Her fae & His fairy

Chapter 37

Euodia:

As the door closes behind me, the room is enveloped in silence, weighed down by the absence of Azriel's presence. His departure feels sudden, leaving behind nothing but an empty space filled with the lingering scent of his essence. I try to bury myself deeper into the warmth of his side of the bed, grasping for any trace of his embrace. But the coldness that greets me serves as a stark reminder of his absence.

Outside, the rhythmic knocking persists, echoing through the stillness of the night like an insistent drumbeat. With each knock, my frustration grows, knowing all too well who stands on the other side of the door. Rhysand, with his imposing presence and unreadable intentions, waits patiently for me to acknowledge his presence. But I remain resolute, unwilling to grant him the satisfaction of my attention.

Instead, I retrieve Azriel's discarded shirt from the floor, clutching it tightly to my chest as I make my way downstairs. Each step is a deliberate act of defiance against the unwelcome visitor at my door.

Finally, with a reluctant sigh, I reach for the handle and swing the door open, revealing Rhysand's familiar figure standing on the threshold. His posture is rigid, hands clasped behind his back in a show of restraint, yet there is an air of authority about him that demands attention.

"Hello, Rhysand," I greet him with forced politeness, my smile belying the underlying tension in my voice.

"Good evening," he replies, his tone measured but his eyes betraying a hint of curiosity as they roam over my form. I can feel the weight of his gaze lingering on Azriel's shirt, a silent question hanging in the air.

"Azriel is not here," I inform him bluntly, my words tinged with a hint of resentment at his intrusion.

"Already he has run?" Rhysand's words are laced with a slurred edge, a testament to the alcohol that clings to him like a heavy cloak. His dishevelled appearance, coupled with the fatigue etched into his features, paints a picture of a man teetering on the brink of exhaustion.

I choose not to dignify his question with a response, though the implications of Azriel's sudden departure gnaw at the edges of my consciousness. Where has he gone, and why has he left without so much as a word of explanation? The unanswered questions linger in the air, a palpable tension that threatens to consume me.

But before I can dwell on them any longer, the sound of swift wings cuts through the silence, followed by the unmistakable caw of a crow. Rhysand, sluggish from the haze of alcohol and weariness, fails to react in time as I seize his wrist and pull him into the safety of the house.

With a soft thud, Rhysand stumbles forward, his drunken stupor betraying his attempts to maintain his composure. I watch from the doorway as a shadowy figure darts across the night sky, its form disappearing into the darkness of the horizon.

"Wretched bird," I mutter under my breath, a fleeting sense of frustration washing over me as I close the door behind us.

"Something we can agree on," Rhysand's voice is muffled, his words slurred as he collapses onto the floor, his form sprawled awkwardly over Azriel's boots.

I can't help but release a weary sigh as I cast my gaze upon the broken figure before me. Rhysand, once formidable and unyielding, now appears fractured beyond repair. The cracks that mar his once-resilient facade have deepened into chasms, leaving little of the man he once was intact. The darkness that emanates from him is palpable, a heavy presence that taints the air with its bitter taste, echoing the shadows that lurk within my own soul.

But Rhysand's darkness is different from Azriel's, I realise as I contemplate the depths of his despair. While Azriel's darkness is a void, an abyss of nothingness that threatens to consume him, Rhysand's is tinged with exhaustion and profound sorrow. It is the weight of centuries of loneliness and isolation, the burden of leadership borne alone, that now weighs heavily upon his shoulders.