A Court of Death || ACOTAR

60

Azriel had been standing outside of Astryn's bedroom door for nearly an hour now trying to work up the nerve to knock. By now, there was no way she didn't know he was there. He knew she wouldn't ever say a word about it if he turned around and walked away, but he couldn't do that. He also couldn't knock. But standing there was getting ridiculous.

He wasn't sure what kept him rooted to that spot in a state of complete inaction. Maybe it was those last few threads of pride he had clung to after she left—no, he corrected himself, not after she left, but after he had made leaving her only option. Maybe it was fear, that constant cold ache of fear he felt at the thought that he had broken things too much to ever fix them, especially after he waited so long to try. Maybe it was because he still loved her and he hadn't ever once felt like he was worthy of her—especially not when he actually had her.

He envisioned those threads of pride, and he pictured scissors, and he cut them away. He acknowledged his fear and countered it with a worse one—the what ifs that would haunt him if he was too cowardly to knock. He could not find a way to counter the feelings of unworthiness until Astryn's own words flashed through his mind.

"Why would I reject you?" she had asked him all those years ago when he first explained the bond to her. "You're lovely." He hadn't believed it then and he didn't believe it now, but he wanted to. He wanted to be lovely to her, to be worthy in her eyes and his own. And he knew—he knew—that would never happen if he didn't face all of his mistakes and all of the hurt he caused.

So, finally, he raised his fist, and he knocked on her door.

He could hear the soft, quiet pattern of her footsteps as she approached the door. She paused in front of it, and he wondered if she was debating whether or not she wanted to open it. He couldn't say much after letting four centuries pass before apologizing, but he swore these were the longest few moments as he stood outside of her door and waited.

His breathing stopped for few seconds when she opened the door. He could not remember what he had planned to say or even how to speak. All he could do was stare at her and wonder how the hell he survived four centuries without her.

She motioned for him to come in, and his legs carried him as his mind struggled to catch up with what was happening. He heard her close the door behind him, and he stood frozen as she returned to the chair she had been sitting in before she let him in. When he didn't speak or move, she picked up the book she had been reading and turned her attention back to it, and he just watched her as if he couldn't fathom ever doing anything but standing around staring at her.

Silence settled over them as he stood and watched her and she sat and read her book as if wasn't there. He put an end to it after minutes passed. She put the book down and watched him move. His steps were slow and cautious, giving her time to tell him not to come closer—to tell him to get out and never look at her again. He stopped near her, and he dropped to his knees in front of her and he bowed his head.

His voice was quiet when he spoke, a broken, whispered plea on his knees.

"I'm sorry, Astryn. I'm so sorry."

She blinked a few times, as if those weren't the words she was expecting.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I do not expect forgiveness or absolution. I expect nothing because I have no right to expect anything, but please believe me when I say I'm sorry. I can't make up for the four centuries we lost. I can't make up for being the reason we lost the bond. Nothing I did and nothing that resulted from what I did can be made up for. I cost us both so much, and I am sorry."

She opened her mouth and closed it again, head tilted to the side. He remained kneeling in front of her, head bowed. She wondered how long he might stay there like that.

"Azriel," she finally spoke, "get up, please." Some part of her that still felt the hurt as fresh as it was four centuries ago wanted to let him stay on his knees, if only to see how long he'd stay there waiting.

He rose to his feet and he met her eyes, and she could feel a spark of light in that cold, dead place inside of her that their bond had once resided in. It flickered and waned, but that little light did not die. And, looking at him, she knew it had not clicked on his end. Last time, he was the one who felt it first—or, at least, who understood it first. It was now in her hands, and, out of caution and previous experience indicating that Azriel could not always be taken at his word, she decided she wouldn't tell him. Not yet. Not until she felt secure in the knowledge that this was not a repeat of the last time he apologized to her and then didn't change.

"Come home," she settled on telling him, "be safe tomorrow, and come home from Hybern, and then you can prove it."