A Court of Death || ACOTAR

62

Azriel woke up slowly. The first thing he registered was that everything around him smelled like Astryn. Next was the dull ache of pain in his chest. Then the fact that he was on a bed, under a blanket, his head on a soft pillow. And the bed, the blanket, the pillow...it all smelled like Astryn. He forced his eyes open, blinking to adjust to the light.

He was in Astryn's room. In her bed. He could not remember how he ended up there. She was sleeping on a chair beside the bed, curled up and peaceful. He let out a long, slow breath and relaxed.

Making sure to stay quiet, he stayed in bed and waited for Astryn to wake up. It was a long while later that she finally awoke, slowly stretching out. Her eyes went to him and widened a fraction, and he swore he stopped breathing.

He could feel it—that little spark of light and life and hope. And it was too good to be true. Way too fucking good to be true. All of this—him here in Astryn's bed with her there at his side and that spark where the bond had once lived, it was all way too fucking good to be true, and he could not stop a question from slipping out simply because this was all too good to be real.

"Am I dead?" Even that was doubtful—after everything, it was hard to believe Death would grant him a peaceful afterlife. But what other explanation could there be? Astryn let out a laugh of disbelief, and shook her head.

"You are not dead," she assured him, "you're here. You made it home." Her eyes darted to his bare chest and he followed her gaze, noticing the faint scar left behind from the ash bolt.

"Is Cassian...his wings..." Azriel trailed off, unable to stomach the thought that his brother's wings might've been damaged beyond repair.

"He's okay," she told him, offering a small smile, "his wings are okay too."

"And Feyre? Her sisters?"

"Feyre is in the Spring Court. She plans to destroy it from the inside," she informed him, "and her sisters are at the House of Wind. They're...it will take them time to heal. But they're here and they're safe."

"Rhys—Rhys and Feyre's bond is it...did the King truly break it?" he asked softly. A few decades ago, he wouldn't have even asked. He would have known it was impossible, but now he wasn't so sure.

"No," Astryn answered, and she sounded as relieved as he felt at hearing it, "he broke the bargain, not the bond. They're still mates."

Azriel opened his mouth and closed it again, terrified to ask his next question. Are we still mates? He had felt the bond between them die, but there was light there now. He was worried acknowledging it would kill it.

"Cassian told me about the deal the King offered you," Astryn brought up quietly. "I was...I was surprised that you didn't take it, and that Rhys didn't tell you to take it."

Azriel could only manage a nod in response because he didn't know what to say.

"I'd like to stop excepting the worst from you, and from Rhys," she continued, "things have been...things were bad for a long time. Things were bad for far longer than they were ever good for."

"I know," he murmured, uncertainty clawing at him. He didn't know where this conversation was going. "I'm sorry."

"I know." Not forgiveness, but not quite a dismissal. A long pause before she spoke again. "You feel it too, don't you? That there's some part of the bond coming back—you feel that too?"

"Yes," he said, barely above a whisper.

"I don't need a savior, Azriel. Not anymore. I know that's what we were before. You rescued me, and you helped me heal, and that was what our entire relationship was built on. It won't be like that again. I do not want or need a savior." His mind drifted back the the attack on Velaris, to her misting Hybern soldiers and to her killing the male who had tortured her. "There will be no reconciliation if you think that it will be like it was before. I don't need or want to be saved. We're equals or we're nothing."

Looking at her, at the unyielding resolve in her violet eyes and determination on her face, Azriel realized it was far more of a gift to be wanted by her than to be needed by her. Need was not a choice. Want was a choice. Want was a choice she might still make even after all of his mistakes. And something in him settled, because she did not need him, but she wanted him. There wasn't enough of the bond back to cloud that, to make him wonder if she truly did choose him in this way or if it was the call of some primal tie between them. It was want, despite everything he had done wrong, despite the pain he caused them both, despite the centuries he had wasted and the bond he had contributed to wrecking, despite the fact that she didn't know for certain if he would be better than he was before. She wanted him. She chose that, after everything.

"It will take time," she said, "and I will not tolerate being treated like less than. Not this time. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he assured her, "I understand."