that she’d believed were just for now. It’s only a matter of time , he seemed to tell her, and she’d believed him.

She’d been Gwyneth, then, no last name required. That’s how famous she was going to be.

The memories come flooding back as she researches what the Bat Boys have been up to since the height of her fandom. Rhys and Cassian have both gotten married in the past few years, to sisters, and that was a big enough story that Gwyn had heard it even when she could barely bring herself to get out of bed. Fans had mourned all over the world when the Prince and the General, as they’d been nicknamed on the message boards, had been taken off the market, even as those same fans had swooned over the romantic tidbits that Rhys and Cassian released in their increasingly rare interviews. Gwyn makes a note to ask them to tell the stories, to press them even if they’re hesitant, especially once she listens to their latest album, To A Nightingale .

Of course Clotho had gotten one of the very few pre-release copies, and Gwyn listens to it with her headphones tight over her ears, very aware of her privilege as she drinks in the music that won’t be available to the world for another forty-eight hours.

It’s an album of love songs.

Rhys’ songs are sweet and sexy, with one epic track, Your Starlight Eyes , that she’s sure is going to be the lead single. The lyrics are more descriptive than she’s used to from him, with colors and imagery that make the songs incredibly vivid, which fits the artistic talents of his wife, Feyre Archeron, who was famous as a painter even before she met the Prince. Gwyn makes a note to ask if she helped write the lyrics.

Cassian sings of a hard-earned love, falling hard for a woman who wants nothing to do with you at first. He’s always had an incredible texture in his voice, just this side of gruff, and these songs suit it perfectly. If Rhys’ songs are going to be the chart-toppers, Cassian’s are going to be the ones that fans go back to again and again, the ones that steadily become favorites, imagining Cassian and Nesta’s courtship or inserting their own imagined romance into the lyrics.

She’d expected that Azriel, famously single, would be little more than a backup singer on this album, but his tracks make up a third of the album, just as they always have. Their melodies are intricate and addressed to a woman he calls the Nightingale, including the title track. Gwyn makes a note to ask him who the woman is, whether the Bat Boys will all be married by year’s end, when she hears him, in that resonant deep voice of his, sing of her copper hair and ocean eyes.

Gwyn crosses out the question.

Because she knows who he’s referring to now, realizes that he still remembers that night, the best and most horrifying of her life, when he’d seen her on stage and saved her afterwards from the ring of men who assaulted her, who had made Gwyneth a taunt as they pushed their way inside her. After he’d forced them off her, threatening them with total destruction, he’d held her until the ambulance had come, wrapped her up in his jacket as she shivered and babbled.

Although that night had changed everything for her, destroyed Gwyn’s life and set her on a totally new path, she’d been certain Azriel had forgotten all about it.

It’s only her promise to Clotho that keeps her researching into the night, cataloging influences and the development of the Bat Boys’ sound, studying their old interviews and writing a hundred questions, softballs they’ll enjoy and hard-hitting questions she’ll force herself to ask, the way she does with the local acts who are just honored to be talking to a journalist.

All the while, she’s wondering if, despite the hair dye that made her hair a deep shade of auburn, and the weight she’s lost, and the slight change in her name, Azriel will recognize her. What might happen.

If she were smart, she’d turn down the assignment. Her objectivity is already compromised in a dozen different ways.

But if she’s being honest, she wants him to recognize her. Because even though that night became the worst of her life, when she’d spotted him in the audience, halfway through her first song, his hazel eyes had been fixed on her, and Gwyn thinks that she will never forget the smile on his face, luminous and rapt. As if she were a treasure he’d just discovered, her voice and her music shining bright in the darkness. At the time, she’d been sure that her life was about to completely transform.

She hadn’t been entirely wrong, she thinks now, with less bitterness than she would ever have expected to feel, thanks in large part to her therapist. Her life had changed, and maybe it’s about to change again, now.

Only this time, even as she returns to her research, Gwyn has to admit that she’s not sure what direction she’d like to take.

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“We don’t bite unless you want us to,” Cassian says as she scans the room, juggling her recorder and her notepad.

Gwyn realizes she hasn’t said hello, hasn’t even made eye contact with any of the three band members or their manager, that the only part of the Bat Boys’ entourage she’s spoken with is Mor, their bubbly publicist, who has offered her every variety of drink and snack before leading Gwyn to the rehearsal space, where the band awaits her.

She takes a quick look at each of them, taking in Cassian’s hair pulled half-up by a leather cord and the small gold hoop in his left ear, Rhys’ violet eyes and the tattoos that curl black past the collar of his henley, the way all their performance clothes have been replaced with denim and knits. It’s hard to keep her eyes from snagging on Azriel, the perfect planes of his face and the muscles defined beneath his t-shirt, the eyes which are exactly the same as she remembers, which still seem to say it’s only a matter of time , though now the meaning is entirely different.

“Don’t worry. He says that to everyone,” Azriel says, rolling his eyes in Gwyn’s direction, a little smile on his face. The Shadowsinger’s smiles are a rarity, hard to spot on stage or in photographs, but Gwyn doesn’t see any recognition in his eyes.

She’s torn between disappointment and relief as she introduces herself, setting up her own microphone.

“We’re glad to have you, Gwyn,” Rhys says, charming as every other interview has made him out to be. “Apologies for the last-minute request.”

“It’s an honor for our magazine,” she says, “though I wouldn’t have waived the right to review my articles if I were you.”

“We’ve read your articles. You’re tough and insightful, but you’re always fair,” the Prince responds, every bit the politician’s son.

“What Rhysie means is that we’re tired of the articles that say our shitty songs are the best they’ve ever heard,” Cassian adds. “We think this is our best album yet, but our fans deserve to know whether it’s actually worthwhile.”

“Your manager can’t be happy about that,” Gwyn says, her eyes darting to Amren, the petite Korean woman who’s been with them since before they were famous. She’s scowling now, ferocious in a leather jacket that’s perfectly cut to her frame, offsetting the crop top and high waisted trousers underneath.

The silence extends a beat too long, and then Azriel says, “How did you like it?”

When she looks at him, there’s something in his gaze. A question she’s not ready to answer.

Instead, she says, “I agree with Cassian. This is your masterpiece. Each of you has found a way to bring in your stories and your sound into the album. But I’m curious, because there are marked stylistic differences between your songs, and increasingly, between your lives as well. Do you ever worry that you’ll evolve too far apart?”

The Bat Boys glance at each other, shifting in their seats, and Gwyn holds back a smile as she awaits the story they’ll present her with. They were expecting her to begin with a softball question, something easier to answer.

“We’ve been playing together since we were fourteen,” Azriel says, his eyes still on his bandmates. “And you’ve heard how our sound has changed since our first studio album. We support each other's particular interests, and we’re always open to feedback from each other. The goal is better music, not the elevation of any one of us.”

“We’re brothers,” Cassian adds. It’s a familiar phrase, one they’ve often invoked, and Gwyn decides to to move on to other questions. But she wants to come back to this tension. If not today, then sometime over the next weeks of their tour.

She finds out that Feyre will be getting a songwriting credit on Your Starlight Eyes and two of Rhys’ other tracks as well, and is regaled with some new details of The Bat Boys’ writing process, including videos that Azriel has taken in the studio.

When he holds up his phone for her to see, she notices the scars on his hands, which she’s never seen before. Then again, the only other time she was this close to him, his body was the last thing on her mind.

Now, as her questions unspool into a wide-ranging conversation, revealing the Bat Boys to be more thoughtful and up-front than she’d anticipated, she can’t help studying him. The careful construction of his answers, the way he lets Rhys and Cassian speak first. Even when she asks him about his own influences, a question that normally has musicians listing off names like fireworks, there’s a certain reticence, like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. And it makes sense from a certain angle -- she’s here as a journalist, her microphone is aimed in his direction -- but she was invited here with the promise of total access.

Finally, turning to face him completely, she says, “One of the big questions fans are going to be asking about this album is about the identity of the Nightingale. Are you ready to offer me an answer?”

“She’s Azriel’s dream girl,” Cassian says, the words edged in laughter, and Gwyn watches as Azriel’s bronze cheeks flush. “He saw her sing at a bar once and has never seen her again.”

“You’ve never gone looking for her?”

It’s a stupid question. Gwyneth is gone, and Gwyn Berdara hasn’t wanted to be found.

But Azriel looks at her as if he knows all of that, like he already knows about her reinvention and he’s seen through the hair dye since the moment she crossed the threshold. Maybe even sooner.

“I’ve tried,” he says. “But I had the feeling she wasn’t interested.”

“Maybe you’re wrong,” she says, her eyes swinging to her notebook.

Somehow, she makes it through the rest of the interview.

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Her first article on The Bat Boys crashes The House of Wind’s website within an hour. Clotho has invited Gwyn to set up shop in her office so that she can be part of the congratulatory calls that start pouring in, even as their harried IT department performs a miracle and gets the website back up in fifteen minutes.

Of course, the photoshoot is incredible and the exclusive preview of Your Starlight Eyes is a big draw, but on Twitter, other journalists are quoting Gwyn’s article when they retweet it, and within an hour, she gains a thousand followers. One of them, she realizes with a blush, is the Shadowsinger himself.

Which is why she’s not completely surprised when a bouquet of anemones and jasmine arrives at her cubicle, a card almost hidden under the delicate glass vase.

I’d like to see you, nightingale. Meet me at Rita’s at 8? - A

Why a member of The Bat Boys would spend the last evening before his album release at a dive bar with a journalist is frankly beyond Gwyn, but she tucks the card into the back pocket of her jeans and leaves with enough time to fix her makeup and curl her hair and slip on a cute black top and the only high-heeled boots that she’s ever been able to run in.

When she was Gwyneth, she wore filmy little dresses in every color of the rainbow, with ruffles and puffy sleeves and deep scoop necks, but despite the change in wardrobe, Azriel’s eyes light up from his table as soon as she walks in.

Suddenly all her hesitations and regrets evaporate, and she slides into the booth next to him, grateful for the darkness that gives them a little anonymity.

“So I’m the nightingale?” she asks, as if they’d only taken a pause from a longer conversation.

“I thought it was obvious.” His eyes are on her like a physical touch.

And Gwyn realizes that it’s the first time in years that she’s wanted a man to touch her, the first time she hasn’t created more space to insulate herself.

“You only met me once.”

“You were -- are extraordinary. Your voice alone. I’m surprised you aren’t still singing, or at least writing music. I still think about the song you sang that night, about the angels.”

“Every Angel is Terrifying,” she breathes. “I was on a Rilke kick when I wrote it.” Though only the title is lifted. Every other word, every chord progression, is hers alone, picked out on the crappy piano she found on Craiglist during her junior year of college.

“But Rilke never came to any resolution in that poem and called it art. You write about healing from tragedy and finding peace and it doesn’t sound like a greeting card. You made it something new.”

She considers telling him about what inspired that, the death of her mother and her sister in a car accident the year before, on their way to Gwyn’s college graduation. The drive had taken them across the country, and they’d been hit by a truck in western Ohio. Later, the doctors told her they’d died so quickly they couldn’t feel pain.

The only thing that had gotten her through it was her music. The night he came into the bar where she was singing was the first night she’d felt close to normal in a year.

Gwyn doesn’t like dwelling on the shitty hand she was dealt in her early twenties, though, so instead, after she waves a waitress over and orders the blood orange IPA, which Azriel endearingly does not make a face at, she asks, “Were you the one that found me?”

Azriel raises his beer to his lips, his scars catching the light.

“That was actually Nesta,” he says.

“Nesta Archeron reads the House of Wind?”

Cassian’s wife is a wunderkind in the publishing world, the first woman under thirty to run a major imprint, and their marriage, split between New York and Velaris, has generated dozens of thinkpieces on the future of relationships. Nesta is known for her discriminating eye, her refusal to accept anything but greatness.

“She said, and keep in mind that I’m quoting Cassian here, that ‘she’s going to write about you like you’re up-and-comers whose music deserves a listen, instead of the fucking puff pieces everyone has written about you for the last five years’. There was also something about millennials not wanting to feel like they’re being marketed to. But as soon as I looked you up, I knew who you were. That you were the nightingale”

Voice of an angel, he’d sung in the title track. Gwyn presses her fingers to her temple.

“I can’t believe Nesta Archeron has read my writing. Or that you remembered my song. I just thought you’d remember how pathetic I was that night.”

“What I remember,” he says, “is an extraordinary woman, lit up with her talent, who was attacked on what should have been the first day of the rest of her career. My only regret is that I didn’t stay with you instead of waiting to speak with the police.”

Her beer appears and she takes a frothy sip, trying to think of what to say. Doing interviews has helped her get better at conversations, which scared her after the attack, but Gwyn prepares thoroughly for every interview. Now it’s just her and Azriel, no recorder and no notes.

And when Gwyn takes a second to think about it, she really likes it, that level of control. So she changes the subject.

“You really think I have the voice of an angel? And ocean eyes?” She punctuates the words with a lazy smile.

He moves a little closer to her on the bench, so that his denim-covered leg just touches hers. It’s an invitation she doesn’t shrink away from. But she doesn’t reach out to touch him. That would be making a decision that could change everything, not least because there are at least twenty-five other people in this bar. On the whole, Velaris is protective of its hometown stars, but these days, all it takes is one person with a phone, no matter how much deeper the shadows feel in this corner. If it breaks that she’s involved with Azriel, whether it’s true or not, her career is over.

There’s another reason: Gwyn had never been with a man before those men raped her, tearing away her virginity and all but ripping her apart.

It’s not only Clotho who says all three of the Bat Boys are trustworthy, but she’s heard the stories about rock stars. How women and men serve themselves up to them. When she thinks of all the experience Azriel has likely had over the past decade, it’s just beyond her.

Still, she does not move her leg as she sips her beer, and she’s surprised to find that the conversation flows easily between them, talking about their influences and favorite bands (his: Bowie and Nick Drake and Ron Carter’s jazz bass, hers: Kacey Musgraves and Florence and the Machine and Bomba Estereo), and when he asks her what she’s reading, she whips Ada Limón’s newest collection out of her purse. She asks him about the best places he’s ever been on tour and he says, without sounding like a self-pitying douche, that being on a full tour is exhausting, that they barely get to see the cities they play in, but that he and Cassian once snuck out in Prague and managed to walk the streets all night without being recognized by anybody, and how beautiful the city is at night, exactly the way you imagine Europe to be.

He talks about how Rhys and Cassian adopted him in school, when he was the awkward son of Colombian immigrants and still spoke English with an accent, scars still livid red on his hands. He tells her how the only three Latino boys at the Northeast’s premier boarding school were soon its top students, not only in the music department but in every class, Rhys running the student government and Azriel making first-chair at all state on the jazz bass and Cassian the soccer star who somehow made it through four seasons without irreparably damaging his hands. By the time they graduated, they were opening for up-and-coming bands in Boston and Hartford and New Haven, but when they all were accepted at the University of Velaris on full scholarships, Cassian and Azriel’s immigrant-child mentality kicked in, and Rhys had followed them to Colorado, grumbling that because his father was governor, he wouldn’t be able to have the reckless college experience. They’d barely graduated before they were signed for their debut LP. Gwyn has heard some of this story before in other interviews, but Azriel normally doesn’t talk about his heritage, and he’s never talked about his scars.

“How did you get them?” she asks gently, turning her own palms up. He’s seen her on one of her worst nights, after all.

“This is off the record,” he says, all the emotion leaving his voice.

“Of course.”

“My father gave them to me. It wasn’t an accident. My mother sent me away as soon as she could.”

Gwyn thinks, as she reaches for him, that there are a thousand songs in what he’s just said, melodies punctuated by shrieking rage and tears. It’s a wonder that his voice never so much as breaks when he performs.

“You’re all right now?” she asks, her hands still wrapped around his, her fingertips stroking against the scars that trace a map of everything he had to survive.

“Mostly,” he says, his hazel eyes intent on hers, and she thinks she understands what he means.

Notes: Thank you so much for reading! This is my first-ever modern AU, and I had a lot of fun with it. I hope you enjoy 🧡

A few notes: - I chose to make the Bat Boys Latinx partially for logistical reasons (it seemed like it would draw them together on a shared identity without having them all be from exactly the same place) and partially because, as a Latina myself, I wanted more representation. Future chapters will explore this identity more. - The band doesn't have a single point of inspiration, but I'm definitely curious to see if the Bat Boys remind you of anyone!

Want more to a nightingale? There will be an update every Thursday, but in the meantime, you can listen to the to a nightingale playlist!

If you'd like sneak peeks for upcoming chapters, theories on all things SJM, and even the power to vote on upcoming fics, follow me on Instagram.

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[ialwaysgobacktoit]

Three brothers have a conversation....

In the patio of the River House, three winged males halted their conversation as soon as they heard the door open and a soft, but not shy "excuse me?". Gwyneth Berdara, with her long green tunic almost touching the ground walked until she was standing besides the shadowsinger, and crouched next to his seat before he could stand up.

Rhysand and Cassian pretended to ignore the interaction that passed by whilst making small-talk to each other, but both of them could hear her near-whispering "can you take me back to the House of Wind in maybe twenty minutes or so?" followed by his deep and almost imperceptably worried "yes. Everything ok?".

"Everything is great, just tired." She got up, and his once trained eyes on the ground now rose up to meet hers, "It was a long day", she added with a smile.

The day she was referring was the one where she played, maybe all afternoon long, with 3 year-old Nyx on the back lawn, chasing him through squeals and laughter, tossing a ball and expertly dodging his new flying attacks, just to hand him to his aunt and uncle Cassian when dinner was ready. And then there was dancing and drinking and laughing with Emerie and Nesta, and Gwyn hadn't had a great time like that in a long, long time.

And Azriel kept stealing glances at her throughout all of it. Well, if his brothers were honest, stealing was one way to put it. More like gawking, like the once-priestess-now-fulltime-valkyrie was the sun, moon and whole world of the spymaster.

Just like now, as Rhysand and Cassian watched him watch her leave, closing the glass doors behind her and joining her friends in conversation.

Only when Rhysand coughed before sipping his whiskey did Azriel turn his gaze to both of his brothers, sitting before him and trying hard not to giggle.

"What" His trained eyes betrayed nothing, hand tracing circles on the edge of his glass.

"Spill it, brother" Rhysand stated, eyebrow raised.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The night breeze ruffled between the males, sitting together for a drink, the dark night barely appeased by fae-lights.

"Come on now" Cassian laughed "Don't shy away from us. What's going on between you and Gwyn?"

At the sound of her name, Azriel stilled his movements. That was the moment where he deflected, shut down, got angry or left. Sometimes, all of those at the same time.

But tonight... Tonight was different. Flashes of her hand squeezing at his arm before she left to go inside just a few minutes ago, or how he simply had to stare to the ground when she kneeled beside his armseat so that he wouldn't meet her eyes, because if he did, he was certain he'd do something stupid. Like kiss her, or touch her cheek, or suddenly declare what he now knew he felt for her, as if there was no one around them.

But there was, and their expectant stares were waiting for his reply.

So Azriel, for once in his life, shrugged. He lift his stare to the starlit night for a moment.

What can I say what can I say what can I say

Tell the truth, singer, his shadows coiled around his ears.

And that's what he did.

"She makes me..." He breathed out, still looking at the sky "I like being around her, and when I'm not, it's like the world becomes almost unbearably louder. It's weird" he huffed, pausing for a moment "and only when she comes back around I realize it. How louder it all gets when she's not there."

Rhysand and Cassian exchanged glances, probably thinking how this was maybe the most Azriel had ever shared with them, but they didn't mention it. No, not this time.

"We get it, bro." The General offered. Rhysand merely held a contemplative, knowing smile.

They really did.

"Az!"

They heard her voice from inside, beckoning him. He met her stare through the glass doors, her nose crinkled as she smiled.

A smile that could quiet all his thundering storms, even if she was completely unaware of it.